Марк Энтони - Curse of the Shadowmage

“The book is entitled On the Nature of Shadows ,” Morhion said in his rich voice. “It is penned in the dead tongue Talfir. At first I had a difficult time translating it, until I made a rather intriguing realization. In this particular dialect of Talfir, the word for ‘shadow’ is the same as the word for ‘shadevar.’ ” Morhion paused. A chill wind moaned softly over the crumbling stone walls of the tower. “This book is a history of the shadevari.”

Mari and Ferret exchanged startled glances but did not interrupt.

“I have long known that the thirteen shadevari were ancient beings. But according to this”—Morhion ran a finger over a faded page of runes—“the shadevari are older than the world itself. They are creatures of the dim chaos that existed before the gods forged Toril, in the time before time, before light and dark were separate entities. Instead of a world, as there is now, there existed only a misty realm of shadows, and the shadevari were lords of that realm. Then came the gods—though from where, no one knows—and they separated the shadows into light and dark, and set the world Toril spinning between the two.”

Carefully, Morhion turned a brittle page. “For eons, the shadevari prowled the face of Toril, wreaking havoc and seeking ways to shatter the creation of the gods. Their only desire was to find a way to break the world and meld light and dark into shadowy chaos once more. Finally, the god Azuth, the High One, found a way to banish the shadevari. Beyond the edges of the world, he created the illusion of a realm of shadows, and the shadevari were drawn to the image. Once within, the shadevari realized that the illusion in truth masked a prison. Too late they discovered the trick, and Azuth locked the prison with a key forged of shadows by the god Gond, the Wonderbringer. Then, with all his might, Azuth hurled the key into the cosmos, sending it spinning among the stars so that it would be lost forever.”

“Something tells me that this cheerful little bedtime story isn’t over yet,” Ferret said, scratching his chin.

“Something tells you rightly,” Morhion replied. “For a long age, the shadevari remained sealed in their prison. In time they were forgotten. However, as fate would have it, one day the key that Azuth threw into the void entered the world once more.”

“The Shadowstar,” Mari breathed in amazement.

Morhion nodded. “Indeed. What seemed a shooting star to the wandering minstrel Verraketh was in truth the key Azuth had used to imprison the shadevari. The Shadowstar gave the shadevari a small window on the world. Though still imprisoned, through it they were able to exert some influence. As the medallion transformed Verraketh into the Shadowking, the shadevari spoke to him, making him their slave, until at last he vowed that, when he was powerful enough, he would use the Shadowstar to free the shadevari from their prison. Then the thirteen would seek to destroy Toril once and for all. Fortunately, Talek Talembar defeated his father, Verraketh, before this could come to pass, so the shadevari remained sealed in their prison beyond the edges of the world.”

“Wait a minute,” Ferret protested. “We killed one shadevar in the Fields of the Dead two years ago. Now three more are after us. That means at least four of the shadevari have been freed from their prison. And while they’re nasty creatures—and I’ll grant you, I’m no expert on theology—they really don’t strike me as godlike beings.”

“You are correct, Ferret,” Morhion agreed. Dusk had fallen. Firelight played mysteriously across the mage’s angular visage. “However, from what I have learned, I would conjecture that the creatures that have pursued us now and in the past are merely avatars of the shadevari—limited, corporeal effigies conjured by the Shadowstar to work the will of the shadevari on Toril. They are shadows of shadows, if you will. The real shadevari are not corporeal at all, but are beings of pure chaos. And they are vastly more powerful than the creatures we have faced.”

“Oh, lovely,” Ferret said without enthusiasm.

Mari shook her head, her forehead wrinkled in puzzlement. “That doesn’t make sense, Morhion. If all you’ve said is true, then when Caledan’s metamorphosis is complete and he becomes a shadowking, he’ll be able to use the Shadowstar to free the shadevari from their prison.”

“That is so.”

“Then why are the three shadevari out to destroy him?”

“Maybe they aren’t,” Morhion offered. “Two years ago, the Shadowking and a shadevar conjured by Lord Snake sought to destroy all in the Heartlands who possessed the shadow magic. The Shadowking knew that only someone with shadow magic could destroy him, and the shadevar wished to protect him from such individuals. This time, Caledan is the Shadowking—or will be soon.

“There can be only one answer,” Morhion concluded. “The shadevari aren’t after Caledan. They’re after us . They want to make certain Caledan completes his transformation into a shadowking, so that he can free them from their prison.” Morhion took a deep breath. “In fact, there is only one person who could possibly have summoned the avatars of the shadevari …”

“Caledan,” Ferret whispered hoarsely. “Caledan himself summoned them, deliberately or not.”

There was a long silence as the three huddled around the pitiful little fire. A small sound broke the tension. They turned in surprise to see Kellen sitting up in his blankets. The boy’s face was pale but no longer deathly so. His fever had broken. He lifted a hand to rub his eyes, then yawned heartily.

“I’m hungry,” he said blearily. “What’s for dinner?”

Kellen frowned when the only answer he received was a chorus of joyous laughter.

K’shar loped across the desolate landscape. The broken plateau of the High Moor stretched endlessly in all directions, brooding under an iron-gray sky. The half-elven Hunter tilted his head back as he ran, breathing in the sharp air, searching for the scents of man: smoke from a campfire, the odor of cooked meat. At first he detected only the metallic traces of stone and snow. Then, faintly, he discerned a third scent. It was acrid, like the odor that lingers after a lightning strike. K’shar recognized the stench of magic.

His gaze was caught by a jagged silhouette standing against the leaden sky. The Hunter squinted at the crumbling stump of a ruined tower atop a low hill. For leagues all around, it was the only place that might offer some protection from the elements. Instinct urged him toward the tor. Above all else, K’shar trusted his instincts.

As he climbed easily up the steep slope, he noticed footprints in the damp turf. A smile sliced across his thin face. He recognized the impression of a woman’s boot with a triangular nick in the instep. Al’maren. Outside the mostly collapsed stone wall he found tracks like those he had seen in the ruined city in the Reaching Woods. The gigantic hounds that had attacked Al’maren and her companions in the ancient city had found them again, here on this hilltop. K’shar noticed numerous gouges in the rocky soil along with dozens of scorch marks. Some sort of magical battle had been waged here—one or two days ago by the look of things.

With animal grace, K’shar leapt over the stone wall. How long had his quarry camped here? And had they survived their battle with the magical hounds? K’shar knelt beside the remains of a cookfire, holding his hand over the ashes. They were still warm. Al’maren and her friends had been here only that morning. They had indeed survived the battle. And they were no more than two hours ahead of him.

Swiftly, K’shar stood. “You have been a worthy opponent, Al’maren,” he whispered to the chill air. “But I have almost caught up with you now. And once you are gone, nothing will stand between me and Caldorien.”