Shadowmasque (57 page)
It was just four days since the fall of Orlag Tower, during which Byrnak had either persuaded or coerced entire knots of chapters and militia chieftains to join his campaign to defeat the Great Shadow. In that time, Calabos had conferred with Qothan and Culri, then with Kerna and Nilka, trying to figure out a way to penetrate the inner and higher floors of the citadel — assuming that the Murknight armour would unlock the gates.
At last a plan formed: they would wait until Byrnak’s army was about an hour from the citadel before approaching the citadel’s gates, led by Calabos in the armour and the Daemonkind posing as Overseers and with some thirty of Kerna and Nilka’s Hornghosts dressed as Black Host soldiery. Kerna and Culri and a few others would be trussed up with convincing-looking bonds and presented as newly-capture rebel leaders who were to be rushed to senior commanders for questioning.
This had met with general approval, except for Culri who insisted that they should also devise a fallback plan in case the first one failed, for whatever reason. This they duly did by adapting one of the rejected ideas in which the Overseers would carry Calabos in the Murknight armour up to one of the citadel’s higher balcony ledges, followed by the others.
Thus it was that Calabos, wearing most of the black eldritch armour (which proved surprisingly light) was standing at that window, gauging the speed of Byrnak’s upslope advance. But as he watched the mile-distant clash under the radiant, unending shadows of the Nightrealm, his thoughts drifted into wondering what was happening back in the other world — some seven or eight days had gone by here but there was no way of knowing how much time had passed for Tashil and Dardan and Ayoni and the others. Had they failed to stem the Great Shadow’s invasion, or were they still holding on in the hope that deliverance would come?
This is what is meant by the burden of responsibility, he thought. An unbearable weight and an uncertain fate. How will I have to change so that I can bear it?
There were footstep coming up the stairs behind him and he turned as Kerna came into view.
“Is it time?” he said.
She nodded so he left the window and followed her down to the ground floor where the rest were preparing themselves. Nilka handed him the black helm and when he put it on he found that the faceplate was quite translucent from within. Culri gave him the gauntlets and Qothan held out the sword of powers, sheathed in an intricately embossed leather scabbard stained black and studded with dark green stones. It was splendidly barbaric.
A short while later he was leading his procession towards the citadel’s gates from the easterly direction. Squads of Host fighters, swordsmen and archers, were hurrying downhill or taking up positions of roof and balconies overlooking the main approaches. Many noticed the prisoners and their escort but none sought to impede them.
Then the tall ebony gates were looming before them, smooth black doors flanked by massive statues of snarling nighthunters. Calabos glanced at the motionless horrors as he led the infiltrating party straight up to the gates….which stayed firmly shut for a long, long moment. Think desperately, he raised one iron fist to hammer on the dull black surface but before he could, there were thuds and the heavy scrape of gears and bars in motion…and the gates swung slowly open.
Black Host officers were waiting in the big oval antechamber but bowed on seeing a Murknight in the company of three Overseers. Calabos barked the line about rebel prisoners destined for interrogation and the officers waved them through. Spurred on by relief and the edgy fear of being in the midst of the enemy, Calabos led the party at a sharp pace up a set of lead-grey steps to a high-ceilinged corridor which ran in a long curve around a huge central hall where the main staircases wound upwards on fluted red columns. However, Calabos had gleaned an alternative route from Culri’s long-lived recollections and turned right along the corridor, heading instead for lesser stairways which led up past the outer balconies, restrooms and other galleries. According to Culri, there were several of these secondary networks of stairs and passages, most of which rose to the highest of the Citadel’s 33 levels. It was just a matter of sustaining the plausibility of their deception for as long as possible.
It got them as far as the seventh floor when they encountered a Murknight on a square gloomy balcony overlooking a training room. The Murknight stopped Calabos as he led the others along the balcony, but when Calabos shook off his hand and tried to continue the Murknight gave an angry shout and drew a broad-bladed battle-axe. Instinctively, Calabos snatched out the sword of powers to parry the incoming blow and cleft the axe’s haft clean through. The Murknight already had a long dagger out and was closing with it so Calabos, rather than pull back for another full cut, seized the upper part of his swordblade, just below the hilt, and dealt a brutal hack to the Murknight’s side.
There was a burst of dazzling silver-green light, illuminating the balcony and the room below for a moment, and the Murknight let out a strange, high buzzing cry before collapsing to the floor in a welter of armour sections and dense black fumes. Host soldiers were already mounting steps on the other side of the balcony, some fitting arrows to bows, so Calabos led everyone in a dash to an archway leading out to the next step of stairs.
After that it was a series of confrontations, bluffings and pursuits through the glittering black passages and chambers of the Citadel. At length they came to a hall full of low benches where Calabos called a halt, took off his helm, and told them all that he would have to go on alone.
“How foolish can one man be?” said Culri. “No, this is not a task for you alone.”
“The captains of this place now know who they are looking for,” Calabos pointed out. “So the moment any enemy sees a Murknight in the company of three Overseers they’ll be unlimbering their swords not rolling out the carpet!”
“He’s right,” said Kerna. “He’ll stand a much better chance by himself but that leaves us with the problem of how to get out.”
“Find your way to one of the balconies,” Calabos said. “Qothan and his brothers might be able to ferry you down to safety…” He glanced at Qothan who gave a slow, serious nod.
“But friend Calabos, you take all the risk of this task upon yourself — should you not have even just one of us three go with you?”
In the silvery halflight Calabos could see the worry in the Daemonkind’s half-man, half-reptilian features, and his own trepidation almost made him change his mind. But he hardened his resolve.
“I understand your concerns, Qothan, but even the presence of just one of you would be enough to draw unwanted attention and suspicion.”
Qothan frowned but did not dissent, while Culri glared.
“This is an idiocy,” he said. “You’ll die in this place, and then what will it all have been for, eh?”
“Go in peace, Culri,” Calabos said as he put the helm back on. “If we do fail, keep yourself alive, old man, and watch out for another, better hero.”
So saying he raised one hand in farewell to Kerna and Nilka, to Culri, to Qothan and Viras and Yostil, then strode away between two banks of benches towards a square open door in the far wall. It was an effort of will to keep walking and not to look back.
But his judgement proved correct and he was able to avoid the various search patrols sweeping through the corridors, and once or twice managed to bluff his way past squads of Host guards. And as he climbed floor after floor, they became infrequent and even the sounds of battle grew quieter. Once he risked a glance from a small balcony on the 22
nd
floor of the Citadel and looked down to see Byrnak’s army gathered at the foot of the Citadel, and furious fighting taking place on some of the lowest balconies.
By the time he reached the 29
th
floor, there were no Black Host soldiers to be seen although a few formally-attired men and women wearing masks passed him in the darkly opalescent corridors from time to time, or were noticed in rooms and halls that he walked by. The light changed too, becoming a little brighter and softer, almost pearly. On the 30
th
floor he doffed his helm but carried it in his right hand as he went in search of the next set of stairs.
The corridors and rooms here were busier, and everyone wore a mask of some kind, whether plain or elaborate, some like caricatures of faces, others resembling animals while a few attempted to depict an idea or quality like War or Death. Few if any regarded Calabos directly as he walked along, for which he was thankful, guessing that they saw him as far beneath notice.
Then his search took him into an oval room, along a high balcony where a handful of masked spectators were gazing down at something. When he went to the balustrade for a look, what he saw rooted him to the spot.
Two men were fighting with spear and net, a tall, grey-haired man in battered leather harness and a younger burlier man wearing furs and crude mail, his black hair tied back in tribal manner. The tall man was Ikarno Mazaret, and his opponent was the Mogaun chieftain, Yasgur. Yet their contest seemed more like mock fighting with both uttering stagey snarls and grunts as if they were play-acting.
“Quite a display, don’t you think?” said a woman’s voice from behind him. “I don’t particularly care for these puppet games but my husband promised them to the clades of the court, hence this.”
Without turning, he said, “Your husband? Who would that be?”
She laughed. “Why, the Duskgeneral, of course. Now which court clade are you from, may I ask?”
He turned to see a blonde-haired woman in a blue, high-collared gown and a winged half-mask decorated with shiny green feathers. For a moment he smiled as she regarded him, then her eyes widened, her smile faded and her mouth trembled.
“Highest, forgive me….” she stammered. “We had no warning from the harbingers…and I would have recognised you — it has been a long time since you last used this guise. I might be the only one here who remembers it…”
Realisation struck —
She thinks I’m him, the Great Shadow, come down from my throne to slum it with the mortals! This could be useful…
“Your loyalty is most welcome but I do not wish attention drawn to myself so — calm composure will suffice.”
She nodded and forced a smile back into her lips.
“Good,” he said. “Yes, these diversions are quite interesting — where does your husband obtain such subjects?”
“Oh, they are only rivenshades provided by the White Prison, highest.”
“Correct,” he said quickly. “Can you show me other similar jousts?”
She nodded and led him through a series of chambers in which pairs of people both familiar and strange fought each other with a variety of weapons. As before, the fighting was more like a flourishing display than real combat, but as soon as first blood was drawn they went into a murderous frenzy. He saw an Alael and an Atroc attack each other with long cleavers — the sight made his blood run cold.
After that he asked her to show him the most direct path to ‘his courts’. She gave him an odd look then took him down a mottled blue corridor where sombre-coloured tapestries showed scenes in motion, past a room where blood-red statues sand in iron-voiced chorus, through a purple-jewelled chamber from whose ceiling scores upon scores of limbs and heads hung and writhed, along a black-and-silver tiled gallery where mouths great and small spoke or snarled or muttered from the walls. Then as they climbed a spiral staircase, she paused a few steps ahead of Calabos and turned to look down at him with a sly smile.
“There is much about you that puzzles me,” she said. “And much to think upon, and… I think that you are not the Great Shadow after all!” She laid a soft, accusatory fingertip on his armoured chest. “I think that you are the other one, Byrnak — yes, you’re the Twilight Lord from the other place and you’ve come to the Nightrealm to wrest away his power even as he invades your world! The symmetry is so daring.”
He smiled. “Very perceptive of you, but aren’t you afraid that I might have to kill you to maintain my secret?”
She sniffed. “Your secret is safe, mighty Byrnak. Only I would recognise your face because I’m the oldest of the Duskgeneral’s wives — the Highest last wore that appearance more than 2000 years ago, since when he has tended to blend and mingle features for his own amusement.”
“2000 years?” he said suddenly.
“Why, yes. It seems that Time is faster here than in your world and has become faster since the Triumph, which was about 3000 years ago…or is it 4000? As for you killing me — well, so far I’m still alive.”
With another smile she continued on up the stairs and he followed, his mind full of thoughts about Time. If the three centuries since the Shadowking war translated into three millennia or more here, then it was possible that no more than a day had passed since he and the Daemonkind stepped through the Shattergate. If Tashil and the others were still holding out…
“Do you get to hear anything of the invasion of the other world?” he said. “Does it go well?”
She shrugged. “Black Host echelons are still being sent through the gates, and my husband divides his time between conducting the invasion and directing the defense of the citadel.” She laughed. “How delicious! — he’s down on the battlements and you’re already near the apex…”
From the top of the stairs they emerged into a wide, oval chamber that was dimmer and colder than the floors below. Small niche lamps cast a hard silver glow on the pentagonal tiles underfoot and the bas-relief sculptures of war that covered the walls. A ramp of shallow steps curved round the wall to a tall, open archway and they climbed the air grew distinctly icy.
The archway led through darkling shadows and up a ramp to a wide platform open to the black, glittering canopy of the Nightrealm’s sky. Ahead was an arresting view along the easterly cliffs with all their fortifications and towers while to the right was the entirety of the Nightrealm itself, a vertiginous, astonishing, reason-challenging carpet of buildings, a frozen avalanche of cities, its roofs and towers and lamp glints sloping away, merging into a distant, murky glimmer.
