Shadowgod

by Michael Cobley

  “Her safety is of great concern to you,” Trader Golwyth observed. “Do you have children of your own?”

  “Hmm?…” Medwin was momentarily puzzled. “Ah, I see. No, no….though once I was almost married. A long time ago.”

  Golwyth regarded him with an amused frown, but Medwin said no more.

  “I think, ser Medwin, it would be wise for us to retreat to the relative safety of the shore,” the master trader said.

  Medwin shook his head. “I would stay here a little while longer to see if I can locate the valiant Captain Redrigh. And perhaps make another attempt to break that sorcerer's concentration.”

  Golwyth gave a crooked smile. “Well, 'tis said that three times is a charm.”

  “More likely the cause of a headache,” Medwin said wryly. “Return to your compound, Golwyth and if the Marshalls are looking for me inform them that I shall be along presently.”

  The master trader nodded and left. As the sound of his men leaving on horseback faded, Medwin walked a few paces closer to the broken edge of the long, shattered canal entrance and the canyon of devastation. From somewhere way down in the wreckage came the moans of the trapped and the sobbing and the murmurs of rescuers. In his need for centred calm he tried to shut it all out, but failed. Death filled this place like a choking vapour. Behind him the fires were out of control and had engulfed nearly half of Scallow, while before him in the Bridges - who could tell how many had already died? Thousands, certainly. The blind, fanatical minds who could perpetuate such merciless slaughter on innocents were undeniably evil but on a scale he had not encountered before.

  And in his private, most secret fears he had begun to wonder what it would take to defeat such an enemy, and even whether it could be achieved.

  Out in the wide channel to his left, the great Jefren dromonds were on fire, dark shapes shadowed in smoke and sinking as other lesser clashes took place amidst the tangle of ships. Small boats had begun swarming out from the shore, bearing loads of soldiers towards savage, bloody boardings. The Islesmen looked to be defeated, and it was all Yared Hevrin's doing. It was he who went to Bardow a month and a half ago with his observations of the Islesmen's demands and secret dealings, and offered a bold plan to portage a fleet of fast, oar-driven ramships overland via the Red Way. After meetings with the High Conclave, it was decided that a third of the ships would be diverted along the valley of Gronanvel to the Bay of Horns and thence down the sea channel to Sarlekwater as a precaution against attack from the north.

  Yet still the Wellsource vessel was out there, the sorcerer's presence impressing itself on Medwin's undersenses like a force of nature. Since just before the arrival of the enemy fleet, a broodingly oppressive glamour had settled over the entire region, stifling certain aspects of the Lesser Power. Most thought-cantos were unaffected but mindspeech across any significant distance proved almost impossible.

  Ah, Bardow, my friend, he thought. Your counsel and support would be so welcome…

  Clasping hands tightly at his waist, he cleared his thoughts, expunged fear and doubt, and prepared to pit himself against the enemy again.

  * * *

  Deep below the High Spire, secret and known to only a few, was a chamber. The chamber was rectangular, high-ceilinged but not overly large, with six delicate pillars spaced along one of the walls, decorative arches linking them and framing elaborate mosaics. The opposite wall had the same number of pillars except that each arch led into a small alcove where Earthmother priestesses used to come to pray and meditate. The masonry was all of a dark stone, dark grey and dark blue, and the two thick candles burning on a shelf near the door were only able to spread their halo of illumination as far as the plain, square table where Bardow sat in a high-backed chair, thoughtfully regarding what lay before him. On the worn, unvarnished tabletop was a good-sized book lying open with a separate sheet of crabbed writing sitting atop the curved, frayed-edged pages, while beside it were two small brass-bound caskets, likewise open. One casket held the Crystal Eye, cradled in a goldwire framework, its perfect surface reflecting soft yellow pinpoints of candlelight. In the other was the Motherseed, its ridged, dark brown shape resting amid folds of blue silk. The former was a fount of subtle powers, ancient knowledge and never-sleeping vigilance, sometimes seeming half-alive, whereas the latter was both key and door to the Earthmother's realm, a secretive talisman through which the Goddess had spoken with Tauric and Alael.

  But for Bardow at the moment, the most fascinating of them all was the single sheet of parchment. Picking it up, he reread for the fourth time Onsivar's translation of the passages gleaned from the palimpsest page in Keren's book. The concise yet graceful directions for melding the Rootpower and the Wellsource power was breathtaking - it explained certain obscure references to Orosiada's 'heartsfire' blade. But it begged the question of how those mages of old came to have sufficient Wellsource power to work with…

  Then to his mind came the thought he had not yet dared to frame. With Nerek's bond to the Wellsource, and Alael's affinity with that intense form of the Lesser Power - Earthmother's Gift the priestesses call it - might it be possible to re-enact that melding and create a weapon capable of slaying the Shadowkings?

  He shook his head and laughed. How could any of them hope to get within an arm's reach of any of those dread warlocks when a sea of swords stood in the way? Then he thought of where he was and imagined a desperate last stand, with the enemy fighting corridor by room to reach this underground place. Perhaps one or some of the Shadowkings would be tempted to be in at the last, to savour the triumph and ensure the safety of Eye and Seed. Indeed, a warrior wielding a melded weapon and waiting here might accomplish what defenders and walls failed to do. Yes, as soon as Nerek returned from hunting this sorcerer-spy, he would gather and Alael together and see what could be done.

  Reaching forward, Bardow closed the book then stood and stretched, wincing at the aches in his shoulders. He stared at the pure sky blue of the Crystal Eye, problems crowding his thoughts. Then he sighed and shut and latched both caskets. He had not heard from Medwin for several hours now and all attempts at mindspeech had proved fruitless. His anxiety over the Scallow situation was a constant burden, exacerbated by the news of Yared Hevrin's death, and his confidence in the dead man's gambit was an uncertain thing. From what Medwin said early that morning, it seemed likely that the possessed Coireg Mazaret was deeply involved in both the merchant's death and Gilly's disappearance. Bardow recalled what Nerek said months before about her encounter with the man in Trevada, after she and Suviel had been captured, and it seemed certain that Ikarno's unfortunate brother was host to the revenant spirit of some powerful sorcerer.

  That was when the yearning came upon him, a yearning for the pure strength of the Rootpower. His body remembered how it felt to have the force of it coursing through him, and his senses remembered the greater world that it had opened for him, and worse, his very intellect retained a vestige of the mental reflexes from that time when his mind was anything but cramped and weary…

  Bardow found that he was clenching his fists so hard that the fingernails were digging into his palms. The pain was almost refreshing and helped brush aside the aching loss. He smiled sadly - strange that while he was able to banish such savage longing from his dreams, they still lay in wait for him in the waking day.

  Activity, that was the answer. Keeping busy. Although he was several flights of stairs below ground, he knew that it was still light with a few hours yet till sunset. And it was more hours than that since Azurech's deadline had elapsed with no apparent action on the enemy's part.

  “They'll wait for the sun to go down before springing any nasty surprises on us,” he had told an anxious Yasgur earlier in the day. “He has a taste for the dramatic, this Shadowking Byrnak. Nothing would please him more than to see our city in flames by night.”

  Yasgur and the High Conclave were planning to have guards on every main street across the city by nightfall, and Bardow knew that, despi
te his weariness, work was what he needed now. Besides, it was imperative to get Alael and Nerek back to the High Spire with all speed so that the melding of powers could be studied, though that could wait until the morning.

  He patted the back of the wooden chair then, with the door half-open, he blew out the temple candles and left, locking the door with a charm as he went.

  * * *

  Even with eyes closed, Keren felt sure she was lying on the back of a horse, a gigantic and graceful horse whose stately gallop rocked her back and forth without the slightest jolting, nothing to make the hurt in her head flare up. But the weather must be bad for her limbs and her clothing felt wet, as was the wide hard saddle on which she lay. She tried to curl up but with the effort came a stab of pain like hot needles through her head and she opened her eyes -

  The half-swamped broken deck of the ramship still wallowed in waters shrouded by a heavy sea mist. By the dim grey light it seemed that the day was moving into late afternoon so she had not been unconscious for too long. The effects of the concussion seemed to ebb and flow between this weakened, nauseous state and limp insensibility. She had been struck in the head during the final clash with the Wellsource ship, out here in the Bay of Horns, when…

  Keren frowned, trying to remember what had happened, but it remained stubbornly beyond recall. It was important, too, something she had to remember….

  She groaned quietly, unable to dredge it from her memory. Maybe if she retraced events it would jog something loose. Yes, that might work. She remembered Medwin's little performance to coerce her into staying away from the hazards of the Bridges, asking her instead to run an errand to some ramships anchored at a jetty further up the Sarlekwater. Once she had found them and passed on the mage's instructions to sail down and engage the sorcerer's vessel, one of the captains said - “Will you be coming with us?”

  She had not needed to be asked twice. Leaving her mount with a stable near the jetty, she had boarded the last craft as its crew were loosening the hawsers. The journey down Sarlekwater was unexpectedly brief - once the oarsmen had swung into the rhythm of rowing, the ships had flown across the waters. As they had drawn near the now-broken outline of the Bridges district, the glowing Wellsource vessel had emerged from the western side, shattered wreckage spreading in its wake. Keren remembered standing in the stern, icy gusts of wind tugging at her clothes, watching the enemy turn its prow towards them and come on.

  But the memory frayed away and the harder she tried to grasp the fragments the slower her thoughts grew. An awful chill washed through her but she seemed unable to shiver as the stone-like coldness flooded into her mind…

  Her feet were all she could see, shod in open-toed sandals, walking up a mountain track with tiny blue turilu flowers scattered either side. Then it became a riverside path, clumps of reeds left and right, and a small, low wooden bridge across a tributary stream. Then a trail through tall, slender trees, golden leaves carpetting the ground. A paved walkway in a town or city, buildings burning all around. A smooth-floored tunnel leading up through a mountain, through gateway after gateway of pain -

  She reeled back from the vision and found herself on the floating wreck, breathing heavily, fearing those images of the Ordeal beneath Trevada. Then above the sound of her gasping she heard a thud, then a splash from the choppy waters at the edge of the broken deck. A hand lunged up out of the water and scrabbled on the planking for purchase. She stared in fright as a second hand gripped the edge and a sodden figure entwined in dripping rags and seaweed hauled himself up to sprawl panting on the soaked deck. Head bowed, he then pushed himself up on to his knees and looked up at Keren. It was Gilly, wet hair plastered to his head, face a sickly fishbelly white. His smile was horrible.

  “I am so disappointed in you,” he said, spreading his arms. “How could you forget?”

  Behind him, more hands came up from the water to seek handholds on the woodwork, and she cried out -

  This time Keren knew she was awake from the pain that made a torture chamber of her skull.

  No more dreams, she vowed. She would fight to stay conscious as she went over the bits and pieces of the memories that were slowly coming back to her. She was determined to make sense of it.

  The first encounter between the ramships and the Wellsource vessel had been disastrous. She had warned the captains of the ensorcelled vessel's ability to hew through entire buildings, but one of them thought that he knew better. An attempt to ram the enemy's bows left one ramship sundered in two and sinking, an another with smashed oars and a crippled rudder.

  The next time, the ramships had tried to strike the enemy amidships but the glowing craft had turned at the last moment and smashed off the prow of another pursuer. But one ramship captain had timed his own change of course as well and his ship's iron ram struck home in the enemy's stern. With one side of his oarsmen pushing backwater, his vessel had slewed round, the hooked ram tearing a gaping hole in the enemy ship's hull.

  Seeing this, Keren was exultant - the sorcery that made the front of the ship invulnerable did not seem to extend to the aft. In fact, as she watched the emerald nimbus around the ship faded away as it slowed and began to settle lower in the water. Fear for Gilly suddenly rose up in her and she begged the captain of her ship to approach and board the sinking vessel.

  Wordlessly, the captain shook his head and pointed. When she looked the glow of power had returned and the Wellsource ship had risen a little and was under way once more. At its prow she could just make out two cloaked figures helping a third one to stand. The battle turned into pursuit, the three remaining ramships chasing the enemy vessel north, up the lake towards the sea channel.

  A grim, hammer-grey sky sent sheets of cold rain lashing down and the ramship captains had canvas covers pulled up on slanted spars. Keren stayed out by the stern, watching the hunters and the hunted. By the time her ship entered the passage to the sea she was soaked to the skin and glad of the heavy skin cloak offered by the helmsman's attendant.

  The Wellsource craft drew ahead of its pursuers and when Keren's ship at last slipped out into the Bay of Horns she could see it surging towards a wall of heavy mist that was rolling in from the sea beyond Cape Fury. All three captains agreed to give chase, deciding that whoever encountered the enemy first would sound their horns repeatedly. Then as one they veered round to the northwest and plunged on into the clammy grey veil.

  But they had not reckoned with the enemy's cruel cunning. Keren's ship was on the left and it had been scarcely minutes since entering the mist when that dread shape, bathed in febrile green radiance, came scything through the waters towards their port side. Panicking, fearful cries went up and the helmsman threw his full weight on the tiller, forcing a turn to starboard, but it was too late. The enemy's dark and rearing prow smashing into the ramship's side and from the stern Keren saw the covers ripped aside and men crushed as the glowing ship actually rode up and across its victim.

  And stopped. Amid the cries for help and the screams and groans and cracks of the dying ship. Keren was thinking only about Gilly. The Wellsource vessel no longer had that viridian glow so she waded along to where it was struck fast, grabbed hold of some heavy netting that hung down and climbed up the side of the hull. At the bulwark she heard someone shouting and peered over the top. A man she recognised as Coireg Mazaret was struggling between three men cloaked head to foot in pale grey.

  “No, its mine...this body is mine...you'll not have it, not…have it, for I will fly, you'll see...no…Nooooh!”

  At the same time another pair of similarly garbed figures were untying the limp form of Gilly from the shattered mast. In a sudden burst of fury she swung herself over onto the deck, drew her sword and said;

  “Release him, you scum, or you'll feel my blade in your hearts - ”

  All five of the cloaked figures looked round at her as one, and her tongue froze in her mouth at the sight. Each and every one of them had Gilly's face, chalk-white features and blank grey eyes, b
ut still his face…

  “In the Mothers name,” she said falteringly. “What is…”

  Something struck the old Wracktown vessel with a mighty crash, knocking Keren off her feet. As she struggled upright by leaning on the bulwark there was another thunderous impact and a series of shudders. Then the deck began to fall in, and the remnants of the mast toppled, dragged down by its own weight, crashing through the planks. The entire ship seemed to be breaking open like a rotten fruit, as if some ghastly curse of age and decay had finally caught up with it.

  Across from her the five men with Gilly's face held Coireg and Gilly up between them, and as she watched they leaped straight into the dark gaping chasm of the disintegrating vessel. She screamed in wordless horror as they did so. She edged over to look down but another shock threw her backwards. Sobbing, she clambered back over the bulwark, holding on to the rough, sodden netting, swaying in the swell of the sea. From that height she saw the two remaining ramships nearby, one pulling away, the other coming for another strike.

  It was then that the net from which she hung tore away and sent her plunging into the icy sea where her head struck a floating timber. Near-blinded by pain but driven by desperation, she clung to the same plank, paddling weakly. A large section of decking came into view and she somehow swam over to it, dragging herself up onto the solid, wooden sanctuary where she promptly passed out….

  The last light of day was fading above her, and night was spreading out its cold and furtive cloak, but she now remembered what had happened, the battles and the perils, and the horrors, all of it. And right now her eyes needed to close and she needed to sleep, if only that scrape, scrape, scrape noise would stop…

  After a while, voices penetrated her drowse.