Марк Энтони: Crypt of the Shadowking

“What’s going on here, friend?” Caledan quietly asked a rotund merchant next to him. The merchant was perched on the bench of a wagon that looked as if it might fall to pieces at any moment.

“City lord’s coming this way,” the man answered, his harsh voice more than a little bitter. “You’ve always got to make way for the city lord these days. Too good to mingle with the rest of us, I suppose.”

“I suppose so,” Caledan replied wryly. Suddenly he didn’t mind the crowd. He found he was curious to get a look at this notorious Lord Cutter before he left the city.

A brassy trumpet blare shattered the morning air. Eight black chargers trotting in formation rounded the corner of the side street and turned onto the main avenue. Astride them were men clad in the black livery of the city guard, swords raised and glittering in the sun. The guards did not need to warn the onlookers to keep out of their way. Behind them came a standard-bearer, holding aloft the banner of Iriaebor: the tower, river, and—now—crimson moon.

A small, wiry man clad in robes of a sickly, poisonous green came into view, riding a soot-colored gelding. The man’s dark hair was cropped close to his head, adding to the severity of his sharp features. His eyes glittered in the ruddy sunlight like small black stones. Folk bowed their heads as he reverently passed them by.

“That’s Lord Cutter?” Caledan asked the merchant in a low voice, but the fellow shook his head.

“Naw, that’s the lord steward. They call him Snake. Name suits him, I suppose. There’s venom in that one’s heart, no doubt. But he’s more Cutter’s lapdog than he is a viper.”

Caledan nodded, but before he could ask another question there was a second fanfare of trumpets. A tall figure clad in dark leather and a cloak of deep crimson rounded the corner and rode down the avenue astride a glossy, jet-black palfrey. Shoulder length hair of pale spun gold shone brightly in the sun.

“Now that,” said the merchant, “is City Lord Cutter.”

Caledan felt his heart lurch in his chest. A loud rushing sound filled his ears, and he gripped Mista’s reins tightly with white-knuckled hands. He couldn’t believe his eyes.

The woman called Cutter was beautiful. Her eyes were a dusky blue like the evening sky, and her face was smooth and moon-pale, her strong, fine features better hewn of marble than flesh. But it was not this revelation that made Caledan’s heart stop in his chest.

“Ravendas,” he hissed through clenched teeth.

“Hey, friend, you’d better bow your head if you don’t want the guards to notice you,” the merchant whispered hoarsely. “They’ll haul you off to the dungeons, they will.”

Caledan didn’t move. He could only watch as the woman who now called herself Cutter rode with her lord steward through the waiting gates of the tower. The gates swung shut with a sound as vast as thunder. She was gone. As though suddenly released from a spell, Caledan shook his head, trying to swallow the hot bile in his throat. Somehow he had always known he would meet her again. His old enemy. The Zhentarim, Lord Ravendas.

“It looks like we’ll be staying a while after all, old friend,” Caledan said softly, stroking the gray mare’s silky mane. Dusk was drifting down like fine, purple dust among the towers as he rode toward a shadowed section of the Old City. Seeing Ravendas had changed everything. Caledan couldn’t leave, not now. He had to find out what his old enemy was up to, and there was an old acquaintance of his on the Street of Jewels who just might be able to help him find out—for the right price, of course.

He had nearly reached his destination when he realized he was being followed.

Caledan had to admit, his dark-cloaked pursuer was skilled, walking down the street after him with a perfect imitation of aimlessness. However, Caledan had played the game enough times himself to know all the tricks.

He rode onward casually, keeping watch on his pursuer out of the corner of his eye. If he remembered this part of the city correctly, he knew of a place where he might be able to arrange a little surprise for his mysterious shadow. He guided the mare down a narrow side street, for the moment cutting off his pursuer’s line of sight. He nudged Mista’s flanks, and she leaped into a canter, her hooves clattering metallically on the crumbling paving stones.

“Run for a short distance, then wait for me,” Caledan whispered into Mista’s ear. The horse snorted softly, her ears twitching. Whether it was his words or tone she understood, Caledan could not say, but he knew that she would do his bidding.

As the horse raced on he stood up in the stirrups. He tensed his body and sprang upward. His big hands caught on to a stone ledge jutting from a low bridge that spanned the narrow street. Mista trotted on, disappearing around a corner. Caledan hung for a moment and then heaved himself up onto the bridge with a grunt of effort.

“I am definitely getting too old for this,” he groaned, his shoulders throbbing dully. He rolled over to peer down the alleyway. At first he could see nothing. Then out of the murkiness came his pursuer, padding lightly but quickly down the alley, hooded head moving from side to side, searching. When the figure was almost directly below him, Caledan stood up, throwing his cloak back over his shoulders.

“Looking for someone?” he called out. Before his cloaked pursuer could react, Caledan leaped from the low bridge. The two went tumbling to the street. His pursuer was strong and wiry and almost managed to twist out of his grasp, but Caledan had the advantage of size. After a few moments of struggling his shadow was pinned beneath him.

“Let go of me!” his captive shouted, taking a swing at him, but Caledan caught the blow before it landed.

“Not until I find out why you were following me,” he said through clenched teeth, holding the person tightly by the wrists. His pursuer was silent for a long moment, then finally spoke in a low, husky voice.

“I am seeking Caledan the Harper.”

Caledan grunted, not missing a beat. “What makes you think I know him?”

“Will you let me go?”

“Only if you tell me who you are.”

With a curse his captive angrily shook back the cloak’s concealing hood. Caledan drew in a sharp breath. His pursuer was a woman. He scrambled quickly to his feet. The woman fought to disentangle herself from the voluminous cloak, then stood to face him. She gazed at him hotly, fire dancing in her dark, smoldering eyes. She angrily brushed her dark auburn hair from her face and planted her hands firmly on her hips.

“I’m Mari Al’maren,” she said in her low, rich voice, “sent by the Harpers to find Caledan Caldorien. Satisfied?”

Caledan leaned nonchalantly against the brick wall bordering the street. His heart was beating rapidly in his chest. What would the Harpers want with him now, after all these years? His face remained impassive. “Really? So why were you following me?”

The Harper woman angrily shed the remains of her tattered cloak. Beneath she was clad in a green velvet jacket and breeches of soft buckskin that matched her boots. A small silver pin, wrought in the shape of a crescent moon encircling a harp, glistened on her collar—the sigil of the Harpers.

“I’m beginning to wonder the same thing myself,” she said disgustedly. “I thought there might be a chance you were the one I was searching for.”

“This … er … what did you say his name was?” Caledan asked casually.

“Caledan Caldorien,” the woman who called herself Mari answered, kicking away the cloak and pacing the narrow alleyway in agitation. “Call me crazy, but with the way you dealt with that Zhen—er, that captain on the Street of Lanterns, I thought you might be Caldorien. He’s supposed to have been a great hero, you know. At least, that’s what all the stories tell.”