Shadowstorm

  When the girls slept, he spent the hours in meditation and prayer at the mother’s bedside, holding her hand, asking Lathander to heal her, and to help Regg reach Elden in time. He kept vigil at the mother’s bed throughout the night and slept little. He sensed the approaching dawn.

  The creak of floorboards in the adjacent room drew his attention. He rose in silence, so as not to disturb his patients, took up a small clay lamp, and crept into the room.

  He saw no one.

  He started to return to the sickroom when a small flash of red on the floor caught his eye. He stared at it for a long while, to ensure he was not imagining it. He was not.

  A single rose petal lay on the floor in the center of the room.

  He walked to it, kneeled, gently held it between two fingers. It was fresh, as smooth as velvet. It could not have been tracked in. He had seen no roses in the village.

  It was a sign. Warmth suffused his body.

  “Thank you, Morninglord,” he murmured.

  Dawn’s light, as pink as a rose, radiated through the slats of the closed shutters. Abelar rushed to them and threw them open. Rose-colored light bathed the room. Its touch warmed Abelar, calmed him. The light washed over the entire village, casting it all in a pastel glow.

  Outside, brilliant reds, oranges, and yellows painted the eastern horizon. Abelar knew its meaning.

  “Thank you, Morninglord,” he said excitedly, and hurried to the sickroom. “Up, girls! Dera, get them up! Now, girl! Open every window in the house! Get your mother into the light.”

  The girls rose groggily from their beds and did as Abelar bade them. Meanwhile, Abelar ran outside and through the village, shouting. “Up and outside! Everyone, now! Stand in dawn’s light! Do it now!”

  Faces appeared in windows, bodies in doorways. Abelar pulled out anyone he could reach and ordered everyone else outside. In short order, the entire village stood outside, marveling at dawn’s light, at the eastern sky.

  Abelar hurried back to the cottage to find the girls crying and embracing their mother, who stood on shaky legs in the rosy light filtering in through an open window. She met Abelar’s eyes and sobbed.

  “You are healed,” Abelar said, and his words were not a question.

  She nodded through her tears. “Thanks to you, goodsir.”

  Abelar shook his head and smiled softly. “No. Thanks to Lathander.” He hurried across the room, embraced her, kneeled and embraced the girls. “Tell everyone what has happened here. I must go. Be well.”

  “What has happened here?” asked Dera.

  Abelar stood. “The Morninglord has blessed us all. Farewell.”

  They called their thanks after him as he hurried from the room, collected his weapon, and rushed outside. He whistled for Swiftdawn and she galloped to his side. He swung into the saddle and the boys who had taken his shield the day before ran over to him, carrying it between them. He took it up, smiled at the boys.

  “Are you going to slay a dragon?” the taller of the boys asked.

  “Yes,” Abelar said. He put his heels into Swiftdawn. “Ride!”

  Malkur sat upon his leather-barded warhorse at the side of the hard-packed road, flanked by three of his commanders, Lorgan, Reht, and Enken. With them were Vors, the war priest of Talos, and one of the company’s battle mages, Mennick. All had shed the markings of their mercenary company and instead wore the gold-wheel-on-green of Ordulin.

  Malkur took care to position himself in the sunlight. Since the attack on his men by the shade in service to the Hulorn, Malkur kept light about him as often as possible.

  The column of his cavalry stretched along the road, a ribbon of steel and flesh. A rolling cloud of dust, creaking leather, and the chink of armor accompanied their travel. The men saluted him as they rode past, but held only rough formation. Teams of outriders rode a quarter league to fore, behind, and on the flanks, reporting back on the half-bell. The supply train, escorted by four-score riders under Gavin’s command, brought up the rear of the column. The supply train slowed them, but that could not be avoided.

  “The men are eager for a fight,” Reht said.

  “They will have one soon enough,” Lorgan answered.

  Enken fiddled with one of his many knives and said, “Perhaps. Or perhaps we’ll find naught but an empty city and nobles cowering in their manses. They will evacuate when they learn we are coming.”

  All but Vors chuckled. He said, “If a ride halfway across Sembia does not have a battle at its end, I am killing one of you in Talos’s name.”

  The men laughed still harder. Vors did not even smile.

  “See to your units,” Malkur said to his commanders. “We ride past dusk and into the night. We reach Saerb within five days, or you answer to me. Reht, Lorgan, and Vors, you three remain.”

  Enken and Mennick saluted and galloped off to rejoin their units. They shouted orders as they moved up and down the line.

  “Commander?” Lorgan asked.

  “Take a force and angle south of Saerb. Take three hundred fifty men. Ride hard and sweep wide. We will attack Saerb in five days. Be in position by then, but stay low before that.”

  Malkur wanted Lorgan to cut off any residents of Saerb or its environs who might try to flee before his army toward Selgaunt. Lorgan understood the purpose of the order.

  “Those will be ripe pickings,” Lorgan said.

  Malkur looked to Reht. “Take seventy men, plus Vors and Mennick. Leave tonight and ride hard ahead of Lorgan’s force. The Corrinthal estate is half a league east of Saerb proper. Everyone there is to die except Abelar Corrinthal’s young son. His name is Elden. He was born dumb and looks it, by all accounts. Bring him back to me alive.”

  Vors smiled and his crazed eyes lit up at the thought of slaughter.

  Reht only nodded. Killing was his work. He did not revel in it, Malkur knew, but he did not shirk it.

  “I will want a force of all former Blades,” Reht said. “Night fighters. We may need to dodge an army, should Saerb field one.”

  “Agreed,” Forrin said. “Go.”

  Lorgan said, “I will need at least one more priest, as well.”

  “Take Avrek,” Forrin said, naming another Talassan war priest in their company. That would leave Forrin with a handful of priests to service the main body of troops.

  “Thank you, Commander,” Lorgan said.

  Reht, Lorgan, and Vors saluted and rode off. Vors howled with delight at the passing troops and shook his axe in the air.

  Forrin watched the rest of his force ride by, satisfied. He had good fighters and strong leaders. He had arranged commissions for all of his junior commanders from the Blades, and had filled the remaining command positions in the unit with men he knew to be loyal to him from his previous days in the Sembian military. Twelve hundred medium horse were riding on Saerb, and Malkur had, directly or indirectly, handpicked all of them. They would do exactly as he wished.

  And what he wished was to burn first the Corrinthal estate, then Saerb itself to the ground. The overmistress had instructed him to make Saerb an example. Malkur intended to do exactly that.

  CHAPTER SIX

  20 Uktar, the Year of Lightning Storms

  A mixture of dread and relief washed over Tamlin as he received the news that part of the overmistress’s army was marching on Saerb. Dread that war, real war, had finally come. Relief that it had fallen first on Saerb, rather than on Selgaunt.

  Prince Rivalen, Vees Talendar, and the bull-necked Rorsim Soargyl joined him around a conference table in the palace.

  Tamlin said, “Our spies report that a contingent of the overmistress’s army moves on Saerb. I wish your views on how we should respond.”

  Rorsim looked to Vees, to Rivalen, back to Tamlin, and said, “I could put two hundred good men in the field to intercept Forrin.”

  Vees looked puzzled and stroked his beard. “Two hundred? What would two hundred do? Forrin has many times that.”

  Rorsim eyed Vees. “Our two hundre
d could join with Corrinthal’s forces, if possible. Or assist with a retreat of Saerb’s population to Selgaunt, if not. There isn’t a wall built for a fight anywhere in the north. They cannot make a stand there.”

  “We do not even know where Corrinthal’s forces are,” Vees answered reasonably. “Divinations have been inconsistent. Nine Hells, he could be dead.”

  Rorsim cocked his bucket-sized head to concede the point.

  Tamlin looked to Rivalen. “Prince? Your thoughts?”

  “Where are the men you promised us?” Rorsim blurted at Rivalen. “I have done what can be done with the Helms, Scepters, and militia, but—”

  Shadows swirled around Rivalen. He regarded Rorsim coolly and Rorsim retreated into the depths of his chair.

  “Members of an elite unit will be available soon,” Rivalen answered in his deep voice. “They are engaged in other matters at the moment.”

  “Other matters,” Rorsim muttered. “Always other matters.”

  Rivalen manipulated something with his fingers, studied its corners. Tamlin saw that it was a fivestar.

  Rivalen said, “Hulorn, I believe that sacrificing any of the meager force you have here would put Selgaunt in a very weak position should the army gathering at Saerloon choose to march. There are rumors that may happen soon.”

  Rorsim leaned forward in his chair. “We would have advance notice and would be able to return before Saerloon’s forces could arrive. There is no risk to Selgaunt.”

  Rivalen regarded Rorsim with his golden eyes. “There is always risk in war, and unknowns. I know that much better than you, Rorsim Soargyl. How many wars have you seen firsthand? Battle is not a contractual dispute over the shipment of goods.”

  Rorsim’s face reddened behind his beard. “I have drawn my fair share of blood, sir.”

  Rivalen’s golden eyes flared. “I do not doubt it. But should something delay your force’s return from the north, then what? Should Forrin learn of your advance and divert from Saerb to engage you, or cut off your route back to Selgaunt, then what?”

  “That is sense, Deuce,” Vees said to Tamlin, and leaned back in his chair.

  Tamlin thought so, too. He said, “I admire your zeal for battle, Rorsim, but even if we could get men into position in time, this is not our fight.”

  Rorsim looked like he had eaten something sour but said nothing.

  Vees said, “Take the time we have just gained to further strengthen Selgaunt’s defenses.”

  Rivalen said, “Hulorn, the war for Sembia’s future will be won or lost here, not in Saerb. That is a hard truth, but a truth nevertheless.”

  “Yet I am uncomfortable doing nothing,” Tamlin said. “The people of Saerb …”

  Rivalen tapped his fingers on the table. Shadows flared from his fingertips with each tap. “They will flee, Hulorn. And when the Shadovar troops become available to us here, they will travel to the refugees and encourage a retreat to Selgaunt. We can bring them into the city. Assuming that is acceptable to you?”

  “Shade troops, you mean?” Tamlin asked. There seemed little a shade could not do.

  Rivalen nodded. “Yes, Hulorn. Shade troops from the enclave.”

  The plan pleased Tamlin. He would not abandon the people of Saerb, but he would risk little. He nodded at Rivalen.

  “Thank you for the advice, all, and for the offer, Prince. We will do as Prince Rivalen advises. We are adjourned.”

  Rivalen knew that Tamlin was, at his core, a compromiser. He wanted always to feel as if he were doing something but he wanted also to take no risks. Were he to flip a fivestar to decide a question, he would hope for it to land on its edge so that he could choose a middle course. For now, that served Rivalen. But sooner or later the young Hulorn would have to choose obverse or reverse. Rivalen had grown fond enough of Tamlin to allow him a chance to make that choice.

  “Prince Rivalen, will you remain a moment?” Tamlin asked.

  “Of course, Hulorn.”

  While they waited for Vees and Rorsim to exit the conference room, Tamlin poured himself a goblet of wine. When they were alone, he said, “I have heard nothing from the envoys sent to hire mercenaries. It has been too long. Something has happened to them.”

  Rivalen allowed concern to show in his eyes, though his own agents had killed Selgaunt’s envoys. Rivalen wanted the Hulorn entirely beholden to the Shadovar.

  “They perform dangerous duty,” he said. “No doubt the overmistress has many spies in Selgaunt, just as you do in Ordulin.”

  Tamlin sipped his wine, regarded Rivalen over the rim. “I would feel more at ease with our situation were Shadovar troops in the city. You have said often that your forces are highly mobile. If they were at our disposal, perhaps we could take the offensive rather than await a siege? Mirabeta has taken a risk sending out half her army to Saerb.”

  Rivalen nodded and gave Tamlin what he most craved—praise. “You think aggressively, Hulorn. That is admirable and befits a leader of a nation.”

  Tamlin tried to hide his smile behind another drink of wine but Rivalen saw it. Tamlin said, “I will settle for winning this conflict and remaining the leader of Selgaunt.”

  Rivalen looked pointedly across the table. “Why rein your ambition so? You should be as aggressive with it as you are in your war planning.”

  “How do you mean, Prince?”

  Rivalen looked away. “I hesitate to speak it.”

  “Come,” Tamlin said. “We have already been candid with one another about sensitive matters of faith. This is no different. I have come to rely on your candor, Prince. Please.”

  Rivalen nodded. “Hulorn, I believe Sembia has been transformed by this conflict. The overmistress has rendered the High Council moot and your people accept it as if it were always so. It is a dead institution. Sembia will have its autocrat. It is only a question of who it shall be and whether he shall be benevolent or … otherwise.”

  Tamlin paused in mid drink. The moment stretched.

  “Intriguing,” he said at last, his tone thoughtful, and hurriedly added, “That you think so, I mean.”

  Rivalen knew he had laid the foundation. He was bringing Tamlin along at exactly the right pace. He’d seen it before. He knew the look in a man’s eye when ambition found purchase. Tamlin’s expression showed it. He thought he wanted to be a shade and a king. What he really wanted was deeper than that. He wanted to step out of the shadows of his father, of Erevis Cale, of his own self-image as an unaccomplished son of an accomplished father. Rivalen knew the feeling, had experienced it himself thousands of years earlier. Perhaps that was why he was so fond of the boy. Besides, it amused Rivalen that Tamlin sought to escape the shadows of his past by stepping into the shadows Rivalen offered.

  “I know the wait for Shadovar reinforcements is difficult, Hulorn,” Rivalen said. “But be assured that our troops will arrive as soon as they are freed from other obligations. Let us then decide what course to take in war. In fact, it is my hope that I will be able to lend even more aid than troops at that time.”

  Tamlin raised his eyebrows. “Oh?”

  “I will inform you when I have more information to tell.”

  Tamlin smiled. “The Sharran keeps his secrets, eh?”

  Rivalen donned a false smile. “Indeed, but only because matters are still a trifle unclear.” He spun shadows around his fingers.

  Tamlin watched him intently, then said, “The leading priests of the city, those who remain, have informed me that they will not fight directly against Mirabeta’s forces. They will aid and heal, but none will bear arms or cast spells to harm. I presume the priests of Ordulin and Saerloon have taken a similar position.”

  “Perhaps or perhaps not. Your priests play at neutrality to preserve the status of their faith, whatever the outcome of the war. It is disheartening. You need not accept their terms, Hulorn.”

  “No?” Tamlin asked.

  “No. There are priests in Shade Enclave whom I may be able to call upon. Hulorn, perhaps now
is an appropriate time to discuss Shar’s faith further?”

  Tamlin tipped his goblet toward Rivalen. “I think I would enjoy that very much.”

  The night was old but Elyril did not attempt to sleep. Minddust and excitement kept her heart racing for hours. She had long ago giddily dismissed the steward and now sat in the study with Kefil.

  And with the book.

  The mastiff lay at her feet, licking his paws. The book lay against her breast, warming her skin and the invisible holy symbol she wore at her throat. She fiddled with the magical ring on her finger, amused that she knew yet another secret of which the Nightseer was ignorant. He would learn of it soon enough, when he bent his knee to the Lord Sciagraph.

  And to you, Kefil projected.

  She smiled, replayed the events in her mind again and again.

  Kefil said, The guardsman, Phraig, was not a man.

  “Not while he was in this room,” Elyril agreed. “Then, he was a vessel of Shar.”

  Kefil grunted indifferently and shifted his position.

  Elyril stared at the walls and listened with pleasure to the death rattles of everyone who died in Yhaunn over the next slice of the night: an elderly chandler, a young girl with wetlung, a male prostitute who fell from a balcony, a cobbler with a weak heart. The grief of those the dead left behind she offered to Shar and Volumvax as sacrifice. Cradling her book and thinking of the Lord Sciagraph, her mind drifted into dark places.

  Kefil’s growl brought her back to herself.

  Had she fallen asleep?

  The darkness in the room deepened. A presence emerged from the black. Kefil scrambled to his feet, growling and snapping.

  She recognized the presence immediately and felt such ecstasy that she could scarcely breathe. Her body tingled; her muscles went weak; her heart rose. She closed her eyes, fell to the floor, and whispered, “I kneel before Shar’s shadow, who shrouds the world in night.”

  Silence, Volumvax commanded.

  The sound of his mental voice in her head made her giddy and lightheaded. He had never before spoken to her. The room spun; her breath came so fast she feared she would pass out. Indeed, she must be Shar’s chosen servant!