Shadowbred

  “My lord?” Zend asked.

  Vees pushed back his chair and stood. “Send messengers to the head of each of the Old Chauncel families. All are to meet in the great hall in the Hulorn’s Palace within the hour. I have grave news. No advisors, Zend. The heads of the families only.”

  Zend’s eyes widened, but he nodded and turned to his task.

  “Wait, Zend,” Vees said. “Before you do that, send word to Captain Onthul of the Scepters to attend me immediately. You will find him in the city barracks. Alert him and the city grooms that he is to ready fifty of his swiftest riders for immediate departure. They will be gone several days. I will explain when he arrives here.”

  Zend waited a moment to see if Vees had any further orders.

  “Away, man!” Vees said with a wave, and Zend ran off. “Zend!”

  Zend returned, a longsuffering frown on his face.

  “Have the carriage readied.”

  Zend nodded, waited.

  “That is all, Zend.”

  Zend waited a moment longer, turned, and hurried off. Vees could hear the steward issuing orders to the rest of the staff in the tallhouse.

  While Vees waited for Captain Onthul, he changed from his evening coat and loose tunic to a jacket and stiff-collared shirt suitable for a meeting of the Old Chauncel.

  As always, Zend proved efficient. The carriage was ready shortly after Vees finished changing his clothes. Captain Onthul arrived soon after.

  The towering, bearded captain of Selgaunt’s Scepters wore enough mail to cover two men. He had to remove his helm before entering the great room lest he lose it to the door jambs. A broadsword hung at his belt. Scars laced his hands and forearms. He smelled like a stable, but Vees knew him to be a man who took his duty to the city seriously.

  “Lord Talendar? You sent for me on a matter of importance?”

  Vees nodded. “Captain, the hulorn is in danger.”

  Onthul stiffened. “Lord Uskevren is three days gone from the city—”

  Vees waved away Onthul’s words. “I know, Captain. I know.” Vees paused for drama. “But our spies in Ordulin have informed me that dark events have occurred there.”

  “Dark events? Please speak plainly, my lord.”

  Vees said, “I do not have details, but it appears that the overmistress has seized control of the city and that the army is rallying behind her. For reasons that remain unclear, Mirabeta believes that Selgaunt has allied with Saerb in an attempt to unseat her.”

  Onthul’s brow furrowed. “Impossible. Raithspur would not stand for it.”

  Vees nodded. “Captain, the hulorn must be informed and recalled. We can sort out events after he is safely returned.”

  “We have mages in the city who could—”

  “No. The hulorn bears magic items that screen him from scrying. Unfortunately, those same items prevent simple magical contact. We must reach him without magical aid.”

  Onthul seemed dumbfounded by events. His gaze moved here and there, unfocused. He shook his head and spoke dully. “This is … unexpected. We all heard of Endren’s treachery, but this, this is—”

  “Captain Onthul,” Vees said. “Dispatch riders immediately. They must get to the Hulorn before ill befalls him. Do you hear me, man?”

  Onthul focused on him, frowned at Vees’s tone, and nodded. “I will dispatch my riders immediately, Lord Talendar.”

  Vees nodded briskly. “Good man. I will inform the Old Chauncel. The Scepters and Helms should be put on alert. Round up anyone in the city who is on official business of Ordulin or otherwise associated with Mirabeta Selkirk. Off, man. Now.”

  Onthul nodded and hurried from the chamber, muttering to himself. He hit his helm on the door jamb as he exited, cursed, and continued on without turning around.

  Vees poured himself another glass of wine, drank it in a single gulp, whispered a prayer to Shar, and exited his tallhouse.

  His carriage rattled through Selgaunt’s evening streets—still littered with filth and refugees—to the hulorn’s ornate, many-spired palace. Pennons atop the spires whipped in the cold breeze that blew off the bay. The wind carried the promise of winter.

  Vees ignored the absurdly grotesque statuary with which the former hulorn, Andeth Ilchammar, had populated the palace. He would have to remind Tamlin to remove it. Assuming the hulorn lived.

  The palace chamberlain, Thriistin, met Vees’s carriage as it pulled to a stop, and opened the door for him. The middle-aged chamberlain wore formal attire and Vees wondered briefly if he slept in it. He seemed fully dressed no matter the hour. The lacquered carriages of the rest of the Old Chauncel crowded the paved semicircular carriageway that fronted the palace. The drivers stood together in a crowd, no doubt gossiping about the urgent meeting.

  “All of the members of the Old Chauncel have arrived already, Lord Talendar,” Thriistin said. He had not shaved and a day’s worth of whiskers speckled his face. “They are gathered in the main conference room.”

  “Very good, Thriistin.”

  Vees hurried up the limestone stairs and through the flagged hallways, his bootsteps echoing off the walls. Thriistin struggled to keep pace with him. Torchlight flickered on the portraits of past Hulorns.

  Ahead, the doors to the conference room stood open. The thrum of conversation carried through the doors at the end of the hall. Vees rehearsed his words as he walked. He reminded himself not to appear too decisive. Vees Talendar, after all, was a fop and dilettante.

  The moment he entered the high-ceilinged, wood-paneled chamber, all eyes turned to him and the room fell silent. The patriarchs and matriarchs of Selgaunt’s leading families regarded him with questions in their eyes. Few wore the jewelry and finery typical of such a gathering, though all wore gowns or jackets. Vees saw the tension in their faces. Recent events in Selgaunt, in all of Sembia, had left the nobility on a blade’s edge. They appeared as if they expected a killing stroke to fall at any moment. They soon would get it, Vees thought.

  “What is afoot, Vees?” asked the bearish Rorsin Soargyl. His jacket was too small, his head too large.

  Vees moved to the head of the table and pressed his palms on the surface.

  “I will not waste your time, for there is much planning to do after tonight. I have received word from Ordulin that Mirabeta Selkirk has seized power with the backing of the army and declared Selgaunt and Saerb her enemies.”

  The table exploded in shouts.

  “In Sembia!”

  “What nonsense is this?”

  “She is mad! This will not stand!”

  Vees did not try to shout over the tumult. He waited for the table to quiet. When it did, he said, “You all know of the recent events involving Endren Corrinthal. The overmistress believes that Selgaunt was involved in the assassination of her cousin and Endren’s attempted coup.”

  “Endren attempted no coup, Talendar,” said the elderly Thildar Foxmantle, with surprising heat.

  Vees acceded the point with a tilt of his head. “I know only what has been reported, Lord Foxmantle.”

  “What has been reported is a lie,” Thildar said, his gray beard shaking. “I know Endren Corrinthal. He is incapable of what he has been accused of.”

  Vees waved away the objection. “Be that as it may, I wanted this body to be aware of events.”

  “The Hulorn is riding to Ordulin,” said Kelima Toemalar. Diamond pins held her hair up. Her fleshy arms stuck out of the sleeves of her red gown like sausages. “I was planning to leave soon myself. We must send word for him to return. He is in danger.”

  Vees nodded. “Captain Onthul is assembling a force of cavalry to catch the hulorn’s party and escort him back to Selgaunt. They will leave tonight and ride until they find him. We can only pray that they reach him in time. Magical means will not avail us.”

  “Well done,” several of the Old Chauncel said, nodding around the table.

  Vees tried to appear humbled by their praise.

  Glowering, red-bearded Ru
ttel Luhn rapped his fist on the table and stood. “How can Mirabeta Selkirk suspect Selgaunt to be involved in Endren’s treachery? We have done nothing.” He glared at Vees. “Or have we, Talendar? Now is not the time for secrets.”

  Vees almost laughed at the choice of words. Before he could answer, Thildar Foxmantle stood and glared at Ruttel. The scene was almost comical. The thin elderly Foxmantle stared daggers across the table at the much larger Ruttel Luhn.

  “I will not repeat myself, Luhn. Endren Corrinthal committed no treachery.”

  “So you say,” Luhn answered, his deep voice booming. “But you know no more than the rest of us. I will ask again, Talendar: Has the hulorn put the city at risk through some ill-conceived alliance with the traitors in Ordulin? That is something the Uskevren’s father would have done.”

  The table erupted in shouts and epithets. Vees held up his hands for peace and the room settled. “The Hulorn has done nothing to merit Mirabeta Selkirk’s suspicion. Perhaps you have, Luhn? You protest the loudest.”

  “You are a fool, Talendar.”

  “And you are dividing this council, this city, when it must stand united.”

  Nods from around the table. Luhn muttered inaudibly and lowered his head. Vees said, “I am certain we will clear up this matter soon enough. Meanwhile, it is imperative that Selgaunt speak with only one voice—the hulorn’s voice—and that matters be kept quiet from the rest of the city for now. Let us keep the rumors at bay as best we can. This council will meet daily to stay abreast of events while we await his return.”

  Heads nodded agreement.

  “Thriistin will see to the details and communicate them to you.” Vees looked around the table, from one worried expression to another. “There is nothing more to be done tonight, lords and ladies. Return to your homes.”

  With that, the gathering broke into small, chattering groups. Vees did not linger. He ensured that Onthul’s riders had left the city, then journeyed alone to Shar’s temple on Temple Avenue. He spent the night offering praise to the Lady and repeating the supplication.

  The next day, an edict from Ordulin reached Selgaunt through magical means. Vees and every member of the Old Chauncel received the missive. Vees chuckled as he read it. He knew that no Selgauntan forces had attacked the Saerloonian delegation.

  Mirabeta Selkirk had created a war from lies.

  No, he thought, and corrected himself. The Nightseer had created a war from lies, and done so in Shar’s name.

  “In the darkness of night, we hear the whisper of the void,” he said, and crumpled the edict into his fist.

  The whisper soon would become a scream.

  I pick my way through the forest for what feels like hours, or maybe days. I have no way to mark the passage of time. The red glow in the air never changes and the crystalline sky is as still as stone. I keep my eyes away from the dark things that live on the other side of the sky.

  I stay along the bank of the brook. As other brooks join it, it turns to a stream. As other streams join it, it turns to a rapidly flowing river that roars over frequent cascades.

  Through breaks in the trees, I sometimes catch a glimpse of the wall ahead. As I draw nearer, its dark bulk fills my vision, demarcating the border of the world. A smell in the air grows stronger as I draw closer, a smell like rotten eggs, like sulfur, like …

  Brimstone.

  The voice at the wall returns, mocking me with laughter.

  I steel myself by recalling my duty, my promise to Courage. I tighten my grip on my glowing yellow mind blade and continue on. I see no animal life. I am alone in the thought bubble. Or almost alone. I look up at the sky, to the crack, to the black wriggling things that lurk on the other side. I feel them watching me, hungering for me.

  Has the crack lengthened? I am not certain.

  I push it from my mind and press on. The stink of brimstone grows ever stronger. A haze of black smoke forms in the air and a dark film covers my skin. I tear a strip of cloth from my shirt, dip it in the cool water of the river, and tie it around my nose and mouth to help chase away the smell. The moment I cinch it, a crack like snapping bone sounds from above me. I whirl, stand, and look up.

  The crack in the sky has opened into a gash. Wriggling, faceless black forms squeeze through and rain down through the hazy air. Terror seizes me—blind, irrational fear. My heart thunders; my breath leaves me. The mind blade sags in my hand.

  “And the sky shat its fears,” says the voice at the wall.

  I know the voice speaks the literal truth. The things falling from the sky are fears given form, dark and obscene. They can be nothing else.

  My legs feel weak under me as one after another of the dark things falls to earth and crashes through the trees. There are dozens, hundreds.

  “He is losing himself in the Source, Magadon. Losing himself forever. Part of him does not want you to succeed. His fears are coming for you.”

  I see the fears in my imagination, sniffing for me through the forest.

  “Hurry,” says the voice at the wall. “If they catch you …”

  I nod as if the speaker can see me.

  I know I must move faster to outrun the fears. But the terrain is difficult. I am moving slowly. What else can I do?

  “The river, Magadon.”

  “The current is too strong,” I say, then realize what I need to do.

  I scramble up the riverbank and comb through the forest until I find a trunk of darkwood about the length of a tall man and about as wide around as a barrel. I know the wood to be reasonably strong yet unusually light.

  I try to move the log nearer the river but find it too heavy, darkwood or no. I will have to dig it out into a makeshift boat right where it is. I know how. I have seen fishermen in a village on the shores of the Dragonmere turn logs into boats in a matter of hours.

  But I do not know if I have hours.

  The log will make a poor boat, but I do not need a seaworthy vessel. I just need something that can stay afloat on the river for a time so I can ride the current away from the fears. The river will be safer and faster than the forest.

  A scream that trails off into a howl sounds from somewhere in the distance. I hear madness in the howl, and hunger.

  The fears are on the hunt.

  I look about the forest, see only pine, darkwood, cypress, and stillness. The voice at the wall chuckles.

  I curse, pull the makeshift mask away from my mouth, and set to work. I cut at the log with my mind blade and shave off the bark. I hack hunks from what I hope will become the bow and then flatten the top. The mind blade slices through the darkwood efficiently. The sound of my blade chopping wood echoes through the forest. I know the fears will hear me but I press on, deeming the gamble worth it.

  By the time I am done with the rough work, I have shaped the log into something that resembles a one-man boat. I stand over it, gasping, sweating. The smoky air causes me to cough but I fight through the fit.

  I set to digging out the interior and find my blade ill-suited to the task. Sweating, shaking, angry and afraid, I straddle the half-completed boat and curse.

  “Demon’s teeth!”

  How long have I been at it? The fears must be coming, must be near. “I need a godsdamned axe,” I mutter.

  In answer to my will, the sword hilt in my hand reshapes itself into a haft. The blade shrinks and transforms from a sword to a large, glowing wood axe.

  I stare at it wide-eyed, then set to work.

  Each strike throws up a huge divot of wood and I make rapid progress. Lift and strike; lift and strike. My arms burn but I do not stop, cannot stop. I am not precise and the boat looks hollowed out by a drunk, but I think it will do. I just need it to stay afloat with me so I can ride the rapids and escape the fears.

  A howl sounds from somewhere to my left. Another answers from somewhere to my right. Both sound near. I freeze in mid strike, gasping. The sweat that coats me makes me go cold.

  I examine my work. Good enough. If it floats
like a boat, well and good. If it floats like a log, I will just ride it down the damned river.

  I straighten up, wincing at the stiffness in my back, and shake the fatigue from my arms. I concentrate on the axe and mold it back into a blade. I tuck it into my belt.

  Not far away, something moves in the forest, something dark and predatory. Adrenaline washes away my fatigue but I know the rush will not last. My muscles border on exhaustion.

  I bend, grab the front of the dugout, and heave.

  I laugh when I lift the front off the ground and it sounds the same as the mad laughter from the voice at the wall.

  A howl from nearby. Another. Close. I hear crackling in the woods.

  They are coming for me.

  “Move,” I say to myself. “Move.” My arms burn. My legs feel like lead. But I drag the boat through the undergrowth, slipping, struggling, grunting, cursing.

  In my mind I imagine the dark things prowling through the forest, following my scent—the scent of fear. The image keeps me going, pushes me on.

  I lose my footing, curse, get up, and yank the boat forward another stretch. The strength in my legs is fading. My breath is a bellows. Fatigue makes me dizzy. When is the last time I had water?

  I can hear the river’s current ahead through the trees.

  “Almost there,” I say. “Keep moving.”

  Movement behind me turns me around. I see two black forms perched in the fat lower limbs of two cypress trees. Each is as large as a mastiff. They look vaguely manlike, with a head and four limbs, but their skin looks as smooth as oiled leather.

  They howl and their mouths are voids. The sound steals my breath. They leap from one tree to another, deftly landing on large limbs. Leaves shower the earth. The fears’ oval heads lack facial features save for three wet vertical slits where their nostrils should be, and a gash for a mouth. Spiderwebs of spit hang between their open jaws.

  I cannot help myself—I catch my breath and scream with terror. Pointed tongues emerge from their mouths and taste the air, taste the fear.

  Terror energizes me. I fairly pick up the boat and scramble for the river. I hit the bank, see the flowing water below.