Марк Энтони - Curse of the Shadowmage

He plunged his left hand into the wall.

The ring exploded in purple brilliance. Violet sparks crackled on both sides of the magical wall. One of the shadowsteeds was slightly closer than the other. It spread its wings, trying to change course, but too late. Together, beast and shadevar collided with the wall.

For a fractured moment, twin shadevari writhed in midair—one black as midnight, the other blazing as the sun. Creatures of shadow, the shadevar and its steed had both been separated into elements of light and dark, and it was their death. Their combined screams shook the rock beneath Morhion’s feet. Then the light and dark halves dissipated like mist before a wind.

Seeing what had happened to its partner, the remaining shadevar shrieked in fury. The beast it rode turned in time to avoid the magical wall and winged swiftly away from the pinnacle. The spells of light and dark expired. The wall vanished. Morhion swore vehemently. He had destroyed one shadevar, but the last one remained.

“Quickly, conjure another wall!” Serafi hissed.

Morhion shook his head. “I cannot. You know the nature of magic, Serafi. Once used, a spell is gone from my mind. It would take me an hour to learn the spells of light and dark again. And we do not have even a minute.”

His rage beyond words, Serafi let out a blood-chilling cry, then vanished in a dark cyclone. A strange peace descended over Morhion. He turned to gaze at the throne.

Slowly, the shadowking rose to its feet. It was horrifying in its darkness, yet majestic as well, a vast creature of sculpted onyx muscle, with horns and talons like black ice. Against its chest, the Shadowstar pulsated frenetically. The outlines of the creature’s face flowed, taking shape. It was nearly complete.

“Behold the King of Shadows,” Morhion whispered in awe.

A high-pitched scream pierced the air. The mage turned to see the remaining shadowsteed winging rapidly across the vale, coming straight for him.

K’shar’s breath rattled in his chest as he whispered the numbers.

“… five hundred four … five hundred five … five hundred six …”

He had to keep counting. Yet he was not certain he could hold on much longer. The pain that racked his ruined body seemed to have merged with the crimson glow that filled the furnacelike cavern, so that he floated in a blood-red sea of agony. He was only dully aware of the jagged stump of bone that stuck out of a rip in his leather breeches, and of the pool of dark blood that spread beneath him. His crushed right arm was numb, which was a blessing, but the ragged cuts on his face and head burned fiercely. However, he could use that pain, could focus on it and let it anchor him so that he did not drift away from the haze of scarlet fire and into endless darkness.

“… seven hundred thirty.… seven hundred thirty-one …”

Embedded in the stone wall next to K’shar was the circular portal. Its metallic surface gleamed dully in the cast-off light of the lava flow. Beside the portal, protruding from the wall, was a lever—a rod carved with unrecognizable symbols. K’shar did not need to read the runes to understand the lever’s function. Pulling it would slide back the metal catch that held the portal shut. He could hear the gurgling rush of water on the other side of the door. The sound made him maddeningly thirsty. He licked his parched lips with a dust-dry tongue, tasting the rust of blood.

“… nine hundred ninety-six … nine hundred ninety-seven …”

Agonizingly, he reached his left hand toward the lever and clenched his fingers around the shaft. There was a sizzling sound, followed by the rank stench of burning meat, as the hot metal seared the flesh of his hand. He did not loosen his grip. His lips curled back in a grin that was part agony, part feral mirth.

“… nine hundred ninety-eight … nine hundred ninety-nine …”

K’shar’s heart beat crazily in his crushed chest. Something told him he was about to embark on a new chase, one far beyond his wildest imaginings.

“… one thousand!”

With all his remaining strength, K’shar pulled the lever. There was a groaning sound, and a grinding of metal on metal. For a second, nothing happened. Then, with a sound like thunder, the portal flew open. A roaring flood of frothy water gushed through the opening, carrying K’shar away with it like a piece of flotsam.

Cold water struck molten lava, and the entire cavern exploded.

Mari raced through the labyrinth, counting under her breath. The caustic air burned in her lungs. Sweat poured down her forehead, stinging her eyes, blinding her. The crimson glow faded as she ran farther and farther from the cavern. She let her fingertips slip over the smooth stone wall as she ran, finding her way by touch.

At first she relied on memory to tell her which twists and turns would take her closer to the surface. Yet as she went, recall began to fail her. Finally she reached a fork in the tunnel and came to a dead halt. Which way led up to the vale? Desperately she fought off panic and concentrated, searching for any sign—a wisp of cool air, a gentle upward slope—that might indicate which passage would take her back to the surface. She detected nothing. Numbers continued to tumble from her cracked lips.

“… eight hundred sixteen … eight hundred seventeen …”

She could hesitate no longer. Guessing blindly, she moved toward the left-hand passage. After a moment she faltered. No—this felt wrong . She turned, retraced her steps, and plunged into the right-hand passage. There was no more time to consider her decision. She careened down the tunnel at a dead run.

She was brought up short as the passage ended in a stone wall. Something sinuous brushed against her cheek, and she batted the thing away. With a start, she realized it was a rope. She craned her neck. Above, hovering in the blackness, were three dim circles of gray light. The shaft that led to the surface!

“… one thousand.”

Time was up. Mari cast a nervous glance at the dim tunnel behind her. Hand over hand, she heaved herself up the rope.

She was halfway up when a sound like rumbling thunder echoed from the labyrinth below. Mari froze. Then, biting her lip, she climbed faster. Her arms ached with effort. A few moments later, she heard the first onrush of sound.

“Damn it, Al’maren!” she snarled to herself. “Climb!”

Clenching her jaw, she kept moving. Her shoulders were on fire now, and the rope bit painfully into her blistered hands. Her palms bled, making the rope slippery. She screamed as she slipped down several feet, barely managing to catch herself. The rushing had grown to a low rumbling. A puff of warm, moist air ruffled her hair.

The openings were close now. The rumbling became a stentorian roar, like the sound of an angry river crashing over jagged rapids. Mari reached up and clutched the edge of one of the openings. The roaring filled her mind, drowning out her terror. Forcing her trembling arms to function, she pulled herself upward. Sharp rock sliced her hands. With a cry of pain and desperation, she heaved herself up and out of the hole, then rolled away from the stone outcrop.

A heartbeat later, three geysers of boiling hot steam and molten rock burst from the fissures like glowing pillars reaching skyward. At the same moment, three vast, throbbing notes of music rang out. Roiling jets of steam poached the skin of Mari’s cheek as she scrambled away from the fissures. Painfully, she pulled herself to her knees, staring at the geysers in awe. Like air through the holes of a flute, each of the columns of steam and melted rock piped a single deep tone.

When the three tones blended with the dissonant sounds made by the vale’s other steaming fissures, a thrumming music filled the air: wild, chaotic, and incomprehensibly enormous. It was like nothing Mari had ever heard before—a music as old as time, imprisoned for a thousand years, free once more.