Shadowkeep

by Alan Dean Foster

  “Talking will not slay Dal’brad, nor get me back to my family.” Hargrod pivoted and started up the trail, retracing the wagon train’s wheel tracks.

  “Now what’s that supposed to mean, snake-legs?” Sranul bounded to catch up to the Zhis’ta. Maryld and Praetor followed at a less disturbed pace.

  “What do you think, Maryld?”

  “The human may have been exaggerating. It is a quality many humans have. But Dal’brad’s scouts will roam far and wide. We should still be able to slip unnoticed into the castle.

  “The sending out of scouts is a sign that Dal’brad is feeling confident, though not confident enough to move against the civilized peoples in full strength. Not yet. If we are very lucky we may catch him in an overconfident mood, unawares and lightly defended. The fact that he has frightened everyone out of the Basin is to our advantage. He can turn his attention to planning, certain in the knowledge that he has secured his immediate surroundings.”

  “Except for one crazy innkeeper.”

  “Possibly. We still don’t know if this Norell has stayed behind. He may have fled after these others, in a different direction. But we must certainly find out for ourselves. If naught else, an abandoned inn would be the best place in the Basin for us ,to scrounge a bit of food and catch some sleep. But I would far rather find this Norell, crazy or not, running his establishment. Because if he has remained behind he may have more to offer us than just food and drink.”

  “You mean, the mysterious unknowns the shopkeeper mentioned?”

  “No. I mean information.” She urged her mount to a gallop lest they fall too far behind and lose contact with Sranul and Hargrod.

  Destiny lay another four days’ easy ride upriver, in the Kept Basin. There the land was flat and level and the river spread out to fill much of the shallow valley thus created. Hills surrounded the Basin on two sides, while farther to the north the Tetuock Mountains climbed toward the sky.

  In the center of the Basin the shallow lake became a marsh, full of high reeds and drifting moss. Flowers gave way to foulness and healthy trees were reduced to scabrous gray skeletons devoid of needles or leaves. A sickly mist rose from the surface of the marsh, forming damp clouds that drifted aimlessly back and forth across the Basin as if seeking a way to escape. Of the fertile farmland that had once filled this valley, only a few signs remained.

  Staring at it thus transformed by the evil which was leaking out of Shadowkeep, Praetor could easily understand why the inhabitants had taken flight. They had been driven out not by threats or weapons, but by the malaise which had infected the very soil beneath their feet. You cannot grow crops in corruption, and something had certainly corrupted this once beautiful river valley.

  Barely visible through the cloying mist was an island in the middle of the marsh, an island built of solid rock. Shadowkeep, It was plainer than he expected it to be, devoid of external decoration or charm. It towered over the surrounding marsh, resting heavily on its inundated foundation. Despite the fog Praetor could see that the lower portion of the castle was constructed of individual blocks of cut stone weighing hundreds of tons apiece.

  Something stronger than human hands had hewn and moved those immense blocks and set them into place without mortar in the center of the lake. Something directed and controlled by the greatest wizard the world had yet known.

  But not so great, he reminded himself, that he could keep himself from being trapped in a careless moment by one who sought to supplant him. One whose designs and plans for Shadowkeep were founded on evil rather than a simple desire for privacy.

  As the shopkeeper had said, there were few windows. Peering through the shifting mist, it was difficult to tell if they were actually openings cut in the rock or just dark cracks between the building stones. No banners flew from the silent turrets. No guards (no visible guards, he reminded himself) stood watch atop the battlements. No gatekeeper waited to greet visitors. A great wizard Gorwyther might have been, but Praetor decided as he studied the vast castle that its builder was no artist. It was a grim, stolid, dull edifice: a fit home to danger.

  He discussed his feelings with his companions. All agreed with his appraisal except Sranul, who felt it didn’t go far enough. To the roo the building was more than just dull; it was downright ugly.

  “See the causeway?” he said, pointing. “It’s narrow, but dry. I can’t tell if the main gate is open but it certainly looks to be unguarded.”

  “‘Looks to be’?” Maryld tried to see beyond the entrance, but her eyesight was no better than the roo’s. “We must proceed from now on as though we can expect to be attacked by anything at any time. It may be that Dal’brad is sure enough of the safeguards within to leave the entrance unwatched, or it may be that his seeming indifference conceals unpleasant surprises which will only manifest themselves when we try to step inside. Nothing is more deceptive or more dangerous than apparent peacefulness. Keep that in mind when we go in.”

  Sranul took a short hop forward. “Do we try the entrance now?”

  “No,” Praetor told him. “First we try to find this inn we were told about.”

  “It’s probably deserted.”

  “Probably, but we must find it nonetheless. I was always told the roo are an impatient folk.”

  “Not at all, friend Praetor. We just hate to waste time.”

  “Don’t worry,” Maryld told him. “You’ll have your chance at Shadowkeep soon enough.”

  Hargrod was turning a slow circle, trying to peer through the mist. Finally he pointed. “Over there. A structure.”

  “Farmhouse probably,” Sranul grunted, but he recognized the wisdom of Praetor’s words. And he was hungry. Health before wealth. They would eat and rest before challenging the fortress.

  As they approached he saw it was much too large to be a farmhouse. The walls were built of river rock halfway up the first story and had been completed with peeled logs. A second building stood nearby, closer to the river.

  “Most likely a stable,” murmured Praetor. “There should be a place to leave our horses.” He glanced to his left. The outline of Shadowkeep was still visible through the mist. “Surely this Norell has fled along with the rest. It’s so close to the castle.”

  “That may not mean anything to a crazy man, my young friend,” said Maryld.

  Praetor pulled hard on Kaltar’s reins, coming to an abrupt halt. She turned in her saddle and eyed him curiously.

  “Something wrong?”

  “Just one thing, Maryld. I don’t mind you calling me your friend, but I would rather not be called your ‘young’ friend. Not unless you want me to start calling you grandmother, or elder.”

  She laughed that full, mature laugh again. “All right, Praetor. I declare a truce on the matter of age. And if that is settled to your satisfaction, then mayhap we can see what this inn has to offer.”

  “My feelings exactly.”

  As they dismounted and secured their horses outside the inn, he was certain he could feel the pressure of other eyes on the back of his neck, eyes that belonged neither to human or thaladar, roo or Zhis’ta. Eyes that saw the world differently because they came from elsewhere. He turned twice but saw nothing behind him. There was only the mist and the dead and dying trees.

  He shrugged. Like as not it was only his imagination, stimulated by their proximity to the castle and magnified by the suffocating mist, a moist lens which served to intensify his inner fears.

  Together the four travelers stood and examined the sturdy, silent building before them. Katlar nuzzled Maryld’s horse. Somewhere off in the marshes a wading bird cried uneasily.

  “Looks deserted to me,” said Hargrod. “So is the stable.”

  “How do you know that?” asked Sranul challengingly. “We haven’t looked through it yet.”

  Hargrod smiled thinly at the roo. “I would smell any mounts.” He nodded in the direction of the stable area. “There are only old odors.”

  Sranul sniffed several times. “I can�
�t tell for sure, but I guess I’ll take your word for it. I didn’t know the Zhis’ta had such sensitive noses.”

  “We do not brag of our abilitiess,” he replied. He nodded toward the door. “However, I do ssmell life insside. It iss faint. The wood iss thick. But there iss something alive in there.”

  “You can’t tell what it is?” Praetor asked him hopefully.

  “No. Not a mount, though.”

  “There’s only one way to find out for sure.” He moved forward, put one hand on the hilt of his sword and the other on the door, and shoved.

  It opened without resistance. Beyond was a hall that twisted to the left. They entered the weather alcove and opened a second door. This admitted them to a spacious, warm room with a sunken floor of hard-packed earth.

  Simple tables of heavy oak filled the open area. The matching chairs were of different sizes and shapes, designed to accommodate customers of varying dimensions and backsides. Casks were lined up behind the short wooden counter. At the near end the counter doubled as a desk. Oil lamps lit the room, and their flames danced in the breeze that entered with the quartet of adventurers. Hargrod closed the door behind them.

  “Well, don’t just stand there gawking.”

  The voice came from the huge human who stood behind the counter staring back at them. He rested massive hands on his hips, just above the edge of the greasy apron he wore. Once it might have been white, but clearly it hadn’t been washed in a hundred years. The residue of a thousand meals decorated the weave.

  Thick black curly hair covered the man’s head and face, viscous locks that looked as greasy as the ancient apron. Grease aside, Praetor guessed their greeter’s weight to be close to four hundred.

  His expression as he walked out from behind the counter was carefully neutral. He neither smiled or frowned as he approached them.

  “Are you Norell, the crazy innkeeper?” Sranul asked, displaying an extraordinary lack of tact. The roos were not noted diplomats.

  “No, fatfeet, I’m a jockey come down from the highlands for the Falltime races.”

  “I asked if you were crazy, not sarcastic,” commented the roo, not in the least embarrassed.

  “Sanity is a matter of perception, my long-snouted friend. You may make your own judgment. It won’t matter to me one way or the other, so long as your money’s good. Pay full rates and you can call me anything you wish, except poor.”

  “Then you didn’t run off like your friends and neighbors?” Praetor said. “We encountered them four days south of here.”

  Now that neutral expression gave way to a suggestion of a smile. “And still moving south as fast as their feet will carry them, I’d wager. No, I chose to remain here. This is my home and my profession, and I’m not afraid of a few moans in the night or a little witch-light. This is the Inn of the Keep, so why should I be frightened of the Keep?”

  “Considering what’s going on within it, I’d think a little fear would be a healthy thing for someone living so near.”

  “That’s respect you’re talking about, traveler. Not the same thing as fear.” Again the slight smile. “Of course, if I’m crazy, that explains everything, doesn’t it? Well, it’s apparent you four aren’t afraid or you wouldn’t be here now.” Small black eyes regarded each of them in turn. “You’ll be wanting lodging then, and something to eat?”

  “Indeed we will.” Sranul hopped forward and stuck out a paw. “No offense, fat man. My name’s Sranul.”

  “No offense taken, big ears.” Man and roo shook hands.

  “You already know my name.” He glanced at Praetor, who introduced the rest of their party as well as himself.

  “You are welcome.” Norell turned and shuffled back to the counter. There was a massive black-bound book on the part he utilized as a desk. He flipped it open, searched the pages until he found one that satisfied him, then dipped a quill into a nearby inkwell and held it out to them.

  As he signed his name, Praetor noted uneasily that the ink was a rich, thick shade of crimson. It also had a peculiar odor, but he forbore from inquiring as to the reason for this.

  “We may not stay long.”

  “No matter. All my guests must register.” A wider smile this time. “Sometimes all I have to remember my visitors by is their names,” he added enigmatically. “Sometimes they only stop at the inn once and then I never see them again.”

  “One’s true name cannot be used against one unless another knows all the proper words,” Maryld told him as she signed.

  Norell’s eyes went wide. “Is that what you think of me? Have no fear of that, little lady.” He put both huge hands on his chest. “I am an innkeeper pure and simple. The only use I have for names, true or otherwise, is for purposes of record-keeping.”

  “Not shadow-keeping?” Praetor asked.

  Thick black brows drew together as Norell shifted his attention from Maryld. “I have no love for whatever has taken possession of Shadowkeep, traveler. I make no moral judgments one way or another. If that marks me as crazy, than so be it. But I do not care for whatever now dwells within. I sense it sometimes, here alone in my inn. I can feel its presence around me. Perhaps it takes no notice of my presence here. Perhaps I am beneath such notice. But I do not like it. Unrepentant, rampant evil is bad for business. I would like to see it go away, but there is nothing that can be done.”

  “You may be an innkeeper pure, but you are not simple as you choose to appear,” said Maryld shrewdly. “You know that we’re not passing traders. So I will tell you that we have come here to try and do what you and everyone else says cannot be done: cleanse Shadowkeep.”

  “Since it troubles you so,” said Hargrod, “will you help us do this thing?”

  “I’ve said that I’ve no love for whatever now dwells within Shadowkeep and I meant that, but I will not chance my survival by opposing it. It may be naive of me, or crazy, but I fancy that my neutrality is what protects me here. I am left alone in something approaching peace.”

  “There can be no middle ground where Dal’brad is active,” Maryld told him.

  “So that’s who’s mucking about within the castle, is it? The old demon king himself.” Norell chuckled softly. “Of course, I’ve only your word for that. I’m not as gullible or easily frightened as those poor fools who packed up and left at the first howl.” He carefully put his quill aside and closed the registry. To Praetor it sounded like the closing of a heavy door. There was a finality to it.

  His imagination again, working overtime.

  “If you don’t mind my saying so, you’re a strange lot to be traveling together.”

  “We don’t mind you saying so,” Sranul replied. “Everyone we’ve met has said the same thing.”

  “Yes, an odd lot.” Norell seemed to bring himself back from some distant contemplation of matters beyond their ken. “Have a table! We’re not crowded tonight, sit anywhere you like. Give me but a little while and you will see food aplenty: all vegetarian for you, roo, plenty of fresh meat for our soft-spoken Zhis’ta, and a suitable mixture of both for human and thaladar. I pride myself on my humble cuisine and have had little enough occasion lately to practice it.” He spat into a corner, striking the exact center of a pewter spittoon, then glanced sideways at Maryld.

  “So old Dal’brad himself has taken up residence in Shadowkeep, eh? And what of the rightful owner?”

  “We do not know what has happened to Gorwyther, but we hope to find out,” she told him.

  “Do you, now?” Norell’s eyebrows rose and he stroked his beard absently. “I know that the thaladar are well versed in the mystic arts, but are you that accomplished, little lady? Your pardon, but I sense no necromancer among you. Not even a studious monk or mage. Strength at arms I can see you have, but that will not get you far into Shadowkeep.” He nodded toward the thick black registry. “Others have tried.”

  “We know what we’re about and we’re quite capable of taking care of ourselves,” Maryld informed him dryly, “no matter what form the
opposition may take.”

  The innkeeper responded with a grunt. “If all are as bold and confident as you, little thaladar, such may be the case.”

  “Do not think to question our courage or determination,” Hargrod said warningly.

  “What, I question the courage of a Zhis’ta, or a roo?” Norell raised both hands and made a show of being surprised. “Not I. I tell them all the same things, and they respond with the same replies—before they go into Shadowkeep.

  “But I am not going to weary you with my concerns or uncertainties. I am neglecting my duties. However long you remain with me, I hope you will enjoy it. I would not want you to leave with any unpleasant memories. I wouldn’t want that on my conscience.” He bent below the counter, and they could hear him rummaging through metal drinking utensils.

  “You said that you tell ‘them’ all the same things.” Praetor looked toward the counter. “Have many preceded us?”

  Norell stood, lined up four tankards on the counter. “More than you might think, less than you would suppose. They came seeking the treasures of Shadowkeep. I do not know what they found, but I never saw any of them ever again. Many have gone through that front entrance. Not a one has ever come out again.”

  “Maybe that’s why,” Praetor observed thoughtfully. “They entered with only one thing on their minds: treasure. Their motives were base.”

  “Then you’re not interested in the treasure?” Norell asked him, obviously amused.

  “It’s our hope that all peoples will profit by our visit.”

  Maryld leaned over and put a small hand on his arm. “Well spoken, Praetor Fime.” He felt unaccountably pleased.

  “Even so,” Sranul murmured, “we wouldn’t be adverse to bringing out a bit of gold, or just a small gem or two. For decorative purposes, of course.”

  Norell nodded somberly. “Of course. For decorative purposes.” He glanced significantly toward the horses tethered outside, making a show of peering through the single window. “You appear to be well equipped. Are you sure you have everything you need?”