SHADOWBANE
©2011 Wizards of the Coast LLC
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Cover art by: Raymond Swanland
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eISBN: 978-0-7869-5935-8
640-37446000-001-EN
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v3.1
ORIGIN
The Gates of Madness
James Wyatt
The Mark of Nerath
A prologue to the Abyssal Plague
Bill Slavicsek
THE PLAGUE STRIKES
The Temple of Yellow Skulls
The Abyssal Plague Trilogy, Book I
Don Bassingthwaite
Oath of Vigilance
The Abyssal Plague Trilogy, Book II
James Wyatt
The Eye of the Chained God
The Abyssal Plague Trilogy, Book III
Don Bassingthwaite
April 2012
THE PLAGUE SPREADS
Sword of the Gods
Bruce R. Cordell
Under the Crimson Sun
Keith R. A. DeCandido
Shadowbane
Erik Scott de Bie
This book goes out to my fellow Realmsians, authors, editors, readers, designers, and gamers alike.
It is only by working together that we keep the awesome setting that is the Forgotten Realms alive and flourishing!
I’d like to acknowledge the efforts of a most excellent group of ladies whose editing skills went into crafting this novel from beginning to end: Susan, Erin, Liz, and Nina. This tome of treachery, swordplay, and divine grace would not have been possible without you.
Thanks especially to my patient and supportive wife Shelley. I owe her about a hundred thousand kind words for all her help, a count that resets every novel or so.
Special thanks to an old gaming group of mine for a special thread of backstory for one of the characters: Gered, Shea, Ben, Zach H, and Zach K. I hope I did you proud!
Also as always, I give thanks for the tireless work of my fellow authors: Ed, Steve, Rosemary, Jaleigh, Bruce, Paul, Bob, and all the rest. I couldn’t do what I do without you to guide and inspire me.
And finally, thanks to the James brothers—you know, for Helm.
Welcome to Faerûn, a land of magic and intrigue, brutal violence and divine compassion, where gods have ascended and died, and mighty heroes have risen to fight terrifying monsters. Here, millennia of warfare and conquest have shaped dozens of unique cultures, raised and leveled shining kingdoms and tyrannical empires alike, and left long forgotten, horror-infested ruins in their wake.
A LAND OF MAGIC
When the goddess of magic was murdered, a magical plague of blue fire—the Spellplague—swept across the face of Faerûn, killing some, mutilating many, and imbuing a rare few with amazing supernatural abilities. The Spellplague forever changed the nature of magic itself, and seeded the land with hidden wonders and bloodcurdling monstrosities.
A LAND OF DARKNESS
The threats Faerûn faces are legion. Armies of undead mass in Thay under the brilliant but mad lich king Szass Tam. Treacherous dark elves plot in the Underdark in the service of their cruel and fickle goddess, Lolth. The Abolethic Sovereignty, a terrifying hive of inhuman slave masters, floats above the Sea of Fallen Stars, spreading chaos and destruction. And the Empire of Netheril, armed with magic of unimaginable power, prowls Faerûn in flying fortresses, sowing discord to their own incalculable ends.
A LAND OF HEROES
But Faerûn is not without hope. Heroes have emerged to fight the growing tide of darkness. Battle-scarred rangers bring their notched blades to bear against marauding hordes of orcs. Lowly street rats match wits with demons for the fate of cities. Inscrutable tiefling warlocks unite with fierce elf warriors to rain fire and steel upon monstrous enemies. And valiant servants of merciful gods forever struggle against the darkness.
A LAND OF
UNTOLD ADVENTURE
TABLE Of CONTENTS
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
MAP OF LUSKAN
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
EPILOGUE
A NEW PURPOSE
A READER’S GUIDE TO LUSKAN
THE ABYSSAL PLAGUE: BEHIND THE SCENES
ABYSSAL PLAGUE DEMONS
THE TEMPLE OF YELLOW SKULLS: SAMPLE CHAPTER
OATH OF VIGILANCE: SAMPLE CHAPTER
SWORD OF THE GODS: SAMPLE CHAPTER
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
17 KYTHORN, THE YEAR OF DEEP WATER DRIFTING (1480 DR)
MERCIFULLY, THE SUN SANK BEYOND THE DISTANT HORIZON, letting cool night reclaim the Sword Coast.
For Duran Ironhand, who had pulled the short stick and been stuck with this fool’s errand into Luskan, it was a relief after hours of steaming heat.
Twilight brought its own dangers, however, particularly in Luskan. Monsters, Duran preferred: a monster was honest in its vile aims—predictable. Most of the perils lurking in the shadows wore the faces of men and carried jagged steel. Duran kept one hand on his coin purse and the other on the war pick at his hip.
Still, Luskan did boast fine sunsets. The stinking smoke had tainted the air, and when the sun god Amaunator sank into sleep, the clouds blazed with vibrant light. Duran couldn’t really say how it all worked—the blue-haired lady had tried to explain it, but to no avail. The wizard tagging along with Clan Ironhand had a kind way about her, but her words often made his head hurt.
His partner Roluf rubbed his hands together out of nervousness.
“Hope they hurry up. I need a piss.”
The two dwarves stood outside a tavern down by the docks at the appointed meeting place. Their contact was a big man in a gang called the Dead Rats. The dodgy tluiners were known on the streets of Luskan for being untouchable, unless one fancied a quick and bloody death in the shadows. No one could say for certain if they were fully men or partially beasts.
Luskan hadn’t always been so wretched. As little as twenty years ago, when Duran had first visited the city, it could still be called a civilized place. Shops opened at dawn, folk walked openly in the streets, and taverns served ale late into the night. Now, however, the gangs—each of them led by one of the so-called High Captains—had abandoned any semblance of order or governance. More shops closed every day, and people hid behind locked doors. Taverns still remained open but, like as not, a man who drank too much would be stabbed walking out of one.
Three men came out of the shadows. Duran fumbled for his war pick, but Roluf caught his hand. “Jumpy, eh?” he said. “That’s our man.”
Their contact was a hulking creature, heavyset in a city whose food reserves rarely allowed such luxury. Must be a ferocious fighter to feed himself so well, Duran thought. Despite his build, he had beady, glittering eyes and a narrow face. The Dead Rats had a look, after all.
“You got what we need?” Roluf asked.
The bulky Rat drew his lips back from yellow teeth. “You got the blades, I got the gold.”
Roluf nodded to Duran and the dwarf grimaced. He didn’t like it, but dealing with the Dead Rats of Luskan created important coin flow for the clan. He opened his pack for inspection. Dwarven blades gleamed inside it—four long daggers hammered from Sundabar steel.
It wasn’t really fine dwarven steel from Mithral Hall, but at least the Ironhands did not cut their product with inferior metals. Times were tough in the Year of Deep Water Drifting, and many smiths in a similar position used adulterated iron from one of the human lands of the north—or worse, the orc kingdom of Many-Arrows. The Ironhands had some pride, even if they had become glorified arms dealers.
The blades sparked approval in the eyes of their contact, who wouldn’t know good steel from orc shit anyway. The gold the Rats carried—four trade bars, one for each dagger—was certainly good. A ridiculous sum in fact, but as Lord Naros had argued, what use had the Luskar for gold? They needed tools that shed blood, and that Clan Ironhand could provide.
The deal was made with hands shaken and goods exchanged.
“Now then,” Roluf said. “I’m for a piss—less you want to come with?”
Instead of snickering, the Dead Rat nodded soberly and touched his laces. “Sign of trust,” said the man. “Men who share blood, women, and a wall be the best of friends.”
“Hrmf—well then.” Roluf glanced at Duran and nodded. “Just don’t watch.”
The two men went back around the corner in the alley behind the tavern, leaving Duran with the two smaller Dead Rats. “Hail,” the dwarf said.
The men’s eyes flicked and their noses twitched.
“Right then.” Duran leaned on the grimy wall of the tavern and lit his pipe. He looked west into the darkening sky and tried to ignore the chirping of the twilight insects and the rustling trash all around them.
The streets come alive when darkness falls.
Death stirs as knives flash and blood flows.
The night is our time.
Five jabber in the alley.
We watch.
One of them rises to leave the others—he has drunk too much of the sweet liquid that fills their cups.
A second one joins the first, leaving only three behind.
We creep forward.
We hunger.
“Agh!” Roluf shouted.
Duran realized his focus had wandered, and he snapped back to the world. Dozing in Luskan was a bad idea. “What’s wrong?” he called, his hand on his war pick.
“Sommat stlarning bit me!” Roluf called from the alley.
Hands went to blades in anticipation, but to no end. A furry beast came rushing from the shadowy alley, squeaking as it ran from Roluf.
The two gang members grinned, sharing some jest at his expense.
“Godsdamned rat,” Duran said. Godsdamned Luskan, too—the sooner Clan Ironhand left the city a hundred leagues in the dust, the better. “Hey, Roluf! You done?”
He heard a wet smacking sound and a moan. “Feh,” Roluf said.
“Moradin’s beard,” Duran said. “What’d you drink?”
The dwarf edged closer to the alley. The Dead Rats, who could already see from where they stood, gaped.
“The Fury,” one murmured.
The other turned so white he glowed in the moonlight.
Then they abandoned the dwarven steel and fled.
“Hrasting Luskan,” Duran said, turning into the alley. “Hey, Roluf—”
What he saw stopped the dwarf in his tracks.
His companion sat over a hunk of quivering flesh that must once have been the Dead Rat contact. One of the proffered gold bars was in his hands, and he was bringing it up and down, up and down, against a skull that had long since caved in. Blood sprayed with each strike as the Dead Rat corpse shook.
“What—what happened?” Duran said. “What did he—?”
Roluf raised his spattered face and Duran saw that his eyes burned bright red. There was rage there, and madness—and hunger.
“Feh,” Roluf murmured as he began to approach. “Feh … meh …”
“Hey,” Duran said. “Stay—stay back—”
“Feh!” Roluf hefted the gold brick high over his head and lunged forward.
Duran cried out in terror.
17 KYTHORN (NIGHT)
HER EYES SHOT OPEN AND SHE CAUGHT HER BREATH, STIFLING a scream in the wake of a half-remembered nightmare.
She lay still in her awkward sleeping position, as though paralyzed on the rough ground. She concentrated on keeping the fragments of the dream alive in her mind.
Most folk tried desperately to forget their nightmares. Unlike them, Myrin Darkdance tried very hard to remember.
A cave. She had been in an empty place of humid darkness that set every pore in her skin to weeping. Creatures stalked the blackness—creatures that surrounded her and reached for her with gnarled talons. There were words that she’d understood but couldn’t remember. And through it all, an awful, beating heart that was not her own …
Her mental effort came to little in the end. The dream faded, and with it, any hope of more answers that night. She reassured herself that the dream may have been just a dream, rather than a true memory. Myrin had no way of knowing—she had awakened a year ago in Waterdeep with only a vague idea of her name. Being an amnesiac could be frustrating.
“Mother Mystra.” The wizard sat up and brushed an errant lock of blue hair out of her eyes and rubbed her head. “That’s the last time I drink myself to sleep with dwarves.”
Myrin was no longer tired, but it was still the middle of the night and her head hurt from the ale. The drink had been very good, and it made the dour dwarves a bit more amusing—both points in its favor. She was in the camp of the Ironhands—a clan of dwarves caravanning from Silverymoon to Waterdeep and eventually on to Westgate. They’d been kind enough to take her along and the least she could do was imbibe what they offered.
Slight mistake.
Not wanting to rise and make her head ache more, Myrin lay back on her bedroll and watched the dwarves by the fire. A musical clan, the deep timbre of their voices carried through the camp every night. They ate to refrains of historical epics like “The Red Knight’s Charge” and “Jain and Elloe.” They drank to the rowdy “Pwent and the Ragers.”
Tonight, the bard Boren—whom the other dwarves inevitably called “Boring,” even though he was anything but—wiled away the dark hours softly singing “Ghost and the Maiden.” It had sounded better when she’d heard it in Silverymoon, but the dwarves’ version lost none of the g
lory and passion of the tale. The tragic ghostwalker, caught in a web of violence forged of his own thirst for vengeance; the beautiful Nightingale, who fought so hard to save him from himself. Every time Myrin heard it, she prayed that the story would somehow end in joy, and every time it trailed off with the task complete but the lovers forever separated.
The ballad was usually Myrin’s favorite, and it rarely failed to instill in her a deep sadness mixed with hope. Perhaps—just perhaps—all would be well despite the inevitable sorrow.
Tonight, however, it only increased her headache. She didn’t want to hear about love, no matter how passionate or tragic. The Nightingale in the story was a fool to invest so much in a man whose quest was more important to him than she was. Myrin had met a man like that and he’d made the same choice.
Kalen Dren.
Memories of him never did her any favors. A year ago, she’d wanted to fall into his arms and abandon thought and responsibility. Ultimately, she’d realized he didn’t love her. She’d watched him kill a man in the street even as she begged him to come away with her. Just like the hero of the story, he hadn’t chosen her. He’d chosen his quest instead. Even a year later, she still felt rejected, after she’d thrown herself at him like a ninny. Now, she made every effort to forget him, with some success. Mostly, she only had to deal with the occasional dream or two. (Which were, unfortunately, very good dreams.)
Shadowbane: A Forgotten Realms Novel Page 1
