Curse of the Shadowmage - Mark Anthony [72]
Since then, he had battled constantly to control the chaos raging inside him. Yet with each passing day, the other woke more often and stayed awake longer. During those times, he felt that his own consciousness was simply a spark awash in a sea of darkness. It was only a matter of time until the spark was extinguished. When that happened, he would cease to be Caledan entirely. All would remain would be the other… the shadowking.
Caledan returned to Mista, offering her the blackberries. She ate the proffered treat delicately, "accidentally" nipping his fingers only once.
The next day they came to the sprawling tent city of Soubar, and he sensed that he had reached his destination.
Ever since leaving Corm Orp, the thing had called him, like a ringing in his ears, drawing him onward. The Shadowstar. He wasn't certain when the name had drifted into his mind. It had come to him unbidden, like so many things did these days. He did not even know what the Shadowstar might be, only that it was the key to his salvation… or his damnation.
Now it was close. Perilously close.
"We're almost there, Mista," he murmured. The pale mare gave an uncertain nicker, then began wending her way through the disordered cluster of tents and shanties.
Soubar was a seasonal trading town situated on the harsh plains south of the Forest of Wyrms. It boasted only thirty or so permanent structures in winter, but in summer its population swelled a hundredfold as merchants, caravaners, and traders from a dozen lands journeyed there, setting up tents to trade all manner of goods. This late in the season, however, most of the wealthier merchants had departed, leaving only the dregs behind-swindlers, charlatans, and thieves.
Mista picked her way disdainfully through the town's makeshift streets, a twisting maze of foul, churned mud that would freeze solid in another tenday or two. Caledan knew the Shadowstar was near, but it was difficult to hear its call amid all the noise and confusion.
Rickety wagons rattled past. Two traders engaged in a shouting match over the price of a cart of moldy turnips. Bawdy music and coarse laughter drifted from dozens of canvas tents. It would take time for him to determine the direction of the Shadowstar's call. It was growing dark, and Caledan decided to see if he could find food and rest.
After some searching, he discovered a makeshift tavern set up inside a rank-smelling tent. There was a small corral out back. Caledan managed to find a bit of musty hay and a trough with an inch of scummy water at the bottom. Mista was not impressed.
"Well, it's the best I can do," Caledan griped. "Besides, I have a feeling I'm not going to fare much better inside."
He was right.
It took his eyes a long moment to adjust to the murky interior of the tent. When they did, all he could see were a dozen unfriendly faces glaring at him. Hastily, he sat at a filthy table in one corner. After a while a surly barmaid brought him a cup of sour beer, some stale black bread, and a bit of moldy cheese. The cost was exorbitant-an entire gold coin-but he needed the food. The fare tasted foul, but he gagged it down.
Finished, he decided it would be best not to linger here. He stood and made his way toward the tent's canvas door. Three burly men-traders of some sort blocked his way. They grinned evilly, displaying no more than a dozen yellowed teeth among the lot of them.
"Pardon me," Caledan muttered, trying to move past them to the door.
One of the men stuck out a muddy boot, tripping him. The three men laughed heartily, as if the sight of Caledan sprawling on the floor were a great joke.
"This fellow thinks he's too good for our establishment." one of the traders said coarsely.
"I think you're right, Goris," another agreed.
"Maybe if he had a little less gold in his purse, he wouldn't feel so damn superior," the third trader growled.
The three