Paul Kemp: Shadowrealm

"Get yourself ready," he said to Mennick. "We go in. If the Shadovar are within the storm, we engage. If this is just a ruse or magic gone awry, we push through it, return to Ordulin, and regroup."

When the mage was gone, Reht whispered a prayer to Tempus, asking the Lord of Battle to strengthen his men.

Cale looked up into the dark sky. Above the tree line he saw thousands of tiny points of red light streaking toward the meadow. From a distance they looked like a swarm of fireflies, a swirling constellation of red stars. But Cale recognized them for what they were-eyes.

"Shadows," he said.

Riven nodded, and absently spun his sabers. "She's not here? Varra?"

Cale shook his head.

The air grew cooler as the undead approached. The wind pasted Cale's cloak to his skin. "This storm, the shadows. It's like the Calyx."

Riven nodded. "Kesson Rel is in Faerun, His shadow giants cannot be far off."

Cale tried to count the shadows as they swarmed toward them but gave up. There were thousands. Cale remembered the pit under the spire in the Adumbral Calyx, the black hole that vomited newly formed shadows into the world.

"He has opened a gate," Cale said. "Or a rift."

Cale had seen something similar, long ago, when a portion of the Abyss had bled into the guildhouse of the Night Knives.

"Too many," Riven said, as the undead creatures closed. Hundreds of them descended into the forest, still flying for the meadow, and the soft glow of their eyes cast the boles and boughs of the trees in crimson. Riven bounced on the balls of his feet, slowly twirling his sabers.

"Too many, Cale."

Cale tried to imagine the scope of the deaths that thousands of shadows could cause, but it was too large. He thought of the Saerbians, Selgaunt. He sagged under the weight of his role in it.

"We did this," he said.

Riven stopped spinning his sabers. "No. Kesson Rel did this."

Cale tried to agree, but failed. "We freed him to do it when we killed Furlinastis. Kesson Rel played us, and now he is come to Faerun."

"We didn't know."

"We didn't think. We just acted."

The shadows drew closer, the keening louder.

Riven looked over at Cale. "We aren't going to undo it here. There are too many."

Cale barely heard him. He thought of Varra, of his spell's verdict: She is safe, far from you.

Wasn't that true of everyone he cared about? He thought of Thazienne and the demonic attack that had nearly killed her, thought of Magadon and the archfiend who had torn his soul in half, thought of Jak, who'd died at the claws and teeth of a slaad who'd never paid, not in full…

"Cale."

He had failed everyone and now he had wrought the ruin of an entire realm.

"Cale…"

Cale pulled his mask from his cloak and donned it. Darkness leaked from Weaveshear; darkness leaked from Cale. He let divine power flow into him. He would cut his way to Kesson Rel or die trying.

"We aren't going to undo it," he said. "We're going to end it."

Huge forms materialized from the shadows at the edge of the meadow, ten gangly giants as tall as three men, the vanguard of the army of shadows. Darkness swirled in strands around their stooped forms, twisted around their gray flesh. Their long white hair whipped in the wind. Each wore a hauberk of dull gray links and bore swords in their hands almost as long as Cale was tall. Their black eyes took in the meadow, looking for prey. Their gazes fixed on Cale and Riven. They pointed.

"We are leaving," Riven said. "Cale, think."

"No," Cale said to him, his eyes on the shadows arrowing toward them, the giants stalking across the meadow. "I am finishing this."

He felt Riven staring at him, into him.

"No," Riven said.

The darkness around Cale whirled. "No?"

Riven's good eye narrowed. "No."

Four giants stepped through the shadows and materialized before Cale and Riven, huge blades held high.

Before Cale could brandish Weaveshear, he felt a flash of warmth as the magic of Riven's teleportation ring took hold. He tried to resist it, failed, and Riven transported them across Faerun.

Three hours after Reht's army entered the storm, the rain turned to a downpour, the wind to a gale. The scouts stopped returning word back to the lines. Perhaps they had gotten lost.

The army was marching blind and the men were edgy. Reht could sense it.

Dawn had come but the storm put a blanket between the earth and sky. What little sunlight penetrated the swirling clouds and rain served only to gild the abnormality of the earth under the storm with a lurid glow. The wind pulled at Reht's cloak. His mount tossed her head and whinnied into the storm. He rode a little behind his men in the center of the line, bent against the rain, clutching his cloak closed, his mount sinking into the sloppy earth. The air seemed to pull at him. He felt his strength diminishing.

The line of his army extended a bowshot in either direction but even under the effect of a spell that granted him darkvision he could see little more than the score or so men to his immediate left and right. The shadows and rain swallowed the rest.

"Tighten up the line," he shouted at two of the runners who lingered near him. "Pass it to the commanders."

"Aye," the runners said. They saluted and galloped off, one to the left, one to the right, shouting to tighten up the line. The wind, rain, and darkness soon ate their voices and Reht lost sight of them.

"How can we fight in this?" Reht said to no one in particular. "The air itself is an enemy."

The line gradually tightened, the men crowding more closely together. Reht could see maybe three score men, all of them squinting against the rain and magical darkness. Many had blades drawn, though there was no visible enemy.

The cold seeped into Reht's bones. Mennick, Kelgar, and several more runners rode beside him. Reht looked at their shadowed faces and saw blue lips, pale skin, and uncertain eyes.

Lightning painted the fog green. Thunder boomed and their horses reared and neighed. Men cursed. He steadied his mount with effort.

"Steady men!" he shouted. "Steady!"

The darkness and rain played havoc with his perception. He frequently saw movement at the edge of his vision, ominous hints of creatures or men, but moving forward they found nothing. Shouts from his men sounded from out in the blackness, faint and distant. His men, too, were seeing ghosts, or becoming ghosts.

"The Shadovar cannot turn us back with wind and darkness," Kelgar shouted, though the shadows hollowed out his words. A few "ayes" answered the big warpriest, but most of the men continued forward in sullen silence.

"This is uncanny," said Mennick, though Reht barely heard his voice. Mennick pointed. "Look at the trees."

Stands of trees materialized out of the darkness. Leafless, skeletal, their limbs stuck out of the boles at twisted, agonized angles. Their dry boughs rattled in the wind. The men pointed and murmured.

Mennick steered his horse close to Reht's side and spoke in a tone only Reht could hear.

"Do you feel the air, Commander? It has changed. As the storm grows stronger, the air seems to steal strength. I find it hard to breathe. Do you feel it?"

Reht nodded.

"The deeper we move in, the worse it is becoming."

Reht looked the mage in the eye and saw concern there. The nervous seed in Reht's stomach sprouted leaves.

"We've made a mistake," he said.

The storm was not Shadovar magic. It was something else entirely, something not of Faerun, and he had led his men right into it.

"Halt," he said, but his voice broke. He turned to the runners, cleared his throat, kept his voice steady. "Halt! We are calling a halt and turning around. Do it now!"