by Marc Anthony
Morhion raised his eyebrows in surprise. So it was the light, he realized. The bright light had caused the black fluid to form itself into one of the strange creatures, and alter the light was extinguished, the creature reverted to liquid. The things the Zhentarim sorcerers had conjured were creatures of both darkness and light. For a moment, Morhion hesitated, thinking of the poor, doomed mouse. Then he did what he knew he must.
He destroyed the vial of dark fluid with a spell of disintegration.
That seemed the safest and the most conclusive thing to do. He did save one tiny drop of the dark substance, and this he bound magically in the center of a small ruby pendant around which he wove a strong enchantment. He slipped the pendant's chain over his head and tucked the cold gem beneath his robes. Now would be able to sense the magic that had conjured the dark substance, if he ever chanced to draw near its source.
Midnight found the mage in the bedchamber below his study. He sat in a velvet chair, gazing into the flame dancing in a stone fireplace, thinking of all this day ha wrought. On a small table beside him, seven runestones lay scattered in an intricate pattern. The runecast had upset Morhion at first. The pattern was one of chaos and upheaval. It worried him, yet there was a dangerous feeling of exhilaration in his chest as well. He dared to admit the truth to himself: There was a part of him that longed for catastrophe, even craved the excitement of it.
These last two years had been years of calm and peace for Morhion. They had proven a welcome respite from the dark turmoil of his life, and he had even known some thing of a mild joy. Yet of late he had grown complacent. He no longer pushed his magic to the limits of its power; he no longer sought knowledge with the same voracity and hunger as a stag pawing through the snows of winter in search of sustenance. He needed to face adversity once more, to meet a challenge of both mind and magic. Other wise, he might one day wake up and find himself nothing more than a court magician, conjuring petty magics to entertain simpleminded nobles, and content with that. On that day, Morhion knew that he would be as good as dead.
He glanced once more at the runecast scattered across the silver tray. The runes spoke clearly. Some great change was coming, and with it risk and hardship. A sharp smile touched his lips. Let the upheaval come, thought. I shall welcome it.
Morhion leaned over the table to gather up the rune-stones. A chill gust of air rushed past him, and the fire flared brightly. Sparks flew crackling into the air, but the flames died down as quickly, leaving the chamber eerily darkened. Morhion shivered, his breath fogging. He rose, his long golden hair flying wildly behind him, and turned to shut the window. It was closed. The cold light of the full moon spilled through the glass, gilding the room's furnishings with frosty light. Though Morhion half guessed what he would see, the horror of it was not lessened.
Like strands of pure silver thread, the moonlight wove itself into a recognizable shape. Glistening tendrils spun faster and faster in midair, outlining the form of a tall man clad in ornate, archaic armor. The glowing threads plunged into a pair of black pits where the figure's eyes should have been, and two pinpricks of crimson light flared to life. The last silvery tendrils spun themselves into nothingness; the apparition was complete. The spectral knight, surrounded by a corona of pale light, took a step toward the mage.
Old, familiar dread gripped Morhion's heart. He managed to whisper a single word. "Serafi."
The ghostly knight bowed, but the gesture was one of mockery, not respect. "The orb of Selune rises full into the night sky. It is time once again for you to fulfill our bargain, Morhion Gen'dahar." Serafi's voice seemed to echo eerily from all directions.
A mirthless smile touched Morhion's lips. "Do you truly believe that I could have forgotten?"
"Perhaps," Serafi intoned indifferently. "The memories of the living are fleeting. But the dead never forget."
"I do not forget my vows," Morhion said.
The knight drifted menacingly closer. "Then give to me the blood that is my due. The pact is binding."
Though he had done this once each month for the past ten years, Morhion trembled involuntarily as he went through the ritual of lifting an arm and drawing back the sleeve of his night robe. Beneath the cloth, his forearm was crisscrossed with thin, white scars-the legacy of a pact he had once forged to save Caledan's life, an act for which he was later branded a traitor.
It had begun ten years before, in the darkest hour of the old Fellowship of the Dreaming Dragon. The Harper Kera, a member of the Fellowship and Caledan's beloved lay dead-murdered at the hands of their foe, the Zhen-tarim warrior Ravendas. Blaming himself for Kera's death, Caledan journeyed to the Zhentarim fortress of Darkhold to exact his revenge. Confronting Ravendas in her lair would mean his own demise, but Caledan cared not, for he meant to join Kera in death. Morhion's betrayal was this: He had forced Caledan to choose life.
Against Caledan's wishes, Morhion too went to Darkhold, and revealed Caledan's plans to Ravendas. Without the advantage of surprise, Caledan's attempt to slay Ravendas was foiled, as was his own suicidal objective Caledan would have been captured, then executed, but Morhion engineered their escape from the catacombs beneath Darkhold-doing so at terrible cost.
It happened that in ancient times Darkhold had been keep of the lost Empire of Netheril. Morhion had learned of a dark spirit that haunted the caverns beneath the keep-the usurper Serafi, who two thousand years before had schemed to seize the throne of Netheril and been executed for treason. The spectral knight agreed to show Morhion a secret way out of the catacombs, demanding a dark vow in exchange. Morhion had no choice but to accept.
With Serafi's help, Caledan and Morhion escaped Darkhold, surviving to defeat Ravendas later in the crypt of the Shadowking. For years afterward, Caledan despised Morhion as a traitor. However, Caledan eventually came to understand that Morhion had betrayed in order to save his life, and thus the two renewed their friendship. To this day, Caledan did not know of the pact Morhion had forged to save his life.
And he never will, Morhion thought fiercely.
The mage drew a small knife from the sheath at his hip. Slowly, carefully, he used the sharp tip to trace a thin red line into the flesh of his arm. Crimson blood oozed forth.
"The pact is binding," Morhion whispered hoarsely.
With menacing speed, Serafi knelt and caught Morhion's arm in a freezing grip. "Ah, the sweet substance of life!" the spirit cried exultantly in his sepulchral voice. "How I long to taste it again…"
A low moan of fear escaped Morhion's lips as the spectral knight bent over the mage's bleeding arm and began to drink.
Four
The autumn moon rose full and bright in the dark sky, casting its golden light over the little village of Corm Orp. Tam Acorn threw open the blue wooden door of his burrow and hurried outside. Tonight was the annual Harvest Festival, and he didn't want to be late for the dancing, the merrymaking, and-most important-the sugarberry pies. Hastily, he locked the door to his tidy underground home with a brass key and scurried down the winding path that led toward the center of the village.
Tam arrived red cheeked and breathless at the village commons just in time to see Pel Baker pull his first batch of bubbling sugarberry pies out of a brick oven. Moments later, Tam was two silver coins poorer and two steaming pies richer. Slipping one pie into a pocket, he began happily munching the other. He burned his tongue, and dark syrup ran down his chin, dribbling onto his green jacket and yellow waistcoat. Tam did not care. Sugarberry pies were his favorite part of the Harvest Festival.
Villagers were streaming into the open greensward now. While most of Corm Orp's residents were halflings like Tam, there were a few big folk as well. They lived in the stone houses that surrounded the village commons, while the diminutive halflings preferred to dwell in snug underground burrows. A bonfire flared to life in the center of the commons, chasing away the night. Laughter rang out, along with the clinking of cider-filled mugs. Tiny halfling children scurried about in an ongoing game of hi
de-and-seek. The rich scents of hot sausages, honey bread, and baked apples filled the air.
A call went up for the dancing to begin. "Somebody fetch old Quince Piper!" called out a plump, middle-aged halfling named Rin Miller.
Shouts of happy agreement rang out, but one voice rose above the others.
"I'm afraid my grandfather is ill," Ali Bramble said sadly to the faces turned toward her. "He won't be able to play for you tonight."
A collective groan of despair came from the throng. Tam sighed in disappointment. True, sugarberry pies were the best part of the Harvest Festival, but things wouldn't be complete without dancing to the music of Quince Piper's flute.
Rin Miller frowned gloomily. "I don't suppose there's anyone else who can play music as well as old Quince?" he asked without much hope.
"I can," a voice replied.
The crowd gasped with surprise, and the crowd hastily parted.
The stranger was a striking fellow. He was dressed all in black, except for his cloak of midnight blue, and he rode a horse as pale as a ghost. Dismounting, the stranger approached the bonfire. Tam thought there was something odd about the man. He seemed pale and haggard, though perhaps it was simply a trick of the flickering shadows. The man drew something from a pouch at his belt. It was a set of polished bone pipes.
"Well, now, I don't know," Rin said suspiciously. "This is all highly irregular, and-"
Rin stopped short as the stranger lifted the pipes to his lips and began to play. The most beautiful music Tam had ever heard drifted on the air. The villagers listened in rapt silence as the stranger's haunting melody filled the night. When at last he lowered his pipes, tears shone in more than one set of eyes. Someone called out for another song, and the crowd echoed the request.
"Make it something we can dance to, piper!" Rin shouted, now enthusiastic.
The stranger seemed to hesitate, then lifted the pipes once more. This time the music was fast and rollicking, almost wild. Whoops of joy rang out as the crowd leapt into a brisk dance. In moments, Tam found himself being breathlessly spun from one partner to another as the villagers danced merrily around the blazing bonfire.
That was when Tam noticed something peculiar. He blinked, wondering if it was simply his imagination.
The shadows around the bonfire seemed to be moving quite independently of the flow of the dancers. Even as he watched, they stretched out, forming themselves into shapeless blobs that began to whirl slowly around the bonfire. Then, impossibly, the shadows separated themselves from the ground and rose into the air. Tam untangled himself from his dancing partner and stared up in horror. Before he could shout a warning, Ali Bramble's scream shattered the air.
The shadows! Look at the shadows!"
In shock, the villagers looked upward, other screams echoing Ali's. Now the stranger's music was fey and dissonant. It seemed to pierce Tarn's ears and numb his brain. The shadows began to whirl faster and faster above the bonfire. One of them spun away from the whirling ring of darkness. It stretched outward, engulfing a stone house close to the commons.
When the shadow rose once more into the air, the house had changed. Now the stone walls were hideously warped and distorted, as though they had melted partway under some fierce heat, only to resolidify into something more grotesque. More screams rang out. The dance descended into panic as humans and halflings alike fled in all directions.
Still the stranger continued to play, his eyes staring blankly as if he did not notice the mayhem all around. More shadows spun away from the bonfire. Everything they touched became horribly disfigured. Cottages, sheds, fences, wells, and signposts-all were reshaped by the dark embrace of the shadows.
A cry of animal pain rent the night, and Tam turned to see a hideous form stumble toward him. In horror, he realized it had once been a milk cow. One of the shadows had brushed it in passing, and somehow the beast had been turned inside out. White bones and glistening muscles clung to the outside of its body. Its still-beating heart dangled from its chest. A moment later, the tortured beast collapsed and died, its agony blessedly ended. Tam stared in horror. If one of those shadows were to touch a villager…
In desperation, he wondered what he should do. Suddenly, an idea struck him.
"The bonfire!" he shouted above the din. "We have to put out the bonfire!"
At first, he thought no one had heard his words amid the tumult. Moments later, Ali Bramble and a pair of humans pushed their way to his side. They had had the same idea. Dodging fleeing villagers and the horrible shadow creatures, they grabbed buckets of water and heaved their contents onto the bonfire. There was a terrible hissing noise as clouds of steam rose into the air. The flames flickered and died out. Night closed about the commons like a dark hand. With it came a deep silence. The music had stopped.
Tam held his breath. Gradually, his eyes adjusted to the pale moonlight. The shadows were gone. So too was the stranger.
Exhausted, Tam sank to the ground, only to feel something damp and sticky beneath him. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the remains of a sugarberry pie, smashed but still edible. As he gazed at the destruction that had minutes ago been a happy and prosperous village, Tam found he no longer had much of an appetite for sugarberry pie.
The sun was dying on the western horizon when Mari crested a rise and caught her first glimpse of Iriaebor shining in the distance. The big chestnut gelding beneath her nickered excitedly, sensing a stable and a meal of oats were near, and quickened into a canter.
Mari laughed aloud. "Oh, come now, Farenth. Must you risk our necks just because you can't wait to have a feed bag strapped to your nose?" As was his custom, Farenth pointedly ignored her. There was nothing for Mari to do but grip a handful of dark mane and hold on as he raced across the gray-green moor. Not that she really minded. She too was ready for this journey to end.
It had begun a tenday ago, in the small but lively trading town of Easting. Here the dwarven smiths that dwelt in the southern Sunset Mountains came to sell the exquisite metalwork they fashioned in their subterranean forges.
However, over the last several months, fewer and fewer dwarves had journeyed to Easting. Without the trade, Easting was failing. The Harpers had sent Mari to investigate.
At first she had been frustrated. No one in Easting knew what had happened to the dwarven smiths, so she undertook a journey into the mountains to scout the dwarven clanlands themselves. As it turned out, she didn't need to go that far. While traveling a road that wound deep into the rocky crags, she espied a hapless dwarf being ambushed by a band of orcs. As she watched, the hairy, pig-faced creatures knocked the dwarf on the skull and hauled him into the mouth of a cave. Keeping a safe distance behind, Mari followed and soon discovered the fate of the missing dwarven smiths.
They were being held prisoner by the orcs. An orc prince named Gtharn was behind the kidnappings. Gth-arn was forcing the dwarves to forge weapons-swords, axes, and arrowheads-for an all-out assault on the dwarven clans. Mari prowled unseen through the orc warrens-the brutes always made bad sentries-and discovered that over fifty dwarves were being held captive. However, each was imprisoned in isolation, without realizing so many other dwarves were nearby, and so believed escape was impossible.
Mari took it upon herself to rectify this. She stole a set of keys from a guard and freed the dwarves. When the dwarven smiths saw the number of their kinsmen, they banded together and attacked their captors. The cowardly orcs were no match for fifty furious dwarves all swinging bright, newly forged weapons. It was a rout. Mari herself slew Gtharn as he tried to flee. Freed from the filthy orc warrens, the joyous dwarves had tried to reward her with gold and silver. She had refused, telling them instead to return to Easting and renew their trading there. This they did, and so both dwarves and town were saved.
As ever when she completed one of her missions successfully, Mari had ridden away with a warm sense of accomplishment and pride. However, the three-day ride from the mountains across the plains grew tedious, and s
he soon found her thoughts turning to other, less cheerful matters. Even now, as Iriaebor rose higher on the horizon with each passing moment, Mari found herself wondering if Caledan's mission was going equally well, and whether she had been right to bid him such a definite farewell. She was resolved to stay true to her decision, but she thought she might come back to Iriaebor in a year or two. Perhaps Caledan would have sorted out his problems by then. But for now, wasn't it best that she make her good-byes and leave?
She was jolted from her reverie as Farenth skidded to a snorting halt, bridle jingling and leather creaking. Mari had long ago learned to trust the horse's instincts. Her hand strayed to the knife at her hip. "What is it, friend?" she whispered. They had stopped in a low hollow at the base of a round hill. Atop the hill was a circle of wind-worn standing stones, raised by some forgotten folk. A soft mist was slowly rising from the ground, and Mari's spine tingled with a preternatural chill.
"All right, show yourself!" she called out sharply, suddenly certain she was not alone. The mist swirled, and seemed to take on human form.
The first things Mari noticed about the woman were that she was very beautiful and very pale. Her skin, her hair, her clothes-all were as gray as the rising fog. The second thing-and this Mari noticed with surprise-was that the woman was not standing on the ground. Rather, she drifted atop the mist as if she were no more solid than the vapor itself. Mari's arms broke out in gooseflesh.
This was no living person, but an apparition. Farenth pranced skittishly, and Mari tightened her grip on the reins.