Shadowbane: A Forgotten Realms Novel

by De Bie, Erik Scott

  The two women squared off in the middle of a room full of thugs. Eden wore heavy armor and hefted her flail. Myrin held only her dagger-long wand of gray wood. Blues runes glowed on her skin, however—great magic waiting to be called forth.

  Myrin moved first, lashing out with her wand like a whip. Thunder crackled, knocking Eden half a step back. She should have gone flying, Kalen thought, but the magic drained away into the platinum coin in Eden’s eye socket. Movement suddenly seemed easier for the woman—her twisted leg hardly seemed to trouble her.

  “You are overmatched, girl,” Eden said. “Best to kneel and take your punishment with some dignity.”

  Myrin responded with an arrow of magical force, which Eden deflected with her raised buckler. The magic flowed around and into Eden’s coin. She rolled with the blast and came forward in a rush, grinning madly.

  The wizard threw up her free hand and summoned a shield of blue force to deflect Eden’s flail. The barbed heads crackled against the magic, but Eden wasn’t done—she lunged in and bashed Myrin viciously across the face with her shield. The younger woman staggered back, blood streaming from her split lip. Eden laughed.

  Myrin came back up with a ray of freezing blue light that struck Eden’s shield. Frost spread along the woman’s arm toward her face. With a curse, Eden swung her flail at Myrin, but the woman foresaw its path and dodged out of the way.

  When Eden brought the flail around her head for a second blow, Myrin tried to block with her conjured shield. The flail crunched through, however, shattering Myrin’s magic and sending her staggering to the side.

  “You let me know,” Eden said, “when you’ve had enough.”

  Calling aloud in a whirlwind voice, Myrin whipped her wand over her head, summoning a small tornado that swept around Eden—then dissipated to no effect around her. Eden’s platinum eye-coin glowed vividly, its light dissolving Myrin’s spells. Myrin struck with a bolt of force that cut through her armor, but Eden simply pressed her hand to the wound and healed herself with a slight golden glow.

  “My goddess is far more powerful than your magic could ever be,” Eden said. “Just as my arm is more powerful than your whole body!”

  She slammed the flail down like a hammer and Myrin barely dodged to the side. She sent Eden back with a wave of thunder. Heaving, she chanted another spell.

  “Myrin is greater than this,” Sithe said. “I have seen her wield greater magic.”

  Kalen shook his head. “She can only prepare so many spells—if she casts them all now, we cannot defeat Scour and neither can we retreat. This is our only chance.”

  No chance at all, he thought, if they all died here.

  As if Sithe could read Kalen’s thoughts, she put a hand on his. He found that so strange—in his memory, she’d never touched him, except on the rooftop during their final duel. It hardly seemed to occur to her that physical contact could be comforting.

  He clasped her hand tighter.

  Myrin was barely keeping ahead of Eden, backpedaling and scrambling around. If she weren’t able to read the priestess’s moves, she would have been slain long ago. Kalen’s one-eyed sister laughed as she chased the wizard in circles, lashing out with her flail.

  “Sooner or later, sweetling,” Eden said. “Sooner or later, you won’t be able to run anymore.”

  “Who’s running?”

  Myrin wheeled on Eden with a burst of fire from her fingers, which the priestess met with her shield. The wizard poured her power into the swelling fan of flames, but Eden stood firm, her coin absorbing the magic.

  Kalen’s heart sank. This was it.

  Indeed, after a moment, Eden strode forward against Myrin’s magic. Blue runes erupted all over Myrin’s body and sweat poured down her brow, but it just wasn’t enough. Pushing the fire away, Eden closed in and dealt Myrin a heavy blow with her flail. The younger woman managed to dodge enough that the flail hit her shoulder rather than her forehead, but she went down to her knees all the same.

  “Ha!” Eden cried. “Pathetic!”

  Myrin tried to raise her wand, but golden light burst from Eden’s coin, paralyzing the young wizard. The wand slipped from Myrin’s nerveless fingers.

  Eden raised her gnarled leg, set the foot on Myrin’s chest, and pushed. The wizard slumped to the murky stone like a felled tree.

  All around them, Eden’s men raised their weapons and cheered.

  Kalen felt his spellscar surge toward her in desperate longing. She was going to die and he was going to watch. He almost moved, but then he saw Myrin coughing back into wakefulness. Hope remained in the gleam of her pale blue eyes.

  He found, at that moment, that he believed in her.

  “The goddess declares her chosen victor,” Eden said.

  “Queen Eden!” a cry rose, followed by shouts of “Queen!” and “Tymora!”

  On the floor, Myrin shook herself back to her senses. On her hands and knees, she crawled toward Eden. At first, Kalen despaired, thinking she meant to abase herself before his sister. Then he realized, as her fingers groped along the filthy floor, that she was going for her wand, which lay at Eden’s feet. The queen of Luskan hadn’t noticed.

  “A darkness,” Myrin murmured. “A darkness where there is only me …”

  Kalen recognized his own mantra. She must have heard him utter it—or seen it in his memory. Looking at her now, he thought he had never before met Myrin—not truly.

  Blood dripped from her nose and muck caked her blue hair. Myrin groped for her wand and her fingers caught at the tip of it.

  A heavy boot fell on the wand and snapped it with a great crack. Startled, Myrin peered up at Eden, who promptly kicked her in the face. Blood and spittle flew. Myrin rolled onto her back, coughing and wheezing.

  “See what becomes of the Lady’s enemies!” Eden cried to her followers in the common hall. “The power of the goddess is mine alone, now and forever!”

  The assembled zealots raised their hands in salute and cried out her name.

  Blades or no, Kalen was going in there. He stepped forward, but Sithe stayed him with a hand on his arm. “Wait,” she said.

  “Eden’s going to kill her,” Kalen hissed.

  “That woman is stronger than either of us,” Sithe said. “Wait.”

  Sure enough, the blue-haired wizard was getting to her knees. Her runes were diminished, her hair tangled, and her clothes ruined, but her eyes burned.

  Eden strode forward and kicked her in the belly, putting her back down.

  “Ha,” Myrin said, coughing—and laughing. “Is that all? Ha ha!”

  “You laugh?” Eden bent low. “Can you even stand, you useless chit of a girl?”

  “Nay.” Myrin spat blood. “But I’ve fought you and hurt you badly. And if a useless chit of a girl can do it, how long do you think you’ll last, Queen Eden?”

  She reached up and her fingers trailed across Eden’s brow. They lit, Kalen saw, with blue runes. Eden looked momentarily dazed, then shook it away.

  “Longer than you, at least.” Eden stood and raised her flail.

  Gold light burst in the air between them and the priestess faltered in her killing strike. The gathered thugs drew back, awe written on their faces.

  “What?” Eden asked. “No. It’s not—no!”

  Gold light swirled around Myrin’s limbs, soothing her aches, erasing her bruises, and closing her wounds. This power was not arcane but divine: Tymora’s power.

  “I am your daughter, not her,” Eden said, her eyes wide. “Not her, goddess!”

  When it was ended, Myrin stood once more, the marks of battle gone, as though they had never been. Her eyes opened and she smiled like Tymora herself. “I have a demon to kill,” she said to Eden. “Go rule your little city.”

  The priestess backed away, her lip trembling. The flail fell from her limp hand. She uttered a strangled cry and fled. Faces uncertain, her men poured out behind her.

  Myrin stood alone, tingling with golden light, rocking on her feet.
Kalen dashed forward and caught her before she could sway over and fall.

  “Thanks,” Myrin said, pressing her face into his chest. “I’m just glad that worked. I don’t think I could manage to take any more of that godsburned flail.”

  “That—that was—”

  “What?” Myrin looked up at him—for approval or challenge. “What was it?”

  Finally, seeing Sithe watching, Kalen could collect his thoughts.

  “That was utterly stupid,” Kalen said. “That was your plan? Defeating her by letting her beat you almost to death? Amazingly stupid.”

  “Oh, was it?” Myrin pulled away and crossed her arms. She gave him a pointed and defiant look. “I learned from the best, you know.”

  “That’s an exaggeration.”

  “ ‘Oh, no—danger!’ ” she said, imitating his voice with surprising accuracy. “ ‘Don’t worry, Myrin—I’ll block it with my face!’ ”

  Kalen scowled, though he couldn’t dispute the truth behind her words. He would suffer any wound to save her from the same. “Regardless,” he said. “I’m glad you won.”

  “Close.” She paused. “How about ‘Thanks for saving our lives again, Myrin’? Eh?”

  “That too.”

  “Well.” Looking content, Myrin laid her head on his shoulder. Her golden aura dimmed. “If it’s all the same to you, I’ll let you take the beating next time. That was quite painful.”

  Kalen’s mouth worked, but he could utter no words. Not while Myrin’s warm body leaned on him for support. Finally, he gave in to the silence and put his arm around her.

  Sithe cleared her throat, interrupting their moment. “And now?”

  “Kill Scour.” Kalen nodded grimly. “Assuming we can find that damned elf.”

  “So.” Lilten stood among them once more, quite as though he’d been there the whole time. His very presence illuminated the room in soft light. “That was exciting, wasn’t it?”

  “You.” All of Kalen’s contentment drained away and he reached for the sun elf, but Sithe stepped in the way. He shot a glare at Lilten. “You led us into a trap.”

  “Perhaps he did, perhaps he did not,” Sithe said. “Either way, we need him.”

  “The lady makes a fine point,” Lilten said. “And recall, I need you to slay Scour for me. You can’t very well do that if you’re dead at the point of a Tymoran heretic’s sword. Speaking of which—” He picked up one of the fallen blades and turned it over in his hands. He sang a brief melody and it lit with seeking magic. He nodded. “As I thought.” The magic dimmed and the blade turned to dust in his hand. “Eden and her flunkies will trouble us no more. Are we ready to—ah.”

  Sithe scythed her axe toward his throat, stopping only a thumb’s breadth away. “We need you,” Sithe said. “But not intact.”

  Lilten’s smile remained. “I see we’re to have a conversation,” he said.

  “We’ll move on, but not before answers,” Kalen said. “If you did not bring Eden, how did she find us? Who are you and what is this game you play?”

  “As to the first, well, you don’t think you’re particularly subtle, do you? I suspect Eden’s been watching you since the market. As to the second and third”—Lilten shrugged—“would you settle for my healing your wounds as a show of good faith?”

  “How does that prove anything?” Kalen asked.

  “Every ounce of your strength makes it just that much harder for me to kill you?”

  Kalen might have protested, but Myrin put a hand on his arm. He saw the gash across her brow from Eden’s shield—it hadn’t healed fully—and he nodded.

  “Very well,” Kalen said. “But I will be watching.”

  “Promises, promises.” With a sly wink, Lilten turned to Myrin. “My lady, you acquitted yourself quite well, but you seem to be short a weapon, no?”

  Sadly, Myrin looked at the broken halves of her wand on the floor.

  “Perhaps you’ll consider carrying this. I should be very honored.”

  His hand opened to reveal a crystal ball that glowed with an inner blue mist. It was sized exactly for Myrin’s hand.

  “What—what is that?” Myrin reached for the orb, seemingly without thinking.

  “A weapon,” Lilten said. “It belonged to a great wizard for whom I once did a service. As I have no use for it, I thought I should pass it to one who is worthy.”

  “We don’t want anything from you,” Kalen said.

  “Kalen!” Myrin nudged him in the ribs. “I am honored, sir.”

  Lilten gave it to her and she gazed into its depths, blinking only after a long time.

  “May it do better service to you than me,” he said. “Now, healing, yes?”

  He sang sweet chords and the magic in his words caused their wounds to heal and their weariness to vanish. Kalen had felt only a gnawing ache from the arrow, but now even that vanished. If he listened hard, he could almost make out the words of Lilten’s song—something lyrical and Elvish and deeply sad.

  When he was done, Lilten picked up his grimy package and turned to a passage Kalen had not noticed before. “Follow,” he said, and he walked into the darkness.

  7 FLAMERULE (NIGHT)

  THE CONSTANT DRONE OF THE SWARM DEMON WAS GIVING Myrin the great goddess of all headaches. The pains of her beating from Eden had faded—thanks to the spell she’d borrowed from the Coin Priest and to Lilten’s magic—but the ceaseless hum seeped into every pore. Once, it seemed to grow louder and her heart thundered a dozen times before she recognized it as the rattle of her own teeth.

  Gods. If they didn’t find either death or escape soon, she would go mad.

  The passages, lit only by Kalen’s flickering torch, were treacherous. More than once, they slipped on mounds of things better left unidentified. They saw claw marks on the stone and gnawed bits of wood and rubble, but not a single living creature. Luskan’s sewers had become crypts, devoid of life. Perhaps Scour had subsumed it all—or devoured it.

  Lilten led them through a crumbling archway, down a tunnel deeper into the earth. It grew oppressively warm as they descended and Myrin’s thoughts grew heady in the thick air. It wasn’t just the orb, which pulsed warmly in her belt pouch as she walked. Dull heat spread through her body, making her anxious and fidgety. She found her eye drawn to her companions. She watched how they moved in the torchlit darkness—the curves of their bodies—and a hunger descended upon her: the hunger to take and possess.

  “Be wary, hero.” Lilten touched Kalen on the shoulder with his lithe, gloved hand. “The magic of dark and alluring rituals lingers about this place.”

  Myrin—who had found herself picturing Kalen and Lilten in quite the same pose with many fewer clothes—knew exactly what he meant. When Kalen turned to her, she looked down and away, less ashamed of what she might see in his eyes than afraid. Instead, she saw Sithe walking beside her and found herself rather appreciating the genasi’s body. Those black lips looked rather tempting of a sudden.

  “Focus,” Myrin told herself. “Remember the imminent death.”

  That helped.

  The chambers through which they strode showed signs of violence. Moldering skeletons were strewn throughout the halls, fallen in battle many years past. The party picked its way among the detritus of an old compound of some sort—complete with a barracks, dining hall, and a midden for residents to relieve themselves. Only bones attended the chamber.

  The tunnel opened into what might once have been a bedchamber. Rot had claimed most of the furnishings, but Kalen recognized the remnants of a bed covered in dusty, mold-blackened blankets. The walls abounded with manacles on chains, all of which hung open. A great black stain marred the floor, as of long-dried blood.

  The chamber seemed familiar to Myrin, like a dark dream recalled from long ago. “I know this place,” she said.

  “Do you, my lady?” Lilten looked at her, unsettled. “I think you must be mistaken.”

  “No,” Myrin said, staring down at the black stain. “No, I’m s
ure of it.”

  She closed her eyes and focused. At her bidding, the dust rose from the floor and collected itself into swirling blue-white images: a man stood between two arguing women. A spell struck down the man and a crossbow bolt burst through the heart of one woman, who fell in the center of the chamber—right over the dark stain. She twitched and finally went still.

  She remembered them: A demon cultist—the elf Cythara—and her brother—Yldar. The one who had come between them was Lady Ilira, though Yldar had called her something else. And where was Fayne, whose eyes had been the vantage point of the memory. She concentrated, willing more magic to come—

  Suddenly, her magic fell apart, quite as thought it had never been. She lost her focus and the dust fell to the floor. “Huh,” she said. “What—?”

  “Fascinating,” Lilten said. “To my considerable knowledge, Lady Myrin has never been in this chamber. I believe you both know several folk who have, however.”

  He whistled and the dust that had formed Myrin’s players swirled again. Figures reformed, taking on a crimson cast, chained to the walls. Five of them materialized: a dwarf, an elf, a human, and two halflings. The last two were alike in size and in face.

  Kalen abruptly rounded on Lilten. “Why have you brought me here?”

  “Kalen, calm—” Myrin said, but stopped when he turned to her, his eyes blazing.

  “This is the cult—the demon cult that—” he said, words falling madly from his lips. “Cellica—Toytere, too!” Kalen motioned to the wall. “They were tortured here.”

  Myrin’s face felt cold. “Gods,” she said. “I—I didn’t know—”

  “Talk, trickster.” Kalen released the torch and drew and pointed with a dagger. “Who are you? Is this some game?”

  Lilten stared at him, unconcerned. “I assure you, this is no game,” he said. “I have not lied to you about my intentions or my desires. I want you to kill Scour.”

  “And have it return the favor and kill us, is that it?” Kalen looked down at the package Lilten carried. “Enough of your secrets.”