by Monte Cook
“Just to you, love,” she said, parting her ruby lips in a winning smile.
Morhion studied the contraption Isela had rigged for crossing the frothing torrent of the river. He had the distinct impression that the entire thing had not been built, but had rather been grown. A thick vine hung across the river, attached to a stout oak tree on each bank. Suspended from the braided vine was a large basket woven from green saplings. Attached to the basket was another, thinner cord that could be used to pull the craft along the main vine.
“Can it truly hold one of the horses, Isela?” Mari asked.
The witch nodded. “Once each fall I kill a stag for winter food. Often I hunt on the far side of the river, and bring the stag across in the basket. It will hold a horse.”
Despite Cormik’s skepticism, Isela was right. Mari and Jewel crossed first, easily pulling the basket along the vine to the far bank. The others pulled the basket back and began sending the horses across the river to the two women. It wasn’t easy getting the horses into the curious conveyance, but with a cloth sack covering their eyes, the animals stayed reasonably calm. It took a great deal of grunting and heaving on the part of Mari and Jewel, but soon all the horses stood on the far bank.
Cormik and Kellen climbed into the basket next, the crime lord somewhat reassured after the favorable performance with the horses. Before joining them, Morhion turned to bid Isela farewell.
That was when the baying started.
It echoed through the forest, distant at first, yet rapidly drawing nearer. This was not the baying of mundane hounds. It was an eerie noise; the snarls and barking sounded strangely like voices speaking in an unknown evil language.
Bloodthirsty cries pierced the foggy air. These came from above, and the companions recognized the source instantly: the bellowing of the winged shadowsteeds conjured by the shadevari. In moments the baying and bellowing grew frighteningly near. Morhion thought he saw shadowy shapes moving swiftly toward them through the ruins of the city.
“Yes, these hounds are creatures of shadow,” Isela hissed, as if reading his thoughts. She shoved him into the basket with Cormik and Kellen. “You must go. Now.”
“What of yourself?” Morhion demanded.
“I am staying.”
Morhion stared at her. “But the beasts—they’ll be here in moments.”
“I know, you fool,” she snapped. Then her dark eyes softened a fraction. “You must guard the child wizard. Now go.” She tugged the smaller vine twice. In response to the signal, Mari and Jewel began hauling on the cord. The basket swung out over the river.
The baying of the shadowhounds shattered the air. “Isela!” Morhion shouted, but the witch was already lost in the mist of the far bank. He thought he saw a dozen dark forms slinking through the swirling fog, but he could not be certain. Abruptly the basket came to rest on the western bank of the river. Jewel and Mari helped Cormik and Kellen out, but Morhion gripped the vine. “I’m going back,” he said hoarsely.
Before the others could protest, the cord suddenly went slack. The main vine crashed down into the turbulent surface of the river and was swept away. Isela had severed the cords. There was no going back. The snarling of the shadowhounds rose to a frenzied pitch. Across the river, brilliant green light flickered in the mist, and howls of pain mingled with the snarls. Somewhere in the fog overhead the shadowsteeds shrieked again.
“Come on,” Mari said, tugging at Morhion’s hand.
“But Isela …,” he protested.
“I know,” she replied angrily. “She is sacrificing herself so that we can escape. Will you have that sacrifice be for nothing?”
It was like a cold slap. Morhion, of all people, understood sacrifice. “You are right,” he said coolly. They mounted their horses and soon left behind the eerie baying and flashes of light.
* * * * *
Late the next day, they stumbled out of the northern edge of the Reaching Woods and once again found themselves traveling west on the Dusk Road. This time it was Jewel who spotted the sign of Caledan’s passing. Near the road, a dead tree had been twisted into an agonized shape that looked uncannily like a dying man raising his arms toward the sky. The crimson light of sunset dripped down the tree’s bark like blood.
“He has been this way,” Mari said, visibly shaken.
“But how long ago?” Cormik wondered. No one could answer his question.
They rode on, glancing frequently at the sky above, searching for signs of the shadevari. While they did not know who had summoned the ancient creatures of evil, or why, by now it was clear that the shadevari were tracking Caledan, just as the companions were. To their relief, the winged shadowsteeds did not appear.
Two days later, they halted at a fork in the road. Here the Dusk Road continued on west, while a lesser-used track branched off to the north, winding its way into the rocky Trielta Hills. There seemed no way of knowing for certain which direction Caledan had gone.
“Nothing,” Cormik said darkly, scrambling out of the hedgerow he had been searching. “I can’t see any signs that Caledan came this way at all.”
Jewel appraised the rotund crime lord critically. “Let me guess—it’s all the rage in the royal court of Cormyr to wear a bird’s nest on one’s head, and as usual you’re just a pawn of fashion?”
Cormik hastily snatched at the abandoned nest that had gotten tangled in his dark hair. He glowered at her. “You’re evil, aren’t you?”
Her only answer was a disturbingly sweet smile.
Mari sighed in frustration. “I suppose well just have to make our best guess as to which way Caledan went.”
“I have an idea.”
The others turned to Kellen in surprise. He had not spoken much since the ruined city. Whether or not Kellen was in truth the one foretold in Isela’s prophecy, something strange had happened to him in Talis. What had been going on in his mind since, Morhion could only guess.
Jewel knelt, regarding Kellen with curious eyes. “What did you have in mind, love?”
“Ill show you,” he said mysteriously.
From the leather pouch at his belt, Kellen drew out the polished bone flute his father had made for him. Sitting cross-legged at the fork in the road, he began to play a stirring air, almost like a marching song. Morhion felt a prickling on the back of his neck. Then the magic began. Dark shapes coalesced on the surface of the dirt road and slipped silently past Kellen to either side. More and more of the dark blobs drifted down the road, most turning left at the fork, a few turning right, before continuing on.
Cormik let out a booming laugh. “Clever lad!” he said, clapping his stubby hands together. “We can’t know which way Caledan took, but you’ll show us the way his shadow went.”
“And it’s safe to assume that the rest of him went along,” Jewel said brightly.
Kellen smiled as he continued to play the flute.
The shapes moving on the ground were the shadows cast by travelers who had passed this way recently. Raptly, the companions watched the shadows go by: the silhouette of a peasant man bent under a load of firewood, a trio of mounted soldiers, a farmer’s ox-drawn wagon, and a nobleman’s coach-and-six. At last the silhouette of a lone rider came into view. All of them recognized the horse’s graceful head and the rider’s wolfish profile.
Propelled by the magic of Kellen’s song, the shadows of Caledan and his horse, Mista, approached the fork in the road, hesitated a moment, then took the left-hand track. Caledan had continued west, down the Dusk Road. Kellen lowered his flute. As the haunting music faded away, so did the silent procession of shadows. He looked tired but pleased.
“That’s a fine trick, lad,” Cormik said, impressed.
Morhion approached the boy. Kellen’s shadow magic was powerful indeed. He wondered what other unknown abilities the boy possessed. “I did not know that you could summon shadows of the past, Kellen.”
Kellen shrugged, putting away his bone flute. “I didn’t know either, until I tried.”
From his saddlebag, Morhion pulled out the two gifts the witch Isela had given him. The book, which was certainly ancient, was written in the dead language Talfir, which meant Morhion would have to spend long hours of translation to understand its contents. He was eager to begin; he knew enough Talfir to read the book’s title. It was K’sai’eb’mal, or in the common tongue, On the Nature of Shadows. Morhion carefully set down the tome and picked up the ring, a simple silver band set with a large stone the purple hue of a twilight sky.
“I’ve never seen a gem like that,” Jewel said, sitting down next to the mage. She winked at him slyly. “And you might consider me an expert on the topic.”
“I think it is forged of magic,” Morhion said. “But as to its precise nature, I cannot guess.”
Jewel studied the stone, an intent expression on her ageless face. “The facets refract the firelight beautifully, but the center of the gem is dark. That’s strange. Given this type of cut, the center of the stone should be alive with light.”
Morhion thought about this. “Thank you, Jewel,” he said finally. “I’m not certain how, but I think that’s important.”
“Always glad to be of help, love.”
They ate dinner in silence, each of them wondering the same thing: How far ahead of them was Caledan? As the others readied themselves for sleep, Morhion took the chance to slip away.
The mage circled around a jagged rock outcropping to be certain he was out of earshot of the others. He did not need to call out. A blast of cold air whipped the leaf litter into a miniature cyclone, and out of the swirling leaves drifted a vaporous, armor-clad figure Morhion knew well.
“You are wise to come to me, mage,” Serafi intoned in his sepulchral voice. “Just because we have forged a new pact, it does not mean that our old pact is binding no longer.”
“A fact of which I am well aware,” Morhion said bitterly.
Serafi drifted closer. Pale frost tinged nearby leaves of gold and crimson. “I am angry with you, mage. You risked yourself foolishly in the ruined city. You nearly perished. Have you forgotten that your body belongs to me?”
Morhion shrugged indifferently. “And what if I die, Serafi? There is nothing you can do then.”
The spectral knight’s laughter echoed malevolently from all directions. “Oh, you are wrong about that, mage. I have dwelt long in the twilight world of the dead, and I am powerful here. Die without granting me your body, and I will make every moment of your eternal after-existence one of pure and utter torment.”
Morhion shuddered despite himself. He drew out a small knife and made a cut on his forearm. Dark blood welled forth. He was glad for the pain; it cleared his head. “Get on with it, spirit,” he snapped. “I cannot be long. The others will wonder where I’ve gone.”
Serafi knelt and began to drink rapturously. “Ah, yes …,” he moaned. “Exquisite. But soon I will no longer need to drink to feel the sweet warmth of blood. Soon it will flow in my own veins. Your body will be mine, Morhion. Then, perhaps, that of the woman you call Mari will be mine as well …”
“What?” Morhion hissed.
“Do not play the innocent with me, Morhion,” Serafi said mockingly. “I know you desire her.” The knight’s laughter echoed again on the cold air. “Ah, but you have this perverse need to torture yourself, don’t you? Yes, you must always deny yourself that for which you long. Well, be certain of this, Morhion—if you are too foolish to claim her, then once your body is mine, I will.”
Crimson rage flared before Morhion’s eyes. He snatched his arm from the spirit’s chill grip. “Get away from me,” he snarled. “Your drink is done. Our pact is fulfilled for this moon. Now begone.”
Serafi rose, eyes glowing hotly. “As you wish, mage. But I will not go very far.”
Before Morhion could spit a curse at the spectral knight, the frigid wind gusted again, and Serafi was gone. For a long moment the mage stood still, breathing deeply, trying to regain his composure. The spirit’s mocking words echoed in his mind, words made all the more horrible because there was a shard of truth in them. However, those were feelings Morhion had banished long ago. It is a mage’s lot to dwell in solitude, he told himself. He repeated the words again, and again, until at last his heart quieted. Then he made his way through the grove, hurrying back to camp before the others noticed his absence.
Two days later they reached the small trading town of Triel.
It was more of a fortified stockade than a proper town, but they were able to buy fresh supplies, and at least there was one inn where they could spend a night indoors. As in every town, there were thieves in Triel, and it didn’t take Cormik and Jewel long to ferret them out. The two returned to their rendezvous point in the town square.
“We’re getting closer to Stiletto’s base of operations,” Cormik told Morhion and Kellen.
Jewel nodded in agreement. “The thieves here were extorted into paying tribute to Stiletto months before anyone had even so much as heard the name in Hill’s Edge. We’re definitely not far away now.”
“Then perhaps there is a chance we may yet reach the Shadowstar before Caledan,” Morhion said.
Mari returned then. She had gone to discuss news with the local lord.
“How did it go?” Cormik inquired.
“Strangely,” Mari said, rolling her eyes. “Lord Elvar’s the most paranoid man I’ve ever met. He makes you look as svelte as a willow switch, Cormik, yet he’s convinced he’s going to starve to death. However, he’s less worried now than he was a few days ago.”
“Why is that?” Jewel asked.
Mari went on excitedly. “It seems rats were plaguing Elvar’s granary. Then a stranger came to town—a stranger who got rid of the rats by conjuring dark cats with the music of his pipes. What’s more, the stranger stayed on for a while at Elvar’s insistence. He left just two days ago.” Her eyes flashed brilliantly. “Caledan’s been here.”
“I know,” Kellen said quietly.
He pointed to an object in a dim corner. It was a hand of stone, reaching out of the cobbles from which it had been forged. It was clenched in agony and despair, like the hand of a drowning man.
Mari shook her head in sorrow. “Caledan,” she whispered. “It’s almost as if he’s leaving us these signs deliberately.”
“Yes,” Morhion echoed quietly. “But if so, what do they mean?”
* * * * *
K’shar pushed aside the tangled witchgrass and gazed upon the half-metamorphosed milestone with curious golden eyes. Without doubt, this was the work of Caldorien’s twisted shadow magic. For three nights and two days, the half-elf had been running swiftly through the Reaching Woods, stopping a mere half-dozen times, and then only long enough to sip water from a clear brook or to swallow a handful of acorns or late berries. Now blood surged hotly in his veins. He had found the trail.
Quickly, he examined the footprints pressed into the soft earth around the milestone. Five people had gathered here: a strong yet graceful woman, a tall man, a child, a heavy man, and a small woman who walked lithely but with a slight foot drag—perhaps due to age or injury. K’shar could guess the identities of at least three of them. The strong woman was Mari Al’maren; the tall man was the mage Morhion Gen’dahar; the child was Caldorien’s son, Kellen. The renegade Al’maren was indeed trying to find Caldorien, and it appeared she had help. K’shar regretted that she had a child with her—children were blameless creatures, and far too often paid for the crimes of their elders—but that did not matter. He would let nothing stand between himself and his prey.
As the autumn day wore on, K’shar loped easily down the Dusk R
oad, stretching out his long legs. From time to time, spying a traveler approaching, he would plunge into the thickets beside the highway, moving silently until it was safe to return to the road once more. K’shar preferred to make his way through the world unseen.
While he felt no hunger, by midday he knew he needed sustenance, or the swiftness of his pace would suffer. Halting, he scanned a hedgerow with keen eyes. Suddenly he plunged a hand into the bracken with uncanny speed. When he withdrew his hand, a fawn-colored rabbit struggled in his grip. K’shar spoke a gentle word, passing a hand before the creature’s face. The animal fell still, gazing at him with trusting brown eyes. It felt nothing when he snapped its neck with a precise twist of his hand. There was no time for a fire, so K’shar ate the rabbit raw. While the half-elf respected all animals, he felt no regret in killing the rabbit. It was the lot of the hunted to sustain the hunter. And one day, when he died, his own body would feed the grass that the rabbit ate. Such was the nature of the chase.
Stars were beginning to appear in a dusky sky when K’shar reached Hill’s Edge. The trading settlement was in a stir; something had transpired here recently. Curious, the half-elf prowled undetected through town, catching snippets of conversations. At last he overheard something of interest. Sinking into a shadowed corner, he listened to two people talking on the front steps of an inn.
“I told Faladar that I didn’t like the looks of them,” lamented a red-faced woman—a cook by her stained apron and the large wooden spoon she clutched. “But he wouldn’t listen to me. Not that he ever did.”
“You saw them then?” a man in merchant’s garb asked in fascination.
“Aye, I did,” the woman replied dramatically. It was clear this was not the first time she had told this tale. “They came here at dusk two nights ago, and a strange-looking bunch they were. The red-haired woman, she wore a sword at her hip. And the tall one, he had the air of a wizard about him. Had a gaze to freeze your blood, he did. They killed poor Faladar, I’m certain of it.” She let out an overwrought sigh. “And now it’s up to me to run the Five Rings all by myself.”
