Shadowmasque

by Michael Cobley

  “You see the barricade?” Coireg said. “It’s manned by troops from the palace and the academy, as well as the few mages Tangaroth left behind — they’re expecting us.”

  “Hold a moment,” said Dardan abruptly. “Do you mean to trap us?”

  “Mothers name, no!” Coireg said, surprised. “No, listen — because the Ushralanti are highly-valued by the Throne and Sejeend’s merchanters, they were able to persuade Roldur, the High Steward, to guarantee the Watchers safe passage in exchange for helping to repulse this invasion.”

  “Do you trust them?” Calabos said.

  “I was there when Qothan, the senior Ushralanti outrider, came to terms with Roldur’s adjudicant,” Coireg said, looking at all three. “Yes, I do trust them and with reason.”

  Dardan was dubious. “This does not sound favourable to me.”

  “But if I had intended to trick you all into some trap,” said Coireg, “why would I mention the mages at all? Why not just lead you into their clutches?”

  Sounek laughed drily. “Good point. I think we should go on.”

  “As do I,” said Calabos.

  “But if it is as you say,” Dardan said, “then why are we skulking about like this?”

  “Because the few Iron Guard squads left in Sejeend, along with some Imperial army patrols, have been ordered to arrest and confine all the Watchers on sight. Hence all this hugger-mugger.”

  “I’m satisfied,” Calabos said. “Let us waste no more time.”

  From the coaching inn’s front door it was a straight course up a gently sloping road to the semicircular, flagstoned garth that lay before the entrance to the Kala dale. Neatly bisected by the stone-banked river itself, the garth was usually employed for ceremonies and festivals but its benches and alcoves were utterly deserted and would have been a wide pool of darkness but for the pole torches positioned right across it.

  The four men were spotted almost immediately. Tense moments stretched out as Coireg went forward to the barricade to negotiate, during which Calabos could make out far-off noises, individual cries and the shouts of many in unison. But it was yet distant, certainly no nearer than several streets away. Then Coireg emerged from the barricade and waved them forward. There were perhaps thirty or more soldiers manning the barrier with only about a third of them armed with bows, and a small group of dark-robed men who glared as Calabos, Dardan and Sounek were helped over the compacted wall of crates, barrels, furniture and assorted timbers. Calabos, recognising one or two as Tangaroth’s mages, smiled brightly at them.

  A stern, grey-bearded man in blue-patterned formal robes and headwear came forward, flanked and followed by assistants and lesser officials. Calabos knew this to be Roldur dor-Mar, High Steward of Sejeend, and gave a solemn bow, prompting the others to do likewise.

  “Ser Calabos,” the High Steward said evenly. “The circumstances of your appearance are certainly quite singular. In recent days I have learned that the Watchers, whom I had thought to be no more than a city legend, do actually exist, and then discovered that at their head is the renowned dramatist, Beltran Calabos. But then Archmage Tangaroth declared them a danger to the throne and before his departure with the Emperor, he ordered that they be taken into custody.” A faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Then, a mere hour ago, I received a visit from emissaries of the honoured Ushralanti, offering their counsel and aid against this dire invasion — if I can guarantee a safe passage and amnesty for you and your Watchers. It seems a small price for such valuable assistance so be welcome Calabos, at the crux of these cryptic times.”

  “All our lives are but threads in the great tapestry of the world, High Steward,” Calabos said. “We thank you for your kindness.”

  “Tapestry, hmm? I am tempted to wonder if such as yourselves are the weavers or the weft…but come, time wastes and the Ushralanti emissaries await you further along the dale. Ser Coireg will guide you.”

  Then with a slight nod, they were dismissed as the High Steward turned to speak to his functionaries. Coireg beckoned and Calabos and the others followed him along the footpath which led into the Kala’s leafy dale, home to various little taprooms and serving lodges. It was to one of these that they were led, a single-storey building sitting on low stilts and having a peak roof, a hearth flue leaking grey smoke, and coloured lamps in its tiny windows. As they reached the few steps leading up to its porch, Coireg paused and turned to Dardan and Sounek.

  “For just now, sers, the Ushralanti have asked to speak with Calabos alone,” he said.

  Dardan scowled and Sounek raised an eyebrow. Calabos just laughed softly.

  “Be patient, gentlemen,” he said as he climbed the porch steps. “If you grow bored, you have my permission to talk about me behind my back!”

  With that he pushed open the lodge door and entered, and straight away felt an air of tension and an undercurrent of something like fear.

  Inside were several tables, all deserted except one where three imposing figures sat. All wore some variety of grey or earthbrown coat, voluminous garment that could conceal even sizeable blade, while their faces were equally impassive, even severe. As he regarded them he had a rising sense of familiarity, tenuous and inexplicable. For a moment they only gazed wordlessly back as he walked across the room, then the one in the middle spoke.

  “Ser Calabos — I am Qothan, outrider of the clansboat Stormclaw, and these are my companions Viras and Yostil. Please — be welcome at our table.”

  Calabos took the empty fourth chair, placed it round beside the Ushralanti and sat down. This forced them to look to one side rather than bring their attention to bear on him, as if he were some kind of supplicant.

  “So, ser Qothan,” Calabos said. “What I have heard about you from my friend Coireg intrigues me as does his remarkable recovery from a mind-malady, resulting from an elixir made by yourselves. Then it transpires that you wished to meet me, which served to sharpen my fascination with your people, the Ushralanti, whose name is a mystery to me.”

  The one name Qothan gave a faint smile.

  “We have gone under many names,” he said. “But our essence remains as it was….as it was when you knew us.”

  The vague feelings suddenly came into focus and Calabos’ thoughts came under pressure as a nameless panic took hold.

  “Do they know who I am? How could they?

  “Your words confuse me, friend Qothan,” he said amiably. “If we had met in the past, I would have remembered without a doubt.”

  “Trust to your mage sense, Calabos,” Qothan said. “We shall diminish the mask of our seeming for a short time that you may behold and understand.”

  Calabos started to say ‘wait’ but then the small lamps in the rest of the room began to darken and the three figures appeared to shrink slightly, their faces blurred and shadowed. At the same time, the ghostly outline of much larger forms took shape around them, wavering and transparent, becoming more definite, more detailed. There were board torsos, massive shoulders, great, narrow, reptilian head, claws and hooked wings.

  Calabos drew a shuddering breath for recognition was unavoidable.

  The Daemonkind, first and mightiest of the Lord of Twilight’s servants, whose ancient true name was the Israganthir.

  Calabos’ first impulse was to assume the worst and call on the hardiest of his defensive thought-cantos as he started to rise from the table. But then the fearsome shapes faded, leaving just the three austere men, and Qothan extending a calming hand.

  “Friend Calabos, I beg you to have no fear. None of us bear you any ill will nor intend any harm.”

  “Easy words to say, Qothan,” Calabos said.

  “Then judge us by our actions — we have remedied the disarray of your friend Coireg’s mind, and thereby helped him to air your escape from the sorcerer Jumil’s trap. And very shortly we intend to go forth into the chaos of the lower city to find and destroy the Wellsource-driven relicts which are sustaining the undead army.”

  There
was silence between them as Calabos sat back in his chair, mulling this over.

  “You know who I once was,” he stated, hardly believing that he was admitting it openly.

  “In truth, the man we see before us is far removed from the dread presence our forebears knew as Byrnak the Shadowking. Just as our loyalties and purposes have become altered, first broken in the forge of defeat then recast by time and experience and hard-gained shreds of wisdom.”

  “So you know that He is trying to return….or rather this Jumil is gathering in the everlasting fragments of His evil essence,” Calabos said bitterly. “And something has happened earlier today, hasn’t it? I have been sensing for some hours another dark presence in the city, somewhere not far from here…”

  “Jumil has managed to create a Shadowking, Calabos,” Qothan said. “Nor is it alone — a second, lesser one is leading this attack of the revenants on Sejeend. Neither is as powerful as the original Shadowkings were individually, but there seems to be some concealed process of change at work. We also felt the sorcerous calling sent forth by Jumil, and we’re certain that it is still playing a part.”

  A Shadowking, Calabos thought, feeling a shiver go through him.

  “Yet, by all this,” he said, “I am driven to wonder at your reason for involving yourselves in this dark drama, and why I have gained your interest.”

  It was Qothan’s turn to pause and frown thoughtfully for a moment. At last he said:

  “We are a people caught on the bridge of prophecy,” he said, and went on to tell of how the shipborne Daemonkind fled into the eastern seas after the defeat of the Lord of Twilight, where they found an island of jagged towers and its eternal roaring vortex. At its heart, he said, they encountered a strange deity called the Sleeping God which issued a string of prophecies, some of which were now starting to come true.

  “But by their very nature,” Qothan went on, “most prophecies are limited and uncertain, with no mention of what seems important in the crux, which leaves us halted on the bridge of prophecy with mist all around…”

  “Uncertain which side to approach,” Calabos said, completing the conundrum. “And myself?”

  “The auguries in the Book of the Vortex speak of someone called the Prince of Change, who will be the one to face the rising shadow and defeat him.” Qothan grimaced. “Unfortunately, there are several possible candidates who possess the kind of qualities described in the prophecies…‘No mother, no father, but torn from the earth’ one of the verses says — also ‘Broken and remade is he, buried and unveiled, cherished and abandoned’…”

  “And you think that I could be this Prince of Change,” Calabos said skeptically.

  “Perhaps, or he could be your companion, Coireg Mazaret,” Qothan said. “He came to our attention on the night of Jumil’s calling, which accentuated the divisions in his mind and provoked him into fleeing the House of Seclusion. With subtle far-voice whispers we were able to draw him in the direction of the Silver Landings where we took him under our protection and offered him the calmative. He has a strange ability to reach what remains of the Wellsource, but it is an unpredictable as well skill that is rooted in the deranged part of his mind.”

  Calabos shook his head, not quite knowing what to make of this view of his old friend.

  “You said there were ‘several’ candidates for this heroic position,” he said. “Whom else is there? — please tell me that it’s not Tangaroth or Ilgarion…”

  “Neither,” said Qothan. “However, you do know him — Corlek Ondene.”

  “The errant captain?” Calabos was nonplussed for a moment, then realisation struck. “It was one of you who spirited him out of that courtyard.”

  Qothan inclined his head. “It was I — it was the end of a long journey we had taken in the captain’s wake. Due to various visions and portents down the years we had know about him for some time although we were not certain that he was the one we sought.”

  “So is he aboard your ship?”

  “No…” The Daemonkind’s face became grave. “Through our own lack of foresight as well as unfortunate circumstances, he fell into the hands of the dark sorcerer, Jumil. He has been using Corlek as a receptacle for the spirit-wraiths of the Lord of Twilight, those deathless shreds of his essence, and it was their coalescence at Hojamar Keep which you sensed earlier.”

  It was an old crawling fear that Calabos felt, a sharp dread which had haunted countless dreams, that horror at the possibility of the Lord of Twilight’s return. And now those shadowy nightmares were distilling into reality. He looked down at his hands, expecting to see his inner tumult mirrored in trembling fingers. Yet they were calm and he gradually realised that this terror was not truly him but an emotion learned long ago when he had borne another name. This was an echo of Byrnak’s fear of obliteration by the Lord of Twilight’s convergence, heightened by the malign presence of the god-fragment that he had carried within. Imprinted in his thoughts, it tried to spread its cold grasp throughout his mind yet now he could look directly at it and know it for what it was.

  He breathed in deeply, relaxing with the exhalation. “So — an unfortunate situation,” he said. “Complicated by this eldritch attack of the undead, which you intend to stand against, yes?”

  “We must challenge Jumil and the possessed Captain Ondene,” Qothan said. “But we have to deal with the revenant invaders first, not least because it would be useful to capture their leader, the one who raised them, rather than allowing him to be slain. Deprived of its host, the fragment of the Lord of Twilight he carries may then seek out another, most probably Ondene, thus strengthening that which rides in his mind.”

  “Be assured that the Watchers will do all they can to aid you in this,” Calabos said. “What action do you propose?”

  “To take three parties composed of soldiers, yourselves and Tangaroth’s mages, with one of us in each,” Qothan said. “Then to sally forth with the aim of turning aside the undead and seizing their leader.”

  “A laudably straightforward plan,” Calabos said. “Assuming that we are able to make this man our prisoner — what then?”

  Qothan gave him a wintry smile. “Much will depend on the circumstances of his capture — it may be that our ship will return and provide the necessary aid.”

  All four stood, and Calabos turned to face the Daemonkind squarely.

  “I am honoured by your decision to take me into your confidence,” he said. “Although I am not Byrnak, the echoes of his life still reverberate in my mind. Tonight, however, they have grown quieter.”

  “The honour is ours, long-lived Calabos,” said Qothan. “We are still the ones who serve, but we now pay our fealty higher than the black ambitions of a broken god.” He tilted his head. “We are done here, sers. Let us go forth.”

  Outside, a persistent rain was falling and the leaves of bushes and trees gleamed in the light of the footpath lamps. Archers and spearmen were hurrying past in twos and threes, heading for the barricade which had grown in the interim and was now defended by a hundred or more.

  As the four emerged from the alehouse, Calabos saw Dardan and Sounek deep in conversation which ceased abruptly when they saw him. For a moment Calabos thought he saw a look of uncertainty in Dardan’s face then Coireg approached, his bare head soaked, hair matted to his skull..

  “We cannot wait much longer,” he said. “Tangaroth’s people say that there are at least three groups of invaders heading this way.”

  Sounek and Dardan had joined them and Calabos glanced their way for confirmation. Sounek nodded.

  “An accurate summary,” he said. “Focus through your undersenses and you can feel the talismans their leaders carry — they’re like three burning jewels in the night. And you should also know that we’ve had word from Tashil — she and the others are safely ashore, at the Silver Landings of all places.”

  “I heard nothing from her,” Calabos said, turning to Qothan with a frown.

  “We habitually veil our thoughts f
rom any possible spies,” said the tall Daemonkind. “Your closeness to us may have prevented such farspeech reaching you. But we must delay no longer — various powers are moving into concurrence.”

  Calabos nodded and looked at his companions. “Three parties it shall be then, and with the help of Tashil and the others we may stand a better chance of taking the invaders’ leader alive. Listen…”

  * * *

  Down in the sloping, rain-lashed street, a horde of the undead were charging uphill towards a shaky barricade where barely a score of city guardsmen waited. Axe and sword blades shone wetly in the fitful light of guttering torches while a limping serjeant tried to snarl some courage into his men — go for the wrists before the ankles, he was saying, and the ankles before the head. Use your bucklers offensively, guard your companion’s back, and hearken to my orders…

  Then the first wave struck. A section of the barricade gave way and the decayed attackers surged towards the breach to meet the guardsmen’s axes…

  From a third-floor window back along the street, Tashil watched the ensuing battle while keeping a weather eye on the main body of invaders, both alive and dead, who were massing about twenty yards from the fight at the barrier. Yet while this transpired, her thoughts were full of farspeech as she and Inryk settled on a plan with Calabos.

  (…follow them up to the Onwyc Parade) Calabos was saying, (And when they start across it, you launch your first attack — Firedagger should suffice to begin with — and once you’ve got their attention, we’ll strike from their rear)