fighter's blade brought pale troll blood spilling onto the ground. Taen was about to launch another spell at Roberc's opponents when a slight scuffling sound caused him to turn. Another troll, one that Marissa obviously hadn't seen, charged up the hill behind the companions.
The half-elf didn't have time to shout a warning. He simply threw himself in the path of the advancing beast, drawing his red-hilted sword as he did so. Closer now to a troll, Taen could see that its skin was a sickly, transparent white; beneath its gelid surface, pale blood coursed through a webbing of thick blue veins. The troll bellowed once as it swung the great heft of its warhammer. The half-elf danced quickly back from the blow, barely avoiding the crushing attack as the iron head of the hammer struck the ground with so much force that it embedded itself into the half-frozen soil. Seeing his chance, Taen darted forward, aiming a downward swing of his sword to strike the troll's outstretched arm. Silver runes flared along the elven blade as it cut through translucent skin and thick muscle.
The strains of the Song soared within his heart, joined now by the voice of his sword-his father's sword, the ancient weapon passed down from generation to generation, from the golden age of Cormanthyr, from the hands of heroes, down through the ages until finally it reached him. Exile. Unworthy.
The Song leached strength from his muscle, and he nearly dropped the weapon from nerveless fingers. A shout from Marissa roused him, however. The troll had finally managed to free his weapon and advanced once again. Taen retreated ever so slightly, wanting to keep the creature away from Borovazk, whose fiery arrows were making short work of the still-entangled trolls but also needing to give himself room to avoid the deadly weight of the warhammer.
Wordlessly, Marissa joined the half-elf in his battle, standing slightly to his side. The druid raised the leather-covered stump of her left arm. Purple light glowed from the spidery runes burned into the leather as a blade made entirely of flames sprang from the end of her arm. She moved forward, swinging the fiery weapon in a wide arc. Taen watched the troll give way before the druid's attack. Once again he darted forward, striking at the troll's unprotected flank. His sword sliced deeply into the creature's side and it stumbled.
Immediately, Marissa sprang into action. Her flaming blade cut once then twice, across its shoulder. The troll screamed and lashed wildly out at its attacker. The curve of its clawed hand raked against the flesh of Marissa's neck. This time, the druid stumbled back, nearly falling as she grabbed at the wound.
Taen immediately dropped his sword and hissed the words to another spell. The troll's flesh, torn by the edge of his blade, had begun to seal as the creature's ability to regenerate kicked in. He needed something fast and deadly. No sooner had he finished the words to the spell than four silver-white beams of mystic energy streaked from his hands to strike the creature full in the chest.
It screamed again at the four smoking wounds and opened its mouth, no doubt to spew forth its freezing spittle, but at himself or the wounded druid, Taen did not know. He was prepared to launch himself in the path of the attack to protect Marissa when an arrow hissed by the half-elf's head and struck the troll full in the mouth. Instead of the freezing viscous liquid he'd expected, Taen watched in wonderment as flames and thick steam erupted from the creature's mouth. With a long, gurgling sigh, the troll fell to the ground.
'Yes, little friends,' Borovazk said in his cheer-filled voice, 'we have much fun in Rashemen, no?'
Taen ignored the ranger for a moment and drew near Marissa. The druid, however, waved him off.
'I'm fine,' she said, removing her fingers from her neck to reveal an already healing wound. Though long, the troll's claws had not cut too deeply into her flesh. The half-elf could see that she had healed most of the damage with her own power.
Confident that Marissa would be all right, Taen looked out over the battlefield. Roberc, his armor and shield bent and battered, had dismounted and now stood over the dead trolls. He poured black oil from a flask on the corpses and set them afire with the burning length of a wood torch.
Taen walked toward the halfling fighter with Marissa at his side while Borovazk set to burning the single corpse up on the hillock. The ground where the halfling stood was covered in bloodstained slush and churned earth. As they drew closer, Taen could see that both Roberc and Cavan were bleeding from multiple wounds. Marissa spoke gently to the dog, and he limped toward her, his fur caked in blood, dirt, and gore. The druid knelt before the hurt animal and reached out a slender hand, placing it along the bleeding edge of Cavan's wounds. Singing softly into the dog's ear, the druid sent healing power into the dog until Taen could clearly see Cavan's wounds close. Once they had finished burning the corpses, Taen and his companions gathered around the horses.
'Let us mount, little friends,' Borovazk said. 'We are not far from the vale, and I do not want to delay us any longer.'
Before he mounted, Taen bent to retrieve the sword he had cast aside. Gingerly, he wrapped his fingers around the worn red hilt, as if expecting-he knew not what. As he cleaned the blade and placed it into its scabbard, only silence ruled his heart.
Chapter 6
The Year of Wild Magic
(1372 DR)
Fog muffled the sound of their horses' hooves. Taen walked in silence like the others, leading his horse carefully down the steep path, following the surefooted tread of their guide. He peered through the thickening gray haze and caught only the barest hint of their surroundings in the swirling, nebulous curtain: here, the suggestion of a tree; there, a dim outline of rock or the blurred expanse of a berry bramble. Though they hadn't been walking the curving path to Immil Vale for long, the half-elf felt as if he and his companions had left Faerun and now strode through another plane of existence. Everything took on a muzzy cast, vaporous and indistinct, as they walked through this seemingly endless expanse of gloom and fog-until Taen himself felt that he, too, must be half-made from mist, insubstantial as a wraith in this swirling dreamscape.
If he dreamed, at least it was a dream of spring.
Borovazk had been right. Whether through some divine blessing or other more natural means, the area around Immil Vale radiated warmth and life. Soon after leaving behind the remains of their battle with the ice trolls, Taen and his companions had witnessed the snow and slush disappearing, leaving only the rapidly thawing wine- dark soil that covered this part of Rashemen. Shoots and saplings had sprung up across the rolling landscape, tender, green, and tentative. The half-elf had watched them growing thicker and stronger as they neared the vale. By the time his group had reached the trailhead, they were surrounded by a riot of bud and bramble, root and tree. A gentle, misting rain had begun to fall as they set off, wordlessly, into a dream of spring.
The heady, earth-rich scent of loam filled the air, tickling his nose as each step churned the earth beneath his feet. In the silence of the journey, Taen could hear the chittering of marmots, chipmunks, titmice, and squirrels. Birdsong filled the air, distant and muted but familiar-the warble of the grosbeak and hooded crow, the twitter of the nuthatch, and the echoing attack of the woodpecker. Winter was a distant memory, an old song whose words danced across the mind, half forgotten, even as the tune remained. Taen walked on in silence, enjoying the warmth. He'd exchanged his thick leathers and wool robe for lighter clothes and a simple, homespun cloak of rough cloth. The change in weather also made the battle with the trolls seem even more distant, and for that he was very grateful. His experience with the Song unnerved him, not only because of its strength, but also because he had heard another voice in it-the sword's. Never before had he felt the power of his father's blade come alive in such a way. He had heard its voice, and it shook him to the core.
Taen didn't know what it might mean, but it couldn't be good. He thought he'd left all of that behind him in sorrow and in death. He was a Tel'Quessir. A failure. There was no room in his life for the Song-or the hopes of his heart. They were distant memories, reminders of what he could never be.
'How much longer until we've reached the damned tree?' Roberc asked as he caught up with Taen. The halfling's voice, normally gravely, seemed even rougher from lack of use.
The half-elf pushed down his irritation at the fighter's interruption. It was rare for his grizzled companion to begin a conversation. There was no sense in wasting this opportunity, and it offered him a chance to escape from his dark thoughts.
'One day to reach the bottom of the vale,' Taen replied, recalling Borovazk's estimation as they had set out upon the trail, 'and then half a day's walk to the Red Tree.'
