by Paul S. Kemp
—and knew what he had to do.
Cale looked up at Magadon and said, “Take his wounds.”
The mind mage backed up a step and said, “Cale, he’s—”
“Take them, and give them to me.”
Riven looked a question at Cale. Magadon looked horrified.
“It will kill you,” the mind mage said.
“Do it,” Cale pressed. “Now!”
“No. I—”
“Do it,” said Riven, in a tone that didn’t allow for refusal.
Magadon stood there with his mouth open. Another tremor shook the temple.
“Now, godsdamnit!” Cale shouted.
Magadon fell to the ground beside Jak. He took a deep breath, touched two fingers to Jak’s forehead and clasped Cale’s hand. After a moment, Cale felt their consciousnesses meld: Magadon’s fearful, Jak’s barely there. Cale braced himself.
Pain! Excruciating pain!
His heart fairly exploded in his ribcage. Blood began to fill his lungs. Holes opened in his chest and back. Blood poured out, soaking his cloak. His breath left him. Agony wracked him. Through blurry eyes, he looked upon Jak, whose eyes already were clearing.
Using Magadon as a crutch, he climbed to his feet. He took two steps, staggered, and would have fallen, but Riven caught him.
“Lean on me,” the Zhent said.
Cale did.
“The altar,” he said, and blood welled in his throat. “Hurry.”
“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Riven said.
Together, the two servants of Mask walked to the altar of shadows. At his belt, Cale felt his sword too pulling him toward the darkness.
The Fane shook, faded from sight. They stood alone in a bubble of air in the depths of a pitch lake.
No!
The Fane returned.
Cale eyed the tendrils as they approached. They squirmed toward him, eager, hungry. Words raced through Cale’s brain, the easterner’s words, spat between his teeth while Riven threatened torture—Vraggen’s transformation would render him ageless, immune to disease, able to regenerate wounds.
Able to regenerate wounds.
Cale remembered Jak’s words too: A shade isn’t human.
Cale pushed Riven away and stepped within the altar. He had to lean on the sides of the pulpit to keep his feet. The tendrils sank into his flesh but it caused him no pain. Surprisingly, he felt at home. The tendrils throbbed as the Fane shook. Shadowstuff flowed into his veins, filled his organs, drained his humanity.
In that instant, Cale embraced the darkness. He knew then that the shadow had always been part of him, but he had long fought to hold it at bay. No longer.
As the transformation progressed, he felt the wounds in his chest heal. From somewhere distant, he heard Jak crying.
“No! Cale, don’t! Not for me!”
But Jak didn’t understand. It wasn’t just for Jak. It was Cale becoming what he was meant to be.
Strangely, as the last of his humanity drained away, the only thing he could think of was Tazi’s face, and her eyes were filled with horror.
All went dark.
Cale groaned and collapsed to the floor. The tendrils detached from his flesh with a sucking sound and squirmed back into the “hole” in the ceiling. The pulsing began to slow. So too the spinning ceiling-sky.
Riven rushed forward and slung Cale over his shoulder. He felt cold, and his skin had gone dusky.
“Let’s go!” Riven shouted to Jak and Magadon as he stood.
Another tremor shook the Fane. The structure vanished again, leaving them standing in the empty air bubble. Riven realized for the first time that he was standing in ankle deep water. Dark!
The Fane reappeared around them, but dimmer.
Magadon rushed forward and helped him carry Cale. All three sprinted from the sanctum. Fleet ran at their side, healed of his wounds.
“Is he alive?” Fleet asked, indicating Cale. “Is he breathing?”
Riven had no time for Fleet’s sentimental nonsense.
“I don’t know!” he grunted. “Run, damn you!”
“Trickster’s Toes! His hand!”
Riven saw it then too. Cale’s severed hand had regrown. The assassin had no time to consider that marvel. If they wanted to live, they had to run.
They burst through the double doors and sprinted down the hall outside the sanctum. The caretaker was nowhere to be seen. The hallway stretched before them, its many treasures still untouched in the alcoves. The doors leading from the Fane looked far away, too far.
“Go!” Riven shouted, and they did.
Before they had gotten halfway down the hall, the Fane shook so hard it knocked them to the floor, sent them sprawling in the shallow water. Riven and Magadon lost their grip on Cale. He groaned when he hit the floor.
Around them, the Fane shimmered like a mirage, wavered, and vanished.
Somehow Riven knew it wasn’t coming back.
The four comrades sat in an empty hemisphere of air. And it would not last long. From several places in the top of the dome, water dribbled in. Even as they watched, the dribbles turned into a rush. The dome began to sag inward in places, crushed by the weight of the Lightless Lake, as though a huge hand was pressing against it.
Riven drew Cale’s sword, and touched it to the water. Nothing.
It was over, he knew then.
He replaced the sword in Cale’s scabbard—the man ought to die with his own weapon. Cursing under his breath, he climbed to his feet. So too did Fleet and Magadon. All of them shared a look of resignation.
The water was knee deep. In moments, the entire dome would collapse.
Riven struggled with himself for a moment before pulling from his cloak the two bronze teleportation rods he had taken from the slaadi. Fleet’s eyes went wide with surprise, then darkened with suspicion.
“Two of us can use these,” Riven said.
He handed one to Fleet and the surprise in the halfling’s face almost made their plight worthwhile. He handed the other to Magadon. Riven couldn’t leave Cale. They were bound together by their god.
“Take them,” he said, “and go.”
Fleet took the rod, looked at it, then looked at Cale. He shook his head and held the rod back out to Riven.
“I’m not leaving him,” he said.
“Don’t be an idiot, Fleet!”
“I’m not leaving him,” Fleet said again, with that same mettle that had long ago ceased to surprise Riven. “Besides, we don’t even know where these will take us.”
“Anywhere is better than here,” Riven replied.
Jak merely smiled and shook his head.
Magadon too smiled and handed back the rod.
He looked to Cale and said, “I told him I was in this, and I am. To the end.”
Riven stared at them both and wondered how Cale managed to inspire such loyalty in his comrades. Only then did he realize that he too was prepared to die at Cale’s side.
There was a lesson in there somewhere. Too bad he had to die to learn it.
“Then we’ll all die fools,” he said, and tucked away the rods.
They gathered up Cale, sloshed through the water a ways, found a suitable spot, and waited. Riven saw that Fleet held his holy symbol in his hands. His teeth were chattering. Riven considered praying to the Lord of Shadows but didn’t; it just was not in him, not then. He worshiped Mask for power, not comfort. Still, he was surprised to find his hand over the onyx disc at his throat.
“Riven …” Fleet began.
Riven shook his head and replied, “I know, Fleet.”
Fleet looked him in the face, nodded, and went back to his prayers.
Together, they sat in the cold water and waited for death. All of them watched the dome sink farther, watched the dribbles turn to torrents. More and more water filled the bubble. It would be only moments before it burst and the lake crushed them.
Fleet took Cale’s regenerated hand in his own and said, “It’s be
en fun, my friend.”
Cale, with his eyes still closed, made no reply.
Magadon surprised them all with a chuckle.
“You know,” the guide said, “you still owe me three hundred gold pieces.”
“That’ll have to wait,” Riven said, as the bubble finally gave way.
A roar louder than a thousand warhorns sounded in Riven’s ears. Millions of buckets of water poured down, foaming, churning. Riven stared up in defiance.
His mind turned to his dogs, his girls, and he wondered what would happen to them after he died. The water washed away any tears he might have shed.
A peculiar darkness surrounded him and he knew no more.
PAUL S. KEMP
While his mind is often in the FORGOTTEN REALMS® world, Paul Kemp’s body lives in Grosse Pointe, Michigan, with his wife Jennifer, his dog Penelope, and four cats: Newt, Libby, Emmitt, and Homer (after the poet, not the Simpson).
He is a graduate of the University of Michigan-Dearborn and the University of Michigan law school. When he’s not writing tales in Ed Greenwood’s magnificent brainchild, he practices corporate law in Detroit. Yes, that does make him a tool of “the Man.” Keeping a heel on the throat of common folk is what he does. Helps him write believable villains.
The Erevis Cale Trilogy, Book I
TWILIGHT FALLING
©2003 Wizards of the Coast LLC
All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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Map by Dennis Kauth
eISBN: 978-0-7869-5702-6
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