Yet nothing had happened to him even when he'd woke with a sahuagin's claws at his throat.

Live, that you may serve.

Tears coursed down Jherek's face, released by the pent-up pain of watching the dwarf die, the frustration of not being able to do anything about it, and the anger at all that he didn't understand. He pressed his hands to the dwarf's wounds, stemming the blood flow. "Go find a healer," he told Sonshal.

"There's not one to be had," the old man said gruffly. He rested a hand on Jherek's shoulder. "You've done what you could for him. Sometimes all that remains to be done is to be with them when the passing comes. No man should be alone when that happens."

"No!" Jherek said hoarsely. "He's not going to die!"

"There's nothing you can do about that," Sonshal said. "A man's life runs the course his gods direct it on, and no man may stay the hand of death when it arrives."

"No! I won't accept that!" It wasn't right that the dwarf should save so many, yet lose his life in the attempt.

Live, that you may serve.

Jherek reached for that voice, wondering where it came from and how it dared seem to choose him when there were so many others to pick from. He willed the dwarf not to die. "Pray," he told the dwarf, "pray to your Marthammor Duin that you live, Khlinat, then believe with all your might."

Jherek knew that he didn't believe that strongly himself. He'd chosen Hmater as his god because he most understood the religion. The Crying God based his ethos on enduring and persevering, things that the young sailor understood intimately. His whole life had been about those things.

Khlinat coughed and groaned in pain. Blood bubbled from his lips and ran down his cheek. Blue light dawned at his throat, partially obscured by his matted beard.

Without warning, Jherek felt a low buzz in his hands, like he'd brushed up against an electric eel. Smoky blue blazed under his palms pressed against the dwarf's side. He felt the changes taking place against his hands, but he couldn't move them.

The buzzing finished, and the blue light at Khlinat's throat winked out.

The dwarf's lungs filled in a rush, and he flicked his eyes open. "Swabbie, what have you done?" His voice sounded stronger, more certain.

"Nothing," Jherek said, as puzzled as the dwarf. He felt drained by the events of the last few minutes. His eyelids dragged as he scanned the little man.

Khlinat coughed. "Only if yer calling saving me life nothing, and I ain't ready to call it that. Whatever ye did, I feel better."

"It wasn't him," Sonshal said. "It was something at your throat."

Khlinat reached up and took up the shark tooth pendent at his throat, stretching it the length of the leather thong that held it. "This?" He shook his head. "This is nothing. A trinket left over from the shark what took my leg. Them teeth come out regular, and the healer what fixed me up found it in what was left of me leg. I've been carrying it as a good luck charm, nothing more."

"What else could be the answer?" Sonshal asked.

The dwarf looked at Jherek. "I don't know, but I do know I feel better. Let's have a look at me side."

Hesitantly, Jherek drew his hands away, afraid that the torrent of blood would begin again.

It didn't. Instead, the flesh appeared to have closed in both places. It remained raw and ragged looking, but it was obviously healing, reconnecting.

"Marthammor Duin save a wandering fool," the dwarf cried in astonishment. "Outside of a heal potion, or a healer's hands, I've never seen the like."

Jherek gave him a smile and settled back tiredly on his haunches. The blood was drying tight on his hands. "If I were you, I wouldn't loose that shark's tooth."

Khlinat reverently kissed the pendant. "I'll never feel as angry about that shark, I tell ye."

Glancing out at the harbor, Jherek saw that a rout of the sahuagin and their aquatic accomplices was in full swing. He had no wish in him to be one of the parties responsible for slitting the throats of the stunned sahuagin. Now that they were organized, the Flaming Fist mercenaries appeared to have things well in hand. He looked for his father's ship, but Bunyip was nowhere to be seen.

It was too late to save many lives, too late to save nearly all of the boats and much of the docks and some of the warehouses and buildings near them, but the docks thronged with men and women who fought enemies as well as fires.

He considered the battle. Madame litaar had sent him to Baldur's Gate after his heritage to Bloody Falkane's pirates was discovered on Butterfly. She'd had a vision that his destiny lay here in the city, but where?

He studied the narrow stone buildings and homes and tried to divine what he was supposed to find here. Dark thoughts intruded, and he had to wonder if it hadn't all been some kind of mistake. His life had never been simple or easy. He thought this could be a set of circumstances deliberately fashioned to lead him here and make an even bigger fool of him.

But who would do such a thing? And why?

He didn't know, but the voice he heard in his mind at such times was real. He had to believe at least that much because thinking himself mad was no option at all.

He heard someone come to a stop behind him and looked up to find a skinny old man with a bald head peering down at him with more interest than the young sailor had ever felt before. Carefully, he got to his feet.

"Can I help you?" Jherek asked.

"Mayhap we can help each other," the old man said. "My name is Pacys. I'm a bard. I wonder if I might have a moment of your time."

Jherek studied the old man but didn't feel in any way threatened by him. "Let me help my friend to a safe place, then I'll help you in any way I may." He couldn't turn down the anxious note in the old bard's voice, though he also didn't know why the man might think he needed him.

"Of course. Perhaps I could accompany you."

" 'Tis a long walk down some powerful dark streets," Khlinat said.

The old bard nodded. "I've seen hardships in life. Surviving this night has not been easy."

The dwarf harumphed as Jherek helped him to his feet. "One as aged as ye, 111 wager ye have seen some bad times."

The young sailor found aiding Khlinat in walking was an adventure in itself. The dwarf was too short to simply drape his arm across his shoulders, and too heavy to support easily.

"Well come on then," Khlinat growled. "I've a small place, but yer welcome to what I have. With Marthammor's sagacious blessing, mayhap there'll even be some victuals we can scrape together."

VIII

4 Kytnorn, the Year of the Gauntlet

"Ye play a pretty tune on that thing."

Pacys glanced up at Khlinat, who lounged across the small table in the modest quarters he kept at a rooming house on Windspell Street just west of the Wide, the name of Baldur's Gate's bustling marketplace. "Thank you, my friend." His fingers strummed the strings casually, picking out the notes, making them ring true. The song lived inside his head, adding to itself by leaps and bounds. He was already working on the song of the attack on Baldur's Gate and the words came so easily.

A beeswax taper burned on the table between them, throwing up a thin streamer of smoke and illuminating the carving board with a loaf of bread and cheese on it. Felogyr Sonshal had begged off as soon as they'd reached the dwelling safely. The dwarfs fare on hand had been simple, added to by small journeycakes smothered in honey he'd had put away, a clutch of apples, and a jug of cheap wine.

The old bard had eaten, picking at the offered food mostly, and he'd watched Jherek of Velen, trying to see some sign that the young sailor was the one Narros had told him to look for. As he surveyed the young man, he tried to figure out how he was going to tell Jherek of the destiny that lay before him. How could one so young, so vulnerable, be expected to shoulder such a heavy burden as facing the wrath of the Taker?