Shadowkings (14 page)

There was a blinding pain as something struck him on the back of the head and his legs gave way. Everything swung around him, then dissolved into grey nothingness.

Awareness returned in jolts of pain. There was a taste of blood in his mouth and a roaring in his head which swayed limply in time with his arms. Someone was carrying him over their shoulder, he realised. Then he began to hear a pair of voices.

"...are they? We should have met them long before now!"

"Curb your whining." It was the old man, Seftal. "We're far enough away from the fort now to halt- here, by that tree will do. They will find us, never fear."

Half a dozen steps later Tauric felt himself being lowered onto lumpy ground, all the time keeping his eyes closed. For a moment or two there were only sounds of his captors settling down nearby, then Coireg spoke again.

"I'd have thought some of the others would be with us by now. It sounded like a fierce fight as we left."

"They will stay as long as it takes to finish the task." Seftal sounded unconcerned. "At the very least, none of the heretics will have the time to wonder about the whereabouts of our young guest here. Who, if I'm very much mistaken - "

A sharp slap stung Tauric's face, making him yelp.

" - is awake. Sit up!"

Tauric levered himself upright, edging away till his back was against the tree. In the weak light of predawn the old man's thin face looked cadaverous, his eyes full of a gleeful darkness.

"I am pleased to see that my associate's oafish blow has not completely addled your wits. My master would have little use for a mental cripple."

Tauric shuddered. "What do you want with me?"

"What you want - the Empire returned to its former glory with the Emperor and the power of the Tree united. Only my master, the Father of Flames, can give you this. Even now, a great army is mustering in Khatris, preparing to destroy the southern renegades and sweep away the last of the Earthmother vermin. With you at its head, carrying the banner of the Fiery Tree, none shall withstand you."

"But what if that's not what
I
want?"

Seftal shook his head in mock pity. "You misunderstand. For you, there is no choice involved."

Coireg shifted to his knees and moved closer to the old man. "Seftal, I'm feeling tired, a bit dizzy..." Tauric heard a vague thickness in his speech. "If we're going to be on horseback again soon, I could do with something to wake me up, refresh me..."

Seftal made no reply and Coireg leaned forward on one hand, his head drooping slightly. "I don't need very much, just a sip." He was pleading now. "I did all you asked, did I not? Do I not deserve a little-"

"Very well," said Seftal, taking a small phial from within his leather surcoat. "But after this, there will be no more till we reach our destination."

Nodding hurriedly, Coireg took the phial, unstoppered it and swiftly tipped the contents down his throat. He coughed, made a shuddery intake of breath, then handed the phial back. Tauric observed the transaction with sick fascination, then noticed Seftal watching him out the corner of his eye. The old man gave a calmly malign smile, as if to say -
This is how you will be
.

Coireg began to laugh softly, throwing his head back to breath in deeply and stare at the sky. Then he pushed himself to his feet in a lithe motion. "Ah, now that is much better. You know, friend Seftal, if you brought more of the draught you wouldn't have to be so miserly with it."

"True, but then you would have to take more and more of it to get the same benefit. Inadvisable, considering how expensive it is." His voice took on a steely edge. "And not so loud."

Coireg leaned a shoulder against the tree with exaggerated ease. "It is a big forest. Perhaps my talking will help our friends find us - "

"Not likely," came a voice. "I killed them all."

Startled, Tauric looked round to see Kodel emerge sword in hand from behind a dense screen of creeper and weeds. He was breathing heavily, and bleeding from a score of wounds on face, arms and hands while his quilted armour was torn in several places. His features smouldered with hatred and his sabre gleamed dully.

"Hand the boy over to me and I'll see you both receive fair judgement," he growled.

"Such optimism," said Seftal, getting to his feet, one hand grasping Tauric's jerkin by the neck and hauling him up with astonishing strength. "None of you are fit to judge the likes of us. Coireg - dispose of him."

"Gladly."

Kodel started across the clearing, glittering eyes fixed on Seftal. Coireg was advancing to cut him off, making small feinting moves with his sword, a straight, slender rapier. When he made a sweeping head cut Tauric thought the Sentinel was about to die. Kodel neatly dodged the blow, then suddenly stepped in close to grab the younger Mazaret by an upper arm and spun him off-balance, simultaneously kicking the legs from under him. As Coireg crashed to the ground, Kodel struck his head with the hilt of his sword, then straightened to face the old man.

"Release the boy, you wizened dog!"

Seftal just laughed and flung out his free arm. Harsh emerald light burst from his fingertips in a jagged web that leaped across the clearing and enfolded Kodel. Staggering back, he uttered a shriek of agony and fell to his knees. The livid tracery made a quiet tearing sound as it spread itself across Kodel's skin and clothing. Tauric could see bright and sickly green edging his staring eyes, his gaping, soundless mouth, and the creases and joints of his hand as it spasmed to let his blade fall. He slumped backward across the insensible Coireg, hands struggling for purchase on the ground, the green web covering his face and neck in a close weave.

Held by Seftal's implacable grip, Tauric sobbed in fear and terror. "Let him go! Please..."

Seftal glanced round with blazing eyes, and he turned away.

"When you strike, strike with passion as well as might. Watch closely, boy. This is your first lesson in retribution - "

The old man's voice cut off suddenly with a brief, wet sound. Tauric felt the grip on his collar tighten and he looked back and cried out. Seftal's other hand now scrabbled and tugged at the rapier now impaled through his neck. Emerald fire raged fitfully in his eyes and a grotesque wheezing came from his open mouth. Tauric tried to pull free but Seftal held on, now using the boy for support. Finding himself borne back by the man's weight, Tauric tore and hammered at the bony hand that was starting to choke him. Seftal's other hand was fluttering weakly at the rapier's hilt and his head was jerking and lolling, but his grip on Tauric remained unbreakable.

Then Tauric's foot caught a root and he toppled backwards, twisting away as he fell. A horrible, strangled scream came from Seftal as he struck the ground, driving the blade deeper into his neck. The eyes and mouth were full of venomous green fire. The hand at Tauric's neck finally loosened, went to the sideways-lying face and hesitantly fingered around one eye. Then poked deeply into the socket where viridian flames seemed to ripple and burn within a head scoured hollow.

Backing away, Tauric saw the sorcerous fire gutter and die. Seftal went limp and lifeless, thin vapour rising from eyes and mouth. Kodel approached on stumbling feet till he stood over the corpse. He laughed and cursed, spat on the body and began to kick it in a furious rage across the narrow clearing. Then he tripped on a protruding rock and fell to his knees a foot or two from the prone Coireg Mazaret.

"How you deserve to die," Kodel said to the unconscious man in a voice full of hungry hate. "But alive you could serve our purpose." So saying, he forced himself to his feet, looked round at Tauric with a cold gaze and started across the clearing.

"Come on," he said hoarsely. "Get up."

Tauric stared in fright. "What are you going to do to me?"

Kodel frowned. "Do to you?" He shook his head, reached down and hauled Tauric onto his feet. "Boy, I'm going see you crowned Emperor if it's the last thing I do!"

The worst terrors take root only in the wreck of nations.

—Ivaduin Govur,
Epigrams
.

From the shadows between a ruined wall and an immense fallen pillar, Keren watched a gang of ragged youths beating two elderly, well-clothed men. Fearful faces peered out from nearby tents as blows rained down on the pair, and men hunched around cooking fires huddled a little closer to the warmth, pretending to ignore the sounds of violence and pain.

The beating stopped and after looting their victims, the youths departed, laughing and jostling, sneering at the men by the fires. As they left, Keren shifted her gaze back to the forms that lay on the hard stoney ground, moaning and making weak motions. Minutes passed and no-one moved to help. Her feelings of anger grew yet she held back, sensing a certain fearful tension from all the onlookers.

Then she noticed a line of hooded figures approaching through the disorderly maze of tents and lean-to's. Keren withdrew further into the shadows, recognising the red attire of Fiery Tree priests. They were all over this vast refugee camp like some deadly vermin, hauling people way for inquiry, titheing money and food, or dispensing their own brand of summary justice.

They were not the only ones trying to assert authority. Keren had seen gangs of youths and beggars, and the occasional squad of mercenaries. The territories they had staked out made a hazy patchwork of the camp and skirmishes were a regular occurence. But the Fiery Tree priesthood was clearly in the ascendant, mainly due to the supplies of grain and vegetables which they brought in by wagon from who knew where and distributed with ruthless purpose.

Their appearance at this time seemed too coincidental and Keren was sure that they were in league with the Mogaun. Previously, the yearly Blood Gathering at Arengia had been an occasion of rituals for the tribal shamen and those representatives sent by the chiefs, usually the second or third son. This year, however, whole kvals of warriors were converging on the northern forests of Khatris, ransacking all along the way. That was where most of these refugees were from, the razed towns and villages of central Khatris.

She watched the priests drag the two old men away then headed back along the ruined wall, clambering over heaps of grassy rubble, skirting large groups of refugees, and trying to keep to the shadows. But she still attracted suspicious looks whenever she stopped to ask the way to the healers' tent. One ageing beldame squatting in the lee of an overturned wain listened, then glanced at Keren's patched, grubby jerkin and worn-down boots, and grinned toothlessly.

"Tha's good shoes, soldier lady. Do me feet no end of good, they would."

"Aye, old mother, and they're the only ones I have." Keren crouched, lowering her voice. "But when did you last taste cheese?"

The old woman's face went slack with yearning. "Not since..." Then she frowned. "You're just having cruel giggles with me."

Keren shook her head, took a small waxpaper parcel from a pocket and offered it. The woman took it, unwrapped a morsel of muddy yellow cheese no bigger than her thumb and daintily nibbled at it. Pleasure lit up her wrinkled features and she swayed very slightly from side to side.

"Ah yes, ah yes! Cabringan, from...the northwest steadings, I reckon."

Keren smiled. "You say so, do you?"

"I once owned me own tavern on the High Yular Road, girly," she said with narrowed eyes. "Back before those Mogarn invaded. Oh, but we served them all, great lords, merchant princes..."

"I've got a honeystick here, too, mother - " The old woman put out a hand, and Keren kept the delicacy out of reach. " - but I need to know where the healer's tents are."

"Oh, them. Well, it's a ways down the sloping road, the west one. You'll not get down the east one, past those Fire priests, curse them." She nibbled a bit more cheese. "Most of the healers and herbgrinders are down on the bottom step, where the mercenaries and sellswords set up their dens."

Keren nodded and held out the honeystick which was snatched immediately.

"Mmm, sweet, so sweet. We sold these in my tavern, and mintbuds from Jefren, and freshly baked pocket breads, and Honjir longapples, and..." The aged woman stopped, staring at the mouth-wet honeystick. After a second it fell from her grasp and she buried her face in her hands and wept. "Gone, all gone. All the lovely food, my men, my children. Curse the Mogarn and their Blood Gathering! And curse you for making me remember. Get away, go..."

Torn with guilt and pity, Keren stood quickly and made her way off to the west, pausing for a single backward glance at the woman crying quietly over the lost beauties of the past. For a moment Keren wanted to strike out at something, anything, to exact some kind of retribution for the old woman's pain, to atone for what she had done. Then the moment passed and she stumbled on, heading along a rubbish-strewn walkway between the knee-high remains of what had been walls and the close-packed tents and meagre canopies pitched against them. The way soon turned to the right and after a second's hesitation she went on and found herself at a low, crumbling battlement overlooking the entire refugee camp. Thousands of campfires filled the wide shelf of ruins below, and the one below that, a carpet of lights that spilled over onto the open ground at the very foot of the mountainside. For this was Alvergost, the greatest citadel of the ages-gone Brusartan Kings, last great dynasty of the Jefren League.

Keren remembered that morning when she and Suviel and Gilly had rode wearily to the top of a saddle ridge and found themselves gazing down at the huge, monolithic ruins. Alvergost had been built at the southernmost corner of the Khatris Plains, where the forbidding Honjir Range met the Rukang Mountains. Three immense levels were carved into the face of the mountain, each with its own inner walls, ramparts and towers, gates and sally ports. The ground level had been the mightiest, with three inner walls in addition to the main bulwark, and heavily fortified battlements following the line of the mountains to north and east.

But the Brusartan kings, like others before it, had held to the familiar path of dynastic decline. Vigorous, inspired leaders were followed by less competent ones whose offspring turned out to be indolent or insane. At the end of their century-long reign the League collapsed into civil war and fabulously intricate Alvergost was abandoned. Now the huge dusty ruin, ground down by the centuries, had fallen to an army of the dispossessed and the desperate. Earlier, in the morning's cold, clear light, Keren had seen hundreds of refugees stumbling in to join the thousands already here, farmers and townsfolk from Tobrosa whose pillaging by the Mogaun five or more days ago still marred the horizon with a black column of smoke. Alvergost by day was a heart-wrenching spectacle; by night it took on a strange beauty, three great steps of lights hazed by campfire smoke.