Of course it was. Old Engult cast proper spells, enchantments to last, not fade and die, as he’d done, old, crabbed, and feeble. They’d sung his spell-dirge not a tenday ago.
Durnan shook his head, ducked through a low arch into the next cellar, and defiantly resumed the old battle song. “And a dozen dragons I slew there!”
That bellowed chorus echoed back at him from half a dozen dim corners, and he grinned and put some hearty volume into the next line: “Six old ores and a medusa fair!”
The words brought memories to mind as the echoes rolled. This wasn’t just the deepest wine cellar of the Yawning Portal; it was the home of many trophies of his swordswinging days. That lich periapt glimmering over there, where he’d hung it up as a lamp. This pair of ore tusks, from the only giant ore he’d ever met—well, if he’d lost that fight, ‘twould’ve been the only giant ore he’d ever meet, wouldn’t it?
And the swords of fallen foes, seized from lifeless, bloody hands on battlefields or carried off from spectre-haunted tombs and dragon-hoards. A score or more blades hanging here, there, and everywhere about him, the pale gleams of their slowly failing enchantments marking the walls of these dusty chambers and anchoring his expensive web of spell-wards.
Durnan looked around at them all, shook his head, and wondered how life had become so dull and routine. His thoughts leaped to blazing, pitching decks on ships that had sunk long ago, dragons erupting out of ruined castles now fallen and forgotten… the faces of snarling foes and welcoming ladies… and through it all, the bright flash and snarl of swords, skirling in a deadly dance he’d always won. Absently Durnan hummed the rest of the ballad and began another battle song of his youth as he strode on. He’d forgotten just
how many old helms and blades and suchlike he’d stashed and well-nigh forgotten down here.
Then, in front of him, his wards flared into brilliant life. The burly old tavernmaster hadn’t even time to curse before those magical defenses failed in a flash and something bright burst out of a blazing gap in the suddenly-torn air, spitting deadly spell-energies in all directions and swooping at him.
Durnan ducked low, whipping out his belt-knife and snatching at the unseen basket behind him for a bottle to hurl. The glowing thing was small, round, and—splitting open to reveal a scene within itself. As it widened into a magical frame and glided to a smooth stop in the air in front of Durnan, the wards repaired themselves with a last fitful snarl of magical fire and peace returned to the cellar.
“Durnan? Lord Durnan?” The face of the lass in the sending was familiar, though he’d never heard that small, soft voice so a-tremble with fear before. Nythyx Thunderstaff was standing in a dark cavern somewhere, a smudge of dirt on her face and one bare shoulder gleaming above a torn gown—and her dark eyes were wide with terror.
“If this reaches you, please come to me. I’m in”—the noble maiden swallowed, bit her lip, and went on—“Undermountain. The others’ve all run off, and … things are following me. I think I’m somewhere near your cellars, but I’m not sure … and my glowfire is dying fast. Th-there’s something following me. Please come.”
The scene darkened and dwindled away to nothing, leaving Durnan staring at where those pleading eyes had been. The sending was genuine—it must be. Only certain nobles dared openly address him as “lord,” and he’d seen Nythyx at a moonlit revel at the Palace not four days ago. It was truly the lass, all right, and she was scared. The cavern behind her might be anywhere in Undermountain except nearby; around the Portal, the dungeon he knew was all chambers and smooth-cut halls … and “the others have all run off” sounded like one of those daring forays by young noble boys with a pressing need to impress ladies, a bright new sword or dashing cloak, and a few flagons of courage. Such forays seldom ventured more than a few rooms deep into the uppermost level of Undermountain’s endless labyrinth before fear—or real danger—sent the hitherto-giggling participants hastening back to the city above.
So a little girl he’d laughed and played courtier-dolls with, and later talked of life, adventure, and escaping the boredom of being a dignified young lady of a great house—not all that different, at that, from the boredom of a retired adventurer— was lost and in distress somewhere in Undermountain. And he was the only aid she knew to turn to. Durnan sighed. His duty was clear.
Not that this was likely to rank with the daring deeds of his youth, but… the tavernmaster frowned and strode to a certain pillar. Now, was it the fourth stone down, or—?
The fourth stone held firm under his fingers, but the fifth stone obligingly ground inward, revealing a slot containing a lever. He pressed that finger of stone down. Something unseen squealed slightly, then clicked. Durnan remembered to step back before the stones, swinging out, dealt his knee a numbing blow. Then he glided forward again, feeling the old excitement leaping inside him, to peer into the dark revealed niche.
The quillons of a blade glimmered as if in greeting. Durnan took it out and slid it from its sheath—the long, heavy broadsword from a tomb in a frozen, nameless vale somewhere north of Silverymoon one desperate day when he’d been fleeing an ore band. He’d hewn his way across half the northlands with it, then from deck to pirate deck up and down the Sword Coast. There’d been a time when he could make a man’s head leap from its shoulders with a solid swing. The muscles under his arm rippled just as they always had when he swung the blade, narrowly missing the basket hovering behind him.
It cut the air with that sinuous might he loved so well, but seemed a lot heavier than it once had—gods, had he run around waving this all day and all night?—and Durnan brought its tip down to the floor, and leaned on it as he thought of where Nythyx might be… lost somewhere in the dark and dangerous ways beyond the walls of his cellars.
The tavernmaster fingered the familiar pommel and grip for a breath or two, then shrugged and did something to the plain ring on the middle finger of his left hand. A tiny pinwheel of silver star-motes arose to silently circle it, and he leaned over the rushing, swiftly-fading radiances and whispered, “Gone into Undermountain to rescue Nythyx Thunderstaff, old friend; I may need help.”
The last motes died. Durnan looked at the ring, sighed, and hefted the sword again. His second sigh was louder, and he shook his head grimly at his failing strength as he hung the sword back in the pillar, and went down the room to where a shorter, lighter blade hung on the wall. This one had felt good in his hand, too…
It slid out of its sheath in swift, eager silence. He tossed it in the air, caught it, and instantly lunged at an imaginary opponent, springing up without pause to whirl and slash empty air just a hair or two above the bottles in the floating basket. It shrank away from his leaping steel, but Durnan didn’t notice as he bounded through an archway that his wards would let only him pass through, and down the steep dark steps beyond. For the first time in long, dusty years he was off to war!
The floating basket of bottles, forgotten behind him, tried to dart through the wards in his wake. There was a flash of aroused magic and a reeling rebound.
The basket seemed to sigh for just an instant before it crashed to the floor, shattering at least one bottle of belaerd. Dark whisky gurgled out across the floor… but no one was there to hear it.
* * * * *
“Transtra? I know you’re in there! Come out and fight, all the gods damn you, or I’ll—”
The speaker did not wait to finish his threat, but dealt the door a heavy blow. It shuddered sufficiently that neither occupant of the chamber beyond the door needed to see the bright edge of the axeblade breaking through on the second blow to know that the door would not withstand a third strike.