Shadowgod

by Michael Cobley

  “Pick it up.”

  “Leave her alone,” said Bardow. “Face me instead, if you dare!”

  Byrnak burst out laughing. “A mighty challenge from a little man! Have patience – I will face you soon enough and wrench the Crystal Eye's whereabouts from you…”

  A dazzling flash of ice-blue struck him full in the chest, forcing him to stagger back a step. But he was uninjured, protected by the coursing currents of the Wellsource as they shaped and sheathed themselves to his will. Bardow on the other hand looked drained and weary – it seemed the attack had used the last of his strength. But then the Archmage reversed his grip on the Sourcefire sword, bent down and half-tossed it down the steps. It landed very close to Nerek who reached out for its hilt as she lurched upright.

  Again Byrnak laughed. “How sorrowful, Nerek. That little Sourcefire skewer cannot harm me - you cannot use a weapon against its owner. You would be as well trying to make an axe out of water, or a spear out of mist…”

  But she appeared not to be listening as she lunged at him with the weapon, a straight-arm thrust aimed directly at his chest. Out of reflex he brought his own heavy sword across to parry the blow….and events seemed to slow as he watched his own flare-forged, razor-honed blade break apart as it met hers. Then he saw strange, silver-white patterns rippling and coiling along the Sourcefire sword as it rushed inexorably towards him, cutting straight through his radiant barrier. Something like genuine fear began shrieking in him, urging him to turn aside –

  Too late.

  The Sourcefire blade sliced through mailed leather and underpadding and entered his chest without sound or resistance, running him through with the first foot of it jutting from his back. Nerek let go of the hilt and stepped back. At the same time he heard a thousand soulbound voices cry out in agony while a dark exulting presence bellowed:

  … yes... Yes… YES!...

  Strength fled his limbs. As he fell to his knees he strove to reach the minds of his guards, aware that there was uproar behind him. But he could feel them all, together with the Wellsource, slipping away from him. He could hear that fragment of the Lord of Twilight laughing madly, feel him raging across his thoughts, testing its limits, crooning die, die, die over and over. It felt like he was splitting in two.

  Through greying vision he could see Nerek reach down to the sword's hilt, perhaps to pull it out. And from within the Lord of Twilight's presence surged up like a black wave, triumphant, voracious, and unstoppable;

  ... at last... At Last... FREE!

  He felt the dark spirit tear loose from him, like a myriad tiny rootlets ripping up, carrying whole layers of himself away -

  He felt the Sourcefire sword being drawn forth, ice-edged fire, sliding smooth, clean and numb –

  He heard Nerek suddenly screaming somewhere but could see little through the soft greyness of oblivion that swirled and lapped around him. Then the grey softness retreated, parted to admit a pale blue light which shone down into him from an eye. Perfect and pupilless, it seemed to stare into the very core of what was left of him, scrutinising every depth and height, every veil and hidden place. Then the blue regard pulled away for a moment then returned with the one thing absent from his inner self.

  Pain.

  The pain of others.

  * * *

  Scoured of vitality yet compelled to resist the leaden burden of exhaustion, Bardow lay half-sprawled at the top of the curved steps, watching the terrifying drama unfold. When Nerek impaled Byrnak with the melded sword, the black-masked, dark-brown armoured guards behind him groaned as one and reeled back, some staggering back out of the open door. Wellsource energies flailed and wavered aimlessly around the kneeling Shadowking like a convulsing web of emerald lightning.

  The few remaining knights had seized their opportunity and were busily slaughtering those unresisting guards who had not fled. While this was happening Nerek had leaned closer to the immobile Byrnak who knelt at the centre of the juddering web of Wellsource power, staring down at the impaling blade and trembling visibly. A foreboding of dread struck Bardow's thoughts but before he could say anything, Nerek had grasped the hilt and was pulling the sword out of Byrnak's chest.

  Byrnak spasmed, his head thrown back, arms thrown wide. A dark haze seeped out of his armoured body, coalesced into a wraithlike figure which writhed horribly around him until it finally tore itself free. As it rose into the air, an eldritch obsidian radiance poured from it, drenching everything and everyone in deathly grey for a moment. Then a soundless snarl appeared on its nightmarish countenance before it swept straight at Nerek and vanished into her.

  Nerek let out an agonised scream and fell limply to the floor, sword clattering from insensible fingers. Aghast, Bardow levered himself up, gasping with the effort, cursing his weakness. I must sleep soon, he thought as he descended the steps.

  “Archmage,” said one of the knights who was standing over Byrnak's prone form with a dagger. “This one yet lives – shall I finish him?”

  Suddenly all eyes were on Bardow. He wanted to fall down and sleep, right there on the cold stone floor, even as his mind was still trying to take in all that had happened. There were shouts and sounds of fighting from out in the main passageway, all fainter than before and he had no idea of how events outside had been affected by what had happened in this room. But he had to make a decision.

  “Keep him alive…for now,” he said wearily. “But bind and gag him...and do the same with Nerek.”

  His heart felt heavy as two of the knights approached Nerek with long cords stripped from one of the window drapes. But the moment one of them pulled her arms straight, she jerked violently into motion, scrambled away from them and, muttering and sobbing, leaped to her feet. She grabbed a long dagger from a sheath at her waist and stared wildly about her.

  “…away, take him, he is….is inside…” She stretched out her empty hand to Bardow, imploring him, “Help me, Bardow, help…” Then her face twisted, a grimace of pain and rage, and her voice became guttural. “Kill you all, water these stones with your blood...your…” Now one side of Nerek's face seemed distorted while the other was slack. “No, I will not allow this...you I will kill you then kill them…”

  Then Nerek whirled and dashed across the chamber to the broken door, shrieking and slashing at the terrified servants as they dived out of her path. Bardow watched her plunge through out of sight, knowing that she was fighting for her life and soul against a brutal and pitiless foe. He gestured one of the knights to follow her.

  “Keep her in view,” he said, “but do not attempt to get in her way – it could mean your life.”

  Even as the knight hurried out, another of his men yelled and pointed at something behind Bardow. He turned to see the Mazaret rivenshade carrying an unconscious Alael out onto the balcony. Seized by fear and anger, Bardow struggled up the steps.

  “No!” he cried. “Wait….”

  Then a great dark shape flew up to alight on the balcony. The rivenshade slung Alael over his shoulder and climbed onto the back of the nighthunter which stared at all the people within with rapacious, jewelled eyes. It spread its leathery wings and launched away from the balcony, massive wingbeats carrying it up.

  I should have protected you better, Alael, Bardow thought as he watched the creature fly off in the direction of Gorla. Once the sword was made, I should have sent you away by ship…

  He staggered over to the balcony rail. The snow was easing off and Bardow could see that chaos reigned in the streets below while fire tore through building after building. He was so exhausted, so utterly bereft of stamina and hope that even the Crystal Eye could not help him. He could still feel its watchful presence, so it was still safe in the hidden chamber, and he could just sense that it was trying to tell him something but his poor battered mind could not take it in.

  Then voices were raised by those who had ventured out onto the balcony, and hands pointed north-west, the direction of Keshada. In a kind of stoic despair, Bardow tur
ned that way to peer out at the far-off, snow-blurred fields, expecting to see another black-armoured phalanx moving towards Besh-Darok. Instead, riders began emerging from the veil of falling snow, fur-clad and skin-wrapped, some bearing rough banners daubed with tribal emblems, lashing their mounts into a frantic charge across the rolling, white-shrouded landscape…

  Bardow found he just had strength enough to cast his vision forward a little, and the sight that met his eyes sent a wave of hope through him. For there, galloping among the sturdy mountain horses of the Mogaun and towering over them were creatures he thought he would never see again – witchhorses!

  Nearer the city, the Shadowking's army had dissolved into a leaderless, strung-out and scattered horde with several skirmishes and brawls taking place among them here and there. But they still presented a great danger – how would these new allies fare against them?

  * * *

  Tauric felt as dwarfed as a child riding on Shondareth's back, clinging to his thick white mane. Hurtling along amid the thundering, thousands-strong host of Mogaun warriors, he could see bandaged wounds aplenty but no lack of vigour and eager determination. The flanks of many horses and a few witchhorses bore scratches and cuts from the earlier confrontations with the eaterbeasts. But that blood-maddened swarm of creatures was no more.

  Half a mile distant lay the city of Besh-Darok. From several places within the walls smoke roiled up into the snow-heavy air, and as they rode nearer he could see crowds of black-armoured troops milling around a large dark shadow on the western wall. As he realised what it was, a sickening fear struck home.

  “Name of the Mother!” he said. “They've breached the wall…”

  “But something is amiss,” said Ghazrek. “Those troops are not moving into the city in any numbers, and those over there –,” he pointed to a long, disorganised phalanx less than a quarter of a mile west of the city, “ - have not sent riders out to challenge even though we must be in full view.”

  By unvoiced consensus, the advance of the Mogaun and the witchhorses had slowed, and the two chieftains were cantering beside Tauric and Ghazrek.

  “You see well, cousin,” Welgarak said to Ghazrek. “Now we must take advantage of this confusion while it lasts.”

  “What has happened?” Tauric said. “Is it possible that Byrnak has fallen?”

  “That is scarcely believable,” Welgarak said, stroking his grey moustache. “Yet it would explain all this.”

  “Shall we attack from here and from the north?” Tauric asked.

  “That would be too perilous, o king,” Welgarak said. “There are still a few of Byrnak's underlings who may try and direct matters if he has indeed come to grief, Azurech and others. And even they fail, these masks' numbers are so formidable that we must use our strengths – speed, surprise and witchhorse sorcery.”

  “And have you a plan, chieftain of the Mogaun?” Shondareth said.

  “I do,” the elderly chieftain said with a hungry grin. “Listen…”

  A short while later Tauric and Shondareth were riding towards the Gallaro Gate, Besh-Darok's northern gate, accompanied by a score of witchhorses. The rest were galloping straight towards the huge crowd of soldiers struggling among themselves by the gap in the wall. Welgarak and Gordag had positioned the Mogaun host in sloping fields midway between the city and the old smugglers ridge but north of the main disorganised mass of the enemy and concealed by long, denses hedges.

  The witchhorses, arrayed in a broad wedge, slowed as they neared the wall breach and the enemy soldiers looked up, noticing their approach. Then Tauric saw an astonishing thing – as the witchhorses slackened their pace, some thirty or forty of them at the front suddenly dashed towards a low, bare ridge directly ahead. At the crest they all jumped in a tremendous leap that carried them through the air above the many hundreds of masked troops. As they soared overhead the witchhorses breathed out the foggy vapours of death. Meanwhile the remainder of the witchhorse wedge were sending a similar misty cloud pouring down into that teeming mass of soldiers. An agonising, frozen extinction began to spread.

  The leaping witchhorses came to ground at the other side of the besiegers and found themselves beset by a company of swordsmen. But they engaged the enemy with fury, lashing hooves and white breath.

  Shondareth turned to Tauric. “We are nearing the city. You must hold on tight.”

  Tauric laughed nervously – Welgarak's plan had included sending a group of witchhorses into the city, but Tauric could now see that their way in would not be at ground level. He tightened his grip on Shondareth's mane, clamped his legs to the creature's flanks, and tried not to be frightened.

  No need for fear, said the Fathertree spirit in his thoughts. In times long past the witchhorses held high-leaping tourneys among themselves – hardly any were hurt…

  That is...reassuring, he thought.

  “Are you ready?” Shondareth said.

  “I am.”

  Then the witchhorse reared back, plunged forward a few paces and leaped up at the city wall. Tauric felt forces dragging at him, icy wind blasting in his face, but he kept his eyes open to watch the ground fall away and the battlements of the wall loom straight towards him. He let out a wordless cry then the crenellations were passing by right below his feet as Shondareth landed easily on the snowy flagstones of the rampart. As they trotted to a halt, the rest of the witchhorses were nimbly alighting nearby.

  Breathing heavily, exhilarated, Tauric gazed out at his city under the low, leaden sky, its roofs and dense-packed buildings looking grey and pale the further away he looked. Smoke was pouring out of large storehouses by the river and he could hear fighting in the streets below.

  “Shall we now go to the palace?” Shondareth said.

  “Yes,” Tauric said, suddenly sombre. “To the palace.”

  * * *

  Atroc splashed his way along an alleyway between tall tenament houses, trying to get to the barricaded streets north of Captains Way where Yasgur and two thousand warriors were holding back the enemy. The alleyway was a dark, stinking, muddy gully but it was also narrow and easily missed by strangers, like the Shadowking Byrnak's soldiery. It also ran parallel to the main street that led past the Imperial barracks and, with any luck, he would be able to reach the Queens Bridge and the towpath there without running too much risk.

  Ah, but risk comes from just living, Atroc reminded himself, stepping over a soldier's motionless corpse. If the Void had wanted us to have a safe life, we would all be living in shells at the bottom of the river…

  A street loomed at the end of the alley, tall, grey and swept by gust-driven snow. Another alley opening was visible at the other side of the street but a glimpse along it revealed a patrol of masked and armoured soldiers drawing near. Carefully he edged out onto the street and ran at a half-crouch across to a doorway, then made his way west. The next corner he knew led round to a terrace of merchant houses that faced the Square of Swords, but if it was deserted he could still find another back street down to the river.

  Where I shall wish for a nice, safe shell…

  But when he turned the corner, he found himself beholding a chilling sight. From the city wall north of the Shield Gate, great white horses were taking long, graceful leaps from roof to roof and approaching the square. Atroc stared in fear and fascination then scurried over to squat between two bushes and watch. It was as if his dream-vision of the wave of horses was coming true before his eyes. Then he noticed the small horns on the horses' head, and saw that only one of them had a rider…

  Shouts and an agonised shriek came from the guardhouse of the massive Keep of Day which faced onto the Square of Swords. Then the main gate opened a few feet and a lone figure came running and stumbling out, one hand grasping a long dagger. It took him a moment to recognise the person as Nerek, but wandering and seemingly deranged. Most of the white horses had landed in streets north of the palace but the one with the rider had come down near the square and was cantering over to the distraught
Nerek. The rider was Tauric, and Atroc felt such elation that he leaped up and began hurrying over to meet them both.

  Then Nerek caught sight of Tauric on his steed, let out a cry and fell sprawling in the snow. Tauric was quick to reach Nerek, dismounted and crouched by her. What happened next took Atroc completely by surprise. In the space of a brief moment Nerek had jerked to life and was writhing on the ground, and in the next she had run Tauric through with her dagger. Tauric cried out as she got to her feet and pushed him to the ground. The great horse roared and lunged, breathing out a plume of white fog which left Nerek wrapped in grey, jagged ice.

  But only for a moment. The ice burst apart and Nerek swung at the horse's neck, hacking through its throat. Steaming dark ichor gushed forth and the massive creature bellowed once before crashing to the ground.

  Atroc had fallen to lie on his stomach from where he watched the terrible slaughter in fear and horror. Nerek then screamed 'No!', dropped the bloody dagger and sank to her knees, head wrapped in her arms. Then she threw back her head and in a strange, inhuman voice shrieked 'Yes!'

  There was a dazzling, white flash of light and when Atroc's sight returned he saw Nerek on the other side of the square, staggering away towards the gap in the wall. But when Atroc finally reached the spot where Tauric and the white horse had been slain there were only fading wisps of water vapour and a large, misshapen scorch mark on the flat stones of the square.

  Part Four

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  In the haunted earth below,

  Beyond underground battlements,

  Behind the weltering darkness,

  Lies an ancient, sleeping prize.

  —Gundal, The Siege of Stones, Ch8, ii

  In the glade of the monument, standing alone in the moist, green light, Suviel watched the fierce drama of the siege unfold in the oval, mist-edged window which the Earthmother had formed in the screen of foliage. With a cool equanimity she observed the assault on the walls and the desperate hand-to-hand struggle which sprawled across the ramparts, and when the war host of the Mogaun came charging south to scatter Byrnak’s troops across the snows, she only observed, nothing more.