Paul Kemp - Shadowstorm

"You will be hanged for treason," Mirabeta said.

"Overmistress, I…"

Elyril stared into his grizzled face and amused herself by interrupting him with a half-truth. "Malkur Forrin is an agent of Sharrans. And it was the Church of Shar that secretly backed the rebellion of Selgaunt and Saerb. He wishes the overmistress dead and Sembia covered in darkness."

"Outrageous!" Malkur said, and took a step backward.

Elyril did not let up. "You will be tortured and finally drawn for your crimes. Your life will end in screams."

Malkur stood mute, dumbfounded. At last he said, "There are many witnesses among my men."

"Their words are as nothing," Elyril said. "They are loyal to you, not the state. They will agree with our account or they will share your grave."

Mirabeta nodded and spoke in a soft tone. "Grounds for your torture and execution can be invented at any time, dear Malkur. None will question it, and what you think is the truth will die with you. My grip on power is firm. Quite firm. Do you understand?"

The mercenary's eyes darted from Elyril to Mirabeta to the wall to the floor. Elyril could fairly see his mind working. Soon she saw acceptance in his expression.

"I understand, Overmistress."

Mirabeta stared at him for a moment, then gestured at the chair across from her. "Excellent. Only now have we been truly candid with one another. You have no leverage with me. Not now, not ever. I am the overmistress and War Regent. Do not forget it. Now, sit."

Malkur slid into the proffered seat, contrite. The twisted faces in the table mocked him.

"I am your servant, Overmistress," he said. "Forgive my presumption."

Mirabeta said, "You are forgiven. And you are more than my servant. You are my Commander General. As of this moment. The proclamation will go out this day."

Malkur looked surprised that his fortunes could so rapidly turn.

Elyril smiled at him. "Welcome back to the Sembian military."

"Thank you, Overmistress. Milady. You are most generous."

"You will lead a force on Saerb," Mirabeta said.

"When, Overmistress?"

"Immediately."

He nodded. "As you wish." He licked his lips and looked meaningfully at Mirabeta. "I will see to these matters now… unless I might be of service to the overmistress in another way before I depart?"

Mirabeta kept her eyes on Malkur and dismissed Elyril with a wave of her hand. "Elyril, see to the drafting of your credentials and the proclamation appointing Malkur Commander General. Turest will assist you."

"Yes, aunt," Elyril said, relieved to be free of duties to her aunt.

She exited the chamber and hurried to her room, to Kefil, to her minddust, to her dreams of shadows.

Phraig dreamed of a wind of screams and a snowstorm that scalded his skin in fire.

He awoke, heart pounding, eyes on the cracked plaster of the ceiling. His wife lay asleep beside him, her breathing slow and steady.

He had heard something, hadn't he? Or perhaps he had only dreamed it? He swallowed to wet his throat, lay still, and listened.

He heard nothing.

He let out a slow breath and tried to calm himself. His dreams had been haunted since his ordeal in the Hole. He knew the servants of Mask had not died after leaping down the shaft. Everyone knew. The guards had sought bodies and found none.

Since the attack, his fellows had looked at him askance, had not invited him to dice and cards. Almost a score of guards had died in the attack and Phraig knew his fellow guards held him responsible.

But they had not seen the shadowmen. They had not stared into the one good eye of a killer and seen an emptiness there as black as the Hole itself. Looking back, Phraig did not believe the shadowmen had been men at all. They had been… something else, and every one of his fellows would have done just as he had. His choice had been to resist and die or comply and live. He had a wife. He had wanted to live.

Staring at the ceiling, he determined, suddenly and with perfect clarity, that he would quit the guard. He could find work helping rebuild the docks. Laborers would be needed for months and he had a strong back. He could wield a hammer as well as a sword.

The decision lightened his mood. He thought of a new beginning, placed a hand on Aria's hip, closed his eyes, and slept.

A sound from the other room awakened him-a soft rattle, as of metal on metal. The air felt chill. His heart jumped anew and he opened his eyes. Aria still slept soundly beside him.

Careful not to disturb her, he swung his legs off the bed and put his feet on the wooden floor. He licked his lips, closed a fist on the hilt of the dagger he kept on the side table near the bed.

Moving slowly and silently, he rose-careful to avoid stepping on the chamber pot-and padded across the small bedroom, trying to shake off the blurriness of sleep. His wife did not stir.

There. The rattle again. It came from the front door.

A burglar? Or perhaps a drunk at the wrong door?

The bedchamber door, ajar, separated their sleeping quarters from the rest of their two-room garret. He pulled open the door with his free hand and looked out.

Darkness, pierced only by the soft glow of embers in the small fireplace. He licked his lips, studied the room, and saw nothing but their meager furnishings. He moved silently across the room to the entryway and quickly checked the hook lock.

Still fastened.

Sweat slicked him. His breath came fast. He could not explain it but he felt dread in his bones. He stood in the dark, breathing heavily, listening, certain that someone lurked on the other side of the door, separated from him by nothing more than a thin slab of weathered wood. He clutched the dagger in a sweaty fist. He would not be taken unawares. Drunk or burglar, they would find him ready.

He put his ear to the wood and listened.

He heard breathing, the deep respiration of powerful lungs.

But not from the other side of the door.

From right behind him.

A presence filled the room and stole the air. The room grew so cold Phraig could see his breath. Fear seized him. He whirled, gasping.

What he saw paralyzed him with terror. The dagger fell from his hand. He felt his mouth hanging open but could not close it. He gaped at a giant figure with glowing red flesh, white eyes, black wings, and horns. The fiend held a black clawed finger to its lips for silence-and smiled.

Phraig could only stare. His vision went blurry. His heart sounded like a drum in his ears. The room spun. He felt ice gather on his beard and eyebrows. He saw only the fiend's white eyes.

"Phraig?" Aria called from their bedroom, her voice slurred from sleep. She might as well have been calling from another world.

The diabolical figure looked at the bedroom door, back at Phraig, and raised an eyebrow.

"I hope your mate is attractive," it said, and enveloped Phraig in darkness.

18 Uktar, the Year of Lightning Storms

The setting sun clipped partially below the horizon, setting the roof of the world aflame and casting Selgaunt into shadow. Clouds as thin and dry as old bone lined the sky. Tamlin knew they would offer no respite from the drought in the north.

He stared out a window of the western tower in the Hulorn's palace and looked out on his city, a city swollen with refugees who would feed on anything, and fear that would feed on itself. He could not shed the impression that Selgaunt was barely holding its ground, that the continuing press of stinking, sweating humanity that flooded into it by the day must soon push it by sheer weight of numbers into the dark waters of the Inner Sea.

Apprehension hung as thick as fog in the air. War was coming.

He watched as the sun fell below the horizon and Selgaunt went dark. Night summoned the linkboys. Street lanterns flared to life, chasing the darkness and turning Selgaunt's streets into radiant serpents that slithered between rows of packed shops, inns, and residences. Only the northwest corner of the city, not far from Temple Avenue, remained unlit. The Shadovar, housed in a makeshift embassy there, preferred the darkness.