Shadowmasque

by Michael Cobley

  On the second floor was a T-junction with a short doorless corridor, and from round either corner he could hear the sobs of children and the raised voices of panicking adults. But the stairs to the third floor began directly ahead so without pause he hurried up them two at a time and was relieved to see Inryk emerge from the shadows near the top.

  “Finally,” he muttered. “Why the delay?”

  “An unexpected guest,” said Sounek, panting. “He has some quite forceful opinions…”

  Shouts from below interrupted him, followed by a tormented scream.

  “Ah, that should be him now.”

  Together they gazed down to see a nightmarish figure lurch into view at the foot of the stairs. Blood covered the man’s face and drenched the front of his ragged clothes, while only the ragged stump of the spear now protruded from his chest. He stared up at them and smiled horribly.

  “You both have to die,” he said. “He told me…”

  With an agile swiftness that took Sounek and Inryk by surprise, he bounded up the stairs. Sounek jerked backwards in reflex but Inryk held his ground and despatched three fireballs in quick succession. But as they struck the impaled man they broke apart one after another, casting sprays and cascades of flamelets across nearby woodwork and down onto the stairs. Seeing this, Sounek stepped forward and cast the thought-canto Ram, sending a swift fist of air straight at their adversary. The invisible force struck him high in the chest, knocking him off his feet. As he toppled and careened down the steps, roaring in fury, Sounek looked at Inryk.

  “To the roof, I think,” he said.

  “This way,” Inryk said, hurrying along to an open door to the right of the stairwell. The room within was dark and smelled of incense. A window’s shutters stood agape, framing a square of night sky strewn with rags of cloud, dusted with stars. Inryk hauled himself through with the ease of long practise, and Sounek had just swung one leg over the windowsill when he heard the heavy thud of running feet. When he glanced at the door the meagre light beyond was suddenly blotted out by a dark figure which barely paused before charging across the room.

  Uttering an incoherent cry he threw himself out onto the narrow slate ledge between the window and the building’s low coping stones. The impaled man lunged out after him, making a grab for his legs. For a moment Sounek felt fingers closing on the heel of his boot but Inryk was already dragging him away and pulling him upright. Their pursuer gave a low, rasping snarl and cumbersomely climbed out onto the roof as well.

  “Persistent, is he not,” muttered Inryk.

  Sounek nodded. “It’s not a trait I care for in hired servants. Gets them into trouble.”

  They sidled along the ledge as quickly as they could with the Retreat’s sloping, slate roof on one side and a 60-foot drop on the other. The impaled man almost lost his balance once and thereafter crouched with one hand leaning on the roof as he came after them. Soon they reached the corner of the roof where Inryk halted.

  “The knotted rope is here,” he said. “We’ll never get to the bottom before he reaches the ropelash.” He indicated where the heavy rope was tied to an iron lug.

  “We’ll have to stop him. “Or go round and round this damned roof until we fall off!”

  Inryk nodded and together they unleashed a barrage of thought-canto spells — arrowfire, burning clouds and jagged webs of lightning. They slowed him down, and Sounek could smell the sharp odour of burnt hair, but still he edged closer and closer. Smoke was rising from the man’s disintegrating clothing and the charred spear stump jutting from his chest.

  “There is a way,” Inryk said bluntly. “I’ll charge at him and knock him over the edge. He’ll probably take me with him, but at least -”

  “No, wait, Inryk,” said Sounek with a grim smile, indicating the broken-off spear. “We’ve missed the obvious. Listen..”

  * * *

  Tashil and her brother were a street away from the Watchers lodge when he suffered another brief mind-absence, the third since leaving her shop. As before, Atemor’s gait slowed, his feet dragging, and he became confused, looking groggily about him and muttering to himself. Luckily, the roads in this district were usually deserted at this time of night so she steered him over towards a low wall. He tried to resist but his efforts were weak and uncoordinated and she was able to get him to sit down on the wall.

  Then she began talking to Atemor, speaking his name repeatedly, trying to call him back to himself. It was a terrible thing to behold, this enigmatic spirit which had lodged itself in Atemor’s being and was trying to displace him. His face was slack and his eyes were like blank hollows while his lips kept moving, framing words in an unknown tongue, sometimes audible, sometimes not. Once he straightened and looked round to the south, towards the other side of Sejeend, and the tone of his voice changed as he were asking questions of an unseen presence.

  But still Tashil persisted, repeating his name, brushing the pale hair back from his face, stroking his hands, till at last the light of awareness returned to his eyes, as did recognition and an inner dread. He drew a shuddering breath.

  “As bad as before?” Tashil said, wiping tears from her face.

  “Like...like drowning in voices, ‘Sheel! — like being hunted by the dead…” His voice faltered in horror and he grasped her hands tightly. “Every time it gets clearer and stronger. I can smell the dust in their breath and feel the touch of their hands…” He let go her hands and covered his face, trembling. “Help me, ‘Sheel, I beg you.”

  Knowing she had to be strong, she held back her own emotions and urged him to get to his feet.

  “Come — we’re nearly there.”

  A short while later, with a cold breeze rushing in the trees and raindrops pattering on the bushes, they arrived at the portico entrance to the Watchers lodge. A lamp burned in a niche by the door, before which stood one of Calabos’ burly guards who nodded and let her pass. There were another three guards in the gloomy hall, along with the elderly lodge steward, Enklar. The balding attendant immediately saw how cold and wet they were and beckoned them to follow him.

  “The great fire is lit in the common room, my lady,” he said. “It should be a warming comfort for you both.”

  “My thanks, Enklar. And this is my brother, Atemor.”

  The old steward glanced round with a smile and a small bow of the head. “It is an honour, ser.”

  But Atemor was grim-faced and gave only the briefest of nods in reply.

  “Enklar — am I right in thinking that both Calabos and Dardan are absent?” she said.

  “Indeed, my lady. They both departed shortly after yourselves earlier.”

  “Did they give any indication of when they might return?”

  “Oh no, my lady,” Enklar said. “Master Calabos did however partake of a cold platter before they left. It may be that he was preparing for a lengthy sojourn.”

  The common room was well-lit and stuffily warm with the heat of the fire. There was also someone else waiting, a small man in travel-stained monk’s robes. Enklar introduced him as Brother Graas, then indicated a sidetable bearing jugs of ale and water and beakers before leaving the room. Tashil helped her brother out of his damp cloak and leather harness, draping them over a nearby wooden frame along with her own long coat. As she did so, she introduced herself and Atemor to Brother Graas then asked which order he belonged to.

  “I am of the Healers Chapter, milady,” he said. “I bear a message for Ser Calabos from Bishop Daguval of Hekanseh, which only he must hear.” He paused. “Pardon my asking, milady, but do you know aught of the fire at the palace?”

  She stared in surprise. “What fire is this?”

  Brother Graas looked almost apologetic. “Well, when I was approaching this part of Sejeend from the north, not too long before your good selves, I chanced to exchange greetings with a herbman who was bound for Adranoth. He told me that Carver zealots had set fire to one of the keeps fo the palace, trapping many inside. Everyone burned to death, the Carver
s included…”

  Appalled at this news, Tashil shook her head. “I didn’t know, nor did I notice anything — my mind has been on other matters…” Then she remembered the audience called at Ilgarion’s behest. Ayoni will be there now…unless she’s been hurt — no, we would have known if she was badly injured or worse…

  She glanced at her brother but he was sitting glowering into the fire. How quickly the ordered rhythm of her life, of all their lives, had cracked and fallen apart. And now the dread powers of their unknown adversary had reached out and touched someone close to her, seeding Atemor with some kind of fitful, cryptic evil. Her only hope was that Calabos would know how to expel the presence which was rooting itself in Atermor’s soul, without harming him. She had read very little about discerption, and even that had been clear on the mental damage suffered by those who survived such a trial.

  But if Enklar was right, he might not return for hours….yet it was also possible that awareness of the fire at the palace would prompt him to return here…

  Sighing, she went over to the sidetable to pour a drink. The ale had an appealing armoa but she opted instead for the water which gave off the delicate fragrance of imil petals. Brother Graas was already provided with a beaker so she poured out two and was handing one of them to Atemor when she heard a door open in the corridor outside. There were footsteps and muttered voices but it was Sounek and Inryk who entered, not Calabos and Dardan. Both looked haggard and tense and as Inryk descended upon the ale jug, Sounek fell into a padded chair, a picture of fatigue.

  “Calabos?” he said hoarsely.

  “Out in the city somewhere,” Tashil said. “No word from him, nor from Ayoni.”

  “You know about the fire?…” Inryk said. Having drained one beaker of ale, he was refilling it. “On our way back here, we passed a couple of good vantage points and got a good look with my spyglass. The Keep of Day is now just a pile of smoking rubble with a few blackened sections of the lower walls still standing.” He paused, frowning, and glanced at Atemor who was listening impassively.

  “My brother, Atemor,” Tashil explained quickly. “And this is Brother Graas — he heard a rumour that Carver fanatics are behind the fire — is it true?”

  “A lot of city folk certainly think so,” said Sounek. “Mobs have apparently been burning Carver shrines and Carver-owned shops.” He shared a look with Inryk. “In fact, we became embroiled in a riot in the west bank district…”

  He went on to describe his and Inryk’s clandestine activity at the Amatellis Retreat and how an angry mob broke down the doors and stormed in. The tale of his escape to the floor above the hall was gripping enough but when he spoke of the impaled man and his seeming immunity to Lesser Power spells, Tashil’s blood ran cold as she recalled the hellish hound which had attacked her and Dardan.

  In Sounek’s account, their inexorable adversary had pursued them up onto the roof and along its edge, impervious to every thought-canto attack.

  “And that is when the solution came to me,” Sounek said. “The Lesser Power was useless against him, but physical attacks worked — after all, he had a piece of spear run through him. So I knew that we needed to hit him while staying out of reach —”

  “Roof tiles,” Inryk cut in impatiently. “We loosened dozens of slates then used Cast to throw them at ‘im.” He gave a bleak smile. “Chopped him up good, they did. Took a while afore he stopped moving, though. Bit like that dog you put down.”

  Tashil suddenly realised that her brother was staring at her. Glancing at him, she saw stark fear in his face, clearly provoked by Sounek’s grotesque story. She nodded slightly to him and reached out to his shoulder but said nothing.

  “That quite neatly sums it up,” Sounek said. “Apart from one other interesting detail —”

  But before he could continue, the sound opening and closing doors, footsteps and voices heralded more arrivals. This time it was Calabos and Dardan, doffing dark cloaks which were collected by the steward Enklar. Calabos had a dark and grim look about him as he crossed to a large, sealed desk and unlocked it.

  “I know about the fire, my friends,” he said, opening out the desk’s covers. “We saw it from the west bay docks while we were trying to find a suitable ferry. Has there been any message from Ayoni?”

  Heads shook and Calabos frowned. “The city is in uproar and it’ll be impossible to get runners in and out of the palace.” He glanced at Tashil. “Did you pick up any useful rumours in the alehouses? Any mention of the Carvers?”

  “Some entertaining ragtalk,” she said, “but nothing more -”

  He turned to Sounek and Inryk. “Yourselves?”

  “Got caught in the middle of a riot,” Inryk said. “Didn’t have time for much else, apart from -”

  Calabos cut him off with a gesture while his other hand plucked papers and books from the desk’s crowded niches. “We may not have much time left to us here. With the Keep of Day reduced to charred wreckage, the Archmage will want to know why we were unable to prevent it -”

  “You!….I know you!…”

  Tashil jerked with fright as her brother suddenly leaped to his feet, face suffused with rage as he bellowed across the room at Calabos.

  “...and I know your face….why do I know you?…”

  Fists clenched, he tried lunge towards Calabos but Tashil and the other grabbed him by the arms and legs and wrestled him onto one of the long divans. By now Atemor was jabbering and shouting in an unfamiliar language and nothing Tashil could do, neither stroking his face or repeating his name, could reach him.

  “Who is this?” Calabos said.

  “My brother, Atemor,” Tashil said, distraught. Then she quickly told him how Atemor had appeared in her house, and how he seemed have become the host for some kind of malicious spirit. “He said he was called, Calabos. What can that mean?”

  “I fear that he is the victim of that wave of sorcery from the other night,” Calabos said. “But I believe I know how to cure this particular malady. Hold him….”

  Then he was gone, off towards the main hall.

  “What….is this frenzy?” Dardan said, tightening his grip against Atemor’s struggles.

  “I think….I think that he might be the same as the man Sounek and Inryk fought,” Tashil admitted. “He was waiting for me at my shop, said that he’d heard a sorcerous calling…”

  Sounek was appalled. “And you brought him here?”

  “He is my brother!” Tashil said angrily.

  “Do you recognise him now?” Dardan said.

  She regarded Atemor and saw nothing in his eyes or his expression that was familiar. A sob threatened to break free from her throat then Calabos reappeared, carrying a long object about five feet end to end and swathed in a yellow-patterned coverlet.

  “Get him to his feet,” he said, stepping round the high-backed divan to face them.

  Atemor’s fury was unabated and it was a physical trial to haul him upright, after binding his ankles. As his head came level with Calabos’ he seemed to calm somewhat and for a long moment the two men locked gazes. Tashil saw Calabos’ frown deepen and a hint of dark anger well up in his eyes. Then without looking away he reached with his free hand for the end of the wrapped object, fingers slipping beneath the folds. Was it some kind of charmed staff kept for this kind of discerption, she wondered, or some other form of talisman….

  But Calabos’ hand clenched and there was a grating hiss as he drew out a long, straight broadsword. And light shone from it, a moire radiance, rippling silver and ardent emerald, which caught and trapped the eye.

  At the sight of it, a low snarl escaped Atemor’s lips.

  “Mother’s name,” muttered Inryk. “Isn’t that…”

  Suddenly fearful, Tashil said, “Master, what are you going to — ?”

  “Trust me,” Calabos said then, with an unexpectedly lithe strength, he lunged at her brother with the sword, driving it deep into his chest on the right side.

  There were gasps and
curses, and Tashil let out a cry of horror. But Atemor seemed frozen, rooted to the spot, his mouth half-open, his eyes staring into midair. Tashil, holding onto one of his arms, felt the muscles become locked and rigid. An awful silence gripped them all for a second. Then Calabos swiftly pulled the sword from out of Atemor’s chest and Tashil could feel the maddening tension suddenly relax and saw his face grow slack….yet at the point where the blade had entered there was no welling forth of blood, not a drop, not a stain.

  “Release him,” Calabos said. “And stand back from him.”

  They all did as he asked, with Tashil being the last to do so. The fury and the febrile air had ebbed from Atemor’s features and his stance. Looking dazed he swayed then fell to his knees and one hand, with the other holding his head.

  “….screaming…” he moaned. “It’s….screaming….”

  With that he slumped over on his side to lie shaking and breathing in shuddering gasps. Wrenched with distress at the sight, Tashil took a step towards him but Calabos stopped her with a brusque gesture.

  “No! — leave him be for a few moments yet.”

  Even as he spoke, the side of Atemor’s head began to darken as if they were watching a great bruise develop before their eyes. But then the dark patch on his skin began to seep out in grey, tenuous tendrils that bunched together, undulating, until they slowly dragged themselves free of Atemor’s skull. In appearance, it was a formless ashen thing the size of an infant’s hand, thready webs of blackness that writhed in a smoky veil. Tashil shivered as she watched it, feeing dread and malign danger through her undersense. Everyone was alert and guarded except for Calabos who looked almost ill and burdened as he studied the wraithlike thing.

  “Keep your places,” he said, voice low. “Make your minds calm and —”

  He broke off as the wraith rose and floated towards him. He did not retreat or even so much as flinch, but instead brought the radiant, silver-green sword up to hold it vertically before him with the blade just inches from his own face. The wraith slowed level with his head and put forth grey, wavering tendrils which paused when they reached the bright sword. Then they moved forward again as if to slide round the obstruction, and one of the tendrils touched the metal….