21 KYTHORN (EVENING)

LUSKAN.

A seeping, lice-ridden sore, the so-called City of Sails squatted on the Sea of Swords, oozing its corruption into land and water alike. The ground itself reacted against Luskan as a body might to a boil, growing chapped and barren for a league in all directions. One could smell the city at that distance—a sickly mixture of rancid meat, old dust, and shit, which only grew thicker as one approached.

As dusk fell, a lone rider approached, his gray cloak flying out behind him in a trail of dust. He held no illusions about the city—in fact he knew it better than most. He knew enough not to return, and yet he had no choice.

Kalen Dren never did seem to have much choice.

Ever a hole, Luskan had suffered two blows near a century past: The pirate kings had clashed with painful consequences for the city, and then the Spellplague struck. The city existed now as a mere mockery of what it had been. In the Year of Deep Water Drifting, Luskan was its own small nation, ruled by thieves and madmen.

Greasy smoke from half a hundred chimneys formed a haze over the city as forbidding as the thick walls around it. Every morning, the walls were hung with the remains of fresh victims of the city, grisly totems that drove back invaders without needing a single living defender.

Lately, Luskan had acquired another line of defense: a contingent of Waterdhavian Guard stood sentry around the city. Summer was, after all, plague season, and if Luskan suffered a new malady, the Guard’s strict quarantine would keep it contained.

It was, in short, the last place any sane traveler would ever want to go.

The lone man rode with eyes fixed upon the rotting city. His sword gleamed, an eye-in-gauntlet sigil etched on its hilt. Kalen felt vague warmth through his glove at its touch, and he knew that the blade would have burned any other man. But thanks to his spellscar, he could barely feel even the deepest of cuts. To him, this pain offered only dull distraction—the niggling reminder that he was no longer worthy of his sword.

He could bear that.

He thought of the note—the scrap of parchment folded up inside his leather breastplate, close to his heart. He thought of the hand that had written it and of the single word—Luskan—scrawled in blood across the neat handwriting. Inviting him—challenging him. “Come and find her,” those six letters had implied. “If you can.”

Kalen Dren came with a purpose and would not be swayed.

Not if he had to kill every single son of a bitch in the godsdamned city.

As the sun dipped, signaling the last hour before the shifts changed, relief filled the guards on duty at the isolated cliffside gate at the south end of the city.

It was a small gate—more a flaw in Luskan’s wall, actually, broken open during the earthquake that had ripped through the region twenty or so years past. Accessible on foot or by boat, it stood beside a precipitous fall into the churning waves of the Sea of Swords. Locals called it “Cliffside Cranny” for its forbidding location and narrow opening. Nevertheless, folk had used it to smuggle captives or exiled nobles in and out, at least until the Waterdhavians erected a crude barricade to seal the gap, leaving a tiny space at the very top.

Rhetegast Hawkwinter, the younger of the two guardsmen, yawned and sighed as dusk brought blessed cool air. Luskan was experiencing a heat wave the last few tendays, one that did not show signs of stopping. The half-elf—Rhett to his friends—had received his first gauntlet not two tendays past, and ye gods, had life in the Guard proved both uncomfortable and a bore.

“Another day in service to the Lords, another day sitting on our haunches.” Rhett stretched. “That was a long shift. I, for one, look forward to a bit of the watered ale they foist upon us back at the camp. I thought it ghastly at first, but—Carmael? Are you even listening?”

The second of the Trusties—an irritable Cormyrean expatriate by the name of Carmael—was poring over dispatches from Waterdeep: orders, wanted notices, and the like. His cragged face remained passive and his eyes kept to his work.

Rhett was accustomed to this sort of benign neglect. The Guard was hardly the glorious, romantic pursuit he’d been led to believe. He rather suspected his father, Lord Olivar Hawkwinter, had set him on this path not to build character as he’d claimed, but rather to make an attempt on his life through monotony. Still, Rhett was determined to make the best of it.

“Sir Carmael, methinks that lass back at the camp—Este? The one who washes our weathercloaks?” He winked. “Methinks she has her eye on your noble visage.”

The older man glanced over, then shook his head. “Belt up, Trusty,” he said, annoyed. “Or at least wait until you’re back in the privacy of your own bunk.”

“Hmm!” Rhett saw a letter written in a lady’s hand half-concealed among Carmael’s papers. “Ah ha! And what is that, Sir Oh-So-Chaste? Methinks—”

“Enough!” Carmael rose to his feet, fists clenched.

“Ah ha!” Rhett beamed. “Love is ever a cause for fisticuffs. Have at thee, Sir!”

“Stay those tongues and fists.” A guardsman with three gauntlets on his breastplate—the mark of a Shieldlar and their superior officer—appeared out of the faltering light. A good man who took his job seriously, Duth Galandel had little use for idle soldiers.

“Hail, Sir,” the guardsmen said together.

“Belt up, both of you,” Galandel admonished as he took a seat on a jutting stone. “Duty’s not ended.”

The Trusties saluted—a smart rap on the hilts of their swords. Carmael went back to his papers. Rhett latched onto the Shieldlar as a new source of relief from the tedium of sentry duty.

“Sir, I—” Rhett paused. “That is, if you don’t mind the question.”

Galandel shrugged. “Ask.”

“Sir, why are we guarding this gate?”” Rhett looked down the steep path. “We haven’t seen a sign of anyone trying to escape. Not that I blame them: they’d have to circle the city half a mile to reach the open road, where the Guard is stationed anyway.”

The Shieldlar leaned against the wall and looked up at the moon. Selûne was waning, but her tears were bright tonight. “It only takes one to break the quarantine, Hawkwinter.”

“Yes, Sir.” Rhett bowed his head to that logic. “It’s—it’s just that we haven’t seen anyone even try to leave in a tenday!” he said. “Wouldn’t it make sense to reassign me to the main gate, where more folk try to get out? I’ll be of more use there.”

“And this reasoning of yours,” Galandel said. “It has nothing to do with a certain raven-haired Valabrar in command there?”

Rhett smiled innocently. “Sir, I don’t know what you mean.”

Really, who in the Guard wouldn’t want to take orders from Araezra Hondyl—in battle or otherwise? The Valabrar was one of the best-looking women in Waterdeep—possibly in all the Sword Coast. And she was his own age, just about. Though she’d risen high in the ranks, she had seen no more than a handful over a score winters. Perfect.

“No one’s going to come out this gate,” Rhett said firmly.

“Perhaps not,” Galandel said. “And if anyone tried to break in while we left this smuggler’s gate unguarded?”

“Sir!” Rhett chuckled. “Only a lunatic would do that.”

The clatter of hooves on the salt-rimmed stones drew their attention. Galandel sprang to his feet with the grace of a seasoned warrior.

“What’s that?” Rhett asked.

“A lunatic.” Galandel reached for his steel.

Across from them, Carmael was on his feet, his mighty scimitar drawn and ready.

They saw the horse first: a muscular dun with flanks lathered in sweat. Like as not, the steed had run all day. That in itself was mad—one false step on the narrow path would send horse and rider tumbling into the sea.

The rider in the dark cloak stole their attention. His hood partly hid his face, but Rhett could see one of the rider’s eyes in a flash of lightning—its color that of a gray diamond. The man wore a helm, its faceplate raised.

The man raced up the path and reined his steed to a halt. The horse reared, driving the men back. When he came back down, the rider stared at them the way a hunting dog might gaze at a trio of waterfowl.

“Stand aside.” The man in black’s chill voice brooked no argument.

Galandel strode forth to face him, his hand on the hilt of his sword. “Halt and stay steel in the name of the Lords,” he said. “This city—”

“I won’t ask again.” The man pushed aside his cloak, which rippled in the wind, revealing the long handle and silver pommel of a sword strapped to the side of the saddle. Rhett saw an eye-in-gauntlet sigil on the hilt.

Now that he had drawn closer, they could make out the man’s face. A tenday’s worth of stubble covered cheeks like boiled leather, and the man’s sharp nose was slightly crooked as though it had been broken some time before. It was the gray eyes, however, that stabbed into Rhett’s mind and lingered.

Rhett looked at Carmael, stunned. The older guardsmen returned his gaze in disbelief, then seemed to remember something. He reached among his papers, and drew one out. His face paled. “Sir?” Carmael said to Galandel.

Rhett glanced across at the paper: an artist’s rendering of a dark-haired man. Opposite, there was an image of a featureless helm with two slits for eyes. Between the two was some sort of symbol—a gauntlet like that of the Guard’s ranking sigils, but with a stylized eye drawn in the center. Beneath it all lay one word in block letters. A name.

Rhett sucked in a breath. “Bane’s blazing balls,” he said. “Shadowbane!”

The guardsmen drew steel.

Kalen Dren had hoped to find the Cliffside Cranny unguarded, but alas, three guards stood before him: Shieldlar Galandel, a Trusty called Carmael, and a half-elf boy he didn’t know.

And they were in his way.

Kalen laid his hand on Vindicator’s hilt. The blade felt hot even to his numb fingers. Why had he brought the sword, if it hated him so badly?

Unsurprisingly, the Shieldlar refused to back down. Duth Galandel was a good guardsman—he and Kalen had been friends of a kind. It would be a shame to kill him.

Carmael showed Galandel a wanted notice. Kalen sighed.

“Shadowbane!” said the youngest guardsman. He fumbled with his crossbow, while Carmael smoothly sheathed his scimitar and drew his own crossbow.

“The city of Luskan is under quarantine by Order of the Waterdeep Guard, Shadowbane,” Galandel said. “What possible madness could have brought you here?”

“Madness,” Kalen repeated.

In his mind’s eye, Kalen saw a gold-brown face wreathed in hair like blue fire. He remembered the last words she said to him—pleading with him to follow her—and then the bittersweet missive she had left him. It was the same note that he had in his pocket, a note that told him not to follow—and said she had given him a gift.

Myrin.

He could not change course.

“Perhaps it is madness,” he said, “but I will see it done.”

“The Hells you will,” Galandel said. “Kalen Dren, you are under arrest for crimes against the citizens of Waterdeep: murder, assault, intimidation, destruction of property, and impersonation of a legal guardian of the city.”

The youngest of the guardsmen stiffened at the recitation of these crimes, but Kalen kept his focus on Galandel. “This is your duty?” he asked.

“It is,” Galandel said.

Kalen nodded. He had expected no less.

He climbed down from his steed. With one hand, he unbuckled his sword and its scabbard; then with the other, he slapped his weary horse on the rump. The exhausted steed whinnied—a sound blasphemously loud in the quiet night—and made its way back down the loose path. Odds were, he wouldn’t need the animal again.

Kalen raised the sheathed sword horizontal and level with his face and put his left hand on Vindicator’s hilt. The two crossbows wavered.

“Hold!” Galandel shouted, raising one hand.

They stood among the crags, the only sounds the gentle lapping of waves below and the tense creak of leather-wrapped fingers on crossbow triggers.

“Kalen,” Galandel said softly. “Kalen, stand down, and no harm will befall you.”

“You know I cannot.” Kalen released the hilt of Vindicator to pull his helm’s visor shut.

With a grim nod, Galandel drew his sword and readied his shield.

The Shieldlar circled Kalen, studying him. Walking slowly in the other direction, Kalen let his cloak drift on the sea winds, holding the sheathed sword between them. Wielding it in his left hand still felt a little awkward, but his right hand hadn’t worked well since a dwarf assassin had broken it a year back. And he couldn’t feel any pain, but then, with the sickness growing, he couldn’t feel much of anything in his body.

Nothing but a growing rage that swallowed his earlier restraint. He wanted to hurt one of them. Hurt all of them. Badly.

He pressed his numb fingers into Vindicator’s hilt, letting its fire burn up his arm. He might not be worthy of the weapon, but the warmth reassured him.

As Galandel charged, Kalen closed his eyes and focused on his sword. He drew.

A flash of light, dazzlingly bright under the stars, half-blinded the guardsmen. It seemed as though Kalen held a shard of the sun. One of the crossbows fired, but Kalen swept aside the bolt with his scabbard and parried the dazzled Galandel with his grey-burning sword. Their steel rang in the twilight, blades locked high.

Galandel broke the lock first, and struck high to low. Kalen parried again, his blade pointed tip-down to let the Shieldlar’s sword rake down its length. Kalen stepped back, ready to ward off another strike, and the senior guardsman did not disappoint. He followed his strike up with two more thrusts. Kalen’s second parry slipped a hair, and Galandel’s blade cut into his opponent’s leather gauntlet and drew blood.

Kalen looked down at his wound. The blood on his arm seemed to belong to someone else—someone far away. With his spellscar affliction, he could be cut to the bone and it would only itch a little. He looked up from his hand to Galandel, standing three paces distant. He dropped his lacquered scabbard, set his right hand on Vindicator’s pommel so he held the sword in both hands, and leveled the blade at the Shieldlar’s eyes.

Galandel came on. This time, Kalen parried wide and braced himself just in time for the coming shield bash, which hit his shoulder. Kalen fell to his back, rolled, and kicked out at Galandel’s leg. The Shieldlar cursed and staggered. Seizing the initiative, Kalen tumbled back to his feet and lunged forward, setting Galandel firmly on the defensive.

They traded blows, parry following counter following parry, in balance, moving faster and faster, and then—suddenly—Kalen struck through Galandel’s defenses. The two junior guardsmen gasped. Galandel’s sword flew harmlessly wide—missing the parry—and his shield whipped around to knocking Kalen away just a touch too late.

Gripping his right arm, Kalen fell back without his sword. Galandel moved a step and panted. The wind whistled between them.

Then Kalen’s head rose. Galandel’s shield slipped, revealing a sword struck through his shoulder—Kalen’s sword. He fell to one knee, his teeth gritted in pain. Carmael cried out in shock and raised his crossbow. Kalen stepped forward, drew a long dagger, and put it to Galandel’s throat. He hoped the guards could see his willingness to take it that far.

But the youngest guard stepped between them, sword lowered. “Wait! Hold!”

Kalen hadn’t expected this. Keeping the gasping Shieldlar under his knife, he appraised the youngest guard. He had bright red hair, a flowery scent that spoke of rich blood, and the build of a lordling raised from childhood with a toy sword in his hand. Kalen saw nothing to indicate why he would step between two veteran combatants, let alone shield a known criminal.

“Make a move, boy,” Kalen said.

The half-elf nodded. “We’re here to keep folk in the city, not out. I mean, we discourage it, but if you need to enter, then enter, and Tymora’s good luck to you.”

Slowly, Kalen inclined his head.

“Rhett—what are you doing?” Carmael hissed. “This man is a wanted criminal. We’re not just going to let him go!”

“Let him go into Luskan?” the boy—Rhett—countered. “Isn’t that what we do with criminals anyway? Let them fend for themselves in there?”

“Stupid boy!” Carmael roared. “You’re aiding a proscribed villain!”

“No,” came a weak voice—that of Galandel. “No, the lad’s right.” He looked up to Kalen. “Go then. Whatever quest drives you—go.”

Kalen cast his eyes back to the two Trusties. With a scowl, Carmael lowered his crossbow. Kalen dropped his dagger from Galandel’s throat and sheathed it at his belt. Rhett shivered, but when Kalen gave him a nod, he returned the gesture.

That had taken bravery—and stupidity. A dangerous combination.

Kalen passed between the guardsmen, toward the barricaded cliffside gate.

“Your sword,” Rhett said, pointing to Vindicator, still buried in Galandel’s shoulder. “Don’t you need it?”

He considered it, looking down at his scalded hands. He had not felt worthy of the sword since his failure with Vaelis, months ago. Now … perhaps it was time.

“Keep it,” Kalen replied. “I stopped being worthy of that blade a long time ago.”

He leaped onto the city wall, his boots flaring with blue fire as they carried him aloft. Within two breaths, he had scaled to the top of the barricade and slipped between it and the stone. He squeezed through the cranny and vaulted into the fallen city.

He hit the ground running.

Rhett and Carmael tore off their helms and rushed to their superior, who coughed and clutched at the sword Shadowbane had left in his shoulder. Rhett reached for the weapon, but Galandel slapped the hands away.

“Don’t pull it out, lad,” he said. “What do you think’s holding all the blood in?”

Rhett backed away. “But doesn’t it hurt, Shieldlar?”

“Oh, it hurts like Shar’s sharpened teeth on Cyric’s—gah!” He gritted his teeth and turned to Carmael. “Fetch a healer, Trusty—and right quick.”

“Shadowbane,” Carmael murmured. “Can you believe it?”

“Believe you’ll be mucking out latrines with your beard by sunrise if you don’t get that godspissed healer.”

Carmael tapped the hilt of his sheathed sword in salute and ran for their horses.

“Bold thing you did there, boy,” Galandel said with a grimace. “You could be hanged for disobeying orders—or probably just whipped and discharged. Dishonorably.”

Grimly, Rhett nodded. It was the stupidest thing he had ever done in his young life, and yet, it didn’t feel wrong. “You didn’t want to fight him.”

“We were comrades and I know what kind of man he is.” The Shieldlar gestured to the city. “Tymora’s blessing and Chauntea’s soothing kiss on any who get in his way.”

Though he nodded, Rhett knew that wasn’t why he’d helped Shadowbane. But the unyielding resolve in his almost colorless eyes …

Rhett would remember those eyes.

In the depths of her scrying pool, the priestess saw a man in black sliding down the wall and into the city of sin. The halfling had been right—a crusader had come.

“Kalen Dren,” she murmured. “Come to play my game, have you?”

She saw his image, but only for the briefest of breaths before it dispersed. She would need a closer scrying focus to see him more clearly, but that she could get. She whistled and a servant opened the nearest door to her sanctum.

“Call for Logenn,” she said. “I’ve a task for him.”