Shadowbane: Eye of Justice

by De Bie, Erik Scott

  Myrin kept blasting for a ten-count before she finally released the power. Drained, she stepped back from the greasy ruin of the coffin. Smoke filled the chamber, making Myrin cough.

  “Rujia,” the wizard said, scanning for the deva. “Are you—?”

  A fire-blackened hand closed around her ankle, and Myrin gasped for breath in the burning air. Phultan hissed and hauled her to the floor, where he clambered atop her. He thrust his seared face into hers, his mad eyes blazing. Pus drizzled down.

  “I know you, I do,” he said. “The Master’s mare, and his alone, not to be shared. So pretty. So warm.” He caught Myrin’s face between his hands, and she felt his talons cut into the skin of her forehead. “Now he’ll share, Mare—now he’ll share.”

  His tongue stabbed at her face like a blade.

  Kalen barely knocked aside the thrusting Vindicator a hand’s breadth from his nose.

  Gods, this Shadowbane was fast.

  He was winning, too. Were it not for Kalen’s gray fire armor, he would have rolled dead off the roof long before. Shadowbane seemed tireless, and he fought in perfect balance. The wet rooftop hardly seemed to trouble him, whereas Kalen had to devote as much focus to staying upright as parrying. Each of Shadowbane’s strikes seemed harder than the last. Something drove him: something like pure, unadulterated hatred.

  “Godsdamn it, Levia, help me.”

  Why, by all the Watching Gods, was Levia standing there unmoving? Had Shadowbane frozen her with some spell? His entreaty seemed to snap her out of her daze, and finally, his teacher nodded firmly in his direction and drew out her mace. “Stop!” she shouted.

  Shadowbane paused in his assault for a heartbeat to regard this new threat. Kalen didn’t waste the moment. While Shadowbane’s back was turned, Kalen prayed to the Threefold God and unleashed a matchless fury within himself.

  He lashed out, seemingly slashing in all directions at once. The first chop of his axe hit Vindicator, then again, and then a third strike that sent the sword sailing wide. He brought his axe haft across Shadowbane’s face, and brought the blade around to bury it in the man’s chest. Or he would have, had Levia not caught the axe with her mace, stopping Kalen’s deadly strike.

  “What?” Kalen started. “Why—?”

  Shadowbane lunged and struck him in the face with Vindicator’s pommel. Blood spurted from Kalen’s nose and he wavered. His balance fled, his feet slid out from under him, and Kalen fell back on the sloping roof. Tiles shot out from under him, skittering away as he slid down the slick incline. He groped for a hold, but his numb fingers refused to catch in the sodden roof. The axe clattered out of his reach and over the edge, and Kalen watched helplessly as it hit the cobblestones several stories below.

  Strong hands caught his arm, and he saw through blood and rain that it was Levia who had grabbed him. She lay flat to keep hold of the tiles.

  Shadowbane stood above them, Vindicator low at his side. Kalen couldn’t see his eyes, but he knew the man was staring at him in challenge.

  Finally, Shadowbane raised Vindicator in both hands and hurled it. The blade scythed down toward Kalen’s unflinching face. It bloomed, and he could see his gray eyes reflected in its gleaming surface.

  Magic shrieked in a triumphant chorus—Phultan’s magic, closing around Myrin. She saw his fangs coming toward her face, and knew death was upon her.

  Myrin’s gown suddenly grew warm, and then blazed with light as the fey enchantments activated to protect her. The vampire recoiled, clutching at his seared eyes.

  Then a rapier shot over her shoulder and stabbed the vampire through the roof of the mouth. Abruptly, Rujia stood beside Myrin, her face a torn mask of blood from the creature’s assault. Her eyes burned with absolute hatred, and that anger flowed down her arm and through her blade in raging witch fire.

  An explosion burst between Phultan’s jaws, blowing his head in two in a way that was anything but neat. Shards of bone and burned-paper skin rained around them both, and the vampire staggered away, headless. His hands worked, fingers opening and closing ineffectually. The shrieks of his magic faded to whispers once more.

  Rujia gave a victorious grunt, then coughed blood all over the floor and collapsed.

  As Myrin watched, the vampire’s body melted and dissolved into a fine mist. Myrin sent an arrow of force into the cloud, but to no avail. It drifted away from them, seeping toward one of the walls. He’s escaping, Myrin thought.

  “Stop him.” Ilira stood coughing near the slumbering teleportation circle. “Stop—”

  Myrin did the only thing she could. She spoke a word of command and golden wind stirred around her, raising her blue hair to dance through the air. She waved, and the wind swirled around the cloud of mist, capturing Phultan. She drew the mists into a ball the size of a man’s head, and it roiled with what looked like the vampire’s face. Spectral hands appeared in the mist and pushed outward at the imprisoning winds.

  Myrin gritted her teeth, trying vainly to contain the creature. But the power wasn’t strong enough—she wasn’t strong enough. The vampire was going to break free.

  “No,” Myrin said, in a voice not entirely hers. “No.”

  She felt azure fire awaken within her, and the flames spread from her hands and mouth into the warped air. Her heart raced and her lungs heaved in joy and terror.

  This felt right to her. She would defend her friends, whatever the cost.

  She would destroy the threat. Annihilate it utterly.

  The mist trembled, and the whispers rose into wordless cries for aid. Myrin poured more into the flames—more of her scarred soul—and the winds became a tornado that buffeted the mist like a gauntlet of burning fists and ripping fingers. Her golden magic became angry blue. The whispers rattled for breath, choked in spellplague.

  She had never been so certain about anything.

  Then Myrin brought up her orb, which floated a thumb’s breadth above her palm, and spoke a word of magic. A bolt of golden force seared through the air and shattered the balled-up mist into a thousand fragments.

  And the vampire was no more.

  NIGHT, 30 FLAMERULE

  THE BLADE BURIED ITSELF IN THE ROOFTOP A WHISPER from Kalen’s face. He’d just managed to dodge.

  Levia breathed in sharply. Gods above, she thought. What was the boy doing?

  Shadowbane gave them one last enraged look. Then he turned and ran.

  Kalen looked to Levia. “Stop him.”

  “But—”

  “I’m fine.” Kalen’s fingers scrabbled at the wet tiles. “Don’t let him escape.”

  Levia spoke a short healing spell over him, fending off his disapproving look. Kalen had never liked magical healing, but in this case he had the sense not to protest. As he coughed and fought back to his feet, Levia followed Shadowbane. She thought briefly of the ring, but she’d exhausted its magic for the day—and even so, a second use would no doubt do the same to her.

  She ran across the roof of a tallhouse, its floors segmented for multiple families. She thought, momentarily, of the people gathered below. How many were awake at this hour, plotting how many intrigues and deceptions? To Levia, the game had become second nature.

  Instinct told her to halt, and so she did. Her quarry hid somewhere close by.

  As she paused to search the rainy night around her, Shadowbane dropped down behind her. She turned, a chastening word on her lips, but he put an arm across her chest and forced her back against a chimney out of sight. His dagger hovered over her heart.

  They stood together in the wet Westgate night, chests heaving for breath.

  “Enough.” Levia looked down at the dagger. “Put that away.”

  Shadowbane scrutinized her silently. He slid the dagger into its sheath at his belt.

  “Don’t release me.” Levia spat to clear the rain from her mouth. The warm downpour continued unabated. “Kalen will be along any moment, but we need to talk first. Don’t we?”

  Again, Shadowbane was silent.
<
br />   “Listen,” Levia said. “When Kalen came to Westgate, he wasn’t intending to fight you for Vindicator. He just wants to know what happened, and I’m tired of lying to him. I only lied because I wasn’t sure he was ready.” She stared right into the helm. “So it happens tonight. Either you tell him the truth, or I do. He’ll accept this. He’ll accept you—oww!” Abruptly, Shadowbane leaned forward, driving his helm into her neck. “What the Hells are you—?”

  Shadowbane’s hand rose, his dagger in his hand once more. Levia’s words trailed off and she stared, horrified. “What are you doing?” she said. “Don’t—”

  Shadowbane paused a moment, then brought the razor-sharp blade between them and slit the ties of her jerkin—one, two, three. Slowly, he put the blade away. Levia could only quake in mingled fear and desire as he spread her bodice and reached inside. His gloved fingers felt like bones against her skin, but she did not care—she enjoyed it even more because of the cold. A sigh shuddered between her lips and she stiffened under his touch.

  She could not explain what was happening to her, but she did not want it to end. In that moment, in that armor, he became someone else—someone she had wanted for so long.

  “Kalen,” she murmured, unsure if she was asking for rescue or release. “Kalen, please—”

  Shadowbane reached for the visor of his helm.

  She heard footfalls on the copper-lined roof behind her and Kalen’s familiar heavy breathing. Shadowbane heard it as well, and drew his hand away. He held the scrap of parchment Hessar had given her, which he pressed into Levia’s hand.

  The parchment contained secrets and a single name: Shadowfox.

  “Lead him to her,” Shadowbane said. “Or you won’t see either of us ever again.”

  “Wait!” Levia lunged, but Shadowbane melted into the darkness just as Hessar had done not a quarter hour earlier. He was gone, leaving her alone and unsatisfied.

  Levia leaned back against the wall, tingling and panting in the warm summer rain. Her senses came back, bringing both revulsion and a creeping thread of unfulfilled desire. Her breast heaved, and she realized Shadowbane had left her bodice cut open. She pushed the leather back together, but it wouldn’t stay closed. Mortified, she pulled her cloak tight against the rain. By the time Kalen leaped down the rise behind her, his ugly black axe in one hand and Vindicator in the other, she had painted her face with studied indifference. She tried to ignore the heat she felt.

  Kalen furrowed his brow. “What happened?”

  Levia shook her head. “He was too fast for me.”

  “Did you fight him?” Kalen reached for her, but she winced. “Are you hurt?”

  Much as Levia wanted him to prod her a bit, she refused his ministrations. It would not do for him to find her bodice cut open. “As I said—too fast.”

  “That wasn’t Rhett. That was someone else—another chosen wielder of Vindicator. If he can pull the sword out of my hands …” He tightened his grasp on the haft of the black axe.

  “I am sorry I lost him,” she lied. Catching Shadowbane would have proved a disaster. “Perhaps he could have led us to this Rhett of yours.” That was also not true in the slightest.

  Levia had always known how to lie—and lie well—but a touch of frustration must have swept across her face, because Kalen looked suddenly suspicious. “What is it?”

  Caught. Now she had to deflect him.

  “It’s nothing.” She realized she was still holding the scrap of parchment and closed her fist around it. “Perhaps we are following the wrong path.”

  “Levia, speak,” Kalen said. “What is that?”

  She turned back to him. “Ilira Nathalan.”

  Kalen looked surprised. “What of her?”

  Shadowbane had given her an ultimatum, and Levia meant to fulfill it.

  “I’ve set Hessar to follow her. This is what he’s learned.” Levia unfolded the parchment and scanned its contents. “She owns the Purple Lady Festhall and Silks at Dawn, and reportedly has interests in a number of civic endeavors. And she’s been seen in the company of several nobles in Westgate. Also, she was once a Netherese assassin called—”

  “What do I care about her?” Kalen looked after Shadowbane’s trail. “If we go now, we can track him. He cannot have gone too far—”

  “And if I gave you proof that she and the false Shadowbane are working together?”

  That drew Kalen’s attention. “Go on,” he said.

  “They attacked the Fire Knives and Nine Golden Swords the other night.” Levia read on. “Apparently, she’s quite the social queen. Ties with Bleth, Vhammos, Ssemm, and … a blue-haired heiress who’s taken up the old Darkdance name?”

  Kalen stiffened at those words. “Speak.”

  “Lady Darkdance was seen just this night, along with her gnome retainer and a deva swordmaster called Rujia, following Lady Ilira into the sewers at the south end.”

  Kalen seized the parchment from her hand. He read quickly, and his expression grew even darker. “Myrin,” he said. “She never listens.” His boots burned with blue-white flame and he leaped down from the rooftop, moving with a firm purpose.

  Levia stood alone in the summer rain, her mind roiling. “Who’s Myrin?”

  Shadowbane stood atop the long-defunct House of Spires and Shadows, perched like a hunting raptor among the statues of ancient heroes decorated with the cracks of age and spoor of sea birds. The temple had once served Mask, the god of thieves, until that deity’s inexplicable disappearance a century ago. How appropriate.

  He watched as the two hurried off into the night, their attentions more suitably directed. Kalen Dren had always been easy to deflect, with a little manipulation. And Levia would, of course, follow him. Shadowbane had known about his teacher’s feelings for Kalen Dren for some time and had planned this move against her for almost as long. In truth, Shadowbane hoped Kalen would not come back, but planned for his return anyway.

  Having failed to slay the true Shadowbane himself, sending him against Ilira Nathalan seemed like an excellent way to murder two foes with a single blade.

  The Master would be pleased.

  Shadowbane sensed the shadows moving around him before his contact materialized, and his hand went for his dagger reflexively. Hessar watched him for a time, thinking himself undetected, and Shadowbane let him. He knew well that the shade liked looking at him—a dangerous distraction. Hessar was a liability as much as a blessing, but for now, Shadowbane needed him. More importantly, the Master needed him. For now.

  “It is done?” he asked, his voice thick like gravel.

  “It is.” Hessar stepped out of the shadows and stood easy, his eyes gleaming with a golden luster in the moonlight. He always seemed relaxed around Shadowbane. Amusing. “I have redirected them, as our master commands.”

  “You are sure you did not overplay your hand?”

  Hessar chuckled. “You question me, little boy?”

  Hessar’s words choked off and his gold eyes widened as Shadowbane’s hand closed around his throat. “Do not forget yourself, shade.”

  Hessar was not so easily cowed. The monk swept his arm wide to foil the grip, but when he stepped away, Shadowbane followed with equal speed. They grappled for a moment, as Shadowbane forced his way through Hessar’s attempts to escape with unnerving strength. Then the monk’s body wavered and flowed out of his grasp. Hessar disappeared into the darkness, only to find that the younger man flowed right with him in tune.

  They danced through the shadows together—first along the temple roof, then across the street to the opposite building, down into the alley nearby, then away again across Westgate. They evoked more than one startled cry as the two figures appeared and disappeared with equal rapidity. As they went, their arms and hands worked, wrestling in one another’s clutches. Hessar twisted and grappled with elegance, clearly a master of his craft. But shade or not, he was still a man, and Shadowbane was more. He had the strength of a vengeful god behind him.

  In the
center of Westgate market, a pair of merchants and their dozen or so bodyguards cried out and staggered away as the two men surged out of their forest of shadow and sprawled onto the dusty cobblestones. One merchant fell back, raising a cry of treachery, while the other turned and fled, calling for the watch. The bodyguards drew their swords and leveled their crossbows, but Shadowbane threw Hessar back into the shadows. They raced through the violent shadowdance and came out on the other side of the market tower where the Westgate watch was housed. There Hessar fell on his back, coughing, while Shadowbane perched over him, his right arm crushing Hessar’s windpipe. As they kneeled, locked together in a deadly embrace, Vindicator appeared in Shadowbane’s left hand and pointed down at the monk’s face.

  Steel rang and cries went up all around them, but neither man looked away. They fought a silent battle. Hessar’s teeth clicked and his shade-yellow eyes blazed like tiny stars. Shadowbane stared down without pity at the strangling man. Hessar’s hands crept feebly up Shadowbane’s arm, reaching for his helm. But, finally, Hessar fell back, yielding.

  Shadowbane kept the monk pinned, but he lowered Vindicator—setting the blade on the ground. Choking arm in place, he ran his fingers across Hessar’s face, making the shade’s eyes widen even further in surprise at the intimate gesture. Those eyes held fear, but also a kind of acceptance—even joy at being so thoroughly defeated.

  Shadowbane took his arm away from Hessar’s throat. To his credit, Hessar did not sputter or gasp when air flooded back into his lungs. He coughed only once, then bowed.

  “Enough,” Shadowbane said. “We are the master’s three blades, and it serves only to dull us if we fight among ourselves. Kalen Dren is mine, Nathalan yours, and the Darkdance girl belongs to that … other creature. Know your strike and make it well. Should you fail in your part, you shall pay the price—as shall our sister if she falters. Is that understood?”