Paul Kemp - Shadowstorm

"The book," she breathed. She held out a hand as if to touch it, but stopped just short, struck with the unreality of events. "How can this be?" she asked.

"She said to give it to you. Take it." He offered it to her. "I have never opened it. Perhaps it can answer your questions."

Elyril stared at it for a moment, finally took it in trembling hands. It was uncomfortably warm where Phraig had held it, as if the man were on fire, but she did not care. She ran her fingertips over the rough cover, the way she might a lover.

"She told me it was unfinished," Phraig said. "The middle is gone, she said."

"The book to be made whole," Elyril said, hushed, awed.

"This is yours, then, Milady?"

Elyril nodded, rapt. She was reminded of the first time she had ever partaken of minddust, the feeling of well-being, of transcendence.

"Mine," she said. "Yes."

"Then I will take my leave," Phraig said. He stood, brushing her hand with fingers not hot, but cold as snow. "I feared I was going mad, hearing voices, seeing things. After all, if I were mad, how would I know?"

The words struck her and she looked up into his eyes. The light caught them strangely and she saw only whites.

"How would I know?" she echoed.

He smiled a mouthful of fangs, turned, and exited the room.

Elyril sank back into her chair, cradling the book against her breast as if it were a newborn babe. She bathed in its warmth, thanked Shar, opened it, and began to read from back to front.

It told of Shar's creation from darkness, of her battles with her sister, Selune, of her secret creation of the Shadow Weave in mockery of Mystra's Weave. It told of Shar's end, which was the end of all things. It hinted at more, at a moment of necessary weakness but ultimate triumph for the Lady of Loss, a time when she would devour the shadow.

Elyril pored over every word, every page, inhaling more and more minddust, and in so doing she learned the book's secret. It lay between the words, in the empty spaces on the page. She laughed aloud at its import.

The emptiness spoke in its silence of a ritual-the ritual that would free Volumvax and summon the Shadowstorm. Elyril felt flush at the prospect.

But she could not learn all she needed to know. Some details of the ritual were missing. The book had been divided and the middle pages were gone.

It wanted a mate. It wanted to be made whole.

Elyril had to find the rest.

The late afternoon sun shone down from a cloudless sky. Abelar and Regg, accompanied by Beld and his two companions, rode beside a drought-dried stream bed across the grassy plains, toward the small village Abelar had commandeered to quarter his forces for a few days while he traveled to the Abbey of Dawn.

They rode through high grass, past autumn-stripped stands of birch and maple. They fell silent when they passed the melted remains of a small village. The village's cottages had been reduced to shapeless, discolored lumps. The blackened skeletons of dead trees stood in fields of blasted grass and bore silent witness to the carnage wrought by an enraged dragon.

"The dragon rage," Regg said. "A black, probably."

Abelar nodded. He had seen a black up close, ten leagues west and south of Saerb. He thanked Lathander that the rage was over.

They left the destruction behind and traveled onward. Presently they reached the fallow fields around the village. The poor harvest had made food scarce. Winter would be unforgiving to the villagers.

At Abelar's orders, his company took only shelter from the villagers, never food, not even for the horses. The force counted six priests among their number. All were untested and inexperienced, but all were competent to perform the minor miracle of conjuring food and fresh water. They kept the men fed and distributed any excess to the hungry villagers, starting with the children. More often than not, Abelar's company left the villages better off than when they arrived. The overmistress's forces would be larger, and would not be as kind. Civil war would leave thousands of innocents dead.

"Sembia is not in a state to survive a war," Abelar said to Regg.

Regg nodded agreement. "What realm is? Cormyr is still reeling from hers. Here, the wounds of the rage are fresh and the drought lingers. War is always ugly, my friend. And the weak always suffer most."

"But not on our watch," Abelar said softly.

"Truth," Regg affirmed. "Not on our watch."

Ahead, the chimneys of the log cottages and farms of the village sent thin plumes of smoke into the clear sky. The rhythmic ring of a smith's hammer carried over the plains. The breeze carried the smell of a cooking fire.

The riders crested a brush-covered rise and saw the village below-a collection of simple homes and animal pens built around a large commons. A woman and her undernourished adolescent daughter drew water from the community well. A few scrawny dogs padded through the lanes.

The canvas tents of Abelar's company covered a tree-dotted field on the far edge of the village. A boar roasted on a spit over a fire; one of the men must have taken it on a hunt. Two men tended it while the rest went about their business-cleaning armor, training, eating, talking. The company's horses grazed in the dry grass away from the tents. All were saddled, as if the company were ready to ride.

"Where's the watch?" Regg asked.

"Watching," said a voice from their right.

Three men in leather jerkins rose from a crouch and stepped out of the undergrowth. All bore loaded crossbows in their hands and broadswords at their belts. Bone signal whistles dangled from leather thongs around their necks.

"We could have shot you all dead a stone's throw back," said Garold, a young freckled warrior with a head of hair so red the men called him Bloodmane. His two companions, Rynn and Enerd, grinned.

"If it had been otherwise I'd have had your balls," Regg said, half-seriously.

Abelar chuckled and gestured at Beld and his two companions. "Meet Beld, Aldas, and Dens. They will ride with us."

"Welcome," Garold said. He looked to Abelar. "There's ill news, commander."

Abelar frowned. "Speak it."

"The overmistress's army is marching. We have heard that Forrin heads it."

Regg cursed and spat with contempt.

"Malkur Forrin?" Abelar asked.

Garold nodded.

That explained why Roen had the horses ready to ride. Abelar still had a handful of allies among Lathander's church in Ordulin. They magically relayed information to Roen, the company's senior priest, as circumstance allowed.

"Forrin is a butcher," Regg said. "At the Battle of the Deurst Lowlands, he-"

Abelar cut Regg off.

"How many in his army? Composition of his forces? Is Saerloon marching as well?"

"Roen could tell you, my lord."

"To where are they headed?" Abelar asked. "Do you know that, at least? Selgaunt?"

Garold lowered his head, looked to the men flanking him, at his boots.

"Speak it, boy," Regg said, though Abelar's heart was already sinking.

"Saerb, sir. Or so I've heard."

Abelar's mind turned instantly to Elden, unprotected, standing in the path of an army. He cursed and heeled Swiftdawn toward the village. Regg, Beld, and the other riders fell in behind him. Regg shouted back to Garold and the perimeter guards.

"Gather your gear and recall the rest of the guards! Prepare to ride!"

They galloped through the village and into the camp. His men rose to meet him. All wore hard looks.

Regg indicated Beld and his comrades. "These men ride with us. Gear up. We ride apace. Leave the boar to the villagers."

The men scrambled to break camp.

Roen emerged from his tent, wrapped in his armor and with a heavy flanged mace at his belt. The pale, black-haired priest, as tall and slender as a sapling, nodded at them. Abelar and Regg swung out of their saddles and the men exchanged greetings.