Sithe paused and looked back. She did not appear surprised. “Yes?”
“He saw death,” Kalen said.
“Yes,” Sithe said. “He saw death, as you say. Why, then, was he pleased?”
“Because it meant he still lived.”
Sithe stared at him a long, long moment. She offered the slightest of nods.
“There is a void within each of us,” she said. “Whether we try to fill it with faith or with magic, with will or with love, each of us must accept that it remains-boundless as existence and infinite as nonexistence. Fill yours with hate and you will be like me.”
“No,” he said. “I have something more powerful than hate.”
“Oh?” Sithe eased into a fighting stance. “Then show me.”
He ran toward her. The splintered dagger in his hand blazed with light-not unlike that of Vindicator-and he let power surge through his arm. His fingers tightened around the hilt and his hand shook, but he would not falter. Anger surged within him-anger and justice.
As he charged, the genasi slashed at him. He had no defense to offer-none but his faith. The axe clanged off his shoulder as though it struck something metal and skipped off.
He lunged at her, striking her full in the chest with his shining dagger. Holy power flowed through him-the power of the Threefold God, channeled not for healing but for avenging. He buried the blade deep into her-or would have, had it not caught on the aura of pure blackness that surrounded her.
He saw, in that moment, the armor of her faith flicker around her-powerful, dark, and filled with hate. He saw, reflected in her obsidian eyes, his own: a suit of weathered steel-breastplate, gauntlets, greaves, an entire suit of full plate. His faith was not white like that of some fairytale knight, but deep and gray: dubious in its intent, forceful in its application. He could see his pale eyes reflected in hers. So too could he see the great helm that covered his face.
Their faiths strove with one another until, impossibly, his proved the stronger.
Kalen’s strike drove Sithe back and she toppled to the ground.
They stared at one another in the chilly twilight as the moon rose and the last peaceful night of Luskan began. They stared wordlessly, though many words hung between them.
“What is it,” Sithe asked finally, “this strength you’ve found?”
“I do as I must.” Kalen shrugged. “For those I must protect.”
Sithe nodded. “You are ready,” she said. “Shadowbane.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
7 FLAMERULE (DAWN)
As dawn broke, the gangs of Luskan came. They came to the abandoned market in numbers great and small. They marched into the square from various directions. Each gang wore a different color, the better to identify them in the melee that would surely come.
The Dragonbloods marched in from the west, alongside their vassals: the Blacknails, the Pack Wolves, and the Glass Smashers. The Shou wielded all manner of swords and other blades. Many clutched disks of iron filed into points to use as crude but deadly carvestars. Leather armor cut to show her red dragon tattoo, the great warrior Kasi strode in front, a katana clasped in her hands. The Shou and their minions wore jade green sashes to mark them from the other gangs.
From the northeast came the Coin-Spinners, led by Eden herself. The one-eyed priestess had girded herself for the occasion in a gold-inlaid breastplate that had once held precious stones but now displayed only empty sockets. Walking was clearly an effort, but she managed it surprisingly well. She wielded a vicious flail that hung loose at her side, but she was all smiles. “Lady Luck be with us!” she shouted and her forces responded in kind. They were by far the best equipped, but then, they were first among the Five. Every one of them wore a painted gold sash.
At first, it seemed the Master of the Throat would go unrepresented. Then the ground near the northernmost point of the market began to stir and corpses pulled themselves from the riven earth. The living gangs of Luskan drew back, but the undead paid them no heed. The Master of the Throat’s chosen vessel was truly horrific: a hulk built from a dozen corpses that surveyed the field like a general. The corpses had no colors, but there was no mistaking them.
From the mean streets of east Luskan came the Dogtooths, the Bloodboots, and the Hide-Etchers, along with Torm’s Trollops. The last were sharp-as-blades, tough-as-stone festboys and festgirls, with nothing like play on their minds today. The four gangs had ever been lesser players in Luskan, and perhaps they saw an opportunity this day to rise higher. They had chosen orange for their color.
Finally, the Dead Rats filtered in from the south, along with the massive Dustclaws. Since the death of Duulgrin, the brutes had followed the woman who now stalked in front of them: Sithe with her reaving axe. The Dustclaw bruisers cut an odd juxtaposition with the weaselly Rats, but strange times made strange allies. The Dustclaws had donned the same red kerchiefs the Rats wore.
They were all gathered, ready to begin.
A cry went up from the Dogtooths and soon every gang in the square echoed it: “Shadowbane!” they called. “Shadowbane!”
Kalen rose from where he lay hidden in the center of the market, obscured beneath a ratty cloak. His sudden appearance struck them to expectant silence.
Eden stepped forward. “Well, Shadowbane-we’ve all arrived. What now?”
Muffled agreement filtered around the square, all eyes looking to him for what would come next. Kalen surveyed the gathered forces silently, noting how they all stood ready for a charge. At least they were not fighting yet, which he took as some small victory. It would not last, he knew. He held up his hand.
“Now I will speak with each of your kings,” Kalen said, projecting his voice to fill the open area. “Together, we will decide the new course of Luskan.”
Those words met with murmured agreement and a few shouted insults. Ultimately, the various leaders stepped forward. Kasi for the Shou, Eden for the Coin-Spinners, Sithe for the Dead Rats and Dustclaws. The Dogtooths and their ilk sent a hulking man with a great spear, from which hung many shriveled fingers. Finally, the patchwork corpse of the Master of the Throat lurched and lumbered toward him.
“All’s well,” Kalen murmured. “All’s-”
Instinct rose within him, but just too late. An arrow gleamed in the sun, hidden from his eyes until it thudded into his shoulder. Although he could barely feel the arrow’s sting, the impact knocked him to the ground. If he hadn’t trusted himself to move at just the right instant, it would have ended up in his heart.
Poison coated the arrow’s point. He could not feel it, but he recognized the effects of the paralytic venom on his body.
Kalen heard a cry go up and he looked to the gangs as they surged forward. That single arrow-like a flaming taper tossed into dry hay-had burnt up all his plans. Instantly the battle began.
With that, the world vanished.
When Kalen awoke, chaos surged in Luskan’s market square.
The Dogtooths crashed into the Dragonbloods, the Coin-Spinners hacked at red-kerchief marked Rats and locked blades with hulking Dustclaws, and the legions of the Throat fought against them all. Blades slashed, arrows flew, cries sounded, and blood flowed. Dust rose from a thousand stomping feet, covering everything.
A Dustclaw roared, charging in toward three Dogtooths, scattering them like mangy dogs, but a crossbow bolt stopped the brute dead in his tracks. The woman who had shot him fumbled to reload, her hand shaking. The bruiser lumbered toward her, seized the crossbow, and smashed her face with it. They fell together, wrestling in the dust.
Nearby, a hirsute woman-a Dead Rat, by her red kerchief and weasel-like features-leaped onto the back of a Bloodboot and tore off his ear with her teeth. Two zombies stumbled out of the dust and reached toward them both. The man without an ear, already terrified and in agony, ran. The woman, distracted with her new prize, didn’t see them coming until it was too late. She screamed as they pummeled her into the ground.