Shadowmasque

by Michael Cobley

  The old tyrant was long since slain,

  But his accursed bane lived secretly on,

  A blight that rotted out the land,

  And poisoned us all.

  —Ralgar Morth, The Empire Of Night, Canto III

  From the deepening shadows of a muddy alley, he gazed at the Watchers Lodge which sat across the road behind a low hedge, its dark mass broken by the curtain-muffled radiance of a few of its windows. He knew there were others also spying on it, the driver of a wagon, a gardener, and someone behind a curtained window in the adjacent house, all of whom had come to his attention after the arrival at the lodge of one who could only be the emperor’s archmage, such was the strength of his aura. Using the long voice he had reported all of this to Prince Agaskline, his clade chief back aboard the Stormclaw and the response had been one of concern, to say the least.

  The elderly mage from the previous day arrived not long after the archmage. Knowing from past rumour that there was some antipathy between the two, he had expected some hint of magery but he felt no disturbance in the Lesser Power. Only the silence and tranquility of neat, well-tended gardens and streets bereft of people in the night.

  When it began it sounded like a faint sussuration in the air while a tenuous but noticeable coldness flowed over him. Then he thought he could hear a steady murmur emanating from the ground underfoot, a sound that grew steadily, becoming an interleaved drone of voices, one of which intoned an unending string of words in an ancient, primitive Othazi dialect. Distorted amid the burgeoning roar it was barely comprehensible but here and there he picked out exhortations to awake, to follow, to fulfill….

  And for some moments he imagined that this din was audible to anyone until he saw two locals stumble past in the weak glow of porch lamps, chatting away, seemingly oblivious.

  Only those attuned to the Void or its powers would be able to feel such a primal outpouring, he realised. Yet this was not a direct, focussed act of sorcery, rather an enveigling incantation that was meant to flood the thoughts while an insistent compulsion worked away at the undersenses. No focus, no direction, just this pervasive torrent, gushing in all directions from some source across the river, somewhere near the cliffs.

  Then, as it reached its peak, his night-piercing eyes spotted a figure clambering over a wall separating the lodge from the grounds of the house next door. Momentarily a face was framed in a shaft of light from within the lodge before slipping out of sight. Without hesitation he moved out into the feebly-lit street, affecting a sot’s stagger along with a limp and a slurred, wavering sea shanty. For a second, the other lookouts had neither noticed Ondene’s escape nor his own weaving drunkard’s walk across the road towards a lane that ran along the other side of the Watchers lodge.

  With only a few paces to go he just caught a high-pitched whistle over the sound of his own voice and quickened his stride. Once within the thick shadows of the lane he broke into a run whose swiftness and silence would have stunned any chance observer. He could not know where the hunt would lead him, but he knew that he had to get to Ondene before the other pursuers. His brothers and sisters aboard the Stormclaw would expect no less. Of course, once he had the man in his custody, his problem would then be what to do next.

  He grinned a ragged grin as he ran, certain that the solution would involve some kind of radical tactic.

  * * *

  The sorcerous calling raced outwards from the chamber from the chambers beneath the cliffs of south Sejeend. A widening ripple of compulsion that ghosted through stick, stone, brick and iron as easily as empty air. Those few who possessed a touch of the Lesser Power — fortune-tellers, weather-wives, shipboard stormsmen, horse-tamers and the like — felt it as dizzyness and a hollow rushing in the ears. Those with a greater degree of talent suffered a correspondingly greater level of mental turmoil.

  Then there were its intended prey for whom it was akin to barbed hooks snatching at the mind.

  In a rundown district on the north bank, a pack of dogs milled in panic as the leader was attacked by one of its senior followers, an ugly brown mastiff whose powerful jaws allowed it to tear out the leader’s throat in one savage wrench. With gore dripping from its muzzle it turned and lunged at the nearest of the others, breaking its neck, while the rest scattered, yelping in fear….

  In the dungeons below the imperial palace, a wrongly-imprisoned potter waited until the warder had opened the cell-door before ramming a hastily-sharpened wooden spoon into the man’s neck and slashing it with fearsome strength. Pausing only to snatch a dagger from the still-twitching corpse he slipped out and along the torch-lit passage, heading unerringly towards a storeroom which he somehow knew had a boarded-up hatch in one wall that led to the guard’s kitchen...but he had barely reached the storeroom door when a crossbow quarrel smashed into his temple, killing him instantly….

  A kidnapper murdered his partner then their captive, before leisurely decorating the floor and walls with their blood, writing over and over the words — ‘Here — Follow — Now — Come!’

  Amid the laughing, chattering din of a dockfront inn, the fortune-teller in her corner was laying out the cards to pass the time when the wave of sorcery passed. A moment later she caught her breath when the faces and images on the cards began to move and writhe — the Mother of Eyes began flicking through the heavy book she held while glancing impatiently up from the table; the Merchant of Daggers licked his lips suggestively and winked; the Five of Gates showed three people chasing each other from gate to gate and changing their shapes as they passed through them…

  She closed her eyes but when she opened them the cards were as animated as before. Suddenly she felt unconcerned, knowing that she had to leave the tavern and cross the river to the south bank...but she also owed the barkeep for her thimble-sized, money that she lacked, and she could see him directing a glance her way from time to time. Then a solution to her predicament came to her, almost as if some part of her had known how all along. Effortlessly she conjured perfect illusion of herself sitting beside her at the table, just out of smoky air and candlelight it seemed. At the same time she cloaked herself in the appearance of a short, shabby old pitch-stained bargee then rose and sidled her way through the busy crowd, reaching at last the low-lintled door.

  Outside on the dockside, only a few torches and porchlamps interrupted the night shadows and between one pool of radiance at the next she shed her disguise with the ease of a thought and began the long walk to the nearest bridge across the Valewater.

  Further out the sorcerous calling travelled, an inexorably widening circle that disturbed a few and spoke deeply to even fewer. While madness claimed a miller’s son in central Cabringa, a woodcutter on the east shore of Lake Ornim, and a prostitute in Oumetra, a cold and violent purpose filled a wineseller in Adranoth, an ex-mercenary imprisoned in the Port Vodir lockup, and a wagoneer heading north on the Red Road.

  And on the coast of north Cabringa some 30 miles east of Sejeend, a figure lay writhing on the pebbly shore of a small cove, his convulsions plain to see in the light of the torch he had dropped. There was a cry of alarm from the lookout on his perch high in the branches of an ancient torwood tree and soon a dozen or more came running from the dark shape of the blockhouse just inside the entrance to the inlet.

  But by the time they reached him, the spasms had passed and he was forcing himself to sit up. As they gathered round him, one said, “Are you well, Captain?”

  Saying nothing, Captain Bureng — at times known as the Black Dagger of the Seas — raised one arm to the questioner who obediently hauled him to his feet. For several moments he just stood there, surveying his lieutenants who all sported beards and the occasional scar. Then his gaze rose over and past their heads and he breathed in deeply as if savouring the air, tasting the night. He smiled, his eyes widened, and he laughed, and most of his lieutenants laughed too, although with a nervous undertone in their voices.

  “Bones, my bloody rogues,” Bureng said to them at l
ast. “I can smell the bones of the rich!”

  A sudden greed lit up their faces. Mouths grinned in avaricious anticipation.

  “Who, Captain?”

  His glee was wolfish. “The rich of Sejeend!”

  Grins faltered and eyes glanced side to side, trying to gauge each others’ state of mind. Then one named Cursen Rikken spoke up.

  “That there’s the, eh, imperial capital, Cap’n.”

  He nodded. “That it is, Rikken — well done. And?”

  “Perilous well-guarded it is, Cap’n. Boats and ships and guards and knights and fortress walls and….”

  “All this I know, Rikken, but do you think that I’d lead you into such a drakken’s lair without a plan?” Bureng smiled at them all, nodding. “Yes, I have a plan which will bring the rich worms of Sejeend into our hands. By the next full moon I swear that we’ll be enjoying their wives, wearing their gold and drinking wine from their skulls!”

  Captain Bureng gave Rikken a comradely slap on the shoulder. “When we’re through, they’ll be calling you the Blessed Rikken!”

  Savage laughter rang across the cove but was swallowed by the night and the roar of the sea.

  * * *

  Tashil and Dardan were a couple of streets south of the Watchers lodge when the latter slowed and announced that Ondene was heading in another direction.

  “Which way?” Tashil said, breathing heavily as she came to a halt.

  “West across the north of the city,” Dardan said, shaking his head. “Straight towards the old Ondene estate.”

  Dardan’ skill at the hunting scrye was incomparable so she only nodded before setting off with him again at a steady run, heading for the next corner and turning west.

  They had not waited for Calabos to regain consciousness, even though that had been Dardan’s initial wish. Tangaroth’s jibes had stung Tashil deeply so when she said that she would go after Corlek Ondene alone if necessary, Dardan had thrown up his hands and agreed to accompany her.

  Now they were running along a dark lane, feet splashing in pools or slipping on unseen patches of mud. There were few people abroad at this time but occasionally Tashil noticed townsfolk staring from the lit windows of upper floors and once a thin, bedraggled woman leaned out to shriek and shake her fist at them.

  After the lane, they hurried across a small square, around a weather-stained statue of Lord Regent Yasgur on horseback, then along a narrow road of brewers and barrelmakers which filled their nostrils with the aroma of hops and malt. The road was interrupted by a small, overgrown public arbor and as they drew near to it Tashil felt a faint coldness. She was about to mention this even as they passed a mass of vine and weed-tangled bush, when there was a sound of snapping foliage and leaves flew as a snarling shadow burst out of the bushes and leaped at Dardan, bearing him to the ground.

  Instinctively, Tashil called up the thought-canto Barb, focussing the Lesser Power into her right hand as she dived forward and slapped the creature’s flank. There was a bright flash as the puissance struck deep and the beast, which she now saw was a heavily-built hound, let out an agonised howl. Suddenly ignoring Dardan, it whipped round, trying the bite the spot struck by Tashil who had backed off smartly, expecting it to swiftly collapse to the ground.

  Instead, it seemed to overcome the force and effects of the Barb canto and turn its growling attention to the two mages.

  “That wasn’t too effective,” Dardan muttered as he carefully stepped backwards.

  “There was enough power in my handd to fell a horse,” Tashil replied, keeping her voice even and her movements slow since the hound seemed to fixed its gazed upon her. “What now?”

  “I’ve readied Firedagger,” Dardan said. “Once I get its attention, jump out the way, and sharply, hear? Right…”

  And with that he stepped forward and lashed out at the dog’s rear with his foot. There was a deep and savage snarl as the dog turned quickly and lunged at him. Tashil had already begun her sideways dash but saw the Firedagger spell lance out from Dardan’s hands like a blazing red blade with feathered edges. For an instant, the road, the mages, the dog and the nearby masses of vegetation were drenched in a crimson glow. The dog let out a wrenching, grating howl as the Firedagger smashed through one side of its head and seared a terrible gash down its flanks. It fell to the ground, convulsed for long seconds, its paws scrabbling pathetically, then was still, it jaws half open, its one remaining eye fixed on Dardan.

  Tashil and Dardan, both breathing hard, looked at one another. Dardan shook his head, wiped his hands on his grubby ranger’s coat, then laughed and Tashil was about to remark that the Watchers could do with some of their own guard dogs…..but was stopped by a low rasping sound that made the hairs on her neck rise. Looking round, she saw that the dog was getting back on its legs again, despite the ghastly mess of its head and the gory, dripping gash in its side in which the whiteness of ribs could be seen. Bloody drool trailed from the beast’s seared jaws as its growling grew in volume.

  “Stand further back behind me,” Dardan said as he drew his blade, a glimmer of steel in the gloom.

  Tashil was happy to oblige, but prepared another burst of the Barb canto in case.

  Then the hound gathered its unnatural strength and made a great leap, its gaping jaws rushing straight at Dardan’s throat. But Dardan spun on one leg and brought his sword round and down, perfectly timed to strike the back of the dog’s neck. A second later the hound’s carcass lay sprawled in a spreading pool of ichor while the head came to rest a few feet away. Dardan paused only to wipe his blade clean on the corpse’s hide before resheathing it, then looked Tashil.

  “Let’s be on our way,” he said. “Time is fleeting.”

  As they ran, Tashil went over the nightmarish encounter in her head and came to a worrying conclusion.

  “It was possessed, Dardan, wasn’t it?” she said. “What kind of spirit would ride an animal?”

  “What and who,” Dardan said. “We’ll speak on this late — right now, our quarry has gained a good lead and may reach the Ondene estate too soon…”

  He glanced to either side of the road along which they were hurrying. This was an older part of the city and the streets were narrow, and the alleyways narrower. The buildings were more than a century old and many had gantries running along their first and second floors, or even above the eaves with rope-and-plank catwalks spanning the streets overhead.

  “Our way lies across the rooftops,” he said with a roguish smile.

  A nearby building, massively constructed from great blocks of grey sandstone, had a stairway hewn into its side, a rack of somewhat narrow and rainworn steps which zig-zagged up the outside wall. Up on the second floor they found a ladder leading up to the rooftop walkway. Loose, weathered planks rattled underfoot and the wooden railings of the first catwalk they came to seemed too rickety to rely on, swaying in the open air as they crossed. But soon they reached the building on the far side of the street, clambering up over its tiled peak and down the other slope. It was completely dark up here, but Tashil focussed the Lesser Power through her undersight and was able to keep her footing as she strove to keep up with Dardan’s relentless pace.

  During their fleet-footed traverse of the housetops, Tashil heard from the rooms below arguments, barking dogs, off-key singing, the crash of broken glass, drunken chatter, and once the sweet refrain of a fiddle played with skill and sadness. As they ducked and darted amongst the jumbled roofs, gables and cupolas, they had to be wary of being spotted by dwellers or the occasional hired guard. But at last Dardan brought them to a low balcony on a building near the foot of a sloping street of small traders and inns whose owners tended to live over the shop. Tashil was perspiring profusely but she felt exhilarated as they crouched on the shadowy balcony and caught their breath.

  “Good — we’ve beaten him to it,” Dardan murmured, pointing downhill. “The old Ondene estate lies at the end of this road, along which our determined captain will shortly be passing
. When he does, I shall drop down, render him insensible then carry him back up here and thence to the roof from where we shall observe the confusion of those who hunt him.”

  “How many of them are there?” she said.

  “Four, perhaps five….hssst, the captain arrives….”

  Down the dark street a lone figure came hurrying, passing through infrequent patches of torch or lamplight. Ondene was still clad in the shirt and breeches given to him by Calabos and he appeared weary but resolute. Watching him, Tashil felt a certain admiration for this relentless if foolish approach to vengeance while knowing that only someone without hope could act this way.

  Ondene was 10 or 15 yards from their balcony when his gait slowed and he paused, staring down the road.

  “Shade’s teeth!” Dardan muttered. “He’s seen one of the hunters!”

  Tashil glanced over her shoulder and saw someone duck into a doorway. Looking back she was in time to see Ondene take a few more paces down the road before turning a corner out of sight. Dardan cursed again.

  “Fool — he’s gone into the Wolf and Dagger coach inn. It’s been closed up for a month and there’s no way through to the alley at the rear. Now he’s trapped…”

  Without warning he dived along the balcony to where it continued round the corner of the house. Tashil dashed after him, along the side wall, up onto the railing to leap a few feet onto the sloped roof of a lower adjacent building. Dardan was already there, climbing the column of iron rungs normally used by tilers and slaters, and she was quick to follow. On the other side, two men with torches had entered the lightless enclosure of the coach inn’s main yard. With magesight, however, Tashil and Dardan could see much more detail, an abandoned wheelless cart, a couple of smashed and empty crates, a toppled stack of pails….and there behind a pillar in the utter darkness of the far corner, crouched the wary figure of a man.

  “We follow the roof round,” Dardan whispered. “Maybe get a chance to snatch him.”

  Moving low and stealthy, they crept along the slanted, peakless roof of the inn but they had gone only half a dozen yards when another three men with torches and lamps entered the yard. Dardan cursed under his breath.