by Ed Greenwood
“Waterdeep’s secure,” Mrelder mumbled, suddenly weak with weariness. “Our work’s done, the Open Lord told me.”
The Great Reader smote the young sorcerer’s shoulder, in a painful reminder of Piergeiron’s salute. “Victory, lad—glorious victory!”
“Yes,” Mrelder agreed, managing a smile.
He was not seeing battles in the streets of Waterdeep, however, but a confrontation to come, one where he’d not stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the Open Lord of Waterdeep and a score of veteran bodyguard knights.
When he faced Golskyn again, he and the sahuagin would prevail.
Even as he made that silent vow, Mrelder seemed to hear the mocking echo of his father’s taunting voice, saying this bid would fail him as so many had before.
Monsters, observed Beldar Roaringhorn glumly, were damnably unreliable fellows. According to everything Beldar knew of swordplay and monsters—and he prided himself on his knowledge of both—the ugly green bastard should have won that fight. Handily.
He counted out the ten dragons he’d lost betting on the scarred half-ogre, and with a casual flourish that told the world he tossed away gold at least a dozen times a day, slid the coins across the table. The peg-legged sailor who stood waiting for it grew a nastily delighted leer.
Beldar studied him. The strange, dirty, spidery-looking fellow appeared to be held together largely by years’ worth of accumulated grime. His arms were long, thin, and ropy with sagging remnants of muscles. He wore no shirt, but his faded red breeches were belted high over a tightly rounded belly that seemed at odds with his emaciated limbs. His remaining foot was bare, and gold toe-rings gleamed down there through layers of dirt.
The old man grinned at Beldar, displaying three blackened teeth, and flipped one of the coins to the half-ogre. The brute caught the gold deftly and gave Beldar a mocking, almost courtly bow.
“Son of a sahuagin,” muttered the young noble.
“My friend Gorkin’s not what you’d call sea-devil spawn,” the old sailor said smugly, “but you’ll be seeing plenty of those soon enough. Word is Waterdeep’s under attack right now! Wouldn’t put it past yer perfumed pretty-women to drag the scalies into those public baths fer a quick … swim.”
The look on Beldar’s face sent the wretch into gales of laughter that promptly turned into a coughing fit. It lasted, relatively speaking, a tenday or so, ere the salt spat a thick gobbet of pipeweed onto the floor, wheezed, and gave Beldar that grin again.
“You’d like that, would you?” he taunted. “Comin’ home to Waterdeep to find yer women’s got a taste for seafood, so to speak? Might be they’d find the sea-devils a closer thing to a real man than yer fancy-pants, soft-handed, white-livered, sorry sons of—”
The old sailor’s words ended abruptly with a sharp urp! as Beldar sprang lightning-swift from his chair to drive a fist deep into that capacious gut.
The salt went to his knees, wheezing, coins bouncing and rolling in all directions. In an instant, the makeshift sparring floor emptied as the trio of mixed-blood outlaws currently fighting for the entertainment of Luskan’s lowlives hurled themselves at a richer prize, not to mention the young nobleman who’d provided it.
Beldar’s eyes lit up at the prospect of battle. With a widening smile he clapped his hand to the hilt of his sword.
Suddenly a larger hand took hold of his collar, and he was jerked up and back so sharply his feet left the floor.
Green muscles rippled as that arm twisted, turning the momentarily strangling Beldar to almost touch noses with … Gorkin. The half-ogre’s other hand clamped over Beldar’s sword-hand, holding the noble’s magnificent weapon firmly sheathed.
“Easy, lad. I’m just takin’ you out of harm’s way.”
Beldar blinked. There was no menace in the brute’s face. Avarice, yes, but what face in Waterdeep didn’t bear the same stamp?
“Very kind of you, I’m sure,” he replied, “but hardly necessary.”
The half-ogre held Beldar off the floor a moment longer, because he could, then lowered him, stepped back, and jerked his bald, green-skinned head at the widening brawl where knives were out, and men were dying over a few spilled coins.
“More needed’n’you might think. Yonder’s Boz.” A stubby green finger indicated a furry mongrelman not much larger than a halfling. “Might as well thrust your arm into a dragon’s maw as draw steel on him. Mean little bastard.”
“Really.” Beldar watched the small fighter kick, bite, and stab for a moment, and saw Boz’s teeth take out a second throat as thoroughly as his wickedly hooked knife had served the first one. “Gods! He looks as if his mother had carnal knowledge of a badger.”
Gorkin grinned. “Fights like it, too.”
“So I see,” the nobleman murmured.
The little mongrelman pinned an orcblood foe tusks-down to the ground and wrenched one thickly muscled arm back so sharply that Beldar imagined the thick, wet sound of rending bone and sinew. Not that he could have heard it over the shrieking. Boz was calmly biting off fingers, one at a time, to get at the coins clenched in the orc-blood’s fist.
Beldar rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Yonder mongrelman might prove to be a creature he’d long sought. It was certainly worth the price of an introduction to find out.
He met the half-ogre’s speculative gaze. “You know who I am?”
The brute nodded. “I know who, but I don’t know why.”
Beldar smiled thinly. In certain circles he was known for his fascination with monsters. Of course, he wasn’t the first wealthy well-born with a taste for exotic creatures, but Beldar’s interest was less easily explained than most. He slew not for bounty, nor entertainment. He did not line the walls of Roaringhorn mansions with mounted trophies, nor did he collect living specimens. Occasionally he purchased some of the more interesting bits of slain monsters for magical uses, but what man with his resources did not?
The truth was something Beldar pondered daily but had never spoken aloud. It sounded too vainglorious, even for a noble of Waterdeep, to announce an important destiny awaiting him. Stranger still to claim his path to greatness would begin when he mingled with monsters. So he’d been told years ago by a seer of Rashemen, and so he believed, with every breath he drew.
It wasn’t Beldar Roaringhorn’s way to wait for destiny to find him. He seized every chance to seek out the company of monstrous creatures. Fortunately, the travels expected of an idle younger son of a noble house of Waterdeep afforded opportunities aplenty to do so, far from the ever-watchful eyes of kin and the expectations of Waterdhavian society.
Boldy, he clapped the half-ogre on the shoulder. “Gorkin, is it? Let me buy you a drink! Perhaps we’ll find business interests in common.”
“Perhaps?” the brute scoffed. “You think I kept you from yon tangle out of the softly dawning love in my heart?”
“That possibility never occurred to me,” Beldar replied with a wry smile. “How’s the ale in this establishment? ”
“Wouldn’t know. I’m not allowed to drink here. They say it makes me mean and ugly.” Gorkin bared his fangs in an ironic smile.
“Hmmm. Had I known,” Beldar responded dryly, “I’d have offered to buy you a drink before I wagered on the outcome of your fight.”
The half-ogre’s bark of laughter sounded like a file rasping on a rusted blade, and he gave the noble a friendly swat on the shoulder. “A place down on the docks’ll let me in—or used to, before I bought me one of their girls.”
His small, piggish red eyes studied the young nobleman, turning thoughtful.
They beheld dark chestnut hair falling in waves to shoulders, a fine-featured face with skin that evidently—remarkably—held its sun-browned hue year-round, dark eyes rimmed with sooty lashes that must be the envy of many a woman. Wiser than most idle young wastrels out of Waterdeep, by the looks of him, with a swordsman’s lean and fit build. Small, dapper mustache, and that air of style all wealthy young Waterdhavians wore like a golden clo
ak.
“Could be I’d get me another girl, if you was doing the asking,” the half-ogre wheedled.
Beldar fought to keep revulsion off his face. “Let’s start with a drink. If the wenches offer you their favors, what befalls is your choice.”
“But you’ll pay?”
The nobleman gritted his teeth. This sort of “mingling with monsters” hadn’t featured in his dreams and speculations.
“I’ll pay,” he said shortly.
Gorkin grinned wickedly. Turning, he pushed through the crowd, out into the deepening night, and led Beldar down a steeply sloping street to the docks.
The Icecutter stood hard by Luskan’s longest wharf, a first port of call for sailors just off the cold waters. It was a tavern only slightly less rundown than the fighting-den they’d left and full of patrons only slightly less disreputable. Oddly enough, its taproom was scrupulously clean. They took the nearest empty table.
A small, slim serving lass came over to them at once, a tray of battered tankards in her work-reddened hands. She placed two foaming drinks before them and swayed deftly back beyond the half-ogre’s hopeful reach.
“The ale comes with Vornyk’s compliments,” she said flatly. “He doesn’t want any trouble. Drink it and leave, Gorkin.”
The half-ogre emptied one tankard without coming up for air, thunked it down on the table, and belched mightily.
“Another,” he demanded, tossing his head toward Beldar. “He’s paying.”
The wench glanced at the Waterdhavian, fire rising in her brown eyes. “You’ll pay for all damage, too? And a healer, if need be?”
“I hardly think such will be necessary,” Beldar replied coolly.
“Tell that to Quinta,” she snapped. “Enjoy your ale. ’Tis all you’ll get this night.”
Beldar watched the wench’s quick retreat to the kitchens. She wasn’t conventionally pretty; too thin for beauty, and not gifted with the lush charms Beldar usually sought in women of negotiable virtue. Yet unlike many dockside wenches, she was clean and neat, her long, thick brown hair carefully pulled back into a single braid. Those brown eyes were large and very bright, and something about her light step and swift, efficient movements appealed. A little brown bird, come to roost in an unlikely nest …
“That’s the one I want,” Gorkin announced.
The nobleman chuckled mirthlessly. “I’d not wager a copper on your chances. Who’s this Quinta?”
Gorkin plucked up and drained Beldar’s tankard. “My last girl. Haven’t seen her since.”
Before Beldar could inquire more closely as to just what that meant, a huge man was bustling up to them, a large, well-laden food tray nestled against his food-splattered apron.
He gave Beldar an oily smile and with swift skill served more ale and set surprisingly appetizing fare before them: a thick seafood stew in hollowed-out roundloaves, a small wheel of cheese, and a bowl of pickled vegetables. “Two gold, the lot.”
An outrageous price, but as the half-ogre was already devouring cheese and stew as if starvation loomed large, Beldar dropped two gold dragons into the man’s outstretched hand and threw in a sigh for good measure. One coin was promptly bitten, whereupon the man grunted approvingly, gave the half-ogre a curt nod, and left.
Watching him go, Beldar murmured, “Your peg-legged partner is surprisingly good at games of chance, considering how poorly he bluffs.”
“Poorly? Got the better of you, didn’t he?”
“I refer to his comments about Waterdeep.”
The half-ogre raked his stew with a finger and caught a plump mussel. Tossing it between his fangs, he swallowed without chewing.
“ ’Twas no bluff. Kypur heard it from an old mate what has an ear out for wizard-talk. There’ll be lively times aplenty hereabouts, once most folk hear. ’Course, some Luskan ships’ll run afoul of the sea-devils, but most jacks’ll quaff to their own misfortune so long as Waterdeep’s harder hit.”
Beldar nodded absently, but his thoughts were not of the long-standing rivalry between the two northern ports.
So ’twas true. Waterdeep was under attack by sahuagin, in numbers sufficient to be a serious threat. His family and friends were in danger, his home threatened. The rising bloodlust of a warrior bred and trained sang through his blood, but not loud enough to silence a single, devastating truth:
Waterdeep was under attack, by monsters, and Beldar Roaringhorn wasn’t there to seize his destiny!
He wanted to dash out and find a fast coach or ship about to sail and ask Gorkin a thousand questions, too … but the half-ogre waved away his first few to empty the pickles into his mouth. Making a face, he followed them with the soggy remnants of his loaf—and then reached for Beldar’s. The noble waved at him to eat it all and waited impatiently until the last crumb disappeared.
Gorkin leaned back, patted his belly in satisfaction, and growled, “I’ve one more need to settle, then we’ll talk.”
He rose and stalked to the back of the tavern, most likely to seek relief in an alley out back. In Beldar’s opinion, the quality of the ale was such that Gorkin might as well return his portion directly to the cask and call it a loan. No one would notice the difference.
A woman’s scream tore through the tavern clamor. Chairs scraped on the bare board floor as drinkers turned to see why, but not a single patron rose to help.
Gorkin was backing out of the kitchen, dragging the serving wench under one arm. He strode toward a stair leading up to what Beldar assumed were coins-for-the-night rooms. The lass shrieked and struggled, but the half-ogre merely grinned.
The girl gave the apron-clad tavernmaster a terrified look of appeal. “Vornyk, please! He beat Quinta almost to death!”
The man shrugged, unmoved. “If he’s buying, I’m selling.”
Rage tempered fear on the wench’s face. “So I’ve heard, from this one and a hundred like him!” she spat. “The sooner he turns me loose, the sooner the two of you can go about your business!”
Gorkin released the girl long enough to backhand her savagely across the face. “Watch your tongue, wench, or I’ll cut it out and eat it,” he growled, watching her drag herself dazedly up from the floor. “ ’Tis women for me, and none’ll say otherwise.”
“This woman isn’t for you,” she hissed. “I’ll die first!”
The half-ogre sneered. “Makes little difference to me one way or ’tother.”
The wench seized a heavy tankard from the nearest table and threw it at him, contents and all. Gorkin batted it aside, snatched her up and over his shoulder, and headed for the stairs.
Amid some cheers from around the taproom, the lass kicked, swore, and screamed, but never cried to patrons for help. Beldar decided she knew better.
Gorkin grinned and struck a pose, his prize struggling vainly in the curl of his arm. He made a show of starting to unlace the cods of his breeches, as men laughed and shouted lewd suggestions.
For a moment—just one—the young Roaringhorn noble weighed his life-long quest for an unknown monstrous ally against the sullying of a tavern wench’s virtue. And then, with a disgusted growl, Beldar rose to his feet, reaching for his sword.
Another sword sang out faster. The taproom turned in almost perfect unison at the sound to behold an aging warrior in full armor, with the hammer and scales of Tyr bright upon the chest of his surcoat and his eyes shining with terrible wrath.
Holy wrath. A paladin of Tyr drawn by the screams, the doors of the tavern still swinging behind him. Beldar peered at the man. He seemed familiar, as if Beldar had seen him before. In Waterdeep, most likely, but …
The paladin strode forward, and the patrons of the Icecutter sprang to sudden life. Leaping from their chairs, they pulled tables aside in a trice to clear a battlefield of sorts. Bets were shouted, and coins slapped down on a dozen tables.
The paladin paid no heed. Crossing the room in a few long strides, he plucked the girl from the half-ogre’s grasp as if she weighed nothing.
Gorkin whirled with a roar and found himself facing a raised and ready sword, the wench safely behind the man wielding it.
Without hesitation the half-ogre sprang back, drew steel, and then plunged at his foe. Steel clanged on steel, sparks flew, the old paladin’s blade circled arrow-swift up and under Gorkin’s guard, and the half-ogre spat blood in astonishment, stared at the ceiling … and fell, eyes wide in disbelief.
Beldar was tempted to applaud. Four quick, precise movements, done in less time than it took to count them aloud, and Gorkin lay dying. It was a marvel of efficient swordsmanship, if lacking the showy flourishes Beldar favored.
The holy knight wiped his weapon on the sprawled half-ogre, sheathed it, and swept the taproom with a slow, measuring glance. Beldar got the uneasy notion the paladin was judging each man there. His grim expression suggested he saw little difference between those who committed evil deeds and those who merely sat and watched.
Then the paladin looked at the tavernmaster. “The girl leaves with me.”
Avarice battled fear in Vornyk’s eyes and won. “Aye, as long as you pay her price.”
The paladin’s cold expression deepened into a killing frost. “Is slavery legal now in Luskan?”
“She has debts,” Vornyk growled. “An indenture. Not the same thing.”
“I’d sooner challenge a skunk to a pissing contest than argue ethics with the likes of you. Name your price.”
That amount was ridiculously high, but the paladin paid it without comment and left the tavern, gently leading the girl by one hand. As she passed Beldar her expression was wary, even cynical, but she probably preferred her chances with a grim stranger than a drunken, violent half-ogre.
Her chances were almost certainly better, the noble thought bitterly, with a champion of Tyr than with Beldar Roaringhorn of Waterdeep, the hero who might have been.
CHAPTER ONE
Midsummer, The Year of the Unstrung Harp (1371 DR)
Taeros Hawkwinter strode quickly through Dock Ward, one hand on the comforting hilt of his sword and the other keeping an open vial of scented oil under his nose. Above the sagging rooftops of this lowest-lying, dirtiest part of Waterdeep, the summer sun shone high overhead, and its baking heat brought out an incredible mingling of stinks in the narrow streets. Even more incredibly, no one around Taeros seemed to mind.
