Элейн Каннингем - Elfsong

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.”

Lucia Thione gazed with great satisfaction at the ballroom of her Sea Ward villa. All was in readiness for the party, a lavish affair that would open the Midsummer season. Never had planning a party been so difficult, and she felt a sense of accomplishment as she viewed what weeks of toil had yielded.

Vases of fresh roses filled every alcove and graced the small tables. That in itself was a triumph, for a strange blight had fallen upon the crops and gardens of Waterdeep this year. Perhaps the working people experienced this as a hardship, but to Lucia it was merely an inconvenience that could be circumvented, provided one possessed the money and creativity. As a buyer for merchant caravans, Lucia knew where almost anything could be found. Roses had been rushed from Rassalantar, and vats of raspberries from the Korinn Archipelago north of the Moonshaes. Venison, quail, and partridges had been brought from the Misty Forest, a day’s ride to the south. Lucia’s steward had laid in a supply of smoked salmon from Gundarlun and barrels of Neverwinter’s famed icewine. A small army of servants would be on hand to tend to the guests’ needs, and in an hour the musicians would arrive for a final rehearsal under the critical eye of Faunadine, Master of Festivities. Faunadine was a plump, graying halfling whose skills were much in demand. Her attention to detail made the best and most elaborate parties seem effortless, and Lucia considered hiring the halfling away from Lady Raventree a personal and political triumph.