Keith Francis Strohm

by Keith Francis Strohm

  But it wouldn't.

  He knew that with the startling certainty of one who had crossed the bright threshold of childhood and now walked the shadowed paths of the world. There would be no kindly parent to wipe away tears or kiss away hurt and pain. Where Taenaran walked, he walked alone.

  The half-elf was so lost in the dark turn of his thoughts that he didn't grasp the significance of the weight in his right hand. He looked down and saw the well-oiled length of the scabbard Aelrindel had just offered him, and it took Taenaran a moment to recognize the worn red hilt for what it was.

  "This is your sword," Taenaran said breathlessly, his previous thoughts forgotten—at least for the moment. "I cannot take this, Father. It's—"

  "Nonsense," Aelrindel said, sternness creeping into his voice for the first time. "This was my father's sword, and his father's sword, and his father's sword before that, passed down to the firstborn son in our house since the founding of Cormanthor. You will carry this sword, and wherever you go, no matter how far into darkness you walk, this blade will serve you well."

  Aelrindel reached out and clasped Taenaran's shoulder. "Your whole life does not have to be this moment, my son. You are gifted and brave. You will become a powerful bladesinger and one day use all that you have been taught to help those in need. Like the heat from the forge, let this tragedy shape your life like a blade and not destroy it, and know that I am thinking of you each and every day."

  With that, his father gathered Taenaran up into his arms once more. Tears welled up in the half-elf's eyes, and this time he didn't fight them. He didn't know whether he could live as his father had predicted, but he had no choice but to try. Perhaps he would one day atone for his weakness and failure.

  "Thank you, Va," he whispered into his father's ear before gathering up his sword and backpack. When the moment finally came, father and son walked out of their house together and into the harsh light of the day.

  Together for the last time.

  Chapter 26

  The Year of Wild Magic

  (1372 DR)

  Marissa's hand ached.

  The shackles holding her upright had bitten deep into her skin, tearing the flesh around her wrist. Even after several potions from her recovered backpack, the wound throbbed. She paid it little mind, however. Instead, she felt a rush of emotions wash over her as Taen and Borovazk knelt around a thin circle inscribed into the stone floor, trying to discern some way of activating the portal. Despite her fears to the contrary, the half-elf had managed to rescue her. He wasn't dead, or worse, some undead minion in her former captor's army. Rillifane had heard her prayers and blessed her, guid­ing Taen to where she hung, imprisoned and despairing. He had come for her, lifted her out of the darkness. Every moment she saw his face, lips pursed and eyes intently staring as he concentrated on solving the riddle of the magic portal, Marissa had to remind herself that this wasn't a dream.

  "I see that you are feeling a bit better," Roberc remarked.

  The halfling had tired of trying to force the portal to give up its secrets and had made his feelings well known before starting to search the length and breadth of the grim gray walls of the room. He stared at Marissa with a frank, searching gaze.

  "I am feeling much better, thank you, Roberc," she responded with a genuine smile.

  Marissa no longer found her companion's directness unnerving or threatening, as so many others did. In fact, the druid found a certain rude comfort in Roberc's intense demeanor. It was familiar and solid, like the stones on an oft-traveled path.

  "I'm glad," he said in his usual brusque tone, though Marissa could hear the genuine concern that lurked beneath the halfling's gruff exterior. "I wouldn't want you to miss out on the rest of our little tour. Besides, we're counting on you and your staff to give us a hand against the damned hag."

  At the mention of the Staff of the Red Tree, Marissa nearly leaped to her feet. "Where—" she exclaimed and cast frantically around the room looking for it. In her relief at being rescued, she had forgotten all about the staff. When she finally located it, lying on a smooth shelf along the wall, the druid wanted to weep.

  She walked toward the staff slowly, despite her excitement at finding it. The druid would have run, but a sense of torpor had taken root somewhere deep within her. Marissa hadn't lied to Roberc. She was feeling much better—physically. The scars of her tor­ment, however, went beyond flesh. The hag and her dark priestess had taken something from Marissa. The chill of her captivity had sucked something essential from the marrow of her spirit. Here beneath the citadel, trapped in the cold embrace of the earth, the half-elf felt half alive. She longed for the touch of sunlight and the caress of a spring breeze the way a wounded falcon longs for open sky and the touch of warm air upon its pinions.

  When at last she reached the staff, Marissa hesitated before reaching out to touch it. It lay quiescent, silent for the first time since she held it beneath the shadow of the Red Tree. The druid recalled the layers of spells that her captors had woven over the captive artifact. She was no expert in arcane magic, but she knew the ways of the gods, and it seemed to Marissa's senses that the dark priestess had held the foundation for the "house" of spells that they had built. With the half-orc cleric's death, the house simply collapsed.

  Or so she hoped.

  Reaching out at last to the seemingly inert length of wood, Marissa carefully picked up the staff and cradled it in her hand. The moment her fingers closed around the length of wood, she felt an explosion of power. Light filled the room as waves of arcane energy radiated from the staff. Marissa knew that she had fallen to the ground, buffeted by the power of the staff, yet she felt nothing. The now-familiar voice of the artifact buzzed in her mind, swelling angrily as it searched through her memories, recalling what she had experienced during their absence. At times, she felt as if it clucked angrily at her, the way a mother hen would chide her chicks when they had drawn near something dangerous. She would have laughed at that, but three sets of hands grabbed her and lifted Marissa to her feet.

  "Is little witch, all right?" she heard Borovazk's deep voice rumble at her.

  She concentrated on the sound, and all at once the voice of the staff fell to a tremulous whisper. When she looked around, once more in control, Marissa saw all of her companions gathered around gazing anxiously upon her.

  Taen's eyes were narrowed, his mouth pinched with obvious concern. "We heard you cry out and fall to the ground," he said. "Are you hurt?"

  "No," she said, shaking her head. "The staff and I were just getting reacquainted. I'm sorry if I frightened you."

  Grasping the staff, Marissa climbed to her feet. The room threatened to spin out of control for just a moment then righted itself. For the first time since her rescue, she noticed the absence of her avian companion and sudden fear for the little creature rushed through her body.

  "Where... where is Rusella?" she asked. v

  The others all looked at her with the same mask of concern on their faces, but it was Taenaran, at last, who spoke. "We don't know," he said gently. "She flew away when you were taken on the bridge. I wouldn't worry too much; if anyone can find a way out of here, it would be her." He reached out to her and grasped her shoulder gently. "Rusella will probably be waiting for us when we leave this place."

  Marissa wasn't as certain, but she offered a prayer for Rusella's safety just the same. If anything happened to her companion, she would never forgive herself. Then, to draw some of the attention away from her, she asked, "How are we coming with the circular inscription?"

  Marissa watched the half-elf's face fall into a frown. Taen ran slender fingers over his head before answering.

  "Well," he said, "I'm sure that the circle functions as a teleportation device, and I'm reasonably certain that there are no hidden arcane traps upon it. I only wish I knew where it might lead."

  Roberc stepped forward, finishing off a draught of wine before speaking. "Marissa, do you remember anyone else besides the half-orc using th
e portal?" he asked.

  She thought about it for a moment, only partially successful in repressing a shudder at the dark memories that would haunt her for the rest of her life. "I... I think so," she answered hesitantly at first then, "yes, I do remember. Most of the time, the hag walked through the doors and back into the citadel, but several times after ... longer... sessions, she would use the circle."

  "Does little witch know where hag go?" Borovazk asked.

  Marissa shook her head. "No, I'm sorry," she said, "all I can remember her saying was that she needed to go back to the cave. If the portal leads there, then perhaps we can use it to surprise her."

  "If she's there," Roberc said.

  "There is that small detail," Taen commented.

  The druid thought some more, trying to recall her last session with the hag. "If I'm remembering correctly, Chaul used the circle during our last session. She might still be wherever that portal leads."

  "Little friend speaks truly," Borovazk said, "if evil one not have another way in to the Rashemar."

  "It's a better lead than we've had," Roberc growled, "and besides, it beats slogging through this dank place, cutting our way through wave after wave of ghouls and goblins."

  "Then it's agreed?" Taen asked.

  Marissa nodded in agreement. Personally, she would take any chance to end this mission sooner, and she suspected that the others felt the same.

  They did.

  Within moments, each of them began their prepara­tions. Marissa watched in fascination as Taen drew forth a pearl, which he then crushed beneath a heavy rock. Carefully, he gathered the crushed pearl fragments and poured them into a silver goblet.

  "I need to uncover the command word to activate the portal," he said, obviously noting her interest.

  "The spell I'm about to cast will take some time. You should probably rest a little bit more before we head through."

  Marissa hesitated a moment before speaking. "Tae­naran," she began at last, "about that conversation we need to have."

  She had nearly lost him once on this journey; then their enemy captured her. Though this clearly wasn't the time for such a thing, the druid didn't want to waste another moment.

  Taen stopped what he was doing at Marissa's words, stood up, and went to her. "I know," he said, drawing the slender tip of his fingers across her cheek. She shivered at his touch. "I've had that conversation a thousand times with you in my dreams," he continued. "We don't have the time now, but please understand that I do know."

  Marissa felt his arms enfold her, and she yielded to that embrace. They held each other for a moment, a moment that she would have stretched into eternity if she had the power, before Taen kissed her lightly upon the lips and drew back gently.

  "Now," he said, staring deeply into her eyes, "go get some rest. You're going to need it."

  The druid nodded and walked toward a corner of the room, dazed by the memory of his lips upon hers. The warmth of their embrace remained with Marissa as she settled down in her makeshift bedroll. She was tired, the earlier torpor she felt spreading over her like the still waters of a mountain lake. When at last she closed her eyes, Marissa felt herself floating gently to the lake's bottom.

  Restful sleep, however, eluded her. A series of violent visions hammered at Marissa while she dreamed. In them, she stood before the Red Tree, whose broad limbs lay bare, as if in midwinter. Its bark was desiccated, pitted and dried, hanging loosely upon its diseased trunk. The voices of the dead whispered around the twisted tree, and rich, dark blood welled up from the black soil.

  Stumbling backward from the sight, Marissa could see the bodies of her companions, their bloated corpses hanging from the highest limbs, twisting in the chill wind. All at once, the tree's trunk began to split and tear with a loud cracking sound. A greenish shape began to emerge from the split trunk, headfirst like the birth of an abominable child.

  Marissa recognized the face of the hag, leering out from the trunk, and she began to scream. Pushing herself free, the hag laughed at the druid's obvious terror and began to walk toward her. Pointing a sap-covered finger in her direction, the monster opened its horrifying mouth and said—

  "Marissa, are you ready?"

  The druid gave an awkward shout as Taen's voice lifted her from the tendrils of her nightmare. Sweat drenched her robe and matted strands of red hair to her face. She gazed around quickly, half expecting to see the hag hovering nearby.

  "Is everything all right?" Taen asked, his concern for her obvious to hear.

  Marissa nodded vigorously. "Yes," she said at last. "It was just a nightmare." Then she drew herself to her feet and began to gather her things. "Really," she said again when Taen hadn't moved, "I'll be fine."

  When at last the half-elf had stepped away to activate the portal, she placed the small pack she carried with her upon her back. Arcane energy swirled around the magic portal, pulsing with newly awakened life.

  Please, Rillifane, she prayed silently, guide our steps.

  One by one, her companions plunged into the portal, disappearing in a flash of light. When at last she stepped through the mystic circle, Marissa sent one more prayer toward her god.

  Protect Taenaran, she implored before arcane power consumed her.

  * * * *

  The Old One screamed.

  Yulda delighted in the foolish wizard's pain. The sounds of his agony mixed with the delicious sensation of power flowing into her, power that she sucked from the very depths of his spirit. He resisted—even now, after many months of captivity, the wizard fought her control. His will was strong, honed by decades of disciplined study and practice in the arcane arts, and it strained against the mystical bonds of her spell like a wild stallion refus­ing to break beneath his rider's skill. That was what made him so valuable—and dangerous.

  Yulda wished that she didn't have to replenish her power quite so often. She trusted in her own skill and the demonic spell that drained the Old One's strength. Still, the procedure required all of her attention, leaving her little to spare for anything else. The hathran couldn't afford a lapse in concentration. If the damnable wizard slipped his bonds, she would lose a major source of power and be forced to deal with the combined anger of the wychlaran and the Old Ones. She wasn't ready for that.

  Not yet.

  The witch cursed her meddlesome "sisters" for interfering in her machinations. Dealing with those gods-blighted intruders and wrestling the secrets of the Staff of the Red Tree from her poor little captive was proving to be a far greater drain than she had antici­pated. She hoped Durakh would be able to break the pathetic elf's will before too long. Even now, her forces were converging on the isolated villages and hamlets of Rashemen, killing and burning as they marched toward the country's heart. Once the battle was truly joined, Yulda would have to focus her attention on her advancing army. She would have little time to spend mastering the secrets of the staff.

  The thought of her eventual victory sent a sweet chill up her back. Combined with the heady sense of imbued power, Yulda felt as if she were truly unstop­pable. Soon all of Rashemen would be under her control. Then, perhaps, she would renegotiate her deal with those abominable Wizards of Thay.

  Arcane energy crackled behind her, interrupting Yulda's ruminations. She felt, more than saw, the energy from the teleportation circle and couldn't suppress a sly smile. Durakh must have finally broken the mewl­ing elf woman. She didn't even turn to greet the cleric, wanting instead to watch the Old One realize that she had defeated him.

  Again.

  "So, Durakh," the witch called out, "has the druid yielded—"

  Fleshrender's mental warning stopped her midsen­tence. Durakh had not come through the portal. Yulda spun around, summoning her arcane power with a single thought.

  "You!" she screamed and let loose a bolt of pure energy at her "visitors."

  Chapter 27

  The Year of Wild Magic

  (1372 DR)

  Taen's vision blurred.

 
The sudden wrenching of his body from one place to another threatened to overwhelm his senses. He shook his head briskly, as if the vio­lent motion would snap everything back into focus. When at last he could see make out his surroundings, the half-elf saw that he and his companions stood in the midst of yet another cave—the starkness of its gray stone relieved by the glittering incandescence of tiny minerals that reflected the torchlight like thousands of stars strewn wildly by some mad god. Taen had only a few heartbeats with which to take in the undulating expanse of the small cavern before an angry growl caught his attention.

  The source of that ominous sound—a rather large snow tiger peering intently at Taen and his companions—lay only fifteen feet from him toward the rear of the cave. Though the beast still reclined languorously on the floor, Taen could see its powerful muscles rippling softly beneath stark white fur—and something else. Despite the shifting light from the cavern's flickering torches, he could make out a faint illumination surrounding the tiger. The glow seemed somehow to soften the edges of the beast's outline, making it seem less than real. The half-elf was about to signal Roberc to rein in Cavan as the war-dog's muted growling reached his ears, but a woman's screeching voice interrupted him.

  "You!" Taen heard moments before he saw a weath­ered old crone, whose black robes had served to hide her against the cave's darker rear walls, spin around to face him. The half-elf caught sight of a craggy, face and a shock of stringy snow-white hair before he realized that the crone had unleashed a powerful wave of arcane energy, which stung his honed senses with its strength as it hurtled toward him.

  Taen summoned his own power and quickly erected a wall of pure arcane force to meet the incoming attack. Eldritch energy coruscated and flared along the edges of his spell, spitting scattered power as the old woman's arcane attack met the half-elf's wall. Taen blanched at the strength of the crone's assault. Though his defensive shield held, he could already make out subtle cracks that ran through the arcane wall like tiny filaments of a spider's web. Whoever she was, the crone's power was considerable. Beads of sweat started to run down Taen's forehead. Perhaps they had been unwise to leap into the dragon's den, he thought for just a moment. Then a vision of Marissa, chained and battered from her torturous ordeal, flashed through the half-elf's mind. All thoughts of caution fled like shadows beneath the lash of the sun.