Three large, wet, green-scaled creatures were padding softly through the steam of the lofty, many-pillared bathing hall, finned tails lashing. Barbed-headed spears were clutched in their webbed claws, and their staring black eyes were intent on the panicked crowd visible through the multi-paned windows along the street-front.
Vaguely human, they resembled enormous upright frogs with tails that brought to mind merfolk or gigantic tadpoles. Their fish-like heads bristled with spikes, and were split by gaping jaws filled with lethal-looking fangs.
Sahuagin.
Mrelder swallowed hard, slipped inside, and followed them, flitting from pillar to pillar as silent as a shadow.
Dripping, the fish-men stalked to the ornate front doors of the bathhouse. They glanced at each other-and then kicked the doors open, leveled their spears, and charged into the street. A chorus of screams and desperate shouts rose above the battle-din.
Mrelder hurled himself into a run. Bursting from the building, he slammed his board into the head of the central, largest sahuagin, driving the nails deep into the glistening scales at the base of the creature's skull — and breaking the board into splinters.
The sahuagin was thrusting its spear viciously over the shoulder of its comrade to the left at a tall armored warrior beyond. As Mrelder's strike slammed home, the creature shuddered. Before it could turn, he leaped onto its back and rode it down to the cobbles.
The sahuagin writhed and bucked, trying to free itself of both imbedded weapon and stubborn attacker. The broken board swung wildly, slamming into Mrelder's clenched jaw.
He struggled atop the fish-monster, avoiding its spines as best he could. Around him was confusion, swords swinging on all sides, scaly limbs waving, bubbling screams rising wetly from beneath him. Angry shouts were laced with squalls of rage and pain that didn't sound human.
Finally Mrelder managed to tear the broken board-end free. Tossing it aside, he seized the finned head by two of its spines, and threw all his strength into a quick, brutal twist.
Something broke sickeningly under those wet scales. The sahuagin shuddered again and went limp.
Seeking the ruins of his board again, Mrelder sprang off it, afraid the other fish-things would And found himself staring up into the open visor of a fine, burnished war-helm, into a face lined by well-spent years-and a calm swordpoint of a gaze, leveled at him by eyes that were kind and wise.
This, marveled the awed sorcerer, is what a king looks like.
The regal man looked right through Mrelder, as if able to see everything the young sorcerer was and his every last guilty secret. Sudden dread rose in Mrelder and was as swiftly gone; the man was giving him an approving smile.
"Ably done," he said, in the rich voice of one cultured yet commanding. "Without your aid, that spear would have found me."
Mrelder tried to return the smile, but his mind was awhirl. He'd never seen such splendid, silver-blue battle armor. Knights in warsteel just as fine were gathering beyond the tall warrior's broad shoulders, but Mrelder's attention was on the bright silver crescent of metal covering the tall warrior's throat, a device that bore an elaborately wrought stylized torch-the arms of the Lords of Waterdeep.
Mrelder had seen its unmistakable likeness that very morning, on a page of an obscure book of Waterdhavian lore. He was looking at the Guardian's Gorget, a magical device of great power, fashioned for and worn by only one man.
"My Lord Piergeiron," Mrelder breathed, awed to find himself in the presence of the Open Lord of Waterdeep.
Piergeiron clapped him on the shoulder in a soldier's thanks to a battle-comrade. Drawing a long dagger, he pressed it into Mrelder's hand.
"Well met, lad. That board of yours is not good for much more fighting; take this." The lord grinned. "If you're so minded, there's work yet for us all."
If? At that moment, Mrelder would cheerfully have followed Waterdeep's Lord into a volcano!
A deep rumbling shook the cobbles under their boots then, and everyone turned to peer at Mount Waterdeep. Another thunderous impact followed, and then another.
The young sorcerer followed their gazes and found himself whispering "Mystra's sacred shadow!" in fresh wonderment.
A man-shaped colossus of weathered stone, ninety feet tall or more, was striding down the mountain, finding-and sometimes making-a sure path to the harbor. Mrelder had never expected to set eyes on one of the fabled Walking Statues, much less watch it walking!
"That should hold our foes," Piergeiron said in satisfaction, watching the great construct lumber along.
He turned his head. "Are you with me, lad?"
"I'd not want to be anywhere else, just now," Mrelder said firmly, and they traded heartfelt smiles.
Time passed in a bright haze of blood and fire. Never far from Lord Piergeiron's side, Mrelder fought errant flames, vicious fishmen, and men who swarmed the shadows of Dock Ward like rats to loot and steal and stab.
It seemed as if the lord's band was a running, tireless whirlwind. When at last Piergeiron barked a halt in the courtyard of some grand mansion, Mrelder's shoulders sang with pain, and his eyes swam with smoke and stinging sweat.
Around him, the grandly armored knights of Piergeiron's guard sprawled wearily on smooth stone benches or leaned against statues, tending small wounds and seeing to their weapons.
One handed Mrelder a water flask. "Whence do you hail, monk?"
The sorcerer drank deep before murmuring, "I'm no monk. Trained to fight as one, yes, but I've not taken orders in the service of any god or temple."
The knight smiled. "Smart lad. Gods are like women: When there are so many fine choices, why should a man limit himself to but one?"
This philosophy was greeted with a few tired chuckles from around the courtyard.
Piergeiron turned to give Mrelder that commanding gaze. "Listen but lightly to Karmear. 'Tis a fine path you've chosen. My father was a paladin, and I've always held the deepest respect for all who choose the way of the altar."
"My father's a priest," Mrelder blurted. Surprised by his own outburst, he stammered hastily, "Or was. I'm not sure…"
The Open Lord's brow furrowed. "You know not if your father lives?"
"No, Lord. We parted badly, some time ago." Mrelder hesitated, not sure what to say. "I was… I could not be the son he wished me to be."
"When you leave Waterdeep, you must find him," Piergeiron said firmly. "From what I've seen this day, I'm certain any father would rejoice in such a son."
The words, spoken with such assurance, kindled hope in Mrelder. Could it be that he, who'd proved capable in a fray and was at least comfortable as both sorcerer and monk, might be weighed in Golskyn's grim measure and finally found worthy?
Suddenly, Mrelder could imagine nothing more important than learning the answer to that. He looked at the Lord of Waterdeep. "As you say, I will do. This I swear.''
Piergeiron nodded. Eyes never leaving Mrelder's, he reached into a belt-pouch and drew out something small, black, and gleaming. "This is a Black Helm. I'd like to hear how matters fall between you and your father. If you return to the city, present this at the palace, and the guards there will know you as a friend to Waterdeep and to me."
Mrelder stared down at the charm. It was a tiny replica of Piergeiron's own war-helm, rendered in fine obsidian and pierced to be hung on a neck-thong.
"My lord!" was all he could find to say.
The tall paladin waved away his stammerings and turned to address his knights. "The city's quiet. There'll be much to do come morning, but our night's work is done."