“I am needed at the the general’s tent,” she said, getting to her feet.
“Tell Jarryc that we have to have those troops back,” Chellour said.
She nodded and headed along the ravine which began to slope upwards after a few dozen paces. It led up to a small wooded plateau with vertical cliffs to the north, flanking the notch-like ravine, but with a long, bushy slope to the southwest, descending into a marshy vale that was proving very hard to defend. In addition there was the canal shore which mostly lay at the foot of a sheer, jagged precipice, and extend into a couple of small coves. All of this had to be defended by the battered remnants of the two companies that Ilgarion had left to guard the siege machines before leading the rest of his army across to the Isle of Besdarok two days ago.
There were few trees on the rocky plateau itself. Many varieties of hardy bushes had found niches among the mossy outcrops and the tufts of hill grass. The camp was a hastily erected cluster of meagre tents and Jarryc’s was a canvas lean-to slung up against an upthrusting finger of rock near the brink of the drop overlooking the canal. Two Earthmother initiates were tending to several wounded on the grass nearby as Ayoni approached while twenty or so muddy and battered-looking soldier were gathered around a cooking fire. A closer look told her that they were mostly from the Iron Guard, so these had to be the survivors Jarryc’s message had mentioned.
As she hurried towards Jarryc’s tent she glanced across the strait. The Isle of Besdarok was now only an expanse of pale, deathly grey, utterly covered by the consuming blight which had expanded outwards from the old imperial palace. The awful fear she had felt yesterday on beholding the advancing wall of greyness was till fresh in her mind, as was the terrible sight of people fighting and killing to get places on boats. Then of course some of the overloaded boats foundered part way across from the pilgrim tent city, hurling women and children into the cold waters. And even as the grey tide was sweeping towards the isle’s western limits, the forces of Ilgarion and Huzur Marag had continued to clash, battling with deranged hatred as a mutual doom bore down upon them both.
All this Ayoni, Jarryc, Chellour and Baron Klayse had witnessed from the seer’s boat as they rowed back across the channel. On making landfall, the Mogaun seers had gone their own way, intending to return to the forests of the north; Ayoni and Jarryc, Chellour and Klayse elected to move southwest to discover a stealthy was back to Sejeend, only to find themselves in the middle of a panicked rout of Imperial soldiers. One of the two companies had been under Jarryc’s command just days earlier and he had been unable to leave them leaderless in such desperate circumstances….
Now as she climbed old mossy steps to the rise and the small camp, Baron Klayse emerged from Jarryc’s leanto, his face grim.
“My lady,” he said. “Your husband — and three others — await you within. I cannot tarry — the defences in the vale will not direct themselves!”
As he hurried away, clearly exasperated, Ayoni’s spirits sank.
Three others? she thought. Ilgarion and the Archmage Tangaroth — they survived….
But she was wrong. As she entered, Jarryc rose to greet her as did Shumond, Lord Commander of the Iron Guard and a startled-looking young man she recognised as one of the court mages. A fourth person garbed in capacious, dark blue hooded robes, remained seated and motionless. Something about him stirred the fringe of her perception, vague sensations of pain and anger…
“Countess, it pains me to greet you in these unfit conditions,” Shumond said before Jarryc could speak. “Yet I am the bearer of a tragic news which must be heard and understood, no matter the anguish that it may cause to the listener. My lady — know that our dear and most puissant emperor, Ilgarion son of Magramon, is no more. He fell on the field of battle, defending the glory of the Khatrimantine empire and its heritage to the very last….”
Ayoni kept her face sombre and downcast to mask her inner feelings of cold satisfaction, yet when she glanced at Jarryc his unhappy looked seemed genuine. Something else was amiss, she realised….
“Yet such is the deadly peril what we face here and elsewhere,” Shumond went on, “the empire cannot afford to remain leaderless, its throne empty, its crown unworn. Therefore, myself and the senior officers of the Iron Guard and those nobles yet surviving have proposed that, in the absence of any issue, the crown be passed to another whose service and duty are unquestioned and whose ancestry provides the necessary royal association…”
At this point, the seated figure began to turn towards Ayoni who felt a dark foreboding. Then a trembling hand rose to push back the cowl, revealing a changed Archmage Tangaroth. His skin was pale, almost waxy, and one eye was bloodshot but what caught the attention were the grubby, red-spotted bandages which had been wrapped around the lower half of his face.
“The Archmage suffered a terrible injury,” Shumond said. “And is without the use of his voice, yet Gessik here is able to act as an intermediary…”
At this the young mage jerked suddenly and began to speak in a flat voice.
“I am prepared to overlook your past misdemeanours, Countess,” he said. “Along with those of your Watcher colleague, your husband and even the Baron Klayse. All I require is your word that you will continue in what you have been doing — opposing and destroying the Empire’s enemies.”
It was an unbalancing moment, hearing speech coming from one man’s mouth while meeting the furious glare of another who was the actual source of those words.
“You know that the crown should go to Magramon’s brother’s branch of the family,” she said, “rather than his uncle’s which I believe is the trail of your own ancestery, Archmage.”
Tangaroth’s hard gaze did not waver.
“What are you more interested right now, Countess? — arguing over dynastic details or trying to survive?”
Ayoni glanced momentarily at Jarryc who let slip the faintest glimmer of a smile.
“Very well, Archmage,” she said. “I give you my word that I will oppose the enemies of the empire — all of them.”
“I am gratified by your words, if not your manner, but it will suffice.”
Shumond suddenly smiled widely. “Unity is preserved — now we can plan the downfall of the enemy Mogaun.”
Then, within her thoughts, Ayoni heard the Archmage’s own voice:
(And always remember — my eyes are upon you.)
How comforting, she thought as she bowed and left.
Chapter Nineteen
Begin now thy revels,
Of sleepless dread,
And furious night.
—Jedhessa Gant, The Lord Desolate, Act1, sc1, 5
Locked within the recesses of his own once more, Corlek Ondene was the prostrate and unwilling witness to every sight and word and thought and act of the Shadowking spirit. And to his own sensibilities, for that journey through the monstrous, rushing intestine of the sea god Grath paled next to this crossing over to the Nightrealm. The open portal of the Shattergate contained only indivisible blackness and one step was all it took to plunge into it. Invasive and pervasive, the pressure of it ignored his garments and engulfed every part of his skin then seemed to seep inwards to probe at veins and bones, nerves and muscles.
And he was walking through it, pace slowing as he became aware of stone underfoot. The air was cold, smelling faintly of musty decay, and along with the hard scrape of his own dragging footsteps were the sounds of others coming from behind. Fearing unseen attackers, he turned — and vision surged upon him and he saw that he was standing in a narrow, arched passage made of stone cobbles. All seemed drenched in shadows, yet a peculiar radiance touched everything like ashen silver. And there, behind him, stood a dozen or more spectral figures, motionless and watching closely. Ondene felt fear turn into curiosity when he saw the great differences among them — there was an old woman with a shawl draped over her head and shoulders, a waggoner in a long, heavy tabard and a wide-brimmed hat, a scrawny man stripped to the waist, a hulking, b
earded Mogaun warrior clad in fur and chain mail, and several others whose stares held an unblinking edge of insanity.
“Who…are you?” he said hoarsely.
No mouth opened in response yet a flow of whispering sighs reached him, a mingling of slurred voices talking among themselves… He sees us… so this is the other… where is our master… yes, the vessel… so weak… our master will soon rise… our rewards…
Ondene turned and fled the ghosts and their tenuous mutterings, spurred by a raw fear which filled him utterly. In panic he turned left at the next junction, found himself in a section of passage open to the sky, a canopy of black and dark-violet clouds which roiled and swirled in continuous turbulence but seemed to make no progress in any one direction.
As his fear abated, he emerged in a pillared chamber with three tall openings in the far wall. It was a large but shabby place with bare stone walls, dark grey mold on the columns, and a floor of five-sided tiles, many of which were cracked or loose. Two of the openings faced the brick wall of another building so warily he crossed to the third beyond which there seemed to be a platform or landing. As he approached he saw that there were steps leading down between a black rock face and the adjacent building, then his viewpoint opened out and, struggling to comprehend, he halted on the threshold.
The stairs were a long rack descending into a peculiar leaden darkness and the shadows of a small square with a wrecked fountain surrounded by the low halls and houses of a small town. A few roofs further beyond was a large fortified wall which cut across, with smoke rising from its guard towers; on the other side was a district of narrow-peaked woodframe houses and next to that was a cluster of crude stone-and-earth tribal lodges, and next to that the log palisade of stockade, then the porticos and cloisters of opulent townhouses, a ruined fort, a long, half-demolished viaduct, a high-walled temple on whose roof he could see sentries patrolling….
And on it went, sloping gently upwards from his vantage, a dizzying profusion of roof and towers and arches, cabins and mansions and taverns, turrets and keep and redans, all crammed together in a single, unbroken cityscape, or rather a patchworked vista of innumerable villages, towns and cities. The upper districts were lost in the darkness of distance, compounded by the deathly half-light which had no source yet which was all-pervasive, muting colours and casting a grainy silver patina over every surface.
Ondene tried to remember what he had witnessed and overheard during Calabos’ encounter with the Sleeping God, at least before the arrival of that spirit-wraith, and recalled that this was the world of the other path of Time, once in which the Lord of Twilight had triumphed. This Nightrealm was a living nightmare presided over by the Lord of Twilight, now called the Great Shadow. There was no death here, or at least no end to a ghastly experience, no escape…
And now I’m trapped here, too, he thought grimly. Is there anyone that I can trust in a place like this?…
A cold sensation made him turn and he saw the ghostly figures from before converging upon him. Their whispering touched the edge of his thoughts and he recoiled, retreating to the head of the long stairway as they drifted toward him.
Master… master… master… arise… awake… begin the war…
Choking on his own fear, Ondene plunged away down the steps, down into fracture darkness. But as he ran the fear began to change, its inward spiral turning into an upward surge of anger at the ghosts, at the Shadowking, at Calabos and the Sleeping God, and at this funereal realm. As the foot of the steps came nearer, indistinct figures emerged from the deeper shadows to discover the source of the clattering boots, first a few then a dozen or more, and yet more. Ondene could see the gathering crowd and sense the brooding menace in their manner. But the anger in him drowned all sense of caution as his gait slowed to a deliberate walk while hate began to grow out of his anger like a coiling vine that slowly filled up his thoughts.
“A stranger comes,” said someone in the crowd.
“Aye, from out of the fell tunnels,” said another.
“Is he a danger?”
“Only one way to find out!”
And with a roar the crowd surged forward. Ondene, mind dissolving in hate, charged down the last remaining steps and was engulfed. Heedless, the mob piled in on top of him, wielding fists, knives or clubs, and in the deranged confusion a scattering of fights broke among the ambushers themselves. Blood splashed on the cobbles, black in the ashen light. Ghastly wounds were given and received and terrible injuries abounded on all sides, yet non slumped into death or gasped their last. Several crawled away from the carnage holding severed limbs or trying to keep spilled innards in place. Screams, shrieks and shouts slashed the air and of Ondene there was sign beneath the heaving press.
Then suddenly bodies were flying back, thrown out from the centre where a figure stood, fists clenched and burning with an emerald glitter twin to the radiance that shone from his eyes. He snarled at the sprawled and maimed ambushers, and hot green power leaked from his mouth. A knot of them had regained their feet and seemed to be debating whether to rush him again, but when he stalked towards them with flamelets dripping from his hands they broke and ran….
“Overseer!” some cried, “Ware overseer!…”
Watching them flee from the square, the Shadowking felt a certain exultation in the intense purity of Sourcefire as it coursed through his body. The traverse between that other world and the Nightrealm had swept him down into the undervaults of Ondene’s mind but his stoking of the fires of primal anger and hate had opened the gates to the Wellsource and himself. So now Ondene was again confined to inner durance and he was once more enthroned with the Wellsource at his fingertips and a land to conquer.
He smiled, a hidden expression now that the edge of his Sourcefire had abated somewhat.
“Enthroned,” he said for the pleasure of hearing his own voice.
A thin, cracked laughter rang out from a gloomy mound of rubble to one side of the long stairs. Frowning, he walked towards the sound and saw how the mound was the collapsed debris from the front half of the tall brick building, and halfway up its jagged slope sat a wiry old man clad in rags. He stopped laughing as the Shadowking drew near and regarded him with beady eyes.
“What amuses you?” he said.
The old man stared for a moment, then burst out laughing again.
“And…and still they come!” he managed. “Let me guess — you’re going to persuade all the crews and chapters and militias to put aside their precious feuds and hatreds, to unite behind your banner and launch a war to free all of the Nightrealm from the Great Shadow’s tyranny, yes?”
The Shadowking gazed at him thoughtfully, deciding to explore the limits of this paltry denizen’s knowledge.
“No,” he said. “I have come to take what is rightfully mine.”
That made the old man pause and give him a close look.
“Hmm, you don’t look much like a naïve hero or a shadow artifice, which are the usual agents of misfortune who come along from time to time to make us forget the word ‘futile’.” He coughed and spat. “So you don’t want to set us free, rather you just want to usurp the Great Shadow himself — well, that’s not entirely novel but it’s still rare enough to be refreshing. Very well, I’m your man, willing to swear fealty and offer whatever wise counsel I can dredge out of this aged head…”
The Shadowking watched him pick his way down the rubble mound.
“I never asked for your fealty,” he said. “What makes you think that I need your counsel?”
“Because of all the questions you want answered, lord, and because I know who the local chiefs are and what some of their weaknesses are.”
The Shadowking smiled. “Good, then I accept you into my service, but before you swear the oath of loyalty tell me your name.”
“Dar,” the old man said. “That is all. And you, lord?”
A name, the Shadowking thought. It needs be a name of strength and ruthless purpose — yes, I know which one….
“Byrnak,” Dar said. “I’m sure I’ve heard that name before, long time since…hah, matters not. So, my lord Byrnak — I swear by all that I hold sacred to serve to the best of my abilities and with the utmost regard for discretion. Now — what is my first task?”
“When that mob fled my wrath, some shouted that I was an ‘overseer’,” Byrnak said. “Explain this to me.”
“Ah, the Overseers,” Dar said, nodding sagely. “Put simply, the Overseers serve the Duskgeneral, who serves the Great Shadow. The Overseers have a number of tower strongholds all across the Nightrealm from which they range forth, some on the wing, some on foot, to warn, to punish, to slay, and just occasionally to reward.”
The Shadowking Byrnak gazed up at the walls of the square and the buildings beyond, eyes searching the receding proliferation of streets and roofs and domes and turrets.
“And the Duskgeneral,” he said. “What manner of bastion has he?”
“A gigantic fortress called the Citadel of Twilight which sits against the sheer cliffs near the zenith of the Nightrealm. The topmost chambers of the citadel lead out onto the clifftop and the dream-courts of the Great Shadow, a column-ringed maze of shifting walls and buildings open to the sky.”
Byrnak smiled. “Has he a throne?”
“A huge, jewelled throne in the shape of an upthrust sword which presides over the dream-courts from an imposing, stepped dais. And behind it is supposed to be the White Prison, a towering wall of ice in which the Great Shadow keeps certain favourite prisoners.”
“The Great Shadow clearly has much to defend,” Byrnak said. “Who has threatened him?”
Dar snorted. “The whole of the Nightrealm is littered with the ruined fortifications and wrecked war machines constructed by those who have sought to oppose him. But he has the fearful Overseers, the Duskgeneral’s Murknights, and the echelons of the Black Host to call upon, a fearful army indeed.”
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