Shadowgod (2 page)

The Shadowking Byrnak smiled in recognition and understanding.
Rivenshades
– those Acolytes loyal to Ystregul had pared at least three
rivenshades
from the essence of Suviel Hantika before she died. Yes, a corrupted ghost could be both weapon and trap. He would send a messenger to Trevada at once, someone he could trust, Azurech perhaps. It would also serve to remind the Acolytes of the virtues of obedience.

“...ghosts…”

There was a feverish light of dementia in Mazaret’s eyes, betraying a broken soul.

“...everywhere! Ghosts in the sky and the sea and the black chasm of the night...surrounded by ghosts, armies and nations of ghosts...”

Frowning, Byrnak said, “Be silent!”

Coireg flinched as if from inner pain but went on. “World full of ghosts, full to overspilling, hungry enough to eat the flesh of the sky and the bones of the land, leaving nothing, only shadows….”

A deranged energy seemed to pour through him, forcing neck muscles rigid. Byrnak was tempted to end this tirade with a lancing thought but held back, intrigued.

“...the world itself is a ghost!…” The man’s wandering eyes suddenly looked straight at Byrnak. “Believe, I beg you! Do you believe me?

“Of course.”

The eyes widened, filling with uncertainty. “Both of you?”

Byrnak felt a chill go though him. “What do you mean?” he said, tightening his grip.

“I can see...two of you,” Coireg gasped. “But the other one is saying nothing. Are you real or is he?...ah, now he is smiling at me!”

Byrnak felt a surge of rage. “
I
am real! Only me, you hear? Now drown in silence.”

An emerald aura brightened about him as he reached in and thrust Coireg Mazaret’s being down into a dark, unreasoning corner. But even as he began setting the bindings and fetters in place, sinuous shadows shifted at the back of his own thoughts –

Relax your grip, weakling. Sink into the nethermind and be consumed.

Silent for weeks, Byrnak’s fragment of the Lord of Twilight had at last spoken.

An image filled his mind’s eye, a view of himself drowning in a black, viscous sea, face and struggling hands being slowly pulled under. Byrnak ignored the threat and focussed his fury on completing Coireg’s imprisonment, refusing to frame a reply, certain that dialogue was futile.

Byrnak set his servant on his feet, steadying him as the spirit of Crevalcor returned. Eyelids fluttered, and a hand rose to massage an aching neck.

“Great Lord...” he said in a hoarse voice. “Have I slept?”

“You have been gone but moments,” Byrnak said. “Do you recall anything?”

Crevalcor furrowed his brow. “Naught but fragments...I recall stumbling through a vast hall, perhaps a cathedral…the light was like dark copper and there was all manner of debris scattered around….and, yes, there were voices roaring at each other in a tongue foreign to me.”

He shrugged apologetically. “That is all, Great Lord.”

“No matter,” Byrnak said. “What remains of your host provided me with an intriguing morsel before I returned him to his incarceration. Be assured that he will not trouble you.”

“I am grateful, Great Lord.”

“But now let us return to my map chamber. There is much to prepare for the task which lies ahead.”

Byrnak smiled as he led the way towards the portico entrance which covered the downward stairs. Crevalcor loyalty was assured now.

Find the exact punishment and the exact reward
, he thought,
and you could master anyone
.

His smile widened as he considered the rivenshades of Suviel Hantika.

Even Ikarno Mazaret
.

Soulless hounds and cursed wights,
Groaning shadows with deadly knives,
Tracked the sharp tang of his blood,
From dale to vale to lightless wood.

—Gundal,
The Doom Of Gleoras
, ch 9, vi

Snow was falling on eastern Khatris. From the topmost spires of the Rukang mountains to the Girdle Hills encircling Besh-Darok, a carpet of large powdery flakes was being laid down, mantling the fields, softening battlefield scars and debris, masking the blackness of charred ground and burnt-out farm buildings.

Besh-Darok was becoming a white city. Roofs already icicle-bearded were growing pale and shrouded, their chimneys and vents fuming as the mid-morning cooking commenced. Children were sent out from under busy feet to caper in the streets, laughing and catcalling as volleys of snowballs flew to and fro. Dogs snapped at drifting flakes but dray horses just twitched their ears and breathed out foggy fumes.

Seamstresses and embroiderers were hard at work finishing pennons and bannerets; bakers were carefully packing special orders; taverners were taking delivery of fresh kegs and new leather jacks; city wardsmen were salting the icy roads leading down to the Five Kings dock; Earthmother priestesses were singing long canticles from towers scattered across the city; mummers were cavorting in the squares, while street sellers hawked their wares with blandishments and ribald doggerel. For this was the day of the Low Coronation, a day of celebration for commoners, tradesmen, guildsmen, officials, soldiers and sailors, as well as delegations from other towns and cities. It might be that the first true days of winter were upon them, and that terrible enemies still plotted from far to the north, but the roads and lanes were busy with people looking forward to a new Emperor, an event unthinkable just two short months ago.

Other parts of the city utterly lacked this kind of bustling activity. The district which bordered the sawmills, the lairages and the shipyards were full of houses that were as silent and empty as the slipways by the river. But shadows still crept there, and one abandoned street was playing host to a grim drama of blades.

* * *

Nerek was passing through a small square in the empty quarter when five men stepped out from doorways surrounding her. They were gaunt, hard-eyed men in shabby, mismatched armour, mostly leather and splint, but their weapons looked well-maintained. Almost at once she cursed herself for not having varied her route. City living had softened the edge of her caution.

“Now,” said one, a fair-haired swordsman in a patched brown cape. “You’ll be coming with us, I think, and peaceably if you please.”

She took in the details of the square in one, quick glance, the broken fountain, the shattered cart half-blocking one of the alleys, the few boarded-up windows and doors.

“Why would I do a thing like that?” she said evenly.

“Well, a merchant of my acquaintance wishes you brought to him, and seeing as I am in the taking and bringing business I offered my services.” He spread his hands and a silken cord swung loose from one. “Gave him my word that I’d bring you to him.”

Nerek reached for the Wellsource and was surprised to feel its strength and sensual potency rise at her command. But only for a second before it all drained away, leaving her angry and hollow. The man with the cord smiled.

“Seems they were right about your witchery, too.” He nodded at the man nearest her, who moved towards her.

“No…” she said, making her voice quaver. “Please!” She flung out one hand, palm outwards as if begging for mercy, while the other gripped the barbknife’s hilt beneath her long blue robes. The brigand grabbed her outstretched wrist, leering as he pulled her up against him.

“I never had me a witch 'fore,” he began…

She thrust the barbknife into the soft flesh below his ear. Blood spurted forth as she tore the knife free and leaped past his collapsing form. With a chorus of angry shouts at her back she dashed towards a nearby open door. Diving inside, she whirled with both hands on the door, slamming it shut, dropping the hinged latch bar into the iron slot. An instant later someone struck the outside of the door, which shook in its frame but held.

By the time it was kicked open, Nerek was climbing onto the roof and desperately seeking an escape route. Discovering that a lower building adjoined the house, she lowered herself down then leaped across the gap separating it from a flat-roofed stable slippery with snow. A frost-coated, iron ladder led up to a cambered slate roof, the first of an entire row curving up the hill, away from the river.

She heard a shout and looked back to see two men clambering out onto the roof of the last house, while the other two came running into view down in the street, pointing up at her.

The chase was on.

* * *

The villa of the merchant Hevrin was hidden by a barrier of snow-laden ankeril trees, behind which was a stone wall. One of the estate wardens had greeted Keren as she rode up from the main road, past busy barns and pens, past labourers in the icy fields and gangs of carpenters putting up new stables. At the gate to the villa grounds, she had to give her horse into the care of the ostlers and hand over her sword to the guard at the gatehouse. Once, such a demand would have provoked her into cold, unbending refusal. But she had learned that a blade was not the only weapon, and surrendered hers without a word.

Beyond the gate were gardens through which a paved path curved to the villa’s entrance, twin torwood doors banded with black iron and carved with a simple crest of a ship, a bell and a torch. Even as Keren and the warden climbed the few steps to the porch, the doors opened inwards and a tall, elderly man strode out to greet them, his breath smoking in the chill air.

“Lady Keren - you honour me and my house by your visit. Please enter and be welcome.”

Hevrin had clearly been a man of imposing stature in his youth, and some of that presence remained in his autumn years. It was said that when his first ship had been captured by pirates in the Gulf of Noriel one stormy winter, he had portaged two smaller vessels overland to Rauthaz and led the raid which regained his ship and much else besides. Today, he wore the kind of sturdy, weather-beaten jerkin preferred by working captains, along with plain moleskin breeks tucked into high boots that were well-tooled, almost ostentatious.

“My thanks, ser Hevrin, for your courteous reception,” she said stiffly. “And your invitation.”

Lady Keren
? she thought wryly as the merchant ushered her into a warm, low-ceilinged hall lit by oil lamps.
And here am I in a rider's jerkin and troos, and smelling of horse
...

Hevrin ordered one of his servants to bring refreshments, then guided Keren through the hall to a room hung with tapestries and warmed by a log fire. He sat her in a high-backed chair near the hearth then left the room, only to return moments later with a flat box under one arm and a servant following in his footsteps. Once a tray of glasses and delicacies was laid on a table near Keren’s elbow, Hevrin dismissed the servant then opened the box and took from it a leather-bound volume.

“The tale that you seek lies within those pages, Lady,” he said, offering it to her. “I’ve marked it for you with the ribbon.”

The book was a little larger than a pocket journal yet quite thick, and as Keren ran her fingers over the ridges on the spine and the edges of the covers she found herself recalling that terrible journey through the tunnels of the Oshang Dakhal. At the dreadful climax of that struggle in Trevada she had seen how weak they all were in the face of the ancient powers of the world. She knew that if they were to survive the coming clash between the Earthmother and the Shadowkings, they had to have allies, namely the Daemonkind.

When she spoke of this to Bardow he was sceptical, pointing out that they had been the first servants of the Lord of Twilight and were unlikely to risk themselves on behalf of creatures they affected to despise. And then there was the near-insurmountable problem of penetrating the veil between the realms in order to exchange messages with their domain. The Archmage had paused and frowned, then admitted that there was an ancient myth which told of a hero who sang his way to the Daemonkind’s realm to solicit their aid. Such bare bones were all he knew, but that was enough to set Keren on a path of questions. Six weeks of asking and begging for entry to private libraries, hunting through rooms of dusty shelves, listening to the random outpourings of market storytellers, questioning the few Earthmother archivists still alive, and finally paying for information from an antiquities chandler who knew of the merchant Hevrin’s love for old books.

She opened the cover. The pages were a mixture of parchments, their edges coarsely cut and unevenly matched, and written on the first leaf in Old Mantinor script, were the words -

With restrained eagerness, Keren sought the pages marked by a faded green ribbon, opened them wide and peered down at the stanzas of neat script. A moment later, she looked up in confusion.

“Ser Hevrin, what tongue is this?” she said.

The merchant had poured himself a goblet of pungent spirit and was settling into a chair on the other side of the hearth.

“According to scholars more sage than I, Lady Keren, the language is ancient Othazi, conveyed in a mid-Yularian dialect of the time.” He smiled. “Which, sadly, I cannot read. You see, Stulmar was only interested in authentic renditions of tribal legends, thus his book contains stories written in a score of languages.”

“Do you perchance have a translation of this tale, ser?” she said, feeling increasingly irritated.

“Only of its title, Lady - 'How Raegal Sang A Road To The Land Of The Daemons.' When my slightly reputable associate mentioned the details of your enquiry, I knew immediately what you sought and sent my invitation, hopeful that you would also accept this volume as a small token of my goodwill.” He sipped his drink. “A translation should not difficult to arrange. The guild colleges employ several scholars of note, most of whom would not be averse to earning a little extra gilt.”

A small token of my goodwill
. Keren’s initial surprise began turning into suspicion.