"Halt!" a guard warned, stepping out from the crowd in front of the guild hall. He raised a crossbow to his shoulder and peered over it. "Who goes there?"
Pacys raised his hands high over his head, holding onto the staff He scanned the young soldier's face with a poet's eye, noting the fear and the disbelief, the pain and the courage that fired the soldier's eyes. They were the untroubled blue of a calm sea, the color of true sapphire, and Pacys knew they would never again view the world the same way. Soot stained the young man's tanned face, and dark blood from a cut along his temple wept down his cheek.
"I am Pacys, a bard."
A grizzled sergeant stepped from the pack of Waterdhavian defenders, pressing his hand gently against the young man's crossbow. "Take that thing off him, Carthir. That man's no enemy. Did you see what he did to that damned aboleth?"
"No sir," the young man replied. "Things haven't looked the way they were supposed to at all tonight." He lagged a little in removing the crossbow's threat.
"Stay back," the sergeant told Pacys. He was a short, blocky man with gray in his hair and beard. From the markings on his uniform and the scars that showed on his hands, arms, and face, the bard knew the sergeant was a career soldier. He'd already seen his share of hard times, but the night's battle was leaving its mark on him as well. His left hand was swathed in blood-stained bandages. "Only the Watch and Guard are allowed past this point."
"I understand," Pacys said. "How bad are things around the rest of the city?"
"Damned sea devils have attacked all along the coastline of the city," a junior civilar said, brushing burned hair from his shoulders. His right eye had swelled shut, or maybe it was gone entirely and he was standing there by a miracle of will. "Not as much as they have the harbor- everything here is more at sea level-but they've been there all the same."
"Will the city stand?" Pacys asked.
A crowd that had gathered along the sidewalks and streets just past the line the watch and guard had made pulled closer, and several men took up the same question the bard had asked. In seconds, the question became a cry that swelled until it echoed over the crash of the incoming waves and the storm.
The sergeant growled out an affirmative. Pacys saw rather than heard the man reply. He'd learned to read lips a long time ago. None of the crowd heard the answer, and the bard didn't know if the man felt comfortable enough to make the announcement in a louder voice.
The crowd came forward, no longer held back by the authority the uniforms brought with them. "Tell us!" a spokesman cried out. "Will Waterdeep stand?"
"Get back! Get back!" a senior civilar ordered, pushing at his own men to clear a circle ten feet across. Almost immediately, an azure star dawned in the circle five feet above the cobblestones in front of the guild hall.
Pacys turned and stared at the star, captivated by the color and the way it appeared out of nowhere. The azure star exploded suddenly, blossoming out to fill the ragged ten foot circle. The powerful flash temporarily blinded all who were watching, and the booming crackle of thunder that followed it quieted the fearful cries and questions of the townspeople.
When the azure starlight died back, a silhouette of a man on horseback took shape in the circle. As Pacys's vision returned, he recognized the man on the huge white horse.
Even ahorse, the man looked tall and heavily muscled in his upper body and legs. Full plate armor covered him, primarily a silver that gleamed in the moonlight and reflected the burning fires and torches around him, but the black and gold colors of the watch and guard striped it as well. A white tabard with his family crest covered his chest and he carried his helm under one arm. His face was strong and square and solemn. Gray touched his temples but his youth and vigor were evident. A shield covered his left arm as he reined in the stamping war-horse.
After a moment, he raked his fierce gaze over the enlisted men and civilians. "I am Piergeiron!" he roared in a loud voice that echoed from the buildings and over the water. "Called Paladinson and Known Lord of Water-deep." He drew his great sword Halcyon and held it aloft so it gleamed. "As long as I can fight, this city will remain standing and be free!" He lifted the sword, and as if in answer, a salvo of flaming rock seared across the sky from Castle Waterdeep's catapults. They splashed down in the harbor around the bloodworms and dragon turtles, the biggest targets immediately available.
A frenzy ripped through the crowd of soldiers and townspeople alike. Pacys wasn't immune to it himself, feeling lifted immediately by the presence of the Waterdhavian lord.
The war-horse Dreadnought stamped restlessly, causing its full plate barding to ring. Piergeiron kept the animal under control. "I came here tonight to take the battle to those who dare raise arms against this, our city, our home! Now who stands with me?"
A triumphant cheer sounded around the guild hall and must have carried down Dock Street. In seconds, men down at Ship Street picked up the rallying cheer as well. Piergeiron Paladinson's name quickly became a battle cry.
The big man clamped his helm on his head and put spurs to his horse as his men cleared the way to Dock Street. Dreadnought reared as lightning split the sky asunder, casting livid purple light over the silver armor of man and horse. Then he was off, and the crowd of soldiers and townspeople followed in his wake, an army raised where only fearful men had stood before.
Gasping and in pain, Pacys followed. His nimble mind pushed and pulled at words, jerking them into the order and cadence he wanted, smithing them into his song, polishing the ones that felt right. He knew Piergeiron had chosen his means of appearance, and the salvo of catapult loads that had followed. If they lived, if Waterdeep survived, Oghma be merciful and just, but what a song the bard would have to leave as his legacy.
XVII
"Live, that you may serve," Jherek said in frustration. "Madame litaar, I don't understand."
He sat at her table, finishing up the meal she'd prepared. As she'd promised, the venison stew was thick and hearty, filled with vegetables cut up fresh from the garden she and the household cook maintained.
Located in the front of the house, the dining room looked seaward. The ships in the harbor were visible from the height up Widow's Hill. Jherek knew which one was Butterfly even from this distance, and he caught himself looking wistfully at the ship more than he was comfortable with.
As with the rest of the house, the dining room kept mementos of its mistress's long and involved life. Jherek only knew a few of the stories behind the many objects that lined the shelves or occupied wall space. Madame litaar rarely talked about them, and he wasn't ill-mannered enough to ask. The table was round, hand-carved by her late husband from a great tree he'd felled. That same tree had also given him the lumber he'd needed to build the eight chairs for the table, her bed, and her bedroom suite. All of those, Jherek knew, had been wedding gifts he'd made for her before they married.
Madame litaar looked at him from where she sat at the head of the table. "Jherek, there's a reason for you being here."
"In your house?" the young sailor asked bitterly, thinking of his traveling kit packed outside. He felt good again, thanks to the healing potion and the hot meal. "That seems to have come to an end tonight."
She shook her head. "No. We've been through a lot together these past years. This will not break us. As long as I have a home, you'll have a home. That I swear to you on my husband's grave."