2 FLAMERULE (NIGHT)

Shanyi had experienced worse days in Luskan. Though, as she lay huddled under a heap of blood-stained clothes in the wardrobe—one eye blackened, an arm broken, bleeding from a gash across her cheek, and hiding as best she could as people screamed all around her—none of those days came readily to mind.

Duulgrin’s consort certainly had it better than some of the Dustclaws. She trembled to think about the screams outside the wardrobe and … and the other sounds. She trembled also at the bellows that roared through the corridors and at the heavy clashes of a maul against the walls. Swish and crack—swish and crack.

Duulgrin was angry again.

The last tenday or so at the Dustclaws tavern had been worse than any in the previous year. Shanyi had come to Luskan like many others: not because she’d wanted to, but because she’d had no choice. Neverwinter held only vague, tentacled nightmares for her, and she could not go back there. Trying to get to Waterdeep had ended with her beaten and left for dead in a ditch by the road. Coming here had been just another instance of the same pattern in her life: find the nearest, biggest, scariest man she could, slip into his bed, and hang on for protection. With Duulgrin, she thought it had worked.

Until he went mad.

Ten days ago, he had beaten one of his own men to death with his face, and after that, it only got worse. Being a Dustclaw used to mean protection from the mad half-orc. Now, it meant lining up with his other victims. He’d started taking out his rage on the gang yestereve and she’d been hiding ever since she eluded his initial attack.

Shanyi heard a noise and it took all her considerable will and skill at mummery to compose herself. She closed her eyes, flinching away as the closet door swung open. Someone had found her, but she didn’t want to see death as it fell.

A leather-gloved hand closed over her mouth and she sprang nearly out of her skin. She flailed at the hand, trying her best to drive it away. She’d never learned to fight but, given the choice between death in battle and the one Duulgrin offered, her body apparently preferred to fight. At least there was some chance she could get away—

“Shh,” said a voice.

The man crouching before her wore black leathers and carried two long daggers sheathed at his belt. He wore a helm but it was open to reveal his weathered, handsome face. He had a thick badland of stubble, pale eyes, and a look of aching weariness.

She could not speak, only whimper, and she hated herself for that.

“There is no shame in fear,” he said, as though he heard her thoughts.

The door across Duulgrin’s chambers shattered open and a dark silhouette filled the smoky portal. The half-orc stood hulking and snarling in the doorway, his great spiked maul dripping blood at his side. He slammed it into the door jamb, sending cracks skittering up the wall of the already ruined room. The chamber was a battered, scorched realm over which the mad half-orc king held sway.

“Kur guhl kthra,” he said in words that came from no language Kalen could name. It might have been Dwarvish or Giant or just madness.

Shanyi’s savior rose, hands on his dagger hilts. “I am Shadowbane and Luskan is under my protection,” he said. “You will remain here, in your tavern, until the seventh day of Flamerule.”

Duulgrin stepped farther into the light, sending reflected radiance off the crystallized flesh growing on his ankle where a madman had bitten him. The infection has spread all across his flesh. His muscular body had become a morass of sores, lesions, and blisters, pocked with crystal growths.

“He has the Fury!” Shanyi said. “Run! Run while you—”

“Hragh!” Duulgrin lashed out and sent splinters of a table flying at Shadowbane.

The man in black swayed out of way, letting the debris shatter against the wall. The half-orc was on him, his maul arcing from on high as though to drive Shadowbane into the ground, but he ducked aside and chopped one arm down onto Duulgrin’s wrist. That coupled with Duulgrin’s own strength knocked the maul free. It banged off the floorboards and crashed into the wall next to Shanyi’s head.

Blearily, Duulgrin looked at his empty hands, then dealt Shadowbane a backhand that sent him staggering. The half-orc leaped after him, his fingers twisted into talons. The man in black ducked aside and his daggers slid into his hands.

“Yield,” Shadowbane said.

Duulgrin, his eyes bloody and oozing, snarled incoherently and reached for him.

Shadowbane stepped aside and slashed one of his daggers across the half-orc’s ribs. Duulgrin staggered into the spot where the man had stood and lashed out with a spinning, rending claw that struck Shadowbane’s raised dagger with an audible clang. The knife shot from Shadowbane’s hand to spin end over end, trailing blood as it went, until it clattered against the far wall.

“No!” Shanyi said. “He can’t feel it. He can’t—”

Hardly seeming to notice his cut hand, Duulgrin caught Shadowbane’s next attack, twisted the man’s arm with an audible pop, and pulled the man in close. The half-orc roared in Shadowbane’s face, his breath fetid and full of rotting flesh. Shanyi could smell it from where she crouched. Duulgrin pulled back and slammed his head into Shadowbane’s face, knocking him sprawling in the half-orc’s grasp.

“Anytime,” Shadowbane muttered, “you want … to help …”

Was he talking to her? No chance. She—

A strange thing happened, then. Shanyi found herself on her feet, straining to lift Duulgrin’s massive hammer. Surprisingly, she could. “Let him go!” she cried and staggered toward the half-orc and his captive.

Duulgrin roared in glee and madness and smashed his face into Shadowbane’s again. A third time, Shanyi knew, and his brains would be leaking out his ears.

The maul hung low to the ground—she could not lift it above her waist. Still, she swung the maul with all the force she could muster at the one spot she knew a man would feel, even in the grip of insanity. She hit him so hard the hammer jarred from her fingers and skittered across the floor.

Duulgrin yelped and curled downward around himself. His grasp on Shadowbane loosened, but only in as much as he let the man dangle from one hand while the other groped for Shanyi. She flailed back.

“You—you—blarrgh!” The half-orc’s roar had become a whine, but one of pure rage. He caught up Shadowbane in both hands and slammed him into the ceiling. With a dismissive wave, he sent the stunned man tumbling and lurched instead for Shanyi. “Rip you,” he said. “Feast on you! Feed!”

Shanyi backed into the wall, spattered with blood and spit as it was. She edged to her right, trying to get past Duulgrin, but the half-orc was like a mountain. He was death—horrible and inescapable. Terror gripped her, but she would not show it.

Then Shadowbane was behind Duulgrin, his nose and mouth freely streaming blood. He patted the half-orc on the back of the head, prompting the chieftain to turn. When he did, Shadowbane punched so hard with the pommel of his dagger that the crazed chieftain’s turned-up nose splattered.

Stunned, Duulgrin flailed madly. Shadowbane ducked easily and came up with a rising thrust to the side. Shimmering gray flames surrounded him as he struck. The dagger thrust into Duulgrin and both men vanished in a burst of light that dazzled Shanyi for an instant. When her eyes cleared, they were clear across the chamber, locked in combat as before.

Movement in the hall announced the arrival of more Dustclaws. Bleeding and bruised from Duulgrin’s assaults, the rough men and women of the gang stood staring blankly into the chamber, regarding the whole duel with wonder.

No one could face Duulgrin alone—no one was foolish enough.

In that moment, Shanyi came to terms with the sheer proximity of her own demise. She had escaped death—at least for the moment—and the fear rushed back. Her heart raced and her hands shook. She saw the open door and made to flee, but a hand grasped her shoulder. A woman of darkness stood beside her, with skin like black leather traced with lines of pure nothingness. Shanyi had heard of this woman.

“Stay,” Sithe said. “Bear witness.”

She cast her eye toward the assembled gang members, who took an unsettled step back. They had heard of her as well.

In the corner, Shadowbane ducked Duulgrin’s lumbering blows and flashed quickly both ways, sending streaks of blood through the air. Though he bled from a dozen wounds, the half-orc seemed tireless. Shadowbane panted heavily, his breath rattling through his throat, as he dodged and slashed, side stepped and countered. As he fought, flames coursed along his limbs and his eyes burned.

“Here is the moment,” Sithe said. “Here—the void between life and death.”

Duulgrin punched Shadowbane in the chest. He fell back, gasping. When he raised his eyes, his face was wrought in an expression of both rage and utter focus.

The half-orc struck him again, but this time his fist slammed into gray radiance that suddenly surrounded Shadowbane. To Shanyi, it looked almost like … like armor.

The flames blazing around his dagger turned bright red and with a roar to match Duulgrin’s, Shadowbane leaped forward to bury the blade in the half-orc’s chest. Fire surged forth to immolate the chieftain in hungry, dancing flames.

Duulgrin reeled back and the flames menaced what remained of the furniture in the chamber. The half-orc stumbled to the door and flames leaped from his burning body toward the other Dustclaws. One of them swatted Duulgrin back with a club. Stunned, the half-orc fell to his knees, and thence to the floor.

In his wake, silence reigned for what seemed like an hour. Then Shadowbane spoke.

“Hear me,” he said. “Until the kingmaking, Luskan is my city—and in my city, there will be no fighting in the streets, no thieving, and no villainy. You will remain in your taverns, gathering your strength. But even there, you will do no violence. We will not fight amongst ourselves. Those who violate my order—”

Shanyi saw a burning shadow rise behind Shadowbane and terror seized her throat. She could not even scream a warning.

There was no need.

Sithe stepped through the girl, the length of the chamber, and Shadowbane as through mist and slashed through Duulgrin. The half-orc’s head flew across the room. His body, hands yet raised to grasp Shadowbane’s throat, lurched forward a step, then fell.

Shadowbane stood stunned a moment, then grasped the haft of Sithe’s axe in one hand and her throat in the other. The genasi’s eyes widened dangerously.

“I said mercy,” he hissed.

“Death is a mercy,” Sithe said. “Do you see?”

Duulgrin’s corpse quivered and shook, his soiled robes bulging outward around his midsection. Blood stained the silk, seeping through to slide down his distended belly. In a matter of heartbeats, the silk tore under the fangs of a hundred—nay, a thousand—spiders, beetles, and chittering, awful things. The swarm skittered down through the waterfall of gore and fell twitching and dying on the floor.

“Sithe,” Shadowbane said.

The genasi raised her axe and drew a wreath of flame over the corpse. The vermin burned with a sickly, putrid stench that filled the room.

“Sithe!” said one of the men in the hall. “Sithe! Sithe!”

Shanyi shivered. For better or worse, she was a Dustclaw, so she bowed. “Hail Sithe, queen of the Dustclaws,” she said.

The two warriors looked at one another, Shadowbane’s expression dubious and Sithe’s unreadable. The genasi’s black eyes flickered with stars.