Elfsong

by Elaine Cunningham

  Lucia’s instincts proved impeccable. The minstrel took loud exception to the order and began to argue the matter with the watch captain. He turned to the dispersing crowd and ordered the people to protest such tyranny, demanding that truth be heard unhindered. It was a far better show than his songs had been, Lucia noted cynically, and the rapidly growing crowd indicated that she was not alone in this opinion.

  She watched with amusement as the minstrel leaped onto a bench, the better to vilify the presumptuous behavior of the watch and the Lords of Waterdeep. He even produced a short sword, which he brandished as a counterpoint to his expostulation. He was not sufficiently power-drunk to challenge the watch captain directly, Lucia noticed. Yet the ridiculous gesture galvanized the crowd and a few people began to pelt the watch patrol first with insults and then with goods from nearby shops. Others ran for cover, knocking over vendors’ booths and trampling merchandise underfoot.

  The guard, Waterdeep’s more heavily armed militia, arrived promptly to aid the watch patrol. The street was soon cleared of troublemakers and order restored. Lady Thione chuckled as the minstrel was dragged off by two of the guard, singing lusty protests all the while. Shopkeepers and vendors began sorting through the debris, salvaging what had not been trampled or stolen by the thieves and pickpockets who thrived even in the best-run cities.

  Lady Thione was ever one to grasp an opportunity. She slipped out of the tavern and quietly approached an elderly woman who stood weeping among her crushed and scattered flowers. Lucia commiserated with the flower vendor for a few moments and then handed her a small purse. Laying a finger to her lips, Lucia Thione slipped away. As subtly as she could, she worked her way down the street, passing out silver coins along with a subtle mixture of sympathy and sedition.

  * * * * *

  Danilo hurried toward Halambar’s Lute Shop, absently noting that the shopping district on the Street of Swords seemed rather quiet for the hour. Perhaps it was the weather. The night was cool, for a stiff sea breeze set the street lanterns swaying and flickering. Danilo’s purple finery, although well-suited to the hot, dry climate of Tethyr, left him shivering in the damp chill. He ducked into a shop that offered ready-made clothing, and purchased a traveling cloak in deep forest green, a full change of clothing, and a pair of practical leather boots. He gave the shopkeeper an extra coin and bade him burn the discarded purple garments.

  Within minutes Danilo could see the elegant townhouse he sought. Like many buildings on the street, it was three stories tall, with whitewashed plaster gleaming between thick dark beams. The large windows on either side of the door had many tiny diamond-shaped panes of leaded glass, and the door itself was constructed of thick, broad-planked oak. The brass hinges and locks on the doors and window shutters were fashioned like small harps—a bit of whimsy with a purpose: any attempt to disturb the locks triggered a powerful magical ward. The nature of this guardian was not widely known, since none of the thieves who’d challenged it had lived to discuss the details.

  As Danilo swung open the door, his arrival was announced by the gentle plinking of the door harp. He stepped in, handing his cloak to the servant who greeted him.

  The shop was a single room that took up the entire lower floor of the building. To Danilo’s right were displayed an array of instruments for sale, ranging from the justly famed lutes made by the proprietor, to the inexpensive tin whistles of the western Moonshaes. To the left of the entrance was the workshop area, where master instrument builders and apprentices fashioned and repaired the finest instruments in Waterdeep. Kriios Halambar himself was there this evening, bent over a large bass lute known as a theorbo and patiently fitting it with newly carved tuning pegs. Halambar raised heavy-lidded eyes to the door, and his thin face lit up in what Dan took to be a smile. The guildmaster gently laid the theorbo aside and rose to his feet.

  “Welcome, Lord Thann! You’ve returned to Waterdeep at last. You of course are here to register, but may we serve you in some other way?”

  Danilo blinked. He’d been in Halambar’s shop two dozen times at least, but never had he been invited to add his name to the registry of bards. Nor had he—or anyone else, for that matter—been greeted so effusively by the usually haughty guildmaster.

  “I require a new lute,” Dan said. “In my recent travels, I was forced to leave mine behind.”

  The guildmaster shook his head in silent commiseration over such a loss. “You play a seven-course lute, if I recall. I’ve one you might find suitable.” He strode to the far side of the room and took an instrument of exceptional beauty down from its hook on the wall.

  The lute was fashioned of cream-colored maple wood. An intricate rosette of inlaid rosewood, teak, and ebony surrounded the sound hole. Danilo took the instrument, stripped off his gloves, and seated himself on the stool provided. He played a few notes. The sound carried well, and the action of the strings felt about right.

  He looked up with a smile. “The tone and workmanship mark this as one of your own, Master Halambar. The sale is made, but for naming the price.”

  Halambar bowed. “For you, twelve hundred silver pieces.”

  The lute was worth that and more, but Danilo shook his head and reluctantly held the lute out to the guildmaster. “I’m afraid I haven’t that amount with me, and I need to purchase a lute tonight Have you a lesser instrument?”

  “Please don’t consider such a thing. I’d be pleased to extend credit”

  That was a first, but Dan was not inclined to debate his good fortune. He also purchased extra strings, a weatherproof leather covering for the lute, and a sheaf of tablature paper on which to scribble new songs. If the Harpers required him to play the role of a bard, Danilo supposed he ought to oblige with a few original works.

  While Halambar’s clerk tallied the purchase, Danilo strode over to the register and began to flip through the pages, with a solicitous Halambar at his heels. “Do you know the whereabouts of a riddlemaster by the name of Vartain? He was in Waterdeep when I left several months past.”

  Halambar harumphed. “Vartain has been here and gone more times than a lyre has strings. His services are prized, yet his employers tire of him quickly.”

  “Oh?”

  “Vartain has a most annoying habit,” the guildmaster explained. “It would seem that he is always right.”

  “I can see how that could become exasperating, but that is precisely what I need. If he is not available, can you recommend someone else as good?”

  “I wish I could,” Halambar replied, leafing through the book. “Riddlemasters are few these days, and fewer still can match Vartain’s skill or knowledge. Certainly, there’s none in Waterdeep right now. Perhaps you might seek out Vartain’s current employer and bid for the riddlemaster’s services. There is an excellent chance that the employer has repented of the hire and will welcome the chance to rid himself of Vartain. Ah, here is the entry.”

  A grim smile touched Halambar’s lips, and he tapped the page with one finger. “Perhaps there is justice in the world, after all. If anyone deserves Vartain, it’s this rogue!”

  Danilo glanced over the guildmaster’s shoulder and groaned. In slanted, spidery writing were the words:

  Vartain of Calimport, Riddlemaster.

  Hired this twenty-eighth day of Mirtul.

  Employer: Elaith Craulnober.

  Three

  Elaith Craulnober’s black cape flowed behind him like an angry shadow as he stalked through the village once known as Taskerleigh, a small cluster of buildings in the midst of fields and forest. The town was completely deserted, but for a few old corpses rotting in some of the houses. Strangely enough, only one building, a small cottage by the edge of the forest, showed any damage whatsoever. There was no sign of a fight, no evidence of a plague, and so far, no sign of the treasure.

  Elaith hurried to the ruined cottage and began to kick through the rubble. Behind him strolled a middle-aged man, bronze of skin and completely bald, whose slightly protruding eyes took
in the scene with an expression of detached interest The elf’s hired men, a dozen hard and tested mercenaries, muttered and made surreptitious warding signs as they wandered through the ghost town. They were careful to hide their discomfort from their elven employer, who had little tolerance for superstition and even less for cowardice.

  A glint of silver caught Elaith’s eye, and he hurled aside a fallen timber to get at the object He stooped and picked up a curling length of silver wire. His fist clenched around the wire in pure frustration.

  “It was here,” muttered the elf. For almost a year, he had searched for a rare and priceless treasure, and he had spent a small fortune tracing it to this remote village. He rose slowly to his feet and turned to face Vartain of Calimport.

  “We’re too late,” he said, showing Vartain what he had found.

  The riddlemaster nodded calmly, as if he had anticipated this turn of events. “Let us hope that does not occur again today.” He turned and walked toward the overgrown garden of a nearby farmhouse.

  Elaith gritted his teeth and followed. He recognized Vartain’s worth: the riddlemaster was brilliant and resourceful, an asset to any quest. Vartain was always thinking, watching, weighing the facts, considering and calculating the odds. When questioned, he shared his observations freely and expressed his opinions honestly, and he never seemed to be wrong about anything. In short, he was a colossal pain.

  The elf’s irritation shifted focus abruptly when he got to the garden’s wall. His amber eyes narrowed at the frivolous scene before him. Two of his highly paid men were digging at a peppergum tree with their daggers. The tree was commonly cultivated in the Northlands for its summer shade and brilliant autumn foliage, and each spring it yielded thick, pliant sap that tasted faintly of peppermint One of the malingerers, a black-bearded bear of a man named Balindar, had worked for Elaith before and should have known better than to risk his ire. It was the elf’s custom to purchase his mercenaries’ efforts with generous payment in gold, and to ensure their loyalty with cold steel.

  Elaith drew a throwing knife from his sleeve and flicked it at the tree. The blade bit deep into the soft wood, just inches from Balindar’s head. The mercenary spun about, a hand on his blade and a startled oath on his lips. His eyes widened at the sight of his employer’s cold face. He eased his hand away from his weapon and raised it slowly in a conciliatory gesture. Although more than a handsbreadth taller and a good fifty pounds heavier than the elf, Balindar was clearly not interested in fighting his employer.

  “This is your concept of treasure?” Elaith asked in tones of silky menace as he leaped nimbly over the garden wall.

  “This? A child’s treat?”

  “Wasn’t my idea,” Balindar grumbled. “The riddlemaster told Mange and me to gather peppergum sap.” The other mercenary—a whip-thin archer whose mottled blend of naked scalp and short-cropped brown fuzz gave birth to his apt nickname—bobbed his head in nervous agreement.

  His temper near to burning, Elaith rounded on the man behind him. Vartain had just finished his laborious climb over the garden wall. He stood eyeing the distant hills, his hands resting on his paunch in a meditative pose. Something about the man’s bulging black eyes, large hooked nose, and bald pate reminded Elaith of a buzzard. Vartain looked over, as if drawn by the heat of the elf’s glare.

  “The terrain about a league to the northwest suggests the presence of caves,” Vartain said mildly, pointing toward the rock-strewn hills beyond the village. “Considering the proximity of potential lairs, prudence demands that we have earplugs available.”

  Elaith stared at the riddlemaster for a moment, waiting for the man to come to the point. Vartain, however, seldom explained what seemed obvious to him unless he was asked direct, specific questions. It was the riddlemaster’s custom to put forth a fact or two, then allow others the opportunity to work their way to the logical conclusion. The elf was in no mood to appreciate such generosity, and in three quick strides he had the riddlemaster by the throat

  “Save your games for Lady Raventree’s parties,” Elaith hissed from between clenched teeth. He gave the man a sharp shake. “A straight answer. Now!”

  Vartain gurgled and pointed a finger toward the hills in the northwest Elaith glanced, and immediately released the riddlemaster’s throat.

  On the horizon, several winged, gray creatures were emerging from a rocky outcrop. The avian beasts rose into the sky with the distinctive looping flight of vultures, but the elf’s sharp eyes noted the human torsos and the hair streaming behind the heads. They were harpies, monsters whose song was a magical weapon that could charm a listener into immobility, allowing the evil beasts leisure for torture and feasting.

  “Harpies attacking from the north!” the elf shouted. “Men, to me!”

  The men bolted toward the garden. Vartain had already appropriated the sap Balindar had collected and was rolling it into small cylinders. Elaith snatched Mange’s dagger, scraped off a bit of sap and pressed some into each of his ears. He passed the dagger to Balindar, the group’s best fighter. There would not be enough for everyone.

  As it happened, time ran out before the sap did. When the first note of the harpies’ song reached the men, four of them simply froze. Four living statues faced Vartain with entreating hands, threatening snarls, and terror-filled eyes. Then, despite his ear protection, Elaith caught the unearthly song and could spare the men no more thought.

  The broken stone wall was as good a line of defense as any. Elaith plucked his bow from its place on his shoulder, gesturing for his men to arm themselves as well. He drew six arrows from his quiver—he’d be lucky to get off that many—and then dropped to one knee. The elf nocked the first arrow and waited for the creatures to come within range.

  Despite his many adventures and his fearsome reputation as a fighter, Elaith felt uneasy as he watched the approach of the avian horrors. There was a bitter, metallic taste in his mouth. With a touch of surprise, he identified it as fear. The outcome of this battle was by no means certain, and the elf was flooded with momentary panic at the thought of dying before he found the treasure he’d sought for so long. He patted the ancient sword at his hip, as if to remind himself what was at stake in this battle.

  Swiftly the harpies approached, and the sight of them sent a shudder through the row of waiting archers. A dozen of them, Elaith noted, against the ten men left unaffected by the spell. The odds were by no means favorable, and the men eyed their foes with naked dread.

  The monsters’ wings and lower bodies were those of enormous vultures, and the talons on their feet flexed in cruel anticipation. From the waist up, the creatures resembled gray-skinned women with youthful bodies and the faces of hideous hags. Thick, gray hair writhed in tangled ropes around each harpy’s face, and their fang-filled mouths strained and contorted as they sang their enticing, wordless song.

  As soon as the lead harpy came into range, Elaith loosed his arrow. The silver-tipped shaft streaked toward the monster, piercing it through the shoulder and tearing into its wing. Feathers flew, and the creature shrieked as it spiraled to the ground. The wounded harpy landed hard but was on its feet immediately, one wiry arm dripping blood and the other brandishing a bone club. Foul odor roiled off the creature as it rushed with a birdlike, hopping gait toward Elaith. Again the elf shot, and this time the arrow buried itself below the harpy’s breast. The beast collapsed with a hiss, flopping about for several moments before conceding to death.

  The sight of the fallen harpy drove the other monsters into a frenzy, for they realized that most of their prey was immune to the musical charm. They waved clenched fists and tore at their wild hair, and the tempo of their deadly song began to quicken. Down they came, singing all the while, their talons spread wide as they swooped toward the fighters. The men got off a single volley of arrows before the harpies closed in. Ignoring the men who’d already succumbed to their song, the harpies fell upon those still fighting.

  Like an owl closing on a rabbit, one of the
monsters dove toward a half-orc mercenary. The half-orc ducked, but not before the harpy’s wicked talons raked his back, scoring it deeply across the shoulders. Almost immediately a second harpy plummeted into the wounded mercenary, and the impact sent them both tumbling to the ground. The half-ore’s massive hands instinctively closed around his assailant, an instant before the poison from the first harpy’s talons took effect. The captured harpy writhed and shrieked as it struggled to break free, but it was securely pinned under the mercenary. Trapped and furious, the harpy bared its fangs and ripped open the half-orc’s throat.

  Roaring an oath to his god of vengeance, a Northman sell-sword thrust his blade through his dead comrade and into the harpy’s chest. The creature’s struggles slowed, and black blood oozed from the corners of its hideous mouth. Satisfied that he’d finished the harpy, the Northman leaned down to tug his sword free. The dying harpy spat in his face.

  The Northman stumbled back, screaming with pain and clawing at his blinded eyes with both hands. Within seconds, he, too, was immobilized.

  Meanwhile, another harpy swooped down at the riddlemaster. Vartain dropped to the ground and rolled aside with surprising agility. The harpy missed its target and landed a few feet away. Wings arched, it lurched toward Vartain with outstretched, grasping hands.

  The riddlemaster put a hollow wooden pipe to his lips and blew. A dart flew toward the harpy’s face. The beast let out a shrilling cry and pawed at its cheek, leaving its feathered belly unprotected. Elaith stepped in and delivered a vicious backhanded slash with his sword. The harpy crashed to the ground with a spray of gore and feathers.