Shadowkings

by Michael Cobley

  Sickened by this, she had saddled a horse the following night and galloped off into a rising storm, lashed by gale-driven rain as she rode further north, not thinking where she was headed. At some point in the early hours of the morning she had slowed to rest in a hollow on a mountain path facing east. The storm was at its height, and between two peaks she could make out the curve of crags and ridges that was the Oshang Dakhal. Faint clusters of lights were the only signs of the communities of Trevada and, as Keren watched, lightning stabbed down at Trevada's highest point again and again, dazzling nets and webs that seemed to tear at the rock itself.

  A veil of darkness had swept through the mountains of Prekine then, plunging all into a new night that did not fully lift for another two days, by which time Keren had buried her armour and anything else bearing the Imperial sigil, and was on her way south seeking work as a sellsword.

  Now, as she climbed a steep path towards sheer cliffs, she remembered the old peasant name for the Oshang Dakhal - the Home of Lightnings, told to her by an aged scholar in Choraya a couple of years ago.

  About a dozen paces ahead, the Daemonkind came to a halt and pointed at a cleft in the scrubby undergrowth lining the rocky path. "This way," he said, and with a couple of downward steps he disappeared from view. A sense of foreboding passed over her like a prickling shiver but she followed him without pause.

  A narrow crevice, loose with pebbles, sloped down into a dim, stony ravine. Keren felt perspiration tingle all over her body as she descended in an undignified scramble that became a light run. She almost fell but used her hands to stay upright. Orgraaleshenoth was waiting at the bottom, a disdainful smile upon his lips.

  "I hope you are not beginning to tire," he said. "We have much to accomplish this day."

  Keren dusted off her leggings and gauntlets. "I appreciate your concern," she said wryly. "I am well and not yet wearied. However, I can't help wondering at our destination."

  The smile widened as he raised a hand and pointed straight up.

  "But the only way into Trevada is at the other end of the Oshang - "

  "I shall make another way." And he turned and walked on, Keren following at a short distance, every footstep carrying her towards some unknown dread.

  Although the ravine was dry and barren, there was evidence of long gone plant growth along its sides, nets of frail, dessicated fibres stretched across the bare walls, and the exposed stumps of bush roots, grey, withered and dead. Bones there were, too, the tiny skulls of birds and rats, and just once, where the ravine became a short tunnel through solid rock, the remains of a human skeleton, skull and ribcage and one arm. It lay in a hollow between the ravine wall and a jutting slab, probably wedged there by a flash flood. Who could it have been, she wondered. An adventurer, a thief who sought to enter the High Basilica unseen? Or a soldier, perhaps even a Mogaun warrior? Unsure, she sketched a quick bow of respect and hurried on.

  The Daemonkind prince had slowed his pace to a deliberate walk, pausing occasionally to study the rock wall, sometimes reaching out to touch it, then moving on. After a while he came to a halt:

  "Prepare yourself. Whatever you see is only a glimpse into the Realm of Veils. Do not forget that we are still standing on solid ground."

  She nodded, and he raised his hands, fingers spread widely. His eyes stared up at the ravine wall with an intense burning gaze and for a second Keren thought she saw a huge, hulking beast shape waver about him. Then he swept his hands together in a single, sharp clap.

  Keren gasped as their surroundings shimmered into gauzy transparency. Beneath her were pale depths falling away into smoky nothingness, and a sense of panic gripped her. She staggered but fought to regain her balance, forcing herself to feel the ravine's rocky surface under her boots. Then she looked up and gaped in astonishment. The rock wall, the entire upthrusting immensity of the Oshang Dakhal had become like glass shot through with opaque planes and faint silvery wisps. Far above she could make out clusters of tiny shadowy shapes, the temples and other buildings of Trevada. But what caught her attention were the chains of glowing lights which began a short distance in front of her and extended all the way up to the summit. They were like mother-of-pearl, and each one was a different shape. It was almost as if a vast jewelled array hung within the highest peak of the Oshang Dakhal, directly below the High Basilica.

  She was allowed to regard that perfect, enigmatic beauty for just a second or two more before Orgraaleshenoth made a small gesture and the grey reality of stone and dust returned. In the silence the Daemonkind stared into the sheer rocky wall for a brief moment, then strode off along the ravine. "This way, swiftly now."

  He led the way to a fracture in the wall, a fissure that was taller than Orgraaleshenoth but no wider than two fingers. The Daemonkind placed his hands on either side of the crack, as if readying himself to pry it apart by brute force. Then Keren heard him mutter words and syllables that sounded ill-suited to human mouth and tongue. A faint glow surrounded his hands, then a web of tiny cracks radiated from them to cover an oval, head-high area of the wall. Hands lowered, Orgraaleshenoth stepped up to the tall fracture and began pushing his way into it. Keren saw the edges of the fissure distort to allow him passage, all those fragments of the wall moving against and over each other, as if the solid rock had become something alive and malleable. He was half concealed when he glanced back, reached out with his free hand to grasp Keren's wrist and pulled her after him.

  She held her breath as rasping stone brushed over her face, pressing down on her head, squeezing her entire body but not to the point of pain. She also felt a tug on her sheathed sword and her backpack, but neither were torn away. Inching along through the vitals of the Oshang Dakhal, Keren wondered if this was what it felt like to be a mole or a mudmouse, burrowing into the ground with unthinkable tons of rock directly overhead...

  It ended at last with Keren stumbling out of a rough wall into a tunnel dead-end that would have been lightless were it not for the radiant curtain which blocked the way. It shone with shifting polychromatic colours, like lampoil on water, and clung to every surface of the tunnel, forming a perfect barrier. This, she realised, was just one of those jewelled lights she saw hanging within the Oshang Dakhal.

  "The founders of Trevada discovered these tunnels soon after the walls of the High Basilica were raised." Orgraaleshenoth walked past her to stand before the bright barrier, examining it. "And they decided to make use of them, widening some, extending others, then putting into place a complex series of spells and wards. It was the Ordeal of Essences, meant to test those aspiring to the highest positions of magehood." He laughed. "But since the Acolytes of Twilight occupied the Basilica, some changes have been made. Some - not all - of these spell barriers were altered to provide a certain...entertainment? Captives and criminals are sent down into the Ordeal, and their downward progress is watched with amusement.

  "You see, the Ordeal leads directly up into the Congruence, the temple of the High Basilica, where the Crystal Eye is kept. I cannot interfere with the spell barriers - that would set alarms sounding all over this pitiful continent, never mind Trevada." The Daemonkind stepped over to her, dark glittering eyes staring into her own. "No, I need to find another way through, and you will provide me with that way."

  Before she could react, he grabbed her by her jerkin, hoisted her off her feet and threw her bodily into the barrier. It seized her, held her motionless for the tiniest instant. Then lightning struck. She shrieked as agony coursed along every limb and exploded in her chest, a dazzling eruption of white fire that slammed into her head.

  Through the devouring torment Keren was vaguely aware of her body being hurled into the tunnel on the other side. She had no eyes to see with, no ears, no feeling from limb, skin or bone, yet she saw Orgraaleshenoth in his true form, huge, pale and spectral, standing over her.

  She felt a loosening within her and the place where she was seemed to drift sideways. She was able to see the sad, seared ruin of her body an
d would have wept if she could. Then the drifting halted and she was able to see an ashen thread joining her and the Daemonkind.

  "Death has no claim on you," he said. "You are my key, my doorway."

  As she glided back towards her poor corpse, she could see it begin to change, the charred flesh falling away to be replaced by healthy skin, her eyes reforming from blackened scraps, her hair growing from her new scalp in a surge of brown. She felt herself being lured towards her flesh, like a leaf drawn from still shallows back into the surging stream…

  Then she was tipping her head forward, forcing herself to her feet. A few burnt shreds of clothing fell onto the tunnel floor. She was naked, until Orgraaleshenoth, tall and gauntly human again, threw her a plain brown robe. As she slipped it on she noticed the charred remains of her backpack, and her sword, broken into two twisted, smoking pieces. And immediately she remembered the prophecies of the spell-tortured singer, Avalti, and the one he had directed at her - a broken sword discarded.

  "There are another twenty-seven spells between us and the inner temple," said her master. "We have no time to lose."

  She nodded grimly to herself, and followed.

  Chapter Twenty

  Trace upon my ancient face,

  My bold, black plan,

  To break the siege of Time.

  —Calabos, The City Of Dreams, Act 3, i.25.

  It was early evening when Byrnak, Warlord of Honjir and General of the Host of Clans, laid down his long white quill pen and carefully read over the new orders by the soft light of an oil lamp hanging from the ridgepole overhead. The parchment seemed pale and golden, almost translucent, and the letters of every word were scribed with a heavy black ink.

  The orders decreed that the number of warriors being trained as foot soldiers be doubled to ten in every hundred, and that a full third of all stores of grain, livestock, arms and armour be turned over to his own quartermaster. Byrnak smiled, recalling the Mogaun youth he had appointed to the post - of the twenty-four tribesmen pledged into his service by the senior chiefs, Hogal was one of five sent as spies, as Byrnak and Obax discovered through sorcerous scrutiny. Now, of course, they were all loyal and true, though not soulbound - in their minds he had tied subtler knots of pride, honour and devotion. Somehow he found that far more satisfying than obedience founded on terror and pain.

  Byrnak studied the parchment again, the confident pen strokes, the straight, unwavering lines of words, and the tangled characters of his signature. He frowned. When he arrived at the Blood Gathering encampment four days ago, all he had known of the Mogaun script was a few scattered words and phrases. Now it felt like second nature to him.

  He almost laughed out loud. My deepest thanks, he thought sardonically, picturing himself delivering a mocking bow to the darkness at the back of his mind. Yet more knowledge I never knew I possessed!

  There was movement outside the tent and the entrance curtains were pulled aside to reveal the white-eyed visage of the Acolyte Obax.

  "Great Lord," he said. "The honoured Chief Yasgur and his advisors have arrived. They await your pleasure."

  "Good. Bring chairs, and wine."

  Servants brought three chairs, then another entered carrying a tray with a squat green bottle and four bronze goblets which Obax scrutinised before allowing them to be placed on the table. Byrnak, meanwhile, finished studying the new orders and carefully laid the parchment on top of two small, wrinkled slips of paper already set before him, messages which had arrived on the wing earlier that day, then nodded sharply to Obax who clapped his hands twice.

  The curtains parted and three men entered. Yasgur was broad-shouldered and handsome, clothed in a long black cloak over polished leather. The cloak bore an embroidered crossed-spears device near the throat, and a simple gold circlet rested upon his brow. With him was a burly Mogaun warrior with the hard, watchful eyes of a senior officer, and a stocky, bearded southerner whose relaxed smile faded under Byrnak's chilly gaze.

  With hands resting on his waistbelt, Yasgur bowed, a carefully minimal gesture. "Greetings, Great Lord Byrnak. I come in the name of the Firespears to make the traditional offerings at the place of our great victory, and to speak upon serious matters."

  Byrnak nodded slightly, silent for a moment. "If I was your father," he said, "and you had ignored my requests for your attendance for three days, I would have dragged you from your tent and made you eat with the dogs."

  The officer snarled and took a step forward but Yasgur put out an arm to stop him. "Ghazrek..."

  Byrnak ignored the officer, instead keeping his gaze on Yasgur. There was fury in his face, tempered with a waryness lacking in his subordinate. Yes, he had the sharp pride of birth and achievement, along with self-discipline and the ease of command. Yasgur could prove useful, if he agreed to lead the army's vanguard as the other Shadowkings wanted. If not, he would have to be disposed of.

  For a second Yasgur stared at Byrnak, then smiled a knife-thin smile.

  "My obligations to the other chieftains kept me from heeding your request," he said. "As Hegroun's son, I have a number of duties to carry out. No insult to yourself was ever intended, lord."

  Noting the lack of an apology for the officer Ghazrek's outburst, Byrnak gestured for them to sit and directed a thought at the Acolyte:

  Obax - the drinks.

  As they settled themselves in the low, rough-made seats, Obax poured out the wine, a dark red reputedly looted from Tobrosa. Byrnak took the first sip, then raised his goblet in a wordless toast to Yasgur who exchanged glances with his companions before following suit.

  "I shall be brief," Byrnak said. "There are several nests of rebels throughout the south, particularly in Kejana and Cabringa, which the Acolytes and the Council of Chiefs have intended to move against for several months now. This year's Blood Gathering was deemed perfect for assembling again the Host of Clans with which we can obliterate the last dregs of the old Empire and remind our vassals and their people of our strength and our pitiless dominion." He moved the newly-written sheet of orders to one side, picked up one of the message slips, glanced at it and went on. "The intention was for the Host to march south after the rites of the Gathering, but we received word from Kejana today which changes everything."

  Yasgur nodded. "The uprising in Oumetra."

  "You know of it. How?"

  "I have...associates in Hargas, in south Kejana. They tell me that there was revolt and fighting in Oumetra which led to the death of Begrajic, a lesser chief, and the defeat of his warriors and the mercenaries he had hired. The city is now in the hands of outlaws apparently led by a boy claiming to be Korregan's bastard son."

  Impressive, Byrnak thought. He knows more of the details than I do.

  Yet dangerous, Lord, Obax said in his mind. What else might he know?

  "Just so," Byrnak said to Yasgur. "The rebels will undoubtedly try to foment unrest throughout the south, therefore we must act before that happens. The rites of the Gathering will be postponed and the Host of Clans will ride forth tomorrow morning. I want you to command the vanguard."

  The officer Ghazrek grunted in surprise, and Byrnak decided that if the man objected aloud he would have him torn apart by horses. But he remained silent, as did Yasgur for a moment, his face sombre. The bearded southerner, however, smiled slightly and seemed to nod to himself.

  "You accord me a great honour, Lord," Yasgur said carefully.

  "Not so," Byrnak said, picking up the second message slip. "There are doubts about your loyalty to the Clans and to the memory of your father. Leading the vanguard against the rebel vermin would demonstrate otherwise."

  "Doubts about my loyaty?" Yasgur leaned forward, anger quickening in his face again. "Who has been spreading these poisonous lies? My honour is unmarred, and my allegiance to the cause of my father is unbroken. Who would deny it?"

  "This does," said Byrnak, holding up the second slip of paper. "A message from our observers in your city of Besh-Darok, telling of great numbers of your
troops, almost half of your entire army, riding out into the country this very morning." He tossed the message onto the table. "You came here with six hundred warriors of the Firespear clan, and omitted to mention the additional seven thousand which you also now have in the field..."

  "Great Lord Byrnak," Yasgur said. "Before leaving, I gave my generals the authority to act as they see fit in defence of my lands - clearly, they also have received word of the revolt in Oumetra and are taking steps to prevent any similar uprising in Khatris. There is nothing more to that message than this, Great Lord, nothing, I swear it. The soul of my father would rise up and strike me down were I ever to take arms against my own people!"

  A pretty speech, mused Obax. He almost means it.

  "So, you will lead the vanguard?" Byrnak asked.

  "I shall," Yasgur said without hesitation. "The Firespear warriors would be proud to - "

  "The vanguard will consist of Doubleknives and Bloodfists. Your warriors shall come under my personal command, but you may keep a small personal guard, along with your disrespectful underling and this other one." And as Byrnak turned his gaze upon the southerner, he felt something stir within him, a shifting in the shadows in his mind, a presence focussing its attention, pushing its way to the front of his thoughts -

  A seed, this one. A seed of disaster and triumph...

  Byrnak sat frozen, immobile in the grip of a dark will.

  Yet still he is prey. As you are prey. Submit, and you are mine. Defy me and you will be consumed...

  Vision blurred into grey and blood red. He was vaguely aware of voices raised in concern, saying his name over and over, then heard Obax insisting that the audience was at an end. All whispers in the background as that deathly voice spoke on as if to itself, now like the rushing moan of a whirlwind, then harsh and resonant like syllables of iron, rising to a screeching pitch, or falling to a deep, bestial drone from which only snatches and fragments of words emerged.