Shadowkings (45 page)

One such stood before his own modest tent, a long banner of blood-red cloth bearing the device of a rayed sun pierced by an upward-pointing black sword. It had been a gift from Welgarak, chief of the Black Moon clan, who had insisted that the general of the Host of Clans must have his own standard. At first he had agreed out of expediency, but then some warriors (most notably from the Bearclaw, Black Moon and Iceskull clans) began adopting the emblem and now Byrnak experienced an obscure pleasure whenever he saw it.

Around a fire near his tent sat his assistants and his personal guards. The former were an assortment of tutored slaves and talented misfits, while the latter number a dozen battle-hardened warriors donated by a few of the clan chiefs. They all rose at his approach and once he had dealt with scout reports, a handful of complaints and petitions, and given the orders to strike camp, he was able to turn towards his tent.

But Obax was there, standing at the entrance, and before he could say anything, the Acolyte was using mindspeech.

Great Lord, an exalted visitor awaits you within
.

He moved aside as Byrnak stepped up to the tent flap, glanced frowningly at him for a moment then pushed on through. It was warm inside, the air full of the taint of hot tallow from the lantern glowing on the table beyond which stood a translucent figure, his head concealed by a ornate helm.

"Why are you here?" Byrnak said bluntly.

"Out of curiosity," said the Hidden One. "And to bring a warning."

"Were you that offended by my comments earlier."

The Hidden One made a dismissive gesture. "You clearly don't trust our brother the Black Priest, yet you are willing to work with him. Also you put forward no plans of your own. Why is this?"

Byrnak smiled. "You don't understand - I don't trust a single one of you, and I especially don't trust you. As for working with our honoured brother, I am content to let him and the rest of you scheme your schemes and make your mistakes... for the time being." He stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Is that what you were going to warn me about, the perfidy of the Black Priest? Well, I have him under my regard, as do you, I'm sure."

"He almost succeeded in the attempt to tap the seed of the Mother," the Hidden One said. "If he had, it would have focussed all that power in his hands alone, and that would have been the end of us."

Byrnak wagged a finger at him. "It was you, wasn't it? You were the one who undid all his spells."

"I have my agents, and they have theirs. But realise this - he will try again, thus we should be on our guard."

"I am always on my guard," said Byrnak.

The Hidden One raised a hand to his helm and it vanished, revealing a strong-featured man, his hair a flaming red, his eyes dark and secretive, and his mouth betraying a hint of cruelty. Byrnak almost laughed out loud.

"I am still less inclined to trust you," he said.

A shake of the head. "As you wish. But it is in your interest to watch the Black Priest and tally his work and deeds, for he will move against us all, I am certain of it. The question is how and when."

Then, in an eyeblink instant, he was gone. Byrnak, thoughts dark and troubled, stared at the empty air then went back outside, shouting orders for the tent to be broken down.

* * *

The night was like a dream of cold wind and darkness through which Gilly rode, just behind Yasgur as he led the vanguard along the country road to Besh-Darok. Next to Gilly, on a spirited black horse, was Ghazrek, Yasgur's second-in-command, and in front of him, riding next to Yasgur was the old man, Atroc, his threadbare cloak flapping, threads streaming and slowly unravelling from its worn edge.

It had been an eventful three days since departing Arengia. Twice they had fought furious skirmishes with bands of brigands, and both times Yasgur had been saved from 'accidental' misfortune. Once by Ghazrek whose outswept buckler caught an arrow meant for the prince's throat, and later by one assailant who leaped onto Yasgur's horse to grapple with him, only to be impaled front to back by a flung spear. Those responsible, both Bloodfists, were sent back to rejoin their clan and the Host. Yasgur meanwhile pressed on, with a gulf of mistrust widening between himself, his advisors and their few sworn guards on one side, and the two hundred or more Doubleknives and Bloodfists and their shamen on the other.

But a further burden had come to Yasgur earlier that night when a bloodied rider arrived from Besh-Darok with the grim report that the city was in the hands of rebels. Yasgur immediately dispatched riders with orders for the two halves of his great army, then set out for Besh-Darok. Soon after, one of them returned accompanied by the aged advisor, Atroc, who brought the more welcome news that the army which had set out for Sejeend had turned back and was less than two hours from Besh-Darok's walls.

They had left the wide plains of Kalen behind as the road curved through the wooded hills west of the city. There were many small towns and hamlets scattered throughout these hills, some of which Gilly knew from his travels in Mazaret's service. This countryside had been heavily cultivated from the earliest of times, parcelled off into fields, farms, orchards and private estates with their own woods and gardens. Scouts came and went, and a few times they encountered parties of torch-bearing wardens and rangers whose belligerence quickly cooled on recognition of Yasgur's standard.

Besh-Darok was an uneven glow less than an hour away, partly hidden by a wooded ridge. As the city drew ever nearer, Gillys mind turned to thoughts of escape. It could only be the Knights and the Hunters Children who were now in command of Besh-Darok and Gilly was determined to join them, even if Yasgur's army would soon assault the walls.

Escape, though, seemed a slim prospect while six Mogaun riders were watching over him with a diligence born of malicious glee, almost as if they were hoping for an excuse to pounce. He had already suspected two of being his keepers, but it was Atroc who pointed out the other four, soon after his arrival.

"The one with the spear is in case you dodge the two nearby riders," the old Mogaun had said, matter-of-factly. "The one with the bow is there if the spear misses, and those two, the ones without armour, will chase you down were you charmed enough to evade the rest." Atroc had grinned, not unkindly, and patted Gilly on the shoulder. "See how we value your companionship, southman?"

They were deep in the darkest hours of the night by the time the road came to the ridge. The slope before them was steep and overgrown, a thick tangle of trees, thorns and shadows, but the road curved to the right, staying on level ground. Gilly eyed the dark wall of foliage, trying to discern details - weren't there a couple of old smugglers' trails that led over the ridge? If he could spot one amid the shadows, and if he could get to it without taking an arrow or a spear in the back, then he could lose any pursuit in that dense undergrowth. He was already on the ridgeward side of the column, with Ghazrek more than an arm's length away on his right. The trick would be to get Ghazrek between him and those watchful warriors, or perhaps fake a fall, somehow provoke his horse into throwing him...

Then there was a shout from up ahead and Yasgur slowed the vanguard with a raised hand as one of the scouts came riding out of the murk. One of Yasgur's retainers fumbled with a hooded lamp as the prince and Atroc conversed with the scout in whispers. By the lamp's tapered yellow glow Gilly saw the scout hand a wadded cloth to Yasgur who partly unfolded it, examined for a moment before thrusting it into his saddlebag.

The next moment, Yasgur was leading the column in a furious gallop after the scout who was already riding off the way he had come. Gilly had to spur his horse roughly to keep up with Ghazrek, who cast him a frowning glance, and the other Mogaun who pressed closely around him. He cursed inwardly - at this speed, spying out the secret trails would be next to impossible.

After less than a mile the vanguard slowed once more as the scout turned along a narrow track which climbed the steep face of the ridge. In front of Gilly, Yasgur and Atroc were engaged in a quiet yet animated discussion which ended when the slowing horses brought Gilly and the other front riders close. Interesting, he thought.

The undergrowth on the slope was a dense entwining of poisonous dogivy and wallthorn, and the air beneath the trees was chilly and damp. The track, which had clearly once been wider, passed over two brooks and round a time-worn rocky outcrop before the crest of the ridge came into view. There had once been a fort here: the tumbled remains of its walls, rounded by centuries and moss, bore mute testimony to the square lines of its ancient design. Once, too, the ground all about it had been cleared, perhaps even salted, but down the years tenacious grass and bushes had taken hold across the area, right back to the impenetrable wood many yards away.

Torches burned amid the ruins and figures moved there as the vanguard approached. Yasgur and Atroc dismounted, as did everyone else, almost two hundred riders gathering in a wide crescent to watch. Six hooded Mogaun warriors - members of Yasgur's special scout band - came forward with three prisoners and forced them to kneel. As Yasgur strode forward to meet them, Gilly examined the captives, all youths not yet in their maturity, and his gaze came to rest on one that he thought familiar, a fair-haired young man whose face was full of dignity and despair.

Recognition came in a sudden leap, bringing in its wake a dismay that he felt in his stomach. The boy was Tauric, the heir to the Imperial throne. But what was he doing outside Besh-Darok if Mazaret and the others were in control of it? And why had they been so cruel as to tie his amputated arm behind his back?

Yasgur was clutching the cloth brought by the scout, unfolded and trailing on the ground as he walked straight towards Tauric. The cloth was a white flag bearing the device of the Fathertree, symbol of a dead Emperor and a shattered empire. When Yasgur came to halt before Tauric, he gestured with his empty hand for the youth to stand. As he did so, a tense stillness hung over the ruins and a chill went through Gilly at the sight of this meeting.

"I've heard of your arm," said Yasgur. "I would see it."

At his nod, one of the hooded scouts cut Tauric's bonds and held up his right arm. A brown sleeve and gauntlet were stripped away to reveal gleaming metal from elbow to fingertips. Excited murmurs and whispered charms against evil passed among the watching warriors, and Gilly stared in amazement.

"A fine piece," Yasgur said. "Is it sorcerous?"

"I..." Tauric faltered. "I do not know."

Watching Yasgur, Gilly was sure he saw a hint of uncertainty behind the stern, bearded features and wondered if he knew who Tauric was.

"You risk much with that arm," Yasgur said, and held out the flag. "And this."

"Sometimes risk is in the blood," Tauric said calmly.

"Is that why your troops have seized my city?"

"It is no crime to regain that which was stolen!"

Yasgur smiled slowly, as if satisfied, and to Gilly's eyes a look of mutual acknowledgement seemed to pass between them.

"Now I must decide what to do with you," Yasgur said. "I could send you to the Council of Chiefs, who would not treat you kindly. Or I could send you to the Acolytes in their fastness, and they would be harsher still. Or I could just torture you myself."

From the gathered warriors came laughter and jeers, and faces lit up with glee. Gilly felt a tremor of dread.

"But would that smooth the return of my city?" Yasgur went on. "Would that safeguard my subjects, who have already suffered much from this insurrection? No - Besh-Darok is mine - " A hand came up clenched in a fist then stretched out to point at Tauric, " - just as you are mine."

Yasgur gazed fiercely about him, looking many of the Doubleknives and Bloodfists in the eye, an open challenge to his audience.

"I have decided what will be done," he said. "These three shall be sent to the city with a simple message for their fellows - Leave Besh-Darok within the hour and you shall not be hindered. If that span expires and you yet remain, then my army shall fall upon the city and every one of you will be slain without mercy."

A shocked silence greeted these words, and Gilly saw many of the assembled warriors glare at their commander with unconcealed hate. Yasgur, however, turned to Tauric.

"My words must reach your captains without alteration - swear that you will repeat them as I have said them."

But before Tauric could answer there was a commotion among the onlookers and a gaunt figure carrying a plain staff stepped forward. It was one of the two shamen sent with the vanguard by Byrnak, a Bloodfist by the name of Jaroul. His bony form cast a long shadow as he pointed at Yasgur with the forked head of his staff.

"You dishonour the memory of your father," Jaroul said. "The mighty Hegroun would not have made such spineless agreements with the enemy - "

"Who are you to say what my father would or would not have done?" Yasgur cried, stung to fury. He moved towards his accuser. "You forget who is your master here!"

The shaman raised his staff, and scores of warriors rushed forward in groups. Amid the noisy scramble, Gilly was grabbed by a cluster of hands and thrust to the ground while Yasgur, roaring his anger and swinging his fists, was overwhelmed by a mob of Doubleknives. Elsewhere, Yasgur's few personal guards were ruthlessly butchered, and Ghazrek went down beneath a flurry of blows.

Untouched by the tumult, but closely guarded, Tauric and his companions could only stare in helpless amazement.

At last, out of the confusion a kind of order emerged. Gilly found himself kneeling next to a dishevelled but alert Atroc and a bruised and bloody-lipped Ghazrek. Yasgur was also kneeling a few feet away, bound and gagged, while all the warriors gathered closely around in a rough semicircle. Gilly could feel the heat of their bodies and smell the pungent taint of days-old sweat. But most of all, there was the sense of expectation.

Some warriors behind Yasgur stood aside and the shaman Jaroul came forward, smiling. After him, supported by two brawny Mogaun, was the other shaman, a smaller man wearing little more than stained rags held together with animal gut. The man was deranged - his pale eyes wandered and rolled in their sockets, perspiration gleamed on ashen skin and a dry blood trail marked his chin from where he had bitten through his lower lip. His hand twitched at his sides and only his keepers kept him on his feet.