Curse of the Shadowmage (32 page)

Cold water struck molten lava, and the entire cavern exploded.

Mari raced through the labyrinth, counting under her breath. The caustic air burned in her lungs. Sweat poured down her forehead, stinging her eyes, blinding her. The crimson glow faded as she ran farther and farther from the cavern. She let her fingertips slip over the smooth stone wall as she ran, finding her way by touch.

At first she relied on memory to tell her which twists and turns would take her closer to the surface. Yet as she went, recall began to fail her. Finally she reached a fork in the tunnel and came to a dead halt. Which way led up to the vale? Desperately she fought off panic and concentrated, searching for any sign—a wisp of cool air, a gentle upward slope—that might indicate which passage would take her back to the surface. She detected nothing. Numbers continued to tumble from her cracked lips.

“… eight hundred sixteen … eight hundred seventeen…”

She could hesitate no longer. Guessing blindly, she moved toward the left-hand passage. After a moment she faltered. No—this felt wrong. She turned, retraced her steps, and plunged into the right-hand passage. There was no more time to consider her decision. She careened down the tunnel at a dead run.

She was brought up short as the passage ended in a stone wall. Something sinuous brushed against her cheek, and she batted the thing away. With a start, she realized it was a rope. She craned her neck. Above, hovering in the blackness, were three dim circles of gray light. The shaft that led to the surface!

“… one thousand.”

Time was up. Mari cast a nervous glance at the dim tunnel behind her. Hand over hand, she heaved herself up the rope.

She was halfway up when a sound like rumbling thunder echoed from the labyrinth below. Mari froze. Then,

biting her lip, she climbed faster. Her arms ached with effort. A few moments later, she heard the first onrush of sound.

“Damn it, Al’maren!” she snarled to herself. “Climb!”

Clenching her jaw, she kept moving. Her shoulders were on fire now, and the rope bit painfully into her blistered hands. Her palms bled, making the rope slippery. She screamed as she slipped down several feet, barely managing to catch herself. The rushing had grown to a low rumbling. A puff of warm, moist air ruffled her hair.

The openings were close now. The rumbling became a stentorian roar, like the sound of an angry river crashing over jagged rapids. Mari reached up and clutched the edge of one of the openings. The roaring filled her mind, drowning out her terror. Forcing her trembling arms to function, she pulled herself upward. Sharp rock sliced her hands. With a cry of pain and desperation, she heaved herself up and out of the hole, then rolled away from the stone outcrop.

A heartbeat later, three geysers of boiling hot steam and molten rock burst from the fissures like glowing pillars reaching skyward. At the same moment, three vast, throbbing notes of music rang out. Roiling jets of steam poached the skin of Mari’s cheek as she scrambled away from the fissures. Painfully, she pulled herself to her knees, staring at the geysers in awe. Like air through the holes of a flute, each of the columns of steam and melted rock piped a single deep tone.

When the three tones blended with the dissonant sounds made by the vale’s other steaming fissures, a thrumming music filled the air: wild, chaotic, and incomprehensibly enormous. It was like nothing Mari had ever heard before—a music as old as time, imprisoned for a thousand years, free once more.

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.

sft a|c

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:

The Winter King lies sleeping Beneath the barren briar— All mantled in snow, And crowned below,

With berries red as fire.

The Winter Queen stands weeping

Above her pale lord’s rest—

Awaiting the Spring,

In garb of green,

To bear her away on his breast.

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.

“I don’t understand, Caledan,” Mari said softly. “It

seemed that the song Kellen played helped free you from the shadowking. But I know that song, ‘The Winter King’ Half the apprentice bards in the Heartlands can play that tune. There’s nothing magical about it.”

Caledan shook his head. “No, there isn’t.” His eyes grew distant. “You see, as I journeyed toward the Shadowstar, and then on to Ebenfar, my memories became dimmer and dimmer. As the shadowking grew within me, little by little it obscured who I was, like weeds choking a garden. I began to forget myself—my friends, my history, even my …” He swallowed hard. “… even the people I loved most.”

Mari clapped a hand to her mouth but made no comment.

“That’s why I decided to leave something of myself behind, for you to find,” Caledan went on. “Something that, if I did forget myself entirely, might be able to remind me of who and what I was. ‘The Winter King’ was the first song I ever learned to play on my pipes as a child. I figured that, if it couldn’t help me remember myself, then nothing would. The problem was, I couldn’t let the part of me that was the shadowking know what I intended. I had to find a way to leave behind my message without letting the other discover what I was doing. And I did. I wasn’t certain anyone would understand what I was doing”—he smiled at Kellen—”but someone did after all.”

“Of course!” Mari said. “The signs you left behind!”

Kellen nodded solemnly. “The signs were clues to a song. I didn’t understand, though—not until I saw the last sign, the dark pipes.” Kellen ran a thumb over the instrument. “The pipes made me think that my father wanted me to play something, but I didn’t know what. Then I thought about all the other signs, and suddenly it was so clear. If I took the first letter of each of the signs—

face, eyes, fist, and all the others—they were the notes of a song. I didn’t know what would happen when I played it, but I knew I had to try.”

Caledan gazed thoughtfully at the boy. “I am glad you did, Kellen. I was lost in a dark place. I thought I would be lost forever. But when I heard the music, it was like a light drawing me back. And I did remember. The first thing I remembered was you.”

Kellen ran to his father. Caledan encircled his son tightly in his arms.

“Don’t ever leave me again, Father,” Kellen said sternly.

“I won’t,” Caledan said fiercely. “I promise.”

Morhion did not wish to interrupt the reunion between father and son. However … “It is growing dark,” the mage said, “and this vale is filled with dire magic. We should be moving—if you are well enough, Caledan.”

The bard nodded and let Mari help him slowly to his feet. “I think I can manage to—”

His words were cut off by a howling gust of wind. A hazy form stepped out of thin air, crimson eyes blazing. Cold dread filled Morhion. In all the strange events, he had forgotten about…

“Serafi,” he whispered. I will not show fear! he vowed inwardly, though he could not keep his body from trembling as the spectral knight drifted closer.