Perhaps four hundred yards away, Yasgur and his men were drawn up on a low hogsback bare of bushes or any substantial cover. The blazing trees burned like gigantic torches and cast a lurid ochre glow upon the sight of massed Mogaun raging around the trapped soldiers, driving in with spear and blade while others launched stones and arrows.
The battle had not gone all the Mogaun's way. Much of the intervening distance was littered with trampled bloody debris, bodies of men and horses, smashed carts and broken weapons. The heaps of slain, of both sides, grew larger towards the hill.
For desperate moments Mazaret sat and eyed the savage spectacle. It was hard to be certain of numbers in such poor light, but he reckoned there to be at least two thousand Mogaun warriors grouped in bands and attacking with no apparent coordination. Yasgur had only a few hundred, formed in steady ranks with shields locked, yet they were being gradually whittled away by the enemy's sporadic assault.
The choice before him was stark. He could retreat, returning to a city in the grip of vile sorcery. Or he could lead his men in a headlong charge and break through the encirclement in the hope that he and Yasgur would have the strength to fight their way to the ridge.
He smiled grimly - in the end the choice was no choice at all.
Mazaret snatched his sword from its scabbard, whirled it over his head and uttered the battle-cry of a lost empire:
"The Tree and the Crown!"
His men took up the cry as they rode at his back from the wood and spurred their mounts into a thundering gallop across the ruined field. The ground was cluttered with the wrack of battle, and sodden with mud and blood. Near the hill, hundreds of Mogaun riders milled around, unprepared for such an attack, and by the time the tribal horns began blaring a warning the rebels were more than half way to their goal. Fifty yards on, a jostling band of Mogaun warriors turned to face the oncoming charge, but Mazaret's captains had already chivvied and prodded his men into a broad wedge with himself at the apex.
Some of the Mogaun had second thoughts about meeting such a furious onslaught head-on and were frantically reining their mounts aside. Others were bolder or more foolhardy and Mazaret suddenly found himself hurtling towards a bushy-bearded warrior wielding a long woodcutter's axe. Mazaret threw himself sideways in the saddle, dodging a wicked slicing blow, then slashed out with his own blade, and hand and axe fell to the ground in a shower of blood.
Then he was ascending the hillside towards a double-rank of shields which were parting to admit the reinforcements. Some Mogaun bands tried to take advantage of this but swift action by Mazaret's captains on both flanks kept them at bay. As he steered his horse into the relative safety of the shield wall, Yasgur cantered over to meet him.
"Your valour knows no bound, Lord Commander," he said. "As too, my gratitude. Now, what news of the rest of the army?"
Mazaret was too tired to keep his dismay from showing, and shook his head. The army had been more than half-way from the city to the ridge when they had encountered a pitched battle between rival parties of Mogaun. Both sides, thinking the rebels to be enemy reinforcements, turned and attack them. Moments later, another force of Mogaun rode out of the darkness and straight into the army's right flank, and the discliplined column dissolved into a chaos of furious, blind fighting.
Mazaret had been in command of the right flank and the rearguard, and when he realised the gravity of the situation he had gathered what men he could and sought to circle north around the confusion. Later he learned that Yasgur had taken similar measures, except that he had headed onwards, driving for the ridge, only to be halted by greater forces. Of the core of the army, comprising the bulk of the heavy cavalry, there was no word or sign.
"But we still number nearly a thousand, my lord," said Mazaret. "And we have discipline and a purpose."
"Yes," Yasgur said. "Against our combined forces, they cannot stand." He stared across at the dark mass of the ridge and the flashes of green fire that lanced down at indistinct groups trying to ascend the western slope. "We could feint towards the south, drawing those attackers, then charge up the - "
"By the Tree!" Mazaret said. "What is that?"
A glowing object, its shape vaguely manlike, soared over their heads towards the ridge and arced straight down into the ruined fort. There was a burst of light, then an odd, shifting glow began among the ruins.
"It seemed to come from the direction of the city," Mazaret said.
"Whatever it may be, my friend, we cannot stay here." Yasgur clapped a hand on Mazaret's shoulder. "Ready your men while I give orders to my captains. At my signal we shall break this shackle of horsemen and carry the fight to our enemies. And may the gods smile upon us!"
* * *
The almost-deserted throne room seemed to overflow with the night's cold air. Torchlight shone from an upper gallery and a glass oil lantern glowed on the floor near the centre of the great chamber, amazingly untouched by all that had happened only a short time before. But nothing could compare with the soft pearly radiance emanating from the massive figure which stood before the throne.
From where he stood, Bardow watched the manifestation of the Earthmother as she drew the remaining revenants to her and, one by one, took back their spirits into her keeping. Periodically another stone form, empty of its animating shade, crashed to the floor, joining the other heaps of rubble scattered around the dais. But it was the real living Alael about whom he was concerned, his worry prompted by memories of old fables of gods visiting mortals. Such tales told of a body of light which drew upon the strength of a worshipper, and the fatal consequences of too long a visit.
He glanced over at Medwin. When all the other mages slipped away during the battle between the two Shadowkings, Medwin had decided to stay, despite a twisted ankle and a wound in his shoulder. Now, on a overturned stone trough by the main door, he sat next to Tauric who was a picture of misery, hunched over with his head in his hands, both flesh and metal. Bardow regarded that remarkable limb for a moment, and wondered how deep Kodel's plans and purpose went.
He smiled wryly to himself.
To think that all along one of the Shadowkings have been among us. We need more than eyes to see this struggle through. Pity we don't have Kodel himself to question
.
After unmasking the Shadowking, the Earthmother had treated him with a contempt similar to that meted out to Ystregul, and had hurled him through the hole in the tower wall and out into the night.
As he reached a decision in his thoughts, Bardow nodded to himself. Then he made a slight hiss to catch Medwin's attention, and with mindspeech said:
Wait here
.
The elderly mage gave a weary nod and Bardow, gathering all his courage, came out from behind a wide pillar and strode down the central aisle. At the foot of the throne dais he stopped and bowed.
"Greetings, o Queen of Life and Death," he said. "Accept our praises, we beg of you, and be welcome."
"I need no invitation from such as you. The mages were among the least devout of our followers, yet they drank deep from the rivers of our beneficence, our richness. Save your empty praises, thou empty vessel. Your fear would be better received."
"All gods are feared," Bardow said before he could stop himself.
The radiant head, a misty semblance of womanhood, turned to regard him. Bardow felt a part of himself quail beneath that terrible, implacable gaze and he had to avert his eyes, concentrating instead on the hazy figure of Alael, hanging with eyes closed inside the shimmering torso.
"I have no time to debate meaning with you, mage. Say what you wish to say, then depart."
He breathed in deep. "Great Earthmother, the girl on whom your presence rests, grows weaker by the moment. Now that you have vanquished your foes, will you not have mercy and relinquish Alael to us before her life is spent?"
"Mercy?"
The air cracked with the word.
"No mercy was shown to my beloved by the betrayer! No hesitation, no regret, not a hint of remorse have I sensed from that foul murderer, or from the band of paltry spirits he has become. But I will have my revenge upon him when he becomes whole again, by whatever means.
"As for this girl, the bearer of the blood - she is strong and has much yet to give, and I will not do her harm. But I am not done here yet - see, they are coming!"
Thoughts whirling with the implications of all this, Bardow turned, following the Earthmother's outstretched hand. A new breeze was stirring the ash on the floor as the air near the hole in the wall began twisting and tearing, and a cold foreboding seized his thoughts.
* * *
For long, long moments Suviel struggled to remember the name of the woman who had freed her from the chamber of caskets and was helping her up these steep, stone stairs. The trembling weakness in her limbs was secondary to the strangeness now occluding her mind, making it seen like a house full of locked rooms once open to her. She knew she was in Trevada and that Bardow had sent her here to take back the Crystal Eye. But how she had got here, and who this woman was....
Name and past refused to come to mind, a stubborn gap that made her curse under her breath. Whoever she was, Suviel owed her freedom to her, freedom from the sense-draining blackness, that cold iron casket, and the visits from the Acolytes and...
Coireg
. The name resounded in her, unlocking a stream of images and feelings. The Acolytes gathering around her, the period of insensibility, the half-seen pale figures that were led away. She blinked away tears and breathed in shakily. Would she ever regain what Coireg and his foul coterie had stolen?
A little strength was coming back into her legs and she was able to stumble up the spiral steps with a touch more ease. She tried to shrug off the helping hand but the woman just frowned and maintained a firm grip on her upper arm. It seemed to emphasise her weakness, yet she felt oddly glad of it.
Further up the cold, gloomy stairwell thoughts of Coireg still swirled in her mind, along with the image of another man, tall and grey-haired, strong blue eyes and a kind mouth...a confused welter of emotion sprang up at her mind's eye view of this man, yet he was a mystery to her. She steered her thoughts in the directiion of her master, Bardow, but the tall man was there, too, talking with the Archmage, laughing, looking at her, and smiling.
Who are you?
she thought.
Why are you important?
And she sobbed quietly, wishing at that moment that Coireg was here so that she could throttle the life from him with her bare hands.
"Please," the woman said. "You must be silent."
"I'm sorry, I..." Suviel shook her head, dabbed her eyes with a torn fold of her robe. "I should be stronger than this."
"I know what they did to you," said the woman. "You must have been strong to survive it this well."
"Thank you, Nerek, but I..."
Nerek
. The name came unbidden to her lips and took her unawares with an upsurge of feeling and a scattering of images. Nerek - the arrival in Trevada, the encounter with the spirit-shackled children, the shifting personas within Nerek, and the subsequent stumbling through darkness which led to their capture, and long before that -
Keren...and the evil sorcery of one named Byrnak.
For a moment she was sure she was about to tug an entire net of memories out of the darkness, but it slipped away.
"We have to keep moving," Nerek said. "If we are to reach the Crystal Eye before...before her..."
Suviel stared, confused. "Before who?"
The eyes were like stone in the weak light. "The other one, the sell-sword, the one I was made to be like. She was brought here by the Daemonkind creature - it used her to gain entry to the maze below, and has lent her powers." Nerek frowned. "There is a bond between us which grows stronger as we draw nearer. I see what she sees, glimpses and glances, and I hear the thoughts that flutter at the edge of her words. She thinks she wants to become one of the Daemonkind, but fear and doubt eat at her certainty."
Suviel could scarcely grasp what Nerek said - a Daemonkind? But there was something else more pressing. "What is that you want?" she said, almost fearing an answer. "Why are you helping me?"
"I know what I was and I know what was done to me," Nerek said, then looked at her. "I spoke to him...the other part of me, for the first time a few hours ago while locked in that cell. I felt his agony and his betrayal, and now we both want revenge. Helping you take the Crystal Eye from this place will be..."
She was interrupted by a low rumble and Suviel felt the stonework at her back quiver.
"The Daemonkind and Keren," Nerek said. "They are battling the Acolytes and their nighthunters in a courtyard outside the Basilica. We must be on our way."
Together they hurried up the stairs with Suviel still leaning on Nerek's arm. As they climbed she tried to picture where they might be in the great complex of the High Basilica. She remembered the series of courtyards that encircled the Basilica, the official chambers within, and the level of vestibules that lay below the Congruence, the imposing hall of ceremonies. But all else eluded her.
As they passed a wood-framed archway there was a shout, and glancing through it Suviel gaped to behold a group of Acolytes with Coireg in the lead, racing up a long sloping corridor. Before she could react, Nerek pushed her away with one hand while a vivid green nimbus flickered into being around the other. Suviel stared as she raised the glowing hand under the arch and, with a gasp that was half triumph, half punishing effort, made a tugging motion.
There was a creaking, snapping sound and the corridor beyond fell in with a deafening crash. Grit and dust billowed out as the two women stumbled coughing up the steps.
At the top was a locked door whose mechanism Nerek destroyed with a touch. Stealthily they emerged in a square, lamp-lit room which bore signs of recent abandonment - a skillet of water boiling over a lit fire, half-eaten meals on the table, and a beaker lying on the floor, its contents darkening the unvarnished wood. Through an open door was a smaller room with a table and chairs, a rack of spears and a battered leather trunk, and a second door which led outside.