Twilight Falling (37 page)

Azriim was a shapeshifter. He had never seen it.

Ah, Azriim’s voice said, and Vraggen could hear the satisfaction in it. You see it now, don’t you?

Vraggen saw it all clearly. He had been a pawn, and the realization hit him that he had failed, both himself and his god. Despair washed through him, soaked him to his soul. He stopped even trying to fight. He felt as though he might cry. He went limp in Azriim’s inhuman grasp. Mindlessly, the strands of shadow continued to fill him with shadowstuff, but Vraggen knew the transformation would never finish.

See me now, before the end, Azriim said, and turned him around.

Vraggen caught a flash of green skin, muscle, teeth, and mismatched eyes. A slaad, his mind registered distantly, Azriim was a slaad.

Why? he thought. Why?

But Azriim provided him with no answers.

Pray that your mad god is merciful to fools, Azriim said, and he opened his mouth wide.

A tremor shook the Fane as Cale and Riven jerked open the double doors. For an instant, the entire temple seemed to waver, to grow as insubstantial as a phantasm. Cale knew then that the Fane would not long remain in Faerun.

Cale and Riven stepped into the sanctum. Cale took in the scene in only a heartbeat.

In the center of the circular sanctum stood a dark altar. There, a hulking green slaad stood. It clutched Vraggen’s headless corpse in its clawed hands. The slaad shot them a grin and swallowed whatever it held in its jaws: Vraggen’s head, probably. Blood darkened its shark’s teeth. Cale noticed the slaad’s eyes then: one blue and one dark. It was Azriim.

“Dark,” Riven cursed, and Cale knew he was angry because he wouldn’t be able to kill the mage.

In the ceiling directly above Azriim was a circle of darkness about which spun a sky full of stars. The whole reminded Cale of a child’s pinwheel, but its motion nauseated him. Shimmering, pulsing tendrils of shadowstuff reached from the hole, feeling for Vraggen, feeling for anything. Cale felt the pull of those tendrils on his sword.

In a flash of insight, Cale understood it all. Azriim had duped Vraggen into opening the Fane then murdered the mage in the midst of his transformation to a shade. But why?

Near the back of the sanctum stood another slaad. Leaner than Azriim, with eyes of gray, it was the slaad who had tortured Jak. In its hands, it held a tree—a sapling with black bark, gray leaves, and small silver fruit the size of walnuts. Strangely, the tree had no roots, though it somehow suggested roots.

Intuitively, Cale realized that it had all been about that tree—the Weave Tap. The slaad with the tree held in its other hand the brass teleportation rod. Without even looking at Cale and his comrades, he twisted it once, twice, and vanished with the Tap.

“No,” Jak said through clenched teeth

Casually, Azriim tossed aside Vraggen’s corpse, detaching the last of the tendrils.

“You’re too late,” the slaad croaked. “The Sojourner has his prize.”

“We’ll see,” Cale and Riven said in unison. To Jak and Magadon, Cale projected, Use missiles, Jak, and your magic, Magadon. Don’t let him use the teleportation rod.

He and Riven charged.

Before they had taken three strides, Azriim spoke an arcane word and vanished from sight. Cale and Riven arrested their charge and went back to back. Cale couldn’t hope to hear Azriim’s movement above the pulsing in the room.

Again, the Fane wavered.

We’ve got to get out of here, Cale, Riven projected.

Cale made no answer. He couldn’t let it end that way.

Azriim’s voice sounded in Cale’s head, I would love to linger and kill you slowly, Erevis Cale, but time is short and my work completed. It satisfies me that you now understand your failure. I’ll allow that as vengeance for my ruined pants.

Cale could hear the smile in his voice.

Magadon’s voice sounded in Cale’s brain, He is standing near the far wall, directly in front of the alcove. He has the teleportation rod in his hands. Follow me.

Without waiting for Magadon, Cale dropped his blade, drew a throwing dagger, and hurled it at the corner at about the height of the slaad’s chest. Beside him, Riven too fired a dagger. Both sank into flesh with a dull thud.

Azriim’s pained croak could be heard even above the pulsing. Magadon streaked past them, white fire blasting from his hands. The smell of charred flesh filled the room. Riven sped for the corner, blades bare. Cale retrieved his own blade and did the same.

Stay away from those tendrils! he “shouted” as he ran.

Jak’s scream stopped them cold. Cale whirled around to see Nestor, halfway through his transformation into a slaad, standing behind Jak with the tip of his blade sticking through Jak’s chest.

Nestor completed his change as he pulled his blade free. Jak collapsed face-down to the floor of the sanctum, a pool of blood expanding from his body. Nestor, fully in slaad form but still holding his blade, again stabbed Jak through back.

Cale … the halfling projected, then fell silent.

Nestor! Magadon’s mental voice screamed.

“Jak!” Without a moment’s hesitation, Cale put Azriim out of his mind and raced for Jak. Nestor—no, Dolgan—grinning, dropped his sword, pulled his teleportation rod, twisted it, and disappeared with a grin.

Cale sank to Jak’s side, soaking his cloak in the halfling’s blood. Cale turned him over. His green eyes were open.

“Jak! Jak!”

“I can’t see, Cale,” the halfling whispered. His eyes were vacant. Cale had seen that look on the faces of corpses.

Cale cradled his head, tried to hold back the tears but failed.

“I know,” he said. “I know.”

Another shudder shook the Fane. Again it wavered, flickered out of reality for a heartbeat. Cale too felt insubstantial. He was losing his best friend.

Riven and Magadon ran up behind him.

“Let me help carry him,” Riven said, and put a hand on Cale’s shoulder. “We’ve got to go, Cale.”

Cale couldn’t even nod.

“The slaad used his rod to flee,” Magadon said. After a pause, he said, “I’m sorry, Jak. I didn’t know. I didn’t know.”

Cale wanted to tell the guide that it was not his fault, that he could not have known, but no words would come.

The pulsing of the sanctum continued. Cale heard it like a distant heartbeat. Jak’s breathing slowed, slowed. He tried to wipe Jak’s brow with his stump—

—and knew what he had to do.

Cale looked up at Magadon and said, “Take his wounds.”

The mind mage backed up a step and said, “Cale, he’s—”

“Take them, and give them to me.”

Riven looked a question at Cale. Magadon looked horrified.

“It will kill you,” the mind mage said.

“Do it,” Cale pressed. “Now!”

“No. I—”

“Do it,” said Riven, in a tone that didn’t allow for refusal.

Magadon stood there with his mouth open. Another tremor shook the temple.

“Now, godsdamnit!” Cale shouted.

Magadon fell to the ground beside Jak. He took a deep breath, touched two fingers to Jak’s forehead and clasped Cale’s hand. After a moment, Cale felt their consciousnesses meld: Magadon’s fearful, Jak’s barely there. Cale braced himself.

Pain! Excruciating pain!

His heart fairly exploded in his ribcage. Blood began to fill his lungs. Holes opened in his chest and back. Blood poured out, soaking his cloak. His breath left him. Agony wracked him. Through blurry eyes, he looked upon Jak, whose eyes already were clearing.

Using Magadon as a crutch, he climbed to his feet. He took two steps, staggered, and would have fallen, but Riven caught him.

“Lean on me,” the Zhent said.

Cale did.

“The altar,” he said, and blood welled in his throat. “Hurry.”

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Riven said.

Together, the two servants of Mask walked to the altar of shadows. At his belt, Cale felt his sword too pulling him toward the darkness.

The Fane shook, faded from sight. They stood alone in a bubble of air in the depths of a pitch lake.

No!

The Fane returned.

Cale eyed the tendrils as they approached. They squirmed toward him, eager, hungry. Words raced through Cale’s brain, the easterner’s words, spat between his teeth while Riven threatened torture—Vraggen’s transformation would render him ageless, immune to disease, able to regenerate wounds.

Able to regenerate wounds.

Cale remembered Jak’s words too: A shade isn’t human.

Cale pushed Riven away and stepped within the altar. He had to lean on the sides of the pulpit to keep his feet. The tendrils sank into his flesh but it caused him no pain. Surprisingly, he felt at home. The tendrils throbbed as the Fane shook. Shadowstuff flowed into his veins, filled his organs, drained his humanity.

In that instant, Cale embraced the darkness. He knew then that the shadow had always been part of him, but he had long fought to hold it at bay. No longer.

As the transformation progressed, he felt the wounds in his chest heal. From somewhere distant, he heard Jak crying.

“No! Cale, don’t! Not for me!”

But Jak didn’t understand. It wasn’t just for Jak. It was Cale becoming what he was meant to be.

Strangely, as the last of his humanity drained away, the only thing he could think of was Tazi’s face, and her eyes were filled with horror.

All went dark.

Cale groaned and collapsed to the floor. The tendrils detached from his flesh with a sucking sound and squirmed back into the “hole” in the ceiling. The pulsing began to slow. So too the spinning ceiling-sky.

Riven rushed forward and slung Cale over his shoulder. He felt cold, and his skin had gone dusky.

“Let’s go!” Riven shouted to Jak and Magadon as he stood.

Another tremor shook the Fane. The structure vanished again, leaving them standing in the empty air bubble. Riven realized for the first time that he was standing in ankle deep water. Dark!

The Fane reappeared around them, but dimmer.

Magadon rushed forward and helped him carry Cale. All three sprinted from the sanctum. Fleet ran at their side, healed of his wounds.

“Is he alive?” Fleet asked, indicating Cale. “Is he breathing?”

Riven had no time for Fleet’s sentimental nonsense.

“I don’t know!” he grunted. “Run, damn you!”

“Trickster’s Toes! His hand!”

Riven saw it then too. Cale’s severed hand had regrown. The assassin had no time to consider that marvel. If they wanted to live, they had to run.

They burst through the double doors and sprinted down the hall outside the sanctum. The caretaker was nowhere to be seen. The hallway stretched before them, its many treasures still untouched in the alcoves. The doors leading from the Fane looked far away, too far.

“Go!” Riven shouted, and they did.

Before they had gotten halfway down the hall, the Fane shook so hard it knocked them to the floor, sent them sprawling in the shallow water. Riven and Magadon lost their grip on Cale. He groaned when he hit the floor.

Around them, the Fane shimmered like a mirage, wavered, and vanished.

Somehow Riven knew it wasn’t coming back.

The four comrades sat in an empty hemisphere of air. And it would not last long. From several places in the top of the dome, water dribbled in. Even as they watched, the dribbles turned into a rush. The dome began to sag inward in places, crushed by the weight of the Lightless Lake, as though a huge hand was pressing against it.

Riven drew Cale’s sword, and touched it to the water. Nothing.

It was over, he knew then.

He replaced the sword in Cale’s scabbard—the man ought to die with his own weapon. Cursing under his breath, he climbed to his feet. So too did Fleet and Magadon. All of them shared a look of resignation.

The water was knee deep. In moments, the entire dome would collapse.

Riven struggled with himself for a moment before pulling from his cloak the two bronze teleportation rods he had taken from the slaadi. Fleet’s eyes went wide with surprise, then darkened with suspicion.

“Two of us can use these,” Riven said.

He handed one to Fleet and the surprise in the halfling’s face almost made their plight worthwhile. He handed the other to Magadon. Riven couldn’t leave Cale. They were bound together by their god.

“Take them,” he said, “and go.”

Fleet took the rod, looked at it, then looked at Cale. He shook his head and held the rod back out to Riven.

“I’m not leaving him,” he said.

“Don’t be an idiot, Fleet!”

“I’m not leaving him,” Fleet said again, with that same mettle that had long ago ceased to surprise Riven. “Besides, we don’t even know where these will take us.”

“Anywhere is better than here,” Riven replied.

Jak merely smiled and shook his head.

Magadon too smiled and handed back the rod.

He looked to Cale and said, “I told him I was in this, and I am. To the end.”

Riven stared at them both and wondered how Cale managed to inspire such loyalty in his comrades. Only then did he realize that he too was prepared to die at Cale’s side.

There was a lesson in there somewhere. Too bad he had to die to learn it.

“Then we’ll all die fools,” he said, and tucked away the rods.

They gathered up Cale, sloshed through the water a ways, found a suitable spot, and waited. Riven saw that Fleet held his holy symbol in his hands. His teeth were chattering. Riven considered praying to the Lord of Shadows but didn’t; it just was not in him, not then. He worshiped Mask for power, not comfort. Still, he was surprised to find his hand over the onyx disc at his throat.

“Riven …” Fleet began.

Riven shook his head and replied, “I know, Fleet.”

Fleet looked him in the face, nodded, and went back to his prayers.

Together, they sat in the cold water and waited for death. All of them watched the dome sink farther, watched the dribbles turn to torrents. More and more water filled the bubble. It would be only moments before it burst and the lake crushed them.

Fleet took Cale’s regenerated hand in his own and said, “It’s been fun, my friend.”

Cale, with his eyes still closed, made no reply.