Elfsong Page 7

  Two of the creatures came in low to circle the elf, each wielding a stout club fashioned from an ogre’s leg bone. Fighting with sword and dirk, Elaith held the pair of harpies off. The harpies’ wheeling flight kept them out of reach of a killing strike, but Elaith slipped past their guard again and again. The monsters were each bleeding from a dozen hits.

  Others of his band were not so fortunate. To the far side of the battlefield, three creatures hunched over a disemboweled body, cackling and arguing over the entrails. The man’s outflung hands spasmed repeatedly, indicating that he was—if but for a short time—still alive. Nearby, Balindar faced off in a hideous duel with a large harpy, bristling with arrows but still full of fight and fury and wielding a bone club as handily as a swordsman uses a rapier.

  When his two opponents finally lay dead, Elaith snatched up his bow and sighted one of the three harpies still circling the battlefield. His first arrow flew directly into a harpy’s open mouth, ending its song and sending it plummeting to the ground. The next shot was not as clean; he brought his target down, but the harpy landed close to the forest edge. It was wounded but still singing. Elaith snatched an arrow from the quiver of one of the enspelled men, and prepared for a shot that would finish off the harpy. He nocked the arrow and sighted down his target. So odd was the scene playing out at the forest’s edge that for an instant Elaith lowered his bow and stared.

  Another fighter had joined their battle. A ragged hermit harried the wounded harpy, poking at it with a stout piece of wood as if he were playing with a chained and snarling puppy. To all appearances, the hermit seemed to be enjoying the battle; his shoulders shook, and his high-pitched giggle rang through the shrill harpy song and Elaith’s protective barrier of peppergum sap. The hermit’s rags flapped around emaciated limbs as he danced about, and a wild tangle of dirt-colored hair fell to the middle of his back. Glad for assistance of any kind, Elaith turned his attention back to the problem at hand. His final arrow took the last flying harpy through the heart.

  Only one harpy still sang; the one fencing with Balindar. Eager to end the unearthly song, Elaith hurled his dirk toward Balindar’s opponent. The weapon spun end over end, catching the harpy in the back, directly between the wings. The shock of impact threw its arms wide, and the creature’s song exploded into a final shriek. Balindar grinned and finished the beast with a quick thrust He and Elaith closed in on the three feasting harpies, swords leading.

  Loathe to abandon their meal, the creatures bent protectively over the torn corpse and hissed at the approaching swordsmen. While the harpies watched the deadly elf and the huge black-bearded fighter, two of Elaith’s men slipped in from behind and stabbed a pair of the monsters in the back. Before anyone could strike again, the third harpy lumbered into the darkening sky. It flapped toward the north, a length of dripping entrails hanging from its talons.

  The silence that shrouded the battlefield felt as thick and heavy as a dense fog. After a long, tense moment, the survivors plucked the protective sap from their ears and faced their losses. Three men had been killed and five more stood frozen by the harpies’ charm song or poison. They had killed eleven of the monsters, but Elaith did not consider the battle a victory. He was left with four able men, not counting himself or the riddlemaster. The number was not equal to the challenges of the road ahead.

  The elf kicked over one of the dead monsters and bent to retrieve his dagger, holding his breath against the noxious odor. The high-pitched giggle rang out again, this time at his elbow, and Elaith whirled to face the hermit, who had finally dispatched the harpy Elaith had wounded earlier.

  Beneath the tangled thatch of hair was a filthy, beardless face and wild eyes of a distinctive almond shape and violet hue. Violet eyes! Elaith recoiled in horror and disgust. The mad hermit was an elf. As if to confirm this discovery, the hermit grasped a handful of matted hair in each hand and raised it high. One ear was missing entirely, but the other was long, pointed, and definitely elven.

  The hermit gazed down at the slain harpy, shaking his head sadly. “Smelly things to be sure, but dance to the harp they do!”

  The sight of a fellow elf grieving over a harpy was too much for Elaith. “Get this creature out of my sight,” he snarled at Balindar.

  “Perhaps you should reconsider,” Vartain interrupted. “This unfortunate fellow appears to be the sole survivor of Taskerleigh. We should question him, insane though he undoubtedly is. Perhaps he can tell us more about what happened here, so that we might plan the next step of our journey.”

  Elaith nodded, for something that hermit had said might be worth pursuing. Grasping him by one bony arm, Elaith pulled him upwind of the harpy’s carcass. “You spoke of a harp. What about it?”

  The wretched elf spread his fingers before him, staring down at them with an awe that suggested that he had just now acquired the bony digits. “I played it,” he whispered. “I played the harp, and even the korreds crept from the forest to dance to its silver tones.” The hermit’s words sounded calm and measured, and Elaith began to hope that they could yet glean some useful information.

  “Was there anything special about this harp? Does it have a name?”

  “It has been called Morninglark, and it is more special than you could imagine,” the ragged elf replied calmly.

  “Where is it?” Elaith demanded.

  Grief flooded the elf’s wasted face. “Gone,” he mourned. “Taken!”

  “By whom?” Vartain asked.

  The hermit turned his violet eyes to the riddlemaster. “A great green one. His breath killed the villagers where they stood.”

  Elaith and Vartain exchanged incredulous glances. The hermit was describing a dragon attack. “How did you survive?” Vartain asked.

  “Magic.” The hermit’s bony arm traced a circle in the air around his head, obviously pantomiming some sort of protective sphere. He pressed his fingertips to his forehead. “I live, but the dragon’s gaze shattered my …” His voice drifted off into silent despair.

  Elaith was not feeling any too cheerful himself. Dragons of any sort were uncommon, and greens were both rare and reclusive. The hermit’s dragon was most likely Grimnoshtadrano, a venerable wyrm who lived nearby in the High Forest. The dragon seldom ventured out of the forest, so he had apparently wanted the elven harp badly and would not be willingly separated from it Not, of course, that it would be easy to take from a full-grown green dragon something of which he was only moderately fond.

  “Grimnosh,” muttered Balindar in disbelief, and then he shook his massive dark head. “I’m for heading back to Waterdeep. I’ve no notion to end up like these folk,” he said defensively.

  “Farmers,” Elaith pointed out “And judging by the number of dead, not enough to give the dragon a fight”

  “There were many more than we found,” Vartain corrected, drawing an exasperated look from his employer. “I suspect that they were—”

  “Eaten,” the hermit broke in, speaking in sepulchral tones. Once again he broke into shrill laughter. This time his giggle held an edge of hysteria, and he hurled himself into a wild dance, spinning and leaping amid the corpses that littered the ruined garden.

  Elaith turned away, his face unreadable. “Collect the survivors. We’re moving out”

  “What of these men?” Vartain asked, pointed to those who were frozen by the harpies’ musical charm. Three were unharmed, but the Northman, if he lived, would no doubt be blinded. The fifth man bled profusely from four long, ragged gashes where claws had raked his upraised sword arm. His immobile features showed no acknowledgment of the wound, but his skin was pallid, and he would surely die if not treated soon. “We lost three fighters to the harpies and cannot reasonably afford the loss of five more.”

  The elf closed his eyes, rubbing his aching temples. “Tie them to their horses, if you must, but we’re leaving this place!” he said, raising his voice to be heard over the hermit’s insane giggling.

  “We caught these three trying to sneak up
on us,” Mange’s reedy voice announced from behind Elaith. “Bring ’em over, men!”

  “More harpies?” the elf asked wearily, not bothering to turn around.

  “Almost, but not quite,” announced a familiar, irritating drawl. “And you know what they say—whoever the Nine Hells they are—almost only counts when you’re throwing horseshoes or magic fireballs.”

  Disbelieving horror flooded Elaith’s face. “No,” the elf whispered, silently cursing the gods for rewarding his misspent life in this manner. He turned around slowly. Sure enough, there stood Danilo Thann, wearing an indolent grin and apparently too foolish to be frightened by the four mercenaries who’d escorted him to their feared elven employer. The man flipped aside his tabard and waggled the harp-and-moon pin affixed to the shirt beneath.

  “Not harpies,” Danilo Thann amended cheerfully. “Harpers. Quite a difference, when you think about it.”

  “That may be so.” The elf’s eyes narrowed into amber slits. “My situation, however, has not noticeably improved.”

  Four

  Lucia Thione gazed with great satisfaction at the ballroom of her Sea Ward villa. All was in readiness for the party, a lavish affair that would open the Midsummer season. Never had planning a party been so difficult, and she felt a sense of accomplishment as she viewed what weeks of toil had yielded.

  Vases of fresh roses filled every alcove and graced the small tables. That in itself was a triumph, for a strange blight had fallen upon the crops and gardens of Waterdeep this year. Perhaps the working people experienced this as a hardship, but to Lucia it was merely an inconvenience that could be circumvented, provided one possessed the money and creativity. As a buyer for merchant caravans, Lucia knew where almost anything could be found. Roses had been rushed from Rassalantar, and vats of raspberries from the Korinn Archipelago north of the Moonshaes. Venison, quail, and partridges had been brought from the Misty Forest, a day’s ride to the south. Lucia’s steward had laid in a supply of smoked salmon from Gundarlun and barrels of Neverwinter’s famed icewine. A small army of servants would be on hand to tend to the guests’ needs, and in an hour the musicians would arrive for a final rehearsal under the critical eye of Faunadine, Master of Festivities. Faunadine was a plump, graying halfling whose skills were much in demand. Her attention to detail made the best and most elaborate parties seem effortless, and Lucia considered hiring the halfling away from Lady Raventree a personal and political triumph.

  The silvery notes of a harp interrupted Lucia’s complacent thoughts and filled her with indignation. Surely, her well-trained servants had not admitted a musician before the appointed time! She followed the sound to a window alcove, her purple velvet slippers whispering across the polished marble of the floor.

  In the curve of a bay window, under a trellis covered with flowering vines, sat a drab half-elf woman, playing a small dark harp of ancient design. To a casual observer, the woman’s fading hair and simple gray gown made her look like a plump and matronly goodwife, entirely out of place in the elegant room. Since it was Lucia’s job to see what others missed, she noted the haughty, aristocratic tilt of the half-elf’s head, the power and assurance in her long-fingered hands, and the intelligence in her vivid blue eyes. Although prudence demanded that she summon a servant to oust this intruder, instinct warned Lucia that this was something she should handle herself, and carefully.

  “I have met all this evening’s performers,” Lucia began. “Despite your skill on the harp, lady, you are not one of them. May I know your name?”

  The harpist did not look up from her playing. “You may call me Garnet. Since we have worked together before, I see no need for formality. Please, sit down.”

  Lucia sank onto the low, velvet-covered bench, as far away from the strange half-elf as possible. “My memory is excellent, but I don’t recall our association.”

  “Three nights ago, in the Street of Swords bazaar district. That ballad you heard was mine, and that bard is under my influence. By itself, the ballad is creating quite a stir, but I watched you at work afterward, and I must admit that you enhanced the situation admirably.”

  “You flatter me,” the noblewoman said cautiously, distressed to learn that her actions had not escaped notice.

  “Not at all. I’ve made some inquiries, and you are an astonishingly versatile woman. Your business interests make you an influential part of Waterdeep’s web of commerce, and you pay membership dues to two guilds. You have also reached a high position in court society.” Garnet finally stopped playing and looked up, locking her intense blue gaze with the noblewoman’s wary eyes. “And, most important, you have managed to infiltrate the Lords of Waterdeep. No wonder the Knights of the Shield speak highly of you. I am told that you’re their highest ranked agent in this city.”

  Lucia’s heart thumped painfully, but she merely folded her hands in her silken lap. “I would be a fool to admit to any of this,” she said.

  “Yes, you would,” Garnet agreed with a thin smile. “But since I am quite sure of my facts, I don’t require verification.”

  The noblewoman’s mind raced over the possibilities. Other than her trusted agents, no one in Waterdeep knew that she was a member of the Knights of the Shield, a secret organization from the south that gathered information and manipulated politics to whatever end suited them. Obviously, with this information, Garnet could threaten to ruin her in Waterdeep and demand whatever she liked. There was a second danger: the half-elf’s words revealed to Lucia that this information had come directly from high officials in the Knights of the Shield. Lucia had secured her position with the Knights by claiming to be one of the secret Lords of Waterdeep. Since the identity of the Lords was a closely held secret, and since the Knights and the Lords were bitter enemies and not known to exchange information, she had little fear that either her superiors or the true Lords would discover her ruse. If this half-elf—who clearly had the ear of someone important among the Knights—was going to demand favors that only a Lord of Waterdeep could accomplish, then Lucia had a serious problem.

  “You seem to know a great deal about me, and therefore you have me at a disadvantage,” Lucia said sweetly, hoping to draw more information from Garnet

  “What would you like to know?” the half-elf responded bluntly.

  “Well, you said that the bard was under your influence. How was this done?”

  Garnet plucked a large purple trumpet flower from the vines overhead and handed it to the noblewoman. “I’ll show you how it was done,” she said simply, and once again she put her fingers to the harp strings. She began to play a lilting dance tune, to which she sang a few lines of cryptic verse.

  The flower in Lucia’s hand collapsed into a withered brown thread. The noblewoman gasped and looked up at the trellis. The vines were also blighted, and a dead leaf drifted onto her upturned cheek. Lucia brushed it off and took a deep, steadying breath. “You are a sorceress then, as well as a bard.”

  “Whether those are two separate things or parts of one talent is a matter for a later discussion. It will suffice to say that, like you, I have many skills. We share a single purpose, however: to work against the Lords of Waterdeep.” Garnet gently removed the harp from her shoulder and leaned toward the noblewoman. “May I speak frankly?”

  “Please.”

  “Working from the inside, you can do much against Waterdeep’s secret Lords. But can you strike against Khelben Arunsun?”

  “Many have tried and failed. He is too powerful,” Lucia hedged.

  “That is my point precisely,” Garnet said, stabbing the air with a slender finger. “Khelben is far too powerful. Many consider him the backbone of the Lords’ power and influence. This offends me. I do not believe he should be in a position of political power, and I will see him removed.”

  Lucia doubted this, but she was in no position to argue. “What would you have me do?”

  “Harass the other Lords. Keep them busy, off guard. Send them running about the city stamping out small f
ires.”

  “You hardly need my help for that Waterdeep has many problems these days.”

  Garnet smiled and inclined her head in a slight bow. “Thank you.”

  The noblewoman absorbed this, studying the withered flower in her hand. If the blight on the local fields and crops was Garnet’s doing, this woman was powerful indeed. “How will you remove Khelben from his position?”

  “The archmage may be too formidable to attack, but no one is too powerful to discredit”

  “But the Knights of the Shield have sought for many years for information we could use against him!”

  “A thing need not be true to be damaging,” Garnet pointed out “An accusation need not be proven; ofttimes it is enough that words are said. Words have great power.” She reached out and stroked the dark wood of her harp. “As does music.”

  After a few moments’ reflection, the sorceress continued. “I control many bards. They will spread tales about Khelben, and about his lady. As it happens, most of these will be true. I know many things about Khelben, things only a few of his closest friends suspect. My bards will apply pressure, as you saw the other evening.”

  “And I?”

  “You know who the Lords are. If enough of them are kept out of the way, we increase the pressure on Khelben. Eventually, even he will make a mistake, and you may be assured that all the city will know of it.”

  “But doesn’t that put you in a dangerous situation? When these little-known tales are told, they may well be traced to you.”

  “Very perceptive,” Garnet said approvingly. “The Knights were not wrong in their estimation of your talents. But I have anticipated that, and I have prepared a distraction. Khelben’s nephew, Danilo Thann, has bardic pretensions. I have improved many of the young man’s songs, and I have woven them into the memories of the bards I control. You can be sure that these songs are widely and often sung. As you know, Waterdeep is a city of passing fashions, each pursued almost fanatically before being abandoned for the next. Danilo Thann’s songs are currently all the rage, and the Waterdhavians listen with close attention and great interest Thus shall I use Danilo Thann to discredit his uncle, the archmage, while deflecting attention that might have otherwise come my way. He will accept the credit, and the blame.”