Then Shadowbane saw irritation flash across the dwarf’s face, signaling that the duel no longer amused him. The dwarf dropped low, knees bent, hands at his stomach. Shadowbane pulled Vindicator back to block.
Putting all the force in his compact, powerful body into one blow, Rath slammed the heels of his palms into the flat of Shadowbane’s sword as though it were a shield. The blade slammed into Shadowbane’s chest, and the force sent him back through the air and onto one knee. As though with a great maul, the dwarf had knocked him a full dagger toss away.
His face calm, Rath looked down at his black robe, where Vindicator had cut a single slash below his simple wool belt. He fingered the cut, frowning.
Shadowbane coughed and levered himself up on the sword.
“You yet stand.” Rath rose, a smile on his smooth, handsome face. “Good.”
Calling on the power of his boots to enhance his leap, Shadowbane lunged, crossing the distance in one great step, and slashed down, as though to cut his foe in two.
Vindicator sliced only air and sparked off the stone as Rath leaped. The dwarf wrapped his legs around Shadowbane’s head, twisted, and tossed the knight back—this time even farther. Shadowbane rolled as he landed and kicked onto his feet.
The dwarf landed lightly and beckoned with one languorous hand.
Shadowbane obliged. He darted forward, sword reversed as though for a high thrust. Rath sidestepped, just as Shadowbane expected. Exploding out of the feint, he spun toward the dwarf, slashing out and across rather than thrusting.
He had not expected the dwarf to be so fast. Rath ducked and, capitalizing on his low gravity, plowed into Shadowbane, driving him out of his spin and onto the ground.
The knight tried to rise, but Rath leaped onto the flat of Vindicator, which lay across his chest. He shifted his feet, caught the sword between his toes, and kicked it away, where it skittered into the shadows, its light still blazing.
Rath’s eyes weren’t amused. He bent down, pulling back his fist to crush Shadowbane’s head against the stone. “Enough of this,” he said.
“I agree,” said a feminine voice from behind them.
Rath and Shadowbane looked, and there stood Lorien Dawnbringer, divine radiance shrouding her. If she had been lovely before, she was now truly beautiful—fantastically so, glowing with a force and grace not given to mortals. Shadowbane could not look directly at her.
The dwarf danced off Shadowbane and leaped toward her, but then stopped and lowered his fist, unable to approach her aura of majesty.
“Run,” Lorien said, and her words bore the weight of royal command. “Flee this place as fast as you can, and do not stop running until your legs fail you.”
The dwarf shivered, fighting against her will.
“Run!” Lorien commanded again.
With an angry snarl, the dwarf turned and streaked toward the east tunnel. He moved so fast and with such grace that Shadowbane could hardly believe him a mortal creature.
He looked up. The priestess’s figure no longer seemed quite as bright, but she was still almost blindingly beautiful. She reached toward him. “Lorien,” she said.
“Shadowbane.” He stared at her proffered hand.
“Come,” she said. “I shan’t hurt you—you just saved me, did you not?”
“You—” he said. “You’re not going to command me to remove my helm, or the like?”
She laughed then, and the sound was like cascading water in a nymph’s cove. “Of course not,” she said. “If you’re wearing that helm, then you must have your reasons. Though”—she pursed her lips—“though it isn’t horrible scarring, is it? That would almost be a chapbook, right there. The priestess and the masked horror.”
She grinned, and Shadowbane realized it was a jest. Warily, he put his hand in hers, and she helped him to his feet.
“You’re hurt,” she said. She pursed her lips. “I can heal you, if—”
Shadowbane tapped his helmet.
“Aye,” she said. “Well then, my good knight.” She curtsied girlishly, but thanks to the divine grace that lingered about her, it seemed straight out of the palace court.
“Well done,” he murmured. “Though you might have cast some of those dweomers before he kicked the piss out of me.” His cheeks felt hot. “Forgive my rough manners.”
“I can swear like a sailor in my rages,” she said. “It’s unlikely ‘piss’ will offend my ‘virginal’ ears. Speaking of which—” She hugged him tightly before he could elude her.
“Ah, lady?” he asked, confused and more than a little uncomfortable.
“My thanks,” she said against his chest. “If you hadn’t delayed him so long, I couldn’t have cast as many spells as I needed to send him away.”
“I delayed him?” Shadowbane said. “You mean—with my face?”
“Aye.” She hugged him tighter. “That.”
To distract himself from how good she felt against him, Shadowbane looked at the injured wizard, who was breathing regularly, then at the burned shadows on the wall and wondered what might have done that. Could that wizard lass have managed such a spell? It didn’t seem likely, if her band had fled from the displacer beasts.
He considered the dwarf and Lorien’s shadowy defender. Rath’s ring had only scared the creature away, not harmed it. And where had that shadow come from?
Too many questions, and he couldn’t decide which to ask.
Shadowbane’s ears perked up, and he became aware of footsteps coming toward them. “Lady Lorien?” came a distant, male voice.
“Oh, shush! She’ll just hide from you.” The voice was feminine, closer, and familiar.
“Shush, both of you!” came a quiet command.
Time to go. Shadowbane pulled away, but Lorien caught his hand.
“You saved me, and for that I am grateful,” she said. “If I cannot give you a kiss, as the tales demand, then”—she pressed a small, pink scroll into his belt—“my temple is holding a revel a few nights hence, and I should be honored if you would attend.”
“Lady,” said Shadowbane, but she put a finger to his helm, over his lips.
“It is a costume revel,” she said. “Famous heroes of the old world and the new—come as yourself, if you will. The invitations have no names, so even I will have no way of knowing you, saer.” She smiled. “Your secret is safe.”
Shadowbane wasn’t sure what to say. He put his hand over hers.
Then, when he heard a gasp from behind them and reached for his empty scabbard, he realized he hadn’t reclaimed his sword from the shadows.
SEVEN
Araezra hated these sorts of assignments, down in the dark and dank. But the Watch had been doing less and less duty in the sewers and Undermountain, leaving it to the more highly trained—and paid—Guard. She was serving the city, in a way, though she really wished nobles wouldn’t get these crazy ideas and go vanishing down into the underworld alone where the Guard had to go fish them out.
She and Talanna trudged along the musty corridors of Downshadow, along with two other guardsmen, Turnstone and Treth. Best that Kalen hadn’t come—he’d have been out of his element, and Araezra worried about him in these situations. It wasn’t his spirit or his heart, but his body—his illness, after all, didn’t permit much in the way of peril.
Not that Turnstone or Treth made her feel much better in a desperate battle. Gordil Turnstone was a wise and stolid guardsman, but well past his prime. His hair and great mustache were white from decades on the streets. Bleys Treth, on the other hand, was a skilled—if overeager and quick to draw—swordsman, but he’d seen well over forty winters. He’d been a hired champion in his youth, called “the Striking Snake” for his speed, and still retained some of his youthful charm and dash, but all the smiles in Faerûn didn’t make up for age.
Araezra and Talanna were the youngest and most vigorous of the four. Talanna wore her light “chasing” armor, styled for running and leaping. Her long sunset hair was unbound, in contradicti
on of Waterdeep fashion, for two reasons, both to do with Lord Neverember. For a first, he liked to point her out to dignitaries by her red-burning curls. Second, he liked to see it tumble when they flirted, which they did shamelessly.
Araezra was glad to have the shieldlar at her side. She valued Talanna’s company and her martial skills—in spite of her oft-rambling tongue. As at that moment, for instance.
“Honestly, Rayse, you should be more careful who you wink those lovely black eyes at,” Talanna said. “The men of Waterdeep can take only so much, you know.”
Araezra groaned. Talanna always thought her choices could be better. Not that Talanna ever advised prudishness in romance—only selectivity.
“I welcome your words, but I shall keep my own counsel as regards affairs of my heart,” she said.
“Heart? Nay—I was hardly speaking of such lofty affairs. I was aiming a bit lower.”
Talanna made a sly and scandalous sort of gesture, and Araezra shot her gaze to Treth and Turnstone. The men seemed, conveniently, not to be looking.
“For true, though,” Talanna whispered, “you ought to ward yourself. I have seen how you look at Kalen, and I’ve told you time and again …”
“‘Romancing anyone in the Guard, Watch, Magistry, or Palace is a grave mistake as well as improper,’” Araezra quoted from the Talanna Taenfeather rulebook. She’d learned well the value of dampening jealousies and avoiding entanglements among the city’s elite. “I’m well—you needn’t worry, Shieldlar.”
Talanna pinched up her face. “Ooh, citing rank, are we? I see someone’s a bit touched.”
Araezra ignored that. It wasn’t particularly proper, this repartee on duty, but their friendship ran too deep. It was like sisterhood.
“He’s just a man, Rayse,” Talanna observed.
“Who?” Araezra’s blush belied her feigned ignorance.
“Don’t try to deny it,” Talanna said. “You’re still sweet on him.”
“Look, it’s over, aye?” Araezra said. “Just let it pass.”
“Honestly, though—is it him? Poor bedroom play, I think.”
“No,” Araezra said. Then, blushing more, she added, “I mean, no, I wouldn’t know, because we never—”
“Right, right,” Talanna said. “And that’s why you get so flustered whenever I ask.”
She signaled Treth and Turnstone to halt and caught Araezra’s arm. She leaned in closer.
“Just tell me one thing, aye? Is it yea—” She held up her hands, about the length of a dagger apart—“or yea?” She brought her hands closer together.
“That’s … that’s none of our business,” said Araezra. “Gods curse you!”
“Ooh,” Talanna murmured. She brought her hands even closer. “Aye?”
“I am not having this conversation,” Araezra whispered. She looked back, where Treth and Turnstone were watching them closely. “Belt up, men!”
Turnstone coughed and looked down, as though interested in his boots. Treth snickered.
Talanna poked her. “So I’ll just have to seduce him myself if I want to find out, aye?”
Araezra blushed fiercer than before. “I’ll have you flogged in the public square for this.”
“Better not have Jarthay do it.” Talanna grinned. “He’d enjoy it a bit too much.”
“I mean it,” Araezra warned.
“Ha! No, you don’t.” Talanna laughed.
Araezra scowled. “No, I suppose I don’t.”
Talanna squeezed Araezra’s hand reassuringly. “Love is for fools, sweetling!”
“Good thing I’m not a fool.” She waved to the men. “Swords forward!”
As they crept through the tunnel, Araezra wondered if Talanna’s words didn’t hold a ring of truth.
She remembered very clearly when first she had met Kalen Dren, on a raid in Uktar last year, back when he’d been a Watchman on the streets of Dock Ward. In her six years in the Guard, since she had joined at fifteen, never had she seen a man so determined and deadly—at least, not on her side of a raid. In his full helm, he’d waded into combat unhindered and unafraid, his eyes cutting through as many men as his sword. During the battle, he had saved her life from a stray arrow by taking it in his own chest.
She hadn’t seen his face before the healers had taken him away, but his eyes haunted her dreams for nights after. She learned that Kalen had survived his wounds and was resting at the barracks, healing naturally. When she’d protested, his superiors had explained that letting him heal without magic was a rare reward for valor in the raid; he seemed to loathe anything but emergency magic, and only grudgingly accepted the Watch healers. He preferred to live with his scars, it was said, as a mark of pride.
She visited his bedside and was surprised at his youth: he was hardly older than herself. She’d talked with him for the day and into the night, long after aides had told her to let him rest. Kalen had merely waved them away, so they could speak in private.
In Kalen, Araezra had found someone like herself—someone who burned with the desire to fix the ills of Waterdeep. He wanted nothing more than to find and punish the guilty. He told her of a vow he had made to himself as a child—never to beg. All the while, his eyes had stared through her to the frustrated soul beneath—weighing what they found there, like something more than human. His eyes had made her shiver, but not with fear.
Was her desire really so surprising?
She’d been due for promotion to valabrar—the youngest ever to hold the rank—and she insisted Kalen come with her as her aide. For a time, she thought they could be much more, but he had refused her every attempt in that regard. When finally she confronted him, he told her of his illness, and Araezra’s heart broke. She would have stayed with him thereafter, but his eyes were so sad—so frustrated—that she had let their short-lived romance fade.
She remembered his vow and knew that for her to beg would shame him.
As his physical prowess diminished, she’d kept him in service as her aide, thinking that he would want the post but would never ask. She’d thought it would do him honor, but now she wasn’t sure. As a caged lion might relax but still see the bars, so might a wild beast waste away at the center of his pride, knowing that he has outlived his days of ferocity.
Nor was she sure that her motivations had been entirely selfless in awarding that assignment.
She had confessed to herself that she still desired him—confessed it every day. It was not love, exactly, but she wanted him to crave her, too—to show her anything but cold distance.
“I see that gleam in your eye,” Talanna said. “Honestly—’twas but a simple question …”
“This isn’t the time,” Araezra snapped. “You’re sure the boy pointed in this—”
Then she almost jumped out of her mail breeches when Bleys Treth cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Lady Lorien!”
“Shush!” snapped Talanna. “She’ll just hide from you.”
“Aye, Shieldlar,” Treth said sourly.
“Shush, both of you,” Turnstone said. “You’ll only call monsters or thieves.”
Giving a duelist’s sneer, Bleys spread his hands. “Let them come—I’ve my steel.” He tapped the heel of his hand smartly on his sword hilt.
“Shush, all of you,” Araezra growled. “Did you see yon radiance?”
A bright white light flashed in the chamber at the north end of the tunnel. They heard the clash of steel—a duel, she thought. She put her hand on her sword hilt and nodded. The others did likewise, and Talanna plucked a pair of throwing daggers from her belt.
Araezra waved, and they picked up their steps. She heard two voices, one a familiar soft soprano, the other a rolling bass.
Araezra and Talanna stepped into the chamber. A man in black leathers and a tattered gray cloak stood before them. His face was anonymous, hidden behind a full steel helm. In his arms was the very noblewoman they sought, the priestess Lorien Dawnbringer.
Araezra gasped.
&n
bsp; “Away from her, knave!” shouted Talanna, hefting her daggers to throw.
“Hold!” Araezra said, half a heartbeat too late. The man shoved Lorien down and dived to the side. One of Talanna’s blades whistled harmlessly past where the priestess had been, and the other sank into his left bicep. Unhindered and unarmed, he ran toward them.
“Hold!” she shouted. “Down arms—you too, Talanna!”
No one listened. Bleys Treth snapped his blade out and lunged with the speed that had once earned him his moniker, but his target parried with an empty black scabbard. Treth twisted this out of his hands with an expert circle and cut back at his hip, but the man leaped like a noble’s stallion over the last fence before the finish.
Araezra watched, gaping, as he soared over their heads and darted down the south tunnel.
“I’ve got him!” Talanna ran, drawing another blade as she went.
Araezra and Turnstone ran to Lorien. Turnstone searched warily for another foe, while Araezra knelt at the priestess’s side.
“Are you well, my lady?” Araezra asked without ceremony. “Did he hurt you?”
“No,” the priestess said. “I came here to spread Sune’s healing, and yon knight protected me.” Her cheeks were flushed. “Shadowbane … he means us no ill.”
Shadowbane. Araezra shivered.
She considered whether the priestess had been deceived. They might have just saved her from a charming—but very dangerous—attacker. Or perhaps he truly had aided her.
Regardless, he had run, and in her experience, innocent men didn’t run.
“Come with us,” Araezra said. “We will deliver you safely to the city above.”
The guards nodded and Araezra looked to the tunnel, considering what to do next.
“Wait!” Lorien pointed to the north wall. “His sword.”
There lay a shimmering blade of silvery steel, a hand and a half longer than a typical adventurer’s sword. Araezra’s eyes widened and her hand drifted toward it unbidden.
Then she heard Talanna’s triumphant cry from down the tunnels and remembered herself. “Confiscate that,” she ordered, and Turnstone moved to claim the sword.
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