“Huzur Marag is the third son to Krahel One-Arm, high chieftain of the Ten Families Clan, and also the clan’s battle general. A few days ago he had some kind of fit in his tent and fell into a black slumber — when he awoke he gathered those bands and seers loyal to him and rode south. But before he reached these lands, a few of those close to him were angered and frightened by his actions and by the change in him. The abandoned him and told us all they knew, which made our duty hard but clear.”
Ayoni nodded as she listened, realising that Huzur Marag had to be host to several spirit-wraith fragments of the Lord of Twilight.
What a long, terrible shadow he has cast on these lands, she thought. But what can I do against such a creature, and how can I be sure that Jarryc and the others will be safe?
“Tell me how my husband and friends will be protected,” she said to Atroc.
“They are being guarded by two shamen and a handful of warriors,” the ghostly seer said. “One of the shamen I have spoken with — he hates Huzur and is ready to strike a blow against him, so he will free the prisoners when I say.”
“And what of Huzur Marag? — he stank of the Wellsource, which makes me wonder how you expect me to be any danger to him.”
The reply to this came from Pirak. “He is powerful, yes, but he is undisciplined,” the old shaman said. “We are not as powerful yet we have more cunning so while we bind his fury to us, you will strike. He will have no ward against the Godriver — it will be fatal to him.”
There was a pause, an expectant silence.
“You do not have to do this for us,” said the spectral Atroc. “You can be taken back to those foothills, if you want to try and fulfill Huzur’s malign and pointless ploy.”
“Why pointless?”
Atroc’s smile was weary. “Because neither of these raging forces will change their courses — Huzur has quietly evacuated half of mainland Belkiol and ferried the bulk of his troops across. Ilgarion has been building siege machines since he reached the outskirts, making it appear that he intends to attack the town, but unbeknown to Huzur he has also been sending troops across to this side, by night.”
Ayoni was surprised at this and wondered if her husband had had a hand in the planning for this tactic.
“So what will happen?” she said.
“Who can tell?” Atroc said with a dark laugh. “Enough slaughter and madness to please the gods, perhaps? It is sure to happen later today as Huzur is going to send a band of his most brutal warriors out to raid the encampment around the nearest siege engines — Ilgarion won’t allow such a sting to his pride to go unanswered.”
Again silence fell as Ayoni considered all this while the shamen stood watching her.
“I still need to know that my husband and the others will live,” she said.
Atroc drifted a little closer. “Then when the time comes, I will myself go to Besh-Darok to where they are being held and ensure that our spy does not fail.”
“Then I will help you,” she said, looking round at the Mogaun shamen. “I will do all that I can.”
* * *
Calabos found Corlek Ondene on the Stormclaw’s aft observers deck, which was really a wide, cramped chamber on the third stern deck through which the axle of the ship’s rudder passed. A couple of narrow windows afforded a view to the vessel’s rear, the churning white wake, the seabirds wheeling in pursuit, and the shuddering moan of the strange powers that drove the ship along.
Calabos bent slightly to lean on the window’s jutting ledge, right next to Ondene. The former captain of the Iron Guard had been noticeably withdrawn since Qothan and the other outriders brought him aboard. In private shortly afterwards, Qothan had remarked to him that Ondene had been visibly disturbed to learn that the Shadowking essence still resided in the recesses of his mind. Calabos knew how such news could almost inevitably lead to inward brooding and had decided to seek Ondene out and see what might transpire.
For a while the two men stood there in companionable silence, watching the waters froth and swirl behind the Stormclaw like a long, grey tail. Then Ondene sighed.
“Is it true that you have a sword which can cut out these filthy possessing spirits?” he said, looking straight at Calabos. “Can you free me of this thing in my head?”
Calabos did not flinch from meeting that gaze. He understood with grim clarity what was going through this young man’s thoughts — speculations laced with personal horror, the fear of sleep, a continual alertness to any inner voice, a range of terrors which stretched the sense till they were as taut as a bowstring.
“I do possess such a sword, yes,” he said, knowing that it lay sheathed and wrapped in one of the Stormclaw’s storerooms, along with the other baggage which had been transferred from the Merry Meddler. “And yes, using it on you would very likely cause the expulsion of the Shadowking spirit, but there could be consequences that would make our predicament worse.”
Ondene remained outwardly calm but Calabos could deduce his inner tumult from the masklike blankness of his face and the dark intensity of his eyes.
“So once dislodged,” Ondene said, “the Shadowking spirit might range away beyond our perception and find another victim to enslave, correct?”
“With the additional risk that it might split apart into who knows how many fragments,” Calabos said. “That would make matters….complicated.”
Ondene frowned and rubbed his chin, now covered with the beginnings of a beard.
“Gods,” he muttered. “Even though the broken remnants of a god can be fatal, we are bound for the lair of yet another god and our ship is being hurried across the sea by some power of the deep!” He stepped back from the window. “I’ve had my fill, Calabos, can you not see that?”
Calabos nodded. “I do, but know this — an unbearable burden can only be borne if the weakest part is either fortified or removed entirely. I place no faith in gods or their minions, but I know that there is such a thing as fate and when the burden comes to you it is usually for a reason. None can truly divine the paths of fortune thus we must be alert to the fatefulness of others as well as ourselves. I know that the prospects seem grim for you just now, but have patience — let us see what this Sleeping God has to say.”
“This road is a hard one,” Ondene said. “The hardest I have ever trod. I don’t know, Calabos, if there is strength in me for it.”
Then he turned away and left by one of the narrow hatchways. Watching him go, Calabos wondered if he should have been more optimistic, then gave a wry smile.
What feat of oratory could make this black trial of his appear hopeful? An account of my previous self’s similar ordeals might be the thing to give him a sense of perspective, provided he didn’t think me entirely mad!
He laughed ruefully and left by the other door, thinking to wend his way through below decks to the quarters which Agasklin had given over to Ondene, Coireg and himself. But he was halfway down the main spinal corridor on the second deck when he felt the familiar stir of farspeech on the fringe of his thoughts. He paused to sit on a locker beneath one of the companionways, then opened his mind to the essence-hue of Tashil.
(Master?…)
I hear you very well, he said. How fares you and the others?
(We are…recovering. Sounek and Dybel complain but we are making them rest. But listen — something has happened since you left…)
Is it to do with Jumil? he said.
(Just so — that grey blight Ayoni witnessed in Besdarok has appeared in the palace, would you believe. It’s spread from one of the parlour chambers and is steadily bringing down walls and the floors above. And Jumil is at the centre of it, just standing there as if waiting. High Steward Roldur has tried using archers but their arrows never reach their target. Should we move against him, probe him with a few firedaggers?)
No — you’ve no way of knowing what powers he can draw on now that he has opened these gates. Avoid direct confrontation and keep him under observation for the time being.
(The High Steward will not be pleased)
Calabos’ heart sank. He has already approached you? What about the mages Tangaroth left behind? Why aren’t they being consulted?
(They’ve declined, citing exhaustion, the poor dears) There was an impression of laughter (Which is why our assistance has been requested, less than an hour ago in fact. When we spoke with the High Steward, I got the distinct feeling that refusing would have unfortunate consequences for us)
And never mind the agreement of yesterday, Calabos said bitterly. Then you’ll have to baffle him with some cryptic twaddle. Talk to Dardan and work out some arcane-sounding gibberish, then go to observe the blight, throw in some impressive light and sparks, but do not launch a real attack. Once I return we shall make a thorough examination of the blight and determine how to deal with it.
(An interesting ploy, master. I shall enjoy putting it into practice)
Just be careful that none of Tangaroth’s people are nearby.
(That is certainly advisable, yes)
And Tashil — when this is all over, I shall see that a memorial to your brother is put up in the Kala burial grove. He was a brave man and did not deserve to die so young.
(Thank you master. Farewell)
As her presence faded from his thoughts he straightened from a hunched-over seated position and saw Coireg Mazaret leaning against the side of the companionway, watching with a faint smile on his lips.
“Friend or foe?” he said. “Good news or bad?”
Calabos uttered an amused grunt. “Friend, and bad news which could become worse.” And he related the highlights of what he had learned from Tashil.
“So now we do have five of these blights,” Coireg said, frowning suddenly. “Five? — we’ve already seen the emergence of one Shadowking…you don’t think….”
Calabos shrugged. “I’m not sure what to think, but hopefully our audience with the mysterious Sleeping God will shed some light where there is at the moment none!”
“We live in an esoteric world,” Coireg said. “Or at least one where real understanding lies behind veils of lore. Real people and events from the past become symbolic to later generations and that just obcures our understanding even more — understanding of the present as well as of the past.”
Calabos chuckled, knowing what people and events he was referring to. “Perhaps history should be put on the pyre, yes? Stick to the oldest myths?”
“No, for that would turn the possibility of repeating past mistakes into a certainty. What is missing is the uncluttered understanding of those distant myths, the hoary origins of this deadly conflict in which we’re trapped.”
“An uncluttered understanding….” Then Calabos snapped his fingers. “Ah, what you mean is the ancients’ own comprehension of the primal myths but in your own terms!”
Coireg was still for a moment, then he grinned.
“Yes, that’s close.” He nodded. “Then we could grasp the reasons why we are being harried by gods and the remnants of gods, and what drives them to involve themselves in the business of mortals. For example, the powers that are hurling us across the sea at such a pace — are they truly gods of the deep or are they godlike spirits?”
Calabos smiled. “Have you asked Qothan or Prince Agasklin this?”
“I did and was told that the ancient analects of the Israganthir have much to say about the gods of the deep but only the eyes of the elders are permitted to read them. Which is why I came looking for you.”
Calabos stood and sidled out from behind the companionway.
“Sorry Coireg, but I can’t be much help with such matters,” he said. “My, ah, predecessor’s knowledge of primal origins was sketchy at best, and was also received knowledge — he had no understanding of the roots of events and thus no context for the tumult of images and half-memories…” Calabos glanced either way, then lowered his voice. “Which anyway were the Lord of Twilight’s, not Byrnak’s.”
“So nothing remains? At all?”
He shrugged. “Scraps, names and little more — Tethost, Uzlat, Mozals the Many, Grath the Unbounded….I’m sure I overheard Agasklin mention ‘Mozals’ to Qothan just before we left Sejeend, so that may be who or what is pushing us across the sea.”
Coireg nodded thoughtfully. “Perhaps questioning Qothan and Agasklin together was a mistake — I wonder if Qothan would be more forthcoming on his own?”
“It shouldn’t do any harm,” Calabos said. “Provided you don’t overstep the mark.”
“Ah, you mean knowing when to let go of a question,” Coireg said. “Wise advice — I just hope I keep it in mind.”
Laughing, they parted, Coireg climbing the companionway to the main deck where Qothan usually was , wihle Calabos continued for’ard. His earlier exchange with Ondene had came back to him during the chat with Coireg and he had a niggling urge to check on the sword of powers, to be assured that, if all else failed, there was still one way to deal a telling blow.
* * *
Coireg climbed the companionway some half a dozen steps then paused to glance back at Calabos’ receding back, studying his gait and his appearance for a moment before smiling. Yes, the change was becoming visible — Calabos was altering his physical attributes, shedding the frailness that had been the unavoidable part of adopting the guise of an old man. Now his bearing was straighter and an air of vigour was beginning to emerge, which was much more like his old self.
But what was not familiar was his decision to admit to Qothan and Agasklin his former identity. In all their long wandering years together, Coireg had only ever heard Calabos mention Byrnak when he was very drunk and then only rarely. Perhaps at last the old names and memories were starting to lost their deadly potency for him. Perhaps a new life beckoned for him — once the current difficulties were attended to.
Laughing quietly, he resumed his ascent.
* * *
The journey from the shamen hideout in Belkiol to the bank of the Great Canal and thence over to the island of Besdarok was fraught with the fear of discovery. As well as the troop and supply boats that were moving back and forth across the strait, there were other boats with archers which were patrolling for a couple of miles in either direction. By the time Ayoni and the shamen reached the opposite bank, nearly three hours had elapsed since she had been brought of the induced stupor.
From the cover of a weedy, bush-enclosed overhang, they climbed a steep set of stairs crudely hewn into the side of huge, jutting rock. Once up on level ground, they followed a track through trees wound with dog ivy, and emerged momentarily on a rocky ledge on the flank of a broken-backed mountain. The ledge afforded a magnificent view of the rolling fields and lush wild orchards which lay between the canal and the city of Beshdarok, its pale walls just visible in the hazy distance. Under the clouded sun of early afternoon, a kind of slumbering tranquility hung over the scene, accentuated by the smal flock of belltails which swooped up and away from a wood below.
The track led back into the undergrowth and twisted and turned down through a maze of fallen trunks and mossy stone boulders as big as houses. A dry streambed turned into a steep gully masked by interlaced, overhanging torwood trees where the air was warm and moist and the light had a distinctly green tinge. The foliage thinned away to nothing when the gully reached an abrupt and sheer drop which must have been a waterfall, Ayoni guessed. But they had taken a sidepath just before the drop, which led through dense, spiny bushes to the edge of what at first looked like a wide clearing where they beheld an encampment. And the camp was in turmoil.
As Ayoni took in more details she realised that she was looking along a sizeable saddle ridge between the wooded hill and the harsh, rocky slope of a small mountain. Amid a din of voices, Mogaun warriors were milling around, snatching up weapons and vaulting onto the backs of their horses. Feathery flags and small, embroidered pennons fluttered form thin poles by every curved tent while a large red banner bearing a wolfs head hung from a crosspiece jutting above a large
r tent at the centre. Before its draped entrance stood a tall, furclad figure issuing orders with every breath — the chieftain Huzur Marag.
The shaman Pirak listened for a moment, then turned to Ayoni.
“Ilgarion’s secret incursion is a secret no more — they’ve been spotted some 3 miles to the south so the warriors are riding to meet them.”
“Why not hold their positions here?” Ayoni said. “They could repulse any attack…”
“Because on the other side of this ridge is the western portion of Belkiol, the tent city of the pilgrims, which is now swollen by evacuees from across the canal.” Pirak shook his head. “Huzur cannot take the chance that Ilgarion will outflank him by marching round the mountain to attack the tent city from the north, thus he hopes to stop him on the open ground.”
Ayoni nodded, wishing privately that Atroc was still with them — but only for moment. She knew that he was away in the palace as Besdarok, watching over her husband, Chellour and Baron Klayse, a steadying knowledge.
At length the last of the riders was gone with a shout as he guided his mount down the southern slope of the ridge, leaving behind a nearly empty camp. Huzur Marag stood before his tent conversing vigorously with a bone-adorned underling while half a dozen warriors with blade and bucklers stood guard nearby. There were a few other figures moving around, boys carrying hay bales to the vacant horse pens, a few old women tending to the camp fires or refilling water kegs.
“Now we shall act,” Pirak said.
Ayoni turned to see the elder seer flanked by two of his two of his fellow shamen, but the other three had gone.
“Where…” she began.
“Like mist across the grass, they are already moving forth among the tents,” Pirak said. “When our struggle with that abomination begins, they will make sure his guards are muzzled. When all of us who survive join the onslaught, that will be the sign for you to strike, and strike with all your might!”
Ayoni swallowed her anxiety, feeling perspiration prickle all over her body. She nodded and Pirak smiled.
“May the gods guard your way,” he said.
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