Jumil waved aside his excuses. “No matter — you are here, thus we can begin. From my own discernings, these Watcher fools are holding council at this very moment…” He smiled. “Which is the best moment in which to serve our notice.”
“How can I serve you in this?” Vorik said.
“This tactic requires me to carry out two strenuous incantations,” Jumil said, studying the wall nearby. “And even thought we have a sacrifical source, the effort shall still render me near helpless at the conclusion. At that point, I need you to carry me from this place along that passage —” He indicated a second dark entrance which had escaped Vorik’s attention, “— to the ancient chamber of wards where you will place me on the floor by the face of the Great Shadow.” He glanced at Vorik. “Is that clear? Have you any doubts about your task?”
Vorik felt the heat of his anger at this patronising prod. “No doubts, master,” he with forced calmness. “I understand — completely.”
Jumil regarded him with amusement for a moment then turned to the wall and the other man. “Good, then let us proceed.”
The naked, hooded man had made neither sound nor motion during all of this and remained so as Jumil laid one hand on the dark grey rock and began to recite some kind of spell. Vorik felt a chill go through him as the sorcerer crooned strings of syllables in some ancient tongue from before the fall of Jagreag. Then bright threads began to appear on Jumil’s bare upper arm, weaving along towards the wrist like burning veins. Across the back of his hand they writhed, growing brighter as they entwined about his fingers, and from where his fingertips were pressed against the rock the threads continued to spread.
“The call shall be uttered,” Jumil muttered, “and the call shall be heard. Even that Calabos and his vermin will hear but only he will know what it means.”
“What does it mean...ah, master?”
Jumil glanced at him for one tense moment, then gave a wintry smile. “You know the fiction that the self-deluders of this empire tell themselves about the downfall of the Prince of Dusk…”
“Yes,” Vorik said, unsure of where this was leading. “The final battle in the depths of the Void, Tauric the First vanquishing our Lord….”
“Just so, but it was a banishing not a vanquishing. The history tellers weave an elaborate web of fancy, but they know nothing of the Broken, the servants of the Great Shadow. Well, soon the lies will snap and shatter like the 300-year old mask that they are...ah, at last the rock is ready.”
The burning threads had crept across the wall, criss-crossing in a patternless way until a section of the stone surface resembled a strange, random mosaic. Jumil let his hand fall limply to his side, then raised the other to pull away the naked man’s hood. Vorik narrowed his eyes, recognising one of the original four men that he had recruited several days ago.
“Behold, my conduit, my channel to the bones, the very viscera of this land!” With one hand, Jumil pushed the middle of the man’s back. “Go forth now, enter that splintered embrace.”
Arms at his side, the man stepped forward and into the rock wall of the chamber. Vorik stared, transfixed. Bright-edged fragments of the surface shifted, eased aside as if they rested upon some thick, malleable substance. Soon Jumil’s servant — or sacrifice — was halfway into the wall, one leg and both arms sunken to the elbows. The other leg was swallowed, then the buttock and lower back, followed by one shoulder and the next...then Jumil muttered something in a low voice and the man’s progress ceased.
Vorik watched, fear warring with his hunger for power such as this. Jumil spared him a brief glance, exertion plain in his face as a roseate radiance began to leak from his eyes and mouth.
“Remember,” he said. “Carry me to the chamber of the wards and place me by Great Shadow’s face.”
“It shall be done, master,” Vorik said.
Jumil nodded sharply then turned to face the fall with the naked man’s still visible shoulderblades, neck and back of his skull. He began a low, droning chant that grew in urgency as the strange glow in his eyes and mouth became brighter. Soon they were hot, luminous nodes of golden fire and Jumil’s swaying stance and clenched fists betrayed the great strain he was under.
Then the chanting rose in pitch and culminated in an unintelligible, two-syllable word. In that instant the glow of the chambers torches dwindled to nothing as the fires in Jumil’s face leaped forth to lance into the back of the trapped man’s head. The floor of the chamber shook and a grating, roaring sound came from all around, slowly resolving into a deep booming voice which made the dust on the floor crawl and the air in Vorik’s chest resonate horribly.
Terror gripped Vorik as that awful voice spoke on and on without cease in raw bass tones that reverberated around the chamber. But he was not to unnerved that he was unable to discern the manner of that mighty utterance. There was pain and there was unshakeable resolve, but above all there was an insistent, pitiless beckoning, a relentless exhortation to something out there in the night….
Here, it seemed to say, Here is the place. Come to us!
* * *
There were eight people in the common room of the Watchers’ lodge, six of whom had just recently arrived amid early evening rain. Coats and cloaks lay draped over chairs brought closer to the hearth’s fire while their owners reclined on divans near the heat, or otherwise sat or stood.
The other two present were Tashil and the fugitive Corlek Ondene. On rising that morning Tashil had received a message from one of the guards explaining that Calabos left earlier on urgent business and would return in the evening. The poet had also requested that she keep Ondene as mollified as possible since the guard were under orders to prevent him from leaving the lodge in case he was still being hunted.
This did not prove an easy task, resulting in three angry outbursts and one struggle with the guards down in the main hall. Tashil tried to explain that this confinement was for his protection — which was confirmed later by one of the lodge messengers who said that posters bearing Ondene’s face and a 50-regal reward had been put up in the markets and squares ‘by order of the Iron Guard’.
Ondene’s response was to become cold and withdrawn, and he was now sitting alone in the window seat across the common room, alternately reading a book on Roharkan history and staring morosely out at the pouring rain. Tashil had decided that was tolerable enough for her to leave him be and devote herself to her fellow Watchers who had arrived following a mindspeak message from Calabos asking them to gather in advance of his arrival.
The senior Watchers were a disparate group, their manner of attire as varied as their origins. Like Sounek, for example, a tall, well-kempt man who affected the air of Khatrisian aristocrat when in truth he came from a humble Tymoran family. At the other extreme was Dardan, a wiry, craggy-featured man in his middle years whom Tashil knew to be the estranged scion of an old Cabringan noble house, yet his garments sometimes resembled those of a gamekeeper or a travelling artisan.
As Tashil’s gaze came to rest on Dardan she was surprised to find him watching her in turn. He gave a wry grin and came over to where he stood at the end of the mantelpiece, out of the fire’s hot glow. Tashil felt a sting of embarassment, wondering if he was going to remonstrate her. Dardan was highly-respected within the Order of Watchers and was effectively Calabos’ second-in-command.
“So — which of us do you find the most intriguing?” Dardan said a quiet, amused voice.
“I couldn’t possibly single out any one person from this honourable gathering, ser,” Tashil replied. “Think of the consequences…”
“Quite right,” saidd a stalwart, red-faced mage called Chellour who sat before the fire with a heap of parchments in his lap. “I would find it most upsetting were I to be ranked lower than, say, Dybel….”
Dybel, a tall, lantern-jawed man sitting on a stool on the other side of the fire from Tashil, smiled and shook his head. “Be careful what you wish for, my friend…”
Hearing this, Dardan shrugged. �
��Then perhaps we need another focus for our curiosity, like yonder brooding student of the rain,” he said, tilting his head in Ondene’s direction.
Tashil had prepared for this. “Oh, that’s Stom — he’s just a guest of Calabos who’s been retoring some old statuettes.”
Dardan’s smile was accompanied by a dry chuckle.
“No need to play parlour games, lass. I recognised the notorious Captain Ondene the moment I entered the room.”
“Is that really him?” said Inryk, an edgy, untidy-looking man who turned in his armchair to peer across the room. “He doesn’t seem very dangerous—”
There was a muffled thud as Ondene suddenly closed his book and glared round at him.
“I have been considered sufficiently dangerous to have been hired by a number of southern lordlings and castle princes in recent years, ser,” he said darkly. “If it’s any of your business.”
Oblivious, Inryk shook his head. “But I don’t see how that’s relevant to why the city knotmen have been putting up posters about him…”
“You should pay more attention to the gossip about the nobility, Inryk,” said the sixth mage, Countess Ayoni, an elegant, mature, dark-haired woman. “You see, the former Ondene estates were gifted to House dor-Galyn, and they have a son with a captaincy in the Iron Guard.” She regarded Corlek dispassionately. “Who knows that Baron Ondene’s last surviving son is in Sejeend, thus…”
Corlek Ondene’s only response was a brief nod, as if to confirm her summary, but Inryk was not satisfied.
“That’s all very well, but how does he come to be here?”
Eyes turned towards Tashil but before she could even begin to frame an account of last night’s events, there was the sound of a door opening and closing in the antechamber beyond the arched entryway, and footsteps crossing the wooden floor.
“Ah, Calabos at last,” said Sounek. “Now we’ll have some answers.”
But it was not Calabos but another taller man who stepped through the arch, stooping slightly as he did so. Clad in a long, powder blue coat of austere cut and a plain grey skullcap, his very presence silenced the entire room. His hair was short and as silvergrey as his well-trimmed moustache and beard which, in his weathered and bony face, gave a strong impression of authority and intellect. His eyes were a pale blue, somewhere between ice and ash, and held no pity.
“Good,” hs said in a level, slightly harsh voice. “Everyone is here, everyone except the poet.”
Startled at this intrusion by a complete stranger, Tashil wondered why the other mages looked tense and guarded, saying nothing as they watched the newcomer who returned their collective gaze with a disdainful smile. But before she could ask his name, Sounek spoke from his chair.
“This is a private meeting, ser,” he said. “It appears that you have entered the wrong house.”
“No, Sounek, I am in the right place,” the man answered.
“I fear that you’ve mistaken me, ser — I am Ven Hortis, a master of antiquities from Scarbarig -”
“Sounek of Tymora,” the man went one. “Born to a family of barrelmakers, ran away at age eleven, studied at the Green Hall in Tobrosa, admitted to the Order of Mages 31 years ago by my predecessor, renounced the Order eight years to become a Watcher….”
“You’ve worn out your welcome, Tangaroth,” Chellour said angrily.
Tangaroth? Tashil thought in amazement. The Archmage? Here?
“Aah, Nyls Chellour, youngest son of an Adnagauri pickpocket, made a ward of the House of Guilds, trained as a scribe and illustrator until a mage brother at the Earthmother temple saw his potential and helped him become an initiate. Admitted to the Order of Mages 25 years ago but left 14 years later…”
He surveyed them. “I know each and every one of you, what you were and what you think you are, even your rash young guest over there…”
“No, you don’t, Tangaroth,” said a familiar voice from beyond the arched entrance. “You may know details of their lives, but you do not know them as I do…”
Tashil felt a rush of relief as Calabos, looking spry and alert, entered the room, shrugged off his damp cloak and slung it over an empty highbacked chair before turning to confront the unwelcome visitor. The two men faced each other for a drawn-out moment before Calabos addressed the Archmage.
“So why are you here, Tangaroth?” he said. “To merely dispense threats and the crown’s unique menace, or was there ome other reason?”
“You and your Watchers are only just tolerated, Calabos,” the Archmage said. “Keep that in mind. Renegades, outcasts, and the offspring of enemies -” He shot a glance at Tashil with that. “Only your marginal usefulness has saved you from the dungeons thus far.”
Tashil felt a strange hollowness, a mingling of panic and anger at the Archmage’s cruel jibe. Some of the others got to their feet and Dardan clenched his fists as he took a step towards the Archmage. But Calabos halted him with a raised hand and a tight smile.
“That was a mean blow, Tangaroth,” he said. “And not worthy of your office. You must know that all of us here have vowed to protect the interests of the empire and its people — that is why the Watchers exist.”
Tangaroth sneered. “You seem to have forgotten why the Mage Order exits, then...but in any case, when Ilgarion and his court take up the reins of power he will learn of you and wonder why all of you are not under my direct control and guidance” He shrugged. “I doubt that any record of past achievements will stand between you and incarceration at his majesty’s pleasure.”
“Unless?” Calabos said.
“Unless the Watchers perform a service vital to the sanctity of the realm.”
Everyone’s eyes were on Calabos. Tashil stared at the old man’s face, wishing and hoping that he would turn down this blatant coercion but to her dismay he frowned and gave a smal nod.
“Go on,” he said.
The Archmage looked satisfied. “It has come to the notice of the High Minister of Night as well as myself that the Great Carver Pilgrimage to the Isle of Besdarok will be used as a veil for the assembly of an army of northern Carver zealots which will then attack Sejeend. At the same time, other Carver wreckers will attempt to sow confusion in the city with burnings, assassinations and the like. It will be the Watchers’ task to spy on the few prominent Carver priestholds and their sympathisers in Sejeend, find out who is party to the plot and ascertain its details.”
Calabos regarded him pensively. “And may I ask what the Order of Mages will be doing in the meantime?”
“Working closely with the High Lord Marshall and his commanders to counter the threat from the north,” Tangaroth said. “Pre-emptively, if necessary.”
Tashil felt so full of outrage at this that she teetered on the brink of shouting in his face. ‘Norther Carver zealots’ could only mean the Mogaun tribes, but the only true zealots among the tribes were the fanatical Oathtakers and they accounted for only a small minority with numbers that scarcely constituted an army. In any case, it would be sheer madness to mount an attack on a city like Sejeend…
Then Sounek caught her eye and raised a cautionary finger, to which she gave a slight nod and held back, listening.
“A most singular strategy, Archmage,” Calabos was saying. “Very well, then — you can be assured that we will carry out this investigation for you on the understanding that our integrity and independence will remain as it was under Magramon.”
“So it shall be,” Tangaroth said. “But before you begin, it might be wise to escort your hotheaded guest out of the city — who knows what harm might befall him were he to stray out into the streets.”
“Yes...quite…”
Calabos suddenly paused, swayed on the spot then reached out to the padded back of a divan to steady himself. “Can you hear….a voice….calling….”
Then Tashil could hear something but only in her mind, a low, rumbling voice speaking a continuous string of syllables. And even as she became aware of the sound, it grew louder and lou
der in her head. In the next moment, Calabos let out a strangled cry and keeled over to sprawl on the floor.
But the terrible roaring went on, even as the others stumbled forward to Calabos’ aid, all of them similarly affected by the monstrous torrent of noise. It was now so loud that it seemed to fill her head to bursting and sent her senses reeling. She could hear nothing else and the mere act of trying to walk over to Calabos’ motionless form was like crossing a tightrope above an abyss. And still the brutal, demanding bellow raged on within her skull but now she could discern divisions, a feral shriek, an incoherent droning moan, and over it all vast words surging through like waves of oceanic thunder….
Finally it abated, faded to a murmur and whispered away to nothing with surprising swiftness. Relief was stark on every face around her, and Tangaroth was crouching by an unconscious Calabos with fingers pressed against the side of his neck.
“Unharmed,” the Archmage said, getting shakily to his feet. “When he awakes, impress upon him the gravity of this new...incident.” He looked at them all. “I’m sure that he will have recognised that as a spell of dark provenance.”
“It was an invocation,” Dardan said sourly.
“Yes, but of a kind known as a calling,” Tangaroth said. “It is supposed to draw powerful spirits and other things to the vicinity of the caller. If this was perpetrated by Carver zealots then your task may just have become a little more arduous that I originally anticipated.”
The Archmage had regained his composure and once more carried an air of haughty disdain.
“When Calabos sufficiently revives, have him contact me with mindspeech,” he said. “But before that comes about, you yourselves might consider sending forth a search party, for I fear that your caged bird has flown!”
With a quiet, malicious laugh, he turned and left by the archway, while Tashil whirled round and cursed at what she saw. One of the windows stood open and a book lay on the chair nearby, but Captain Corlek Ondene was utterly gone.
Chapter Five
Shadowmasque Page 6
