Shadowrealm - By Paul S. Kemp Page 0,60

granted passage.”

“If he keeps his word,” Regg said, his tone doubtful.

“He is a Sharran,” Abelar said again, as if that were all that needed said.

“He wants Kesson Rel dead,” Riven said. “I saw it in his face. Cale?”

“Agreed.”

Riven withdrew his pipe, shielded it from the rain, and used a tindertwig to light it.

“Why?” Regg asked. “To dispense with a rival? Is this prince strengthened if Kesson is defeated?”

Riven shrugged.

Cale said, “We have few options. Kesson is more than a match for us alone. We were fortunate to escape at all.”

Riven exhaled a cloud of smoke.

“You have another?” Regg asked, nodding at the pipe.

The question seemed to take Riven by surprise. He eyed the Lathanderian over his pipe, grunted an affirmative, found his spare wooden pipe, tamped it, and provided it and a tindertwig to Regg.

“My thanks,” Regg said. He propped the stem between his teeth, lit, took a long draw, and exhaled with a satisfied sigh. “Been a while since I’ve enjoyed a smoke. That’s good leaf.”

Riven nodded. “Grown east of Urlamspyr.”

“Good soil there,” Regg said, nodding. “Or was, before the drought. Good folk, too.”

“Aye, that,” Abelar said.

Silence fell, as if the folk of Urlamspyr were already dead in the storm and the four men were paying their respects in silence. Smoke, shadows, and worry clouded the air.

“You believe this Sharran, then?” Abelar finally asked Cale.

“Hells, Abelar, I rarely believe my own god,” Cale replied. “I believe Rivalen wants Kesson Rel dead. He says he has a way to do it but needs us.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know but it seems he needs a … special servant of Mask.”

Regg looked away, as if made uncomfortable by the statement, and blew out a cloud of smoke.

“You?” Abelar asked.

“Us,” Cale answered, indicating he and Riven.

“How long will you be gone?” Abelar asked. “We have only a short time before the storm reaches us. We will have to do something before that.”

Cale shook his head. “I don’t know. We don’t know where we’re going, what we’re doing.”

“Then you are at the Sharran’s mercy,” Regg said.

“Hardly,” Riven answered, and tapped the pommel of one of his sabers.

“When will you go?” Abelar said.

“We meet him at midnight,” Cale answered.

“An hour holy to Sharrans,” Regg said.

“And to Mask,” Cale said, and Regg looked away.

Silence fell, and all eyes drifted to the Shadowstorm, all of them measuring the distance it would close between then and midnight.

“We will march into the storm if necessary,” Regg said. “Gain you the time you need.”

“Let us hope it is not necessary,” Cale said.

Abelar changed the mood with a lighter tone. “A meal. And rest if you need it.”

Regg blew out another cloud of smoke, snuffed the pipe, tapped out the burned pipeweed and held it out to Riven. “Your pipe.”

“Keep it,” Riven said. “Until we sit down together for another smoke.”

Regg looked Riven in the face. He seemed to want to say something, but instead just nodded, and tucked the pipe in his beltpouch.

Darkness fell. So, too, did the rain. The refugees in the Saerbian camp settled in for sleep, nestled against the river between Sakkors and the Shadowstorm. Abelar and his company stood assembled at the outskirts of the camp, on the side facing the Shadowstorm.

At midnight, Cale asked the Shadowlord to provide him with spells and Mask obliged. Cale’s mind filled with power.

“Ready?” he asked Riven, and the assassin nodded.

Cale pictured in his mind the one-time Saerbian camp at Lake Veladon. Riven drew his sabers. Cale drew Weaveshear.

Cale tried to reach through the dormant connection with Magadon.

Mags, hang on. We have another way to kill him.

No response. He toyed with the idea of returning to the Wayrock to check on Magadon but decided that he could not spare the time. Besides, he could do nothing there other than bear witness to Magadon’s slip into the void. He served his friend best by finding a way to kill Kesson Rel.

A little apart from Cale and Riven, the Lathanderians appeared to be readying themselves for battle, for a possible march into the Shadowstorm. Cale caught Abelar’s eye and raised a hand in farewell. Abelar returned the gesture. Meanwhile, the men and women of his company checked and rechecked straps, secured shields, and donned helmets.

Cale drew the darkness around himself and Riven, left the Saerbians alone in the shadow of the Sakkors, and rode the shadows to Lake Veladon.

They appeared in darkness and rain. The remains of the Saerbian camp littered the lake’s shoreline, the flotsam of war. Broken wagon wheels, a shattered axle,