by Ed Greenwood
Belkram shook sweat out of his eyes for perhaps the sixtieth time and sprang back a pace to avoid any lunge the bard might make while he was doing so. Had this fight been in earnest, the awe he now felt would have been stone-cold fear. Storm, as she had been doing since she discovered both her opponents were good bladesmen, was smiling as she fought. Smiling merrily and, between gasps for breath, humming a sprightly tune that Belkram had often heard harped in Everlund.
Anyone who could toy with him—and with Itharr, who was as good as himself or better—as this lady was doing, and spare thought and breath enough to hum a tune, could be the death of him whenever she desired. Belkram had seen many quick swords in the years since he’d joined the Harpers, but never the equal of Storm Silverhand. He was old enough to realize the gift she was giving them: A chance to strive against one much better with a blade and have time enough in the fray to try all they knew against her. To feel, face, and master their fear rather than being paralyzed with terror and, an instant later, sinking into eternal red-edged darkness.
Belkram matched Storm’s smile as he remembered a crossing attack he’d seen in a sea fight long ago. He arched to his left, parrying Storm’s blade with a series of short, binding, feathering strokes of his own blade. His own side was exposed now, but Itharr should be attacking from that side, protecting it.
Then, not for the first time in that clash of steel, Storm was gone. Ducking smoothly to one knee, dropping below Belkram’s parries, she spun back to face Itharr, tossing her sword to her left hand and raising it to parry his descending blade. In the same motion, her now-empty right hand grabbed Belkram’s ankle and jerked.
The ranger hopped, trying to twist his foot loose, and fell helplessly. Storm straightened and put her shoulders into two furious strokes that drove Itharr—a burly man a hand shorter but at least six trade-blocks heavier than she, with arms and wrists twice as thick—back across the clearing. With a twist of her blade she disarmed him, sending his blade singing off into the trees.
Belkram chuckled ruefully as he rolled to his feet and brought his own blade up barely in time to turn aside her sword point, inches away from his cheek. He dodged and twisted, his moves slowed and blunted by growing weariness. In an attempt to win past her blade, he tried a circular cut that extended into a lunge.
In the midst of the ring and skirl of their blades, Storm’s face suddenly twisted. She stiffened as a blue-white glow surrounded her hair. Belkram didn’t even have time to gape in astonishment as his blade slid into her breast.
It went into the leather-clad swell of her bosom just as easily as a hot knife into butter, as they say—a good three inches or more before he could stop. Beside him, Belkram heard Itharr gasp, but Storm made no sound. Her eyes had closed, and her mouth was parted in pain.
“Gods, you’ve killed her!” and “Oh, Lady! Forgive—” rang out together as Storm swayed, clutched the steel that stood out from her breast with both hands, and opened her eyes at last.
“My apologies, both of you,” she said in a low voice. “Something … linked to me … took hold for a moment. No blame to you, Belkram.”
Storm smiled at them, but the two Harpers were staring at her as if she had suddenly become a ghost or a dragon. Her eyes were two dancing flames of blue-white fire, and more flames crackled in her mouth as she spoke. Her hands moved down Belkram’s blade, and in their wake blue-white fire danced along the steel. The ranger, who still held his sword, felt a tingling in his hand. The tingling grew to a painful burning. Without thought he let go of his blade.
Slowly Storm drew the steel out of herself, the blade blazing with cold, silent, blue-white fire from end to end. She laid a hand on her breast, and flames licked between her fingers. Then she smiled and glided forward to hand the blade hilt-first to Belkram. She did not move as if she were hurt.
In wonderment Itharr asked, “Are you all right, Lady?”
Storm nodded. “I am.” The fire in her eyes was dying down, and she looked almost herself again.
Belkram felt the eerie tingling spread up his arm from the blade and said quietly, “Lady, I am sorry. It was as you said; I could not stop in time. But you have shown us both that you can halt your blade where you will, time and time again. I have never seen your like in battle, and hope never to do so. Tell me, if you will. Are you a mage also?”
Storm shook her head. “I am a bard and no more. This”—she spread out her hand and looked at the fading blue-white glow with interest—“is not of my doing. It was what … caught me and gave us all this scare.” She raised eyes that were normal again, but somber, and added, “Let us bathe and then go in for wine and talk. I’ve no more stomach for fighting, this day.”
“Aye,” the men agreed together and put away their swords. Belkram had slid his weapon half into its scabbard before he remembered Storm’s blood and hastily pulled the blade out again. A sword must never be sheathed wet, lest it rust. This blade had traveled long and far with him. Yet to wipe it clean in front of the very lady one has just wounded with it …
Storm saw his look and laughed. “No need, Belkram. See?” She caught hold of his blade with two deft fingers and turned it. Light flashed along the sword’s length. It was shiny-clean and glowed faintly blue as if freshly oiled. “It will never rust now,” Storm said softly. Both men looked at her without speaking.
Storm looked back at them. “It has tasted Mystra’s fire,” she explained. When she undid her leather jacket and peeled it unconcernedly off, her naked skin beneath was unmarked. There was no sign of the bloody wound that should have been there, and that should have drained her life away.
The Harpers stared and then quickly looked away with muttered apologies. One does not stare at a lady so. They had gone another six steps toward the stream before they realized that no sweat had glistened on her skin. That, too, must have been burned away.
They were very quiet as they stripped to bathe in the stream with her, and kept a respectful distance. One does not speak loudly or appear overbold when walking with one who might be a goddess. Storm tried to put them at their ease with light talk but dared not tell the two men what had really happened to her in the clearing. And so another legend of Storm Silverhand was born.
In the clear and early dawn, Elminster swung a cloak about his shoulders, left the tower quietly, and went for a walk in the dew that cloaked Shadowdale.
He felt as if he were drifting this morn and not really alive or present at all. Hardly surprising, he reflected; he’d not slept a wink all night.
The moon had gone down before Merith Strongbow had slipped into the tower looking for his wife. He’d found Jhessail asleep by the fire, wrapped in furs and snoring ever so faintly. Lhaeo provided slumbrous harmony from the stool in the corner, and Elminster sat sleepless, silent watch over them both, his pipe lit and his eyes as empty and dark as the night outside.
He and Merith had shared a silent toast to Jhessail’s love and caring with chill green Calishite wine. Rather than wake her or Lhaeo, Merith had curled up in Elminster’s last chair to sleep. Elminster had finished the bottle of wine by himself, and thought much.
Answers and clear paths seemed as elusive as ever, but after a time Elminster arose and opened the door, There he softly spoke a word and pointed into the night with one of the wands Lhaeo had found. His heart leapt as lightning crackled and spat into the darkness. This sort of magic, at least, he could still command.
He went to a certain railpost on the stairs, bent to a particular spot, and pushed just so. A curved section of the post swung open, and a dusty, long-forgotten bag fell out. The Old Mage selected two plain brass rings from the bag, put them on, and went down to the door again.
The rings worked, too. Much heartened, Elminster drew himself a cool tankard of beer. Then he frowned and got up again to close and bolt the door, locking it for the first time in years. He and Lhaeo usually left it open, for anyone who needed them at night to get in with a minimum of fuss. He’d have to remember to change
such habits now.
As he had been changed, the wry thought rose unbidden. He pushed it away and went to find another tankard. He did not take the rings off.
So the night had gone, stealing slowly toward morning. Grieving for his lost magic, Elminster walked alone as morning came. He was drawn, as always, into the welcoming green reaches of the trees that cloaked Shadowdale. He walked among them in soft-shod silence for what seemed a very long time as the dale awoke behind him. Birds called, small things scampered in the underbrush, and rising breezes stirred the leaves.
Elminster smiled, breathed deep, and looked all around. It had been long indeed since he’d taken the time to really see this forest. From ahead on the path, Elminster heard the sudden clear call of a child.
“Well met!” the young treble voice called out.
Giggles answered, followed by another child’s voice replying, “Are we so, base villain?”
The children of the dale awoke early for farm chores and were now playing. The Old Mage stepped aside from the path, pulling his cloak around him, and leaned against a tree to listen.
He was startled to hear, very loud and close at hand, a young but confident male voice declaim grandly, “I, Elminster the Great, smite thee with fires and lightnings that none can withstand!”
There was movement on the other side of the tree. Elminster cocked his head to look around the trunk and saw a smooth but rather crooked twig cutting the air, flourished in a young boy’s hand.
Its bearer pointed the stick across a little open place at a rather dirty little girl, perhaps six summers old, who was standing on a stone to make herself taller.
She faced the twig-wand without fear and replied triumphantly, “Well, I’m the Simbul, and my power is even greater. Besides, Elminster loves me and does what I want!”
The Old Mage found himself smiling. With the smile, hot tears came unbidden, and his eyes swam.
He waited until he could see the trees clearly again and slipped quietly away.
Sweat glistened on bare, knot-muscled shoulders as Storm Silverhand greeted the morn. A bastard sword with a blade as broad as a man’s hand glinted blue and deadly in the rising light as it spun and leapt in her hands.
Storm wore only boots, tattered and patched leather breeches, and huge metal war gauntlets. She grunted from time to time as she twisted, lunged, and danced, fencing with shadows. When she was breathing heavily, Storm paused, leaned on her blade, and called softly, “Vethril! Vethril! To battle, sister!”
In the round-windowed room under the eaves, her two Harper guests awoke as Storm’s soft words floated in through the open window. Belkram and Itharr yawned, rubbed their eyes, stretched, and winced. Both were as sore as old saddle horses after being ridden hard. Their eyes met ruefully. Gods, did the woman never rest?
She’d talked late into the night, matching them flagon for flagon. They’d fallen asleep listening to her sing soft, sad sleep-songs of lost Myth Drannor as she swept and washed up. Now she was up and about in the dawn after a day of battle—and that wound—that would leave most men stiff and numb for half a day after.
Perhaps it was this beautiful house and the dale beyond. Harpers, who tend to be folk of the open road, can seldom relax and rarely sleep without a blade to hand. This place was a refuge, a rare opportunity to let go for two men who had a lot of sleep to catch up on.
Nonetheless, they were Harpers. At the first clash of steel they were up, naked but with swords ready in their hands, and rushing to the window. Their jaws dropped together.
Outside, the half-naked Bard of the Blade, silver hair swirling about her, was fighting a ghost. Her translucent, utterly silent opponent swung a very real black-bladed battle-axe. When it met the great bastard sword Storm wielded, sparks flew from the force of the blow.
The two men drank in the sight of Storm’s magnificence for a breath and then stared hard at the opponent who hardly seemed to be there. They exchanged glances and whistled soundlessly. The fighting down there was fast. Like their combat in the glade yesterday, it was obviously a friendly battle; no one was striking to slay. But as those huge weapons flashed and spun, crashed together and bobbed about in the hands of their dodging, dancing wielders, the Harpers were struck by just how fast the two women were going at it. Perhaps their own work, yesterday, had looked like that. They’d been far too busy to watch.
Two women? Aye, for the ghost—if that was what it was—was a slim, long-haired woman in a gown. Shorter than Storm, she looked very like the Bard of Shadowdale in features, build, and movement.
The two men could see right through her, but from time to time as she moved, her features grew clearer and more solid. This seemed to happen when emotion rose, whenever the silent figure made an exultant grin, a delighted, soundless laugh, or a grimace of remorse at a missed chance or bad bit of weapon wielding. As the two men watched, Storm leapt high, slashing the axe aside with her own blade, and crashed down on her ghostly opponent with knees drawn up. There was an audible thump as they fell to the trodden turf together.
Itharr leaned out the window to see what had happened just as the axe leapt skyward again and there was a clanging flurry of blows. His naked sword grated for an instant on the window frame.
The silent figure stared up in terror and melted away in an instant, the axe falling. Storm batted it away with her blade, but not fast enough to avoid taking a long slice as the axe blade caught on one bare forearm and slid past.
She shook her head, smiling up at them ruefully, and said, “Fair morn, men. I can’t seem to avoid getting cut open when you’re around.” Clapping a hand to the welling blood, she asked, “A little practice? Or dawnfry first?”
“Uh—food first, if that’s your pleasure, Lady,” Belkram managed, trying not to stare. “Err—who was that?”
Storm took up the axe in the crook of her arm and started for the door beneath them. “Come down and I’ll tell,” she called.
Hastily pulling on boots and breeches, the two Harpers went down. They brought their swords because they were, after all, Harpers. The kitchen was as cool and inviting as it had been yesterday.
“Well met.” Storm grinned, muscling a cauldron of soup off the hearth, an apron wrapped around her hands to ward off burns. Wordlessly, Itharr went to her and turned up her arm. A long white scar there was fading already. He raised his eyebrows.
Storm gestured with her chin at a shelf behind him, under the stairs they’d descended. “Healing potions there, if you need them.”
Belkram cleared his throat. “Lady, at the risk of seeming a complete idiot, I’d like to ask you to tell us whatever you care to about what we just saw—and for that matter, about what happened yesterday.”
Storm waved them to seats, whipping warm bread from a hearth pan, and said, “Of course. One of my customs is to limber up of mornings with the heaviest blade I can comfortably swing.” She cast a fond glance at the great bastard sword. The two men looked at it leaning against the wall, and both raised their eyebrows at its length and evident weight. “From time to time I call on a sparring partner, whom you saw.”
“A ghost?”
“If you like. A soul who dwells here with me and can materialize for short periods. The rest of the time she is my watchguard. If ever you have a message for me and can’t find me here, speak it aloud and shell usually make some sign that she’s heard. Moving a chair, for instance. She’s handy that way for scaring off thieves.”
Itharr nodded slowly. “I can imagine.” He looked all around. “She’s here all the time?”
Storm nodded. “She doesn’t like to show herself to any but me, and I don’t like to reveal her to others. I came up to wake you two—with a kiss and a hot mug of bitterroot, as I did yestermorn—and you both slept right on. Well, it’s never failed before.” She grinned again, and Belkram rolled his eyes. “So I thought you were safely snoring for a bit, and called her.”
Itharr nodded again and said, raising his voice only a little, “Ah—well me
t, Vethril! I’m sorry we broke into things; you swing a mean axe.”
A little chill went down his spine as a feminine mouth and chin appeared in the air before him for a moment, over the table. The mouth smiled and was gone.
For a long moment, Belkram stared at where the apparition had been and said, “Yes. Well. Lady, will you tell us about yesterday?”
Storm nodded, not smiling now, and said, “Something happened. Something very important that wisdom forbids me to tell you about. Something, as you know, connected with Mystra. All I can say is beware magic for some time to come. It may go awry in strange ways. More than that; in the days ahead we must all be wary, ready for trouble. It’s all too likely to come.”
She sighed and broke off a large chunk of bread in her long, strong fingers. Itharr looked from them to the gauntlets and back again. Then his gaze drifted up her naked torso, to be caught and held by Storm’s own eyes. She was not smiling, and her eyes held them both as if on two dark sword points. Her voice, when it came, was very soft.
“There is more. For the next little while, the most important being in the entire Realms is the archmage Elminster of Shadowdale. He must be aided and watched at all times by every Harper, so spread the word. He must be kept alive, and he might not be able to use his own magic. We must guard him as if he were a defenseless child. Nothing you do in your lives, gentlemen, is likely to be half so important as this, believe me.”
Deep silence fell, and lasted five long breaths before Itharr shivered. They all stirred, and Storm smiled at them again.
“That reminds me,” she said briskly, “that we’d best go see Elminster. So break bread, men, and let’s be washed up and done.”
“Ah,” Belkram said, eyeing her, “can we get dressed first? You seem used to going about near unclad and all, but …”
They all chuckled, and Storm rose and took down the leathers she’d worn the day before, from a drying-rack in the beams low overhead.
Itharr looked up at her and said softly, “Vethril? Vethril, are you near?”