The Riddler's Gift: First Tale of the Lifesong (The Tale of the Lifesong)

by Greg Hamerton

  “Stop.”

  The single word compelled him to failure. Garyll was unable to move. He stood over his enemy, poised to fall, and cried out against the paralysis. Not one muscle responded to his efforts to regain control.

  The Darkmaster scuffled away, then laughed.

  “Do you think I would be so feeble-minded to let you go if you could turn on me, Glavenor? No, you cannot turn on me. The Devotion you spoke is the seal on a powerful spell. Wonderful, really, for it is your own mind that holds that seal, in the terms we agreed upon. That you tried to break the pact, will be remembered. I see I was right to refresh our bond, before the final day.”

  Cabal came close. Cold fingers worked the buckle of Garyll’s collar free, and took his Darkstone in hand. Doom sank into Garyll’s body.

  I am the shadow and he is my master.

  He is the shadow and I am his caster.

  “Good. I am glad to see you have not forgotten too much of what you were taught. Now, say it again.”

  The devotion to save Tabitha. He could not defy it. The pact was like a barbed arrow, it worked deeper into him with every struggling word. Only by accepting, could he spare Tabitha from harm. He could not go backwards, against the teeth set in his heart. He had overestimated his free will. He had forgotten some of the raw agony of the torture chamber. It filled him now, layer upon layer of pain, depth upon depth of Darkness. His strength was taken from him, until he found abandon in the words.

  “Again,” the Darkmaster ordered.

  Some time later, a second Shadowcaster announced the completion of the shroud, whatever that was. Garyll didn’t care. He only wanted the Darkmaster to release him.

  “Gabrielle, signal the turned Gifters, and see to it that they throw themselves against the defenders with good vigour. See that they find blindness themselves, when they have cast that spell amongst the defenders. Use the Darkswords to dispatch whatever remains.”

  “All of the turned Gifters are to be—executed?” There was a catch in Gabrielle’s voice.

  “None of those recently turned can be trusted. Our friend the Swordmaster has shown us that. I want only the loyal Shadowcasters to join the final taking of Stormhaven. The spells are too complex to risk tampering.”

  “Am I to join the final assault?” Gabrielle asked, in a small voice.

  “If your task is complete,” said the Darkmaster.

  “But it shall be slaughter, Master! The turned Gifters swore allegiance. Can we not simply overpower the defenders, and leave it at that?”

  “You think to lecture me on what is best? You have forgotten your failure with the Source quicker than I. See that you follow my command, if you wish to find a place in the Eyri of tomorrow. I want the Kingsbridge anointed with blood.”

  An angry, animal lust for savagery swept through Garyll, then the Darkmaster finally withdrew his hand from Garyll’s throat, and the bloodlust lessened. Garyll guessed he had felt the intent of a spell sent Gabrielle’s way. She had departed at a run.

  “Come, Glavenor. It is time we progressed towards the end.”

  Garyll’s collar was tied again, hiding the Darkstone. He was pushed from behind, and he staggered through the unbroken darkness. After a few steps, the motes thinned, and a pale mist replaced the murk with ghostly luminescence. Robed figures waited on the shore of the Amberlake.

  “Begin,” commanded the Darkmaster, close behind him.

  The Shadowcasters began to chant, and motes flickered outwards to lace the mist with tendrils. Garyll wondered absently how they were going to flank a battle which occupied the entire head of the Kingsbridge. The barricade had been constructed to span the causeway from waterline to waterline. There was no way around it.

  A baleful horn sounded off to the right.

  The Shadowcasters united their Dark essence into a coiled mass, and threw it outwards, as if wasting it upon the Amberlake.

  “Freeze!”

  For as far as Garyll could see into the shroud of mist, the water had turned to ice, in a broad swath wide enough to walk upon. The Shadowcasters moved, and he was compelled to move with them by the hand on his back. Garyll walked with care. If the ice cracked, he knew his armour would take him to the bottom. With his arms tied, there would be no escape. They walked out onto the Amberlake a way, and the Shadowcasters repeated the spell. The ice was slick and unsteady underfoot.

  Screams, confused shouts, and the clash of metal came over the water from the right. The mists hid the head of the Kingsbridge, but Garyll could imagine what was taking place. Turned Gifters darting in amongst the defenders, under the cover of darkness, and blinding the Swords with motes. Darkswords coming in their wake, and hacking down the sightless. The archers would be intent on the front, but wouldn’t know where to fire. The turned Gifters would fight desperately to win their prey without being injured, though they wouldn’t suspect it was all for nought. They would find the blades of the Darkswords through their backs, once the defenders had been massacred. Swords against Swords, Eyrians on Eyrians. It was all happening again. The bile Garyll tasted was worse than before.

  A chunk of ice broke underfoot, and drifted on the water. Garyll skirted the hole, but the ice cracked further under his weight. A hand steadied him, and the Shadowcasters chanted the spell again in unison, thickening the floating bridge in the mist. The sounds of battle were still to the right, though the screams had begun to drown out the clash and clamour of weapons.

  The sloping bank of the Kingsbridge thrust across their path. Shadowcasters sent runners of mist to cover the places that were bare. When Garyll reached the road level, the gag was torn from his head, and his restraints were severed. He felt hopelessly crushed. The Darkmaster remained close behind him, and whispered a final directive.

  “You will be silent until you reach the Isle. Run along now. We have to surprise a few archers, and pin them to a barricade with their own arrows. Tell your King we are coming to claim his crown. You know what must be done, in the end. Be ready for my command.”

  A lash of cold stung Garyll’s back, and he lurched into a run. He didn’t ease his stride when the mist thinned, or when he finally gagged upon the horror of what was taking place behind him. He ran faster. Things were only made worse, when one fought the Darkmaster.

  He would ensure that those within Stormhaven suffered as little as possible.

  He knew the Kingsbridge was perfectly level, but his sense of balance denied it with every step. The road led ever downward, into a deep pit of despair.

  44. ALLIES AND TRAITORS

  “How small a light is needed

  to illuminate the dark?”—Zarost

  Ashley Logán ducked into a doorway just in time. The man whom he tailed cast a furtive glance over his shoulder, then continued down the narrow alley.

  Mind-reading had distinct advantages. Every time his quarry thought of checking for pursuit, Ashley was forewarned. Even so, he had only a second to react. The man was moving fast, which made hiding all the more difficult. He couldn’t rely on the night to conceal his white robe completely. Ashley slipped into the street, and loped after the fleeting back of Lethin Tarrok.

  The man’s mind was as soft as a rotten fruit, and as unsavoury. Ashley had learned a lot in the short time he had trailed him. There was much awry with the preparation of the Isle for the coming battle, and each shortfall was the work of Lethin Tarrok, work much gloated over.

  Rats had found a way into the food stores. A strange madness was spreading amongst the horses. The Sword would soon suffer from weak bowels. Ashley intended to warn the Swordmaster of all these plots, but first he had to catch Tarrok in the act or he would be in hot water himself. His only proof thus far was that Tarrok thought these things, and that was no proof at all. He wanted to keep the wandering ability of his mind a secret. So the trail of treachery drew him on.

  He hadn’t been able to sleep at any rate. The impending battle was common knowledge. Ashley had loitered near the Gatehouse for most of the night,
but when the news had been cried out from the battlements that the signal fires had been lost to mists at the head of the Kingsbridge, he had been ready to hide in the Boarding. That was when Tarrok had slunk past. The thoughts that lingered in his wake were too dangerous to ignore.

  Tarrok ducked into the mouth of a descending stairwell. Ashley hesitated for a moment when he reached it, then followed into the dank passage. The few stairs ended in a solid-looking door. Tarrok was gone. Ashley pressed his ear to the door, and heard a voice on the far side.

  “Shatter the sun! Catch alight, you damned thing!”

  A faint rasp came through the oak panel—the scrape of steel on flint, Ashley guessed. It wouldn’t do to enter the room at the wrong moment. He reached out with his thoughts instead of his hand. As before, Tarrok’s unsavoury mind was easy to penetrate.

  Ach! I can leave it open, it’ll make for a quicker return, Tarrok thought. Ashley lost contact for a few moments. When he regained the link, the thoughts were weaker.

  Bloody dark! Curses! This tunnel is as filthy as a Fendwarren brothel. The Master will pay for this chore.

  Then the mental link became fainter and slipped from his grasp. Ashley hoped it meant that Tarrok had simply moved out of range. He guessed it was safe to enter, and pulled tentatively on the door-ring. The door opened as quietly as it had for Tarrok.

  He was in a wine cellar, and a single torch was alight nearby. Racks of wine bottles, and a great many casks, were stacked all around. Against the wall on the far side of the room was a large cask, lain on its side, different from the others in that its end gaped wide. When he got close enough, he could see that it was not a barrel after all, but a cleverly concealed entrance to a tunnel.

  A good way into the tunnel, a figure worked a key in a lock. His kneeling posterior was towards Ashley. With a grinding of aged hinges, something was moved, and then the figure and his torch slipped out of a circular exit. Ashley prayed over his Lightstone for courage, then followed.

  It was dark, and dusty. When he reached the end of the tunnel, his suspicions were confirmed.

  So much for the impenetrable walls of Stormhaven.

  The legend was disproved by the scent of fish. Ashley wondered how many citizens knew of the back door to the harbour. By the rusty sound of the hinges, very few.

  The boats lay still, floating like sleeping water-fowl. There was no sign of the Sword around the harbour. It raised Ashley’s hackles, but he supposed they had not considered the harbour a target—their attention was likely concentrated around the City Gates and upon the battlements. Better defence of the harbour could have been maintained with a minimum of men. Strange things were happening tonight.

  Tarrok’s torch bobbed along the pier to the left. The flame suddenly flew up in an arc, and disappeared into the hull of a nearby vessel. The whump! of immolation accompanied a flare as tall as the mast. The boat must have been prepared with pitch or oil. Within moments, the flames licked across the surface of the harbour waters, bleeding toward other vessels. Oil had been leaked across the surface of the entire harbour.

  Tarrok must have an accomplice, or three.

  There was nothing Ashley could do to halt the spread of the fire, but there was something he could do about the traitor who ran toward him, heading for the tunnel. Ashley backed up as fast as he could, and reached the wine cellar just in time. He recoiled from the exit, in case his body blocked the torchlight and gave him away. But he needn’t have worried—he could hear Tarrok fretting with the lock at the far end of the tunnel.

  Got to get out of the dark! No light! No bloody light! There was a significant edge of panic to Tarrok’s thoughts.

  Ashley’s hand found the neck of a heavy wine bottle on the rack nearby. He was beside the mouth of the open barrel when Tarrok’s head emerged. The bottle made quite a mess when it broke. It stained the traitor’s yellow robe red. Tarrok hit the ground with a thump.

  Three keys on a ring fell from Tarrok’s slack hand. Ashley retrieved them from the pool of wine and glass. He shoved Tarrok back into the barrel. Tarrok didn’t object. Tarrok didn’t even have anything to say when Ashley closed the heavy lid which acted as the door. Ashley found the correct key, and turned it in the lock.

  Ashley guessed that when Tarrok came to, he would be screaming at the top of his lungs. The little arsonist was afraid of the dark.

  Considering the side which he had chosen, it was hopelessly ironic. Ashley quenched the torch in its holder on the way out. The third key turned smoothly in the cellar door behind him. It was quite a thick door, really. No sound would carry through all that wood.

  He set off to find the Swordmaster. He hoped Glavenor had remained in Stormhaven, and had not gone to hold the head of the Kingsbridge. The thought of the darkened signal fires had begun to bring a queer nausea to his stomach.

  * * *

  The Swordmaster was not easy to find. He seemed always two reports ahead of Ashley. Although the guards had admitted Glavenor at the City Gates, he had moved fast, collecting Swords and sending them to the Gatehouse. The news was alarming. The Kingsbridge defence had failed, and a final attack was expected to come at dawn. Few men were placed upon the battlements, for fear of the Morgloth, yet it was there that Ashley found Glavenor, gripping a cornice as if intending to rip the stone from its place and cast it against the last vestiges of the night. The tall flames of the watch tower cast an angry light against the roiling clouds of smoke which poured from the harbour.

  “Swordmaster?”

  Glavenor didn’t turn, but the tightening of his jaw-muscles suggested that he was aware of Ashley’s presence. Losing the head of the Kingsbridge must have taken a heavy toll, in lives as well as strategy. Ashley could guess how embittered the Swordmaster felt.

  “Glavenor, sir, I have discovered a traitor in the city.”

  The Swordmaster whirled in an instant. His eyes were as fierce as a hawk’s, and as predatory. Ashley faltered in his approach. He couldn’t miss the fact that Glavenor’s hand gripped the hilt of his sheathed sword.

  “What do you know?” demanded the Swordmaster. A chill ran down Ashley’s spine upon Glavenor’s advance.

  “I know who it was who set fire to the harbour.”

  “Who might that be?” demanded Glavenor. He was extremely angry, Ashley decided.

  “Lethin Tarrok,” Ashley answered. He backed away a pace from the Swordmaster.

  This is crazy. He’s the Swordmaster, you can trust him.

  “Who else knows about this?” Glavenor asked, catching his wrist and arresting his retreat. Ashley wanted to squeak. The only good thing he could see about the hold was it meant Glavenor had released his grip on the sword-hilt to achieve it. The Swordmaster was terrifying, so close.

  “N-no one,” Ashley stammered. “I came straight to you. I thought you would know what to do.”

  “Where is Tarrok now?”

  “I locked him away, in the tunnel he used to reach the harbour.”

  “Do you have the keys?”

  “I –”

  There was a something very wrong about the Swordmaster’s eyes. They weren’t as fierce as a hawk’s, Ashley decided. Rather, they were as cold as stone. Dark, midnight stone, devoid of all feeling. Ashley pushed out to touch the Swordmaster’s mind in desperation. In a flickering instant of thought, he found the horror that was there.

  “I left them in my room,” he lied.

  Ashley reeled. Glavenor’s mind was dark, so dark, and only one thought was clear, a voice which echoed a devotion against the bare walls of his soul.

  Garyll tightened his grip. There was a wicked contraption of four blades affixed to the Swordmaster’s left hand. His raised the blades.

  “Well, get them, and bring the keys to me. I must find out what else he knows.”

  Ashley almost fell from the palisade when Garyll released his arm. His legs buckled with relief, but he fled the stairs three at time, and did not tumble. It was terrifying to consider what might have happene
d if the Swordmaster had not believed his lie. He ran. There was only one person in Stormhaven who had a chance of reaching the Swordmaster. He prayed that there was enough time to find her.

  45. THE COMING OF DARKNESS

  “Of all the engines of war,

  fear is the most powerful.”—Zarost

  Cabal was furious. They had come through the covering smoke of the harbour, only to find the secret way closed. No one would answer his coded knocking on the iron door. Each of four Morrigáns stared at him, baleful reminders that they had failed to reach their target. Lethin Tarrok could not be found. It was well past the time when they should be inside the city walls. Dawn would soon begin to stain the sky. The plan had been perfect, his instructions had been explicit.

  But the way was closed.

  The Shadowcasters recoiled from him when his gaze flicked over the assembled figures. The best of Ravenscroft, and yet none of the sixty had power enough to break the stonewood walls of Stormhaven.

  A sudden croak and flurry of wings announced the return of his fifth Morrigán. Cabal accepted the messenger, which collapsed to a thousand motes.

  The Swordmaster’s voice was clipped. “Your Tarrok was locked in a room, by a boy. The boy took fright, and has gone into hiding. The keys cannot be retrieved. We might break the doors in, but not without alerting the men of it.”

  Cabal closed his eyes. His grip tightened on his sceptre. He stood quite still. Then he threw the sceptre, hard. The metal-worked staff whirled through the air, and struck the nearest Shadowcasters with a satisfactory smack. Two of them went down. They would never mention it, if they valued their positions in the new order. Someone went to retrieve the sceptre.

  Cabal summoned motes to his hand, and cast a second Morrigán for the Swordmaster.