by Mel Odom
He felt the staff in his hands, but his hands were curiously numb, the familiar grain of the wood hard to touch. He concentrated against the thickness in his mind as the roaring wind pushed against him.
“Where—where was the last place you saw me?”
“Tell me,” she entreated.
“It was in Thar,” Pacys said. “We’d both heard through our respective sources of the archeological dig going on there by Fannt Golsway. He’d been hired by Thusk Tharmuil to investigate stories of the ogre empire that had been there before Beldoran killed the creatures out a hundred years before.”
“I remember,” Ardynn said.
“In those days, Golsway was at his apex,” Pacys went on, warming to the bones of the story. “He actively pursued knowledge and legend, finding out where the two met and where they parted.”
“Yes.” Her hand was only inches from his face.
“We both went there, hoping for a song or a tale, thriving on the same adventure that drove Golsway. He was a tight-mouthed man, but when he was ready to tell you of things, he held nothing back and had much to give. I’ve got a dozen and more songs and tales that I’ve woven from his experiences.”
“I remember.” She smiled more broadly.
“Golsway found his legend to be half true,” Pacys said. “I got the song of his discoveries, and you, dear sweet Ardynn, you died.”
He knocked her hand away with the staff, certain that he’d just saved his own life. The thing that called itself Ardynn drew back, her eyes narrowing in hatred and anger.
Pacys marshaled his strength against the thickness trying to fill his mind. Gradually, he pushed it away, allowing him to remember other things. He found the spell he sought and got himself ready to use it.
“You died when we were attacked by an orc horde drawn by Golsway’s success, as were we. I tried to save you, but I couldn’t. I prepared your grave myself, carrying you to the top of the coldest mountain I could find … where predators wouldn’t find you, and I buried you.”
“It was a bad dream,” Ardynn said.
“No, you’re only a memory, stolen from my mind,” Pacys said in a harsh voice. “I buried the real Ardynn high on that mountain with my own hands. It took me eight days to leave her side, to find the strength inside myself to go. I’d been three days without water. It was winter and all the streams at the top of the mountain were frozen and snow-covered. I was the only one to come down from that mountain.”
Ardynn lashed at him with her arm.
Pacys blocked with the staff and unleashed the magical energy pent up inside him. Over the years, he’d developed an ability toward things magical in nature and had added to his cache of skills.
Ardynn’s image melted away, leaving the bulk of an aboleth. Twenty feet long and resembling an overfed trout with its bulbous head and fluked tail, the creature was blue-green with gray splotches. Four ten foot tentacles grew from its head. One of them was coiled up in pain, but the other three flicked out toward the bard.
Fool, the aboleth called out in its mind speech. Your reflexes have only afforded you a small respite. I will have you, and once having you, I’ll add your thoughts and memories to those I’ve already ingested.
Pacys blocked the stabbing tentacles as they whipped toward him. Water slopped over the pilings again, almost toppling him from his feet. He completed his spell and felt the tingle run through his body as it took effect. Once he was certain the spell had worked, he stepped to the side, noticing the way his feet still splashed through the pools of water spread across Dock Street.
The aboleth used its tentacles to turn itself. The slitted purple-red eyes stacked one atop the other on its big head slid in their orbits as they searched for him. The tentacles flailed out for him, missing by inches.
Being able to turn himself invisible over the years had proven both entertaining and a good defensive strategy. The old bard twisted the staff again, baring the hidden blades. He breathed like a blacksmith’s bellows pump, and the brine stung the back of his throat. As always, anything that bothered his throat concerned him. If his voice was damaged in any way, his career was over.
Pacys the bard, the aboleth called out, I know you’re still here. I can feel you, feel your thoughts in my mind.
What good does it do you, O rancid beast? Pacys asked without speaking. He moved quietly and quickly, circling around behind the large fish. Carefully, he avoided any pools of water. His foe was intelligent enough to pick up the signs of an invisible person’s passage even if it couldn’t see him.
I’ll find you, the aboleth threatened. I’m much smarter than you.
Who’s brought you here? Pacys continued circling, gaining ground on the large creature as it pulled itself about with its tentacles.
The promise of a feast.
The sahuagin?
No. Another. The aboleth made a contented belch with its gills. I’ve already eaten three humans this night. By morning I’ll know what they were, who they were, and in the days that follow, I’ll assimilate all.
The thought chilled Pacys. The fact that aboleth were capable of absorbing the knowledge of those they’d eaten was known to him. Not all of that knowledge was useful to the aboleth. They lived beneath the water and couldn’t do the manual labor of a human. Tentacles didn’t replace hands. The old bard knew that the creatures maintained humans as slaves as well. He’d heard the stories of those few who had escaped.
You, old bard, would be a pearl to cherish, to be shown and to be coveted among my people. Even from the brief mind touch I made with you, I know you’ve lived a long time and know much. The aboleth continued turning. I also know what you’re afraid of. You’re old, Pacys, and you haven’t many years left. The song you’re searching for will never happen, unless, after I eat your brain, I compose it myself. I could offer you that immortality you seek so desperately.
Cold, hard laughter hammered Pacys’s mind. He took a fresh grip on his staff, prepared his spell, and leaped to the creature’s back.
The aboleth bucked at once when it felt him land on its side. Slime and muck covered its scaly skin. Pacys worked hard to pull himself up into position. Thankfully, the four tentacles streaking toward him all at the same time behind the creature’s head got in each other’s way. He raised the staff and plunged it down into the aboleth’s topmost eye, planting it deep.
Immediately, the aboleth mind screamed in pain. It flopped, pushing itself up on two of its tentacles while two more flailed for the embedded staff. One of them seized it and pulled.
Holding tight and staying low, Pacys hung onto the wooden shaft of the staff and got to his feet. He leaped from the aboleth and readied himself for the coming fall, keeping his body loose. He pointed a forefinger at the embedded staff and unleashed the mystical energy he’d summoned.
A jagged lightning bolt jetted only a few inches from his fingertips and lanced into the staff. Drawn by the metal under the staff’s outer wooden surface, the electrical charge ripped down into the aboleth’s brain, sundering it in a fiery explosion of sparks. It died screaming.
Even prepared and skilled as he was, Pacys hit Dock Street’s cobblestones hard. The impact knocked the wind from his lungs and, from experience, he thought he felt a rib crack. He rolled as best he could and pushed himself to his feet, saying a quick prayer to Oghma with his thanks. He recovered his staff from the torn and charred aboleth’s corpse, breathing shallowly through the stench of it.
Gazing out into the harbor, he noticed that some of the surviving ships and Waterdhavian Guard rakers had managed to gather in a small flotilla. Flaming arrows sped from the ships’ decks but the distance was too great for Pacys to know if they were hitting their targets. Still, it was a good sign they were able to assemble.
Though the ships out in the harbor numbered perhaps a third of what they had in the beginning, the number of griffon riders continued to grow as more of the aerial garrisons flew in. More of the air corps seemed to be wizards or joined by wizards. Sp
ells flew through the air, sizzling, sparkling, and flaming, seeking down through the storm-tossed waves to their targets.
Hurting and unable to draw a full breath with the damaged rib, Pacys trotted toward the gathering of watch and guard at the Order of Shipwrights’ guild hall. Many of the men carried torches, and the bard guessed it was because the sahuagin’s natural fear of that element. As he saw them standing there, though, the song returned to his head. He sought for the words, putting the pain out of his mind, shelving it with the fatigue he’d feel later.
“Halt!” a guard warned, stepping out from the crowd in front of the guild hall. He raised a crossbow to his shoulder and peered over it. “Who goes there?”
Pacys raised his hands high over his head, holding onto the staff. He scanned the young soldier’s face with a poet’s eye, noting the fear and the disbelief, the pain and the courage that fired the soldier’s eyes. They were the untroubled blue of a calm sea, the color of true sapphire, and Pacys knew they would never again view the world the same way. Soot stained the young man’s tanned face, and dark blood from a cut along his temple wept down his cheek.
“I am Pacys, a bard.”
A grizzled sergeant stepped from the pack of Waterdhavian defenders, pressing his hand gently against the young man’s crossbow. “Take that thing off him, Carthir. That man’s no enemy. Did you see what he did to that damned aboleth?”
“No sir,” the young man replied. “Things haven’t looked the way they were supposed to at all tonight.” He lagged a little in removing the crossbow’s threat.
“Stay back,” the sergeant told Pacys. He was a short, blocky man with gray in his hair and beard. From the markings on his uniform and the scars that showed on his hands, arms, and face, the bard knew the sergeant was a career soldier. He’d already seen his share of hard times, but the night’s battle was leaving its mark on him as well. His left hand was swathed in blood-stained bandages. “Only the Watch and Guard are allowed past this point.”
“I understand,” Pacys said. “How bad are things around the rest of the city?”
“Damned sea devils have attacked all along the coastline of the city,” a junior civilar said, brushing burned hair from his shoulders. His right eye had swelled shut, or maybe it was gone entirely and he was standing there by a miracle of will. “Not as much as they have the harbor—everything here is more at sea level—but they’ve been there all the same.”
“Will the city stand?” Pacys asked.
A crowd that had gathered along the sidewalks and streets just past the line the watch and guard had made pulled closer, and several men took up the same question the bard had asked. In seconds, the question became a cry that swelled until it echoed over the crash of the incoming waves and the storm.
The sergeant growled out an affirmative. Pacys saw rather than heard the man reply. He’d learned to read lips a long time ago. None of the crowd heard the answer, and the bard didn’t know if the man felt comfortable enough to make the announcement in a louder voice.
The crowd came forward, no longer held back by the authority the uniforms brought with them. “Tell us!” a spokesman cried out. “Will Waterdeep stand?”
“Get back! Get back!” a senior civilar ordered, pushing at his own men to clear a circle ten feet across. Almost immediately, an azure star dawned in the circle five feet above the cobblestones in front of the guild hall.
Pacys turned and stared at the star, captivated by the color and the way it appeared out of nowhere. The azure star exploded suddenly, blossoming out to fill the ragged ten foot circle. The powerful flash temporarily blinded all who were watching, and the booming crackle of thunder that followed it quieted the fearful cries and questions of the townspeople.
When the azure starlight died back, a silhouette of a man on horseback took shape in the circle. As Pacys’s vision returned, he recognized the man on the huge white horse.
Even ahorse, the man looked tall and heavily muscled in his upper body and legs. Full plate armor covered him, primarily a silver that gleamed in the moonlight and reflected the burning fires and torches around him, but the black and gold colors of the watch and guard striped it as well. A white tabard with his family crest covered his chest and he carried his helm under one arm. His face was strong and square and solemn. Gray touched his temples but his youth and vigor were evident. A shield covered his left arm as he reined in the stamping war-horse.
After a moment, he raked his fierce gaze over the enlisted men and civilians. “I am Piergeiron!” he roared in a loud voice that echoed from the buildings and over the water. “Called Paladinson and Known Lord of Waterdeep.” He drew his great sword Halcyon and held it aloft so it gleamed. “As long as I can fight, this city will remain standing and be free!” He lifted the sword, and as if in answer, a salvo of flaming rock seared across the sky from Castle Waterdeep’s catapults. They splashed down in the harbor around the bloodworms and dragon turtles, the biggest targets immediately available.
A frenzy ripped through the crowd of soldiers and townspeople alike. Pacys wasn’t immune to it himself, feeling lifted immediately by the presence of the Waterdhavian lord.
The war-horse Dreadnought stamped restlessly, causing its full plate barding to ring. Piergeiron kept the animal under control. “I came here tonight to take the battle to those who dare raise arms against this, our city, our home! Now who stands with me?”
A triumphant cheer sounded around the guild hall and must have carried down Dock Street. In seconds, men down at Ship Street picked up the rallying cheer as well. Piergeiron Paladinson’s name quickly became a battle cry.
The big man clamped his helm on his head and put spurs to his horse as his men cleared the way to Dock Street. Dreadnought reared as lightning split the sky asunder, casting livid purple light over the silver armor of man and horse. Then he was off, and the crowd of soldiers and townspeople followed in his wake, an army raised where only fearful men had stood before.
Gasping and in pain, Pacys followed. His nimble mind pushed and pulled at words, jerking them into the order and cadence he wanted, smithing them into his song, polishing the ones that felt right. He knew Piergeiron had chosen his means of appearance, and the salvo of catapult loads that had followed. If they lived, if Waterdeep survived, Oghma be merciful and just, but what a song the bard would have to leave as his legacy.
XVII
12 Mirtul, the Year of the Gauntlet
“Live, that you may serve,” Jherek said in frustration. “Madame Iitaar, I don’t understand.”
He sat at her table, finishing up the meal she’d prepared. As she’d promised, the venison stew was thick and hearty, filled with vegetables cut up fresh from the garden she and the household cook maintained.
Located in the front of the house, the dining room looked seaward. The ships in the harbor were visible from the height up Widow’s Hill. Jherek knew which one was Butterfly even from this distance, and he caught himself looking wistfully at the ship more than he was comfortable with.
As with the rest of the house, the dining room kept mementos of its mistress’s long and involved life. Jherek only knew a few of the stories behind the many objects that lined the shelves or occupied wall space. Madame Iitaar rarely talked about them, and he wasn’t ill-mannered enough to ask. The table was round, hand-carved by her late husband from a great tree he’d felled. That same tree had also given him the lumber he’d needed to build the eight chairs for the table, her bed, and her bedroom suite. All of those, Jherek knew, had been wedding gifts he’d made for her before they married.
Madame Iitaar looked at him from where she sat at the head of the table. “Jherek, there’s a reason for you being here.”
“In your house?” the young sailor asked bitterly, thinking of his traveling kit packed outside. He felt good again, thanks to the healing potion and the hot meal. “That seems to have come to an end tonight.”
She shook her head. “No. We’ve been through a lot together these past years.
This will not break us. As long as I have a home, you’ll have a home. That I swear to you on my husband’s grave.”
That, Jherek knew, was her firmest promise, and there was no arguing with it. “What am I supposed to do?”
“Live,” she answered simply, “which is why I’ve arranged to send you on Breezerunner tonight. You must take it to Baldur’s Gate. The vision I’ve had recently indicates that you’ll find more of your destiny there. That ship is new to these waters, so no one aboard her will know you. Possibly they’ve heard of you while they’ve been in port, but they don’t know you by sight.”
“Running off in the middle of the night isn’t being the kind of man I want to be,” Jherek said stubbornly.
“You go so that you may see more clearly,” the woman said. “That’s something about you I’ve seen in my dreams of late. In order to grow, you must first leave Velen.”
Her words struck a chord within the young sailor, and he remembered the dream of the mermaid in the clam. She had said something along the same lines, but with that memory came the image of the great shark, and that left him feeling cold.
“How many challengers do you think you’ll find in Velen when the cock crows on the morrow?” Malorrie demanded. As usual, the phantom leaned against the window overlooking the harbor, his arms crossed over his chest.
Jherek paused, knowing Malorrie was right. “I don’t know.” He used a knife to cut a hunk off the bread loaf on the wooden platter in the middle of the table, then used the bread to sop up the soup from his bowl. He guessed the incredible hunger he felt was one of the side-effects of the potion.
“Well, boy, there’ll be plenty of them, I can assure you.”
“I could fight.”
“And be killed, perhaps,” the phantom agreed. He looked at Jherek sternly. “I know that’s unfair to say, but who’s to say you’ll only face one foe, or that they’ll come at you where you can see them?” He shook his head. “Perhaps you’ll kill one of those boys you’ve grown up with since you’ve been here. Would that be better?”