But Rath didn’t follow. Kalen saw him dancing back, and felt his hairs crackle just in time to see the Grim Statue slinging a bolt of green-white lightning at him. Kalen couldn’t dodge and only barely brought Vindicator into the lightning’s path. He prayed.
Kalen felt the force of the blast like a battering ram, blowing him back and away from the statue. He tumbled through the air, trying vainly to twist and roll, and landed outside the plaza in a gasping heap. Lightning yet arced around him, and he twitched and hissed as it faded. If Rath had come upon him then, Kalen would have had no defense.
But the dwarf was merely standing over him when Kalen could finally move again, a wry smile on his face.
“What glory would I gain,” asked the dwarf, “if I let some relic of another age vanquish you, the mighty Shadowbane? Come. On your feet.”
Kalen coughed and spat and started to rise—then slashed at Rath’s nearest leg. Laughing, the dwarf flipped backward and waited, a dagger-toss distant, while Kalen rose.
“Draw your steel,” Kalen said, brandishing Vindicator high.
“You have done nothing worthy,” said Rath.
“Then come to me with empty hands, if you will,” Kalen said, taking a high, two-handed guard. “I tire of your child’s games.”
That seemed to touch Rath, for his neutral smile faded. He streaked toward Kalen like nothing dwarven. Kalen cut down, dropping one hand from the sword.
Steel clashed, followed by a grunt of pain.
Rath danced back, and Kalen coughed and struggled to stay on his feet.
The dwarf reached down and touched a dribble of blood forming along his right forearm. He looked at the cut curiously, as though he had not been wounded in a long time and had forgotten what it was like. Kalen gestured wide with the dirk he had pulled from his gauntlet, gripping it in his bare left hand. He let himself smile wryly inside his helm.
“I underestimated you, paladin,” Rath said. “I shall not make that mistake again.”
The dwarf reached for his sword in its gold lacquer scabbard and untied the peace bond. He closed his eyes, as though in prayer, and laid his fingers reverently around the hilt.
“You know what an honor this is,” said Rath. “To find a worthy foe.”
“I do.”
The dwarf drew the sword in a blur, opened his eyes, and lunged.
Kalen almost couldn’t block, so fast was the strike. Rath’s steel—short and curved and fine—screeched against Vindicator, but both blades held. The speed stunned Kalen enough to slow his counter, which might have taken out Rath’s throat if he’d been faster.
Instead, the dwarf leaped away, then lunged back, slashing. He did so again and again, moving so fast and gracefully that Kalen could hardly follow him with his eyes and parried almost wholly by touch.
Kalen worked his muscles as hard as he could, bringing the steel around to foil Rath’s strikes, trying always to catch his slender sword between his own blades, but to no avail.
They exchanged a dozen passes before Rath fled, down the hall to the great cavern. Kalen gave chase, and might have lost everything when Rath came at him suddenly. The dwarf could reverse his motion as though by will, in defiance of momentum or balance.
Kalen parried the blow with his dirk, but he felt Rath’s blade slit open the leather over his bicep. He took a wider guard—a narrower profile. He tried to bring Vindicator around, but hit nothing as Rath flowed away from him, running along the wall of the corridor. The dwarf plunged into the tunnels, and Kalen followed.
They ran from corridor to corridor, slashing and scrambling forward. Their swords sparked, trailing silver lightning through the halls of Downshadow. Rath struck a dozen times with his blade, but Kalen parried every attack—with sword, dirk, or gauntlet. Each time, Rath bounded away and Kalen cursed, panted, and followed. Lurking creatures scurried out of their way as the men ran and fought, roused from hiding by the duel. The combatants ran on, heedless.
“A darkness where there is only me,” Kalen whispered through gritted teeth.
Rath vaulted off a nearby wall and slashed down hard enough to break through Kalen’s guard and ring his helmet soundly. Instead of following through, he leaped away and continued the chase. Kalen grunted and sped after him.
“Why do you keep fighting, Shadowbane?” Rath’s calm voice showed no sign of strain. “I can see you tiring—feel you slowing.”
Kalen said nothing, but ran on.
They ran between crumbling chambers. The magic of Kalen’s boots drove his leaps high and far, but the dwarf still eluded him. The dwarf seemed able to run along the very walls if he wanted.
They broke into the main chamber of Downshadow, with its tents and huts, lit by the dancing firelight that flowed across the ceiling. Inhabitants clustered around cook fires erupted in curses, then fled the path of the avenger and his quarry. Vindicator’s silver glow made them bright, shining warriors as they chased each other.
They plowed through the heart of the encampment, leaping over cook fires and around startled natives. Hands reached for steel or spell but Kalen and Rath flew past without pause. They knocked down tent poles, sent stew pots flying, and generally wreaked chaos across the cavern. Rath struck Kalen several more times, but his leathers held. He could not land a single blow on the dwarf, but felt certain that when he did, Rath would fall.
“What will it take?” Rath asked as he vaulted up a wall, caught an overhanging ledge, and swung over the side, seizing higher ground.
Kalen jumped after the dwarf, grasped a broken handhold—his gauntlet screeching—and swung himself up. He caught a narrow metal pole that lay between the ledge and the wall—a waste pipe for the Knight ’n Shadow, he realized, which perched in the cavern wall just above their heads.
He swung himself around the pipe like an acrobat, once, twice for momentum, then he let himself soar, feet first, up onto the ledge. He twisted in midair and landed on his feet, panting, knees bent, sword wide. He looked up at a huge stack of crates and barrels, above which hung the low platform of the tavern. Near Rath stood a small shack, balanced precariously on numerous long splints for legs, where workers would clean the tavern’s rags and dump the waste water.
As Kalen landed, Rath scurried to the shed, slashed through two of the supports, then climbed up the side of the shoddy building, pausing to look down.
As the dwarf watched from atop the platform, Kalen grasped his left arm, gritted his teeth, and tried to still his raging heart.
“Wait, Helm,” he demanded, calling upon his dead god. “They need me.”
“Still you refuse to fall,” said the dwarf. He stood, in perfect balance on the platform railing. “What admirable valor—foolish, but admirable.”
The groan of buckling wood warned of danger, and the supports of the platform splintered and collapsed. The dwarf launched himself again, flipping and sailing through the air—leaving behind a collapsing storm of wood, stone, and water.
Kalen barely threw himself aside before the shack shattered against the narrow ledge, which itself started splintering. Choking on dust, he tumbled backward.
Rath was there, sword dancing like a steel whip, and it was more luck than skill that let Kalen block. He parried with his off hand, but the sword screeched against his blade and wedged the dirk free—it spun off into the cavern. Rath stabbed, but Kalen kicked his feet out from under him. The dwarf scrambled away before Kalen could get Vindicator in line.
“This will end only one way,” Rath said.
He leaped out into the cavern and Kalen jumped after him, falling toward a sea of Downshadow folk who had joined in pursuit of the two crazed duellists. The dwarf bore down on one orc-blooded man and raced across the heads and backs of several others. Kalen crashed down in a knot of folk, sending three or four to the ground, then pushed himself up. He shoved his way through the crowd, holding Vindicator high and muscling the folk aside.
“Move, citizens!” he cried. “Waterdhavian Guard! Stand aside!”
<
br /> That might not have been the best cry, for several lumbering forms—stirred by anger against that very organization—moved to block his path.
“Damn.” Kalen bent his aching legs and sprang up.
His boots carried him up and over the intervening figures, following Rath. He landed badly and stumbled to the cavern floor, face first. Vindicator slipped free, but he recovered it in a roll to his feet. He charged after Rath, who was heading along the corridors toward the Grim Statue. Not attacking—just fleeing. Luring him.
Gods, Kalen thought—was he going toward the place where he’d hidden Fayne and Myrin?
Kalen burst into the plaza just as the statue’s hands started glowing. He saw Rath standing before the statue, smiling. The dwarf sheathed his sword and spread his hands.
Whatever Downshadowers had been chasing them stopped at the edge of the cursed plaza, loathe to run into a trap.
With a grunt, Kalen charged.
The first lightning bolt was easy enough to dodge by rolling, but the second came too quickly. He tried to deflect it with Vindicator as before. Fortunately, the blast was at a sharp angle, and the bolt bounced from the enchanted steel into the ground, there to be absorbed harmlessly. The force drove Kalen to his knees, and he threw himself behind a boulder, panting.
“Come, then.” Rath stood atop the headless statue. “I wonder if you’ll be in time.”
Rath leaped up, and Kalen watched as he vanished into the air, as though entering a pocket in the darkness above the statue’s head. He saw the shadows wavering, and knew the dwarf had found a portal of some kind. But where did it lead, and how long would it stay open?
Though he knew it was a trap, he had no choice.
Kalen darted out from behind cover. He dodged a lightning bolt with a roll, then leaped over a second blast to grasp the statue’s wrist. The figure’s heat caused his hairs to rise as lightning gathered, but his eyes stayed on the unseen portal above its head.
He jumped and prayed it was yet open.
Lightning flashed.
THIRTY-SIX
Kalen felt a sense of incredible space, as though he had been trapped somewhere cramped and now floated in the open sky. His mind reeled and he wavered on his feet.
Something hit him while he was dazed from his journey. He felt it coming only an instant before it struck and grasped the nearby wall by instinct.
Two feet collided with his face like the lance of a charging jouster. The force sent him arching back, and pain stabbed through his arm as he fought to retain his hold. His helm shrieked as it tore free of his head and flew off, out into the Waterdeep night.
Rain lashed him as he hung weightless over empty space. He saw the lights of Waterdeep far below, and what could only be the palace roof. He realized the portal had led to the small chamber at the top of the Timehands, the great clock tower.
The temptation rose in him to let go—to sail off into the night and fall like an angel with broken wings. He was tired and beaten, choking with spellplague. The strength it lent him was fading, and soon, he would die. Why not let go? If he hung on, he would hurt more.
He hung on.
He swung into the tower, both feet leading, and kicked only air. He landed on his back with a crack that sent shockwaves through his insides, below his numbed flesh. Broken and bruised bones, he could feel.
He lay there and listened to the loud, deliberate clicks of the clock mechanisms working all around him. Without his helmet, the noise was so loud he could barely think. His heart beat countless times between each click. He vaguely saw an open stairwell, where candlelight filtered up.
Up, he thought—up. Up.
He spat blood onto the floor and hefted himself to a sitting position. He looked everywhere for his assailant, but Rath must have vanished into the shadows. Waiting.
Kalen expected the dwarf to strike at any instant, but nothing happened. He climbed to his knees, ignoring the complaints from every ounce of his flesh, aching for him to lie down.
“Why don’t you come?” he murmured. “Here I am. Waiting.”
But he knew the answer. The dwarf didn’t want to kill him on his knees.
Up—up.
Kalen swung one foot flat onto the floor. He could feel nothing in his body. His arms and legs were dead wood to him and moved only accidentally. He had nothing left.
“Kalen?” said a voice, cutting through the chamber. Myrin. “Kalen, can you hear me?”
He murmured something that might have been “aye.”
“I’m here! Please! Come—” Then Myrin seemed to realize, and he heard her strangled gasp. “No! No—go away! Leave me here! Begone!”
Kalen paused, thinking perhaps Rath had seized her, but then he saw the girl. Tiny blue runes glowed like candles on her skin. He pushed Vindicator in her direction and saw that she was alone, curled up against a corner of the clock room. Runes glowed beneath her eyes, which glittered in the swordlight. He stood and limped to her, fighting to move every pace.
Myrin shook her head, pleading with her eyes that he turn away. He kept coming, though it would kill him. When she saw he would not stop, she sobbed incoherently.
He reached her side and set Vindicator on the floor. He wrapped his dead arms around her and rested his bloody chin on her shoulder. She was shivering.
“Peace,” he whispered, shocked at how hoarse his voice sounded.
“It was Fayne!” Myrin moaned. “She said—she said such horrible, horrible things.” She shivered. “Oh, gods, Kalen! I’m—gods, all those people!”
“Peace.”
“But you don’t understand. I’m sick! I’m carrying something that—Fayne said—”
“Stop.” Kalen put his fingers across her lips. “Fayne lied.”
Myrin stared at him, dumbstruck and frightened and wrathful all at once. Her eyes pooled with tears, and Kalen could see blue flames deep within them.
“Truly?” Myrin asked. “Oh, Kalen—truly?”
Even as Shadowbane, Kalen Dren had never lied. Deceived, yes. Left words unspoken, yes. But flatly lied? Would he be lying to Myrin in that moment? He did not know.
“Yes,” he said.
Myrin turned in his arms—held him as tightly as her thin limbs could—and kissed him.
To Kalen, she felt like fire—a wrenching, sucking fire that drained his body. He gagged, breaking the kiss, knowing he would die in that instant. Myrin just held him, weeping.
Then, something returned to him. Life, vitality, strength—it was like healing magic, but painful, and it was pain he could truly feel. He couldn’t speak—couldn’t think—just held Myrin as she held him, weeping and sobbing. Everything else faded, leaving them the only beings in an empty world.
Then it was over, and they were just holding one another, alone in a tiny chamber at the top of the grandest city in the world. A great sense of space spiraled around them, and Kalen felt weak and vulnerable and very small indeed. But he was strong enough for Myrin.
Kalen pressed her head against his chest, holding her as she sobbed, and fancied that he could feel her hot tears soaking through his clothes. Or was that only phantom feeling?
“How touching.” Rath appeared around the clock apparatus. He held his thin sword wide. “And now that you’re on your feet, I can kill you.”
Kalen let go of Myrin and directed her back to the wall. She didn’t move. “Myrin,” he said. He could barely manage a whisper.
“No,” she said and rose to her feet. “You’re not hurting him.”
Rath shrugged. He pulled something from his belt. A grayish white stick of wood. “I told you I would not kill you, girl,” he said. “But there would be consequences to your—”
Myrin thrust out her hand and the wand wrenched itself from Rath’s grasp. It flew between her fingers and crackled with magic. “Begone!” she cried.
A bolt of freezing amethyst light streaked past Rath as he twisted aside. It slammed into the wall, blowing hunks of stone in every direction and sending
lines of frost crinkling across the stone. The dwarf looked at the patch of ice, then at Myrin, his face an arrogant mask.
“No more!” Myrin declaimed words of power and twirled her wand. “No more!”
Rath started dodging, but the bolt of force that shot from her wand stabbed him in the shoulder. The dwarf cursed, faltering in his dodge, and Myrin cried out in triumph.
As though he’d been waiting for just that moment of distraction, Rath lunged at her.
Kalen moved. Vindicator caught the dwarf’s blade and pushed it harmlessly wide.
As Rath barreled in, a victim of his own momentum, Kalen whirled and dealt the dwarf a left hook to his burned face. Clutching at his wound, Rath tumbled back.
Kalen drew a circle with the Helm-marked sword, and a ring of silver runes appeared in the air. Their holy radiance sent Rath staggering back, and Kalen saw Myrin’s face bathed in his threefold god’s light. How beautiful she appeared.
Kalen and followed Rath.
They fought along the floor and off the walls of the small chamber, blades ringing and scraping. Kalen felt new strength—new fury—flooding his limbs. He felt everything, as though the numbness had fled him. He had no need of inner darkness to hide his pain, for it was gone. Rage coursed through him and he fought tirelessly. Vindicator blazed with light as he struck the dwarf’s blade, knocking Rath back.
Rath weaved his blade and spun, and Kalen slashed at him. Their swords clashed and sparked, silver fire trailing. Kalen cut wide and punched around a parry, but Rath danced seemingly along the ceiling, flowing along slashes of Vindicator.
They cut through gears and pulleys, and once Kalen slammed into a bell, setting it to ring the dawn. Waterdeep would awaken many hours before dawn this day. In his fury, he didn’t care.
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