Марк Энтони - Curse of the Shadowmage

Ferret helped Mari pull Morhion to his feet. The three gazed upward, faces pale with fear, as the shadowdragon folded its wings against its sinuous body and once more began to dive. Kellen did not join them. Instead, he scrambled nimbly to the top of the wall and drew out his bone flute. He took a deep breath and began to play.

It was a song like no other he had made before. It was wilder, bolder, and far more powerful. It had to be, if there was to be any hope at all. The first notes to rise from the instrument were daring, questioning—almost a challenge. Then Kellen launched into a surging, rhythmic counter-melody. In moments, he felt shadow magic racing through his veins. His left hand itched furiously. It was time. He reached his mind out, calling to the shadows.

They came.

Tendrils of dark mist rose from nearby pools of shadow and drifted toward Kellen. More shadows reached out from an inky patch at the base of the hill, and from the dark depths of a chasm a half mile away. Kellen had never summoned shadows from so far a distance. His song grew fiercer yet as more shadows heeded his call. They rose from distant valleys, floated out of deep caves, and drifted down from the vast reaches of the night sky itself. In moments the entire world was alive with shadows. From all directions they moved swiftly toward Kellen, drawn inexorably by his song.

“By all the gods—” Mari started to swear, but Morhion held up a hand, silencing her. They watched Kellen in wonder.

Kellen concentrated on his music. The shadows above coalesced into a gigantic shape. The dark mist formed stamping hooves and flowing mane, black armor and pointed lance. In seconds the form was complete. What better foe to face a shadowdragon than a shadowknight?

Half man, half horse, the onyx knight of shadows loomed as tall as five men. The dark champion raised his tree-length lance in salute, two starlike sparks glowing in the slit of his visor. He let out a trumpeting battle cry and launched into a gallop, angling upward into the sky, his hooves beating against the air as if it were hard ground. The shadowdragon let out a shriek of fury and changed the direction of its descent, diving toward its new foe.

Knight and dragon hurtled on a collision course. For a few chilling heartbeats there was eerie silence as the two titanic forms sped toward each other. Then, with a clap of thunder, they met. The knight’s lance plunged through the dragon’s body at the same moment as the beast’s claws punched through the knight’s armor. Dragon roared and knight screamed, the vast sounds shaking the very ground. For a second they spun together in midair, as if whirling in an eerily graceful dance. Then, caught in a mortal embrace, dragon and knight plummeted toward the ground.

As they fell, shreds of shadow ripped away from their writhing forms. Then more tatters of darkness peeled away. Before the two creatures could strike the ground, there was nothing left of them except for a few drifting wisps of dark mist. These settled softly to the moor and in moments melded with the night shadows beneath rocks and in dim hollows. Shadowdragon and shadowknight were no more.

Hands trembling, Kellen lowered his flute. The night was silent once more. Mari, Morhion, and Ferret stared at him in amazement. He smiled wanly at them, then collapsed.

They spent all the following day inside the ruins of the old tower, huddling against the cold wind. To Morhion, the delay was maddening. With each passing second, Caledan drew closer to Ebenfar. Yet they had little choice. After defeating the dragon with his shadow magic, Kellen had fallen into deep unconsciousness, and he had not waked since.

Ferret stood atop the ruined wall, keeping watch over the moor. A dreary mist had settled over the landscape once again. Mari knelt beside Kellen, bathing his forehead with a damp cloth dipped in water steeped with willow bark. Despite the chilly air, sweat slicked Kellen’s pallid skin. A fever raged inside him, so fiercely that Morhion could feel waves of heat radiating outward from several paces away. The source of the fever seemed to lie in Kellen’s left hand, the one marked with the rune of magic.

Morhion had known Kellen’s shadow magic was different than Caledan’s, and last night’s display had demonstrated it was more potent as well. Yet it was not so much the boy’s raw power that intrigued the mage. It was Kellen’s great control. More than ever, Morhion was convinced that Kellen’s special qualities came from being both mageborn and a descendant of Talek Talembar. Even now, it appeared that the two powers—sorcery and shadow magic—were waging a battle within the boy’s body.

“Is there any sign of the fever lessening?” Morhion asked quietly.

Mari shook her head grimly. “I’m afraid not. In fact, I think it’s getting worse.”

He nodded in reply. Rummaging around in his saddlebag, the mage pulled out a book. There was no telling when Kellen would be well enough to travel; he might as well put the time to good use.

Morhion sat on the ground and rested the ancient tome on his knees. It was the book the witch Isela had given him in Talis. Before opening the tome, he paused to examine Isela’s ring. Last night, the silver ring’s magic had helped protect them against the shadowhounds but not the shadowdragon. Why? Despite the dreary daylight, the ring’s purple gem shimmered with light. Yet when Morhion peered deeper into the stone, he saw the center of the gem was dark, just as Jewel had pointed out earlier. He shut his eyes and heard Isela’s words once more.

You seek to destroy a great shadow. Yet shadows can exist only when there is light to cast them. To destroy the shadow, you must destroy the light as well …

In his mind, Morhion ran over last night’s events. The ring had altered his spell of protection so that it harmed the shadowhounds. A protection spell had components that were both light—a visible aura—as well as dark—an invisible barrier. However, he had attempted to attack the dragon with a lightning spell—magic forged solely of light. That time, the ring’s magic had failed to have an effect. It seemed that the ring’s enchantment required both light and dark to function properly. Just like the creatures that had attacked the Zhentarim in Iriaebor, Morhion realized—creatures conjured by Caledan’s shadow magic. He put the ring away and turned his attention to the book.

Morhion had no idea what knowledge the tome contained. It was penned in the dead language Talfir, and so far the mage had not had time to translate anything but the intriguing title: On the Nature of Shadows . However, as he bent over the time-darkened pages and began to painstakingly translate the ancient words, he had a hunch he would find something of interest between the cracked leather covers.

When he finally lifted his gaze from the book, he was surprised to see that it was growing dark.

“Hey, you’re back,” Ferret said with a crooked-toothed grin. “I was beginning to think it was actually possible to drown inside a book. Mari and I were about to draw straws to see who would dive in and pull you out.”

The thief squatted beside a small fire built in an alcove in the stone wall, stirring something in an iron pot. Mari had taken Ferret’s place atop the wall and was keeping watch. They had moved Kellen’s motionless form near the fire; he was still unconscious.

The mage blinked his bleary eyes. “I think you’ll both want to hear what I’ve read in Isela’s book.”

“Can’t it wait until after dinner?” Ferret asked. “I’m famished.”

A spicy aroma arose from the pot. Morhion realized he was fiercely hungry. He nodded his assent, and the three gathered around the fire to eat. Miraculously, the thief had turned jerked meat, a handful of dried tomatoes, and a few wild-growing herbs into a delicious stew. When they set aside their wooden bowls, Morhion began explaining what he had read in the book the witch of Talis had given him.