Curse of the Shadowmage (21 page)

“By all the stars of midnight,” he swore softly.

The tracks had been trampled by booted feet and iron-shod hooves. But K’shar could see enough to know they were like no tracks he had seen in all his years as a Hunter. They were shaped like the prints of a barefoot man, but the toes were unusually long, and there were only three of them, and these ended in curved talons. No man had left these tracks. Nor had any beast that Kshar was familiar with.

Fascinated, he followed the strange tracks. There had been two of the creatures. They had stood before the bridge for a time before heading southward. The tracks were clearer once they left the heavily traveled road, and after a short way they were joined by the prints of a third, similar creature. K’shar halted. He had come to a place where the tracks of the unknown creatures were superimposed on a different set of. prints—prints he recognized.

“Al’maren,” he said in amazement.

He squatted down and studied the myriad shapes pressed into the ground. Whatever the three creatures were, they had chased Al’maren and her friends toward the edge of the Reaching Woods. Had Caldorien ventured into the Reaching Woods as well? Or had he continued westward down the Dusk Road? The half-elf mulled over this dilemma. He could not be certain which way Caldorien had gone. On the other hand, he was certain about Ai’maren. He made his decision.

“A Harper in the hand is worth two in the bush,” he noted wryly, before plunging soundlessly into the shadowed forest.

Thirteen

The lone traveler had been following the broad swath of the Trade Way for three days now, ever since leaving the strange little town of Triel behind. The traveler did not know his destination, but that did not matter. For he would certainly know it when he arrived there; he dreaded that time, even as it drew him onward.

Occasionally he passed other travelers on the road— merchants, soldiers, or wanderers on pilgrimage—and these drew away, clutching cloths to their mouths and noses as they hurried by, as though they feared he might have some disease. He knew that he looked strange. That morning he had caught a glimpse of himself in a pool of water as he bent to drink. His flesh was mushroom-pale, and half-moons of shadow hung beneath his green eyes. Given this, and his midnight blue cloak that was caked with mud and dried leaves from sleeping on the ground, he supposed people feared him for a dead man risen from

the grave. It was ironic, for a shambling corpse was nothing compared to the horror he was in truth becoming. He laughed, knowing it was a terrible sound.

The mist-gray mare he rode nickered questioningly, shattering his dark reverie.

“It’s all right, Mista,” Caledan murmured, leaning forward to stroke the smooth arch of her neck. “It’s just me here now, not… the other?

Mista let out a soft whinny.

“Let’s stop a moment,” he said, trying to sound more cheerful. “We’ve been on the road all day, and you must be tired.”

At this, Mista gave an emphatic and slightly indignant snort. She hadn’t planned to mention it, but since he brought it up, she was indeed overdue for a rest stop. They came to a halt at the side of the road, and Caledan dismounted. He ran his hand over the pale velvet of her nose. While this would have been a perfect opportunity to bite his fingers, as she was wont to do, she only nibbled at them halfheartedly. Mista knew this was a dark time for her friend.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you, Mista,” Caledan said quietly. “I think I’m starting to forget myself, to’forget who I am. I try to remember things from my life, and all I see are shadows. I can hardly remember what Mari looks like now, or Kellen, or Morhion.” He leaned his cheek against Mista’s flat forehead. “But you’re my oldest friend of all, aren’t you? And you’re here with me, so I can’t forget you.”

The opportunity was simply too much for her to resist. She bared her big yellow teeth and chomped his ear.

“You wench!” he roared, slapping her flank. She threw her ears back and gave him a distinctly self-satisfied look. “So much for tender moments,” he grumbled, and went to find some water for them to drink.

A clear brook ran beside the road. Next to it was a bush laden with autumn blackberries. He wasn’t hungry, but he knew he should eat. Plucking a handful of the berries, he popped them into his mouth one by one. Then he picked another handful for Mista. He started to rise, then halted. Now was the perfect chance, while the other slumbered.

Caledan reached his free hand toward the blackberry bush, whistling a dissonant melody. All he had to do was relax his will for a heartbeat, and the shadow magic welled forth like dark water gushing from an underground spring. Still, he usually played his pipes or at least hummed a tune when he worked the transformations. It helped him concentrate. And somehow it made him seem less of a monster.

Caledan’s hand began to tremble, calling tendrils of darkness from nearby shadows. They coiled like onyx serpents around the bush, molding the plant, reshaping it. After a moment, he whistled a sharp note of dismissal. The dark tendrils slipped silently back into their pools of shadow. Caledan never knew what form the metamorphosis would take, but the new shape was always a reflection of his soul. This time, the bush’s branches had been molded into two, intertwining figures. They were human forms, but whether they were embracing each other in a sensuous expression of love or were fighting to strangle each other in their loathing, it was impossible to tell.

Caledan scrambled away from the bush. It was dangerous to linger too long. The other was sleeping now, but when it woke it would know all that he knew. If the other learned what the metamorphosed objects meant, it would surely try to stop him from creating more.

The dark presence had been growing within Caledan for months now, perhaps years. For a long time it had

kept its existence hidden. He knew now—as he did not know before—that he had been the cause of the murders in Iriaebor. The other had used his shadow magic to perform the deeds without his knowledge, but Caledan was not blameless. The victims—men of violence, corrupt nobles, agents of the Zhentarim—all had been people Caledan himself despised. The hatred had been his own.

In the village of Corm Orp, he had finally realized the truth about himself. He had been powerless to halt the destruction he had wreaked there with his shadow magic. The incident had nearly driven him mad. It would have, except afterward the darkness had retreated deep within him, as if to rest there, and regroup.

Since then, he had battled constantly to control the dark chaos raging inside him. Yet with each passing day, the other woke more often and stayed awake longer. During those times, he felt that his own consciousness was simply a spark awash in a sea of darkness. It was only a matter of time until the spark was extinguished. When that happened, he would cease to be Caledan entirely. All that would remain would be the other … the shadowking.

Caledan returned to Mista, offering her the blackberries. She ate the proffered treat delicately, “accidentally” nipping his fingers only once.

The next day they came to the sprawling tent city of Soubar, and he sensed that he had reached his destination.

Ever since leaving Corm Orp, the thing had called to him, like a ringing in his ears, drawing him onward. The Shadowstar. He wasn’t certain when the name had drifted into his mind. It had come to him unbidden, like so many things did these days. He did not even know what the Shadowstar might be, only that it was the key to his salvation … or his damnation.

Now it was close. Perilously close.

“We’re almost there, Mista,” he murmured. The pale

mare gave an uncertain nicker, then began wending her way through the disordered cluster of tents and shanties.

Soubar was a seasonal trading town situated on the harsh plains south of the Forest of Wyrms. It boasted only thirty or so permanent structures in winter, but in summer its population swelled a hundredfold as merchants, caravaners, and traders from a dozen lands journeyed there, setting up tents to trade all manner of goods. This late in the season, however, most of the wealthier merchants had departed, leaving only the dregs behind—swindlers, charlatans, and thieves.

Mista picked her way disdainfully through the town’s makeshift streets, a twisting maze of foul, churned mud that would freeze solid in another tenday or two. Caledan knew the Shadowstar was near, but it was difficult to hear its call amid all the noise and confusion.

Rickety wagons rattled past. Two traders engaged in a shouting match over the price of a cart of moldy turnips. Bawdy music and coarse laughter drifted from dozens of canvas tents. It would take time for him to determine the direction of the Shadowstar’s call. It was growing dark, and Caledan decided to see if he could find food and rest.

After some searching, he discovered a makeshift tavern set up inside a rank-smelling tent. There was a small corral out back. Caledan managed to find a bit of musty hay and a trough with an inch of scummy water at the bottom. Mista was not impressed.

“Well, it’s the best I can do,” Caledan griped. “Besides, I have a feeling I’m not going to fare much better inside.”

He was right.

It took his eyes a long moment to adjust to the murky interior of the tent. When they did, all he could see were a dozen unfriendly faces glaring at him. Hastily, he sat at a filthy table in one corner. After a while a surly barmaid brought him a cup of sour beer, some stale black bread,

and a bit of moldy cheese. The cost was exorbitant—an entire gold coin—but he needed the food. The fare tasted foul, but he gagged it down.

Finished, he decided it would be best not to linger here. He stood and made his way toward the tent’s canvas door. Three burly men—traders of some sort— blocked his way. They grinned evilly, displaying no more than a dozen yellowed teeth among the lot of them.

“Pardon me,” Caledan muttered, trying to move past them to the door.

One of the men stuck out a muddy boot, tripping him. The three men laughed heartily, as if the sight of Caledan sprawling on the floor were a great joke.

“This fellow thinks he’s too good for our establishment,” one of the traders said coarsely.

“I think you’re right, Goris,” another agreed.

“Maybe if he had a little less gold in his purse, he wouldn’t feel so damn superior,” the third trader growled.

The three men advanced, clenching their meaty hands into fists. The other patrons in the tavern studiously looked away. Caledan would get no help from them.

“I’m warning you,” he said hoarsely. “Leave me alone. For your own good.” K

The trader called Goris let out a mirthful bellow. “You hear that, men? He’s concerned for our well-being.” He loomed over Caledan. “I’ll tell you the best thing for my own good, worm. It would be to take all your gold, and then smash your ugly face to a pulp. How’s that sound?”

Rage blossomed in Caledan’s chest. Desperately, he tried to suppress it, but it was already too late. He felt the first dark stirring deep inside. The other had sensed his anger. It was waking.

“Please,” Caledan whispered urgently. “Please listen to me. Your lives are in danger. You’ve got to go. Now.”

Goris spat in disgust. He gestured to the other two.

“Come on, men! Hold him down while I break a few of his fingers for fun.”

The three men lunged for Caledan, but their hands never reached their target.

“I warned you,” Caledan whispered sadly.

Suddenly, he felt himself swept away on a surging flood of power. Shadowy, bestial shapes sprang from the dim corners of the tent. The air was filled with the sounds of ripping canvas and splintering wood—or were they the sounds of ripping flesh and splintering bone? Caledan was only dimly aware of the bedlam. The hysterical shrieks of the three men seemed to come from a far distance before they were abruptly cut off. As the dark storm swirled around him, Caledan huddled on the ground, curling himself into a tight ball. He rocked back and forth, muttering four words again and again, as if they were a charm that could keep him from drowning.

“I will not forget. I will not forget. I will not forget…”

“He’s been here, all right,” Cormik said with a low whistle of amazement.

Mari could only nod. There was little left of the tent besides a shallow crater littered with a few tatters of greasy canvas and a handful of wood scraps. According to the rumors Jewel and Cormik had overheard, seven people had been slain in the tent’s destruction two nights before. Most versions of the story claimed that the cause had been a bolt of lightning or a freak cyclone. The companions knew better. The tent’s main pole still stood in the center of the blasted crater, the thick shaft grotesquely twisted. Seared into the wood were the shapes of a hundred bulbous, staring eyes. Mari wondered how the local folk explained that.

“I think we’ve seen enough,” she said finally. “Let’s find out if there’s still a market in this town. We need supplies.”

It was three days since the companions had left Triel behind. Outside Lord Elvar’s walled town, Kellen had once again conjured shadows of the past, and they learned Caledan had ventured north, following the Trade Way. They rode hard on his trail, trying to make up for lost time.

As they traveled down the road they twice heard bloodthirsty cries above and glanced up to see three dark specks circling high in the sky. The shadevari. Both times the companions had plunged into the thick bracken beside the road, and Morhion had cast a spell that concealed them with a magical dome. The dome acted as a mirror, reflecting the surrounding trees and brush. Twice they waited in terror for the claws of the shadowsteeds to pierce the magical dome and slice them to ribbons. And twice, after what seemed an agonizing eternity, the hideous cries receded.

Now they guided their mounts through the twisting, muddy warren of makeshift tents and shacks. The population of Soubar had been dwindling with the waning days of autumn, and the violent incident two nights ago had begun a mass exodus. Everywhere merchants and traders were packing their wagons and heading for winter bases. Still, there were hundreds of tents in the squalid encampment, and soon they discovered a bustling market in the town’s center.