The Shadowmage Trilogy (Twilight of Kerberos: The Shadowmage Books)

by Matthew Sprange

  The sergeant walked over to Alhmanic and, in a low voice, said, “What is it, Lord? What did you sense?”

  Alhmanic just shook his head as he wondered whether he should send more men down or if he should go himself.

  A bright flare of green light that lit up the lower reaches of the staircase, followed quickly by a loud crack, made them all jump. Alhmanic took a few steps back and brought his staff up in front of him in a defensive stance.

  The blurred, shadowy form of a man leapt from the darkness of the staircase and sprinted toward the nearest group of soldiers. There was a ringing of steel and a soldier screamed, clutching his neck as blood spurted over one of his comrades. Chaos exploded among the Vos soldiers as they drew weapons and desperately sought to find a target in the darkness. Alhmanic tried to keep his eye on the shadowy form that was wading through his soldiers, flashing blades sneaking out to bury themselves in a chest or cut through an arm, but the illusion seemed to throw his sight to one side so he could only sense the presence of something very fast and very deadly from the corner of his eye.

  All around, men were screaming and dying. Alhmanic pointed his staff, quite prepared to blast chunks out of his own men if it meant silencing their attacker, when a solid blast of air erupted from the staircase and bowled him over as if he were no more than a leaf. More movement caught his eye as he fell on his back, and he immediately scrambled to all fours. The figure before him had made no effort to conceal herself.

  Rising out of the staircase and into the sky, as if borne by the wind itself, a fierce looking woman gazed vengefully down on Alhmanic and his prostrate soldiers. Her dark hair, tied into a pony tail, whipped behind her head but her face was baleful, dreadfully scarred and with black eyes that seemed hungry to consume them all.

  She gestured to a group of soldiers who had struggled to their feet and casually flicked her hand. The men screamed in sheer terror as they were lifted and hurled over the fence, far into the night.

  Alhmanic braced himself with his staff and the movement caught the eye of the woman. She hissed at him, and punched forward with both hands.

  Alhmanic did not need to be a wizard to sense the bolt of energy she had sent his way and he desperately raised his staff, crying out as the woman’s spell smacked into it, the magic splintering against the spellshield.

  Not waiting to see what she would do next, Alhmanic barked a single word of holy power as he pointed the staff at the woman. A bolt of energy hit her with a sound like stone splitting, and the spell flared a brilliant orange as it surrounded her. The woman fell out of sight.

  With a grim smile, Alhmanic turned to search for the other attacker. He saw that a ring of soldiers had surrounded the shadowy form. Within the circle the sergeant madly parried each blade that sailed out from his blurred attacker, the clash of sword on sword ringing out clearly with every strike. He lunged once or twice, but never connected, his target just seeming to skip out of the way leaving only formless shadow behind.

  Pushing through the ring of soldiers, Alhmanic resolved to end the combat quickly. He stamped his staff into the ground with another word of power and the earth rippled outwards, sending the sergeant reeling.

  The sergeant looked up at him accusingly, but Alhmanic ignored him, his attention instead on the attacker. As had he hoped, the staff’s earthshaking power had broken the shadowy spell of concealment, and the man sprawled on the floor.

  Dressed in dark leathers with a grey cloak, the man was close to middle age and bore a sword in his right hand and a long, wickedly sharp dagger in his left. His expression was one of almost comical surprise, but Alhmanic’s gaze was drawn to the object tucked into the man’s belt, a short rod capped with golden wings.

  Not bothering to think about how this man had succeeded where he had – so far – failed, Alhmanic did not hesitate. He strode purposefully forward, raised his staff and drove the butt down into the man’s face. However, the man’s reactions proved equal to Alhmanic’s, and he threw himself to one side before kicking out with a boot.

  The heel connected with Alhmanic’s knee, and he grunted in pain as he sank down to the ground. His attacker was already up and circling him, looking for an opening through which to drive a blade and end Alhmanic’s life.

  Growling, as much in rage as pain, Alhmanic swung wildly with his staff, forcing the man to keep his distance.

  “Get him, you bloody fools!” Alhmanic shouted to the soldiers who still ringed them.

  That seemed to jerk them back to awareness and, as one, they levelled their spears and swords and took a pace inwards, drawing the ring tighter.

  The man flicked a hand towards Alhmanic. A jet of flame erupted from his open palm, forcing Alhmanic to dive to the ground again to avoid having his face burned off. He looked up in time to see the man crouch briefly before leaping up with incredible agility, somersaulting through the air, over the heads of the soldiers.

  One proved quicker than the rest, and a spear was thrust upwards, catching the flying man in the torso. Alhmanic grinned as he saw the escape curtailed, and the man fell to the ground a short distance away. Several soldiers started to move towards the fallen man, but Alhmanic got back on to his feet and pushed past them all, wanting to deliver the final blow and claim his prize at long last.

  Groaning and spitting blood, the man was clearly hurt, and Alhmanic summoned his will, focussing the power of the staff.

  Before the spell could be unleashed, there was another rush of air and the earth exploded around him, great clods of mud and rock thrown into the air as something very heavy and very dense smacked into it. Alhmanic stumbled under the assault, and he turned to see, floating high in the air behind him, the dark woman, her face a perfect picture of hate and vengeance.

  She snarled as she reached up and seemed to grasp the air above her head with her right hand. Then she cast forward, as though throwing a stone. She repeated the gesture with her left hand, then back to her right, over and over.

  The effect was devastating. With each gesture, a bolt of invisible energy struck the earth, felling soldiers and raising small craters. One soldier fell next to Alhmanic and, as he tried to regain his footing, another blast caught him squarely in the chest, shattering his ribs and hammering him to a bloody pulp. He did not even have time to scream.

  Alhmanic crawled away, desperate to escape, knowing he could not repel spells of that magnitude – not forever. One would finally get past his defences, and that would be the end of him.

  As quickly as it had started, the magical assault ceased, and Alhmanic looked back to see the woman floating gently to the ground, her eyes fixed firmly on him. For the first time in a very, very long time, Alhmanic felt true fear grip his stomach in an icy clasp.

  He stood, bracing himself with his staff and taking assurance from its solid construction, as the woman walked towards him.

  “The Preacher Divine,” she said softly. “This will be a distinct pleasure.”

  “Who are you, lady?”

  “Your death!”

  She raised her hands to summon another spell, and Alhmanic matched the movement with his own staff, hoping to deflect whatever arcane energies were thrown at him.

  A sudden cry and rush of movement diverted the attention of them both, and Alhmanic felt his mouth open in surprise as he saw his sergeant rushing the woman, sword drawn and with three men behind him. He also saw the contempt on the woman’s face as she prepared to redirect her spell to wipe the sergeant and his men off the face of the earth. Seeing his opportunity, Alhmanic shouted a word of prayer as he extended his staff and unleashed an explosive bolt of magical power.

  The spell was a powerful one, and Alhmanic felt his staff grow cold and weak in his hands as it expended its reserve of energy. The rolling ball of fire that struck the woman exploded to engulf both her and the sergeant.

  Alhmanic did not wait to see more. He turned, and ran.

  THERE WAS NO sun at dawn, just a lightening of the usual grey, cloud-bearing
skies. They revealed a sight of devastation. Bodies were strewn everywhere, and had already begun to attract carrion birds who circled under the grey clouds. Craters of all sizes had been cast in vast swathes across the area. It was carnage. But Alhmanic alone had survived, no doubt another sign of the divine providence that guided his life.

  Alhmanic had retreated into the darkness outside the camp, and he lay still as he heard his men dying, sliced apart by the man of shadows or blasted by the spells of the dark woman.

  He felt no shame in this. His mission was of importance to the Anointed Lord, may her valour shine across the world, and, as he was obviously the only one who could fulfil it, his survival was paramount.

  The deaths of his men did present certain problems, however. There was little chance he could retrieve the artefact from those... thieves without an army at his back. As they already had the artefact in their possession and were gaining a lead that was extending even now, due to the horses they had stolen after the battle, he could not return to Scholten to pick up more soldiers.

  Especially as Klaus would be there to witness his lack of success.

  No, this would take a great deal of thought and cunning.

  At least he still had his staff and, after its extended use that night, it had just begun to regain its energies. Even now, it quietly hummed in his hands, reacting to the presence of the elven artefact in the surface world. That meant he could track it, pursue the thieves and visit vengeance upon them for their intervention in his affairs.

  Just who were they, though? Agents of Pontaine? That seemed possible, as the staff felt as though it wanted to pull him south, and Turnitia – curse that city – was the only settlement of any real note in that direction.

  Were they Shadowmages, he wondered. If so, that raised a lot more questions than it answered.

  Sighing, he got back to his feet and started looking for a horse, hoping to find one that had not stampeded right across the Anclas Territories in terror during the battle.

  He could not fail, Alhmanic told himself. That could not be permitted. The Anointed Lord, praise be to the light she brings, had put her trust in him and he desperately needed to prove he was not to be found wanting.

  The consequences for failing in that duty were likely to be dire in the extreme.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  GRIPPING HIS SIDE as another ache of pain washed over him, Lucius found himself coming to truly hate the Anclas Territories. Their route back to Turnitia saw them pass the same miserable hamlets, the same derelict farms and face the same relentless rain.

  It had not been helped by the wound he had taken at the elven ruins, a savage spear thrust that had torn open the side of his leather jerkin and grazed a couple of ribs. The cut had been shallow enough but had bled profusely until Adrianna had helped him bind it. She had not been gentle, and he still winced when he remembered her pulling the dressing across his chest.

  She had now taken to riding to one side and a little behind him, out of sight unless he turned round, and this had begun to prey on his mind in the days since they had fought the Vos soldiers. Lucius had to admit that she had probably saved his life after he had been surrounded and faced the Preacher Divine, but he had seen the look on her face as she tore apart their force, the hatred and pure exaltation as the magic flowed through her. That was the old Adrianna he had seen for a moment there, the one who had killed so many people and destroyed a sizeable portion of Turnitia.

  He could only hope such fury was reserved for those born in the Vos Empire.

  Time had been wasted at the site of the ruins while Adrianna scoured the area for the Preacher Divine as dawn threatened to break. Neither of them had seen him since their last confrontation and both were convinced he still lived. Which meant he could still cause trouble for them.

  “We should detour,” Adrianna said. “I know some places where we can stay, completely undisturbed.”

  Lucius knew where this was going. Every evening during their journey home to Turnitia, Adrianna had quizzed him on the Guardian Starlight and had cast various spells in an attempt to crack its secrets. Though she had tried to hide it, he guessed she had learned nothing more about the artefact, and that had frustrated her hugely.

  A frustrated Adrianna was not his ideal travelling companion, so he tried a little levity.

  “Our guilds won’t last long without us,” Lucius said. “We should get back and see if either of us still have a guildhouse standing.”

  “The Anointed Lord take the guilds. You know we have more important things to do.”

  “We’ve already agreed. This rod goes back to the baron, to fulfil my commission. What happens to it after that is up to you two. As you said, he is likely to negotiate.”

  Lucius did not think that was true, not for an elven artefact the baron had gone to a lot of trouble to secure, but anything that kept Adrianna’s attention on the future rather than on him right now had to be a good thing.

  “We still have a few evenings before we get back to the city,” he said when she did not respond. “Plenty of time for you to examine it.”

  It then occurred to him that Adrianna had not actually touched the Guardian Starlight yet, seeming to have been content to leave it in Lucius’ possession. Why, he could not say.

  Throughout the long afternoon, they travelled across the wet landscape in silence, and the worries Lucius had began to multiply. He had always intended to hand over the artefact to the baron as he had promised. The favours to the thieves’ guild were substantial and, more than that, he wanted the prestige, the reputation that came from having unearthed such a treasure.

  Now he began to wonder whether he should not just hand it over to Adrianna. In the short term, certainly, it would be the safe thing to do in terms of his own personal safety. He might even make some sort of ally out of her, and he thought back to the times when he could work alongside the Shadowmage without being in constant fear for his own life. That seemed so long ago.

  There were two problems with that course of action, three if you counted the fact that Lucius would never feel safe around Adrianna, no matter what favours he did for her. She had always treated him as a witless fool, and he saw no reason that would change any time soon.

  First, he had precious few ideas what the Guardian Starlight was capable of, only that it obviously contained some very deep magics. If Adrianna, already the most powerful Shadowmage in Turnitia, managed to unlock those secrets, she might literally be capable of anything. That was a deeply troubling thought.

  The second was getting to be a greater issue. As soon as he had seen the Guardian Starlight, Lucius had faced the deep-rooted feeling that it was his – as in, it actually belonged to him, personally.

  As they had ridden away from the ruins, that feeling had grown ever stronger, day by day, hour by hour.

  Lucius no longer knew whether he could give it up, even if he wanted to.

  EYES CLOSED, ADRIANNA lay on her side, her head leaning on a balled fist. Ignoring the grunts of pain from Lucius as he redressed his wound and the sound of faint raindrops pattering on their simple canvas shelter, her mind was wide open as she felt the raw power of the Guardian Starlight.

  It was a puzzle, a true conundrum, and she found herself revelling in it. So far it had resisted all her attempts to break into its mysteries but once she got it back to her guild, the combined might of all her Shadowmages would surely pry it open. For now, she found herself content to simply float upon the arcane power that washed over her like gentle waves lapping at the shore of a quiet lake.

  The Guardian Starlight was also having an effect on Lucius, she could see. Up to now, he had been decisive in his intentions to hand it over to the baron as he had promised, but she could now tell he was beginning to see this might be a waste. That would play into her hands, for there was no way he could hope to learn more about the artefact without her help. In time, he would have to come to her.

  That opened more questions about Lucius himself, of course
. The Guardian Starlight was inert in her magical caress, but it positively overflowed with energy whenever Lucius reached down to his belt and touched it. Just what was the connection there? Neither she nor that fool of a Pontaine wizard, or the Preacher Divine for that matter, had been able to enter the elven ruins to retrieve the artefact, but Lucius had walked into them as if he had been all but invited.

  Her old tutor, Forbeck, had seen something special in Lucius and as time went by, despite her initial contempt, she had begun to see it in him too. There was something in the way that magic reacted to Lucius that was beyond her understanding. No one could master all fields of magic, but Lucius seemed able, the only practitioner she had ever heard of to do so, let alone actually seen. He lacked her dedication, ambition and sheer mastery of sorcery, but she had come to believe he could be truly great, if only he applied himself.

  That he wasted this gift by concentrating on his feckless thieves rather than the pure pursuit of magic made it all the more infuriating.

  Was that an answer though? Was Lucius some new breed of mage, maybe an evolution of the Shadowmage? Was he the future all mages should aspire to?

  No, it was more subtle than that. Assuming there was a connection between Lucius’ use of magic and the Guardian Starlight, of course.

  But what?

  Little was known of elven wizards and how they practised magic, but few of their relics surviving to this age spoke of divisions in magic or of the need to specialise in spells that affected nature, fire, battle, or death. It had always been presumed that elven magic was so mighty that its practitioners had no need to split it up – they could naturally fashion any part of magic to any use they demanded.