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-”
“She’s coming back,” he said.
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.
EPILOGUE
8 FLAMERULE (DAWN)
Eden sat in her personal altar chamber, in the center of the floor. She had bashed the divan to shards, overturned the altar, and dashed her scrying bowl to pieces. Her platinum coin lay on the floor by the corner, where she had thrown it.
How? How could the goddess have chosen the girl?
The goddess had abandoned her. Her goddess-her mother-had abandoned her all over again. All because of that damned Kalen.
Tears leaked down from her eyes, salty water from her good eye, blood from her empty socket. She’d only ever wanted her goddess-her mother-to love her. She …
She heard a snap from outside, followed by the sharp swish of a metal blade. Someone had tripped one of her snares. That gave her a small burst of pleasure. At least she still had the foolishness of men-that would never fail to amuse her.
A second trap went off-this a series of darts clicking off stone. So the intruder had brought a second, had he? How amusing.
A third trap went off, and a fourth, and a fifth-clicks, pops, and the occasional loud blast-with increasing frequency.
Someone was setting off all her traps, she realized. Gods.
She crossed to the door, where she kept a spyhole for just such an occasion. She peered out and gasped at the golden figure walking toward her. He chose a random path, his every step setting off a trap-each of which miraculously missed him.
“No,” she said. “No, no-goddess!”
She closed the spyhole and ran back to search desperately for her platinum coin. The goddess would save her-she must!
There! Eden put her trembling hands around the coin, but it slipped from her grasp and rolled under the broken table. She peered in, with her one good eye, and saw that Beshaba’s visage stared up at her.
The door swung open behind her and Eden froze.
“Left the door unlocked, did you? What terrible luck,” the Horned One said. “Almost as awful as misplacing your symbol. Tsk.”
She made a mad grab for her coin and got it.
Eden threw herself aside and cried out to the Lady. She held the coin forth at the Horned One where he stood not four paces away. She could not miss.