Bladesinger f-3

by Keith Francis Strohm

  Taenaran groaned once the two companions moved out of sight. “Now you’ve done it,” he exclaimed. “Andaerean is truly angry now.”

  “Andaerean is a pig,” Talaedra spat, “whose manners, however cleverly disguised, would be more appropriate among orcs than elves. I cannot believe what he said to you.”

  Taenaran felt the tips of his ears burn with shame. “Then you heard what he said?” the half-elf asked. “Well,” he continued, not waiting for a response, “thank you for coming to my rescue.” He gave the maiden a quick bow then started to walk toward his pack.

  “Where are you going?” Talaedra asked. “We haven’t talked about tonight.”

  Taenaran stopped suddenly, as if caught in a spell. He turned to face the elf maiden, afraid that she would disappear and he would come to realize that this whole day had been nothing but a dream. “Th��� Then you were serious about this evening,” he stammered when Talaedra didn’t fade from existence.

  Her smile lit up the storm-clouded clearing. “Of course I was serious,” she replied. “Where shall I meet you?”

  “But your father,” Taenaran began, “won’t he be-”

  “My father,” Talaedra interrupted, “will be far happier knowing that I am spending the evening with an honest and good-hearted tael, no matter his bloodline, than if I were accompanied by a conniving and spiteful apprentice who barely conceals his own venomous heart behind a web of lies.”

  Taenaran simply stared, unable to respond.

  “Good,” Talaedra said, “I’m glad that it’s settled. Why don’t I meet you at the Verdant Pools and then we can walk to the celebration together?” She smiled once more then bent forward to kiss Taenaran lightly on the cheek before leaving the clearing.

  The half-elf still stood there, honestly confused by what had just happened. Perhaps, he thought, this really was a dream.

  Thunder rumbled in the distance, as if in answer.

  Drops of water fell from rain-soaked trees, spattering Taenaran’s cloak. Absently, he wiped away the few errant droplets that ran down his face. Despite the arrival of spring, the night air held a fierce chill. Above him, thick clouds shrouded the moon’s illumination in a mantle of silver-gray luminescence.

  None of it mattered to the half-elf. In fact, another Time of Troubles could have fallen upon the world and he would scarce have noticed-for Talaedra waited just beyond the next bend in the forest path. Friendships had been hard to come by, living as a half-blood among the elves of Avaelearean. Taenaran’s friendship with the young elf woman meant that much more to him because of such difficulties. Now, however, the half-elf felt as if they stood upon the brink of something more, something deeper than friendship.

  Taenaran smiled in the darkness as he scrambled up the last rise leading to the Verdant Pools. His smile turned to a curse as the worn leather scabbard he wore banged against an outthrust expanse of rocks. Not for the first time, he wished that he could travel without the weight of his sword dragging at his side. As a student of the bladesinging art, however, he was expected to wear his sword always-as a means of being prepared for anything that might occur, as well as to remind him of his essential duty to the elf people.

  When the shadows along the trail suddenly surged and shifted, resolving into several heavily cloaked figures, Taenaran prayed silently in thanksgiving that he had not, for once, shirked this discipline. The half-elf spun to his left, eliminating the possibility that his enemies could surround him by pressing his back against the rock. One of his assailants stepped forward and swung a thick-boled length of wood at him. He ducked beneath the blow and tried to draw his weapon, only to find himself caught beneath a press of bodies. Punches and kicks rained down upon him. He tried to cry out, but the violence of the attacks knocked the wind from him. When the weight bearing him down to the muddy earth disappeared, it was all he could do to crawl on all fours, gasping for breath.

  “Get up, you a Tel’Quessir scum,” a voice barked from somewhere above him.

  Taenaran gazed up at his assailants, who stood around him in a loose circle. They each wore thick black cloaks and most of their faces were covered with a thin black veil, leaving only their eyes to stare coldly back at him. The half-elf wiped blood from his nose with the back of his hand before struggling to rise. His mind spun rapidly as he fought to stand. Had they discovered Talaedra? Was she safe? By the sound of their leader’s comment, this wasn’t an attack from outside the elf community.

  “I said rise,” the voice shouted again.

  It was followed by the sharp strike of a booted foot against Taenaran’s ribs. He doubled over in pain but refused to fall to the ground. Carefully, he tried to calm his mind and gain control of the fear that ran through his body, leeching his strength. The mind was a warrior’s greatest weapon. His masters had said that often enough, and now he intended to take advantage of their wisdom.

  “Stand before your betters, ape,” the leader spoke again.

  This time Taenaran clearly identified Andaerean as the speaker, despite his attempts at camouflage.

  “Andaerean, stop this at once!” another voice cried-Talaedra’s.

  Taenaran cast around for the elf maiden and found her struggling to free herself from the hold of two of his attackers. She looked unharmed; fire burned within her gray eyes. Relief flooded through the half-elf. At least she hadn’t been hurt.

  “I wish I could stop it, Talaedra,” Andaerean responded, “but I can’t. This one must learn his place!”

  “When my father hears of this-” Talaedra began.

  “Go ahead, run to your father, Tal,” Andaerean spat. “Who would believe that I had anything to do with this?” The elf looked around at the other cloaked figures. “Besides, I spent the evening before the celebration training,” he continued with a harsh bark of laughter, “and a master will confirm it.” Andaerean stared right at Taenaran as the others carried on his laughter.

  “You filthy piece of troll dung,” Talaedra shouted. “I’ll-”

  “Shut up!” the elf demanded, as he raised a fist and brought it down hard upon the elf woman’s face. “If you want to be an ape-lover, I can’t stop you, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to listen to you mewl about this piece of filth!”

  As the elf’s fist smashed into Talaedra and she sagged against her captors, something burst deep within the half-elf. All of the anger and shame he had felt his entire life welled up within him like a magical storm. It wasn’t enough that they hurt him, now they chose to hurt someone he cared deeply about.

  It would end here.

  With a snarl of rage, Taenaran quickly drew his sword, ducking easily away from the hands that grabbed for him awkwardly. His blade sang from its scabbard with a terrible, metallic keen. In his white-hot rage, he could not see Talaedra plant a wicked jab with her elbow into the stomach of her captor. Nor could he see her kick herself free from another of the elves and lunge forward, toward Andaerean.

  All that Taenaran held before him was the sight of Andaerean’s eyes-eyes that mocked and belittled him with their dismissive gaze. The multiverse slowed to a single heartbeat as the half-elf screamed his hatred at his tormentor and plunged the length of his sword directly at the elf’s cold heart.

  A woman’s cry brought Taenaran back to reality.

  Standing before him, impaled on the edge of his sword, Talaedra gazed at Taenaran with eyes widened in shock and surprise. Her mouth worked to form words but none came. Only a red stream of blood poured forth, spilling down her chin. She hung there for a moment, arms outstretched, before light fled from her eyes and Talaedra’s body fell backward.

  Taenaran looked at the fallen woman then at Andaerean, whose own face registered shock and horror. He tried to say something-anything-but grief stole his voice.

  Moments later, a sharp blow crashed down upon him, and Taenaran fell headlong into darkness.

  Chapter 22

  The Year of Wild Magic

  (1372 DR)

  She was gone.
>
  Taen knelt on the hard stone floor of the bridge and wept silently. Tears just barely held in check glistened wetly around eyes red with grief. He had failed once again. His own deficiencies had once more caused harm to someone for whom he had cared deeply. It hadn’t mattered that the Song had come to him like an old friend instead of a bitter enemy, strengthening his arm and bolstering his swordplay, rather than stealing his strength with the fear of its presence. The half-elf knew that he had stood on the threshold of everything that he had trained and striven for in his life-and it hadn’t been enough.

  He hadn’t been enough.

  Marissa was gone-likely dead-and their mission in shambles. The knot in his chest confirmed what he already knew in the cold, dispassionate part of his mind. It was his fault. He should have seen the danger from above, should have anticipated the attack. Instead, he had allowed himself to get so caught up in the joy of finding the doorway to his art that he hadn’t even heard her scream for help.

  Taen saw her in his mind’s eye, her skin sallow and puffy from the spider venom, withdrawing into the darkness. In that moment, Marissa’s face blurred, became the face of another woman, wrapped in burial silk instead of spider webbing-but just as dead.

  He felt a hand rest gently upon his shoulder. “Borovazk is sorry, little friend,” the ranger said, and Taen could hear the grief hanging heavy upon the Rashemi like a great gray burial stone, “but we must push on. Is not safe for us to remain on bridge.”

  Taen looked up at the ranger and felt himself nod at the warrior’s words. The action felt foreign, different, like the movement of a stranger. It was as if the half-elf gazed upon his body from across a vast chasm, so that he was at the same time within and without himself.

  A sound caught his attention-high pitched and pitiful. It took his divided consciousness a few moments to recognize that someone else was weeping. Surprise turned to anger as he turned to face the source of the sound. Yurz lay on the ground, rolling across the uneven stone and wailing. The goblin’s spindly arms flailed in every direction as he gave voice to his grief.

  Taen’s grief transformed into rage at the sight of the pathetic creature. “You,” he shouted, leaping to his feet. “You did this!”

  The half-elf crossed the distance between them quickly, almost pouncing on the bereaved goblin. Grabbing Yurz by the scruff of the neck, he hoisted the goblin up in the air. The creature shouted in fright as he hung above the bridge, kicking his bare, misshapen feet in a desperate attempt to break free.

  “Tell me why I shouldn’t throw you off this bridge,” Taen shouted. “Tell me!” He dangled the goblin over the black mouth of the chasm below. “You led us into a trap, you filthy spawn of a dung troll, and now Marissa has been taken.”

  “No!” the goblin screamed shrilly in protest. “Me no hurt Pretty Lady. Me friend. Not know why tribe here. Ugly One must have known.” The goblin shook his head piteously.

  “You lie,” the half-elf hissed between clenched teeth.

  His anger rose like a tidal wave within him, threatening to sweep away the last vestiges of his reason. Part of him knew that his rage at the hapless creature was misplaced, but he couldn’t stop it; it exploded out of him like the fiery breath of a red dragon.

  “Taen,” he heard Roberc call out to him, “we have to go��� now!” the halfling shouted.

  He turned, still holding Yurz over the edge of the bridge, and saw both Borovazk and Roberc running toward the open door to the citadel’s undertomb. They were right, of course; he didn’t have time to vent his anger and grief on the treacherous goblin. If there was any chance of rescuing Marissa and making it out alive, they had to push on, yet he wanted nothing more than to slake his need for revenge. It would be so simple to just open his hand and watch Yurz tumble into the abyss below.

  Taen knew that he wasn’t thinking clearly, knew that at some level, he also hung over an abyss-one of his own making. At that moment, Yurz and he were linked. If he tossed the goblin into the chasm, he, too, would be lost forever.

  What did it matter, Taen thought bitterly. Marissa. Talaedra. He always ended up destroying the very people whom he loved the most. Let the abyss take him. Perhaps he could find in the depths of its unending shadows an end to his heart’s fierce burning, a final rest from the pain that had plagued him each moment of his adult life.

  “Don’t hurt Yurz,” the goblin cried, glancing wildly at the chasm below and back to Taen. “Me like Pretty Lady. Me help find her.”

  Caught between his rage and despair, it took a few moments for the half-elf to process the goblin’s words. “What did you say?” he asked.

  “Me find Pretty Lady,” he repeated, desperation causing the goblin’s voice to squeak even higher. “Me know where Ugly One keep prisoners. Me lead you to her.”

  Taen thought about it for a moment. How could he trust this creature? Even if Yurz hadn’t betrayed them-which was a big “if”-Yurz was still an evil, cunning little monster. Enchantment or not, he was loathe to trust Marissa’s life to his fickle sense of loyalty.

  Yet how could he squander any chance that he might actually be able to save her, to rescue her from the fate that his failures had brought upon her. He stared at Yurz, his limbs frozen with indecision.

  “Taen��� now!” he heard Roberc’s voice again, this time much closer.

  A sharp tug on his arm ended the paralysis. The half-elf blinked slowly, as if waking from a deep sleep. Roberc stood at his side, sword in hand. He could see Borovazk standing at the entrance to the undertomb, gazing into the darkness beyond.

  Taen dropped Yurz unceremoniously on the stone floor of the bridge. The goblin quickly got to his feet and danced around him.

  “Thankyouthankyouthankyou,” the creature gibbered almost unintelligently, his eyes agleam with emotion. “Yurz lead you to Pretty Lady, you see. Yurz friend to Pretty Lady’s friends-”

  The half-elf reached out and stilled the whirling goblin with a harsh grapple. “If you so much as think a betraying thought in that ugly head of yours, I will separate it from your body so fast that you won’t even know you’re dead until you watch your headless corpse tumble to the floor,” he said menacingly. “Got it?”

  Yurz gulped audibly. “Yes,” he replied in a frightened voice. “Yurz hear what bald elf say.”

  “Good,” Taen said and pushed the goblin toward the open door to the undertomb. “Then let’s get going.”

  The ghoul fell back against the wall.

  Taen withdrew his sword from the creature’s chest. The monster slid down the smooth stone of the tomb wall, the gleam fading from its undead eyes. To his left, Borovazk crushed the last two creatures with one mighty swing of his warhammer. Dried bones snapped as the weapon slammed the hapless ghouls against the ground.

  “How much further?” Taen asked their goblin guide.

  “We not too far away,” Yurz replied. “We almost out of the undertomb.”

  “Good,” the half-elf replied, wiping the slime and congealed blood from his sword. They had spent a long time traversing the cramped passages and chill crypts of the citadel undertomb, dodging more goblin patrols and a seeming horde of skeletons and zombies. Several times they had entered a seemingly empty room only to be beset by ravenous ghouls and even the occasional wight lurking in the shadows. Taen’s arms ached with fatigue, his muscles long since pushed past the point of exhaustion. This last battle had nearly undone him. He sheathed his now-clean sword and rested briefly, his breath coming in great ragged gasps.

  “Friends rest now,” Yurz said, shooing Taen and his two companions to the center of the crypt. “Me search for secret way up into citadel.” It was a testament to their fatigue that no one attempted to gainsay the anxious creature.

  Taen dropped to the floor and massaged his sword shoulder. Borovazk and Roberc did the same, though the halfling spent most of his time cleaning the blood from Cavan’s matted fur. The ranger looked around at their surroundings, unease written clearly upon his face
. This room was larger than most, its smooth stone handsomely decorated with fading murals and elaborate stonework. Two of the walls were filled with human-sized horizontal alcoves, each occupied by a skeleton bedecked in ancient armor. Several sarcophagi sat in the center of the room, their heavy stone lids shattered by the force of the ghouls that had poured out of them.

  “What’s the matter, Borovazk,” the halfling asked, “besides the fact that we’re trapped in an undead-infested tomb trying to rescue Marissa from the clutches of a powerful hag?”

  Taen found his temper rising as the halfling’s acerbic comments filled the silence of the room. Fatigue won out over anger, however, so the half-elf bit his tongue, grasping the hilt of his sword as he did so and cursing the necessity for rest that caused them delay. Besides, he knew that Roberc would fight through every layer of the Abyss to rescue Marissa.

  For his part, Borovazk ran a meaty hand through his sweat-soaked hair before answering the halfling. When he did finally speak, his usually resonant voice barely filled the chamber. “This is great resting place of heroes,” the ranger said hoarsely, pointing to the walls of the crypt and beyond. “Borovazk feel sad to fight Rashemi whose bodies have been corrupted by the foul work of the hag and her witch ally. Is not right. The dead deserve honor.” This last he nearly shouted.

  Taen looked up and cast a measuring glance at the ranger. The skin beneath Borovazk’s eyes sagged, bruised and nearly black with fatigue. The human’s normally irrepressible smile had faded-when that had happened, Taen hadn’t noticed-replaced now by a wide-mouthed frown. Dried blood and thick black patches of congealed slime marred the normally pale hue of his face.

  At that moment, the half-elf realized that he wasn’t the only one who blamed himself for Marissa’s capture. Both Borovazk and Roberc held a haunted look in their eyes and a grim cast to their features. That fact unaccountably lightened his own heart, and he recalled something that his father used to say: “A burden shared is a burden lightened.” He was so caught up in his own misery that he hadn’t realized how deeply his companions grieved for Marissa. The half-elf began to understandin the way that one does when light first shines in a dark place-that perhaps this was the root cause of much of his problems: he was always focused inward on himself, on his own guilt and misery.