it was following him.
Of course it was. Old Engult cast proper spells, enchantments to last, not fade and… die, as he had done, old and crabbed and feeble. They'd sung the spell dirge for him 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 around him. This wasn't just the deepest wine- cellar of the Yawning Portal. It was also the home of many trophies of his sword-swinging 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, it would've been the only giant ore he'd ever meet, and the swords of fallen foes, seized from lifeless, bloody hands on battlefields, or carried off as prizes from spectre-haunted tombs and dragon hoards. A score or more blades hung 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 leapt to blazing, pitching decks on ships that had sunk long ago, and dragons erupting out of ruined castles now fallen and forgotten… the faces of snarling foes and welcoming ladies… and around 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 song, and took up another battle song of his youth as he strode on, the obedient basket in his wake. Just how many old helms and blades and suchlike had he stashed and well-nigh forgotten down here…?
And then in the chamber before him, his wards flared into brilliant life, and the burly old tavernmaster hadn't even time for an oath before the magical defenses failed in a flash, and something bright burst out of a blazing gap in the suddenly torn air, spat deadly spell energies in all directions, and swooped toward him.
Durnan ducked low, snatching at the unseen basket behind him for a bottle to hurl, and drew his belt knife. The glowing thing was small and 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 atremble 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 and disarranged gown. 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 have 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 down fast. Th-There's something following me. Please come.'
The scene darkened, and dwindled away to nothing, leaving Durnan still 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 was all chambers and smooth-cut halls. Her statement that 'the others have all run off' sounded like one of those daring forays by young noble boys with bright new swords or dashing cloaks, a few flagons of courage, and a pressing need to impress ladies. Such forays seldom ventured more than a few rooms through the uppermost level of the endless labyrinth of Undermountain before fear-or real danger-sent the hitherto-giggling participants hastening back to the city above.
So a little girl with whom he'd laughed and played courtier-dolls, and later talked of life and adventure and escaping the boredom of living as a dignified young lady of a great house-hmm, not all that different, it seemed, from the boredom of a retired adventurer- was lost and in distress somewhere in Undermountain. And he was the only competent source of 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 with a lever in it. He pressed that finger of stone down, and something unseen squealed slightly and clicked. He remembered to step back before the stones, swinging out, dealt his knee a numbing blow, and then glided forward again, feeling the old excitement leaping inside him. He peered into the dark niche within.
The quillons of a blade glimmered as if in greeting. Durnan took it out and slid it from its sheath-the long, heavy broadsword that had come from a tomb in a frozen, nameless vale somewhere north of Silverymoon, one desperate day when he'd been fleeing a band of ores. He'd hewn his way across half the northlands with it, and 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… 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? Durnan brought it down to set its tip 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.
For a breath or two, the tavernmaster fingered the sword's familiar pommel and grip, and then shrugged and did something to the plain ring on the middle finger of his left hand. A tiny pinwheel of silver motes arose to silently circle the ring, he bent over the swiftly fading, rushing radiances and whispered, 'Gone into Undermountain to rescue Nythyx Thunderstaff, old friend, I may need help.'
The last motes of magelight died. Durnan looked at the ring, sighed, and hefted the sword again. His second sigh was louder. He shook his head grimly at his failing strength, 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 around and slash empty air just a hair or two above the bottles in the basket floating behind him. It seemed to shrink 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 whiskey gurgled out to run 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 axe blade breaking through on the second blow to know that the door would not withstand a third strike.
The fat, red-faced man in the room broke off his muttered negotiations and stood hastily back to give his business associate the room she needed. Serpentine coils slithered around his feet as she drew herself up, swaying slightly, and frowned in concentration.
Transtra's flame-red hair and beautiful, unclad upper body remained unchanged, the string of rubies she wore still winked between her breasts. Below her slim waist, however, the scales melted away, and her tail shrank into long human legs. Mirt stepped firmly forward between them, the magic that protected him from her touch flaring into life, and swept her into an amorous embrace just as a splintering crash heralded the collapse of the door.
The shrieks and cart-rumbles of bustling Skullport flooded into the room. A minotaur's long-horned head ducked through the wreckage of the door, warily following the huge broadaxe. Its nostrils flared as it roared, 'Transtra?'
Mirt lifted his head from yielding, cherry-flavored lips and rumbled in testy tones, 'Ye've got the wrong room, hornhead… and I've paid for this one.'
The minotaur bellowed its anger and lurched forward-but came to an abrupt halt as a slim blade rose smoothly from between the floorboards in front of it, rising up with deadly stealth. 'The next one'll rise between your legs,' the fat moneylender growled, 'unless they walk on out of here right swiftly. Hear me?'
The minotaur glared at him, stared hard at the woman Mirt held, muttered, 'Sorry,' and withdrew.
