Shadowmasque (35 page)

“On to the next bastion!” she cried above the noise.

Pausing to toss another firedagger into the half-skeletal face of a giant undead brigand, he followed her to the improvised bridge. Tashil strove to keep her feet on the rungs as she hurried across, and when she got to the other side she urged the others to do the same. Gillat was the last over and he had to fight off two undead assailants and one of the living raiders before he was able to step onto the horizontal ladder. A yard or two from salvation his footing slipped but he held on and crawled the rest of the way on hands and knees. Once he was safe, the rest dragged the ladder across too, dislodging a couple of the enemy down into the milling crowd.

Tashil had a desperate plan — to use the ladder in a similar fashion to bridge the gap between this workshop and the fence that ran along the back lane and thus escape back into the maze of alleys. She quickly explained this to the others and they were about to manhandle the ladder over to the roof’s rear wall when a man carrying a small silver object leaped up over the wall and landed nimbly on the roof before them.

“Time to pay the price for your folly,” he said, gesturing at the ladder which promptly burst into flames. There were fearful, angry cries as the ladder fell clattering on the rain-puddled roof. The man studied them as he strolled over and casually rested one booted foot on the low wall, grinning as a stream of his undead servants emerged from the stair hatch behind him.

“Who are you?” Tashil said, angry in her despair.

“Captain Bureng is my name, fair swordmistress,” he said. “Although when this is over I may have to take on a title more befitting my new standing….”

“Your new standing?” Tashil said. “Please, Captain, explain further.” And in her thoughts she said —
Dardan, we need you!

Bureng laughed while holding up the silver thing he held, which she realised was a mirror and also the heart of the Wellsource spell that was maintaining the host of the undead. To Tashil’s eye, it was like the burning core of a web of threads extending in every direction and she knew that only its destruction could ensure the invaders’ defeat.

“Your friend cannot answer because very likely he is fighting for his life,” Bureng said, glancing at the dozens of black-eyed revenants now gathered on the rooftop. “As for my new standing…well — as I look around me, I see an empire badly in need of leadership, a throne without an emperor…”

“Actually, we already have on,” Inryk said. “Admittedly, he’s not too bright, but at least he has the virtue of moderate sanity.”

Bureng gave him a look of deadly glee. “I think I’ll kill you first,” he said and took a step forward, his free hand raised and burning with emerald fire.

There was a bright burst of light and a loud thud as a sorcerous bolt of power struck the edge of the roof where Bureng had just been standing. The dazzling flash lit up the rain-whipped rooftop in a brief instant of startled reactions, then Bureng heedlessly stepped up to the smoking, shattered hole in the stonework and waved his fist at one of the tall buildings on the other side of Onwyc Parade.

“Come now, brother!” he bawled against the rush of the wind and the rain. “Why so timid? Meet me face to face -”

A second bolt lanced out of the darkness and crashed into the crowd of revenants, destroying several, knocking many more off their feet or over the side of the roof. As Bureng ranted and railed at his unseen adversary, Tashil turned to the others.

“If we take him by surprise, we could get hold of that mirror,” she said. “That’s where the power over the undead resides.”

There were nods all round and as one they charged at him, but a short scrawny man standing nearby yelled a warning and Bureng turned to meet their attack. He brought the mirror round blazing with power and gave Gillat a mighty blow which threw him off to the side, then landed a fist squarely in Inryk’s chest. But Atemor managed to wheel behind him and wrap his arms around the man’s throat while Rog went for a sliding kick at his legs.

They all went down in a tangled heap of grunts and roars of fury. Tashil had got hold of the upper part of the mirror and was trying to tug it away but Bureng was holding on for dear life. She was thinking of using her other hand to get out a dagger to stab his hand when Bureng’s voice took on an eery, sawing quality that grew louder while apparently emanating from his body. Suddenly it was like a terrible heat invading her hands and arms as she wrestled and fought for the mirror, a hot buzzing stabbing at ears and eyes. A kind of animal panic took hold and she had to let go and get away from that burning vibration, as did the other apart from Atemor who held on to Bureng’s neck with grim determination. But Bureng was possessed with eldritch power and dragged Atemor with him as he got to his feet then reached round for the young warrior. Tashil was about to throw herself at him again when a tall, gaunt figure dived between them and dealt Bureng a blow to the face that brought blood from his face and sent him reeling.

The newcomer then swiftly seized the hand grasping the mirror and wrenched it free. Still struggling against Atemor, Bureng bellowed in rage as the tall man held the mirror out in one hand and stared at it. All around was a scene of mayhem, Rog and Gillat fighting like madmen against the mob of dead brigands, Inryk regaining his feet and loosing firedaggers at them while sheets of rain swept over them all.

The tall stranger seemed to shut it all out as he gazed at the mirror. Then the complex, interwoven pattern on the mirror began to glow a dirty orange, then ruby red then brightened to the colour of gold in a forge…all the undead brigands ceased their fighting and clawing and pushing, and turned to regard the mirror. The pattern upon it was white hot now and as it slowly sagged and melted, the hundreds of revenants on and around the workshops and everywhere across the city of Sejeend uttered a collective, mournful moan and broke apart, every shrivelled, rag clad form collapsing into a heap of bones and crumbling, dusty matter into which streams of water ran.

As the stranger tossed the buckled remains of the mirror down into the street, where it clinked on the cobbles, Bureng let out a howl of fury and twisted his shoulders, trying to dislodge Atemor. As he did, a blazing bolt flew down from the high buildings opposite and struck the roof nearby, engulfing them both in a deafening eruption of chaotic brilliance amid which shadowy figures went flying. When Tashil’s eyesight recovered she found that she and the others were crouched on a rooftop strewn with heaps of wet bones. Smoke and vapour rose from a charred hole where the bolt had struck and near the centre of it a figure was sprawled. As she stumbled over she saw that it was not Bureng, who had vanished, but her brother.

Atemor lay on his side, still and unbreathing. An awful quivering fear gripped her as she crouched down beside him. Some of his hair was missing and there was a ghastly, dark red wound high on his neck, beneath one ear, yet his rain-beaded face seemed calm, the eyes half-open as he was about to fall asleep or had just woken…

Tashil could hear Dardan’s voice nearby and sense Calabos’ farspeech calling to her on the fringes of her mind. But all she could think about was how her father would blame her for Atemor’s death, how she had failed to protect him….

* * *

The tears and the rain ran down Rikken’s face into his sobbing mouth or down his neck as hauled the small, two-wheeled cart containing Captain Bureng along a sidestreet. Everything had gone wrong — the talisman mirror had been wrecked, the undead army had been unmade, the
Mocker
’s crew were either dead or scattered, and the Captain had scarcely seemed alive when Rikken had dragged his scorched, inert form out of the filthy alley after his fall off that roof. He had been lucky enough to find the rudimentary handcart in a small shed not far along the back lane. But finding a safe route back to the pier where the
Mocker
was moored was proving a fateful test.

Many buildings were afire and some citizens had banded together to protect their shops and houses while gangs of drunken looters and roughs roamed freely from street to street. Of the army and the city guard there was no sign except for overheard rumours that there were running battles over at the wharves by the sea gates. There were, however, enough people out and about to make Rikken fear the chance of being stopped so he snatched a discarded piece of sacking from a backyard midden and draped it over Bureng’s unconscious form.

Then it was a maniacal progress through the rainy streets, trying to avoid anyone by steering the cart along alleys and through back courts. Those who accosted him were usually dissuaded by the story that he was taking his dead dog across town to the apothecary, then letting drop that the dog had died from the black yaws. Which was usually enough to have them wide-eyed and clasping a hand over nose and mouth while making tracks to the other side of the road.

At last the tall gates of to the Silver Landings came into view as he pushed Bureng out from a muddy side alley. As he crossed the wide street he imagined that hundreds of eyes were watching his every move and it was an effort of will to try and appear relaxed and unhurried, as if this was something he had done every day for years. Moments later he was through the gates and pushing the cart quickly north along the quayside, eyes eager to find the
Mocker
’s lines in the darkness.

But instead of dozens of dark, decayed ships moored along the wharves and quays, there were clusters of slanted masts jutting from waters clogged with broken timbers, tangled rigging and ragged pieces of sailcloth. Rikken slowed in amazement, uncomprehending for a moment until the slow realisation came upon him that the destruction of the mirror talisman had brought about the sinking of Hanavok’s fleet as well as the disintegration of his undead army.

And as he splashed along the dockside, weaving around heaps of bones and dead bodies, a sense of mortal fear and loss grew in him when he saw that the
Mocker
’s berth at one of the main piers was empty. He could just make out the lamps of a ship about half a mile out and heading for open sea, and he thought he recognised the lines of the
Mocker
as it faded into the rainy night.

“Gone,” he whispered. “It’s gone ‘n left us….”

Then he noticed movement along the now-vacant pier, a sprawled figure trying to rise quite near to one of the few hanging lamps still alight. Pulling the cart and the captain, he hurried along towards it and was startled to see that it was Captain Logrum, who brought out a dagger as he drew near. Then Logrum saw who it was and let his dagger hand fall.

“Bureng’s underling,” he said and laughed, but the laugh turned into a deep, hacking cough which etched pain into his features. His hair was matted to his skull and the steady rain had soaked him through, and as Rikken crouched beside him he saw blood pooling beneath legs clad in slashed breeks.

“Hamstrung me and threw me on the pier,” Logrum said.

“Who?”

Anger flared in Logrum’s eyes and water dripped from his beard. “Flane,” he said. “Shadow-cursed, red-eyed bastard! And he left me another little gift before he sailed…” The big man pulled aside a fold of his shirt to reveal the broken stump of an arrow sticking out of his chest. “Barbed arrow,” he said, voice wheezing. “Flane did it by hand to make sure it went into the lung, just so I’ll take a while to die…” He paused for another bout of agonised coughing that left him pale and trembling.

“Have you seen aught of Raleth?” he said.

“Nothing,” Rikken said.

“Wonder if he ran into one of ‘em tall bastards…don’t know who they was but they were after them talismans. I saw one of ‘em leap into the middle of Zanuur’s mob of walking corpses and suddenly they’re turning on Zanuur and his men, tearing them apart, ripping off heads and arms. Same thing happened to me, got jumped by one of ‘em tall ‘uns, grabbed my bear statue — don’t know what he did but next thing I know everything went mad…lucky for me there was an open window nearby…”

He paused to glance with narrow eyes at the handcart and it covered cargo. “What’s on the cart?”

Rikken froze with uncertainty, then reasoned that Logrum was incapable of being a threat.

“My captain,” he said.

Logrum smiled sourly. “So Bureng’s till alive, eh? Don’t look too lively to me…” He stopped as a spasm of pain forced a groan from his lips, “…too much, devil’s pain….” He stared at Rikken. “Take my dagger, push it into my heart -”

“No,” said Rikken, backing away. “No, I couldn’t…”

Logrum cursed and spat at him. “Crawl away then, you worm! Leave me…have to do it myself…”

Rikken grabbed the cart’s handles and pushed it back along the pier, pausing on the stone dock look back. He was just in time to see the half-raised Logrum fall forward onto his face. Through the hiss of the rain he heard a grunt and knew that the captain of the Vandal Lord was dead. Rikken’s feelings of isolation swelled and he crouched down beside the handcart, and leaned his head against the wet wood, fighting tears, not knowing what to do.

Then one idea forced its way into his thoughts —
Hide
.

Yes, that was it. He would find somewhere safe for them both to hide, and where he could tend to the captain’s wounds. And when he was strong, he’d come out from his hiding place and crush all his enemies!

Leaping to his feet, he took hold of the cart with its motionless, covered passenger, and started back along the dock. A new certainty was flowing through him now, and another word came to him —
Food
. Yes, there would be plenty of unattended shops and stalls in the area, so getting food should be easy.

…Weapons
— ah, plenty of bodies lying around who won’t be needing their blades no more…

…Money
— probably get that from the same place, or abandoned houses, even…

Spirits fly in darkness,
O’er wrathful gulfs of sleep.
Spirits fly in darkness,
On errands foul and deep.

—Tazay,
Prekine Poems

The rain and the wind came out of the raw blackness of the ocean’s nightbound realm to batter and claw at the buildings and godowns all along Besh-Darok’s waterfront. Countess Ayoni watched the storm from the near-empty common room of a dockside inn called the Yardarm, looking out of a small, latticed window which she had wedged open slightly. The occasional gusty draught brought sprinklings of droplets and made the flames flutter in her table’s ornate lamp.