by Paul S. Kemp
Shouted orders passed through the mercenary ranks and the group of archers, in the rear of the column, drew their bows.
A flight of arrows arced up and rained down on the Selgauntans. A horse went down and its rider tumbled. Another arrow sank into the shoulder of a house guard. He sagged but held his seat with one hand.
Cale gained a few more strides and figured he was close enough to walk the shadows. He eyed one of the last men in the formation, an archer. He leaned forward and moved through the darkness from his saddle to that of the archer. He appeared behind the man, on the horse’s backside. Cale did not even try to stay atop the horse. He drove both daggers through the mercenary’s mail and into his kidneys. The man gave an aborted shout and the horse’s motion threw him and Cale.
Cale hit the ground in a roll. The impact drove the air from his lungs and displaced his shoulder. He ignored the pain, jumped to his feet, and started sprinting after the mercenaries. His regenerative flesh popped his shoulder back into its socket as he ran.
Cale ran a handful of steps, picked another man at the end of the formation, jumped into the air, and stepped through the shadows to the darkness behind the archer. Cale appeared in midair and wrapped his arms around the throat of the rider. The mercenary uttered a muffled scream for aid as he and Cale fell from the horse. Both grunted as they hit the ground and tumbled. Cale felt a bone crack in his ankle and forearm, but his body quelled the pain as it repaired the break. He gained his feet, located the groaning mercenary, and drove a dagger into his chest and another into his throat.
He stood, prepared to repeat the process, and saw that two of the mercenaries must have heard their comrade shout. They peeled off the formation and charged at Cale, blades high.
Cale held up his shadowhand and intoned a prayer to Mask. An arc of dark energy went forth from his palm and struck both men. Wounds opened in their exposed skin—gashes like mouths spitting blood. Their bones twisted and shattered. Both screamed and fell from their horses. One snapped his neck on impact. Cale drew Weaveshear, bounded forward, and drove the blade through the second rider’s chest.
He grabbed the reins of one of the neighing horses, calmed it, swung himself up, and started after the mercenaries once more. He was not close enough to shadowstep, so he spurred the horse on.
He gritted his teeth as another volley of arrows from the mercenaries killed another house guard. The mercenaries’ horses stomped his fallen body into the ground as they pursued. Cale saw five glowing magical darts shoot from the fingers of the wizard riding near Malkur and slam into Tamlin’s back. He arched with pain but held his saddle. Tamlin turned to look back on the mercenaries, moved his hand through a series of intricate gestures, and pointed.
A blinding cloud of sleet and ice formed and swirled around the mercenaries’ center, affecting fully a third of the force. The icy ground sent half a dozen horses down and their riders with them. Men shouted, cursed, railed. Horses neighed, whinnied, bucked.
Cale grinned, thinking the Selgauntans had just improved the odds and might yet escape.
The mercenaries’ wizard answered Tamlin’s spell with one of his own, and a thicket of fat black tentacles squirmed up from the plains in the Selgauntans’ midst. Their horses reared and bucked, and many fell. The house guards shouted, hacked at the tentacles with their blades, all to no avail. The squirming limbs grabbed at everything that moved. Some plucked riders from their mounts, others plucked mount and rider together and lifted them off the earth. In the span of three heartbeats, every Selgauntan was wrapped in a black tentacle. The limbs began to squeeze and the Selgauntans began to scream.
The mercenaries slowed and approached at a more leisurely pace. Cale cursed. He would have to kill the wizard.
He sheathed his daggers and intoned a prayer to Mask. When he finished, dangerous energy charged his hands. He closed the distance to the mercenaries until he was less than a bowshot behind them. He checked the darkness behind the mage and rode the night onto the wizard’s horse.
The moment he appeared, he clamped both hands onto either side of the wizard’s head and discharged the baleful energy. Wounds erupted all over the wizard’s face. Blood spurted from his ears, eyes, and mouth. Cale felt the man’s skull crack under his fingertips. The wizard managed only a choked, gurgling scream before Cale let him fall, dead, from his horse.
Malkur’s horse and others near Cale whinnied and reared in surprise. The men near him cursed, tried to turn their mounts and bring their blades to bear.
Cale met Malkur’s eyes for a moment before he pulled the shadows around him and stepped through them to the edge of the tentacles, ahead of the mercenaries.
The thick limbs entwined men and horses and both screamed as the tentacles continued to constrict. The glowing dust that had covered the Selgauntans no longer shone. Cale held up his hand and intoned a prayer to Mask, pitting the power of his magic against that of the wizard, attempting to undo the wizard’s constricting magic.
He felt resistance when his magic met the wizard’s spell but Cale’s abjuration prevailed. The tentacles vanished in a blink and the men and their mounts fell to the ground, groaning. The bray of a battle horn sounded behind Cale and he turned to receive the mercenaries’ charge. The Selgauntans were all going to die, but he would take Malkur and as many mercenaries with him as he could.
But instead of facing the charging mercenaries, Cale saw a second force of spear-armed horsemen streaking across the plains from his right, directly at the attackers. Cale guessed their number to be about double that of Malkur’s men.
A rosy glow illuminated the riders and they looked almost celestial galloping through the high grass on their leather-barded warhorses. The glow emanated from the upraised blade of an armored figure who rode at their head—a sandy-haired man in a mail hauberk, helm, and enameled breastplate. He alone bore a blade rather than a horse spear. In his left hand he carried a standard and it billowed straight out behind him: a silver horse rampant on a violet field, the heraldry of Saerb. The rider beside him blew a note on his horn and the Saerbians spread into a line.
“For Saerb!” the riders shouted in unison.
Cale saw a nervous ripple make its way through the mercenary ranks as horses turned circles and men sought orders. Malkur and his sergeants issued commands and the mercenaries formed a makeshift line. The archers let fly a disorganized volley of arrows that found no targets in the onrushing Saerbians.
A few of the house guards behind Cale recovered themselves enough to let out a cheer.
“Huzzah!” shouted one.
Cale thought the mercenaries might make a stand. He considered shadowstepping into their ranks to kill Malkur but did not want to get caught in the Saerbian’s charge.
The Saerbians let loose another horn blast and lowered their spears. The thunder of charging hooves vibrated the ground under the Selgauntans’ feet.
Malkur shouted an order, turned his horse in a circle, and signaled a retreat. As one, the mercenaries whirled their mounts and sped off. The Saerbians let out another blare of their horns and thundered after.
A second wizard in the mercenary company cast a spell as he rode and the air between the two cavalry forces froze solid into a curtain of ice that rose fully twenty paces vertically and stretched several bowshots across the plain. Its edge nearly reached the Selgauntans. Cale could feel the cold it radiated.
The glowing rider at the head of the Saerbian forces shouted and pulled his mount to a stop. The others did the same, and two hundred warhorses reared and pawed. The chill air near the wall of ice made their snorts visible as frozen mist.
The mercenaries, heads down, galloped away as fast as their horses would bear them.
From behind Cale, Tamlin incanted a spell and shot a lightning bolt at the fleeing mercenaries. It hit a horse and rider squarely and sent them careening head over heels and smoking into the turf. His fellows did not slow.
“After the bastards!” shouted one of the house guards.
<
br /> Ren echoed Cale’s thoughts. “Leave it, Maur. It’s over.”
Cale turned, nodded at Ren, saw that Tamlin and several of the house guards showed wounds from arrows or spells. He hurried to Tamlin’s side.
Tamlin eyed him with a question on his face and Cale remembered his mask. He removed it, held it in his hand, and uttered a healing prayer as he touched Tamlin. The pallor left Tamlin’s face and he breathed more easily.
“A shade and a priest,” Tamlin said. “You provide one surprise after another.” He looked at the mask. “Which god do you serve, Mister Cale?”
Cale mumbled something incomprehensible and moved to the wounded house guards, healing each in turn. None of the men asked him any questions, but merely mouthed gratitude. Cale felt Tamlin’s eyes on him throughout.
The rumble of approaching hooves heralded the Saerbians’ arrival. Cale, Tamlin, and the house guards rode forth to meet them. Although he was no astute judge of horseflesh, even Cale could see that the Saerbian horses were magnificent. Leather barding protected muscular bodies covered in reddish brown fur. The riders bore short spears and mail. All wore serious looks, but none more serious than their leader.
An enameled rose decorated his breastplate and a similar symbol hung from a chain at his throat. Short, sand-colored hair topped an angular face spotted with several days’ growth of beard. He sheathed his glowing blade and handed the standard to one of the men beside him. Cale could not shake the impression that the man was still aglow, though he could see plainly that he was not.
“The gods keep Saerb,” Ren said with a smile, and many of the Saerbians smiled.
The leader dismounted and said, “I am Abelar Corrinthal. And these are men of Saerb. You are Selgauntans, no?”
Cale, Tamlin, and the house guards answered with nods and ayes.
“You have our thanks,” Cale said to Abelar, and extended his hand. “I am Erevis Cale.”
Abelar regarded him with a furrowed brow but extended his hand anyway. No shadows emerged from Cale’s skin at Abelar’s touch.
“Corrinthal?” Tamlin said. “You are kin of Endren?”
Abelar nodded and a challenge lit his eyes. “His son.”
Cale gestured at Tamlin and said, “You have saved Selgaunt’s leader. Thamalon Uskevren the Second, Hulorn of Selgaunt.”
A murmur went through the ranks of the Saerbians.
“The hulorn himself is on the road?” Abelar asked.
Tamlin nodded. “Traveling to Ordulin for the moot. You are far from home, Abelar Corrinthal.”
“We have been many days on the road,” Abelar answered with a nod. “When we heard that the Saerloonian delegation had been attacked, we—”
“The Saerloonian delegation was attacked?” Tamlin asked. “By whom?”
Abelar answered, “I suspect by the same forces that attacked you, Lord Hulorn.”
“But the forces that attacked us wore Ordulin’s colors,” Tamlin said.
“Mirabeta Selkirk is behind it,” Abelar said. His men nodded, grunted agreement.
Tamlin stared at him for a moment. “That is preposterous! Mirabeta Selkirk is the Overmistress of Sembia. Why would she make an enemy of Selgaunt?”
Abelar said, “Because she wishes more power for herself and knows that Selgaunt will not support her. Just as she knows that Saerb will not. Events are moving quickly, my lord. You have been away from your city only a few days and matters have run ahead of you.” He reached into a pocket and removed a folded piece of parchment. He handed it to Cale, who handed it to Tamlin. “This is a proclamation issued by Mirabeta Selkirk five days ago. When I heard of it, I expected an attack on your delegation. We have been riding after you since.”
Tamlin unfolded the parchment, read it, and his expression went from puzzled to angry.
“That is absurd! Forces out of Selgaunt did not attack the Saerloonians!”
“Nor did any man from Saerb,” Abelar said. “I assure you of that.”
Tamlin handed the letter to Cale and he read it to himself.
Yesterday, soldiers from Selgaunt and Saerb engaged in a most cowardly and ignoble surprise attack on members of the Saerloonian delegation as they made their way to Ordulin for a moot of their peers. This attack appears to be retaliation for the arrest of the murderer Endren Corrinthal and in furtherance of his and his co-conspirators’ attempt to seize power in Sembia through force of arms.
Cale did not bother to read the rest.
“She is lying!” Tamlin sputtered. “Lying!”
Abelar nodded. “It is all a lie. My father did not murder the Overmaster, yet Mirabeta has condemned him to the Hole of Yhaunn.” Uncomfortable glances passed between the men from Saerb at that news.
Abelar continued, “Selgaunt and Saerb did not attack the Saerloonians, yet we are named traitors to the nation. The truth no longer matters. The people and the nobility believe the lie because they prefer where it leads. Mirabeta has made you, and Saerb, the enemy that she will use to secure her rule.”
“I will not have it,” Tamlin said, shaking his head. “Sembia will not have it.”
“It is already done, my lord,” Abelar said. “Most of the nobility in the realm are behind her. Only Daerlun stands neutral, but that’s only because it contemplates secession to Cormyr. Mirabeta has won the rest with promises, fear, and false patriotism. Already she has sounded a muster in Ordulin and Saerloon, and troops from all over Sembia are gathering. Come spring, Selgaunt and Saerb will be assaulted by her two armies. You have two options. You can accept her lies and go meekly to the gallows or you can fight. There is no other way.”
“Fight?” Tamlin said. “Fight other Sembians?”
“Civil war, my lord,” Abelar said, nodding. “It is already upon us though the armies have not yet met.”
Tamlin was flushed, sweating. The combat and the news from the capital left him foundering.
“I need time to think,” Tamlin said, rubbing his temples. “This is … unbelievable.”
Cale stepped to Tamlin’s side, prepared to steady him by his presence if not his arm. “Where are you camped, Abelar?”
Abelar regarded Cale coolly. “Not far from here.” He turned to his men. “Regg, have the men assist the Selgauntans in gathering their dead. Then we ride for the camp.”
The Selgauntans, aided by the Saerbians, set about collecting their fallen. Afterward, the entire force rode south for the Saerbian camp. Tamlin, Cale, and Abelar trailed the main body.
“You spoke of civil war, yet you ride far east of your home to rescue us?” Cale said to Abelar.
Abelar looked at Tamlin as he answered. “I needed to ensure the safety and loyalty of the leader of my only sure ally. I have done the former. I hope I have done the latter?”
Tamlin nodded absently. Abelar glanced at Cale, then back to Tamlin.
“You keep unusual company, Lord Uskevren,” he said.
Tamlin took his point. “Mister Cale is a trusted advisor and … priest.”
“Oh?” Abelar said, eyebrows raised. “Whom do you serve, Erevis Cale?”
“Yes, whom do you serve, Mister Cale?” Tamlin asked.
Cale came within a blade’s width of punching Tamlin in the face. Had Tamlin not been Thamalon’s son, had Cale not figured Magadon’s fate to be tied up in Sembia’s, he would have left Tamlin to his own counsel then and there.
He looked Tamlin in the eyes, then Abelar. He took the mask from his pocket and held it up for both of them to see. “I serve Mask the Shadowlord. I have for over two years.” Tamlin looked shocked. Abelar frowned. Cale glared first at Tamlin then at Abelar. “I can read your face, Corrinthal. Say what you would.”
Tamlin, perhaps thinking better of his verbal ambush, said, “Mister Cale has proven his worth to my father and to me countless times, Abelar. His loyalty is beyond question, irrespective of the god he serves.”
Abelar held Cale’s gaze throughout Tamlin’s defense. Cale credited him for not faltering. If nothing else,
he recognized Abelar as a man he could respect.
Abelar said, “I judge men by their deeds, Cale. Not their gods and not their blood.” He looked at Cale’s skin as if he could see Cale was not a mere man. “But Lathander has empowered me to look in men’s souls, and there is darkness in you. It is apparent to anyone who can see.”
Cale knew the words to be true but was too angry to acknowledge them aloud. “There is a darkness in every man, Corrinthal,” he answered. “And I, too, judge men by their deeds. That holy symbol you wear carries no weight with me.”
They stared at each other a moment longer. Finally Abelar nodded. “Well enough,” he said.
“Well enough,” Cale answered.
When they arrived at the Saerbian camp, Tamlin, Cale, and Abelar took counsel in private around the fire, amidst the Saerbian tents. The house guards and Saerbians assigned men to a watch and the rest prepared for sleep.
Tamlin looked from Cale to Abelar. The firelight highlighted the circles under his eyes.
“If we fight …” he eyed Abelar, “… and I say ‘if,’ because even if I agree with your course, I do not have plenary authority to send Selgaunt to war. The Old Chauncel must ratify any such decision.”
Abelar said “They will fight. An army will arrive at your walls. They will fight or die.”
Tamlin sighed, continued. “Who else can we count on as an ally?”
Abelar leaned back and shook his head. “No one. The nobles have either sided with Ordulin or are trying to stay neutral until the storm blows over.”
Cale found Abelar’s choice of words ominous. Abelar continued. “Even the nobles in and around Saerb have lost their nerve. My father could rally them, but he is in the Hole of Yhaunn—and I am not him.” He looked at Tamlin steadily. “I have two hundred and eleven men in this company. Another two hundred, perhaps three, would rally to me back in Saerb. That, combined with your forces, is all that stands against Mirabeta.”
Tamlin shook his head. “You have four hundred men? Five hundred at best? Mirabeta will have thousands. I can muster perhaps two thousand men, not many more, assuming all the Old Chauncel agree that war is the only course.”