Bladesinger (2 page)

In deep winter, night in the Icerim Mountains lasted a very long time indeed.

The Year of the Lion

(1340 DR)

Aelrindel watched as the river burned.

He stood utterly still beneath the arching canopy of leaf and branch, caught in that silent space between breaths, that moment when life and death cease their endless dance, poised in a single embrace—watching.

Flaming wrecks of wood and iron floated aimlessly across the river’s broad back, caught in its bloodied current. Thick plumes of oily smoke rose from the shattered hulks like incense to a dark god, their black and terrible shapes bruising the soft spring sky. On the far bank, obscured by the columns of smoke, trebuchets and small catapults stood in various stages of disarray—the castoff toys of a malicious giant. Everywhere, the bloated bodies of the dead and dying bobbed sickeningly in the water as a shadowed convocation of crows cawed raucous symphonies before plunging downward to feast.

Aelrindel watched it all with eyes that had gazed upon a hundred mortal lifetimes of joy and sorrow, had witnessed the world’s fragile beauty suspended on a single silken strand of time, spinning out across the ages on an unending pilgrimage—and refused to look away.

“Animals,” a voice to his left barked, interrupting Aelrindel’s sorrowful reverie. “Filthy barbarians, that they would kill and leave their dead to rot in the sun.” The words were harsh, sharp edged despite the lilting, cadence with which they were delivered.

The golden-maned elf turned a thin, angular face toward his companion, squinting almond-shaped eyes against the rapidly brightening day. The exclamation hung in the cool morning air. He heard the anger in his friend’s voice—and more. The weight of history pressed down upon their hearts, of centuries spent in war and strife with the humans in this part of Faerun. Even though an uneasy peace had reigned for nearly as long, the memory of sword and steel, wrack and ruin, lay across a generation and more of his people. Anger, sorrow, and bitterness—for the bright weavings of the Tel’Quessir cast into shadow, the songs stilled, and if he was honest with himself, for the extinguishing of human life—clung to the spirit of his people like a feeding wraith.

“Peace, Faelyn,” he said at last, placing long, graceful fingers upon his companion’s shoulders. “We are here as eyes and ears, not swords.”

Faelyn scowled, but held his tongue. The elegant, angular cast of his features was sharper than Aelrindel’s, more severe, like blades cutting through the air. Faelyn wore his thick, raven-black hair pulled back in the style of the laeriaen, bound with the finely wrought silver clasp that identified him as a bladesinger.

As he gazed at his friend, Aelrindel felt a prick of sadness. From as far back as he could remember, Faelyn had been a true companion and sword-brother, steady—fast and loyal, but where Aelrindel opened his heart to the world in studied contemplation, seeking wisdom, the dark-haired bladesinger perceived only threat from almost every aspect of life. It had always been so. Though both of them had been forged by centuries of training as living weapons for the defense of their people, blood, war, and unrelenting pride had tempered Faelyn into a bitter metal indeed.

Aelrindel’s hand moved from his friend’s shoulder to his face, tracing the light webbing of scars that marred the otherwise bronze perfection of his skin, and was surprised to note a small shock of white hair beginning to grow at his temples. Had it truly been so long, he thought, since they were both tael, apprenticed to their masters and learning the rudiments of their art?

Faelyn reached out and gently put a stop to Aelrindel’s exploration.

“You rebuke me, kaer’vaelen. Without words, you rebuke me,” Faelyn said, casting his gaze to the ground.

Aelrindel heard the accusation. Kaer’vaelen. First Hilt of the bladesingers. This is what lay between them. It was a hard thing, a stone that had dragged on their friendship ever since Cauladra Brightwing had passed her sword, and her authority, to him before she journeyed to the groves of Corellon Larethian.

He was about to respond when a soft cry sounded in the morning air. Faelyn’s head shot up and his hand strayed to the sword sheathed at his side.

The cry came again, just as soft. This time, Aelrindel’s sensitive ears caught the direction of the sound. Without a word, he stepped out from beneath their hiding spot, confident that his companion strode right behind him, and moved in search of it.

The sun had risen over the site of battle and Aelrindel counted at least a score of bodies that had washed ashore and nearly twice that many lay dead and bloodied upon the ground. Carefully he picked his way down the slope that led to the heart of the destruction, avoiding the snapped points of blades, congealed pools of blood, and the feathered shafts of spent arrows that sprouted from the slick earth like gruesome flowers.

His senses were alert for the slightest sound, as, he knew, were Faelyn’s. Death often called more than just crows to its sickening feast. So it was that the figures leaping from behind a small jumble of rocks and small boulders did not surprise the two elves.

There were nine of them, Aelrindel noted, adorned with mismatched armor—pieces of metal, strips of boiled leather, and hardened cloth. All were human, though barely recognizable as such beneath the gore and grit that covered their skin. Some were missing teeth or fingers, and one, a particularly emaciated figure whose bones stood out beneath a thin layer of skin, had only a single ear. They held steel in their hands—a motley collection of pitted swords, bloodied axes, and evil-looking dirks—and had a hard glint around the eyes.

Aelrindel felt his lithe form relax, the tension brought on by surveying the destruction of human war melted away beneath the promise of action. Distantly, somewhere deep within his heart, the elf heard the gentle strains of the Song begin.

“What have we here?” one of the scavengers, a burly man with a grizzled beard and a wicked scar running from temple to throat, asked in exaggerated good humor. “Two pretty maids from the lands of the bleedin’ elves?”

His accent was short and clipped, difficult for Aelrindel to understand.

“N Tel’Quessir scum!” Faelyn proclaimed behind him.

The First Hilt held up his hand, to leash his friend’s anger as much as to show these rude humans that they meant no harm.

“We are here in peace,” he said slowly in the human tongue. His own mouth formed the unfamiliar syllables slowly. “We do not seek to hurt you.”

That last brought a round of harsh laughter from the brigands.

“Been no peace in this land for quite some time,” a weasely faced man barked out.

“An’ that’s just the way we like it, isn’t it, lads?” the burly human asked, to the roaring affirmation of his companions. He moved closer to Aelrindel, close enough that the elf could make out the blackened stain of rot on his teeth; his breath stank like carrion. ” ‘Tis you who should worry about getting hurt,” the burly human said with a cruel smile. “Now hand over your swords and the pretty little things that you and your ‘lass’ here no doubt decorate yerselves with.”

Aelrindel simply stood there, watching the man’s smile slowly fade as the elf made no move to comply with his commands.

The grizzled human took a step back.

“Kill them,” was all that he said—was all that he would ever say again.

Twin elven blades sang from worn leather scabbards, catching the sunlight along their gleaming lengths. A single spray of blood erupted from the burly human’s throat as Aelrindel’s sword, unleashed at last, cleaved through muscle and bone in a single cut. The man fell, headless, to the ground.

Behind him, Aelrindel heard the sound of Faelyn’s Song, and joined it with his own in fearsome harmony. Four more scavengers fell within moments. A fifth, the weasel-eyed man, began to cast a spell. The First Hilt parried a clumsy axe swing and caught the rhythm of the wizard’s spell. It was one with which he was well familiar. Using his free hand, the bladesinger mirrored his opponent’s casting then sent his considerable power out to surround the overmatched wizard, binding it to himself. Argent energy flew from the human’s outstretched hand only to fizzle into nothingness as the bladesinger quenched the spell.

The brigands were obviously fearful now. Their earlier swagger gave way to wariness, and Aelrindel could see two of them already surveying their escape routes. Using skills honed from centuries of combat, the two elves wove a deadly net of steel from which none of their opponents could escape. Two more scavengers fell. One threw his dirk hard at Faelyn. Aelrindel batted the makeshift missile away with the flat of his own blade, while his companion slid forward to drive the point of his weapon into the man’s chest. The second, perhaps the most skilled fighter of the lot, parried the snaking steel of Aelrindel’s blade twice before a quick feint left his guard open. The bladesinger took the advantage, and the man fell backward with a deep tear in his stomach.

The remaining two humans dropped their weapons and began to plead for their lives. Still holding his blade easily in one hand, the First Hilt pointed a slender finger away from the battleground.

“Go,” he commanded, “and leave the dead to the gods.”

The two babbled their thanks and hastily retreated, tripping repeatedly over one another as they ran up the slope and back toward the human settlement. Only when they moved out of the range of his elf sight did Aelrindel start cleaning his blade. Once it gleamed again, free of the blood of his enemies, the bladesinger held it flat between both of his hands, bowed low in the way of the laeriaen, and placed it back within its scabbard.

“They deserved to be punished for what they did—attempted to do,” Faelyn said when he, too, had finished the ritual.

“I know, my friend,” he replied, expecting another session of wrangling with his embittered companion, “but we shall let the humans deal with them.”

“Eyes and ears indeed…” came the reply, with a surprising hint of humor.

Aelrindel laughed softly at the jest. It was good to laugh.

The child’s cry came again, breaking the moment. It was close, just beyond the jutting rocks from which their attackers had leaped. Aelrindel gave his companion a final smile then moved toward the sound. As he drew near, he saw a pile of corpses, each bloody and awkwardly bent. When the wailing came again, the bladesinger knew that it originated from beneath the corpses. He motioned Faelyn to help, and between them, the two bladesingers carefully separated the dead from their eternal embrace. The bodies were cool and stiff.

There, cradled in the rigored arms of a woman and protected from the elements by the press of bodies and a simple bloodied cloth, lay a screaming child. Its skin was red and splotchy from its exertion and its tiny fingers were balled into fists, beating the air in obvious fear and frustration.

Aelrindel gazed at the creature for a long moment, noting by the cast of its distorted face the moon elf blood that flowed within its veins. That and something more.

Or less.

The child had a roundness to its face, a solidity to its tiny frame that bespoke of other parentage, human parentage, if Aelrindel could judge these things right. It was one of the a Tel’Quessir, the Almost People. He sighed for the wailing child, caught forever between two worlds, and now, but a little while after its birth, already standing at the doorway to the gods’ realm. He reached out his hand and stroked the child’s cheek. Pale blue eyes opened wide, and the babe made a soft, surprised sound.

It stopped crying.

Aelrindel knelt before the child and started reaching for it with both hands.

“What do you think you’re doing, Ael?” Faelyn asked, the incredulity behind the question clearly reflected in his voice.

“We cannot leave the child here to die,” Aelrindel responded, not taking his eyes from the babe.

“Why not?” Faelyn continued, “Let the gods care for it. It is—”

“An abomination?” the First Hilt interrupted bitterly.

Faelyn swore. “Gods, Ael! Do you think I really believe that?”

Aelrindel shook his head—though there were some among their community who did see the a Tel’Quessir as abominations.

“Even so,” Faelyn went on, “we cannot take this child in. Remember the Oath. We are what we are. Besides, it is an ill-omened foundling. The signs—”

“Damn the signs, Faelyn. I know them well: ‘Born from battle, bad for luck.’ Those are nothing but superstition,” Aelrindel said with finality.

Inwardly, though, he sighed. Faelyn was right. No one had ever brought an outsider to the community, yet what were thousands of years of tradition in the face of this one helpless half-elf child? He had made his decision.

He reached out again to the foundling.

“Ael, don’t.” He could hear the strain in Faelyn’s voice.

“Enough,” Aelrindel snapped in a voice full of command. “The choice is mine, Faelyn, and I have made it.”

From the corner of his eye, he saw his friend respond to the tone of command, stiffening as if he’d been struck.

“As you wish,” came the flat response.

Kaer’vaelen.

It would always lie between them.

Aelrindel reached out to the child and gently, with great care, gathered the foundling into his arms. Staring into its soft, wide eyes, he didn’t see the glint of anger flash across then settle in Faelyn’s eyes.

All around them, the river burned.

The Year of Wild Magic

(1372 DR)

Taen shivered beneath thick blankets.

Bitter, ice-tinged air blasted the camp again and again, like the unrelenting breath of a white dragon. Despite his best efforts, fur, wool, and quilted cloak could not keep the chill at bay. Gathering what protection he could, he stumbled toward the dying fire. Tongues of red-gold flame swirled madly beneath the wind’s hard lash, casting a riot of shadows across the camp. Unbidden, Taen’s vision penetrated night’s shifting shroud to reveal the uneven lumps of his companions, huddled under their own blankets and shivering in obvious misery. Their cursing reached his ears despite the wind’s dreadful moaning and the sharp snapping of tree limbs.