Bladesinger (30 page)

A second blast of hellfire shook the cavern before the portal disappeared with a sudden hiss of air, like the great rushing sound of a dragon inhaling before it unleashes its breath. Taen blanched as he saw the demonic being fully revealed by the light of the cavern’s flickering torches.

The creature stood nearly eight feet tall, its grotesque body resembling an amalgam of bird and demon. Thick-feathered wings, extending out into the cavern from its broad back, beat listlessly as the demon cast around the room with its twisted eaglelike head. Twin circles of fire burned from behind the beast’s large eyes. As Taen and the others drew nearer, it gestured once with a clawed hand. The air rippled for a moment as a wicked sword, complete with twin serrated edges, appeared in one of its hands.

Borovazk struck first, leaping forward with axe and warhammer in hand. Seemingly surprised by the ranger’s speed, the demon lashed out awkwardly with its free claw. The Rashemi twisted to his left, avoiding the razor-sharp attack and spun to bring his broad warhammer crashing down upon the summoned demon’s leg—and nearly fell to the ground when, instead of shattering the beast’s bones beneath its weight, the weapon rebounded harmlessly off of the creature. The ranger cursed quickly before reversing his spin and slicing hard with the wicked edge of his gleaming axe. This time, the weapon bit deep into the demon’s torso, eliciting a horrifying screech that nearly caused Taen’s ears to bleed.

Unwilling to give up their temporary advantage, Roberc and the half-elf approached the demon’s flank. Swiftly the halfling sliced several cuts into the creature’s putrid torso then cursed as the wounds slowly closed.

“Its gods-blasted flesh resists my attacks, Taen,” Roberc shouted. “We’re going to have to hack this vrock back to the blasted pits where it was spawned.”

Though Taen heard his friend’s complaint, he could spare little energy to respond. Already the Song had grown to a near-deafening crescendo within him. For a moment, fear mixed with the calm his inner music brought him. Ever since he had entered Rashemen, he’d experienced an ever-deepening awareness of the Song. Something within this land called to him, coaxed and brought forth a part of the half-elf that he had tried to run from these many years. What if he lost control-failed as he did in the practice ground and beneath the stars when his actions had killed the only woman he had ever loved or who had loved him in return?

For just a moment, the Song softened, falling away, and he heard Talaedra’s voice call out his name. Taen gazed out at his companions, struggling mightily against the summoned vrock, and he knew that he could not—would not—fail them. With an ancient bladesinger battle cry on his lips, he threw himself into battle. The Song surged within him, and he felt the power flowing through him. When the vrock’s black-runed sword cut through the air, seeking his flesh, Taen brought his father’s blade up to meet it. As the two swords met, Taen rolled forward, anticipating the demon’s other claw that raked the space he had just occupied.

He would have lunged forward to strike at the vrock’s now-unprotected flank, but a new sound caught his attention. Guarded by her demon, the renegade hathran was about to unleash another spell. The gathering arcane power flared against Taen’s own senses even as the witch’s chanted words clashed bitterly with his Song. The half-elf stepped out of his opponent’s reach and studied the hathran for several heartbeats. The spell was familiar to him, and without hesitation, he summoned his own power and tried to counter her magic.

The crone finished her chant with a triumphant shriek and opened her palm, as if casting something forth. Fueled by the Song, Taen’s arcane strength reached out to surround the harnessed eldritch energy. Black bolts of force flew from the witch’s hands then sputtered into nothingness, absorbed by the half-elf’s counterspell. The old woman’s surprised curse did little to bolster Taen’s optimism, for it had taken nearly all of his power to quench her spell. Whatever she might be, the hathran possessed a power far beyond anything that Taen had yet seen.

An icy feeling began to build at the base of his spine as he leaped forward, hoping to bring the black-robed crone down.

The Year of Wild Magic

(1372 DR)

Marissa watched the telthor die.

Even as Cavan’s powerful jaws locked on to the creature’s neck and bit down, the druid found herself grieving. The telthor was evil or at least twisted by the one called Yulda beyond recognition. Still, as its body stopped moving and its luminous flesh began to fade before her eyes, Marissa grieved. Here was a part of Rashemen that would never exist again, and she had a hand in its passing.

There was little time to do anything but mouth a quick prayer to her god as the battle still raged in other parts of the cavern. Quickly she checked on Cavan, whose blood-matted fur and myriad open wounds made it difficult for the war-dog to walk; the loyal hound’s front left leg hung at an awkward angle. Marissa reached out and opened her heart to Rillifane, asking his blessing upon the valiant animal. Within moments, divine energy poured out of her hand, repairing torn muscle and shattered bones. Cavan offered her hand a grateful lick before he bolted toward the rear of the cavern, returning to battle once more.

The druid was about to follow when Borovazk’s cry of pain caught her attention. The ranger stood doubled while the demonic being advanced upon him. Looking carefully, she could make out tiny needle-sharp spores protruding from the Rashemi’s flesh. Marissa saw Roberc slash valiantly at the demon, trying to draw its attention, but to no avail. Within a few heartbeats, the demon’s wicked claws would shred Borovazk.

Gripping the Staff of the Red Tree, she called forth the power of the earth, shaping it with careful prayers to her god. Immediately the cavern floor around the Rashemi began to shift and buckle. Stalagmites grew in size, joining together to form a gray wall of stone that stretched from floor to ceiling. Protected from certain death, Borovazk reached toward his belt and pulled out a flask of green liquid. Marissa watched as the ranger pulled off the cork with his teeth and downed the potion. Relief flooded through her as the needle spores fell from his skin. She almost smiled as he picked up his axe from where it had fallen, ran around the wall, and engaged the demon once more.

As battered and bloodied as her friends looked, the summoned demon looked even worse. The matted feathers of its wings were rent with several holes, and even from her vantage point, Marissa could see gaping wounds that disgorged black blood and slime. The demon, however powerful, was the least of their problems, Marissa knew. Yulda, the renegade hathran, posed the truest threat. Anger washed over her, made more intense by the voice of the Staff of the Red Tree, whose agitated buzzing reached new heights. Ever since she had carried the staff, Marissa felt as if it had grown to be a part of her. Even now she wasn’t sure where her own anger and loathing ended and the Staff of the Red Tree’s powerful emotions began.

Readying her own power to assist Taenaran in his fight with Yulda, the druid sensed something she hadn’t noticed in the first flushed moments of battle, or perhaps this was a gift from the Staff of the Red Tree itself. Either way, the druid could now make out a thin tendril of energy that erupted from Yulda’s back, stretching deeper into the shadow of the cavern beyond. In each moment before the witch cast a spell, Marissa could see power travel along that tendril until it poured into Yulda’s body.

Someone or something was feeding the withered crone power—power that threatened to destroy them and all of Rashemen. It took only a moment to call upon Rillifane’s gift and transform herself. She felt the familiar dislocation as the shape within her mind took form. In three heartbeats her flesh had completed its transmogrification. The sounds of battle sounded impossibly distant to her new senses, more vibration than anything else. Deftly she scuttled forward on seven legs, maneuvering around the outer edge of the cavern, crawling closer and closer to where the tendril originated. When at last she stood before an alcove completely shrouded in darkness, Marissa returned to her original form.

Gripping the Staff of the Red Tree, she summoned light. At first it did little to pierce the veil of ebon darkness that hung over the alcove, but the voice of the staff swelled and the light grew in power. The darkness tore like thin vellum. When at last she could see what lay in the alcove, Marissa nearly cried out in horror.

An emaciated, wizened old man hung spread-eagled in the air by four obsidian chains. A writhing tendril of pure energy penetrated his skull, right between rheum-glazed eyes. The captive stared at her, pain obviously etched in every line of his face; his breath came in great ragged gasps. At once, Marissa knew that this was the vremyonni, the Rashemi wizard that Yulda had kidnapped. The wychlaran thought that Yulda had merely taken the wizard to glean vremyonni secrets. She knew now that the truth was much worse than that. Whatever spell had forged this unholy bond, it was sucking away at the wizard’s power and feeding it to Yulda.

She reached out in an attempt to help free the enslaved wizard—and snatched her hand back in pain as it touched a wall of energy. Her fingertips still tingled with the force of the spell. Marissa tested the wall with elemental fire and the fury of winter itself, pouring forth her god’s power in an attempt to shatter the defensive wall. The druid knew that breaking whatever bond joined the vremyonni and the hathran was the key to defeating Yulda.

“It … it’s no use,” the ancient wizard gasped as Marissa struck the magical wall with the full force of the Staff of the Red Tree. “The spell is wrapped in both of our power.”

Marissa shook her head in denial. “Then how I can I free you?” she asked and felt desperation rise in her voice.

The wizard coughed and sputtered for a moment before answering. “Only my death can free me now.”

“No,” she nearly shouted, “there must be another way!” Destroying the telthor had been horrific enough; she would not kill another part of this wild land. Not if she could help it.

The vremyonni shook his head. “There is—” he started to say then gasped in pain as the arcane conduit drew more power from him. “There is no other way, my child. I knew that the wychlaran would not abandon me. Now you must end this, and quickly.”

“How—?” was all that she asked before the wizard’s gentle smile silenced her.

“You know how,” the vremyonni said. “The power was given to you by the Red Tree, but only you can make this choice. Decide quickly, my child, for Yulda merely plays with your friends. If she wanted, she could destroy them with a single spell.”

As if to prove the wizard’s words, Marissa heard Taenaran let out a shriek of agony. She turned to see the half-elf caught in a beam of pure darkness that emanated from Yulda’s empty eye socket. His flesh began to bubble and boil, as if liquefying right off of his bones. The druid’s heart felt as if it were being ripped from her body. With a single cry of Taenaran’s name, Marissa had made her choice.

Taen ducked beneath another swipe of the vrock’s claw and rammed the point of his sword deep into its side until it grated on bone. Spinning swiftly, he wrenched his blade free, splattering the black-robed witch with gore and effluvia. The demon bellowed and leaped forward, borne slightly aloft by the strength of its wings. Three more claws slashed downward at the half-elf. Without missing a beat, he rolled beneath one, dived to the right of another, and caught the third on his blade. He moved as effortlessly as he had that fateful day in the alu’dala, flowing like water, raining blows down upon the vrock, and when he could get close enough, the witch herself. Abandoning himself to the powerful rhythms of the Song, he felt freer than he ever had before.

So much so that when the Song shifted beneath him, he did not resist it but followed its strains. It grew louder, more powerful—began to pull at him, yet still he flowed with it. When the crone sent pulsating green bolts of energy flying from her fingers, Taen leaped into the air, drawing his arms to his chest and spinning so that two of the missiles flew by either side of him. The third he caught on the tip of his sword, and the fourth he took square in the chest, but even that brief moment of searing pain did not slow him down.

Taen stood before the decrepit hag, sword poised to strike. The Song crescendoed around him; he could feel its need, its hunger drawing him down into its depths. It called to him—asked of him the only thing of any worth he had to give: his life. For just a moment, he hesitated. For just a moment, he resisted its pull, struggled against it the way a drowning man struggles against an implacable tide.

In that moment, the crone struck.

Power lashed out from the wreck of her eye, a beam of pure nothingness that caught Taen full in the torso. He screamed as the dark energy of the beam struck him. Agony coursed through his body—his very spirit was afire and every inch of his skin bubbled and boiled. In an instant, the vengeful cadence of the Song was stilled. Caught in the unquenchable power of the witch’s eye, unable to move, Taen caught sight of Marissa in his rapidly dimming vision. The druid held aloft the Staff of the Red Tree in her remaining hand, and in that moment, the half-elf knew with utter certainty what she was about to do.

He summoned the last bit of strength remaining and screamed, “Marissa… no!”

Anger and desperation melted away from Marissa, replaced by a calm certainty. Choices bring their own comforts with them, she knew, and thanked Rillifane for the one she experienced now. There was so much that she had wanted to say, wanted to share with Taenaran, so much of this land she had wanted to explore, yet it was love—love of the broken half-elf and the rugged land they had traveled across—that had solidified her choice.

A single tear of regret, for words not spoken and feelings not shared, spilled down her cheek as she raised the Staff of the Red Tree above her head. She sent one last prayer to Rillifane that he would guard and guide Taenaran and her friends, before she brought the staff down hard upon a sharp stalagmite—