by Paul S. Kemp
The man, soaked and shaking, said in a trembling voice, “The gods bless you.”
And so it went for a half-hour that felt like a lifetime. While the Watchblades, wizards, and priests of Yhaunn fought the kraken, managed the panic, and tried to save their city, Cale pulled more than two score citizens from the creature’s path, and the shadowwalkers did likewise. Throughout, Cale kept an eye on the Hole, waiting for Riven.
“Come on,” he said, willing Riven to emerge. “Come on.”
Voices sounded at the top of the shaft. Lantern light trickled down. Riven and the shadowwalkers froze in silence, tried to merge with the stone.
The beam from a lantern shone down the shaft, scoured the sides. It fell on Riven, on the shadowwalkers.
“There!” said a voice. “There!”
More shouts and the twang of crossbows. A bolt skipped off the stone near Riven. Another. One sank into Dynd’s thigh. He grunted with pain, slipped, but held his perch.
“Faster,” Riven said. “Faster!”
But he knew they were too slow. Endren was slowing Vyrhas and the smooth walls made climbing difficult. The crossbows continued to sing. Bolts skittered off the walls. Head-sized chunks of rock joined them, crashing and bouncing down the shaft’s sides. One clipped Dynd on the shoulder. He lost his grip and started to fall but Shadem grabbed him by the wrist and planted his hand on the stone. Both men slipped a body length, but both steadied themselves.
More rocks fell, coming like rain. One whizzed by Riven so close he felt the wind of its passage. Another shower of bolts whizzed around their heads.
“You’re all dead men!” shouted one of the guards, and the rest laughed.
Riven could not argue the point. They were dead if they kept climbing. And they had no other choice.
Riven steadied his footing, steadied his heart, and took his magical knife from his belt pouch. The magic it held usually caused its edges to glow red, but it lay dark in his hand, inert in the magic-dead Hole.
“Let go,” he shouted to the shadowwalkers.
They eyed him across the shaft, their tattooed faces dark in the lantern light from above.
More bolts sizzled down the shaft. One nicked Vyrhas. He grunted with pain. Endren slipped, but Vyrhas held him.
“If it’s deep enough, the magic may work before we hit bottom. I’ll use my ring. You use the shadows. It’s all we have.”
The shadowwalkers shared a look, nodded.
Riven pushed himself away from the wall and went into a freefall. The air roared past his ears and he plummeted downward into darkness. He held his holy symbol in his right hand, the dagger in his left, willing its dark blade to spark back to life.
From somewhere far below, he saw a dim light. His sunrod. The bottom.
He cursed as the bottom rushed up and his dagger blade began to shine.
Cale saw Riven’s team materialize out of the shadows outside the Hole’s entrance. They bore a body and they were missing one man. Either they had not gotten Endren out, or one of them was still in the mine. Cale cursed and rode the shadows to their side.
He saw that Riven was alive and the relief he felt surprised him. Dirt and blood covered the assassin. Vyrhas carried the limp body of a gray-haired man dressed in filthy, tattered clothes. Cale assumed him to be Endren and could see that the man was bleeding. A bloody rag wrapped the stump of his wrist. Shadem and Dynd both bore wounds but seemed unharmed. Skelan was missing.
The darkness swirled around them and Nayan, Erynd, and Dynd stepped from the shadows.
“What happened?” Cale asked.
“Guards,” Riven said. “Skelan bought our escape. He’s not coming out.”
“Hells,” Cale cursed.
Nayan put a hand on Cale’s shoulder. “It is our honor to die in service to the Shadowlord.”
“The Hells it is,” Cale said.
The kraken shrieked from down in the bay, the city rumbled, and spell explosions lit the sky. Cale decided that he had done all he could for Yhaunn. The city would drive off the kraken sooner or later, or it would not.
Cale took Endren by the hair and pulled back his head. The man’s eyes fluttered open, rolled back in his head.
“You’d better be worth it,” Cale said, and intoned a healing prayer. The energy flowed into Endren and his breathing steadied. To Nayan, Cale said, “Take him to the Wayrock and await us there. If we don’t return, get him to his son. Riven, you’re with me.”
“The Shadovar?” Riven asked.
Cale nodded and pulled the darkness about them. The shadowwalkers did the same.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
11 Uktar, the Year of Lightning Storms
Cale and Riven stepped through the shadows to Selgaunt, to an alley off Rauncel’s Ride. Cale strode onto the street, shadows pouring from him, and stalked up to Stormweather’s gate.
“Mister Cale!” said one of the house guards whose name Cale did not know.
“Where is the hulorn?”
The man seemed so surprised by Cale’s appearance and tone that he could not speak. His eyes moved from Cale to Riven.
“Where is Lord Uskevren?” Cale repeated. “Now, man.”
The house guard said, “At the palace, with Vees Talendar and the Shadovar ambassador.”
“At this hour?” Cale asked.
The guard shrugged and said, “Is all well, Mister Cale?”
“No,” Cale said.
He had visited the hulorn’s palace many times in his life. He pictured it in his mind, drew the shadows around him and Riven, and transported them.
They materialized on the walkway before the palace’s main entry. He and Riven drew blades and took the stairs two at a time. They pushed through the palace’s double doors and the graying chamberlain, Thriistin, appeared from a side room. He appeared to be awake, though …
His eyes widened with surprise. Cale knew Thriistin but they had not seen one another for some time. Four Helms emerged from concealed watchposts around the doors, blades bare.
“May I … help you, Mister Cale?” Thriistin asked. “The hour is late and weapons are not—”
“Where is the hulorn?” Cale demanded.
“I am certain that I could—”
Cale took him by the shirt, pulled him close, and looked into his face. Shadows boiled from his hands. The chamberlain paled.
The Helms advanced but Riven held his blades up and said, “I wouldn’t.”
Cale said to Thriistin, “You know me, and my connection to the Uskevren family, Thriistin. Tamlin is in danger. Where is he?”
“Danger?” asked one of the Helms.
The chamberlain stammered, then managed, “In the great hall, with the Shadovar emissary and his guards.”
Cale released the chamberlain and rushed down the hall with Riven, the Helms rattling after them. Cale could see a faint light leaking under the double doors of the great hall. He kicked them open and strode into the room.
Glowballs provided light. Tamlin, Vees Talendar, and the tall Shadovar ambassador stood over a long wooden table. A large vellum map lay stretched out atop it. A plate of fruits, breads, and cheese lay on the table.
All three men looked up. Vees Talendar’s face twisted in a snarl. Tamlin’s face showed only surprise. The Shadovar’s angular face showed nothing, but his glowing, golden eyes narrowed. Shadows swirled around him like a cloak.
Cale realized immediately that the Shadovar was a shade.
“Mister Cale!” Tamlin said. “You are returned safely. Is Endren—?”
“Endren is safe,” Cale said, eyeing the Shadovar and closing the distance. “But you are in danger.” He looked at the ambassador. “Step away from him.”
Cale moved around the table toward the ambassador and five Shadovar bodyguards—shades, like their master—materialized out of the darkness to cut off Cale’s approach. Their hands went for wide blades. Cale had forgotten Thriistin’s mention of the guards but it did not matter. He walked the shadow space and in
a single stride found himself behind the bodyguards and eye to eye with the golden-eyed Shadovar ambassador.
“Mister Cale!” Tamlin said.
“Gods,” Vees Talendar said.
The shadows around the ambassador flared into a protective shroud; the shadows around Cale responded, leaping outward toward the Shadovar. Energy crackled where the shadows touched.
The ambassador’s expression showed no fear. His voice was steady and cold. “The hulorn is in no danger from me.” He held up a dark hand to halt whatever the bodyguards might have intended.
“No, not anymore,” Cale said, and brandished Weaveshear.
The ambassador cocked his head. He said softly, “You are a shade,” and his gaze moved for an instant to Vees Talendar. “Strange that I have not heard of this earlier.”
“Magadon Kest,” Cale said. “You have him. Where is he?”
The ambassador said, “Magadon is a friend of yours, I assume?”
Cale grabbed the Shadovar by his finery and almost jerked him from his feet with one hand. The shadows around the two men spat purple sparks.
The Shadovar bodyguards appeared around them, blades at the ready.
The ambassador’s eyes showed brewing anger but he shook his head and the bodyguards did nothing.
“It is fortunate for you that we are where we are,” the ambassador said.
“What is going on here?” Tamlin demanded, circling the two so he could see Cale’s face. “Mister Cale? Cease immediately.”
Riven moved around the table into Cale’s field of vision, eyeing the Shadovar. Three of the bodyguards turned to face him, shadows swirling around them. Riven chuckled.
The three Shadovar, as silent as shadows, spread out for combat.
Cale glared into the ambassador’s face. “If anyone dies in this room, I promise that you will be among them.”
The Shadovar’s face hardened. Shadows as black as midnight streamed from his flesh, swirled around Cale.
“You are playing a dangerous game, child.”
“Mister Cale!” Tamlin said. “You are assaulting an ally of Selgaunt and an ambassador of a foreign state.” To the Helms standing in the doorway, Tamlin said, “Arrest him.”
“Stand your ground,” Cale said, and did not hear the Helms advance.
“You seem tense,” Riven taunted the Shadovar, turning a circle in their midst, feinting to elicit movement. “What color is your blood, I wonder?”
“The same as yours,” the ambassador called to Riven. “We are men, as you. And we are allies of your lord.”
“He’s not my lord,” Riven said with contempt.
“Unhand him, Erevis,” Tamlin said. “Now. This is Rivalen Tanthul, a prince of Shade Enclave, and his people are Selgaunt’s ally.”
Rivalen nodded at Cale. “I arranged the attack on Yhaunn so you could succeed in your rescue of Endren. Is that not evidence of where my loyalties lie?”
Cale shook his head. “It is evidence only that you are a skillful liar. I do not know your game, but I know your like.”
Rivalen’s eyes narrowed. The room darkened.
“Release him, Erevis,” Tamlin said. “And apologize. You are in the wrong.”
“Very in the wrong,” Rivalen said softly.
Riven scoffed.
“Erevis?” Tamlin said.
“Fear not, Lord Hulorn,” Rivalen said. “This is a trifling matter.” Despite his reassuring words, his eyes smoldered. “Mister Cale does not understand that Magadon is no prisoner. He is performing a service for us. Voluntarily.”
Cale reluctantly let Rivalen go, though he still held Weaveshear at the ready.
Riven spat on the floor of the great hall and said, “A lie.”
Cale nodded. “You lie.”
“Tell him the nature of the service,” Tamlin said to Rivalen.
“You will forgive me, Hulorn, but the matter does not concern Selgaunt or Sembia at this time.”
Tamlin seemed at a loss for words.
“Bring him to me,” Cale demanded. “Now.”
Rivalen’s eyes flared. He studied Cale’s face. “I will take you to him, if you wish.”
Cale smelled the trap but had little choice. He needed to learn where Magadon was being kept.
“No,” he said. “You tell me where he is and we will go ourselves. I have my own methods of travel.”
Rivalen stared into Cale’s eyes. Cale answered with his own stare.
“He is in Sakkors,” the Shadovar said.
“I’m unfamiliar with—” Tamlin started to say.
Cale held Weaveshear’s point at Rivalen’s chest. “Sakkors is three hundred fathoms under the Sea of Fallen Stars.”
“Not anymore,” Rivalen answered. “See it for yourself, shadeling. The enclave’s name should be enough to allow you to use the Fringe to take you there. Scry it first if you wish. There are no wards to stop you.”
Cale studied the shade’s face, seeking the lie. He could determine nothing; Rivalen’s face was a mask. He looked to Riven, who said, “We can kill them all now and figure it out afterward.”
Cale smiled at the thought. The Shadovar bodyguards tensed. Leather creaked. Armor clinked.
“Sheathe your weapons,” Tamlin commanded. “Do it. Now.”
Cale ignored him, as did Riven, as did the Shadovar bodyguards.
Cale stared into Rivalen’s face and leaned in close. “Know my mind, shade. If you have harmed him, I will kill you.”
“Know mine, shadeling,” Rivalen answered. “You live only because of my respect for the Hulorn. Were we not in his presence, things would be otherwise.”
“Yap, yap, little dog,” Riven said, and Cale saw real anger behind Rivalen’s eyes.
Cale stared into Rivalen’s face and saw the familiar dead space behind the shade’s eyes—like Cale, Riven, and Nayan, Rivalen had a killer’s eyes.
Cale knew with certainty what would happen in Sakkors. The Shadovar would not turn Magadon over to him, not willingly.
“We go,” Cale said to Riven, and both of them backed away. To Tamlin, Cale said, “You are allied with serpents, my lord.”
Tamlin snapped, “No. I have done the only thing that can preserve this city. You are dismissed, Mister Cale. Do not return.”
“You are making a mistake,” Cale said to Tamlin.
“I am correcting one.”
Cale’s hand twitched but he resisted the urge to knock Tamlin down.
“You shame your father,” he said, and Tamlin blanched.
Cale had knocked him down after all.
The darkness in the room deepened as Cale and the Shadovar drew it about them. Each stared at the other as they started to meld with the shadows, each making the other hard promises.
Cale tightened his grip on Weaveshear and thought of Sakkors. When he felt the correspondence, he moved himself and Riven there.
Chunks of stone fly off with each strike of the pickaxe. I make rapid progress. The stink of brimstone and rot grow worse but I dare not open the door for ventilation. The fears are still outside. I strike the wall again and again, drowning out the sound of the fears, quelling my own. The sweat freezes on my skin, the air is so cold.
“Hit it, Magadon,” encourages the voice. “You are almost through! Hit it!”
The fissure in the stone grows deeper and wider. I strike it again, again. The wall crumbles under my onslaught, the debris gathering around my feet, the dust filling the air of the cell.
At last I pierce it and the head of the pickaxe pokes through to the other side.
Orange light rushes into the room, a blast of air so frigid it burns. There follows the sound of screams, and smells like a thousand graveyards. I gag, recoil, vomit.
“Again, Magadon! It is too small for me to get through.”
I wipe my mouth, sore, spent, and shivering. I want to look through the wall, to see what lies beyond. I cast aside the pickaxe, step to the wall, and look through the hole.
I catch a glimpse
of pits of flame carved in ice and filled with agonized souls, then a form blocks my view.
“Don’t look, Magadon,” says the voice. “None of that matters.”
But I have already looked, have already seen. Horror lies on the other side of the wall. Darkness. Evil.
“You must free me, Magadon,” says the voice.
Aghast, I shake my head. I cannot open a door to that.
“You must,” says the voice.
I steel myself and peer through the hole again. I must be sure.
“Show yourself,” I command. “Back up so I can see you fully.”
“No.”
“Do it or I will walk away. I will give myself to the fears. Show me.”
Silence from the other side. Then, “Very well.”
The form backs away from the wall until I can make him out in the light of the flames. I cannot contain a gasp.
He is me, but not me. Fine red scales cover most of his skin. His horns are so long they curl back on themselves, and membranous wings sprout from his back. Fangs protrude from his hateful mouth. His eyes, my eyes, radiate malice and madness.
“You are a devil,” I say, unable to look away.
“No. I am Magadon,” says the devil. “Part of him. The same as you. Nothing more. But I am the only part not lost to the Source. You must free me. That is your duty.”
I shake my head. “I won’t. You are not the only one free of the Source. I am also free.”
“But only for the moment. Listen.”
The fears have gone silent.
“Open the door of the cell,” the voice says. “The fears are gone. Even they are lost. Look outside, Magadon. See what is coming. Hurry. He is almost gone. And so are we.”
“You are liar,” I say.
“Quite so, but he could not live without the lies.”
I do not understand. “You make no sense.”
The devil laughs. “He calls himself a ‘tiefling’ but he knows that is not true. A tiefling is touched by a devil’s blood. Touched. He has a devil for a sire. He is a half-fiend and then some. The lies are all that make it tolerable. Without me, without the lies, he would be lost.”