Shadowstorm_ The Twilight War Part 20

"I was right to leave the abbey," Beld shouted, and the men near the young man smiled.

Abelar nodded at the young warrior. He turned Swiftdawn and looked out at the dead and wounded on the field. He put Ordulin's losses at close to a hundred, with at least one wizard dead and another without a hand. The Morninglord had shined on their effort. His company had accounted well for itself.

"Get the men in another line," he said to Regg. "Close gaps from the fallen. We give them another charge."

"Now?"

Abelar nodded. He had the upper hand and had no intention of relinquishing it. "Same formation as before. Be quick. You have a thirty count."

Regg spun Firstlight and barked orders while Trewe blew two notes to signal the formation. The men and women of the company, their blood up, reformed rapidly.

Ordulin's forces responded as Abelar had hoped. They moved to realign, but acted with less certainty than before. They could see to a man how they had fared against Abelar's company, and their wizards had been of little effect.

"They fight without conviction," he said to Swiftdawn, and she tossed her head in agreement. "They will break if we hit them hard enough."

He raised his blade and spun Swiftdawn in a circle. His force was ready. The sun shone down on him. His blade blazed.

"They fight with fear in their hearts," he shouted. "We fight with faith in ours."

"Huzzah!" responded his company, and raised blades. A few horses reared.

Abelar turned to face Ordulin's line. "On me, men and women of Lathander! Ride!"

Trewe sounded another clarion call and Abelar led the charge across the plains. The collective shout of his men sounded like the roar of an ocean wave.

Ordulin's forces scrambled to complete their realignment. Horns sounded and commanders moved frenetically among the men, shouting orders, pointing, but they were too slow. Crossbows sang. One or two of Abelar's men fell but the charge continued.

Disorganized and disheartened, Ordulin's men milled about and large gaps showed in their lines. Their commanders shouted, galloped along the line. Abelar shouted and veered Swiftdawn toward the left side of their ranks. He would hit them on the flank and roll them up.

His force thundered after.

Ordulin's forces readied shields and weapons, and braced for impact. Abelar picked the man he would kill first, a bearded commander on a black mare. He turned Swiftdawn toward him and bore down.

A curtain of flame sprang into existence ten paces before him. The blaze stood twice as tall as a man and stretched the length of the battlefield, blocking the charge of his company. Black smoke poured into the sky as gra.s.s and shrubs burned.

"On me!" Abelar shouted, and did not slow.

Trewe's trumpet blew and his company, mounted on battle-trained Saerbian horses, followed his command, riding hard directly at the inferno.

Abelar raised his blazing shield and shouted the words to a counterspell, one of the handful of spells known to him. The heat from the inferno warmed his armor, chapped his face.

He did not slow.

His spell engaged the magic of the wall and tore at its power.

He did not slow.

He felt his eyebrows and beard singe. He bent low and held his shield before his face and against the side of Swiftdawn's head. She snorted, encouraging the other mounts of the company, and jumped at the wall.

His countermagic prevailed and dissolved the magical barrier into harmless smoke. Abelar, his armor and shield trailing smoke, raised his blade in triumph. His men cheered, shouted, and the uncertainty in Ordulin's forces turned to shock.

Abelar's company hit them like a battering ram. Horses shrieked; men shouted; blades rose and fell; blood sprayed and men died.

In the chaos Abelar lost sight of the commander he had targeted, so he slashed with his blade and bashed with his shield at any man within reach who wore a green tabard. "We ..." he shouted, and smashed his shield into the face of a young fighter.

"... stand ..."

A sword slash tore open his shield arm. He answered with a stab to the chest that split breastplate and breastbone.

"... in the light!"

He parried a flurry of blows with his shield. Swiftdawn reared, kicked, and drove his attacker's mount backward. Abelar drove Swiftdawn after, chopped downward, and cleaved helm and head.

His men around him took up his chant.

"In the light! In the light!"

The words took on the rhythm of a heartbeat and blades and shields rose and fell in time with it. The morale of Abelar's force was swelling; that of Ordulin's forces was collapsing. Abelar took advantage. He swatted Swiftdawn on the flank and shouted, "Clear!"

Swiftdawn reared, kicked, bit, and turned a circle, clearing a s.p.a.ce around Abelar. The commander hurriedly recited the words to a spell that would encourage his forces and discourage those of Ordulin. A rosy glow spread out from Abelar's shield in all directions to a distance of a spear toss. It lasted for only a moment but its magic caused all of Abelar's men caught within it to roar with fervor and fight with redoubled effort, while Ordulin's soldiers groaned and temporarily lost their nerve. At almost the same moment, a blazing sphere of luminescence formed above Regg and shed its light on the battlefield. Abelar knew Regg's spell to be a harmless light spell, but it was symbolic and it was enough.

Ordulin's forces broke under the onslaught, first a few, then several, then all of them. Their commanders shouted unheeded orders as men wheeled their mounts and fled in two large groups. A few dropped their weapons and pleaded for mercy.

"Do we pursue, Commander?" shouted Regg, with Firstlight whinnying eagerly.

Abelar watched his enemy flee, considered, and shook his head. "No. Stand the men down."

Regg nodded and gave the orders. Abelar scanned his men for Roen, spotted him, and summoned him to his side. The priest had a dent in his breastplate and bled from a gash in his thigh.

"Lathander watched over his faithful," Roen said.

"Aye," Abelar agreed. "See to the wounded, Roen. Heal ours first, then theirs."

Roen c.o.c.ked his head. "Theirs? What are we to do with them, commander?"

"Disarm them, get a pledge to give up the fight, and take the thumb from their sword hand to ensure it. Then give them a horse, if we can spare it, and let them go."

Roen's eyes widened, but he nodded.

Abelar had little choice. He had no way to hold prisoners and he would not execute enemies unless he saw no other course. Taking a thumb would make them useless as combatants. It was enough.

"Be quick, Roen," he said. "We ride as soon as it is done."

Half an army was still bearing down on Saerb, on his son.

Cale held his holy symbol in hand and inventoried the spells he had prepared. He had a thirty count to invent a plan. Either that, or he had to shadowwalk out of the Calyx with Riven and Magadon.

Cale? Riven asked. Riven asked.

I am not leaving without doing what we came to do, Magadon said.

Cale agreed. They might not get another attempt on Kesson and if they did not, Magadon would be lost.

We ambush the ambusher, Cale said to his friends. Stay close to me. When we see him, I will isolate us with him. If that fails, we leave- Stay close to me. When we see him, I will isolate us with him. If that fails, we leave- No, Magadon said. You promised me- You promised me- I have not forgotten, Cale snapped. But we leave if that fails, Mags. There are too many But we leave if that fails, Mags. There are too many.

Magadon said nothing more and Cale decided to take it as acquiescence.

If it succeeds, we will not have much time. Hit him with everything you have. We kill him, take what we came for, and get the h.e.l.ls out.

Magadon and Riven indicated agreement as they approached the spire.

Cale knew they would face hundreds of shadows, at least a score of shadow giants, and the First Chosen of Mask-the first first First Chosen of Mask, selected millennia ago. Their plan would have to go perfectly. First Chosen of Mask, selected millennia ago. Their plan would have to go perfectly.

Beside Cale, Riven shook his head and chuckled.

He must have been thinking much the same thing.

Elyril flew high above the earth, her form as insubstantial as the night's breeze. Abandoned villages and fallow fields lay below her. Sembia was dying. Civil war would kill it and the Shadowstorm would desiccate the corpse.

She cradled the book to her chest, reveling in her new form. The tome pulsed against her breast like a heartbeat, whispered truths into her mind, and pulled her toward the rest of it-The Leaves of One Night.

She was one with the darkness, truly Shar's instrument. She could become corporeal should she require it, but she preferred the form of a living shadow.

She saw now that all she had done and experienced-from the night she had murdered her parents to the night she had transcended the Nightseer's betrayal-had been to transform her into shadow and make her worthy of her position as the future consort of Volumvax the Divine One. She would take The Leaves of One Night The Leaves of One Night from the Nightseer and make the book whole. She would cast the spell and summon the Shadowstorm. The Nightseer would be consumed in its violence and she would rule the transformed world beside Volumvax. from the Nightseer and make the book whole. She would cast the spell and summon the Shadowstorm. The Nightseer would be consumed in its violence and she would rule the transformed world beside Volumvax.

She giggled and her voice was like the wind.

Tamlin sat alone in his study, dressed in a heavy overcloak. A single candle provided light. Cool night air shook the flame. Despite the cold, Tamlin preferred the window to be open. He felt less confined. Selune's silver crescent shone in through the open window.

He closed the book he had been reading and watched the play of shadows about the room. He wondered what it would be like to know the shadows so intimately that they responded to his will, to step through the invisible s.p.a.ce that connected them, to live for millennia.

He had read all he could of shades, shadow magic, even a bit about ancient Netheril, though there was little to be found on the subject in Selgaunt. But books could teach him only so much. He wanted to know more.

A knock at his door drew his attention.

"It is Thriistin, my lord," said his chamberlain from the hallway.

"Enter."

The door opened and Thriistin stood in the corridor. The old fellow looked stricken. Dark circles painted the skin under his eyes and his mouth hung partially open. His alarm spread into the room and Tamlin rose from his chair, his blood pounding.

"What is it?" Tamlin asked.

"Word has come from our western scouts. Saerloon has marshaled. An army of thousands is preparing to march."

The words hung in the air, fat with dire portents. Tamlin sat down, remembered to breathe. To his surprise he did not feel frightened, merely numb.

"So many?" Tamlin asked.

Thriistin nodded.

Tamlin said, "Have the scouts sent to me. I will need further details. And notify Lord Rivalen immediately."

"Yes, Hulorn," Thriistin said, and hurried from the room.

The import of the words started to settle on Tamlin. His pulse sounded in his ears. A sudden headache put a knife through his temples. Mirabeta had not waited for the spring. War would come to Selgaunt not in months but in days.

Tamlin did not feel ready for it.

Rivalen walked the night-shrouded streets of Selgaunt alone. He had no destination in mind-he simply wanted to be seen. Others among his entourage did the same in other parts of the city from time to time. To appear less threatening, less foreign, Rivalen had ordered all of the Shadovar to keep the darkness that habitually coiled about them to a minimum.

Pa.s.sersby watched him with more curiosity than fear. Some soldiers even saluted him. Rivalen was pleased. The citizens of the city were becoming accustomed to seeing a Shadovar among them.

Rivalen saw that most of the shops-those still open after nightfall-contained scant goods. Commerce had slowed almost to a halt as the city braced for war. Rivalen made a point to stop and examine what goods he saw. A dozen pairs of boots sat in the light of a glowball on the walkway outside a cobbler's shop. Rivalen stooped, picked up a pair made from cow hide, turned them in his hands.

"These are well made," he said to the balding cobbler, who watched him from a few paces away.

The man looked surprised that Rivalen had spoken to him. "Uh ... thank you ... my lord."

"What is their price?"

"Uh ... one silver raven, my lord."

Rivalen nodded, produced the coin, and handed it to the cobbler.

"A fair price."

"Thank you, my lord."

Rivalen walked off, pleased to see that a small crowd had gathered to watch the transaction. There was hope in their eyes, the same hope he saw in the Hulorn's eyes when he looked at Rivalen.

Rivalen nodded at them and walked on. As he moved down the streets, through the crowds, he attuned the magical ring on his finger to the similar ring worn by his brother, Brennus. He felt the connection open.

Rivalen, his brother said.

Have you been able to locate Erevis Cale? Rivalen asked. Rivalen asked.

No, Brennus answered, and Rivalen heard the frustration in his brother's tone. It is inexplicable, almost as though he and his companions have vanished from the multiverse. I suspect something shields them but I cannot determine even that for certain It is inexplicable, almost as though he and his companions have vanished from the multiverse. I suspect something shields them but I cannot determine even that for certain.

What sort of something? A spell?

Brennus hesitated. I do not know, Rivalen. Perhaps a spell. Or perhaps something more I do not know, Rivalen. Perhaps a spell. Or perhaps something more.

Such as?

He is a priest. We know this.

It took a moment for Brennus's implication to register. Are you implying that his G.o.d is shielding him from us? Are you implying that his G.o.d is shielding him from us?