Paul Kemp - Shadowstorm

He roared in frustration, beat his wings, and took flight. Enraged, he turned a circle in the sky and swept low over the stagnant water of his domain. The force of his passage bent reeds and small trees, and sent up a spray of water in his wake. He blew out another cloud of his life-draining breath, another, and the vapor annihilated thousands of creatures. Their deaths did little to mitigate his anger.

The shadows around him swirled as the souls of the priests trapped within his shadow shroud focused their wills. Faces formed in the shroud, all clamoring for freedom. The cacophony of voices subsided and one voice rose above the multitude. Furlinastis recognized it as that of Avnon Des the Seer.

The Chosen of the Shadowlord have returned. The First has come to claim what is his, what we have held for him these unnumbered years. The end is upon us. You will die and we will be freed to go to our rest.

"If they return again, they will die. You will never be freed, priest. You chose your prison."

And you yours, dragon. You chose Kesson Rel for your ally.

Furlinastis again howled his rage into the dark sky. "I chose nothing! I was compelled by his magic, the same soul magic that binds you to me now, that binds him to you! If I die and you are freed, so, too, will he be freed."

Yes, Avnon Des said, his tone almost sympathetic. But that doom was charted long ago. They will return and you will die. The course is set.

"I will fight them. They are only men."

No. They are more.

The words sent a charge of emotion through Furlinastis, a feeling he had not experienced for centuries, not since his first encounter with Kesson Rel the Shadowtheurge. It took him a moment to recognize it as fear.

I am sorry, Avnon Des said. He made you his vessel. We had to make you ours to trap what he expended to bind you. There was no other way.

Furlinastis heard sincerity in the words, but they brought him no comfort. He told himself that Avnon Des was wrong.

Within the shroud, Furlinastis felt the stirrings of power, felt the squirming, semi-sentient thing that was a portion of Kesson Rel contending with the priests. Avnon Des's face grew pained, melded back into the shadows.

Furlinastis murmured, "It is because of you, fool theurge, that I have been bound to this swamp for these thousands of years. It is because of you that I will die."

Kesson forced enough of his will through the wall of priests to answer.

The end is near, wyrm. And I will again be whole.

Furlinastis roared into the sky and wheeled upward, toward the clouds, amongst the lightning.

Tamlin sat atop his mare and rode slowly down the city's cobblestone streets. Prince Rivalen rode beside him, man and horse wrapped in twilight. A dozen spear-armed Scepters in green weathercloaks and mail walked before and behind them and kept the streets clear. Groups of citizens clustered to watch them pass. Tamlin sat tall in his saddle, waved and nodded. He tried to look determined but could not maintain it for long. The huddled forms and fearful faces that stared at him out of the dark undermined his confidence.

Tamlin spoke in low tones so that none but Rivalen would hear him. "My entreaties for a negotiated resolution have gone unanswered."

Rivalen nodded. "The overmistress does not wish peace."

A few men in the crowd-off duty militiamen, no doubt- raised a defiant cheer condemning Ordulin. "When will the Selkirk whore bring her army, Hulorn?"

"We wish some sport," shouted another.

Tamlin raised his fist and forced a smile.

"I cannot believe it has come to this," he said to Rivalen. "How can the realm have been so close to war without anyone realizing it? We will kill each other over trifles, over a lie."

Prince Rivalen eyed him sidelong. His golden eyes shone like fivestars.

"That is so and has ever been so. I have lived two thousand years and have seen in that time that men almost always die for trifles. Exceptions are rare."

"Your years have made you a cynic, Prince," Tamlin said softly.

Rivalen laughed, a hard, staccato sound. "A realist, Hulorn. In truth, everything is a trifle when viewed through the lens of history. Empires rise and fall, men live and die. The Jhaamdathan Empire ruled a great portion of the world at one time. Have you ever heard of it?"

Tamlin felt ignorant but shook his head.

"Of course not," Rivalen said. "Only scholars have. Yet the Jhaamdathans thought their influence would extend forever. Men delude themselves into thinking that the events in which they participate are of particular significance to history, but they rarely are. One empire is the same as another."

"What of Netheril, Prince? Even I have heard of it. Its influence reaches through time, even unto now."

Rivalen waved a hand dismissively and it trailed shadows. "Netheril is an exception. A sole exception. But even it will fade from the memory of men someday. All is fleeting, Hulorn, and only one thing is certain-an end to all things."

Tamlin chuckled. "I mistook you, Prince. You are worse than a cynic. You are a nihilist."

Rivalen shrugged. "Things are what they are, whatever we may think. It is our task to wrestle meaning from meaninglessness while we still can. Does that make me a nihilist still?"

Tamlin's smile faded. He envied Rivalen the perspective of two thousand years.

"Are you a man of faith, Prince?"

Rivalen's golden eyes flared and narrowed.

"Is that a rude question?" Tamlin stuttered. "If so, I apologize. I thought-"

Rivalen waved a ringed hand. The shadows about him swirled. "It is not rude, Hulorn. It is forthright. That is one of the things I admire about you."

Tamlin felt himself color at Rivalen's praise. He valued it as much-perhaps more-than he had ever valued the praise of his father.

"I ask only because I have been considering matters of faith recently. In my own life, I mean. Our conversation put me in mind of it."

Rivalen said, "Times of crisis breed introspection. And yes, I am considered pious among my people."

The admission mildly surprised Tamlin.

"May I inquire, then, which gods you worship?"

Rivalen looked above Tamlin and into the moonless sky. When he looked down again, he smiled kindly, the expression made oddly threatening by his ornamental fangs.

"I worship but one. A goddess."

"Really? I've known none but priests to worship only one god or goddess."

"I am a priest, Hulorn."

Tamlin reined his horse and stared at Rivalen. Their bodyguards looked startled for a moment, but quickly formed a cordon around the two.

"A priest? I thought you were… something else."

"A mage?"

Tamlin nodded.

"I am both, Hulorn. A theurge, my people call me."

Tamlin's respect for Rivalen redoubled. "That is a rare combination, Prince."

"Perhaps not as rare as you think. I have never found my faith to be at odds with my magical studies."

"You worship Mystra, then?"

Rivalen stared at him, his face impossible to read. "No." He gestured at the road, and shadows leaked from his fingers. "Shall we continue?"

"Uh, of course." Tamlin turned his mare and they started moving again. The bodyguards fell in around them.

Rivalen said, "Mystra is not the only goddess who welcomes practitioners of the Art into her ecumenical orders. Have you considered formalizing your own worship, Hulorn?"

Tamlin smiled and shook his head. "No. Religion does not speak to me, Prince. My father was the same way. Coin is in the Uskevren blood, not faith."

"You are not your father, Hulorn."

To that, Tamlin said nothing, though the words pleased him somehow.

"You need only a Calling," Rivalen said.

"No god or goddess will be calling me, Prince." Tamlin tried to laugh at the notion but could manage only a forced smile.