Keith Francis Strohm

by Keith Francis Strohm

  The change in weather precipitated a change in mood as well. Taen felt free of the awe that had gripped him the past few days, as if the loosening of winter's grip had somehow loosened his tongue as well.

  "Why is it getting so warm?" he asked their guide.

  "Who cares," interjected Roberc as he helped his furred mount free of the leather barding that protected it. "It's just nice not to have your nose hairs freeze every time you take a breath."

  "Indeed, little friends," Borovazk replied. "It will be much better for you now. We draw near to Immil Vale. Winter's heart cannot touch it. It is blessed by the gods—a gift to my people for their strength and bravery, eh?"

  "How much further do we have to go?" Marissa asked.

  The ranger smiled at her. "Ah, my little witch," he said with obvious affection. "You grow anxious. You not worry. Borovazk know a path that will take us into vale. Two days at most."

  Taen awoke that morning feeling uneasy. Twice during the night he had been startled awake by a sound that he wasn't sure he had heard. He'd swept the area surrounding their camp during his turn at watch but had found nothing that would indicate his suspicions were well founded.

  Still, the half-elf couldn't shake the feeling that something was watching him from somewhere out on the plain. That feeling grew throughout the day as they headed west toward their destination. Taen stood in his saddle and cast his glance as far as he could—but saw nothing. Finally, he indicated his suspicions to Borovazk.

  The ranger nodded. "I feel it too," the Rashemi answered. "We are being followed."

  From then on, they all kept a careful watch. Taen noted that Cavan threw his thick muzzle into the air and sniffed suspiciously several times, while the horses seemed unusually skittish.

  The tension mounted.

  Sometime after midday, Marissa's white raven flew raucously to her outstretched arm. The druid nodded as the bird continued to caw and croon. Finally, she sent it back into the air with a flick of her arm.

  "We are being followed," she confirmed their fears. "Rusella says that there are several landwalkers keep­ing their distance behind us."

  Taen nodded at the news. At least he hadn't been imag­ining things. His heart began to beat rapidly. Whatever it was behind them, the fact that they were trailing them probably meant that they weren't friendly.

  Roberc drew Cavan even with Marissa's mount.

  "Exactly what is behind us?" Roberc asked. "How many will we need to face?"

  The druid shook her head. "I do not know," she replied. "For all of her intelligence, Rusella is simply a raven." Taen watched as she stared at the sky. "There is an easy way to find out, though," she said after a moment and dismounted abruptly from her horse. Before Taen or anyone else could gainsay her, the druid took the shape of a falcon—a bright red-gold kestrel—and launched herself into the air with wind-swift wings. She cleaved through the air like an arrow, soaring higher and higher, until Taen lost sight of her.

  The half-elf cursed. Then, quickly gathering the reins of Marissa's horse, drew close to Borovazk. The Rashemi sat thoughtfully on his stallion.

  "The little witch is powerful, yes?" asked Borovazk.

  "Yes, she is," Taen replied, unable to keep the worry out of his voice.

  "Then do not fear, little friend," the ranger said. "She will return to us and we will know what is following." Borovazk drew the curved length of his polished horn bow from its resting place across his back.

  Taen nodded but said nothing. He kept scanning the sky, waiting for some sign of Marissa's return. A few moments later, the sharp-noted screech of a hunting falcon echoed across the plain, followed by a fast-moving speck circling high in the air. The speck drew closer and closer to the ground, until it finally alit with a rustling of wings and pinions. The air shimmered and Marissa stood once more in their midst.

  "Ice trolls," she gasped, as if winded from her brief flight. "Five of them. They are heading our way fast." She grabbed the reins of her horse from Taen and swung quickly into the saddle.

  From behind him, Taen heard Borovazk say some­thing harsh in his native tongue.

  "Well, little friends," Borovazk said with a fierce grin on his face, "it looks like we have some fun today. Ice trolls must be very hungry to hunt this close to vale. They do not like the heat."

  "Can we outrun them?" Roberc asked. The halfling sat astride Cavan confidently, loosening the knot that held his red-hilted short sword in its scabbard. At the first mention of being followed, he had donned the gold-winged helm that he always wore into battle. It gleamed brilliantly in the midmorning sun.

  Borovazk grunted. "Is unlikely that we could outdis­tance them," he replied. "Melting snow, slush, and mud is slippery even for Rashemi horses. No, little friends, it looks like we must fight."

  Unlike many of those who adventured across Faerun, Taen did not enjoy warfare. The prospect of battling trolls in the hinterlands of Rashemen was not a thing to set the blood singing through his veins. Still, he rec­ognized the necessity of it—even welcomed it, if it would silence the nagging voice of doubt that whispered to him of his own failures. Protecting Marissa and his other companions from danger just might do that.

  "We should find a better place to stand our ground," he said.

  "Borovazk agrees," came the ranger's response. "Come, I know of such a place close by." With that, he kicked his stallion into a fast trot and motioned for them to follow.

  Unlike the sheer plains they had traveled across from Mulptan, the land close to the Immil Vale rolled gently up and down. The ranger led them to the top of one such slope, carefully dismounting and walking his stallion. The ground was soft and muddy, covered with the thick slush that had been their companion for the past two days.

  Taen nodded his approval as they gathered at the top of the slope. Their position gave them a good vantage point for spotting and bringing down their enemy with ranged weapons and spells, while the soft earth would slow any attack should the trolls manage to get close enough to attack.

  " 'Ware their spittle, little friends," Borovazk cautioned as he placed five dark-wooded arrows point down in the soft earth. The color of their fletching shifted from bright red to orange then back again while the ranger spoke. "It will freeze the very blood in your veins."

  Even though he and his companions had fought trolls before, Taen appreciated the advice on dealing with this "homegrown" variety. Deftly, he riffled through the various small pouches hanging from his belt, sorting and sifting through the items that he would need. When he had completed that task, he turned to Marissa.

  The druid had sent Rusella winging off into the distance and gazed out upon the plain. She had thrown back her hood, and her red hair rustled wildly around her face. Taen knew the measure of her power and knew that they had faced such threats and worse before, side by side. Still, he had been avoiding her since the night she had spoken to him about the past. He owed her an apology and much more; he wanted to do it now in case he never had the chance again.

  The half-elf gently reached out a hand and placed it on Marissa's shoulder. The green-eyed druid gazed upon Taen and smiled. His tongue felt heavy, ungainly.

  "I... I wanted to say thank you," he spoke finally, "for trying to help me the other night. You know I—"

  "I do know," she interrupted, switching to the liquid phrases of Elvish, "but don't we have more important things to worry about at the moment, Taenaran?" Her teasing tone brought a smile to his face even as the sound of his elf-given name tore at his heart.

  He wanted to reply, even started to, but Borovazk's voice boomed out across the slope.

  "They have come, little friends," the ranger shouted. "Now is time to have some fun, yes?"

  Taen gave the druid's shoulder a quick, final squeeze and turned to face their monstrous enemies, hoping against hope that he wouldn't have to draw his sword.

  Chapter 4

  The Year of the Morningstar

  (1350 DR)

  The children w
ere throwing stones again.

  Sharp-edged and round, the tiny missiles hissed through the air, biting Taenaran's skin. The young half-elf dodged as best he could, skit­tering through the lush undergrowth of the forest and cutting between the thick trunks of oak and ash trees that rose like woodland giants into the sky. Still, the stones found their target—for they were elf-thrown and true.

  Tears spilled from his eyes as he ran, warping and bending the landscape. Taenaran tripped over an outstretched tree root and tumbled to the ground. He wanted to give voice to the hurt that was welling up inside him, but he wouldn't allow the other children the satisfaction of hear­ing him wail like the voeraen, the elf toddlers who stayed close to their mothers and fathers.

  That thought nearly undid his young resolve—for he had neither blood father nor blood mother among the elves of Avaelearean, which was, he knew from past experience, the cause of today's problems. They had been playing "Hunt the Drow" in the wide forest when a few of the older children started throwing rocks at Taenaran and calling him a drider, a horrify­ing creature spoken of in whispers by the adult elves, made up of both drow and spider. It wasn't long before the others had joined in, so he ran—from the sharp bite of stones and the sharper bite of the Elvish words the children had flung at him like arcane arrows. "Round Ear." "Monkey Face." "A Tel'Quessir Bastard." These were the names that followed him wherever he went. If they weren't spoken aloud, he could see them in the eyes of the elf children, and even in the eyes of some of the adults of Avaelearean.

  With a heaving sigh, Taenaran wiped the dirt from his clothes as best he could and stood up. The other elf children were still hunting in the forest, calling out his name, and worse. For once, his human heritage helped him. Though he was younger than the others, some of whom were born almost two decades ago, the half-elf's muscles were thicker and more developed. Now they carried him away from his tormentors faster than they could follow.

  He ran for quite some time, through slanting shafts of sunlight and shallow pools of rainwater, down moss-covered deer tracks and winding switchbacks. Certain that he had left his pursuers well behind him, Taenaran stopped in the center of a wind-tossed oak grove to catch his breath. His chest felt tight, not from exertion, but from hurt and confusion and a growing anger that smoldered in his heart.

  He began to cry once more.

  Why?

  Why did they treat him this way? He was different, but all he wanted to be was like them—an elf. Why couldn't they see that? Even the elders, though not cruel like their children, treated him like a strange thing—as if he were a snowfall in summer—and they did not seem to know what to make of him.

  He was tired of it—tired of the veiled insults and the sidelong looks. After only ten seasons among the elves of Avaelearean, he knew that he would never find a place among them unless something changed—unless he accomplished something that even the most tradition-bound elder would be forced to recognize.

  It was then, beneath the rustling leaves of an elf grove, with blood from a dozen cuts trickling down his skin, that the half-elf made his first vow.

  By the time he reached the sprawling tree home of his foster father, Taenaran had locked away his tears.

  * * * *

  Music filled the elf-wrought bower, spilling wild and free like a swirling spring rainfall. Aelrindel's calloused fingers skipped and danced across the golden strings of the dark yew harp, calling forth note, phrase, and sprightly theme. The elf's eyes were closed, his sight and senses turned inward as he followed the trail of his song through his heart's twisting path. He was often like this—lost in the music. Whether he held a sword or a harp, both were weapons in his hands and gates to another realm.

  When at last the elf opened his eyes and saw his arael'vae, his heart-son, standing before him, he ended the song abruptly. Dirt and mud were caked on the lad's leggings and tunic. His shoulder-length hair clung to his head, matted with bramble-burr and mossdew. It was Taenaran's blood, however, running like red tears down the length of his shoulders and arms, which aroused a familiar rush of pity and anger in the elf's breast.

  Aelrindel placed the yew harp gently on the window-sill and prepared to go to the half-elf. For in times past, when the boy would come home ragged and crying, he would launch himself into his father's arms, seeking comfort.

  This time, though, was different.

  Something in the cast of the half-elf's eyes stopped Aelrindel's motion. He saw resolve and steel in their amber depths—and perhaps something of the adult that Taenaran would become. The elf grieved, for in that moment he knew that his relationship with his son had changed forever. Even though, Aelrindel thought, it was ever the way between fathers and sons, still he grieved.

  "Who did this, Taenaran?" was all that he said—though carefully.

  The half-elf might be only a decade old, the merest babe by the standards of the elves, but he held within him human blood and was already sprouting like a young sapling. He did not wish to wound the boy further by treating him as a complete child.

  Taenaran gazed at him, eyes red with the aftermath of tears.

  "Does it matter?" came his son's response.

  Aelrindel frowned at that but could not gainsay the youngling's words. In truth it did not matter. The elf children had always been cruel with their games where Taenaran was involved—and that likely would continue. He had spoken with the elders and parents of the com­munity, and those who felt pity or compassion for an a Tel'Quessir foundling spoke, in turn, to their young.

  Yet children were, after all is said and done, still children.

  "They will never accept me," Taenaran said, breaking through the elf's thoughts.

  Aelrindel tried to respond, tried to say that such accep­tance would come in time, but his son cut him off.

  "They will never accept me," the half-elf said in a steady voice, "unless I do something to make them accept me."

  The elder elf raised a pointed eyebrow at his son's assertion.

  "What," Aelrindel asked with true curiosity, "will you do?"

  Taenaran inhaled deeply then hesitated a moment before replying.

  "I wish to become a bladesinger like you," Taenaran said. "Like my father."

  Aelrindel stood for a moment—speechless and stunned—before pride bloomed within his heart like a lilaenril blossom in spring. Half-elf the boy may be and bastard born, yet it was he who had the shaping of him. Though wounded by the prejudice and spite of others, still the lad's roots grew strong and true. He was proud in a way that only fathers can be and thought, for just a moment, how much his decision by the side of a burning river had changed his own life.

  Taenaran gazed up at him, grave and silent, obviously waiting for his reaction. When he gave it, Aelrindel pushed down his paternal instincts and became First Hilt.

  "The Way is difficult," he intoned solemnly, "and more difficult for you than for the others." He spoke truthfully, for such a desire as his son had revealed deserved the truth.

  Taenaran's next words filled the First Hilt's spirit to bursting.

  "Still," the boy responded with reserve and dignity worthy of an elder, "I would walk that path. Will you allow me to try?"

  Aelrindel thought for a moment. The others would raise their objections—especially Faelyn. The rest of the el'tael would eventually acquiesce, for he was First Hilt. The training, however, would be challenging for Taenaran, and many would probably push him harder than the other tael in hopes that he would fail. Still, he could not deny his son this chance, so whether through wisdom or folly, discernment or pride, Aelrindel, First Hilt of the Bladesingers of Avaelearean, found himself saying "yes" to a boy's dream.

  That yes brought a shout of joy to the half-elf's lips and an end to the reservoir of bravery and pride that kept father and son distant from each other. Tears welled up in Taenaran's eyes as he launched himself into Aelrindel's outstretched arms.

  "Va," was all Aelrindel heard as his arms enfolded the sobbing ten-year-old.
r />   Father.

  Eyes closed, he listened once more to the song in his heart.

  Chapter 5

  The Year of Wild Magic

  (1372 DR)

  The ice trolls charged.

  Taen watched as they ran, stoop-shouldered, across the snow-covered ground—white on white, their gelid skin glistening sickly in the sunlight. Each of them carried a large warhammer in the wicked curve of their clawed hands. The trolls barked and hissed to each other in a guttural language that sounded to the half-elf like the terrible echoes of an avalanche.

  Around him, Taen's companions stood ready. Borovazk sighted down the shaft of an arrow, while Roberc held the haft of a golden war axe in a white-knuckled grip. The halfling's rounded shield hung steady on his other arm. Only Taen and Marissa stood weaponless—though the half-elf could see that the druid, eyes half lidded and mouth already reciting prayers to her god, was prepared to unleash the powers at her command. Cavan growled softly as the trolls closed the gap between them.

  "Just a little bit more, my friends. A little bit more," Taen heard Borovazk whisper.

  They all waited, bound by an unspoken agreement to follow the ranger's lead. Still, Taen could feel the familiar rush of energy that coursed over him when­ever battle drew near. His heart pounded, strength flowed through his limbs, and the world snapped into clear focus, as if he spent most of his life walking in a land of shadows and fog, made truly real only when the specter of death rose above him. Zaen'sheaen, the all-seeing gaze, his masters had called it—a full aware­ness of life and its dangers. He experienced it now, along with something else he had thought he'd left behind in the forests of Avaelearean. Something stirred in his heart—a faint melody, like the soft strains of a bard's lay sung in the depths of the night, when the cups are empty, the fire has spent its strength, and shadows fall long upon the corners of the hall.

  The Song.

  Taen heard it now, the heart of the bladesinger's art—heard it in a way that he rarely had studying among the elves. For a moment, he stood in wonder.