City of Hawks (23 page)

“Not one of them will linger if I tell them to be gone,” the gloam assured him. “This throng is naught but a collection of ordinary denizens of this plane, all curious, some perhaps curiosities to you, but all of no great power or peril to us. Why not let such harmless beasts be?”

Again a question with a question! Gord stepped back from the gloam and used his sword to wave off the encircling array. Those nearest the blade moved backward, seeming to float, making no sound except for the strange susurration. No wonder they had succeeded in ringing him while he slept. These things not only looked like shadows, they conducted themselves as quietly as shadows.

“These are shy and weak things,” Smirtch said. “As you proved, since your threat sent them scurrying; and this proves my veracity as well. They pose no threat to you now-though they can be used at times… Now, let us begin our discussion.”

“At your insistence,” Gord said briskly. “What is this place called?”

“Shadowrealm,” the gloam replied abruptly. So, thought Gord, the creature he had encountered earlier used the name that must be the generally accepted one for this place. “What have you done since you’ve arrived here?” Smirtch continued, getting in his first question.

Gord noticed that the manlike shapes of darkness, spirits, shades, and shadows, the smaller, dwarflike murks, and the tall, gangly fuligi, were gliding nearer as he spoke with Smirtch. The young thief knew some of these creatures from chance, violent encounters in the past, and he had heard tales and seen depictions of both the murklings and the skinny, fuliginous humanoid things of coalesced shadow-stuff. Pretending not to see this encroachment, the young man answered the gloam’s counterquestion blandly. “Me? But little, I fear. A rest, a look around, and then this chance meeting.”

Smirtch followed up with another question, perhaps hoping that Gord wouldn’t notice the impropriety. “Do you know what an adumbrate is?”

“No, I’m quite uncertain as to the nature of an adumbrate,” Gord replied politely. “Now, since you spoke out of turn, you must answer two questions for me. First, what is the nature of Shadowrealm? Second, how does one such as I come to this place?”

“It is a place much as any other of its sort,” said Smirtch, grinning at the way he had sidestepped the first of the two queries. Then he added another equally vague answer. “One such as yourself comes to Shadowrealm by various means, including those of magical nature, but I am unable to say with certainty how you arrived until you give me the details of what transpired just prior to your arrival here… which was when?”

“Time in this place is difficult to measure,” Gord countered. He didn’t really want to give a direct answer, but the question intrigued him for his own sake-how long had it been, anyway?-and he paused a moment to reflect before responding further. Watching the slowly advancing shadowfolk out of the corner of his eye, Gord continued, “I was… asleep when I arrived, and I also took another rest later, so I could have been here an hour or a day, or even longer. Now, tell me, what race rules this realm?”

Smirtch seemed to scowl a bit at the question, but it was difficult to be certain. “We gloams are the most potent of the folk who dwell here, just as duskdrakes are the most fearsome of the great beasts inhabiting the plane-I mean, place,” the gloam corrected hastily, but not before Gord noted the first noun. Smirtch hastened on, perhaps hoping that the human would forget the slip if he covered it with a flood of interesting information.

“The phantomfolk are next, although we easily defeat them, then there are the shadowilk and the murklings and the fuligi. As the adumbrates aren’t really more than monstrosities, I leave them off the hierarchy of folk. But I ramble! When we first met, you mentioned that you had recovered from what you presumed was death-indeed, I see a wound there on your arm. What do you recall of the circumstances which brought you to such a sorry pass?”

“Little… little if anything,” Gord admitted sincerely, meanwhile pondering in another part of his mind the information he had managed to glean from the gloam’s statements. Shadowrealm apparently was, as he had suspected, actually the Plane of Shadows, a plane that connected to the real world as well as to the planes of Yang and Yin, the positive and negative. He also had good reason to think that this Smirtch fellow was doing his best to keep Gord ignorant of the true nature of this place and its politics.

Smirtch had claimed to be the principal gloam, and from the deference given by the other shadowy denizens around, this seemed quite possible. Yet it was obvious that the creature desired something that Gord possessed, thus indicating that Smirtch was not the lord of much of anything. Similarly, his remarks regarding the adumbrates seemed to indicate that there was enmity at best between such things and Smirtch’s race. Enmity exists where there is competition. Adumbrates were as powerful as gloams, at least in certain aspects, it seemed, although the scale of power was uncertain.

Gord reasoned that the rivalry between the two species was a matter of concern to Smirtch, and he seemed to think that Gord might be useful in tipping the balance in favor of his own side. Interesting… but what means did a new-come human possess? The sword seemed potent here, but still… Resolving to listen most carefully, Gord asked his next question. “What king or kings are sovereign here?”

“There are those who proclaim a Shadowking. We gloams do not recognize his suzerainty. I, as Imprimus, am as great a lord as any,” Smirtch added, still frowning slightly as he droned on, but obviously drawing himself up with what seemed more than a touch of hubris. “That is of no great import at this moment, for you have a problem which I can assist you with. You said that you could remember virtually nothing of what transpired prior to your awakening in this place, did you not? Perhaps if we inventoried and examined your possessions, there would be some clue, something which would restore your mnemonic functions…”

At this, Gord smiled. “Yes, I did in fact say that I could not recall the time before my entrance to the Plane of Shadow. Now, are the gloam-folk then at war with the Shadowking?”

“You have not allowed my question!” Smirtch said with irritation.

“But I have, dear Smirtch, I have indeed. You asked if I had said a certain thing-that was your question. I affirmed that I had so said-my answer. Now, pray, answer mine!”

“No. We do not war.”

That told the young adventurer much more than he was sure the gloam suspected. The slight inflection on the last word made it probable that there was strife between the factions. That there was no war indicated that the gloams were not powerful enough to openly contest with the Shadowking, despite Smirtch’s boast that he was a lord of equal stature; certainly, this being was less puissant than the king-perhaps on the order of a powerful baron… Just then Smirtch spoke again, forcing Gord to concentrate on his words.

“What did you bring here?”

“Oh, not much. What I wear and carry is all,” Gord answered lightly. “And whereabouts is the capital city or castle of the one who is called Shadowking?”

“Location is always relative here,” Smirtch supplied, meanwhile making a tiny gesture that the gloam undoubtedly thought would be indiscernible to Gord. “Just be in the right place, and the palace comes to you. Now, would you be so good as to display your possessions?”

“Certainly not,” Gord said matter-of-factly. “How would you describe the so-called right place?”

“Briefly, if at all,” Smirtch shot back at the young man. “Do you have any amusing trinkets with you?”

“Amusement is a matter of taste and perspective,”

Gord replied as a group of the shadow-men drew near behind him, with a clump of murklings and fuligi trailing behind. Gord decided that he had played this game long enough. It was time to test his theory. Should he be mistaken, his fate could hardly be worse than what the gloam undoubtedly planned In any case. “However,” Gord said, casually reaching into his pouch with his injured arm, “I do have a trantle which you might regard as meriting some diversion,” he smiled. Fingers grasping the sphere, Gord suddenly withdrew the stone that the adumbrate had called Shadowfire, exposing its surface to the gloam as he brought it forth.

“Put that back in the pouch!” Smirtch groaned in a scratchy whisper, sliding away slightly as he hissed the command.

Ignoring the creature for the moment, Gord spun rapidly, gem held at shoulder height, short sword suddenly sweeping in a glistening circle as he turned. Green and scarlet motes danced along the blade, colors he never had seen before in this place.

It was more than the mere sight of those colors that made the menacing creatures who had been about to fall upon him from behind moan and whimper as the young thief confronted them. The force of Shadowfire swept them backward as a gust of chill air sweeps away the dry leaves of autumn. Not all of them were quick enough; where blade touched shadow there was a coruscation of glittering black and lambent maroon. As if formed of these flickering, burning flashes, each shadow so touched became a thing of whirling sparks for an instant, then disappeared entirely, leaving only a little sound, a noise like the whine of a receding mosquito, behind for a moment.

After four shadow-things were thus touched and made gone, Gord completed his circle and again faced Smirtch. “What is wrong, most helpful of beings? Don’t you care for pyrotechnical displays?”

“You’ll pay for this!” the thing threatened, safe at a distance many feet beyond the reach of the still-fulgent blade. Then Gord advanced, and the gloam sped away, making an evil susurration as it glided rapidly out of sight. With that, all the remainder of the other shadowy creatures fled as well. Moths and birds fluttered and flapped to escape, while animals of other sort scuttled or ran to be clear of the spot. In a short time Gord was quite alone.

“Most enlightening!” Gord said to himself heartily after all the creatures had gone.

To test his newfound power more thoroughly, Gord then brought the opal’s sphere into contact with the pommel of his sword. The motes brightened and grew larger, each particle seeming to spin and whirl more rapidly. Then the whole multitude of coruscating flashes merged into twin halos of color. One nimbus was coralline, shot through with weaving tongues of snapping scarlet; the other was of peridot hue, and similarly filled with darting arcs of bright emerald.

The transformation took but an instant, and Gord scarcely had time to note the sudden change before the hues intensified and dual bolts shot from either side of the blade to strike a fat-trunked, treelike growth at which the sword happened to be pointing.

“Zow!” Gord exclaimed as he viewed the results, hastily withdrawing Shadowfire from contact with his weapon. Where the shadow-tree had been there was nothing, and the shadow-ground where its roots must have spread was now a gaping hole, a place of deeper blackness from which faint tendrils of silvery stuff wafted upward and away.

“No wonder, then, why Smirtch and the menagerie were attracted to me,” Gord murmured as he carefully sheathed the sword. “This gem is more precious than one might suppose-at least in this realm of shadow!”

With the potent black opal safely back within his pouch, Gord set off to locate the Chiaroscuro Palace of the Shadowking, confident that he could handle any chance encounters along the way. His dweomered blade was more potent here than elsewhere, it seemed, and in combination with Shadowfire something much greater was at his disposal.

“Perhaps this plane is due for a new ruler,” Gord said to himself as he strode along. “No, I take that back… This drabness and gloom is not for me. When I discover how I came here, and how to leave, I shall ask no more than an emperor’s ransom as a parting gift!” Then he tried whistling a jaunty air, but somehow all he could manage was a rather mournful tune in a minor key.

After what seemed several days, Gord had trekked across many miles of the Plane of Shadow. During the course of his journey he had been left alone.-whether by chance or through avoidance, he neither knew nor cared. During the time so spent, however, the young thief had found opportunity to think and observe.

For one thing, he recalled that his flesh had been gray when the adumbrate had forced him to awaken. He remembered assuming at the time that the light had made his skin appear that way. But after his experimentation with the gem, Gord’s complexion had become silvery and he had felt more alive. Then it turned grayish again, and lethargy crept into his body.

Application of the huge opal to his skin seemed to restore the bright sheen to it, so periodically Gord rubbed himself with it. Somehow he had been consigned to this plane, but there was no sense in allowing any transition of his normal self to the stuff of shadow if he could prevent it. He hoped the gem would negate or at least stave off such a metamorphosis. That posed another problem, though. When he was radiating the sheen of argent tone, then the shadow-water and shadow-food he foraged was useless to him. Gord found it slaked not his thirst nor assuaged his hunger.

As he became more like the substance of the plane, the dim waters of sable streams became more substantial, and quaffing them did ease his parched throat and cool his brow. In like vein, the fruits and berries depending from shadow-tree and shade-bush were as nourishing as smoke unless he allowed himself to become shadowy. Gord chose a middle course. Thus he was always somewhat thirsty, his stomach never quite full, his step slightly weary, but it was not difficult to keep going and remain alert. He was no stranger to hardship.

It interested him to note a subtle change that seemed to be occurring as he made his way. Gord thought of the plane as having essentially only two axes of direction. One was parallel to the flow of the terrain, the second was across the current. The first was easy to observe and verify. If one waited in a certain spot, it seemed that all of the plane’s landscape would eventually flow by. The second direction was assumed, but it seemed logical. The landscape slid by, getting more and more distant downcurrent, as he moved along at right angles to the flow.

The longer he traveled on the same path perpendicular to the flow, the faster the shadow terrain slipped by him, before and behind. Therefore, it seemed there were backwaters, of a sort, and a main stream. Gord was certain that if he backtracked on his path and trudged long enough, he would eventually come to the relatively slow-flowing portion of the plane again, and then by continuing he would come once more to the swiftly flowing main portion. This indicated that Shadowrealm had but a single surface and one edge. How broad the surface? How long the edge? Those questions he had no desire to speculate upon. He decided that such thinking could only bring disheartenment.

After more time, the movement of the terrain seemed to slow its pace. How long a period had elapsed there was no telling, but the time had certainly come to alter his course. Gord found a likely spot, a place where there was a hill dotted with berry bushes, around which a little pond spread to cover three sides of the elevation. Trusting that his presence upon the high mound would suffice to hold the shadow-water in place too, Gord sat down and waited. Rather than traversing the entire plane on shank’s mare, he would let the realms of shadow come past his vantage point.

He had been sitting, staring dully upflow, for an interminable period when something began to nag at his consciousness. A corner of Gord’s mind sent alarm signals along nerve paths, but his brain was so occupied with other thoughts that he hardly recognized the signals. He did shift uncomfortably and begin a slight unconscious jiggling of his crossed leg. This reaction so annoyed him that Gord forced his body into absolute stillness.

Sitting rocklike, he assessed what had caused the sudden burst of twitching and unease. That’s when something clicked, and the warning flashed through him in a prickling wave. Too late…

“Greetings, man!” a basso voice rumbled from behind, and a chilling rush of damp, fetid breath wafted over his shoulders as the words were spoken. Another man might indeed have been as good as dead then, but not so Gord. Even as the first word sounded, he was diving and rolling in a somersaulting maneuver that brought him out of range of Immediate danger In a fraction of a second. The salutation was punctuated by a loud snap, as if great teeth had closed suddenly. As this sound occurred, Gord was cartwheeling off to the right so rapidly that a mortal eye could hardly follow his gymnastic performance.

With a spring that brought him to a position that flanked the spot he had rested in a moment before, Gord crouched and drew forth his blades. Before his gaze was a long, wormy shape of near-transparent shadows. The great head however showed very substantial-looking teeth, and the monstrous thing’s eyes glowed with a baleful, opalescent light as it swung its horrid snout toward the place its intended victim now occupied.

“My fondest regards, worm!” Gord managed to utter. Then he was moving again-just in time, it seemed, for from the monstrous creature’s mouth gouted a stream of utter darkness that shot forth to engulf the area where Gord had been but an instant previously. The gray vegetation flickered with colorless fire, and was gone everywhere the ebon gout touched.

The shadow-dragon hissed angrily as it discovered the inky gout had not touched this agile little victim after all. Well, there were many ways to handle men and their kind, the creature decided. The dark worm had many means of attack in its arsenal, and a potent magic spell seemed quite in order now, for the man now dared to stab at his precious hindquarters with his puny sword.

“Ffaaahh!” The sound of pain issued forth unbidden as the silvery blade actually pierced the worm’s thick scales and sunk a foot into its body. Now the human would suffer!

Deciding to save its pitchy breath for later, the monster began to hiss forth the sounds that would create the magic of ribboned hues here upon the shadow plane-a weapon that never failed! While the insignificant fool gazed stupidly at the weaving stream of color, he, Vishwhoolsh, would rend the offending one into tasty bits to be devoured casually at his leisure.

Then the streamer appeared suddenly, actually entwining itself around the stupid man! Vishwhoolsh was ecstatic, and writhed round to finish his work, taking his gaze away from his quarry for a couple of seconds.

“You lend brightness to a drab world,” Gord laughed as the massive head of the shadow-dragon turned and once again came snaking toward him. Certainly the thing was startled, for the rainbow now formed a flowing figure-eight around the young thief’s sword, and as the colors played they changed and altered to become but two hues, mossy green and magenta.

The sword’s negation of his magic was bad enough, but quickly the ebon-hued worm’s lambent gaze fixed on an even more upsetting sight. Gord held Shadowfire now so that the orb rested lightly against his weapon’s dark pommel, and the flame within the heart of the black opal seemed to pulse and sway in rhythm with the dancing band of colors made from the dragon’s own magic.

“Spare me!” the thing hissed, transfixed, as the bicolored band suddenly became a darting tongue that shot out and twisted around the worm’s long neck The colors were no longer touching the sword, but were still controlled by it.

“Why?” snarled Gord. “You would not have showed me the same kindness!”

“I have a rich hoard. Spare my life, greatest of men, and I will bestow all my treasure upon you in return.” The creature hissed forth its plea in a voice laden with evil despite its attempt to sound pleasant and promising.

With a twitch of his blade, Gord caused the twin-colored strand to tighten suddenly, making the black worm gulp and swallow the gush of foul stuff it was about to vomit forth upon him. “I grant you mercy,” Gord said with a grim face. “The mercy of a quick end!”

As he spat out the last words, the young adventurer raised the sword’s blade so that it pointed directly at the worm. The mossy hue suddenly changed to glowing bright green, and the magenta turned to brilliant red. The monster stiffened as if its head and tail were being pulled in opposite directions by a colossal titan, rising parallel to the shadowy ground as it did so. The two colors infused the shadow-dragon’s entire body, inculcating the gloomy substance with twin hues of brightness before turning dim. As the colors faded away, so too did the monster.

“And I never learned its name,” Gord remarked in mock sorrow.

A single huge scale lay on the ground nearby. The metallic thing must have come free from the shadow-dragon’s hide when Gord had struck it with his sword. He pierced the plate twice, a laborious process even with his enchanted dagger, and then ran a thong through it. The glittering bit of dragon’s armor was as broad as both of his palms and long as his hand. Gord hung it around his neck as if it were a gorget, thinking it was a suitable memento of his encounter with the beast. Then he resumed his seat on the flat boulder and waited once again.

An indefinite time later, the young thief was startled from his reverie by something new. This time there were no flashes of warning, and he was uncertain what it was that caused his numbed thoughts to suddenly become alert. Then it came to him. Penumbral rows of shadow vegetation had flowed into his vicinity and were standing, so to speak, to either hand. Shadow-crops to feed shadow-folk and phantom-kine… Without moving a muscle, he had come to the outskirts of a town!

The village could have been transplanted from Oerth-from someplace near to Greyhawk, in fact-save for its deep shade and insubstantial-seeming stuff. Gord thought that if he made himself glow with the silvery radiance bestowed by the great stone, he could walk through shadow-brick and umbrageous stone as if it were gossamer. He did nothing of the sort, however. Choosing to remain looking as much a native to this plane as he could, he strode toward the village, knowing that his former hillock perch would be slipping off into the distance behind him as soon as he abandoned it.

“Ho, stranger! What want you in Dunswych?” The challenge came from a large, bow-armed fellow wearing what Gord assumed was a jack of shadow-leather sewn with horn plates. Shadow-stuff was still rather difficult for him to distinguish. When Gord hesitated in replying, the big fellow slipped his long bow from his shoulder and casually nocked a sable-feathered shaft, whistling loudly as he did so.

“Peace, stalwart!” Gord called at that, showing open hands. “I am but a lone and friendly wayfarer seeking a place to eat and rest, a little drink to refresh myself.”

The arrow remained aimed halfway between the ground and Gord as another half-dozen shadowy folk hastened to join the first. Each was armed in some fashion-axe, hunting spear, flail, fork Common but efficient weapons, used by freemen everywhere for both work and defense.

“You are no phantom!” the bowman said in a tone half awestruck and half accusatory.

“Quite so,” Gord laughed in response, “but I daresay we have other things in common.”

What had been meant as a jest seemed to have the desired effect, setting the minds of these folk at ease. Ready arms were eased from striking positions, and the bow-armed fellow reslung his weapon. “Yes, of course. You expected naught but shadowkin, did you?” At that there was a little ripple of uneasy mirth. Then the big one saw what graced Gord’s neck. “Where came you upon that dragon scale?” The query was both suspicious and curious at once. The others crowded closer to see what their comrade had spoken of, and there were whispers of awe as they viewed the makeshift gorget.

“This?” Gord responded with a negligent pinch at the tar-hued scale. “An obliging dragon, one of shadow-stuff like all round here, was kind enough to leave it for me ere I sent it to its just end.”

“You lie!” This sentiment, in several specific forms, came almost simultaneously from the assemblage.

That provoked him a bit, and the young man’s face darkened with anger as he retorted. “Lie!? See if you think this blade lies,” he snapped as his sword seemed to spring into his hand magically. The villagers started to raise their weapons for an attack, but their anticipation proved wrong. “See here, fellow,” Gord said to the bowman, presenting him the blade. He had not bothered to wipe the shadow-dragon’s blood from it, for the silvery metal was enchanted and never seemed to corrode. “Is this not the dried gore from the very sort of monster I speak of?”