by Paul S. Kemp
“Are you all right, Mags?” He meant more than the words alone expressed.
Magadon seemed to understand. “I am nearly spent, Cale.”
“Hang on,” Cale said, and Magadon nodded.
“What now?” Riven asked.
Cale answered, “The Wayrock.”
Riven smiled and said, “There’s nothing at the Wayrock. We’ve been in Hell and the darkest hole in the Plane of Shadow, Cale. I need a drink and two women. Or a woman and two drinks. I’ll decide on the way, but there are neither at the Wayrock. Mags, you can join me. Cale’s a monk.”
Cale chuckled, despite it all. “When did you get funny?”
“I am not making a jest.”
Cale smiled. “Use your ring. I’ll follow after.”
Riven grew serious and a question formed on his brow. “Follow?”
“Yes.” Cale nodded at the dragon.
Riven shook his head. “Cale …”
“It’s the right thing.”
Furlinastis had spent almost his entire existence bound to serve others, whether Kesson Rel, Avnon Des, or Mask. The dragon had hated his existence as a result, and Cale, Riven, and Magadon had used that self-hate to kill him. Servants of Mask had stolen the dragon’s life. Cale was going to give it back.
Riven studied him, looked to the dragon, and sighed in surrender. “Let’s move, Mags.” To Cale, he said, “See you soon.”
Cale nodded. “See you soon.”
Cale donned his mask. Sound had returned to the swamp—howls, shrieks, and the buzzing of insects. Cale splashed through the water until he stood before the dragon. The horns that jutted from the reptile’s head were as tall as Cale; the teeth were swords.
Cale took a deep breath and hoped he was doing the right thing.
He placed both hands on the dragon’s head—the scales felt as smooth as a polished shield—and incanted the words to a spell that revivified the recently dead. Power gathered as he intoned first one couplet, then another, another. When the magic reached its apex, he felt the doors between worlds open.
“Return, Furlinastis,” he shouted, and his voice carried over and through the planes of existence. “If you wish it.”
The buzzes, howls, and clicks went dead around him, as if the swamp were holding its breath. Silent moments passed.
A hum sounded, gradually gathering volume. Streamers of shadow formed in the air and wrapped themselves around the dragon’s neck, merged with his flesh, and repaired the gash. Cale took his hands from the reptile’s head, put one on Weaveshear’s hilt, and backed up a step.
Furlinastis’s chest expanded sharply as he inhaled a great gasp of air. His dark eyes opened, looked upon Cale, narrowed. He opened his mouth in a roar that hit Cale like a gale. The dragon lurched to his feet, spraying water, flapped his wings once.
For a moment, man and dragon simply regarded one another.
“Why have you done this?” Furlinastis asked at last, his voice low and sibilant. Before Cale could answer, the dragon added, “I will never again serve another. Not even in payment for this.”
Cale nodded and explained it like a Sembian. “This is compensation, dragon. The Shadowlord took too much from you.”
The dragon considered that. “And from you, too, perhaps?”
Cale cocked his head in acknowledgement. “I am his willing instrument. You never were. Now you are free.”
A hiss escaped the dragon’s mouth. Cale took it as one of pleasure. Twin streams of shadow spiraled out of his nostrils.
Cale had done what he wanted. He drew the darkness about him. “Farewell, Furlinastis.”
The dragon watched him through slitted eyes. As the shadows around Cale deepened, the dragon said, “One service, First of Five. Freely given. If you call in darkness, I will hear.”
With that, the dragon launched itself into the dark sky, roaring with pleasure.
Cale smiled and imagined the Wayrock in his mind.
He needed to rethink things. An enormous task lay ahead of them. They had to find a way to murder a god.
Abelar saw the world through a gray haze. His company cut south and west for Lake Veladon and rode for hours, half a day. He felt thick, numb. Again and again in his mind he replayed the moments he had shared with his son. He could think of nothing else. He ate, drank, responded in single words to Regg’s inquiries, and sat atop Swiftdawn. But he felt nothing.
The afternoon of the next day, they reached Lake Veladon. Shrubs and scattered willows bordered its edge and the waters glittered in the sunlight. Men, women, children, horses, wagons, carts, and tents dotted the shore. Abelar put the number of fighting men at only several hundred. Not enough to engage Forrin; not enough to rescue his son.
Eyes watched them approach. Armed and armored men rode forth to greet them, as did Jiiris and the rest of Abelar’s company. Greetings and news were exchanged. Abelar greeted no one and cared nothing for news.
“I am going to surrender myself to Mirabeta,” he said to Regg, and heard the dullness in his own voice. He swung out of Swiftdawn’s saddle.
Regg, too, dismounted, as did Endren and the rest of the men and women.
“You cannot,” Regg said.
Endren put a hand on Abelar’s shoulder. “She will not honor a bargain with you. You know this.”
Abelar did know it. He found it hard to breathe. He found it pointless to breathe.
“I cannot stand idle while my son suffers.” He wanted to die, to crawl alone into a dark place and find oblivion.
“You do not know that he is suffering,” Endren said.
But Abelar did know it. They all knew it.
Regg patted him on the shoulder. “You did all you could, Abelar. We have not given up.”
Abelar looked at Regg and brandished his shield, the shield adorned with Lathander’s rose. Heat rose in him, gave his voice an edge. “But Lathander did not do all he could. I dedicated my life to him, Regg. Did he do enough? Do you think he did?”
Regg held Abelar’s gaze for only a moment before he looked away.
Anger rooted in Abelar’s gut, rushed up his throat. He voiced an inarticulate roar of despair and anger. Hundreds of eyes turned to look at him. He ignored them all, turned, and ran toward the lake. Regg, Endren, and Roen raced after him, calling his name. He charged into the water, sinking to his ankles in the muddy bottom, and flung his shield far out into the lake. It caught the light as it spun, hit the water, and sank into darkness. He jerked the holy symbol from around his neck, spat on it, and cast it into the water, too. “I will never forgive you!” he shouted to his god. “Never!”
Endren, Regg, and Roen waded into the water and stood beside him in silence. The setting sun cast the lake in fire. It was beautiful and Abelar hated it. Having shed shield and symbol, he found it hard to stand. Only his anger kept him upright.
Regg put an arm around him, steered him back toward shore. Men, women, and children had assembled there, and all of Abelar’s company. Abelar could not look them in the face. Hands patted his shoulder as he passed. Jiiris brushed his hand with hers.
He shook his head, bereft. “I need to be alone,” he said to Regg.
Regg nodded, ordered one of the men to get Abelar a tent. While they waited, a shout captured their attention.
“Smoke!”
Eyes turned north, where clouds of black smoke billowed into the sky.
“Saerb is burning!”
Word spread through the camp. Women cried, children sobbed, men shook their fists and cursed Forrin and the overmistress. Abelar felt almost nothing. He walked to his tent and collapsed. He emerged later to find that Regg, Roen, and Jiiris had taken station outside.
“Stragglers have been arriving from Saerb throughout the day,” Roen said.
“They got out before Forrin arrived,” Regg said. “Our rout of his southern force made that possible, Abelar. Without us, they’d have been killed on the road as would everyone here with us now.”
Abelar nodded.
/> “Are you all right?” Jiiris asked, and her green eyes showed concern.
“No.”
His father was taking stock of the fighting men and women who had gathered for the muster, planning their next steps. Abelar did not disrupt him. He walked to the shore of the lake and sat down alone. He whispered farewell to his god as the sun set and darkness fell.
As the night bloomed, he made up his mind. He would not surrender his son to Forrin and the overmistress. Not until he had done absolutely everything he could. He could not look to the light to rescue Elden, so he would look to the darkness.
He stood, walked purposefully through the camp until he found Roen. The priest of Lathander sat with a dozen other men of Abelar’s company around a fire. They had pulled a dozen silvergills from the lake. The fish cooked over the flames.
“Commander?” Roen asked, and stood.
“I need you to find Nayan.”
Roen looked confused.
“The shadowwalker who rescued my father.” Roen’s eyes flashed recognition. “Why?”
“Because he can find Erevis Cale. And if Erevis Cale can pull my father out of the Hole, he can pull my son out of Forrin’s camp.”
“Abelar …”
“Do it,” Abelar said, and grabbed Roen roughly by the shoulders. He regretted the gesture immediately and released the priest. “Please do it, Roen. Any way you can. I need them here. Now.”
Roen looked at the men around the fire, back at Abelar, nodded. “Of course, Abelar.”
Corpses and rubble from the wall littered Selgaunt’s streets. A floating Shadovar city cast its shadow over the battlefield. Shadovar and Selgauntan troops stood shoulder to shoulder amid the carnage. Coughs and the cries of the wounded sounded loud in the dusty air. Variance stood beside Tamlin, taking in the scene. Other priests and priestesses of the Lady of Loss stood among the victors.
Tamlin found the entire scene surreal. He had been certain his city would fall. Shar and the Shadovar had saved it. “It is quiet now,” he said, and immediately thought the words stupid.
Variance nodded.
Rivalen and Brennus appeared over the walls, cloaked in shadows and power. The Shadovar troops hailed them with raised blades. The Selgauntans, too, raised their weapons and cheered.
The two Princes of Shade descended to stand before Tamlin and Variance. Shadows curled lazily around the brothers.
Rivalen’s face, bruised around one eye and with a deep gash down one cheek, healed before Tamlin’s eyes. The Prince seemed not to notice.
Brennus’s homunculi emerged from his cloak, gazed about tentatively, and grinned when they saw the battle had ended.
“You are both well?” Tamlin asked.
Both nodded.
“And you?” Rivalen asked him, though he looked at Variance.
“Fine,” Tamlin answered. “The rest of the Saerloonian army?”
Rivalen made a dismissive gesture. “Destroyed or fled. We will want to arrange a detail to dispose of their bodies. The dragon, too, has fled.”
“Gods, man,” Tamlin breathed. He was standing before two men of inordinate power. He envied them. “I scarcely know what to say, Prince. Or how to thank you and your men.”
Rivalen inclined his head. “Thanks are unnecessary. I am a man of my word, Hulorn. We are … allies.”
“You are that, and we are that.”
“This war is not yet over,” Brennus said.
“Agreed,” Tamlin said. They had defeated part of Mirabeta’s army, but much of it still remained.
“We should discuss next steps,” Rivalen said.
“Next steps?” Tamlin asked.
Rivalen looked to Variance. “See to the wounded, Dark Sister.”
“Yes, Nightseer,” she said, nodded at Tamlin, and vanished into the shadows.
“There are provisions and accommodations on Sakkors,” Brennus said. The homunculi rubbed their stomachs and licked their lips.
“So that is Sakkors,” Tamlin said, eyeing the floating mountaintop hanging in the air above his city.
Brennus said, “Our troops will garrison there, of course, but there is ample space for more. The city was recently rebuilt. Selgaunt is overcrowded, some of its people could temporarily relocate …”
“This, too, you would share with us?” Tamlin asked.
Brennus’s homunculi gave bows and Brennus said, “As my brother said, we are allies, Hulorn.”
Tamlin was glad of it. He would not want to be an enemy of the Princes or Shade Enclave. He turned to face Rivalen. “Shar saved Selgaunt through you and your men. I will be candid and tell you that I wish to know more of her. Everything there is to know, Prince Rivalen.”
Rivalen’s eyes flashed and he regarded Tamlin for a moment. The shadows around him swirled. “I believe you, Hulorn.”
Onthul appeared before them. Scratches covered his face. Rips marred his tabard and dents marked his breastplate. A piece of torn fabric bound a wound on his forearm. Dust caked his beard. Tamlin almost embraced the old war dog.
“My lords,” he said to Tamlin and the Princes, and bowed. “We have more than three hundred Saerloonian prisoners, Hulorn.”
“They can be imprisoned on Sakkors until you decide their fate,” Rivalen said to Tamlin.
Tamlin nodded. “Very good. Gather them, Captain Onthul. The Shadovar will transport them.”
Onthul nodded. “Shall I send for the priests held in the palace so that they may assist with the wounded?”
Tamlin looked out on the battlefield, at Variance and her fellow priests and priestesses moving among Selgaunt’s wounded, healing them. “Are the Sharrans unable to do what needs to be done?”
Onthul looked at the battlefield, back at Tamlin. “The Sharrans appear to have matters in hand, Hulorn.”
“Good. Then leave the priests where they are. Their disposition remains … under consideration.”
Onthul saluted and started to walk away.
“Captain,” Tamlin called.
Onthul turned, eyebrows raised in a question.
“You served Selgaunt well today, Captain.”
Onthul smiled, nodded, and walked off, barking orders.
“Let us retire to discuss matters, Hulorn,” Rivalen said.
“Yes,” said Tamlin.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
1 Nightal, the Year of Lightning Storms
Tamlin paced the study in Stormweather Tower. He ran his fingertips over the spines of his father’s books. He had read almost none of them.
“Vees Talendar a traitor?” he said to Rivalen. “That cannot be, Prince. I’ve known him for years. He has been indispensable to me.”
Rivalen stood in the center of the study, near the chessboard, arms crossed. He advanced a black pawn. “You wished to know all, Hulorn. This is all. Will you hear the rest?”
Tamlin’s stomach fluttered but he nodded.
“Recall my mention of renegade, heretical elements within the Sharran church. Vees Talendar is not a priest of Siamorphe, as he purports, but a priest of Shar.”
Tamlin gave a start. “Shar? Like you?”
“Shar,” Rivalen nodded. “But not like me. I learned of this months ago but kept it from you to earn Talendar’s confidence and learn more of his plans. Talendar leads a group of like-minded worshipers. All of them are heretics, Hulorn. All of them are guilty of dark deeds in which innocents suffered.”
Tamlin swallowed, looked out of the window onto Stormweather’s night-shrouded grounds. He could not believe what he was hearing.
Rivalen continued. “The temple of Siamorphe is a carefully constructed disguise, long in planning. The true temple is below it. It is a temple to Shar, dedicated by heretics. I have seen it.”
Tamlin could think of no words. He merely shook his head.
“There is more still,” Rivalen said.
“Isn’t that enough?” Tamlin said bitterly.
Shadows swirled about the Prince and his eyes glowed in the darkness. His expre
ssion showed sympathy. “I know this must be hard to hear. I regret having to tell you these things. But we are at war and cannot have a traitor in our midst.”
Tamlin held his goblet in the air between his lips and the tabletop. “Traitor. The word does not fit. Traitor?”
Rivalen nodded.
Tamlin set the goblet down untouched.
“And now I enter into the realm of speculation,” Rivalen said. “But here are my thoughts. I believe Vees Talendar told the overmistress and Lady Merelith of the alliance between Shade Enclave and Selgaunt. I believe Vees Talendar then encouraged the other priesthoods in the city to take a neutral stance in the conflict. Some of them may be in league with him.”
“If he is a Sharran, as you say …” Tamlin said.
“They would not know that. They believe him a worshiper of Siamorphe.”
Tamlin’s head swam. He tried to make sense of Vees’s treachery, replayed in his mind their many meetings and discussions over the past year. Vees had been secretive, prohibiting anyone from entering the temple of Siamorphe, disappearing for days at a time.
“Why would he do this?” Tamlin asked.
“We discussed the nature of men once before, Tamlin. Is that not reason enough? Perhaps he still harbors ill will due to the conflict between his family and yours. In the end, I believe he wished to see Selgaunt fall and for you and me to die. I suspect he had arranged with Merelith and the overmistress to become the new Hulorn. At the same time, by eliminating me, he would kill Shar’s high priest and move a step closer to his heresy becoming accepted in the church. Perhaps he thought to become a high priest himself. Why else would he not have fought beside us at the walls?”
Tamlin picked up the wine goblet and drank it empty in a single gulp. He refilled it, his mind racing. Everything Rivalen said made sense. Anger and shame warmed Tamlin’s cheeks. He had been played for a fool. He thought of how disappointed his father would have been with him, how smug Erevis Cale would have been, and his anger grew. He looked to Rivalen.
