Then Kalen’s head rose. Galandel’s shield slipped, revealing a sword struck through his shoulder-Kalen’s sword. He fell to one knee, his teeth gritted in pain. Carmael cried out in shock and raised his crossbow. Kalen stepped forward, drew a long dagger, and put it to Galandel’s throat. He hoped the guards could see his willingness to take it that far.
But the youngest guard stepped between them, sword lowered. “Wait! Hold!”
Kalen hadn’t expected this. Keeping the gasping Shieldlar under his knife, he appraised the youngest guard. He had bright red hair, a flowery scent that spoke of rich blood, and the build of a lordling raised from childhood with a toy sword in his hand. Kalen saw nothing to indicate why he would step between two veteran combatants, let alone shield a known criminal.
“Make a move, boy,” Kalen said.
The half-elf nodded. “We’re here to keep folk in the city, not out. I mean, we discourage it, but if you need to enter, then enter, and Tymora’s good luck to you.”
Slowly, Kalen inclined his head.
“Rhett-what are you doing?” Carmael hissed. “This man is a wanted criminal. We’re not just going to let him go!”
“Let him go into Luskan?” the boy-Rhett-countered. “Isn’t that what we do with criminals anyway? Let them fend for themselves in there?”
“Stupid boy!” Carmael roared. “You’re aiding a proscribed villain!”
“No,” came a weak voice-that of Galandel. “No, the lad’s right.” He looked up to Kalen. “Go then. Whatever quest drives you-go.”
Kalen cast his eyes back to the two Trusties. With a scowl, Carmael lowered his crossbow. Kalen dropped his dagger from Galandel’s throat and sheathed it at his belt. Rhett shivered, but when Kalen gave him a nod, he returned the gesture.
That had taken bravery-and stupidity. A dangerous combination.
Kalen passed between the guardsmen, toward the barricaded cliffside gate.
“Your sword,” Rhett said, pointing to Vindicator, still buried in Galandel’s shoulder. “Don’t you need it?”
He considered it, looking down at his scalded hands. He had not felt worthy of the sword since his failure with Vaelis, months ago. Now … perhaps it was time.
“Keep it,” Kalen replied. “I stopped being worthy of that blade a long time ago.”
He leaped onto the city wall, his boots flaring with blue fire as they carried him aloft. Within two breaths, he had scaled to the top of the barricade and slipped between it and the stone. He squeezed through the cranny and vaulted into the fallen city.
He hit the ground running.
Rhett and Carmael tore off their helms and rushed to their superior, who coughed and clutched at the sword Shadowbane had left in his shoulder. Rhett reached for the weapon, but Galandel slapped the hands away.
“Don’t pull it out, lad,” he said. “What do you think’s holding all the blood in?”
Rhett backed away. “But doesn’t it hurt, Shieldlar?”
“Oh, it hurts like Shar’s sharpened teeth on Cyric’s-gah!” He gritted his teeth and turned to Carmael. “Fetch a healer, Trusty-and right quick.”
“Shadowbane,” Carmael murmured. “Can you believe it?”
“Believe you’ll be mucking out latrines with your beard by sunrise if you don’t get that godspissed healer.”
Carmael tapped the hilt of his sheathed sword in salute and ran for their horses.
“Bold thing you did there, boy,” Galandel said with a grimace. “You could be hanged for disobeying orders-or probably just whipped and discharged. Dishonorably.”
Grimly, Rhett nodded. It was the stupidest thing he had ever done in his young life, and yet, it didn’t feel wrong. “You didn’t want to fight him.”
“We were comrades and I know what kind of man he is.” The Shieldlar gestured to the city. “Tymora’s blessing and Chauntea’s soothing kiss on any who get in his way.”
Though he nodded, Rhett knew that wasn’t why he’d helped Shadowbane. But the unyielding resolve in his almost colorless eyes …
Rhett would remember those eyes.
In the depths of her scrying pool, the priestess saw a man in black sliding down the wall and into the city of sin. The halfling had been right-a crusader had come.
“Kalen Dren,” she murmured. “Come to play my game, have you?”
She saw his image, but only for the briefest of breaths before it dispersed. She would need a closer scrying focus to see him more clearly, but that she could get. She whistled and a servant opened the nearest door to her sanctum.
“Call for Logenn,” she said. “I’ve a task for him.”
CHAPTER THREE
21 KYTHORN (NIGHT)
Past the barricade,Kalen climbed down and rolled to his feet on the dusty ground in Luskan. He moved immediately into the shadows of a nearby building that had once been a tavern, but was now half-burned, rotted, and boarded up. Kalen crouched among the ashen detritus and waited, keeping as still as he could.
Galandel’s sword had bitten deep, but Kalen hardly felt it-his spellscar took care of that. It was his curse that stole much of the feeling from his body. Though he grew stronger every day, became faster, felt less pain and punishment than before, one day it would prove too much. His body would become a stone prison-his lungs ceasing to draw in air, his heart shuddering to a stop. He’d brought the curse on himself, through a stupid mistake he had made years ago. And he lived with the numbing malady every day since. One of these days it would kill him; in fact, a year ago, it almost had. Until Myrin-
Myrin.
All he knew was that Myrin was in Luskan and that he had to find her. He hadn’t seen her in a year, and they hadn’t parted on the best of terms. But as soon as he’d heard she was in trouble, he hadn’t hesitated. That had been four days ago-four days’ hard ride from Waterdeep. He didn’t know who had her, so he’d have to break some heads to find out.
No one had come in or out of the tavern. He drew his dagger and knocked the pommel against the wall, then hunched back down to wait.
Sure enough, a pair of toughs appeared, drawn to the sound. They were grubby, lank-haired men-one a half-orc-with a number of pins and spikes driven through their ears and noses to demonstrate their toughness. He also recognized their symboclass="underline" hands or paws in various stages of decay-from fleshy to rotted to skeletal-strung on a chain and worn around the neck like a pendant. These were Dustclaws.
Well, one gang was as good a place to start as another.
The Dustclaws inspected the wall, looking for the source of the noise. One of the thugs peered through the cracks in the barricade, then snuffled and shrugged. The senior one-the half-orc-slapped the back of the man’s head and pointed to the door from which they had emerged. They entered, passing inside walls of chipped brick and a roof of rickety boards that rattled in the sea breeze. They hadn’t seen Kalen, and that lent him the advantage.
Quickly, Kalen rose from hiding and followed the Dustclaws. Kalen recognized the worn quill-and-scroll sign of Flick’s Fancies, a scribner house. He’d spent quite a bit of time there as a boy, taking those chores the proprietor (Felicity, though no one called her that twice) gave him and occasionally filching ink and paper from her cabinets. He found it ironic that the scribner’s letters had vanished over the years while the image remained.
Flick’s bore a gang marking, to denote territory: a gold coin with what looked like horns on the outside. Kalen didn’t recognize the symbol, though it reminded him of the sigils of both Tymora, goddess of luck, and her sister Beshaba, goddess of misfortune.
Kalen looked north into the heart of Luskan. The buildings that lined the worn cobbled streets looked entirely too familiar. He recalled countless sweaty midnights and freezing dawns spent perched on buildings or hiding in holes.
Voices emerged from the scribner’s-those of Flick herself and of another that Kalen recognized quite well. One of the luck goddesses was smiling, it seemed.