“You’ll fight that one yet,” Morgalla observed. She wrenched her spear free of the monster and came to stand at Danilo’s side. “I owe you, bard.”
“Repay me, then, by letting me fight him alone when the time comes.”
The Harper’s voice was quiet and uncharacteristically grim, and the dwarf nodded once in understanding. With a deep sigh, Danilo turned back to the pile.
They dug until all the men had been recovered. Orcsarmor was not found in time, and several other mercenaries—whose names Danilo had never learned—had been slain and partially eaten by the giant cricket After the survivors laid the men in shallow graves, Wyn went in search of the runaway hermit, and the others bathed in the cold, deep waters of the creek.
Following a cursory dip in the stream, Vartain pulled the scroll out of his leather pouch and resumed his study. Danilo came out of the creek dripping and chilly. He discarded his wet tunic and began to remove dry clothing from his magic bag. The others watched agape as he took from the bag a fine linen shirt, a dark green tabard, leggings, linens, and stockings, even a spare pair of boots. The Harper looked up and noted his audience.
“It’s a bag of holding,” he commented, and continued to rummage. “An especially roomy one. You wouldn’t believe all the stuff that’s in here. I’ve got something that should suit you, Morgalla, at least until Wyn gets back with your pony and your travel bag. It’s fortunate that you folks had readied the horses and supplies before the sorceress struck. Ah, here it is.”
Danilo drew forth a loose shirt of pale green silk. “This is hardly the gown I would have chosen for you, but it should serve for the time. Here’s a scarf, too, and a gold clasp with a rather nice cluster of peridots—”
“Fancy stuff like this don’t hold up to the road,” Morgalla pointed out, but she took the luxurious garments and headed for the privacy of a cluster of rocks.
The Harper dressed quickly and passed out what articles of clothing he thought might fit the others. Mange looked almost a gentleman in a fine shirt and leggings, with his patchwork scalp covered by a rakish bandanna. Balindar teased his friend unmercifully, and Mange’s self-conscious grin sat oddly on his weathered and battle-scarred face. The riddlemaster, however, absently waved away Danilo’s offer of a fresh tunic.
“The next of the barding colleges is in Waterdeep. I know of no such site,” Vartain said, looking up at last
“The school was called Ollamn. There is no barding college now, but as you know most people involved in the bardic arts register at Halambar’s Lute Shop. Halambar is the master of the musicians’ guild, and this practice gives local and visiting bards a service once provided by the college. What will happen in Waterdeep?”
“According to the riddle, a lord will fall on the field of triumph, on a day that is not a day.”
Morgalla emerged from the rock cluster, clad in green silk. The shirt hung past her knees, and she’d girded it at the waist with the sash and the gold and peridot pin. With her damp, unbraided auburn hair curling about her face and her feet bare, she looked a bit like a very stocky wood nymph.
“You look lovely, my dear,” Danilo said solemnly, and the circle of mercenaries nodded in avid agreement
“I have a question,” the unimpressed Vartain broke in. “Waterdeep is a big town.”
“That’s a question?”
“Enough, Lord Thann!” the riddlemaster snapped. “I am not a man who appreciates levity. During the Midsummer Faire, every traveling entertainer in the north heads for the city. I’m assuming that the sorceress will not flaunt her asperii, and nearly every singer in Waterdeep has a harp of some sort, so how are we to recognize her?”
“Midsummer Faire,” Danilo repeated in a distracted voice. “ ‘The lord falls on a field of triumph, on a day that is not a day.… ’ ” The Harper smacked his forehead with the flat of his hand. “Shieldmeet. That’s it!”
Vartain nodded, his black eyes shining as he followed the Harper’s logic. “Your reasoning is sound. Shieldmeet is not part of any mooncycle, or counted as a day in the roll of the years. It is a day that is not a day.”
“Am I missing something important?” Morgalla asked.
“Shieldmeet is an extra day that occurs once every four years, right after Midsummer. After the tournaments of Midsummer Day, contracts are renewed, betrothals announced, allegiances sworn. Even the Lords of Waterdeep are reaffirmed every four years,” Vartain explained.
“Maybe, maybe not,” Danilo added. “You notice that each of these curses has been brought to bear on Waterdeep. Between crop failures and monster attacks on merchant caravans, Midsummer Faire will be a rather dismal event. A storm on Midsummer Day will play into the people’s fears and superstitions, and a bard who can influence crowds might be able to convince them that the Lords of Waterdeep are no longer able to govern. Rightly done, it could be a near-bloodless coup!”
“But why fuss around with Harpers and dragons? What do the Lords of Waterdeep have to do with a bunch o’ bards?”
“Enough,” Danilo said succinctly. “The two groups work together. Bardcraft and politics are intrinsically enjoined. We must leave for Waterdeep at once! Where is Wyn?”
“Here.” The elf minstrel called, striding quickly down the hilltop holding the leading reins of three horses. The elven hermit followed close by Wyn’s side. “We recovered only three horses, but I found my lyre of changing.”
At that moment, Elaith crested the hill behind Wyn at a run. “Then use it!” he shouted as he dashed toward the others. “A flock of harpies, coming from the north!”
Eleven
Wyn shaded his eyes against the sun and scanned the skies. As Elaith had said, far to the north were several dark shapes. The minstrel looked helplessly at Danilo. “There are no harpies on Evermeet I’ve learned no spellsong to combat them!”
Danilo patted the sword at his right side. “Not to worry. I carry a singing sword whose music will negate the effect of the harpies’ song. This shouldn’t be any more difficult than fighting any other flying monster. Teeth, talons, that sort of thing.”
The adventurers’ relief was palpable, and even Elaith’s grim visage relaxed somewhat Seeing that, a seed of mischief took root in Danilo’s fertile mind. He drew the magic weapon and with a solemn face handed it to the elf.
“If I were to be killed or disarmed during the battle, the sword’s music would cease at once, and all would be lost You’re by far the best swordsman among us. You’d better use this.”
Elaith’s silver brows rose in a skeptical arc, but he accepted the magic weapon. “Very sensible of you,” he said, question and sarcasm blending in his words.
Danilo shrugged. “First time for everything.” The thin, outer edge of the keening waves of sound began to reach them. “The sword will sing as soon as you take your first strike. Mind that you don’t put it down once it begins, though. It can be touchy, and it might not start up again.”
The elf made a few experimental passes to test the sword’s balance and to activate the song. Immediately a rollicking baritone voice began to sing:
Elaith turned an incredulous stare toward the Harper. Danilo responded with a bland smile and drew his own blade. “Here they come,” he said, pointing with the sword in the direction of the approaching monsters. There were nine of them, granting the fighters below one-to-one odds.
The harpies were close enough now that their hideous faces were clearly visible, fangs gleaming from mouths flung wide open with their magical song. Although the unearthly music chilled the adventurers, the harpies’ fell magic could not compete with the enchantment of the singing sword. Meanwhile, the sword rolled on through the chorus.