Марк Энтони - Curse of the Shadowmage

Morhion suddenly understood what the clever thief was getting at. “Now I see, Ferret. The music doesn’t echo in the vale. The vale itself is making the music.”

“You got it,” Ferret beamed. “It was Kellen who made me understand. The steam blowing through all these crevices acts like a giant pipe organ. Each fissure makes one note, and all the notes blend together to make the Valesong.”

Mari nodded excitedly. “But something below ground is blocking these fissures, which means the Valesong is missing three notes. That’s how Verraketh marred it.”

Morhion bent to examine the rough-edged holes. He could see only darkness beyond. “We have to find a way to unblock these fissures. If we can restore the Valesong, we just might have a chance to—”

“Morhion! Mari! Ferret!”

The cry rang out over the vale. Kellen. Swiftly the three turned, peering into the swirling steam, trying to catch a glimpse of the boy. He must have wandered off.

Mari’s sharp eyes found him first. “There!” she said, pointing. As they approached, they saw what had caused him to call out.

“Kellen,” Morhion said gravely. “I want you to take a step back. Carefully.”

The boy stood on the edge of a wide pit. Crimson light rose out of the pit, along with wisps of hot yellow smoke. Four yards below the rim of the pit was a bubbling pool of lava. When Kellen did as he was told, Morhion reached out and snatched the boy safely away from the edge.

Mari gazed down at the pool of molten rock, her face bathed in the ruddy glow. “The lava must be heating a source of underground water, and the resultant steam is forced up through the fissures in the rock, making the Valesong.”

“Hey, guys,” Ferret said with a gulp. “You may want to look up for a second.”

The others did as the thief bid. Morhion swore softly. On the far side of the pit stood a sharp-edged pinnacle of basalt. Carved into the jagged surface of the spire were stairs spiraling upward, leading to the pointed summit. There was something up there, a dark shape at the very top of the stone spire, but Morhion could not make it out.

Carefully, the four skirted the lava pit and approached the pinnacle. They found the beginning of the stone staircase on the far side of the spire, opposite the pit. They found something else as well: A patch of stone had been molded into a new shape. It was a human hand, reaching out of the surface of the pinnacle. An object rested in the outstretched hand, a set of pipes. They looked like the reed pipes a forest satyr might play to enchant a nymph, but they were made of smooth onyx stone.

“Caledan,” Mari whispered.

Kellen approached the stone hand and reached out to touch the onyx pipes. The instrument parted from the hand with a faint snick! and came away in Kellen’s grip. He stared at the pipes in wonder. They were beautiful, as smooth and fluid as midnight water.

“Thank you, Father,” he said softly. He tucked the pipes into the pouch at his belt, where he kept his bone flute.

“Anyone else curious to find out what’s up there?” Ferret said, beady eyes shining. He pointed to the staircase with a thumb.

Cautiously, the four ascended the rough-hewn staircase. The steps were narrow and uneven, and one slip could send them plummeting to the rocky ground far below. Finally they climbed the last steps to the summit and found themselves on a half-moon-shaped stone platform. Before them, hewn from the dark bones of the pinnacle itself, was a gigantic chair.

No, not a chair, Morhion realized. A throne.

“In Milil’s name, what is that? ” Mari gasped.

The thing on the throne was about the size and shape of a barrel, but it was jet black and glossy, and tapered smoothly at one end. The object was attached to the throne by a sticky mass of dark strands. Only after a moment did Morhion realize that the thing’s hard surface was slightly translucent. He could just glimpse something within, something dark and pulsating. Whatever it was, it was alive.

“It’s almost like some sort of cocoon,” Ferret said with awe and revulsion.

“No, not a cocoon,” Morhion countered in sudden realization. “Not a cocoon, but a chrysalis, like that which encases a caterpillar while it completes its metamorphosis into a butterfly.”

“While it completes its metamorphosis?” Mari repeated. Her voice became an anguished moan. “Oh, by all the gods of light. It’s Caledan!”

Instantly Morhion knew she was right. He took a step toward the chrysalis, reaching out a hand. “Caledan, my friend—”

His words were cut short by a shriek of pure and ancient malevolence. A form uncoiled itself from a jagged outcrop behind the throne. The thing’s gray, scaly hide had blended seamlessly with the dull stone, concealing it even as it had lain before their eyes. Now the creature sprang down to stand protectively before the chrysalis on the throne. It extended spiny arms ending in obsidian talons; its spiked tail flicked menacingly. The thing’s eyeless face was utterly inhuman.

A shadevar.

The creature opened its lipless mouth, revealing dark needle teeth. “The king sleeps,” it hissed in a voice like a serpent’s. “You shall not harm him.”

“Get back!” Morhion shouted at the others. They retreated toward the staircase, but they knew they could not outrun the shadevar. The mage stretched out his left hand. Isela’s ring glittered on his finger.

Rapidly, Morhion spoke the words of an incantation. It was the same spell of protection he had cast against the shadowhounds on the High Moor. Once again, a ring of shimmering blue magic spread outward from the mage. The ring’s violet gem flared, and the expanding circle of magic changed from ice blue to brilliant purple. The glowing circle struck the shadevar and expanded beyond. Blazing tendrils of magic crackled around the creature’s form, engulfing it in purple fire.

The shadevar only grinned.

As though removing a burning cloak, it shrugged its spiny shoulders. The glowing tendrils of magic fell to the ground. There they sizzled for a moment, then went dark. Morhion stared in horror. The spell had not worked! He had been certain that the key to the ring’s power lay in using a spell that contained elements of both light and dark. Yet he had been terribly wrong.

“Run!” Morhion screamed. “I’ll try to hold it off as long as I can!”

The others only stood behind him, frozen in terror. In his mind, Morhion prepared a spell of lightning, though it would likely be useless against the powerful creature. Spiked tail twitching, the shadevar advanced.

“You would defile the king,” it hissed poisonously, raising a clawed hand to tear Morhion’s throat out. “Now you will die.”

Morhion shouted his incantation, knowing he did not have time to finish it properly. The shadevar brought its curved talons down in a slashing arc.

The blow never landed.

So swift it was nearly a blur, a lithe form heaved itself up over the edge of the pinnacle’s summit and launched itself at the shadevar. The blur collided with the spiny creature, knocking it off balance so that the shadevar’s strike went wide. One sharp talon just grazed Morhion’s face, tracing a stinging line along his cheekbone. The mage stumbled backward into the others.

The shadevar’s assailant backed away. It was the Harper Hunter, K’shar. The half-elf’s clothes were all but shredded. His dusky bronze skin was bruised and torn. Blood matted his pale hair. Yet his golden eyes blazed with light. He had survived the destruction of the onyx bridge.

The shadevar recovered its balance, digging clawed feet into the stone on the very edge of the pinnacle’s summit. It turned its eyeless face toward K’shar, slit-shaped nostrils flaring. “Fool!” it shrieked. “Defiler! You cannot harm me. I will rend your flesh to liquid with that of these other mortals.”