SHADOWKEEP
Alan Dean Foster
(An Undead Scan v1.0)
Here’s one for David Hagin,
who’s likely to be designing the hardware
for some different fantasies one of these days.
Chapter I
Sasubree was the largest and most powerful city on the High Plains, alive with merchants and traders, farmers come in from far and near to market their produce, craftsmen, wandering soldiers-of-fortune, and all manner of adventurers of the several intelligent species. It was a thriving, impressive community. Exactly the kind of place one would go to find an impressive hero.
Locating one such individual was the reason for the stranger’s visit to Sasubree. As his mount carried him down the narrow avenue back of the marketplace, the stranger knew he was the subject of many sideways stares from citizens and visitors alike. It did not bother him. He was used to being the focus of attention.
Or perhaps the curious who eyed his passage were merely intrigued by his peculiar mount. It was only a mule, though such a mule as had never been seen before in Sasubree. Its hindquarters were striped with white, and in color it was more maroon than brown. As was only natural, for what else could be expected to issue from a union between a jackass and an okapi?
The stranger was not nearly so colorful. All anyone could see of the rider was the heavy gray monkish robe which covered him from foot to crown. The hood formed a cowl that shielded the rider’s face from view. Despite this he had no trouble guiding his striped mount.
“Now, what do you make of that, ladies?” The fishmonger gazed out over his aromatic stock as the stranger passed his shop.
His two plump customers followed the peculiar visitor’s passage with their eyes. “I certainly have never seen the like,” the eldest commented softly. “Such an odd beast he rides.”
“How do you know it’s a he?” asked her friend. “There might be anything hiding beneath those robes. It might not even be human.”
“No, it’s human, and I’d bet by the way it rides that it is a man. Most unusual to ride so heavily veiled on such a warm day.” She shuddered. “I am glad he did not stop here.”
“I wonder what something like that wants here in Sasubree?”
The fishmonger stroked his short blond beard and leaned out to see as the stranger turned the far corner. “That, madam, is the interesting question. Perhaps I should run after him and ask him to join us so that we might question him at our leisure.”
“No, no,” said the elder woman hastily. As if aware of her unseemly panic, she added demurely, “That would not be polite. Anyone is free to come and go as they please in Sasubree, however peculiar their appearance or intentions.”
“I’m sure if he had anything to say he would have stopped and asked,” her companion added.
Actually the fishmonger was glad they had declined his offer; he’d made it only to tease them. He had no more desire to confront that monkish specter close up than did they. With luck they’d never set eyes on him again.
It was none of his business in any case. He had fish to sell. Out of sight, out of mind, as his wife always said about the overdue bills.
But no matter how hard he tried to adhere to his wife’s advice, the fishmonger could not dismiss the sight of the stranger from his thoughts all the remainder of that day.
Some boys were playing with a ball and several sticks in the middle of the next street when the stranger turned the corner. He was almost upon them before they became aware of his presence. Silently they stopped to stare. There were none of the usual casual boyish insults, none of the curious comments a typical stranger would provoke in passing.
The stranger searched their faces momentarily before leaning toward them. “You, boy.” The voice was a distant whisper. It seemed to issue not from behind that concealing cowl but from somewhere unimaginably far away.
“Me?” The eldest among them struggled to affect an air of bravado, but confronted by that dark cowl it wasn’t easy to appear confident.
“Yes, you. I am looking for the shop of a man called Shone Stelft.”
“Stelft the Smithy he means,” said one of the other boys.
The stranger nodded. “Yes. That is the one I seek. He is a great hero.”
A couple of the boys laughed, but not as boisterously as usual.
“Maybe he used to be, sir,” declared the eldest, “but he hasn’t done anything much heroic lately.”
“If you would be so kind as to direct me to his place of business?” There was no hint of menace, no threat in the stranger’s voice. Neither was there kindness there.
The second boy, emboldened, stepped forward and pointed down the street. “Third shop on the right, sir. You can’t miss it because there’s usually smoke coming out of the great chimney. The smithy has his forge going most of the time.”
“I thank you, boy.” The stranger sat back in his saddle.
“Say, sir,” the boy asked curiously, “are you come to buy crafts or arms from Stelft?”
“No. I do not come to buy. You might say that I am a trader of sorts. I deal in a bit of this and a smidgen of that.” He rubbed the thumb and forefinger of his left hand together. “Small things, of no interest to little boys.” Without urging, his mount resumed its walk down the street.
The players gathered in its wake. One spoke for the first time as he juggled the ball they’d been playing with. “Farpal, what a creepy one!”
“What do you suppose he is?” asked a fourth.
“I don’t know,” said the eldest among them. “Maybe a weird, or a mage.”
“No, he isn’t any of those things,” the boy who’d provided directions declared confidently.
“Aw, how do you know?”
“Because I got a good look up under that hood he wears when I was giving him directions.”
“Yeah, and what did you see? Your crazy Uncle Gymoy?” the bigger boy taunted him.
“No. I didn’t see anybody who looked like Uncle Gymoy. I didn’t see anything at all,” he told them quietly. “There wasn’t anything under the hood. No face at all. Just…black.”
Silently the little knot of boys turned to stare at the retreating rump of the stranger’s mount. The tall sepulchral shape rode straight and stiff on its back. None of the boys ran after the whispery-voiced visitor to confirm the description.
There wasn’t a coward among them, but they were not foolishly brave either. After all, even Shadowmages have faces.
The sign that hung over the wide entrance to the shop was large, straightforward, and forthright:
S. STELFT
WORKER IN METALS OF ALL KINDS
As the boy had predicted, a thick snake of black smoke was escaping from the heavy stone chimney that dominated the two-story structure. The huge double doors were swung wide.
The stranger dismounted, sniffing at the air. The smoke was thick with the aroma of charcoal and metal. Yes, this was surely the place. There was no hitching rail outside the building, but that did not matter. The striped mule stood motionless without being tied and cropped patiently at the sparse growth that poked green heads through the hardpack of the dirt street. It would not stir without word from its master.
Hiding his hands beneath his sleeves, the stranger entered the shop. Massive oak beams supported the high ceiling. Not one but two forges were raging beneath. There was another, smaller door set in the rear wall which doubtless led to living quarters beyond.
The man whom the stranger had come so far to find sat behind a heavy wooden table. Thick leather gloves protected his hands while glasses of mica shielded his eyes. Those big fingers moved with precision and unexpected delicacy as their owner employed them to add silver inlay to a finely tooled saddle. The half-finished seat was
a work of high art, one of which any king would have been proud.
Those hands could wield a sword or longbow with equal fluidity and skill and had done so in the not-so-distant past.
The stranger stood and watched quietly, enjoying the display of skill. His gaze lifted to the shelves behind the table. These were filled with exquisite examples of the metalworker’s art, some done in gold as well as silver, others fashioned of more prosaic metals.
There were knives designed to be worn for decoration as much as for protection, dirks with handles of rare horn, drinking goblets and engraved dinner plates for the very wealthy. There were even inlaid horseshoes, evidence that Stelft was as much a farrier as artisan.
The big man might have continued working for hours, but the stranger finally stepped forward. “You are the one they call Shone Stelft?”
Obviously startled, the smith almost dropped the tool in his right hand as he looked up. “By my soul, but you move quietly, visitor! I never heard nor saw you enter.”
“I meant no subterfuge. It is my manner.”
Stelft squinted as he tried to see beneath the gray cowl. The stranger maintained a monkish posture, head down, hands together, concealing his face from view. Stelft finally gave up lest he appear impolite.
“Well, I’m him. What can I do for you?”
“I have need of your services,” was the whispery reply.
“Do you now? Well, I’m always ready to do business.” Stelft leaned back in his chair, shoved his thick glasses back up onto his forehead, and gestured toward the shelves behind him. “That’s my work.”
“Fine work it is, too.”
“What was it you had in mind, then? Shoes for your mount? Perhaps something of a more delicate nature for your lady friend? Maybe not, considering your attire. Possibly a fine binding for some holy books?”
“Nothing like that,” the stranger murmured softly. “Nor any works of art, nor arms or armor.”
Stelft frowned. “Well now, I don’t see as how there’s much else I can do for you, sir. Perhaps if you could tell me what line of work you’re in, what profession you claim for your own?”
“I am,” said the stranger, “a Spinner.”
Stelft let out a gentle chuckle. “Indeed, but a spinner of what? Of wool, or of tales?”
“Of many things, some more solid than wool, others more ethereal than tales. Of this and that, bits and pieces.”
“Bits and pieces of what? Come now, visitor, let us have an end to this shilly-shallying and be open with each other.”
“As you wish. I am a Spinner of space-time, of fragments of ether and shards of reality, of splinters of imagination.”
“Do tell,” Stelft muttered. “I wouldn’t think there’d be much profit in such insubstantialities.” He shrugged. “I was bored anyway, so I’ll not kick you back out in the street where I think you belong. Amuse me further, if you can.”
The Spinner bowed slightly from the waist. “I will endeavor to hold your interest, Shone Stelft.”
The smith gestured toward an empty chair. “Sit and drink with me.”
“No offense, but I sit only when I am riding and for drink I have no use.”
Stelft grunted, then glanced over a shoulder toward the back of the workshop. “Fime! Get out here.”
From a far corner came a gangly young man. His hair tumbled across his forehead and he wore an anxious expression on his sooty face. He glanced curiously at the Spinner before turning his attention to his employer.
“What is it, Master Stelft?”
“A flagon of… of… well, of anything cold you can find lying around the kitchen.”
“Yes, Master.” Again the quick glance at the silent visitor standing before the table. “One tankard or two?”
“Just one. Get off with you!”
Fime nodded and disappeared through the rear door the Spinner had noted on his arrival. He reappeared with admirable speed no more than a few moments later, carrying a pewter tankard in one hand and a tall flagon of something golden and bubbly in the other. These he set down in front of his master.
Stelft poured himself a full tankard of the brew, quaffed half in a single prodigious swallow, then put the tankard down on the table and wiped his lips with the back of a forearm.
“Now then, Spinner sir, if you’re not interested in my metal work, what exactly is it you want with me?”
“There was a time, was there not, when you did work of another kind?” Stelft stared at the hooded figure silently, one hand resting on the handle of the tankard. “A time when you made your services available to those in need. When you accepted burdens which sent other men fleeing in terror. When you accomplished regularly and with great skill things which most men fear even to consider?”
“That’s quite a buildup,” Stelft replied slowly. “Yes, I once used weapons instead of just making them. I tried to work only for good, though that’s something which seems to vary from individual to individual and from country to country.”
“Very true,” the Spinner agreed.
“I did such work because it paid very well.”
“Then you would not be averse to providing such services again?”
“Oh, I didn’t say that. As a matter of fact, I’d be very adverse to so doing. Being a smith doesn’t pay as well. Hiring out one’s art never pays as well as hiring out one’s arm. But I sought out this life intentionally. It wasn’t forced upon me. I got tired of dodging spears and spells in search of outrageous fortune. I reached the point where peace and quiet and the possibility of a long retirement began to have more than a cursory appeal to me. I found something I enjoy doing”—and with a sweep of one hand he indicated the well-stocked shop—“married a good woman, and settled down.
“In short, my mysterious friend, I am through with fighting and questing and all that sort of thing. So if that’s what you want from me, I’m afraid you’ve wasted your trip. I’m finished risking my life to solve someone else’s petty problems.”
“The problem I bring with me is anything but petty,” the Spinner informed him. He leaned slightly forward. “Have you ever heard of Shadowkeep?”
Stelft’s eyebrows lifted as he gazed hard at his visitor.
“Of course I’ve heard of Shadowkeep. Any informed person has. They say it’s the abode of casual death. No one in their right mind goes there.”
A long, breathy sigh issued from the Spinner. “I fear someone must. A vast and ancient evil now threatens this land, threatens all the civilized lands. A time of darkness is coming when all races will be forced to hide from the light. Despair will replace hope, trembling will take the place of laughter, and goodness will be ground into the earth. Unless the evil that threatens to spill out of Shadowkeep can be contained therein and, if possible, destroyed.
“There is also glory for whoever succeeds in this, and treasure beyond belief awaiting the taker.”
Stelft shook his head sadly, even as he continued to smile at the Spinner. “I’m afraid the only glory I take anymore is in my sculpture, and my family is treasure enough for any man. It’s all very well and good to go gallivanting off on such expeditions when you’ve only your own life to answer for, but I’ve a wife and young child who depend on me.”
“What becomes of your family if this evil emerges from Shadowkeep to work its will upon the world?”
Stelft sipped at the rest of his tankard. “Maybe it will work its will in a direction other than this. It’s a long way from Sasubree to Shadowkeep. Furthermore I’ve only your word for any of this, the word of a secretive stranger. Why should I believe a word of what you say? Perhaps you’re nothing more than a clever troublemaker, or a traveling sadist. Besides, why would anything that had managed to gain control of Shadowkeep want to spread itself thin? Isn’t mastery of Shadowkeep enough to satisfy anyone, or for that matter, anything?”
“You may understand the nature of metals,” the Spinner replied quietly, “and the nature of daring and of bravery, but you know not
hing of the nature of pure evil. It is never satisfied. Left alone it will grow and multiply until it finally destroys not only everything within its power but itself as well. Wishes will not make it go away and indifference will not constrain it.”
“You argue well, visitor, but I’m not your man.”
“I do not seek the services of a man. I need a hero. Sex and race are not important. It is what is inside that matters. You are a hero, Shone Stelft.”
“I was once. Not anymore. Now I’m a simple smith. But you intrigue me. I admire a good storyteller. I’ve listened to many tales of evil far and near. Every traveling minstrel has different versions. Tell me yours.”
The Spinner sighed again, muttering to himself. “So much explanation for a simple request. Still, better an informed hero than an ignorant one.”
“What, what was that? I didn’t catch that last,” Stelft said uncertainly.
The Spinner ignored the request. “Do you know where Shadowkeep stands?”
“Sure. Doesn’t everyone? It’s important to know those places to avoid just as it’s important to know the good places to visit.”
“What do you know of its origins?”
Stelft shrugged, the muscles in his arms rippling. “I always imagined it was raised by some long-gone kingdom as a monument to their memory. The world’s full of monuments, though none so impressive, I’m told, as this Shadowkeep.”
“A monument it is, but it was not built by the people of a kingdom to perpetuate their memory. It was built by one man.”
Stelft grinned. “All of Shadowkeep? That’s a bit hard to swallow, stranger.”
“He was a sorcerer, perhaps the greatest there ever was in this world. His name was Gorwyther. A good and wise man, though a bit intolerant of his fellows. He designed Shadowkeep and caused it to come into existence. He made it large and complex and imposing to preserve his privacy, to keep out those who would disturb him while he engaged in his studies into the nature of space and time.
“Thus shielded by the castle he had raised, Gorwyther was left to himself to practice his magics and do his research. Much he learned of other worlds, other dimensions. I come from one such, called hither by a last cry from the wizard himself before he came to grief.”
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