Shadowmasque Read online

  Shadowmasque

  Copyright © 2005 Michael Cobley

  All rights reserved.

  Published as an ebook in 2014 by Jabberwocky Literary Agency, Inc., in association with the Zeno Agency LTD.

  Cover design by Dirk Berger.

  ISBN 978-1-625671-01-1

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Part One

  Part Two

  Part Three

  Epilogue

  Also by Michael Cobley

  DEDICATION

  For my brother, Peter

  Prologue

  The seed of darkness is in the ground,

  Watered by years of pain and rain,

  And stroked by the tresses of blinded Night.

  —The Twilight Emperor by Ushald Drusarik, Act 1, Sc 2

  The high-walled, grassy courtyard of the Sejeend Imperial Academy’s eastern cloister was smothered in late spring blossom from the four spiraleaf trees which dominated the square lawn. A flock of greenwings trilled and swooped on the gusts of a breeze which blew down into the cloister and stirred up swirls of pale blue and yellow blossom. A door opened in the east wall of the main building, under the sheltered cloister walkway, and a slender man emerged. His dun leather skullcap and ankle-length black cloak marked him as one of the Academy’s clerks. Pale brown hair was tucked under the caps edge while cold, grey eyes in a narrow, pinched face regarded the chirping, swooping greenwings with disdain. Locking the door behind him, the clerk turned and stalked across the blossom-strewn lawn, his thin-lipped mouth taking on a bleak smile as he saw the crownhawk that was relentlessly chasing the greenwings.

  The eastern portal was a pair of tall, iron gates guarded by four masked sentries armed with bucklers and maces. Their iron shields and bronze masks bore the crest of the Imperial Academy, a book and a crown, as did the seal he wore prominently on a chain about his neck. But still the sentries squinted at it for long moments before grudgingly allowing him to pass. Seething inwardly, the clerk said nothing as he hurried out to the stone steps that curved down one side of the wooded hill on which the academy had been built.

  Statues marked where sidepaths wound off into the pocket gardens and arbour that had been sculpted amid the dense woods by gardeners past and present. Here, a black granite Mazaret stared grimly from beneath a spreading torwood tree while further on a Queen Alael in white marble sat enthroned on a low plinth, her legs and midriff entwined by wallthorn. The clerk just scowled and hastened onwards.

  At the foot of the steps was a high stone wall and a heavy wooden door. Being daylight it was unlocked and old hinges squeaked as he tugged it open and stepped out into a tree-lined, cobbled street. A steady traffic of carriages, pedestrians and the occasional sedan was passing to and fro along it. The clerks face was impassive as he made his way determinedly over to the other side where a busy bridge spanned a deep, leafy gully. There, a graveled path diverged from the road and sloped down into the wooded gully, following it north towards the center of Sejeend. The clerk paused to glance over his shoulder, a hard suspicious look, then hastened down the path.

  The steady rushing sound of the river Kala filled the tree-shaded air, mingling with birdsong and the chatter of voices. People sat at the table of small alehouses that had been built into the steep sides of the gully. Children dashed after pets or each other while kulesti players went from table to table — the clerk did his best to avoid them all as he continued northward.

  Formed by the Kala across many centuries, the mouth of the gully was a steep-sided notch in the face of the hundred-and-fifty foot cliffs that towered over the city of Sejeend. Once it had been blocked by an ancient, fortified wall from before the Khatrimantine imperium — the clerk could see the ruined remains of all the way up either side, massive blocks half-buried by vegetation. A large, moss-burdened piece of masonry with a curved underside jutted over the path, either side of it carved with bear-like shapes. The clerk glanced up at it without pause as he left the path to cross the river by a low, wooden footbridge. Shafts of sunlight cut through the leafy canopy of huge agathons, turning the Kala’s running waters to flowing, sparkling crystal, making insects into glowing motes. The clerk entered one of the slanting sunbeams and was dazzled for a second before rejoining the shadows on the other side.

  His pace was quicker now, bootheels knocking on the wooden riverside walkway as he followed it out into the city. Four- and five-storey buildings began where the river disappeared beneath a horse-ornamented stone bridge, the last sight of it before it re-emerged somewhere near the harbour. The clerks course then took him westward along a narrow street, between a row of opulent townhouses, abodes of the rich, and the high wall of a burial grove. The clerk rigidly ignored the guards watching from some of the townhouse balconies, instead gravely bowing his head as he strode through the groves arched entrance.

  Sheltered by its enclosing wall, the grove was made still more shady by several overspreading torwood trees, each burdened with loops and coils of sweet-scented litrilu blooms. Devotional chimes tinkled amid the lower branches while a few solitary figures in mourning robes tended some of the gravestones. The grove was a long, narrow strip of ground running along the foot of the great cliff, widening westward till it stopped at the pale stone of the White Keep, domicile of the one of the city’s High Stewards. While most gravestones were the size and shape of a small shield, or a figurine atop a short pillar, a few tombs were larger receptacles fashioned to resemble temples or ships. All of these were built into or near the foot of the cliff and it was towards one of them that the clerk now made his way.

  It was the sepulchre of a military man, his resting place a great piece of granite carved in the likeness of an archaic, pallisaded barracks, with stern-looking, sword-grasping guards at each corner. The clerk squeezed past a tall bush which concealed the gap between the tomb and the cliff, then crouched down and felt around a stone in the tomb’s base. A moment later it was removed and he lifted out a small but weighty leather pouch. Replacing the brick, he straightened and turned to face the cliff, a rock face patched with lichen and sprouting tiny plants and grassy tuffs from its many cracks. He studied it for a moment, then smiled and spoke a word.

  The rock rippled like water and a rust-streaked iron door suddenly appeared. The clerk produced a spiked key from within his robes, opened the door and stepped inside.

  When the door closed behind him the utter darkness was broken only by a thin thread of radiance around the doors edge. From a waist-high niche in the wall that he found by touch he took a small lamp, lit it with another word of power then started along a rough, narrow gap in the rock. Protruding cusps on the crudely-hewn walls caught at his robes but on he went, following the passage as it curved and sloped down into the roots of the cliffs ancient, solid stone.

  And further down until it levelled and widened out into an oval chamber. The oil lamps flame cast his shadow across uneven walls daubed with symbols and adorned with rotting charms made of wood, cloth and blood. His attention, however, was fixed on the face which rose out of the sandy floor. Sculpted from grey clay, it was some six feet or more from crown to chin and was correctly detailed. Wide, sightless eye hollows stared up at the chambers darkened ceiling and the lips were parted as if ready to speak.

  The clerk stared at it for a moment, then brought out the pouch and opened it. He bent down and poured a little of the contents, a fine ashen powder, into the eyes and the mouth and a shallow channel which defined the faces outline. Straightening, he tucked the pouch away, took a step back and uttered a string of harsh, guttural syllables.

  Light flared suddenly up from the face, forcing him to avert his sight. When he glanced back a moment or two, curling coils of vapour veiled
the hot green glow which shone from the eyes and the mouth, and the enclosing channel. As he edged closer, the bright emerald orbs in their clay sockets turned to look at him. The mouth smiled a blazing, unpleasant smile.

  “...late, Jumil...once more you are late...perhaps you should be punished…”

  Stark fear leaped into the clerk Jumil’s features.

  “No, please, Great Shadow, please! I came as quickly as I could — one of the senior masters delayed me….stupid Frolek and his stupid questions!…”

  A glowing tendril unfurled from the bright mouths corner then struck like a snake at Jumil, wrapping itself around his neck. The clerk let out a cry and fell to his knees.

  “Great One, I beg…..spare me, oh please! — I have done everything you asked of me…”

  “Everything?”

  “….yes, I swear it — there are now five flocks of NightKin, all founded according to your instructions, Great Shadow…” The clerk Jumil was breathing heavily in his fear, sweat beading his face. “Each is...unaware of the others and believes itself to be the only Flock….I will soon begin preparing them for their….journeys…”

  The clay face, aglow with green power, seemed to scowl at him for a moment, then the entwining tendril released his neck and withdrew into the mouth. The clerk slumped on all fours, visibly trembling with relief, gasping for breath.

  “And our enemy, the Watchers — how have you dealt with them?”

  A smile twitched across Jumil’s features. “Ah, not yet, but soon. I have thought deeply on this and I have devised a way to send fragments of the Broken against them.” His smile grew calmer, bolder with satisfaction. “Another day or two and we will be ready.”

  “And Emperor Magramon’s death two nights ago,” said the face on the chamber floor. “Was it your doing?”

  Jumil shook his head. “No, my master, I would never have done such a thing without your express command. According to trustworthy accounts, it seems that the exalted Magramon simply choked to death on a gezel stone at the high table, in full view of the Lord High Minister and several others. Crown-Prince Ilgarion is due to return tomorrow, and will most surely be offered the throne.” He rubbed his neck. “How will this affect our plans, master? The Carver pilgrimage tactic is well advanced, although I know little of our progress in Honjir...”

  “Do not concern yourself with events in Jefren or Honjir — I have other overseers besides you. You may be assured, however, that my plans will remain as they are, although some details may change depending on the character of this Ilgarion.”

  “A bitter man, that one,” Jumil said. “He was raised to the Apparency on his 18th birthday and has had to wait nearly 30 years to ascend to the throne. As Emperor he would be just as traditionalist as his father, especially with regard to any external threat. It should make his first session with the Conclave of Speakers interesting…”

  “A man who understands the value of power,” said the face. “Yet lacks experience in its use. Good — the pilgrimage tactic will sting his pride, though you may need to intensify his urge, twist the knife. On the subject of the Watchers, are you any closer to discovering their identities?”

  “Sadly, no, Great Master. All my spies have learned is that there are eight or nine of them, that they venture forth in hoods and masks and that they are well-versed in the cantos of the Lesser Power.” The clerk frowned. “Well-versed and highly-skilled.”

  “This does not please me, Jumil. I want them hunted down and slain!”

  The fear came back to the clerks features. “Great Shadow — I am doing all that I can. My plan for the Broken will finish them...”

  “To be certain of this, I am sending someone to assist you, one of my trusted servants.”

  Jumil’s eyes widened in eager anticipation.

  “One of your servants, from your glorious Nightrealm?...how will he cross into our world, master, and how soon?”

  “A great temple, correctly purified by incantation and well-provided with sacrifices would have made an acceptable gateway. But the intrinsic aspects here do not allow for such luxuries, thus I must employ simpler methods. A sacrifice, one already prepared over several weeks, one who will become the bloodgate by which my servant shall enter your world.

  “And he will be arriving soon, Jumil, very soon.”

  Lurid green fire was shining through webs of cracks in the malleable clay face. “I’m sure that you understand that by now.”

  The clerk did not answer. Squatting on his knees, leaning forward on clenched fists, he seemed unable to move or utter a sound. A shivering ague had him in its grip and as sweat ran down neck and arms, the eyes in his frozen, open-mouthed face were full of ghastly horror. They stared imploringly at the great face on the chamber floor which only laughed quietly as it watched him.

  A few moments later the eyes ceased their terrified darting, slowed to lifeless stillness. The body itself seemed strangely restless in small ways, as if muscles were shifting and flexing, limbs tensing and relaxing, bones turning in their sockets back and forth. Although dead, the body of Jumil straightened and the head moved with sluggish jerks, its face looking slightly misshapen, the skin sickly and taut.

  Something cracked, and the clerks body slumped forward. There was a sharp ripping noise and blood spattered the chamber floor. There were more cracks, wet tearing sounds, a moist intake of breath and a throaty hiss. A dark, slender form writhed amid the gore, tore apart what remained of Jumil’s head and then crouched there, breathing heavily

  “Welcome, Xabo,” said the Great Shadow’s face. “Welcome to the Realm Between.”

  “Master, I….” A hoarse voice paused for a savage bout of coughing, then went on; “My head is rent by a fever of strange imaginings...my thoughts scarcely seem my own…”

  “You have come into this realm through a bloodgate, formerly one Jumil Felok, and it is his essence and memories which are clouding your mind. Let them find a place there, Xabo, and savour them — you will have great need of them in the days ahead.”

  Harsh emerald radiance from the great face gleamed on wet, black limbs and cast glittering highlights across a hairless, gaunt face from which dark red eyes stared.

  “Yes, I can see pieces of his past, master, and read their meaning….there are many connections….although I still feel that the Duskgeneral would have been a better choice than I.”

  “No — he has other duties for which he has unique abilities. Focus on your form for soon it will change, limbs, skin and face — Jumil’s memories are not the only aspect that you will take on.”

  The smooth, black head nodded. “I am to become Jumil Felok, master, prepare the NightKin flocks for the great task, and crush these Watchers before they become a real danger.”

  “Exactly so, except that the danger is already real, Xabo. I know this to be so because I have very recently discovered the identity of their leader… truly, when I discovered this knowledge, the past came alive to me. You know him, Xabo, as the one who turned and tried to betray me at the crux of the great struggle….”

  The creature called Xabo stiffened.

  “Him? — I thought that one had died.” Hate glared from his eyes. “How I would exult to see him exhibited in your dreamcourts, highest!”

  “Yet still he lives and seeks to frustrate my will once more. He goes by the name of Calabos now…”

  “That name,” said Xabo. “It is….familiar. A poet, a dramatist…”

  “In time, all of Jumil’s memories will become clear to you, much of it vital to the demanding work that lies ahead. So for now, my faithful one, rest, build your strengths and prepare for your new role. Become acquainted with all that Jumil has accomplished with the NightKin — he mentioned using what remains of the Broken against the ‘poet’ and his underlings. This would a most satisfying way of grasping a long-awaited retribution…”

  Silently nodding, Xabo crawled away from the bloody wreck of Jumil’s body and sat against the chamber wall, brooding, watching, wa
iting.

  Part One

  Chapter One

  When Death’s baleful hand,

  Lies heavy on heart and soul,

  Summon all of thy strength,

  And dream the dream of life.

  —Abbess Halimer, Cautions & Aphorisms

  The light of the day was fading through shades of rose and grey as Corlek Ondene made his way up Baraskel Hill by way of the old Treemonk’s path. The fresh smell of new leaves and burgeoning flowers hung in the cool air, and early blossom lay in small drifts against low bushes or scattered across the simple wooden benches that he passed every twenty paces. This was a place of communion and devotion, yet as Corlek walked through the scented stillness his thoughts kept straying to the letter which he carried in one of his robes inner pockets. A four-year old letter, which had reached him three years ago as he lay shivering with fever in an ocean-lashed tower out on the westernmost edge of the Stormbreaker Isles.

  In the letter his elder brother, Rhanye, had written of their father’s tragic death in a boating accident at the mouth of Sejeend’s harbour. After that had come a short account of how the Emperor’s ministers then found a way to rescind the family’s right to their manor and estate (which was later bestowed on an un-named court favourite). However, the Emperor insisted that his mother and brother be allowed to reside in the old summer house and receive an adequate annual stipend ‘as a measure of the crown’s unfailing generosity…’

  Corlek smiled bleakly as he trudged on, easily able to imagine Rhanye speaking those words with unrestrained sarcasm. The letter went on to reassure Corlek that despite their reduced circumstances all was well, and ended with the words — ‘In the six long years since your unjust exile, not a week has passed without our giving prayers and offerings at the Earthmother shrine in Drum Park. You are always in our thoughts, brother. May the Light be with you…’

  Through his robe he patted the shape of the letter, its every word graven into his memory by the hundred or more times he had read it these last three years. During the latter days of his mercenary wanderings every sentence had become a small treasure, a fragment of the life he had abandoned a decade ago. Yet nowhere in the letter had Rhanye mentioned the reason for Corlek’s mad flight from Sejeend and the lands of the Empire because, Corlek knew, his mother would have read it before its despatch.