Марк Энтони - Curse of the Shadowmage

“Serafi,” Morhion hissed in trepidation and loathing. “Why have you come to me? It is not the full moon. You have had your blood for this month.”

The spectral knight drifted slowly toward Morhion, his eyes glowing with unearthly blood-red fire. “I have come to help you, Morhion,” the spirit intoned.

“I do not think I can afford any more of your help,” Morhion said bitterly. He gestured to the myriad scars that covered his arms.

“Oh, but you can, Morhion,” Serafi countered in his chilling voice. “You can, and you will.”

Morhion’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “What makes you so certain I’d be interested?” His tone was bold, but he could not quite disguise the trembling in his voice.

“I know you, Morhion,” Serafi said, drifting closer. “I know you as no other possibly could.”

Morhion choked down the panic rising in his throat. “What do you want, usurper?”

The ghostly knight’s eyes flashed. “Do not taunt me with that name, Morhion. You will only regret it. For I have something that you would pay dearly to possess.”

“What?”

“Knowledge. The power to save or damn Caledan Caldorien once and for all.”

Morhion found himself sinking weakly into a velvet chair, gripping the smooth wood of the arms. Serafi hovered behind him. Morhion could feel the spirit’s chill, dusty breath on the back of his neck.

“What do you seek in return for this knowledge, Serafi?” the mage asked in disgust. “Do you wish to drink my blood twice each moon?”

The spirit’s laughter curdled Morhion’s blood. “Nay. Knowledge this great is worth far more than a mere sip of blood.”

“Then what?”

The spectral knight’s voice became a chantlike whisper. “I do not think you realize, mage, how cold it is to be dead. How cold, how dry, how hollow. I long to experience again all the sensations of life. You cannot imagine how deep and vast my hunger is, Morhion. To feel again—that is what I crave beyond all. To see with living eyes, to taste with fleshly tongue, to touch with warm fingers. I want these things, and all the other delicious sensations that living flesh has to offer.”

Morhion was sweating. “But life brings pain as well as pleasure, Serafi.”

“Yes, and I want to experience that as well,” Serafi spoke exultantly. “After the numbing cold of death, even the fiercest agony would be sweet awakening.”

“But how can I give you what you want?” Morhion demanded, fearing the answer. Suddenly he stiffened. A chill caress ran down his neck, his shoulders, his chest, traveling over his body, touching him in places where he had not been touched by another in long years. He wanted to cry out, to leap from the chair, but he sat as if frozen to the spot. A low moan escaped his throat, a mixture of fear and strangled pleasure.

“You have kept your body well.” Serafi’s voice burned in his brain like poison. “You are older than I would like, yet you are strong, and handsome of face. I think that, with a body such as yours, I could seek out and enjoy all the sensations I desire …”

At last, Morhion managed to wrest himself from the ghostly embrace, lurching from the chair. Gasping for breath, he spun around to stare at the spectral knight. “I don’t understand,” he choked. But even as he spoke the words, he knew he was lying—that he did understand, and had already made his choice.

Serafi’s sinister voice echoed all around him. “I would live again, Morhion. And I require your body to do so. I will give to you the knowledge you need to save Caledan. I will grant you the time you need to pursue him and halt his metamorphosis. But, when the quest is over, my payment will be due.” The spirit’s eyes burned into Morhion. “And your body will become mine.”

“What … what then will become of my spirit?” Morhion managed to gasp.

Serafi waved a translucent hand, as if this were a matter of no importance. “You will be dead, Morhion. Nothing more, nothing less. Simply dead.” Drifting through the chair, the spectral knight approached. “Tell me your answer, mage. Do you accept my bargain?”

Terror clenched Morhion’s heart. He could not do this. Even he, who had sacrificed so much in his life for what he believed was the larger good. Or could he? Once before, he had destroyed his friendship with Caledan in order to save Caledan’s life. Now that friendship had grown anew, stronger than ever. Once again, was there anything he would not do for Caledan’s sake? All at once, the terror melted from Morhion’s chest. A strange peace descended on him. As if in a dream, he heard himself speak the words.

“I accept.”

The sending from Master Harper Belhuar Thantarth came to Mari in the shadowless hour before dawn.

She had not slept. Kellen lay curled inside a patchwork quilt before the common room’s fieldstone hearth, sleeping the untroubled sleep of a child. Mari sighed, longing for such innocence. However, she was no child.

A crackling sound shattered the still air. Mari jerked her head up, gripping the arms of her chair with white-knuckled hands. A shining azure sphere hovered in midair before her. White-hot tendrils snaked around the sphere, sizzling and popping brightly. The acrid stench of lightning filled her lungs. Abruptly an image appeared in the center of the glowing orb—the face of a man. His eyes were kind, but his graying beard and hard expression lent a sternness to his visage. Mari took in a sharp breath.

“Master Thantarth!” she exclaimed.

She was shocked anew when the image in the sphere spoke to her in return.

“Greetings, Mari Al’maren.”

Mari’s mind raced. She had heard rumors that, among the Harpers, there were one or two mages capable of sending messages over vast distances. However, the power required for a feat like this was immeasurable. Messages were relayed in this manner in only the direst of circumstances. Slowly, Mari rose from the chair, her muscles stiff from sitting all night.

“How may I serve the Harpers, Master Thantarth?” Her tone was formal. She had spoken face-to-face with Belhuar Thantarth only once before, when she had first joined the Harpers. He was the Master of Twilight Hall, the western stronghold of the Harpers, located in the city of Berdusk. His duties kept him too preoccupied with great affairs to deal directly with all the Harpers under him. Orders from Thantarth were usually relayed by the high-ranking Harpers who served as his assistants. Thantarth was reputed to be a stern but benevolent man who was not afraid to anger others in pursuit of what he believed was right.

“I have a new task for you, Al’maren,” said the image of Thantarth in the glowing sphere. His deep voice reverberated in the still air of the common room. “And I will tell you now that it will be the most difficult mission you have ever undertaken.”

Mari’s heart skipped wildly in her chest. “On my oath as a Harper, I will do my best, Master Thantarth.”

Thantarth nodded somberly. “That is well, Al’maren, for this task will require all your strength, and far more.” His steely eyes seemed to search her heart, piercing it as they scanned for something. “I have dire news, Mari. We have reason to believe that Caledan Caldorien is undergoing a terrible transformation—the same transformation that, a thousand years ago, resulted in the creation of the magical creature of darkness known as the Shadowking.”

Despite her years of training, Mari could not conceal the anguish on her face. She had not thought the Harpers would come to this realization themselves. Yet why shouldn’t they? There was little that surpassed the reach or understanding of the Harpers.

“I see you have reached the same conclusion,” Thantarth said grimly.