Paul Kemp - Shadowbred

He looked at the mask in his hand. He remembered the Shadowlord's words to him: Do what you were called to do.

Cale donned the mask.

He calmed himself and opened his mind to the Shadowlord. It was after midnight-the time he would ordinarily pray for spells- and he did not have time for his usual meditations, but he hoped Mask would answer his request nevertheless.

He sent forth his consciousness and requested that Mask fuel his mind with the power to cast spells, spells that would harm and mislead. He took a deep breath, let the shadows enfold him, and repeated the request.

Power rushed into his mind, one spell, another, another. He tensed as the familiar rush filled his brain; he grinned at the familiarity of it.

A voice from beside him whispered in his ear, "You are late, as usual. But welcome back. Almost there, now."

Cale whirled and looked to his side, but saw only darkness, only shadows. His skin was goose pimpled.

He looked north across the plains and saw the entire company of mercenaries bearing down on the campsite at a full gallop. They made no sound as they approached; their clerics must have silenced them. The whipgrass hid the horses' legs from view. The whole force looked as if it were floating.

Cale stood, his request for spells only partially answered, and drew Weaveshear. He pulled the shadows about him until they masked him from sight. He shadowstepped to the south side of the slope, putting himself between the Selgauntans and the mercenaries. There, he crouched in the grass, the power of his god sizzling in his mind.

The mercenaries charged in a crescent formation, blades bare and shields at station. About a spear's cast from the campsite, one of the riders made a cutting gesture with his hand and the magical silence ended. The thunder of hooves and the battle cries of the mercenaries filled the air. No doubt they expected the surprised Selgauntans to rush from their tents and be cut down. Had the Selgauntans been in the camp, none of them could have escaped the charge.

The mercenaries barreled into the campsite, shouting challenges. When they found only empty tents, they pulled up and searched about. Curses and questions replaced battle cries. The mercenaries trampled the Selgauntans' tents and gear. Malkur, the priests, and the wizards appeared at the top of the declivity opposite Cale. The company's archers held formation behind them.

"They were here not too long ago," called Othel, atop a horse in the midst of the campsite.

Malkur frowned and looked out over the plains. "They cannot be far."

One of the priests beside Malkur smashed together two glass spheres and incanted a spell. He turned his horse in a semicircle and stopped when he was facing south, the direction the Selgauntans had fled.

"There," he said, and pointed past Cale. "Three long bowshots, no more."

The priest galloped around the declivity in the direction in which he had pointed, toward Cale.

"Form up," Malkur called to his men, and several sergeants echoed the command.

Cale had hoped to get the mercenaries in a more compact formation, but decided he could not wait any longer.

"I see them!" the lead priest called. He was no more than a dagger toss from Cale, and alone. "Due south. Two bowshots."

"Form up for pursuit," Malkur said to the rest of the men. "Archers at the ready."

Before the men could reassemble, Cale intoned a rapid imprecation to Mask. A cylinder of fire and searing divine power engulfed the entire declivity in flames, heat, and light. The moment Cale completed his spell, the shadows enshrouding him peeled away and left him visible.

The flames caught almost a score of men in the thick of the blast, including Malkur, the mages, and one of the priests at its edge. Men and horses screamed and the stink of burning flesh filled the air. The horses not caught in the flames, including those of the archers behind Malkur, reared and bucked.

The flames whooshed out of existence as fast as they had appeared, leaving burning tents and the bodies of over a dozen men and horses scattered across the campsite. Screams of pain rose into the night. The unwounded men cursed, tried to control their horses, and looked about warily.

"What in the Hells?"

"Where did that come from?"

The priest near Cale, unaffected by the fire, noticed him.

"Here!" he shouted, and spurred his horse toward Cale. "He is here!"

The mercenaries responded to the priest's words with professional speed. Before Cale could pull the concealing shadows back around him, half a score arrows hissed toward him. Four missed and sank to their fletching in the grass. The shadows that sheathed him deflected two arrows, but four buried themselves in his chest, shoulder, arm, and thigh. The impact drove him backward and knocked him to the earth. He hissed with the pain even as his flesh started to spit out the arrows and heal the wounds.

The cleric appeared above him on his horse. His axe and lightning bolt-emblazoned shield hung from his saddle. He pointed a hand at Cale, fingers outstretched.

Cale could not interpose Weaveshear in time and an arc of fire shot from the priest's fingers and seared Cale's face and chest. His flesh was not able to repel the priest's spell and the flesh of his eyes and lower jaw-those parts of his face not protected by the mask- blistered and peeled. The damage sealed his eyes shut.

"There's fire for your fire, whoreson," said the priest, and he called back to his fellows with a wild laugh. "He is alone!"

Cale could hear the priest's horse thumping in the grass near him. He pulled the arrows from his body by touch, grunting with each one.

"Run him down," Malkur ordered. "Vors, see to the fallen. The rest of you, after the Selgauntans."

Cale braced himself with his arms and tried to rise but the priest's horse slammed into him, knocked him flat, and rode over him. The war horse's hind legs stomped his chest and snapped several ribs. Cale hissed at the pain. The priest laughed maniacally as he galloped off.

Cale felt the ground vibrating as the rest of the horsemen galloped out of the hollow and toward the Selgauntans. They rode directly at him, he knew. His body was healing itself, and just in time, he could open his eyes and see.

Hooves were all around him, throwing up clods of dirt. He rolled to his side, resisted the instinctive urge to cover up, and did the only thing he could. He moved from the darkness on one side of the declivity to the darkness on the other.

He arrived across the campsite behind Malkur, the wizards, the priest, and the departing archers. He held his silence and took as deep a breath as his damaged body allowed. He watched the mercenaries speed off after Ren, Tamlin, and the house guards.

He lay on his side, sheathed in shadows, and let his flesh heal for a few moments. In the campsite below, he saw one of the priests moving from one burned corpse to another, presumably looking for signs of life. The priest's horse followed him, tossing its head at the stink.

Cale winced as his ribs knitted together. He whispered a prayer to Mask and channeled healing energy into his wounded body. He ran his fingers tentatively over his face and found it nearly healed. He rose into a crouch, Weaveshear in hand.

The priest kneeled over another of the fallen. The back of his neck was exposed between helmet and mail. Cale had killed dozens of men in exactly that position. He was about to add another to the number.

He took Weaveshear in a two-handed grip and in a single stride, moved into the darkness directly behind the priest. The priest's horse snorted at Cale's sudden appearance but before the priest could turn, Cale slashed downward and decapitated him. The priest never uttered a sound. The blood pumping from the stump of his neck soaked the corpse he had been checking.