by Mel Odom
Looking further out into the harbor, Pacys looked across the burning husks of ships in the docks. Sailors ran the decks with buckets of wet sand and water, but Pacys knew it would never be enough to save them all. Mystical lightning lit up the savage sky, streaking down from on high to targets in the water below. The electrical display looked at home in the whirling storm.
“Oghma damn all sahuagin for their black hearts and insatiable, hellish appetites,” Hroman cursed. He pulled his team up short, causing them to whinny in protest. They reared and bucked in their traces, eyes rolling white.
“It isn’t only the sahuagin,” Pacys said in disbelief. He watched the heads of huge creatures breaking the water of the harbor and identified only a few of them. Never had he seen so many of them gathered in one place. “There’s something very wrong here. The sahuagin alone could never bring all these creatures together.”
A flaming catapult load from Castle Waterdeep flared through the night sky and burst against a giant turtle’s shell. The huge carapace shattered and the dying creature sank beneath the water. The giant turtle had pushed its way through the temporary structures that had been built over the waters of Smuggler’s Dock to celebrate Fair Seas Festival, leaving only carnage in its wake.
Griffon riders patrolled the sky armed with bows and arrows. Only a few had thought to arm themselves with pitch-pots to fire their arrows. The Waterdhavian air corps proved merciless in their attack, swooping out over the harbor as well as the dock area to track down their quarry. When a flaming arrow embedded in a sahuagin, the sea devil dropped at once, torn by painful convulsions.
A cog with its prow burned nearly to the waterline finally gave up its struggle to remain afloat. The ship went down with several hands aboard. None of them had a chance to make it back to shore. A savagery of sharks lay in wait below the water. The storm-tossed waters roiled even more when the marine predators attacked the men.
Hroman bellowed at his priests, urging them into the battle. He was as quick thinking as his father, Pacys noted, listening to how the younger man broke the priests off into groups, charging each with taking control of the other wagon loads of priests arriving from the Font of Knowledge. Some were told to aid in fighting, while others were commanded to set up communication lines and medical treatment centers.
A cold chill ran through the bard as he watched the priests. Pacys knew it would be too little too late. Corpses of the Waterdhavian Watch and Guard members littered Dock Street as far as the eye could see. Mixed in with them were sahuagin, aboleths, mermen, sea horses, men who were trapped in near-rat bodies or near-wolf bodies with flippers instead of hands, marine trolls, and even the twenty foot mottled green body of a giant bloodworm stretched halfway out of the harbor water. Pacys didn’t know if the heaving waves had thrown the worm ashore or if it had followed its prey there.
He left Hroman’s side as the priest led his people into battle. The bard took his own path through the world as he’d always done, even though doing that had taken him so far from the lands he’d known and the people he’d loved.
Waterdeep was a favorite place, filled with precious memories and merchants who’d had deep pockets for a bard who could sing or tell a tale properly. He grew more afraid that even should the city withstand the current aggression, it would never be the same again.
The yarting hung down over his back, and he carried the staff in his right hand. Pacys made for the pilings lining the docking berths. Fleetswake had drawn ships from all over Faerûn. With the light given off by the burning ships, he spotted the different flags easily. From the way it looked in the harbor at the moment, they’d all come to lose their ships and cargo, maybe even their very lives.
Another wave crashed over the pilings, throwing water across the old bard’s robes. Half a body came with it, thudding heavily onto the wet cobblestone street. The upper torso of a man rolled drunkenly on the street with the water splashed out away from it. The dead man lay facedown, his left arm ending in splintered bone where his hand and forearm had been.
Despite the roaring wind that followed the lashing waves in, Pacys heard another sound. Music echoed in his head, harsh, unforgiving notes that spoke of pain and confusion, of an evil darkness that wanted only to consume. It was the most hurtful and fearful thing he’d ever heard.
Drenched as he was, standing at the edge of the harbor where so many still fought for their lives, the old bard opened himself up to the music, memorizing it note by note. Even though he kept his eyes open, his vision blanked out before him and the slap of running feet against wet cobblestones around him muted to silence. Acrid wood smoke from the burning ships still singed his nose and burned his lungs. He ignored the irritation, marking the notes, choosing the pitch of the voice that would accompany it.
The words, Oghma help him, the words came so easily to his lips.
“O City of Splendors who stands so steep,
Taken by a black-hearted horde from the deep.
Sahuagin fangs, sahuagin jaws,
Shark-kin,
Wedded to darkest evil with power so old.
Black storm-tossed waters, yellow fire that gnaws,
Thought lost to the world of men,
Tempered to anger that burns so cold.
He comes, riding on a black wave,
Looking for a world to enslave.”
Moonlight splintered through Pacys’s vision, drawing him away from the intoxicating music. He wanted to scream in frustration, knowing he’d been so close to the song, then he spotted the marine scrag crawling over the pilings in front of him.
The trollkin snarled its rage as its dark eyes locked with the bard’s. It heaved itself from the splash of the waves overtaking Dock Street and landed on its wide, webbed feet. Seaweed colored hair hung limply to the broad, sloping shoulders. Green scales made up the thick skin that covered it, and the smell it exuded almost made Pacys gag. It hurled itself at the bard in a rush, without warning. A handful of claws cut the air toward the old man’s face.
XV
12 Mirtul, the Year of the Gauntlet
“Open your mouth and drink,” Madame Iitaar commanded. “Drink if you would live.”
Jherek opened his mouth automatically, obeying the woman. He wanted to tell her there was no way he could drink; he couldn’t breathe. He wanted to tell her that he didn’t want to live. She was kicking him out of her home. Why would she care?
He tasted the minty flavor of the special healing potion that she brewed in her home roll across his tongue. She’d used it before, to cure a fever that had nearly claimed his life after he’d moved in with her six years ago, and again to heal his broken leg. Some of the pain filling his head vanished as the potion worked its magic, spreading out through him in warm vibrations.
“Swallow,” Madame Iitaar instructed.
Jherek held the potion in his mouth. Even as it cleared his thoughts and took the pain from his head, he knew it wouldn’t remove the ache in his heart. It was better to be dead, he decided. Still, he was surprised how much of him wanted to live. It took every bit of control he could muster not to swallow the healing potion even with the rising blood gorging his throat.
“Jherek,” Madame Iitaar said, sounding more concerned, “I’m no priest to work a heal spell with nothing but my hands. You have to swallow if I’m to save you.” She stroked his throat, the way she’d done when he was twelve, lying abed so sick and scared.
He wanted to tell her there was no fear of death for him now. Leaving was the best thing, and it would be so easy. His vision dimmed.
She shook him. “Jherek.”
Then the voice thundered in his head. Live, that you may serve! The time is near!
Stunned by the proclamation, Jherek swallowed the potion. He tried to speak, to ask more, but couldn’t. The elixir ran down into his stomach, gathering speed like the falling wave of an incoming tide until it crashed inside him, then spread throughout his body like water coming down off a snowcap, filling in every crack and
crevice. He felt like his body was on fire, burning to a cinder. His muscles writhed against each other, and the torn ones in his chest knitted, leaving only a curious itch.
He drew in a hoarse breath, filling his mended lungs. As he breathed, shamed by what he’d thought and what he’d wanted to do in spite of Madame Iitaar’s efforts, he opened his eyes.
She stood in front of him, her face as angry as he’d ever seen. “What did you think you were doing?” she asked.
Jherek couldn’t have answered if he’d wanted to. He couldn’t even meet her eye. He looked out across the yard beyond the porch.
“Answer me, Jherek,” she ordered, “and look at me when you do.”
Reluctantly, he swiveled his gaze toward her. “I was thinking,” he said in a halting voice choked with his pain, “that perhaps it would be easier if I died. I didn’t think that it mattered, as long as I left this house.”
“Is that what you think? That I’m chasing you from this house?” Madame Iitaar lifted her gaze to meet Malorrie’s. “Didn’t you talk to him?”
“Lady,” the phantom said, “when I found the boy, he already had the quarrel in him and he was bleeding to death. There was no time to explain things.”
Her face softened further. “So the first thing you saw when you reached this house,” she said, “your house, were your things packed on that table?”
Jherek didn’t answer. He didn’t know what to say. The shock of the voice speaking to him twice over such a short time, losing his employment on Butterfly, finding his things packed, and being so close to death had left him empty-headed.
“Come inside,” she said more gently. She took him by the arm, guiding him with the surprising strength she’d always had. “I’ve got a kettle of stew on. We need to talk, and you need to catch Breezerunner before she sets sail. There’s not much time and you must hurry.”
XVI
30 Ches, the Year of the Gauntlet
Pacys ducked beneath the marine scrag’s open-taloned blow, scuttling out of the way with a quickness learned over decades fighting for his life. His muscles and bones were no longer those of a young man, but he knew how to use what he had, and it didn’t take much to kill, not if a man knew where to strike.
His feet moved across the soaked cobblestones as surely as an acrobat’s or a dancer’s. He stood again as the scrag’s talons whisked by his head. Folding his staff under his arm and taking a fresh grip on it, he lifted the iron-shod pole and swept the opposite end into the scrag’s head with all his strength.
The iron cap at the end of the staff rang against the scrag’s head. Mottled green skin split and ichor oozed out, streaking the creature’s face.
The scrag grunted in pain, staggered only a little by the blow. It turned quickly, ripping the other hand across at Pacys’s stomach.
The old bard reversed his staff and speared it down toward the cobblestones at his feet. He had it braced by the time the scrag’s blow came and used it to block the talons away from his body. The end of the staff braced against the cobblestones skidded only a little from the impact, but the blow missed him. Then he was in motion again, stepping back and to the scrag’s left. The creature snarled in frustration and anger. It reached for the bard, trying to get hold of him.
As his attacker stepped forward, Pacys lifted his staff between the scrag’s legs, tangling them. The creature fell, yowling in surprise, and landed on the cobblestones three yards away. It recovered quickly, pushing itself to its feet. The blood that had splattered its face made it look even more menacing.
Breathing faster than he knew he would have been in his younger years, Pacys twisted the middle of the staff. Foot-long steel blades suddenly flared from the ends of the bard’s weapon and locked into place.
The scrag saw the blade too late. Before it had taken three steps, it impaled itself on the staff.
Knowing that trolls in general were hard to kill without fire or acid, Pacys used the leverage afforded by the staff. He planted the other staff blade against the cobblestones and prayed the steel was tempered strong enough to hold. Using the power of the scrag’s charge and his own strength, the bard flipped the ten foot tall creature over, throwing it onto one of the nearby burning boats still tied up at the dock.
When the scrag hit the blazing ship, its skin popped and crackled, turning black immediately and splitting open to reveal the red meat below. The creature died before it could scramble off the ship into the water.
Breathing hard, Pacys scanned the nearby water again, looking for further enemies. He twisted the staff once more and withdrew the hidden blades. Mist whipped in from the storm brewing out in the harbor, making him narrow his eyes. He reached for the song, hoping that more of it was there for him.
Some words came to mind as he attempted to describe what was happening, but they were disjointed fragments of the song he’d been weaving together. The battle for the harbor continued. Savvy sea captains mustered their crews and managed to repel some of the boarders. A dragon turtle breathed out steam and burned a griffon and its rider from the sky. The blackened corpses tumbled into the dark water, then the turtle in turn was attacked by a group of mermen mounted on sea horses. The mermen darted at the huge creature, throwing javelins into it. When the turtle had enough, it dived underwater, but the mermen didn’t give up the chase and dived on their mounts as well.
A woman’s shriek drew the bard’s attention. He whipped his head back to look toward the Mermaid’s Arms. The festhall had become a bloodbath as sahuagin fought with the patrons. A mass of other fights still filled the street and intersection in front of the festhall. Pacys couldn’t help wondering about how many would die before morning.
He drank in all the sights, feeling guilty at being so greedy to see all the carnage. He knew there were other bards in the city, and he knew they’d all have their tales to tell of the battle for Waterdeep Harbor. Realization of that made a small kernel of doubt grow inside him. A wave of heat washed over him from the burning ships at the nearby docks, pushed by the howling winds blowing across the harbor from the Sea of Swords. The stench of brine, tainted with smoke, interspersed with blood, filled the air.
Knowing he could go no further down Dock Street, Pacys turned and went back the other way, back toward Asteril’s Way. He saw the guild hall of the Order of Master Shipwrights and noticed the large group of Waterdhavian Guard that had gathered there. Evidently someone had decided to use the two-story guild hall as a staging area.
Pacys ran hard, feeling the familiar aches and twinges start in his knees, and the shortness of breath that plagued him these days. He didn’t give in to the infirmity.
Another wave broke over the top of the pilings to his left and cut his feet out from under him. He got to his feet with effort, hacking and coughing as he tried to clear the brine from his lungs.
A loud smack sounded behind him, too loud to be anything human sized. Remembering the dead giant worm he’d seen, the bard turned and stared behind him, raising the staff to defend himself. He thought he had a momentary glimpse of a twenty foot long fish that started pulling itself along by four tentacles, but he saw instantly that his mind must have been playing tricks on him.
Ardynn stood before him, her brunette hair falling past her shoulders in a wavy mass of curls. She stood as tall as him, but had the full glow of a womanly body scarcely concealed by the white gossamer pantaloons she wore over a crimson body suit that left her arms and legs bare. Gold bracelets adorned her wrists and ankles, and the small ruby he’d given her all those years ago dangled from the fine gold chains wrapping her forehead. Her teeth were clean, white, and even. The barest trace of cinnamon scent clung to her as she came closer.
“Have you forgotten me so soon, young minstrel?” she asked in that mocking way she had.
“No.” Pacys answered. There was no way he could forget her. The memory of when the bard had arrived at Maskyr’s Eye had inspired a number of songs he’d written in his youth and later disguised for presentation
in his travels. He’d been seventeen at the time, already tired of the life of farmer and horse breeder, and she’d awakened in him the wanderlust that followed him throughout his life.
Ardynn had been then as she was now, just as beauteous, and her voice sounding like elf-made honey. She’d sung at the Wizard’s Hand, one of the finest inns in all the Vast. At the time, she’d been four years older than he was. She’d come to see the village because she’d heard of it and had never been there. When she’d left three days later, Pacys had gone with her despite his father’s wishes. He could count on the fingers of one hand how many times he’d returned to the village in the decades since.
“Come kiss me, fool,” she said. She lifted her arms out to him.
More than anything, Pacys wanted to go to her, but he didn’t. He’d traveled with Ardynn for two years, learning the craft of the bard first, then learning of love, from her. At the end of two years, she’d left him. Ardynn had never been one to be tied down or responsible for too long. For Pacys, there’d been other teachers, other lovers, as he knew there had been with her. His heart, however, refused to feel the pull of any other as much as it did Ardynn.
The bard steeled himself, gathering his wits. The clamor of battle still echoed around him, but it sounded far away, in another place. It was hard to think, and somewhere in the back of his mind he knew there was a reason for that. “Where—” His voice locked up on him. “Do you love me?” He knew that hadn’t been the question he’d meant to ask.
She laughed at him and the sound reminded him of sunlit waters trembling through a pebble bed on a distant and early morn. “Of course I love you,” she answered. “I could love no other. If you won’t come to me, I’ll come to you.” She walked toward him.