Songs & Swords 1 (33 page)

“Well, such as who’s behind the assassinations, I imagine.”

“That I know,” Arilyn said sadly.

Danilo sat up straight. “You do?”

“I’m pretty sure. What I don’t know is what the elfgate is or how it could possibly be connected to the assassinations.”

Danilo suddenly became very still. “Bran Skorlsun,” he said quietly. “By every god, that has to be the connection.” He rose abruptly from the table. “Come on. We’ve got to get back to Blackstaff Tower. Immediately.”

Seventeen

By the time the courtyard of Jester’s Square firmed beneath her feet, Arilyn had recovered from her uncharacteristic attack of docility. She stepped out from between the twin black oaks that flanked the invisible dimensional door and turned to face Danilo, blocking his way. “Just before we left Candlekeep, you spoke a name. Who is this Bran Skorlsun, and what does he have to do with me?”

“My dear Arilyn,” Danilo said in his lazy drawl, “it is not yet daybreak, and you wish to stand here and chat? I don’t like being on the streets at this hour.” He cast an uneasy glance over her shoulder at the deserted square. “By the gods, doesn’t Uncle Khelben know of a dimensional door with a tonier address?”

The half-elf blinked, stunned by the sudden and complete change in Danilo’s behavior. “What has come over you?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” he said lightly, trying to brush past Arilyn into the square.

She would not be budged. “Who are you, Danilo Thann? What manner of man hides beneath those velvets and jewels?”

“A naked one,” he quipped lightly. “But please feel free not to take my word on the matter.”

“Enough!” said Arilyn violently. “Why do you present yourself as you are not? You’ve a quick mind and a strong sword arm; you show promise as both scholar and mage. I will no longer accept that you are a fool, and I will not allow you to treat me as one!”

“I would not,” he said gently.

“Oh no? Then stop this nonsense and answer my question! Who is this Bran Skorlsun?”

“All right.” The noble leaned close and spoke as quietly as he could. “He’s the Harper ranger of whom Elaith Craulnobur spoke, whose business is to track down false and renegade Harpers.”

“Really. How would you come by such information? Perhaps you are also employed by the Harpers?”

“Me, a Harper?” Danilo stepped back and laughed immoderately. “My dear girl, that jest would inspire much mirth in some circles.”

“Then you won’t mind if I read this.” Arilyn deftly plucked from Danilo’s pocket the note Khelben Arunsun had written. She read aloud. “Candlekeep is protected from magical observation. You need only maintain your facade enough to convince Arilyn.”

The eyes the half-elf raised to Danilo’s face were blazing with anger and accusation. “Sing me a song, bard, a song of a man with two faces.”

Before Danilo could parry her demand, a cat’s squall erupted from the alley behind them, followed by a muffled oath. Danilo cast an uneasy look toward the dim alley and glanced down at the moonblade. It glowed with a faint blue light. He grasped Arilyn’s shoulders and firmly turned her around, urging her forward.

“We’ll talk about this later,” he said in a low voice. “I think someone’s following us.”

Arilyn laughed derisively. “That, Lord Thann, is old news indeed.”

“So are you, gray elf,” growled a voice from the alley.

Her anger forgotten, Arilyn whirled toward the alley, sword in hand. Harvid Beornigarth stepped out of the shadows, closely followed by a pair of his thugs. The lamplight reflected off his bald pate and rusty armor; were it not for the lout’s vast size and his confident air, his appearance would have been more comic than threatening. He folded his arms across his rusty chain mail shirt and leered down at the half-elf with malevolent satisfaction.

“See? I told you so,” Danilo murmured. “Does anyone ever listen to me? Of course they don’t.”

Arilyn glared at the huge adventurer. “Haven’t you had enough?” she asked, her voice edged with contempt. “You should have learned by now that you can’t win.”

Rage washed over the man’s face, and he raised one hand to his eye patch. “You’ll not get the best of me this time,” he vowed, shaking a spiked mace at her.

“Apparently he’s a slow learner,” Danilo remarked.

Harvid Beornigarth’s scowl deepened. He barked a command, and two more ruffians stepped out of the alley.

Danilo let out a long, slow whistle. “Five-to-two. Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything?”

The half-elf merely shrugged. “Coward’s odds.”

Her insult swept away the last of Harvid Beornigarth’s restraint. With a roar, he charged at her like a maddened bull, swinging his mace wildly. Arilyn nimbly dodged the swing, and the battle was on.

Fury gave speed and power to Harvid’s mace. Cursing and roaring, he swung at the half-elf again and again. His slender opponent was forced into a defensive position, putting all her strength into dodging and blocking the onslaught.

As soon as she could, she cast a glance toward Danilo. The nobleman was not faring well. Harvid’s four thugs had surrounded him; apparently Harvid had instructed them to leave Arilyn to him.

Dread chilled the half-elf. She knew that Danilo, although skilled in the ways of classic swordplay, could not hold off four streetwise fighters for long. She would have to come to his aid, and quickly.

Even as the thought was being formed in her mind, one of the men slipped through Danilo’s guard. A blade glanced off the jeweled hilt of the nobleman’s sword and cut a deep gash in his forearm. Danilo’s sword fell from his hand with a clatter, and a bright stain of blood blossomed on the yellow silk of his shirt. One of the thugs grinned and kicked the fallen weapon out of reach.

A cold fury swept through Arilyn, and in an instant she transformed into an elven berserker. She broke free of her battle with Harvid Beornigarth and turned on Danilo’s attackers. Her moonblade cut down the nearest man with gory efficiency. The half-elf hurled herself over the body, violently shoving Danilo into the small space between the twin oak trees. She whirled, placing herself between the three fighters and the unarmed and wounded nobleman. They advanced, and Arilyn’s flashing sword caught the first rays of morning as she held off the three ruffians.

Abandoned by his quarry and cheated of battle, Harvid Beornigarth stood alone and unnoticed. His mace dangled at his side, and his jaw hung slack over both of his chins. He watched the fight for a long moment, a stupefied expression on his face. His one good eye narrowed, and he hefted his mace and moved in for the kill. It took but a moment for him to realize he could not get at the half-elf without knocking his own men out of the way. He wasn’t averse to killing his men, if the situation demanded, but if he did so he’d have to face the elven berserker alone.

Damn the wench! Harvid sank down on a handy crate, sucking in a long, angry breath. Then his wits—such as they were—returned to him. He exhaled in a leisurely fashion and settled himself comfortably on the crate. He might as well sit back and enjoy the show. Truth be told, Harvid Beornigarth had little desire to join his men in the Realm of the Dead. Let the elf wench spend herself and her berserker rage on the destruction of his faithful army. All he cared about was seeing her killed. If his men couldn’t manage the job, at least they could tire her out. Once again Harvid Beornigarth’s hand rose to his eye patch, and he sat, biding his time.

Arilyn had no thought for the lout or his plans. All her will and strength was being poured into the fight with the three men. The odds usually would not trouble her, but she had slept little in the three nights since she’d come to Waterdeep. She was nearing exhaustion, and her sword arm felt as if it were moving through water.

One of the men brought his blade high overhead and sliced down at her. As she parried that attack another man made a low lunge for her unprotected body, his long knife leading. Arilyn kicked out viciously, catching the man’s arm and sending the knife flying. The moonblade sliced cleanly across his throat.

The man’s death cost Arilyn. One of the remaining thugs landed a blow on her right arm. The half-elf willed aside the searing flash of pain and feinted a stumble to the ground, letting the moonblade fall to her feet. Two men closed in, confident that they could easily finish off the unarmed half-elf.

Arilyn surreptitiously pulled a dagger from her boot and threw herself upright, using her momentum to drive the dagger hard under the ribs of one attacker. From the corner of her eye, she saw the other man swinging his sword toward her neck. She dove to one side, and the blade sliced harmlessly into the man she had just killed.

As she rolled aside she snatched up the moonblade, then came catlike to her feet. In three quick strokes she finished off her last attacker, and the fight was over. She could not see Danilo, so she assumed he’d escaped the square somehow. The courtyard of Jester’s Square tilted crazily, and the half-elf rested her sword on the cobblestone, leaning heavily on it. Her wound was not serious, but her sleepless nights had taken a toll. She heard in the back of her mind the sweet, insistent call of oblivion. …

The sound of slow, measured applause called her back.

“Quite a show,” came Harvid Beornigarth’s cynical observation. He hefted himself from the crate and strutted toward her, mace grasped in one beefy fist. Halting just outside the reach of her sword, he sneered, “Time to even the score.”

Harvid lifted the mace high, swinging down with all his considerable strength. Arilyn rallied enough to bring the moonblade up to deflect the mace, but the impact of the blow drove her to her knees. A jolt of pain shot through her wounded arm and sent silver sparks through her field of vision. Resolutely she blinked aside the lights and the pain, in time to see Harvid, an evil grin splitting his face, raise the mace for a killing blow. She threw her remaining strength into rolling clear.

The dull clash of metal on wood echoed through the square. Arilyn looked up. Where she had stood just a moment before was a tall, dark-cloaked man. His stout staff had turned aside the descending mace. Harvid reeled back, astounded by the appearance of the tall fighter. Arilyn’s rescuer advanced. He drove the end of his staff under the lout’s too-short chain mail and deep into his belly. With a guttural noise Harvid bent double. The staff circled and came down hard on his neck. There was an audible cracking of bone, and Harvid Beornigarth dropped to the ground.

Arilyn struggled to her feet. Her first reaction was annoyance that someone would interfere in single combat. “I could have handled that myself,” she snapped.

“You’re welcome,” came the cold response.

At that moment Danilo emerged from between the trees, looking dazed and clutching one hand to his head. In her surprise to see him, Arilyn turned away from the tall newcomer. “I thought you had run away.”

“No. I was merely senseless. More so than usual, that is. Are you all right?” he asked, looking at her torn and bloodied sleeve with concern.

“A scratch. You?”

“Somewhat more than a scratch, but I think I’ll live.” The nobleman removed his hand from his forehead to display a large, bruised knot. “By the gods, Arilyn, you’re more dangerous than those cutthroats! You didn’t have to hurl me into the tree like that. If you wanted me to get out of your way, you just had to ask.” He glanced up at Arilyn’s rescuer. “Who’s your friend?”

The tall man turned to face Arilyn, pushing back the deep cowl of his cloak as he did. He was older than his fighting prowess and his raven hair led one to believe, with a face that was deeply creased and weathered by the passing of years. Arilyn recognized him to be the stranger she had noticed in the House of Fine Spirits, the night that the Harper bard had been slain.

“Merciful Mystra,” Danilo said softly. “It’s Bran Skorlsun.”

Before Arilyn could reply, a blinding flash of blue light engulfed her, and she was flung to the ground. Instinctively she threw up her arms to protect her eyes.

The sound of renewed battle rang along the street, but Arilyn had been temporarily blinded by the flash. She dug her fists into her eyes, trying to free them of the dancing spots that obscured her vision. Her elven infravision cleared first, and she saw the multicolored heat image of the tall Harper, thrusting and parrying with his wooden staff. The night rang furiously with the clanging of wood upon metal.

Yet she could see nothing else. Bran Skorlsun was fighting something, but nothing of flesh and warmth. As her vision returned more fully, the shape of the second fighter began to grow clear.

Slender, dark, somehow insubstantial, the assailant was definitely an elf in form and agility. Arilyn’s heart thudded loudly in her ears as she held her breath and waited for a look at the fighter’s face.

The battle shifted, and the elven fighter spun toward her. Arilyn released a long, shuddering breath. Oh yes, the fighter was familiar indeed.

“She looks exactly like you,” Danilo said, coming up behind Arilyn. “By the gods! That’s the elfshadow from the legend lore poem, isn’t it?”

“Shadow and substance,” Arilyn murmured. “But which of us is which?” Rage and bitterness lent new strength to the half-elf. Raising the moonblade high, she charged at the elfshadow. Her first stroke should have cleaved the creature in two. The moonblade passed right through it, but Arilyn continued to flail at her shadowy double. Again and again the moonblade swished harmlessly through the elfshadow and its flashing sword.

“Arilyn, stop,” Danilo shouted, circling around the wild fight and trying without success to get the half-elf’s attention. Since he couldn’t stop her without getting himself killed by one of the three fighters, the young mage turned and sped to a wooden bench. A rusty nail protruded from the wood, and Danilo wretched it free. He pointed it at Arilyn and rapidly moved through the chant and gestures of a spell.

The nail disappeared from his hand, and Arilyn froze in mid-strike, moonblade held high. Danilo leaped forward and grabbed her around the middle, dragging her away from the battle. Her body remained as rigid as a statue as the nobleman propped the magically paralyzed half-elf against one of the elms.