by Mel Odom
The koalinth reached for Sabyna even as three other heads surfaced.
“You closed the Great Barrier around Myth Nantar?” Pacys was astounded at Qos’s announcement.
The old bard sat on top of the coral in the courtyard south of the Maalirn College. Over the four days they’d talked, the storm giant seemed most comfortable there. Though he’d studied his host in detail, the old bard still hadn’t managed to pierce the guise the Green Dukar wore, nor managed to find out why he wore it.
“I had no choice,” Qos replied in his great, booming voice. “Myth Nantar represents the promise all Dukars made to each other and all of Serôs. When those we sought to protect and guide turned on each other during the Tenth Serôs War, I could stand it no longer. None of the Serôsian races deserved something as grand as this city and its promise.”
“The Dukars have faced problems before,” Pacys replied. His fingers idly strummed the saceddar, coaxing the tune he’d decided would best represent the storm giant.
“Yes,” Qos said. The giant paced, looking at the tall, tiger-coral covered buildings in the Law Quarter. “For nearly eight thousand years, the Dukars held positions of influence. Within five hundred years of our alliance with the sea elves of Aryselmalyr and our triumph over the koalinth, nearly five thousand years of peace ensued.” He closed his hand into a fist. “Can you imagine what those years must have been like?”
Pacys let his fingers roll over the saceddar, playing by instinct. “I can try.”
“During that time we built Myth Nantar and we created the Dukarn Academy. We did not know it then, but the Aryselmalyr sea elves planned to exact a price for letting us build there.
“The Dukars were told to swear fealty to the elven empire and the Coronal at Coryselmal.”
Qos clasped his hands behind his back and continued to pace. Being twenty-six feet tall, the giant’s strides were impressive to the bard.
“The elves began fighting among themselves and began trying to expand their empires,” Qos said. “The merfolk objected, and rightfully so. However, their first order of the day was to battle their way to Myth Nantar and claim it as theirs. The enmity between the elves of Coryselmal and Aryselmalyr escalated events. The Dukars stepped in, hoping to end it. Instead, the Dukars of Nantari who had sworn allegiance to Aryselmalyr warred against the other orders.”
Pacys listened to the sad weariness in the storm giant’s voice. Qos hadn’t lived during those times but it was easy to see that he had taken the history to heart. The old bard made the giant’s sadness and fatigue a part of the music, blending it so that it spoke eloquently.
“Never had anyone thought that Dukar hands would be raised against each other,” Qos continued. “They lived to promote peace and harmony throughout Serôs and all races, believing that Serôs could only prosper.”
“It was a grand dream,” Pacys commented.
“It wasn’t supposed to be a dream.” Fire sounded in the storm giant’s words. “That was the destiny of the Dukars, and why they founded their academies here in the City of Destinies. During that war, the merrow and the koalinth banded together to create the Horde of the Bloodtide, and mages aligned with Coronal Essyl created the Emerald Eye, which has been a bane in Serôs ever since. Also, our first new order among the Dukars, the Order of Nantari, was destroyed.”
A school of fish swam in front of Pacys, creating a haze for a moment. He watched their gentle undulations, felt the miniature currents break against his body. His fingers moved a little more swiftly, adding in the motion that complemented the mood he sought to create.
“When the shalarin arrived after that and we allied with them, we made powerful friends,” Qos said. “They easily took to the Dukar ways. Prosperity followed our orders again for a time, then a coronal was assassinated and the Dukars were blamed. The sea elves began striking out at the Dukar orders. In response, forty of the more aggressive of our order removed their normal colors and dressed in purple, calling themselves the Purple Order of Pamas, and began a limited war of their own.”
“But things didn’t end there,” Pacys said.
“No. War continued to be a way of life here, and everywhere it went, the Dukars could be found in it. Finally, after the Ninth Serôs War, the Dukars helped draft the Laws of Battle, hoping it would stem the tide of violence that seemed unstoppable in this world. When that failed, when the Dukars could no longer believe, they left Myth Nantar.”
“And without the Dukars to protect it, the City of Destinies fell to the sahuagin.”
“Yes.” Sadness almost quenched the angry, molten fires in Qos’s emerald eyes. “After I joined the Dukars, I came to Myth Nantar.” He gestured with one hand, taking in the expanse of the city. “I saw most of what you see here, and my heart could not bear it.”
Pacys looked at the storm giant, seeing past the towering foe to the gentle spirit beneath. He coaxed that image with his song, building it note by note.
“So I chose to close Myth Nantar from those who’d deserted her.”
Pacys knew the storm giant hadn’t kept everyone who’d journeyed to the City of Destinies away. Dozens had slipped in past the Great Barrier over the years when Qos had deemed them worthy.
“Why did you let me in?” the old bard asked. It was a question he hadn’t dared ask the first few days. Qos had obviously known he was coming but hadn’t been too much in favor of his presence.
“If it had been my choice,” the storm giant said, “I wouldn’t have.”
Pacys silently accepted that, his fingers never betraying the musical weave he worked on.
“The Great Whale Bard was my friend,” Qos went on. “He chose you. I chose to honor both his request and his memory.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
“What you normally do, bard. Tell the tale of what goes on around you.” The storm giant gestured at the surrounding city. “This is history in the making. The legend of the Taker is true. If we don’t remove him from Serôs, he will destroy everything.”
“Everything?”
“The rebirth of Myth Nantar. A second beginning, one that will be of even more import to those below and above.” Qos turned and pointed back to the Dukarn Academy off the Promenade of Kupav. “The weapon we need to accomplish that is there.”
“What is it?” Pacys stopped playing for a moment and turned to look. It was the first anything had been said of a weapon.
“The Great Gate,” Qos said. “Once it’s activated, it will pull the Taker and his army through it and exile him from Serôs.”
“Where will he go?”
“It won’t matter. Anywhere but here.” Qos locked his emerald eyes on the bard’s and said, “Song That Brings Bright Waters believed that you were the Taleweaver, the one destined to touch the heart of the young hero who would slay the Ravager.”
“How am I supposed to accomplish that?”
Qos shook his head. “These are legends, bard. As familiar with them as you are, you should know that legends never tell everything.”
“My song will,” Pacys declared. “When it’s ready, and when I sing it, the listener will know all.” He stretched, adjusting himself on the coral. “When will you open the Great Barrier?”
“As soon as Serôsian races can come to an alliance.”
“I believe the sea elves would be interested,” Pacys said. “As well as the shalarin, but the mermen remain adamant about staying apart.”
“They won’t,” Qos said, “once Voalidru falls.”
“I’ve overheard the sea elf warriors talking about that. The locathah keep information coming to us. The warriors believe the Taker has stretched his alliances too thin and that he doesn’t have the power to challenge Eadraal at this point.”
“The Taker is mustering his next army even as we speak.”
A cold chill raced through the old bard. “How?”
Qos held up his right hand. Green coral suddenly emerged from his palm and flattened, covering his huge hand.
“The Taker has surrounded the Whamite Isles,” Qos told him, “with an evil and ancient kelpie that sings its listeners to their deaths. He wracks the islands with massive earthquakes that will drive the people to the shore so they can hear the kelpie songs. Few, if any, will survive. When enough have died, the Taker will call the victims back as drowned ones in his service.”
Horror filled Pacys, stilling his fingers. He gazed at Qos’s palm where images formed. He saw the pallid figures hanging from kelpie beds in the black water, their arms and legs limp, their dead eyes red and blank, mouths hanging open. A few of them were drowning even as he watched, thrashing slightly as their lives left them.
“No,” the old bard cried hoarsely. “We can’t let this happen.”
“It already has,” Qos stated. “It must happen to make way for the only chance Serôs has at peace.”
Unable to look away, Pacys watched as more people dropped into the black water, immediately tended to by the kelpie beds. No matter how great his skill nor the fact that Oghma himself had set his present course before him, he would never be able to capture the abomination being played out before his eyes.
Blasted by the lightning bolt that should have killed him, Jherek hit the ground hard, so hard that the breath was driven from his lungs and he almost blacked out. He clung to his senses, though, thinking of Sabyna, Glawinn, and Azla trapped like rats in the cave. Rolling over on his side, he felt blood trickle down the side of his face.
The journey that had taken only days before had extended to two restless months. A sahuagin attack had cost them their rudder. Replacing the rudder had taken tendays after Steadfast had finally made a friendly port. Despite the time, the pull in his chest had brought him to Sabyna without fail, never once wavering.
As he got to his feet, the young sailor noticed the lightning bolt fading in the high sheen of the bracer on his left arm. The bracer had somehow protected him from the magical assault.
Black spots whirled in his vision as he gazed around the main cavern. Two of Tarnar’s sailors—the two he’d been thrown into—were down, alive but unconscious. Jherek looked for his cutlass but didn’t see it. The sounds of battle and the screams of dying men continued above.
He started to take one of the sailors’ cutlasses, but impulse drew his eyes to the chasm in the center of the cavern. Looking down over the edge, he spotted a man-made entrance cut in the left side six feet below him. Before he knew quite what he was doing, feeling pulled to get back to Sabyna’s side, he hung over the ledge, staring down into a pit that looked fathoms deep. Thankfully, the chasm walls provided finger and toeholds.
When he looked into the opening, he saw the sword hanging on the wall at the other end of what looked like a man-sized pink pearl box. Glancing at the other side of the chasm, he noticed what appeared to be the other side to the pink pearl room. The sword’s steel glistened with a lambent pink light.
Ignoring the reluctance that filled him, Jherek clambered into the room. It stood to reason that if a sword had been hidden as cleverly as this one, it had to be a powerful weapon. The question of whether the sword was good or evil only touched his mind fleetingly. As powerful as the mage in the other room was, Jherek needed a powerful weapon.
Wrapping his hand around the sword hilt, Jherek felt a small tingle run through his arm. He almost released the sword, but the tingle was gone before he did. He thrust the blade through his sash and climbed the chasm wall again, then he jumped up the ledge and ran back to the second cave.
Tarnar looked at him with a surprised smile and said, “I thought you were dead.”
“Iridea’s Tear saved me.” Jherek drew the sword from his waist, surprised that the blade was a curved cutlass and not the long sword he’d thought it was. The blade still held the pink glow.
Two of Steadfast’s crew lay dead inside the second cavern.
Peering into the shadows, Jherek saw Sabyna and Glawinn battling koalinths rising from the pool. Vurgrom’s men took advantage of the situation and rushed forward.
Azla stepped from behind a column, batted aside the pirate’s clumsy attack, then slid her scimitar across the man’s stomach, spilling his guts. Still on the move, the pirate queen engaged her next attacker. Steel gleamed as it moved, then she sank the dirk in her left hand between the man’s ribs, stiffening him up at once.
Lifting his arm, Jherek willed the bracer into a shield, then stepped into the cavern. One of the pirates rushed at him. The young sailor stepped sideways at the last moment, letting the pirate’s overhead swing go past him, then he slammed the shield into his attacker with all his weight behind it.
The pirate hit the wall and sagged, dazed by the impact. Before he recovered, Jherek knocked the man’s blade from his hand.
Tarnar stepped up and grabbed the pirate by the shirt, yanking him into a stumbling run and passing him back to one of his men.
“I’ve got him,” the captain growled.
“Don’t kill him if you don’t have to,” Jherek said.
“In that, my friend,” Tarnar said, “we are in agreement.”
Vurgrom bellowed orders from hiding but didn’t make a move to engage Jherek as the young sailor moved forward.
Iakhovas stood his ground, glancing at Jherek with real curiosity. “Who are you, boy?”
Jherek shook his head, peering over the shield and hoping it would hold against any further magic. “I’m no one,” he said.
“What are you doing here?”
Jherek thought he detected suspicion in the dark mage’s tattooed face and mismatched eyes. “Let my friends go,” Jherek demanded.
“I don’t know you, do I?” Iakhovas asked.
“I’m only going to ask you once.”
The man’s eyes narrowed and he said, “Boy, I’ve eaten creatures bigger than you.”
Without warning, Jherek stepped forward. It bothered him that the mage didn’t draw the sword at his side, but if he didn’t have to kill the man he wouldn’t. He swung the sword, surprised at how balanced it felt, like it was a weightless extension of his body.
Incredibly, Iakhovas grabbed the sword with his hand, stopping the swing, but from the pained expression on the mage’s face, it was a surprise for both of them. He lifted his hand, gazing with ill-concealed astonishment at the blood that spilled from around his closed hand.
“Who are you?” the mage demanded.
Before Jherek had time to answer, Vurgrom bellowed and rushed from hiding. He barreled across the short distance and slammed into the young sailor with his considerable bulk.
Already sore from his earlier fall, Jherek couldn’t keep his feet, but he did keep his grip on the cutlass. It felt as if his arm was being torn from its socket before the blade slid free of the mage’s hand.
“Going to kill you now, boy!” Vurgrom roared as he came down on top of Jherek. “I remember you from Baldur’s Gate. I should have killed you then.”
Willing Iridea’s Tear from shield to dagger, a handle forming in his hand, Jherek shoved it toward Vurgrom’s face. The fat pirate captain’s eyes rounded as he stared at the multi-colored blade. Taking advantage of the man’s shifting weight, the young sailor levered his forearm under his opponent’s jaw hard enough to make his teeth clack, then rolled out from under him.
Jherek willed the bracer into a hook, the handle fitting easily between his fingers. Vurgrom got to his feet at the same time as the young sailor, taking up his battle-axe in both hands. Iakhovas was still visible over the pirate captain’s shoulder, his attention torn between his bleeding hand and Jherek.
Reversing the battle-axe so the hammer end of it was forward, Vurgrom swung at the young sailor. Jherek dodged, barely escaping the speeding weapon. The blunt head smashed against the wall, cracking rock loose and driving stone splinters into Jherek’s face and left shoulder.
Lining up behind his blade, Jherek gave himself over to it, relishing the feel and movement. He whipped it forward, forcing Vurgrom into a defensive posture. The bigger
man managed to block the sword strikes, but only just.
Another pirate stepped from hiding at Jherek’s side, coming too quickly for the young sailor to bring the cutlass around. Jherek dropped, falling backward, watching the pirate’s sword flash by only inches from his face. The young sailor kicked upward, rolling on his back and right shoulder to get the necessary height, aware that Vurgrom was renewing his attack.
Jherek’s foot connected with the pirate’s sword arm elbow hard enough to crack bone. He continued the roll to escape Vurgrom’s battle-axe. More stone splinters sprayed against his back, then he was on his feet in a squatting position, ready to spring upward.
Vurgrom already had the battle-axe back and was swinging the blade at him, intending to cleave him between wind and water. Staying low, Jherek drove forward, firing off his bent legs and planting his left shoulder and neck at knee level.
Vurgrom squalled in surprise and toppled.
As the big man fell, Jherek rose to his knees and struck again, snaring the battle-axe’s haft with the hook. He brought the cutlass down hard and sheared the head from the haft. A small blue light flared as the weapon came apart.
Vurgrom raised the haft in defense as Jherek stood and swung again. The cutlass blade sliced through the thick axe haft as if it were made of paper. With uncanny precision, somehow knowing he could trust the sword, the young sailor brought it to a stop less than two inches from Vurgrom’s face.
“Surrender,” Jherek told him, “and I’ll not kill you.”
“You broke my axe,” Vurgrom said in disbelief. “That axe was enchanted. It’s never been broken before—never failed me.”
Jherek twisted the tip of the cutlass, emphasizing his point.
“Fight me hand-to-hand,” Vurgrom roared. “Give me a true man’s challenge.”
Breathing hard, perspiration and blood covering him, Jherek replied, “If there were time, and if there were honor in it, I would, but there’s no time, and the only honor at risk would be my own.”
