Shadowbred

CHAPTER TWELVE

5 Uktar, the Year of Lightning Storms

Cale, Tamlin, and the Uskevren house guards rode at a moderate pace. By the end of the first day out, they had passed through the ring of villages that surrounded Selgaunt-most of them empty, or nearly so-and entered the rolling, open countryside. To Cale's relief, Vos proved as easy a ride as Stormweather's groom had promised. By the end of the second day, Cale felt reasonably comfortable in the saddle, enough so that he could enjoy the pastoral air and scenery rather than focus on staying seated.

Stands of larch and small woods of oak, elm, and maple broke the monotony of the whipgrass plains. Rauthauvyr's Road stretched before them to the horizon. An overcast sky hung ominously over the land, but the rain held off and the drought persisted.

At Tamlin's instruction, the company skirted the villages and clusters of farmsteads that they passed.

Ordinarily, a village would be expected to provide shelter and hospitality to someone of Tamlin's station. Tamlin did not want to burden the difficult lives of the villagers by requiring that they abide by custom.

"We will sleep under the sky," Tamlin instructed Ren and the house guards. "And eat only our own stores."

Cale credited him for that.

Tension remained palpable between Cale and Tamlin. They spoke only as necessary and Cale feared his candor back in Stormweather had put a wedge between them that would not be easily removed. Cale tried to loosen it. "My lord, if I am to be your advisor, I must be able to speak openly."

Tamlin, riding beside him, did not make eye contact. "You have shown already that you are willing to do exactly that, Mister Cale. When I require advice, I will ask for it."

Cale held his tongue and that was that.

As they traveled farther from Selgaunt, they passed fewer and fewer villages and farms. Those they saw looked as bad as tales had said. The drought and recent catastrophes had left the fields stricken. Most sat fallow or featured sickly crops of shriveled vegetables scrabbling to survive in the cracked, dry earth. Even the barley looked wan, and it ordinarily tolerated dryness. They stopped often at streams and ponds, all of them lower than normal, to water the horses and fill their waterskins.

"I had no idea things were this bad," Tamlin said to no one in particular.

Around midday on the fourth day out, the gray sky departed without dropping any rain and the noon sun emerged to sting Cale's skin. He wore his hood down despite the discomfort, and he often caught Tamlin staring at his wrist. Finally Cale held up the stump, which would regenerate a shadowhand when the sun set.

"It is no blessing, my lord," he said to Tamlin. He spoke softly, so as not to be overheard by the house guards.

Tamlin regarded him coolly. "So you say. But I have been reading what I can of shades and shadow magic." He nodded at the books he had carried from Stormweather, which he kept in his saddlebags.

"You will age as slowly as a mountain. Disease is nothing to you. Your flesh resists magic. That sounds a blessing to me."

The words were as much as Tamlin had spoken to him at a stretch since setting out, but Cale did not welcome them. He had known other men to use the same words when questing for power. Always such ambitions turned out badly.

"I did not endure this willingly," he said, though the words were a half-truth. "And I have heard others speak of power in the same tone you use. I would advise you to spend your energies on more wholesome studies."

"And I did not ask for your advice," Tamlin said, and spurred his horse forward.

Cale let him go but stared at his back, concerned and irritated. Tamlin looked at Cale's transformation and saw only power, not the price Cale had paid for it.

Cale shook his head, felt eyes on him, turned, and found Ren staring at him from atop his horse. Their eyes met. Ren nodded and his glance went to Cale's stump. Cale pulled his sleeve over his hand and nodded back at Ren.

Cale rode for a time in silence. Late in the afternoon, the group crossed paths with two southbound caravans out of the town of Ornstar, but the caravaneers carried no news. The road was otherwise deserted. Cale thought it strange.

Alone with his thoughts as he rode, Cale's mind turned to Magadon. He'd had no more dreams of Magadon since returning to Selgaunt. He was concerned about what it might mean for his friend. Mask had said Magadon would suffer. But he had also said that events in Sembia would lead Cale to Magadon. Cale reached into his pocket, touched his mask, and chose to believe that Mask had not lied to him. He was not sure he was being wise.

That night, the house guards went about the business of setting up tents, tending the horses, starting a fire, and doling out the food stores. Cale kept his regenerated hand covered by his sleeve as best he could, but it proved difficult. Yet no one seemed to notice it but Ren and Tamlin. Cale at last pulled Ren aside and showed him his shadowhand.

Ren eyed it with wonder. "How, Mister Cale? A cleric of Ilmater?"

"No, not a cleric," Cale said.

Ren held up his own maimed hand. "How then? Can I do the same?"

Cale sighed. "We are comrades, Ren-you and I, not so?"

Ren nodded. "Yes. Without any doubt. You saved my life."

"Then I want you to hear my words. The hand regenerates in darkness, and only in darkness, because of what I have been changed into."

He let shadows leak from his skin and Ren's eyes widened. Cale continued. "This transformation I would wish on no one, and certainly not on a man as young as you. It was an accident, happenstance."

Cale was not sure the last was the truth.

Ren looked again at his maimed hand, thoughtful. He looked into Cale's face, his gaze steady.

"I have trouble holding a shield strap. And I still feel them sometimes, the fingers, as if they were still there. Tell me this, Mister Cale-would you sacrifice the hand, even at night, to have yourself back as you were?"

Cale stared into Ren's eyes, considered lying, but decided against it. "No. But only because I need to be what I have become in order to… do the things I must do. That is hard to understand but I cannot explain it better, Ren. I do not understand it myself any better than that. If things were different, I would feel differently."

Ren looked at his fingers, chuckled. "Hells, losing the fingers made me the man I am today. It's strange, that. I hear your words, Mister Cale. Sometimes a price is too high. Even Sembians know that."

Cale thumped him on the shoulder. "You are wiser than your years, Ren. And call me Erevis. No more Mister Cale, eh?"

Ren smiled. "Erevis, then. I'll admit it feels peculiar to me."

Cale felt better for having been honest with Ren. Something in Ren reminded him of Magadon, and a little of himself as a younger man.

They joined the house guards around the fire and ate the fare that had been set out-cheese, bread, salted beef and pork. Several barrels of strong ale and bottles of wine from the Uskevren vineyards provided drink. Cale was pleased to see that none of the house guards drank to excess. Ren's men were professionals, as was Ren.

Cale smoked Jak's pipe and jested with the men. One of the house guards, Maur, pulled out his own metal-bowled pipe and lit. He and Cale traded pipeweed. Cale told and retold the guards or his rescue of Ren at the Twisted Elm, of his battle with the shadow demon in Stormweather's great hall. He kept his other stories to himself, even when talk turned to the causes of the Rain of Fire. Most of the men thought it was connected somehow to the Rage of Dragons. Cale knew better.

As was his wont since beginning the journey, the hulorn remained in his tent, reading his tomes on shadow magic until late in the night. Cale looked over at the tent often, worrying about Tamlin.

Though they expected no trouble on a main road through Sembia, the house guards nevertheless set a watch at night. Cale had taken to supplementing the watch. He had little need for sleep. He felt as awake in the deep of night as he did at dawn. Darkness heightened his senses, sharpened his edge, and he had little else to do after moonset.

After retiring for an hour, he awakened shortly before midnight and rose in silence. He willed the darkness to make him invisible and stepped out of his tent. Cloaked in shadow, he sat alone around the dying embers of the night's fire. They had camped in a slight depression near a wood of birch and oak. The wind set the trees to whispering.

Cale intertwined his fingers behind his head and stared up at the stars. His mind turned to Varra, the cottage, Jak, Magadon. He let his thoughts drift. The wind died and the sounds of the night filled his ears: the chirp of crickets and the clicking of an insect he did not recognize, the coo of a whippoorwill from within the wood, the soft hum of the breeze, the-

A metallic sound carried to his ears, very faint, like the rattle of a buckle. He sat up quickly and looked about.

Maur, the house guard on watch, stood at his post to Cale's right but the sound had come from somewhere to the left, somewhere out of sight. Maur showed no sign of having heard anything.

Still invisible, Cale stood and shadowstepped to the high ground at the top of the depression. There, he scanned the plains. The shadowstuff in him allowed him to see clearly by night, but only as far as a bowshot or so. He saw nothing but waving, knee-high whipgrass and some trees here and there.

He remained still and listened.

There. The metallic sound repeated from somewhere out in the grass. Cale acted quickly. He let the shadows dissolve from him so he would be visible and stepped through the darkness to materialize behind Maur. He put his hand around the house guard's mouth and pulled him backward.

The house guard squirmed and grunted for a moment until Cale whispered, "I heard something out in the plains. It's probably nothing. I will investigate. If I do not return soon, alert the camp."

He released Maur and the house guard turned to face him, eyes wide. "Tempus's blades, Mister Cale. You almost stopped my heart."

"Stay alert," Cale said, and without waiting for a reply, stepped through the shadows back to the plains. He was a dagger's throw away from the camp and could see Maur behind him, tense and watchful, staring out into the grass.

He eyed the area around him, saw nothing. He drew Weaveshear, slowly and silently. Shadows leaked ponderously from the blade and dissipated into the night air. Once more he drew the darkness around him.

Invisible and silent, he prowled the grass. The tension drew sweat and shadows from his flesh. A sound from ahead of him, an overloud intake of breath, betrayed his prey's location.

Cale estimated the distance to his unseen foe, stepped through the darkness, covering ten paces with a stride, and found himself standing over a human man crouched in the grass with a knife between his teeth. Cale must have heard him breathing over the blade.

Cale almost missed seeing the man, so well did he blend with his surroundings. The man's cloak perfectly matched the grass and darkness-a magical effect, no doubt-and Cale might not have seen him at all had he not thrown back his hood, revealing a narrow face and short, dark hair.

Cale froze, hovering over the man, blade bare, shadows swirling.

The man tensed and cocked his head as if he sensed Cale nearby. He turned and poked his head above the grass, looking toward the camp, looking through Cale.

Seeing nothing, the man returned to his crouch and used the knife to tighten a loose buckle on his calf-high boots. No doubt the bouncing buckle had caused the metallic sound Cale had heard.

The man pulled up his hood and stood, and his cloak changed appearance to keep him camouflaged. He looked once more on the camp. He appeared able to see despite the darkness, leaving Cale to assume he was magically empowered with night sight.

Seemingly satisfied, the man turned and headed off at a steady run. Cale decided not to kill him-yet. He sheathed Weaveshear and followed in silence.

The magic of the man's cloak masked him well even on the move, but Cale was able to stay close enough to keep him in sight. The man made almost no sound, even at a trot. Cale marked him as a professional-a spy or scout. The man headed directly for a pair of tall larches about three hundred paces off. He slowed as he approached the trees and pulled back his hood.

Cale stayed with him as another man emerged from the darkness of the trees. He was taller, eight or nine winters older, and wearing a cloak similar to the first man's. They hailed each other in silence and did not speak until they were nearly face to face.

Cale crept forward, low to the ground, and strained his ears to hear.

"… only a single guard. Could have put him down myself and moved through the camp."

Not likely, Cale thought.

The taller man nodded. "Did you mark the livery, Othel? They're Selgauntans and that's certain."

"There's not even a score of men," Othel said.

"Should be easy work," the taller man said.

With that, they set off, moving in a line to the north of the camp. Cale stayed with them. They ran for perhaps half a league and slowed to a walk as they neared a drought-dried pond ringed by tall elms. Both removed their cloaks as they approached.

Cale shadowstepped ahead of them into the trees and saw gathered there a force of over one hundred men. All wore chain hauberks, bore shields and blades, and wore on their green tabards the golden wagon wheel of Ordulin.

Cale crouched low against the bole of an elm and stayed at the edge of the camp.

The group's horses stood in a makeshift pen of rope strung between some trees. All were saddled and ready to ride. The men burned no fires and none slept despite the hour. They only waited.

A murmur went through the camp as the news of the scouts' arrival reached them. All stood. Mail chinked as they adjusted armor and shields.

A tall man with iron gray hair and a thick moustache stalked toward the scouts. Eight other men followed him. Cale noted two unarmored, robed men among them-mages, he presumed-and two long-haired men with lightning bolts on their shields. Cale recognized them as war priests and the lightning bolts as holy symbols, but he could not recall which god was symbolized by the bolts.

The two scouts approached the tall, gray-haired man and saluted.

"Report," said the gray-haired man.

"The Selgauntan delegation is camped half a league to the south," said Othel. "They expect no danger and have posted only a single guard."

Cale saw disappointment in the expressions of many of the men who overheard. Several chuckled and shook their heads in disbelief. Apparently, they were hoping for a hard fight. Cale did not understand why forces from Ordulin would attack the Selgauntans, but there was no mistaking what he'd heard.

"Get the men enspelled for night fighting," the leader said to the two mages. The wizards nodded, reached to cases at their belts, and pulled out metal wands capped with cat's eye chrysoberyls.

"Form up," the blond-haired mage said to the men, and the force shuffled into orderly rows. The two mages started on opposite sides of the formation and began moving efficiently from man to man, tapping each with the wand. Each time, the recipient's eyes flared red for an instant.

Meanwhile, the gray-haired leader said to his sergeants and war priests, "This is a sweep and clean. We approach under sound cover from Vors and Paalin."

"Survivors, Malkur?" one of the priests asked.

Cale recognized the name Malkur from somewhere but could not place it.

"No prisoners," Malkur answered. "As I said, a full sweep and clean."

The mages finished their work and Malkur turned to one of his sergeants, a scarred, dark-haired man fairly covered in throwing knives.

"Give the order, Enken. Let's mount up."

Enken nodded. "Aye, sir." He turned and issued orders to the men to mount up and take positions by squad.

The men moved briskly to their horses and checked their gear. Cale figured the Selgauntans had half an hour, maybe less, before the force of soldiers swept down on them. He wrestled with the notion of killing a few of the leaders before leaving, but decided against it. He did not want them to know they'd been discovered. The Selgauntans could not fight; they'd have to run, and Cale knew killing a few leaders would make no difference.

His mind made up, he drew the shadows around him, imagined the Selgauntans' campsite in his mind, and rode the night there in an instant.

He found himself standing before the glowing embers of the campfire with his holy symbol in hand. He stared at the mask, puzzled. He had not taken it from his pocket, had he? He had no time to consider. He let the shadows fall from him so he would be visible.

Maur still stood at his post at the top of the depression, looking out over the plains.

"Maur," Cale called, and the house guard eyed him with wonder. "Get down here."

Maur hurried down, his long hair flapping behind him.

"Where did you come from, Mister Cale? I was watching the approaches."

Cale did not bother to explain. "Saddle the horses, Maur. As fast as you can. We will soon be attacked."

Maur's expression turned to alarm. "What? How do you-"

"Do it," Cale said. He left Maur and moved from tent to tent. "Up, men. Now! Up. On your feet."

Groggy heads emerged from tents.

Cale did not shout but spoke loudly enough for his voice to be heard. He clutched his mask in his shadowhand. "This campsite will be overrun by cavalry in less than half an hour unless we are gone from here. Gear up and mount up."

Cale could not keep the shadows from bleeding out of his flesh. No one seemed to notice in the darkness.

The house guards asked no questions. They shook the sleep from their heads, stepped out of their tents, and pulled on hauberks, belted on blades, and donned helms. They moved with alacrity, one man helping another.

Cale saw Ren slipping into his hauberk. Cale went to him and reported what he had learned.

"One hundred horsemen are north of us and are planning to attack. Get some men to help Maur with the horses. We need to move. This instant."

"Dark," Ren oathed, fastening the buckle on his weapon belt. "How do you know this?"

"I spotted one of their scouts at the edge of our camp and followed him back."

Ren nodded, capped his head in a helm, and started barking orders at the men. "Leave everything except arms and armor. Get the horses saddled. My lord," Ren said, turning to face Tamlin, who had emerged from his tent.

"What is happening?" Tamlin asked, looking around the bustling camp. He had already put on his boots and thrown on a cloak.

"We must ride south, my lord," Cale said. "And we must do so quickly. Gather only your essential things."

"Maur!" Ren called above the tumult. "Ready Lord Uskevren's horse! Daasim, help Maur with the horses."

Tamlin watched with bemusement as a house guard hopped by, pulling on his boot as he moved toward the horses.

"Stop," Tamlin said, but no one listened. He grabbed Ren by the shoulder and said, "Explain what is happening."

Before Ren could reply, Cale answered, "My lord, nearly one hundred mounted men wait not far from here. Seasoned men. They have priests and wizards among them. They wear Ordulin's colors and mean to attack us."

Shadows streamed from Cale's flesh as he spoke and Tamlin watched them spiral into the night. Cale's words appeared to register with him.

"Ordulin's colors?" Tamlin asked, and shook his head. "That does not make sense, Mister Cale. If they wear Ordulin's colors, then they must be an escort."

"Lord Uskevren, they are no escort. I know with certainty that they mean to attack. I heard them say as much. I cannot explain why but it is so." He gestured toward the horses. "Please, Lord. I will gather your things."

"You heard them?" Tamlin asked. "How? Were you away from the camp?"

"My lord," Ren said to Tamlin, and tried to steer him toward the horses. "I think we would be well-advised to heed Mister Cale."

Tamlin turned to Ren with ice in his eyes. "You would be better served by heeding me, house guard."

Ren let his hand fall from Tamlin's arm and stammered, "Of course, Hulorn. I meant only…"

Cale cut him off. "We are wasting time on irrelevancies."

Tamlin glared at Cale. "Did you say 'irrelevancies'?"

Cale could not keep the anger from his tone. "Yes. This is not about what is between you and me. Your own safety and that of your men is at stake. Ten times our number is going to ride down on us. You must run. All of us must run or die."

"Run? I am no coward. And I did not think you were, either."

Cale's anger flared at Tamlin's false bravado. He grabbed him by the shirt and lifted him from his feet, regretting it almost instantly. Shadows swirled around them both.

Ren looked shocked. The camp fell silent. Cale felt the eyes of the house guards on him. Tamlin looked first afraid, then enraged.

"Take your hands from me, Mister Cale," he said tightly. "Now."

Cale calmed himself, released him, and offered a half bow.

"My apologies, my lord. I am… concerned. It is not cowardice to flee from a superior force. If you try to make a stand here, all of us will die."

"I am not convinced that these riders you think you saw mean us ill," Tamlin said coolly.

Cale struggled to keep his voice level. "I stood invisibly among them, Hulorn. Their leader is called Malkur. I do not merely think I saw anything. I do not merely think I heard anything. I did see, and I did hear. Again, if we stand, we die."

Ren looked at Cale intently. "Malkur? Malkur Forrin?"

Cale shrugged. He did not know the man's surname. "Tall, gray haired, with a moustache."

"Yes, that is him," Ren said, and turned to Tamlin. "My lord, Malkur Forrin is a former general in the Sembian army. He now heads a mercenary band. They have a dark reputation."

"But they wear Ordulin's colors," Tamlin said. "How could Malkur Forrin-"

"Ignore the damned colors they wear!" Cale snapped. "If the riders meant you no harm why would they approach by night? Why not await the day? Why not sound a greeting? Surely an escort force would do exactly that. These are mercenaries, whatever colors they wear."

Tamlin opened his mouth to speak, closed it, and frowned. "A good point," he acknowledged at last.

Cale seized on the opening. He could not waste any more time with further discussions.

"Move out as quietly as you can," he said to Ren. "I will delay them."

"Delay them?" Tamlin and Ren said simultaneously.

Cale reached into his pocket and clutched his holy symbol.

"Leave it to me. I will catch up when I can."

"Catch up?" Tamlin asked. "You intend to remain?"

"I work best alone, my lord," Cale answered. "I will catch up. I can move very quickly when I have need. Faster than the horses. You know that."

Ren oathed. Tamlin eyed Cale thoughtfully, nodded, and said, "Yes, of course."

To Ren, Cale said, "Take Vos with you. I will not need him until we rendezvous. Ride due south, cut across the countryside. Do not take the road. Move fast but quietly. I do not want them to know we have abandoned the camp until they are upon it."

Ren nodded and Cale turned to Tamlin. "My lord? Will you go? Now, please?"

Tamlin nodded. Cale said, "Do not use your spells unless you must, otherwise you will betray your position."

Tamlin glared at him. "You are not to issue orders to me, Mister Cale."

Cale did not give voice to his anger lest he say something to further sour their relationship.

Ren tried to diffuse matters by gesturing at the horses. "My lord, your horse is ready. Please, this way."

Cale and Tamlin stared at one another a moment longer before Tamlin turned and walked to his horse.

As the men formed up, Cale called to Ren and Tamlin, "Stay as quiet as you can until you know they have marked you. If we are quiet, they may miss us in the darkness." He paused, then said to Tamlin, "We must return to Selgaunt, my lord."

Tamlin nodded absently.

Ren reached down to take Cale's forearm. "Tymora watch you, Erevis."

Cale knew it was not Tymora's aid that he would need, but Mask's. He said, "And you, Ren. And you, Lord Uskevren."

Tamlin said nothing and the men spurred their mounts and rode due west at a moderate gallop. Cale winced at the noise they made, though they were as quiet as they could be.

He shadowstepped to the top of the declivity and looked north. He did not see the mercenaries, but his nightvision extended only so far. Given their numbers, he knew he would hear them before he saw them.

He looked at the mask in his hand. He remembered the Shadowlord's words to him: Do what you were called to do.

Cale donned the mask.

He calmed himself and opened his mind to the Shadowlord. It was after midnight-the time he would ordinarily pray for spells- and he did not have time for his usual meditations, but he hoped Mask would answer his request nevertheless.

He sent forth his consciousness and requested that Mask fuel his mind with the power to cast spells, spells that would harm and mislead. He took a deep breath, let the shadows enfold him, and repeated the request.

Power rushed into his mind, one spell, another, another. He tensed as the familiar rush filled his brain; he grinned at the familiarity of it.

A voice from beside him whispered in his ear, "You are late, as usual. But welcome back. Almost there, now."

Cale whirled and looked to his side, but saw only darkness, only shadows. His skin was goose pimpled.

He looked north across the plains and saw the entire company of mercenaries bearing down on the campsite at a full gallop. They made no sound as they approached; their clerics must have silenced them. The whipgrass hid the horses' legs from view. The whole force looked as if it were floating.

Cale stood, his request for spells only partially answered, and drew Weaveshear. He pulled the shadows about him until they masked him from sight. He shadowstepped to the south side of the slope, putting himself between the Selgauntans and the mercenaries. There, he crouched in the grass, the power of his god sizzling in his mind.

The mercenaries charged in a crescent formation, blades bare and shields at station. About a spear's cast from the campsite, one of the riders made a cutting gesture with his hand and the magical silence ended. The thunder of hooves and the battle cries of the mercenaries filled the air. No doubt they expected the surprised Selgauntans to rush from their tents and be cut down. Had the Selgauntans been in the camp, none of them could have escaped the charge.

The mercenaries barreled into the campsite, shouting challenges. When they found only empty tents, they pulled up and searched about. Curses and questions replaced battle cries. The mercenaries trampled the Selgauntans' tents and gear. Malkur, the priests, and the wizards appeared at the top of the declivity opposite Cale. The company's archers held formation behind them.

"They were here not too long ago," called Othel, atop a horse in the midst of the campsite.

Malkur frowned and looked out over the plains. "They cannot be far."

One of the priests beside Malkur smashed together two glass spheres and incanted a spell. He turned his horse in a semicircle and stopped when he was facing south, the direction the Selgauntans had fled.

"There," he said, and pointed past Cale. "Three long bowshots, no more."

The priest galloped around the declivity in the direction in which he had pointed, toward Cale.

"Form up," Malkur called to his men, and several sergeants echoed the command.

Cale had hoped to get the mercenaries in a more compact formation, but decided he could not wait any longer.

"I see them!" the lead priest called. He was no more than a dagger toss from Cale, and alone. "Due south. Two bowshots."

"Form up for pursuit," Malkur said to the rest of the men. "Archers at the ready."

Before the men could reassemble, Cale intoned a rapid imprecation to Mask. A cylinder of fire and searing divine power engulfed the entire declivity in flames, heat, and light. The moment Cale completed his spell, the shadows enshrouding him peeled away and left him visible.

The flames caught almost a score of men in the thick of the blast, including Malkur, the mages, and one of the priests at its edge. Men and horses screamed and the stink of burning flesh filled the air. The horses not caught in the flames, including those of the archers behind Malkur, reared and bucked.

The flames whooshed out of existence as fast as they had appeared, leaving burning tents and the bodies of over a dozen men and horses scattered across the campsite. Screams of pain rose into the night. The unwounded men cursed, tried to control their horses, and looked about warily.

"What in the Hells?"

"Where did that come from?"

The priest near Cale, unaffected by the fire, noticed him.

"Here!" he shouted, and spurred his horse toward Cale. "He is here!"

The mercenaries responded to the priest's words with professional speed. Before Cale could pull the concealing shadows back around him, half a score arrows hissed toward him. Four missed and sank to their fletching in the grass. The shadows that sheathed him deflected two arrows, but four buried themselves in his chest, shoulder, arm, and thigh. The impact drove him backward and knocked him to the earth. He hissed with the pain even as his flesh started to spit out the arrows and heal the wounds.

The cleric appeared above him on his horse. His axe and lightning bolt-emblazoned shield hung from his saddle. He pointed a hand at Cale, fingers outstretched.

Cale could not interpose Weaveshear in time and an arc of fire shot from the priest's fingers and seared Cale's face and chest. His flesh was not able to repel the priest's spell and the flesh of his eyes and lower jaw-those parts of his face not protected by the mask- blistered and peeled. The damage sealed his eyes shut.

"There's fire for your fire, whoreson," said the priest, and he called back to his fellows with a wild laugh. "He is alone!"

Cale could hear the priest's horse thumping in the grass near him. He pulled the arrows from his body by touch, grunting with each one.

"Run him down," Malkur ordered. "Vors, see to the fallen. The rest of you, after the Selgauntans."

Cale braced himself with his arms and tried to rise but the priest's horse slammed into him, knocked him flat, and rode over him. The war horse's hind legs stomped his chest and snapped several ribs. Cale hissed at the pain. The priest laughed maniacally as he galloped off.

Cale felt the ground vibrating as the rest of the horsemen galloped out of the hollow and toward the Selgauntans. They rode directly at him, he knew. His body was healing itself, and just in time, he could open his eyes and see.

Hooves were all around him, throwing up clods of dirt. He rolled to his side, resisted the instinctive urge to cover up, and did the only thing he could. He moved from the darkness on one side of the declivity to the darkness on the other.

He arrived across the campsite behind Malkur, the wizards, the priest, and the departing archers. He held his silence and took as deep a breath as his damaged body allowed. He watched the mercenaries speed off after Ren, Tamlin, and the house guards.

He lay on his side, sheathed in shadows, and let his flesh heal for a few moments. In the campsite below, he saw one of the priests moving from one burned corpse to another, presumably looking for signs of life. The priest's horse followed him, tossing its head at the stink.

Cale winced as his ribs knitted together. He whispered a prayer to Mask and channeled healing energy into his wounded body. He ran his fingers tentatively over his face and found it nearly healed. He rose into a crouch, Weaveshear in hand.

The priest kneeled over another of the fallen. The back of his neck was exposed between helmet and mail. Cale had killed dozens of men in exactly that position. He was about to add another to the number.

He took Weaveshear in a two-handed grip and in a single stride, moved into the darkness directly behind the priest. The priest's horse snorted at Cale's sudden appearance but before the priest could turn, Cale slashed downward and decapitated him. The priest never uttered a sound. The blood pumping from the stump of his neck soaked the corpse he had been checking.

Cale sheathed his blade and hurried over to the horse. It backed off and whinnied, throwing its head.

"Steady," Cale said. "Steady, now."

The warhorse stood taller than Vos by five hands. Cale took hold of its reins and whispered soothingly as he moved to its side. It backed up, snorting.

"Steady," Cale said again, and patted its neck. It seemed as calm as he could hope for, so he put his foot to the stirrup and swung himself up. The horse danced under him but he held his perch. The stirrups were too short but he did not have time to adjust them.

He pulled two daggers from his belt and took one in each hand, all while holding the reins. He spurred the horse and it raced after the mercenaries so fast it almost dismounted him. Probably it found him a lighter load than usual. The priest had been shorter but fully armored.

Cale leaned forward and bent low, his head along the horse's neck, and encouraged it onward. He could see the mercenaries ahead, moving at a full gallop, and ahead of them, the Selgauntans, also at a gallop. The mercenaries' wizard must have cast a spell on the Selgauntans to mark them, for all were covered in glowing, golden dust. Cale could make out Tamlin and Ren even at his distance.

The mercenaries, arranged in a wide column, were gaining. Stormweather's horses were bred for strength and endurance, not speed. It was only a matter of time before Tamlin and the house guards were caught. They needed to find favorable terrain to make a stand. Meanwhile, Cale was gaining on the mercenaries, slowly but inexorably.

He saw Ren shouting orders to his men and gesturing, and they cleared out from behind Tamlin. Tamlin turned in his saddle and pointed a finger back at the mercenaries. A bolt of lightning tore through their ranks. Two men and horses fell in tumbling, smoking heaps. The rest veered around the fallen, as did Cale, and continued the pursuit.

"Hyah!" Cale called to his horse, and spurred it harder. It snorted and found a reserve of speed. Cale closed more of the distance.

Shouted orders passed through the mercenary ranks and the group of archers, in the rear of the column, drew their bows.

A flight of arrows arced up and rained down on the Selgauntans. A horse went down and its rider tumbled. Another arrow sank into the shoulder of a house guard. He sagged but held his seat with one hand.

Cale gained a few more strides and figured he was close enough to walk the shadows. He eyed one of the last men in the formation, an archer. He leaned forward and moved through the darkness from his saddle to that of the archer. He appeared behind the man, on the horse's backside. Cale did not even try to stay atop the horse. He drove both daggers through the mercenary's mail and into his kidneys. The man gave an aborted shout and the horse's motion threw him and Cale.

Cale hit the ground in a roll. The impact drove the air from his lungs and displaced his shoulder. He ignored the pain, jumped to his feet, and started sprinting after the mercenaries. His regenerative flesh popped his shoulder back into its socket as he ran.

Cale ran a handful of steps, picked another man at the end of the formation, jumped into the air, and stepped through the shadows to the darkness behind the archer. Cale appeared in midair and wrapped his arms around the throat of the rider. The mercenary uttered a muffled scream for aid as he and Cale fell from the horse. Both grunted as they hit the ground and tumbled. Cale felt a bone crack in his ankle and forearm, but his body quelled the pain as it repaired the break. He gained his feet, located the groaning mercenary, and drove a dagger into his chest and another into his throat.

He stood, prepared to repeat the process, and saw that two of the mercenaries must have heard their comrade shout. They peeled off the formation and charged at Cale, blades high.

Cale held up his shadowhand and intoned a prayer to Mask. An arc of dark energy went forth from his palm and struck both men. Wounds opened in their exposed skin-gashes like mouths spitting blood. Their bones twisted and shattered. Both screamed and fell from their horses. One snapped his neck on impact. Cale drew Weaveshear, bounded forward, and drove the blade through the second rider's chest.

He grabbed the reins of one of the neighing horses, calmed it, swung himself up, and started after the mercenaries once more. He was not close enough to shadowstep, so he spurred the horse on.

He gritted his teeth as another volley of arrows from the mercenaries killed another house guard. The mercenaries' horses stomped his fallen body into the ground as they pursued. Cale saw five glowing magical darts shoot from the fingers of the wizard riding near Malkur and slam into Tamlin's back. He arched with pain but held his saddle. Tamlin turned to look back on the mercenaries, moved his hand through a series of intricate gestures, and pointed.

A blinding cloud of sleet and ice formed and swirled around the mercenaries' center, affecting fully a third of the force. The icy ground sent half a dozen horses down and their riders with them. Men shouted, cursed, railed. Horses neighed, whinnied, bucked.

Cale grinned, thinking the Selgauntans had just improved the odds and might yet escape.

The mercenaries' wizard answered Tamlin's spell with one of his own, and a thicket of fat black tentacles squirmed up from the plains in the Selgauntans' midst. Their horses reared and bucked, and many fell. The house guards shouted, hacked at the tentacles with their blades, all to no avail. The squirming limbs grabbed at everything that moved. Some plucked riders from their mounts, others plucked mount and rider together and lifted them off the earth. In the span of three heartbeats, every Selgauntan was wrapped in a black tentacle. The limbs began to squeeze and the Selgauntans began to scream.

The mercenaries slowed and approached at a more leisurely pace. Cale cursed. He would have to kill the wizard.

He sheathed his daggers and intoned a prayer to Mask. When he finished, dangerous energy charged his hands. He closed the distance to the mercenaries until he was less than a bowshot behind them. He checked the darkness behind the mage and rode the night onto the wizard's horse.

The moment he appeared, he clamped both hands onto either side of the wizard's head and discharged the baleful energy. Wounds erupted all over the wizard's face. Blood spurted from his ears, eyes, and mouth. Cale felt the man's skull crack under his fingertips. The wizard managed only a choked, gurgling scream before Cale let him fall, dead, from his horse.

Malkur's horse and others near Cale whinnied and reared in surprise. The men near him cursed, tried to turn their mounts and bring their blades to bear.

Cale met Malkur's eyes for a moment before he pulled the shadows around him and stepped through them to the edge of the tentacles, ahead of the mercenaries.

The thick limbs entwined men and horses and both screamed as the tentacles continued to constrict. The glowing dust that had covered the Selgauntans no longer shone. Cale held up his hand and intoned a prayer to Mask, pitting the power of his magic against that of the wizard, attempting to undo the wizard's constricting magic.

He felt resistance when his magic met the wizard's spell but Cale's abjuration prevailed. The tentacles vanished in a blink and the men and their mounts fell to the ground, groaning. The bray of a battle horn sounded behind Cale and he turned to receive the mercenaries' charge. The Selgauntans were all going to die, but he would take Malkur and as many mercenaries with him as he could.

But instead of facing the charging mercenaries, Cale saw a second force of spear-armed horsemen streaking across the plains from his right, directly at the attackers. Cale guessed their number to be about double that of Malkur's men.

A rosy glow illuminated the riders and they looked almost celestial galloping through the high grass on their leather-barded warhorses. The glow emanated from the upraised blade of an armored figure who rode at their head-a sandy-haired man in a mail hauberk, helm, and enameled breastplate. He alone bore a blade rather than a horse spear. In his left hand he carried a standard and it billowed straight out behind him: a silver horse rampant on a violet field, the heraldry of Saerb. The rider beside him blew a note on his horn and the Saerbians spread into a line.

"For Saerb!" the riders shouted in unison.

Cale saw a nervous ripple make its way through the mercenary ranks as horses turned circles and men sought orders. Malkur and his sergeants issued commands and the mercenaries formed a makeshift line. The archers let fly a disorganized volley of arrows that found no targets in the onrushing Saerbians.

A few of the house guards behind Cale recovered themselves enough to let out a cheer.

"Huzzah!" shouted one.

Cale thought the mercenaries might make a stand. He considered shadowstepping into their ranks to kill Malkur but did not want to get caught in the Saerbian's charge.

The Saerbians let loose another horn blast and lowered their spears. The thunder of charging hooves vibrated the ground under the Selgauntans' feet.

Malkur shouted an order, turned his horse in a circle, and signaled a retreat. As one, the mercenaries whirled their mounts and sped off. The Saerbians let out another blare of their horns and thundered after.

A second wizard in the mercenary company cast a spell as he rode and the air between the two cavalry forces froze solid into a curtain of ice that rose fully twenty paces vertically and stretched several bowshots across the plain. Its edge nearly reached the Selgauntans. Cale could feel the cold it radiated.

The glowing rider at the head of the Saerbian forces shouted and pulled his mount to a stop. The others did the same, and two hundred warhorses reared and pawed. The chill air near the wall of ice made their snorts visible as frozen mist.

The mercenaries, heads down, galloped away as fast as their horses would bear them.

From behind Cale, Tamlin incanted a spell and shot a lightning bolt at the fleeing mercenaries. It hit a horse and rider squarely and sent them careening head over heels and smoking into the turf. His fellows did not slow.

"After the bastards!" shouted one of the house guards.

Ren echoed Cale's thoughts. "Leave it, Maur. It's over."

Cale turned, nodded at Ren, saw that Tamlin and several of the house guards showed wounds from arrows or spells. He hurried to Tamlin's side.

Tamlin eyed him with a question on his face and Cale remembered his mask. He removed it, held it in his hand, and uttered a healing prayer as he touched Tamlin. The pallor left Tamlin's face and he breathed more easily.

"A shade and a priest," Tamlin said. "You provide one surprise after another." He looked at the mask. "Which god do you serve, Mister Cale?"

Cale mumbled something incomprehensible and moved to the wounded house guards, healing each in turn. None of the men asked him any questions, but merely mouthed gratitude. Cale felt Tamlin's eyes on him throughout.

The rumble of approaching hooves heralded the Saerbians' arrival. Cale, Tamlin, and the house guards rode forth to meet them. Although he was no astute judge of horseflesh, even Cale could see that the Saerbian horses were magnificent. Leather barding protected muscular bodies covered in reddish brown fur. The riders bore short spears and mail. All wore serious looks, but none more serious than their leader.

An enameled rose decorated his breastplate and a similar symbol hung from a chain at his throat. Short, sand-colored hair topped an angular face spotted with several days' growth of beard. He sheathed his glowing blade and handed the standard to one of the men beside him. Cale could not shake the impression that the man was still aglow, though he could see plainly that he was not.

"The gods keep Saerb," Ren said with a smile, and many of the Saerbians smiled.

The leader dismounted and said, "I am Abelar Corrinthal. And these are men of Saerb. You are Selgauntans, no?"

Cale, Tamlin, and the house guards answered with nods and ayes.

"You have our thanks," Cale said to Abelar, and extended his hand. "I am Erevis Cale."

Abelar regarded him with a furrowed brow but extended his hand anyway. No shadows emerged from Cale's skin at Abelar's touch.

"Corrinthal?" Tamlin said. "You are kin of Endren?"

Abelar nodded and a challenge lit his eyes. "His son."

Cale gestured at Tamlin and said, "You have saved Selgaunt's leader. Thamalon Uskevren the Second, Hulorn of Selgaunt."

A murmur went through the ranks of the Saerbians.

"The hulorn himself is on the road?" Abelar asked.

Tamlin nodded. "Traveling to Ordulin for the moot. You are far from home, Abelar Corrinthal."

"We have been many days on the road," Abelar answered with a nod. "When we heard that the Saerloonian delegation had been attacked, we-"

"The Saerloonian delegation was attacked?" Tamlin asked. "By whom?"

Abelar answered, "I suspect by the same forces that attacked you, Lord Hulorn."

"But the forces that attacked us wore Ordulin's colors," Tamlin said.

"Mirabeta Selkirk is behind it," Abelar said. His men nodded, grunted agreement.

Tamlin stared at him for a moment. "That is preposterous! Mirabeta Selkirk is the Overmistress of Sembia. Why would she make an enemy of Selgaunt?"

Abelar said, "Because she wishes more power for herself and knows that Selgaunt will not support her. Just as she knows that Saerb will not. Events are moving quickly, my lord. You have been away from your city only a few days and matters have run ahead of you." He reached into a pocket and removed a folded piece of parchment. He handed it to Cale, who handed it to Tamlin. "This is a proclamation issued by Mirabeta Selkirk five days ago. When I heard of it, I expected an attack on your delegation. We have been riding after you since."

Tamlin unfolded the parchment, read it, and his expression went from puzzled to angry.

"That is absurd! Forces out of Selgaunt did not attack the Saerloonians!"

"Nor did any man from Saerb," Abelar said. "I assure you of that."

Tamlin handed the letter to Cale and he read it to himself.

Yesterday, soldiers from Selgaunt and Saerb engaged in a most cowardly and ignoble surprise attack on members of the Saerloonian delegation as they made their way to Ordulin for a moot of their peers. This attack appears to be retaliation for the arrest of the murderer Endren Corrinthal and in furtherance of his and his co-conspirators' attempt to seize power in Sembia through force of arms.

Cale did not bother to read the rest.

"She is lying!" Tamlin sputtered. "Lying!"

Abelar nodded. "It is all a lie. My father did not murder the Overmaster, yet Mirabeta has condemned him to the Hole of Yhaunn." Uncomfortable glances passed between the men from Saerb at that news.

Abelar continued, "Selgaunt and Saerb did not attack the Saerloonians, yet we are named traitors to the nation. The truth no longer matters. The people and the nobility believe the lie because they prefer where it leads. Mirabeta has made you, and Saerb, the enemy that she will use to secure her rule."

"I will not have it," Tamlin said, shaking his head. "Sembia will not have it."

"It is already done, my lord," Abelar said. "Most of the nobility in the realm are behind her. Only Daerlun stands neutral, but that's only because it contemplates secession to Cormyr. Mirabeta has won the rest with promises, fear, and false patriotism. Already she has sounded a muster in Ordulin and Saerloon, and troops from all over Sembia are gathering. Come spring, Selgaunt and Saerb will be assaulted by her two armies. You have two options. You can accept her lies and go meekly to the gallows or you can fight. There is no other way."

"Fight?" Tamlin said. "Fight other Sembians?"

"Civil war, my lord," Abelar said, nodding. "It is already upon us though the armies have not yet met."

Tamlin was flushed, sweating. The combat and the news from the capital left him foundering.

"I need time to think," Tamlin said, rubbing his temples. "This is… unbelievable."

Cale stepped to Tamlin's side, prepared to steady him by his presence if not his arm. "Where are you camped, Abelar?"

Abelar regarded Cale coolly. "Not far from here." He turned to his men. "Regg, have the men assist the Selgauntans in gathering their dead. Then we ride for the camp."

The Selgauntans, aided by the Saerbians, set about collecting their fallen. Afterward, the entire force rode south for the Saerbian camp. Tamlin, Cale, and Abelar trailed the main body.

"You spoke of civil war, yet you ride far east of your home to rescue us?" Cale said to Abelar.

Abelar looked at Tamlin as he answered. "I needed to ensure the safety and loyalty of the leader of my only sure ally. I have done the former. I hope I have done the latter?"

Tamlin nodded absently. Abelar glanced at Cale, then back to Tamlin.

"You keep unusual company, Lord Uskevren," he said.

Tamlin took his point. "Mister Cale is a trusted advisor and… priest."

"Oh?" Abelar said, eyebrows raised. "Whom do you serve, Erevis Cale?"

"Yes, whom do you serve, Mister Cale?" Tamlin asked.

Cale came within a blade's width of punching Tamlin in the face. Had Tamlin not been Thamalon's son, had Cale not figured Magadon's fate to be tied up in Sembia's, he would have left Tamlin to his own counsel then and there.

He looked Tamlin in the eyes, then Abelar. He took the mask from his pocket and held it up for both of them to see. "I serve Mask the Shadowlord. I have for over two years." Tamlin looked shocked. Abelar frowned. Cale glared first at Tamlin then at Abelar. "I can read your face, Corrinthal. Say what you would."

Tamlin, perhaps thinking better of his verbal ambush, said, "Mister Cale has proven his worth to my father and to me countless times, Abelar. His loyalty is beyond question, irrespective of the god he serves."

Abelar held Cale's gaze throughout Tamlin's defense. Cale credited him for not faltering. If nothing else, he recognized Abelar as a man he could respect.

Abelar said, "I judge men by their deeds, Cale. Not their gods and not their blood." He looked at Cale's skin as if he could see Cale was not a mere man. "But Lathander has empowered me to look in men's souls, and there is darkness in you. It is apparent to anyone who can see."

Cale knew the words to be true but was too angry to acknowledge them aloud. "There is a darkness in every man, Corrinthal," he answered. "And I, too, judge men by their deeds. That holy symbol you wear carries no weight with me."

They stared at each other a moment longer. Finally Abelar nodded. "Well enough," he said.

"Well enough," Cale answered.

When they arrived at the Saerbian camp, Tamlin, Cale, and Abelar took counsel in private around the fire, amidst the Saerbian tents. The house guards and Saerbians assigned men to a watch and the rest prepared for sleep.

Tamlin looked from Cale to Abelar. The firelight highlighted the circles under his eyes.

"If we fight…" he eyed Abelar, "… and I say 'if,' because even if I agree with your course, I do not have plenary authority to send Selgaunt to war. The Old Chauncel must ratify any such decision."

Abelar said "They will fight. An army will arrive at your walls. They will fight or die."

Tamlin sighed, continued. "Who else can we count on as an ally?"

Abelar leaned back and shook his head. "No one. The nobles have either sided with Ordulin or are trying to stay neutral until the storm blows over."

Cale found Abelar's choice of words ominous. Abelar continued. "Even the nobles in and around Saerb have lost their nerve. My father could rally them, but he is in the Hole of Yhaunn-and I am not him." He looked at Tamlin steadily. "I have two hundred and eleven men in this company. Another two hundred, perhaps three, would rally to me back in Saerb. That, combined with your forces, is all that stands against Mirabeta."

Tamlin shook his head. "You have four hundred men? Five hundred at best? Mirabeta will have thousands. I can muster perhaps two thousand men, not many more, assuming all the Old Chauncel agree that war is the only course."

"It is the only course," Abelar affirmed, and Cale found himself in agreement.

"How do we know that?" Tamlin asked, still grasping. "Perhaps Daerlun has the right of it. We stand by peacefully and let events unfold."

Before Abelar could reply, Cale said, "My lord, you read the proclamation. Mirabeta has declared Selgaunt and Saerb enemies of Sembia. If Abelar speaks truth, most of the nobility appear prepared to back her play."

"I always speak truth," Abelar said to Cale.

"We will see," Cale countered.

Abelar said to Tamlin, "Mirabeta Selkirk does not want war. She needs it. It is the pretense for her to seize and hold power. I have looked in her eyes, Hulorn, seen into her soul. Nothing else matters to her. And her plotting is furthered by her niece, Elyril Hraven, and that one serves a dark patron. There is more afoot here than a mere grab for power by Mirabeta Selkirk."

Cale agreed but kept his thoughts to himself. It all leads back to Magadon, the Shadowlord had told him. But you will not like where it leads.

Abelar continued. "If we stand idle, we will hang as traitors. There will be no peace before there is war. Mirabeta cannot allow it."

Abelar's words weighed on all three men. They sat in silence for a time.

"What of Cormyr, or the elves of Cormanthyr?" Cale asked.

"No doubt both would be pleased to see Sembians fighting Sembians," Abelar said. "Perhaps one or the other would enter the war at some point, but not until the murk clears."

"I will send out envoys nevertheless," said Tamlin. "We need allies from somewhere."

"Aye," Abelar said. "That we do, unless Sembia is to fall under the rule of Mirabeta and whatever dark god she serves." He brightened. "In the meanwhile, we have one another, and Lathander."

And Mask, Cale thought, but did not say.

The next morning, a mounted force out of Selgaunt rode into the Saerbian camp and informed them that they were in danger of attack. Cale almost laughed.