Forsaken by Shadows 52: Outsiders

~17. Outsiders~

Rismyn

Technically speaking, Rismyn wasn’t supposed to be here. And neither was Mazira, or Vaylan, or Ti’yana. Nor were Corith and Jezzra, or any of the other students of the Temple and Cove, or the bakers and merchants, for that matter. 

Only the commissioned Militia members and inducted Songblades were meant to line the riverwalk as Orange Light bled into Red. Only the warriors whose oaths had been sworn, whose loyalty had been sealed by word and deed. Anders and Satara had commanded a display of strength, an adamantine wall of black armor and sleek blades to serve as a warning to the mercenaries coming to stay. 

The sellswords might have been invited, but Launa didn’t want them. Best not to let drow of questionable morals get any ideas. 

But as these things often go, the orders hadn’t stayed among the ranks of the Militia or clergy. They had leaked to the students, who spread the words far and beyond, until the whole city had rallied for the cause. Not everyone was here. Dock Road wouldn’t hold all two-thousand or so citizens. But enough had turned up to represent the sentiments of the rest, and as Rismyn sat among them, his heart brimmed with a pride he’d never known before. 

These were his people. 

Out in the harbor, the Gates groaned, one solid ebony slab sinking beneath the churning waters of the Lirdvin, and all of Launa took a collective breath. 

They were here. 

A single black vessel sailed between the Watchers, the carved statues of the male and female drow Rismyn had beheld when he and Mazira had made the same voyage. From its stern was hoisted a banner Rismyn only recognized because of who he lived with. The flag of Sschindylryn, the city Solaurin once called home. 

But these were no mild-mannered merchants, looking to befriend anyone who would fill their coffers with coins. These were mercenaries, after the same gold, but willing to do violence to get it. The same people Rismyn had once killed for, who’d offered him work and a comfortable living at the expense of his soul. 

“I can’t believe she did this to us,” said Arydyn, who sat to Rismyn’s right with the rest of the Riser patrol; Thenerios, Tarmar, Kilia, and Zalees, who had situated herself between Rismyn and Ardyn. She laid a comforting hand over Ardyn’s as he spoke, an unusual display of tenderness from the usually high-spirited girl. 

No one said anything, because there was nothing to say. Of all the Militia members, Ardyn took the arrival of the mercenaries the hardest, for obvious reasons. No one was happy with the arrangement, but Ardyn was livid. The gentle temperament Rismyn had been introduced to grew more brittle each cycle that passed without news of his father.

Dissatisfied murmurs rippled around the cavern as the boat docked and the Gates raised into place. Rismyn couldn’t help but compare this arrival to his own, when he’d been stunned into silence by the sheer volume of music and song echoing around him. The crowds that had gathered then had come to stare in wonder at him and Mazira, to see with their own eyes that not all tragedies stayed tragic. 

What a difference a year had made. 

Ropes were tossed from the deck to the dock and soldiers leapt ashore, securing the boat. The Sschindylryn flag vanished. 

Mother Lara moved forward, flanked by Anders and the harbormaster, the same svirfneblin that had greeted the crew of the Songbreeze when Rismyn first arrived. A host of Songblades trailed in their wake, led by Satara and Solaurin, though halfway down the dock, Satara paused, turning back to the crowd packed on the street.

This must not have been a planned delay, for Solaurin stopped, too, and though Rismyn wasn’t close enough to hear his words, he could see the question in his expression as his mouth moved. The priestesses glanced at one another, as though unsure what to do.

Satara ignored them, sliding her saber, sheathe and all, from the sash of her robe and striking the stone pier four times. The thuds echoed ominously, quieting the whispering crowd and causing Mother Lara to stop as well. 

A heavy silence filled the seconds after the reverberation settled, then all around the wall of soldiers and citizens, the Songblades mixed within their ranks drew their sabers and copied their leader’s rhythm.

By the fourth strike, Satara lifted her hands and raised her voice in song, but not the usual kind that Rismyn had grown accustomed to. Her melody was more stoic, a rhythmic warchant that sent chills down his spine. Eerily similar to the ones offered to Lolth, as sheathes on stone beat out a heartbeat beneath the old elvish words.

Others took up the music, and not just Songblades. Militia warriors pounded fists to armored thighs, or joined with blades to stone. More voices caught up the words, until at last Rismyn could understand what it was they sang. 

Hear the drums, the drums of the Hunt

Harken blade and blood.

The stars ablaze, the shadows slain

As moonlight becks her call. 

While evil roams our song remains

Our weapons sharp and ready.

When the Maiden sings we shall obey

And dance the blades of vengeance…

It was like the Evensong, only uniformed and rigid. Even Mazira had taken up the words, soft and under her breath, and Rismyn was beginning to wonder if he was the only person in all of Launa who didn’t know the song. Well, him and Vaylan, but that hardly made him feel better. 

On the pier, all activity ceased as mercenaries lined the deck of the boat, beholding the full force of Launa’s might with stillness and, Rismyn would like to think, a healthy dose of trepidation. 

Good. Message received. They might be few in number, but they were fierce.

Satara nodded, lowering her hands and sliding her saber back into her sash. The chant-like music continued as she turned back to the others, and whether or not Mother Lara approved, Rismyn couldn’t say from this distance. She just pivoted back to the boat, and the receiving party continued on their way. With their resumed motion, the mercenaries went back to work securing the vessel. 

Between the river current, the singing, and the thrumming, Rismyn had no hope of overhearing what was said, but he had some understanding of how this was going to work. No one came into Launa without being questioned first, especially not in these times. 

The soldiers on the vessel lowered a gangplank, and those who had already come onto the pier stood back, arms crossed and eyes roving from face to face, like wild animals trying to decide whether to bite. Mother Lara seemed to pay them no mind, her attention fixed on the deck of the ship, where an elf Rismyn would never forget materialized at the top of the plank. 

He was just as audacious as Rismyn remembered, clad in an emerald capelet over an unlaced, flowing mint shirt. As he strode down the plank, the swishing fabric revealed glimpses of a blood-red lining, further adding to the ridiculousness of his costume. Yet somehow, he pulled it off, strange lavender-grey skin and all, managing to appear intimidating in his confidence rather than supercilious in his vanity.

Rismyn shuddered, unable to unlink the sight of the mercenary with the sight of the beheaded priestess that haunted his dreams. The woman he had been assured deserved to die, the necromancer whose heart he had stilled. Yet no matter how many times Rismyn tried to tell himself he’d rid the world of an evil witch, he couldn’t help but wonder—especially now that he knew better—what would have happened if they’d just tried talking to her before killing her? 

“That’s him,” Rismyn said, intending the words for Mazira but not caring who else overheard. There were only friends around him. Friends, and Vaylan, who could easily be ignored. “That’s the drow I told you about, the mercenary I… traded with, to get our supplies for the Wilds.” 

He and Mazira exchanged sideways looks, his full of shame, hers clouded with concern. She said nothing, however, but focused her attention back on the swaggering elf as he greeted Mother Lara with an exaggerated bow. 

“That’s a drow?” Vaylan said, with his ever present undertone of mockery. They were the first words he’d said since they’d gathered around the piers. According to Mazira, who had relayed the information in handtalk when Rismyn prodded her, Vaylan was upset because he didn’t want her to be here. Something about it not being safe, as if he had a better idea of what was safe than those who lived and breathed the Underdark. “He sure doesn’t look like one.”

“He’s half-drow,” Belnir said. He and Beltel stood behind their respective patrols, looking on with mirrored contempt. “Kalos Seabane is his name. No one knows what the other half is, but last rumor I heard was that he has water in his veins.” 

“Right,” said Vaylan, drawing out the word. “Which means what, exactly?”

“Genasi.” The answer came from Kilia, who was draped around his signature trident. “We heard tales of the like in my homeland. Never met one myself.” 

“Whatever he is,” Beltel said, “He’s a pain in the—” 

Belnir stomped on his foot, and Beltel cut off with a squawk. 

“Be nice,” Belnir said. “Like it or not, we’re hosting them for a while.” 

Rismyn had no idea what a genasi was, and by the way the twins spoke, he got the impression they also had history with the mercenary, but now didn’t feel like the right time to ask. He just watched as the harbormaster shuffled forward and held out a bright, glowing orb. He appeared to be conversing with Kalos, presumably questioning him about his intentions as Rismyn had once been questioned. After a moment, the deep-gnome nodded, and Kalos issued a sharp whistle. 

The mercenaries descended from the ship, marshaled off in groups of six. 

Kalos stood beside the gnome and watched as his soldiers submitted themselves for questioning. The light flared, the soldiers spoke, and then the interview was over. Half-a-dozen sellswords moved past Mother Lara and the line of Songblades to assemble closer to the street, though they remained on the dock. They surveyed the singing people of Launa with open curiosity, faces ranging from wariness to mocking sneers. 

The ritual repeated with the next six mercenaries, but in the third group, something went wrong. The harbormaster staggered back, Mother Lara stiffened, and all eyes on the dock turned to a soldier who stood in the middle of his party. Before anything else could be said or done, Kalos moved in a flash, a verdant blur of motion, and within the span of a heartbeat, the soldier was falling to his knees, Kalos’ sword protruding from his chest. 

The singing wasn’t loud enough to cover the shock of the Launites gathered on the street. Zalees was among them, clapping a hand to her mouth in horror. She wasn’t the only one. Vaylan swore and Ti’yana whimpered, covering her eyes. 

Mazira didn’t react at all. She didn’t look away, she didn’t gasp, she didn’t flinch. Neither did Rismyn. It was easy to tell who’d been raised in Launa and who’d been tormented elsewhere. Though the violence shocked him, it didn’t surprise him. 

“Guess he failed the test,” Beltel said.

“That’s… barbaric,” Jezzra said. She sat on Vaylan’s other side and had latched onto his arm, staring in disbelief at the deadly scene unfolding on the dock. 

“Welcome to the Underdark, sweetheart,” Beltel said, and for once, Belnir didn’t correct his callousness. 

And why should he? His sentiment was correct, and Rismyn felt it deeply in his core. 

On the dock, Mother Lara pierced Kalos with a look so hard Rismyn could’ve whet a blade with it. Whatever she was saying could probably strip the whitewash from the stone columns of the temple. Kalos, however, just shrugged and flashed her a careless smile, gesturing to the dead man and the people on the street. 

“It’s certainly not a pleasant sight,” said Tarmar. Of the soldiers on both Do’ar patrols, he was the oldest by two centuries and had lived the longest in traditional drow society. “But if that elf just confessed to intending to betray Launa, we can’t exactly let him live. Not now that he’s seen us.” 

His words were met with grim murmurs of agreement from those who hadn’t flinched from the blood, Rismyn’s among them. It was harsh, but it was just. Whatever it took to keep the captives free. At least the questions worked, which was a relief, despite the blood pooling on the stone pier. 

Yet even as Rismyn made peace with it, Mother Lara waved Kalos aside and knelt before his fallen soldier. Her lips moved in silent song, and the dead—or perhaps only dying—elf shuddered and gasped back to life. 

“It would appear our Reverend Mother would disagree with you, Tarmar,” said Thenerios, Belnir’s divine-blooded lieutenant, with a note of pride in his voice.

Mother Lara stood back, the hem of her sky-blue gown stained with red, and two of Satara’s Songblades surged forward, arresting the elf before he could properly process what was going on. 

“A fair trial and an opportunity to repent.” 

The words came from Mazira, catching Rismyn by surprise. They had the sound of a rote recital, a lesson she had learned and repeated. She looked up at Rismyn, and there was something in her eyes. Something bright and shining, like the meaning of her name. Rismyn couldn’t place the feeling she was trying to convey, but it cut him.

Her hand slipped into his, and she squeezed. “We do things differently in Launa.” 

The rebuke was gentle. A quiet correction of the dark feelings of his heart, and though Rismyn hadn’t been the only one who’d felt such things, her judgment was reserved for him alone. As if she didn’t care what the others thought, but cared deeply about what he thought. 

Discipline which led to life, as Solaurin often said. 

Rismyn gritted his teeth as the sting of her words seeped into his core. “You’re right,” he breathed, swallowing his pride and shame. He squeezed her hand in reply. “Thank you for the reminder.” 

With the once-wounded-now-arrested drow out of the way, the ritual began all over again. Three more patrols, for lack of a better term, approached the harbormaster, and from among them, two more were found to be weighed and wanting. The last one didn’t even make it to the questions. The moment he stepped into the light of the Orb of Truth, he tried to bolt, but his comrades pounced before he could dive into the river. They dragged him to the Songblades themselves, handing him over for iron manacles, before submitting to be questioned by the svirfneblin. 

At last, the final group descended to the dock, and the tension knotting Rismyn’s shoulders eased some. Three traitors in thirty-six mercenaries wasn’t as bad as he thought it would be. Still, loyalty that was bought could easily be sold, and he held his breath as the final six stepped into the bright, purifying light of the Orb. 

A glint of metal caught Rismyn’s eye. A dagger. Rismyn’s stomach plummeted. A dagger in hand implied an assassin, and he filled his lungs to say something, when he blinked. 

No. It wasn’t a dagger in an assassin’s hand. It was a hand. A metal hand, or rather, a metal hook where a hand ought to have been. Rismyn furrowed his brow as his eyes traveled from the hook to the face of the elf who bore the deformity, and he swore. 

Fate had to be playing tricks on him. The mercenary was no stranger. He was Dreder Ti’glath. The top student in Rismyn’s former Melee-Magthere class, the one whose curiosity had incited Toloruel to bring  Mazira to the Pyramid. His rival for five years, who’d taunted Rismyn endlessly.

Who’d started the vicious game of take-away that led to Mazira’s near-death. 

He had been the one who’d called Rismyn out for what he was—a deviant from society, a dissenter as Launa called it. In many ways, Dreder was that catalyst that had brought Rismyn to where he was today. 

Rismyn’s gaze anchored on the hooked hand, and he became strangely warm and lightheaded. He’d done that. He had severed Dreder’s hand in his flight from Tier Breche. Rismyn had thought little of it—hands could be reattached, after all, if a priestess was sought soon enough. But as Dreder’s lips moved to answer the harbor-master’s question, Rismyn came to a startling conclusion. 

He’d changed Dreder’s life as much as Dreder had changed his. 

That had to be it. The reason why Dreder was here, wearing mercenary armor and lacking one of his appendages. His hand had been lost, and he didn’t dare go home crippled. So, like Rismyn, he’d gone to the one place that might take him in. 

Rismyn wasn’t aware he had jumped to his feet until Beltel’s hand came down on his shoulder. “Hey, some of us weren’t blessed with giants in our heritage. You make a terrible window.”

“Sorry,” Rismyn said, now acutely aware of his friends—and Vaylan—watching him. His face flushed and he crouched back down beside Mazira. 

“Is everything alright, Rismyn?” Belnir asked. “You look like you’ve seen a dragon turtle.” 

Rismyn tried to smile at the jest, the inside joke he shared with Do’ar’s, but he was too shaken to make it stay. “I’m fine,” he said, glancing at Mazira, which inevitably meant glancing at Vaylan as well. The golden elf never left her side. If it weren’t for the secret sword-lessons Mazira had asked for, Rismyn wasn’t sure he’d ever see Mazira alone again.

But this wasn’t something he wanted to talk about with Vaylan, and not just because there was literally nothing he wanted to talk about with Vaylan. Mazira had, eventually, told Rismyn how the sun elf had reacted when he learned of his family name. She’d meant to build a bridge with it, to help Rismyn understand some of Vaylan’s hostility. 

It had only made him like him less. 

But it also taught him to be careful. If Vaylan had reacted so violently to Mazira’s mention of his name, how would he react to learning someone who had actually tormented her had come into Launa? As much as Rismyn hated Dreder and disliked Vaylan, pitting them against each other would only end in bloodshed, and bloodshed wasn’t swept away in Launa like it was in Menzoberranzan. Whether Vaylan won or lost, Mazira would lose the only link to her past she possessed, and Rismyn couldn’t do that to her. 

“I’m fine,” he said again. “Just remembered something I forgot to do.” The excuse sounded pathetic, but Rismyn didn’t need it to be believable. He caught Belnir’s gaze and signed the word later, to indicate he’d be more forthcoming when the time was right. 

Belnir nodded, his expression a cipher, and returned his attention to the spectacle on the docks. 

Rismyn returned his attention as well, and for perhaps the first time in his life, he prayed a prayer to Eilistraee. Let him fail. Let him be found out for the snake he is and end up in the dungeon like the others. Don’t let him enter your city. Please.

But Rismyn wasn’t one of Eilistraee’s faithful, and his salvation had only come in proxy to Mazira’s. Rismyn’s heart choked out his prayer, but the goddess, wherever she was, failed to answer. The Orb of Truth flickered out, and Dreder crossed the line of Songblades to join the with the other mercenaries who had come to deliver Launa from their threat.

“And that’s that,” Belnir said, as Kalos gestured to Mother Lara to follow him up the gangplank. The spell which held the Launites together snapped, and people began to disperse, the unified chant blending into the usual—if not subdued—medley of mixed music and voices. “Risers, form up.” 

“Slayers, you too,” Beltel added.

Both patrols gathered around the twins. Rismyn stood with them, even though he wasn’t technically a Riser. No one said anything to him, though, and Mazira lingered close behind him.

Belnir addressed the warriors as if they were all his own. Most of them were, or had been, before Beltel got promoted. “Remember, Bregan D’Aerthe is limited to only the establishments of Dock Road. They’ll be sleeping on their boat. If you see any of them in the city beyond without a Launite escort, report them. Let Command handle it. Don’t start an altercation unless you see trouble brewing.” 

“We’ve been promised they’re here to help,” Beltel said, “and only the most trustworthy were allowed to come.” He rolled his eyes, and Rismyn covered a scoff with a cough. 

Dreder was considered one of the most trustworthy? Launa was doomed. 

“I’m sure I don’t need to remind most of you what it’s like where they come from,” Beltel continued. “And those that don’t know have heard the stories. The rest of us can avoid them by staying clear of Dock Road. Some poor folks live and work here.” 

“I know you all have lives.” Belnir’s gaze flickered to Rismyn. “And not all of you owe the Militia anything, yet. But the presence we have here, even when we’re off-duty, will make a difference. We are the peace-keepers of the Sanctuary. Understand?” 

Heads nodded around the circle, solemn and stiff. The silence stretched heavy and taut, until Zalees broke it. 

“Well what are we waiting for?” she asked. “Let’s go get drinks and scare some mercs.” 

The circle splintered with a trickle of laughter, and without speaking the decision aloud, they moved as one unit toward the Sunglow Tavern, bypassing the chocolate house, the tea house, and the pastry shop to get there. There were all manner of boutiques and eateries that Bregan D’Aerthe could amuse themselves with, despite their limited access to the city, but something inside Rismyn thrummed with the silent consensus; if there was going to be trouble, it was going to happen at the tavern. 

As they walked, he caught Mazira’s elbow and slowed their pace, allowing the others to step ahead. Fortunately, Vaylan was answering one of Jezzra’s questions, so he didn’t notice, allowing them some much coveted privacy. 

“Maybe you should go home,” he whispered, and instantly regretted it. The hurt that welled in her eyes bit like a war dog, sharp and unrelenting. Her lip trembled and her face paled, and her eyes flickered to Vaylan’s back, as though comparing his words to Vaylan’s. 

Rismyn grimaced. The last thing he wanted was to agree with the sun elf. Especially at Mazira’s expense. “Look, it’s not what you think. Did you see…” he trailed off, unsure how to broach the subject. How much did she remember about the day she’d almost died? He didn’t want to bring back traumatic memories. “Did you see anyone you recognized, among the soldiers of Bregan D’Aerthe?” 

Mazira shook her head. “No. Should I have?” 

Rismyn let out a breath. “I wish I could say no, but, well, yes. Did you see the merc with the missing hand? The one who had a hook instead?” 

Mazira’s forehead scrunched, and she nodded. 

“Stay away from him, Zira. You understand me? Stay away. He was there when… at the Pyramid… he was in my class.” 

Understanding blossomed on Mazira’s face, and she looked back toward the dock, as if she could see anything happening by the ship through the mass of moving people. “Really? What’s he doing here?” She sounded more curious than afraid, which was not the right reaction. 

“I don’t know. Maybe he joined the mercenaries after he… er… lost his hand…” 

Rismyn couldn’t quite bring himself to say the whole truth of it. He closed his eyes, reliving that horrible moment in stark detail. The faerie fire, the levitated fight, Dreder’s hand falling into the shadows as he fainted under the influence of Torafein’s sleep-laced bolts. The last words Dreder ever said to him echoed in his mind.

I’m going to kill you, and take your faerie. 

“Just don’t go near him,” Rismyn said, a sick feeling writhing in his gut. 

Mazira nodded again, but her expression was still full of thought. “I understand. I’ll try to avoid him. But Rismyn… I want to stay here. With you. And everyone.” She glanced around at the sea of Songblades and Militiamen. Many of the citizens were streaming out of the Harbor District now that the show was over, but enough remained that they were jostled about as they stood still against the tide. “I don’t want to hide anymore.” 

Rismyn let out a heavy breath. He shouldn’t be surprised by Mazira’s decision. She’d been different ever since he’d found her by the Sacred Pools, as though something broken inside her had sealed itself shut. He’d admired her newfound resolve, and had been proud to be a part of this moment in her life, where iron hardened and steel was made. But teaching her to hold a sword without trembling and putting her in a pit with a viper were two very different things. 

But he couldn’t deny her. Not unless he wanted to undermine everything she was striving for. If Mazira wanted to stay, she had every right to, and all he could do was be anxious and wait. 

Maybe Dreder preferred hot chocolate to black-shroom ale. They may not even run into him. 

“What’s going on?” 

Rismyn tensed as Vaylan appeared in the crowd, scowling. Mazira turned and smiled, her face lighting up in a way that made Rismyn’s insides squirm. 

“We were just discussing our plans,” she said. “Whether to stay or go.” 

Vaylan’s chest swelled, but before he could make whatever declaration he was gearing up for, Mazira placed a hand on his arm. 

“We’re going to stay. Will you join us, Vaylan?” 

Vaylan deflated, almost transforming under her brief touch. “I still think it's better to get out of here,” he said. “But sure. Let’s go. Jezzra and Corith are getting a table.”

Now it was Rismyn’s turn to scowl, glaring at the backs of Mazira and Vaylan as they walked together to the tavern. How did this always happen? How did he always end up trailing behind? He marched off after them, fuming over the turn of events.

But, he grudgingly admitted, staying near Vaylan and his other surface friends was probably the better choice for Mazira. One faerie among many would be less noticeable than one faerie among uniformed drow. If Dreder happened to come their way, hopefully he wouldn’t see either of them. 

Of course, hope was a dead thing in the Underdark, a shimmering apparition that came and fled as it pleased. 

Yet as they made their way to the tavern, Mazira pulled her hand away from Vaylan, cradling it with the other as though she’d burned herself, and he remembered what she said by the pools. 

Only Vaylan’s touch had caused her to react negatively. 

Maybe hope wasn’t dead, after all. 

The inside of the Sunglow Tavern was packed, but not as busy as it had been the night of the commissioning ceremony. The Do’ar patrols had taken over several tables against the right wall, intermingling together as they often did. Vaylan’s friends had mixed in with them, with Ardyn and Zalees in their midst. Ti’yana had drifted off to speak with some of the other Songblade students. 

Everyone had their place, and apparently, so did Rismyn. The moment he walked in, Belnir caught his eye. The captain lifted his chin in acknowledgement and pointed to the empty seat on the edge of his table, which, judging by his and Beltel’s grim looks, they had saved for him. 

There was no seat for Mazira, and Rismyn resigned himself to losing her once again to Vaylan’s company. 

“Looks like I’ve been summoned,” he muttered to her as they headed toward the tables. “I’ll see you in a bit.” 

He hadn’t even properly conformed to his seat before Belnir started in on him. “Tell me about the mercenary.” 

“Which mercenary?” he tried, with too much innocence. He glanced at the others at their table. Lina, who ignored them all, Thenerios, who watched too keenly, and Tarmar, who glowered, but disdain was his usual complexion. Rismyn didn’t take it personally.

“The one that turned you as white as our fair marble temple,” Beltel said. “I’ve never seen a drow so pale. If there’s going to be a problem, you better tell us now so we can plan where to hide the body.” 

“Beltel…” Belnir groaned.

“What? If we’re choosing sides, I’m on his.” 

“Agreed,” said Tarmar, and Thenerios just shook his head. 

Rismyn huffed, though he warmed under their banter. “There won’t be a problem,” he said, surrendering. “It’s just that elf with the missing hand. I know him from the Academy. He was in my class.”

But before he could go on, the door to the Sunglow opened and a hush fell across the room as a dozen or so mercenaries darkened the entrance. Among them was Dreder. They wandered in, laughing and prattling on as though oblivious to the tension smothering the room like fog.  

Rismyn clenched his jaw and turned away, resting his forehead in his palm to subtly obscure his face. 

Tarmar’s frown deepened. “Well, gentleman. And lady.” He nodded to Lina, who didn't react. “It seems that’s my cue. Oi, Kilia. Fancy grabbing a drink with me?” 

At the table beside them, Kilia stood, along with three soldiers from Beltel’s patrol. Without a word they strode to the bar, melting in among the mercenaries who crowded around Shaleena, the pretty barmaid who appeared to be reconsidering her life’s work. She relaxed considerably when she noticed the Launite faces, and the ambience of the tavern gradually returned to normal. 

“So, not a friend of yours, then,” Beltel said, leaning back with his arms crossed. He sat on the other side of the table, allowing him a perfect view of the bar. 

“Did you make friends in Melee-Magthere?” Rismyn asked, unable to resist glancing over his shoulder. Dreder, like everyone else, seemed to be fully occupied in gleaning Shaleena’s attention.

“Fair point,” Beltel said. “I think we can probably bury him in the farming cavern, though I don’t know, you think he’ll poison the crop?” 

Belnir drummed his fingers on the table. “Don’t encourage bad behavior,” he chastised. “Rismyn, I’m serious, is there anything we need to know? You might not be mine—yet—but you’re still our friend. We have good relations with Bregan D’Aerthe, but good relations are flimsy when gold is your only bond.” 

Rismyn sighed and scooted back from the table, though he made sure to keep his face turned away from the bar. Dreder couldn’t possibly recognize him from behind, right? His hair had been cut drastically since their last meeting, and hunched over as he was, his height shouldn’t be noticeable. “There’s some bad blood between us, that’s all.” 

And so, Rismyn told them everything. How Dreder had taunted him about his family’s ‘pet faerie’, how he’d convinced Enelel to invite Toloruel for a demonstration, how it had all escalated to the literal flight from the city. As he was nearing the end of the story, Shaleena swung by with ales for all of them, though no one had ordered any. She wore a look that said she’d just needed to get away. 

“They treating you alright, sweetheart?” Beltel asked, before she could slip back to her station. 

The barmaid sighed and put a hand to her hip. “Surprisingly,” she said. “It’s just the looks that are getting to me. But nothing I haven’t experienced before.” She gave Beltel a pointed stare. 

Beltel winked, not remotely reprimanded. “Tell them I’m sweet on you, and will kill anyone who touches you.” 

Shaleena laughed. “They might like that too much, and I don’t enjoy the thought of scrubbing blood off the varnish. Let it be, Do’ar.” 

She sauntered back to the bar, and Rismyn made the mistake of turning to watch her go, some protective instinct requiring him to make sure no one actually tried to touch her. 

But he wasn’t the only one watching Shaleena. Across the room, leaning against the bar, Dreder leered at the moon elf, until his eyes drifted past her and locked on Rismyn’s. 

There was no question of whether Rismyn was recognized. Dreder grinned like a child who had been set unsupervised in a room full of pastries. 

Rismyn swore and whipped his head back around. “Tell me he isn’t coming this way.” 

The look on Beltel’s face said clearly he was. Thenerios stiffened and Belnir scooted his chair back, giving him a better view of the whole room, while placing a protective arm around Lina’s shoulders.

“You have got to be kidding,” said that all too familiar voice. “Rismyn Tear? I thought the Underdark ate you. Oooh, what happened to your face?” 

Dreder grabbed a chair from the table next to theirs and dragged it over, plopping into the seat the wrong way and sneering at Rimsyn, arms crossed over the back of the seat. His silver hook of a hand glinted malevolently in the lantern light. 

Rismyn shifted, unconsciously tilting his head so that the crescent scar on his left cheek was obscured from his old rival’s view. Not that Rismyn was ashamed of the mark. He just wasn’t in the mood to discuss it with Dreder’s presence digging into him like nails driven into his back. “What do you want?” 

“What, I can’t reminisce about school days with an old friend?” Dreder glanced at the others around the table. “You know I lent him a hand once, and he never gave it back.” He waved his hook and cackled at his own joke. 

“Funny,” Beltel said. “We were just hearing all about it.” 

“Sharing stories without me?” Dreder returned his attention to Rismyn. “You mean you knew I was here and didn’t say hi? That’s kind of rude, don’t you think?” 

Rismyn just glared at him, hoping if he didn’t play Dreder would get bored. It had never happened before, but there was alway a first for everything. 

“What’s with that look?” Dreder asked, with unbridled glee. “What, don’t tell me you’re still sour over our last little dance? C’mon, if anyone ought to be upset it’s me. I’m the one who got cheated.” Again, he waved his hook, almost as if he were used to talking with his hands. “Which reminds me. If you’re here, then that must mean the rumors are true. Where’s Torafein Xarrin? That old bastard owes me an explanation.” 

Discretion had never been one of Dreder’s strengths, and his voice cut across the conversations happening around them. A hush fell over the tables occupied by the Do’ar patrols. Those who hadn’t noticed the young mercenary before were acutely aware of him now, and all eyes slid from Dreder to Ardyn.

Dreder looked around, seeming to catch on that his question had had some sort of effect on his now captive audience. Unfortunately, he fed on such attention like a leech on blood. “Well don’t all shout out at once,” he said.

Ardyn stood, his expression enveloped in shadow. “My father is currently missing,” he said, in a voice like flint. “It’s my understanding that it’s your job to find him, mercenary. That’s what we’re paying you for, at least.” 

“Father?” Dreder exclaimed, and for the first time in Rismyn’s life, he saw Dreder’s self-assurance crack. He looked Ardyn up and down, putting his broken facade back together as his surprise turned back into a smirk. “I’ll be damned. You look just like him. But your skin is all wrong.” 

The Launites at the tables shifted, hostility wafting off them like thick miasma. Rismyn sensed bloodshed like the crackle before witch-lightning. He was possessed by the overwhelming responsibility of needing to do something about Dreder, to stop him before his mouth incited violence, but he didn’t know what. Every thought that came to mind was violent in itself. 

So he just watched in horror as Dreder continued to talk. 

“They told us there’d be faerie blood here,” he continued, his eyes narrowing. “Yes.” He glanced at Rismyn, then back at Ardyn, and the thoughts piecing together in his head were almost visible. “Yes,” he said again. “You make sense. Why wouldn’t my teacher betray me to save a faerie-loving deviant, just like himself?” 

His gaze trailed away from Ardyn, drifting to those who sat at his table, and Rismyn’s blood turned to ice. But there was nothing he could do. Dreder looked from Jezzra, to Corith, to Mazira. The moment he saw her, his wicked eyes lit up with delight. 

Mazira flinched under his gaze, but didn’t look away. Rismyn couldn’t begrudge Vaylan’s protective arm around her. If there was one thing he and the sun elf could agree on, it was that Mazira should be protected at all cost. He could fret over jealousy later. 

“I don’t believe it,” Dreder said, softly and slowly. “She survived? And you’re sharing her?” He turned a devious smile on Rismyn. “Damn, if you’d figured out how to do that back in school, maybe we’d both still be there. Tell me, Tear, how do I get in line?” 

Red hot fury tinged Rismyn’s vision with shadows as blood pounded through his veins. He exploded from his chair and snatched Dreder from his, shoving him onto the table, sending the fresh tankards of ale flying. He didn’t remember drawing his dagger, but he pressed it to Dreder’s throat. 

“I swear to the gods and the abyss if you so much as look at her I will relieve you of your other hand. And that’s just where I’ll start.” 

The tavern fell utterly silent, or maybe Rismyn just couldn’t hear anything other than Dreder’s breathing. He certainly couldn’t see anything besides his smug expression. Some small part of his mind was surprised no one had dragged him away yet. They’d been warned over and over not to pick any fights with the mercenaries. 

But this wasn’t a fight. This was a promise. A debt of retribution ready to be paid in full. 

And Dreder. Just. Smiled. 

“You know what my favorite part about losing my hand is?” he said, as though he had no concern for the nearness of his doom as it bit into the skin of his neck. “I’m never without a weapon.” 

Only then did Rismyn become aware of the tip of Dreder’s hook nestled against his pulse. 

Of Beltel, Belnir, Lina, and Thenerios standing with weapons drawn. 

Of the mercenaries at the bar looking on with keen interest.

Of Songblades turning slowly from their clusters. 

Of the precarious nature of a heartbeat, and how easy it was to silence one. 

Footsteps rose over the sound of his hammering hate, and someone latched onto his arm. 

“Rismyn, no.”

Ti’yana. Of all the warriors and swordfolk in the room, Ti’yana had been the one who’d come to him. She tried to pull him away, but Rismyn was reluctant to let Dreder go while he still smiled. 

Ti’yana looked to Belnir. “Captain,” she said, through gritted teeth. “A little help with your patrolman here?” 

Belnir didn’t move right away. “I dunno, Ti, the kid asked for it.” 

“Kinda want to see how this plays out,” Beltel added. 

“Belnir!” Ti’yana hissed, and he sighed, sheathing his sword mechanically. 

“Let him go, Rismyn, it’s not worth it.” 

His hand came down on Rismyn’s shoulder, and between him and Ti’yana, Rismyn pried his finger’s loose from Dreder’s adamantine armor. 

Dreder sat up on the table, and his eyes fell on Ti’yana. An all too familiar flush crept into his dark cheeks, and he swore. “Unholy mother of spiders, where have you been hiding my whole life?” 

Ti’yana shot him a withering look. “Drop dead, sellsword.” 

“I was working on it,” Dreder shot back. “But you stood in the way. Damn, but you’re gorgeous.” 

Rismyn moved to strike him again, but Belnir held him back. “Not worth it, remember?” 

“What’s going on in here?” 

The door to the Sunglow had opened again, and Kalos stood just over the threshold, his cold blue eyes scanning the still room. Behind him came another mercenary and Solaurin, whose gaze was fixed on Rismyn, still restrained by Belnir and Ti’yana. 

From the bar, one of the mercenaries called, “Dreder’s starting fights again.” 

Dreder tore his eyes from Ti’yana and glowered. “Hey, I was being neighborly like we were told.” 

“Quiet,” Kalos said, and his elves fell silent. He strode over to Rismyn, followed closely by Solaurin, the men separating to stand by their respective charges. 

“One hour,” Kalos said, his voice cool and unamused. “We haven’t even been here one hour.” He glared at Dreder. 

“You assured us your men would behave themselves, Kalos,” Solaurin said, straining with barely controlled anger. “If this is going to be a recurring problem, perhaps we have been too lenient in our liberties. Shall we restrain your men to your ship and the wall?” 

If Kalos was unappreciative of Solaurin’s words, he didn’t show it. He just shrugged, as he had when he’d cut down his own soldier. “Dreder is our newest recruit. He’s young and inexperienced, an affliction I am sure you can relate to.” His gaze flickered over Rismyn, and he smiled a knowing smile. “Glad to see you’re still alive, Master Tear. We made bets on how long you’d make it when you left Duthcloim. Looks like I’m still in the running.” 

Rismyn said nothing. He no longer felt on the verge of committing homicide, but he had yet to be loosed by his companions. 

“Tell you what, Solaurin,” Kalos said, his attention returning to the priest. “I’ll take care of mine if you take care of yours. I promise this won’t happen again.” 

“I expect not,” Solaurin said. “Or the consequences will be severe for everyone involved.” 

“Dreder, ship.” Kalos said, jerking his head to the door. 

“But—” Dreder began.

“Now, Ti’glath.” 

Dreder cast one last fleeting look at Ti’yana, before storming from the tavern. 

“Ithyor, make sure he makes it.” 

The mercenary who had ratted Dreder out slipped away from the bar and followed him out the door. He must have been a veteran, because he didn’t bother with complaints. 

“Now,” Kalos said, gesturing to the patrons. “Why don’t we have a round for everyone, at my expense. To apologize for ruining the atmosphere of this lovely establishment.”

The tension eased as the mercenaries cheered their leader’s magnamus offer, while the Launites sank back into their seats. Solaurin pulled Rismyn aside, freeing him from Belnir’s grasp, though Ti’yana remained with him. “We’re going home,” he said. “Do not argue with me.”

Rismyn’s teeth clicked shut, as he was preparing to do just that. 

“We will talk about this when we get there,” Solaurin continued. “Ti’yana?”

“Yes, father. I’m coming.” 

“You of all people should never have been here,” Solaurin said, his voice cutting, and Ti’yana winced.

Now that it was said, Rismyn realized it was true. The allure in her blood was powerful. What would have happened if more than just Dreder had noticed her? He’d been so concerned with Mazira’s safety he hadn’t once considered Ti’yana’s. Guilt brought his gaze to the floor.  

Mazira appeared at his side, latching onto his arm. “Are you okay?” Her eyes were bright with unshed tears. Fear, probably. Or perhaps seeing Dreder up close had triggered her memories, and his guilt became chagrin. 

But there was no one to vent his hate on. Gritting his teeth, he nodded, then followed Solaurin—and the rest of his family—home.

Disclaimer: Forsaken by Shadows is unofficial Fan Content permitted under the Fan Content Policy. Not approved/endorsed by Wizards. Portions of the materials used are property of Wizards of the Coast. ©Wizards of the Coast LLC.