The Nightseer
The Shadowstorm is inevitable, Nightseer.
It is, Rivalen agreed. Your work is done now.
Elyril cocked her head, puzzled by the comment. Nightseer?
You know the provenance of the war, Dark Sister. That secret must be kept.
She sat up straight, troubled. I will keep it, Nightseer.
I know.
The tickle on Elyril’s finger turned to a twinge, an ache, a sting. She exclaimed, jumped to her feet, and pulled at the ring. She could not so much as turn it. It felt grafted to the bone of her finger. Her heart raced.
“No, Nightseer! You do not know—”
There is nothing I do not know.
The Overmistress
Mirabeta stifled a gasp at the mention of Venomindhar and Venominhandar. The destruction the two greens had wreaked in Sembia generations earlier was legend. She controlled her shock and reminded herself that she wielded power in Sembia. She spoke to the dragon as she would any underling.
“You will journey to Saerloon. There, you will answer to Lady Merelith and her commanders as they lay siege to Selgaunt. She will report back to me.”
The dragon hefted the decanter of wine and drained it all in one long gulp. He wiped his mouth and said, “Saerloon is a long journey from here even in my natural form, woman.”
“Overmistress,” Mirabeta corrected him. “And I will arrange for your transport.”
The Hulorn
“Are you a man of faith, Prince?”
Rivalen’s golden eyes flared and narrowed.
“Is that a rude question?” Tamlin stuttered. “If so, I apologize. I thought—”
Rivalen waved a ringed hand. The shadows around him swirled. “It is not rude, Hulorn. It is forthright. That is one of the things I admire about you.”
Tamlin felt himself color at Rivalen’s praise. He valued it as much—perhaps more—than he had ever valued the praise of his father.
THE TWILIGHT WAR
Book I
Shadowbred
Book II
Shadowstorm
Book III
Shadowrealm
THE EREVIS CALE TRILOGY
Book I
Twilight Falling
Book II
Dawn of Night
Book III
Midnight’s Mask
ALSO BY PAUL S. KEMP
R.A. Salvatore’s War of the Spider Queen
Book VI
Resurrection
SEMBIA: Gateway to the Realms
The Halls of Stormweather
Shadow’s Witness
For Jen, Riordan, and Roarke, Mom and Dad.
CHAPTER ONE
11 Uktar, the Year of Lightning Storms (1374 DR)
The freezing wind howls despair into my ears, rips through my meager clothing, cuts like knives against my flesh. In the bleak distance I hear the rumble of falling ice, the groan of gigantic glaciers grinding one against the other like the bones of titans. The pained screams of the damned rise above the noise and soak the air.
“Welcome to Cania,” my father says. His voice comes from everywhere, from nowhere, and worms into my soul.
The power in his tone causes Erevis and Riven to clutch their heads and groan. The blood that leaks from their ears freezes a crimson streak down jaw and neck. Erevis leans forward and vomits onto the ice. It steams for only a moment before Cania turns it hard and cold. Riven does the same and the wind devours the curses he offers between heaves. My ears, too, might be bleeding. I cannot tell. I still feel the sting in my forearms from the Source’s tendrils, but little else. Mind and body have not fully integrated.
I think: I brought us here. And the thought is accompanied by the despairing realization that I am, truly, my father’s son. Darkness is loose in me, given freedom by my own hand. I have gone in a moment from possession by the Source to possession by an archdevil.
I laugh but it turns to sobs. The tears freeze on my face, unable to fall.
We stand on a soot-dusted mound of packed snow and rock overlooking a desolate plain of filthy ice. Rivers of hellfire cut a jagged, arterial path through the plains as far as I can see. Steam billows in the air where hellfire meets ice. The snow-swept wind carries the stink of charred flesh, rot, and brimstone.
Suffering and despair are thick in the air. Thrashing souls burn within the rivers of flame. Their screams, plaintive and agonized, make an eerie symphony with the wind. Ice devils—towering, pallid insectoids armed with iron hooks and coated in exoskeletons like plate armor—prowl the river banks. They are far enough away that they seem not to notice our arrival. Or perhaps they do not care.
The burning souls try from time to time to clamber up the river bank for a respite from the flames. They are free of the fire for only a moment before the gelugons pounce, impale them on their hooks, and toss them, flopping and screaming, back into the fire.
The scene makes me lightheaded.
Erevis spits out the last of his vomit, glances at the suffering, and turns away. He shouts a spell into the icy air. Shadows swirl protectively about him and war with the wind. He finishes the casting and puts an ice-rimed hand to himself, to me, to Riven. The magic insulates me from the cold. Erevis removes his cloak and places it around me. He takes me by the shoulders, looks me in the eyes, and shouts something, but I cannot make it out. I hear only the damned and wind and glaciers and the echo of my father’s voice. I am distant from events, outside myself.
He sees my despair and his face shows concern. I don a mask of strength and nod to assuage him. Seemingly satisfied, he pats my shoulder and turns, weapon ready, to search the desolation for my father.
I do the same, squinting into the wind but dreading what I will see.
I spot my father first and my breath catches; my heart sinks. I point.
“There,” I say, and hear the hopelessness in my voice.
Erevis’s and Riven’s gazes follow my upraised arm. When they see him, both go still.
“Gods,” Erevis says, but I barely hear it. The shadows about him withdraw into his flesh, as if in fear.
Riven says nothing, but his single eye is transfixed, his habitual sneer erased by open-mouthed awe.
Mephistopheles, Archduke of Cania, Lord of Hell—my father—crouches a long bowshot from us atop a hill of ice. The freezing wind blows over his muscular form and pulls ribbons of smoke from his flesh. The smoke swirls into the shapes of tortured forms and screaming mouths before dissipating in the air. His exposed skin glows a soft crimson, as if lit from within. Black fire flares intermittently from his form, cloaks him in evil the way shadows cloak Erevis. He turns to regard us and his eyes—white eyes like mine—fix on us, on me. The full weight of his gaze drives the three of us to our knees.
My father rises and he is as tall as a giant. His cloak flutters in the wind, and the great, tattered black membranes of his wings unfold. His long, coal-colored hair—like mine—whips in the wind. Twin horns, also like mine, protrude from his brow.
I am my father’s son. Tears freeze in my eyes and I scrape them away.
Below, the damned see him, too. They point, cower, and wail. He gazes in their direction and they submerge themselves fully in the torturous hellfire rather than fall for long under his baleful gaze. The ice devils raise their hooks and grunt a salute. My father smiles at the suffering, showing his fangs, and returns his gaze to us.
He takes wing in a cloud of snow and smoke and I can only watch.
He is beautiful as he soars into the gray sky and blistering air, terrible and terrifying, a perfect predator.
But his prey is not flesh.
Erevis recovers himself first. He curses, leans on his blade, and climbs to his feet. He clutches the powerful weapon in a shaking hand, eyes on m
y approaching father, and pulls Riven to his feet.
“On your feet,” he says above the wind. “On your damned feet.”
Riven wobbles but draws his sabers and nods. His one good eye moves to me, back to my father, back to me. I see the fear in his face. I have never seen it there before.
They each extend a hand to help me stand but I do not respond. I am limp, horrified, awed. They shout for me to rise, try to pull me up by the armpits, but I cannot stand.
They release me, share a look, some words I do not hear. As one they close ranks before me, forming a bulwark between my father and me.
But the only wall that mattered between Mephistopheles and me—the wall in my mind—has already crumbled. I tore it down to save myself from the Source, and the flesh and bravery of my friends is not enough to remake it. The devil within me feels glee at the approach of my sire. The man feels disgust. I stare at the sky, torn, divided.
We are lost.
Erevis shouts at me over his shoulder, and his words penetrate my haze. “Get up, Mags! Do not give him this!”
I look at him, barely comprehending.
Bow says the devil in me.
Rise says the man.
Mephistopheles swoops in the air, prolonging his approach, letting the fear build.
“Cale …” Riven says to Erevis, his eye on my father.
“I know,” Erevis snaps. Shadows ooze from his flesh and swirl closely about him. “But we hold this ground. Understood?” He thumps Riven on the shoulder. “This ground is ours.”
“It’s only ground, Cale,” Riven says. “We can leave it.”
Erevis shakes his head. “We cannot. The shadows do not answer me here. I cannot take us out.”
Erevis’s god is not lord in Cania. My father is.
Riven goes still and stares at Cale for a moment. He knows there is no escape. He looks back at me, at Cale, up at my father.
I see the resolve harden in him. He is as much ice as Cania.
I am awed by more than merely my father.
I have seen my friends stand together before, the First and Second of Mask. I watched Erevis drive his thumbs into the braincase of a death slaad. I have seen Riven’s blades move so fast they whistled. I know they are not normal men; normal men would still be on all fours on the ice, awaiting death.
But I know, too, that they are no match for the Lord of Cania.
Each beat of my father’s wings looses smoke into the air. As he nears us, the tattoo on my bicep—a red hand sheathed in flames, the symbol of my father—stings my flesh. Smoke rises from my arm. I do not need to look at it to know that the flames are swirling on my skin. Mephistopheles has marked me and I am his.
But the pain stirs me to motion; the bravery of my friends draws me back to myself. I quell the fiend within me, lick my lips, and try to climb to my feet. I will not die on my knees. I will stand with my friends.
They see me stir, turn, and pull me the rest of the way to my feet.
“Godsdamned right,” Riven says, and gives me a thump on the shoulder. “Godsdamned right.”
Cale knew they had a twenty count, no more, and there was nowhere to run. He held Weaveshear in a numb hand and blew out clouds of frozen breath. He whispered a series of rapid prayers, invoking magic that made him stronger and faster.
Looking upon the archfiend, he did not think it would be enough.
Magadon spoke in a low tone, his voice hollow. “This is my doing. I planted this location in Erevis’s mind as he moved us between planes. Or part of me did. I am sorry.”
Riven spared Magadon a hard look but said nothing.
“It wasn’t you, Mags,” Cale said, and meant it.
Riven shifted on his feet.
“I am sorry, Riven,” Magadon said to him.
Riven drew a dagger from his belt, flipped it, and offered the hilt to Magadon.
“It’s enchanted. Take it. It is better than nothing.”
Magadon did not take the dagger. He looked at Riven, at Cale.
“We cannot fight him and live.”
“Which doesn’t mean we don’t fight,” Riven snapped. “I don’t go down without giving what I’ve got. And neither should you.” He held the dagger’s hilt before Magadon’s face. “Take it.”
“I have a weapon if I have need,” Magadon said, but took the dagger anyway.
Cale said, “If we cannot fight, then we have to negotiate. What can we offer him, Mags?”
Mephistopheles vanished from the sky and reappeared directly behind them. His form dwarfed them. His wings enveloped them. The unholy energy that sheathed the trio stole their breath. One of Mephistopheles’s enormous hands closed over Cale’s shoulder, and the claws sank into his skin. He bent and put his mouth to Cale’s ear.
“There is nothing you can offer me that I cannot otherwise take,” the archdevil said, and the sound of his basso voice buried them all under its power. His fetid breath stank like a charnel house.
Supernatural terror accompanied the archdevil’s presence but Cale fought through it. He remembered that he had faced his own god, stabbed Mask in the chest.
“But this is no alley,” Mephistopheles whispered into Cale’s ear. “And I am not your god.”
Shadows leaked from Cale’s skin, twined around Mephistopheles’s hand.
“No,” Cale answered. “You are not.”
Moving deliberately and forcefully, Cale took the archdevil’s hand, removed it from his shoulder, and turned to stand in the towering shadow of a ruler of Hell. Riven and Magadon, perhaps freed of their terror by Cale’s nerve, did the same. Riven and Cale edged before Magadon and closed ranks.
The fiend radiated spite. It took all Cale had to stand his ground.
Mephistopheles’s white eyes bored holes into him. The archdevil inhaled deeply.
“You stink of goddess and godling, shade. Where is the Shadowlord now, I wonder? Do you imagine that he will save you?”
Cale decided then and there that he was of one mind with Riven—he would not die without giving what he had. He tightened his grip on Weaveshear and shadowy tendrils leaked from the blade.
“Save me from what?”
“Nothing here we need saving from,” Riven added. The assassin, who looked small standing beside Cale, looked insignificant standing before the archdevil.
Mephistopheles’s eyes narrowed, moved from Cale to Riven. The devil poked the tip of a black-nailed, ringed finger into Riven’s chest.
“You are transparent to me,” he said.
“I am easy that way,” Riven said with a sneer.
Mephistopheles’s lip curled and he scraped his claw down Riven’s chest, hard enough to rock the assassin on his feet, penetrate armor, and draw blood.
“I think that you could have been one of mine,” the archdevil said.
Blood from the gash in Riven’s chest darkened his shirt and cloak, but the assassin did not wince, though a tic caused his one good eye to spasm.
Cale placed the edge of Weaveshear’s blade under the archdevil’s finger and lifted it away from Riven.
“That is enough.”
Mephistopheles put a fingertip on the blade and black fire twined around the steel. Cale held onto the hilt and darkness snaked from his hands.
Shadows met fire, churned and sizzled.
The fire flared, consumed the shadows, and Weaveshear flashed red hot. Cale’s skin blistered. He cursed and released the weapon.
Mephistopheles snatched it from mid air and held the superheated blade without harm. He studied it, smelled it. Cale and Riven shared a glance. Both knew they were out of their depth.
Mephistopheles smirked, dropped the weapon. It hit the ice of Cania tip first, sank half its length into the ground, and sent up a cloud of hissing steam as it cooled.
“A mildly interesting toy,” the archdevil said.
Cale kept his face expressionless as he retrieved the weapon, still warm, from the ice.
Magadon cleared his throat and said in a small
voice, “We are leaving Cania, father.”
Mephistopheles’s brow furrowed and he looked down on Magadon, as if for the first time.
“Did something speak? I hear a voice but see nothing here worthy of addressing me.”
“We are leaving,” Magadon reiterated.
“Ah,” Mephistopheles said, glaring at Magadon, who wilted under the scrutiny. “It is my ungrateful son who dares utter words in my presence. And leaving, you say? But you have only just arrived. And it was you who brought them here.”
“No,” Magadon said. “It was you.”
“You perceive a difference where there is none.”
Magadon looked up with defiance in his eyes. Cale was pleased to see it.
“You lie,” Magadon said, his voice strong at last. “There is a difference.”
Mephistopheles’s eyes flashed anger. “Think you so?”
Sensing the danger, Cale edged closer to Magadon.
The archdevil turned on him, growing to twice his height in a breath.
“He is spoken for, shade, body and soul!”
The power in Mephistopheles’s voice caused ice to crack, the damned to whimper in fear, and drove Cale back, knocking him breathless to the frozen ground.
Riven lunged forward, one blade low, one high. The archdevil held up a hand and a rush of black power from his palm drove Riven flat on his back and skittering across the ice.
Magadon stood alone before his father.
Mephistopheles recovered his composure and shrank back into himself. His expression went from enraged to calm in a heartbeat.
“I am not yours,” Magadon said.
“You are mistaken,” Mephistopheles responded. “We have dreamed wonderful dreams together, you and me.”
Magadon shook his head and looked down at his feet. “No. They weren’t mine. They never were. You put them there.”
Mephistopheles reached down and placed a giant hand on Magadon’s emaciated shoulder. The mindmage blanched at the touch—smoke rose from his flesh.
“How could I do so if you did not invite them?”
Shadows swirled around Cale, comforting him, healing him. He climbed to his feet and pointed Weaveshear at the archdevil.