“I should say,” murmured Danilo.
“It would be better to meet Grimnoshtadrano with a small group. The dragon might not take kindly to being approached by our entire party.”
“I had thought to go alone, but for Vartain.”
“You now have a partner to consider,” Elaith reminded him. “If you wish to kill yourself, kindly do so on your own time. Yes, Vartain will go to answer the riddle, but you should at least take the minstrel. Spellsong is a powerful weapon.”
“Not Wyn,” Danilo said firmly. “No elves, absolutely. Green dragons consider you folk a delicacy, and for all we know Grimnoshtadrano might be in the mood for a snack.”
“Point taken,” the moon elf said grudgingly. “We will hold the spellsinger back, out of sight.” His eyes fell on Morgalla, who listened with the mien of one well accustomed to councils of war. “You might take the dwarf with you, though, in case the dragon requires feeding.”
“I doubt I could keep her back,” Danilo said, noting the battle-gleam in the dwarven warrior’s eyes, “and I don’t envy anything that might try to eat her.”
“You got that right” Morgalla agreed. “But what if the beast don’t hold up his side of the bargain?”
“If our large green friend defaults,” Danilo responded, “I’ll challenge it to a second riddle. The riddle is actually a spell, and it will hold the dragon long enough for us to make an escape.”
Elaith looked dubious. “You’d be better off taking the spellsinger.”
“Maybe. I’m curious, Wyn,” Danilo said casually. “Those marsh pipers were on the small side. Have you ever tried to charm something larger than a tavern wench?”
“A dragon, no,” Wyn admitted, a slight twinkle in the green depths of his eyes, “but I did live among the Northmen for a time, and I found their women quite susceptible. Will that do?”
“Close enough,” Danilo admitted with a surprised grin. He’d learned from his time with Arilyn that elven humor tended to be dry and subtle; Wyn’s remark seemed uncharacteristically bawdy, but the elf’s assessment of North-women—whose ample charms were much prized by the ambitious and the athletic—was remarkably apt
“If the spell doesn’t work—and frankly, Lord Thann, we’ve got to consider that as a possibility—I’ve a powder that ignites the dragon’s poisonous gas,” Elaith said, holding up a small cylinder. “If the beast opens its mouth in preparation for attack, we toss this inside. The result is like rather like setting an alchemist’s shop on fire. The explosion will daze the creature and give us time to be away.”
“Who’ll get close enough to do the tossing? You got that good an arm, elf?” Morgalla asked.
“Vartain will handle it,” Elaith responded. “He is a master of the blowgun.”
“Now why am I not surprised,” Danilo commented dryly. “That one’s got more air than the north wind.”
“Indeed,” the rogue elf said in rare agreement.
The dwarf responded with a derisive sniff. “When you two start singing the same tune, it’s past time to get some sleep. Maybe come morning, you’ll have come to yer senses and be back to scrapping.”
“It is late,” Wyn agreed, and the two made their way to the far side of the encampment, leaving Dan and Elaith alone with their uneasy alliance.
“How did you come to have this explosive powder?” the Harper asked cautiously. The elf’s path paralleled his own too closely for comfort, and what he knew of Elaith did not inspire peace of mind under any circumstances. “Did you plan to encounter the dragon?”
“No, but my travels took me close to its lair. Vartain felt it was a possibility and suggested I prepare for it,” the elf answered in apparent candor.
“Farsighted fellow, isn’t he?” Danilo said admiringly, pretending to take the elf’s response at face value. “Does he truly live up to his reputation?”
“He’s as good as you’ve heard, and just as annoying,” Elaith grumbled. “Never have I seen him wrong, and he doesn’t hesitate to herald this fact.”
“Modest sort.”
“You heard him at the campfire. Vartain is firmly convinced of his superiority and inordinately proud of his traditions.”
“Yes,” Danilo said in a dry tone. “For a moment, he reminded me of an elf.”
Elaith’s brows shot up in surprise. “Quite so,” he admitted, not without humor.
Since the elf seemed unusually mellow, Danilo decided to press him for information. He wasn’t entirely sure whether his motive was to exploit the unexpected camaraderie, or to destroy it.
“Speaking of elves and traditions and so forth, that sword dance was remarkable. During the dance I noticed that you carry your hereditary sword. Since this is not your usual habit, I couldn’t help but wonder why you brought the moonblade along.”
The cautious truce dissolved instantly. “That is not your concern,” Elaith said coldly. He spun away, and with silent grace he disappeared into the darkness.
When night faded to the first silver of morning, Texter the Paladin resumed his solitary journey. Although Texter was devoted to the city of Waterdeep and devout in his duties as one of its secret Lords, he could not long abide within walls. He often rode alone into the wilderness to renew his commitment to Tyr, the god of justice whom he served. The silence cleared his mind and allowed him to reach inside himself for strength, and the austere challenges of the road tested and honed his skills as a knight His rides also enabled him to serve the city by seeing with his own eyes how things in the Northlands fared.
Conditions north of Waterdeep were every bit as grim as Texter had feared.
From high astride his huge war-horse, the paladin surveyed the ruined fields around him. At this time of year, the second crop of hay should have been more than hock-high, but his horse stood amid stunted sprouts and brambles. This field, lying as it did near the edges of the wilderness, had been planted to fodder, but the same tale could be told of the food crops nearer the safety of the farming villages. For many days, Texter had ridden through scenes of desolation, and he had noticed a peculiar pattern. Crops had been blighted all around the city, but as he rode north the area of damage narrowed. Whatever—or whoever—caused the blight had left a clear and apparently deliberate path.
Leaving the stunted field behind, Texter headed north toward the first scrubby trees that marked the beginning of the forest. As he rode toward the River Dessarin, he noted that even the woodlands had been blighted along this mysterious path. Ferns withered, mosses turned black on fallen logs, and the nearby trees were eerily silent of birds or small game.
A woman’s scream rang out from behind a small hill. Texter nudged his horse into a gallop and raced in the direction of the sound. As he urged the horse over the hillock, he saw below both the river and the source of the scream.
Near the riverbank, two gray-green orcs were toying with a young woman. They had laid their weapons aside, and were spinning her from one to the other in a cruel game of catch. Their eyes glowed red with the reflected first rays of sun, and tusklike teeth gleamed in perverse delight at the woman’s terror.
Texter drew his sword and charged down the hill. The thunder of the mighty horse’s hooves shook the ground, and the startled orcs shoved the woman aside and dove for their weapons. The first orc grabbed its axe and rolled to its feet just in time to meet Texter’s first swing. With that one stroke, the paladin decapitated the orc. Its head flew into the river and was swept downstream by the rushing current.
The second orc charged forward over the body of its fallen brother, holding high a spiked mace. Texter’s battle-trained steed nimbly sidestepped the downward smash. The paladin delivered a backhanded stroke with the blunt side of his blade, catching the orc on the snout and sending the beast reeling away. Texter’s sword cut back, slashing the gray hide of the orc’s chest and sending tufts of coarse hair flying. His final thrust found the creature’s heart, and the orc crashed backward onto the bloodied ground.