Shadowkeep

by Alan Dean Foster

  While they differed considerably in size and shape, each new troll was uglier and meaner-looking than the last. The assortment of weapons they carried matched their unlovely dispositions. Fortunately, the hall was so narrow only a few were able to press forward at a time, and Hargrod mechanically dropped any who came too close. The bodies began to pile up in the corridor, reducing the maneuvering room of those trolls who came behind still further.

  They came to an intersection. Snarls and mumblings sounded off to their left, and Maryld hurriedly directed them down the right-hand branch. A few trolls appeared ahead of them, but they’d already outdistanced their immediate pursuers and Hargrod was able to turn his attention to this new threat. With the help of Praetor’s sword, the way ahead was soon clear again.

  Behind them the master troll’s battle cry of “Lunch, lunch!” continued to echo in their ears, lending energy to their legs.

  Another intersection loomed directly ahead, a tripartite branching this time. “Now what?” Praetor muttered as he slowed.

  “A trap,” Maryld whispered. “An undisguised attempt to eliminate the unwary. The first one we’ve encountered. Not Gorwyther’s work. The demon king’s.”

  Sranul bounded from one corridor to another, turned in the last and announced worriedly, “They’re dead ends! All three of them!”

  Maryld stepped out into the intersection and studied each in turn. The trolls would be on top of them in moments. “Not necessarily,” she finally declared. “Listen.”

  Praetor forced himself to concentrate, to shut out the bloodthirsty cries of their pursuers. What was Maryld talking about? There was nothing else to hear in this place. Nothing else… except… was that a humming noise? He opened his eyes, tried to let his ears direct them. He nodded toward the corridor on the right. “That way?”

  She smiled at him. “You are more sensitive, Praetor Fime, than you would have others believe.” She started running. Praetor followed, with Sranul and Hargrod bringing up the rear. The first trolls were almost to the intersection.

  The roo was staring at the black stone wall that lay ahead of them, at the end of the corridor. “Looks like a dead end to me,” he muttered. “If it is, it won’t be the only thing dead in here.”

  “It’s our only hope,” Maryld told him. “We have to take this chance. We can’t fight the trolls forever.”

  As they drew near the end of the corridor the humming sound Praetor had heard grew louder. Soon even Sranul could see that the corridor did not end in solid stone.

  It was black as basalt, but the wall was uneasy on the eyes. It seemed to move, to shift and flicker. As they approached it began to change color, turning blue from black, then back again, then becoming a startling chalk-white, then violet, and back to black again.

  “What started that?” the roo wondered as he slowed.

  “Our arrival, our presence,” Maryld told him. “I thought it looked funny. It sounded odd, too, and I sensed—something—when we entered the intersection.”

  “I sstill ssee no esscape,” Hargrod muttered. He was facing back down the corridor, hefting his bloody ax. “A wall of colorss iss sstill a wall.”

  “Perhaps, and perhaps not, Zhis’ta,” she replied as she studied the changing hues. “It’s certainly a mystery, and one never knows what may lie behind a mystery.”

  He frowned. “Behind?” He gestured at the flickering, unstable colors. “There iss nothing behind that.”

  A strange expression had come over Maryld’s face. “There is, good Hargrod. Yes, there is!”

  “What?” asked Sranul.

  Her expression fell slightly. “I don’t know.”

  “That’s not very encouraging,” Hargrod muttered.

  “Neither is our present position,” Praetor told him. The first trolls had appeared in the intersection. They were cautious in their approach, wary of an ambush. Soon they would spot their trapped quarry. Then there would be no time left in which to make a decision. He looked at Maryld.

  “Tell us what to do. We’re helpless here.”

  “But if she doesn’t know what lies on the other side—assuming there is an other side,” Sranul protested.

  Praetor glared at him. “Would you rather stay here and be lunch?” He turned to face the quivering wall. “Do we go through, Maryld?”

  She nodded. “We must try. Anything is better than this.”

  “Even if it leads us right into the demon king’s lair?” Sranul demanded to know.

  “You can stay here and talk it over with the trolls,” Praetor told him. He extended an arm. Maryld smiled at his gallantry, accepted his hand, and together they stepped through the wall.

  In spite of himself, Praetor closed his eyes. Not that he missed anything. It’s difficult to be a tourist in a void. A brief, disorienting shudder passed through his body. When he opened his eyes it was pitch-black, but light reappeared an instant later.

  They were in another hallway, higher and wider than the last. It was better lit than most. Oil lamps burned furiously high up on the walls, higher than any man could reach. Turning, he found himself staring at an unbroken granite wall. It did not flicker or change color. He reached out and touched it. The surface was hard, unyielding, and stable.

  Even as he watched, a body appeared, pushing through. Hargrod stepped out next to them, followed by a distorted-faced roo. Sranul had both eyes screwed shut and was holding his breath. His puffed-out cheeks gave him the appearance of a bloated mouse, and Praetor was hard-put, despite the seriousness of their situation, to restrain a laugh. Maryld had even less success, and her giggle hurt the roo’s pride far more than Praetor’s laughter would have.

  “I didn’t know what to expect,” Sranul mumbled. “I’ve never walked through a wall before.”

  Maryld coughed delicately into a hand, tried to assume a serious mien. “You’re the last one through. How close were they?” As she spoke she was searching through the pouch that hung from her left shoulder.

  “Right behind me. I took one with a spear and…”

  “Look out!” Praetor said warningly as he assumed a defensive stance.

  A scaly arm was emerging from the wall, gripping a sword. Hargrod took a step forward but Maryld gestured for him and Praetor to move away from the wall. She muttered something under her breath and threw the handful of powder she’d taken from her pouch toward the barrier.

  There was a brief flash of light, not too bright, as the powder contacted the stone, followed by a distant, hollow scream of pain. Praetor blinked. Lying on the floor next to the wall was a troll arm and hand, neatly severed at the shoulder. As he stared it began to bleed. Moving forward, he touched the wall a second time. Solid, unbroken stone, unchanged in a thousand years. Nothing else came through.

  He glanced back at Maryld. “How did you do that?”

  “Any gate that can be opened can be closed. We thaladar have our own skills. We’re very good with gates.” She turned and began to survey their newly won surroundings. “A more important question is, where are we now?”

  “Still within Shadowkeep?” offered Sranul meekly.

  “Certainly that. It was not a very wide gate.” They started down the impressive hallway.

  They had no way of knowing on what level they stood, Maryld informed them. Merely because they had encountered and escaped from the trolls on the third did not mean they had passed through onto the same floor. There were no windows to look through. This particularly distressed the space-loving Sranul. He would have given the goldens he’d found for one glimpse of foggy marshland, of real world.

  But for now the real world was no more than a memory. Only Shadowkeep existed, only Shadowkeep was real. Shadowkeep, and its dangers.

  Pillars lined with carved gargoyles and monsters supported the arching ceiling. Sranul kept his eyes on them as they passed between, keeping in mind Maryld’s earlier admonition that nothing within the fortress should be taken at face value. But those stone eyes did not follow their progress, stone t
alons did not reach out for them. The great pillars were rock and nothing more. It was peculiarly gratifying to encounter something so imposing that was exactly what it appeared to be and nothing more.

  “This is no mere hallway,” Maryld was murmuring as they walked. “This is a place of power, designed to facilitate the dispensing of power. An audience chamber, perhaps, or some sort of important meeting place.” Her gaze went to the far end of the hall. “There. The power I feel emanates from there.”

  As they neared the end of the corridor Praetor saw the throne. It wasn’t especially impressive to look upon, despite the minute inlay work. Sranul rushed forward in search of gold or gems, only to be disappointed. Maryld assured the roo the throne represented far more than it displayed.

  “Seat’s not built for a roo, that’s for sure,” he told them. He tapped the backrest. “No tail slot.” He moved round to inspect one of the armrests. “Now this ivory-looking white stuff set into the wood here, this looks like grahu bone. Not very well fashioned, either.” He ran his hand over the smooth surface.

  Maryld sighed in exasperation. “Have you learned nothing since your encounters with the sword case and the silver altar?”

  The roo shrugged. “What’s the harm in touching? This is only a simple chair, not the throne of some great king.”

  He gave the armrest a sharp rap. “See? Nothing worth stealing, nothing worth getting excited over.”

  As he said “over” a pulse of light flared from the throne. Sranul’s leg muscles convulsed and threw him twelve feet sideways.

  Praetor shook his head sadly. “Close. Too close.”

  Maryld had moved to examine the throne carefully. “Not necessarily. Sranul might be right—this time. This chair might not be dangerous. It might even be helpful. A wizard’s fortress is likely to be filled with useful magics as well as traps. It did not harm Sranul.” She glanced back at the roo, who was breathing hard and fast. “Only acknowledged his presence.”

  “It could have done so a little more politely,” the startled Sranul wheezed.

  She reached out, grasped both armrests, and ran her fingers gently over the polished wooden surfaces. “Half-right and half-wrong. This throne is not dangerous, but it is the seat of a king. A mage king.”

  Hargrod made a face. “What iss that?”

  “A king and ruler of wizards and other practitioners of magic,” she told him. “That’s the power that still permeates this audience chamber. The mage king is gone, but his strength still lingers here.” She tapped the armrest. “Here in this throne. Whoever sits in it may partake of that power. But there is no way to predict how it will react or who it might adhere to.” She frowned. “Then too, it is hard to imagine Dal’brad leaving such power unguarded, for underlings or would-be usurpers to make use of. It could be a trap.” She exchanged a meaningful glance with each of her companions. “Remember, I said that the demon king’s defenses would grow more subtle, more devious, the closer we got to him.” She moved away from the throne. “I am tempted, but if this is a trap, this is what it would be designed to do. I will not chance it, for all that it could aid us. Praetor?”

  “No thanks. I’m feeling powerful enough just now.”

  “We have not begun to confront Shadowkeep’s real dangers. A boost in one’s mental abilities could make the difference between success and failure.”

  “If you’re not sitting in it, neither am I.”

  “Nor I,” added Hargrod. “We Zhiss’ta are cautious and do not dabble well in matterss mysstical. I prefer my mind sslow but untried.”

  Everyone looked at Sranul.

  “Are you kidding?” the roo told them. “Not a chance. I’m beginning to think there isn’t a harmless piece of furniture in this whole cursed structure.” He turned a slow circle, his gaze traveling from throne to pillars to friends. “There’s treasure here, though. I can feel it, I can smell it! I just can’t find it.” He moved toward the far wall. The throne pulsed gently behind him, trying to entice him to enjoy the smooth curve of its seat. All four intruders ignored it.

  “A few goldens,” the roo muttered. “A pittance. Here we are in a mage king’s throne room, and there’s nothing of value to be had.”

  While Sranul grumbled and searched, his companions rested from their fight and flight from the trolls. Praetor nodded back toward the now distant end of the hallway.

  “You think we’ll run into them again?”

  Maryld shook her head. “I think they must be far away, in another part of the fortress entirely. We must have traveled a goodly distance, else why put a transfer wall in a place where a simple door would serve as well? On that matter, at least, I think we can now rest easy.”

  “But you sstill do not know where we are?” Hargod murmured.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Praetor said firmly. “All that matters is where we’re going. Me, I’m glad we had to pass through that wall. Not only did it save us from the trolls, it would confuse anything else following our tracks.” He glanced at Maryld. “Wouldn’t it?”

  Her reply was noncommittal. “Mayhap. In any case, I do not feel that anything else pursues us. I do not believe the demon king is aware of our presence as yet, or we would have felt his attention by now.” She rose. “Come. The most dangerous thing we can do is linger too long in any one place.”

  They started up the side hallway, following in Sranul’s wake. They hadn’t gone far when the roo let out an excited yelp.

  Praetor sighed. “Now what?”

  Chapter IX

  No false alarm this time, though. The roo had finally found something. “A skullcap,” Praetor said, eyeing the roo’s find. “I’ve seen such before. Certain monkish orders are particularly fond of them. But I’ve never seen one like that.”

  “I’m not sure there’s ever been one like that,” Maryld commented.

  The cap was fashioned of spun silver, as light and wispy as if it had been made on a spinning wheel instead of a forge. It reminded Praetor of the precious gold ring Norell had tried to sell him. It hung on a hook behind a panel or window of some transparent material.

  Hesitantly he reached up and ran his fingers over the protective shield, tapped it with his knuckles.

  “Glass?” asked Hargrod.

  “No,” he replied hesitantly. “Tougher than that. A lot tougher. Mica perhaps, but more likely rock crystal.” He used his nails on the surface but it refused to peel. “Yes, rock crystal.”

  “Such a large piece,” Sranul murmured. “It could be worth as much as the cap.”

  “I don’t think so,” Praetor said. “That’s no ordinary cap, and I’m not referring to the fact that it’s made of silver. It’s too well protected.” Experimentally, he reached out and grabbed hold of the bottom of the panel and tried to shove it upward. It wouldn’t budge.

  “Let me try.” He stepped aside to let Hargrod try. Thick muscles bulged in the Zhis’ta’s arms. He employed his great strength silently, the only hint of the strain he was undergoing a twitching of the great tendon in his neck.

  Finally he let out a long sigh and stepped back. “Certainly there iss more to that cap than ssilver and art. I pusshed hard enough to crack the crysstal—if crysstal only it iss. Ssomething sstronger than bolts holdss it in place.”

  A tiny hand touched his arm, making him step to one side. “Let me try,” said Maryld softly.

  “You?” Hargrod almost laughed. Almost. “If neither the human nor I could move it, then how…?”

  “There is a time to use brute strength, and a time to use skill,” she told him. She approached the panel and examined it thoroughly. Praetor was starting to fidget by the time she finally ran her left index finger around the panel’s edge, then across the surface, making invisible diagonal lines.

  “Ah.” She drew her finger back. There was a click from an invisible latch, and the panel slid upward as neatly as if pulled by an unseen hand. Hargrod bowed slightly in her direction.

  “Well, there it is,” she announced.


  Praetor stepped forward, reached up, and hesitated.

  “I think it’s safe enough,” she assured him. “I don’t sense any of the threatening vibrations that clung to the silver altar. You may take it without fear.”

  “No, I’m not taking it,” Praetor told her. He stepped back, gestured toward their big-footed companion. “It’s not my right. Sranul found it. It belongs to him.”

  The roo moved forward, grinning. “If this is a sorry trick by both of you and this blows me through a wall, I swear by all the festivals of the folk that I’ll find a way to get even.” Gingerly, he reached out and lifted the silver skullcap off its hook. It was gratifyingly heavy.

  “Well?” Praetor asked him.

  “Real silver,” the roo replied, turning it over and over in his hands and admiring the workmanship. “Not plate.” He tried to put it on his head, but no matter how he adjusted it, he couldn’t make it fit. The reason was obvious enough.

  “It’s your earss,” Hargrod told him. “They are too big to fold beneath the cap and it won’t fit between them.”

  “That’s just about right.” Sranul yanked the cap off his head and shook it, as though by threatening it he could somehow make it work. “That’s just about damn right! I finally find a decent bit of treasure, something worthwhile, and it’s useless to me.”

  “Ssilver iss ssilver,” Hargrod pointed out. “You could sstill ssell it to ssomeone elsse.”

  “I don’t want to sell it to someone else,” Sranul said sadly. “I want something I can adorn myself with.” With seeming indifference he tossed it to Praetor, who caught it neatly. “This foolish bauble was designed to be worn by some poor creature cursed with a flat head and no hearing. You wear it, friend Praetor. Never let it be said that old Sranul wasn’t generous to his friends.”

  Praetor forbore pointing out that the roo’s generosity was mitigated somewhat by the fact that the cap was no good to him. Instead, he thanked Sranul profusely. This helped somewhat to soothe the roo’s feeling of loss and frustration. Using his fingers to hold it spread, Praetor unfolded the cap and placed it neatly over his head. It was small, but not unworkably so, and the feeling of the cold metal against the bare skin of his forehead was a pleasing sensation.