Elfsong

by Elaine Cunningham

  Danilo rose, taking the spellbook to the far side of the campsite where Wyn Ashgrove sat gazing into the trees and wrapped in his own thoughts. Despite the minstrel’s abrupt dismissal of him earlier, Danilo felt he had to pursue the matter of spellsong.

  “Elaith said that few elves have your magical skills. Is the aptitude lacking, or are the teachers?”

  Wyn looked surprised by the abrupt question, but he thought it over. “I imagine that many more elves possess the ability than are trained. I come from a family of musical scholars, so my talents were recognized early, and the means to develop them were at hand. It may be that others are not so fortunate.”

  “If such spells could be written down, perhaps many more of your people could learn this art,” Danilo argued, tapping the spellbook. He held it out to the elf for inspection. “In this way, magical arts and bardic training could be combined.”

  “The two types of magic are not compatible,” Wyn said firmly, pressing the book back into the Harper’s hands. He rose, signaling plainly that the conversation was at an end.

  At that moment Morgalla emerged from behind a clump of bushes, brushing bits of leaves off her shoulders with an expression of glum distaste. The dwarf seemed not at all embarrassed to be revealed as an eavesdropper. “Hate to disagree with you, bard, but I’m with the elf. Magic is fine and well for weapons and clerical prayers, but don’t go mucking up music with it,” she said firmly.

  Danilo knew better than to argue with a dwarf, and, since her words brought an unanswered question to mind, he turned to other matters. “Speaking of magical weapons, how did you know what Elaith Craulnober’s sword was, that you could draw such a picture?”

  Morgalla shrugged. “I heared yer tale of the elfwoman’s moonblade, remember? It told how the sword is linked to the elf that wears it.” She pointed with her jester’s staff to a spot behind Danilo. “If that be true, yon elf’s got hisself a problem: he can’t use the sword, can’t get rid of it”

  Danilo spun, finding himself almost face-to-face with Elaith. The elf cast a glance at the open spellbook in the Harper’s hands. “More parlor tricks?” he said disparagingly.

  “Preparing for tomorrow,” Danilo said quietly. “It might be well to have a plan in case our large green friend chooses not to honor his side of the bargain.”

  “Just so,” Elaith agreed, crossing his arms and rocking back on his heels as if reconsidering the human before him. “You realize, of course, that if your dragon wishes to be found, it will find you. Green dragons blend with the forest in more ways than mere appearance. They are difficult to find and nearly impossible to ambush. We can’t split up and search for it, for if the dragon were to first encounter a group unable to play this riddle game, the beast might be less kindly disposed to hearing a riddle challenge from another.”

  Danilo nodded slowly. “What do you suggest?”

  “Make the dragon come to you. We’ll break camp early and travel north toward the hills. The dragon’s lair is there, hidden somewhere in the Endless Caverns. I know a small clearing nearby. Send out a challenge to the thing—sing that damned ballad, perhaps. If the dragon doesn’t hear you, the forest is full of creatures that will carry your message fast enough. Ask the dragon for the scroll, as well as something to make the exercise worthwhile to the men. A cask of emeralds would do nicely.”

  “I should say,” murmured Danilo.

  “It would be better to meet Grimnoshtadrano with a small group. The dragon might not take kindly to being approached by our entire party.”

  “I had thought to go alone, but for Vartain.”

  “You now have a partner to consider,” Elaith reminded him. “If you wish to kill yourself, kindly do so on your own time. Yes, Vartain will go to answer the riddle, but you should at least take the minstrel. Spellsong is a powerful weapon.”

  “Not Wyn,” Danilo said firmly. “No elves, absolutely. Green dragons consider you folk a delicacy, and for all we know Grimnoshtadrano might be in the mood for a snack.”

  “Point taken,” the moon elf said grudgingly. “We will hold the spellsinger back, out of sight.” His eyes fell on Morgalla, who listened with the mien of one well accustomed to councils of war. “You might take the dwarf with you, though, in case the dragon requires feeding.”

  “I doubt I could keep her back,” Danilo said, noting the battle-gleam in the dwarven warrior’s eyes, “and I don’t envy anything that might try to eat her.”

  “You got that right” Morgalla agreed. “But what if the beast don’t hold up his side of the bargain?”

  “If our large green friend defaults,” Danilo responded, “I’ll challenge it to a second riddle. The riddle is actually a spell, and it will hold the dragon long enough for us to make an escape.”

  Elaith looked dubious. “You’d be better off taking the spellsinger.”

  “Maybe. I’m curious, Wyn,” Danilo said casually. “Those marsh pipers were on the small side. Have you ever tried to charm something larger than a tavern wench?”

  “A dragon, no,” Wyn admitted, a slight twinkle in the green depths of his eyes, “but I did live among the Northmen for a time, and I found their women quite susceptible. Will that do?”

  “Close enough,” Danilo admitted with a surprised grin. He’d learned from his time with Arilyn that elven humor tended to be dry and subtle; Wyn’s remark seemed uncharacteristically bawdy, but the elf’s assessment of North-women—whose ample charms were much prized by the ambitious and the athletic—was remarkably apt

  “If the spell doesn’t work—and frankly, Lord Thann, we’ve got to consider that as a possibility—I’ve a powder that ignites the dragon’s poisonous gas,” Elaith said, holding up a small cylinder. “If the beast opens its mouth in preparation for attack, we toss this inside. The result is like rather like setting an alchemist’s shop on fire. The explosion will daze the creature and give us time to be away.”

  “Who’ll get close enough to do the tossing? You got that good an arm, elf?” Morgalla asked.

  “Vartain will handle it,” Elaith responded. “He is a master of the blowgun.”

  “Now why am I not surprised,” Danilo commented dryly. “That one’s got more air than the north wind.”

  “Indeed,” the rogue elf said in rare agreement.

  The dwarf responded with a derisive sniff. “When you two start singing the same tune, it’s past time to get some sleep. Maybe come morning, you’ll have come to yer senses and be back to scrapping.”

  “It is late,” Wyn agreed, and the two made their way to the far side of the encampment, leaving Dan and Elaith alone with their uneasy alliance.

  “How did you come to have this explosive powder?” the Harper asked cautiously. The elf’s path paralleled his own too closely for comfort, and what he knew of Elaith did not inspire peace of mind under any circumstances. “Did you plan to encounter the dragon?”

  “No, but my travels took me close to its lair. Vartain felt it was a possibility and suggested I prepare for it,” the elf answered in apparent candor.

  “Farsighted fellow, isn’t he?” Danilo said admiringly, pretending to take the elf’s response at face value. “Does he truly live up to his reputation?”

  “He’s as good as you’ve heard, and just as annoying,” Elaith grumbled. “Never have I seen him wrong, and he doesn’t hesitate to herald this fact.”

  “Modest sort.”

  “You heard him at the campfire. Vartain is firmly convinced of his superiority and inordinately proud of his traditions.”

  “Yes,” Danilo said in a dry tone. “For a moment, he reminded me of an elf.”

  Elaith’s brows shot up in surprise. “Quite so,” he admitted, not without humor.

  Since the elf seemed unusually mellow, Danilo decided to press him for information. He wasn’t entirely sure whether his motive was to exploit the unexpected camaraderie, or to destroy it.

  “Speaking of elves and traditions and so forth, that sword dance was remarkable. Du
ring the dance I noticed that you carry your hereditary sword. Since this is not your usual habit, I couldn’t help but wonder why you brought the moonblade along.”

  The cautious truce dissolved instantly. “That is not your concern,” Elaith said coldly. He spun away, and with silent grace he disappeared into the darkness.

  * * * * *

  When night faded to the first silver of morning, Texter the Paladin resumed his solitary journey. Although Texter was devoted to the city of Waterdeep and devout in his duties as one of its secret Lords, he could not long abide within walls. He often rode alone into the wilderness to renew his commitment to Tyr, the god of justice whom he served. The silence cleared his mind and allowed him to reach inside himself for strength, and the austere challenges of the road tested and honed his skills as a knight His rides also enabled him to serve the city by seeing with his own eyes how things in the Northlands fared.

  Conditions north of Waterdeep were every bit as grim as Texter had feared.

  From high astride his huge war-horse, the paladin surveyed the ruined fields around him. At this time of year, the second crop of hay should have been more than hock-high, but his horse stood amid stunted sprouts and brambles. This field, lying as it did near the edges of the wilderness, had been planted to fodder, but the same tale could be told of the food crops nearer the safety of the farming villages. For many days, Texter had ridden through scenes of desolation, and he had noticed a peculiar pattern. Crops had been blighted all around the city, but as he rode north the area of damage narrowed. Whatever—or whoever—caused the blight had left a clear and apparently deliberate path.

  Leaving the stunted field behind, Texter headed north toward the first scrubby trees that marked the beginning of the forest. As he rode toward the River Dessarin, he noted that even the woodlands had been blighted along this mysterious path. Ferns withered, mosses turned black on fallen logs, and the nearby trees were eerily silent of birds or small game.

  A woman’s scream rang out from behind a small hill. Texter nudged his horse into a gallop and raced in the direction of the sound. As he urged the horse over the hillock, he saw below both the river and the source of the scream.

  Near the riverbank, two gray-green orcs were toying with a young woman. They had laid their weapons aside, and were spinning her from one to the other in a cruel game of catch. Their eyes glowed red with the reflected first rays of sun, and tusklike teeth gleamed in perverse delight at the woman’s terror.

  Texter drew his sword and charged down the hill. The thunder of the mighty horse’s hooves shook the ground, and the startled orcs shoved the woman aside and dove for their weapons. The first orc grabbed its axe and rolled to its feet just in time to meet Texter’s first swing. With that one stroke, the paladin decapitated the orc. Its head flew into the river and was swept downstream by the rushing current.

  The second orc charged forward over the body of its fallen brother, holding high a spiked mace. Texter’s battle-trained steed nimbly sidestepped the downward smash. The paladin delivered a backhanded stroke with the blunt side of his blade, catching the orc on the snout and sending the beast reeling away. Texter’s sword cut back, slashing the gray hide of the orc’s chest and sending tufts of coarse hair flying. His final thrust found the creature’s heart, and the orc crashed backward onto the bloodied ground.

  Texter dismounted and strode to where the woman lay, crumpled and sobbing. “Be at ease, lady,” he said gently. “You are safe now.”

  Tears streaming down her cheeks, the woman raised sea-green eyes to his. She was surprisingly young, not more than fifteen winters, and fair despite her tears. The girl had thick brown braids and a sweet face with apple cheeks and a scattering of freckles.

  A farm lass, Texter noted, probably from the village near Yartar, but far from home. The reason for her travels lay beside her; a basket was half full of the fiddlehead ferns that grew in the calmer water at the river’s edge. These greens were a delicacy, steamed and served with a bit of butter, and all the more needed because of the failed crops.

  “I will take you back to your home,” Texter offered, holding out his hand. “Galadin is strong and can carry us both with ease.”

  The girl let the paladin pull her to her feet “First I must thank you for saving my life,” she said in a voice that was sweet, clear, and remarkably composed. “I regret I have no reward to offer you but a song.”

  Clasping her hands demurely before her, the girl began to sing. In her voice was the music of the wind and water, and the lure of an almost-remembered dream. As she sang, her form shifted from that of a farm lass to a rare and magical creature. Before Texter’s dazzled eyes, her face became fair enough to ensnare a man’s soul. Abundant hair the color of kelp flowed over her shoulders, and slender, webbed hands gestured gracefully in time to the music. Only the color of her eyes remained unchanged: the vivid sea green of a lorelei.

  As Texter listened with rapt attention to the lorelei’s voice, the landscape that surrounded them began to blur, the shapes and colors melting together like a painting left in the rain. Soon he was aware of nothing but the enchanting, wordless song, and the soul-deep longing that it stirred in his breast.

  Not realizing he did so, Texter again mounted his horse. The lorelei beckoned the paladin to follow, and then she dove into the river. Swimming effortlessly against the fast-moving stream, she began to head north, singing all the while.

  Entranced by the lorelei’s siren song, Texter rode along the river’s edge, unaware that the creature was leading him ever deeper into the wilderness.

  Seven

  The members of Music and Mayhem rose before dawn, and by first light they were well into the High Forest. As they traveled north, the path narrowed until it was completely sheltered by a deep, leafy canopy. On either side grew thick banks of ferns, and the tangle of exposed roots around the ancient trees were shod with velvety moss. From time to time, the road followed near the course of Unicorn Run, whose vivid blue-green waters ran laughing over polished stones. Even the air itself seemed green, for the light filtered through layers of trees and the breeze was scented with the wild mint reputed to be a unicorn’s favorite fodder. Danilo scanned the shadows in search of unicorns, but the morning passed without such a blessing. Perhaps, he mused, the magical creatures sensed the danger the travelers courted, and so kept a wise distance.

  Danilo did not for a moment forget that the dragon was just one of the hazards of this mission. Although he had slept but little the night before—memorizing the difficult spell had taken him almost until dawn—the Harper kept alert for danger from any quarter.

  His moon elf partner was not to be trusted under any circumstances, and the revelation that Elaith carried a moonblade added to Danilo’s uncertainty. He could not fathom why Elaith carried a reminder of his failure. Actually, very little about the elf’s motives made sense. Danilo could not understand why Elaith would request only a cask of gems from the dragon. The elf had a legendary fondness for magical items, and surely a dragon’s hoard would contain something a bit more compelling than jewelry. Danilo added to this conjecture the very real possibility that Elaith would prove treacherous once he had secured whatever it was he sought.

  The riders reached a small clearing before highsun and set to work at Elaith’s direction. Two of the mercenaries built a campfire, while Orcsarmor, their best archer, shot several of the squirrels who chattered and scampered among the ancient oaks. A pot of over-seasoned stew was soon simmering, and the firewood doused with water and strewn with herbs so that the scented smoke might confuse the dragon’s keen nose. This precaution, Elaith explained, was to ensure that no sign of his or Wyn’s presence lingered in the clearing. Since elves were a favorite meal of green dragons, the wyrms were particularly adept at scenting and tracking them, and the urge to do just that might distract the dragon from the riddle challenge. The elf then sent the mercenaries down a narrow path lined with young birch, through a section of forest that Elaith claimed
was too densely grown to allow passage to a full-grown dragon. To Danilo’s surprise, Elaith gave the lead reins of his black stallion to Mange, and ordered Orcsarmor to take Wyn and Balindar’s horses, as well.

  “We three will remain nearby,” Elaith announced, “Balindar and me to protect my interests, and the minstrel to provide spellsong magic if the need arises.”

  Danilo faced down the elf, his gray eyes cold. “That’s not what we agreed. You’ll not put Wyn at risk.”

  “By standing here quibbling instead of announcing your intentions to the dragon, you risk us all,” Elaith countered, pointing to the campfire. “How long do you think it will take the dragon to realize that there are travelers in the forest?”

  “It’s best to do as he says,” Wyn told Danilo. “He’s quite right about the dragon. We will do whatever we must to retrieve that scroll.”

  The Harper conceded with a terse nod, and Balindar and the two elves took cover downwind in a nearby copse of young birch and giant ferns. Morgalla loosely tied the three remaining horses near the escape trail, and Vartain cut a branch of pine and quickly swept the sandy clearing free of footprints.

  Then they joined Danilo at the cookfire. To all appearances, they were the only three who had come in the clearing. When all was in readiness, Danilo took his place on a moss-covered rock and began to adjust his lute’s tuning pegs.

  “Get on with it!” Elaith hissed from the nearby copse.