Shadowbred by Kemp Paul S

shone red. It would pierce plate armor.
    Magadon scoured the terrain with his eyes. He controlled his breathing, steadied his hands, and held his calm. He drew on his mental power, transformed energy into a physical force, and surrounded himself in a translucent barrier that would deflect incoming projectiles. Wrapped in the power of his own mind, he turned a slow circle and sought a target.
    “Father?” he shouted, nervous as the word left his mouth. “Show yourself!”
    A sound like rushing wind filled his ears, though there was no wind. He scanned the night for the source but saw nothing. The sound grew, louder, louder, until—
    At the limits of his darkvision, a mass of squirming tendrils seeped into view. As thick around as the oak, as black as ink, they wormed sickeningly over the terrain. Their motion reminded him of the kraken’s tentacles, of the grotesque limbs of the darkweaver that he had faced on the Plane of Shadows.
    The tentacles brought a fog of darkness in their wake.
    Two pinpoint pairs of light formed in the darkness above the tentacles, one pair the cold gray of old iron, the other pair a dull gold.
    Eyes.
    The rushing sound grew still louder, as loud as a cyclone. Magadon thought his eardrums would burst. The horses and mules panicked. Two snapped their lines and sped off into the night.
    “Who are you?” Magadon shouted, his voice barely audible over the roar.
    The tendrils drew closer; so did the eyes. “Show yourselves!”
    No response, so Magadon loosed an arrow at one pair of eyes. The missile streaked from his bow, leaving a red trail of energy in its wake. When it hit the darkness, it vanished with no visible effect.
    Screaming, Magadon fired another arrow, another. The rushing sound ate his battle cries; the darkness ate his arrows.
    The rush reached a crescendo, so loud Magadon felt his head would explode. How could the caravaneers sleep through it? It was like a pair of knives driven into his eardrums. He dropped his bow and clamped his hands over his ears. He screamed in pain but the roar swallowed the sound.
    Without warning, the roar ceased.
    But for his gasps, silence ruled the night.
    Magadon’s ears rang; his temples throbbed. He looked up and saw that the tendrils were gone, the eyes were gone. He was alone. He looked at his palms to see if there was any blood, saw none.
    He almost collapsed with relief.
    “Tark,” he nudged the young merchant. “Tark!”
    Still no response.
    A rustle from above drew his gaze. He looked up and what he saw stole both strength and breath. His hands fell to his sides. “Gods,” he mouthed. The night took him.
    Ś ŚŠŚŚ€>Ś
    Elyril wore a false face—that of a solicitous young niece and trusted political advisor to Lady Mirabeta Selkirk—and stood beside her aunt next to the bed of the dead overmaster. They had traveled by common coach rather than carriage across the streets of Ordulin, and both wore heavy, plain, hooded cloaks. After hearing what the messenger had to say, they had not wanted their
    passage noted. The city was in enough turmoil. All of Sembia was in turmoil.
    Kendrick Selkirk the Tall lay cold, pale, and very dead between his sheets. The overmaster’s balding, gray-haired chamberlain, Minnen, stood in the doorway behind Elyril and her aunt, wringing his age-spotted hands. Beside him stood the bearded house mage, Saken, arms crossed over his ample belly, chapped lips pressed hard together. The circles under his eyes looked as if they had been drawn with charcoal.
    Seeing the dead overmaster for herself, Elyril felt an uncontrollable urge to smile. She masked her mirth with a hand before her mouth and a feigned cough.
    “I have sent for priests of Tyr, Countess,” Minnen said to Mirabeta. “To certify the death and prepare the body.”
    Mirabeta nodded. “Well done, Minnen. You have sent word to Selkirk’s family?”
    Kendrick Selkirk’s immediate family consisted of only his two sons, Miklos and Kavil. His wife