Paul Kemp - Shadowbred

Noss filled a tankard with ale and held it up for Magadon.

Magadon rehearsed an excuse in his head, prepared to offer it, but surprised himself by changing his mind. It was custom around the southern shores of the Inner Sea to drink with a guide while on the road; and more than that, he suddenly wanted company more than privacy.

He adjusted his hat, collected his bow and pack, and rose to his feet.

To the raccoons, he said, "I'm away, Mother." To the merchants, he said, "I can put your minds at ease that I am no ascetic, goodsirs, not by a wide margin. I've had everything from homebrewed swill in Starmantle to firewine in Westgate. But these days, I have sworn off spirits."

The merchants booed and hissed, but all held their smiles.

"You still must shed the hat," someone called.

"Yes! The hat!"

"Yes!"

Magadon realized that his hat had become the focus of too much attention, albeit intended as jest. He had to do something to diffuse the matter or one of the men would grab it off his head as a fireside prank. And if the caravaneers learned that he was fiendspawn, the smiles and camaraderie would vanish as quickly as they had appeared. He had seen it happen before when someone discovered his horns, or the birthmark that marred his biceps.

As he approached the fire, he summoned some of his mental energy, used it to extend his consciousness, and lightly reached into the minds of the dozen caravaneers around the fire. None showed any sign of noticing.

He took a subtle hold of their visual perception, pulled off his hat, and modified what they all witnessed. Instead of horns, he caused each of them to see only a smooth brow and his long dark hair.

"Not even bald!" one of them shouted.

"You see?" he said, and fixed the hat back on his head. He released his hold on the caravaneers' senses and offered a lie. "Neither scar nor bald head. I wear the hat because it belonged to a close comrade who fell to gnolls while we were on the road together. So when I am on the road, I rarely take it off. Well enough?"

The men understood that. "Well enough," most said in more subdued tones, and all nodded. Two even raised a drink in a salute. Others cursed the gnolls.

Magadon drew tight the drawstring on the hat and took a seat by the fire. As the jests, tales, and insults flew, he held his conversational ground as well as any. For the first time in almost a year, he truly felt like his old self. He was pleased to see that his hands remained steady throughout the evening, even when his thoughts returned to the Source, as they continually did. The pull was weakening, albeit slowly.

As Grathan and another merchant debated the intricacies of Sembian contract law, Magadon's mind drifted back to a night long ago, on the Plane of Shadows, when he and Erevis had shared a conversation across a campfire. Not banter or debate, but honest words between men. Magadon had admitted his lineage to Erevis and Erevis had admitted his fears to Magadon. Neither had judged the other. They'd become friends that night. Later events had only strengthened the bond.

Magadon missed Erevis and Riven, missed them both more than he missed the Source, more than he had missed the oak.

He realized all of a sudden that he had been foolish to isolate himself. His friends had not judged him for being born of a devil and they would not have judged him for his addiction to the Source. He had lost himself all the more easily for not having his friends around him. He resolved to find them as soon as the caravan reached Starmantle.

His mind made up, he allowed himself to enjoy the camaraderie around the campfire. After a few hours, the drink took its toll on the caravaneers. By the time Selune passed her zenith, the merchants and men-at-arms had begun to wander to their wagons for sleep. A few, including Tark, nodded off where they sat.

Grathan stood. "I'm off to sleep."

"Goodeve to you," Magadon said. "We'll reach Starmantle in a few days."

Grathan nodded and started off, but turned back to Magadon. He came close and said in a low tone, "Woodsman… I've seen worse than your horns."

Magadon was too shocked even to stammer a denial. He felt himself flush. His mind raced. Before he could frame a reply, Grathan went on, "If a man keeps his word and cares for his own, I don't care what his appearance may be, or his bloodline. There are some here you could have trusted. And we could have managed the rest."

Magadon looked quickly around to see if any of the few remaining caravaneers were watching or listening. All were sleeping, or nearly so. Magadon looked up at Grathan.

"I hear your words," he said softly, studying the merchant's jowly face, "and appreciate them. But how…?"

The merchant smiled and touched his silver cloak clasp. "This shields me from whatever trick you used on the rest. A valuable gewgaw for a merchant, no? I picked it up from a Red Wizard in Daerlun." Grathan sat down beside him.

Magadon stared at him and asked, "What now?"

"Now, nothing. You've naught to fear from me. If you wish the horns and whatever else a secret, a secret it shall remain. And I'll ask no more questions. I meet all sorts in my travels and here's what I know: All men keep a coffer full of secrets in their souls. It's what makes us men. You are no exception to that. But I will tell you this. You must open up that coffer and show the contents to another sometimes, or it rots in you."

Magadon heard wisdom in his words. He extended his hand and said, "You have my gratitude, Grathan."

"And you have my respect," the merchant answered, clasping Magadon's hand. "That cannot be an easy load to cart."

"Easier some times than others."

"Or somesuch?" Grathan said with a grin.

"Or somesuch," Magadon answered with a nod and smile.

"Goodeve to you, woodsman," Grathan said, and patted Magadon's shoulder. "Remember to take off your hat sometimes."

He rose and walked toward the wagons.

Magadon stared into the dying fire, thoughtful, playing with the drawstring of his hat. He reminded himself that he should not always assume the worst of men. He had grown so accustomed to thinking so little of himself that he automatically thought little of others.

The realization lightened his mood. He resolved again to contact Erevis and Riven-

Sudden motion near the oak drew his eye. The mother raccoon and her young scrambled up the tree. The young climbed awkwardly but fear lent them speed.

Frowning, Magadon scanned the area near the tree for a predator, but saw nothing unusual out to the limits of his nightvision.

A cloud bank swallowed the crescent of Selune and the drone of insects immediately went quiet. The horses and train mules, tied to the wagons, snorted and pawed at the ground. The temperature dropped noticeably. A tingle tickled Magadon's exposed flesh. He felt magic in the air. The few snoring men around the fire stirred restlessly and waved a hand in the air, as if fending off nightmares.

Magadon's heart began to thump. For a moment, he feared that he had fallen asleep, that Grathan's words had been a dream, that the walls he had built in his mind had crumbled and that he would soon hear his father, see the men around the fire burst into flame. His hands started to tremble but he steeled himself, told himself that it was no dream.

He took up his bow, rose to his feet, and with difficulty, nocked an arrow. The familiar movement steadied him. He turned in a circle and looked out on the plain but saw nothing to alarm him-just rolling grass, the old oak, and few other scattered trees. He stepped around the fire and nudged Tark, who was sleeping.

"Up," he ordered. "And the rest. Be quick and quiet. Something comes."

Tark did not move. Neither did anyone else.

"Up!" Magadon said, and kneed him hard.