Shadowbane tap-4

by Eric Scott De Bie

  “The sword,” Kalen said. “Helm’s sword. It chose you.”

  “A helm wielding a sword? Are you sure you’re well?”

  “The god Helm … Listen. Can you get over to me?”

  Rhett sidled up to Kalen, moving easily. “Here I am.”

  “Touch my hands.”

  “Well, goodsir, I don’t think we’re quite that intimate.”

  “Just do it,” Kalen snapped. “Do you serve a god?”

  “Torm the Loyal Fury, God of Law and Justice.”

  “He’ll do.” Kalen grimaced. “Concentrate. Pray. Try to heal me.”

  “But-” Rhett might have offered another argument, but his words trailed off into a startled gasp. His hand burned with bright white light-healing light. Kalen felt the soothing power flow into him. He welcomed it, but feared it as well.

  At least he wasn’t apt to expire any moment. For that, he was grateful.

  “How?” Rhett whispered.

  “The sword,” Kalen said. “Vindicator marked you as a paladin.”

  “But I don’t even have the sword anymore,” Rhett said. “They took it away.”

  “It doesn’t matter-not to the Threefold God,” Kalen said, his voice cold. “You’ll bear his mark until you die in his service.”

  “Am I your squire now?” Rhett asked.

  “No,” Kalen barked, so forcefully that Rhett almost fell over.

  “Why not?”

  The viewing panel opened with a scrape of metal on stone and their words dropped into silence. They sat, back-to-back, staring at the door.

  The door swung open and a man stood there. He had a weathered, weasel-like face, a bristly red beard, and a small stature. He swore under his breath at a pair of thugs behind him.

  “A blessed day it is,” said Toytere, “when I see you so well, Little Dren.”

  In his high boots and ridiculous tallhat with its silver brooch, Toytere looked much bigger than he should have, but then, that was the point. Unlike the Rats in the alley, with their ragged leathers and red scarves, their leader opted for a crimson waistcoat and a deep blue doublet that might have come from a Waterdhavian salon. He carried a black lacquer cane tipped with a burnished gold rat that wore a mischievous grin. He could find a home on a pirate ship or at a high-society revel with equal ease, though in either case, he’d make folk nervous.

  “Let the boy go, Toytere.” Kalen nodded over his shoulder. “He isn’t part of this.”

  Toytere patted Rhett’s cheek. “I never be taking you for a fancy man, Kalen.” He’d kept his hard-to-place accent, which had grown more pronounced. It came from somewhere far south of here-possibly the moors or deep in the Heartlands.

  It reminded Kalen of the source of Toytere’s anger: his sister.

  “It’s me you want, not him,” Kalen said.

  “True, true, but we’ve a use for pretty lads here in the city of vice.” Toytere pulled back from Rhett and swaggered over to Kalen. “Also, this be not about what I be wanting, but rather, what she be wanting. And she be wanting you alive.”

  “She?” Kalen asked. “You have a mistress, do you? And here I thought you’d climbed high in your shit hole of Faerun.”

  Toytere grasped Kalen’s collar and pulled the man’s face toward his winning smile of pointed teeth. Several teeth were missing from that smile, but it held no shortage of unsettling charm. “She say she wants you breathing-she not specify unharmed.”

  With that, Toytere punched Kalen in the jaw, knocking him into Rhett. Both men groaned. “Godsdamn it,” Rhett said. “I didn’t even say anything.”

  “That be for Cellica,” Toytere said, cracking his knuckles. “First of many, no?”

  He stopped and stared at Kalen, his eyes glazed. His grin faltered. From between his lips emerged a soft, droning hum.

  “What-what’s happening?” Rhett asked.

  “The Sight,” Kalen said. “He can’t see or hear us.”

  “Sight?”

  “Seeing the future, reading minds-in his case, it’s not all a con. He sees glimpses, so there’s probably no escape for us.”

  “Wonderful,” Rhett said. “He seems pretty upset about this ‘Cellica’ lass.”

  “She-” Kalen fought down a lump in his throat. “She’s his twin sister.”

  “Ah, the protective brother,” Rhett said. “And what befell yon lass? You broke her heart? Left her at the altar?”

  “Not exactly.” He remembered an awful morning a year ago, tinged with the smell of blood. Cellica-his adopted sister-gave him a last disapproving smile.

  “With child, then? Can humans and halflings even-?”

  “She’s dead.”

  “Oh.” Rhett sounded somber. “This … this is worse than I thought, isn’t it?”

  “Much.”

  Toytere shivered and returned to the world. His expression fell a bit, as though disappointed, and he waved at them. “Well,” he said to the Rats who had remained in the hallway. “Go on. Take them.”

  “To her?” The thugs at the door shivered visibly. “To-to the Witch-Queen?”

  “Aye, rotters!” Toytere swayed out of the room. “Whom you think?”

  “That doesn’t sound good,” Rhett murmured. Kalen shook his head.

  The guards jerked the two men to their feet and ushered them into a corridor that smelled of rich earth and old blood. Two rooms branched off the cramped tunnel: the cell they had been in and another one whose door lay in moldering pieces against the opposite wall.

  “Does nothing in this city hold together?” Rhett said, pretending not to have spoken when the guards glared at him. He looked to Kalen. “The Witch-Queen?”

  Kalen shrugged. “Apparently.”

  “Torm’s blade, but this will go well.”

  “Shut up!” One of the guards put a fist into Rhett’s belly.

  The boy groaned. “Godsdamn it.”

  Kalen had last seen the interior of the Drowned Rat fifteen years previous, and it hadn’t changed much. It seemed bigger once upon a time, but then, he’d been much smaller. The tavern’s ramshackle walls curled with age and the weight of the roof until it resembled less a man-made structure than a cavern hollowed out by a thousand small talons. A rat’s nest, for true.

  Unlike other gang taverns in Luskan, the Drowned Rat boasted no ostentatious audience chamber. A simple raised dais sat at the end of the common room, a place where bards might have sung in days not quite as awful as these. A padded chair faced away from the main room, floating above the dais. Even at this distance, Kalen could feel the power in the occupant of that chair. It awakened the spellscar that burned inside him: it yearned in that direction.

  The Witch-Queen, Kalen thought. If he could capture the queen, the court would fall.

  They had one chance at this. He focused on the short sword sheathed at the nearest guard’s belt. If he could get that, they might yet find a way to bargain themselves free.

  The hall stood empty but for a pair of toughs hunched over a card game, like rats surveying their hoard. They looked up at Kalen and Rhett with beady, distrusting eyes. Their lips drew back from their yellowed teeth. Sithe stood impassive on the dais-in the light, she was easier to see but no less intimidating-holding Vindicator sheathed in its lacquer scabbard.

  “Me lady.” Toytere addressed the dais. “The intruders, as you-”

  Kalen feigned a lurch, as though his step had faltered, to cover pulling free from his bonds. When his captor leaned forward to restrain him, Kalen slammed his forehead into man’s face. The Rat fell back, and Kalen snatched the sword from his belt.

  The room reacted slowly. Toytere turned toward them, and Sithe drew out her axe. Kalen dashed right past her-he stood no chance against her in his current condition, even if he could get Vindicator-and bore down on the Witch-Queen’s chair. Capture the queen.

  The chair pivoted and sudden thunder split the air. Kalen’s eardrums rang as an unstoppable wave of force flung him back like a carelessly cast-off doll. H
e flew five paces before he crashed back to the floor, deafened and coughing.

  Gods. The beating he’d taken must have addled his wits something fierce. The Witch-Queen of the Dead Rats looked like-

  Blue hair swirled as Myrin shook it back from her face. “Kalen?’ she asked.

  Rhett leaned toward him. “You know the Witch-Queen?” he asked.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  22 KYTHORN (NIGHT)

  Considering the two battered men sprawled before her, Myrin reflected on this odd turn of events. She couldn’t say for certain what she’d expected when Toytere had told her of the infiltrator who’d come to Luskan. It might be a bounty hunter, assassin, wizard-anything or anyone following her trail. Not a day had gone by in the past year that someone hadn’t been after her. But the last person she’d expected was …

  “Kalen?” she asked, startled. “How did you get here?”

  “Gods,” Kalen murmured.

  Myrin stared at him where he lay on the floor and he stared right back at her. Breath was hard to come by. They might not have seen each other in a year, but in that heartbeat the connection between them came back-every smile, every kind word, every argument.

  She saw in him the man who’d carried her across half of Waterdeep, faced a lich to get her back, and thrown himself off a building for her sake.

  She also saw the man who had, a year ago, killed her kidnapper in cold blood and that cooled her growing ardor. The memory snapped her back to the present.

  Kalen was hurt, Myrin realized, and badly. She started forward, wanting nothing more than to tend to his wounds, but stopped, reconsidering. The Dead Rats were staring at her, waiting for a cue. After that outburst, she could not pretend that she didn’t know Kalen. Still, she could be regal about it-acting in a way befitting the leader of the Dead Rats.

  Befitting the Witch-Queen of Luskan.

  Kalen stared at Myrin-startled, confused, and yet somehow, not as surprised as he might have been. It was not just the hint his spellscar had provided when it seemed to draw toward her: it had recognized her. Rather, since they’d met that foggy night a year ago, Myrin had shown a talent for defying expectations. Going from hostage to queen was more of the same. Kalen rather admired that about her.

  He wished she hadn’t surrounded herself with so many snakes, however. The Dead Rats stared at her with equal parts deference and wariness. Kalen saw more than a few look not to Myrin but to Toytere for a sign as to what to do, including Sithe. Clearly, Myrin’s position was tentative, and she would lose it if she did not act the part.

  By her eyes and the way her expression became masked, Myrin knew it, too. “Stand him up.” She waved dismissively. “Blood on my floor simply won’t do.”

  “Aye, Lady Darkdance,” Toytere said and signaled to his men.

  Darkdance? Kalen pondered.

  Two of the Dead Rats came forward-including the one Kalen had stunned with his sudden attack-and hauled Kalen to his feet. They grasped Rhett as well, though the boy hadn’t moved. “She’s very pretty,” Rhett observed quietly. “Or is that an illusion?”

  “No, that’s not an illusion,” Kalen said.

  It was true. A year had turned the waifish girl of his memory into a striking young woman. Her almond tan skin had grown warm and dark. It brought out the vibrancy of her shocking blue hair, which fell to the middle of her back. Her bright blue eyes seemed the same as always: sparkling and thoughtful.

  “You certainly know your share of lovely ladies, Saer Shadowbane,” Rhett said.

  “Stop calling me that,” Kalen said.

  It was flattering that the boy used that salutation-for a noble of unknown rank or a common knight acting particularly well-but he didn’t feel worthy of either part of the moniker.

  One of the thugs raised a club to silence them both, but Myrin put up a staying hand. “Who’s your flattering friend, Kalen?” she asked.

  “He’s nobody,” Kalen said. “Just a boy.”

  “I can speak for myself,” Rhett countered. “Dark Sorceress, I am Rhetegast of the House of Hawkwinter-” His words cut off when the thug hit him anyway.

  “That,” Kalen murmured, “you probably should not have said.”

  “Point.” Rhett groaned.

  The two thugs guarding the prisoners raised their clubs, while several others in the room eyed Rhett with considerable interest. They were, after all, thieves, and naming oneself a noble scion among them was not wise. Kalen looked to Myrin, hoping she would do something to quiet them before violence ensued anew.

  Either she got the message or had thought of that herself, because Myrin immediately raised her hand and sent forth a fan of flames to lick at the rafters. The Rats shied away from the magic. Blades disappeared into their sheaths and clubs lowered. Toytere, who had been reaching into his vest, relaxed.

  “Now then,” Myrin said. “I will take the prisoners to my private chambers. If anyone objects, kindly make yourself known, so I can burn you to ash on the spot. No one?” Myrin smiled. “Outstanding.”

  She rose, and they all bowed to her.

  “Bring them.” Myrin turned to Sithe. “I’ll take the sword, please.”

  The genasi cast Kalen and Rhett a look, but she handed Vindicator over to Myrin.

  Rhett’s eyes were wide indeed as the guards seized their arms. “That’s some lady you know, Saer Shadowbane,” he said. “Who is she?”

  Kalen smiled despite himself. “She’s Myrin.”

  The trek to the chambers of the Witch-Queen was a brief one: she had the largest quarters in the tavern, which must formerly have belonged to Toytere. The room was bare of decoration, its walls were peeling like dead skin, and its furnishings were limited to a single narrow bed and an end table with a single shelf.

  Myrin gestured and a chair obediently rose for her to sit in. She set Vindicator down and settled in, straight-backed and regal, like a queen ought to be.

  The guards pushed Kalen and Rhett to their knees on the rug then looked to Myrin. She waved them away. They were out of the room before her hand moved more than a finger’s breadth. That hand was dangerous, Kalen thought.

  The door closed and the three of them were alone in Myrin’s chambers. Their heavy breathing seemed deafening in the charged silence.

  “Myrin,” Kalen said, even as she started to say his name, rising as though to approach. They both froze, neither ready to speak over the other-neither knowing what to say. He stared at her, hundreds of words wrestling in his throat and getting stuck. Her eyes sparkled and her mouth formed words she couldn’t quite speak.

  “So-” Rhett said.

  At that single, unexpected syllable-Kalen had almost forgotten the boy was there-the moment broke. Kalen drew into himself, suddenly self-conscious. Myrin shook her head as though to clear a fog.

  “Darkdance?” Kalen asked, unable to bring himself to say anything else.

  “My name,” Myrin said. “I found out more of it a tenday or so past. Myrin Darkdance. What do you think?”

  “It suits you,” Kalen said.

  Myrin smiled and turned to Rhett. “You were asking a question?”

  “Who are you, lady?” Rhett then looked at Kalen. “Who is she?”

  “Not the gang leader of the Dead Rats, last I checked.” Kalen faced Myrin. “How exactly did this happen?” Myrin’s face colored slightly. She seemed a little embarrassed. “Well …”

  17 KYTHORN (NIGHT)

  Myrin awoke in a bare prison cell that smelled of rot, excrement, and worse things she chose not to identify. Her only pillow was stained gray stone, which made most of her body ache when she tried to move. Myrin didn’t remember much after the attack-her mind felt fuzzy and disconnected.

  “Hmm.” She climbed to one knee. A sound outside the wood door drew her attention and she crossed to it. “Well met?” she said. “Hail?”

  A metal viewing panel slid open in the door. A pair of jaundiced eyes peered in at her, belonging to a grizzled, weedy man of dubious hygiene. “A
ye?”

  “Where am I?” Myrin asked. “Or possibly some other basic information?”

  The man’s nose twitched. “Shut up, you blue-haired wench,” he said.

  “Hmm.” Myrin pursed her lips. “In that case, may I please have a cup of water.”

  “I’ll say it slower, then,” the man said. “Shut up. You. Blue-haired. Wench.”

  “As I thought.” Myrin put her hands on her hips. “You should know that I am a great and powerful wizard. You should do this little thing for me, before I make you-all of you-very sorry for not doing it.”

  The man stared at her for a heartbeat, shocked, then roared with laughter. “Heh! That’s rich, lass! Rich!” He shouted down the hall. “Oi! Lads! Come hear this!”

  Two more rogues appeared, each of them as ugly as the first. The second had an over-large eye-or perhaps the other had shrunk-while the third had three separate scars across his mouth that looked a bit like red stitches.

  “Oi!” the guard said. “This one say she’s to make us all sorry.”

  The thieves looked at him, then one another, and then laughed wildly. They slapped each other on the shoulders, bending over in a vain attempt to contain themselves.

  “Ha ha!” said the yellow-eyed one. “Whatcha gonna cast your magic with, eh, wench? This?” He drew from the chest pocket of his leathers a long gray stick.

  Myrin recognized her wand. “Yes, actually,” she said, extending her hand as though to take it from him, should he offer it.

  They paused, then laughed again. “Aye? Aye? And how’s that, you fancy?”

  Myrin shrugged. A blue-glowing rune appeared on the back of her right hand.

  A flicker of magic and the wand pulled free of the guard’s hand, floated through the viewing window, and set itself in Myrin’s fingers. “Uh,” said the guard.

  Thunder cracked. The ratty door exploded off its hinges and crashed against the opposite wall, shattering into a dozen pieces. The three knaves drew steel, shouting for aid.

  “Now,” Myrin said, stepping through the cloud of dust, her wand held low. More blue-glowing runes spread across her skin. “Where’s your captain?”