8 FLAMERULE (MIDNIGHT)
HIS THOUGHTS VANISHED AND HE MOVED IN A SEEMINGLY frozen world.
Vindicator, the sword of his soul somehow restored, slashed down and across, burning a score of Scour to ash. He bent low with the momentum, his body moving in perfect balance, and brought it up the other way, ripping away at the demon swarm.
With a roar, Scour slammed a composite limb into him, but hundreds of demons shrieked off his armor to no effect. Calmly, he stepped aside like a breath of wind and slashed the arm in two. Every strike he made against it—every bit of its life that slipped away—made the next strike deeper.
He struck again and again, dodged and struck. He did not think, not in the depths of his ardor—not in the burning light of his god. He struck and struck until it was ended.
Vindicator cut and burned until Scour lay in quivering pieces on the floor.
A hand touched his shoulder and he cut before he felt it. Vindicator smashed into a jagged black axe, knocking it to the floor.
Shar’s daughter stood unarmed before him.
He said nothing, only pulled back his sword for another strike. He knew exactly how to defeat her—exactly how to water the earth with her blood.
Then she appeared—the daughter of another goddess—and laid her hands alongside his cheeks. “Kalen!” she said. “Kalen, wake up!”
He did not know this name.
He drew back the blade, but a crystal in her hand flashed, thunder cracked, and he landed on his backside, five paces distant.
The ardor of the Threefold God fled him and—with it—the deepest secret of all.
Kalen found himself sitting on the blood-smeared floor, the hilt of silver-burning Vindicator in his hand. He stared dazedly at the sword. Hadn’t it been destroyed? How had he come by it?
And more to the point, what had he done?
Scour lay in dozens of pieces, its multiple creatures limping uncertainly.
Myrin fell to her knees at Kalen’s side. “Are you well?” she demanded, feeling at his head. “Are you you?”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
Myrin breathed a sigh of relief. “As thick-headed as ever.”
Kalen might have spoken, but she pulled him forward and kissed his forehead. That was all that needed to pass between them.
“It is not over,” Sithe said.
The genasi stood just removed from them. Her skin was torn in scores of places. Her clothes hung limp and ragged. She pointed.
Kalen saw, with a chill, what she meant. The beasts that had made up Scour were attacking one another, deriving sustenance from the demonic blood they spilled with their bites. Each creature that died fell among half a dozen of its fellows, which started twitching. New beasts grew from the corpses and even from the rock itself—those parts touched by the blood of the abyss.
“I can feel them in my head—they will return,” Sithe said. “Unless the pestilence is contained, it will never be over.”
“So we burn them,” Kalen said, knowing that would not work. “We can—”
Sithe shook her head. “It is not such a bad life I have lived, to see a god’s work,” Sithe mused. “And to know I was worthy of it.”
“I don’t understand,” Myrin said. “What are you saying?”
“Wait—” Kalen started to rise.
“It is the only way.” Sithe tossed her black axe into his chest, knocking him back to the floor. “Take care, Helm’s Champion.”
Myrin blinked, finally understanding. “Sithe, wait!” she said. “We can find you a cure—in Waterdeep, or Silverymoon! Don’t—”
“I wish I had worn your dress, Myrin Darkdance,” she said. “Just once.”
With that, she strode away from them, toward where the beasts were milling about, fighting with one another. The nearest leaped on her and dug its talons into her leg. Another, weakened by the attacks, leaped for her face, but she caught it instead on her arm. She walked on, unhindered.
“Stop!” Myrin cried, tears streaking her face. “Sithe!”
The veins in his neck bulging, Kalen tried to rise, but he had no strength. His god’s power had left him a hollow shell.
Sithe kept walking as more and more vermin coated her. Five, six, ten, a dozen, two dozen—all the survivors of Scour leaped upon this fresh source of food, who’d so foolishly walked into their midst. They jabbed her with their stingers, over and over. They feasted: Kalen could hear the crunch and pop of pieces of Sithe’s ears, nose, and eyes. The dark genasi’s flesh crystallized as they watched, the corruption spreading from every bite. Panting, she walked on.
Finally, when Sithe had accumulated the rest of Scour to her, she fell to her knees. Her chest swelled rapidly and her breath wheezed.
Sithe’s face changed then—something Kalen had never thought possible. The slit of her mouth spread through the black leather of her face and she smiled.
“I have come, Brothers,” she said, her mouth half crystal. “Feast with me.”
The air split with a great wrenching as all swept toward Sithe for a moment.
Then she and the demons were gone.
For a long time after, Kalen sat among the desiccated corpses and bloody stains in the center of the battlefield, drained of all strength and emotion.
Scour was finished. The last corpses of its merged demon-spawn began to rot away into dust. If any had escaped … He didn’t know—nor did he care. Still, he waited.
Myrin understood, but she wished she didn’t. She wished, for the first time she remembered, for ignorance. She didn’t want to remember this. “Kalen—”
They breathed together in the empty chamber, broken and bloody.
Silence and death surrounded them.
“Kalen.” Myrin put her hand on his shoulder.
“Any moment now,” Kalen said.
Myrin put her arms around his neck.