Shadowkings (23 page)

There were gasps, and a small commotion. Bardow pushed his way to the front and one of Volyn's men raised his crossbow, aiming it at the archmage. Mazaret shook his head at Bardow and turned back to see Captain Volyn place the pieces of torn parchment on the tree stump and raise the dagger above his head. There was a thud as the blade struck the parchment fragments, impaling them on the stump, and Volyn stood back.

"It is done," he said. "It is over."

"In the Mother's name, why?" said Mazaret. "When we are on the brink of war, why do you do this?"

"I am not blind, nor deaf to the agreements you arrange in secret. A thousand Northern soldiers, am I not correct?" Volyn's mouth contorted with rage. "And a halving of the supplies from our Northern friends, too, eh?" He levelled a trembling finger at Mazaret. "Are such actions trustworthy or treacherous?"

"You have been grossly mislead, Captain - "

"I think not. This is but the culminating enormity in a series of affronts that we have endured since joining our cause with yours, and will be the last. This is now ended." Volyn made a slashing gesture with one outstretched hand and turned to leave.

"Hear me out, Captain! You have not yet heard the truth - "

"I am no longer interested in anything you have to say! My warriors await me at the gates of Krusivel - I go now to join them."

Bardow stepped forward. "And what of the boy Tauric, Captain? You vowed he would be safe."

Volyn glowered at him. "I have despatched a message bird, mage. Your cripple-prince will be returned unharmed in a few days." He looked back at Mazaret. "Our paths diverge from here on. We have our own purpose and destiny to pursue and you would be well advised not to interfere."

Mazaret fought to control his anger and remain silent. A furious outburst would be pointless, he knew, and would diminish what dignity remained to him. As Volyn's broad cloaked form receded into the darkness, flanked by his guards, Mazaret turned to face Bardow. His face was pale and angry, one hand clutching a thick-stemmed bronze goblet so tightly Mazaret thought it might snap.

"We were outmanoeuvred," the archmage said in a thoughtful, almost amused tone utterly at odds with his demeanour. "Quite expertly, too. Dow Korren must have used some intermediary to poison Volyn against us, one of his trusted aides, perhaps."

Dow Korren. Mazaret looked around the grove for him, but the Northern Cabal and its leader were already on the path back to the temple grounds. For a second he thought he saw Korren glance back over his shoulder, then the Northerners were indistinct forms fading off into the night.

"My lords?"

Mazaret turned to see one of the Southerners, his expression downcast and nervous as his gaze flicked between them.

"Master Peilon asked me to present our apologies as we must return to make ready our departure in the morning. An account of these events will have to be given to the Cabal council before any further decisions can be taken." He paused, shook his head. "Such a pity, my lords, a very great pity."

Mazaret's thoughts raced as he spoke. "Good sir, thank Master Peilon for his noble sentiments and inform him that I would speak with him before he leaves tomorrow."

"As you wish, my lord," and the Southerner bowed and left.

Frowning, Bardow opened his mouth to speak but Mazaret cut him off with a sign for silence. When the last Southerner slipped off down the murky path, the archmage said, "Why? What is to be gained?"

Mazaret paused to marshall his thoughts and frame an answer. "The sorcerous search for Suviel you undertook...can you perform another?"

Bardow's shoulders sagged visibly and he sighed heavily. "Yes, my lord, if you so command me, then I can invoke the Spiritwing once more. For whom will I be searching?"

Mazaret took in the sight of the now-deserted grove, an overturned stool, abandoned mugs and beakers clustered on the trestles, one vessel lying on its side in a pool of ale gleaming in the fading light of the pole lanterns. It was growing cold now and he shivered slightly.

"You recall Volyn's mention of destiny," he said. "The Hunters Children's destiny, which can only be - "

"Placing a living descendant of House Tor-Galantai on the imperial throne." Bardow looked straight at Mazaret. "That's who you want me to find, a man - "

"Or woman - "

" - or child, whose appearance we do not know, whose name is a complete mystery, and who could be anywhere."

"Nevertheless, I want you to try. If I can convince Peilon and his companions that we may be able to...persuade the Hunters Children to stay with us, then success is yet within our grasp. But I have to know who and where this heir is."

Bardow's gaze grew steady and penetrating. "And if I find him for you, what are you going to do with him? Take him hostage?"

"Yes, to use as a bargaining piece."

"Very well, my lord. I shall retire to my chambers and begin at once."

A moment passed, two, and he was alone. A chill breeze filtered through the trees and the torches wavered and lessened slightly. He took a step in the dimness, which brought him right up to the tree stump, laid hold of the dagger and with a wrench tugged it free of the wounded wood, ripped parchment leafs still stuck to the blade. A nearby torch guttered lower and the tree stump seemed to bleed shadows into the encroaching gloom as Mazaret stumbled back along the path to a fire-lit bedchamber and a sleepless night.

A stream wears and widens a crevice.
A seed grows in a crack in a wall.
A hot spark flies into dust-dry tinder.

Suffering, anger and revolt,
Bind the people to fate's wheel.

—Letters To Cabringa, Anchal Gunderlek.

With a junction of the ruined labyrinth just ahead, Tauric paused to regain his breath. Blood thundered in his head, and he felt swathed in sweat and body heat. The hilt of the practise sword was slick in the palm of his good hand so he dried it on a fistful of grubby shirt held in his other hand, his new right hand.

Jointed steel fingers glinted in the muted morning light that came in through the tunnel's caved-in ceiling. Each finger had been meticulously engraved with the likeness of fingernail and skin creases, but time and the wear of combat had added innumerable scratches and pits to the metal surfaces. And now dust and grime streaked the metal limb up to below the elbow where a tight leather band hid the joining of steel and skin. It was easily cleaned - the Armourer had shown him how to use running water and brushes, then how to put on the full leather sleeve that would afford it some protection during battle.

It had been a wonder, that moment when he looked down and saw this new limb for the first time, and in that moment he had believed that he would never again have to remember what Byrnak had done. But his dreams offered up a betrayal of that hope, and sleep seldom came easily.

Tauric held up the metal hand and moved the fingers, clenching them in a fist. His control was still uncertain, even he could see it was so, which was why the Armourer insisted that he used his left hand as often as possible.

Then he heard someone say;

"I can hear the breath slowing in your mouth, and that means you've stopped. Too many of these mistakes and I'll have you."

Suddenly alert and with wooden practise sword held ready, Tauric began creeping away from the voice and towards the junction. Dust hung in the air like a veil. These corridors were as wide as a cart and walled with rough planking now split and rotten. Sometimes he had to step over piles of rubble and earth beneath a grass-fringed hole in the ceiling, or beside a collapsed wall. He ignored the turn-off, a narrow opening stretching off into utter blackness, and continued along the main passage.

In places the gloom was almost smothering and he swallowed hard as his thoughts grew fearful. A long time before, the Armourer had told him, long centuries before the rise of even the League of Jefren, followers of the long-dead Nightbear faith had built the underground maze as part of their mysterious rituals, perhaps as a place where trapped bears ate living sacrifices...

After a few paces he paused, held his breath and with a quivering alertness listened. Nothing, no footsteps, nor creaks or the like, except for a faint hollow tapping -

There was a massive crash and the wall next to him gave way in a cascade of earth, roots and rotten planking. Tauric leaped backwards in fright as a tall figure came towards him through the billowing dust clouds. Swiftly, Tauric regained his balance then turned and made a run at a nearby cavein, jumped for the sagging edge of the gap in the ceiling and hauled himself up and out. Rolling across long grass soaked with morning dew, he scrambled to his feet, scurried over to another hole in the ground and slid back down into the dimness.

Crouched in the half-light, he listened to the hissing, clicking sounds of earth and stones trickling down after him. After a moment there was stillness with only the sound of his heart beating faintly in his ears. Then he heard the Armourer's voice, low and muffled as if from a distance:

"An interesting tactic, boy. Instead of taking advantage of my momentary confusion, you fled. Be reminded that we are here to practise conflict rather than avoidance. Next time I expect you to stand your ground. Remember, the first to land a blow is the victor."

Tauric nodded in weary agreement.Then he frowned - his father...no, the Duke of Patrein would not have decried his impulse to retreat. He could almost imagine the Duke saying something like 'experience counters the advantage of surprise' while regarding him with those piercing blue eyes and prodding the palm of his hand with a rigid forefinger.

A sudden sense of sorrow and loss cut through him, sharp and irresistible. Sighing, he forced his mind back to the moment, burying his feelings under thoughts of combat, his strengths and his weaknesses. Deliberately, he hefted the practise sword in his flesh-and-blood hand, a bundle of yard-long cut rods bound to a heavier wooden shaft. While not at all lethal, it made a loud rattling bang when it connected and left throbbing bruises or welts on the skin, especially when wielded by the Armourer.

He almost laughed out loud. The Armourer (who seemed to have no other name) was taller, heavier and faster than he, not to mention the man's experience with weapons of all kinds. When all the combat advantages lay with the enemy, what was left?

The Duke's voice came back to him from memory -
Guile, and ingenuity
.

Tauric leaned back against the wall planking, hearing it creak as he thought for some moments. Then he went over to a nearby heap of cave-in debris and dug and scooped aside handfuls of stony dirt until he came up with two lengths of wood not too ravaged by rot. One he shortened, snapping it with the use of two rocks, and with a narrow strip of cloth torn from the bottom of his shirt he tied it to the other as a kind of crosspiece. Then he took off his shirt, tugged it over the rudimentary frame, propped it against the wall and stepped back. His spirits sagged - to even the least discerning eye it would look like the contrivance it was.

He shook his head. It doesn't have to be convincing, he thought. Just distracting for long enough.

A scrape and a footfall disturbed the quiet, coming from the darkness beyond the grey patch of light below the ceiling hole. Tauric snatched up the shirt on its sticks and crept away with steady, careful footing till he came to where the passage ended in a T-junction. Then he scuffed his foot once in the dirt, loud enough to be heard, then crouched behind the corner and fumbled on the floor for a small pebble while peering round. It was not long before he saw a darker shadow move within the darkness, taking on form and detail as it approached - Tauric recognised the tall frame and broad shoulders of the Armourer, pale light picking out the metallic studs of his leather jerkin, one of his big hands gripping a practise sword.

Tauric tossed the pebble across the junction into the lightless murk of the other passageway where it made a brief but audible noise. The Armourer went into a crouch, facing the direction of the sound, moving back to the wall and sidling along to the corner where Tauric waited.

Gripping the frame and shirt, he stepped out, threw the decoy at the Armourer's head and dropped to his knees. He thought he felt cold air on the top of his head and heard the rattling impact of a practise sword hitting the wall as he swept his own round at the Armourer's legs.

And struck home with a bang. The Armourer uttered an oath as Tauric rolled away. Clambering to his feet, he saw the man bent over, rubbing a reddening patch on his shin. For a moment there was a gleam of anger in his eyes, then he looked down and picked up the shirt on its sticks. He examined it for a moment, then gave a rueful chuckle and tossed it across to Tauric.

"A decoy - I like that," he said, dusting his hands on his leggings. "But decoys seldom work twice."

Tauric disentangled his now-filthy shirt and pulled it back on. "What if it's a better decoy? What if there's two?"

The Armourer nodded. "This is what you will learn when you begin training with the troop." He held up his hand as Tauric opened his mouth. "Which will be soon, I promise. For now, we shall return to the holding and get your arm and the rest of you cleaned up for your tutors."

* * *

Above ground the air was icy and damp with the promise of rain. Tauric followed the Armourer through long, dewy grass up a gentle slope towards Barinok Stronghold, their breaths making pale clouds in the cold. The stronghold had once been a monastery dedicated to the Order of the Fathertree, which accounted for its heavily fortified appearance, sheer stone walls that encircled two adjacent hilltops and blocked the vale which passed between them. A long, high-sided building lay within the walls, a rambling, untidy-looking structure which had at some point in the past clearly been a keep and several other buildings, until something forced the occupants to rebuild it.

The Fathertree monks must have felt at great risk of attack to go to such trouble, Tauric thought. Perhaps it was just after the collapse of the League of Jefren; that period was full of bitter wars and factional power struggles.