Shadowbane tap-4

by Eric Scott De Bie

  “I told you,” he said. “I fear nothing.”

  “And what of Myrin?”

  Kalen hesitated.

  Sithe pointed at him and bonds of darkness formed around his legs and arms. Before he could react, she came rushing toward him, her axe raised.

  Kalen tried to dodge, but Sithe’s power hobbled him and he stumbled. He crossed his daggers in front of his chest to block, but Sithe’s axe shattered right through his defense and sank with a wet thunk into his chest.

  He felt the blow only a little-mostly, Kalen felt the impact as it hammered him into the rooftop like a heated blade caught between a smith’s hammer and an anvil. He saw more than felt blood welling around the ripping blade of Sithe’s ugly weapon. For some reason, he couldn’t move his arms or legs. He couldn’t-

  Sithe wrenched the blade forth in a great gout of blood and flesh.

  He felt that, assuredly-felt the jagged blade rip into his insides and light a fire that brought darkness lunging at him from all sides. His body reacted of its own accord, limbs twitching toward the wound. The world wavered and he gasped for breath.

  Sithe threw a leg over him, straddling his chest and pressing his wound closed with her body. She put her face to his, almost as though they might kiss-but no desire or even mercy shone in her eyes. She caught his cheeks between her hands.

  “Do not fight this,” she said. “Rather, embrace it.”

  He could feel sucking darkness. The pain from that initial wrench subsided, replaced by a numb confusion as his body struggled against the inevitable.

  “I–I cannot feel it,” Kalen said. “My spellscar. I cannot feel-”

  She punched him in the face, silencing his protests. “This is death,” she said. “Spellscar or no, this is the death you have carried since birth-since ever your father looked upon your mother with lust and she upon him with the same.” She wrenched his head up and their noses touched. “You are not responsible for this.”

  “But my spellscar-”

  “If you had never acquired a spellscar, still you would feel nothing,” Sithe said. “You feel nothing because you fear to. You fear the truth of your doom-a doom you have always known and always chased-and you fear to live in spite of it.”

  “No, that-that isn’t-” Kalen’s words felt sluggish now, his body fading. “I–I cursed myself. I brought this doom upon me. I have chosen this.”

  “You are a bigger fool than I could have imagined,” Sithe said.

  She stood, releasing the pressure on his wound.

  Involuntarily, Kalen’s throat cried out like a terrified child. His body seized in a rictus of agony, then collapsed.

  He thought about Myrin.

  Darkness.

  Sithe crouched beside the dying man, her chin on her hands. Blood flowed freely from the rent in his chest and his body was twitching its way into oblivion.

  She could let it end, she realized. Killing was her purpose-death her only lover and master. What right had this man to life, when he sought at every turn to deny it?

  She might have left him to die, but she saw something more. She saw what he was … and what he could be.

  She drew a vial of white liquid from her belt and forced its contents down Kalen’s throat.

  Then she waited.

  Life came back in a rush and he sat up with a wrenching cry. The wound in his chest had closed, and he could feel the tingling effects of a healing potion.

  “Peace.” Sithe put her arms around him and pressed his head to her breast.

  Tears welled in his eyes and he wept. He could not say why. In truth, he had not known he was doing it until he saw the tears darkening her bodice.

  “Peace,” she said.

  For many moment, they sat that way-Sithe holding Kalen as he wept. He kept starting to speak, but no words seemed to fit. When the silence broke, it was Sithe who spoke.

  “You fear death less than you fear the truth,” she said. “And that is laudable.”

  “What truth?” he asked.

  “Terrible things befall all men,” she said, “and you are not special.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “All your life, you strive to make amends,” Sithe said. “This death inside you-you believe it your punishment for a life of sin.”

  “Isn’t it?” he asked. “Why else would I have this curse?”

  “Death needs no reason.” Sithe met his eyes. “You were born with this darkness and you will die with it. There is no meaning or greater explanation. It simply is.”

  She eased away from him, leaving him kneeling alone on the rooftop. She turned toward the sunset.

  Kalen knew she was wrong. As a boy, he had wandered into a storm of spellplague-that was the source of his curse-and yet … He looked at his fingers, scarred from when he had gnawed them as a child. His lips as well were hardened. The spellplague hadn’t stolen feeling away. It had made it worse, undeniably, but the numbness was his own.

  And if it was …

  “Myrin lied to you,” Sithe said at last.

  “When?”

  “In her letter,” Sithe said. “She claimed she drew death out of you and that you would live just that much longer. A lie.”

  Kalen shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

  “She did not draw out your death, because she cannot-no one can,” Sithe said. “Your death is your own and so is your life. If you yet live, it is because you choose to and for no other reason.” She turned to him. “Now get up.”

  “I cannot,” Kalen said, his teeth gritted.

  “Get up.” Sithe kicked him savagely in the ribs, and Kalen curled into the pain.

  He tried to push himself off the ground, but his body wouldn’t move as he directed. He fought to push life into his limbs, but they were cold and dead.

  “Understand pain,” Sithe said. “Life is pain, whether you feel it or not.” She crouched over him, resting her elbows on her knees and her chin on her hands. “Do you feel it? Even if your body is empty.”

  “In … in my dreams.” Kalen curled up, coughing. “Dreams.”

  “Ah.” Sithe reached down and ran her cold black fingers across Kalen’s sweaty brow. “And what do you see, in these dreams?”

  “I see faces.” Kalen panted. “All of them-the men and the women I have killed. Vaelis, my old apprentice. They …” His eyes blurred. “Their eyes are open. Waiting.”

  Sithe bent lower, her face to his face. “Do you know what I see in my dreams?”

  Kalen sniffed, his eyes bleared with tears. He shook his head slightly.

  “Nothing,” Sithe said. “I see nothing when I close my eyes. There is nothing inside me.” She put her hand on his chest. “For you, you choose to feel nothing, but for me”-she touched her hand to her breast-“for me, I am emptiness. You understand?”

  He nodded.

  “Hate,” she said. “Hate is how I move-how I defeat you. Because I believe in hatred.” She closed her hands together in front of her mouth. “And what of you?”

  “There is …” Kalen coughed, then focused on her face. “For me, there is more.”

  Sithe stared for a long moment into Kalen’s eyes. Her black gaze was like the eternal night sky before the stars emerged. “Then stand,” she said, “and show me.”

  “But-” Kalen groaned.

  “I thought as much.” She turned her back and strode away.

  Kalen fell into himself, Sithe’s words echoing in his mind. His scar-his curse-predated the spellplague. It was born instead, as he had been. Aye, he was scarred by magic. Indeed, he had ever-until this moment-known it for a curse. Now he wondered if there was not power to be held. The power of a god’s chosen murderer.

  Without knowing how, he rose. He should not have been able to move-the potion Sithe had forced down his throat had not healed him that much. Yet he rose. He held only a splintered dagger-the remains of his defense against Sithe’s axe-and yet he rose to face her.

  “I know what he saw,” Kalen called.
“The man, when he looked into the abyss.”

  Sithe paused and looked back. She did not appear surprised. “Yes?”

  “He saw death,” Kalen said.

  “Yes,” Sithe said. “He saw death, as you say. Why, then, was he pleased?”

  “Because it meant he still lived.”

  Sithe stared at him a long, long moment. She offered the slightest of nods.

  “There is a void within each of us,” she said. “Whether we try to fill it with faith or with magic, with will or with love, each of us must accept that it remains-boundless as existence and infinite as nonexistence. Fill yours with hate and you will be like me.”

  “No,” he said. “I have something more powerful than hate.”

  “Oh?” Sithe eased into a fighting stance. “Then show me.”

  He ran toward her. The splintered dagger in his hand blazed with light-not unlike that of Vindicator-and he let power surge through his arm. His fingers tightened around the hilt and his hand shook, but he would not falter. Anger surged within him-anger and justice.

  As he charged, the genasi slashed at him. He had no defense to offer-none but his faith. The axe clanged off his shoulder as though it struck something metal and skipped off.

  He lunged at her, striking her full in the chest with his shining dagger. Holy power flowed through him-the power of the Threefold God, channeled not for healing but for avenging. He buried the blade deep into her-or would have, had it not caught on the aura of pure blackness that surrounded her.

  He saw, in that moment, the armor of her faith flicker around her-powerful, dark, and filled with hate. He saw, reflected in her obsidian eyes, his own: a suit of weathered steel-breastplate, gauntlets, greaves, an entire suit of full plate. His faith was not white like that of some fairytale knight, but deep and gray: dubious in its intent, forceful in its application. He could see his pale eyes reflected in hers. So too could he see the great helm that covered his face.

  Their faiths strove with one another until, impossibly, his proved the stronger.

  Kalen’s strike drove Sithe back and she toppled to the ground.

  They stared at one another in the chilly twilight as the moon rose and the last peaceful night of Luskan began. They stared wordlessly, though many words hung between them.

  “What is it,” Sithe asked finally, “this strength you’ve found?”

  “I do as I must.” Kalen shrugged. “For those I must protect.”

  Sithe nodded. “You are ready,” she said. “Shadowbane.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  7 FLAMERULE (DAWN)

  As dawn broke, the gangs of Luskan came. They came to the abandoned market in numbers great and small. They marched into the square from various directions. Each gang wore a different color, the better to identify them in the melee that would surely come.

  The Dragonbloods marched in from the west, alongside their vassals: the Blacknails, the Pack Wolves, and the Glass Smashers. The Shou wielded all manner of swords and other blades. Many clutched disks of iron filed into points to use as crude but deadly carvestars. Leather armor cut to show her red dragon tattoo, the great warrior Kasi strode in front, a katana clasped in her hands. The Shou and their minions wore jade green sashes to mark them from the other gangs.

  From the northeast came the Coin-Spinners, led by Eden herself. The one-eyed priestess had girded herself for the occasion in a gold-inlaid breastplate that had once held precious stones but now displayed only empty sockets. Walking was clearly an effort, but she managed it surprisingly well. She wielded a vicious flail that hung loose at her side, but she was all smiles. “Lady Luck be with us!” she shouted and her forces responded in kind. They were by far the best equipped, but then, they were first among the Five. Every one of them wore a painted gold sash.

  At first, it seemed the Master of the Throat would go unrepresented. Then the ground near the northernmost point of the market began to stir and corpses pulled themselves from the riven earth. The living gangs of Luskan drew back, but the undead paid them no heed. The Master of the Throat’s chosen vessel was truly horrific: a hulk built from a dozen corpses that surveyed the field like a general. The corpses had no colors, but there was no mistaking them.

  From the mean streets of east Luskan came the Dogtooths, the Bloodboots, and the Hide-Etchers, along with Torm’s Trollops. The last were sharp-as-blades, tough-as-stone festboys and festgirls, with nothing like play on their minds today. The four gangs had ever been lesser players in Luskan, and perhaps they saw an opportunity this day to rise higher. They had chosen orange for their color.

  Finally, the Dead Rats filtered in from the south, along with the massive Dustclaws. Since the death of Duulgrin, the brutes had followed the woman who now stalked in front of them: Sithe with her reaving axe. The Dustclaw bruisers cut an odd juxtaposition with the weaselly Rats, but strange times made strange allies. The Dustclaws had donned the same red kerchiefs the Rats wore.

  They were all gathered, ready to begin.

  A cry went up from the Dogtooths and soon every gang in the square echoed it: “Shadowbane!” they called. “Shadowbane!”

  Kalen rose from where he lay hidden in the center of the market, obscured beneath a ratty cloak. His sudden appearance struck them to expectant silence.

  Eden stepped forward. “Well, Shadowbane-we’ve all arrived. What now?”

  Muffled agreement filtered around the square, all eyes looking to him for what would come next. Kalen surveyed the gathered forces silently, noting how they all stood ready for a charge. At least they were not fighting yet, which he took as some small victory. It would not last, he knew. He held up his hand.

  “Now I will speak with each of your kings,” Kalen said, projecting his voice to fill the open area. “Together, we will decide the new course of Luskan.”

  Those words met with murmured agreement and a few shouted insults. Ultimately, the various leaders stepped forward. Kasi for the Shou, Eden for the Coin-Spinners, Sithe for the Dead Rats and Dustclaws. The Dogtooths and their ilk sent a hulking man with a great spear, from which hung many shriveled fingers. Finally, the patchwork corpse of the Master of the Throat lurched and lumbered toward him.

  “All’s well,” Kalen murmured. “All’s-”

  Instinct rose within him, but just too late. An arrow gleamed in the sun, hidden from his eyes until it thudded into his shoulder. Although he could barely feel the arrow’s sting, the impact knocked him to the ground. If he hadn’t trusted himself to move at just the right instant, it would have ended up in his heart.

  Poison coated the arrow’s point. He could not feel it, but he recognized the effects of the paralytic venom on his body.

  Kalen heard a cry go up and he looked to the gangs as they surged forward. That single arrow-like a flaming taper tossed into dry hay-had burnt up all his plans. Instantly the battle began.

  With that, the world vanished.

  When Kalen awoke, chaos surged in Luskan’s market square.

  The Dogtooths crashed into the Dragonbloods, the Coin-Spinners hacked at red-kerchief marked Rats and locked blades with hulking Dustclaws, and the legions of the Throat fought against them all. Blades slashed, arrows flew, cries sounded, and blood flowed. Dust rose from a thousand stomping feet, covering everything.

  A Dustclaw roared, charging in toward three Dogtooths, scattering them like mangy dogs, but a crossbow bolt stopped the brute dead in his tracks. The woman who had shot him fumbled to reload, her hand shaking. The bruiser lumbered toward her, seized the crossbow, and smashed her face with it. They fell together, wrestling in the dust.

  Nearby, a hirsute woman-a Dead Rat, by her red kerchief and weasel-like features-leaped onto the back of a Bloodboot and tore off his ear with her teeth. Two zombies stumbled out of the dust and reached toward them both. The man without an ear, already terrified and in agony, ran. The woman, distracted with her new prize, didn’t see them coming until it was too late. She screamed as they pummeled her into the ground.
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br />   Kalen had thought he would have more time, but someone had betrayed him.

  A tall, feminine form materialized out of the swirling dust.

  “Eden,” he said, struggling to rise against the venom in his blood.

  The priestess stepped toward him. She wore a huge smile. “Why Brother!” she said. “I thought for sure you’d have the sense to flee by now.”

  A mountain-sized creature loomed out of the dust-the Master of the Throat. Eden turned and Kalen saw her coin flare with light. “Begone, in the Lady’s name!”

  A storm of power lashed at the hulking zombie and its component corpses abruptly shattered into a dozen pieces, flinging congealed gore in every direction. Some of the muck spattered across Eden’s face and she laughed madly.

  A hand touched Kalen on the shoulder-Sithe. Blood spattered the genasi, but Kalen thought none was her own. “Shadowbane,” she said.

  “Sithe!” Eden said. “Burn in the Lady’s gaze!”

  The priestess waved her hand and a lance of white light stabbed at Sithe, only to be deflected off her black axe. The genasi strode forward, setting her weapon whirling. As the women clashed, Kalen managed to get to his feet. He gazed around to take in the battle.

  All was madness. Shou hacked at Dustclaw, Dustclaw at Dogtooth-hundreds of men and women lashed out at anything that did not wear the same colors. A Shou was cutting pieces off a Bloodboot, who howled but couldn’t manage to fight back. A Hide-Etcher drove a blade into a Blacknail’s ribs and stumbled to his next victim. The killer was in turn transfixed with a spear that nailed him to the ground.

  Kalen had to stop the fighting. He had to get to the kings.

  He cast about, searching. The Master of the Throat he’d seen destroyed. Sithe and Eden had vanished into the dust, fighting loudly with great bursts of power-and wild swirls of Eden’s laughter. Kasi of the Dragonbloods was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps that was for the best-the woman had every reason to want him dead, as a matter of honor.