Shadowstorm

by Paul S. Kemp

  “There is light even in darkness,” someone said.

  Regg emerged from the crowd, stalked toward Cale with purpose, and wrapped him in an embrace. The shadows around Cale swirled but did not hold Regg at bay. “You stand in the light,” Regg said, and released him.

  “I hope not,” Cale said, but smiled. “And now I have other work.”

  Regg nodded and backed away.

  Cale pulled on the shadows and rode them back to Abelar’s tent. For a moment, he wondered after Riven’s well-being, but decided the assassin could take care of himself.

  Willing the darkness in the tent to deepen, Cale stood in the center of the pitch and repeated the words to his scrying spell. He formed the lens from shadow and reached through it for Malkur Forrin. The power of his spell, of his will, grasped Forrin’s name and reached across Faerûn.

  Unlike the boy, Forrin was warded. Cale could feel resistance. Dark shadows clouded the scrying lens. He focused his mind, his power, and tried to push through.

  The lens went dark. Cale cursed, cast the spell anew, failed again. His frustration grew. He recalled the broken boy he had just returned to his grandfather, a boy taken and beaten on Forrin’s orders. He thought of the graves at Fairhaven, of the broken look in Abelar’s eyes.

  Instead of using Forrin’s name as the focus of his spell, he used Abelar’s hate for Forrin. Again and again he cast the spell and finally he broke through.

  The lens cleared and brightened. He saw Forrin, awake, standing alone in a field tent, strapping on his breastplate. Glowballs lit the tent brightly, more than necessary to illuminate the tent. He must have feared an attack by the Shadovar.

  Cale gave a hard smile. Glowballs would not save Malkur Forrin.

  Cale watched as the mercenary general donned his armor, strapped on his blade, adjusted his tabard. Cale waited, the shadows swirling around him. He needed only a single shadow.

  Forrin walked across the tent and as he did, his body blocked the light from one of the glowballs, casting his shadow on the ground.

  Cale pounced. He rode the shadows across Faerûn to appear directly in Forrin’s shadow. The general, perhaps sensing a rush of wind from the air displaced by Cale’s arrival, shouted, started to whirl around and draw his blade. “I am attacked!” Forrin called.

  Cale grabbed Forrin by the wrist, wrenched his arm behind him, and drove the general into the ground. The dirt muffled Forrin’s shout of pain.

  Shouts and clinks of armor sounded from outside the tent. Cale willed the glowballs to dim and they answered his command. Shadows cloaked the tent, cloaked Cale. He jerked a dagger from his belt and put it to Forrin’s throat. The mercenary snarled but did not move.

  “What do you want?” Forrin asked.

  “You,” Cale answered.

  The tent flap flew open and three armored soldiers in green tabards rushed in, blades bare. They seemed surprised to find the tent dark.

  “Stop where you stand,” Cale said, and they did.

  “Release him,” one of the men ordered, and another bolted out of the tent and shouted an alarm.

  “He is coming with me,” Cale said, and gave Forrin’s arm another twist. “And if any of you try to find him, I will come for you. Nowhere is safe from me. Do you understand? Nowhere.”

  The darkness around him churned and the soldiers charged. Cale imagined Fairhaven in his mind and used the darkness to move there.

  The shouts of the soldiers faded. The pair materialized in the midst of the ruins. Cale jerked Forrin to his feet, still holding his arm behind him. Forrin struggled but he was no match for Cale, made strong by darkness.

  “Will you kill me now, shade?” Forrin said over his shoulder. “Did you bring me all the way out here just to do what you could have done back in the camp?”

  Cale shoved him away. Forrin staggered, fell, but jumped to his feet and drew his blade.

  “It would be better for you if it were me.”

  Forrin hesitated, looked uncertain at that. “Who, then?”

  From behind Cale, Abelar called, “Leave now, Erevis. This is for him and me. What of Elden?”

  Forrin looked past Cale, seeking the source of the voice.

  “With Endren,” Cale said. He looked to Forrin. “Die poorly.” He pulled the darkness about him and rode it away. He materialized on the rooftop of the stables to find Riven already there.

  “The boy?” Riven asked.

  “Safe with his grandfather. The man who beat him?”

  “Not safe,” Riven answered.

  “How did you know where to find me?” Cale asked.

  “I always know where to find you, Cale.”

  Cale looked at Riven but Riven only stared down at Forrin.

  “What are we doing?” Riven asked.

  Cale answered, “We’re watching.”

  Riven turned his eye to him. “He told you to leave.”

  Cale nodded. “It’s only justice if there’s a witness.”

  “Justice isn’t what he’s after, Cale.”

  Cale had not considered that.

  Abelar stood in the ruins of his estate. He recalled the pile of bodies he had found there. Forrin stood where Abelar’s servants, family, and friends had been murdered. The smell of death still lingered, as did the smell of burnt wood. He stared across the compound and looked not at Forrin’s flesh but into his soul. He saw guilt there, not merely for what the mercenary had done to Elden, but for a multitude of evils. Abelar did not stand in Lathander’s grace, but he still could see that Forrin’s soul radiated a foul purple light the color of an old bruise.

  Forrin paced a circle. He stared across the empty yard, seeking his foe in the darkness. “Show yourself,” he called. The mercenary eyed the ruins, the nearby graves.

  Abelar stared at him in silence, letting his anger build. Ordinarily he would have prayed to Lathander and asked for the Morninglord to guide his hand and mind. But he would not pray, not now. Faith would not be his guide.

  Forrin hefted his blade. “Your pet shade is gone,” he taunted. “Are you afraid now?”

  Abelar detected no nervousness in his tone. That was well.

  Forrin continued. “It is just you and me, now. I have nowhere to run. Come, show yourself.”

  Abelar concentrated on his magical sword, held it above his head, and set the blade aglow. The area around the estate lit up.

  Forrin blinked in the sudden illumination and backed up a step. He was an insect and Abelar had just flipped over his rock.

  Through squinting eyes, Forrin focused his gaze on Abelar. His expression showed recognition. “Abelar Corrinthal. I should have guessed.”

  Abelar strode forth, blade and anger blazing. “Then perhaps you can guess what comes next,” Abelar said, his voice as hard as stone. “Look about you. This is where your men murdered my people. This is where your men abducted my son. All on your orders. This is where you will be punished for it.”

  Forrin assumed a defensive stance and his eyes narrowed. “You are out of your depths here, boy. I killed twenty men ere you were born. I’ve killed scores since. Reconsider.”

  Abelar did not slow his step. He walked across the grass toward Forrin.

  Forrin licked his lips. “You think your god makes you strong, boy?”

  “There is no god here,” Abelar answered. “This is between you and me.”

  Forrin stared, his eyes dark. “It always is.”

  Abelar had killed many men, all of them evil, but had never felt such hate for another man as he felt at that moment. Righteous hate. He picked up his pace.

  Forrin swung his blade in a slow pattern, readying himself.

  “You caused my son pain,” Abelar said.

  Forrin’s blade went still and he raised an eyebrow, as if puzzled by the remark. “We’re at war, boy. I did what I had to. I would do it again.”

  “Not after today,” Abelar said. He took his blade in a two-handed grip and charged.

  Forrin squared his feet and held
his sword high.

  Abelar closed the distance in ten strides and opened with a quick thrust to the abdomen. Forrin lurched to the side and answered with a reverse crosscut for Abelar’s throat. Abelar ducked it and bulled forward, slamming his shoulder into Forrin’s chest. The breath went out of the mercenary and he staggered backward.

  Abelar did not fight with grace. He fought with efficiency. He followed up, unleashing an overhand slash that would have split Forrin’s skull had he not gotten his blade up to parry. Abelar grabbed a fistful of Forrin’s shirt; Forrin grabbed a fistful of Abelar’s. They turned a circle, nose to nose.

  “There are consequences for the life you’ve lived, Forrin,” Abelar said. “There are always consequences.”

  Forrin snarled and spat into Abelar’s face. Abelar shoved him away. Eyeing each other, appraising, they paced a circle around one another.

  “Your boy cried from the moment we brought him into camp,” Forrin said.

  Abelar gritted his teeth but did not take the bait. “I am looking at a dead man.”

  “So you say,” said Forrin, grinning through his scars. He feigned a relaxed posture then abruptly lunged forward, blade leveled at Abelar’s chest.

  Abelar knocked the mercenary’s blade toward the ground with his gauntlet. Forrin’s momentum carried him forward and Abelar lashed out at the mercenary’s back. The blade bit through armor and Forrin roared. The mercenary answered with a wild, blind defensive swing that caught Abelar on the forearm. The blow did not penetrate Abelar’s mail but left his arm numb for moments.

  Abelar shook it out, then bounded forward, unleashing a flurry of slashes. Forrin retreated, desperately parrying, answering with his own stabs and slashes where he could. Abelar locked Forrin’s blade low and right, got in close, and put an elbow into the side of the mercenary’s head. Forrin’s helmet flew off and he staggered, but managed to answer with a glancing punch to Abelar’s cheek.

  Still stunned, Forrin clumsily jerked his blade free of Abelar’s blade lock and swung a crosscut at Abelar’s torso. The slash hit Abelar in the ribs but his armor turned the steel. Abelar stabbed low and his blade cut through Forrin’s armor and bit deep into his thigh.

  The mercenary roared with pain, somehow kept his feet, and launched a desperate two-handed overhead slash at Abelar’s head. Abelar lurched aside but could not dodge the blow entirely. It struck his left shoulder and split the links of his mail. Pain shot down his arm. Warm blood followed it. He did not allow the pain to slow him. He kicked his boot into the wound in Forrin’s thigh. While Forrin screamed and tried to bring his blade to bear, Abelar slashed the mercenary’s leg again. Steel grated against bone and Forrin collapsed.

  Abelar ignored the pain in his arm and loosed a blinding series of hammering overhead slashes into Forrin’s blade. He could have killed Forrin any time, but he wanted and needed to pound the mercenary. With each slash he whispered a word, an incantation, an imprecation.

  “Consequences.”

  One after the other, the blows pounded down. Forrin parried desperately but each of Abelar’s blows drove his blade down more. Abelar’s arms were numb; Forrin’s had to be filled with lead.

  “I submit,” the mercenary said. “Enough.”

  Abelar ignored the words and continued to rain down blows. “Consequences.” His blade rang off Forrin’s.

  Fear crept into Forrin’s eyes. “Damn you, Corrinthal!” he shouted.

  “Consequences,” Abelar said, and let loose another blow. Another.

  Forrin parried them but his blade shook in his hands. He screamed in helpless rage.

  “Consequences,” Abelar said.

  “Enough! Enough!”

  Abelar didn’t stop, couldn’t stop, wouldn’t stop.

  “Consequences.”

  In desperation, Forrin lunged forward and stabbed at Abelar’s abdomen. Abelar knocked the blade to the side and stomped on Forrin’s arm. He heard the bone snap. Forrin screamed, collapsed on the ground again. Blood from his wounded leg soaked the earth under him.

  Abelar stood over him, blade held high, his breath coming hard.

  Cale saw what was about to happen and knew exactly what it would cost Abelar. He cursed, stood, and started to pull the shadows around him.

  Riven’s hand closed on his arm. “No, Cale.”

  Cale did not take his eyes from Abelar.

  “He won’t be able to live with himself if he does it.”

  Riven shook his head. “He won’t be able to live with himself if he doesn’t. You saw his son.”

  Cale hesitated. “A bad choice.”

  Riven nodded. “But that’s how the world works.”

  Cale did know it. Being able to live with yourself and keeping your soul clean weren’t always the same thing. And when it came to it, a man had to choose one or the other.

  “He’s different from us, Riven.”

  Cale did not need to look at Riven to know he wore his familiar sneer. Riven said, “No, he’s not.” And Cale knew Riven was right.

  Cale let the shadows dissipate. He would watch. Abelar had to make his own choice.

  Abelar stood over Forrin. The mercenary rolled onto his back, bleeding, a knot the size of a pommel ball rising on his temple.

  “I surrender to you, Corrinthal,” he said with a pained grimace. “I surrender. The overmistress will pay for my safe return. Use me to negotiate a peace.”

  Abelar stared into Forrin’s eyes. His thoughts turned to his son and blackened. He tightened his grip on his blade.

  Forrin must have seen it. “Lathander will punish you if you do it, Corrinthal. You know that.”

  “I already told you,” Abelar said, “there’s just you and me here.”

  With that, Abelar reversed his grip and drove his blade through Forrin’s heart, pinning him to the earth. The mercenary’s eyes bulged, his legs thrashed.

  Abelar twisted the blade. “That is for my son.”

  He twisted it again. “That is for my friends and my servants.”

  He twisted it once again and Forrin screamed, gasped, writhed. “And that is for Saerb.”

  Abelar leaned down, palms on his pommel, and stared into the mercenary’s eyes. “There are always consequences, Forrin. Die with that knowledge.”

  Forrin said nothing, merely gagged on his own blood and took a tencount to die. When he expired, Abelar withdrew his blade and wiped it clean on Forrin’s tabard.

  As he sheathed it, he said softly, “Consequences for both of us.”

  Cale swept Riven up in the shadows and transported them to Abelar’s side. Abelar did not look at them. He stared down at Forrin, his face unreadable. The mercenary’s dead eyes stared up at the lightening sky.

  “You saw?” Abelar asked.

  Cale and Riven nodded.

  “Your son is safe,” Cale said.

  Abelar nodded, looked to the west. Tears filled his eyes. “It’s not out of me,” he said.

  “It never will be,” Riven said. “Live with it.”

  Abelar eyed Riven and seemed about to speak. Cale cut him off. “We should go. I need darkness to do what I do.”

  Abelar smiled without mirth and looked to Riven. “Me, too, it appears.”

  “You did the right thing here,” Riven said, and nudged Forrin’s body with his toe.

  “No,” Abelar said. “Not the right thing, but the only thing.”

  “Fair enough,” Riven said.

  Abelar looked to Cale and said, “Please take me to my son.”

  Rivalen, garbed in a black cloak and blacker shadows, awaited Tamlin in the dark alley beside Siamorphe’s temple. Tamlin had come alone. He wore a hooded cloak to disguise himself. His heart was racing. His breath came fast.

  The shadows around Rivalen spiraled lazily from his flesh. “Are you prepared, Hulorn?”

  Tamlin gulped to wet his mouth, nodded. “Where is Vees?”

  “He is within. As are his fellow conspirators.”

  Tamlin froze. “Conspirators?
We discussed only Vees.”

  Rivalen put a fatherly hand on Tamlin’s shoulder. The shadows coiled around Tamlin’s face. “I know, Tamlin. But all of them are guilty. All of them conspired against you and the city. All of them would have quietly taken positions of power as you hung on the overmistress’s gallows.”

  Tamlin heard truth in Rivalen’s tone. Still, he hesitated. Rivalen must have seen it. He said, “We have trusted each other, Hulorn. Continue in that. You wish to approach Shar? You wish to meld with the shadows, to transform your vulgar flesh into something lasting?”

  Tamlin nodded. He did. He envied everything Cale was, everything Rivalen was. He wanted it.

  “Then you must be Shar’s instrument tonight. Now.”

  Tamlin stared into Rivalen’s golden eyes and found his nerve. He nodded. “I’m ready.”

  Rivalen turned, spoke an arcane word before the alley wall, and a cunningly disguised secret door swung open. He led Tamlin inside. They descended a narrow flight of stairs until they reached a small room. A single candle provided light. Shadows danced on the gray walls. Black cloaks with purple piping hung from pegs on the wall.

  “Don the cloak and throw up the hood. The Lady does not want to see your face. She wants to know your soul.”

  Tamlin exchanged the cloak with his own and threw up the hood. Rivalen did the same. To his surprise, Tamlin’s legs felt sturdy under him.

  “What occurs within Shar’s temples is a secret known only to the worshipers who participate. To breach that confidence is to incur the Lady’s wrath. Do you understand?”

  Tamlin nodded. His heart beat faster. “I do.”

  “After you have served as the Lady’s instrument this night, you will return to your quarters and pray to the Lady of Loss. You will offer to her a secret known only to you. This will be your Own Secret, thenceforth known only to you and the Lady and never shared with others. This will bind you to her. Do you understand?”

  Tamlin nodded. He sweated under the robe. “I do.”

  Rivalen reached into a pocket and withdrew a thin dagger. Amethysts adorned its crosspiece and pommel. “Take this.”