“Are these the ones?” the man said in a hard voice.
“Trussed and defanged, elder brother,” said the ambush leader.
The big man gave no reply, instead turning his harsh regard on the four prisoners, appraising them one by one and ending with Ayoni. Feeling almost nakedly vulnerable without the Lesser Power, she avoided meeting his gaze while striving to force her mind to break through the sorcerous barrier created by the strange fine webs. Not even an echo of the Lesser Power came to her but she did sense a menacing pressure on the edge of her thoughts, a hunger for secrets….and a realisation crept over her.
This man looks like a Mogaun chieftain — is a shaman as well?
Then the man turned his attention to one of the shorter Mogaun and the pressure vanished.
“What of the grey blight?”
“Still it grows, lord,” the shaman said. “But slowly.”
Then it was back to the ambush leader. “And the ardour of my host at Belkiol — how do they fare? Are the rafts finished?”
“All is ready, elder brother. They eagerly await your arrival.”
The chieftain nodded. “I want to see the blight first. Bring them with us.”
As all four had their wrists bound, Klayse and Jarryc struggled and were cuffed into submission by the Mogaun who had arrived with their chieftain. Ayoni cried out in fear for her husband and was warned into silence by the sabre held by the chieftain’s brother. Racked with terror and utterly helpless, Ayoni averted her face from the hovering swordpoint. Soon they were being roughly urged into the back of a covered wagon along with half a dozen tribesmen armed with axes and clubs. Then the wagon set off through the rainy darkness, wheels banging and jolting over the decrepit roadways.
Grey blight, Ayoni thought uneasily, certain that this was the eldritch greyness whose horrific inception she and Chellour had witnessed in the ruins of the Keep of Day. But why is this Mogaun chief interested and what is he here for? And just who is he?
Before long the road began to slope upwards slightly and when the wagon came to a halt she knew that they were near the old imperial palace. Lamps were lit as the prisoners were hustled out into the rain again then guided through the grassy, roofless remains of an imposing entrance. Ahead was only a murky out of which sodden mossy heaps of tumbled masonry emerged as the halo of their lamps moved ahead of them. The chieftain walked in the lead, guided by one of the shamen while the second followed close on Ayoni and Chellour’s heels with the trailing threads of their clinging, entangling webs in his hands. Ayoni knew that they had to be within the confines of the palace but their location was a mystery until they turned along a short, narrow passage between two ruined buildings and at the end passed through a massively built arch and stopped. Everyone stared in silence at what they saw.
When Ayoni and Chellour had last seen the deathly greyness it had occupied most of the ground floor chamber of the ruined Keep of Day. Now the Keep was gone and the blight had spread out into the overgrown, weed-choked courtyard and up to the main wall of the palace itself. The nearest edge of it was just several yards from where they stood. The greyness also gave off a faint, pale radiance which by night gave it the appearance of a blanket of ashen snow. But when she stared towards the centre of it, that spot where the ritual had been conducted, the blight darkened into pitch blackness.
A pair of lamp glows came bobbing out of the gloom to their left, resolving into a small group of Mogaun, more shamen Ayoni guessed from their fur-clad scrawniness.
“Hail to thee, son of Grevaul,” said one as they bowed.
“Greetings, Masjig,” the Mogaun chief said. “My voices speak well of you.”
“We serve with hand and blood, o prince, and hold to the old ways.”
The chieftain indicated the blight. “And is this the work of the Grey Lord? Should we welcome it or be wary of it?”
The shamen glanced at each other.
“It remains beyond our understanding for now — we can say what it does but not why.”
“Then show me what it does.”
The shamen spokesman nodded then beckoned over his shoulder. One of the others came forward leading a small dog which he and the spokesman picked up between them, carried to within a yard of the blight’s edge and hurled it in. The dog yelped as it landed, legs scrambling but before it could gain purchase to run back, a solid wave surged up out of the greyness and rushed over it. Ayoni felt sick as she watched the strugging outline of the poor creature grow still and sink down until there was only flat, dead grey.
The chieftain turned suddenly and took three swift strides towards Ayoni. Looming over her, he said:
“Your emperor has laid siege to west Belkiol and he builds war machines, thinking to batter down its walls. I want you to tell him that the town is empty, that everyone has fled ove the crossing to east Belkiol.” His glare was like focussed black fury. “Do this or your friends will follow the dog.”
He was close enough for her to smell his rank breath and the wet stink of his fur cloak.
“They won’t believe me,” she said, desperate to convince him. “We’ve already escaped from the imperial camp, a day ago — why would they trust anything I have to say?”
“You must make them listen and make them believe,” he said. “Find a way, or…”
Ayoni felt as if her mind was caught in a drakken’s jaws and she had to battle the despair which threatened to overwhelm her. She bowed her head to blink away tears, striving to calm the tumult of her thoughts, then she looked up to meet his gaze.
“I will do as you ask,” she said stonily. “There is one thing I wish to know from you.”
“What?”
“Who are you?”
For the first time, he smiled and it was a bare-toothed thing of malice.
“I am the warrior with a hundred faces,” he said. “The words and thoughts of the ancestor spirits flow in my thoughts, awoken by the voice of the Grey Lord himself only days ago. His essence awaits me in that sewer-midden of a city name Sejeend — my first essence is name Huzur Marag, and that will suffice for your degenerate emperor!”
Then he turned away, calling for horses. As she was dragged off towards the archway, she looked around for Jarryc and met his angry, desperate gaze through the press of figures. His lips moved as if he were about to speak, but then she was through the arch and off into the darkness.
* * *
With impatience gnawing at his composure, Vorik dor-Galyn stood at his window and stared out at the city Sejeend as a slow, grey dawn drew back the veils of night. Smoke still rose from more than a score of places, mostly from the wharves and warehouses near the sea gates, with another cluster at the Silver Quays. The fighting and chaos of the night had left wounds on the city, yet it had fared worse in the past.
Such matters were only fleetingly on Vorik’s mind which was instead occupied with doubts and worries concerning Jumil, the forthcoming Shatterseed ritual and his own place in it.
Where is that thrice-damned sorcerer? he fumed. He should have been here half an hour ago.
He thought about his flock, the Nightkin that he had personally selected — they would be making their way up to the palace even now…assuming that all of them survived the convulsions of last night. That thought stabbed at him, sending his thoughts spinning in the grip of a sharper anxiety.
What was keeping Jumil? Then he wandered if he was talking with the Shadowking, who had reportedly returned an hour before dawn after having disappeared into the battle-torn streets at the height of the fighting. Vorik stepped away from the window, back into the golden warmth of his chamber and the pervading fragrance that emanated from the hearth where oiled logs burned. He poured himself a goblet of sweet Roharkan wine, turned to study an antique Dalbari tapestry for a moment or two, then crossed to the bookshelves and picked out a volume of Rootway aphorisms. Opening it at random, he read a couple of pages, seemingly engrossed….then uttered an oath, slammed the book down on a nearby table and wre
nched open the door to the main corridor.
A pair of weary-looking archers gave him a startled look as he burst forth and stormed past. Paying them no heed, he strode the short distance to the sorcerer’s door which he rapped hastily as he pushed through and entered.
“Master, the hours waste away thus shrinking the leeway for our plans…”
He paused, suddenly aware of a tension in the room and the familiar copper tang of Wellsource power. Jumil and the possessed Ondene were standing either side of a heavy ornate table whose polished surface bore several scorch marks. In the grip of the Shadowking’s spirit, Ondene was enfolded in a faint viridian nimbus which served to accentuate the look of frustrated anger on his face. Jumil, on the other hand, seemed relaxed, his gaze steady and amused although Vorik did notice a gleam of sweat on his smooth pate.
He stepped forward, letting the door close behind him.
“Forgive me, sers, if I am interrupting…”
The Ondene-Shadowking gave him a poisonous stare. “I have questions I want answered — perhaps you can be more helpful than your master.”
Vorik smiled coldly. “It is unlikely that the student would know more than the master.”
“I’m more interested in how willing you’ll be.”
Vorik glanced at Jumil who was smiling enigmatically as he watched the exchange. There was no concern or even a hint of a warning in his countenance, so Vorik decided to see what the boundaries of his knowledge were.
“Very well,” he said, crossing his arms. “Ask our questions.”
“To whom do you and your master answer?” the Ondene-Shadowking said. “Whose plan are you fulfilling?”
“The Great Shadow.”
“And is he the Lord of Twilight?”
“Yes,” said Vorik. “I think so….perhaps he is the major part of that godhead.”
The Ondene-Shadowking moved towards him, something dark and unreadable in his face. “But I can feel the essence of the Lord of Twilight in my mind, in my blood and my bones. Your master has already hinted that this Great Shadow and I are but fragments of a greater whole — do you believe that to be so?”
The intensity of his regard was a pressure on Vorik’s thoughts.
“It may be so,” he said. “But I do not know enough to be sure. Might it not be that the Grey Lord and the Great Shadow come from…the same place…”
He was fumbling for some kind of explanation but at this Jumil’s eyes widened.
“This Nightrealm?” the Ondene-Shadowking went on. “Is that another name for the Realm of Dusk? Well, I’ve seen it, I’ve looked into that realm or what’s left of it, and I saw no traceof a great power.” He sneered. “So what is he, this Great Shadow — a homeless god?”
“The domain of holy, deathless night,” Jumil said suddenly, “is every bit as real as this existence, this Realm Between — He waits there in all his glittering majesty, waits for the Shatterseeds to take root and begin the inexorable conquering of all these lands.” The sorcerer’s smile had the steady brightness of unshakeable conviction. “There will be high places for both of you in the grand pantheon which will rule this world.”
“Colourful words and lavish promises,” the Shadowking retorted. “Baubles for children! I will not be a servant and I will not submit!…”
With that he strode ove to the door and gave it a casual knock with his knuckles. There was a sharp cracking sound as the door came apart in a shower of fragments and splinters that flew out into the corridor. Scarcely breaking step, he carried on through and was gone, even as some wooden sliver were falling to the floor in his wake.
“What is he going to do?” Vorik said.
“Join with us,” Jumil said. “Eventually.” Then he took up a carven staff and came over to Vorik. “Now, my pupil, the time is nearly upon us.”
Vorik straightened, feeling a surge of anticipation. “My Nightkin flock will be gathering at the appointed place very soon, master.”
“Good, good — let us be on our way.”
Pausing only to fill a small sack with several items — small figurines of gold and silver, herb bundles, a tinder box, a wad of parchment strips — Jumil then calmly led the way. Out in the corridor Vorik paused to speak with one of the Keep’s master artisans who had already come to assess the damage, and asked him to replace the door as soon as possible, citing the variable moods of mages as the prime cause. Then he had to hasten to catch up with the sorcerer Jumil who had strode vigorously on ahead.
From one of the Keep’s upper floors a bridge spanned the short distance to the top of the nearby cliffs. Once, a graceful mage-wrought stone bridge had cross that gap but the unrest and sporadic rebellions during the reign of Tauric IV had led to its collapse. Now a solidly-built wooden one was in its place, constructed in the first years of Magramon’s reign. With the rising sun, the cloud cover was starting to break and rush across the sky, letting shafts and glimpses of sunlight through to brighten the city and the waters of the bay. As Vorik followed Jumil across to the clifftops, he glanced out at the city and its marring smoke trails, wondering how High Steward Roldur was coping with the looting in the lower districts. News had reached Hojamar Keep before dawn that some of the outlying nobles had arrived with fresh troops, as had the bulk of the garrison from Tyor, a trading town at the foot of the Rukangs some 50 miles along Gronanvel. Vorik knew from experience that a disciplined ruthlessness would be the swiftest route to stability and respect for the law — troops from outwith Sejeend might prove more useful in that regard.
At the other end of the bridge they were met by guards and a plain two-horse carriage, clearly pre-arranged by Jumil. Once they were moving through the affluent, clifftop districts, Vorik’s thoughts turned wholly to the coming ritual. He had witnessed the reassuring lies that Jumil had given to the other flock leaders and also had some idea of the abominable fate that each had embraced in the last day or two, first Lymbor at Besdarok, then Rugilo at Adnagaur, Skotan at Oumetra, and Amaj at Alvergost. Each one had unknowingly allowed themselves to be used as receptacles for the life essences of their flocks, which helped transform them into living gates between this world and the Nightrealm of the Great Shadow.
Vorik had also received assurances, that he was by far the most valuable of all of Jumil’s disciples, that for him the ritual would be quite different and that by its end the powers of the Wellsource would be engraved in his spirit. None of which he believed, so he had taken steps to learn as much as he could about the ceremony from what Jumil let slip, as well as copying what cantrips he could understand from the sorcerer’s own books. What Jumil said about engraving the powers of the Wellsource into his spirit turned out to be quite feasible, provided there was an intense flux of it present, as would be during the Shatterseed ritual. For Vorik the problem was how to be in the vicinity of the Wellsource flux without becoming the sacrificial vessel. The solution he arrived at involved having one of his flock secretly don the real Well Amulet while he would wear a well-wrought duplicate.
As the carriage rattled across one of the Kala bridges, he shifted his arms slightly into a more comfortable position and could feel the shape of the fake amulet in a pocket beneath his cloak and doublet. Looking out at the foliage-masked dale, he smiled.
“Resist the illusion of over-confidence, Vorik,” said Jumil. “Until the ritual is complete, all we have are mere plans and pieces — a failure is always total.”
“Both true and wise, master,” Vorik said, trying to sound humbled while keeping his resentment below the surface of his thoughts.
Before long their carriage passed between the gates of a large townhouse located very near to the boundary wall of the Imperial palace. Its owner, a fleshy, jowl-faced man called Lusad, emerged from the main entrance to welcome them, closely followed by the rest of Vork’s Nightkin flock. The greetings were grave and formal with Vorik and almost servile with Jumil. When Vorik shook hands with Lusad they exchanged a look, for it was he who would be wearing the real amulet under
his shirt.
Vorik then took a moment to study his flock and was pleased to see that they were all properly attired as novitiates and aspirants of the Earthmother temple, seven men and three women robed and cowled in shades of brown.
“Brothers and sisters,” he said. “Onward to our great task.”
So saying, he and Jumil led them from the townhouse and out through the gates. It was a short walk past a ceremonial garden where statues of heroes stood amid masses of bushes in bloom or by peaceful, tree-shaded ponds where insects buzzed and feathertails scurried amongst the branches. Everyone was cowled by the time the path brought them to the small postern gate in the palace’s south wall. Two guards stood yawning in front while a third regarded their approach from a peaked tower over the gate. But as the hooded procession drew near, Jumil paused, frowning, and glanced back towards the city.
“Is anything wrong, master?” Vorik said.
Jumil shook his head, thoughtfully at first then dismissively.
“Just our Shadowking friend — he’s up to something but it doesn’t seem threatening.”
Vorik shrugged then led the group the last dozen yards to the gate. The guards knew him well and on the strength of his authority as an Iron Guard officer, all the Nightkin were admitted, along with Jumil who was posing as an official recording scribe sent by the Academy. Once they were all through, Vorik glanced over his shoulder as the gate swung shut.
When I pass this was again, he thought, the world will be a very different place.
* * *
Almost two hours before Vorik and Jumil departed Hojamar Keep, Calabos and Coireg Mazaret were navigating the polished wooden passageways of the Daemonkind ship, Stormclaw, seeking out a chamber called the Auracle where a grave conferral was to take place. After the battles and terrors of the night’s chaos, Qothan had announced that the Stormclaw had returned to Sejeend and the clade chiefs were preparing to offer the Watchers sanctuary in accordance with the safe passage guaranteed by High Steward Roldur. Everyone gratefully agreed to this proposal but firstly they had to find a shrouder who would prepare the body of Tashil’s brother, Atemor, for a Mogaun burial. Then they collected Dybel and Enklar from the storehouse where they had sought refuge the previous night, after which they hastened along to the lesser quays beyond the Silver Landings where the Stormclaw and other vessels were forced to berth.
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