When at last the chaos subsided and his sight was restored, he found he was lying on the floor of his tent, wrapped in a thick woollen blanket. Weak candleglow came from the table, and the figure seated there he recognised as Obax. The Acolyte noticed his recovery and leaned over him.
"Are you well, Divine One? Can you speak?" The priest's face was full of a fearful eagerness. Pinpoints of reflected light gleamed in those grey-white eyes, and a faint patina of perspiration shone across the hollow-cheeked features. "Can you understand me?"
Byrnak levered himself up on his elbows and smiled maliciously. "Only too well, Obax." An odd exhaustion filled him but he masked it with glee. "How oppressed you must feel by the absence of divinity, by the way I hold on to myself."
The Acolyte looked shaken. "Lord, forgive me, but I heard the voice of the Bringer speak through you - "
"And what did you hear?"
Obax hesitated. "It was in a very ancient language, a temple argot once spoken in the cold valleys north of Keremenchool. I was only able to understand a few words and phrases, but it was as if the Bringer was talking to himself, asking himself questions and answering them." The Acolyte shuddered, but his features were full of the believer's fire.
Byrnak shifted his weight to lie propped on his right arm, gazing thoughtfully up at the candle. So Obax never heard what was said about Yasgur's companion, the southerner, or about Byrnak's own fate. Defy me and you will be consumed....
A curious urge to laugh rose in him but he suppressed it and instead tried to sense the inner terrain of his thought. But the shadows within were still and seemingly empty, unlike those in the tent around him. The guttering candle flame threw great flickering shapes of blackness across the patterned canvas and the long banners decorated with the many symbols of the Mogaun. The half-parted drapes at the tent entrance shifted in a light breeze and somewhere outside a flag was flapping. Through the drapes Byrnak could see a slice of the night, black as priest's ink, strewn with motes and glints, and he pictured the camp beyond, the thousand or more tents, the smouldering fires, the guards patrolling, the ostlers tending to the huge herd of horses penned to the north. He imagined seeing it all from above, then moving west across the raised-up flatness of the plateau of Arengia to the coast of Ebro'Heth and out to sea, to the ocean, its deep abyssal blackness reflecting the night with no horizon in sight at the far-off edge of the world...
He let out a long, muted sigh. "I am weary," he said to Obax. "Help me up."
Grasping his servant's arm, he got to his feet. A passing dizzyness made him sway for a moment, then he shook off Obax's hand and walked unsteadily through the flaps to the rear of his tent, where he collapsed onto the fur-heaped pallet that was his bed. Obax brought the candle in and balanced it on a two-thirds empty weapon rack. Byrnak did not look round, but he could almost feel the Acolyte watching him for several moments. He heard a murmur, a benediction perhaps, or more likely an invocation, then the rustle of cloth and muffled footsteps receding.
Pale gold was the candle's light. It gleamed on the points of carelessly stacked spears and the blades of a matched pair of horse gaivals, and made the burnished face of a bronze shield glow. As he lay there on his side, he could see part of his face in the shield, his features lined, his beard untrimmed, his eyes heavy. Grey webs of sleep were starting to fall on his thoughts, but before he could enjoy that slow, gentle smothering, something pierced it, something familiar, a voice.
Lord, my lord, do you hear me?
He struggled to keep his eyes open, and thought he saw a faint shape in the polished shield, a wraith figure standing with arms held out, imploring.
My lord, your most faithful servant seeks your counsel...
"Nerek..." he whispered, and reached out his hand. But it was a hand made of dream, and it dissolved in sleep's incoming tide.
* * *
Gilly Cordale sat on a stool next to an iron brazier half-full of glowing embers, warming himself while Yasgur, prince of Besh-Darok and chieftain of the Firespear Clan, paced back and forth along the length of the tent.
"What they say is true after all!" Yasgur was saying. "This Great Lord, this Byrnak, is a host of the Lord of Twilight. The way his face changed..." He shook his head in wonder. "I have heard others call him Shadowking, same as that Ystregul . Not ones to make enemies of, eh?"
Gilly nodded, remembering how Byrnak had been staring at him when that misty aura began to appear. The aura was pale and wispy at first and clung to the man's form like a second skin, then a tinge of amber and crimson had flowed into it like a vapour of torchlight and blood. As Byrnak's features were blurred, another face had emerged over his like a crimson mask whose cold eyes seemed to look at things which were not there while a cruel mouth spoke and smiled and laughed. Gilly had heard almost nothing, just a muffled syllable or two, before the priest Obax, clearly in a panic, unceremoniously bundled them out of the tent.
It had been terrifying, Gilly realised, almost as much as that moment when he and Suviel had beheld Raal Haidar's transformation into one of the Daemonkind. Then there was that sorcerous confrontation at the burnt-out village, and the encounter with the tortured singer, Avalti, and those lines of prophecy - an iron fox, eyeless to the hunt...
He shivered. I am not a young man, he thought. I have survived thirty-one summers and had my share of fights and seen sights both terrible and glorious. But I have witnessed more dread sorceries in the last week and a half than a gang of kings. What can ordinary men do in the face of such power, except make jokes before they're swept away by the storm?
Then he grinned. Well, why not? If the jokes are good enough, perhaps the gods will laugh and be lenient.
"You're amused, ser Cordale," said Yasgur. "What at?"
"The look on the Acolyte's face, lord," he said, thinking quickly. "Never have I see a man more unprepared for divine intervention."
Yasgur smirked at that, then began to laugh, his hilarity growing till there were tears in his eyes. He pulled up a second stool and sat down, shaking his head and wiping his eyes as Byrnak looked on in a kind of wonderment.
"Ah, you're a fine companion, Gilly. Now, while we wait for Ghazrek to return with the food, I wish to hear your thoughts on our meeting with the Great Lord."
The irony of it, Gilly thought. After years as an advisor to Mazaret, I'm cast by sorcery into the very heart of our enemies, dispensing advice to one of their leaders. If this is Fate's idea of a joke, I'm dreading the punchline.
"My lord," he said. "To be blunt, Byrnak wants you dead."
Yasgur grew sombre, stroking his well-clipped black beard. "You're certain about this?"
"By commanding the strongest army in this region, you pose the greatest immediate threat to Byrnak and Ystregul and whatever plans they're hatching. So he coerces you into leading the vanguard and has his spies wait for the first serious skirmish, then - " Gilly shrugged. "An unseen spear or sword thrust to the vitals, or an arrow gone astray, and it's done. You'll have a magnificent hero's burial, songs will be sung to sooth your spirit and battles will be fought in your name."
"Among my people, the dead are chased away by the shrieks of the womenfolk," Yasgur said matter-of-factly. "Sadly, I do not intend to have them shriek for me too soon. Surely my personal guards will be able to shield me from any assassin."
"In the heat of battle, lord?" Gilly shook his head, then an idea struck him. "But what if you were not the only chief in the vanguard..." Animated, he turned to Yasgur. "The Council of Chiefs are holding a battle rite of some kind tonight, am I right?"
"A feast of gorging and ale-guzzling, which I am expected to attend."
"Excellent. If you were to announce to the assembled chiefs your new command and predict the great victories, spoils and battle honours that must inevitably come your way, is it not likely that some of them will volunteer to ride at your side?"
Yasgur frowned, and Gilly had to force himself from showing any impatience. "No, they could not since their place
is at the head of their own tribes." His voice became bitter. "A duty which is denied to me."
"Then what of their sons and brothers?"
"Some might be tempted, certainly, but honour would compel them - "
He broke off as a figure carrying several cloth-wrapped bundles pushed aside the tent flaps and entered. It was Ghazrek, his grinning bearded face bearing greasy signs of food already eaten, and his presence bringing a waft of beery fumes.
"At last - we eat!" he announced, kneeling down to unfold his bundles. Gilly felt his stomach rumble with a sudden hunger as pieces of roast fowl, stuffed iloba roots, baked pastries and other delicacies were laid bare. Some bottles of strong Rorgith wine were produced and uncorked, and as fingers dipped into the feast Ghazrek related what rumours and ragtalk he had come by concerning Byrnak.
"I've heard it said that he's raised the dead," he said through a mouthful of meat, " - turned men into goats and swans into women, and caused a stream of fire to pour out of a mountainside. And when he invaded some city away in the west, he brought the defeated generals together and swapped their heads around!" He mimed with his hands, and Yasgur snorted in disbelief.
"Who told you that?"
"A Doubleknife from Jefren."
"Hah! Doubleknives - horseloving goat thieves. And where did you hear the one about the river of fire?"
"From a Bearclaw...I know, I know - goatloving horse thieves!"
Both roared with laughter, and Gilly smiled politely. Mogaun humour, he thought. I'll understand it eventually.
Ghazrek bit on a leg of roast bird then gestured with it. "I heard something which I know to be true, though." He leaned in conspiratorially and went on in a quieter voice. "A serving girl told me that the Great Lord Ystregul suffered a strange fit earlier this evening, right in the middle of a meeting with his various lackeys, and it sounded very much what we saw in Byrnak's tent. Seems he had to be carried off to his sleeping chamber. Near unconscious, he was."
"Perfect, lord," Gilly said to Yasgur. "There will be no interruptions if you attend the feast and announce your good fortune."
Ghazrek looked puzzled and Gilly explained what had been discussed earlier. The officer nodded in vigorous agreement.
"The southerner is right, my lord. This accursed Byrnak will have you slain as soon as possible."
"You speak of our commander with disrespect," Yasgur said half-heartedly.
"Lord, you saw what I saw," Ghazrek said. "The man is hag-ridden, as is the other one, Ystregul. Who can tell what evil spirits are sitting in their heads, claiming to be the Lord of Twilight himself? You must survive so that we may survive, and ser Cordale's plan is a good one. And if you wait a while before speaking of your new role, I may be able to sow seeds here and there."
Yasgur looked thoughtfully at Gilly, then Ghazrek and back again. Then he nodded, smiling. "Your counsel is good, and I shall follow it. Old Atroc was right, Gilly - you are a good advisor as well as a good companion."
Gilly inclined his head, acknowledging the praise and remembering his first encounter with Atroc, Yasgur's personal seer. When the Daemonkind Orgraaleshenoth had snatched him away from Suviel' side, he found himself in the middle of a boar hunt, sprawled in the dust and rocks of a dried-up riverbed with a party of Mogaun warriors riding towards him. The only thing which stopped them from hurling spears at him was a stooped, scrawny old man clad in furs and a loincloth who calmly stepped in front of the riders and held up his hands.
Then when Yasgur arrived moments later, the old man had told him that Gilly was sent by the gods to be his companion on his journey to Arengia. To Gilly's amazement, the Mogaun pondered this proclamation for all of a few seconds before nodding and agreeing. The old man then took Gilly by the arm, steered him off to one side and said, "You may call me Atroc, southman. I have been seeing your face in the stars, in the clouds, in the lines of my hand since I was a boy."
After that, Gilly was almost constantly in the company of Yasgur and Atroc for the few days before Yasgur was due to leave for the Blood Gathering. There had been many times when he could have murdered Yasgur with a good chance of escape, but he had found himself liking the man, a personal discovery nearly as profound as that of realising that some Mogaun could be fairly civilised. At least those under Yasgur's command.
And as Yasgur and Ghazrek prepared to leave for the feast, his thoughts went back to his last sight of Suviel in that pale, eldritch realm the Daemonkind had called Kekrahan.
What happened to her? he wondered. Was she as lucky as me? He grinned and shook his head. Assuming that this is lucky!
Chapter Twenty-One
Wear masks, not mirrors,
In the Kingdom of the Dark.
—The Litany of Magehood, prologue
The image of Byrnak hung over the fire, features sculpted in ensorcelled smoke. From where she sat, bound, gagged and propped against a pile of saddlebags, Suviel could feel the awesome power radiating from Nerek as she strove to gain her master's attention. The woman was standing with arms outstretched and a faint green aura shifting and twitching about her like a thing alive.
Everything in the clearing was cast into sharp focus, blades of grass, dry twigs among the dusty ash and charred pebbles of old fires, the stack of spears, knives and cleaning rags, the four masked guards sitting cowed and subdued to one side, the gleam of firelight on the studded leather they constantly wore. Suviel could see the utter concentration in Nerek's stance and her visibly trembling hands...
Then the eyes of the face in the smoke came to life and Nerek cried out: "My lord, your faithful servant seeks your counsel!"
The eyes gazed down at her and for an instant the mouth seemed about to speak. But the intelligence went out of the face which lost its shape, drifting apart and upwards as the spell broke. Suviel felt the accumulated tension of power in the clearing collapse and die away. The light from the fire lost its brilliance and the surrounding night closed in like a tightening noose of shadows as Nerek sank to her knees, mumbling and quietly sobbing. She looked defeated and exhausted but a moment later she sprang to her feet, went round the fire and spoke rapidly to her guards. The words were spoken in an archaic dialect of the Mogaun tongue and Suviel caught just enough to understand mere guard duty orders.
Eyes closed, she sighed and let her head fall forward. Nerek's mood swings were becoming more pronounced the closer they came to the Oshang Dahkal and Trevada. In the four days since the Daemonkind pitched her into Nerek's hands, Suviel had found herself coming to pity Byrnak's creature as she was torn this way and that by raging, and sometimes conflicting emotions. Suviel was sure that Nerek feared Byrnak while also being drawn to him, having seen a hunted look come into her eyes whenever his name was mentioned. Then there was the pursuit of Keren, this savage need to capture and slay her, which contrasted sharply with an obsessive interest in the swordswoman. Suviel had been repeatedly questioned about Keren, what she was like, her likes and dislikes, what she had done and why. Lacking personal knowledge of the woman (Keren had not been the most garrulous of companions), Suviel had found herself embroidering her recollections with deduction and guesswork in order to satisfy Nerek's hunger for detail.
There was the scrape of a footstep nearby and she looked up to see Nerek standing over her. With her hands she loosened the gag and removed it, while Suviel wondered what would happen next. More questions to do with Keren, perhaps, or Raal Haidar? She had kept silent about the Daemonkind, insisting that the man was a mysterious sorcerer from beyond Keremenchool who had turned on herself and the others due to some unknown purpose.
It was her own purpose which had led to such guile. They were camped just an hour or two from the gates of Trevada, and were Nerek to know that a prince of the Daemonkind was intending to gain entrance to the Acolytes' citadel by stealth, she might see fit to alert the Acolytes, thus eradicating whatever slim chance Suviel might have of laying hands on the Crystal Eye.
Nerek regarded her neutrally, then pushed sev
eral strands of Suviel' hair back from her face. Suviel almost flinched but held herself steady as her captor tucked the stray hairs behind her ear in a surprisingly gentle manner.
"We shall enter Trevada in the morning," Nerek said. "Just you and I - the guards will wait here for our return. We will present ourselves as hunters seeking work as scouts or spies, or even just foragers, so consider how you can best play the part before you sleep tonight."
"As you wish."
A small smile came over Nerek's face. "I will have your cooperation in this, Suviel Hantika. I know what to use to ensure it."
She reached down to one of the saddlebags behind Suviel, tugged out a flat cloth-wrapped object which she set to one side, then pulled a blanket from another bag and draped it carefully over Suviel. "Now, think, and sleep."
She turned and went back to the fire, sat on the ground and unwrapped the small package. Suviel felt a ripple of uneasiness as Nerek produced a handmirror into which she stared, tilting her head this way and that, as if looking for something. The memory of that terrible transformation in the mountains of Honjir came back to Suviel and she wondered what had happened to the mind of the young man that Nerek had once been. Had he been wiped away, like footprints on a sandy beach at high tide, or did some fragment of him yet linger, haunting Nerek's thoughts?
She pushed aside the insoluble problem, and wriggled into a more comfortable position facing away from the fire. A short while later she became aware that fine rain was falling, little more than a heavy mist, but she was too tired to care. Quite soon she was too tired to stay awake.
* * *
She woke to a grey morning full of the sounds of packing and horses being harnessed. One of the guards brought her a cooling bowl of broth and a handful of berries then stood waiting as she ate hurriedly. The masked servants of the Acolytes remained a mystery - she had already suffered pursuit by the likes of these, and suspected from both their posture and their sharp musky odor that they were not entirely human.
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