Rising tide - Mel Odom [76]
Even prepared and skilled as he was, Pacys hit Dock Street's cobblestones hard. The impact knocked the wind from his lungs and, from experience, he thought he felt a rib crack. He rolled as best he could and pushed himself to his feet, saying a quick prayer to Oghma with his thanks. He recovered his staff from the torn and charred aboleth's corpse, breathing shallowly through the stench of it.
Gazing out into the harbor, he noticed that some of the surviving ships and Waterdhavian Guard rakers had managed to gather in a small flotilla. Flaming arrows sped from the ships' decks but the distance was too great for Pacys to know if they were hitting their targets. Still, it was a good sign they were able to assemble.
Though the ships out in the harbor numbered perhaps a third of what they had in the beginning, the number of griffon riders continued to grow as more of the aerial garrisons flew in. More of the air corps seemed to be wizards or joined by wizards. Spells flew through the air, sizzling, sparkling, and flaming, seeking down through the storm-tossed waves to their targets.
Hurting and unable to draw a full breath with the damaged rib, Pacys trotted toward the gathering of watch and guard at the Order of Shipwrights' guild hall. Many of the men carried torches, and the bard guessed it was because the sahuagin's natural fear of that element. As he saw them standing there, though, the song returned to his head. He sought for the words, putting the pain out of his mind, shelving it with the fatigue he'd feel later.
"Halt!" a guard warned, stepping out from the crowd in front of the guild hall. He raised a crossbow to his shoulder and peered over it. "Who goes there?"
Pacys raised his hands high over his head, holding onto the staff He scanned the young soldier's face with a poet's eye, noting the fear and the disbelief, the pain and the courage that fired the soldier's eyes. They were the untroubled blue of a calm sea, the color of true sapphire, and Pacys knew they would never again view the world the same way. Soot stained the young man's tanned face, and dark blood from a cut along his temple wept down his cheek.
"I am Pacys, a bard."
A grizzled sergeant stepped from the pack of Waterdhavian defenders, pressing his hand gently against the young man's crossbow. "Take that thing off him, Carthir. That man's no enemy. Did you see what he did to that damned aboleth?"
"No sir," the young man replied. "Things haven't looked the way they were supposed to at all tonight." He lagged a little in removing the crossbow's threat.
"Stay back," the sergeant told Pacys. He was a short, blocky man with gray in his hair and beard. From the markings on his uniform and the scars that showed on his hands, arms, and face, the bard knew the sergeant was a career soldier. He'd already seen his share of hard times, but the night's battle was leaving its mark on him as well. His left hand was swathed in blood-stained bandages. "Only the Watch and Guard are allowed past this point."
"I understand," Pacys said. "How bad are things around the rest of the city?"
"Damned sea devils have attacked all along the coastline of the city," a junior civilar said, brushing burned hair from his shoulders. His right eye had swelled shut, or maybe it was gone entirely and he was standing there by a miracle of will. "Not as much as they have the harbor- everything here is more at sea level-but they've been there all the same."
"Will the city stand?" Pacys asked.
A crowd that had gathered along the sidewalks and streets just past the line the watch and guard had made pulled closer, and several men took up the same question the bard had asked. In seconds, the question became a cry that swelled until it echoed over the crash of the incoming waves and the storm.
The sergeant growled out an affirmative. Pacys saw rather than heard the man reply. He'd learned to read lips a long time ago. None of