Shadowkings (42 page)

You cannot withstand us forever
.

Avorst had come nearer and Suviel watched helplessly as he raised a foreclaw and began to slowly push it through the Cadence barrier. A faint drone emerged from somewhere, and Suviel could see pain and fury in Avorst's eyes as the Cadence spell took its toll on his limb. Talons lost their shine, callused pads were scoured and chafed, scales chipped and split, scores of tiny gashes rasped by the barrier. The drone was now a howl and still Avorst persisted, the clawed forelimb bleeding from a multitude of wounds, trembling as it came closer and closer to Suviel's face...

"Enough!"

The streams of fire died and Suviel felt the Cadence canto simply stop. As Avorst snatched his forelimb away, a man robed in dark blue walked calmly into view, carrying a long, plain staff. Of average height and build, the man had short grey hair, was clean-shaven, and had the milky white eyes of an Acolyte. As he surveyed all before him, Suviel felt a mounting sense of familiarity and dread and when those eyes gazed straight at her a horrible recognition finally dawned. It was Ikarno's brother, Coireg Mazaret.

The Acolyte Coireg and the nighthunter Avorst looked at each other and Suviel felt some kind of unspoken exchange take place. At one point, Avorst stirred his wings and uttered a deep, angry hiss but when Coireg held up a hand wreathed in green, flashing fire the nighthunter succumbed, bowing his head and refolding his wings. Coireg then turned his attention to Suviel but before he could speak, Falin dashed over and sank to his knees. Coireg had not come alone and several leather-masked guards leaped forward, swords bared, but he waved them back.

Falin opened his mouth to speak but Coireg quickly took hold of his lower jaw and moved his head from side to side, examining him.

"Half-made thing," Coireg said, raising a foot to Falin's chest and thrusting him roughly to the floor. A swift, sharp gesture, and three masked guards pounced on Falin and dragged him bodily away. As his protests and pleadings receded, Coireg turned smiling to Suviel and considered her for a moment.

"A mage," he said thoughtfully. "Lesser Power, but skilled."

"Coireg, what happened to you?" said Suviel.

The Acolyte was momentarily puzzled, then, "Do you know this outerness? It is now mine, reborn I, living I!" The white eyes shone, boring into her. "You, too, will give us much, serve as we serve."

"Never," Suviel said, suddenly feeling tired and old. "I will never be one of you."

Coireg barked his laughter and as the rest of his guards bound her limbs he bent in close and whispered:

"Your flesh, our vessel. Your soul, our clay."

As they carried her off through darkness in the direction of the High Basilica, Suviel listened in despair as the Acolyte said over and over, "Reborn I, living I!"

—Marshall Gostrian,
The Endless Battle
, ch7, xiii

Then, at last, the waiting was over.

"Yarram's men are in position near the Riverside Barracks, Lord Commander," said the black-garbed runner as he stood panting at the doorway. "His scouts will begin dispatching the sentries in several minutes."

The small but crowded room was suddenly alive with a tense expectancy. In the glow of a hooded lamp on the floor, faces took on looks of eagerness, or composure, or stored-up hate as officers quietly sheathed thrice-whetted blades, or pulled on gauntlets, or tightened armour straps.

"Good," said Mazaret, turning to a couple of men dressed in the rough garments of labourers. "You and your people know your tasks?"

"Aye, milor', we do," said one as they stood, their air of readiness and coiled threat belying their stolid appearance. These were Kodel's most valuable spies, men who volunteered over a year ago to live in Besh-Darok, noting the enemy's every strength and weakness in preparation for just such a day as this.

"Then be swift and merciless," he said. "There must be no-one to raise the alarm when we follow."

Each gave a sombre nod then slipped out the front door and off into the night. When they were gone, Mazaret issued the brief, final orders to his officers, especially Cebroul, a young banner-lieutenant he had put in charge of the attack on the Ironhall Barracks. All left by a passage leading to the rear of the building, a disused tannery, till only Mazaret, his aide, and Medwin remained.

He looked at the mage. "What is happening at the palace? - have you learned anything more?"

Medwin sighed, fingers tugging on his grey beard, now clipped and neat. "It is... difficult to be certain of these things when one is a passive observer, especially when the powers involved are so strong. But the rite is continuing, this I know."

"I understand," Mazaret said, nodding. "Our troops will be here soon. Let us wait outside." Then to his aid: "Dim that lantern and bring it."

Outside, the air was cold and clear without being icy. The front of the tannery faced the rear of a warehouse across a dark, deserted alley. This place had been carefully chosen as a staging post - the warehouse was abandoned and in a state of semi-collapse, there were few dwellings nearby, and the alley was a lightless gulley which ran, with few interruptions, straight towards Mazaret's objective, the Imperial Barracks.

Standing in the darkness, cold and alert, Mazaret thought about the great city of Besh-Darok and its tens of thousands of citizens lying asleep and unsuspecting. Many a time in the last few years he had envisaged his return as a glorious victory, a bright and joyous triumph conducted in the open for all to see. Yet here he was, about to dash through the shadows towards desperate combat in the service of an uncertain purpose. Cloaked figures would be stealing across back courts, or dropping from overhanging eaves to subdue guards with the silent flash of knives or the twist of a knotted cord around the neck. Accuracy and surprise were vital - according to Kodel's spies, the city forces, including the Watch, outnumbered Mazaret's by almost two to one. But they were mostly confined to the three main barracks and several guardposts scattered across the districts. If they could be taken quickly and with the minimum loss of life, then the city would awake to freedom.

But if we lose the advantage of surprise, we risk setting some of the people against us. And if Bardow and Kodel fail to halt that foul sorcery, our hours are numbered.

At least Tauric and his Companions have the Armourer with them, and if Yarram follows my advice, they will be out of harm's way...

Then he laughed a soft, wry laugh, and Medwin gave him a puzzled look.

"It's all right, my friend," Mazaret said. "I have just realised that all of us are risking everything just by being here, yet we pretend that somehow there are degrees of danger in this pit of hazards."

"That is not a comforting observation," said the mage.

"Alas, neither is our situation."

Medwin was about to answer when he glanced past Mazaret and said, "The men are here."

In shadowy double files they approached along the alley from the south, all buckles, metal armour and weapons muffled by cloth, all footsteps deadened. Mazaret watched them approvingly for a moment then went over to the officer at the front of the leading company.

"Kalno, pick up the pace to double-time and follow me."

With that, he set off at a steady trot towards the Imperial Barracks, and behind him the rustling sussurus grew, the thud of rag-wrapped feet and the hiss of cloth on cloth merging into a rushing, drumming sound, a river of warriors flowing after him down the alley.

The Imperial Barracks was an austere, three-storey building erected nearly two centuries ago in the reign of Emperor Mavrin. It had no windows below the top floor and a barrier of fenced pillars surrounded the square drill yard laid out before the main entrance, a large pair of doors flanked by burning torches and long banners in dark colours. As it came into view, Mazaret saw three hooded figures straightening from a pair of motionless forms sprawled in front of the entrance. Two of them went to the doors with sets of keys while the third came out to meet Mazaret, who had meantime brought his troops to a halt.

"All is well," the scout said. "The sentries on the roof have been disposed of. Only those at the rear postern gate remain, and your men must be there, ready to rush the inner guardroom."

"They will be," Mazaret said, turning to nod at one of his officers. A moment later, fifty or so soldiers, mostly knights of the Order, peeled off from the main body and hastened round to the rear of the barracks. The remaining two hundred Mazaret led across the flat, empty drill yard and up to the doors as they were pushed open by the scouts.

Within was a square hall where only a pair of nightlamps burned, one either side in cressets on the plain mortared walls. Swords and maces were drawn and bucklers were stripped of their muffling rags, as they advanced into the hall. Pre-arranged squads were moving towards the doors of the dormitories to the left and right when those same doors burst open and armed soldiers rushed out to the attack. With a dreadful crash of metal and men's voices, battle was joined.

Mazaret cursed inwardly, realising that they had been expected, and the hollow fear of ambush bloomed in his stomach. Then a moment of swift appraisal with a keen eye allayed much of his fear - the enemy numbered no more than three score wiith a dozen of them fanned out at the back of the hall. This was no ambush, but a delaying action. He bellowed orders, and with most of a full banner-squad at his back he charged the enemy at the rear.

One soldier came at him with a hooked poleaxe. He ducked the lunge, swung his sword with all his might and sliced the attacker's leg off at the knee. Another shoulder-charged him as he came up out of the crouch, a fist-held dagger driving towards his chest. Mazaret grabbed the soldier's wrist, twisting it as they fell together. The soldier's face went from horror to agony in a second as his own dagger punched into his vitals. As he screamed in pain, Mazaret pushed him away, scrambled to his feet and took up his sword from where it had fallen. Grimly pleased that few of the enemy still stood, he cried "To me!" and tore open the door at the back of the hall.

A wide corridor led straight to the guardroom at the rear of the barracks. It was deserted, and when they emerged from the postern gate his worst fears rose up in his thoughts once more.

Bodies were strewn around the small courtyard, a few still moving, most deathly still, and all were bloodied. A few knights staggered in from the shadows of the street to tend to the wounded, and some of Mazaret's squad went to help. Mazaret found a sergeant propped against the outside wall, a torn-off surcoat sleeve tied about a deep shoulder wound, and a moment's terse questioning confirmed his suspicions. More than a hundred and fifty of Yasgur's men had poured out of the postern gate as the Order knights were arriving.

"They were taking no captives," the sergeant said. "They just marched right over us and out."

"Where were they heading?"

"Towards the river, milor'."

Mazaret nodded. And the old Chapel Fort. It's what I'd do, he thought as he got to his feet and shouted for his officers.

Back inside the barracks, the fighting was over and a handful of prisoners sat on the floor at the centre of the hall, guarded by twice their number. Mazaret eyes them coldly as he gave orders to secure the building and have the wounded brought in. Meanwhile runners arrived with news - Yarram's assault on the Riverside Barracks was a complete success with no casualties and nearly three hundred prisoners. But at the Ironhall Barracks, some of Yasgur's men had barricaded themselves inside after a spate of furious skirmishing - Mazaret's men had suffered a score of fatalities, among which was Cebroul.

And when Mazaret asked Medwin about events in the palace, the mage was scarcely less encouraging.

"Bardow and Kodel and their men cannot gain the inner chambers," he said, wiping his hands on a scrap of cloth torn from the dorm curtains. He had been attending to some of the wounded and his formerly spotless robe was streaked with blood. "The palace guard is putting up considerable resistance, despite the powers of Bardow and the mages accompanying him. They appear to have some sorcerous protection."

"What of the ritual? Has it been completed?"

Medwin gave a tired smile. "Were that so, neither of us would be alive to wonder. No, it continues to grow by the minute. You remember the Hall of Audience?"

"I do."

"Well, that is the place and it is webbed, entwined with spells, each one of staggering magnitude and a purpose I am still unable to fathom - "

A soldier dashed into the hall from the rear and hurried to salute Mazaret. "My lord, the bridges are in flames!"

Mazaret stared at him for a frozen instant, then took him by the shoulder and said, "Show me."

From the stop step at the postern gate Mazaret gazed out at the great, night-darkened mass of Besh-Darok. Much of the southern districts had been built on hills and other higher ground, and he was able to look across clusters and rows of roofs, towers and cupolas, all sloping down to the river Olodar. Wharfside torches and the big oilfired docklamps scribed the river's wide S-curve through the city, and now two burning bridges added their own hot glows. Sparks flew up, floating with the clouds of wind-caught smoke which were spread in a long smear east towards the bay. Even as they watched, fire bloomed in several places all along a third bridge, and Mazaret knew that Yasgur's men were using oil. Then another of Kodel's hooded scouts appeared at the courtyard entrance, breathing heavily.

"Lord Commander Mazaret?" he said, looking from face to face.

"I am he," Mazaret said.

The scout came over and sketched a bow before speaking in a low voice. "Milor', I bring grave news."

Mazaret inhaled deeply, steeling himself. "Go on."