Shadowstorm

CHAPTER EIGHT

24 Uktar, the Year of Lightning Storms

Abelar and Regg, leading the company atop Swiftdawn and Firstlight, crested the rise and saw it first. Abelar raised his hand for a halt and the whole of his force came to a stop along the rise. Only the soft chink of metal and the occasional whicker of a mount broke the silence. All eyes looked below them on the plain.

Perhaps three long bowshots in the distance, a force of cavalry rode. They numbered perhaps twice that of Abelar's company. Abelar could not make out their standard but he noted the color of their tabards-Ordulin's green.

A murmur moved through the men. Horses pawed the ground, snorted. Armor chinked as men shifted in their saddles.

"The sun sets and rises, Abelar." Regg said, a sharp edge in his tone.

"That it does."

Regg said, "They are many to our few. Twice us, I'd say, but not the thousand we'd heard. What are they doing out here, I wonder?"

Abelar knew the answer. "Forrin split his force to cut off retreat from Saerb. They're angling around from the south. The rest of the army is hitting Saerb directly from the east."

"Forrin cannot be far from Saerb, then," Regg said. "Two days away, maybe three."

Abelar nodded. "Get the standards up and sound a blast. Let them know we are here."

Regg issued the order and the two standard bearers unfurled their pennons. Each showed a field of white adorned with a red rose for faith, a sun for light, and a boar rampant for strength. When the standards were up, the company's trumpets sounded and their clarion carried over the plains.

Heads and horses in Ordulin's company wheeled around. Fingers and blades pointed back at Abelar's forces. Ordulin's commanders put their boot heels into their mounts and moved briskly among the squads, pointing and shouting. Their shouts carried faintly over the plains. Men and horses reversed formation and began to form up into an arc concave to Abelar's men.

"They see us, I think," Regg said with a grin.

"That they do."

Regg said, "All medium cavalry. I see crossbows but no massed archers."

"Nor I," Abelar said. The battle would be fought with blades, up close. He pointed to a pair of unarmored men among the forces. "But see there? Wizards. They probably have a few priests in their number as well."

"Agreed. The wizards are to their advantage. But battles are won by flesh and steel, not spells. So it has been ever."

Abelar nodded. "Put us into a loose line. We advance with flanks lagging."

"Advance?"

Abelar nodded, his eyes on his enemy.

Regg shouted the order and the company moved into position. Sergeants shouted commands; horses neighed; men adjusted armor and shields.

Abelar watched his foes as they took formation. They moved with discipline, even skill. He figured many of them to be onetime members of Forrin's Blades, experienced men, but dark hearted from all he'd heard.

He called his cadre of six priests to him. Each wore a breastplate over mail and bore a round steel shield enameled with Lathander's rose. Led by Roen, they formed a semicircle around Abelar as Ordulin's trumpets blared below. He looked each of them in the eye. Despite their limited experience, he saw only resolve there. The Light was in them.

"They have spellcasters in their force," he said. "We will advance loose, flanks lagging. The casters will try to hit us as we close. Stay in the pocket behind us and watch for their casters."

"Not hard for Roen to look over the line," Jiiris said, grinning. "He sits the saddle as tall as an ogre."

The priests laughed. Abelar smiled and continued. "Do whatever you can to disrupt their spells. Once we're engaged, the casters will matter little."

"We will counter them, Commander," Roen said, and the others nodded.

"I know," Abelar said, and meant it. "Stay in the light."

He clasped each of their forearms in turn, holding Jiiris's a beat longer than the others, and they rode off to take their positions behind the line.

Abelar took a final glance at Ordulin's forces. Regg rode up beside him.

"I wonder if Forrin is among them?" Regg asked.

"Doubtful," Abelar answered.

Regg nodded agreement. He said, "The men are ready. They should hear from you."

Abelar took his eyes off Ordulin's forces. The time had come to rally his men. He held up his shield so it caught the sunlight and shimmered. Regg did the same. As one, they offered a supplication to Lathander. When they completed their spells, their shields held the sun's glow and hummed with power. They clasped forearms.

"Stay in the light," Regg said, and grinned.

"And you," Abelar answered, and did not grin.

Ordulin's forces sounded a series of trumpet blasts and the cavalrymen gave a great shout.

Regg rode along behind the line of Abelar's men, shield blazing. He thumped men and women on the back and offered quiet words of encouragement. Abelar took position before the line and faced the company.

A wall of flesh and steel extended to either side of him for three hundred paces. He saw Roen's head in the rear, flanked by his fellow priests. Helms and blades caught the sun and glittered in the light. But for Regg's soft words and the flapping of the standards in the wind, silence fell.

All eyes were on Abelar, hard eyes, but eyes filled with faith. He had chosen the men and women of his company well. They were good soldiers. More importantly, they were good men and women.

For a time he said nothing. He simply rode along the line, making eye contact with the men and women who had chosen to trust him with their lives. He wanted them to see his strength of faith, his conviction of purpose.

They did. Some saluted; some nodded. None looked away. He returned to the center of the line and said, "The Morninglord's light shine on you all."

"And on you," they boomed as one.

Abelar turned Swiftdawn and gestured with his shield at Ordulin's forces. "Look out on them. See their souls. Know them for what they are."

He stared down for a moment at Ordulin's cavalry, which was finalizing its formation, before turning back to his own company.

"Know that their purpose was to cut off retreat from Saerb, to murder families as they fled another army that approaches from the east."

Looks hardened. Men shifted in their saddles. Horses whinnied.

"This day, right now, they fail of that purpose."

As one, the company shouted assent.

Behind Abelar, Ordulin's trumpets blared. The men of Forrin's army let up a shout of their own and Abelar heard them start forward. Abelar kept his eyes on his own warriors. They kept their eyes on him.

"To a man, they are in service to a base cause, an evil cause, whereas we…" he paused and looked up at the sunlit sky before looking back at his command. "We serve a noble purpose, a higher calling, and the Light is in every man and woman in this company."

He held up his blade and willed it to flare. It luminesced white hot, overwhelming even the glow of his shield, casting the entire company in its radiance.

His men cheered, raised their own blades.

Abelar turned Swiftdawn to look at the advancing enemy. Ordulin's forces were moving at a hustle, and slowly gathering speed. They advanced in a concave formation, flanks curved and leading. A few crossbows twanged. A dozen bolts slit the air and rained down on the company. Shields and armor turned them all.

Abelar turned to face his men.

"Regg observes that they are many, while we are but few. To that I say, aye. The many are always willing to do evil. The few make a stand in the light." He looked up and down his line. "Today we, all of us, make our stand in the light."

His company again shouted assent, but Abelar was not done. "So, aye," he said. "They are many. And we are few. Aye."

He urged Swiftdawn into a trot and paced the line, repeating the phrase, giving it a rhythm. He thumped his glowing blade on his glowing shield. "They are many, we are few. They are many, we are few."

Regg echoed his gesture and took up the chant. Roen and the priests in the rear did the same. Soon the entire company was thundering the words, rhythmically beating sword to shield.

"They are many! We are few! They are many! We are few!"

Abelar inhaled deeply as the fire rooted in his gut, as his hands transformed from those of a healer to those of a warrior, as a surge of righteous wrath filled his breast so strongly it felt as if it would lift him from his saddle and propel him to the heavens. He turned to face Ordulin's forces, raised his blade, and shouted defiance.

His wrath spread like contagion to his men and they echoed his shout.

Ordulin's cavalry moved from a trot to a full gallop. They bore down on Abelar's company, blades and shields ready, blood on their minds.

Abelar intoned a prayer to Lathander and channeled the strength of his soul into his blade, which glowed still brighter. He was bathed in light. His company moved restlessly behind him, eager to receive the order. He held his blade up.

"The path is lit, brothers and sisters! Ride!"

The clarions blared, the soldiers roared, and the entire line lurched as one down the rise.

Abelar led them, bent over Swiftdawn, blade held before him. The standard bearers flanked him, pennons whipping in the breeze. The wind whistled over his helm. His shield and blade hummed in his hands. The thunder of hooves could not drown out the chant of his men.

"They are many! We are few! They are many! We are few!"

The chant propelled him forward. Their faith strengthened him. He was spirit, as light as the wind.

Ordulin's men let out a shout as the distance between the two onrushing forces shrank. Abelar eyed the men at the forefront of Ordulin's charge. One of them bore an axe rather than a sword. The man wore no helm and his long hair flew behind him. A symbol decorated his shield: a lightning bolt, the symbol of Talos the Thunderer, the dark god of destruction and storms.

"Ride!" Abelar shouted to his men, and gave Swiftdawn her head. She snorted and ran like the wind, pulling ahead of even the standard bearers.

"Xoren and Trewe, stay on me!" he shouted to the standard bearers. They nodded and he held his blade aloft, letting its light signify the wrath of his god and bolster the courage of his men. He would be the spear point. He lowered his blade and pointed its tip at the Talassan, leaving no doubt of his intent.

The Talassan saw the gesture and snarled. The wild-eyed priest stuck out his palm and a bolt of blue lightning shot from it at Abelar. Abelar intercepted it with his enspelled shield and deflected the bolt into the ground, where it scorched the grass and threw up a divot of earth.

Seventy paces separated the forces.

"They are many!"

In the rear of Ordulin's forces, Abelar saw not two but three wizards incanting spells from horseback. As he watched, one of the wizards suddenly went rigid, as still as a statue, and his mount slowed, bucked, and threw him. Beside another, a rosy-hued long sword appeared in mid-air, slashed downward, and severed a hand.

Abelar shouted Lathander's praises. Roen and his priests were doing exactly as he'd asked.

Fifty paces.

The third wizard completed his spell and a clap of thunder boomed near Abelar. Men screamed. A few horses whinnied in terror, bucked, and threw their riders. One of Abelar's standard bearers, Xoren, covered his ears and lost his saddle. Abelar did not slow. He hoped that Roen and his priests could see to the fallen.

Thirty paces.

"We are few!"

Ordulin's men shouted in answer. Their line stretched out well beyond Abelar's flanks. They would collapse around Abelar's force and try to encircle his company.

Abelar would not have it. He would drive his company right through them and out the other side. He angled Swiftdawn for the Talassan and the Talassan answered in kind.

Ten paces.

Hooves thundered. Men roared. Abelar held the Talassan's wild eyes. The Talassan raised his axe high. Abelar's blade vibrated with power.

The two forces collided in a cacophony of shouts, screams, whinnies, and the ring of metal on metal.

The priest of Talos chopped down with his axe. Abelar blocked with his shield and the enspelled slab of metal shattered the Talassan's axe. Abelar drove his magical blade through the Talassan's breastplate and ribs with such force that it drove the priest from his horse. Abelar carried him along for a stride, impaled on the blade, before shedding the corpse and pushing forward.

"On me!" he shouted, his light still blazing. "On me!"

He drove Swiftdawn through the tide of flesh and steel. She bit and stomped as he tore through Ordulin's ranks. His blade rose and fell, rose and fell. Blood sprayed; men and horses screamed; blows rained off his shield and armor. He gritted his teeth and killed everything within reach. His shield arm went numb. A blow to his chest nearly unhorsed him but did not penetrate his breastplate. He burst through the rear of Ordulin's ranks, a handful of his men at his side, and found himself not ten paces from one of Ordulin's wizards. The mage's sunken eyes widened with fear.

Abelar and his men put heels to their mounts and charged him. The wizard tried to turn his horse while he jerked a slim shaft of metal from his belt and pointed it at them. The wand discharged a wide beam of white-hot flame that caught both Abelar and Mekkin in the chest. Their tabards caught fire and sections of their breastplates flared red hot. Mekkin fell from his saddle, screaming. Abelar grunted through gritted teeth as his skin blistered and charred beneath his armor, but he kept his saddle and drove Swiftdawn into the wizard's horse. The smaller mount staggered under the warhorse's impact and the wizard scrambled to hold his reins. Abelar crosscut his throat and nearly decapitated him.

Ignoring the pain in his chest, he leaped off Swiftdawn and fell to Mekkin's side. He channeled healing energy into his blade hand, but Mekkin spasmed and died before Abelar could save him.

Abelar cursed and bounded back atop Swiftdawn as the battle caught up to him. The bulk of his force, following his lead, burst through Ordulin's ranks before the flanks of the larger force could collapse on their rear. "Sound a reformation," he said to Trewe, one of his standard bearers. "And stay on me."

Trewe blew the three-note muster and Abelar sped away from Ordulin's forces, drawing his men after. Ordulin's own trumpets sounded a call, and they, too, disengaged to regroup.

Abelar turned to survey the scene. A bowshot separated the forces. Dead men and horses littered the plain. Two riderless mounts, both Saerbian, pranced uncertainly through the carnage, eyes wild. Swiftdawn whinnied to call them; the two mounts snorted and galloped toward Abelar's company.

Regg rode up beside Abelar, his tabard and blade bloodied but no serious wounds on him. "They are not as many now, by Lathander!" Regg said, grinning. Regg could grin through a funeral.

"Truth," Abelar agreed.

"You are afire," Regg said, pointing at Abelar's tabard.

Abelar ignored the flames and they burned themselves out. "That, I am."

He did a rough head count and figured he'd lost perhaps forty men. He allowed himself only a moment to grieve for them and wish them well in Lathander's realm. He counted all his priests among the living. Already Roen and his fellow priests tended to the wounded with healing magic. He spotted Beld among his force. Blood spattered the young warrior's face-not his own. Beld saluted him with his blade.

"I was right to leave the abbey," Beld shouted, and the men near the young man smiled.

Abelar nodded at the young warrior. He turned Swiftdawn and looked out at the dead and wounded on the field. He put Ordulin's losses at close to a hundred, with at least one wizard dead and another without a hand. The Morninglord had shined on their effort. His company had accounted well for itself.

"Get the men in another line," he said to Regg. "Close gaps from the fallen. We give them another charge."

"Now?"

Abelar nodded. He had the upper hand and had no intention of relinquishing it. "Same formation as before. Be quick. You have a thirty count."

Regg spun Firstlight and barked orders while Trewe blew two notes to signal the formation. The men and women of the company, their blood up, reformed rapidly.

Ordulin's forces responded as Abelar had hoped. They moved to realign, but acted with less certainty than before. They could see to a man how they had fared against Abelar's company, and their wizards had been of little effect.

"They fight without conviction," he said to Swiftdawn, and she tossed her head in agreement. "They will break if we hit them hard enough."

He raised his blade and spun Swiftdawn in a circle. His force was ready. The sun shone down on him. His blade blazed.

"They fight with fear in their hearts," he shouted. "We fight with faith in ours."

"Huzzah!" responded his company, and raised blades. A few horses reared.

Abelar turned to face Ordulin's line. "On me, men and women of Lathander! Ride!"

Trewe sounded another clarion call and Abelar led the charge across the plains. The collective shout of his men sounded like the roar of an ocean wave.

Ordulin's forces scrambled to complete their realignment. Horns sounded and commanders moved frenetically among the men, shouting orders, pointing, but they were too slow. Crossbows sang. One or two of Abelar's men fell but the charge continued.

Disorganized and disheartened, Ordulin's men milled about and large gaps showed in their lines. Their commanders shouted, galloped along the line. Abelar shouted and veered Swiftdawn toward the left side of their ranks. He would hit them on the flank and roll them up.

His force thundered after.

Ordulin's forces readied shields and weapons, and braced for impact. Abelar picked the man he would kill first, a bearded commander on a black mare. He turned Swiftdawn toward him and bore down.

A curtain of flame sprang into existence ten paces before him. The blaze stood twice as tall as a man and stretched the length of the battlefield, blocking the charge of his company. Black smoke poured into the sky as grass and shrubs burned.

"On me!" Abelar shouted, and did not slow.

Trewe's trumpet blew and his company, mounted on battle-trained Saerbian horses, followed his command, riding hard directly at the inferno.

Abelar raised his blazing shield and shouted the words to a counterspell, one of the handful of spells known to him. The heat from the inferno warmed his armor, chapped his face.

He did not slow.

His spell engaged the magic of the wall and tore at its power.

He did not slow.

He felt his eyebrows and beard singe. He bent low and held his shield before his face and against the side of Swiftdawn's head. She snorted, encouraging the other mounts of the company, and jumped at the wall.

His countermagic prevailed and dissolved the magical barrier into harmless smoke. Abelar, his armor and shield trailing smoke, raised his blade in triumph. His men cheered, shouted, and the uncertainty in Ordulin's forces turned to shock.

Abelar's company hit them like a battering ram. Horses shrieked; men shouted; blades rose and fell; blood sprayed and men died.

In the chaos Abelar lost sight of the commander he had targeted, so he slashed with his blade and bashed with his shield at any man within reach who wore a green tabard. "We…" he shouted, and smashed his shield into the face of a young fighter.

"… stand…"

A sword slash tore open his shield arm. He answered with a stab to the chest that split breastplate and breastbone.

"… in the light!"

He parried a flurry of blows with his shield. Swiftdawn reared, kicked, and drove his attacker's mount backward. Abelar drove Swiftdawn after, chopped downward, and cleaved helm and head.

His men around him took up his chant.

"In the light! In the light!"

The words took on the rhythm of a heartbeat and blades and shields rose and fell in time with it. The morale of Abelar's force was swelling; that of Ordulin's forces was collapsing. Abelar took advantage. He swatted Swiftdawn on the flank and shouted, "Clear!"

Swiftdawn reared, kicked, bit, and turned a circle, clearing a space around Abelar. The commander hurriedly recited the words to a spell that would encourage his forces and discourage those of Ordulin. A rosy glow spread out from Abelar's shield in all directions to a distance of a spear toss. It lasted for only a moment but its magic caused all of Abelar's men caught within it to roar with fervor and fight with redoubled effort, while Ordulin's soldiers groaned and temporarily lost their nerve. At almost the same moment, a blazing sphere of luminescence formed above Regg and shed its light on the battlefield. Abelar knew Regg's spell to be a harmless light spell, but it was symbolic and it was enough.

Ordulin's forces broke under the onslaught, first a few, then several, then all of them. Their commanders shouted unheeded orders as men wheeled their mounts and fled in two large groups. A few dropped their weapons and pleaded for mercy.

"Do we pursue, Commander?" shouted Regg, with Firstlight whinnying eagerly.

Abelar watched his enemy flee, considered, and shook his head. "No. Stand the men down."

Regg nodded and gave the orders. Abelar scanned his men for Roen, spotted him, and summoned him to his side. The priest had a dent in his breastplate and bled from a gash in his thigh.

"Lathander watched over his faithful," Roen said.

"Aye," Abelar agreed. "See to the wounded, Roen. Heal ours first, then theirs."

Roen cocked his head. "Theirs? What are we to do with them, commander?"

"Disarm them, get a pledge to give up the fight, and take the thumb from their sword hand to ensure it. Then give them a horse, if we can spare it, and let them go."

Roen's eyes widened, but he nodded.

Abelar had little choice. He had no way to hold prisoners and he would not execute enemies unless he saw no other course. Taking a thumb would make them useless as combatants. It was enough.

"Be quick, Roen," he said. "We ride as soon as it is done."

Half an army was still bearing down on Saerb, on his son.

Cale held his holy symbol in hand and inventoried the spells he had prepared. He had a thirty count to invent a plan. Either that, or he had to shadowwalk out of the Calyx with Riven and Magadon.

Cale? Riven asked.

I am not leaving without doing what we came to do, Magadon said.

Cale agreed. They might not get another attempt on Kesson and if they did not, Magadon would be lost.

We ambush the ambusher, Cale said to his friends. Stay close to me. When we see him, I will isolate us with him. If that fails, we leave-

No, Magadon said. You promised me-

I have not forgotten, Cale snapped. But we leave if that fails, Mags. There are too many.

Magadon said nothing more and Cale decided to take it as acquiescence.

If it succeeds, we will not have much time. Hit him with everything you have. We kill him, take what we came for, and get the Hells out.

Magadon and Riven indicated agreement as they approached the spire.

Cale knew they would face hundreds of shadows, at least a score of shadow giants, and the First Chosen of Mask-the first First Chosen of Mask, selected millennia ago. Their plan would have to go perfectly.

Beside Cale, Riven shook his head and chuckled.

He must have been thinking much the same thing.

Elyril flew high above the earth, her form as insubstantial as the night's breeze. Abandoned villages and fallow fields lay below her. Sembia was dying. Civil war would kill it and the Shadowstorm would desiccate the corpse.

She cradled the book to her chest, reveling in her new form. The tome pulsed against her breast like a heartbeat, whispered truths into her mind, and pulled her toward the rest of it-The Leaves of One Night.

She was one with the darkness, truly Shar's instrument. She could become corporeal should she require it, but she preferred the form of a living shadow.

She saw now that all she had done and experienced-from the night she had murdered her parents to the night she had transcended the Nightseer's betrayal-had been to transform her into shadow and make her worthy of her position as the future consort of Volumvax the Divine One. She would take The Leaves of One Night from the Nightseer and make the book whole. She would cast the spell and summon the Shadowstorm. The Nightseer would be consumed in its violence and she would rule the transformed world beside Volumvax.

She giggled and her voice was like the wind.

Tamlin sat alone in his study, dressed in a heavy overcloak. A single candle provided light. Cool night air shook the flame. Despite the cold, Tamlin preferred the window to be open. He felt less confined. Selune's silver crescent shone in through the open window.

He closed the book he had been reading and watched the play of shadows about the room. He wondered what it would be like to know the shadows so intimately that they responded to his will, to step through the invisible space that connected them, to live for millennia.

He had read all he could of shades, shadow magic, even a bit about ancient Netheril, though there was little to be found on the subject in Selgaunt. But books could teach him only so much. He wanted to know more.

A knock at his door drew his attention.

"It is Thriistin, my lord," said his chamberlain from the hallway.

"Enter."

The door opened and Thriistin stood in the corridor. The old fellow looked stricken. Dark circles painted the skin under his eyes and his mouth hung partially open. His alarm spread into the room and Tamlin rose from his chair, his blood pounding.

"What is it?" Tamlin asked.

"Word has come from our western scouts. Saerloon has marshaled. An army of thousands is preparing to march."

The words hung in the air, fat with dire portents. Tamlin sat down, remembered to breathe. To his surprise he did not feel frightened, merely numb.

"So many?" Tamlin asked.

Thriistin nodded.

Tamlin said, "Have the scouts sent to me. I will need further details. And notify Lord Rivalen immediately."

"Yes, Hulorn," Thriistin said, and hurried from the room.

The import of the words started to settle on Tamlin. His pulse sounded in his ears. A sudden headache put a knife through his temples. Mirabeta had not waited for the spring. War would come to Selgaunt not in months but in days.

Tamlin did not feel ready for it.

Rivalen walked the night-shrouded streets of Selgaunt alone. He had no destination in mind-he simply wanted to be seen. Others among his entourage did the same in other parts of the city from time to time. To appear less threatening, less foreign, Rivalen had ordered all of the Shadovar to keep the darkness that habitually coiled about them to a minimum.

Passersby watched him with more curiosity than fear. Some soldiers even saluted him. Rivalen was pleased. The citizens of the city were becoming accustomed to seeing a Shadovar among them.

Rivalen saw that most of the shops-those still open after nightfall-contained scant goods. Commerce had slowed almost to a halt as the city braced for war. Rivalen made a point to stop and examine what goods he saw. A dozen pairs of boots sat in the light of a glowball on the walkway outside a cobbler's shop. Rivalen stooped, picked up a pair made from cow hide, turned them in his hands.

"These are well made," he said to the balding cobbler, who watched him from a few paces away.

The man looked surprised that Rivalen had spoken to him. "Uh… thank you… my lord."

"What is their price?"

"Uh… one silver raven, my lord."

Rivalen nodded, produced the coin, and handed it to the cobbler.

"A fair price."

"Thank you, my lord."

Rivalen walked off, pleased to see that a small crowd had gathered to watch the transaction. There was hope in their eyes, the same hope he saw in the Hulorn's eyes when he looked at Rivalen.

Rivalen nodded at them and walked on. As he moved down the streets, through the crowds, he attuned the magical ring on his finger to the similar ring worn by his brother, Brennus. He felt the connection open.

Rivalen, his brother said.

Have you been able to locate Erevis Cale? Rivalen asked.

No, Brennus answered, and Rivalen heard the frustration in his brother's tone. It is inexplicable, almost as though he and his companions have vanished from the multiverse. I suspect something shields them but I cannot determine even that for certain.

What sort of something? A spell?

Brennus hesitated. I do not know, Rivalen. Perhaps a spell. Or perhaps something more.

Such as?

He is a priest. We know this.

It took a moment for Brennus's implication to register. Are you implying that his god is shielding him from us?

Rivalen found the very notion offensive. After all, Shar offered him no such boon, and he was her Nightseer.

Brennus said nothing and the silence stretched.

Perhaps he is dead? Rivalen offered at last.

Brennus answered, I would know if it were so. He could be hiding within an area of dead magic. Perhaps still in the Hole of Yhaunn. That is a possibility.

There, Rivalen said, comforted. Continue your efforts, and inform me if you locate him. What of Sakkors and the Source?

Yder has accomplished much. Sakkors is almost fully restored. Three hundred of our elite warriors under Leevoth arrived yesterday to bolster the five hundred battle-bred krinth already here. The Most High has put all of them at your disposal.

Mention of the Most High evoked a sense of unease, but Rivalen was otherwise pleased. Leevoth and his men were among the finest shade warriors in Shade Enclave. Each bore a glassteel blade infused with shadow magic that sheared through metal as if it were cloth.

Brennus continued. The Source itself is functional but its consciousness appears… damaged, hostile. The mind-altered krinth are able to control it for a time, but only for a time.

Then?

Their minds are consumed. They are left catatonic.

Rivalen nodded. He would have to use the Source's sentience sparingly. The mindmage, Magadon Kest, had altered only thirty or so of the krinth.

Events are moving quickly here, he said. Have Yder position Sakkors to assist should I need it. An hour or less away, not days. I will send for him at the appropriate time.

What more do you wish of me?

I want you here.

There?

Yes. Finalize matters on Sakkors and transport yourself here. I may have need of your divinations. And I wish to show the Hulorn good faith. He is increasingly nervous.

Very well, Brennus answered. Shall I bring Leevoth and his men, then, as well?

No, Rivalen answered. Their entrance is to be more… dramatic.

How do you mean?

A voice in the crowd called out to Rivalen.

Come as soon as you are able, he said to Brennus, and broke the connection.

"Prince Rivalen!" called a man in the crowd. "When will we have the aid of the Shadovar? Rumors say that the armies of the overmistress will soon come."

Others among the crowd nodded, murmured agreement.

"Assistance is on the way," he returned, loud enough for all to hear. For effect, he let the shadows around him churn. Eyes widened.

"Fear nothing," he said. "I regard Selgaunt as my own city. I assure you that no army will breach its walls."

Smiles, raised fists, and a ragged cheer answered his words.

Rivalen walked on among his future subjects.

Later he returned to his quarters and one of the Hulorn's messengers informed him that Saerloon had begun to marshal.

He could not hold in a smile.