Yasgur nodded. "The uprising in Oumetra."
"You know of it. How?"
"I have...associates in Hargas, in south Kejana. They tell me that there was revolt and fighting in Oumetra which led to the death of Begrajic, a lesser chief, and the defeat of his warriors and the mercenaries he had hired. The city is now in the hands of outlaws apparently led by a boy claiming to be Korregan's bastard son."
Impressive
, Byrnak thought.
He knows more of the details than I do
.
Yet dangerous, Lord
, Obax said in his mind.
What else might he know?
"Just so," Byrnak said to Yasgur. "The rebels will undoubtedly try to foment unrest throughout the south, therefore we must act before that happens. The rites of the Gathering will be postponed and the Host of Clans will ride forth tomorrow morning. I want you to command the vanguard."
The officer Ghazrek grunted in surprise, and Byrnak decided that if the man objected aloud he would have him torn apart by horses. But he remained silent, as did Yasgur for a moment, his face sombre. The bearded southerner, however, smiled slightly and seemed to nod to himself.
"You accord me a great honour, Lord," Yasgur said carefully.
"Not so," Byrnak said, picking up the second message slip. "There are doubts about your loyalty to the Clans and to the memory of your father. Leading the vanguard against the rebel vermin would demonstrate otherwise."
"Doubts about my loyaty?" Yasgur leaned forward, anger quickening in his face again. "Who has been spreading these poisonous lies? My honour is unmarred, and my allegiance to the cause of my father is unbroken. Who would deny it?"
"This does," said Byrnak, holding up the second slip of paper. "A message from our observers in your city of Besh-Darok, telling of great numbers of your troops, almost half of your entire army, riding out into the country this very morning." He tossed the message onto the table. "You came here with six hundred warriors of the Firespear clan, and omitted to mention the additional seven thousand which you also now have in the field..."
"Great Lord Byrnak," Yasgur said. "Before leaving, I gave my generals the authority to act as they see fit in defence of my lands - clearly, they also have received word of the revolt in Oumetra and are taking steps to prevent any similar uprising in Khatris. There is nothing more to that message than this, Great Lord, nothing, I swear it. The soul of my father would rise up and strike me down were I ever to take arms against my own people!"
A pretty speech
, mused Obax.
He almost means it
.
"So, you will lead the vanguard?" Byrnak asked.
"I shall," Yasgur said without hesitation. "The Firespear warriors would be proud to - "
"The vanguard will consist of Doubleknives and Bloodfists. Your warriors shall come under my personal command, but you may keep a small personal guard, along with your disrespectful underling and this other one." And as Byrnak turned his gaze upon the southerner, he felt something stir within him, a shifting in the shadows in his mind, a presence focussing its attention, pushing its way to the front of his thoughts -
A seed, this one. A seed of disaster and triumph...
Byrnak sat frozen, immobile in the grip of a dark will.
Yet still he is prey. As you are prey. Submit, and you are mine. Defy me and you will be consumed...
Vision blurred into grey and blood red. He was vaguely aware of voices raised in concern, saying his name over and over, then heard Obax insisting that the audience was at an end. All whispers in the background as that deathly voice spoke on as if to itself, now like the rushing moan of a whirlwind, then harsh and resonant like syllables of iron, rising to a screeching pitch, or falling to a deep, bestial drone from which only snatches and fragments of words emerged.
When at last the chaos subsided and his sight was restored, he found he was lying on the floor of his tent, wrapped in a thick woollen blanket. Weak candleglow came from the table, and the figure seated there he recognised as Obax. The Acolyte noticed his recovery and leaned over him.
"Are you well, Divine One? Can you speak?" The priest's face was full of a fearful eagerness. Pinpoints of reflected light gleamed in those grey-white eyes, and a faint patina of perspiration shone across the hollow-cheeked features. "Can you understand me?"
Byrnak levered himself up on his elbows and smiled maliciously. "Only too well, Obax." An odd exhaustion filled him but he masked it with glee. "How oppressed you must feel by the absence of divinity, by the way I hold on to myself."
The Acolyte looked shaken. "Lord, forgive me, but I heard the voice of the Bringer speak through you - "
"And what did you hear?"
Obax hesitated. "It was in a very ancient language, a temple argot once spoken in the cold valleys north of Keremenchool. I was only able to understand a few words and phrases, but it was as if the Bringer was talking to himself, asking himself questions and answering them." The Acolyte shuddered, but his features were full of the believer's fire.
Byrnak shifted his weight to lie propped on his right arm, gazing thoughtfully up at the candle. So Obax never heard what was said about Yasgur's companion, the southerner, or about Byrnak's own fate.
Defy me and you will be consumed
....
A curious urge to laugh rose in him but he suppressed it and instead tried to sense the inner terrain of his thought. But the shadows within were still and seemingly empty, unlike those in the tent around him. The guttering candle flame threw great flickering shapes of blackness across the patterned canvas and the long banners decorated with the many symbols of the Mogaun. The half-parted drapes at the tent entrance shifted in a light breeze and somewhere outside a flag was flapping. Through the drapes Byrnak could see a slice of the night, black as priest's ink, strewn with motes and glints, and he pictured the camp beyond, the thousand or more tents, the smouldering fires, the guards patrolling, the ostlers tending to the huge herd of horses penned to the north. He imagined seeing it all from above, then moving west across the raised-up flatness of the plateau of Arengia to the coast of Ebro'Heth and out to sea, to the ocean, its deep abyssal blackness reflecting the night with no horizon in sight at the far-off edge of the world...
He let out a long, muted sigh. "I am weary," he said to Obax. "Help me up."
Grasping his servant's arm, he got to his feet. A passing dizzyness made him sway for a moment, then he shook off Obax's hand and walked unsteadily through the flaps to the rear of his tent, where he collapsed onto the fur-heaped pallet that was his bed. Obax brought the candle in and balanced it on a two-thirds empty weapon rack. Byrnak did not look round, but he could almost feel the Acolyte watching him for several moments. He heard a murmur, a benediction perhaps, or more likely an invocation, then the rustle of cloth and muffled footsteps receding.
Pale gold was the candle's light. It gleamed on the points of carelessly stacked spears and the blades of a matched pair of horse gaivals, and made the burnished face of a bronze shield glow. As he lay there on his side, he could see part of his face in the shield, his features lined, his beard untrimmed, his eyes heavy. Grey webs of sleep were starting to fall on his thoughts, but before he could enjoy that slow, gentle smothering, something pierced it, something familiar, a voice.
Lord, my lord, do you hear me?
He struggled to keep his eyes open, and thought he saw a faint shape in the polished shield, a wraith figure standing with arms held out, imploring.
My lord, your most faithful servant seeks your counsel
...
"Nerek..." he whispered, and reached out his hand. But it was a hand made of dream, and it dissolved in sleep's incoming tide.
* * *
Gilly Cordale sat on a stool next to an iron brazier half-full of glowing embers, warming himself while Yasgur, prince of Besh-Darok and chieftain of the Firespear Clan, paced back and forth along the length of the tent.
"What they say is true after all!" Yasgur was saying. "This Great Lord, this Byrnak, is a host of the Lord of Twilight. The way his face changed..." He shook his head in wonder. "I have heard others call him Shadowking, same as that Ystregul . Not ones to make enemies of, eh?"
Gilly nodded, remembering how Byrnak had been staring at him when that misty aura began to appear. The aura was pale and wispy at first and clung to the man's form like a second skin, then a tinge of amber and crimson had flowed into it like a vapour of torchlight and blood. As Byrnak's features were blurred, another face had emerged over his like a crimson mask whose cold eyes seemed to look at things which were not there while a cruel mouth spoke and smiled and laughed. Gilly had heard almost nothing, just a muffled syllable or two, before the priest Obax, clearly in a panic, unceremoniously bundled them out of the tent.
It had been terrifying, Gilly realised, almost as much as that moment when he and Suviel had beheld Raal Haidar's transformation into one of the Daemonkind. Then there was that sorcerous confrontation at the burnt-out village, and the encounter with the tortured singer, Avalti, and those lines of prophecy -
an iron fox, eyeless to the hunt
...
He shivered.
I am not a young man
, he thought.
I have survived thirty-one summers and had my share of fights and seen sights both terrible and glorious. But I have witnessed more dread sorceries in the last week and a half than a gang of kings. What can ordinary men do in the face of such power, except make jokes before they're swept away by the storm?
Then he grinned.
Well, why not? If the jokes are good enough, perhaps the gods will laugh and be lenient
.
"You're amused, ser Cordale," said Yasgur. "What at?"
"The look on the Acolyte's face, lord," he said, thinking quickly. "Never have I see a man more unprepared for divine intervention."
Yasgur smirked at that, then began to laugh, his hilarity growing till there were tears in his eyes. He pulled up a second stool and sat down, shaking his head and wiping his eyes as Byrnak looked on in a kind of wonderment.
"Ah, you're a fine companion, Gilly. Now, while we wait for Ghazrek to return with the food, I wish to hear your thoughts on our meeting with the Great Lord."
The irony of it
, Gilly thought.
After years as an advisor to Mazaret, I'm cast by sorcery into the very heart of our enemies, dispensing advice to one of their leaders. If this is Fate's idea of a joke, I'm dreading the punchline
.
"My lord," he said. "To be blunt, Byrnak wants you dead."
Yasgur grew sombre, stroking his well-clipped black beard. "You're certain about this?"
"By commanding the strongest army in this region, you pose the greatest immediate threat to Byrnak and Ystregul and whatever plans they're hatching. So he coerces you into leading the vanguard and has his spies wait for the first serious skirmish, then - " Gilly shrugged. "An unseen spear or sword thrust to the vitals, or an arrow gone astray, and it's done. You'll have a magnificent hero's burial, songs will be sung to sooth your spirit and battles will be fought in your name."
"Among my people, the dead are chased away by the shrieks of the womenfolk," Yasgur said matter-of-factly. "Sadly, I do not intend to have them shriek for me too soon. Surely my personal guards will be able to shield me from any assassin."
"In the heat of battle, lord?" Gilly shook his head, then an idea struck him. "But what if you were not the only chief in the vanguard..." Animated, he turned to Yasgur. "The Council of Chiefs are holding a battle rite of some kind tonight, am I right?"
"A feast of gorging and ale-guzzling, which I am expected to attend."
"Excellent. If you were to announce to the assembled chiefs your new command and predict the great victories, spoils and battle honours that must inevitably come your way, is it not likely that some of them will volunteer to ride at your side?"
Yasgur frowned, and Gilly had to force himself from showing any impatience. "No, they could not since their place is at the head of their own tribes." His voice became bitter. "A duty which is denied to me."
"Then what of their sons and brothers?"
"Some might be tempted, certainly, but honour would compel them - "
He broke off as a figure carrying several cloth-wrapped bundles pushed aside the tent flaps and entered. It was Ghazrek, his grinning bearded face bearing greasy signs of food already eaten, and his presence bringing a waft of beery fumes.
"At last - we eat!" he announced, kneeling down to unfold his bundles. Gilly felt his stomach rumble with a sudden hunger as pieces of roast fowl, stuffed iloba roots, baked pastries and other delicacies were laid bare. Some bottles of strong Rorgith wine were produced and uncorked, and as fingers dipped into the feast Ghazrek related what rumours and ragtalk he had come by concerning Byrnak.
"I've heard it said that he's raised the dead," he said through a mouthful of meat, " - turned men into goats and swans into women, and caused a stream of fire to pour out of a mountainside. And when he invaded some city away in the west, he brought the defeated generals together and swapped their heads around!" He mimed with his hands, and Yasgur snorted in disbelief.
"Who told you that?"
"A Doubleknife from Jefren."
"Hah! Doubleknives - horseloving goat thieves. And where did you hear the one about the river of fire?"
"From a Bearclaw...I know, I know - goatloving horse thieves!"
Both roared with laughter, and Gilly smiled politely.
Mogaun humour
, he thought.
I'll understand it eventually
.
Ghazrek bit on a leg of roast bird then gestured with it. "I heard something which I know to be true, though." He leaned in conspiratorially and went on in a quieter voice. "A serving girl told me that the Great Lord Ystregul suffered a strange fit earlier this evening, right in the middle of a meeting with his various lackeys, and it sounded very much what we saw in Byrnak's tent. Seems he had to be carried off to his sleeping chamber. Near unconscious, he was."