Shadowrealm

  A sharp roll of thunder from behind elicited gasps and turned heads. Dozens of lightning bolts lit the ink of the Shadowstorm.

  The Lathanderians of the company rode up and down the caravan, offering encouragement, spell-summoned food, or a prayer of blessing. Smiles and grateful nods greeted their passage and the Lathanderians kept flagging spirits from sinking into despair. But Abelar knew that blessings and food would mean little if they could not outrun the storm.

  “We continue west to the Mudslide,” he said. “Then south to the Stonebridge and on toward Daerlun.”

  “The race is on,” Regg said softly, and patted Firstlight.

  Hours later, the caravan reached the Mudslide, a murky flow that ran south out of the Thunderpeaks, then hooked east, back toward the River Arkhen and the Shadowstorm. It made a triangle out of Sembia’s plains, with the river on two sides and the Shadowstorm on the other. Ordinarily not a very wide river, the recent rains had swollen its width.

  The men, women, and children dismounted wagons and horses, plodded through the muddy shallows, and re-filled waterskins. The pack animals were unyoked and watered. Abelar released Swiftdawn to drink and forage.

  To Regg, he said, “Roen and his fellow priests should summon as much food as they can. Let’s put a hot meal in everyone’s bellies. We eat quickly and press on.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Check on my son.”

  Regg nodded and rode off, calling Roen to his side.

  Abelar walked through the caravan on his way to the small, roofed wagon in which his father and son rode. He kept his eyes off the sky, off the storm. The refugees smiled at him, nodded, but he saw the questions in their eyes, the confusion. He did not bear his shield. He did not display a holy symbol. Returning greetings and smiles, he offered no explanation for their absence and went to his son.

  He found Elden and Endren standing in the rain outside the wagon. Elden was smiling and petting the muscular side of the ox yoked to the wagon, perhaps in preparation for unyoking it. Endren stood with one hand on the boy’s shoulder.

  Elden saw Abelar approaching. Rain pressed his hair to his scalp. “Papa!”

  His exclamation startled the big animal and it lurched. Abelar’s heart jumped in his chest but Endren pulled Elden backward and the ox, too tired for much exertion, calmed immediately.

  Abelar hurried forward and glared at his father. “Mind his safety.”

  Endren lost his smile, looked surprised, then hurt, then angry. “He was in no danger.”

  “My all wight,” Elden said.

  Abelar scooped him up, put his body between Elden and Endren. To his father, he said, “The caravan is taking a meal then continuing onward. Get some food in you.”

  Thunder rumbled.

  “How do matters stand?” Endren asked.

  “Morale is holding. We make for the Stonebridge. But the terrain and weather work against us. We are moving too slowly.”

  Endren nodded. He understood the implication, though he would not say it in Elden’s presence.

  “If the storm does not change course, I want you to take Elden on Swiftdawn and ride for Daerlun. We’ll mount as many as we can. The others will … remain behind with me and some others to guard them.”

  Elden clapped at the prospect of a horseback ride. He loved riding Swiftdawn.

  “You come, too, Papa?”

  Endren and Abelar stared at one another.

  “You should go, too,” Endren said.

  Abelar started to shake his head but stopped. Duty to the refugees did battle with his paternal instincts. He did not want to leave his son but was not sure he could abandon the refugees. He remembered the words Riven had said to him—You have to live with yourself first. He was not sure he would be able to live with himself whatever his choice.

  “We will discuss it again if it comes to that,” he said to Endren.

  Thunder rumbled.

  Elden put two fingers on Abelar’s throat, where he would ordinarily have worn his holy symbol.

  “Where flower?”

  Where indeed, Abelar thought, but said only, “Gone, Elden.”

  “Bad men take it?”

  Abelar smiled. “No, son. It’s just … gone. I … I gave it away.”

  “You get back, Papa.”

  To that, Abelar could think of nothing to say.

  “Let us eat,” Endren said, and took Elden from Abelar.

  Abelar took his father by the arm. “I am sorry I snapped at you.”

  “It is nothing,” Endren said. “Come, Elden.”

  They headed off to where the priests were summoning meals.

  Abelar stood alone in the rain, thinking of flowers and choices. He resolved to speak to Regg about contingencies.

  The caravan took the meal quickly, in a drizzle, and started moving south along the rapidly flowing Mudslide. Abelar and Regg took their position at the front.

  As they started off, Abelar said to Regg, “If matters become dire, I want you and the company to double up with as many of the women and children as possible and go ahead. Without the wagons to slow them, the horses will outrun the storm.”

  “You speak as if you would not come.”

  “I won’t. But I would want you to take Elden.”

  “You ask me to do something you would not?” Regg smiled, and thumped Abelar on the shoulder. “You know I cannot do that. None of us can. None of us will. We will find another way or we will give our horses to the refugees. They can ride in twos. That gets more than four hundred to safety.”

  “They cannot be left unguarded.”

  “Then a small force will accompany them. But I think we will have to draw lots to determine who leaves. None of the company will want a spot in a saddle better filled by a refugee. You know this. You made us, Abelar.”

  Abelar nodded.

  “The light is in you, Abelar. Rose or no rose. I see it.”

  Abelar looked off into the rain. He did not feel the presence of his god in his soul but he did feel something. The sensation puzzled him.

  “What is that?” Regg said, squinting into the rain.

  Abelar followed his friend’s gaze into the southern sky. The rain and twilight reduced visibility, but he saw what had caught Regg’s eye. At first he thought it a cloud, but that could not be.

  “It moves against the wind.”

  “Aye,” said Regg, pulling Firstlight to a stop.

  Abelar did the same with Swiftdawn and studied the sky.

  Behind them, the caravan slowed, then stopped. Above the patter of rain, above the constant low roll of thunder, Abelar heard the murmur of questions turn to cries of dismay.

  The object continued to close, looming larger, darker.

  “It is immense,” said Regg.

  “Get Trewe to sound the muster and form up.”

  Regg spun Firstlight and rode back into the caravan. The clarion of Trewe’s trumpet sounded. The company began to assemble around Abelar and all eyes watched the sky.

  A floating, inverted mountaintop closed the distance. A pall of shadows enshrouded it, leaked from it like fog. Hints of buildings—towers and spires—poked here and there from the swirling darkness. Winged forms wheeled awkwardly about its craggy, conical bottom. Abelar marveled at the power that must have been needed to keep an entire city afloat.

  “Shadovar,” he said, as much puzzled as alarmed.

  The caravan huddled in the plains, exposed, caught between a Shadovar city before and the Shadowstorm behind.

  The city stopped a few bowshots distant, on the other side of the Mudslide.

  “They are near the Stonebridge,” Regg said.

  Abelar nodded. The Stonebridge provided the only means of crossing the Mudslide for leagues.

  The rain continued. Eyes moved back and forth from the Shadowstorm to the Shadovar city. The tension thickened. The city hovered ominously in the air, hovered ominously in their future, a lesion on the sky.

  “What do they want
?” someone shouted from the caravan.

  “We cannot just remain here,” shouted another.

  “If they meant us well, we would have heard already,” Regg said. “Let us go knock on their door.”

  “I won’t leave Elden,” Abelar said, and felt Regg’s gaze on him.

  “Then we wait a while longer,” Regg said softly. “After that, I will take a party forward.”

  The sun sank low on the horizon and night crept over the plains.

  Regg turned to the company. “I want twenty swords to ride forward to the city. Volunteers?”

  Most everyone in the company indicated a willingness and Regg started ticking off names.

  As he did, the darkness ten paces before them started to swirl and deepen. Abelar grabbed his friend by the bicep and turned him around.

  “Regg.”

  Swords rang from scabbards. Shields were unslung. The soft sound of spell casting carried through the rain, Roen asking for Lathander’s blessing.

  The darkness expanded and eight or nine score Shadovar warriors materialized from the darkness. They wore archaic black plate armor that featured points, studs, and spikes in abundance. Their large, oval shields, enameled in black, showed no heraldry and looked like holes. Helms with nose guards obscured most of their faces, but the gray skin Abelar could see reminded him of a corpse. They bore bare swords in their fists, the blades made of black crystal. Shadows leaked from all of them. They seemed part of the darkness.

  “Shades,” Abelar said. Like Erevis Cale.

  Leather creaked. Horses whinnied. The two forces regarded each other across the grass, the rain thudding off of armor.

  One of the Shadovar took a step forward and in that single stride moved from the darkness in which he stood to within a few paces before Abelar and Regg. Firstlight and Swiftdawn did not buck. Abelar and Regg did not start.

  The Shadovar removed his helm to reveal a bald head and black eyes.

  “By order of the Hulorn, ruler of Sembia, you are prohibited from crossing the Mudslide River.”

  A rustle went through the company, the murmur of anger. It took a few moments for Abelar to reconcile the words with reality.

  “The Hulorn does not rule these lands,” Regg said. “His power extends to Selgaunt and its environs. No farther.”

  “You are mistaken,” said the Shadovar.

  “The Hulorn and Selgaunt are allies of Saerb,” Abelar said.

  “If it were otherwise,” the Shadovar said, “you would all be dead already.”

  Regg, on Firstlight, took a step forward. Abelar stopped him with an arm across his chest.

  Regg said, “You should hope your blade is as sharp as your tongue, shade. Should it come to that.”

  The Shadovar did not take his gaze from Abelar. “Matters are as I have stated. You will not be allowed to cross the Mudslide. Go back. Stay. Neither is of any moment to me. We will prevent with force any attempt to cross the Stonebridge or otherwise ford the river.”

  The company murmured angrily.

  “Force?”

  “Prevent?”

  Horses inched forward. The tone grew uglier than the weather.

  Shouts carried to them from the caravan.

  “What does he say?”

  “What is happening?”

  “Have they come to aid us?”

  “We must cross,” Regg said. “Whatever the Hulorn may say.”

  Following the Mudslide would hook the refugees back in the direction of the Shadowstorm. And mountains blocked them to the north. Their only hope was to cross.

  Abelar dismounted and approached the Shadovar. The shadows around the shade swirled.

  “Look behind us, man,” Abelar said, working to keep his voice calm. “These people cannot be caught in that storm. We must get across the river. We are trapped against it. I will answer to the Hulorn for you allowing us passage.”

  The Shadovar looked past Abelar and into the sky, to the Shadowstorm. When his gaze returned to Abelar, Abelar saw no pity or understanding in it, just darkness.

  “You have heard my words.”

  Growing anger put an edge on Abelar’s tone. “My son is in this caravan.”

  Shadows spun around the Shadovar. “The more pity you.”

  Day after day of constant tension had drawn Abelar’s emotions taut and they snapped at the Shadovar’s words. Sudden rage stole his sense and he punched the Shadovar in the face with a gauntleted fist. Bone buckled and the man’s nose exploded blood. He fell to the ground, groaning, shadows whirling. Abelar drew his blade and advanced.

  “The more pity me, you say? The more pity me?”

  Ten Shadovar appeared around their fallen commander, blades bare. Arms closed around Abelar from behind, lifted him from the ground, and turned him around. His entire company looked ready to ride the Shadovar down. Trewe’s horse reared. Others whinnied and tossed their heads.

  “Calm heads!” Regg shouted. It was he who had hold of Abelar. “Calm heads! Think of the refugees!”

  Regg was right.

  “All right,” Abelar said to him. “All right.”

  “All right?” Regg asked.

  Abelar nodded and Regg set him down and released him. Abelar turned to see the entire Shadovar force had stepped through the shadows and assembled before their commander in a bristling arc of steel. The bald Shadovar rose, and as Abelar watched, his nose stopped bleeding and the broken bones squirmed back into place. The Shadovar sniffed loudly and spit a glob of blood and snot.

  “Attempt to cross the Mudslide and you all die.”

  The shadows engulfed him and his troop and they disappeared into the darkness.

  Curses made the rounds of the company. Lightning ripped the sky behind them.

  “Gods damn it,” Abelar said.

  “What the Hells is going on here?” Regg asked.

  “How do you mean, ‘reconsider’?” Cale asked Rivalen.

  The Shadovar prince approached them, but stopped short of the reach of their blades.

  “A dimensional tether,” he said, nodding at the green glow that flashed around Cale. “Kesson tried to prevent your escape.”

  “He failed,” Riven said.

  “Did he? Why are you still within the storm, then?”

  To that Riven said nothing.

  “You had something to say,” Cale said. “About us reconsidering.”

  “Yes. By now Sakkors and an army of Shadovar have intercepted the Saerbian refugees retreating before the Shadowstorm.”

  “What?” Cale asked. The shadows around him churned. Those around Rivalen swirled in answer.

  “They will not be allowed to cross the Mudslide and continue to Daerlun. Instead, they will sit with the river to their backs and Kesson Rel’s Shadowstorm closing in on them.”

  “You are a liar,” Cale said.

  “No. I will take you to them.”

  Riven took a step forward and spoke in a low voice. “There are children in that caravan.”

  “A solution is before you,” Rivalen said, giving no ground to Riven. “Assist me in destroying Kesson Rel. When he dies, so, too, does his Shadowstorm.”

  Cale and Riven looked one to the other.

  “Let them pass and we will help you,” Cale said to Rivalen. “You have my word.”

  “Your word means nothing to me, priest. And while we debate and haggle, the Shadowstorm draws closer to the Saerbians. Their deaths will be on your head.”

  The shadows around Cale roiled. Weaveshear bled darkness. “You are a bastard.”

  “I am trying to save Sembia. Your intransigence leaves me little recourse.”

  “A show of good faith, then,” Cale said, and indicated the glow of Kesson’s spell. “Get this off of me.”

  Rivalen considered. “Very well.”

  Riven stepped to Cale’s side. Shadows poured from his sabers. “You try anything other than a counterspell, you’ll find me less than helpful.”

  Rivalen smiled, and took in his hands a
holy symbol of platinum and amethyst. He intoned the words to a counterspell and shadows went forth from his outstretched hand and engaged Kesson Rel’s spell.

  Cale felt the power of the two spellcasters charge the air around him. Green sparks shrouded him, flared, flashed.

  Riven tensed and Cale held up a hand to head off the assassin’s attack on Rivalen.

  “I am all right,” he said.

  Rivalen’s face showed strain, then surprise.

  His counterspell ended. The sparks of magical battle died. Kesson’s spell did not.

  “You cannot counter it,” Cale said, not a question.

  “No.”

  Riven sneered. Rivalen glared at him, the shadows around him roiling.

  “It will expire in time,” Rivalen said, his brow furrowed.

  “How long?”

  “An hour. No longer. When it does, verify my claims. I will meet you at the shores of Lake Veladon at midnight tonight. Then we can begin.”

  “Begin what?”

  “Go see that what I say is true. When you come to me at midnight, I will tell you what you need to know.”

  Cale had no choice but that did little to mitigate his anger. “When Kesson’s dead, then it’s you and us, Rivalen. You have my word on that, too.”

  Rivalen smiled, showing fangs. “As I said, priest, your word means nothing to me.”

  A stab of pain behind Cale’s eyes caused him to wince, his eyes to water. Hate sizzled in his consciousness.

  Kill him, Cale, projected Magadon. He is at the root of all of this.

  He offers a way to kill Kesson Rel.

  He lies, like my father.

  Mags—

  Kill him!

  Magadon tried again to control Cale, to control his weapon arm and lunge at Rivalen. Cale thought of the Saerbians, and resisted.

  To his relief, the shadows swallowed the shade prince, extinguished his golden eyes, and he disappeared.

  Magadon’s attempt to control him ended.