Jherek caught her around the waist with his sword arm, pulling her into the crook of his elbow and into a run. He lifted the shield to block the man who swung at them. The sword crashed into the shield, almost coming free of his grip. He asked Ilmater's blessing as he powered forward, knocking the man down. Then no one stood in their way. Breeze-runner remained before them.

"Run!" he told Sabyna. He gave her a final push to get her started, then turned to face Vurgrom and his men in order to buy her more time. He felt the weight of the pearl disk in his pouch and experienced a momentary pride. He might not have been the one the disk had been intended for, no hero with a lofty destiny awaiting his arrival, but he could sell his life with honor to protect the ship's mage if it came to that.

"Malorrie!" Sabyna called behind him.

"Go!"

"I'm not leaving you."

Jherek heard her shifting behind him, the leather soles of her boots grazing the cobblestones. "You've got a sinking ship here, lady, and naught but storm-tossed seas about you. Get clear while you're able."

The wizard wound the length of chain over his head, then threw it at Jherek.

The young sailor lifted the shield to block the mass of coiled links, thinking the chain was meant as a diversion more than anything. It clanked against the shield's metal surface. Instead of falling to the ground, however, the chain snaked over the shield and lunged at Jherek. It wound around him quickly, twisting and weaving to avoid the shield and the sword as he tried to block it.

The chain wrapped his chest twice, holding tight enough to squeeze the air from him, then it wound out and captured his arms, threading down to encircle his ankles as well, pulling them tight. Off-balance, Jherek fell. He watched helplessly as Vurgrom closed in and swung the battle-axe. His last thought was that he'd failed to protect Sabyna. Then the battle-axe hit him.

By the time Pacys had finished recounting to Khlinat Ironeater details of the battle of Waterdeep and his own meeting with Narros, the shaman of the mermen living in Waterdeep Harbor, the beeswax taper had burned down to its final inch.

"Ye have an incredible task ahead of ye, Pacys," the dwarf acknowledged, "but are ye sure there's no mistake about the young swab? Oh now, and he's a brave one, and some skilled at weapons. I've seen him in action this night, and I know how deadly he can be. I question whether ye have the right person even in spite of all the good qualities the swabbie exhibits. He's hardly more than a boy."

"I know," Pacys agreed. He glanced at the stub of the candle, the hot melted wax spilling over the sides of the holder. He turned and peered out the window, seeing the streets filled with people who were returning cautiously to their homes. Occasionally during their conversation there'd been cries of warning about sahuagin, pirates, or some foul creature lurking in the shadows. The old bard hadn't known if those really existed, or were the product of overactive imaginations. They hadn't seen any on the trek back to Khlinat's home. "How far away is the apothecary?"

"Not far," Khlinat said, "but I'll wager me good boot that the swabbie hasn't found anything there. The Flaming Fist would have descended on all them places and taken what they needed already. Maybe he's giving a look 'round and seeing what he can turn up. Betwixt ye and me, I think he needed some time to himself to think."

Pacys nodded. Still, the creeping feeling that something might have happened took root in his mind. He'd come so far to find the boy, and had so much riding on the finding of him.

"So why do ye seek the swabbie?" Khlinat stuffed the bowl of his pipe with pipeweed and set fire to it. "Them mermen could have found anyone to deliver the message."

Pacys deliberately hadn't revealed his own part in the prophecy. "You mean someone younger." His fingers continued to stroke the yarting's strings, and to his great joy, he found additional chords as he sought them out. They were notes and measures that normally signaled traveling. It was confusing.

"If ye insist on being so indelicate," the dwarf said with an unabashed nod, "then aye."

Pacys smiled, showing he took no offense at the suggestion. "I don't know. All I can say is that I was told this was meant for me. Tell me, friend Khlinat, have you heard of Thoreyo?"

"Him who sang 'Short-Hafted Hammer and the Wizard's Tall Black Tower?'"

"Yes." Pacys had chosen the song deliberately.

"As a dwarf, how could I not know of that song? It is one of the most popular dwarven brawling songs-barkening back to the days when the dwarves warred with one another to build their empires across the Far Hills."

"What about Yhitmon?"

There was no hesitation in the dwarf. "Ah, 'Strangled Leaves of Lily-Grass and the Goblin-King's Betrothal.' I've hoisted a few pints of bitters and sang along with that one meself." He grabbed his cup and held it high.

"And would-be noble, himself a worthy warrior among goblinkin,

"In his own eyes,

"Did take upon himself to find a wife.

"So sword to hips

"And prayer to lips,

"He did ride, so boldly ride,

"To the House of the Rising Sin."

At the end of the stanza, the dwarf burst into laughter that turned into a coughing fit.

Pacys waited patiently till it passed.

"Now there, by Marthammor Duin's watchful eyes," Khlinat swore, "is a drinking song made for men who love the taverns."

"Yes," Pacys said, "and when you think of Pacys the Bard, what songs come to mind?"

Khlinat looked embarrassed. "Ye have caught me at a bad time, singer, otherwise I'm sure I would know of one."

"No," Pacys said quietly. "I've written songs, and good songs at that, but never a song that has captured the hearts of Faerun the way the ones we've mentioned have. I was drawn to the music early. Now I am in the winter of my years and I find I have no legacy to leave."

"Ye believe the story of the Taker is yer legacy?"

For a moment, Pacys felt uncomfortable. Part of him felt embarrassed ^about making something so grandiose about his part in the dark war rising from the seas of Faerun, and part of him felt silly for believing so easily. But the song had existed, so he believed.

"I've been told that it will be."

"And ye believe?"

Pacys hesitated only a moment before saying, "Yes."

Khlinat nodded. "Belief is a strong thing. And song, by the gods, there's something to forge a man's belief to his dream, make him reach for something that he never thought would be bis. There's such power in songs."

Pacys felt pride at the dwarf's description.

"I remember a tale," Khlinat said, "told me by me old grandda, and it twice-told at least a thousandfold ere he ever gave it to me. About Twahrm Kettlebuster, a hidden dwarf of the Far Hills."

"I've heard of it," Pacys said, remembering the little known song. He didn't play it much except in front of a select dwarven audience, and there had been few of those in recent years.

"Now mind ye," Khlinat went on, "old Twahrm weren't no trained bard, nor was he gifted in any way. Them what heard him sing said it was punishment should be set for only the most black-hearted of folks. But one day while wandering, scouting for a new vein of metal for his village where he smithed, he come upon a hunting party of ogres."

Unconsciously, Pacys's fingers found the yarting's strings and played an accompaniment to Khlinat's words. The dwarf picked up on the rhythm, became trapped by it, and fell into cadence with it.

"They had him outnumbered, and surrounded in a trice. So Twahrm hit his knees and began singing of how he'd courted Haela Brightaxe, also called the Lady of the Fray, and goddess of dwarven warriors. She'd spurned his love, he said, and he was ready to greet death. He sang of how much he would love to die and how pleased he was to see them. Meaning that he wouldn't have to die alone."