Realms of Shadow

Trial by Ordeal

Netheril Year 3389 (The Year of Perdition's Flame, — 470 DR)

Hands clasped behind his back, Andoris Derathar stared out the warded window at the drifting clouds that veiled the farmland so far below. The city was currently floating over a lush checkerboard of leaf-greens, wheat-yellows and loamy browns, but in the distance he could see a ridge of sun-bleached white that should not have been there: the low dunes of the encroaching desert.

He had just come from the Hall of Judgment and was still wearing his robes of office: a starched and pleated black kilt that hung to the floor and a long-sleeved black shirt with a pair of scales, embroidered in gold thread, on its left breast. A gold cord was knotted around his waist. Suspended from it was a mask-a smooth circle of ivory with holes for eyes and nostrils, and a slit for the mouth. Its color matched that of Andoris's white-blond hair, which was receding on either side of a high-swept forehead. The face of the mask was as bland as Andoris's own; his beardless cheeks were smooth-unmarred by lines of age or worry.

Turning away from the window, Andoris regarded the gem he had been holding behind his back: an enormous blood-red ruby, faceted at such odd angles that the sides of the gem seemed to turn in upon themselves. Drifting at the center of it was a ghostlike essence that twisted slightly-the soul of the man Andoris had just found guilty of murder. Two holes that might have been eyes stared mournfully out through the walls of the crystal prison.

"Death," Andoris said, repeating the sentence he had just imposed, "without possibility of resurrection for fifty years."

He placed the ruby in a niche on the wall beside a dozen others.

Behind Andoris, a homunculus-a vaguely humanlike creature with green, leathery skin, enormous batlike ears, and glistening black eyes-gave a faint snort. Folding its leathery wings around itself like a cloak, it made a disdainful gesture with webbed fingers.

Horbal was a cruel bastard, it said in a voice that was part squeak, part croak-a voice that only Andoris could hear. He killed that cat slowly-and enjoyed watching it suffer. You should have given him five hundred years, not fifty.

Andoris stared down at the homunculus. Even standing fully upright, the creature was no taller than his knee. Created through an alchemical process with a pint of Andoris's own blood, it was in constant telepathic contact with its master. In the years since its creation, it had served as an invaluable tool in Andoris's climb up the ranks of the judiciary.

"Fifty years is the punishment proscribed by law for the killing of a familiar," Andoris told it.

He spoke the words aloud-something he only did when he and the homunculus were alone.

It isn't fair! the homunculus whined. That bastard Horbal will be free in fifty years, while poor Jelal The homunculus had been reaching for the ruby, intending to give it a furious shake. Even though this wouldn't damage the gem or its contents, decorum had to be maintained. Andoris forced his will into the homunculus's mind and wrenched its arm down. Sulking, the creature huddled into itself, nursing a dislocated shoulder.

Andoris, his mind shielded from the pain, stared down at the homunculus with a face as dispassionate as the mask that hung at his belt. With a flick of his fingers, he cast a healing spell.

A moment later, he heard sharp raps at the door. His finger pointed in silent command, and the homunculus stiffened, then scurried under a table. It watched with large, luminous eyes as Andoris first cast an illusion spell to mask its presence, then flicked a sparkle of magical energy in the door's direction, unlocking it. "Enter."

The door swung open, revealing Justice Vlourir, a woman with long black hair and deep frown lines across her forehead. She wore a judge's black kilt and shirt, with an ivory mask at her belt.

"Lord High Justice Derathar," she said, "I am sorry to trouble you so soon after your sentencing, but there is a case requiring your judgment."

A small fist thumped in irritation under the table, but went unheard.

"What is the charge?" Andoris asked in an expressionless voice.

"Espionage-specifically, the theft of state secrets. The arcanist Algar Ptack was, under direct commission from Lord Karsus, researching a way to reverse one of his spells. Lord Karsus hoped the reversed spell might be used to further decipher the Nether Scrolls. Ptack's research notes from that project, however, were stolen."

Andoris nodded. Lord Karsus had confided in him, some time ago, the details of this particular research project. Ptack was trying to reverse his secret script spell, an incantation that made even magical text indecipherable to anyone who didn't know the command word that would negate the encryption. If he succeeded in reversing the spell-assuming the Nether Scrolls were ever found again-the enclave that possessed that spell would be the first to read the scrolls' secrets and would become the most powerful in all the land. The case was certainly an important one, but did that mean Andoris had to hear it?

From under the table came a small sigh, audible only to Andoris.

"High Justice Emilus Wentar is qualified to hear evidence in capital cases," he said.

The frown lines on Justice Vlourir's face deepened. "He has heard the case, but he finds it impossible to reach a judgment. He says the trial invokes questions about legal procedure that only the Lord High Justice can answer- and that the testimony itself presents an insoluble puzzle."

Visible only to Andoris, the homunculus sat up, ears erect and a gleam in its eye. A puzzle?

As if she had heard the echoed question, Justice Vlourir continued, "There are two defendants. High Justice Wentar said deciding which is guilty is like trying to choose between a reflection and a mirror."

What do we suppose he meant by that?

Andoris merely inclined his head. "Where is the case being heard?"

"In the Spiral Court. It has been adjourned temporarily, and High Justice Wentar awaits you there."

Andoris nodded. "Inform High Justice Wentar that I'll join him at once."

The Spiral Court had been named for its dominant feature: a flat inlay of white ivory, about two paces wide, that spiraled up the wall of the circular chamber. As voices echoed up from the floor of the deep, well-like chamber, ebony-black letters flowed up the spiral: a transcription of the testimony being given below.

The force of gravity had been twisted during the construction of the Spiral Court, allowing its walls to serve as floors, and these walls were crowded with the citizens of Karsus Enclave-arcanists and lay casters alike-who stood at a right angle to the floor below, affording them an excellent view of both the proceedings and the transcription that flowed past their feet.

At the bottom of the Spiral Court, Andoris sat on an ornately carved chair of solid silver that floated a hand-span above the floor. He wore his judge's mask-but pushed up onto his head, leaving his face bare. A few paces behind him, High Justice Wentar sat in a similar chair, listening quietly as portions of the testimony given earlier were repeated, his face hidden behind his judge's mask. His body appeared young and trim and his hair was still thick and dark, thanks to age-resisting magic, but his shoulders slumped with the heaviness of decades of difficult decisions, betraying his true age.

On the opposite side of the room, the stone floor had been marked with two intricate circles, painted with a brush made from three braided hairs from a minotaur's tail. Each maze-circle was perhaps two paces wide, and inside each stood a woman with a proud, narrow face and long red hair. One woman had pulled her hair back with a gold cord and dusted her lips and eyelids with powdered ruby and was dressed in a silver-gray gown dotted with tiny flecks of black that whorled across its surface like shifting smoke. The other wore her hair loose over her shoulders and was dressed in gray tights, a loose gray shirt, and thigh-high boots that were scuffed at the heel and knee.

Though the two women had chosen dramatically different clothes in which to appear before the court-one looking as though she were ready for a celebration at Lord Karsus's tower, the other as if she were about to set out on an adventure-their faces were as identical as those of twins. Even their expressions were the same. Each stood rigidly, glaring haughtily out at the other through the shimmering circle of latent magic that would cause her to become lost inside the maze-circle were she to try to cross it, either bodily or with magic. The two women even expressed their tension in the same way: a narrowing of her pale green eyes and the occasional restless drumming of the fingers of her right hand against her thigh.

One of the women, according to the testimony, was a shadow double-but so cunning was the magic that had brought it into being that it was impossible to tell which was the arcanist and which the magical construct. High Justice Wentar had already tried all of the standard tests, but none had shed any light on the question. Each of the women had a heavy aura of magical dweomer surrounding her-but it was well known that Blamira, like most arcanists, had prolonged her life span using powerful magic. Wentar had exhausted himself trying to determine precisely which spells had created this aura, and he failed. Blamira's magic was too powerful.

He had next ordered the women stripped of all clothing and possessions and had analyzed each of these objects for any traces of nonfunctionality. Had they been created at the same time as the double, as part of Blamira's spell, that magic should have been unable to fully sustain them, once they were no longer in contact with the double. But all of the objects proved to be completely devoid of dweomer-mundane items acquired by the shadow double after its creation.

In his final test, Wentar had teleported one of the women briefly to another plane, in the hope that the other would dissipate-something that normally happened when the magical bind between alchemist and construct was severed by such a distance. Like the other tests, it hadn't worked.

Staring at the women now, Andoris noted that each of them moved independently of the other and appeared to be fully in control of her own actions. There were none of the usual signs of a shadow double being commanded by its creator: no hesitancy of speech, no mirroring of movement.

The magic that was sustaining the shadow double was durable. Wentar had already spent the better part of a day hearing testimony, and the shadow double had not faded in the slightest. Its creator appeared to have cast a permanency spell upon it.

Prom Andoris's bedchamber-where the homunculus was safely locked away-came a nervous, worried voice.

We don't like this case, it said, wringing its hands. It reminds us of The similarities are superficial, Andoris told it. Be quiet.

He stared expressionlessly at the arcanist who was giving testimony. Algar Ptack, a man with a high forehead and thinning blond hair that hung to his shoulders, was pacing back and forth in front of the chairs in which the two judges sat. He wore an alchemist's leather apron over his trousers and a loose white shirt. The cuffs of his sleeves were dusted with yellow, and the smell of burned sulfur clung to his clothes, suggesting he'd come straight from his laboratory to give testimony. His eyes were enormous behind clear glass lenses that floated just in front of his face. As he gave his testimony, he peered nervously at the two women held inside the magic circles.

Every now and then he glanced to the judges, as if for encouragement, but failed to find it in Wentar's blank mask or Andoris's emotionless expression. The mantle Ptack had been ordered to wear while giving testimony- a cape of fine-spun gold-billowed out behind him as he paced, humming like the strings of a melodious harp with each word he spoke.

"You know I can't lie-not with this thing on," Ptack groused. "I'm telling you the truth. Shiris Blamira is the thief. I'd engaged her as a consultant for my, ah… my latest research. I needed her expertise on magic that reaches into other planes and demiplanes. She guessed what my research notes contained and figured out how I'd… where I'd hidden them." He grimaced. "To think I trusted her! I'll never work with another wizard again- especially one from the Shadow Consortium."

From the walls above came a rustle of subdued voices as Ptack's words spiraled up the ivory inlay. The crowd of spectators had been growing throughout the day, as whispers spread that a disciple of Shadow was on trial for stealing state secrets.

Into Andoris's head came a malicious giggle: Shadow had better tread carefully! If his disciple is found guilty, Karsus may withdraw his favor.

Andoris ignored the homunculus's tittering. "This is a j serious matter," he cautioned Ptack. "You're accusing a fellow arcanist-a member of the Shadow Consortium- of a capital offence, and yet you have provided no proof, other than your own testimony, that magical research was stolen from you late yesterday afternoon, or that it was Shiris Blamira who committed the theft."

Ptack's eyes gleamed behind the floating lenses of his spectacles. "There was a witness," he said. "One of my servants. It saw the whole thing-but High Justice Wentar refused to hear its testimony."

Wentar, who had been listening quietly, sat up sharply. His blank white mask hid his expression, but the tone of his voice gave away his irritation.

"He wanted to summon an elemental!" Wentar protested. "It's too dangerous. This court doesn't have the proper magical containment to-"

Andoris motioned his fellow judge to silence and said, "If there is a witness, its testimony must be heard."

"If Ptack loses control of it, the elemental could kill us all!" Wentar sputtered.

Back in Andoris's bedchamber, the homunculus rocked back and forth nervously, chewing one of its finger talons.

What if it does get free? What if it kills someone? We could be blamed. Are we sure we want to risk "This court will hear the testimony," Andoris announced.

Above him, the crowd began to thin as the spectators looked at one another, shook then* heads, and teleported away.

Andoris turned to Ptack and said, "Summon your witness."

Nodding, Ptack reached into a pocket of his trousers and pulled out a lump of wet clay. Dropping to his knees, he used it to smear thick gray lines on the floor. When he was done, he rubbed the remainder of the clay on his palms, then stepped back and curled his hands over the patterns on the floor, making digging motions as he chanted.

After a moment, the stone at his feet began to bulge. A moment more, and the bulges took on the shape of a face. Eyes slowly turned in Ptack's direction with a sound like boulders being dragged across hard ground, and a crack formed and ruptured into a mouth, emitting a dank, earthen smell. The floor trembled underfoot as the lips slowly began to move.

When the words at last came they were as heavy and slow as a grindstone. "Maaasterrr."

A ripple of relief came from the walls as those spectators who had been brave enough to remain realized the elemental had indeed successfully been held in thrall. Some of them teleported out to spread the news, and the hall gradually began to fill again. An excited buzz of voices grew as they realized what they were seeing.

Ptack had just summoned an earth elemental-a creature that none had suspected existed within Karsus Enclave. When Lord Karsus had sheared the top off a mountain and used it as the foundation for his floating city, he must have inadvertently taken the elemental up with it, condemning the creature to an existence forever severed from the ground below. And yet the thing still lived-and was under Ptack's control. Equally amazing was the fact that the normally secretive Ptack had revealed this fact.

Ptack concentrated on his spell, his palms pressing down with invisible force, holding the earth elemental in place.

Tell the Lord High Justice what you saw," he commanded. "Describe the thief who stole my scrolls."

"Humaaan. With… great… maaagic. She… waaalks… in… shaaadows."

Andoris nodded. A shadow-walk spell would explain how the thief-if it was indeed Blamira-was able to enter Ptack's laboratory, protected as it was by numerous magical locks and wards.

"Was it one of these two humans?" he asked, pointing simultaneously at both of the accused.

The elemental's unblinking eyes rolled in their sockets to stare at the closest of the red-haired women. The ground under her feet bulged then subsided.

"Thaaat… one."

Slowly, the eyes ground in the other direction, and the ground bulged under the second imprisoned woman.

"And… thaaat… one."

"Just as I said!" Ptack exclaimed.

Behind the floating lenses, his eyes swiveled briefly to gauge Andoris's reaction to the testimony-but only briefly. Sweat was running down his temples from the strain of holding the massive elemental inside the earth.

Andoris leaned forward on his chair. The elemental's eyes were slowly rolling back and forth, grinding softly in their sockets.

"Which one is the thief?" he asked.

A heat haze shimmered in the air above the elemental's mouth as it licked its lips with a tongue of molten lava.

"They… taste… saaame."

"Did both of them enter your master's laboratory?"

The floor trembled, forcing Ptack to catch his balance, as the elemental slowly shook its head. On the walls above, some of the spectators who had been drawn back by curiosity disappeared again.

"Juuust… one."

"Can you tell which one?" Andoris asked. "Nooo."

Ptack, sweating more profusely now, shrugged a shoulder to wipe a trickle of sweat from his temple, but kept his palms motionless over the elemental.

"Blamira knew about the elemental," he said, "yet she had the audacity to steal my notes, despite the fact that she was being watched. She must have counted on Went- on this court being too timid to hear its testimony."

"When did the elemental alert you to the theft?" Andoris asked.

"Immediately," Ptack said. "Unfortunately, Blamira had already fled with my notes." Andoris glanced at the two accused-both of whom

Were watching the elemental with rapt, silent frowns- then sat back in his chair, considering. It was possible the elemental was lying, but unlikely. Ptack could control it and force it to carry out his orders, but he couldn't control its thoughts. It was an independent creature, with a mind of its own-a mind filled with fury at being forced to serve a mere human. If the elemental did lie, it would do so out of malice, to damage Ptack's testimony.

We would never do anything like that. We would never, ever tell a lie about our master if we were ever called to testify. But we wouldn't ever be called to testify, would we? If people knew the truth about us, it would ruin our reputation.

Andoris ignored the homunculus's words, which were sent in a fawning tone, but with a slight edge.

"The testimony of the witness is deemed valid," he announced. "The witness may be dismissed."

Taking a deep breath, Ptack leaned forward, forcing his hands ever closer to the floor. The elemental grimaced, causing the floor and walls to tremble violently. It slowly sank back into the floor. Ptack moved his hands back and forth, as if erasing a picture. A heartbeat later, the floor was smooth, flat, and featureless, as if the elemental had never been.

As High Justice Wentar let out an audible sigh of relief, Andoris turned to the two accused and said, "You have heard the testimony given against you. You now have an opportunity to plead guilty or to-"

Both interrupted at once.

"But I'm innocent!" they cried. Each pointed at the other and spoke, their words fitting together like heartbeats. "She must be-" "She's the one who's-" and came together on the final word, "guilty!"

They continued to protest, each trying to shout the other down. Andoris, noting that the testimony was becoming jumbled on the ivory spiral-even the Spiral Court was having a hard time telling the two apart- forked the fingers of his right hand, simultaneously casting a holding spell upon them both. Each woman froze in place, unable to do more than breathe or blink, but still capable of hearing any testimony given against her.

"They're both guilty," Ptack muttered, peering back and forth at the frozen figures. "One's the arcanist, and the other's her shadow double. One directed the crime, the other committed it. Execute them both-but force them to say what they've done with my research notes, first."

Andoris crooked his finger. "The mantle."

Ptack plucked it from his shoulders with a grateful shudder, as if removing a leech. Andoris gestured, and the mantle floated across the circle that held the Blamira claimant with the gown and gem-dusted face. As soon as she was released from her spell she flung the mantle across her shoulders with a haughty expression and stood poised and expectant, waiting for Andoris's questions.

"Are you Shiris Blamira?" he asked.

"I am," she began, then winced as the mantle struck a slightly sour note. "That is, I believe that I am. There is a chance, of course, that I am wrong. If I am the shadow double, I wouldn't know it. I have all of Shiris Blamira's physical and mental attributes, including her spellcasting abilities-even the same memories."

"And the same motivations to commit theft?" Wentar asked.

Ha! Got her!

Andoris held up a hand. "The accused is not required to speculate on whether she might have committed the crime," he cautioned. "Only to testify as to whether or not she did commit the crime."

Wentar considered a moment, then said, "Assume, for now, that you are the original Shiris Blamira, and answer my questions accordingly." He pointed at the woman in the other maze-circle. "Did you create this shadow double?"

"I must have. It wouldn't be possible for another arcanist to have created so exact a duplicate." "Do you remember casting the spell?" "No. I know only that the shadow double must have been created yesterday-and that somehow, my memory of yesterday has vanished."

"What do you remember?" Andoris asked.

"One moment I was sitting in the library of the Shadow Consortium, reading and enjoying my morning tea, and the next, I found myself in my laboratory, face-to-face with this… creature. I thought it was a doppelganger at first, and only realized what it must be after I tried to magically bind it-and it dismissed the binding as if it had cast the spell itself. That's when I realized it must be a shadow double."

"Did you try to command it?"

Blamira nodded vigorously. "Immediately-but it didn't work. Somehow, the thing must have become free willed."

Free willed?

Back in the bedchamber, the homunculus was sitting on the edge of Andoris's four-poster bed, riveted by the testimony.

"Did you try to dismiss the shadow double?" Andoris asked.

Blamira nodded. "That didn't work either."

"Did you try dispelling the magic that sustained it?"

"Of course I did," Blamira said, curling her lip disdainfully. "I'm not some newly initiated apprentice, you know."

Andoris thought for a moment, then asked, "When did the constabulary arrest you?"

"At shadowfall-dusk," Blamira answered. "That was the first I heard of the missing research notes."

"Did you steal Ptack's research?" Andoris asked bluntly.

Blamira looked pointedly at her double and said, "One of us did. It may or may not have been me."

"Do you know where the stolen research notes are now?"

"No."

Throughout Blamira's testimony, the mantle of truth echoed her words with a continuous harmony, without striking a single off note. Blamira was telling the truth.

Andoris tried a different line of questioning. "When your memory returned, what was the shadow double doing?"

"What do you mean?" Blamira asked, frowning.

"Did it appear to be casting a spell?"

"No. It was just standing there, staring at me."

Andoris sat quietly a moment, considering. "Shadow doubles normally have only a limited duration, yet this one appears to have been made permanent. A simple permanency spell should have collapsed under the dispellation spells High Justice Wentar subjected you both to, but this one did not. How do you explain that?"

"How can I explain anything?" Blamira cried, throwing her hands in the air. "You obviously weren't listening to what I just said. I have no memory of anything that happened yesterday-including casting the spell that created the shadow double."

Bitch! Of course we were listening.

Andoris sat on his silver chair, motionless and impassive. He would not allow his judgment to be swayed by the expression or tone of voice of the accused.

"The court will hear the defense of the second accused," he announced. He pointed at the mantle on Blamira's shoulder. "Remove the mantle of truth."

As soon as she complied, Andoris froze her in place and floated it to the second woman, dispelling the magic that prevented her from moving. He posed the same questions-and received almost identical replies. The second Blamira also swore she had no memory of the shadow double's creation and said her first clear recollection after the gap in her memories was of she and the shadow double standing in her laboratory, blinking at each other in confusion. All the while, the mantle hummed in perfect harmony with her words.

Wentar leaned toward Andoris, his eyes troubled behind his ivory mask. He spoke in a low voice, but even so, the spiral of ivory picked up his words. "By law, an arcanist is legally responsible for the actions of any creatures created by his or her magic," he began, "but in this case…"

"In this case, it's obviously not an ordinary shadow double," Blamira interjected, tossing her long red hair. "It's free willed, with a mind of its own. It could have committed the crime entirely of its own accord, using my spells and my knowledge of Ptack's research to steal his notes. If that's what happened-and if you find us both guilty and sentence both of us to die-you’ll be killing an innocent woman. You have no other option but to find us both innocent, and let us go."

Found innocent. If only we'd had that option with Jelal.

Choking back a sob, the homunculus sank needle-sharp teeth into one of its fingers.

Andoris ignored the mental image of blood dripping from the homunculus's punctured finger. He sat in silent contemplation as a murmur of voices drifted down from the spectators. Now that the defense of the two accused-slight though it was-had been heard, all attention was focused on the judges. On Andoris, in particular. The spectators, the two accused, Ptack, and Wentar all watched his face closely, looking for the slightest of frowns or the twitch of a mile, hoping to interpret it in their favor. As usual, he disappointed them.

This court will temporarily adjourn," he announced. "High Justice Wentar and I need to discuss this case in chambers." He glanced at his fellow judge. "Shall we retire to the Crystal Chamber?"

Wentar nodded behind his mask and spoke the words of the spell that would take them there.

An instant later, both men were standing in a room whose oddly angled walls and ceiling were made of a clear, glasslike material. Perched on one of the enclave's highest towers, with nothing but air surrounding it on all sides, the chamber caught the light from all angles. Beams of sunlight slanted in through walls and ceiling, erupting into thousands of tiny blue and red sparkles, revealing the chamber to be an enormous, hollow diamond. Wards etched by magic into each facet of the gem prevented those outside from scrying on those within.

Far below the tower that supported the Crystal Chamber, the rooftops and spires of Karsus Enclave could be seen, clustered like barnacles on the inverted mountaintop from which the enclave had been formed. Two buildings stood out from the rest: the cagelike enclosures that housed the enclave's two mythallars-enormous spheres, more than one hundred and fifty paces in diameter, that channeled raw magical energy from the Weave. Energy pulsed out of each mythallar, sustaining the magic that kept the enclave afloat, and powering all quasimagical devices within the energy field's one-mile radius. That energy was visible to the eye as a light colder than ice and brighter than the hottest flame-and like a flame, it drew its moths. Those bent upon self-destruction had only to touch one of those brightly glowing spheres to be instantly killed, without any possibility of resurrection.

Back in the bedchamber, the homunculus shuddered. Horrible, it moaned. A horrible way to die. Andoris, however, merely turned away from the view. He snapped his fingers, causing a decanter and two tiny glasses to hover in the air in front of him. He glanced at Wentar, who nodded, then caused the decanter to tip, filling one glass with a yellow liquid, then nudged it through the air to Wentar. He then filled the second glass and took a sip. The honey wine was delicious, warm and sweet.

"I'd like to hear your thoughts on the case," Andoris said.

Wentar pushed his mask onto the top of his head and took a sip of wine. He gently swirled the liquid in his glass, considering it with a slight frown.

"The accused has a point," he began. "If the shadow double was an independent creature that committed the theft of its own volition-even if the original motivation sprang from its creator's psyche-then Blamira must be found innocent. Whichever one she is." "Quite so," Andoris agreed.

"It all comes down to the question of when the thing gained free will," Wentar continued. "If the shadow double was commanded by Blamira at the time of the theft, and only gained or was granted free will afterward, then Blamira is guilty-and only Blamira. Enclave law states quite clearly that any 'person or creature' that is magically compelled to commit a crime is innocent of that crime. This shadow double can indeed be classed as a 'person or creature.' Since it displays permanence combined with independent thought, it is no longer a 'spell effect' in the eyes of the law. That entitles it to be judged an independent, sentient being."

Am I a spell effect?

Of course you are, Andoris answered.

"I wish we had some way of telling arcanist and shadow double apart," Wentar continued, "but even that wouldn't be much help, since we don't know which one committed the crime. I can't just sentence both of the accused to death, since there is a strong possibility that one of them might be innocent. That's why I asked that you try the case. I thought you'd discover the truth of the matter-as you always do-but it looks as though there's no solution to this puzzle. Which means," he sighed again, "that they both must be set free, I suppose."

The homunculus slammed a fist against the bed. No! We mustn't let her get the better of us!

"That would equally be a miscarriage of justice," Andoris noted, "since one of them is indeed guilty."

"It's the memory loss that perplexes me most," said Wentar. "Not the mechanics-the erased memories obviously the result of a forgetfulness spell, with its potential for erasure extended well beyond the few moments of oblivion that were all that Keonid was ever able to achieve. I wonder, though… did Blamira try to cast a forgetfulness spell on the shadow double for some reason- perhaps so it couldn't testify against her-only to unwittingly also cast the spell upon herself?"

"A spell cast upon a shadow double doesn't affect its master," Andoris reminded his fellow judge. "Even if the shadow double is killed, the arcanist is unharmed-and vice versa."

"Maybe there was another arcanist involved," Wentar mused. "One who cast the spell on Blamira and her double to cover up any knowledge of his or her involvement in-"

"There's no evidence to support that conclusion," Andoris interrupted. "A forgetfulness spell requires a line of sight to its target-and according to the second Blamira's testimony, the laboratory in which she found herself facing the shadow double had a door that was locked from the inside, and wards against teleportation. If someone else had cast the spell, she would have seen that person in the room. It would have been her first clear memory. No, logically, Blamira must have been the one who cast the spell on the shadow double, and on herself at the same time, since neither one remembers seeing the other performing the spell."

"But why?" Wentar sputtered. "It's hardly logical to commit a crime and erase all memory of the object you plotted so carefully to steal. How did she ever hope to remember she had Ptack's research notes, let alone find where she'd hidden them?"

"She'd probably already sold them or traded them for some other consideration," Andoris said. "Both we-and she-will probably never know who she gave them to." "Making this the perfect crime," Wentar groaned. He's right, you know. We may never solve this one. We must.

"The extent of the memory loss is what I find significant," Andoris continued, ignoring the homunculus's fretting. "Blamira didn't just erase her memories of the crime itself; she erased an entire day's memories. She has no recollection of the creation of the shadow double or of the exact moment she made the spell effect permanent." "But why?" Wentar asked.

"There's only one logical reason," Andoris answered. "Blamira wanted to raise the question of whether the shadow double was free willed from the moment it was created. If she'd conjured up a normal shadow double, it would have faded into nonexistence long ago-taking with it her clever alibi."

"So she is guilty," Wentar exclaimed, an excited gleam in his eye.

Is she? Then she must pay for her crime, even if she is Shadow's disciple. No favoritism-isn't that what we say? the homunculus asked bitterly. Not even for our own "Not necessarily," Andoris countered. "There's a possibility you're overlooking. The shadow double has all of Blamira's magical capabilities-and her cunning. There is a possibility that it got the better of her-that it really did act of its own accord to steal the research notes. The shadow double could have been the one who cast the forgetfulness spell on Blamira-and on itself-to ensure its own alibi."

Wentar*s shoulders sagged. "So we're back where we started," he groaned.

Back in his bedchamber, the homunculus was pacing, its clawed toes clicking against the hardwood floor, but Andoris remained calm, in complete self-control. He knew that logic wouldn't fail him-it never had.

Wentar drained his glass, then released it and snapped his fingers, teleporting it away.

"I'm glad you're judging this one, Andoris. This case just gets more and more confusing the more I try to decipher it. We may just as well be trying to read one of the Nether Scrolls with Ptack's half-completed spell notes."

The homunculus halted abruptly, atremble with excitement.

That's it! How could we have been so stupid? If Blamira was helping Ptack reverse his secret script spell, he must have taught her how to cast it.

Andoris, however, merely turned to his fellow judge, and said, in a quiet voice, "Did the constabulary search Blamira's laboratory when they arrested her?"

"They did, and I supervised," Wentar said. Then he added, "I can see where you're going with this one. You think we overlooked some innocent looking scroll that might really have been Ptack's notes, but I know he protected those notes. They could have looked like anything, from an accountant's ledger to a page of poetry. That's why I insisted he be present during the search. Ptack spoke the word that negated his secret script spell and looked over the books, scrolls, and pages himself, but though some of the written materials on Blamira's desk had been disguised with a secret script spell, Ptack's research notes weren't among them."

"There may still have been clues to be found," Andoris mused.

"What do you mean?"

"I think a second search of Blamira's laboratory is in order."

The Shadow Consortium was noted for its gloom-filled corridors and tiny, claustrophobic rooms. Blamira's laboratory was no exception. Though the tower it was situated in had numerous windows-all of them ensorcelled against teleportation and scrying-they were long and narrow, filled with gray glass. The beams of sunlight that did penetrate the crowded, stuffy room seemed more like questing fingers of lighter shadow.

Wentar and Andoris were sifting through the books, scrolls, and loose sheets of vellum on Blamira's workbench. They'd shifted each pile from one end of the workbench to the other at least three times but weren't any closer to finding anything.

"It's hopeless," Wentar moaned. "I can't remember which of these changed when Ptack negated his spell."

Idiot! You should have paid more attention.

"Keep looking," Andoris said.

"What are we looking for?" Wentar asked.

Andoris was no longer listening. His attention was wholly focused on the book he had just opened. Reading it, he saw something he would have thought impossible: notes on the creation of a mythallar that drew not from the Weave but from the spaces between it. From the Shadow Weave.

Back in Andoris's bedchamber, the homunculus trembled with excitement.

So that's how she did it!

Andoris pointed to the page in the book that lay open in front of him and said, "According to these notes, Shadow and his disciples have succeeded in creating a shadow mythallar."

Wentar shook his head in puzzlement. "A shadow mythallar? Incredible! But what does it have to do with-"

"If the mythallar is sustaining the shadow double," Andoris explained, "that means the shadow double is quasimagical, rather than permanent. It's a spell effect, rather than a sentient being."

"Ah," said Wentar, a smile of relief spreading across his face. "I see. Our case is solved. We can find Blamira guilty-"

Even if she isn't?

"And hold the shadow double inside the maze-circle until we find some way to dispel it," Wentar continued. "But how are we to tell which is which?"

"Wentar," Andoris began thoughtfully, "when you teleported one of the accused to a different plane to see if the shadow double would dissipate, which one did you choose?"

When the trial resumed, the Spiral Court was even more crowded than it had been before. Word had gotten out that a decision was about to be rendered in the case, and the walls were so crowded with spectators that it was impossible to see the testimony that scrolled up the ivory spiral. Even Shadow had come to watch the proceedings-albeit surrounded by a protective bodyguard of his disciples.

On the floor below, all was in readiness. Andoris sat on one of the silver chairs. The second was empty. Wentar had explained the legal technicalities of permanence versus quasimagical non-permanence as it related to the issue of the shadow double being a person or creature. The crowd had listened in mystified silence, understanding the legal explanation but uncertain why it was being given, then Wentar had disappeared. Now it was up to Andoris.

Raising a hand to hush the crowd, Andoris spoke. "Earlier today, High Justice Wentar and I discovered the source of the magic that is sustaining the shadow double. There is a third mythallar on Karsus Enclave."

A buzz of excited voices rushed up through the Spiral Court. Andoris waited for it to subside, watching the faces of the two accused. They seemed wary but puzzled-as though they knew which mythallar Andoris was referring to but were unaware of its significance. This was perfectly logical. All knowledge of having used the mythallar to create and sustain the shadow double must have been erased, together with Blamira's other memories.

"One of these women is a quasi-magical spell effect, and thus is not responsible for its actions, according to enclave law. Therefore, Blamira must be found guilty of the crime with which she has been charged and dealt with accordingly.''

The homunculus's voice was nearly lost to Andoris in the excited crush of voices that followed this pronouncement.

Even if the law's not fair?

Andoris held up a hand for silence. "As for the shadow double," he continued, "since it is no more than a spell effect, it can be dispensed with."

Just a spell effect…

"In a few moments, I will conduct a trial by ordeal," he announced. "I will teleport both of the accused to a spot more than one mile distant from the enclave, where High Justice Wentar is waiting. Whichever one is the shadow double will be too far removed from the sustaining magic of the mythallar and will cease to exist."

She'll die.

"Whichever one is Blamira will survive the journey. High Justice Wentar will immediately teleport her back here, to face sentencing."

He turned to the two women, a distant corner of his mind feeling the homunculus tremble.

"Have you anything to say before your ordeal?"

The two women squared their shoulders then, a heartbeat behind one another, they shook their heads. From the grim look in their eyes, Andoris could see that both women knew what the end result would be: in a few seconds one of them would cease to exist-and the other would be facing a death sentence. All of the haughtiness they'd displayed earlier was gone.

"Do it," the woman in the gown said grimly, the fingers of her hand drumming nervously against her thigh.

"I'm ready," the second said, her face pale.

Andoris nodded and chanted the words that would fuel his spell. As he spoke, he pulled two pinches of fine-ground amber from the pouch at his belt. Feeling the magic build within him, he concentrated, sending it down into his fingertips. He flicked the dust into the two maze-circles.

Both women vanished. In the crowd above, Shadow tensed and leaned forward expectantly. For the space of several heartbeats, the Spiral Court was utterly still then the woman in the gown reappeared, a look of relief-and dread-on her face. Andoris nodded, having seen what he'd expected. He was turning to sit down again when he heard excited shouts from the spectators above. He whirled-and saw that the second woman had also reappeared. Both stood, gaping at the other.

An instant later Wentar returned to the Spiral Court, teleporting in beside Andoris with a soft popping noise that was lost in the uproar.

"What happened?" Andoris asked. Distantly, he could feel the heart of the homunculus thudding in its chest.

Wentar gave him an exasperated look and said, "We must have been wrong about the mythallar. The shadow double really is permanent. Now we're back at the beginning again."

Wrong? How could we have been wrong? the homunculus raged. In a fury, it snatched a pillow from the bed and tore it to pieces. We've never been wrong before. Never. We can't have been!

Andoris ignored the distant commotion-venting his emotions was what the creature was for, after all, and he'd taken care to ensure that emotion and pain only flowed in one direction: from arcanist to homunculus. Strangely, though, he found that his fingers were starting to curl. Only by concentrating was he able straighten them.

Vaguely disquieting thoughts began to surface. Was he losing control? Firmly, Andoris pushed these doubts away-only to find they had nowhere to go. The homunculus, already filled to the brim with a stronger emotion, was unable to accommodate more. It continued its furious assault upon the pillow, tearing it to shreds.

What if… rip… we were wrong about… rip… Jelal, too?

Like an incoming tide, memories from more than twenty years before rushed back at Andoris. Dizzy, he gripped the edge of his chair.

The accused was a young man with an athletic bearing, his chest bare above baggy, striped silken pants that were tucked into knee-high leather boots. Blond hair hung in a braid over the mantle of truth that draped his shoulders. His wrists were heavy with gold and silver bracelets, and a multitude of rings sparkled on fingers and thumbs. He stood in the Columned Court, ringed by pillars and gawking spectators, staring up with a confident, almost cocky expression at the judge who stood on the dais with hands clasped behind his back and an ivory mask pushed up on top of his head. The younger man gave a quick, graceful bow.

"It's good to see you again, even under these circumstances," Jelal told Andoris softly. Then, with a slight tilt of his head, "Tell me-am I still your favorite?"

Andoris nodded slightly. "You are."

At this answer, Jelal's face broke into a relieved smile.

Back in Andoris's bedchamber, the homunculus let out a soft sigh.

Even though the words had been spoken too quietly for the crowd to hear, the transcription crackled into glowing life in the air between the columns. As the spectators read it, a murmur swept through the crowd. Andoris realized what they were eagerly anticipating: that the emotionless, infallible Andoris would abandon both logic and the law.

Back in the bedchamber, the homunculus growled softly, We'll show them.

"I understand you've reached a verdict," the accused said.

"I have," Andoris said in a clear, carefully measured tone. "Have you chosen a method of execution?"

"I have." Jelal glanced across the city toward the spot where the mythallar pulsed blue energy into the sky. "If you really must find me guilty of murder, I choose to die by touching a mythallar."

He looked up expectantly, as if waiting for a reaction.

Though the crowd whispered urgently, Andoris remained utterly impassive.

The young man's smile slipped, just a little.

No! the homunculus wailed. Tell him to choose a death that will allow him to be resurrected!

Andoris brought his hands in front of him, revealing the object he'd been clasping behind his back. With a flick of his fingers, he teleported away the enormous red ruby. Jelal had made his decision.

No! Make him change his mind! Andoris waited until the crowd fell once more into an anticipatory silence, then gave his judgment.

"Jelal Derathar, I find you guilty of murder, in that you did maliciously and with forethought cause the death of a toad belonging to Quinar Redux, a creature that was a familiar to this arcanist. The sentence I impose upon you is death."

The young man recoiled.

"No!" he cried. "I thought you'd give me a fair trial."

"I did. Your own testimony confirmed your guilt." "Didn't you listen to my testimony?" Jelal asked in a frantic voice. "I'm guilty of property damage-even involuntary slaughter-but not murder, and certainly not with malice aforethought. When I projected the duplicate of myself into Quinar's laboratory, I ordered it to smash all of his magical apparatus and spell components. It was a spur-of-the-moment impulse, a crazy, stupid act of retaliation for him having seduced my lover with that potion He forced her to… to… Doesn't that make him the guilty one?"

Jelal looked wildly around, but though some of the spectators were nodding in agreement, Andoris's face remained as devoid of expression as his mask. He swallowed, like a man feeling the noose around his neck.

"I was seeing red," said Jelal. "I didn't even realize the toad was in the laboratory at first. As soon as I realized what it was-Quinar's familiar-I tried to stop my double. I couldn't. It was as if it had a mind of its own. It just kept smashing, smashing…"

Back in Andoris's bedchamber, the homunculus worried its lip with sharp teeth. See? He didn't mean to do it!

Andoris ignored the taste of blood. "Do you have anything more to say before sentence is carried out?"

"It was just a bloody frog! For all we know he's already resurrected it. Surely the life of a frog-even if it is an arcanist's familiar-isn't equal to the life of a man."

"Death is the sentence the law proscribes."

"But I am your son!"

His face devoid of expression, the judge began the spell that would teleport Jelal into contact with the mythallar. Already the crowd in the Columned Court was thinning. In the distance, Andoris could see them clustered around the building that housed the mythallar, peering expectantly in through its barred walls. Magical energy crackled down his arm, toward the pointing finger. As it coalesced to a hot, white point, the young man's lips curved into a sneer.

"Tell me, Lord High Justice Derathar, what's it like to be right all the time? Are you going to enjoy watching your own son d-"

Nooooo!

Andoris clung to the silver chair, breathing heavily. For the first time in decades an unfamiliar emotion filled him: pain. He shoved most of it away, and shuddered with relief as it was forced into the homunculus, but a tiny shard of the emotion remained. It felt like an icy sliver in his heart.

Back in his chamber, the homunculus sat on the floor with its knees drawn up against its bony chest, and its wings folded tightly against its back. It rocked back and forth like a wounded child, alternately moaning and sobbing, fresh tears sliding from its eyes each time it squeezed them shut.

Jelal was telling the truth-the mantle said so.

I know, Andoris replied.

The sentence wasn't fair.

I know, but it was… the law.

But he's dead!

The homunculus flailed out of its fetal position, seizing a portrait of Jelal from the wall and hurling it onto the floor. When this gave it no satisfaction, it smashed an inkwell on top of the picture. Black ink exploded in all directions, obliterating Jelal's smiling face.

How could we have murdered our favorite son? We hate ourselves!

A part of Andoris's mind held onto the here and now. He was standing in the Spiral Court, hearing but not really hearing the murmurs of the crowd and the anxious questions High Justice Wentar was softly asking him. Another part of him was staring through the homunculus’s eyes at the destruction that had just been wrought-at the spreading pool of black ink, surrounded by a fine spray of dots.

Staring at them, Andoris was struck by how tiny they were, how small a space they occupied. A realization came to him then-one so startling that he didn't even notice he was sharing the homunculus's pain when it slammed its hands down onto the broken glass of the inkwell, cutting them in several places.

His realization was that an ordinary mythallar was absolutely enormous-it had to be, because of the material that went into its construction: long strands of the Weave itself-but a mythallar made of shadowstuff, made from the spaces between the Weave didn't need to be so large. It could be compressed, tiny. Small enough to place inside a shadow double.

This would explain why Blamira found herself unable to command or dispel the double after erasing her own memories. Fueled by a self-contained source of magic that came directly from the Shadow Weave, the shadow double was independent of her. It had been all along. Incapable of being under her control from the start, it had to be innocent-created solely to provide her with an alibi, probably after the crime itself.

For the briefest of moments, Andoris felt his lips twitch. In any other man, it would have been a smile, but Andoris pushed the emotion securely back into place- back into the homunculus.

Only to have it shoved back at him again.

Your hypothesis is very clever, said a mocking voice, but what makes you so sure you're right?

Seizing a piece of glass off the floor, the homunculus held it above its arm.

Were you right about me?

The shard slashed down, and bright red blood joined the black ink on the floor. Andoris tried to force the homunculus to stop but found he could not.

"Of course I'm right!" he shouted. "I can prove-"

In mid-sentence, he realized that he'd spoken aloud, and not only spoken but shouted, his voice loud with anger.

Wentar gaped at him through the eyes of his mask.

"Andoris," he said softly. "You look so… strange. Are you unwell? Should we adjourn?"

For the first time in many years, Andoris felt uncertain, like a man who suddenly finds that the solid ground beneath his feet has turned to thin river ice. He glanced wildly around the Spiral Court. It wasn't just Wentar who was staring at him.

Sometimes it isn't good to be right all the time, a small voice whispered as the homunculus lay down on the floor in a spreading pool of blood. Sometimes doubt brings… justice.

Then it was gone.

With a soft sob, Andoris lurched forward and found himself plunging down into the icy waters of guilt. As he struggled to surface, he realized something. The finer points of law and being right didn't matter. Justice did.

Had the first trial by ordeal been successful, he would have been condemning an innocent creature to die. Just as he had condemned his own son. Still shaking, he raised a hand and waited until the Spiral Court was quiet. Then, with a confidence he had not truly felt in many years, he gave his verdict.

"On the charge of espionage, I find Shiris Blamira guilty, and sentence her to death without possibility of resurrection. I find the shadow double she created innocent. I also find it to be entitled to all of the rights and privileges enjoyed by a 'person or creature' even though it is sustained by a mythallar. I realize that this sets a precedent, but it is my prerogative, as Lord High Justice of Karsus Enclave, to do so.

"Finally, I am taking the unusual step of choosing the means by which Shiris Blamira will be executed. There will be a second trial by ordeal. Each of the accused shall be taken to the Shadow Consortium, where she will place her hand upon a shadow mythallar. The shadow double, since it is already in contact with a mythallar, will be immune. The arcanist Blamira will not. By touching it, she will be utterly destroyed."

As the two Blamiras braced themselves for this second ordeal, the crowd above broke into an excited tumult. Ignoring it, Andoris pulled his mask from his head and stared at it. Tears poured down his cheeks, dripping onto the cold ivory and running down its blank cheeks. His fingers trembling, Andoris released the mask. It fell onto the stone at his feet, and split with a loud crack. He wouldn't be needing it anymore.

Assassin's Shadow

Jess Lebow

NetherilYear 3392

(The Year of Emerald Groves, — 467 DR)

The wet stink of mud hung in the air.

Olostin lowered his foot to the floor at the bottom of a long flight of stairs. The cellar was dark and wet, and rats splashed, unseen, in the far corners of the room.

"You have come," said a voice from out of the darkness.

"As I was directed," replied Olostin.

"You have served us well," came another voice.

"Thank you," replied Olostin.

"And you have prospered from the knowledge and power we have granted to you," continued the first. "Your raiders wreak havoc all over the countryside, and your name strikes fear in the hearts of the common man. Indeed, even the archwizards take notice."

"Your friendship has indeed benefited me greatly. One day I shall bring about the end of the archwizards' rule, and thus I am forever in your debt." Olostin bowed toward the sound of the voices. "Then we have a task for you."

"One that will no doubt be fueled by your hatred of the ruling wizard class," added the second voice.

"Of course," replied Olostin, still bowed. "Tell me only what you require, and consider it done."

"An arch wizard by the name of Shadow has been experimenting with a new type of magic," explained the first voice.

"He calls his new source of power the Shadow Weave," interjected the second.

"This Shadow Weave could be the very thing the arch-wizards need to destroy us."

"How is it that I may serve you?" asked Olostin. "Kill Shadow before he uncovers too much," affirmed the first voice.

"As you have directed," replied Olostin. He stood and headed back up the stairs.

"In the name of Olostin, submit or meet your doom!" Cy hurled his torch at a thatch-roofed house and spurred his horse on through the village of Kath. Night had fallen hours before, and the moon was just visible over the high cliffs that outlined one edge of the valley. The sound of almost one hundred horse hooves beat on into the slowly brightening night as the southern border of Kath went up in flames.

The door of a house just in front of Cy burst open, and a man in a nightshift ran into the street, away from the flames and the contents of his house. The side shutters of the same house creaked open and smoke billowed out as a coughing woman, dark streaks of ash lining her face, climbed out with a small child under her arm. The child's head lolled to one side and back in wide flopping arcs with the rhythm of the mother's frantic escape.

Cy rode on, herding the villagers toward the north end of the settlement. There, Kath butted up against a heavily wooded forest, and nearly half of the raiding party waited there for the fleeing villagers.

We'll round 'em up and rob 'em blind, thought Cy.

He smiled. Rich was definitely going to be a good way to go through life.

Someone screamed ahead. Cy reigned in his horse and stopped in front of a dead-end alleyway. Two other raiders had gotten off their horses and had cornered a village woman. She was dressed in only a light white dress, and she held a tightly bunched section against her chest with one hand. With the other, she was feeling behind her for the wall of the alley, not letting her eyes stray from the men in front of her. Her hair was disheveled, and streaks of dirt or dried blood outlined the curve of her jaw.

"Hey," hollered Cy, getting their attention. "Take your pleasures another time. You heard Lume! Force the villagers to the woods. We don't have time for these games."

The two dismounted men grumbled at Cy and spit toward his horse. They turned their attention back to the woman. She had backed into the corner as far as she could and was pounding on the stone behind her in desperation.

Damn fools, thought Cy, and he spurred his horse down the road.

The village was no more than thirty houses deep from the southern border to the edge of the forest. In the confusion of the raid-the unrelenting thunder of horses, the burning roofs, and the hollering of the bandits-the villagers scattered and quickly fell into the raiders' trap. Cy spurred his horse toward the forest, and in the next moment, he found himself on the ground, his horse barreling away from him. His tailbone and back hurt from the fall, and his chest burned in a line right across the middle. He shook his head and tried to clear his vision. A large hulking form loomed up out of the night in front of him. The figure raised its arm, and Cy instinctively rolled to one side. A heavy chain impacted the ground. Cy rolled back onto his feet and stood up, pulling his scimitar out of its scabbard as he did.

The man with the chain raised his arms over his head, swinging the heavy links around in a circle, gaining momentum with both hands. Cy*s vision cleared somewhat, and he got a better look at his attacker. The man had long, ragged blond hair and was wearing only black robes, tied at the waist with a length of rope. He was wearing no shoes. Scars crisscrossed his face and forearms. One near his ear was still covered by a dark scab. His shoulders were knotted with lumps of muscle, and his arms easily suspended the weight of the chain. He moved with a quick, considered motion, passing the chain back and forth between his hands, making arcs in the air around his body.

Cy turned his blade in his hand, the metal casting reflected light from the fires on the dark ground. He lunged. Metal clanged, and the tip of his scimitar hit the ground. He just managed to keep his grip on the hilt, but the chain was still moving in quick circles. A crunching thud rang through his ears, and Cy saw stars. His jaw was numb, and he could taste blood. The chain-wielder seemed to grow much, much taller, then Cy realized he was on the ground again. He threw himself flat as the chain whistled by his ear.

Lifting himself up on his hands and feet, Cy crabbed backward, growing the space between himself and the blond man. The chain hit the ground again, throwing dirt in Cy's face. Rolling backward, the raider came up on his feet, sword in front of him. The dark-robed man nodded and closed in, moving the chain back and forth, letting it gain momentum as he changed hands again and again.

This time the chain came in low. Cy jumped and slashed in a flat arc while he was in midair. The tip of his blade tore through the dark robes and cut a deep wound in the blond man's chest. Landing on both feet, Cy leaped backward, narrowly avoiding a blow to his head. The chain was moving faster now. It looked almost like a solid wall of metal as it careened through the air.

Cy pulled his dagger from its sheath. It was the only enchanted weapon he owned. Flipping it over in his left hand, he clutched the tip of the blade between two fingers, then he feigned a lunge with his scimitar. The blond man brought the chain up in a defensive arc, striking at the hilt of the sword. Cy lowered the blade under the flailing chain and brought the dagger up to throw. The chain-wielder was too fast, and he changed directions, throwing Cy off balance. Just barely able to keep to his feet, the raider held onto the dagger but had to lower his arm to keep from falling.

The chain whistled as it came down in an overhead strike. Cy leaped forward, pressing his body as close to his attacker's as possible. Blood spattered his boots as his scimitar cut a deep wound into the blond man's leg. The chain changed directions and hit Cy hard in the back, knocking him straight into the black-robed man. The raider lost his grip on the curved sword as he bounced off a human wall of muscles. The ground came up, and Cy found himself once more on the rocky, hard-packed dirt in the streets of Kath.

This is starting to annoy me, he thought as he got to his feet.

He didn't have time for much more as the chain hit him again right around his midsection. The cold, heavy links wrapped themselves around his body and tangled with the rest of the chain as they made one full circle around Су'8 stomach. Just as the dark metal clanked into itself, the raider felt himself lift off the ground. The blond man pulled him clear off his feet, and Cy grunted as all the air left his lungs. Coming down in a heap at the foot of the chain-wielder, Cy struggled to stay conscious. He felt the chain tug and begin to unravel itself from his body. The force of the larger man pulling caused Cy to roll over onto his back as the chain uncoiled. He looked up. The blond man glared back, a crease in his brow, his lips pursed and hatred in his eyes.

Flinging his arm forward with all of his might, Cy hurled his enchanted dagger at the chain-wielder. The magical metal blade sunk easily into the soft flesh of the neck, and the hilt moved up and down as the man tried to swallow. Blood seeped out around the edges of the wound. The blond man staggered backward a step and raised his hands to his throat. The look of anger and spite had left his eyes, only to be replaced by a distinct note of fear and uncertainty. Grabbing the hilt of the dagger, the blond man pulled the blade from his neck. Blood poured out in spurting gouts.

Cy slid away, getting slowly to his feet. The raider looked around for his scimitar. It was lying in the dirt a few yards away. As he moved to retrieve it, the chain-wielder fell to his knees, bright red blood covering his hands, and a look of complete disbelief filled his eyes. Before Cy had retrieved his blade, the man was facedown on the dirt.

Cy took a deep breath and looked around. The houses were completely consumed by flames. The screaming and chaotic sounds of the raiders riding through the village had stopped. His own horse was nowhere in sight, and he cursed his bad luck for having ridden past this chain-swinging baboon. He felt around his own body to assess the damage. The bruise on his chest where the chain had taken him off his horse had already turned deep purple. His tailbone and back were sore but functional. He had lost a couple of teeth, but his jaw worked well enough for him to be able to enjoy supper around the campfire that night, and that was all he needed to know.

Sheathing his sword, Cy walked over to the blond man. His enchanted dagger lay just past the man's fallen fingertips. The chain-wielder lay facedown in a good-sized puddle of his own cooling blood. Cy wiped the dagger off on the back of the fallen man's dark robes.

The sound of horse hooves lifted over the crackling of the burning thatch roofs. Cy spun around, his dagger in hand.

That was a nice bit of fighting, if I do say so myself."

Cy recognized the speaker-Lume, the captain of the raiding party. He rode up on his horse and stopped just in front of the fallen man.

"Sir?" Cy looked down at his bruises and bleeding wounds.

"I saw the whole thing. Most of the rest of this scum-" He waved his arm over his shoulder toward the forest and the raiding party-"would be dead after fighting a man like that."

"Thank you, sir."

Cy looked down at the blade of his dagger and twirled it absently.

"If all my men could fight like that, we'd be able to take Karsus without the rest of Olostin's raiders."

Lume dismounted and walked over to the dead man. He kicked him once in the ribs, then rolled him over with his boot.

The man's eyes were open but unfocused. His mouth hung wide as if he were trying to catch a last breath, and blood still trickled down his neck, but it was already starting to harden into scabs.

Lume regarded the dead man for a moment then said, "You know, Cy, I think I might just have a job for you. Stop by my tent in the morning, and we'll discuss the details."

Lume put one foot in a stirrup and swung his weight into his saddle.

"In the meantime," the captain said, "head back to camp. The rest of the party has the villagers well in hand."

Lume turned his horse back toward the village.

"And one more thing, Cy," he said over his shoulder.

"Yes, sir?"

"Enjoy yourself around the campfire tonight, and don't forget to get your share of the booty. We made a good haul this time."

"Thank you, sir, I will."

The evening's festivities were grand. The raiders had made their biggest haul ever. One of the men had ransacked Kath's stock of supplies and come up with several kegs of good red wine and a large cask of mead. There was more than enough in those barrels to make the fifty or so raiders in Су's party jolly as monks in a vineyard.

The campfire raged. The wine flowed freely. Men told stories of their conquests during the raids. The men they had fought grew larger and more fearsome as the evening wore on. The riches they had stolen became fortunes even the most powerful kings would envy. They laughed and danced and lied to each other until they had all passed out. Then they slept. They would be allowed their excesses for the evening since their booty had been so large. Captain Lume didn't participate in the camp-fires, but he didn't wake the men early after a good night's haul.

Yes, life as one of Olostin's raiders was very fulfilling for someone like Cy. He had the freedom to do what he wanted, so long as it didn't directly contradict the orders he had been given, and he had the camaraderie of the other raiders. He had riches and wine, and from time to time he even had the affections of a lady or two. All in all, life was good.

"You're quite fast, Cy," complimented Lume. Cy had woken just before midday, and after he had dunked his head in a rain barrel and re-bandaged his wounds from the fight the night before, he went to see his captain.

"Thank you, sir."

Cy didn't have a military background, but he believed in giving respect to his elders. Lume was the captain of the raiding party and at least ten years older than Cy, so he figured the man deserved the title of "sir."

"Sit down, please." Lume pointed to a simple chair in the corner of his tent.

Cy nodded and did as he was told.

For a tent, Lume's place was comfortable and well appointed. A hammock stretched from a pole holding up the center of the roof in the middle of the tent to another support forming the corner. A desk sat in the opposite corner with a chair behind it and a large chest beside. Papers were stacked in neat piles on the desk, and a large water pipe sat near them. It was lit, and Lume took a few puffs on it while Cy got comfortable.

The captain leaned forward in his chair, bracing himself against the desk.

"How long have you been with this raiding party, Cy?"

"About a year now, sir."

"Is that all?" he asked.

Су nodded.

"You know, I hate to admit it, but I've been working for Olostin for fifteen years. I've been leading raiding parties for almost five years now." He leaned back in his chair. "I'm afraid I lose track of all of the young men whom I've seen come and go. I would have thought you'd been with this group longer, but I guess I'm just remembering someone else."

Lume looked at the palm of his hand for a moment. Cy shifted in his chair.

"Cy, I make no apologies for the mistakes of other men. If a man in my party gets himself killed, then it's his own fault."

He looked the younger man up and down then stared him right in the eyes. Cy held his gaze for a moment, then let it fall.

"If I can't remember how long you've been with this group it's only because I've seen hundreds of others just like you get killed. To tell the honest truth, I can't even remember any of their names. To me, they could have all been named Cy."

Lume chuckled at this. Cy did not. The captain became serious and once again looked Cy over. "I'll come to the point, Cy. I have a job for you." "Sir," he said, not sure what else he could say. "You're as good with that dagger as I've seen in a long while, and you managed to keep yourself alive last night. I'm hoping," continued Lume, "that you'll manage to get yourself out of this little project alive as well. Tell me, what do you know about our illustrious leader Olostin?" "Sir, I know he fights to stop the tyranny of the arch-wizards, sir."

"That's a good practiced answer if I've ever heard one." Cy was startled and began to stand to defend himself. Lume raised his hand and started to laugh. "It's all right, son," he said. "You've got the basic idea."

Cy settled back down into the chair. He felt as if he has been scolded by his father.

"Do you want to stop the… tyranny of the arch-wizards?"

Cy just looked at the captain, wondering where all of this was leading. For a man who said he was going to get to the point, he sure had a round about way of getting there, Cy thought, and all of this questioning of his loyalty and teasing about his age was starting to make him angry.

"Well, Cy?" The captain raised his voice. "Do you believe in what we're fighting for?"

"Yes, sir, I do."

Cy gritted his teeth. He didn't think his performance the previous evening had been as spectacular as the captain seemed to believe, but as Lume himself had said, he was still alive. Surely he didn't deserve a reprimand for killing a skilled fighter in the middle of a raid. This meeting had started so well, and now it seemed as if the captain was accusing him of being a spy or something.

"Well, then, son," Lume said, his voice calm, "I need you to assassinate the archwizard Shadow."

The journey to the floating city had taken Cy two days on griffonback. The archwizard Shadow lived in Karsus, a city unlike any Cy had ever seen before. It floated, for one thing, but that was the least of the oddities this bustling town had in store.

The streets were lined with small gutters of running water. Brooms moved purposefully along on their own, sweeping dust and debris into the moving water as they went. Bridges lifted streets up over wider rivers, and passersby walked not only on top of the curved stone structures but on the underside as well. Wizards, carefully carrying parcels of food or armloads of books, passed each other and waved as they casually walked upside down. In a city park, four elderly, robed mages rotated freely through the air, their attention focused on a globe the size of a maidensthigh melon that floated between them. Each took turns moving intricately carved gems across the globe and laughing as the result of their moves changed the pitch, angle, or speed of rotation of one of the other wizards playing the game.

It seemed everyone in Karsus used magic, for everything they did defied what little Cy knew about the world and how it was supposed to work. Children played games on the sides of buildings instead' of on the ground or in a park. Water flowed uphill and in some places through thin air. The strange canals that lined the streets didn't start or end anywhere; they just simply continued to flush fresh, clean water through the entire city. People walked adolescent pet dragons through the busy city streets, waving and smiling as they went. Groups of wizards appeared-as if from nowhere-in mid-conversation, apparently unaware that their surroundings had changed. Bags and boxes floated through the air, suspended by nothing, but bound intently for some destination or another.

Cy tried not to gawk as he made his way through the city. Across one bridge and down several blocks, he found a tall, narrow building with dozens of doors stacked one on top of the other all the way up the building's entire facade. A carved wooden sign on street level read: "The Charlesgate Inn," and robed mages floated casually out of the doors on the higher levels, turning around, suspended in midair, to lock the doors behind them.

Cy entered the bottom floor of the inn and rented a room for a few days. He wanted to learn as much about his target as he could before he had to face the man.

Hopefully, Cy thought, Shadow will be so engrossed in his research that he won't see me coming.

It was the young assassin's only hope. In open combat, Cy may have been able to defeat that skilled fighter in Kath, but an archwizard was an entirely different story. If he didn't get a quick, clean, surprise kill, he'd be done for. As he settled into his room, he realized he'd get only one chance at this assassination. He intended to make the most of that chance.

Before Cy had left for Karsus, Lume had opened the raiding party's store of materials and weapons to allow Cy his pick of equipment. They had racks and racks of swords, armor, and bows, and even some things Cy had never seen used before. The job he had been tasked with would be difficult for sure, but extra gear wasn't going to make it any easier. In the end he simply took with him а small crossbow, some magical leather armor, and his own enchanted dagger. Better to travel light, he decided.

The ornately carved brick tower that Shadow lived in was easy enough for Cy to break into. In fact, there wasn't even a lock on the door. Not wanting to fall prey to overconfidence, the assassin moved through the entry hall very carefully, checking every few feet for traps or magical glyphs. It took him almost an hour to creep slowly down the hall and around the corner.

For all of his caution, there were no traps in the long hallway. At least I wasn't blown to bits, he thought. Hounding one corner, he entered a very large, grossly wealthy sitting room. The raider in Cy was in awe. Perhaps Lume should have sent him to simply rob the arch-wizard. The riches held in this one room could have paid for a hundred assassins ten times over. High-backed chairs sat around ornately carved wooden tables. Silver sconces with mage-lit stones in them were stationed around the windows, and jeweled candelabras rested on desks, tables, and windowsills. Leather-bound books sat in hundreds of neat rows, arrayed over several dozen large bookshelves lining the walls.

A door swung open on the opposite side of the room. Cy crouched and somersaulted behind one of the high-backed chairs. He pressed himself close to the furniture and held his breath. Heavy footsteps echoed across the hardwood floor. Cy clutched his dagger. So much for surprise.

The footsteps got closer then passed the chair. Cy felt a light breeze pass his cheek, and his vision filled with vivid, swirling colors of magenta, yellow, and silver. The young man blinked, trying to rid his head of the befuddling magic, and the colors passed-but they weren't magic. Cy's vision cleared, and he recognized the hem of a lady's skirts. A young blonde woman, wearing heavy, embroidered linens and carrying a silver tray had passed Су'8 hiding place. She walked swiftly past the chair and out into the hall. Her heavy footsteps receded.

Cy stood up, and the door swung open again. Ducking his head behind the furniture, he was certain he'd been seen this time. Once again, heavy footsteps traveled across the floor. Cy dodged behind the chair, rolling across the floor, around a table, to pop up behind whoever had entered the room. Bringing his dagger down in a broad arc, the young assassin stopped cold. The same blonde, brightly dressed woman who had just passed, only a moment before, was again standing in the middle of the room, only this time she was carrying a large silver jug. The woman's skirts rustled as she continued across the floor, unflinching and unfazed by Cy.

The door opened again. Cy spun around, his dagger out in front of him. The blonde woman was coming out into the sitting room for the third time, but now she had a large box in her hands. Her brilliant blue eyes stared straight ahead as she continued to move toward the young assassin. Two sets of heavy footsteps echoed on the hardwood, one in front and one behind. Shaking his head, certain that he was under magical assault, Cy leaped out of the woman's path, landing hard on a plush leather chair and letting it break his fall as he clattered to the floor.

Spinning around and backing into the corner, Cy scanned the room for any way to escape. Two blonde women-both wearing identical magenta, yellow, and silver linen skirts, one carrying a jug, one a box-continued across the hardwood floor. Neither seemed the least bit interested in Cy. They moved through the room and out into the hallway, intent on carrying their packages to their final destination. The young man watched them as he stood in the corner catching his breath.

The door opened again. Two more blonde, brightly dressed women-the same woman Cy had seen three times already-entered the sitting room and proceeded across the hardwood, their footsteps echoing heavily as they crossed. Cy made no attempt to hide this time, and the women ignored him completely. Picking up a book, the young assassin hurled it at one of the women. It struck with a thud and fell to the floor. Still, the women ignored him.

If they aren't illusions, thought Cy, then they must be constructs.

Convinced that he wasn't under a spell, he continued on his mission.

A set of stairs led down one side of the room. Cy crossed and headed down, avoiding the female golems as he went. The stairway was long, and the air grew cooler as he continued down. The old wooden steps were warped in places, so Cy was careful to transfer all of his weight onto each step slowly, so as to avoid creaking. At the bottom, another hallway continued on. A doorway near the end was partly open, and light spilled out into the hall from the opening. Another of the magenta-skirted women came out of the room and walked down the hall. Slipping past the unobservant construct, Cy looked through the opening. He could see a bed and a night stand in half of a nice, if messy, bed chamber. Someone was shuffling around with a drawer and some papers outside of his field of view. Cy pulled his dagger from his sheath, pressed himself up against the wall, and waited. Several moments passed. Sweat started to bead on C/s forehead. The shuffling inside the room continued.

A drawer slammed shut, and a figure came into view and sat on the bed. Square jaw, sandy-brown hair, green eyes, small wire-rimmed glasses, and a tell-tale scar on his left cheek-this was Shadow. Though younger-looking than Cy had expected, this man matched the descriptions Lume had given him. The archwizard's attention was focused on a large stack of papers he had in his hands, and he was making marks on them with a piece of charcoal.

Cy took a deep breath and held it. Raising his dagger up to his shoulder, he burst into the room, hurling the enchanted blade at Shadow as he did so. The wizard didn't even look up from his papers. He simply waved his hand, and the dagger stopped in midair. Worse, Cy stood frozen as well, unable to blink or even wipe the ever-increasing sweat from his forehead.

For quite some time, Shadow simply continued to read his papers, leafing through them casually as if he didn't have an assassin magically suspended in his bedroom. Eventually, he finished with his work, straightened the papers, and turned his attention to Cy.

"Aren't you a little young to be an assassin?" he asked. Cy didn't answer. This had been his first assassination, so he really didn't know how the industry worked. He supposed he'd never get the opportunity to find out now.

"No matter," reassured the archwizard. "Your age isn't important. What is, however, is the fact that you tried to kill me. So?" He looked Cy right in the eye. "What do you suppose we should do about that?"

Cy tried to spit at the man, to show his indignation and contempt for the wizards who mucked around with the powerful, otherworldly magic that he felt certain would be the doom of all the world, but he was stuck. He couldn't move his lips or even his tongue.

"Well?" asked the archwizard. "Aren't you going to answer me?"

The man chuckled, then he put his hands on his knees and stood up from the bed. He plucked the enchanted blade from where it was suspended in the air.

"Very nice, very шее indeed," he commented. "Don't have much use for these sorts of toys." He walked over to a chest of drawers and placed the dagger on top of it. "I have a few I keep around as souvenirs of the assassins who have most interested me, but I generally don't like to use them. All that blood and such." Shadow wrinkled his nose. "No, magic is much cleaner."

He picked up a wand with a clear stone attached to the end of it by a leather band.

"And," he added, walking back toward Cy, "far more entertaining and punitive. Just think, if I simply poked you with your blade a few times, sure it would hurt, but in short order you'd die, and the agony you'd feel would be over. With magic-" he brandished the wand-"I can trap you inside this crystal. There you will die slowly as your predecessors sap your strength and tear at your skin."

He smiled warmly at Cy who was still unable to move.

The best part, however, is that once you've died, your punishment hasn't ended. You will awaken as a shadow, and you'll live out the rest of eternity as an ethereal creature, unable to affect the solid world around you. Doesn't that sound far more horrifying?"

Су grunted, trying everything in his power to simply move his fingers.

"Yes, I'm sure you'd agree, imprisonment is far worse than simple death."

Shadow turned away from the doorway and started tidying up the room.

Though I don't want you to think my trapping you in this wand is at all an easy feat."

Cy continued to struggle, gaining a modicum of hope from the fact that he could now wiggle his toes and clench the muscles in his jaw.

"It's taken me years to be able to perfect this wand," continued the archwizard. "True, the imprisonment spells are simple enough, as you are now, I'm sure, painfully aware."

Shadow continued to fiddle in the room.

"No, it's the transformation from human flesh to the insubstantial that has proven tricky, though not impossible."

Cy could feel warmth spreading through his aims and chest, and he was able to shuffle his feet a little.

Shadow looked at the wand with reverent awe.

"This little device right here represents most of my life's work. You know," he said, speaking not really to Cy but rather to himself, "I've lived a long time, and it seems to me that as we've grown, things just keep getting smaller and smaller." He chuckled. "I guess that's what we call progress."

Cy almost had control of his body back. If Shadow continued to amuse himself for just a few more minutes, he might be able to make a break for it, and he'd much rather get killed fleeing than just standing there like a stupid jackass.

"Anyway, enough with the chit chat." The archmage turned his attention back to the young assassin and leveled the wand at him. "I suppose I should figure out who hired you to kill me before I dispose of you. I don't suppose you came of your own accord. You're too young for that."

The wall behind Shadow exploded outward into the room. What had appeared to be solid stone was actually a secret door made of wood, and the splinters of stone-colored door sprayed out at the two men. Two gigantic ogres stood at the top of a set of stairs in the space where the door used to be.

Cy was thrown to the floor next to the bed. Shadow, too distracted with the first assassin to protect himself from the two new ones, was also knocked face-first to the floor. The ogres didn't waste any time, and they rushed into the room to clobber the fallen archwizard. Ham-sized fists began to beat the mage. The two beasts worked together, pummeling the man simultaneously with opposing blows. Then one stopped pounding the wizard and unsheathed a large sword off its back. The blade slid out of the scabbard with an oily grind.

Cy had regained control of his body, and he got to his feet, pulling the larger splinters from his skin. The ogres were completely ignoring him, but they were pounding Shadow into a bloody pulp right in the middle of the doorway. He glanced over toward the passageway.

If the ogres got in that way, then there must be a way out, he thought.

He took a deep breath and steadied himself. In the — moment he took to compose his thoughts, his mind reeled. What if there were more ogres down there? What if they had used magic to get into the lower chamber? If he went down there, would he be trapped?

"Lift him up," shouted the ogre with the sword.

The other grunted and stopped beating the archwizard long enough to bend down and grab the man by the robes.

Cy turned back toward the doorway, deciding to take his chances with the ogres he knew of rather than whatever could be dwelling down the stairs. While they prepared to behead Shadow, the young assassin charged the door, hoping to slip behind the busy brutes and the doomed archwizard on his way to freedom.

He took two large steps and dropped into a crouch, trying to ram right through. The ogre holding Shadow took a half step back at that precise moment, crashing into the charging human as he barreled across the room. The two assassins got tangled in each other's limbs, and they both hit the floor with a crash-Cy tumbling head over feet into the hallway, and the ogre against the doorframe. Shadow came to his feet, being pulled from the floor by the ogre and gaining momentum from the great brute's fall.

Wand still in his hand, he shouted, "Shadominiaropalazitsi" and leveled the crystal end at the standing ogre.

A dark gray stream fired out of the wand in a direct line at the ogre assassin. As it approached the ogre's upright form, the stream spread out and began to curve and split. It formed a whirlwind of darkness around the beast, and the gray areas started to separate and take on individual, humanlike shapes. The shadows had narrow, elongated heads, and spindly, malformed limbs, and they flew in ever-quickening circles around the ogre. For his part, the assassin stood, his sword poised over his head, and gawked in awe and horror.

The shadows attacked, diving toward the armed figure and tearing at him with claws that seemed to form out of thin air. Cy could hear the beast howl as if he were in great pain, but no blood issued forth. Instead, the ogre dropped his sword and slowly sank to the floor, landing on the ground with a thud like a sack of horse manure.

Cy gained his feet and turned up the steps. He'd seen enough. As fast as he'd ever felt himself move, he was up the stairs, dodging brightly dressed constructs as he fled out the front door. Never did he turn around and it wasn't until he was on his griffin on the way back to report to Lume that he realized he no longer had his enchanted dagger.

Arriving in camp by sunup the second day, Cy entered Lume's tent at a run.

"Sir, I have terrible, urgent news."

Lume was sitting at his desk eating his morning meal, and the young man's frantic entrance startled the captain, causing him to cough up a mouthful of food.

"In the name of all the gods, what do you think you're doing," he screamed. Then, abruptly, his tone changed. "Oh, Cy!" Lume stood up. "What is it, lad? Did you kill the archwizard?"

"No, sir, I did not."

Lume slammed his hand on the desk. "Then what are you doing here?"

Cy proceeded to intone to Lume all the details of his assassination attempt. He left out nothing, and the captain listened intently to the entire story. Then it was Lume's turn to talk.

"Are you certain they were shadows that came out of the wand?" he asked.

"Yes, sir, I'm absolutely positive."

"Gods. A wand with that kind of power could…"

Turning around and placing his hands to the sides of his head, he paced out from behind the desk and moved around the tent. After a few moments, he came out of his reverie. He looked at Cy and shook his head.

"But you failed. I should have known that chain-wielder wasn't an adequate challenge to determine if you could kill an archwizard.''

"Sir?"

Lume whirled, blurting out his words. "The chain-wielder, son! I sent him to test you. How else do you think a man of that skill ended up in such a backwater village as Rath?"

"You sent the blond man after me, sir? But, I… I don't understand."

"Are you stupid, boy? I planted the man in Kath and paid him to attack you," replied Lume.

"But… but why? That man almost killed me."

"To see if you were up to this assassination," he explained, "but obviously it was a poor test."

Cy stood with his arms limp and his mouth open wide.

Lume paced back and forth for a while longer, then he caught sight of Cy. "Child, stop your bemoaning. You lived. All that matters now is that we go back to kill Shadow and get that wand." Lume walked over to the young man and put his hand on his shoulder. "Despite the fact that you failed, you've provided us-provided our great leader Olostin himself-with a real opportunity to reclaim our world from the haughty archwizards."

Cy just stared, fuming at Lume.

"Son, if we get that wand," explained the captain, "we could use it against Shadow and all of his kind. We've been trying to kill that man for years, and now we might finally have an opportunity to use his own research against him. Wouldn't that be beautiful?" He smiled and slapped Cy on the shoulder. "You know something, Cy, I've sent a countless number of assassins after Shadow over the years, and you're the first to come back alive. You should take pride in that. You're one in perhaps a thousand, and now you'll get another chance to complete your mission."

Cy pulled away from the captain. "You do what you want, but I'll have no part of it."

Lume narrowed his gaze. "You'll do what I tell you, or you'll be dead." He stepped toward Cy and lowered his hand to his saber.

Cy stood his ground. "You sent me to die once already. I'm not going back."

The captain brought his sword up in a quick arc, hitting Cy squarely under the jaw with the pommel as the blade scraped out of its scabbard.

The young assassin fell back, and he held his hand to his face, trying to stop the flow of blood as he stared up at his captain from the floor. Two armed guards came through the tent flap, their swords drawn.

"Take him back to his tent," Lume instructed the men, "and make sure he doesn't go anywhere." He turned back to the young man on the floor. "He'll be needed shortly- to finish his failed duties."

Two days later, Lume sent a group of guards to escort Cy to the party's armory. The captain was there briefing a small group of men on the coming assassination.

"I will personally accompany you men to make sure that this time we succeed where Cy failed," intoned Lume. He smiled at Cy as the guards untied the younger man's bonds. "Cy will go along, under my personal supervision, to provide the necessary details about Shadow's home and habits." He looked out at the crowd of assembled assassins. "If this man-" he pointed to Cy-"attempts to escape or in any other way avoid his duty to this group, he is to be executed. Do I make myself clear?"

Every head in the group nodded assent.

Each of the assassins was given special boots that masked the sound of their footsteps and special cloaks that made them more difficult to see, and each was issued an amulet that made them less susceptible to the effects of Shadow's magic.

"These won't protect you from the shadows," explained Lume, "but they will make you less of a target for the archwizard."

Cy gritted his teeth. This whole mission might not be necessary had he had one of those amulets on the first attempt.

Then Lume gave each of the men a light crossbow with a single bolt, and a small dagger, and they left for Karsus. The plan was for Cy to lead the other assassins into Shadow's bedchamber where they would overwhelm him with sheer numbers.

"The archwizard won't try to use anything too deadly inside the small confines of that room," strategized the captain. "He'll more likely try to subdue us as he did Cy, or enspell the whole group to make us think he is our ally and deal with us individually at his leisure. We're not going to let that happen. As soon as we get in sight, we unload with the crossbows. The bolts I gave you are magically enhanced to ensure a perfect strike. You only have one, because if you fail, there won't be an opportunity for another shot. Keep him distracted, so he can't use his magic, and we should all live through this." Lume looked at each of the assassins in turn. "Once Shadow is dead, we find his wand, and we get out of there and celebrate."

The other raiders let out a loud whoop at their captain's confidence. Cy kept his mouth shut. It wasn't going to be that easy, and he knew most of these men, himself included, weren't coming back. He just hoped that one of those who wasn't going back to camp would be Captain Lume.

At the entry to Shadow's opulent home, Lume jabbed the end of his saber into Cy’s ribs. "Now, be a good lad and show us in."

Cy led the silent, nearly invisible band of assassins down the long hallway into the decadent siting room. In complete silence, the entire troop weaved through the blonde constructs and marched down toward the bedchamber.

Just as before, the door at the end of the hall was ajar and a light was on inside the room. Cy beckoned the other assassins ahead of him and pressed himself against the wall. The raiders complied and moved around him, taking up positions on either side of the door. Lume came up behind Cy, and he nodded to the waiting troops. One of them held his hand out and silently counted to three with his fingers, then he charged through the door, the others following him in.

From where he was standing, Cy could only see the men leave the hall. With the boots they were wearing, he couldn't even hear them move. He and Captain Lume waited for the sounds of a scuffle or of magic being cast, but they never came. After several moments of silence, one of the men came back into the hall and waved the two men in. Lume pushed Cy by the shoulder, and he moved around the door in front of his captain.

The bedchamber was still in a shambles, but the wall was once more intact where the ogres had burst into the room. The other assassins stood around, casting nervous glances back and forth as if something invisible might sneak up on them. Cy moved over toward the wall, stopping briefly at the chest of drawers where his enchanted dagger was still resting.

I'd rather die with this in my hand, he thought. He picked up the blade.

When he reached the section of wall where the secret door had been, he placed his hand where he thought the doorframe might begin. His ringers slipped through the wall. The archwizard hadn't fixed the broken section, he had simply cast a spell over the opening. It would be a simple matter of stepping through the illusion to get to the stairs beyond.

Cy straightened up and headed out into the hall, motioning to Lume as he did.

The captain glared at Cy and asked, "What's going on?"

"Shadow has a laboratory in the basement behind that wall. He's cast an illusion over the opening to make us think the wall is solid, but if I were him, I'd have other defenses in place as well. I think we're better off hiding out here and waiting for him to come out."

Lume nodded and pushed Cy back through the door. The captain arranged the assassins in strategic positions around the room, then he went back into the hallway, dragging Cy with him, waiting from relative safety.

Hours passed. The assassins waited. Finally, the wall wobbled as the illusion allowed someone to pass through. Shadow was looking down at a contraption in his hands and not at all paying attention to his surroundings. The wand was stuck in the belt of his robe, and he didn't appear to have any of the bruises or scars that a man who had been brutally beaten by two ogres should have.

Two steps into the bedroom, the archwizard realized that something was wrong, and he began to cast a spell. The assassins unloaded their crossbows, and the man screamed, dropping the gadget in his hands and stumbling toward the bed, his spell lost on his lips.

Cy watched as the wizard fell to his knees, and Lume let out an excited yelp and bolted into the room, his dagger in hand. Shadow was holding his hands against his chest and looking at the ground. He was bleeding quite heavily.

"Well, well, well," intoned Lume. He was standing a few feet away from the archwizard with a large smile on his face. "If it isn't the mighty archwizard Shadow. Do you have any idea how long I've been trying to kill you?"

The man looked up from his position on the floor, and he finished mouthing the lasts words of another spell. He glared up at the captain as the magical bolts jutting from his body shot back out, sailing across the room and striking the assassins who had shot them. Every one of them fell to the floor, dead with a bolt buried in his forehead. Shadow continued to bleed, and he put his hand out to steady himself. His skin turned quite pale.

"No. Frankly," said the wizard, "you have a lot of competition when it comes to assassinating me."

Lume didn't waste any time. He crossed to the wizard and pushed him to the floor, taking the wand from his belt with one hand and placing the edge of his dagger to Shadow's throat with the other.

"Well allow me to introduce myself. My name is Lume, and I work for Olostin."

"Yes." Shadow coughed hard. "Yes, I recognize the name. Pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"Believe me, the pleasure is all mine." He turned to Cy. "Is this the wand you spoke of," he asked, holding up the crystal-tipped rod.

"It appears to be, yes."

The captain took a step back and turned again to the archwizard.

No longer under the watchful eyes of a band of assassins, Cy lunged at Lume with his dagger. "Die, you pig!"

The captain sidestepped the blow, but he stumble-stepped to one side.

Cy swung again at the older man's back. The enchanted blade sliced through Lume's leather armor, opening a long, bloody gash in the captain's side.

"You stupid fool," Lume hissed.

Pulling his saber in a flash, the captain made two Quick slashing attacks.

Cy parried the first blow, but the second landed just below his wrist, knocking his dagger from his hand.

Lume swung again, and Cy struggled backward, avoiding the blade but falling back over the bed. Cy landed on the floor against Shadow, cradling his wrist where Lume had cut him.

The captain leveled the wand at the two men on the floor.

The archwizard struggled to breathe, but he laughed anyway. "You can't use that. You don't know the command word."

"You're wrong, wizard, and now I'm going to destroy you with your own toy." Lume smiled down at Shadow. "Ironic that you could spend so much of your life perfecting a tool such as this-" he shook the wand-"only to be killed by it in the end."

"You don't know what sort of forces you are messing with." He coughed, blood trickling down the corner of his mouth.

"Neither did you." Lume straightened his arm and spoke the word Cy had repeated for him back at camp. "Shadominiaropalazitsi."

Once again a column of rushing dark gray plasma flowed out of the wand. It headed straight for the prone archwizard, coalescing into humanlike forms along the way. As it jetted forward, the stream of shadows split into a curling mass. Shadow raised his hand instinctively to protect his face, but this time, the shadows broke into individual swirls, and twisted, wavering forms spread out all over the room. They filled every corner and place of darkness.

Now spread out, the shadows began to collect again, forming a cyclone around Captain Lume.

Lume screamed, "What's happening? What's going on?"

"Don't you see, you fool?" explained the archwizard. "Don't you recognize any of those shadows?"

"No, no, I don't." He swung his dagger in wide, swooping arcs. "Stay away from me," he screamed. "Stay away, you hear."

Shadow lifted himself off the floor. "Is that any way to treat your previous assassins?" asked the archwizard. Lume’s face dropped, and his swinging momentarily slowed.

"That's right." Shadow smiled. "I punished your assassins by turning them into shadows and trapping them in that wand, and you just released them to seek vengeance on you for earning them an eternity of suffering."

The shadows wasted no time, diving in to touch the stunned captain while he listened to the archwizard.

Lume's knees went weak, and he began his frantic swinging again. "But you were the one who sent them to their deaths," he screamed.

"They don't blame me for defending myself from assassination. They blame you for sending them to kill an archwizard. You should learn to not mess with forces beyond your control."

Lume was getting tired, and his defense was weakening. His wild arcs with his dagger were slowing, and the shadows were touching him repeatedly. He dropped to the ground, lifting his head to speak again to Shadow. "Those are fine words, coming from the likes of you." Lume collapsed, his head hitting the wooden planks of the floor with a decided thud.

The shadows spun around in a pack over the limp body on the floor. A dark shape formed around the captain's corpse, then it coalesced into a humanlike shadow and lifted into the air, joining the swirling mass above. As a group, they dived toward the wand still gripped in Lume's dead hand. The dark gray stream narrowed as it approached the crystal, and as quickly as they had come forth, the shadows disappeared.

The archwizard reached into the sleeve of his robes and pulled forth a large purple bottle. Uncorking the vial, he swiftly drank down the contents. A strange white glow surrounded his skin, and the bleeding stopped. He appeared much better, though not quite whole and hardy.

He looked at Cy, who was still on the floor cradling his bleeding wrist, and said, "As I said before, you are entirely too young to be an assassin. I suggest you find another line of work." With that, he turned around and went back through the illusionary wall.

Cy looked down at the dead body of Captain Lume and nodded, then he turned around and headed back up the stairs, dodging a pretty blonde golem on his way out.

Too Long In The Dark

Paul S. Kemp

Netheril Year 3520

(The Year of the Sundered Webs, — 339 DR)

Zossimus watched with appreciation as a vight hawk broke off its predatory circling and dived silently earthward through the perpetually twilit sky of Shade. A squirrel scampering across the lush lawn of the villa's interior courtyard sensed its danger a heartbeat too late. The unfortunate rodent gave an agonized squeak as the raptor's claws impaled its small body. Death was quick but no doubt painful.

Zossimus, seated on his favorite bench beside the courtyard's reflecting pool, nodded appreciatively as the hawk began to feed.

"Well done, little hunter."

Death to prey-and to enemies-should always come unexpectedly to the victim. Zossimus had learned that lesson well over the years. So too had the other leading arcanists of Shade. Indeed, the city's rivalry with its floating Netherese sister-cities had led Shade's arcanists to seek ever more obscure sources of magical power and ever more unexpected magical weapons. Recently, after long study of the writings of the arch-arcanist Shadow, they had learned of and begun to tap a new source of magic, a source that derived its power not from the Weave, but from a heretofore unknown source of power that the arcanists had named the Shadow Weave. None of Shade's arcanists yet knew the full potential of this alternate energy source. They knew only that it drew on the often unpredictable energies of Plane of Shadow.

To better tap those energies, and to further their research into the Shadow Weave, Shade's Twelve Princes had caused the city to straddle the border between Faerun and the Plane of Shadow, between light and twilight. Now cloaked always in muted grays, the city had not seen the unadulterated light of Faerun's sun in years. It bothered Zossimus little to live always in the dark; he deemed it a small price to pay in exchange for the city's magical preeminence. Jennah, of course, thought otherwise.

His love hated the city's darkness and would have left long ago but for Zossimus. At every opportunity, she begged him to transport them magically from the city to the sun-drenched plains below, where she ran through the waving grass and fragrant purplesnaps, laughing. He smiled at the thought of her long hair shining in the sun Without warning, the familiar presence of the Weave was obliterated. The vight hawk gave a shriek, alit, and left its bloody meal unfinished in the grass.

A void opened in Zossimus's being. Though a distant part of him sensed still the presence of the Shadow Weave, the absence of the Weave-his original mistress-tore a hole in half of his being. Spells prepared that morning went absent from his mind, erased clean. He opened his mouth to scream but managed only a strangled gasp. A roar filled his ears. His temples throbbed as if a red-hot coal burned in his brain. He fell to his knees, gripped his head in his hands and tried to jerk it from his shoulders, to stop the pain with death, to fill the emptiness with oblivion.

The minor cantras that preserved the flora in his courtyard began to fail with audible pops. The ornate gargoyle fountain ceased its magically-driven perpetual flow. The ruby and emerald dragonfly constructs he had so painstakingly crafted as a gift for Jennah fell inert to the lawn. The artificial illumination from glass lightglobes fell dark. In a flash of insight, he realized that all magic in Faerun dependent on the Weave-which meant all magic other than the experimental shadow magic practiced in Shade-was failing.

How? he wanted to shout, but he could manage nothing but a low moan.

Beneath his feet, the floating mountaintop upon which Shade had been built began to fall earthward. Zossimus's stomach lurched. His afternoon meal raced up his throat, but he swallowed it down, tasting bile. Birds of every color exploded from the trees and ferns of his courtyard and took wing, avian rats abandoning the sinking ship of Shade. Screams and shouts erupted from around the city, audible even in Zossimus's secluded inner courtyard. It sounded as though the whole city were screaming as one. Shade was falling…

Zossimus, paralyzed with pain and terror, waited for the impact that would kill them all.

After a few terrifying heartbeats, the city's descent slowed, slowed more, then stopped all together. It took another heartbeat for Zossimus, still disconcerted, to deduce what had happened.

Shadow magic. The disappearance of the Weave had not affected the Shadow Weave. The Twelve Princes must have been drawing on it to save Shade, to keep it from crashing to earth. Even as that thought hit him, Zossimus could see in his mind's eye the other floating cities of Netheril plunging earthward as the magic that held them aloft failed. Their apocalypse would happen in the bright light of the sun, while Shade's salvation would occur in eternal twilight, because of the eternal twilight. Netheril's other floating cities, once testimony to the awesome power of Netherese arcanists, would be nothing more than grandiose tombs for tens of thousands.

The city began again to descend, slower this time. Zossimus's sense of satisfaction vanished. The Shadow Weave must have been inadequate by itself to keep the city aloft. Zossimus guessed that in the Palace of the Most High, the Twelve Princes were even now struggling to tap enough shadow magic to keep Shade airborne. They were failing.

Zossimus bit back his frustration. He would have joined them if he could, would have shaken the cobwebs from his head, endured the loss of the Weave, and added his considerable magical skill to theirs, but his teleportation spell had been lost when the Weave had been destroyed. It would take half an hour to traverse the city by foot. By the time he reached them, the issue would already be decided.

The city continued to descend, picking up speed incrementally. Another thousand feet maybe, and all would be over. When it hit the earth, it would kill every citizen, if not the impact, then the aftermath. The partial mountaintop upon which Shade floated had an irregular base, so it would not settle peacefully to earth even if it were somehow slowed to walking speed. It would topple over on its side, and everyone would be crushed under an incalculably massive avalanche of buildings and walls.

Zossimus wanted Jennah, desperately. If he were to die, he would die with his love.

"Jennah-"

A sudden shout-a roar of ecstatic triumph as loud as ten of Kozah's cyclones-carried from the south to drown out his voice. The force of the shout hit Shade like a maul and sent it lurching sideways, a bit of flotsam in the ocean of the sky. Zossimus fell facedown in the grass and cursed through his fear. He knew that voice-Karsus.

"Mystryl! I'll have your power!" boomed Karsus, his voice reverberating through the heavens.

Shade steadied itself, though it continued to descend. Zossimus rose to all fours.

"Karsus, you arrogant ass," he cursed.

Surely this was the end of the world, and Karsus had somehow brought it about.

Again the sound of Karsus's voice thundered through the sky, but this time Zossimus heard only sobs. Bottomless despair.

The crying fell silent, cut off as sharp as a razor. The world seemed to hold its breath, silently waiting. Nothing more.

Shade continued to slip earthward.

Zossimus wanted to hold Jennah in his arms. He had maybe a hundred heartbeats. He leaped to his feet and raced for the villa.

A small winged figure alit from an upper window, frantically flapping-Pleeancis. Zossimus's familiar streaked for him as though shot from a bow, a blur of green scales and membranous wings.

Unable to stop in time, the terrified little quasit crashed into Zossimus's stomach and got tangled in his voluminous violet robes. Man and demon went down in a heap.

Pleeancis's high-pitched voice squeaked oath after oath. "Oh, curse this purple hell! I'll shred you thread-by-thread, wretched robe. Dare you to offend Pleeancis the Mighty-уеер!"

Zossimus grabbed the tiny demon by his left haunch and yanked him free of the robes. "Enough!"

The quasit fluttered in his hand. His red eyes shot the robes one last evil glare before giving Zossimus his most winning, fanged smile.

"All right, Boss. Just having a moment there. Easy on the leg, eh?"

Zossimus released Pleeancis and climbed to his feet. The quasit hovered before his face, a scaly, fanged hummingbird demanding attention.

"Boss-"

"Not now, Pleeancis."

He waved the quasit away and hurried for the villa. The city was still sinking. He could feel it in the pit of his stomach. If only he and Jennah had Pleeancis's wings.

Unperturbed, Pleeancis buzzed along beside him while he ran, the demon's fanged mouth moving as quickly as his wings.

"What's happened, Boss? Huh? I can't even teleport. There's something wrong with the ring. Watch this!"

In mid-air, wings still beating, Pleeancis squatted and made as though to… do something. He squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his tiny fists with the effort.

"Unh. Unh."

Zossimus would have laughed but for the end of the world. Magic had ceased to function, and Pleeancis was concerned only that his favorite toy was not working.

"See, Boss? Nothing. Nothing at all. Couldn't teleport if I wanted to. I-ack!"

Zossimus stopped, grabbed his familiar out of air, and looked at him with narrowed eyes. "Where's Jennah?"

"What? Who cares? I'm here, and my ring doesn't work!"

Zossimus knew the quasit didn't like Jennah, or at least didn't like that Zossimus cared for her, but he had no time for Pleeancis's foolishness. "Where?"

The quasit must have seen his anger. His wings sagged. He ran a forked tongue over his fangs and said, "She was in the sitting room."

Zossimus released the quasit and sprinted for the villa. Pleeancis flitted about his head.

"But, Boss, you don't need her. Didn't you hear me? I can't teleport. There's something wrong with my ring." "I said not now, Pleeancis!" "But, Boss-"

As he ran, Zossimus lashed out and smacked the tiny demon across the midsection. Pleeancis, off kilter, let fly with a stream of high-pitched epithets, spiraled out of control, and finally crashed to the lawn.

Zossimus ran on. From behind, he heard Pleeancis squeak indignantly. "From now on, it's Pleeancis the Mighty to you, Boss!"

Despite himself, Zossimus cracked a grin. Not even this Karsus-made catastrophe could quiet his familiar. They should all be so blissfully ignorant.

Before he reached the villa, Jennah burst from the doors. Her long red hair flew wildly behind her; her skin had gone white. Zossimus had never seen such a lost look in her green eyes. She too was a mage. She too had sensed the destruction of the Weave, but unlike Zossimus, Jennah had steadfastly refused to tap the Shadow Weave. She had no shadow magic in which to find at least some succor. "Zoss! The Weave!"

He raced to her and took her in his arms. "I know." She pushed him to arms length, looked him in the face, and said, "And the city…?"

He shook his head in the negative. She blinked while that registered.

"Are we doomed then? What's happened?" Zossimus didn't want to answer her first question and couldn't answer the second. Clearly, Karsus had done something…

Pleeancis flitted over and squirmed between them. "What in the name of Asmodeus's arse is going on around here?" He glared at Jennah. "Why're you so upset? I'm the one who can't teleport." He shoved his ring finger before her face.

Zossimus did not have the energy to engage in further nonsense with his familiar. He gently plucked him from the air and placed him on his favorite perch-Zossimus's right shoulder. Jennah seemed hardly to see the quasit. Her gaze was far away.

"What now, Zoss? What now? I want to see the flowers again. Like we used to." She looked at him with her gentle eyes.

Remembering their many days spent among the purplesnaps on the plains below-the plains where they would die today-his eyes began to well. He took her in his arms.

"We'll see them again, dearest. We will. I promise."

She sobbed into his shoulder; he fought to keep down his own tears. Shade fell further.

"Oh, for crying out-Your hair is in my eyes, human woman," Pleeancis hissed.

Jennah ignored him or did not hear him. Zossimus shooed the little demon away.

"Be gone, Pleeancis, we've no time for you now."

Pleeancis fluttered away, leaving a stream of curses in his wake. "All right, Boss, now it's really Pleeancis the Mighty to you! I was jesting before, but now…"

Zossimus made no reply, merely held his love as she sobbed.

He knew they had only moments. He wanted to tell Jennah how much he loved her, whisper to her how her presence had made his life in the twilight bearable, but he could not give voice to his feelings, not even now. Instead, he stroked her long hair, held her tight, and said nothing. Pleeancis, as usual, spoiled the moment.

"Boss, I think we're falling."

The quasit spoke with such surprise in his tone that Jennah's sobs turned to laughter. Zossimus too began to laugh. What else could they do?

"It's not funny," Pleeancis said. "Did you hear what I said?"

"We heard, little one," said Zossimus.

Jennah leaned back from Zossimus and looked him in the eyes. Her tear-streaked but smiling face looked luminous. He found his voice and spoke before she did.

"I love you, dearest. More than anything."

Jennah opened her mouth to reply, but before she could, a strange silence descended, as though they had filled their ears with wax. The twilight turned darker. The air grew charged.

"What's that?" she asked, her voice dull and seemingly far away.

She disengaged herself from him and looked westward. Curious, he too looked to the western sky.

Above the city, the sky roiled. There, the twilight of Shade gave way to a deeper darkness. Whorls of black and ochre rippled across the sky and expanded toward them. A multitude of miniature cyclones took shape and ran before the ever-expanding curtain of darkness, an honor guard of destructive force. Some of them were large enough to damage buildings. Pieces of roofs flew skyward and swirled in the turbulent air.

Zossimus knew at once what was occurring. He whispered it aloud, awestruck. They're taking the city fully into the Plane of Shadow."

The cyclones were planar vortices, present anywhere that two planes violently collided.

At the same moment, he realized that Shade was no longer sinking. Moving the city farther into the Plane of Shadow must have strengthened the Twelve Princes' Shadow Magic. The city had stabilized, at least for a time.

Gleeful, he turned to Jennah to sweep her into an embrace.

The look of horror on her face stopped him cold.

"I won't go," she said, and took a step back from him. "I can't live like that-like this."

She gazed skyward, and made a gesture that took in all of Shade.

The curtain of darkness-colorlessness-drew nearer. A peculiar sonic effect preceded it: not silence, but a dulling of sound. Even the destruction wrought by the planar cyclones sounded muted.

"There's nothing else to be done, Jennah. Dearest."

He moved toward her, one hand outstretched. When she recoiled, he struggled to keep the pain from his face and voice.

"Well die otherwise. The shadow magic won't keep the city afloat. Jennah-"

Something within her seemed to break. Her eyes grew pained, and when she spoke, her voice was thick with the attempt to control her tears.

"I don't care, Zoss. Don't you understand? I can't live like this anymore. I'd rather die. I stayed for you. Only for you. We've lived in the dark too long. I-"

He felt it at the same moment she did. Pleeancis must have too. From high in the air, the quasit let forth a squeal of joy.

"I can teleport, Boss! I can teleport!"

As though to make his point, the little demon began repeatedly to do just that-disappearing from one location only to instantaneously reappear in a different location a stone's throw away. His high-pitched, delighted laughter filled the sky from ten different directions.

The Weave had returned!

Zossimus's soul refilled. The flow of magic that had ebbed moments before, now re-entered his being like a riptide. He smiled fiercely.

Jennah laughed for joy. She spoke an arcane phrase and alit from the earth to frolic in the air. "We're saved, Zoss! Oh, thank Tyche!" She spiraled about in the air, as gleeful as a child at play.

Pleeancis teleported onto Zossimus's shoulder. "I'm back, Boss," he said with a fanged smile, "and better than ever."

Zossimus reached over to scratch the little demon's scaled head. "Indeed, little one. Me too."

Beneath his feet, Shade lurched. The sky grew nearly pitch. Pleeancis yelped and teleported under Zossimus's robes. Zossimus looked skyward. The black, colorless curtain of the Shadow Plane continued to rush toward them. Despite the return of the Weave, the Twelve Princes were still taking Shade to the Plane of Shadow. Perhaps the unexpected return of the Weave had caused the spell causing the move to go awry. The latter seemed more probable to Zossimus, because in only a heartbeat the seething darkness that represented the border between the planes had picked up speed and the planar cyclones had grown larger. Whole buildings flew skyward under the force of the roaring winds.

"Jennah! Pleeancis! Get into the villa, down to the wine cellar, both of you. Now!"

Pleeancis poked his head out of the robes, looked at the seething sky, and teleported out of sight without a word. Jennah still flew high above Zossimus.

"Look, Jennah! Look!" Zossimus pointed to the onrushing planar border. "Come down! It's our only chance!"

"I can't, Zoss," she shouted above the rising wind.

She looked at the onrushing darkness and her face went pale. A gust of wind caught her and sent her spinning toward it. Zossimus's throat grew tight. He mouthed the words to a spell that would grant him flight.

Jennah recovered quickly, however, and steadied herself.

"I love you, Zoss, and I always will, but I can't here anymore."

Zoss, unwilling to let her go so easily, took flight toward her. "Wait, Jennah. Please, dearest. Don't leave!"

She backed away from him, as though afraid to let him come too close. Another gust caught her, stronger this time, and sent her careening helplessly through the air.

"Jennah!"

Zoss streaked after her as fast as the spell allowed as she cartwheeled helplessly toward the onrushing darkness. She screamed in terror, a sound audible even above the roar of planar collision.

Before she reached the darkness, a planar cyclone, filled with whirling stone debris from destroyed buildings, caught her up. She vanished into the cylinder of roaring wind. Zossimus screamed her name in vain, circled about the cyclone as near as he dared, trying himself to stay airborne in the whipping winds. The darkness engulfed him, but he did not care. His senses went dull. Sound became less clear, sight less crisp. They had entered the Plane of Shadow. The world was muted, but his pain at losing Jennah was as acute as ever.

With the transition to the Plane of Shadow complete, the planar cyclones dissipated as quickly as they had materialized. Stone and wood crashed to the ground. So too did Jennah. Zossimus flew to her side.

He started to speak her name but couldn't bring himself to utter a sound. Her body, twisted by the terrible force of the cyclone, battered by the swirling debris, lay on the ground like a broken thing. He cradled her in his arms and cried.

Pleeancis teleported beside him. "Belial's balls, Boss! What happ-" He stopped and cocked his head. "Hey, where are we? What happened to her?"

He stuck out a foot to nudge Jennah. Zossimus did not have the energy to rebuke him.

"She looks done for, Boss." Pleeancis smiled broadly, his fangs glistening. "I guess that means it's just you and me now, huh?"

The familiar's satisfied smile pushed Zossimus over the edge. His grief gave way to rage. He clutched for Pleeancis, meaning to strangle the little bastard where he stood.

The quasit backed off, eyes wide. "What'd I say?"

Zossimus's rage left him as quickly as it had flared up. "Leave us, Pleeancis. Now."

The little demon must have heard the steel in his voice, for he backed off still farther, then teleported away.

He teleported back an instant later. "It's Pleeancis the Mighty," he said, and teleported away again before Zossimus could kill him where he stood.

Lying atop the tall ebony bookcase, Pleeancis woke with a yawn, stretched his wings, and glanced around the Boss's bedchamber to see… the usual. Still drab, still utilitarian. There was a disheveled bed with faded blue sheets and worn pillows, a dark dressing table with a tarnished silver mirror, a sturdy but unremarkable work desk, several old oil lamps, the feeble glow from which barely lifted the colorless gloom of the plane, but no Boss. Pleeancis blew out a sigh.

"Not again."

He knew where he would find the Boss. The same place he always found the Boss when the Boss wasn't eating or sleeping. With her. Pleeancis rolled his eyes and flicked his tongue angrily. That human woman was more bothersome dead than alive.

He leaped off the bookcase, beating his wings once to ensure a soft landing, and alit on the carpeted floor. He glanced around furtively to ensure that the Boss was not around. Satisfied that he was alone, Pleeancis rolled around on the carpet. The feel of the luxuriant fibers against his scales made him hiss happily. The Boss would not allow him such pleasures were he present.

Succubus teats! thought Pleeancis. The Boss didn't even allow himself any pleasures since she'd died-and that had been years ago!

"Succubus teats," he said to himself, still rolling on the carpet. "That's pretty good."

He hissed with laughter. He prided himself on his creative oaths, an invaluable skill in a familiar that the Boss didn't appreciate. Of course, the Boss didn't appreciate much of anything.

Pleeancis climbed to his feet. He would find the Boss in the workroom, pining over the dead human woman. Pleeancis refused to refer to her by name, even in the privacy of his own mind. She was gone, and Pleeancis was glad of it. She had always gotten in the way of he and the Boss anyway. But the Boss would not let her go. Instead, he had dedicated his life to bringing her back.

Pleeancis considered using his magical ring to teleport to the shop, just to startle the Boss, but decided against it. Since her death, the Boss was easily angered. Best just to walk.

Trooping through the once grand villa, Pleeancis wished-just for a moment-that he was no longer bound to the Boss. The villa had fallen virtually into ruin since the move to this plane, and the Boss did not seem to care. Once it had been meticulously kept, with imported rugs and furniture, and all the finest food and drink for Pleeancis to partake of whenever he wished. Now the divans and chairs were old and ill kept, the rugs frayed, and the cupboards bare. If not for the invisible servant valets, the place would no doubt be knee deep in dust. To Pleeancis, who loved the finer things, the villa was empty of everything important. It looked worn, dull, like the plane itself, like the Boss's spirit since her death.

Heavy with self-pity, Pleeancis dragged his clawed feet along the floor as he walked. He made his way through the maze of bare hallways and down the spiral staircase, until he reached the ornate, slightly ajar double doors of the Boss's workroom. His ears perked up. Within, he could hear the Boss mumbling to himself. Pleeancis could imagine well enough what the Boss was doing-the same thing he had been doing for the past two years: poring over esoteric tomes, Grafting this or that obscure magic item, scribing one or another theretofore unknown spell, all in an effort to bring her back. That was all the Boss cared about anymore. Pleeancis didn't get it. Who needed her? They had each other.

Of course, the Boss didn't feel that way. He had put her body in stasis immediately after her death and had tried all the ordinary spells-even called in priests-to bring her back from the dead. Much to Pleeancis's delight, something had interfered, and the spells had failed. The Boss thought the difficulty had to do with the fact that she had died while the city had been in the midst of a planar crossover. Interaction of magic and planar mechanics or something like that.

Pleeancis picked absently at an itch behind his ear while he worked up the patience he would need. The Boss just wasn't the Boss anymore, he thought wistfully.

A shout from within the library nearly scared him out of his scales.

"Boss!" Pleeancis flapped his wings, leaped into the air, pushed through the door and found — the Boss, seated at his worktable, barely visible behind a pile of stacked tomes, bubbling beakers, and glowing braziers, laughing. Laughing!

Unsure of what to make of this unexpected mirth, but pleased to see the Boss more like his old self, Pleeancis flitted over to the desk and landed on a stack of tomes.

They smelled like dry leaves. The Boss shot him a grin, Ids tired gray eyes more alive than they'd been since she had died.

"I found it, Pleeancis. I've finally found a way." He nodded at the single gray wax taper, still cooling in its iron mold, which sat on the table before him.

Before Pleeancis could answer, the Boss rose from his chair, took Pleeancis by his tiny, clawed hands, and danced a little jig. Pleeancis could not help but flash his own fangs in happiness. The Boss was as chipper as an archfiend at a feast of souls.

When the Boss finished the jig, Pleeancis leaned down to look more closely at the candle. Except for some unusual gray and brown whorls that ran through the wax, it was ordinary. The mold too appeared ordinary. Nothing to indicate why it made the Boss so happy. Still, Pleeancis did not want to spoil the mood. Maybe the Boss had gone insane, but the good kind of insane, where he would think everything was great. If so, maybe Pleeancis could convince him to set some decent food at the table for a change. Pleeancis smacked his lips and decided to play along.

This is a nice candle," he said, and tried not to giggle at how silly that sounded.

The Boss patted him on the head, still smiling. "It is that, little one. It's the way to bring Jennah back."

He glanced over at the magically hardened glass case set along the wall that held her perfectly preserved body.

Pleeancis followed his gaze and bit back a snarl.

Jennah-she-lay there in her little glass case like some red haired doll with alabaster skin. Pleeancis wished he had gouged out one of her eyes over the years. He could've blamed it on a rat or something.

The Boss walked across the room to the case, his face wistful. He reached out and laid a hand on the glass.

"Soon, dearest," he whispered. "Soon."

Pleeancis ground his fangs and squinted his eyes in anger. Damn it! He did not want her back.

Since the Boss's back was to him, Pleeancis took what vengeance he could-he stuck out his forked tongue and made a terribly obscene gesture taught to him by a dretch demon. She, of course, made no response.

Pleeancis used the claw on his forefinger to pop the candle from its mold. He picked it up and held it in his hands. He wondered if it would hurt him to eat it. After all, no candle, no her. He sniffed it. It smelled loamy, vaguely like tenday old mushrooms. He opened his mouth- "Pleeancis!"

He dropped it with an alarmed squeak. The Boss rushed over and gingerly picked up the candle, as though he were holding an infant.

"I was just smelling it, Boss." Pleeancis took a step back, prepared to take flight, but the Boss didn't seem angry. Relieved, Pleeancis beat his wings and halted his retreat. "It smells funny. Kinda like the dirt covering dead people. What's in it?"

The Boss secreted the taper in an inner pocket of his black and purple robe.

"Souls," he answered cryptically, his eyes aglitter. "Life-force. Enough to overcome the resistance that has prevented the efficacy of my spells. Enough to ensure that my next attempt will bring my love back."

He looked past Pleeancis to the glass case. Pleeancis rolled his eyes.

He didn't understand the human obsession with love. What a bunch of tripe. It was neat that the Boss had put souls in the candle, though. No wonder many of the houseslaves had disappeared recently. Pleeancis giggled, then he remembered that the candle would bring her back. He stopped giggling.

"How can it bring her back, Boss?" he asked and stole a quick, hateful glare in her direction. "It's just a candle. If you couldn't do it by yourself…?" He let the rest of the question go unspoken. If the Boss-one of the more powerful wizards in Shade and one of the preeminent practitioners of shadow magic-couldn't bring her back with his spells, how in the Nine Hells could a candle?

The Boss smiled absently, but his eyes burned with intensity. "This is a special candle, Pleeancis, one that draws upon the Shadow Weave. When its light casts a reflection of a…" he stuttered over the next word, as though embarrassed to say it aloud, "… a corpse, the reflective surface becomes a portal, a doorway to the place where the soul of that corpse resides." He reached into his pocket, no doubt to touch the candle while he spoke. "The soul can return through that portal, re-inhabit the body, and thereby return to life."

Pleeancis wanted to puke. He glared at her, showed her his fangs.

"Now that the candle is complete," the Boss went on, "the critical factor is the reflective surface."

Pleeancis hung his head and snarled softly. He wanted to hear no more. The familiar kicked petulantly at the books on the table. He and the Boss had spent years alone together. They did not need her. Stupid love.

The Boss continued on, lost in his own world.

"In this case, for the shadow magic to work, the reflective surface must be the dusky scales of a living shadow dragon."

Pleeancis's head snapped up. His wings fluttered with perturbation. "A shadow dragon!"

The Boss merely looked down on him, still smiling, and nodded.

Disbelieving, Pleeancis took wing and fluttered before the Boss's face. He snapped his scaled fingers to bring the Boss back from his madness.

"Shadow dragons are tough, Boss. Tough. And there's only one around here-"

"Ascalagon," the Boss finished for him and nodded again. Unbelievably, he did not look afraid.

"But Ascalagon is ancient," Pleeancis squeaked. "And big. Can't you use my scales?" He preened to show his green scales to best advantage.

"No, little one." The Boss patted him on the head. "The fact that Ascalagon is big and ancient is the very point."

"You're going to get help then?"

The Boss shook his head. "No."

Pleeancis's voice rose an octave. His wings beat crazily. "You're going to take on Ascalagon alone?"

The Boss chuckled. "Not alone, little one. With you."

Pleeancis's heart raced. He knew then that the Boss had gone insane but not in the good way.

They had been walking for over an hour. The colorless sky hung above them, a featureless roof of slate. Darkbriar trees surrounded them on all sides like walls of dull, gray bark. Nightmarish versions of a Faerunian cypress, the branches of the dusky leafed darkbriars hung low enough to brush Zossimus's head. The roots of the great trees twisted their way into the soft, marshy earth like giant worms. The smell of organic decay filled his nostrils. A light mist hung in the fetid air. The dull calls of gray birds and bats mingled with the low buzz of insects. Sound was muted; color was absent. The purple of Zossimus's robes and the green of Pleeancis's scales stood out in this murky, otherwise colorless plane like a giant in a halfling's cottage. Despite the trees, the grass, the insects and birds, the Plane of Shadow felt unreal, like a bard's conception of the realm of the dead. There was motion, true, but no life, no color. The plane was a mirror of the real world, a reflection without substance.

"Smells like a dungheap, Boss," Pleeancis whispered from his perch atop Zossimus's shoulder. Quick as a cat, the quasit plucked a black fly as large as a coin from the air and impaled it between his thumb and foreclaw. "Why would the big bastard lair here? I thought dragons were supposed to be smart."

"Quiet, little one," said Zossimus.

He knew that choosing this dank forest for its lair was smart. Zossimus had numerous protective and divinatory spells cast on his person, among them a spell that allowed him to see through magically created obscurement, but even his magically augmented vision could not see behind natural barriers to sight. Between the wall of darkbriars, the ubiquitous fog, and the indistinguishable gray hues of every damned thing, Ascalagon could be watching them even now, and Zossimus would not know it. The thought made his heartbeat accelerate. Once again, he told himself that the dragon would be open to reason. He had brought along an incentive to aid negotiation. Behind him, floating on an invisible platform of magical force, was an open mahogany coffer trimmed in platinum. Within lay a king's ransom in dusky opals and black pearls-his offering to Ascalagon.

Of course, Zossimus had prepared for the possibility that the dragon might prove unreasonable. He had cast so many spells on his person that the turgid air around him fairly sparkled. An enchantment had rendered his skin as hard as granite, to fend off dragon fang and claw. A field of invisible positive energy surrounded him, to protect against Ascalagon's vitality-draining breath weapon, and various additional protective enchantments sheathed him too, all of them attuned to some aspect of Ascalagon's nature. He was as ready as he could be.

A short while later, they reached a circular clearing, perhaps two spear casts in diameter. The short, gray grass looked like an age-faded carpet, devoid of color. The soft glow from the Shadow Plane's feeble stars trickled past the wall of darkbriars to cast the clearing in an even deeper patchwork of shadows-the ideal environment for the dragon.

Zossimus knew that he would have to face Ascalagon on the dragon's terms, which probably meant in the clearing. His spells would expire soon. He needed to persuade Ascalagon to show himself

With a thought, he stepped from the treeline then propelled the invisible platform forward and rested it in the center of the clearing. "We wait here," he said to Pleeancis. The quasit looked around the clearing, his eyes darting from shadow to shadow. "How will the dragon know we're here?"

"I suspect it already knows."

Pleeancis's eyes went wide at that. His tail flicked in agitation. He grabbed Zossimus's robes all the tighter. They did not have to wait long.

Within a few moments, the bats and insects fell silent, leaving only the whisper of the breeze through the dark-briar leaves. Zossimus steadied himself, thought of Jennah's return, and rehearsed in his mind the power-laden phrase that would trigger the first transmutation he would cast-if necessary.

The shadows on the far side of the clearing grew darker. The soft rustle of leaves bespoke the passage of something within the wood. Even with his vision-augmenting spell in effect, Zossimus still could see nothing but darkness, the impenetrable darkbriar boles, and the brush. Pleeancis clutched so tightly to his shoulder that the quasit's hindclaws sunk into his flesh. He ignored the discomfort and peered into the shadows.

He took a few steps forward, farther out from the safety of the treeline. He knew the colors he wore, even the color of his skin, made him easily sighted. He was the splash of color superimposed against the painting of a forest done only in varying shades of gray.

Still, he saw nothing.

A rich, whispered voice from just behind his ear nearly caused his heart to stop. The exhalation of rancid breath was as strong as a mild breeze.

"Consider well your next words, human. For the moment, I find you more curious than appetizing."

Ascalagon.

Pleeancis let out a squeal and teleported himself within Zossimus's robes. "Unholy crap," he muttered. "Unholy crap."

Zossimus ignored the quasit, steeled his courage, and slowly turned around.

Ascalagon's smoke colored eyes, each the size of a man's fist, bored into him like carpenter's awls. Zossimus could have reached out and touched the dragon's scaled muzzle. The sleek reptilian head was the size of a caravan wagon, the teeth as long as broadswords. Its respiration covered his face in moisture.

Ascalagon's head sat atop a serpentine neck that extended from back within the trees. Within the shadows of the darkbriars, Zossimus could only just make out the huge, powerful body-the great wings that walled off that side of the clearing, the powerful shoulders and forelegs that ended in dagger-length claws, and the semi-translucent black scales, some as large as a kite shield.

Zossimus could not believe that such a gargantuan beast could move so gracefully, so quietly, through the trees. Only the thought of Jennah's return kept him from running for his life. Beneath his robes, he could feel Pleeancis shivering in fear. He managed to keep his voice level.

"Mighty Ascalagon, I stand before you to ask a boon. As a token of my good faith, I have brought you an offering." He gestured to indicate the coffer behind him.

"I have already seen your ridiculous gems, little human, and I will take what I wish when I am through with you."

The head snaked forward and sniffed at Zossimus, the fangs only a handwidth from the arcanist's body. Zossimus remained still but recited in his mind the words to a spell.

"I have seen you too, little demon."

Pleeancis squirmed within Zossimus's robes, poked his head out, and piped indignantly, "Little demon? My name is Pleeancis, dragon! Pleeancis the Mighty."

Zossimus winced. The dragon fixed Pleeancis with a baleful gaze, and streamers of black energy snaked from his nostrils.

The quasit let out a yelp, whispered, "Get him, Boss," and teleported into the trees to Zossimus's right, away from Ascalagon.

Zossimus took a step backward, to prevent premature contact between the dragon's energy-draining breath and his protective spells. Ascalagon reared back his head and showed his fangs. A smile? If so, it reeked of menace.

"The protective dweomers about you are plain to me, mage. Paltry things."

Zossimus endured the slight and stood his ground. "As I said, noble dragon-"

At the word "noble," the dragon hissed in what could only be laughter. Shadows swirled madly about the great head and neck.

Zossimus continued, "I have journeyed from Shade Enclave to ask-"

Ascalagon ceased laughing. His smoky, bottomless eyes narrowed, and he lurched forward from the treeline. Darkbriars cracked under the strain. Zossimus took a step backward.

From somewhere within the trees to his right, he heard Pleeancis exclaim, "Uh oh."

"Shade?" boomed the dragon, his voice low and dangerous. "A native from the city of invaders dares come to my abode to ask of me a boon? A boon! Insolent cur!" Ascalagon threw back his head and roared. The noise was Же a roll of thunder. "Here is your boon, mage!"

Jaws wide, Ascalagon exhaled a cloud of seething black energy. The force was enough to paste Zossimus's robes to his body. Blackness swirled about him, and he flinched. When the dragon's breath met the protective sheath of positive energy about Zossimus's person, the contact caused an explosion of golden light, no doubt the most light this dark place had ever seen. The energies sparked and sizzled, opposites at war. Unharmed, Zossimus took the opportunity to incant the words to one of his two most powerful spells.

"Essare telpim."

The world stopped. Silence descended. Around him, the black death of the dragon's breath weapon hung unmoving in the air, frozen in time. The dragon towered above him, a colossal statue of scaled flesh. A halo of motionless golden motes surrounded Zossimus's body.

Zossimus knew he had less than a minute-relatively speaking. To Ascalagon, it would seem as though no time had passed. Unfortunately, Zossimus's spell did not allow him to affect anything other than himself while it was in effect, so he could not yet use the special candle. Instead, he took the opportunity to better prepare for combat. In the end, he had only one spell that would serve his purpose. It was his most powerful, but he needed to weaken the dragon a bit first.

Moving quickly and deliberately, he stepped out of the cloud of the dragon's breath and backed away, perhaps thirty paces. Far enough, he deemed. With deft hand gestures and a sure voice, he renewed all of his protective spells, and also cast a glamour that created six rapidly shifting phantasms of his person, all shifting about his real body. He hoped they would confuse the dragon and attract some of its attacks.

He was out of time.

Sound returned with the rush of an incoming tide. For a fraction of a heartbeat, Ascalagon appeared confused at Zossimus's abrupt movement.

"Get him, Boss!" Pleeancis screamed from the safety of the trees.

Zossimus pulled a pinch of sulfur from his robe, cast it to the wind, and began to cast.

Ascalagon roared, flapped his great wings once, and leaped forward out of the trees to cover the entire thirty paces as quickly and surprisingly as a bolt of lightning. Taken aback, Zossimus stumbled backward, fumbled with the words to his spell, and lost it from his memory. A wall of scales and shadows surrounded him. Fangs and claws ringed him in, seemed everywhere.

Enraged and roaring, the dragon lashed like a mad thing at Zossimus and the illusionary images. The thrice-damned thing moved like whirlwind! A claw ripped through an image and tore great clods of sod from the earth. A backhand lash sent another image to oblivion. Another claw attack, another image. Fangs descended, snapping. Zossimus leaped sidewise and the jaws annihilated another image. Even as he tried to create some distance between himself and the dragon, a claw caught Zossimus full in the chest.

Only his protective spell saved his life. With skin as hard as stone, the eviscerating claw strike only tore a deep, but non-lethal gash down his torso. The impact, however, sent him flying through the air toward the trees, where he crashed into the brush with a groan.

Pleeancis shouted from across the clearing. "Oh, you'll swim up to your snout in Hell's turdpool for that one, dragon."

Zossimus clambered to his feet and began again to cast. He had only two images remaining.

Ascalagon was upon him again. Trees cracked under the dragon's weight as he crashed into the woods. A shower of leaves and limbs fell to earth. Fangs and claws lashed. Zossimus dodged backward and managed to maintain his concentration, determined this time to complete a spell.

With the speed of a striking asp, the dragon's gaping jaws shot earthward, directly at the real Zossimus. He backed off as abruptly as his casting allowed, but he was too slow. The great jaws closed on him and jerked him into the air. Growling, the dragon tossed his head back and forth, trying to devour the human. The powerful teeth and jaws ground against Zossimus's magically hardened skin. Despite the protection of the spell, the teeth pierced his body all over. Warm blood bathed him; pain wracked him. The dragon champed down, trying to crack him open like a stubborn walnut. Bones snapped under the pressure. In agony, Zossimus found himself staring down into the dark tunnel of the dragon's gullet, but he refused to lose his concentration. Prom somewhere, he could hear Pleeancis's terrified shouts.

"Boss! Boss!"

Through the pain, Zossimus managed to mouth the final word to his spell.

"Velendere!"

A glowing, pea-sized ball shot from Zossimus's outstretched hand, flew down the dragon's throat, and exploded into a cloud of fire. Flame and heat rushed back up Ascalagon's throat to envelop Zossimus, but his protective spells shielded him from the worst of it. Not so the dragon. Ascalagon leaped a spearcast into the air, tossing his head madly, roaring in pain, coughing fire. Zossimus flew smoking from his jaws and crashed amongst the trees.

With several fractured bones, Zossimus quickly swallowed a healing potion. Bones and skin painfully recombined. He regained his feet to see the dragon writhing in the clearing, his wings and front legs wrapped around his stomach like a child who ate too many sweetmeats. Smoke streamed from his nostrils and mouth.

Zossimus called to mind the spell he would use to immobilize Ascalagon. The instant he began to mouth the words, Ascalagon focused his eyes on him and rolled to his feet.

"You will die for this, mageling," he said, voice gravelly.

Zossimus paid no heed to the dragon's words. Either his spell would work or it wouldn't. He traced the magical symbols in the air before his face as he incanted the final phrase.

Ascalagon rushed him with a hoarse roar, and closed the distance with a mere two strides.

Zossimus completed the spell, felt his magically augmented will meet with that of the dragon's-and dominate it.

"Stop!" he ordered.

Ascalagon halted in mid-stride.

Zossimus let out a sigh of relief. He could feel Ascalagon fighting against the chains of will that held him immobile, but by the gods Zossimus had done it!

"Remain perfectly still," he ordered, and Ascalagon did, though the smoky eyes seethed with anger.

Pleeancis streaked out of the trees. "Boss! Boss! You did it!" The quasit flitted crazily about him, grinning. "I thought you were a goner for sure when he spit you out."

"Pleeancis, go retrieve Jennah."

"What? Oh." The quasit's grin vanished, and his wings drooped slightly. "Sure, Boss. Just one thing first."

The quasit flew up eye to eye with the dragon.

"Pleeancis the Mighty, you lizard! Remember that."

For punctuation, Pleeancis pinched Ascalagon's nostril with his tiny hand. The dragon, of course, could make no response, but Zossimus felt him fighting against the mental bonds. He did not have much time before the spell would expire.

"Now, Pleeancis."

"Right Boss."

The quasit made an obscene gesture at the dragon and teleported away.

Zossimus spoke a single, power-laden word. The magical candle appeared in his hand. Soon he would hold Jennah in his arms once more.

Zossimus felt as light as he had in years, despite the ongoing struggle of wills with Ascalagon. Jennah's body lay on a bed of gray grass and leaves before the immobilized dragon, awaiting only the candle's light to cast her reflection on Ascalagon's chest scales. Soon he and his beloved would be together again.

Pleeancis, sulking, refused to speak to Zossimus. Instead, the quasit fluttered around the dragon's head and issued half-hearted insults.

Heart racing, Zossimus positioned himself behind Jennah's body and whispered a word. A stream of flame issued from his finger. He touched it to the candle's wick and held the lit taper before Jennah's body.

The candle flared, burned a quarter of the way down, and sent melted wax pouring over Zossimus's hand. He grimaced but endured the pain. The light of the candle reflected the light in his soul. Today, his life would start over again.

The candle's flame burned brighter still, and chased the dreariness of the plane. A doorway sized area of Ascalagon's scales glittered and shimmered in the glow. Zossimus saw his own reflection, and gave a start. He had not known how pale he looked, how ill kept. He put those thoughts aside.

The reflection of Jennah's body also took shape in the scales. The image roiled, grew brighter, flared.

A scene of beauty materialized. Zossimus gasped at the wave of colors. Colors! Tall grass, dotted with red, yellow, and purple flowers. Zossimus could actually smell their fragrance; could feel the clean breeze on his face. And the sun! The sun! He had not seen sunlight in over a decade. It looked like gold spilling from the sky. Tears welled in his eyes at the sight. The realm of the dead was not colorless! It was beautiful, rich. It was his life in this shadow realm that was colorless. He had lived in the dark so long he had forgotten that.

Men, women, and even a few children walked and played contentedly amidst the waving grass. Among them, he saw Jennah.

He had forgotten too how radiant her hair looked in the sunlight. Dressed in a white gown and smiling, she looked as beautiful as a sunset over a calm sea. Tears flowed freely down his face. He leaned forward, reached his hand through the portal, and called to her. "Jennah! Jennah!"

She gave a start, looked around in surprise. "Zoss? Is that you?"

"Yes, dearest! Yes. It's me. I'm here. Here." He waved his hand.

She looked in his direction, must have spotted him through the portal on that side, and ran toward him. She reached out to hold his hand. Her spiritual flesh passed through his hand.

"I've come to bring you home, dearest. Come through."

Her smile faded and she backed off a step.

"Zoss, I am home." She smiled and twirled about, arms above her head. "Look at the sun, Zoss. The flowers." She met his gaze through the portal, her eyes troubled but determined. "It's dark where you are. I'm not coming back."

The finality in her voice bit Zoss like a punch in the stomach. He could not breathe. He knew then that the resistance to his prior attempts to bring her back from the dead had not been the result of planar mechanics; it had been her. She had not wanted to come back.

"But…"

"I'm sorry, Zoss," she said softly, and brushed his fingers. "I miss you, but I can't live in the dark. You'll come here in your time. I love you still."

She smiled softly, but turned to leave.

Despite it all, Zossimus could not blame her. Seeing the sun, seeing the smiling faces of the spirits, the flowers, all of it reminded him of how empty his life had become. How dark, how muted, how colorless. He could not ask her to live in shadows. She belonged in the light.

As she walked away, he made up his mind. Instead of him bringing her back to life, she would bring him back.

"Wait. Jennah!"

She turned. "Zoss, I can't-"

"I know. I'm coming with you."

With a mental command, he released Ascalagon from the spell.

The dragon roared with pent up rage. Pleeancis shrieked. Ascalagon's head snapped down, jaws wide.

The instant Ascalagon's fangs began to rend his flesh, Zossimus's spirit departed his body and darted through the closing portal. When he reached the other side, the sun stung his eyes, but he smiled nevertheless. Now a spirit himself, he took Jennah in his arms and threw her into the air. She laughed like a schoolgirl.

They kissed, then ran off amidst the flowers, under the golden light of the sun.

The dragon must have heard Pleeancis's scream as it devoured the Boss. Ascalagon snapped his head in Pleeancis's direction. Bloody tatters of the Boss's body leaked from between his fangs.

Pleeancis gave the dragon one final obscene gesture and teleported away.

Back at the manor, the quasit stood in the Boss's bedroom and kicked at the ground.

"Damnable lizard. I should've stabbed you in both eyes."

But he hadn't, and now the Boss was gone. The manor felt emptier than ever. Pleeancis thought of all the good times he had once had with the Boss. The memories made his stomach feel funny. Tight. His head hurt too, and… what was this wetness on his face?

"Stupid love," he said, and curled up on the carpet to weep.

Darksword

Troy Denning

20 Flamerule, the Year of the Moat (1269DR)

Lost on the Road Across the Bottomless Bogs

Out of the fog ahead came mist-muffled voices, many of them and not far off, mothers singing, children crying, fathers shouting… oxen bellowing, hoarse and weary. Melegaunt Tanthul continued walking as before-which was to say very carefully-along the road of split logs, which bobbed on the spongy peat with every step he took. Visibility was twenty paces at best, the road a brownish ribbon zigzagging off into a cloud of pearly white. Not for the first time, he wished he had taken the other fork at the base of Deadman Pass. Surely he was still in Vaasa, but whether he was traveling toward the treasure he sought or away from it was anyone's guess.

The voices grew steadily louder and more distinct, until the hazy outline of the road ahead abruptly dissolved into nothingness. Strewn along a narrow band at the end of the road were a handful of head-shaped spheres, some perched atop a set of human shoulders with arms splayed wide to spread their weight. Farther back, two sets of nebulous oxen horns rose out of the peat, the blocky silhouette of a fog-shrouded cargo wagon sitting on the surface behind them.

Melegaunt pulled his heavy rucksack off his back and continued up the road, already fishing for the line with which he strung his rain tarp at night. As he drew nearer, the head-shaped blobs seemed to sprout beards and wild manes of unkempt hair. He began to make out hooked noses and deep-set eyes, then one of the heads shouted out, and with a terrible slurping sound, sank beneath the peat. This cry was echoed by a chorus of frightened wails deeper in the fog, prompting the nearest of the remaining heads to crane around and bark something in the guttural Vaasan dialect. The voices fell immediately silent, and the head turned back toward Melegaunt.

"T-traveler, you would do well to s-stop there," the Vaasan said, the frigid bog mud causing him to stutter and slur his words. "The 1-logs here are rotted through."

"My thanks for the warning." Still fifteen paces from the end of the road, Melegaunt stopped and held up the small coil of line he had pulled from his rucksack. "My rope won't reach so far. I fear you have spoiled your own rescue."

The Vaasan tipped his head a little to the side. "I think our chances b-better with you out there, instead of in here with us."

"Perhaps so," Melegaunt allowed.

He peered into the fog beyond the Vaasan's tribe, trying in vain to see where the road started again. As annoying as it was in the first place not to know where he was going, the possibility of being forced to turn back before he found out absolutely vexed him.

"Where does this road lead? To Delhalls or Moorstown?"

"Where d-does the road lead?" the Vaasan stammered, his voice sharp with disbelief and anger. "What about my people? After I saved you, y-you are not going to help us?" "Of course I'm going to help you. I'll do everything I can," Melegaunt said. Somewhere deeper in the fog, another Vaasan screamed and sank beneath the bog with a cold slurp. "You might, uh, disappear before I pull you free. If that happens, I'd still like to know where this road leads."

"If that happens, the knowledge w-will do you no good," the Vaasan growled. "Your only hope of reaching your d-destination is to rescue my clan, so that we can guide you wherever you are going."

"Something is dragging your tribe under one-by-one and you are trifling over details?" Melegaunt demanded. He pulled his black dagger, then dropped to his hands and knees and began to probe the logs ahead for rot. "This is no time to negotiate. I won't abandon you."

Then your patience will be rewarded," the Vaasan said firmly.

Melegaunt looked up, his brow furrowed into a deliberate scowl. "Am I to understand you don't trust me?" "I trust you to try harder if you have n-need of us." "An answer as slippery as the bog in which you are mired," Melegaunt snapped. "If I am successful, you will have no need of me. How can I trust you to guide me then?"

"You have the word of Bodvar, leader of the Moor Eagle Clan," the Vaasan said. "That is all the trust you need."

"Trust has different meaning for outsiders than for Vaasans, I see," Melegaunt grumbled, "but I warn you, if you go back on your promise…"

"You have nothing to fear on that account," Bodvar said. "You have but to keep yours, and I will keep mine."

"I have heard that before," Melegaunt muttered, "far too many times."

Despite his complaint, Melegaunt continued to advance up the road, probing ahead for rotten logs. By all accounts, the Vaasans had been a harsh but honest people until the fabled bloodstone mines of Delhalls and Talagbar were rediscovered and the outside world intruded to teach them the value of duplicity and fraud. Now, save for a few villages like Moortown where a man's word was rumored to be more precious than his life, they were said to be as corrupt and sly as everyone else in this world of liars and cheats.

Melegaunt was beginning to doubt Bodvar's story about the rot when his dagger finally found soft wood. He pressed harder, and the entire log disintegrated, crumbling into red dust before his eyes. Then the one beneath his hands grew spongy, prompting him to push back onto his haunches. The log beneath his knees began to soften as well, and a muddy dome of peat welled up not three feet in front of him, a long line of dorsal barbs breaking the surface as the spine of some huge, eel-shaped creature rolled past.

Melegaunt dropped onto his seat and pushed away, scrambling backward as fast as he could crawl. By the time the wood ceased growing soft, he was five paces farther from Bodvar, distant enough that he could no longer make out even the shape of the Vaasans' heads.

Another clansman screamed, then slipped beneath the bog with a muffled slurp.

"Traveler, are you still there?" Bodvar called.

"For now," Melegaunt replied. He stood and backed away another couple of paces. "Something came after me."

"One of the bog people," Bodvar said. "They are attracted by vibration." "Vibration?" Melegaunt echoed. "Like talking?"

"Like talking," Bodvar confirmed. "But do not worry about me. My armor muffles the sound-it is made of dragon scales."

"All the same, rest quiet for a while." Melegaunt's opinion of the Vaasan was rising-and more because of the risk he was taking for his tribe than because he wore dragon-scale armor. "I'll get you out. I promise."

"A man should not promise what he cannot be certain of delivering, Traveler," Bodvar said, "but I do trust you to do your utmost."

Melegaunt assured the Vaasan he would, then retreated a few more paces up the road and held his hand out over the road edge. There was not even a hint of shadow. Melegaunt's magic would be at its weakest, and he had already seen enough of his foe's power to know it would be folly to duel him at less than full strength-even in this world of decay and rebirth, wood simply did not rot as fast as had those logs.

Doing his best to ignore the occasional screams that rolled out of the fog, Melegaunt removed a handful of strands of shadowsilk from his cloak pocket and twisted them into a tightly-wound skein. In a century-and-a-half of reconnoitering Toril, he had yet to risk revealing himself by using such powerful shadow magic where others might see-but never before had he been given reason to think his long quest might be nearing its culmination. This Bodvar was a brave one, and that was the first quality. He was also wary, neither giving oaths nor taking them lightly, and that was the second. Whether he was also the third remained to be seen-and it soon would, if matters went as expected.

Once Melegaunt had twisted the shadowsilk into a tightly wound skein, he uttered a few words in ancient Netherese and felt a surge of cold energy rising through his feet into his body. Unlike most wizards in Faerun who extracted their magic from the goddess Mystra's all-encompassing Weave, Melegaunt drew his magic from the enigmatic Shadow Weave. As universal as the Weave itself, the Shadow Weave was less known and far more powerful, if only because the cloaked goddess-she who must never be named-kept it uncompromisingly secret and maddened anyone who revealed its existence.

When he was sufficiently imbued with the Shadow Weave's cold magic, Melegaunt tossed the skein of shadowsilk out over the bog and made a twirling motion with his fingers. The cord began to unwind but sank into the peat before it finished and continued to spin, drawing long tendrils of fog after it.

An oxen bellowed in alarm, then there was a huge glugging sound followed by the crackle of splintering wood and the shrieks of terrified women and children.

“T-t-traveler?" called Bodvar, sounding weaker and colder than before. "H-have you left us?"

"Stay quiet, Vaasan, or there will be no reason for me to stay," Melegaunt shouted back. "I am working as fast as I can."

Judging by the restless voices that followed, the clan of the Moor Eagle took little comfort from this assurance. Melegaunt urged them again to be patient. While he waited for his first spell to do its work, he prepared himself for battle, girding himself with magic armor and shields of spell-turning, readying power word attacks and casting enchantments that would allow him to walk on mud or swim through it with equal ease. By the time he finished, his spell had thinned the fog enough that he could see a long line of mired Vaasan men and overloaded wagons curving away toward the jagged gray wall of a distant mountain range. The end of the column was perhaps two hundred paces distant, and fifty paces beyond that, he could see the brownish ribbon of logs where the road resumed again. Instead of looking impressed or grateful, Bodvar and his equally bearded warriors were all searching the blue sky with expressions of alarmed expectation. Those with free sword arms were holding their weapons ready, while on the wagons, women and old men were stringing longbows and raising spears. Melegaunt glanced around the heavens and found nothing except snow clouds-then heard two loud slurping sounds as another pair of warriors were drawn down into the muck.

He stepped to the end of the log road and held his arm out. Finding that there was now enough light to cast a shadow, he swung his arm around until the dark line pointed at Bodvar. Though a good twenty paces remained between them, the fog was so thin now that Melegaunt could see that with sapphire-blue eyes and hair as red as bloodstone, Bodvar was both handsome and fair-haired by Vaasan standards.

"You caused this clearing, Traveler?" Bodvar asked.

Melegaunt nodded then lied, "I like to see what I'm fighting." Actually, he was more comfortable fighting in darkness than light, but if he could keep the Vaasans from pondering the nature of his magic, there was a good chance they would be unfamiliar enough with outsider spells to think he was using normal magic. "The battle goes faster."

"Indeed," Bodvar answered. "Let us hope not too fast. There is a reason the Mountainshadow Bog is crossed only in thick fog."

Melegaunt frowned. "That would be?"

"On its way."

Bodvar raised his hand-the one that was not trapped in the bog-and pointed west. The nearby peaks had grown distinct enough that they resembled a line of snow-capped fangs, and curving down from their summits, Melegaunt saw several lines of pale specks.

"Griffins?" he asked. "Or wyverns?"

"You will wish."

"Well, as long as they're not dragons," Melegaunt said. "Anything else, I can handle." "You have a high opinion of yourself, Traveler." "As shall you," Melegaunt replied. With that, he spoke a few words of magic, and the shadow he had lain across the bog expanded to the width of a comfortable walking trail. Melegaunt stepped off the logs, and continuing to hold his arm out, followed the shadow forward. To prevent the path from vanishing as he moved forward, he had to utter a spell of permanency-and that was when the sodden peat let out an explosive glub beside him.

Melegaunt turned to see a pair webbed hands clutching the edge of his shadow-walk, and between them was a slimy reptilian head shooting up to attack. The face itself was rather broad and froglike, save that its dead black eyes were fixed on Melegaunt's leg and its lips were drawn back to reveal a mouthful of needle-sharp fangs. He lowered a hand and spoke a magic power word, unleashing a cold black bolt that drilled a fist-sized hole through the thing's head. The hands opened, and its lifeless body slipped back into the sodden peat.

"What magic is that?" Bodvar gasped, watching from a few steps ahead.

"Southern magic," Melegaunt lied. He stopped at the Vaasan's side and stooped down, offering his hand. "You wouldn't know it."

Bodvar was not quick to reach for the shadow wizard's swarthy arm. "Who would?" he demanded. "We are not so backward here in Vaasa as you may think. We know about the dark magic of Thay."

Melegaunt had to laugh. "You have no idea." He uttered a quick spell, and tentacles of darkness shot from his fingertips to entwine the Vaasan's wrist. "Now come out of there. You made a bargain."

Melegaunt stood and drew the tentacles back into his fingers, pulling Bodvar's arm along. A muffled pop sounded from somewhere below the peat, and the Vaasan screamed. Though Melegaunt was fairly certain he had just separated the chieftain's shoulder, he continued to pull-pulled harder, in fact. As loud as Bodvar had screamed, the bog people would be after him like a school of snagglesnouts after a waterstrider.

The Vaasan did not budge, and though Melegaunt had the strength to pull the arm off, that would not free Bodvar of the sodden peat's cold clutch. He stopped pulling. Bodvar continued to groan-though less loudly than he had screamed before-and a long ridge of upwelling peat began to snake its way toward the chieftain.

Melegaunt pointed a finger at the head of the ridge and uttered a magic syllable, and a ray of black shadow shot down through the peat. The creature was too deep to see whether the attack hit home, but the ridge stopped advancing in Bodvar's direction.

"Be quiet," Melegaunt urged. "See if you can slip free of your boots and trousers."

Bodvar stopped groaning long enough to cast a sidelong glance at Melegaunt. "My trousers? My dragon-scale trousers?"

"You must break the suction," Melegaunt explained. "It is your trousers or your life."

Bodvar sighed but struggled to move his free hand under the peat.

"Can you reach them?" Melegaunt asked.

"No, I can't-" Bodvar's eyes suddenly went wide, then he began to yell, "Pull! Pull!"

Melegaunt felt the Vaasan being dragged downward and began to haul in the opposite direction. Bodvar howled in pain and rage, his body squirming and thrashing as he struggled to free himself. There was a muffled crunch that sounded something like a breaking bone, then Bodvar finally came free, rising out of the bog with no boots or pants, but a dagger in hand and his sword belt looped over his elbow.

Melegaunt glimpsed a slimy figure slipping down the hole with the Vaasan's trousers trailing from one corner of its smiling mouth, then the bog closed in and concealed it from view. Melegaunt cast a shadow bolt after it, but it was impossible to say whether the spell bit its target or vanished into the bottomless depths without striking anything.

"Hell-cursed mudbreather!" Bodvar swore. "Look what it did to my sword!"

Melegaunt lowered the Vaasan to the shadow-walk, then looked over to find the man naked from the waist down and one arm sagging askew from the shoulder socket, holding the flopping scabbard of a badly shattered sword in his good hand.

"How am I to fight with this?"

"Fight? In your condition?"

Melegaunt glanced toward the mountains and saw that the distant specks had now become V-shaped lines, all angling toward the bog where the largest part of the Moor Eagle clan was still trapped. He opened his cloak and pulled his own sword, a slender blade of what looked like black glass, from its scabbard.

"Use this," Melegaunt said, "but with a light hand. It will cut much better than that iron bar you're accustomed to."

Bodvar barely glanced at the weapon. "I'll use my dagger. That thing’ll break the first time-"

"Not likely." Melegaunt brought his sword down across Bodvar's dagger and sliced through the blade as though it were made of soft wood instead of cold-forged iron, then flicked the stump out of the grasp of the astonished Vaasan and replaced it with the hilt of his own weapon. "Be careful not to take off your foot."

Bodvar closed his sagging jaw, and one arm still hanging limply at his side, stepped past Melegaunt and lopped the heads off two bog people emerging from the peat behind him.

"It'll do," he said. Despite the obvious pain from his separated shoulder, the Vaasan did not even clench his teeth as he spoke. "My thanks for the loan."

"Consider it a gift," Melegaunt replied, turning back to the rest of the clan. "I use it so seldom."

To his dismay, the bog people had been far from idle while he was rescuing Bodvar. Half the warriors who had been mired when he arrived had already vanished beneath the surface, while the women and old men were struggling to keep dozens of bog people from clambering onto the cargo wagons with the clan's sobbing children. Melegaunt pulled a handful of shadowsilk from his cloak and flung it in the direction of the wagons, then spread his fingers and waggled them in a raining motion. A dark pall fell over the six closest wagons, and everyone it touched-Vaasans and bog people alike-fell instantly asleep.

"How did you do that?" Bodvar demanded. "Sleep magic doesn't work against the bog people!"

"Clearly, you have been misinformed." Melegaunt held his arm out toward the nearest wagon, extending the shadow-walk to within three paces of the driver's bench. "Do you think…"

Bodvar was already sprinting down the shadow-walk, borrowed sword in hand. When he reached the end, he launched himself into a wild leap over the horns of a mired ox, bounding off its half-submerged shoulders, and came down on the seat between the slumbering driver and the old man slumped beside her. Despite Melegaunt's warning to handle the weapon lightly, he set to work on the sleeping bog people with an ardor that left little doubt about the primitive state of Vaasan weaponsmithing.

Melegaunt saw him cut two enemies cleanly apart across the torso and cleave through three of the wagon's sideboards before he could no longer bear to watch and turned his attention to the mired warriors.

The nearest vanished beneath the surface as Melegaunt approached, and two more cried out in alarm. Seeing he had no hope of rescuing even a dozen of the remaining warriors, he tossed his tarp line onto the surface and uttered a long spell. The far end raised itself out of the peat, and the black rope began to slither forward. He pointed at the nearest of the warriors, and the line angled in the man's direction. "As the rope conies by-"

That was all Melegaunt needed to say. The first warrior snatched the line, and slipping free of his trousers, allowed it to pull him free. He slid across the slippery surface for three paces, then rolled onto his back and began to hack at something beneath the surface with his sword. Seeing that he had at least a reasonable chance of defending himself, Melegaunt directed the rope to the next warrior in line, who also came free without his pants or boots, and there were two Vaasans slashing at their unseen pursuer.

They seemed to get it after a dozen yards, but by then Melegaunt had three more warriors on the line, and two of them were being trailed by the tell-tale rise of a bog person traveling just beneath the surface. He summoned the rope over to his shadow-walk and used his last shadow bolt to kill one of their pursuers, and the warriors themselves took care of the last one before bounding off after Bodvar to help defend the wagons.

Melegaunt glanced toward the mountains. To his alarm, the distant fliers were now so close that he could make out not only the white bodies hanging beneath their wings, but their bandy legs and curved swords as well. Whatever the creatures were-and he had yet to see their like in a century and a half of wandering this world-they were as fast as baatezu. He only hoped they were not as adept as the pit fiends at defeating shadow magic.

Melegaunt sent the rescue rope out again and managed to pull in six more warriors before the bog people claimed the rest. Though he was not happy to fail so many-the number had to be nearly twenty-the Vaasans took their losses in stride, pausing only to grunt a half-understood word of thanks before rushing back to join Bodvar and their fellows in defending the women and children.

Seeing there was no more to be done, Melegaunt retrieved his tarp line and turned toward the mired wagons. With the half-naked warriors he had rescued rushing back to help, the women and old men were holding the bog people at bay with surprising displays of swordsmanship and bravery. No matter how well they fought, though, it was clear that the younger children and older clansmen lacked the agility to leap from wagon to wagon-especially over the heads of panicked oxen- as the warriors were doing.

Melegaunt rushed alongside the caravan, laying his shadow-walk close enough that the trapped Vaasans could jump from their wagons onto the path behind him. The bog people redoubled their attacks, glugging up alongside the walk in a near-solid wall. But all of Bodvar's clansmen were as well-trained and disciplined as his warriors, and they repelled the attacks easily. Though Melegaunt failed to understand why the bog people did not use their rotting magic on the wagons themselves, he was relieved that they were not. Perhaps their magic-user had run out of spells, or maybe the enchantment took too long to cast.

With their panicked masters rushing past, the mired oxen bellowed for help that would never come. Given time, Melegaunt could certainly have freed the creatures and saved the cargo in their wagons, but as things were, he would be doing well to lose no more of their masters. As he neared the end of the caravan, he was astonished to see that the bog people had not pulled even one of the beasts from its yoke. Whatever their reason for attacking the Moor Eagles, it had less to do with hunger than wanting to wipe out the tribe.

Melegaunt was twenty paces past the last mired wagon when a trio of bog people emerged before him, snatching at his legs with their webbed hands. He drilled the middle one with a black shadow bolt, then heard hooked finger-talons clattering off his spell-armor as the other two attempted to slash his legs from beneath him. He brought his boot heel down a sloping forehead and heard a loud pop as the skull caved in, then caught his other attacker by the arm and jerked it out of the peat. Save that the bog-man was covered in slimy brown scales and had a flat, lobsterlike tail in place of legs and feet, it looked more or less humanoid, with powerfully-built shoulders and a navel that suggested it was born rather than hatched.

It slashed at Melegaunt with its free hand several times. When its claws continued to bounce harmlessly off the wizard's shadow armor, it gave up and opened its mouth, attacking with a long, barb-tipped tongue so fast Melegaunt barely had time to tip his head aside and save his eye. He caught the tongue as it shot back toward the creature's mouth, then whirled around to find Bodvar and the rest of the Vaasans staring at him with expressions that were equal part awe and terror. "Don't just stand there," Melegaunt ordered, "kill it!" Only Bodvar had possession enough of his wits to obey, slashing the thing across the waist so hard that Us borrowed sword came a hair's breadth from opening Melegaunt's ample belly as well. Eyeing the chieftain sidelong, Melegaunt tossed aside the lifeless torso, then pointed at a long line of bog people rising out of the peat beside the gape-mouthed Vaasans.

"Lift your jaws and see to your enemies!"

Without waiting to see whether they obeyed, he turned and extended the shadow-walk the rest of the way to the logs, then led the way to the relatively solid footing of the road. The bog people had no choice but to give up their attack, for all the Vaasans had to do to be safe was retreat to the middle of the road where they could not be reached.

The creatures flying in from the mountains were another matter. Only a few hundred yards distant, they were close enough that Melegaunt could make out scaly white bodies with long, pointed tails and craggy saurian heads with long snouts, swept-back horns, and huge yellow eyes. One of the creatures flung something in their direction and began to make spell gestures.

Melegaunt flattened a ball of shadowsilk between his palms, then flung it toward the approaching dragonmen and uttered a few words in ancient Netherese. A hazy disk of darkness appeared between the two groups and began to bleed black tendrils of shadow into the sky, but Melegaunt had not been quick enough to raise his spell shield. He felt a familiar softening underfoot, and the Vaasans cried out and began to stampede up the road. It was exactly the wrong thing to do. The rotting logs came apart all the faster, plunging the entire tribe to their knees in sodden peat.

In an attempt to spread their weight and slow their descent, they immediately threw themselves to their bellies and splayed their arms. Still standing atop the peat by virtue of the spells he had cast before the battle, Melegaunt cursed and laid his shadow-walk again, then turned to meet the dragonmen.

They were nowhere to be seen, at least not near his spell shield. Pulling another strand of shadowsilk from his pocket, Melegaunt pivoted in a slow circle and-as expected-found them diving out of the sun. Melegaunt allowed himself a tight smile. They were wise to respect his abilities-much wiser, in that regard, than had been better-known foes in the south. He tossed his shadowsilk into the sky and uttered the incantation of one of his more potent spells.

That whole quarter of the sky broke into a shower of shadowy tears. Instead of rolling off when they fell on a body, however, these drops clung to whatever they touched, stretching into long threads of sticky black fiber. Within moments, the entire column of dragonmen had become swaddled in gummy balls of darkness and was plunging headlong into the bog. Melegaunt watched long enough to be certain that none of the fliers would escape, then turned to find the Moor Eagles rushing onto the log road behind him.

They were glancing at him over their shoulders, making signs of warding that might have kept a demon at bay, but that only made Melegaunt feel lonely and unappreciated. Stifling bitter laughter, he walked across the bog to where Bodvar and three more brave warriors stood waiting for him at the edge of the road.

"I’m sorry for your losses, Bodvar," he said. "I might have saved more, but there was much you didn't tell me."

"And much you didn't tell us," Bodvar replied. He laid the hilt of Melegaunt's black sword across his arm and offered it to the wizard. "My thanks."

Melegaunt waved him off. "Keep it. As I said, I seldom use it anymore."

"I know what you said," Bodvar replied, "but only a fool takes gifts from a devil."

"Devil?" Melegaunt snapped, still not taking his sword. "Is that how you repay my kindness? With insults?"

"What is true is no insult," Bodvar said. "We saw the things you did."

"It was only magic," Melegaunt protested. "Southern magic. If you have not seen its like before…"

"Now it is you who are insulting us." Bodvar continued to offer the sword. "In Vaasa, we are backward in many things-but wisdom is no longer one of them."

Melegaunt started to repeat his protests, then realized he would only anger Bodvar by insisting on the lie-and revealing the truth about the Shadow Weave was, of course, out of the question. If he were lucky enough to avoid being struck dead on the spot, he would lose forever the dark power that had so impressed the Vaasans.

When Melegaunt made no further attempts to argue, Bodvar said, "We will keep the bargain we made." He tipped his chin toward the three warriors with him. "These are the guides I promised. They will take you wherever you wish to go in Vaasa."

Melegaunt started to say that he no longer needed them-then thought better of it and smiled. "Anywhere!"

Bodvar looked uncomfortable, but nodded. "That was our bargain."

"Good. Then I want them to take me wherever the Moor Eagles are going." Melegaunt took his sword back. "And no tricks, Bodvar. I'm sure we both know what happens to those who play false with devils-don't we?"

Higharvestide, the Year of the Moat

In the Shadows of the Peaks of the Dragonmen

Bodvar came to the island, as Melegaunt had known he would, late in the day, when the sun was sinking low over the Peaks of the Dragonmen and the shadows of the mountains lay long upon the cold bog. What the wizard had not known was that the chieftain would bring his wife, a young beauty with hair the color of night and eyes as blue as a clear sky. She seemed a little thicker around the middle than the last time Melegaunt had seen her, though it was always hard to tell with Vaasan women- their shape tended to vanish beneath all the furs they wore.

Melegaunt watched them pick their way across his zigzagging boulder-walk until a metallic sizzle behind him demanded his attention. He checked the sky to be certain there were no white-scaled fliers diving down to trouble them, then donned a huge leather mitt and pulled a long narrow mold from the oven he had kept blazing for three days. In the mold, floating on a bed of liquid tin, lay a sword similar to the one he had offered Bodvar all those tendays ago-save that this one was still molten and glowing white hot.

Melegaunt placed the sword on a bed of ice-freezes came early to this part of the world-then waited for the mold to cool. When he was sure the cold would draw the tempering elements down to the underside, he began to lay fibers of shadowsilk on the molten glass, taking care to arrange them first lengthwise, then diagonally in both directions, then lengthwise again so the weapon would have strength and resilience in all directions. Finally, he used his dagger to open another cut on his arm, dripping his warm blood into the mixture and quietly whispering the ancient words that gave the blade its magic thirst.

By the time that was finished, the sword had hardened enough that he could lift it from its mold and plunge it into a vat of slushy water, placed at just the right distance from the furnace to keep it that way. Once the heat had melted all of the slush, Melegaunt removed the sword, then placed it on its bed of hot tin with the opposite side down and returned the mold to the oven again. Such was the art of the shadow blade, heating and cooling a thousand times over, tinting them with shadowsilk until the glass could finally hold no more and began to shed fibers like an unbrushed dog.

A soft boot scuffed the stone at the edge of Melegaunt's work site, then Bodvar called, "I see you are still here, Dark Devil."

"You can see that by the smoke of my furnaces." Melegaunt pulled the sleeve of his cloak down to hide the cuts on his arm, then turned to glower at the chieftain. "Come for a sword, have you?"

"Hardly." Bodvar cast an uneasy glance at the nineteen weapons racked at the edge of the work site. Though all were completed and honed to a razor edge, they were paler than Melegaunt's sword, with a crystal translucence that still showed the lay of the shadow fibers embedded in the glass. "You are wasting your time on that account."

"Am I?" Melegaunt smirked knowingly. "Well, they will be here when you need them."

"Our need will never be that great."

Melegaunt did not argue, only swung an arm toward the furnace behind him and said, "That will be twenty. Twenty warriors is all that remains to you, is it not?"

Instead of answering, Bodvar glanced around the cluttered work area and shook his head. "Only a devil could live out here alone. It is exposed to every wind that blows."

"It's a safe place to work."

Melegaunt glanced at Bodvar's young wife and smiled. Idona smiled back but said nothing. Though Vaasan women were hardly shy, he had noticed that most of them preferred to keep their silence around him. He looked back to Bodvar.

"The bog people protect every ground approach but one, and the dragonmen are easy to spot from here."

"The dragonmen can watch you," Bodvar countered, "and the bog people have you surrounded."

"Vaasans may see it that way." Melegaunt knelt and began to feed his furnace from the charcoal pile beside it. "The way to destroy an enemy is to make him fight in his home instead of yours."

Melegaunt raised his mitted hand toward a white-hot poker, and Bodvar, not thinking, reached for it-then shrieked in surprise as Melegaunt used a cantrip to summon the utensil and spare him a burned palm.

Idona giggled, drawing an embarrassed, though tender, frown from her husband. Melegaunt shook his head in mock exasperation at Bodvar's clumsiness, and she broke into full laughter.

"You see?" Bodvar complained lightly. "This is what comes of treating with devils."

"Of course, my husband," Idona said. "This bearded one is always saving you from something, the mudbreathing knave."

"That is what worries me," Bodvar said, his tone more serious.

Desperate not to let Bodvar's suspicious nature undermine the unexpected openness his humor had won from Idona, Melegaunt poked at the coals, then changed the subject. "Speaking of mudbreathers and saving you, Bodvar, you never did tell me why the bog people and dragonmen were trying so hard to wipe out your tribe."

"Were?" Idona echoed. "They still are. Why do you think we stay camped at the other end of your walkway? If it wasn't for you-"

"Idona!" Bodvar snapped.

Hiding his delight behind a tolerant smile, Melegaunt tossed the poker aside-it remained hovering in the air- and began to feed more charcoal into the fire.

"I'm only happy to be of use." Melegaunt fixed his gaze on Bodvar. "But that still doesn't answer my question."

Bodvar flushed and said nothing.

Idona smirked. "Are you going to answer him, Husband, or am I?"

The more Idona spoke, the more Melegaunt liked her.

"By all means, Idona," Melegaunt said, "I would rather hear it from your-"

"I had this idea," Bodvar began. "I wanted to build a fort."

"Fort?" Melegaunt stopped feeding the flames and stood.

"For the treasure caravans," Idona said, rolling her eyes. "He actually thought outlanders would give us good coin just to sleep with a roof over their heads."

"And to have us stand guard," Bodvar added defensively. "When we're out hunting, they're always asking to share our camps and fires."

"Do they pay then?" Idona demanded.

Bodvar frowned. "Of course not. Who'd pay to pitch his own tent?"

"I see." Melegaunt found it difficult to keep the delight out of his voice. At last, he had discovered something that might move Bodvar to take help from a "shadow devil." "But the bog people and dragonmen prey on the caravans, and they have other ideas?"

Bodvar nodded. "The dragonmen sacked our first fort before it was half completed, and when we tried to move south to a more defensible site… well, you saw what happened."

Idona took his hand. "We're better off anyway," she said. "Who wants to live one place the whole year? What happens when the herds move?"

"What indeed?" Melegaunt asked absently.

He was looking over his shoulder toward the granite summit of his little island. On a clear day, it was possible to look across the bog clear to where the log road ended- or began, if the caravan was coming from the mountains with its load of treasure. If he could see the road, then anyone on the road would be able to see the top of the island.

"Melegaunt?" Bodvar asked.

Realizing he had not been paying attention, Melegaunt tore his gaze from the summit and turned back to Bodvar. "Sorry. You were saying?"

"He was inviting you to take feast with us," said Idona. "It's Higharvestide, in case you have lost track."

"It's Idona's idea," Bodvar added, though his friendly tone made it clear that he did not object too strenuously. 'She says it's only common courtesy."

"And no more than we owe," Idona added, frowning at Bodvar, "considering all you have done for us."

"All I have done for you?" Melegaunt waved a hand in dismissal. "It's nothing, truly, but I can't join you. Next Higharvestide, perhaps."

"Next Higharvestide?" Bodvar scowled at the furnace where the last sword lay on its bed of sizzling tin. "If you're staying to watch over that sword, you may as well come, because-"

"It's not the sword," Melegaunt said. "The sword will be done by nightfall. I must have my rest tonight. Tomorrow will be a busy day for me." Idona's face was not the only one that fell. "Then you are leaving?" Bodvar asked. "If you are, be certain to take your swords with you, because they will only-"

"I'm not leaving." Melegaunt had to turn toward the island's granite summit-try as he might, he could not hide his smile. "Tomorrow, I start work on my tower."

"Tower?" Idona echoed.

"Yes." Finally in control of his expression again, Melegaunt turned around. "To watch over the treasure caravans."

But Melegaunt knew he would have no rest that night. He had read in the dawn shadows that this would be the evening when the Moor Eagles moved onto the island with him. His divinations proved correct shortly after dark, when the clan's mead-induced revels were interrupted by the clanging of the sentry's bell. Melegaunt lit a signal beacon he had prepared for the occasion, then he went to the front of the work site to inspect the situation. A cloud of white forms was descending from the peaks of the dragonmen, their wings flashing silver in the moonlight as they spiraled down toward the bog's edge. Their spellcasters were already hurling magic bolts and balls of golden flame at the Moor Eagles, but the rest of the warriors were taking care to forestall counterattacks by keeping their magic-users well screened from Melegaunt’s island. A sporadic stream of arrows began to rise from Bodvar's camp and arc into the night, falling pitifully short of their targets.

Melegaunt spread his arms and cast a shadow fog over the camp, more to prevent the Moor Eagles from wasting their time and arrows than to delay the dragonmen. Still, they had not forgotten the sticky rain he had called down on them in the bottomless bog-half their number had sunk beneath the peat and drowned-so they gave the dark cloud wide berth, angling away to land in the foothills on the far side of camp.

Leaving the Moor Eagles to fend for themselves, Melegaunt turned his attention to what he was sure would be the second part of the dragonmen's plan and found a company of bog people slithering up to block his boulder walk. The clan women were gamely rushing forward to meet them, Idona and a few of the others wielding iron swords or wood axes, but most armed with nothing more deadly than fire-hardened spears and cudgels so light Melegaunt could have snapped them over his knee.

"Hold!"

Melegaunt's Vaasan had grown passable enough over the last few months that Idona recognized the command for what it was and called her sisters to a stop. He pointed at a hole in the exact center of the shadow-walk and spoke a single word of magic. A whirling pinwheel of black tentacles erupted from the hole and slashed the bog people into so many chunks of slimy flesh, then withdrew back into the hole.

"Now you can come," Melegaunt called, using his magic to project his voice. "And bring those foolish husbands of yours, or the only Higharvestide feast will be that of the dragonmen."

Idona raised her sword in acknowledgement and sent the other women forward with the children, then rushed back into the shadow swaddled camp. Melegaunt waited impatiently for her return. It seemed to take her forever, and he feared the surviving bog people would regain their courage before she could convince her husband to retreat to the safety of the island. Finally, warriors began to stagger onto the boulder walk in twos and threes, often supporting and sometimes carrying each other. Melegaunt thought for a moment that the evening's festivities had simply been proceeding faster than he expected, but then he noticed that one of the men was missing an arm and another had something dangling on his cheek that might have been an eye.

Bodvar came last with Idona at his side, holding an armful of quivers over one arm and a shield over the other, alternately feeding arrows to her husband and stepping forward to intercept the wicked barbs flying their way from somewhere deeper in the camp. Melegaunt allowed them to retreat to the first sharp bend in that fashion, then speaking a magic command word, he pointed at a crooked crevice bisecting the boulder closest to shore.

A wall of faintly writhing shadows shot up from the fissure, sealing the boulder walk off from the Vaasans' camp. Bodvar and Idona turned and raced for the island, moving so fast that they nearly overran the next turn. Only Idona's quick feet-and quicker hands-kept Bodvar from going over the edge and plunging into the cold bog. They took the next corner more cautiously then reached the island and started up the trail behind the others.

By then, the first wave of dragonmen were flying over and around the shadow wall at the other end of the boulder walk, staying low and close to avoid making themselves targets. It was a bad mistake. As they passed by, the writhing shadows struck out like snakes, entwining anything else they could reach. Whatever they touched vanished, and soon arms, legs, wings, even heads were raining down on the shore and into the bog.

The dragonmen's pursuit stopped cold, and the Moor Eagles' women and children began to pour onto the work site. Melegaunt directed them into the shallow shelters he had hollowed out behind the sword rack. When he turned back to the battle, the tentacles in his shadow wall were swirling outward in three separate cones, each spiraling toward a small cluster of dragonmen hovering over the village. The spinning cones tore through the warrior screen as easily as they had the pursuit fliers a moment earlier, then diced the spell casters they had been trying to shield.

"Try to dispel my magic, will you?" Melegaunt called in ancient Draconic. "Come hither. I have more of the same waiting here!"

The last few dragonmen sank behind the shadow and vanished. For a time, Melegaunt feared he truly had defeated the attack so easily. The warriors began to reach his work site and check on their families. There were a handful of anguished cries and panicked calls for missing children, but with Melegaunt's help, the Vaasans had managed their retreat without losing many of their number. Three warriors who were too badly injured to fight were given over to the clan's healing witch, then

Bodvar and Idona arrived, breathing hard and supporting each other, but both whole and sound.

"Well, Devil, it seems you have saved us again," Bodvar said. "Whether we like it or not." Melegaunt spread his hands. "I live to serve." Bodvar scowled and started to make a retort, then someone called, "Whitescales from the east!" and someone else yelled, "And from the west! Thirty at least, coming in low over the bog!"

Melegaunt rushed to the western edge of his work site and saw a long rank of dragonmen approaching the island, their white scales shining like ivory against the dark peat. Their line curved behind the island, and from the cries behind him, it continued all the way around to the other side. The clan of the Moor Eagle was surrounded. Struggling to bite back his smile, Melegaunt turned to find Bodvar and Idona standing behind him.

"It seems your faith in me was misplaced," Melegaunt said. "My apologies, Bodvar."

"None necessary. I'm the one who brought this on us," Bodvar said. He fluttered his fingers in the direction of the approaching dragonmen. "Just do what you can."

"I am afraid that will not be much, my friend." Melegaunt spoke loudly enough to be sure that nearby warriors, already gathering to eavesdrop, would be certain to overhear. "Even I have my limits." "Limits?" Bodvar growled.

"I did not expect this. My magic is all but exhausted." Bowstrings began to thrum around the perimeter of the work site, but they were too few-and their arrow points too soft-to turn back the dragonmen.

Melegaunt drew his black sword, stepped away from the edge, and said, "But I can still give a good accounting of myself."

As he had hoped, the sight of his darksword proved an inspiration.

The black swords!" Idona cried, turning toward the rack. "Those will balance the-"

"No." Calm though it was, Bodvar's voice was surprisingly masterful and imposing. "Of all the women in the tribe, Idona, you should know better. A devil's gift is no gift at all."

Idona looked as though she wanted to argue, but her respect for her husband-and for her chieftain-was too strong. She bit her tongue and pointed at the hidden shelter.

"Then we had better fall back," she said, "before there is nothing left to defend."

Bodvar gave the order, and the dragonmen were on them, streaming onto the work site from all sides. They flew headlong into battle, thrusting at their overwhelmed enemies with iron-tipped spears and relying on their size and speed to carry the attacks home. Half-a-dozen human voices wailed in pain in the first three heartbeats alone, then the second wave came crashing down from the island summit, and it grew clear that the Vaasans hadn't a chance. When they were lucky enough to land a strike, their brittle weapons either bounced off or broke like icicles against the dragonmen's thick scales.

Still, the Vaasans fought bravely and well, falling back toward the shelter behind the sword racks in good order, defending each other and striking at eyes and armpits and other vulnerable areas whenever the chance came. Within moments, there were as many dragonmen lying on the stony ground as there were humans.

And Melegaunt quickly added to the toll. Protected as he was by an aura of impenetrable shadow and holding a sword that would cut through any armor known on Faerun, he turned and whirled through the dragonman ranks, slashing legs off here and behorned heads there, dancing past spear thrusts and shrugging off claw strikes like a drow blademaster.

One of the huge saurians managed to clasp him from behind in a bear hug, lifting him off the ground and trapping his arms so that it was impossible to wield his sword. Perhaps thinking to take him out over the bog and drop him to his death, the creature spread his wings and leaped into the air. Melegaunt slammed the back of his head into his attacker's snout, smashing it flat and driving one of the bony horns back into the thing's brain. When the wizard dropped back to his work site, the other dragonmen fell over each other to find someone else to attack.

Then it happened.

A trio of dragonmen spotted the hidden shelter, and battering a pair of human defenders aside with their powerful wings, charged for the children. The first warrior scrambled to his feet and rushed after them, shattering his brittle sword against the back of a thick reptilian skull.

The other Vaasan grabbed one of Melegaunt's glass swords. He sliced one dragonman's legs out from beneath him, then cleaved a second's spine on the backstroke and ran the blade through the third one's heart from behind. As this last saurian crashed to his knees, the warrior let out an anguished gasp. He stumbled back clutching at his heart, and one of the women in the shelter wailed in despair and cried out his name, but he did not fall. Instead, his hair and beard went as white as snow. The swarthiness drained from his face and his skin turned as pallid as ivory, and when he turned back to the battle, his eyes were as dead and black as those of the bog people, and the sword in his hand had lost its crystal translucence. Now it was as dark and glossy as Melegaunt's, with no hint at all of the shadow fibers embedded in its heart.

A dragonman stepped out of the mad whirl, thrusting at the warrior's heart with an oaken spear as thick as a man's arm. The Vaasan brought his sword up to block and slashed through the shaft as though it were a twig, then smiled darkly, opened his attacker across the chest, and waded after more victims.

His success inspired another warrior to snatch one of the weapons, and a woman in the shelter grabbed one to defend her children from an approaching dragonman. They killed their first enemies and underwent transformations similar to the first sword-taker, then they, too, began to cut a swath through the attacking saurians. A dozen dragonmen leaped into the air, angling for the rack of deadly swords. They were met by a like number of Vaasans, all pulling weapons off the hangers and putting them to good use.

Bodvar appeared at Melegaunt's side, nearly losing his hand when he made the mistake of grabbing the wizard's shoulder without warning.

"Stop them!"

"How?" Melegaunt caught a battering wing on his shoulder, then lopped it off and slashed his attacker across the back of the knees. "The choice is theirs. They would rather live than die."

"Not live in your service!" Bodvar objected. "You arranged this."

"Not arranged." Melegaunt pointed his palm behind the angry Vaasan's head and blasted a would-be attacker with a shadow bolt. "You give me too much credit."

"And you do not give me enough." Bodvar stepped close, and Melegaunt felt the tip of a sword pressed to his back. "Release my clan."

Melegaunt glared at the chieftain. "At the moment, Bodvar, you have worse enemies than me." Relying on his shadow armor to protect him, he reached back and snapped the steel sword with his bare hand. "If you want them released, do it yourself. All you need do is persuade them to set aside their swords."

Melegaunt shoved the chieftain away and turned back to the battle. With most of the glass swords now in hand, the Vaasans seemed to have matters well under control. The dragonmen were being forced steadily away from the shelters, and even when they attempted to use their wings to slip over the defenders, they were met with a flurry of flashing shadow. Finally, they gave up trying and took wing-at least those who could.

Dozens of wounded saurians remained behind with wings too shredded or broken to lift them yet still strong enough to fight-and ferocious enough to do it well. The Vaasans quickly set to work on them, herding them into a tight ball and driving them toward the cliffs on the east side of the work site. Seeing that only one sword remained, Melegaunt left them to their work and quietly went to the rack and slipped the last sword into his empty scabbard-and that was when Bodvar choose to assert himself again.

"My warriors, look at each other!" he called. "See what Melegaunt's devil weapons have done to you?"

Melegaunt groaned and shook his head in resignation. Were Bodvar not so stubborn and sure of himself, the wizard supposed, he would not be worth the trouble in the first place. He turned to find the chieftain and his loyal wife standing behind their warriors, Idona holding a cloak loaded with an armful of steel swords, which Bodvar was trying none too successfully to press into his clansmen's hands.

"Finish the battle with your own weapons," he said.

One of the sword-takers-Melegaunt thought it was the first-scowled. "Why would we do that?" He hefted his darksword and said, "These are better."

"Better?"

Bodvar lunged for the sword-and was dropped to the ground by a solid elbow to the face. This one belongs to me," the warrior said.

"Does it?" Idona dumped the steel swords on the ground. "Or do you belong to it?"

She glared over her shoulder with a look that sent a cold shiver down Melegaunt's spine then grabbed her husband beneath his arms.

"Come, Bodvar." She pulled him to his feet and turned to leave. "We are Moor Eagles no more."

"Leaving?" gasped the warrior who had struck Bodvar. He looked at his darksword a moment, then, as a discontented murmur began to build among his fellows, lowered the weapon. "Wait."

Melegaunt cursed Idona for an ungrateful shrew, and fumbling in his thoughts for some way to salvage the situation, started forward. As usual, it was the dragonmen who saved him. All at once, they burst into action, hurling themselves at the distracted Vaasans. The first sword-taker and another warrior fell instantly, and the work site erupted into a maelstrom of violence even more confused and ferocious than the first. Melegaunt saw a pair of saurians springing in Bodvar's direction and took the first out with a bolt of shadow, but the second was too quick. This one bowled the chieftain over on the run and lashed out for Idona, then a half-dozen other melees drifted between Melegaunt and the young wife, and he lost her.

He rushed forward swinging sword and spraying shadow, but the battle was as mad and confused as it was quick. Before he could find Bodvar again, he had to slay two dragonmen and use a spell of shadow-grabbing to keep from being dashed lifeless on the rocks at the base of his own cliff.

When Melegaunt did find the chieftain, he wished he had not been so quick to save himself. Bodvar was standing in the midst of a bloody pile of Vaasans and dragonmen, holding two broken swords of steel and searching the carnage around with a look of utter terror on his face.

"Idona?"

Bodvar found a female leg kicking at the ground from beneath a dead dragonman and used a boot to roll the white-scaled corpse away, but it turned out that the leg belonged to the mother who had grabbed one of the swords to defend her children.

He turned away from her without comment and called again, "Idona?"

"There," rasped someone. "They've got her." Melegaunt spun toward the speaker and found a pallid-faced sword-bearer pointing across the work site to a small knot of fleeing dragonmen. They were just starting down the trail toward the boulder walk, each one with a limp Vaasan body slung over its shoulders. The last body in line was that of Bodvar's young wife, her throat ripped out and her head dangling by the spine alone, her blue eyes somehow still locked on Melegaunt's face.

"No!" Melegaunt gasped. He laid a hand on Bodvar's shoulder. “I’m sorry, Bodvar. Sorry beyond words."

"Why? You have what you came for." Bodvar reached down to Melegaunt's scabbard and drew the last dark-sword, then turned to start after his dead wife. "You have your twenty souls."