Shadowkings

by Michael Cobley

  "Perhaps," Alael said, straightening to peer outside the alcove, glancing either way. "First, let's find a window or a balcony so we can see what's happening."

  The left the alcove and moved stealthily along a high corridor decorated with carvings of dances, processions and hunts. Golden lamplight came from a couple of wall-niches and the carven figures seemed to shift and writhe. Soon the corridor ended at an archway leading into a large hall. Once through they paused to look about them.

  The hall was about thirty paces across at its widest and had once been a ballroom. The marble floortiles were in the shape of masks, a wide interlocking black and white pattern over which strangely curved balconies hung, their balustrades formed from intricate flower-and-leaf railings. Beneath them were a series of screened booths, where dalliances and assignations of one type or another would have taken place. A few lamps burned up on the balconies, casting enough light to reveal the leavings and pieces of broken furniture which had been swept into the corners.

  Alael glanced at Tauric and silently pointed at a high gallery on the far wall. Looking up, he was able to make out, through a doorway at the rear of the balcony, a patch of cloudy night sky. When he looked down Alael was already on her way across the floor to an iron staircase which spiralled up to her goal. Irritated, he hurried after and only saw the grey revenant glide from a shadowy side passage at the last moment.

  In front Alael gasped in terror, and froze. It was in the form of a knight encased in full armour of an ancient, barbaric design. Heavy overlapping plates covered the torso , a kirtle of scale mail hung down to the knees and a helm enclosed the head. There were narrow grilles for the eyes and mouth, from which a green radiance shone. Like the crone down in the infirmary, the knight was a death-like grey from top to toe and coated in dust and grit.

  Tauric leaped past Alael and swung his blade at the knight's neck, aiming between helm and gorget. There was a tremendous, reverberating clang and Tauric felt fierce vibrations down to the hilt. It was like striking a boulder. The grey knight reeled back, seemed to notice Tauric for the first time and fumbled for the scabbard at his waist. There was a grating sound, and trickles of powdery rust as he drew forth a corroded broadsword. Then, uttering strange whispers, he attacked.

  "Tauric, be careful!" Alael cried out from behind. "It's a Dog Knight."

  Parrying a succession of slow but powerful blows, Tauric could make no answer. He began to retreat back the way they had come, meaning to lead the revenant away from Alael. But a scream rang out and to his horror he saw a second ashen apparition, cowled and robed rising into the air with Alael held kicking and struggling in an iron grip. The Dog Knight seemed to lose interest in Tauric and floated up to join its fellow who was carrying Alael towards the open door she had spotted earlier.

  Drenched in panic, Tauric dashed to the spiral iron stairs and climbed them three at a time to the top. Sword at the ready, he threw himself after Alael's abductors who were gliding through a short passageway to an outside balcony. He had taken just a few paces when something in the darkness caught his foot and he sprawled forward, hands outthrust to break his fall. He felt a sharp pain in one hand, but ignored it as he scrambled to his feet, snatched up his sword and darted out onto the balcony.

  Far above, two forms, ash grey against the clouded night, drifted up to the top of the High Spire and slipped out of sight. In frustration Tauric hammered his sword hilt on the stonework, then winced at the pain. The fall had rasped layers of skin from the heel of his hand and the blood had made his grip slippery.He was breathing hard but his mind was strangely clear and calm. I have to get to the top, he thought, resheathing his sword. Somehow I've got to get up there.

  He turned to hasten back inside, but his foot encountered in the darkness the thing that had tripped him. A moan came from the shadows and, startled, he realised that it was someone's leg.

  "Who's there?" he said, stepping back. "Who are you?"

  After a moment, a man's wheezing voice answered: "...not mine...says it's not mine..."

  The leg was drawn back and with grunts of effort the man crawled out of the inky shadows on his knees and one hand. The other clasped something round against his chest. Then he paused, sat back slightly, and raised his face. Tauric caught his breath and stared. Despite seared and blistered skin, and the poor light, Dow Korren's features were still recognisable.

  "Not...mine..." he gasped then toppled forward onto his face and lay still as his final breath rattled from his throat. The object he had been holding rolled to one side, a dark egg shape which Tauric regarded for a long moment before reaching down with his sword hand to take it. And the moment he touched it, the moment the blood on his fingertips met its surface -

  In his head, the sun.

  In his body, a voice like the roar of a thousand rivers saying:

  This is not for you!

  * * *

  It was dark within the swaying, shuddering wagon, and it stank of badly-cured animal furs. Gilly was lying face down amid a jumble of them, wishing he could tell the waggoner exactly what he thought of him. But his hands and feet were bound and his mouth was gagged with a filthy rag which muffled all his grunts and curses.

  It could have been worse, he thought. If they hadn't gagged me, I would be tasting it as well as smelling it. Or I could be up on the city walls with a sword in my hand, waiting for hordes of screaming Mogaun to come after me.

  He had no way of knowing what was going on outside. After Yasgur's ghastly possession and Tauric's escape, he had been put on a horse, tied to its saddle, then led at a gallop with the rest down to meet Yasgur's army. Once there, Gilly was bound hand and foot and slung into the back of a malodorous, barrel-roofed wagon which for the next hour or so moved from place to place. He could not see the siege but he could hear it, the clash of weapons, cries and shouts, the shrieks of the dying, cheers at success, collective moans at setbacks.

  Then there was a tumultuous mass roar of triumph and the wagon had suddenly jerked into motion again. Now, as a rumbling vibration came up from the wheels, indicating a cobbled road, he knew that they were entering Besh-Darok.

  One of the gates is open, he realised, and for a moment wondered if Mazaret and Kodel had surrendered. But outside the cheering had subsided to the sound of many marching feet, not the sound of a victorious army.

  Then the wagon lurched to a halt and a moment later he heard the canvas flaps at the rear part as someone bearing a lantern climbed in.

  "You do not look comfortable, southman," said a familiar voice. "But you got something soft to lie on, heh?"

  Bony hands seized his shoulder, rolled him over and helped him sit up. Then the gag was pulled down.

  "At first I thought these skins smelled worse than you did, old man," Gilly said. "Now I'm not so sure."

  Atroc chortled and shook his head. "You make a good insult, ser Gilly. One of your ancestors must have been Mogaun. Now listen - " He moved the lantern closer along with a small sack and sat down on a bundle of furs. " - my master is as much a prisoner as you, enslaved in his head by his father, that vicious old bandit. I want to bring back my prince but I need your help, southman. So?"

  Gilly gazed open-mouthed at him for a moment. "I could have escaped to be with my friends, but you stopped me - and I don't know how because you're as scrawny as a mountain goat - and now you want me to help you!..." He put venom into his sneer. "You can help me by untying my hands and putting your throat between them..."

  Atroc snorted. "I was wrong about your ancestors - with all that noise, one of them must have been a marsh-hog. Look, drink some of this, maybe sweeten your mood."

  From his sack he took a small wineskin and filled a clay beaker which he offered. Gilly eyed it suspiciously and shook his head. "You first."

  Looking mildly offended, Atroc put the beaker to his lips and downed a generous mouthful. Then he held and tipped it so Gilly could drink. The wine's heavy richness surprised him.

  "You are quick to distrust,"
Atroc said.

  "And with good reason."

  "It is a great sorrow to me that you have not the eyes to see and the hears to hear what is before you." He leaned in close. "Learn to trust, southman. There is an honourable purpose in what I do, so you must trust me - "

  Someone outside shouted Atroc's name and the rear flaps rustled.

  " - especially now!" With that, Atroc firmly pushed the gag back into Gilly's mouth, stifling an angry outburst, then turned to greet the newcomer.

  Even clothed in his son's body, Hegroun's presence seemed to fill the wagon. The glittering green nimbus had faded to a faint aura which served to emphasis his physical appearance by giving every detail a certain lustre. Buckles, straps, the scored iron surface of his breastplate, the dense wiry blackness of his hair, the red smear of blood on the blade of the handaxe thrust into his waistbelt - Hegroun was the personification of gory war. He glanced at Gilly with casual malice, then turned to Atroc.

  "Well, old man - is my sacrifice ready?"

  Gilly blinked. Sacrifice?

  "In a moment, mighty one. First, I must get...." Atroc went to the rear, leaned out of the flaps to converse with someone who helped lift a cannister of some sort into the wagon. Then Gilly saw the thick iron grills and the orange glow of embers and realised that it was a brazier. With padded cloth protecting his hands, Atroc puffed and strained as he brought the brazier over. Gilly watched in frozen dread as the old man then took a variety of implements from his sack, tongs, pincers and hooks which he placed head first in the embers.

  "How long?" Hegroun said. "I feel the presence of the Lord of Twilight - he is hungry for this one's pain and blood."

  "The irons will be ready in a few moments, my lord. How fares the battle?"

  "The craven dogs flee to their kennel of a palace. But the Shadowkings have sent their servants after their seers and shamen - there is nowhere they can hide."

  Gilly could only grit his teeth while enduring the baking heat of the brazier and the trickle of sweat on face, neck and chest. He said to trust him, he thought as the torture tools began to glow. But to do what?

  Then Atroc picked up his wineskin and sloshed the contents noisily. "Would my lord care for some wine while he waits?"

  Heground, eyes fixed on the brazier, grunted his assent and held out a hand. Gilly watched the old man fill the beaker again, take a drink from it then place it in Hegroun's hand. The warlord drained the beaker in a single gulp and, without looking up, held it out for more.

  For a still moment, no-one moved. Then the beaker slipped from Hegroun's fingers. The warlord looked round, astonishment turning to fury, his face lit sharply by the lantern on the floor as his hate-filled eyes looked at Atroc.

  "You..."

  His voice was a creaking whisper. He tried to lunge at Atroc but his legs gave and he fell to his knees. His outstretched, grasping hand flopped nervelessly by his side.

  "I have unchained your mind, o mighty lord," Atroc said. "Your moorings are slipped, and my friend here will bring the tide that will sweep you away."

  "I will...eat your heart," Hegroun gasped. "The Acolytes will hang your soul on a hook..."

  Ignoring the threats, Atroc bent to loosen Gilly's gag.

  "In the Mother's name, what have you done to me?" Gilly said.

  "What was necessary." Atroc's manner was suddenly stern and compelling. "Hegroun I have subdued with two potions in combination - you have had only the second, in the wine of course. It relaxes the bonds of the mind and will allow me to send your spirit into Yasgur's head and bring him back to himself."

  A chill went through Gilly and he glanced at Hegroun, now slumped back onto a heap of furs.

  "I must do this, southman. You will be a beacon, a stormlight for my prince to follow. Help if you wish. You will be unable to hinder me."

  Before Gilly could reply, Atroc uttered a few syllables and sketched a swift gesture. A thin, glittering line sprang into being, joining Gilly's forehead to Hegroun's. A formless roaring erupted in his ears as Atroc, the brazier, the wagon and everything shrank and dwindled away to nothing.

  * * *

  A long, high corridor in shades of blue, walls, floor and ceiling covered in elaborate carvings. Filmy banners hung low, rippling slowly as he walked by. He passed ornated dressed courtiers who bowed and curtseyed all the way. A broad stairwell led down into gloomy halls, from which other stairs descended further. Down into the bowels of the palace he went till he came to a door of pale green marble. A ruby key on a chain about his neck unlocked it and he stepped through.

  He was on a sandy beach, nostrils full of the smell of brine and seaweed. Mist blurred whatever lay out to sea but could not conceal the immense form lying stretched out upon the waters, rocking gently with the waves. It was Hegroun as he had been in life, a tall, hawk-featured man with a black mane and moustache. His huge murderous eyes watched Gilly come down the beach to splash through the shallows and wade further out. With a last glance at the prone, floating giant, he dived beneath the waters.

  Into the dark and glimmering depths he swam. Before long, a great dark building emerged from the murk and as he drew near, its outer walls brightened, illuminated by himself. The walls were thick and rough, with many small windows placed without order or purpose across them. Looking through them he saw other walls within, also with a variety of openings, and realised that the building was a cruelly designed maze. As he searched for a way in, he noticed faint glows and movement inside. By the time he found an entrance, a gleaming black door, the glows were brighter, the movements nearer and more frantic.

  Waiting and watching, he caught sight of Yasgur struggling towards the door while fighting off a host of shadowy, snake-like creatures. Eager to help, Gilly raised his ruby key to the black door and it swung open. He then darted in, grasped the weakening Yasgur by the arm and dragged him out of the maze. The ashen, translucent snake things tried to ensnare him but shrieked and dissolved at his touch.

  Once free of the maze, they floated swifly to the surface, breaking through to fresh, clean air and the thundercrash of a storm overhead. The tide was going out, carrying the gigantic, weakly-struggling Hegroun with it. As they waded to the beach, Gilly heard a splash behind him and turned to see one of the opaque snake creatures rear up out of the waters. It had Hegroun's face.

  "You have made a blood-enemy this day, son of the fox!" it said, and lunged at him -

  * * *

  With a rush of sensations, he found himself back in the wagon with a haggard- looking Yasgur crouched nearby, shaking his shoulder.

  "Thank the spirit of the Void, he is back with us!" Yasgur stared into Gilly's eyes. "Atroc told me of your offer to help me. I will never forget what you have done today - never!"

  Gilly glanced up at Atroc whose expression was one of thoughtful amusement. His bonds had been cut and he rubbed his face while trying to think of something to say.

  "Duty and...and honour demanded no less of me, lord," he said.

  "As it does of me," Yasgur said grimly. "I know those who called up my father from his grave and sent him against me. I know their names, and I will pursue them, whatever their powers. Foul sorcery will not stay my revenge." He regarded Gilly. "I must agree a truce with the rebels in the palace, and soon. Will you be my messenger?"

  "Gladly," Gilly said. "Once this clever old man gives me something for the hammering in my head."

  Atroc shook his head while fumbling through the pouches on his belt. "Can't take his wine. Definitely no Mogaun ancestors."

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Under Night's shadow,

  Let the dead hoist their ancient banners and

  Let the living fall and bleed and die.

  I care not, for I am the earth

  And I drink deep.

  —Calabos, The Black Shrine, ch 11, vi.

  The air in the tunnel was chill and dead from centuries of slow circulation through the stone maze of the Ordeal, but to Keren it was like wine. She relished
the way it flowed icily down her mouth and throat and left an ache in her chest, especially after she had passed through one of the Wards. She had lost count of how many she and Orgraaleshenoth had traversed in their slow ascent, instead concentrating on the weaving of each one, the tone of its intent, the fabric of its punishment.

  She vented a black laugh. Not that the final few Wards had presented any kind of genuine difficulty, for she had grown in strength as they progressed while the barriers had become steadily weaker. Oh, the voices of power that were in her now!

  Keren went to the nearby wall, pressed her hands against the rough surface and let her iron senses sink into the stone. Before long she could hear the taut nets of ancient energies which permeated the towering mass of the Oshang Dakhal, and hear the rock itself singing, reverberating; hear the winds of the night gusting and wearing away at the crags and pinnacles; hear the click of talons and the beat of wings as the Acolytes' creatures stirred from their caverns and took flight; hear the pain of prisoners in their pens. And then hear footsteps approaching...

  She opened her eyes and saw the Daemonkind Orgraaleshenoth stride into view. He had once again adopted the tall, haughty form of Raal Haidar and like Keren he possessed an aura which brightened the surroundings.

  "I was listening to the song in the stone."

  "There are songs in everything," the Daemonkind said.

  "Yet, hard as I listened, I could not hear the Crystal Eye or anything that it might be."

  Orgraaleshenoth nodded. "It was cunningly wrought to conceal itself from sorcerous perception by masking its powers and attributes. It is also able to protect itself by negating any kind of sorcery directed against it within a certain area." He smiled thinly. "A quality I have just verified. But Trevada is a place brim full of the Acolytes' dark workings, and by seeking out certain subtle absences of power I have deduced that it resides in a tower above the High Basilica."

  "How shall we get there?"

  He indicated the way up ahead. "The tunnel passes through an empty cave, then under the floor of the Basilica Hall and emerges in a chamber behind the altar. Nearby is a set of steps going up to the tower."