Finder's Bane

by Novak, Kate

  Lost Gods Series

  Book 1

  Finder’s Bane

  Kate Novak and Jeff Grubb

  The Rescue

  Joel turned his horse from the paved Northride Road onto the muddy Tethyamar Trail. The bard halted and watched with some reluctance as the caravan moved past him up the road toward Shadowdale. A shrine built by the followers of the god Torm stood at the juncture of the road and the trail. With its walls of stone and thatched roof the shrine doubled as a way station for travelers who couldn’t reach Shadowdale by nightfall. It was too early in the day and the weather far too fair for any of the merchants of the caravan to halt here. They were intent on pushing on to their markets in the north.

  One of the caravan guards guided his horse forward until it stood beside the bard’s. The guard, a Dalesman named Branson, was a grizzled twenty-year veteran of the road. He was always uncomfortable watching someone ride away from the safety of his caravan, especially someone as alone and young as Joel was.

  Branson had to admit the bard wasn’t exactly a boy. Joel had the muscular physique of a man and the sober demeanor of an adult, but the caravan guard could detect the signs of youth in him. The bard’s long red hair had the sheen of a child’s, and after ten days without a shave, his beard was still sparse, though his mustache stood out well enough. More telling was the way the young man’s blue eyes widened with every new vista. He wasn’t, Branson judged, a seasoned traveler.

  “Change o’ heart, lad?” the guard asked hopefully.

  The younger man shook his head. “No. The trail through Daggerdale is the only way to the Lost Vale, and that’s where I’m determined to go.”

  “I didn’t exaggerate the dangers, lad. The trail’s ridden with giant spiders and wolves and orcs and bandits and Zhentish scum, and the Daggerdale folk are none too friendly neither,” Branson warned.

  “I’m ready for some adventure,” the bard declared.

  The caravan guard snorted derisively and replied, “You’re young yet. You’ll grow out of it.”

  The young bard grinned but was wise enough not to argue. He stared after the tail end of the caravan with which he’d traveled all the way from Cormyr. “I’m going to miss your singing,” he said.

  Branson roared with laughter. “You’re going to miss your audience, you mean,” he teased.

  The bard lowered his eyes self-consciously.

  “Aye, bard. Nothing to be ashamed of. You’re a man who likes people. That’s a good thing. And a man who likes entertaining them. That’s an even better thing.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever been so entertained as I was by the verses you made up to that campfire song—especially the one about the drunken mind flayer,” Joel said. “You have a gift for verse.”

  Branson chuckled. “No wonder the church o’ Milil don’t like you bards becoming Finder priests. Encouraging an old fool like me to write songs—competing with the likes o’ you.”

  “Music doesn’t belong only to bards,” Joel insisted. “Nor any art just to the learned. Art belongs to everyone. People can create it or change it any way they want… . Promise me you’ll keep making new songs,” the bard said sincerely.

  “Aye. I’ll do that, if you promise to come back to hear ‘em, so’s I know you made it through.”

  “Deal,” Joel agreed with a nod.

  “But now you’ve got to be moving on, haven’t you?” Branson asked. “Once knew a halfling bard who had a saying—always leave ‘em wantin’ more.” He stuck out his hand.

  Joel grasped the old man’s meaty wrist with his own slender hand and smiled as the guard reached out with his other hand and squeezed his forearm reassuringly.

  “Thanks for the good company. Safe journey,” Joel said.

  “Safe journey yourself,” Branson retorted. “You’ll be needing it more than I. Be off with you, then.” He slapped Joel’s mare on the rear.

  The horse kicked once and trotted down the trail a few yards before slowing uncertainly.

  Joel turned in his saddle to wave farewell, but the guard had already taken off after his caravan.

  “Hai, Butternut!” the bard called out to his mount, urging her forward. The mare, no doubt relieved to have finally escaped the crush of the caravan wagons and pleased to have soft dirt beneath her hooves, took off down the trail without complaint.

  The noise of the caravan quickly faded in the distance. Soon the Spiderhaunt Woods began to close in about the trail, muffling all sound. The woods were composed mainly of oak and evergreen trees growing very close together, their tangled branches creaking as they rubbed against one another. The undergrowth was dense with vines and saplings and fallen trees. Sticky cobwebs brushed at Joel’s face, but fortunately there was no sign of the giant spiders that gave the woods its name. Occasionally some tiny creature rustled in the brush, and overhead birds chirped busily, but otherwise it was quiet on the trail. After days of traveling with a crowd of merchants, talking deals and markets, the bard welcomed the peace. Miles later, though, the stillness began to feel eerie to Joel.

  He started humming softly to himself. A short while later he was singing “Market Day,” a song he’d written as an apprentice and had earned his former master a fat purse from a delighted merchants’ guild. He began softly, but soon, pleased with his own skill and determined to fill the void of sound all about him, his voice swelled.

  He was just belting out the final repeat of the refrain when his mare slowed and then halted in her tracks, her ears pricked up high, her nostrils flaring, the skin on her neck quivering. Joel stood up in the stirrups and peered down the trail, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. He nudged the beast’s flanks, but she responded by turning away, heading back the way they’d come.

  “What’s got into you, girl?” the bard muttered as he pulled up on her reins.

  Butternut stopped and stood still.

  Joel pulled hard on her left rein, but she stubbornly shook her head and whinnied with annoyance.

  Remembering Branson’s warning about wolves, the bard realized the mare might have reason to balk. He dismounted and pulled Butternut’s bridle toward him until he stood eye to eye with the mare. He stroked her muzzle and sang a lullaby softly into her ear: “Courage will wash away your fear, whatever evil may be near.” Joel repeated the verse over and over until a sense of safety and well-being swept through him; then Butternut snorted and her muscles relaxed. Holding the mare’s bridle, the bard led her back up the trail a few paces. She followed obediently, without qualms.

  Joel snapped a lead rope on the bridle and walked beside his mount. The trail began to climb upward, and the woods began to take on a different appearance. The trees grew farther apart, and the undergrowth was more sparse. The ground was rockier, strewn with moss-covered boulders of great size, some larger than a man.

  The bard tried to remain alert to any sign of what had spooked Butternut, but his thoughts were distracted by memories that made him uneasy.

  He’d learned the courage verse on the day he had agreed to become a priest of Finder. It was one of many spells the priest Jedidiah had taught him after anointing him. Joel knew he was lucky to have found Jedidiah; priests of Finder were almost unheard of. Finder was a new god, a force for renewal and change in all things, but especially in art. Steeped from birth in the traditions of lore and music, Joel yearned for a rebirth in his art.

  Yet the calling to Finder’s priesthood had not come easily. It had angered Joel’s masters, annoyed his friends, and embarrassed his family. More importantly, it frightened him. With joy and pride, he’d trained as a bard from childhood and attained his master’s ring at a remarkably young age. Now it was hard to let go of the title.

  Jedidiah had somehow understood Joel’s
fear of starting all over again, of trading the security and honor of his position for the role of a priest. “For now, you can call yourself the Rebel Bard,” the old priest had told him, chuckling at the title. Finder had been known as the Nameless Bard in the days before he’d become a god.

  “You’re going to have to face it, Joel,” he muttered to himself. “You’ve been casting priest spells. You’re a priest now.”

  Butternut nickered softly and stopped. Joel halted beside her. Now he could hear what her more sensitive ears must have heard earlier—the clash of steel against steel. Somewhere in the woods to the east someone— several someones—were battling with swords. Joel spied a narrow path leading in the direction of the noise.

  The young priest pulled his mare off the trail and tied her to a low branch. Magically reassured, the beast commenced to graze on the undergrowth. The bard pulled up the hood of his green cloak and drew his sword before he began moving stealthily down the path toward the sounds of battle.

  The trees on either side of the path grew more sparse, and Joel could make out figures in a clearing up ahead. The bard ducked behind a tree and peered around the trunk to assess the situation.

  In the center of the clearing stood a granite boulder over eight feet high and thirty feet around. Five armed men had cornered a lone swordswoman up against the rock. From the black and yellow badges sewn on their leather jerkins, Joel could tell that the men were Zhentilar, soldiers of the Zhentarim, the Black Network.

  Branson had warned Joel about them. The Zhentarim shipped their honest goods down theNorthride Road through Shadowdale, but there were certain goods that Shadowdale’s lord, its wizard, and its people would not stomach. These included mercenaries, arms, and slaves, which the Zhentarim was forced to bring through Daggerdale. To protect this illicit trade, the Black Network sent soldiers to patrol Daggerdale by leave of the puppet rulers it had set up in the town ofDagger Falls. The Zhentilar, Branson had explained, were a menace to any goods not belonging to their masters and harassed travelers on principle. The Zhentilar in the clearing weren’t much older than Joel, but they were all armed with swords, and their eyes were cold and pitiless.

  Their chosen prey of the moment was barely more than a girl, barefoot and dressed in a long skirt and a tunic, both woven from brown wool. A small leather backpack hung from her left arm, serving as a shield. If not for the cutlass she wielded in her right hand, Joel might have taken her for a Dalelands shepherdess. Considering her dark skin and short bushy hair and the curved blade, Joel wondered if perhaps she was an askara, a fighting woman from one of the southern empires. Whatever her origins, she was certainly no stranger to combat.

  Two Zhentilar already lay on the ground. One was a soldier with a fatal gash across his throat, while the other was a spellcaster with a dagger in his chest. Despite having felled two of her seven attackers, the swordswoman was hard pressed now. With her back against the boulder, she couldn’t be surrounded easily, but neither could she escape. Although three of the five surviving Zhentilar hung back, they made an effective fence of steel behind the other two soldiers, who harried her like dogs who had cornered a fox. Blood seeped from several small cuts on her arms, and she appeared to be tiring. From time to time, she let the point of her sword droop carelessly. It was only a matter of time before she would make some fatal error.

  There was no question in the bard’s mind that he would help the young woman. He would have liked to ponder until he could come up with a foolproof plan, but there wasn’t time. Certainly the odds weren’t favorable for a bold assault. That left deceit. Joel grinned as a wild scheme took shape in his head.

  According to Branson, the Zhentilar were used to taking orders from their mages. With its mage captain felled, this patrol was obviously in need of new leadership. Joel waved his fingers about his body, chanting a simple illusion spell to mimic the outfit of the dead Zhentarim wizard. The fabric of his cloak shimmered until he appeared to be wearing black and yellow robes emblazoned with a Zhentarim badge. With the same spell, he covered his face with the illusion of a long gray beard and cloaked his sword with the shape of an oaken staff.

  Taking a deep breath, Joel stepped into the clearing. One of the Zhentilar had climbed up the back of the boulder and now teetered precariously near the edge, intending to drop a large rock onto the swordswoman’s head. Before the situation got any messier, Joel barked, “What’s going on here? Soldier, report!”

  The two soldiers battling the swordswoman kept their attention fixed on their foe, but the two in the rear whirled about, leveling their swords at Joel. The Zhentilar atop the boulder lost his footing and tumbled backward with a startled cry. It took all Joel’s self-control to keep from laughing.

  Reacting to the sight of a Zhentilar mage-captain, one soldier before Joel lowered his sword and snapped back, “Sir, we were interrogating this civilian when she murdered our captain and lieutenant, sir!”

  “I can see that,” Joel replied coldly. “I could feel the death of my brother mage.” The bard strode solemnly over to the dead mage’s body and bent over to assure himself the mage was indeed dead. From the corpse’s belt, he retrieved a small wand.

  As he stood, Joel pointed the wand at the swordswoman. The two Zhentilar facing him backed away hurriedly. Apparently the wand’s magic wasn’t something to trifle with. Too bad I don’t have a clue what it does, Joel thought.

  “Back away from your prisoner, men,” the bard ordered the Zhentilar guarding the woman.

  The two remaining guards backed away with more calm. From the smug look on their faces, Joel could tell they were looking forward to watching their prey become the target of whatever foul magic the wand released. The color drained from the young woman’s face, and her lips moved in what Joel guessed must be a prayer to her gods.

  “Sheathe your sword,” he ordered her.

  Like a sleepwalker, the prisoner obeyed.

  Joel stepped closer.

  “Careful, sir,” one soldier muttered. “That’s how our captain got skewered, thinkin’ she was pacified. Best flame her and be done with it.”

  “Did it occur to you, soldier,” Joel asked with a sneer, “that if she went to all this trouble to avoid answering your questions, she must know something important? We need to question her.”

  The bard strode up to the swordswoman, the wand pointed at her belly. She was nearly as tall as he was, but standing this close, the bard could see she was even younger than he’d thought. She was really just a girl. A brave girl, though—she met his look with a defiant glare. In another instant, Joel sensed, she would attack him.

  Joel winked. The girl’s eyes widened momentarily, but she said nothing. Joel slipped the wand in his belt, grabbed the girl’s arm, and yanked her away from the rock. Noting the soldiers’ curious stares, he jerked his head in the direction of the corpses and ordered, “Do something with those bodies!”

  “Yes, sir,” one of the soldiers answered. “Moonteeth, get the shovel. Kurlens, fetch the captain a piece of rope for the prisoner.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Joel replied, steering the girl toward the path. “I’m sure I can handle her.”

  “Where are you taking her, sir?” the soldier giving orders asked suspiciously.

  “My patrol is waiting at the end of the path,” the bard lied. “I’ll interrogate her there. Join us when you’re finished cleaning up here.” He continued to guide the girl down the path, careful not to look back.

  His coolness didn’t fool the soldiers. Two Zhentilar followed Joel, and although he couldn’t see them, the bard was acutely aware that their blades were pointed at his back.

  “Begging your pardon, sir,” the soldier who’d taken charge said craftily, “but I can’t relinquish the prisoner without you giving me the password.”

  Password. That’s just great, Joel thought with annoyance.

  The bard released his grip on the girl’s arm. He gave her a quick shove forward, making room for him to whirl about with his
staff raised. The first soldier, unaware that the staff was merely an illusion covering a sharpened sword, grabbed at the weapon with his bare hand. Blood spurted from what was left of the man’s fingers as he shrieked in pain.

  Joel stepped back, parrying the second soldier’s blade with his own. The force of steel smashing into steel dispelled the illusion of the mage staff.

  “You’re no mage!” the second soldier growled. He slammed his blade at the bard’s sword with enough force to knock it from Joel’s hand. Joel retreated several hasty steps backward. The soldier advanced on him with an evil grin. From behind him, Joel heard a twang. A moment later the grin disappeared from the soldier’s face as a crossbow bolt buried itself in his throat.

  Joel spun about. His “prisoner” was already sliding a second bolt into a one-handed drow crossbow. The bard snatched his sword up from the ground and retreated to the girl’s side.

  The girl stepped forward, leveling her cutlass at the soldier with the injured hand. Joel grabbed her arm. “Come on. Let’s go!” he ordered.

  “We should finish them off,” she argued.

  “Don’t push your luck,” the bard growled, tugging hard on her arm.

  The girl dashed down the path at Joel’s side. There was no sound of pursuit behind them, but they didn’t stop until they reached Joel’s mare.

  Butternut nickered nervously as Joel untied her lead rope.

  “Who are you?” the girl asked.

  “The Rebel Bard,” Joel said, making a courtly, albeit hurried, bow. “At your service, my lady.”

  The girl laughed, though Joel couldn’t tell exactly why. “I’m Holly,” she replied as she sheathed her cutlass. “Holly Harrowslough. Your service is much appreciated.” Her accent marked her as a native of the northern dales, and she held her hand out in dales fashion.

  Joel grasped the girl’s wrist as she grasped his. Her brief grip was strong and sure, and her smile quite pretty, but there was something about the way her dark eyes held his that made the bard feel awkward, as if he’d just confessed to some crime and was being judged.