Shadowmasque

by Michael Cobley

  “Then we shall a still greater army,” Byrnak said. “Who is the nearest and likeliest chief to dispose of?”

  “That would be…Yanama, I would think,” Dar said, narrowing his eyes. “Yes, he leads a small crew of rogues out of one of the Eyrie’s underhalls. Not to important that his ousting would attract attention, but not so small as to be pointless.”

  “Is it far?”

  “If we hurry, we can reach the Eyrie before nightfall,” said the old man.

  Byrnak grimaced. “Day and night? Here?”

  “Indeed, yes, a freezing fog-smothered night through which hungry power and sly beasts hunt, my lord, for the likes of you and I! Come, let us be on our way…”

  Through chilling, gloomy roads and winding alleys Dar led him, passing on more scraps of lore, names, places, locations of recent battles, the favoured tactics of the Overseers when they trawled for captives. Byrnak learned that there was no true death here, that however brutal and thorough the despatch, a victim’s body would always regrow somewhere across the Nightrealm in certain gardens. He learned that the only food consisted of roots and tubers that grew in dark cellars, alleviated by a bitter berry beer made by brewers out on the periphery of the Nightrealm, near the immense cliffs that hemmed this grim land in on all sides. He learned that most weapons were of a kind of forgeable glass, that the ore was mined at several places and each one was the seat of a powerful chapter or group of militias.

  As they stole through the shadows, Byrnak saw many people in groups or ones or twos, loitering, fighting, running, standing in doorways or leaning out windows, and nowhere were any children to be seen. And during his exchanges with Dar he got no sense that the old man thought or knew about the origins of the Nightrealm, in fact no sense of history at all. He thought on this, realising that if there was no death then all the men and women he saw here were over three centuries old: could they all have forgotten the Shadowking War and the Lord of Twilight’s triumph on this path of Time? Or was this the result of some deliberate glamour cast by the Great Shadow to make their memories short?

  The Eyrie was a tall, ugly tower surround by a cluster of equally ugly buildings, some of which were in a state of partial or complete ruin. Several gangs and warbands had lairs in nooks and crannies on the ground and basement levels, leaving the rest to a powerful militia called the Roaring Gauntlet, led by one Cebroul. Yanama’s crew was known as the Hangers and their underhall was beneath one of the half-demolished buildings, reached via a creaking, timber-shored tunnel which led crookedly through the ancient rubble. A pair of guards at the underhall entrance searched them both before admitting them. Emerging in one corner of a tall chamber, Byrnak quickly counted those present — nine, including the guards — and gauged their readiness and possible threat as fairly low.

  “Visitors, huh?” said a balding man from a large, jutting ledge at the top of a ricketty, wall-set staircase. The ledge bore a low pallet and a stool and had a pair of fastened shutters in the rough stone wall. “You here for business or pleasure?”

  Judging this to be Yanama, Byrnak gesture Dar to remain below, then started up the stairs.

  “I’m your new recruit,” he said.

  Yanama sneered. “I take on blooded warriors, not novices. I will, however, take your jerkin, your boots and any weapons ye have.”

  “I only have my fists,” Byrnak said as he neared the top. “But they’re yours.”

  At the ledge he lunged at Yanama, who had drawn a curved black dagger to slash at Byrnak’s throat. But Byrnak grabbed the oncoming wrist, turned in midstep and threw Yanama over his shoulder to crash onto the floorboards. The ledge shook underfoot. Byrnak then pounced on the dazed warband chief, hauled him up and dragged him over to the shutters which he opened with a single, savage kick.

  “Don’t come back,” he growled at Yanama before pitching him headfirst out the window. Turning back, he faced two of Yanama’s henchmen who came howling up the stairs — one ended up sprawled in agony on the underhall floor while the other followed his chief out into the dense fog. The remaining seven looked at each other with expression ranging from stunned amazement to naked fear.

  “You have a new chief,” Byrnak said to them. “Stay or leave.”

  The seven fighters paused for only a moment before bending the knee and swearing an oath of loyalty as Byrnak descended the steps.

  “Good,” he said, pointing at the now-unconscious man on the floor. “And get rid of this.”

  Dar was at his side, grinning and chuckling.

  “Most efficient, my lord. Most, ah, direct. Now, what is your will?”

  “Who is the most powerful chief in the Eyrie?” Byrnak said. “Apart from Cebroul of the Roaring Gauntlets.”

  “Kural of the Stone Wolves,” Dar said. “A dangerous man.”

  “Who are his deputies?”

  Dar frowned. “I’m not sure, but I can find out quite easily.”

  “Do so, and find out which one hates Kural the most.”

  The next day, Byrnak had the seven remaining Hangers training with knife and staff while Dar was away ferretting out the truth. He sooned returne with the news that Kural had three captains, one of whom he had viciously and sarcastically lambasted before the rest of the chapter just a couple of days ago. This captain, known as Domas, Byrnak contrived to encounter later that day in one of the upper halls, calmly introduced himself, praised Domas’ tactics in a territorial clash a few weeks past (which Dar had learned of during his investigations). He then made several enigmatic comments about Domas’ loyalty not going unnoticed, and let his mouth curl with contempt as he mentioned Kural’s ‘judgement’. Then he made his excuses and departed, leaving a puzzled-looking Domas in his wake.

  The following morning, Byrnak went seeking an audience with Kural, accompanied by the best two of his seven fighters. Intrigued by this stranger who had so swiftly deposed Yanama, Kural agreed to the meeting and that was his undoing. Less than ten minutes after it began, Kural and two of his deputies lay hacked and insensible on the chamber floor whiel Domas sat off to one side, disarmed and bound by Byrnak’s men. Byrnak then disclosed his powers with a small demonstration of Sourcefire, holding a clay bottle in a fire-wreathed hand and reducing it to a charred and smoking ruin. Domas stared, fear and uncertainty writ clearly in his features.

  “First the Stone Wolves,” Byrnak said, sitting opposite him and speaking a low voice, as if he were confiding in an equal. “Then the Roaring Gauntlets and the Eyrie, then the district, then a domain, then….” He smiled. “The Nightrealm needs a new purpose, a new strength, a new ruler. Are you with me?”

  A revelatory light came into Domas’ eyes and he nodde.

  With Domas and Dar’s help, Byrnak circulated the story that Kural had been plotting with another militia in a neighbouring district to remove Cebroul and disperse the Roaring Gauntlets. Three days after Kural’s fall from power (and the subsequent exile of his body parts to a faraway district), Byrnak was peremptorily summoned to an audience with Cebroul in the Skyhall, the topmost floor of the Eyrie. Byrnak smiled when it came, issued orders to Domas and Dar, then left to ascend the tower’s levels.

  It was the most luxurious chamber Byrnak had yet seen in the Nightrealm, certainly when compared to the rundown shabbyness prevalent everywhere else. Banners hung all around the oval walls, racks of spears were stacked to left and right, and vine-oil lamps cast a silvery glow over the black pillars and the grey tiles. Cebroul was seated on a tall throne of some red-veined stone, flanked by scores of subordinates and guards and glowering as Byrnak entered by himself. The leader of the Roaring Gauntlets barely waited for Byrnak to take half a dozen steps into the hall before launching into a venomous tirade, claiming that Kural’s loyalty had been beyond question, that his military skills would be hard to replace, and that Byrnak was a pox-ridden vermin who deserved to be dismembered….

  Byrnak kept silent as the rant wound on, standing a short way back from the middle of the hall, right between tw
o large pillars. At last Cebroul ran out of insults and snarled;

  “So what do you have to say for yourself, eh?”

  But Byrnak frowned, gave a small shake of the head. “Can you hear it?”

  Mutters of outrage at this behaviour went round the assembled underlings.

  “Hear what?” said Cebroul, anger reddening his face. “What?!”

  Byrnak struck a listening attitude for a moment, then smiled. “Something unavoidable.”

  A low rumbled came up from below and the Skyhall trembled. Then without further warning most of the floor fell in, just suddenly broke apart in a roaring cascade of masonry, tiles and screaming members of Cebroul’s court, including Cebroul himself, all plunging through billowing dust. Byrnak seemed to be safe where he was, having previous made sure of the location of the supporting wall in the floor below, yet he backed away to the hall entrance as one of the far pillars toppled and crashed through the outer wall.

  Byrnak had known that he would be summoned to the Skyhall and had sent a squad of trusted men with masonry backgrounds to prepare this devastating surprise. Their work was skilled and deadly — all except two of Cebroul’s court suffered the half-death, and the collapse wrecked less than a third of the two floors below without endangering the rest of the building. With all the senior commanders of the Roaring Gauntlets gone, Byrnak moved to establish his authority in the Eyrie and when next morning one of the nearby militias carried out a raid on an outlying Gauntlet guardpost it was the perfect excuse for a swift retaliation. When his men returned laden with trophies and weapons, it set the seal on his claim to the mastery of the Eyrie.

  The morning after the counter-raid, Byrnak was in the Skyhall with Dar, taking stock of the damage while a few labourers were attempting to shore up the weakened outer wall. Suddenly there were shouts of warning and the sound of discarded tools. Byrnak looked round to see a large, winged figure clambering in through the ragged gap in the Eyrie wall as the labourers darted away in panic.

  “Oveerseers,” said Dar. “What’s their interest…”

  The Overseer was nearly 10 feet tall and had a man-like body, but the skin seemed rough and the face looked distorted, the jaw overlarge and the flinty eyes recessed beneath a bony brow. The pinions of its leathery wings jutted well above the shoulders, indicating a prodigious span.

  “You’re the one I seek,” the Overseer said in a deep, rasping voice as it strode towards Byrnak.

  Byrnak regarded the newcomer, sensing a raw but semi-disciplined power in him. He knew that he could master this Overseer but realised that the consequences of such an act might forestall his plans. Better to mask his own powers and to see and judge.

  Coming to halt a few feet away, the Overseer towered over Byrnak and stared down at him with undisguised despite.

  “So Cebroul’s been cut down to size, has he? Matters not — he was an insect, just like you and no doubt you’ll go the same way. In the meantime I’ve come to make sure you understand about the levy.”

  “What levy?” said Byrnak.

  “The levy of the Black Host,” the Overseer growled. “Cebroul’s was 90 able bodies a month, but from you I want a nice round 100 in six days time, understand? I can see that you’ve got some of the power in you but just be sure that you don’t get above yourself — you might end up with bits of you spread over a wide area, eh?”

  Impassive, Byrnak nodded and the Overseer grunted.

  “Worms, that’s what you people are. Worms.”

  He walked back to the break in the wall, climbed out then looked over his shoulder;

  “Don’t forget — 100. Even if you have to include some of your own.”

  Then dark wings spread, beat the air once, twice, and he was gone.

  Byrnak was surprised at how calm he was, in spite of the searing hate that had boiled up during the encounter. He stared at the ragged opening in the wall then went over to it, beckoning Dar to follow. Standing before it, both gazed out at the sweeping vastness of the Nightrealm, a colossal city of cities, endless shadowy districts and domains, a glittering darkness strewn with the silvery pinpoints of lamps.

  “Where did that Overseer come from?” Byrnak said.

  “Orlag Tower,” Dar said, pointing.

  Byrnak looked and saw a tapering spire with a bulbous apex rising from a confusion of roofs about twenty miles away. It was roughly twice the height of the Eyrie and looked strong and defiant.

  “I wonder what it would take to bring it down,” Byrnak said.

  Dar began to laugh. “I know of something that might be useful,” he said. “Very useful!”

  * * *

  Conscious of the gathering crowd watching from the riverbank, Tashil tried to concentrate on paddling the small skiff across the Valewater towards the grey-shrouded south bank. Beside her was Sounek, likewise wielding a paddle, while in the snub prow sat Dardan who, for once, was wearing his habitual hooded cape and appeared restless in the bright light of late morning. In his lap was a bulky leather pannier containing a rack of stoppered vials, each one full of a different liquid or powder which had been hurriedly garnered north Sejeend’s few apothecaries in the last couple of hours. At least one of them, it was hoped, would turn out to be of use against the grey blight.

  As she paddled, Tashil tried to focus on the task in hand but her thoughts kept drifting back to the valedictory encounter with Calabos and his Daemonkind allies just a few hours ago. A dark and perilous realm, was how he had described his destination, and Tashil had wondered how monstrous a place it could be compared to the dark perils the Watchers had faced these last few days. But then it was a place which had produced the sorcerer Jumil who had then conjured a proliferation of evil acts and atrocities culminating in the desecration of the grey blight. Tashil’s imagination pictured a shadowy land peopled with montrosities and ina constant turmoil of violence and pain, and she gave a small shudder.

  The skiff was past the midpoint and approaching the opposite bank. Tashil glanced over her shoulder, checking on the rope which trailed from the sternpost down into the water where a series of bladders buoyed it all the way back to the north bank. There a squad of longshoremen stood ready to haul the skiff back from the other side if signalled to by its crew.

  When the distance to the bank was down to about two yards, Tashil and Sounek stopped paddling and a small iron anchor was tipped over the side with a hefty splash. This close, Tashil was able to see more of that vile, deathly blanket — it came up to the bank and hung over in pale, ragged curtains, or extended down a nearby, sloping shingle almost to the water’s edge, recoiling visibly when wavelets surged up the slope. As she was studying the blight, Dardan unbuckled the pannier and flipped back its cover, then produced a pair of heavy gauntlets from a side pouch.

  “So, which one first?” said Sounek.

  Dardan sniffed as he considered the rack of vials. Then he gave a thoughtful smile.

  “Well, there is one attack I’ve been eager to try since this began,” he said, raised a fiery hand and hurled a single firedagger bolt at the nearby, blight-swathed shingle.

  The burning shard of power plunged into the greyness and almost immediately the surrounding area erupted in a writhing forest of tentacles and stems, strange bulbous growths which burst open in displays of squirming flowers, bizarre jointed limbs several yards long, some of which lashed out towards the skiff and its occupants. Sounek waved frantically at the north bank and the longshoremen hauled the skiff back from the commotion. It took more gesturing to get them stop, and since the wild outburst soon subsided Tashil and Sounek had to haul in the anchor and paddle back to where they had been. Much to Tashil’s irritation, Dardan was visibly amused at the entire episode and was still chuckling as he pulled on one of the heavy gauntlets.

  “So now we know that it likes Lesser Power sorcery,” said Sounek. “Thrives on it, even.”

  “Let’s see how it copes with this,” Dardan said, picking out one of the vials and hurling it over onto the blight
-covered beach. As they watched, the blight quickly ate through the glass vial, letting the contents — an amber fluid — flood out only to be summarily absorbed.

  “And that was?” said Tashil.

  “Corroding Elixir,” Dardan said, frowning.

  Sounek smiled. “Next, if you please.”

  Thus one by one Dardan worked his way through the rack of vials and each time the result was the same — no effect. At the sixteenth, Dardan declared himself one with the useless process and doffed the gauntlet. Tashil sighed, picked it up and put it on, then selected the next vial, which held a fine white powder, and threw it onto the beach. It spun through the air and there was a tiny breaking sound when it landed, sending the contents flying out onto the surface of the blight….which dissolved on contact with the powder, forming large gaps through which plain brown earth showed.

  “Well done,” said a voice from nearby. “A fascinating discovery but unfortunately, too little, too late.”

  The speaker was standing a few yards downstream on a raised stretch of the bank, He was clad from head to foot in night-black armour whose surfaces caught no light but instead carried a leaden glitter which shifted across the limbs and torso in a slow, continuous swirl. As Tashil watched, the slotted visor seemed to melt and shrink to reveal the pale, waxen features of a man framed by the close-fitting helm.

  “I am High Captain Vashad of the Black Host,” he said. “Soon to be Governor of this province.”

  “You sound very sure of yourself,” Sounek said.

  “I have every reason to be,” the High Captain said, his manner vaguely dreamlike. “The force of Fate is with us, not you.”

  “How very reasonable,” Dardan mocked. “What a devastating argument — perhaps we should just put down our weapons and await the inevitable.”