Several years ago, the Black Network had taken control of Iriaebor, enslaving the populace and bleeding the city dry. It was Caledan and Mari, on a mission for the Harpers, who finally had ousted the Zhents from Iriaebor. The Black Network was still furious at losing its grip on the wealthy city and would do anything to regain control.
If Mari’s suspicions were right, now the Zhentarim were trying to do just that. Since Higharvestide, there had been over a dozen murders in Iriaebor. Each of the murders shared the same grisly details: All occurred at night, with the corpses horribly mauled. In each case the victim was a less-than-savory individual, ranging from back-alley hoodlums to corrupt petty nobles. The Harpers feared the deaths were part of some Zhentarim plot—perhaps sacrifices for a ritual magic of dark and unknown purpose—and that the Black Network was preying on the dregs of society for some mysterious reason. Mari and Caledan had been given orders to investigate. However, it looked as if they had no answer to these strange occurrences.
Kellen thought of his intention to tell his father about the curious handprint he had seen on his window. He looked at Caledan, then Mari. Both seemed weary from their night’s travails, and from their argument. After a moment, he decided he would have to figure out for himself what the handprint signified.
Mari took her leave then. “It was a long night,” she said with a deep sigh before heading upstairs to her chamber.
Caledan did not follow her. “I have some things to do down in the New City,” he explained gruffly. “I’ll be back before sundown.”
Estah only nodded, her lips pursed in a frown of disapproval. Caledan paused to ruffle Kellen’s hair affectionately, then disappeared out the inn’s back door.
Midday arrived dim and dreary. A storm had gathered over the city, and the failing light forced Jolle to light candles throughout the inn. The threatening cloudburst kept customers away; the inn’s long main room stayed empty. Kellen sat in a corner, playing a gentle melody on his bone flute while two very small people sprawled on the floor before him. These were Estah’s children, Pog and Nog. The girl, Pog, was the elder of the two; she was red-cheeked and impish. The boy, Nog, was quieter; he seemed to subscribe to the theory that actions spoke more strongly than words. Being the eldest, Kellen often found himself taking care of the two young halflings.
“Today I’m going to tell you the story of the Shadowking,” Kellen told them in a low voice.
“The Shadowking?” Pog gasped, her eyes wide. Nog let out a squeal of terror and delight.
“That’s right,” Kellen said mysteriously. “A long age ago, in a land called Ebenfar, there lived a king. This king was a great sorcerer, and his name was Verraketh.” Lifting the flute to his lips, Kellen played a few wild notes. He gestured to the shadows on the wall, cast by a flickering candle. Pog and Nog stared, wide-eyed. In time with Kellen’s music, the shadows swirled, silently reshaping themselves into jagged shapes that suggested a craggy landscape. Atop the highest peak stood the silhouette of a man, his cloak blowing behind him.
This was shadow magic. It was a rare talent that ran in Caldorien blood and that always appeared in a family member at least once in a generation. Caledan possessed it, and so did Kellen.
Kellen lowered his flute. “Although he was powerful beyond all others, Verraketh’s magic was dark at heart. In time it transformed him, until at last he was a man no longer, but an awful creature of evil—the Shadowking.” He played a dissonant melody on his pipes, and the shadows on the wall responded. The silhouette of the man expanded, twisting into a new form: a bestial shape crowned by pointed antlers. Pog and Nog let out small cries, clutching each other, but they did not take their eyes off the shadows.
Kellen went on in an eerie whisper. “For centuries, the Shadowking ruled from his dark throne in Ebenfar, laying waste to the land all around, for he drew strength and power from the destruction of living things. Eventually, the Shadowking decided to bring all the world of Toril under his dark dominion. Deep in a mountain cave, he forged a stone. The magic of the stone was that it could control the shadows that reside in a man’s heart—for all men have a dark aspect within—and thus control the man himself. It was called the Nightstone, and with it the Shadowking would have the power to rule the world.”
“But the Shadowking didn’t, did he?” Pog asked in a quavering voice. “Rule the world, I mean.”
Kellen shook his head. Pog and Nog knew the familiar tale almost by heart. “No, he didn’t. When the Shadowking tried to use the Nightstone, the troll who had worked the bellows of the forge threw off his disguise. He wasn’t a troll at all, but a man. His name was Talek Talembar, and he was a great bard. Unknown to the Shadowking, Talembar had bound an enchantment into the Nightstone as it was being forged. This was the shadow song. When Talembar played the song on his pipes, the Nightstone listened and would not obey the Shadowking. In fury, the Shadowking attacked Talek Talembar, and the two fought night and day for a year.”
Kellen played a stirring air on his flute, and the shadows reshaped themselves into the two titanic figures, caught in the throes of battle. Pog and Nog were mesmerized. “In the end, Talek Talembar used the shadow song to wrest the Nightstone from his foe, and thus the Shadowking was defeated. Talembar raised a great cairn over the crypt of the sorcerer-king of Ebenfar, so the evils of the Shadowking and his Nightstone were hidden away.” Kellen played a triumphant melody, and the outline of a mountain rose over the fallen silhouette of the Shadowking.
“But what happened to Talek Talembar?” Pog asked.
“Like many heroes, he met an unheroic end,” Kellen said quietly. “He was slain by a goblin’s arrow, in a land that is now lost under the Fields of the Dead, far to the west.” He played one last wistful note on the bone flute, and the shadows swirled like mist before a wind. When they coalesced again, it was in the shape of those mundane objects standing between candle and walclass="underline" chairs and tables and small halfling children. The shadowplay was over.
Pog’s forehead crinkled in a frown. “That’s not a good enough ending,” she protested. “Talek Talembar ought to live happily ever after.” Nog nodded emphatically in agreement.
“But that’s not what happened,” Kellen said softly. He cast a sad look toward the door of the kitchen. “Sometimes people don’t live happily ever after, and that’s just the way it is.”
Before Pog and Nog could protest further, Estah poked her head into the common room, calling her children to their chores. They groaned but obeyed, dragging their feet as they shuffled into the kitchen.
Alone, Kellen ran his fingers over the smooth bone flute. He thought about the part of the tale he had never told Pog and Nog. A thousand years after the time of Talek Talembar, the crypt of the Shadowking was found once more, and the Nightstone with it, and the Shadowking almost came to life again. It was a story Kellen knew all too well, for he himself had been a part of it.
It was Kellen’s own mother, the Zhentarim lord Ravendas, who discovered the crypt beneath the Tor—the crag upon which perched Iriaebor’s many-towered Old City. With the Nightstone, she aspired to rule all the Zhentarim. However, to remove the stone from its resting place, she needed someone with shadow magic, such as Talek Talembar himself had possessed. Kellen wasn’t entirely certain of the details—adults could be infuriatingly vague about certain subjects when they knew children were listening—but Ravendas tricked Caledan into thinking she was someone else, someone he loved, and thereby used him to create a baby. That baby was Kellen, who like Caledan possessed the shadow magic. Ravendas had what she needed.
Though Kellen didn’t know it at the time—his mother had kept him locked in a room in Iriaebor’s High Tower—the Harpers had sent Caledan and Mari to stop Ravendas. Helping them was the renowned Fellowship of the Dreaming Dragon, including Estah, the mage Morhion, a monk named Tyveris, and a thief called Ferret, who was lost forever in the destruction of the Shadowking’s crypt.