Shadowmasque

by Michael Cobley

  “Send them…back, Atroc!” he cried as he was pulled down towards the roiling greyness which was clearly growing in size. Just behind him, Gilly’s still-struggling form was sinking into it.

  The seer Atroc swerved past more tentacles and flailing figures as Ayoni and Chellour backed out of the chamber’s wide entrance. Atroc was grim-faced as he reached them.

  “A terrible way to die,” said Chellour.

  “We do not live,” the Mogaun said bitterly. “How can we die? But remember what you have seen here, for any good that it will do…”

  He muttered a swift string of words and made a cutting gesture. Ayoni’s last sight of that place was Atroc turning to face of the monstrous tentacle-forms as it lunged through doorway at him —

  The transition back to the physical reality of her own body was like being dropped into a cold river. Gasping and trembling from the sudden surge of sensations, it was several moments before Ayoni realised that the prison wagon was in motion. From the way it was jolting and swaying it was clearly being driven at speed, but by whom?

  And her cell door was open, she saw, with lamplight coming from the passage outside. As she sat up on her boxcrib, Chellour staggered into view, holding onto the door frame, and a moment later a bearded man in leather and mail armour joined him from the other end of the passage.

  “Are you well, ser?”

  Chellour gave a dry laugh. “Nothing that a month of rest and fine wine wouldn’t remedy!”

  Disorientated, Ayoni spotted the crest of a boar on the man’s chest at the same time as she recognised him as one of her husband’s closest allies, Baron Klayse, and her heart leapt.

  “My dear baron,” she said. “It is most gratifying to set eyes on you. I assume that we are escaping.”

  “Indeed we are, countess,” Klayse said with a grin. “Your recovery will please your illustrious husband almost as much as I.”

  “Where is Jarryc, baron?”

  “Driving this wagon, lady. Our destination is a small port near the southern mouth of the Great Canal and thence to the port as Besdarok. From there, a ship will take us east to Margrave Tergalis’ coastal estates in far-off Cabringa!”

  Ayoni exchanged a look with Chellour who then said;

  “How did you cope with the mage guards?”

  Klayse grinned. “Had one of Tergalis’ hedge wizards decoy them with a fireball and while they were preparing to focus on that, a squad of my archers let fly.” He chuckled. “Tangaroth must have had a fit.”

  Chellour was grinning too. “I wouldn’t be at all surprised!”

  “Well, lady and ser — if you try to find some comfort in this rattling box, we should soon reach the Great Canal where we can have a happy reunion and the sharing of stories.

  And hopefully the chance to persuade my beloved husband to avoid Besh-Darok! Ayoni thought as she and Chellour dragged their pallets outside their cells so that they could sit on the passage floor and chat amiably with the Baron while the wagon jounced on through the night.

  * * *

  High on the westerly side of Hojamar Keep, Vorik dor-Galyn shivered in an icy dawn wind as he sat out on an exposed balcony, keeping vigil while his master Jumil, voice of the Great Shadow, sat a few feet away, deep wrapt in a mind-journey…

  The Iron Guard had the exclusive use of the top two floors of the Keep, which had been furnished mainly for study and contemplation although there was also a well-equipped training room. However, the Keep was a notoriously cold building, thus the Iron Guard’s floors were often more than two thirds empty. And since most of the Guard was riding north with the Emperor, Hojamar Keep was now mostly uninhabited, apart from the wardens. Which to Jumil made it perfect for the planning and execution of his unfolding strategy.

  So now Jumil at cross-legged on the balcony’s stone floor with eyes closed as the freezing north wind ruffled his short hair, thin shirt and troos. Vorik was bundled up in several layers of clothing and a heavy jerkin over all and he could still feel the wind cutting through to the skin. The shivering came over him in waves that began in his back and arms and ended in his jaw, making his teeth chatter. He was toying with the idea of standing up to let circulation return to his legs, when Jumil suddenly let out a long sigh. Looking up he saw that his master’s eyes were open and staring out at the hazy, distant mountains. Then he smiled and, without altering his posture in the slightest, glanced sideways at Vorik.

  “The flock at Besh-Darok has succeeded in its task,” he said. “The first Shatterseed has take root, and the seeding shroud is starting to expand.”

  Despite the cold, Vorik chuckled. “Poor Limbor,” he said sardonically. “So what now, master?”

  “The next Nightkin flock to reach its destination should be Rugilo’s at Oumetra, followed by Skotan at Alvergost, and then Amaj at Adnagaur.”

  Vorik nodded. All were well-populated and would provide the sustenance and forms necessary for the seeding shrouds to grow well.

  “Lastly, of course, will be your own flock and your own version of the Shatterseed rite.” Jumil’s smile never faltered. “Soon, you will be invested with the powers of the Wellsource and able to share the joys and burdens of mastery. In the meantime, take yourself indoors and pay the good captain a visit. Question him a little, see what progress he is making. I have to return to oversee the early stages of the Shatterseed burgeoning at Besh-Darok.”

  “As you will it, master,” Vorik said, clambering to his feet and ducking through the heavy drapes that hung across the balcony door. Inside it was warm and full of gold lamplight and he doffed his heavy robes and gauntlets and loosened his quilted jerkin before stepping through a shadowy arch to where stone steps wound up to the top floor. He pondered Jumil’s words of assurance as he climbed, feeling certain that all the promises of sharing power were as empty as the man’s heart and that he meant for Vorik to share Limbor’s fate.

  Oh no, my master, that will never do, he thought. Which is why I have made other arrangements for my own Shatterseed rite…

  As he reached the top of the stairs he could hear the voices coming from the storeroom which they had refurnished to hold Captain Ondene. He unlocked the door and entered, closing and locking it behind him.

  “Comes the jailer,” said a voice, nasal and sneering.

  “Jailer, mailer, sailor, failer, whaler, tailor,” rambled another, low and slurred.

  “Do you think he wants to paint our portrait?”

  “What would it resemble, o cretinous one? A smashed plate with a face on every piece maybe?”

  “Will he, will he, will he…”

  “Fire burns the words, makes them smoke and curl….”

  “Does he know? Does he know? Does he know?…”

  “Know what?” Vorik said abruptly.

  Ondene stared at him with head tilted and his face askew, one eye wide and bright with malice, one side of his mouth smiling wolfishly. Whatever remained of Corlek Ondene was now buried under the throng of spirit-fragments that were crammed into his head. Which was a source of satisfaction that went some way to countering the unease he felt whenever had to speak to this jabbering semblance of a man.

  “Do you know the harmonies of the languid night?” came a familiar, harsh voice that Vorik thought of as the Priest. It was usually the Priest, or sometimes the Brigand, that he found himself conversing with.

  “Do you know the boundaries of the deathless realm?” the Priest went on.

  “Should I?” Vorik said mockingly.

  “I see its boundaries in your eye,” the Priest said. “In the stones of this fortress and in the river outside.”

  “My master has a master,” Vorik said. “Only his realm will matter in the end.”

  “Your master, that dark prince…”

  Then the voice cracked as a succession of others struggled to speak.

  “I know that cur, that glorious vermin…”

  “…and gave my face to him, to her, to them all, my lovely face…”

 
; “But does he guard his flank? Should always allow for the unexpected…”

  “…fleeting words of pain, a graceless farewell…”

  “Watch the boy — he has the look of nemesis about him…”

  “….To charge with spears….arms outstretched, I pray….all the things we desire….a fallen, bygone time….banished, I close all doors….the anger of fools….”

  The stuttering jumble of voices seemed to exhaust him and his head lolled forward for a moment. Then he straightened and looked directly at Vorik who felt a cold trickle down his neck as met that level, bitter regard.

  “What torment you’ve caused,” said Corlek Ondene. “What a festival of horrors. Had I the use of my body I would be at your throat.”

  “So says the honourable captain,” Vorik sneered. “Indulge such fancies as you wish but your fate is to be consumed by your betters!”

  “Vermin!” Ondene said in a choking voice, face reddening with exertion as he forced himself to his feet. “There will be retribution, I swear it…”

  But before he could even take the first step, a spirit-wraith came floating through the wall and struck him in the side of the head. He gasped, fell shaking to his knees then keeled over with the writhing thing sinking into his skull. Smiling, Vorik leaned against the wall to watch, even though he had witnessed this several times before. As before, Ondene ceased his convulsions and became relaxed, lying full-length on the floor. Then the voices began fighting for control of his voice again, which Vorik knew would usually result in the more dominant fragments taking charge of it for a time before exhaustion sent him off to sleep.

  But not this time. Instead of a rising, throat-tearing cresendo of voices, they suddenly subsided to a strange little chant which then tailed off into silence. For a brief moment, nothing, stillness, then Ondene calmly got to his feet, facing away from Vorik, raised his hands and brushed his hair back, fingers running through it.

  “The deathless realm….awaits,” the man said. “Tell your master that I would speak with him.”

  “Indeed?” Vorik said. “Why?”

  The man he knew as Corlek Ondene turned to face him and immediately Vorik saw the change in him, the unyielding composure, the sense of deadly menace. And there was nothing of Captain Ondene in those penetrating eyes.

  “The coalescence has come, Vorik,” he said. “Tell Jumil that a Shadowking is here, and tell him that I am not the only one!”

  Chapter Thirteen

  In dark and vasty caverns,

  The bones of ancient powers,

  Await the eager flesh of greed.

  —Gundal, Siege of Stones, ch3, p9

  Aboard the Stormclaw, Qothan answered the summons to the auracle chamber and found Prince Agasklin sitting in one of the visuran chairs.

  “Peril is upon us, Qothan,” he said. “The vicious wiles and machinations of the dark sorcerer Jumil have finally borne fruit.”

  Qothan nodded. “Almost the entire crew has felt it.” He shuddered. “All those fragments of the Grey Lord have merged, and created….something terrible.”

  “Few of those still alive among us remember the Shadowkings,” Agasklin said, “but now another of them walks the world again, thus we must make every effort to conceal ourselves from his hungry gaze. We have vital work ahead.”

  “I understand, master, but will it suffice to plan an attack on Jumil’s forces here when the first Shatterseed has taken root in Besh-Darok?”

  “Jumil is the linchpin, the guiding will behind the way the Shatterseeds develop,” Agasklin said. “Without him, they will be far less dangerous which is why we are alert to his purposes in Sejeend. Yet he and this new Shadowking he has brought into being are not our only worries — all the ship’s chieftains held an ingather here not long ago and we received disturbing news from the auracle aboard our sister ship, the Seafang, that someone has raised a fleet of ships from the seabed and set a course for Sejeend.”

  “A fleet of the undead?” Qothan said, aghast.

  “Just so.”

  “Forgive me, master, but am I right to say the Sleeping God says nothing of this in the Vortex narratives? I have only studied the summations, thus I may not know of relevant passages.”

  Agasklin gave a bleak smile. “The Book of the Vortex makes no mention at all; the Sleeping God may have been right on many things but such a fleet makes no appearance in any of the stanzas.”

  There was a long moment of silent reflection. The Book of the Vortex was considered near-holy writ by almost all the Daemonkind: its pages contained dialogues between the first High Captains of the Daemonkind and a strange divinity called the Sleeping God. This encounter had taken place just a few years after the end of the Shadowking War, far out to sea on a storm-wracked, rocky islet called Nydratha. From this islet craggy towers of natural stone rose more than a hundred feet into the air, enclosed by a perpetual raging vortex of winds. The highest of these towers had a spiral of steps hewn into its core and when the four High Captains climbed to the very top they came face to face with a mysterious presence calling itself the Sleeping God. From several long encounters, the captains’ scribes compiled many scrolls of dialogues, monologues and prophecies in which the Daemonkind themselves appeared. And now that some of those auguries were coming true, closer attention was being paid to everything in the Book of the Vortex with the consequence that any significant event not anticipated in its pages took on a kind of heretical menace.

  “Coireg’s role has become clearer,” said Agasklin. “This new Shadowking might well be the weapon to use against the Great Shadow. However, if this revenant fleet attacks by this evening as the clade chiefs aboard Seafang suggest, we may have to put Coireg ashore quite soon before raising anchor and sailing north to find shelter between here and Adranoth.”

  “What of Calabos and the Watchers?” Qothan said.

  “They’ve returned to Gronanvel and are poised to reenter the city,” Agasklin said. “Compared to Jumil, their powers are weak yet they are resourceful and determined and their leader Calabos is deep and enigmatic. They may prove to be a useful diversion when Coireg Mazaret is despatched.” He smiled at Qothan. “Of course, he will not be alone.”

  Qothan gave a slight bow. “It is an honour and a pleasure to serve as an Outrider, master. Will any accompany me in this?”

  “Another two besides yourself will be appointed — our captain, the illustrious Pericogal, has ordered that it be so.”

  This was a measure of how serious matters had become, that the captain would take an active part in these deliberations. Pericogalteraninor was the last surviving Daemonkind leader out of the four who had spoken directly with the Sleeping God. Old when the fall of the Shadowkings condemned the Daemonkind to exile, Pericogal had endured and surpassed storms, battles and betrayals on a hundred coastlines between here and the other side of the world and found that the only foe he could no defeat was old age. Thus he resided in his own secluded chamber at the heart of the Stormclaw, shielded by locked doors, guarded night and day by elite sentries. Qothan had seen the captain perhaps three times in the last ten years, and not at all in the last two. Yet his presence informed the entire vessel as if, despite the dreams he dreamed and the long meditations he undertook, some part of his mind remained in watchful attendance.

  “Then so shall it be,” Qothan said. “Yet could you also consider waiting until the last moment before Coireg and ourselves ashore? My concern is that we need to know as much as possible about this revenant fleet, and if we have to conceal ourselves from this new Shadowking then we will be unable to use the long voice to converse with you after you depart. Also, I wonder if we might be able to prevail upon the good will of the High Steward to provide safe passage for the Watchers in exchange for our aid in the coming struggle.”

  “Such a scheme has merit — very well, I shall share this and your concerns with the other chieftains,” Agasklin said. “And perhaps we can persuade our brothers aboard the Seafang to discover more details about
this approaching threat.”

  “I am gratified by the wisdom of this course,” Qothan said.

  “Then retire to your quarters and prepare for your next outriding,” Agasklin said, getting to his feet. “The names of your companions will be decided on shortly, whereupon you will be informed.”

  He brought both hands together, signifying the end of the meeting. Qothan gave a stiff, measured bow and left the auracle chamber, wondering who his companions might be and if this was the last day he would spend on board the Stormclaw.

  * * *

  The Merry Meddler was a 30-foot, single-masted riverboat which had carried too many cargoes of vegetables in its time, resulting in a lingering odour of rotten cabbage which made Tashil wish she had a less well-developed sense of smell. When she muttered about this to Sounek he came back with the suggestion that their captain had ‘seen the inside of too many tankards of ale’. And indeed, Captain Jodec was a pot-bellied riverman with a toper’s nose and watery eyes. He also had food fragments in his beard and dried gravy spots on his doublet, yet his hand seemed steady enough when he shook on the ferrying deal with Calabos and took his money.

  Thus on the day after Dybel’s rescue, and three since the rushed flight from Sejeend, here they all were returning to face who could know what kind of strife. The Merry Meddler’s long deckhouse was a timber shelter roofed with heavy canvas roofing its rear half and the Watchers were resting within, sitting either side of a narrow fixed table. Tashil was half-listening to Calabos as he outlined his plans to Dardan and Sounek, who were visibly unconvinced, to Inryk who seemed willing to hear it all first, and Tashil who knew that they had to act, even if only to gather more information.

  Yet her attention was divided as she glanced over to where Dybel was keeping the steward Enklar and the guards Rog and Gillat occupied with tales and anecdotes. Her brother Atemor was sitting nearby, trying to appear uninterested, yet Tashil knew her brother well enough to spot when he was taking notice of something and just then Dybel was retelling the story of how the boy-emperor was smuggled into Oumetra on a canal boat.