Shadowgod

by Michael Cobley

  “We shall use the thought-canto Waft to raise a slight breeze and knock over our little flag,” Rina said. “Firstly, I want you to picture in your thoughts a birds feather.”

  “What kind of bird?” Nerek said.

  “Any bird you’re familiar with, one of the river birds, the galley tezzig, say. Their feathers are grey and white and they taper nicely. Can you see it?”

  To her surprise, she could, a slate-grey feather with pale patches, a darker tip and fine tufts at the base of the quill. It was so full of featherness that a suspicion formed at the edge of her thoughts….and was swiftly answered.

  “Yes, Nerek,” Blind Rina said. “I am giving you a little help with your envisioning, for now. Later, you’ll find yourself noticing things like feathers or seashells or leaves, noticing them for the details which make them what they are, and which fix their meaning in your mind.

  “In the meantime, we need another two elements to complete the thought-canto. For the next one, keep the feather in view and try to imagine a blazing torch – good. Now make it shrink to the single flame of a candle…”

  Nerek could feel perspiration prickling under her clothes, on her back and from her neck down between her breasts. At first it had seemed quite easy to keep the two objects clearly in her minds eye but the demands on her grew as Blind Rina reduced her contribution to the effort. But she did it, kept the images of feather and candle steady in her thoughts, to the near-exclusion of her surroundings.

  “Well done. The strength of your focus is quite...enviable. Now, the third and final part of the thought-canto – ”

  The woman’s voice paused and Nerek could feel that attentive gaze shift in another direction.

  “Interesting….what purpose have we here?…”

  Feather and candle blurred sideways, and suddenly Nerek was seeing her surroundings but from Rinas perspective where everything was hazy and shadowy as if veiled in dusk. Yet colours were subtler and touched with a delicate metallic sheen that made wooden bridge supports coppery, dipped trees and bushes in verdigris, and sent mother-of-pearl ripples across the river. To the north, on the Bridge of Hawks, were the objects of Blind Rina's regard, a line of riders crossing over from the Old Town.

  Abruptly, the viewpoint leapt forward like an arrow from a bow, towards a small shape perched on one of the bridge's upper columns. In the next instant, Nerek felt vertigo clutch at her innards as she became airborne, her field of view wavering in time with the wingbeat. Then the wings spread in gliding flight, curving round to swoop past the front riders. There, clearly recognisable despite the bird's distorted vision, was the Lord Regent Mazaret, garbed in mailed armour and furs, his long lined face showing no expression as he led the column of knights towards Ironhall Barracks -

  A flickering blur filled Nerek's eyes, dizzyness swirled through her and she gasped as her surroundings sprang back into focus. The cold hardness of the seat, Blind Rina watching her, smiling, her gauntleted hands locked together, the little flag sitting on the wall….

  “Hmm, perhaps a little early to experience Beasteye,” Blind Rina said. “Still, it was a useful excursion – ”

  “That was Ikarno Mazaret at the head of those knights,” Nerek said.

  “Knights of the Order of the Bell,” Blind Rina said thoughtfully.

  Nerek watched her, wondering how much she knew. “He could be returning to central Khatris,” she said.

  Rina shook her head. “No pack horses or supply wagons. It may be that he merely intends to conduct training manoeuvres, but it would be wise to keep the Archmage informed, I feel…” Her voice trailed off and she became utterly still. A moment or two later she stirred, chuckling under her breath. “He was surprised. Grateful, too.”

  “I should return to the palace,” Nerek said, starting to rise, but Blind Rina leaned forward to gently push her back down and pat her arm.

  “No need,” she said. “Bardow asked that you remain with me and finish this lesson. He was quite insistent.”

  Nerek let her shoulders slump as dejected frustration settled over her.

  “You have doubts about your usefulness,” Blind Rina suggested.

  “It is not doubt. I know that I am of little usefulness.”

  “If that were so,” said Blind Rina, “Bardow would be unconcerned about you, and you would be sitting here on your own, talking to the birds!” She leaned a little closer. “You have achieved much, thrown off the shackles of your own delusions, and there is much more you can yet do.”

  Nerek sat straighter at the sharp tone in her voice, suddenly angry at herself. I have a duty to fulfill, she thought. Bardow and Alael are relying on me.

  “Shall we continue?” said Rina.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Good. Now, we have the feather and the flame, to which is added the final element, a snowflake….”

  * * *

  Up on the broom-swept roof the Keep of Night, Tauric and a dozen of his Companions stood before the cowled priest who listened closely while they chanted Skyhorse prayers in unison. At the priest's behest they had all doffed their heavy cloaks and padded jerkins, even Tauric, and were kneeling on the cold flagstones as they spoke in firm but low voices, not wishing to attract any attention.

  Tauric was shivering constantly and the icy chill had crept up his legs and was sinking into fingers and toes and still deeper into his bones. Yet he felt a sense of peace and purpose, something he had been lacking for a long time, and his fears and doubts seemed more subdued….

  He glanced up from his clasped hands at the Skyhorse priest, who had once been known as the Armourer, and saw that the hooded man was looking sideways to the west, regarding something down near the western wall. The priest uttered a quiet grunt of satisfaction then turned back.

  “Please, all may rise now and garb yourselves again.”

  Despite the tranquility of the moment, Tauric was thankful to get back on his feet. While others coughed, he fought off a surge of dizzyness and hurriedly slipped back into his heavy shirt and jerkin. Then, wrapped and shivering in his cloak, he went over to where the Skyhorse priest was leaning on the wall, looking out once more.

  “Ser priest,” he began, “were our devotions sufficiently reverent?”

  “Majesty,” the priest said. “I could find no fault in your orisons - truly, you are on the path to enlightenment and power.”

  Tauric nodded, elated, then glanced outwards, following the priest's gaze. A column of mounted knights was riding at a light canter away from the Shield Gate, with a tree-and-crossed-sceptres standard flying at its head.

  “Is that not the Lord Regent's standard?” he said.

  “I understand that the Lord Regent Mazaret has despatched a number of knights to patrol the south-western approaches, majesty,” the priest said smoothly.

  “But why send his own banner with them?” Tauric said.

  “Merely a minor sleight meant to deter petty brigands, majesty,” the priest said. “In this, as in all things, fate shall be served. Now, I feel it is time to see if all of you have been practising the Solemn Supplication of the Flame Everlasting…”

  Tauric suppressed a groan and took off his cloak again.

  * * *

  The column of knights was half an hour out from Besh-Darok, trotting southwest along the great tree-lined Torrillen Way when the Captain of the March brought news of pursuit to Mazaret's ears.

  “Single rider approaching, my lord.”

  Mazaret nodded. “Bring him to me.”

  Ahead, he could see how yesterday's snowfall had turned the Torillen Way into a straight white avenue leading through the skeletal trees of the Peldari woods, and was musing on the frozen slush of the highway when the newcomer arrived at the gallop, slowing to ride alongside Mazaret. Swathed in tattered brown robes, it was Yasgur's elderly seer and advisor.

  “Greetings, Atroc,” he said. “Are you here at your master's behest, or merely lost?”

  “Nay, my lord. I am hunting truth, hav
ing been driven forth by faint hints, the lightest rumour that the honoured Lord Regent had gone in search of his doom. Could this be true, lord?”

  “What doom do you speak of?” Mazaret said, even as the self-doubt which for days had been a growing whisper became a chorus in his thoughts.

  Atroc leaned in closer. “The white woman, my lord,” he said. “In the stews and taprooms of the city, there is talk of a Mogaun queen of torment who has marked you for a dark fate.” The older man snorted derisively. “But it is her words which have drawn you out, words meant only for you, hooks fashioned to drag you towards an unknown peril.”

  No, not hooks, Mazaret thought grimly. Like deadly arrows those words pierced my heart with a poison that eats at my soul. My beloved suffered a terrible evil at their hands – how can I do nothing?

  But he kept these thoughts to himself and shook his head. “There is villainy afoot within sight of Besh-Darok, ser. Farms are being raided, houses put to the torch and innocents killed. We are riding out to bring this pillaging to an end...I am here to assuage the ravages of my soul. I seek the truth, ser Atroc, not my doom.”

  Dark eyes regarded him from within a coarse, tattered hood. “Forgive my saying so, my lord, but I do not believe you.”

  “I care not what you believe,” Mazaret said sharply. “However harsh my own grief may be, I am not about to throw my life away. It has been a long hard struggle to get to where we are and the greater battle is yet to come. I shall be there to draw my sword, I promise you.”

  “Hmm – in a battle you think is already lost?” Atroc said.

  “What?” Mazaret cried, his sudden anger so unsettling his mount that he had to calm it with soothing murmurs and one hand stroking and patting its neck.

  Atroc shrugged. “Who could blame you? We face an evil power that will neither cease in its brutal campaign nor stay its hand for the sake of the defenceless. Hope? - the vanity of the blind and the ignorant.”

  Mazaret gritted his teeth. I will not be goaded by such as you. He took a calming breath, then spoke again. “Since you are so convinced that all is lost, you must keen to leave me to my folly. Perhaps I should detail a few of my knights to escort you back to the city, or even as far as the docks. I'm sure there will be one or two longhaul traders bound for Keremenchool and willing to take on paying passengers.”

  Atroc smiled a bright and wolfish smile. “Ach, your company is not so bad, my lord. I fancy I shall ride along with you a little way yet.”

  With an effort Mazaret bit back the retort that came to his lips and in brittle silence they rode on.

  The Torillen Way was a nine-mile long avenue which ran from Magsar, a shrine village just outside Besh-Darok, southwest to Lake Jontos which was fed by many streams coming out of the Girdle Hills. The road was wide and built of alternating sections of cobbles, flagstones and patterned ironwood blocks, mostly obscured by the snow and the half-frozen slush. Branch roads and turnoffs were common along its length and, being a well-made thoroughfare leading right to Besh-Darok, it was in continual use by farmers and traders, messengers and local patrols, and the displaced.

  Today, in the early ice-cold afternoon, the traffic was light yet the knights rode along two abreast. The winter sun was just past its zenith but high, thin cloud filtered out its strength and the light was white without warmth. On either side mist clung to the leafless trees and the column of knights, wreathed in the grey fuming breath of men and horses, seemed like a funereal procession. Riding at its head, Mazaret was certainly in a sombre mood. Atroc had slipped back to ride beside Barik, Mazaret's Captain of the March, and was regaling him with some of the old city tales that Mazaret had learned at his mother's knee. Barik was a blacksmith's son from eastern Cabringa and would thus have been new to the lore of the Imperial city. Then Mazaret's heart sank as the old seer began to relate the origin of the Torillen Way itself.

  “Three hundred years ago, the lands of the crown were ruled by the Emperor Hasil. He was only nineteen when he came to the throne, and soon after his coronation he met and fell in love with the beautiful Torilli, daughter of one of the city barons. She was younger than the emperor and nearly two years short of her majority, but Hasil pledged himself soul and flesh to their future bond. Then he commanded his architects to design and build a great avenue for their already-arranged marriage pageant, with a celestial pavilion at its far end…”

  Mazaret knew the rest of the story well. Hasil's bride-to-be died of a fever just weeks before the day of her majority and the pavilion was turned into Torilli's mausoleum. Overcome with grief, the young emperor abandoned his chambers at the palace to sleep on the pavilion's tiled floor by the tomb of his beloved. Hasil's vigil of mourning was to last nearly ten years during which he steadily relinquished most of his prerogatives to a circle of court officials whose infighting with the noble Conclave of Rods brought the empire to its knees. Only his abdication in favour of his younger brother prevented the horrors of civil war.

  A parable, he thought sourly. A neat little tale meant to illustrate my folly and somehow shame me into turning tail back to the city. No, master bard, not I…

  Standing in his stirrups, Mazaret raised one hand and called out, “To the canter!”

  Behind him, Captain Barik repeated the order and the entire column picked up the pace. It was not long before the faint silveryness of Lake Jontos emerged from the white misty distance. As it grew clearer, Mazaret could just make out the conical white roof of the mausoleum nestled among trees at the foot of the snow-streaked Girdle Hills.

  They were less than a mile from the lake when a horse and rider emerged from the dense trees in the middle distance. The rider was hunched over with head bowed as if wounded, while the horse merely trotted along aimlessly. Mazaret was about to order Barik to ride ahead to investigate when two more riders appeared and galloped leisurely after the first. No details of their garb were visible so far off, but it seemed that they might be going to the wounded man's aid until one of them raised a bow and sent an arrow into his back.

  “In the Mother's name!” Mazaret cried as the wounded man fell from his horse. “Barik – all with me!”

  Then he spurred his mount into a gallop, with his knights thundering after him. Up ahead the two pursuers had vanished back into the woods, and some travellers on the road had rushed over to help the stricken horseman. But by the time Mazaret dismounted and joined them it was too late.

  “Poor man,” an elderly peasant woman said in a north Kejana accent. “He said some things I did not understand, then he wept and the life it just went out of him.”

  The dead man wore the brown livery and red shoulder-badge of the Crown Rangers. There was an ugly torn-out wound in his side and the stump of an arrow protruding from his shoulder.

  “I understood him,” said a younger woman in a hooded shawl. “He said – ‘The Queen of death, white she was, so white, so white…’ and that was all.”

  “May the Mother guide him,” murmured someone and the prayer went round all the onlookers.

  Mazaret straightened, his anger feeling hot and sharp. “Captain Barik, have a serjeant and two men take the body back to the city and inform the Master of Rangers. Then have your best tracker find those killers' trail – ”

  “No need to bring out a cub, my lord, when a wolf is at hand.”

  Mazaret turned a harsh eye on Atroc the seer.

  “You can find this witch and her vermin?”

  Atroc closed his eyes, breathed in deep, and repugnance settled in his features. “I can already taste her cursed spoor.” His eyes snapped open and fixed Mazaret with a piercing stare. “Is it your will to do this?”

  “It is.”

  The old seer nodded and sighed. “Then we should go now. If we are quick and cunning enough, we may yet dodge fate's black hand.”

  So the hunt was on. Atroc led the way into the woods along a heavily-trampled, slush-choked trail. A short while later Mazaret's nose caught the taint of smoke and Atroc quickened his
mount's pace. Soon the track widened onto a small village bordered on two sides by orchard groves. Bodies lay scattered between the buildings, some with womenfolk keening by them. Mazaret had six knights of the Bell stay behind to lend aid, then told Atroc to resume.

  The trail curved north and they were just entering an area of craggy outcrops and marshy gullies when a hunting horn sounded up ahead and several birds burst from cover off to the right. Immediately sensing a trap, Mazaret roared the order to wheel left and charged off the trail. Arrows came whirring through the gaunt, icy trees, most of them deflected by branches, then another flight came arcing down from on high. There were some shouts of pain when a few of the knights were hit, but none seriously. Mazaret began to panic as he realised that the uneven terrain with its rocky ledges and sudden ravines was scattering his men across a wide area of dense, trackless woods.

  With Mazaret were Atroc and three knights, two of the Bell, one of the Fathertree. In an attempt to see further they rode up the first clear rise they came to, negotiating boulders and a fallen tree. This higher ground proved to be the first of a group of hillocks near the lower slopes of the Girdle Hills, but the view from it was unrewarding. The mist was rising as the sun dipped and all that was visible were grey, ghostly woods surrounding the hillocks and filling the shadowy dales between them. The air was bitterly cold and a muffling silence reigned.

  “Can you not track my men?” Mazaret said to Atroc impatiently. “You were bold enough when it was the enemy we were after.”

  “The emanations of an evil spirit are harsher by far than those of ordinary men,” the seer said. “Some of your men are wandering east of here, perhaps half a mile distant. Our enemy, though, is….close.” Then his eyes widened as he peered downslope at the way they had come. “Riders,” he said.

  But Mazaret's attention had been snagged by faint but strange noises coming up from the mist-shrouded dale directly west of their hillock. Whispers, the creak of branches, the low rush of a breeze through leaves despite the lack of foliage. Drawn by this sussuration, he strained to make out any words or even number of voices and at first there were only those sighs and purls interweaving at the edge of audibility. Then through it all, low, quiet and clear, came a voice he had never thought to hear again.