Shadowkings (12 page)

As he rode, a sense of recognition hung at the back of his mind, just beyond recollection. He saw brutal, fur-clad savages armed with clubs and spears; creatures like huge wolves rigged with leather harnesses; tall, black-maned warriors carrying red iron longswords; mounted soldiers with hooded warbirds on their shoulders; knights with horned helms and jewelled battle axes; regiment upon regiment of men and women caparisoned for war, a poised and waiting host. It was all familiar, he knew, familiar to that part of himself that had once been a god. He pushed the familiarity away.
I am myself
, he thought angrily,
not the shard of a hungry ghost
.

For a second, Byrnak imagined that he heard distant, brittle laughter, then realised it was just horse harnesses swaying gently in the wind. Still, he shuddered.

Four figures on horseback waited at the centre of the great array of hosts, four Shadowkings. Three wore enclosing armour, while the fourth was swathed head to foot in black and red robes.

"He is the Black Priest," said his steed.

Byrnak smiled humorlessly. This was only the second time he had joined with the Acolyte Obax in order to enter the Realm of Dusk, and while the invasive nature of it was no longer repellent, it still made him uneasy. While he could now command the kind of sorcerous power spoken of in stories and legends, that same power had taken something away from him. He could spread fire among his enemies, he could send spikes of ice raining down on their heads, he could turns foes into servants, alter flesh and minds and purposes, yet he himself no longer felt invincible. The ignorance that had given him certainty was being steadily dismantled by fate, by power, and by the undying knowledge buried within him.

Eight heads, four in helms and hood, four horselike, turned to watch his arrival. Byrnak guided Obax to a halt before them, leaned back and regarded them through the eye-slits of his own helmet, then indicated the surrounding motionless hosts with a sweep of his gauntleted hand.

"What is this?" he said.

"A god dreams," said the Black Priest.

"Our dream," added one of the others with a chuckle.

"Not my dream," Byrnak said curtly, then on impulse unfastened his heavy, ornate helm and lifted it off. Free of the stuffy darkness, he shook his black hair loose and blinked against the sudden yellow glare of the sky.

"What do your dreams show you?"

From within the red folds concealing his face, the Black Priest's voice was deep and rough, full of restrained animal savagery. Byrnak grinned.

"Death," he said. "Everywhere."

"Enough," said one of the others. "There are decisions to be made."

Byrnak recognised the voice. This was the one who had done most of the talking during that first shattering encounter. According to Obax, he called himself the Hidden One while the other two armoured riders were named Thraelor and Grazaan. And now that he was this close, he could see subtle differences in the armour that they wore. The Hidden One's helm was engraved with serpents and lizards. Another bore images of tentacular sea creatures (...
Thraelor
... whispered Obax in his thoughts), while the third was decorated with spiders and scorpions (...
Grazaan
...). Byrnak glanced down at his own, resting on the saddle - fangs and talons, horned beasts, snarling.

"Death will be everywhere," murmured the Black Priest. "My disciples have already begun - "

"Yes, begun spreading useless terror," interrupted the Hidden One. "Drawing unwelcome attention to our strategy."

"The Whore-Mother's influence must be eradicated," said the Black Priest.

"In time," the Hidden One said. "Once our army has fulfilled its purpose." He turned to Thraelor. "Stir that mount of yours, brother. What progress has been made in gathering the ones we want?"

Thraelor dug his heels into his grey steed's flanks. "Answer!"

The horse's head swayed slightly from side to side for a moment before coming up, corpse-white eyes staring at nothing, open mouth drooling.

"Lordzzz...the Acolytes have delivered the commands and all, almost all of the warchiefs obey and are marching to northern Khatris-"

"Almost
all?"

"...Oscarg, a mountain warlord in Anghatan, refused the command."

"Oscarg is powerful," muttered Thraelor. "He's been a thorn in my side for years. What has been done to correct this upstart?"

The horse made a rhythmic grating sound which Byrnak suddenly realised was laughter. "Even as I speak, a flock of nighthunters are converging on his stronghold. We anticipate that his son shall depart for Khatris with a sizeable force before the next day is done."

"Excellent," said Thraelor. "It is time the chieftains were reminded of the power of their god."

"What of the Daemonkind?" Byrnak said suddenly.

Four heads tilted his way. The Hidden One chuckled quietly within his helm.

"The Acolytes, these half-blind servants of ours, have on our behalf tried to attract the Daemonkind's attention." He prodded his mount in the neck. "But with mixed results, eh?"

"The lair of the Daemonkind lies deep in the Realm of Ruin," droned the horse. "Of the ten Acolytes who undertook the mind-journey, only three returned with their faculties intact. Four did not return at all."

"And was there a reply?"

"Yesss, there was a...reply: 'We serve - we do not serve the ones who serve'."

"Did none of you think of making the mind-journey yourselves?" Byrnak sneered. "Or were you afraid of getting the same answer?"

There was a tense moment of silence, then the Hidden One said, "You have the right of it. The Daemonkind will only respond to the command of the Lord of Twilight, and none of us have that power or even that strength of will."

"The Daemonkind are not necessary for our immediate purposes," said the Black Priest. "The Mogaun tribes will be sufficient for the battle to come. And my disciples."

"However," Grazaan added, facing Byrnak, "we need a general to command our army. You would be the ideal choice."

"Why not you?" Byrnak said warily.

"Thraelor and I have committments in the north, while our priestly brother will be fully occupied in dealing with the accursed rootpower mages."

Byrnak looked at the Hidden One. "And you?"

"I have a delicate task to perform which requires my undivided attention."

The Black Priest uttered a guttural laugh. "When will we discover who and where you are, brother? Will we gasp in delight, or curse our foolish trust?"

"Trust is all," the Hidden One said evenly. "Together we shall have everything; apart, we would gain little more than scraps of greatness. Your trust in me is not misplaced, brothers, I swear."

The Black Priest grunted noncommittally, while the others nodded. The Hidden One turned back to Byrnak.

"So," he said. "Will you be our general?"

Byrnak stared at the serpent-adorned helm then smiled. "What forces am I to command, and what is our purpose?"

The serpent helm nodded in satisfaction. "Our army will be several times that of our enemy, but our purpose is quite unique. Now, brother, listen..."

* * *

Awakening from the Realm of Dusk was a descent into suffocation. On that plain of hosts, existence had a quality that was at once dreamlike and pure; here, sitting at this long heavy table before a crude, massive hearth, he could feel the squalor of everything around him, the dust in the air, the dried mud on his boots, the smells of wood and damp tapestries, even the odour of stale sweat from Obax who sat opposite, head resting on his arms. The filth of it all was engulfing, yet somehow pleasing.

Byrnak smiled. Chair legs scraped on flagstones as he stood and went over to the huge arched window overlooking Choroya's Court of Muster. From behind him came a quiet rustling as Obax stirred.

"Lord, are you well?"

Byrnak gazed impassively down at the lifeless bodies strewn about the Court, and the lone weeping figures stumbling among them. A stench of smoke and blood rose to him.

"You may go," he said. "Send in my captains."

As Obax walked unsteadily from the great hall, Byrnak turned from the window, crossed to the dais and kicked a ragged shape that lay beside the throne.

"Get up."

The former Warlord of Choroya and southern Honjir, levered himself to his knees then stood slowly before his conqueror. Azurech was a tall man but he cringed before Byrnak, his once-proud features marred by a broken nose and slack with dread. For a second he met Byrnak's gaze then, trembling, looked down at the floor.

An agonising scream came from out in the court and reverberated around the great hall. Byrnak cocked his head and smiled.

"Are you ready to serve me, Azurech?"

Head bowed, Azurech moved his mouth as if struggling to frame words. Then: "What...do you want of me, lord?"

Byrnak leaned in close, grasped the defeated warlord's chin and forced him to look up.

"Everything," he said.

He stared into Azurech's eyes, thrusting his own awareness into the other's mind. Ruin and despair grew there like black jungles on a swamp of fear, fear of Byrnak and his power. How easy it was to turn the fear into loyalty, and the dark tangles into determination and purpose that grew strong and true towards the bright, life-giving light that was Byrnak, warlord and Shadowking.

He released his grip on Azurech who now stood straighter, his shoulders level, his eyes fixed devotedly on his master. Then the doors of the great hall swung open and three leather-armoured men entered, harnesses clinking and bootheels echoing noisily as they approached. Byrnak turned to regard them.

"I am leaving very soon," he said. "In my absence, your commander will be Azurech. I may be gone for several weeks but my hand will be upon you all - Azurech's will is my will, his eyes are my eyes, so you will remain vigilant and obedient."

The three captains glanced nervously at each other, then nodded. Byrnak let a sneer curl his mouth. These three displayed more volition than he cared for, but then he had bound them to him five days ago when his power to dominate was unpractised and crude. For a moment he considered tightening the bonds, then decided against it, curious to find out how they and Azurech would work together.

"These are my orders," he said to the former warlord. "Secure this city, root out any agitators and execute them, draft seven in every ten males over sixteen into a new city militia, have all traders register with a single merchants guild, and begin repairs to the walls and fortifications. Oh yes, and keep supplying rations to the refugees for another week then round them up and drive them south into Kejana. Then have those shanty towns demolished. Execute anyone who resists."

"As you will it, lord," said Azurech with a bow.

"Now get out," Byrnak muttered. "And find yourself garments suitable to your new station."

He waited till Azurech and the three captains were gone then walked round behind the throne, through a curtained arch to a large room dominated by a long table and adorned with banners, spears and shields. To the right a stair led upwards, wide and winding, its blue and grey stones carved with leaves and vines. At the top he came to a large, circular tower room. There was only one window, its shutters firmly shuttered, its walls hung with rich tapestries depicting scenes out of battle and legend.

At the centre of the room stood the woman Nerek, clasped hands outstretched, with a huge four-poster bed lying half-wrecked and smoking before her, sheets twisted and strewn on the floor. Gleams, no, drops of brightness began to leak from between her fingers. Then her hands parted quickly and a knot of dazzling brightness streaked out to smash into the thick mattress. Canvas burst, wadded horsehair flared, and Byrnak watched in fascination as the bright knot traced a burning zig-zag trail across and through the mattress. After a few seconds it slowed, darkened to an angry red then spiralled in on itself, a flickering nub of flames that soon guttered out.

"Impressive," Byrnak said.

Nerek spun, eyes wild with fear, a hot glow blossoming in her hands. Then she saw it was him and the glow died. "I was...teaching the fire to move," she said, letting her arms fall to her sides.

"Sourcefire is a risky weapon for the untutored."

"Then teach me more."

Byrnak smiled. "You already know enough for the task ahead."

An eager hope lit up Nerek's features. "Good. How do I find her?"

He regarded her thoughtfully. In her emotions she was utterly different from the others, with her fear and desire for him warring on the surface of an unpredictable anger. But it was her ability to tap the Wellsource that truly set her apart - none of the others he had bound to his will had displayed so much as a glimmer of lore talent. For that reason he was loathe to tamper with her mind, that and the fact that she was created by that shadowed part of himself whose purposes yet eluded him.

Then there was the matter of the swordswoman.
Why would this ancient shadow, this fragment of a god that I carry, remake a young man into the form of that particular woman?
Was Nerek's pursuit of her some kind of test? He was unsure, but the compulsion was upon her and he knew she would have to pursue it.

Byrnak looked about him, spotted a tapestry near the doorway and went over to it, beckoning Nerek to follow. Being almost as high as the room, the tapestry was an elaborate affair edged with gold and silver vines and bordered with a sequence of panels depicting the progress of a king and his knights through adventures, predicaments and tragedies. The main portion of the tapestry showed the king hacking the last head from a many-headed monster against a background of burning trees and a boiling lake.

"An exaggerated account," Byrnak said sardonically, touching the border with his fingers.

At once the central panel flared into a mass of pale green fire. The eldritch blaze took on a coiling appearance as if a whirlpool was drawing all the tongues of flame into the centre. Then, in an eyeblink, the gyring green fire changed into a slow-moving swirl of mist. Images began to emerge and grow clear, a village nestling among wooded hills with a stream running by. Three riders crossed a low log bridge, the first a man that Byrnak did not know, while the second one he recognised as the female mage who had frustrated his crude attack at the gorge. The third was Keren. Beside him, Nerek just audibly caught her breath.