Shadowbane tap-4

by Eric Scott De Bie

“Myrin,” Rhett said. “Why wouldn’t I heed Kalen’s words? He’s shown considerably more foresight than you, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

  “I never mind misapprehensions,” she said. “You don’t know Kalen any more than you know me. If you did, you’d know that a place like this …”

  “The Prisoner’s Carnival?”

  “Luskan,” Myrin corrected. “This is a bad place for Kalen. It brings out something in him-something monstrous that I’ve seen but you haven’t. Not yet.”

  “Nonsense.” Rhett crossed his arms and glared right back. “He may be ruthless, but he’s no monster. I’ve seen nothing to suggest otherwise.”

  “Ask him about a dwarf named Rath,” Myrin said.

  “Wrath?” Rhett asked. “For true?”

  “Rath.” Myrin shrugged. “A dwarf murdered where he lay, helpless and bleeding.”

  “Saer Shadow-Kalen did that?” Rhett’s eyes grew wide.

  “Indeed he did.” Myrin closed her hands into tight fists, which started to burn with blue flame. “Oh, no doubt Rath deserved it-being a thief and an assassin and all-but Kalen Dren is no better than the brutes to whom he shows no mercy. Remember that.”

  “Lady, you must be mistaken in some regard-”

  He might have said more, but at that moment they heard a rough cacophony of barking, followed shortly by the appearance of four wild dogs among the rubbish, each of which rivaled a small pony in size. The dogs rushed forward, trailing white spittle from their twisted muzzles.

  “Stay behind me, lady!” Rhett’s hand shot to Vindicator.

  Myrin stepped past him and spread her fingers in a fan toward the hounds. Blue runes flared along her skin and a swath of flame cut through the dim alley light. The first dog of the pack pulled up short, engulfed in the flames. It yelped its way back the way it had come and the others followed suit.

  “Oh,” Rhett said. “I see.”

  Myrin turned to him without missing a beat. “I assuredly am not.”

  The half-elf’s eyes opened wide after her display. “Am-you are not what?”

  “Mistaken in some regard,” Myrin said. “You were just saying it, Sir Raddish.”

  “Rhett, and sorry-one moment. My mind doesn’t run as fast as yours.”

  “Or as far,” Myrin said. “While you’re struggling to remember, I suggest we make our way northward. Unless you’ve strenuous objections?”

  “I do object,” Rhett said. “Strenuously.”

  “Outstanding.” Myrin smiled. “Let’s go.”

  After leaving the once-Prisoner’s Carnival, they walked northeast along the River Mirar and paused on the street of Cages Unfold. Myrin saw that the sign had once said Ages Untold. “That’s really quite clever,” she said.

  Rhett furrowed his handsome brow. “Cages don’t fold, though.”

  “It’s a metaphor for escaping one’s bonds, like this city-” Myrin paused when he frowned. “Let’s just move on.”

  At their feet, the River Mirar was a muddy, polluted mess that looked almost like it would support their weight. This was a trap, however-a single step would send either of them to a stinking, choking demise, which Myrin did not fancy. The bridge over the canal was not much better: blasted, destroyed, and completely impassable. Some long ago conflict had smashed it to driftwood and metal shards.

  “Well, that’s that, then,” Rhett said. “Better head back now-”

  “A minor inconvenience,” Myrin said.

  “Surely you jest, my lady,” Rhett said. “Even with ropes and climbing gear, getting across that mess would take hours.”

  “If I were jesting, you’d know,” Myrin said, though she wasn’t so sure of that. Rhett did not seem the most insightful of men. Pretty, though. She stepped closer to him. “Touch me, please.”

  “Lady Myrin!” Rhett said.

  “Oh, for Mystra’s sake!” Myrin put an arm around him. With her other hand, she drew a circle of blue-gray fire in the air. The flame expanded and blossomed into a rift in the fabric of the world. Beyond her shadow door lay infinite darkness.

  “Er,” Rhett said, “that’s not-”

  She dragged him through the portal.

  Myrin experienced the familiar sensation of falling backward through black emptiness. An instant later, they stood on the far side of the River Mirar.

  “There,” she said.

  Rhett reeled dizzily away from her and fell to one knee on the grime-encrusted stone. He covered his mouth with his hands.

  “It couldn’t have been that bad,” Myrin said. “I do it every day.”

  “Not everyone does, however-some of us not even every lifetime.” Rhett grasped his stomach. “Just a moment. And kindly move your feet, lady?”

  Myrin turned from the squire in distress and looked around. On the north shore, the buildings lay in worse repair than across the river, as though no one had even attempted to live in them for decades. Even the gang markings-which looked like a tower rising from a burning hand-were flecked and weathered.

  Rhett groaned, and Myrin glanced back at him. “Ready?”

  “Almost.” He put his hands on his knees. “That was an interesting oath you used back there-on the other side of eternity, I mean,” he said. “Miss? Mess-tra? I don’t even know what language that is. What does it mean?”

  “Hmm.” To tell the truth, Myrin wasn’t sure where she’d heard the word. “I think it’s a goddess. But not one you know?”

  “Alas, my lady,” Rhett said, “I was never very studious.”

  The word came naturally to her lips, as it had often in the past. No one had ever remarked on it before, so she’d assumed it was a common curse. But maybe it did have a meaning. How long had she gone around in ignorance? It made her feel vulnerable, as though she’d neglected to lace her bodice fully.

  For some reason, her mind wandered back a year ago, when she had been bound in a faraway Waterdeep tower. There, a woman was telling her she had a goddess inside her-or, at least, the death of one. Could she have meant-?

  “I am ready to go, if we-” Rhett stared ahead. “That’s where we’re going?”

  Myrin looked at the ancient water tower that rose in the center of the run-down district of the battered city they were in. “Yes,” she said. “Is there some reason we shouldn’t?”

  “That’s the Throat,” Rhett said. “Home of the Master, who-”

  “Enforces his rule over the north bank with an army of shambling corpses, more of which he makes from the desperate thieves who venture here from time to time, yes, yes,” Myrin said. “Kalen told me that, too. Don’t you ever think for yourself?”

  “As little as possible, actually.”

  “Thus, my point.” Myrin gestured to the tower. “The necromancer is the most likely suspect behind this scourge. So, here we are-to find out if that’s true.” She turned back to Rhett. “Come along or stay here, Sir Ratner. Your choice.”

  The lad looked back across the river, considering, then drew up tall and put his hand to the hilt of Vindicator. He reminded her, in that moment, of Kalen-a younger Kalen who’d not yet lost himself in darkness.

  “It’s Rhett,” he said finally. “And it occurs to me that you’re smart enough to remember that. Am I to take your insistence on getting my name wrong as an insult?”

  “Hmm,” Myrin said in surprise. So the boy had some spine. “No insult intended.”

  “You’re flirting with me then,” he said.

  “What!” Myrin felt her face grow warm. “Nothing of the sort!”

  “It’s quite flattering,” Rhett said. “But really, lady, I aim to protect you, and I’d rather not have the distraction, if you don’t mind.” He shrugged. “We can flirt later.”

  “That-um.” Myrin turned before he could see her blush. “Let’s go.”

  Gods, this was odd.

  When Rhett had joined the Waterdeep Guard, he hadn’t expected to be marching through the streets of a ruined thieves’ city, his hand constantly at his sword hilt, wh
ile his appointed ward plunged ahead without hesitation. And really, why should she be afraid? Her wizardry could handle any danger they faced.

  Rhett really didn’t know what to think about Myrin. She seemed simultaneously naive and confident, and altogether quite unlike any woman Rhett had ever met. Also … Rhett had never considered himself a great thinker or even particularly intuitive. But even he could tell by the way that Myrin’s eyes grew clouded and her mouth set hard whenever he mentioned Kalen’s name that a story lay between them.

  The fact that Myrin had been flirting with him seemingly without knowing it told him much. Rhett, who had been raised in the ways of both Torm and Sune, knew the game of courtship well. Even if entirely unaware of it, Myrin was working out her anger at Kalen by turning her attentions to another. What was this barrier that lay between them-two people so obviously bound together? Perhaps Myrin told him true about Rath-this dwarf Kalen was supposed to have murdered-and that was the matter that stood between them. Rhett resolved to ask Kalen the next chance he got.

  What worried him most was the suspicion that Myrin’s venture to the North Shore had more to do with spite for Kalen’s advice and less to do with her determination to resolve Luskan’s problems.

  He remembered something else she had said-something that in passing he had barely noted. “Lady Darkdance,” he said. “What did you mean, when I spoke of your quest and you said ‘Oh, that’?”

  “Hold.” Myrin raised a hand to stay him and focused her attention on a nearby alley. Rhett listened and heard the sounds of a scuffle. Rhett stepped in front of Myrin, but she pushed right past him with another curse of “Mystra,” whatever that meant.

  Two men had pinned a third against the fire-scourged stones of a building while a fourth punched him repeatedly in the stomach or chest. All were bruised-apparently, the victim had fought back.

  A deal gone wrong or a mugging gone right, Rhett couldn’t tell. Ultimately, it didn’t matter. Myrin stepped up to them and pulled out her wand.

  “Hail,” she said. “You should leave that man alone.”

  The muggers went on pummeling the man as though they hadn’t heard.

  Myrin rolled her eyes and waved her wand-first around, then up into the air.

  Winds rose around the punching mugger as he wound back his fist. The man gave a strained cry, but it vanished in a clap of thunder as he sailed upward. Fifteen feet from the ground, he began tumbling in a localized storm of magic.

  The two thugs took one look at Myrin, her blue hair whipping in the winds of her casting, and fled. The victim of their assault slumped against the wall, breathing hard.

  “Have you got him?” Rhett nodded to the airborne ruffian.

  “Obviously.” Myrin gave him a wearied look.

  Taking care not to get swept up in the windstorm, Rhett kneeled at the downed man’s side. He set his shield against the wall, put his hand on the man’s chest, and concentrated the way he had when he’d healed Kalen. Sure enough, power flowed through him and into the stunned man, who coughed.

  The victim of the mugging seemed somehow familiar to Rhett, though he couldn’t say why. He was a man of about thirty winters, thin and wiry, with his black hair falling in greasy curls. His nose had been broken and healed long ago. He could be anyone off any street in Luskan. The man’s eyes fluttered, then settled on Rhett’s face. His eyes were so pale gray as to seem without color at all. Like Kalen’s eyes. For a heartbeat, Rhett thought he was Kalen.

  “Wait,” Rhett said. “You-”

  “Ay!” Myrin cried, distracting him. “Hold, dammit!”

  The swirling vortex of power wavered as the captured man struggled as though against ropes. Finally, Myrin’s magic fell apart and the knave fell to the ground. The mugger rose, his murderous eyes fixed not on Myrin but rather his prior victim. He clutched the handle of a rusty knife so hard his fingers turned white. His face held no hint of fear.

  “Back away, dastard,” Rhett said, closing his hand tightly on Vindicator. “Don’t-”

  The man charged just as Rhett brought Vindicator to bear. At the same instant, Myrin declaimed a word of magic and pulled her wand back.

  The thief’s rush ended on the point of the fabulous bastard sword. Only then did the wild fanaticism fade from his visage and his eyes turned fearful. He gasped and jerked on the sword.

  Rhett released his breath.

  Then Myrin’s blast hit them.

  Thunder clapped and a wave of force sent Rhett tumbling. Vindicator jolted from his grasp and the mugger’s body sprawled back against the wall. Rhett hit the ground with a bruising crunch of steel on flesh. He moaned in pain.

  “Sorry! Sorry!” Myrin rushed over to him. “You were too close.”

  Rhett groaned. “You couldn’t have waited another heartbeat?”

  “What, and not blast him?” Myrin looked at Rhett as though he’d lost his mind.

  A chuckle cut between them. Rhett turned and saw the ragged man they had saved was smiling broadly. “Gods save us from young adventurers and their love-banter,” he said.

  “Adventurers?” Rhett said, rising. “Nay, my good man, merely-”

  “Love-banter?” Myrin flushed. “With Recklan here? Ha! Ha ha!” She forced a laugh.

  “It’s Rhe-you know what? Forget it.” Rhett helped the man to his feet.

  Myrin looked very disturbed as she stared at the ground. “It wasn’t love-banter, was it?” she murmured. “I think I’d know. Wouldn’t I?”

  “In any case-” said the man.

  “Stay,” said a fourth voice. It sounded hollow, like wind scraping through a stone passage.

  Rhett looked around. With a chill that ran all the way from his fingers to his toes, he realized that the voice was emanating from the mugger he’d slain: the one who lay transfixed by Vindicator and broken on the ground. In fact, the corpse began to move jerkily. He had been reaching for his sword, but he withdrew his hand as though from a spider.

  “Oh, Mystra,” Myrin said. “It’s only a talking corpse. What’s so scary about that?”

  “Perhaps the ‘talking’ and ‘corpse’ bit strung together?” Rhett said.

  “Stay and hold, Witch-Queen of the Dead Rats,” the corpse said from the ground. “Hear me, for I am the Master of the Throat-Bheredahast, named for my greatfather.”

  “Oh,” Myrin said. “Greetings, Bheredahast. I am Myrin Darkdance.”

  “I know.” The corpse’s head swiveled on its broken neck to face her, which made Rhett more than slightly ill. Its eyes lit with crimson light. “I know also that you seek the plague which has killed many in Luskan, leaving only bones in its wake,” it said. “You come to me in vain, for I am not the source of this scourge.”

  “You expect us to believe that?” Rhett asked. “We’re to believe that a plague that just happens to leave skeletons behind is nothing a necromancer would want?”

  The corpse turned to him and-horribly-smiled. Chilled, Rhett backed away.

  “No,” the Master of the Throat said through the corpse. “This scourge feeds upon my servants as well as living men, leaving skeletons rendered useless to me. Every scrap of living animus flees them. My magic can take no hold.”

  “And I’m the Most High of Netheril,” Rhett said. Then, when the corpse glared at him, he amended: “Or maybe you are? O Lord Death?”

  “No, that’s true,” Myrin said. “The skeletons are useless for necromancy. They just crumble to dust when you try it. It would be self-defeating for the Master of the Throat to spread the Fury.”

  “You-you knew this?” Rhett asked. “And yet, here we are anyway? Going to face a necromancer you described as the most likely suspect?”

  Again, Myrin stared at him as though he spoke illogical nonsense. He sighed.

  “This plague is not my work, though I sense a great source of corruption in the bay. That is where you must go. Also, from hence forth, stay out of my dominion, and keep this out.” The corpse gestured to the sword buried in its chest. “I
f you do this, I shall not trouble you. You should accept this bargain, as-”

  “Done,” Myrin said without hesitation.

  The necromancer paused, then the corpse uttered a sound not unlike a chuckle. “You are a fascinating girl,” it said. “Should you wish to learn my arts, you may return to me anon-though I suspect there is little I can teach one of his heirs.”

  Myrin’s eyes widened. “Whose heir? I’m-” The light died in the corpse’s eyes and it slumped around Vindicator.

  Tentatively, Rhett grasped the hilt of the sword and pulled. The blade slid easily-all too easily-out of the body. It gleamed as the half-elf held it.

  “Well,” Rhett said. “You’re-ah!”

  The corpse, now freed of the transfixing blade, climbed to its feet and shambled off, completely ignoring Rhett’s hastily raised defense. When it was gone, Rhett could breathe again-none too well, but at least he could do it.

  “I wonder who he meant.” Myrin was staring at the departing corpse, her lips pursed in thought. She noticed Rhett staring and shook herself. “Well, let’s go.”

  “You’re just going to take his word for it?” Rhett asked. “The Master of the Throat? That he isn’t behind it?”

  Myrin shrugged. “I knew he wasn’t,” she said. “I just wanted to find out what he knew, which-as you’ve just heard-is almost nothing.”

  “And to prove you could do it,” Rhett noted.

  “That too.” Myrin looked to the beaten man they had rescued-the first time she’d so much as regarded him-and looked stricken. Then she furrowed her brow as though scrutinizing him more closely. “Hold, goodsir,” she said. “What-mmh!” She sank to one knee, grasping her head as though it pained her.

  “Myrin? What’s wrong?” Rhett steadied her around the shoulders.

  “A mask,” Myrin said, sounding almost delirious. “He’s wearing …”

  Rhett looked back to the man, who-he saw for the slightest of heartbeats-seemed different. Instead of a battered human of rugged aspect, he seemed a gold-skinned elf with bright gold eyes. Magic.

  Just as suddenly, the image fled and the man was once again the man with the gray eyes. He looked at them quizzically, considering. Then, after a breath, he spoke.