Domas gave a slight shake of his head. “They have asked me not to talk of them with you, but as for news…”
He paused, reluctance in his face, and Keren feared the worst.
“This morning white ravens brought messages from one of my eyes in eastern Khatris, saying that the Shadowking Byrnak had ridden forth with all his might and surrounded Besh-Darok. This afternoon another message came with news that a dread device had breached the city’s main wall, and that the Shadowking’s horde was pouring in…” He looked away. “I’m sorry.”
“There’s been no more messages?”
“None… yet.”
She felt stunned to numbness by this, almost too stunned to move. Bardow, Alael and Nerek, she thought. I spoke to them just two days ago…
“Then, that’s it,” she murmured. “The Shadowkings have won…”
“Not according to the … to my allies,” Domas said. “They insist that the Crystal Eye and the Motherseed have not yet fallen into the hands of the enemy, which means that the Shadowkings are still vulnerable.”
Keren laughed bitterly. “To what? Talismans that only a mage could wield?…” Then she frowned. “But if they haven’t been seized by Byrnak, where are they? I’d wager that your allies know more than they’re telling you, Domas – ”
“That would not surprise me,” Domas said, getting to his feet.
“But who are they?”
Domas went over to the door where he paused and looked at her. “You’re about to meet them – they asked to meet you once we’d finished talking.”
“But we haven’t finished…” Keren said as he opened the door and gave a slight bow to someone outside.
“My lords…” he said and stepped back.
A tall man, in a long, dark red coat entered the chamber. He was young with high cheekbones and short golden hair, and Keren had never seen him before. After him came a similarly tall, similarly dressed man, except that his coat was darkest green, his face was narrow and his eyes were dark and powerful and cold…
She gasped, scrambled to her feet and retreated to the opposite corner of the room. When she had first encountered the second man, months before, in the refugee camp at Alvergost, he had called himself Raal Haidar. Only later, in that desolate otherworld Kekrahan, did he reveal his true form and name, Orgraaleshenoth, prince of the Daemonkind, first and mightiest of the Lord of Twilight’s servants.
“Damn you for a fool, Domas!” she cried. “What have you done?”
“Keren, you must listen to them,” Domas said. “This is not what you think…”
But all that was going through her mind were memories of the torments she had endured at Orgraaleshenoth’s hands as they climbed the deadly tunnels of the Ordeal below the High Basilica in Trevada. Fear racked her spirit, hate fired her blood, and her senses quailed at the thought of being in the Daemonkind’s power once more…
“Keren Asherol.”
It was Orgraaleshenoth’s companion who spoke, the handsome, younger man. Yet even as she regarded them in the wavering yellow glow of the torches, her fearful mind imagined the outlines of their true shapes, muscular bodies and limbs, rough pebbled hide, narrow reptilian heads, and great hooked wings. And through such spectral imagining came the merest whisper of betraying recollections that she had briefly coveted that mighty frame and had hoped to become a Daemonkind herself.
“Keren Asterol,” he said again. “My name is Rakrotherangisal and, like my oath-cousin, I am of the Israganthir whom you call Daemonkind. Unlike him, however, I am no bloodline prince, being no more than a mere vassal in our flokkar… or I was until heresy led me into this exile…”
At this, Orgraaleshenoth stepped forward and stared across the chamber at her with dark, penetrating eyes. Inwardly she quailed, outwardly she stood straight and made herself meet his gaze. Show no weakness, she thought. Survive.
“Do you remember,” he said, “during our journey up through the Oshang Dakhal, you asked if you would ever be rid of me?”
“You answered ‘never’,” she said.
A wintry smile passed over those sharp features. “I should have reversed the question for the answer would have been the same, except that I would have neither known nor understood it until well after my banishment by the mage Suviel.” The Daemonkind prince looked around her chamber for a silent moment. “When I bound your essence to me, to strengthen and protect you as we passed through the wards of the Ordeal, there was an irrevocable co-mingling of our essences. After returning empty handed to the Realm of Ruin, I began to see that nothing was as it had been before and I felt a restlessness utterly new to me.
“I began to argue with the flokkar wisdoms over our unyielding loyalty to the Lord of Twilight, pointing out how little reward we have earned for long ages of devotion. I was threatened with the Pinion and other punishments so I took myself away to the fringes of the realm where the thinning weft sometimes permits glimpses of this world, the Realm Between. There I met my cousin, Rakrotherangisal, and a strange spirit who claimed to be the last remnant of the Fathertree…”
As Keren listened in astonishment, the young Daemonkind spoke again. “The Fathertree spirit showed us many things but the most terrible was a vision of what will happen should the Lord of Twilight triumph…” A haunted look came over him. “All the Realms would be broken and the wreckage would sink into the Void, merge with it into a single, sunless domain. He would become the Lord of Life and Death, all who survived would be slaves to his desires, and there would be no other power capable of restraining him. We cannot allow this to happen.”
Keren looked from the Daemonkind to Domas who nodded gravely at her. But suspicion was a stubborn companion.
“How are we going to stop it? After all, Byrnak has broken Besh-Darok’s wall or so I’ve been told – ”
“That is so,” said Rakrotherangisal.
“And yet the Crystal Eye and the Motherseed are not in his possession? How? Why?...”
“The Shadowking Byrnak,” Orgraaleshenoth said, “is no more. He was struck by a weapon whose like has not been seen for millenia, a blade which did not harm his physical form but severed certain bonds within him. Byrnak is now naught but an ordinary, mortal man while the god fragment that he carried has seized the mirrorchild Nerek and ridden off in search of the other fragments. Leaderless and under attack, the Shadowking’s great army has retreated to Gorla and Keshada, for now two of the Three Gifts remain safe.” He gazed at her and it felt like an iron weight on her spirit, already burdened with the news about Nerek. “With the third Gift, we may be able to prevent the Lord of Twilight from coalescing… with all three it might be possible to banish him to his own realm.”
“The Staff of the Void,” Keren said. “Is that why you’re here? Is that why you had me brought here?”
“Under this very fortress, Keren,” Domas said, “a vast tunnel slopes down more than a mile into the bones of the world. At the bottom is a chamber containing the Staff of the Void, but the tunnel is full of traps, barriers and guardians…” There was a rapt tone in his voice. “I’ve been down to the tunnel entrance, I’ve witnessed it – ”
Keren glared at Orgraaleshenoth. “And you want me to go down there with you, don’t you? Go through that torment again… no, never, may the night curse you! And curse you, Domas, for dragging me here…”
But Rakrotherangisal was shaking his head. “Any one of the tunnel’s defences could destroy you in the blink of an eye. We may be able to withstand and defeat them, but in all likelihood we shall meet our doom at the foot of that great shaft. Therefore, we need someone who will carry the Staff back up to the surface, someone who can be trusted to see that it is not misused.”
“This is why we had you brought here,” Orgraaleshenoth said, his dark eyes looking sombre. “You have unique qualities that would be of great value to this task, but the choice is yours – if you decide not to go with us, we shall invite volunteers from among Domas’ defenders then winnow them…”<
br />
Domas spoke up. “If your doubts prevent you, Keren, I would be the one to go in your place, then you could command the defence of Untollan for me – you’d be a strong hand.”
The choice is yours… In her mind’s eye she remembered her sword lying broken and smoking on a tunnel floor, remembered the blinding crash and the razor fire that tore and roared through her body time after time. With the memory came a faint trembling which she could feel in her hands.
“Lady, I understand what you endured in the Ordeal,” said the younger Daemonkind. “But if you accompany us below you will not be subject to any such suffering, I swear.”
“What vow will you make?” Keren said to Orgraaleshenoth.
He faced her, but she saw no arrogance or angry resentment in his features, only a kind of proud sadness.
“By wing and talon, by ward and blood, I swear that I shall do to you, Keren Asherol, no malice by will or action.”
Still, she was unsure. “Tell me more about this great tunnel,” she said. “I’ve heard about Untollan before, heard that it was an ancient stronghold from before the Long Winter, that it later became a Nightbear monastery, then the seat of the Brigand Kings, then…” She shrugged. “I never heard tell of any tunnel.”
“Because it has been covered and sealed in the heart of these mountains for untold centuries,” said Rakrotherangisal. “The Untollan, which to your eyes seems to be an impressive, near-invulnerable fortress high up on a mountain side. Yet there are other ancient, ruined fortifications all around the Druandags, mostly among the outer mountains.”
“He speaks truly,” Domas said eagerly. “I’ve seen them – they all have the same architecture, and where carved decorations remain they too are of identical design.”
“So what does that mean?” she said. “That they were all built by the same people…” As if to guard the inner valleys of the Druandags, she thought, But there’s naught but a wasteland in there, stagnant pools and rocky soil where nothing healthy grows…
Domas opened his mouth to speak but the younger Daemonkind was first. “Simply put, they were all part of the same structure, the same citadel, built by the same power.”
“In ancient Othazi,” said Orgraaleshenoth, “it was known as Kol Galeltuntollan but its original name was a Yulatsi word meaning ‘sky might’ and that is the name which has survived in the myths and legends of the First Times…”
Domas smiled sardonically. “Welcome to Jagreag.”
* * *
Ystregul sat in a padded saddle strapped to the back of a nighthunter, hands tight on the goads as he guided the creature down through darkness, wind and snow. But as the wide, round roof of the citadel Gorla emerged through the snow, there seemed to be nowhere for a nighthunter to land. He snarled… then spotted a curved platform jutting from one of the upper floors and a high, open archway spilling golden light into the night. A few moments later, his nighthunter was arresting its descent with powerful, rushing wingbeats that swept fallen snow up off the platform in great swirls and clouds. Growling irritably at the cold and the snow, the beast came down on its rearmost legs first before lurching forward onto all fours. As handlers in long, hooded cloaks hurried up to take charge of the hulking creature, Ystregul slipped from its saddle and landed lightly on his feet. His dark hair and the blackness of his rich garments were dry and unmarked by snow, and his eyes held a pent-up fury as he strode into the warmth and pungent smells of the nighthunter stabling.
A clutch of green-robed Acolytes came forward and knelt, their shiny shaven pates reflecting the torchlight. They stood and parted as another garbed as a common warrior walked up to him and, grinning, bowed. He looked like the Shadowking Byrnak, but was too tall…
"Greetings to you, great lord Ystregul," said the man. "I am Azurech. Welcome to fierce Gorla. Its garrison will shout your name in celebration -"
"Where is he?" Ystregul said, his teeth bared in anger. "You have his face but you're not him - where is he?"
The man called Azurech bowed his head. "Lord, he knows of your approach and awaits you in the great banqueting hall. Come - I will take you to him."
At the rear of the stables, heavy wooden door led into a long, blue-lit room full of jewelled saddles and goads and at its far end was a dark, glittering doorway. Azurech stepped through first and vanished, and Ystragul quickly followed.
They emerged on a curved walkway at one end of a long oval room with a shadowy, curved ceiling supported by huge beams. Torches and lamps shed plentiful light on the dark woodwork of the place and on the shields and banners adoring the walls. Two long tables filled most of the floor space, while at the other end was a heavy dais set up on wide pillars. A solitary figure in brown rider's garments sat hunched at a table with his back to the room and facing the half open drapes of a balcony arch.
"Leave us, Azurech," the figure said in a hoarse voice.
The tall warrior bowed and vanished through the door.
Ystregul frowned, as if not expecting this lack of response, then descended to the floor of the banqueting hall and strode around the side, walking towards a flight of steps which led up to the dais.
"I am here for retribution, Byrnak," he said, every word seething with hate. "You will pay for the imprisonment you placed me in - every second of my captivity shall become a year of suffering for you…"
"What would you know of captivity?" came the other's voice, clearer now, higher.
Ystregul stopped in his tracks. "That is not Byrnak's voice," he said. "Stand up! Face me…"
The figure pushed back the chair, stood and turned.
It was a young woman, slender, fair-haired and plain.
"A wench," Ystregul said with contempt. "Where is he? I know he's near. I can almost smell him - "
"You need look no further," said the woman who grinned with a mouth suddenly gone red and eyes blazing black. She sprang into the air and swept down on him. Ystregul spat an oath and seemed about to unleash his power when he froze. The woman slowed her dive to hover just before and above him, and reached out her hands to cup his face. His head went limp and lolled back, and his eyes gazed up into hers.
"I feel him within you," she said, still hanging in the air. "That part of myself trapped in your flesh and bone for all these mortal years. Ah, you feel him too, don't you? His anger, his hunger, his longing for escape and union, and you can feel him eating your thoughts, can you not?"
Ystregul uttered a wordless, choking sound and one of his hands shot up to grab the woman by the throat. She just smiled.
"Such strength, such relentless purpose," she said. "And none of it yours. Very well - then let us embrace, you and I - "
Without any sign of exertion, she lifted him struggling weakly into the air then rose higher with her own form pressed against him. A dark green nimbus began to enfold them, a shifting veil shot through with black glitterings. Strange gusts of wind battered around the banqueting hall, blowing out torches, causing banners to flutter and drapes to billow and flap. Chairs fell over, unlit table candles toppled over and rolled, and a sole goblet tipped sideways, spilling an ochre wine across the table.
At the centre of the sorcerous maelstrom, what had been two forms now appeared to be one but blurred by the green aura with its glittering black motes which swirled like snowflakes. Moments later, the commotion began to die away as the lone figure, cloaked in green radiance, drifted down to the floor. Another moment and the green had shivered into first the semblance of then the solid appearance of garments, a long cloak of black bear fur over gleaming red mail and black leather harness.
Azurech appeared at the glittering doorway, came over and knelt down before him.
"Rise."
He did so and looked up, for tall as he was, the other overtopped him by head and shoulders. Awe and devotion shone in Azurech's face and for an instant he seemed unable to speak.
"Great Lord," he said at last. "Are you a god?"
The face that smiled down at him had Ystregul's heavy
features and savage smile, but it was tempered by a calmness in the eyes and an air of deliberation.
"No, Azurech, I am not a god. Not yet."
Chapter Twenty-Five
Bells toll with rusty throats,
And the whispers of the world,
Stir the tattered night,
While blind heroes stalk their prey.
—The Black Saga of Culri Moal, vi, 7
Overnight, in the hours following the siege and the breaking of the wall, the prevailing winds had swung around to the east, sending waves of sleet across the city. By early morning the winds had changed again and as the cloud cover rolled away the temperature plummeted. When Bardow left the palace in the mid-morning for a meeting with the Trades Guild, the surrounding city streets were littered with the bodies of horses and men, frozen near solid and caked in snow and ice. However, he had seen from his carriage window that there was no shortage of volunteers - labourers, woodworkers, apprentice boys from the yard shops, even entire families - hacking and heaving at the frost-bound corpses, slinging them into carts brought up from the quays.
When he returned, nearly two hours later, their numbers had swollen and much of the carnage had been cleared. And when Bardow saw smiles on a good number of faces, his heart sank, for he had met with similar feelings among the city's senior merchants. Although there was the expected regrets over the deaths of Tauric and the witchhorse herd (and promises to erect a suitable memorial), their mood was one of triumph. Almost. A second attempted assault on Besh-Darok had failed, and now that the Shadowking Byrnak was in chains in the palace dungeons the worst danger was past and everyone could get back to business…
Bardow had been sorely tempted to wreck this happy illusion by pointing out that they still had another four Shadowkings to face, but knew this would not help when it came to presenting the Crown's list of badly needed supplies. Instead, he praised their efforts, side-stepped questions about the succession, and was inwardly pleased when they agreed to more than half of the quantities on the Crown's list. Now, as his carriage rattled and jolted up towards the Square of Swords and the long gate than led through the Keep of Day, he could see thin trails of smoke still rising from burnt-out buildings north of the palace. Even after Byrnak's capture and the loss of his commanders, the fighting had raged on house-to-house with the masked troops putting buildings to the torch as they retreated back to the breach in the wall. Where the mounted Mogaun were waiting.
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