by Mel Odom
The cold, powerful voice filled Jherek’s mind, snapping him back from the black void where his senses had fled. He woke in the harbor water, his lungs burning with the need for air and the cold claws of a sahuagin wrapping his neck.
Somehow he’d managed to hang onto his weapons. He let his anger at the disembodied voice that had spoken to him fill his mind. All his life, since he’d been a small boy, that voice had been a part of him. He didn’t know where it came from, or from whom, or what he was supposed to serve.
He’d struggled for years to find out, thinking at first that he’d simply imagined it. But he hadn’t imagined the dolphins that had saved his life that first time, nor the last time aboard Finaren’s Butterfly when the unknown power had set him free from a sahuagin net during battle. Even Madame Iitaar with her skill at divination and Malorrie with all his book learning and knowledge he’d picked up over the course of his life and death hadn’t been able to tell him what it meant.
But there was no doubt how that voice had influenced and shaped his life.
The echoes of the voice and the command were still in his mind when he moved. Despite the water surrounding him he moved quickly, going through it as if it wasn’t there to block the sahuagin before the creature could scissor the flesh of his throat. The move would have worked above water but shouldn’t have now—only it did, and he guessed that it had to be because the sahuagin was partially stunned by the exploding powder kegs.
Pushing away from his attacker, seeing the evil glint in its oily black eyes, Jherek shoved his sword into the sahuagin’s throat with a quick flick, then twisted. Blood muddied up from the wound.
Jherek glanced up, aware of a number of sahuagin bodies floating limply in the water all around him. Several of them were slowly surfacing. Fire burned on top of the water where the wagon had been, and a spray of bright colors spread across the dark sky. He kicked past the dying sahuagin and stroked for the surface. Once his face was out of the water, he sucked in great breaths. He whipped the hair from his eyes and stared across the harbor.
The explosive force of the barrels had been considerable, greater than he’d expected, but he knew from Malorrie’s teachings that water was denser and carried sounds more clearly. That was why a man swimming had to assume that anything in the water he tracked already knew he was there. The trick was to appear harmless. There was no slipping and hiding through the water unnoticed by one who lived there.
Sahuagin and sea creature bodies lay stretched across the harbor water, floating in islands of limp flesh. Some of them had been left conscious, though, and the ones on land hadn’t been affected at all. However, those on the land suddenly experienced a lack of reinforcements and the Flaming Fist mercenaries noticed it. A rousing yell broke from the ranks of the citizens and the fighting began again in earnest as they recovered from the blast.
Not all of the concussive force had spread beneath the harbor. Several of the nearby buildings had only remnants of glass shards where windows had once been. Crates lay tumbled and scattered, and small boats used for servicing the cargo ships lay broken, overturned, or tossed out on the docks.
“Damn cure was almost worse than the disease,” Sonshal growled from nearby. He gazed upward where the last of the fireworks spent themselves and winked out. “Couldn’t resist that last touch. I’ve always prided myself on the quality of my fireworks.”
“Where’s Khlinat?” Jherek asked.
Sonshal shook his head. “Don’t know, boy. I wasn’t keeping track of things any too well there for a minute.”
Jherek pushed past the limp body of a ten-foot long snake. He scanned the water hastily.
“Over here, swabbie.” Khlinat sounded weak.
Tracking the voice, Jherek spotted the dwarf treading water with his face barely exposed. He swam to the little man. “What’s wrong?”
“Can’t feel me leg,” Khlinat said hoarsely. “Marthammor Duin protect a silly old dwarf who’s wandered so far from hearth and home to die alone.” He cut his eyes to Jherek. “Swabbie, I think that blast done for me. I can’t feel anything below me waist.”
Jherek looked down at the water. The fires lighting the docks brought out scarlet highlights that floated on the surface. “What happened?”
“Don’t know. Felt a powerful lot of pain after that explosion—then nothing at all.” The dwarf’s eyes rolled feverishly. “Getting awful cold, swabbie.”
Sonshal swam up beside them. “Let’s get him to shore.”
“I’ve got him,” Jherek said. He thrust his sword through the sash at his waist, then hooked an arm under the dwarf’s chin from behind and swam for the docks. Khlinat’s ragged pulse beat against his forearm. “Just hold steady, Khlinat. We’re not going to let you go.”
“Ye may not be given a choice,” the dwarf croaked.
Reaching the dock, Jherek was challenged at once by the Flaming Fist mercenaries who’d established a beachhead and were in the process of beating the sahuagin back. More mercenaries arrived, and still others were putting out into the harbor in small boats and slitting the throats of the helpless sahuagin and other creatures that had been stunned by the blast.
Some of them helped Jherek and Sonshal get Khlinat up onto the dock and laid out. Jherek seized a torch from a nearby man and held it to study the dwarf.
Khlinat held his hands over his lower abdomen. Blood spilled between his fingers. “Got me betwixt wind and water, swabbie. Unless we can get a healer damned quick, I ain’t going to live to see the morrow.”
Jherek knew it was true. He turned to the Flaming Fist mercenaries. “I need a healer.”
A grizzled old warrior with blood soaking up through his right arm and dripping from his bared blade crossed over to them. He looked down at the dwarf and shook his head. “You’d have to be one of Tymora’s most favored this night to find one, boy, but I’ll put the word out.”
“ ’Tis no good, swabbie,” Khlinat whispered. “Ye did yer best, and there’s no complaints about that.” He managed a smile that looked terrible against his graying complexion. “We gave them damned sea devils what-for, didn’t we?”
“Yes,” Sonshal said, kneeling beside the dwarf. He’d seized a cloak from one of the passing mercenaries who still had dry clothes and spread it over the little man. “That was a piece of risky business you did there, friend, and I’ll not begrudge the tale in the telling. I’m proud to have been at your side.”
“Ah, ’twas ye,” Khlinat said. “Ye stood there and lit them fuses while them sahuagin were about climbing yer backside. Takes a brave man to do that.”
Gently, Jherek pried the dwarf’s hands from his wound, finding it much easier than he’d thought. Tears burned at the back of his eyes for the little man, though he’d known him for only a short time. The innate bravery and honor Khlinat had shown touched him deeply.
The wound was two or three inches across on Khlinat’s abdomen, and there was an exit wound on the other side just as large. Khlinat’s breathing slowed and grew shallower.
“Looks like he had a spear rammed through him,” Sonshal whispered.
“A spear didn’t do that,” Jherek said. He guessed that it had been a shard from the wagon, ripped loose and propelled through the water by the smoke powder blast. The wound seemed clear. “We need to get the bleeding stopped. That way he’ll have a chance of lasting till a healer gets here.” He felt panicked and responsible for the dwarf’s situation though he didn’t know why. He’d been as much at risk as Khlinat had.
Yet nothing had happened to him even when he’d woke with a sahuagin’s claws at his throat.
Live, that you may serve.
Tears coursed down Jherek’s face, released by the pent-up pain of watching the dwarf die, the frustration of not being able to do anything about it, and the anger at all that he didn’t understand. He pressed his hands to the dwarf’s wounds, stemming the blood flow. “Go find a healer,” he told Sonshal.
“There’s not one to be had,” the old man sai
d gruffly. He rested a hand on Jherek’s shoulder. “You’ve done what you could for him. Sometimes all that remains to be done is to be with them when the passing comes. No man should be alone when that happens.”
“No!” Jherek said hoarsely. “He’s not going to die!”
“There’s nothing you can do about that,” Sonshal said. “A man’s life runs the course his gods direct it on, and no man may stay the hand of death when it arrives.”
“No! I won’t accept that!” It wasn’t right that the dwarf should save so many, yet lose his life in the attempt.
Live, that you may serve.
Jherek reached for that voice, wondering where it came from and how it dared seem to choose him when there were so many others to pick from. He willed the dwarf not to die. “Pray,” he told the dwarf, “pray to your Marthammor Duin that you live, Khlinat, then believe with all your might.”
Jherek knew that he didn’t believe that strongly himself. He’d chosen Ilmater as his god because he most understood the religion. The Crying God based his ethos on enduring and persevering, things that the young sailor understood intimately. His whole life had been about those things.
Khlinat coughed and groaned in pain. Blood bubbled from his lips and ran down his cheek. Blue light dawned at his throat, partially obscured by his matted beard.
Without warning, Jherek felt a low buzz in his hands, like he’d brushed up against an electric eel. Smoky blue blazed under his palms pressed against the dwarf’s side. He felt the changes taking place against his hands, but he couldn’t move them.
The buzzing finished, and the blue light at Khlinat’s throat winked out.
The dwarf’s lungs filled in a rush, and he flicked his eyes open. “Swabbie, what have you done?” His voice sounded stronger, more certain.
“Nothing,” Jherek said, as puzzled as the dwarf. He felt drained by the events of the last few minutes. His eyelids dragged as he scanned the little man.
Khlinat coughed. “Only if yer calling saving me life nothing, and I ain’t ready to call it that. Whatever ye did, I feel better.”
“It wasn’t him,” Sonshal said. “It was something at your throat.”
Khlinat reached up and took up the shark tooth pendent at his throat, stretching it the length of the leather thong that held it. “This?” He shook his head. “This is nothing. A trinket left over from the shark what took my leg. Them teeth come out regular, and the healer what fixed me up found it in what was left of me leg. I’ve been carrying it as a good luck charm, nothing more.”
“What else could be the answer?” Sonshal asked.
The dwarf looked at Jherek. “I don’t know, but I do know I feel better. Let’s have a look at me side.”
Hesitantly, Jherek drew his hands away, afraid that the torrent of blood would begin again.
It didn’t. Instead, the flesh appeared to have closed in both places. It remained raw and ragged looking, but it was obviously healing, reconnecting.
“Marthammor Duin save a wandering fool,” the dwarf cried in astonishment. “Outside of a heal potion, or a healer’s hands, I’ve never seen the like.”
Jherek gave him a smile and settled back tiredly on his haunches. The blood was drying tight on his hands. “If I were you, I wouldn’t loose that shark’s tooth.”
Khlinat reverently kissed the pendant. “I’ll never feel as angry about that shark, I tell ye.”
Glancing out at the harbor, Jherek saw that a rout of the sahuagin and their aquatic accomplices was in full swing. He had no wish in him to be one of the parties responsible for slitting the throats of the stunned sahuagin. Now that they were organized, the Flaming Fist mercenaries appeared to have things well in hand. He looked for his father’s ship, but Bunyip was nowhere to be seen.
It was too late to save many lives, too late to save nearly all of the boats and much of the docks and some of the warehouses and buildings near them, but the docks thronged with men and women who fought enemies as well as fires.
He considered the battle. Madame Iitaar had sent him to Baldur’s Gate after his heritage to Bloody Falkane’s pirates was discovered on Butterfly. She’d had a vision that his destiny lay here in the city, but where?
He studied the narrow stone buildings and homes and tried to divine what he was supposed to find here. Dark thoughts intruded, and he had to wonder if it hadn’t all been some kind of mistake. His life had never been simple or easy. He thought this could be a set of circumstances deliberately fashioned to lead him here and make an even bigger fool of him.
But who would do such a thing? And why?
He didn’t know, but the voice he heard in his mind at such times was real. He had to believe at least that much because thinking himself mad was no option at all.
He heard someone come to a stop behind him and looked up to find a skinny old man with a bald head peering down at him with more interest than the young sailor had ever felt before. Carefully, he got to his feet.
“Can I help you?” Jherek asked.
“Mayhap we can help each other,” the old man said. “My name is Pacys. I’m a bard. I wonder if I might have a moment of your time.”
Jherek studied the old man but didn’t feel in any way threatened by him. “Let me help my friend to a safe place, then I’ll help you in any way I may.” He couldn’t turn down the anxious note in the old bard’s voice, though he also didn’t know why the man might think he needed him.
“Of course. Perhaps I could accompany you.”
“ ’Tis a long walk down some powerful dark streets,” Khlinat said.
The old bard nodded. “I’ve seen hardships in life. Surviving this night has not been easy.”
The dwarf harumphed as Jherek helped him to his feet. “One as aged as ye, I’ll wager ye have seen some bad times.”
The young sailor found aiding Khlinat in walking was an adventure in itself. The dwarf was too short to simply drape his arm across his shoulders, and too heavy to support easily.
“Well come on then,” Khlinat growled. “I’ve a small place, but yer welcome to what I have. With Marthammor’s sagacious blessing, mayhap there’ll even be some victuals we can scrape together.”
VIII
4 Kythorn, the Year of the Gauntlet
“Ye play a pretty tune on that thing.”
Pacys glanced up at Khlinat, who lounged across the small table in the modest quarters he kept at a rooming house on Windspell Street just west of the Wide, the name of Baldur’s Gate’s bustling marketplace. “Thank you, my friend.” His fingers strummed the strings casually, picking out the notes, making them ring true. The song lived inside his head, adding to itself by leaps and bounds. He was already working on the song of the attack on Baldur’s Gate and the words came so easily.
A beeswax taper burned on the table between them, throwing up a thin streamer of smoke and illuminating the carving board with a loaf of bread and cheese on it. Felogyr Sonshal had begged off as soon as they’d reached the dwelling safely. The dwarf’s fare on hand had been simple, added to by small journeycakes smothered in honey he’d had put away, a clutch of apples, and a jug of cheap wine.
The old bard had eaten, picking at the offered food mostly, and he’d watched Jherek of Velen, trying to see some sign that the young sailor was the one Narros had told him to look for. As he surveyed the young man, he tried to figure out how he was going to tell Jherek of the destiny that lay before him. How could one so young, so vulnerable, be expected to shoulder such a heavy burden as facing the wrath of the Taker?
Khlinat had eaten with the relish of someone who had recently ended a long fast, drinking the wine with zest. He cut up another apple with a small carving knife, glanced briefly out the window as a Flaming Fist mercenary group went by carrying lamps. “How came ye to know the swabbie?” he asked.
“I don’t,” Pacys said.
“Yet ye came over to him like ye knowed him.” The dwarf’s eyes narrowed in suspicion.
They spoke about Jherek because
the young man had taken his leave of them only a few minutes ago. Pacys had been loathe to let him from his sight, but Jherek had been adamant about not leaving Khlinat to himself should something go wrong with the wounds. The young sailor had taken it upon himself to seek out an apothecary for balms to better treat and dress the wounds until a healer could be sent for.
Pacys put a hand over the yarting’s strings, stilling their hum. “I was sent to find him.”
Khlinat fisted the carving knife casually, but shifted in his chair to get into better position. “The swabbie’s not wanted for anything, is he? I’ll not harbor anyone saying bad things about him. He laid his life on the line for people tonight, meself included, and didn’t say one word about it.”
“I expect he wouldn’t,” Pacys agreed. He’d noticed Jherek’s calm demeanor as well. “No, he’s not wanted for anything.”
“Good, for ye had me worried a moment.” Khlinat stabbed the knife into the carving board. “I’ve not had blood spilt in me room before, but I’d not hesitate.”
Pacys’s fingers returned to the strings, playing the hero’s tune that he identified with Jherek. “How long have you known him?”
“I only met him tonight.”
Surprised lifted one of the old bard’s eyebrows.
“He came up on a caravan from the south,” Khlinat said. “I had that from him before them pirates sculled into the harbor and started their attack. He hails from Velen.”
“I know the place,” Pacys said.
“Lot of ghosts and such there,” Khlinat mused.
“What do you know about him?”
The dwarf shrugged and popped a piece of apple into his mouth. “He’s a sailor and a good man. Lot of sand in his craw, ye want my opinion. Not many would have stood up like he did tonight.”
“You did,” Pacys said. “Driving a wagonload of smoke powder into the harbor was no trivial thing.”
“I had me reasons.”
Pacys changed tunes, finding the one he’d selected for the dwarf as he wove his song about the attack on Baldur’s Gate. It was somewhat hard and unpolished, much like the little man himself. “You mean the Harper pin you wear?” The old bard had spotted it on the other man earlier back at the docks. It was clipped inside his shirt, out of the way of the most casual glances. Harpers didn’t readily identify themselves except to others of their group.
