Shadowmasque

by Michael Cobley

  I don’t know, Dardan, she said, pulling herself back up to the peak of the roof. Let me take a look…

  Cautiously, she peered over the coping stone, using magesight to study the buildings across the darkened avenue of statues. But the roofs and windows seemed empty, lightless and abandoned, and she was sweeping her gaze along the row of roofs when something large flew past overhead,

  Mother’s name! she thought. Are they sending winged troops against us now?

  Her guardsmen had drawn their swords and she was fumbling for one of the bonedust tubes, when a voice came down from the darkness.

  “Tashil Akri — be not alarmed, for we are friends.”

  Sitting up straight she saw two winged figures descending from above, carrying a third between them. One of her men still had a hooded lamp and she told him to open it a little as wings beat the air and the newcomer was set down with feet astraddle the roof’s peak. By the meagre yellow glow Tashil recognised him as Calabos’ cousin, Coireg, attired in grey breeks and an unadorned tabard that left his arms bare, the plain garb of a temple novitiate. But there was a difference to him now, an iron calm in his manner and the light of enigmatic purpose in his eyes.

  Tashil got to her feet. “Greetings, Coireg — am I right in thinking that the Daemonkind have entered the fray?”

  Coireg nodded. “Pericogal, captain of the Stormclaw, was reluctant to involve the crew of the Stormclaw in this conflict but once I reminded him of the divine writ of my task he became more amenable.”

  “And what task is this?” she said, at once feelng a ripple of foreboding.

  “Nothing less than the defeat of the pitiless enemy that assails us.” He smiled wryly. “Or at least, I am charged with an undertaking necessary to that end. I was with the Stormclaw at Nydratha when Ondene succumbed to the Shadowking again and fled through the seagod Grath, followed by Calabos. But once they were gone, the Sleeping God spoke again and laid upon me a task whose enormity I am still unable to grasp, yet which I must carry out. And part of that includes taking you with me!”

  She stared at him, unsure of whether to frown or laugh. “Take me where?”

  “To the heart of the war,” he said. “We are flying north to near Besdarok at the behest of the Sleeping God who said to tell you that those closest to you will soon need your help.”

  “Ayoni and Chellour?” she said. “What kind of danger are they in?”

  “I’m not certain,” Coireg said ruefully. “The Sleeping God only mentioned ‘dread fetters’. This seems to be an abiding aspect of the pronouncements of gods — some are starkly apparent, others annoyingly opaque. But I’m afraid you’ll have to decide now as we are leaving now.”

  As he spoke, another pair of Daemonkind swooped out of the night to alight on the roof.

  “We are ready, friend Coireg,” said one. “Are we needed?”

  “A moment, Besarl — the lady Tashil is considering her duty.”

  Tashil bit back a harsh retort while trying to gauge her value to the defenders here against the uncertainties of this god-appointed task. Farspeech with Ayoni and Chellour would have helped her decide but there had been neither word nor response from either the entire day.

  “Very well,” she said. “I’ll go with you, but I’m taking these with me.” She raised the shoulder sack, now holding just three bonedust tubes.

  Coireg glanced at Besarl who nodded.

  “We can bear this load,” the Daemonkind said.

  Minutes later, Tashil was rising from the roof, both hands holding on tightly to the heavily-muscled arms that were lifting her. Gusts of wing-struck air swirled about her and as the roof and her guardsmen dropped away, he stomach quivered with the hollowness of vertigo. Closing her eyes, she reached for the Lesser Power then sought Dardan through farspeech.

  Dardan, I’m with some new friends and allies…

  (Yes, the High Steward is having talks with their leader, fellow called Agasklin)

  And I’m with Coireg and some of the Daemonkind — we’re flying north to Besdarok to help Ayoni and Chellour.

  (Hah! — first Calabos and now you! Have to say that I am less trusting of those winged monsters than you!)

  I’m safe and will remain so, she replied. Do you think that you can hold Hubranda Lock?

  (For a time — our new allies have helped thrown them back across the Valewater, but they seem to have a limitless source of reinforcements…who knows what that Vashad character will try next)

  The Daemonkind were higher now, and she could see the whole of Sejeend spread out beneath her, the scattering of lamps across the north with dull red glows from fires along the route of the fighting and flashes of sorcerous battle near the riverbank. Then there were the bright torches and beacons on the ramparts of Hubranda Lock, illuminating scores of guards and the standard of the High Steward wavering in a faint night breeze. By contrast, the south bank was an expanse of darkness, with only the vague hint of shadows shifting within shadows, a dark featureless stage for the Black Host.

  Be careful, Dardan. I pray that we’ll meet again.

  (Aye, just watch your back, Tash, and…walk in the light)

  As the farspeech bond was severed, the Daemonkind began heading northwards. Tashil drew her rough woollen shirt up against the rushing cold and wondered what Calabos was doing in the Nightrealm and if he had encountered Corlek Ondene yet.

  Be safe, Calabos, she thought. And come back to us.

  * * *

  The fall of Orlag Tower was a glorious sight.

  After the warning encounter with the Overseers, the old man Dar had taken Byrnak downslope to an area of great destruction, an expanse of gutted and demolished buildings. Under the fallen columns and arches of a temple, in the vaults beneath, he had shown Byrnak a long barrel-roofed chamber strewn with rotting sacks, heaps of bricks, crates of dusty arrowhead — and a hulking, wheeled shape like some massively-built wagon. Its framework was of immense timbers that could only have been plundered from a substantial building, and its wheels were of stone and timber and rimmed with some tough red substance. But atop it was a device that made Byrnak’s eyes widen — a single, wooden column more than a yard across, lying lengthways and turning on an axle driven by double handcranks at the rear. The front end was socketted into a large, conical piece of stone whose surface bristled with deep-set, carefully slanted arrays of glittering black blade shards.

  “A great many years ago,” Dar had said. “A valiant but cunning fool named Gonderlak raised the Nightrealm in revolt against our eternal lord and master. He had his artisans build this, the Mawl, then decided that he wanted another still larger one and it was that which he used to break down the gates of the Duskgeneral’s citadel. But his siege failed and in the vast carnage of half-deaths, knowledge of this original was forgotten.” He grinned. “Except by a few…although in all honesty, I learned of this from an old man I used to know.”

  Thus Byrnak brought in the worker and labourers of his ally militias as well as his own, had a ramp built and the Mawl hauled up to street level, all covered with hides and decrepit canvases. Then by night, a risky journey through the haunted fog to a well-guarded barn not far from Orlag Tower.

  The hours building up to the assault were a masterpiece of misdirection which Byrnak personally managed. The Roaring Gauntlets, and their allies the Bloodrats and the Hook Order, announced that another senior militia, the League of Fists, had gravely insulted their women and their collective honour and would pay a heavy price. They then launched a series of raids on the League’s territory, exercises in savagery, maiming rather than killing outright and wrecking buildings or their contents. The League of Fists was a known ally of the Overseers of Orlag Tower and was so infuriated that they called on the Tower for help.

  Which was what Byrnak had been hoping for. As most of Orlag’s dozen and a half Overseers swooped down towards the League’s embattled strongholds, Byrnak moved his hundred-strong gangs into position near the tower. Then he sent in the Mawl
.

  Pushed and pulled by scores of helmed warriors, the war machine rumbled towards its objective from upslope, gaining a deadly momentum. The point of the spinning stone ram struck the base of the tower, pierced the stonework and chewed its way through. The two men madly cranking at the rear were thrown off by the initial impact but others quickly took their place. Then, under the lash of bellowed orders, the men on the ropes turned about and dragged the Mawl back upslope before turning about to propel it down towards the tower once more, aiming the stone ram at a different spot.

  The war machine teams managed to knock four gaping holes in the tower’s base before Overseers began appearing and attacking. But by then it was too late — large cracks ran between the holes and spread upwards. Then shards of stone flew as large blocks began to fragment, an internal support cracked loudly and the tower’s weight shifted, grinding the shattered blocks into dust. Byrnak was watching gleefully from the flat roof of a tall tavern as the tower tilted and its looming mass began to topple. There was a rushing roar and the huge spindle broke in the middle and split into long vertical shards. A shuddering thunder filled the air as Orlag Tower fell, its vast pieces hammering any other buildings into a long swathe of rubble beneath clouds of dust….

  Byrnak reached for power, just enough to enhance his vision which showed that the Mawl had escaped being crushed by the tower’s death. He laughed at this, breaking off when a large winged form crossed his field of vision and swooped towards the tavern roof. Byrnak’s guards readied spears and slings but he allayed them with a raised hand as the Overseer fetched up with perfect grace to alight on the roof’s low wall. It was the one who had warned Byrnak.

  “You!” he said. “I had a feeling that you were going to be trouble.”

  “Well, I hope you’re not disappointed,” Byrnak snarled.

  The Overseer grimaced unpleasantly. “When we rebuild we shall bury your bones in the foundations, and when you come back from the half-death we’ll find other uses for you.”

  At his gesture another five Overseers clambered up over the low roof. The guards gasped and backed away towards the steps, but Byrnak just laughed. Without another word the Overseers launched themselves at him.

  He left it until the last moment, then released the pent-up energy of the Wellsource in one spiralling wave of radiant force. Slashed and ruptured, his attackers were hurled backwards and off the roof altogether, apart from one, the spokesman, whom he held in the pitiless grip of his power, suspended in midair.

  “There is a new power in the Nightrealm,” he cried. “And the old shall give way to the new, a new purpose, a new belief — do you hear me?”

  Then without waiting for a reply he tossed the battered Overseer off the tavern roof. Breathing heavily, he stood for a moment savouring this first true moment of delving into the Wellsource. Which was different here, he noticed, in its taste, its texture, its imperative, and its primal undertones. The savagery of that other Wellsource was here tempered with something else, a deeper sense of nuance, and a greater flexibility. Perhaps it could offer new ways of coercion…

  Someone began to applaud behind him, a faintly metallic sound. Byrnak turned to see that all his guards had fled, and that a single opaque form stood there watching him. It was a man, armoured head to foot in dark, shimmering armour with the front of the helm open, revealing a pale, youthful face.

  “Greetings,” the stranger said. “That was a marvellous demonstration of untutored brawn — I like that, it shows great promise and could lead to a rewarding future, depending on the choices you make.”

  Byrnak sneered. “There’s no time here and no true death, so how can there be any future?”

  “Perhaps it would be more accurate, then, to distinguish between life, such as it is, and the no-life of my master’s White Prison, which of course is without any present or future.” The armoured man smiled faintly. “I’ve heard that you’re calling yourself Byrnak — is that true?”

  “Yes — so who are you?”

  “I have the honour to be known as the Duskgeneral, commander of the hosts of the Great Shadow.” He sketched a mocking bow. “An interesting name, Byrnak — almost no-one here remembers it, but I do. I remember…”

  Byrnak regarded him closely, realising that this was only a far-flung image and that the real Duskgeneral was elsewhere.

  “I’m coming for you,” he said. “I mean to have it all, and I’ll destroy you if you stand in my way.”

  “How refreshingly direct,” the Duskgeneral said. “And very reminiscent of He was in the beginning. In fact…” He stared at Byrnak for a long moment, then a slow smile crept over his features. “Is this a ploy of his, to send an unknowing fragment of himself off into the hinterland in the hope that it will return in strength? Well, we’ve played that game before but never while prosecuting a war for another world!” He laughed. “I accept the challenge and and shall prove my worth! Till we meet again, Byrnak the Protector!”

  Still laughing, the Duskgeneral turned to walk away, his form melting away. A pace or two later all of him had wispily dissolved into the shadows.

  Byrnak glowered at the spot where he had vanished.

  “This is not a game, he muttered. “And you will beg for death before it is done.”

  * * *

  The night was full of confusion and the clash of arms. Ayoni moved carefully through the darkness, using magesight to find a safe path through the undergrowth but not daring to use farspeech for fear of discovery. Tangaroth and his pawn, Gessik, were out there, just waiting for any sign of her or Chellour.

  Anxiety at not knowing the fate of Jarryc and the others assailed her, almost threatening to overwhelm her emotions. But she held on to cold, hard calmness as it were a rock amid stormy sea. Nothing would be served by a surrender to sorrow and uncertainty — she would press on and discover the truth and the truth would not break her.

  They had crept out of their enclave via the northern ravine, travelling in groups of ten or a dozen. Tangaroth’s order were clear — they were to make a stealthy approach to the hilly western quarter of Belkiol, where the Mogaun still had a foothold in the town, and attack their positions. He claimed to have concluded a pact with the leaders of the Black Host which, having secured the main part of Belkiol, was pursuing the Mogaun savages and Carver fanatics into the northern hills. All this he announced just after nightfall in person, with his miraculously healed and voluble mouth.

  Ayoni and Jarryc and the others had been stunned, but had no time to react or argue as Tangaroth ordered the deployment to begin straight away. And barely half an hour after emerging from the ravine, Jarryc’s group, including Ayoni and Chellour, had been ambushed by Shumond and the Iron Guard. As lamps went out and everyone scattered, Ayoni had become separated in the midst of a gentle vale full of bushes. And now that she had reached the crest of the rise on the other side, she could pause to get her bearings. Magesight was more useful in daylight, but after dark could only make her surroundings a little clearer, or sometimes pierce weak illusions. It was possible to enhance her sight with a thought-canto but she could not take the chance that Tangaroth was alert to any use of the Lesser Power in the vicinity.

  Feeling tired, grimy and scratched, she leaned against a mossy boulder and stared out into the darkness. To the east she could hear shouts and the occasional clang of weapons but that was the direction of the Great Canal and the presence of the Black Host. That left her with the choice of heading for the original goal, the western quarter of Belkiol, or returning to the enclave, or risking a use of farspeech….

  It was tempting, but Tangaroth was already a powerful mage and with this Duskgeneral as his ally there was no knowing what other lore he now had at his disposal. It seemed that retracing her path to the enclave might be her best chance of rejoining Jarryc and the others. She turned south and was about a dozen paces further on when she heard wings flap overhead, large wings….

  “Countess,” said a familiar voice from above, “Wait…�
��

  Looking up, she gaped in astonishment as a pair of winged creatures descended, bearing none other than Tashil Akri clad in travellers robes and carrying a long pack on her back. Once Tashil was safely on the ground, the two women embraced happily, but before Ayoni could speak another person arrived in the same manner, a bare-armed Coireg who smiled and nodded.

  “Greetings to you both,” Ayoni said while looking closely at the four winged figures, taking in their burly and vaguely reptilian countenances. “Forgive me, but if I didn’t know any better I would say that your friends are — Daemonkind?”

  Tashil nodded. “Besarl and his companions have borne us all the way from Sejeend this night, and yes, that was the name they once had. Before all this, however, they adopted more usual appearances as the crew of the Stormclaw.”

  Ayoni smiled, surprised yet calmly accepting it as part of the stream of events that she was caught up in. “So how fare matters in Sejeend?” she said.

  “So much has happened,” Tashil said sadly, “that it would take a perilous amount of time to relate it all. Suffice to say that the blight has consumed half the city and invaders called the Black Host are trying to seize the rest.”

  “And you are both here,” Ayoni said. “Why?”

  Tashil glanced at Coireg who maintained an air of calm amusement.

  “The pronouncements of gods?” Tashil said to him, then looked back at Ayoni. “A certain higher agency let it be known that those close to me here would soon be in danger, a warning I took to mean yourself and Chellour. But it turned out otherwise…”

  “I wouldn’t say that our situation is without difficulties,” Ayoni said.

  Tashil shook her head. “Jarryc and Chellour are safe, holed up with two score of soldiers in a tumble-down hunting lodge about a mile north of here. No, it seems that the divine foreboding referred to my family…”

  Ayoni could see the fearful worry in her eyes, despite her apparent composure. “You’re sure?”

  Tashil nodded but it was Coireg who spoke.

  “It is true, Countess — I have seen it through the bond placed upon me by the Sleeping God. The Great Shadow’s Black Host has seized most of the town north of here, along with several hundred prisoners who have been confined to the ceremonial chamber of the Twilight Temple. The floor of the temple had been scribed with intricate patterns and the prisoners have been divided into 11 groups, with 10 arranged in a circle and the last placed in the centre around which a number of gold statuettes has been arrayed. Familiar?”