Paul Kemp: Shadowrealm

He cursed himself for bringing her out of Skullport, cursed himself for leaving her alone in an unfamiliar place. He had not merely left her alone; he had abandoned her. She could be wandering in the woods, lost in the storm, anywhere.

He tossed their room, found one of the smocks she sometimes wore in the summer, and decided to use it as the focus for a divination. He held his mask in one hand, the smock in his shadowborn hand, and intoned over the wind the words to a spell that would locate her.

The magic manifested and the shadows darkened before his face, forming a lens in the air. But he felt no connection to Varra. He poured power into the spell, willed it to show her, but the lens remained black, dead.

Cursing, he ended it.

He stood in the center of the ruins of their life together, wondering if she was dead. He hesitated for only a moment before making up his mind. He cast another spell that allowed him to commune with his god. The wind-driven beat of the shutters and door on the walls kept time with his heart.

"Is she alive?" Cale asked, his voice a monotone in the wind's wail.

The darkness swirled around him and the voice of his god whispered in his brain, She lives and is safe, far from you, but not in distance.

He exhaled with relief, tried to process the rest of the reply, but Riven's shout from outside carried over the shriek of the wind.

"Cale! Get out here!"

Cale cloaked himself in shadows and rode them back out to the meadow. He emerged from the darkness beside Riven, in Varra's garden. Lightning ripped the sky, cast the meadow in sickening green. The wind picked up, took on an odd keening that stood the hairs on his arms on end. It bent the trees of the forest, sent a barrage of leaves and loose sticks into the meadow.

"Up there," Riven said, and pointed skyward with one of his sabers.

Astride his mount, Reht crested a rise and looked at the edge of the crawling darkness. His commanders crowded around him. All squinted against the wind and rain. All cursed.

His army stood arrayed a spear cast behind them, cloaks drawn, shields held over heads to shelter them from the pounding of the rain. Dawn would break in a few hours, but Reht thought it unlikely they would notice once they entered the storm. It looked like ink.

"Gods," said Norsim, a towering junior commander with a reputation for good luck.

A wall of black fog lay before them, extending from the ground to the sky. Tendrils and spirals of pitch reached out of it, seemed to pull it along in dark billows. The fog cloaked the ground, sank into the hollows, and shrouded everything in its path. Its edge seemed to demarcate more than the border between light and shadow. The earth looked different under its shroud, foreign, deformed. They could not see more than a stone's throw within in.

Lightning flashed from time to time, turning the thick haze the greenish black of a bruise. Reht's horse neighed nervously, pawed the ground, tossed its head. Shifts in the saddle betrayed the concern of his commanders, though none spoke their fears aloud.

"Shadovar magic," Mennick said.

"Aye," Reht said.

Enken's horse tossed its head, blew a spray of spit. "There could be ten thousand men within it."

"Or there could be a few hundred," Reht said.

"Or none," Norsim said.

"Not even you are that lucky," said Enken.

Kelgar slammed a gauntleted fist against the lightning bolts on his shield. "Let us hope that it is ten thousand. The Thunderer demands blood for Vors."

Reht saw motion within the darkness. Forms separated from the murk and the shadows birthed the silhouettes of two men and horses. No one else seemed to notice. Reht still had his archer's eyes.

"Scouts are returning," he said.

"Where?" asked Enken, leaning forward into the rain. "Ah."

Othel and Phlen burst from the fog, trailing stubborn streams of black disinclined to release them. They shook their heads as they emerged from the fog, spotted Reht and his commanders, and raced toward them.

"Ten fivestars on Othel," Norsim said, though the offer sounded half-hearted.

No one took the wager.

Othel and Phlen, with Phlen in the lead, tore toward the gathered commanders and wheeled to a stop. Both of the men looked pale, the mud spatters that covered them dark by contrast.

"General," Othel said to Reht, as his horse turned a circle, neighed, and pawed the earth.

Enken tossed Othel a waterskin. The scout took a long draw then wiped his mouth.

"Report," Reht said.

"It is cool within the fog and grew cooler as we advanced," Othel said. "Visibility is poor but light can cut through it. I found it difficult to keep my sense of direction."

"As did I," Phlen agreed, nodding. Othel passed him the waterskin and he drank.

Othel said, "We rode in half a league and encountered nothing. It appears to be nothing more than an unusual storm. If Shadovar forces are within, they are farther back than we advanced."

Kelgar looked past the scouts to the storm. "The Shadovar are in there."

"Your spells tell you as much?" Reht asked.

Kelgar thumped his breastplate with his fist, over his heart. "This tells me as much. There's battle in there, General."

Reht made up his mind and spoke to his commanders.

"Put the men in a skirmish line, with three man teams scouting all sides. Mennick, use the darkvision wands on all the scouts and all senior commanders. Scouts are to return with word on the half hour."

Enken eyed the storm, and licked his lips. Lightning lit up the clouds. "I don't like it, Reht. Could be anything in there."

"Then you best prepare for anything," said Kelgar with contempt.

Enken edged his horse toward Kelgar's. "Close your hole before I fill it with steel, priest. Revenge for your dead fellow and Forrin's snatching is not reason to be rash."

The Talassans glared at Enken and snarled. Enken answered with his own glare, his hand on one of his knives. The other commanders took position near Enken, facing off the priests.

"Calmer heads, men," Reht said. "All of you. There's work ahead." To Enken, he said, "You think it rash?"

"Yes," Enken said, and tilted his head. "But I don't see many options. If we retreat before it, it will chase us into the Saerbian forces, which may be the intent. Even if it stops advancing it cuts us off from Ordulin and leaves us unsupplied. Moving south toward Selgaunt is not an option. I'd rather enter it and take our chances than sit on my hands." He smiled. "But that doesn't make it any less rash."

Reht chuckled. "Agreed. Sometimes rashness is a soldier's ally. That's why we keep Norsim and his luck at our side."

Norsim smiled.

Reht continued, "Let's keep the men sharp and see what we see."

"Aye," Enken said. He spat at the feet of Kelgar's mount. "Maybe these battle-happy fools can lead the advance, eh?"

"We've been leading since we arrived," Kelgar answered.

The men all laughed as the group dispersed back to their units.

"Remain," Reht said to Mennick, and when they stood alone atop the rise, he said, "What have you learned?"

The mage shook his head. "Nothing. Whoever took the general is well warded against scrying." He nodded at the storm as distant thunder rumbled. "And divinations reveal nothing about the storm. It's a void, Commander."

"Ordulin and the Overmistress?"

"I cannot make contact with anyone there. The storm may be blocking the magic."

Behind them, horns blew and men shouted, the army forming up.

Reht eyed the black wall before him, and the twisted look of the world under its shroud. He and his army were isolated in the field, with scant knowledge of their enemy, supply lines cut by the storm, and no instructions from their ostensible leaders in Ordulin. He did not like the courses open to him but had to choose one.