Paul Kemp - Shadowstorm

He nods, waiting.

"They are called krinth. They are slaves to the Shadovar."

I hesitate. He bids me continue. "I… think I did things to many of them, Cale. Opened their minds while I was… with the Source. Rivalen Tanthul made me do it. It hurt them, changed them. But…"

He kneels down, looks me in the face. "But?"

I shake my head. The fiend is laughing at me. I want to tell Erevis that I took pleasure in altering the krinth, in exercising my will over them, but I know he will not look at me the same way if I do.

"Nothing," I say. "That is all."

He knows I am lying but does not press. Perhaps he wants to know nothing more. Confessions, after all, change both those who give them and those who hear them.

"Rest, Mags," he says, and returns to his bedroll.

I close my eyes and return to my mind, to my battle.

I am a ghost, haunting myself.

For two days, they awoke to the same darkness in which they had slept. The Plane of Shadow never saw a dawn. Darkness was eternal.

Power filled Cale's mind. Despite his conflicting obligations to god and archfiend, the Shadowlord continued to answer his prayers. Cale did not understand it, not fully, but did not need to.

Each day after sleeping, Riven sat up, coughed, spit, and lit his pipe. The dark smoke curled into the dark sky. Magadon always sat apart from them, without armor, without his backpack full of gear, with only a dagger for a weapon. To Cale he seemed lost. Cale was determined to help him find himself again.

Throughout the days, Cale used a minor conjuration to summon food and water, mostly stew in bowls made of bread. The three men ate, smoked, talked, shaved, checked their gear and weapons, and idled away the hours. The time passed slowly, but Cale could see Magadon regaining his strength. He ate more and more and Cale was pleased to see it.

"I am ready," Magadon said to them on the second night.

Cale and Riven nodded.

"Tomorrow, then," Cale said.

The next morning they took their fill of breakfast in silence. Afterward, they stood and readied themselves.

Cale held his mask and drew Weaveshear. Darkness leaked from the blade in lazy strands. Riven checked the buckles on his armor, tested the balance on both his sabers. Magadon sheathed the dagger Riven had given him on Cania.

"Mags, can you link us?" Cale asked tentatively. "Do not, if it will… make things worse."

Riven looked a question at him, but Cale ignored it.

Magadon shook his head. "It does not make it worse. It just reminds me of what is."

The mindmage looked to Riven, to Cale, and Cale felt a soft tingle under his scalp.

We're linked, Magadon projected. He held out his palm and a yellow ball of light formed above it. The light flared, lengthened, shaped itself into the form of a blade.

Riven whistled softly and chuckled. The assassin patted Magadon on the shoulder. "Looks like you do have a weapon. Good to have you back."

Magadon nodded at Riven. To Cale, he projected, I'm with you. For as long as I can be.

Whatever the price, Cale answered, I will fix it.

Magadon smiled softly, an indulgent smile, and closed his eyes in concentration. A green glow haloed his head, spread to his arms, torso, and thighs, and sheathed him in force-armor made from his mind.

They were ready. Cale looked his friends in the face.

"I will put us directly into the cemetery, as near to the gate as I can. Ignore the wraiths as much as possible and move right for the darkweaver and the gate. All we need to do is get through it."

Magadon nodded. Riven tapped the holy symbol that dangled from a chain around his neck.

"We go," Cale said. He pictured the cemetery of Elgrin Fau in his mind, pulled the shadows about him, and moved them there.

20 Uktar, the Year of Lightning Storms

Elyril arrived in Yhaunn with Kefil and donned the appropriate false face. She made her required appearance before the Nessarch, the rotund and bearded Andilal Tharimpar. She endured Andilal's ham-handed flirtations as she stood at his side and looked out of a Roadkeep balcony and down on the descending terraces of the city. The thin spires of Glasscrafters' Hall, capped with orange domes that looked like flames, dominated the skyline of the city's center. Beyond and below it, in the lower terrace, the dock ward lay in ruins.

Elyril expressed concern and resolve on her aunt's behalf, and agreed to tour the destruction of the docks with the Nessarch's aide and son, Kalton Tharimpar, an entirely ordinary man of thirty or so winters with pale skin, a thin beard, and curly brown hair. When the time came, she inhaled minddust and brought Kefil along on a thick leather leash.

"That is the largest mastiff I have ever seen," Kalton said. He wore a fox-trimmed cape over his high-collared shirt and tailored breeches. A heavy blade hung at his side. He eyed Kefil warily.

"He has been my companion since childhood," Elyril said, and patted the dog's massive head. Drool dripped from his enormous jowls. He licked Elyril's hand and stared distaste at Kalton.

They took a carriage down the city, across the ramp bridges that connected the various terraces, until they reached the docks. There, they disembarked.

Elyril shook her head at the immensity of the destruction. Piles of shattered stone and splintered wood littered the dock ward. Most of the city near the shoreline lay in ruins. Dislodged piers jutted askew from the still muddy waters. All around her, the innards of crumbled buildings lay surrounded by the ruins of their skin. Kalton offered his hand and assisted Elyril through the destruction, smiling ingratiatingly but staying to one side of Kefil.

"Milady can see that progress has been rapid."

Elyril saw nothing of the kind but nodded anyway. Teams of laborers used carts and mules to clear the debris as best they could. Nods and curt bows acknowledged Elyril and Kalton, but nothing more. The workmen were too intent on their tasks. Kefil growled at shadows.

"He seems an aggressive animal," Kalton said.

"He is," Elyril agreed.

Flotsam from the destruction congealed like a scab along the shoreline. An enormous, concave depression in the mud and stone marred the shore where the kraken had beached for the attack. Countless gulls wheeled in the air, cawing. Others prowled the mud for morsels.

"The creature was enormous," Elyril said.

"Unlike anything I have ever seen," Kalton said, his voice somber. "I assisted a ballista crew. We hit it three times. I think it could have been a hundred. The creature felt nothing." He looked about. "But we will rebuild. Did Milady ever visit the stiltways before recent events?" He pointed to Elyril's right, at an entire block of collapsed wooden buildings. The remains of stilts stuck up out of the ruins like shards of bone. Elyril thought them comical.

"I did not," she said.

"That is regrettable," Kalton said. "They were the soul of the docks. Shop upon shop, all on stilts and interconnected with ladders, swings, and chutes. I loved it as a child. Crime there had become a problem in recent years, but still…"

"Drugs?" Elyril asked.

Kalton nodded. "Of all kinds."

Elyril wished she had seen it, indeed.

Kalton firmed up and said, "But that, too, we will rebuild, better than before." He pointed toward the northern end of the harbor. "The northern piers suffered damage only from the rush of water. Most are salvageable and, as you can see, several remain usable."

Split logs reinforced some of the northern piers. Four caravels flying the heraldry of Raven's Bluff sat at anchor near them. Dock workers swarmed over ships and docks, unloading crates and barrels. A half-dozen carracks floated nearby, awaiting their turn to unload.