Марк Энтони - Curse of the Shadowmage

She fell hard inside the passageway, air rushing painfully from her chest. Gasping and spitting, she pulled herself to her hands and knees and crawled to the precipice. Carefully, she peered over the edge, dreading what she might see.

“Are you well … Mari?”

K’shar’s voice rose thinly from below. Mari blinked against the fierce glow of the lava. Then she saw him directly below her. She choked back a cry of despair. The half-elf looked like a broken doll dashed against a rock by an angry child. One leg was bent beneath him at a hideous angle, and his right arm dangled limply from his shoulder. Blood smeared his face. She thought she could see exposed bone on his cheek and brow.

“I’m … I’m fine, K’shar,” she managed to call out.

“I am glad.” His words bubbled wetly in his throat. The Hunter turned his gaze away from her. With his one good arm, he began pulling himself across the rough floor of the cavern toward the wall, leaving a wide smear of dark blood behind him. He vanished from sight beneath a rock overhang.

“K’shar!” Mari called out in anguish.

For a moment there was no answer. Then she heard his voice, weak but oddly triumphant. “I have found something, Mari!”

“What is it?”

“There is a door set into the wall. It is fashioned of some sort of metal, but like none I’ve ever seen. There is a small trickle of water seeping from beneath the door. And I can hear a rushing sound on the other side. There must be an underground river behind it.” There was a long pause. “I think I can open the door, Mari. There is a lever.”

It was exactly what they had been searching for, a way to bring a source of water in contact with the lava. Yet if K’shar opened the portal while he was down there …

“K’shar,” she called out in a quavering voice. “Are you sure?”

“I want to do this, Mari.”

She swallowed hard, then shouted as loudly as her parched throat allowed. “I am glad we could be friends, K’shar.”

The half-elf’s reply echoed faintly back to her. “As am I, Mari. Now please go. I will count to one thousand, then pull the lever. You must be out of the tunnel before then.”

There was a pause, and she heard his voice echoing up from the furnace of the cavern. “One … two … three …”

Mari climbed to her feet. “Farewell, Hunter,” she whispered. Then she turned and broke into a run, careening down the tunnel. As she went, she began to count desperately under her breath.

“… four … five … six …”

Morhion spread his arms as the shadowsteeds dove toward him, claws extended. The two shadevari, each sitting astride one of the winged beasts, opened their fanged maws in screams of depthless hunger. Dissonant words of magic flew from Morhion’s tongue. The shadowsteeds were so close he could smell their fetid breath. With a final, shouted word, he brought his hands together, releasing the spell.

A cloud of thick smoke expanded rapidly outward. Morhion dove to the ground and rolled. There was a deafening whir of wings and a terrible rending sound as sharp talons dug into bare stone inches from his head. The shadevari shrieked in rage; the sound of wings receded. The mage climbed to his feet. Already the magical smoke screen that had hidden him was dissipating.

Cold dread trickled down Morhion’s throat. In the minutes since he had last looked, the shadowking had grown. Its midnight wings had spread wider, and it had raised itself slightly off the platform, leaning on a long, muscular arm that looked as if it had been carved from polished onyx. He could not see the shadowking’s visage, but curving obsidian horns sprang from its brow. In time with the creature’s throbbing wings, the Shadowstar pulsated against the creature’s torso, glowing brightly one moment, fading to dark the next. Soon the shadowking would be whole.

The last tatters of magical smoke evaporated. High above, the shadowsteeds cried out as they caught sight of their enemy again. They folded their wings and dove once more. Morhion had no more offensive spells left. He could only watch.

Suddenly a dark form appeared before him. Two burning eyes bore into his chest. “The shadevari will slay you, mage,” Serafi hissed. “Why do you not do something?”

“I have no magic that will stop them.”

“What of the witch’s ring?”

The mage shook his head ruefully. “Would that I understood its magic. It might indeed help me. But I do not.” What did it matter now? He had done what he had intended; he had bought Mari and K’shar time enough to reach the blocked fissure. “I will die now.”

“You are wrong, mage!” Serafi shrieked. “I will not let you!” He stretched a translucent gauntlet toward Morhion’s chest. “I need some of your life force. Give it to me!”

Before Morhion could answer yea or nay, the spectral knight took what he wanted. The mage cried out as crackling green energy leapt from his chest toward Serafi’s outstretched fingers.

“Ah, yes!” Serafi whispered exultantly.

The shadowsteeds were nearly upon them. Serafi withdrew his hand as Morhion sank to the ground with a moan. Serafi turned and thrust his clenched gauntlet toward the descending creatures. This time the magic was blood-red, and it crackled away from the spectral knight’s hand. Crimson energy engulfed the shadowsteeds, sizzling as it plunged into their dark bodies. They screamed in agony, winging high into the sky to circle warily above the pinnacle.

“Your magic—it harmed them,” Morhion gasped in amazement.

Serafi shook an ethereal fist in anger. “It was not enough.”

Weakly, Morhion struggled to his feet. “Then do it again,” he croaked. “Use more of my life force to destroy them.”

“It would kill you,” Serafi said flatly. “And in case you have forgotten, preserving your body is the sole purpose of this exercise.”

Morhion gave a grim laugh. “Then I think you have failed, Serafi.” He pointed weakly. High above, the two shadowsteeds separated, winging away from each other. They were going to dive at the pinnacle from opposite directions.

With effort, Morhion straightened his frame to his full height and brushed his flowing hair from his brow. He would meet his death with dignity. As he lowered his hand, his eye caught a glint of violet. Isela’s ring. Once again he was struck by the contrast of brilliance and blackness contained within the ring’s purple gem. It was almost as if the jewel did not simply reflect the world around, but rather separated that reflection into the basic components of light and dark.

Morhion let out a gasp. In that moment, he understood the key to the ring’s magic.

He jerked his head up; the shadowsteeds were mere seconds away. At the ruined tower, his spell of protection had worked against the shadowhounds. Yet he knew now that it had not been the spell itself. It was because of the wall. Morhion cast his memory back to that night, picturing the ancient stone wall: the light of the rising moon glowed brilliantly on one side, while on the other side night reigned pure and perfect. It was the same separation that had marked the beginning of the world, when the song of the gods had split the shadowy chaos into two ordered elements, light and dark.

Could he forge a similar wall now? Perhaps. The spells were simple, and Morhion knew them. He began with a spell of light, conjuring a sphere of brilliant white radiance, then stretching and shaping it into a sheet that covered the summit of the spire. Then he cast a second spell, one of darkness, conjuring a sphere of perfect blackness. By force of will, he stretched this one into a dark plane next to the glowing sheet of white light.

He blinked. There it was, stretching across the pinnacle before him: a wall as thin as a hair, blazing white on one side, as black as pitch on the other. The whir of wings filled the air. Astride the shadowsteeds, the shadevari closed in from either side of the spire. They cried out in triumph, unafraid of the two petty magics that formed the wall. That was their mistake.