He left Hroman's side as the priest led his people into battle. The bard took his own path through the world as he'd always done, even though doing that had taken him so far from the lands he'd known and the people he'd loved.
Waterdeep was a favorite place, filled with precious memories and merchants who'd had deep pockets for a bard who could sing or tell a tale properly. He grew more afraid that even should the city withstand the current aggression, it would never be the same again.
The yarting hung down over his back, and he carried the staff in his right hand. Pacys made for the pilings lining the docking berths. Fleetswake had drawn ships from all over Faerun. With the light given off by the burning ships, he spotted the different flags easily. From the way it looked in the harbor at the moment, they'd all come to lose their ships and cargo, maybe even their very lives.
Another wave crashed over the pilings, throwing water across the old bard's robes. Half a body came with it, thudding heavily onto the wet cobblestone street. The upper torso of a man rolled drunkenly on the street with the water splashed out away from it. The dead man lay facedown, his left arm ending in splintered bone where his hand and forearm had been.
Despite the roaring wind that followed the lashing waves in, Pacys heard another sound. Music echoed in his head, harsh, unforgiving notes that spoke of pain and confusion, of an evil darkness that wanted only to consume. It was the most hurtful and fearful thing he'd ever heard.
Drenched as he was, standing at the edge of the harbor where so many still fought for their lives, the old bard opened himself up to the music, memorizing it note by note. Even though he kept his eyes open, his vision blanked out before him and the slap of running feet against wet cobblestones around him muted to silence. Acrid wood smoke from the burning ships still singed his nose and burned his lungs. He ignored the irritation, marking the notes, choosing the pitch of the voice that would accompany it.
The words, Oghma help him, the words came so easily to his lips.
"O City of Splendors who stands so steep,
Taken by a black-hearted horde from the deep.
Sahuagin fangs, sahuagin jaws,
Shark-kin,
Wedded to darkest evil with power so old.
Black storm-tossed waters, yellow fire that gnaws,
Thought lost to the world of men,
Tempered to anger that burns so cold.
He comes, riding on a black wave,
Looking for a world to enslave."
Moonlight splintered through Pacys's vision, drawing him away from the intoxicating music. He wanted to scream in frustration, knowing he'd been so close to the song, then he spotted the marine scrag crawling over the pilings in front of him.
The trollkin snarled its rage as its dark eyes locked with the bard's. It heaved itself from the splash of the waves overtaking Dock Street and landed on its wide, webbed feet. Seaweed colored hair hung limply to the broad, sloping shoulders. Green scales made up the thick skin that covered it, and the smell it exuded almost made Pacys gag. It hurled itself at the bard in a rush, without warning. A handful of claws cut the air toward the old man's face.
XV
"Open your mouth and drink," Madame litaar commanded. "Drink if you would live."
Jherek opened his mouth automatically, obeying the woman. He wanted to tell her there was no way he could drink; he couldn't breathe. He wanted to tell her that he didn't want to live. She was kicking him out of her home. Why would she care?
He tasted the minty flavor of the special healing potion that she brewed in her home roll across his tongue. She'd used it before, to cure a fever that had nearly claimed his life after he'd moved in with her six years ago, and again to heal his broken leg. Some of the pain filling his head vanished as the potion worked its magic, spreading out through him in warm vibrations.
"Swallow," Madame litaar instructed.
Jherek held the potion in his mouth. Even as it cleared his thoughts and took the pain from his head, he knew it wouldn't remove the ache in his heart. It was better to be dead, he decided. Still, he was surprised how much of him wanted to live. It took every bit of control he could muster not to swallow the healing potion even with the rising blood gorging his throat.
"Jherek," Madame litaar said, sounding more concerned, "I'm no priest to work a heal spell with nothing but my hands. You have to swallow if I'm to save you." She stroked his throat, the way she'd done when he was twelve, lying abed so sick and scared.
He wanted to tell her there was no fear of death for him now. Leaving was the best thing, and it would be so easy. His vision dimmed.
She shook him. "Jherek."
Then the voice thundered in his head. Live, that you may serve! The time is near!
Stunned by the proclamation, Jherek swallowed the potion. He tried to speak, to ask more, but couldn't. The elixir ran down into his stomach, gathering speed like the falling wave of an incoming tide until it crashed inside him, then spread throughout his body like water coming down off a snowcap, filling in every crack and crevice. He felt like his body was on fire, burning to a cinder. His muscles writhed against each other, and the torn ones in his chest knitted, leaving only a curious itch.
He drew in a hoarse breath, filling his mended lungs. As he breathed, shamed by what he'd thought and what he'd wanted to do in spite of Madame litaar's efforts, he opened his eyes.
She stood in front of him, her face as angry as he'd ever seen. "What did you think you were doing?" she asked.
Jherek couldn't have answered if he'd wanted to. He couldn't even meet her eye. He looked out across the yard beyond the porch.
"Answer me, Jherek," she ordered, "and look at me when you do."
Reluctantly, he swiveled his gaze toward her. "I was thinking," he said in a halting voice choked with his pain, "that perhaps it would be easier if I died. I didn't think that it mattered, as long as I left this house."
"Is that what you think? That I'm chasing you from this house?" Madame litaar lifted her gaze to meet Malorrie's. "Didn't you talk to him?"
"Lady," the phantom said, "when I found the boy, he already had the quarrel in him and he was bleeding to death. There was no time to explain things."
Her face softened further. "So the first thing you saw when you reached this house," she said, "your house, were your things packed on that table?"
Jherek didn't answer. He didn't know what to say. The shock of the voice speaking to him twice over such a short time, losing his employment on Butterfly, finding his things packed, and being so close to death had left him empty-headed.
"Come inside," she said more gently. She took him by the arm, guiding him with the surprising strength she'd always had. "I've got a kettle of stew on. We need to talk, and you need to catch Breezerunner before she sets sail. There's not much time and you must hurry."
XVI
Pacys ducked beneath the marine scrag's open-taloned blow, scuttling out of the way with a quickness learned over decades fighting for his life. His muscles and bones were no longer those of a young man, but he knew how to use what he had, and it didn't take much to kill, not if a man knew where to strike.
His feet moved across the soaked cobblestones as surely as an acrobat's or a dancer's. He stood again as the scrag's talons whisked by his head. Folding his staff under his arm and taking a fresh grip on it, he lifted the iron-shod pole and swept the opposite end into the scrag's head with all his strength.
The iron cap at the end of the staff rang against the scrag's head. Mottled green skin split and ichor oozed out, streaking the creature's face.