Elfsong

by Elaine Cunningham

  Then the largest reeds began to sound. A deep, resonant call rang out over the marsh in macabre counterpoint to the lilting dance tune. Despite his rising fear, Danilo listened to the marsh music as objectively as he could. The sound was very like that of an enormous hunting horn.

  “A call to battle,” Wyn said softly, echoing Danilo’s disconcerting thoughts.

  Elaith wrapped his reins around the pommel of the saddle and readied his bow. “What are we fighting?”

  “I don’t know,” Wyn replied in a tense voice. “Something new, perhaps.”

  The organ’s music stopped abruptly. A grim silence hung over the marsh, broken only by the gentle pop of bubbles rising to the surface of the water. Vartain pointed to bubbles on both sides of the causeway. “Whatever they are, they’re all around us,” he observed.

  That observation was too much for Cleddish, and his long gray braid whipped from side to side as he frantically tracked the marsh for the unseen musicians. His dappled gray horse sensed the rider’s rising panic, and it shied and pitched. At that, Cleddish snapped. Dropping his sword into the marsh, he flung both arms around his horse’s neck. This increased the horse’s panic and it reared. Its hoofs came too close to the causeway’s edge. Stone gave way, and horse and rider tumbled backward into the marsh. The horse found its feet quickly and scrambled back onto the path, its eyes wild and white-rimmed. Cleddish thrashed about in the shallow water, shrieking hysterically.

  “Pull him out!” Danilo called to those closest the fallen man.

  Morgalla leaped from her mount and snatched her spear from its holder. Grasping it near the jester’s-head top, the dwarf held the other end out to the hysterical mercenary and planted her booted feet wide. “Grab ahold,” she hollered, but Cleddish was apparently past hearing or reason.

  Then the source of his panic became apparent Green hands rose out of the weeds and water, closing around the frantic mercenary’s throat Danilo caught sight of long fingers ending in bulbous tips before Cleddish was pulled under. The water churned madly for several moments. Morgalla flipped her staff around and bared the spear’s tip, dancing back and forth as she tried to decide where to stab.

  “Ride on,” Elaith commanded softly. “Stay as far away from the causeway’s edge as possible. Maybe the creatures are like wolves, only attacking those who weaken and fall away from the herd.”

  Morgalla spun on her heel. “Yer gonna leave him?” she demanded.

  “Yes,” the elf said curtly. “And quickly, before whatever ate him decides to seek a second course.”

  As if on cue, a large green head broke the surface of the water several yards from where Cleddish had disappeared. The creature had the bulging yellow eyes and broad mouth of a frog, but as it rose from the water its body appeared to be roughly shaped like a man’s. Its jowls suddenly bulged outward like those of a giant bullfrog, but with one difference: three long green appendages hung from the lower part of its giant air sack. A shrill, droning sound began to issue from the creature, an unmistakable call to battle that struck Dan as hideously similar to the skirl of bagpipes.

  More of the creatures rose from the marsh in response to the summons, and the droning became a battle chorus. Elaith and his mercenaries fired again and again, but the agile frogs took cover under the surface of the water and few of the arrows found their marks. The frog creatures closed in, slowly and from all sides.

  One of the pipers threw back his green arm and hurled a sharpened reed like a javelin. The rigid shaft sank deep into the flank of Balindar’s horse. The animal screamed and reared, sending the huge mercenary into the marsh.

  Again green hands reached out for their prey, but this time Morgalla was ready. She stabbed the creature through the wrist, then gave her spear a vicious tug back and up, pulling the frog creature partly onto the causeway. With its unharmed hand, it gripped her ankle, and its jowls bulged for another sort of attack: it shrieked. If a hurricane had been forced through a bagpipe, the sound could hardly have been less painful. Morgalla froze, her face contorted with agony.

  Two streaks of silver flashed toward the dwarf. Elaith’s first knife ripped into the creature’s air chamber, and the shrieking collapsed into a flatulent gurgle. The second knife pierced the creature’s wrist, pinning it to the causeway and freeing Morgalla. She danced back, yanking her spear out of the monstrous frog. Snatching the hand-axe from her belt, she struck deep between its yellow eyes. Morgalla yanked Elaith’s knife free and kicked the dead monster back into the water. Still twitching, it sank, leaving a spreading pool of dark ichor. She nodded her thanks toward the elf, but he had turned aside, sword drawn in preparation for the next attack. Beside Morgalla, Balindar crawled onto the causeway, his shoulders heaving as he rid himself of the brackish water.

  “They’re not close enough,” Wyn murmured as he clutched his lyre, his golden face creased with worry.

  Danilo shot an incredulous look at the elf. In that moment of distraction, one of the creatures leaped onto the path and grabbed Danilo’s ankle. The dwarf was at his side in an instant, and again her axe flashed. The giant frog bellowed and jumped back, clutching its severed and dripping stump. Danilo drew his long sword and slashed the creature’s throat Three more frogs climbed over the body of their fallen brother, and the hideous creatures began to swarm onto the causeway from both sides.

  “Close enough for you now?” Danilo shouted at Wyn as he slashed at the closest frog.

  The gold elf was beyond hearing. He strummed his lyre, singing in a voice as high and clear as a woman’s, but unmistakably masculine. The elf’s countertenor voice soared above the sounds of battle and the ghastly drone of amphibian pipes. Looking as calm as if he performed for friends in his own chambers, Wyn sang a gentle, lyric tune. The words were in the elven tongue, but a sense of peace filled Danilo’s heart even as he continued to fight. Only once had Danilo heard such music: after the battle in Evereska, an elven priest had healed the Harper’s seared hand with a song. He felt now the same power, the same awe, and the same humility before a beauty he could not begin to imitate or understand.

  Wyn’s music seemed to surround the elf and his horse in an invisible, protective sphere, and any frog who came near him fell back. Gradually the area of calm expanded, and the deadly frogs dropped their reed weapons. They ceased their raucous battle-skirl, as if the better to hear the elven song. Finally the pipers retreated into the marsh, sinking low in the water until all that could be seen of them was their bulging eyes. Still singing, Wyn began to ride forward along the causeway.

  The others fell in behind him, and as they rode through the deepening twilight their path was brightened by the light of dozens of unblinking yellow eyes.

  * * * * *

  As vast and mysterious as Waterdeep might seem to a visitor, the city possessed layers of history and intrigue that were beyond the imagination of most of its citizens. Beneath the city’s streets and buildings was a network of secret tunnels and passages that defied efforts at mapping or exploration. Even deeper were the mines of a long-dead dwarven nation, and beneath that, it was rumored, lay the cavernous lairs and abandoned hoards of dragons. There were also stories of tunnels into other planes, but most considered these tales best left untold. Waterdeep was well run despite its secrets, or, perhaps, because of them.

  One of the most secure of these secret tunnels ran between Piergeiron’s Palace and Blackstaff Tower. Deeply troubled, Khelben Arunsun made his way back through it toward his tower home, trying without success to bring to mind an image of Larissa Neathal’s beautiful face, as it once had been.

  Mirt had found the courtesan in her home, barely alive and battered almost past recognition. Rarely had Khelben seen the former mercenary weep. Now, having seen Larissa, Khelben felt near tears himself. She had been taken to the palace as soon as the physicians felt it was safe to move her, and there she remained under the best care—and the best protection—the city could offer. Healing potions and clerical prayers seemed to have eased her
suffering, but nothing could touch her deathlike slumber. She had been too badly hurt, and in too many ways, for such methods to prevail. His friend’s life was truly in the hands of the gods, and for all his power, the archmage was helpless to intervene.

  Khelben climbed the stairs to his tower. The door was flung open at his approach, and Laeral stood at the top of the stairs. She was dressed as usual in a clinging, seductive gown, and her luxuriant silvery hair spilled over her bared shoulders. For once, though, her face lacked merriness, and her dimples were nowhere in evidence.

  “How does Larissa?” she asked. Even through her concern, her voice was sultry as a summer breeze.

  “She sleeps,” Khelben muttered. “That is the best that can be said.”

  Laeral held out her arms, offering what comfort she could. For a long moment the powerful wizards clung to each other. Khelben drew back first, smoothing his lady’s silver hair and giving her a small, grateful smile.

  “A message came from the Lady of Berdusk while you were gone,” Laeral said quietly, producing a small scrying globe from the folds of her gown. Such devices required powerful magic, and were used by the Harpers and their allies only in time of immediate need. “Asper has been captured by a band of brigands. They demand ransom, and will take it only from her father’s hand.”

  Khelben drew in a long, steadying breath. Asper was a fighter currently working near Baldur’s Gate as a caravan guard. She was a tiny young woman, pert and dark and merry, but none the less deadly for her happy nature. She was also the adopted daughter and the heart’s-blood of his friend Mirt. Although Mirt was a retired mercenary who could still provide a respectable fight, he was getting on in years. Khelben feared what this news would do to his friend, coining as it did so close to Larissa’s tragedy. Still, he must be told.

  “I’ll let Mirt know at once,” he said.

  “I’ll come with you,” Laeral offered, but the archmage shook his head.

  “No, it’s better that someone remain here in case there’s more word on Asper. I was planning to meet Mirt at the tavern, anyway”

  “Ah. I’d forgotten it was the Like-Minded Lords’ night out,” Laeral said with a tiny smile. These six Lords of Waterdeep met regularly, sometimes to plan strategies and share information, but often just to enjoy their friendship.

  Again the archmage descended the stairs into the city-beneath-a-city, this time taking a tunnel that led toward the Yawning Portal, the tavern owned by his friend Durnan. Khelben quickly made his way through a labyrinth of doors and passages and ladders that led him into the secret back room of the tavern.

  The gathering of Lords was small and somber tonight. Mirt, Durnan, and Kitten were waiting behind untouched mugs. Brian the Swordmaster arrived on Khelben’s heels.

  The archmage broke the news. Mirt listened in silence, then nodded and rose to him feet

  “Well, I’m off, then,” he said simply.

  Durnan grasped his friend’s plump wrist. “Give me an hour to see to the tavern, lad. A lot of years have been washed downstream, but I’d be proud to ride with you again.”

  The retired mercenary shook his head, declining the offer of his friend and former comrade-in-arms. “Stay, Durnan, and see you to the city. There are too few of us left.” With those words, Mirt disappeared down the ladder with an agility astonishing for a man of his size and years.

  Mirt’s words seemed to echo in the room. “He’s right, you know,” Kitten pointed out “First Larissa. Now Mirt is called away. Texter is off riding again, and only the gods know where Sammer is.” She took a swig of her ale and grimaced. “Though they can hold their peace as far as that one’s concerned.”

  Durnan nodded in agreement The traveling merchant Sammereza Salphontis brought valuable information from the surrounding kingdoms, but he was not well liked by his fellow Lords.

  “Got more bad news,” Brian said. “During the past ten-day, I’ve got near to thirty orders for scimitars.”

  “So business is good,” Kitten observed, examining her formidable manicure. Although she usually appeared in public looking as tousled and unlaced as if she’d just risen from her bed—or, more to the point, someone else’s—this evening she was as elegantly coifed and gowned as any Waterdhavian noblewoman. “What’s your point?”

  The Swordmaster produced a small curved knife from his leather pouch and slapped it down on the table in front of her. “Ever seen one of these?”

  Kitten picked it up and examined it, frowning in puzzlement at the dozens of tiny marks carved into the blade. “Looks like someone’s keeping score on this thing.”

  “That’s precisely right,” Khelben said, taking the knife from her hands, his face set in tight, grim lines. “Southern assassins often use such knives. The more marks, the more illustrious the career. How did you get this, Brian?”

  The man shrugged. “Got me a new apprentice. The boy needed work. He can’t swing a hammer worth a tin coin just yet, but he can pick pockets quicker’n a halfling. The man he lifted this off ordered six of those scimitars.”

  “Which are favored weapons in the southern lands,” Khelben added wearily. “So we may have an influx of southern assassins. Someone should tell Piergeiron at once; he’s the usual target”

  Kitten chugged the rest of her ale, then rose to her feet with a rustle of brocade and lace. “I’ll go; I dressed for the palace, since I planned to look in on Larissa.” She disappeared through one of the room’s four doors.

  “That’s it for tonight, then,” the archmage said, rising from his chair.

  “Before you go, Khelben, there’s something you ought to hear,” Durnan said. The innkeeper opened the door that led into the tavern’s storeroom. Khelben and Brian exchanged puzzled glances, but followed him. They made their way past barrels and neatly stacked crates to the taproom. Durnan cracked open the door and beckoned the men closer.

  “I say it be truth!” argued one drunken voice from beyond the door.

  “Nay, how could it? That’d make the wizard more long-lived than a dragon,” countered a second man.

  “It’s true, all right,” stated a petulant female voice, “and Danilo ought to know. He’s kin to Khelben, and he loves family history. He tells the most amusingly ribald story, don’t you know, about his great aunt Clarinda Thann—”

  “Shut up, Myrna.” Galinda Raventree’s distinctive husky voice was unusually sharp as she silenced her rival. “Khelben is always chastising Dan for those cute, harmless little spells, and this song is just Dan’s way of tweaking the old man’s beard.”

  “Well said, miss,” agreed a rumbling voice with a touch of Cormyrian burr. “The young bard tells a good story, I’ll grant you, but the song is nothing more or less than that.”

  “Let’s have it again!” demanded another.

  The sounds of a lute stilled the debate, and after a few rippling notes a woman began to sing in a deep, raw voice that was uniquely seductive and feminine. Khelben recognized the dark voice as that of the Masked Minstrel, a mysterious woman who wandered the Castle Ward, often giving open-air concerts in Jester’s Court of a nice summer’s eve. Her name and origin were matters of heated speculation in the city: she was variously thought to be a mad noblewoman, a Zhentish spy, or a Harper agent. Whatever else she might be, her song left no doubt in Khelben’s mind that she had succumbed to the curse upon the bards.

  “In the Year of the Tomb a magical flight

  Took the sage to a land where the shadows held sway.

  And the Malaugrym, armed with their shapeshifting might

  Followed him back to the light of the day.

  The Harpers gathered to force the beasts back,

  Using magic, and steel, and a staff strong and black.”

  Durnan probed Khelben’s ribs with an elbow. “They say your nephew wrote that song, but I can’t believe it of the lad. It has a lot to say about you, and Elminster as well, and it puts you both back some two hundred years. Who would do such a thing?”

 
“I wish I knew,” Khelben muttered, gesturing for silence so that he might hear the words. The verses that followed were not reassuring. The song was indeed based on one of Danilo’s, and the incident it referred to was the Harpstar Wars, a dark time that had occurred more that two centuries past Khelben had seen to it that Danilo was versed in Harper history and lore, but the song Danilo had written was no more than veiled allegory; the words of this ballad went on to describe the battles, name many of the Harpers who’d fallen in the war, and warn of the continuing threat offered by the few shapeshifting Malaugrym that survived. Whoever had changed the words might well have been there, Khelben noted with a growing sense of dread.

  The archmage searched his memory for the names of the Harpers who had survived those times, and those who might still live. Perhaps one survivor of that long-ago war had turned away from the Harpers’ path, becoming so twisted that he or she outlived death as a lich. That would explain much, for an extremely powerful undead wizard might be able to command a spell that could change the minds and memories of the bards.

  The ballad raised another concern as well. Khelben had done all he reasonably could to suppress the ballad about Laeral’s misadventure with an evil artifact, but the song was everywhere, spreading speculation and distrust. There were many other things in Khelben’s life that were best left untold, yet someone seemed determined to air them. Although Khelben’s parentage was a matter of record and his genealogy open to all who cared to inquire, his history had in fact been borrowed from another. Few knew his true age, or the secrets of his past, or the extent of his power. In truth, Khelben controlled the affairs of Waterdeep much less than he was capable of doing, but few would believe this if all his secrets came to light.