Shadowbred

by Paul S. Kemp

  The men smiled, nodded, and ignored him, adjusting straps and buckles as they saw fit.

  A boy held Cale’s and Tamlin’s mounts by their bits. Cale eyed the horses with apprehension. He had never been a skilled horseman, and riding with only one hand would make it worse. Tamlin noticed his nervousness and smiled smugly.

  “Vos is an easy ride, Mister Cale,” said the groomsman.

  “Very easy, goodsir,” said the scrawny boy in an overlarge shirt who held the horse.

  “Vos,” Cale said, and chuckled. Vos was a word from the Dwarvish tongue. It meant “wild” or “unruly,” and was usually used to describe a dwarven beer fest. Probably the groom had no idea of its etymology.

  “You will be keeping to the roads the whole time,” the groom said. “An easy ride.”

  Cale found small comfort in the fact, but mounted up without embarrassing himself.

  Tamlin loaded his gear into his mount’s saddlebags and fairly leaped atop his horse. Unlike Cale, Tamlin was an experienced rider. “Ordulin is seven days’ ride,” he called to the group. “Let’s get started. Is all ready, Ren?”

  Ren looked to his men, who nodded. “All’s ready, my lord.”

  The house guards mounted up and took station around Cale and Tamlin. Cale smiled at his awkwardness in the saddle. He had climbed eight-story buildings barehanded, but felt uncomfortable perched atop the horse. He did his best to settle in as the group started out.

  When they reached Rauncel’s Ride, Cale immediately noticed fewer Helms on the street. Before he could ask, Tamlin said, “I reconsidered my course, Mister Cale. At least on the matter of the Helms. A few squads remain in the Noble District, but I stationed the rest at the city gates. They will no longer patrol the streets, but they will be available to Vees and the Old Chauncel should they be needed.”

  Cale looked Tamlin in the face. “Wisely done, my lord.”

  Tamlin nodded grudgingly. “The temples responded to my suggestion as you suspected they would. I understand that they are already distributing food—all of them. Temple Avenue is thronged more than during a Shieldmeet festival. The city will still have a hunger problem, but it will not be a crisis, at least not in the short term.”

  Cale heard both appreciation and resentment in Tamlin’s tone and resolved to hold his tongue. He hoped the measures stabilized the city until Tamlin’s return. He did not trust Vees and the Old Chauncel to keep good order. In fact, he did not trust Vees Talendar at all.

  Groups of Selgauntans gathered to watch them pass. The house guard kept them at a distance from Cale and Tamlin. None showed any anger toward Tamlin—Cale deemed that a good sign—and a few even shouted encouragement. Tamlin must have sent a herald to announce his departure.

  “Two tendays ago, they cursed my name and spat on the ground as I passed,” Tamlin said to Cale. He shook his head. “The people are fickle.”

  Cale made no comment and they rode in silence toward the Klaroun Gate. Scepters saluted as they passed. The Helms stationed at the gate did the same. As they climbed the far side of High Bridge, looking down at the glittering, boat-dotted waters of the Elzimmer and Selgaunt Bay, Cale finally asked the question that was eating at him. “How did Vees Talendar come to gain your confidence, my lord?”

  Tamlin’s mouth tightened and Cale knew he should not have asked. “Vees Talendar has been an asset to me and the city for over a year, Mister Cale. As for anything more, I am not inclined to share it.” He looked Cale in the face and said, “The how and the why do not matter.”

  Cale did not like having his words thrown back at him but he bit back his anger. He did not regret his words to Tamlin over dinner, but he thought perhaps he could have delivered them with more tact. Despite Tamlin’s station, he remained in many ways the disappointing son of an accomplished father.

  Cale sighed and made himself as comfortable as possible in the saddle. It would be a long ride to Ordulin.

  Miklos Selkirk guided his dappled mare around a deep rut in the earth. Kavin skirted it on the other side on his roan mare.

  “She is involved,” Miklos said across the gap. “There can be no doubt.”

  Miklos had been saying much the same thing for the previous two days. Kavin knew it was his brother’s way of facing the death of their father. Miklos grieved by talking, planning, shouting, acting. He was never one to sit in a corner and wail.

  Kavin had always been the more thoughtful of the two Selkirk brothers, and he did his best to check his brother’s unwise impulses. He said, “Our contacts in the High Council indicated that the Tyrrans questioned her before the High Council. Mirabeta denied involvement in Father’s death, and the high lord abbot pronounced it truth.”

  Miklos’s lips twisted in contempt under his moustache. “Then he is wrong, bought, or both.”

  “Father’s spirit named Endren his murderer.”

  They guided their horses back together and Miklos shook his head. “You know Endren Corrinthal, Kavin. He is no murderer. Besides, it was Abelar Corrinthal who sent word to us in Scardale and who described the events in the High Council. The man is as right as a carpenter’s square. No, this is the work of Mirabeta and that scheming niece she keeps at her side. I am certain of it.”

  Kavin did know Endren, mostly by reputation. The elder Corrinthal was regarded as an astute politician and an honorable man. His son, Abelar, a servant of Lathander, was above reproach. Abelar had left Ordulin but sent word to Miklos in Scardale, telling him of events, warning him away from Ordulin, and offering him sanctuary in Saerb. Miklos had sent a written reply, thanking Abelar but declining the offer of sanctuary. His place was in Ordulin, he had written.

  “We never should have left the capital,” Miklos said, pulling at one end of his moustache. “Not with everything that has happened recently. If we had been there, this never would have occurred.”

  Kavin nodded, though he was not entirely sure he knew which “this” Miklos meant. He said nothing. His brother was given to recriminations and nothing Kavin could say would stop him. Kavin doubted that their presence would have changed much.

  “Look at this,” Miklos said hotly, and gestured at the field through which they rode. Kavin could not tell from the bare, dried dirt what might have grown there once. He assumed barley, possibly wheat. Miklos snorted. “Fallow. The upcountry fields are fallow all across the realm. Villages are abandoned. Damned drought. Double-damned dragons. And thrice-damned Rain of Fire!” He frowned and said softly, “A realm can bear only so much. Sembia is tottering. I feel it. I fear what will become of it, Kavin.”

  “Nothing good, with Mirabeta as overmistress,” Kavin answered.

  “Temporary overmistress,” Miklos corrected with a wag of his finger. “And we will remedy even that as soon as possible.”

  “Agreed,” Kavin said.

  After receiving word from Abelar three days earlier, they had left Scardale in secret and in disguise, cutting southwest across the backcountry to avoid the roads and spies. The travel was slower than by road, but more circumspect. The Silver Ravens—the men of Miklos’s mercenary company—had wanted to provide an armed escort but Miklos and Kavin had refused. They hoped to enter Ordulin unnoted and unannounced, assess the political situation and how best to play it, and find out the truth behind their father’s death.

  “I have arranged a safehouse in Ordulin,” Kavin said. “We should have a tenday or more before the moot.”

  “Time enough,” Miklos said.

  Kavin agreed, though they would have to move fast to solidify opposition to Mirabeta.

  After a time, they dismounted and broke for a quick meal of dried meat and stale bread. Kavin was relieved to be out of the saddle. Hard riding over rough terrain had left him sore.

  After eating, they mounted up and continued their crosscountry trek, hoping to reach Ordulin by the next night. After about two hours of riding and continued plotting and grumbling, Miklos pulled back on his reins. His mare snorted and danced a half-circle. He wore a puz
zled look.

  “What is it?” Kavin asked. He halted his own mount and she whinnied.

  “I thought I heard something,” Miklos said, staring ahead. “A horse.”

  “I heard nothing, and we are nowhere near a road. A bird, perhaps?”

  The tree-dotted plain ahead looked much like the terrain they had crossed for the past half-league. Uneven ground lay covered in tall whipgrass and scrub, speckled with stands of larch.

  “This smells wrong,” Miklos said softly, eyeing the way ahead. He put a hand to the hilt of one of his enchanted rapiers. His horse turned a circle.

  “We can circle back,” Kavin said.

  Miklos appeared not to hear him. “The two stands of trees there, to the left and right. Do you mark them?”

  Kavin nodded. Two copses of mature larches were separated by perhaps twenty paces. He saw nothing suspicious about them but had learned over the years to trust his brother’s instincts.

  He uncapped a tube at his belt and pulled out an iron wand that fired blasts of magical energy. He was not a wizard, and could not always get the damned thing to operate, but when it did, it never missed. There was little else he could do from horseback.

  As they watched, a dozen or so sparrows alit from the trees on the left, as if disturbed by something.

  “Dark!” Miklos swore.

  Kavin heard the twang of crossbows and two groups of chain-mailed men and their horses suddenly appeared at the edge of the larches. Kavin caught a glimpse of at least one robed figure among the group—no doubt he had cast an illusion to hide their presence. None of them wore uniforms or symbols revealing their origin.

  A shower of bolts hissed around the brothers. Two struck Miklos in the chest and nearly knocked him from his saddle. Neither penetrated his magical mail. A bolt skinned Kavin’s roan and she neighed in pain and bucked, but he held his seat. Another passed through Kavin’s sleeve but missed his flesh.

  Cursing, Kavin leveled his wand and discharged five glowing shafts of violet energy at the robed figure, whom he figured to be a priest or wizard. All five blasts slammed into the figure’s chest and he staggered backward then fell to the ground.

  The rest of the ambushers slung their crossbows and jumped into their saddles with skill and speed. Kavin marked the men as experienced soldiers.

  “Too many to make a stand!” he said to Miklos.

  “Ride!” Miklos shouted. He spun his horse and drove his heels into her flanks. She raced off.

  Kavin did the same. His mare snorted, turned, and ran like the Hells themselves were at her heels. He spared a glance behind him.

  The ambushers spurred their horses after them. He glimpsed a familiar face leading the group.

  “Malkur Forrin!” Kavin shouted to Miklos.

  His elder brother cursed.

  Forrin hated the Selkirk family. Their father had dismissed him from his post in the Helms. Forrin led the Blades, a notorious mercenary company composed of former Sembian soldiers—skilled Sembian soldiers.

  Kavin steered with his legs and aimed his wand back at their pursuers. He put his finger in the triggering depression and the wand fizzled. A drop of arcane energy drizzled from the tip. He cursed and almost flung it in frustration.

  Meanwhile, Miklos reached back and forced open the drawstring on one of his saddlebags. “Stay clear of them!” Miklos shouted. He pulled one of the sacks from his saddlebag and dropped it on the ground, then another, then another, in rapid succession. Upon impact, the bags broke open and the gummy substance within reacted with the air and began to expand. Viscous, sticky fluid pooled in the grass.

  Kavin spurred his roan and she leaped the expanding, tangling mess. She hit the ground and he righted himself, then tried again to operate his wand. He succeeded and fired three bolts that hit Forrin in the chest and leg. Kavin grinned. The big mercenary grimaced with pain but continued the pursuit.

  “Hyah!” Miklos shouted, and pushed his mare harder.

  Kavin did the same and lowered his head along the mare’s neck. They were gaining some distance. The mercenaries’ horses, bearing armored men, fought against a much heavier load. Kavin and Miklos would outdistance them.

  Kavin watched as the mercenaries rode near the spilled bags and two of the horses got caught in the substance. Both went down with their riders in a tumble of legs, shouts, and neighs.

  Kavin and Miklos shared a hard grin.

  Kavin faced forward in the saddle just in time to see two men rise up in the grass before them. Both wore hooded cloaks that shifted with their movement to match the background terrain. Both wore light armor and held arm-length wooden tubes to their mouths.

  Miklos and Kavin’s mounts, startled by the unexpected appearance of the men, whinnied and reared up on their hind legs. Both men held their seats, but barely.

  “Beware!” Miklos shouted, drawing his rapier.

  Kavin pulled one of his throwing daggers and flung it awkwardly at the man nearest him. As he let it fly, he heard a peculiar whump and felt a sting in his cheek. The dagger caught the man in the leg and he went down.

  Kavin righted his horse, glanced behind—the mercenaries were closing rapidly—and spurred her forward.

  “Move, Miklos! Move!”

  He brushed at the sting in his cheek and came away with a small, feathered dart. A dark substance and a bit of blood coated its tip and his finger.

  He tried to shout for his brother but his mouth was suddenly dry. Events slowed down, blurred. His skin felt thick, numb. He struggled to keep his head up and his hands on the reins. His horse sensed his weakness and slowed, then stopped. One of the men who had been hidden in the grass appeared near her, waving his wooden tube, and she bucked. Kavin could not keep his seat. He fell to the ground. He knew he landed hard but he hardly felt it.

  The hooves of the onrushing mercenaries caused the ground to vibrate under him. He felt weight on his chest. He looked up, but saw nothing atop him.

  The poison was killing him, he realized.

  He caught sight of Miklos. His brother was racing back toward him, his face twisted in anger and concern. The two mercenaries in the magical cloaks turned to face him, drew short blades. One of them limped from the wound Kavin had caused.

  Miklos held the reins with one hand and his rapier in the other. He slashed quickly and opened the throat of the man Kavin had wounded. The other dived aside and his cloak caused him to disappear into the whipgrass.

  Miklos swung off the horse and knelt beside Kavin. Kavin focused on his tanned face, his moustache, his black hair streaked with gray. The features were like a mask, floating on nothingness. Everything else was a blur. Kavin tried to speak.

  “Say nothing,” Miklos ordered.

  Miklos picked him up and tried to sling him over his horse. Kavin heard the sound of crossbow fire. Miklos exclaimed, stiffened. He dropped Kavin on his back.

  Kavin tried to rise but could barely move. He turned his head and saw his brother on his knees with five crossbow bolts sticking from his back. More firing, and three more sank into his chest. Miklos swayed and fell face down beside Kavin. Kavin heard the crossbow bolts snap against the ground as his brother fell.

  Tears welled in Kavin’s eyes. He struggled to breathe, to pull out his wand. His body would not answer. He felt his heart beating irregularly, failing.

  He reached out for his brother. He worked his fingers around Miklos’s forearm and inched them down to his hand. He took it in his own and held on with all the strength he had left.

  Figures appeared around him. He could hear them, see them as silhouettes, but could not make out details or sounds. He assumed Forrin was among them, and tried to curse him.

  He heard his heart in his ears, slowing, slowing. He was floating away.

  He squeezed his brother’s cooling hand and his heart stopped. For a single moment, he could see clearly.

  His last sight was a blue Sembian sky.

  Malkur dismounted and looked down on the dead Selkirk brothers. The
younger Selkirk’s face was blackened and swollen on his cheek from the poisoned dart. He looked at the scorch marks on his breeches caused by Kavin Selkirk’s wand.

  “That stung,” he said, and kicked the dead noble in the head. The men near him chuckled.

  Thell, one of his sergeants, stepped beside him to deliver a report. “Dertil is dead to the Selkirk’s blade. Whelin broke his neck when the horse went over. Ferd’s shoulder came out of joint but that’s easily fixed. Xinnen took bolts from the wand but lives. Two horses are down but we’ve got the Selkirk horses to replace them. That is all.”

  Malkur frowned. He hated to lose men, especially a skilled man like Dertil. But he had others. “Collect Dertil’s gear, especially the cloak.” The magical camouflaging cloaks were an asset of the company, not one man.

  Thell nodded agreement.

  Behind them, Ferd shouted a string of expletives as Millen, a priest of Talos, forced his shoulder back into its joint.

  “Where the Hells is Xinnen?” Malkur asked Thell. “The man gets hit with a wand and cannot keep up?”

  Xinnen, one of the company’s wizards, had located the Selkirks through divinations. His illusions had masked the ambush, which the Selkirks had almost sniffed out.

  “Here he is now,” said Thell.

  Xinnen rode up at a trot, scowling. The men heckled him mercilessly for being out-wizarded by a nonwizard. Xinnen cursed them and called them sons of whores.

  “Get down here, Xinnen,” Malkur ordered.

  The mage dismounted and stood beside Thell and Malkur over the dead brothers.

  “Serves them appropriately,” Xinnen said.

  “Find the magical gewgaws,” Malkur said. “We might as well have those.”

  “The wand is magical, certainly,” Xinnen said. He spoke the words to a simple spell and studied the bodies. He turned both corpses over with his foot. He looked up at Malkur and said, “Their blades, their armor, Miklos’s boots, and the ring on his left hand. Nothing else.”