Crypt of the Shadowking

by Mark Anthony

  He stood up and watched as a pale, luminous form materialized before him, just as it had once each month for the past seven years. Thin strands of silver spun upon the empty air, outlining the shape of a man dressed in ornate, archaic armor. The silver strands grew brighter, weaving their glimmering magic, tracing the sharp lines of the man’s face, his cruel mouth, and high cheekbones. Finally the silver strands plunged into the darkness where the man’s eyes should have been. Two small specks as fiery as coals appeared.

  Morhion felt his knees weaken, but he did not bother to sit. Even after all these years, no matter how many times the spirit came, he was never prepared for this sensation.

  “It is time,” the ghostly man whispered, his voice as insubstantial and chilling as mist. “The pact we forged beneath the fortress of Darkhold is binding. I demand my due.”

  “The pact is binding,” Morhion whispered with a nod. His fingers trembling, he pulled a small bronze knife from the pocket of his robe and drew it across the flesh of his left arm. He grimaced with pain but made no sound as the dark crimson blood welled forth, sizzling where it fell upon the hot stones of the hearth.

  The spectral man cried out in ecstasy, an inhuman sound, and knelt, bringing his cruel mouth to the pool of blood on the floor. The hot, crimson blood vanished from the stones as Morhion watched with all too familiar horror.

  “More, mage,” the spirit whispered, clutching Morhion’s wrist with fingers as chill and numbing as ice. A low sound of terror ripped itself from Morhion’s throat, but he could not break free.

  The spirit bent the cruel mouth to the mage’s arm to drink. “Yes, mage, the pact is binding.…”

  Eleven

  Caledan and Mari walked in silence back toward the Dreaming Dragon. Night had descended, and the full moon rising above the city’s towers seemed to cast more shadows than light. The gloomy setting suited Caledan’s mood. The conversation with Morhion Gen’dahar had left him edgy and preoccupied. Why was the treacherous mage so interested all of a sudden in The Book of the Shadows?

  When they reached the narrow alleyway that led to the inn’s back entrance, Mari laid a hand on Caledan’s arm, halting him. “Caldorien, tell me something,” she said, her brown eyes intent. “You’re not going to act a fool and break into the tower to confront Ravendas, are you?”

  Caledan shrugged, annoyed at her question. “Why would I tell you if I was? Do you confide everything in me, Harper? Or are there matters your precious Harpers have discussed with you that you’ve neglected to share?”

  Mari’s eyes widened, her face pale. Caledan allowed himself an inward smile. He had struck a blow. It seemed that the Harper was hiding something from him.

  “You don’t understand anything about the Harpers, Caldorien,” she replied, shaking her head sadly. “I think you’ve forgotten everything it means to be one.”

  He laughed harshly. “No, I remember all too well. Everything’s a game to you and your kind, isn’t it? You manipulate people as if they were pieces on a gameboard. Don’t tell me the Harpers really care about Iriaebor, or any of its people. They want to show up the Zhentarim, that’s all.”

  “Think whatever you like, Caldorien.”

  Caledan opened his mouth for a bitter retort, but then he swallowed the words. There was something in her usually proud expression, a hint of a sorrow he had never seen before. His anger drained away.

  Suddenly she was in his arms, clinging to him tightly. Their lips met, and Caledan felt a dizzying wave of fire inflame him. He held her close, and for a single crystalline moment the darkness around them was forgotten.

  Then they heard the hiss of a sword being drawn.

  Caledan and Mari broke free of each other. Caledan pushed her behind his back, spinning around. He found himself facing a swordpoint inches from his chest. A Zhentarim warrior held the hilt, an evil leer on his scarred face. Caledan considered reaching for the dagger concealed in his boot, but he knew he would never have the time to grab it Behind him Mari had started to move, but he held her by the wrist. He didn’t want her to do anything foolish. The Zhent couldn’t kill them both at once. At least she would have time to escape down the alley.

  “Harpers.” The Zhent sneered. “Looks like I’m going to be popular with Lord Cutter tomorrow.”

  The Zhent raised his sword—and then hesitated. His leer dissolved into a look of confusion. He shook his head slowly. The words he uttered were lost in a stream of foamy blood gushing from his lips. The warrior’s eyes went dull as he slumped to the cobblestones. Caledan and Mari stared at the lifeless Zhent.

  A small, wiry form stepped out of the shadows.

  “Good thing I was out for a walk,” Ferret said, his crooked smile showing in the moonlight. Caledan could only nod. “Terrible, isn’t it, the garbage people leave lying about the streets these days?” the thief went on nonchalantly. He wiped his dagger clean on the dead man’s cloak. “I’ll find a more appropriate place to dispose of this refuse. The wharfs are always a good choice. They already stink. Why don’t you two hurry on inside?” Caledan patted the thief’s thin shoulder in thanks, then Ferret vanished once again into the shadows. Caledan turned to see how the Harper was doing, but the alley behind him was empty. She had already vanished inside.

  * * * * *

  Caledan watched the sunrise through the panes of the window in his small room. Then he dressed and headed downstairs. Estah and Jolle were both seeing to customers in the common room. But Mari was in the kitchen. Caledan winced when he saw her.

  How the kiss last night had happened, he was not at all certain, and he was even less certain about what it meant. The Harper was stubborn, self-righteous, overly critical, and she hardly fit any common definition of beauty. Caledan did not even remotely like her. So why couldn’t he forget the warm sensation of her lips against his?

  Mari was busily scouring a table. Her sleeves were rolled up, her hair was tied at the nape of her neck, and her cheeks glowed as she vigorously scrubbed at the wood with a rag and a scattering of sand. So intent was she on her task, she did not notice him watching her. Her jaw was clenched tightly, her brow furrowed with a scowl. Suddenly Mari looked up. Their eyes met briefly, then each looked away.

  “Listen, Harper—” Caledan began after a moment of awkward silence.

  “It’s all right, scoundrel,” she said, turning back to her work. “You don’t have to apologize.”

  “Apologize?” he said, a bit puzzled. Then he shrugged. “Very well, Harper. I just wanted to let you know that, about what happened … I mean, you and I …”

  “I said you don’t have to apologize, Caledan. It was an accident, that’s all. I know it didn’t mean anything to you.” Mari seemed to be scrubbing a particularly stubborn spot, practically scraping a hole in the tabletop.

  “No—no, of course not,” Caledan said, forcing a grin. “I’m relieved you feel the same way. I guess we can just forget about it then.”

  Mari nodded. “I think that would be best.” A silence followed. Thankfully Estah bustled into the kitchen then, dispelling the awkwardness.

  It was early evening when Tyveris arrived at the inn after spending the day in the library of Everard Abbey. The loremaster had been searching for references to the bard Talek Talembar and his battle with the Shadowking. If Ravendas truly was searching for this “Nightstone” the mage had spoken of, then Talembar’s shadow song might represent their only chance to stand against it.

  Estah, Jolle, Ferret, Mari, and Caledan followed Tyveris into the private dining chamber, and the companions gathered around a table.

  “I’m afraid there isn’t much,” Tyveris said as he pulled out a pair of books from his leather satchel. Caledan looked at the tomes curiously. The first had the title Talfirian Eddas emblazoned in gilt across its spine. Tyveris opened the book.

  “The eddas have been translated,” Tyveris explained. “Unfortunately, none of them concern this Talek Talembar directly. However, one of the eddas is intriguing.”
r />   “How so?” Estah asked.

  Tyveris flipped through the pages. “Here it is. Whoever penned this saga tries to convince the reader of the greatness of his hero by comparing him to heroes of the past. The skald lists about a hundred names out of legend. I don’t recognize most of them. But one of the heroes he mentions is Talek Talembar.”

  Tyveris pointed out the passage, reading aloud. “ ‘… and as brave as Talek Talembar, who in the Year of the Lion, in the reckoning of Cormyr, lamentably did fall to a craven goblin’s arrow in the Duchy of Indoria.’ ”

  Caledan frowned. “That’s it?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Tyveris replied, shutting the book.

  Ferret scratched his stubbly chin. “I’ve never heard of this ‘Indoria.’ ”

  “You’re not the only one,” Tyveris said with a rumbling laugh. “I spent hours going over every map in the abbey’s library, and I couldn’t find any trace of it. Until I looked in this book.” He held up the second book. “It’s a history of Calimshan.”

  “You mean Indoria is somewhere in Calimshan?” Caledan asked. He had journeyed to that arid southern kingdom on a few occasions and didn’t much care for it.

  Tyveris shook his head. “No, but it is in a history of one of the ancient noble houses of Calimshan that Indoria is mentioned.”

  Briefly the monk sketched what he had learned. Five or six centuries ago, the land to the west of Iriaebor, between the Winding Water and the River Chionthar, was a favorite battleground for kingdoms seeking control of the western lands of Faerun. Over the centuries, army after army clashed there in titanic battles. Many of those armies came from Calimshan, for this was before the founding of Calimshan’s northern neighbor, Amn.

  “I found a passage in the journal of a Calimshite lord who led an army across the River Chionthar,” Tyveris explained, “where the lord notes in passing that they camped one evening in a place called Indoria. Bless the man, he even drew a map of his journey.”

  “Then we know where Talembar must be buried,” Caledan said, his eyes glimmering.

  Tyveris nodded. “At least the general vicinity. There’s a village called Asher where Indoria used to be. Only nowadays the land between the Winding Water and the Chionthar is called the Fields of the Dead. Hardly a patch of earth can be plowed there or a well dug without turning up ancient bones or rusted armor. Reminders of the long-ago battles are everywhere.”

  Ferret gazed at the book speculatively. “What does it gain us to dig up old Talembar?”

  “Maybe Talembar’s shadow song was buried with him,” Caledan replied. “According to the Mal’eb’dala, the only way to counter the magic of the Nightstone is by playing the shadow song.”

  “Then it’s settled,” Mari said firmly. “We must journey into the Fields of the Dead, to Indoria and Talembar’s tomb.”

  “There’s no reason to delay,” said Tyveris.

  “Tomorrow at dawn,” agreed Caledan.

  “It’s a bit early, but I guess I can make it,” Ferret added.

  Estah smiled at them all. “It’s almost like the old Fellowship,” she said wistfully. “Almost.” Jolle gazed at his wife, and for a moment Caledan thought he saw a sadness reflected in his usually merry brown eyes.

  “Then let us see to the provisions, wife,” he said, and she nodded, standing up.

  “We need to pack food enough for four,” she agreed.

  “You had best make that five, friend Estah.”

  The companions all looked up to see a tall, imposing man step into the room. His long blond hair fell against the shoulders of his pearl-gray robe, and his cold blue eyes bore no trace of emotion.

  “Morhion,” Caledan said, as if the word was poison.

  The mage approached. He nodded slowly in greeting to each of the companions before returning his attention to Caledan.

  “What do you want?” Caledan said, standing to face the mage.

  “These matters involve ancient magics, Caledan,” the mage said unhesitatingly. “The Nightstone is an object of fell sorcery, and the shadow song itself an enchantment of great power. You will need me if you wish to truly understand their nature.”

  Caledan opened his mouth to protest, but Mari stepped forward and spoke before he could say anything. “We leave from the inn at dawn,” she told the mage. Morhion nodded and then lifted his cowl, plunging his face into shadow.

  “I will be here. At dawn.”

  Caledan clenched his fingers into a fist, but the Harper’s hand on his arm restrained him.

  “Until then,” the mage said. He turned and left the room. A chill seemed to linger in his wake.

  Silence reigned for a long moment. Finally Caledan spun around to glare at the Harper. “Why did you do that?” he demanded hotly.

  “We need the mage, Caledan,” she said defiantly. “You know we do. Think of someone other than yourself for a change.”

  “I think Mari’s right, Caledan,” Tyveris said solemnly, watching Caledan intently.

  Caledan glared at the others. He knew they didn’t bear the same enmity for Morhion he did—they were a forgiving lot, maybe to a fault. “I won’t deny we are dealing with things—with magic—that we know little about, Harper. But I’ve already warned you once that the mage does things for his own purposes.”

  “And what purposes might those be, Caldorien?” Mari responded.

  Caledan looked at the others grimly. “Maybe he wants the Nightstone for himself.”

  Twelve

  Mari rose in the dark, before even the first gray light of morning had touched the sky. She dressed quickly in her small room, donning her soft doeskin breeches and a rust-colored coat, over which she threw a thick woolen traveling cloak of her favorite forest green. She gathered the few items she would need on the journey, packing them in a leather saddlebag. Briefly she considered bringing a roll of blank parchment and a quill, then realized there would be no time—or opportunity—to send another missive to the Harpers of Twilight Hall.

  Downstairs she found Caledan already up. Estah and Jolle were helping him gather the gear they would need for the journey. Jolle had brought down a number of swords, daggers, crossbows, and stiff leather jerkins from the attic.

  “Good morning, Harper,” Caledan said with his wolfish smile. “So you decided to get out of bed and join us on this quest after all.”

  Mari held her tongue. She tried on several of the leather jerkins. Finally she found one that appeared to be the right size, but the buckles were stiff and unbending.

  “Here. They go this way,” Caledan said, reaching roughly around her waist to fasten one of the straps.

  Mari jerked away from his grasp. “I can do it myself,” she said crisply. Caledan backed off, looking somewhat miffed.

  Both Ferret and Tyveris arrived at the inn’s back entrance just as Estah was setting breakfast on the table in the kitchen. The monk’s timing was impeccable when it came to meals. Afterward, the others sorted through the attic equipment. Ferret selected several sharp daggers, tossing them experimentally in the air to test their weight. Tyveris came across a worn leather jerkin that had once been his. He grinned and pulled it on, then frowned. Unless a miracle were performed, he wouldn’t be able to fasten the laces across his stomach.

  “I guess being a monk agrees with you,” Caledan commented wryly.

  “I never liked this ratty jerkin anyway,” the loremaster grumped, discarding the garment for a somewhat roomier choice.

  Cormik slipped into the inn’s back room to bid the companions farewell. Beneath his plain, unobtrusive cloak he was clad in a silken, gold-embroidered tunic. His opulent attire always looked a bit out of place in the rustic inn.

  “Any idea how close Ravendas is to finding the Nightstone?” Caledan asked.

  Cormik shook his head. “None of my people have gotten close enough to Ravendas to find out.”

  Mari nervously adjusted the silver Harper’s sigil on her jacket, making sure it was concealed for the journey. “She’s bee
n digging for months now. She must be close.”

  Cormik patted her shoulder with a chubby, ring-covered hand. “Don’t fear, Mari Al’maren. My associates and I will keep Ravendas occupied while the Fellowship is away.” He smiled broadly, his eyes gleaming wickedly. “Of course, if you wanted to stay behind, my beautiful Mari, I’m certain I could find some … er, shall we say ‘suitable tasks’ you could help me accomplish while your friends here are gone.”

  Mari patted Cormik’s cheek fondly and deftly extricated herself from his grasp. “Not in a thousand years,” she said with a sweet smile.

  “That’s impertinent of you, Mari,” Cormik said chidingly, and then he laughed. “I like that in a woman. Take care of her, Caledan.”

  Caledan regarded Mari sourly. “I’ll try,” was all he said.

  After Cormik departed, the companions gathered in the garden behind the inn. As the first amber rays of dawn streaked across the sky, changing it from burnished silver to brilliant azure, Ferret kept watch for any city guards that might wander down the lane. Jolle had retrieved their mounts from the inn’s stable, and the companions saddled their horses and loaded their saddlebags. Mista stamped a hoof impatiently.

  “Patience. We’re almost ready,” Caledan told the gray mare, affectionately scratching her chin. She responded by trying to nip his fingers.

  As they mounted their horses, Mari took in a sharp breath of surprise. There were five riders assembled in the garden, not four. The mage Morhion was there, clad in midnight blue leather and a cloak of misty gray, sitting astride a black gelding. But she had not heard him and his horse approach. Nor, by their reactions, had the others.

  “I see you didn’t change your mind,” Caledan said, making no attempt to disguise his dislike of the mage. If the words stung Morhion, he did not show it. His regal visage was placid, his blue eyes like iced sapphires.

  “I gave you my word I would come,” Morhion said. “My word is binding.”

  Caledan snorted but said nothing more. Mari nudged her chestnut gelding, Farenth, toward the mage.