Shadowbane: A Forgotten Realms Novel

by De Bie, Erik Scott

  “I can’t teleport us if I can’t … focus …,” she managed. “Kalen, I can’t hold …”

  “Feed,” he thought he heard. “Feed … Shadow … Bane …”

  The words chilled him, but he pushed the fear aside. He stepped between Myrin and the swarm, resolved to give his life to save her.

  Abruptly the swarm gave a discordant jangle of cries and stayed its assault. Dimly through the chittering, Kalen heard Elvish syllables declaimed in a loud, sibilant voice—a song and a firm command. The demon reached toward the shield again, but the words rose in volume, causing the beast to falter and cry out.

  The swarm fell apart into thousands of vermin, all of which skittered and milled one over another. They fled with surprising alacrity, flitting into the shadows and the rotting sewers. In half a breath, Kalen and Myrin stood free of vermin, still encompassed in a shield of fire.

  “Myrin,” Kalen said. “Myrin.”

  Her face locked in concentration, the woman had fallen to her knees and clasped her arms around herself. She blinked up at Kalen. “We’re alive?”

  He nodded. “We made it.”

  “Thank Mystra.” Myrin let her magic dissipate.

  The market was a ruin, even more so than it had been before. Without exception, the lean- to stands and tents lay in shards and tatters. Of the people, only white skeletons remained, lying in the dust. Scores of skeletons—even hundreds. The great kingmaking battle had been a massacre.

  “Sithe?” Kalen scanned around for a distinctive black axe next to a skeleton.

  The air rippled near them and Sithe was abruptly standing there, her flesh and clothing torn to shreds. She wore no demon vermin about her, but from the haunted look on her face, the struggle to free herself had not been an easy one. Now that she had returned, she leaned upon her axe like an old woman upon a cane.

  Kalen stepped forward to take her arm, but she flinched. “I only meant to help,” he said.

  Sithe looked past Kalen and raised one shuddering black finger to point.

  A man stood among the dead—a man not attired in blood and torn rags, like the rest of them, but rather in immaculate, fashionable clothing. The dust hardly seemed to touch him. His purity gleamed in the rays of the sun. Beautiful Elvish words fell from his lips—he was the source of the song that had called off the swarm. His was also the voice that had offered Kalen strength in the Drowned Rat the night Toytere died.

  “You,” Kalen said.

  “Me.” The elf dandy gave them a slight nod. “I suppose it’s time we had a talk.”

  In her inner chamber at the temple, Eden sighed contentedly. She was pleased—and not merely because the other gangs were broken and hers was untouched.

  It also wasn’t just that she’d saved the day, bringing hundreds of new followers into her church. After the “miracle” in the market square—easily accomplished with the ritual that bound the demon to her will—Tymora had become the first name on every Luskar’s lips. Eden of the Clearlight was the second.

  Thirdly, it wasn’t just that she’d as good as crowned herself queen of Luskan. Should she wear a crown? Would that be ostentatious? She wondered.

  Lastly, her contentment had little enough to do with the two men currently serving her pleasure—though that she did rather enjoy.

  Nay, Eden was pleased because she’d watched her stupid brother’s plans crumble to dust. She’d seen to it that he died a horrific death of a thousand bites. Or, if he’d escaped, at least the ravening death of the Fury’s madness.

  Yes, the queen of Luskan was well pleased.

  A knock came at the door and she growled in consternation. She shoved one of the men away but kept the other. “This had better be important!”

  The door opened to admit a trembling woman. Eden had never done well with female servants. They were so much harder to manage than men.

  “Speak,” she said. “And—oooh!—make it quick, will you?”

  “Aye, me priestess,” she said. “You commanded word of Shadowbane, aye?”

  “I know what I said.” Eden was losing patience. “And call me Majesty.”

  “Aye, Majesty—well, Shadowbane, he—he survived the market, and—”

  “He was bitten, yes?” Eden said. “Tell me at least that he was wounded. Even lightly so. A single bite would do.”

  The acolyte shook her head. “ ’Twas the blue-haired wizard, lady—Majesty.”

  It was all Eden could do not to throttle her. A hunger grew inside her—a constant whine in a thousand voices to feed. “Anything else?” she asked coldly.

  “The Dead Rats’ enforcer, Sithe—she were hurt bad in th’ battle.”

  “There’s that, at least. Begone!” She slapped the man kissing her neck. “Out all of you!”

  The servants retreated hastily, knowing full well the price of disobedience.

  Her chest heaving, Eden sat naked and sweaty on her wide bed, seething. The genasi might have contracted the Fury, but not Kalen? And not his blue-headed tart?

  Damn her brother! Ever since he’d been born and taken away her mother’s sanity, his every act seemed dead set against her. He couldn’t just leave well enough alone, could he? She hated him. She hated him!

  And that girl—the one that the Horned One meant to protect. Why did he care about that little slut and not Eden, high priestess of the Lady?

  Why had Tymora turned her smile away and left her with Beshaba’s sneer?

  It must be a test. Surely, it was a test.

  Clearly, Eden had to kill them all herself. That would win her mother—rather, her goddess’s love.

  She gave orders to bring her scrying bowl. She would prepare for a strike that very night.

  7 FLAMERULE (HIGHSUN)

  YOU WANTED TO TALK,” KALEN SAID. “SO TALK.”

  “Straight to the point,” the elf said. “I like that. It shows character.”

  They had returned to the mostly abandoned Drowned Rat tavern to find only a dozen or so members of the gang. A pair of toughs sat in the corner, their eyes twitching at everything that moved. Behind the bar, Flick poured drinks and dispensed rations. Other survivors avoided Kalen as though he himself had brought the plague. And perhaps he had—after all, his plan had led hundreds to their deaths.

  “Myrin,” Kalen had said, but she’d shaken her head and gone immediately upstairs. Sithe might have gone with her, but the sun elf with the gold eyes laid a hand on her brow and murmured a short, lyrical verse. Kalen watched as healing magic, sculpted by his words, flowed into her and she stood a little easier. A bard, then.

  They took a table near the center of the common hall, and Kalen waved for mead. The elf kissed the back of Flick’s hand, causing her to blush as she poured.

  “None for me, dear one,” the elf said. “I’m not staying.”

  Flick went away, casting her eyes back over her shoulder at the elf.

  “Well?” Kalen asked. “Who are you?”

  “I have many names upon many lips,” he said. “But Lilten is the name I prefer, teller of tales, singer of songs, walker of roads.”

  “Lilten,” Kalen said. “Are you an adventurer?”

  “Now that is a much longer story than we have time for me to tell,” the elf said. “After all, you have a city to save, hero. Suffice it to say, I am a traveler like you. I always seem to turn up when I’m most needed—or when I’m least wanted.”

  “Such as against the demon.”

  “Such as.”

  The elf reminded Kalen of someone, but damned if he could say exactly whom.

  “You healed me when Toytere tried to kill us,” Kalen said. “Why?”

  “On behalf of Lady Darkdance,” Lilten said. “But this is not the matter under discussion. There will be time enough for all of that later. Ah. My lady.” He rose and bowed gallantly.

  Myrin appeared on the stairs, looking very weary but at least cleansed of the dust of travel. She seemed to be steeling herself for what was bound to be an ungentle discourse. �
��Kalen,” she said coolly.

  “Myrin,” he said.

  “My Lady Darkdance, what a pleasure.” Lilten took her hand and brought it close to his lips, but he did not kiss it as he had Flick’s hand. “You look radiant, dear one.”

  “Um, thanks?” Myrin stared at the dashing elf like a puzzle that defied her every attempt to solve it. Lilten smiled back. “Kalen?”

  “Pardon me,” Kalen said to Lilten, then he followed her.

  Myrin stood at the end of the bar, where the shadows hung deepest. She had assumed her familiar anxious posture, clutching one arm behind her back, with one toe grinding into the floorboards. “Kalen, I know what you’re going to say—”

  “Thank you.”

  “—but it was my own decision. I know you don’t approve but godsdammit, you need me and … did you just say thank you?” Her eyes widened.

  “Thank you.” Kalen put his hand on Myrin’s narrow shoulder. “I was wrong,” he said. “I needed you and I sent you away. It won’t happen again.”

  Myrin blinked. “That—that was an entirely unexpected response,” she said. “Nor is that quite what I hoped you might say.”

  “What did you hope I would say?”

  “Perhaps, ‘thanks for saving the day again, Myrin,’ or ‘I’m glad to see you, Myrin,’ or ‘thanks for showing me what a wool-head I am when it comes to tactics, Myrin’—”

  “All right.” Kalen squeezed her shoulder a little and took heart in the smile that crossed her face. The tension that had grown between them since their parting seemed to evaporate. He felt close to her and very comfortable in her presence. “What of Rhett?”

  Her face fell and he could tell that he hadn’t said quite the right thing. She stepped out of his reach. “He’s well enough,” she said, her voice disinterested. “We marched five days to Westgate, stayed half a day, and I came right back.”

  “Five days,” Kalen said. “It took you that long to decide to ignore my request.”

  “You only told me to leave,” Myrin said. “You never said I couldn’t come back.”

  “True,” Kalen said. “Rhett’s made contact with Levia?”

  Myrin shrugged. “I never saw her myself, but Rhett looked optimistic when he returned from their moot,” she said. “Quite secretive, those Eye of Justice folk.”

  “You have no idea.” Kalen nodded. “And he still wields Vindicator?”

  “That was what won him Levia’s ear. Still—” Myrin bit her lip.

  “Speak,” Kalen said. “What is it?”

  “The sword chose you,” Myrin said. “You cannot simply abandon its call.”

  Kalen shook his head. She didn’t understand—couldn’t understand. What the sword asked of him … It was not something he could give. Would she even want him to accept it, if she knew what she asked?

  “Kalen, I—” Myrin looked sullen, any hint of former mirth fled. “I have to tell you something. About Rhett.”

  Unease flickered in his stomach, but he suppressed it. “Can it wait?” he asked. “If it’s important, I don’t trust our new friend where he can overhear.”

  A barmaid and one of the handsomer Dead Rats had wandered over to Lilten, where he seemed to be wooing them with some jest or another. He winked at Kalen, perhaps in response to the scrutiny, or perhaps because he overheard his name.

  “Very well—it can wait.” Myrin sighed. “I’m still furious at you, you know.”

  “Furious?” Kalen hadn’t expected that. “Why?”

  Myrin blinked, startled. “You—you still don’t know?” She turned red. “I can’t believe you, Kalen Dren! One of these days, you’ll see how hard it is to—to—ahh!”

  She stomped up the stairs, then paused on the first landing. She made an effort to compose herself, turned, and addressed him icily.

  “I can’t imagine what you’ve wasted the last tenday doing, but I’ve just been hiking through the Shadowfell all that time without rest, and I’m very tired. Excuse me.”

  She went up to her room and slammed the door.

  “Troubles?”

  Lilten lounged in his seat, one leg tossed over the table. His fawning adherents had gone off hand-in-hand toward the broom closet at the end of Flick’s bar. It seemed the mere presence of this elf aroused warm, sweaty feelings.

  Lilten sipped at a delicate glass of blue wine—such a thing as Kalen had never seen outside the richest taverns of Waterdeep. Where had he gotten that?

  Kalen wandered back to the table, his world spinning slightly. Everything felt numb, not just his body. “I think,” he said, sinking into his seat. “I think she hates me.”

  “More’s the pity you think that,” Lilten said. “But to business. I find that the women we love often cloud the issue unnecessarily. Agreed?”

  Kalen nodded dumbly, though he had no idea what the elf had just said. He’d thought he and Myrin had dealt with the tension between them, but now, with the last words she’d said to him, he wasn’t so sure. He remembered a tenday past, when she had slapped him. Kalen noted two creases on the elf’s otherwise perfect cheek, like ancient scars. Had those come about in the same fashion?

  “For now,” Lilten said, “I think you wish to hear of Scour.”

  Hot tears started rolling down her cheeks as soon as she closed the door behind her. She slumped back against it, beating her fists against the grimy wood.

  She’d come back to Luskan prepared to rage at Kalen for sending her away. Then—of all things—he had thanked her for coming back. She’d ended up raging at him anyway. And what she’d said—or, rather, almost said to him … Gods!

  It was all so frustrating! If only she had more power—if only she could remember when she had wielded more! Then Kalen wouldn’t doubt her. Then—

  Myrin felt like screaming, but that would draw attention, which would be worse. She grabbed her grimoire, flipped it open to a simple silencing incantation, and intoned the ritual. A hazy blue glow filtered over her door and walls, ensuring her privacy. Perfect.

  Her wand flashed into her hand and she slashed it at the bed. A wave of thunder streaked forth, sending the bed shattering against the wall. Her pack burst open in a rain of colorful garments. She blasted one out of the air with a conjured arrow of force, sending scraps of fabric sailing in all directions, then whirled and sent forth a burst of flame to consume a fluttering white shift. The destruction was petty but it relieved her.

  She turned her wand toward another garment, then stopped. The slinky red dress hung where it had caught on a broken bedpost, swinging like a hapless doll. Somehow, this image got the better of Myrin and she dropped her wand. More tears came. She didn’t fight them.

  “Lady Darkdance.” Sithe stood at the door, dressed in her ruined fighting clothes. She spoke in words that barely rose above a whisper. “You are well?”

  “Yes.” Embarrassment seized Myrin and she wiped her nose. “Yes, I’m well.”

  Sithe hesitated on the threshold. Myrin wondered if she’d ever actually shared more than a dozen words with the genasi at any one time.

  “You do battle?” The dark woman glanced around Myrin’s ruined room.

  “Only against myself, I suppose,” Myrin said. “Please—come in, if you like.”

  Slouched and shivering, Sithe entered. The swarm demon’s assault had torn her clothes to little more than ribbons. The tatters hid little enough that Myrin blushed to look at her. Lilten’s song had healed her wounds, but Myrin knew the genasi had been grievously hurt in the battle.

  “That can’t be warm enough,” Myrin said. “Let me find you something else.”

  Sithe adjusted her cloak self-consciously. “No need.”

  “Please,” Myrin said. “I must have something you can wear. Here”—she pulled down the red dress from where it hung—“it’s not much, but—what?”

  Sithe stared blankly at the dress.

  “You think it won’t fit? We’re of a size, you and I—mostly.” The genasi was a bit broader than Myrin, but not b
y much. Amazing, how so much warrior fit into so little body.

  “I—” Sithe said. “I cannot wear that.”

  “Why not?” Myrin asked. “The color doesn’t flatter your inner darkness?”

  From the way Sithe stared at her, she’d not taken the jest.

  “Very well—I’ll get the blanket. Sorry about it being blasted in half.”

  Myrin fumbled for the covering, which she wrapped around Sithe’s frail body. The genasi seemed so thin and weak. She had not brought her axe to Myrin’s room. Before she had been a force of death, but in that moment, Sithe seemed suddenly a woman. They sat on the floor together.

  “Why, um,” Myrin said. “Why are you here? Don’t misunderstand—I don’t mind. But I never got the sense you even noticed me, much less—”

  “I attempted to defeat you and was defeated,” Sithe said. “My life is yours.”

  “Oh. That makes sense,” Myrin said. “It really isn’t necessary, you know. I appreciate your honor, but I’d much rather your life be your own. Mine’s complicated enough as it is.”

  Sithe offered her a studious look with no reaction one way or the other. “You make war against yourself,” the genasi said, gesturing around the room. “You wish to forget?”

  Myrin shook her head. “The opposite, in fact,” she said. “My whole life, I—I cannot remember the slightest moment of it. Only bits and pieces I take from other minds when I touch them. I take their memories for my own.”

  “When you touch them,” Sithe said. “As you did with me.”

  Myrin remembered then—the night Toytere had betrayed them, Sithe had gone mad. She’d only stopped when Myrin stole her powers. What had happened to the genasi in that moment?

  “Yes,” Myrin said finally. “When I touch them.”

  The genasi extended one torn and swollen hand—an offer.

  “No, it—Sithe, it only works if you’ve met me before,” she said.

  The hand withdrew and the genasi looked haunted.