Shadowmasque (63 page)

Then at last Calabos emerged, carried on an improvised stretcher, as a long, crowd of people also came forth, thousands of weary-looking men and women. But when Qothan suggested that he and the Daemonkind start immediately for the nearest gate this was rejected — Calabos was determined to see that all his fellow escapees reached some kind of sanctuary, for they were most of the former captives of the White Prison and thus deserved peace and protection.

And it was achieved. As Viras and Yostil guided parties of them down through the citadel, Qothan sought out Kerna and Nilka who agreed to help the former prisoners find a safe refuge away from the fighting. Almost three days later the last of them left the Citadel, and Calabos had begun to make a good recovery. Three days on from the imprisonment and exile of the Great Shadow — as well as Corlek Ondene and the god Tauric — the terrible quaking had waned to just the occasional tremor, and the quality of the light was changing, brightening. Even the air was starting to smell fresher.

Three days on, only the Shattergate in the Citadel remained open so Calabos agreed that it was time to go, wondering if three days here was still only a matter of hours back in the world that was his home. From the platform on the Citadel’s roof he gave the Nightrealm’s vast cityscape one last look and raised a hand in farewell before following the Daemonkind down into the Citadel of Twilight to find the way back.

* * *

When the Daemonkind Besarl and his three companions landed in Belkiol’s town square less than a day after the destruction of the Blight and the Black Host at Besdarok, Tashil Akri had asked after Calabos’ friend, Coireg, but they were not forthcoming.

“What little we know,” Besarl had said, “we have sworn not to reveal, lady. Not even to our brothers and sisters aboard the Stormclaw shall we relate our experiences — our vow is a sacred one.”

Which Tashil had to accept and although the curiosity gnawed at her, she had other matters on her mind, namely the reunion with her family. Seeing her aunts and her father among the captives in the temple, their necks and limbs bound with rope, had been a soul-wrenching moment when all her fears had turned to relief amid bursts of sobbing. In the hours afterwards, when the Black Host returned to Belkiol and terrible fighting ensued on the northern outskirts of the town, she had all but made up her mind to stay with her family should she and they survive.

But just one day after the rout and dissolution’s of the invaders, he father declared that the Akri family would be leaving for northern Khatris without delay. But when he asked Tashil to go too, she had looked about her at the wrecked town and the houses and halls full of refugees and the wounded and knew that she had to remain. The knowledge of Atemor’s death had also come to stand between them and Tashil had found it easier than she thought to say farewell.

Once her family had departed Belkiol, Tashil turned her attention to helping where she could with the healers or with the temporary shelters, or with translation for Jarryc as he strove to forge a working relationship with the Mogaun chiefs and elders.

But two days later, she had word from Dardan and Sounek in Sejeend, asking if she could return quickly to attend a council called by several nobles to determine the succession. Ilgarion and Tangaroth had died without issue, so the stage was set for a potentially ruinous power struggle which the Watchers and High Steward Roldur hoped to stall with their own candidate for the crown, Count Jarryc. Thus it was that on the morning of the third day after the end of the invasion, Tashil was being carried through the icy sky towards Sejeend by Besarl and his Daemonkind brothers.

It was mid-afternoon under a clear blue sky when the winged group finally alighted on the fortified ramparts of Hubranda Lock. Dardan and Sounek were waiting for her, the former trying to look stern while the latter were an unabashed grin.

“At this rate,” Dardan said, “you’ll be rushing off to join the Daemonkind on their ship,” Then a smile broke through the gruff exterior. “Don’t reckon they’d be able to handle you, m’self!”

Tashil laughed. “Ser, I have many important tasks to complete here before I depart for other lands, like guiding you into the embrace of a good tailor!”

“He’ll join the Carvers before he gives up that forest cloak of his,” Sounek said. “Good to see you back, lady — your presence and the substance of your personal account should add weight to Count Jarryc’s stature in these nobles’ eyes.”

She nodded. “Of course, if Calabos were here, we would be on firmer ground.” She smiled at them both, concealing her blackest fears. “So, has anything been heard from him?”

Dardan and Sounek exchanged a look and a sly smile that made hope leap in her.

“There has been word,” Sounek said. “About an hour ago two Daemonkind emerged from the ruins of the palace, from the Shattergate there which is still apparently open — unlike all the others. They said that Qothan and Calabos were following on, but so far the sentries watching the place have reported nothing.”

Tashil thought this over, remembering with perfect clarity Calabos’ vow to return.

“I am sure that he will be here,” she said.

“He’s a tough old fox,” Dardan said. “I know he will.”

“When is this council of nobles due to commence?” Tashil said.

“This evening,” said Sounek.

“Good — then there’s time enough to cross the Valewater and see what remains, yes?”

To which there could only be agreement. And as they left, Tashil noticed Besarl and the other Daemonkind altering their forms, shrinking back to the appearance of tall, stern people.

From the main gates of Hubranda Lock they walked downhill towards the riverbank. Every street bore the scars of conflict, fire-blackened doors and windows, floods of water from burst tanks and pipes, families tugging belongings from the rubble of their homes. However, there were also many soldiers present, helping to clear away piles of wreckage or patrolling watchfully while labourers and artisans worked to shore up walls or repair roofs. There was misery aplenty to see, which made Tashil feel almost helpless with sorrow, but there was also the selfless compassion of ordinary people striving to help each other while refusing to break under the burden of grief.

Yes,
she thought.
I belong here, where there is work to be done.

A few moments later they passed into the dockside district and Tashil got her first proper view of the east bank since the disappearance of the Blight. From the air she had had a glimpse of a dark, featureless swathe of ground stretching from beyond the cliffs and the north curve of the bay all down the bank, south along Gronanvel. But this close it resembled acres upon acres of tilled earth, blank except for a few jutting remnants of heavily-constructed walls. Tashil felt that her sombre mood was shared Dardan and Sounek as they all hurried across the sole restored bridge, feeling the new timbers shift and rattle underfoot.

On the other side, a few huts had been erected and a dozen guards in city livery were keeping an eye on a gang of labourers who were digging into the riverbank in search of wharf foundations. Sounek had a word with the guard officer who nodded and let them pass unhindered.

A muddy path led up a steady incline towards the main level on which this part of the old town had been built, and thence off in the direction of the great notch in the cliffs through which the river Kala had poured. Tashil could only stare about her in silence, remembering street after street of ancient buildings while her eyes gazed upon nothing. Then a shadow passed over the ground before them and the great winged form of a Daemonkind swooped down to land before them. Tashil’s sudden alarm turned to elation when she saw that it was Qothan.

“Friend Qothan,” she said. “It gladdens my heart to see that you are in good health. May we assume that Calabos is also hale and hearty?”

As he folded his wings, Qothan regarded her with a vague amusement. “Honoured Calabos is well, friend Tashil. He suffered greatly during his struggle with the Great Shadow and gave more of himself that he will admit, such that he lacks the strength to greet you with farspeech. Thus I offered to fly ahead to announce his arrival and explain this silence on his part.”

Tashil glanced at Dardan and Sounek and saw her own worries reflected in their expressions.

“What of Corlek Ondene?” she said.

Qothan shook his head. “We know only a few details, those at least that Calabos mentioned — he was there at the heart of the Great Shadow’s dreamcourts and saw what had transpired before Corlek Ondene and the Sleeping God imprisoned themselves with the Enemy and his servant, the Duskgeneral, before sending that prison off into the infinite depths of the Void beneath the Void.” The Daemonkind was sombre. “They gave everything.”

For a moment or two all were silent.

“So Calabos knows what happened,” said Sounek. “I don’t imagine that he’ll feel like giving a detailed account today.”

“I take it that he is descending the Kala gully,” Dardan said to Qothan.

“I offered to fly him down from the cliffs,” Qothan said. “But he would have none of it.”

“That sounds like him,” Dardan said. “We’d best move along smartly, then, before the old fool breaks a leg or something.”

As they hastened up the muddy track, Qothan explained how strange the return had been, how slow compared with the outward journey and how gruelling it had been for both of them. They were climbing to the elevated ground where Hojamar Keep had stood, and listening to Qothan’s descriptions of the Nightrealm, when she heard Dardan curse. Looking up quickly she just saw a half-naked figure disappear into the opening of the Kala dale.

“Who — ” she began to say before Dardan cut her off.

“Bureng!” he said. “That pirate vermin, I recognised him with magesight — come on!”

As they dashed forward, Qothan leaped into the air and hurled himself towards the notch in the cliffs. Anger and fear lent Tashil an almost limitless vigour, and also filled her mind with a river of images. Bureng! — she remembered how the deranged Bureng had led an army of the undead up from the wharves, and recalled that ghastly battle on the night-bound, rain-lashed workshop roof. Everyone had assumed that he had died either in the fighting or when the Blight later overwhelmed the eastern half of Sejeend, but now her mind was creating the worst of speculations.

When the three Watchers reached the narrow, brown waters of the Kala they found themselves to be involuntary spectators of a harrowing, tensely balanced situation. On the opposite bank of the rushing river, the pirate Bureng, wearing only a loincloth, had Calabos on his knees with a long dagger held to his throat. The pirate was grinning nastily at Qothan who stood several yards along the same side, his hooded eyes filled with a level fury, his clenched, taloned hands gleaming with silvery, deadly radiance.

“Ah, Dardan, Sounek and Tash,” Calabos said hoarsely. “Forgive me for not rising to greet you…”

“Cease your prattling, host,” said Bureng. “None of these insects can come between my pretty blade and your neck. But if they bow down to me, I may make them into useful pets, even the winged one…”

Bureng’s words and his manner were intense and focused but Tashil could see that physically he was at the end — his grimy body was covered with scars and one arm seemed to have been broken and reset at a slight angle.

“I will never be your pet,” growled Qothan. “We do not serve the likes of you — we destroy them.”

“Ah, but he is your friend, is he not?” Bureng said, yanking on a handful of the robes Calabos wore. “Are you ready to see his blood redden the river, or will you rejoice when he sinks into the nethermind to be consumed?” Saying this, he bent to crane his face into Calabos’ then snapped back up to regard Qothan once more.

“What can this avail you?” Sounek said smoothly. “Kill him and nothing will stay our retribution, but release him and surrender to us and well see that you are….cared for.”

Bureng laughed at this. “Cared for! — yes, in an iron casket, maybe? You’re pitiful fools, all of you. No, when I come into my greatness I will care for you, better than poor Rikken cared for me in the end, gave me enough strength to endure and to wait — hah, no!”

Qothan took a step forward and stopped when the dagger pressed into Calabos’ neck and drew forth a hairline bead of blood.

“Time for the final stroke, I think,” Bureng said. “Time for a new king of shadow to arise.”

Then, swiftly and calmly, he took the dagger from Calabos’ neck, brought it up and slashed open his own throat.

Dardan uttered an oath and Tashil cried out in surprised horror. As Bureng fell to his knees, blood drenching his body, Calabos moved away a few feet and shook his head when Qothan tried to drag him further back. Bureng was grinning when his eyes showed the whites and he toppled backwards, legs splaying. There was a long, drawn-out moment of dread, then Tashil saw the very thing she feared beginning to rise from the body.

“Calabos, please get away!” she cried. “Qothan — take him, fly with him…”

“No!” he said. “It must end here, here and now, and only I know what has to be done.”

Yes, but have you strength?
she thought, seeing the exhaustion in his face, the darkness around his eyes and the muscle twitching in his cheek.

Yet he drew a deep breath and got to his feet as the spirit-wraith wrenched itself free from Bureng’s body corpse and began drifting towards him. Smoky tendrils writhed around a dark, vaporous core and began to reach out towards his face as it came nearer. When the first of them touched the skin just above the eye, Tashil saw his head jerk very slightly but still he did not duck away. Rather, he waited until several of the vile tendrils were in contact before bringing up his hand and holding it in front of the spirit-wraith. For a space Tashil thought that it would continue along its path to engulf his hand and then his face, but instead it stopped. Calabos’ gaze was unwavering, implacable, and after a moment or two there was a bright, passing flicker at the heart of the spirit-wraith…and its tendrils retracted. Calabos then slowly began to push it backwards, further back until he was standing over the body of the pirate. Then he guided it downwards, down into the pirate’s chest.