The Lord of Lies: Strange Threads: Book 2 (43 page)

Tyrellan turned his head slightly at Fazel’s question
.
‘There’s a light,’ he said. ‘Not far.’

You never ignore Fazel
, thought Rhobi.
And he’s nothing but bones and rot. Soon enough, you will be too.

For a moment the wind picked up, whipping Rhobi’s stringy hair into an orgy of snakes, ripping apart falling raindrops and turning
them to spray. The gust passed on, howling through the trees like a maddened spirit. Rhobi shivered.

Fazel sighed.

Battu travelled back to Skygrip quickly, speeding up the tower to the sceptre peak, to the long window that ran the length of the throne-room wall. The throne room itself was long and rectangular, the roof but ten paces high. At one end was a dais on which stood Refectu, throne of the Shadowdreamers. Beside the throne was an arch veiled by a curtain of shadow, the entrance to the Shadowdreamer’s private study. Opposite the dais was the throne-room entrance, a simple doorway leading to a winding corridor. The rest of the room was largely featureless. The walls were smooth though not flat, as ripples and imperfections showed in the surface of the rock. Cut into the walls were alcoves in which stood goblin guards, their faces shadowed beneath heavy helms, still as statues.

Battu’s body remained where he’d left it, gazing out the window over Fenvarrow, and for a moment he stared himself in the face. Then he drained into himself, like water filling a bottle, until he was contained in his own flesh. It always seemed a little tight after travelling as a flowing shadow.

He was a large man, broad of chest, with a head that seemed too big for his body. Silken black hair hung from a flat skull, down past his ears and longer at the back. His broad nose sat above thick pale lips, and his eyes were tiny creased pits. A dark cloak billowed around him, its movement independent of any breeze. It seemed to meld with the shadows, the edges of the cloth indistinct
and shifting. He blinked his earthly eyes, feeling again the cold breeze that came through the window, leaving the ledge shiny with a coat of condensation.

Battu hadn’t returned for the use of his own eyes, however. It was Fazel’s gaze he sought, the one undead created by Assidax who remained under Shadowdreamer control.

Assidax, a powerful necromancer, had cut further into Kainordas than any before her. She had been able to animate undead legions from bloody battlefields even as the fighting continued. Every death fed her army, tipping the balance inexorably towards a shadow victory. Battu had seen glimpses of those battles in the shadowdream – Kainordas soldiers frozen in terror as their once-comrades rose from the earth as new opponents. As land had fallen under Assidax’s control, the Cloud had grown to cover it. She had aimed to cover all Kainordas, but had made it only as far as Kahlay. In a desperate push the Kainordans had beat her back, and at the end of her reign, Fenvarrow was no larger than at the beginning. Remnants of her necromancy still remained, undead creatures over whom control had been lost.

When Battu had received his orders from the gods, he had put together special strike squads to move around Fenvarrow destroying undead wherever they found them. It seemed the gods preferred to add these souls to the Great Well than to leave them wandering about trapped in bones. The only ones Battu had left untouched were those pathetic souls on the border, for they made the Kainordans fear to cross.

Fazel, the mage, also remained, for he was unique amongst the creatures Assidax had created. She’d tied his soul to the throne Refectu, bound
it with twines of shadow, enslaving him to whomever sat there. It was well that, in this at least, Assidax had shown foresight. Fazel made for a most powerful minion.

Now, Fazel had a bug-eye implanted in his skull, a magical parasite through which Battu could see what Fazel saw. Battu regularly put them into his servants, or sent them flitting randomly into Kainordas in the hope that they would find an unknowing and useful host. The bug-eyes were bred in vats deep in Skygrip, and Battu was never satisfied with how many he created. He sought always to widen his network of spies, willing or otherwise.

One of his eyes unfocused as its vision was replaced by what Fazel saw in Whisperwood, far to the north. The undead mage was plodding at his usual pace. He never made any more effort than necessary in carrying out his instructions, and seeing what Fazel saw usually served only to frustrate Battu. Fazel’s hood hung low and he looked at nothing but the ground in front of him. Sometimes Battu had to watch for hours before Fazel would glance up. He was sure the mage seized upon every small rebellion that the strict confines of his servitude allowed. Fortunately, he did not have to wait long this time before Fazel raised his eye.

The two goblins – Tyrellan and the other one – were walking through trees ahead. Just visible through the driving rain and dense foliage was a light. Battu saw it for only a moment before Fazel’s gaze became downcast once more. It was long enough for Battu to learn what he wanted. His minions in Whisperwood were drawing close to the prize.

‘Curse this rain!’ growled Dakur. ‘I can’t see a damned thing!’

‘We’re still west of the path, aren’t we?’ said Elessa. ‘We must be close, unless that healer got his directions wrong. Or maybe he “tested” some of his herbs and imagined
the whole thing.’

Dakur smiled to himself. He knew Elessa must be terrified – the soft-faced girl had only just finished her training a few months ago and, while she was a talented mage, she had little real experience. Yet here she stood in much-feared Whisperwood, dress soaked through, hair slick against her skin, brave-faced and determined.

He cast his eyes about. ‘I can’t tell. It’s darker than an Ebon’s arsehole out here.’

Elessa bit her lip. ‘We’re running out of time, I think. We must hurry.’ Then she blinked. ‘Dakur!’

‘What?’

‘I saw something. A light! Just for a moment, but I saw it! Come on!’

She ran off ahead, and a moment later he saw it too, twinkling through the trees. The wind picked up, prickling him with leaves and twigs, making him shiver. There was something of
presence
about it, and Dakur felt like an intruder discovered.

‘Infernal forest,’ he muttered to himself and hurried to catch up to Elessa.

The wind passed on.

Corlas went to his son, who was sitting up in the cot looking troubled.

‘Don’t fret, little man,’ he said. ‘It’s only a storm. We’re safe in here tonight.’

His eyes came
to rest on Mirrow’s pendant, lying atop the table. She’d taken it off, along with everything else, for the birth. She’d wanted to have the child outside, before the trees, but when the trouble began he’d moved her back into comfort and warmth. He wondered now if he should have moved her at all, and the thought twisted painfully in his gut.

The pendant hung on a chain of black gold and was the size and shape of a small rock. What was remarkable was the strange pattern that shifted about its surface, a coalescence of greys, blues, black and white, tinges of orange and yellow. It was not colour so much as light, shining from within the stone. The Lady had given it to Mirrow when she’d been small, and she’d worn it every day he’d known her.

‘Here, little man,’ said Corlas, slipping the chain around the boy’s neck. The boy held up the stone for inspection and was instantly entranced. ‘Bit long on you now, eh? You’ll grow into it. Now you’ll always carry something of your mother with you.’

There was a knock on the door.

Corlas was so startled he almost jumped. Of those few strange souls who dwelled in the wood, none would come calling in a storm like this. Quickly he took his axe down off the wall.

‘Who is it?’ he called.

‘Representatives of the Open Halls!’

An old worry, long forgotten, slammed to the front of his brain. Surely they couldn’t have tracked him down here? Surely they didn’t care enough about one man’s desertion after all this time had passed?

Maybe they were lying.

‘Go to the window!’ Corlas shouted, pulling back the curtain.

Two bedraggled
forms appeared beyond the rivulets of rain: a woman in a white dress with hair plastered to her scalp, and a man with a sheathed sword wearing the badge of a blade. They were telling the truth, it seemed, but why were they here? If it was him they had come for …

Still holding the axe, he unbolted the door and stepped backwards. It banged open in the wind, sending rain flying into the hut. The woman and man ducked inside, obviously relieved to be out of the storm.

Corlas gestured at the fire. ‘Warm yourselves,’ he growled.

The two moved to the fire, but the woman seemed anxious and kept sending glances at his son. Corlas did not much care for the scrutiny in her eyes.

‘Why are you here?’ he demanded. ‘Have you wandered from the path?’

‘Yes,’ said the woman. ‘But with a purpose. My name is Elessa Lanclara and I’m a mage of the Halls. This is my personal guard, Dakur.’

Dakur nodded.

‘Why do you come to my home?’ said Corlas. ‘We do not tend to get travellers through these parts. At all.’

Elessa glanced at Dakur, who was matching Corlas’s stony expression. ‘Would you mind if I looked at your newborn?’ she asked.

‘Indeed I would,’ said Corlas, knuckles whitening on the axe. In truth, he hoped he would end up trusting this Elessa enough to let her inspect the baby. There
was
something strange about him, and she was a mage … as well as a woman. ‘Your purpose first,’ he counter-offered.

Impatience crossed Elessa’s face. ‘We’re in danger here,’ she blurted. ‘All of us. The child especially.’

‘What?’

‘The Shadowdreamer seeks
your child. His forces approach even as we speak. We must move from here, now!’

Corlas rolled his massive shoulders. ‘I have heard tales less wild that turned out untrue,’ he said. ‘And if any shadow creature tries to harm my boy, it will feel my axe just the same as you.’

‘You fool!’ hissed Dakur. ‘Can you not see what your child is?’

Corlas glanced at the cot. The boy was staring through the bars with wide eyes.

‘Untrusting of you, I think, like his old man,’ Corlas replied.

‘Have you never heard the prophecy, woodsman?’ said Dakur. ‘Concerning the birth of the child of power? The one who will upset the balance between good and evil?’

Something stirred in Corlas’s dormant memories of nights spent in taverns, drinking and gambling, talking of greater things and rubbish.

‘The child who will be born with
blue hair
?’ prompted Dakur forcefully.

Corlas shook himself. Those nights had been many years ago and he recalled them little. ‘I do not concern myself with popular superstition,’ he replied levelly.

The woman was staring distantly out the window, biting her lip. She did not seem
to be paying attention any more.

‘Popular superstition?’ said Dakur with a scowl. ‘It has been written so for a hundred years! You cannot –’

‘Quiet, the both of you!’ Elessa snapped, her voice charged with such power that Dakur and Corlas instantly fell silent. She was still a moment, head tilted, eyes glazed. Then: ‘It’s too late,’ she said. ‘They’re already here.’