22 KYTHORN (JUST AFTER MIDNIGHT)

MIDNIGHT IN LUSKAN WAS THE BEST AND WORST TIME OF night—best for the thieves and murderers, worst for their victims. Kalen stalked down the street, his cloak obscuring his face. He’d taken off his helm and stowed it in his pack, but wore the rest of his armor. Hood low, shoulders slightly hunched, he could be any other resident of the city.

Dawn lay hours off and only a few lamps lasted this long into the night. The gangs always treated the lamps as more of a game than a civic service. As the night wore on and Selûne saw more dastardly deeds done in the street, the lamplights would die slowly of attrition, extinguished by muggers, thieves, and murderers in preparation for their crimes. It was a marvel the lamps were lit at all, a phenomenon due largely to their fading hold on the old Arcane Brotherhood’s power, which drove them to, light on their own. Otherwise, no one would have bothered to light them in the first place.

Kalen tried hard not to let the night take him back fifteen years, to a time when he had been just another merciless wretch on these miserable streets. A beggar boy—a street thief, mugger, occasionally a murderer. He wore the mantle of paladin now, but even that seemed far away. Where was his god-blessed sword, if he was still a paladin?

And why did the healing touch come so hard to him these days? He would gladly heal more of his injuries, but he’d used it all up on Ebbius. What a waste that had been.

A pair of figures in rough-spun robes—a man and a woman—strode down the street, crying out a call and response. Painted gold coins hung around their necks. A few folk lingered under awnings or folded-over refuse to lend them an ear.

“The man saw his enemy, all clad in steel,” the woman sang, in something like verse but not quite. “A chief of Many-Arrows, crushing men under heel.”

“How could he fight such a dangerous foe?” The man’s words carried a hint of meter, but nothing remotely musical. “Without his fine sword, with mere shards of a bow?”

“To luck he prayed and by luck was he spared,” sang the woman, whose voice was better. “Orc steel broke ’gainst sword, and he tackled his foe.”

“Then kicked the fell orc in back o’ th’ head,” said the man, “then stomped twice and thrice, ’til the orc he was dead.”

Kalen waited until they were gone. Their shared ballad—a paean to Tymora—faded. The Coin-Spinners were by all appearances true believers, though they really couldn’t sing. They were bold to venture through Dustclaw territory, where every other building bore the gang’s symbol: a dripping claw inside a rough circle. Was it faith or power?

He looked in the direction they had gone and saw Clearlight, the old temple to Lady Luck, standing on the hill. Beacon fires burned inside a high wall bare of adornment. Perhaps the Tymoran gang had removed the statuary that once studded its balconies.

“Plagues and priests,” Kalen murmured. “Strange things are happening in Luskan.”

He lingered at the threshold of an alley that stank of piss and watched the Dustclaw tavern. Meant to cow rivals and dissuade attacks, the Dustclaws’ repurposed tavern was a solid, heavily reinforced structure, its door strewn with claws torn from dozens of fearsome beasts.

Breaking into the place, he thought, would make navigating the seedy streets of Dock Ward back in Waterdeep seem like a casual stroll through a meadow full of flowers. Attempting to steal from a gang promised a gruesome death by torture. Invading their home invited worse reprisals. But for Kalen—who had spent the last year living in the dangerous tunnels of Downshadow—the Dustclaw tavern held no fear. It was a building like any other, so he bided his time and observed its weaknesses.

Reprisals didn’t matter. If the gods were kind, he’d find Myrin and be out of this accursed city by the following dawn. That is, if she even still lived. He had to believe she did. If not …

He waited an hour for the guard to change before he concluded that the warchief of the Dustclaws liked to wrench as much watch duty as possible out of his men. Damn.

He heard shuffling footsteps down the road and pulled back tighter into his hiding place. A man walked with an uneven gait—one leg moving normally, the other dragging as though he barely remembered its purpose. Blood streamed down his face, and he seemed to be talking to himself—addressing voices Kalen could not hear in a language that made no sense.

“Feh,” the man said. “Feh, feh.”

Kalen recognized the shambler as one of the thugs from Flick’s—the ugly pierced man whose ruined face he’d caved in with a kick. Why had he taken so long to get back and what had happened in the interim?

The man’s head snapped side to side, his eyes constantly rolling toward things not there. “Feh-feh,” he muttered, his words caught in a never-ending stutter. “Feh!”

Threefold God, Kalen thought. How hard had he hit the man?

“Oi!” cried one of the Dustclaws from across the street.

The man bared a mouth full of broken teeth. “Feh?” he asked.

“Oi!” A hand clapped the man’s shoulder and he fell to the ground as though struck. There he lay, panting and moaning, his hands twitching like dying spiders.

Two Dustclaws stood over the ailing man, staring down with wary gazes. “What’s the matter with him?” asked one.

“Gods only know,” said the other. “Bring him inside. Master will want to see.”

The first of the guards stooped to take the crazed man by the arms, but the man thrashed violently, clawing the hands away. When the guard reached for him again, the madman caught his arm and closed his teeth on his wrist. “Shazsah!” the guard cried. “Dhao-spawn bit me!”

“Zah!” The other guard stomped on the madman’s stomach, curling him in a pained ball. “Blood-burner. He’s on mist, perhaps?”

“He should hope that’s so,” said the wounded man, poking at his wrist. “Else, he will feel every inch of my blade through his guts.”

“Burning sand,” said his comrade with a nod.

Kalen had no more idea what had happened to the madman than the Calishite guards did, but he knew to take an opportunity when it appeared.

With their attention on the ailing man, the guards did not notice as Kalen moved around a stack of refuse and shot across the street. One of them looked over his shoulder, but Kalen stepped inside before the black eyes could focus.

In the main audience chamber of the Dustclaw tavern, listening to one of his thieves try to justify a botched take, Warchief Duulgrin blew out a rumbling, bored sigh.

The half-orc chieftain had never liked this rotting pustule of a city, with its dull monotony of daily muggings, alley beatings, and hiring out bodyguards for con men and playpretties—and occasionally having one of those clients beaten for skimping on payment. He longed for the days of glorious battle, leading hundreds of screaming orcs to crush opposing armies who dared enter the lands of Many-Arrows.

Duulgrin had chosen exile rather than death as punishment for his failures. But now he wondered if he hadn’t made a mistake. Aside from the rare grand-scale gang war to punctuate the monotony, Duulgrin felt utterly wasted in Luskan. Which was why, when the two Calishites dragged the madman—thrashing and moaning incoherently—into his throne chamber, the half-orc chieftain of Dustclaws was in the foulest of foul moods. Ah, this was a welcome distraction.

He dismissed the fast-talking thief at his feet, who scurried away, and then he turned to the newcomers. “What is this goblin filth? Bring him!”

His voice lacked the deep resonance of his orc forefathers, pitched instead rather high, like that of an oversized weasel. Duulgrin’s tone had led many to underestimate him over the years, which he’d always used to his advantage.

The Calishites—Duulgrin hadn’t bothered to learn their names—cast the bloody man down before the warchief’s throne. The half-orc flexed his fingers, feeling his iron knuckle duster rub coarsely across his skin. This small pain comforted him—he liked the agony of battle.

“Feh-feh!” the madman was saying. Something awful had happened to his face—some sort of impact that had pushed all his piercings into his flesh.

“What, by Gruumsh’s lost eye?” Duulgrin asked.

“Feh-feh.” The madman pulled a shard of silver, stretching his cheek until blood welled and the piercing came loose. This, he tossed aside. “Feh!”

Duulgrin scowled. “Take this broke-wit from my sight,” he said, waving.

The chieftain turned, but a hand fell on his ankle. He looked down and there was the madman staring up at him through blood red eyes. “Feh,” the man said.

“Feh?” Duulgrin bent lower toward him.

“Feed,” said the madman, showing a dozen bloody teeth. “Feed.”

And he closed his teeth on the half-orc’s bare foot.

It hurt, aye, but it was not the pain that angered Duulgrin—the pain woke his warrior’s instincts. It was the disrespect the half-orc could not tolerate—not in front of his men, not even were he alone. He had not commanded the blood and blades of three score cutthroats for a dozen years by showing a weakness like mercy.

He kicked the madman away, shattering his jaw with a wet crack.

“Feed, eh?” Duulgrin stepped down, crushing one of the madman’s hands under his boot. He bent down and pulled the ailing man up by the collar. “You want to feed, do you?”

The man moaned in pain and confusion. “Feed!”

Duulgrin roared and slammed his forehead into the madman’s face with an audible crunch. The man yelped and his head fell back. Duulgrin butted him again. And again.

If the piercings cut him, the half-orc didn’t show it—all he felt was the thrill of inflicting pain, of blood spurting in his face. His father’s rage had taken him—the old way of the orc once more rising in his veins. The madman moaned, and Duulgrin laughed.

Finally, he pulled back and shook his head. Blood flew. “You like the taste of that?” he said. “Eh? How do you like it?”

The madman—his face reduced to ground meat—burbled a reply.

“Aye?” Duulgrin leaned down. “Feed, perhaps?”

Blood spurted from the ruined face like a geyser, coating Duulgrin’s nose and mouth. The half-orc reeled back, startled. The taste was foul beyond foul, tinged with rot. He wiped blood from his eyes and glared around the room—at his men, at his mistress, at the fool thief who’d tried talking his way out of the half-orc’s wrath. Duulgrin growled, blood trickling from his lips.

No weakness.

He spat the blood back in the madman’s face. The man fell back to the floor, twitching but making no more noises.

Duulgrin shook his head once to clear some blood from it, then grinned at his men. “Back to your posts,” he said. “Don’t bring this bloody shit into my house. You come through those doors again, you bring me something I want, not just something to kill. Though”—he grinned, blood trickling over his chin—“this gave me something to do.”

He could see the big men trying not to tremble.

“Now get out.” Duulgrin waved to the corpse. “Take that with you.”

The two Calishites dragged the mess no longer recognizable as a man out the doors, leaving a trail of blood.

Duulgrin gestured to the thief. “Now, where were we?”

The back door to the alley opened and the two guards hobbled out, the bloody body between them. They stepped down from the threshold and walked three paces into the alley. They hefted, swung the corpse twice, and tossed it against the opposite wall.

The first Calishite paused and looked around warily. “Hold.”

“What is it?” said the other.

“Nothing,” the first said. “A mirage.”

The second one grunted. They went back inside.

After a moment, a shadow—which had slipped out behind them—nodded, satisfied there were no onlookers. Then Kalen parted from the wall and moved toward the corpse, his hand on his dagger’s hilt. He hadn’t found Myrin anywhere in the tavern. Kalen had found holding cells, but they were all empty. Nor had they looked like anything that could hold Myrin, with her magic. No, someone else must have her.

He’d also spied on the chamber of the gang chief in time to see the guards bring in the hapless madman. Based on that performance, Kalen never wanted to face Duulgrin himself. Fortunately, Myrin hadn’t been there. If she had … well, then he would have fought all of them.

The Dustclaws didn’t have her, which was one gang down. They had, however, been kind enough to leave a dwarf-crafted dagger unattended—a match to the one on Kalen’s belt. Now, it was time to move on. Still, he couldn’t shake his unease regarding the madman’s fate.

He crouched next to the corpse. Something had happened to that man—something that couldn’t be explained with a single blow to the face, no matter how hard Kalen had struck him. Perhaps the body would yield up clues.

He shot a look both ways down the alley—no one was approaching—then scanned the dead man’s body for hints as to his fate. Had it been a spell that broke his mind? The madman lay on his chest against the wall, his shirt ridden up around his midsection. His clothes were badly torn in a way they had not been when Kalen had attacked him and half a dozen red-yellow welts rose from his back.

Bites? Rabid dogs might have caused this, but the slavering madness took hold slowly, not suddenly. Vermin of some kind? He’d seen spider venom that could do awful things to a man. Or were they plague sores?

Kalen wondered if this had something to do with the supposed plague that had led the Waterdhavian Guard to quarantine the city. These wounds, however, looked like insect bites more than anything else. He raised his scarf over his mouth and nose just in case, then he reached to lift the shirt away from the welts for a better look.

The flesh puckered oddly around the injuries: red and inflamed, but also hard. It looked vaguely … crystalline. He tapped his dagger against it.

No sooner had he touched the body than the flesh began to sag away from the bones. He drew back, but the damage had been done. Like a soapy bubble, the skin burst, letting brackish blood and pus flow, along with an odor of putrescence that made him cover his mouth and nose. Though the madman hadn’t been dead more than a few moments, his body looked as if it had been rotting for tendays.

Rotting from the inside.

Kalen froze, his eyes going to the madman’s back, and tracing among the wounds. He could have sworn the flesh had moved, as though something lived under the surface. A great abscess had formed on the corpse’s back, where the flesh had begun to blacken. Kalen drew his dagger, but before he could prod at the necrotized mound, he heard footsteps out in the cobbled street. Time to go.

He drew a clay flask from under his cloak, tossed it through the back door of the Dustclaw tavern, then walked away. The flask broke and flames spread. Kalen walked on, his cloak drifting around him in the sea breeze.

A pair of Dustclaws came around the corner, racing toward the fire. They stopped after seeing Kalen and their faces twisted with rage. They raised their weapons.

“Good,” Kalen said. “I was worried this would be easy.”

He drew his two long daggers.