Paul Kemp - Shadowbred

"That is overdoing it a bit, don't you think?"

The god covered Cale's dagger hand with his own. Cale felt the strength in Mask's grip. The god muscled the blade backward, out of his flesh, and twisted Cale's hand with a jerk. Cale's wrist audibly snapped.

Agony flared; Cale screamed. The dagger fell from his limp hand. His shadow-steeped flesh immediately set to repairing the break.

"Now…" Mask began.

Cale ate the pain, threw himself forward, and smashed his head into the bridge of the god's nose. He heard a satisfying crunch.

"Damn it," Mask snarled. He shoved Cale backward to arm's length and kicked him across the alley. The blow hit Cale in the center of his chest and cracked his sternum. The impact with the opposite wall broke several ribs and drove the breath from his lungs.

Cale grimaced from the pain and slid to the ground among a pile of crates. Shadows roiled protectively around him. He breathed with difficulty through the shattered ribs.

Head cocked, Mask stared at him across the alley. Surprise had replaced anger in the god's eyes. His nose was not bleeding and showed no sign that Cale's blow had broken it.

Cale knew then that he could not harm Mask, not permanently, but he did not care. He lifted himself to his feet and brandished Weaveshear.

"Let's finish this," he said. "Now. Here."

Mask studied him for a moment. He put two fingers to the bridge of his nose and tested the flesh.

"That was a good blow," he said, and chuckled.

Cale's flesh had mended his broken wrist and partially repaired his ribs. He took a step forward, blade ready. "I have another one for you."

Mask shook his head and sighed. He sheathed his dagger and held up his hands in mock surrender. "Very well. I will never say his name again. Well enough?"

Cale said nothing but stopped his advance, breathing heavily.

Mask chuckled. "Ao, but you are stubborn. You should have been Torm's Chosen."

A rush of emotion pulled words from Cale. "I should not have been anyone's Chosen!"

Mask scoffed, then sneered. The latter expression looked so like Riven's that Cale would have thought them brothers.

"Come now," the god said. "You are what you are, Erevis. You chose me as much as I you. That is the way of the multiverse. How could it be otherwise?"

Cale recognized the truth in the words and hated it. He had chosen Mask. Again and again he'd had the opportunity to walk away. He never did. He never would. He'd left the Uskevren to serve Mask; he'd left Varra to serve Mask.

The anger went out of him. He had no one to blame but himself.

Mask continued. "Chin up now, priest. You have done very well for yourself and for me. And what were you before we met? An assassin dressed up as a butler, preoccupied with the petty goings-on of Sembian nobility. Now the fates of thousands turn on your actions, tens of thousands. Admit it. You would not have it otherwise."

Cale did not bother to respond. Mask knew the truth of the words, the same as Cale. He could not imagine going back to his old life. He did not want to go back to it.

"Why are you here?" he asked.

"You mean why am I sullying my divine form on this drab plane in this revolting alley? In short, I was waiting for you to make up your mind. You can badger a decision as well as Tyr himself."

Cale leaned on Weaveshear to steady himself. "As usual," Cale said, "that is no answer to my question."

Mask smiled. "True. Here is the answer, then. I came here because I wanted to give you something and to ask you for something."

"You can keep whatever you'd give. I've had enough of what you offer."

Mask said, "Ah, but you have already accepted my offer. I gave you a place to put your anger." He looked down and poked a finger through the hole Cale had put in his leathers. "I think that should do it. You feel better, no?"

Actually, Cale did, though he did not say so.

"Good. Now take the mask from your pocket and put it on. Cast a spell. Do what you were called to do. There is no time for your doubts."

Cale thought of Jak, stood up straight, and sheathed Weaveshear. "No."

Mask looked surprised, then puzzled, then angry. "No?"

"In my own time," Cale said. "If ever. You aren't the one to whom I answer."

"That halfling again," Mask said, and shook his head. "Time is running out, priest, your own and that of everyone else. You will learn that soon enough."

Cale held his ground. "In my own time, I said."

Mask glared at him. "Who do you think you are? You are nothing more than my tool, my weapon."

Cale answered the glare with one of his own and dared speak his thoughts aloud. "A bluff. You chose me and I chose you. You said so yourself. I may be your tool, but you are also mine. I am your Chosen, the First of Five. I may need you, but you need me, too."

Mask stared at him, clucked his tongue. Then he shrugged and tried to look casual. "I will get another. The Second will do."

Mask's Second was Drasek Riven, a one-time rival of Cale's, but now a friend.

"A lie," Cale said. "Riven is as loyal to me as he is to you. And we are too far along for a change. As you said, time is running out."

He let that sit.

After a time, Mask nodded and his face softened to a smile. "All right. True. I need you. But as you admitted, you need me, too. So, we need each other. Well enough?"

Cale shrugged. Mask seemed to take it as agreement.

"Things will start happening soon," Mask said. "When they do, you will be glad to be my Chosen."

"Enough riddles," Cale said. "What will start happening?"

Mask said, "The Cycle of Shadows. And that is not as good as it sounds, I am sorry to say. Since this city is where you and I had our beginning, it seemed fitting that it also be where we begin the end."

A pit formed in Cale's stomach. "The end? The end of what?"

Mask made a gesture that indicated all of Selgaunt, or maybe all of Sembia. "This. That. Many things."

Cale shook his head. "You are saying nothing. You make no more sense than Sephris."

Mask raised his eyebrows. "Sephris Dwendon made consummate sense. You know that. That is why you ponder his words so often. You know, I was much like you, once. Rebellious, thinking I had the right of everything." He rubbed his chin. "I was more handsome, of course. And laughed more. And killed less, at least then. But otherwise, we would have been kith."

The words surprised Cale. "You… were a man?"

Mask made an uncertain gesture with his hands. "Maybe. More like a god who mistook himself for a man. Took me a while to see the truth." He looked at Cale and winked. "That happens sometimes."

Cale's breath caught. He did not know how to respond.

"Frightening, eh?" Mask asked.

Mask's meanings were impossible to follow. He could be saying one thing, he could be saying another. Cale'd had enough.

"Ask me for what you want," Cale said. "I have seen enough of you. I returned to see my family."

"You are seeing your family."

Cale could not form words for a moment. At last, he said, "I mean the Uskevren."

Mask nodded. "I know what you mean. Very well. Listen to me, priest. When the time comes, I want you to recover something for me. I want your word that you will do it."

Cale said, "Do it yourself."

Mask shook his head. "The rules do not allow for that, I fear. I am already breaking them-bending them, at least-by talking to you in person. But things are changing, and who better to bend the rules than the God of Thieves? No, you must do it for me. Your word."

"What is the item?" Cale asked.

"I did not say it was an item. It is something someone stole from me long ago. You will know it when you see it, and when the time is right to take it."

Cale could not help but chuckle. "Someone stole something from the God of Thieves?"