Free Twilight Falling by Kemp Paul S

wizard seemed content to observe their work from the shadows of the alley. Cale figured they were watching to see if either he or Riven had survived the blast. They would know that soon enough.
    “Wizard’s got a spell on him,” Cale said softly. “See the way the shadows swirl around him?”
    “I see it.” Riven reached behind his back and pulled out a pair of throwing daggers. “I recognize him too, now that I see him more closely. Vraggen’s his name—a shadow adept in the Network. I heard he was dead.”
    A shadow adept. Cale had heard of such mages. They seemed more common since the return of the city of Shade.
    “Why would the Network want to hit us?” Cale asked.
    “They wouldn’t. Vraggen’s a Cyricist.”
    Cale nodded. The Banites were driving the Cyricists out of the Zhentarim. Vraggen must have gone rogue, though that still didn’t explain why he had targeted Riven and Cale.
    “Payback for Gauston?” asked Cale.
    Perhaps Cyric had sent his followers to put down Riven and Cale in the same way that Mask had used Riven and Cale to put down a Cyricist priest several months before.
    Riven shrugged and said, “Maybe.” He stared up the street. “No way to get all the way up before they see us. We open with missiles, then finish it in close.”
    “Good.”
    Cale had a pair of throwing daggers, but also had a spell he thought would work better. He pulled forth his holy symbol.
    Moving more slowly, and using as cover building eaves, barrels, posts, and the flickering shadows cast by the fire, they continued to close. Gawkers jogged past them, shouting and pointing. No one spotted them. They kept their eyes on their targets.
    When they got to within a long toss of Riven’s daggers, Cale signaled a halt. Any closer and they’d risk being seen. Both scooted in behind some water barrels. Cale’s keen ears caught the tail end of a heated exchange between the half-drow and Vraggen.
    “… was reckless!” said the wizard. “I told you not to underestimate those two.”
    The half-drow waved a green-gloved hand dismissively and said, “I wanted to see his face and hear his voice. He suspected nothing. Nor did Riven.”
    “It was foolish and unnecessary.”
    The half-drow chuckled—a menacing sound with no mirth in it—and pointed a finger at the wizard’s chest.
    “I’ll not argue with this, Vraggen. If you want to have a discussion with me, you come and look me in the eyes yourself.”
    Cale didn’t know what that last meant, but he had confirmation that both he and Riven had been the target of the fireball.
    “One may have escaped,” continued Vraggen.
    “Perhaps,” acknowledged the half-drow with an enigmatic smile. “Watch, and we’ll soon know.”
    That ended their discussion. They turned and watched the street near the Stag. Firelight lit their faces. Cale saw that the wizard wore a brass cloak pin in the shape of a jawless skull within a sunburst—the symbol of Cyric.
    “See the pin?” Cale asked softly.
    Riven spat. He saw it.
    “Ready?” the assassin whispered.
    “Ready.”
    Cale began his prayer to Mask. Riven stood to throw. The moment he rose, the half-drow looked directly at them and grinned. His expression showed no surprise. He had known the whole time, Cale realized.
    Riven didn’t notice, or didn’t care. He threw anyway, one dagger, another, then leaped over the barrels and charged for the wizard.
    Riven’s first dagger pierced the wizard’s throat, his second the wizard’s chest, but both passed through him as though he was a ghost. The blades stuck in the wall of the building behind, quivering from the force of the throws. The wizard, or the image of the wizard, stared contemptuously at the onrushing assassin and began to cast.
    In the midst of his prayer, Cale felt an itch behind his eyes, a splinter in his mind. He blinked and shook his head.
    What the—?
    A voice sounded in his brain. He recognized it immediately as that of the half-drow.
    This is bigger than you,