Shadowkeep

by Alan Dean Foster - (ebook by Undead)

  “Be ready,” she warned them. “Gorwyther warned me, as he warned us all, that once we are committed there will be no time for second thoughts. Any who wish to back out can still do so. Hargrod?”

  The Zhis’ta smiled. “I have been waiting for thiss for ssome time.”

  Her gaze traveled to the next in line. “Sranul?”

  He shrugged. “I suppose we have to take care of this Dal’brad before I’ll be allowed to enjoy my share of the treasure in peace.”

  She did not have to put the question to Praetor. “Very well, then.” Reaching into her pouch, she withdrew one of the broken pieces of crystal she’d gathered, murmured some strange words, and set it neatly in the center of the depression atop the pillar.

  The fragment began to hiss and to glow a deep blue. An intense blue cloud began to coalesce around them. It reminded Praetor of something previously encountered, but he was too tense and preoccupied to remember what. Then Maryld spun the small silver wheel once, twice, thrice. The room began to spin. Praetor half stumbled, worked to steady himself. He felt like a child rolling wildly down a grassy slope. Sranul’s hand almost pulled free of his own, but he tightened his grip, steadying the unseen roo.

  Eventually the rolling and spinning ceased. The blue cloud evaporated. They were standing together in a room, but it was not the room where the wizard had been imprisoned. For one thing it was far larger. Enormous, cavernous, awesome: these were the descriptive terms that flooded Praetor’s mind as he gazed about.

  The ceiling was so far overhead he was sure clouds could form beneath it. For the first time since they’d entered Shadowkeep, he saw windows, but they were fashioned of black glass and each was taller than the tallest buildings in Sasubree. The walls were curved, indicating they were in some kind of tower, but a tower constructed on an inhuman scale.

  The far wall was dominated by a mountainous carving of some hideous otherworldly monstrosity. The sculpture towered above the floor. It squatted on six hind legs separated by a bloated stone belly. A hand rested on each of the six knees. The distorted face was full of tusks and fangs. There were no eyes: only six slits that rose in a line from the flaring nostrils toward the forehead.

  Resting at the base of this obscene idol was a throne fashioned of black enamel set with dark garnets the size of skulls. Lounging on the throne was a bipedal figure eight feet tall.

  It had the general shape and proportions of a man, but the penetrating reptilian stare of a Zhis’ta. At their appearance it seemed to come alive, leaning forward and trying unsuccessfully to conceal its surprise.

  “Oh well, now where did you come from?”

  “Come on.” Praetor led his companions toward the throne.

  As they approached, large, rat-shapes began to emerge from behind it. These loathsome apparitions were armed with a disturbing, ragged assortment of weapons. They hopped and squirmed off to left and right, forming a line in front of their master.

  Praetor halted a few feet in front of the first creature and eyed the thing on the throne. “Are you Dal’brad?” He was surprised at how calm he sounded, now that the ultimate moment had arrived. He might as well have been talking to a street vendor back in Sasubree. But Sasubree was very far away now.

  The giant stayed slumped on the throne, rapping long fingers on one enameled arm. “I’m certainly not your Uncle Tavehl. I wouldn’t think my identity would be in doubt—whereas yours is a matter of some minor interest.” He smiled and they had a brief glimpse of teeth filed to sharp points. “Who are you trespassers?”

  “I am Praetor Fime, of Sasubree. These are my friends.” He introduced each of his companions in turn. “And if there are trespassers in Shadowkeep, we both know who they are.”

  “How did you get in here?” the giant asked, ignoring Praetor’s not-so-subtle accusation, “and how did you get into this tower? Outsiders are not allowed into the tower.”

  “That’s funny,” said Sranul. “You’re here.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” A hand waved indifferently in their direction. “You will be departing soon, and quietly. Very quietly. This discussion is at an end.”

  Praetor took a belligerent step forward. “Someone’s going out quietly, all right, but it isn’t us. This isn’t your fortress. Shadowkeep wasn’t built by you and you don’t belong in it. We’ve come to make sure you don’t take anything else that doesn’t belong to you.”

  “Really? Tell me, voluble man, who does it belong to?”

  “The wizard Gorwyther.”

  The nasty smile returned. “Gorwyther is dead. Dead and entombed forever. His interest in Shadowkeep is of no consequence to anyone anymore.”

  Praetor was about to reply when Maryld stepped forward and put a quieting hand on his arm. “You must go from this place,” she told the giant. “We know what you plan and we will not allow it to happen.”

  “You don’t say? You won’t allow it to happen?”

  “No,” said Hargrod quietly, “we will not.”

  Unholy eyes shifted to the speaker, narrowing as they did so. “What’s this? A Zhis’ta interested in something besides his family? And one who can put together a sentence of more than two words. Novelty piled upon novelty!” He shifted his position on the throne. “Yet I regret that I have no more time to continue this amusement. I have much to do. Great plans are about to come to fruition. My reach is about to extend beyond Shadowkeep.”

  Praetor drew his sword. “Your reach stops here.”

  The giant sighed. “So much confidence born of such small success, though I suppose you can congratulate yourselves on having come this far. A hollow victory.” He slumped back in the throne, looking bored. “This conversation grows stale.” A hand waved at them, casual and curt. “Take them.”

  A small army of servants now surrounded the intruders.

  At the signal they threw themselves forward, howling and barking, mewling and whining.

  “Form a triangle!” Hargrod snapped.

  The three warriors arranged themselves elbow to elbow, with the vulnerable Maryld in the center of the triangle. Besides protecting her, there were two guarding a third’s back at all times.

  They were heavily outnumbered, but Sranul could leap over the highest swing to bring a spear down with tremendous force. Praetor put to use everything he’d ever learned about combat at the hands of Shone Stelft, while Hargrod cleared the floor in front of him with great horizontal swings of his double-bladed ax.

  The demons yelled and howled ferociously, but they were unable to penetrate their prey’s defense. Their origin might have been unnatural, but they died just as messily and easily as any natural creatures.

  The giant observed all this from his throne. Both his humor and indifference began to leave him as he saw his servants cut down in droves.

  “Enough of this play,” he finally growled. He drew a large scimitar from a sheath attached to the underside of the throne and rushed to the attack.

  Sranul saw the first sweeping blow coming toward his head and jumped to avoid the blade. He brought his spear down with the intention of driving it through the demon king’s skull.

  The point passed completely through its intended target as though the roo had struck at smoke.

  Laughing, the giant stabbed with his sword. Sranul looked surprised as the point caught him beneath the sternum and emerged from the middle of his back. Praetor cried a warning, but much too late. Most of the lesser demons had been cut down and he tried to go to the roo’s aid as the giant pulled his blade clear.

  Sranul looked down at the blood that was pouring out of the hole in his chest and said to no one in particular, “And all I ever wanted was a little treasure.” Then, very slowly, he dropped to his knees.

  With an incoherent scream, Praetor charged the demon king. His target stood and smiled at him through pointed teeth. Praetor feinted high, cut low, and was astonished to see his blade pass completely through the giant’s thighs.

  The scimitar sliced down at him and he
barely managed to parry it. The force of the blow knocked Praetor to the ground. Immediately the giant raised the huge weapon for a killing blow, but this too was parried as another figure stepped between the curved blade and its intended victim.

  After blocking the blow cleanly, Hargrod moved in close, slicing repeatedly at the giant’s legs. Three such swings struck nothing but smoke, but did force the demon king to turn his attention to the irritatingly persistent Zhis’ta and away from Praetor. Only Hargrod’s prodigious strength enabled him to defend himself against the attack. The sound of scimitar against ax echoed thunderously through the tower.

  Maryld helped Praetor to his feet. He spared a sorrowful glance for the form lying motionless nearby. “Poor Sranul.”

  “Come on,” she urged him, “we have to help Hargrod.”

  “Maryld, wait!” He ran after her. She had drawn her ladylike rapier and was stabbing repeatedly at the back of the giant’s legs. Her thrusts had no more effect than Hargrod’s ax.

  The demon king took notice of her, however. She barely dove beneath a backhand swing. Then Praetor was at her side, adding his own futile strokes to those of Hargrod’s. A scimitar stroke came his way again and he blocked it without being knocked down this time, but the shock of the contact numbed his wrists. Another such blow and either his sword or his wrist would break.

  Maryld was at Hargrod’s side, whispering to him. The Zhis’ta hesitated, uncertain, then gritted his teeth and threw the battle-ax. It passed directly through the demon king’s head. The giant frowned for a moment, then turned away from Praetor and back toward his reptilian opponent. The ax struck the base of the statue and clattered to the floor.

  “Foolish snake-legs,” the giant growled. “Did you think letting loose of your weapon would make it more effective? Haven’t you learned by now that you cannot touch me? It is time to end this charade. I have no more time to spend on such diversions, however amusing.” The scimitar went up and Praetor could see that the demon king intended to decapitate Hargrod with one blow.

  Except that Hargrod wasn’t retreating, he was moving in to the attack with something he’d drawn from across his back. Something familiar. Praetor immediately recognized the staff they’d taken from the Brollachian’s pool. It had helped to open the vault door, had been used to shatter Gorwyther’s prison, and now they would see once and for all just what kind of power it contained.

  Hargrod slammed it into the giant’s chest. It passed halfway through the insubstantial form of the demon king and stopped as though striking something solid. A look of utter bafflement came over the giant’s face. The scimitar fell to the floor as he grabbed at his heart. Hargrod released his grip on the staff and stepped back, but the wood remained locked in the middle of its target. The demon king stood staring off into space, trembling violently.

  A voice shocked Praetor back to the present. Maryld was screaming at him. “Now, Praetor, now!” He covered the distance between himself and the giant in two bounds and struck, his sword penetrating deeply into the undefended back. Not the blow a hero might strike, perhaps, but there was much more at stake here than outmoded concepts of chivalry in battle.

  He could feel the resistance as the sword bit deep, and not into smoke this time. The demon king spun around, wrenching the sword from Praetor’s fingers and sending him flying. As the giant stumbled toward him, reaching for his tormentor with one hand while grabbing futilely for the sword stuck in his back with the other, Praetor scrambled out of the way. With each step, the demon king moved a little more slowly, had to fight a little harder to retain his balance. Real blood was spilling from the huge body. It hissed where it struck the floor.

  “How?” the giant moaned. “How?”

  It swung at him but he was able to dodge easily. Arm followed hand and body followed arm as the demon king collapsed and sprawled motionless on the floor in front of Praetor. He stared at it, moved close and kicked at the head. It did not react.

  Hargrod and Maryld came over to join him in staring at the corpse. The Zhis’ta indicated the sword which still protruded from the center of the giant’s back. “Good ssteel.” The demon king’s left hand was still twisted up behind his back, reaching even in death for the sword that had pierced his spine.

  “I forged it myself,” Praetor murmured. “I never thought I would use it for anything besides practice.”

  Maryld shuddered and sat down suddenly. Praetor bent over her. “You all right?”

  She nodded. “Just exhaustion.” She sounded puzzled. “I didn’t think it would be this easy, this simple.”

  Praetor nodded toward the nearby body of Sranul. “Don’t try to tell him this was easy.”

  Something let out a deep, ponderous groan. The tower trembled and a wind sprang up that seemed to come from nowhere.

  “It’s not going to be that easy,” said a voice like distant thunder. They turned toward it.

  Creaks and groans, heavy rafters squeaking, the sound of stone in motion.

  “Wisdom protect us,” Maryld whispered.

  The statue was moving. Slowly, ponderously, the great head arched forward and down. Rock crumbled to powder as the body pulled away from the back wall of the tower. The facial slits parted to permit a dozen glowing green eyes to glare down at the minuscule creatures frozen on the floor below.

  “But—the demon king is dead,” Praetor stammered aloud.

  “Yes, that thing is dead,” said the creature, which by itself weighed more than all the people and buildings of Sasubree, “but I am alive! I, Dal’brad, king of the demons. That thing was the demon prince. An underling. A slave. I am king here! I rule in Shadowkeep—as I will soon rule everywhere.” The clawed fingers of half a dozen hands began to twitch expectantly.

  “I am angry, very angry, awesomely angry.” The voice boomed through the hollow tower, reverberated from the walls. It was the voice of death itself. “I was pleased to maintain my anonymity, my silence, and now you have forced me to move. I despise movement. It is a crutch for the unthinking. I use others to move for me, like that insect.” He pointed with a gnarled hand the size of a house toward the corpse of the servant Praetor had slain.

  “You will die now,” it told them, “but you will die honorably. Only those of great resourcefulness can force me to life. I will honor you with the most exquisite torments I can devise. You will perish slowly, painfully, yet always aware of what is happening. I will make certain of it. I owe it to you.”

  Large enough to admit a six-horse team, the vast cavern of a mouth dipped toward them. Three hands reached down. They had been toyed with, played with, but now the game was over. Death was close, and very real.

  Praetor thought only of the gem which Gorwyther had pressed into his palm prior to vanishing. It seemed so tiny, so feeble a thing to throw against this incarnation of evil, and yet it was all they had left.

  He reached into his pocket and brought it out, feeling it quiver against his palm. There was no time to think how best to use it, no time to ask Maryld’s advice. He flung it into that gaping mouth.

  A hand was upon him, ready to crush him to jelly. The fingers did not contract. The gem went down Dal’brad’s throat and the monster’s attention shifted for just an instant to what it had swallowed.

  The explosion blew Praetor head over heels, sent him skidding across the stone floor. Bubbles of light filled the tower, rising toward the distant ceiling. He rolled over several times before coming to a stop. His right shoulder throbbed painfully.

  And still the volcano of light gushed ceilingward from the far side of the room. There was a roaring in his head as if he were standing next to a waterfall in spring flood. The bubbles grew more infrequent and the light began to fade.

  When he could see and hear again he pushed himself up on his elbows. The light-geyser became smaller and weaker, imploding back on itself. Then it was gone entirely. Silence reigned once again within the tower.

  Dal’brad was gone.

  The corpses of his servants r
emained, as did the body of the demon prince. Praetor’s sword, a small link with the real world, was still imbedded in the giant’s back.

  He felt fingers on his shoulders, rubbing reassuringly. Looking up and back he saw that it was Maryld. Her face was bruised but nothing was broken.

  “I’m okay—I think.” He ventured a hesitant smile and she responded as he climbed painfully to his feet.

  “Hargrod?”

  She nodded. “Over there.” Praetor turned and saw that the Zhis’ta was kneeling next to the body of the unlucky roo.

  “Gone,” Praetor muttered. “It’s gone. We did it.” The far wall of the tower where the statue that had been Dal’brad had once stood had been burned black.

  “Gorwyther gave you the cithque, the demon gem,” Maryld told him. “I could sense its power, but I had no idea…”

  “Neither did Dal’brad,” he said grimly. He winced, felt as though he’d just swum two leagues of rapids. Everything worked, though. He was skinned and scraped and bruised, but unbroken.

  They walked slowly over to join Hargrod. “It’s done,” Maryld assured the Zhis’ta, “over with. Finished.” She looked around the empty tower. “Can’t you feel it? Even the air has lightened in this place. Shadowkeep is cleansed.” She gazed up at Praetor. “The evil that was here is dead. You slew it. You did the right thing at just the right moment, just as I told Gorwyther you would.”

  As always he had no idea how to respond to a compliment. “I didn’t know what else to do, so I threw it. If I’d had anything else in my pocket I probably would’ve thrown it, too.”

  She was nodding sagely. “Gorwyther knew that’s what you’d do. He knew you’d react instinctively. So he didn’t try to confuse you with instructions.”

  “If only we had known ssooner.” Hargrod lifted the roo’s head gently. “Ssranul died insstantly. No one could ssurvive a blow like that, not even mysself.”

  “We’ll take him back,” Praetor muttered. “Back to his clan so that he can be properly remembered and honored.”

  He could feel the tears starting at the corners of his eyes. Sranul had been loud and boastful and argumentative, but always ready to help and, when it came down to it, utterly fearless. He was going to miss the roo a great deal.