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  When Bull Arik at last returned to the Mocker, Bureng was waiting on the short gantry that overlooked the main deck.

  “Just one betrayer, Arik?”

  “Aye, captain,” the big man said sourly. “Gref the Honjirman — didn’t think he’d be that stupid.”

  “Plenty of stupidity in this world, Arik,” Bureng said. “Who can know when it will burst forth?” He surveyed his crew. “Now my savage brigands, prepare yourselves and stiffen your spines against mewling cowardice! This next spectacle will test your bravery to the very bone!”

  Then he took the talismanic mirror from within his long coat. He had scraped most of the corrosion from its face but the metal was still dull and deeply tarnished except where the bright silver showed in the grooves of the pattern he had placed there. He stroked the curved frame, muttering the first lines of the conjoining ritual, and the intertwined spell emblem brightened and seemed to writhe. Then the threads of power began to grow from the pattern, extending from the mirror in straight lines out through the air, four stretching across the waters to the ships of his fellow captains while scores angled downwards into the bay, some passing through the woodwork of the Mocker. Soon the other talismans had sent their own threads into the deeps and the net of revenance was laid out before him, a web of ghostly tendrils that only he could see.

  All was tense silence aboard the Mocker and all eyes were on Bureng. The breeze had dropped to naught, the sails hung limply on the crosstrees and the murky waters of Sickle Bay were calm and hazed by mist. Bureng smiled and spoke the next lines of the ritual.

  From his and the other four talismans bright emerald motes raced along the conjoining threads and down into the waters. For a moment, nothing — then glows began to flicker in the depths, catching the attention of the crew who crowded the rails to see. The glows brightened into flashes that streaked through the deeps like eldritch lightning. Clouds of inky darkness seemed to billow past beneath the waves and an ominous rumbling could be heard, the voice of a storm in the abyss.

  A strange pressure settled over that part of the bay, over its perfectly flat, undisturbed surface. A faint but creeping odour tainted the air smelling like hot stone one moment, rank rust in the next. From his perch on the deck gantry, Bureng saw some of his men fumble for hidden amulets or mutter charms, among them Cursed Rikken who was trembling visibly as he held onto a lanyard with both hands. Then Bureng felt something change in the web of power and switched his gaze to the waters off the starboard as the first mast broke the surface.

  Then there were others, some whole, many broken, others with crosstrees still bearing the rotting remnants of sails and tangled skeins of rigging, and all draped in kelp and streaming water. Scores of masts were rising slowly rising now, blackened spars emerging from the waves as the dark storm flickered and rumbled beneath. And after the masts came the ships themselves, their hulls encrusted with barnacles and coral, holed and shattered flanks gushing with outpourings of water laden with silt, sea creatures and rotting detritus. Inner structures creaked and groaned, and aboard the vessel nearest the Mocker the main mast cracked in the middle and crashed down onto the deck with a heavy crosstree punching through the deck at an angle and out the side of the hull.

  As the underwater storm abated, pale webs of sorcerous power danced across the decks and played about the rigging. The revenant vessels took on a faint radiance and as the gloom of evening deepened figures began to appear on their decks, advancing stiffly to the deck rails to mutely stare at the five ships of the living. Others were clambering up the decrepit flanks of the motionless hulks to swell the mouldering ranks of the undead. Even at this distance, some of the Mocker’s crew were grimacing at the stench of putrefaction.

  Satisfied with all that he saw, Bureng took his talismanic mirror in both hand and said:

  “Hanavok, admiral of the Sea Horde — come forth! I command you!”

  For a long moment there was no indication that his summons had been heard. Then some way off, one large ship started to move, listlessly turning its prow towards the Mocker and, without so much as a breath of wind, slid through the calm waters. In the muffling quiet there were only soft lapping sounds accompanied by the creak of sodden timbers as the ancient vessel came alongside. Bureng climbed unhurriedly back up to the helm deck as the undead ship slowed to a halt with its high sterncastle looming over the Mocker’s aft. With the mirror in one hand, Bureng smiled as he regarded the stern’s corroded woodwork, the details of once-elaborate carvings now half-rotted, half-buried beneath oozing hanks of seagrass among which crabs and the like writhed.

  A figure stepped out onto a low-railed catwalk running along the side of the sterncastle, almost level with the Mocker’s helm deck. The figure was that of a man, or at least the boney remains of a man, garbed in a barbaric armour of scales and spike, now decayed and rent with gaps. A rusted, pitted helm loosely enclosed a slimy, dripping skull whose eyeless sockets turned in Bureng’s direction. As Bureng met that empty gaze he knew that this had to be Hanavok, commander of the Ogucharn Sea Horde and deputy to Siggarak who had led the Pirate Princes against the Empire a century ago. He could also see that the reviving spells were continuing their work, drawing moisture and other essences from the surroundings in order to refashion the vanished flesh of these necrotic mariners.

  And there were neither lips nor tongue within that lichenous jaw, yet still a thready whisper touched Bureng’s awareness:

  “You have brought us back to this place — why?”

  “To complete your unfinished task, admiral,” Bureng said. “To topple the Khatrimantine throne and lay waste to its capital.”

  “We…remember…but we no longer desire this. We have no desires….”

  “But I do desire it,” said Bureng. “And I have laid it upon you to obey my will.”

  By now a grey film had spread across the bony planes of Hanavok’s skull and a single, pale membranous eye now stared from the right socket.

  “We obey…the will…what is your command?”

  “To set a course for Sejeend,” Bureng said. “Once there, to lay siege and break its walls.”

  “It shall be done.”

  As one, the ragged ghost fleet began to move, coming about to point their prows westward. At the same time, Bureng rapped out a string of orders to his own crew who carried them out with the alacrity of men glad to be distracted from the ghastly apparitions amongst which they sailed.

  Seeing their fearful faces, he thought — Be of good cheer, my lucky lads. Should any of you fall in the battles ahead, I’m sure that Hanavok will be keen to take on new crew!

  Chapter Eleven

  Behold the Nightbarge comes,

  To gather in the ghosts,

  A harvest of severed dreams,

  And derelict desires.

  —Jedhessa Gant, The Lords Desolate, Act 2, ii

  The mists of Korfaen Marsh were suffocating and minatory by night. Strung out along along the narrow dike that crossed it, the company of Watchers had the benefit of three lanterns, borne by Enklar the steward and Calabos’ own lodge-guards, Gillat and Rog. Yet the light they shed revealed only the Watchers themselves and the stony path along which they trudged, while the cold and endless dark hemmed them in on all sides.

  It was nearly six hours since the Watchers had fled Sejeend and half of that time had been spent crossing Korfaen Marsh. On departing the city there had been a brief summation of possible routes and rather than take the Red Road southwest and risk discovery by search parties, they chose older, less well-known drover trails heading south across the fens and bogs of Korfaen. This ploy had given them miles of lightless, mostly uninhabited wetland to hide in, yet it had not preserved them from all their enemies.

  Leading the company on horseback, Calabos was well aware of the others’ tensions and depressed spirits but knew they were hardy enough for this venture. Then he smiled wryly to himself as Gillat, walking nearby with his pole-lantern slanted over one shoulder, grumbled unde
r his breath about the cold and his sore feet.

  “Won’t be long now, Gillat,” he said. “We’re not far from the southern edge of the marsh, then its a short climb to the abandoned tower where we’ll bed down for the rest of the night.”

  “Abandoned tower, master?” the guard said with an uneasy look.

  Calabos chuckled. “Be at ease, lad — the only thing haunting it will be our hidden hoard of supplies.”

  “If you say so, master.”

  True to Calabos’ reckoning, some half an hour later the stony track of the dike began to slant gently up to meet higher ground. Soon they were treading a narrow sheep track through thick, hummocky grass and passing by an occasional tangleway bush. The track curved west along a shallow gully for a few dozen paces before coming to a fork where Calabos turned left and led them up a steeper slope.

  Although Calabos’ magesight allowed him to penetrate the darkness, he fancied that the mist was lifting enough to let him see the half-ruined fort which sat atop the hill. Yet his other senses were still alert to the surroundings, listening for any sound which jarred with the peaceable noises of insects, hopmice and nesting moorwills. But nothing seemed to be disturbing the night-settled quiet of this landscape, except the sound of their own passing, hooves thudding, the faint clink of harness, the rustle of feet through grass, coughs and mutters….

  Then, sudden as the first arrow, a cry, no — two cries from the rear of the company.

  Cursing, Calabos reined in his horse, tossed the leads to Gillat then dismounted and hurried past the pack horse and back down the trail. By the light of Enklar’s lamp, he could see that the others were already rushing towards the edge of a rocky drop along which the path led for a short distance. Of Rog and the third lantern there was no sign but from the darkness below came grunts, snarls, sounds of struggle. Calabos made a quick tally of all in sight — Gillat was minding the horses, Sounek was alert and close by, Tashil’s brother Atemor had his short blade bared but was staying near Enklar, while Tashil and Dardan were dashing beyond the glare of Enklar’s lamp as they sought a way down. Which meant that it was Inryk and Rog who were facing peril.

  Calabos focussed his senses through his magesight and the darkness grew pale, revealing three figures grappling on the grassy slope below. Two were upright while the third seemed to have an injured leg. Even as they were revealed, the injured one — Rog — got to his feet and with raised dagger threw himself at one of the struggling forms. The dagger punched straight through the man’s neck but he seemed scarcely distracted by it and Calabos knew that it was another spirit-host, the third since leaving Sejeend.

  The possessed creature was doing his best to throttle Sounek but paused to turn and deal Rog a back-handed blow that sent him flying. That seemed to give Sounek time enough to rally his defiance for in the next moment there was a bright, jagged flash which threw them apart. By then, Tashil and Dardan were able to join the fray and after a few distracting cuts aimed at the creature’s legs, Dardan was in a position to decapitate it with a single stroke.

  Even then, the headless man continued to writhe horribly on the ground for another minute or more before blood loss caused it to shudder into stillness. With Dardan aiding the injured Rog, the mages drew back from the corpse and after a long moment the spirit-wraith rose from it, an ashen thing of coiling, undulant webs. It hung in the misty air as if waiting or listening, then began to drift northwards, gathering speed in its flight to Sejeend.

  Calabos breathed easily once more and relaxed his grip on the Sword of Powers. They had dealt with another two spirit-hosts, both of whom had assailed the company within the first hour out from Sejeend. And, as with this enemy, once slain their bodies gave vile wraiths which likewise glided away towards Sejeend.

  Where our dark adversary is gathering, I’ll wager, he thought grimly. Some poor unfortunate is being used as a vessel for all the fragments of that mad god. Who knows what will happen if it — is he is allowed to regain his former strength, even if its only to the magnitude of one of the Shadowkings…

  The rest of the company had regained the pathway and, with Enklar and Atemor, were approaching Calabos.

  “How’s that leg?” Calabos said to Rog.

  Even with Dardan’s help, the guard was limping badly.

  “Gave it a hefty twist when I landed, ser,” he said. “Won’t be marching anywheres for a while, ‘reckon.”

  Calabos patted his shoulder. “We’re only a short distance from our lodge for the night — when you’re resting, I’ll have Tashil look at that leg for you.” He looked at Dardan. “Put him on my horse for the rest of the way.”

  “Aye.”

  Then Sounek drew near, looking dishevelled, his leggings mud-spattered, one hand massaging his neck which bore red marks from the attack.

  “I’ll live,” he said hoarsely.

  “What happened?” Calabos said.

  “Bastard was waiting just under the brink of that drop — must be a ledge or some kind of foothold there — and when we passed he popped up and dragged us over the edge. I was lucky enough land in a patch of mire, unlike poor Rog, then the thing was on me and wouldn’t let go.” He paused to clear his throat roughly. “How many more of them are there?”

  “A hard question to answer,” Calabos said, turning to walk beside him. “If I’m right and they really are the shattered fragments of the Lord of Twilight, there may be scores or even hundreds of potential hosts. But how many of them were touched by that sorcerous calling, and how far out from Sejeend did its influence extend? Only time will tell.”

  Sounek gave a wry smile. “I had hoped for a more comforting reply.”

  “Comfort is not exactly my stock-in-trade,” Calabos said. “Disappointment, however, is always in plentiful supply!”

  The remaining stretch of the upward path was an easy walk, apart from the last dozen or so yards which comprised a steep series of steps cut into the pebbly ground, but rounded and weedy from the passage of time. Then at last the dark outer wall of the fort came into view, a square two-storey blockhouse of rough mortared stone whose raised defensive position afforded a good lookout vantage. This had been only one of a string of towers and forts established in a curve around Sejeend by the dukes of Cabringa some 2 centuries ago when the city was threatened by the marauding fleets of the Dalbari during the brief but savage years of their hegemony.

  At some point in the past, one of the rear corners had collapsed from either poor construction or enemy attack and brought down part of the upper floor with it. The fallen rubble was now a mossy, grassy mound past which the company wearily filed as they entered the dark fort. The lanterns shed some light on the interior, and other torches were lit and sat in a few rusted wall brackets. Calabos ordered the detritus of cracked bones and discarded birdnests swept out, then had Dardad, Atemor and Gillat move several large rocks that were heaped in one corner. Beneath them was a trapdoor which swung up with oiled ease, revealing a few steps leading down. Spirits rose as supplies of water and ale, preserved pork and fish, lantern oil and oats were brought up from below. A fire was lit in a charred hearth against one wall and soon handfuls of grain and shredded meat were being added to a bubbling pot of water, along with vegetables and herbs from the packhorse’s bags. An appetising savouriness began to permeate the interior yet not all were eagerly awaiting a bowl of food — Tashil had examined Rog’s leg, applied her healing talents then bandaged the knee and ankle before putting him to sleep under a couple of thick blankets. Also, a yawning Enklar was dragging forth from the trapdoor supplies a blanket for himself.

  Calabos, wrapped in a fur-edged cloak from his own saddlebags, regarded them all with a strange mixture of affection and anxiety that was all too familiar. In 300 years he had seen many friends die in combat or in accidents, although almost never in peaceful old age, and his concern for those present was sharpened by the absence of others. Dybel, Chellour and the Countess Ayoni were in Tangaroth’s hands and possibly endangered by their unkn
own adversary. And then there was the news of Coireg’s escape from the Hekanseh House of Seclusion, not to mention Captain Ondene’s vanishing trick.

  Who else is to blame for this but me? he thought bitterly. 300 years should have taught me all I needed to know about ruthless and devious enemies, yet they have repeatedly caught me off-guard.

  Then he snorted in annoyance. There was no time for the luxury of self-pity. He had to know what their next steps should be, whether to continue south into the Kyrloc Hills and the Watchers hidden refuge, or to retrace their steps and pit themselves against deadly powers and cryptic purposes. Knowledge was lacking, but there was one way to meet that need — spiritwing.

  Solid stone stairs led up the west wall and hardly an eye turned as he climbed up to the ramparts. Many flagstones were cracked or missing and the crenellated battlements were worn and pitted by sun, storm and the seasons. Calabos pulled his cloak tighter against the damp cold and stared out over the marshes. At this height the mists were thinner and he could see breaks in the clouds that veiled the sky, fleeting gaps which gave glimpses of stars. The mist was a grey, torpid mantle whose boundaries were engulfed by the darkness while a few trees an rocky outcrops stood like islets in a ghostly sea.

  He laid a hand on the cold, hard stone of the rampart, breathed in deeply, then closed his eyes and breathed out slowly, a steady exhalation which paced exactly the unfurling in his mind of his individual spiritwing thought-canto. As his lungs steadily emptied he could feel the bonds joining mind to body loosen, feel his senses come adrift, his perceptions change and broaden. The breath in his throat and the blood in his veins grew tenuous and for a moment he was seeing himself from just a few feet away, seeing past the grey hair and lined face that was his chosen mask to the silt of three centuries of experience and yet further to the cruel and savage memories that belonged to the Shadowking Byrnak….