Songs & Swords 2 (24 page)

High above Ganstar’s Creek, Garnet ordered her exhausted aspeii to circle the camp. From her vantage point in the sky, the adventurers looked like so many ants as they moved busily about the clearing. The half-elf’s blue eyes narrowed as she considered the site. The camp was surrounded by verdant woodland. She smiled slowly, and silently bid the asperii to begin a spiraling descent

The bard took the Morninglark harp into her arms and began to play, singing the words that had laid waste the Moonshaes’ vineyards and the farmlands around Waterdeep. In response to her song, the trees surrounding the encampment shuddered and died. It was as if autumn came in the span of two heartbeats, and a hundred trees cast their leaves.

Next, Garnet struck a single string on her harp and pointed a finger at the camp. A stream of air spiraled downward toward the clearing.

“Damn,” Danilo said emphatically, as he and Wyn squinted up at the circling asperii. “If you know an elfsong suitable for the occasion, I suggest you sing it!”

Wyn looked dubious, but he took up the lyre. The first blast of wind tore the magical instrument from his hands and knocked his feet out from under him. Danilo threw himself fiat and gripped the elf’s ankle. He barely had time to lock his own ankles around a young birch before the maelstrom began in earnest

Howling as if in torment, the wind tore through the trees, growing in volume and speed until it threatened to suck the slight elf into its vortex. Danilo closed his eyes against the churning dust and debris, and he held on to

the airborne minstrel with all his strength.

“As Mielikki is my witness, I hope this elf has a competent cobbler,” Danilo muttered as he clung to Wyn’s boot with both hands.

Flying high above the wind, Garnet watched as the giant whirlwind engulfed the clearing. The tiny figures huddled together in the eye of the magical storm, while the tunnel of air around them sucked in leaves and broken branches. The sorceress waited until the whirling debris formed a massive wall. Then, with a quick snapping motion, she clenched her outstretched hand. The wind tunnel collapsed, burying the dangerous riddlemaster and his traveling companions in a pile of rotting foliage.

Garnet commanded the asperii to swoop down closer, and she nodded in satisfaction at the size of the pile. No one could survive in there for more than a few minutes. She urged the asperii away from the clearing, and as they flew she sang the song that twisted living creatures into music-wielding monsters. A cricket the size of a moor hound crawled out of the blighted woodlands, burrowing into the pile of debris in search of food.

Not yet satisfied, Garnet flew northwest toward the hills that hid the harpy lair. She could command musical monsters as well as create them. If someone managed to crawl out of the pile, it wouldn’t hurt to have a flock of vengeful harpies guarding the perimeter. When Danilo Thann and his elven companions arrived, they would have more than one surprise awaiting them. With that thought, the sorceress turned her path toward Waterdeep.

The windstorm ended as abruptly as it began, and Wyn and Danilo fell face-forward onto the hillside. The Harper groaned and spat dust. Every joint and muscle ached from his struggle against the buffeting wind. He rose slowly and painfully to his feet, flexing stiff fingers. He gave his birch tree anchor a grateful pat, and then offered a hand to the gold elf, who looked as dusty and battered as Dan felt

“By the sea and stars!” Wyn spoke the oath softly as Dan pulled him to his feet.

Danilo followed the line of the elf’s gaze. “Moander’s mountain,” he swore in turn, for the heap of rotting, steaming vegetation that covered the clearing looked like the handiwork of the erstwhile god of corruption.

The moment of shock passed quickly. “Morgalla’s in there,” Wyn said in a hollow voice. He took off after Danilo, who was already hurtling down the hillside, half running, half sliding.

When they reached the camp they began frantically tossing aside the branches that covered the pile, then they dug into the rotting leaves. Danilo’s hand closed on something soft, and he held up Morgalla’s jester doll in triumph. He and Wyn tore at the loamy mass with their hands, and in seconds they’d uncovered a pair of small, iron-shod, boots. They each grabbed an ankle and tugged. Morgalla

II slid out of the pile gagging and choking, but still holding fast to the oak staff of her spear. She wiped slime from her face and waved Wyn aside, motioning for him to keep digging. As soon as she could stand, she started working beside them.

A high-pitched giggle momentarily distracted the workers. Standing by the pile was the elven hermit of Taskerleigh. He regarded their labors with a wide, mocking grin on his emaciated face, and his bony hands settled on his hips.

“That be not the way,” the mad elf insisted. He darted forward and deftly snatched the dwarf’s spear from her. Before Morgalla could protest, the hermit climbed the pile and began poking experimentally into the rubbish.

“Use the blunt end, you daft, orc-sired scarecrow,” she shouted.

“Oops!” The hermit giggled again and flipped the spear around. He jabbed a few more times and then nodded with satisfaction. “Soft,” he proclaimed. “Squirmy! Dig here.”

It took all four of them to pull Balindar out of the sludge. “Elaith’s in there, real close,” the huge mercenary gasped out, raking hunks of rotting foliage from his beard.

Morgalla huffed and folded her arms over her chest. “Can we pretend we didn’t hear that, bard?”

“Stop tempting me, and dig!”

They found the moon elf, who came out sputtering curses in Elvish. Wyn gritted his teeth at this latest outrage and kept digging, the hermit working close at his side. Mange was recovered, and then Vartain. The riddlemaster was dragged, senseless, from the pile. While the others continued to dig, Danilo bent over Vartain. He put his ear against the riddlemaster’s filthy tunic and heard the faint beating of Vartain’s heart

“Use this,” Mange suggested, thrusting a flask of cheap whiskey into Danilo’s hands. “Should bring him right around. It worked on ‘im before, anyvrays.”

The Harper took out the stopper and sniffed. “Cure or kill,” he muttered as he poured some of the fluid into Vartain’s slack mouth. With one hand he held the riddlemaster’s mouth shut, and with the other he massaged the man’s throat until finally he swallowed. After several tense seconds, the riddlemaster coughed.

Danilo’s relief was short-lived. Two thrumming booms tore through the ravaged clearing, rattling the dead trees and sending bone-deep agony through the Harper with each blast. Incongruously, Dan thought of the musical parlor trick in which glass was shattered by a high, clear note. The explosive pain in his teeth and bones made him certain that this sound, in time, could yield similar results. Struggling against the pain, Danilo drew his sword and whirled to face their latest attacker.

Crawling from the rotting pile was an enormous black cricket, roughly the size of a hunting dog. The monster chittered, its antennae twitching furiously this way and that, and it turned its incurious, multiple eyes on the filthy travelers. Its hind legs, notched like a washboard, rose and moved together like a bow against a fiddle. Again the killing blasts tore through the clearing. The waves of searing pain seemed to melt Danilo’s strength; his knees buckled and his hand lost its grip on the sword. All around him, the fighters fell helpless to the ground. The giant cricket skittered toward its prey.

Elaith was on his feet first. The elf drew his sword and slashed at the monster. His strike severed an antenna, but the creature continued to advance. Elaith struck again and again, but the cricket’s hard shell deflected any blow to its body. He shouted for the others to help. The fighters ringed the cricket and hacked at it from all sides. The insect whirled and lunged with jerky movements, seemingly unhurt by the repeated blows.

Leveling her spear and bellowing a cry to the dwarven god of battle, Morgalla charged. The tip of her spear found a vulnerable spot between the plated armor of the cricket’s head and thorax, and it sank deep. The cricket reared up, yanking the dwarf off her feet.

Morgalla held on to her staff and swung herself hard toward the monstrous insect. The momentum drove the spear deeper still. Grimly she held on as the cricket thrashed and twisted, vainly trying to rid itself of its dwarven tormenter. Using each bruising tumble to her advantage, the dwarf dug and twisted her spear in search of a vital spot. Danilo and the others circled with drawn swords, but they could not strike the cricket without harming Morgalla.

The monster dropped its weight onto its front four legs and marshaled its last defense. Again its hind legs rubbed together, and again its thrumming song boomed through the clearing.

Morgalla shrieked in anguish and clapped her hands over her ears. She flung herself away from the cricket and rolled several times, putting as much space as possible between herself and the killing song. The cricket leaped after her and seized her boot in its pincherlike mandible. It backed away toward the pile, dragging the dwarf along. Morgalla grabbed at the fallen branches that littered the ground, trying to find a handhold. Both Wyn and Danilo instinctively reached for their instruments and found no help there: the elf’s had been carried away in the windstorm, and two strings on Danilo’s lute had snapped. Balindar rose and staggered after the dwarf, shouting and slashing at the monster. Even his vast strength could not stop the cricket’s retreat.

A remembered image flashed into Danilo’s mind as he cast aside the worthless lute and rose to his feet: Arilyn slicing through the inch-thick skull of an ogre with her moonblade. Even without magic, the elf-forged swords were stronger than any steel. Not thinking of the consequences, he turned and snatched Elaith’s dormant moonblade from its sheath. Raising it high overhead with both hands, he raced forward and slammed the sword down on one of the creature’s deadly hind legs. The elven blade bit deep and severed the limb at the joint. The monster released Morgalla and lurched away, listing to one side like a sinking ship.

Balindar pulled Morgalla to her feet. The single-minded dwarf brushed him aside and charged after the cricket. She grabbed her spear and jerked it free, and with a second quick movement she plunged it into the cricket’s eye. Using the spear like a lever, she flung herself forward. Under the force of her assault, the hard shell gave way with a sickening crack. Morgalla leaped back, wiping a splash of gore from her face as the cricket toppled over onto its side. It twitched a few more times, and then finally lay still.

As soon as the immediate danger was past, Danilo dropped the moonblade and turned to Elaith, his hands raised in a gesture of surrender. The moon elf took no notice. His face was set in a mask of fury, and he sprang silently at the Harper.

Danilo dropped to the ground and rolled left, hearing as he did the swish of a dagger dangerously close to his right ear. He leaped to his feet and drew his own sword, crouching in a defensive stance. Elaith was already up, the dagger in one hand and a long silver dirk in the other.

Wyn Ashgrove stepped between the fighters. Although nearly a half foot shorter than either Dan or Elaith, the slight elf had a commanding mien that neither could ignore. The fighters involuntarily lowered their weapons.

“In what way, Lord Craulnober, has this human defiled the elven sword?” he demanded, his cool green eyes fixed upon the angry moon elf. “Were not the moonblades forged for great deeds? The Harper saved a life, perhaps all our lives. If his task was unworthy, even a dormant sword would have struck him down. Do not judge where the moonblade did not, for in doing so you dishonor the sword.” The unspoken words more than you have already hung in the air.

Elaith sheathed his weapons and picked up the ancient blade. Without a word, he turned and strode from the camp into the blighted forest

“You’ll fight that one yet,” Morgalla observed. She wrenched her spear free of the monster and came to stand at Danilo’s side. “I owe you, bard.”

“Repay me, then, by letting me fight him alone when the time comes.”

The Harper’s voice was quiet and uncharacteristically grim, and the dwarf nodded once in understanding. With a deep sigh, Danilo turned back to the pile.

They dug until all the men had been recovered. Orcsarnux was not found in time, and several other mercenaries—whose names Danilo had never learned—had been slain and partially eaten by the giant cricket. After the survivors laid the men in shallow graves, Wyn went in search of the runaway hermit, and the others bathed in the cold, deep waters of the creek

Following a cursory dip in the stream, Vartain pulled the scroll out of his leather pouch and resumed his study. Danilo came out of the creek dripping and chilly. He discarded his wet tunic and began to remove dry clothing from his magic bag. The others watched agape as he took from the bag a fine linen shirt, a dark green tabard, leggings, linens, and stockings, even a spare pair of boots. The Harper looked up and noted his audience.

“Ws a bag of holding,” he commented, and continued to rummage. “An especially roomy one. You wouldn’t believe all the stuff that’s in here. I’ve got something that should suit you, Morgalla, at least until Wyn gets back with your pony and your travel bag. It’s fortunate that you folks had readied the horses and supplies before the sorceress struck Ah, here it is.”

Danilo drew forth a loose shirt of pale green silk. “This is hardly the gown I would have chosen for you, but it should serve for the time. Here’s a scarf, too, and a gold clasp with a rather nice cluster of peridots—”

“Fancy stuff like this don’t hold up to the road,” Morgalla pointed out, but she took the luxurious garments and headed for the privacy of a cluster of rocks.

The Harper dressed quickly and passed out what articles of clothing he thought might fit the others. Mange looked almost a gentleman in a fine shirt and leggings, with his patchwork scalp covered by a rakish bandanna. Balindar teased his friend unmercifully, and Mange’s self-conscious grin sat oddly on his weathered and battle-scarred face. The riddlemaster, however, absently waved away Danilo’s offer of a fresh tunic.