Shadowgod (26 page)

He began to speak, hearkening back to the foundation of Scallow more than a thousand years before when the tyrant King Dahorg was toppled by a coalition of ship clans. Yared went on to speak of the sixteen-year-long oppression at the hands of the Mogaun and the sorcerous Acolytes of Twilight, and how a dauntless alliance of knights and forest fighters blessed by the Earthmother had routed the enemy horde.

“Yet the dread Shadowkings have not been defeated,” he said. “Even as I speak, their forces gather around the city of Besh-Darok, their sorcery darker and more deadly, their warriors as numerous as grains of sand upon the beach. We should be at the side of the defenders, ready to fight, but instead our ships sit at anchor, waiting for the ship-clans of the Isles to come against us. We should cease this wasteful and pointless conflict….”

Keren did not see any signal given, but suddenly the Hevrin's captains began rising one by one from their seats and walking calmly out of the chamber. Angry voices were raised at such a stark affront and Yared Hevrin faltered in his delivery.

“Medwin,” she said. “Why are they doing this?”

“I'm not sure,” he said, grim-faced. “These staged interruptions are usually planned in advance, but why would the Hevrin agree to come here only to walk out?”

Eventually Yared fell silent, his face full of anger and confusion, and as the last dissenter strode from the Keelcourt, the Hevrin himself got to his feet. Leisurely, he crossed the dais and halted about an arm's length from Yared Hevrin. For a moment, the cousins glared at each other.

“Why have you sent your men away?” Yared said. “Call them back that we can continue this - ”

“You kept your name.”

The statement stopped Yared in mid-sentence.

“My...name?”

“The family name which came down from our fathers' father, Agandrik, who was the Hevrin of Hevrin Sept in his day. When you broke with the Sept years ago and went to live in another land, little was thought of it. But after the Mogaun were eradicated from these shores you began writing to many chiefs and notable, advocating the elevation of the so-called land- and trader-clans to seats in this hallowed chamber. And every letter you signed with my grandfather's family name, sullying it.”

Yared's gaze was cold. “Now I see - you want me to give up the name of my line. That is a custom long out of use, and I will not bow to it.”

The chieftain glanced around the chamber, at all the faces watching, and Keren saw him smile and turn back.

“I am the Hevrin of Hevrin Sept and I command you to either recant all the poison you have uttered and rejoin the Sept under burden of penance, or give up the name Hevrin forever.”

Unyielding, Yared folded his arms. “ I shall do neither.”

At this, the Hevrin turned to face the five Cordmasters in their ornate chairs overlooking the speakers dais.

“As High Chieftain of Hevrin Sept, I demand restitution for wounds inflicted by this man, who refuses to renounce my sept name. Do any here deny me this right?”

As the Cordmasters leaned closer to consider, a hubbub of disbelief and anger filled the Keelcourt and Keren could see that Yared looked worried.

“What does that mean?” she asked Medwin.

The mage shrugged. “Money or belongings, or some form of servitude, perhaps…”

The Cordmasters seemed to reach a decision and the whole Keelcourt fell silent as their spokesman looked down at the Hevrin Chieftain and nodded once.

“State the manner of your restitution.”

What happened next took place so quickly that Keren almost missed it. Off to the side, Yared Hevrin had turned to beckon to someone on the front benches and never saw the Chieftain's savage lunge. A powerful left arm snaked round Yared, across his chest to grasp his right shoulder while the other hand took hold of his head. There was a wrenching twist, the body turning one way and the head the other….then there was only a lifeless, broken-necked body slumping onto the dais with roars of fury filling the chamber like a storm. The Hevrin just stood there, smiling down at his cousin's corpse while outraged members leaped up from their seats -

At that very moment, the doors of the Keelcourt were thrown open and the Hevrin's men marched in, every one bearing a blade. The din of shouting faded abruptly, apart from a couple of voices which continued to rant and rave from high up in the tiers. Someone further down was weeping amid the sickening silence as the Hevrin stepped down lightly from the dais and, without a backward glance, strode out of the chamber flanked by his captains.

Keren found that she was on her feet and holding on to Medwin's arm with both hands. A few people were gathering around Yared Hevrin's body but everyone else seemed to be shocked and aimless, unable or unwilling to dispers. Keren was about to suggest that they descend when a man came running and stumbling into the chamber.

“The ships….in the harbour….” he gasped, chest heaving, “All the ships are sinking!…”

Seeds of fire and iron and pain,
Sprout within the captive throng,
Whilst deep down in the lifeless dark,
Gapes the very throat of war.

—Ralgar Morth,
The Empire Of Night
, canto xvi

Byrnak strolled slowly around the cavernous audience chamber of Keshada Citadel, admiring the dark intricacy of its adornments. While doing so, he listened to Azurech deliver a report from the foot the stepped throne dais where he waited in the company of the commanders of Gorla and Keshada, amongst others.

“...and when our rivenshades spoke to Yasgur and his seer, the fear in their eyes was their spirit fear. Already they are half-defeated.”

Byrnak trailed his fingers over the interlocking serpent tracery of a black iron screen which spanned the distance between two pearl-opaque pillars. The pillars were roughly five yards apart and the screen was half the chamber's height, about fifty yards. There were a score of such screen spaced around the chamber, each with its own motif, and with lamps on the pillars casting pattern shadows in towards the throne.

“And then?” he said.

“We left the warblood sacrifice behind and rode away to watch from a distance. They were unsuspecting almost to the end when an officer beheaded the sacrifice. Another moment and Yasgur and his pet would have been smoking meat.”

“A minor disappointment,” Byrnak said, gazing up at the immense relief carving in green stone of a snarling nighthunter which dominated the entire wall above the throne, and the grey-and-black floortiles that mirrored its outline exactly. Byrnak's tour had at last brought him back to the throne dais where his own honour guard of mailed axemen waited, along with his standard bearer. He climbed only two of the dais' ten steps and considered the upturned expectant faces for a moment, then beckoned to the commanders of Gorla and Keshada. One was tall and cloak-clad, the other burly and garbed in a mismatch of leather and battered armour – both came forward and in silence went down on one knee before him.

“Is it true that you are both of the First-Woken?” Byrnak said.

“Aye, my Lord.”

“Then you will know the name Crevalcor.”

“One of our brothers, Great Lord, and a potent warrior,” said the tall commander of Gorla. “He helped build mighty Jagreag and stood against the Foreswearers till the uttermost end.”

“And how does Keshada, or Gorla for that matter, compare to Jagreag? In essence, are we ready for the assault on Besh-Darok?”

The commanders exchanged a look and the burly master of Keshada gazed up with a devoted smile. “Oh Great Lord, these citadels of ours would have been no more than meagre turrets next to the grandeur of Jagreag. Yet for this struggle they will more than suffice – Besh-Darok's walls are stout and well-made and will hold us back for less than a day. Our warriors will be a raging sea tearing them down.”

The hard, confident purpose of his words sent a thrill of satisfaction through Byrnak. He turned to Azurech.

“So you have given them until dawn tomorrow to decide,” he said.

“Just so, my master”

“Tomorrow at sunset would have been better,” Byrnak said. “As it is, you will let the deadline approach and pass without incident until the onset of dusk, then give the warblood sign.”

Azurech's face – which was Byrnak's face – was alive with eagerness. “Is that when we unleash our armies, master?”

“No,” he said, smiling as the eagerness changed to disappointment. “No, for there are still unexplored dangers to be delved, too many uncertainties to be made clear.” He turned to stare across the massive chamber, seeing beyond the masonry and the thickness of the walls, southwards to the mile-distant battlements of Besh-Darok. Even this far away, he could sense the Crystal Eye, could feel the
force
of its watchfulness, like the heat of a fire or a dancing light, yet not. Information from inside the city was scant, with nothing coming from Kodel's man in nearly three days, yet Byrnak's deepest instincts told him that there was something…
waiting
there for him and the other Shadowkings, some kind of deadly fate.

He knew that Bardow and those other crippled mages possessed the Motherseed too, but that would provide little cause for this undersensed danger. Legends, and even reports from the revenant First-Woken, mentioned a third artefact of great power. Some called it the Staff of the Void, while others said it was the Song of the Void. Other sources pointed to the ancient verses on the Fires of Old, claiming that 'the fire that sleeps' was the third artefact.
But if those enfeebled mages were in possession of this lost talisman, surely they would be using it against us even now
, he thought.
Assuming that they would know how to use it
.

He glanced at the patiently waiting group. “We have to know what hazards may lurk beyond those walls. Once the warblood sign is given and havoc begins to grow, our new friends will have a part to play.”

Smiling, he beckoned to the pale-skinned rivenshades who stood a little apart from the rest. The woman came forward first and Byrnak descended the steps, hand outstretched which she took gracefully. Firmly he raised her hand to his lips and gave the cold flesh a lingering kiss. She seemed, he thought, only faintly appreciative while her companion, the Mazaret rivenshade, looked on with detached amusement. Byrnak could sense the emptiness in both of them, the vacancy beneath the outer shell. The rivenshade ritual was an ancient method of creating assassins, usually from the essence of the unsuspecting victim, and while this situation was a little different, they were still the perfect vessels for his purpose.

“While confusion reigns in Besh-Darok, both of you, and all your brothers and sisters, shall ride forth from Gorla and Keshada at the head of raiding parties. There yet remain occupied villages near the city so from there you will spread the tide of terror. Also, harry those fleeing south so that word of our dominion may travel to other regions.”

A sly look came over the Suviel rivenshade's features. “What mercy do we extend, lord? What quarter?”

“None for any taking arms against you,” he said. “Make sure some refugees escape with their lives and the memory of your faces.”

The rivenshades exchanged a satisfied look.

“As you have said,” the Mazaret said. “So it shall be.”

Byrnak then turned to the rest. “Be assured that we shall put forth all of our strength and sweep our enemies into the pale memory of oblivion, but that time is not yet.”

Audience at an end, Byrnak descended the dais steps and nodded to the captain of his honour guard. They followed in his wake as he crossed the shadow-embellished floor to tall, arched doors of red granite which opened inwards at his approach. Beyond was a high corridor along which he walked, past narrow open windows that stretched from floor to ceiling. He paused at one and gazed out at the snow-covered fields and meadows and estates, an abandoned territory of whiteness turning pale and blue beneath the encroaching dusk.

As time passes
, he thought,
the landscape of this struggle becomes harder to understand, not easier. The nearer we come to the core of it, the less certain its outlines…

Then he laughed to himself. Even the deathly inner presence of the Lord of Twilight had fallen silent, as if in satisfaction at the pace of events.

Are you hoping to draw some cold strategem together?
he thought inwardly.
Some play of dream and deception? If so, it will avail you naught for I have seen through every illusion in your arsenal, every bluff and pretence and threat. We shall subdue you, my brothers and I...

There was no response, no sense of any presence deep within the veiled parts of his mind, only a hollowness...and an involuntary suggestion suddenly coalesced that he and the other Shadowkings were little more than elaborate rivenshades being driven like everyone else towards the forge of fate by a force unseen….

He recoiled from the dread notion, turned sharply and strode along the corridor, his demeanour full of smouldering anger. A door full of glinting haze took him down ten floors to a wide walkway overlooking one of Keshada's great storage vaults. Groups of officers and artisans, surprised by his appearance, bowed or saluted but he ignore them as he watched the noisy, vigorous activity below. Several teams of horses flanked a wide square opening in the dusty wooden floor, straining on pulley-wound clusters of hawsers, hauling up from some ways down a cross-joisted rack piled with crates and bundles of supplies. There were another three loading bays across the huge floor, each surrounded by horses and labourers all made small by the vault's massive scale.

Wordlessly, Byrnak continued along the balcony, still followed by guards and standard bearers, and passed through another glittering archway. Beyond it he emerged in a long curved gallery, the inner wall being of sheer, polished ash-grey marble and marred only by a line of niches, each containing a metallic head murmuring verse in an ancient language. The outer wall was of rough brown stone broken by large triangular openings through which he could look across the dry, rocky desolation of the Realm of Dusk.