Shadowgod (28 page)

Aboard the ancient and decaying vessel, lashed to the shattered mast, Gilly had sunk to sitting on the damp deck and was trying to loosen the bonds on his wrists. The day was almost done, the chilling tide of night was rising and the ship was at rest after its spell-driven departure from Scallow. This was Sulros Island, and the vessel now lay beached on a pebbly strand not far from Port Caeleg, an independent city-port which had a reputation for intrigue and all manner of illegalities. A sickly green nimbus flickered about every part of the sea-rotted hulk but the greater part of Gilly's attention was fixed on the dread-inspiring spectacle taking place on the forward deck.

Crevalcor, the revenant sorcerer, was kneeling on the rough planking while before him a small fire with a blue heart burned and threw off sullen, spark-laden coils of smoke that drifted upwards. To his left, also kneeling, was the brawny, bearded figure of the Hevrin, chieftain of the rebellious Islesmen. His slumped posture, however, spoke of the compulsion laid upon him by Crevalcor, invisible shackles that rendered him subservient. Yet when he had come aboard a short while ago, Gilly had espied a look of murderous hate flash across the man's face when the sorcerer turned his back.

Sitting cross-legged to Crevalcor's right was a Jefren warrior-priest, his face hidden by a full mask. The quality of the mask, carved in black ironwood, and the red richness of his cloak, confirmed Gilly's suspicion that this was a high-ranking officer of the Theocracy.

I'll wager a wagonload of pearls that there's a Jefren fleet anchored off the coast near here
, he had thought when the man came aboard from a ceremonial pinnace.

The masked priest had assisted Crevalcor in preparing the foundations of his ritual, then sat in silence as the other began intoning a guttural incantation. The air above the fuming fire had twisted, tendrils of smoke had swirled inward for a moment or two, then a curious radiance had emerged from the centre, a darkling red mingled with glassy green. This lurid light swirled sluggishly along invisible curves and edges, scribing boundaries, and gradually above the fire a huge head took form, its features man-like and narrow, the eyes almond-shaped and unwinking, the full-lipped mouth wearing a cruel smile.

“Hail and praise to thee, great lord Thraelor,” Crevalcor cried out.

The apparition of the Shadowking Thraelor gazed down studying each of the three crouched beneath him. A strange disjointed exchange then ensued, sometimes spoken in common Mantinorian but at other times Crevalcor and Thraelor switched to a harsh, throaty tongue incomprehensible to Gilly. And whenever this happened, the face contorted briefly and black and silver streamed through it only to ebb away moments later when the speech became recognisable once more.

Finally, the ghastly ceremony came to an end and the Shadowking's distorted features faded away. After a brief murmured discussion, the Jefren priest rose to leave, turning his masked face in Gilly's direction just once before climbing over the bulwark and descending out of sight.

There was a faint hiss as Crevalcor poured a beaker of something, wine perhaps, over the ritual fire. As a gout of steam and smoke floated away across the shadowy deck, he got to his feet and walked lightly over to Gilly. By the weak glow of the ensorcelled vessel, his face looked dark and sweat-beaded, his eyes pale and full of vitality.

“I wonder if you've understood the least part of what's been agreed this night,” Crevalcor said.

Gilly smiled. His wrists were rubbed raw, some of his fingertips were icily numb, he could feel a chilly ague working its way into his chest and vitals, and he ached with weariness. But still he would respond to his captor.

“Hmm, let me see….ah, I know, you and your Shadowking masters have decided to depart our lands forever and sail back to the Northern shores, but before that you're going to hold a gigantic farewell banquet and invite many honoured guests, myself included…”

Crevalcor chuckled, crouched down before Gilly and reached out to pat his cheek. “By the Well, I believe you could be up to your waist in an eaterbeast's gullet and still spouting like a buffoon. This is good – strong enemies make for effective servants.”

Gilly uttered a hoarse laugh. “Never.”

The sorcerer ignored him. “This day a hidden pact has been forged. The efforts of the Acolytes and the Jefren priesthood will combine to ensure the ascension of the Lord of Twilight, despite the reluctance and stratagems of the Shadowkings. Their obsession with the overthrow of those petty rebels and outlaws will be their undoing – while their attention is elsewhere, we shall strike. This is how you will prove to be useful to us.”

He got to his feet and gazed sternwards, out at the Sea of Drakkilis.

“Your friend Mazaret has become an excellent servant to the wider cause,” he went on. “Did you know that?”

“You lie,” Gilly said, knowing with a sudden, cold certainty that it was true.

“The mage Suviel, too. She helped draw Mazaret out from Besh-Darok.”

“But...she died at Trevada.”

“She was held in the Acolytes' spell chambers for days before the unfortunate battle with the Daemonkind.” Crevalcor turned to look down at him. “They know how to make good servants, and everything that they know I knew first.”

He smiled at Gilly's confusion.

“I think that five of you will suffice.”

A cruel hand reached out,
From the deep and sonorous gloom
And made a wreck
Of bright and true dreams.

—Calabos,
The City Of Dreams

Alael received the message from the College of Hendreds Hall late on in the evening. It said simply -

Straight away she took the message up to the Archmage's chambers and, after gaining admittance and exchanging greetings, showed it to him. Sat in a high-backed chair of polished, dark red torwood, Archmage Bardow stroked his beardless chin as he read.

“It certainly has the cast of Melgro's thoughts,” he said, “and appears to be genuine, as well as urgent. Very well, I shall allow this but you will travel on horseback and accompanied. Agreed?”

She was quick to accept his conditions and a short while later was departing the palace by the Belling Gate, a high but narrow passage running crookedly from within the Silver Aggor to the Imperial Barracks outwith the Golden Aggor. Her escort comprised six knights of the Protectorate Order, yet their commander was Ghazrek, one of Prince Yasgur's senior banner-captains. She wondered if there was any friction between he and they, but to her eyes they all looked so grim and forbidding that she decided against any querying, however mild.

The night was dark and blustery as they rode out of the gates of the Imperial Barracks. Like her escort she was heavily clad against the icy weather, but the chill nonetheless cut through her garments. No snow was falling yet the sky was a slow-moving mantle of broken cloud, tattered gaps giving glimpses of star-strewn blackness.

The streets along which they cantered, hooves clattering, were littered with heaps and pools of dirty snow and were mostly deserted. Lamplight showed through many a tightly-shuttered window and a deadening silence held sway, almost as if the city was pulling in on itself after all the crises of previous days. True, swinging lanterns burned outside the occasional tavern they passed, and raucous din sounded from within, but that only served to emphasise the widespread sense of sombre isolation. Somewhere nearby, a dog barked and was answered by a mournful howling off in the night.

The route led east to a crossroads then north towards the river. As they rode, Alael felt her own mood of anticipation gradually change to one of dejection and gloom. The nearest bridge across the Olodar lay straight ahead but immediately to their right the buildings suddenly gave way to a wide, square depression littered with broken masonry and bordered by the tumbled remains of walls. For some reason, little snow lay here. Everything within the walls was blackened and a faint charred smell reached Alael as she slowed her horse to a walk. A heavy sadness seemed to well up from this place, tomblike and continual until a cracked, anguished voice called from the nearby ruined walls.

“Let the dead things be!”

A cowled figure half-slumped by the masonry flung out a bony hand as if to fend off the riders, and the warning was repeated, more hoarsely this time. Appalled, Alael reined her horse round to approach the figure but one of her escorting knights stopped her.

“Please, milady, nothing can be done for her.”

“Her?”

The knight nodded. “I've seen her in the day when I've passed by before. She's a lamenter, milady, and refuses to leave these ruins. Some say that when the halls burned down she must have lost someone close and the grief has driven her mad.”

Alael stared into the blackened ruins, hearing the old woman moving around, and felt a stinging pity. “What is this place?”

“It was the old mage halls,” said Ghazrek suddenly. “If it pleases my lady, we should continue on our way - it is not safe to linger in the one place after nightfall.”

His manner was stern in a way that brooked no dissent and as she rode on amid her escort Alael found herself beginning to understand Tauric's fierce feelings of duty towards the people of this city. A terrible enemy was building its force higher and higher outside while tides of despair and futility ebbed and flowed within. Tauric's impulse was to press again and again for a place in the fighting, yet Alael felt that if she were in his position she would be more involved in trying to set right some of the hardships faced by ordinary people.

Then she imagined how impatient her Uncle Volyn would have been at such a desire on her part, and smiled sadly.

When they crossed the Royal Flower Bridge at a canter, the horses' hooves sent up a thunderous din. Passing over into the Old Town, Ghazrek led the way east along a wide thoroughfare which curved around to the north. The breeze was stiffer now, hurling occasional scatterings of icy droplets into Alael's face, and when she glanced up at the Chapel Fort she could see two great watchfires burning, ragged, bright yellow tongues of flames flapping wildly in the wind.

Before long they were riding up the road that Alael had last travelled by carriage. At the half-overgrown college gates her escorts slowed and they all trotted up the gravelled way to the college itself, startling a large, black dog which sprang up and dashed off into the shadows. By night the building was a shapeless mass set amidst the gloomy darkness of the surrounding gardens, dim and grey apart from the bright torches flaring either side of the main entrance. As they dismounted, the door swung open and the aged steward emerged.

“Greetings, Lady Alael,” he said as she hurried up to him. “Master Onsivar is expecting you.”

She nodded and looked to Ghazrek as they both entered the small hallway. “I should not be very long, ser Captain. I may need to ask a few questions of the Master of Parlance, and I do not know if he'll wish to answer them.”

Ghazrek gave her a brief appraisal with his dark, hawkish eyes. “Is this place safe, my lady? I could send a guard with you…”
“It is a college, captain, a place of learning,” she said. “Anyone wishing me harm would have to fight their way past you and your men, a hard task I'd warrant.”

“As you will, my lady,” he said. “But I would send one of the men to make certain of your wellbeing every quarter hour.”

She agreed then turned to the old steward who then led the way out of a side door. It was colder and darker than before along the passageways, and the quiet of empty classrooms was almost strangely peaceful. Up the lamplit winding stairs and through to the door of the Master of Parlance's study she followed the college steward. A precise rap on the door, and a voice called out 'Enter!', and Alael was ushered in.

There was a candle inside, just by the door, casting a small halo of illumination on nearby bookshelves, and the only other source in the dark pit of a room was an oil lamp over on Onsivar's desk. He was there as before but now he sat in a soft chair with enclosing back and sides. By the lamp's warm amber light he did not look at all well, and wore a heavy, swaddling gown while on his desk a beaker of something hot gave off wisps of vapour.

“Ah, Lady Alael - please join me. Forgive my infirmity but the weakness of this poor frame is a constant burden…”

Carefully she picked her way through the shadows, up the three steps to his raised platform and seated herself before him. Keren's book lay open on the desk before him, but she kept silent, waiting for him to begin.

“Yes, hmm….m'lady, the humble Edric's transcription of Stulmar's disorganised scholarship, specifically the sagasong concerning Raegal…” He pressed the pages flat with one spidery hand and held up a single sheet of parchment with the other while glancing between the two. “I did have to send forth for an Othazi gradus in the end, from the College of Guilds, and was thus able to complete the translation with no great difficulty.”

The candle over by the door suddenly flickered and went out and an icy draft brushed over Alael's face, but her attention was wholly on the Master of Parlance.

“Does it say how Raegal crossed into the Daemonkind's realm?” she asked.

“Yes….yes, there is mention of him borrowing something called the Voidsong, a strange term which - assuming translation from the pre-Othazi Ebrun tongue - can be recast as 'the Staff of the Void'. Which, if memory serves, is one of the Nightcat's gifts to the Sun-Tiger in ancient Yulari mythology. Whatever it was, he later returned it, once his adventure was done. The fascinating thing about this document is that it is a palimpsest…”