Shadowkings (46 page)

Jaroul watched him with obvious pleasure then reached out to Yasgur and, none-too-gently, wrenched the gag from his mouth.

"Your fate was in your hands, o prince," he said mockingly. "You could have commanded that the enemy be broken and crushed, but you chose otherwise. Thus it is now your fate to be shackled and caged."

Yasgur tried to spit in his face, but only white droplets came. The shaman uttered a cracked laugh then turned to his mindless companion. With both hands he grasped the man's head, spidery fingers spread across ears and temples, thumbs holding open the upper eyelids as he stared into those restless orbs.

"All is ready, master," Gilly heard him whisper. "The furrow awaits its seed."

He withdrew his hands, stepped back and gestured to the two warriors who tightened their grip. For a moment, nothing. Then a trembling began in the little man's arms, as if he were cold, a quivering which travelled up to the shoulders and the head. The shaking grew till the man's entire body was juddering and his head was nodding and jerking upon his neck. Beneath his rags, his chest was fluttering as his breath wheezed and inarticulate grunts came from his twisted mouth. In the lurid glow of nearby torches held aloft, it was a ghastly sight.

Just when it seemed to Gilly that the man was on the point of death, his convulsions changed to a retching which soon became deeper and drawn out. No-one spoke in the fearful stillness, as finally there was one expulsive exhalation which went on and on for long seconds, the widened mouth exposing a pale dry tongue. Animal terror shone in the eyes and for an instant they glanced over at Gilly.

Someone in the crowd gasped, followed by others, then Gilly saw it, a greenish radiance emerging from the agonised shaman's mouth. Then the bright core of it appeared, a burning emerald mote which slowly slid over the bottom lip and off into the air. It drifted there for a moment, the focus of all attention, then in a blurred streak of motion flew straight at Yasgur.

Instinctively, Yasgur turned his face away and Gilly was not the only onlooker to cry out when the bright green speck struck the prince's cheek and buried into it. With blood pouring from the wound, Yasgur lurched sideways, still bound hand and foot but thrashing and bellowing in pain and fear. Pandemonium erupted. Warriors scrambled back from him while others pushed forward to see, and over the noise came the voice of the shaman Jaroul shouting futile orders.

At length, the crowd went oddly silent and drew back, and Gilly saw Yasgur getting to his feet, his stance poised and relaxed, his hands holding severed pieces of cord. But now a pale green nimbus clung to him, a pearly veil which shifted and glittered faintly, casting a sickly tinge across a face whose eyes were full of evil power and whose lips smiled a smile of hungry anticipation.

"Mighty Hegroun!" cried the shaman, throwing himself at the prince's feet. "We are your servants - command us!"

Hegroun?
Gilly thought in stunned dread.
What foul sorcery is this?

The man named Hegroun ignored the outburst, instead sidestepping the prostrate shaman and with a predatory litheness moved towards where Tauric still stood, hands bound again behind his back. The young heir scarcely flinched when the possessed chief leaned in close to study him, letting the green aura brush against hair and face.

"I can smell him in you," Hegroun said. "You share his blood, and his fate." He turned to survey the crowd, his piercing gaze coming to rest upon Atroc. "Well, old man, still alive, eh? Still meddling?"

Atroc inclined his head. "Each to his own nature, lord."

Hegroun snorted. "You have changed not at all. Even when you say little, it is still too much." He looked at the shaman. "Tie the boy to a tree and have the men gather kindling, then get me a spear. Let us see if he burns as well as his father."

There were whoops of delight and eager hate at this, and the clustered crowd of Mogaun riders dispersed in groups to gather foliage. As Tauric was dragged struggling over to a slender tree, Gilly cursed aloud and received a casual cuff from his guard. Beside him, Atroc just watched with a kind of cold intensity.

Then Gilly saw one of Tauric's captors topple to the ground, a feathered shaft through his neck. There was the whirr of more arrows and several agonised cries as some torchbearers fell, dousing or dimming their flames. Hegroun and the shaman were shouting orders amid the gloom, then behind him Gilly heard the thud of arrows into flesh and turned to see his guards lying in their death throes. Instantly he leaped up and was about to dash across to Tauric when dozens of flaming missiles began falling out of the night sky. Panicking warriors ran from the ruins, only to encounter their own horses, released and driven to stampede. Many were trampled before the horses swerved towards the ridge's nothern slope.

As he ran and dodged the burning missiles - clods of grassy earth soaked in oil - Gilly spotted the Hegroun creature carrying a spear and loping towards Tauric. A couple of men bearing swords stood near the boy, working on his bonds. Then he was free, and to Gilly's utter astonishment he leaped from the tree and charged straight at the possessed chieftain. Skillfully, he beat aside a spearthrust and with his clenched metal hand struck Hegroun in the face, casting him to the ground.

Hegroun lost his spear but was still agile enough to use his legs to knock Tauric's feet from under him. As the boy sprawled in the dust, Hegroun rose to stand over him, laughing.

Gilly was racing full-tilt towards the chieftain. I'll have you, he thought grimly. Just a few more paces...

Two things happened almost at once. A great dark shape rushed in from the side, a rider on a horse Gilly realised. He saw it slam into the Hegroun creature in the instant before a heavy weight landed on Gilly's back and bore him to the ground.

"I told you we value your companionship," a familiar voice gasped in his ear while he struggled with his face in the dirt. Out the corner of his eye he thought he saw the rider haul Tauric up behind him. But then a blow came down on his head and he knew no more.

* * *

On boggy ground by a river, Byrnak stood next to an empty smoking pit while Ystregul stared out at the night. They had all watched the drama unfold atop the ridge near Besh-Darok and now that the other three Shadowkings were no longer ethereally present, Byrnak wondered at Ystregul's composure in the face of what had transpired.

"The boy is lucky in his allies," he said. "To escape from such a trap..."

"You would know about that," Ystregul said cuttingly.

Byrnak ground his teeth at the remark and held in his anger, channelled it, made it work for him. "Such a shame that your servant was foolish enough to let him slip away. Hopefully the rest of them will not be as...lacking."

The Black Priest turned with a gaze full of enmity. "In life Hegroun was an ordinary man - the others were anything but. Besides, where else can the boy go but back to the city, which will be in our hands anyway before the night is done."

"So your Acolytes promise you," Byrnak said. "But can you be sure?"

"I am certain of every detail, every link in the chain. It will not fail." He raised a bare hand to point at Byrnak. "Be wary of testing my patience in this way. I will not be mocked."

Ystregul turned and stalked back to his horse, accompanied by his small coterie of Acolytes and Initiates, two of whom half-carried a weak, delirious shaman. Byrnak enjoyed a contemptuous smile. He had watched them all work with Ystregul, digging the conical hole, tracing patterns all around it, then standing there, drenched in the harsh emerald glow shining up from the pit, wreathed in vapours expelled by the heat of sorcery. Then with metal rods they had coaxed forth the revenant spirits, rising like a tiny flock of burning viridian pearls which they guided over to the open mouth of the drugged shaman and smoothly down his gullet.

All this Byrnak had observed, with some unknown instinct, some hidden aptitude noting every step and method and fitting them all together in his mind, making him understand. This shaman was linked to one of the two accompanying Yasgur, one the entrance, the other the exit. He recalled a comment Obax had once made, that the Acolytes were artisans of the soul, able to treat a man's spirit like a gemstone, cutting, reshaping, polishing it, even gathering it back together from the grinding scatter of the grave.

Now as he walked carefully across muddy ground back to his own horse, the Hidden One's insistence that Ystregul needed watching over took on a certain urgency. Byrnak already knew which clan chiefs belonged to the Black Priest and which ones might sway to his cause, but of his dealings with the Acolytes he knew next to nothing. Was he in alliance with the entire order, or with just a few of them?

Now remounted on his horse, winding the reins about his hand, he sat listening to the riders' song coming from some way back along the column. The words were simple and moved to the rhythm of a gallop, punctuated by drawn-out syllables. He smiled and looked over his shoulder at one of his personal guards.

"Pass the word - we ride to the attack. That should give them something to sing about!"

Pain, madness and bones —
The harvest of his dungeons.

—Jurad's
History Of Ordeals
, bk.vi, 8.

Cold, blind and caged, Suviel despaired. The cold was the heavy, seeping cold of a stone-walled chamber utterly devoid of light, and her cage was an upright, lidless coffin of iron into which she was strapped. She wanted to weep but her eyes felt empty and dry. She wanted to cry out but some enchantment had been laid upon her and her voice was a barred gate. The only thing between her and the crushing weight of despair was the cracked shield of her mind.

Against the deliberate blackness of the chamber her awareness instinctively strove to perceive her surroundings, despite her attempts to rein it in. Earlier, when several Acolytes returned not long after her incarceration, her nether-senses had revealed them to her. Faint lines glimmered in the darkness, the curve of a jaw or the glint of an eye, forming the likeness of cruel faces.

"How strong," one had murmured.

"How fertile," said another, laughing.

Then a veil of nothingness fell...and rose like a slow eyeblink. It seemed to last only moments, but when it lifted she saw that her visitors were gathered about a pale, hooded figure, guiding him from the chamber.

All that had happened but a short time ago, she was almost sure. Had the pale figure been a fellow prisoner? There were another ten or so silent captives somewhere else in this black stone crypt - she had felt their presences. She recalled old Babrel relating the escaped children's tales of iron caskets adorned with symbols and the terrible rites conducted upon them...she shivered as much from the icyness of her flesh as from the coldness of her spirit. She tried to imagine that Ikarno Mazaret was with her, and took refuge in memories of the warm circle of his arms, of the gentle passion of his kisses...

After an interval, perhaps an hour, perhaps longer, there were more visitors. This time it was Coireg Mazaret and three Acolytes. She could make out more details this time and could see the hot satisfaction in Coireg's face when he came and stood close by. She felt his breath on her cheek, and it smelled bitter.

"You will give," he said. "You will serve."

Never, she wanted to say but could only mouth the word.

Coireg laughed, a high unpleasant sound. "My master's fate is hungry - it crushes all others. At this moment, his plan holds the city of emperors in an iron grasp. Soon the nighthunters will fly. Forests will burn, fortresses will fall, and a great empire of shadow will be born. You will see it, you will praise it, you will serve it!"

Voiceless, she could only shake her head and hold on to the memory of Ikarno as nothingness rushed in...and rushed out. As before, she looked up and saw her tormentors leading a pale, almost misty form towards the chamber entrance. At the doors, though, the white figure turned and Suviel saw her own face, milky eyes in translucent flesh, gaze back back at her.

Then they were gone and the blackness deepened and pressed in on her. All her feelings and her thoughts spun around and around in circles of horror. She struggled for glimmers of hope, strove to remember what had been in her mind before this latest violation. It had been something precious, something beautiful beyond compare.

But nothing came. It was past all recollection, and utterly gone.

* * *

Bardow could hear the sounds of the siege as he and his six-guard escort climbed a long gloomy stairway which led to the palace battlements. Normally, these stairs would have been well-lit, but most of the servants were either in hiding or had left the palace altogether. By his guards' torches, and the occasional wall-shrine votive lamp, Bardow could see that most of the tapestries he had known from years ago were gone.

Trophies
, he speculated.
Or kindling
.

It was tempting to reminisce on happier times, but he had just left Tauric in the sickroom down on the Spire's fifth floor, near Alael's chamber, and his thoughts were grim. It was over an hour since the Armourer and his raiding party returned with the heir, shortly after which Yasgur and his army had arrived and commenced their assault on the west wall. But according to Tauric's account, Yasgur's body had been seized by the spirit of his father, Hegroun, and it was he who ordered the investment of Besh-Darok. Before the possession had occurred, it seemed that Yasgur was willing to allow the Imperial forces to withdraw from the city unhampered.

The implications of Yasgur's spiritual subjugation filled Bardow with a sense of dark foreboding. The Acolytes were known to be adept in the rending and binding of minds, but wresting the spirits of the dead from the grasp of the earth demanded a far greater magnitude of power. Such as that reputedly employed by the sorcerous Shadowkings Grazan, Thraelor and Byrnak. If any of them were in the vicinity, the chances of holding out were slim indeed.