Shadowkings

by Michael Cobley

  Now remounted on his horse, winding the reins about his hand, he sat listening to the riders' song coming from some way back along the column. The words were simple and moved to the rhythm of a gallop, punctuated by drawn-out syllables. He smiled and looked over his shoulder at one of his personal guards.

  "Pass the word - we ride to the attack. That should give them something to sing about!"

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Pain, madness and bones —

  The harvest of his dungeons.

  —Jurad's History Of Ordeals, bk.vi, 8.

  Cold, blind and caged, Suviel despaired. The cold was the heavy, seeping cold of a stone-walled chamber utterly devoid of light, and her cage was an upright, lidless coffin of iron into which she was strapped. She wanted to weep but her eyes felt empty and dry. She wanted to cry out but some enchantment had been laid upon her and her voice was a barred gate. The only thing between her and the crushing weight of despair was the cracked shield of her mind.

  Against the deliberate blackness of the chamber her awareness instinctively strove to perceive her surroundings, despite her attempts to rein it in. Earlier, when several Acolytes returned not long after her incarceration, her nether-senses had revealed them to her. Faint lines glimmered in the darkness, the curve of a jaw or the glint of an eye, forming the likeness of cruel faces.

  "How strong," one had murmured.

  "How fertile," said another, laughing.

  Then a veil of nothingness fell...and rose like a slow eyeblink. It seemed to last only moments, but when it lifted she saw that her visitors were gathered about a pale, hooded figure, guiding him from the chamber.

  All that had happened but a short time ago, she was almost sure. Had the pale figure been a fellow prisoner? There were another ten or so silent captives somewhere else in this black stone crypt - she had felt their presences. She recalled old Babrel relating the escaped children's tales of iron caskets adorned with symbols and the terrible rites conducted upon them...she shivered as much from the icyness of her flesh as from the coldness of her spirit. She tried to imagine that Ikarno Mazaret was with her, and took refuge in memories of the warm circle of his arms, of the gentle passion of his kisses...

  After an interval, perhaps an hour, perhaps longer, there were more visitors. This time it was Coireg Mazaret and three Acolytes. She could make out more details this time and could see the hot satisfaction in Coireg's face when he came and stood close by. She felt his breath on her cheek, and it smelled bitter.

  "You will give," he said. "You will serve."

  Never, she wanted to say but could only mouth the word.

  Coireg laughed, a high unpleasant sound. "My master's fate is hungry - it crushes all others. At this moment, his plan holds the city of emperors in an iron grasp. Soon the nighthunters will fly. Forests will burn, fortresses will fall, and a great empire of shadow will be born. You will see it, you will praise it, you will serve it!"

  Voiceless, she could only shake her head and hold on to the memory of Ikarno as nothingness rushed in...and rushed out. As before, she looked up and saw her tormentors leading a pale, almost misty form towards the chamber entrance. At the doors, though, the white figure turned and Suviel saw her own face, milky eyes in translucent flesh, gaze back back at her.

  Then they were gone and the blackness deepened and pressed in on her. All her feelings and her thoughts spun around and around in circles of horror. She struggled for glimmers of hope, strove to remember what had been in her mind before this latest violation. It had been something precious, something beautiful beyond compare.

  But nothing came. It was past all recollection, and utterly gone.

  * * *

  Bardow could hear the sounds of the siege as he and his six-guard escort climbed a long gloomy stairway which led to the palace battlements. Normally, these stairs would have been well-lit, but most of the servants were either in hiding or had left the palace altogether. By his guards' torches, and the occasional wall-shrine votive lamp, Bardow could see that most of the tapestries he had known from years ago were gone.

  Trophies, he speculated. Or kindling.

  It was tempting to reminisce on happier times, but he had just left Tauric in the sickroom down on the Spire's fifth floor, near Alael's chamber, and his thoughts were grim. It was over an hour since the Armourer and his raiding party returned with the heir, shortly after which Yasgur and his army had arrived and commenced their assault on the west wall. But according to Tauric's account, Yasgur's body had been seized by the spirit of his father, Hegroun, and it was he who ordered the investment of Besh-Darok. Before the possession had occurred, it seemed that Yasgur was willing to allow the Imperial forces to withdraw from the city unhampered.

  The implications of Yasgur's spiritual subjugation filled Bardow with a sense of dark foreboding. The Acolytes were known to be adept in the rending and binding of minds, but wresting the spirits of the dead from the grasp of the earth demanded a far greater magnitude of power. Such as that reputedly employed by the sorcerous Shadowkings Grazan, Thraelor and Byrnak. If any of them were in the vicinity, the chances of holding out were slim indeed.

  At last Bardow and his guards reached the top of the stairs where tall wooden doors, their intricate carvings of the Fathertree scarred by axe and sword, stood wide open. Bardow paused under the arch and leaned against one of the doors to catch his breath.

  This entrance gave onto a small balconied landing part way along the Silver Aggor, the inner wall which surrounded the palace and the High Spire. From it several walkways and drawbridges sloped down to the ramparts of the Golden Aggor whose walls formed a long diamond enclosing the Silver Aggor, the Courts of the Morning, and the Square of Swords. Three narrow gantries crossed, via a couple of column supports, from the Golden Aggor to a nearby section of the city battlements. Torches lit the long ramparts of the city walls, from the southwest corner all the way to the north wall near the weir where the river Olodar entered the city. Beyond the wall, the campfires of the enemy were islands of flame in the night, from which torch-bearing companies marched to assail the walls.

  To Bardow the calamity of the situation was immediately apparent. The defenders were thinly stretched, strung out along the walls with some clustered at the gates while others dashed back and forth to counter enemy attacks. As he watched, Yasgur's troops stormed over the walls at three separate points and it was only after a savage, desperate fight that the invaders were repelled.

  We cannot hold, he thought sombrely. Ikarno must begin the evacuation soon. Then with a determined stride he set off towards a nearby walkway leading down to the Golden Aggor, closely followed by his escort.

  At either end of the long diamond of the Golden Aggor were heavily constructed towers, each durable enough to be reckoned strongholds in their own right. To the south was the Keep of Night, which overlooked a swathe of residential districts and college and artisan wards, while to the north the Keep of Day afforded a sweeping panorama of most of the city. Bardow found the Lord Commander there at the top of the tower, brooding over a map of Besh-Darok while a handful of officers looked on uncertainly.

  Girdled by a waist-high wall, the towertop was roughly twenty paces across and partially covered by a semicircular wooden canopy. Torches burned on wrought-iron stands, flames rippling in the night's breeze, and a brazier of embers glowed a dirty orange near the trestle table where Mazaret stood. He turned as Bardow approached and the Archmage could see weariness etched deep in the man's face.

  Ah, my friend, we are too old to wage such a war, Bardow thought. But who else is there?

  "How is the boy?" Mazaret asked.

  "Quite well," Bardow said. "Robustly health, in truth. Although by the time I arrived at the infirmary there was little for me to do - Kodel and his Armourer had tended to Tauric's few wounds, and some chafing caused by the metal arm."

  "He thinks highly of them," Mazaret said, frowning, and Bardow was surprised at the tone of resentment in the words. Befor
e he could respond, the Lord Commander went on: "So how did he come to be captured? I must have heard a dozen rumours and a valleyfull of ragtalk about the boy. Give me some facts."

  Bardow related what Tauric had told him, from being trapped on the other side of the Olodar river, to their escape via the Black Sluice and the long hike round the city walls. Then the chaotic ambush by Yasgur's scouts, the capture of Tauric and two others which led to the encounter with Yasgur amid the ruined ridge fort and the fateful events which then ensued. As Bardow spoke of Yasgur's possession by his father's spirit, Mazaret's expression grew skeptical.

  "Can we be certain of this?"

  Bardow nodded. "The Armourer saw most of it from concealment, admittedly at a distance, but he corroborates all the main details."

  Mazaret uttered a hollow laugh. "So now we count the spirits of the dead among our enemies." Shaking his head, he leaned on the table, fingers crumpling the edge of the city map.

  The man's despair was starkly apparent, but Mazaret knew he had to say what had to be said. "Ikarno, we cannot hold the city. We must evacuate - now."

  Head bowed, the Lord Commander was silent a moment. "I know. I have already made...preparations." He sighed and straightened to regard Bardow. "When the current wave of attacks eases off, I shall signal the men on the walls to begin moving back - Kodel is on his way to the west wall to direct the withdrawal. Yarram and Medwin are heading for the harbour to ready the boats and commandeer others if necessary. When the signal is given. Alael and Tauric will be escorted quickly to the harbour by the Armourer and two-score Hunters Children. By the time our enemy realises the truth, we shall already be putting to sea."

  He gave a bleak smile which Bardow matched, inwardly relieved. How could I have imagined that you would break?

  "I don't want to leave, Bardow," he went on. "Sixteen years I've waited to walk these streets again and see the places I knew so well. But the people don't want us here, and we can't fight them as well as the Mogaun." He paused. "How bad have the riots been?"

  "So far - noisy and disorganised," Bardow said. "Some of it has been in support of our cause but violent opposition is growing. Hard as it is to bear, many citizens hold Yasgur in high regard because he has worked with them and brought about much peace and reconciliation. They see us as a return to the chaotic days following the death of the Emperor."

  Mazaret snorted. "If they think this is chaotic, wait till Hegroun gets his hands on them." A trace of hesitation came into his demeanour. "What of Suviel? Have you spoken to her?"

  "Not since the night at Adranoth," Bardow said. "But I have had word of Gilly. Tauric saw him being held prisoner after Yasgur and his guards were overwhelmed on the ridge."

  Mazaret's sombreness was cracked by a small smile. "Gilly alive...I had feared him dead -"

  He paused, suddenly tense, hand raised for silence. Then Bardow heard it, the faint roar of a far-off crowd. Mazaret dashed over to the tower's edge and Bardow followed him, hands gripping the stonework as he stared out. He saw nothing of note till Mazaret pointed suddenly at the far end of the Shaska Road.

  "The Gallaro Gate!" he cried. "They've broken through..."

  From the Imperial palace below a broad avenue called the Shaska Road ran straight through the city to the northwest wall and the massive Gallaro Gate. Bardow focussed his awareness, made his vision deeper and clearer, and saw mobs waving torches as armed men streamed in through the open gates.

  "There's no resistance," he said. "The mobs must have ambushed the defenders and opened the gates."

  Mazaret spun and gestured at the waiting officers. "Go about your tasks, gentlemen. May the Earthmother be with you."

  But even as they began to depart, Bardow caught sight of something in the sky, approaching quickly from the west. It was like a fallen star, a bright shimmering core surrounded by a misty, faintly green nimbus, and as Bardow watched it fly over the city walls, dread unfurled in his chest.

  "Move your men downstairs, Ikarno," he said.

  "In the name of the Mother," Mazaret said, "What is it?"

  Before Bardow could repeat his appeal, the bright intruder soundlessly burst apart and dozens of glowing motes rained down on the city. Yet their flights were not simple falling arcs but paths which twisted and turned as if at the behest of some conscious purpose. One such was following a long sinuous curve towards the palace when it swerved sharply and dived towards the towertop of the Keep of Day.

  "Leave, my Lord - now!" Bardow shouted at Mazaret, then dashed past him towards the wooden canopy. But when he turned, Mazaret was by his side. He was about to warn him when the glowing jewel struck. There was a brief flash and the tower shook under their feet. Chips and slivers of stone flew out from the point of impact. Ripples of tenuous vapour radiated across the flagstones, shot through with glittering webs of viridian power, Wellsource power. Bardow could taste the heavy sickening strength of it in his mouth.

  Then the vapour began to swirl inward, as if seized by an invisible force. Erratic gusts of wind came and went, and some of the torches were snuffed out. The flickering traceries grew brighter as they gathered in towards the focus. Beneath, a flagstone suddenly cracked. The foggy knot of power sank into the towertop, and other nearby slabs cracked. The pieces shifted and slid aside as a tall grey figure rose from the jagged hole in the stonework, as if unbending from a crouched position. It was a bearded, elderly man attired in what might have been an ostentatious, high-collared robe of archaic style, were it not the ashen hue of stone. Everything about the man was a deathly grey apart from the unblinking eyes which burned with emerald fire.

  Dust and grit trickled from the old man as he turned to gaze dolefully at Bardow for a long, desolate moment.

  Then he was gliding swiftly across the towertop, clawfingered hands outstretched. Mazaret drew his sword, shrugged off Bardow's restraining hand, and charged at the onrushing apparition. But a single, back-handed blow sent him flying to sprawl semi-conscious by the keep battlement. Bardow backed away, readying the thought-canto of Cadence, but it died in his throat and an instant later hard, pitiless hands took hold of his arms. The grey, eroded face, lit by those terrible green eyes, came in close and Bardow's senses were assailed by a cold mingling of rotten flesh and rusting iron.

  "Everything must come to its end," the terrible spectre said in a voice like dust. "The Void wills it."

  Bardow gaped in fear and confusion, and a nagging familiarity with those doom-laden words. Then his feet were hanging free as his captor, still holding him, rose into the air and smashed through the wooden canopy. Shattered pieces of timber flew and the tower fell away beneath him, and to either side Bardow spotted other struggling figures being carried aloft, towards the top of the High Spire. As he strove to master his helpless terror he suddenly remembered the origin of those words and stared at the old man with horror-filled recognition. For it was Tokrin, Orosiada's companion and the first Archmage, dead long, long centuries ago.

  Grief and despair tore at him as he hung limp in that unbreakable grasp. Yet even as the dark, broken gap in the side of the High Spire swallowed him, he refused to concede the territory of his embattled hope, or to surrender his courage.

  Not while I live, he thought. Not while I live.

  * * *

  Together in the darkness of a gallery alcove, Tauric and Alael rested in hiding. Their long, panic-stricken run had finally come to a halt here and all Tauric could be sure of was that they were at least four floors above the infirmary.

  In his mind, he saw again the chaos that had erupted there. After the departure of Kodel and Bardow, he had been sharing food and water with Alael in a small chamber off the hall where the sick and wounded had been quartered. He had been talking of growing up in the Greathold of the dukes of Patrein when he was interrupted by a massive crash from out in the hall. Screams and shouts cut the air and when he and Alael emerged from the chamber they were confronted with a terrible sight.

  Hanging in midair was a slate-
grey figure of an old, gnarled woman in tattered garments, dust and flecks spilling from her detritus-encrusted limbs as she tried to advance upon the Armourer and half a dozen Hunters Children.

  Suddenly aware of the two youngsters, the Armourer bellowed : "Run - now! Save her...hide!..."

  At that moment, the ragged crone had swooped down at the Armourer with arms held wide. One of his men moved to shield him while lunging at her with a spear, which snapped against her midriff. Mouth gaping in a black-toothed grin, she grabbed the soldier by his arm, swung him off his feet and dashed his brains out against a nearby stone column.

  Aghast, Tauric and Alael turned and fled through an open archway to a corridor beyond and up the first set of stairs they found. Now, as Tauric felt his pounding hearbeat slow, he and Alael huddled in the dim alcove and listened. All they could hear were far-off, muffled cries and what could have been the hammering sound of doors being broken down.

  "We can't stay here," murmured Alael. "We have to go and help, somehow."

  "We should," Tauric agreed, feeling ashamed at the way he had panicked so blindly. "But you're the one with the power..."

  She met his troubled gaze, and laid her hand on his metal arm. "I'm sorry about what happened in Oumetra...I was not fully in control of it. Sometimes..." She averted her gaze and sighed. "Sometimes it seems to direct me and I've little choice."

  "Where does it come from?"

  She shrugged. "It's not the Lesser Power - I've never had to use thought cantos. It's certainly not from the Wellsource, and it cant't be the Rootpower although Uncle Volyn used to say that there were similarities." She bit her lip. "I could probably focus it through your arm again, though."

  "Perhaps we should practise a little beforehand," Tauric said.