“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.