Shadowgod

by Michael Cobley

  “While confusion reigns in Besh-Darok, both of you, and all your brothers and sisters, shall ride forth from Gorla and Keshada at the head of raiding parties. There yet remain occupied villages near the city so from there you will spread the tide of terror. Also, harry those fleeing south so that word of our dominion may travel to other regions.”

  A sly look came over the Suviel rivenshade's features. “What mercy do we extend, lord? What quarter?”

  “None for any taking arms against you,” he said. “Make sure some refugees escape with their lives and the memory of your faces.”

  The rivenshades exchanged a satisfied look.

  “As you have said,” the Mazaret said. “So it shall be.”

  Byrnak then turned to the rest. “Be assured that we shall put forth all of our strength and sweep our enemies into the pale memory of oblivion, but that time is not yet.”

  Audience at an end, Byrnak descended the dais steps and nodded to the captain of his honour guard. They followed in his wake as he crossed the shadow-embellished floor to tall, arched doors of red granite which opened inwards at his approach. Beyond was a high corridor along which he walked, past narrow open windows that stretched from floor to ceiling. He paused at one and gazed out at the snow-covered fields and meadows and estates, an abandoned territory of whiteness turning pale and blue beneath the encroaching dusk.

  As time passes, he thought, the landscape of this struggle becomes harder to understand, not easier. The nearer we come to the core of it, the less certain its outlines…

  Then he laughed to himself. Even the deathly inner presence of the Lord of Twilight had fallen silent, as if in satisfaction at the pace of events.

  Are you hoping to draw some cold strategem together? he thought inwardly. Some play of dream and deception? If so, it will avail you naught for I have seen through every illusion in your arsenal, every bluff and pretence and threat. We shall subdue you, my brothers and I...

  There was no response, no sense of any presence deep within the veiled parts of his mind, only a hollowness...and an involuntary suggestion suddenly coalesced that he and the other Shadowkings were little more than elaborate rivenshades being driven like everyone else towards the forge of fate by a force unseen….

  He recoiled from the dread notion, turned sharply and strode along the corridor, his demeanour full of smouldering anger. A door full of glinting haze took him down ten floors to a wide walkway overlooking one of Keshada's great storage vaults. Groups of officers and artisans, surprised by his appearance, bowed or saluted but he ignore them as he watched the noisy, vigorous activity below. Several teams of horses flanked a wide square opening in the dusty wooden floor, straining on pulley-wound clusters of hawsers, hauling up from some ways down a cross-joisted rack piled with crates and bundles of supplies. There were another three loading bays across the huge floor, each surrounded by horses and labourers all made small by the vault's massive scale.

  Wordlessly, Byrnak continued along the balcony, still followed by guards and standard bearers, and passed through another glittering archway. Beyond it he emerged in a long curved gallery, the inner wall being of sheer, polished ash-grey marble and marred only by a line of niches, each containing a metallic head murmuring verse in an ancient language. The outer wall was of rough brown stone broken by large triangular openings through which he could look across the dry, rocky desolation of the Realm of Dusk.

  For although Gorla and Keshada were now able to exist in the mountains around Besh-Darok by virtue of the spells laid down by Crevalcor, their true foundations remained in the Lord of Twilight's own realm. It was from there that the powers of the Wellsource fed both the citadels' requirement such that any force that reached these walls would face its raw power in addition to numberless defenders.

  But still uncertainty nagged, prompted by the emerging fragments of that shattering war at the ages-past dawn of the world. What if the mages were in possession of all three artefacts, and they were playing the waiting game with unbending cunning? What if they were biding their time until it was right to unleash it all in a single, devastating thrust?

  With a clenched fist he struck his thigh in frustration. He had to know more, and Kodel was the one who held the threads along which rumour flowed. And since Kodel was currently visiting the Acolytes' stronghold, that was where he would go.

  As he continued along the corridor, he studied the lesser strongholds clustered near Keshada's walls out in the Realm of Dusk. A rambling castle, diminutive next to Keshada, stood wall to wall with a square-built keep, a primitive conical tower, and what seemed to be a fortified temple. Sentries were visible on the dilapidated parapets, and gazing off to one side Byrnak could see the edge of the silver-grey Skeletal Forest, hazed by wind-driven curtains of ochre dust. Looking the other way he could just make out one shoulder of the hollow stone colossus, half-buried in the shift, searing sands. Straight ahead the ground sloped down to a great parched plain dominated by the gaping, jagged immensity of the Hewn Mountain at whose centre was, he knew, the shattered chamber of the Wellsource.

  He had visited it several times since that first meeting with the Acolyte adept, Obax, months ago. More recently, he had found his powers strong enough to go there unaccompanied, albeit briefly. On each occasion he had stared into the flickering emerald ghost of its everchanging form, striving to discern the secrets at its heart. But no two appearances ever seemed the same, although a few times he thought he glimpsed thin black webs amidst the ceaseless turmoil. But he dismissed this as evidence of a weariness in the eyes.

  He walked on, seeking another glittering doorway and pondering the apparent ease with which the Acolytes were able to enter and linger in the Realm of Dusk.

  The next traversing door took Byrnak and his retinue down to a pillared walkway overlooking a vast enclosed hall divided into several drill grounds and innumerable training pens and pits. Thousands of warriors sent up a cacophony of grunts and shouts as drillmasters put them through exacting exercises. Knots of officers and scribes and runners paused when he passed, some bowing heads, others prostrating themselves on the warm stone. Byrnak spoke to none, only nodding gravely as he strode towards another doorway.

  Again the slow-swirling glitter stroked his face with icy tendrils and he stepped through to a stuffy dimness reeking of horse manure, harness leather and sweat. Extensive stabling took up almost all of Keshada's underground level, its chambers and stalls built of heavy wood beams and planking and heated by sorcerous braziers. Oil lamps burned in grilled wall cressets, shedding a grimy yellow light. More bowing and saluting greeted their arrival, and Byrnak left the ordering of readied mounts to his subordinates. One spirited brown stallion reared and almost broke free as it was brought for him, but he subdued it with a single glance before climbing smoothly into the saddle. Moments later he and his retinue rode slowly out to a long, low-roofed chamber busy with troops of cavalry, caravans of pack animals and strings of new mounts. Three large gates led to upward-sloping stone passages, one straight ahead, the other curving off to left and right. Across from them was a single wide opening and a downward ramp of hoof-stamped gravel and dirt towards which Byrnak led his group.

  Shouts and applause erupted from the riders passing through as Byrnak and his banner were recognised. Some of his attendants were affronted at this disrespectful display but he shook his head at them then bestowed a wintry smile on the cheering crowd as they passed by. This raucous praise was a welcome change from the submissive obeisance he had experienced elsewhere, and brought back memories from that long-gone time in Honjir.

  The downward ramp brought them into a torch-lit, rough-hewn stone cave which opened out to become the entrance to the Great Aisle. Chipped and broken rock melted into the Aisle's smooth, grey-green wall from which a muted, silver-green radiance emanated. Created and sustained by the Wellsource, the Great Aisle was a wide, oval tunnel that stretched away in a long, gently upward curve at whose other end, a mere days march hence, lay the cavern
s beneath Rauthaz. The first time Byrnak saw it, soon after the Wellgate completed the bore, it looked to his eyes like a gigantic gullet. Now, as he led his followers into it, he imagined it growing and widening into a maw fit to swallow cities, mountains, nations…

  They rode at a canter past several long columns of marching troops before reaching the point where their branch of the Great Aisle met that coming from the citadel of Gorla. Here Byrnak paused and instructed the captain of his honour guard to continue on to Rauthaz, and as they resumed at a steady gallop, he faced the wall of the Aisle. At his first thought of need, the Wellsource was there. He reached through it for the Wellgate, a self-perpetuating spell which he and Kodel had devised, and called up a side-portal. A tall oval depression appeared in the wall of the Aisle and sunk quickly inwards, a dark, round-edged door. Byrnak fixed firmly in his mind his destination and urged his nervous mount forward –

  - and emerged in the stone chamber beneath Trevada where Ystregul, the fifth Shadowking, was imprisoned. In the iron casket, suspended on heavy chains, he was still held fast, his head and shoulders visible, his every grimace and head movement slowed by the enchantment laid upon him by the other Shadowkings. In the months since the cataclysmic battle for Besh-Darok, less than a day had passed for him.

  Small lamps burned on stands in the chamber's corners but most of the light came from the grooved patterns scored into the flagstones below the prisoner, ancient symbols glowing with iridescent green power. Emerald radiance mingled with oil-lamp-golden highlights across the swirls and strings of glyphs that wound around Ystregul's casket.

  It was hot. As Byrnak dismounted, a figure in short-sleeved black garments rose from a cross-legged pose in one corner, his clean-shaven, narrow features creased by a dark smile as he regarded the casket and its contents. Still smiling, Kodel then glanced at Byrnak.

  “Our brother has had a visitor,” he said. “Quite recently…”

  Before Byrnak could reply, another figure stepped into view, his robes long and green, his hair grey and braided, his eyes a milky white. It was Obax, Byrnak's former guide and now the High Master of the Acolytes at Trevada.

  “Greetings, great lord. Are you well?”

  Byrnak's grin was savage. “I am in admirable health, friend Obax, and in full possession of my destiny.”

  The priest nodded sagely. “Truly, your thriving fitness is an inspiration to us all, most puissant lord, and helps to sooth our sorrow that such vigour is not shared by all the Shadowkings.”

  Byrnak glanced at Kodel who offered naught but an amused shrug.

  “Hard work, mastery and cunning will in the end overcome such hindrances,” he said, voice hardening. “But tell me about the new rite for the Weaving of Souls – am I correct in thinking that you and your adepts are making progress?”

  “Ah, 'tis a difficult task, great lord,” Obax said. “Somehow we must abstract the five-fold essence without causing harm to yourself or your brothers, then weave these shards of the Godhead together within a new host strong enough to serve.” He sighed. “A monumental task, yet progress is being made.”

  Byrnak met that white gaze, thinking – Yes, as slowly as possible.

  “All your efforts shall be rewarded,” he said evenly. “In the meantime, my very good friend, kindly see to my horse.” So saying, he held out the stallion's reins.

  For a moment Obax stood stock still, his pale-eyed face an expressionless mask. Then, smiling thinly, he accepted the reins.

  “As you wish, great lord,” he said. “I shall see that it is well-fed.”

  Then the senior Acolyte turned and led the creature out of the chamber. As the heavy doors thudded shut behind him, Kodel laughed.

  “I didn't realise it before, brother,” he said. “But the man hates you, and with a passion. Might he not present a problem for us?”

  “We shall attend to the matter of the Nightbrothers once Besh-Darok is broken,” Byrnak said, wiping a patina of sweat from his brow.

  “I understand that all is in place,” Kodel said, returning to the low stool where he had been sitting. “Why do you delay the attack? Still worrying about this third artefact?”

  Byrnak grunted. “They're hiding something, Bardow and those weakling mages, and hiding it from their own general, even that turncoat Yasgur. I have to know what it is before I commit our armies.”

  Kodel squinted at the suspended Ystregul through a spider-wire arrangement of glowing lenses. “I take it that you've been hearing some tales of the battle of Kogil, the fall of Jagreag and so forth.”

  “Too many, and most of them have the ring of truth.” He stabbed a forefinger at Kodel. “Which is why I want to know what your spies have been saying.”

  The other Shadowking blew dust from an amber four-sided gem before fitting it into the gold-wire assemblage. “I last heard from my secret eyes in Besh-Darok nearly two days ago – all he had to tell me was that some kind of strange activity in Sejeend's boatyards had ceased abruptly several days before, that food riots had stopped after cargo ships arrived from Cabringa, and barring the unforseen, the boy emperor is ripe for the picking as and when we desire. Of the mages activities I've had no word, except that they've started looking for him.”

  “That is still of little help to me,” Byrnak said.

  “Then bide your time, brother. Let the armies wax while we bring together the strands and tails of rumour. There is much else afoot, most importantly the Dalbar plan. Once Crevalcor has dealt with the High House of Keels, the way will be clear for Jefren ships to start raiding all along that southern coast.”

  Byrnak frowned. The Theocracy of Jefren had begun soon after the defeat of the Empire as a Twilight sect which established themselves in the Hanoriath Hills in west Jefren. With the passing years, they gradually extended their harsh rule across the whole of the former Kingdom of Jefren, and tested the resolve of neighbouring rulers. As Warlord of Northern Honjir, Byrnak had repulsed their exploratory raids on more than one occasion.

  “Our Jefren allies!” he sneered. “Every time I meet one of those masked priests, I get the impression that he thinks himself greater than I.”

  “There is a delegation of them currently in Trevada,” Kodel said, getting to his feet and picking out a wooden tripod from several leaning against the wall. “Apparently they are asking for aid against a small army of rebels who have entrenched themselves in some old fortress high in the Druandag mountains. The Acolytes' response so far has been to insist that most of the Nighthunters died during the battle with the Daemonkind, and that the few survivors are not sufficiently strong for both a mountain assault and the coming campaign.”

  “Is this true?”

  Kodel nodded. “I believe so.” He affixed the intricate object of wire and jewels to the top of the tripod and stooped to peer into it. “We still have eaterbeasts on hand, of course. The tinemasters, both here and and at Casall, have had to dig out new pits and lairs to accommodate recent brood spawning. But all this is just a side issue – there's another problem brewing which we may have to be ready to deal with at short notice, namely our brother, Thraelor.”

  Byrnak's frown deepened and he crossed his arms. “Go on.”

  “He only communicates via the Wellmirror now, and in conversations over the last three days he has been growing noticeably….erratic. I spoke to him earlier today, and there were several moments when I knew that it wasn't him behind that face.”

  The two Shadowkings regarded each other with mutual unease.

  “Have you heard aught from our dark passenger recently?” Byrnak said.

  “Not for a day or two,” Kodel admitted.

  “Nor I.” Byrnak glanced at the imprisoned Ystregul and gritted his teeth. “Should we start preparing another casket in the event that Thraelor succumbs?”

  Kodel was likewise studying the captive Shadowking though his glittering device once more. “It might be prudent, but it may no longer be as unassailable as we thought.” He straightened, his smile crooked.
“You see, someone has been tampering with the spells we wove around our brother here.”

  Byrnak went over to stand next to the device on its tripod but deigned to look through it. “Are you certain?”

  Kodel nodded. “I've imbued the elements of this little artifice with Wellsource power, and I can see how the web of spells has been altered.” He stroked his chin. “Perhaps not so much tampered with as tested.”

  “There can only be a few capable of this,” Byrnak said, his thoughts flying. “I doubt that it would be in Grazaan's interest, but what of Thraelor?”

  “He's hardly strayed out of the Red Tower in Casall this last month,” Kodel said. “And I'm sure I'd have known if he'd come here.”

  “What of our loyal Acolytes?”

  Kodel laughed aloud. “The likeliest candidates, although I cannot fathom how the Black Priest's release could serve their cause.”

  A cause dedicated to the ascendancy of the Lord of Twilight, Byrnak knew, and inevitable oblivion for the Shadowkings.

  “The spells will have to be strengthened,” he said. “Maybe we could include some painful surprises for any meddlers, yes? And when I return to Rauthaz, I'll have a second casket made secretly.”

  The two Shadowkings exchanged cruel smiles then turned to face the captive Ystregul, their hands aflame with emerald power.

  * * *

  Aboard the ancient and decaying vessel, lashed to the shattered mast, Gilly had sunk to sitting on the damp deck and was trying to loosen the bonds on his wrists. The day was almost done, the chilling tide of night was rising and the ship was at rest after its spell-driven departure from Scallow. This was Sulros Island, and the vessel now lay beached on a pebbly strand not far from Port Caeleg, an independent city-port which had a reputation for intrigue and all manner of illegalities. A sickly green nimbus flickered about every part of the sea-rotted hulk but the greater part of Gilly's attention was fixed on the dread-inspiring spectacle taking place on the forward deck.