Under Fallen Stars Read online

“Khlinat,” Jherek said, wanting desperately for the dwarf to listen to him. Even though they’d fought the arriving sahuagin to a standstill, they were losing men.

  The dwarf nodded. “Aye, swab, and I hear ye.” He raised his voice from a roar to a bellow. “To the warehouse, damn ye lazybones! Regroup and let’s show these beasties the color of their gizzards!”

  Jherek hung the hook from the sash at his waist and reached out for a lantern hanging from a nearby pole. Holding it by the wire handle, he smashed it against the crates.

  At his side, Khlinat did the same. Flames twisted up with a liquid whoosh. “Them what owns them crates,” the dwarf said as they gave ground together, “ain’t going to be any too happy seeing how we treated their goods.”

  “If they live after tonight,” Jherek grimly pointed out.

  “Aye, swab, and ye have the right of it.”

  Jherek turned and ran, spotting the two groups of sahuagin closing in from the sides. Another moment and their position would have been overrun.

  They fled into the warehouse, going all the way to the back of the cavernous structure. The warehouse was two stories tall. Crates occupied space on either side, leaving the middle section clear. The scarcity of crates offered mute testimony about the way shipping had slowed since the attacks on Waterdeep and the sea lanes. On either side at the back, steeply angled wooden steps led up to the second floor.

  “Don’t stop till you reach the back!” Churchstone ordered.

  Jherek and Khlinat ran at the back of the group with the Flaming Fist sergeant. The young soldier couldn’t help noticing the grin on Churchstone’s face. Glancing back over his shoulder, Jherek saw that the sahuagin had no compunctions at all about following them into the building. At least thirty-five or forty sea devil warriors ran after them.

  Churchstone wheeled suddenly and lifted his sword. “Now!” he shouted.

  Jherek only caught the flash of movement overhead, then a huge cargo net dropped down, snaring the sahuagin. Several of them dropped to the warehouse floor, hammered by the great weight of the thick hawser ropes. The sea devils struggled to get up. A few of them sawed at the ropes with bone knives fashioned with chipped edges. The ropes slid away greasily, twisting from the sahuagin’s grip as well as against the knife edges.

  Then a pair of flaming torches dropped from the overhead floor as well. From the way the cargo netting caught fire, running in rivulets as it greedily consumed everything it touched, Jherek knew it had been soaked in oil. The sahuagin whistled shrilly in pain.

  It was a hard way to die, Jherek knew, and he felt bad for the creatures. It wasn’t a way he’d have killed them. Malorrie had trained him to be a warrior, to fight the right fights for the right reasons. This was more like extermination. He felt the warmth of the flames against his cheeks as the men around him hooted in triumph and pleasure.

  Jherek glanced away, catching Khlinat’s eye.

  “A bad bit of business,” the dwarf commented. “But ’twixt a rock and a hard place, a wise man makes do and lives for the morrow.”

  “I know,” Jherek replied.

  Khlinat slapped him on the shoulder. “Buck up, swabbie, we’ve a city yet to save should the gods prove willing.”

  Out in the harbor, the bunyip roar pealed again.

  The chill of dread raced through Jherek when he heard the sound. Resolutely, he steeled himself. Come what may, he knew he had unfinished business with his father. He followed the dwarf, skirting around the dead and dying among the sahuagin as they cooked. Archers on the floor above feathered any that appeared on the verge of escaping.

  Out in the fresh air and clear of the smoke trapped inside the warehouse, Jherek stared across Baldur’s Gate harbor. The battle ravaged the city along the docks. Flames twisted up through the roofs of buildings that would be nothing but ash by morning.

  His destiny, he thought grimly, was supposed to be found somewhere in the chaotic debris, but he had no idea how he was going to find it.

  * * * * *

  “Pacys! It’s happening—Baldur’s Gate is under attack!”

  Snarled in the layers of bedding, Pacys strove to come awake. As always, the bard reached first for his yarting. It lay on the floor beside the bed, barely fitting the hollow between the furniture and the wall in the small room. Until late, the yarting was the only thing of real value he’d carried in years. His fingers slid over the strings and the smooth wood out of habit, then he opened his eyes.

  “What?” he croaked.

  “We’re being attacked by the sahuagin.” Delahnane Kubha stood on the other side of the small bedroom and peered out the single open window. The flimsy pale green drapes blew over her naked body, illuminated by the lone taper on the small nearby table.

  She was forty and still lushly curved, bursting with womanly charms that had warmed the old bard’s bed for nearly a tenday. Her blond hair had strands of gray in it now, but her confidence in herself kept her from coloring it. She worked as a serving wench in the Blushing Mermaid tavern only a few streets back of the room she kept here. Pacys had enjoyed a friendship that was more than friendship with her the last twenty years whenever he was in the city.

  Holding onto the yarting, not bothering to cover his nakedness, Pacys rushed to the window. His hard life was mapped across his lean body in scars and wrinkles, creating highlights on his nut-brown skin. He kept his head shaved, and went whiskerless as well. Jutting silver eyebrows arched over his light hazel eyes. He was thin, his long bones overlaid with stringy muscle.

  Pacys had been in Baldur’s Gate almost two tendays since arriving by ship. After the attack on Waterdeep and his talk with the merman Narros, he’d come to the city hoping to find more mention of the prophecy he’d been told of, more of the song he was chasing.

  Since arriving in Baldur’s Gate, he’d only experienced a few times when the song he searched so desperately for—had been promised—had come to him. They’d been troubling pieces, crammed with trepidation and the iron smell of blood.

  Now, as he gazed out over the battling groups below and out in the harbor, the song filled his head. It was an extension of the piece he’d unconsciously played in Narros’s home after having been invited to the merman shaman’s dwelling. Pacys knew it was the piece concerning the hero of the tale.

  The music was strong, vibrant, but there was a trilling uncertainty about it, a tremor that didn’t ring quite true. Relieved and excited, he fit his hands to the yarting, then guided his callused thumb across the strings. The resonance between what he heard in his mind and what he produced on the yarting was perfect. The sleep fog that clung to him from too many late nights and too much wine lifted instantly.

  “He’s here,” Pacys declared, smiling. The music filled the tiny room.

  Delahnane glanced at him, light glinting in her eyes. “The hero you’ve been charged with seeking?” She wasn’t as happy about the situation as the old bard was. There was every chance that someone she knew from the tavern, perhaps even someone she called a friend, would be dead before morning.

  “Yes.” The certainty that filled him surprised Pacys. At his age, there seemed to be so many doubtful things. He’d seen seventy-six years come and go, and had learned much in his unceasing travels across Faerûn as a wandering bard, not all of it good, but it all had fed his talent in one way or another. Every emotion he’d ever experienced had burned through his mind and into his fingers in thousands of bars, taverns, inns, and castles across Faerûn.

  He closed his eyes, concentrating on the music. His fingers moved fluidly across the strings, seeking the notes now without hesitation. He added to the small store he’d brought with him from Waterdeep. No matter what song he’d played or how long it had been since he’d last played it, the old bard had never forgotten a tune he’d written or borrowed.

  He gave voice to the song, his smooth baritone filling the room.

  “He stood with the men of Baldur’s Gate,

  “This boy not yet become a man.
r />   “He followed his heart, not knowing the plan,

  “Of his destiny to stand before the Taker’s hate.

  “With naked sword steel tight in his hand,

  “And fear filling his belly as he eyed

  “The black-hearted sahuagin warrior pride,

  “The Champion fought to keep the defenses manned.

  “Steel rang and sparked as blood ran from wounds untended,

  “As the Taker took up the malevolent war that had not ended.”

  The words stopped coming, but the music didn’t. It became repetitive. Unable to stand idly by while the city fought back against the invaders, or to miss the chance to meet the young man Narros had said it was his destiny to find, the old bard hurried back to the bed.

  He pulled his plain brown breeches from the chest where Delahnane kept her personal things and quickly stepped into them. As a raconteur of duels, battles, and wars, he’d learned to keep clothing close to hand and to dress in a hurry. During a war, the battle lines moved even while men slept.

  “What are you doing?” Delahnane turned from the window and faced him.

  “Only what needs be done, fair lady,” Pacys replied. “I’m no man to lay abed when there’s fighting to be done.” He pulled on the faded green doublet, then stepped into his boots. His feet slid into them comfortably. He hung the yarting by its strap over his back and picked up the wooden staff he’d carried with him almost as long as the instrument.

  “You’re going out there?”

  “I have no choice.”

  “Men are dying out there,” Delahnane said.

  “Yes, and my place is with them.”

  “You’re an old man.”

  The statement, even though it was true, hurt Pacys. He was well aware of his advanced age. Elves, mayhap, had all the time in the world, but not him. He crossed to the woman and took her by the arms, staring into her green eyes. “Ah, and if I had my choice of deaths, O vision, I’d choose to die by your hand, knowing your willing love and your tender caress upon my brow as you urged me to greater rapture.”

  A small smile lighted her face, followed by an instant blush.

  “But, dear lady,” Pacys went on, “I fear I don’t have my choice of deaths, and I must follow my nature.”

  Delahnane pulled him to her and hugged him fiercely. Her bare skin brushed against his hand. “I know, dear Pacys, and even should that nature of yours damn you to die this night, I know it has ever made you the man I’ve loved when happy occasion permitted us to be together.”

  Pacys stroked her face with the back of his fingers. He felt a pang in his heart. He didn’t think he would die, though he knew it was possible, but he did know that the loving times they’d shared, and the quiet hours he’d spent reciting poetry to her, thrilling to the way she’d responded to every verse, were over.

  “Should we not see each other again this night—” he began.

  She swiftly covered his mouth with her hand. “No,” she whispered. “Do not speak of dying.”

  After a moment, Pacys gave her a nod. It hadn’t been his intention, but he felt she knew he was about to tell her he wouldn’t be back. It was her way of avoiding that. He’d left her many times in the past, and both of them knew that with his station in life what it was, there could only be pleasant interludes between them.

  She removed her hand. “Do you really think the boy you’re searching for could be out there?”

  “I have to believe,” Pacys answered. “All my life I’ve felt I was destined for greatness, to pen and sing a song that will forever be known as mine, to take my place among the bards whose works achieve immortality. That has never happened. Until now. Oghma’s blessing upon me and my craft has seen fit to put me on that path now. I can’t step away from that.”

  “I know.” With genuine effort, she released him and took a step back.

  Pacys leaned in for a final kiss, tasting the wine yet lingering on her lips. Of all the women he’d known in his long life, she was a favorite, but settling down and leaving the traveling bard’s life was as unthinkable as taking a wife to travel with him who wasn’t a bard herself. The road was home only to those who could call no other place home.

  He reached inside his doublet and took out the coin pouch he’d been saving. Deftly, with all the skill of a thief, he placed it in her hand and curled her fingers up over it before she saw it.

  Delahnane didn’t say anything. She already knew how generous he was from past times he’d stayed with her.

  Whenever he spent time with Delahnane, he always filled his own coin purse and one for her from the fees collected in the taverns he visited. With the caravans bringing men into the city as well as the needed laborers for the shipyards and the usual sailors, the old bard had done well during his stay. Both coin purses held a lot of copper and silver pieces, as well as the occasional gold piece. He’d learned long ago never to get too attached to coin. Oghma had always found a way to pry it out of him by some means.

  “Take care,” she told him.

  “And you.” Pacys went through the door, memorizing the image of her standing there with only the candlelight blazing over her. His heart was heavy with the thought of leaving. At the same time, he was excited. The song played in his mind, nothing new yet, but he knew there would be something more.

  Outside, he bolted and ran by the other apartment doors to the stairs leading down to the alley. He raced around the building and out toward the docks. The song thrummed in his head, growing stronger as he moved to the battle.

  * * * * *

  The tide of sahuagin flooding into the city seemed unbreakable.

  Jherek stayed with Khlinat, aware that the dwarf knew the streets and alleys of Baldur’s Gate much better than he did. If there was a stand to make somewhere, he trusted Khlinat to make it and to choose the proper place.

  They raced down Bindle Street till it crossed Stormshore Street, then kept going. Few of the sahuagin had penetrated this far back the city as yet.

  The peg leg coupled with his short stature helped Jherek easily keep up with Khlinat, but they moved quickly. Armed men, most of them evidently with the Flaming Fist, hailed citizens in the streets, urging them to join the efforts in the harbor. The young sailor guessed that less than half the efforts were successful. Men with families concentrated on getting those families to safety, not trusting that the sea devil invaders could be held.

  The blood weeping from the cut beside Jherek’s eye had finally ceased, leaving a hard crust that partially obscured his vision. It bothered him that they appeared to be running from the battle.

  “Where are we going?” Jherek asked.

  “Patience, swabbie, I’ve got a plan. Never ye fear.” The dwarf’s breath came in ragged gasps and he flailed his arms to keep up the pace. Two alleys further up, he pointed at a large building. “There.”

  The building stood three stories tall with a stone exterior. The bottom two floors contained what appeared to be a warehouse because there were no windows, while the third floor held personal living quarters with a large widow’s walk facing the River Chionthar. A hand-painted sign stuck out from the building but it was too dark for Jherek to make it out.

  Huffing and puffing from the run, Khlinat pounded the back of a hand axe against the door near the cargo bay. Hollow thumps sounded inside. The dwarf repeated his effort twice more, gaining intensity and frustration.

  Suddenly a deep male voice called down from above. “What the hell do you want?”

  Khlinat stepped back from the building and gazed up. “Yer city’s under attack, Felogyr Sonshal, and there ye stand instead of taking up arms against them what attacks.”

  Sonshal stood in the shadows of the widow’s walk, but Jherek could tell he was a big warrior who’d evidently enjoyed the successes of his life. Judging from his girth, he’d had several successes. Fierce mustaches stuck out from his lower face and dangled below his chin. He dressed well, but the thing that drew the young sailor’s attention mos
t was the long shape in the man’s arms. It was pointed directly at Khlinat. Moonlight glinted from the dark metal.

  During his time in Velen, Jherek had only seen a few weapons like the one Sonshal carried. It was an arquebus, a weapon as rare as the most arcane magic that took advantage of the explosive nature of the smoke powder made by the Lantans. The arquebus fired round bullets much like those a sling threw, but with far more destruction than either a sling or a bow. Also, the bullets weren’t as easy for a healer to take out as an arrow or quarrel.

  The dim glow of a slow match burned orange across Sonshal’s face. “I’m on my way to help. I only just woke.”

  “Pulled yerself out of yer cups, ye mean.”

  Consternation covered Sonshal’s face. “Do I know you?”

  “Khlinat Ironeater. Aye, ye know me. From a time or two a round was bought at the Blushing Mermaid or the Three Old Kegs. Stories was swapped and lies was told, but I’ve never done business with ye. That blasted smoke powder ye sell is much too uncertain for a one-legged dwarf who’s learned the value of the sure-footed path.”

  “Then what are you doing here?” Sonshal demanded. “Unless you’re beating on doors and raising help.”

  “More than that,” Khlinat roared. “That harbor yonder’s filled with all manner of foul beasties, including no few sea devils. I’ve got me a plan, desperate, aye, and mayhap a trifle foolhardy, but Marthammor Duin keeps foolish wanderers ever in his blessed sight.”

  “Get to the point.”

  “Ye sell smoke powder,” Khlinat said.

  “I sell fireworks,” Sonshal argued. “And torches, lanterns, and beacon pots. Things a man determined to go adventuring needs.”

  “Aye,” the dwarf agreed, “and ye stock smoke powder that the Lantans make. The reason the four Grand Dukes don’t run ye out of business here is because yer choosy about who ye sell to, and the fact that yer a rich man in these parts. Makes ye a good taxpayer, I’m told.”

  “What do you want? Do you figure an arquebus is going to serve you better than those hand axes you carry?”

  Jherek listened politely to the conversation, staying out of it because he trusted the dwarf, but every instinct in the young sailor cried out to him to be at the harbor, helping where he could. Fighting men died while they stood there.