Shadowgod (12 page)

Flanked by the two youths, Tauric followed the warden stairs down to the second floor where a covered gantry led from the side of the High Spire over to a stone walkway half way down the sheer inner face of the Silver Aggor. The walkway afforded a wide view of the Courts of the Morning and as they strode along Tauric could just make out the last labourers leaving an almost-complete stone dais down near the base of the Spire. Upon it would sit a statue of Gunderlek, the tragic rebel leader. Tauric had argued passionately that the man should be honoured, and had been surprised when both Lord Regents and the Archmage agreed. It was also suggested that smaller statues of him be commissioned for public squares, the Hall of the City Fathers, and Five Kings Dock.

Watch-brands flared in recesses to either side of a large door in the wall of the Keep of Night. Guards saluted and stood aside as Tauric and the two Companions passed through. A short passage led into the third floor, most of which had been given over to Tauric and his retinue as temporary accommodation while the upper levels of the Spire were being rebuilt. Inside, they hurried along corridors to a square room where half a dozen Companions sat or lounged on settles. All stood when Tauric entered but he gestured them to take their ease as he and the others crossed to a curtained arch. Beyond was a small anteroom and two Companions guarding a plain wooden door. The guards stood to attention as Aygil opened the door and led the way in.

It was a small room, dim inside with the only light coming from a pair of tiny bronze oil lamps burning on an altar in the corner. A hunched figure knelt on a mat before it, muttering in a low monotone, so Tauric and the other waited respectfully. At last, the man stopped, uttered a long sigh then said;

“Divine Skyhorse, behold these three who don the burden of valour in your name. Bless their tasks, O Stallion of the Storm, that soon all the people shall raise up their voices in praise of you. By plain and sky…”

“By plain and sky,” Tauric and his Companions repeated, each with a hand lifted to grasp the horse amulet that he wore about his neck.

There was a protracted moment, then the man, still on his knees, said, “You honour this poor priest with your visit, majesty. Does new knowledge trouble you?”

Tauric shivered at this demonstration of prevision but accepted it. “Greetings to you, priestly one. I have indeed learned many unsettling things today…” and he proceeded to give a brief retelling of all he had overheard in the library.

“Evil is a sprouting poison that can take root in any soil,” said the shadowy priest.

“And we seem almost powerless to stop it,” Tauric said.

“Hmm….don’t you mean ‘I’ rather than ‘we’, majesty?”

Tauric’s shoulders slumped. “Yes,” he said. “All around, people I know are risking their lives and their very spirits in this veiled battle, while I sit with empty hands, powerless.” He clenched his fists. “Surely now is the time to awaken the Skyhorse to a land desperate for his protection, if only we knew where to find a shrine or a place of power - ”

The priest sighed again. “After the battle, in the days and weeks during which I crawled along the shore with my shattered leg, many things passed through my mind, faces, images and patterns that scoured me out, purifying my essence before I was permitted my first vision of the divine Skyhorse, Great Mane of the World….and in my time here in this sanctuary, some of those wild seeings rear up from memory now and again, as did one in the midst of your account, majesty. Pray tell, what was the name of the town where the lord Mazaret met his allies?”

“Why...it was Nimas…”

There was a sharp intake of breath and the priest struggled to his feet with the aid of a staff. “Nimas...where once, in ages past, there was a great temple dedicated to the divine Skyhorse…”

Then he turned to face them. Bald and ageing, his long-jawed features showing the strain of his crippled leg, the Armourer regarded Tauric with bright, fervent eyes.

“Nimas, majesty,” he said. “There you will find the power you need.”

Tauric felt on fire with exultation. “When shall we leave? How soon?”

“Soon, but not too soon, majesty. We must wait for a sign and we must be ready, and therefore we must prepare.” He smiled, revealing broken teeth. “Yes, in this preparation is everything.”

Fear my hand,
Which will crack thy walls,
And make a thousand armies,
Out of sand.

—Calabos,
The City Of Dreams
, Act 2, ii.8.

In pale green light, deep below the deepest dungeons of the citadel of Rauthaz, Byrnak stood by the wall of a vast, silent cavern, gazing across a restless lake of bodies. The Wellgate had made this possible, hollowing out a great emptiness that was twin to the one beneath Casall, a huge workshop fit for the fashioning of the Host of Twilight. The cold, damp air held a rank odour of iron, or perhaps rust. The enfolding green glow emanated from the opaque, smooth walls and ceiling, adding to the silvergrey radiance that filtered up between the still bodies. The lake seemed to ripple and lap, yet it was made not of water but of souls, a shimmering, silently writhing expanse of souls. Crouching down by the brink, Byrnak could see tenuous, distended forms crammed together, sliding and struggling for possession of the flesh that floated upon them…

Leap in, worm...join with the mindless
…

Byrnak rose and stepped back from the edge.

Consider it a moment - were you to relinquish this form, you could very quickly seize another, once its owner was dealt with...you would be free of me
…

Byrnak laughed with unconcealed contempt.
I can think of at least half a dozen possible outcomes to such a scheme,
he thought
. None of them favourable to me
.

An image flashed into his mind, a giant in a horned helm turning slowly to grin at him, with black glints for eyes -
There will be no peace for you, no rest
- and one huge hand reaching towards him -

He blinked, saw the cavern once more, and gritted his teeth in a stifled snarl.

“Keeping our guest amused, brother?” said an approaching voice.

Grazaan was striding along the lakeside path, followed by three shaven-headed Acolytes. He wore his habitual battered leather harness and troos, and over that a great, dark red cloak adorned with spiders and scorpions, its folds lifting slightly as he walked. He also appeared to be weaponless, while behind him the Acolytes carried coils of rope.

“Greetings, brother,” Byrnak said. “He certainly seems to need no sleep. Unfortunately, I do.”

Nodding, Grazaan came to a halt a few feet away. “Night before last I made the mistake of falling into a drowse unprepared. Woke to find my left hand around one of my servant’s throat, having choked him to death. Which is why I’ve thought to devise a precaution.” With a tilt of the head he indicated the accompanying Acolytes.

“At least our minds remain inviolate,” Byrnak said.

Grazaan frowned. “How did our brother Thraelor seem when you and he last conversed?”

“Tired - of course - and somewhat distracted. That was in mindspeech this morning.”

“I spoke with him yesterday, using the Wellmirror,” Grazaan said. “I could scarcely get any sense out of him, and the last thing he said was, ‘Is he the mask or am I?’”

A dark ripple of unease passed through Byrnak, and he thought he heard a harsh inner laughter, faintly as if coming from afar.

“We shall have to keep him under watch,” Grazaan said. “In the meantime, I assume that you are here to observe our progress and pester us to do more in less time.”

“Several intrigues will soon come to fruition, brother,” said Byrnak. “Some time in the next day or two we may need to move a force of at least ten thousand down the Great Aisle, all armed and provisioned.”

“So the Aisle is complete.”

“The Wellgate finished the bore a short while ago,” Byrnak said, enjoying the satisfaction. “Should we wish, we could ride from here to Besh-Darok in less than a day.”

“With this strategic superiority,” Grazaan said, “why do you continue to indulge in these minor ploys and schemes?”

“We face the imponderable, brother,” Byrnak said. “What is the Earthmother’s purpose and will she act when we begin our campaign? When that moment arrives, all resistance must collapse like an eggshell. Then, with the Crystal Eye and the Motherseed in our hands - ”

“We may at last be able to deal with our lord and master,” Grazaan said with a wintry smile.

Byrnak nodded. The fragments of the Lord of Twilight that each of them carried were hungry for union, whatever the cost to their hosts. One of their number, Ystregul the Black Priest, had already succumbed to insanity instigated by his own shard of the Lord of Twilight, and was held ensorcelled and enchained in Trevada.

“Just so,” Byrnak said. “And time is not on our side.”

Across the cavern, a group of Acolytes were helping several naked people out of the lake of souls. At that moment, a shriek cut through the liquid silence, a sound full of madness and despair. Some way along, Byrnak could see the figure of a man crouching amid the prone bodies, one hand clasping his head while crying out wordlessly and trying to wake those around him.

“Occasionally, a quelled host awakes while one of the harvested souls is trying to take possession,” Grazaan said. “The shock is usually enough to repel the incursion and destroy any lingering sanity.”

As a pair of Acolytes, walking on green footholds in the air, seized the weeping, babbling host, Byrnak looked thoughtfully at the other Shadowking. “How often does this happen, and what do you do with them?”

“We get four, perhaps five of them a day,” Grazaan said. “We put them out in the garth-yards behind the curtain walls. Helps feed the eaterbeasts, brother.”

Together, they laughed.

“And just how many warriors
can
you provide me with?” Byrnak said.

“Assuming that the supply of hosts does not falter, both caverns could produce between two and three thousand a day,” Grazaan said.

“Excellent,” Byrnak said. “Now I must take my leave of you - there is much I have to discuss with our brother Kodel.”

“Have a care with that one,” Grazaan muttered. “There are nothing but self-serving plans behind those eyes.”

Byrnak grinned savagely. “I’d be almost disappointed if there weren’t. Till later.”

“Till then.”

There were passages leading up to the lowest underlevels of Rauthaz Citadel, but for Byrnak it was the minimum of effort to summon a side portal of the Wellgate. A slender dark opening widened before him in the air, and with an image of his destination in mind he stepped through.

The Hall of Forging had once been a vast temple dedicated to the Fathertree and the Rootpower. Now, soot and grime blackened the patterned windows, the fluted columns and carven stonework, and sixteen huge forges occupied the entire ground floor, eight on each side. Massive flues jutted from the rears of the great furnaces and passed through the temple walls, carrying most of the spark-laden fumes outside. But a permanent smoky veil still hung in the air while gangs of sweating smiths and stokers worked with manic fervour down in the fiery golden light.

“Ah, brother Byrnak. How very timely - I was about to send forth for you…”
Byrnak’s use of the Wellgate had brought him to a long, low chamber, one end of which was an open balcony that looked out over the Hall of Forging. The other end was divided into large rooms devoted to templating, assaying and proving, with a wide corridor passing by them on its way to Kodel private chambers. Kodel himself stood by one of several cluttered drafting tables. His hair was shorter now, though still top-knotted, giving him a feral look, and the coat he wore was a long affair of rough brown leather marred by many scorch marks.

“So,” Byrnak said. “Why did you wish to see me? To tell me that the production of armour and weaponry proceeds apace?”

Kodel gave a sly smile. “That was to be a salient issue, but then something else caught my attention. Come with me, brother, if you will.”

Irritated, Byrnak nevertheless followed him along the broad corridor to a junction where Kodel opened the left hand door and stepped through. A short dim passage led out onto the flat stone roof of an adjoining temple building. It had been swept of the early morning fall of snow but a thin white layer had come down since and an icy breeze was cutting in from the east. A few spidery metal frames stood on either side of the roof, each with an intricate, wire-bound array of lenses aimed at the late morning sky, and all bearing fringes of icicles. But it was the hexagonal wooden canopy near the centre that Kodel was heading towards. Beneath it a figure lay unmoving on a trestle table, and as they drew near Byrnak could see crude bandages around terrible injuries before being able to make out the man’s features.

“Azurech,” he murmured.

At the sound of his name, the former warlord’s head tipped over onto one side to look, and a dull fear settled over his features.

“Master, forgive me - I’ve failed you…”

Under the six-sided canopy it was warmer, quieter. Some glamour put in place by Kodel kept out coldness and the unceasing din of the forges. Byrnak made no reply but instead looked to Kodel for an explanation.

Kodel shrugged. “He was rescued from a battlefield in Khatris two days ago by a pair of nighthunters who carried him to our stronghold in the Gorodar Mountains west of here. They then refused to take him any further, so the commander bound his wounds and sent him on in a wagon. When he arrived a short while ago I had one of our nighthunters bring him up here.”

“Failed….failed you, master…” Azurech mumbled.

“How did this happen, Azurech?” Byrnak said. “Who were you fighting?”

“Mazaret, that...grey-haired old dullard…”

“Again, eh?”

“Send me back, master, I beg you! Make me strong and fast and I’ll bring back his head…”

Byrnak leaned closer. “I shall send you forth once more, Azurech, but my plans for Ikarno Mazaret do not involve his death at your hands.”

“Ah, the white woman.”