The Fighters: Bladesinger Read online

  The Song, however, gave him neither hope nor strength, for he heard within its mysterious strains the voice of his failure. It mocked him—mocked his struggle to live among the elves, mocked the choices he'd made in exile, and perhaps most of all, mocked the love he still felt for her.

  He would have shouted his defiance of that Song, but just then Borovazk's voice cut through his awareness.

  "Now!" the ranger shouted and, before Taen could draw another breath, loosed two arrows at the advanc­ing trolls. The missiles leaped from the ranger's bow like wolves coursing for their prey. Both struck true, biting deeply into the white flesh of a single troll. Red flame erupted from the site of both wounds. The troll stumbled for a moment, clutching at his side, then fell screaming to the ground. Flames continued to burn as it rolled upon the slush-covered earth.

  Taen watched in horrified fascination as another of the trolls stopped before its wounded companion and launched a glob of freezing spittle from its mouth. The disgusting globule covered the wounded monster and extinguished the burning flame. The other three trolls continued their charge.

  Quickly, for he wanted to make sure he caught all of the trolls, Taen reached into one of the pouches that hung from his belt and began to recite the words of a spell. Power swelled in him and he felt the presence of his armor as the spell grew, its steel threatening to unbind the forces he commanded. His skill prevailed, and the magic came. He held it within him for the span of a few heartbeats, delighting in the energy that filled every space within his being. Then, with a single command he released the spell. A simple glowing bead shot out from the tip of his index finger, growing larger as it soared toward the trolls. Fire engulfed the hapless monsters as the bead struck the ground between the fallen troll and his companions. Only four trolls continued forward.

  Immediately after, Taen heard Marissa's voice chant­ing the words to another spell. The shape of the words were different than his own arcane language, and although he couldn't understand them, he heard within their rolling cadence—heard within the rhythmic pulse of their sounds and their silence—praise, supplication, and most of all power. When she had finished, the ground upon which the trolls ran erupted into a riot of green grass and thorny vines. The tangle of greenery reached out to grab legs, arms, and muscled torsos. Within moments, two of the trolls were immobilized within the area of the swirling plants. The remaining two fought their way out slowly, tearing out the tangling grass and thick vines by their roots.

  Before they had fully emerged from the confines of Marissa's spell, Roberc gave a single command to his mount and Cavan sped down the hill toward the mon­sters. The halfling gave out a great battle cry in the language of his people before engaging the trolls. One of the creatures, seeing the fighter approach, lashed out with a wide sweep of its clawed hand. Roberc ducked low on the war-dog's furred back and the troll's claws swept cleanly over his head. Gold glinted in the sun as the fighter's sword bit deep into the monster's leg.

  The other troll took a step back from Roberc's assault and opened its gray-toothed mouth. Freezing spittle erupted from the beast. Taen watched as Cavan strug­gled to turn away from the disgusting attack—and failed. Both dog and fighter were covered in the freezing goo.

  Roberc screamed once in pain but pressed his attack, obviously undaunted. Three more swings of the fighter's blade brought pale troll blood spilling onto the ground. Taen was about to launch another spell at Roberc's oppo­nents when a slight scuffling sound caused him to turn. Another troll, one that Marissa obviously hadn't seen, charged up the hill behind the companions.

  The half-elf didn't have time to shout a warning. He simply threw himself in the path of the advancing beast, drawing his red-hilted sword as he did so. Closer now to a troll, Taen could see that its skin was a sickly, transpar­ent white; beneath its gelid surface, pale blood coursed through a webbing of thick blue veins. The troll bellowed once as it swung the great heft of its warhammer. The half-elf danced quickly back from the blow, barely avoid­ing the crushing attack as the iron head of the hammer struck the ground with so much force that it embedded itself into the half-frozen soil. Seeing his chance, Taen darted forward, aiming a downward swing of his sword to strike the troll's outstretched arm. Silver runes flared along the elven blade as it cut through translucent skin and thick muscle.

  The strains of the Song soared within his heart, joined now by the voice of his sword—his father's sword, the ancient weapon passed down from generation to gen­eration, from the golden age of Cormanthyr, from the hands of heroes, down through the ages until finally it reached him. Exile. Unworthy.

  The Song leached strength from his muscle, and he nearly dropped the weapon from nerveless fingers. A shout from Marissa roused him, however. The troll had finally managed to free his weapon and advanced once again. Taen retreated ever so slightly, wanting to keep the creature away from Borovazk, whose fiery arrows were making short work of the still-entangled trolls but also needing to give himself room to avoid the deadly weight of the warhammer.

  Wordlessly, Marissa joined the half-elf in his battle, standing slightly to his side. The druid raised the leather-covered stump of her left arm. Purple light glowed from the spidery runes burned into the leather as a blade made entirely of flames sprang from the end of her arm. She moved forward, swinging the fiery weapon in a wide arc. Taen watched the troll give way before the druid's attack. Once again he darted forward, striking at the troll's unprotected flank. His sword sliced deeply into the creature's side and it stumbled.

  Immediately, Marissa sprang into action. Her flam­ing blade cut once then twice, across its shoulder. The troll screamed and lashed wildly out at its attacker. The curve of its clawed hand raked against the flesh of Marissa's neck. This time, the druid stumbled back, nearly falling as she grabbed at the wound.

  Taen immediately dropped his sword and hissed the words to another spell. The troll's flesh, torn by the edge of his blade, had begun to seal as the creature's ability to regenerate kicked in. He needed something fast and deadly. No sooner had he finished the words to the spell than four silver-white beams of mystic energy streaked from his hands to strike the creature full in the chest.

  It screamed again at the four smoking wounds and opened its mouth, no doubt to spew forth its freezing spittle, but at himself or the wounded druid, Taen did not know. He was prepared to launch himself in the path of the attack to protect Marissa when an arrow hissed by the half-elf's head and struck the troll full in the mouth. Instead of the freezing viscous liquid he'd expected, Taen watched in wonderment as flames and thick steam erupted from the creature's mouth. With a long, gurgling sigh, the troll fell to the ground.

  "Yes, little friends," Borovazk said in his cheer-filled voice, "we have much fun in Rashemen, no?"

  Taen ignored the ranger for a moment and drew near Marissa. The druid, however, waved him off.

  "I'm fine," she said, removing her fingers from her neck to reveal an already healing wound. Though long, the troll's claws had not cut too deeply into her flesh. The half-elf could see that she had healed most of the damage with her own power.

  Confident that Marissa would be all right, Taen looked out over the battlefield. Roberc, his armor and shield bent and battered, had dismounted and now stood over the dead trolls. He poured black oil from a flask on the corpses and set them afire with the burning length of a wood torch.

  Taen walked toward the halfling fighter with Marissa at his side while Borovazk set to burning the single corpse up on the hillock. The ground where the halfling stood was covered in bloodstained slush and churned earth. As they drew closer, Taen could see that both Roberc and Cavan were bleeding from multiple wounds. Marissa spoke gently to the dog, and he limped toward her, his fur caked in blood, dirt, and gore. The druid knelt before the hurt animal and reached out a slender hand, placing it along the bleeding edge of Cavan's wounds. Singing softly into the dog's ear, the druid sent healing power into the dog until Taen could clearly see Cavan's wounds close.
Once they had finished burning the corpses, Taen and his companions gathered around the horses.

  "Let us mount, little friends," Borovazk said. "We are not far from the vale, and I do not want to delay us any longer."

  Before he mounted, Taen bent to retrieve the sword he had cast aside. Gingerly, he wrapped his fingers around the worn red hilt, as if expecting—he knew not what. As he cleaned the blade and placed it into its scabbard, only silence ruled his heart.

  Chapter 6

  The Year of Wild Magic

  (1372 DR)

  Fog muffled the sound of their horses' hooves. Taen walked in silence like the others, leading his horse carefully down the steep path, following the surefooted tread of their guide. He peered through the thickening gray haze and caught only the barest hint of their surround­ings in the swirling, nebulous curtain: here, the suggestion of a tree; there, a dim outline of rock or the blurred expanse of a berry bramble. Though they hadn't been walking the curving path to Immil Vale for long, the half-elf felt as if he and his companions had left Faerun and now strode through another plane of existence. Everything took on a muzzy cast, vaporous and indistinct, as they walked through this seem­ingly endless expanse of gloom and fog—until Taen himself felt that he, too, must be half-made from mist, insubstantial as a wraith in this swirling dreamscape.

  If he dreamed, at least it was a dream of spring.

  Borovazk had been right. Whether through some divine blessing or other more natural means, the area around Immil Vale radiated warmth and life. Soon after leaving behind the remains of their battle with the ice trolls, Taen and his companions had witnessed the snow and slush disappearing, leaving only the rapidly thawing wine-dark soil that covered this part of Rashemen. Shoots and saplings had sprung up across the rolling landscape, tender, green, and tentative. The half-elf had watched them growing thicker and stronger as they neared the vale. By the time his group had reached the trailhead, they were surrounded by a riot of bud and bramble, root and tree. A gentle, misting rain had begun to fall as they set off, wordlessly, into a dream of spring.

  The heady, earth-rich scent of loam filled the air, tickling his nose as each step churned the earth beneath his feet. In the silence of the journey, Taen could hear the chittering of marmots, chipmunks, titmice, and squirrels. Birdsong filled the air, distant and muted but familiar—the warble of the grosbeak and hooded crow, the twitter of the nuthatch, and the echoing attack of the woodpecker. Winter was a distant memory, an old song whose words danced across the mind, half forgotten, even as the tune remained. Taen walked on in silence, enjoying the warmth. He'd exchanged his thick leathers and wool robe for lighter clothes and a simple, homespun cloak of rough cloth. The change in weather also made the battle with the trolls seem even more distant, and for that he was very grateful. His experience with the Song unnerved him, not only because of its strength, but also because he had heard another voice in it—the sword's. Never before had he felt the power of his father's blade come alive in such a way. He had heard its voice, and it shook him to the core.

  Taen didn't know what it might mean, but it couldn't be good. He thought he'd left all of that behind him in sorrow and in death. He was a Tel'Quessir. A failure. There was no room in his life for the Song—or the hopes of his heart. They were distant memories, reminders of what he could never be.

  "How much longer until we've reached the damned tree?" Roberc asked as he caught up with Taen. The halfling's voice, normally gravely, seemed even rougher from lack of use.

  The half-elf pushed down his irritation at the fighter's interruption. It was rare for his grizzled companion to begin a conversation. There was no sense in wasting this opportunity, and it offered him a chance to escape from his dark thoughts.

  "One day to reach the bottom of the vale," Taen replied, recalling Borovazk's estimation as they had set out upon the trail, "and then half a day's walk to the Red Tree."

  Roberc nodded and drew a long draught from his waterskin. When he had finished, he lifted it up, offering it to Taen.

  "Do you know what it is she is seeking?" the halfling asked.

  The half-elf reached out and grabbed the waterskin, shooting Roberc a thankful look. He took a swig, letting the cool, clear water swish around his dry mouth before swallowing.

  "No," he replied after taking another drink, "but I doubt that she does either." He handed the skin back. "Such is the will of the gods, I suppose."

  Roberc snorted. "The gods—" he began and looked around, as if seeking something, but never finished his statement.

  Which was just as well, as far as Taen was concerned. He'd grown used to the fighter's blasphemous speech and seeming indifference to the various faiths of Faerun.

  Even so, the halfling's contempt for piety and the ways of the gods sometimes made him nervous. Taen didn't know what lay behind the fighter's attitude, despite years of adventuring together and countless nights around a fire, with only the wind and their voices to keep them company. The halfling didn't speak much about his past, about his life before he took up adventurering—and he certainly never spoke of the scarred burn near his mouth. Sometimes he would talk about an old battle or tell a story of an evening's diversion in a tavern, otherwise Roberc was a generally quiet, if dour, companion.

  A mystery.

  When Taen thought about it during quiet moments, it made sense. Marissa, Roberc, and he—all three of them—carried burdens hidden from the world. Their scars ran deeper than flesh, and so did their friend­ship. They had found each other, these individuals who, separated, would each likely fall prey to despair or the dangers of the world. Together, they offered comfort, hope, and strength, yet their burdens existed, lightened by the sharing, but not healed.

  Roberc remained a mystery.

  Normally, Taen would let such a mystery lie, for he often kept his own thoughts private and did not relish baring his wounds for all to see, but there was something about the vale—whether it was the ever-present newness of spring, or the feeling of walking in a fog-shrouded dream, Taen couldn't be sure—that raised his curiosity. He found himself turning back to the halfling, search­ing for the right words.

  "What about the gods?" he asked finally after Roberc had caught him staring for the third time. "Do you believe in them?"

  Roberc looked up at Taen, and the half-elf caught a glimpse, just for one moment, of fire behind the halfling's dead gray eyes.

  "Of course I believe in them," the fighter answered after a moment. "You'd have to be a half-wit to deny their existence. The gods"—he snorted this time as he said the word—"they exist just like stone, wind, snow, and fire, but they are no gods of mine. A man may just as easily dig out of an avalanche with a dirk as pry himself out from under the finger of the gods once he's put himself there. No thank you.

  "You want to know what I believe in?" Roberc asked, grabbing Taen's hand and stopping on the trail. "I believe in my sword. I believe in courage. I believe that a man's life is a candle held out in defiance of the darkness, and it burns, as all things burn, for as long as there is wax, wick, and hope. I believe that in the end, darkness comes for us all—even the gods.

  "Life," Roberc whispered, "is in the burning. That's what I believe."

  Taen stared at his companion, held still as much by the passion in his voice as by the fierce grip on his arm. What of friendship? He would have asked this of the halfling, but just then Borovazk called for a halt, and Roberc released his grip and went forward to help set up their camp.

  Chapter 7

  The Year of Wild Magic

  (1372 DR)

  Marissa dismounted and knelt before the stream.

  Within the sound of its burbling water she heard the voice of the spirit, the telthor as Borovazk had called it, speak to her heart. She was aware of the others gathered around her, watching and waiting from tall seats astride their tired mounts. The druid reached to her belt and drew forth her waterskin. Gently, whispering words of thanks and gratitude, she poured the last remaining
drops of water from the container, mingling the fresh snow melt from her earlier travels with the clear, sweet runoff from the stream. Deep within, she felt the telthor's approval and found herself smiling as she refilled her skin.

  Water spun and rose into the air like a funnel. Slowly it bent toward the druid and touched her cheek, gently, like the soft caress of a young child. Behind her, she heard Borovazk mutter something before he dismounted and knelt before the running water. The Rashemi ranger spoke rapidly in his native tongue then stood. A moment later the water funnel straightened then gradually fell back into the stream.

  The spirit's presence departed.

  Marissa remained on her knees, stunned by the intimate communion she had just experienced. Truly, the gods had crafted a land of wonders when Rashe­men came into being. Even the wilds of Cormyr, the land of her youth, couldn't compare to what she had experienced here in such a short amount of time. Thoughts of her childhood came back to her. Raised in Waymoot, near the heart of the King's Forest, she had spent many years wandering the deer trails and hidden paths of the woodlands while her father toiled away at his trading business, burying himself in work to forget the fog-shrouded day he had buried his wife, Marissa's mother, an elf bard from Evereska. Perhaps Marissa reminded her father too much of what he'd lost, but soon after her mother's death, he had retreated into ledgers and factor notes, pushing her away. She had grown up in the shadow of the oak and alder trees of the King's Forest, counting her years as they came from the heights of shrub-studded bluffs and the depths of root caves, fatherless and motherless—unless the moon-throated example of wolf and the night-hunting owl could be considered father and mother. The forest had raised her.

  When the Circle had come for her, Marissa had been ready. Decades she had spent as an Initiate, wandering the rugged land of Cormyr, from the forbidding peaks of the Storm Horn Mountains to the stagnant heart of the Vast Swamp, watching and learning, touching and being touched by the wisdom of soil and seed, root and stone.