Realms of the Underdark - J. Robert King [33]
Aye, soon… if all went well. As things so seldom did when one had dealings with humans, Xuzoun thought wryly. Then it shrugged, eyestalks writhing like a nest of disturbed caterpillars, and a few motes of magelight obediently rushed together in front of it. They swirled briefly and became an eye-an eye that watched the fearful maiden as she spoke the words Xuzoun bid her to.
When the message was done, the beholder rumbled in satisfaction as the glowing eye circled it once before flying forth to find the human called Durnan.
Durnan the Lord of Waterdeep. Durnan the Master of the Portal. Durnan the Doomed.
"And so our blades beyond compare…" Durnan sang, breaking off to bend down and rummage in the bottom rungs of the rack. Selecting a bottle, he drew it forth.
"Did brightly flash through haunted air," he continued, and blew sharply on gray, furry dust that did not whirl up from the bottle's label, but merely slid reluctantly sideways and fell away. Dantymer's Dew, 1336. Hmm. No Elixir of Evermeet, but not a bad vintage. Azoun of Cormyr had been crowned that year… and who was to say that he'd fared better than this wine?
Durnan ran the end of his dust-sash along the bottle and set it in the silently-floating basket at his elbow. What else had he-? Ah, yes: Best Belaerd! Urrh. Why folk liked the black licorice whiskey from far Sheirtalar was beyond him, but like it they did, in increasing numbers, too, and one must move with the times.
Huh. A golden dragonshower upon that. Lads scarce old enough to shave swaggering into his inn night after night with loud, arrogant voices and gleaming dazzleshine-treated swords, which they eagerly waved around and bragged about… Were we ever that crass when we were young, that… unsubtle? I suppose.
Time is the great healer of hurts and the lantern of favorable light; no doubt it was making his youth brighter in his eyes even as it made his back creak, these days, and his bones ache in damp weather. They were aching now. Durnan hefted a brace of belaerd bottles into the basket and strode on, not bothering to look back to be sure 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