Марк Энтони - Curse of the Shadowmage

“Well, you can pick the next one if you think it’s so easy, love,” Jewel replied tartly.

Cormik opened his mouth for a scathing retort, but Morhion held up a hand. He had had enough for one night.

“Let’s just go find the horses,” he said wearily, and that was what they did.

K’shar had always loved the night.

The golden moon of midnight hovered above the low stone buildings of Twilight Hall, its pale-wine illumination conjuring as many purple shadows as it banished. Somewhere in the distance, a nightingale sang in sweet mourning. And despite the lateness of the year, the wild perfume of nightflowers wafted on the wind. Silent and wraithlike, K’shar moved from one pool of darkness to the next, piercing the gloom easily with eyes as brilliant and golden as the moon above. He was at home in the dark; but then, darkness was in his blood.

Twilight Hall, which stood on a green hill in the center of the city of Berdusk, was the western stronghold of the Harpers. It was not, as its name implied, merely a large meadhall or gathering place, but rather consisted of a number of stone buildings clustered around a central courtyard. Yet there was more to Twilight Hall than even this, for much of the compound lay beneath the ground—including the dusky meeting hall for which the Harper fortress was named. Though K’shar had joined the Harpers more than twenty years earlier, he had spent little of that time in Twilight Hall itself. Most of his days were spent traveling the Heartlands, hunting down such prey—be it Zhentarim, Red Wizards, or goblin lords—as the Harpers commanded. K’shar was the best Hunter the Harpers had. This was not a matter of pride, just fact.

Tonight, K’shar was to learn the details of his latest assignment. He could only hope that his new quarry would prove more interesting than the last several. It had been long since he felt challenged by one of his adversaries. The Red Wizards of Thay were always overconfident and thus easily tracked; the Zhentarim were simply stupid. Again and again, the fugitives were too easily caught, too easily slain. When they lay dead at his feet, his blood had only just begun to surge with the passion of the chase, and he was left feeling hollow and unfulfilled. Perhaps, he thought—and not for the first time—he should leave the Harpers. Perhaps he should seek out challenges more worthy of his talents.

K’shar pushed aside these foolish, discontented thoughts. He was bored, that was all. As soon as he began the chase again, he would feel better.

K’shar approached the compound’s central building and stepped into the pool of torchlight by the main door. Two young Harpers stood guard at the portal, and by the surprise on their faces, he knew they had not heard his soft approach. He bared white teeth in a feral smile. Apprentices! he thought wryly.

The young Harpers did not recognize him—this was not surprising, given the rarity of his visits to Twilight Hall—but after examining his letter of summons from Belhuar Thantarth they let him enter, their eyes wide and respectful. K’shar wound his way down through a dim labyrinth of corridors and staircases until he reached a pair of gilded doors. Without hesitating, he pushed them open, striding into the Great Hall beyond.

Instantly, a dozen pairs of eyes riveted upon him. K’shar was striking to look at. He knew this, even as he dismissed it as meaningless. His skin was a deep, burnished color, like ancient bronze; his golden eyes were eerily at odds with his colorless, close-cropped hair. He was unusually tall and thin, a fact accentuated by the tight-fitting black leather he wore, but he showed none of the awkward gangliness that usually afflicted such individuals. Rather, his leanly muscled limbs seemed like supple whips. His slightly pointed ears, tilted eyes, and uncanny grace betrayed the elven blood that mingled with the human in his veins.

The cavernous Great Hall was of ingenious construction. Hewn by dwarven stonesmiths out of the surrounding rock, it seemed not a cavern at all, but a dusky, primeval forest. Countless columns were carved to resemble trees, their stone branches stretching to support the high ceiling. The walls were covered with lifelike leaves of copper and gold that seemed to flutter in the flickering illumination of the rushlights scattered about the hall. The floor, of mottled green-and-brown marble, added to the illusion.

Belhuar Thantarth looked up as K’shar approached. The Master Harper was holding council—hence the presence of so many Harpers in the hall—but when he spotted K’shar, he quickly dismissed the others with a wave of his hand. In moments, Thantarth and K’shar were alone in the stone forest.

“K’shar, I am glad you could come.” Thantarth’s deep voice echoed in the now-empty hall.

K’shar inclined his head slightly. “It is my duty to serve the Harpers,” he said formally, even as a part of him wondered if this was truly so. Was his duty to the Harpers, or simply to the chase?

“It is with a heavy heart that I set this task before you, K’shar,” Thantarth said somberly. “For both of those whom we ask you to seek are—or at least were , until recently—among the most exalted of Harpers.”

While K’shar listened with growing interest, Thantarth explained what had transpired. There wasn’t a Harper alive who had not heard the tale of the Shadowking in Iriaebor. The deeds of Caledan Caldorien and Mari Al’maren were heroic folklore passed down to all Harper apprentices. Thus it was all the more shocking—and intriguing—that K’shar’s new prey were none other than these two legendary figures, now turned renegade.

“Caledan’s transformation must be stopped at any cost,” Thantarth finished firmly. “Whatever his deeds of the past, the Harpers cannot allow a shadowking to walk the Heartlands once more. Mari Al’maren has forsworn her vow as a Harper, and we can assume she will attempt to protect Caledan. While your mission is to find and destroy Caldorien, you are also authorized to … dispose of Al’maren should she block your way.” Thantarth appeared troubled, but his expression was resolute. “Do you accept this mission, K’shar?”

“I accept it, Master Thantarth.” K’shar spoke the words without emotion, but inwardly his heart soared. He could not believe his luck! He had longed for a mission that would test his skills, and now Thantarth had ordered him to hunt down two of the greatest heroes the Harpers had ever known. While it was regrettable that two such extraordinary individuals must die, K’shar felt no personal sorrow. Such decisions were beyond him. He was simply a Hunter.

Thantarth handed K’shar a scroll containing details of the mission. The half-elf scanned it quickly with his sharp, golden eyes. Rumors placed Caldorien in Corm Orp five days ago, and a Harper agent dispatched to Iriaebor reported that Al’maren had vanished. No doubt she had already gone to pursue Caldorien. Last on the parchment was a warning of the perils of Caldorien’s mysterious shadow magic. This part K’shar read hastily. What did he, a creature so at home in the night, have to fear from shadows? He handed the parchment back to Thantarth.

“When will you leave?” the Master Harper asked. “With the dawn?”

“No,” K’shar said softly. “Now.”

“Very well. I’ll see to a horse and provisions for—”

But K’shar had already turned, moving swiftly from the Great Hall. He needed no mount, no food, no weapons. There was no horse that could run faster or farther than K’shar, no sustenance he needed that the land would not provide, and no weapon deadlier than his own two hands. He headed outside, quickly leaving behind Twilight Hall and the city of Berdusk. Soon the dark wall of the Reaching Woods loomed before him in the gloom. He stood on the edge of a vast, ancient forest that stretched all the way from Berdusk to the village of Corm Orp, sixty leagues to the northeast. He would be in Corm Orp by sunrise two days hence.