by Mark Anthony
Tyveris opened his mouth to protest, but the sound of quickly padding footsteps stopped him. Talim pushed his way through the crowd of prisoners, breathing hard.
“There are a dozen guards patrolling the corridors not far from here, and they’re headed this way,” the young thief said hoarsely.
Tyveris groaned in dismay. They couldn’t get back to the thieves’ entrance without fighting the patrol. And if they did that the other Zhentarim were bound to hear the noise and rush to join the fray.
“It seems your decision has been made for you,” Kyana said, watching Tyveris carefully.
Tyveris was silent for a long while. Finally he spoke. “To the stairs,” was all he said.
Tyveris was forced to admit that when the cityfolk rushed into the dungeon’s central chamber it was a glorious moment. “Iriaebor!” the prisoners cried as they raised their weapons high. “For the Thousand Spires!”
They poured down the ramp which led into the large, circular chamber. Those prisoners who bore crossbows loosed a rain of bolts down upon the Zhentarim from the high walkway that circled the room.
Yet the Zhentarim had been warned there would be a battle that night and were not caught unaware. A few fell with arrows quivering in chest or throat, but far more blocked the flurry of deadly bolts with wooden shields. The rest of the prisoners streamed into the chamber, and the room erupted into chaos.
Abruptly two score prisoners came rushing out of one of the cell blocks, knocking several spear-wielding guards aside. Talim was with them. Somehow the wiry young thief had slipped past the guards and freed the prisoners. They dashed into the chamber, grabbing weapons from fallen Zhents or fighting with the very chains that bound their wrists. Even so, the battle-hardened Zhents pushed them back with almost comic ease.
It’s not enough, Tyveris realized, standing numbly on the edge of the battle. They have the hearts of lions, but their hands are those of merchants and artisans, not warriors. He tried to say a prayer to his god, but his lips were unable to form the words. Already the cityfolk were faltering. In minutes, it would be over.
The battle surged before him. A prisoner, a young woman hardly more than a girl, was clumsily brandishing a rusty sword, fending off the hard blows of a grinning guard. Even as Tyveris watched, the sword spun from her hand to clatter against the slate floor. The Zhent’s grin broadened luridly as he readied a killing blow.
Forgive me, Oghma, my god, Tyveris said inwardly. Forgive me, Tali, my sister. This is something I must do.
Tyveris let out a roar of fury as he leaped forward and grabbed the young woman’s fallen sword. Tyveris swung the blade with lightning-quick skill. The Zhent’s grin faded as he slipped off the blade and into a pool of his own blood.
Tyveris stared at the corpse dully, but he did not drop the sword. There was no more time for prayers or regrets. Now was the time to fight.
He reached down a powerful hand to help the young woman to her feet. Her eyes were filled with gratitude. “Here, you’re going to need this.” He pushed the blade back into her hand. She nodded fiercely. Tyveris bent down and pried the saber from the guard’s fingers.
“What’s your name?” he asked the young woman.
“Erisa, sire,”
“All right, Erisa, I want you to stay by me,” Tyveris rumbled. With his bare hand, Tyveris ripped the livery—the azure river and silver tower with Ravendas’s crimson moon above—from the fallen guard’s jerkin. He hastily tied the piece of cloth onto the end of a broken spear he found nearby, fashioning a makeshift standard. “May Oghma and all the gods grant us strength this night,” Tyveris said solemnly. As Erisa watched in wonderment, the symbol of the crimson moon suddenly burst into flame, flared brightly, and then went dark. At the same time the outlines of the river and the tower, the traditional symbols of Iriaebor, began to glow with an unearthly silvery light.
“You’re going to be my standard-bearer, Erisa,” Tyveris said, handing the stunned young woman the banner. “Hold it high for all to see. And do not let the standard fall, not at any cost.”
Erisa stared at the glowing banner for a moment, then nodded, lifting the standard high. “I won’t fail you, sire!”
“Then I’ll try to do the same,” Tyveris said gruffly. He joined the throng making for the flight of dark stone stairs that led up toward the tower and freedom. He swung his sword with easy, practiced strokes, cutting a swath through the Zhentarim. Erisa followed close on his heels, holding the gleaming standard high in one hand, and protecting Tyveris’s back with the sword he had given her in the other.
“To me! To me!” Tyveris bellowed in his enormous voice. Despite the din, all around him the cityfolk looked up to see him striding through the battle, his sword flashing under the magical illumination of the banner. Hope ignited in their eyes. Heartened anew, the prisoners hacked at the Zhentarim ferociously, fighting to make their way to the loremaster.
A fierce grin spread across Tyveris’s face as he swung his sword tirelessly. Zhent after Zhent fell beneath his blade. “To me!” he cried again. “To the stairway! To freedom!”
Whatever the outcome, he was determined to make this a battle the gods would never forget.
Twenty-one
Ravendas snatched the pipes from Kellen and tucked them into the sash of her gown. “Out of my way, child,” she snarled. “I have need of you no longer.” She struck Kellen sharply across the cheek. The boy cried out in pain and tumbled backward, rolling down the steps of the dais.
“You will pay for that,” Caledan swore, clenching his hands into fists behind his back.
“I pay for nothing,” Ravendas replied, her cheeks flushed. “I take what I want.”
“Talembar said that only one with the shadow magic can take up the Nightstone,” Mari called out desperately. “You must not touch it!”
“And why, by all the gods, would I believe you, Harper?” Ravendas spat. Without any further hesitation she bent down and closed her fingers around the dark stone. With an exultant smile Ravendas lifted the Nightstone above her head. “You see?” she cried. “You are wrong! The power of the Nightstone is mine. With it, I shall rule the greatest empire Toril has ever known!
“Now kneel before me,” Ravendas declared, her voice ringing in the subterranean chamber. “Kneel and pay homage to your new queen. Kneel and perhaps I shall—”
Ravendas winced, faltering as a momentary spasm of pain crossed her features, but she quickly regained her composure.
“Kneel,” she repeated, “and perhaps I—”
This time the pain showed clearly on Ravendas’s beautiful face. The blood drained from her cheeks, her eyes widening as she stared at the Stone. “No!” she cried out in horror. She shook her hand, trying to drop the Nightstone, but she could not loosen her grip.
“It’s burning me!” she shrieked. Ravendas screamed in agony. The pale skin of her forehead was undulating, as if something was writhing beneath the surface, something alive. Kellen had regained his feet, and he stood by Snake at the foot of the dais, watching his mother in horror.
“Kellen, don’t look!” Caledan cried out. “Don’t look at her!” Caledan tried to lunge forward, but the hobbles about his ankles tripped him, and he nearly fell to the hard floor. Kellen slowly turned away from the grisly spectacle.
Ravendas let out one last, soul-wrenching scream, and suddenly two dark objects burst from the smooth skin of her forehead. They were antlers of onyx, thrusting and branching like saplings from her brow. Ravendas’s eyes went blank, her face twisted, and Caledan knew that she was dead.
But whatever writhed inside her was not.
The form that had been Ravendas began to crack like ancient porcelain. Without warning the shell exploded outward in a spray of pale shards. Her silken gown was ripped to shreds. The reed pipes clattered down the steps of the dais.
A shadow unfurled itself from the shattered remains of Ravendas’s body, a thing of utter darkness. The shadow was shaped vaguely like a man, except for t
he antlers sprouting from its head. With every moment it rose higher off the dais, its outline coalescing, growing clearer and sharper. And in the center of the shadow hovered the Nightstone, pulsing rhythmically with a vermillion glow.
“By all the gods,” Caledan whispered hoarsely. “It is the Shadowking.”
“Yes, and he is the master of us all!” Snake cried out in rapture. “Bow down before the darkness that will rule forevermore!” Snake abased himself before the dais, lying prostrate before the undulating form of the Shadowking.
Caledan saw something moving to his left, and he turned to see Morhion standing behind the Harper, a small knife in his hand. Was this to be the mage’s final treachery? Then to Caledan’s amazement, he watched as Morhion deftly cut the leather thongs that bound Mari’s wrists, then bent down and cut the rope that hobbled her ankles. She stared at him, but he had already hurried on to free Estah and Ferret. Snake saw none of this. His attention was upon the form of the Shadowking.
In moments Morhion stood behind Caledan, who felt the mage’s knife slit his bonds. “Why are you doing this?” he whispered savagely. “What more do you seek to gain, mage?”
“We do not have time for explanations,” Morhion said with infuriating calm. The mage also cut the rope binding Caledan’s ankles.
Free of her bonds, the Harper had started toward the dais. She closed her hand about the reed pipes. Snake looked up, fury blazing in his eyes.
“Caledan!” Mari shouted as she threw the pipes in his direction. Even as the instrument arced through the air Snake reached out an arm toward the Harper and spoke a word of magic. A jagged stream of poisonous light burst from his fingertips, striking Mari full in the chest. The force of the blast hurled her backward, and she crumpled without a word, her face white. She did not move.
Caledan caught the pipes but stood as if frozen. At that moment he knew he had been a fool. He loved the Harper as much as he had ever loved Kera. Perhaps even more. But he had been prideful and realized his true feelings too late. Now Mari was gone as well. His shoulders slumped in defeat
“Will you let her sacrifice mean nothing?” Morhion whispered in his ear. Caledan turned to the mage. More than ever he wanted to kill Morhion. But that could wait. With one last glance at the runes inscribed upon the seven columns, he lifted the pipes to his lips.
“Play a single note, and the boy dies,” a soft, sibilant voice said. Snake stood before the dais, holding Kellen tightly by the shoulder. A bare inch from the boy’s neck Snake held a thin, golden needle. “The needle is coated with a poison called telsiak. Believe me when I tell you that the child will be quite dead before you can play a second note.”
Caledan stared at the thin, hard-faced lord steward for a long moment. He sighed, lowering the pipes. He could not do it. He had lost Kera. Now Mari lay unmoving, almost certainly dead. How could he let himself lose his newfound son as well?
“No, Father!” Kellen cried out. “You don’t have to do what he says. Isn’t that what you told me?” The boy’s voice was plaintive, but there was something different about his eyes.…
“I’m … I’m sorry, Kellen.” Caledan let the pipes slip from his fingers.
“In the name of the Abyss, look above!” Ferret shouted, pointing to the crypt’s domed ceiling. Involuntarily, Snake turned his gaze upward. There was nothing there but shadows. Too late the lord steward realized he had fallen for the oldest trick of all.
He winced in pain as he looked down at the golden needle protruding from his chest. In the instant when he had looked away, the boy had grabbed his hand and turned the needle into the lord steward’s body.
“Master …” Snake said as he pulled out the needle. But that was all. In the space of a heartbeat his lips turned blue, and his hands stiffened into rigid claws. He toppled to the floor. His hard eyes stared blankly forward, as dull and lifeless as stones. The lord steward Snake was dead.
But the Shadowking was not.
“Thanks for the distraction, Ferret,” Caledan said grimly to the thief.
“Don’t mention it.” the thief replied. “Though you might want to start worrying about that.” He nodded toward the dais.
The Shadowking was nearly complete. Muscles and veins writhed like serpents beneath skin as dark and smooth as night. Its legs were as thick as columns, ending in cloven hooves. It flexed its powerful arms; long, dark talons sprang from its fingertips. A tail lined with jagged, saw-toothed barbs cracked like a whip in the air. All that remained indistinct was the Shadowking’s face. And slowly, inexorably, that too was taking shape.
“Do something, Father!” Kellen cried, running forward.
“Play the shadow song, Caledan,” Estah said, her voice strong and reassuring.
“Now would be a good time,” Ferret added.
Caledan reached down and picked up the pipes. His fingers felt numb, and he fumbled, nearly dropping the pipes. It had been so many years since he had played music. He feared he would not remember how. He feared that he had read incorrectly the Talfir letters inscribed upon the columns. Then a hand reached up and touched his own, a hand that was small but strong. He did not need to look to know it was Kellen’s. Suddenly all his fear slipped away, all his regrets and bitterness. And then there was only music.
He played a first, clear note—a wistful, almost optimistic sound. Talek Talembar had not told him to listen for the echo of the song in the place it had last been played. Talembar had told him to look for the echo of the song. That was the key.
He played the second note of the song, higher in pitch, a pure, ringing note. What the words written in Talfir said, Caledan wasn’t certain, but he knew enough of the ancient language to recognize what letters the runes stood for, and that was enough. The first letter of each word was a note of music. It had been so terribly obvious, a puzzle so simple any apprentice minstrel would have seen it, yet anyone who could not read music would never have understood.
Caledan played the third note, this one lower, more ominous, a note of power. The pipes felt warm in his hands.
“I don’t mean to be pushy, but you might want to hurry it up,” Ferret whispered, jerking his head toward the dais.
Slowly the Shadowking had begun to draw itself up to its full, towering height, spreading its arms wide. Two batlike wings unfurled from its back. The Nightstone pulsed lividly in the center of its misshapen chest as hot and red as blood. Now the Shadowking’s visage was coming into focus, but its face was not the face of a man, not like that of the death mask on the sarcophagus. Instead it was the face of a beast. Fangs like obsidian knives protruded from its maw, oozing dark ichor.
Caledan almost faltered as he played the fourth note, but he clenched his fingers tightly about the pipes and forced himself to breathe. The music continued. The entire chamber was beginning to resonate with it. Each of the notes echoed off the dark stone, interweaving with the others. He played the fifth note, then the sixth. He was trembling now. The sound of the echoing song was growing deeper, more complex.
The Shadowking took a step forward. Its cloven hoof cracked the stone of the dais. It took another step, and more stone crumbled beneath its ponderous stride. It reached out a claw, straight toward Caledan. The last outlines of its twisted face coalesced. It opened its maw to let out a roar of triumph, and a crimson flame burst to life in its eyes. After a thousand years of entombment, the Shadowking lived again.
Bow to me! a vast and ancient voice thundered within Caledan’s mind. Terror clawed brutally at his heart. Bow to me. I am Darkness!
Caledan shook his head against the crushing power of the voice, struggling to stay upright. Summoning his last few shreds of will, he played the final note of the shadow song.
The vast harmony that echoed about the crypt was suddenly complete, becoming a single chord of deep and ancient power. The music soared to a deafening volume. Caledan fell to his knees, dropping the pipes and covering his ears. The others did the same.
The Shadowking shrieked with a fur
y so monstrous and incomprehensible Caledan thought the sound of it would drive him mad. Then, with a clap of thunder, the Nightstone that beat in the Shadowking’s chest burst asunder in a spray of dark, crystalline shards. The Shadowking began to waver and grow indistinct. Its darkness faded into a hazy translucence.
Finally, with a last shuddering sigh, the Shadowking flickered and was gone, like a shadow on the wall banished by the light of a single candle.
Caledan looked up to see Kellen. The boy’s face was expressionless. Caledan gripped his hand, then Kellen flung himself into Caledan’s arms, sobbing. Caledan held him tightly. “It’s all right, Kellen,” he said softly. “I’m here now. It’s all right.”
“Caledan, I think you’d better come here.”
It was Estah. Her voice sounded tight. Gently, Caledan pushed Kellen away and rose.
The healer knelt at Mari’s side. The Harper lay unmoving, her fiery hair spread out beneath her on the dark stone, her face deathly pale.
“Is she …?” Caledan managed to ask, choking on the words.
“She is not dead,” Estah said.
“Then you can use your medallion,” Caledan said urgently, kneeling beside the halfling. “Use it, Estah. Please. Heal her for me. For all of us.”
Estah shook her head sorrowfully. “I don’t know if my magic can help her, Caledan. She is not dead, nor is she alive. It’s almost as if her spirit is somehow caught in the gateway between this world and the next.”
“It is the enchantment of the tomb,” Morhion said. He ran his fingers across the stone of one of the basalt columns. “I can feel it lingering in this place.”
“Then let’s get her out of here,” Caledan said. He lifted Mari’s limp form in his arms, taking a few steps forward. Suddenly the floor lurched beneath him. Only Ferret’s hand kept him from falling. There was a cracking sound, followed by the tumult of falling stone.
Caledan gasped. The crack in the dome of the ceiling gaped wide and jagged now, and other cracks spread outward from it. Suddenly one of the buttresses lining the perimeter of the tomb slumped, sending massive blocks of basalt crashing to the floor. The onyx shattered like glass beneath the force of the boulders.
