Curse of the Shadowmage

Fifteen

“So where will he go now?”

Mari asked the question as she paced restlessly back and forth across a thick Amnian rug. They had regrouped in Ferret’s luxurious receiving chamber.

“Ebenfar,” Morhion said after a moment.

The others looked at him in puzzlement.

“Ebenfar was the ancient kingdom ruled by Verraketh, the Shadowking,” the mage explained. “Think of the words spoken by the two ghosts. The shade of Talek Talembar warned that a new king would rise to take the place of the old. And Kera’s ghost warned Mari not to let Caledan ascend a throne.” He smoothed a wrinkle from his long purple vest. “Now that he has the Shadowstar, Caledan will journey to Ebenfar, to rule as the new shadowking from Verraketh’s throne.”

Mari shivered. “If Caledan’s transformation won’t be complete until he sits upon Verraketh’s throne, then he isn’t a shadowking yet,” she said fiercely. “I’m going after him, to stop him before he reaches Ebenfar.”

“You will not go alone,” Morhion said solemnly. “But there is a problem.” He took a deep breath. “I do not know where Ebenfar is. We can follow Caledan’s trail, as we have been doing, but we have little chance of reaching Ebenfar before him.”

Mari’s heart sank. Morhion knew so much—she had simply assumed he would also know the location of Verraketh’s ancient kingdom. She shook her head in despair. Now what were they to do?

A chill gust of air blew through the chamber, ruffling the tapestries and causing the chamber’s oil lamps to gutter crazily. In the center of the room, a dark figure materialized out of thin air. It was a man, clad in ornate armor as black as polished onyx. Clearly, he was not alive. His eyes smoldered like hot cinders, and Mari could see dimly through the vaporous substance of his body.

“Serafi!” Morhion choked on the word.

Mari stared at Morhion. Serafi—that was the name of the dark spirit with whom, years ago, the mage had forged a pact to save Caledan’s life. The others gaped at the dusky spirit in horror, except for Kellen, whose gaze was calm and interested.

“Why have you come to me?” Morhion said hoarsely. “Why here, and why now?”

The spectral knight seemed to absorb all the light in the room. “I have come because it is clear you are far too stupid to complete your quest without my help,” Serafi hissed. “And complete it you must, so that I can claim my due.”

“How can I possibly afford any more of your help, Serafi?” Morhion sneered.

“Oh, indeed, you cannot,” the spirit intoned with sinister mirth. “So, in my generosity, I will give it to you freely. The lost kingdom of Ebenfar lies in the center of the High Moor. Journey there. I will come to you from time to time, to guide you. Now go. And remember, I will always be near.” With a blast of charnel house air, the spirit vanished.

At last, a rattled Cormik spoke. “What, in the name of all that’s holy, was that?”

“The spirit Serafi has little to do with holiness,” Morhion replied darkly. He cast a glance at Mari. For a moment, she thought she detected fear in his eyes. Then his face grew cool and impassive, his mask in place once more. “I will explain later,” he went on. “Right now, we must ready ourselves for our journey to the High Moor.”

Purple dusk was upon them as they gathered with their horses outside a tent-stable on the edge of Soubar. They dared not wait until morning to leave. Ferret had seen the Shadowstar in his treasure room yesterday. That meant Caledan was only a single day ahead of them. With the help of the eerie Serafi, they might have a chance of beating him to Ebenfar. Once there, Mari was not certain how they would get the Shadowstar away from Caledan. But get it they must, so Kellen could cast the spell Morhion had discovered in the Mal’eb’dala and stop Caledan’s horrible transformation.

Ferret threw a saddlebag and bedroll onto the back of a skittish roan stallion and mounted alongside the others. Morhion gave him a piercing look. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”

“Going with you,” Ferret replied nonchalantly. “Caledan is my friend, too, you know.” A sharp light glinted in his beady eyes. “Besides, I imagine there’s all sorts of lost treasure in Ebenfar.”

Both Cormik and Jewel were flabbergasted.

“But you can’t simply leave your business like this!” Jewel protested. “An underworld empire doesn’t run itself, love. Surely you know that.”

“I truly hate to say this, but Jewel is right,” Cormik added. “Who’s going to take care of all your operations while you’re gone?”

“Actually,” Ferret said matter-of-factly, “I was rather hoping you two would.”

The effect this had on the two crime lords was astonishing. Mari had never before seen either of them at a loss for words. When at last they found their tongues, it was to protest vehemently, but Ferret refused to take no for an answer. At last the two agreed, not entirely with reluctance. Clearly they were more than a little excited by the notion of running someone else’s thieving empire.

“Think of it,” Cormik said with relish. “All the fun without any of the responsibility!”

“Don’t get carried away, love,” Jewel said dryly. “I’m sure Ferret would like it if some of his empire actually remained intact by the time he returns.”

“Oh, bother!” Cormik said petulantly. “I can see you’re going to be a stick-in-the-mud. Well, my dear, sour shrew, I’m not going to let you spoil my fun.”

“We’ll have lots of fun,” Jewel countered dangerously. “As long as we do things my way, my sweet, bloated simpleton.”

The two fell to eager scheming about which duties would be whose. Ferret guided his horse toward Mari, nodding toward Jewel and Cormik. “So how long have they been in love?” he asked softly.

Mari gaped at him. Love? What was Ferret talking about? Yet even as she was about to dismiss this as an impossibility, she realized the truth of it. She had been so caught up in the search for Caledan that she had been blind to what was happening in front of her eyes. Now, as she looked at the two crime lords, it seemed comically obvious. They bent their heads near as they spoke, touching hands, and even as they hurled caustic insults at each other, their eyes glowed with affectionate mischief.

“I’m not certain,” Mari murmured. “But I’m glad they found each other.”

It was time to go. They bid a warm farewell to Jewel and Cormik, then turned to ride into the gathering gloom. Suddenly Mari raised a hand. The hair on the back of her neck prickled. “Get back into the tent,” she hissed. Such was her tone that the others did not argue.

Mari watched through a thin gap in the canvas as a lone figure appeared on a distant rise, moving toward the sprawling tent city. Even before she saw his face, she guessed who he was. When he drew near enough for her to catch a glint of two glowing amber eyes, there could be no doubt. Her heart contracted in terror when the tall, lean man paused. He seemed to sniff the air. Then, swiftly, he loped toward the heart of town, disappearing from view. Mari breathed a sigh of relief.

“I was afraid this would happen,” she whispered.

“You were afraid what would happen?” Morhion asked.

She swallowed hard. “The Harpers have sent one of their Hunters after us. Or perhaps after Caledan. It doesn’t really make a difference.”

“A hunter?” Ferret asked. “Maybe he can catch a few pheasants for our stew pot.”

“He’s not that kind of hunter, Ferret,” Mari replied darkly. “People are his usual prey, not animals. I’ve heard of this particular Hunter. His name is K’shar, and he’s a half-elf. I’ve also heard that no quarry has ever escaped him.”

“And just what does he do when he catches his quarry?” Ferret asked nervously.

“Use your imagination.”

“Oh. I was afraid you would say that.”

“It looks as though this K’shar is just arriving in Soubar,” Cormik said. He turned to Jewel. “What do you say we arrange a few interesting diversions for him, to make certain that he doesn’t leave town quickly?”

“A wonderful idea, love,” Jewel purred. “I have a few ideas you might find interesting …”

Despite her new worries, Mari managed to smile. It was clear that the rotund crime lord and the older, sultry masterthief were going to make an effective—and deadly—duo.

“Let’s go find Caledan,” she said.

Morhion, Ferret, and Kellen followed her out of the tent, into the deepening night.

Hooves clattering against loose scree, Mista scrambled the last few feet out of the rocky defile and onto a windswept ridge. Caledan pulled gently on the reins, bringing her to a halt.

“There it is, Mista,” he said quietly. “The High Moor.”

The mare snorted softly. A vast wasteland stretched before them, marching toward the distant horizon in endless gray waves. Pale mist pooled in low hollows, and here and there jagged spurs of rock thrust upward toward the leaden sky like beckoning fingers. A few wind-twisted plants clung precariously to the barren landscape, but there was no sign of anything moving. The High Moor was a dying land. How appropriate that somewhere in its heart should be a dead kingdom. Ebenfar.

Caledan nudged Mista into a canter across the damp moor. Almost unconsciously, he lifted a hand to grip the star-shaped medallion resting against his heart. Despite the chill air, the dull silvery metal was curiously warm. It had been strangely easy to take the medallion from the treasure chamber in Soubar. No—it had not been strange after all, for the Shadowstar had wanted to be found. The door to the treasure chamber had responded willingly to Caledan’s shadow magic, and the medallion had nearly leapt into his hand.

In the instant he hung the medallion around his neck, he had understood his destiny. He was to journey to Ebenfar, to the ancient kingdom of the Shadowking. He sensed that the medallion had the power to whisk him instantly there but did not wish to do this. The journey itself was important. The other still needed time to grow. And grow it would. Soon, all that would be left of him would be the shadowking within, and he would leave behind the man Caledan forever.

“I have to hold on, Mista,” he whispered hoarsely, gripping her mane tightly in clenched fingers. “I cannot forget who I am. I must not.”

For a moment, thoughts of those he loved drifted into his mind. Were the companions following him? Would they understand the signs he had been leaving for them? Quickly, he forced his friends from his mind. It was a mistake to think about them. Now that he had the Shadowstar, the other slept less and less, and he had to keep his one fragile hope concealed.

“If there is any hope at all,” he murmured.

Suddenly the Shadowstar twitched against his chest, sending a hot, dizzying wave coursing through his body. Caledan brought Mista to a halt. Gripping the medallion, he squeezed his eyes shut. Yes, he could feel the dark ones. They were close now. The shadevari.

Ever since his journey had begun, Caledan had sensed the dark presence following him. As soon as he gained the Shadowstar, his senses had grown remarkably keen, and he had discerned the true nature of the creatures pursuing him. They were shadevari, three of the ancient, malevolent beings banished beyond the Circle of the World by the god Azuth—beings who, he now realized, were somehow inextricably linked with the shadow magic.

An idea occurred to him. “We don’t want the shadevari to find me too easily, do we, Mista?” he said with a harsh laugh. “That wouldn’t be any fun for them. Maybe there’s a way to make my trail a little harder to follow.”

Mista gave a snort.

“Just watch,” Caledan replied.

He gripped the Shadowstar more tightly and hummed a dissonant tune under his breath. Mista pranced skittishly as a patch of shadow near her hooves swirled and expanded. Like dark serpents, a dozen sinuous forms sprang from the patch of shadow. The forms wriggled swiftly away, each in a different direction, snaking across the High Moor until they were lost in the distance.

“There,” Caledan said in grim satisfaction, releasing the Shadowstar. “The shadevari won’t be able to distinguish my trail from any of those shadowserpents. That should keep them guessing which way I’ve gone, at least for a little while.”

Mista gave an impressed whinny.

“Why, thank you.” Caledan patted her neck fondly. Slowly his eyes rose toward the far-off horizon.

“All right, my friend,” he whispered. “Let’s go.”

Concealed inside a heavy cloak, K’shar watched the crimson tent from a distance. At last the half-elf’s patience was rewarded. The tent’s entrance flap parted a few scant inches, and he caught a glimpse of a face peering out. After a moment, the face vanished. However, the glimpse had been more than enough for his sharp golden eyes. He knew the watcher in the tent from the description given by a soldier he had interrogated in Triel. It was one of Al’maren’s companions, the thief Jewel. His quarry must still be in Soubar. Anticipation boiled in K’shar’s veins. The chase was nearly over.

For a time, in the tangled depths of the Reaching Woods, he had feared that the unthinkable had happened, that he had lost his prey. The trail had led to a ruined city where he had seen evidence of a battle with some sort of doglike ereatures. The signs indicated that the companions had crossed the River Reaching, but by what means K’shar could not discern. For two days he searched for a way across the roiling river and found none. At last he was forced to give up and return to the Dusk Road. Just as he was growing concerned that his quarry had escaped him, he picked up the trail once again in Triel. Running night and day, he had journeyed swiftly to Soubar. Now it appeared that he had caught up with them at last.

“You are a worthy opponent, Harper Al’maren,” he murmured, baring his slightly pointed teeth in a feral smile. “But no one can elude me forever.”

Soundlessly, he moved to the entrance of the crimson tent and slipped within. His eyes adjusted instantly to the dim interior. But the tent was empty. Alarm flared in his mind. Something was wrong …

Too late he realized it was a trap. There was a hissing sound as the floor dropped from beneath him, and he fell through a series of steel hoops to land upright. Then the metal hoops tightened forcefully around his body, clamping his arms to his sides and immobilizing him. From behind, a hand reached out and pressed an acrid-smelling cloth over his mouth and nose. Reflexively, he inhaled.

You fool, K’shar! he chastised himself. You have grown lazy and thoughtless in your arrogance. Never did you consider that Al’maren might figure out you were following her. Never did you consider that she might lay a trap …

Quickly, the pungent vapors from the cloth did their work, and K’shar sank into unconsciousness.

After a time, he woke to the sound of voices.

For a moment he listened, eyes closed. The voices were far-off, so faint that no human ear could possibly hear them. Fortunately, K’shar’s ears were more than merely human.

“Now that we have him, what do we do with him?” a smoky, feminine voice said. That could only be the thief, Jewel.

“Well, how should I know?” a bubbling male voice replied. K’shar guessed that one belonged to the corpulent crime lord, Cormik.

“I thought you were the one who was always full of ideas,” Jewel said peevishly.

“Even the best of us have our off days,” Cormik whined. “I’d rather not win the undying enmity of the Harpers by killing their best Hunter. However, we have to make certain K’shar doesn’t follow the others into the High Moor. They’ve got only a day’s jump on him, and they …”

K’shar’s amber eyes flashed open. He did not bother listening to the rest of Cormik’s words. There was no need. Al’maren was journeying to the High Moor, only a single day ahead of him. That was all he needed to know.

Now there was simply the small matter of escaping. He was in an underground chamber, he guessed by the chill, musty air. They had left him alone, no doubt expecting the effect of the drug to last longer than it had. K’shar knew his metabolism worked more swiftly than that of a normal human. He was suspended upright from the chamber’s ceiling, still immobilized by the steel bands bound tightly around ankles, knees, waist, torso, and shoulders. Shutting his eyes, he concentrated, drifting into a trance.

Focusing on his thrumming heartbeat, he forced his body to relax, willing his muscles to become as soft and malleable as clay. One by one, they responded. Soon it felt as if he were adrift in a warm ocean. He was ready. Gathering his will, he gave a swift, sharp jerk, dislocating his left shoulder. There was a wet popping noise, but almost no pain. Without hesitating he jerked again, dislocating his right shoulder.

Now that his arms dangled loosely, it was easy to fold his shoulders inward, like a severely hunched old man. This created precious inches of space within the three steel rings that bound his upper body. Slowly he inched his left arm out of the rings that encircled his waist, his midriff, and finally his shoulders. This created yet more space within the rings; his right arm was more easily freed. He took a deep breath, then clenched the muscles of his back and shoulders. There was an audible sucking sound as the round ends of his arm bones were drawn once more into the sockets of his shoulder joints. He would be sore tomorrow, but it did not matter. Arms free, he reached up and gripped the iron chain that suspended the steel hoops from the ceiling. He hauled himself upward, his relaxed muscles allowing him to slip out of the rings that bound his legs, and dropped nimbly down to the floor.

Now all he had to do was find a way out of the room.

This presented itself in the form of a ventilation shaft. Clearly, his captors had never imagined he might escape his bonds, else they would have placed him in a more secure chamber. Most men would not have fit into the shaft, but, though tall, K’shar was willow-thin. He pulled himself into the narrow tunnel and wriggled his way upward. Aided by his uncanny flexibility, K’shar passed through several tight turns with little difficulty. He pulled himself out of the mouth of the shaft onto the muddy ground, gazing into the crimson eye of the dawning sun.

K’shar stretched his limbs as the flow of blood returned to his hands and feet. His prey was close now. Very close. He felt a strange sense of kinship with the renegade Harper he had been following. When he met her at last, he imagined he would almost regret killing her. Almost.

“I am coming, Al’maren,” he whispered softly.

He broke into a swift run, moving northward out of Soubar.