Shadowkings (44 page)

It was blood. Mouth dry, Alael watched it spread throughout the pattern, including the circle where she stood.

Then Galred, who had meanwhile walked around the pattern, stepped into the circle with her. Involuntarily, she cringed.

"Fear is good, child," he said. "But shackles are better."

She knew what he meant. On her arrival at Besh-Darok, he had placed an invisible guardian over her which weighed down her limbs and mind whenever she tried to evoke the Lesser Power.

"The time is upon us," Galred said. "Korren - know that the heat will be so great that you may wish to shelter in one of the side galleries. Or you may stay and observe."

"I shall stay, your serenity."

"As you wish." He stared out at the pattern, raised a spidery hand and began to intone barbaric-sounding words in a strange, deep animal-like voice. Veils of radiance sprang up from the blood-filled grooves, a glittering, shifting maze with brighter spears of light rising from every intersection where a bowl sat.

"Child, give me your hand."

There was a forceful compulsion in the words that could not be resisted. Galred's fingers were bony, dry and hot around her wrist, pushing the knotted rope up to her elbow. Before she could react, his other hand came up and jabbed something pin-sharp into her arm.

"Worry not," he said. "There will no pain."

An utter numbness was creeping down into her hand till she could no longer feel Galred's grip, not the shape of his fingers nor their squeezing pressure, nothing. Galred then guided her hand over to the wooden egg, saying, "Grasp the seed. You still have the use of the hand."

As she did so, he picked up the dagger. The massed ringing sound of the tethering bowls was growing louder, and her terror was a widening shadow, drowning more and more of the world in darkness.

"Mother-spirit!" Galred declaimed. "Come forth! - surrender yourself to the Spirit of the World, the Lord of Twilight. I so command by the spilt essence of this, your last true host!"

The blade shone as Galred raised it above his head, empty white eyes fixed on his target, her fingers gripping the thing he called the seed.

And on the edge of the glowing maze pattern, a copper bowl flipped over and its bright spear of light died. The veil leaped higher at that point and a sour note crept into the sorcerous ringing. Galred lowered the dagger, angry gaze swinging round to the pattern.

"Korren," he said in cold fury. "Go round and return that bowl to its place."

Alael felt the ropes around her wrists and neck slacken and saw the tall bald man hurry around to the bowl. He crouched down, pulled on a gauntlet and gingerly reached through the veil for the bowl...

There was a burst of red light and Dow Korren flew backwards, his arm ablaze. He struck one of the wall tapestries and it caught fire as he slid to the floor, beating weakly at his burning arm.

Galred cursed him, dived out of the encircling veil and rushed round to the overturned bowl. But before he could even reach for it, others began tipping over. He uttered a wordless bellow as the pattern veils grew taller and brighter.

"Who are you?" he roared, staring wildly about him at the empty doors, and the deserted high galleries. "Come out, thou craven dog, and face me!"

Fire from the burning tapestry had spread to others nearby and a grey haze of smoke was starting to thicken. Alael could see her surroundings rippling with heat, yet where she stood the air was cool and untainted. An awful metallic shriek filled the hall and Alael could only cover one ear - her deadened hand would not move from the seed.

Galred seemed to have lost his senses and was flinging fiery knots of power up at the galleries. His hair was smouldering and his robes were smoking from standing so close to the veils of the pattern, but he seemed not to notice. Then he was running back round towards Alael, dagger held before him, murder in his face. He shouted something, which was drowned in the shattering din, and lunged at her.

In mid-thrust, something invisible caught him and hurled him, robes flapping, into the centre of the pattern. Alael saw him breathe in to scream, then she cried out as he was torn limb from limb, joint from joint, flames not blood bursting forth as the pieces of mangled flesh were sucked into the veils along which they flew like flotsam swept up by savage currents.

The veils began to quiver and sway, as if caught in strengthening winds. They curved, bending and stretching towards one of the pattern's five convergence points, five blurred black holes on the floor. Long snakes of black smoke were being drawn in, too, and Alael could feel it pulling at her body and mind as the noise, a horrific iron howl, reached a crescendo.

Close your eyes
...

The voice was in her head, rousing her fear, her panic.

Close your eyes now, my last true one
...

She did, just as the world broke apart in a blinding, deafening crash that went on and on and on...

When the terrible sounds faded, when the stench of burnt things filled her nostrils, and when she realised that she was curled up on the floor, hugging something rough and heavy to her chest, she opened her eyes.

Blackened, charred floor and walls, small fires still burning fitfully here and there, fragments of a shattered column, melted and glassy, and a great jagged hole in the wall through which she saw a sky of broken clouds and stars. And from the gap came a breeze to stir the ash which lay everywhere.

She never knew he was near until a hand reached down and wrenched the seed away from her exhausted grasp.

"This bauble will do..." His voice was cracked and full of torment. "I'll have my kingdom yet..."

Ignoring her pleas, he took hold of her arm and began dragging her across the filthy floor, even as thuds and bangs came from the doors to the hall. Half way to one of the side galleries he fell, gasping in pain, but before he could seize her again there was a smashing, breaking sound and the doors flew open to a triumphant chorus of shouts. With a cry of frustration, he clambered to his feet and lurched off ino the gallery shadows.

Seconds later, friendly hands were helping her to sit, or offering her water. Then Kodel was kneeling next to her, a moistened cloth in hand and gently wiping her face.

"Look for the seed," someone else was saying. "It must be here."

Alael shook her head, assailed by guilt and loss. "I lost it," she said brokenly. "He took it and I couldn't stop him."

"Who?" Kodel said quietly.

"Dow Korren," she said, and began to weep.

Hot the blood,
And cold the knife.
Let Death feed upon death,
And Life betray life.

—Eshen Karedu,
The Tale Of The Revenger
, Ch 9, iv

When the hot, charred wind cooled and trailed away to nothing, when the ghostly lines of the Hall of Audience, drenched in fire and ash, finally faded, there were only five figures standing in a forest clearing ringed by torches.

Byrnak inhaled deeply and breathed out, long and shuddering, and strove to keep his surging relief from showing. He was still himself, still whole. As his own power had flowed out to join the others in the abortive Weaving of Souls, he had seen into the depths of the unfolding spectacle - the pure, unwavering devotion of the Acolyte Galred, and the aura of untapped Lesser Power that surrounded and permeated the girl. And the seed of the Mother, not a vessel, rather a channel from the Earthmother's realm into the world.

Byrnak had felt the potential within the seed, the crushing immensity of the power which they had come close to possessing. But the mountain had not fallen, the torrent had not burst through, and his soul remained unwoven. Silently, secretly, he was glad.

Not so secret that I cannot know how weak you are
, said the shadow within.

An image of a bloody eye flashed across Byrnak's sight for an instant and he gritted his teeth in anger. His unwelcome companion had taken to sending unsettling visions, gory nightmare fragments which would flit and flicker behind his eyes.

Gnaw on your old bones
, he thought.
The day will come when I shall be free of you, I swear
.

On that day, it will be your bones that I gnaw
.

In his mind's eye, Byrnak saw grinning bloody teeth.

"Is this truly the best you could contrive for our purposes?"

The spectral figure of the Hidden One stood before Ystregul whose broad, bearded face was a picture of simmering rancour.

"You could have done better, no doubt."

"I rather fancy that I could. For one, I would have had half a dozen Acolytes in that hall, and a dozen - "

"Clearly, brother, you misunderstand our relationship with the Acolytes and their relationship with Yasgur." With his head lowered slightly, and his glittering eyes hooded, his grin was unpleasant in the torchlight. "The prince has never allowed more than two of the Nightsons within his city."

"The opportunity was there, brother," the Hidden One sneered. "You should have made better preparations - "

"What could have prepared us for an unseen opponent?" Byrnak said smoothly. "One who could overmaster a senior Acolyte?"

The Hidden One tilted his helmed head to glance in his direction. "Since we have already encountered unexpected difficulties, such caution should have been part of the plan."

"You are quick with scathing comment, brother," said Thraelor. "Yet we have heard no proposed stratagems from you."

Like the Hidden One, Thraelor and Grazan were attending from afar, their forms mistily opaque. Neither wore the concealing helms and their attire was opulent without being gaudy, Thraelor an unsmiling, grey-haired man in white and pale blue, Grazan a tall, beautiful youth in black and emerald.

"I have my own schemes," the Hidden One said. "They are well laid and more certain of useful fruition than this....posturing."

"But we have seen no evidence of these schemes," Grazan pointed out. "What else can we do but pursue other means of completing the Weaving?" He smiled as he looked at Byrnak. "And you, brother - have you a course of action we might consider?"

"Why, no."

A frown creased Grazan's perfect brow and the delicate, almond eyes narrowed. "None at all?"

Byrnak laughed. "Brothers, need I remind you that I was given command of the Mogaun host? When your plots and intrigues come to naught, it will fall to me to crush these upstarts and bring them under our power and our will."

"That is comforting to know," Grazan said blandly. "But there are other alternatives yet to be ventured." He turned to Ystregul. "As we have already proposed."

Disdain crossed Ystregul's heavy features. "Gorla and Keshada? - too time-consuming. There is no way of telling what our enemies may achieve during a span of weeks. No, there are other ways of securing our purpose..."

Byrnak and the others listened as he outlined a new plan. The Hidden One stood with arms crossed through it all, and nodded firmly when Ystregul finished.

"Yes, this may serve," he said. "Provided these servants of yours will obey us without question, and will not be turned against us by our unknown adversary."

"They will be ours," Ystregul said, clenching a fist before him.

"Then you have my support. Call upon me when it is time."

As he faded away, Byrnak noticed Thraelor and Grazan exchange a look.

"There are risks in this," Thraelor said. "The mages will fight, and such conflict may endanger the end we mean to attain. Then there is Yasgur - he may baulk at carrying out your orders."

Ystregul's grin was a study in malice. "Oh, Yasgur will play his part. I intend to send one of my servants to help him overcome any reluctance. As for the mages, their powers will be greatly subdued."

"Very well," Thraelor said, though without apparent enthusiasm. "You may rely upon my involvement."

Grazan nodded. "Mine also."

"We see that Yasgur and the vanguard are less than an hour from Besh-Darok," Thraelor said. "We shall be ready when he arrives."

Both he and Grazan turned to walk away and between one step and the next their forms dissolved, melting from sight. Byrnak smiled at this graceful departure.

"And you, brother Byrnak - what is your decision?"

Still staring at the place where Thraelor and Grazan had been, Byrnak said, "As before, I shall aid the common effort."

"Without any misgivings or exceptions? How trusting of you."

At this, Byrnak spun to face him. "Not so! My doubts are many - this plan of yours is wasteful and extravagant, and takes no account of the adversary who, you may recall, throttled your last great strategy. You may have heard that one of my servants foiled an attempt by our enemies to seize the Crystal Eye."

The sudden change in tack neutered some of Ystregul's anger. "I heard differently. So?"

"Can we be sure that the Imperial rabble have not unearthed some other god-wrought talisman from a lost age, one strong enough to defeat a senior Acolyte?"

Ystregul shook his head. "My attack will be so swift that no mage in Besh-Darok will be able to stand against us. After that, there will be little more than a thousand rebels facing Yasgur's army." He smiled. "The blood sacrifice of more than a dozen mages coupled with the Vraoleach Dor should be more than enough to fuel the Weaving of Souls."

"Such certainty." Byrnak could not keep the contempt out of his voice. "Your self-confidence will eat you, brother. But until then, I will continue to work with you. After all, there is always a chance that you might succeed." He tugged on a pair of plain, rider's gauntlets. "Now, you must excuse me - the chiefs of the Host are awaiting my commands. Don't linger too long in the shadows, brother."

So saying, he clapped his hands once and the circle of torches went out. But he had taken but a few paces towards the edge of the clearing when the torches flared into life again.

"The darkness comes at my behest, brother."

From the clearing it was a short downhill walk to the valley along which the Host of Clans was encamped. Here, night was banished by the glow of many hundreds of cooking fires, and the air was heavy with smoke and the smell of horses. Few tents had been erected for this brief pause, and looking down the valley Byrnak saw a sea of men clustered about the fires, or gaming for petty gems or tokens, or curled up in blankets, asleep. Standards and banners stood among the crowds - some were crude regalia of bones and rusted armour, or ragged pieces of cloth daubed with an eye or a dagger, while a few others were well-made from tapestry fabric, adorned with golden emblems, or hung with knotted cords of silk.