Shadowbane: Eye of Justice
Page 33
He was right. There was no choice. Kalen raised the axe high.
Strong hands grasped the axe’s haft and twisted it out of Kalen’s grasp. With his broken hand, he could not resist. The Shadowbane without flames—Mercy—held the axe away.
“You cannot do this,” Mercy said. “This is not justice.”
“Tyr cares for justice, Helm only for duty,” Kalen said. “And this duty is mine.”
Mercy turned and fled, taking the axe with him.
Kalen turned back to Vengeance, who lay panting and barely conscious on the ground, waiting. “What now?” the man asked. “Will you strangle me, perhaps?”
“Hardly.”
Kalen invoked the Threefold God, and gray flames swirled around Vindicator on the floor. Vengeance did the same, struggling to hold it. They wrestled over the blade, will against will. Sweat appeared on Kalen’s brow and dripped down his face. The black flames of Vengeance’s armor dimmed as he poured his will into summoning Vindicator.
Then the black Shadowbane launched an attack that had nothing to do with a blade or a spell. He dispelled his black armor, revealing his face for Kalen to see.
It was not a striking face. It bore no great wounds or scars that gave him pause. It was simply the face of a common lad from the streets of any city of the Western Heartlands. He had dirty blond hair and wine-colored eyes, and he wore a smile on his blood-smeared lips.
And Kalen knew him. He’d recognized the voice, but managed to convince himself of his error. Now, there was no doubt.
“Yes, Master Shadowbane,” said Vaelis—his old apprentice, the one he had killed in a dusty temple in Downshadow. “You have taught me so well.”
An explosion tore Kalen’s attention away and made him stagger. He tripped over Brace’s corpse and fell to the floor. Vaelis loosed his hold on Vindicator, and the sword appeared in Kalen’s hand. Then Vaelis seized his dismembered arm, gave Kalen a last nod, and vanished back into the shadows.
“Kalen?” Myrin floated up from the common room, blazing with blue runes. Her skin seemed to have acquired a gray tinge and her eyes flickered with yellow. “Watching Gods …”
Kalen realized what she was seeing: he stood in the middle of a blood-spattered room, with the mutilated corpse of their companion at his feet, holding aloft Vindicator—the very weapon that had killed Brace. “Myrin,” he said. “I didn’t do this.”
Myrin’s expression grew icy. “I don’t know that,” she said. “I didn’t see it.”
Cold seized her—doubt as well as the darkness that she had just stolen from Hessar—and Myrin spoke without thinking to hurt Kalen. She said the words he had said of Ilira, and the way he reacted—the agony that filled his face—told her that Brace’s blood did not stain his hands.
She knew in her heart he was innocent. But in her mind, she wasn’t so sure.
Then the shadows moved, and Ilira appeared. She flinched back, struck in the face by something they could not see. She fell to the floor at Myrin’s side, and the wizard caught her in her arms. There was no burning, of course—not with the shadow she had stolen from Hessar. That had been Myrin’s purpose, after all.
“Ilira!” Myrin cried. “Are you—?”
The elf turned in her arms, and Myrin saw that she bore a long cut along her left cheek. It didn’t look deep, however, and that let Myrin breathe.
Ilira’s eyes started to turn gold. Then she saw Kalen standing among the bloody mess that had been Brace, with his bloodstained sword and her eyes turned black. She sagged to the floor.
Kalen gave Myrin a look, which she returned with sorrow and horror. Her heart went out to him, but even so, she withdrew a step. “I am sorry,” she said. “But you need to go. Now.”
“I understand.” Kalen nodded, then went out the window.
Myrin shook the elf in her arms. “Ilira? Ilira!”
As his heart sent rolling thunder through his head, Kalen plunged out into the night. A cold rain had begun to fall some time earlier, and the clouds now covered Selûne entirely. His lungs heaved, his body protested loudly, and he could hardly see in the rain and darkness, but he couldn’t stop running. Something drove him, but was it Helm’s duty, Hoar’s vengeance, or …?
He saw movement in the darkness ahead of him, up on the roof of a warehouse across the way: a man with a black axe in his hands.
“Wait!” Kalen ran across the wet roof. The distance was far, but with his boots, he knew he could make it.
He was so fixated on his goal that he slipped and fumbled the jump. He slammed into the opposite edge, and he could hear his body cry out at the impact. He felt none of the pain, of course, but his arms and legs felt sluggish as he dragged himself onto the roof. His left hand refused to function, and he had to remind himself that his thumb was broken. When he gained the roof, his spellscar grew powerful in the wake of Helm’s fervor, and he could hardly move.
As he stared up into the night sky, a dark figure entered his field of vision. Mercy held Sithe’s black axe in his trembling hands. “Is this the man you’ve become, Kalen Dren? A murderer? A monster?”
“I have no choice.”
“That’s just it, Kalen.” Mercy bent over him. “What you and Levia and Uthias—if that really is Uthias—don’t understand. You always have a choice.”
“Evil must be pursued,” Kalen said. “Down every path, no matter how dark …”
“What of your own evil?” Mercy drew back up and raised Sithe’s axe, like a headsman. “I saw what you did to that man—corrupt murderer that he was, did he deserve that? Was that justice? Shall I purge Faerûn of your own corruption right now?”
“If you feel you must.”
The rune of Tyr’s scales glowed brightly in white flame on Mercy’s gauntlet. He considered Kalen for a breath, then walked away.
“Wait.” Kalen forced his exhausted limbs to move. Blood roared in his head and chest, his body groaned, but he pushed himself to a sitting position, then up to one knee. “Rhett.”
The man stopped five paces away. “What is it, Kalen? A lesson? The kind you refused to give me?” He looked over his shoulder. “If I’d known then what you are …”
“I never made any secret of what I am,” Kalen said. “I do what is needful. What the Threefold God demands.”
“He demands something else of me,” Mercy said. “I hear him in my heart, demanding justice for the horror you have done this night. And even after I have seen your darkness, I—”
He whirled and stripped off his helm, revealing his crimson hair and tear-streaked cheeks.
“Even so, I cannot. You are still my friend, my teacher, my—” Rhetegast Hawkwinter roared in frustration. “What do I do, when my god demands one thing and my heart another?”
Kalen thought of Myrin. “I have erred in that choice so many times.”
They stood on the lonely rooftop, with the rain scything down around them, for a dozen steaming breaths. Rhett held Sithe’s axe while Kalen held Vindicator. It was not unlike the Gedrin’s dream from so long ago—Tyr against Helm, justice against duty. Then a clang of steel on stone split the silence as a weapon fell between them—the black axe.
“No.” Rhett tossed Sithe’s axe to the rooftop. “Tyr demands we fight, but I refuse. You break my heart, Kalen Dren, but I will not spill your blood—not this night. But—” He met Kalen’s eyes. “Justice will be done for your crimes. We will forever be enemies.”
“Rhett, please,” Kalen said. “You don’t understand what he did. What he meant—”
“It doesn’t matter. What I saw tonight was not justice. It was … unworthy of a man.” He shivered. “If you truly believe such cruelty is needful, then strike me down. I swear upon the graves of the gods we serve, I’ll not fight you.” He spread his arms wide. “Kill me.”
“No. Do not do this.”
“It is your duty,” Rhett said. “Unless you kill me, I will end your quest. Sooner or later, I will defeat you. And on that day, you will fail. Unless you kill me.
Why not do it here and now?”
Kalen found himself starting to raise Vindicator. His numb body wasn’t listening to his commands, but to those of the Threefold God. Had Vaelis spoken true? Was the heir of Gedrin’s legacy not Torm the True but Hoar the Vengeful?
Had Kalen erred, without even knowing it?
Visions of his endless mistakes flashed through his mind. He saw himself training Vaelis in Waterdeep, then he killed the boy in a terrible miscarriage of fate. He saw himself pushing Rhett away, then he nearly lost his mind with grief when he saw the bloody shards of Vindicator returned to him. He saw himself arguing with Myrin, then watched as she blasted his numb body away with her magic. So many failures.
And why was Vindicator not burning him? Surely he could not be worthy of it any longer. Had Vaelis spoken true? Had the Threefold God turned evil through and through? In his determination to fight evil with any means, had he embraced the very thing he sought to destroy?
Could a man stare so long into darkness without it staring back?
In his defeat, the last thing Kalen wanted was to hold the sword. He did not want that burden any longer, not if it meant killing his friend.
“No,” he said. “I will not.”
Through force of will, he opened his fingers, and Vindicator fell clattering to the stones.
Then, as though all his strength had gone out of him, Kalen slumped to his knees, and down onto the rooftop. His spellscar overwhelmed him fully now, freezing his limbs into icy slabs. Had the day finally come? He could not speak, but he hoped his eyes conveyed his sorrow.
Rhett raised his hand, and gray flames swirled up and down Vindicator’s blade. Just as well—Kalen never wanted to touch that sword again. The flames spread from the sword to Rhett’s arm and across his body, cloaking him in fire, like Kalen’s armor of faith. Once they sculpted plates across his muscular frame, the flames turned white, rather than gray. He truly was Mercy—Shadowbane the White, even as Vaelis was Shadowbane the Black.
And Kalen? What was he? Just a sick, weak, dying man.
“Farewell, Master,” Rhett said as he walked away. “You refused to teach me, but even so, I learned much from you.”
“Rhett—” He tried to say, but his spellscar stole the words in numbness.
Just before the world left him, he thought he saw a feminine figure watching from the edge of the building. She floated among the driving raindrops, illumined in blue fire. He tried to reach toward her, but his body wouldn’t move.
Slowly, Myrin shook her head, and turned away.
Darkness.
A darkness, he thought sadly, where there is only me.
MORNING, 3 ELEASIS
Warm light tickled the horizon as Hessar stumbled back down the alley that would lead to his Master’s lair, staring at his pale hands. He opened the sewer grate with the command word to unlock the warding, but paused to look east before climbing down.
Unlike every other dawn for nearly a century, the light did not hurt his eyes—rather, he longed to see the sun rise, as though it would comfort him the way the darkness once had.
What was wrong with him?
So distracted was he that he forgot, at the bottom of the sewer shaft, to speak the command word that would still the temple’s defenses. A set of rusty swords rose from the murk of the sewer and scythed for his face, but he threw up an arcane shield to ward them off until he could speak the passphrase: “Praise to the Reaver, who bathes in the blood of his enemies and sleeps to the lamentations of their lovers.”
The enchanted swords fell instantly, their magic suppressed for the nonce.
He’d chosen well, Kirenkirsalai, in the ancient House of Steel. The temple to Garagos the Reaver hadn’t seen frequent use in more than a century, but its defenses held strong and as far as Hessar knew, no enterprising treasure seeker had discovered it. Or perhaps Kirenkirsalai had slain all such intruders. Also, its location was significant, as it lay almost exactly beneath Darkdance Manor, the residence of Kirenkirsalai’s obsession.
What the vampire sought in Maerlyn Darkdance, Hessar had never understood—until that night. He was amazed by his hands, which showed no sign of freezing darkness. What had she done to him? Had she taken all his shadow?
He strode through the sewers and passed through the secret entrance into the worship hall of Kirenkirsalai’s lair, where he immediately stopped. The sharp scent of blood assailed his nostrils. Had the master fed just recently? He was ever such a messy eater.
Then he heard the labored panting and saw Vaelis—the Master’s personal Shadowbane—propped up against the altar to the Reaver. His blood-filled eyes glared out at the monk as he panted and shivered. The boy looked awful—pale as a corpse, having lost so much blood through his severed arm that he should be dead now. Vaelis appeared to have cauterized the wound with his black flames, or perhaps it was sheer hatred that kept his heart pumping. For the life of him, Hessar could not say why the boy yet lived.
The life of him …
That was how Hessar felt: infused with life, rather than shadow. Myrin Darkdance may have been his enemy, but she had done him a great service in stripping the shadow from his soul.
He was free, with nothing but potential before him.
Was this how the Shadowfox felt? To think herself free? He’d misjudged her, perhaps.
Vaelis gagged, drawing Hessar’s attention, and the monk sighed. “No master to heal you, my lovely boy? Now that the sun is rising, I fear he’ll be gone until nightfall as well. Pity. Such a waste of so perfect a body.” He kneeled and kissed Vaelis lightly. “You taste of fear and death.”
Vaelis glared at him, unable to speak.
“What terrible misfortune befalls you.” Hessar straightened up. “But alas, I’ve no healing to offer—not now that I am a creature of the light. I am quit of you both.”
He turned to go, then hesitated. Something pulled him back. He felt, in the pit of his stomach, a swell of compassion for Vaelis that had nothing to do with desire. He marveled at his pale hands once more. What had that woman done?
Ultimately, though, even cleansed of his inner darkness, Hessar was the man he had always been: selfish and without pity. He bowed to Vaelis one last time. “Farewell, and may your next life treat you bet—”
He never finished the word, for at that moment a pair of dark-skinned hands closed around his neck and cracked it in a particular way. Hessar knew that particular move—had done it on more than one victim. He fell immediately, his entire body paralyzed.
“I wish I could claim to be surprised you turned on me, once-shade,” Kirenkirsalai said. “But your people were never reliably loyal to anything but their own interests. Much like mine.”
Hessar tried to protest, but his voice would not work. He could only gag.
“You have betrayed me three times,” Kirenkirsalai said. “One, in your stupidity, you told Levia Shadewalker of us. You thought to lord yourself over her, and in so doing sacrificed the only value you had—your secrecy.”
Hessar wheezed. Perhaps given time, he could recover, but he had to survive that long.
“Two, you coerced Ilira into your bed.” Kirenkirsalai looked disgusted. “I may be a monster, but I will not tolerate such a travesty.”
He tried desperately to speak—to defend himself—but all he could manage was drool.
“Three.” Kirenkirsalai seized Hessar’s head. “You attacked my child. Mine.”
Fear gripped Hessar. In all his time in service to Shar, he had never seen such rage or hatred as filled the vampire’s eyes. He knew then that he was done.
Kirenkirsalai dropped him to lie paralyzed on the bloody floor. He could dimly see around him several other shadowy figures—tall, pale creatures that must once have drawn breath. They regarded him with all the passion a broken earthworm might elicit. Kirenkirsalai had not been idle, it seemed, and he had plenty of other loyal servants to do his bidding.
The vampire stepped past and bent over the trembling Vaelis.
Vaelis’s lips shook, and blood flew from his mouth as he tried to breathe. “Y-yes,” he managed. “Yes—”
“The time has come, then, to complete your gift. This is a blessing.”
Kire bit savagely into Vaelis’s throat. The boy gasped, his whole body went taut, then he collapsed. Flesh tore, and the boy’s head lolled.
Face coated with lifeblood, Kire turned back to Hessar. “I suppose you’re wondering why I did not kill you.”
Hessar trembled but could not move. His hands twitched with life of their own.
“When he wakes”—Kire smiled through the gore—“my new son will need a meal.”
Ensconced in his office in the Eye of Justice—the office he was borrowing from Uthias Darkwell—Lilten drummed his fingers on the edge of the desk and stared at the coroniir board laid out before him. Several of the pieces were destroyed, while others lay entwined. Entirely too many obsidian figurines stood on the board: the black lord knight, particularly, and of course the black king. It seemed the vampire had the same plan he had conceived long ago: to create a new Shadowbane to wield Vindicator.
“You always have feared that sword, old friend,” Lilten said. “It will prove your undoing one of these centuries—the sword or your cowardice.”
He reached across and removed the black sorcerer, marking Hessar’s disappearance from the game. Myrin had done quite well with that one. But there were still many pieces waiting, most of them black. Had he let Ilira distract his attention such that his foes had closed in around him? In his eternal arrogance, Lilten was certain this could not have gone so badly … unless some of his pieces did not truly belong to him.
He sensed the arrival of his daughter before he could see her. The child had always been clumsy with the Art, even if she believed otherwise. It was not entirely a surprise that she was here—she would be more surprised to see him—but rather something of a disappointment.