Elfsong

by Elaine Cunningham

  Balindar pulled Morgalla to her feet The single-minded dwarf brushed him aside and charged after the cricket She grabbed her spear and jerked it free, and with a second quick movement she plunged it into the cricket’s eye. Using the spear like a lever, she flung herself forward. Under the force of her assault, the hard shell gave way with a sickening crack. Morgalla leaped back, wiping a splash of gore from her face as the cricket toppled over onto its side. It twitched a few more times, then finally lay still.

  As soon as the immediate danger was past, Danilo dropped the moonblade and turned to Elaith, his hands raised in a gesture of surrender. The moon elf took no notice. His face was set in a mask of fury, and he sprang silently at the Harper.

  Danilo dropped to the ground and rolled left, hearing as he did the swish of a dagger dangerously close to his right ear. He leaped to his feet and drew his own sword, crouching in a defensive stance. Elaith was already up, the dagger in one hand and a long silver dirk in the other.

  Wyn Ashgrove stepped between the fighters. Although nearly a half foot shorter than either Dan or Elaith, the slight elf had a commanding mien that neither could ignore. The fighters involuntarily lowered their weapons.

  “In what way, Lord Craulnober, has this human defiled the elven sword?” he demanded, his cool green eyes fixed upon the angry moon elf. “Were not the moonblades forged for great deeds? The Harper saved a life, perhaps all our lives. If his task was unworthy, even a dormant sword would have struck him down. Do not judge where the moonblade did not, for in doing so you dishonor the sword.” The unspoken words more than you have already hung in the air.

  Elaith sheathed his weapons and picked up the ancient blade. Without a word, he turned and strode from the camp into the blighted forest

  “You’ll fight that one yet,” Morgalla observed. She wrenched her spear free of the monster and came to stand at Danilo’s side. “I owe you, bard.”

  “Repay me, then, by letting me fight him alone when the time comes.”

  The Harper’s voice was quiet and uncharacteristically grim, and the dwarf nodded once in understanding. With a deep sigh, Danilo turned back to the pile.

  They dug until all the men had been recovered. Orcsarmor was not found in time, and several other mercenaries—whose names Danilo had never learned—had been slain and partially eaten by the giant cricket After the survivors laid the men in shallow graves, Wyn went in search of the runaway hermit, and the others bathed in the cold, deep waters of the creek.

  Following a cursory dip in the stream, Vartain pulled the scroll out of his leather pouch and resumed his study. Danilo came out of the creek dripping and chilly. He discarded his wet tunic and began to remove dry clothing from his magic bag. The others watched agape as he took from the bag a fine linen shirt, a dark green tabard, leggings, linens, and stockings, even a spare pair of boots. The Harper looked up and noted his audience.

  “It’s a bag of holding,” he commented, and continued to rummage. “An especially roomy one. You wouldn’t believe all the stuff that’s in here. I’ve got something that should suit you, Morgalla, at least until Wyn gets back with your pony and your travel bag. It’s fortunate that you folks had readied the horses and supplies before the sorceress struck. Ah, here it is.”

  Danilo drew forth a loose shirt of pale green silk. “This is hardly the gown I would have chosen for you, but it should serve for the time. Here’s a scarf, too, and a gold clasp with a rather nice cluster of peridots—”

  “Fancy stuff like this don’t hold up to the road,” Morgalla pointed out, but she took the luxurious garments and headed for the privacy of a cluster of rocks.

  The Harper dressed quickly and passed out what articles of clothing he thought might fit the others. Mange looked almost a gentleman in a fine shirt and leggings, with his patchwork scalp covered by a rakish bandanna. Balindar teased his friend unmercifully, and Mange’s self-conscious grin sat oddly on his weathered and battle-scarred face. The riddlemaster, however, absently waved away Danilo’s offer of a fresh tunic.

  “The next of the barding colleges is in Waterdeep. I know of no such site,” Vartain said, looking up at last

  “The school was called Ollamn. There is no barding college now, but as you know most people involved in the bardic arts register at Halambar’s Lute Shop. Halambar is the master of the musicians’ guild, and this practice gives local and visiting bards a service once provided by the college. What will happen in Waterdeep?”

  “According to the riddle, a lord will fall on the field of triumph, on a day that is not a day.”

  Morgalla emerged from the rock cluster, clad in green silk. The shirt hung past her knees, and she’d girded it at the waist with the sash and the gold and peridot pin. With her damp, unbraided auburn hair curling about her face and her feet bare, she looked a bit like a very stocky wood nymph.

  “You look lovely, my dear,” Danilo said solemnly, and the circle of mercenaries nodded in avid agreement

  “I have a question,” the unimpressed Vartain broke in. “Waterdeep is a big town.”

  “That’s a question?”

  “Enough, Lord Thann!” the riddlemaster snapped. “I am not a man who appreciates levity. During the Midsummer Faire, every traveling entertainer in the north heads for the city. I’m assuming that the sorceress will not flaunt her asperii, and nearly every singer in Waterdeep has a harp of some sort, so how are we to recognize her?”

  “Midsummer Faire,” Danilo repeated in a distracted voice. “ ‘The lord falls on a field of triumph, on a day that is not a day.… ’ ” The Harper smacked his forehead with the flat of his hand. “Shieldmeet. That’s it!”

  Vartain nodded, his black eyes shining as he followed the Harper’s logic. “Your reasoning is sound. Shieldmeet is not part of any mooncycle, or counted as a day in the roll of the years. It is a day that is not a day.”

  “Am I missing something important?” Morgalla asked.

  “Shieldmeet is an extra day that occurs once every four years, right after Midsummer. After the tournaments of Midsummer Day, contracts are renewed, betrothals announced, allegiances sworn. Even the Lords of Waterdeep are reaffirmed every four years,” Vartain explained.

  “Maybe, maybe not,” Danilo added. “You notice that each of these curses has been brought to bear on Waterdeep. Between crop failures and monster attacks on merchant caravans, Midsummer Faire will be a rather dismal event. A storm on Midsummer Day will play into the people’s fears and superstitions, and a bard who can influence crowds might be able to convince them that the Lords of Waterdeep are no longer able to govern. Rightly done, it could be a near-bloodless coup!”

  “But why fuss around with Harpers and dragons? What do the Lords of Waterdeep have to do with a bunch o’ bards?”

  “Enough,” Danilo said succinctly. “The two groups work together. Bardcraft and politics are intrinsically enjoined. We must leave for Waterdeep at once! Where is Wyn?”

  “Here.” The elf minstrel called, striding quickly down the hilltop holding the leading reins of three horses. The elven hermit followed close by Wyn’s side. “We recovered only three horses, but I found my lyre of changing.”

  At that moment, Elaith crested the hill behind Wyn at a run. “Then use it!” he shouted as he dashed toward the others. “A flock of harpies, coming from the north!”

  Eleven

  Wyn shaded his eyes against the sun and scanned the skies. As Elaith had said, far to the north were several dark shapes. The minstrel looked helplessly at Danilo. “There are no harpies on Evermeet I’ve learned no spellsong to combat them!”

  Danilo patted the sword at his right side. “Not to worry. I carry a singing sword whose music will negate the effect of the harpies’ song. This shouldn’t be any more difficult than fighting any other flying monster. Teeth, talons, that sort of thing.”

  The adventurers’ relief was palpable, and even Elaith’s grim visage relaxed somewhat Seeing that, a seed of mischief took root in Danilo’s fertile mi
nd. He drew the magic weapon and with a solemn face handed it to the elf.

  “If I were to be killed or disarmed during the battle, the sword’s music would cease at once, and all would be lost You’re by far the best swordsman among us. You’d better use this.”

  Elaith’s silver brows rose in a skeptical arc, but he accepted the magic weapon. “Very sensible of you,” he said, question and sarcasm blending in his words.

  Danilo shrugged. “First time for everything.” The thin, outer edge of the keening waves of sound began to reach them. “The sword will sing as soon as you take your first strike. Mind that you don’t put it down once it begins, though. It can be touchy, and it might not start up again.”

  The elf made a few experimental passes to test the sword’s balance and to activate the song. Immediately a rollicking baritone voice began to sing:

  “There was a knight who longed to wield

  A more impressive lance

  To carry into battle

  And to aid him in romance.”

  Elaith turned an incredulous stare toward the Harper. Danilo responded with a bland smile and drew his own blade. “Here they come,” he said, pointing with the sword in the direction of the approaching monsters. There were nine of them, granting the fighters below one-to-one odds.

  The harpies were close enough now that their hideous faces were clearly visible, fangs gleaming from mouths flung wide open with their magical song. Although the unearthly music chilled the adventurers, the harpies’ fell magic could not compete with the enchantment of the singing sword. Meanwhile, the sword rolled on through the chorus.

  “Hey, there! Ho, there!

  A lesson’s here for you:

  Be careful what you ask for,

  For your wishes might come true.”

  Elaith held the sword at arm’s length, glaring as if it were an ill-trained puppy that had just puddled his best boots. He had little choice but to continue wielding the weapon, though, and he slashed viciously at the first harpy to venture within range. The stroke cut deep into the creature’s arm, nearly severing the filthy gray limb. Shrieking with pain and rage, the harpy flapped out of the elf’s reach and circled back for a second attack. Its teeth bared, it dove, screaming, toward the elf. Elaith pulled a knife from the sleeve of his sword arm and threw it at the oncoming monster. It caught the harpy in the throat, abruptly cutting off its screams. The creature plummeted straight toward its killer. Elaith threw himself to one side and rolled, taking care not to lose his hold on the magical sword.

  “A wizard overheard the knight

  And granted his request

  The knight at first was overjoyed

  To see how he was blessed.”

  Again the sword went into the chorus, admonishing the fighters in jovial tones to beware of wishes lightly made. The harpies, too, seemed to take this advice to heart Perhaps the creatures recalled their last battle with these fighters, or at least had learned to be wary of prey who wouldn’t obligingly hold still. The harpies circled the clearing, keeping carefully out of reach of the flashing swords as they sang their deadly, beautiful song. Clearly audible above the harpies’ charm song was the sword’s cheerful baritone:

  “The knight went to a party

  With his weapon thus enhanced.

  The lance made dining difficult

  And tripped him when he danced.”

  Morgalla chuckled briefly, then her brow furrowed in frustration. This fight was not going to the dwarf’s liking, for her opponents stayed out of reach. Using her spear like a javelin, she hurled the weapon at a low-flying harpy. The point tore through the creature, and the sheer force of the dwarf’s throw carried it along for the flight. The spear struck a tree trunk and bit deep. Impaled upon the spear, the dying harpy writhed and shrieked. Morgalla nodded with satisfaction and drew her axe in readiness for the next attack.

  “Shoot them down!” Danilo shouted, taking the dwarf’s lead. He put away his sword and snatched up a bow. The Harper’s first arrow missed. He grimaced and nocked another, noting that Elaith gritted his teeth in helpless frustration as he continued to slash ineffectually at any monster that came close. Elaith’s mercenaries sent volley after volley of arrows into the sky. By the end of the chorus all of the remaining harpies had been downed, some of them still alive despite the arrows jutting from their rank bodies.

  One of the wounded harpies flung itself at Mange. The canny mercenary grabbed the creature’s flailing wrists, knowing that a scratch from its talons would render him immobile. At the same moment he kicked its hideous face with a heavy-booted foot. The creature reeled backward, pawing at its shattered nose.

  The furious Elaith dove at the wounded harpy, burying the magical sword up to the hilt in its throat The expression on the elf’s face suggested that he strove to quench the sword’s song with blood. Undaunted, the sword sang on:

  “The next day at the tournament,

  He won the jousting meets,

  For all who faced his fearsome lance

  Fell laughing from their seats.”

  Morgalla’s axe flashed as she battled a club-wielding harpy. She feigned a stumble, going down onto one knee. The harpy raised its bone club and flung itself forward for a killing blow. At the last moment, the nimble dwarf dove to the side. She leaped up, coming behind the off-balance harpy and burying her axe deep into the back of the creature’s neck. Dark blood spurted through the thick mat of tangled hair, and the creature dropped onto its face. At that moment, Elaith gutted the final monster. With the death of the last harpy, the deadly song charm faded into silence. The singing sword, however, continued merrily:

  “Hey, there! Ho, there!

  A lesson’s here for you:

  Be careful what you ask for,

  For your wishes might come tru—”

  Elaith hurled the sword to the ground; its song broke off with a choked “Erp!” that suggested the magical singer had been throttled by unseen hands. The moon elf stalked over to Danilo. Shaking with barely contained rage, he thrust a finger into the Harper’s chest

  “You fool!” he thundered. “No one, no one but you would wield such a ridiculous weapon!”

  Danilo crossed his arms and leaned back against a tree. “Oh, I don’t know. I thought you did rather well.”

  A silver dagger flashed in the elf’s hand. With a quicksilver motion, Elaith lunged forward and held the point against the Harper’s throat Danilo merely cocked an eyebrow.

  “Now really, my dear Elaith. I should hate to see you change your methods at this late hour. Wouldn’t you rather I turned my back first?”

  “Might I remind you both that we have business in Waterdeep?” Vartain’s emotionless voice broke in. “Our foe is bound there and will strike on Shieldmeet That is three days from now.”

  The elf glared at Danilo with undisguised hatred, but with a visible effort he eased the dagger away. “We made an adventurer’s pact. I will honor it. Once the harp is recovered, though, I make no guarantees.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind.” Danilo picked up his singing sword and tucked it back into its scabbard. “I’m off for Waterdeep. I can take two people with me now and return after sunset for two more. Vartain, you should come now. Perhaps if you and Khelben Arunsun were to put your resources together, you might be able to come up with the identity of our bardic foe.”

  The riddlemaster bowed. “It would be my honor.”

  “I’m coming, too,” Elaith stated. “I have information sources in Waterdeep that the archmage himself would envy.”

  “Modestly put,” Danilo said dryly. He studied those who would remain behind. There were Wyn and Morgalla, the elven hermit, Balindar, Mange, and Cory, a dark-skinned youth who was the youngest of Elaith’s sell-swords. “First off, try to find the other horses, then head toward the Goldenfield temple farms. Once you find the stream, follow it to a calm, deep pool and set up camp. I’ll meet you there shortly after sunset”

  Danilo motioned Vartain and Elaith to his s
ide and set in motion the spell of teleportation. Swirling white light filled their vision, solidifying into solid black granite.

  The trio stood in a courtyard before the tall, smooth cone of Blackstaff Tower. A twenty-foot wall loomed behind them. Neither structure had any visible doors, gates, or windows. Both of the Harper’s companions surveyed the archmage’s home with intense interest.

  The solid wall of the tower blurred for a moment, and the archmage stepped out to greet his visitors. Danilo sped through the introductions. Khelben Arunsun proved himself a master of diplomacy when he received the news that the rogue elf Elaith Craulnober was his nephew’s partner.

  “Welcome to Blackstaff Tower. Please join my lady and me for midday meal. We have much to discuss, and can talk while we eat.”

  Elaith responded with a cryptic smile. “A pleasure deferred, Lord Arunsun. If you’ll show me the way out, I have inquiries to make.” After promising to meet Danilo at a tavern the following day at highsun, Elaith slipped through the wall’s invisible door.

  “It’s a long story,” Danilo said dryly, nodding his head in the direction the elf had taken.

  “It’ll wait Now, what have you two got?”

  Over a midday meal of lentil stew and smoky cheese, Danilo filled his uncle in on the events of the last several days. Vartain gave the archmage a brief summary of the encounter with the dragon, and he went over the scroll’s contents in detail. He then offered his profile of the sorceress.

  “Our enemy is a bard and a mage of considerable power. She is a speaker of Middle Sespechian, which means she is either a specialist in obscure dialects, or a native of Sespech who is at least three hundred years old. She is also a skilled riddlemaster, and the wording of the riddle suggests that she is—or at least was at one point—a Harper.”

  Khelben nodded, his face grim. “Some of the altered ballads suggest that you are right about the last point. This bard was seen in Sundabar, you say? Is she an elf?”