Songs & Swords 2 (5 page)

“And I’m human,” Danilo concluded aloud.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” his uncle said tartly. “Fortunately the dragon in question doesn’t know you as I do.”

Suddenly Khelben had Danilo’s full attention. “Dragon, you say?”

Again the archmage paused, and he studied the wall opposite him. “You were trained in music, if I’m not mistaken. Well trained.”

“Many years ago,” Dan said absently, puzzled by the abrupt turn the discussion had taken. “Why?”

“The Harpers require the services of a bard. At present, not one seems to be available.”

“I don’t like where this is leading. I’m supposed to pass myself off as a bard, is that it? On the strength of what?”

Khelben nodded to the elven singer. “That, for example.”

Danilo marshaled his befuddled senses and focused on the ballad. It had a lovely, vaguely familiar melody. He knew just enough Elvish to make out something about Khelben’s lady, the mage Laeral, and the healing power of love.

“That’s very nice. Whose is it?”

The archmage looked at him keenly. “You’re sure you don’t recognize it?” When Danilo shook his head, Khelben gave a grim smile. “Well, that settles that question. The ballad is yours. Very popular tune these days, I’m sorry to say.”

“But—”

“Yes, I know. You didn’t write it that way. There’s a great deal of that going around.”

Danilo listened to the singer for a few moments. “By Oghma, I’m not bad!”

Khelben’s face darkened at the young man’s flippant oath to the patron of letters. “This is serious, boy! Your songs are not the only ones that have been changed.”

The Harper put a solicitous hand on Khelben’s arm. “You may not have noticed this, Uncle, but there’s usually ample room for improvement. Whatever do you wish me to do: change them back?”

“Precisely,” the archmage said, tossing some coins onto the table and rising to his feet “You start tomorrow at sunrise, and there’s much to do. You’ll need travel supplies, an instrument or two—what is it you play, zither?”

“Lute,” Danilo replied absently. He had little choice but to follow his uncle out of the tavern. It finally occurred to him what Yaereene had asked him to do; it was common practice for a bard to play at any tavern or inn he visited. On the way out Danilo bowed to the proprietress, spreading his hands in a gesture of helplessness as he indicated the glowering archmage Yaereene forgive him with a gracious nod.

“The first order of business is meeting your partner,” Khelben paused and raised one salt-and-pepper brow, “and your apprentice.”

“I have an apprentice?” he said in a dazed tone.

“So she thinks, and I see no merit in convincing her otherwise. You would do well to have a skilled fighter at your side. Whatever her limitations as a bard might be, her credentials as a warrior are most impressive.”

Danilo thrust his fingers into his hair and rubbed his scalp briskly, on the dim chance that he might be able to shake loose the mental cobwebs that kept him from understanding what was apparently crystalline to the archmage. “For argument’s sake, let’s say I’m a bard, apprentice, zither, and all. Who am I supposed to entertain?”

“Grimnoshtadrano,” Khelben replied as he strode toward Blackstaff Tower.

“But isn’t he—”

“A green dragon? Yes, I’m afraid so.”

Danilo realized that he was gaping like a beached carp. He dosed his mouth and gave himself a brisk shake. “You mentioned something about a dragon earlier, but I’d assumed you were jesting.” He cast a sidelong glance at his uncle’s severe expression, then he sighed heavily. “I suppose I should have known better.”

“This mission requires someone with a knowledge of both magic and music,” Khelben continued. “First thing tomorrow morning, you will set out for the High Forest, challenge the dragon, convince him you’re the bard he’s been waiting for, and get from him by whatever means necessary a scroll that is now in his possession.”

The Harper flashed a rueful smile at the archmage. “If you say so, Uncle Khelben. Now tell me, what would you like me to do after breakfast?”

When Khelben ushered his nephew into the reception chamber of Blackstaff Tower, a young male elf rose to greet them. “This is Wyn Ashgrove. He’ll be traveling with you,” the archmage said by way of introduction.

Danilo struggled to conceal his dismay as he surveyed his new partner. Fully six inches shorter than the Harper and as slender as an aspen tree, the elf had the serious mien of a scholar. He also possessed in generous measure the beauty of the gold elf people, an elegance of form and feature unmatched by any other race. Slung over Wyn’s back was a delicate silver lyre, and the crystal flute that hung from his belt was closer to hand than his long sword. All told, the elf struck Danilo as a being better suited to charming the ladies with poetry and song than to the rigors of travel.

Wyn greeted Danilo politely, then, at Khelben’s request, he seated himself and sang a ballad about the dragon Grimnoshtadrano. Danilo remained standing, arms crossed, as he listened to the music with trained detachment. He noted that the song was written well, but in the style of a time several centuries past. The words of the ballad were compelling, a stirring call to action, and Danilo was drawn into the story despite himself. He began to see the reason for his uncle’s concern.

As soon as the ballad ended, Danilo got down to business. “How many Harpers have answered this challenge?”

“To the best of my knowledge, none,” Khelben responded.

“Really? That seems odd.”

“Apparently, this ballad is not widely sung. Wyn has long studied ballads by and about the Harpers, and he tells me that although most bards know this ballad, they are reluctant to sing it.”

Danilo nodded slowly. “Very responsible of them. If this ballad is no real threat to the Harpers, why do you think that I should answer this summons?”

“You’re armed with something the other bards did not have: your memory,” the archmage said, motioning Danilo toward a chair. “It’s time you heard the rest of Wyn Ashgrove’s tale.”

The Harper settled down and listened as Wyn related the events of Silverymoon’s Spring Faire, and the strange spell upon the bards there.

When the elf had finished, Danilo massaged his aching temples and tried to sort through the tale. “So you’re saying that this ballad is newly composed, but the finest bards in the land believe it to be nearly as old as the dragon himself.”

“That’s correct,” Wyn said.

“I don’t see the point.”

The elf looked at him strangely. “A powerful mage has devised a way to lure Harpers to their deaths.”

“With very little success,” Dan pointed out.

“True. The spellcaster works against the Harpers in another, more subtle Manner. As I understand Harper philosophy, your purpose is, in part, to help preserve a knowledge of the past. By changing the Harper ballads, the spellcaster is undermining the society’s work.”

Danilo thought that over. On the surface, the elf’s evaluation of the problem seemed accurate enough. But why was the dragon ballad so little sung? There seemed to be another motive at work, one Danilo could not quite grasp. Obviously Khelben thought this as well, for the archmage was not normally one to concern himself with music. Danilo tucked this thought away for future consideration and turned his attention to more immediate concerns.

“How are we to acquire this scroll?” -

“According to the ballad,” Wyn replied in a didactic tone, as if they were discussing nothing more pressing than dry theory, “you must answer a riddle, read a scroll, and sing a song. That is clear enough. When you have accomplished these tasks, you may demand from the dragon whatever treasure you wish. Obviously, you will ask for the scroll itself. Since it is mentioned in the ballad, and since the ballad first appeared when the bards were enspelled, it is reasonable to assume that the scroll was devised by the spellcaster we seek. If this is so, the archmage can use it to discern the spelicaster’s identity.”

Dan cast his gaze toward the ceiling, but he spoke patiently “Let’s say, just for argument’s sake, that after we answer the riddle the dragon will keep his word and hand over the scroll. Ignoring the unlikeliness of that possibility, ponder this: What happens if we guess wrong?”

“I imagine the beast will attack,” Wyn said, no concern

at sill in his

“Yes, I imagine that, too,” Dan said with exaggerated patience. He turned to Khelben and said in a low tone, “Before I run screaming from this tower, perhaps I should

meet that other bardic adventurer you spoke of? The fighter?

“I left her in the kitchen,” Khelben said and sighed. “If she’s typical of her kind, she’s no doubt emptied the pantry cupboards and started in on my spell components?’

Danilo blinked. “Don’t tell me: our peerless fighter is a halfling.”

“No. She’s a dwarf.”

To Data, this new revelation was as great a surprise as any other of the evening’s oddities. Dwarf females were but rarely encountered away from clan and hearth, and those who did travel often let their beards grow so that they might pass as males. “A dwarven bard,” he mused, shaking his head. “What brings this most unusual person to us?”

Khelben stood and took a piece of rolled parchment from his belt He handed it to Danilo. “This is all I know. Come; Ill introduce you.”

The archmage asked Wyn to wait for their return, then he opened the door leading into a chamber that served double duty for dining and giving audience. Danilo rose and followed the archtnage, scanning the parchment as he went. It was a letter from the wizard Vangerdahast, court advisor to King Azoun of Cormyr.

“Vangerdahast says that he located a bard of sorts whose gifts, such as they are, remained unchanged by this mysterious spell.” Danilo sniffed. “Well, that’s a rousing endorsement if ever I heard one.”

He turned back to the parchment and read aloud. ” dwarven entertainer, known as Morgalla the Mirthful, she is a veteran of the Alliance War and a native of the Earthfast Mountains, where she met and befriended the Princess Alusair. The dwarf has been plying her trade in Cormyr for nearly three years. In King Azoun’s name, I request that you show his daughter’s friend all courtesy, and add the dwarf to your number for this most appropriate quest. Morgalla is, in my opinion, precisely what the Harpers require.’ “

Danilo raised skeptical eyes to his uncle. “Isn’t it nice of Vangerdahast to be so helpful. At the risk of sounding petty, I have to say the good wizard’s motives strike me as being just a bit suspect”

“For once we agree.” Khelben paused, his hand on the latch of the kitchen door. “I haven’t had much time to speak with the dwarf. Let’s see what my colleague has sent us.”

Khelben swung open the door. His kitchen was as unique as the rest of Blackstaff Tower. One side of the room was taken up by several shelves of rare potted herbs. These were bathed by a faint green light that came from no apparent source, and they filled the room with a woody, pungent aroma. Some of the cupboards held the usual array of dishes and pans, but a few doors were gates into far places. As a boy, Danilo had been especially fond of the cupboard that brought an overbearing pomegranate tree within easy reach, but he admitted that the door that led into a small ice cave was the more practical device. M the moment; however, his attention was focused on the dwarf seated behind the kitchen table.

Morgalla the Mirthful perched on a stool, swinging her small, booted feet and wielding a hunting knife as she intently carved the last of the meat from a roasted chicken. The well-picked bones on the serving platter before her attested to a typically dwarven appetite, as did the thick wedge missing from a wheel of cheese and the crumbled remains of a barley loaf cheese between slices of bread, and arranged the hearty snack on a platter along with pickles and small dishes of condiments. Apparently she intended to share, for the table was neatly laid with plates and mugs for four, and a foaming pitcher of ale stood ready. When the two men entered the room, Morgalla laid down the carving knife and affixed Danilo with a long solemn stare. Then she hopped down from her perch and stuck out a stubby hand in greeting.

“Well met, bard. I be Morgalla of Clan Chistlesmith, dart of Olam Chistlesmith and Thendara Spearsinger, of the dwarves of Earthfast It’s proud I am to be entering your service.”

Danilo was familiar enough with dwarven custom to know himself honored by this detailed introduction. Even in cordial situations, the naturally cautious dwarves usually gave only first and sometimes clan names. If she had wished to insult him, she would have been “Morgalla of the dwarves,” delivered with a firm undertone of “Warma make something of it?”

He grasped the dwarfs wrist in a brief salute and shot a venomous glance at Khelben. The young Harper had never yet refused a mission assigned him, but he resented his uncle for leaving him no choice in the matter. This evening was very like being swept downstream on a whitewater flood. Even worse, the archmage had led Morgalla to believe that he, Danilo, was a bard worth following.

“When I am called upon to describe you,” Khelben pointed out, divining the source of his nephew’s ire, “bard is not the first word that comes to mind. That title is of Morgalla’s own choosing.”

“Aye.” The dwarf’s head bobbed in agreement “And yer more cut to the cloth than most who wear the mantle.” Dan looked at her with a question in his eyes, so she explained, “A traveling bard sang yer songs at Azoun’s court. They’re betteen most. My favorite’s the tale of the magic sword.”

“Not the Ballad of the Harper Assassin?” Dan slumped against the kitchen wall. First the damnable ballad showed up in Tethyr, and now far to the east in the courts of Cormyr?

“That’s the one. Good story. Little on the short side, though.”

“Short?” Danilo’s look of befuddlement deepened. “But it has nine-and-twenty stanzas!”

“Ike I said,” Morgalla agreed.

Danilo gave up that line of inquiry and looked more closely at the dwarf. Morgalla appeared to be quite young, for she was still beardless. Large, liquid brown eyes reminded Dan of his favorite hunting hound; the earnest, doleful expressions were almost identical. Her face was broad, with high cheekbones, full lips, and a small nose with an insouciant tip. Thick russet hair was tightly plaited into two long braids, and an impressive amount of muscle and curve was packed onto her four-foot frame. Morgalla was dressed for the road in a simple brown kirtle that fell to her knees, brown leggings bound with leather thongs, and iron-tipped leather boots. A small axe was tucked into her weapon belt, and leaning against the kitchen table was a staff of battle-scarred stout oak. The latter was capped by the grinning head of a jester doll, complete with the traditional floppy cap of yellow and green motley. Danilo was no judge of dwarven beauty, but Morgalla struck him as cute and rather harmless, despite her weapons. Or, perhaps, he amended with another glance at the jester doll’s head, because of them. Dan noted that she carried no musical instruments, and that struck him as another odd note.