The Godborn

by Paul S. Kemp

  Thunder boomed. She blanched at the sudden sound.

  “There now,” said the voice again, in a more soothing tone. “Good.” Good?

  She realized that the voice was not speaking to her, and the realization slowed her heart and freed her from her paralysis. Movement in the gloom drew her eyes. She could not make out details but it did not appear the shadowy giant of her imagination.

  “Who is out there?” she called.

  The sound stopped. “Who asks? I seek Fairelm. This . . . is the road, isn’t it? By the gods, Gray, if you’ve walked astray they’ll be no barley for you for a tenday.”

  Gray? Didn’t she know that name?

  And all at once the voice and the sounds fell into place for Elle. Gray was a mule. The sound of jingling metal was the old mule’s bridle. And the voice. . .

  “Minser? Is that you?”

  “Aye,” said the peddler, and Elle heard the smile in his tone. “Is this Fairelm?”

  Elle laughed with relief, her legs weak with it. “It is! It is! Come on so I can see you.”

  The slosh of Gray’s hooves in the road grew louder, the sound no longer ominous but jaunty. The dimness relented as they closed and the shapes took on details. Minser’s large covered cart containing pots, pans, cutlery, tools, jars, all manner of metal and clay goods, even a few items of glass. Minser sat hunched on the driver’s bench like a dragon on his hoard. Gray, the largest mule Elle had ever seen, sullenly pulled the wagon through the muck, his ears flat on his head. Elle stepped away from the elm and waved.

  “Minser! It’s been so long! We thought something had befallen you.”

  Minser leaned forward on his bench to see her better. When he did, his jolly, round face split into a smile under his thick, graying moustache. “No, fair lady. Gray and me know these roads better’n the shades themselves. We steer clear of trouble. And we know how to shoot it when it shows.” He held up the crossbow he kept beside him on the bench. “Besides, a creature’d hafta be senile to want to chew on these old bones.”

  He clicked at Gray to halt him before Elle, then heaved himself down off the wagon’s bench. His belly bounced with every move he made. Elle rubbed Gray’s muzzle, and the gentle giant of a mule whinnied with pleasure.

  “He remembers you, lady,” Minser said. “As do I.” The peddler removed his wide-brimmed hat and made a show of bowing. “I’m pleased to see you well, Lady Elle.”

  “And I’m pleased to see you,” Elle said, with a mock curtsey. “As will everyone else. Come, you should announce yourself.”

  “Of course,” Minser said. “Will you ride?”

  “I think I will,” she said. Minser made a stirrup of his hands and assisted her up onto the driver’s bench.

  “Ayep,” he said, and shook Gray’s reins. The mule pulled the wagon forward. “You know, in the Dales and Cormyr, a traveler don’t announce himself as they do here.”

  “In the Dales and Cormyr everyone can see a traveler when he arrives in a village. Here, the gloom makes sight uncertain. Hearing is best, unless you want to risk a startled crossbowman putting a quarrel in your hind end.”

  “You speak with truth,” Minser said, chuckling.

  “You’ve been to Cormyr and the Dales recently, then?” Elle asked. “The sun shines there still?”

  “Only Sembia is darkened by the Shadovar, lady. I was in Cormyr at the end of summer, and the sun shines brightly there. Things are dire in the Dales, I hear. Sembian soldiers occupy Archendale and the other Dales brace for further attack. I myself saw Sembian soldiers, hundreds of them, on the march north. Stories of war in the far Silver Marches have even carried to these ears.” He shook his head sadly. “All of Faerûn seems at war, milady. There’s no place safe. I don’t know what will come of it all.”

  “Well,” Elle said. “You’re safe here. And welcome.”

  “Ah, even in the gloom you shine brightly, milady.”

  Elle laughed. “You should have had a life at court, Minser. You’ve a flatterer’s tongue.”

  Minser put a hand to his chest and feigned a wounded heart. “You hear that, Gray? A flatterer’s tongue, she said.”

  Elle turned serious. “May I ask you a question? Why come back to Sembia? Gerak and I were considering leaving. The Rabbs left several days ago. I wonder if you saw them on the road?”

  “I did not, alas. Although they might have been avoiding the roads for fear of the soldiers.”

  “Well, if we left and saw the sun, I can’t imagine ever returning.”

  Minser nodded as if he understood. “The road is in my bones, I’m afraid. Besides, even the darkest places need the light of Minser’s pans and urns and stories. But maybe you should leave, lady? A life in the sun would suit you.”

  Elle smiled.

  Minser fiddled with a bronze medallion he wore on his chest. Elle could not see it clearly but caught a glimpse of an engraved flower.

  “Is that a religious symbol, Minser? Did you turn holy man while you were away?”

  She was jesting, but Minser responded with seriousness. “This?” He withdrew the symbol from under the tent of his shirt. It featured a rose and sun—Amaunator’s symbol. “A bit, milady, I’ll admit. I picked this up . . . in a place of hope. A few months ago.”

  Elle touched his hand, his fingers like overstuffed sausages. “I’ve been thinking a lot about hope recently. I’m glad you’re here, Minser.”

  “As am I,” he said, and put the symbol back under his shirt.

  Minser pulled up on the reins when Gray pulled the wagon to the village commons. A railed, wood-planked deck sat under the canopy of an elm. Seats made from old stumps sat here and there. The sounding bell hung from a post near the deck.

  As they debarked from the wagon, Elle said, “You can share my dinner, if you’d like. And our shed is still waterproof, if you’d like to sleep in it rather than the wagon. There’s a spot for Gray beside it. Keep him out of the rain.”

  Minser doffed his weathered, wide-brimmed hat and affected as much of a bow as his girth allowed.

  “You remain, as always, gracious as a queen. It is a bit cramped in the wagon. It’ll do in a pinch, but I admit your shed sounds appealing.”

  She smiled, nodded.

  “And for your hospitality, you shall have your choice of cookware from my offerings. I have some fine kettles I acquired in Daerlun.”

  “Thank you, Minser.”

  Minser made a show of looking about. “So where, pray tell, is your king? And what sort of monarch allows his queen to walk about unescorted in such weather?”

  Elle’s voice dropped and she looked off to the plains. “Gerak is off on a hunt.”

  Minser recoiled. “In this? Is he mad?”

  “I think possibly, yes.”

  Minser chuckled. “Well, I’m sure he’s fine. I hope he returns before I move on.”

  “He’ll return tomorrow or the next day.”

  Elle heard doors opening, the voices over the rain. At least some of her neighbors must have seen Minser arrive. They’d want to hear his stories and see what wonders his cart held.

  “I’ll set the table in two hours,” she said. “Meanwhile, announce yourself so all know you’re here. Not even the rain will keep them away.”

  Minser’s mouth formed a smile in the thicket of his moustache. Elle noticed the wrinkles around his eyes. He stepped onto the deck—the planks creaked ominously under his weight—and rang the bell three times, the peals loud in the quiet.

  “Ho, Fairelm! Ho! Minser the Seller has returned, with wares from as far west as Arabel and tales from the other side of the world!”

  More shutters and doors were thrown open. Elle heard the exclamations of children and the happy chatter of her neighbors as they emerged from their cottages and went out to greet Minser. It had been so long since Fairelm had seen a traveler, Minser’s appearance might as well have been a festival.

  Elle smiled as she walked back to her cottage. Minser’s arrival in the village al
ways heralded a good day or three, full of stories, interesting wares, and excellent beer. She was glad Gerak would return soon. He, too, would be pleased to see Minser.

  After checking on her stew, she gathered all the extra blankets they had from the chest near their bed. Tattered and faded from many washes, the blankets had belonged to Gerak’s parents. Minser would not mind their condition. She took a small clay lamp and the blankets to Gerak’s tool shed and made a place on the floor for Minser to sleep. No doubt he had his own bedroll, but he would welcome extra blankets.

  She returned to the cottage and lay down for a nap. The baby growing in her drained her of energy. She planned to be idle on Idleday. She fell asleep to the sound of laughter, Minser’s voice spinning a tale, and the general hubbub of the gathering. It was as if Minser had brought the village back to life, back to hope.

  A hand on his shoulder awakened Vasen.

  Darkness.

  The fire was mere embers and Byrne had extinguished the light from his shield. Quiet.

  The rain had stopped. He had no way to tell the time, to know how long he’d been asleep. Where were the pilgrims? How was Noll doing? He was still groggy from sleep, and had trouble orienting himself. He was vaguely aware of shadows crawling over his flesh.

  Orsin’s tattooed face loomed over him, lit only by the faint glow of the fire’s embers. Concern showed in the deva’s opalescent eyes.

  “What?”

  The deva held an inked finger to his mouth for silence. Vasen came fully awake as Orsin nodded at something beyond the cave mouth.

  Noll coughed, the sound loud in the quiet of the cave. Orsin’s grip on Vasen’s shoulder tightened at the sound.

  “Quiet that boy!” someone hissed from Vasen’s right.

  The pilgrims were crowded into the rear of the cave, some hugging one another, others holding eating knives in their hands. One of them had produced a truncheon from somewhere. All of them wore expressions of fear. Noll lay covered in blankets near the wall, still lost in fever, muttering incoherently, but his color had returned. Elora stroked her son’s head, whispered softly to comfort him. She alone seemed unconcerned with what lay outside the cave’s mouth.

  Vasen lifted himself on an elbow, trying to move quietly in his armor, and saw that Byrne, Eldris, and Nald crouched near the cave opening, hugging the wall and looking out.

  Noll coughed again, summoning sharp intakes of breath from the pilgrims. Vasen saw Eldris’s jaw clench as he chewed on his own tension. Nald’s hand opened and closed over the hilt of his bare sword. Vasen stood, pulled Orsin close, and whispered in his ear.

  “What is it?”

  “Shadovar,” Orsin said.

  The word flooded Vasen with adrenaline, pulled thick gouts of darkness from his skin. He crept toward the cave mouth with Orsin. Behind them, more coughs from Noll. Ordinarily the coughs would have been a good thing, indicative of the boy clearing his lungs. But at the moment the sound put them all at risk.

  Elora tried to cover his mouth, but the boy, still incoherent, jerked his head to the side and cried out.

  “That boy will get us all killed!” said one of the pilgrims, a man whose name Vasen could not recall.

  Vasen turned and glared at him, pointed a finger leaking darkness at the man’s face.

  The man’s mouth clamped shut and shame anchored his eyes to the floor.

  Eldris held out Vasen’s sword. Vasen took it, hugged the walls of the cave near his men, and peered out across the river. Orsin stood beside him. The cave’s shadows engulfed them both, as thick as ink.

  A veserab stood on the far side of the river, its head lowered to the stream to drink. Its cylindrical, serpentine body was twice as long as a man was tall, much of it coiled on the riverbank. From its sides sprouted membranous wings as large as sails. The dark gray hide, fixed with an elaborate saddle and harness, faded to a pale blue on its chest and underside. Its face resembled an open sore, a pink mass of flesh in the center of which was a rictus of fangs. To Vasen, the creature seemed an impossible a mix of lamprey, bat, and serpent. Its eyes looked like flecks of obsidian. A tongue as long as Vasen’s forearm extended from the gash of its mouth to slurp at the water. A single Shadovar kneeled at the water’s edge beside the veserab, filling his waterskin. Thick, viscous strands of shadow spiraled lazily around his form. Vasen’s eyes fell to his own skin, where similar shadows swirled.

  A gray tabard marked with the heraldry of Netheril covered the Shadovar’s ornate armor. The thick plates featured vicious spikes at shoulders, gauntlets, knees, and elbows. Bald, gaunt, and with skin the color of old vellum, the Shadovar looked more like a corpse than a man. His eyes glowed red in the darkness.

  A sudden, animal grunt from somewhere off on the plains behind the Shadovar caused Vasen’s heart to jump and startled the veserab. Its wings flapped and it lifted its face into the air, long tongue wagging back and forth like an antenna. The Shadovar stood, patted the creature’s side, and said something in his baroque, incomprehensible language.

  A call sounded in the same language from farther down the riverbank. The first Shadovar shouted back, then said something to his mount. Vasen could not see down the river from where he stood in the cave’s mouth, and didn’t dare risk exposing himself by venturing out of the cave.

  “Another one,” Orsin whispered.

  “Maybe more than one,” Vasen said.

  “Let’s find out,” the deva said. He crouched low and moved out into the brush, a few paces outside the cave. He looked down the riverbank, then looked back at Vasen and held up one finger.

  Only one more Shadovar.

  Vasen would wait them out. It appeared the shades had stopped only to water their mounts. They would be on their way back to Sakkors or Shade Enclave soon enough. He would not risk the pilgrims’ safety or the abbey’s discovery by attacking.

  He made eye contact with Eldris, Nald, and Byrne. He did not speak but formed the words we wait and do nothing with his lips.

  They nodded. Like him, they understood the stakes.

  Noll coughed again, summoning a wince from the Dawnswords. The intake of breath from the pilgrims at the rear of the cave was sharp enough to cut wood.

  The veserab, already skittish, grunted at the sound and again reared up, drool dripping from the circle of its fanged mouth, wings half spread. The muscles under its hide rippled. It extended its neck and the sore of its face opened like a blooming flower, revealing more pink flesh, more flaps of teeth. It chuffed at the air, sniffing for spoor. The Shadovar came to its side, the shadows around him swirling, a frown on his lips. He spoke softly to the creature while scanning the bank. The Shadovar would be able to see as well in darkness as Vasen, perhaps better Orsin made himself small in the scrub. Vasen flattened himself against the wall, his fist clenching and unclenching on his sword hilt. By his side, Byrne softly breathed out, and Vasen caught the tail end of a whispered prayer in the exhalation.

  The Shadovar’s red eyes poured over the terrain, the scrub, the trees. His eyes went over and past the cave mouth, and Vasen allowed himself to hope.

  The far Shadovar called to the near one, a question in the tone. The other answered a bit too casually, nodding across the river bank.

  “They’re coming,” Vasen said to Byrne, and Byrne nodded.

  Another coughing spasm from Noll.

  The veserab shrieked in agitation. The Shadovar gripped the reins and slung himself into the saddle, calling out to his comrade as he did so.

  “Ready yourself,” Vasen whispered to Byrne. “We can’t allow either to escape.”

  Moving rapidly but methodically, Nald, Eldris, and Byrne sheathed swords, unslung their crossbows, cocked, and seated quarrels. Vasen kept blade to hand and prayer at the top of his thoughts.

  The veserab coiled its body, tensed, and with an awkward shove vaulted into the air. For a moment, Vasen lost of sight of it, but only for a moment. It landed amid the scrub just to the right of the cave mouth, crushing shrubs and sna
pping saplings. Orsin crouched in the foliage ten paces from it.

  The Shadovar called over his shoulder to his comrade. He cocked his head, his red eyes fixed on the cave mouth.

  Noll broke into another coughing fit. The Shadovar slid out of his saddle, drew his sword, the blade like black glass, and advanced on the cave. Darkness clung to him, concealed his legs and lower body in a fog of darkness. The veserab lingered behind him, sucking in the air, its long tongue dangling between the rows of its teeth. Orsin crept closer to the creature, as silent as a ghost.

  Noll’s hacking ceased. The tension in the cave was as thick as the shadows. Many of the pilgrims whispered prayers.

  The Shadovar halted.

  Vasen held up a hand to order Eldris, Nald, and Byrne to hold. They nodded, but took aim nevertheless.

  The darkness deepened around the Shadovar, he took a single step within it, and moved in an instant from the darkness in which he stood to the darkness in the mouth of the cave. His sudden appearance three paces before them elicited a surprised curse from Byrne and hurried shots from the crossbows. Two bolts went wide, but Byrne’s struck the Shadovar in the chest. The darkness around the Shadovar killed the bolt’s inertia, and the missile thumped weakly into his breastplate.

  The pilgrims shouted in fear. Vasen voiced the prayer he’d kept behind his teeth, and his sword ignited with Amaunator’s light. The Shadovar blanched before the sudden glare, his darkness overcome by Vasen’s light, and Vasen bounded forward with a shout. He slashed at the joint in the Shadovar’s armor between shoulder and neck, but the Shadovar recovered enough to duck under the blow and stab his sword at Vasen’s abdomen. The black blade ground against Vasen’s armor, and he lurched to his left before it could penetrate to his flesh. He slammed his shield into the Shadovar’s face, felt the satisfying crunch of bone, and sent the shade careening backward three strides.

  “Kill the mount!” Vasen shouted.

  The veserab shrieked, spitting drool, and lurched like a serpent toward the combat, crushing scrub and saplings under its writhings. Byrne, Eldris, and Nald rushed past Vasen toward the creature, blades high and lit. The creature reared up, hissing. Vasen did not see Orsin anywhere.