Elfsong

Three

Elaith Craulnober’s black cape flowed behind him like an angry shadow as he stalked through the village once known as Taskerleigh, a small cluster of buildings in the midst of fields and forest. The town was completely deserted, but for a few old corpses rotting in some of the houses. Strangely enough, only one building, a small cottage by the edge of the forest, showed any damage whatsoever. There was no sign of a fight, no evidence of a plague, and so far, no sign of the treasure.

Elaith hurried to the ruined cottage and began to kick through the rubble. Behind him strolled a middle-aged man, bronze of skin and completely bald, whose slightly protruding eyes took in the scene with an expression of detached interest The elf’s hired men, a dozen hard and tested mercenaries, muttered and made surreptitious warding signs as they wandered through the ghost town. They were careful to hide their discomfort from their elven employer, who had little tolerance for superstition and even less for cowardice.

A glint of silver caught Elaith’s eye, and he hurled aside a fallen timber to get at the object He stooped and picked up a curling length of silver wire. His fist clenched around the wire in pure frustration.

“It was here,” muttered the elf. For almost a year, he had searched for a rare and priceless treasure, and he had spent a small fortune tracing it to this remote village. He rose slowly to his feet and turned to face Vartain of Calimport.

“We’re too late,” he said, showing Vartain what he had found.

The riddlemaster nodded calmly, as if he had anticipated this turn of events. “Let us hope that does not occur again today.” He turned and walked toward the overgrown garden of a nearby farmhouse.

Elaith gritted his teeth and followed. He recognized Vartain’s worth: the riddlemaster was brilliant and resourceful, an asset to any quest. Vartain was always thinking, watching, weighing the facts, considering and calculating the odds. When questioned, he shared his observations freely and expressed his opinions honestly, and he never seemed to be wrong about anything. In short, he was a colossal pain.

The elf’s irritation shifted focus abruptly when he got to the garden’s wall. His amber eyes narrowed at the frivolous scene before him. Two of his highly paid men were digging at a peppergum tree with their daggers. The tree was commonly cultivated in the Northlands for its summer shade and brilliant autumn foliage, and each spring it yielded thick, pliant sap that tasted faintly of peppermint One of the malingerers, a black-bearded bear of a man named Balindar, had worked for Elaith before and should have known better than to risk his ire. It was the elf’s custom to purchase his mercenaries’ efforts with generous payment in gold, and to ensure their loyalty with cold steel.

Elaith drew a throwing knife from his sleeve and flicked it at the tree. The blade bit deep into the soft wood, just inches from Balindar’s head. The mercenary spun about, a hand on his blade and a startled oath on his lips. His eyes widened at the sight of his employer’s cold face. He eased his hand away from his weapon and raised it slowly in a conciliatory gesture. Although more than a handsbreadth taller and a good fifty pounds heavier than the elf, Balindar was clearly not interested in fighting his employer.

“This is your concept of treasure?” Elaith asked in tones of silky menace as he leaped nimbly over the garden wall.

“This? A child’s treat?”

“Wasn’t my idea,” Balindar grumbled. “The riddlemaster told Mange and me to gather peppergum sap.” The other mercenary—a whip-thin archer whose mottled blend of naked scalp and short-cropped brown fuzz gave birth to his apt nickname—bobbed his head in nervous agreement.

His temper near to burning, Elaith rounded on the man behind him. Vartain had just finished his laborious climb over the garden wall. He stood eyeing the distant hills, his hands resting on his paunch in a meditative pose. Something about the man’s bulging black eyes, large hooked nose, and bald pate reminded Elaith of a buzzard. Vartain looked over, as if drawn by the heat of the elf’s glare.

“The terrain about a league to the northwest suggests the presence of caves,” Vartain said mildly, pointing toward the rock-strewn hills beyond the village. “Considering the proximity of potential lairs, prudence demands that we have earplugs available.”

Elaith stared at the riddlemaster for a moment, waiting for the man to come to the point. Vartain, however, seldom explained what seemed obvious to him unless he was asked direct, specific questions. It was the riddlemaster’s custom to put forth a fact or two, then allow others the opportunity to work their way to the logical conclusion. The elf was in no mood to appreciate such generosity, and in three quick strides he had the riddlemaster by the throat

“Save your games for Lady Raventree’s parties,” Elaith hissed from between clenched teeth. He gave the man a sharp shake. “A straight answer. Now!”

Vartain gurgled and pointed a finger toward the hills in the northwest Elaith glanced, and immediately released the riddlemaster’s throat.

On the horizon, several winged, gray creatures were emerging from a rocky outcrop. The avian beasts rose into the sky with the distinctive looping flight of vultures, but the elf’s sharp eyes noted the human torsos and the hair streaming behind the heads. They were harpies, monsters whose song was a magical weapon that could charm a listener into immobility, allowing the evil beasts leisure for torture and feasting.

“Harpies attacking from the north!” the elf shouted. “Men, to me!”

The men bolted toward the garden. Vartain had already appropriated the sap Balindar had collected and was rolling it into small cylinders. Elaith snatched Mange’s dagger, scraped off a bit of sap and pressed some into each of his ears. He passed the dagger to Balindar, the group’s best fighter. There would not be enough for everyone.

As it happened, time ran out before the sap did. When the first note of the harpies’ song reached the men, four of them simply froze. Four living statues faced Vartain with entreating hands, threatening snarls, and terror-filled eyes. Then, despite his ear protection, Elaith caught the unearthly song and could spare the men no more thought.

The broken stone wall was as good a line of defense as any. Elaith plucked his bow from its place on his shoulder, gesturing for his men to arm themselves as well. He drew six arrows from his quiver—he’d be lucky to get off that many—and then dropped to one knee. The elf nocked the first arrow and waited for the creatures to come within range.

Despite his many adventures and his fearsome reputation as a fighter, Elaith felt uneasy as he watched the approach of the avian horrors. There was a bitter, metallic taste in his mouth. With a touch of surprise, he identified it as fear. The outcome of this battle was by no means certain, and the elf was flooded with momentary panic at the thought of dying before he found the treasure he’d sought for so long. He patted the ancient sword at his hip, as if to remind himself what was at stake in this battle.

Swiftly the harpies approached, and the sight of them sent a shudder through the row of waiting archers. A dozen of them, Elaith noted, against the ten men left unaffected by the spell. The odds were by no means favorable, and the men eyed their foes with naked dread.

The monsters’ wings and lower bodies were those of enormous vultures, and the talons on their feet flexed in cruel anticipation. From the waist up, the creatures resembled gray-skinned women with youthful bodies and the faces of hideous hags. Thick, gray hair writhed in tangled ropes around each harpy’s face, and their fang-filled mouths strained and contorted as they sang their enticing, wordless song.

As soon as the lead harpy came into range, Elaith loosed his arrow. The silver-tipped shaft streaked toward the monster, piercing it through the shoulder and tearing into its wing. Feathers flew, and the creature shrieked as it spiraled to the ground. The wounded harpy landed hard but was on its feet immediately, one wiry arm dripping blood and the other brandishing a bone club. Foul odor roiled off the creature as it rushed with a birdlike, hopping gait toward Elaith. Again the elf shot, and this time the arrow buried itself below the harpy’s breast. The beast collapsed with a hiss, flopping about for several moments before conceding to death.

The sight of the fallen harpy drove the other monsters into a frenzy, for they realized that most of their prey was immune to the musical charm. They waved clenched fists and tore at their wild hair, and the tempo of their deadly song began to quicken. Down they came, singing all the while, their talons spread wide as they swooped toward the fighters. The men got off a single volley of arrows before the harpies closed in. Ignoring the men who’d already succumbed to their song, the harpies fell upon those still fighting.

Like an owl closing on a rabbit, one of the monsters dove toward a half-orc mercenary. The half-orc ducked, but not before the harpy’s wicked talons raked his back, scoring it deeply across the shoulders. Almost immediately a second harpy plummeted into the wounded mercenary, and the impact sent them both tumbling to the ground. The half-ore’s massive hands instinctively closed around his assailant, an instant before the poison from the first harpy’s talons took effect. The captured harpy writhed and shrieked as it struggled to break free, but it was securely pinned under the mercenary. Trapped and furious, the harpy bared its fangs and ripped open the half-orc’s throat.

Roaring an oath to his god of vengeance, a Northman sell-sword thrust his blade through his dead comrade and into the harpy’s chest. The creature’s struggles slowed, and black blood oozed from the corners of its hideous mouth. Satisfied that he’d finished the harpy, the Northman leaned down to tug his sword free. The dying harpy spat in his face.

The Northman stumbled back, screaming with pain and clawing at his blinded eyes with both hands. Within seconds, he, too, was immobilized.

Meanwhile, another harpy swooped down at the riddlemaster. Vartain dropped to the ground and rolled aside with surprising agility. The harpy missed its target and landed a few feet away. Wings arched, it lurched toward Vartain with outstretched, grasping hands.

The riddlemaster put a hollow wooden pipe to his lips and blew. A dart flew toward the harpy’s face. The beast let out a shrilling cry and pawed at its cheek, leaving its feathered belly unprotected. Elaith stepped in and delivered a vicious backhanded slash with his sword. The harpy crashed to the ground with a spray of gore and feathers.

Two of the creatures came in low to circle the elf, each wielding a stout club fashioned from an ogre’s leg bone. Fighting with sword and dirk, Elaith held the pair of harpies off. The harpies’ wheeling flight kept them out of reach of a killing strike, but Elaith slipped past their guard again and again. The monsters were each bleeding from a dozen hits.

Others of his band were not so fortunate. To the far side of the battlefield, three creatures hunched over a disemboweled body, cackling and arguing over the entrails. The man’s outflung hands spasmed repeatedly, indicating that he was—if but for a short time—still alive. Nearby, Balindar faced off in a hideous duel with a large harpy, bristling with arrows but still full of fight and fury and wielding a bone club as handily as a swordsman uses a rapier.

When his two opponents finally lay dead, Elaith snatched up his bow and sighted one of the three harpies still circling the battlefield. His first arrow flew directly into a harpy’s open mouth, ending its song and sending it plummeting to the ground. The next shot was not as clean; he brought his target down, but the harpy landed close to the forest edge. It was wounded but still singing. Elaith snatched an arrow from the quiver of one of the enspelled men, and prepared for a shot that would finish off the harpy. He nocked the arrow and sighted down his target. So odd was the scene playing out at the forest’s edge that for an instant Elaith lowered his bow and stared.

Another fighter had joined their battle. A ragged hermit harried the wounded harpy, poking at it with a stout piece of wood as if he were playing with a chained and snarling puppy. To all appearances, the hermit seemed to be enjoying the battle; his shoulders shook, and his high-pitched giggle rang through the shrill harpy song and Elaith’s protective barrier of peppergum sap. The hermit’s rags flapped around emaciated limbs as he danced about, and a wild tangle of dirt-colored hair fell to the middle of his back. Glad for assistance of any kind, Elaith turned his attention back to the problem at hand. His final arrow took the last flying harpy through the heart.

Only one harpy still sang; the one fencing with Balindar. Eager to end the unearthly song, Elaith hurled his dirk toward Balindar’s opponent. The weapon spun end over end, catching the harpy in the back, directly between the wings. The shock of impact threw its arms wide, and the creature’s song exploded into a final shriek. Balindar grinned and finished the beast with a quick thrust He and Elaith closed in on the three feasting harpies, swords leading.

Loathe to abandon their meal, the creatures bent protectively over the torn corpse and hissed at the approaching swordsmen. While the harpies watched the deadly elf and the huge black-bearded fighter, two of Elaith’s men slipped in from behind and stabbed a pair of the monsters in the back. Before anyone could strike again, the third harpy lumbered into the darkening sky. It flapped toward the north, a length of dripping entrails hanging from its talons.

The silence that shrouded the battlefield felt as thick and heavy as a dense fog. After a long, tense moment, the survivors plucked the protective sap from their ears and faced their losses. Three men had been killed and five more stood frozen by the harpies’ charm song or poison. They had killed eleven of the monsters, but Elaith did not consider the battle a victory. He was left with four able men, not counting himself or the riddlemaster. The number was not equal to the challenges of the road ahead.

The elf kicked over one of the dead monsters and bent to retrieve his dagger, holding his breath against the noxious odor. The high-pitched giggle rang out again, this time at his elbow, and Elaith whirled to face the hermit, who had finally dispatched the harpy Elaith had wounded earlier.

Beneath the tangled thatch of hair was a filthy, beardless face and wild eyes of a distinctive almond shape and violet hue. Violet eyes! Elaith recoiled in horror and disgust. The mad hermit was an elf. As if to confirm this discovery, the hermit grasped a handful of matted hair in each hand and raised it high. One ear was missing entirely, but the other was long, pointed, and definitely elven.

The hermit gazed down at the slain harpy, shaking his head sadly. “Smelly things to be sure, but dance to the harp they do!”

The sight of a fellow elf grieving over a harpy was too much for Elaith. “Get this creature out of my sight,” he snarled at Balindar.

“Perhaps you should reconsider,” Vartain interrupted. “This unfortunate fellow appears to be the sole survivor of Taskerleigh. We should question him, insane though he undoubtedly is. Perhaps he can tell us more about what happened here, so that we might plan the next step of our journey.”

Elaith nodded, for something that hermit had said might be worth pursuing. Grasping him by one bony arm, Elaith pulled him upwind of the harpy’s carcass. “You spoke of a harp. What about it?”

The wretched elf spread his fingers before him, staring down at them with an awe that suggested that he had just now acquired the bony digits. “I played it,” he whispered. “I played the harp, and even the korreds crept from the forest to dance to its silver tones.” The hermit’s words sounded calm and measured, and Elaith began to hope that they could yet glean some useful information.

“Was there anything special about this harp? Does it have a name?”

“It has been called Morninglark, and it is more special than you could imagine,” the ragged elf replied calmly.

“Where is it?” Elaith demanded.

Grief flooded the elf’s wasted face. “Gone,” he mourned. “Taken!”

“By whom?” Vartain asked.

The hermit turned his violet eyes to the riddlemaster. “A great green one. His breath killed the villagers where they stood.”

Elaith and Vartain exchanged incredulous glances. The hermit was describing a dragon attack. “How did you survive?” Vartain asked.

“Magic.” The hermit’s bony arm traced a circle in the air around his head, obviously pantomiming some sort of protective sphere. He pressed his fingertips to his forehead. “I live, but the dragon’s gaze shattered my …” His voice drifted off into silent despair.

Elaith was not feeling any too cheerful himself. Dragons of any sort were uncommon, and greens were both rare and reclusive. The hermit’s dragon was most likely Grimnoshtadrano, a venerable wyrm who lived nearby in the High Forest. The dragon seldom ventured out of the forest, so he had apparently wanted the elven harp badly and would not be willingly separated from it Not, of course, that it would be easy to take from a full-grown green dragon something of which he was only moderately fond.

“Grimnosh,” muttered Balindar in disbelief, and then he shook his massive dark head. “I’m for heading back to Waterdeep. I’ve no notion to end up like these folk,” he said defensively.

“Farmers,” Elaith pointed out “And judging by the number of dead, not enough to give the dragon a fight”

“There were many more than we found,” Vartain corrected, drawing an exasperated look from his employer. “I suspect that they were—”

“Eaten,” the hermit broke in, speaking in sepulchral tones. Once again he broke into shrill laughter. This time his giggle held an edge of hysteria, and he hurled himself into a wild dance, spinning and leaping amid the corpses that littered the ruined garden.

Elaith turned away, his face unreadable. “Collect the survivors. We’re moving out”

“What of these men?” Vartain asked, pointed to those who were frozen by the harpies’ musical charm. Three were unharmed, but the Northman, if he lived, would no doubt be blinded. The fifth man bled profusely from four long, ragged gashes where claws had raked his upraised sword arm. His immobile features showed no acknowledgment of the wound, but his skin was pallid, and he would surely die if not treated soon. “We lost three fighters to the harpies and cannot reasonably afford the loss of five more.”

The elf closed his eyes, rubbing his aching temples. “Tie them to their horses, if you must, but we’re leaving this place!” he said, raising his voice to be heard over the hermit’s insane giggling.

“We caught these three trying to sneak up on us,” Mange’s reedy voice announced from behind Elaith. “Bring ’em over, men!”

“More harpies?” the elf asked wearily, not bothering to turn around.

“Almost, but not quite,” announced a familiar, irritating drawl. “And you know what they say—whoever the Nine Hells they are—almost only counts when you’re throwing horseshoes or magic fireballs.”

Disbelieving horror flooded Elaith’s face. “No,” the elf whispered, silently cursing the gods for rewarding his misspent life in this manner. He turned around slowly. Sure enough, there stood Danilo Thann, wearing an indolent grin and apparently too foolish to be frightened by the four mercenaries who’d escorted him to their feared elven employer. The man flipped aside his tabard and waggled the harp-and-moon pin affixed to the shirt beneath.

“Not harpies,” Danilo Thann amended cheerfully. “Harpers. Quite a difference, when you think about it.”

“That may be so.” The elf’s eyes narrowed into amber slits. “My situation, however, has not noticeably improved.”