Shadowbane: A Forgotten Realms Novel

by De Bie, Erik Scott

  She stopped, seeing Kalen standing near the packs, fully dressed in his gray-black travel clothes. “We’re not giving up. At least—assuming you’re with me.” He leaned Sithe’s axe against his shoulder. “Ready to go?”

  Myrin blinked, startled. Then she smiled.

  Something deep inside her kindled and burned with blue fire.

  Several blocks away, in a forgotten graveyard called Yewblood, a block off Aldever’s, a small, cloaked figure sought shelter from the burning sun as it rose over the eastern mountains.

  “Feh, death,” he said. “But at least it be but temporary.”

  He looked down at his wound, which gaped but did not bleed. The flesh had turned to thick purple crystal laced with silvery veins and golden flecks. Flesh that was not that of a halfling. He thought that with enough blood, it would heal entirely.

  Time to feed.

  A rat scurried past his feet. Quick as a snake, he caught it in his crystal-coated hand. “A new power be rising in Luskan-town, no?” he said to his captive audience. “And we best be about that. But first—” His crystalline eyes twinkled. “Feed.”

  He sank his fangs into the rat and sighed contentedly.

  At least he had his morningfeast.

  BY ERIK SCOTT DE BIE

  NIGHT, 17 KYTHORN, THE YEAR OF DEEP WATER DRIFTING (1480 DR)

  DUST FLOWED THROUGH THE DARKNESS LIKE WAVES IN THE ocean. It swirled in the wake of flashing swords, catching the dim torchlight and dancing with reflected flame.

  Shadowbane wondered how long the dust had lain in this chamber. The gray flecks gathered in a thick carpet might well be the accumulation of centuries. It was the ashes of ages past, of gods dead but not gone, the last legacy of thousands of creatures that must have fallen here.

  Shadowbane pushed the thoughts away as a fist came at his face, moving slowly between the floating motes. The thieves he’d tracked through Downshadow held their own quite well in the fight, not afraid to mix slashes of the sword with the occasional brawler’s jab. That, and they fought in concert like longtime partners. He ducked the punch even as a thrusting short sword grazed his side: a cut he barely felt. He threw off his attacker and twisted right to parry downward, catching the next thrust low.

  In his hand, the sword Vindicator beat with a dull, throbbing heat. He barely felt the slow burn through his spellscar, but it served as a constant reminder of his unworthiness. He could hardly sleep at night without reliving his failure over and over in his dreams.

  He shook the image away and focused on the dust that swirled around him. Somehow, his perceptions refused to settle on one man or the other, but instead followed the eddies of grey powder. Fortunately, his quarry seemed just as distracted, or else the dust would have proved his undoing by now. Was it magic that bound his senses in this way, distracting him? That seemed likely: how else could so much dust linger in one place? It had to be a persistent ward that made footprints fade within heartbeats in this littleused chamber of Downshadow, while the dust remained, replenished by the flesh of the dead—of monster and man alike.

  As he blocked a thrust and twisted around to strike his opponent in the chest with Vindicator’s pommel, Shadowbane wondered which he was: monster or man?

  Ultimately, he would fulfill his quest—the one the Threefold God required of him—whatever it forced him to become.

  “I will make of myself a darkness,” he murmured. “A darkness where there is only me.”

  The recitation of his mantra calmed him at least enough to let him focus on the battle at hand. He parried one man aside with enough force to knock him staggering, and held the point of his sword up to the other’s face. Not willing to spit himself on the blade, that one backed off, and the three broke apart for several choking breaths.

  Two foes gave Shadowbane a distinct disadvantage, and while they were hardly potent swordsmen, even the weakest warriors can overwhelm a single man.

  “Shadowbane, mighty avenger of Downshadow, indeed,” said the half-orc with his pronounced underbite. “Just a man, seems to me. Aye, Cors?”

  “Aye, Steb,” said Cors, a smaller, full-blooded human. “Not scared of just a man.”

  Shadowbane hardly heard; instead, he watched their hands. The first held his sword firmly, while the second trembled. This sign of weakness determined his path: he pointed to the half-orc, his finger long and accusing.

  “Aye?” Steb slapped his sword against the buckler on his arm. “Come’n then, and show old Steb what you’ve—Cyric’s Crimson Blade!”

  Shadowbane lunged forward, his sword ablaze with sudden light and smashed so hard into Steb’s defense he sent the half-orc staggering. Clouds of dust boiled into the air. Behind him, Cors was so startled he hesitated to take the free thrust offered by the reckless assault.

  Mistake.

  Shadowbane leaped upon the weaker Cors, blade cutting left and right like a whip. The man thrust, but Shadowbane brought Vindicator sweeping down as part of the same movement.

  Every parry an attack unfolding, every attack a parry.

  Cors blinked as he stood open with his sword wide. Shadowbane had only to step forward to drive a hand’s-span of steel through his chest.

  Dust drifted in a silent moment that stretched around them.

  Then Shadowbane struck, burying the pommel of his sword in the man’s belly. Cors doubled, and Shadowbane slammed his knee into the man’s chin. The hapless man was unconscious before he hit the floor.

  Shadowbane staggered half a step under a vague pain in his side. Steb had stepped forward and stabbed him, but the wound was hardly deep enough to pierce his accursed numbness. As though he had not felt it, Shadowbane stepped away, leaving Steb staring down in shock at his bloody steel.

  They stood then, the half-orc and the avenger, in that chamber smothered in dust. “Old Steb” coughed and fought to steady himself amongst the gray clouds. His expression was fierce but his stance and eyes told a different story: the small man was filled with fear.

  “Come on, then!” Steb raised his sword. “Unless that’s all you got, rutter!”

  Shadowbane watched, silent. Flickers of radiance died around him as he allowed Vindicator to burn to embers. If his wound troubled him, he offered no sign.

  Steb risked a mocking smile. “I heard of you, Shadowbane,” he said. “You used to be a watchman, is it? But the law in’t enough, so you hunt us scum of Downshadow by your own warrant. That right?”

  Shadowbane made no reply. His gray cloak—tattered from hundreds of such scuffles over the years—swayed gently amongst the flaky carpet.

  Steb’s smile widened. He came closer, confidence increasing with each step. “This where you rebuke me, eh?” he said. “Spout some rot about how you ‘own the night,’ and us scoundrels ‘best watch ourselves,’ and—”

  “No.”

  Shadowbane stepped forward and shattered Steb’s nose with the pommel of Vindicator. The man tumbled back and slumped to the floor.

  Gray motes swirled around Shadowbane as he sheathed Vindicator at his belt. Two thieves lay squirming at his feet, offering themselves as prey for Waterdeep’s Watch this night. He would pass along word to Rayse or Bors Jarthay, the way he had for a year since he’d left behind his life in the surface world and become Shadowbane. By the time the Guard mustered an expedition into Downshadow, he would be long gone, off to take down another villain they couldn’t touch. But not yet.

  First, he had business to attend to.

  “If you’re going to talk,” Shadowbane said to the darkness, “then talk.”

  The long-neglected chamber offered no reply.

  “There’s little point in hiding,” Shadowbane said. “You called this meeting.”

  Meanwhile, he took one knee at Steb’s side, and batted away the half-orc’s hands when he tried feebly to fend him off. Shadowbane had not come to kill him. The half-orc was going to choke on his own blood, and even though he and his partner had fought to kill Shadowbane, the creatures did not deserve to d
ie in this awful place. First, he drew some of the last dregs of the Threefold God’s power into his hands and healed Steb’s ruined nose at a touch. Healing in this way caused Shadowbane wrenching pain, but at least it worked. He then took a length of silk rope from his rucksack and tied first Steb’s hands, then those of Cors as well. It would be inhumane to leave the two senseless and unsupervised in Downshadow, so he fashioned a leash to pull them along until he could find one of his hidden niches in which to secret them for collection.

  “Talk. Or I’m leaving,” Shadowbane repeated.

  Again, only silence and slowly settling dust greeted him.

  “As you wish.” He started to go. “Whatever you had to say, it couldn’t have interested me.”

  “Really, Kalen?” A feminine form wavered into visibility behind him. “Even if it regards Myrin?”

  That name—one he’d not heard spoken in months but had never forgotten—stopped him in his steps and woke a whole chorus of memories Kalen Dren had tried so hard to bury. It had been months since Shadowbane had thought of himself by that name, but of course that’s who he was.

  He raised his hand to a familiar, empty pocket just inside his leathers, over his heart. Until recently, there had been an item there: a folded-over, much-read scrap of paper stained with tears. He’d carried it for almost a year, letting it be a reminder of what—whom—he would seek out as soon his duty was finished here in Waterdeep. But then tragedy had struck, and in the chaos he’d somehow lost the note. In so doing, he’d also lost his anchor on who he had once been: Kalen Dren the watchman by day, Shadowbane the vigilante by night. Instead, these last three months he had set Kalen Dren aside entirely and become only Shadowbane, who ran himself ragged with his relentless quest.

  Had it truly been three months? Had he spent all that time wandering these dark halls, beating down rogue after knave after murderer?

  Much the way the note would have done, the sound of Myrin’s name drew Kalen back through the months of cold justice, back to himself.

  “Speak, then.” He closed his fists and turned back toward the voice. “Fayne.”

  At least she had not disrespected him by attempting a real disguise. She wore the face of a pretty half-elf woman with red hair and gray eyes, a look she had used when they met a year before but not one she wore regularly these days. If it were, he would certainly have found her at some point. But she had chosen to approach him with a familiar mask, and he suspected that was as close to Fayne as he was going to get. After that first night they had shared, in which he’d seen her true face, he was not about to make an issue out of what she wanted to hide.

  “Speak, is it?” Fayne asked. “I’ve heard rumors of a plague up north … oh, did you want me to speak of aught else?”

  “What of Myrin?” Kalen asked. “She made it clear she did not want to see me.”

  “Tsk.” Fayne rolled her eyes. “You and I both know you jumped at the chance to counter her wishes and rush after her—at least at first. What changed, Kalen?”

  Kalen remembered a young man he had met outside the Knight’n Shadow inn, where he had gone to face Fayne in a final confrontation a year ago. He’d left his sword with the boy, just in case: had the confrontation proved fatal, at least Shadowbane’s quest might continue. Afterward, he’d found Myrin’s note and been about to start a proper search for her when the lad found him. This he’d taken for a sign: Kalen should train him in the ways of the Threefold God, as the Eye of Justice had trained him.

  Vaelis, he thought but did not say. I am so sorry.

  The dust swirled, as though drawn to Kalen by his memory.

  The boy had burned for training, and Vindicator had found him worthy. The Threefold God demanded Kalen do his duty and anoint a successor, and Vaelis was that man. At the time, Kalen had told himself he could seek Myrin later—finish his business when he no longer had a duty to fulfill. Then perhaps he could find a new path.

  And then he had utterly failed Vaelis, and all was now dust and ash.

  Fayne drew in a breath, as though she could read his dark thoughts. He saw something like remorse in her gray eyes. “Of course,” she said. “Forgive me. I did not mean to open old wounds. I would not have come at all, were it not needful.”

  “Needful.” Kalen fixed his gaze on the disguised trickster. “Must you torment me with your intrigues?” he asked. “Murdering Cellica last year was not enough?”

  “That was …” Fayne shivered. “Kalen, what happened to your adopted sister was Rath’s doing, not mine. She wasn’t supposed to be there, and the dwarf struck before I could stop him.” She laid her hand on his neck. “Please believe me.”

  “How is that?” He wanted to pull away, but under her touch, his shoulders relaxed. She always brought out a duality in him—comfort and pain alike. “You are a liar and a thief. You used me, just like you use everyone to get what you want.”

  “Yes,” Fayne said. “I am a liar and a manipulator and many other things you could name, but I am not a murderer.”

  Kalen nodded. They could never see quite eye-to-eye, but he did know that.

  “Do you want Myrin back, or don’t you?” She sidled closer, pressing her cheek to his. “Unless you want a different lass entirely.”

  It was the same old Fayne. Just when she came close to soothing his wounds, she salted them with a jest. Disgusted, he shoved her away through the swirling gray.

  Fayne righted herself, waving at the dust motes, and crossed her arms. Her smile was cruel. “Your loss.”

  “Indeed.” He drew Vindicator, causing Fayne to raise an inquisitive eyebrow. Its flames set the dust gleaming. “Tell me where she is.”

  “Haven’t had any of Tymora’s luck finding her yourself?” Fayne asked. “So you thought you’d try Beshaba, eh? Have a care. She’s a shrew and a bitch, I hear.”

  “So are you,” Shadowbane said. “Tell me where to find Myrin, and I won’t beat you down, clap you in irons, and feed you to Jarthay’s dogs.”

  “Ooh, I so love it when you talk naughty.” Fayne ran her fingers through her bright red hair with a contemplative expression. “It just so happens I bear a message for you. Myrin is in danger, and needs your help.”

  He glowered at her.

  “What?” She put her hands on her hips. “You don’t believe me? I’m hurt.”

  She reached into her bodice, then paused, giving Kalen a wry glance. He shook his head and averted his gaze.

  “Here.” She presented him a folded paper, which he immediately recognized. He drew in a rasping breath, and his lungs burned in his spellscar’s numbness. It was Myrin’s note, that he had kept all this time and lost three months ago, when Vaelis …

  “How did you get this?” He fixed a suspicious look upon her.

  “I stole it, of course.” She stepped back and raised her hands. “ ’Twas a moment of weakness, Kalen! I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  “I’m sure you didn’t.” Kalen closed the paper tight in his hand.

  “She was taken this very night, and needs a hero to save her,” Fayne said. “Though I’ll have you know ’twas not my idea to give you the note—that comes from my patron who shall remain nameless.” She flashed a crooked smile. “I would never push you to leave Waterdeep—I’d much rather you stay, where I have you all to myself.”

  Kalen was not convinced. “Your tongue is both silver and black, Ellyne—rich and treacherous.” He stepped toward her. “To you, lies come as easily as murder.”

  “Aye!” She glared at him. “I resent that remark. Some things I’ve told you have been true. My name, for instance. And I didn’t lie when I said ’twas Rath that killed—”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Kalen said. “What we had between us is over and done, whether you slew her yourself or merely watched.” He grasped her arm.

  “Ooh, so forceful.” Fayne shivered with obvious pleasure. “I’d love to come along with you, dear man, but I am otherwise engaged this eve, so … if you don’t mind—” She gestured
to his hand on her arm.

  “Oh?” Kalen said. “You think I’m going to let go, do you?”

  “I surely do,” she said. “Unless of course you think you won’t need both hands for what comes next. I came rather well … entouraged.”

  A dozen men came out of the shadows and dust, shaking off the feywild magic that hid them like blankets. Fayne’s magic, of course.

  “I could use you as a shield,” Kalen observed.

  “My, my, that does sound exciting,” Fayne said. “Alas—”

  The air rippled and she vanished in a puff of smoke that smelled both sweet and acrid. Her thugs, however, remained. They drew steel and waited for him to make the first move.

  Kalen unfolded the paper Fayne had given him. Myrin’s words were all there, the same tear-filled letters he had read over and over for a year—the first missive, where she had told him not to follow, and the postscript where she had told him she had absorbed part of his spellscar and lengthened his life at the cost of some of her own. As ever before, the words filled him with hope.

  Now there was one significant addition. Scrawled across the bottom half of the back of the paper, below Myrin’s postscript, was a single word written in blood.

  LUSKAN.

  Carefully, Kalen refolded the note and slid it into an inner pocket. He had a long ride ahead of him. But first, the dozen thugs—hard-eyed men with sharp steel and heavy cudgels—tensed, ready to fight.

  The warding dust swirled as though in anticipation of the blood to be shed. He could feel it settling into his senses, seeking to distract him as it had with Cors and Steb. This time, however …

  This time, Kalen had a single focus, and no ancient magic would draw his gaze away from what he had to do next: find Myrin and save her.

  And all of Fayne’s minions stood in his way.

  He smiled.

  A READER’S GUIDE TO LUSKAN

  The cesspool of the world, Luskan is a city stewing in its own rot. Once it was a thriving port anchoring the northern end of the Trade Way, but decades of social unrest and rampant crime have left it largely abandoned. Now Luskan is the exclusive territory of rival street gangs, monsters, and vermin. A middle-class citizen of Luskan would be a beggar in any other city in the North.