Bladesinger

by Keith Strohm

  Thunder rumbled in the distance, but the half-elf barely heard it. From the moment that he had caught Andaerean’s boot, the world seemed to slow. The sounds of the clearing faded. The patter of rain, the rustle of wet leaves in the storm-ridden wind, the explosive breath of his attackers—all of it settled beneath the first strains of the Song. He felt it grow within him, gradually crescendoing. Nardual launched a desperate attack to give his companion a few moments to regain his footing. The elf’s longsword beat against Taenaran’s defense, but as the Song grew, his opponent’s blade began to move more slowly. As Nardual’s sword cut downward, the half-elf watched it with a sense of dispassionate observation. His own blade touched the tip of Nardual’s longsword then slid down its length, stinging the elf’s hand with a light rap.

  The sword fell from Nardual’s grip just as Andaerean returned to the fray. The now-angry elf shouted something that Taenaran, enmeshed in his inner Song, couldn’t make out. Despite his ever-present unease at the Song’s power, the half-elf rode his fear, mastering it like a skittish horse. He knew that if the battle ended soon, there would be little chance of the Song turning on him. He had asked his father about the Song’s dreadful demands, but on that subject his father, and the other masters, were stonily silent. “This was,” they insisted, “a path that Taenaran would have to walk alone.”

  At that moment, his opponent’s blade struck out, seeking the exposed flesh of Taenaran’s throat. The half-elf ducked beneath the attack and rolled forward, executing a backward slash with his own weapon. Lightning lit up the stormy sky as their blades met. In the distance Taenaran could hear the braying of the training horn, signaling the end of the exercise. Instantly, the Song faded and he stood in the midst of the clearing, panting heavily.

  Nardual bent down to retrieve his sword, but Andaerean simply stared at Taenaran, his own weapon still held in battle readiness. Taenaran returned the look, trying not to let his body’s trembling, brought on by the rain’s chill touch and the strain on his muscles, become too noticeable.

  “You performed well, Taenaran,” the elf remarked coolly before wiping and sheathing his blade.

  Taenaran said nothing, thrown off guard by Andaerean’s words. The haughty tael had never spoken a kindly word to him in all the years that they had trained together.

  He did not disappoint now.

  The elf sniffed the air, as if scenting something foul. “Proof that even an ape, with proper coaching, can imitate his betters,” Andaerean said. “Perhaps one day they will teach you to sing and dance as well.”

  All pleasure that Taenaran had felt at his execution of the water battle shattered beneath the cutting edge of the elf’s words. The half-elf felt his anger rise like a river swollen with spring thaw. He wanted to reach out and punch that smug, superior smirk off of Andaerean’s face, or at the very least, send the tael back home with a few bruises. He might have done so, had another, lighter voice not broke in to their small circle of conflict.

  “Taenaran,” the voice called out. “Oh, there you are.”

  Talaedra stopped in midstride, her face flushed and her breath swirling in gray clouds blown by the rain-laden wind. Her silver hair, rare among the sun elves, danced wildly in the storm, tangling and twisting where the gusts tossed its curling strands. Where in others such an unusual coloring would be a flaw in an otherwise stunning beauty, Talaedra wore it like a crown. The silver-white tint of her hair set off eyes as gray as the mists of the spring-soaked Glades of Araenvae. The effect added to the elf maiden’s beauty, making her seem even rarer, like a certain moonrise that occurs but once in a lifetime.

  The effect was immediate—and not unexpected. Taenaran felt his breath catch and his tongue stiffen; he stood transfixed, as if caught by the gaze of a basilisk. Andaerean, on the other hand, straightened immediately. The half-elf watched enviously as the haughty, dour lines of the tael’s face were replaced by a gracious and open smile. Andaerean bowed low.

  “Talaedra,” he said, pronouncing the young elf maiden’s name with perfect grace, “it is an honor to see you again. How fortunate for us that you chose this day to come and see the alu’dala.”

  Taenaran felt a surge of jealousy as Talaedra returned the tael’s bow.

  “Andaerean,” she replied. “The water battle is always a delight to watch. You performed well,” she said, eliciting another wave of jealousy that suddenly stopped and turned to amazement when Talaedra continued with a sly wink toward Taenaran, “all of you.”

  The half-elf’s heart leaped in his chest. She had noticed his skill today. The thrill of it was almost enough to restore his earlier feeling of contentment.

  Almost.

  What came next, however, damped Taenaran’s enthusiasm like a torrent of freezing water on a fledgling fire.

  Andaerean cleared his throat. “Tonight is the Feast of First Planting,” the elf said with great formality. “I was wondering if you would grant me the honor of accompanying you to the celebration.”

  Taenaran winced at the elf’s words, despite himself. He knew what was to come, yet even though he saw it, like an arrow speeding toward his heart, it did not hurt any less, which was why he spluttered and choked violently at Talaedra’s response.

  “Thank you for your offer,” the elf maiden said formally, her rich voice lilting and even, “but I already have a companion for the celebration.” She reached out a slender, smooth-skinned hand and laid it gently upon Taenaran’s shoulder.

  The half-elf nearly burst out laughing at the look of consternation and disbelief that passed across Andaerean’s face, soon followed by a piercing stare full of hatred. The elf tael bowed low again.

  “Well,” he said in clipped tones, “since I have done my duty and am now assured that you would be spared the indignity of attending tonight’s feast alone, I ask your leave to retire.”

  He spun around quickly and grabbed Nardual. The two walked briskly toward the waiting tree line, but not before Andaerean turned to look once more at Taenaran. The half-elf felt the tael’s hatred, like spears thrown from the angry cast of his eyes.

  Taenaran groaned once the two companions moved out of sight. “Now you’ve done it,” he exclaimed. “Andaerean is truly angry now.”

  “Andaerean is a pig,” Talaedra spat, “whose manners, however cleverly disguised, would be more appropriate among orcs than elves. I cannot believe what he said to you.”

  Taenaran felt the tips of his ears burn with shame. “Then you heard what he said?” the half-elf asked. “Well,” he continued, not waiting for a response, “thank you for coming to my rescue.” He gave the maiden a quick bow then started to walk toward his pack.

  “Where are you going?” Talaedra asked. “We haven’t talked about tonight.”

  Taenaran stopped suddenly, as if caught in a spell. He turned to face the elf maiden, afraid that she would disappear and he would come to realize that this whole day had been nothing but a dream. “Th … Then you were serious about this evening,” he stammered when Talaedra didn’t fade from existence.

  Her smile lit up the storm-clouded clearing. “Of course I was serious,” she replied. “Where shall I meet you?”

  “But your father,” Taenaran began, “won’t he be—”

  “My father,” Talaedra interrupted, “will be far happier knowing that I am spending the evening with an honest and good-hearted tael, no matter his bloodline, than if I were accompanied by a conniving and spiteful apprentice who barely conceals his own venomous heart behind a web of lies.”

  Taenaran simply stared, unable to respond.

  “Good,” Talaedra said, “I’m glad that it’s settled. Why don’t I meet you at the Verdant Pools and then we can walk to the celebration together?” She smiled once more then bent forward to kiss Taenaran lightly on the cheek before leaving the clearing.

  The half-elf still stood there, honestly confused by what had just happened. Perhaps, he thought, this really was a dream.

  Thunder rumbled in the distance, as
if in answer.

  Drops of water fell from rain-soaked trees, spattering Taenaran’s cloak. Absently, he wiped away the few errant droplets that ran down his face. Despite the arrival of spring, the night air held a fierce chill. Above him, thick clouds shrouded the moon’s illumination in a mantle of silver-gray luminescence.

  None of it mattered to the half-elf. In fact, another Time of Troubles could have fallen upon the world and he would scarce have noticed—for Talaedra waited just beyond the next bend in the forest path. Friendships had been hard to come by, living as a half-blood among the elves of Avaelearean. Taenaran’s friendship with the young elf woman meant that much more to him because of such difficulties. Now, however, the half-elf felt as if they stood upon the brink of something more, something deeper than friendship.

  Taenaran smiled in the darkness as he scrambled up the last rise leading to the Verdant Pools. His smile turned to a curse as the worn leather scabbard he wore banged against an out-thrust expanse of rocks. Not for the first time, he wished that he could travel without the weight of his sword dragging at his side. As a student of the bladesinging art, however, he was expected to wear his sword always—as a means of being prepared for anything that might occur, as well as to remind him of his essential duty to the elf people.

  When the shadows along the trail suddenly surged and shifted, resolving into several heavily cloaked figures, Taenaran prayed silently in thanksgiving that he had not, for once, shirked this discipline. The half-elf spun to his left, eliminating the possibility that his enemies could surround him by pressing his back against the rock. One of his assailants stepped forward and swung a thick-boled length of wood at him. He ducked beneath the blow and tried to draw his weapon, only to find himself caught beneath a press of bodies. Punches and kicks rained down upon him. He tried to cry out, but the violence of the attacks knocked the wind from him. When the weight bearing him down to the muddy earth disappeared, it was all he could do to crawl on all fours, gasping for breath.

  “Get up, you a Tel’Quessir scum,” a voice barked from somewhere above him.

  Taenaran gazed up at his assailants, who stood around him in a loose circle. They each wore thick black cloaks and most of their faces were covered with a thin black veil, leaving only their eyes to stare coldly back at him. The half-elf wiped blood from his nose with the back of his hand before struggling to rise. His mind spun rapidly as he fought to stand. Had they discovered Talaedra? Was she safe? By the sound of their leader’s comment, this wasn’t an attack from outside the elf community.

  “I said rise,” the voice shouted again.

  It was followed by the sharp strike of a booted foot against Taenaran’s ribs. He doubled over in pain but refused to fall to the ground. Carefully, he tried to calm his mind and gain control of the fear that ran through his body, leeching his strength. The mind was a warrior’s greatest weapon. His masters had said that often enough, and now he intended to take advantage of their wisdom.

  “Stand before your betters, ape,” the leader spoke again.

  This time Taenaran clearly identified Andaerean as the speaker, despite his attempts at camouflage.

  “Andaerean, stop this at once!” another voice cried—Talaedra’s.

  Taenaran cast around for the elf maiden and found her struggling to free herself from the hold of two of his attackers. She looked unharmed; fire burned within her gray eyes. Relief flooded through the half-elf. At least she hadn’t been hurt.

  “I wish I could stop it, Talaedra,” Andaerean responded, “but I can’t. This one must learn his place!”

  “When my father hears of this—” Talaedra began.

  “Go ahead, run to your father, Tal,” Andaerean spat. “Who would believe that I had anything to do with this?” The elf looked around at the other cloaked figures. “Besides, I spent the evening before the celebration training,” he continued with a harsh bark of laughter, “and a master will confirm it.” Andaerean stared right at Taenaran as the others carried on his laughter.

  “You filthy piece of troll dung,” Talaedra shouted. “I’ll—”

  “Shut up!” the elf demanded, as he raised a fist and brought it down hard upon the elf woman’s face. “If you want to be an ape-lover, I can’t stop you, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to listen to you mewl about this piece of filth!”

  As the elf’s fist smashed into Talaedra and she sagged against her captors, something burst deep within the half-elf. All of the anger and shame he had felt his entire life welled up within him like a magical storm. It wasn’t enough that they hurt him, now they chose to hurt someone he cared deeply about.

  It would end here.

  With a snarl of rage, Taenaran quickly drew his sword, ducking easily away from the hands that grabbed for him awkwardly. His blade sang from its scabbard with a terrible, metallic keen. In his white-hot rage, he could not see Talaedra plant a wicked jab with her elbow into the stomach of her captor. Nor could he see her kick herself free from another of the elves and lunge forward, toward Andaerean.

  All that Taenaran held before him was the sight of Andaerean’s eyes—eyes that mocked and belittled him with their dismissive gaze. The multiverse slowed to a single heartbeat as the half-elf screamed his hatred at his tormentor and plunged the length of his sword directly at the elf’s cold heart.

  A woman’s cry brought Taenaran back to reality.

  Standing before him, impaled on the edge of his sword, Talaedra gazed at Taenaran with eyes widened in shock and surprise. Her mouth worked to form words but none came. Only a red stream of blood poured forth, spilling down her chin. She hung there for a moment, arms outstretched, before light fled from her eyes and Talaedra’s body fell backward.

  Taenaran looked at the fallen woman then at Andaerean, whose own face registered shock and horror. He tried to say something—anything—but grief stole his voice.

  Moments later, a sharp blow crashed down upon him, and Taenaran fell headlong into darkness.

  CHAPTER 22

  The Year of Wild Magic

  (1372 DR)

  She was gone.

  Taen knelt on the hard stone floor of the bridge and wept silently. Tears just barely held in check glistened wetly around eyes red with grief. He had failed once again. His own deficiencies had once more caused harm to someone for whom he had cared deeply. It hadn’t mattered that the Song had come to him like an old friend instead of a bitter enemy, strengthening his arm and bolstering his swordplay, rather than stealing his strength with the fear of its presence. The half-elf knew that he had stood on the threshold of everything that he had trained and striven for in his life—and it hadn’t been enough.

  He hadn’t been enough.

  Marissa was gone—likely dead—and their mission in shambles. The knot in his chest confirmed what he already knew in the cold, dispassionate part of his mind. It was his fault. He should have seen the danger from above, should have anticipated the attack. Instead, he had allowed himself to get so caught up in the joy of finding the doorway to his art that he hadn’t even heard her scream for help.

  Taen saw her in his mind’s eye, her skin sallow and puffy from the spider venom, withdrawing into the darkness. In that moment, Marissa’s face blurred, became the face of another woman, wrapped in burial silk instead of spider webbing—but just as dead.

  He felt a hand rest gently upon his shoulder. “Borovazk is sorry, little friend,” the ranger said, and Taen could hear the grief hanging heavy upon the Rashemi like a great gray burial stone, “but we must push on. Is not safe for us to remain on bridge.”

  Taen looked up at the ranger and felt himself nod at the warrior’s words. The action felt foreign, different, like the movement of a stranger. It was as if the half-elf gazed upon his body from across a vast chasm, so that he was at the same time within and without himself.

  A sound caught his attention—high pitched and pitiful. It took his divided consciousness a few moments to recognize that someone else was weeping. Surprise turned
to anger as he turned to face the source of the sound. Yurz lay on the ground, rolling across the uneven stone and wailing. The goblin’s spindly arms flailed in every direction as he gave voice to his grief.

  Taen’s grief transformed into rage at the sight of the pathetic creature. “You,” he shouted, leaping to his feet. “You did this!”

  The half-elf crossed the distance between them quickly, almost pouncing on the bereaved goblin. Grabbing Yurz by the scruff of the neck, he hoisted the goblin up in the air. The creature shouted in fright as he hung above the bridge, kicking his bare, misshapen feet in a desperate attempt to break free.

  “Tell me why I shouldn’t throw you off this bridge,” Taen shouted. “Tell me!” He dangled the goblin over the black mouth of the chasm below. “You led us into a trap, you filthy spawn of a dung troll, and now Marissa has been taken.”

  “No!” the goblin screamed shrilly in protest. “Me no hurt Pretty Lady. Me friend. Not know why tribe here. Ugly One must have known.” The goblin shook his head piteously.

  “You lie,” the half-elf hissed between clenched teeth.

  His anger rose like a tidal wave within him, threatening to sweep away the last vestiges of his reason. Part of him knew that his rage at the hapless creature was misplaced, but he couldn’t stop it; it exploded out of him like the fiery breath of a red dragon.

  “Taen,” he heard Roberc call out to him, “we have to go … now!” the halfling shouted.

  He turned, still holding Yurz over the edge of the bridge, and saw both Borovazk and Roberc running toward the open door to the citadel’s undertomb. They were right, of course; he didn’t have time to vent his anger and grief on the treacherous goblin. If there was any chance of rescuing Marissa and making it out alive, they had to push on, yet he wanted nothing more than to slake his need for revenge. It would be so simple to just open his hand and watch Yurz tumble into the abyss below.