Shadowgod (54 page)

Inside, a broad oval table sat at the centre of the polished grey marble floor which shone with the reflected glows of many lamps. The lords of the High Conclave were there, most of them seated apart from Yarram who stood staring off to the left. Atroc was standing behind Yasgur, his wrinkled, stubbly features creased in amusement while his master sat grim-faced at the table.

Eyes looked round when Bardow entered, and as he made his way across the glittering floor he noticed behind the pillars on the left a couple of his fellow mages Cruadin and the Nightrook standing near the balcony archway. Then he also saw the two Mogaun chieftains, Welgarak and Gordag, their swords bared.

"Cruadin!" he said. "Nightrook - what's wrong? What are you looking - "

The tall, fur-clad Welgarak glanced round at Bardow's approach, as did the others, and stepped back to reveal someone standing in the archway, with the outer shutters and the drapes closed behind them. When he saw who it was, he stumbled to a halt, a sudden scouring fear filling his mind.

"Who are you?" he said.

"She claims to be the mage Suviel," growled Welgarak. "But I have seen her pale sisters riding with the masks so who can tell who
or
what she truly is?"

The Nightrook turned to Bardow. "I sense no Wellsource taint in her."

"The Armourer lived in our midst for several weeks," Cruadin pointed out. "Undetected."

"She appeared a short while since, Archmage," Yarram explained. "As we were gathering. Said we had no time for talking, that we should be attacking the enemy citadels…"

"And claims the masks have a sorcerous tunnel under their towers," said barrel-chested Gordag. "Leads straight to Rauthaz, says that’s how their troops get here so quick…"

"We are keen to know the truth, my lord Archmage," Yasgur said brusquely. "Can you provide it?"

Bardow gathered his composure. "I believe so, my lord Regent," he said, then made himself turn and face the woman in the doorway. "You have the semblance of Suviel Hantika," he said. "But she died in Trevada three months ago. How does a dead woman come to be standing before me now?"

She smiled sadly and gave a little shrug. "Only the Earthmother can answer you, Bardow."

Is it really her?
he wondered, noting everything from the relaxed stance and crossed arms to the look of wry amusement in the eyes, and seeing familiarity everywhere. Her face and hair and eyes seemed to be that of a healthy person, but there was also a faint luminous quality to her that made him wary. Knowing there was only one way to be sure, he turned to the lords of the High Conclave.

"Honourable Lords," he said. "With your permission, I would like to have the Crystal Eye brought up from its sanctuary so that I may determine the nature of our visitor."

All gave their assent, and with mindspeech Bardow asked the mage Zanser to bring the Eye up to the throne room. None spoke as they waited, tension slowly mounting. After a tense wait, the portly mage entered and crossed the polished floor, heavy-footed and out of breath but carrying a banded casket under his arm. He passed it to Bardow then with wordless relief sank into an empty chair.

Bardow set the casket on the table, unlocked it with a touch and opened it. Nestling in blue silk, the Crystal Eye. Gently, he laid his right hand evenly and well spread upon its clear and shining surface. He was already attuned to the song of its powers but physical contact significantly heightened his abilities and made them more immediate.

He looked round at the woman who stood in the archway, her hand now clasped at her midriff. Tracks of the Wellsource were his quarry, hints of hidden purpose, seeds of malice…

"I am ready," she said.

"It is done," said Bardow, taking his hand form the Eye and surveying all those around the table. "There is no taint in her, my lords, thus she may be who she says she is."

“Are you sure?” muttered Welgarak.

"Could she be an impostor?" said Atroc.

Bardow beckoned the woman over and said, "Place your hand on the Crystal Eye as I do and say 'I am Suviel Hantika'."

As she crossed the room, Cruadin and the Nightrook unwaveringly watched her while Welgarak and Gordog kept their blades at the ready.

Bardow touched the Eye again and as she followed suit he saw the first signs of anxiety, trembling in her fingers. She breathed in deeply, as if steadying her nerves, then spoke.

"I am Suviel Hantika…"

Bardow momentarily felt dizzy as a cluster of images rushed through his mind. At the same time, the woman gave a sharp intake of breath as if in pain, but her hand remained on the Eye.

"What was it?" the Nightrook demanded of her. "What happened? Did the Eye reject you?"

"No - it showed me how I died."

Bardow nodded in agreement, seeing again the desperate struggle in the tiny, pillared fane atop the High Basilica, the Daemonkind's attempt to snatch the Eye, and how Suviel had used it to banish the creature to its own realm. But in the moment of her triumph, the fane - damaged by all that had gone before - had broken apart, casting her down to die on jagged crags…

"Suviel," was all he could say past the emotion in his throat. He took her cool hands in his, and there were tears in her eyes too.

"Oh, Bardow, my mentor and friend," she said. "How I have longed for your advice…"

"Seems I might be taking it from you, this time," he said.

"That may be so," she said, turning sombre. "There is much to say and much to be done -"

"Like riding out to attack those citadels?" said a slender, hawkish man called Tylo Nokram, Lord Commander of the Knights Protector. His words were full of scepticism.

"And don't forget that big tunnel what runs all the way to Rauthaz," said Gordag.

"There
is
such a tunnel," said Yasgur.

Suddenly there was silence as everyone looked at the Lord Regent. Behind him, the old seer Atroc was grinning widely, almost as if in pride. Yasgur got to his feet, black fur cloak hanging heavily from his shoulders, and regarded Bardow.

"You are certain of this woman?" he said.

"She is Suviel Hantika - I am sure of it," Bardow replied, glancing at her. "What tunnel is this?"

"They call it the Great Aisle," she said. "It's an immense corridor passing underground from the two citadels of Rauthaz in the north, with a branching off to Casall and Trevada. The Wellsource made it and is part of its very substance."

Yasgur shrugged. "I learned less than that, lady. At the height of the battle, when Byrnak's troops lost their heads and began to break, I had six of my men don the enemy's livery, masks, armour and all, and sent them over the wall to join the enemy's retreat. Five of them reached Gorla to the west and found their way in during the confusion - two escaped and returned this morning with tales of a gaping, misty tunnel that stretched off into the distance. They learned little else, except that one of the Shadowkings arrived on a nighthunter in the middle of the night then left a few hours later by this Great Aisle…"

Suviel nodded. "He is returning north to unite with his brothers, and if that happens they will become unstoppable. That is why we must act now …"

"But there are tens of thousands of masks in each of those citadels," Welgarak said darkly. "How can this be done?"

"By taking the Crystal Eye with us," she said. "And we need only attack one of the strongholds. Keshada is held by the rivenshades and they are divided amongst themselves. Also, there are allies within who may be able to help us."

"The Crystal Eye?" Bardow said.

"Aye, Bardow," she said with a rueful smile. "The Motherseed, too."

"And once we are within the citadel Keshada," Yasgur said. "What then?"

"When we enter Keshada, we shall be crossing the threshold between this world and the Realm of Ruin for that is where both citadels have their true foundations. From there, certain ways lead further on." She paused and looked around at the engrossed faces, and Bardow felt a touch of pride.
She has them,
he thought.

"Sirs," she went on. "If fate is kind, we shall be leading an army into the realm of the Lord of Twilight himself!"

* * *

The meeting had taken place at a long, narrow stone table before tall, open window, but was now coming to an end. Mazaret had seen and heard it all from where he lay on the floor of a high gallery, as had Gilly. But Gilly had left a short while ago when they overheard one of the women mention where they had imprisoned this Alael.

"Once I have her," he had whispered, "I'll get her up to these entrances Suviel mentioned, and wait nearby for you…" He had given a muffled chuckle. "'Course, your own task might take a while but we'll be patient."

Then he had crept off into the shadows, garbed perfectly in a mask-soldier's armour and livery which Suviel had provided. Mazaret had been less than enthusiastic about his own disguise but when she explained what he had to do, the need was obvious. Thus his hair was now utterly white, his skin was the colour of bleached bone, and his eyes were pale ash grey, and when he peered down he saw another five men who looked exactly the same. Suviel had explained that they were rivenshades, that their creation had taken away all his memories, and how he would have to kill them to regain what had been stolen.

He shivered as he watched them, and the three strange, identical women who sat talking and harshly jesting with them. They all looked like Suviel and although she had also explained about them, she said that it was not necessary to slay them for her sake.

But did he want to kill them, any of them? She had given him a long, straight sword with a small, hooked rune high on the blade, but was he capable of wielding it? He had wanted to know more of the life that was lost to him, who his friends and enemies were and which Suviel was, for if she truly was his friend would she have sent him into such peril? Admittedly, she had tried to explain the battles and struggles of the past which had led to the present, but his mind had become lost among the mazy trail of Shadowkings and chieftains, rivenshades and realms. Yet it was Suviel who kept returning to his thoughts, her bright, steady eyes, her kind smile, her patience…

Raised voices from below caught his attention.

"….not going to sit in their city while we have their little queen," one of his own rivenshades was saying to another. "They will come for her, so
you
should make sure that
your
warriors are ready. No one else will…"

The other laughed derisively, as did two of the women. The speaker shrugged and walked diagonally across the room, out of Mazaret's sight. For a moment, he continued to hear footsteps then realised in panic that the rivenshade was climbing steps up to the gallery where he lay prostrate. As quietly as possible he crawled along to a darkened doorway which led off, rose to a crouch and hurried along to where the passage met a high, wide lamplit corridor. The floor consisted of interlocking green tiles which resembled letters while the walls were of a pale, roseate stone across which huge figures strode in a long, continuous, intricate relief carving.

Mazaret paused uncertainly for a moment, then decided that he would ambush this rivenshade, render him insensible…then decide what to do. But even as he drew his sword, a voice spoke from behind him:

"Planning a little treachery, brother? Isn't that somewhat rash…"

Surprised, some instinct made him draw his sword as he quickly turned to face another of the rivenshades who stood leaning against the wall. He wore a white, high-collared doublet, an extravagantly embroidered crimson shirt, and rested one hand on the pommel of a slender sword whose point sat on the tiles. Mazaret said nothing and hurriedly backed away before the one following him emerged from the passageway, halted and frowned at them both.

"We do not have time to indulge in this foolishness," he said.

The one in white smiled lazily. "Trust me, we do." He brought his blade up, levelling the point at Mazaret. "I thought at first that this was one of our brothers, but I realised that it was not…"

The grey rivenshade stared at Mazaret for a moment, then a thin smile crept across his face. "It's him, the original!"

"The seed of us all, brother," said the one in white. "But now just a shrivelled husk, empty of all meaning and purpose, and long past the time of his final death. Come - " he said to Mazaret, " - I shall be happy to bring you the mercy of the grave."

"The only mercy of any worth," Mazaret said," would be to silence that gibbering tongue of yours."

"Ah, so a sliver of spirit yet remains," said the white rivenshade as he straightened and took a step or two along the corridor. "If the Acolytes had been more attentive, I'm sure they could have got another of us out of you, eh?…"

Before Mazaret knew it, the white rivenshade made a straight arm lunge with his sword at Mazaret's heart. Pure reflex caused him to turn and lean away simultaneously, and sweep his own blade up across his body to block the swift side cut that came next. The strike of steel rang sharply between the stone walls of the corridor.

After that, it became for Mazaret a desperate balancing act between trying to learn from his body's battle instincts and trying to stay alive. Several times the rivenshades' sword tip slipped past his defences to inflict minor wounds, each less minor than the last. The sword that Suviel had given him was slightly shorter than his enemy's but heavier, and on the few occasions that he was able to strike back the rivenshade almost wavered.

But not for long. Reeling back from the rivenshade's darting, weaving blade, Mazaret retreated a few steps, trying to ignore the rawness of the wounds in his ear and cheek, neck, arm and hand.
At this rate I'll soon be dead!
he thought in panic.
I've got to stop him somehow…

The rivenshade came closer, smiling a smile that was half a sneer. Mazaret feinted weakly at his face then seemed to leave himself open. The rivenshade swung at his undefended side but Mazaret turned that side away and shoulder-charged his foe. But the rivenshade leaped back, leaving Mazaret to dive forward onto his leading foot… and instead of carrying onward he went into a crouch then spun with a wild slash at his enemy's midriff. The rivenshade seemed to have anticipated it all except Mazaret's swinging blade which caromed off the flat of his own sword, nicked the knuckles of his hand and raked his bare lower arm.