Darkvision

by Bruce R Cordell

  He flexed his dimmed prosthesis, trying to break the hair-thin strand. The web was tougher than it looked, but with a bell-like pop, the strand broke.

  An instant later, two more webs landed on him from the busily spinning weaver. “Damned beast,” he cursed. So much for conserving his energy.

  Consciously, he increased the arm’s radiance. Enhanced strength was his again. With a light tug, he pulled free of the strands holding his arm, then climbed to his feet. He reached down and snapped the strands still attached to his foot. Simultaneously, he tamped the radiance down to the barest glimmer. A hollow feeling was beginning to blossom in his chest, but the moment he cooled down the brilliance, the empty feeling stopped growing. Warian knew he was fast approaching the limit of the usable energy of his body.

  Without pausing, he charged at the web-spinning spider. It worked its spinnerets with great speed, ready to release another entangling salvo. The spider skittered away from Warian’s charge, but he grabbed hold of its fat, hairy body. It writhed and snapped, and he nearly dropped it. Instead, he whirled in a half circle. Warian released the spider at the terminus of the circle’s arc with a hard snap. It flew like a ballista bolt into the wall, making a satisfyingly loud crunch as both its carapace and crystal shattered.

  “Warian!”

  He turned and saw a spider bite Zel. His uncle dropped the iron bar and clutched the bloody wound on his leg. The spider, its crystal mandibles stained red, moved in for another bite. Warian was too far from his uncle to do anything but stare with sick horror.

  Both Warian and Zel yelped in surprise when Sevaera dashed forward and stomped on the spider with her artificial leg. The woman kicked the creature flat until little remained but a sparkling, bloody smear.

  Sevaera tried to put a hand on Zel, but her brother flinched away.

  She asked, “Zel, what’s going on? I know Father said to hold you, but … plangent spiders?”

  Still clutching his leg, Zel said, “Thank you for coming to my rescue. But it doesn’t mean I trust you. You’re compromised.” He limped toward Warian and the exit.

  “Aunt Sevaera,” Warian began, but stopped. He wanted to invite his aunt to join them—but as Zel said, she was a plangent. How could he depend on her to control her own actions? Shaddon demonstrated that he could possess her at any time, and implied even more frightening aspects of the entity in the crystal.

  He decided on a different tactic. “Aunt, you must get those crystal implants removed. Shaddon has gone mad, or he’s been possessed, or maybe both. He’s able to commandeer the body of every plangent he creates.”

  “Commandeer?”

  “Possess and control every action.”

  Sevaera gasped and asked, “Did he do it … to me? Just a little while ago?”

  Warian nodded.

  The woman, already pale, paled further. She said, “I’ve suspected something wasn’t quite right, you know. Too much lost time. And every so often I’d find myself somewhere strange with no memory of how I’d gotten there, or why I wanted to go there.”

  “Shaddon was testing out his new toys,” said Zel, somewhat maliciously.

  “I don’t … I don’t know what to do.” Her last words spiraled up in pitch. Tears welled in her eyes. Sudden sympathy for his normally cruel, self-assured aunt took Warian by surprise, and he took a step toward her.

  What happened next would haunt his dreams for years to come.

  Sevaera’s eyes widened in sudden panic, as if she spied something utterly abominable. He’d never seen such naked fear in anyone’s expression. She gasped, “Run!”

  “Sevaera?” questioned Zel. But a black film glazed the woman’s eyes. Humanity leaked away, and what stared out at them was the soul of the void. A grave-cold wind blew up, and Warian’s hair streamed toward his aunt. She had become a deep, dark well, and a monstrosity lurked at the bottom.

  Her mouth opened wide as if she were about to scream. Instead, without any visible articulation, an awful voice rumbled, “Come to me.”

  Sevaera’s mouth gaped even wider, but Warian saw nothing within but darkness. As her mouth widened, the wind redoubled. Warian had to lean away from his aunt, and Zel grabbed hold of his arm. Fragments of broken crystal from the spiders slid along the floor, accelerating as they neared her. They were sucked without a trace into her mouth.

  “Come to me,” said the appalling voice once more, louder.

  The high-backed chair slid toward the woman. Books flew from the shelves like a converging swarm of bats. Each one disappeared down her maw, getting stuck only momentarily on the edges of her lips. The great crystal hanging from its chain strained toward her. The bodies of the dead spiders, slick with blood, tumbled into the epicenter of her influence, then were sucked down into the metaphysical cavity.

  Zel shook Warian. “We have to get out of here, kid!” Warian broke free of his horror trance, grabbed his uncle’s arm, and dashed through the exit, skimming past Sevaera. He ran down the short corridor and into the workroom beyond. The radiance in his arm intensified, as did the force pulling him backward. Loose objects in the workroom began to pelt and bounce off him as they arrowed through the air toward Sevaera.

  “Ouch!” A sealed glass jar filled with greenish fluid knocked his uncle down. Warian didn’t stop—he just pulled his uncle forward. He had to bat away panels ripped from the wall, sidestep sliding benches, and duck candles as lethal as crossbow bolts. Only the enhanced strength granted by his arm saved Warian, again and again, plus lent him enough power to pull his groaning, protesting uncle.

  The telltale tingle of his arm’s imminent failure began to grow in his chest—a cavernous, dead feeling. If he allowed the prosthesis to fail now, they’d be pulled in. Warian glanced back and saw Sevaera walking after him with an awkward, stiff-legged gait. A rain of tools, crystals, papers, lamps, and candles gathered in a whirlwind around her before being pulled in.

  Warian lost all restraint and pumped the power of his arm to its brightest glow yet. He dashed through the work area, his uncle in tow. Objects seemed to hang suspended as he moved at superhuman speed, almost beyond mortality. But his strength guttered all too soon. He didn’t dare swerve toward the side entrance—if he did, they wouldn’t make it.

  His uncle screamed something. He was struggling to get to his feet despite Warian’s grip on his arm, but the man’s voice was too warped by speed for Warian to understand.

  Warian couldn’t answer, anyway. All his concentration was required to continue on toward the ring of ancient standing stones. He gasped and nearly passed out, but pulled himself through a gap between two of the stones, into the interior of the ring.

  He ended up someplace quite different.

  Essam of the desert-dwelling elves addressed Kiril and the throng gathered in the plaza of subterranean Al Qahera. “The great rock appeared in the wake of a tempest fiercer than most that stalk Raurin. If you knew the wildness of Raurin’s storms, you’d know that this event was singular in its violence. Thus, we call it the Storm Spike.”

  Kiril gave a heartfelt nod, remembering the wind devil that had pursued them onto the dervishes’ doorstep.

  “So sudden did the storm hit that several of our people went missing, including two of Al Qahera’s best archers. We never did learn their fate.” A sigh escaped many throats. “They are missed.”

  “When the storm subsided,” Essam continued, “we sent foragers to see if the winds had uncovered anything of interest. Every so often, a big storm uncovers some likely artifact, fossilized creature, or other curiosity we can sell for a good measure of grain, cloth, or spice down in Huorm.”

  The swordswoman nodded. She supposed the desert was rife with interesting relics—she vaguely recalled that some old human civilization once claimed the desert as its own—before destroying itself. Faerûn had a way of eating civilizations, especially those that overreached themselves. In other words, human civilizations.

  “Three foragers—Feraih, Ghanim, and Haleem—walked
north. The dusts subsided, and a bright dawn, clear of flying sand, lured them onward. Something new glistened on the horizon, flashing prettily in the sun. A day’s gallop on camelback brought the foragers to the desert newcomer.”

  “The Storm Spike? What did it look like?”

  “At first glance, it seemed like a splinter of purplish stone and dark crystal that reached for the sky. But Feraih was the first to realize that what had really appeared in the desert was a tall, slender tower—a made thing. Made by whom, though, she couldn’t begin to guess.”

  Was this the epicenter of darkness Thormud detected, and the destination of their tendays-long quest?

  “What did they do next?” Kiril asked.

  “Ghanim and Haleem spied an entrance, and they went inside. Feraih waited outside, in the tower’s shadow. When half a day had passed, she went to the entrance and found it sealed. It looked as if it had always been sealed. She knew that couldn’t possibly be true—her friends were within. She tried her rock hammers, minor enchantments of opening, and even prayer—nothing sufficed. The entrance was closed.

  “After two days, Feraih returned to Al Qahera. That night, she slept again in her own bed. In the morning, her brothers found her dead. Mas’ud the healer was unable to find anything wrong—he suspected she had fallen into a curse.”

  Mas’ud believed Thormud was suffering from a curse—might they be the same? Anxiety wrapped its prickly cloak around Kiril’s shoulders.

  “So we call the Storm Spike a cursed thing, an intruder in Raurin, and something to steer clear of. Since Feraih returned, no Qaheran has journeyed north to again gaze upon the dark tower, the mere sight of which can curse an observer to her death.”

  After recounting Essam’s story about the Storm Spike to Thormud, it was all Kiril could do to restrain the dwarf from leaving immediately. By the next morning, there was no arguing with him. Despite the night’s rest, the dwarf remained pale and shaky in the reddish light of the new day. He’d lost weight, and his hair had noticeably whitened since they’d set off from their home in the Mulhorand scrublands.

  “You’re still too sick, Thormud. We should wait a few more days until you’re better,” pleaded Kiril.

  The dwarf patted her hand. “I might not have the luxury of a few more days.”

  “Don’t be so god-cursed dramatic,” the swordswoman huffed, but an uncharacteristic quaver in her tone belied her anger. She didn’t know how to end the mysterious curse sapping the geomancer’s life. Perhaps the best choice was to race to the Storm Spike and deal with whatever inhabited it. In so doing, perhaps the curse could be dissolved.

  Many Qaherans, including Essam and Fadheela, followed Kiril, the geomancer, and the annoyingly underfoot Xet into the ravine that housed their hidden city. The Qaherans were impressed when Thormud spoke a word and the mineral destrier stirred. It rose from beneath the great sand dune that covered it during the evening’s storm, shaking away the grit to reveal its strong lines. Kiril was relieved to see their supplies still lashed to the destrier’s back.

  After the excitement over the destrier, Prince Monolith showed himself. Unlike the destrier, he had submerged himself in the stone of the ravine wall. Without warning, he simply walked out of it, much to the Qaherans’ consternation. A few Qaherans cried out in alarm.

  “Don’t worry—he’s our friend,” said Kiril.

  The elemental noble bowed low to the dumbfounded elves, then walked down the ravine, eager to be off.

  As they said their good-byes, Essam produced a wide, curved scabbard from his cloak. He said, “Kiril, please accept this, a gift from the Al Qahera.”

  “A sword? But I already …” the swordswoman trailed off. Not too long ago she’d wished for another weapon, one she could draw forth without imperiling her mind and soul, as was the case with Angul.

  “This was Feraih’s blade, and it carries a minor enchantment. Please use it to strike against whatever killed Feraih, and presumably, Ghanim and Haleem. In this way, Feraih’s soul can rest easy.”

  Kiril, unaccustomed to ceremonial politeness, said, “Thanks.” She took the scabbard, and with her other hand pulled out the blade. As she did so, she distinctly felt Angul shift in his scabbard. He wasn’t happy about her hand on another sword’s hilt, that was clear. She smiled. Too bad.

  Essam said, “This blade is called Sadrul, and it is the sharpest blade in the city—so sharp, Feraih once used it to divide a man’s dignity from his self-esteem.”

  “What?”

  Essam laughed, “A joke! Heh! But all the same, Sadrul is very sharp. Be careful.”

  “I will,” promised Kiril, “and thank you again. If I can use it to get vengeance for Feraih, I will.”

  Essam nodded, slapped the side of the destrier in farewell, and turned toward the cave mouth of Al Qahera.

  Thormud guided the destrier down the ravine and toward Prince Monolith. Kiril looked back and saw the small group waving at them. Moisture caught in her eyes. What the blood? She was tougher than this. But despite her short stay among the desert elves, she had become, briefly, part of their community. The feeling had been outside her experience for more years than she cared to count—since before Stardeep, really.

  She strapped Sadrul to her belt. Angul shifted again and rumbled a note of displeasure.

  “Don’t worry, lover,” she said, reaching back to pat the larger blade’s scabbard. “You’re still my number-one killer.” Angul stirred and grumbled anew, probably objecting to the label “killer” she’d chosen.

  Despite her praise, Kiril knew that the next time she needed to solve a problem with sharpened steel, she’d draw Sadrul. If the blade measured up to Essam’s claim, it might see more time out of the scabbard than the Blade Cerulean. Until she required Angul’s exceptionally potent abilities, he would remain unhappily sheathed.

  They topped the ravine. Morning sun blazed across Raurin’s wasted plain. Striated dunes stretched away to the north, east, and west. The heat hugged the swordswoman, and fine beads of perspiration immediately broke on her brow.

  Monolith thundered forward, his great feet sending up sprays of sand. At the limit of Kiril’s perception, on the northern horizon, something flashed and twinkled with reflected light. Something purple.

  Eined Datharathi motioned for the vengeance taker and wizard to pause. They’d already traveled several abandoned, unlighted tunnels, but Eined guided them without indecision, relying on Ususi’s light. She whispered, “The new excavation is just ahead, down this passage. Not far beyond is the extraction area for the crystal. You must help me destroy it.”

  Ususi looked at Iahn. They owed this woman, but they needed “the source of the crystal” to travel back to Deep Imaskar. Iahn gave a slight shrug.

  Ususi said, “We’ll do what we can, Eined.” She hadn’t quite lain aside her initial distrust of Eined. While events had done nothing to paint the Datharathi defector as anything but what she claimed, the possibility lurked that she was leading the two Deep Imaskari into a fiendishly designed trap.

  Eined nodded and moved forward. They rounded a bend, and Ususi saw ruins. Imaskaran ruins, without a doubt, but older even than the empty outpost where Iahn had first found her.

  Crumbling, half-excavated walls of purple stone cast dark shadows in the light of several dazzling magical lanterns. Small outcrops of Nadir crystal glinted here and there, somehow obscene in their excess. Stepped excavations revealed deeper structures in three locations across the cavern floor. One of these was so deep that iron scaffolding fortified the sides of the earthen pit.

  “Is this it?” Ususi asked, looking for a sign of the portal. No excavation tools were evident, and indeed, the entire dig gave the impression of having been abandoned months or even years earlier.

  “No,” said Eined. “If we take that tunnel …” her voice faltered as she pointed to one of the many tunnels that branched off the cavern.

  A man stood in the shadows, his arms crossed. Ususi blinked—she hadn’t seen h
im arrive. Was this Eined’s trap?

  “Grandfather,” Eined managed before terror smothered her voice.

  “Hello. My name is Shaddon Datharathi. You’ve intruded into my sanctum, my place of business. In the process, you’ve apparently corrupted the mind of my poor, misguided granddaughter,” spoke the man in a dry, piercing tone. His features were shrouded in darkness.

  Iahn subtly shifted his weight, preparing to deliver a vicious strike if needed. In a rush, hoping to forestall the vengeance taker for a moment, Ususi said, “We apologize for our sudden appearance. We don’t want trouble. We’d like a little help. And we want to help you, too …”

  “Indeed? You want to help me? In what fashion?” Shaddon sounded amused.

  The wizard forged ahead. “I have some bad news to deliver. I’m afraid the crystal you’ve been retrieving from … wherever you’ve been getting it … is infected with something terrible. It has the ability to take over the minds of those who wear it. Even people who simply remain in contact with unworked crystal too long may be at risk.” Ususi shivered, thinking back to the Celestial Nadir shards embedded in the shadow efts on the ship.

  “Really?” The man sounded surprised, then stepped forward into the brightness of the chamber.

  The light of a dozen torches flashed and twinkled off his crystalline face. For all Ususi could guess, Shaddon was completely sheathed in the stuff.

  Shaddon said, “That doesn’t bode well for my health, does it?”

  Eined gasped. Ususi put a hand to her mouth. Even Iahn seemed taken aback. In his stoic fashion, he blinked.

  “Don’t worry, you strangers who’ve appeared out of the blue to kindheartedly warn me of the shortfalls of the plangent program. I know something of the ‘infection’ of which you speak.”