Shadowbred

by Paul S. Kemp

  He found himself standing before the glowing embers of the campfire with his holy symbol in hand. He stared at the mask, puzzled. He had not taken it from his pocket, had he? He had no time to consider. He let the shadows fall from him so he would be visible.

  Maur still stood at his post at the top of the depression, looking out over the plains.

  “Maur,” Cale called, and the house guard eyed him with wonder. “Get down here.”

  Maur hurried down, his long hair flapping behind him.

  “Where did you come from, Mister Cale? I was watching the approaches.”

  Cale did not bother to explain. “Saddle the horses, Maur. As fast as you can. We will soon be attacked.”

  Maur’s expression turned to alarm. “What? How do you—”

  “Do it,” Cale said. He left Maur and moved from tent to tent. “Up, men. Now! Up. On your feet.”

  Groggy heads emerged from tents.

  Cale did not shout but spoke loudly enough for his voice to be heard. He clutched his mask in his shadowhand. “This campsite will be overrun by cavalry in less than half an hour unless we are gone from here. Gear up and mount up.”

  Cale could not keep the shadows from bleeding out of his flesh. No one seemed to notice in the darkness.

  The house guards asked no questions. They shook the sleep from their heads, stepped out of their tents, and pulled on hauberks, belted on blades, and donned helms. They moved with alacrity, one man helping another.

  Cale saw Ren slipping into his hauberk. Cale went to him and reported what he had learned.

  “One hundred horsemen are north of us and are planning to attack. Get some men to help Maur with the horses. We need to move. This instant.”

  “Dark,” Ren oathed, fastening the buckle on his weapon belt. “How do you know this?”

  “I spotted one of their scouts at the edge of our camp and followed him back.”

  Ren nodded, capped his head in a helm, and started barking orders at the men. “Leave everything except arms and armor. Get the horses saddled. My lord,” Ren said, turning to face Tamlin, who had emerged from his tent.

  “What is happening?” Tamlin asked, looking around the bustling camp. He had already put on his boots and thrown on a cloak.

  “We must ride south, my lord,” Cale said. “And we must do so quickly. Gather only your essential things.”

  “Maur!” Ren called above the tumult. “Ready Lord Uskevren’s horse! Daasim, help Maur with the horses.”

  Tamlin watched with bemusement as a house guard hopped by, pulling on his boot as he moved toward the horses.

  “Stop,” Tamlin said, but no one listened. He grabbed Ren by the shoulder and said, “Explain what is happening.”

  Before Ren could reply, Cale answered, “My lord, nearly one hundred mounted men wait not far from here. Seasoned men. They have priests and wizards among them. They wear Ordulin’s colors and mean to attack us.”

  Shadows streamed from Cale’s flesh as he spoke and Tamlin watched them spiral into the night. Cale’s words appeared to register with him.

  “Ordulin’s colors?” Tamlin asked, and shook his head. “That does not make sense, Mister Cale. If they wear Ordulin’s colors, then they must be an escort.”

  “Lord Uskevren, they are no escort. I know with certainty that they mean to attack. I heard them say as much. I cannot explain why but it is so.” He gestured toward the horses. “Please, Lord. I will gather your things.”

  “You heard them?” Tamlin asked. “How? Were you away from the camp?”

  “My lord,” Ren said to Tamlin, and tried to steer him toward the horses. “I think we would be well-advised to heed Mister Cale.”

  Tamlin turned to Ren with ice in his eyes. “You would be better served by heeding me, house guard.”

  Ren let his hand fall from Tamlin’s arm and stammered, “Of course, Hulorn. I meant only …”

  Cale cut him off. “We are wasting time on irrelevancies.”

  Tamlin glared at Cale. “Did you say ‘irrelevancies’?”

  Cale could not keep the anger from his tone. “Yes. This is not about what is between you and me. Your own safety and that of your men is at stake. Ten times our number is going to ride down on us. You must run. All of us must run or die.”

  “Run? I am no coward. And I did not think you were, either.”

  Cale’s anger flared at Tamlin’s false bravado. He grabbed him by the shirt and lifted him from his feet, regretting it almost instantly. Shadows swirled around them both.

  Ren looked shocked. The camp fell silent. Cale felt the eyes of the house guards on him. Tamlin looked first afraid, then enraged.

  “Take your hands from me, Mister Cale,” he said tightly. “Now.”

  Cale calmed himself, released him, and offered a half bow.

  “My apologies, my lord. I am … concerned. It is not cowardice to flee from a superior force. If you try to make a stand here, all of us will die.”

  “I am not convinced that these riders you think you saw mean us ill,” Tamlin said coolly.

  Cale struggled to keep his voice level. “I stood invisibly among them, Hulorn. Their leader is called Malkur. I do not merely think I saw anything. I do not merely think I heard anything. I did see, and I did hear. Again, if we stand, we die.”

  Ren looked at Cale intently. “Malkur? Malkur Forrin?”

  Cale shrugged. He did not know the man’s surname. “Tall, gray haired, with a moustache.”

  “Yes, that is him,” Ren said, and turned to Tamlin. “My lord, Malkur Forrin is a former general in the Sembian army. He now heads a mercenary band. They have a dark reputation.”

  “But they wear Ordulin’s colors,” Tamlin said. “How could Malkur Forrin—”

  “Ignore the damned colors they wear!” Cale snapped. “If the riders meant you no harm why would they approach by night? Why not await the day? Why not sound a greeting? Surely an escort force would do exactly that. These are mercenaries, whatever colors they wear.”

  Tamlin opened his mouth to speak, closed it, and frowned. “A good point,” he acknowledged at last.

  Cale seized on the opening. He could not waste any more time with further discussions.

  “Move out as quietly as you can,” he said to Ren. “I will delay them.”

  “Delay them?” Tamlin and Ren said simultaneously.

  Cale reached into his pocket and clutched his holy symbol.

  “Leave it to me. I will catch up when I can.”

  “Catch up?” Tamlin asked. “You intend to remain?”

  “I work best alone, my lord,” Cale answered. “I will catch up. I can move very quickly when I have need. Faster than the horses. You know that.”

  Ren oathed. Tamlin eyed Cale thoughtfully, nodded, and said, “Yes, of course.”

  To Ren, Cale said, “Take Vos with you. I will not need him until we rendezvous. Ride due south, cut across the countryside. Do not take the road. Move fast but quietly. I do not want them to know we have abandoned the camp until they are upon it.”

  Ren nodded and Cale turned to Tamlin. “My lord? Will you go? Now, please?”

  Tamlin nodded. Cale said, “Do not use your spells unless you must, otherwise you will betray your position.”

  Tamlin glared at him. “You are not to issue orders to me, Mister Cale.”

  Cale did not give voice to his anger lest he say something to further sour their relationship.

  Ren tried to diffuse matters by gesturing at the horses. “My lord, your horse is ready. Please, this way.”

  Cale and Tamlin stared at one another a moment longer before Tamlin turned and walked to his horse.

  As the men formed up, Cale called to Ren and Tamlin, “Stay as quiet as you can until you know they have marked you. If we are quiet, they may miss us in the darkness.” He paused, then said to Tamlin, “We must return to Selgaunt, my lord.”

  Tamlin nodded absently.

  Ren reached down to take Cale’s forearm. “Tymora watch yo
u, Erevis.”

  Cale knew it was not Tymora’s aid that he would need, but Mask’s. He said, “And you, Ren. And you, Lord Uskevren.”

  Tamlin said nothing and the men spurred their mounts and rode due west at a moderate gallop. Cale winced at the noise they made, though they were as quiet as they could be.

  He shadowstepped to the top of the declivity and looked north. He did not see the mercenaries, but his nightvision extended only so far. Given their numbers, he knew he would hear them before he saw them.

  He looked at the mask in his hand. He remembered the Shadowlord’s words to him: Do what you were called to do.

  Cale donned the mask.

  He calmed himself and opened his mind to the Shadowlord. It was after midnight—the time he would ordinarily pray for spells—and he did not have time for his usual meditations, but he hoped Mask would answer his request nevertheless.

  He sent forth his consciousness and requested that Mask fuel his mind with the power to cast spells, spells that would harm and mislead. He took a deep breath, let the shadows enfold him, and repeated the request.

  Power rushed into his mind, one spell, another, another. He tensed as the familiar rush filled his brain; he grinned at the familiarity of it.

  A voice from beside him whispered in his ear, “You are late, as usual. But welcome back. Almost there, now.”

  Cale whirled and looked to his side, but saw only darkness, only shadows. His skin was goose pimpled.

  He looked north across the plains and saw the entire company of mercenaries bearing down on the campsite at a full gallop. They made no sound as they approached; their clerics must have silenced them. The whipgrass hid the horses’ legs from view. The whole force looked as if it were floating.

  Cale stood, his request for spells only partially answered, and drew Weaveshear. He pulled the shadows about him until they masked him from sight. He shadowstepped to the south side of the slope, putting himself between the Selgauntans and the mercenaries. There, he crouched in the grass, the power of his god sizzling in his mind.

  The mercenaries charged in a crescent formation, blades bare and shields at station. About a spear’s cast from the campsite, one of the riders made a cutting gesture with his hand and the magical silence ended. The thunder of hooves and the battle cries of the mercenaries filled the air. No doubt they expected the surprised Selgauntans to rush from their tents and be cut down. Had the Selgauntans been in the camp, none of them could have escaped the charge.

  The mercenaries barreled into the campsite, shouting challenges. When they found only empty tents, they pulled up and searched about. Curses and questions replaced battle cries. The mercenaries trampled the Selgauntans’ tents and gear. Malkur, the priests, and the wizards appeared at the top of the declivity opposite Cale. The company’s archers held formation behind them.

  “They were here not too long ago,” called Othel, atop a horse in the midst of the campsite.

  Malkur frowned and looked out over the plains. “They cannot be far.”

  One of the priests beside Malkur smashed together two glass spheres and incanted a spell. He turned his horse in a semicircle and stopped when he was facing south, the direction the Selgauntans had fled.

  “There,” he said, and pointed past Cale. “Three long bowshots, no more.”

  The priest galloped around the declivity in the direction in which he had pointed, toward Cale.

  “Form up,” Malkur called to his men, and several sergeants echoed the command.

  Cale had hoped to get the mercenaries in a more compact formation, but decided he could not wait any longer.

  “I see them!” the lead priest called. He was no more than a dagger toss from Cale, and alone. “Due south. Two bowshots.”

  “Form up for pursuit,” Malkur said to the rest of the men. “Archers at the ready.”

  Before the men could reassemble, Cale intoned a rapid imprecation to Mask. A cylinder of fire and searing divine power engulfed the entire declivity in flames, heat, and light. The moment Cale completed his spell, the shadows enshrouding him peeled away and left him visible.

  The flames caught almost a score of men in the thick of the blast, including Malkur, the mages, and one of the priests at its edge. Men and horses screamed and the stink of burning flesh filled the air. The horses not caught in the flames, including those of the archers behind Malkur, reared and bucked.

  The flames whooshed out of existence as fast as they had appeared, leaving burning tents and the bodies of over a dozen men and horses scattered across the campsite. Screams of pain rose into the night. The unwounded men cursed, tried to control their horses, and looked about warily.

  “What in the Hells?”

  “Where did that come from?”

  The priest near Cale, unaffected by the fire, noticed him.

  “Here!” he shouted, and spurred his horse toward Cale. “He is here!”

  The mercenaries responded to the priest’s words with professional speed. Before Cale could pull the concealing shadows back around him, half a score arrows hissed toward him. Four missed and sank to their fletching in the grass. The shadows that sheathed him deflected two arrows, but four buried themselves in his chest, shoulder, arm, and thigh. The impact drove him backward and knocked him to the earth. He hissed with the pain even as his flesh started to spit out the arrows and heal the wounds.

  The cleric appeared above him on his horse. His axe and lightning bolt-emblazoned shield hung from his saddle. He pointed a hand at Cale, fingers outstretched.

  Cale could not interpose Weaveshear in time and an arc of fire shot from the priest’s fingers and seared Cale’s face and chest. His flesh was not able to repel the priest’s spell and the flesh of his eyes and lower jaw—those parts of his face not protected by the mask—blistered and peeled. The damage sealed his eyes shut.

  “There’s fire for your fire, whoreson,” said the priest, and he called back to his fellows with a wild laugh. “He is alone!”

  Cale could hear the priest’s horse thumping in the grass near him. He pulled the arrows from his body by touch, grunting with each one.

  “Run him down,” Malkur ordered. “Vors, see to the fallen. The rest of you, after the Selgauntans.”

  Cale braced himself with his arms and tried to rise but the priest’s horse slammed into him, knocked him flat, and rode over him. The war horse’s hind legs stomped his chest and snapped several ribs. Cale hissed at the pain. The priest laughed maniacally as he galloped off.

  Cale felt the ground vibrating as the rest of the horsemen galloped out of the hollow and toward the Selgauntans. They rode directly at him, he knew. His body was healing itself, and just in time, he could open his eyes and see.

  Hooves were all around him, throwing up clods of dirt. He rolled to his side, resisted the instinctive urge to cover up, and did the only thing he could. He moved from the darkness on one side of the declivity to the darkness on the other.

  He arrived across the campsite behind Malkur, the wizards, the priest, and the departing archers. He held his silence and took as deep a breath as his damaged body allowed. He watched the mercenaries speed off after Ren, Tamlin, and the house guards.

  He lay on his side, sheathed in shadows, and let his flesh heal for a few moments. In the campsite below, he saw one of the priests moving from one burned corpse to another, presumably looking for signs of life. The priest’s horse followed him, tossing its head at the stink.

  Cale winced as his ribs knitted together. He whispered a prayer to Mask and channeled healing energy into his wounded body. He ran his fingers tentatively over his face and found it nearly healed. He rose into a crouch, Weaveshear in hand.

  The priest kneeled over another of the fallen. The back of his neck was exposed between helmet and mail. Cale had killed dozens of men in exactly that position. He was about to add another to the number.

  He took Weaveshear in a two-handed grip and in a single stride, moved into the darkness directly behind the pries
t. The priest’s horse snorted at Cale’s sudden appearance but before the priest could turn, Cale slashed downward and decapitated him. The priest never uttered a sound. The blood pumping from the stump of his neck soaked the corpse he had been checking.

  Cale sheathed his blade and hurried over to the horse. It backed off and whinnied, throwing its head.

  “Steady,” Cale said. “Steady, now.”

  The warhorse stood taller than Vos by five hands. Cale took hold of its reins and whispered soothingly as he moved to its side. It backed up, snorting.

  “Steady,” Cale said again, and patted its neck. It seemed as calm as he could hope for, so he put his foot to the stirrup and swung himself up. The horse danced under him but he held his perch. The stirrups were too short but he did not have time to adjust them.

  He pulled two daggers from his belt and took one in each hand, all while holding the reins. He spurred the horse and it raced after the mercenaries so fast it almost dismounted him. Probably it found him a lighter load than usual. The priest had been shorter but fully armored.

  Cale leaned forward and bent low, his head along the horse’s neck, and encouraged it onward. He could see the mercenaries ahead, moving at a full gallop, and ahead of them, the Selgauntans, also at a gallop. The mercenaries’ wizard must have cast a spell on the Selgauntans to mark them, for all were covered in glowing, golden dust. Cale could make out Tamlin and Ren even at his distance.

  The mercenaries, arranged in a wide column, were gaining. Stormweather’s horses were bred for strength and endurance, not speed. It was only a matter of time before Tamlin and the house guards were caught. They needed to find favorable terrain to make a stand. Meanwhile, Cale was gaining on the mercenaries, slowly but inexorably.

  He saw Ren shouting orders to his men and gesturing, and they cleared out from behind Tamlin. Tamlin turned in his saddle and pointed a finger back at the mercenaries. A bolt of lightning tore through their ranks. Two men and horses fell in tumbling, smoking heaps. The rest veered around the fallen, as did Cale, and continued the pursuit.

  “Hyah!” Cale called to his horse, and spurred it harder. It snorted and found a reserve of speed. Cale closed more of the distance.