Shadowgod

by Michael Cobley

  Then her gaze picked something out of the distance, something larger than the small shards of fallen masonry. As they drew nearer it began to resemble a prone, huddled form while further down other similar shapes were coming into view. When they gathered around it Keren could see that it was an ancient, desiccated corpse, its clothing gone to frail tatters, its skin reduced to stretched membrane over brown, pitted bones. A layer of fine, grey dust covered the sad remains, and clung to the few strands of spider web that draped it.

  “I wonder how he died,” Keren muttered, crouching nearby.

  “There’s no visible evidence,” said Rakrotherangisal, dipping his great head for a closer look. “No cuts or holes –”

  “Someone comes,” Orgraaleshenoth said in a low, warning voice.

  Standing straight with her companion, Keren instinctively looked down the stairs and felt the first chill touches of fear. A tall narrow shape had emerged from the misty depths and was ascending towards them. Its outlines were vague, its substance opaque and lacking detail but on it came, steadily, silently. Suddenly, Keren saw that it was a figure, pale as milk-clouded water, walking up the stairs yet its outlines shifted oddly… then she realised that it was two or more figures moving in single file.

  Wordlessly, the Daemonkind positioned themselves on either side of her, staves aglow and at the ready as the sorcerous guardians drew closer and spread out across the steps. At last they were near enough for Keren to discern details and she gasped, seeing that she and the Daemonkind were facing themselves!

  “Go back…” came their hideous, scraping whispers. “Flee this place…death waits here for thee…”

  Then the spectral images swept up the stairs and were upon them. There was no solidity to them but Keren could feel a cold caress across her hands and arms as she backed away. The one that was her counterpart had only a rudimentary likeness, with crude features and no distinction between skin and garments. But the eyes were white pits and the mouth moved incessantly as it glided around her before swooping in again. When it tugged at her hair and clothing a choking fear made her wrench out her sword and slash wildly at the harrying spectre. As her blade struck home, it seemed to open a blazing, amber gash in the opaque creature which uttered a thin shriek…

  In the next moment, there were only three patches of smoking vapour dissolving into fading tendrils. Breathing heavily, Keren looked at the Daemonkind.

  “They were a warning, Keren Asherol,” said Orgraaleshenoth as he planted his staff firmly on the step before him. “The guardian spells only sent them forth because our presence was noticed. Therefore…”

  He raised his staff and made a circular pass with it between the three of them. For a moment Keren saw nothing different, then noticed a faint nimbus around her two companions.

  “I have laid a glamour upon each of us,” he went on,” one that will conceal us from strange eyes and some but not all sorcerous divination. The guardian spells will know that someone is passing through, but not who or where. Thus we must be utterly quiet. From here on we are in deadly peril.”

  The descent continued, and the dusty, shrivelled cadavers grew more numerous. After a time they found themselves treading among a proliferation of scattered bones as if this had been the site of a terrible slaughter. The dried-up husks of bodies, most lacking head and limbs, lay everywhere, even upon the platforms that protruded at the foot of the great, dark alcoves. Keren recalled Rakrotherangisal's account of the army that had marched down into the depths and knew that these had to be their remains.

  Then from an alcove above her came a sound which chilled her to the bone, a long, rasping breath that made her quail and glance fearfully over her shoulder. As she did so, several misty, shapeless forms came gliding out of the nearby alcoves. Others issued forth on the other side of the shaft while still more drifted slowly and silently down from the sloped ceiling.

  A cry of terror bubbled at the back of her throat. Striving to keep from uttering even a whimper, she found herself halting and hunkering down into a crouch to avoid the pale guardians as they swooped to and fro across the bone-littered steps. But Orgraaleshenoth was gesturing for her to continue so, trembling, she forced herself upright and resumed her careful downward path.

  They encountered another two clusters of victim's bones, neither as numerous as the first. But their progress through those areas prompted further eruptions of formless, misty guardians and some were beginning to resemble the Daemonkind, having a vaguely similar outline and protrusions that were almost wing-like. But they were still blind to the three intruders who continued their descent while pale shapes danced and whirled in the air above.

  They were passing through the third scattering of dusty cadavers when Keren realised that she could at last make out the foot of the long stairway. Somewhere down there was the Staff of the Void, and assuming they were able to locate it and seize it without difficulty, there was still the question of returning to the surface. Perhaps the Staff could be used as a weapon in these circumstances, she thought, hope rising in her.

  But hope was dashed when a faint crunch came from across the steps, followed by the sharp rattle of bones. Rakrotherangisal was rising from where one of the ancient steps had crumbled under his weight, sending his foot slipping down to kick one of the dessicated corpses. It had burst apart in a cloud of dust and clattering bones towards which the pale guardians were now swooping. Petrified with fear, Keren could only watch as some began surrounding Rakrotherangisal, nudging him or trying to envelop him even though he was still veiled in the concealing glamour. Then he raised his staff, its crystal aglow, and struck out at them.

  A high-pitched moan of alert anticipation went through the scores of guardians as they gathered around the young Daemonkind. Then Orgraaleshenoth turned to Keren and she heard in her thoughts just the one word:

  Run.

  In the next moment he had cast off his own cloaking glamour. All around him the misty guardians were taking on Daemonkind forms, and Keren saw him raise his blazing staff on high before she turned and fled down the steps. Moments later, a great flash of light from behind sent her own shadow flickering ahead of her but then it was gone as a mass of voices roared with pain and anger. The terrible cacophony reverberated up and down the shaft but Keren still hurried downwards, careful of her footing, determined not to pause or look back.

  The cold air chilled her chest, and her legs and feet were aching and trembling when she reached the bottom. There were still sounds of fighting far above her, diminished by distance, but before her now was a huge, gloomy hall of pillars whose floor was the sole source of light, a meagre grey radiance like corroded silver. Not knowing what perils lurked here, she stole through the vast hall, flitting from column to column beneath impenetrable shadows.

  The Staff of the Void sat upon a waist-high pillar of light atop a wide dais that lay at the focus of the great chamber. Curved, shallow steps led up to it and as she reached the uppermost of them, the sound of beating wings made her whirl, sword at the ready. Then she relaxed a little on seeing that it was Orgraaleshenoth who was carrying the bloody form of Rakrotherangisal in his arms.

  The Daemonkind staggered when he landed near Keren, and fell to his knees as he made to place his companion on the steps. Keren rushed over and immediately saw the ghastly nature of Rakratherangisal's wounds, gashes welling with black blood, gouges exposing bones and organs.

  "My death is upon me, Prince Orgraaleshenoth," the younger Daemonkind said. "Have we triumphed or failed?"

  "You have done more for the Israganthir this day, brother," Orgraaleshenoth said, "than centuries of service to the Grey Lord." He turned to Keren. "Get me the Staff - quickly!"

  She jumped to her feet, dashed up to the white pillar and lifted the Staff of the Void. Warm to the touch, it looked to be made of translucent marble shot through with blue veins, and was heeled with silver and gold bands while its head was a simple orb of some dull black stone. Swiftly she returned to Orgraaleshenoth with
the Staff held out… but it was too late.

  Orgraaleshenoth's great hulking form was still as he bowed his head. Keren then began to notice that he too was badly wounded but could say nothing.

  "Enemies draw near," the Daemonkind said. "We cannot stay here.”

  Even as he spoke, she heard sounds of battle coming from the far end of the hall.

  "Is it the guardians?" she said. "But who are they fighting…"

  Then she knew.

  "The Theocracy," she said, suddenly filled with grief and despair. "How can we get out? - we're trapped…"

  The Daemonkind took the Staff of the Void from her unresisting hands.

  "There is one place we can escape to," he said. "But I am weak from combat, so I hope that this talisman will be of use to me…"

  In his great taloned hands the Staff looked small and fragile, then a moment later soft glints of light seemed to swim through its marbled opacity. As Keren watched this transformation, she thought over what he had said and made a sudden, intuitive leap.

  "You mean to flee back to the Daemonkind domain," she said. "The Realm of Ruin."

  "That is so," Orgraaleshenoth said evenly. "I would advise you to accompany me, given the situation."

  Shouts and bellowing came from the far end as the fighting finally spilled out of the Processional and into the hall, scores of red-cloaked, gold-masked warriors and several screeching nighthunters, all skirmishing with pale images of themselves.

  "I would have to become Daemonkind," she said, mouth suddenly dry. "Wouldn't I?"

  "To survive there, yes. It would not be permanent, however," he said. "You would be Daemonlike, not Daemonkind."

  One of the nighthunters had destroyed its attackers and, with several figures clinging to its back was now flying across the hall, heading straight for the dais. Keren stared at the glowing motes swirling in the Staff of the Void, then tightly clenched her fists.

  "Do it," she said.

  A rushing brightness bloomed from the Staff and engulfed them both, like great hands of light lifting them up, hands that she felt beginning to change her.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  I have seen the Shadow raise cruel

  legions from the earth. I have seen stars die

  and standards burn in the withering night. And

  I have seen a black dream give birth to a ruined world…

  —Wujad’s Vision, stanza 19.

  At a point nearly two thirds of the way along the Great Aisle, a man stood waiting. He was tall and well-built and wore a long black robe, open down the front over rich, dark green clothing. The robe was sleeveless, showing off his muscular arms while his black bearded features and calm, impassive eyes looked around him.

  Here, the Great Aisle was a little narrower than it was further south. The high, wide-curving wall was the same, unchanging Wellsource-derived barrier, its shifting, grey-green-blueness casting a dull gleam, as if the restless depths of an ocean were surging beyond it rather than the earth and stone bones of the continent. It was cold in the tunnel, and getting colder as the man who had once been Nerek and Ystregul stood waiting.

  Tiny glowing points emerged from the gloom far to the north along the Great Aisle, the light of lamps that drew steadily nearer. Before long, a column of cantering riders came into view, a dozen mounts wide and stretching away back into the shadowy distance. Lantern bearers flanked the column while a cluster of heavily-robed men rode before it, some carrying silky, fluttering bannerets. Those in the lead saw the lone man up ahead, standing in the middle of the Aisle, arms at his sides as he calmly watched them approach.

  When it became apparent that the man had no intention of removing himself to the side, hands went up and the order to halt echoed all the way back along the Aisle. In a great din of thudding hooves, cries and rattling harnesses, the column came to a stop about a dozen paces short of the waiting man. One of the robed men came forth on a spirited horse, his narrow, elegant face contorted with fury.

  “Out of the way, wretch! You are delaying the march of the great and mighty Shadowking Thraelor…”

  The man who had once been Nerek and Ystregul, gazed past the robed rider to his companions and saw that they, too, had the same face. He smiled wryly at this, which enraged the robed rider still further.

  “Do you seek to mock us?” he bellowed. “In my master’s name, I swear I’ll have your head…”

  As he drew a sword from a saddle sheath, the other swung back at him with a hard, black look. In the next instant he was flying backwards off his horse, landing awkwardly on one shoulder. There was a commotion among his companions, all of whose free hands came alight with emerald flames of power. But before any retaliation could take place, their close grouping parted to allow another rider to come out. It was Thraelor, himself.

  “Hah, just one man, eh?” he said in a hoarse voice. “If you’re another of those assassins, know that I dealt with one of you before leaving Casall and my brother, Grazaan, is torturing another this day…” Thraelor, gaunt and skull-faced, peered at the silent man. “Hmm, you don’t look like one of them – have you anything to say for yourself, before we ride on over your carcass?”

  A look passed between them and Thraelor’s eyes widened.

  “What kind of power are you?” he said sharply. “One of those dog-mages, I’ll wager, with some kind of relic in your pocket.” He turned to his robed followers. “Destroy this upstart for me!”

  Green flame-wreathed hands came up, brightening, but when the lone man made a casual, sweeping gesture their powers went out like snuffed candles. Then life drained from their faces and they toppled out of their saddles to lie dead on the floor of the Great Aisle. Then the man made a wider, more violent sweep of his arm and a force like the gust of a hundred storms roared along the tunnel. Horses were thrown onto their sides, riders were snatched from their saddles and hurled back over the heads of the others while masks, saddlebags, flags and garments were blown still further back. For seventy yards or more north along the Great Aisle, all was a heaving mass of havoc, panicking screaming horses and riders desperately trying to bring them under control

  Through all of it Thraelor had remained untouched, sitting immobile on his horse. His face was slack and dull-eyed, but another lay over it like a translucent mask, spectral and crimson. As the man who had been Nerek and Ystregul approached, the masked Thaelor climbed down from his horse.

  “At last,” the crimson mask said. “This one has fought me every step of the way, and I would be rid of him for good.”

  “Then let us join,” said the other. “Greatness awaits.”

  Garments dissolved into ashy veils and features yielded and stretched as the two forms flowed together slowly. It took only moments for the coalescence to run its course and when it was over only one figure stood in the middle of the Great Aisle. He was noticeably taller than before, and was differently, more austerely garbed in a collarless, sleeveless robe of dull purple over plain black shirt and trews with open-toed sandals on his feet.

  Some of the riders in the leading ranks had seen the transformation, and a few of their sergeants came to kneel before him in their awe and fear.

  “My lord,” said one, swallowing hard behind his black leather mask. “Is our master.. dead?”

  “No, for he is with me and part of me now.”

  The sergeants glanced at one another for a second.

  “Then our loyalty is to you, great one,” the spokesman went on. “What name shall we know you by?”

  “In time I shall take back my true name, but for now you may call me Shadowlord, nothing more.”

  “What are your commands, o Shadowlord?”

  “We shall ride north to Rauthaz,” the Shadowlord said, “and pay my brother Grazaan a visit.”

  * * *

  “A noble spirit he was, once,” Alael said in the voice that made Gilly’s skin crawl. “But he let envy into his heart and became an enemy of life, a dark destroyer. Soon shall his long campaign of e
vil be brought to an end, when I take my vengeance…” There was a pause, and she drew a shuddering breath before speaking in her own voice. “Oh, leave me alone, I beg you…”

  As she wept quietly in the shadow of the draped storeroom, where they had taken temporary refuge, Gilly shook his head and tried to take stock of their situation.

  Despite having overheard Alael’s location in the meeting hall, it had taken him some time to first locate the room then find his way in. Ever since parting company with Ikarno Mazaret, he had noticed a growing confusion taking hold throughout the citadel of Keshada, shouts, troops running hither and yon. Soldiers hurrying past his hiding places muttered rumours of a clash between the pale lords, running battles on the stairs and a distant army approaching from Besh-Darok. Indeed, he had to take a different route to avoid a bloody skirmish on the fourth floor.

  Alael was held in a large chamber on the fifth floor, its doors watched by six guards. But Gilly had found a way in from the next room, through a cramped wooden screen high on the adjoining wall. Once inside, however, he had been aghast to find Alael lying full-length on the floor, her form cloaked in a tenuous golden nimbus, her eyes wide and sightless. Yet somehow he had managed to carry her up a stack of furniture to the high opening and through to the other room. There, the aura faded a little and she seemed to regain awareness sufficient to walk with Gilly’s help, so he led her onto the next chamber by a short connecting passage. They had just emerged in what seemed to be a dining room when the golden aura brightened about her and she began speaking in a voice which felt like several voices in perfect unison. Yet there was no attempt to communicate with him, rather the words seemed part of a strange monologue, like ceaseless broodings over past wrongs and anticipated retributions. The very sound of it made the hairs on his neck rise.

  Then the aura and the voice had faded and Alael, recognising Gilly, had wept to see him. And Gilly likewise felt the sting of tears and memory for, during his quest through the citadel, he had been unexpectedly waylaid by a wave of knowledge which had burst into the empty grooves of his mind, filling many gaps. He knew who Alael and Ikarano Mazaret and Suviel were, but when Alael mentioned the name Tauric it meant nothing to him.