Feral Shadow, Creature
Illus. Cliff Nielsen

I held my breath and waited for the nausea of the summoning spell to end.When the sickness eased, I saw I was inside the boabab tree again. At first I thought the shaman was wrestling the air, until I saw the shadowy figure clutching at his bright robes. I could tell him what I thought of his timing later; first, I decided, I'd put the shaman in my debt.

Seeing a creature made of smoke or mist was hard enough; the darkness inside the baobab tree made it nearly impossible. Clearly, though, the shaman was desperate; his choking gasps and the ripping sound of torn cloth made it clear that the thing was somehow harming the shaman. Reaching for the closest creature at hand, Bwire had called me back to defend him.

I recognized the misty shape at last: it was a feral shadow, a creature of the alleys and rooftops. I dropped the goat I still held and brandished the Acidic Dagger to send the shadow scampering.

While the shadow and I circled each other, Bwire gathered up his motley robe, checkered with symbols of power, and spoke words of magic to seize control of the feral shadow again. Its weak defenses were washed away in a flood of commands, as Bwire mastered the shadow's will. The shadow fell like the smoke from incense and coiled at our feet.

Bwire saw the goat and grimaced. At first I thought the shadow had wounded him; then I realized that this baring of teeth was meant to be a smile. It wasn't working.

"You brought me the goat!" said Bwire.

"It is not the right goat," I said baldly.

Bwire threw himself on the corpse and slashed it open: there was nothing inside but what you would expect to find inside a goat. He jumped to his feet. "You failed me!"

"I did as you asked," I said. "But by summoning me here as you did, you stole from me the chance to take the right goat. And worse: you stole from me my victory over the goatherd. How will you repay me?"

"I will pay you exactly what I owe, which is nothing," snapped the shaman. "I have bound the shadow to me again; cross me, and it will kill you, slowly." Bwire fingered the edge of his robe and licked his lips. "But I am not entirely ungrateful for your service. I know an ancient ritual of the Breathstealers, one that your elders themselves may have forgotten. It is called Raising the Night. Do you know it?"

My heart beat more quickly. Perhaps this shaman was not a waste of air and flesh after all; the Spirit of the Night was one of the greatest secrets of the Panther Clan. If he knew how to raise it . . . .

What to say? Best to pretend complete ignorance. "No, learned sorcerer, I have not heard more than hints of it. Perhaps the elders know it."

"I will teach it to you if you will serve me willingly."

"Agreed." I said quickly. "But the magical stone is still in the goat, and the goats are back at the monkeytree. We'll need to go back. I know the way. Can you make the shadow follow us?"

"Am I not its master? It will lay down its life for us. Let us hurry," said Bwire. And we were on our way.

The three of us did not speak as we searched for the hut beneath the monkeytree, walking carefully across the darkened plain. The walk was not long, but long enough for the twilight to become complete darkness. In silence we climbed the ridge. I wanted a second chance at the goatboy, and I was going to get it.