Shadowgod (3 page)

“Your generosity surprises me, ser. Do you intend to ask something of me in turn?” Her voice was relaxed but her gaze held him cold and level.

The merchant was untroubled. “No, my Lady, it is a gift, nothing more. I expect no token or favour from you, nor would I ask for one. It is enough to have done a small service for one who came face to face with the Earthmother herself.”

Keren studied him for a moment.
He does not have the manner of a zealot
, she thought.
No doubt for some their belief is a deep slow river, while for others it a raging torrent. Perhaps I should keep the details of what happened to myself
.

“It is no small service you have done me, ser, but a great boon.”

“You are kind to say so, Lady Keren. Now - “ He finished his drink and stood. “I must beg your forgiveness for taking my leave, but there are many pressing duties which demand my hand on the tiller. Please stay and enjoy the fire and seclusion for as long as you wish. Will you be attending the Low Coronation?”

“I have been invited, ser.”

“Well, when you are ready to leave, speak to my house warden and your horse will be brought to the grounds gate.”

“You are very kind,” she said.

Hevrin gave a slight but grave bow, then left.

Keren returned the book to its box and waited for a short while before going in search of the house warden. Minutes later she was packing the box away in one of her horse’s saddlebags, then hauling herself up into the saddle. She sat there a moment, letting her gaze wander across the frosty buildings and fields of Hevrin’s estate, over the wide farmlands to the great, grey fortified walls of Besh-Darok where immense banners hung by the Shield Gate and pale smoke trailed from signal fires all along the battlements.

Somewhere in the city there might be a scholar familiar with ancient Othazi, but could she find one by this evening? That was when she and Gilly and Medwin were due to leave by ship for Sejeend and from there overland to Scallow in Dalbar. 'An undertaking of some importance' Bardow had called it, which probably meant they would encounter trials of unsurpassing horror and peril.

Then she cursed herself and dug her heels into her mount’s flanks, startling it into a canter.
If a few hours are all I have, I’m not going to waste them. First the coronation, then the scholars
.

As Keren rode down the track leading back to the main road, she saw a group of riders galloping madly along it towards the city. One of them carried a fluttering standard that she recognised, the tree-and-bull device of Yarram, Mazaret’s former deputy and now acting-Lord Commander of the Order of the Knights of the Fathertree. She knew that Yarram had left only days ago with a large contingent of knights to deal with brigands who were raiding villages west of the Rukang Mountains. But what urgency could have brought him haring back to the capital so soon, and with only a small escort?

Keren spurred her horse into a gallop, determined to find out.

* * *

Nerek ran through the gloomy, vacant house to the back door, emerged in a courtyard enclosed by high wooden paling and immediately felt trapped. There was a gate on her left and another straight ahead. She chose the latter. It opened onto a rough lane which ran long and straight in either direction.

Which way can I take when each seems as ruinous as the other, and my powers remain as elusive as before
...

She had first noticed a diminishing of her powers three weeks ago. Private discussions with Bardow led to the conjecture that the Shadowkings were exerting their dread influence from somewhere rather closer than Rauthaz and Casall, borne out, Bardow had claimed, by strange tales of ghost children near the Girdle Hills. Only the Lord Regents, Mazaret and Yasgur, and Abbess Halimer of the Earthmother priesthood, were privy to such speculation, fearing that wider public knowledge might lead to panic and worse.

Nerek looked down at her hands, one holding the dagger, the other open and empty.
Keren’s hands
, she thought.
Keren’s face, Keren’s body. Nothing is mine alone. Am I only a hollow thing fashioned for another’s purpose?

Through broken and missing planks she could see the wrecked sheds and overgrown ways of a shipyard, all white from the falling snow. Then a cold fury took hold of her and she clenched her empty hand in a fist, tight and trembling. Her anger cracked the veil within her and there was a rush of familiar power, the acrid emerald taste that awoke new hungers. She grinned at the green fire that sheathed her hand, even as the gap in the inner veil began to close.

Running footsteps drew near, and she switched her dagger to the Sourcefire-wreathed hand, half-turning to conceal it. Just then, one of her pursuers dashed into view, skidding to a halt when he saw her. His face was a mask of malice as he levelled a broadsword at her.

“You’ll not get near enough tusk that pigsticker, witch. Give it over, 'reels.”

“Gladly,” she said, whipping her hidden arm out to hurl the fire-drenched dagger. Hot green flamelets trailed from it as it flew past the man’s sluggish parry and thudded into his chest. He cried out and staggered back a step, then his chest caved inwards, his eyes rolled back to show the whites, and he fell dead on the ground.

Nerek, drained of power once more, leaned shakily against the courtyard paling for a moment, senses spinning, her mouth tasting of ash. Then she lurched forward, pried the man’s sword from his lifeless hand, and ducked sideways through a gap in the high fence.

Down in the dead shipyards there were no allies and little in the way of a safe refuge, but with any luck she might find a boat.

* * *

The snowfall was showing no sign of abating as a shivering Gilly Cordale trudged along the battlements of the Silver Aggor, the high inner wall of the Imperial Palace’s fortifications. Up ahead were two unfortunate troopers, one wielding a long broom while the other scattered handfuls of salt on the flagstones. Gilly, bareheaded, found himself envying them their leather gauntlets and wax-proofed hoods while cursing himself for ignoring his page’s advice and just wearing a fur-lined short jerkin.

And why did Atroc insist on meeting outside the palace?
he thought, blowing into cupped hands.
Why did I agree?

A figure emerged from a guard tower near the Keep of Day. He was carrying a long object which unfurled to become a large curved fan. Thus sheltered from the snow Atroc strode towards Gilly.

“You southmen are like children,” the seer said as he approached. “At the first snow you huddle in mounds of fur.”

“That’s because we have blood flowing in our veins,” Gilly retorted with a smile, “rather than that fermented dog’s milk you folk drink day and night.”

The old Mogaun gave a gap-toothed grin as he produced an oval leather bottle from his shabby cloak. “Mare’s milk, mocker. You wish?”

“I see it as my duty,” Gilly said and took a hefty swig.

As the liquor sent warmth down into his chest and fumes up into his head, he looked at the old seer.

“So - how may this lackey of the crown be of service to the Chieftain of the Firespears?”

“Not everything I do is at Prince Yasgur's express command, but I am always heedful of his interests.”

Gilly stroked his beard. “You feel those interests are being thwarted in some way? Yet you would rather talk of this out here.”

Atroc grimaced. “Too many mice in this great stone hill, mice who whisper to bigger mice.” He eyed the two troopers armed with broom and salt, then shrugged and went on. “But here is the knot that grows tighter - the city’s regiments, which my Prince commands, are becoming dangerously under strength while at the same time the Fathertree Knights and these other new orders are overwhelmed by fresh recruits.” The old seer raised a wizened hand, pointing at Gilly. “And worse still are those southron soldiers who have been forced to leave the city regiments and join the new Orders by threats made against their families. Many companies, both horse and foot, are now composed solely of Mogaun warriors.”

Gilly sighed a cloudy breath into the snow-filled air. “I know of this, Atroc, and I know who is behind it, but I’m in no position to voice such suspicions.”

Atros regarded him with narrowed eyes. “It is the Hunters Children, yes?”

“Who else could it be? The Mendicant Friars of the Needy?” Gilly gave a hollow laugh. “They cannot accept that Alael refused the crown, so they’ve been busy planting little seeds of poison here and there. Ever since the unmasking of Kodel and the Armourer, control of the Hunters Children seems to have slipped into the hands of an unknown group of officers.”

“I have heard the name Racho mentioned more than once,” Atroc said. “Can you not lay all this before Lord Regent Mazaret? After all, not only does he command the Office of Papers, he is also - ”

“My friend?” Gilly stared out at the cold white woods and fields of the city demesne. “Since Suviel died, he’s been a changed man, cold and distant. After the battle, he assigned me to the Office of Papers, supposedly to help build up a new network of spies. But all that has been done by his own placemen and I’ve had precious little to do, apart from keeping my eyes and ears open. Mazaret and I have scarcely exchanged a dozen words this last month.

“And even if that were otherwise, from this evening I shall be gone from Besh-Darok and unable to see him when he returns from his latest expedition.”

For the fourth time in six weeks, the Lord Regent had taken two companies of knights out beyond the Girdle Hills and along the Westerly Road to ‘seek out the Shadowkings spoor and protect villagers and townsfolk’. But from what Gilly had heard, almost all the inhabitants of central Khatris had fled, leaving behind a vast area of desolate farmlands whose villages and towns were burnt-out charnel houses and where bands of crazed outcasts roamed. And every time Mazaret returned, Gilly could see how the bitter despair had eaten into him a little deeper than before…

“I had wondered who was being sent to Dalbar,” Atroc said. “There are another two accompanying you, I understand. Who might they be?”

Gilly shook his head with mock solemnity. “Nay, friend Atroc, such information is highly secret.” Then he smiled. “But since you asked, they are Medwin and Keren.”

“Hmm, a shrewd negotiator, a skilled swordsman, and...ah, why are they sending you, pray tell?”

Mildly affronted, Gilly snatched the leather bottle from the old Mogaun's loose grip and helped himself to a throat-igniting mouthful of the potent drink. “I’ll have you know,” he said hoarsely, “that my spies and informants in Dalbar are many and talented. Once we reach Scallow, it will be the work of a single morning to….”

He trailed away into silence when he realised that Atroc’s attention was focussed on something beyond the city walls. Gilly followed his gaze and saw a group of riders galloping with all speed along one of the main roads leading to the Shield Gate. One of them carried a standard that Gilly recognised as Yarram’s.

“Now why is he back so soon?” he wondered aloud, then glanced at Atroc and caught his breath.

The old man’s wrinkled face had gone pale, his mouth hung half-open and his eyes gazed unblinkingly into midair. His lips twitched and he began to speak in a whisper.

“...a pale daughter his captor...sons born to no wife….the hollow father….”

He fell silent for a moment, then slowly blinked like a man roused from sleep, moistened his lips with a grey-pink tongue tip, and let out a long, shuddering sigh.

“We seers….stand by the Door of Dreams, which opens to the waking eye but rarely.” He fixed Gilly with an implacable stare. “Pray that it never opens for you, whatever else befalls you.” He turned to leave. “We shall speak on the matter later. Now, I must be gone.”

Gilly felt a chill of the spirit pass through him as Atroc walked away. Were the old man’s vision-words about him, or about Yarram? He recalled the final auguries of Avalti, dying in that razed village -
an iron fox, eyeless to the hunt
...

Then he laughed. “Words, mere words,” he declared aloud. With snow mantling his head and shoulders he hurried off back the way he had come, hoping to catch Yarram as he arrived at the palace and be the first to hear his news.

O Stallion of the storm,
Let my spear fly true,
May our fields be bountiful,
And our dreams full of joy.

And sharpen our eyes, we pray,
When evil wears your face.

—Skyhorse invocation, trans. Antil Fehris

The shipyards were dead but not deserted. As Nerek crept sword in hand past ramshackle sheds and the leaning, mildewed skeletons of half-built keels, she knew she was being watched. The occasional glimpse of a hastily withdrawn head or leg and the faint scrape of a foot told her there was one, maybe two spying on her.

That, however, seemed to be all they were doing as she made a slow way along pathways cluttered with broken timbers and empty crated lying in frozen puddles. She saw no rats but encountered a grey cat sitting at the end of a jutting plank, watching her pass with an unwavering stare. Moving away from the riverbank in search of an easier path, she came to a corner of a long hut and, nearing one of its corners, almost walked into her three pursuers. They were standing with their backs to her, swords drawn. Quickly and as quietly as possible, she stepped back out of sight and ducked into a low open door in the hut.

The darkness was total, the icy air dank with decay. She kept still, listening as their footsteps drew near.

“...don’t want you pair splitting up, hear? You’re t' move through the yards t'gether, watching for that witch - ”

“Why don’t we go up ahead, Tavo, 'n' get some of the other lads - ”

There was the sound of blow and a stifled cry.

“We don’t have time, pigfool. We have to stop her getting t' the coronation. So yell do what you’re told and I’ll be up on that bluff, looking down till she shows herself.”

“'m sorry, Tavo. Keep 'membering how Olber went and got 'is chest burned out. Horrible it was…”

“Well, don’t remember and don’t think. Just do what I said, and while you’re moving along, keep looking up t' me…”