by Mel Odom
“Some damned demon device,” Hullyn growled as he made the sign of Tymora over his chest.
“A chair,” Tynnel stated. “I don’t know where Vurgrom got it, but I saw it being set up before they put me in the hold. Sabyna and Vurgrom’s own ship’s mage take turns using it. The chair pushes Breezerunner far faster than any normal wind would. That’s the strangeness you feel about the ship’s movements. When we come to a sharp bend in the river, you can feel her shuddering through the turn, chopping across the water, but she doesn’t slow down. Whatever course and destination Vurgrom’s got laid out, we’re going to get there damned fast.”
Jherek thought desperately while Hullyn continued cleaning his head. “How far have we come?”
“We’re two days from Baldur’s Gate, boy,” Tynnel stated gruffly. “You’ve been unconscious that whole time. It’s anyone’s guess as to how far we’ve come. I don’t know this territory.”
Jherek couldn’t believe it. In two days time with the speed he felt the ship was moving at, they would be miles from Baldur’s Gate even having to sail against the current. As he recalled, the shores along the River Chionthar inland were virtually empty of ports or towns. The countryside was infested with orc and goblin hordes who’d staked out territorial claims.
“Bastard could have died,” Aysel said, glaring at Jherek. “Maybe should have.” The big man sneered, shifting gingerly around his injured foot. “Always sensed something about you that reminded me of a bad copper that keeps turning up.”
“Stow that bilge,” Tynnel commanded sternly. “Whatever problems the two of you have with each other, they’re not allowed on my ship.”
“Begging the cap’n’s pardon,” Aysel said, “but things ain’t quite the way they were aboard old Breezerunner. I’m thinking part of that is because of this snot-nosed pup here.”
Tynnel glanced at the man with his burning gaze. “If I want any lip from you, Aysel, I’ll let you know.”
The man looked like he was going to say something further, then apparently thought better of it.
“That goes for both of you,” Tynnel finished. “Whatever problems existed back at Athkatla stay at Athkatla.”
Jherek nodded tightly, his thoughts centering on Khlinat and the old bard who’d appeared so mysteriously. He’d left them waiting back in Baldur’s Gate. He wondered how the dwarf was.
“That’s odd,” Hullyn said, peering closely at the back of Jherek’s head. “I looked at the split you took back here earlier and I could have sworn you’d needed some healer’s stitches, but as I get it cleaned up now I see it’s not bleeding anymore and seems to have closed up more than I’d have expected. You’re a fast healer, lad.”
Taking another breath, Jherek realized he did feel better. He attributed it to Hullyn’s ministrations, then turned his attention to Tynnel. “So, what are they going to do with us?” Jherek asked.
Tynnel shook his head. “I don’t know.”
Sitting up straighter, Jherek went through his clothes, wondering if there was something he could use. Unfortunately, Vurgrom’s pirates seemed to have been quite thorough. He’d been robbed, of course. They’d even found the fishing knife he kept tucked inside his boot.
Frantically, he searched his clothing again, having remembered the pearl disk the Lathander priest had given him.
“What’s wrong?” Hullyn asked.
“There was a disk,” Jherek said. “I had a pearl disk with a carving on it.” Thinking about the priest’s words, of how an important destiny was tied to the disk, made him grow even more afraid. He tried to remember if he’d lost it somehow during the fight on the dock.
“Aye,” Hullyn said. “Them pirates went through your clothing out in the hold when they brought you down. They robbed us all, but I remember seeing that piece you describe. Vurgrom spied it himself as one of his men tried to be off with it without notice.”
“Vurgrom has it?”
Hullyn nodded. “Was it worth much? Something that belonged in your family?”
Jherek wondered what destiny cost, what price could be placed on it. Some, like his, were cheap, but the one tied to that pearl disk he was certain was a great one.
He’d lost it when it wasn’t even his to hold. Despair settled over him, made even worse when he scanned the heavy iron bars keeping them caged.
* * * * *
Pacys sat on a bench inside the Unrolling Scroll, the shrine in Baldur’s Gate devoted to the worship of Oghma, the Binder of What is Known. The god was also known as the Patron of Bards, and Pacys had walked within his service ever since discovering his affinity for music. Always before, the old bard had found visiting the shrines, temples, and churches of Oghma to be an uplifting experience, but for the past three days, he’d known only darkness that had chipped away at him until he’d dwindled into the core of himself.
The boy he’d come to find was gone, disappeared into the night. Though he’d searched then, and had Khlinat’s help in the following two days, there’d been no clue as to where he’d gone.
It had also been the day the music had gone.
Searching back, Pacys had found he could call up all the notes and fragments and tunes he’d pieced together over the years, most of it coming during the attack on Waterdeep and in the days that followed, but there was nothing new. Every time he went to the well of creation that had always been within him, it was dry. That scared him more than anything ever had in his life. To him, a bard didn’t just live to play old tunes, tunes that had already been added to his repertoire. No, it was the search and the finding of new music that made life worth living.
He found himself unwilling and unable to work on even other pieces that had nothing to do with the epic he pursued so diligently. He held his yarting in his lap, but his fingers couldn’t coax from the strings any series of notes that lasted for long. Nothing made him want to lift his voice in song.
“You seem distressed.”
Blinking, surprised that the priest could get so close to him without his knowledge, Pacys looked up.
The priest showed signs of experience at his chosen vocation, deep-set wrinkles and faded gray eyes that had seen too much, but he was still little more than Pacys’s age. His dark hair was shot through with silver, and his beard had gone mostly to gray. He wore a white shirt and trousers, and vest with black and gold braid. A small, boxlike hat sat atop his head.
“Pardon me for interrupting,” the priest said, “if I am.”
“No,” Pacys said, “you’re not. Actually I’m grateful for the company. Too much solitude is never good for a man with much on his mind.”
The priest gestured toward the empty space on the bench next to Pacys. “May I sit?”
“Of course.” The old bard put the yarting aside.
The priest sat and offered his hand. “I’m Father Duhzpin,” he said. “I lead this temple.”
“You’ve got a nice place,” Pacys said, then introduced himself.
“Blessed Oghma does,” Duhzpin agreed. “Though before the Time of Troubles things were much better.”
Pacys knew that. He’d crafted songs about the Time of Troubles himself. During that time when the gods themselves had walked the lands, Oghma’s chief patriarch Procampur had disappeared. As a result, the churches worshiping Oghma had splintered, no longer a cohesive whole.
“I’ve noticed you in here the last two days,” Duhzpin said, “and though I don’t recognize you as a regular parishioner, I felt moved to speak to you.” He gazed around at the church. Modestly outfitted, the room was still near to overflowing.
Most of the people prayed for guidance, or for the souls of those who had been taken from them or were on the steadily shorter list of those that were missing since the raid. Great sadness had hung over the church both days Pacys had visited it.
“I appreciate the time,” Pacys said, “but I know there are people in here who have much greater problems than I do.”
“Maybe,” Duhzpin said, “but I’ve learned
to listen to the dictates of Oghma. He placed you in that seat for whatever reason, so I took my own seat. Why don’t you tell me of your troubles? They always get lighter when they’re shared.”
Pacys considered the offer, knowing it was true and remembering how often he’d been the one listening. He knew from experience it was much easier to listen than to talk, though. “All right,” he agreed.
He told of his troubles with skill, something he felt guilty about taking pride in as he went along. Oghma forgive him any vanity as he struggled to find the music within him.
“Now this boy can’t be found anywhere?” Duhzpin asked when Pacys had finished. If he was shocked at the far-reaching impact of Pacys’s tale and what it could mean to all of Faerûn, the priest didn’t show it.
Pacys figured the man thought he was the biggest liar he’d ever seen, or Duhzpin was so strong in his belief he could handle anything. “No,” the old bard said. “I’ve looked for him.”
“Do you think it’s possible he’s dead?” Duhzpin asked.
Pacys started to say he didn’t know, then he changed his mind about the answer. “No,” he said, “I don’t think he’s dead.”
“Why? That seems to be an obvious conclusion to draw.”
“Because it doesn’t sound right,” Pacys said.
The priest lifted his eyebrows. “Doesn’t sound right?”
Surprised himself, Pacys nodded. “That’s exactly what I mean.”
“And what are you listening to?”
Pacys pondered the question. “Myself.” He felt the ache of desire fill him, and the frustration of not knowing. “Father, all my life I’ve searched for the legacy I was destined to leave. I know this is it.”
“Finding this boy and singing of the Taker and his war against the surface world?”
“Yes.”
“What makes you so certain of this?”
“My faith.”
“In what?”
“In Oghma,” Pacys answered. “He’s seen fit to give me what little gift I have for music.”
“You expect Oghma to work great things with it?”
“Yes.” Pacys considered his response. “That sounds vain, doesn’t it?”
“No,” Duhzpin answered. “That sounds like conviction.”
“Conviction?”
The priest shrugged. “I’m in a business of convictions.”
“I thought that was a judge,” Pacys bantered, wanting to break the string of somber words, “or a lawreader.”
“Or career criminals,” Duhzpin added, proving himself worthy of the diversion. “However, in this business, I’ve learned to hear the truth that people say—the things they believe in—and sometimes those things they believe in aren’t the same things other people see.”
“Are you questioning my belief, Father?” Pacys asked. The possibility shocked him to a degree.
“No,” Duhzpin replied. “That’s what you’re doing. It’s all you’ve been doing for the last three days. In fact, not only have you been questioning it, you’ve been agonizing over it.”
“That’s not right.” Pacys didn’t want to argue with the man in the temple he was responsible for, but neither did he think the man was correct.
“Then what have you been doing?” the priest asked.
“I’m trying to figure out what to do next.”
“All by yourself?”
Pacys became somewhat irritated by the man’s constant barrage of questions. “I’ve prayed about it, several times, and made offerings.”
“Good,” the priest said in happy satisfaction. “We can always use anything we get, but what have you been praying for?”
“That I might know where to find the boy again,” Pacys said, “before it’s too late.”
“I see.” The priest smoothed his beard. “But what if learning the boy’s location isn’t exactly what you’re supposed to do next?”
“That doesn’t make any sense.” Pacys watched the younger priests moving through the crowded seats, offering prayers and assistance with prayers. Suddenly he wished he’d gotten one of them instead. They tended to give answers rather than demand them. “What else would I be doing?”
The priest beamed like a teacher who’d gotten through to a particularly dense student. “Exactly.”
The old bard started to object, then he realized what Duhzpin was getting at. Pacys leaned back in the bench, feeling a weight lift from his shoulders. He hadn’t considered that. He’d locked in totally on finding the boy.
“If Oghma has put something before you as you believe,” Duhzpin said, “then he will find a way for you to do it. That isn’t within your realm. It’s up to you to provide the faith and the strength to see it done, and Oghma will help you with the strength.”
“You’re right,” the old bard agreed. “If now had been the time for me to find the boy—”
“—it would be done.”
“I know he yet lives,” Pacys said. “If he didn’t, I’d know that too.” He lifted his yarting and settled it across his lap. His fingers found the strings without hesitation. “Thank you for your time, Father.”
“You’re welcome,” Duhzpin said. “Should you need a friendly ear again. …”
Pacys shook his head, feeling some enthusiasm for the first time in days. “I don’t think I’ll be staying much longer.”
“Probably not.” Duhzpin stood, looking around the room, and said, “If I could ask something of you, I’d be in your debt.”
“I’d be only too happy to answer any request you might have. I’m in your debt.”
Duhzpin nodded at the room. “The other priests and I have been helping people for days. I fear we’re running short on strength ourselves, and I don’t know if our flagging reserves are up to handling today. Perhaps you could play something uplifting.”
Pacys stayed where he was, but he pulled the yarting to him with the skill of an old lover and the passion of youth. The strings rang out, strong and true, and filled the room. He sang, reaching back through the years for a song of praise for Oghma, one that hopefully everyone in the room knew.
In short order, the church filled with the sound of voices lifted in praise. Pacys clung to the sound, letting it fill all the empty places he’d chiseled away inside himself for the last two days, knowing that response was the best a bard who truly loved his work would ever know. As his fingers found the strings, his mind found an answer.
The vision came to him in perfect color and crystal clear. When he saw the gleaming black double doors equipped with white many-toothed gears that were the symbol of Gond Wonderbringer, he knew they could only belong to one place in Baldur’s Gate.
He also knew he had to go there.
XII
7 Kythorn, the Year of the Gauntlet
“The attack on Baldur’s Gate didn’t go the way you’d promised.”
Laaqueel felt the weight of the accusation even though the words were spoken softly. The malenti priestess shifted uncertainly in Iakhovas’s shadow. She prayed silently, pulling Sekolah’s gifts to her, wondering if her power and his would be enough against the men that stood against them.
Iakhovas spread his hands. The illusion he wove over himself was so strong that Laaqueel couldn’t even pierce it. As Black Alaric, he was a legend among the pirates, a man who’d lived for fourteen centuries and fought in every war that touched their shores.
In his present guise, Iakhovas was taller than any man there, dressed in azure and black garments complete with a cloak that carried the colors, black on the outside and azure on the inside. He wore rolled-top black boots that gleamed. A black crepe bandanna covered his lower face and his cloak hood was pulled tight so that only his eyes were revealed. It was the presence of those two eyes that let Laaqueel know the appearance was at least part illusion.
They stood in the spacious galley of Grimshroud, the flagship of the Nelanther Isles pirates. The sahuagin army Iakhovas had led into Baldur’s Gate was already far from them, sent on ahea
d while Iakhovas ventured on to Skaug, the pirate capital of the Nelanther Isles.
“The attack didn’t go as well as I’d hoped,” Iakhovas admitted.
Laaqueel felt a chill when she heard that admission. Iakhovas wasn’t one to admit mistakes. Not without someone else’s bloodshed.
Bloody Falkane hung uncharacteristically back out of the limelight. The malenti priestess tried to keep her eyes from his, but they still touched upon occasion. It was awkward, and she got the sense that the pirate captain enjoyed her discomfort.
Burlor Maliceprow sat in an ornate chair at the head of the long table. He was the only person in the room allowed to sit. His given title was Portmaster of Skaug, but he was the controlling power of the Nelanther Isles. In his youth he’d been a wide man with hard lines that had gone to fat through his successes. His soft brown hair, sheared off at the jawline, carried gray streaks in it now. Hazel eyes glinted with the hardness of a newly minted coin. His clothes, despite his size, fit him well.
“You convinced us of this strike,” Maliceprow said in his soft voice, barely heard above the ship’s creaks and groans.
“I merely pointed out the opportunity,” Iakhovas replied. “You convinced yourselves.”
Maliceprow’s eyes narrowed. “You say you don’t accept the blame for this?”
Iakhovas reached out and pulled back a chair, ignoring the four guards around Maliceprow who moved to defend him. Iakhovas sat across from the portmaster, every eye in the galley on him. “I only accept my share of the blame. You knew there would be risks.”
“I thought there would be less risk involved,” Maliceprow stated, waving at his guards to stand down. He hadn’t achieved his position by being afraid. “You said those damned sea devils and their creatures would chew up more of the city’s defenses than they did.”
Laaqueel felt her face grow hot at the disrespect the man obviously held for her people.
Easy, little malenti. You have even less respect for him.
Only the discipline Laaqueel had learned through serving Sekolah helped to keep her mouth closed and harsh words unsaid.
