Anthologies 06 - Realms of Mystery by Forgotten Realms

Anthologies 06 - Realms of Mystery by Forgotten Realms

Author:Forgotten Realms [Realms, Forgotten]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fantasy
Publisher: Wizards of the Coast
Published: 2012-09-01T18:12:09+00:00


H

Richard Lee Byers

The stars shone brightly through the thin, cold mountain air. Basking in their beauty, lulled by the crackling of the campfire and the drone of his comrades’ snoring, Halladon Moonglade reflected that this adventuring life was passing tolerable, even when a fellow pulled watch duty in the middle of the night.

Behind him, something thumped and rustled.

Halladon turned. Osher of Torm, the company’s priest, lay feebly flailing and writhing, while all around him, the other five members of the band slumbered on, oblivious.

It looked as if Osher was having a nightmare. Rising nimbly, Halladon moved to wake him. After two paces, the young, slender, platinum-haired half-elf saw the wetness darkly gleaming on the cleric’s chest, and caught the coppery smell of it. He flung himself down at Osher’s side.

Even as Halladon applied pressure to his friend’s wounds, he was horribly certain that the effort was in vain. Something had torn Osher’s throat to shreds. Only the bald, beak-nosed priest’s own healing magic might have served to preserve his life, and his injuries manifestly rendered him incapable of reciting a spell.

Osher fumbled at Halladon’s wrists. "Don’t!" said the half-elf. "I’m trying to help you!" But the cleric wouldn’t relent. Somehow finding a strength that should have been beyond the capacity of any man so gravely wounded, he caught hold of Halladon’s forearms and forced his hands away.

Halladon would have continued striving to minister to him, but Osher gave him an imploring stare. A look full of desperation, yet entirely lucid. Overawed by the maimed man’s resolution, the half-elf hovered helplessly beside him and allowed him to do as he would.

Osher dabbed his fingertip in the terrible inkwell of his own blood, and, his hand shaking violently, began to write on the ground. He managed only an H before his eyes rolled up in his head and he gave a long, mournful sigh and was still.

"What’s wrong?" rumbled Kovost of Mithril Hall. Halladon looked around. Bushy black beard, upturned mustache, and eyebrows bristling, the dwarf stood with his battle-axe clasped in his callused hands. Stray tufts of hair protruded from beneath his hastily donned steel-and-leather helmet like the petals of a withered flower. Behind him, the other members of the company were hastily but belatedly stirring themselves.

"Something killed Osher," Halladon said. He strode back to the place where he’d been sitting, picked up his longbow, nocked an arrow, and peered about.

"Make more light," said Perys, a lanky, soft-spoken ranger and former scout for the Elders of Everlund, taking up his broadsword and shield.

Halladon opened his small pouch of spell components, fingered a wisp of phosphorescent moss, and murmured an incantation. A silvery glow flowered from the top of his bow. Everyone gazed tensely into the darkness, weapons at the ready.

"I think it’s gone," the half-elf said at last.

"What was it?" demanded Moanda the Spike, a javelin in one hand and a buckler with a wickedly pointed boss- the source of her epithet-in the other.

"I don’t know," Halladon said, feeling, whether it was warranted or not, a pang of shame.



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