Shadowmasque

by Michael Cobley

  Many buildings were afire and some citizens had banded together to protect their shops and houses while gangs of drunken looters and roughs roamed freely from street to street. Of the army and the city guard there was no sign except for overheard rumours that there were running battles over at the wharves by the sea gates. There were, however, enough people out and about to make Rikken fear the chance of being stopped so he snatched a discarded piece of sacking from a backyard midden and draped it over Bureng’s unconscious form.

  Then it was a maniacal progress through the rainy streets, trying to avoid anyone by steering the cart along alleys and through back courts. Those who accosted him were usually dissuaded by the story that he was taking his dead dog across town to the apothecary, then letting drop that the dog had died from the black yaws. Which was usually enough to have them wide-eyed and clasping a hand over nose and mouth while making tracks to the other side of the road.

  At last the tall gates of to the Silver Landings came into view as he pushed Bureng out from a muddy side alley. As he crossed the wide street he imagined that hundreds of eyes were watching his every move and it was an effort of will to try and appear relaxed and unhurried, as if this was something he had done every day for years. Moments later he was through the gates and pushing the cart quickly north along the quayside, eyes eager to find the Mocker’s lines in the darkness.

  But instead of dozens of dark, decayed ships moored along the wharves and quays, there were clusters of slanted masts jutting from waters clogged with broken timbers, tangled rigging and ragged pieces of sailcloth. Rikken slowed in amazement, uncomprehending for a moment until the slow realisation came upon him that the destruction of the mirror talisman had brought about the sinking of Hanavok’s fleet as well as the disintegration of his undead army.

  And as he splashed along the dockside, weaving around heaps of bones and dead bodies, a sense of mortal fear and loss grew in him when he saw that the Mocker’s berth at one of the main piers was empty. He could just make out the lamps of a ship about half a mile out and heading for open sea, and he thought he recognised the lines of the Mocker as it faded into the rainy night.

  “Gone,” he whispered. “It’s gone ‘n left us….”

  Then he noticed movement along the now-vacant pier, a sprawled figure trying to rise quite near to one of the few hanging lamps still alight. Pulling the cart and the captain, he hurried along towards it and was startled to see that it was Captain Logrum, who brought out a dagger as he drew near. Then Logrum saw who it was and let his dagger hand fall.

  “Bureng’s underling,” he said and laughed, but the laugh turned into a deep, hacking cough which etched pain into his features. His hair was matted to his skull and the steady rain had soaked him through, and as Rikken crouched beside him he saw blood pooling beneath legs clad in slashed breeks.

  “Hamstrung me and threw me on the pier,” Logrum said.

  “Who?”

  Anger flared in Logrum’s eyes and water dripped from his beard. “Flane,” he said. “Shadow-cursed, red-eyed bastard! And he left me another little gift before he sailed…” The big man pulled aside a fold of his shirt to reveal the broken stump of an arrow sticking out of his chest. “Barbed arrow,” he said, voice wheezing. “Flane did it by hand to make sure it went into the lung, just so I’ll take a while to die…” He paused for another bout of agonised coughing that left him pale and trembling.

  “Have you seen aught of Raleth?” he said.

  “Nothing,” Rikken said.

  “Wonder if he ran into one of ‘em tall bastards…don’t know who they was but they were after them talismans. I saw one of ‘em leap into the middle of Zanuur’s mob of walking corpses and suddenly they’re turning on Zanuur and his men, tearing them apart, ripping off heads and arms. Same thing happened to me, got jumped by one of ‘em tall ‘uns, grabbed my bear statue — don’t know what he did but next thing I know everything went mad…lucky for me there was an open window nearby…”

  He paused to glance with narrow eyes at the handcart and it covered cargo. “What’s on the cart?”

  Rikken froze with uncertainty, then reasoned that Logrum was incapable of being a threat.

  “My captain,” he said.

  Logrum smiled sourly. “So Bureng’s till alive, eh? Don’t look too lively to me…” He stopped as a spasm of pain forced a groan from his lips, “…too much, devil’s pain….” He stared at Rikken. “Take my dagger, push it into my heart -”

  “No,” said Rikken, backing away. “No, I couldn’t…”

  Logrum cursed and spat at him. “Crawl away then, you worm! Leave me…have to do it myself…”

  Rikken grabbed the cart’s handles and pushed it back along the pier, pausing on the stone dock look back. He was just in time to see the half-raised Logrum fall forward onto his face. Through the hiss of the rain he heard a grunt and knew that the captain of the Vandal Lord was dead. Rikken’s feelings of isolation swelled and he crouched down beside the handcart, and leaned his head against the wet wood, fighting tears, not knowing what to do.

  Then one idea forced its way into his thoughts — Hide.

  Yes, that was it. He would find somewhere safe for them both to hide, and where he could tend to the captain’s wounds. And when he was strong, he’d come out from his hiding place and crush all his enemies!

  Leaping to his feet, he took hold of the cart with its motionless, covered passenger, and started back along the dock. A new certainty was flowing through him now, and another word came to him — Food. Yes, there would be plenty of unattended shops and stalls in the area, so getting food should be easy.

  …Weapons — ah, plenty of bodies lying around who won’t be needing their blades no more…

  …Money — probably get that from the same place, or abandoned houses, even…

  Chapter Fifteen

  Spirits fly in darkness,

  O’er wrathful gulfs of sleep.

  Spirits fly in darkness,

  On errands foul and deep.

  —Tazay, Prekine Poems

  The rain and the wind came out of the raw blackness of the ocean’s nightbound realm to batter and claw at the buildings and godowns all along Besh-Darok’s waterfront. Countess Ayoni watched the storm from the near-empty common room of a dockside inn called the Yardarm, looking out of a small, latticed window which she had wedged open slightly. The occasional gusty draught brought sprinklings of droplets and made the flames flutter in her table’s ornate lamp.

  Ayoni’s mood was dark and tight with anxiety. A short while ago, in her room upstairs, she had had a detailed and disturbing farspeech conversation with Calabos during which he let her know that the rest of the Watchers were still alive then went on to tell her about the dark sorcerer Jumil and the unfortunate Captain Ondene, and to warn her about the spirit-hosts. She in turn gave a brief account of the grotesque ritual she and Chellour had witnessed in the ruined palace, the grey blight that had resulted, and told of their escape from Ilgarion’s camp and subsequent arrival in Besh-Darok, where they were waiting for a ship that was not due for at least another day.

  And then all dialogue came to a halt when Calabos said that Tashil was in danger from an invading army of the undead, and he had to venture forth into the city. As the farspeech bond faded she was left with a growing determination to persuade Chellour, Jarryc and Klayse that they should return to Sejeend to lend aid to Calabos and the others. When she came downstairs, however, none of the men were there and when she asked the innmaster about them he only shrugged and said something about ‘the slipway market’. But sallying forth in such vile weather was unappealing so she opted for sitting by the window and sipping from a beaker of silverpurl while contemplating the haze of wind-driven spray flying in from the waves crashing against the long quays.

  She did not have too long to wait before the first, Chellour, returned, entering with rainwater streaming from his drenched cloak and leggings. Seeing Ayoni, he grinned as he doffed the cloak and hung
it over a high-backed chair near her table. Brushing soaked hair out of his eyes, he sat down opposite her then produced a waxcloth-wrapped package from within his damp jerkin.

  “Ralgar Morth’s ‘Empire Of Night’,” he said. “First edition.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Expensive?”

  He shrugged. “Three regals…”

  She laughed dryly. “Money well spent, then.”

  Chellour just smiled and unwrapped his prize, a small book bound in battered, scuffed hide. Ayoni leaned forward, intrigued in spite of herself.

  “I never really took to Morth,” she said. “He seemed to archaically wordy for my liking, though I’ve never come across ‘Empire Of Night’.”

  “He’s not to everyone’s taste, granted, but he can depict a dark and tragic valour that rivals the ancient sagasongs,” said Chellour. “To my mind, anyway.”

  Ayoni nodded. “We can talk on this later — right now there’s something else you have to know.”

  She related the main details of her dialogue with Calabos, ending with her change of mind on their destination. Hearing this, Chellour sat back, face thoughtful.

  “I must admit that I was quite looking forward to seeing Margrave Tergalis’ estates, but yes, we should be ready to help our fellow-Watchers in any way we can.” He glanced out the window. “If only we could get to Sejeend. There’s also the matter of persuading your esteemed husband and the Baron.”

  “I’m sure that I can get Jarryc to hear me out,” she said, “which would be half the battle.”

  A pair of hooded figures, hunched against the driving rain, came hurrying along the quayside towards the Yardarm. Noticing them, Chellour gave Ayoni an amused look.

  “I think we’re about to find out how persuasive you can be,” he said.

  She adopted a mock disdain. “Ser, I am replete with confidence in my arguments!”

  Moments later the inn door flew open to admit the two men along with a blast of rain-laden wind. Laughing, Jarryc, Count of Harcas, and Baron Klayse quickly closed the door, hung a box lantern on a hook, then pulled off their dripping cloaks and tossed them across the table next to Ayoni’s.

  “Now that,” the Count said, “is what I call a storm!”

  “Indeed, my lord,” Ayoni said. “Venturing forth into its inclemency certainly appears to be a manly thing to do.”

  Jarryc gave her a sideways, narrow-eyed half smile, and she strove to keep her own smile somewhere between innocent and enigmatic.

  “My dear lady wife, you are of course quite correct — it is a buffetting storm of outstanding vigour and dampness, especially when experienced from the old battlements on the headland.”

  “And did you espy much of interest from this vantage?” she said.

  Jarryc and the Baron exchanged a look and a smile.

  “Well, there were those branches flying through the rain,” he said.

  “Don’t forget the clothes,” said the Baron. “A monk’s robes, I saw, amongst others, just flapping along -”

  “And those fish…”

  “…and that basket of vegetables…”

  “…and the mouse!” Jarryc paused to frown. “Or was it a cat from a distance?….like the snake which turned out to be a worm.”

  “Quite so, m’lord.”

  By now, Ayoni and Chellour were openly laughing at this succession of storm-borne fancies. Jarryc’s grin held a certain cunning, and Ayoni knew that there was more.

  “…and of course,” he said, “we beheld with our own eyes the decklamps of a ship headed this way.”

  Ayoni and Chellour sat straighter at this news.

  “Really?” said Chellour.

  Baron Klayse laughed. “No word of a lie or whimsy, ser, “ he said. “The ship itself is invisible against the night and the sea but its stormlights we saw repeatedly, and it certainly appeared to be on course for Besdarok. Excluding mishap, they should dock within the hour.”

  “Good news, in truth,” Ayoni said.

  “Tergalis has his own brewery on his estates,” Klayse went on. “Their finest is a sweet ale that’s a joy to the tongue. Wait till you taste it…”

  “You paint a pretty picture,” Chellour said, glancing at Ayoni. “Our destination sounds better all the time.”

  Ayoni sighed, knowing it was now or never.

  “My lord husband,” she said, standing. “May I speak with you?” She looked over to one side to indicate the wish for words along. He frowned for a second but the smile remained.

  “Gentle sers,” he said to Chellour and Klayse, then they both crossed the common room to an empty corner where he turned to her and spread his hands.

  “My dear lady wife, I am at your disposal.”

  She matched his smile and began to relate again the main points of her farspeech exchange with Calabos, and explained her wish to return to Sejeend. As she spoke his face became grave and his eyes troubled.

  “There’s been no further messages from him?” Jarryc said.

  “None, from him or the others.”

  Jarryc nodded thoughtfully. “An army of the dead,” he murmured. “And if this terrible host has triumphed, what point would there be in sailing to Sejeend?”

  “I just don’t believe that could happen,” Ayoni said. “The nobles and garrison troops from the outlying demesnes will be hurrying there now — no invader can succeed for long.”

  “And I feel the same, Ayoni, but if they do have mastery over the city then the docks are the last place we should think of approaching. However, if you do hear from any of the Watchers between and whatever vessel we take passage on reaches the waters south of Adranoth, and the news is favourable, I’ll convince the captain to put in at Sejeend, with gold if necessary. Is that agreeable?”

  “Both agreeable and sensible, o wise count!”

  “I know there was a reason why you married me!”

  Once they rejoined Klayse and Chellour, Jarryc outline the possible courses they might take and there was sombre consent all round. Then to while away the time as they awaited the unknown ship, they took turns to relate an anecdote or a story or a joke, amongst which Chellour read a passage from Morth’s ‘Empire of Night’ which everyone agreed was almost excessively dour.

  It was Klayse who first noticed the vessel drawing near and the others gathered by the small window to stare out. A couple of swaying storm lamps were visible through the storm’s gusting veils of rain and after a moment Ayoni could make out the form of a ship, a three-master with all but its lesser sails reefed and secured. A handful of harbourmen in heavy cloaks were already out on the longest of the jetties and as the ship rocked and pitched through the swell a few figures clambered up on the raised prow. Then weighted lines were hurled forth, most falling short while the necessary two or three reached the jetty to be caught by gauntleted hands and hauled on to bring in the heavier hawsers.

  Soon the ship was securely berthed, its fore and aft mooring ropes lashed to ironbound posts, and a broad gantry was being manhandled out from the main deck to rest on the jetty’s planks.

  “We need to speak with the captain,” Jarryc said. “Should we wait to see if he comes in here, or go outside to get his sooner attention?”

  “The latter, I’d say,” Baron Klayse said. “He may have decided on another inn altogether.”

  Agreeing on this, all four donned their capes and cloaks and left the inn. Outside, the downpour had abated somewhat but Ayoni could still feel the dampness working its way through at the neck and shoulder seams. As they splashed across the dockside, a procession of passengers were already disembarking, tall people bulkily attired it seemed in voluminous cloaks and furs, some of them carrying pole-arms and spears. Intrigued by this, Ayoni did not notice the small group of men hurrying towards them from along the dock until Klayse spoke up.

  “What can these fellows want of us?” he said.

  There were five of them, two quite short in stature, and all wore long, cowled cloaks. As they approached one of t
he taller ones, a dusky, small-featured man, smiled and brought out empty hands, spreading them.

  “Greetings, friends! We wish to make your acquaintance and put a proposal to you.”

  “What kind of proposal?” Ayoni said, frowning.

  “Oh, quite an involved one, yet it is certain to be of great profit,” he said, raising one hand to rub his neck.

  Everything seemed to happen at once. The two shorter strangers parted their cloaks and cast cluster of filmy, beaded tendrils at Ayoni and Chellour. Jarryc and Klayse reaction in sudden fury, both glancing momentarily at the two mages and in that instant the other two assailants had moved in close to press the points of daggers against exposed throats. Ayoni and Chellour fought against the fine entangling meshes but to no avail, and when she called on the Firedagger thought-canto nothing happened. The interlocking symbols of the spell turned in her mind but of the Lesser Power she felt nothing; even her undersenses were bereft and empty of all the nuances and invisible currents that comprised the bedrock of mage perception.

  The man who had spoken was now holding a pair of slender sabres, one pointing at Ayoni’s throat, the other at Chellour’s.

  “The both of you,” he said, “are now blind. Be still.”

  “What is the meaning of this?” Ayoni said angrily. “What harm have we done to you?”

  “It is not our wellbeing that matters,” said one of the shorter men in a Mogaun accent. He still held the other end of the webby tendrils which enfolded Ayoni who was suddenly convinced that these two were Mogaun shamen. The two daggermen meanwhile relieved Jarryc and Klayse of their blades.

  “Hold your tongue,” the first said. “Our master approaches.”

  Neither blades nor eyes wavered yet there was an air of expectancy. Reluctant to move, Ayoni tilted her head slightly and looked sideways to see the ship’s form passengers drawing near, led by one tall imposing man garbed in a long hooded cloak of wolf fur fringed with gaily-coloured tassels and adorned here and there with gold and silver symbols. Beneath he wore a quilted leather doublet a couple of sizes too small and gaping open to reveal a fine chainmail shirt. Battered, grey-brown leather leggings were armoured with small iron squares, yet the feet were shod in light sandals. He had a long mane of hair, most of which was dry beneath the hood, and dark intense eyes that betrayed no hint of pity or compassion.