Shadowstorm

  His people had not fled. They had fought. And fallen.

  He rounded the manse to see a pile of corpses heaped behind it. Dozens of them. Arms and legs jutted from the pile. Empty eyes stared out at Abelar. They had been cast into a pile like so much offal. Perhaps the raiders had thought to burn them but changed their minds.

  Abelar felt lightheaded. He clutched at Swiftdawn’s mane to keep from falling.

  A few stubborn crows still worried at the corpses, poking at eyes, pulling at scraps of flesh.

  Taken with a sudden rage, Abelar leaped off Swiftdawn, drew his sword, and ran at the birds. They cawed and took wing before he reached them, one of them with a grisly strip of flesh hanging from its beak.

  Abelar stuck his blade in the earth and sank to his knees beside the bodies. He saw familiar faces among the dead—Erkin, Silla, Wrelldon, Mern, many others. He wanted to look away, fearing he would see Elden’s face staring back at him, but the pile drew his gaze like a lodestone.

  “How could you allow this?” he said, and meant both himself and Lathander. “How?”

  Endren, Regg, Roen, and the rest of the men rode up.

  “Name of the gods,” Regg oathed.

  Endren said nothing, merely stared, stricken.

  Both dismounted and walked to Abelar’s side. Regg put a hand on his shoulder, Endren a hand on the other.

  “Forrin dies for this,” Endren said softly. “By all the gods, he dies.”

  Abelar nodded. His grief left no room for anger, but Forrin would die for it. He leaned on his sword and rose to his feet.

  “We separate them,” he said to the men. “I want to see my son.”

  None of his men made eye contact. All nodded. Endren looked away.

  As one, the men set about the grisly work of pulling apart the death-stiffened bodies. They grouped them into men, women, and children.

  “Bastards,” Endren said throughout. “Bastards.”

  The men took care to place the bodies in the sunlight and most murmured prayers to the Morninglord as they worked. Abelar did his share but he felt dead himself. His mind turned to everything he had not done with his son, everything he had never said.

  “They are only hours dead,” Roen said.

  Abelar had arrived hours too late. Hours. He nodded.

  Regg said, “Brend, examine the tracks at the gates. Learn what you can.”

  Brend, dark-haired and only a head taller than a dwarf, was the most proficient tracker in the company. He hurried off to the gates.

  The men continued to disentangle the bodies. They called out the names of those they recognized. Abelar looked up sharply when Regg spoke Mriistin’s name. The old priest had served the Corrinthals and Lathander for over two decades. Abelar had first learned of Lathander from Mriistin.

  Shaking his head to clear it of memories, Abelar turned over a woman’s body—Kaesa, Elden’s nurse. Her brown eyes stared up at the sky. Blood stained her cloak and nightdress. He called out her name, his voice as dull and gray as the sky.

  Endren looked up, eyes troubled, no doubt fearing Elden’s name would soon follow. He and Regg moved to Abelar’s side.

  “Poor girl,” Endren said.

  “Aye,” Regg said.

  Despair sat heavy on Abelar’s shoulders. Kaesa had been like an older sister to Elden. She had been like a daughter to Abelar. He lifted her from the earth, carried her over to the rest of the dead, and laid her gently on the earth. He returned to the place where he had found her.

  “Help me,” he said to Regg and Endren, and the three men searched the bodies for Elden. Abelar’s heart pounded with trepidation. Soon they had identified all of the dead.

  “He is not here,” Endren said.

  “Could he have escaped?” asked Regg, a touch of hope in his tone.

  Abelar shook his head. Elden went nowhere without Kaesa. He looked at the burned manse, imagined his son dying in the flames. He could not bear it. Tears flowed anew.

  Regg took him by the shoulder and held him up. “Abelar, he could have run away in fear. He is small. He could be hiding somewhere.”

  Endren seized on the possibility. “Yes. Search the grounds. The stag woods are his favorite.”

  Abelar said, “Call for him, Father. He will answer you if he is there.”

  Endren looked at him curiously. “He will answer you, too. Come.”

  Abelar shook his head. “I must do something else first. I will join you apace.”

  Regg tapped Endren on the shoulder. “Come. We ride.”

  Regg, Endren, and the men mounted up and Regg issued orders about where to search.

  “Roen,” Abelar called.

  “Commander?”

  “Hold a moment. I need something from you.”

  Roen looked a question at him but slid off his horse. Meanwhile, Regg, Endren, and the rest of the company galloped off.

  “Elden is not in the stag woods, Roen,” Abelar said.

  The tall priest kept his face expressionless. “Nothing is impossible, Abelar.”

  “No, it’s not,” Abelar said. “Pray with me, Roen.”

  “Commander?”

  Abelar’s eyes welled but he did not care. “Pray with me. We are going to ask Lathander whether Elden lives. I will have the word from him. Now.”

  Roen’s expression softened. He put a hand on Abelar’s shoulder.

  “I will pray with you, Abelar. But I am unable to cast so powerful a spell as will allow me to commune with Lathander. I—”

  Abelar knocked his arm down and gripped him by the shoulders, more harshly than he intended. “I am not asking you to cast a spell, priest! I am asking you to pray with me to our god for my son.”

  Roen looked at him wide-eyed, nodded. “Of course. I am sorry. Of course.”

  Abelar removed his hands. Softly he said, “I’m sorry.”

  “It is nothing,” Roen said. “Come. Let us pray.”

  Together, the two servants of Lathander kneeled in the grass, under a gray sky, in the shadow of ruins and death. While the men of Abelar’s company scoured the grounds calling for Elden, Roen and Abelar clasped hands and prayed to their god. Abelar laid his shield in the grass beside him, the rose facing the sky. They recited the traditional prayer together. “Dawn dispels the night and births the world anew. Morninglord, light our way, show us wisdom, and in so doing allow us to be light to others.”

  Roen continued. “Let your light shine through the darkness of the deeds done here and illuminate the hearts of your servants. Your faithful follower Abelar Corrinthal would ask you about the fate of his son.”

  Abelar squeezed his eyes shut. Tears leaked between the lids and flowed down his cheeks, into his beard.

  “Please give us a sign, Morninglord,” Roen said. “Show us whether Elden Corrinthal is alive or … not.”

  Abelar, head bowed, felt as if he were awaiting an executioner’s axe. He dreaded a sign, but he had to have one. If Lathander could send a miracle to a village to heal a plague, surely he could spare a sign for one of his faithful.

  Nothing.

  “Morninglord,” Roen said. “Your faithful servant humbly requests some small token—”

  “A sign,” Abelar said, his voice too loud, his tone too demanding. He opened his eyes. “Give me a damned sign. I have dedicated my life to you and asked for nothing.”

  “Abelar …” Roen said.

  “Is he alive?” Abelar slammed his fist on the face of his shield. “Is my son alive? Tell me!”

  “Abelar Corrinthal,” Roen said, and put a hand on his shoulder. “Times of crisis are a test of our faith.”

  “My son is not a plaything for tests!” Abelar shouted.

  Roen merely looked at him, held him by the shoulder.

  The priest’s unwavering touch and steady voice calmed him. Abelar remembered his words to Denril at the Abbey of Dawn. He had condemned the Risen Sun heretics for wanting Lathander to change the world for them instead of changing it for themselves. His voice bro
ke as he said to his god, “I am not asking you to do my work. Please, Morninglord. I am asking you to show me the way. Please, show me the way!”

  Roen said, “It is not always clear …”

  The clouds above them parted and sunbeams drenched Abelar’s shield, lit up the battle-scarred rose enameled on it.

  “Look, Abelar,” Roen said, his voice hushed.

  Hope pulled Abelar to his feet.

  The rose flared and the scars of countless combats vanished. It was made anew.

  “Blessed light,” Roen breathed, staring in awe.

  “He is alive,” Abelar said, and looked to the sky, to the sun. “Where, Morninglord? Where?”

  A peal of thunder rumbled the sky to the east.

  “East,” Abelar said.

  Roen stood, speechless, his hand on the holy symbol at his throat. He shook his head. “I have never seen …”

  Abelar held the priest by the shoulder with one hand and held his sword aloft with the other. He caused it to flare with white light, bright enough to summon his riders.

  “To me!” he shouted. “Now, to me!”

  He lifted his shield and kissed the rose as his men tore back to him at a gallop. They gathered around him, questions in their eyes. Abelar looked into the eyes of his father, his men.

  “Lathander has shown me that my son lives.”

  “There is no question,” Roen said, a touch of awe in his tone. “I saw it myself.”

  The men murmured, whispered supplications and thanks.

  “The sun rises,” Regg said, and the men all nodded.

  Abelar searched their faces for Brend. “Brend, speak of what you learned.”

  “Four score,” the tracker said. “Perhaps a hundred. All mounted. They rode—”

  “East,” Abelar finished, and sheathed his blade.

  “The tracks are less than a day old, Commander,” Brend said.

  Abelar nodded. “Eighty of Forrin’s men have Elden. They must. And they may have others. No doubt they intend to rendezvous with the rest of their army as it approaches Saerb.”

  He paced a circle amidst his men, holding the gaze of first one man, then another. “I intend to stop them.”

  Nods around.

  “I intend to rescue my son.”

  He looked at the burned ruins, at the bodies, and his heart hardened. “And I intend to punish every one of those riders for the crimes they have committed here.”

  More nods, scattered, “Ayes.”

  “We are only a score of men.”

  “But we stand in the light,” one said.

  “Aye,” echoed Regg, nodding approvingly at the young warrior. “That we do.”

  Abelar nodded. “I’d have your swords with me but I will not order it. Any man may ride for Saerb and meet up with the rest of our company. There is no shame in it.”

  “Bah,” said Regg, and turned a circle on Firstlight. “All are with you.”

  Abelar looked into the faces of his men, took their measure. None looked away. None looked hesitant.

  Pride and hope lightened him. Lathander had provided him countless blessings, none more important than the men and women who rode with him.

  “Roen, I want you with me,” he said. “But a priest must see to the fallen.”

  Roen nodded. “Driim, see that the dead are laid to rest.”

  Regg added, “Knest and Morrin, you are Driim’s hands.”

  “There is honor in that work,” Abelar said, and Driim, Knest, and Morrin nodded, though they looked crestfallen.

  Abelar whistled for Swiftdawn. She came running and he climbed into the saddle.

  “The rest of us ride,” he said.

  “Like the Hells are at our heels!” Regg shouted. “Ride!”

  Trewe blew a clarion blast and the entire company thundered off under the light of the noon sun.

  Cale, Magadon, and Riven materialized on the rise overlooking Elgrin Fau. They said nothing. The task before them was too big for words.

  Below, the ruins crowded close to the shadow-shrouded earth. The light from the gate flashed its mockery into the darkness. Cale imagined the army of wraiths gathered around it, waiting for word from him.

  “They will want to know he’s dead,” Riven said.

  Cale nodded. “That will wait. First, the dragon.”

  “Now?”

  “We wait a day,” Cale answered. “No longer.”

  He remembered Magadon’s expression as he had opened the mind of the gnome woman. He remembered the words Magadon had said to him days before—I am falling, Cale, slipping away with every moment. He remembered the black streaks in Magadon’s mindblade. He could not waste time.

  He held his holy symbol in hand and cast one healing spell after another on his comrades. By the time he finished, they were mostly hale.

  “Eat,” he said to them. “Rest. Tomorrow will be harder than today.”

  Riven chuckled at that.

  They camped on a rise overlooking Elgrin Fau. The next day they would face Furlinastis.

  Gobitran’s head felt like it had been hit with a warhammer. Each beat of her heart sent a stab of pain from her temples to the crown of her skull. Her ears rang like war gongs. She opened her eyes, tried to sit up, but the room spun wildly. She swallowed and tried to keep down her last meal.

  The shadow giants were already gone. None had stopped to help her. No wonder, considering the tortures she sometimes put them through.

  They had left her for dead, and she would have been so but for the magical iron ring she wore that regenerated her flesh. The Divine One had given it to her.

  The skin of her scalp still tingled. She felt still the echo of the half-fiend’s violation of her will, of his mental fingers rooting through her mind, sifting through her knowledge, sorting through her memories.

  She had never felt anything like it before, but she had fought, had kept her secret tucked away in the dark corner of a dark hole, just as the Divine One would have wished.

  She sat up, endured the nausea, and wiped the drool from her mouth.

  The shadows coalesced in the room and the Lord Sciagraph formed from the pitch. His presence dominated her vision. His deep voice filled her ears.

  “You have done well, Gobitran. You have well served both me and the Lady of Loss.”

  She licked her lips and crawled forward to clutch at the hem of his leather robe. She inhaled its smell, his smell. “You are Shar’s Shadow, Divine One, and I am your servant.”

  “You preserved the secret? The mindmage discovered nothing?”

  She pressed his robe against her cheek and turned her head to look up into his dark face. His black eyes looked down on her, pierced her. She wondered why he did not already know the answer. Surely he had scried the events in the chamber.

  “He and the Maskarrans learned only what you wished, Divine One. They destroyed your simulacrum and think you dead. They know that Furlinastis the Cursed holds what is rightfully yours.”

  “How did they respond to that revelation?”

  Gobitran looked up, not understanding the question. “Lord Sciagraph?”

  The Divine One grabbed her by her topknot and jerked her off the ground to face him. She winced at the pain but dared not protest. The Lord Sciagraph’s smooth, impassive features belied the anger in his eyes.

  “I have sought the dragon for millennia. You have assisted in this in recent centuries.” He shook her by the topknot and she swung like a pendulum. “How did they respond to the dragon’s name? Did they know it?”

  She did not understand how he could know so little. Was he not the Divine One, Shar’s Shadow, the Lord Sciagraph? She tried to nod but could not. “Yes, Lord Sciagraph. They knew the name. The one-eyed Maskarran cursed when I named the dragon. The tall one knew the dragon and where he was to be found. He knew. Scry them, Divine One. See where the dragon has hidden from you all these years. Kill him and take back what is yours.”

  The Lord Sciagraph’s eyes grew thoughtful and he
dropped her to the floor.

  “I cannot scry them,” he said softly. “The Shadowlord cloaks them, just as he cloaks Avnon Des and the dragon. They cannot be found. They are ghosts.”

  His fist clenched and Gobitran bowed her head in fear of his anger. He said, “I can only wait, confined to this spire.” He shook his head and placed his palm over the adamantine and amethyst holy symbol he wore on a chain around his neck.

  “The servants of the Shadowlord trapped a part of me in the dragon. The servants of the Shadowlord must free it now.”

  “Curse the Lurking Lord,” Gobitran said.

  “It is appropriate that matters stand thus, Gobitran,” the Divine One said. “The Maskarran will serve me in ignorance and when they realize their folly, their despair will be sweet to the Lady.”

  “I hear her voice in my dreams of darkness,” Gobitran said.

  The Divine One lifted her to her feet.

  “As do I, Gobitran. Come, we must prepare. The Shadowstorm is at hand. My imprisonment is nearly at an end.”

  Hurried boot steps in the hallway carried through the study door. Tamlin looked up from his desk.

  A brisk knock sounded on the door and Thriistin’s urgent voice called out, “Hulorn! Hulorn!”

  “Enter,” Tamlin said, and rose from his desk. His hands shook. He crossed them behind his back as the door to the study opened.

  Thriistin stood in the archway, breathing heavily, his gray hair mussed, his shirt partially untucked.

  “What is it?” Tamlin asked, alarmed.

  Thriistin spoke between gasps. “You must come to the walls, my lord.”

  Tamlin found his own breath difficult to draw. “The walls?”

  Thriistin nodded. “The Saerloonian army is arriving.”

  Tamlin’s mouth went dry. “Arriving? So soon? How? We have received no word of a march, merely a marshal—”

  The bell of the Tower of Song rang, repeated peals that did not signal the hour but instead signaled a citywide alarm. The huge gongs of Lliira’s Temple of Holy Festivals joined it and kept time. Soon all of the bells, chimes, drums, and gongs of the city’s temples sounded in unison. Tamlin’s heartbeat pounded in his ears more loudly than all of them.