Elfsong - Elaine Cunningham [27]
The silence that shrouded the battlefield felt as thick and heavy as a dense fog. After a long, tense moment, the survivors plucked the protective sap from their ears and faced their losses. Three men had been killed and five more stood frozen by the harpies' charm song or poison. They had killed eleven of the monsters, but Elaith did not consider the battle a victory. He was left with four able men, not counting himself or the riddlemaster. The number was not equal to the challenges of the road ahead.
The elf kicked over one of the dead monsters and bent to retrieve his dagger, holding his breath against the noxious odor. The high-pitched giggle rang out again, this time at his elbow, and Elaith whirled to face the hermit, who had finally dispatched the harpy Elaith had wounded earlier.
Beneath the tangled thatch of hair was a filthy, beardless face and wild eyes of a distinctive almond shape and violet hue. Violet eyes! Elaith recoiled in horror and disgust. The mad hermit was an elf! As if to confirm this discovery, the hermit grasped a handful of matted hair in each hand and raised it high. One ear was missing entirely, but the other was long, pointed, and definitely elven.
The hermit gazed down at the slain harpy, shaking his head sadly. "Smelly things to be sure, but dance to the harp they do!"
The sight of a fellow elf grieving over a harpy was too much for Elaith. "Get this creature out of my sight," he snarled at Balindar.
"Perhaps you should reconsider," Vartain interrupted. "This unfortunate fellow appears to be the sole survivor of Taskerleigh. We should question him, insane though he undoubtedly is. Perhaps he can tell us more about what happened here, so that we might plan the next step of our journey."
Elaith nodded, for something that hermit had said might be worth pursuing. Grasping him by one bony arm, Elaith pulled him upwind of the harpy's carcass. "You spoke of a harp. What about it?"
The wretched elf spread his fingers before him, staring down at them with an awe that suggested that he had just now acquired the bony digits. "I played it," he whispered. "I played the harp, and even the korreds crept from the forest to dance to its silver tones." The hermit's words sounded calm and measured, and Elaith began to hope that they could yet glean some useful information.
"Was there anything special about this harp? Does it have a name?"
"It has been called Morninglark, and it is more special than you could imagine," the ragged elf replied calmly.
"Where is it?" Elaith demanded.
Grief flooded the elf's wasted face. "Gone," he mourned. "Taken!"
"By whom?" Vartain asked.
The hermit turned his violet eyes to the riddlemaster. "A great green one. His breath killed the villagers where they stood."
Elaith and Vartain exchanged incredulous glances. The hermit was describing a dragon attack. "How did you survive?" Vartain asked.
"Magic." The hermit's bony arm traced a circle in the air around his head, obviously pantomiming some sort of protective sphere. He pressed his fingertips to his forehead. "I live, but the dragon's gaze shattered my…" His voice drifted off into silent despair.
Elaith was not feeling any too cheerful himself. Dragons of any sort were uncommon, and greens were both rare and reclusive. The hermit's dragon was most likely Grimnoshtadrano, a venerable wyrm who lived nearby in the High Forest. The dragon seldom ventured out of the forest, so he had apparently wanted the elven harp badly and would not be willingly separated from it. Not, of course, that it would be easy to take from a full-grown green dragon something of which he was only moderately fond.
"Grimnosh," muttered Balindar in disbelief, and then he shook his massive dark head. "I'm for heading back to Waterdeep. I've no notion to end up like these folk," he said defensively.
"Farmers," Elaith pointed out "And judging by the number of dead, not enough to give the dragon a fight."
"There were many more than we found," Vartain corrected, drawing an exasperated look from his