Crypt of the Shadowking

by Mark Anthony

  The room was dim save for the flickering glow emanating from the hearth. Ferret continued to sharpen his knife. Suddenly Mari realized he was waiting—waiting for her to ask something. “Tell me about the mage Morhion,” she said finally. “I need to know, to understand why Caldorien hates him so.”

  Ferret set down the whetstone. He tested the dagger’s edge with a thumb, spun the blade experimentally on a fingertip, and nodded in satisfaction. He scratched his stubbly chin thoughtfully, his dark eyes glimmering in the firelight.

  “Hate is a simple thing, Mari,” he said finally in his raspy voice. “If you hate someone, you act on it.” He thrust the dagger into the wood of the table for emphasis. She flinched at the sudden motion. “That’s what I do anyway. Of course, I’m just a thief. But then, I think the same is true for anybody.” He worked the dagger free and slipped it into a hidden sheath inside his brown tunic. “But you know, I don’t think Caledan does hate Morhion. After all, once they were the best of friends.” He brushed the scar the knife had left on the surface of the table. “It’s just that sometimes old wounds are hard to erase.”

  “Tell me, please,” Mari said, leaning forward.

  “I’m no storyteller.”

  He started to rise, but Mari reached out and gripped his hand. “Please.”

  He looked at her in surprise, then shrugged and sat back down. “You know about Kera?” For a moment Mari thought she saw a look of sorrow flicker across the thief’s usually imperturbable face. But it was only the firelight, she supposed.

  “Yes. Estah told me. Ravendas murdered her.”

  “There’s not much to tell after that,” Ferret went on. “After her army disbanded, Ravendas fled back to Darkhold, the Zhentarim fortress in the Far Hills. Caledan followed.”

  “But why?”

  “To kill her, of course. I was ready to go myself. I had my daggers all sharpened and poisoned.” Ferret sighed wistfully. “But Caledan forbade me, and I … well, I figured it was the least I could do, to obey his wishes. He wanted to punish Ravendas alone. I can’t really blame him for that, though I myself wouldn’t have minded sticking a knife in her.” The thief’s words sounded nonchalant, but there was a murderous look in his dark gaze that startled Mari.

  “Caledan actually made it into Darkhold,” Ferret continued. “That’s no mean feat, by the way. There isn’t a fortress in a thousand leagues more heavily guarded. But there was one who ignored Caledan’s orders and followed after him.”

  “Morhion?” Mari whispered.

  Ferret nodded. “The mage Morhion. And it was the fault of the mage that the two of them were discovered within Darkhold. They were forced to flee before Caledan could confront Ravendas. And by what secret route they managed to escape the fortress, I would give my left hand to know. There are any number of thieves who would pay quite a sum in gold in exchange for that particular information.”

  “Why did Morhion follow Caledan to Darkhold?”

  Ferret shook his head. He didn’t know. “To help Caledan? To hinder him? Who can say, with the mage? Thieves may be treacherous, Mari, but at least with us you always know where you stand. No one ever really knew what Morhion’s motives were, except himself, I reckon.”

  Mari bit her lip in thought. “So Morhion’s actions prevented Caledan from gaining his revenge upon Ravendas?”

  “Exactly.”

  “And Caledan has never forgiven the mage for that?”

  “Or himself.”

  The two were silent for a time. Finally Mari reached out and touched the gouge that Ferret’s dagger had made in the wood of the table. “Estah will be mad at you for this, you know.”

  The thief smiled, displaying crooked teeth. “I know. But she’ll forgive me.”

  Mari paused a moment. “Do you think Caledan will ever forgive Morhion?”

  Ferret gazed at her flatly.

  “No.”

  * * * * *

  Mari barely saw Caledan at all the next day. He shut himself in his room upstairs after breakfast and did not emerge. Mari helped Estah in the kitchen during the morning and occupied the afternoon with her baliset, strumming softly as Pog and Nog listened drowsily until finally they drifted to sleep on a rug before the fire. It was verging on evening when Caledan appeared suddenly at the foot of the stairs, walking purposefully into the inn’s back room.

  “Get your cloak, Harper,” he said.

  “Where are we going, Uncle Caledan?” Pog asked in a sleepy voice, looking up at him.

  “Finish your nap, Pog. You, too, Nog,” Caledan told the halfling children. “Mari and I are going to visit someone, that’s all.”

  Mari looked at Caledan in curiosity.

  “Well, we have to get a look at that damnable book, don’t we?” he told her gruffly.

  Mari set down her baliset and pulled her cloak about her shoulders. “I wasn’t arguing.”

  “That’s a change.”

  The two slipped down the back alley behind the inn and into the city, making certain they weren’t observed.

  Mari was thankful Caledan had changed his mind. Now they just had to find the mage. None of the companions had seen Morhion in the last seven years, but they knew the place to start looking for him was the laboratory tower to which he had moved after the Fellowship disbanded. The tower stood on the eastern side of the Tor on the Street of Runes, not far from the Temple of Selune. By the time they reached the quiet avenue, the westering sun had sunk behind the tower of the city lord, casting a premature twilight over the Street of Runes.

  Caledan brought Mari to a halt.

  The tower was dilapidated. Dead vines clutched at the timeworn stones like skeletal fingers trying to pry the walls apart. Weeds and witchgrass grew wildly amidst the piles of rubble that had tumbled down from the tower’s crumbling buttresses. The high windows stared out over the city like dark, empty eyes, and the peaked roof looked as if it had caved in years ago. A pall hung over the place, a mantle of dusty silence, of decay.

  “This is it,” Caledan said grimly. “Or was it, anyway.”

  Mari shook her head. It looked as if Morhion’s tower had been long abandoned.

  “Maybe he’s dead,” Caledan said with a mock laugh. He gathered his patched cloak about him against the evening chill.

  Mari circled the base of the tower, looking for a way inside. The arched doorway had collapsed into a pile of jagged rubble, but there was a dark, gaping crack to one side of the doorway. It looked almost wide enough for her to squeeze through. She shrugged off her heavy cloak.

  “What are you doing?” Caledan demanded.

  “Something useful,” she snapped.

  She ducked her head to peer into the crack—and stars flashed before her eyes. She cried out in pain, taking a dizzy step backward as she rubbed her aching head.

  “You’re right,” Caledan said drily. “That’s the most useful thing you’ve done in ages.”

  “Shut up, Caldorien.” Something was wrong here. Very wrong. She began running her hands along the tower’s wall. The cracked and weathered stones felt strange, smoother under her touch than they looked. An idea glimmered in her head. She tried to stick her hands into the crevice in the wall.

  Her fingers met solid stone.

  “It’s an illusion!” she whispered in sudden understanding.

  “What are you talking about, Harper?”

  “The wall, scoundrel. I know it’s difficult, but try not to be so dense. Here, feel it for yourself.” She grabbed his hand and held it against the stones. “It looks like it’s crumbling, but it feels solid.”

  Caledan’s eyes widened in surprise as he felt along the wall.

  “I’m willing to bet the rest of the tower is the same,” Mari went on. “Someone is using magic to make it look as if it’s moldy and abandoned.”

  Caledan shook his head, frowning.

  They heard the sound of a heavy iron bolt, and suddenly a door swung open where a moment ago there had been only blank wall. Golden torchlight s
pilled out onto the street. Mari and Caledan stared in shock.

  A man clad in a simple but expensive-looking robe of pearl gray stood in the doorway. He was tall—far taller than even Caledan—and his face was lost in the shadow of a cowl. The man stood in silence for a long moment, then lifted his hands slowly to push back the robe’s heavy hood.

  “Caledan Caldorien. It has been some time,” the man said, his tenor voice as burnished as brass. He gestured to the open doorway. “Enter.”

  Minutes later Mari found herself sitting in the study of Morhion the mage, an octagonal chamber at the top of the tower, anxiously clutching a goblet of crimson wine in her hand. She had always thought a mage’s work chamber would be a dark and cluttered place, littered with stacks of moldering scrolls and myriad jars filled with foul concoctions. However, Morhion’s study was a surprisingly clean and pleasant room. Neatly kept bookshelves lined the walls, and intricate Sembian rugs covered the floors. A small fire burned on the hearth, and dozens of candles bathed the room in a warm glow of light. The air was sweet with the faint, dusty fragrance of dried herbs.

  Caledan paced the room in agitation, having drunk the wine the mage offered him in one swift gulp. His shaggy eyebrows were drawn down over his pale eyes. The tension seemed to hang in the air between the two men, an almost palpable thing. Mari did not dare say anything.

  Morhion sat at an uncluttered table of polished rosewood, sipping his wine calmly. The mage was a handsome man, one of the handsomest Mari had ever seen. His features were fine and noble, and his golden hair fell about his broad shoulders like a lion’s mane. Yet his deep blue eyes were so cold and calculating that Mari found it disturbing to gaze at him for any great length of time.

  “You have come seeking something, Caledan,” the mage said. “Perhaps you can stop for a moment and tell me what it is before your pacing wears a hole in my floor.”

  Caledan snorted in disgust and sank down into a leather armchair, glaring at the mage. “That’s one thing I never did like about you, Gen’dahar. You always pretended you didn’t understand things you knew perfectly well. You know why we’re here. It’s the book, the one you took from the monastery of Oghma in the Sunset Mountains.”

  The mage nodded. “The Mal’eb’dala? I suspected as much.”

  “What do you want with it?” Caledan asked accusingly.

  “The same as you, I imagine,” the mage answered, unperturbed by Caledan’s tone. He stood and walked to a narrow window, gazing out over the city. “Ravendas seeks something buried deep beneath the Tor, and in the past she has shown an interest in The Book of the Shadows. It is not so difficult a connection to make. I had hoped the book might hold the secret to defeating Ravendas, to driving her from Iriaebor.”

  “Why should you care, mage?” Caledan asked, gritting his teeth. Morhion turned to regard Caledan with his unblinking gaze, and Mari noticed that even Caledan could not bring himself to meet the mage’s disturbing eyes.

  “This is my home,” Morhion said simply. “My life is here, such as it is.” Caledan looked daggers at Morhion, but he did not contest the mage’s words.

  “Have you read the Mal’eb’dala?” Mari forced herself to ask. “Have you learned what it is Ravendas is searching for beneath the Tor?”

  “I believe so.” Morhion pulled a heavy tome bound in black leather from a high shelf and set it on the table. Mari and Caledan bent over the book as the mage turned to a page marked with a ribbon of black satin. The writing was clear, but Mari could make no sense of the words, written in the ancient Talfirian tongue.

  “Well, what does it say?” Caledan asked in annoyance. The mage ignored him, directing his words to Mari.

  “The Book of the Shadows is an encyclopedia, of sorts. Its author, whoever he or she was—and indeed, there may have been more than one over the centuries—describes many mysteries forgotten since ancient times. Some entries describe terrible creatures, abominations of magic, while others discuss swords of power, or enchanted rings and the like. But there is only one entry that Ravendas would be interested in.” He touched the page lightly. “This is it.”

  The mage began to translate the passage. “ ‘Long ago,’ ” the mage read in his resonant voice, “ ‘in a land east of the mountains and west of the sea, there dwelt a king named Verraketh, a ruler both feared and mighty.’ ” Morhion flipped the page. “The tale of how Verraketh became a king goes on for some time. It is not particularly relevant to what comes after.” He ran a finger down the page, then started again. “Ah, yes. This is it. ‘Skilled above all men was Verraketh in the art of sorcery, but such was the power of his dark magic that slowly it did consume him, flesh and soul. Verraketh was changed until he appeared as a man no longer, but rather as a being most hideous, his maleficent heart filled only with darkness. Thus it was that Verraketh came to be called by a new name—the Shadowking.’ ”

  “Sounds cheerful,” Caledan noted wryly.

  Morhion shot him an unfriendly glance but continued reading. “ ‘For a long age did the Shadowking rule over his dusky realm, but ever he hungered for greater dominion. Many were the lands that fell.…’ ” Morhion paused. “I am afraid the ink is blurred on the rest of this page, but I think we can imagine that many lands fell under the Shadowking’s dominion.” He turned the page. “This, I think, is the important passage.

  “ ‘… so began the forging of the Nightstone. It was a gem wrought by the hand of the Shadowking from his own essence, but it was not beautiful to look upon. Rather it was as dark and cold as death. With it the Shadowking meant to gain sway over the spirits of men and bring countless realms under his dire rule.

  “ ‘Yet when the Shadowking first took up the Nightstone in his hand to wield it, he discovered that he had been tricked. The mute troll who had worked the bellows of the Shadowking’s forge cast off his disguise, revealing himself as the great bard named Talek Talembar.

  “ ‘In his rapture, the Shadowking had detected not the enchantment which Talembar had bound subtly within the Nightstone. The gem refused to obey its creator, but rather heeded only the power of the magical song which Talembar played upon his pipes.’ ”

  Morhion turned another page. “ ‘For seven days and seven nights the Shadowking wrestled with Talek Talembar, and the earth shook with the fury of their battle. But in the end victory belonged to Talembar. At the end of all things the great bard raised his pipes to his lips and played the shadow song, weaving its enchantment about the Shadowking and his dark creation, the Nightstone. The Shadowking bowed on bended knee to the bard who had defeated him. Then did Talembar bind his vanquished foe within a great crypt, and over the crypt he raised a cairn higher than a hill. And the power of the Nightstone was hidden away forevermore.’ ”

  Morhion stopped then, shutting the book carefully.

  “But what happened to Talek Talembar after he defeated the Shadowking?” Mari asked.

  Morhion shrugged. “I cannot say. The passage remains unfinished.”

  Mari frowned. It disappointed her that the tale told nothing more about the hero named Talembar.

  “I don’t understand,” Caledan said with a scowl, starting to pace once again. “What does any of this have to with Ravendas and Iriaebor?”

  “The Mal’eb’dala says Talek Talembar raised a great mound over the Shadowking’s crypt,” the mage answered, “a mound as high as a hill. I think that hill of legend is the very Tor upon which Iriaebor stands. I think Ravendas is digging within, searching for the Shadowking’s crypt.”

  “Then it’s the Nightstone she seeks,” Mari interrupted, and the mage nodded.

  “Perhaps it is only a legend and nothing more,” Morhion said, returning the book to its shelf. “But what if it is not? If the Nightstone was real, and Ravendas held it in her hand, she would have the power to enslave every man and woman in Iriaebor, perhaps even beyond.”

  Mari clenched her jaw. “The Harpers will never allow this,” she said grimly.

  “Damn the Harpers,” Cale
dan said angrily. Mari looked at him in surprise, but he glared back defiantly. “I will not allow this.”

  * * * * *

  Caldorien and the Harper were gone. The mage, Morhion Gen’dahar, sat alone by the fire in his tower. He studied the runes he had scattered across a wooden tray lined with dark velvet. There were nine of them, each a small square of fired clay embossed with a single rune. Sometimes he saw hints of the future in the patterns they formed. It was these very runes that so far had kept him from moving against Ravendas. And now Caldorien had come, just as the runes foretold. In his heart he found he was gladdened to know that Caldorien yet lived. There had been madness in the man’s eyes the last time the mage had seen him. But that had been long ago. He supposed Caldorien considered him an enemy now, but that did not matter.

  What mattered now was the Nightstone, and nothing else.

  These last seven years had been trying. They had been long years, years of waiting. Morhion had been forced to stoop to working as a court magician to support himself and his work. How much time had he wasted, advising foppish lords and entertaining petty nobles? How many times had he been forced to create a disguise for an adulterous husband, or conjure frivolities of illusion for a tittering contessa, when his time would have been so much better spent here among his books? But it was the curse of life that one had to eat, and so Morhion had performed these petty services in return for gold.

  All that would be over soon. The waiting was done. Ravendas sought the Nightstone, and she was near her goal. Now Caldorien had returned, to help or hinder the mage as the fates decreed. Morhion wondered which it would be.

  Morhion rose and knelt by the hearth, banking the coals in the ashes for the night. Suddenly a cold draft of air fanned the flames, bringing with it the dank scent of earth and rot, the sweet fragrance of death. Tonight was the full moon. It was time.