Shadowgod (48 page)

“Let us approach this instrument of my will,” he told those about him. “And watch it carry out my judgement.”

So saying he led his entourage of followers, adepts, standard bearers and bodyguards down from the high ridge, an intricate panoply in shades of grey, black and funereal bronze. At a trot they crossed snow-laden fields which lay between two great phalanxes of infantry who were preparing themselves for the next assault on the walls. They were less than a hundred yards away when Shadowclaw struck its second blow. Byrnak could almost taste the fear and unease of the men on the wall, and grinned.

Now you know that destruction is at hand
, he thought.
At last you recognise that this is your final day, from which a new world will be born…

The arm of the Shadowclaw machine was being slowly winched back down against a retaining force provided by the huge musculature that was hidden by the long wooden carapace. It was a singular device concocted a few months ago by one of Byrnak's Wellsource adepts in alliance with one of the tinemasters. With a little encouragement from their master, they had arrived at the idea of an irresistible siege machine and work had commenced.

And now, as the mighty arm gradually came down, the four Wellsource adepts crammed into an armoured compartment at the wagon's rear began drawing together a knot of Sourcefire to be poured into the spike and its keystone just prior to the next unleashing. Simultaneously, the scaling squads were charging towards the south wall in advance of the infantry, while the bow companies sent a withering hail of arrows up at the ramparts…

Alarmed warnings flickered along the web of the soul-bound. He quickly looked round and saw a large boulder come flying in to strike the ground a score of yards away. The falling snow swirled in its hurtling wake as it gouged a dark wound in the earth. Rocky soil sprayed out as it bounced onwards, spinning from the impact but now diverted from the course that would have sent it into the Shadowclaw device. Instead it landed amid a cluster of panicking spearmen and crushed half a dozen of them. Before it had come to a rest, Byrnak's angry presence was already spreading itself along the web of his soul-bound servants, searching for the origin of the missile, staring from the eyes of -

A commander of the ladder crews, scanning the snow-veiled western fields from half– way up the city wall;

A blade-captain of the 3rd Talon Warriors, who had seen the boulder's descent;

A captain of bows near the now-demolished ridge fort, whose keen vision had tracked the trajectory back to the other end of the ridge;

A cavalry officer up on the ridge who, looking east, could see one of the catapults out on its own, its crew working frantically at the winch…

Ride forth! Byrnak ordered. Slay them!

Yet even as the galvanised horsemen thundered down from the ridge, the catapult crew were wrestling another boulder into the big cup at the end of the arm…

Then finally, with his own eyes, he saw the Shadowclaw leap upwards, the glowing iron spike swinging along its inexorable curve to smash into the fractured face of the wall. Sourcefire burst outwards and into the granite blocks, fatally weakening them along hundreds of cracks and fissures. Driven by the weight of the keystone, the great spike clove through, breaking the wall. A huge, oval section simply shattered and collapsed in a roaring torrent of rubble which spilled out to either side of the wall and sent up roiling clouds of dust.

All fighting stopped for a moment of shocked silence. The deserted stretch of wall above the gaping hole had suddenly become a bridge, but the builders had never planned for an eventuality. The long spanning section slumped at the centre, dust and fragments rained from the ragged underside then it gave way and came down in two pieces.

Byrnak could see that the falling debris had half-buried the Shadowclaw machine, but he was unconcerned since it had fulfilled its task. Fighting had resumed along the south wall and it appeared that his men were finally gaining the upper hand. Next would come his personal entry into the city to take possession of the palace and those two fascinating gew-gaws, the Motherseed and the Crystal Eye. A silent command to several unit commanders brought several squads forward bearing many lengths of broad hooked ladders designed to provide a traverse across just a mass of rubble.

The snow was getting heavier, falling already upon the broken blocks and slabs, a slow accumulation of whiteness.

So shall all this be buried
, he thought with a savage delight.
Soon, twilight itself shall fall
.

* * *

In the witchhorse sanctuary, time stood still. The 'innerland' that the spirit of the Fathertree was building was a strange, grim patchwork, utterly different to the comforting illusions which the witchhorses had created for themselves. In depicting the ruin and agony endured by the peoples and their land, the Fathertree spirit had devised scenes so full of horror and tormenting grief that Tauric was unable to look at them for very long. And once it was done, the spirit of the Fathertree showed that it was able to move the entire composite illusion through the witchhorse sanctuary, steering it from innerland to innerland like a vessel leaking its cargo of suffering.

Bright summer days and sweet, eternal sunsets darkened and grew cold. The smoke of burning towns swept over lush hillsides, and grass and leaves withered at its touch. Forests were hacked down, lakes and rivers became poisoned by the corpses that had been left to rot in them. In the blink of an eye farmhouses went from sturdy, thatched buildings to wide patches of charred, smoking debris. Illusory crowds of smiling people succumbed to war and butchery, becoming the dead and the grief-ridden, and everywhere the children, ragged, hollow-cheeked, vacant-eyed…

When at last it was done and the vision of destruction was spread to every corner of every witchhorse' innerland, Tauris returned to the pool at the Fathertree's behest. Ghazrek, now tossing fruit seeds into the silvery waters, looked up.

“That was quick, m'lord,” he said. “Were you successful?”

“I'm not sure,” Tauric said.

It will have had an effect
, said the Fathertree in his thoughts.
Hopefully, the correct one
.

Some moments later, witchhorses began to emerge from the pale, tangled forest in ones and twos, gathering slowly and sombrely at the pool. Tauric could not tell if all were present but Shondareth eventually came forward to stand loomingly over him.

“All our innerlands are no more,” he said. “You have filled our hearts with suffering, and we sicken with sorrow.” The witchhorse paused. “We were wrong to abandon the empire and its people – we would do what you ask and return to join in battle but we have to know the name of the spirit that you carry…”

All were silent for a moment, even within Tauric's mind and he thought that the Fathertree had slipped away. Then that voice spoke in his thoughts and, very clearly, the thoughts of everyone else, including Ghazrek.

You know my name, Shondareth.

The great witchhorse bowed his head, as did all of his companions. Ghazrek stared at Tauric, open-mouthed.

“We thought you scattered and lost to us, lord Fathertree.”

I have been all of that and more. Indeed, a name is almost all that is left to me and that spoken in whispers. But it gladdens me to see you willing to pit yourselves against our ancient enemy – I know that it is a hard choice for you.

“We are ready, oh lord.”

Then it is time for us to leave this place. Tauric will lead the way.

Startled, Tauric got to his feet.
How do I lead the way when I don't know the way–

Turn right to walk around the pool
. The Fathertree's voice was once more confined to his own thoughts.
When you reach a sizeable path heading through the trees, follow it…

He nodded and walked on, Ghazrek at his back and the great herd of witchhorses coming after. Just as the Fathertree spirit had said, a broad track curved away from the pool and on through the pale, misty woods. Before they had gone very far, the track split into three. Tauric paused.

Which one do we follow?

It matters little – choose one.

He thought a moment then walked towards the right hand path.

Will we reach Besh-Darok in time to help?
he asked.
Or are we going arrive days after the battle?

Time as you understand it works differently in the Void, and especially so in the witchhorses' sanctuary. Be assured, however, that we shall have much to do on our return…

The first indications that they had crossed back into the real world were the deepening cold and the large flakes of snow that began fluttering down. At length the trees thinned and they emerged at the edge of a wooded hillside swept by a cold wind. The land was locked in winter's grip, its every dip and rise, every bush and stream masked in whiteness and a soft, muffling silence.

“The world sleeps,” said Shondareth.

“But a battle also rages,” Tauric said, pointing to plumes of smoke rising from far beyond a line of low hills and ridges in the middle distance, knowing that Besh-Darok had to lie in that direction.

Then Shondareth bent his forelegs and knelt before Tauric. “In ages long past, the kings of Khatris rode into battle on witchhorses – perhaps, majesty, it is time to revive the custom.”

With tears brimming in his eyes, Tauric smiled. “I am deeply honoured.” He stepped in close to the kneeling creature and found that he had to climb up on its neck first then edge back to behind the shoulders. Another witchhorse extended the same courtesy to Ghazrek, and then the entire herd set off at a canter down the hillside towards the smoke trails.

At the foot of the hill they crossed a brittle, frozen brook and were climbing a bare, white slope when eery howls came floating through the air. There were screeches, ullulating wails and the growing thunder of hooves. Suddenly, beyond the next dip and rise, horsemen came galloping madly over the wide, uneven brow of a hill, from between two copses there. Then more appeared to either side in a widening wave of fur-clad riders, first hundreds then thousands, which poured down the hill into a bushy dale then up, heading straight for the witchhorses.

Tauric stared fearfully at the oncoming horde of Mogaun, thinking that his end had come.

Not yet
, said the Fathertree.
Watch.

The leading Mogaun saw the witchhorse herd massing on the slope above them and swerved to avoid them, as did the rest, some veering left, some right. The others followed their lead, a torrent of tough, grim-faced riders which flowed around the 8-score or more witchhorses, their eyes widening at the sight. Ghazrek shouted a question in a tribal tongue at one of them as his horse laboured up the snowy incline, and got a brief response. Ghazrek then looked at Tauric with an anxious expression.

“Eaterbeasts, majesty,” he said. “They are fleeing eaterbeasts.”

Suddenly a muttering went around the witchhorse herd and Tauric caught a single word,
krondemari
. Then the giant majority began to move out across the top of the slope in a broad curved formation which forced the Mogaun to make a wider detour.

“Why are they doing this?” Tauric asked Shondareth.

“These eaterbeasts are the krondemari, a twisted race born of an old and corrupted seed,” the witchhorse said gravely. “They must die – we are sworn to this.”

No wiser, Tauric could only sit back and watch. The great host of the Mogaun began thinning to stragglers and the wounded. Then what looked like a solid blackness poured over the higher hill, led by a few tapering columns of the fastest. They caught three limping horses and their riders who all went down, their screams of agony almost lost in the swarm's surging roar of yelps and howls. Tauric felt a rising sense of horror as the vast numbers kept growing while the front edge of the swarm reached the dale, tore through the bushes and came charging up towards the waiting witchhorses.

There was a moment of stillness, then the entire line of witchhorses lowered their heads and as one breathed out long plumes of foggy whiteness again and again until there was an unbroken bank of dense, pale vapour rolling down the slope. When the first snarling, slavering eaterbeasts encountered it they plunged straight into it, not seeing any danger. Tauric stared closely as the creatures careered on through the mist, having never seen one before. From the dark furry pelts he at first took them to be large predators, like Rukang wolves or Nagira bluefangs, then he saw the flat heads, sinuous necks and bodies, and wondered.

They were a stampeding carpet of creatures, packed tightly together so that they half-clambered over each other even as they dashed up the hill. But when they emerged from the mists their coats were encrusted with rime frost, their movements were slower and jerky, and their voices were weak. Some got as far as a few yards from the witchhorses before they crept to a halt and froze on the spot, all colour leaching from their forms as the icy sorcerous death seeped through them.

As the deadly white mist flowed out and along the dale, so did it choke off the eaterbeasts rasping screeches and lock up their limbs with ice, to an accompanying chorus of snaps and cracks. Brought to a halt, they were transformed into a landscape of immobile, opaque forms, gaping jaws and sightless, glassy eyes. The weight of those which had climbed atop others crushed them into chunks and splinters of grey ice and black bones before succumbing themselves.

Some of them, little more than a couple of hundred, had evaded the spreading fog, but groups of witchhorses were hunting them down. Grey, motionless statues soon came to dot the facing hillsides in knots and scattered clusters. But why had they been chasing the Mogaun? he wondered, feeling a thread of bleak sorrow as he watched the last of them die the death of ice.

Mourn them not – they are savage, the krondemari, bred only to kill
, said the spirit of the Fathertree.