Shadowbane: A Forgotten Realms Novel

by De Bie, Erik Scott

  “Good, good!” she said. “Just the men I wanted. Not that I know your names at the moment, but you fit the prerequisite of service: superfluous muscle. Mmm. Come closer.”

  The men approached cautiously and the Coin Priest scrutinized them. They really were fine specimens, if ugly as all the Nine Hells. Just her type.

  “Such muscle, in fact,” she said. “Such fresh, tasty meat. Delicious.”

  The two sellswords looked at one another uncertainly, then back at the Coin Priest. “Thanks?” one said.

  “And not overburdened with brains. Perfect.” She waved one hand over the basin, showing once again the images the coin had shown. “You see? Bring this man to me.”

  The thugs scrutinized the image. “You mean the one who burned the Dustclaws?” one asked. “We could just leave him in a pool of his own blood.”

  “No, no, no—idiots!” she said. “Not that one. The other.”

  The men fell back, visibly startled. The Coin Priest became aware of a tik-tik-tik sound, and realized what it was. She was tapping her dagger against her most precious possession: a two-faced platinum coin, her holy symbol. Without it, she would have no power whatsoever. Tapping the coin with her knife was an unconscious habit, one that often presaged violence.

  That this coin rested in her left eye socket made no nevermind.

  The Coin Priest made a conscious effort to stop tapping. “I mean the Horned One,” she clarified. “The Golden Man. The man in these images. Bring him to me.”

  The men looked confused. “But … we see no golden man.”

  “He’s masked, obviously,” she said. “With his spell, he’ll look like someone you love. It shouldn’t be that hard to pick out a friend in this city. Go!”

  They went, eager to escape that stern gaze, half pale gray, half platinum.

  The Coin Priest turned back to the scrying pool, scrutinizing it. The runes etched into the interior of the bowl glowed faintly with gold—a spell awaiting refreshment.

  With a squeeze, the priestess popped the coin out of her eye socket to splash into the pool. It slowly flipped, end over end, as it sank to the bottom. It was a twin to the coin carried by the hired assassin—the scrying focus. The coin’s two sides depicted the twin goddesses Tymora and Beshaba: two sides of the same woman.

  The pool awakened with power, opening to the Coin Priest’s scrying.

  “First of the Lady,” she murmured. “Why have you come?”

  22 KYTHORN (EVENING)

  AT LAST THE NIGHT COOLS THE STEAMY STREETS. WE STIR, DRAWN from our thousand holes and hovels. The night is ours. It calls to us.

  So many—so sweet. They wait for us, though they do not know us.

  They toss cubes of bone to skitter among the stones—they laugh and carouse. Coins clink among the cubes, blades, and bits of rope. They do things to one another that wrench forth cries of pain and pleasure. They eat and drink and shit.

  We are alike in this.

  There is another among us. He is a dream, but not ours. We perceive him dimly, murmuring from the depths that lie beneath. He speaks of purpose—of meaning beyond the three basic tasks. We dream of faces—thousands of faces that murmur …

  We shake him away and set out into the growing darkness.

  This city is ours. We are this city.

  We feast.

  Kalen jerked awake out of a nightmare, his eyes wide, his lungs sucking in tiny currents of air. His body was an unthinking, unmoving mountain, and he was trapped inside it.

  Faces—he remembered faces that leered at him, whispering of the deeds he had done in this city. He saw a woman forced up against a wall, her throat cut and spattering the brick. A man borne down and clubbed until he stopped moving. Vaelis—he saw Vaelis …

  The terror faded within heartbeats, when Kalen dully felt his hand touching his face. He could feel, that was the important thing, and that meant hope lingered.

  Wiping the sweat away, he looked out through slits in the boarded-over window. Night had fallen in Luskan—the time of the thief and murderer.

  His time.

  Kalen became aware of the sounds of fighting in the alley. Men cried out and swords clashed. This was neither alarming nor even unusual in Luskan: Every dusk, the folk of the city sharpened their blades in expectation, and every dawn, many of them lay bleeding in the gutters. If not for the exiled criminals arriving every day from far and wide, the city would have eaten itself long ago. Like as not, the fight would be over before he could investigate, much less intervene—and such was not his purpose anyway.

  He went about his rituals—inspecting himself for wounds, loosening muscles that felt like rock, sharpening his blades, eating a nibble or two of journeybread. These repetitive exercises usually permitted him focus, but the sounds of battle made it impossible for him to concentrate. The battle was still going on?

  The boy he had been would have ignored it.

  The man he had become reached for his blades.

  A moment later, Kalen stood on the roof, looking down at one man fighting three thugs who wore crimson sashes around their throats: Dead Rats.

  By all rights, the scrape should have ended by now, but the lone man seemed particularly tenacious. He had lost his sword and was fending off his attackers with a stout wood shield. A dozen cuts scored the shield and a single-bladed axe was buried in it. Though the attackers had battered him to one knee, the man fought like a cornered tiger, thrusting with his shield.

  He fought as though he believed he could win. Commendable.

  Kalen was about to turn away when he noticed something in the street. A fallen sword that gleamed silver even at this distance. One of the thugs tried to pick it up and then dropped it, howling over his burned hand. Kalen knew that blade: Vindicator.

  He tensed, then sprang over the ledge.

  The butcher’s shop was not a tall building, but twenty feet gave Kalen enough momentum that when he landed on the nearest Dead Rat, the hapless man took the brunt and went down with a crumpled moan. He rolled off and used his momentum to bowl the legs out from under a second gang member. Kalen leaped on the third man like a pouncing spider and slammed his face with the pommel of his dagger.

  In the space of a heartbeat, the last Dead Rat—the one Kalen had tripped—found himself on the ground, unarmed, his head aching, and alone against two opponents.

  “Flee,” Kalen said.

  The Dead Rat turned and ran.

  Kalen turned to the man he’d saved. He knew him in an instant. “You.”

  “Huh-hail,” said the boy from the Cliffside Cranny—the guard who’d stopped trusty Carmael from shooting him. “You—I didn’t—gods.” He marveled up at the roof, then looked back at Kalen. He held out his hand. “Saer Shadowbane, I’m Rhetegast Hawkwinter—Rhett.”

  “Hmm,” Kalen said.

  The thug he’d landed on was moaning and trying to get to his feet. Kalen kicked him in the midsection. This act had a profound effect on the half-elf lad, who straightened as though Kalen had kicked him instead.

  “Why did you follow me?” Kalen asked.

  “I didn’t. I mean, not specifically, I—”

  “Why?” Kalen took one long step toward him.

  “Right.” The lad swallowed, took a breath to compose himself, then spoke anew. “Right, I did follow you. It’s just—well, it was that or report to the magistrate back in Waterdeep for aiding a proscribed criminal.”

  “Proscribed.” Kalen must have been quite a thorn in the sides of the Masked Lords if they were offering a bounty on him, alive or dead. “Did you come to collect?”

  “What? No. Of course not! I came—” His expression suddenly nervous, Rhett ran his hand through his red hair. “I want to become your squire.”

  Kalen spoke without hesitation. “No.”

  “No?” Rhett looked startled. “But I thought—”

  “You were wrong.” Kalen’s eye fell to Vindicator, to the way the light split in two haphazardly along its length. The sword la
y on the other side of the young man. “Go now. Get out of this city while you can.”

  “Well.” Rhett looked to the weapon. “Well, I can at least give this back.” He strode to where Vindicator lay gleaming. “I brought the scabbard, too. Thought you might—”

  “Wait—” Kalen started, but too late. The boy had already reached for the sword.

  Rhett picked up the blade and held it out to Kalen. “What?”

  Kalen, who had been staring with wide eyes, drew back. “It doesn’t burn you.”

  “Burn me?” Rhett set the light dancing along the surface of the silvery blade—pure and beautiful but for the single flaw that ran down its length. “No. Why would it?”

  Abruptly, silver fire bloomed in Vindicator’s depths, rising to shroud the sharpened steel in a plume. Rhett’s eyes grew huge and his mouth fell open. He caught up the sword in both hands, holding it steady. “By Torm!”

  “No,” Kalen said, his voice soft. “Not Torm alone.”

  Rhett looked up in wonder. “What does this mean?”

  “It’s chosen you,” Kalen said. “It—”

  He couldn’t see Rhett standing there with the sword. Instead, he saw …

  Not again, Eye of Justice, he prayed silently. Not again.

  It was then he realized they were not alone.

  There, silhouetted in the flames of Vindicator, stood a black figure. The firelight flickered around her—and it was a woman, of that Kalen was certain—as though skirting the edge of a hole in reality. He knew her from Ebbius’s description. She was no drow, no human, but a demon of another world—a creature of the void.

  Sithe.

  “Boy,” Kalen whispered.

  Rhett still gazed with frank astonishment at the burning sword in his hands.

  In one hand, Sithe held a long-hafted axe, if axe it could be called. The pitted shard of black metal at the end barely resembled a blade. It was not so much an axe as the purpose of an axe—gruesome, rending doom. She raised her other hand—revealing a gleaming silver vambrace on her arm—and pointed one long finger toward Kalen. He felt the cold weight of infinite hatred descend upon his shoulders. For an instant, nothing in the world existed aside from him, her axe, and his coming death at its edge.

  “Boy,” Kalen said, raising his daggers slowly. “Get behind me.”

  Rhett looked up at him, confused, then turned his gaze. He hadn’t noticed Sithe until now, just in time to see her lunge toward them, her axe raised high. “Gods!”

  Kalen slammed into Rhett and sent them both toppling. The axe chopped down, rending the air itself asunder, and missed his leg by a hair. It tore through his cloak, sending scraps of gray fabric drifting to the ground. Seemingly without effort, Sithe reversed the path of her axe, and Kalen fell back as it tore across an inch over his face. She then whipped the axe upward with both hands and towered over them.

  Kalen let himself fall and lashed out with his feet, catching Sithe in the midsection. As she staggered back, he leaped to his feet. He brandished his daggers as she whirled the axe over her head. Her eyes might have been polished obsidian for all they revealed.

  “Stay back, boy,” Kalen said. “This one is far beyond you.”

  The black eyes shot over Kalen’s shoulder then, drawn to a silver brand of flame.

  Rhett stepped to Kalen’s side, his shield ready, Vindicator burning in one hand. “Perhaps she’s beyond me,” he said. “But she’s none too pleased to see the sword.”

  Kalen looked again at Sithe, whose eyes indeed seemed to be locked on Vindicator. “That isn’t fear,” he said. “It’s hunger.”

  “You’re sure?” Rhett took half a step back. “I was hoping for hesitation, at least.”

  Sithe spun the axe behind her head and held it with both hands over her shoulders. In Vindicator’s light, she was slim—petite, even. She couldn’t possibly be strong enough to sweep that axe around so quickly. Indeed, her fighting style was less about strength and skill and more about intuitive flow—she simply knew how and when to move. And there was not the slightest shred of doubt in her empty eyes. Indeed, there was nothing in them.

  “What are you waiting for?” Rhett stepped forward, his sword held high.

  “Wait—” Kalen said.

  Rhett slashed down at Sithe, who vanished as though she had ceased to exist. The air sucked inward where she had been standing, making Rhett stagger. He glanced around quickly, but she was gone.

  “Is that all?” Rhett looked down at Vindicator. “That’s some kind of sword.”

  “Steel ready.” Kalen looked all around but could not see her in the twilight. He cast his blades about, waiting until—

  —Sithe reappeared, right behind him, her axe sweeping down.

  Kalen dodged, but the axe slammed into one of his daggers, knocking it skittering down the alley. The woman stepped after him, whipping her axe across in a blow that would have taken his head from his shoulders had he not ducked.

  “Have at you!” Rhett lunged, but she stepped past him as though his attack had never happened. Vindicator passed within an inch of her head. Unhindered—Sithe came toward Kalen.

  He had no chance to block her axe, so he danced back, but not far enough to dodge entirely. The axe swept across his leather hauberk, trailing a wake of blood. He could feel the pain, which meant that the chest cut was a wicked blow that should have put him down. Sithe’s eyes fixed on Kalen as if to assure him that the next strike would.

  “Unlikely.” Kalen lunged into Sithe’s reach and caught hold of the axe. She twisted the haft of the axe out of his hands and wove a circle between them.

  He aimed a thrust at her face, but his remaining dagger clanged loudly off Sithe’s axe and bounced off down the alley. The blade had been a feint, anyway. With his free hand, Kalen tossed a vial of alchemist’s fire from his belt toward her. It shattered against the spinning axe, sending a wave of flame through her defense.

  Sithe staggered back, the flames illumining her wiry body wrapped in loose black silks. It might have been a human body, but for the black skin and pulsing lines of darkness that traced her flesh like runes. The fire set these lines sparkling and glinted off a medallion that hung around her neck—a round onyx medallion encircled in a purple ring.

  Gods. The emblem of Shar, goddess of darkness and of loss.

  Kalen lunged forward and grasped the smoking axe haft. He meant to wrench it away, but she held it firmly. “What are you?” he asked.

  Sithe gazed into his eyes but did not react. They stood there, both trying to wrest the axe from the other. They were matched in strength.

  “Fight me, damn it!” Rhett said.

  Vindicator swept through the air, but the silver blade skipped off a wave of darkness that manifested around Sithe like a shield. The woman swayed aside as though her dodge was how she had meant to move in the first place. If anything, Rhett’s strike put her in a better position and the distraction cost Kalen his inside advantage.

  “Boy, I said get back!”

  Rhett stepped between them, interposing his shield and the silver flame of Vindicator. “Torm burn you, Daughter of Darkness,” he said. “You will fight me or—”

  Flame flared from the sword toward Sithe and encircled her—a halo of divine radiance. The dark woman took a step back, inspecting the holy magic. She looked as though she understood it better than Rhett did.

  Rhett pointed the sword at Sithe. “Torm shall smite you, Scion of Demons!”

  She glanced at Kalen with a gaze that echoed his earlier word: unlikely.

  She closed her eyes and darkness swept around her like a mantle—Shar’s power, cloaking her servant. Against that darkness, Vindicator’s light faded.

  She strode forward, her axe high over her right shoulder. Rhett swung as she approached, but Vindicator passed through her as though she were but a wraith. She swept through Rhett, her form like mist, and raised the axe over Kalen. He tried to dodge, but he picked the wrong direction. The blade lit fire down his left
leg. He’d felt every ounce of that, which meant she’d cut deeply indeed. He fell to the ground as she brought the blade around for a finishing blow.

  Suddenly silver radiance flared around the dark warrior’s body, bursting through her shielding darkness and setting her silk garb aflame. She faltered and her axe cleaved the cobbles next to Kalen’s face, skipping out of her hands. Sithe staggered back, batting at the flames that caught at her clothing. For the first time, she looked startled.

  The silver halo pulsed, as did the sword in Rhett’s hand.

  Finally, Sithe spoke: “Very well.” Her voice chilled Kalen as the coldest winter never could. He felt the weight of her wrath lift from him, shifting to Rhett.

  “Run, boy!” Kalen said. “Run!”

  She loped toward Rhett, claiming her axe as she bounded past.

  For all his strength and Vindicator’s power, the boy lasted only heartbeats against Sithe. With his shield, he smashed aside her initial strike, but that had been a feint. In a fluid motion, she raised the butt of her axe over his shield and slammed it into his face, then leaped forward and kicked him in the chest as he reeled back against the butcher’s shop.

  Sithe let one hand fall from her axe, the better to grasp Rhett’s sword wrist and hammer Vindicator free against the withered bricks. The blade bounced end over end across the alley. The radiance instantly fled from around Sithe, freeing her of its grip.

  Sithe wasn’t done with the boy. She flowed from disarming him to elbowing him in the face. Rhett’s nose trailed blood as his head jerked to the side.

  Kalen had one chance and he took it.

  As Rhett slumped, Sithe danced away, moving with immortal grace. She took a two-handed hold on her axe and brought the ugly thing around, scything for his neck.

  Kalen lunged between them, Vindicator raised.

  Steel shrieked against steel as black axe exploded into fiery sword. Any mortal weapon would have shattered, but Vindicator held firm. Kalen strained to keep Sithe at bay. The woman looked into his eyes—darkness staring into him—then leaped back, bringing her axe around.