Shadowgod (53 page)

“The Staff of the Void,” Keren said. “Is that why you’re here? Is that why you had me brought here?”

“Under this very fortress, Keren,” Domas said, “a vast tunnel slopes down more than a mile into the bones of the world. At the bottom is a chamber containing the Staff of the Void, but the tunnel is full of traps, barriers and guardians…” There was a rapt tone in his voice. “I’ve been down to the tunnel entrance, I’ve witnessed it – ”

Keren glared at Orgraaleshenoth. “And you want me to go down there with you, don’t you? Go through that torment again… no, never, may the night curse you! And curse you, Domas, for dragging me here…”

But Rakrotherangisal was shaking his head. “Any one of the tunnel’s defences could destroy you in the blink of an eye. We may be able to withstand and defeat them, but in all likelihood we shall meet our doom at the foot of that great shaft. Therefore, we need someone who will carry the Staff back up to the surface, someone who can be trusted to see that it is not misused.”

“This is why we had you brought here,” Orgraaleshenoth said, his dark eyes looking sombre. “You have unique qualities that would be of great value to this task, but the choice is yours – if you decide not to go with us, we shall invite volunteers from among Domas’ defenders then winnow them…”

Domas spoke up. “If your doubts prevent you, Keren, I would be the one to go in your place, then you could command the defence of Untollan for me – you’d be a strong hand.”

The choice is yours
… In her mind’s eye she remembered her sword lying broken and smoking on a tunnel floor, remembered the blinding crash and the razor fire that tore and roared through her body time after time. With the memory came a faint trembling which she could feel in her hands.

“Lady, I understand what you endured in the Ordeal,” said the younger Daemonkind. “But if you accompany us below you will not be subject to any such suffering, I swear.”

“What vow will
you
make?” Keren said to Orgraaleshenoth.

He faced her, but she saw no arrogance or angry resentment in his features, only a kind of proud sadness.

“By wing and talon, by ward and blood, I swear that I shall do to you, Keren Asherol, no malice by will or action.”

Still, she was unsure. “Tell me more about this great tunnel,” she said. “I’ve heard about Untollan before, heard that it was an ancient stronghold from before the Long Winter, that it later became a Nightbear monastery, then the seat of the Brigand Kings, then…” She shrugged. “I never heard tell of any tunnel.”

“Because it has been covered and sealed in the heart of these mountains for untold centuries,” said Rakrotherangisal. “The Untollan, which to your eyes seems to be an impressive, near-invulnerable fortress high up on a mountain side. Yet there are other ancient, ruined fortifications all around the Druandags, mostly among the outer mountains.”

“He speaks truly,” Domas said eagerly. “I’ve
seen
them – they all have the same architecture, and where carved decorations remain they too are of identical design.”

“So what does that mean?” she said. “That they were all built by the same people…”
As if to guard the inner valleys of the Druandags,
she thought,
But there’s naught but a wasteland in there, stagnant pools and rocky soil where nothing healthy grows…

Domas opened his mouth to speak but the younger Daemonkind was first. “Simply put, they were all part of the same structure, the same citadel, built by the same power.”

“In ancient Othazi,” said Orgraaleshenoth, “it was known as Kol Galeltuntollan but its original name was a Yulatsi word meaning ‘sky might’ and that is the name which has survived in the myths and legends of the First Times…”

Domas smiled sardonically. “Welcome to Jagreag.”

* * *

Ystregul sat in a padded saddle strapped to the back of a nighthunter, hands tight on the goads as he guided the creature down through darkness, wind and snow. But as the wide, round roof of the citadel Gorla emerged through the snow, there seemed to be nowhere for a nighthunter to land. He snarled… then spotted a curved platform jutting from one of the upper floors and a high, open archway spilling golden light into the night. A few moments later, his nighthunter was arresting its descent with powerful, rushing wingbeats that swept fallen snow up off the platform in great swirls and clouds. Growling irritably at the cold and the snow, the beast came down on its rearmost legs first before lurching forward onto all fours. As handlers in long, hooded cloaks hurried up to take charge of the hulking creature, Ystregul slipped from its saddle and landed lightly on his feet. His dark hair and the blackness of his rich garments were dry and unmarked by snow, and his eyes held a pent-up fury as he strode into the warmth and pungent smells of the nighthunter stabling.

A clutch of green-robed Acolytes came forward and knelt, their shiny shaven pates reflecting the torchlight. They stood and parted as another garbed as a common warrior walked up to him and, grinning, bowed. He looked like the Shadowking Byrnak, but was too tall…

"Greetings to you, great lord Ystregul," said the man. "I am Azurech. Welcome to fierce Gorla. Its garrison will shout your name in celebration -"

"Where is he?" Ystregul said, his teeth bared in anger. "You have his face but you're not him - where is he?"

The man called Azurech bowed his head. "Lord, he knows of your approach and awaits you in the great banqueting hall. Come - I will take you to him."

At the rear of the stables, heavy wooden door led into a long, blue-lit room full of jewelled saddles and goads and at its far end was a dark, glittering doorway. Azurech stepped through first and vanished, and Ystragul quickly followed.

They emerged on a curved walkway at one end of a long oval room with a shadowy, curved ceiling supported by huge beams. Torches and lamps shed plentiful light on the dark woodwork of the place and on the shields and banners adoring the walls. Two long tables filled most of the floor space, while at the other end was a heavy dais set up on wide pillars. A solitary figure in brown rider's garments sat hunched at a table with his back to the room and facing the half open drapes of a balcony arch.

"Leave us, Azurech," the figure said in a hoarse voice.

The tall warrior bowed and vanished through the door.

Ystregul frowned, as if not expecting this lack of response, then descended to the floor of the banqueting hall and strode around the side, walking towards a flight of steps which led up to the dais.

"I am here for retribution, Byrnak," he said, every word seething with hate. "You will pay for the imprisonment you placed me in - every second of my captivity shall become a year of suffering for you…"

"What would
you
know of captivity?" came the other's voice, clearer now, higher.

Ystregul stopped in his tracks. "That is not Byrnak's voice," he said. "Stand up! Face me…"

The figure pushed back the chair, stood and turned.

It was a young woman, slender, fair-haired and plain.

"A wench," Ystregul said with contempt. "Where is he? I know he's near. I can almost smell him - "

"You need look no further," said the woman who grinned with a mouth suddenly gone red and eyes blazing black. She sprang into the air and swept down on him. Ystregul spat an oath and seemed about to unleash his power when he froze. The woman slowed her dive to hover just before and above him, and reached out her hands to cup his face. His head went limp and lolled back, and his eyes gazed up into hers.

"I feel him within you," she said, still hanging in the air. "That part of myself trapped in your flesh and bone for all these mortal years. Ah, you feel him too, don't you? His anger, his hunger, his longing for escape and union, and you can feel him eating your thoughts, can you not?"

Ystregul uttered a wordless, choking sound and one of his hands shot up to grab the woman by the throat. She just smiled.

"Such strength, such relentless purpose," she said. "And none of it yours. Very well - then let us embrace, you and I - "

Without any sign of exertion, she lifted him struggling weakly into the air then rose higher with her own form pressed against him. A dark green nimbus began to enfold them, a shifting veil shot through with black glitterings. Strange gusts of wind battered around the banqueting hall, blowing out torches, causing banners to flutter and drapes to billow and flap. Chairs fell over, unlit table candles toppled over and rolled, and a sole goblet tipped sideways, spilling an ochre wine across the table.

At the centre of the sorcerous maelstrom, what had been two forms now appeared to be one but blurred by the green aura with its glittering black motes which swirled like snowflakes. Moments later, the commotion began to die away as the lone figure, cloaked in green radiance, drifted down to the floor. Another moment and the green had shivered into first the semblance of then the solid appearance of garments, a long cloak of black bear fur over gleaming red mail and black leather harness.

Azurech appeared at the glittering doorway, came over and knelt down before him.

"Rise."

He did so and looked up, for tall as he was, the other overtopped him by head and shoulders. Awe and devotion shone in Azurech's face and for an instant he seemed unable to speak.

"Great Lord," he said at last. "Are you a god?"

The face that smiled down at him had Ystregul's heavy features and savage smile, but it was tempered by a calmness in the eyes and an air of deliberation.

"No, Azurech, I am not a god. Not yet."

Bells toll with rusty throats,
And the whispers of the world,
Stir the tattered night,
While blind heroes stalk their prey.

—
The Black Saga of Culri Moal
, vi, 7

Overnight, in the hours following the siege and the breaking of the wall, the prevailing winds had swung around to the east, sending waves of sleet across the city. By early morning the winds had changed again and as the cloud cover rolled away the temperature plummeted. When Bardow left the palace in the mid-morning for a meeting with the Trades Guild, the surrounding city streets were littered with the bodies of horses and men, frozen near solid and caked in snow and ice. However, he had seen from his carriage window that there was no shortage of volunteers - labourers, woodworkers, apprentice boys from the yard shops, even entire families - hacking and heaving at the frost-bound corpses, slinging them into carts brought up from the quays.

When he returned, nearly two hours later, their numbers had swollen and much of the carnage had been cleared. And when Bardow saw smiles on a good number of faces, his heart sank, for he had met with similar feelings among the city's senior merchants. Although there was the expected regrets over the deaths of Tauric and the witchhorse herd (and promises to erect a suitable memorial), their mood was one of triumph. Almost. A second attempted assault on Besh-Darok had failed, and now that the Shadowking Byrnak was in chains in the palace dungeons the worst danger was past and everyone could get back to business…

Bardow had been sorely tempted to wreck this happy illusion by pointing out that they still had another four Shadowkings to face, but knew this would not help when it came to presenting the Crown's list of badly needed supplies. Instead, he praised their efforts, side-stepped questions about the succession, and was inwardly pleased when they agreed to more than half of the quantities on the Crown's list. Now, as his carriage rattled and jolted up towards the Square of Swords and the long gate than led through the Keep of Day, he could see thin trails of smoke still rising from burnt-out buildings north of the palace. Even after Byrnak's capture and the loss of his commanders, the fighting had raged on house-to-house with the masked troops putting buildings to the torch as they retreated back to the breach in the wall. Where the mounted Mogaun were waiting.

What occupied Bardow's mind, however, was the state of Yasgur's city militia as well as the knightly orders. The street chantries and healing halls were full to overflowing with the wounded and dying, and the bulk of Ironhall Barracks was a charred ruin. And he was on his way to a meeting of the High Conclave, with the Mogaun chieftains, where he intended to propose launching an immediate attack on either Gorla or Keshada with every able bodied fighter they had.

Madness, they'll say,
he thought.
Until I tell them what I learned from Byrnak last night, about the Lord of Twilight and Nerek, and about the Great Aisle. Even then, they may not believe me…

As the carriage turned into the snow-covered Square of Swords near the Keep of Day, he could see a group of solemn children laying flowers at the spot where Tauric and his witchhorse were slain by the mirrorchild Nerek.

Poor Nerek,
he thought.
And Tauric - you so wanted to fight for your people, and when you came back here to fight, you also came back to die. But where, pray tell, are the bodies of you and the witchhorse? Is the hand of the Earthmother at work in this…?

Then the carriage turned again, leftward into the Keep of Day's dim tunnel and past its three gates and inclined drawbridge. When he disembarked under the covered north west entrance to the High Spire, his personal guards Antor and Rafe climbed down from atop the carriage and followed him inside. People bowed or nodded their greetings as he made his way through the bustling, circular main hall to the square-built hub staircase.

Two attendants emerged from an alcove in the hub itself, with a stair sedan in which Bardow sat. Moments later he was being carried up the steps. The steward of Five Kings Dock had sent a few of these stair sedans up to the palace last week and all of them had survived the enemy invasion of the palace, much to Bardow's relief since the High Conclave was being held in the restored throne room.

Before long the sedan carriers, breathing heavily, set the chair down near the tall double doors of the throne room. Thanking them, he stepped out, shook the folds of his heavy brown and purple robe (which was making him perspire) and faced the entrance. Four guards in mail and white surcoats flanked it and the imperial standard hung above, bordered with black. Bardow ordered Antor and Rafe to wait here, then approached the door which two of the guards opened for him.