Shadowkings (54 page)
"Well, where is she? Is she dead?"
"Yes," Keren whispered. "Yes, she is."
The implacable golden eyes regarded her for a moment.
"Good. Then all is as it should be."
Keren saw Bardow's face sag with shock and grief. The tall being turned away as if to walk back into the hall, but then melted amid the shadows. As the glowing mist of its form thinned to a fading vapour, the girl sank to the floor and Bardow rushed to her side.
Keren could only sit there, with Nerek's steadying hand on her shoulder. When she glanced outside she saw a city, hills and distant fields, and felt a tearless numb relief. At last, the dawn had come.
Upon an ocean of death,
Cities of pain draw near.
—
The Black Saga Of Culri Moal
, xvi, 10
One
After a difficult ride through fields cluttered with the bloody debris of battle, Gilly found the Lord Commander upon the old fort ridge, seated at a smouldering fire with a beaker of mulled wine in his left hand while a physician bandaged his right shoulder. Mazaret greeted him warmly, sat him down with some wine of his own, then gave an account of the night's events. He told of how he and Yasgur became separated, then later joined forces and drove their attack towards the ridge. At that point, it appeared that a battle of sorcery had broken out amid the ruins of the fort, while from the sky had come scores of nightmarish creatures, attacking indiscriminately.
As the Mogaun broke and scattered in panic, Mazaret and Yasgur kept enough of their men together to make a determined push for the ridge. But they got there too late. From its foot, where bands of Mogaun fought a desperate last stand, Mazaret had looked up to see a glowing man throw the limp form of another onto the back of a nighthunter before climbing up himself. Then with a few massive wingbeats it had launched itself into the greying sky...
Mazaret paused in his tale and dismissed. Then he leaned forward with elbows on knees, his gaze level, iron straight.
"I know why you're here, Gilly. You've hardly said a word, and have just let me talk on and on." He took a deep, careful breath. "She is dead...isn't she?"
Gilly felt his inner misery slide into a kind of helpless anger, and he cursed Bardow for having forced this black burden upon him.
"Yes," he said simply. "But she did not fail - "
"How?"
"There was a struggle in a tower above the High Basilica. She banished one of the Daemonkind and sent the Crystal Eye back with Keren and then..."
Mazaret silenced him with a raised hand. "It's too much to hear...and too little."
He drained off the last of the wine and without another word rose and walked away from the fire. Gilly watched him go over to where a dozen horses were hitched around a young tree, and untie one. Moments later he was riding from the ruins, down the long slope of the ridge towards Besh-Darok. At the foot, he turned and headed southwest, riding hard as if fleeing the dawn.
Gilly heard footsteps behind him and looked to see Yasgur approach.
"Will his grief break him, ser Gilly?" asked the prince.
"Yes," Gilly answered in an unsteady voice. "I believe it will. But what matters is that he heals afterwards."
And maybe then I can tell him about his brother.
Out across the fields and broken meadows, the first pyres of the battle's dead were being lit, but the rider never looked back.
Two
From a balcony half-way up the Keep of Night, Alael looked down at the gardens of the Courts of the Morning. Birds flitted to and fro in the early afternoon sun, a couple of sheep wandering around grazing, and solitary gardener tended a large, sprawling heskel bush adorned with violet litrilu blooms. But she took no joy in the sight. A sense of desolate futility gripped her and nothing, not even the flowers and bowls of fruit decorating her bedchamber, could dispell it or the foreboding of her dreams.
She had not wanted to be an instrument of destiny, and had told Uncle Volyn as much during their ill-contrived attempt to flee Oumetra. Thereafter, events had conspired to coerce her into that very role, and now the Lord Commander and Prince Yasgur had offered her the crown.
I have been the Earthmother's thrall,
Alael had wanted to scream at them.
How can you offer the throne to the puppet of a god who hungers only for revenge?
There were footsteps in the chamber behind her. It was Tauric. He still wore the battered leather jerkin, but now a dark blue cloak hung from his shoulders. There was no need to ask how he was – he had the hollow look which came from anguish and lack of sleep. With his metal hand he took a gezel fruit from a bowl at the foot of the bed, and came out to join her on the balcony. For a moment he stood still and silent, weary eyes taking the view of the palace and High Spire with its smoke-blackened upper windows. Then he spoke in a rush:
"I wish I had your power!"
Tears welled in his eyes. Head bowed he covered his face with his ordinary hand while leaning on the stone balustrade with the other. The gezel fell half-crushed on the tiled floor.
"Enemies...become friends..." he said, voice shaking. "Then friends turn out...to be enemies...and m-my real father is a... monster!..."
Alael's heart ached with pity for him, this boy forced to endure a man's fate. She reached out to draw him to her, to rest his head on her shoulder, and to do the only thing that could be done.
Listen.
Three
"We could break him in body and mind," said Thraelor with speculative malice. "I would find that most amusing, in the light of what his creatures did to my city."
"The consequences would be uncertain," pointed out Kodel. "Could it be possible that the fragment of the Lord of Twilight he carries would find another host? What disaster might come of that?"
"Yes," said Grazaan. "Better to keep him shackled here for now, and decide his fate later."
All three Shadowkings then glanced at Byrnak, awaiting his response. He smiled.
In a darkened chamber deep below the Basilica, Ystregul the Black Priest hung before them in a specially remade iron casket. Suspended on heavy chains linked to the corners of the ceiling, the casket covered every part of him except his face. The eyes glared and rolled and the lips mouthed curses and imprecations, but such grimacing happened very slowly and the voice was a low buzzing sound without sense or meaning. Within the spell cast upon him, time crawled.
"I agree," Byrnak said. "But what is to be our purpose now? Are we still intent on relinquishing all that we are in order that the Lord of Twilight may become whole?" He surveyed the reluctant faces, and nodded. "I thought not. Yet we must deal with him in the end."
"Could there be some way to employ the Weaving of Souls that does not result in our personal obliteration?" Kodel asked. "Perhaps we should put the Acolytes to work on the problem."
Heads nodded.
"In the meantime," Byrnak said. "We need to plan the reconquest of our domain. Our hasty brother has all but wrecked the regard and loyalty we had from the clans, and left us with few available stratagems. There is one, however, which offers a much-needed certainty."
Grazaan gave a wintry smile. "Gorla and Keshada."
"Gorla and Keshada," Byrnak repeated. "Yasgur and those rebels are too weak to challenge the northern warlords, with or without our help. By the time they feel able to, Gorla and Keshada will be ready, along with our new armies. Which the Acolytes assure me will have many willing spirits."
Grazaan and Thraelor exchanged a look. "We shall begin at once," Thraelor said and the two of them faded from the chamber.
Kodel gave Byrnak a thoughtful look.
"Do you trust them?" he said.
"To carry out the seedings? - yes. I also expect them to seek advantages that suit them."
"Of course," Kodel murmured. "I shall gather together our remaining Acolyte masters and exhort them to explore our problem with the Weaving of Souls."
Departing, he left Byrnak alone with the imprisoned Ystregul and the compass of his own inner perceptions.
That will have to suffice for you,
he thought inwardly.
We will not pay the price of oblivion.
But the only answer was silence, a deep, secretive silence.
The End
(To be continued in SHADOWGOD)
To my agent, the indefatigable John Parker, and my editor the inestimable John Jarrold, and to Steve Stone, artist non pareil! And to Rob Holdstock and Chris Evans for taking Waltz In Flexitime all them years ago.
To my brave readers of the 1st draft – Dave W, Dave McG, Eric, Ian, Fiona, Alison, Stewart, Derek H, Neil, Phil, Al, Craig, Barry, and Niall.
To Stewart Robinson, long-time buddy, soulbrother, musician and guru manque - without whom I might have ended up an MP or an engineer – and Alison, Bobby, Alan, Dave R. and Ann, Colin and Adrienne (and the six-legged beastie known as Tranceport).
To David Wingrove, writer among scribblers, prince among men, whose unfailing friendship and sharp-eyed criticism has helped me reach higher.
To Bill King, Eric Brown, Keith Brooke and Ian McDonald, the four Musketeers of British SF. Salute, mon braves! And to Bill Hicks, who rocked!
To Dave McGillivray, staunch friend and fellow C&C Red Alert addict, and Derek Cameron who knows a good game when he sees one. To Melanie, woman of grace and astonishingly good taste in music; and to Antje – Tuus! And to Gary Gibson, publishing magnate and king of the layouts!
To the Glasgow SF Writers Circle, past and present, including Veronica, Duncan, Neil, Gary G, Gerry, Phil, Paul, Al, Irene, Elsie, Graham, Jims Whyte and Steel, Roddy, Barry (the Ferg), Richard, Craig, John, Andrew J, Mike M. Also, Cuddles, Vince, Brian Waugh, Jim Campbell, Russell, Neil at Fshock.
To Peter and Sarah, and the Cobleys of Leicester, and to the Bradys and the Mackenzies, wherever they may be.
To my English teacher, Miss (Ada) Matheson – well, you did tell me not to stop writing…
To Iain Banks, Elizabeth K Ewing, Bill Grant, Noel Hannan, Bruce Sterling, Norman Spinrad, Simon Ings, Ken McLeod, Jack Deighton, Charles Stross, and Steve Brown – bestowers of advice, encouragement, inspiration and Tao!
To Nick Mahoney and Ian Sales, for the immortal Lyre and Turkey Shoot. And to JFM for squeegeeing my 3rd eye before I even knew I had one.
To the old Strathents Crew, 1979-1983 – they knew no fear! Likewise, the GCCS crowd at Strathclyde Students Union, circa 1983-1988.
To the writers who have inspired me by their example, among whom I include (as well as those already mentioned), Harlan Ellison, John Buchan, JRR Tolkien, David Gemmell, Robert Silverberg, George RR Martin, Tim Powers, David Brin, JV Jones, Roger Zelazny, Vernor Vinge, Jack Vance, Walter J Williams, Robert E Howard, and many more.
And for the music that has provided the score for the writing process – Porcupine Tree, Tranceport, Peri Urban, Black Sabbath, BOC, Berlioz, Shostakovich (specifically the Leningrad Symphony), Carl Orff (Carmina Burana), Vaughan Williams (Tallis Fantasia etc), Van Der Graaf Generator, IQ, Yes, Monster Magnet, Paradise Lost, NIN, Sisters of Mercy, The Tea Party, Ozric Tentacles...and the rest.
And in no particular order, I would like to offer thanks to Gigantor, Noggin the Nog, Marine Boy, Ben Okri, the Prisoner, King Tut`s WahWah Hut, Airfix model kits, the Koei Corporation, and the Café India buffet. Oh yeah!
THE SHADOWKINGS TRILOGY
Shadowkings*
Shadowgod*
Shadowmasque*
HUMANITY'S FIRE
Seeds of Earth
The Orphaned Worlds
The Ascendant Stars
Ancestral Machines
SHORT STORY COLLECTION
Iron Mosaic
*available as a Jabberwocky ebook
The adventure continues in...
SHADOWGOD
Ancient powers stir all across the domains of the defeated Khatrimantine Empire. Its last defiant defenders have won a great victory and a new, young emperor has been crowned. A harsh, unseasonal winter has shrouded the land. In the icy north, the Shadowking Byrnak musters his forces, determined to crush the Imperial remnants and their allies. But his freedom to act is hampered by the intrigues of the other four Shadowkings, while a ghostly fragment of the Lord of Twilight haunts them all. If fulfilled, his dread destiny will devour the foundations of the world...
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