The Fighters: Bladesinger Read online

  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.

  Chapter 2

  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.

  Winter in Rashemen, he thought as he idly poked at the burning logs with a soot-covered piece of wood, is as hospitable as the first layer of the Abyss. Six days from Mulptan and the raging weather had begun its assault. Snow and ice storms became constant compan­ions. Shortly before dusk on the ninth day, a great wind had begun to blow, forcing them all to slow their pace and bend beneath its force. Even Borovazk, their Rashemi guide, had grown concerned. Throughout their journey, the normally brash ranger had gently chided their soft­ness, poking fun at the group's complaints about harsh weather. When the wind had raised its deep-throated voice and howled through the snow-covered crags and across the rolling hills, however, Borovazk had grown quiet. "Is nyvarskiz," he had finally shouted so that they could all hear him. "Ill wind. Very dangerous." With that, he had put a halt to their travel, so they had made hasty camp amidst the uneven stones and ancient trees, miserably waiting out the storm.

  Still, Marissa had asked them to come, driven by her connection to nature and, she had said, the secret promptings of her god. They had followed her across the eastern realms of Faerun, then north through the harsh, unforgiving lands of the Rashemi. All of them had fol­lowed, as she had no doubt suspected they would.

  "Where is she?" a gravelly baritone voice asked from the shadows behind him.

  Taen dropped another log on the fire and turned to see Roberc gazing up at him. The broad-chested, thickset halfling danced from foot to booted foot, shivering in the cold despite being buried beneath several layers of fur skins. The gleam of the fighter's mail caught Taen's eyes in the dancing firelight. Not for the first time, he found himself wondering if the halfling ever removed his armor.

  "I don't know. She went off into the trees after we set camp. You know how she is," Taen answered after a few moments.

  Wild, he thought to himself. Restless the way a wolf is restless—or the wind. As usual, such thoughts threw him into turmoil. Marissa was restless, almost half wild, more comfortable with wood and stone than flesh and blood, yet a part of him yearned to lose himself in that wildness, to cast off the weight of memory and the certain knowledge of his own failure. Easier for a man to cast off his shadow, Taen knew.

  Roberc swore, interrupting his bitter thoughts. "I'm glad that she feels free to go for a stroll while the rest of us freeze to death."

  For a moment, Taen was shocked by the halfling's blasphemy, but only for a moment. There was little soft­ness in the fighter, and none of the lighted-heartedness or playfulness found in others of his race. Thick stubble covered much of his chin and cheeks save for a single swath of blistered skin near the left corner of his mouth. The puckered flesh looked red and angry even now in the shadow-filled camp. When the halfling smiled, which was rarely, it never reached his deep-set eyes; they were gray and hard as river stone.

  The fell wind gusted again, whipping the length of Roberc's salt-and-pepper hair in all directions. The fighter cursed once more against the bite of winter and brought two scarred fingers to his mouth. He whistled sharply once, then again. Almost immediately, there came a deep, echoing bark from somewhere close in the darkness beyond the fire. A few moments later, a large brindle hound came into view, running straight for the halfling.

  The deep-chested dog came to a stop immediately in front of the fighter. Thick, panting breaths blew steam into the frigid air, and its long pink tongue lolled out of a short, powerful muzzle. The hound stood completely still, its thick-boned torso standing nearly above Roberc's head at its shoulder. A thick layer of studded leather barding covered most of the dog's rough outer coat, but Taen could still make out the curled length of its tail.

  "Come, Cavan," the halfling said in a commanding voice. "Since we can't sleep, we might as well patrol. There's no telling what lurks about in this blasted land."

  Taen watched, not for the first time, but always in amazement, as the hound cast his slightly angular head to the side questioningly then proceeded to lie down, allowing Roberc to mount. Once Roberc had secured himself, the fighter spoke another command and Cavan leaped to his feet, taking off into the darkness at a brisk gait.

  Roberc was right. The night remained too cold for sleeping. Yet it wasn't the harsh breath of winter that kept Taen from sleep. Were he in the jungles of Chult or the feather bed of the finest inn in all of Waterdeep, sleep would still escape him when this mood descended upon him like a dark cloud, and the ghosts of his past whispered accusations with the voice of the wind. They surrounded him, pressing in on all sides, yet these haunting recollections held more than simple weight. "Bitter are the blades of memory." He had heard the el'tael, the swordmasters of Avaelearean, say that often enough. In those days, he had never known how much they had understated the truth of it. Would that he still lived in such ignorance. He'd lived through hundreds of battles and suffered wounds too numerous to count, yet none hurt near as much as those he carried within his heart. Tonight, beneath the lidless eye of the moon, with the wind raging like a banshee through the trees and stones, these wounds ached with a fierce intensity.

  Taen ran a calloused hand across the rounded expanse of his head, shaved clean except for the single braided length of blond hair that reached to the cent
er of his back, and let out a curse as his fingers touched the ever-so-slightly pointed tip of his ear. Here was the ultimate cause of his sorrow, the seed from which the razor-sharp thorn of his memories had sprung—not what he had done, but what he was.

  Half-elf.

  A Tel'Quessir.

  Born of two peoples and claimed by none. A failure, unable to master the arts of the laeriaen. An exile.

  A murderer.

  The half-elf shivered at this last thought. Carefully, he threw a few more logs onto the fire and tried to absorb as much warmth as he could from the blaze. Sparks from the burning logs flew up into the dark sky. Taen gazed into the night long after they had disappeared, alone with his thoughts.

  And the wind.

  * * * *

  The wolf watched Taen with emerald-green eyes.

  It sat on its haunches beneath the rippling limbs of trees. Moonlight bathed its furred pelt, catching flashes of silver across its shoulders and neck. It lifted its elegant muzzle and sniffed the night air redolent with the scent of prey. For a moment, its sleek muscles tensed, ready to carry it forward into the hunt.

  Only for a moment.

  Marissa Goldenthorn, druid and servant of Rillifane Rallathil, asserted control of the wild instincts cours­ing through her heart. Roberc and his war-dog were patrolling the far side of the woods, and she caught the musky scent of their Rashemi guide from within the camp. That left only Taenaran.

  Taen, she corrected herself. The half-elf only cursed and carried on when she used his full name. For nearly seven years they had traveled together across the length and breadth of Faerun, sometimes toward wealth and adventure, but always away from the past that rode the young half-elf like the Rashemi night hags of legend. He had shared some of the details over the course of their time together, whispered reminiscences during unguarded moments around the fire or when they were both deep in their cups. When that thrice-damned blightlord had taken her arm, Taenaran had held her in the night when the fever dreams wracked her broken body and spoke to her of his own loss.