Shadowdale (29 page)

“Yes, bring her closer,” Torrence said. “We may feast on them both.”

“Get away!” Kelemvor shouted as he slammed the priestess against the far wall and raised his sword. The look of fear in her eyes was almost more then he could bear. “Now!” he screamed as he felt the familiar agonies begin to play upon his soul.

He was saving Phylanna from the jackalwere, but he was receiving nothing for the heroic act.

“I have erred. You are not one of my kind. You are accursed.” Torrence glanced at Phylanna, then returned his gaze to Kelemvor. “You cannot save her, cursed one. She will pay for your trickery with her life!”

Kelemvor slowly turned, his skin dark and crawling with black, twisting hairs. He dropped his sword and stripped off the mail frock. His arms were still caught above his head when his flesh exploded and the great beast he held within him leaped at the jackalwere, pushing it out the window. The silver-haired creature howled as the beasts met in midair and plummeted to the ground.

Dawn was breaking, and Adon was shocked from his introspection by the screams of the dying.

The cleric approached the source of the screeches with growing apprehension; the screams he heard were not the sounds a human would make. And as he drew closer, he saw that many townsfolk had been drawn by the noise, as if the sounds had pierced the veil of lethargy that hung over them, allowing awareness to sear across their minds. The commoners stood staring at a nightmare.

The watchers were at either end of the alley, and Adon could only glimpse an occasional blur of movement from the area beyond — a flash of glaring white; a huge black form darting forward, then retreating as it let out an inhuman roar. There were two figures locked in some obscene dance of death.

Adon pushed forward, past the onlookers. Neither of the combatants was human, although one stood on its crooked hind legs. Its face was that of a jackal, but there was human intelligence in the gray-blue eyes, which registered alarm at the crowd that had gathered and at the warm sunlight breaking from above. The creature was covered in soft, matted hair, and it bled profusely from the score of wounds that had been opened in its hide.

The other beast was all too familiar to Adon: the sleek, black, rippling body; the piercing green eyes; the savage, bloodied maw; and the manner in which it stalked its prey. They all served to remind Adon of the impossible scene he had witnessed not so long ago in the mountains beyond Gnoll Pass.

The creature was Kelemvor.

At the feet of the dueling horrors was the prize for which they fought: a dark-haired girl who lay unmoving, her clothes shredded. Adon saw that she was still breathing and her eyelids fluttered from time to time.

The panther rose up on its hind legs as it engaged the jackalwere. They fell away from one another, sliding on the slick reservoir of blood that covered the street beneath them. Blood splattered in the face of the sleeping girl.

Adon turned and addressed the people. “We must bring low the jackal and save the girl!”

But the people merely stared.

“One of you must have a weapon of some sort — anything!”

Adon cursed himself for having left his war hammer behind, and took a step toward the creatures. The animals suddenly stopped and stared at him. Then the panther that had been Kelemvor took a swipe at the jackal and the hostilities were renewed. Adon backed away, through the indifferent crowd that viewed the spectacle with mild interest, and bolted toward the street.

He shouted two names as he ran down the street toward the Flagon Held High.

The Shadow Gap

“He’s been attacked?” Midnight said. “By some kind of beast?”

“Yes! A silver-furred Jackal that walks like a man!” the young cleric screamed.

“And the townspeople merely watched?”

“You’ve seen the way they are. We must hurry. Kelemvor’s a beast, too.”

“Kelemvor’s a what?” Midnight cried.

Adon’s explanation of the events he had witnessed made little sense to either Midnight or Cyric. His panic had ruined his usual adroit handling of descriptive passages in his narrative, and only nightmarish fragments of the entire story were at all clear when the cleric attempted repeatedly to convey what he had seen.

The heroes ran for the stairs and fled the inn. Cyric, who had received a strange, but successful visit from Rull of Gond, cut their mount’s tethers with his blade, and they rode from the stables in haste, Cyric upon Kelemvor’s mount, Adon riding with Midnight. The cleric’s directions were hardly necessary. The entire population of Tilverton seemed to have been awakened by the battle. Men, women, and children flocked to the alley.

Midnight ordered Adon to tend to the horses, and Cyric took his bow and a good supply of arrows from one of the pouches slung over Kelemvor’s mount. They broke through the crowd, shoving people aside. Just before an elderly couple parted and revealed what lay in the alley, Cyric looked down and saw a puddle of blood spreading outward on the gray stone pavement. Then he looked up and was startled by the bizarre scene that lay before him.

The jackalwere lay gutted in the middle of the alley. It shuddered and clung to life, though death would obviously soon be upon it. A huge black panther padded noiselessly back and forth, occasionally stopping to lick at one of the many pools of blood that radiated out from the dead creature. The woman Adon had attempted to describe was there as well, splattered with blood. She shrank against the wall, sobbing as she drew her knees up to her chest and only peeked over them to catch sight of the wounded panther that came closer with every orbit it made around its savaged prey.

Cyric notched an arrow, oblivious to Midnight’s cry. All sound appeared to die away as Cyric drew back the bow, and the tiny vibrating sound the arrow made as it scraped along its sight filled the dark-haired man’s ears. He felt a slight strain in his lower back from his recently healed wound as he held the arrow ready for release.

The panther stopped and looked directly at Cyric. The intensity of its perfect, green eyes caused the thief’s arm to relax slightly. The beast roared, which also brought the sounds of the commoners crashing to Cyric’s ears as he realized they were cheering him on, asking him to do what they could not.

Midnight dared not make a move, afraid that Cyric might release the arrow in surprise. She knew the truth the instant her gaze had met with the panther’s. Adon had appeared beside her, then slipped past her and made his way along the wall to the girl, whom he dragged to the far side of the crowd. The panther ignored the young cleric’s movements.

I want to understand, Midnight thought. Look at me, damn you! But the beast had eyes only for its potential executioner.

Unnoticed by all, the jackalwere breathed its last.

Suddenly the panther averted its eyes and trembled as if Cyric’s arrow had left the bow and found its mark. The creature roared in pain, then fell to its side. The ribs of the beast were forced apart as the head and arms of a man burst from its gut. Moments later, all that remained of the panther were bits of matted fur and gore that deteriorated rapidly.

Kelemvor lay in the alley, naked and covered with blood. His hair was full and black, and it fell across his face as he attempted to rise, then collapsed flat on his stomach with a groan.

“Kill it!” someone was shouting. Through a haze of pain, Kelemvor looked up and saw Phylanna, one of the women he had saved, standing over him. Her red hair seemed to be aflame in the sunlight. “Kill it!”

Kelemvor looked up at her face and found only hatred.

Yes, he thought. Kill it.

A few of the commoners surged forward, emboldened by Phylanna’s cries. One found a brick that had been dislodged in the battle between Kelemvor and Torrence, and raised it high over his head.

Cyric rushed forward, his bow still at the ready. “Hold!” he cried. The commoners stopped. “Who dies first?”

Phylanna was unmoved by Cyric’s threats. “Kill it!” she screamed.

Adon rose from the wounded girl’s side. “It was not this man who took the lives of your people! This girl would be dead — slain by that abomination, were it not for this man!”

Midnight stood beside Phylanna. “The cleric is right. Leave him alone. He’s suffered enough.” The mage paused. “Besides, those of you who want to harm him will have to go through us to do it. Now go home!”

The commoners hesitated. “Go!” Midnight screamed, and the people dropped their bricks, turned their backs on the alley, and walked away. Still, Kelemvor had seen their faces and the utter revulsion they held for him.

Phylanna stared at the fighter and watched as the gray returned to his hair, the small wrinkles to his face.

“You are unclean,” she said, her hatred radiating from her like a blinding sun at midday. “You are accursed. Leave Tilverton. Your presence is foul and unwanted.”

Then the priestess turned and went to the frightened child, the “feast” Torrence had desired. “Join your fellow,” she said to Adon as she lifted the girl up into her arms. “You’re not welcome here either.”

Kelemvor caught a glimpse of the girl’s face as Phylanna carried her away. He hoped there might be a trace of understanding in the girl’s eyes, but there was only fear. The fighter sunk to the ground once more, his face only inches from the pool of blood he’d spilled. He closed his eyes and waited for the last of the spectators, his former allies, to leave the alley.

“Is he alright?” Cyric asked.

Kelemvor was confused. The sounds of the man’s boots became louder.

“I don’t know,” Midnight said as she crouched beside the fighter and touched his back. “Kel.”

Kelemvor squeezed his eyes tightly shut. He could not bear to see the disgust and fear of the commoners in the eyes of his friends.

“Kel, look at me,” Midnight said sternly. “You owe me a debt for saving you. Look at me.”

Kelemvor started as a sheet unfurled in the air above him and gently settled on top of him. He looked up and saw Adon’s face as the cleric pulled the sheet over his back. Kelemvor gathered the sheet to him and rose to a crouch. Midnight and Cyric were beside him.

There was concern in their eyes. Nothing else.

“My… armors and mails are upstairs.”

“I’ll get them,” Cyric offered. He took the steps slowly, his side still sore from holding the bow drawn for so long.

Kelemvor studied Midnight’s face. “Are you not… revolted by what you’ve seen?”

Midnight touched his face. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

“I’ve never told anyone.”

Cyric returned with Kelemvor’s gear. He set it beside the fighter, then motioned at Adon. “We’ll ensure your privacy as you ready yourself. There is a long road ahead of us, and we’d best meet it with the sun above our heads, not at our backs.”

Adon stood watch at the far end of the alley, while Cyric went back the way they came and stood beside the mounts. Kelemvor bowed his head, and Midnight ran her hand through his hair.

“Ariel,” he said quietly.

“I’m here,” Midnight said, and she held the fighter tightly until he spoke. Once he began the tale, Kelemvor found that he could not stop until the debt of trust he owed to Midnight was fulfilled.

The curse of the Lyonsbanes had been passed down through Kelemvor’s family for generations. Kyle Lyonsbane was the first and only of the Lyonsbanes to receive the curse due to his own actions. All those who followed received it from his tainted blood and through no fault of their own. Kyle was known as the quintessential mercenary: every service had its price and he was utterly ruthless in extracting payment, even from grieving widows if they held the gold that he was entitled to.

Kyle’s actions caught up to him in a great battle, when he was given the choice of defending a fallen sorceress or continuing to cut through the enemy to reach their stronghold and be the first to plunder the vast riches within.

With Kyle’s help, the sorceress might have gathered her strength, but the mercenary knew she would object to the plundering and could see no clear gain in helping her. He left her to die at the hands of the enemy. Before she died, she spat out one last intricate work of magic and cursed him to pursue his fortunes in a form more suitable to his true nature than a human shell could ever be.

When Kyle arrived at the stronghold and attempted to take his share of the gold, he felt a sudden weakness. He dragged himself away to a secluded chamber where he changed into a near-mindless, snarling panther. Instinctively, the beast knew it had to escape the stronghold. Only after half a day’s flight from the castle, when the beast had killed a traveler, did Kyle suffer the painful transformation and become human once again.

For the rest of his days, Kyle Lyonsbane suffered the curse of the sorceress: whenever he attempted to perform an act for any type of reward, he became the beast. And even though only selfless, heroic acts were permissible for the mercenary under the curse, he had sworn he would never devote his life to such activities. He was forced to retire from the mercenary life he loved the most and live off the gains he had made from his previous adventures. When his gold ran out and the only avenue open to him was to live off the charity of his wife’s family, he took his own life rather than live with the humiliation of poverty or perform any good deeds.

Before Kyle died, he sired an heir to his misfortune. Strangely, when the curse finally revealed itself in Kyle’s son, the effects were reversed. Kyle’s son could not perform any act, unless it was to protect his own life, without the promise of some type of reward. If he performed an act and did not receive his reward or he dared to perform a charitable act for no reward at all, he became a panther and was forced to take a life.

A roaming mage had a theory that as the original curse was meant as a punishment for evil and greed, and as all babes were born into the world as innocents, the curse found no evil to punish, and instead altered itself to punish the innocence and good in Kyle’s son.

The intent of the sorceress’ curse had been undone, and a long line of mercenaries with histories as bloody and unscrupulous as Kyle Lyonsbane’s were born. It was Lukyan, Kyle’s grandson, who discovered an inherent danger in his father’s condition as his sire grew old and senile: the aged mercenary could no longer remember when a reward had been offered or warranted, or even when or if it had been paid. Because of this, the old man changed into the beast without provocation, and became a menace to all he came near. It became the responsibility of every child in the Lyonsbane clan to slay their father when they reached fifty summers.