Downshadow (35 page)

“Every man dies in his time,” he murmured. “If tonight is my time, so be it.”

His hands felt dead as he wedged his fingers under the lip of a metal plate, uncovered beneath the alley’s debris. The reek did not offend him, for he could hardly smell it. The trap door had been used that night, he knew—it was loose. It awaited Downshadowers who prowled the rainy streets, and would for hours hence. Crearures of shadow risen from below. What was he, but a shadow come from above?

A shudder, worse than ever before, ripped through him, and he curled over, hacking and coughing. He wedged his helm open and spat blood and bile onto the metal door. It dripped onto the cobblestones and swirled with the rain.

When the fit passed—he had half expected it would not—Kalen righted himself and gazed at the rusty ladder that led into the shadows beneath the city. ‘t

“Eye of Justice,” he prayed. He didn’t beg. “Be patient. I am coming soon.”

He wiped his mouth and began to climb down. Ś

Downshadow felt surprisingly empty that night. Its inhabitants saw night in the world above as their due, when they could dance or duel at whim, love or murder at their leisure. Those with eyes sensitive to light could walk freely in the streets, and a heavy rain or a mist off the western sea would hide their deeds, be they black or gray.

No space was emptier on such nights than the plaza around the Grim Statue: a great stone monolith of a man on a high pedestal, his head missing and his hands little more than stubs of stone. Tingling menace surrounded the figure, filling the chamber with quiet dread. A careful onlooker would see tiny lightnings crackling around its hands at odd moments.

Kalen knew the legend that this had been an independent and enclosed chamber designed as a magical trap. However, the eruption of the Weave during the Spellplague—as story would have it—caused the statue to loose blasts of lightning in a circle continuously for years. The walls had been pulverized under the onslaught, making the twenty-foot statue the center of a rough plaza.

Eventually, the lightning had subsided as the statue was drained of its magic. In recent years, lightning flashed from the statue only occasionally. The surviving walls, a hundred feet distant from the statue, marked the danger zone of the statue’s destruction. The ramshackle huts and tents of Downshadow extended only to that limit, and most of those were abandoned. Only a fool or a fatalist would live so close to unpredictable death.

A favored game among Downshadow braves was to approach the statue as closely as possible, taking cover behind chunks of stone, to see where their courage would fail them.

Kalen stood at the edge of the round plaza, scanning the neighboring hollows and warrens for any sign of his foe. He saw little movement in the dead plaza, but for a pair of figures that stalked through one of the broken passages nearby.

Then he saw Rath step into the open from behind the remains of a blasted column twenty paces distant. His hands were empty, his face calm and emotionless. He wore his sword on his right hip,

as Kalen had hoped he might. The dwarFs right hand was wrapped thickly in linen.

“I thought you wouldn’t come,” said the dwarf. “Thar her note wouldn’t bring you.”

“You were wrong.” Kalen put his hand on the hilt of Vindicator but did not draw. He knew the tricks of the Grim Statue—knew how its lightning could be random, but it almost always triggered in the presence of active magic. If he drew his Helm-blessed sword…

“I am pleased,” the dwarf said. He made no move to draw.

Kalen saw that Rath’s face, while not as horrible as on the night of the revel, still showed evidence of burn scars across its right side. His left side was unchanged, and Kalen could tell from his stance that he coddled the burned side. Proud of his looks, Kalen thought. He would remember that. If he could find a way to make the dwarf emotional, it could be an advantage.

“Agree to let them go if you kill me,” Kalen said. “They mean nothing to you.”

A flicker of doubt crossed Rath’s scarred face. Then he shrugged. “What is this if?”

“Agree,” Kalen said.

Rath shrugged. “No,” he said. “Your little blue-headed stripling has anorher use to me.”

Kalen didn’t like that reply, but it wasn’t a surprise. He shivered to think of the possibilities.

“What will you do next, dwarf, after I am dead?” Kalen had approached within ten paces, and the two of them began to circle. “Do you have other vengeance to take?”

Rath sniffed. “I kill for coin—vengeance means little,” he said. “But I do know of hatred.” He smiled, an expression made unpleasant . by his ruined face. “Two guardsmen. Araezra Hondryl and Kalen Dren—they will die as well.”

Kalen smiled, reached up, and pulled off his helmet, showing the dwarf his face. 1

Rath’s eyes narrowed to angry slits. His hands trembled for only : a moment. He was realizing, Kalen thought with no small pleasure, how deeply and completely he’d been fooled.

“Well,” the dwarf said. “I suppose I need slay only one other after you.”

Kalen smiled and put his helm back in place. He circled Rath slowly, keeping his hand on Vindicators hilt and one eye on the statue.

“You should draw your sword this time.”

“If you prove worthy of it,” said Rath. “This time.”

Kalen was so intent on letting the dwarf strike first that when Rath finally moved, it almost caught him off guard. One moment, Rath was circling him peaceably, and the next he was lunging, low and fast and left, where Vindicator was sheathed. Only reflexes and instincts built up over long years on mean streets sent Kalen leaping back and around, sword sliding free of its scabbard to ward Rath away. Vindicator’s fierce silver glow bathed them in bright light, making both squint.

But Rath didn’t follow. Kalen saw him dancing back, and felt his hairs crackle just in time to see the Grim Statue slinging a bolt of green-white lightning at him. Kalen couldn’t dodge and only barely brought Vindicator into the lightning’s path. He prayed.

Kalen felt the force of the blast like a battering ram, blowing him back and away from the statue. He tumbled through the air, trying vainly to twist and roll, and landed outside the plaza in a gasping heap. Lightning yet arced around him, and he twitched and hissed as it faded. If Rath had come upon him then, Kalen would have had no defense.

But the dwarf was merely standing over him when Kalen could finally move again, a wry smile on his face.

“What glory would I gain,” asked the dwarf, “if I let some relic of another age vanquish you, the mighty Shadowbane? Come. On your feet.”

Kalen coughed and spat and started to rise—then slashed at Rath’s nearest leg. Laughing, the dwarf flipped backward and waited, a dagger-toss distant, while Kalen rose.

“Draw your steel,” Kalen said, brandishing Vindicator high.

“You have done nothing worthy,” said Rath.

“Then come to me with empty hands, if you will,” Kalen said,

taking a high, two-handed guard. “I tire of your child’s games.”

That seemed to touch Rath, for his neutral smile faded. He streaked toward Kalen like nothing dwarven. Kalen cut down, dropping one hand from the sword.

Steel clashed, followed by a grunt of pain.

Rath danced back, and Kalen coughed and struggled to stay on his feet.

The dwarf reached down and touched a dribble of blood forming along his right forearm. He looked at the cut curiously, as though he had not been wounded in a long time and had forgotten what it was like. Kalen gestured wide with the dirk he had pulled from his gauntlet, gripping it in his bare left hand. He let himself smile wryly inside his helm.

“I underestimated you, paladin,” Rath said. “I shall not make that mistake again.”

The dwarf reached for his sword in its gold lacquer scabbard and untied the peace bond. He closed his eyes, as though in prayer, and laid his fingers reverently around the hilt.

“You know what an honor this is,” said Rath. “To find a worthy foe.”

“I do.”

The dwarf drew the sword in a blur, opened his eyes, and lunged.

Kalen almost couldn’t block, so fasr was the strike. Rath’s steel— short and curved and fine:—screeched against Vindicator, but both blades held. The speed stunned Kalen enough to slow his counter, which mighr have taken out Rath’s throat if he’d been faster.

Instead, the dwarf leaped away, rhen lunged back, slashing. He did so again and again, moving so fast and gracefully that Kalen could hardly follow him with his eyes and parried almost wholly by touch.

Kalen worked his muscles as hard as he could, bringing the steel around to foil Rath’s strikes, trying always to catch his slender sword between his own blades, but to no avail.

They exchanged a dozen passes before Rath fled, down the hall to the great cavern. Kalen gave chase, and might have lost everyrhing

when Rath came at him suddenly. The dwarf could reverse his motion as though by will, in defiance of momentum or balance.

Kalen parried the blow with his dirk, but he felt Rath’s blade slit open the leather over his bicep. He took a wider guard—a narrower profile. He tried to bring Vindicator around, but hit nothing as Rath flowed away from him, running along the wall of the corridor. The dwarf plunged into the tunnels, and Kalen followed.

They ran from corridor to corridor, slashing and scrambling forward. Their swords sparked, trailing silver lightning through the halls of Downshadow. Rath struck a dozen times with his blade, but Kalen parried every attack—with sword, dirk, or gauntlet. Each time, Rath bounded away and Kalen cursed, panted, and followed. Lurking creatures scurried out of their way as the men ran and fought, roused from hiding by the duel. The combatants ran on, heedless.

“A darkness where there is only me,” Kalen whispered through gritted teeth.

Rath vaulted off a nearby wall and slashed down hard enough to break through Kalen’s guard and ring his helmet soundly. Instead of following through, he leaped away and continued the chase. Kalen grunted and sped after him.

“Why do you keep fighting, Shadowbane?” Rath’s calm voice showed no sign of strain. “I can see you tiring—feel you slowing.”

Kalen said nothing, but ran on.

They ran between crumbling chambers. The magic of Kalen’s boots drove his leaps high and far, but the dwarf still eluded him. The dwarf seemed able to run along the very walls if he wanted.

They broke into the main chamber of Downshadow, with its tents and huts, lit by the dancing firelight that flowed across the ceiling. Inhabitants clustered around cook fires erupted in curses, then fled the path of the avenger and his quarry. Vindicator’s silver glow made them bright, shining warriors as they chased each other.

They plowed through the heart of the encampment, leaping over cook fires and around startled natives. Hands reached for steel or spell but Kalen and Rath flew past without pause. They knocked down tent poles, sent stew pots flying, and generally wreaked chaos across

the cavern. Rath struck Kalen several more times, but his leathers held. He could not land a single blow on the dwarf, but felt certain that when he did, Rath would fall.

“What will it take?” Rath asked as he vaulted up a wall, caught an overhanging ledge, and swung over the side, seizing higher ground.

Kalen jumped after the dwarf, grasped a broken handhold—his gauntlet screeching—and swung himself up. He caught a narrow metal pole that lay between the ledge and the wall—a waste pipe for the Knight ‘n Shadow, he realized, which perched in the cavern wall just above their heads.

He swung himself around the pipe like an acrobat, once, twice for momentum, then he let himself soar, feet first, up onto the ledge. He twisted in midair and landed on his feet, panting, knees bent, sword wide. He looked up at a huge stack of crates and barrels, above which hung the low platform of the tavern. Near Rath stood a small shack, balanced precariously on numerous long splints for legs, where workers would clean the tavern’s rags and dump the waste water.

As Kalen landed, Rath scurried to the shed, slashed through two of the supports, then climbed up the side of the shoddy building, pausing to look down.

As the dwarf watched from atop the platform, Kalen grasped his left arm, gritted his teeth, and tried to still his raging heart.

“Wait, Helm,” he demanded, calling upon his dead god. “They need me.”

“Still you refuse ro fall,” said the dwarf. He stood, in perfect balance on the platform railing. “What admirable valor—foolish, but admirable.”

The groan of buckling wood warned of danger, and the supports of the platform splintered and collapsed. The dwarf launched himself again, flipping and sailing through the air—leaving behind a collapsing storm of wood, stone, and water.

Kalen barely threw himself aside before the shack shattered against the narrow ledge, which itself started splintering. Choking on dust, he tumbled backward.

Rath was there, sword dancing like a steel whip, and it was more luck than skill that let Kalen block. He parried with his offhand, but

the sword screeched against his blade and wedged the dirk free—it spun off into the cavern. Rath stabbed, but Kalen kicked his feet out from under him. The dwarf scrambled away before Kalen could get Vindicator in line.

“This will end only one way,” Rath said.

He leaped out into the cavern and Kalen jumped after him, falling toward a sea of Downshadow folk who had joined in pursuit of the two crazed duellists. The dwarf bore down on one orc-blooded man and raced across the heads and backs of several others. Kalen crashed down in a knot of folk, sending three or four to the ground, then pushed himself up. He shoved his way through the crowd, holding Vindicator high and muscling the folk aside.

“Move, citizens!” he cried. “Waterdhavian Guard! Stand aside!”

That might not have been the best cry, for several lumbering forms—stirred by anger against that very organization—moved to block his path.

“Damn.” Kalen bent his aching legs and sprang up.

His boots carried him up and over the intervening figures, following Rath. He landed badly and stumbled to the cavern floor, face first. Vindicator slipped free, but he recovered it in a roll to his feet. He charged after Rath, who was heading along the corridors toward the Grim Statue. Not attacking—just fleeing. Luring him.