by Paul S. Kemp
“Disarm them, get a pledge to give up the fight, and take the thumb from their sword hand to ensure it. Then give them a horse, if we can spare it, and let them go.”
Roen’s eyes widened, but he nodded.
Abelar had little choice. He had no way to hold prisoners and he would not execute enemies unless he saw no other course. Taking a thumb would make them useless as combatants. It was enough.
“Be quick, Roen,” he said. “We ride as soon as it is done.”
Half an army was still bearing down on Saerb, on his son.
Cale held his holy symbol in hand and inventoried the spells he had prepared. He had a thirty count to invent a plan. Either that, or he had to shadowwalk out of the Calyx with Riven and Magadon.
Cale? Riven asked.
I am not leaving without doing what we came to do, Magadon said.
Cale agreed. They might not get another attempt on Kesson and if they did not, Magadon would be lost.
We ambush the ambusher, Cale said to his friends. Stay close to me. When we see him, I will isolate us with him. If that fails, we leave—
No, Magadon said. You promised me—
I have not forgotten, Cale snapped. But we leave if that fails, Mags. There are too many.
Magadon said nothing more and Cale decided to take it as acquiescence.
If it succeeds, we will not have much time. Hit him with everything you have. We kill him, take what we came for, and get the Hells out.
Magadon and Riven indicated agreement as they approached the spire.
Cale knew they would face hundreds of shadows, at least a score of shadow giants, and the First Chosen of Mask—the first First Chosen of Mask, selected millennia ago. Their plan would have to go perfectly.
Beside Cale, Riven shook his head and chuckled.
He must have been thinking much the same thing.
Elyril flew high above the earth, her form as insubstantial as the night’s breeze. Abandoned villages and fallow fields lay below her. Sembia was dying. Civil war would kill it and the Shadowstorm would desiccate the corpse.
She cradled the book to her chest, reveling in her new form. The tome pulsed against her breast like a heartbeat, whispered truths into her mind, and pulled her toward the rest of it—The Leaves of One Night.
She was one with the darkness, truly Shar’s instrument. She could become corporeal should she require it, but she preferred the form of a living shadow.
She saw now that all she had done and experienced—from the night she had murdered her parents to the night she had transcended the Nightseer’s betrayal—had been to transform her into shadow and make her worthy of her position as the future consort of Volumvax the Divine One. She would take The Leaves of One Night from the Nightseer and make the book whole. She would cast the spell and summon the Shadowstorm. The Nightseer would be consumed in its violence and she would rule the transformed world beside Volumvax.
She giggled and her voice was like the wind.
Tamlin sat alone in his study, dressed in a heavy overcloak. A single candle provided light. Cool night air shook the flame. Despite the cold, Tamlin preferred the window to be open. He felt less confined. Selûne’s silver crescent shone in through the open window.
He closed the book he had been reading and watched the play of shadows about the room. He wondered what it would be like to know the shadows so intimately that they responded to his will, to step through the invisible space that connected them, to live for millennia.
He had read all he could of shades, shadow magic, even a bit about ancient Netheril, though there was little to be found on the subject in Selgaunt. But books could teach him only so much. He wanted to know more.
A knock at his door drew his attention.
“It is Thriistin, my lord,” said his chamberlain from the hallway.
“Enter.”
The door opened and Thriistin stood in the corridor. The old fellow looked stricken. Dark circles painted the skin under his eyes and his mouth hung partially open. His alarm spread into the room and Tamlin rose from his chair, his blood pounding.
“What is it?” Tamlin asked.
“Word has come from our western scouts. Saerloon has marshaled. An army of thousands is preparing to march.”
The words hung in the air, fat with dire portents. Tamlin sat down, remembered to breathe. To his surprise he did not feel frightened, merely numb.
“So many?” Tamlin asked.
Thriistin nodded.
Tamlin said, “Have the scouts sent to me. I will need further details. And notify Lord Rivalen immediately.”
“Yes, Hulorn,” Thriistin said, and hurried from the room.
The import of the words started to settle on Tamlin. His pulse sounded in his ears. A sudden headache put a knife through his temples. Mirabeta had not waited for the spring. War would come to Selgaunt not in months but in days.
Tamlin did not feel ready for it.
Rivalen walked the night-shrouded streets of Selgaunt alone. He had no destination in mind—he simply wanted to be seen. Others among his entourage did the same in other parts of the city from time to time. To appear less threatening, less foreign, Rivalen had ordered all of the Shadovar to keep the darkness that habitually coiled about them to a minimum.
Passersby watched him with more curiosity than fear. Some soldiers even saluted him. Rivalen was pleased. The citizens of the city were becoming accustomed to seeing a Shadovar among them.
Rivalen saw that most of the shops—those still open after nightfall—contained scant goods. Commerce had slowed almost to a halt as the city braced for war. Rivalen made a point to stop and examine what goods he saw. A dozen pairs of boots sat in the light of a glowball on the walkway outside a cobbler’s shop. Rivalen stooped, picked up a pair made from cow hide, turned them in his hands.
“These are well made,” he said to the balding cobbler, who watched him from a few paces away.
The man looked surprised that Rivalen had spoken to him. “Uh … thank you … my lord.”
“What is their price?”
“Uh … one silver raven, my lord.”
Rivalen nodded, produced the coin, and handed it to the cobbler.
“A fair price.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
Rivalen walked off, pleased to see that a small crowd had gathered to watch the transaction. There was hope in their eyes, the same hope he saw in the Hulorn’s eyes when he looked at Rivalen.
Rivalen nodded at them and walked on. As he moved down the streets, through the crowds, he attuned the magical ring on his finger to the similar ring worn by his brother, Brennus. He felt the connection open.
Rivalen, his brother said.
Have you been able to locate Erevis Cale? Rivalen asked.
No, Brennus answered, and Rivalen heard the frustration in his brother’s tone. It is inexplicable, almost as though he and his companions have vanished from the multiverse. I suspect something shields them but I cannot determine even that for certain.
What sort of something? A spell?
Brennus hesitated. I do not know, Rivalen. Perhaps a spell. Or perhaps something more.
Such as?
He is a priest. We know this.
It took a moment for Brennus’s implication to register. Are you implying that his god is shielding him from us?
Rivalen found the very notion offensive. After all, Shar offered him no such boon, and he was her Nightseer.
Brennus said nothing and the silence stretched.
Perhaps he is dead? Rivalen offered at last.
Brennus answered, I would know if it were so. He could be hiding within an area of dead magic. Perhaps still in the Hole of Yhaunn. That is a possibility.
There, Rivalen said, comforted. Continue your efforts, and inform me if you locate him. What of Sakkors and the Source?
Yder has accomplished much. Sakkors is almost fully restored. Three hundred of our elite warriors under Leevoth arrived yesterday to bolster the
five hundred battle-bred krinth already here. The Most High has put all of them at your disposal.
Mention of the Most High evoked a sense of unease, but Rivalen was otherwise pleased. Leevoth and his men were among the finest shade warriors in Shade Enclave. Each bore a glassteel blade infused with shadow magic that sheared through metal as if it were cloth.
Brennus continued. The Source itself is functional but its consciousness appears … damaged, hostile. The mind-altered krinth are able to control it for a time, but only for a time.
Then?
Their minds are consumed. They are left catatonic.
Rivalen nodded. He would have to use the Source’s sentience sparingly. The mindmage, Magadon Kest, had altered only thirty or so of the krinth.
Events are moving quickly here, he said. Have Yder position Sakkors to assist should I need it. An hour or less away, not days. I will send for him at the appropriate time.
What more do you wish of me?
I want you here.
There?
Yes. Finalize matters on Sakkors and transport yourself here. I may have need of your divinations. And I wish to show the Hulorn good faith. He is increasingly nervous.
Very well, Brennus answered. Shall I bring Leevoth and his men, then, as well?
No, Rivalen answered. Their entrance is to be more … dramatic.
How do you mean?
A voice in the crowd called out to Rivalen.
Come as soon as you are able, he said to Brennus, and broke the connection.
“Prince Rivalen!” called a man in the crowd. “When will we have the aid of the Shadovar? Rumors say that the armies of the overmistress will soon come.”
Others among the crowd nodded, murmured agreement.
“Assistance is on the way,” he returned, loud enough for all to hear. For effect, he let the shadows around him churn. Eyes widened.
“Fear nothing,” he said. “I regard Selgaunt as my own city. I assure you that no army will breach its walls.”
Smiles, raised fists, and a ragged cheer answered his words.
Rivalen walked on among his future subjects.
Later he returned to his quarters and one of the Hulorn’s messengers informed him that Saerloon had begun to marshal.
He could not hold in a smile.
CHAPTER NINE
26 Uktar, the Year of Lightning Storms
Abelar, Regg, and their company—less the four score dead or incapacitated from the battle—raced toward Saerb. Mounts and men fought fatigue with every league they covered, but fear for their friends and families pulled them ever north and west. They had slept little. Roen and the priests kept them all fed on magical fare and they ate in the saddle. They stopped during the day only for Dawnmeet and as the stout Saerbian mounts required. Leagues of whipgrass-covered plains lay behind them. Leagues more still lay before them.
Only the sound of thundering hooves marked their passage. The men did not jest or chat with one another as they rode, as was their habit. Their usual camaraderie had surrendered to quiet purposefulness. The battle with Ordulin’s forces had driven home the hard realization that civil war had started. Matters would soon get much worse, Abelar knew, and much bloodier.
The unoccupied road stretched before them like a ribbon. They passed villages from time to time but slowed only to warn the villagers that war was coming and that they should flee south.
Fear for Elden consumed Abelar’s thoughts. He occupied the hours by reciting in his mind passages from Lathander’s Book of Light. He reminded himself that dawn always chased even the darkest night, that the sun set but always rose anew. The proverbs brought him scant comfort.
The setting sun turned the cloudless western sky into a pool of orange and red. Abelar took it as a good sign. A line of tall ash trees to their left cast long shadows over the plains.
“What do you make of that?” Regg asked, pulling Abelar back to himself. Regg nodded ahead to the top of a rise, perhaps a crossbow shot distant.
Abelar squinted in the fading light. A patch of darkness blotted the rise under a stand of trees, as if a storm cloud had fallen from the sky. The darkness flowed down the rise like fog, filling the low spots with shadows.
Abelar knew it to be magical. He whistled for the attention of his men and called a halt. The men pulled up, all eyes on the hillock. Hands went to hilts. Horses whinnied.
“Roen, put some light on it,” Abelar called.
Roen chanted a prayer to Lathander and pointed his hand at the rise. A globe of light flared into being over the hill but only partially countered the darkness.
Abelar saw forms within the shadows, half a dozen men or more. Darkness concealed all but one and that one stood a head taller than the rest. Something about the man’s stance and stature looked familiar. The man raised a hand in greeting.
“Morning light,” Regg oathed. “Can it be?”
Abelar stared, his mind racing, his heart swelling. “Can it? Can it?”
The men and women pointed at the rise and an excited murmur ran through them.
Regg put a hand on Abelar’s shoulder, though he kept his eyes on the rise. “The Morninglord reunites the sundered before night falls. It is a good sign, Abelar.”
Abelar nodded, overwhelmed by the blessing. He put his boots into Swiftdawn’s flanks and sped forward. Regg and the company followed hard after.
Abelar’s father, smiling, stepped out of the shadows, which dimmed Roen’s globe of light with each passing moment.
Abelar pulled up on Swiftdawn, leaped from the saddle, and swallowed his father in his arms. Regg and the rest of the company swarmed around them.
“Father,” Abelar said, and did not try to hold back the tears.
Endren returned the embrace, his voice choked. “My son. You are well.”
They drew strength from one another for a time, standing in the light of the setting sun. The men and women of the company looked on and spoke softly of standing in Lathander’s favor.
Abelar held his father at arm’s length and looked at the six shadow-shrouded men who stood several paces behind Endren. Shadows coiled around them, leaked from their flesh. Abelar thought of Erevis Cale. The darkness had embraced him in the same manner. Hard eyes looked out of shadow-cloaked forms. All of them wore impassive expressions on olive-skinned faces. They bore no weapons that Abelar could see, and their loose-fitting trousers and tunics befitted peasants more than warriors.
“Who are these men?” he asked Endren. Without waiting for an answer, he shouted to them, “House Corrinthal owes you a debt. I owe you a debt.”
The tallest of the men inclined his head but said nothing.
Endren half-turned to face the shadowmen. “They are my rescuers. Or some of them. They pulled me from the Hole, nursed me back to health in their temple, then brought me to you. I still do not know how they found you. They speak little. But I do know that they serve Mask and travel the shadows as if they were roads.”
Abelar and Regg shared a look.
“Mask?” Abelar asked his father. “You are certain?”
Endren nodded. “Strange, not so? That servants of Mask should save the father of a servant of Lathander.”
“Stranger than you know,” Abelar answered. He looked past his father to the men. “You are not the first servants of Mask I have met in recent days. Are you Shadovar?”
Shadows swirled and the tallest of the men suddenly stood beside him. He had covered ten paces without taking a step. Swiftdawn neighed nervously and backed away a step. Regg cursed in surprise.
Endren said, “This is Nayan. Nayan, this is Abelar, my son.”
Nayan gave a half-bow, his gray eyes unreadable. He gestured at his six companions and spoke in accented common.
“We are not Shadovar, but hail from Telflammar. These are Shadem, Vyrhas, Erynd, Dynd, and Dahtem.”
“Such names,” Regg said. “And no weapons or armor.”
Nayan’s gaze never left Abelar’s face. “Mask speaks to f
ew servants in these days. Name him whom you saw.”
Abelar did not care for Nayan’s tone but bore it. The man had saved his father.
“Erevis Cale. He named himself a priest of Mask.”
Nayan’s eyes widened. The shadows around his five companions deepened, roiled. “Where and when did you see him?”
Regg said, “And who are you to demand—”
Abelar held up a hand and Regg fell silent. “Who is Erevis Cale to you?” Abelar asked.
Nayan studied Abelar’s face. “He is the Right Hand of the Shadowlord, and we are his instruments.”
Abelar heard no lie in Nayan’s words. He told of his meeting with Erevis Cale and Selgaunt’s Hulorn.
Nayan’s face showed nothing, but his tone suggested disappointment. “That was too long ago, Abelar Corrinthal. We have seen him in the interim. He and the Left Hand led us in the rescue of Endren Corrinthal.”
“The Left Hand?”
Nayan nodded. “Drasek Riven.”
Abelar put a hand on Nayan’s shoulder. The man’s muscles felt carved from stone. “Then I have him to thank as well as you.”
Nayan accepted Abelar’s gratitude with a nod of his head. He said, “The Left and Right departed Yhaunn for Selgaunt after rescuing your father. We have not seen either of them since and cannot locate them.”
That did not bode well for Selgaunt, Abelar thought, but did not say. Instead, he said, “I hope they are safe and stay in the light.”
Nayan smiled slightly. “If they are safe, they do not owe it to the light.”
Regg laughed aloud. Even Abelar smiled.
Regg said, “We have heard a rumor that the Shadovar serve the Hulorn of Selgaunt. Perhaps the rumors have mistaken your lord for a Shadovar?”
“None would make that mistake,” Nayan answered.
“We will solve this mystery together, Nayan,” Abelar said. “Come. You and your men are welcome in our company. We ride northwest for Saerb.”
“And there’s battle upon our arrival,” Regg added.
Endren gave a start and looked pointedly at Abelar, a question in his eyes.
Nayan bowed his head. “Gratitude, Abelar Corrinthal, but we serve only the hands of Mask and they are not among your number. We will await their return or summons at our temple.”
