The Shadow Stone

A Forgotten Realms Novel

By Richard Baker

One

Aeron Morieth glided toward the sun-dappled clearing, stalking through the green undergrowth of the forest floor. It was a warm day, and the emerald canopy overhead sealed the heat beneath the moss-grown trees; not a breath of wind stirred the leaves and branches. Sweat stained his homespun shirt and trickled down his back. Moving without a sound, Aeron raised his bow and drew back the arrow until the rough fletching scraped against the corner of his jaw, just under his ear. Eyes narrowed, he sighted along the shaft. He'd get one shot, and he didn't want to miss.

Twenty yards away, the lean hare sensed danger and sat up, its nose quivering. With the quiet perfection of long practice, Aeron released the bowstring. The weapon strummed softly in his ear as the gut string burned his fingertips. The rabbit kicked and jumped, shot clean through just behind its forelegs.

Aeron straightened with a satisfied grin. Rabbit, squirrel, and other small game were plentiful in the meadows of the Maerchwood. In the hot, lazy days of summer, he could bag three or four rabbits in an afternoon's hunt. He broke out of the underbrush, blinking in the burnished-gold light that illuminated the glen, and trotted over to dress his kill.

The sun was hot in the clearing. Aeron shook the sweat from his unruly halo of golden hair and paused to strip his coarse linen shirt from his torso. He was a slight youth, no more than five and a half feet in height, with a wiry and resilient frame. Keen intelligence gleamed in his dark eyes, set wide apart in a proud, confident face that showed signs of elven blood. He drew a wide-bladed hunting knife from a sheath at his belt and knelt by the rabbit.

Sweat streamed down his face as he cleaned the small carcass. In the southern heartlands of Chessenta, the Maerchwood never grew very cold. The summers were invariably long, hot, and humid. Aeron had lived with the sweltering summer weather all his life and was about as used to it as one could get. He finished dressing the hare and looped a rawhide thong through the cleaned carcass, slinging it over his shoulder. Whistling between his teeth, he stood, brushed himself off, and set off for home. The Adder River and Maerchlin, Aeron's home, were ten miles away, but he could easily make it in a couple of hours.

Heading northwest from the clearing, he followed a long ridge of hills for several miles. The ridgeline rose clear of the woods, providing a rugged but serviceable path into the heart of the Maerchwood. Aeron ran in the sunshine, his torso glistening with perspiration, bounding from rock to rock. The ridge gradually tapered away into a jumble of thickets and deadfalls; Aeron turned west and followed a dark, swift stream for two miles more before he picked up a forester's trail that led back to Maerchlin.

The trail wound alongside a slower stream that ran west toward the village. Here Aeron encountered signs of settlement again, stump-choked swaths cleared by loggers and vacant trappers' cabins. The people of southern Chessenta had been harvesting fur, timber, and game from the edges of the Maerchwood for a dozen generations.

The Morieths had been among the woodland's first settlers, more than three centuries ago. Aeron often wondered what it must have been like in those days. In his ancestors' time, the Maerchwood was two or three times the size of the woodland he knew, home to ancient elven courts and untold secrets. Aeron had spent more than one afternoon dreaming of the old mysteries and forgotten deeds of the ancient elf realms; the Maerchwood was in his blood.

Aeron settled into a walk as he got closer to home. Despite his stamina, the heat was wearing him down. About a half-mile from the forest's edge, he rounded a sharp bend in the trail and found himself face-to-face with three young men of Maerchlin, coming the other way. Phoros Raedel was the son of Lord Raedel, the master of Maerchlin; Miroch and Regos were highborn kinsmen of Raedel's, and his constant companions. They were big, aggressive fellows, several years older than Aeron, and he'd been bullied by them more than once. Regos was passing a wineskin to Raedel as Aeron blundered around the bend.

Aeron stopped in his tracks, recognizing his danger. It was too late to avoid Raedel and his friends; he'd walked right into the middle of them. He scowled, berating himself for not watching where he was going. The warm rustle and hum of the forest died as the older lads exchanged crooked grins and blocked his path. This was a familiar pattern. Raedel and his friends would think of some torment for him, and he'd fight back with the fury of a wildcat, but numbers would carry the day. Or he could accept whatever humiliation they dealt him and delay the inevitable . . . but Aeron decided he wasn't going to give Phoros the satisfaction. He squared his shoulders and defiantly refused to drop his gaze. "Well? What do you want?" he demanded.

"What have we here?" said Raedel, his face stretching into a cruel smile. He was a tall, well-muscled young man, his body hardened by years of weapons training in the keep's practice yard. His face was square-jawed and heavy. He and his companions carried crossbows over their shoulders. Aeron guessed they were going shooting, which was a bad sign for him; it was likely they'd been drinking all day and were looking for trouble. Raedel glanced over at his companions. "Look, fellows, it's the elf boy."

"Where have you been, elf boy?" said Regos. He was the strongest of the three, but he was a follower.

"Let me pass," Aeron stated flatly. "I'm no elf, and you know it." It didn't help that Phoros's words found their mark. It didn't show much in Aeron-his ears had the subtlest of points, and his light frame and quick mind might have been inherited from elven forebears-but the Morieth name was suspect in Maerchlin. Lacking any living kin, Aeron had spent much of his youth lashing back at his taunters.

"You heard Regos," snapped Raedel. "Answer him!"

"I spent the day hunting, my lord," Aeron replied, repressing a sneer with the title. Raedel's father was nothing more than a glorified brigand who'd seized Maerchlin with his sword fewer than forty years ago. Money and men at arms didn't make a lord, not as far as Aeron was concerned. He tossed the hare to the ground as proof of his words.

His sarcasm wasn't lost on Raedel. The young lord widened his stance, blocking the path. "Hunting? In my father's forest? Who gave you permission to do that?"

"Use your eyes," Aeron said, nodding at the skinned rabbit. "Small game isn't against the law."

Raedel's face darkened. "I say you have been poaching my father's deer. And you'll have to pay for that. Don't you think so, my friends?"

Miroch, the third fellow, moved past Aeron to cut off his retreat. He wasn't much taller than Aeron, but he carried fifty pounds of beef high on his torso, giving him a curiously top-heavy appearance. He drank deeply from his wineskin. "Stinking elf boy poacher," he pronounced. "Ought to cut off his stinking elf ears, I say."

Aeron backed away, trying to keep the older lads from surrounding him, but there was nowhere to go. "You know Kestrel would have my hide if I shot one of your precious deer, Phoros. Now, let me go!" He looked about, planning a retreat. The stream was to his left and a dense thicket to his right. No one else was in sight, and the relative safety of Maerchlin was still some distance away.

Raedel caught Miroch's arm and dragged him back. "Wait a moment, Miroch," he said. "Of course Morieth hasn't done anything wrong." His eyes were cold and keen as he looked at Aeron and stepped to the landward side of the path. "Please be on your way. Don't pay us any mind."