Curse of the Shadowmage (24 page)

“A wonderful idea, love,” Jewel purred. “I have a few ideas you might find interesting …”

Despite her new worries, Mari managed to smile. It was clear that the rotund crime lord and the older, sultry masterthief were going to make an effective—and deadly—duo.

“Let’s go find Caledan,” she said.

Morhion, Ferret, and Kellen followed her out of the tent, into the deepening night.

Hooves clattering against loose scree, Mista scrambled the last few feet out of the rocky defile and onto a windswept ridge. Caledan pulled gently on the reins, bringing her to a halt.

“There it is, Mista,” he said quietly. “The High Moor.”

The mare snorted softly. A vast wasteland stretched before them, marching toward the distant horizon in erid-less gray waves. Pale mist pooled in low hollows, and here and there jagged spurs of rock thrust upward toward the leaden sky like beckoning fingers. A few wind-twisted plants clung precariously to the barren landscape, but there was no sign of anything moving. The High Moor was a dying land. How appropriate that somewhere in its heart should be a dead kingdom. Ebenfar.

Caledan nudged Mista into a canter across the damp moor. Almost unconsciously, he lifted a hand to grip the star-shaped medallion resting against his heart. Despite the chill air, the dull silvery metal was curiously warm. It had been strangely easy to take the medallion from the

treasure chamber in Soubar. No—it had not been strange after all, for the Shadowstar had wanted to be found. The door to the treasure chamber had responded willingly to Caledan’s shadow magic, and the medallion had nearly leapt into his hand.

In the instant he hung the medallion around his neck, he had understood his destiny. He was to journey to Ebenfar, to the ancient kingdom of the Shadowking. He sensed that the medallion had the power to whisk him instantly there but did not wish to do this. The journey itself was important. The other still needed time to grow. And grow it would. Soon, all that would be left of him would be the shadowking within, and he would leave behind the man Caledan forever.

“I have to hold on, Mista,” he whispered hoarsely, gripping her mane tightly in clenched fingers. “I cannot forget who I am. I must not.”

For a moment, thoughts of those he loved drifted into his mind. Were the companions following him? Would they understand the signs he had been leaving for them? Quickly, he forced his friends from his mind. It was a mistake to think about them. Now that he had the Shadowstar, the other slept less and less, and he had to keep his one fragile hope concealed.

“If there is any hope at all,” he murmured. I Suddenly the Shadowstar twitched against his chest, sending a hot, dizzying wave coursing through his body. Caledan brought Mista to a halt. Gripping the medallion, he squeezed his eyes shut. Yes, he could feel the dark ones. They were close now. The shadevari.

Ever since his journey had begun, Caledan had sensed the dark presence following him. As soon as he gained the Shadowstar, his senses had grown remarkably keen, and he had discerned the true nature of the creatures pursuing him. They were shadevari, three of the ancient,

malevolent beings banished beyond the Circle of the-World by the god Azuth—beings who, he now realized,I were somehow inextricably linked with the shadowij magic.

An idea occurred to him. “We don’t want the shadevari to find me too easily, do we, Mista?” he said with a harsh) laugh. “That wouldn’t be any fun for them. Maybe there’s I a way to make my trail a little harder to follow.”

Mista gave a snort.

“Just watch,” Caledan replied.

He gripped the Shadowstar more tightly and hummed a dissonant tune under his breath. Mista pranced skit-: tishly as a patch of shadow near her hooves swirled and expanded. Like dark serpents, a dozen sinuous forms sprang from the patch of shadow. The forms wriggled swiftly away, each in a different direction, snaking across the High Moor until they were lost in the distance.

“There,” Caledan said in grim satisfaction, releasing the Shadowstar. “The shadevari won’t be able to distinguish my trail from any of those shadowserpents. That should keep them guessing which way I’ve gone, at least for a little while.”

Mista gave an impressed whinny.

“Why, thank you.” Caledan patted her neck fondly. Slowly his eyes rose toward the far-off horizon. “All right, my friend,” he whispered. “Let’s go.”

Concealed inside a heavy cloak, K’shar watched the crimson tent from a distance. At last the half-elf’s patience was rewarded. The tent’s entrance flap parted a few scant inches, and he caught a glimpse of a face peering out. After a moment, the face vanished. However, the glimpse had been more than enough for his sharp golden

eyes. He knew the watcher in the tent from the description given by a soldier he had interrogated in Triel. It was one of Al’maren’s companions, the thief Jewel. His quarry must still be in Soubar. Anticipation boiled in Kshar’s veins. The chase was nearly over.

For a time, in the tangled depths of the Reaching Woods, he had feared that the unthinkable had happened, that he had lost his prey. The trail had led to a ruined city where he had seen evidence of a battle with some sort of doglike creatures. The signs indicated that the companions had crossed the River Reaching, but by what means K’shar could not discern. For two days he searched for a way across the roiling river and found none. At last he was forced to give up and return to the Dusk Road. Just as he was growing concerned that his quarry had escaped him, he picked up the trail once again in Triel. Running night and day, he had journeyed swiftly to Soubar. Now it appeared that he had caught up with them at last.

“You are a worthy opponent, Harper Al’maren,” he murmured, baring his slightly pointed teeth in a feral smile. “But no one can elude me forever.”

Soundlessly, he moved to the entrance of the crimson tent and slipped within. His eyes adjusted instantly to the dim interior. But the tent was empty. Alarm flared in his mind. Something was wrong …

Too late he realized it was a trap. There was a hissing sound as the floor dropped from beneath him, and he fell through a series of steel hoops to land upright. Then the metal hoops tightened forcefully around his body, clamping his arms to his sides and immobilizing him. From behind, a hand reached out and pressed an acrid-smelling cloth over his mouth and nose. Reflexively, he inhaled.

You fool, K’shar! he chastised himself. You have grown lazy and thoughtless in your arrogance. Never did you

consider that Al’maren might figure out you were following her. Never did you consider that she might lay a trap …

Quickly, the pungent vapors from the cloth did their work, and K’shar sank into unconsciousness.

After a time, he woke to the sound of voices.

For a moment he listened, eyes closed. The voices were far-off, so faint that no human ear could possibly hear them. Fortunately, K’shar’s ears were more than merely human.

“Now that we have him, what do we do with him?” a smoky, feminine voice said. That could only be the thief, Jewel.

“Well, how should I know?” a bubbling male voice replied. K’shar guessed that one belonged to the corpulent crime lord, Cormik.

“I thought you were the one who was always full of ideas,” Jewel said peevishly.

“Even the best of us have our off days,” Cormik whined. “I’d rather not win the undying enmity of the Harpers by killing their best Hunter. However, we have to make certain K’shar doesn’t follow the others into the High Moor. They’ve got only a day’s jump on him, and they …”

K’shar’s amber eyes flashed open. He did not bother listening to the rest of Cormik’s words. There was no need. Al’maren was journeying to the High Moor, only a single day ahead of him. That was all he needed to know.

Now there was simply the small matter of escaping. He was in an underground chamber, he guessed by the chill, musty air. They had left him alone, no doubt expecting the effect of the drug to last longer than it had. K’shar knew his metabolism worked more swiftly than that of a normal human. He was suspended upright from the chamber’s ceiling, still immobilized by the steel bands bound tightly around ankles, knees, waist, torso, and

shoulders. Shutting his eyes, he concentrated, drifting into a trance.

Focusing on his thrumming heartbeat, he forced his body to relax, willing his muscles to become as soft and malleable as clay. One by one, they responded. Soon it felt as if he were adrift in a warm ocean. He was ready. Gathering his will, he gave a swift, sharp jerk, dislocating his left shoulder. There was a wet popping noise, but almost no pain. Without hesitating he jerked again, dislocating his right shoulder.

Now that his arms dangled loosely, it was easy to fold his shoulders inward, like a severely hunched old man. This created precious inches of space within the three steel rings that bound his upper body. Slowly he inched his left arm out of the rings that encircled his waist, his midriff, and finally his shoulders. This created yet more space within the rings; his right arm was more easily freed. He took a deep breath, then clenched the muscles of his back and shoulders. There was an audible sucking sound as the round ends of his arm bones were drawn once more into the sockets of his shoulder joints. He would be sore tomorrow, but it did not matter. Arms free, he reached up and gripped the iron chain that suspended the steel hoops from the ceiling. He hauled himself upward, his relaxed muscles allowing him to slip out of the rings that bound his legs, and dropped nimbly down to the floor.

Now all he had to do was find a way out of the room.

This presented itself in the form of a ventilation shaft. Clearly, his captors had never imagined he might escape his bonds, else they would have placed him in a more secure chamber. Most men would not have fit into the shaft, but, though tall, K’shar was willow-thin. He pulled himself into the narrow tunnel and wriggled his way upward. Aided by his uncanny flexibility, K’shar passed

through several tight turns with little difficulty. He pulled himself out of the mouth of the shaft onto the muddy ground, gazing into the crimson eye of the dawning sun.

K’shar stretched his limbs as the flow of blood returned to his hands and feet. His prey was close now. Very close. He felt a strange sense of kinship with the renegade Harper he had been following. When he met her at last, he imagined he would almost regret killing her. Almost.

“I am coming, Al’maren,” he whispered softly.

He broke into a swift run, moving northward out of Soubar.

Sixteen

The four riders picked their way across the bleak expanse of the High Moor. The rough terrain looked as if it had been shattered by a war among giants. Long stretches of treacherous scree gave way suddenly to jagged chasms that sliced across the ground like gaping wounds. More than once they had been forced to travel miles out of their way to find passage. Despite the harshness of the moor, a sprinkling of moss and lichens clung to the rocks, softening the landscape like a gray-green veil. Mari had never before seen such a melancholy land. Yet it was also lovely. She marveled at the stark contrast of sorrow and beauty dwelling side by side, each blending into the other so that she could not possibly have said from which arose the aching in her heart. She sighed, her breath turning to mist in the cold air.

An icy gust of wind snatched the breath from her lips as a spiderweb of glittering frost spread across a nearby

heap of stones. A dark blot appeared in the air above the rock. In moments, the swirling patch of darkness resolved itself into a ghostly knight with smoldering eyes.

“In another mile, the walls of this ravine you follow will rise into sheer cliffs,” Serafi said in his sepulchral voice. He pointed to one side with an ethereal gauntlet. “Follow this gully to the north. It will take you out of the ravine and up to a ridge where you may ride more swiftly.”

Then the spectral knight vanished, a chill gloom lingering in his wake.

“Well, isn’t he just a ray of sunshine?” Ferret muttered glumly.

Mari cast a look at Morhion. He sat astride his dark stallion, Tenebrous, head bowed. Over the last several days, as they rode deeper into the High Moor, Serafi had appeared from time to time, warning them of obstacles or steering them toward easier paths. The mage had told the others of the pact he had forged with Serafi to save Caledan’s life. Yet Mari could not help thinking there was something else beneath the mage’s brooding. Morhion’s pact with the spectral knight, forged ten years earlier beneath the fortress of Darkhold, didn’t really explain the spirit’s presence on this journey.

There was no sunset that day—the iron gray clouds hid all traces of the sun—but gradually the wan daylight faded, until Mari could barely see Ferret, who led the way astride his bony roan stallion. They made camp in a low hollow that offered some protection from the bone-numbing wind. Supper that evening was only dried fruit, nuts, and hardtack, for they dared not light a fire. They had seen no signs of the shadevari since leaving Soubar, but there was no sense in making themselves any more conspicuous than necessary.

Morhion retrieved a leather-bound tome from Tenebrous’s saddlebags. “I am going to study my spellbook,” he said coolly. With a soft word, the mage conjured a tiny sphere of purple magelight. He sat on a rock, hunching over the book and shielding the faint illumination with his body to conceal it from prying eyes.

“Would you play a song, Mari?” Kellen asked then.

Out of habit, Mari had packed her lute in her saddlebag, but she had not yet brought the instrument out on this journey. She had not felt like making music. Yet tonight the prospect seemed appealing. It might be good to let her mind drift on the forgetful strains of a song.

She smiled at Kellen as she retrieved her lute. It was a beautiful instrument, fashioned of cherry inlaid with rosewood. Her adopted father, Master Andros, had made it for her. Its surface had been polished to a glowing patina with long years of use.

The ballad she sang told the story of a prince who fell in love with a maiden trapped in a witch’s tower. The prince tried to climb the tower but fell into a hedge of thorns. The thorns scratched his face, blinding him, and the prince became a wandering beggar.