Bladesinger (10 page)

“Our army is ready,” Durakh answered after a moment’s hesitation, “though you have caused quite a stir among the goblins with your latest… gift. Razk nearly—”

“May the gods damn that fool of a shaman,” Yulda interrupted. “Can you control him?”

The odious beast held a fair amount of power, but he was, like all of his kind, a treacherous, venomous vermin that needed an almost constant lash of discipline and bullying to insure his loyalty.

“Oh yes,” the cleric answered, baring a double row of yellowed, razor-sharp teeth as she did so. “Razk desires a certain series of rites that I happen to know. He will follow my lead until such time as he receives his reward.”

“See to it that he does,” Yulda warned. “Without his presence, the goblins will be far more difficult to manage. What of the others?”

“The bugbears and hobgoblins wait for our signal, as does Nanraak, the wild goblin king,” the priestess replied. “They will join our forces once we have begun to attack in earnest. The rest of our army gathers here. In two days’ time, we will complete all of the final preparations.”

“Ah, that is good,” Yulda said, moving toward the desk once more and gathering a number of maps in her hand. “Then the plan remains the same?” she asked.

“Yes,” Durakh confirmed. “Several contingents of goblins, ogres, and spiders will move swiftly north and west, harrying and raiding the villages several days’ ride from Mulptan, while our main force will sweep out of the mountains and strike first at the Mines of Tethkel and then, once we control the mines, will move to capture or destroy the villages and cities of Lower Rashemen.”

Durakh’s eyes gleamed with anticipation as she recounted the plan, and Yulda’s own doubts were swept away by that cruel glance. She had indeed chosen her lieutenant wisely. The witch smiled in response.

“It is a good plan, if I do say so myself,” she said to the cleric, purposefully ignoring the priestess’s own integral contributions. It would not do to allow the cleric to become too sure of herself. “Are we certain that the Iron Lord will react to the village raids?” Yulda asked.

The half-orc idly fingered her holy symbol as she considered the question.

“I believe that he will,” Durakh responded finally. “My spies say that he grows ever restless locked in his citadel of iron, surrounded by warlords who boast of past victories and drink themselves into oblivion hoping for future glory. Besides,” Durakh noted with more than a hint of malice in her voice, “the last assassin that we sent after the Iron Lord nearly slit his throat while he slept. Once Volas Dyervolk hears of the raids, he will gather together his army of berserkers and run headlong into battle like an owlbear protecting its cubs.”

Yulda threw the maps down on the table, sending several parchments skittering and rolling to the floor.

“Leaving the bulk of Lower Rashemen open to our attack. Soon,” the witch said to no one in particular, “it will all be mine.”

“And the wychlaran?” asked Durakh.

Yulda turned to gaze at the cleric. Though the half-orc had asked the question with the same inflection she gave everything else, the Rashemi witch heard something beneath the simple inquiry—an undertone of fear? Hope? It was difficult to tell.

Nevertheless, Yulda fixed the black point of her eldritch gaze upon Durakh.

“Leave them to me,” Yulda said in a chill voice.

During the course of the past year, the witch had gathered a growing coterie of sorcerers, wizards, and hags in the wilds of the High Country. Frustrated by the yoke of the wychlaran, choked and broken by their own lust for power, they came to her, eager to trade their own freedom for the scraps from her table. There were more of them than she could ever have imagined. The wychlaran were blinded by their traditional rule of power. Carefree and overly complacent in their hereditary role in Rashemen, they could not even conceive of anyone resisting the natural order of things. There were shadows in their mirrors and weeds in their garden that would choke the very life out of them, and they did not even take notice.

Her coterie would travel with the bulk of the army, stirring up the more impetuous of the telthor and turning their arcane power against the spells of the wychlaran, and without the aid of the vremyonni, the sisterhood of the wychlaran would fall. That left only the durthan, holed up in Erech Forest, but Yulda knew that once the durthan understood which way the wind was blowing, they would flock to her banner. Then she would use them too, as she used everything and everyone in her path, climbing over the backs of their spent and lifeless corpses to attain her goal.

Durakh only nodded at the witch’s admonition, her lips pursed in thought.

“There is one thing that I believe we haven’t fully considered,” Durakh said.

“What is that?” Yulda replied, already sensing the turn of the cleric’s thoughts.

“What will Thay do as Rashemen tears itself apart from within?” Durakh asked, and this time Yulda heard true concern in the priestess’s voice. “I hardly think that the Red Wizards will sit quietly on the sidelines until the dust settles.”

Yulda rubbed her hands together and let out a hideous cackle.

“That is exactly what they will do, dear Durakh,” Yulda said as her laughter subsided. “Those petty wizardlings and I have come to a certain… understanding.”

In truth, she would have to give up a good portion of the western border of Lower Rashemen, but that would be a small price to pay for the freedom to work without those meddling Thayans interfering. Besides, when she had finally consolidated her power, Yulda might be able to “renegotiate” her agreement.

Durakh did not seem pleased by the existence of any pact with the Red Wizards, a fact that caused the witch no small concern. Before Yulda could follow her train of thought, however, the half-orc stood and cast a cold look at her.

“You are, of course, free to make arrangements with anyone you choose,” Durakh said, “just so long as you do not forget our own ‘understanding.’”

Despite the cleric’s insolent tone, Yulda held her temper in check. Too much was at stake to let a simple lapse in discipline upset everything.

“Our agreement still stands,” she assured Durakh. “Once we have disposed of the wychlaran, you may take part of the army and explore the Fortress of the Half Demon.” Yulda almost shuddered. The fortress, one of the many ruins left over from the Narfell Empire, rulers of the land before the Rashemi people were formed, held the remains of an ancient portal that legends said would lead to the Lower Planes. “If you can secure the fortress and hold it,” Yulda continued, “then it is yours in perpetuity.”

May you die trying, the witch thought. It was, she had to admit, an elegant solution to what could become a troubling problem. Alive, Durakh could eventually become a rival for power. If she were to die on her quest, which, according to what Yulda knew of the fortress, was quite likely, it would spare her the bother of having to destroy the cleric on her own.

Durakh bowed her head slightly.

“Then I must ask to take your leave,” Durakh said, “for I have much to do if we are to leave on schedule.”

Yulda inclined her own head in a regal manner designed to irritate her lieutenant.

“Then you have my leave,” Yulda replied. “I trust that everything will be in order.” The witch turned her back on the cleric and began once more to study the maps upon her desk, confident that everything would move according to plan.

Outside, the storm continued to rage.

The Year of the Crown

(1351 DR)

The crowd stirred.

Taenaran stopped fiddling nervously with the ties of his shirt, sensing the subtle change in the assembly’s mood. He stood with the other prospective apprentices, arranged in a rough clump in the midst of the entire community, which had gathered beneath the eaves of the arael’lia, the heart-oak, to witness the Rite of Acceptance. Tonight, the el’tael, the masters of the bladesinging art, would choose from among those young elves, both girls and boys, who had been striving to prove themselves worthy of becoming apprentices. Not everyone would move on to the ranks of the tael, for the masters were quite selective and would choose only the best and the brightest of elves to study the ancient art of bladesinging. Ever since that day years ago when he had expressed his heart’s desire to follow in his father’s path and become a bladesinger, Taenaran had studied with a single-minded intensity. He’d mastered the rudimentary lore and minor cantrips of arcane magic faster than the other children and spent every night studying the names of bladesinging heroes and masters of the art. Standing now among the other hopeful candidates, the half-elf could hardly believe that the Rite of Acceptance was mere moments away!

The crowd stirred again, and Taenaran felt his stomach lurch in answer. He prayed to every god he could think of, imploring them all to watch over him tonight. The half-elf wanted to avoid the embarrassment of being passed over, but even more, he wished to avoid the disappointment that such an outcome would bring to his father.

His prayers were interrupted by the sonorous booming of a drum, struck in time to a measured beat. Silence descended upon the assembled elf community. Immediately, Taenaran and the other candidates fell to their knees as the el’tael processed in solemnly, the cowls of their rich, green robes cast deeply over their heads. Centuries of slow earth magic and patient cultivation had shaped the arael’lia from three separate trees. Now, with their trunks united and their leaf-filled bowers intertwined, they formed a massive chamber open to the gentle spring wind that blew across the length of Avaelearean. Starlight filtered through that verdant ceiling of the arael’lia, spilling across the line of el’tael.

Watching the line of masters bathed in such light, Taenaran felt bewitched, as if in this moment, he and the rest of the candidates were somehow pulled out of time, wrapped in a spell of moonlight and stars. The sense of enchantment deepened as the masters gathered around the kneeling candidates and as one pulled back their shadow-filled cowls.

Taenaran cast a quick look at his father, hoping for some sign that would ease his tension, but Aelrindel’s gaze was focused outward, upon the whole community. He never saw, or chose not to see, the hopeful look Taenaran gave him. Tonight, the half-elf realized with both fear and pride, Aelrindel wasn’t his father. He was purely the First Hilt, a guardian of Avaelearean and the leader of the bladesingers, and tonight, the candidate realized, he wanted Aelrindel to be nothing less.

“Tonight,” Aelrindel began, his rich voice easily filling the hall with its measured cadence, “we gather as we have gathered throughout the millennia, as we once gathered in the holy glades of fair Cormanthor,”

A sigh rippled through the crowd at the mention of that ancient forest, and even Taenaran, half-elf though he was, felt a tug at his heart. On long summer nights, when the moon bathed the treetops with silver and the elven wine flowed like a rain-soaked river, the elves remembered their long-ago home in song, story, and poem. Many were the times that Taenaran fell asleep to the rich-throated harmonies of the elves of Avaelearean as they sang of the crystal-clear springs and sun-soaked glades of Cormanthor. However beautiful Avaelearean was, Taenaran knew that his adopted folk were a people in exile, longing for the land of their ancestors.

“We kept this vigil even as evil cast its long shadow upon the walls of our home,” Aelrindel continued, interrupting Taenaran’s thoughts, “choosing the next generation of elves to carry on the tradition of our ancient art. When the Army of Darkness ravaged the forests of our people and descended upon Myth Drannor, the bladesingers stood side by side with Captain Fflar of that high city and shed our blood for the sake of our land.”

Several elves in the crowd wept openly now at the recounting of the fall of Myth Drannor. Though Taenaran knew the story well, as did every elf who stood in the Hall of the Heart-Oak, it never failed to elicit strong emotion. The city’s fall was the defining moment of elf history over the past thousand years.

“It was only when the battle was clearly lost,” the First Hilt intoned, “that Fflar, seeking to preserve what was best and noble of the elves, turned to Aelcaedra Swiftstroke, greatest of the First Hilts, and made her swear an oath upon his sword that she would gather the remaining bladesingers and flee, so that our sacred art would not pass from memory.

“Though her heart was burdened with the weight of Fflar’s request, for what warrior would lightly turn from such a battle, Aelcaedra swore upon the captain’s sword and gathered together her few remaining followers and escaped the dying city, eventually settling here.”

As Aelrindel paused, the drum took up its measured beat once more.

“So,” the First Hilt continued, “we have kept the oath, through the passing of the years, as other shadows have covered and fled the lands of Faerun. Such was its strength that we remained rooted, like the oldest oak, even as the call of the Retreat sounded in our hearts. We have remained, and alone among all of the Tel’Quessir, even in this time of Returning, we pass on the mysteries of our art exactly as it was passed on in the oldest of times.”

The drumbeat intensified, growing both louder and faster. Taenaran felt his heart respond, thrumming in rapid counterpoint.

“I come to you this evening,” Aelrindel nearly sang, “as the keeper of that tradition, and I ask you, as heirs of the great oath, ‘Do you stand behind these candidates as worthy bearers of our ancient art?’”

“We do,” the gathered elves responded, filling the hall with their assent. Taenaran let the sound of their voices wash over him. Though he knew that some in their community objected to his presence among the candidates, none had gainsayed the will of the el’tael. For that, he found himself profoundly grateful.

“Then let the choosing begin,” the First Hilt called out. Immediately, several deep-throated drums joined the single percussion that had punctuated the opening ritual, followed by the assembly, raising its voice in song.

Taenaran watched out of the corner of his eye as the robed masters moved through the ranks of the kneeling candidates, stopping occasionally to lay the edge of a sword upon the left shoulder of a young elf, signaling the elf’s acceptance as a tael. The driving rhythm of the drums and the soaring voices of the assembled elves were like the rarest of wines. The half-elf found his head spinning in excitement and pride to be a part of this great tradition passed down throughout the ages. He was about to send his own voice to join the others’ when he felt a sharp tap and the weight of a slender blade upon his own shoulder.