by Ed Greenwood
They were all fleeing to Mrelder’s left, shrieking and jostling as they ran. The crackle of fire and the clang of hard-wielded weapons sounded very near, off to the right.
Beyond the warehouse to his left stood a taller, finer building. Wisps of steam coiled from a door left ajar, bearing the soft tang of seawater. This must be one of the heated saltwater baths said to be popular in Waterdeep. Mrelder stepped closer.
A soft plash of disturbed water came through the steam. Mrelder frowned. It was unlikely even the notoriously jaded citizens of Waterdeep would be idly soaking in the public baths as their city burned around them.
Then he heard something more from inside the bathhouse. Faint converse. The tongue was strange, liquid-sounding and guttural: Clicks, grunts, and deep thrumming croaks that plumbed depths no human voice could reach.
Mrelder looked around for a likely weapon. One nearby crate looked sturdier and less rotten than most strewn about the alley. He pried loose one of its boards, noting with approval two long iron nails protruding from one end. Sidling up to the bathhouse door, he peered in cautiously.
Three large, wet, green-scaled creatures were padding softly through the steam of the lofty, many-pillared bathing hall, finned tails lashing. Barbed-headed spears were clutched in their webbed claws, and their staring black eyes were intent on the panicked crowd visible through the multi-paned windows along the street-front.
Vaguely human, they resembled enormous upright frogs with tails that brought to mind merfolk or gigantic tadpoles. Their fish-like heads bristled with spikes, and were split by gaping jaws filled with lethal-looking fangs.
Sahuagin.
Mrelder swallowed hard, slipped inside, and followed them, flitting from pillar to pillar as silent as a shadow.
Dripping, the fish-men stalked to the ornate front doors of the bathhouse. They glanced at each other—and then kicked the doors open, leveled their spears, and charged into the street. A chorus of screams and desperate shouts rose above the battle-din.
Mrelder hurled himself into a run. Bursting from the building, he slammed his board into the head of the central, largest sahuagin, driving the nails deep into the glistening scales at the base of the creature’s skull—
—and breaking the board into splinters.
The sahuagin was thrusting its spear viciously over the shoulder of its comrade to the left at a tall armored warrior beyond. As Mrelder’s strike slammed home, the creature shuddered. Before it could turn, he leaped onto its back and rode it down to the cobbles.
The sahuagin writhed and bucked, trying to free itself of both imbedded weapon and stubborn attacker. The broken board swung wildly, slamming into Mrelder’s clenched jaw.
He struggled atop the fish-monster, avoiding its spines as best he could. Around him was confusion, swords swinging on all sides, scaly limbs waving, bubbling screams rising wetly from beneath him. Angry shouts were laced with squalls of rage and pain that didn’t sound human.
Finally Mrelder managed to tear the broken board-end free. Tossing it aside, he seized the finned head by two of its spines, and threw all his strength into a quick, brutal twist.
Something broke sickeningly under those wet scales. The sahuagin shuddered again and went limp.
Seeking the ruins of his board again, Mrelder sprang off it, afraid the other fish-things would—
And found himself staring up into the open visor of a fine, burnished war-helm, into a face lined by well-spent years—and a calm swordpoint of a gaze, leveled at him by eyes that were kind and wise.
This, marveled the awed sorcerer, is what a king looks like.
The regal man looked right through Mrelder, as if able to see everything the young sorcerer was and his every last guilty secret. Sudden dread rose in Mrelder and was as swiftly gone; the man was giving him an approving smile.
“Ably done,” he said, in the rich voice of one cultured yet commanding. “Without your aid, that spear would have found me.”
Mrelder tried to return the smile, but his mind was awhirl. He’d never seen such splendid, silver-blue battle armor. Knights in warsteel just as fine were gathering beyond the tall warrior’s broad shoulders, but Mrelder’s attention was on the bright silver crescent of metal covering the tall warrior’s throat, a device that bore an elaborately wrought stylized torch—the arms of the Lords of Waterdeep.
Mrelder had seen its unmistakable likeness that very morning, on a page of an obscure book of Waterdhavian lore. He was looking at the Guardian’s Gorget, a magical device of great power, fashioned for and worn by only one man.
“My Lord Piergeiron,” Mrelder breathed, awed to find himself in the presence of the Open Lord of Waterdeep.
Piergeiron clapped him on the shoulder in a soldier’s thanks to a battle-comrade. Drawing a long dagger, he pressed it into Mrelder’s hand.
“Well met, lad. That board of yours is not good for much more fighting; take this.” The lord grinned. “If you’re so minded, there’s work yet for us all.”
If? At that moment, Mrelder would cheerfully have followed Waterdeep’s Lord into a volcano!
A deep rumbling shook the cobbles under their boots then, and everyone turned to peer at Mount Waterdeep. Another thunderous impact followed, and then another.
The young sorcerer followed their gazes and found himself whispering “Mystra’s sacred shadow!” in fresh wonderment.
A man-shaped colossus of weathered stone, ninety feet tall or more, was striding down the mountain, finding—and sometimes making—a sure path to the harbor. Mrelder had never expected to set eyes on one of the fabled Walking Statues, much less watch it walking!
“That should hold our foes,” Piergeiron said in satisfaction, watching the great construct lumber along.
He turned his head. “Are you with me, lad?”
“I’d not want to be anywhere else, just now,” Mrelder said firmly, and they traded heartfelt smiles.
Time passed in a bright haze of blood and fire. Never far from Lord Piergeiron’s side, Mrelder fought errant flames, vicious fish-men, and men who swarmed the shadows of Dock Ward like rats to loot and steal and stab.
It seemed as if the lord’s band was a running, tireless whirlwind. When at last Piergeiron barked a halt in the courtyard of some grand mansion, Mrelder’s shoulders sang with pain, and his eyes swam with smoke and stinging sweat.
Around him, the grandly armored knights of Piergeiron’s guard sprawled wearily on smooth stone benches or leaned against statues, tending small wounds and seeing to their weapons.
One handed Mrelder a water flask. “Whence do you hail, monk?”
The sorcerer drank deep before murmuring, “I’m no monk. Trained to fight as one, yes, but I’ve not taken orders in the service of any god or temple.”
The knight smiled. “Smart lad. Gods are like women: When there are so many fine choices, why should a man limit himself to but one?”
This philosophy was greeted with a few tired chuckles from around the courtyard.
Piergeiron turned to give Mrelder that commanding gaze. “Listen but lightly to Karmear. ’Tis a fine path you’ve chosen. My father was a paladin, and I’ve always held the deepest respect for all who choose the way of the altar.”
“My father’s a priest,” Mrelder blurted. Surprised by his own outburst, he stammered hastily, “Or was. I’m not sure …”
The Open Lord’s brow furrowed. “You know not if your father lives? ”
“No, Lord. We parted badly, some time ago.” Mrelder hesitated, not sure what to say. “I was … I could not be the son he wished me to be.”
“When you leave Waterdeep, you must find him,” Piergeiron said firmly. “From what I’ve seen this day, I’m certain any father would rejoice in such a son.”
The words, spoken with such assurance, kindled hope in Mrelder. Could it be that he, who’d proved capable in a fray and was at least comfortable as both sorcerer and monk, might be weighed in Golskyn’s grim measure and finally found worthy?
Piergeiron nodded. Eyes never leaving Mrelder’s, he reached into a belt-pouch and drew out something small, black, and gleaming. “This is a Black Helm. I’d like to hear how matters fall between you and your father. If you return to the city, present this at the palace, and the guards there will know you as a friend to Waterdeep and to me.”
Mrelder stared down at the charm. It was a tiny replica of Piergeiron’s own war-helm, rendered in fine obsidian and pierced to be hung on a neck-thong.
“My lord!” was all he could find to say.
The tall paladin waved away his stammerings and turned to address his knights. “The city’s quiet. There’ll be much to do come morning, but our night’s work is done.”
At this dismissal, the men rose slowly and stiffly, taking up swords and helms. Mrelder politely refused an offer of lodging for the night in their barracks and waved farewell. Candlekeep was expecting his return and report. The last he saw of that shining-armored band was Piergeiron’s answering wave and smile.
Twilight slid into night as Mrelder made his way deeper into Dock Ward. Dazed citizens stumbled past, wandering like sooty ghosts amid the ruins of homes and businesses.
As the weary sorcerer trudged along, he murmured, “Arranath.” Belloch’s gruff voice promptly announced in his mind: To find Candlekeep, seek the same circular symbol that adorns our floor, and say aloud ‘Arranath’ when touching it. The symbol is in the wellhouse behind the shop called Candiera’s Fine Shoes and Sandals, on the west side of Redcloak Lane three shopfronts south of Belnimbra’s Street, in Dock Ward.
Mrelder’s destination looked humble indeed. Timber-framed buildings leaned dark and close over narrow streets. Ramshackle balconies and catwalks meandered from one to the next, many crossing overhead and casting the streets below into deep shadow. Belnimbra’s Street, however, was long, broad, and well-known, and Mrelder soon found Redcloak Lane.
He turned into it, shouldering past merchants morosely trying to salvage wares from a tangle of wrecked and charred carts—and stopped in dismay.
The corner shop stood intact, but most of the west side of Redcloak Lane beyond it was gone. Candiera’s Fine Shoes and Sandals was just a few plumes of smoke drifting from blackened ruins.
Mrelder stared at the mess, sighed, and strode forward. The soot might make things look worse than they really were, and along Redcloak two or three buildings rose undamaged out of the swirling smoke like surviving teeth in a crone’s grin. Perhaps …
Perhaps not. The second building, a shop offering stools, benches, and chairs, seemed largely untouched under a thick veil of soot, but the third was a tumbled pile of blackened timbers, fronted by a crazily leaning doorframe that now led nowhere but still sported a blackened signboard proclaiming to all Waterdeep that this was Candiera’s Fine Shoes and Sandals.
Mrelder sighed again and started to pick his way through the still-warm embers, dodging drifting cinders as he went.
His boots grew warm as he trudged through tumbled, blackened spars and over a heap of stones that had recently been a chimney into an open area beyond: a stretch of back alley that hadn’t disappeared under the rubble of fallen buildings.
Right in front of him, like a gift from the gods, stood what he’d been told to seek: a communal wellhouse, a small stone hut that had escaped the flames.
Opening its peg-latch door, Mrelder felt his way down the stone steps inside. The wellhouse was damp and dark, but dim light beckoned ahead. A single stroke of crumbling glowpaint had long ago been splashed across the ceiling. In its glow he made out an uneven stone floor, a few scattered pebbles, and the well, a simple circle-wall of stone covered with a cross-braced wooden disk like a barrel-end. Mrelder lifted this lid by its rope handle and held it up to the glowpaint.
There on its underside was a crudely carved rune, the echo of the mosaic in Candlekeep that had brought him here. He smiled—which was when the faintest of grating sounds came from beyond the well, hinting of unseen places and stealthy lurkings. Mrelder ducked down, easing the well-cover to the floor. Leaving it there, he crept around one side of the well, drawing the dagger Piergeiron had given him … had it really been just half a day ago?
He could make out things in the gloom now. He’d thought the cellar drew down to an end just beyond the well, but now he saw its deepest shadows hid the mouth of a stone-lined passage.
Wet feet slapped stone in its darkness, pounding quickly toward him!
A huge sahuagin lurched into the well-cellar, its dark-eyed, spiny head nosing this way and that as it sought to see all perils. It was larger than any sea devil Mrelder had seen before, and its hulking torso sprouted two—two!—pairs of long, heavily muscled arms. One limb hung limp and useless, shattered ends of bone protruding from a deep sword-gash, but the other three all held bloodstained blades of various sizes. Seized in battle, no doubt, from men this fish-beast had slain.
It hissed at Mrelder and leaned forward, seeking to reach over the well with its swords.
At full stretch, its trio of blades could just span the stone circle, but it could not seriously menace Mrelder so long as he could move freely.
He moved now, backing to the steps with his lone dagger raised. He mounted the first step by feel alone, keeping his eyes on the sahuagin.
The fish-beast hissed again, the gills on its neck flaring convulsively, like a hooked fish gasping on a riverbank. It occurred to Mrelder that the sahuagin was dying, drowning in the thin air.
The creature tried again to lunge across the well, but the act of reaching made it shudder in pain and draw back, swaying. In a moment, it would choose one side of the well or the other and come around the stones in another charge.
Mrelder readied his dagger for a throw. It was well-balanced, the finest war-steel he’d ever wielded, and would fly straight and true. At this range he couldn’t miss, and if he feinted first to make the sahuagin commit its arms and blades in an attempt to block his strike and then flung his steel, it would have no time to dodge or deflect. A quick toss would win Mrelder time enough to race back up the steps and flee into the ashes and drifting smoke.
From what I’ve seen these past hours, I’m certain any father would rejoice in such a son.
Piergeiron’s remembered words stilled Mrelder’s arm.
He stretched forth his other hand, palm down and fingers splayed, and worked almost the simplest of spells.
The wooden lid rose into the air and spun toward the sahuagin. Three blades batted at the spinning disk, but the force of Mrelder’s magic kept it on course. The lid caught the fish-beast just below its ribs and sent it staggering back.
The sahuagin slammed solidly into the stone wall and slid down it, too winded to draw breath.
Mrelder advanced, chanting another spell, this one of his own devising and used on his last familiar: the bright Chultan snake that had once been large enough to swallow two of Golskyn’s servants.
The sahuagin began to shrink. It dwindled, spasming and clawing the air in a violent—and vain—struggle against the magic.
When the fish-man was no taller than the length of Mrelder’s hand, the sorcerer ended the spell. The moment the sahuagin was released, it hissed and darted toward the tunnel.
Mrelder snatched up the tiny creature in one hand and tugged a vial from his belt-pouch with the other. Ignoring the sahuagin’s fierce struggles—an easy matter, as its fangs and webbed talons were now no more vexing than a kitten’s claws—the sorcerer pulled the vial’s cork with his teeth and tapped a single drop of fluid onto the sahuagin’s head.
Gills flared, instinctively grasping the proffered moisture—and the tiny creature went stiff and still.
Mrelder tucked vial and immobilized sahuagin into his pouch. Then he moved the inverted wooden lid to an open stretch of floor and stepped onto the rune-design. With
but a word, he and his prize would be in Candlekeep. “Arr—”
Just in time, he remembered his familiar’s fate. The sahuagin was no good to him dead.
Hissing one of his father’s viler oaths, Mrelder drew it from his pouch and scowled at it. A dead sahuagin wasn’t hard for a man like Golskyn to acquire. Capturing one alive, now, was another matter, but how could he keep it living until he was ready to face his father … and endure the grim transformation that must follow?
Mrelder stepped off the gate to think.
He could see only one path: hide the creature here and return for it at some later time. If he couldn’t take this prize to Golskyn, he’d bring his father to Waterdeep. Surely even the great Golskyn wouldn’t scorn such an offering as a four-armed sahuagin, nor the son who’d brought it to him!
He caught up a handful of pebbles in case he needed to toss or drop them to judge unseen distances, then strode into the dark tunnel. Unpleasant wet and rotting smells assailed him as he felt his way into deepening chill and damp, groping at the rough walls in search of hiding-places.
Eventually he found one: a small niche in the uneven stones to his left, well above his head and near what felt like an empty but sturdy iron torch bracket. Mrelder hid the tiny monster there behind most of his handful of stones and then cut free one of the leather thongs that criss-crossed his soft boots to ensure a snug fit. He tied the thong to the bracket, letting it dangle there to mark the hiding-place for his return.
Mrelder stood listening for a breath or two, afraid the small noises he’d made thus far might have lured other sahuagin—or worse—hither.
He heard nothing, not even the plink of dripping water, and with a relieved sigh returned to the wellhouse, took his place on the gate, and murmured, “Arranath.”
Once again, the floor seemed to give way under his boots, plunging him into a silent, dreamlike freefall.
He emerged into warm lamplight in the circular chamber in Candlekeep where an anxious Belloch was pacing.
The monk’s scowl fell away as he rushed forward to clasp Mrelder by the shoulders. “You’re the first to return! What news?”