Finder's Bane Read online

  “Sheathe your sword,” he ordered her.

  Like a sleepwalker, the prisoner obeyed.

  Joel stepped closer.

  “Careful, sir,” one soldier muttered. “That’s how our captain got skewered, thinkin’ she was pacified. Best flame her and be done with it.”

  “Did it occur to you, soldier,” Joel asked with a sneer, “that if she went to all this trouble to avoid answering your questions, she must know something important? We need to question her.”

  The bard strode up to the swordswoman, the wand pointed at her belly. She was nearly as tall as he was, but standing this close, the bard could see she was even younger than he’d thought. She was really just a girl. A brave girl, though—she met his look with a defiant glare. In another instant, Joel sensed, she would attack him.

  Joel winked. The girl’s eyes widened momentarily, but she said nothing. Joel slipped the wand in his belt, grabbed the girl’s arm, and yanked her away from the rock. Noting the soldiers’ curious stares, he jerked his head in the direction of the corpses and ordered, “Do something with those bodies!”

  “Yes, sir,” one of the soldiers answered. “Moonteeth, get the shovel. Kurlens, fetch the captain a piece of rope for the prisoner.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Joel replied, steering the girl toward the path. “I’m sure I can handle her.”

  “Where are you taking her, sir?” the soldier giving orders asked suspiciously.

  “My patrol is waiting at the end of the path,” the bard lied. “I’ll interrogate her there. Join us when you’re finished cleaning up here.” He continued to guide the girl down the path, careful not to look back.

  His coolness didn’t fool the soldiers. Two Zhentilar followed Joel, and although he couldn’t see them, the bard was acutely aware that their blades were pointed at his back.

  “Begging your pardon, sir,” the soldier who’d taken charge said craftily, “but I can’t relinquish the prisoner without you giving me the password.”

  Password. That’s just great, Joel thought with annoyance.

  The bard released his grip on the girl’s arm. He gave her a quick shove forward, making room for him to whirl about with his staff raised. The first soldier, unaware that the staff was merely an illusion covering a sharpened sword, grabbed at the weapon with his bare hand. Blood spurted from what was left of the man’s fingers as he shrieked in pain.

  Joel stepped back, parrying the second soldier’s blade with his own. The force of steel smashing into steel dispelled the illusion of the mage staff.

  “You’re no mage!” the second soldier growled. He slammed his blade at the bard’s sword with enough force to knock it from Joel’s hand. Joel retreated several hasty steps backward. The soldier advanced on him with an evil grin. From behind him, Joel heard a twang. A moment later the grin disappeared from the soldier’s face as a crossbow bolt buried itself in his throat.

  Joel spun about. His “prisoner” was already sliding a second bolt into a one-handed drow crossbow. The bard snatched his sword up from the ground and retreated to the girl’s side.

  The girl stepped forward, leveling her cutlass at the soldier with the injured hand. Joel grabbed her arm. “Come on. Let’s go!” he ordered.

  “We should finish them off,” she argued.

  “Don’t push your luck,” the bard growled, tugging hard on her arm.

  The girl dashed down the path at Joel’s side. There was no sound of pursuit behind them, but they didn’t stop until they reached Joel’s mare.

  Butternut nickered nervously as Joel untied her lead rope.

  “Who are you?” the girl asked.

  “The Rebel Bard,” Joel said, making a courtly, albeit hurried, bow. “At your service, my lady.”

  The girl laughed, though Joel couldn’t tell exactly why. “I’m Holly,” she replied as she sheathed her cutlass. “Holly Harrowslough. Your service is much appreciated.” Her accent marked her as a native of the northern dales, and she held her hand out in dales fashion.

  Joel grasped the girl’s wrist as she grasped his. Her brief grip was strong and sure, and her smile quite pretty, but there was something about the way her dark eyes held his that made the bard feel awkward, as if he’d just confessed to some crime and was being judged.

  “We’d better keep moving,” Joel insisted. He turned away hastily, making a show of tightening the strap on Butternut’s saddle.

  “You don’t have to escort me,” Holly said. “The Zhents don’t usually bother me. It’s just that this patrol’s captain spotted me in Shadowdale last week, so he was overly suspicious. The other patrols won’t suspect me. And you’ll be safer if you aren’t seen cavorting with the natives.”

  Joel’s forehead furrowed with concern. “Look, I know we’re perfect strangers, but I can’t just leave you here alone. I’m sure there must be a rule that forbids it. ’Thou shalt not abandon maidens in distress’ or some such.”

  Holly laughed.

  “Besides,” Joel continued hurriedly, “I could use someone who’s familiar with the area. I’m going north, and if it’s not out of your way, I’d appreciate your guidance.”

  “Well, then, Rebel Bard, you’ve got yourself a guide,” the girl agreed with a grin.

  Joel swung up into the saddle and offered Holly a hand. She swung up behind him easily. Butternut snorted with annoyance at the extra weight. “It’s just till we put some distance between us and them, girl,” the bard assured the horse, urging her forward with a nudge.

  They had traveled all of a hundred yards when they heard the sound of horses on the trail behind them. Someone shouted something about spies. Joel kicked Butternut into a trot.

  “Blast!” Holly muttered as she looked back.

  “What is it?” Joel asked, his rear view blocked by the girl.

  “A fresh Zhent patrol, mounted. And one of the ones we left behind in the clearing is waving them in our direction.”

  Joel bit his lip, trying to formulate a plan. Butternut, he realized, could never outrun the Zhentilar loaded down as she was.

  “I’m going to dismount and hold them off,” Joel said, kicking his foot out of the stirrup. “You keep going.”

  “You can’t—” Holly started to protest, but Joel had already swung his leg over the mare’s neck and fallen to the ground.

  Joel rolled out of the way of the mare’s hind legs and leapt to his feet. Drawing his sword, he prepared to make a heroic last stand, but Holly had other ideas. She had turned Butternut about and ridden back to the bard’s side.

  “You know,” Joel growled with exasperation, “there’s not much point in my trying to save your life if you insist on being killed with me,” he said.

  “What kind of guide would I be if I lost you to the Zhents?” Holly retorted grimly as she loaded a bolt into her crossbow.

  From a pocket of his tunic, Joel pulled out a tiny vial of holy water. Not even the urgency of the situation overcame the awkwardness he felt praying aloud. With his head bowed with embarrassment, he whispered his prayer. “Finder, help us through this peril.” He splashed the holy water first in Holly’s direction, then on his own feet. When he’d pocketed the empty vial, he raised his sword again. Even with the blessing, the sword felt uncomfortably heavy in his hand. He had only the most rudimentary training in its use in Berdusk. Since then he’d had little inclination to practice and few reasons to use it.

  The Zhentilar were closing fast when Holly shouted, “Hey!”

  Joel looked up at the girl. She was trying to bat away a bird that fluttered about her shoulder. The bird landed on Butternut’s head. Joel could see that it was a jackdaw, its purplish black wings glittering even in the shadow of the trees.

  Joel froze with anticipation. Among the advice Jedidiah had given him before they had parted was to listen to the birds.

  The bird looked straight at Joel and cocked its head. “Turn the peril back at them,” the bird croaked. “Use the wand of their mage. With Lady Luck’s bles
sing, you cannot fail.”

  Holly’s eyes widened with surprise, but she didn’t forget the approaching enemy. “Can you really use the wand?” she asked excitedly.

  From his belt, Joel drew the wand he’d stolen from the Zhentilar mage’s corpse. It was fashioned from mahogany and polished smooth all around, save for a symbol engraved at the tip and inlaid with mother-of-pearl. The symbol was an ancient rune signifying chaos. That could be the word that activated it, but what the wand did the bard couldn’t even guess. It was also entirely possible the wand wouldn’t respond to someone who lacked formal training and only dabbled in magic. He looked up questioningly at the jackdaw. The bird cawed loudly and fluttered off into the trees above.

  “I don’t know if I can get it to work,” Joel whispered up to Holly, “but I can always bluff.” He took up a position in the center of the trail and held the wand out at arm’s length. The Zhentilar thundered down the trail single file.

  “Halt!” he shouted, aiming the wand at the lead rider of the patrol. “Halt, or I’ll use the wand!”

  The rider did not halt, and Joel thought he could see the man smiling.

  “Fine. You asked for it,” the bard muttered. “Chaos!” he shouted.

  A pulse of blue light issued from the tip of the wand and struck the Zhentilar’s sword. The weapon began to glow with a vivid blue light as the soldier closed on Joel. With a yell, the Zhentarim swung his blade downward. The bard raised his own sword to fend off the blow, but the blow never struck. The Zhentilar’s blade passed right through the bard’s weapon like a ghost. In the next instant, the enemy’s sword vanished entirely.

  With unerring aim, Holly put a crossbow bolt through the rider’s chest. As his horse passed by, she grabbed the beast’s reins and pushed the soldier from the saddle.

  Undeterred by the fate of their comrade, the other Zhentilar continued charging toward the bard and the girl.

  “Some people never learn,” Joel said with a sigh. Once more he pointed the wand at the approaching foe and called out the command word.

  A sphere of light, buttery yellow like bright sunshine, bubbled from the tip of the wand. When the sphere of light had grown as large as a pumpkin, a large butterfly fluttered forth. The insect was beautifully marked with orange and black spots and was as large as Joel’s hand. A second butterfly emerged, then a dozen, then hundreds of butterflies swarmed out of the sphere of light. The mass of beating wings blinded the bard and startled Butternut and the dead soldier’s horse into flight down the trail. Holly shouted as Butternut carried her away.

  The Zhentilar patrol’s horses must have been equally startled, for Joel could hear them neighing in panic, and none of them came bursting through the cloud of orange and black. Joel backed away from the colorful swarm. The butterflies began spiraling upward toward the treetops, and Joel could see beyond their fluttering wings. The Zhentarim soldiers were getting their mounts back under control and moving in his direction.

  Joel realized now the meaning of the command word etched on the wand. The wand’s magic was determined by chaos, completely random. He understood now what the jackdaw had meant about Lady Luck’s favor. To tip the odds in his favor, he needed luck.

  “Tymora,” he whispered, invoking the goddess of luck, who had always been a friend to his own god, Finder. “Smile on this fool.” He aimed the wand for a third time and called out, “Chaos!”

  Either the third use was truly charmed or the bard’s request of Lady Luck had fallen on sympathetic ears. The wand spat out a glowing red sphere no bigger than a pea that streaked down the trail into the midst of the Zhentilar patrol. Then the pea burst into a fireball so powerful the force of the blast knocked Joel off his feet.

  Complete silence fell over the woods as every living creature, seen and unseen, took a moment to wonder at the blast. Then the silence broke as the charred corpses of the Zhentilar patrol and their horses thudded to the ground. Birds in the trees overhead began twittering loudly, as if mistaking the fireball for a second sunrise.

  Joel picked himself off the ground. He took a few steps toward his vanquished foes, but the sight of the carnage and the stench of burning flesh was too terrible to bear. He turned about and loped down the trail after Holly.

  Two

  THE PILGRIMS

  Still mounted on Butternut, the girl came riding back toward him with the first Zhentilar’s horse in tow. “I heard an explosion,” she said. “What happened?”

  “They’re dead,” Joel whispered. “All of them?” Holly asked.

  “All the ones who were chasing us,” Joel replied. He patted the side of the Zhentarim horse for a few moments, making sure the beast was steady, then swung himself into the beast’s saddle.

  “Are you all right?” Holly asked. “You’re not injured?”

  Joel shook his head from side to side, then studied the girl for a moment. Her arms and tunic were splattered with the blood of the last Zhentilar she’d killed and from the wounds she’d received from the first Zhent patrol, but she didn’t seem the least bit unnerved.

  “I suppose this is all business as usual for you Daggerdale folk,” the bard commented dryly.

  “If by business as usual, you mean, do we defy invaders to our lands whenever we can, then the answer is yes,” Holly replied coolly. “To do anything less would be inviting the fate of Teshendale, conquered by the Black Network and now only an empty chair at the Dales Council. As it is, the Zhent soldiers harass our citizens, their orc mercenaries raid our herds, and their puppet rulers force our lord into exile. If you plan to travel through Daggerdale, you had best get used to our ‘business as usual.’ ” Having said her piece, the girl clucked her tongue at Butternut and rode off down the trail.

  Joel sat still for a moment, stunned by the girl’s tirade, but after some reflection, he convinced himself he hadn’t really said anything that could give offense. There was more than the reputed Daggerdale unfriendliness behind Holly’s outburst. Her words had a defensive and rehearsed sound, as if Holly had said it before or had wanted to say it to someone else for a long time.

  Joel dug his heels into the ribs of the Zhentilar horse and soon caught up with his guide.

  “Correct me if I’m wrong,” the bard said as his horse drew up alongside Holly’s, “but I sense I’ve just caught an arrow meant for someone else.”

  The girl lowered her eyes, and Joel knew he’d hit the mark, but he also knew that wouldn’t necessarily gain him any points with her. It would be up to him to bring some civility back to the conversation.

  “I didn’t mean to imply you or your people had no right to defend yourselves,” he insisted.

  Holly looked up at him. “I know that. You’re right about my speech being meant for someone else. Someone I met said something that really made me angry, but I couldn’t think what to reply until the next day. I’ve been thinking about what I said to you for days now, repeating it over and over, wishing I could go back in the past and answer the person who made me angry. Pretty foolish, huh?”

  Joel laughed. “Not really,” he replied. “We’ve all done that before. So who was this scoundrel who slandered the honor of the Daggerdale folk?”

  “Some stupid Cormyte serving as an envoy to Shadowdale. He said we were a ruthless, mean-spirited people. Elminster and Lord Mourngrym didn’t pay any attention to him, but he made me terribly angry. I wasn’t sure how much respect he warranted, so I didn’t reply. Then I felt stupid because I’d lost the chance to show Shadowdale how loyal Daggerfolk are to their dale.”

  “Elminster and Lord Mourngrym probably admired you all the more for your self-discipline,” Joel assured her.

  “Do you really think so?” Holly asked with surprise.

  “Well, having never met the gentlemen, I can only guess based on what I’ve heard about them. Sharp words are never wielded so skillfully as silence. So what business did one so young have with such powerful men?” the bard asked curiously.

  Holly grinned at him but said not
hing.

  Joel laughed. “Well, now that you’ve demonstrated your mastery of silence, perhaps you will deign to move on to the art of small talk. I’ll try another question. Where’d you get that curved blade of yours?”

  “It was my father’s blade,” Holly explained. “He was from Zhakara. That’s far to the south.”

  Joel nodded.

  “When he was a young man, he put on a cursed ring and was teleported to the north, where the Zhents captured him. He was a slave of the Zhents for years. So was my mom’s brother, Burl. My dad helped Uncle Burl escape, so Uncle Burl brought dad to Daggerdale and introduced him to my mother.” Holly looked away into the woods and added, “They all died in an orc raid last year—my mom, my dad, my Uncle Burl, my grandma Harrowslough.”

  “I’m very sorry,” Joel said.

  “Me, too,” Holly whispered.

  They rode in silence for nearly a mile. Joel thought of his own mother and father. It would probably be years before he saw them again. He hoped his reunion with them would be more pleasant than his departure had been. His parents couldn’t understand his decision to leave the barding college in Berdusk to join Finder’s priesthood and go on a pilgrimage. Joel began humming a tune his mother and father often sang together.

  The trail left the woods finally and headed out into rolling meadowlands covered with high grasses and wildflowers.

  “Something’s coming,” Holly hissed in an urgent whisper. She slid down from Butternut’s back.

  The bard dismounted beside her. “What is it?” he asked. “More Zhentilar?”

  “I’m not sure,” the girl replied. Her brow was furrowed, and she looked more anxious than she had when she was surrounded by the Zhentilar. Holly pointed to a line of trees to the west. “We need to take cover,” she insisted.

  Joel followed the girl into the tall meadow grass, tugging the confused horses behind him. Young saplings lined the edge of a shallow gully; Holly slid down the gully and Joel followed. Butternut balked until Holly splashed a stone in the small stream at the bottom of the wash. Eager for water, the mare picked its way to the bottom and began to drink thirstily. The Zhentarim mount soon followed. Joel could just pick out the trail they’d left behind, but for the most part, the grass had closed back up after they passed through.