Next was Welgarak. "Six hundred and forty riders," he said, thoughtfully fingering his forked beard. "And another score and ten who are my personal guard."
"Interesting," said Byrnak.
"How so, my Lord?" asked Welgarak.
"Only this, that in sixteen years you have learned nothing from the people you have conquered, whereas they have been watching and learning from you."
"You mean the uprising led by that vermin, Gunderlek." Gordag gave a derisive snort. "Thraelor and Grazan crushed him utterly at Rauthaz."
"Yes, after a week-long siege," Welgarak said. "And then only because the Acolytes sent a horde of eaterbeasts and nighthunters into the city." He shuddered visibly.
"You miss the point," Byrnak said, staring at Gordag who paled pleasingly. "Gunderlek trained a cadre of well-armed and armoured foot soldiers, but instead of using the old Imperial way of massed ranks in frontal charges, he copied the Mogaun manner of small, fast-moving groups drilled to raid or fight on their own or as part of a larger formation."
He straightened in his saddle, suddenly struck by a dizzy spell. The knowledge seemed to come from the air, yet he instinctively knew otherwise. He had discussed the Gunderlek rebellion with Grazan, but not down to such military detail. Could it be that somehow he was sharing knowledge with the other Shadowkings? When he concentrated, he caught glimpses of the siege at Rauthaz, the flames of burning buildings, the grey haze of smoke...all of it Grazan's memories, perhaps Thaelor's too.
The Mogaun chieftains were watching him now, frowns on their faces.
"Lord Shadowking," Obax said. "An emmisary approaches."
A rider was descending from the bluff, a man garbed in red and carrying a banner with the green flame sigil, its haft fixed to his right stirrup. Byrnak smiled. The Father of Flames had at last deigned to recognise his presence.
"Great Lord Shadowking..."
He turned back to see Gordag regarding him with a mixture of fear and determination. He nodded for the chief to go on.
"Lord, it is said that you...and your brothers...are the sons of the Lord of Twilight - "
"And you want to know if this is so?" Byrnak laughed. "Such insolence. Don't you realise that I could strike you dead where you stand, or burn your heart in your chest, or cleave you in two and keep one half alive in utter torment?" He let his voice grow quiet and deadly and Gordag took a step back. "But not this time. I believe that you can learn how to abase yourself before us, we who are His sons..."
He grinned at their confusion for a moment then looked to Welgarak. "Have a full accounting of the strengths of each tribe and clan drawn up by one of your servant scribes. If I am to be your general, I must know everything."
The herald was approaching, his mouth open and about to speak but Byrnak cut him off with a gesture. "You are here at your master's behest to invite us into his presence, are you not? Then say nothing, and lead the way."
Chastened, the herald turned his horse's head back the way he had come and rode off at a canter. Byrnak nodded sharply to Welgarak and the other chiefs, then followed with Obax at his side.
The tents up on the bluff seemed formal, like a camp separate from the one below. Shades of red predominated, mostly dark and arterial. Strangely shaped flags bearing unfamiliar symbols hung from thin laths of wood which protruded from every canopy. A gust of wind made them sway and bend, and sent smoke from the few campfires swirling among the tents. Byrnak caught odours of burnt torwood and overcooked meat as their guide brought them to the awning-sheltered entrance to Ystregul's great tent. A score of warriors wearing bulky leather armour and steel gauntlets stood guard outside, all holding in their hands heavy edged weapons, longswords and battleaxes mainly. Only after Byrnak had surrendered his own weapons were they allowed to pass.
The interior was like a single large chamber, its ceiling made to seem lower than the tent's height by great swathes of patterned silk draped across a cane framework. Lamps burned above the silken ceiling, casting a diffuse, many-coloured glow on the hides which carpetted the floor. Long flaps of material hanging along either side formed small alcoves in which men dressed in loose-fitting green garments sat cross-legged, heads bowed, hands resting palm upward on the floor. Not one of them looked up or so much as stirred as the newcomers passed by, and when Byrnak tried to peer into their minds there seemed to be nothing there, no presence, no intellect, a void.
Several people, some Acolytes, others clearly servants and scribes, were gathered around a couple of tables at the other side of the chamber. As the group of three drew near, a low voice spoke and all the subordinates stepped aside or left, revealing their master. Byrnak had thus far only encountered Ystregul in the dream-heavy environs of the Realm of Dusk, and then only a mere handful of times, during which he had appeared equal to the other Shadowkings in physique and aura.
Even though Ystregul was sitting in a massively carved ironwood chair, Byrnak could tell that he was the taller by at least a foot and a half. His head was larger and heavier around the jowls with a long black beard that narrowed to a point while a long mane of hair was carefully arranged in a fan across his shoulders. Dark, mesmerising eyes gazed from beneath powerful brows and full, wide, sensual lips twitched with a ghost of a smile. Without looking, Byrnak knew that Obax and the herald were on their knees in obeisance, such was the overwhelming impact of Ystregul's presence.
"Greetings, brother, and welcome to this most humble abode." The voice was deep and rich, full of authority.
Byrnak gave a bleak smile of his own. "Greetings," he said, glancing at the opulent surroundings. "Yes, adequate. Though I will understand if you want to retain most of the furnishings when you remove to wherever your new...abode will be. Which I hope will be soon, brother, since I have a great deal of work to do - "
Byrnak broke off as Ystregul threw back his head and burst out laughing.
"Honoured brother," he said, face bright with malign glee. "I have no need to move anywhere. Here I sit and here I remain."
"It was my understanding that command of the Gathering was to be mine."
Ystregul raised a languid hand and snapped his fingers. At once, utter silence fell about them so that only they could hear each other, at which Byrnak arched an eyebrow in wry appreciation.
"Your misunderstood," said the Black Priest. "You are to be general of the army, of its plans and its deployment when we march forth from this place. All else is under my hand,
my
direction."
"You intrigue me, brother. What else occupies your attention? On what matters do you busy yourself?" Byrnak strolled easily over to a hanging tapestry of silk and gold thread. "I'm just curious."
"My disciples have much work to do," Ystregul said, leaning back in the great chair. "Despite sixteen years of occupation, the Acolytes and their agents have utterly failed to root out and eradicate the verminous Earthmother creed. Even as I sit here talking to you, my will reaches out to my senior disciples, guiding and advising, all by means of the loyal servants you see seated to either side."
"They are soulbound?"
"That, and more."
For a moment Byrnak saw Nerek's face in his mind's eye, but pushed it aside. "These disciples," he said. "Are they garbed like these thralls of yours?"
"Quite similar, only in red."
"And have you provided them with various trappings, symbols, images, holy texts, litanies?"
"Everything that they may need."
Byrnak nodded slightly. "It must be most tasking," he said, ignoring the other's cold, unwavering stare. "Shaping a fake creed then going to great lengths to supplant a dying one. Such dedication. I'm almost surprised not to see your face on the banners and shields."
"It maintains the sense of mystery," Ystregul said thoughtfully. "But if you think that this is elaborate, you should see what domains of worship Thraelor and Grazan have created in Anghatan and Yularia."
"Such serves its purpose," Byrnak said. "And when the last of those feeble mages are in our hands, and the Great Prince assumes his rightful manifestation - " He made a sweeping, encompassing gesture, " - all this will be swept away."
Ystregul stared with cold amber eyes and a secret smile. "As will you, dear brother, as will you."
In that moment Byrnak suddenly realised a truth: The Black Priest was just as reluctant as Byrnak to give up his individual existence and embrace obliteration. The pleasure he took in his surroundings and in the exercise of power made that abundantly clear.
And there was something else. Byrnak felt hatred for him, instinctively and completely, and without the slightest shred of misgiving. And he knew that this hatred came from that dark shadow at the back of his mind.
I have got to get out of this place
, he thought to himself. With a slight gesture he cancelled the blanket of silence, then spun to face Ystregul with a bright smile.
"Brother, this has been a most instructive discussion but I have much to accomplish in a short space of time." He crooked a finger at Obax who rose to his feet. "We must prepare for whatever Yasgur may have in store for us, thus I must take my leave - "
"Ah, yes - Yasgur." Ystregul stood to his full impressive height. "There is news, which you would not be aware of since it came to me only moments before you yourself."
Byrnak paused and half-turned as the Black Priest went on.
"The son of Hegroun has sent word - he and his retinue shall be arriving by tomorrow evening." A grin widened in the bearded face. "He intends to play a full part in the Blood Gathering. It seems that you will have to make new plans."
Byrnak said nothing, just tilted his head in the slightest of bows then left with Obax at his side, full of the indefinable feeling that somehow he had been outmanoeuvred.
Cold wind brings a fine rain.
A branch trembles.
Withered leaves fall on the pool.
Tiny birds squabble nearby,
Scattering feathers in the grass.
While the far-away storm gathers its strength.
—Eshen Karedu, untitled fragment.
Dow Korren, speaker for the Northern Cabal, stood at the tall window, one foot resting on the low sill, and sipped his wine while looking out at Krusivel. Overhead, broken clouds raced across the sky, letting patches and shafts of midday sun through to the high valley. The main road along the edge of the lake was busy with squads of knights returning from patrol or drill, stableboys exercising mounts, women hauling laundry to and from the waters' edge, and knots of townsfolk out enjoying a gossip under the fitful sun.
"Rest assured, Lord Commander, I am impressed with your enclavement," he said. "I just thought it would be...well, bigger. Busier."
He offered a smile that was almost apologetic and Ikarno Mazaret found himself warming to the man. The earlier informal meeting with all eight members of the Northern Cabal's delegation had tested his patience to the limit. Some of the older delegates had been blunt to the point of insult about Krusivel, something that Gilly had warned him of before leaving with Suviel and Keren.
"They'll probably send the likes of Raboul, or Frinok, or Vuruag, boorish toads all of them. But their speaker will be a different matter, Dow Korren most likely. Now there's a negotiator, face like a brawler, mind like a Dalbari usurer."
To Mazaret, Dow Korren seemed more a wrestler than a common brawler. The man was barrel-chested, tall enough to look him in the eye and, as Gilly had implied, not the most handsome of men. A block of a head, bald and smooth, combined with a broken nose and heavy jawline to give an impression of stolidity, even brutishness. But the eyes were full of intelligence and humour, and his garments - grey trews, ochre shirt, and brown, pocketed tabard - were of the highest quality. The tabard was plain, lacking any insignia, and the only piece of jewellery he wore was a finger ring of fine silver mesh without stone or device. Mazaret, in his second-best ceremonial hauberk, felt at once garish and shabby.
Filling a bronze goblet with wine, he went over to join the Northener. "You're most tactful, Master Korren," he said. "Others in your delegation seem to think that Krusivel is deserted."
"An understandable conclusion, given your lack of new recruits," Korren said pointedly. "Some of my companions might go so far as to say that the Redoubt is open and undefended."
Mazaret laughed softly and shook his head. "Not at all, sir, not at all. Krusivel is ringed with watchposts, and squads of scouts regularly patrol the less visible approaches. Neither friend nor foe can advance upon us unseen and the permanent garrison of sixty veteran knights is more than enough to repulse an attack in these narrow ravines and passes."
Privately, though, he wished he had delayed yesterday's departure of the two new companies. Krusivel felt uncomfortably vulnerable, and the presence of two hundred and fifty knights would have greatly strengthened his negotiating position. But the Northern Cabal's delegation had arrived three days early, catching Mazaret unprepared.
"Tell me, Lord Commander," Korren said. "How would you describe your dealings with Captain Volyn and the Hunter's Children?"
Mazaret swirled the roseate wine in his goblet thoughtfully. It was no secret that a certain animosity existed between the Hunters Children and several Northern traders. "Amicable," he said. "We work well together."
"How vital would you say they are to the forthcoming campaign?"
He smiled. "Their importance cannot be underestimated."
Korren nodded judiciously, and sipped at his wine. "An appraisal you would presumably say applies also to your own troops."
"Without hesitation."
The Northerner regarded him levelly.
"What would you say, Lord Commander, if I were to offer you a thousand experienced and well-armed warriors?"
Mazaret masked his surprise and merely raised his eyebrows. "I would say - what are your conditions?"
"Few and straightforward," Korren said. "Simply put, we would ask you to delay the onset of your campaign by a month - "