Элейн Каннингем: Elfsong

To Volo, who guided me through Waterdeep.

When next we meet, the ale’s on me!

In the heart of the Northlands, a few days’ travel from the great city of Waterdeep, lay a vast, primeval wood known as the High Forest. The adventurous few who braved the forest brought back tales of strange sights and magical beasts, and many were the legends and songs that told of the land’s beauty and its dangers. One tale, however, did not find its way into fireside boasting or bardic lore.

The villain of the untold tale was a green dragon named Grimnoshtadrano—Grimnosh, to his friends and victims—and this lack of notoriety hampered the dragon in his pursuit of his favorite pastime. Grimnosh collected riddles as avidly as he hoarded treasure. He waylaid and challenged all those who passed near his woodland lair, offering them their lives in exchange for a new riddle. Travelers were scarce, and none had offered a riddle that Grimnosh could not answer. The dragon had let two or three go free regardless, in hope that their stories might lure more worthy challengers to the forest: riddlemasters and bards in search of fame and adventure. Of course, in accordance with his nature, the dragon intended to eat these learned men and women as soon as he separated them from their riddles.

Unfortunately for the dragon, the travelers he’d set free had scuttled away into grateful anonymity, and more than a century had passed since the dragon’s last riddle challenge. He was therefore surprised when a lone traveler came to the forest with a challenge of her own, a magical summons powerful enough to reach into his labyrinth of caves and shatter his winter sleep.

Grimnosh emerged into a world of stark contrast and icy brilliance. It was the morning of the winter solstice, and the forest was shrouded with a deep, unblemished blanket of snow. Except for the small clearing directly in front of the cave’s mouth and the narrow road that lay beyond, the trees grew so close that even in winter they all but blotted out the sky. Their entwined dark branches were glossy with ice, and draped with so many icicles that the forest resembled a cave carved from diamond and obsidian.

The dragon’s hooded eyes narrowed into golden slits as he studied the woman who’d ventured into this forbidding land. Swathed in a gray cloak and bent with age, she was seated upon a small, fine-boned white mare. Little of her was visible—a deep cowl covered her head and obscured her face—but the dragon’s keen nose caught the tantalizing scent of elven blood. His first impulse was to devour the foolish elfwoman who had summoned him out into the snow and the cold, but he remembered the force of the spell that had wakened him. Grimnosh had been without diversion for too long, and the elven sorceress seemed promising.

So the dragon listened to her, all the while padding in slow circles around her, weaving his sinuous green tail in patterns as deft and ominous as a wizard’s arcane gestures—taking her measure. When she finished her outrageous request, Grimnosh sat back on his haunches and let out a burst of derisive laughter. The thunderous roar sent a tremor through a stand of ancient oak trees. Like harps reverberating to a plucked string, the living wood echoed the deep, thrumming sound of the forest dragon’s voice. Winter-bare branches shook, sending icicles crashing down around the elfwoman like so many descending fangs.

“The great Grimnoshtadrano does not bargain with elves,” the wyrm said, malevolent humor in his golden eyes. “I eat them.”

“Do you think that the best I can offer you is a light lunch?” she demanded in a voice worn thin by the passing of years. “In my time I have been a bard and a riddle-master, and I am a sorceress still.” A tiny, ironic smile deepened the wrinkles that creased her face, and she added in a wry tone, “And, lest you spoil your digestion, you should know that I am a half- elf.”

“Is that so?” rumbled the dragon, taking a step closer. He was both annoyed and intrigued by this woman who showed no fear. “Which half of you should I eat?” The tip of his tail whipped forward, and with a flick he tossed back her cowl so that he might take a better look.

As a snack, the woman was not at all appealing. Elves at best were tasty but insubstantial, and centuries of life had nearly picked this one’s bones clean. She was old, even by the dragon’s reckoning, and her angular face had the hue and texture of aged parchment. Wispy strands of smoke-colored hair clung to her skull, and her eyes were so faded as to be almost colorless. Yet power surrounded her like morning mist on a woodland pond.

The dragon stopped toying with the sorceress and got down to business. “You want me to give you the Morninglark. What do you offer in exchange?” Grimnosh asked bluntly.

“A riddle that no one can answer.”

“Considering the number and caliber of humans who’ve passed this way of late, that shouldn’t be too difficult,” the dragon observed, casually inspecting the talons of a green forepaw.

“That will change. An ancient ballad about the great Grimnoshtadrano will inspire ambitious bards to seek you out.”

“Oh? It hasn’t yet.”

“It hasn’t been written yet,” she said with a touch of asperity. “For that, I need the Morninglark.”

For a long, ominous moment, the dragon glared down at the presumptuous half-elf. “Strange though this may seem, I’m in no mood for riddles. Explain yourself, and speak plainly.”

“To you, the Morninglark is just another elven harp, a magic trinket lying atop your hoard.” The sorceress held up her hands, which were long and elegant “With these I can wield a rare type of elven magic known as spellsong. When my power is combined with that of the harp, I can cast a spell that will weave this new ballad into the memory of every bard within the city walls. Every enspelled bard will believe he has always known about the mighty Grimnoshtadrano. Every enspelled bard will aspire to meet your riddle challenge. These bards will spread the ballad throughout the land. Many will know your name, and the best and bravest of these will come.”

“Hmmm.” The dragon nodded thoughtfully. “And what will this ballad say?”

“It will send out a challenge to those who are both Harpers and bards. These must pass three tests: answer a riddle, read a scroll, and sing a song.”

“And what will this ballad offer these bards, should they succeed? The usual fame and fortune, I suppose?”

“That hardly matters.”

Grimnosh snorted, sending a puff of foul-smelling steam toward the half-elven woman. “You’re quick to give away treasure that isn’t yours!”

“Your hoard is secure,” she said firmly. “The riddle will be one of your choosing, and how many have answered such a riddle correctly?”

“In all modesty, none.”

“Whoever passes this first test—which is most unlikely—will proceed to the second. The scroll I shall give you will be a many-layered riddle. I can say with reasonable assurance that no Harper could answer every layer of the riddle. I can say with absolute certainty that none wields the magic of spellsong. This magic is needed to truly read the scroll and to sing the song.”

Grimnosh thought this over, and his sinuous tail wandered toward the half-elf’s horse. The dragon absently twirled the horse’s braided tail as a child might worry a lock of hair. The mare whuffled nervously but held her ground. At length the dragon said, “If all you say is true, how did you come by this knowledge?”