Curse of the Shadowmage

by Monte Cook

  Another shadowhound tried to jump through the breach. Ferret slashed with his blazing dagger, and the beast leapt backward. More of the dark hounds gathered outside the gap, but they had seen the effects of Mari’s sword on one of their ilk. They growled menacingly, but none dared try to force its way in. Then, as if in answer to some inaudible signal, the hounds all turned and loped away down the hill. The companions stared at each other in amazement.

  Mari lowered her short sword. “They’re gone,” she said hoarsely. “They’ve given up.”

  Kellen moved to the wall. He pulled himself up the rough stones and peered over the edge. “No, they haven’t given up,” he said quietly. “They’re just … changing.”

  Drawn by his strange words, the others approached the wall.

  “By all the gods of darkness!” Ferret swore.

  The shadowhounds had gathered at the base of the hill, milling around in a growling throng. Two hounds brushed against each other, and, as if made of dark clay, their separate forms merged into one. More shadowhounds pressed themselves against their brethren, merging their bodies into shapeless blobs that oozed fluidly across the ground. Finally, the formless blobs coalesced with the remaining shadowhounds into one gigantic mass, which began to take on a new shape. Wings spread outward like midnight sails, a sinuous neck unfurled like a great serpent. Crimson eyes blinked to life in a huge, wedge-shaped head, and obsidian talons sprang from outstretched claws. The thing tilted its horned head back, its vast roar sundering the night.

  “Milil save us,” Mari whispered in awe.

  It was a dragon. A dragon of shadows.

  Seventeen

  The shadowdragon spread its vast wings and rose into the sky, blotting out the stars.

  Kellen had never seen anything so magnificent—or so terrifying. The shadowdragon soared higher, the surging sound of its pumping wings like that of white-capped waves breaking on a rocky shore. In moments, the gigantic beast circled far above hill and ruined tower, tilting its triangular head back to let out another trumpeting roar.

  “All right, now what?” Ferret rasped, his pointed nose twitching furiously. The little thief looked at the mage expectantly.

  “I’m open to suggestions,” Morhion snapped.

  “What about Isela’s ring?” Mari shouted over the dragon’s roar. “It helped protect us against the shadowhounds.”

  “It is worth a try,” the mage agreed.

  “Well, you might want to try soon,” Ferret gulped, pointing upward.

  Silhouetted against the starry sky, the shadowdragon folded its wings against its body and dove, stretching out scythelike talons. Morhion crossed his wrists and shouted the guttural words of an incantation. Crackling bolts of blue lightning sprang from his out-turned palms and shot upward. As the bolts sped toward the shadowdragon, the jeweled ring on his left hand blazed brilliantly. The lightning changed from blue to deep violet. The diving dragon spread its sail-like wings, halting impossibly in midair. The beast cocked its neck, then thrust its head forward, jaws gaping open. Some dragons breathed fire, others emitted clouds of poisonous gas or flesh-searing acid. This was a dragon of shadow. Its breath was darkness.

  A bolt of onyx streamed from the dragon’s mouth and collided with the crackling purple lightning halfway between mage and beast. Tendrils of darkness coiled around the blazing pillar of lightning and spiraled rapidly downward, like black serpents slithering down a glowing column.

  “Morhion, let go of the spell!” Kellen cried out.

  His face twisting with effort, the mage uncrossed his wrists at the last possible second. The onyx dragonbreath engulfed the magical lightning, and the spell shattered violently, filling the night with hurtling shards of slick darkness and sizzling purple radiance. The force of the explosion threw Morhion backward against the stone wall. He slumped to the ground and Mari ran to him.

  “I’m all right,” he gasped hoarsely. “But if the ring has the power to help us now, I do not know the key …”

  “Well, we’d better think of an alternate plan, and on the double,” Ferret suggested nervously.

  The shadowdragon swooped low over the hilltop, then soared into the sky to ready itself for another dive. As it passed overhead, Ferret hurled his dagger in a precise arc. The knife struck the creature’s eye—and passed right through the shadowy substance of its body. The thief swore vehemently. “How can we fight something that’s made of shadows?” he shouted.

  Ferret helped Mari pull Morhion to his feet. The three gazed upward, faces pale with fear, as the shadowdragon folded its wings against its sinuous body and once more began to dive. Kellen did not join them. Instead, he scrambled nimbly to the top of the wall and drew out his bone flute. He took a deep breath and began to play.

  It was a song like no other he had made before. It was wilder, bolder, and far more powerful. It had to be, if there was to be any hope at all. The first notes to rise from the instrument were daring, questioning—almost a challenge. Then Kellen launched into a surging, rhythmic counter-melody. In moments, he felt shadow magic racing through his veins. His left hand itched furiously. It was time. He reached his mind out, calling to the shadows.

  They came.

  Tendrils of dark mist rose from nearby pools of shadow and drifted toward Kellen. More shadows reached out from an inky patch at the base of the hill, and from the dark depths of a chasm a half mile away. Kellen had never summoned shadows from so far a distance. His song grew fiercer yet as more shadows heeded his call. They rose from distant valleys, floated out of deep caves, and drifted down from the vast reaches of the night sky itself. In moments the entire world was alive with shadows. From all directions they moved swiftly toward Kellen, drawn inexorably by his song.

  “By all the gods—” Mari started to swear, but Morhion held up a hand, silencing her. They watched Kellen in wonder.

  Kellen concentrated on his music. The shadows above coalesced into a gigantic shape. The dark mist formed stamping hooves and flowing mane, black armor and pointed lance. In seconds the form was complete. What better foe to face a shadowdragon than a shadowknight?

  Half man, half horse, the onyx knight of shadows loomed as tall as five men. The dark champion raised his tree-length lance in salute, two starlike sparks glowing in the slit of his visor. He let out a trumpeting battle cry and launched into a gallop, angling upward into the sky, his hooves beating against the air as if it were hard ground. The shadowdragon let out a shriek of fury and changed the direction of its descent, diving toward its new foe.

  Knight and dragon hurtled on a collision course. For a few chilling heartbeats there was eerie silence as the two titanic forms sped toward each other. Then, with a clap of thunder, they met. The knight’s lance plunged through the dragon’s body at the same moment as the beast’s claws punched through the knight’s armor. Dragon roared and knight screamed, the vast sounds shaking the very ground. For a second they spun together in midair, as if whirling in an eerily graceful dance. Then, caught in a mortal embrace, dragon and knight plummeted toward the ground.

  As they fell, shreds of shadow ripped away from their writhing forms. Then more tatters of darkness peeled away. Before the two creatures could strike the ground, there was nothing left of them except for a few drifting wisps of dark mist. These settled softly to the moor and in moments melded with the night shadows beneath rocks and in dim hollows. Shadowdragon and shadowknight were no more.

  Hands trembling, Kellen lowered his flute. The night was silent once more. Mari, Morhion, and Ferret stared at him in amazement. He smiled wanly at them, then collapsed.

  * * * * *

  They spent all the following day inside the ruins of the old tower, huddling against the cold wind. To Morhion, the delay was maddening. With each passing second, Caledan drew closer to Ebenfar. Yet they had little choice. After defeating the dragon with his shadow magic, Kellen had fallen into deep unconsciousness, and he had not waked since.

  Ferret stood atop the ruined wall, keeping
watch over the moor. A dreary mist had settled over the landscape once again. Mari knelt beside Kellen, bathing his forehead with a damp cloth dipped in water steeped with willow bark. Despite the chilly air, sweat slicked Kellen’s pallid skin. A fever raged inside him, so fiercely that Morhion could feel waves of heat radiating outward from several paces away. The source of the fever seemed to lie in Kellen’s left hand, the one marked with the rune of magic.

  Morhion had known Kellen’s shadow magic was different than Caledan’s, and last night’s display had demonstrated it was more potent as well. Yet it was not so much the boy’s raw power that intrigued the mage. It was Kellen’s great control. More than ever, Morhion was convinced that Kellen’s special qualities came from being both mageborn and a descendant of Talek Talembar. Even now, it appeared that the two powers—sorcery and shadow magic—were waging a battle within the boy’s body.

  “Is there any sign of the fever lessening?” Morhion asked quietly.

  Mari shook her head grimly. “I’m afraid not. In fact, I think it’s getting worse.”

  He nodded in reply. Rummaging around in his saddlebag, the mage pulled out a book. There was no telling when Kellen would be well enough to travel; he might as well put the time to good use.

  Morhion sat on the ground and rested the ancient tome on his knees. It was the book the witch Isela had given him in Talis. Before opening the tome, he paused to examine Isela’s ring. Last night, the silver ring’s magic had helped protect them against the shadowhounds but not the shadowdragon. Why? Despite the dreary daylight, the ring’s purple gem shimmered with light. Yet when Morhion peered deeper into the stone, he saw the center of the gem was dark, just as Jewel had pointed out earlier. He shut his eyes and heard Isela’s words once more.

  You seek to destroy a great shadow. Yet shadows can exist only when there is light to cast them. To destroy the shadow, you must destroy the light as well …

  In his mind, Morhion ran over last night’s events. The ring had altered his spell of protection so that it harmed the shadowhounds. A protection spell had components that were both light—a visible aura—as well as dark—an invisible barrier. However, he had attempted to attack the dragon with a lightning spell—magic forged solely of light. That time, the ring’s magic had failed to have an effect. It seemed that the ring’s enchantment required both light and dark to function properly. Just like the creatures that had attacked the Zhentarim in Iriaebor, Morhion realized—creatures conjured by Caledan’s shadow magic. He put the ring away and turned his attention to the book.

  Morhion had no idea what knowledge the tome contained. It was penned in the dead language Talfir, and so far the mage had not had time to translate anything but the intriguing title: On the Nature of Shadows. However, as he bent over the time-darkened pages and began to painstakingly translate the ancient words, he had a hunch he would find something of interest between the cracked leather covers.

  When he finally lifted his gaze from the book, he was surprised to see that it was growing dark.

  “Hey, you’re back,” Ferret said with a crooked-toothed grin. “I was beginning to think it was actually possible to drown inside a book. Mari and I were about to draw straws to see who would dive in and pull you out.”

  The thief squatted beside a small fire built in an alcove in the stone wall, stirring something in an iron pot. Mari had taken Ferret’s place atop the wall and was keeping watch. They had moved Kellen’s motionless form near the fire; he was still unconscious.

  The mage blinked his bleary eyes. “I think you’ll both want to hear what I’ve read in Isela’s book.”

  “Can’t it wait until after dinner?” Ferret asked. “I’m famished.”

  A spicy aroma arose from the pot. Morhion realized he was fiercely hungry. He nodded his assent, and the three gathered around the fire to eat. Miraculously, the thief had turned jerked meat, a handful of dried tomatoes, and a few wild-growing herbs into a delicious stew. When they set aside their wooden bowls, Morhion began explaining what he had read in the book the witch of Talis had given him.

  “The book is entitled On the Nature of Shadows,” Morhion said in his rich voice. “It is penned in the dead tongue Talfir. At first I had a difficult time translating it, until I made a rather intriguing realization. In this particular dialect of Talfir, the word for ‘shadow’ is the same as the word for ‘shadevar.’ ” Morhion paused. A chill wind moaned softly over the crumbling stone walls of the tower. “This book is a history of the shadevari.”

  Mari and Ferret exchanged startled glances but did not interrupt.

  “I have long known that the thirteen shadevari were ancient beings. But according to this”—Morhion ran a finger over a faded page of runes—“the shadevari are older than the world itself. They are creatures of the dim chaos that existed before the gods forged Toril, in the time before time, before light and dark were separate entities. Instead of a world, as there is now, there existed only a misty realm of shadows, and the shadevari were lords of that realm. Then came the gods—though from where, no one knows—and they separated the shadows into light and dark, and set the world Toril spinning between the two.”

  Carefully, Morhion turned a brittle page. “For eons, the shadevari prowled the face of Toril, wreaking havoc and seeking ways to shatter the creation of the gods. Their only desire was to find a way to break the world and meld light and dark into shadowy chaos once more. Finally, the god Azuth, the High One, found a way to banish the shadevari. Beyond the edges of the world, he created the illusion of a realm of shadows, and the shadevari were drawn to the image. Once within, the shadevari realized that the illusion in truth masked a prison. Too late they discovered the trick, and Azuth locked the prison with a key forged of shadows by the god Gond, the Wonderbringer. Then, with all his might, Azuth hurled the key into the cosmos, sending it spinning among the stars so that it would be lost forever.”

  “Something tells me that this cheerful little bedtime story isn’t over yet,” Ferret said, scratching his chin.

  “Something tells you rightly,” Morhion replied. “For a long age, the shadevari remained sealed in their prison. In time they were forgotten. However, as fate would have it, one day the key that Azuth threw into the void entered the world once more.”

  “The Shadowstar,” Mari breathed in amazement.

  Morhion nodded. “Indeed. What seemed a shooting star to the wandering minstrel Verraketh was in truth the key Azuth had used to imprison the shadevari. The Shadowstar gave the shadevari a small window on the world. Though still imprisoned, through it they were able to exert some influence. As the medallion transformed Verraketh into the Shadowking, the shadevari spoke to him, making him their slave, until at last he vowed that, when he was powerful enough, he would use the Shadowstar to free the shadevari from their prison. Then the thirteen would seek to destroy Toril once and for all. Fortunately, Talek Talembar defeated his father, Verraketh, before this could come to pass, so the shadevari remained sealed in their prison beyond the edges of the world.”

  “Wait a minute,” Ferret protested. “We killed one shadevar in the Fields of the Dead two years ago. Now three more are after us. That means at least four of the shadevari have been freed from their prison. And while they’re nasty creatures—and I’ll grant you, I’m no expert on theology—they really don’t strike me as godlike beings.”

  “You are correct, Ferret,” Morhion agreed. Dusk had fallen. Firelight played mysteriously across the mage’s angular visage. “However, from what I have learned, I would conjecture that the creatures that have pursued us now and in the past are merely avatars of the shadevari—limited, corporeal effigies conjured by the Shadowstar to work the will of the shadevari on Toril. They are shadows of shadows, if you will. The real shadevari are not corporeal at all, but are beings of pure chaos. And they are vastly more powerful than the creatures we have faced.”

  “Oh, lovely,” Ferret said without enthusiasm.

  Mari shook her head, her forehea
d wrinkled in puzzlement. “That doesn’t make sense, Morhion. If all you’ve said is true, then when Caledan’s metamorphosis is complete and he becomes a shadowking, he’ll be able to use the Shadowstar to free the shadevari from their prison.”

  “That is so.”

  “Then why are the three shadevari out to destroy him?”

  “Maybe they aren’t,” Morhion offered. “Two years ago, the Shadowking and a shadevar conjured by Lord Snake sought to destroy all in the Heartlands who possessed the shadow magic. The Shadowking knew that only someone with shadow magic could destroy him, and the shadevar wished to protect him from such individuals. This time, Caledan is the Shadowking—or will be soon.

  “There can be only one answer,” Morhion concluded. “The shadevari aren’t after Caledan. They’re after us. They want to make certain Caledan completes his transformation into a shadowking, so that he can free them from their prison.” Morhion took a deep breath. “In fact, there is only one person who could possibly have summoned the avatars of the shadevari …”

  “Caledan,” Ferret whispered hoarsely. “Caledan himself summoned them, deliberately or not.”

  There was a long silence as the three huddled around the pitiful little fire. A small sound broke the tension. They turned in surprise to see Kellen sitting up in his blankets. The boy’s face was pale but no longer deathly so. His fever had broken. He lifted a hand to rub his eyes, then yawned heartily.

  “I’m hungry,” he said blearily. “What’s for dinner?”

  Kellen frowned when the only answer he received was a chorus of joyous laughter.

  * * * * *

  K’shar loped across the desolate landscape. The broken plateau of the High Moor stretched endlessly in all directions, brooding under an iron-gray sky. The half-elven Hunter tilted his head back as he ran, breathing in the sharp air, searching for the scents of man: smoke from a campfire, the odor of cooked meat. At first he detected only the metallic traces of stone and snow. Then, faintly, he discerned a third scent. It was acrid, like the odor that lingers after a lightning strike. K’shar recognized the stench of magic.