Crypt of the Shadowking

by Mark Anthony

  “I am glad you’ve decided to come with us,” she said to Morhion, trying to keep her voice steady under his disconcerting gaze.

  “Is that so, Harper?” the mage asked. His tone was not hostile, but neither was it especially friendly.

  Mari shifted uncomfortably in her saddle, doing her best to meet Morhion’s eyes. “Yes, it is,” she said firmly. “The Nightstone is an artifact of legend, Morhion, of magic. It’s simple. We need a mage on this journey.”

  “Is it as simple as that?” Morhion asked with a faint smile.

  Mari gathered her cloak more closely around her shoulders to ward against the damp morning air. “Caledan thinks that you’re coming with us for your own purposes. He thinks you wish to obtain the Nightstone so you can wield it for your own ends. Should I listen to him?” She searched the mage’s face carefully for any trace of a reaction. His face, however, was as smooth and unreadable as a marble statue’s.

  The mage shrugged, his golden hair glimmering in the sun. “You yourself must choose what to believe, Harper.”

  It was time to be off. Estah was scurrying busily about. Every few moments she remembered one more thing the companions just might need and hurried to tuck it away in a pack or saddlebag.

  “Enough, wife,” Jolle chided her gently, holding her hand firmly. “If you put anything more in those packs, the poor horses are going to collapse.”

  Estah sighed and nodded. “I suppose you’re right, husband. I’ve packed some balms and bandages, Tyveris. You know how to use them if …”

  “Of course, Estah,” the big loremaster said warmly, reaching down to grip the halfling healer’s hand.

  Estah nodded with a smile. Then the expression faltered. “But what will you do without a healer?” she said, worry showing in her brown eyes. “If one of you were to get hurt, and I wasn’t there to … and especially you, pretty one.” She reached up to touch Mari’s hand. Mari didn’t know what to say. “I just don’t know what I’d do. I don’t think that I could bear it.”

  “Go,” a voice said softly. A hand fell gently on Estah’s shoulder.

  It was Jolle.

  Estah turned to gaze at him, shaking her head softly. “Go,” Jolle repeated. “It means everything to you. And it might mean everything to all of us as well.”

  “But I can’t,” Estah said softly. “Why, who will run the kitchen in the inn? And tend the garden? And take care of the children? And who will light new candles for you, husband, when the old ones burn too low?” Jolle raised a finger to her lips to silence her protests. “Go,” he said one last time. They embraced. His eyes shone with sorrow, but also with pride and love.

  Scant minutes later Estah sat in her pony’s saddle, and the Fellowship of the Dreaming Dragon, reunited, was ready to take up where they had left off.

  “I’ll be here when you come back, wife,” Jolle cried. Estah only nodded, as if even that was more of a farewell then the two of them could bear.

  “Take care of yourself, Jolle,” Caledan advised the halfling innkeeper. “If any of Ravendas’s men come around asking questions, you don’t know anything about where we’ve gone. Be careful. Don’t get yourself into trouble.”

  “Don’t you worry about me,” Jolle said, a hard glint in his eye. “I can take care of myself. It’s you who ride into danger, not I. May the gods watch over you.”

  The riders made their way single file down the alley behind the Dreaming Dragon. Ferret rode at the fore, scouting ahead. When he indicated the way was clear, the companions made their way out of the alley, riding through the city streets in the early morning light.

  As they approached the city’s west gate, they fell silent. They were about to pass through when a rough-looking guard stepped into their path, halting the companions. He didn’t look to be Zhentarim, but his hand rested on his sword hilt with practiced ease.

  “All right, mates. Show me your papers,” the guard said, eyeing them distrustfully.

  “Papers?” Caledan asked, apparently taken by surprise.

  “That’s right,” the guard growled. “It’s a new rule, come down from the tower just yesterday. No one’s to leave the city without papers bearing Lord Cutter’s seal. Seems some city guards have been getting badly cut up, and Lord Cutter doesn’t want the rats who are doing it to sneak out of Iriaebor before she rewards them properly. Now, you got papers or don’t you?”

  Mari saw Caledan’s hand creeping down toward his boot—and his concealed dagger. “Sure, I’ll show you our papers,” Caledan said, his body tensing.

  Suddenly his horse was jostled aside as Morhion rode forward. “Here they are,” the mage said, handing the guard several pieces of parchment. Mari’s eyes widened. The papers were completely blank! The mage was going to get them all killed. She started inching her own hand toward the saddlebag where she had stashed a crossbow.

  “Well, everything seems in order here,” the guard said. Mari stared. The man wore a vacant look on his face, and Morhion watched him intently as he folded up the blank parchment and handed it back. “Well, get on with you,” the guard barked. “I haven’t got all day.”

  Morhion spurred his horse through the gate.

  “Come on,” Caledan whispered to Mari, and she nudged her horse to follow. Whatever magic Morhion had used to trick the guard, it had worked.

  They rode swiftly for a league or so until Iriaebor, the City of a Thousand Spires, disappeared behind a low hill. They turned west across rolling plains that were green with the new growth of early spring. Pale, tiny flowers dotted the grass, their fragrance sharp in the air. The sun was warm, and Mari threw her cloak back over her shoulders. It felt good to be away from the oppression of the city. She had forgotten how bright and lovely the world could be.

  They had a long journey before them. Even riding hard, the city of Berdusk was almost four days’ away, and the Fields of the Dead lay another hundred leagues to the northwest, nearly a tenday farther, and that only if the weather held.

  Shortly after midday, Ferret, who had been scouting up ahead, came galloping back toward the companions on his skinny roan stallion, his nose twitching. “I don’t know if any of you were expecting company,” the thief said, “but it looks like we’ve got some. There’s someone keeping watch on a hilltop about half a league ahead.”

  Mari knew the thief’s sharp eyes were seldom wrong. “Just one person?”

  The thief nodded. “It could be either a man or a woman. It’s hard to tell, with the black robes.”

  “Black robes?” Caledan spoke up, casting a glance at Mari.

  She looked worried.

  “What is it, Caledan?” Estah asked in concern. “Is it someone you know?”

  “Maybe,” he said grimly, gripping the hilt of the sword resting at his hip. “It sounds like that would-be assassin we ran into on the road to the Sunset Mountain monastery.”

  Ferret led them farther northwest, following a narrow valley that circled out of sight some distance from the rise where he had glimpsed the black-robed assassin. They rode hard for over two hours, pushing their mounts to their limits as the land, green and damp with the new spring, rolled by. But as the sun sank toward the western horizon, Ferret once again saw a black silhouette on a low ridge in the distance.

  “It’s no use,” Caledan said. “This fellow can move fast. Mari, Tyveris, and I know that from experience. I’d rather face him now than later, in the dark.” He eyed the westering sun nervously.

  “Then we should find a defensible place and wait for him,” Morhion said coolly. “Let the choice of where we meet be ours, not his.” Caledan nodded grudgingly.

  They found a low rise that dropped off into a rock-strewn ravine. A clear stream flowed swiftly in the ravine’s bottom, toward the Chionthar, now three leagues to the south. Mari, Caledan, Ferret, and Tyveris formed a semicircle on the top of the knoll, backs to where Morhion and Estah stood with the horses. Caledan reached for his sword and Mari her crossbow. Ferret gripped a dagger in each hand; Tyveri
s was ready to fight with fists alone. Even Estah clutched a small knife, though all knew she was loath to use weapons. Morhion seemed calmest of all, waiting and watching.

  “There he is!” Ferret exclaimed, pointing with his knife. They watched as a figure clad in jet-black robes appeared atop a ridge, striding toward them. The assassin moved with uncanny swiftness, and Mari had to force her hand to remain steady on the crossbow. In moments the black-robed man was ascending the low knoll where the companions stood. Mari waited until she was certain the figure was within range. Then she fired.

  The crossbow bolt whistled through the air, landing with a sickening thunk directly in the chest of the assassin. The figure stumbled backward, clutching at the arrow with a black-gloved hand, then toppled to the ground.

  “He’s dead—” Ferret started to say, but then he choked on the words as the assassin rose and started back up the hill. A gust of chill wind whipped over the knoll. It caught the heavy cowl of the assassin’s robe and then tore it aside, revealing the attacker’s horrible visage.

  “By all the gods!” Tyveris swore. “What is it?”

  The figure that approached them was not human. The beast’s face was misshapen, covered with thick, iron-gray scales. Two obsidian-dark tusks curved like scimitars from its maw, and a single, serrated onyx horn sprang from its brow. But most revolting of all, where the creature’s eyes should have been, there were only two shallow depressions. It could not see. Rather, it swung its head from side to side, taking in air through its two slit-shaped nostrils.

  It followed them by scent, Mari realized, not by sight. “I have read of creatures such as these,” Morhion said in a low voice. “It is called a shadevar.”

  Ferret let loose a dagger, but the shadevar lifted a hand. Razor-sharp talons sprang from its fingertips, shredding its black leather gloves. The creature batted the knife away. Uncannily, it did not need eyes to fight.

  Then the shadevar was upon them. The horses neighed in terror as it lunged. Mari barely ducked those deadly talons as the creature swung at her. Caledan brought his sword down hard on the shadevar’s arm. The blade sliced through the thick black robe, then bounced aside, barely scratching the beast’s metallic scales.

  Almost carelessly, the shadevar struck back toward Caledan. His swing had left his side unprotected, and now the creature’s talons dug deep, cutting through leather and flesh as though they were butter. Caledan cried out in pain, stumbling backward.

  Suddenly there was a pounding of hooves as Caledan’s mount, Mista, lunged forward. The gray mare reared onto her hind legs, then brought her forehooves crashing down on the shadevar full force. The creature tumbled backward, rolling halfway down the hill. It lay still for a moment, then slowly it stirred and began to crawl up the slope.

  Caledan groaned, sinking to the ground in Estah’s arms. He clutched his side as blood welled up thickly through his fingers. Mari fumbled with her crossbow, her hands numb. It took Ferret’s help to get it loaded again. Tyveris was chanting a prayer to his god, a powerful ward against evil, but Morhion held up a hand, interrupting him.

  “Do not waste your breath, monk,” the mage said. “The shadevar’s magic will smash your ward as if it were made of glass.”

  “I suppose you have a better idea?” Tyveris growled.

  Morhion lifted his hands, the queer, dissonant language of magic tumbling from his tongue. The shadevar was on its feet again, picking up speed as it lumbered toward them. The mage pointed a finger directly at the creature’s feet as he spoke the last word of the spell. There was a clap of thunder, and then the earth beneath the shadevar shook, tearing apart. The creature stumbled on the edge of the pit that had opened just behind it, but somehow managed to keep its balance. It took another step forward.

  The hiss of a crossbow bolt sliced through the air, and the shadevar clutched at a shaft protruding from its throat. The force of the blow knocked it backward. The shadevar lost its balance and tumbled into the rift in the earth that the mage’s magic had created.

  “Kalgava!” Morhion shouted, and the rift groaned shut, sealing the shadevar deep inside. The sound of thunder faded.

  “Is it … is it dead?” Mari asked in a weak voice.

  The mage shook his head. “No. It will take far more to slay the shadevar. Look.” He pointed. Already the earth was churning. The creature was trying to dig its way out

  “We have to flee,” Tyveris urged. He lifted Caledan to his horse. Estah had bound his wound with a makeshift bandage, but already it was stained crimson. Caledan’s face was pale.

  The others mounted, then guided the horses down the steep slope toward the ravine. “We must ford the river,” Morhion shouted to the others. “By its nature the shadevar cannot cross water. Its magic prevents it.”

  The horses splashed across the stream, clattering up the far bank. Mari cast a look over her shoulder. There was nothing there.

  The companions rode hard into the westering sun, their shadows stretching out on the land behind them.

  * * * * *

  They made camp in a hollow beneath a low hill as the purple veil of twilight descended over the land. Morhion arranged several flat stones around the camp’s perimeter, and on each he set a leaf, a blade of grass, or a bit of moss. He spoke several words in the eerie, fluid tongue of magic, and a pale green nimbus sprang to life around each of the stones.

  “I suppose a few glowing rocks are going to keep that foul creature away?” Tyveris asked the mage skeptically. The Tabaxi had never placed great stock in sorcery. He didn’t much care for the trickery of wizards.

  Morhion shrugged, his face impassive. “Speak your prayers if you think it wise, monk. No ward I might conjure would be strong enough to keep the shadevar at bay. This enchantment will disguise our camp, that is all. To anyone outside the nimbus, it will seem as if there is nothing here but a patch of grass and wildflowers. But I would be the first to say this is a temporary solution.”

  Tyveris grunted, as if this confirmed his low opinion of wizardry.

  They had laid Caledan gently on a cloak on the ground. His head was foggy from loss of blood and the hard ride, but he seemed to have control of his senses.

  “I am really far too old for this lunacy,” he said through gritted teeth. He cried out in pain as Estah removed his shirt.

  “I see this isn’t the first fight you’ve ever lost,” Mari commented. His lean, muscular chest was crisscrossed with a dozen scars, pale white lines that stood out sharply against a dusting of dark hair.

  Deftly and efficiently Estah cleaned the dried blood from the wound with a cloth soaked in hot water steeped with medicinal herbs. The shadevar’s talons had cut four furrows into Caledan’s flesh. Luckily the gouges were not so deep as all the blood indicated. When the wound was clean, Estah carefully pulled out her silvery medallion bearing the likeness of the goddess Eldath. She held it in one hand, while the other hand she placed over the wound. The medallion emitted a faint, sweet humming, and Caledan felt a strange tingling sensation in his body.

  When Estah lifted her hand away the blood and pain were gone. The marks had closed; already scabs had formed over the cuts. Caledan shook his head in amazement. It was not the first time Estah had used the medallion of Eldath to heal one of his wounds, but its power in the healer’s hand was miraculous.

  “It’s going to leave a scar,” Estah said.

  Caledan didn’t care. “What’s one more?” he returned. Estah rummaged in his pack, handing him a clean shirt. The evening air was cold.

  “Now there remains only one question,” Morhion said. The mage sat on a low stone, leaning on a staff of ashwood before him. “Who is it who is so eager to see you dead, Caldorien?”

  “I don’t understand,” Estah said in confusion. “Isn’t it Ravendas who commands the shadevar?”

  Morhion shook his head. “Ravendas does not possess the power to summon a creature of such fell magic. There are few, if any, sorcerers among the Zhentarim who would have the ability
to gain mastery over a shadevar. The shadevari are ancient creatures, as old as the world itself by some accounts. As far as I know, their kind has not walked the land in a long age. Once they were thirteen in number. Some scholars argue it was the evil god Bhaal who created them, but that is not so. He discovered them, but even then they were already ancient, as ancient as time itself. For thousands of years they served Bhaal, but eventually even the Lord of Murder in all his power could not control the shadevari. It was Azuth, the High One himself, who banished them far from the worlds of both humans and gods.”

  Morhion directed his piercing gaze toward Caledan. “Whoever the creature serves, he is a lord to be feared, that is certain.”

  The companions ate a cheerless meal as the stars appeared one by one in the sky. They took turns keeping watch during the night, but as Morhion had hoped, dawn came without any evidence of the shadevar. The creature’s inability to cross water seemed to have worked to their advantage.

  All that day, they pressed their mounts as the gray-green plains slipped by. Caledan’s wound still ached dully, but thanks to Estah’s medallion the pain was fading. Shortly before noon they came upon another small river flowing toward the Chionthar. They guided their horses down the riverbed for a half league before climbing the far bank. There was no sense making their trail obvious for the shadevar.

  The sun was beginning to sink toward the western horizon and the light had taken on the thick amber hue of late afternoon when the Harper guided her horse next to Caledan and Mista.

  “So how are you feeling, scoundrel?” she asked him. The wind blew her thick dark hair from her shoulders, the sunlight setting its auburn highlights afire.

  “You’d better be careful, Harper,” Caledan said wryly. “That sounds dangerously like concern in your voice.”

  She started to nudge her mount away, but he reached out to grab the bridle of her chestnut gelding. Their horses came to a stop. The others riding ahead seemed not to notice. “I just wanted to say … I just wanted to say thanks for worrying about me, all right? It’s been a long while since anyone’s really done that.”