Shadowgod

by Michael Cobley

  Mazaret snatched a banner from his bearers, bellowed a battle cry which was taken up by the riders rallying to him. Then, with Yasgur at his side, and the witchhorses soaring overhead, he led the charge.

  They were hopelessly outnumbered. The enemy was a surging sea of blades and death that absorbed their every charge and probing attack. Acts of heroism were innumerable, some scarcely believable even to those who witnessed them, but deaths were final and unanswerable.

  Yarram, Lord Commander of the Knights of the Fathertree, died before his men, throat torn out by a war-wolf as he speared its rider. Welgarak, chieftain of the Black Moon clan, died from a cluster of arrows, surrounded by dead foes. Yasgur died trying to get through the cordon of black knights that surrounded the Lord of Twilight, crushed by mace blows. Bardow died in a circle of scythe blades and when Tauric tried to get to him on Shondareth, three Daemonkind swooped upon him and snatched him from the witchhorse's back.

  His bloody, lifeless body fell to the ground away from the battle but vanished soon after.

  Bleeding from numerous wounds, Mazaret gathered the remaining few hundred of his men on a low hill near the valley wall, thinking to make a final stand. The ranks of the enemy were reforming some distance away and Mazaret was checking his weapons and trying to ignore the pain in his side. Off to one side, Alael sat leaning against a standing stone, face buried in her hands. Then someone cried:

  "He's gone!"

  Dashing sweat from his brow he turned to gaze out at the fiendish throng, searching for that huge, horn-helmed figure. But the lookout was right - the Lord of Twilight was no longer on the field of battle. And as he surveyed the enemy's endless numbers and noticed their growing disarray and confusion, the ground suddenly trembled underfoot. Out in the valley, a chorus of moans and wails went up from the Army of Twilight. The sky darkened and a chill wind sprang up. The ground shook again, a brief sharp movement that was still no preparation for the violent quake that struck moments later.

  Men and horse were knocked over and in seconds the hillside was a scene of chaos, horses screaming and losing their footing, men shouting in fear or pain. Mazaret was trying to stand when he noticed that everyone around him was becoming pale and ghostlike. Out in the valley, the horde had become a sighing mass of spectral forms and the immense tower was fading from view. Another landscape filled one half of the sky, a place of white mountains and bleached ground, while an eerie, curved region of shattered masonry, like the ruins of some vast, cylindrical palace, loomed over the other half. The valley itself tilted and for a moment, it seemed that those two sky-borne tracts would descend and collide with the Realm of Dusk.

  But they drew back and receded into the darkness, just as the valley began to grow thin and ethereal, as its outlines blurred and others emerged. In the blackening mantle of the sky, stars began to appear as the last fleeting hints of the Realm of Dusk dissolved and Mazaret gave himself up to oblivion.

  * * *

  When he woke it was to the sharp caress of a cold morning breeze. Sitting up to a chorus of aches, he found himself on a damp hillside in the shelter of an overhanging tree. Across from him was another hill. Snow streaked the steep slopes of both and made pure white the mountain peak which reared beyond. From the bushes and trees he knew that he was somewhere in northern Khatris. He knew also that he was utterly alone.

  Hunger gripped him. With improvised sling and spear, he managed to hunt and kill for food as he started walking eastwards. Three days later he reached a small fishing village on the east coast and found that he was nearly two hundred miles north of Besh-Darok. The village elders told him of how several days ago the sky had been rent by portents, visions and scenes of terrible slaughter. When he asked if they had seen any other strangers since then, they dolefully shook their heads.

  With the little silver in his belt, Mazaret bought a small bow and a heavy woollen cloak then set off south along the coast road. Four days of walking left his boots cracked and wearing through at the sole, and he was trying to line the insides with thin pieces of bark when a group of hooded horsemen slowed and approached him. At once he snatched up his spear and backed away.

  "Hold there, old father, we mean no harm," said the leader who doffed his cowl. "We only wish to ask if you've seen any strangers or soldiers north of these parts…"

  But Mazaret was staring at him, almost trembling with relief and recognition.

  "Kance," he said hoarsely, aware of his seven days of stubble. "It's me, Mazaret…"

  Captain Kance, Mazaret's former Captain of the March, regarded him with a frown. Then the eyes widened and he scrambled down off his horse to bend his knee.

  "My lord, you're alive! Please, forgive me…"

  "Come now, lad," Mazaret said. "On your feet."

  Kance straightened, gazing at Mazaret in awe that became sorrowful. "My lord, do you know of the Emperor?”

  Mazaret sighed. "Keep no hope in your heart, Kance. I saw him die with my own eyes.”

  “Aye, my lord. His body was found near the Kings Gate Pass. It still lies in state at a shrine nearby – we could take you there if you wish.”

  Mazaret breathed in deeply, then exhaled long and wearily.

  “Yes, I would see him.”

  As they rode south and west, Mazaret learned much of what had transpired after that final cataclysmic battle. The Shadowkings citadels, Gorla and Keshada, had collapsed in on themselves as the ground beneath them caved in. The black, encircling walls also cracked apart and dropped into a lengthening chasm which, inevitably, reached the shore.

  At the same time, another huge fissure more than a hundred yards across opened in the ground by the Girdle Hills, extending west from the wall-swallowing chasm, passing through the Kings Gate and north all the way across Khatris towards Rauthaz in Yularia. Water surged in from the Gulf of Brykon, surrounding Besh-Darok and its environs with a great moat. The waters also rushed northwards and met torrents hurtling southwards, resulting in floods throughout central Khatris. There were also rumours that Trevada and the city of Casall were no more.

  Such news seemed scarcely credible, but when Kance insisted that he seen the aftermaths of these cataclysms with his own eyes Mazaret listened with sombre astonishment, grieving privately over this destruction of the world he had known.

  Two days later they reached the shrine. It was a pillared, ivy-wound building nestling in the lee of two great agathons, its outer and inner entrances well-guarded. Now shaven and attired in a fresh uniform, Mazaret followed Kance past gate and door to the inner chamber. On a flower-strewn bier Tauric's body lay, garbed in sky blue robes, the pale perfection of his features testament to some mortician's art, and the efficacy of whatever spell had been used to suspend the corruption of his flesh.

  “I salute you, my emperor,” he murmured. “May your spirit find peace.”

  As he bowed his head there were footsteps as someone entered behind him. Turning he saw it was Alael, dressed in a high-throated wine-dark gown over which a brown cloak was draped.

  “My lord,” she said, smiling sadly. “I am overjoyed to see you safely returned.”

  “Lady, I live, yet my heart is burdened with grief and unresolved worry….” He sighed. “Has there been any word of the mage, Suviel?”

  “Atroc claims that he saw her and Tauric enter the Wellsource together…”

  He frowned. “But I saw Tauric die in battle, in the Realm of Dusk...what of Byrnak? What does he say?”

  “He claims that he left the Wellsource fane after Keren Asherol's arrival and thus saw nothing further.” Alael grew grave. “Keren...did not survive. Her body was found lying in a brook quite near here yesterday.” Her eyes grew distant, brimming with tears. “She looked so peaceful…”

  “So there has been no sign of Suviel, alive or dead,” Mazaret said, unable to conceal his despair.

  “I do not know if it has meaning for you,” Alael said as she reached into one of her cloak's pockets. “But when Tauric's body was discovere
d, this was in his hand.”

  And she held out to him the ivory book leaf which he had given to Suviel at their last parting. But Alael was holding it with its back uppermost, and as he took it he saw that the rough surface bore an inscription which had not been there before. It read:

  'There is a price.'

  Mazaret looked at the ivory leaf, then at Alael, then the leaf again, unable to decide between hope and despair.

  Epilogue

  While nations snarl,

  Like dogs on a leash,

  This wounding knowledge,

  Burns in the night.

  —The Black Saga Of Culri Moal, vii, 8.

  Gilly Cordale was ennobled in the sight of the High Conclave and made Earl of Falador. After mourning the death of Keren and the others for some time, he settled into his new role with gusto and wed a Cabringan noble's daughter who, in due course, gave birth to twin boys. “Clearly, life has been too full of ease and comfort of late,” he was heard to remark to friends soon after.

  With Tauric deceased, the High Conclave were forced to offer the throne to Alael once more, which she accepted on condition that her title would be Queen of Besh-Darok and Khatris. This was agreed and after a tumultuous and joyful Low Coronation, and a dignified yet unifying High Coronation, Alael became the first woman to ascend the throne of Besh-Darok for over 200 years.

  At Queen Alael's insistence, a new office of Lord High Minister was ordained, a post to be decided upon by a council of electors. The first holder of the office was the former Lord Regent, Ikarno Mazaret (who would be re-elected every three years until his death at the age of 79).

  * * *

  After all the business of the election was over, after the congratulations, the hand-shaking, the songs and versifying, and after accepting the amulet of his new office from a smiling Queen Alael, he had to get some fresh air and be alone with his thoughts for a while. Thus Ikarno Mazaret went wandering in the flower gardens of the palace, with late afternoon sunshine warming the blooms and filling the air with their heady sweetness. He was strolling along a path between low, neatly-clipped bushes when he came upon a figure lying curled up amid a bed of melodyleaf and cup-o'-sky. At first he felt mildly annoyed, thinking it to be one of the serving girls, but as he drew closer he noticed details about the woman's garments and the greyness in her hair that made his heart pound and his thoughts race….

  And even though he was mere feet away he doubted, until his gaze fell upon some leaves of grass clustered on her cloak. Then he saw that the leaves were arranged in letters and words….

  Then she rolled onto her back, scattering the leaves, yawned and saw him standing there.

  “Ikarno!”

  He fell to his knees and embraced her.

  “Suviel! - we thought you had died!” Tears in his eyes, he pulled back and looked searchingly into her eyes. “What do you remember before now?”

  “I remember entering the Wellsource with Tauric then…..a long dream of darkness….” She frowned and shook her head. “Then nothing until I woke here…” She sat straighter and looked around her. “Why, I'm in the palace! Are the Shadowkings no more? Did we succeed?”

  “We did, my beloved,” he said, “but at a great cost.”

  And he told her the names of the dead, and she wept to hear of so many. And as he began to tell her about all that had happened, he decided that, for the time being, he would keep to himself the message of leaves he had seen on her cloak –

  'The price has been paid.'

  * * *

  The news of Suviel's return was widely greeted as a gift from the gods, but when Atroc learned of it he felt a faint prickling of unease. A joyous meeting with the lady mage and Lord Mazaret later that evening laid some anxieties to rest, yet the unease remained. Such that midnight found him in the small tower on the Silver Aggor, sitting cross-legged on a wooden bench, engulfed in the fumes of smouldering herbs.

  Into his mind came fragments of the seeing he had soon after the battle for Scallow, the great torrent of riders that rushed across central Khatris, ending with only three who reached the gates of Besh-Darok, Byrnak, Alael and Tauric. The earlier vision had faded away at that point, but now he watched as the three figures dismounted and entered the city under a bright sun.

  Yet this Besh-Darok was a centuries-old ruin, its tumbled walls and pillars half-buried in vegetation which had erupted from gardens and parks and spread everywhere. The decrepit, vine-entwined remnants of taller buildings stood over the abandoned city like sorrowful sentinels.

  But even as the three intruders picked their way along an overgrown main street, clouds covered the sun and a dark mist began to seep out of the ground. The mist grew dense and black, and swirled around the three as they struggled to reach high vantage. But to no avail - the blackness swallowed them and rose to swamp the entire city…

  Atroc awoke to a morning chill and the smell of charred herbs. His head felt clear and last night's unease seemed to have lifted, even though the vision itself seemed to make little sense. Perhaps he should ride north to that cove fort where Byrnak was being held, and ask him a few questions.

  Then he laughed, suddenly remembering that he was due to meet with Gordag and the other tribal fathers this morning to decide their future.

  It would have been better if I had died and you had lived, Yasgur, my prince and master. Still, we must ride whatever steed we are given….

  * * *

  The seer Atroc and Gordag, chieftain of the Red Claw tribe, negotiated a treaty of settlement with Besh-Darok and the restored authority in Tymora. Thus the League and Marches of the Mogaun Tribes was established to the south and east of Arengia. Atroc himself outlived Gordag and wrote several important works, including one entitled 'The High History of the Families and Clans of the Mogaun.'

  Byrnak, former Warlord of Honjir, once Shadowking and host to a dark and savage god, lived for another six months. His lifeless body was found on a clifftop overlooking the Gulf of Brykon, a poisoned dagger in his chest.

  The End

  (To be concluded in Shadowmasque)

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  To my editor, John Jarrold, and my agent, John Parker, both of whom have, I'm certain, received training in Jedi disciplines of patience. Om, guys! And to artist Steve Stone who makes sense out of my semibaked ideas.

  To Dave Wingrove, whose steadfast encouragement and sheer talent is an endless source of inspiration.

  To Michelle 'Cuddles' Drayton-Harold, whose wizard typing saved me a lot of time and stress (!), and to Ian Murray who provided the laptop at Easter. Yir a gent!

  To Eric Brown, Bill King, Keith Brooke and Ian Mcdonald, whose friendship and kind words have meant such a lot over the years.

  To my fellow colleagues at Vertex - there are so many of you that if I mention a few I'll offend the rest, so I'll just say hey, guys! - we're moving forward, right?

  To those brave souls who helped out on this year's Mike Cobley House Move (10th Anniversary Tour) - Craig, Dave, Martin, Derek, Anne, Elsie, and Mr Salvation Army Guy!

  To El Sloano and Tom, masterminds behind the Freedom Collective. To Graeme Fleming, Paisley's Prince of Prog, and to Ronnie and Katie, Ian Smith, headbangers Adrian and Spencer, and the BOC UK Online guys, Steve, Eric, Phil, Trevor, all the Andrews, Simon, and Paul fra' Yorkshire, as well as our Yankee brothers and sisters (hey there, LD, Zibe, Alma et al!)

  To Michael Moore and Mark Thomas, who are saying what needs to be said.

  And to the bands whose music has provided the soundtrack for months of toil - the inimitable Blue Oyster Cult, the very wonderful ARK, Pallas, Porcupine Tree, Parallel Or 90 Degrees, the awesome Nevermore, Symphony X, Mostly Autumn, Queensryche, Nightwish, RATM, Liszt, Mahler, Berlioz, Holst, Tomita, Prokofiev, Berg….and lots more.

  And to all those who are wondering where the story can go from here - well, it ain't over till it's over!

  The adventure continues in...

  SHADOWMASQUE

  Emperor M
agramon is dead, the Khatrimantine Empire mourns and soon his only son, Ilgarion, will ascend the throne. But undercurrents of dread foster unease and mistrust in the imperial capital and disturbing portents hint at unrevealed horrors. Meanwhile, the agents of an old and vicious power plot, and wait...

  ALSO BY MICHAEL COBLEY

  THE SHADOWKINGS TRILOGY

  Shadowkings*

  Shadowgod*

  Shadowmasque*

  HUMANITY'S FIRE

  Seeds of Earth

  The Orphaned Worlds

  The Ascendant Stars

  Ancestral Machines

  SHORT STORY COLLECTION

  Iron Mosaic

  *available as a Jabberwocky ebook

  THANK YOU FOR READING

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