Read Online Shadowmasque by Michael Cobley - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michael Cobley
Tags: Fantasy
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banishing not a vanquishing. The history tellers weave an elaborate web of fancy, but they know nothing of the Broken, the servants of the Great Shadow. Well, soon the lies will snap and shatter like the 300-year old mask that they are...ah, at last the rock is ready.”
The burning threads had crept across the wall, criss-crossing in a patternless way until a section of the stone surface resembled a strange, random mosaic. Jumil let his hand fall limply to his side, then raised the other to pull away the naked man’s hood. Vorik narrowed his eyes, recognising one of the original four men that he had recruited several days ago.
“Behold, my conduit, my channel to the bones, the very viscera of this land!” With one hand, Jumil pushed the middle of the man’s back. “Go forth now, enter that splintered embrace.”
Arms at his side, the man stepped forward and into the rock wall of the chamber. Vorik stared, transfixed. Bright-edged fragments of the surface shifted, eased aside as if they rested upon some thick, malleable substance. Soon Jumil’s servant — or sacrifice — was halfway into the wall, one leg and both arms sunken to the elbows. The other leg was swallowed, then the buttock and lower back, followed by one shoulder and the next...then Jumil muttered something in a low voice and the man’s progress ceased.
Vorik watched, fear warring with his hunger for power such as this. Jumil spared him a brief glance, exertion plain in his face as a roseate radiance began to leak from his eyes and mouth.
“Remember,” he said. “Carry me to the chamber of the wards and place me by Great Shadow’s face.”
“It shall be done, master,” Vorik said.
Jumil nodded sharply then turned to face the fall with the naked man’s still visible shoulderblades, neck and back of his skull. He began a low, droning chant that grew in urgency as the strange glow in his eyes and mouth became brighter. Soon they were hot, luminous nodes of golden fire and Jumil’s swaying stance and clenched fists betrayed the great strain he was under.
Then the chanting rose in pitch and culminated in an unintelligible, two-syllable word. In that instant the glow of the chambers torches dwindled to nothing as the fires in Jumil’s face leaped forth to lance into the back of the trapped man’s head. The floor of the chamber shook and a grating, roaring sound came from all around, slowly resolving into a deep booming voice which made the dust on the floor crawl and the air in Vorik’s chest resonate horribly.
Terror gripped Vorik as that awful voice spoke on and on without cease in raw bass tones that reverberated around the chamber. But he was not to unnerved that he was unable to discern the manner of that mighty utterance. There was pain and there was unshakeable resolve, but above all there was an insistent, pitiless beckoning, a relentless exhortation to something out there in the night….
Here,
it seemed to say,
Here is the place. Come to us!
* * *
There were eight people in the common room of the Watchers’ lodge, six of whom had just recently arrived amid early evening rain. Coats and cloaks lay draped over chairs brought closer to the hearth’s fire while their owners reclined on divans near the heat, or otherwise sat or stood.
The other two present were Tashil and the fugitive Corlek Ondene. On rising that morning Tashil had received a message from one of the guards explaining that Calabos left earlier on urgent business and would return in the evening. The poet had also requested that she keep Ondene as mollified as possible since the guard were under orders to prevent him from leaving the lodge in case he was still being hunted.
This did not prove an easy task, resulting in three angry outbursts and one struggle with the guards down in the main hall. Tashil tried to explain that this confinement was for his protection — which was confirmed later by one of the lodge messengers who said that posters bearing Ondene’s
The burning threads had crept across the wall, criss-crossing in a patternless way until a section of the stone surface resembled a strange, random mosaic. Jumil let his hand fall limply to his side, then raised the other to pull away the naked man’s hood. Vorik narrowed his eyes, recognising one of the original four men that he had recruited several days ago.
“Behold, my conduit, my channel to the bones, the very viscera of this land!” With one hand, Jumil pushed the middle of the man’s back. “Go forth now, enter that splintered embrace.”
Arms at his side, the man stepped forward and into the rock wall of the chamber. Vorik stared, transfixed. Bright-edged fragments of the surface shifted, eased aside as if they rested upon some thick, malleable substance. Soon Jumil’s servant — or sacrifice — was halfway into the wall, one leg and both arms sunken to the elbows. The other leg was swallowed, then the buttock and lower back, followed by one shoulder and the next...then Jumil muttered something in a low voice and the man’s progress ceased.
Vorik watched, fear warring with his hunger for power such as this. Jumil spared him a brief glance, exertion plain in his face as a roseate radiance began to leak from his eyes and mouth.
“Remember,” he said. “Carry me to the chamber of the wards and place me by Great Shadow’s face.”
“It shall be done, master,” Vorik said.
Jumil nodded sharply then turned to face the fall with the naked man’s still visible shoulderblades, neck and back of his skull. He began a low, droning chant that grew in urgency as the strange glow in his eyes and mouth became brighter. Soon they were hot, luminous nodes of golden fire and Jumil’s swaying stance and clenched fists betrayed the great strain he was under.
Then the chanting rose in pitch and culminated in an unintelligible, two-syllable word. In that instant the glow of the chambers torches dwindled to nothing as the fires in Jumil’s face leaped forth to lance into the back of the trapped man’s head. The floor of the chamber shook and a grating, roaring sound came from all around, slowly resolving into a deep booming voice which made the dust on the floor crawl and the air in Vorik’s chest resonate horribly.
Terror gripped Vorik as that awful voice spoke on and on without cease in raw bass tones that reverberated around the chamber. But he was not to unnerved that he was unable to discern the manner of that mighty utterance. There was pain and there was unshakeable resolve, but above all there was an insistent, pitiless beckoning, a relentless exhortation to something out there in the night….
Here,
it seemed to say,
Here is the place. Come to us!
* * *
There were eight people in the common room of the Watchers’ lodge, six of whom had just recently arrived amid early evening rain. Coats and cloaks lay draped over chairs brought closer to the hearth’s fire while their owners reclined on divans near the heat, or otherwise sat or stood.
The other two present were Tashil and the fugitive Corlek Ondene. On rising that morning Tashil had received a message from one of the guards explaining that Calabos left earlier on urgent business and would return in the evening. The poet had also requested that she keep Ondene as mollified as possible since the guard were under orders to prevent him from leaving the lodge in case he was still being hunted.
This did not prove an easy task, resulting in three angry outbursts and one struggle with the guards down in the main hall. Tashil tried to explain that this confinement was for his protection — which was confirmed later by one of the lodge messengers who said that posters bearing Ondene’s
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