by Ed Greenwood
This possibility had never occurred to Elaith. He had felt neither doubt nor fear as he’d unsheathed the sword, although he well knew that many had failed an attempt to claim a moonblade. Most of these unfortunates had been struck dead by the swords, but if an elf were the last in a family line, the hereditary blade would merely fall dormant. To safeguard the potent artifacts from misuse, the original crafters had endowed the swords with the ability to discern character and motivation. The moonblade apparently sensed something about me, Elaith noted with deep bitterness, some flaw that I have yet to discover for myself.
“Your mother uses gray squirrels for currency!”
The cryptic remark, spoken in loud and badly accented Elvish, shattered Elaith’s reverie. He spun about on the barstool to face the man who had spoken.
“Are you addressing me?” Elaith asked politely, speaking the widely used trade language referred to as Common.
A nasty grin split the man’s bearded face. “I knowed it! The elf ain’t deaf, just too good to speak when spoke to.”
Belatedly, it occurred to Elaith what the human had been trying to say. The man had delivered a mangled version of an insult, of the sort elven children tossed at each other in fits of pique. More amused than insulted, Elaith studied the human with open curiosity.
The man stood a hand’s span over six feet, and he appeared fit and heavily muscled. He wore a uniform of sorts-black leather armor that sported an elaborately tooled crest on the shoulder. Curly brown hair rioted over his shoulders and spilled into an abundant beard, and his face was twisted into a leer of challenge. One meaty hand rested on the grip of a dagger, and his booted feet were planted wide. Yet his bravado was marred by a pair of red-rimmed eyes. The scent of cheap whiskey rolled off him in pungent waves.
Elaith was not tempted by the challenge. Even if the drunken soldier had possessed the full measure of his wits, there were strict rules against dueling someone of lesser rank. “I will not fight you,” Elaith said in a calm voice. “It would not be-” He broke off abruptly, for the word honorable no longer seemed to apply to him.
The man sneered, mistaking Elaith’s hesitation for cowardice. “You’ll fight if I say you will.” He kicked the barstool out from under the elf.
Elaith saw the move coming and leapt lightly to his feet. The stool upended with a clatter that echoed through the suddenly silent taproom, and patrons seated by the bar quickly remembered urgent business at the far side of the tavern. The elf was not pleased to be the focus of attention.
He resolved to end the matter swiftly.
With a theatrical flourish, the huge drunk pulled his dagger and lunged. Elaith stepped to the left and seized the man’s thick wrist with both hands. A slight twist brought the man to his knees. The elf slammed the back of the beefy hand onto the barstool, locking his opponent’s arm in an extended position. Then Elaith lifted one booted foot and stomped on the elbow. Bone gave way with a cruel splinter. The man fainted away without uttering a single cry.
Silence reigned in the tavern for only a moment. Another, even larger man stepped forward, clad in the same black leather armor. He nodded at his fallen fellow. “That’s my brother,” he growled.
Elaith folded his arms. “My condolences,” he said wryly. “Since none of us can choose our kin, I shall not hold this misfortune against you.”
“We can choose our friends, though, and you ain’t one of mine.” The mercenary reached over his shoulder and drew a broadsword from the sheath on his back. Chairs scraped across the floor as the patrons cleared an impromptu arena in the middle of the taproom with an alacrity that suggested such fights were far from uncommon. The barkeep glanced up, then went back to polishing the pewter mugs.
“Borodin,” the man said firmly. “Remember it. That’s the name of the man who’s gonna kill you.” He raised his weapon in challenge.
Elaith reached for his sword, but hesitated when his fingers touched the lifeless moonstone. Borodin marked this hesitation with a derisive snort.
Something snapped within the elf’s heart.
Stooping, Elaith pulled the sword from the fallen man’s belt. The weapon needed a good oiling and sharpening, for the sword was blunt and the edge visibly pitted. Elaith studied it for a moment, then pointedly raised an eyebrow and met his opponent’s glare.
“This should do,” he said. His tone conveyed utter contempt for both the weapon and his challenger.
Borodin swung his sword high for a sweeping cut. The blade hissed downward as he lunged. Instead of the satisfying clash of steel on steel, though, the fighter heard a dull thud as his sword cut a leg from an upended bar stool. An instant later he plowed heavily into the bar. Mugs scattered with a mocking clatter.
The elf was simply not there. Elaith had danced aside with uncommon grace and speed. For good measure, he smacked Borodin’s backside with the flat of his borrowed blade. Guffaws echoed throughout the tavern.
Borodin whirled and delivered a backhanded slash. Elaith parried the blow easily, but he was startled and jarred by the power of the attack. He could not match the man’s size or strength, but the elf had the advantage of technique and speed.
With practiced grace, Elaith spun his blade outward in a lightning-fast circle, flinging Borodin’s sword arm wide. In the same movement, he pulled a dagger from his belt and stepped in close. The point of the dagger bit into Borodin’s throat, and cold amber eyes promised death. Then, with a deft, downward flick, Elaith slashed open the leather lacings on the man’s jerkin. He leapt back, tucking the dagger into its sheath, and in a gesture of utter contempt, he lowered his sword arm to his side and beckoned for Borodin to attack.
“Ten coppers on the elf!” shouted a gravel-voiced sailor. Other patrons joined in, making wages and laying odds.
The man advanced, his bearded face crimson but set in determination. With his initial rage spent, he fell back into a more disciplined fighting style. At one time, Elaith noted as he parried the blows, the man had been well trained. By the elf’s standards, however, Borodin possessed neither finesse nor imagination. Elaith easily anticipated and met every strike.
By honor and custom, he should have ended the matter at once, for his opponent was clearly outmatched. Yet Elaith continued, openly taunting the man with his superior skill. The elf was driven by a cold anger he’d never known he possessed, an icy temper than numbed the pain in his own heart. For the first time since he’d left Evermeet, Elaith could put aside his sense of disgrace and failure. With cruel humor and stunning swordcraft, he played the fight out for the amusement and delight of the rough patrons.
As the minutes ticked by, Borodin’s mighty sword arm slowed and his breathing grew labored and raspy. Finally he could take no more. He fell to his knees, and then his forehead met the floor with a resounding thud. Several of his mates came forward and pulled him to his feet. They staggered out into the night with their burden, running a gauntlet of mockery.
A roar of approval and laughter engulfed the tavern, and Elaith found himself in the center of a back-slapping throng. A plump, red-bearded man, also wearing the tooled leather uniform, offered to buy the victorious elf a drink. “After all,” he said as he dangled a small leather purse in front of Elaith’s face, “you won the money for me! The name’s Rix, by the by.”
The friendly overture struck Elaith as odd behavior indeed, but he accepted the offer and followed the man to the far end of the bar. At Rix’s signal, the barkeep handed them each a tall, narrow glass filled with a thin liquid as golden as honey.
“What is this?”
“Firewine.” The soldier winked and slurped at his drink. “Bottoms up!”
Elaith took an experimental sip. The pale liqueur had none of the subtlety or complexity of elven spirits, but it was nearly as powerful. He drained the glass with dark pleasure; the firewine filled his mouth with a dry, bitter heat. His new companion gaped, then guffawed.
“Never trust a man-or an elf-until you’ve seen him fight and drink,” Rix s
aid cheerfully. “And on both counts, you’re surely not to be trusted!”
He craned his neck and shouted at a knot of black-clad fighters near the tavern door. “Xander! Sign up this elf! Tonight, mind you, or the whole lot of us will quit!”
One of the men broke from the group and made his way toward the bar. With a mixture of puzzlement and deep interest, Elaith watched his approach. Xander was a man of middle years, in the prime of his strength. He was slender and tall, with skin the color of polished teak, wavy black hair plaited into a single long braid, and mocking black eyes. He walked with sinuous grace, but Elaith noted a military bearing and air of command. The elf could recognize a leader in any guise, and he rose to his feet in an instinctive gesture of respect.
Xander studied the young elflord for a long moment. “A good recommendation, Rix. Tell Malcolm to give you twice the usual finder’s fee, by my command. Now, off with you. I need to speak with our new recruit.”
The red-bearded mercenary picked up his glass and strolled off, grinning broadly. Xander took the seat Rix had vacated and gestured for Elaith to resume the one beside it. The bewildered elf sank onto the barstool. “You wish me to join your regiment?”
“Regiment? Oh, that’s priceless!” Xander’s white teeth flashed in a smile of genuine amusement. He took a gleaming black pipe from a bag at his belt and pressed a bit of tobacco into the bowl. The barkeep at once held out a lighted brand, his manner clearly deferential. Xander puffed for a moment, then leaned casually against the bar. “I’m the leader of a mercenary band. Treasure hunters.”
Elaith nodded slowly. By all reports, the humans of Waterdeep were like so many dragons, hoarding useless wealth and measuring their success by the height and luster of the pile. That had always seemed strange to Elaith. A life of acquisition was entirely foreign to the values that had hitherto ordered his life. As he considered the matter now, however, the wonderful simplicity in this system appealed to him. “You should have killed Borodin, you know,” Xander observed.
Elaith stared. That was the last piece of advice he would have expected, even from this amazing man.
“Although your performance was amusing and your swordsmanship most impressive, you’ve made yourself an enemy. That was totally unnecessary. As a rule, you ought to eliminate enemies as they occur, not create them and let them linger to trouble you again later.”
“I am unfamiliar with such… rules.”
“They’re easy enough to learn. Just do whatever needs doing to get rich and stay alive in the process. Above all, look out for your own interests.” Xander took a long draw, then blew a wreath of clove-scented smoke at the elf. “You could do quite well for yourself if you cast your lot in with the Claw.”
“You would have me? I disabled two of your men!”
“That you did.” The mercenary captain considered Elaith for a time, sipping thoughtfully at his pipe. “With your skills, I can replace two men with one elf-and pocket another share of the treasure myself.”
Elaith paused to ponder the unfamiliar logic. ‘Treasure,” he repeated, more to buy time than to signify interest.
“Big treasure. Ever heard of Erlunn?”
“Of course.” Erlunn had been one of the great centers of elven culture in the Northlands. The elves had long since retreated, and their civilization had been swallowed by the ancient wood known as the High Forest.
Xander pulled a metal tube from his belt and removed a small roll of parchment. He spread it out and tapped at a spot near the river known as the Unicorn Run.
“Rumor has it that, centuries back, the elves buried their dead and all their wealth among the roots of oak trees. Your good friend Borodin-” Xander paused and tossed his head toward the tavern door “-found a stand of ancient oaks surrounding a circle of stones. When he pulled the moss off the foot of the stones, he found these markings. We copied them here on the map, and later paid a priest of Lathander to translate them.”
Xander traced the runes scrawled along the bottom of the parchment. “According to this, Borodin found a burial site.”
Tomb robbing, the elf thought with a touch of horror. His dismay must had shown on his face, for Xander lifted one black eyebrow in inquiry.
Elaith’s thoughts whirled. The life Xander offered him was as far from the peace and discipline of Evermeet as anything the elf could imagine. No traditions, no rules but expediency, no goals but power and wealth. The elf nodded slowly as the new mode of thinking began to take root in his mind.
“Borodin’s an even bigger fool than I took him for. Your hired priest was not much better. These are runes of protection,” Elaith said, tapping the curving symbols. “The standing stones and the oak trees are guardians. The actual grave sites would be much deeper in the forest.”
“You could find the true site?” Xander asked.
“It might be that I can,” the elf said tentatively. “But if I am to join your ranks, I must know more about the life you lead.”
“What’s to know? Just do what you’re told and don’t spend much time wondering why.”
Elaith recoiled, for the mercenary’s advice was an uncanny echo of words Amnestria had spoken at their final meeting. The life that Elaith had lived on Evermeet felt as distant as a forgotten dream, but it seemed that some things remained the same. As Amnestria had so perceptively noted, he could do whatever was expected of him, and do it better than anyone else.
Elaith leaned back in his chair and returned Xander’s steady, cynical gaze. “If I am to replace two men, I expect to receive two full shares of the treasure.”
An approving smile split the mercenary’s dark face. He gestured to the barkeep, who produced two new glasses of firewine. Xander lifted his glass to the eh” in a silent salute. Elaith raised his own glass and tapped it against his new employer’s, in a manner he had seen among the fighters. A toast, they called it, a ritual used to seal a pact.
The elf drained the firewine in one long draught. As the golden liquid seared his throat, Elaith willed it to burn away his past, as well.
Many years passed, and Elaith seldom thought about Evermeet or pondered how vastly his life had changed since he’d left. He could not help but do so now as he faced the two women seated in his lavish study. One was his daughter; the other should have been.
Elaith studied Azariah, his blade-heir and only child. The proper elfmaiden sat with downcast eyes. Her golden hands were demurely folded in her lap. She had been raised on Evermeet as a ward of the royal court, and was everything Elaith once had been. This was her first visit to Waterdeep, and her confrontation with her father’s dark reputation had visibly shaken her. Although Azariah tried to hide it, she was also daunted by Arilyn Moonblade, the half-elven woman beside her.
Arilyn waited calmly for Elaith to speak, all the while regarding him with Amnestria’s gold-flecked blue eyes. He had known the half-elf for years, and had observed her with a mixture of admiration and longing. Arilyn was a fierce, stubborn woman who had made her mother’s moonblade her own. She had inherited Amnestria’s beauty and spirit, and a certain wisdom that the elven princess had once tried to share with Elaith. It was this that prompted Elaith to entrust his daughter’s training to her.
He had endured much to restore the magic to the family’s moonblade. Azariah’s heritage, her success, was more important to Elaith than his next breath. Yet as he studied the beautiful elven maiden and reflected on all the qualities she embodied, he realized that there was not so much difference between his old life and his new. Granted, he had amassed tremendous wealth and a well-earned reputation for treachery and cruel humor. He was feared and envied for his success as a treasure-hunting mercenary, and for the unofficial power he wielded in Waterdeep. Yet the changes were more a matter of style than substance. He did what was expected of him, acted in ways defined by his chosen role. And as Amnestria had noted that afternoon on Evermeet, he did it better than anyone.
Elaith no longer wondered why his moonblade had rejected him, those many
years ago.
The elf handed Arilyn a tightly rolled scroll. ‘This is a history of the Craulnober moonblade-its wielders, its magic. This is what Azariah must know. Teach her the necessary skills, make sure she understands the rules.”
Elaith paused, and his amber eyes held the sadness that comes in wisdom’s shadow. “Make sure she learns the rules,” he repeated softly, “and then, above all, teach her to question them.”
The Meaning Of Lore
Barb Hendee
The corridors of Twilight Hall dawned cold and quiet that morning Dealing with freezing temperatures, even in early fall, was a common annoyance that every citizen of Berdusk adjusted to quickly “Colder than a Berduskan attic in winter,” was a phrase familiar throughout the Heartlands.
Chane Troiban drew his floor-length wool cloak a bit tighter around his neck, picked up a small canvas bag for his journey, and slipped out into the long stone hallway He hoped to reach the courtyard before anyone noticed him.
“Master Chane! Master Chane, please wait,” an irritating voice called from nowhere.
Master Chane. How hollow those words sounded to his ears. To be such a talented priest of Oghma among a score of inferior loremasters was to be less than nothing To be a perfect rose obscured by a vast bundle of red carnations meant oblivion Clutching his bag, fingers twisting in a hidden expression of frustration, he turned and smiled.
“Yes, Triska, you needn’t shout I am here “
Running toward him up the stone corridor, panting with lost breath, came Triska, the pudgy apprentice of Master Minstrelwish Roles of flesh jiggled beneath the young man’s burlap robe, making him appear even more ridiculous than usual. “Please-” he paused and gasped for breath “-the others have been waiting. You must help screen two new applicants for the guard. Have you forgotten?”
“Forgotten?” Chane’s smile melted into a bland look of brotherly patience. He pulled his hood back, exposing a mass of burnished red-gold hair and a smooth, narrow face. He knew well that his handsome features made most of the apprentices feel inferior. “Of course not, but I have been called away to Rysheos for diplomatic reasons. I sent a message to Narshanna. Did she not receive it?”