Shadowgod (24 page)

Without oars or sails,
Gilly thought dizzily.
And a hull punched with more holes than my socks…

Shouts came from the decrepit jetty as onlookers gathered, but their voices soon faded. Other sounds reached Gilly's ears, a thrashing surging din that emanated from a nearby cargo hatch, and in his mind's eye he pictured torrents of water gushing through splinter-edged gaps in the hull…

A ship of the damned,
he thought with grim relish.

“A ship of sorcery, child of earth,” Crevalcor said. “Driven by my will, my unwavering purpose.” He turned to look ahead with a breeze ruffling his hair and an emerald aura shifting about him.

“A ship of twilight!”

Fever dreams full of fire,
Crash onto the shores of sleep,
And seep steadily out,
To set the day ablaze.

—Jedhessa Gant,
Dreams In The Red Chamber
, 2, vi

Even as the ravaged wreck was carrying Gilly Cordale out to sea, the Archmage Bardow was standing on a frosty balcony near the top of the High Spire, watching a group of horsemen ride away from the Shield Gate and the snow-shrouded walls of the city. From the great audience chamber through the arch behind him came the sound of hammer chisels but his thoughts were wholly on the meeting that would shortly take place out at the rebuilt fort. As soon as Yasgur arrived.

The stratagem offered up by the Mage Council had been accepted by the High Conclave with surprisingly little resistance, almost as if everyone knew that launching an attack would be as hazardous as inaction. Bardow had spent most of that day advising on the gathering of materials and volunteers, and the assigning of knights from the Order of the Fathertree under Yarram. The small caravan had then set out in the icy late afternoon to arrive at the old smugglers' ridge by sundown. By evening, he knew, a flagpole would have been erected along with several tents before work began on the ruined fortifications by torchlight and continued through the night.

The early morning brought a steady snowfall and a masked messenger from one of the enemy bastions to propose a meeting of the opposing commanders before noon.

“And to converse with the honoured Archmage Bardow too,” the messenger had said. “Such is my master's request.”

“I shall convey your words to my Lord Regent,” had been Yarram's stiff reply.

Recalling the verbal report brought by one of Yarram's sergeants, Bardow smiled bleakly.
The enemy are so eager to learn what lies behind our apparent confidence, that they're almost daring me to meet them face to face,
he thought.
Which, of course, is out of the question.

Instead, the Shadowkings or their underlings would have to deal with Yasgur, with Atroc and Yarram on hand as useful distractions. Without any mages to take the measure of, the enemy would be forced to speculate on the nature and scale of the powers ranged against them. And in the light of the Earthmother's intervention during the last battle, the Shadowkings might be inclined to be more cautious.

At least we can hope they will,
he thought.
We need more time…

There were footsteps behind him and he looked round to see Tauric, alone and garbed in a long, mauve fur-collared cloak.

“Greetings, majesty,” he said with a slight bow.

“Archmage,” was Tauric's taciturn reply.

Warily silent, Bardow watched as the young emperor came out onto the balcony and rested gloved hands on the wooden balustrade.

After a moment, Bardow said, “ How is your metal arm, Majesty? I see that you're wearing a leather sleeve over it - does the cold affect it at all?”

Tauric frowned and his left hand went to his right elbow. “Sometimes it aches at the join,” he said. “And I have to unstrap it for a short while - “ He gave Bardow a sharp look. “But it is only a minor discomfort, not unlike the everyday nuisances that any knight or soldier has to endure.”

Bardow resisted the impulse to sigh heavily. When Yarram's officer had brought the news of the enemy's meeting offer, Tauric staged a dramatic confrontation with Bardow and Yasgur, while accompanied by about a dozen of his White Companions. He had demanded that he and some of his Companions be allowed to ride out with Yasgur to the rebuilt fort. It was his right as emperor, he insisted, to defy those who had brought death and violation to his realm. It was his duty, he went on, to see and know the faces of those who would eventually be brought to account for their vile deeds. All this was proclaimed passionately while his Companions provided a boisterous supporting chorus which quickly wore away Yasgur's already frayed patience. Voices were raised, which Bardow only subdued by persuading Yasgur to wait in the next chamber.

Unfortunately, Tauric was a youth forced into the mould of a man, forced to adopt the outward seemingness of a man while still lacking the experience and pragmatic good sense that made an effective ruler. And as he regarded Tauric now, still brooding over that earlier humiliating blow to his pride and what he saw as his duty, Bardow braced himself for another outburst of anger and frustration. Yet the outburst never came. The young emperor turned his morose features away from Bardow to stare out over the white-blanketed lands beyond the city walls. The ringing of the stonemasons' hammers from within had ceased and a chill stillness held sway.

“I feel useless,” Tauric murmured. “Useless and caged.”

“I've felt that way for most of the last sixteen years,” Bardow said. “And I feel little different now, if truth be told.”

Tauric looked shocked. “You? - useless? How could that be?”

“Because we are weak and vulnerable, majesty. All that we have gained has been a consequence of divisions among the Shadowkings and the Earthmother's unforeseen manifestation.” The Archmage leaned on the balustrade. “Our goddess, however, seems to follow her own whim in these matters. Neither the appearance of Gorla and Keshada, nor Mazaret's capture, have provoked the slightest response from her. No visions in the temple, not a dream, not a whisper nor the vaguest omen. Meanwhile, our enemies carry their plans forward with deadly precision and the only things holding them back are the Crystal Eye and this precarious stratagem on which we've embarked.”

Tauric swallowed, his expression full of dismay. “You make our situation sound desperate.”

Bardow paused and reined in his thoughts, suddenly aware of how angry and unguarded he had been.

“Desperate, yes,” he admitted. “But not hopeless. You are a living source of hope for this city and all the lands that we liberated. Strength comes from the knowledge that you are alive and well - it was your father's death combined with the destruction of the Rootpower that so quickly broke the Empire. If he had lived, events might have turned out differently.”

Tauric looked back out at the wintry fields with burning, determined eyes. “I've been thinking about abdicating the throne,” he said evenly. “I would then be free to take up arms and play a part in the struggle.”

Bardow regarded him a moment, suddenly fearful. “Alael would never accept the crown,” he said.

“I know, and I know that I could never relinquish my responsibilities so easily. “ He looked down at his hands. “But if only there were some way for me….tell me, are you certain that the Rootpower is completely gone?”

Bardow gave a hollow laugh. “I can assure you, majesty, that it is utterly extinguished.”

Tauric clasped his hand. “I have heard it said that the Rootpower still exists, that only the gateway to it through the Fathertree has been closed to us. Could that be possible?”

“A fanciful notion, your majesty, nothing more,” Bardow said, curious at this line of query. “There is no evidence that would support such an idea.”
And where, I wonder, did you hear of it?

Sighing, the young emperor ran his real fingers through his hair. “And thus no explanations,” he said “A great pity. I have such strange and uneasy dreams - sometimes, I am back in Oumetra, riding through deserted streets, searching for Alael and Lord Mazaret, but there's no-one there and the sun gradually turns black, plunging everything into night.” He turned to Bardow with anguished eyes. “Sometimes I am climbing a vast tree whose every trunk and branch is composed of the bodies of people, all hard and grey, yet I can feel their pain with every handhold as I climb and search, for what I'm not certain.”

Bardow smiled faintly. “That one requires little interpretation, your majesty. Duty cannot be measured with rule or scale but it has a very real weight.”

“Exactly, Archmage,” Tauric said, straightening. “I have responsibilities to shoulder and a duty to fulfill.” He stared out at the enemy's citadels. “In whatever way I can.”

He turned to leave, pausing in the archway. “Would you inform me when Yasgur returns?”

“Indeed I shall, majesty.”

“And tell me, do any of the palace stewards own a big black dog?”

“Not to my knowledge, sire,” Bardow said. “Why do you ask?”

Tauric shrugged. “I've seen one prowling through the gardens these last few nights, and thought I saw it in the great hall early this morning.”

Bardow shook his head. “I know that a couple of the coachmen and one of the ostlers have dogs, but they're all brown shorthairs from the same brood. But I shall make enquiries on this matter, majesty.”

“My thanks, archmage. Till later.”

And he was gone, leaving Bardow still wondering what Tauric meant by 'a duty to fufill'.

* * *

Upon a wooden platform behind a partly rebuilt wall, Atroc huddled in his skins against the knifing cold. Shivering beneath this cruel grey sky while waiting for Yasgur was, he thought, the duty for a younger man. About two hundred yards north of the ridge, ten riders from the direction of Gorla had camped on a wooded knoll near a fire-gutted farmhouse. He stared gloomily out at them but at this distance all he could tell was that all wore dark, hooded cloaks, and one held a large, draped banner braced against a stump. This, he knew, would be a covered battle standard of some sort. Brought to truce talks, it was nothing more than a gesture of arrogance by the side that believed itself certain of victory.

He snorted.
Then why are you not already in Besh-Darok, o children of fear?
he thought.
Or have your own fears become our allies?

Beside him stood Yarram, the new Lord Commander of the knights of the Fathertree Order, as dour and unbending a warrior as any Atroc had encountered in his life. He knew that the man's grimness was in part due to the loss of Lord Regent Mazaret, but he could not resist testing that impassive exterior to see what lay beneath.

“Have you always been a warrior, friend Yarram?” he said.

The wiry, grey-haired knight glanced darkly at him. “Is this more of your impolite badgering, ser? Perhaps you should forage in someone else's thoughts.”

Atroc shrugged. “Hmph. Impolite, eh? Nay, ser, curiosity goads me into asking such questions, the desire to know what twists and turns of fate have brought you to this cold and dangerous place.”

“It is none of your business, ser.”

“This is so.”

Yarram breathed in deeply and cleared his throat. “My family were originally from Sejeend and my mother and father were both weavers. I would have been one too, but my parents died in a loomhouse fire and I decided to join the imperial militia. ”

“Ah, a weaver,” Atroc said. “A noble trade. Perhaps you could make some nice socks for my cold feet, eh?”

A thin smile cracked Yarram's reserve. “Should we live through this, ser, I'll make you a damned shirt and trews. And what of you? - have you always been a seer?”

“Always.”

“Could you have ever been anything else, something productive perhaps?”

Atroc smiled at the jibe, pleased by Yarram's table-turning. “From birth it was written on my skull that my eyes would see more than others - 'We sleep by the Door of Dreams/We hold to the old ways/Blood cast into fire puts fire in the blood'….” He nodded to himself, recalling the ancient words, then looked at a confused Yarram. “We are the blood, Yarram,” he said. “You and I and Bardow and Yasgur and our young emperor, everyone under our banners - we shall all soon be cast into the fire - ”

He broke off as a commotion came from the other side of the half-made fort, the thud of horses hoofs drawing near. Yasgur had arrived.

By the time Atroc and Yarram had descended from the crude parapet, Yasgur and his officers had dismounted and were entering the fort. The Lord Regent wore a long black cloak edged with bear fur, over a silvered breastplate chased with the tree-and-crown device of Besh-Darok. His curly black hair had been trimmed and oiled, and on his forehead was a bronze circlet adorned with a single blue stone.

As he approached he looked Atroc.

“So, are we in the fire yet, old one?”

Atroc grinned. “Not yet, my prince, but the flames grow hot.”

Yasgur smiled and as he turned to Yarram, a lookout shouted, “Ware riders!”

“I want both of you by my side,” Yasgur said to Atroc and Yarram. “I may wish either or both of you to play a part - you will know when.”

An open-fronted tent had been been rigged against one of the fort's original walls, and Atroc and Yarram exchanged a look as they followed the Lord Regent under its shelter. The opening faced along the length of the old smugglers' ridge and Atroc curled his lip in contempt as the ten hooded riders came into view, urging their mounts up the slope's long, narrow trail. Once up on the rise they drew to a halt some way along, four of them dismounting. One of these spoke to the standard bearer, then all four walked across the icy ground, faces still hidden by their cowls. At the tent three waited outside while the fourth, who was the tallest, stepped under the canopy and threw back his hood. Atroc gaped, and heard Yasgur take a swift intake of breath.

Byrnak! - here?
were his first thoughts. Then realisation struck. This was the man who had emerged from Gorla to confront Mazaret mere days ago…

“I am named Azurech,” the man said to Yasgur. His black hair was long and braided, his teeth were even and stained red, and the white vapour of his breath fumed about him. “Once chieftain of the Whiteclaw clan, but now the voice of the Shadowking Byrnak. With his likeness I offer greetings and friendship to all who would pledge their allegiance to the Shadowkings. I also bring the promise of destruction and unrelenting slaughter to all who oppose us. Think on this with care.”