Crypt of the Shadowking

by Mark Anthony

  Anja didn’t quite know how she made the shadows do her bidding with the music of her flute. She had always been able to do it, even as a child. Some had told her it was magic, and while Anja didn’t know about that—magic was more for wizards in their towers than for farm girls on the dusty plains—she did know she could shape the shadows on the wall however she wished with the notes of her music.

  She finished the song with a flourish, and the shadows all seemed to take a bow. Garl and the others thundered their applause as Anja lowered her flute. “One more song, Anja! Just one more!” they called out.

  She never had the chance to say no.

  The cottage’s wooden door burst apart in a spray of splinters. All turned in shock to see the figure of a man standing in the doorway. At least they assumed it was a man. The form was tall and clad from head to toe in a heavy black robe.

  “Hey, now!” Garl growled in protest, advancing on the stranger. “You can’t—”

  With eerie speed the stranger reached out with a black-gloved hand, snapping Garl’s neck with an almost casual motion. The farmer slumped lifelessly to the floor as Anja watched in frozen horror. Shouting and swearing in outrage, the other men leaped into action, but to little avail. The black-robed stranger batted aside a glowing poker with an easy gesture and threw a burly farmer through the sod wall. He smashed one young man’s skull against the stones of the chimney and with a quick blow crushed another’s windpipe. In moments only Anja was left standing, shaking her head in terror. The stranger walked slowly toward the one he had come for.

  “Please,” she whispered. “Please don’t.” The stranger lifted a gloved hand, and Anja’s scream was lost in a gurgle of hot blood. The wooden flute slipped from her hand to the dirt floor. It would never make the shadows dance again.

  The black-robed stranger left the cottage then, slipping into the night. His mission had been accomplished. The woman with the shadow magic was dead. Now there were but two more left in all the Realms. Soon there would be none at all. The stranger turned to the wind, testing the cool air. The trail led southward.

  The wind hissed through the dry grass, and suddenly the night was empty.

  * * * * *

  Caledan rose early the next morning. He retrieved Mista from the stable of the Wandering Wyvern and rode off through the cheerless streets. Even with the coming of dawn Iriaebor seemed wrapped in gloom. Many of the city’s once-proud towers slumped precariously above the narrow avenues, the bridges that spanned the distance between them crumbling and treacherous where passable at all. The light of the sun was dull and tired by the time it managed to filter its way down past the ancient spires, and even as the sullen light filled the streets so did the people, pouring out of countless peeling, weathered doors to pursue the day’s affairs, their faces grim and wearied. Caledan could only shake his head. Perhaps that drunken dockhand had been right. Maybe he should never have come back at all.

  Why had he returned? Did he really think he could find some sort of peace here after all this time? If so, he was a bigger fool than he thought. There were too many memories here, he now realized. Every street, every tower, every stone reminded him of a time when he had been happy, when he hadn’t been alone.

  Absently he twirled the braided copper bracelet he wore on his left wrist. That happiness had died seven years ago. He had laid it cold and dead in the earth alongside a woman with summer-gold hair. All he had now were ghosts. Maybe no amount of wandering would be enough to leave such memories behind.

  He supposed an old friend or two might still live in Iriaebor, but he feared his one-time companions would be as changed as the city was. Besides, he had grown used to loneliness these last years, and he could live without friends.

  “Anyway, I have you, Mista,” he said, slapping the pale mare’s neck with a friendly hand. She tossed her head and pranced haughtily, her hooves ringing against the cobbles. “Vain beast,” he said with a laugh.

  It was time to leave this forsaken place, Caledan decided. He had heard there was good pay to be had guarding caravans on the roads north of Waterdeep. He was as handy with a sword as any man, and he could use the gold. He guided Mista onto a wide avenue that led down the Tor and out of the city.

  The avenue widened as it made its way past the tower of the city lord. The tower stood atop the very highest part of the Tor, soaring above all the city’s thousand spires. Its walls were wrought of dark stone quarried from the very hill upon which Iriaebor rested.

  Much blood had been shed in the tower’s construction, and those who had laid its foundations were long dead by the time the last stone of the turret was set in place. One could still see the faint line a third of the way up the tower’s height where the color of the stone changed slightly. Every child in Iriaebor knew the tale of how the wall of the first quarry had collapsed, killing a score of workmen as well as the first city lord, Eradabus, who often labored beside them as a symbol of good will. After that a new quarry was begun by the second city lord, Melsar, but it was the third city lord, the Lady Saresia, who saw the tower completed and first held Argument in its vast great hall.

  Guards patrolled the battlements atop the wall that surrounded the tower, and a full dozen stood before the great iron-banded gates. At least a dozen among them had the battle-hardened look of Zhentarim warriors. Caledan kept his distance from them. He was a Harper no longer and doubted anyone would recognize him, but the Zhentarim’s hatred for the Harpers was no secret. There was no sense in taking chances.

  He veered Mista onto a less-traveled side street, then brought her up short. A band of mounted city guards rode toward him down the street, waving their swords and barking at the cityfolk to make way. Hurriedly, their eyes wide with fear, the citizens of Iriaebor complied, pressing against the buildings that lined the street.

  “That way doesn’t look so good after all, Mista,” Caledan noted drily. He spun the mare around and headed back for the broad avenue. A similar scene greeted him there, only this time with about three times the number of guards. Quickly the throng of people crowded along the gutters, keeping the center of the avenue clear. Caledan tried to nudge Mista out of their way, but in moments he found himself trapped in the middle of a tight knot of people, livestock, ramshackle carts, and horse-drawn wagons. There was no way to escape without causing a scene.

  “What’s going on here, friend?” Caledan quietly asked a rotund merchant next to him. The merchant was perched on the bench of a wagon that looked as if it might fall to pieces at any moment.

  “City lord’s coming this way,” the man answered, his harsh voice more than a little bitter. “You’ve always got to make way for the city lord these days. Too good to mingle with the rest of us, I suppose.”

  “I suppose so,” Caledan replied wryly. Suddenly he didn’t mind the crowd. He found he was curious to get a look at this notorious Lord Cutter before he left the city.

  A brassy trumpet blare shattered the morning air. Eight black chargers trotting in formation rounded the corner of the side street and turned onto the main avenue. Astride them were men clad in the black livery of the city guard, swords raised and glittering in the sun. The guards did not need to warn the onlookers to keep out of their way. Behind them came a standard-bearer, holding aloft the banner of Iriaebor: the tower, river, and—now—crimson moon.

  A small, wiry man clad in robes of a sickly, poisonous green came into view, riding a soot-colored gelding. The man’s dark hair was cropped close to his head, adding to the severity of his sharp features. His eyes glittered in the ruddy sunlight like small black stones. Folk bowed their heads as he reverently passed them by.

  “That’s Lord Cutter?” Caledan asked the merchant in a low voice, but the fellow shook his head.

  “Naw, that’s the lord steward. They call him Snake. Name suits him, I suppose. There’s venom in that one’s heart, no doubt. But he’s more Cutter’s lapdog than he is a viper.”

  Caledan nodded, but before he could ask another question
there was a second fanfare of trumpets. A tall figure clad in dark leather and a cloak of deep crimson rounded the corner and rode down the avenue astride a glossy, jet-black palfrey. Shoulder length hair of pale spun gold shone brightly in the sun.

  “Now that,” said the merchant, “is City Lord Cutter.”

  Caledan felt his heart lurch in his chest. A loud rushing sound filled his ears, and he gripped Mista’s reins tightly with white-knuckled hands. He couldn’t believe his eyes.

  The woman called Cutter was beautiful. Her eyes were a dusky blue like the evening sky, and her face was smooth and moon-pale, her strong, fine features better hewn of marble than flesh. But it was not this revelation that made Caledan’s heart stop in his chest.

  “Ravendas,” he hissed through clenched teeth.

  “Hey, friend, you’d better bow your head if you don’t want the guards to notice you,” the merchant whispered hoarsely. “They’ll haul you off to the dungeons, they will.”

  Caledan didn’t move. He could only watch as the woman who now called herself Cutter rode with her lord steward through the waiting gates of the tower. The gates swung shut with a sound as vast as thunder. She was gone. As though suddenly released from a spell, Caledan shook his head, trying to swallow the hot bile in his throat. Somehow he had always known he would meet her again. His old enemy. The Zhentarim, Lord Ravendas.

  * * * * *

  “It looks like we’ll be staying a while after all, old friend,” Caledan said softly, stroking the gray mare’s silky mane. Dusk was drifting down like fine, purple dust among the towers as he rode toward a shadowed section of the Old City. Seeing Ravendas had changed everything. Caledan couldn’t leave, not now. He had to find out what his old enemy was up to, and there was an old acquaintance of his on the Street of Jewels who just might be able to help him find out—for the right price, of course.

  He had nearly reached his destination when he realized he was being followed.

  Caledan had to admit, his dark-cloaked pursuer was skilled, walking down the street after him with a perfect imitation of aimlessness. However, Caledan had played the game enough times himself to know all the tricks.

  He rode onward casually, keeping watch on his pursuer out of the corner of his eye. If he remembered this part of the city correctly, he knew of a place where he might be able to arrange a little surprise for his mysterious shadow. He guided the mare down a narrow side street, for the moment cutting off his pursuer’s line of sight. He nudged Mista’s flanks, and she leaped into a canter, her hooves clattering metallically on the crumbling paving stones.

  “Run for a short distance, then wait for me,” Caledan whispered into Mista’s ear. The horse snorted softly, her ears twitching. Whether it was his words or tone she understood, Caledan could not say, but he knew that she would do his bidding.

  As the horse raced on he stood up in the stirrups. He tensed his body and sprang upward. His big hands caught on to a stone ledge jutting from a low bridge that spanned the narrow street. Mista trotted on, disappearing around a corner. Caledan hung for a moment and then heaved himself up onto the bridge with a grunt of effort.

  “I am definitely getting too old for this,” he groaned, his shoulders throbbing dully. He rolled over to peer down the alleyway. At first he could see nothing. Then out of the murkiness came his pursuer, padding lightly but quickly down the alley, hooded head moving from side to side, searching. When the figure was almost directly below him, Caledan stood up, throwing his cloak back over his shoulders.

  “Looking for someone?” he called out. Before his cloaked pursuer could react, Caledan leaped from the low bridge. The two went tumbling to the street. His pursuer was strong and wiry and almost managed to twist out of his grasp, but Caledan had the advantage of size. After a few moments of struggling his shadow was pinned beneath him.

  “Let go of me!” his captive shouted, taking a swing at him, but Caledan caught the blow before it landed.

  “Not until I find out why you were following me,” he said through clenched teeth, holding the person tightly by the wrists. His pursuer was silent for a long moment, then finally spoke in a low, husky voice.

  “I am seeking Caledan the Harper.”

  Caledan grunted, not missing a beat. “What makes you think I know him?”

  “Will you let me go?”

  “Only if you tell me who you are.”

  With a curse his captive angrily shook back the cloak’s concealing hood. Caledan drew in a sharp breath. His pursuer was a woman. He scrambled quickly to his feet. The woman fought to disentangle herself from the voluminous cloak, then stood to face him. She gazed at him hotly, fire dancing in her dark, smoldering eyes. She angrily brushed her dark auburn hair from her face and planted her hands firmly on her hips.

  “I’m Mari Al’maren,” she said in her low, rich voice, “sent by the Harpers to find Caledan Caldorien. Satisfied?”

  Caledan leaned nonchalantly against the brick wall bordering the street. His heart was beating rapidly in his chest. What would the Harpers want with him now, after all these years? His face remained impassive. “Really? So why were you following me?”

  The Harper woman angrily shed the remains of her tattered cloak. Beneath she was clad in a green velvet jacket and breeches of soft buckskin that matched her boots. A small silver pin, wrought in the shape of a crescent moon encircling a harp, glistened on her collar—the sigil of the Harpers.

  “I’m beginning to wonder the same thing myself,” she said disgustedly. “I thought there might be a chance you were the one I was searching for.”

  “This … er … what did you say his name was?” Caledan asked casually.

  “Caledan Caldorien,” the woman who called herself Mari answered, kicking away the cloak and pacing the narrow alleyway in agitation. “Call me crazy, but with the way you dealt with that Zhen—er, that captain on the Street of Lanterns, I thought you might be Caldorien. He’s supposed to have been a great hero, you know. At least, that’s what all the stories tell.”

  “Oh, really?” Caledan asked, raising an eyebrow. No doubt they had sent Al’maren here to spy on the Zhents—that would be standard procedure—but Al’maren looked so wet behind the ears he was almost tempted to offer her a handkerchief. “So what makes you think now that I’m not the fellow you’re after?” Caledan went on.

  “Oh, please!” Mari said with a husky laugh, halting for a moment to stare at Caledan. “No offense, friend, but now that I’ve seen you up close you look more like a vagabond cutpurse than a hero of renown.”

  Caledan spread out his hands. “No offense taken,” he replied amiably.

  “Besides, if you really were Caldorien, you’d have a set of reed pipes with you,” she continued wearily. “You don’t happen to play the pipes, do you, scoundrel?”

  “I wouldn’t know which end to blow in,” Caledan said, lying smoothly.

  “I didn’t think so,” Mari said, sighing. “Caledan Caldorien was supposed to have been the finest piper in the Realms and one of the bravest men as well. We could use his help in dealing with the … the city’s new ruler.”

  Harpers, Caledan thought derisively. They send one agent on what was probably her first mission to counter a city crawling with Zhentarim. That was just like them. They were idealists almost to the point of idiocy. Mari Al’maren no doubt thought that a few old, tired ballads and a few lofty, outdated ideals were somehow enough to end all the suffering and darkness in the world. Caledan knew better. He, of all people, knew that music—and the Harpers—would never be enough.

  “Well, I’m sorry to have caused you trouble, friend scoundrel,” Mari continued, “though you seem to have paid me back for it.” She rubbed her shoulder. “I’ve got to keep searching. This city is supposed to have been Caldorien’s last known home, though gods know why anyone would live here.” She looked distastefully around the dingy street.

  “It wasn’t always so bad,” Caledan said, taking a step toward her. “It was beautiful once. You
know, legendary Iriaebor of the Thousand Spires.”

  She smiled crookedly. Mari was not a woman who would ever be accused of being pretty, Caledan thought, but there was a warmth to her smile that made him grin back. “I’ll let you know if I run into this ‘Caldorien’ character.”

  “Don’t bother,” she replied wryly. “It’s going to take me a while to heal my bruises from our first encounter. So do me a favor, friend scoundrel. Let’s say farewell.”

  Caledan performed a stiff mock bow. “As you wish.” He straightened up—and his eyes widened in shock.

  Mari frowned at him in puzzlement. “What is it, scoundrel?”

  “Don’t look now,” he whispered, “but I don’t think you were the only one who has been doing a little following.”

  Mari spun swiftly on her heels, and the blood drained from her face. Not a hundred paces away three black dogs were loping down the alley. Each was as large as a pony, and all of them were covered with flickering crimson flames. Their eyes glowed with a deadly golden light, and their huge maws hung open, baring their fangs.

  Caledan gave a low whistle. “It looks like you should have said good-bye when you had the chance, Harper.”

  Three

  Caledan drew his dagger from his boot as the three magical mastiffs howled, an eerie sound of fury and bloodlust.

  “Please don’t tell me that pig-sticker is all you’ve got, scoundrel,” the Harper said caustically. Her movements were fluid as she unsheathed the curved, gleaming sabre belted at her hip and assumed a battle-ready stance.

  “As you wish.” Caledan gritted his teeth.

  Mari shot him a hard look, but there was no time for a reply. The hounds were rapidly closing the distance between them. Caledan could hear the crackling of the fiery auras that surrounded the beasts. The air was charged with an acrid, sulfuric odor. He let his dagger fly in a precise arc. It struck the lead hound directly between the eyes—and then bounced harmlessly off the creature’s skull.