Curse of the Shadowmage (15 page)

“Come on!” Morhion shouted. “I think we can make it to the bridge now.”

As they pushed their way through the panicked horde toward the stone arch, a stray claw sliced a shallow gouge in Mari’s leg. Kellen’s face was gray and strained, but he did not stop playing. The shadows continued to writhe threateningly on the cavern wall.

At last they reached the bridge. The narrow span of stone was swarming with fleeing gibberlings, all snarling and scratching in an effort to climb over each other.

“We’ll never make it across that,” Cormik said in disgust.

“Allow me to clear the way,” Morhion replied with mock congeniality. Fluid words of magic tumbled from his lips, and a small crimson sphere appeared in his hand. As Morhion finished the incantation, he hurled the sphere at the bridge. It sped through the air, expanding rapidly into a huge, blazing ball of fire.

The creatures never knew what hit them. The fireball raced along the length of the bridge, igniting everything in its path and exploding in searing flame when it hit the far end. Engulfed in fire, scores of the creatures careened

off the bridge, plunging into the chasm like shooting stars. When the smoke cleared, the bridge was empty. Only a thin layer of ashes covered its scorched surface.

“After you, Cormik,” Morhion said graciously.

“You’re too kind,” he replied with a nasty grin as he stepped onto the bridge.

A sharp crack! resounded on the air. The bridge shook violently as a jagged line snaked across its surface. As they watched in horror, more cracks spread out from the fissure. Chunks of stone broke off the edges of the arch, dropping into the void. The bridge was collapsing. Jewel grabbed Cormik’s belt and pulled the crime lord backward just as the rock beneath his boots crumbled. There was another sharp, rending sound. All at once, the bridge disintegrated, collapsing into the darkness below.

“The fireball,” Mari murmured, gazing at the now-impassable chasm. “The heat of it must have weakened the bridge.”

Morhion scratched his chin, giving the others a sheepish look. “Everyone makes mistakes now and then.” “This one was a doozy, love,” Jewel commented smartly. “Thanks,” the mage replied.

Kellen lowered his flute for a moment. “Morhion,” he said breathlessly. “The orb of light, it’s fading.” He raised his flute and resumed playing.

The others looked up. Sure enough, the ball of magical light Morhion had conjured was beginning to flicker. The shadows on the wall were growing dim. Already some of the gibberlings were creeping back out of their hiding places, eyeing the receding shadows warily as they edged toward the companions. Soon there would be nothing to hold back the horde.

“Hurry, Morhion,” Mari said. “You’ve got to cast the light spell again.”

“And I presume you’re going to rewrite the rules of

magic so I can do this?” he replied acidly. “Once a mage has cast a spell, he cannot cast it again until he has relearned the incantation. And something tells me I don’t have the time.”

The globe of light flickered alarmingly. The shadows were barely visible on the wall now. More gibberlings crept from their holes and crevices, then still more. With grim expressions, the humans backed slowly toward the edge of the precipice, weapons raised. The drooling horde closed in.

Kellen lowered his flute. “There goes the light!” he cried.

Above them, the glowing sphere flickered erratically. In seconds the spell would expire. It was hopeless.

Or was it? Morhion sheathed his knife and drew out the scroll he had found. He didn’t know exactly what the spell did—that would take hours of study to learn—but he had a hunch.

“Everybody, sheathe your weapons and hold on to me!” he shouted.

The others just stared at him.

“Do it!” he commanded fiercely.

Startled, they did as they were told. Morhion wasted no time. He lifted the scroll and began to read the arcane incantation in the fading light. Just as he was speaking the final words, the hovering sphere of magical light vanished in a puff of smoke, plunging the cavern into darkness. Chittering with glee, the gibberlings rushed forward, ready to gobble up their prey.

“Now jump!” Morhion cried.

He leapt backward off the cliff. The others were too surprised to stop him. Clutching the mage, they toppled over the precipice with him, screaming as they plummeted into the darkness below. Above, the thwarted gibberlings howled in dismay.

It will be now or never, Morhion thought in panic.

For a split second, as they fell through the chill dark, speeding toward a bloody death on sharp stones below, it seemed as if they would all die. Suddenly, the scroll in Morhion’s hand burst into flame and was consumed as the magic of the spell was released. A heartbeat later, the five reached the bottom of the chasm. However, instead of being dashed upon jagged stone teeth, they found themselves cushioned by a blast of warm air that came from nowhere. The gust of air dissipated as quickly as it had appeared, lowering the five safely—if not gently—to the hard ground.

Slowly, Morhion got to his feet, smiling. His hunch had proved right.

Dazed, the others pulled themselves to their feet, blinking as their eyes adjusted once more to the dim green phosphorescence that filled the cavern, trying to understand what had happened.

A dark shape dropped down from on high, striking the bottom of the defile with a loud plop! Moments later, another shape fell from above, and then another, all landing disconcertingly close to the companions.

“It’s the gibberlings,” Mari breathed in amazement. “They’re jumping after us!”

“Remarkable,” Cormik muttered in awe. “They’re even more stupid than I thought.”

In seconds, it was raining gibberlings. The creatures shrieked and snarled as they fell, striking the ground with wet thuds and dying instantly. Dodging the deadly rain of doomed gibberlings, the five picked their way along the bottom of the chasm.

At last they left the grisly cascade of furry creatures behind. Before long, Jewel caught a faint whiff of fresh air. They ducked into a side tunnel and soon stumbled out of the granite hill and into the night. The storm had

ended; now tatters of clouds raced across a moonlit sky. The companions leaned against the rain-slick rocks, catching their breath.

“You know, Jewel,” Cormik grumbled, “that was without doubt the worst campsite at which I have ever had the displeasure of spending a night.”

“Well, you can pick the next one if you think it’s so easy, love,” Jewel replied tartly.

Cormik opened his mouth for a scathing retort, but Morhion held up a hand. He had had enough for one night.

“Let’s just go find the horses,” he said wearily, and that was what they did.

Ten

K’shar had always loved the night. The golden moon of midnight hovered above the low stone buildings of Twilight Hall, its pale-wine illumination conjuring as many purple shadows as it banished. Somewhere in the distance, a nightingale sang in sweet

1-‘ mourning. And despite the lateness of

the year, the wild perfume of nightflowers wafted on the wind. Silent and wraithlike, K’shar moved from one pool of darkness to the next, piercing the gloom easily with eyes as brilliant and golden as the moon above. He was at home in the dark; but then, darkness was in his blood.

Twilight Hall, which stood on a green hill in the center of the city of Berdusk, was the western stronghold of the Harpers. It was not, as its name implied, merely a large meadhall or gathering place, but rather consisted of a number of stone buildings clustered around a central courtyard. Yet there was more to Twilight Hall than even this, for much of the compound lay beneath the ground—

including the dusky meeting hall for which the Harper fortress was named. Though K’shar had joined the Harpers more than twenty years earlier, he had spent little of that time in Twilight Hall itself. Most of his days were spent traveling the Heartlands, hunting down such prey—be it Zhentarim, Red Wizards, or goblin lords—as the Harpers commanded. K’shar was the best Hunter the Harpers had. This was not a matter of pride, just fact.

Tonight, K’shar was to learn the details of his latest assignment. He could only hope that his new quarry would prove more interesting than the last several. It had been long since he felt challenged by one of his adversaries. The Red Wizards of Thay were always overconfident and thus easily tracked; the Zhentarim were simply stupid. Again and again, the fugitives were too easily caught, too easily slain. When they lay dead at his feet, his blood had only just begun to surge with the passion of the chase, and he was left feeling hollow and unfulfilled. Perhaps, he thought—and not for the first time—he should leave the Harpers. Perhaps he should seek out challenges more worthy of his talents.

K’shar pushed aside these foolish, discontented thoughts. He was bored, that was all. As soon as he began the chase again, he would feel better.

K’shar approached the compound’s central building and stepped into the pool of torchlight by the main door. Two young Harpers stood guard at the portal, and by the surprise on their faces, he knew they had not heard his soft approach. He bared white teeth in a feral smile. Apprentices! he thought wryly.

The young Harpers did not recognize him—this was not surprising, given the rarity of his visits to Twilight Hall—but after examining his letter of summons from Belhuar Thantarth they let him enter, their eyes wide and respectful. K’shar wound his way down through a

dim labyrinth of corridors and staircases until he reached a pair of gilded doors. Without hesitating, he pushed them open, striding into the Great Hall beyond.

Instantly, a dozen pairs of eyes riveted upon him. K’shar was striking to look at. He knew this, even as he dismissed it as meaningless. His skin was a deep, burnished color, like ancient bronze; his golden eyes were eerily at odds with his colorless, close-cropped hair. He was unusually tall and thin, a fact accentuated by the tiht-fitting black leather he wore, but he showed none of the awkward gangliness that usually afflicted such individuals. Rather, his leanly muscled limbs seemed like supple whips. His slightly pointed ears, tilted eyes, and uncanny grace betrayed the elven blood that mingled with the human in his veins.

The cavernous Great Hall was of ingenious construction. Hewn by dwarven stonesmiths out of the surrounding rock, it seemed not a cavern at all, but a dusky, primeval forest. Countless columns were carved to resemble trees, their stone branches stretching to support the high ceiling. The walls were covered with lifelike leaves of copper and gold that seemed to flutter in the flickering illumination of the rushlights scattered about the hall. The floor, of mottled green-and-brown marble, added to the illusion.

Belhuar Thantarth looked up as K’shar approached. The Master Harper was holding council—hence the presence of so many Harpers in the hall—but when he spotted K’shar, he quickly dismissed the others with a wave of his hand. In moments, Thantarth and K’shar were alone in the stone forest.

“K’shar, I am glad you could come.” Thantarth’s deep voice echoed in the now-empty hall.

K’shar inclined his head slightly. “It is my duty to serve the Harpers,” he said formally, even as a part of

him wondered if this was truly so. Was his duty to the Harpers, or simply to the chase?

“It is with a heavy heart that I set this task before you, K’shar,” Thantarth said somberly. “For both of those whom we ask you to seek are—or at least were, until recently—among the most exalted of Harpers.”

While K’shar listened with growing interest, Thantarth explained what had transpired. There wasn’t a Harper alive who had not heard the tale of the Shadowking in Iriaebor. The deeds of Caledan Caldorien and Mari Al’maren were heroic folklore passed down to all Harper apprentices. Thus it was all the more shocking—and intriguing—that K’shar’s new prey were none other than these two legendary figures, now turned renegade.

“Caledan’s transformation must be stopped at any cost,” Thantarth finished firmly. “Whatever his deeds of the past, the Harpers cannot allow a shadowking to walk the Heartlands once more. Mari Al’maren has forsworn her vow as a Harper, and we can assume she will attempt to protect Caledan. While your mission is to find and destroy Caldorien, you are also authorized to … dispose of Al’maren should she block your way.” Thantarth appeared troubled, but his expression was resolute. “Bo you accept this mission, K’shar?”

“I accept it, Master Thantarth.” K’shar spoke the words without emotion, but inwardly his heart soared. He could not believe his luck! He had longed for a mission that would test his skills, and now Thantarth had ordered him to hunt down two of the greatest heroes the Harpers had ever known. While it was regrettable that two such extraordinary individuals must die, K’shar felt no personal sorrow. Such decisions were beyond him. He was simply a Hunter.

Thantarth handed K’shar a scroll containing details of the mission. The half-elf scanned it quickly with his

sharp, golden eyes. Rumors placed Caldorien in Corm Orp five days ago, and a Harper agent dispatched to Iriaebor reported that Al’maren had vanished. No doubt she had already gone to pursue Caldorien. Last on the parchment was a warning of the perils of Caldorien’s mysterious shadow magic. This part K’shar read hastily. What did he, a creature so at home in the night, have to fear from shadows? He handed the parchment back to Thantarth.

..”When will you leave?” the Master Harper asked. “With the dawn?”

“No,” K’shar said softly. “Now.”

“Very well. I’ll see to a horse and provisions for—”

But K’shar had already turned, moving swiftly from the Great Hall. He needed no mount, no food, no weapons. There was no horse that could run faster or farther than K’shar, no sustenance he needed that the land would not provide, and no weapon deadlier than his own two hands. He headed outside, quickly leaving behind Twilight Hall and the city of Berdusk. Soon the dark wall of the Reaching Woods loomed before him in the gloom. He stood on the edge of a vast, ancient forest that stretched all the way from Berdusk to the village of Corm Orp, sixty leagues to the northeast. He would be in Corm Orp by sunrise two days hence.