Shadowgod

by Michael Cobley

  Yes, and yes. First we have to go over to Shondareth and ask him how to create an innerland.

  Tauric was startled. Are you sure?

  All will become clear very soon, and there will be no danger or risk. I just need you to trust me.

  He laughed quietly. Very well, he thought, then looked around and saw the witchhorse cropping berries back at the clearing. As he stood, Ghazrek glanced at him.

  “That's it, majesty,” he said. “Don't give up. Rub their noses in it if you have to…”

  Tauric smiled and nodded then strode across to Shondareth and asked the agreed question. The witchhorse gave him a piercing stare.

  “So, you concede the futility of your quest. Are you seeking to join this community of inner peace?”

  Tauric gave a shrug. “I cannot be sure until I know what it entails, and what it demands of me.”

  “The innerland is a quality of this sanctuary, provided by the Sacred Void,” Shondareth said. “It will give to you all that you demand. To claim your own domain simply make a new path through the forest you see around this place. The foliage can be tough here and there but once you force your way through you'll reach a place full of shadows and mist – whatever you can imagine will be created there for you.”

  With that, he turned and walked off into the trees along a nearby track and was soon lost to sight.

  Tauric hunted along the edge of the tangled, enclosing wood and found a stretch of unbroken undergrowth with some bushes beyond. The spirit of the Fathertree approved so he strode forth through the high grass and weeds, pushing past the bushes which proved to be well-armed with tiny thorns. After a substantial patch of this, which left him with a multitude of scratches, he emerged in an open area made dark by the encroaching cover of massive trees. In the shadows, mist drifted and forms were uncertain.

  “This must be the place,” he muttered. A shiver passed through him and at once the hazy dark swirled and a tall figure took shape, outline blurred but its features suddenly very clear. The face of Byrnak glared at him for a second before melting back into the spectral dimness.

  It would seem that we need to exercise some care and attention, and be quite specific about our creations…

  To his left the misty darkness suddenly rushed away and he was gazing across barren, sodden fields to the high walls of a city by the sea. Shanty towns clustered next to the walls or spread along the main roads in and out. As Tauric watched, gouts of smoke began to rise from the hovels crammed closest to the gates.

  This is the city of Choraya in Honjir where the refugees were evicted on Byrnak's orders. Ten thousand died in the fires and another 90,000 fled along the road east into Roharka. Starvation and disease claimed many more…

  Tauric stood watching in numb horror as scene after scene of wrecked civilisation was laid out around him, landscapes merging into one and other like a tapestry of destruction. Here was the burning city of Tobrosa, its vast outpouring of smoke spreading east to the Rukangs; close by was the Yularian capital of Rauthaz with Gunderlek's ragged banners fluttering from the keep as eaterbeasts hunted his men through the streets; there, the desolate, snow-deadened shell of Nimas, and further on a string of Anghatani villages going up in flames as their inhabitants were led away in chains.

  The ancient ruins of Alvergost, a broken, winter-struck citadel full of refugees fearing the kidnap gangs who hunt by night.

  Soldier and sailors fighting madly, desperately on the decks of great ships engulfed in smoke, while on the near shore a city is in flames.

  In a coastal town in Yularia, a mass beheading of priests and nobles…

  With tears running down his face, Tauric sat on a fallen tree and covered his eyes.

  I am sorry for showing you such terrible sights, said the spirit of the Fathertree. But this is the reality of what was and is still being done, and which we have to resist with all our might. For if the Shadowkings win, the Lord of Twilight will eventually return and all of this will be but a foretaste of the torment he will inflict upon all these lands. So… I am sorry, but it is necessary.

  “I think I understand,” Tauric said. “But if the witchhorses wouldn't listen when we went to them, why would they come here?”

  They do not need to come here, the Fathertree said. All their little refuges are joined together thus we shall guide this dark evocation through them all, like a vessel with a cargo of suffering to provoke their pity and their shame. Your companion put it quite succinctly as we were leaving the pool….

  Tauric frowned, trying to recall, then he smiled. “Rub their noses in it?…”

  Exactly.

  * * *

  The day of the second battle of Besh-Darok dawned grey, veiled in mist, the air made icily sharp by a savage night frost that showed no sign of loosening its grip. The city presented an impassive bulwark to any besieging force, high, sheer walls with well-designed battlements and towers, and wide ramparts. The walls were manned all along their considerable length and had innumerable standards and banners hanging from jutting poles or draped down the parapets. The impression was that of indomitable strength but Byrnak knew the truth: the city's garrison totalled little more than 13,000, taking into account the much-diminished forces still loyal to Yasgur, the new knight orders and the meagre reinforcements coming in by sea. By contrast, he had all but emptied Gorla and Keshada to bring with him over seventy-five thousand black-armoured troops, each one carrying the spirit of a fanatically-loyal Wellsource warrior stolen from the Vale of Unburdening by his own soul-bound Acolytes.

  And the most important truth of all was that delivered by one of Kodel's spies who had managed to escape Besh-Darok with the news that the mages did not after all possess the Staff of the Void and were conducting their own search for it. When the half-dead spy was brought before him after nightfall and had told all he knew, Byrnak laughed long and loud. But when Azurech then eagerly suggested that the attack on Besh-Darok begin immediately he dismissed the idea.

  “This may be the last such great battle to take place in these lands,” he had said. “Let it be fought in the cold light of day, that the full extent of our punishment be visible to all.”

  The Shadowking Byrnak now sat on a black stallion charger, resplendent in a long black war cloak over dark silver chainmail, armoured gauntlets and an obsidian helm sculpted with an encircling crown of incurving tines. Around him were the two hundred longswords of his bodyguard, a full score of former Acolytes now soul-bound to his will, a gang of stewards and attendants and a number of standard-bearers carrying tall, dark banners. From the crest of the ridge, which had been utterly stripped of verdure, he could stare across the dark, serried ranks of his warriors to survey the entirety of the white, snow-blanketed flatness that surrounded the city.

  He had drawn up his forces in a rough, semi-circle about half a mile distant from Besh-Darok. There were eight divisions of five thousand men each, being mainly swordsmen and spearmen augmented by companies of riders and bowmen; six wings of cavalry of two thousand men each; five echelons of bowmen, each numbering a thousand; and five rods of elite warriors, each eight hundred strong. The catapult and wall-scaling companies came to roughly a thousand, their smaller numbers belying their importance.

  In addition there was a recently-completed war machine whose slower progress from Gorla had kept it from even coming into view until a short time ago, while the Mogaun host's desultory southward pace meant it would not take part in the initial assault. Eaterbeasts he had aplenty, but he had the use of a mere handful of nighthunters, being all that the Acolytes of Trevada claimed they were able to rouse from an unforseen hibernation cycle. Byrnak had accept this with all the equanimity he could muster while vowing privately that the Acolytes would be brought to heel once the war was over.

  Across the spread-out formations no runners hastened, nor message birds flew – he had no need of them. Every commander and sub-commander was soul-bound to his perception and will, thus every part of the battlefield was within his
grasp: even as he sat ahorse, gazing down from this ridge, he was able to see through the eyes of a bow echelon commander waiting with his men on the slopes of a bushy hill south of the city, or a cavalry subcommander waiting in a gully to the north…

  And all the time he was aware of the watcher in the high tower of the palace behind those walls, the continual searching regard of the Archmage Bardow. He could also feel the presence of the Crystal Eye, guarding and warding, ever-vigilant and attuned to the Archmage, thus making of him a formidable opponent. But he was the only one – the rest of the city's mages were fools and weaklings of little importance.

  Then Byrnak smiled, realising that he had left Nerek out of the assessment. She was of the Wellsource, shaped by his own fury to be a weapon yet without the use of soul-binding. Thus, being a free agent, she had turned against him and committed herself to his enemies' cause. Whatever her skill with the Wellsource, she would learn that it obeyed his dictates, not hers.

  He breathed in the dry, ice-cold air and imagined that he was breathing in anticipation. It was almost time for the great drama to unfold but first there would be an instructive interlude. Half a mile north of his position was a long, low ridge with the fort in whose ruins Ystregul had revealed his treachery just a few months ago. Since then the fort had been partly rebuilt and regarrisoned by the enemy, and a flag now fluttered above it as smoke rose from a cooking fire. His spies had told him that there were less than two hundred within its patchwork walls so on either side he had marshalled a wing of cavalry and a rod of his elite warriors. None would escape.

  Focussing his thoughts along the soul-bound web, he began giving orders and directions. Horsemen readied spears and longaxes while the elite fighters bared longswords glittering with power. His vision drifted among a score of perspectives till he came to that of the commanders of the two bow echelons waiting just south of the fort itself. Pausing for a moment, he savoured the feeling of standing amid thousands of masked bowmen, all with arrows affixed, all waiting silently for the word to draw and aim. He felt the keenness of both commanders as he prepared them, heightened their tension as if they too were bows being drawn, bent back by his own hands and aimed high –

  As one, they both said, “Loose!”

  * * *

  Yasgur was hurrying along the rampart from the Gallaro Gate to the Shield Gate when one of his staff captains suddenly cried out – “They're attacking the old fort!”

  Yasgur whirled in time to see arrows rise in a vast, dark flock, reach the apex of their flight then fall towards the fort's incomplete walls. Nothing could be heard at this distance but imagination supplied him with the feathery, rushing sound, the sharp raps and clanks of impacts on armour, the gasps, grunts and cries of the wounded and the dying. Another cloud of arrows rose and fell, then a larger black missile flew up from beyond the ridge and smashed into the fort. By now all of the soldiers manning the walls were standing at the notches, staring out at the ruthless assault.

  There was a moment or two when nothing seemed to be happening, then Yasgur saw one of the large formations of foot troops moving towards the ridge. Way off to the right a mass of cavalry was climbing the shallower slopes of the ridge and as they and others from behind the ridge converged on the fort they began to resemble a swarm of black insects rather than an army of men.

  And, he realised, he had heard no horns or drums signalling the Shadowking army's movements or charges.

  “Not a sound,” he muttered.

  “They hear his comands in their minds, Lord Regent,” said a woman's voice nearby.

  It was Nerek, the woman who had once been the Shadowking Byrnak's lover, or so it was said. She wore a dark blue cloak over a plain corselet of banded leather, and had a long dagger and a curved sabre at her waist. Bare-headed, her face was impassive but her eyes seemed tired and sad. Yasgur also noticed a greenish tinge in their whites.

  “What do you mean?” he said.

  She faced him. “Byrnak has soul-bound all his senior officers to himself. He can see what they see, and they can hear his every order.”

  As the implications of this sank in, Yasgur had to strive against his own despair and anger. “So...the army is the man, and the man is the army.” He stared at her. “Then what are his weaknesses?”

  She frowned. “I don't think he has any – he is an accomplished strategist and tactician, yet…”

  “Yet?”

  Nerek shrugged. “He has a predator's instincts, and sometime lunges in too soon for the kill.”

  Yasgur took this in and wondered how he could ever turn this morsel to his advantage. Now that Byrnak had marshalled his forces around the city, there seemed no way for the Mogaun to come to their aid without laying themselves open to brutal attack. It would require a devastating and unexpected manoeuvre to throw Byrnak's assault onto the back foot. His racing thoughts halted suddenly when a cry went up along the battlements, and he looked round at the old fort.

  The flagpole was gone and as he watched, hundreds of black-garbed troops formed into long gangs hauling on ropes. The walls of the fort were then methodically and swiftly torn down until not one block rested upon another. The message for Besh-Darok was stark, and when Yasgur glanced either way along the silent wall all he saw were grim, fearful faces. For a long, aching moment no-one made a sound, as if the sight of the demolished fort had robbed every onlooker of the will to speak.

  Then he heard someone start to clap rhythmically and sing out in a hoarse but strong voice. The song was in the Mogaun tongue but it took Yasgur a few lines before he recognised it as an old nonsense rhyme called 'Father Whisker Knocked Down His Hut' which told of an elder's attempts to stop ants invading his hut. A ripple of surprised laughter passed along the ramparts and others took up the refrain, a simple slow cantering verse that ended with the singer quickly stamping one foot then the other before the next verse began. The old song spread through the Mogaun warriors, the native Khatrisians joined in and the volume and tone of it grew and changed. Soon, thousands of voices were shouting out the words with a kind of crazed defiance, and the stamping of feet was like thunder. Yasgur was not given to dramatic gestures but as the song reached its bellowing crescendo he seized one of the flags set in iron holders along the parapet and leaped up onto the battlement itself.

  Holding the flag aloft, he flung out his other hand to point at the far-off cluster of banners that signified Byrnak's presence. A mass roar greeted this and he had to wait for it to subside a little before shouting at the top of his voice – “I can see you, old Father Whisker!” His outstretched, pointing hand he turned into a beckoning gesture, which raised another gleeful roar. “Come to us – we are waiting!”

  He descended to more cheers and stamping just as Atroc came striding jauntily along the ramparts from the south. Yasgur saw a certain satisfaction in those wrinkled features and the almost inevitable suspicion kindled in his mind.

  “Did you have a hand in that, old man?” he said.

  “Ah, my prince – songs are the secret voice of the soul, and when my soul spoke I could not stay silent!”

  Yasgur grinned fiercely. “It was a song well sung, old friend,” he said, clapping him on the shoulder, then muttering closely, “and timely. The men were ready to break…”

  “My lord,” said Nerek. “I must take my leave – my mount is being reshod at the Ironhall barracks and I wish to be sure that it is done well.”

  “Be on your way, lady,” he said. “Fight well.”

  She sketched a bow and hurried away down the long stairs that were carved into the wall. Yasgur watched her leave then turned back to Atroc.

  “Any news from the harbour?” he said.

  “I've just come from there,” the seer said. “Two sails spotted on the horizon away to the south, but no sign yet if they are friend or foe.”

  Yasgur nodded, sombre once more. Most of the liberated towns and cities south of the Great Valley had promised to send troops for the defence of Besh-Darok, yet precious
few had actually arrived. There had been messages from Adnagaur speaking of three ships of volunteers but it would be another hour or two before the approaching vessels could be identified. In the meantime, he would have to muster and deploy his men as best he could. He had sealed the Gallaro Gate and the Shield Gate by fixing additional iron bars across the insides then piling tons of rocks behind them. Thus the enemy would have to either climb over the city walls or knock them down.

  He stared over the walls at the wide, still formations of Byrnak's army, the dense ranks startlingly black against the whiteness of the surrounding terrain. There were several smaller units spaced between the larger one, ladder carriers and grapple-rope throwers, he was certain. There were so many of them, more than the eye could encompass.

  And of the Mogaun there was no sign.

  Then the sound that Yasgur had been dreading came sharp and sudden through the cold air, horns blaring from the northern and southern sections of the wall. From his position between the main gates he had a better view of the northern flank and saw three massive arrays of black-armoured soldiers flowing across the ground towards the city. Then the horns were replaced by the regular booming of great war drums, which he had positioned on flat rooftops near the main wall.

  The orders had all been given and the rows of bowmen and axemen waited along the wall while the city's few catapults were being readied. Soon the terrible test of battle would begin.

  * * *

  Nerek had just reached the foot of the long stone stairway when she heard the blare of the horns. As the booming of the war-drums began reverberating across the city, she was running along a side street that led from the wall to the wide Shaska Road. From there it was a straight dash south to the crossroads and east along Captains' Way. The Ironhall Barracks was a high-walled compound whose broad entrance was flanked by two stone statues of armoured knights, each showing signs of recent restoration. As she approached, one of the duty officers recognised her from the previous day and let her in.