The beast tumbled sideways, rolling over the lip of the bridge and plunging into the darkness below.
Taen rolled to his feet and returned to the battle, relief at Marissa’s safety flooding through his body, combating some of the fatigue that threatened to slow down each parry and swing of his sword. The soaring melody of the Song accompanied him into the fray with a strength that he had not experienced since his days as a tael. He settled into the Song, wanting to abandon himself to it completely, but he kept waiting for that dreadful moment when it would drag at the core of his being like a blood-hungry vampire, so he fought his enemies under an uneasy truce with the Song building within him.
Behind him he could hear the druid shouting words to another spell.
Marissa watched the intricate dance of Taenaran’s swordplay and marveled, not for the first time, at the half-elf’s fluid style, the lithe interplay of body and steel, moving and weaving with an almost unearthly grace. Where Borovazk and Roberc met the ogres’ powerful attacks with an almost equal ferocity, the half-elf seemed to flow with his opponent’s energy, blending with it instead of meeting it head-on.
To an unschooled observer, it would look like nothing more than a playful dance, a choreographed piece of theater with no application to the real world, but Marissa saw within Taenaran’s flowing movements the deadly art of the bladesinger. She’d seen the half-elf use his training in battle before but never like this. Marissa knew the shame that he carried within him, knew that such a burden often caused the young half-elf to fight his trained battle instincts. The result was usually a stilted attack, something that resembled the art she had seen a few times before in her life-like a pseudo-dragon resembles a full-grown wyvern-but never quite matched its purity.
Something had clearly changed for the half-elf-had been changing ever since they started off on this journey, if Marissa was honest. In combat, at least, he seemed no longer to be two persons-a gifted acolyte of an ancient and revered art, and a dishonored exile struggling to find peace-inhabiting the same skin. The druid saw in his uninhibited sword work what he must have been before tragedy and guilt had crippled him. The vision made her smile-not for the destruction Taenaran wreaked, but for the healing that so obviously had taken place.
A furtive movement off to her side caught Marissa’s attention. She spun to face it just as a swarm of giant spiders dropped down onto the bridge from the darkness above. The druid cursed as the fat-bodied arachnids scuttled forward on long, spindly legs. She had been too busy focusing on the battle in front of her, not paying attention to any danger which might present itself from above.
She called out a warning as the bloated spiders attacked. One of the monsters leaped toward her, attempting to knock her down with its thick body, which looked to be nearly three feet in diameter. Marissa spun out of the creature’s path and brought her staff down on its head. Blood and gore sprayed the bridge as her mystic weapon struck the spider with a meaty thump. The wounded monster let out a horrifying screech and scuttled backward, spinning madly in pain.
Another arachnid darted forward quickly, nearly tripping the druid. She dodged wildly out of the way, breathing a quick sigh of relief as it bit nothing but the air, mandibles clacking together harshly. Marissa’s celebration was short lived, however. Two more spiders crawled over the side of the bridge. The druid managed to call fire down upon one of them. It shrieked and died almost instantly, its long legs curling inward as its body smoked and smoldered on the bridge. Its companion, however, scurried around the corpse, finally interposing the bulk of its body between her and her companions. Before she could react, three more of the creatures followed suit. She called out once more to her friends, but the press of the remaining ogres and goblins pinned them to their own defensive ground.
As one, the spiders attacked.
Two of the creatures scuttled forward and caught the druid’s staff in their barbed mandibles. Desperately, she tried to shake them off, but their arachnoid strength was too much for her. The remaining two leaped forward. This time, the druid could not avoid them. One of the spiders bit down hard on the flesh of her neck. She screamed once in pain and felt the beast’s deadly toxins flow, mixing with her blood. Fire burned within her breast.
Immediately, her vision swam. Horrified, she could feel the poison sapping her strength, sending shuddering spasms like shockwaves through her muscles. Dimly, she recalled the words to a spell that would burn the toxin from her system. Marissa called out the words to the spell just as another spider bit down hard upon her thigh. The fragments of her spell blew away like a candle snuffed by the wind.
“Taenaran,” she managed to cry out before the darkness took her in its shadowed arms.
Taen heard Marissa’s cry.
The half-elf ducked beneath the club of the last remaining ogre and looked behind him. He was horrified to see the gathering of spiders surrounding the beleaguered druid. The shock of it shattered the strains of the Song. Energy fled from his arms and legs. They felt heavy, weighed down by fatigue and fear and sorrow.
“See to her,” Borovazk shouted and barreled into the lone ogre, forcing the creature back a single step.
Taen gazed at the battered and bloody Rashemi ranger just for a heartbeat before running toward the druid. Even from here he could see the angry purplish-red tracks wending toward her heart from the wounds on her chest and leg.
Poison!
Taen knew that he had only moments to scatter the spiders and let the druid drink from one of the potions he had with him. Pushing his body beyond its limits, the half-elf leaped into the air. He sailed in a wide arc, one that he knew would carry him over the menacing bodies of two spiders.
Only to rebound off of an invisible barrier.
The half-elf fell to the ground at the same moment that he witnessed Marissa do the same. He would have screamed her name, but the fall had sucked the wind out of him. Desperately he pounded against the wall, using both sword and spell, hoping to bring it down, all the while watching the spiders cover Marissa’s body with their disgusting webs. Though the invisible barrier flickered and flared several times beneath his assault, the mystic wall held.
Within moments, the spiders had secured Marissa and began to scuttle up in to the shadows, crawling quickly up their nearly invisible strands of web. Taen shouted separately to his companions for help. In silent accord, Borovazk and Roberc plunged their weapons into the remaining ogre. It fell to the ground, shaking the bridge. At its demise, the few remaining goblins shrieked in fear and fell back into the undertomb.
Quickly Borovazk dropped his weapons and drew his curved long bow. With surprising speed, he loosed two arrows. The feathered shafts hissed into the shadows, pursuing the retreating spiders. Taen watched them cut through the air like hunting falcons-only to veer quite suddenly to the left, as if swatted by an invisible hand.
Taen cursed and fell to his knees.
Above him, spiders carried Marissa’s web-covered form into the darkness.
Chapter 21
The Year of the Serpent
(1359 DR)
Thunder rumbled among the storm-wracked sky.
Chill rain fell like a hail of arrows upon those tael still battling in the forest clearing. The senior apprentices fought hard, their bodies carried forward in a complex dance of deadly steel. Loud gasps of breath echoed in the clearing, cutting through the silence left behind by the harsh clamor of blades, the ring of steel upon steel.
Despite a bone-deep fatigue that threatened to slow and paralyze muscles worked hard to the point of failure, Taenaran was enjoying himself. An opponent’s sword snaked toward him on his left side. Without breaking stride, he flicked his own blade in a downward stroke at the incoming attack. As the weapons met, he raised his right foot and twisted his hips, using the initial momentum of his parry to carry him into a sideways flip. The maneuver allowed him to avoid a second opponent’s incoming sweep toward his legs. He slid to the left, and his two opponents attacked each other.<
br />
Such was the way of alu’dala, the water battle. Alu’dala was an ancient exercise, a group combat where each participant met and blended with the attacks of all others near him. The purpose of the exercise was not so much to vanquish opponents as to flow with the energy each attack created. Among masters, the alu’dala could last days.
Taenaran would be satisfied if he made it through the next few candle lengths. At first, the rain had been a welcome gift, cooling off his overheated body. Now the frigid water mixed with his own sweat, running into the half-elf’s eyes and making it difficult to see the whole battlefield. He barely avoided the slashing attack of a long-muscled apprentice to his right. With an inward curse at his own lapse of concentration, he sucked down a lungful of air and rolled across the rapidly muddying ground, bringing his own sword up to attack the nearest opponent. It was a difficult maneuver, one that required a great deal of coordination. The fact that he executed it perfectly brought a smile to his face-and a grimace of dismay from the defending apprentice, who obviously hadn’t expected the half-elf to succeed quite so spectacularly. Even though the apprentices’ blades were not honed to combat sharpness, they could still do some damage. Taenaran’s sword slipped beneath his opponent’s guard and pierced the elf’s skin. The wounded apprentice fell backward just as one of the masters called out his elimination from the exercise.
Taenaran had little time to worry about his erstwhile enemy, as two more swords whipped at him from behind. He spun quickly, knocking both blades away in a precise parry that brought a murmur of approval from the junior apprentices and those senior tael who had been eliminated from the alu’dala.
The half-elf felt his face begin to flush. For many years, he had endured the whispered comments, the biting insults murmured behind covered faces or concealed within seeming compliments or worse. It wasn’t uncommon for some of the other apprentices to target him specifically during exercises such as the alu’dala, purposefully trying to overwhelm the younger but stronger half-elf. If the masters saw any blatant harassment, they were quick to put a stop to it. Much more went on, however, behind the el’taels ‘ backs. It was nice to receive the occasional acknowledgement of his skill.
It was even nicer, the half-elf thought, to have Talaedra witness it. Although he couldn’t see the young elf maiden, and he didn’t dare take a moment to look for her silver-haired beauty among those assembled, Taenaran knew that she was watching.
He didn’t have too much time, however, to bask in the accolades. Both opponents, the only two remaining besides himself in the alu’dala, began to weave a deadly coordinated attack, seeking to draw his blade too far away during a parry so that the other could strike at his unprotected flank. He took a moment to gaze at the two enemies before him and cursed silently. Andaerean and his never-far-from-him companion, Nardual, were two of the most active antagonists during his time as an apprentice. It had been clear from very early on that the golden-haired, bronze-skinned Andaerean somehow took umbrage at Taenaran’s presence among the tael. It didn’t help that his Uncle Faelyn worked with the haughty elf apprentice privately to hone his skills. Nardual, however, never seemed to hold a personal grudge against Taenaran. He simply followed his elder companion-though out of a misguided sense of loyalty or a lack of imagination, Taenaran never knew.
He did, however, have his suspicions.
The half-elf managed to catch the sly smirk that spread across Andaerean’s face before the elf lashed out with a booted foot. Taenaran’s instincts cried out for him to dodge the hasty kick, but years of training had helped him identify the real threat. Nardual’s weapon slashed to Taenaran’s right, perfectly aligned to strike the half-elf in mid dodge. Instead, he took the brunt of Andaerean’s attack, catching the elf’s boot with his free arm and wrenching his opponent off balance. Nardual’s sword whistled about a hand’s width from Taenaran’s shoulder.
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.
Bladesinger f-3 Page 18
