Shadowgod

by Michael Cobley

  “A cruel weapon, my prince.”

  “A weapon of terror, and effective.” Yasgur turned to look at him. “And the least of their eldritch horrors, I'll wager. I was only fourteen during the exodus but I remember what the Acolytes' nighthunters and firehawks did to the Imperial army at Pillar Moor. Picture that here.”

  Atroc heard the bleakness in Yasgur's voice, the doubt, the weakening resolve, and he frowned.

  “Truly, it would be a scene of devastation, my prince,” he said. “Yet all here have seen such before, and Bardow and the Conclave are prepared.”

  “Prepared for an onslaught of armies, of hordes?” Yasgur seemed to gather his determination as he faced Atroc. “See now, I need to know that your loyalty holds true and keen as a blade before I speak further.”

  Atroc let his shock show. “I am the oath-made seer! As I served your father, so I shall serve you with all the wisdom and cunning given to me by the Dreaming Void. My bonds to you cannot be broken by man or god!”

  This seemed to please the Mogaun Lord Regent who gave a grim smile. “Then hear this – last night, after I had returned to the keep, a man claiming to be from the Four Guilds asked to see me in private. When my guards were sure that he had no weapons about him, I allowed him into the antechamber. Once we were face to face he handed me this…”

  From within his furs he produced a folded slip of coarse parchment which he gave to Atroc. The seer opened it and began to read. In a plain hand it said –

  'From Welgarak, chieftain of the Black Moon clan, and Gordag, chieftain of the Redclaw clan, to Yasgur, son of Hegroun, chieftain of the Firespear clan and Prince of Besh-Darok –

  Greetings, brother. Know that at the behest of the Shadowkings we have brought the Host of Clans south and are camped north of the hills that encircle your city. We send this message in the hope that you will meet with us, that we may speak on all that has come to pass. We would also put to you a proposal that would be of mutual benefit.

  Will you agree to such a meeting? If so, send your response with the one who brings this to you. Decide upon a location and a time, pass it to him and it shall safely reach us. But decide swiftly, brother, for time is short.'

  At the foot of the ragged-edged square of parchment were the words, 'Signed in the name of honour' followed by a crudely-monogrammed 'W' and a 'G'. Atroc reread it, and frowned – it seemed to be a veiled invitation for Yasgur to abandon Besh-Darok and the allies and rejoin the rest of the Mogaun host. Yet something in the tone of it did not seem right, somehow….

  He sighed, handed the note back then met Yasgur's stern gaze with a lazy smile. “Are you planning to betray your allies, my Prince?”

  “You have a knack for serving up unpalatable questions, old man.”

  “Nothing can sweeten this particular dish, lord.”

  Yasgur snorted and replaced the note within his cloak, then glanced back down at the sorcerous fire. Two barrows of sand had arrived and were being shovelled into the flames. The sand melted into small glassy pools, but the fire was dying.

  “One of our guard posts was attacked by a mob of drunken louts in the midst of the fire attacks,” Yasgur said. “I've now lost count of the number of warriors asking to leave the city militia, all of whom I've had to refuse. It is never spoken but many feel that I am betraying our people and our ancestors by taking the southerners' side in this.”

  Atroc nodded. “I fear that is so.”

  “I gave no response to the man who brought the letter,” Yasgur said. “He has taken a room at an inn near the Bridge of Hawks, says he'll wait until dawn tomorrow for my reply. But I find it hard to come to a decision.”

  “Caught between betrayals, my prince,” Atroc said. “Not the most comfortable place to be.”

  “In the end I must put the survival of the clan above all else,” Yasgur said bitterly. “I must decide where the safest place to stand is.”

  To that Atroc said nothing, since the answer seemed quite obvious.

  Below, the hungry flames crackled and hissed as they went out.

  Chapter Eighteen

  If you create a thing, its opposite is also created.

  —Mogaun saying

  The portal of the Wellgate opened a door into the antechamber of the throne room of the Red Tower in Casall. It was dim in there. Byrnak glanced around him at the otherwise empty Chart Chamber of the Drum Keep at Rauthaz, then stepped through. A thick gloom filled the antechamber, broken only by a single oil lamp in a wall niche. He glanced at the dusty, waist-high wolf statues sitting in the corners, then looked round as a second portal appeared and Kodel emerged. Even in the poor light, Byrnak could see that Kodel had chosen to dress opulently in a high-collared long doublet in rich green velvet pattern with gold thread embroidery, blood-red breeches, high boots, leather gauntlets covered in small articulate silver plates, and a jewelled duelling sword.

  Byrnak, though, had opted for variations on black: boots, leggings and plain leather jerkin, ebony-hilted broadsword in a battered sheath. A grey wolf-fur collar on his black cloak was the only digression.

  “Is it prepared?” Kodel said.

  Byrnak knew he was referring to the casket. Forged in the fiery workshops of Rauthaz and inscribed with runes by Byrnak's own flock of soul-bound Acolytes, it was a casket twin to Ystregul's but designed to restrain Thraelor, Shadowking of Casall, should that become necessary.

  “Yes, it's ready.”

  “And Grazaan?”

  “Should be joining us shortly.”

  Byrnak looked back at the wolf statues, and the huge tapestries whose details were scarcely visible in the low light. It was very quiet.

  “I've not been here for a time,” he murmured. “All this is different…”

  Kodel nodded and smiled oddly. “There have been quite a few changes. Shall we announce ourselves? Grazaan can follow in his own time.”

  He gestured for Byrnak to lead the way but even as he reached for the double doors they swung open and the two Shadowkings were met by the face of Thraelor –

  - on the body of a young woman dressed as a priestess and standing in front of heavy black and ochre curtains. With those familiar amber, expressive lips she was smiling widely and unceasingly as her gaze drifted from Kodel to Byrnak and back.

  “The great lord Thraelor is seeing no one today and has decreed that all visitors will lose a limb chosen at random by…”

  Kodel shook his head and put his hand on her waist, then drew her to him and silenced her with a kiss. “Nay, fair mistress of the doors – your master will see us, I promise you.” He cast a mischievous grin at Byrnak then pushed through the heavy drapes. The woman, still grinning, approached Byrnak and slipped her arms about his neck with her face uplifted.

  “I think not,” he said, disentangling himself from her arms, and stepped through after Kodel.

  The great throne room of the Red Tower was long and high, with inward curving walls decorated at regular intervals by yard-wide bands of stained glass which rose up into the shadowy heights. They were clearly meant to be lit from behind by a string of lamps but very few were and then only by one, glowing near floor level.

  Across the near-empty tiled floor, a scattered crowd of people milled or wandered around. There were mutterings, sobs and bleak laughter. All were dressed poorly or even raggedly and a few even stank of filth and ale, but each and every one bore the same face, Thraelor's face. At the far end, there were others clustered near the throne on which a huddled, indistinct figure sat. But it was the huge statue towering behind the throne which drew Byrnak's attention and prompted his first real sense of unease. Reaching up to three quarters of the room's height, it depicted Thraelor caparisoned in ornate full armour, with a slender crown on his head rather than a helm. One hand gripped the top of a concave, squid-emblazoned shield whose point rested on the plinth, while the other held a short spear couched under the arm. But the figure's shoulders were hunched while the head sat on a noticeably elongated neck and was
turned to stare directly at whoever might be standing before the throne, its features twisted with undisguised and delighted malice.

  By contrast, the occupant of the throne looked thin and emaciated. His long outer coat was rich and silky, shades of brown worked into the shapes of fin-serpents, octopedori and other sea creatures. But his face was gaunt and the wrists and hands were bony and shrunken.

  “Brothers, greetings. It is an honour to welcome you to my court, but your visit is something of a surprise. Why do you come unannounced?”

  “Concern has been voiced regarding your well-being, brother,” Kodel said smoothly. “We decided to see you for ourselves.”

  Thraelor smiled and shook his head. “Ah, Grazaan's concern, you mean. Why isn't he here, too?”

  “We are expecting him to join us shortly,” Byrnak said, stepping up to one side of the throne and leaning on the arm. “But for the moment, I'm curious about these people who all have your face..”

  “We could not help but notice that your physical state is not at its best,” Kodel said.

  Thraelor glanced from one to the other, clearly amused. “Why have I bestowed my face on the dregs of Casall, you ask? Well, before I answer, allow me to ask a question or two of my own. Byrnak, I understand you gave your own face to one of your underlings – why was that?”

  Byrnak frowned and turned aside in irritation. “It occurred to me that such a servant would be of great use in conveying my commands. My own features would lend them force, making it seem as if they came directly from my own mouth.”

  “In other words, it was a mysterious inner whim for which you have a well-thought out justification, much like that boy you remade as a mirrorchild – ”

  “That is not so!”

  Unruffled by Byrnak's anger, Thraelor smiled. “And you, brother Kodel – how are your nights? Troubled, I would guess.”

  “Every night makes its own pattern of dreams, brother,” Kodel said tightly.

  “Hmm, yes,” Thraelor said. “I would also guess that both of you have blank moments you dread to even consider, much less try and explain.”

  There was a moment of silence between them as Byrnak waited for Kodel to utter a denial. None came.

  “Very well,” said Byrnak. “It is clear that we are all suffering from the presence of our predecessor, yet it would appear that you, brother, suffer the most.”

  “Appearances can be deceptive,” Thraelor said. “You see, dear brothers, rather than undergo the nightmares sent by our holy predecessor, I have chosen to forego sleep altogether. The strain has been considerable, as you can see. As for giving all these people my face…” He smiled. “I like my features and I enjoy seeing them on others' bodies. Periodically I despatch several back onto the streets, that Casall may be beautified by my likeness, but sadly they do not live very long.”

  Kodel rounded on him. “But you cannot deny that you've been afflicted by blank and unaccountable periods of time.”

  “I do certainly deny that,” Thraelor said. “When those moments of weakness come over me, I remain aware while my fragment of our predecessor comes to the fore…”

  “You remain aware?” Kodel said, frowning.

  “His ramblings and rantings are incomprehensible to me and utterly pointless…”

  Byrnak turned away, feeling the insistent pressure of another's voice trying to penetrate his thoughts. Realising that it was coming from outwith his own mind, he lowered his defences sufficiently for the voice to become clear.

  Ah, great lord Byrnak…'tis your servant, Crevalcor.

  “Crevalcor,” he said inwardly. “What news have you?”

  Little that is good, my lord. The invasion fleet was attacked by fast ramships sent secretly overland from Sejeend – the Jefren dromonds are all sunk and the Islesmen have retreated to their island strongholds.

  Byrnak gritted his teeth. “How?”

  I'm sure that Bardow was behind it, great lord. Perhaps he put the plan's execution in the hands of a cabal not linked to the High Conclave in Besh-Darok. However, the undertaking was not a complete failure – we inflicted great destruction on Scallow itself and sank most of their fleet. Should we wish to attack the rebel hinterlands from the Sea of Drakkilis, there would be none able to stop us.

  “I see. And where are you now?”

  I am ashore on the southeast coast of Jefren, lord.

  “I must meet with you soon – our strategies at Besh-Darok are coming to fruition. I could have the Acolytes send a nighthunter from Trevada to carry you to Casall. The Great Aisle would then bring you to me.”

  I had thought to continue north to Bidolo, my lord, to consult with the high priests of the Jefren Theocracy. The heretics and bandits in the Druandag mountains have grown more numerous and dangerous of late and now pose a genuine threat to south Anghatan.

  Byrnak frowned. “A few days ago they were little more than a minor annoyance. Why is the Theocracy finding it so difficult to deal with these brigands?”

  They are well-organised, great lord, and have rebuffed several forays into the mountain ravines. There is also a new element of the situation to be considered.

  “And that is?”

  A woman called Keren Asherol, former Imperial cavalry officer and once a rider in your warband. She played a decisive role during the struggle for Scallow –

  “Keren,” he whispered.

  She took part in a sea battle in the Bay of Horns and was washed up on the Honjiran coast a few miles west of Choraya. I have since determined that she was found by two horsemen who immediately took her north through a little-known high pass in the Nagira mountains. They entered a narrow gully leading into the Druandags a few hours ago and should have reached their refuge by now. Her fate is a knot that will not yield, yet it is clearly one that is dangerous to us.

  “I understand and agree,” Byrnak said, his thoughts dwelling on Keren and the mirrorchild, Nerek. With his senses he stretched out to perceive the fullness of the Wellsource then focussed on certain currents within it. Satisfied, he withdrew and returned his attention to the sorcerer, Crevalcor.

  “Continue on your course,” he said. “I shall speak to you later and hear your assessment of the circumstances.”

  As you will it, great lord, so shall it be.

  As Crevalcor's presence faded he turned back to Kodel and the seated Thraelor.

  “Brothers,” he said with a broad smile. “There are many pressing matters at Keshada which demand my immediate and personal involvement, thus I shall take my leave.” With a thought and an easy gesture, he opened in the air beside him a slender, misty-edged door of swimming darkness. “This visit, though brief, has left me reassured and confident, brother Thraelor.”

  “I concur,” said Kodel. “I see no need to further impose on your hospitality and valuable time. I shall likewise return to my work at Rauthaz, and see what has detained our brother, Grazaan.” Quickly, he moved to join Byrnak.

  “Ah, Grazaan, Grazaan,” Thraelor said, shaking his head. “I'm worried about him, you know…”

  Through the black door Byrnak then Kodel stepped, emerging on the shadow-patterned floor of the throne room in Keshada.

  “He is mad, of course,” Kodel said.

  “Undoubtedly,” Byrnak said. “Uncomfortably so.”

  Laughing, Kodel opened a portal door to Rauthaz. “Till later, brother,” he said and passed out of sight. The door shrank to a black line then vanished. Byrnak watched his departure then sent forth a thought to summon one that he knew was in the citadel. A short while later, the audience room's tall doors parted and Azurech strode in.

  “Great lord,” he said, kneeling before Byrnak.

  “Developments, Azurech,” Byrnak said. “What have you to say?”

  His general looked up with his own face, devotion in every line. “The armies are ready, great lord, and the tinemasters assure me that the eaterbeast swarm is rapacious and blood-hungry. Also, the Mogaun host has completed its encampment north of the Girdle
hills, and awaits your orders.”

  “The nighthunters?”

  Azurech frowned. “The Acolytes seem scarcely capable of delivering any kind of direct answer. All I am certain of is that we will have very few available to us come the assault. However, the great warwagon has finished its trials without any difficulties.”

  Byrnak nodded, knowing that the problem of the Acolytes would have to be faced very soon. “And Nerek – you encountered her? Is she joined with the Wellsource once more?”

  “I saw the fire of it in her eyes, my lord,” Azurech said. “I could feel the heat of it rushing through her, and almost hear her body exulting in its glory.”

  “Yet still she remains opposed to us?”

  “Sadly this is so, lord. She has returned to Besh-Darok.”

  “As I thought she would. And now that she's back in the city, the stage is set for the next misfortune.” He glanced out of the tall, arched window, past the shielding barrier at the snow-smothered, abandoned lands. It was past mid-afternoon but under that pale grey light it could be any time from morning to early evening. “Did the attack of the warblood sacrifices have the desired effect?”

  “Dread and hysteria reigned, my lord,” Azurech said with a smile. “Some of Yasgur's warriors were even attacked by a drunken mob.”

  “Good. Nerek's presence in Besh-Darok will now loom large to those of power in the city, thus no-one will notice if we send a Source-bound messenger bird to Kodel's spy.” Byrnak grinned widely. “It is time for the boy-emperor Tauric to face his destiny in Khatris. When word of his disappearance becomes known among the city's rabble, panic will spread like wildfire. Go and prepare my officers for the soul-binding.”

  “As you command, great lord.”

  * * *

  It was a hard task, this secret departure, and it was hard to keep himself convinced that he was doing the right thing. Tauric knew that Bardow would be both furious and beside himself with worry when he discovered what had happened, yet hoped that the letter he had left in his chambers might put minds at rest. He knew that this task, this quest was vital to all their survival and if they could make their way to the temple at Nimas undetected he would at last call on the spirit of the Skyhorse.