Shadowrealm

  “Something has happened to you, too,” Cale said, his voice hollow.

  “Kesson Rel is dead?” Abelar asked.

  Cale shook his head. “Not yet.”

  Abelar eyed Rivalen. “These people are crossing that bridge, Shadovar, and if—”

  “Tell him,” Riven said to Rivalen.

  The shadows around the Shadovar churned. “You and your people may pass. You will remain safe while in Sembia.”

  The words hung there, alone in the air for a long moment before the first of the refugees cheered. Abelar blinked then sagged with relief as fists and weapons rose into the air, as shouts of joy, for a moment at least, overwhelmed the thunder.

  “But you said Kesson Rel still lives,” Abelar said to Cale and Riven.

  “We’ve made other arrangements,” Riven said. Abelar did embrace Cale and Riven then. “Thank you, my friends.”

  Presently, Endren was shouting orders, getting the group ready to move, not for a death charge across the Stonebridge, but for a gallop to safety.

  “I knew you would save us,” a women called to Abelar.

  “It was not me,” Abelar said, “but these men.”

  “Regg and the company?” Cale asked.

  The words squelched Abelar’s joy. He nodded at the Shadowstorm. “Within the storm.”

  Endren, atop Swiftdawn with Elden, led Firstlight by the reins to Abelar.

  “It seems the Corrinthals owe you yet another debt,” he said to Cale and Riven. “My thanks.”

  Cale inclined his head. “You should get them across the bridge and keep moving.” He looked back at the storm. “This is far from over.”

  “Aye,” Endren said.

  “If there is anything I can do for Regg and your company, I will do it,” Cale said to Abelar. “But Kesson Rel is our first priority.”

  Cale’s words stuck with Abelar. Your company. They were his company.

  Endren held out Firstlight’s reins for Abelar. “Abelar.”

  Abelar looked at them, looked up at his father, at his son, and did not take the reins.

  Endren read his eyes. He let the reins fall from his hand. “You aren’t coming.”

  Elden looked down, alarm on his face. “No. Papa coming.”

  Abelar looked back at Cale, Riven, and the Shadovar. “Can you take me with you? To my company?”

  The shadows around Cale swirled. He shook his head. “Our fight is with Kesson Rel. You don’t want to accompany us there, Abelar. But …”

  “But?” Abelar prompted.

  “Papa,” Elden said.

  “I can provide you with a mount to take you.”

  “I have a mount,” Abelar said. “And no horse runs like her. But even that is too slow.”

  “I mean a different kind of mount, one that doesn’t run at all.”

  Abelar looked a question at him and Cale said, “Get everyone out of here, first.”

  “Time is short,” Rivalen said. “We must locate Kesson Rel.”’

  “We know time is short, Shadovar,” Cale snapped.

  Elden’s voice pulled Abelar around. “Papa?”

  Abelar turned, his heart in his mouth, and lifted his son from Swiftdawn. The boy looked wet, vulnerable. Abelar placed him on the ground, kneeled down, pressed his brow to Elden’s.

  “Papa is going to find Uncle Regg. You go with Grandpapa now. Everything’s all right. Do you understand?”

  Elden nodded and smiled uncertainly. “Uncle Regg lost?”

  Abelar smiled. “Yes, he’s lost.”

  Elden’s face twisted as he processed the reply. “Uncle Regg sad, then.”

  Abelar’s resolve almost crumbled. Tears fell. “Yes, he is sad. As is Papa.”

  “Why?” Elden said, and took his hand.

  Abelar tried to give his thoughts words. “Because Papa has not lived up to his view of himself.”

  Elden frowned. He didn’t understand. “My still want you to come with us, Papa.”

  “I know, but Uncle Regg needs me.”

  He wanted to tell Elden that he was who he was, that he had to live with himself and that he could not be the father or man he thought himself to be if he didn’t stand and fight. He had tried to stand idle but he couldn’t.

  Elden cleared his throat and eyed him with a bright, clear gaze. “You good man, Papa.”

  Perhaps he understood, after all.

  Abelar cried, took his son in his arms. “I love you, Elden.”

  “My loves you, Papa.”

  Abelar stood, lifted and held his son, reluctant to let go.

  Endren hopped down from Swiftdawn, hugged them both, thumped Abelar’s back, sniffed back tears.

  Abelar handed him Endren. “Go now. Now.”

  Endren and Elden mounted.

  “We will see you when you return,” Endren said.

  Abelar nodded. “Hurry. The storm is almost upon you.”

  “Bye, Papa,” Elden said, and smiled. “Find Uncle Regg.”

  Abelar touched his son’s hand, could not speak.

  He kept his composure as the group of refugees rode off. The Saerbians thanked him and Cale and Riven as they passed.

  “Bless you. Bless you all. Lathander watch you all.”

  Endren led the refugees at a gallop and soon they were nearly lost to the night.

  “A good end for them,” Abelar said. “You both have my thanks.”

  “Don’t thank us yet,” Cale said.

  Riven spit. “Ends aren’t likely to be good for everyone.”

  Abelar stepped close to Rivalen Tanthul, reached through his shroud of shadows, and took him by the cloak.

  “Look at them, Shadovar,” he said, and nodded at the refugees. “Those are the women and children you would have murdered.”

  The shadows cloaking Rivalen coiled around Abelar’s hand and forearm. The Shadovar looked into Abelar’s face, eyes hard, took him by the wrist—

  Cale and Riven had blades free and pointed at Rivalen’s chest.

  “Easy,” Cale said, shadows leaking from his black blade, from his pale flesh.

  Rivalen forcibly removed Abelar’s hand from his cloak. The strength in the Shadovar’s grip might have cracked bone had Abelar’s mail not protected him.

  “I would have looked each of them in the eye and killed them myself should it have been necessary to ensure a weapon against Kesson Rel,” Rivalen said.

  “You disgust me,” Abelar said.

  Riven kept his blades leveled at Rivalen’s chest. “The prince here doesn’t think like you, Abelar. He thinks it’s all for nothing, so worrying over anything is pointless.”

  “You saw Ephyras,” Rivalen said to Riven, and Riven said nothing.

  Abelar stared into the darkness of Rivalen’s face. He knew the Shadovar prince was beyond him. He didn’t care.

  “You are empty, Shadovar. All that power, yet you remain a hole.”

  Rivalen’s golden eyes flared. A long moment passed. “Your regard is of no moment to me, Saerbian.”

  Abelar’s arm twitched but he restrained the desire to punch Rivalen in the face. He turned to Cale. “You spoke of a mount?”

  “It is a creature of shadow. Does that deter you?”

  Abelar thought of Regg and his company assailed in the storm. “No. I have seen light even in shadow.”

  Cale nodded, moved away from Riven and Rivalen. He stood in the grass, drenched in rain, shrouded in shadows, lit by lighting, with the Shadowstorm at his back. He drew the darkness around him, let it expand outward until it covered all four men then a swath of the plains as wide as a spear cast. They stood in a black fog.

  “Furlinastis,” Cale called into the shadows.

  Time passed and Abelar realized he was holding his breath. He heard only the hiss of the rain and the drum of thunder.

  “Furlinastis,” Cale called again, louder.

  A pungent organic stink filled Abelar’s nostrils, faint at first, but then stronger, the smell reminiscent of mud, of life, death, decay
. A reptilian hiss sounded in the blackness. Movement stirred the shadows. Abelar had the impression of an immense form moving in the darkness but he could see nothing. He leaned forward …

  A dragon materialized out of the darkness, its body a mountain of black scales and muscle. The scales shimmered a faint purple around the edges when the wyrm moved. The vertical slit of its reptilian eyes fixed on Cale, Riven, Rivalen, and Abelar. It spread its wings and they blotted out the sky, sheltering them all from the rain.

  Abelar met and held the dragon’s gaze, though the power and age implied by the dragon’s form made him feel tiny.

  Its tail slid over the plains behind it, knocking over trees. Its claws, each as long as a short sword, sank deeply into the earth. It oozed toward Cale, silent despite its size. Shadows hung from its form, swirled, blurred its borders.

  The dragon’s voice was soft, sibilant. “I have heard and answered, First of Five.”

  Cale inclined his head. “My thanks, Furlinastis. You have kept your promise.”

  Streams of shadow leaked from the dragon’s nostrils.

  Cale pointed at the black wall of the Shadowstorm. “Kesson Rel’s forces stalk the darkness of that storm.”

  The dragon hissed at the mention of Kesson Rel.

  “My company battles them there,” Abelar said.

  “Bear him into the storm,” Cale said, indicating Abelar. “Fight Kesson Rel’s creatures as you wish.”

  “My promise was to serve you,” he said to Cale then swung his head toward Abelar, “not to bear your lackeys.”

  Abelar took a step forward. Furlinastis’s breath, as foul and damp as a swamp, moistened his face. “I am no lackey, wyrm.”

  The dragon’s lips peeled back from his teeth in snarl, showing fangs as black as tarnished silver and longer than a dagger. The shadows around the creature swirled, engulfed Abelar.

  “You serve me by bearing him to battle,” Cale said. “You owe your life to me, dragon. I ask little in return.”

  Furlinastis hissed, exhaling twin streams of darkness from his nostrils. “I am—”

  “My time is short, dragon!” Cale snapped. “Keep your promise to me.”

  The slits of Furlinastis’s pupils narrowed. He swung his head from Abelar to Cale, sniffing the air as if sampling the shadows around Cale.

  “You have changed since last we met, First of Five.”

  “Yes. Will you do this, dragon?”

  They stared at one another for a long moment.

  “How will you ride?” Furlinastis said to Abelar.

  Abelar eyed the creature’s body. The ridges along his neck would provide stability.

  “Upon your neck, just above the wings. I need only a rope.”

  “Do it,” the dragon said.

  Riven produced a rope from his pack and he, Cale, and Abelar fitted the wyrm as they best they could. Riven’s use of rope would have bested even a lifelong sailor. Abelar tested the knots.

  “A good harness,” Abelar said.

  “I will not save you if you fall,” Furlinastis said, and lowered his head to allow Abelar to mount.

  Abelar climbed into position, secured his thighs with the sling knots they had improvised, and took the makeshift reins in one hand and wrapped them around his wrist.

  “I have ridden since I could walk, wyrm.” He shifted, testing his range of motion, his comfort with his perch. It was no saddle, but it would do. “I haven’t lost my place in a saddle since I was a boy. Not even so mighty a creature as you can throw me.”

  Furlinastis snaked his neck around to look at him and Abelar thought he saw mirth in the creature’s eyes. “We will see.”

  “You need to be warded against the storm,” Cale said. He held his velvet mask in one hand, intoned the wards to a ward, and placed a charged hand on Abelar then Furlinastis.

  “Thank you, Erevis,” Abelar said. He held a hand out. “I am glad that we met, both of you.

  “As am I,” Cale said, clasping hands.

  “And I,” Riven said, doing the same.

  He leaned down in the saddle and spoke in a conspiratorial tone. “Do not trust the Shadovar.”

  “We don’t,” Cale said. “But we need him. And he needs us. That is enough for now.”

  Abelar accepted that. War made for strange allies. And this war more than most. He looked Cale in the face.

  “There is a haunted look in your eyes,” Abelar said to Cale.

  “I have seen what happens if we fail, Abelar.”

  Abelar studied his face. “Then do not fail.”

  Cale smiled softly and nodded. “Farewell, my friend.”

  “Fight well,” Riven said.

  “That I will. Fly, dragon!”

  Furlinastis tensed, extended his wings, and leaped into the dark air.

  The dragon’s graceful form receded rapidly and soon melded with the darkness. Cale lost sight of him. The emptiness in him yawned. He needed to fill it or it would consume him.

  I know now what you endured, he projected to Magadon. Magadon, do you hear me?

  The mindmage did not respond.

  “I should check on Mags,” he said to Riven.

  “No, you shouldn’t. If he’s out of your head, leave it that way. He’s a distraction now. You holding up?”

  “I’m losing myself, sinking.”

  Riven nodded and put a supportive hand on his shoulder, his expression thoughtful.

  Rivalen’s golden eyes burned dimly in the void of his face, twin echoes of Ephyras’s dying sun. “We should prepare before we seek Kesson Rel.”

  “His counterspells steal for himself any wards or enhancements we might place on us,” Cale said. “We’ve seen it.”

  The shadows around Rivalen roiled as he considered Cale’s words. “You’re suggesting we face him unprotected?”

  “I’m telling you your protections benefit him, not you.”

  “You afraid, Prince?” Riven said with a sneer.

  Rivalen stared at Riven. “Are you?”

  “Yes,” Riven said. “But not of death.”

  “He casts spells faster than anyone I’ve ever seen,” Cale said. “And he’s resistant to magic.”

  “Yours, perhaps,” Rivalen said. “He will find mine much harder to deflect. And even if he can steal spells, magical devices should still work. Use them if you bear any.”

  Cale had only one. He drew Weaveshear. Riven withdrew the spell-absorbing stone he’d taken from the Sojourner and tossed it into the air in front of his face, where it took up orbit around his head. He drew his sabres.

  “We should scry him first,” Rivalen said.

  “He cannot be scried,” Cale said. “We’ve tried.”

  “Not by you, nor even me,” Rivalen said, “but he can be scried by my brother.”

  Abelar looked ahead at the roiling black wall of the Shadowstorm and felt an echo of the feeling he’d experienced when he’d first answered Lathander’s call in adolescence. His blood rose; he felt light.

  He leaned over the dragon’s neck, looked back and down, and saw Cale, Riven, and Rivalen standing together on the receding plains. They weren’t looking at him. They had already turned their minds to Kesson Rel. He looked back farther, tried to spot the Saerbians under Sakkors, and thought he caught a blurry glimpse of motion atop the distant Stonebridge. Perhaps they were crossing even then. Love for his son and father warmed him, but love for Regg and Jiriis and his company drew him onward into darkness.

  He drew his blade and faced the darkness of Shar’s Shadowstorm. Lightning shot out of the sky to trace green lines in the clouds around them. The air stank of char, as if the sky were afire. Thunder vibrated in his ears. The wind pulled at him.

  “Faster, dragon!”

  Furlinastis beat his wings, extended his neck, and shot like a fired quarrel through the air.

  The magical ring on Brennus’s finger warmed. The mental connection with his brother opened.

  Brennus, I need you to scry Kesson Rel. Tell me wher
e he is, and what you see. We are nearly at an end.

  Brennus sat at a table in an otherwise unfurnished room on Sakkors. The darkness embraced him. His homunculi wrestled on the floor, tumbling and squeaking. He sometimes thought of them as his family, but they were not. They were devices, nothing more. His family was his brothers and his father.

  Brennus.

  “I have killed you,” Brennus said to the ring, his tone uncertain.

  Brennus.

  It will take some time, Brennus projected to Rivalen.

  We have little time, Brother. You must hurry.

  Very well.

  Brennus cut off the connection. He lifted his mother’s necklace, watching his homunculi frolic.

  “Family,” he said, and wondered if he had done the right thing.

  He intoned the words to the first in a series of divinations.

  “We must wait a short time,” Rivalen said to Cale and Riven.

  “A short time is all we have,” Cale said to him.

  Rivalen leaned forward, his darkness mingling with Cale’s. “What does it feel like?”

  Cale saw no reason to lie. “Like I am hollow. Like I will crumble soon.”

  Rivalen nodded and leaned back, his expression preoccupied.

  “Give me the chalice,” Riven said to the Shadovar.

  The shadows around Rivalen swirled in agitation. “Why?”

  “Give it to me or we will not help you.”

  “A lie.”

  “I will not help.”

  “What are you doing, Riven?” Cale asked.

  Riven looked at him, one hand on his holy symbol. “You could fail. I am your second. His Second.”

  Cale understood immediately what Riven intended. “Do not. If we succeed, only one of us can be saved.”

  Riven stared at him, nodded. “It’s sense, Cale, and you know it. It’s why I’m here.”

  Cale shook his head. “You don’t know how it feels. You’re making a mistake.”

  But he wasn’t sure Riven was making a mistake.

  “This is mine to do, Cale.” Riven held out his hand to Rivalen. “Give me the chalice, Shadovar. I saw you take it.”

  Cale eyed Riven and thought of Ephyras. He didn’t know if he would hold on; he was sinking, fast. “Give it to him, Rivalen.”

  The shadows around Rivalen slowed, spun lazy streams about his form. “You must return it to me. We may yet need it.”