Марк Энтони: Curse of the Shadowmage

The Valesong.

So, Morhion thought darkly, this is how it ends.

He braced his shoulders, watching grimly as the last shadevar flew toward him across the vale. Then three fiery columns of steam and lava burst out of the ground, shooting toward the iron gray sky. This time, the shadowsteed was not swift enough to correct its course. With shrill screams, beast and shadevar flew directly into the surging pillars. Roiling steam ripped the shadowsteed’s midnight wings to shreds while molten slag engulfed the shadevar. In a fiery blaze, the two monsters plummeted through the air, crashing to the ground with violent force. When the swirling steam cleared, all that remained of the two creatures was a smoking heap of sludge. The last of the shadevari was dead.

That was when Morhion heard the Valesong.

An inhuman scream sounded. The mage whirled around and stared in horror. Before the basalt throne, the shadowking writhed in agony. The creature flapped dark wings spasmodically, clenching clawed fingers as if struggling with an invisible foe. Against the shadowking’s chest, the Shadowstar pulsated wildly in time to the throbbing music of the Valesong. In moments the star-shaped lump of metal glowed white-hot, sizzling as it burned into the shadowking’s flesh. Then, all at once, the medallion turned to liquid; glowing droplets of metal fell to pool before the throne.

As the Shadowstar melted, the shadowking spread its impossibly long arms in an anguished gesture. It tilted its head back as if to let out a bellowing howl of outrage, yet all that issued from its gaping maw was silence. The shadowking straightened. For a second, Morhion thought it gazed at him with faded green eyes, eyes filled with a look of unspeakable sorrow. Then, like a felled tree, the onyx creature toppled to the hard stone platform in front of the throne.

The shadowking was dead.

Mari reached the base of the pinnacle just as Ferret and Kellen, pale and wide eyed, crawled from their hiding place. The thief eyed Mari critically. Her clothing had been reduced to filthy rags that clung wetly to her body. Soot and blood smudged her face; her hair was a tangled rat’s-nest.

“By Shar above,” Ferret swore with a low whistle, “you look like a she-ore after a bad night of drinking, Mari.”

“Thanks, Ferret,” she replied with a weak smile. “You sure know how to compliment a girl.” Abruptly she slumped toward the ground. Ferret and Kellen rushed forward to support her.

“I think something has happened up there,” Kellen said quietly, gazing toward the summit.

“Maybe we should go see,” Ferret suggested, his beady eyes shifting nervously.

Mari agreed. Together, the three ascended the spiral staircase. They reached the pinnacle’s summit to see Morhion kneeling before the basalt throne. Prostrate beside him was a huge, dark creature.

“It’s dead,” Morhion said without looking up, his voice haggard. “ He’s dead.”

Mari choked back tears. They had saved the world from the darkness of a second shadowking. Yet it was no victory to her. Caledan was gone, and she felt utterly hollow. Reluctantly, her eyes moved to the fallen shadowking. The dark body, once gleaming with sinuous life, now seemed merely a shell, the horned countenance a mask.

“I’m sorry, Mari,” Ferret said softly, reaching out to squeeze her shoulder.

She gave the thief a grateful look, then limped toward Morhion. Reaching down, she gripped the mage’s hand, pulling him to his feet. “Come,” she said, leading him away from the throne. “Let’s be gone from this place. There is nothing left for us here.”

“Wait.”

Mari looked up in surprise. It was Kellen. In his small hands he clutched the obsidian pipes, the instrument forged by Caledan’s shadow magic.

“I would like to play a song for my father.”

A sharp pang pierced Mari’s chest. For the second time now, she realized, Kellen had witnessed a parent destroyed by the dark magic of a shadowking. Yet his round face was calm, like a cherub carved of alabaster. Somehow, Mari knew, this child was stronger than any of them.

“Of course,” she murmured.

Kellen approached the fallen figure before the throne and lifted the glossy black pipes to his lips. For a moment he hesitated. A hush fell over the crater. Even the Valesong seemed to recede into the distance. It was as if the blasted land itself held its breath, waiting for him to play. Then play he did.

A melody rose from the pipes, gentle, mournful, and achingly beautiful in its simplicity. The voice of the pipes was so sweet and expressive that it seemed almost human, and Mari half-believed that, if she listened carefully, she could hear words in the music:

So skillful was Kellen’s playing that it took Mari several moments to realize the song was one she knew. A time-honored ballad, “The Winter King” was one of the first songs learned by an apprentice bard. Mari shivered; the ballad seemed especially poignant in this desolate place.

Ferret let out a gasp. “Did you see that?” Mari and Morhion stared in shock.

The shadowking moved.

No—that wasn’t quite it. The limp body of the creature had twitched, but not of its own volition. It was as if something had moved beneath the dark skin. The shadowking moved again, and its torso expanded. For a terrified moment, Mari feared that it was breathing. Then she realized that whatever was struggling was not beneath the corpse of the shadowking. It was inside of it.

Kellen lowered his pipes. “Cut it open!” he cried. “Hurry!”

Ferret reacted immediately. The thief leapt forward, brandishing his dagger, and slipped the tip of the blade beneath the scaly skin of the shadowking’s belly and tore a jagged opening from navel to throat. A flood of dark, gelatinous ichor poured out. Inside the husk of the shadowking, something struggled. Something alive.

“I don’t believe this,” Ferret rasped. “Mari, Morhion! Help me!”

The thief plunged his hands into the slime and began to pull. Mari and the mage rushed forward to aid the thief. It was hard to get a grip on the slippery thing. Finally, as one, the three gave a heave. They nearly tumbled backward as a slime-covered form burst free of the shadowking’s body.

For a stunned moment, Mari could only stare. Then she approached the thing, kneeling beside it. Hesitantly at first, then with growing urgency, she used her bare hands to wipe the dark ichor away. She uncovered naked arms, a bare chest, and finally … a face. Gasping, she backed away. Two eyes fluttered open—faded, familiar green eyes. For a moment they stared in wild confusion, then they settled on Mari.

“Hello, Al’maren,” a hoarse voice whispered.

It was Caledan.

They built a fire in a small hollow at the base of the pinnacle, but Caledan did not think he would ever feel warm again. Mari had cleaned the worst of the slime from his gaunt body, and they had wrapped him in blankets and moved him close to the fire. Still he shivered. But a toothy grin lent life to his haggard visage, and the light in his green eyes, though feverish, was bright and keen.

“Actually, I’ve been meaning to drop a few pounds for a while now,” he said wryly, scratching his bony ribs. “I just didn’t realize it would require such drastic measures.”

Absently, he ran his hand over his chest, wincing as his fingers brushed the oozing, star-shaped wound above his heart. Although it was the shadowking who had been burned by the molten Shadowstar, Caledan bore the brand.