Curse of the Shadowmage

Twenty

Mari screamed.

She tried to move, tried to dive for K’shar and wrest the gleaming sword from his hands. The half-elf might as well have stood a dozen leagues away instead of a dozen steps. A single agonizing thought pierced Mari’s brain, as if it were she whom the Hunter had stabbed.

I have failed you, Caledan!

Smoothly, K’shar pulled the sword from the black chrysalis. A thin stream of dark vitriol spilled out of the slit, pooling before the throne. The chrysalis gave one final twitch, then lay still. The stream of dark fluid slowed to a trickle before ceasing. Whatever had pulsated inside the glossy shell moved no longer. Slowly, his golden eyes unreadable, K’shar turned away from the throne.

“You’ve killed my father,” Kellen said quietly.

The sword slipped from K’shar’s hands, clattering to the stone. “I know,” he replied solemnly. “Yet whatever you think of me, do not think that I feel no sorrow. I watched my mother die at the hands of men who feared her for the blood that ran in her veins. Your father has died for no better reason. And for no worse.” A bitter smile twisted his lips. “Now we are like kin, you and I.”

“Damn you to the Abyss!” Morhion snarled. “You are nothing to him, save his father’s murderer!”

Ferret sprang forward, pressing a dagger against K’shar’s throat. The half-elf did not resist. “I’m sure you want to kill this bastard yourself, Morhion,” the thief rasped, “but I’m afraid I’m going to do it first. Sorry—you know how selfish we thieving types can be.”

“Stop!”

The others looked up in shock as Mari stepped forward, raising a hand in protest. She would not allow further conflict. There had been enough death in this blasted place.

Morhion’s eyes blazed. “What is wrong with you, Mari? Let the thief do his work.”

Ferret pressed the knife harder against the bronzed flesh of K’shar’s throat. A bead of dark blood ran down the half-elf’s neck. K’shar did not even blink.

“Yes,” the Hunter whispered. “Let him.”

“No, I will not.” Mari was surprised at the icy authority in her voice. “It was not K’shar who killed Caledan. It was the Harpers. The half-elf was simply their tool, something with which I am well familiar. Murdering K’shar will not change anything. It will merely spill more blood.” She glared at Ferret. “Do you want that blood to be on your hands, Ferret Talondim?” She turned to face Morhion. “How about on yours, Morhion Gen’dahar?”

The two men stared at her in silence while K’shar watched with curious eyes. At last Morhion opened his mouth to say something. His words were cut off by Kellen’s frightened cry.

“Look at the throne!”

Ferret lowered his dagger as all turned to gaze at the throne. Something moved inside the black chrysalis. It pressed against the glossy sheath, distorting it. Then the husk rocked violently, once, and a dark shape began to push through the slit cut by the sword. Something was hatching out of the chrysalis.

They watched in a mixture of fascination and revulsion as, slick with black mucous, a tightly coiled form struggled weakly through the rip in the glossy shell. With one final, spasmodic jerk, the thing heaved itself free, falling with a wet smack! to the stone platform. It lay curled before the throne, flexing feebly, rhythmically, like a newborn creature still damp with fetal liquid.

That was exactly what it was, Mari realized with a nauseating feeling. They were witnessing the birth of a shadowking.

The thing was curled tightly, so sticky with black ichor they could make out little of its form, save that it had long, supple limbs and two pulsating protrusions on its back that could only be stubby wings. A dull, spiky lump of metal rested against its chest. The Shadowstar. The creature was shuddering.

“There’s something wrong with it,” Ferret choked.

“It was born too soon,” Morhion said grimly. “K’shar’s blow released it from the chrysalis before its metamorphosis was complete.”

Mari shivered. “Will it …” She forced herself to rephrase her words. “Will he die?”

Morhion shook his head. “No. It’s growing stronger every moment. I think it will live. But it is vulnerable now, while it is still taking shape.”

“Then Milil save me,” Mari whispered. She picked up her short sword, then took a step toward the still-forming shadowking. They had been too late to prevent Caledan’s metamorphosis. Now there was only one thing she could do. Forgive me, Caledan! she cried silently. She lifted the sword, ready to end his misery.

A shriek of ancient hatred shattered the air as a dark shape swooped down from the leaden sky. Mari stumbled backward barely in time to avoid scythelike talons. With a rush of jet-black wings, the shadowy blur sped once more toward the clouds. Mari craned her neck, gazing up to see a shadowsteed whirling high above the throne. Another malevolent cry echoed off hard stone. Another shadowsteed rapidly approached the pinnacle.

Morhion pulled Mari to her feet. “The remaining two shadevari will protect the shadowking while it is taking form,” he warned.

Mari gripped her sword. “Then we have to try to kill him.” She gazed at the alien creature that struggled before the throne. Its wings were continuing to grow. They pulsated more strongly now. Each throb squeezed dark fluid into the appendages, stretching them like the expanding wings of a newly hatched butterfly. Was there anything at all of Caledan left inside that hideous form?

Morhion snatched the sword from her hand. “This will not avail you.” He heaved the weapon off the pinnacle. “The only thing that can destroy the shadowking now is the Valesong. We must restore the song, while the shadowking is still taking shape.”

“Somehow we have to try to unblock the fissure,” Mari responded.

Morhion nodded in agreement. “You must do it, Mari. I will try to distract the shadevari, to give you time to reach the fissure.”

Mari paled, biting her lip fiercely. The mage intended to buy her time with his own life. Yet, could it be a worse bargain than the one he had already forged with Serafi?

Ferret cleared his throat nervously. “If we’re going to do something, we might want to do it soon.” He pointed toward the sky. The second shadowsteed had reached the first, and the creatures were circling menacingly.

Morhion moved toward the thief. “Ferret, find a place to hide with Kellen. You must protect the boy at all costs. Do you understand?”

Ferret nodded. “I understand, Morhion. I won’t say good-bye, but I will say good luck.” He laid a hand on Kellen’s shoulder. “Come on, kid. Let’s get out of here.”

“No,” Kellen said crossly. “I want to help Morhion. I’m a mage, too.”

“Not now, you’re not,” Ferret countered. “Right now you’re a thief, and a good thief always knows when to get his head under cover. Got it?”

Kellen gave Morhion a hurt look, then hung his head. “Very well, Uncle Ferret.”

K’shar approached Mari. “You will need help in the caves beneath the vale. I will go with you, Al’maren.”

She looked at the half-elf in surprise. “Why?”

He shrugged. “You said once that in a different time and place we might have been friends.” A grin crossed his striking visage. “Perhaps this is that time and place.”

After a moment she nodded. “Perhaps it is at that.”

Morhion gave K’shar an appraising look. “And those eyes of yours are made for seeing in the dark of underground tunnels, aren’t they half-elf? Or should I say, half-drow?”

Only the faintest ripple of emotion crossed the Hunter’s calm visage. “I am only one quarter drow, mage. My mother’s mother was a dark elf. Though it meant her death, she dared to love a green elf of the forest, and bore him a daughter. As a half-breed, my mother was cast from the underground city of the drow and was forced to live above ground. In the end, she was slain by humans who feared her dark elven blood.”

Mari stared at K’shar. Legend told that dark elves were creatures of cunning and evil, and that this was why they had been driven underground. Yet she had also heard rumors of a great drow hero in the Northlands. She found herself wondering if the dark elves were long ago forced underground, not because they were wicked, but simply because they were different.

There was no time to consider such matters. Two hideous shrieks rang out over the vale. The shadowsteeds were diving.

“Go!” Morhion shouted, blue eyes blazing, his voice cold and commanding.

Ferret caught Kellen in his arms and dashed down the pinnacle’s spiraling steps. Mari and K’shar followed close behind. At the base of the pinnacle they spotted a narrow crevice that led to a small cave.

“This is where we get off,” Ferret announced. He helped Kellen slip into the cave, then turned to give Mari one last wink. “If I don’t see you again in this life, I’ll see you in the next.”

Despite herself, Mari grinned. “I’m beginning to think you have nine lives, Ferret.” Impulsively, she kissed the thief. He gave her a bemused look, then disappeared into the cave after Kellen.

Mari turned to K’shar. “Let’s go.”

The two started off across the vale at a run. Mari could not keep up with the fleet half-elf, but the blocked fissures were not far. She reached the outcrop a few seconds after him. The shadevari had ignored them. Whatever Morhion was doing, it seemed to be working.

“What do you think we’ll find down there?” Mari wondered, peering into one of the lightless crevices.

“There is but one way to find out,” K’shar replied. Pulling a coil of rope from his belt, he looped an end around a rocky protrusion, then tossed the rope through the largest of the three holes. “I’ll go first.” Without waiting for an answer, he slid into the fissure and vanished from sight.

Mari took a deep breath, then followed the half-elf through the gap. Hand over hand, she lowered herself through pitch blackness until she wondered if she would run out of rope before she ran out of shaft. Without warning, a pair of hands gripped her waist, steadying her as her feet struck hard rock. She turned to see K’shar’s golden eyes glowing in the darkness. They had reached the bottom of the shaft.

After a moment, Mari realized she could see more than just the half-elf’s uncanny eyes. Here and there, spurs of rock defined the mouth of a horizontal passageway. A faint, crimson illumination hung on air that was uncomfortably warm and acrid with the stench of sulfur.

“This way,” K’shar said, moving into the tunnel.

Mari followed on his heels. The passage was large enough for her to stand upright, but K’shar was forced to stoop. The walls of the tunnel were formed of irregular yet strangely smooth black stone. After they had walked for a few minutes, the passage forked.

K’shar squinted his sensitive eyes. “The glow is stronger in the left-hand tunnel.”

Mari peered that way. “It seems to lead down a bit, too. That could be a good sign.”

K’shar gave her a curious look. “How do you know that, Renegade?”

She wiped a sheen of sweat from her brow with the back of a hand. “We all have our talents. You have sensitive eyes, and I happen to have an excellent sense of direction. By the way, K’shar—you’re helping me, so that makes you a renegade Harper yourself. Don’t you think you should quit calling me Renegade and start calling me Mari?”

K’shar grinned but said nothing. They plunged into the left-hand tunnel. After that, the path forked numerous times, and once they came to a natural rock chamber into which a half-dozen passages opened. At each diverging of the ways, K’shar used his sensitive drow eyes to determine in which direction the ruddy light was strongest. In turn, Mari made certain they were not backtracking or moving in circles in the underground labyrinth. Neither questioned the judgment of the other.

As they went, the crimson illumination grew brighter and the stifling heat fiercer. They shed their cloaks. Soon after, Mari tossed aside her green velvet jacket; her thin white shirt clung to her body, soaked with sweat. K’shar stripped down to his black leather breeches. Ruddy light gleamed off his sinewy arms and chest. Each breath seared Mari’s lungs. She wondered if they could survive much deeper.

Abruptly, they rounded a corner and found themselves staring into a gigantic cavern that was a nightmarish fantasy of dark stalactites and stalagmites, all half-melted into grotesque shapes eerily resembling tortured souls. Crossing the center of the cavern floor, like a huge, fiery serpent, was a stream of molten rock. Wisps of yellow smoke rose hissing from the river of lava.

Mari and K’shar stood on the jagged edge of the passageway. From here it was a sheer drop of thirty feet to the hard floor of the cavern.

“I don’t suppose you have another rope with you,” Mari choked out.

“I fear not, Mari. But perhaps there is another way to—”

The half-elf’s words became a cry of alarm. Weakened by countless years of exposure to the heat, the edge of the tunnel crumbled under their feet. Mari screamed as she and K’shar pitched forward. Desperately, she flailed for balance. K’shar arched his back, stretching his legs out and pushing against the crumbling precipice. This action cast him even farther from the edge of the tunnel, out into midair, yet it also had the effect of throwing Mari away from him, backward into the tunnel.

She fell hard inside the passageway, air rushing painfully from her chest. Gasping and spitting, she pulled herself to her hands and knees and crawled to the precipice. Carefully, she peered over the edge, dreading what she might see.

“Are you well … Mari?”

K’shar’s voice rose thinly from below. Mari blinked against the fierce glow of the lava. Then she saw him directly below her. She choked back a cry of despair. The half-elf looked like a broken doll dashed against a rock by an angry child. One leg was bent beneath him at a hideous angle, and his right arm dangled limply from his shoulder. Blood smeared his face. She thought she could see exposed bone on his cheek and brow.

“I’m … I’m fine, K’shar,” she managed to call out.

“I am glad.” His words bubbled wetly in his throat. The Hunter turned his gaze away from her. With his one good arm, he began pulling himself across the rough floor of the cavern toward the wall, leaving a wide smear of dark blood behind him. He vanished from sight beneath a rock overhang.

“K’shar!” Mari called out in anguish.

For a moment there was no answer. Then she heard his voice, weak but oddly triumphant. “I have found something, Mari!”

“What is it?”

“There is a door set into the wall. It is fashioned of some sort of metal, but like none I’ve ever seen. There is a small trickle of water seeping from beneath the door. And I can hear a rushing sound on the other side. There must be an underground river behind it.” There was a long pause. “I think I can open the door, Mari. There is a lever.”

It was exactly what they had been searching for, a way to bring a source of water in contact with the lava. Yet if K’shar opened the portal while he was down there …

“K’shar,” she called out in a quavering voice. “Are you sure?”

“I want to do this, Mari.”

She swallowed hard, then shouted as loudly as her parched throat allowed. “I am glad we could be friends, K’shar.”

The half-elf’s reply echoed faintly back to her. “As am I, Mari. Now please go. I will count to one thousand, then pull the lever. You must be out of the tunnel before then.”

There was a pause, and she heard his voice echoing up from the furnace of the cavern. “One … two … three …”

Mari climbed to her feet. “Farewell, Hunter,” she whispered. Then she turned and broke into a run, careening down the tunnel. As she went, she began to count desperately under her breath.

“… four … five … six …”

Morhion spread his arms as the shadowsteeds dove toward him, claws extended. The two shadevari, each sitting astride one of the winged beasts, opened their fanged maws in screams of depthless hunger. Dissonant words of magic flew from Morhion’s tongue. The shadowsteeds were so close he could smell their fetid breath. With a final, shouted word, he brought his hands together, releasing the spell.

A cloud of thick smoke expanded rapidly outward. Morhion dove to the ground and rolled. There was a deafening whir of wings and a terrible rending sound as sharp talons dug into bare stone inches from his head. The shadevari shrieked in rage; the sound of wings receded. The mage climbed to his feet. Already the magical smoke screen that had hidden him was dissipating.

Cold dread trickled down Morhion’s throat. In the minutes since he had last looked, the shadowking had grown. Its midnight wings had spread wider, and it had raised itself slightly off the platform, leaning on a long, muscular arm that looked as if it had been carved from polished onyx. He could not see the shadowking’s visage, but curving obsidian horns sprang from its brow. In time with the creature’s throbbing wings, the Shadowstar pulsated against the creature’s torso, glowing brightly one moment, fading to dark the next. Soon the shadowking would be whole.

The last tatters of magical smoke evaporated. High above, the shadowsteeds cried out as they caught sight of their enemy again. They folded their wings and dove once more. Morhion had no more offensive spells left. He could only watch.

Suddenly a dark form appeared before him. Two burning eyes bore into his chest. “The shadevari will slay you, mage,” Serafi hissed. “Why do you not do something?”

“I have no magic that will stop them.”

“What of the witch’s ring?”

The mage shook his head ruefully. “Would that I understood its magic. It might indeed help me. But I do not.” What did it matter now? He had done what he had intended; he had bought Mari and K’shar time enough to reach the blocked fissure. “I will die now.”

“You are wrong, mage!” Serafi shrieked. “I will not let you!” He stretched a translucent gauntlet toward Morhion’s chest. “I need some of your life force. Give it to me!”

Before Morhion could answer yea or nay, the spectral knight took what he wanted. The mage cried out as crackling green energy leapt from his chest toward Serafi’s outstretched fingers.

“Ah, yes!” Serafi whispered exultantly.

The shadowsteeds were nearly upon them. Serafi withdrew his hand as Morhion sank to the ground with a moan. Serafi turned and thrust his clenched gauntlet toward the descending creatures. This time the magic was blood-red, and it crackled away from the spectral knight’s hand. Crimson energy engulfed the shadowsteeds, sizzling as it plunged into their dark bodies. They screamed in agony, winging high into the sky to circle warily above the pinnacle.

“Your magic—it harmed them,” Morhion gasped in amazement.

Serafi shook an ethereal fist in anger. “It was not enough.”

Weakly, Morhion struggled to his feet. “Then do it again,” he croaked. “Use more of my life force to destroy them.”

“It would kill you,” Serafi said flatly. “And in case you have forgotten, preserving your body is the sole purpose of this exercise.”

Morhion gave a grim laugh. “Then I think you have failed, Serafi.” He pointed weakly. High above, the two shadowsteeds separated, winging away from each other. They were going to dive at the pinnacle from opposite directions.

With effort, Morhion straightened his frame to his full height and brushed his flowing hair from his brow. He would meet his death with dignity. As he lowered his hand, his eye caught a glint of violet. Isela’s ring. Once again he was struck by the contrast of brilliance and blackness contained within the ring’s purple gem. It was almost as if the jewel did not simply reflect the world around, but rather separated that reflection into the basic components of light and dark.

Morhion let out a gasp. In that moment, he understood the key to the ring’s magic.

He jerked his head up; the shadowsteeds were mere seconds away. At the ruined tower, his spell of protection had worked against the shadowhounds. Yet he knew now that it had not been the spell itself. It was because of the wall. Morhion cast his memory back to that night, picturing the ancient stone wall: the light of the rising moon glowed brilliantly on one side, while on the other side night reigned pure and perfect. It was the same separation that had marked the beginning of the world, when the song of the gods had split the shadowy chaos into two ordered elements, light and dark.

Could he forge a similar wall now? Perhaps. The spells were simple, and Morhion knew them. He began with a spell of light, conjuring a sphere of brilliant white radiance, then stretching and shaping it into a sheet that covered the summit of the spire. Then he cast a second spell, one of darkness, conjuring a sphere of perfect blackness. By force of will, he stretched this one into a dark plane next to the glowing sheet of white light.

He blinked. There it was, stretching across the pinnacle before him: a wall as thin as a hair, blazing white on one side, as black as pitch on the other. The whir of wings filled the air. Astride the shadowsteeds, the shadevari closed in from either side of the spire. They cried out in triumph, unafraid of the two petty magics that formed the wall. That was their mistake.

He plunged his left hand into the wall.

The ring exploded in purple brilliance. Violet sparks crackled on both sides of the magical wall. One of the shadowsteeds was slightly closer than the other. It spread its wings, trying to change course, but too late. Together, beast and shadevar collided with the wall.

For a fractured moment, twin shadevari writhed in midair—one black as midnight, the other blazing as the sun. Creatures of shadow, the shadevar and its steed had both been separated into elements of light and dark, and it was their death. Their combined screams shook the rock beneath Morhion’s feet. Then the light and dark halves dissipated like mist before a wind.

Seeing what had happened to its partner, the remaining shadevar shrieked in fury. The beast it rode turned in time to avoid the magical wall and winged swiftly away from the pinnacle. The spells of light and dark expired. The wall vanished. Morhion swore vehemently. He had destroyed one shadevar, but the last one remained.

“Quickly, conjure another wall!” Serafi hissed.

Morhion shook his head. “I cannot. You know the nature of magic, Serafi. Once used, a spell is gone from my mind. It would take me an hour to learn the spells of light and dark again. And we do not have even a minute.”

His rage beyond words, Serafi let out a blood-chilling cry, then vanished in a dark cyclone. A strange peace descended over Morhion. He turned to gaze at the throne.

Slowly, the shadowking rose to its feet. It was horrifying in its darkness, yet majestic as well, a vast creature of sculpted onyx muscle, with horns and talons like black ice. Against its chest, the Shadowstar pulsated frenetically. The outlines of the creature’s face flowed, taking shape. It was nearly complete.

“Behold the King of Shadows,” Morhion whispered in awe.

A high-pitched scream pierced the air. The mage turned to see the remaining shadowsteed winging rapidly across the vale, coming straight for him.