Curse of the Shadowmage

by Monte Cook

  The companions stepped into the common room and were treated to several dozen suspicious stares. The barkeeper was the only human in the establishment; all of the patrons were stout, broad-faced halflings.

  “I suppose this rules out appearing inconspicuous and mingling, loves,” Jewel murmured.

  “What ever gave you that idea?” Cormik replied acidly.

  The halflings whispered to each other nervously, casting sideways glances at the newcomers. The barkeeper glared at them as he slammed several pots of ale onto the table where they had sat. It was clear that strangers were not welcome.

  “I wish Estah were here,” Mari sighed in exasperation. “She could tell us what we’re doing wrong.”

  A halfling man at the next table looked up in surprise. “Estah?” he said in amazement. “You know Estah of the Dreaming Dragon?”

  Almost instantly, the atmosphere in the common room changed. Numerous questions were flung out excitedly, and when the patrons learned that Mari and Morhion were in fact part of the legendary Fellowship of the Dreaming Dragon, the occasion turned into something of a celebration. Estah, it seemed, was a local hero. Morhion had forgotten that the halfling woman had grown up in Corm Orp. Within minutes, he and the others had been introduced to a dozen smiling halflings, each claiming to be Estah’s cousin. However, when Mari asked about the strange happenings at the recent Harvest Festival, things turned somber once again.

  The halfling who had first spoken to them finally answered Mari’s question. His name was Tam Acorn, and he was one of Estah’s multitudinous cousins.

  “It was the stranger,” Tam said grimly. “He was the cause of all the dark happenings. A man in black on a pale horse.”

  The companions exchanged glances. There was no need say the name aloud.

  “Can you tell us what happened?” Mari asked urgently.

  Tam scratched his chin in thought, then began to describe the mayhem that had resulted from the stranger’s wild music, and from the shadows.

  Tam took his time, drawing out the tale. “We were lucky none of the village folk were touched by the shadowbeasts,” he said finally, his voice hoarse with freshly remembered fear.

  There was a long moment of silence. Finally, Mari leaned toward the halfling man. “How long ago?” she asked fiercely. “How long ago did all this happen?”

  “Why, the festival was only five nights ago.”

  Mari looked at Morhion. He nodded in understanding. They had found Caledan’s trail, and he was only five days ahead of them.

  The following morning, they rode north out of Corm Orp in the pearly light of dawn, hoping to pick up Caledan’s trail along the Dusk Road. The morning was bright and cold. Frost glittered on the ground like a sprinkling of crushed glass, and the dome of the sky was as hard and blue as a cobalt porcelain bowl. Periodically, they dismounted to search for any trace of Caledan’s passing—all except Cormik, who stayed on his horse.

  After this pattern was repeated a few times, Jewel made a disparaging remark to the patch-eyed man. “Tell me, my dear, bloated whale, are you afraid that if you get off your horse, you might not be able to get back on?”

  “Not in the least, my sweet, witless strumpet,” he said indignantly. “Unlike some of us, who in their senescence have become as nearsighted as a geriatric bat, I can see just fine from up here.”

  Jewel looked unconvinced. Indeed, getting Cormik onto Plinth’s back that morning had been an arduous ordeal involving a fair amount of pushing, grunting, cursing, and—on the part of Morhion—a minor spell of levitation.

  “Let’s move on,” Mari said in frustration. “There’s nothing here.”

  “Many people travel the Dusk Road,” Morhion said grimly. “In five days, all traces of Caledan’s passage could have been obliterated.”

  Mari gave a tight-lipped nod but said nothing as she climbed back into the saddle. They nudged their horses into a trot, starting once more down the road.

  It was midmorning, and the autumn day was turning fine, when Morhion noticed that only four horses were trotting down the dirt road. Kellen was missing.

  “He must have fallen back,” Mari said worriedly after Morhion called the others to a halt.

  “Then we’d better go find him, and fast,” Cormik said darkly. “I wouldn’t be surprised if there were thieves on the road. Other than ourselves, I mean.”

  They wheeled their horses around and thundered back down the road. As they rounded a bend and skidded to an abrupt stop, Kellen’s pony let out a whinny and trotted toward them, trailing his reins. Flash’s saddle was empty. Mari shot Morhion a fearful look. Unpleasant possibilities were numerous. Thieves were not the only perils in the wilderness. Morhion swore inwardly. If Kellen was hurt—or worse—he would never …

  Jewel called out, “Over here, loves!” and the others hastily spurred their mounts in her direction. They found Kellen kneeling by the side of the dirt road, peering at something amid a tangle of brambles and witchgrass.

  Morhion allowed himself a sigh of relief. “What are you doing, Kellen?” he asked sternly.

  “I’ve found something,” Kellen indicated solemnly.

  The others exchanged curious glances, then dismounted and approached, pushing aside the underbrush to get a glimpse of Kellen’s discovery.

  By the looks of it, the milestone was very old. It was cracked and sunk halfway into the ground. Centuries of wind and rain had almost completely worn away the words carved into its surface. Yet it was not the basalt monolith’s sense of age that made the companions stare. It was the face. The milestone had been grotesquely distorted, much like the stone houses in Corm Orp. One of its four surfaces bore a human visage. The image was crude and half-formed, as though it had melted before resolidifying. Yet its expression was vivid, a look of utter sorrow.

  It was Cormik who finally spoke. In a low voice he said, “Well, at least now we know Caledan came this way.”

  Morhion drew out the ruby amulet he had forged. A spark flickered deep in the heart of the gem. Cormik was right.

  Mari shook her head. “By the gods—look at it. The face is so unspeakably sad. He knows what’s happening to him, doesn’t he? He knows what he’s becoming …” Her words trailed off.

  “We should try to reach Hill’s Edge before nightfall,” Morhion said finally. “If Caledan continues to follow the road, people there will notice him.”

  Somberly, the others agreed. They thundered down the Dusk Road, leaving the eerie face of sorrow far behind.

  Nine

  The rolling landscape slipped by in a blur of russet, brown, and burnished copper. As the afternoon wore on, dark clouds moved in from the west, accompanied by the low drumming of thunder. Soon the light began to fail, turning a dusky green. A storm was coming. Morhion tilted his head back, letting the wind tangle through his long hair. He loved storms. Like all wizards, he had a passion for gaudy displays of power.

  Eventually the travelers realized they were not going to make Hill’s Edge before dark. Morhion raised a hand, signaling the party to a halt. “We had better find shelter for the night,” he advised.

  They dismounted and began scouting to either side of the Dusk Road. It was almost dark when Jewel called out over the rising gale. The thief led the others into a nearby aspen grove where slender, leafless trees danced in the wind. In the center of the grove, in a massive granite outcrop, was the dim mouth of a cave. Just then, a bolt of lightning rent the sky, and the first cold drops of rain began to fall.

  “I checked it out,” Jewel shouted above the roar of the storm. “It’s dry and goes back only a dozen paces. Plus,” she added with a grin, “it doesn’t appear to be inhabited.”

  Tethering the horses under the shelter of a tall pine, they headed into the cave. They spread their bedrolls on the sandy floor and soon had a cheerful fire burning, making the place warm and almost snug. Mari volunteered to cook and was soon stirring a bubbling pot.

  Cormik rubbed his chubby hands gleefully. “So, w
hat are we having for supper, Mari? Poached pheasant eggs seasoned with saffron? Braised fillet of young wyvern? Or perhaps”—he shivered with anticipation—“hummingbird tongues in a reduction of white wine and cloves?”

  “Stew,” Mari replied flatly. “We’re having stew.”

  “Stew?” Cormik repeated the word distastefully. “I’m not sure what that is, but I must say I really don’t care for the sound of it.”

  Apparently he didn’t care for the taste of it either. While everyone else ate heartily, Cormik picked at the contents of the wooden bowl in his lap, periodically letting out a despondent sigh. He clutched his expansive stomach. “I’m going to waste away to nothing, you know.”

  As usual, everyone ignored him.

  The fire was burning low and they had just lain down to sleep when the whinnies of frightened horses drifted through the mouth of the cave.

  “It’s probably just the storm,” Mari whispered, “but they sound really upset.”

  Morhion stood up. “I’ll go.” Wrapping his cloak tightly around himself, he headed out into the stormy night.

  Cold rain lashed at Morhion, and in moments he was soaked to the skin. Every few seconds, a white flash of lightning tore apart the darkness. He struggled against the violent wind, finally reaching the tree where they had tethered the horses. The animals were pawing at the ground, snorting and rolling their eyes. Morhion peered into the night but could see nothing save the wildly swaying trees. He stroked the horses, calming them, and led them around the tree where they would be more protected. Instructing his onyx stallion, Tenebrous, to keep an eye on the other beasts, Morhion headed back.

  He stepped inside the cave and instantly knew that something was wrong.

  The cave was silent and dark, the air acrid with the stench of smoke, as if the fire had been hastily kicked out. With a whispered word, Morhion conjured a pale sphere of magelight in his hand. Even before its faint, purple glow filled the cave, he knew what he would see.

  Mari, Kellen, Cormik, and Jewel were gone.

  The cave’s sandy floor was churned up, as if there had been some sort of struggle. Yet where had the assailants come from? And to where had his friends disappeared?

  Cautiously, Morhion moved deeper into the cave. Then he saw it—a thin crack in the rear wall. He approached, examining the fissure more closely. It was the outline of a door. Something was jammed into the crack. He reached down to pluck out the tuft of dark fur that had kept the portal from shutting completely.

  There was only one possible conclusion. Some sort of creature—or creatures—had abducted his companions. Without hesitating, Morhion pushed against the door. The ponderous slab of rock did not budge. He threw all his weight against it, but to no avail.

  Morhion glowered at the door. He was a wizard, not a warrior. He was trained to use his mind, not his body. Kneeling, he examined the floor in front of the portal. A half-circle had been scratched into the sand. Blue eyes glittering, he rose. He studied the door for a moment more, then placed his hand precisely along the center of the slab’s left edge. He pressed lightly. The door pivoted smoothly on a central axis, revealing a dark opening beyond. He allowed himself a brief smile of victory, then plunged into the passageway. Magelight bobbing before him, Morhion moved swiftly down a twisting stone tunnel. Soon he realized he was traveling at a downward angle, deep into the bones of the world.

  In his haste, he nearly tripped over the corpse. He bent down in dread, fearing the body might be that of one of his friends. It was not. Whatever the creature was, it had been dead for several days. The sweet scent of decay rose from the corpse in sickening waves. The being’s form was so twisted—a grotesque melange of dark fur, sharp teeth, and rippling flesh—that it could not possibly have lived and functioned like this. Morhion did not know what sort of beast this had once been, but something had distorted its body, molding it into this hideous shape as it died.

  The mage drew the ruby amulet out from beneath his shirt. As he moved the amulet toward the corpse, a faint spark flickered in the heart of the gem. He whispered a single grim word.

  “Caledan …”

  Quickly, Morhion leapt over the rotting corpse and continued down the tunnel. Soon he came upon another horribly twisted creature. Then another, and another, until he lost count. As the ruby amulet proved, all had been metamorphosed by Caledan’s chaotic shadow magic. Without doubt, Caldorien had come this way several days ago. But was he still here? Heart pounding, the mage ran on.

  The walls dropped away to either side, and Morhion sensed a vast space extending before him. Abruptly, he ducked behind the cover of a sharp stalagmite. While his magelight reached only a dozen feet in each direction, he could see farther. Much farther.

  A livid green phosphorescence glowed in the air, emanating from a feathery moss that clung to the stones all around. In the faint light, Morhion saw that he was on the edge of a vast cavern. A jagged chasm ran across the cavern, and on the other side of the defile was a writhing sea of furred flesh and sharp teeth.

  Gibberlings.

  Morhion had never before laid eyes on the beasts, but he had read about them. Gibberlings were not sophisticated creatures. Their gaping maws and huge teeth left little room for brains in their doglike skulls. They walked on two legs and, although they were no more than four feet tall, their furry bodies were stocky and thick with muscle. Even so, two or three gibberlings were no match for a skilled warrior or a trained mage. On the other hand, gibberlings rarely attacked in twos or threes. Their strength was in numbers, and when they attacked, they did so in a growling, slavering horde that consumed everything in its path.

  Morhion scanned the mass of gibberlings on the other side of the chasm. It was difficult to get a fix on their number, but there had to be at least a hundred of the creatures. They cavorted around a raised slab of stone. Swearing softly, Morhion saw the reason. Cormik lay sprawled upon the slab, trussed like a piglet ready for roasting. Beyond Cormik, inside a natural cage formed of stalactites and stalagmites, Morhion glimpsed three other pale faces. Mari, Kellen, and Jewel. No doubt the gibberlings intended to feast on all their victims, with Cormik, the juiciest of the lot, as the first course.

  As Morhion watched, a gibberling stuffed an apple into Cormik’s mouth, silencing the rotund thief’s colorful swearing. Cormik struggled uselessly against the crude bonds of twisted fur that encircled his wrists and ankles.

  Morhion knew he had little time to act. A natural stone bridge spanned the deep chasm. However, crossing it would leave Morhion utterly exposed; the gibberlings would see him coming. There had to be another way.

  An idea struck him. On his stomach, he crept to the near end of the stone bridge. He whispered the words of a spell, and his hands began to glow with a magical purple aura. Leaning over the precipice, Morhion reached down, stretching his hands toward the rough underside of the bridge. All of a sudden he lost his balance and slid over the edge. Cracking his body like a whip, he thrust his hands upward. His fingers brushed the underside of the bridge … and dug into the stone as if it were soft clay.

  Hanging from his arms beneath the bridge, Morhion gritted his teeth and—thanks to the spell of rock-gripping he had cast—dug his fingers deeper into the stone. Hand over hand he edged forward, first plunging one hand into the stone, then pulling the other out and swinging forward under the narrow stone arch. The chasm yawned darkly beneath his dangling boots, and he forced himself to keep his gaze fixed ahead. His arms began to ache fiercely, and by the time he was halfway across, his shoulders seemed on fire. Over and over in his mind, he recited an old litany of concentration he had learned as an apprentice mage. He did not dare think what would happen if he let go of the stone.

  Morhion was startled when he brushed up against a rough cliff face. He had reached the far end of the bridge. Vicious snarls echoed on the dank air. Forcing his throbbing arms to work, Morhion pulled himself upward, heaving his body onto the bridge. Gasping, he leapt to his feet. A trio of gibberlings
stood mere paces away. Pointed ears pricking up, the stocky beasts heard him and turned around, their maws gaping ravenously.

  Morhion was already moving. He kicked out, planting a boot squarely on one gibberling’s canine face. Short limbs flailing, it tumbled over the side of the bridge and vanished into the gloom below. Another beast lunged for him, only to find the mage’s knife buried in its throat. Morhion pulled the blade free. Squealing, the creature stumbled backward into its companion. In a snarling collision of fur and claws, the two gibberlings fell off the bridge and plunged into the defile.

  Morhion looked up. The remaining gibberlings had closed in on Cormik, ready to begin their feast. One beast held his chubby leg in front of its open mouth, preparing to take a big bite. Desperate, Morhion let out a whooping battle cry. Startled by the sound, the creatures turned around, and Morhion found himself facing a hundred long-muzzled faces. For a frozen moment, nothing moved. Then, as one, the gibberlings sprang toward their new prey.

  Morhion was way ahead of them.

  “Darakka!” he shouted, thrusting his arms out before him. Crackling bolts of purple lightning sprang from Morhion’s fingertips. Yips and howls of agony filled the air, along with the reek of singed fur. The magical lightning dissipated, leaving in its wake a wide swath of dead gibberlings. Morhion wasted no time. He picked his way over the heaps of smoldering bodies and leapt onto the slab beside the quivering Cormik. Those gibberlings scorched but not slain by the spell ran around in circles, snarling and snapping at others in pain and fear. The mayhem gave Morhion a chance to cut Cormik’s bonds.