Caim gasped as the pain drained out of him as quick as it had come. Suddenly he could move again, and almost tripped over his own feet backing away. But he needn't have bothered. The shadows rained down from the rafters. His ambushers batted at them, their efforts becoming frantic as the shadows covered them in growing numbers. Grunts and curses turned to yells, and then to hoarse screams. Wood crackled as one man tried to dive through a boarded window and became stuck in the half-broken boards, driving the splintered edges deeper as he thrashed. His cries became choked, gasping, and then he fell silent.
Two men made for the exit. The door crashed open, and three men appeared. Malig's familiar bellow filled the frigid air as he entered in front of Aemon and Dray. Caim reined in the shadows. It was harder than ever before. His arms and legs shook, and a sharp throbbing took up residence over his eyes, but they slowly retreated to the room's dim corners.
As Caim took a deep breath and wiped his brow with the back of a sleeve, he saw his crew had matters well in hand. The last Northmen were dead. Malig shook the blood from his axe while Dray peered about the room. Aemon stood back, breathing hard, his weapon clean. They gathered as Caim approached.
“Looks like you were right,” Dray said. “You figure them for thieves?”
Caim looked down at the gore-streaked faces. “What else? We don't know anyone here.”
He hoped that was true. They'd taken pains to appear like caravan guards, beneath anyone's notice.
Malig hiked a thumb toward the door. “We got your friend outside trussed up like a Yuletide goat. You want to gut him and see what spills out?”
“No.” Caim put his knives away and left his hands behind his back to hide their trembling. “Let's get back to the hostel. We're leaving.”
“What about finding a guide?” Aemon asked.
The shadows waited. Caim felt them watching from the edges of the room, felt their hunger. “We'll get directions to the next town and pick up someone there.”
Malig exchanged a look with Dray, but it was Aemon who spoke up. “Where
Caim started toward the door, ignoring the gazes of his crew and the newly dead alike. “North.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Darkness reached down from the chamber's high ceiling and distant walls to enfold Balaam as he stepped out onto the receiving platform. The sensation was both familiar and disconcerting to one who had been born under the ebon skies of the Shadowlands, a bitter remembrance of a home he would never see again. Wrapping himself in his cloak, he descended the long, winding steps to the floor far below.
He left the chamber through a mammoth doorway and passed into a corridor sheathed in polished onyx. His footsteps echoed as he navigated the empty halls and passed by windows of frosted glass looking down on the citadel below, a vast, empty city of glittering black stone.
Six Northmen, armed with poleaxes, stood before the entrance to the Grand Hall. As he approached, the bronze valve doors opened, and a slim figure wrapped in a long cloak emerged. Wisps of brown hair poked from under the deep cowl. A mortal. He paused to let her go by, and then entered the chamber.
Curving walls of alabaster enclosed the great hall. Black pillars carved from obsidian reached to the arched ceiling. Accents of wrought iron and black diamond glistened in the luminance of smoky braziers. Elegant women and men in somber dress stood about the room. Their faces were impassive, as if they were watching a pageant, while slaves in a variety of skin shades, from pale white to deepest ebony, passed among them offering libations and whatever else the lords and ladies desired. Here and there a noble supped on the sweet liquor of blood and agony from an accommodating vessel. Despite the languorous heat radiating from the feedings, Balaam's gaze was drawn to the colossal basalt throne at the far end. A powerful presence seized him as he stepped across the threshold, like an iron fist closing around his throat. The Master reclined in a swathe of shadow, hidden from sight, though his power dominated the hall.
Balaam moved behind the crowd and found a vantage point where he could see the dais. Two of his brother Talons, their features concealed behind steely visors, stood at the bottom of the steps. Members of the Shadow Lord's elite cadre of enforcers, only they were permitted to bear arms in the Master's presence.
Six mortals clad in animal furs-their faces obscured behind great, bushy beards and long locks of hair in strange hues of orange, yellow, and brown-stood before the assemblage. One of them, a stout man with strands of gray shot through his ruddy hair and a stuffed bear head perched on his shoulder, addressed the court in the brusque tongue of the humans.
“O Great Lord, defender of the north, bringer of the grasses which feed and sustain us. For all the gifts you have given to us, we pay you this homage.”
While he spoke, his kinsmen laid objects on the floor-bundles of cloth from the Southlands, tusks of ivory, cedar chests filled with incense, and a stack of silver ingots.
“And one hundred new slaves,” the Northman said, “captured in raids against your enemies. All this we give to you, Great Lord.”
The Northman finished with a deep bow. As he and his men backed away, a voice from atop the dais spoke. “You and your people honor us, Chief Vanar.” It was not the Master, but a robed figure standing beside the throne. Lord Malphas, the Master's majordomo. His voice clipped each word with precise inflection. “In his infinite generosity, the Master grants the Bear tribe additional hunting lands in the west and permission to collect tithes in the Jurengaard region.”
As Balaam listened, a female in black armor migrated toward him through the crowd. A coiled chain whip hung on her belt.
“I greet you,
“I see you, Deumas.”
“It is good to have you back. There were whispers that you may have encountered difficulty in the south.”
Balaam looked back to the front of the hall. As the Northmen filed out of the hall, trailing their fur cloaks, a side door opened to admit a squadron of soldiers with a prisoner. “There was no difficulty.”
Balaam squinted, not sure he could believe his eyes. The man under guard was Lord Oriax, commander of the eastern armies. Balaam had served with him, albeit briefly, years ago during the first stage of the northern conquest. Oriax was from an old bloodline and was known for the high regard in which his men held him.
The guards brought Oriax before the dais and forced him to kneel. Balaam moved closer as Lord Malphas addressed the prisoner. “Lord Oriax of House Umberal, you have been summoned before this court to answer for your treasons.”
Oriax lifted his gaze. “I have committed no treasons against our Great Lord. I swear it upon the Mother and my family's sacred name.”
Lord Malphas reached into his sleeve and produced a rolled parchment from which he read. “Twelve thousand human soldiers. Four thousand draft animals. Sixteen tons of timber. Seven tons of iron. Two coteries of imperial knights…”
“This is not well done,” Deumas said. “Kobal and I were the ones sent to retrieve him from Sirion. I tell you,
Balaam turned his head slightly. No one was close enough to overhear their words, but the shadows were everywhere. “I was not aware of this operation.”
Deumas nodded toward the dais. “Lord Malphas now directs the Talons.” She lowered her voice. “Be wary,
With a nod, Deumas turned and left the hall. Balaam returned his attention to the audience. The Talons were the Master's instruments, to be used as he desired. It should not have rankled him that the majordomo was given control over his team, and yet…
“Enough!” Oriax shouted as Malphas continued to read from a long list of goods and materials. “I do not understand. What does this have to do with treason?”
Lord Malphas rolled up the parchment. “This is a list of the resources that have been placed under your
