by Paul S. Kemp
He was an island in an ocean of black. The wraiths attacked from all sides, from above, even emerging from the ground under his feet to attack from below. Their icy touch passed through his enchanted leather armor as though it did not exist and pulled at his life-force, chilling him to the bone. He managed to resist the pull of their touch time and again, and somehow knew that he could do so easily only because of what he had become. Still, the cold engendered by their fell touch was slowing him down.
He forced three wraiths back with a flurry of cross slashes from Weaveshear, then whirled around to check on Jak. A blanket of wraiths covered the halfling. Still deluded by the spell, Jak struck at them with his hand as if they were nothing more than annoying insects. But they were not, and each time they put their dark hands to the halfling’s flesh, Jak grew a little paler, a little weaker.
Cale lunged at the wraiths attacking Jak, slashed the head from one—it vanished in a cloud of smoke—stabbed another through its chest. It too vanished, but another took its place. And another. There were too many.
Cale scooped Jak into his right arm and held him protectively against his body. The halfling was ice cold. With Jak in one arm, Cale knew that he would not be able to move effectively, but it was the only way he could protect his friend.
“Put down the steel, Cale,” Jak said through chattering teeth. “This is a misunderstanding.”
Cale ignored the halfling, brandished Weaveshear, and channeled the power of Mask through the blade.
“Down to the shadows,” he said in a firm voice, his sympathy for the city’s dead washed away by the heat of combat. Weaveshear pulsed forth a wave of divine power, amplified in power by Cale’s anger. The wave obliterated a handful of wraiths; another handful fled the battle. But more took their place. He decided then and there that he would kill Jak himself before allowing the wraiths to drain the halfling’s soul.
Desperate for another option, Cale stole a glance over his shoulder at Riven. The assassin wasn’t faring much better. The darkweaver’s tentacles had already walled in Riven and Magadon. Riven was unable to get close enough to strike at the creature’s body. The huge appendages swung wildly at the assassin and guide, narrowly missing Riven but knocking Magadon to the ground. Riven answered with a flurry of saber slashes and yanked Magadon to his feet. Above them, still more wraiths hovered, awaiting an opportunity to attack.
Cale looked once more at the gate, the darkweaver, the wraiths, and realized that it was hopeless to fight. They were never going to reach the gate. If they persisted, they were all going to die. Riven wouldn’t be able to finish the darkweaver before the wraiths had claimed them all.
“Hold as long as you can, Riven!” Cale shouted, not sure if the assassin could hear him. “I’ll return.”
With that, Cale did the only thing he could. Still clutching Jak, and not knowing whether his ability would work while carrying another, he tried to shadowstep as far away from the cemetery as he could.
For an instant he felt the strange sensation of rushing air and rapid motion, then he and the halfling materialized on an empty street somewhere in the middle of Elgrin Fau. Only the patter of the rain, Jak’s chattering teeth, and the sound of Cale’s breathing broke the silence of the street. He hadn’t traveled as far as he’d hoped. His ability to shadowstep obviously enabled him to cover only so much distance. But they had escaped the wraiths.
Jak, still pale and weak, groaned, “Cale, what are you do—”
Cale shadowstepped again, still hoping to get outside the city—and he succeeded. He and Jak found themselves on the low ridge that overlooked the ruins of Elgrin Fau. From there, they couldn’t see the cemetery, and the buildings below looked quiet in the rain.
Cale looked into the halfling’s wan face and asked, “Are you all right? Jak?”
The halfling nodded, though his eyes were heavy with shame. Being removed from the necropolis seemed to have allowed him to shake the effects of the darkweaver’s compulsion spell.
“I’m all right,” he said. “I can heal myself. Go.”
Cale thumped Jak on the shoulder and said, “Stay here. I’ll be back.”
He shadowstepped back into the city. Again, he materialized on an empty street. Hoping he wasn’t too late, he took another step toward the cemetery, and materialized in the midst of a maelstrom.
Wraiths swirled everywhere and the darkweaver’s tentacles thrashed about. Riven stood in the middle of it hacking wildly and shouting. Cale could see that the assassin was weakening. Riven’s blows were wild; his speed a heartbeat slower. To Cale’s left, Magadon lay on his back in the grass, barely visible through the crowd of wraiths that surrounded him and fed on his life-force.
Cale took the wraiths near Riven by surprise. Lunging forward and swinging Weaveshear in a wide arc, he sliced through three with a single swing. The stench from their dissipating bodies made him gag.
“Riven!” he shouted.
The assassin whirled on him, unleashing a vicious cross cut at Cale’s throat with one of his sabers. Cale barely interposed Weaveshear in time to parry.
“Riven!”
Riven’s good eye registered recognition. He grinned a mouthful of stained teeth.
“It isn’t over yet!” the assassin shouted.
“We are leaving!” Cale countered.
Riven nodded, ducked under a swooping wraith, and split it open it as it passed. Cale impaled one, then another. Brandishing Weaveshear, he turned and channeled Mask’s power at the wraiths surrounding Magadon.
“Away, darkspawn!” he commanded.
Four wraiths withered before the onslaught of divine might, leaving behind only moans and wisps of dark smoke. A tentacle wrapped around Cale’s ankle and pulled him from his feet. Riven hacked it off with two swings of his sabers. It squirmed near them in a paroxysm of pain, spitting black blood and wisps of shadow. Cale jumped to his feet and bounded forward. He grabbed the groaning Magadon, clasped Riven by the forearm, uttered a prayer to Mask, and tried to shadowstep.
It worked, even with his two comrades. They found themselves standing in the rain on a quiet side street, surrounded by ruins. The only sound was that of their labored breathing. Before Riven or Magadon could speak, Cale shadowstepped again, and the three comrades appeared near Jak on the ridge overlooking the city.
For a time, they all sat there in the grass, in the rain, and said nothing. Even Riven, who moments before had seemed lost in the adrenaline rush of combat, seemed to have deflated.
In the distance, the golden light of the gate again flashed, a tantalizing reminder of a way out. Cale stared at it, thought, and made up his mind.
“Regroup,” he said. “After we’ve recovered, we go again.”
Incredulous expressions looked out from pale faces.
He explained with half the truth. “We know where the gate is now. We know what’s guarding it. We can prepare and get through.”
The rest of the truth was that he had to get through.
Magadon said, “You said that you don’t know where it leads, Erevis. A divination to determine—”
Cale cut him off with a wave of his hand and a shake of his head.
“Divinations do not work here, Mags. Besides, wherever it leads, anywhere is better than here.”
“Cale …” Jak began.
“We go again!” Cale snapped, and instantly regretted it.
Jak recoiled. He struggled to keep the hurt from his eyes.
“All right,” the halfling said, voice thick with emotion. “We go again.”
He climbed unsteadily to his feet, and Cale had to control the urge to go over and help him stand.
Riven’s voice sounded from behind Cale, “No.”
Cale’s grip on Weaveshear tightened as he turned to the assassin.
Riven’s good eye took in the blade, took in Cale’s expression, and narrowed dangerously. Even Riven’s ordinarily sallow face looked pale from the wraiths’ attacks. He still held a saber in each hand. He raised
one and pointed it at Jak and Magadon.
“Look at them, Cale. They can’t go through that again. Fleet can barely stand. There are too many. You got us out of there—” he nodded back at the city—“and you’re going to get us out of here.”
His gaze took in all of the plains.
“We can do it,” Jak said, but Cale heard the lie in the halfling’s voice.
He chose to ignore it. He had to escape.
Cale said to Riven, “We’re going back.”
Riven shook his head and took two steps nearer to Cale, until they stood nose to nose.
“No, we’re not,” the assassin said. “Listen to what you’re saying, Cale. You’re desperate to get out of here, even more than Fleet. Why is that?”
Because I’m afraid of what’s happening to me, Cale thought but did not say. He felt himself transforming into a man like Sephris Dwendon—seeing things that others did not, hearing a god in his brain, going mad.
Instead, he said, “Take one step back, Zhent. Now.”
Riven’s good eye narrowed to a slit, as though he was considering the seriousness of the threat. He took a step back but continued to face Cale.
“You’re ready to sacrifice me, yourself, fine,” said the assassin. “But Fleet? That transformation darkened more than your skin, Cale. I’m not sure you’re even a man anymore.”
That hit too close to the mark. Cale remembered his thought, born in the heat of battle, that he would kill Jak rather than let the wraiths take him. Hot with rage, he grabbed Riven by the cloak and pulled him close.
“No,” Cale hissed. “I’m not just a man. Not anymore. I am the First of the Shadowlord.” He stared Riven in the face. “And that’s what bothers you, isn’t it, Second?”
Riven’s good eye flashed and his nostrils flared. Cale could feel the tension in the assassin’s body.
“Among other things,” Riven said, his voice low and predatory.
Cale released the assassin’s cloak, took one step back, and drummed his fingers on Weaveshear’s hilt. Wisps of shadow trailed around his face.
“And?” he asked, daring Riven with his eyes to further escalate the exchange.
Riven tightened his grip on his sabers, but before the assassin’s snarl could form into a coherent reply, Magadon jumped to his feet and interposed himself between them.
“That’s enough!” the guide said. He looked into Cale’s eyes, then into Riven’s. “Back off, Drasek. Erevis. Just … back off.”
The assassin continued to stare daggers into Cale, but he did as Magadon requested. Cale’s own ire vanished as quickly as it had risen. He just felt tired. He slumped, leaned on his blade.
Magadon turned angrily on Riven and growled, “You. You keep pushing and pushing, though you see his struggle and understand it full well. Stop it. Besides, he’s as human as me, and probably more than you.”
Cale appreciated what Magadon was trying to do, even if it was not entirely correct. Riven would have none of it.
“I’m pushing for a reason,” the assassin said as he sheathed his sabers. He looked into Cale’s face. “And he’s not human. He was hit by wraiths too, same as you and me. Look at him. Unscathed. He’s no more human than your father.”
Magadon glanced up sharply at that. Had he been closer, Cale would have punched the assassin in the face for salting the wound of Magadon’s heritage.
“What did you say?” Magadon said, his voice eerily calm.
“I’ve known you the better of ten years, Mags,” the assassin said. “I know what you are.”
Magadon said through gritted teeth, “And I know what you are, Riven.”
The assassin waved a hand dismissively and said, “I’ve never tried to hide it.” He looked past Magadon to Cale. “Like I said, you’re our way out of here, Cale. Not the gate. Stop fighting it.”
“You said that before, Zhent,” said Cale, glaring, “and it’s still the same nonsense.”
“Not so,” Riven sneered. “I’ve seen it, Cale, dreamed it. You’re the only way we’re getting out of here. And you’re the reason we’re still here. You’re still hanging on to what you were. You’re changed. We’re changed. You keep saying it with words, but not feeling it. Let it go. Stop fighting.”
Cale simply stared. He could frame no reply, because there was no reply to be made. Deep down, in that secret part of his brain that he kept walled off, he knew that Riven spoke the truth. Cale had been fighting it, and fighting it hard since the moment he’d opened his eyes to see a starless sky. He was not human. He never would be again. He’d told himself as much, had seen it in Jak’s haunted eyes, heard Magadon state it across a fire, but he’d held it at bay with the wall of his will, kept the reality of it from infecting his psyche. And that wall was crumbling.
Tears started to form in his eyes—whether from frustration, fatigue, fear, or some combination of all of them, he didn’t know—but he blinked them back. He wouldn’t give Riven the satisfaction.
The assassin stared at him, waiting.
“Cale?” Jak asked tentatively.
He’d voluntarily transformed his body to save Jak, but had fought the transformation of his soul. He couldn’t fight it any longer. He was too tired, and he was a shade. A monster.
What had he done to himself?
Weaveshear fell from numb fingers. His legs went weak. He fell to his knees and turned his face to the ground. He would have screamed his anger into the night, but he couldn’t muster the strength to shout. Instead, he simply sat there and let the rain wash over him. After a moment, he raised his gaze and looked upon Riven. The assassin returned his look, expressionless, and nodded.
Cale nodded back. Staring at Riven all the while, Cale made a conscious decision, steeled himself, and surrendered to what he had become.
He thought he could hear Mask laughing.
Darkness entered him, enveloped him, a cocoon of night.
Knowledge flooded Cale—the full scope of his abilities as a shade. He knew then that his body resisted magic, that he could form animated duplicates of himself out of shadowstuff, could turn invisible in darkness, could travel between worlds. He saved them from the destruction of the Fane when his instincts tapped those powers. Having embraced it, he knew he could do it at will.
He was the Divine Agent of Mask, the Champion of the Shadowlord. He knew the names of the others who served Mask in a similar capacity: Drasek Riven, Kesson Rel, Avner of Hartsvale…. Proxies, Chosen, Agents, Seraphs—they had many titles. But among them all, Cale was the First and Riven the Second. It was Cale and Riven who would retrieve for the Shadowlord what he had lost.
Groaning, Cale gripped his head between his hands and tried to prevent his skull from exploding under the pressure of the influx of knowledge.
He knew in that instant that Riven was right. Cale was their way out. The irony was that Cale could not have escaped the Shadow until he surrendered to it. He knew that Mask had planned it that way. Mask planned everything that way.
Time passed, he didn’t know how long, and gradually his head ceased pounding. He sat on his knees in the grass. Around him, everything stood quiet except the patter of the rain. It would never wash him clean, he knew. Not anymore.
Thazienne….
A touch on his arm. He looked over and saw Jak, concern writ clear in the halfling’s green eyes.
In Luirenal, the halfling said, “It doesn’t matter, Cale. I’m your friend. I’ll always be your friend.”
It did matter, but Jak’s simple words brought Cale more comfort than anything else could have. He even managed a smile.
“I know. Thank you, Jak.” He cleared his throat and said, “Earlier, when I snapped at you—”
Jak waved it away.
“Forgotten,” he said.
Cale nodded, patted the halfling’s arm. Still a little lightheaded, he leaned on Jak and climbed to his feet. He took a deep breath and looked to Riven and Magadon.
“Riven was right,” he said. “I know how to get
us back to Faerûn.”
Riven looked only mildly smug. Magadon looked both pleased and alarmed.
“How?” the guide asked, hope in his voice.
“I’m going to shift us there,” Cale replied. “But first we need to have a conversation. I’ve been considering something for a time. We need to handle it before we leave this place.” He looked an apologetic glance at the halfling. “Jak, stay here.”
“What?” the halfling asked in surprise. “Why?”
“Trust me,” Cale said.
He offered a smile. It was better if Jak knew nothing of what Cale was about to propose.
The halfling looked perplexed, and maybe a little hurt, but he nodded anyway.
Jak tried to hide his frown as Cale steered Riven and Magadon out of easy earshot. The halfling knew that Cale must have a good reason to exclude him—likely due to a discussion of what Cale sometimes referred to as “methods”—but that lessened the sting only a little. Besides, Jak wished Cale had spoken to him about it beforehand. Jak didn’t need to be sheltered from hard choices, not anymore. His views on what was acceptable had changed since his torture at the hands of the slaad.
Merely recollecting that agony made his eyes water. He still bore the scars of slaad claws on his chest and on his soul. He supposed he always would.
But in the aftermath of that pain he had come to realize that sometimes—but only sometimes—principle must give way to pragmatism. It was a hard lesson, but a true one. Otherwise, the slaadi and those like them would always win.
Sometimes good people have to do hard things, he thought, recollecting Cale’s words to him on that rainy night outside of Selgaunt.
He knew the words stank of a rationalization, but he knew too that they were true. The truth was just so ugly that it sometimes needed to be rationalized.
He wondered what hard things his three companions were discussing just then. He wondered if his old friend Sephris would still consider him a seventeen.
He pulled his pipe, quickly gave up trying to light it in the rain, and instead twirled it in his fingers; a nervous habit. He eyed his comrades sidelong, trying not to listen, but unable to keep himself from watching.