Paul Kemp: Twilight Falling

"What did you call her?" he asked Magadon.

"Her? How in the Hells would you know it was a ‘her’?"

Cale gave no answer, and Magadon shrugged.

"She's a slaad, I think," the guide said. "Creatures of chaos. Not of this world." He looked at Riven. "Not enough enemies in Faerun for you, Drasek?"

Riven sneered.

Nestor, standing over the slaad's corpse with a haunted look, poked at the body with his greatsword. Cale figured Nestor had never before seen anything like her.

"Cut her up and burn her," Cale said. "Then we move."

Nestor whirled on them.

"What?" he asked, horror obvious in his eyes.

"They heal," Riven said. "Faster than a troll. It's the only way to be certain. Fleet, start a fire. Keep it low. We don't need the whole forest seeing it."

Jak nodded and set to work. Afterward, while Magadon, Jak, and Nestor chopped the slaad's body into manageable pieces, Cale pulled Riven aside.

"How well do you know him?" Cale asked, indicating Magadon.

"We go back a bit. I'd trust him as much as you. He's been a guide out of Starmantle for years. Did some work for the Zhents years ago. His comrade is unknown to me."

"Get him over here."

Riven called Magadon over while Nestor and Jak put the slaad to the flames. The creature's flesh shed greasy black smoke as it burned. It smelled like eggs gone bad. Of course, Cale knew that somewhere in the flames his holy symbol too was burning. He watched the flesh char and peel away from the bones, hoping that somewhere the flames warmed the departed souls of the Uskevren house guards she had murdered.

When Magadon walked over, Cale asked him, "Can you get us to the Lightless Lake by midnight?"

Magadon frowned and said, "That'll be tight. The marsh is hard going. But I know the way." He paused, then added, "What's in it for me and Nestor?"

"Three hundred fivestar-gold pieces each," Cale said. "You'll have to take my word for payment, at least for now." When Magadon didn't balk, Cale went on, "There's likely to be danger there. And more of those." He indicated the roasting slaad with the stump of his hand. "Innocent lives may be at stake, but you should understand that this really is a personal matter."

The guide stared him in the face, his expression unreadable.

"There aren't any innocent lives, Erevis," Magadon said, "and I wouldn't trust a man who was out to save 'em. A grudge, now that I can understand. We're in for three hundred wheels."

He gave Riven a look then walked back to help burn the slaad to ash.

After he'd gone, Riven indicated Cale's stump and asked, "How is it?"

Coming from Riven, the question surprised Cale. He remembered the thought that had occurred to him as he lay dying: Was Riven his friend?

"I'll manage," he said. "Lost the mask, though. No spells until I get a new symbol."

He managed to keep his tone level, but in truth he had no idea how he would obtain another holy symbol. The mask had come to him by …

Fate, he thought, and almost smiled. Almost.

Riven's hand went to his own holy symbol, then he wiped the slaad's black blood from his sabers and scabbarded them.

"Let's find this prig of a mage."

Behind Vraggen, the bullywugs ceased beating their drums and fell silent. The hushed air was rich with anticipation. The bullywugs seemed to be holding their breath beneath their torches. Eglos, their shaman, had represented to his faithful that the expected appearance of the Fane of Shadows would be a sign that the tribe was favored by Ramenos. Worked into a religious frenzy, the gullible creatures now would tear to shreds anyone else who attempted to set foot in the area.

"I'll never get this stink off of my clothes," Azriim said, beside him.

Vraggen made no reply. He stood on the edge of the Lightless Lake with the half-drow and Serrin to either side.

The Lightless Lake was a small body of water, but Vraggen knew its depths to be infinite. Like a well in the world, it had no shallows. Stepping into even the edge of its waters meant sinking to depths beyond measure. No starlight, no glow from Selune's tears reflected on the pitch waters. Ripples did not mar its surface. It was a darkened mirror, a perfect reflection of the night.

It was a holy place.

Vraggen waited, increasingly anxious. The midnight hour approached. If Azriim had correctly deduced the time from the star globe, soon the Fane would appear, soon he would be transformed.

The Fane was a gift of the gods of shadows to their faithful, a sanctuary that journeyed through time and worlds. It was a bastion, an armory for servants of the twilight. Only one who understood the shadow could enter it safely and bypass its guardians.

A cold breeze stirred, whispering through the stands of cypress. As one, the bullywugs uttered a low croak of awe. They sensed the growing presence of the Fane, but dared not approach nearer than a spearcast to the water.

Ochre light began to pulse from deep in the depths of the lake.

"Look," Vraggen said.

"I see," Azriim said softly, and Vraggen heard the anticipation in his voice.

The green light grew brighter, fuller, but somehow did nothing to dispel the darkness of night.

Beside him, Azriim shook his head sharply, as though to shed an unpleasant thought.

"There is a problem," he said, softly.

What problem could there be? Vraggen's triumph-Cyric's triumph-was at hand.

"Speak," the mage commanded.

Azriim looked him in the eyes. The ochre light from the lake cast the half-drow's face in a sinister light.

Azriim said, "Cale is coming."

Vraggen couldn't believe it so he asked, "Why do you think this?"

Azriim hesitated a moment before answering, "Elura and Dolgan were to transport themselves here at this hour. Something must have prevented that. It can only be Cale. He must have tracked us from Selgaunt."

Vraggen whirled on Serrin and spat, "You-!"

Azriim held up his hands and interposed himself between Serrin and the furious mage.

"They left Serrin for dead at the Twisted Elm, Vraggen," the half-drow said. "He told them nothing. If it were otherwise, I would know. Cale probably tracked us by magical means."

Vraggen stared into Azriim's mismatched eyes and knew the half-drow was right. Besides, it didn't matter how Cale had tracked them. To Vraggen, Cale was nothing more than another obstacle to overcome in his quest to glorify Cyric. He recovered his calm.

"The bullywugs will have some sport, then. Excellent." Vraggen turned back to the lake and looked across its still surface, into the glow in its depths. He pointed and said, "Behold, Azriim. The Fane of Shadows."

Azriim and Serrin leaned forward to see.

Deep below the surface of the lake, the diffuse ochre light pierced the pitch to illumine marble columns veined in black, graceful arches, thick pillars, obsidian sculptures of a hundred world's gods of the night-a temple, the Fane. Living shadows swirled around the columns, danced through the arches. The waters of the Lightless Lake blurred the image but the beauty of the Fane was undeniable. It seemed to hang suspended in the depths, like a star in the heavens.

Within, Vraggen knew, was power.

"Open the way," said Azriim.

Vraggen nodded. He held up his arms, uttered the arcane words to a spell of opening, and powered it by tapping the Shadow Weave. He sent the shadow magic spiraling into the lake. In answer, the waters seethed and hissed.

Behind them, the bullywugs croaked in unison, caught in a religious ecstasy.

The waters of the lake parted, solidified, and formed a narrow, step-lined, hollow shaft that pierced the lake's depths all the way to the Fane. It appeared as though the invisible finger of a god had penetrated the lake to point Vraggen's way.