“I can imagine,” the halfling muttered. “Well, let’s get on with this, then. Where is Rhovann’s citadel?”
Geran studied their surroundings, allowing his eyes to become accustomed to the gloom that seemed to press in around them. “My guess is the shadow copy of Griffonwatch. It’s the strongest, most secure place in Hulburg, so it stands to reason it would be here as well. Mirya, where’s the closest access to the streets from here?”
Mirya shook herself and pointed to the corridor leading north. “There’s a door not fifteen yards down that hall that lets you into the cellar of the old Black Eagle guildhall.”
“Good.” Geran allowed Hamil to lead the way, and followed after Sarth. The door proved to be a little farther than Mirya remembered, but then again, that might have been the disconcerting proportions of the Shadowfell; distances were not as constant here as they were in the daylit world. When they finally found it, the door was stuck fast. It took Geran and Sarth pushing together to force it open. Inside, a rickety staircase led up to the ground level in the middle of a burned-out shell of a building. Through a gap in the floor over their heads they could look up and see a starless night sky above. Despite the lack of streetlamps, moon, or stars, there was a faint gray luminescence that gave them just enough light-or a lessening of shadow, anyway-to see by. Silently they climbed up and made their way out into the street. They weren’t far from the Winterspear, at the north end of Fish Street.
“Look at the castle,” Hamil said softly.
Geran found that the dim gray gloom didn’t hide things with sheer distance the way a normal night might have. Over the ramshackle rooftops and ruined walls of shadow-Hulburg Griffonwatch’s black crag towered, noticeably narrower and steeper than it would have appeared in the normal world. He followed its battlements up to the Harmach’s Tower at the top, which leaned precariously over the cliff’s edge. Pale swirls of lambent light played about the castle’s upperworks like a purple aurora.
“Rhovann’s defensive wards,” Sarth observed. “Interesting. The spells with which he guards the castle are visible in this plane.”
“Come on,” said Geran. “Kara’s waiting for us, and we’ve already lost hours.” He led the way as they turned left and headed north-if such directions had any meaning in the Shadowfell-through the ruined districts on the west bank of the Winterspear. These neighborhoods had been razed long before in the daylit world, and he was somewhat relieved to see that they were much the same here. Wiry tufts of pale grass and thorny brambles grew out of great mounds of rubble, intersected here and there by the crooked silhouette of a surviving wall. Sarth conjured a small, ruddy orb of light that bobbed along a little above him. It did little to brighten the gloom that surrounded them, but Geran decided that it raised his spirits a little, and it wasn’t so bright that it would be seen from any great distance. Once or twice as they hurried along the rubble-strewn street he thought he heard ominous scuttlings or whispers from the mounds of debris around them, and he noticed that Hamil kept a wary eye on the shadows nearby. Geran chose not to say anything to Mirya; he didn’t want to needlessly alarm her if it turned out to be nothing, since she was unsettled enough already.
They came to the small court where Keldon Way met the foot of the Burned Bridge. The bridge wasn’t there. The old stone piers were still where they belonged, but the newer wooden trestle that had been built atop them was missing. “What in the world?” Mirya murmured. “Now how do we cross?”
“It’s the nature of the Shadowfell,” Sarth answered. “Sometimes things that have come to ruin in our world remain intact here, and other times things that are still whole in our world have been destroyed here. It can be capricious.”
“Well, capricious or not, it’s damned inconvenient,” Hamil said. “We’re still on the wrong side of the Winterspear.” He looked at the river, swift and dark in the ever-present gloom. “I hate the thought of swimming it. I don’t suppose we can fly or teleport across?”
“It’s too far for my teleport spell,” said Geran. “Sarth, can you carry us one at a time?”
“If I managed you once, I can certainly manage Hamil and Mirya.” The sorcerer gauged the distance, and sighed. “Let me begin with you, Geran.” He murmured the words to his flying spell; Geran felt the shadows drawing in around them as the magic took its shape, but nothing more happened. Sarth stepped close behind him, locking his arms beneath his, and sprang up into the air. The cold waters raced swiftly beneath Geran’s feet, and the broken stone piers of the old bridge reeled by on their left. Then the two of them landed heavily in the ruins by the riverbank, not far from where the Troll and Tankard stood in the Hulburg Geran knew. Sarth panted for breath.
“Well done,” Geran told him. “Bring Mirya next-we don’t want to leave her alone in a place like this.”
The sorcerer nodded, and rose up into the dark sky again. Geran turned to study his surroundings, keenly aware of his solitude. He’d never been one to take fright easily, but the shadow world was no place for a living human to linger, and he was keenly aware of his vulnerability if something should happen. He could see more of the ancient city wall than he would have expected; it seemed that the Shadowfell remembered Hulburg as the ruined city it had been a hundred years previous, not the thriving town it was today.
A small scrabbling sound echoed through the darkness not far off, a sound like someone or something slipping across the weed-choked rubble. “What is that?” he murmured softly. He set his left hand on Umbrach Nyth and drew the sword from its sheath, aiming the point in the direction of the unseen thing moving about in the shadows. Nothing more happened, so he took a moment to perform a couple of simple attack and defense patterns with the dark blade. It was ready and responsive in his hand, despite the awkwardness of using the wrong arm. Without any false modesty, Geran knew he was an excellent swordsman under normal conditions; he’d only met a handful he knew to be better in his years of adventuring and travel. Fighting left-handed, he still had his learning, his knowledge, his footwork, and his swordmagic, but his strength and quickness suffered. He could probably handle a strong but inexperienced opponent, or perhaps a swordsman of average skill and no great natural talent, but he wouldn’t care to hazard his life on the outcome.
“I’ll get better in time,” he told himself. Unfortunately, he didn’t see that he had any great need to fight six months or a year from now, but he might very well have to fight in the next few hours-possibly several times. Rhovann couldn’t have picked a worse time to cripple him.
The flutter of a cloak in the air caught his ear as Sarth returned, carrying Mirya with an arm around her waist and one of her arms over his shoulder. The tiefling alighted, and Mirya eagerly disentangled herself. “I thank you for sparing me the swim, Sarth, but I think I’d rather leave flying to the birds,” she explained. “It’s no natural thing for a person to do.”
Sarth smiled. “I’ve come to like it,” he said. Then he shot off into the gloom again.
Mirya glanced at Geran, and frowned as she noticed the sword in his hand. “What is it?” she asked in a low voice.
“I thought I heard something moving about. It’s probably nothing. A rat, perhaps.”
“Are there such things as rats here?” She set the stirrup of her crossbow on the ground and drew back the string as she studied the shadows around them.
He started to shrug-and at that moment the creatures attacked. Several gaunt, gray houndlike monsters bounded from the shadows of the ruined walls and rubble mounds, charging the two humans. Their flesh seemed tattered and dessicated, and bare bone showed beneath; their eyes were sunken, black pits in which fierce pinpoints of crimson burned.