by Paul S. Kemp
His voice sounded muted in the fog, deadened.
For a moment, it was as though no one other than Magadon could speak. It took several heartbeats for the guide’s meaning to register with Jak. When it did, Jak could not fathom how the guide could have determined what he claimed. The crypts all looked the same to Jak, the trees, the grass. But Magadon knew what he knew.
At last, Cale asked in a dull voice, “Are you certain?”
“Yes,” Magadon said, but then shook his head in confusion. “No.”
“It’s the shadows,” Jak managed to say, and his tongue felt thick and unwieldy. “The fog.”
Somehow the shadow fog had dulled their perception, had begun to siphon away their vitality.
The realization itself helped to clear Jak’s head. It was as if a spell had been broken. His companions too seemed to recover. Gradually, each began to blink away the torpor and looked around with a more alert expression. The world suddenly came back to life and motion. Jak realized that the rain was still falling. It had never stopped! Thunder rolled in the distance. Jak felt as though he was awakening from a dream, or a three-night ale binge. He was so cold that his teeth were chattering.
“What in the Hells just happened?” Riven growled.
Though the magical effect of the shadow fog appeared to have diminished, the fog itself still enshrouded them. Jak’s bluelight wand barely penetrated it. The tombs nearby faded into nothingness in its swirl of gray and ink. Tendrils of a deeper darkness ran through the mist and whirled around their legs and torsos like living things, pawing at their boots, steering them—
Steering them.
Jak took a step to his right and found that the shadows resisted him, then gently pulled him forward. His heart hammered.
“Light, Magadon!” he said over the rain. “Anything you have! Now!”
Jak didn’t wait for the guide to respond. He quickly mouthed the words to a temporary light spell and focused it on the end of his bluelight wand. A globe of radiance took shape at the wand’s tip. Magadon too acted quickly—almost simultaneously with the completion of Jak’s spell—and a nimbus of white light flashed around the guide’s head and a ball of white fire formed in the air above him, adding its own luminescence to that of Jak’s spell.
The fog tendrils that had coiled around their bodies jerked backward from the sudden radiance, like a hand that had grasped a hot kettle. A palpable tremor rippled through the haze, and for a few heartbeats the light knifed through the otherwise impenetrable darkness and fog.
In that combined flash of light, Jak saw that the tendrils within the shadow fog were composed of a network of red and black veins, each as fine as a child’s hair, each slowly pulsing. Just as that registered, a horrifying chorus of unearthly moans answered the light from behind them. The sound sent a chill down Jak’s spine. He whirled around—
“Dark and empty!” he oathed.
Under cover of the fog and the mind-numbing spell, a host of dark figures had assembled behind them. They had gathered in an arc perhaps thirty paces away, some on the ground, others hovering in the air. Each was a roughly man-shaped outline of darkness, black as pitch, with coal red eyes that flared from the inky holes of their heads. A wave of cold went before them like a Deepwinter gale. Behind the assembled mass of undead, Jak could see more and more of the creatures rising from the mausoleums. They passed through the walls and roofs of the tombs as easily as if it was open air. It reminded Jak of black smoke issuing from chimneys. There had to be hundreds.
“Wraiths!” Cale said, brandishing Weaveshear.
Riven dropped into a fighting crouch beside him, sabers bare. Magadon knocked an arrow and drew. Jak knew that blades and arrows would be of little use against so many undead, so he did the only thing he could.
Before Magadon could fire, and before the wraiths could swarm forward, he leaped in front of his comrades, stared into the unholy eyes of the army of wraiths, and held forth his holy symbol.
“Back to your pits, creatures!” he commanded as he drew on the grace of the Trickster.
The power of Brandobaris suffused him and a dim luminescence flared from his jeweled pendant. For an instant, Jak felt more than mortal.
A symphony of hate-filled hisses answered his rebuke, but only a handful of the wraiths recoiled and fled back into their tombs. Among the rest, red eyes flared brighter and fixed their deadly gaze on Jak. Jak could feel their evil, their anger, washing over him like a chill wind. He kept his holy symbol in hand and continued to channel the Trickster’s energy. Perhaps he could keep them from overwhelming him and his companions, at least for a time.
The dark army continued to assemble, like crows convening over a corpse. Red eyes burned hate into Jak. Dark bodies and darker souls strained against the divine resistance he offered through his holy symbol.
“Jak?” Magadon asked.
Straining against the wraiths, Jak could only offer a nod.
“Keep moving,” Magadon said, backing deeper into the crypts while still holding his aim at the cloud of wraiths.
Riven and Cale followed the guide, with Jak bringing up the rear.
The moment Jak moved, the dark creatures moved with him, pressed against the power he was channeling. The strain of resisting the will of so many undead was wearing on him. He felt as if he was trying to hold a door shut against a hill giant. The glow from his holy symbol had diminished. He knew he could not last much longer.
“Cale!” he called in desperation, then remembered that Cale did not have his holy symbol. Without it, Cale could not affect undead.
But then Cale was beside him, with him, wearing a silken black mask.
“Right here, little man,” Cale said, then he called out to the Shadowlord for power.
Jak had no time to consider how or when his friend had obtained a new holy symbol. Cale held Weaveshear before him like a talisman and the dark blade flared with ochre light.
“Back to your rest, dead of Elgrin Fau!” Cale commanded, in a voice not devoid of sympathy.
Again, the wraiths moaned, a few dissipated into nothingness, and another handful fled back to their crypts. But the bulk of them continued to advance. Still, Cale and Jak together managed at least to hold them at bay.
“Too many!” Cale called over his shoulder. “We can only slow them. Move. Move!”
Magadon fired an arrow into the mass of wraiths, then another. Jak couldn’t tell if the shots had any effect on the incorporeal undead.
“Where to?” the guide asked.
“The gate,” Jak said, looking over his shoulder. “There!”
He nodded in the direction of the center of the necropolis, where a flash of golden light temporarily blazed through the darkness.
Abruptly, Jak’s light spell and Magadon’s mental manifestation ended. Except for the dim light of Jak’s bluelight wand, darkness again descended. Jak could see clearly only a few paces. The glowing coals of the wraiths’ eyes behind them looked like the campfires of an army. They moaned and surged forward.
“Go now!” Cale shouted.
Magadon and Riven ran full out for the center of the cemetery, pushing their way through the fog that still resisted them. Cale and Jak followed as best they could while backstepping, continuing to slow the advance of the wraiths by channeling the power of their respective deities.
Through gritted teeth, Cale said to Jak, “They could break us if they pushed all at once.”
Sweating and gasping, Jak replied, “But they aren’t. Maybe they can’t.”
“Maybe,” Cale said. Over his shoulder, he shouted to Magadon and Riven, “If they wanted to attack, they could have already. We’re being herded. Stand ready.”
“Are you certain?” Magadon said as he turned and fired an arrow, then another and another.
Cale could only nod, and Jak could only agree. The wraiths were holding back, waiting for a more opportune moment to attack.
Jak heard Riven spit, and heard the tell-tale whistle of the assassin
’s sabers whirling through the air.
“Something else wants the first bite, eh?” Riven chuckled darkly then added, “Whatever it is, it damned well better be hungry.”
EPIPHANY OF THE SELF
They sped through the overgrown cemetery toward an unknown danger, trailed by a cloud of wraiths.
Another wraith emerged from each crypt they passed, as if their very presence summoned the creature from its tomb. Cale continued to hold forth Weaveshear. He managed to channel waves of the Shadowlord’s power to keep the wraiths at bay even though he had pulled the mask from his face. Cale couldn’t breathe easily with it on. Sweat soaked his tunic. He was exhausted. Beside Cale, Jak held his holy symbol before him. The halfling frequently stumbled, and Cale could see that he was wilting.
“I’m getting thin, Cale,” Jak said, in a voice gone hoarse.
“Hold on, little man,” Cale said. Over his shoulder, he shouted, “Get us to the gate, Magadon! Hurry!”
Despite the rush of “memories” flooding Cale’s consciousness, he no idea what to expect at the gate.
The guide nodded and picked up the pace. Cale and Jak struggled to keep up while backstepping. Together, they set up an invisible wall of resistance that prevented the wraiths from closing. But they could not hold it forever. Though the wraiths had not yet made a determined push, with each step they increased the pressure. More and more the creatures tested the limits of Cale and Jak’s collective strength.
The shadow fog grew so tangibly thick around them that Cale felt like he was moving through water; or perhaps he was just exhausted. The wan glow of Jak’s bluelight and the blazing eyes of the wraiths provided the only light.
“Here!” Magadon shouted.
“Dark!” Riven oathed.
Cale and Jak turned to see a wide declivity before them, swathed in a churning cloud of darkness. In the center of that cloud hulked a horror, the originator of the fog, the master of the wraiths. From the misshapen spheres of its huge body and head sprouted masses of black, rubbery tentacles, each as thick around as Jak’s waist, and fifteen paces long. The tentacles reminded Cale of the tendrils that had transformed him into a shade back in the Fane.
A cluster of eight spiderlike eyes, as black and unforgiving as flecks of obsidian, looked out from over the creature’s clacking, insectoid mandibles. The monster was spinning a pinwheel of shadow strands from its body into the fog the way a black widow spun her webs. Somehow Cale knew that the creature was a dark-weaver—the gatekeeper left behind by Kesson Rel. The wraiths—the dead of Elgrin Fau—were its thralls, and the shadowstuff was its tools.
The darkweaver sprawled atop a wide, oval platform of black-veined marble that sat in the center of the declivity. Once a place for solemn ceremony, the platform had come to serve as the darkweaver’s roost. Immediately behind the creature, two rune-encrusted obelisks rose from the platform, each as tall as a hill giant and as big around as the trunk of a mature elm. A curtain of translucent golden energy hung between the magical posts, sparking and sizzling like lightning. Occasionally, the energy coalesced into a bright gold wall and shot a flash of light into the dark sky—the source of the light they had seen from the city’s outskirts.
This was the gate of Kesson Rel, Cale knew. The shadow sorcerer’s final jest; the Chosen of Mask’s final betrayal. Cale had no idea where it led—perhaps back to the world of Elgrin Fau, but perhaps not. Still, he knew it was a way out, and that was enough.
Cale needed to get out. Desperately. The longer he stayed on the Plane of Shadow, the more of its darkness sank into his skin and polluted his soul, further transforming him, filling his mind with memories that could not possibly be his own. He felt as if something was pushing around the edges of his mind, probing for weakness, trying to worm its way into his consciousness and overwhelm his identity. He held it back only by the dam of his will. And he couldn’t hold it back forever, anymore than he could hold back the wraiths forever.
A cloud of shadows roiled around the darkweaver. It appeared as though the creature were swimming in waters of pitch. Its alien eyes fixed on them and its front tentacles squirmed in agitation, reminding Cale of a nest of giant snakes. It keened through its mandibles, the sound alien and menacing.
The wraiths responded as if that keen was a war horn summoning them to battle. As one they uttered a moan and threw themselves against the divine force channeled by Cale and Jak.
The two friends held for only an instant before their wall of resistance shattered with an audible crackle of energy. They staggered, pushed backward by the power backlash, while the dead of Elgrin Fau swarmed forward like a cloud of bats, red eyes seething.
Behind them, the darkweaver’s mandibles began to churn. Its tentacles squirmed obscenely, but it didn’t leave its position directly in front of the gate. It was Kesson Rel’s guardian and it would not leave its charge.
“We make a stand here, then,” said Riven above the rain, eerily calm. His sabers whirled as he watched the approaching wraiths. “Back to back. Nothing gets close and lives.”
Magadon took a knee and set his bow to singing. Cale marveled at his rapidity. Arrow after arrow flew into the cloud of wraiths as they streaked forward. The head of each missile glowed white, charged by the power of Magadon’s mind. Some flew harmlessly through the wraiths’ insubstantial bodies, but others struck home, eliciting agonized moans from the undead. Jak, his face wan from the psychic war with the undead, drew his short sword and dagger and took a step nearer to Cale.
Cale spared a glance behind, at the gate behind the darkweaver. He knew that golden glow was their only hope. He hesitated, made up his mind, then grabbed Magadon and Riven by the cloaks.
“Not here!” he said. “We make for the gate. Mags, keep firing.”
Cale knew that if they could cut their way through the darkweaver quickly, they might escape the wraiths and gain the gate. They needed only to hold the wraiths at bay for a bit longer.
Heedless of the poor footing afforded by the wet grass, the four pelted down the declivity, directly at the wriggling tentacles and black eyes of the darkweaver. Magadon came last, covering their retreat by firing into the swarm of wraiths.
Despite the dire situation, Cale felt a momentary flash of hope.
As they closed, two of the darkweaver’s front tentacles rose before it and began to wave hypnotically.
In his head, Cale heard a soft, reasonable, but strangely-accented voice say, Stop for moment, and place weapons at your feet. This be only a misunderstanding. You be not harmed if you stop now. Gate be by you used.
Despite the poor syntax, Cale felt the magic in that command pull at his will. Weaveshear vibrated slightly in his hand, and Cale resisted the compulsion.
Jak didn’t.
“A misunderstanding,” the halfling said thoughtfully, slowing. “That makes sense.”
He reduced his run to a jog and sheathed his blades. Nodding agreement, Magadon too lowered his weapon and slowed his pace. The wraiths moaned in anticipation, still speeding forward.
Cale and Riven slowed their own pace, nearly slipping on the rain-soaked grass. Jak and Magadon stopped all together, looking around with bemused expressions. Cale and Riven tried to pull them along, but they resisted.
“Move,” Cale ordered the halfling.
“He’ll let us use the gate,” Jak said. “Ease down, Cale.”
“Nine Hells!” Riven oathed. The assassin and Cale looked at the darkweaver to see its tentacles scrabbling up the declivity toward them. The squirming motion of those limbs made Cale want to vomit.
Riven looked past Magadon to the advancing cloud of wraiths. He took fistfuls of Magadon’s cloak and shook him.
“Mags! It’s a spell. Don’t be a fool!”
But Magadon only stared vacantly and said, “It’s a misunderstanding, Drasek. Put down your weapons. You’ll see.”
Riven’s face twisted in disgust and he shoved the guide away. He fixed his gaze on Cale and asked the question with
his eye.
Cale gave a nod; there was little else to do.
“This is where it ends,” he said.
He pulled his holy symbol from his vest, wrapped it around Weaveshear’s hilt, and pushed Jak down behind him. Shadows streamed from Cale’s flesh.
The halfling pulled at his cloak and said, “It’s a misunderstanding, Cale. You can scabbard the steel.”
Cale ignored the halfling and said to Riven, “I’ve got the wraiths and Jak.”
“I’ve got Mags and that thing,” Riven answered, nodding at the darkweaver.
“I’ll hold them off as long as I can,” Cale said, eyeing the advancing swarm. “You finish that abomination fast, and we might yet make the gate.”
Riven only smiled.
They spaced themselves a pace or two apart, enough room to provide them some space to maneuver, but not enough to allow attacks from the rear.
Ready, the First and the Second of Mask awaited their foes.
The wraiths reached them first, swooping upon them like dark birds of prey, eyes burning. Cale stood in front of Jak and faced the onslaught, ducking, slashing, dodging, and stabbing. Each time Weaveshear struck the body of a wraith, a portion of the creature boiled away into wisps of foul, sulfurous smoke. The creatures were all around him. He could not help but strike one with each slash. Their moans of hate and pain filled his ears; the image of their red eyes burned itself into his brain.
“Cover me, Cale!” shouted Riven, as he darted out of the melee, dragging Magadon by the cloak. The assassin charged the darkweaver, saber blade whirling.
Ten pairs of red eyes followed Riven’s back and started to give chase. Cale spun away from the wraiths near him and leaped in front of the would-be pursuers. He drove Weaveshear through one incorporeal body, then another. Both moaned, bleeding greasy black smoke, and retreated.
“Be quick, godsdamnit!” he shouted after Riven.
He would not be able to hold for long. As it was, he could not effectively keep the wraiths from Jak. Despite his best efforts, some flew past him after Riven and Magadon.
