Shadowstorm

by Paul S. Kemp

  Cale looked up to see dark clouds streaking by so rapidly that they looked smeared across the sky. Lightning ripped the heavens, a sudden storm of bolts that flashed so fast and frequently that the entire sky looked veined with them. It made Cale dizzy to look upon it.

  As fast as it had started, it ceased.

  “What in the Nine Hells?” Riven asked, blinking from the flashes.

  Magadon squinted up at the sky. “Clouds streaking past. An entire lightning storm in a heartbeat.” He looked at Cale and Riven, thoughtful. “Time is passing differently here relative to the outside.”

  “But where exactly is ‘here’?” Cale said.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Riven said. “We’re not staying for a visit. We find Kesson Rel, kill him, get clear.”

  Before Cale could respond, a bass voice from their left said, “If that is your intent, then you are tardy. Kesson Rel has been dead these thousands of years. Well, thousands of years as time passes outside the Calyx.”

  Out of the gloom of the walkway to their left stepped an enormous form. The towering, gray-skinned giant looked like a man but stood three times Cale’s height. Black eyes looked out from a gaunt, craggy face that could have been carved from stone. Long white hair contrasted with the shadows that clung to his form. Disproportionately long arms dangled almost to the giant’s knees. He wore no armor, but his gray flesh looked hard enough to turn a blade. The hilt of a sword stuck out over his shoulder. A leather bag that could have contained a man hung from his side.

  Cale and Riven backed up a step but held their blades at the ready. The giant’s eyes lingered over Weaveshear.

  “Your weapons are unnecessary,” the giant said.

  “We will see,” Riven answered, and slowly spun his sabers.

  “Name yourself,” Cale demanded.

  The giant inclined his head. “I am Esmor. And you are the Right and Left hands of the Shadowlord. This place is the Adumbral Calyx. The Divine One rules here, not Kesson Rel. I will take you to him and he will explain matters.”

  Cale had never heard of the Divine One or the Adumbral Calyx.

  Before Cale could respond, another giant stepped out of the gloom to their right. The damned creatures walked the shadows as easily as Cale. The newcomer looked similar to Esmor in appearance, except that his pate was bald.

  “I’ve got left,” Cale said to Riven, and kept his face to Esmor.

  “I’ve got right,” Riven said, and took position before the other giant.

  Esmor nodded at the second giant. “This is Murgan.”

  “Greetings, Right and Left,” Murgan said.

  Esmor said, “Murgan will accompany us to the spire.”

  Magadon’s black-streaked mindblade flared into existence. The giants blinked in the sudden flash of yellow light.

  “We have not yet agreed to go anywhere with you,” Magadon said.

  A flash of anger showed in Esmor’s black eyes but he reined it in quickly. Cale did not like the look of it.

  “But you must,” Esmor said. “The Divine One wishes you brought to him.”

  Cale kept Weaveshear at the ready. Darkness leaked from its tip. “You named us the Right and Left. How did you know that?”

  The giant adopted an affected smile. Everything about the creature was false.

  “The Divine One knows many things,” he answered.

  Cale looked to Riven, to Magadon, back to the giant. “Take us to him.”

  Esmor looked at Murgan and something passed between them. Both seemed pleased. Murgan brandished a thin shaft of black crystal and pointed it at the tower. A thin ray of darkness shot from the wand, hit the tower near a large doorway, and stuck to it. The ray broadened and thickened until a flat expanse of shadow stretched from the walkway to the tower, forming a bridge.

  “Move quickly,” Esmor said, and stepped onto the span.

  Cale, Riven, and Magadon followed, blades still at the ready. Murgan brought up the rear and boxed them in. Cale looked back to see the bridge disappearing behind them as they moved along it. There would be no retreat.

  Other bridges formed suddenly, extending from the other platforms of the octagon to the spire. More giants walked across them. The creatures seemed to have been stationed at the other platforms.

  The giants had been waiting for them, Cale realized. He hurriedly signaled Riven in handcant. The giant lies.

  Riven shot back, Agreed. This is an ambush.

  Cale felt a familiar tingle under his scalp—Magadon’s mind link. The connection opened and Magadon said, I do not trust them.

  He is a liar, Cale said. And this is a trap. They were waiting for us at the gates. Look at them all. They knew we were coming but not where we were coming from.

  How do we play it? Riven asked.

  Cale shook his head. He did not have enough information.

  The carrion birds are gathering, Riven said, nodding at the sky, at the gathering cloud of shadows that swooped and wheeled above them, red eyes burning. Hundreds more wheeled around the spire.

  Mags, can you get inside Esmor’s head without him knowing?

  Surface thoughts, Magadon said. Any deeper and he will know.

  Do it, Cale said. He needed to know more about their situation.

  He could sense even this, Magadon said.

  They were halfway to the spire. The basin glimmered below them. Undead shadows whirled above. The roiling black pit under the spire continued to birth its abominations.

  Do it anyway, Cale said, and readied himself for things to get ugly. Beside him, Riven tensed. Cale felt a slight pressure in his head, indicating that the mindlink had gone quiescent.

  Magadon did not break stride, merely closed his eyes and concentrated for a moment. Esmor scratched at his ear but otherwise showed no sign that he sensed the mental intrusion.

  Cale felt the tingle of the reactivated mindlink.

  The Divine One is Kesson Rel, Magadon said. And he plans to ambush us within the tower.

  Elyril awakened, still groggy from minddust, to an irritating tickle on her ring finger. She lay in dim lanternlight in her room in Yhaunn. Kefil snored on the floor at the side of her bed. The book brought her by Shar’s agent lay beside her and her hand rested on it protectively. The fire in the hearth had burned down to embers. She sat up and hung her legs off the bed. Her head felt as if it had been beaten by maces.

  Nightseer?

  Dark Sister, Rivalen answered.

  Elyril shook her head to clear it. I was sleeping, Nightseer. I—

  I know, Dark Sister.

  His words and tone snapped Elyril to clarity. How could he have known she was sleeping?

  You have well served the Lady of Loss, Rivalen said. War is now inevitable in Sembia.

  The Nightseer’s praise left her unmoved. She served him only until she could wrest from him the remainder of the book to be made whole. Then, she would usher in the Shadowstorm and serve Shar beside the Divine One. Then, the Nightseer would bend his knee to her. She smiled, reached back, and ran her fingertips over the book.

  The Shadowstorm, too, is inevitable, Nightseer.

  It is, Rivalen agreed. Your work is done now.

  Elyril cocked her head, puzzled by the comment. Nightseer?

  You know the provenance of the war, Dark Sister. That secret must be kept.

  She sat up straight, troubled. I will keep it, Nightseer.

  I know.

  The tickle on Elyril’s finger turned to a twinge, an ache, a sting. She exclaimed, jumped to her feet, and pulled at the ring. She could not so much as turn it. It felt grafted to the bone of her finger. Her heart raced.

  “No, Nightseer! You do not know—”

  There is nothing I do not know.

  The purple amethyst in the ring flared and the silver band blackened. An agonizing stab of pain ran the length of Elyril’s arm and started to spread into her chest. She gasped in pained horror as her fingers shriveled into thin twigs covered in wrinkled skin. The Nightseer’s r
ing shrank to maintain its hold on her finger even as the magic spread to her hand, turning it to a husk. The magic crawled up her forearm, killing a little more of her with each breath.

  She screamed. How could you do this to me?! How?!

  Your bitterness is sweet to the Lady, Rivalen said, his voice soft, almost sympathetic. I offer it to her as you die. Dark journey, Elyril Hraven.

  The connection ended. The pain did not.

  Elyril screamed with agony and railed with rage as the magic of the Nightseer’s ring consumed her body. Kefil climbed to his feet and circled her excitedly, tail wagging.

  Did the Nightseer bend his knee to you? Kefil projected.

  She kicked at the dog, lost her balance, and fell to the floor. He licked her face.

  “Get away!” she screamed.

  He sat back on his haunches, panting.

  The door to her room flew open and there stood the balding steward in his nightclothes.

  “Help me!” she said, and climbed to her feet. He stood still, shocked, wide-eyed.

  “Help me!” she screamed, and ran toward him, arms outstretched.

  He mouthed an oath, turned, and fled the room.

  Elyril raged after him from the doorway. Her entire arm was little more than a withered stick. She felt the magic root in her chest, neck, and face. Half of her was melting like a candle, collapsing on itself. She whirled around and Kefil put his paws on her chest and tried to lick her face. His weight drove her against the wall.

  “Away!” she screamed, and pushed him with her good arm.

  Have you summoned the Shadowstorm? he asked, tail still wagging, eyeing her adoringly.

  “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” She put her hands—the one a mere nub—to her ears. She screamed, terrified, dying. Panicked, desperate, she scrambled around the room searching for a blade with which to cut off her hand, her whole arm, if necessary. If she could only get free of the ring …

  She turned over the night table with her good hand, threw drawers to the floor, toppled a small armoire, tossed her bedding about the room. The book to be made whole fell to the floor. So, too, did an oil lamp, which broke and sent its contents spraying across the floor. It ignited and spread immediately to the toppled side table and bedding. She did not find a blade. She found only the book to be made whole and hugged it to her breast.

  “Divine One!” she wailed. “Volumvax! Aid me!”

  Her speech was slurred. Half her face hung slack, ruined.

  Kefil lingered around her, standing in her shadow, whining. You are mad, he said.

  Her leg shriveled under her and she fell to the floor. The fire spread to the wall tapestries and they burst into flame. Heat and smoke filled the room. She coughed, gagged, cried.

  Kefil licked her, whined more. She pushed him away with her good foot. He fled the room at last, tail between his legs. As he exited the doorway, he said, You are mad and none of this is real. You have always been mad. None of this is happening …

  Elyril sat in the middle of the inferno and stared at the shadows on the wall. She eyed the wreckage of her body, and an uncontrollable giggle shook her. She saw it all, then, understood fully, and knew what she was to do.

  She called to mind a transformative spell that might save her, a spell she had never before used on herself, though she had on others. She giggled again, inhaled smoke, and fell into a coughing fit.

  When she recovered, she touched her holy symbol and struggled with her ruined mouth to speak the magical phrases that would transform her body.

  The bed caught fire. The sheets curled as they burned. The heat in the room blistered her already shriveled flesh. The smoke set her eyes to watering. She ignored it all and carefully pronounced each word of the spell. When she completed it, she held her desiccated arm before her body and watched the magic transform her flesh again. Her skin darkened, became insubstantial shadowstuff.

  The Nightseer’s ring blackened further, the amethyst flared anew, and a charge went through her metamorphing body. Her nerves blazed with pain. She screamed, but her spell, corrupted by the Nightseer’s ring, continued to transform her. When the magic turned her fully insubstantial at last, the ring fell through her hand and rolled into the flames.

  Free of the Nightseer’s spell, she cavorted in the fire. She saw the book to be made whole and flew to it. When she touched it, it turned as insubstantial as she and she held it to her breast.

  She laughed aloud and collected the Nightseer’s ring. Her touch turned it insubstantial and she secreted it on her person. She was living shadow. She could read Shar’s portents in her own transformed flesh.

  Screaming not in pain but in ecstasy, she fled the residence for Selgaunt, for the Nightseer. She would yet be the author of the Divine One’s Shadowstorm.

  And she would make the Nightseer pay.

  “I have a ring to return to you, Prince Rivalen,” she said.

  Mirabeta placed the sealed missive into Rynon’s pudgy hand. Vendem, in human guise, stood beside her, smiling his overlarge teeth at Rynon. The house mage’s uncomfortable expression showed his discomfiture.

  “You are fat,” the dragon said to him.

  Rynon looked like he had been smacked. He colored, stuttered, finally said, “And you, sir, are a rude cretin.”

  “Tasty though, I’d wager,” the dragon said, eyeing the mage up and down.

  Rynon looked with shock at the dragon, at Mirabeta, said, “Overmistress, this is most irregular. This person is …”

  Mirabeta cut him off. “You will transport yourself, my letter, and Vendem to the Lady Merelith. After she has read and acknowledged the contents of my missive, you are to return to me.”

  “Provided I do not eat you first,” said Vendem.

  Rynon refused to look at the dragon. “Will I be returning alone, Overmistress?”

  She smiled and nodded. “Vendem will remain in service to Lady Merelith.”

  Rynon bowed to Mirabeta, glared at the dragon. “I pity her.”

  Vendem grinned.

  “Leave now,” Mirabeta ordered.

  Her letter to Merelith explained the true identity of Vendem and that he was in service to Mirabeta. The letter further ordered Merelith to proceed with an immediate attack on Selgaunt. With Vendem leading the attack, the siege of Selgaunt would be no siege at all. It would be a slaughter.

  Mirabeta would have all of Sembia consolidated under her rule before Deepwinter.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  24 Uktar, the Year of Lightning Storms

  Abelar and Regg, leading the company atop Swiftdawn and Firstlight, crested the rise and saw it first. Abelar raised his hand for a halt and the whole of his force came to a stop along the rise. Only the soft chink of metal and the occasional whicker of a mount broke the silence. All eyes looked below them on the plain.

  Perhaps three long bowshots in the distance, a force of cavalry rode. They numbered perhaps twice that of Abelar’s company. Abelar could not make out their standard but he noted the color of their tabards—Ordulin’s green.

  A murmur moved through the men. Horses pawed the ground, snorted. Armor chinked as men shifted in their saddles.

  “The sun sets and rises, Abelar.” Regg said, a sharp edge in his tone.

  “That it does.”

  Regg said, “They are many to our few. Twice us, I’d say, but not the thousand we’d heard. What are they doing out here, I wonder?”

  Abelar knew the answer. “Forrin split his force to cut off retreat from Saerb. They’re angling around from the south. The rest of the army is hitting Saerb directly from the east.”

  “Forrin cannot be far from Saerb, then,” Regg said. “Two days away, maybe three.”

  Abelar nodded. “Get the standards up and sound a blast. Let them know we are here.”

  Regg issued the order and the two standard bearers unfurled their pennons. Each showed a field of white adorned with a red rose for faith, a sun for light, and a boar rampant for strength. When the standards were up
, the company’s trumpets sounded and their clarion carried over the plains.

  Heads and horses in Ordulin’s company wheeled around. Fingers and blades pointed back at Abelar’s forces. Ordulin’s commanders put their boot heels into their mounts and moved briskly among the squads, pointing and shouting. Their shouts carried faintly over the plains. Men and horses reversed formation and began to form up into an arc concave to Abelar’s men.

  “They see us, I think,” Regg said with a grin.

  “That they do.”

  Regg said, “All medium cavalry. I see crossbows but no massed archers.”

  “Nor I,” Abelar said. The battle would be fought with blades, up close. He pointed to a pair of unarmored men among the forces. “But see there? Wizards. They probably have a few priests in their number as well.”

  “Agreed. The wizards are to their advantage. But battles are won by flesh and steel, not spells. So it has been ever.”

  Abelar nodded. “Put us into a loose line. We advance with flanks lagging.”

  “Advance?”

  Abelar nodded, his eyes on his enemy.

  Regg shouted the order and the company moved into position. Sergeants shouted commands; horses neighed; men adjusted armor and shields.

  Abelar watched his foes as they took formation. They moved with discipline, even skill. He figured many of them to be onetime members of Forrin’s Blades, experienced men, but dark hearted from all he’d heard.

  He called his cadre of six priests to him. Each wore a breastplate over mail and bore a round steel shield enameled with Lathander’s rose. Led by Roen, they formed a semicircle around Abelar as Ordulin’s trumpets blared below. He looked each of them in the eye. Despite their limited experience, he saw only resolve there. The Light was in them.

  “They have spellcasters in their force,” he said. “We will advance loose, flanks lagging. The casters will try to hit us as we close. Stay in the pocket behind us and watch for their casters.”

  “Not hard for Roen to look over the line,” Jiiris said, grinning. “He sits the saddle as tall as an ogre.”

  The priests laughed. Abelar smiled and continued. “Do whatever you can to disrupt their spells. Once we’re engaged, the casters will matter little.”