(eng) Michael Cobley - Shadowkings 03 by Shadowmasque

Author:Shadowmasque [Shadowmasque]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Fifteen

Spirits fly in darkness,

O’er wrathful gulfs of sleep.

Spirits fly in darkness,

On errands foul and deep.

—Tazay, Prekine Poems

The rain and the wind came out of the raw blackness of the ocean’s nightbound realm to batter and claw at the buildings and godowns all along Besh-Darok’s waterfront. Countess Ayoni watched the storm from the near-empty common room of a dockside inn called the Yardarm, looking out of a small, latticed window which she had wedged open slightly. The occasional gusty draught brought sprinklings of droplets and made the flames flutter in her table’s ornate lamp.

Ayoni’s mood was dark and tight with anxiety. A short while ago, in her room upstairs, she had had a detailed and disturbing farspeech conversation with Calabos during which he let her know that the rest of the Watchers were still alive then went on to tell her about the dark sorcerer Jumil and the unfortunate Captain Ondene, and to warn her about the spirit-hosts. She in turn gave a brief account of the grotesque ritual she and Chellour had witnessed in the ruined palace, the grey blight that had resulted, and told of their escape from Ilgarion’s camp and subsequent arrival in Besh-Darok, where they were waiting for a ship that was not due for at least another day.

And then all dialogue came to a halt when Calabos said that Tashil was in danger from an invading army of the undead, and he had to venture forth into the city. As the farspeech bond faded she was left with a growing determination to persuade Chellour, Jarryc and Klayse that they should return to Sejeend to lend aid to Calabos and the others. When she came downstairs, however, none of the men were there and when she asked the innmaster about them he only shrugged and said something about ‘the slipway market’. But sallying forth in such vile weather was unappealing so she opted for sitting by the window and sipping from a beaker of silverpurl while contemplating the haze of wind-driven spray flying in from the waves crashing against the long quays.

She did not have too long to wait before the first, Chellour, returned, entering with rainwater streaming from his drenched cloak and leggings. Seeing Ayoni, he grinned as he doffed the cloak and hung it over a high-backed chair near her table. Brushing soaked hair out of his eyes, he sat down opposite her then produced a waxcloth-wrapped package from within his damp jerkin.

“Ralgar Morth’s ‘Empire Of Night’,” he said. “First edition.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Expensive?”

He shrugged. “Three regals…”

She laughed dryly. “Money well spent, then.”

Chellour just smiled and unwrapped his prize, a small book bound in battered, scuffed hide. Ayoni leaned forward, intrigued in spite of herself.

“I never really took to Morth,” she said. “He seemed to archaically wordy for my liking, though I’ve never come across ‘Empire Of Night’.”

“He’s not to everyone’s taste, granted, but he can depict a dark and tragic valour that rivals the ancient sagasongs,” said Chellour. “To my mind, anyway.”

Ayoni nodded.

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