Lynn Flewelling - Luck in the Shadows

The quiet of the room enfolded him like a thick, comfortable blanket. The warmth of the fire was like summer sunshine on the side of his face—so pleasant, so soft, like the touch of a woman's lips. As he sank deeper into the welcome languor, he seemed to feel Seregil's chest beneath his hand again, the tiny ridges of the scar brushing his palm. But now Seregil's skin was cold, cold as a marble statue—

Nysander stirred uneasily in his chair. A vision is coming , he thought in vague dismay. I am too wearyfor visions .

But it came anyway.

He was standing in the Orлska's central atrium. Bright sunshine streamed down through the greatdome overhead, warming him deliriously. Other wizards passed by without looking at him. Apprentices and servants hurried past at their daily tasks.

But then the Voice spoke and all the people around him turned into marble statues.

The Voice came from somewhere beneath him, a faint, sinister chuckle vibrating up from the depths below the stone floor. He could feel it in the soles of his feet. Looking down, he noticed for the first time that the mortar of the mosaic had crumbled. Large sections of the design, the proud Dragon of lllior, had been loosened and dislodged, the brilliant tiles trampled to powder.

The Voice came again and he turned, striding through the motionless throng to the museum.Across the shadowed room, beyond the ranks of display cases, the door of the antechamber leading to the vaults stood slightly ajar.

As he approached it, he heard something scuttle away into the darkness ahead. It was a scrabbling, clicking noise utterly unlike rats. Something crackled beneath his foot, a fragment of wood. The case that had held the hands of Tikбrie Megraesh was empty; a splintered, fist-sized hole had been clawed through the bottom.

Summoning a gleaming sphere of light in his left palm, he continued on. As he neared the door itflew open with such force that it split from top to bottom and hung shattered on its hinges.

"Come, old man," a sibilant whisper beckoned. "Old man. Old man. Old, old man."

Skin prickling with revulsion, he obeyed.

The antechamber was as it should be, but the plain stone stairway beyond was gone. Instead, a terrible black chasm yawned before him, devoid of bridge or pathway. Summoning a second light in his right hand, he spread his arms and launched himself into the fathomless darkness, plummeting like an osprey.

He could not tell how long he fell; it seemed like a very long time. There was no wind, no feelingof passage, only the knowledge that he was descending until at last, in the way of dreams, he came to a gentle landing on uneven stone. In front of him, an archway led into the familiar brick-paved corridor of the Orлska's deepest vault.

The low passage branched out into a warren of corridors and storage chambers. He'd made his solitary way here countless times, passing this corner, turning at the next to make certain that thePlace, the unmarked, unremarkable span of mortared wall and all that lay behind it, was as it should be.

But this sojourn, he knew, was not to be a solitary one. The Voice was ahead of him and loudernow, shouting to him from the Place.

"Come, old man! Come, Guardian!" The bellowed challenge echoed coldly through the dampstone corridors. "Come and view the first fruits of your sacred vigil!"

Rounding the final corner, he found himself face-to-face with the dyrmagnos, Tikбrie Megraesh.Bright eyes, moist and alive, looked out from the desiccated black face. The hands that he himself—then a young wizard new to his robes—had cut off had found their way back to their owner's arms, visible below the sleeves of the hideous creature's festival robe.

"Pass, O most noble Guardian!" Tikdrie bade him, stepping aside with a slight bow. "The Beautiful One awaits. Pass and join the feast." The voice of the dyrmagnos, like his eyes, had retained a terrible humanity.

Passing his ancient enemy, he found the passage blocked by a huge pile of naked corpses.

Creatures in colorful rags crawled and scuttled over the dead and he could hear the greedysounds of their feeding.

Some were human, and among these he recognized many long-vanquished foes, returned now tohaunt his dreams.

Others were twisted, monstrous creatures of revolting form beneath their robes.

And all were feasting on the dead. Swarming across the limp bodies, they hunched like jackalsover their victims, tearing chunks of flesh out with teeth and talons, crunching through bone.

A tall figure emerged from the shadows, its dark cloak revealing nothing of its form.

"Join the feast," it commanded in a voice like wind groaning down the chimney of an abandoned house. Stretching an impossibly long arm into the heap, it tugged a body loose and cast it at his feet.

It was Seregil.

Half of his face had been cruelly gnawed. Both hands were gone and the skin had been flayedfrom his chest.

A moan rose in Nysander's throat as grief paralyzed him.

"Devour him," the specter invited, reaching again into the pile.

Micum was next, chest torn open, both strong arms gone at the shoulder.

Then Alec, robbed of hands and eyes. Blood streaked his face like tears, and matted his softyellow hair.

Others followed, faster and faster. Friends, lords, servants, strangers, thrown about like cord wood until he was ringed in with an ever heightening wall of bodies. Another moment and hewould be immured in a tower of dead flesh.

Battling grief and horror, he summoned the twin lights he still carried to increased brilliance andhurled them before him, charging over the maimed bodies of his companions. The obscene specterswelled in his vision and was gone, taking the awful pile of corpses with it.

Before him stood the possessor of the Voice, and Nysander's grief crystallized into stony terror.The huge figure was shrouded in shadow except where light fell across one perfect, golden-skinned shoulder.

He stared at it, trying to see his foe in spite of his mounting dread. He could feel the cold powerof its eyes upon him; it burned his flesh numb like the water of a winter stream.

Then it raised its hand in greeting and the shining skin of shoulder and arm and hand split likerotten cloth, hanging in dulled shreds from the putrid flesh swelling beneath it.

"Welcome, O Guardian," it said. "You have been most faithful."

Lurching out of the shadows, the thing smashed a fist through the smooth stone wall as if it were a paper screen, reaching into the cavity beyond—

Nysander leapt up from his chair, panting and drenched with sweat. The fire was nearly dead and the room was full of shadows.

"O Illior!" he groaned, pressing a hand over his eyes. "Must I be the one who sees the end of it?"

To Be Continued.

About the Author

Lynn Flewellinggrew up in presque isle, maine. since receiving a degree in english from the University of Maine in 1981, she has studied veterinary medicine at Oregon State, classical Greek at Georgetown University, and worked as a personnel generalist, landlord, teacher, necropsy technician, advertising copywriter, and freelance journalist, more or less in that order. She currently lives in Bangor with her husband, two sons, and other assorted mammals.

About this Title

This eBook was created using ReaderWorks™Publisher Preview, produced by OverDrive, Inc. For more information on ReaderWorks, visit us on the Web at " www.readerworks.com Lynn Flewelling Luck in the Shadows (Nightrunners - 01) Acknowledgments Like many first novels, this one wouldn't be complete without acknowledgments. Those of you who don't know me can skip this part, if you like. Really. I don't mind. With deepest gratitude to those hardy early readers who believed in this project long before I did myself: Mom, Fran, and kid sister Sue, God love 'em; Gram, God rest her; Jeffs K. and A.; sisters of the heart Darby, Laurie, the Other Lynn, and Nancy; Bonnie; Cheryl; Marc and the whole BookMarc's gang; Cathie Pelletier, for her guidance and support; Greta, Sandy E, Gary, Bill and Dorothy, Maria, Sabine, Scott and Julie, Marc and Lisa, Todd, Jen, Gail N.; Suzannes K. and C.; and Pete "The Organmeister" K. and Debbie C., who materialized out of the electronic ether at the nicest possible time. Apologies to anyone I missed. Love also to Matt and Tim, who've heard, "Not now, Mom's writing," far too often; and to my dad, who's probably bragging me up in Heaven, because he always did. And finally, special thanks to my literary midwives, Lucienne Diver, Eleanor Wood, and Anne Groell, who made it all come real. Author's Note The ancient Hierophantic calendar is based on a lunar year divided into twelve 29-day months and four seasonal festivals, which account for an additional twelve days. Winter Solstice—observance of the longest night and celebration of the lengthening of days to come. (mourning Night and Festival of Sakor in Skala.) Followed by: Sarisin Dostin Klesin Spring Festival—preparation for planting, celebration of fertility of Dalna. (festival of the Flowers in Mycena.) Followed by: Lithion Nythin Gorathin Summer Solstice—celebration of the longest day, followed by: Shemin Lenthin Rhythin Harvest Home—finish of harvest, time of thankfulness. (great Festival of Dalna in Mycena.) Followed by: Erasin Kemmin Cinrin Map »