23 KYTHORN (NIGHT)

THE PORT OF LUSKAN, IT WAS SAID, HADN’T SEEN ACTIVE service since the reign of the pirate kings of the old world, and Kalen could well believe it. In his childhood memories, it had been wretched, but what lay before him was worse: a graveyard for the hulks of ships murdered in century-old conflicts. Its headstone was Luskan’s chief landmark and the former power in the city, the legendary Host Tower of the Arcane, with its four spires like the trunks of an eldritch tree. It lay in rubble on central Cutlass Island, as it had for a century.

During summer nights such as this, a foul, humid fog gripped the bay, choking off breath and irritating the lungs. Anyone foolish enough to row out on such a night—like the two men in the shallow-bottomed skiff, with their pack behind them—would cough and sneeze and choke and generally suffer through a miserable journey.

At least his spellscar had grown quiescent, seemingly content in a way it had not been since he’d traded harsh words with Myrin in her chambers. Had he really avoided her all this time? He put that concern aside and focused on how much he hated Luskan—every dripping, moldering, disgusting finger-length of it.

“Tell me again,” Kalen said between oar strokes, “why we’re in this boat, braving these waters to climb aboard a derelict that’s been floating in the bay for a month?”

“Because a dead body told us to,” Rhett said. “Rather, the corpse said he—that is, the necromancer speaking through him—thought there was, how did he name it … a ‘source of corruption’ in the bay. Then the man the corpse had been mugging—back when he was alive, that is—he was the one who told us about the derelict.”

“This is the man”—Kalen coughed—“without his own face.”

“The same.” Rhett snuffled. “Which I didn’t realize until after the corpse talked—hmm.” He grinned. “It didn’t sound much better the second time, did it?”

“At least it’s a lead.” Kalen coughed again, harder this time.

Kalen’s inquiries that day told him the derelict in question had drifted into Luskan’s harbor a month gone. It had borne black paint, which meant plague, so no one had touched it for twenty days—long after anything could be alive inside. Eventually, the desire for loot had gotten the best of several Luskar, who’d raced to get to the ship to pilfer what they could.

Kalen would have done the same fifteen years past. If he had and the plague had come from this ship, he might have been its first victim.

Now he and Rhett were in a rickety skiff, rowing through the sickly fog toward what could possibly be the source of Luskan’s scourge. This they did on the word of a dead man and at the suggestion of a man who’d been wrapped in illusions.

They drew up on the derelict and Kalen hammered a stake into the barnacle-encrusted hull. He was unconcerned with the damage. The ship would never again be seaworthy and they needed to tie the skiff off, lest it drift away while they were about their business.

“Saer Shadowbane,” Rhett said. “I’ve a question.”

Kalen knew what he would ask and feared it. “If you must.”

“Why did you make me Lady Darkdance’s guardian, when she clearly wants you?” Rhett cleared his throat. “For her guardian, I mean.”

“You’re the one with Vindicator,” Kalen said.

“That’s another question.” Rhett fingered Vindicator’s hilt. “This sword is yours—clearly yours. And yet I’m the one carrying it.”

“So it would seem.”

Kalen’s body ached from his earlier fight with Sithe, up on the roof. She’d thrashed him again, then walked away in silence.

“Saer, you’ve set me about those things you should be doing yourself.” Rhett visibly mustered himself. “And yet—”

“I won’t take you for my apprentice,” Kalen said.

Gloom enclosed the little skiff, filling the air between them and choking off their words. Silently, Kalen looped the skiff’s mooring rope around the stake.

Ultimately, Rhett gave up with a sigh. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“This isn’t the life you want. And even if it is …” Kalen’s eye fell on Vindicator—on the long flaw that ran through the steel. He remembered Vaelis and the words turned to dust in his mouth. “I am no master for you. I know that, even if you do not.”

The assertion hung between them. Ultimately, Rhett nodded.

“Well,” Rhett said, “at least we managed to leave Myrin back at the Rat.”

“True.” Kalen sneezed. “She does tend to make things … interesting.”

“Well that’s”—the boy sneezed as well—“certainly true.”

A third sneeze cut through the silence. Kalen and Rhett looked at one another. The half-elf dropped his hand to Vindicator’s hilt. Kalen waved him to peace and inclined his head toward the packs at the back of the skiff.

“Sorry.” Myrin shimmered into visibility. “The sea air is just so awful.”

Kalen found he wasn’t truly surprised. Her presence explained his spellscar’s serenity. Even now, he felt the calming influence of her own scar on his. From that, he really should have known she was there before they’d set out on the bay.

“We’re turning around,” Kalen said stiffly.

“Kalen!” Myrin protested, at the same time Rhett said: “Saer!” They looked at one another, both startled the other had cried out.

“Very well.” Kalen drew a loop of knotted rope from the back of the skiff and put it over his head and shoulders.

“ ‘Very well’?” Rhett asked. “You aren’t going to try to stop her from coming along?”

“Would it work?” Kalen drew out his two very sharp daggers.

“Not likely.” Myrin gave Rhett a smug smile.

Kalen ignored them both and turned to the ship instead. He stabbed one knife into the spongy wood, then the second higher up. Dagger by dagger, he made his way quickly up the ship’s hull. A quick check of the main deck yielded no obvious threat, so he tied off the rope to the main mast and threw the end back to the boat. He heard Rhett and Myrin arguing below and the rope pulled taut.

The ship hadn’t looked distinctive from a distance, but up close Kalen recognized the cut of the sails and the unusual configuration of ropes and cranks. He also knew some of the sigils from his days in Westgate, training with the Eye of Justice. This ship operated out of Akanûl—Airspur, if he guessed rightly—and he found it remarkable that it had come so far west of its berth. Kalen saw no corpses on the main deck. If the crew perished of plague, they must have done so below. He waved to the others.

Myrin came up second, followed by Rhett, huffing under the weight of the armor Kalen had recommended he not wear. When the half-elf got to the deck, his face red as a ripe beet, he gave Kalen an apologetic grimace.

“Fascinating,” Myrin said, looking around.

“You sense something?” Kalen said.

“Oh no,” she said. “It’s just that I don’t remember ever having been on a ship. There’s a certain rocking motion that I find soothing. What do you say, Rhett?”

The half-elf was leaning over the side, making gurgling sounds.

Wood creaked as the ship rocked, but Kalen heard something else. “Wait.”

A knife in either hand, he stalked toward the aftcastle, where he’d heard the noise. The angle blocked his sight of possible ambushs, so he crept up the stairs, pausing to distribute his weight on each step and avoid the telltale creak of weathered wood.

When he reached the top, he saw a figure at the wheel. He stepped forward to investigate and a black shape parted from the night. He ducked and leaped back, causing the axe to sweep over his head. He slashed forward, but his steel hit only darkness. He leaped back again.

They moved into the moonlight and Kalen saw Sithe, her axe whirling. By the genasi’s indifferent face, she was neither surprised to see him nor had she meant to stay her strike. She swayed aside as a streak of blue light—Myrin’s spell—flashed past her harmlessly. She swept her axe wide and crouched low, ready to spring.

“Be that you, Little Dren?” called a familiar voice.

“Toy?” Kalen called back.

“Why, fancy that,” said the voice. “Two slayers meet in the night, on the corpse of a ship half a mile from the shore no less. What be the odds?”

Toytere stepped out from behind the wheel stand, the moonlight gleaming in the silver brooch on his black tallhat. Kalen had barely noticed the brooch before: a crescent moon set into what looked like a harp. He knew the symbol, of course, and wondered if Toytere truly belonged to that organization, or if he wore it as a trophy. Knowing the halfling, it was probably the latter.

Rhett charged up the stairs, Vindicator in hand. “What are you doing here?” he asked. “This is our abandoned ship.”

“Funny,” Toytere said, his deadly eyes on Rhett. “The side of the ship say Genasi’s Pyre. Of us all, Sithe be the closest.”

Kalen made no move to lower his steel and neither did Sithe. The genasi stared at him, ready. For them, the battle had not ended, merely paused.

Then Myrin arrived, and Toytere’s dangerous smirk rose instantly into a brilliant smile. “Me lady!” He swept off his hat and bowed. “How fortunate it be that you’ve come, else”—he cast Kalen a meaningful look—“well, how fortunate it be.”

“Isn’t it? How fortunate I can be here to remind everyone to play nice.”

She cleared her throat in Kalen’s direction. With a grimace, he sheathed his blades. Sithe lowered her axe. It seemed the betrayal would come a bit later.

“I know why we’ve come,” Kalen said. “But why are you here, Toytere?”

“Oh, the likely—I’m sure some swag be left over,” Toytere said. “We can work together, no? Lady Darkdance?”

“Oh,” Myrin said, her expression flustered. She’d been staring at Kalen and the question took her by surprise. “I suppose—yes?”

“Me lady be wise,” Toytere said. “Lady Darkdance and Sithe accompany me below, while the two fine gentles from Waterdeep stay above to keep watch.”

Kalen and Myrin both opened their mouths to speak, but Rhett beat them to the objection. “Nay!” he said. “Where Myrin goes, I go also. I’m her warder.”

“You heard the boy.” Kalen purposefully avoided Myrin’s eye. “He’s going.”

“Very well, my good guardsman,” Toytere said. “That be, if you’ve no problem with rats and cramped spaces.”

“Oh.” Rhett leaned toward Kalen. “I do have a … slight issue with rats. Their beady little eyes and scrabbling little claws. I just—”

“I know the feeling.” Kalen glanced at Toytere, then at Myrin, considering. He felt his spellscar draw toward her, not wanting to be parted. “I’ll go.”

The halfling did not look pleased at this pronouncement, though Myrin’s face brightened. “Perfect,” she said before Toytere could object.

“Well then,” the halfling said. “Beauty before the beast?”

He gallantly gestured to the stairs. With a smug look at Kalen, Myrin descended to the main deck. Toytere gave Sithe a meaningful look, and she drifted to his side.

Kalen gave Rhett a similar sharp look and the lad came closer. “Watch Sithe,” Kalen said. “Toytere might mean to betray us, and if he does, Vindicator is our last line of defense.”

“Not Myrin?” Rhett asked. “You should trust her more.”

Kalen stared at him seriously. “You’ve seen her tendency to get into trouble.”

“Like getting kidnapped and becoming a crimelord of Luskan?”

“Exactly like that.”

“She isn’t naïve as you think,” Rhett said. “She told me she had a plan.”

“And she told you no details of this plan, I expect.”

Rhett shrugged. “Only that I should trust her. Perhaps you should too.”

“Ay!” Toytere called from below. “Are we going or no?”

Kalen was glad of the interruption. He hadn’t been sure how to answer that. He clapped Rhett on the shoulder. “Don’t take your eyes from Sithe.”

“Good luck, master.”

Kalen hesitated, considering whether to correct him, then shook his head. He joined the halfling, who was giving his enforcer instructions of her own. Kalen could get no hint as to their nature from watching her blank face. She nodded and the halfling chuckled.

As Kalen approached, Sithe walked past him, sparing him not a single glance.

“Bidding your squire a fond farewell, no?” Toytere asked.

“He’s not my squire,” Kalen said. “And I thought our business between us alone.”

The halfling smiled and his sharpened teeth gleamed in the moonlight. “Where’s the trust in an old friend, Little Dren?”

“You were never my friend, Toytere—Cellica was.”

“And she was my sister,” Toytere said. “But, let us be agreed. There be no point in dragging the innocent betwixt our blades.”

“Not Myrin either,” Kalen said.

“What of me?” Myrin appeared between them, her arms crossed. “Are we to compare our blades all night, or are you coming?”

“I do so love me queen.” Toytere’s smile widened. “Away, then.”

Rhett turned to Sithe, his companion on watch atop the aftcastle. “Hail, Dark Lady!”

The genasi glanced in his direction, as though at a gnat, then away.

“Gods, this will go well,” Rhett murmured.

Myrin’s insides leaped when Kalen said he would be coming below, but he didn’t even look at her. Instead, he focused on Toytere, as though he expected the halfling to turn on him at any moment.

She couldn’t really blame Kalen for being upset. After all, she had stolen aboard the skiff without his knowledge or approval. But he’d tried to leave her behind in the first place, so it seemed fair. What was he so afraid of, that he wouldn’t trust her to come along?

It made her angry.

The first obstacle proved to be the door to the aftcastle, which was stuck. Toytere indicated it with a sweep of his hand. “If you will, Little Dren,” he said. “Mother Chauntea did not see fit to bless her littlest children with strength.”

“I should turn my back so you can stab it?” Kalen said.

“Oh! I’ll do it.” Myrin stalked over to them, raised her wand, and blasted the door open with a crack of thunder. It always made her feel better to destroy things when Kalen upset her, which was basically every time she saw him.

She looked to Kalen. “Well?”

“I’m sure no one in Luskan heard that,” Kalen said.

“Of course you’d say that.” She rolled her eyes and swept into the aftcastle.

The chamber was empty of bodies just like the main deck, but it showed evidence of occupancy. The shelves had held dozens of books and curios—mementos from a long shipping campaign. Now, they lay smashed, ruined, and heaped in a corner. The central desk was overturned and shattered, and scraps of mostly burned paper littered the chamber. The captain’s bed was also ruined—blankets torn into strips and covered in black stains.

Myrin noted a heap of gray dust, about two paces in length and one in width. “Hmm.”

Kalen scraped his dagger through the ash, sending particles into the air. “I’ve seen something like this before,” he said.

“What is it?” Myrin asked. Then, turning her head to avoid Kalen’s eye: “Not that I’m curious.”

Kalen hadn’t noted the gesture. “Can you clear the ash?” he asked.

Myrin waved her hand, igniting magic in the air. Wind gusted, blowing aside the ash to reveal a humanoid outline burned into the floor.

“Firesoul genasi,” Kalen said. “I’ve seen this before; burned from the inside.” Toytere’s face darkened. “Aye, that isn’t unnecessarily horrible.”

“It wouldn’t be such a bad fate, to return to your element,” Myrin said. “Dust to dust, fire to fire.” She saw that the two men were staring at her. “Or something like.”

“Genasi don’t usually die like this,” Kalen said. “It could be magic. Or plague.”

“Best be careful what we touch then, no?” Toytere asked.

They left the aftcastle, back onto the main deck. Toytere crossed immediately to a locked trapdoor leading down to the hold. He retrieved a set of well-used picks from his belt and set to work. He began to hum and his eyes glazed over. Myrin recognized signs of the Sight, so she knew he wouldn’t be listening for a moment at least.

It gave her a chance to be alone with Kalen for the first time in a year.

Kalen stood two paces away, craning his neck to see Rhett and Sithe. Here they were, alone while Toytere worked on the lock, and he was more interested in the others.

Not that Myrin herself knew quite what to say. Ultimately, she stepped closer to him and spoke softly. “There’s no need to worry,” she said. “I’m sure he’s quite well.”

“Vindicator should protect him.” He fixed her with his light gray eyes, which seemed almost white in the moonlight.

Words fought in Myrin’s throat. “You … you’re well?” she asked. “I mean, you aren’t hurt or anything?”

“I’ll manage,” he said, looking away.

The silence drew out between them, punctuated by the lap of the tainted waves of Luskan’s bay and the click of Toytere’s picks in the lock.

There was so much Myrin wanted to say to Kalen. She wanted to know what he’d done for the last year, to know about his new scars, to know why he looked at Rhett with such ambivalence. She wanted him to ask after her—godsdammit, she wanted him to look at her. But an impenetrable barrier lay between them: that awful moment a year ago in a rain-drenched alley in Waterdeep, where a helpless man lay under Kalen’s sword and, as now, he wouldn’t even look at Myrin, much less listen to her pleas for mercy.

“Rhett said you had a plan—about the Dead Rats.” Kalen’s sudden whisper surprised her. “Will you tell me what it is?”

“Other than trying to teach them to do the right thing?”

Kalen shook his head. “You prefer me to think you a naïve fool.”

“Of course I don’t,” Myrin said. “You’ll just have to trust that I’m not.”

Kalen did look at her now. “Myrin, I—”

She drew a tentative step closer to him. “Yes?”

At that moment, a click sounded and Toytere put away his picks. Kalen looked away—the moment passed.

“Captain must have locked this hatch before shutting himself in that cabin,” he said. “Good news it still be locked—means the scum-dogs that hit this boat couldn’t pick it.”

“So there might be survivors below?” Myrin suggested.

Toytere looked profoundly doubtful.

The men opened the hatch, expelling a cloud of dust and the smell of age. “Hmm,” Toytere said. “I be expecting something a bit … fresher.” He stared blankly down for a moment, then shook his head. “Tread soft, no? I See danger awaiting.”

“Does this danger involve your blade in our backs?” Kalen accused.

In the darkness, Toytere’s eyes glittered, and his features, as the shadow fell across them, seemed very sharp.

“Oh, stop it, both of you,” Myrin said. “Toy, lead the way. Kalen, take up the rear.”

They climbed down a set of creaking, dust-covered steps. The hold was no more populated than the deck or the captain’s chambers and was just as much in ruin. Boxes were little more than wood shards and ropes lay scattered like dead snakes. Every step set something to crackling.

“Where are all the bodies?” Kalen asked.

“Bodies?” Myrin said.

Kalen nodded. “It looks like a warzone down here—shouldn’t there be victims?”

“Little Dren be right.” Toytere dug through the detritus, not unlike a rat scavenging for scraps. “And I think I may have the answer.” He held aloft something small, curved, and gleaming white.

“Is that what I think it is?” Myrin asked.

Kalen nodded. “More over here.” He pushed aside pieces of a broken barrel to reveal an entire rib cage, attached to a skeleton with a battered skull. The bones were perfectly white and clean. “The skeleton looks perfect.”

“And fresh,” Toytere said, lifting the skull. “Hapless fool be breathing not a month gone.” He patted the bleached skull sympathetically. “Nary a hint of rot, neither.”

“The Fury,” Kalen said. “It was here.”

“Dancing gods on high!” Toytere spat. “What burns flesh but leaves bones?”

“Magic,” Myrin said without hesitation.

“You sound quite sure,” Kalen said.

“There are spells,” Myrin said.

“Spells you be knowing?” Toytere asked.

She shrugged, a gesture neither of the men apparently found encouraging.

The halfling crept into the shadowy interior of the lower deck, prodding at the piles of rubbish with his cane. Myrin watched as he uncovered skeleton after skeleton much like the first. All lay contorted as though in terrible fear. Myrin sniffed but could smell only dust and the sharp tang of animal dung. No sign of rot or putrescence.

Across the way, the halfling bent to inspect each skeleton in turn, and each time he came up with jewelry gleaming in his hands: rings, earrings, necklaces, and the like.

“Pardon,” Myrin said, “but how do pilfered riches help us investigate the plague?”

“Me lady, they do not,” Toytere said. “But more coin means more the Rats can do … for Luskan, no?”

“Oh.” That made sense. “Kalen, are you—?”

Kalen was staring at a space roughly in the middle of the destruction. There, Myrin saw a small furry creature about the length of her forearm: a rat. It peeked up from a mess of matted, oily fur, its eyes gleaming red.

“Myrin,” Kalen said. “Back away.”

“Aw,” Myrin said. “It’s adorable! Look at its little eyes!”

A second rat had joined the first. Together, they looked up at Myrin and Kalen with something like curiosity in their eyes. Myrin couldn’t help but wonder if they might be useful for certain magical experiments. She chose not to share this observation.

Then, as they watched, greenish spittle leaked from the rats’ mouths. Sickness.

“I’ve seen one like that before,” Kalen said. “Trapped in a closet with a skeleton.”

“Oh,” Myrin said. “No sudden movements, right?”

Kalen nodded slowly and they began to back away.

More rats were appearing out of holes in the floorboards and from among the skeletons. They gathered in a mass in the center of the room—a teeming swarm, all of them looking at the two humans. Hungrily.

“What you all be about?” Toytere burst into their midst, carrying a sack full of gold and jewelry. “I can—the dead walk!” He faced the horde of rats, dropped the bag, and grasped his cane in both hands.

As one, the rats drew back and hissed. Kalen raised his blades.

“They’ve stopped being adorable,” Myrin said. “Bit scary now, actually.”

The rats surged toward them.

For the first time, Kalen regretted parting with Vindicator. He had two daggers—one that was Waterdeep Guard issue, the other of fine dwarven steel—but they hardly seemed adequate against a horde of rats.

Nonetheless, he stepped in front of Myrin, his blades ready. Three rats leaped at them and he sliced them to pieces. “Go,” he said over his shoulder. “Get back to the deck.”

“Hardly.” Myrin snapped her wand at the swarm, sending a fan of flames into the thick of the rushing creatures. Rats burst into crackling flames, falling away from Kalen. “You run, if you’re afraid.”

Kalen couldn’t quite suppress a smile. “Good,” he said.

“Good,” she agreed.

He defended Myrin as she slashed her wand at the rats again and again, sending them sailing back with bursts of flame and thunder. He kept them at bay with blade and boot, killing rat after rat as it surged through the deadly swath of Myrin’s magic. Finally, the creatures fell back, unwilling to launch themselves into certain death.

They made a fine team, Myrin blasting the swarm, Kalen slaying the stragglers. For a moment, he thought they would win—until he saw rats mustering in the hundreds. He braced himself and opened his mouth to tell Myrin to flee.

Then the halfling joined the fight.

Hissing in challenge, Toytere leaped in front of them both, a slim rapier scraping from his cane. The blade whistled as it cut through the air. Bolstered by the sound, Toytere slashed into the oncoming horde. His momentum diverted the rats, sending dozens rippling back along their path. Ugly things of more bone and fur than flesh, they chattered madly as they scrabbled. But more boiled up to take their places, and the halfling staggered back. The wave of rats overwhelmed him, scrabbling all over his body. A loud hiss emerged from Toytere’s mouth, or perhaps that came from the rats. Toytere slavered, his eyes wild.

“Toy!” Myrin cried. Rather than a fan of flames or crack of thunder, she summoned forth an arrow of magical force—the same spell she’d cast at Sithe on the deck—which blasted a huge rat away from Toytere’s leg, allowing him to stagger free of the swarm’s clutches.

“Can you get to him?” Myrin asked.

Kalen thrust his blades into a rat and looked. The vermin flowed like a living river between him and the halfling. “Yes,” he said. “But if I do, you’ll be on your own.”

“Don’t worry,” Myrin said. “Get to him and get down.”

Kalen looked to her quizzically, his eyes widening as burning runes spread out across her face and down her arms. Fire surged around her hands.

He ran and leaped, his boots flashing with fire. The magic sent him sailing over the stream of rats, and he slammed into Toytere, knocking them both to the floor. He covered the small body with his cloak.

Fire flared from Myrin in an arc that slashed through the air barely a hand’s breadth over their heads. A hundred voices screeched as the flames cut through the swarm like a scythe. The magical force spun across to cleave two of the support beams of the main deck before finally bursting out the far wall to soar heedlessly over the sea. Smoldering bits of rat corpses rained down in the scythe’s wake.

Kalen had never seen Myrin do anything quite like that before. It filled him with trepidation and excitement. Gone was the timid girl he’d known a year ago.

Toytere wriggled out from under Kalen. “Me thanks, Little Dren.”

A few paces away, Myrin stood tall, her hair drifting on the hot winds of her magic, her eyes blazing. Her mouth curled into an unsettling smirk, as though inflicting that sort of destruction pleased her considerably. She saw them looking and her dangerous look went away, replaced by a beaming smile.

The swarm roiled, half its number twitching and dying on the floor. The surviving rats milled aimlessly, hissing and wailing. Kalen thought their voices sounded entirely too human. That chilled him.

“Er,” said Toytere. “Perhaps we be running, no?”

Suddenly, all around them, creatures rose from the rubbish-strewn hold. Rats streamed from holes in the deck, from fallen barrels and shattered boxes, from ceiling beams. They dwarfed the first swarm—if Myrin had slain a hundred rats, a thousand now surrounded them, creeping from all sides.

The three of them ran.

As Kalen made for the stairs, he slipped on a bloody rat corpse and staggered. When his knee hit the floor, a cough rose up in his chest and stayed him. Toytere reached back to grasp his wrist. He flashed a grin full of sharpened teeth.

Teeth.

Kalen looked over his shoulder. The rats gnashed at him, looking to bite and savage and infect. He remembered his first day in Luskan and the Dustclaw who’d gone insane. He saw again the welts on the man’s back in the alley.

That was it. That was how the Fury spread.

“We have to warn—” Kalen winced when Toytere clasped his wrist hard. The halfling’s eyes were wild. Kalen understood. “No,” he said.

“Oh, aye,” Toytere said. “This be for Cellica.”

He pulled Kalen forward and planted his left fist—weighted with an iron knuckle duster—into Kalen’s face.

The world shattered into darkness.