Shadowgod

by Michael Cobley

  “Ser Trawm,” he said. “How surprising. What brings you to Besh-Darok and indeed to this meeting?”

  “Greetings, Archmage. I confess that while my natural instincts, as ever, are those of the observer, I could not refuse the plea of an old friend.” He stood, a tall and lanky man dressed like an artisan, and climbed down over the seating, pausing to wink at a haughty Nerek before striding over to Blind Rina where he raised one of her hands to his lips. She shook his head and smiled before turning her sightless eyes to the Archmage.

  “You see, Bardow, I was having little success in tracking down the man who tried to kill Nerek and decided that I needed help. I remembered Osper and he came at my request.”

  Bardow regarded the red-headed man with a fixed smile. Osper Trawm had been a highly talented yet feckless student of the Rootpower up to the invasion. Although he was one of the few to survive its destruction, he fled the conflict and slipped into the life of an itinerant bard wandering the isles and backwaters from Ogucharn to Dalbar. Seven years ago, purely by chance, Bardow encountered him briefly on the dockside of Port Caeleg on the island of Sulros, since when he seemed to have scarcely changed. The gleaming musical instrument that hung from his neck was new, however.

  “It pleases me to have you join our common effort,” Bardow said guardedly. “How soon can you begin working with Blind Rina?”

  An edgy eagerness shone from Trawm's eyes. “I have already begun, Archmage,” he said, fingering the instrument's pipes. “And I have tracked down the would-be assassin's movements, some of them at least.”

  “We found no trail,” said Luri. “No trail at all.”

  “We searched very carefully,” said her twin, Rilu. “There was no trace of the sorcery he used anywhere. How could you suceed where we did not?”

  Trawm grinned widely. “By breathing the air, fair ladies. By employing this, my ventyle.”

  Heads craned forward, eyes narrowed to peer at the musical instrument hanging about his neck, Bardow included.

  “It looks like a glorified syrena,” said the Nightrook.

  “That's what I modelled it on,” said Trawm. He pointed at the row of bulbous chambers. “In any or all of these I can instigate the thought-canto Zephyr which then produces sweet notes according to whichever keys and pipes I use. Or I can use Cadence as well to add a voice-like quality.”

  “What then is the purpose of that mouth tube?” Amral said.

  “A little fakery,” Trawm said. “Making it seem that my own lungs are doing the work.”

  “And how does this aid our search for Nerek's attacker?” Bardow said.

  “By subtly changing the Zephyr canto, I can turn my ventyle into a retort for distilling odours from the air! Blind Rina took me to those places where Nerek and her foe clashed and despite the lapse of time I have been able to sift out the man's very personal redolence.”

  “How unpleasant,” murmured the Nightrook.

  “Yet effective,” Trawm countered. “With Rina's help I have found faint traces of his spoor in several locations, including the vicinity of the Imperial palace.”

  There was an uneasy silence at this news, and Bardow immediately sensed a change in the tone of the gathering.

  Why would he come here, he thought, if not to make another attempt on Nerek's life? Or could he have contacted someone within the walls? By the Void, this could have us flinching at our own shadows! But how undo this…

  “Can you tell how long ago this was?” Bardow said evenly.

  “Roughly two days ago,” Trawm said. “There are no more recent hints of him so he may have gone to ground.”

  Bardow nodded sagely, keeping his features composed while his thoughts raced. I'll have to nip this in the bud or everyone in this palace will be watching each other…

  He gave Trawm a condescending smile. “Well, it certainly sounds like an interesting exercise,” he said, “and those pipes are quite ingenious - ”

  “You don't believe him,” Blind Rina said suddenly. “You think that all our searching has been a waste of time.”

  “That's not what I said,” Bardow replied. “I just need some genuinely convincing proof before bringing such conclusions to the attention of the High Conclave. Perhaps Osper should spend another day or two tracking down these odours, then see what the outcome is.”

  Blind Rina shook her head. “How can you be so short-sighted, you of all people?”

  “We are short of everything we need, Rina, including time,” Bardow said testily. “You will both have to do more to persuade me - ”

  Suddenly Trawm broke away from the gathering and hurried towards the door. Blind Rina faced Bardow with wordless reproach then followed the bard out, almost colliding with Alael as she arrived with a bleary-eyed scribe.

  Gods, Bardow thought dismally. What will it take to smooth those ruffled feathers? If only she and Osper had come to me privately, then I wouldn't have had to put them through such public humiliation. But we can't afford mass internal suspicion right now…

  “Archmage, it occurs to me that no-one has mentioned the Dalbar crisis,” said Zanser. “Or the Jefren involvement.”

  “That, my friend, is because the High Conclave has already taken the necessary measures.”

  “Necessary measure?” Zanser retorted. “Despatching three negotiators, not one of whom is from the aristocracy, and a mere troop of riders? Why, that makes it look as if we've already written off Dalbar as a lost cause.”

  Bardow gave him a sharp smile. “Yes, I expect it would. Perhaps our enemies will come to the same conclusion, eh?”

  Zanser stared back at him with vacant puzzlement for a moment until the light of comprehension dawned in his eyes.

  Bardow turned to Alael and the scribe she had brought with her, a shaven-headed young man in a plain brown tabard, carrying a resting board under his arm and his writing materials in an oval leather case strapped around his waist.

  “Jarl, isn't it?” Bardow said to him.

  “Yes, m'lord”

  “Good. Firstly, there are these - “ He patted the twins' finely-drawn maps. “I want you to start transcribing these in your blackest ink, two copies of each as well. You can undertake this here, for we shall have another document for you to commit within the hour. Understood?”

  Wide-eyed, the young scribe nodded.

  “Excellent.” Bardow surveyed the expectant faces at the table. “Now sers, let us apply our minds to the wording of this proposal - there are several persons to be swayed, including the Emperor himself, so let our phrasing be clear and direct.”

  And later, he thought, I shall have to be coaxing and manipulative in order to persuade Rina and Trawm to continue their search for our skulker, and to do it in secret.

  And after that… I just might find time for sleep.

  * * *

  Byrnak led the two Mogaun chieftains along the ornate gallery at a leisurely pace, pointing out this detail and that as they progressed. Small glass oil lamps hung high shed a low, yellow light but much of the stonework here was black marble or polished granite so the effect was one of a gleaming dimness, with soft glitters reflecting from a multitude of carved intricacies. A common motif of this corridor was that of horses, in spirals around pillars, in narrow relief panels running the length of a wall, or as pairs of life-size statues set on plinths flanking a few archways and doors, rearing in frozen wildness. He paused before one of them, indicating its expression to his guests.

  “Regard those eyes, my friends, the way they gaze down with an unassailable disdain. In fact, both of these statues are looking down at us, not at each other, as if trying to intimidate anyone looking up.” He glanced at the two chieftains. “Why do you think that is?”

  The taller of the two, Welgarak, shook his head slowly.

  “I don't know, great lord.”

  “Of couse, you wouldn't know,” Byrnak said. “The story goes that the chief architect of this, Rauthaz Fortress, was an initiate of a secret Skyhorse cult. Unfortunate
ly, his employer, King Tynhor, was High Priest at the temple of the Nightbear, the official creed of Yularia at the time. When Tynhor discovered that his pet architect was a devotee of the despised Skyhorse, he had the man slain in his home before his family. Then he turned the adornment of the remaining chambers and passageways over to an architect who was an avowed Nightbear follower. But it transpired that he was an inferior craftsman, so nowhere else in the fortress but here is there the feeling of being observed by a godhead.”

  Except within your own skull, wretch.

  He almost snarled at this interruption from from his inner mind, but steeled himself against it, refusing to be distracted by the god-fragment he carried. Instead he forced himself to remain calm before the brutish servants he had ordered brought to him.

  The disastrous battle at Besh-Darok and the aftermath of pogroms and executions had drastically reduced the numbers of the Mogaun host, and killed off most of their chiefs. A few tribes had turned renegade but most of the remaining warriors had obeyed the Acolytes' command to pledge their allegiance to Welgarak and Gordag. With most of the Mogaun shamans dead, insane or fled, there was little stomach for mass rebellion. But Byrnak had taken it upon himself to examine these two more closely and determine the strength of their loyalty and their fitness for the battle ahead.

  “How would you feel,” he said to them, “if such statues were made of you? If it came to be that you inspired this kind of veneration?”

  Welgarak blinked but his frown remained grim. The other, Gordag, whose once-stout frame was now gaunt, seemed stupified by the suggestion for a long moment. Then he gave a hesitant smile.

  “I...I don't know, great lord,” he said. “Happy, I suppose.”

  “When all our battles are won,” Byrnak said, pitching his voice low, almost as if he were confiding in equals, “there will be a mountain of treasure to be divided, and land, titles and power. All for the brave and the loyal.”

  Saying no more, he made a small beckoning gesture and led them further along to where the corridor turned left, stopping before a massive mirror. Its frame was intricately carved to resemble one continuous tree entwined with leaves and vines and sprigs of berries, with creatures, faces and people scattered along every side, hiding within or peering out from the foliage. Every time he passed it by, Byrnak fancied that he saw something new among the profusion of images.

  The mirror stretched from floor to more than twice a man's height, perfectly reflecting the rest of the corridor and the three figures standing before it. Byrnak's attire was that of upper nobility, a neat-fitting midnight blue doublet with silver embroidery on the sleeves and the high collar.

  In contrast the chieftains looked dishevelled and unwashed, with their shirts and breeks bearing rips and grime, theirs furs as matted as their hair, and the sheathes on their belts empty of all blades. Fingers twitched for hilts surrendered to the fortress stewards while eyes scowled at their reflections.

  “Now as it might be,” Byrnak said and swept his arms across the mirror.

  Its surface shivered and there were twin intakes of breath, then muttered oaths of awe. In the mirror Welgarak wore burnished iron armour inlaid with his clan's black moon totem in gold and pearlshell. His silver hair was long and combed straight and his beard was forked into three with the tips dyed red. Beside him, Gordag was garbed in a bronzed breastplate, gleaming mail, and a red-horned helm over dark, finely-braided hair. Both carried iron-hafted war axes and both seemed taller, straighter, their stares fierce and proud.

  Byrnak regarded the chieftains with a sidelong glance, and smiled at their mesmerised stillness.

  “There is much to be gained,” he said smoothly. “By those of unshakeable loyalty and courage.”

  “I am for you, great lord,” said Gordag, unable to look away from the mirror.

  “I too, my lord,” Welgarak said, his voice slack. “What would you have us do in your service?”

  “Gather together all the tribes and warriors you can in the Forest of Gulmaegorn in northern Khatris. In just a few days I will come to you both with orders that will change this world forever.”

  With an effort Welgarak then Gordag looked round at him and he was pleased to see that there was something new and hungry in their eyes.

  “As you will it, great lord,” Welgarak said. “So shall it be.” Gordag gave a sharp nod of agreement.

  “Good. Now go forth and do my bidding.”

  The figures in the mirror reverted to a true reflection and although pangs of longing crossed the cheiftains' faces, that glittering desire was still there. As they bowed and left it was with a purposeful swagger utterly different to how they were earlier, subdued and sullen, like whipped dogs.

  Byrnak smiled as they receded along the corridor. This was a subtle sorcery using the mirror to bind them not to himself but to the half-illusions of their greatest desires. From now on,every time despair or doubt crept into their minds this enchantment would blot out such frailties with those shining visions of themselves. The need to attain them would seal their loyalty.

  They will still betray you, fool.

  Your concern is so touching, he thought mockingly. Such a pity that you didn't see fit to warn us about Ystregul.

  Crush their wills, I say, chain them to us, grasp every one of their lives in your hand like a leash…

  Byrnak laughed out loud, despite the harsh voice ranting away within his head. At times like this in the past he had feared that this inescapable torment would eventually drag him down into insanity, but he had found one solution - drowning out the hated, grating tones with a louder sound.

  So it was that he caused the mouth of every carven face, mask, horse and creatures on the walls and pillars to utter a wordless, full-throated song. The dark interweaving chorus of hundreds of voices filled the air, shook paintings and mirrors on their nails and echoed down the side passages. Most important of all, it became the only thing that Byrnak could hear as he walked the length of that beautiful black corridor.

  Chapter Ten

  Then to the King's Masks he said:

  The meagre justice you niggardly portion out is but a

  loosening of the strings that tie us to your unjust hands.

  If ever true justice awoke in this nightbound kingdom,

  I would tear off your masks!’

  —Momas Gobryn, The Trial of Aetheon, pt 4.

  Under a grey afternoon sky eight days after departing Besh-Darok, the three delegates and their escort arrived in Scallow aboard a two-masted barkan. A cold breeze clawed at their hair and cloaks, and as they descended the icy gantry the first thing Keren noticed was the frantic activity on the dockside. Every available foot of quay and pier was occupied and a small forest of masts and furled sails swayed to and fro all the way along the low wooden wharf.

  Winter had come to Dalbar but this far south the snow had yet to fall heavily enough to settle, with only a few grey patches and streaks seen at the edges of the loading area. As Keren set foot on the worn planks of the quay she caught a whiff of rotting fish that made her eyes water. With a hand raised to her nose she looked around for the source.

  “Ah, the delightful aroma of Scallow docks,” said Gilly as he followed her onto solid ground. “Once savoured, never forgotten.”

  “Mother's name,” she muttered. “It was bad enough spending over a day on that stinking tub…” She paused as she noticed seabirds dropping down behind a wall of crates stacked across the quay by the next berth where a shabby-looking netting ketch with a triangular sail was tied up.The crates failed to completely hide a large wet mound of fish heads and innards being added to by a swiftly gutting team of fishermen. Keren held a fold of her cloak to her mouth and nose and stepped away, trying to get out of the fish-tainted wind.

  The wharf backed onto a long strip of muddy, rutted ground utterly lacking any kind of storehouses or godowns. Instead, dozens of carts and wagons were being loaded with goods from the docked vessels then hauled off by horse, though a f
ew small ones were drawn by gaunt-looking men. Packs of hooded urchins did most of the lifting and carrying apart from the adult gangers who bore the truly heavy loads. Beyond the busy loading ground was a long ditch and beyond that were a mixture of timber yards and mean, single-storey houses. It was a bleak sight.

  Leaving Gilly by the ship, Keren found a spot by a fencepost away from the odour of fish and leaned there for a moment. Beneath her cowled cloak, belted to her waist, was her old straight-edged sword, just about the last of the weapons she had carried away from Byrnak's camp months ago. By touch she could feel its leather-wound hilt and the tear she had always meant to have stitched, the solid curved tangs of the crosspiece and the triangular pommel with its inlaid faces. A comforting blade, one that had seen her through several fights, although in the past she had preferred the lighter cavalry sword which let her employ swifter, more precise methods. But that one lay twisted and melted in a tunnel beneath the Oshang Dakhal, along with the certainties of another life.

  Also beneath her cloak, tucked into a small leather satchel slung under one arm and pressing into her side, was the parchment copy of the Raegal sagasong from the Codex book, which seemed to hint at a ritual by which a gateway to the realm of the Daemonkind might be opened. She had accepted the merchant's gift in gratitude and passed the book into Alael's keeping before leaving Besh-Darok. At the time she had been full of certainty that the song about Raegal, once translated, would provide the evidence and clues she needed but now she was less sure. The ambush by the banks east of Vannyon's Ford and the astonishing appearance of a witchhorse suggested a possible alternative in her search for allies. However, such a course of action would present a similar set of problems: from what the witchhorse said, he and others had found a sorcerous hiding place between the realms from which he had been dragged by an ancient Skyhorse incantation, but where would she find someone with the arcane knowledge of a defunct creed? She sighed, putting these enigmas aside for the moment as she gazed out at the wider view of this southern cityport.