Paul Kemp - Shadowrealm

"They wear the wheel of Forrin's army!" he shouted. "Forrin's army is come to face us at last."

"For Saerb, then!" Trewe shouted, and others took up his call.

Red eyes grew large in his sight and Regg readied himself.

The company's mounts stood in a group on the outskirts of the camp, heads lowered against the rain and thunder. They sheltered from the rain as best they could under a stand of three maples but the chill had many shivering. Firstlight and Swiftdawn neighed a greeting to Abelar.

Abelar moved among the horses, whickering, stroking flanks, and making soothing sounds as he saw to their tack and checked saddle straps. He stripped them of saddle bags and other unnecessary weight.

Firstlight and Swiftdawn followed him as he moved from horse to horse. Both nudged him with their noses and looked east to the storm, tossing their heads. Both knew battle was in the darkness.

"I know," Abelar said, rubbing their noses. Like him, they were bred to fight darkness. Like him, they felt uncomfortable with idleness.

Presently he had the mounts ready to go. He stepped out from under the maples, eyed first Sakkors, then turned to the Shadowstorm. They had perhaps an hour and it would be upon them. He recalled the verdict of Roen's divinations-the very air within the storm would drain a man of life, blacken his spirit, and raise him as an undead shadow. Abelar would not let his people, his son, die that way.

He imagined the members of his company fighting in the darkness, dying, arising to feed Kesson Rel's black army. He feared that if the storm caught the refugees he would see faces he knew in the shadows that came to kill them, faces wearing judgment and screaming accusations.

You should have been with us, they would say. You could have made a difference.

"Perhaps," he murmured, and ran a hand along Swiftdawn's side. "Perhaps."

He walked back to the camp, went to each wagon, to each cart.

"We ride within the hour," he said to them.

Hope fired in their eyes but he quenched it with his next words.

"Bring nothing but a weapon. We must fight our way across the river."

By the time he had completed his round of the camp, the refugees had emerged into the rain. Some sobbed, holding their children close. Others bore resigned looks on their faces and notched swords in their hands. Some carried farm implements that could double as weapons: axes, small scythes, hammers. A few bore hunting bows. Others fashioned clubs from wagon axles.

In pairs and small groups they made their way through the storm to the horses. Abelar cradled Elden in one arm and walked among them. He could not shake the feeling that he was leading them all to the gallows.

The rain worsened. The thunder and lightning grew more intense. Sakkors hovered in the distance, threat and promise. The horses whickered and stomped nervously in the storm. Abelar lifted Elden onto Swiftdawn.

"You come, Papa," Elden said, and patted the saddle.

Abelar touched his son's hand, but looked to Endren.

"Stay with him," he said, and his father nodded.

Abelar walked among the refugees, assisted them into the saddle, and gave brief instructions to those with little experience on horseback. As he did, as he looked into their faces and saw the hope and trust they put in him, he knew that he would not be able to ride with Elden on Swiftdawn. He would have to leave his son after all. The realization put a hole in his stomach, but warmed his spirit.

When he had them all mounted, he stood on a toppled log and faced them. The darkness made their expressions hard to distinguish. He was pleased he couldn't see them. He knew what he would have seen.

"Do not try to have your mount swim the river," he said above the thunder. "It's too wide and fast. We ride hard for the Stonebridge. I will lead you in this. The Shadovar will try to stop us. They will have steel and magic."

Sobs interrupted his thoughts.

"Do not stand and fight," he continued. "Flight is your best hope. If-" He stopped himself, cleared his throat. "When you cross the bridge, run away from the storm, as fast your mount will bear you."

He saw men and women nod and firm up, saw others wilt and hug each other.

He hopped off the log and walked through them, back to Elden and Endren.

"You ride Swiftdawn with Elden," he said to Endren.

"You come, Papa," Elden said. "With me."

Abelar blinked back tears, took his son from the saddle, and hugged him.

"I am coming. I'll ride Uncle Regg's horse. You take a ride with Grandpapa."

He kissed his son on the head and gave him over to Endren.

"If you gain the bridge, give Swiftdawn her head," he said to Endren. "Not even the Shadovar's flying creatures will catch her."

Endren nodded. "I've seen her run."

Father and son embraced. Together, they lifted Elden into the saddle. Endren hopped up behind the boy.

"Are you afraid?" Abelar asked Elden.

He shook his head. "No, Papa."

"Nor I," said Abelar, rubbing Swiftdawn's face. He leaned in close to Swiftdawn and whispered in her ear, "You are his, now."

She eyed him, neighed, nuzzled his face. He turned and walked back through the refugees to Firstlight. He found his eyes drawn back to the Shadowstorm, where his company was fighting and dying. He regretted that he would not die with them.

He leaped into Firstlight's saddle, feeling light for the first time in days. He turned her, drew his blade, and prepared to give the order to ride.

A hole of darkness formed in the middle of the group. Women screamed, horses reared, everyone backed away.

"Shadovar!" someone screamed.

From the darkness emerged Erevis Cale, Drasek Riven, and a third man blanketed in shadows-Rivalen Tanthul, Abelar presumed.

Rivalen's eyes glowed golden. Cale's glowed yellow.

6 Nightal, the Year of Lightning Storms

The identity of the three newcomers registered with the refugees, manifested in hopeful whispers.

"The Maskarran."

"Erevis Cale has returned."

None of the refugees dismounted, none shouted for joy, none closed ranks around Cale and his companions. They held their seats in the saddle, watching Cale warily, as if moving too fast would cause him to return from whence he had come. An empty space separated the refugees and their ostensible saviors.

"Erevis," Abelar said, and fairly leaped off of Firstlight.

"The dark men are back," Elden said as Abelar passed.

"Everything's all right," Abelar said, reaching up to pat his son. He pushed through the horses and broached the empty circle in which Cale, Riven, and Rivalen stood.

Up close, Abelar could see that something in Cale had changed. He looked more clearly defined, more substantive, as if the world were a painting and he its viewer. He stopped short of embracing Cale and Riven. A hush fell over the refugees.

"Something has happened to you," Abelar said.

"Something has happened to you, too," Cale said, his voice hollow.

"Kesson Rel is dead?" Abelar asked.

Cale shook his head. "Not yet."

Abelar eyed Rivalen. "These people are crossing that bridge, Shadovar, and if-"

"Tell him," Riven said to Rivalen.

The shadows around the Shadovar churned. "You and your people may pass. You will remain safe while in Sembia."

The words hung there, alone in the air for a long moment before the first of the refugees cheered. Abelar blinked then sagged with relief as fists and weapons rose into the air, as shouts of joy, for a moment at least, overwhelmed the thunder.

"But you said Kesson Rel still lives," Abelar said to Cale and Riven.

"We've made other arrangements," Riven said.

Abelar did embrace Cale and Riven then. "Thank you, my friends."