Philip Athans - Realms of Mystery

Something struck the half-elf’s leg, hurting him and thrusting him off-balance. He fell heavily onto his side. A headless thing resembling an enormous black starfish, each of its arms tipped with a jagged talon and a fanged, slavering maw gnashing in the center of its body, scuttled up the length of Halladon’s body toward his head, jabbing at him as it came. He realized it was the severed hand, acting independently of the shape-shifter’s body.

He slashed at it awkwardly. The starfish pounced over his blade and onto his shoulder, plunging two of its claws into his flesh to anchor itself. The other three arms poised to stab at his head.

Dropping his saber, which was useless at such close quarters, he grabbed his attacker and pulled. In a flash of pain, the starfish tore free of his flesh. He tried to fling it away from him, but it instantly attached itself to his hand and started to bite him.

Halladon frantically drew his knife, then stabbed and sawed at the creature. After a few seconds, it stopped moving, and with a final flailing of his arm, he freed himself from its excruciating embrace.

The half-elf seized his scimitar, scrambled up, and surveyed the battle. His friends were hard-pressed. The left side of her face red with blood, warding herself with her buckler and boot knife, Moanda tried vainly to work her way back to the broadsword she’d lost, until one of the shapeshifter’s hands snatched it up to use against her. Gasping, Kovost lurched desperately back and forth, striking at the ropy limbs that lashed at him from every side.

But all the shapeshifter’s arms were currently deployed in front of its body, away from Halladon. Praying it would ignore him just long enough for one more sword stroke, the half-elf charged it.

Since his cut to the torso hadn’t slain it, he decided to attack the monster’s head. Scimitar raised, he leaped into the air, and at that instant the shapeshifter’s proboscis whipped all the way around its skull to hurtle at his face.

He was certain he was a dead man, but his sword hand knew better. It beat the proboscis to the side, then buried the scimitar in the creature’s skull.

The shapeshifter stiffened, let out a ghastly buzzing sound, then dropped. Within moments, it began to melt into a foul-smelling slime.

Dead as it looked, Moanda and Kovost approached it warily.

“Are you all right?” the dwarf asked Halladon.

At first, too winded to speak, Halladon merely nodded. “It stuck me a few times,” he wheezed at last, “but not too deeply. What about you two?”

“The same,” said the barbarian, hand pressed to the cut on her brow.

Kovost peered down at the rapidly dissolving carcass. “What in the name of the Keeper’s beard was this thing?”

Moanda snorted, her usual response to anything she considered a foolish question. “It was unpleasant, and now it’s dead. What more do you need to know?” She turned to Halladon, inclined her head, and grumbled a phrase in her native language three times over. Then, when he peered at her in puzzlement, she gave him an exasperated scowl. “That’s how my people apologize. Don’t you cityfolk know anything?”

“I’m sorry, too, lad,” Kovost said. “We should never have doubted you. I’ll carry the shame of it to my dying day. Tell me how to make it up to you.”

Halladon grinned. “Depend on it, it will be a long, arduous process. But after we tend to one another’s wounds, you can make a start by building up the fire and cooking me a gigantic supper.”

“Fair travel, Captain Aidan, ‘tis a chill wind blowin’ this eve,” called the young guardsman, his purple cloak drawn tight against the cold.

Aidan turned to face the officer standing within the guard post of the Upper City Gate and grunted. In the dancing light of the torches, he could make out the lad’s beard’ess face. No matter how hard he tried, Aidan couldn’t shake the feeling that the Purple Dragons recruited younger every year.

“Luck yerseif,” his gravelly voice carried across the deserted stretch of the Gateguard Road, “sunrise is still a fair bit away.”

With a gruff laugh, he turned and continued somewhat unsteadily up the road into Tilverton proper. In truth, the Dragonet was right-the night air carried a chill bite. Aidan could feel his old bones throb under the wind’s lash. Still, winter’s bluster couldn’t touch the warmth that flooded from his recollection of the past.

Tonight had marked his last official day as a captain in the Purple Dragons. He was mustering out, and the memories of his former companions-many of whom had spent the evening toasting his health in the taproom of the Windlord’s Rest-covered him like a comfortable quilt.

He’d come a long way since leaving Skull Crag and wandering the West Reaches of Cormyr-certainly further than he had ever dreamed after signing with the Dragons in Greatgaunt. For the past twenty seasons, he had made Tilverton his home, working hard to keep peace and uphold law. He loved the city and felt that, in his own small way, he had helped make at least this part of Faerьn a better place. It was tough to put that behind him.

Aidan sighed and turned off the main road, wending his way through back alleys toward his home. In the distance a cur barked, and the captain’s hand strayed reflexively to the dagger at his belt. The weapon was new, given to him this very evening by Commander Haldan Rixnmersbane, and its weight pulled unfamiliarly at his side.

A slight scuffling sound brought him to a stop. He peered into the shadows, the dagger drawn almost without thought, and waited.

Nothing.

Cursing himself for a beardless cadet, Aidan relaxed. It took a few moments for him to realize that he still held his weapon. The dagger felt natural in his hand, almost like an extension of his fingers, and he marveled once again at its gem-inlayed hilt and razor-sharp edge. Truly it was a noble’s blade, a gift he had received this very evening from Commander Haldan. It was a token, Hal-dan had said to him later, of Lady Alaslyn Rowanmantie’s appreciation for his “unswerving dedication to Cormyrean justice.”

He chuckled out loud at this memory Haldan always did have a flair for the melodramatic. Even when they were cadets struggling through training, Aidan had thought his younger friend had missed his true calling.

Still, the dagger was a great gift, and he would carry it with pride as a reminder of his service to Cormyr.

Ahhh… you’re still drunk, he thought.

Aidan sheathed the blade, hawked, and spit before resuming his weaving journey. The taste of Thungor’s bitters lay heavily in his mouth, and he still had a fair distance to go.

The tight alleyway eventually turned, opening into a slightly wider street. Aidan walked in the center of the road, careful to avoid the refuse and offal piled on either side. Rats were common enough in Tilverton, but the captain had seen enough savaged corpses to know that other creatures sometimes lived on the castoffs of civilization.

The shadows in the lane suddenly shifted. Several cloaked shapes melted out of the darkness, quickly forming a wide circle around him. His attackers moved forward slowly, tightening the circle. Aidan once again drew his dagger, grateful for such a practical gift.

“What is it that you want,” he asked, pitching the question like a command.

The menacing figures stopped their advance, and for a brief moment he thought he had a chance to control this situation. A voice spoke from deeper within the alley’s shadows, and he knew that these were not common foot-pads, frightened by the first display of resistance.

“I believe you have something we require,” the voice said.