Keith Francis Strohm

by Keith Francis Strohm

  "Shut up," the half-orc commanded, punctuating her demand with a hard slap across the face. Marissa felt blood begin to trickle down from her nose. The hot liquid ran into her mouth, causing her to gag. Hands grabbed at her hair, causing the druid's head to snap back sharply. "If you make another sound," the half-orc hissed in her ear, "I will make sure that my mistress greets each of your friends personally before their blood waters the ancient stones of her altar. Is that understood?"

  Marissa shook her head mutely, all the while pray­ing to Rillifane for guidance and perseverance. When the sounds of battle stopped and silence fell beyond the doorway, it took all of Marissa's strength to not cry out. Instead, she held her breath, waiting to see who had triumphed.

  Nothing happened.

  For the space of thirty heartbeats the world lay in complete stillness. Nothing moved or made the slightest sound. "You see," Marissa's captor began, "I told you—"

  When the stone door flew open and the world erupted into light, the druid called out Taenaran's name.

  * * * *

  The door opened into darkness—a deep, shadow-filled haze from which ushered the sound of his name. Taen's heart leaped as he heard Marissa's voice calling out to him. They had not arrived too late to save her. Now they only had to stay alive long enough to walk out of here with the druid.

  Light from the corridor behind him spilled into the room, banishing the gloom that hung about the chamber like a pall. Manacles and other more dire devices hung from the walls and ceiling. Dark reddish brown stains covered the floor, growing thicker and more numerous beneath the spiked chains that ran along the wall. Taen nearly gagged at the stench of bitter herbs and rancid sweat that soured the air.

  When he finally caught sight of Marissa, trussed up cruelly by a thick chain that wrapped around her good hand and traveled up to the ceiling, where it ended in a metal bolt, the half-elf's heart skipped a few beats. Marissa's normally lustrous red hair lay matted thickly against her head, caked with dried sweat and crusted with congealed blood. Dark bruises blossomed like evil flowers beneath her eyes, and a thick stream of blood flowed from her nose.

  "So " a voice hissed from out of the remaining shadows, "I see that you managed to defeat my little pet. You will not find it so easy to overcome me."

  Taen drew his sword at the sound of the voice. Behind Marissa, stepping out of the shadows as one might step out of a fine robe, a dark figure strode into view. From where he stood, the half-elf could see that it was a female with some measure of orc blood. One thick hand wielded a rune-covered mace that looked to be made entirely of stone, while the other hand sported a metallic bracer from which sprouted four razor-sharp claws. The light from the hall behind him reflected dully off the half-orc's polished plate armor, throwing three purple scars running down toward the creature's throat in harsh relief. An onyx disk with a single glowing rune hung from her neck.

  "Don't be too sure about that," Taen shot back, nearly quivering with rage. Here, at last, was someone at whom he could take out his frustration and anger for Marissa's captivity. He pointed the tip of his blade at the half-orc, and was surprised to see the silver runes flare into life. "We've fought our way into the heart of this gods-blasted citadel, and we're not going to stop until we've walked upon the broken husk of your corpse."

  "Ahh," the cleric muttered with a mock smile, "it seems that the hero has brought a pretty speech along with him. What's next, a profession of your undying love for the captive elf?"

  Taen's anger rose in him then stilled as he watched the half-orc's smile fade when she caught sight of his blade. "That's a pretty toy you have there, elfling," she barked. "I'll make it a gift to my mistress as she sucks the spirit from your body for all eternity."

  "Enough talk," Borovazk shouted from behind Taen. "Ugly cleric hurt little friend. Borovazk say let's kill cleric now."

  The cleric gave a half bow. "You're welcome to try," she responded then called out a single word.

  Immediately, the floor beneath Taen's feet began to buckle. The half-elf looked down, alarmed to see the thick stone undulating and roiling like a wave in the surf. Quickly, he dived forward, rolling to his feet on a patch of stable ground. As he stood, the half-elf summoned arcane power and intoned the words to a spell. Blue-green lightning sped from his outstretched hand, arcing toward the cleric. Taen watched in mute astonishment as the bolt of lightning veered oddly at the last moment, striking a round glass sphere that hung on a chain around the half-orc's neck. The glass glowed briefly when Taen's spell lashed against it, finally fading as it absorbed the arcane force.

  The half-elf had little time to dwell on this unfortu­nate occurrence as two arrows hissed by his head, cutting through the air toward the cleric. Just as it looked like they would strike the cleric, a purple flare of energy erupted, and the missiles jerked swiftly, batted away by some divine force.

  Roberc charged forward, the force of his momen­tum blunted slightly by the shifting floor, and ducked beneath a wild swing of the cleric's mace. Swiftly, he stabbed forward with his blade, finding a hole in the juncture of his opponent's armor. The blade slid forward easily then stopped, as if striking stone. The wounded cleric shrieked in pain and fell back a step.

  Though obviously not as hurt as she should have been from the ferocity of Roberc's attack, she gave the halfling a penetrating look, as if sizing up her opponent for the first time. The cleric slashed down with her claws swifter than a coiled asp. The metallic blades sent sparks flying from their contact with the halfling's armor. She reached out again, this time with her hand, and struck a blow across Roberc's face. Instantly, black power seeped out from her hands, dripping like dark acid across her enemy's face. Roberc let out a shriek and stumbled back­ward, madly clutching at his helm.

  Taen moved forward, executing a series of swift attacks that forced the half-orc to move backward slowly. That gave Borovazk time to drop his bow and charge in with his axe. The weapon whistled sharply as it cut through the air. Twice the edge of the axe bit into the cleric's flesh, and both times divine power blunted the force of Borovazk's attack.

  As the now-familiar strains of the Song began to rise within him, Taen noticed that the cleric chanted softly beneath her breath. Senses honed from decades of disciplined practice caught the edge of power in the air. Desperately, he launched himself forward, taking great swings with his sword in an effort to strike his opponent and disrupt the half-orc's spell before she completed it. As the chant rose to a hushed crescendo, he managed to complete a feint to his right then slip underneath the cleric's guard. His blade sliced open the thick flesh of the half-orc's arm. She gave a shriek of pain which turned into the final words of her spell.

  A column of flame shot angrily down from the ceiling overhead. Taen saw the swirling conflagration and dived to his left, managing to avoid most of the roaring flame. Borovazk, however, was not so fortunate. Taen heard the ranger's roar of agony above his own cry of pain as the flames engulfed him. The Rashemi fell backward from the force of the spell, his cloak smoldering in the divine heat.

  Taen stumbled as well, trying desperately to catch the breath so quickly sucked from his lungs by the unearthly blast of heat. The misstep cost him dearly. His opponent leaped forward, bringing her stone mace down hard upon his unprotected shoulder. The half-elf felt bones grind and snap beneath the force of the blow and nearly dropped his weapon from the pain. Even worse, the red runic inscriptions upon the mace flared into life, sending a series of crimson energy pulses into Taen's face. He screamed as the pain from a thousand needles lancing his eyes swept through him. For a moment, a curtain of darkness fell over the world, and he stumbled forward, blinded by the cleric's mystic mace. Thoughts of Marissa at the mercy of this vile tormentor filled Taen's mind, bringing with them a rising flash of anger. He shook his head twice, and the world resolved slowly back in to place.

  Borovazk and Roberc had recovered as well, and both companions pressed the cleric with deadly attacks, offer­ing Taen a chan
ce to catch his breath. The rigors of the past several tendays had begun to take their toll. The half-elf felt it in the sluggishness of his own body and saw it in the stiff attacks of his friends. They would need to end this battle soon. The cleric had been right; vanquishing her would be far more difficult than he had surmised originally. With a deep inhalation, Taen gathered the remnants of his power and cast another spell. Instantly, he could feel the arcane energy cours­ing through him, speeding reflexes and allowing him to move faster than normally possible. He had a desperate plan in mind—if only he could survive long enough to execute it.

  Empowered by the magic of his spell, the half-elf sped forward, easily moving between his companions and ducking a wild swing from the cleric's mace. Roberc stabbed upward with his sword, forcing the half-orc to block the attack with her claws. Taen spotted his open­ing and launched himself forward, concentrating solely on his attack. Quickened by his spell, and fueled by the power of the Song that rang in his heart, Taen leaped in the air and spun, allowing his momentum to add strength to the attack. His first blow struck the obdurate stone of the cleric's mace, forcing her arm away from her body. The attack left him open, however, and he felt the sting of the half-orc's claws as they ripped through his armor and bit deep into his chest. He ignored the pain, and with a single cry of rage, he sliced downward with all his might.

  Taen's blade parted muscle, sinew, and bone as it sepa­rated the cleric's arm just above the elbow. The wounded cleric screeched in agony as her arm hit the floor with a meaty thump. Hot blood pumped from the open wound, spilling out in steaming pools upon the cold stone.

  Unbalanced by the attack, the cleric was unable to fend off another strike from Borovazk's axe. Bone crunched and shattered as the force of the blow knocked the half-orc back several steps. Taen could see the desperation carved now upon her face. She took another step back and weakly chanted a single phrase. Immediately a glowing circle appeared around her, coruscating with silver energy. The glow intensified as arcane power surged around her.

  Taen shouted a warning, sensing what was about to happen. If they didn't do something in the next several heartbeats, their enemy would escape them. He ran toward the heavily wounded cleric, hoping that his enhanced speed would allow him to reach her in time. He was surprised, then, when Cavan's furred form shot by him. The war-dog gave a deep growl as he launched himself toward the cleric. He struck the half-orc with the weight of his body, pushing her outside the confines of the circle.

  The gleaming circle faded.

  Taen reached the war-dog in time to see him savagely tear at the cleric's throat. His hapless opponent struck out wildly with her claws, but the wicked blades merely rebounded off of the war-dog's tough barding. With a single wet gurgle, the cleric's body convulsed once then stilled.

  Taen fell to his knees and mouthed a prayer of thanksgiving to the gods.

  Chapter 25

  The Year of the Serpent

  (1359 DR)

  Exile.

  Aelrindel sat in the darkness of his private chamber, letting that word echo ominously in his mind, as it had when spoken in the Hall of the Masters. The el'tael had deliberated carefully throughout the night, conscious of the delicacy of the matter before them. Although the facts as they had gleaned them from Andaerean and his cronies exonerated Taenaran as the antagonist behind the tragedy that occurred, the half-elf was still responsible for the death of another elf.

  Those masters who had opposed Taenaran's entry into the ranks of the tael argued that such a horrifying event was a natural conse­quence of initiating an a Tel'Quessir into the art. Even those el'tael free from such prejudice had to acknowledge that Talaedra's death flowed from the half-elf's presence in the community.

  They had pronounced their judgment: Taenaran must go into exile.

  Aelrindel absently ran his fingers across the strings of the harp he now clutched close to his chest. The notes fell into darkness, brittle and out of tune. Taenaran's exile was like a sword that pierced his heart. No father should have to witness the fall of his son. It was worse than death, watching the bright, brave spirit of his child crushed beneath the weight of guilt and shame.

  Grief shaped a bitter song that spilled out of the harp. A part of him wanted to stand up and announce that he, too, would go into exile. Thoughts of walking beside Taenaran, coaching and training him further, watch­ing him grow into the hero he was destined to become, filled Aelrindel's thoughts, but the bonds of his Oath shackled the First Hilt with cruel strength. He could not abandon his duty—his people.

  Even for love of his son.

  The rain had finally stopped falling upon the leaf-covered bower that formed the roof of his home when Aelrindel's fingers stopped their grief-stricken dance across the harp's strings. Silence hung heavily upon the night.

  Aelrindel kept vigil with it until the dawn.

  * * * *

  Taenaran knelt before his father.

  His head throbbed from the aftermath of the blow that had knocked him out, causing the walls of the chamber to shift and bend as his vision swam. As much as the wound upon the half-elf's head pained him, it could not compare to the heart-rending ache of grief and loss that followed him even into his dreams.

  Talaedra was dead.

  Killed by his own hand, and he himself sent into exile. The masters had pronounced that fateful word even as they turned their backs to him as a symbol of his sepa­ration from the community. He had barely heard their judgment or any of their deliberations. Throughout the course of his trial, Taenaran had felt dislocated. Every­thing had filtered to him as if from a great distance. In that befuddling fog, he had spent time reflecting upon his past, his years spent among the tael, which had been the only time that really mattered to him, and came upon one inescapable conclusion: Everything that had happened since yesterday evening must be an illusion. This wasn't his life—couldn't be his life.

  Still the masters had decided upon exile. His father, overruled by the wisdom of the other el'tael, had been forced to do the same. Now he knelt before that same father, who had been both mentor and master, for the last time. Tears streamed down his face, making ragged tracks in the layers of dirt and dried mud that still covered his skin. He could see the long trail of tears mirrored on his father's face. Aelrindel seemed older somehow, more frail. The commanding sparkle in his bright eyes flickered dully, its normally penetrating power muted and dimmed, as if the events of the past day had stolen something essential from his essence. Taenaran could see that his hands, which wielded both the deadly length of a blade and the subtle strings of a harp with equal facility, trembled as they reached out toward him.

  The sight of his father, diminished by grief, struck another blow at Taenaran's heart. He tried to speak, but the words would not come. Shame locked them in his throat with a key he could not grasp. The half-elf strug­gled as one would struggle with the unfamiliar cadences of an ancient spell, but tongue and mouth would not form the proper sounds. Taenaran sobbed in frustration and threw himself into his father's outstretched arms.

  As he felt Aelrindel's arms tighten around him, the half-elf let out an inarticulate wail. He recalled every hateful word and spiteful action that he had endured during his life. Each memory brought with it a wave of anger, shame, and sadness that spilled out of him with racking sobs—and always Talaedra's face hovered over him. Cradled in his father's arms, Taenaran poured out that bitter cup of sorrow that had been his life, and Aelrindel drank of it, even to its dregs. The release of that emotion left Taenaran spent; his body trembled mutely as he leaned in silence against the comforting presence of his father. They sat there in silence for several moments.

  When at last Taenaran felt the trembling weight of his father's hand upon his head, he pulled back and gazed at him through tear-reddened eyes. "I... I am so sorry," he managed to say at last in a voice husky with grief. "I don't know what happened and now"—he continued above his father's whispered reassurances—"Talaedra is dead. Father," Taenaran'
s voice choked on that word, "I have killed the only friend I ever had and brought shame upon our house."

  "No, my son," Aelrindel spoke in a gentle tone, "it is I who am sorry, for I allowed my selfish pleasure at having a son blind me to the true pain that you were facing. I should have protected you more, stood up for you, but I was proud of your desire to become a bladesinger, and I wanted you to do it totally on your own, so that no one could accuse you of succeeding only because I was your father."

  Taenaran shook his head, unwilling to allow his father to take any measure of responsibility. This was his failure and no one else's. If he had been stronger somehow, more like a full-blooded elf, he could have avoided this fate, but his weakness had doomed him, and now he would wander the world in exile, separated from the only home that he had ever known.

  Aelrindel held him a moment longer then rose slowly to his feet. Taenaran watched his once-vibrant father struggle to stand, bowed beneath the weight of the shame that he had brought upon him.

  "Come," the First Hilt said at last, reaching out a tremulous hand. "It is time."

  Taenaran wiped his eyes and fought back a new wave of tears. "So soon?" he asked, as he stood up.

  "I am afraid so, my son," Aelrindel replied. "You must begin your exile before the noon sun hangs in the sky." The First Hilt moved to the rear of the chamber and brought forth a bulky leather backpack and a worn scabbard. "I have made sure that you will have enough supplies to begin your journey," he said, presenting the backpack to Taenaran.

  The half-elf nodded and reached out, grabbing the backpack and slinging it over his shoulder. Though it seemed somehow lighter than it should, considering the size, number, and shape of the bulges that distorted its shape, the backpack hung upon him like a lodestone. This was it. His life would now be forever changed—and it had happened in what seemed like an instant. He wanted to run back to the room he had occupied as a little child in this house and throw himself down upon the bed and cry, waiting for his father to come and tell him that everything would be all right.