Марк Энтони - Curse of the Shadowmage

As they rode into town, the companions noticed what seemed to be signs of a bad fire. Broad swaths of the village commons were blackened and barren, and several stone houses had been twisted into grotesque lumps as if they had been melted by a terrible heat. The five travelers made for the village inn, a blocky, comfortable stone building that leaned against a steep slope. Inside, the Green Door was much larger than it appeared, for it extended back into the hillside and thus had rooms that would appeal to halfling as well as human patrons.

The companions stepped into the common room and were treated to several dozen suspicious stares. The barkeeper was the only human in the establishment; all of the patrons were stout, broad-faced halflings.

“I suppose this rules out appearing inconspicuous and mingling, loves,” Jewel murmured.

“What ever gave you that idea?” Cormik replied acidly.

The halflings whispered to each other nervously, casting sideways glances at the newcomers. The barkeeper glared at them as he slammed several pots of ale onto the table where they had sat. It was clear that strangers were not welcome.

“I wish Estah were here,” Mari sighed in exasperation. “She could tell us what we’re doing wrong.”

A halfling man at the next table looked up in surprise. “Estah?” he said in amazement. “You know Estah of the Dreaming Dragon?”

Almost instantly, the atmosphere in the common room changed. Numerous questions were flung out excitedly, and when the patrons learned that Mari and Morhion were in fact part of the legendary Fellowship of the Dreaming Dragon, the occasion turned into something of a celebration. Estah, it seemed, was a local hero. Morhion had forgotten that the halfling woman had grown up in Corm Orp. Within minutes, he and the others had been introduced to a dozen smiling halflings, each claiming to be Estah’s cousin. However, when Mari asked about the strange happenings at the recent Harvest Festival, things turned somber once again.

The halfling who had first spoken to them finally answered Mari’s question. His name was Tam Acorn, and he was one of Estah’s multitudinous cousins.

“It was the stranger,” Tam said grimly. “He was the cause of all the dark happenings. A man in black on a pale horse.”

The companions exchanged glances. There was no need say the name aloud.

“Can you tell us what happened?” Mari asked urgently.

Tam scratched his chin in thought, then began to describe the mayhem that had resulted from the stranger’s wild music, and from the shadows.

Tam took his time, drawing out the tale. “We were lucky none of the village folk were touched by the shadowbeasts,” he said finally, his voice hoarse with freshly remembered fear.

There was a long moment of silence. Finally, Mari leaned toward the halfling man. “How long ago?” she asked fiercely. “How long ago did all this happen?”

“Why, the festival was only five nights ago.”

Mari looked at Morhion. He nodded in understanding. They had found Caledan’s trail, and he was only five days ahead of them.

The following morning, they rode north out of Corm Orp in the pearly light of dawn, hoping to pick up Caledan’s trail along the Dusk Road. The morning was bright and cold. Frost glittered on the ground like a sprinkling of crushed glass, and the dome of the sky was as hard and blue as a cobalt porcelain bowl. Periodically, they dismounted to search for any trace of Caledan’s passing—all except Cormik, who stayed on his horse.

After this pattern was repeated a few times, Jewel made a disparaging remark to the patch-eyed man. “Tell me, my dear, bloated whale, are you afraid that if you get off your horse, you might not be able to get back on?”

“Not in the least, my sweet, witless strumpet,” he said indignantly. “Unlike some of us, who in their senescence have become as nearsighted as a geriatric bat, I can see just fine from up here.”

Jewel looked unconvinced. Indeed, getting Cormik onto Plinth’s back that morning had been an arduous ordeal involving a fair amount of pushing, grunting, cursing, and—on the part of Morhion—a minor spell of levitation.

“Let’s move on,” Mari said in frustration. “There’s nothing here.”

“Many people travel the Dusk Road,” Morhion said grimly. “In five days, all traces of Caledan’s passage could have been obliterated.”

Mari gave a tight-lipped nod but said nothing as she climbed back into the saddle. They nudged their horses into a trot, starting once more down the road.

It was midmorning, and the autumn day was turning fine, when Morhion noticed that only four horses were trotting down the dirt road. Kellen was missing.

“He must have fallen back,” Mari said worriedly after Morhion called the others to a halt.

“Then we’d better go find him, and fast,” Cormik said darkly. “I wouldn’t be surprised if there were thieves on the road. Other than ourselves, I mean.”

They wheeled their horses around and thundered back down the road. As they rounded a bend and skidded to an abrupt stop, Kellen’s pony let out a whinny and trotted toward them, trailing his reins. Flash’s saddle was empty. Mari shot Morhion a fearful look. Unpleasant possibilities were numerous. Thieves were not the only perils in the wilderness. Morhion swore inwardly. If Kellen was hurt—or worse—he would never …

Jewel called out, “Over here, loves!” and the others hastily spurred their mounts in her direction. They found Kellen kneeling by the side of the dirt road, peering at something amid a tangle of brambles and witchgrass.

Morhion allowed himself a sigh of relief. “What are you doing, Kellen?” he asked sternly.

“I’ve found something,” Kellen indicated solemnly.

The others exchanged curious glances, then dismounted and approached, pushing aside the underbrush to get a glimpse of Kellen’s discovery.

By the looks of it, the milestone was very old. It was cracked and sunk halfway into the ground. Centuries of wind and rain had almost completely worn away the words carved into its surface. Yet it was not the basalt monolith’s sense of age that made the companions stare. It was the face. The milestone had been grotesquely distorted, much like the stone houses in Corm Orp. One of its four surfaces bore a human visage. The image was crude and half-formed, as though it had melted before resolidifying. Yet its expression was vivid, a look of utter sorrow.

It was Cormik who finally spoke. In a low voice he said, “Well, at least now we know Caledan came this way.”

Morhion drew out the ruby amulet he had forged. A spark flickered deep in the heart of the gem. Cormik was right.

Mari shook her head. “By the gods—look at it. The face is so unspeakably sad. He knows what’s happening to him, doesn’t he? He knows what he’s becoming …” Her words trailed off.

“We should try to reach Hill’s Edge before nightfall,” Morhion said finally. “If Caledan continues to follow the road, people there will notice him.”

Somberly, the others agreed. They thundered down the Dusk Road, leaving the eerie face of sorrow far behind.

The rolling landscape slipped by in a blur of russet, brown, and burnished copper. As the afternoon wore on, dark clouds moved in from the west, accompanied by the low drumming of thunder. Soon the light began to fail, turning a dusky green. A storm was coming. Morhion tilted his head back, letting the wind tangle through his long hair. He loved storms. Like all wizards, he had a passion for gaudy displays of power.

Eventually the travelers realized they were not going to make Hill’s Edge before dark. Morhion raised a hand, signaling the party to a halt. “We had better find shelter for the night,” he advised.