Paul Kemp - Shadowbred

A metallic sound carried to his ears, very faint, like the rattle of a buckle. He sat up quickly and looked about.

Maur, the house guard on watch, stood at his post to Cale's right but the sound had come from somewhere to the left, somewhere out of sight. Maur showed no sign of having heard anything.

Still invisible, Cale stood and shadowstepped to the high ground at the top of the depression. There, he scanned the plains. The shadowstuff in him allowed him to see clearly by night, but only as far as a bowshot or so. He saw nothing but waving, knee-high whipgrass and some trees here and there.

He remained still and listened.

There. The metallic sound repeated from somewhere out in the grass. Cale acted quickly. He let the shadows dissolve from him so he would be visible and stepped through the darkness to materialize behind Maur. He put his hand around the house guard's mouth and pulled him backward.

The house guard squirmed and grunted for a moment until Cale whispered, "I heard something out in the plains. It's probably nothing. I will investigate. If I do not return soon, alert the camp."

He released Maur and the house guard turned to face him, eyes wide. "Tempus's blades, Mister Cale. You almost stopped my heart."

"Stay alert," Cale said, and without waiting for a reply, stepped through the shadows back to the plains. He was a dagger's throw away from the camp and could see Maur behind him, tense and watchful, staring out into the grass.

He eyed the area around him, saw nothing. He drew Weaveshear, slowly and silently. Shadows leaked ponderously from the blade and dissipated into the night air. Once more he drew the darkness around him.

Invisible and silent, he prowled the grass. The tension drew sweat and shadows from his flesh. A sound from ahead of him, an overloud intake of breath, betrayed his prey's location.

Cale estimated the distance to his unseen foe, stepped through the darkness, covering ten paces with a stride, and found himself standing over a human man crouched in the grass with a knife between his teeth. Cale must have heard him breathing over the blade.

Cale almost missed seeing the man, so well did he blend with his surroundings. The man's cloak perfectly matched the grass and darkness-a magical effect, no doubt-and Cale might not have seen him at all had he not thrown back his hood, revealing a narrow face and short, dark hair.

Cale froze, hovering over the man, blade bare, shadows swirling.

The man tensed and cocked his head as if he sensed Cale nearby. He turned and poked his head above the grass, looking toward the camp, looking through Cale.

Seeing nothing, the man returned to his crouch and used the knife to tighten a loose buckle on his calf-high boots. No doubt the bouncing buckle had caused the metallic sound Cale had heard.

The man pulled up his hood and stood, and his cloak changed appearance to keep him camouflaged. He looked once more on the camp. He appeared able to see despite the darkness, leaving Cale to assume he was magically empowered with night sight.

Seemingly satisfied, the man turned and headed off at a steady run. Cale decided not to kill him-yet. He sheathed Weaveshear and followed in silence.

The magic of the man's cloak masked him well even on the move, but Cale was able to stay close enough to keep him in sight. The man made almost no sound, even at a trot. Cale marked him as a professional-a spy or scout. The man headed directly for a pair of tall larches about three hundred paces off. He slowed as he approached the trees and pulled back his hood.

Cale stayed with him as another man emerged from the darkness of the trees. He was taller, eight or nine winters older, and wearing a cloak similar to the first man's. They hailed each other in silence and did not speak until they were nearly face to face.

Cale crept forward, low to the ground, and strained his ears to hear.

"… only a single guard. Could have put him down myself and moved through the camp."

Not likely, Cale thought.

The taller man nodded. "Did you mark the livery, Othel? They're Selgauntans and that's certain."

"There's not even a score of men," Othel said.

"Should be easy work," the taller man said.

With that, they set off, moving in a line to the north of the camp. Cale stayed with them. They ran for perhaps half a league and slowed to a walk as they neared a drought-dried pond ringed by tall elms. Both removed their cloaks as they approached.

Cale shadowstepped ahead of them into the trees and saw gathered there a force of over one hundred men. All wore chain hauberks, bore shields and blades, and wore on their green tabards the golden wagon wheel of Ordulin.

Cale crouched low against the bole of an elm and stayed at the edge of the camp.

The group's horses stood in a makeshift pen of rope strung between some trees. All were saddled and ready to ride. The men burned no fires and none slept despite the hour. They only waited.

A murmur went through the camp as the news of the scouts' arrival reached them. All stood. Mail chinked as they adjusted armor and shields.

A tall man with iron gray hair and a thick moustache stalked toward the scouts. Eight other men followed him. Cale noted two unarmored, robed men among them-mages, he presumed-and two long-haired men with lightning bolts on their shields. Cale recognized them as war priests and the lightning bolts as holy symbols, but he could not recall which god was symbolized by the bolts.

The two scouts approached the tall, gray-haired man and saluted.

"Report," said the gray-haired man.

"The Selgauntan delegation is camped half a league to the south," said Othel. "They expect no danger and have posted only a single guard."

Cale saw disappointment in the expressions of many of the men who overheard. Several chuckled and shook their heads in disbelief. Apparently, they were hoping for a hard fight. Cale did not understand why forces from Ordulin would attack the Selgauntans, but there was no mistaking what he'd heard.

"Get the men enspelled for night fighting," the leader said to the two mages. The wizards nodded, reached to cases at their belts, and pulled out metal wands capped with cat's eye chrysoberyls.

"Form up," the blond-haired mage said to the men, and the force shuffled into orderly rows. The two mages started on opposite sides of the formation and began moving efficiently from man to man, tapping each with the wand. Each time, the recipient's eyes flared red for an instant.

Meanwhile, the gray-haired leader said to his sergeants and war priests, "This is a sweep and clean. We approach under sound cover from Vors and Paalin."

"Survivors, Malkur?" one of the priests asked.

Cale recognized the name Malkur from somewhere but could not place it.

"No prisoners," Malkur answered. "As I said, a full sweep and clean."

The mages finished their work and Malkur turned to one of his sergeants, a scarred, dark-haired man fairly covered in throwing knives.

"Give the order, Enken. Let's mount up."

Enken nodded. "Aye, sir." He turned and issued orders to the men to mount up and take positions by squad.

The men moved briskly to their horses and checked their gear. Cale figured the Selgauntans had half an hour, maybe less, before the force of soldiers swept down on them. He wrestled with the notion of killing a few of the leaders before leaving, but decided against it. He did not want them to know they'd been discovered. The Selgauntans could not fight; they'd have to run, and Cale knew killing a few leaders would make no difference.

His mind made up, he drew the shadows around him, imagined the Selgauntans' campsite in his mind, and rode the night there in an instant.

He found himself standing before the glowing embers of the campfire with his holy symbol in hand. He stared at the mask, puzzled. He had not taken it from his pocket, had he? He had no time to consider. He let the shadows fall from him so he would be visible.