Shadowgod (15 page)

“Poor man,” an elderly peasant woman said in a north Kejana accent. “He said some things I did not understand, then he wept and the life it just went out of him.”

The dead man wore the brown livery and red shoulder-badge of the Crown Rangers. There was an ugly torn-out wound in his side and the stump of an arrow protruding from his shoulder.

“I understood him,” said a younger woman in a hooded shawl. “He said – ‘The Queen of death, white she was, so white, so white…’ and that was all.”

“May the Mother guide him,” murmured someone and the prayer went round all the onlookers.

Mazaret straightened, his anger feeling hot and sharp. “Captain Barik, have a serjeant and two men take the body back to the city and inform the Master of Rangers. Then have your best tracker find those killers' trail – ”

“No need to bring out a cub, my lord, when a wolf is at hand.”

Mazaret turned a harsh eye on Atroc the seer.

“You can find this witch and her vermin?”

Atroc closed his eyes, breathed in deep, and repugnance settled in his features. “I can already taste her cursed spoor.” His eyes snapped open and fixed Mazaret with a piercing stare. “Is it your will to do this?”

“It is.”

The old seer nodded and sighed. “Then we should go now. If we are quick and cunning enough, we may yet dodge fate's black hand.”

So the hunt was on. Atroc led the way into the woods along a heavily-trampled, slush-choked trail. A short while later Mazaret's nose caught the taint of smoke and Atroc quickened his mount's pace. Soon the track widened onto a small village bordered on two sides by orchard groves. Bodies lay scattered between the buildings, some with womenfolk keening by them. Mazaret had six knights of the Bell stay behind to lend aid, then told Atroc to resume.

The trail curved north and they were just entering an area of craggy outcrops and marshy gullies when a hunting horn sounded up ahead and several birds burst from cover off to the right. Immediately sensing a trap, Mazaret roared the order to wheel left and charged off the trail. Arrows came whirring through the gaunt, icy trees, most of them deflected by branches, then another flight came arcing down from on high. There were some shouts of pain when a few of the knights were hit, but none seriously. Mazaret began to panic as he realised that the uneven terrain with its rocky ledges and sudden ravines was scattering his men across a wide area of dense, trackless woods.

With Mazaret were Atroc and three knights, two of the Bell, one of the Fathertree. In an attempt to see further they rode up the first clear rise they came to, negotiating boulders and a fallen tree. This higher ground proved to be the first of a group of hillocks near the lower slopes of the Girdle Hills, but the view from it was unrewarding. The mist was rising as the sun dipped and all that was visible were grey, ghostly woods surrounding the hillocks and filling the shadowy dales between them. The air was bitterly cold and a muffling silence reigned.

“Can you not track my men?” Mazaret said to Atroc impatiently. “You were bold enough when it was the enemy we were after.”

“The emanations of an evil spirit are harsher by far than those of ordinary men,” the seer said. “Some of your men are wandering east of here, perhaps half a mile distant. Our enemy, though, is….close.” Then his eyes widened as he peered downslope at the way they had come. “Riders,” he said.

But Mazaret's attention had been snagged by faint but strange noises coming up from the mist-shrouded dale directly west of their hillock. Whispers, the creak of branches, the low rush of a breeze through leaves despite the lack of foliage. Drawn by this sussuration, he strained to make out any words or even number of voices and at first there were only those sighs and purls interweaving at the edge of audibility. Then through it all, low, quiet and clear, came a voice he had never thought to hear again.

“Ikarno...”

Across the dale the mist parted to reveal the near slope of another hillock and a pale figure on horseback, one hand outstretched.

“...my love…”

He was not aware of having urged his horse forward until he felt a hand pulling at his arm and heard an urgent voice cutting through his dulled thoughts.

“Do you hear me, my lord?” Atroc was repeating. “It was only the enemy's trap, a net of imaginings sent to tangle up your mind, nothing more.”

Coming to his senses, Mazaret realised that he was halfway down the other side of the rise, and reined in his mount. As well as Atroc and the three knights, there were two newcomers, both Crown Rangers whose looks of concern were shared by all. He was about to assure Atroc that his mind was his own when the sound of hooves drew all eyes north to the bare top of a low hill wreathed in mist. A line of seven or eight horsemen came up out of the grey veil, over the hill and down the other side. The last rider, garbed in white, halted her skittish mount at the crest for a moment before following the others.

“You see, ser?” Mazaret said to Atroc. “No imaginings but a real enemy.” Before the seer could answer he turned to the rangers. “Good sers, what landmarks are those to the north and west of that bare hill?”

“Nearest is the scree slopes of the southern face of the Quern, my lord,” said one, a freckled, sandy-haired youth. “A perilous hill, that one, full of rock falls and loose ground. Further by half a mile is Greylok Hill and between them is Blueaxe Ridge.

Despite the chill that went through him, Mazaret looked at a grim-faced Atroc who shook his head. “Fate's black hand, my lord.”

“We are close,” Mazaret said, “and I would pursue them. I must confront this evil shade, Atroc. I must look it in the face and see it and know it for what it is. Perhaps then my soul would find a measure of peace.”

The seer's face was unforgiving. “Some faces are best left unseen. Listen to me, my lord – ”

Mazaret silenced him with a raised hand and a glare, then addressed the rangers. “Sers, ride to the woods east of here, gather together the rest of my knights and guide them to the foot of Blueaxe Ridge where I shall be.”

“By your command, my lord,” the rangers said and swiftly departed. Mazaret glanced at his three remaining knights, saw their sombre readiness then looked at Atroc.

“My course is set, seer,” he said. “You may accompany us if you wish.”

“I would rather you followed my counsel, my lord.”

“Mayhap your quick cunning will suffice.”

The elderly seer gave him a hooded look and chuckled softly. “Truly, you know how to lead men, my lord. But into folly?”

Mazaret was resolute. “Be sure to give Prince Yasgur a full account on your return.”

“I shall, my lord,” Atroc said. “After witnessing this skirmish in its entirety.”

Feeling curiously reassured, Mazaret replied with a sharp nod then tugged his horse's nose round to the north. A brief dig with the heels and he was off at the gallop with the others following.

As he rode he could smell the moist iciness of the slow-moving mist, but there was something else in the air, a faint odour like dry earth but dustier, sharper. When they came to the slope where the enemy had been a short while ago, he noticed that the snow lay only in a few diminishing patches and that light wisps of vapour were rising from the ground. At the crest of the hillock there was no snow at all and the winter-bleached clumps of grass were gleaming with dew.

Atroc dismounted and knelt to lay his hand on the earth. “Warm,” was all he would say as he climbed back into the saddle.

Mazaret urged his mount on down the other side of the hillock. To their left reared the stony promontory of the Quern with Blueaxe Ridge coming off its shoulder, a sheer dark wall that stretched for more than quarter of a mile before merging into the more rounded Greylok Hill. At the foot of the ridge was a wide, shallow bowl bounded by the flanks of the hills at either end. The ground looked marshy and Mazaret could see several meltwater rivulets running towards the centre while the steam coming off the ground made the mist heavy and damp.

As they entered the bowl at a slower canter, Mazaret could just see at the other side a solitary figure descending from a notch in the flank of Greylok Hill. A brief survey of their surroundings revealed no sign of enemies lying in wait but mist such as this could conceal a multitude of foes. The figure walked along the foot of the ridge towards the midpoint and stopped to watch the knights’ approach. Mazaret frowned and when they reached what he hazarded was the centre of the muddy depression he called a halt.

“Now sers, I want you to remain here while I ride over to discover what I can from the one who waits,” he said. “If I need your aid I will hold my sword aloft.”

“If you need our aid, my lord,” Atroc said drily, “most likely we'll be in need of it ourselves.”

“You shall be my eyes,” Mazaret went on. “If any enemy attackers appear, give a loud, repeated whistle.”

The seer's face was full of flinty-eyed disapproval but Mazaret ignored it and turned to ride on alone. He knew he could only do this on his own. By now he could see that the lone figure was wrapped in white robes and had a womanly appearance, but was it truly Suviel or some corrupt fragment of her spirit? If it were the latter, would he be able to bear such knowledge?

Then he remembered something she was fond of saying – “They cannot corrupt everything because they cannot reach everything.” The memorey warmed him until, a few moments later, the cold, luring voice from before slipped again into his thoughts.

“I knew you would come.”

Longing and fear shuddered through him but still he rode on.

“Soon you will be by my side, never to leave…”

He halted his horse some yards away, calmly dismounted and hung the reins on his saddle before facing the woman who in every detail resembled Suviel Hantika. Steeling himself, he walked up to her and stopped two paces from her, close enough for scrutiny, far enough away for safety.

“How is Gilly?”
she said.
“And Bardow – how does he cope with that old seer Yasgur keeps around?”

He studied the line of the nose and mouth, the movement of the lips, the shape of the ears, the form of cheekbone and chin, and found no fault, nothing out of place.

“And how is Tauric? The emperor's crown must be a great burden for such a young man. Does he speak of me?”

The hair was long and fine and utterly white, but it was the eyes that told all. Icy-grey they were, cruel, staring and soulless. He turned and moved towards his horse.

“Wait! Beloved, remember our last night together? It can be so again– ”

He came round angrily. “You are not her!” he said. “She would never deliver up her closest friends to our deadliest foes. There is
nothing
of her in you!” He could not keep the force of his loathing hidden and the rivenshade recoiled slightly. “I don't know what you are, something caught in a mirror perhaps, made to strut and mouth your masters' foulness. You are naught but a hollow – ”

The rivenshade snarled in hate.
“I meant what I said about you never leaving!”

The damp grassy earth under his feet trembled. A black dread came over him and he turned to run but before he could reach his startled horse the ground juddered violently, making him stumble and fall. His horse panicked and leaped away at a mad gallop. As he tried to regain his feet he could see Atroc and the other knights struggling to control their mounts as they likewise tore away.

A rumbling, grinding sound came from the ground under Mazaret as the chill voice of the Suviel-rivenshade whispered on and on. Endearments and coaxings mingled senselessly with malefic curses while the bones of the hills gave forth a ghastly groaning fit to unbalance the mind.

“We have come with knives to cut away the old land and all of its useless past. The world will have a new face…”

Another giant spasm shook the ground and Mazaret turned to see the pale rivenshade floating no more than a foot in the air, facing the ridge with her sinuous hands outflung. His hate cut through his fear and he grasped the hilt of his sword, determined to cut her down. But before he could rise fully from his knees, sharp snapping sounds came from all around and in horror he saw large cracks spreading up and across the looming face of Blueaxe Ridge. He cried out as massive, moss-covered pieces of rocks tilted away and fell, turning over and over. Massive shards split off, wide sections slipped and shattered, and clouds of pulverised grit and dust poured down. The catastrophic cascade was happening along the entire length of the ridge, and even the hills at either end seemed to be breaking apart.

A huge spear of stone slammed into the ground only feet from Mazaret. He was about to try and scramble away on hands and knees when he saw an immense piece the size of a house tumbling through the air towards him. With the first words of a prayer to the Earthmother on his lips, he could only watch the hurtling approach of his inescapable doom….

And stare as the great fragment, whose every ragged, broken detail he could see, suddenly slewed aside and rushed past him to bound across the rubble-littered ground.

“No death for you, beloved,”
came that voice.
“No darkened depths, no flowing tribulations in the Earthmother's realm. A new dream awaits.”

She smiled down at him from where she hung in the air, arms lifted wide, the windings and folds of her pale robes floating gently on otherworldly zephyrs. Sprawled and half-sitting amid the roaring chaos, Mazaret saw a succession of jagged chunks of stone diverted away from himself and the Suviel-rivenshade, heart hammering in his chest at each one. Yet despite this precarious safety, he noticed that something was emerging from the ruptured face of Blueaxe Ridge, something sheer bearing vertical grooves and striations….

With a shock he realised that it was a wall surmounted by battlements whose tapered merlons curved outwards like claws. The dark barrier was becoming gradually visible all along the ridge and when Mazaret looked to the southern end he could see massive pieces of the Quern calving away as the unmistakeable shape of a fortified tower slowly thrust up from the hill's interior. To the north a second tower was turning Greylok Hill into rubble.