Shadowmasque

by Michael Cobley

  “And yours, honoured seer.”

  With that, the three shamen turned and walked side by side out of the greenery and through the camp towards Huzur Marag. The chieftain only notice their approach when one of his guards gave the alert, and the furious glare which came to his face quickly turned into an unpleasant smile. Pirak led his companions to a halt several yards from him, raised his hand and spoke what sounded like a greeting, followed by a small, stiff bow. From where she waited behind a veil of foliage, Ayoni had focus on her magesight to bring the scene closer in her vision. The exchange seemed polite and calm enough with Huzur Marag listening attentively and nodding occasionally.

  But the tension leaped when he interrupted Pirak’s oration, jabbed a forefinger to the south then the north then made a slashing gesture to end the dialogue and turned away to his tent. Pirak raised one hand, palm outwards, and uttered an angry shout so loud that it echoed back from the mountain face beyond. For a second Huzur Marag looked as startled as Ayoni felt, then said something with a snarl and spat on the ground. Pirak’s upraised hand came down to level an outstretched pointing finger at the chieftain as if what he was pronouncing was some kind of judgement. Huzur Marag just laughed and gestured his guards to move in on the shamen.

  All six guards, however, took only a few steps before they all went down, choking and struggling against foggy white serpents which had appeared around their necks. At the same time a flock of similar apparitions flew from the three seers’ outflung hands towards Huzur Marag. As they entangled themselves around the enraged, bellowing chief, the othe shamen emerged from behind nearby tents, their hands scribing invisible patterns then making casting gestures. Misty ripples rushed through the air and struck the chieftain, throwing him back off his feet.

  Ayoni suddenly realise that this was when she was supposed to play her part. Pushing out of the leafy curtain she ran across the grassy, rocky ground, keep the tents between her and Huzur. Moments later she was behind a tent next to the small battleground but as she edged her head round to see what was happening she saw the tall figure of Huzur Marag standing again with his back to her just a few yards away. One hand was blazing with a hot emerald fire as he tore the blurry white snakes away from his face, neck and chest, while the other hand was clamped arond the throat of one of Pirak’s fellow seers, whose blank eyes and limp body spoke only of death.

  As she called on the Lesser Power, fashioning it into a Firedagger spell, he became aware of her presence and turned. A jagged, red bolt sprang from her suddenly open hand and struck him high in the chest. His furs and hair flashed into flames and he howled in agony. Releasing the dead seer he clawed at the fire even as it took hold beneath his skin. The howling became a shattering scream and he fell writhing to the ground. Pirak came at a stumbling run with a peculiar stone dagger in his hand, fell to his knees beside the convulsing chieftain and buried it in his chest. The man’s still-burning head let out a long, hoarse groan and sank back, lifeless, yet the legs twitched and kicked and the clutching hands managed to grab hold of Pirak’s bony arm. Ayoni joined in the struggle to free him but moments later the rest of the body went limp. As they got to their feet, Ayoni felt a shiver of horror as what looked like dark smoke oozed out of the corpse’s mouth and eyes and gathered together in a slow, undulating knot of ashen vapour, a spirit-wraith Ayoni realised, a fragment of the Lord of Twilight.

  As it floated away, a second one emerged and a third and Ayoni wondered how many other people were cursed to be hosts for such vile remnants of evil.

  “He mentioned his inner voices,” she said as she turned away.

  “They are thirsty ghosts,” Pirak said. “They hunger to devour the world and even that would not suffice…”

  A fearful shout from one of the other seers made them look back, Pirak turning sufficiently to take the point of a long cleaver blade wielded by Huzur Marag as he sat up and roared. Ayoni screamed in shock as Pirak fell back with a cry to sprawl on the ground. Huzur Marag, his head and face a charred and smoking ruin, let out a bestial growl and lurched to his feet. Without hesitation, Ayoni and the other shamen launched another sorcerous assault and he went down again, blade tumbling from an insensible grip. Once more the body twitched and lay still and again a spirit-wraith drew itself out of the seared head and began to float away. But then it swung round and flew back to the corpse and into the blackened, hairless scalp. The eyes flew open, the lips parted and the chest drew breath…

  But Ayoni snatched up the fallen sword and with all her strength hacked off the loathsome head. Blood gouted and once more the grey spirit-wraith tore itself free from the lifeless head and darted away. Ayoni watched its departure for a moment before turning to crouch beside the fatally-wounded Pirak.

  “A mighty blow, child of earth,” the old seer said, wheezing. One of the othe shamen was trying to staunch the bleeding but it was clearly futile, and the other shamen were sitting nearby, quietly murmuring a dirge-like chant.

  Pirak beckoned to her with trembling fingers. “My time is…..almost upon me, child, so hear me well — your husband and your friends are free and riding this way…the long voice of Atroc told me this, even as we were coming upon this camp….”

  “You said nothing?” Ayoni said. “Why?”

  “For a dreadful thing has happened, child….the grey blight, which he said so much about before you came to Belkiol, it has started…to grow!…” The wheezing in his throat sounded like torment. “It is spreading out from the old palace as fast as a running man, consuming everything in its path….when your companions arrive you must go with my brothers here and return across the canal….there is fighting around the town so you must find….somewhere safe….”

  “Will the blight stop at the canal?” she said.

  Pirak managed a frail smile. “Who is to know? — only by crossing will you know….now, you must do me a service, child, by hurrying to the side of the ridge and looking towards the city so we may know more….”

  “Very well, Pirak,” she said.

  She got to her feet and ran over to where a natural rock platform protruded from the southern face of the ridge, and from there she gazed east. But the faroff pale walls of Besdarok could not be seen for a grey murk which lay across the land like a low even band of fog or smoke. As she looked closer, focussing on her magesight, she gained few more details except that the foggy murk looked denser and had the appearance of a barrier several storeys high, moving forward and engulfing fields, trees and buildings alike. It was a chilling sight. Panicking people she saw, too, fleeing on foot, horse or cart, but of three riders together she saw no sign, but knew that they could be beneath the canopy of any of the woods laid out before her. She concentrated on the panoramic view, fixing it in her mind, then dashed back to the centre of the camp.

  But when she reached the little group Atroc was there, hovering near the sad, still form of Pirak, who was dead.

  “He didn’t want me to see him slip away,” Ayoni murmured.

  Atroc nodded. “We seers hold on to our dignity to the bitter end.”

  Hearing an echo of her own sorrow in his voice, she regarded him and saw that the opacity of his spectral form was more transparent than before. He looked weary and rueful, and utterly untouched by the steady breeze that was blowing over the ridge, making the tents flap and the flags flutter and snap.

  “I do no know what I and the others came to be trapped on this island,” he said. “Trapped here like ghosts in a stoppered bottle. And now another mighty, unfathomable event has come to break the glass and let the sands pour away.” He met her gaze and smiled, kind yet resigned. “This is my end, Countess, but I will not make you avert your eyes.”

  The surviving shamen chanted softly and Atroc gradually faded into fine, gauzy outlines and a few diminishing details. The ghostly seer raised his hand in farewell to them all and seemed to close his eyes as the last of him vanished silently from sight. Ayoni wiped tears away, then stood and walked beyond the tents to look out to
wards the encroaching wall of the blight. The greyness was wider and noticeably nearer than before, athough it would still take more than an hour to reach the hills and crags near the canal. Then as she swept the open fields and downs in the middle distance she spotted three riders moving towards the ridge at a gallop.

  Chellour! she said in farspeech.

  (Ah, there you are…)

  How is Jarryc? And Baron Klayse?

  (Both eager to teach that Mogaun chief a lesson or two)

  She smiled. Tell them that won’t be necessary.

  (I see — do I detect hints of a heroic tale?)

  I’m sure you’ll be able to match it.

  (Hmm, you may be right. See you soon…)

  As his thought-presence trailed away from her mind, she sat down on a mossy boulder to face the east and wait.

  Chapter Seventeen

  In the icy verge of twilight’s hour,

  We stumble through the jaws of the storm,

  Behind us the ruins of an age,

  Before us a defiled world.

  —Vosada Boroal, The Great House of Hallebron, book ii, 2.12

  Corlek Ondene was standing on a canopied part of the Stormclaw’s forecastle, sheltered from the gusting rain and the spindrift, when the island of the Sleeping God hoved into view. Its name, Nydratha, meant ‘lair of tempests’, or so Qothan had said earlier. At first it was just a blurred darkness in the vast grey downpour but as it drew near, shadowy forms began to emerge, outlines of tall crags with something darker at the centre. Closer still, the clustered crags took on more detail and Ondene saw rearing, wind-scarred spines, twisted and serrated stone faces, bizarre columns and ridges, adorned with curves and smooth holes like the last work of a disturbed sculptor.

  And at their centre, a gyring tornado whose grinding bass moan was starting to vye with the rushing roar of the rain.

  He stared at the towering grey-brown-black vortext, at the tails and wisps of low cloud being dragged into the fury along with rags of mist and spray.

  The home of a god, he thought sombrely. What am I doing here? What would a god want from me? Then he thought of the dark and hungry thing lodged in the depths of his own mind, and shuddered.

  Beneath his feet the forecastle deck heeled and rocked as the ship ploughed relentlessly on through the increasingly wild waters. Great sheets of spray flew up under the impact of the prow, and a fitful crashing sound was just audible above the embracing din of the tornado. And yet, within the convulsive roar, he could just make out voices shouting somewhere behind him. Turning, he saw one of the tall, cloaked Ushralanti standing at the starboard side, arms raised as he bellowed in the face of the broken, whirling waves. And as Ondene watched him, he felt something shift within, the sense of a presence stirring and taking notice like the glitter of inimical eyes staring from far back in the night.

  After a moment or two, something began to emerge from the spray, silvery outlines of huge shapes, groteque ghost forms that rode and plunged through the spume alongside both flanks of the Stormclaw.

  Powers of the deep, he thought as he stared. To whom do they owe allegiance and what kind of payment do they exact?

  He was not sure whether to feel dread or awe, while wishing that he could adopt Calabos’ more skeptical point of view. Yet the older man had the air of one who knew the meaning of burdens beyond the domain of ordinary living, who seemed to wholly understand the sickening fear that gnawed at Ondene’s sanity. In his thoughts he sometimes imagined it as a swarm of rats or serpents threatening to spill out of the slumbering shadows at the back of his mind….

  Behind him he heard the footsteps of someone climbing the companionway and looked over his shoulder to see Coireg Mazaret come into view. When he saw Ondene, he grinned.

  “Greetings, captain,” he said. “We shall soon be at our destination and mysteries will start to give up their secrets!”

  Ondene gave a wan smile. “So, friend Coireg, what berth can be found in this place? It looks purposefully fashioned to be a ship-wrecker…”

  “As I understand it,” Coireg said, joining him and pointing at the approaching isle, “there is a clear channel through the hidden rocks and reefs to a small sheltered harbour. Prince Agasklin tells me that our powerful benefactors have agreed to bear us there, but that almost implies that we may need similar help to leave!”

  “They are a strange people, the Ushralanti,” Ondene said evenly. “Almost as strange as Calabos and yourself.”

  Coireg gave a surprised smile and raised one eyebrow. “Indeed? — how so?”

  He shrugged. “You both clearly have a long shared past, even when you account for your family connections. Yet when I was younger, before my maturity, Calabos was a regular guest at my father’s hous and I never heard him mention you or any other of his relatives.”

  An amused look passed across Coireg’s face. “Our family….is a singular tribe. We seldom make the effort to contact each other, and even then it is usually through odd intermediaries.”

  “I would also guess that you’ve both seen some majestic sights and engaged in perilous ventures.”

  “Occasionally,” Coireg conceded. “Now and then. Before my unfortunate malady laid me low, of course.”

  Ondene nodded sagely, knowingly. “Calabos’ help must have been a great solace to you — in truth, he spoke as litle about his early life as he did about his family, yet I did learn of a peculiar blade that he possesses. Do you know of this?”

  Coireg seemed puzzled for a moment, then nodded. “Ah, you mean the trophy! I understand that it once had some kind of sorcerous potency, but has faded with time apparently.”

  “Has he got it here, on board perhaps?” Ondene said, and was suddenly aware of the desperation in his own manner when he saw Coireg frown.

  “Why do you ask….ah, wait, we are almost there — look!”

  Following his outstretched arm, Ondene saw the maze of wave-thrashed reefs pass by on either side as the Stormclaw rode through on eldritch currents. The ship’s timbers creaked and shook underfoot while great fangs and walls of rock loomed closer. The monstrous, towering funnel of the vortex filled the sky, its harsh droning near loud enough to drown all else. The gusting air snatched at loose folds of Ondene’s cloak and disarranged his hair, provoking a nervous laughter, and he grabbed at the deck’s balustrading for support as the ship slowed suddenly, its stern swinging round. The waters seemed boil as the Ushralanti’s sorcerous allies guided the Stormclaw into the comparative calm of a small harbour cupped in the shelter of bare, sheer crags. A jutting tongue of stone had been crudely hewn down to serve as a jetty and it was to this that their vessel was finally moored with several large padded baffles of old sailcloth hung over the side to protect the hull from damage.

  Calabos and Qothan emerged from below decks and watched the crew energetically cope with the berthing for a moment before looking up at the forecastle and waving. Ondene called out a greeting which was swallowed in the storm’s roar, and waved back, then Coireg tapped him on the shoulder and leaned in close.

  “We shall soon go ashore,” he said loudly. “Be prepared.”

  Ondene laughed. “Is it possible to be prepared for meeting a god? And how would I know when I was?”

  Coireg’s answering laughter was muffled in the din. “Good — I can see that you are, now!”

  The turbulent waters subdided to the normal surge and swell of a stormy sea. A heavy, wind-driven mist filled the air as Ondene and Coireg Mazaret descended to join Calabos and Qothan on the main deck, where Agasklin and the other chieftain of the ship were also gathering. All were now wearing large, hooded robes strangely patterned in pale brown and red — similar garments were passed to Ondene and Coireg and as they donned them, Calabos said:

  “These are for protection against the inner and the outer conditions. Ready? — excellent!”

  He turned to Agasklin and gave a sharp nod. The stern Ushralanti then led them all across an open gantry to the stone jetty. Feeling
not the least bit ready, Ondene gathered up the baggy folds of his robe and followed Coireg across and the moment his feet touched the uneven solidity of the jetty he felt a certain uneasy tension, the feeling that he was being observed. Walking in line with the others he glanced about him at the rearing, weathered columns and curved walls, all bare of any kind of vegetation, then let his gaze rise to the vast roiling pillar of the storm. He wiped away beads of moisture from his face with one capacious sleeve while giving the vortex a wry smile.

  Do our capers please you? he thought. Have we played well enough our part in the masque?

  But there came no answer that he could hear.

  Through flying mist the party made its trudging way along a cracked, rubble-strewn path which wound among great, shattered pieces of rock, many clearly positioned to form an irregular tunnel. Water dripped and trickled through the many gaps, forming pools and rills for feet to splash in, and the sound the vortex was a fiendish cataract of shrieks and howls that swamped the ears.

  Ondene felt the intensity of the observing presence gradually grow with every onward step, becoming stronger and more encompassing as if he were a frail toy being examined by something mighty. He was not sure how fearful he should, caught between an known inner horror and an menacing outer mystery.

  Before long, the path started to slope upwards, curved to the left then entered a rain-gouged cliff-face and became a tunnel proper. A few paces in and the howling din was muffled and the air became warmer and drier. A few diamond-shaped windows had been cut in one side, letting in a dull grey light which revealed a fine dust on the tunnel floor, gathered in its many crevices and notches. The passage climbed for a short way then dipped and curved to the right, dimming as the windows grew fewer. A hazy pale light ahead resolved into a door through which the shattering roar of the vortex came, along with a dense veil of fine water droplets. Condensation had soaked the tunnel walls near the door and many streamlets were flowing back along the floor and outside to be snatched up by the fury of the storm and once more pulverised into vapour.