Free Crypt of the Shadowking by Anthony Mark

them all.
    She heard the door open softly behind her and set down her goblet, smiling with lips stained red by the wine. She turned to see a boy standing in the doorway, his skin as Pale as moonlight, his hair as dark as shadows. He regarded her with wide green eyes, clutching a set of reed pipes in his small hands.
    “Come in, my son,” Ravendas whispered. “Come in.”
     

     
    Dario rode through the pearly, predawn light. The dim silhouette of Iriaebor rose behind him in the misty air, like a spectral city. Cormik’s plan had gone well. The little scene with Jad and Kevrek had caught the eye of a Zhentarim officer who had followed Dario until he rode out the city’s north gate. After that, the guard had turned around and ridden back into the city. Dario had no doubt that a message would make its way to Lord Cutter’s tower that Caledan Caldorien had been driven out of Iriaebor. Dario would ride a bit farther and lie low for a day or so before returning— without his disguise, of course. There was a small village a few leagues to the north. Dario had made the acquaintance of a certain farmer’s daughter there a few years back, a fair-haired young woman named Adalae. Dario wondered if she would remember him.
    “Caledan the Harper?” a voice spoke suddenly from the mist.
    Dario’s mare spooked, rearing. He fought with the reins, managing to bring the horse to a stop. Its hooves skittered nervously against the cobbles of the road.
    “Who’s there?” Dario called into the thick fog. His dagger was ready in his hand.
    A tall figure, clad head to toe in a black, concealing robe, stepped out of the swirling mist.
    “Caledan the Harper?” the stranger asked again, in a voice that was both cold and dry. It sent a shiver up Dario’s spine.
    “Who wishes to know?” Dario asked, confused at the fear he felt rising in his throat.
    “I wish to know,” the black-robed figure said. Dario began to lift his dagger in alarm, but with dizzying speed a long arm reached out and, with terrible strength, pulled Dario from his horse. The mare neighed in terror and galloped away. An icy, strangely smooth hand closed about Dario’s throat. His eyes widened in terror, but he was unable to move.
    Another hand pulled the hood of Dario’s cloak away from his face. A cold finger traced a line down his cheek. Dario tried to scream, but no sound escaped his throat.
    “No, you are not the one,” the attacker hissed.
    Cold fingers closed about Dario’s neck. There was a wet, snapping sound, and the young man fell limply to the ground, dark eyes staring lifelessly into the silvery light.
    The black-robed stranger hesitated a moment. This was odd. The man’s cloak had smelled right, but there was no scent of the shadow magic.
    Of course—there could be only one answer. This man was a decoy. Caldorien must still be within the city’s walls.
    This was troublesome. The stranger dared not enter the city. No, the stinking streets were too much. Their scents were too overpowering. They would cause torment, resulting in sure madness. There was nothing to do now but wait. Yes, wait. Eventually Caldorien would set foot beyond those walls, and when he did, the stranger would be there to greet him.
    Silently the black-robed figure drifted back into the veils of mist from which it had emerged just as the first rays of sunlight set fire to the tops of the city’s towers.
     

Five
     
    The crimson fire of sunset was fading to ash-gray behind the dark silhouette of the Tor when Mari heard the clatter of horses’ hooves and the creak of wagon wheels. She waited in the shadows to the side of one of the New City’s broad, tree-lined avenues, trying to slow the beating of her heart. She could only hope that Caldorien was ready. He had done little enough to inspire her trust these last days.
    Mari had been elated when Belhuar Thantarth, the Master of Twilight Hall, had given her the task of finding Caldorien in Iriaebor. It was her first important