his hurts, but Wencit gave him no time to consider it. “A second later ducking, an inch to the side, a moment earlier with no counter spell ready—then what? And for each you or I killed, Bahzell took two. Don’t underestimate our enemies, Kenhodan. Consider what would’ve happened if they’d surprised us in the open, alone, with no warning. Not so easy to beat them off then, eh? And remember—the most deadly fighter’s still mortal, and the clumsiest foe can kill him with one lucky blow.”
“I take your point.” Kenhodan knelt to examine the sawdust where the shadow had burned. “What were they, anyway?”
“Shadows of another world. Much the same place demons and devils come from, actually, although shadowmen are far weaker than those are. That’s the reason they can flow through the cracks and escape notice so much more easily on their way through. It’s not difficult to search the worlds that might have been for the fighters you seek. Transferring them, especially in numbers great enough to make them truly dangerous to someone like a wizard lord or a champion of Tomanāk, takes power and a willingness to dabble in sorcery as foul as Krahana herself, but the technique’s simple enough.”
“For some, no doubt,” Kenhodan said dryly.
“True. And even though shadows lose much of their intelligence when they’re ripped from their rightful places, they still make deadly foes. That cold is the cold of the void they cross to come here. If you’d felt it without the protection of my wards, your heart would’ve stopped instantly.” Wencit shrugged. “They have other powers, too. They aren’t truly of this world, and its presences are, to them, the shadows they are to us. But they also have limitations, because the shock of crossing the void destroys their wills and leaves them little more than extensions of their summoner. They can’t remain if his will is—” he gestured the body “—withdrawn.”
The wizard paused, scuffing a boot through the scorched sawdust, and his brows knitted thoughtfully.
“But the shadowmage bears thinking on. Shadows aren’t normally drawn from among the great and powerful of their worlds—people like that are too deeply rooted in their own time and place to readily answer the summons of anything short of a deity. Yet the shadowmage was a wild wizard in his own world. It takes a very powerful wizard to wrench someone like that across the abyss, and the guardians who prevent that sort of thing should have seen the shadowmage coming. Unlike the others, he was powerful enough to stand out clearly and be intercepted. Bringing him through at all would have been difficult enough. Bringing him through undetected and with enough power to strike with the art once he got here…?”
His voice trailed off and he frowned.
“So it must’ve taken a wizard more powerful than this Wulfra? Is that what you’re saying?” Kenhodan asked slowly.
He didn’t care for the implications of that thought, and he cared still less for Wencit’s slow nod. Wind gusted through the broken door, touching them with rain and muddying the sawdust. The old wizard sighed resignedly and reached for his poncho.
“Let’s go take a look at Alwith.”
Kenhodan followed him into the dying storm. Rain soaked his hair and trickled down his face, but it lacked its earlier fury, and Wencit knelt beside the body and rolled it over. The knife hilt described an ominous arc and Alwith’s dead eyes looked glassily into Kenhodan’s.
“He looks surprised,” he observed.
“No doubt he was.” Wencit examined a charred staff that crumbled to ashes he touched it, then scraped its ruin distastefully into the bubbling gutter. “Alwith preferred to avoid physical combat. He probably forgot the lightning might pick out—give Bahzell a clear target.”
“He won’t make that mistake again.”
Kenhodan wiped rain from his face and looked back at the tavern. Perhaps Alwith might be pardoned for his
“I take your point.” Kenhodan knelt to examine the sawdust where the shadow had burned. “What were they, anyway?”
“Shadows of another world. Much the same place demons and devils come from, actually, although shadowmen are far weaker than those are. That’s the reason they can flow through the cracks and escape notice so much more easily on their way through. It’s not difficult to search the worlds that might have been for the fighters you seek. Transferring them, especially in numbers great enough to make them truly dangerous to someone like a wizard lord or a champion of Tomanāk, takes power and a willingness to dabble in sorcery as foul as Krahana herself, but the technique’s simple enough.”
“For some, no doubt,” Kenhodan said dryly.
“True. And even though shadows lose much of their intelligence when they’re ripped from their rightful places, they still make deadly foes. That cold is the cold of the void they cross to come here. If you’d felt it without the protection of my wards, your heart would’ve stopped instantly.” Wencit shrugged. “They have other powers, too. They aren’t truly of this world, and its presences are, to them, the shadows they are to us. But they also have limitations, because the shock of crossing the void destroys their wills and leaves them little more than extensions of their summoner. They can’t remain if his will is—” he gestured the body “—withdrawn.”
The wizard paused, scuffing a boot through the scorched sawdust, and his brows knitted thoughtfully.
“But the shadowmage bears thinking on. Shadows aren’t normally drawn from among the great and powerful of their worlds—people like that are too deeply rooted in their own time and place to readily answer the summons of anything short of a deity. Yet the shadowmage was a wild wizard in his own world. It takes a very powerful wizard to wrench someone like that across the abyss, and the guardians who prevent that sort of thing should have seen the shadowmage coming. Unlike the others, he was powerful enough to stand out clearly and be intercepted. Bringing him through at all would have been difficult enough. Bringing him through undetected and with enough power to strike with the art once he got here…?”
His voice trailed off and he frowned.
“So it must’ve taken a wizard more powerful than this Wulfra? Is that what you’re saying?” Kenhodan asked slowly.
He didn’t care for the implications of that thought, and he cared still less for Wencit’s slow nod. Wind gusted through the broken door, touching them with rain and muddying the sawdust. The old wizard sighed resignedly and reached for his poncho.
“Let’s go take a look at Alwith.”
Kenhodan followed him into the dying storm. Rain soaked his hair and trickled down his face, but it lacked its earlier fury, and Wencit knelt beside the body and rolled it over. The knife hilt described an ominous arc and Alwith’s dead eyes looked glassily into Kenhodan’s.
“He looks surprised,” he observed.
“No doubt he was.” Wencit examined a charred staff that crumbled to ashes he touched it, then scraped its ruin distastefully into the bubbling gutter. “Alwith preferred to avoid physical combat. He probably forgot the lightning might pick out—give Bahzell a clear target.”
“He won’t make that mistake again.”
Kenhodan wiped rain from his face and looked back at the tavern. Perhaps Alwith might be pardoned for his
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