Shadowkings (50 page)

There was an awful, still moment, and Yasgur looked straight at Mazaret. "Then we cannot - we dare not - wait for the enemy to come to us."

Standing up, ignoring the aches in his limbs and back, Mazaret met the chieftain's dark gaze, understanding fully the enormity of what he was saying. "An attack by night?"

"Half my men are still outside the city," Yasgur said, grinning a fierce grin. "We would have some advantage of surprise."

Mazaret felt that teetering, hollow feeling of fateful risk, of stepping out over the great unknown, then nodded. "I agree," he said, and the two men shook hand once more, settling the matter.

"This is madness," Gilly said to Atroc, who was pouring pale liquor into four thimble-sized cups. "Insanity."

"In such a situation," the old Mogaun said, handing him one of the tiny cups, "what other choices are there?"

* * *

It was in a long gallery lined with mirrors and bronze statues that the third revenant found him. The gloomy light of failing lamps sent jagged shadows across the walls as it glided soundlessly towards him, arms spread wide, each hand grasping a slender-bladed dagger.

As before, Tauric obeyed the vast inner voice and faced the oncoming apparition with the cold weight of the Motherseed held to his chest. Odours of bark, leaves and moist earth, began to percolate through his senses and he could feel a strange heat building in his head, moving down his arms and hands, into the seed, while on came the revenant, its grey-as-granite countenance frozen in a grimace of pain, its cankerous green eyes seeking him out.

The heat filled his head, made it feel like a furnace. Sweat dripped from his chin, trickled down his arms. Then, when the revenant was mere yards away, the seed cracked open and spewed forth a cloudy mass of white fibres finer than hair. The pale cloud flew at Tauric's attacker, engulfed it in mid-air, long strands winding, spiralling about legs and arms.

The revenant slewed to a halt, tearing at the fibrous skeins which were spreading across its skin, burrowing into cracks and cavities. In its struggles, the creature drifted towards Tauric who stepped back, forced to watch the awful sight. The white fibres thickened, became tendril rootlets digging into the unnatural flesh. Stony fragments clicked on the polished marble floor, falling through trickles of powdery grit.

The revenant uttered a harsh, hoarse sound full of despair and swung into the wall, shattering a tall mirror. The left side of its body, from shoulder to groin, suddenly sheared away and crashed to the floor. It drifted back along the corridor, scraping against the wall as it went, smashing more mirrors, toppling statuettes from their niches, creating a cacophony of destruction.

The end came when the crippled monster collided with a protruding ledge and broke apart. Smothered in a net of white tendrils, the pieces struck the floor one after another. Tauric felt the dammed-up tensions within him relax and pour away, leaving him light-headed. On the floor near his feet, white rootlets writhed slowly about the statue of a young boy falconer, and as he watched the rootlets began to melt, dissolving into vapour...

Enough, my supplicant. Leave this place. Resume our upward progress.

The voice seemed to make his skull vibrate and he raised a hand to his head. He could not be sure whether or not the voice was the same one he heard amid the skirmish at the keep in Sejeend, but it wanted to steer him like a boat or a lamb. He had to strive against the weight of its compulsion, and concentrate on keeping control of himself.

He heard footsteps from up ahead in the corridor, and turning he saw a brown-robed, hooded figure step through a door which swung shut behind him. Clutching the Motherseed to his side, he ran along to the door, found it unlocked and entered into a dark, narrow passage. Small rooms containing dusty tables led off to either side, but Tauric kept on to the end where a door opened on a long, high room. Books and parchment rolls filled an entire wall along the room's full length, except for where several shelves and their contents lay in a heap near where Tauric stood. The library had three windows, each inset with darkly patterned stained glass, but the only light came from a candle burning on a large iron stand encrusted with drippings of wax. A hooded figure sat at a cluttered desk nearby and only turned when Tauric approached. A trembling, rag-wrapped hand came up, palm outwards.

"No please...come no closer..."

He stopped and stared, alarm fluttering in his stomach. Windings of cloth covered the man's hooded head and neck.

"For your own well-being," the man continued in a well-bred but hoarse voice. "I suffer from yellowblight, you see..."

Revulsion and pitty warred in Tauric, but curiosity kept him from fleeing.

"Why are you here?" he said. "Are you one of Yasgur's people?"

"Not I, young ser. The Acolytes keep me here to watch over the library for them, thus keeping anyone else away. I was once a scholar in this city, but my studies let me into folly." The voice rang with bitterness. "But you are a stranger to these lands - your accent is of southern Khatris, perhaps even Patrein..."

This one is dangerous - I will destroy it.

"No!" he cried, forcing himself to keep the Motherseed tucked under his arm. He stepped away from the diseased scholar. With his free hand he wiped sweat from his face and tried to ignore the heat that was flooding through his limbs. "Forgive me," he said shakily. "This thing which I carry has a will and a purpose I cannot fathom, but I need its protection and it needs me..." He gave a despairing laugh. "Or so it seems. I only know that friends of mine are being held prisoner on the topmost floor - I must find a way there and help them."

The hooded scholar nodded. "'Unseen, the Unknown is in the saddle and rides us all'," he said, as if quoting lines, then pointed at the far end of the library. "Beyond that door, choose the first archway on the left and take the spiral steps in the corner - that's one of the servant stairways. They sometimes join rooms that are several floors apart."

"My thanks," Tauric said, inclining his head in respect.

Fool.

Making no response, he shifted the Motherseed to a more comfortable position and hurried from the library.

* * *

The scholar watched the youth leave and sat unmoving for a few moments, then stood and calmly began removing his outer garments. The hooded robes were tossed aside, revealing a long coat over an embroidered tunic and kilted trews. The rags were stripped from his hands and the windings from his head. The face was old and bearded, with hollow cheeks, webs of wrinkles and a furrowed brow. And everything about him, from finger-rings to tongue and teeth, was the grey of old, cold stone, except for the eyes which shone a feverish emerald and betrayed a weary sadness.

The revenant stepped away from its castoff disguise and approached the nearest stained-glass window, carefully unfastened the latch and swung it open. He rose off the floor and a moment later was ascending the outside of the High Spire. At the jagged hole left by the Acolytes' abortive spell-making, he slowed and glided into the gloomy, pillared throne room. Light came from a few torches in wall-brackets, and from the nets of Wellsource power holding the mage prisoners in small groups. By such poor illumination he could see what a charred, cinder-strewn ruin the hall had become. Yet court was being held, after a fashion. Almost a score of revenants were arrayed on the steps to either side of the throne, whose occupant watched the newcomer with undisguised contempt.

"Well?"

The revenant stopped at the foot of the dais and bowed his head. "Majesty, another of us has returned to the dust."

A clenched fist slammed down on the arm of the throne.

"Who is this man? The girl says that he's just some merchant prince from Yularia - "

"By your pardon, majesty, but it is not a man but a boy who has the seed."

"You saw him?"

"I spoke with him, majesty."

"And here you are. Yet it appears that the seed is not in your possession, Argatil. How can this be?"

Argatil, once Archmage and Imperial advisor, straightened and stared at his accuser. "Sire, the boy is your son. Your child by the Duchess of Patrein."

Korregan, twenty-seventh monarch of the Khatrimantine Empire, regarded the former Archmage with a green eye. "Are you certain? Yes, I expect you are. So Illian's offspring survived all these years...Still, we must have the seed ready and waiting for our master, and soon - " He pointed at the pair of revenants who had captured the girl. "You two, take this sentimental fool and go after my esteemed son. Use him as a decoy, or even kill the boy if you have to, just bring me the..."

Then a thin smile crept over his leaden countenance. "On the other hand, perhaps I should attend to this myself. After all, there are some things that only a father can do."

* * *

The crest of the ridge was busy with horses and their riders looking for any kind of shelter from the fine, steady rain. With dawn still an hour or more away, torches hissed in the damp air and hastily-made fires crackled as the Mogaun boiled up crocks of beverage from an assortment of tubers and seeds. At the centre of the activity were the ruins of the old fort. One massively-built corner was still standing, its stones gleaming in the rain, its accumulated burden of small bushes and saplings sending strings of drips to the ground below.

As Byrnak climbed over the eroded remains of the outer wall, he saw that Grazaan and Thraelor were already present, as were a group of Acolytes. They were gathered by the fort's overgrown corner wall, marking lines on ground and stonework, and did not look up at his arrival.

"Greetings, o General," said Grazaan.

"Brothers," Byrnak mumured in reply as he crossed to the pair of opaque figures. Thraelor was still a dour-faced, grey-haired man while Grazaan remained a tall, handsome youth. Both were attired for battle, Thraelor in the heavy, battered trappings of a mercenary while Grazaan wore a suit of armour seemingly modelled upon the shells of sea creatures. But in colour it was a glassy red, gleaming like translucent blood. Grazaan smiled, regarding Byrnak with cat-like eyes.

"It appears that the Black Priest's timing does not sit well with you, brother."

"Nor does it with us," Thraelor said bluntly. "But that is trivial next to his carelessness and his negligence."

Byrnak nodded slowly. "Yasgur."

"Exactly. He habitually overstretches himself and exposes us all to potential disaster."

"His arrogance is undermining all we have gained," said Grazaan. "For all we know, the Motherseed may no longer be in Besh-Darok. If this new strategy of his fails, we must pursue other alternatives."

"Such as Gorla and Keshada?" Byrnak said. "A long, slow task - "

"But certain," said Thraelor. "Our domination of this land would be complete and irreversible."

Uncertain, Byrnak shrugged. "Our nameless hidden brother might be swayed," he said. "But what of Ystregul?"

"Let us see if he survives his latest endeavour, first," Grazaan said, glancing past Byrnak. "Enough - he approaches."

The rain was growing heavier and gusts of winds tugged at the robes of Ystregul and his servants as they trooped into the ruined fort, each bearing a wooden staff. The Black Priest inspected the markings made by the Acolytes then turned to face the other Shadowkings and gave a stiff bow. At that moment, the spectral, helmed form of the Hidden One stepped out of nowhere and sauntered over to join the others. The look of poisonous anger that trembled in the Black Priest's features just then gave Byrnak an immense inner pleasure.

Ystregul mastered his fury and lifted his gaze to stare at the sky. Fine droplets of rain swirled about and over him, yet Byrnak saw none touch his face nor mar his full, perfectly black beard and hair.

He will betray you
, said that familiar darkening voice within his mind.
Strike him down while you can
.

Be silent
, was his only reply.

"The time is upon us," Ystregul began.

"Again..." muttered the Hidden One.

"The past awaits, the future awaits, the very heavens await the return of the Lord of Twilight. Mountains will be hewn into temples, the seas will open and the sun will give forth wine when the Prince of Dusk walks upon the earth..."

Byrnak felt a chill at the words, and sensed a thread of dark anger winding its way through his thoughts.

"The moon will be our banner, the shadows shall breed with shadows, and all the realms will become as one." Eyes glittering with an unfettered voracity, he raised his staff and turned to his dozen or more servants, saying, "Begin!"

Gathered in a rough semicircle, the Acolytes pressed the tips of their staves to points in the designs they had scribed on ground and wall. As each began to murmur a harsh incantation, a vivid green radiance spread quickly through the patterns. The rain hazed the hot, bright symbols and tenuous vapours began to rise.

"Brothers," said Ystregul. "Lend me your strength."

It was no effort to reach for power. The Wellsource was always there and for Byrnak, drawing upon it had become as easy as breathing in. Channelling it to Ystregul demanded a conscious shaping of the flow, giving it direction. And all the time part of his awareness was observing the Black Priest, watching for any hint of treachery.

At the focus, Ystregul seemed taller, his presence dominating the gathering. Enclosed by a restless aura, he stood facing the patterns, one hand grasping his staff and guiding its burning tip across the intricate weave. Raising his free hand, he uttered a deep-throated cluster of syllables - brutish, primal sounds - and swept his hand down. The air twisted like a membrane bitten by invisible jaws, and the mossy wall behind rippled and faded into a view of the throne room in the palace at Besh-Darok. The grassy ground with its symbols blurred into a fire-blackened marble floor upon which more symbols glowed, sustained by grey forms wielding rods of brightness. Across the gloomy hall, a slight female form sat huddled at the foot of the throne steps, watched over by a green-eyed guardian.