Shadowgod

by Michael Cobley

  His face and words were grim, and Yasgur frowned. “But why? – is it a badge of some kind, each with their own markings?”

  “No, they all look the same, plain black cloth, all meant to hide their faces from themselves and from each other.”

  The seriousness of Welgarak's demeanour provoked a quiver of unease in Yasgur and he knew that the discussion was moving towards something of importance, but he was at a loss to see how it might involve his own concerns. He was about to pose another question when Gordag cut in, angry impatience in his face.

  “We can gabble over this in a while, curse it! There's just two things we have to know – ”

  “Storm take you, Gordag!” Welgarak cried. “We agreed that I'd do the talking.”

  “Huh – didn't realise you'd be so boring…” He looked at Welgarak. “We'll have to talk about the 'how' and 'why' of it anyway.”

  The other chieftain remained tight-lipped. “Say your piece,” he said.

  During this exchange Yasgur glanced past the arguing chieftains at Atroc who shrugged, clearly as puzzled as himself.

  Gordag cleared his throat. “Now, cousin Yasgur, we need to know if your mages have got hold of the third talisman.”

  “A third….” Yasgur frowned. “They recovered the Motherseed after the battle three months ago, and the Crystal Eye was spirited out of Trevada at the same time. I know nothing of another, but that does not mean that Bardow and his mages do not secretly have possession of something else.”

  Gordag's disappointment was clear to see. “Well, the Shadowking Byrnak seems to think that the third talisman is in their hands, or might be. He is hesitating, even though he has enough troops to take the city - ”

  “How many troops?” Yasgur said suddenly.

  “More than sixty thousand,” Gordag said, “and growing by the hour.”

  Night's blood, he thought. So many…

  “Where is he getting them all?” he said. “Forced conscription?”

  The two chieftains shared a look.

  “You might call it that,” Welgarak said.

  “So cousins, what was the second thing you wanted to know?” said Yasgur.

  Gordag fixed him with a dark, intense stare. “Will the rulers of Besh-Darok accept the Host of the Tribes of the Mogaun as allies?”

  Yasgur sat back on his stool in wordless amazement, and as the grave-faced chieftains regarded him he had to strive to keep from grinning at the black irony of the situation. While Yasgur tried to digest this unexpected plea, the chieftains began to outline the events which had driven them to this.

  The battle for Besh-Darok had pitched several of the great tribes against each other as well as the city's defenders. Many chieftains died and some of the smaller clans had been all but obliterated. In the aftermath, the ties of loyalty to the Shadowkings were forgotten as vengeance-driven raids degenerated into bloody slaughter. The Shadowkings had withdrawn to their strongholds to contemplate their strategy and the Acolytes were preoccupied with the emergence of the Jefren Theocracy, which absorbed several warlord domains to the south and east. By the time the Mogaun pattern of reprisal and counter-raid began to abate, the clans were then faced with entire towns and villages rebelling against their now-weakened rule.

  Welgarak, whose domain covered a large part of northern Yularia, was with his warriors in the foothills of the Gorodars when two Nighthunters flew down from the sky to alight in the middle of his camp. Four slender, white-eyed Acolyte priests were their passengers, their leader bearing a personal invitation from Byrnak for Welgarak to return with them to the great keep at Rauthaz so that difference could be settled and new bonds forged. It was clear that this was a commad couched in diplomatic terms but, reckoning that two Nighthunters could quite easily rout the three hundred warriors stationed at his camp, Welgarak decided to accept the invitation.

  The flight to Rauthaz was brief but uncomfortable ('Like riding a horse with eight shoulders,' said Welgarak), and on arrival atop the great keep he found that Gordag had received a similar summons ('Except I didn't waste time being polite,' Gordag said. 'Knew they'd kill half my family and drag me off anyway, and I said so. Then I went with them.') Deprived of their weapons, they were hurried down to a long, luxuriously adorned corridor where the Shadowking Byrnak awaited them.

  On reflection, neither could recall very much of the encounter, beyond Byrnak blaming all their difficulties on Ystregul, the Black Priest, now incarcerated in Trevada. Both were certain that some kind of glamour had been cast on them since they came away from the meeting with the unshakeable intention of gathering the surviving clans together in northern Khatris, in advance of a new campaign against the enemy upstarts.

  Also, both had promised to immediately despatch 500 riders to Rauthaz. For use, they were told, as advance scouts and patrols between Rauthaz and eastern Khatris.

  The warriors were duly sent, and the next few weeks became a ceaseless round of cajoling and persuasion as both chieftains went from domain to domain and sent messages to other chiefs and warlords further afield. A new gathering of the Host was proclaimed in the Forest of Gulmaegorn in northern Khatris and the Black Moon and Redclaw clans were first to arrive, soon to be followed by others. Then one evening, at the end of the first week, two Nighthunters arrived from Rauthaz bearing five masked swordsmen and a single Acolyte priest. The priest delivered a letter from Byrnak which expressed his deepest respect and gratitude, and requested a further 1000 warriors to aid 'the widening strategy of the war'. But there was uncertainty this time – the glamour cast by Byrnak had worn away and it was only after a long discussion among all the chiefs and warlords that it was agreed that 800 riders would be drawn from the tribes present to serve the Shadowking's strategy.

  They left the next morning, a long column waving to families as they rode northwest out of the forest, headed for a pass through the Gorodar mountains. Later that same day, some clan scouts reported seeing squads of black-masked horsemen patrolling the fringes of the forest. Welgarak and Gordag were troubled by this, uncertain of its meaning but resolved to seek answers the next day.

  That night, however, all certainty was shattered. Gordag and his inner family of wives and children were settling down to slumber in the chieftain's great tent when shouts and wails came from one of its chambers. Quickly alert, Gordag snatched up a dagger and dashed through the flapping opening to see his women and children crowded into the corners, holding out sticks and weave poles to fend one of the masked soldiers who staggered around the cushion-scattered chamber, mumbling alternately in the Mogaun tongue and another rough language. The man had used a curved sword to cut his way into the tent but had dropped it and was clearly weaponless as well as deranged.

  “Then he sees me, comes over and falls to his knees before me,” said Gordag. “My guards have come running in with spears and blades at the ready, but all this one does is slip off that leather mask then tore away the cloth one…” The burly chieftain breathed in deeply and sighed. “His head was hairless and there were scars on his scalp but I still recognised him.”

  All were silent as they listened to him and a sense of dread took hold of Yasgur's thoughts.

  “Who was it?” he asked.

  “My sister-son, Galzar,” Gordag said evenly. “I saw him off from our camp in Mantinor after the return from Rauthaz, one of the 500 sons of the tribe that I sent to their doom - ”

  “We were not ourselves,” Welgarak said to him. “There is little sense in taking all the blame for the evil that Byrnak planted in us, or in our warriors.”

  “So what had been done to your sister-son?” Yasgur said.

  “I do not know, but what was left of him was insane.” Gordag's face was a mixture of anger and horror. “A tormented spirit.” He looked up at Yasgur with burning eyes. “You see, there was another spirit in his head, that is what he said over and over and over. And when he saw that we understood, all he would say after that was 'Kill me, kill me!' My old seer, Nopa, was there and when
he heard this he only nodded.”

  There was an appalled silence between them for a moment or two, filled by the creaks and knocks of the ship and muffled crew conversations from below decks. And Yasgur was remembering how the hungry spirit of his father had possessed him for a time, and recalled the ghastly black nightmare of it.

  “So I took my dagger, one thrust to his heart and he was dead,” Gordag said, eyes gazing into the hot embers. Then he shook his head, as if trying to discard those dark memories. “I can tell no more.”

  He rose, walked heavily to the door and stepped outside. When the door closed behind him, Welgarak spoke.

  “He has not yet grieved – none of us have. We don't know if we should.” He looked at Yasgur. “Do you understand what we have told you, cousin? Can you see what it means to us? – you of all people should.”

  Yasgur nodded as the full horror revealed itself. “The Shadowkings are using those Mogaun warriors as hosts for the spirits of the dead,” he said, scarcely believing it as he said it.

  “But not just hosts, eh?” Atroc said to Welgarak. “Somehow they flense the victim's mind from his body, leaving it empty and ready for a new rider. But with Galzar there must have been mistakes made and enough of him was left to drive him to seek out his tribe…”

  “It must be a place of terror, where this is done,” Yasgur said.

  “It is said that there are vast caverns and tunnels beneath Rauthaz,” Welgarak said. “Nests where Byrnak breeds his armies.”

  “You said earlier that their forces now number some 60,000,” Yasgur said. “Where have they found such numbers?…”

  Then he paused as the obvious answer came to him, and Welgarak nodded grimly.

  “I have heard many rumours of vacant towns and villages across Anghatan and most of Yularia,” the chieftain said. “Entire slum districts in Casall and Rauthaz stand empty, and the beggars have vanished. A more recent rumour spoke of rebels and fugitives holding out in an old fortress in the Druandag mountains, but in the end nowhere will be safe. Their evil will drown these lands in endless twilight and life shall be a wheel of slavery and agony – we know this will be true.

  “So when we were ordered to ride south, we realised that we had little alternative – we cannot leave these doomed shores for there are not the ships to carry us through the savage winter storms back to Shalothgarn, thus here we must stand and fight.” He smiled bleakly. “We are caught between the pit and the fire, Yasgur Firespear. Byrnak continues to stay his hand but sooner or later he will open the gates and hurl forth his armies. We do not know what he has in store for us, but when it is done many of our warriors shall walk through Death's valley, whether we fight for him or against him. Better that we sell our lives for the price of honour, which is why we are here, offering to make an alliance with the rulers of Besh-Darok. What is your answer?”

  Sitting back, Yasgur noticed that Gordag had come back inside and was leaning against the wide doorframe, watching. Atroc, on the other hand, had produced several pieces of twine and was patiently knotting them together, smiling as he glanced up at Yasgur who smiled in understanding. He got up and stepped round the hot brazier to grasp first Welgarak's hand then Gordag's.

  “Cousins, be welcome. It will not be easy to convince the High Conclave but they will have to agree in the end. Now, how do you propose to move the Host of the Mogaun south to Besh-Darok without alerting the masks? Those creeping fortifications of theirs are less than a mile from the sea, north and south.”

  “It can be done,” Welgarak said. “With guile and timing. Now listen…”

  Chapter Twenty

  Speak to me,

  Of the remorseless ghosts of kings,

  The beat of dark and ancient wings,

  And the ceaseless war,

  At the heart of all things.

  —Gundal, The Siege Of Stones, ch 2, xxi

  A dense wall of white mist encircled them, two men and a large horse from whose forehead sprouted two small horns. Tauric and Ghazrek stared across the circle at the creature which stared silently back.

  “It looks like a witchhorse,” Tauric muttered to the Mogaun officer.

  “Thought they all died out….after the invasion.”

  “Or it could be a manifestation of the Skyhorse,” Tauric went on, “or a sign…”

  “I am not the portent of a departed god, unversed one,” the creature said, surprising them. “I am Shondareth of the Dremnaharik, whom you call witchhorses.”

  Tauric was disappointed but did not show it. “Have you been sent to greet us?”

  “Sent?” The word rang with umbrage. “No, graceless one. I am trapped in this threshold place, like you: trapped by the foolishness of an old woman. Now, I have made myself known to you thus you will respond in kind.”

  “Ah yes…” Tauric felt a growing irritation at the witchhorse's haughtiness so decided to employ a little himself. “Forgive me, good Shondareth – the method of our journeying had me quite discomposed for a moment. I am Tauric tor-Galantai, emperor of Besh-Darok and the lands of Khatris, bearer of the Crown Renewed and….and protector of the Free Nations.” He bowed very slightly. “It pleases me greatly to make your acquaintance.”

  The witchhorse said nothing but dipped his great head gravely then turned to Ghazrek. The Mogaun officer glanced wide-eyed at Tauric who nodded encouragingly.

  Ghazrek cleared his throat. “…I am Ghazrek, son of Naldok, two-spear hunter of the Firespear clan, banner captain to Yasgur, chieftain of the Firespears and Lord Regent of Besh-Darok.” He bowed low.

  The witchhorse gave another dip of the head then turned back to Tauric. “You mentioned the Skyhorse earlier, emperor of Besh-Darok – are you aware that he is long since gone from these realms?”

  “His worshipper may be no more,” Tauric replied. “But I believe that the powers of the Skyhorse are merely dormant and waiting for an awakening prayer.”

  The witchhorse Shondareth shook its head dolefully. “I fear that whoever told you this has cruelly mislead you. The distinct powers and presence of the Skyhorse faded away a millenium ago when he transformed himself.”

  “Transformed himself?” Tauric said in dismay. “Into what?”

  “Into the Fathertree.”

  Tauric felt his legs go weak and a sick, hollowness bloomed in his stomach – he could feel that the witchhorse's words were true. The Armourer's deceit had been thorough, he realised, a ruthless fabrication made to ensnare and delude him. He had been a naïve, gullible boy….a child, food for wolves….

  He suddenly felt weary and lowered himself to sit on the hard, gritty ground, aware of Ghazrek's regard but not caring.

  “I have known several emperors,” the witchhorse went on. “But unlike them, there is not the slightest glimmer of power about you. Could it be that you are not an emperor at all?”

  “Be assured, wise Shondareth,” said a hoarse voice. “Tauric is indeed what he claims to be.”

  The witchhorse moved to one side, revealing a night-black creature sitting on its haunches, watching them with golden eyes. Despite having no ears and no tail, it looked very much like a dog and, to Tauric, resembled exactly the dog he had caught sight of around the palace several times. He got to his feet.

  “Greetings,” he said warily. “Have I seen you before, in Besh-Darok?”

  “Only when I wanted you to, majesty. And greetings to you, son of Korregan, and to you, son of Naldok - ” Ghazrek, looking puzzled, gave a minimal bow, “ – and to you Shondareth, son of Vindosarr. Did your sire find refuge in the Void also?”

  “No – he died defending Kizar, seared by fire, torn by talons…” The witchhorse gave the dog-thing a long hard look. “I do not know you but there is a power in you that I feel I should - ”

  “Not power, ser witchhorse, but the dregs of it, the tattered rags of former glory,” the creature said sadly as it turned to Tauric. “I sympathise with your plight, more than you know.”

  Tauric sighed deeply and clos
ed his eyes. “I appreciate your kind words but…I need to find something to fight with!”

  He opened his eyes, looked down at his hands, one flesh, one metal. “There is no Skyhorse to call upon, nor ancient powers, so a sword would suffice…”

  “Or a tribe of witchhorses,” the dog-creature said.

  “They would never agree,” Shondareth said abruptly. “All the Dremnaharik suffered agonies in pointless battles 16 years ago and only we few survived, by the blessed will of the Void.”

  Ignoring the witchhorse, the dog-thing stood on all fours and walked over to Tauric. “It is by the will of the Void that we are all here,” it said to him. “But with witchhorses at your side in the coming battle you would at least stand a chance.”

  Tauric glanced at Shondareth. “This one is scarcely eager to fight a war.”

  “There will be much persuasion needed, and they will be hard to convince,” said the dog-creature.

  “But how could this be done?” Tauric said. “We are trapped here…”

  “It is possible to create a bridge from this threshold to elsewhere in the Void,” the dog said. “I have the knowledge by which such a bridge can be made, but I am not permitted use it. You or your companions would have to be the bridge makers.”

  “Not I,” said Ghazrek.

  Tauric felt a faint foreboding. “How would any one of us gain this knowledge that you have?”

  “You would have to carry my essence within your mind, thus providing all that you will need for building the bridge. I know much about you, Tauric, and I know how you felt when Alael used you to focus her talent, and then later when the Earthmother tried to use you for her pitiless ends.”

  He felt strangely calm while hearing this, despite those very memories parading themselves past his mind's eye. He knew what had to be done.

  “Will you try to enslave or deceive me, or make me do harm to myself or those I love?”

  “None of those dark deeds will part of my purpose,” the dog-thing said. “I shall give you advice, knowledge and the benefits of my own experience, and if you choose your own path then so be it.”