They came to the front of the gutted Fathertree temple where Tauric dismounted along with his Companions. Last to climb down, the Armourer limped with his cane up to the wide entrance, a doorless gap in the knee-high, broken brickwork which was all that remained of the temple's once great frontage.
“This is where you enter, majesty,” the Armourer said, peering out from beneath his cowl. “And we will follow your lead.”
Tauric looked at the faces of his Companions and saw shining hope and the light of loyalty in every one. It humbled him and without hesitation he walked over to the entrance and stepped across the threshold.
From an ice-glazed notch up on the rocky outcrop, Ghazrek was able to look down into the ruined temple and out at the town. After a gruelling ride south to the gully near Crownhawks Wood then west by a little-known pass through the Rukangs, he had reached the outskirts of Nimas an hour or more ahead of the boy-emperor's party. Leaving his exhausted horse tied up in a tumbledown stable, he had hurried to the temple and clambered up to find this suitably well-concealed spot.
And later when Tauric and his people came into view and rode steadily through the ruins, Ghazrek had watched them in utter silence, his breathing controlled, his movements kept slow and restricted. Such stealthy caution was due to the masked soldier who was watching the new arrivals from a similar notch just yards away, unaware of the Mogaun officer's presence.
Ghazrek had watched them arrive on foot from the south half an hour ago and scatter throughout the town, concealing themselves in the ravaged buildings. Studying their efficient, coordinated movements he knew that these were soldiers from one of the Shadowkings' citadels and wondered who they were, where they had come from and whether they were similar at all to the dog- and wolf-men the Acolytes used as guards. Then three of them stole round to the rear of the temple outcrop, one of whom climbed up its side to hide himself near Ghazrek, much to his disbelief.
Wedged in the narrow, uncomfortable gap with ice water dripping on him, Ghazrek shivered and in his mind went over Prince Yasgur's orders again.
“The boy is on his way to the town of Nimas with some of his followers and a servant of the Shadowkings. They're going to the wrecked temple to carry out some ritual that the boy thinks will give him powers….but all he's going to get is captured or even killed. You have to get there first, grab the boy and bring him back. If that proves impossible, do what you can to protect him even if that means revealing yourself to whoever they send to take him. Above all, keep him alive.”
If there had been room, Ghazrek would have shrugged. Instead he grinned and watched the six newcomers leave tracks in the snow as they entered the temple.
When he climbed the few, snow-choked steps up onto the chalern dais, Tauric could see that the sanctoral's position at the very back of the temple had sheltered it from the worst of the weather. As he companions ventured down the stairs into the open chamber to start clearing out debris, Tauric turned to the Armourer.
“Will you come down with me, ser priest?”
“Nay, my lord,” he said. “Such a moment should be yours alone.”
Tauric smiled and took out his sheaf of notes. “Then I shall recite some of these old incantations to show my devotion to the Skyhorse.”
For a moment the priest's face was unreadable then he smiled thinly. “An appropriate and worthy decision, majesty.”
Exhilarated, Tauric laughed and descended the steep steps into the dank, dim sanctoral. His Companions had thrown out broken, rotten timbers and rubble light enough to be hefted, then pushed aside some larger pieces of masonry. Even in the poor morning light he could make out a few hints and details of the rich paintings that had once adorned these walls. Against the rear wall of the sanctoral, part of the temple's rear wall, were two square plinths set a yard apart, both having once supported a chest-high semicircular altar. Between them, rising no higher than Tauric's chest, was the hacked, moss-patched and blackened stump of a tree. Several fires had been set against or near it down the years, but as he looked closer Tauric could see bumps and irregularities that he recognised as chopped-off sproutings.
This tree never died, he thought. Truly, the roots go deep.
“We will wait and watch from above, majesty,” said Aygil, taking up his banner which he had leaned against a wall.
Before Tauric could object, the Companions bowed then filed up out of the sanctoral. When they were back up on the chalern dais, spaced around the sunken chamber, Tauric approached the tree remnant, went down on one knee in the black, muddy grime and in a low, steady voice began to read from his notes.
At once a strange languour settled through his mind and a heavyness pulled at his eyelids, but he strove to keep his eyes focussed on the parchments he held. When he finished the first his sense felt befuddled, his vision blurred, and his balance uncertain as if the floor were about to tip him forward. But he turned over his parchment, determined to press on and especially now that the chamber was noticeably brighter than before. Then the Armourer's voice came from off to one side, just as Tauric was about begin another invocation.
“You can stop now, Tauric. Come up from there…”
There was an intake of breath from one of the Companions.
“But ser priest – look!”
Part of Tauric wanted to look round as the Armourer's limping footsteps hastened over, but all his thoughts were caught in an invisible web, somehow running between the words on the parchment, the words in his mouth and the treestump from which a pearly radiance was emerging in patches between the lichen and the charred bark. As he resumed, an angry voice spoke out:
“What are you doing? Stop it this instant!…”
“But is this not what we came here for, ser priest - ”
“If you will not stop him, stand aside for I will!”
“Have you taken leave of your senses, priest?”
Through the web of words and unknown meanings, Tauric heard the fearful determination in Aygil's voice then the hiss of swords being drawn.
“Step back!”
“Indeed I shall, foolish youth!” There was the sound of Armourer's footsteps and the tap of his stick receding, then his voice shouting; “Come forth now – take them!”
There were gasps of disbelief from the Companions, then Tauric heard Aygil say, “Majesty, we are betrayed. What must we do?”
The awful truth of it all, the Armourer's perfidy and his own willing part, sank in, yet it seemed to lack importance next to the ritual which had him completely in its grip. But out of the swirl of words and syllables and the heaviness of his limbs, he found the will to say to Aygil, “Stand fast, Companion!”
Almost at once there was the thud of someone landing on their feet from some height, then the clash of weapons. Shouts, the scuffling of feet, a grunt of pain, all the sound of a brief but desperate struggle. Tauric's panic was only a single black thread in the great weave of mystery and power that surrounded him. He could hear it all but was powerless to move. Then the Armourer spoke out.
“They are only boys – kill them or capture them, and leave the leader to me.”
“Here they come,” Aygil said. “Herik – can you stand?”
There was a gasp and a dry laugh. “Aye, for a while, Aygil. For a while…”
“My brothers and my emperor,” Aygil then said. “It has been an honour beyond telling to have served you. May the Mother light your way…”
Others repeated the blessing and Tauric knew that he could he would have wept. Oh, poor poor fools – it is my folly that's led you to your deaths.
“Mark your man!” was the last thing he heard Aygil cry before the cacophony of battle erupted above and around him. Tauric's full awareness was fixed on the harsh, argent glow that was pouring up from the tree stump like a confined column of feathery white flames. Events around him appeared to slow as the manifestation of power, the Skyhorse's power, drew him closer. It seem to want to open up and pull him through but something was missing from the rit
ual…
There was movement to his left, a figure dropping down into the sanctoral. Still he felt transfixed but at the edge of his vision he saw a cloaked, hooded form that he knew. A glittering hand came up and a wave of raw emerald power lashed out. When it washed harmlessly over Tauric, the Armourer reached into his cloak and brought out a curved dagger.
“Iron never fails,” he said, then stepped in close and laid the blade's edge against Tauric's undefended throat.
In the next instant the Armourer jerked forward as a sword tip sprang out from the middle of his chest. The dagger fell from his hand. As the killing sword withdrew he coughed blood and fell to his knees before the shining, rushing pillar of power. Staring at the blood on the man's face, chest and hands, a realisation struck Tauric with the force of revelation. Then a hand grasped his shoulder.
“Come with me,” said a burly, bearded Mogaun, his face drawn with fear of the radiant force. “If you take up a blade, we might be able to fight our way out.”
“The blood of the Skyborn is the key,” Tauric said as his metal hand reached out and pushed the dying Armourer up against the the bright, flaring pillar.
Dazzling light burst forth as if a door had been thrown open. Wind and forces dragged at Tauric, and he surrendered himself to them. As he flew forward into the raging brightness he glanced back to catch a final glimpse of his Companions. He saw the banner streaked with blood and still being held by Aygil, the last still standing and fighting, surrounded by the masked soldiers of the Shadowkings.
But closer than them all were the terrified features of the Mogaun warrior who slew the Armourer, his mouth gaping in a soundless cry as he rushed after Tauric.
Yasgur's lieutenant….Ghazrek, that's his name, were Tauric's thoughts as the shape of a massive horse emerged from the engulfing light and reared over them both.
* * *
Earlier that day, a mile or more out to sea from Besh-Darok, a two-masted lugger lay at anchor with no lights but a hooded lamp, its aperture pointing north. The vessel had a long sternhouse with two cargo chambers, jack ladder hatches leading down to crew quarters, and a small upper deckhouse for the captain's cabin and some extra storage.
The wide doors of the forward-facing chamber had been wedged open so that Yasgur could look north into the pre-dawn darkness while warming himself beside a glowing, floor-bolted brazier. Sitting on a three-legged stool with his greatcloak hung open and trailing on the deck, he alternated between looking out the doors and staring into the hot yellow embers. There was an interesting mixture of odours in the air, cut wood overlaying a briny fish smell. Must have been the ship's last cargoes, he thought….
The creak of ropes and scrape of feet on wooden slats announced Atroc's ascent from below as he climbed up out of a hatch in the corner. He heard the old man puffing and cursing from the effort and smiled to himself.
“Your wine, my prince.”
Yasgur turned to accept a hot wooden beaker half full of steaming, mulled wine. As Atroc slumped gratefully down on a box stool on the other side of the brazier, Yasgur blew across the beaker, sipped and thought.
It had been more than a day since Tauric's disappearance, much of which he had contrived to spend apart from Bardow and the lords of the High Conclave. A bitter knot of guilt was gnawing him over his decision to abandon the allies cause, and he decided that suffering it alone was more bearable. When they found out, it would be seen as a deadly betrayal, except that he intended to keep his and the remnants of the Mogaun host out of the coming conflict and play no part in the destruction of Besh-Darok. His mouth would feel full of stones and his mouth might taste of ash but his clan and his people would survive. In the end, that was where his loyalty lay.
Of course, there was no telling if there would be any conditions to such a mass defection but he was sure he could renegotiate them from strength.
Raising his head to look out the doors he realised that Atroc was watching him thoughtfully. The old seer glanced away and Yasgur was about to ask why when a shout came from the deckhouse above.
“Light ahead and closing!”
“At last,” muttered Atroc who got to his feet and went over to lean against the door post and gaze out.
“Something on your mind, old man?” Yasgur said. “Any final doubts?”
“Would it anger you to hear me say yes, lord?”
“No, but I would wish to hear them.”
Atroc half-turned and gave Yasgur a sidelong glance. “It would be…difficult to explain. The Door of Dreams never opens wide enough.”
Troubled by this, Yasgur picked up a wood-handled poker from the floor and stabbed at the embers in the brazier. Bright orange flared in the coals, tiny sparks swirled upwards and hot ash fell hissing into the water scuttle below.
“Did you see the future?” he said.
A sigh. “I glimpse only the dreams that the Void dreams, my lord master. Perhaps we too are but a dream of the Void, striving to know why the Void is dreaming us in this particular fashion…” The old Mogaun laughed suddenly. “But know only this, my prince – I am your oath-made seer, my loyalty is to you while I trust in the Void.”
Yasgur looked up in surprise. “You trust in the Void?”
“Aye, lord, just as I trust that one day you will take one of the clan's daughters as wife to give you an heir!”
They both laughed at this, and Yasgur shook his head. “Find me one who doesn't have her mother looking out of her eyes,” he said. “Then I'll serve the clan, as best as I am able…”
Out of the grey darkness of morning came a small ship with a single square sail, riding easily the choppy seas. It had rudimentary decking, a slope-peaked canopy at the stern and a hull bearing the pale-wood signs of recently repaired holes. As Yasgur stepped out for a better view, the ship was slipping alongside their lugger, its crew frantically hauling in sail while lines were thrown across to tether the vessels together. Yasgur's ship was one of a handful he had retained for use by the city militia as well as by himself, and its wholly Mogaun crew were sworn and loyal to him.
The other crew was also Mogaun, going by the calls flying to and fro, and there seemed to be overly many of them for the size of their ship. A handful more lamps were being lit on either vessel and Yasgur frowned to see quite a few crew members armed with clubs and spears. He beckoned over his own captain, a grey-maned, black-toothed Mogaun called Uskog, and outline the situation.
“You want I should break out the bows, lord?” said Uskog with a hopefully malicious look in his eye.
“Not yet,” Yasgur said. “Arm some of your deckers with hatchets and post them by the mooring lines. Any trouble – cut them.”
Uskog nodded and turned to give orders while overseeing the lowering of the gantry to the other ship, which sat a little lower in the water. With both vessels in continual motion, pitching and rolling, it took some effort to hold it steady for lashing down but at last it was made fast at both ends. A tall figure emerged from the other ship's covered stern, a bare-headed man robed in wolfskins that Yasgur recognised immediately as Welgarak. As the chieftain of the Black Moon clan strode over to the gantry, four of the armed sailors came forward as if to follow but Welgarak halted them with a gesture. Words were exchanged then he turned and started up the gantry, making use of the crude side rail. Before long he set foot on the lugger's deck and faced Yasgur with a sharp, flint-eyed nod.
“Greetings, son of Hegroun,” he said. “Your blood is hot and your bones are iron.” He glanced about him at the ship and its crew, and seemed to relax a little.
“Iron bones and hot blood,” Yasgur said, smiling slightly at the old tribal welcome. “Is Gordag with you?”
“Yah, he is,” Welgarak said impatiently. “He was hard to rouse from his sleep…ah, here's the laggard now.”
A short, stocky figure rushed out of the covered stern and tramped up the gantry. Gordag was thinner than Yasgur remembered but he still wore a horned helm over long pale hair tied back in a long tail.
He was also garbed in black, ring-mailed leather and a red-patterned kirtle, and over it all a rough-woven woollen cape marked with the red hook sigil. He also held the crumbling remains of an oatcake which he hastily devoured before coming aboard.
“Cousin,” he said to Yasgur, appearing tense as he turned to Welgarak. “Have you…”
“Not yet,” Welgarak snapped.
Yasgur watched the exchange in bemusement. This was not how he imagined this encounter would begin.
“Cousins,” he said. “Shall we move into the warmth of this deck shelter?”
Both chieftains agreed and followed him into the chamber where the brazier had been refreshed and a couple of lamps lit and hung from ceiling beams. More box stools had been produced and as Atroc closed the chamber doors, the three chieftains sat around the brazier. An uneasy silence took hold and, stretching into minutes until Yasgur became convinced that they were waiting for him to give the first ground. He gritted his teeth, took a deep breath and began.
“Events have taken an ill turn for us here,” he said. “The boy-emperor, Tauric, and a few others absconded from the city a day ago – ”
“We know,” said Welgarak. “Some of our scouts saw them riding west this time yesterday.”
Yasgur leaned a little closer. “So you have him?”
Gordag snorted, and shook his head. “There were orders to let them pass. Some of those fortress soldiers were tracking them.”
“The ones with masks?” Yasgur said. “Why do they wear such things?”
Welgarak stared sombrely at him. “Have you ever seen one of them up close, Yasgur?”
“No, I have not.”
“They wear two masks, not one,” the chieftain went on. “Beneath that elborate black leather one is another of black cloth, close-fitting and tied in several places, which they never take off.”
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