Shadowkeep

by Alan Dean Foster

  “Just so long as I have him back before spring then?”

  “Yes,” said Minza thoughtfully, “before spring.”

  “Which horse,” Praetor inquired slowly, “should I take?”

  Minza waved a hand lazily down the aisle, seemingly indifferent to his visitor’s choice. “Whichever suits you. I trust you, youngster. I’ve known you long enough to do that much.”

  Praetor reached into a pocket and removed his small money pouch. He handed it to the stablemaster, who looked inside.

  “I know it’s not much,” Praetor told him worriedly. “My life’s savings.”

  “You’re right about it not being much,” Minza agreed. “Still, you’re not buying. Only renting. Until Second Month. Before spring, when my winter boarders return.” He smiled. “You’re a fine young man, Praetor. I always have liked you. Tell me: what are you about so all of a sudden that you need such a fast mount for?”

  Praetor didn’t meet the old man’s eyes. “I’d rather not say. You’d only laugh at me.”

  “Tut! Haven’t we known each other for many years? I tolerate too many fools to laugh at someone I like.”

  “A stranger passed through Sasubree yesterday. He told a tale full of import and mystery. He was looking for someone to do something and he settled on me. There is much involved. Among the rest is the treasure of Shadowkeep.”

  “Shadowkeep.” True to his word, Minza didn’t laugh.

  “I’ve always considered you a clever man, Praetor, but that clever? I’m not so sure.”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t be riding my mount into Shadowkeep. I’ll board it somewhere outside. At worst it will return home by itself.”

  “That’s true, though I’d much rather see it brought back by its renter.” He leaned close, his face aglow with honest greed. “What do you know of the treasures of Shadowkeep?”

  “Only that they involve wealth and riches beyond imagining. I intend to bring back as much of them as I can carry.”

  Minza was nodding eagerly. “And would you consider sharing some of this with a poor old man who’d done you a good deed?”

  Praetor smiled. “I would regard it as a necessity.”

  Minza looked thoughtful. “I see. That’s good to know. Now then, there is the matter of selecting a mount for you.” He turned and pointed up the aisle. “You see that seventh stall, the one on the left?”

  Praetor strained to penetrate the darkness. “I’m afraid not.”

  “Well, there’s a fine mare in there. She ought to do for you.”

  “Oh.” Praetor’s hopes fell. Apparently he had misinterpreted Minza’s words. He sighed. If this was the best he could do, then he would have to manage as best he was able with what the old man was offering him. He’d had no reason to expect anything else.

  “Her name,” Minza added, “is Gladys.”

  Praetor winced but worked to conceal his disappointment.

  “You may have her until the end of Second Month winter and not a day longer.”

  “I understand.” Praetor took a step forward.

  Minza held him back. “Oh, one other thing. You could do me a small favor, if you would.” He gestured at the stallion. “Take Kaltar here and put him into the stall next to Gladys’. It will keep him quiet until morning. Not that he’s particularly rambunctious, you understand. Why, for such a spirited, noble steed he hardly makes a sound. I never hear him moving about myself.” Minza touched his left ear. “I’m afraid I’m getting a little deaf in my dotage. But that horse, he’s so quiet that half the time I worry that he’s vanished into thin air.”

  Praetor nodded, still sunk in disappointment as he took up the stallion’s reins. “Come on then, Kaltar. It’s time you were getting to bed and I was getting on my way.”

  Minza picked up a bucket and started briskly toward the far end of the stable, carrying his lantern in his other hand. “Good-bye and good luck, Praetor. Be sure and remove his bridle before you put him up, and whatever you do, don’t let him see the saddle that’s back in his usual stall. The one that’s slung over the railing in the rear. Every time he sets eyes on that saddle he wants to go for a run, and I have a devil of a time holding him back.”

  Minza was halfway down the aisle already, his lantern bobbing in the encroaching darkness. Praetor called after him.

  “I’ll be careful, Minza. Don’t worry.”

  He’d led the stallion about ten feet when he slowed. As he slowed, his face broke out into a wide grin.

  Hardly ever hear him, never makes a sound, you’d think he’d vanished into thin air—the old man’s words tumbled over and over in Praetor’s mind. Sly old fox. He was covering himself out loud. If the stallion failed to return in time, or came back injured, then all Minza had to do was tell Riverlord Arnotem about the young smith who’d rented the mare next to Kaltar and who in the still and dark of the night had mistakenly taken off with the wrong horse. All unbeknownst, of course, to the stablemaster, who’d only done his duty.

  Praetor turned back to the end stall. The saddle rested right where Minza had said. He slipped a blanket onto the stallion’s back, followed it with the saddle and cinched the latter properly beneath Kaltar’s belly. If he returned to Sasubree late, the old man would call him a horse thief to his face and would bear witness against him in any court. Fair enough. But Praetor had no intention of returning late. He’d reenter Sasubree in triumph and before Spring—or not at all. Not for Minza’s sake, or for his own, but for another’s.

  Rysancy, he thought. Dear sweet loving Rysancy. You will wear necklaces of diamonds and pearls and skirts of woven gold. Strurier will wait on you for a change, if you so desire it, and you’ll never have to fight off the advances of some slobbering merchant ever again. Ever!

  Provided, he told himself as he mounted the stallion and sent him galloping off into the night, I can get into Shadowkeep and out again alive.

  Chapter III

  His enthusiasm waned as he left behind the fertile hills that surrounded Sasubree and entered the Barrens. The chill air of fall, the grasses which were already starting to turn brown and stiff, the drifting of leaves from isolated trees combined to lower his spirits if not his expectations. It’s difficult to feel confident and assured when one is cold and alone in a strange country. For the first time, the enormity of what he’d undertaken was beginning to weigh heavily on him.

  Out on the Barrens, away from the familiar, warm shop of Shone Stelft, the world seemed much more real, death considerably less abstract. To counter the dreariness of the sky and his mood he had only the words of the Spinner. And why would the Spinner encourage him to try Shadowkeep unless he thought Praetor had a chance of succeeding? That thought encouraged him a little, caused him to sit straight in his saddle. He would succeed. He had to succeed.

  Yet, what did he know of the Spinner’s moral values? He’d been concerned with the evil that infested Shadowkeep, with ridding the world of its influence. What did it matter if a few died to make the world safe? That would be small consolation to the few, Praetor mused, especially if the few included him.

  But he’d made his decision, as he’d told Shone Stelft so boldly that night. He couldn’t go back now. He’d broken with his past. Oh, Stelft would accept him back into his service if he returned now, but in so doing he’d be admitting defeat. He’d be leaving his soul behind, out on the Barrens.

  And what of Rysancy? She’d be glad to have him back, but what would she think of his future promises if he failed to make good on this one? Wouldn’t there always be the least little bit of hesitancy, of uncertainty in the back of her mind every time he said he was going to do something for her?

  No, the fact of the matter was clear. He couldn’t go back now if he wanted to. His words had restricted his options as surely as if Mostana Canyon had appeared between Sasubree and the Barrens. There was nowhere for him to ride save eastward. Eastward to Shadowkeep.

  Of game he saw little, only the occasional rodent or wild sheep. The rode
nts were small, elusive, and chewy, while the plump sheep were dangerous to challenge out in the open. The saliva of the Barrens’ sheep was toxic and could be spat an impressive distance. They were not like the harmless, domesticated sheep of Sasubree’s farms and markets. So Praetor took care to avoid the herds he encountered, for all that the aroma of mutton was thick in his mouth.

  As the days slid past, the Barrens gave way to the veldt. He’d listened to tales of that verdant land from travelers, but had never expected to set eyes on it, much less to cross it. Yet there it lay before him, an endless expanse of waist-high grass interspersed with clumps of wild, contorted trees that stretched off toward the eastern horizon. Wind whipped the grass into abstract patterns as he started down.

  He made camp each night beneath the far-reaching branches of the umbrella trees. Their leaves offered some protection from nightly rains and the vast canopies were reassuring buffers against the large, flying carnivores that were reputed to haunt the expanses of the veldt.

  Kaltar proved to be a tireless mount, eager to break a path through the high grass each day and responsive to Praetor’s every tug on the reins. It accepted his company and directions readily. Praetor had planned to ride into Shadowkeep on whatever mount Minza provided him, but as he rode his intentions changed. Kaltar was not his property. He would have to do as he’d said: find someplace outside Shadowkeep to stable the stallion until he came out.

  Besides, that way the horse would be well rested for the return journey, and it would need all its great strength to carry both Praetor and the treasure he intended to bring out with him. Thoughts of treasure and the look that would come over Rysancy’s face when he spread it out before her helped to warm him and to stiffen his resolve.

  The veldt grasses bent readily beneath Kaltar’s chest and still they encountered nothing larger than the occasional herd of sheep. There were no signs of the large meat-eaters which were known to inhabit the veldt. With luck, Praetor thought, most of them were already denned up for the winter.

  Several large shauks had been shadowing him for days, but they were primarily carrion eaters. They would drift away as soon as it became clear to them that neither Praetor nor his mount was on the verge of dying.

  So he was doubly surprised in the morning when the huge scavengers did not appear and Kaltar began to whinny and backpedal uneasily. He had to struggle to retain control of his unexpectedly nervous mount.

  “Stay there, Kaltar! Slowly, slowly. What ails you?” He leaned forward to pat the horse reassuringly on the side of his neck. The stallion steadied a little.

  Praetor tried to see through the high grass. “You smell something? Is that it?” No matter how hard he stared he could find no reason for the stallion’s sudden panic. Only the wind ruffled the grasses around them. A thoulun could approach silently, but they never hunted in packs and it was difficult to imagine one’s attacking a man on horseback.

  Still, something had startled the horse. He put his hand to his sword, looked warily toward the trees. Something high up in the branches, waiting for them to pass? He tugged gently on the right rein and Kaltar started forward. They’d give the umbrella tree just ahead a wide berth. He’d find another place to halt for lunch.

  Something struck the middle of his back. Kaltar jerked, rose on hind legs as a strong arm went around Praetor’s chest. High-pitched screams and hoots filled the air. Again Kaltar reared, and this time both Praetor and his assailant were thrown to the ground. Praetor fought to free his sword while shouts sounded all around him.

  “That’s it… get him!… he’s the one…!” Each word ended in a whistle and the air was full of strong musk.

  Praetor finally broke free and rolled through the grass, still fighting to free his sword. His jaw fell as he finally got a look at his attackers.

  They were not animals.

  The words had told him as much, but it was still shocking to see the three of them standing there before him. They didn’t look very threatening, but their actions had belied their appearance. He knew what they were because their kind came often into Sasubree to trade.

  Roos. Powerful marsupials standing as tall as a man.

  Their long ears rose straight and alert from their narrow heads, except for those of the one on the right. His drooped like a lop-eared rabbit’s. Oversized feet were counterbalanced by a long, strong tail.

  One stepped forward, halted when Praetor half drew his sword. The male was clad in a long vest fashioned from strips of leather. They hung down to his knees. Each strip was dyed a different color. The costume was colorful and bright, in a vulgar sort of way.

  The roo was rotating his right arm and grimacing. “Did you have to fall on me, man?”

  “What am I supposed to do?” Praetor snapped back at him. “Apologize for defending myself?” He moved warily to his left to take up Kaltar’s reins. The other two held long, thin spears. Could he mount and flee before they spitted him?

  The roo whose arm he’d fallen on advanced. His hands were open and empty, all his spears riding in the oversized quiver strapped to his back.

  “I guess not.” He extended a hand. “I’m Sranul. Nice to meet you.”

  “Is it? I mean, it is?” A little dazed and wary of deception, Praetor reached out with his own hand. The roo took it, shook it enthusiastically. “Praetor Fime, late of Sasubree.” He glanced at the other two roos, who looked on approvingly. “Listen, what’s going on here? I mean, am I your prisoner or what?” Suddenly Kaltar bolted, pulling free of Praetor’s grasp and dashing off into the grass.

  “Hell!” Praetor cursed. Now he’d have to run down the stallion on foot.

  “Relax,” the roo who’d offered his paw advised Praetor. “The rest of the boys will catch him. They won’t harm him. We won’t harm you either, if you’ll give us your word you won’t try to escape. All we want is your cooperation, if you know what I mean.”

  “No. No, I don’t know what you mean. But okay—I give you my word.” He had nothing to lose by doing so. There wasn’t a man alive who could outrun a roo in the open. “For a while, anyway. At least until I find out what you want my cooperation for.”

  “Good enough,” said one of the other roos. “We’re not capturing you, you know. Only borrowing your services.” He put up his spear. His companion did likewise.

  Borrowing his services? How did they know what services he could provide? Did he look that much like a smith already? And even if they suspected his profession, what use would a bunch of nomadic roos have for a smith?

  “This way,” said Sranul, gesturing with his right hand. He fell in step alongside the human while his companions brought up the rear. “How is it someone like yourself is wandering around away out here in the veldt?”

  Praetor tried to stand a little taller. “I am on an important mission. I’m going to Shadowkeep.”

  “Shadowkeep!” The roo didn’t try to hide his interest. “What business could you have in Shadowkeep?”

  “I am bound to try and free the wizard Gorwyther from the grasp of the demon king, Dal’brad—and incidentally, to improve my own fortunes.”

  “You’d better have more than good intentions on your side, then,” declared one of the roos bounding along behind him. “You’d best be on the good side of Mother Fate.”

  “Especially,” chuckled his companion, “if you can’t get your sword out of that sheath any faster than that.”

  Praetor felt his face flush. “You startled me, the more fortunate for all of you. I wasn’t expecting to be attacked out in the middle of nowhere.”

  “Never expect not to be attacked,” Sranul advised him solemnly, “and you’ll live a lot longer, man. It’s the suspicious who survive.” He put a comradely arm around Praetor’s shoulders, confusing him further.

  What was going on here? What did these roos have in mind? It seemed they were going to kill him or adopt him, and he was damned if he could figure out which. Would he find himself shaking hands next with a spear?

 
; It didn’t make any sense. Roos had a reputation for being unpredictable. All he could do was play along, smile, and see how events developed.

  He relaxed a little when they were joined by another half-dozen of Sranul’s companions. One led Kaltar easily by the bridle. The stallion looked winded but otherwise unharmed. The roo who led him wore a vest similar to Sranul’s, only not quite as garishly colored.

  It occurred to Praetor that by covering their naturally golden-hued fur with such brightly painted garb, they were forfeiting their natural camouflage. He asked Sranul about it.

  The warrior responded with a toothy grin. “Hardly the sporting thing to do, letting oneself blend in completely with the scenery. Besides, who would we need to conceal ourselves from?

  “From possible prey.”

  “Prey?” Sranul let out a short, barking laugh. “Our ‘prey’ doesn’t run from us, Praetor.” He showed his teeth and for the second time in as many minutes Praetor felt embarrassed.

  In the rush of the attack he’d forgotten that the roos were wholly vegetarian. In that respect they posed no more threat to him than a herd of cows.

  They were leading him down a gentle slope toward a small lake. There were more trees below and the high grass of the veldt receded from the waterline. A pleasant place to camp. He would’ve ridden straight past without suspecting the lake’s existence. But then, he was a stranger to this land, which the roos knew intimately.

  The roos were plant-eaters, not hunters. So why had they been hunting him? Did they consider him some kind of threat? That hardly seemed credible. The roos were famed fighters, afraid of no one, least of all a lone rider unaware of their very presence. Or was he a participant in some kind of elaborate game? The roo-folk were famed for that as well.

  The roo encampment spread out along the shore of the lake. Young roos bounded and jumped among the high reeds that throve in the shallows, setting up a terrific splashing and yelling. Indulgent adults looked on, ready to step in should the horseplay become too rough or the youngest be trampled underfoot.