Bladesinger

by Keith Strohm

  “Then it’s agreed?” Taen asked.

  Marissa nodded in agreement. Personally, she would take any chance to end this mission sooner, and she suspected that the others felt the same.

  They did.

  Within moments, each of them began their preparations. Marissa watched in fascination as Taen drew forth a pearl, which he then crushed beneath a heavy rock. Carefully, he gathered the crushed pearl fragments and poured them into a silver goblet.

  “I need to uncover the command word to activate the portal,” he said, obviously noting her interest. “The spell I’m about to cast will take some time. You should probably rest a little bit more before we head through.”

  Marissa hesitated a moment before speaking. “Taenaran,” she began at last, “about that conversation we need to have.”

  She had nearly lost him once on this journey; then their enemy captured her. Though this clearly wasn’t the time for such a thing, the druid didn’t want to waste another moment.

  Taen stopped what he was doing at Marissa’s words, stood up, and went to her. “I know,” he said, drawing the slender tip of his fingers across her cheek. She shivered at his touch. “I’ve had that conversation a thousand times with you in my dreams,” he continued. “We don’t have the time now, but please understand that I do know.”

  Marissa felt his arms enfold her, and she yielded to that embrace. They held each other for a moment, a moment that she would have stretched into eternity if she had the power, before Taen kissed her lightly upon the lips and drew back gently.

  “Now,” he said, staring deeply into her eyes, “go get some rest. You’re going to need it.”

  The druid nodded and walked toward a corner of the room, dazed by the memory of his lips upon hers. The warmth of their embrace remained with Marissa as she settled down in her makeshift bedroll. She was tired, the earlier torpor she felt spreading over her like the still waters of a mountain lake. When at last she closed her eyes, Marissa felt herself floating gently to the lake’s bottom.

  Restful sleep, however, eluded her. A series of violent visions hammered at Marissa while she dreamed. In them, she stood before the Red Tree, whose broad limbs lay bare, as if in midwinter. Its bark was desiccated, pitted and dried, hanging loosely upon its diseased trunk. The voices of the dead whispered around the twisted tree, and rich, dark blood welled up from the black soil.

  Stumbling backward from the sight, Marissa could see the bodies of her companions, their bloated corpses hanging from the highest limbs, twisting in the chill wind. All at once, the tree’s trunk began to split and tear with a loud cracking sound. A greenish shape began to emerge from the split trunk, headfirst like the birth of an abominable child.

  Marissa recognized the face of the hag, leering out from the trunk, and she began to scream. Pushing herself free, the hag laughed at the druid’s obvious terror and began to walk toward her. Pointing a sap-covered finger in her direction, the monster opened its horrifying mouth and said—

  “Marissa, are you ready?”

  The druid gave an awkward shout as Taen’s voice lifted her from the tendrils of her nightmare. Sweat drenched her robe and matted strands of red hair to her face. She gazed around quickly, half expecting to see the hag hovering nearby.

  “Is everything all right?” Taen asked, his concern for her obvious to hear.

  Marissa nodded vigorously. “Yes,” she said at last. “It was just a nightmare.” Then she drew herself to her feet and began to gather her things. “Really,” she said again when Taen hadn’t moved, “I’ll be fine.”

  When at last the half-elf had stepped away to activate the portal, she placed the small pack she carried with her upon her back. Arcane energy swirled around the magic portal, pulsing with newly awakened life.

  Please, Rillifane, she prayed silently, guide our steps.

  One by one, her companions plunged into the portal, disappearing in a flash of light. When at last she stepped through the mystic circle, Marissa sent one more prayer toward her god.

  Protect Taenaran, she implored before arcane power consumed her.

  The Old One screamed.

  Yulda delighted in the foolish wizard’s pain. The sounds of his agony mixed with the delicious sensation of power flowing into her, power that she sucked from the very depths of his spirit. He resisted—even now, after many months of captivity, the wizard fought her control. His will was strong, honed by decades of disciplined study and practice in the arcane arts, and it strained against the mystical bonds of her spell like a wild stallion refusing to break beneath his rider’s skill. That was what made him so valuable—and dangerous.

  Yulda wished that she didn’t have to replenish her power quite so often. She trusted in her own skill and the demonic spell that drained the Old One’s strength. Still, the procedure required all of her attention, leaving her little to spare for anything else. The hathran couldn’t afford a lapse in concentration. If the damnable wizard slipped his bonds, she would lose a major source of power and be forced to deal with the combined anger of the wychlaran and the Old Ones. She wasn’t ready for that.

  Not yet.

  The witch cursed her meddlesome “sisters” for interfering in her machinations. Dealing with those gods-blighted intruders and wrestling the secrets of the Staff of the Red Tree from her poor little captive was proving to be a far greater drain than she had anticipated. She hoped Durakh would be able to break the pathetic elf’s will before too long. Even now, her forces were converging on the isolated villages and hamlets of Rashemen, killing and burning as they marched toward the country’s heart. Once the battle was truly joined, Yulda would have to focus her attention on her advancing army. She would have little time to spend mastering the secrets of the staff.

  The thought of her eventual victory sent a sweet chill up her back. Combined with the heady sense of imbued power, Yulda felt as if she were truly unstoppable. Soon all of Rashemen would be under her control. Then, perhaps, she would renegotiate her deal with those abominable Wizards of Thay.

  Arcane energy crackled behind her, interrupting Yulda’s ruminations. She felt, more than saw, the energy from the teleportation circle and couldn’t suppress a sly smile. Durakh must have finally broken the mewling elf woman. She didn’t even turn to greet the cleric, wanting instead to watch the Old One realize that she had defeated him.

  Again.

  “So, Durakh,” the witch called out, “has the druid yielded—”

  Fleshrender’s mental warning stopped her midsentence. Durakh had not come through the portal. Yulda spun around, summoning her arcane power with a single thought.

  “You!” she screamed and let loose a bolt of pure energy at her “visitors.”

  CHAPTER 27

  The Year of Wild Magic

  (1372 DR)

  Taen’s vision blurred.

  The sudden wrenching of his body from one place to another threatened to overwhelm his senses. He shook his head briskly, as if the violent motion would snap everything back into focus. When at last he could see make out his surroundings, the half-elf saw that he and his companions stood in the midst of yet another cave—the starkness of its gray stone relieved by the glittering incandescence of tiny minerals that reflected the torchlight like thousands of stars strewn wildly by some mad god. Taen had only a few heartbeats with which to take in the undulating expanse of the small cavern before an angry growl caught his attention.

  The source of that ominous sound—a rather large snow tiger peering intently at Taen and his companions—lay only fifteen feet from him toward the rear of the cave. Though the beast still reclined languorously on the floor, Taen could see its powerful muscles rippling softly beneath stark white fur—and something else. Despite the shifting light from the cavern’s flickering torches, he could make out a faint illumination surrounding the tiger. The glow seemed somehow to soften the edges of the beast’s outline, making it seem less than real. The half-elf was about to signal Roberc to rein in Cavan as the war-dog�
�s muted growling reached his ears, but a woman’s screeching voice interrupted him.

  “You!” Taen heard moments before he saw a weathered old crone, whose black robes had served to hide her against the cave’s darker rear walls, spin around to face him. The half-elf caught sight of a craggy, face and a shock of stringy snow-white hair before he realized that the crone had unleashed a powerful wave of arcane energy, which stung his honed senses with its strength as it hurtled toward him.

  Taen summoned his own power and quickly erected a wall of pure arcane force to meet the incoming attack. Eldritch energy coruscated and flared along the edges of his spell, spitting scattered power as the old woman’s arcane attack met the half-elf’s wall. Taen blanched at the strength of the crone’s assault. Though his defensive shield held, he could already make out subtle cracks that ran through the arcane wall like tiny filaments of a spider’s web. Whoever she was, the crone’s power was considerable. Beads of sweat started to run down Taen’s forehead. Perhaps they had been unwise to leap into the dragon’s den, he thought for just a moment. Then a vision of Marissa, chained and battered from her torturous ordeal, flashed through the half-elf’s mind. All thoughts of caution fled like shadows beneath the lash of the sun.

  “You dare invade my sanctum,” the crone screeched in a voice that sounded eerily familiar.

  It took him just a moment to recognize the rough timbre—he’d heard it last beneath the citadel, before he and his companions were attacked by giant spiders. The hag of Rashemar and this decrepit witch were one and the same. Taen knew the moment the others made the connection, for he heard Borovazk’s deep bass rumble out a string of curses in his native tongue, while Roberc’s own invectives filled the cavern. Only Marissa remained silent, and Taen watched as her lips curled in a snarl that resembled the fang-baring of an angered wolf.

  “That’s right, you fools,” the witch continued, occasionally lashing out with a bolt of arcane power directed at Taen’s mystic wall, “you’ve finally discovered my secret—and too late to do anything with it. By the time those foolish othlor discover that you have failed in your mission, my forces will already be victorious, and with the power of the Staff of the Red Tree”—she pointed a gnarled finger in Marissa’s direction—“finally under my control, no force in all of Rashemen will be able to stop me.”

  “Who says we have failed in our mission?” the half-elf spat back at the crone, hoping she couldn’t see the tiny droplets of sweat that beaded on his forehead. At this point, he held his arcane defense together by sheer force of will—a will that was beginning to weaken with each successive blast of power from her outstretched hand.

  The witch’s laughter echoed through the stone cavern. “Who says?” she asked with a sharp-edged smile. “You foolish little elfling … I do!” The crone leaped forward with a piercing shout.

  Taen fell back a step despite himself. Now that she stood only a few feet from him, he could see with sickening horror the ruin of the crone’s left eye. Black power billowed out of the gaping hole where her eye should have been. A chill ran up Taen’s body, threatening to freeze his heart as he gazed into its obsidian depths. The half-elf felt something lurch from deep within him, as if the crone’s empty socket were some sort of unspeakable portal—a portal that opened into the vastness of another plane and threatened to suck in his spirit, leaving him trapped for all eternity in a sea of oblivion.

  Marissa’s shout caused him to pull his gaze away from the witch’s pulsating eye. Taen didn’t know how long he had been trapped beneath her baleful stare, but it had been enough time for the crone to cast another spell. This time, a sphere of roiling purple energy erupted from the center of her cupped hands and streaked toward the half-elf’s arcane wall, which collapsed with a sudden snapping sound as soon as the purple ball struck its leading edge.

  “Fleshrender,” the crone shouted immediately, “kill them!”

  Taen fell back another step beneath the shock of his spell’s destruction but felt Borovazk’s powerful arms supporting him. Without missing a beat, Roberc and Cavan stepped forward to meet the snow tiger’s charge.

  “Is time we finished this,” Taen heard the ranger’s voice hiss loudly in his ear.

  The half-elf cast a quick glance in his direction and nodded. All traces of levity and humor were gone from the Rashemi’s normally good-natured face, and Taen found himself thankful that Borovazk was an ally and not an enemy, for in the grim cast of the ranger’s jaws and the man’s iron-hard stare, he could see clearly see the warrior who had killed an ice bear with his bare hands.

  “Yes, Borovazk,” Taen said, drawing his sword as he did so, “it is indeed time.” The half-elf waited for half a heartbeat as the Song rose in him once more before he leaped into the fray.

  Marissa froze when she heard the harsh tones of the old woman’s voice, and her heart pounded violently within her chest. Memories swam before her eyes, visions of an ugly hag bending over her shackled body. Sweat beaded on her face, and she nearly dropped the Staff of the Red Tree from a hand that went suddenly slack from fear. It was as if she were back in the hag’s vile chamber of tortures without any hope of rescue. An unpleasant echo of pain seared her flesh as the crone’s voice rose to shriek defiantly at her companions.

  She would have been caught in the backlash of Taenaran’s spell as it collapsed before the witch’s arcane onslaught, but the Staff of the Red Tree buzzed angrily in her mind, dispelling the paralysis that had gripped her spirit. Quickly she stepped away from the conflagration and gripped the Rashemi artifact tightly, eyeing the newly joined battle. Roberc’s armor burned a dull yellowish-orange in the torchlit cavern as he and Cavan met the sword tiger’s charge. The halfling brought his sword up to meet the beast’s raking claw and cursed mightily as its incandescent flesh passed right through the metal, reached beneath his armor, and entered the fighter’s body.

  Marissa watched as Roberc stumbled slightly from the pain of the attack, forcing Cavan to throw himself to the side at the last possible moment to avoid biting down on his master’s flesh. The war-dog recovered quickly, however, and lunged forward, deftly dodging a powerful slash of the tiger’s razored claws. Cavan opened his jaws wide, prepared to bite deeply into his enemy’s neck—and nearly fell in a tangle of fur and barding as his momentum carried him right through the creature. Saliva sprayed wildly as his jaws snapped together on empty air.

  “Taenaran,” Marissa shouted to the half-elf as she observed the battle, “the beast is incorporeal. They’ll need help.”

  Taenaran nodded and quickly moved behind his companions. The druid heard his voice call out the words to a spell moments before twin green auras sprang to life around the half-elf’s hands. Careful not to interfere with his companion’s attacks, Taenaran touched both Roberc and Cavan. Immediately, the auras flared brightly then disappeared.

  Marissa knew that whatever spell he had cast would help her friends—but would it be enough? Already the crone had used the distraction of the snow tiger’s attack to begin a spell of her own. The druid could see black and purple energy coalescing around the crone’s upraised hands as she chanted and called out in a harsh, guttural language that sounded to Marissa like the screams of a thousand banshees.

  Two shimmering arrows hissed out of the shadows, streaking toward the chanting crone from Borovazk’s heavy bow. Marissa hoped that the gleaming arrows would have an effect, somehow interrupting the witch’s dark incantation, but the druid’s hopes were dashed like an old boat slammed against the rocks in a heavy tide. Ebon power flashed forth from the witch’s baleful eye socket, striking the missiles as they sped toward their intended target and instantly vaporizing them.

  Marissa knew that they would all be in serious trouble if they didn’t deal with the witch soon. Moving deftly around Borovazk’s bulky form, the druid opened her spirit to Rillifane’s power. Gratefully, she accepted the surge of divine energy and shaped it with the words of a familiar prayer. The air grew warmer in the cavern for just
a moment as she reached out and pressed her palm briefly against Cavan’s powerful flank. The war-dog paid her little attention, focusing instead on his enemy. He charged forward once again, but this time, the war-dog’s form shifted slightly. Surrounded by a golden nimbus of energy, Cavan’s muscles rippled and swelled, its body elongated and thickened—until at last it stood even larger than his snow tiger opponent.

  “Roberc,” Marissa shouted over the incensed roar of the incorporeal beast, “help Borovazk and Taenaran take down the witch. I’ll stay with Cavan.”

  The halfling glanced over at his spell-enhanced mount and flashed Marissa a wicked grin. “I. Live. To. Serve,” he said, sucking in great lungfuls of air between each word. He lunged forward with his sword one more time, drawing blood from the tiger with a wicked thrust of his blade then shifted to his left, allowing Cavan to take on the full brunt of the snow tiger’s attack. Without another word, the diminutive fighter joined the others as they advanced on the witch.

  Judging by the rippling black mass of energy that pulsated before the ancient crone, Marissa wondered whether it was too late.

  Taen could sense the arcane power building in the cavern. It hung in the air, pressing down on his inner vision, threatening to envelop him like a thick funereal pall. To his left, Cavan and the ghostly snow tiger were engaged in a grisly dance. Tooth and claw shredded fur and tore through skin as the two beasts raged and spat in a tangle of violence. For now, the spell-enlarged war-dog was holding his own against the fearsome tiger. With Marissa standing a few feet behind to administer divine aid and healing, the half-elf knew he could focus on their true enemy.

  He advanced slowly, with Borovazk and Roberc slightly behind and to either side. Taen’s sword pulsed dully in time to the Song that beat within his own breast. He shifted his grip on it slightly as he opened himself more fully to the melody that rose within him. The crone who ruled Citadel Rashemar disguised as a hag still held her gnarled hands above her head, pouring vile energy into a growing web of darkness that pulsated before her. Now that he could concentrate completely upon the ancient witch, it took the half-elf only a moment to realize the true danger they now faced. The blasphemous syllables vomited forth by the spellcasting witch were disturbingly familiar, echoes of an infernal tongue Taen had studied years before.