Shadowbane tap-4

by Eric Scott De Bie

  “Perhaps he did, perhaps he did not,” Sithe said. “Either way, we need him.”

  “The lady makes a fine point,” Lilten said. “And recall, I need you to slay Scour for me. You can’t very well do that if you’re dead at the point of a Tymoran heretic’s sword. Speaking of which-” He picked up one of the fallen blades and turned it over in his hands. He sang a brief melody and it lit with seeking magic. He nodded. “As I thought.” The magic dimmed and the blade turned to dust in his hand. “Eden and her flunkies will trouble us no more. Are we ready to-ah.”

  Sithe scythed her axe toward his throat, stopping only a thumb’s breadth away. “We need you,” Sithe said. “But not intact.”

  Lilten’s smile remained. “I see we’re to have a conversation,” he said.

  “We’ll move on, but not before answers,” Kalen said. “If you did not bring Eden, how did she find us? Who are you and what is this game you play?”

  “As to the first, well, you don’t think you’re particularly subtle, do you? I suspect Eden’s been watching you since the market. As to the second and third”-Lilten shrugged-“would you settle for my healing your wounds as a show of good faith?”

  “How does that prove anything?” Kalen asked.

  “Every ounce of your strength makes it just that much harder for me to kill you?”

  Kalen might have protested, but Myrin put a hand on his arm. He saw the gash across her brow from Eden’s shield-it hadn’t healed fully-and he nodded.

  “Very well,” Kalen said. “But I will be watching.”

  “Promises, promises.” With a sly wink, Lilten turned to Myrin. “My lady, you acquitted yourself quite well, but you seem to be short a weapon, no?”

  Sadly, Myrin looked at the broken halves of her wand on the floor.

  “Perhaps you’ll consider carrying this. I should be very honored.”

  His hand opened to reveal a crystal ball that glowed with an inner blue mist. It was sized exactly for Myrin’s hand.

  “What-what is that?” Myrin reached for the orb, seemingly without thinking.

  “A weapon,” Lilten said. “It belonged to a great wizard for whom I once did a service. As I have no use for it, I thought I should pass it to one who is worthy.”

  “We don’t want anything from you,” Kalen said.

  “Kalen!” Myrin nudged him in the ribs. “I am honored, sir.”

  Lilten gave it to her and she gazed into its depths, blinking only after a long time.

  “May it do better service to you than me,” he said. “Now, healing, yes?”

  He sang sweet chords and the magic in his words caused their wounds to heal and their weariness to vanish. Kalen had felt only a gnawing ache from the arrow, but now even that vanished. If he listened hard, he could almost make out the words of Lilten’s song-something lyrical and Elvish and deeply sad.

  When he was done, Lilten picked up his grimy package and turned to a passage Kalen had not noticed before. “Follow,” he said, and he walked into the darkness.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  7 FLAMERULE (NIGHT)

  The constant drone of the swarm demon was giving Myrin the great goddess of all headaches. The pains of her beating from Eden had faded-thanks to the spell she’d borrowed from the Coin Priest and to Lilten’s magic-but the ceaseless hum seeped into every pore. Once, it seemed to grow louder and her heart thundered a dozen times before she recognized it as the rattle of her own teeth.

  Gods. If they didn’t find either death or escape soon, she would go mad.

  The passages, lit only by Kalen’s flickering torch, were treacherous. More than once, they slipped on mounds of things better left unidentified. They saw claw marks on the stone and gnawed bits of wood and rubble, but not a single living creature. Luskan’s sewers had become crypts, devoid of life. Perhaps Scour had subsumed it all-or devoured it.

  Lilten led them through a crumbling archway, down a tunnel deeper into the earth. It grew oppressively warm as they descended and Myrin’s thoughts grew heady in the thick air. It wasn’t just the orb, which pulsed warmly in her belt pouch as she walked. Dull heat spread through her body, making her anxious and fidgety. She found her eye drawn to her companions. She watched how they moved in the torchlit darkness-the curves of their bodies-and a hunger descended upon her: the hunger to take and possess.

  “Be wary, hero.” Lilten touched Kalen on the shoulder with his lithe, gloved hand. “The magic of dark and alluring rituals lingers about this place.”

  Myrin-who had found herself picturing Kalen and Lilten in quite the same pose with many fewer clothes-knew exactly what he meant. When Kalen turned to her, she looked down and away, less ashamed of what she might see in his eyes than afraid. Instead, she saw Sithe walking beside her and found herself rather appreciating the genasi’s body. Those black lips looked rather tempting of a sudden.

  “Focus,” Myrin told herself. “Remember the imminent death.”

  That helped.

  The chambers through which they strode showed signs of violence. Moldering skeletons were strewn throughout the halls, fallen in battle many years past. The party picked its way among the detritus of an old compound of some sort-complete with a barracks, dining hall, and a midden for residents to relieve themselves. Only bones attended the chamber.

  The tunnel opened into what might once have been a bedchamber. Rot had claimed most of the furnishings, but Kalen recognized the remnants of a bed covered in dusty, mold-blackened blankets. The walls abounded with manacles on chains, all of which hung open. A great black stain marred the floor, as of long-dried blood.

  The chamber seemed familiar to Myrin, like a dark dream recalled from long ago. “I know this place,” she said.

  “Do you, my lady?” Lilten looked at her, unsettled. “I think you must be mistaken.”

  “No,” Myrin said, staring down at the black stain. “No, I’m sure of it.”

  She closed her eyes and focused. At her bidding, the dust rose from the floor and collected itself into swirling blue-white images: a man stood between two arguing women. A spell struck down the man and a crossbow bolt burst through the heart of one woman, who fell in the center of the chamber-right over the dark stain. She twitched and finally went still.

  She remembered them: A demon cultist-the elf Cythara-and her brother-Yldar. The one who had come between them was Lady Ilira, though Yldar had called her something else. And where was Fayne, whose eyes had been the vantage point of the memory. She concentrated, willing more magic to come-

  Suddenly, her magic fell apart, quite as thought it had never been. She lost her focus and the dust fell to the floor. “Huh,” she said. “What-?”

  “Fascinating,” Lilten said. “To my considerable knowledge, Lady Myrin has never been in this chamber. I believe you both know several folk who have, however.”

  He whistled and the dust that had formed Myrin’s players swirled again. Figures reformed, taking on a crimson cast, chained to the walls. Five of them materialized: a dwarf, an elf, a human, and two halflings. The last two were alike in size and in face.

  Kalen abruptly rounded on Lilten. “Why have you brought me here?”

  “Kalen, calm-” Myrin said, but stopped when he turned to her, his eyes blazing.

  “This is the cult-the demon cult that-” he said, words falling madly from his lips. “Cellica-Toytere, too!” Kalen motioned to the wall. “They were tortured here.”

  Myrin’s face felt cold. “Gods,” she said. “I–I didn’t know-”

  “Talk, trickster.” Kalen released the torch and drew and pointed with a dagger. “Who are you? Is this some game?”

  Lilten stared at him, unconcerned. “I assure you, this is no game,” he said. “I have not lied to you about my intentions or my desires. I want you to kill Scour.”

  “And have it return the favor and kill us, is that it?” Kalen looked down at the package Lilten carried. “Enough of your secrets.”

  “Kalen, wait!” Myrin said.

/>   Heedless, he snatched up the ugly parcel and tore it open. Then he stood a long time, staring into the contents. Slowly, he raised incredulous eyes to Lilten.

  “What is it?” Myrin asked, trying to peek over his shoulder. She made out the writing on the torn paper-“SHADOWBANE,” in big red letters.

  Abruptly Kalen dropped the package and lunged. The sun elf managed to put his hand on his rapier before Kalen grasped his wrist and slammed him against the moldering wall. Lilten-looking surprised as anyone-opened his mouth to protest, but Kalen punched him across the face with his free hand.

  “What are you doing?” Myrin’s heart pounded. “Stop it!”

  She looked to Sithe, who only shrugged.

  “I had nothing to do with that package.” Lilten’s usual charming ease wavered on something sharper. “I am merely the messenger.”

  Kalen struck again. Lilten managed to twitch his head aside and the fist slammed so hard into the rock it left cracks. The elf writhed, but Kalen held him fast.

  “Stop!” Myrin cried. “He’s our friend!”

  Kalen got his hands around Lilten’s neck.

  “Stop!” Myrin drew the crystal orb with its inner cloud of blue smoke. Lightning pulsed in the tiny cloud-power to match the power flowing down her arm. “Stop now!”

  That got Kalen’s attention and he looked levelly at her. If Myrin didn’t know better, she might have thought she saw actual flames in his eyes.

  “You should listen to her, hero,” Lilten said. “That lass looks a bit wrathful.”

  Kalen let Lilten drop and stepped away, grasping his forehead in his fingers.

  “What the Nine Hells, Kalen?” Myrin stepped toward Lilten. “Here, let me help-”

  “Nay-’tis well.” The elf eluded her hand and rose with great grace. “I shall forgive this one incident, because of your lad’s grief-but I do not easily forget.”

  “His grief,” Myrin said. “What-?”

  “Thank you for persuading him of the error of his ways,” Lilten continued, as though she hadn’t spoken. “However, I must correct you in one particular: while I may be your ally for the moment, I am not your friend. You should learn the difference.”

  Myrin blinked. Until that moment, the elf had seemed friendly if odd. Now absolutely nothing of affability remained in his tone. It was dry as scoured bone and cold as the heart of glaciers. His eyes seemed suddenly red, not gold.

  He laughed and his wrath dissolved in an instant. “What was I saying, my dear? Oh yes. If you’ll excuse me, I have certain”-he touched her cheek with his gloved hand-“missteps to correct. I’m sure you understand.”

  “I don’t,” she said.

  Lilten shrugged. “Well, I’ve been wrong before.”

  She realized it was the second time he had touched her, and that only by his own initiative. She had reached for him once before and he had pulled away. Why? Did he have memories she could absorb? Things he didn’t want known?

  A dim rumble sounded in the depths and the drone they had followed for the last hour grew louder. That they heard, and the rattle of talons.

  “Scour comes,” Lilten said. “Best of luck with it-and with him.”

  Without further explanation, he walked away. Sithe stepped aside and let the elf disappear into the darkness. The genasi had plucked up the discarded parcel and was gazing at its contents. She nodded to Myrin and held it out.

  “What the Nine Hells is going on, Kalen?” Myrin repeated.

  Kalen breathed heavily and rapidly, his shoulders heaving. His mouth worked. “Not-not again,” he said. “Threefold God, no. Not again.”

  What could possibly drive him so completely and suddenly mad?

  “What?” Myrin asked. “What is it?”

  He shook his head and pointed at the package in Sithe’s hands.

  Suddenly wary, Myrin crept toward the proffered package that said “SHADOWBANE.” With trembling fingers, she peeled aside the sticky paper. Blood clung to her fingers.

  Myrin drew out the contents of the parcel: the hilt and handle of Vindicator, along with a hand’s length of razor-sharp steel. Two other pieces of the beautiful blade lay beneath it. All were slathered in enough blood to drown a man. On the blade, traced out of the blood with a finger, was a single word: “WESTGATE.”

  “Gods,” she said. “Rhett.”

  “Not again,” Kalen murmured. “I can’t … not again …”

  Sithe clutched her head. “I can feel it in my mind. I can hear it screaming-for him.”

  For some reason, Myrin didn’t react the way she expected to. She should have gasped and dropped it to the floor. Her heart should be thudding in her throat, her eyes losing their focus. That was how she had heard such things described in the bards’ tales.

  Yet no fear, no horror, not even simple distaste compelled her. She felt these things-indeed, they boiled up and threatened to send her weeping to her knees-but she set them aside. Instead, a pervasive cold possessed her. Above that, she was filled with a sense of what needed to be done. She saw things in clear, cold equations, and pushed emotion far, far away.

  The drone of the swarm grew louder, along with the clatter of a thousand sharpened legs. Myrin could see a dull red glow down the deeper tunnel. The demon was coming for them. Sithe drew up her axe and stood ready.

  “Kalen,” Myrin said.

  The man pulled away from her, but she pressed forward. She clasped the sides of his face and drew his gaze to hers.

  “I need you,” she said. “I understand that this is awful. We will deal with it, but we can’t deal with it now. We have to focus on what’s in front of us. Can you do that?”

  “Not again.” Kalen looked toward the package. “I shouldn’t have left him. I-”

  “Kalen!” Myrin snapped and his eyes met hers. “Can you do that?”

  He hesitated, then nodded.

  “Good,” Myrin said. “I have another matter-something very, very important. And I really need you to hear me. Will you hear me?”

  Kalen nodded, more vigorously this time.

  Myrin cast a glance back at Sithe. “If I become infected and I lose my mind to the Fury-you have to kill me. Do you understand?”

  His eyes widened. “But-”

  “You have to promise,” Myrin said. “If I become a monster, you have to kill me. It has to be you. Promise me.”

  “I-very well,” Kalen said. “I promise.”

  “Well.” Myrin nodded grimly. “We’ll talk about the third matter later, if we live.”

  “Third?” Kalen asked.

  Myrin pushed herself into his arms and pressed her lips to his. Blue fire sparked as their souls sang to one another. They kissed for a long, long moment before she finally pulled away. He started to speak, but she put a finger to his lips. She drew out Lilten’s crystal sphere.

  “Right,” Kalen said. “Later then.”

  He drew his daggers.

  How dare they.

  How dare they, the three with their treading feet. Every tremble on the stone, we heard them-every breath we sensed. Did they think we would not?

  Shadowbane comes.

  We skitter in the deep shadows of the world. We lurk beneath the skin. We are the madness over which the world stretches. Murmur warns us, but we do not listen. We are angry. We hunger.

  They are enemy. They are anathema.

  Shadowbane. He is here. He exists.

  They come to slay us. They three. They few. They alone.

  But we are many. We are thousands. We are together-forever.

  They will feed us.

  Feed.

  FEED!

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  7 FLAMERULE (NIGHT)

  In that moment-just before Scour burst like a raging hurricane through the tunnel and they began fighting for their lives-everything became clear to Kalen. Seeing the sword-knowing how he had failed Rhett, just like he had failed Vaelis-had undone him. His desperate patina of control was swept away in a flow of anger such as he had not kn
own since his days as a thief on the streets of Luskan. Anger at being scarred and doomed. Anger at letting folk he cared about die. Anger at being fooled. Anger at being hopelessly outmatched.

  Now, with Myrin’s kiss, all that anger collected into one hot point and became purpose. This creature was going to fall. He swore it.

  As if in response, power filled him-power such as he had never known. Myrin’s kiss lingering on his lips, he drew his daggers and ran toward the oncoming death.

  With the crashing roar of a thousand voices, Scour flowed up the tunnel and into the dimly lit demon temple. It shattered open a withered door like a fleck of driftwood. The braces of the portal cracked then splinted with the force of its passage. Thousands upon thousands of nightmare beasts came at them. They only vaguely resembled what they had once been-spiders, locusts, gnashing beetles, scorpions, rats, and all things that crept through the shadows and stung or bit in the dark. They had swelled to ten times the size of their mortal kin, sprouted dozens of limbs and stingers, and burned red and black like the demon that drove them. This horrifying army surged forth, laying waste to everything in its path.

  Every one of its voices screamed a single word: “FEED!”

  Kalen screamed right back, a sound without words.

  Blazing with divine fire, Kalen leaped before the first ones could touch him, kicked off the wall, and came down in an explosion of holy force that sent the creatures sailing in every direction. It broke the wave of the swarm like an exploding stone thrown into the water.

  Before more could take their place, he sprang again, his boots sparking with magic, and somersaulted free of the swarm. Two demonbeasts flew after him, their stingers flailing. He slashed one out of the air and kicked the second back as he twisted down to land on his feet.

  Sithe covered his retreat. She spun her axe and whirled forth a halo of flame that sent destruction scything through the swarm. Any of the beasts that dared to bite at her, claw at her, or even approach her were consumed in her reaving flame. Not, of course, that the swarm could avoid her-more creatures kept flowing from below, pushing their brethren into the flames.