And a veil of odours —
And the ungainly, jointed bonework of a body —
And then the darkness itself began to leach away, pursued by the cloud of muttering voices and for moment it seemed that the great shadowy murk would break apart. But it stayed whole as it sank beyond the horizon of Ondene’s expanding perceptions.
Which rose into the soft light of evening and the cold ground on which he lay and the looming shapes of figures gathered around him. The icy air in his lungs he savoured, along with the wetness seeping into his clothes and the cries of stallowners somewhere along the street. As he struggled to sit up, hands grabbed his shoulder and arms and lent him support. Coughing on a rawness in his throat, he looked round to see who his helpers were, saw it was Qothan and others like him, and began to laugh. Qothan, who was holding a lidless grey vial in his other hand, glanced up at his companions for a moment, then smiled faintly.
“Are you well, ser Ondene?” he said.
“Never better, Qothan, my friend!” He noticed more about the others present and the surroundings, then realised where he was and grinned. “Are you about to tell me that we’ve got to get down to the docks and without delay?”
Qothan stood and helped him to his feet.
“An accurate guess, Captain.”
“Good — give us a chance to swap tales, eh?”
“Perhaps later,” the tall man said. “The first thing you must understand is how to cope with the passenger which you have in your head.”
Ondene’s smile faltered. “That thing….is still there?”
Qothan nodded. “Suppressed by an elixir which I managed to force down his throat,. But come — there will be time enough for details as we go.”
Ondene could only feel a hollow dread as they began walking, as well as a host of minor aches and bruises. As he rubbed his neck he said, “It is your ship we’re returning to, yes?”
“Yes — my captain is keen to speak with you, as is Beltran Calabos.”
That has an ominous ring to it, he thought as he followed Qothan along the northerly road. Could there be, I wonder, more risk and peril awaiting me?
Chapter Sixteen
We sail through the icy dark,
Towards a shore of death and blood,
Where dream armies of ironclad pain,
Fight and fall and rise to fight again.
—Eshen Caredu, Storm Voyage, ch5
Smooth and unbroken, the grey seeding shroud lay evenly in a ragged oval across the hall. From where he stood, near the centre, Jumil looked on with satisfaction as a pillar, its base eaten away, cracked loose from the ornate ceiling and toppled to crash onto the shroud. It smashed into several pieces which quickly vanished under a surge of grey as the shroud consumed them. Meanwhile, plaster and mortar was spilling from one of the walls as the shroud’s edge nibbled at it, a precursor to the slowly widening hole in the wall opposite.
Cracks were starting to appear in the painted, gilded and mirrored ceiling and with increasing frequency shard of golden plaster and silvered glass fell in glittering cascades that were swiftly swallowe by the greyness. Soon, the ceiling would give way and when one of the supporting walls was gone a great collapse would begin and spread further out, bringing down more and more of the palace.
About which Jumil was unconcerned, for it was all part of his master’s plan to join this realm to his own, to bridge the great abyss, to finally right the ancient wrong, invincibly, indivisibly, irrevocably.
On the spot where he stood, not far from the featureless mound in the middle, the substance of the shroud was only a hard grey surface beneath his shoes. But there was another figure upon the shroud, cloaked head to foot in its greyness, meandering to and fro, trudging nonstop around the shroud’s perimeter. Jumil smiled to see Vorik’s torment, especially whenever he scowled or mouthed imprecations or shook a clenched grey fist in his direction. His former mainstay had conspired with a member of his own flock to confound the consequences of the Shatterseed ritual by switching the amulet and employing cantrips cribbed from some of Jumil’s own notebooks. But because the fool did not understand the very spells he was using, he ended up trapped in the seeding shroud anyway. He seemed to have considerable autonomy within its boundaries for now but sooner or later, Jumil surmised, he was be wholly devoured by it.
Yet Vorik was only a minor distraction — Jumil’s attention was actually divided into five, his senses taking in sights and sounds from the other four Shattergate locations as well as this one. From Adnagaur and Oumetra came images of guards patrolling the surroundings of the grey shroud, in both cases amid areas of closely-built houses and warehouses, the former amid gloomy mist, the latter under bright sunshine. In Alvergost the ruined citadel in the far south of Khatris, rain was falling on the seeding shroud which had gnawed its way past the confines of a tumbledown house and was already demolishing those around it while a ragged crowd gazed fearfully from flimsy shelters.
In Besh-Darok he caught glimpses of the Mogaun he had noticed earlier, a peculiar development coming so soon after those four intrusive ghost-things which he had ruthlessly dealt with, obliterating all but one of them. But these Mogaun — he was sure that they were shamen from the slightness of their stature and from their apparent ability to know when he was watching, resulting in a brisk scurrying out of sight. Were they taking part in the pilgrimage to the Carver’s shrine, or were they perhaps members of some chief’s retinue? But if that were so, why were they still nearby?
Then he smiled to himself, secure in the knowledge that nothing they were capable of doing could stop or slow the inevitable adance of the seeding shrouds. Indeed, before long he would be ready to commence the next stage of the shatterseed ritual which would allow the shrouds to expand at a faster rate. Seizing a greater breadth of territory, along with all that it held, would provide all the raw matter necessary for the correct forming of the Shattergates and once they were complete, the conquest could truly begin.
An arrow came flying into the collapsing room and was snatched out of midair by a grey meshlike limb which shot up from the shroud. Others followed, some in Jumil’s direction, some at Vorik who was waving his arms and ranting silently at some archers gathered by the gap in the wall. Every missile which struck him was absorbed into his grey form, almost without his noticing.
Soon, Jumil thought as the archers hurriedly retreated from a cascade of tumbling masonry. Soon, the kingdom!
* * *
Bound hand and foot, Ayoni had been first slung over the shoulder of a hulking and malodorous Mogaun warrior then carried out of the palace and down to an overgrown, bush-flanked gap in the city’s crumbling wall. There she had been unceremoniously dumped into the back of a small cart to which a mule was harnessed, and had a damp, moth-eaten fur cloak thrown over her. The strange gossamer mesh was still wound tightly about her and isolating her from the Lesser Power, with a smothering glamour which defied every attempt to break through.
Shaken, scared and angry all at once, she eventually had to admit defeat and tried to relax as the cart bumped and rattled its way towards Belkiol on the banks of the Great Canal. But when Ayoni began thinking about what she could say to Tangaroth or Ilgarion that might persuade them to attack the mainland part of Belkiol, a kind of panic set in. The faces of Jarryc and Chellour and Klayse kept coming back to her and her thoughts turned into a frantic whirl of possible stories, possible opening words, what to emphasise and when to do so, whether or not to include an emotional outburst, and when it might be most useful, or to attempt the appeal to reason, or the appeal to aristocratic loyalty, or the admission of past sins and the humble desire to atone….
But by the time the cart came to a halt near the bush banks of the canal, her mind was no clearer on what tactic to employ. When the fur cloak was tugged away she could see that it was now well into the morning, with only brief moments of sunlight slipping past the shifting tapestry of clouds that was unrolling across the sky. She could also see that they
were about half a mile along from Belkiol, visible beyond rocky hills by virtue of its camp fires. Then her captors, two leering Mogaun fighters and a scrawny shaman, cut the bonds on her ankles then steered her roughly down a pebbly track to where a timber landing poked out from the bank. In a flat-bottomed boat moored at the end, a man in a grubby brown shoreman’s smock looked up at their approach, his face turning surly when he saw who it was.
“Took yer time,” he said.
“We pay for your boat,” the shaman said. “Not for your comfort.”
The boatman seemed about to give a biting reply, then eyed the warriors and shrugged.
“Right…well put ‘er in my boat and I’ll take ‘er over.”
Ayoni was lifted by the arms and none too gently deposited in the little craft’s stern. The boatman then looked up at the shaman and held out his hand. The two men glared at each other for a moment before the shaman dropped some coins in the outstretched hand. Once the money was counted and pocketed, the boatman took out a long, rust-spotted dagger and cut the rope binding Ayoni’s wrists.
“Thanks,” she said in surprise, massaging feeling back into her hands.
“Oars,” the boatman said, gesturing with the dagger.
If her upbringing had been as cossetted as most of the ladies of the court, she would probably have been reduced to tears by now. Instead, she calmly picked up the oars, fitting one then the other into the rowlocks; when they were set and done he merely pointed out across the canal with the daggerpoint. As she bent to the oars and the boat moved away from the landing, the boatman gave the three Mogaun a despising smile.
“Pleasure doin’ business with yer…”
It was a long and tiring row, for all that there were no currents to battle nor serious waves to contend with. As she pushed on with the rhythm of it, she could still the figures of the Mogaun standing on the jetty, watching.
“I knows yer a mage,” the boatman said unexpectedly. “And I knows that them webby strings keeps you harmless.” There was something greedy in his eyes. “If’n cut them off, you could do me some favours, on your oath…”
She met his gaze. “Such as?”
“Well, see this pig-sticker?” He held up the dagger. “Be nice if it were silver and had a few jewels on it….or if I had rich robes…”
“I don’t do that kind of sorcery.”
Anger showed in his face. “They don’t mean ter let you go, I heard ‘em. That thing’ll stay on and when the empire soldiers come you’ll be as helpless as a lamb — but if you give me your word to help me, I’ll cut it off….”
There was a faint crackling sound and as Ayoni leaned forward and pulled back, the glittering meshes around her midriff broke apart and fell into her lap and the bottom of the boat. At once Ayoni felt a surge of sensations as her mage perceptions made contact with the Lesser Power. She allowed herself to feel a certain measure of satisfaction as the boatman’s attitude altered radically — she could almost see the fear filling him up to the brim. She ceased rowing and angled the oars towards him.
“Your turn, I believe,” she said brightly while calling up the thought-canto Barb, which wreathed her hand in a web of lightning.
When the boat bumped up against a sagging, half-submerged log jetty, she forced herself to be relaxed as she rose and stepped onto the slippery timbers. And before she could utter so much as a sardonic word of farewell, the boatman had pushed off from the jetty and was already rowing strenuously away. She watched him go for a moment then stared out at the opposite bank where she could just see three figures walking out of sight.
With that her spirits began to sink once more. She surveyed her surroundings, trying to get her bearings as she made her way up the decrepit and unsteady jetty to where a couple of huts stood next to an empty livestock pen. This had to be a farmer’s crossing, she reasoned, but apparently abandoned for some time. Looking east through the faint river haze, Ayoni could make out clusters of buildings and innumerable trails of smoke about half a mile away, which had to be the mainland half of Belkiol. A town fortified against the imperial army, according to the Mogaun Huzur Marag, the very place that he wanted Ilgarion to attack.
How can I possibly ensure that our stupid emperor will follow that course? she thought. If I try to persuade him to do so, he might take it as a bluff or even a double bluff, and if I try to persuade him to avoid it the same applies…
She shook her head, knowing that her husband Jarryc and the others depended on her so she would have to do what had to be done, which now meant getting herself captured. Ayoni saw that several tracks led away from the jetty, one of which ledge up a hillside then along a ridge heading west in the direction of the Imperial army camps. Ilgarion’s scouts would surely be watching these approaches so getting their attention should not be difficult.
Her every footstep felt heavy with despair as she left the bank and began trudging uphill. The air was cool but had that fresh edge which hinted at rain to come, even though the sky was a panorama of cluster and knots of clouds all seemingly racing each other to the far side of the sky.
There were bushes and scrawny trees all along the trail and occasionally she heard the crack and wheep of twig birds or the tiny sawing of a dogbeetle. She was concentrating on the sweet musical trill of a greenwing coming from just up ahead when she heard the rush of something flying towards her from behind. Even as she turned she knew she should be ducking, knew that the birdsong had been a lulling distraction…
The missile struck the side of her head and exploded in a cloud of purple dust which was inside her nose, mouth and eyes before she could react. With her first breath a jostling band of tastes cascaded across her tongue; with her second breath, the tastes and odours seemed to break from her nose and mouth and flow up into her mind; with her third breath her senses began to slip and blur and it seemed that she could see sounds and hear colours, even as her legs gave way and she sprawled on the grassy ground….
She was dimly aware of figures gathering around her, one of whom berated another over some misjudgement, in voices that conversed in the Mogaun tongue, she notices. But it seemed unimportant to her as a delirium of strange beauties swamped her senses. Impressions of action filtered through, an air of urgency (silver voices muttering warnings) then movement as she was being carried somewhere near river odours (green and blue notes echoing) and a wallowing, a gentle rocking, moving along again, silence and a rising caution (black and purple hiss) caution, then lifted and carried once more into a shadowy interior, a building perhaps….
Her thoughts drifted into torpor as the effects of the dust began to wear off, and a deepening drowse deadened all thought until it seemed that slumber was only the antechamber to a darker, more desireable oblivion…
Something cut through the smothering reverie like an axe through weeds, a shockingly strong smell that wrenched her into full alertness in just a moment or two.
“Good! You have not been crippled — the gods must approve of our plans.”
Eyes wide, Ayoni sat up and looked about her. She was in a small, dim room lit by tallow candles flickering in a couple of wall niches. She was being closely, warily watched by half a dozen scrawny, elderly Mogaun shamen, one of whom was holding a little leather pouch which she guessed was the source of that astonishing odour.
“Foxbane?” she said.
The shaman holding the pouch nodded sharply. He was the most aged of the six, bony shoulders bent beneath a grubby hide cape, long grey hair trailing from a balding skull so pared of excess flesh that his steady dark eyes were the most vital thing about him. His smile was humorless and gap-toothed.
“A fine scour against ragbloom powder, of which you were dealt too much,” he said in a throaty, faintly sibilant voice. “I am Pirak, 27th seer to the Ten Families, and it gives me no pleasure to have brought a mage of the Godriver into honourable Belkiol. But while other seers have given themselves over, duty still binds us — abomination must be torn out!”
There were a
greeing nods to this and Ayoni felt a foreboding stir within her.
“What abomination?”
“You have seen him,” said Pirak. “You have heard him speak of the voices inside him, yes?” He nodded quickly, his lips curled in disgust. “You know of him.”
“The chieftain, Huzur Marag,” she said, suddenly reluctant to know any more.
“Yes, you know,” Pirak said. “And we know what must be done-”
One of the other shamen interrupted, pointing off at the other side of the room. “He comes.”
Pirak looked half-pleased, half-fearful as he turned and the gathering drew apart to admit a slight and spectral figure which drifted over to regard Ayoni with stoic humour.
It was Atroc.
“The last I saw of you,” she said, “you were about to become food for the grey blight.”
“Heh — hard-to-catch food!” he said, grinning.
“So what am I to be?” she said. “A sacrifice of some kind?”
He shook his head. “We want you, countess lady, to kill Huzur Marag!”
Ayoni breathed in and out deeply, trying to stay calm.
“Pardon me, honoured Atroc,” she said. “But you may not be aware that Huzur Marag holds my husband and two other friends prisoner against my obedience to his plans…”
“I know of this,” Atroc said. “And they will be safe, on my oath.”
Ayoni was suddenly angry. “Why do I find it hard to believe or trust you, seer? What accounts for your meddling in this?”
There were outraged mutters from the onlooking shamen but Atroc silence them with an upraised hand.
“During the Blood War, which you call the Shadowking war, a great many warriors of the Mogaun were possessed by evil spirits of death,” Atroc said grimly. “And even one of the high chieftains, my own Prince Yasgur, was usurped by the corrupted spirit of his father, Hegroun. This is why Huzur Marag must be cleansed, one way or another.”
“So who is Huzur Marag?” she said.
Atroc glanced at Pirak who seemed to steel himself before speaking.
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