Марк Энтони - Crypt of the Shadowking

There was a sharp sound like ice cracking, and Ravendas took a startled step backward, staring at the door. The writing on the portal flared brilliantly. Then it went dark. A faint, sharp line appeared in the portal’s center. The line darkened, growing into a crack. Then, propelled by some unseen force, the two halves of the onyx slab swung silently inward. A puff of stale air rushed out of the open doorway, bringing the smell of death. Beyond lay only impenetrable darkness.

“The portal is open,” Morhion spoke softly.

“Then let us enter the crypt of the Shadowking.” The fear had left Ravendas’s face, replaced by a look of exultation. She took a torch from the wall and stepped through the portal.

“Follow,” Snake said harshly, and the warriors pushed the four companions through the portal. Caledan felt a momentary chill as he passed through the doorway, then he blinked in surprise. He could see. He had expected the room to be utterly dark, or at most to be faintly lit by the single torch Ravendas carried. Instead the vast chamber was filled with a peculiar, ruddy illumination.

The crypt of the Shadowking was a vast, circular chamber. The floor was fashioned of the same flawless dark stone as the doorway, and the perimeter of the tomb was lined with massive buttresses of basalt, thirteen in number. The spandrels between them were carved with nightmarish friezes, the bas-relief gargoyles leering evilly down at the companions. Beneath each stone buttress was a shallow alcove. Those few into which Caledan could see were filled with burial offerings: one with ornate jewels, another with casks of wine and cups of gold, still another with ivory figurines, servants to wait upon the dead in the afterworld. The Shadowking may have been Talembar’s foe, but he had been a king also. Talembar had given him a burial deserving of royalty.

Farther into the chamber stood a circle of huge columns, surrounding the center of the crypt like a ring of sentinel giants. The tomb was deathly silent. The stale, ancient air seemed to smother all sound, as if it resented the intrusion of living beings in a place where nothing had stirred in a thousand years.

When they reached the ring of columns Ravendas stopped. She clapped her hands, a signal for the Zhentarim warriors and priests to withdraw from the crypt. The Zhents, especially the warriors, seemed more than willing to leave the eerie chamber.

“Don’t get any rash ideas,” Ravendas said to Caledan. “What will transpire within this circle is not fit for simple eyes to behold, so I have sent my servants away. But they will guard the portal with their lives. I needn’t remind you there is only one exit from the crypt.”

“I really don’t think we’ll be going anywhere,” Caledan said sarcastically, glancing meaningfully at the rope that hobbled his ankles.

With a gesture of mock politeness, Ravendas gestured for the others to follow her. They passed between two of the gigantic columns and entered the circle within.

Caledan could see now that there were seven of the massive columns, each resting on an enormous basalt plinth as big as a small house. The surface of the columns was without carving or sigil, except for a single word that had been incised into the stone of each column perhaps twenty feet above the floor. Caledan squinted at the words through the hazy crimson light, but he could not discern them.

He let his gaze drift upward. The columns supported a domed ceiling about a dozen fathoms above his head. A mosaic covered the ceiling, but in the half-light all Caledan could see were pale, cruel-looking eyes staring down at him from above. He noticed a dark, jagged line running across the center of the domed ceiling. It was a crack, the single flaw he could detect in the construction of the crypt.

In the very center of the tomb stood a dais of basalt bearing a huge sarcophagus of flawless onyx. Upon the coffin’s lid was carved a figure that could only represent the Shadowking. The figure was manlike in shape, but massive and twisted, the gnarled arms ending in claws, the legs in cloven hooves.

But the face of the Shadowking was the face of a man. Unlike the rest of the figure’s body, the visage was smooth and perfect, even beautiful. This was how the sorcerer Verraketh had looked before dark magic had twisted him into the being of maleficence called the Shadowking. His features were crowned by a pair of dark antlers springing from the unfurrowed brow of the death mask, a bestial symbol of violence.

Caledan could not help but shiver. Within that sarcophagus lay a being of terrible malevolence. But the Shadowking is a thousand years dead, he reminded himself.

“Cheerful-looking fellow, isn’t he?” Ferret whispered. Caledan winced. How could the thief joke at a time like this? “By the way, did you notice those words on the columns are written in Talfir?” Ferret said softly. “I thought you might be interested to know.…”

Caledan stared at the thief in surprise, then he jerked his head up to look at the runes carved high on the basalt columns. He squinted through the dimness and saw that Ferret was right. By now the ancient language was familiar enough to recognize, though he cursed himself for being unable to read it.

He thought back to that day when the phantom of Talek Talembar had appeared on the windswept cliff top. What had the phantom told him? What were the words he had used? The exact words?

For a long time his mind was empty. He almost swore aloud in frustration. Then abruptly, like a dam bursting, the memory came to him. It was as if Talembar was speaking once again, only this time inside his mind.

… thou might look for its echo in the place where last it was played.…

“Ferret,” Caledan whispered hurriedly, his voice barely audible. “I understand the secret of the shadow song. Don’t ask how. There isn’t time for that. But I need those pipes the boy has.”

Ferret did not nod, but by the glimmer of excitement in his beady eyes Caledan knew he understood. Caledan returned his inspection to the seven words of Talfir inscribed upon the columns. His knowledge of the ancient language was sorely limited. He wished Tyveris was here.

His concentration shattered as Ravendas spoke. “Come, my son.” She held out a hand to Kellen. “It is time.” Slowly the boy reached out a small hand. Ravendas led him up the steps of the dais. Caledan could see the terror in his eyes, but the child did not falter. He is brave, my son, Caledan thought. His hands strained reflexively against his bonds.

For the first time Caledan noticed that there was something standing at the foot of the massive sarcophagus. It was a small wooden box of simple, almost crude construction. The box seemed oddly out of place amidst the magnificence and grandeur of the rest of the crypt.

“Open the box, my son,” Ravendas said when they stood atop the dais. Her voice was gentle, but her lovely face was twisted with desire. Kellen hesitated. “Open it,” Ravendas repeated, her voice more harsh. The boy winced and knelt before the box. Slowly, he reached out a small hand and opened the lid.

Shadows leaped forth.

Kellen screamed as he fell backward. Around the box whirled a small maelstrom of rippling shadows. Caledan almost thought he could glimpse faces amidst the swirling tatters of darkness. They were forlorn faces, hopeless and hateful, faces of death.

“To touch the shadows which surround the Stone is to die,” Snake proclaimed.

Ravendas did not appear alarmed. “Play, my son,” she instructed. “This is the time for which you have prepared all your life. Play your song. Make the shadows disappear. They will do your bidding, if only you play.” Kellen stood frozen, clutching the reed pipes tightly as he stared at the whirling shapes of darkness.