Shadowmasque

by Michael Cobley

  There was a burst of dazzling silver-green light, illuminating the balcony and the room below for a moment, and the Murknight let out a strange, high buzzing cry before collapsing to the floor in a welter of armour sections and dense black fumes. Host soldiers were already mounting steps on the other side of the balcony, some fitting arrows to bows, so Calabos led everyone in a dash to an archway leading out to the next step of stairs.

  After that it was a series of confrontations, bluffings and pursuits through the glittering black passages and chambers of the Citadel. At length they came to a hall full of low benches where Calabos called a halt, took off his helm, and told them all that he would have to go on alone.

  “How foolish can one man be?” said Culri. “No, this is not a task for you alone.”

  “The captains of this place now know who they are looking for,” Calabos pointed out. “So the moment any enemy sees a Murknight in the company of three Overseers they’ll be unlimbering their swords not rolling out the carpet!”

  “He’s right,” said Kerna. “He’ll stand a much better chance by himself but that leaves us with the problem of how to get out.”

  “Find your way to one of the balconies,” Calabos said. “Qothan and his brothers might be able to ferry you down to safety…” He glanced at Qothan who gave a slow, serious nod.

  “But friend Calabos, you take all the risk of this task upon yourself — should you not have even just one of us three go with you?”

  In the silvery halflight Calabos could see the worry in the Daemonkind’s half-man, half-reptilian features, and his own trepidation almost made him change his mind. But he hardened his resolve.

  “I understand your concerns, Qothan, but even the presence of just one of you would be enough to draw unwanted attention and suspicion.”

  Qothan frowned but did not dissent, while Culri glared.

  “This is an idiocy,” he said. “You’ll die in this place, and then what will it all have been for, eh?”

  “Go in peace, Culri,” Calabos said as he put the helm back on. “If we do fail, keep yourself alive, old man, and watch out for another, better hero.”

  So saying he raised one hand in farewell to Kerna and Nilka, to Culri, to Qothan and Viras and Yostil, then strode away between two banks of benches towards a square open door in the far wall. It was an effort of will to keep walking and not to look back.

  But his judgement proved correct and he was able to avoid the various search patrols sweeping through the corridors, and once or twice managed to bluff his way past squads of Host guards. And as he climbed floor after floor, they became infrequent and even the sounds of battle grew quieter. Once he risked a glance from a small balcony on the 22nd floor of the Citadel and looked down to see Byrnak’s army gathered at the foot of the Citadel, and furious fighting taking place on some of the lowest balconies.

  By the time he reached the 29th floor, there were no Black Host soldiers to be seen although a few formally-attired men and women wearing masks passed him in the darkly opalescent corridors from time to time, or were noticed in rooms and halls that he walked by. The light changed too, becoming a little brighter and softer, almost pearly. On the 30th floor he doffed his helm but carried it in his right hand as he went in search of the next set of stairs.

  The corridors and rooms here were busier, and everyone wore a mask of some kind, whether plain or elaborate, some like caricatures of faces, others resembling animals while a few attempted to depict an idea or quality like War or Death. Few if any regarded Calabos directly as he walked along, for which he was thankful, guessing that they saw him as far beneath notice.

  Then his search took him into an oval room, along a high balcony where a handful of masked spectators were gazing down at something. When he went to the balustrade for a look, what he saw rooted him to the spot.

  Two men were fighting with spear and net, a tall, grey-haired man in battered leather harness and a younger burlier man wearing furs and crude mail, his black hair tied back in tribal manner. The tall man was Ikarno Mazaret, and his opponent was the Mogaun chieftain, Yasgur. Yet their contest seemed more like mock fighting with both uttering stagey snarls and grunts as if they were play-acting.

  “Quite a display, don’t you think?” said a woman’s voice from behind him. “I don’t particularly care for these puppet games but my husband promised them to the clades of the court, hence this.”

  Without turning, he said, “Your husband? Who would that be?”

  She laughed. “Why, the Duskgeneral, of course. Now which court clade are you from, may I ask?”

  He turned to see a blonde-haired woman in a blue, high-collared gown and a winged half-mask decorated with shiny green feathers. For a moment he smiled as she regarded him, then her eyes widened, her smile faded and her mouth trembled.

  “Highest, forgive me….” she stammered. “We had no warning from the harbingers…and I would have recognised you — it has been a long time since you last used this guise. I might be the only one here who remembers it…”

  Realisation struck — She thinks I’m him, the Great Shadow, come down from my throne to slum it with the mortals! This could be useful…

  “Your loyalty is most welcome but I do not wish attention drawn to myself so — calm composure will suffice.”

  She nodded and forced a smile back into her lips.

  “Good,” he said. “Yes, these diversions are quite interesting — where does your husband obtain such subjects?”

  “Oh, they are only rivenshades provided by the White Prison, highest.”

  “Correct,” he said quickly. “Can you show me other similar jousts?”

  She nodded and led him through a series of chambers in which pairs of people both familiar and strange fought each other with a variety of weapons. As before, the fighting was more like a flourishing display than real combat, but as soon as first blood was drawn they went into a murderous frenzy. He saw an Alael and an Atroc attack each other with long cleavers — the sight made his blood run cold.

  After that he asked her to show him the most direct path to ‘his courts’. She gave him an odd look then took him down a mottled blue corridor where sombre-coloured tapestries showed scenes in motion, past a room where blood-red statues sand in iron-voiced chorus, through a purple-jewelled chamber from whose ceiling scores upon scores of limbs and heads hung and writhed, along a black-and-silver tiled gallery where mouths great and small spoke or snarled or muttered from the walls. Then as they climbed a spiral staircase, she paused a few steps ahead of Calabos and turned to look down at him with a sly smile.

  “There is much about you that puzzles me,” she said. “And much to think upon, and… I think that you are not the Great Shadow after all!” She laid a soft, accusatory fingertip on his armoured chest. “I think that you are the other one, Byrnak — yes, you’re the Twilight Lord from the other place and you’ve come to the Nightrealm to wrest away his power even as he invades your world! The symmetry is so daring.”

  He smiled. “Very perceptive of you, but aren’t you afraid that I might have to kill you to maintain my secret?”

  She sniffed. “Your secret is safe, mighty Byrnak. Only I would recognise your face because I’m the oldest of the Duskgeneral’s wives — the Highest last wore that appearance more than 2000 years ago, since when he has tended to blend and mingle features for his own amusement.”

  “2000 years?” he said suddenly.

  “Why, yes. It seems that Time is faster here than in your world and has become faster since the Triumph, which was about 3000 years ago…or is it 4000? As for you killing me — well, so far I’m still alive.”

  With another smile she continued on up the stairs and he followed, his mind full of thoughts about Time. If the three centuries since the Shadowking war translated into three millennia or more here, then it was possible that no more than a day had passed since he and the Daemonkind stepped through the Shattergate. If Tashil and the others were still holding out…


  “Do you get to hear anything of the invasion of the other world?” he said. “Does it go well?”

  She shrugged. “Black Host echelons are still being sent through the gates, and my husband divides his time between conducting the invasion and directing the defense of the citadel.” She laughed. “How delicious! — he’s down on the battlements and you’re already near the apex…”

  From the top of the stairs they emerged into a wide, oval chamber that was dimmer and colder than the floors below. Small niche lamps cast a hard silver glow on the pentagonal tiles underfoot and the bas-relief sculptures of war that covered the walls. A ramp of shallow steps curved round the wall to a tall, open archway and they climbed the air grew distinctly icy.

  The archway led through darkling shadows and up a ramp to a wide platform open to the black, glittering canopy of the Nightrealm’s sky. Ahead was an arresting view along the easterly cliffs with all their fortifications and towers while to the right was the entirety of the Nightrealm itself, a vertiginous, astonishing, reason-challenging carpet of buildings, a frozen avalanche of cities, its roofs and towers and lamp glints sloping away, merging into a distant, murky glimmer.

  To the left of the arch a wide, plain stairway led up a dozen steps or so to an open gate in the cliffedge battlements, passing between two slender and seemingly unmanned guard towers.

  The Duskgeneral’s masked wife was sitting on a low retaining wall that curved along to the foot of the cliff steps, and watching him closely.

  “What will you do if you succeed?” she said. “Will you free everyone from the White Prison, and replace them with us?” She shivered. “It might be interesting to see them emerge, to see her..” She glanced over her shoulder at the cliffs. “Sometimes, when I come up here, I can hear her calling to me — sometimes I can hear her weeping…” She stood and walked over to stare down at the Nightrealm. “I’ve been alive too long, too many sights, too many memories. Perhaps you should kill me after all — the half-death might be a blessing, if that is what is in store for such as I…”

  “I don’t know what will happen if I succeed,” Calabos said. “All this will change…”

  “You could change that face of yours,” she said. “Or mine — would you do that for me?”

  He stared at her, with a cloud of half-suspicions coalescing in his thoughts.

  “Well, since you’ve seen my face,” he said, “Won’t you show me yours, that I may come to the correct decision?”

  “As you wish, ser.”

  And when the feathered mask was removed, he saw that it was indeed Suviel Hantika.

  He smiled sadly and fitted the Murknight helm back on his head, then adjusted the harnessing of the scabbard so that the sword of powers was in the right position for drawing over the shoulder.

  “Have a care, lady,” he said. “I am neither of those that you imagined me to be, but if Byrnak does come this way he would not hesitate to slay you.”

  Without another word, he strode away from her and began to mount the stairs that led to the dreamcourts of the Great Shadow.

  * * *

  When he left Tashil and Ayoni on that bushy slope, Coireg had been on the point of rebelling against his terrible duty. But he had already given the directions of their journey to Besarl and the others earlier so while fear and doubt racked him, the Daemonkind loyally lifted him into the night sky and commenced the flight towards Besdarok.

  Now is my fate sealed, he thought. All the knots and mazes of my life straighten out and I have become like an arrow or a swordpoint speeding towards my target.

  They flew across the dark straits of the Great Canal, the wide waterway created by the defeat of the Shadowkings when the dread towers Gorla and Keshada and their vast, encircling fortifications had collapsed into the tormented depths. A few moments later only the faint, radiant greyness of the Blight was beneath them, a smooth blanket whose dips and bumps were the only indication of natural landmarks, now smothered. The Daemonkind banked north and before long a wide stretch of the canal came into view in the darkness, a place where either bank bulged outward for this was where Keshada had stood three centuries ago.

  The Daemonkind slowed and Besarl spoke above the flap and rush of beating wings.

  “Is this close enough, friend Coireg?”

  “Yes, but should we perhaps be lower…”

  Besarl laughed. “Have no worries — we shall no relax our grip and soon you shall be pastwalking with us in the Pit of Time.”

  Coireg nodded, trying to feel assured and calm even though his stomach was churning and his heart was racing. He knew that Captain Ondene had experienced this leap through time, as had Calabos and it was the latter’s account which was going through his mind, at least the unsettling parts thereof. He tried to tell himself to look forward to the unknown, to expect some kind of exhilaration…then Besarl said;

  “Now, friend Coireg — close tight your eyes!”

  Even as he did, his sense began to shift and gave the impression that he was suddenly moving in a circle very quickly. And although his eyes were shut, grey threads leaked into his vision from either side, turning silver as they interwove, then white as they began to coil into the centre. Then the spiralling hub of it surged towards him and he cried out as his sense of balance swung to and fro. His ears were full of his own voice and panicky breathing, hissing and roaring…but after an interminable time these sounds grew quieter and more rhythmic, even as the inpouring white traceries lost their meshlike texture, merging into an irregular whiteness rushing by beneath him…

  A snowy landscape, its purity broken by trees, farmhouses, fences, and there was the rhythmic beating of Daemonkind wings bearing him through the sky. Ahead the towering mass of Keshada loomed and below he could see where a great number of riders had recently passed, churning the snow and mud right up to the tower’s wide open gates.

  “Shall we enter?” Besarl said.

  Shivering, Coireg pointed up. “The ramparts…will be quicker.”

  The alighted on a deserted parapet where only grey banners moved listlessly in the fitful icy breeze. Coireg warmed himself by beating his hands against arms and legs, and thought of the journey that lay ahead, through Keshada to the chambers where the Lord of Twilight’s realm had started to invade the world. From there they would fly across the Realm of Dusk to the vicinity of Hewn Mountain where he would discover if the Sleeping God’s buried imperative would take them all into the death throes of the old after all, would carry them safely into the black dream of a ruined world….

  Ikarno Mazaret would be there, fighting for dear life along with the rest, Bardow and Yasgur, Suviel and Gilly, Tauric and the witchhorses. But he would see none of them and would be unable to save any of them.

  “I once had a brother,” he told Besarl as the Daemonkind handed him a torn, discarded tabard. “I wish he could have know that I defeated my inner darkness and found the strength to stand against the outer. But even now he’ll not know.”

  “All that arises from the Void returns to the Void,” Besarl said. “If you have done this, he will know.”

  Coireg thought on this for a long, illuminated moment, then bowed deeply. “Thank you, Besarl, for such a kind and graceful comment — I am changed by your words.”

  “This is as it should be, friend Coireg,” the Daemonkind said. “Shall we commence?”

  “We shall.”

  As Besarl led the way into the halls of Keshada, Coireg thought — So this is the end which becomes the beginning, but will the beginning take us to a worthy end?

  Chapter Twenty-One

  From the mountains I came,

  With a song and a smile,

  But it is with torch and sword,

  That I descend into the abyss.

  —Gundal, The Doom Of Gleoras, ch2, v.

  Hand over hand, with fingers punching holes and ledges in the sheer rock face, Byrnak climbed towards the fortified dreamcourts of the Great Shadow. Below, the siege raged, with the most intense
fighting taking place around two immense holes which the Mawl had bored in the outer wall before the defenders destroyed it with well-aimed sections of masonry. There was also a savage clash on one of the lower ramparts from which scaling ladders and nets hung.

  It was a satisfyingly brutal sight. His demolition of Orlag Tower had earned him a reputation for ruthless, irresistible purpose which he turned to good account in his dealings with other district chieftains and leaders. Almost as important were the adepts who were drawn to his own overt mastery of the Wellsource, and persuaded by promises of tuition to pledge their loyalty.

  The higher he climbed, the harder it was distinguish among the press of warriors at the foot of the Citadel. The glimmering gloom blurred details and reduced those struggling thousands to a heaving, dark grey mass. Glancing down for a moment, he laughed and continued his ascent. It was every bit as spectacular a diversion as he could have wished for.

  When he was about half way up he changed direction and traversed the cliff face towards the citadel and leaped onto a wide, ostentatiously-carved balcony. From there he rose through the remaining floors of the citadel, killing all he met. Crowds of foppish, masked people screamed and ran from the bifurcated black shard of a sword with which he slew and maimed.

  This is the full pleasure of dominion, Byrnak thought. And when I throw down the unworthy lord of this realm, I shall bring a new order to its every road and life. I shall need every hand and every back when I begin the true conquest of all the other worlds that lie beyond.

  As he strode bloody-handed through the halls, he turned part of his perceptions inward, curious to know if the original spirit of this host body was conscious of all that was transpiring. Past inspiralling veils Byrnak’s inner eye flew till he came upon a narrow place where the opaque core of the man Ondene still resided, a misty knot of images and memories wrapped tightly around a dull spark, the embers of his hope, no doubt.

  At last he reached a cold chamber and a curved ramp that led to the very roof of the citadel itself. Out in the icy darkness, with the silver-grey cliffside battlements stretching out to either side, Byrnak stood right at the edge of the rooftop platform, staring out over the Nightrealm, and roared and laughed in triumph and defiance. Then he turned to face the fortified cliffs and the great stairway that rose to an open gate, and with an easy agility ran across to climb the steps three at a time.