The Chaos Gate, page 1
Table of Contents
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XXIV
Chapter XXV
Chapter XXVI
Chapter XXVII
Chapter XXVIII
Chapter XXIX
Chapter XXX
Chapter XXXI
Chapter XXXII
THE BARD’S TALE
THE CHAOS GATE
JOSEPHA SHERMAN
BAEN
The Prodigal's unwilling return
The Dark Elf Naitachal, once a Necromancer who gained power by depriving others of their life forces, is now happy in the more peaceful role of Bard. But shadows from his past linger. Naitachal's Dark Elf clan sees him as the worst of traitors for daring to turn towards the Light. They mean to take revenge.They create a trap, the Chaos Gate, a sorcerous portal that is meant to draw him into their lands and into their power.Only Kevin, once Naitachal's apprentice, now a full Bard and Count in his own castle, stands between the Dark Elf and certain doom. But can even the powers of Bardic Magic be enough to vanquish the Darkness?
BARD ON THE RUN
A Dark Elf laughed. A hand clamped roughly on his left arm, but Kevin gave in the direction of the pull, spinning left and driving his elbow into his invisible assailant. He was rewarded with an “oomph!” and a loosened grip that allowed him to tear free as he continued his leftward spin until he was facing in his original direction. He plunged on, struggling through forest so dense it was as if he were caught in a nightmare, gasping, aching, legs trembling, unable to hurry even though something monstrous was right behind.
But the Dark Elves, quicksilver though they were, were still in tangible bodies; they couldn’t get through that tangled underbrush any faster than Kevin—or not much faster. His lead had narrowed dangerously, but it remained a lead, and maybe he could—
“Aie!”
He’d slipped through another shard of Gate—and suddenly his feet trod emptiness. He was sliding over a cliff’s edge! A river roared far below. Kevin twisted desperately about, grabbing blindly at whatever came to his hand, releasing as it gave and grabbing at something else, clawing his frantic way back up—
He made it. For a moment Kevin could do nothing but lie flat, clinging to nice solid ground. When at last he felt strong enough to open his eyes, a wall of coldly smiling Dark Elves stared back.
THE BARD’S TALE SERIES
Castle of Deception by Mercedes Lackey & Josepha Sherman
Fortress of Frost and Fire by Mercedes Lackey & Ru Emerson
Prison of Souls by Mercedes Lackey & Mark Shepherd
The Chaos Gate by Josepha Sherman
The Chaos Gate
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 1994 by Josepha Sherman
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.
A Baen Books Original
The Bard’s Tale characters and descriptions are the sole property of Electronic Arts and are used by permission. The Bard’s Tale is a registered trademark of Electronic Arts.
Baen Publishing Enterprises
P.O. Box 1403
Riverdale, NY 10471
ISBN: 0-671-87597-3
eISBN: 978-1-62579-569-4
Cover art by Larry Elmore
First printing, April 1994
Distributed by Paramount Publishing
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
Printed in the United States of America
Acknowledgment
With thanks to Jim Baen,
for the tone-deaf elf!
Chapter I
Old Friends
Swords clashed together, the hard, clear sound cutting through the cool morning air, echoing off the castle walls. Kevin, once merely a lowly bardling, now Count Kevin, Bard Kevin, struggled to keep the upper hand, but the dark-clad, hooded figure he fought continued to drive him inexorably back across the smooth cobbles of the courtyard. All around him, Kevin knew, various guards and servants were keeping a bemused eye on their lord as they went about their work.
Wonderful. And all I seem to be doing is parrying and parrying again. He’s just too inhumanly fast, curse it!
All at once, though, his opponent stepped back and lowered his sword. “Not bad, Kevin. Not bad at all.”
“Not bad!” Kevin echoed wearily, brushing back damp reddish strands of hair from his face with his free hand. “Naitachal, this is ridiculous. All we did just now was wear ourselves out. It wasn’t working at all!”
“Hush, now,” the other murmured. “It was.”
“Oh, nonsense.”
“It was, I say.” Naitachal pushed back his hood, shaking free a silky, silvery fall of hair, revealing a dark-skinned, ageless, sharply planed face: the classic, coldly elegant face of a Dark Elf. Only the clear blue eyes, bright with joyous life, proved that he, alone of all his kin, belonged to the Light. Slipping a companionable arm around Kevin’s shoulders, the elf added softly, “We agreed that till we had hard proof no one else should think this was anything other than a duel between friends.”
“Well, yes, but—”
“And it was only a theory, after all.”
“Yes, but…” Frustrated, Kevin let his voice trail off as a servant approached, and he wiped his blade clean with a soft scrap of cloth the man offered him. This wasn’t a war sword, of course, though for a practice blade it was sharp enough; the White Elves never did anything by half-measures. Still, Kevin admitted, glancing down at the intricately woven guard, he never would have dared study advanced swordplay at all if it hadn’t been for this beautifully wrought gift of theirs. It very cleverly shielded his precious hands, which, along with talent, were a musician’s most important asset.
The practice blade, and its matching war blade, had come from the Moonspirit Clan in gratitude for the kindness he had shown their deceased kinsman. Eliathanis, Kevin thought with a sudden sharp little pang of sadness, remembering the proud, heroic, doomed elven warrior, then determinedly blocked the past from his mind. It had, after all, been over four years since he and a mismatched little group of adventurers, including Eliathanis, had set out to rescue a count’s stolen niece and ended up defeating the half-fairy, thoroughly evil, Princess Carlotta.
“Naitachal,” he said suddenly, “this isn’t all some sort of elven jest, is it? Do you really believe we can turn my swordplay into a form of Bardic Magic?”
Naitachal shrugged. “Why not? It’s not any stranger than a Dark Elf turning Bard!”
Kevin had to grin at that. Naitachal was most certainly the only one of his kind ever to harbor a love of music, let alone show a blazing talent for it. “Yes, but—”
“You’re beginning to sound like a poorly trained parrot,” the Dark Elf teased. “ ‘Yes, but, yes, but.’ Why do you think Master Aidan let me come here?”
Kevin laughed outright. “Because you’ve been driving him mad.”
“Oh, I have not!”
“Don’t give me that look! I received a message from him a few months back all about you.” The message, conveying the Master Bard’s wry tone beautifully, had told Kevin, “A fanatically determined elf with equally phenomenal raw talent can learn a skill far more quickly and thoroughly than any mere, lowly human. He’s a full Bard now, just like you—and he’s just as much of a ‘let’s go have an adventure’ nuisance!”
“Never mind. Kevin, we went over this before: Since swordplay has its own definite rhythm, and since you are a Bard who has mastered the basic moves quite gracefully—for a human—you may very well be creating a new form of Bardic Magic just by duelling. And it was working,” Naitachal continued seriously before Kevin could interrupt. “Something happened when you used the Maladan Maneuver.”
Kevin raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Such as what?”
“Such as the fact that just for a moment I found you drawing me into a dancelike pattern I couldn’t help but finish. For that matter,” the elf added thoughtfully, “at that same moment it was actually difficult to look at you.”
“That’s because he’s a human!” came a shrill taunt. “The ugly things are always tough to look at!”
Kevin glanced up at a small, sharp-faced figure, her glittery wings an iridescent blur as she hovered just out of reach. By now, he knew better than to retort. These days, Tich’ki might be the aide of D’Krikas, the castle seneschal, but that rank had hardly dampened her quirky, nasty sense of humor. She remained as fiery-tongued a little menace as ever; as far as Kevin knew, only the woman warrior, Lydia, Tich’ki’s sometime travelling companion and now the castle’s commander-in-chief, had ever managed to get the last word.
“Not all of us have the elegance of a fairy,” the Bard told the fairy with wry courtesy, and heard her snicker.
“Or th
“I’d have him,” Kevin finished, then shrugged. “It’s a nice thought, but who knows? We’re making up the rules here, and—ah, now what?”
It was usually pleasant being a count; Kevin couldn’t deny he enjoyed holding a noble title and overseeing the running of a castle, particularly since in these four years he hadn’t made any really bad errors. People here seemed to truly like him. But there were times when he could almost wish he was a nobody again, responsible for no one but himself. Folks were always after a count! If D’Krikas wasn’t cornering him to discuss in tedious detail this edict or that, it was Commander-in-Chief Lydia wanting him to oversee the new guard’s testing. Or maybe it was the castle baker, bypassing the seneschal to complain directly to the count about the quality of wheat (arguing that since D’Krikas didn’t eat bread, D’Krikas could hardly understand the fine points of its baking), or the farrier worrying that the current shipment of iron was underweight (even though D’Krikas could judge each ingot’s weight to a hairbreadth’s accuracy), or—or—
Kevin bit back a frustrated sigh. First and foremost, he was a Bard, with the music burning in him, aching to be used. But now that he’d finally earned that status, now that he’d mastered Bardic Magic, there was barely enough free time in a day for him to keep his fingers nimble enough to play anything!
And nowhere came this messenger from the royal court—no. This road-weary man wasn’t wearing King Amber’s livery. Puzzling over just who outfitted their servants in quartered blue and yellow, Kevin watched Lydia, her decidedly female form nicely outlined by her just-this-side-of-tight leather armor, her curly black hair barely restrained by a leather circlet, lead the man this way. The woman was a coolly competent warrior, but she had her rough, bawdy side. And Kevin didn’t like the mischievous glint he saw in her dark eyes.
“That would be Count Trahern’s livery,” a dry, precise voice said suddenly. Kevin glanced back over his shoulder to see a tall, never-human form towering over him, its shiny, chitinous green skin glinting in the sunlight. D’Krikas, seneschal to Kevin and the two counts who’d preceded him, was Arachnia, not human, totally honorable and as coolly logical and fastidious as all that race. “And that is most certainly Count Trahern’s coat-of-arms on the man’s breast,” the being continued. “You do remember who Count Trahern is?”
It was impossible to read expression in those glittering, segmented eyes, but Kevin frowned at the touch of condescension in D’Krikas’ voice: the Arachnia had a seemingly inexhaustible knowledge of courtly detail—and expected the same of Kevin. “Of course,” the Bard said shortly. “His lands lie due north of here.”
“Indeed. Now, let us see…His messenger carries no parchments with him, nor do any of his servants. Count Trahern has one child, a daughter. I believe her name is Gwenlyn, and she is of what humans consider marriageable age. Therefore,” D’Krikas decided, “the man has most likely come to this castle with a miniature of that daughter, and most probably an offer of marriage.”
Kevin groaned. “Not another one!”
Lydia had come close enough to hear that, and grinned widely at him. ‘That’s it. Another lovely, lonely lady languishing for your love.”
Naitachal, eyes full of amusement, gave her a sweeping bow of appreciation. “Couldn’t have said that better myself.”
Kevin glared at him. “I thought you were on my side.”
The Dark Elf blinked innocently. “But I am! I think a bit of romance would be just the tiling for you.”
“A bit of romance!” Kevin squawked. “Naitachal, they’re all trying to get me married!”
“Indeed.” D’Krikas, segmented arms folded neatly, was the very image of propriety. “Have we not been discussing this matter for some time?”
“Ohh yes.” The seneschal had been insisting for days that it was high time Kevin found himself a bride.
“Surely you see the need for such a thing?” D’Krikas asked in a voice that said he’d be a fool if he didn’t. “After all, you are a count. A count must have an heir, and as quickly as possible, to ensure the succession and protect his people.”
“I know, I know.” For some time Kevin had been flooded by other miniature portraits of other unmarried daughters. He might, the Bard thought cynically, be of humble origin, but there wasn’t a nobleman out there who didn’t think this upstart young count, King’s friend that he was, would make a valuable political ally. “I understand the whole thing, believe me. It’s just…”
“He’s scared!” Tich’ki jibed from overhead. “Poor little boy doesn’t know what to do. Wouldn’t even know what to do if a woman was plopped down in his bed!”
To his disgust, Kevin felt his face reddening. At nineteen, he was hardly the innocent he’d once been, but he had yet to learn how to keep his cursedly fair skin from betraying him. “I am not scared. I’m merely—”
“Terrified!”
“No! I only meant that—”
“I’m right, he wouldn’t know what to do! Woman had better bring a deck of cards to keep her amused—”
“Enough, Tich’ki!” Kevin snapped, and heard Lydia chuckle. Furious at himself for getting so flustered, Kevin snatched up the miniature the bewildered messenger was offering. Like all the others, the small portrait was far too stylized to show the young count much: the usual perfectly oval face, the usual perfectly groomed hair, dark and wavy in this case. Kevin was about to hand the miniature back with the blandly polite refusal he’d perfected during the last deluge of miniatures, but to his surprise found himself glancing down at it again. Funny, it really didn’t tell him much, but there was something hinted at in the set of those deep blue eyes that—
“You don’t have to memorize it,” Lydia teased. “No matter how hard you stare, it isn’t going to move.”
“Naw, it’s not that!” Tich’ki sneered. “He’s too scared to think, that’s all. Doesn’t know which end is which!”
“I said enough, Tich’ki!” Kevin snapped, glaring up, staring back down at the miniature, praying to stop blushing. There really was something intriguing about the set of those blue eyes, but he could hardly change his life because of a stylized portrait. He’d give it back and—
But just then Tich’ki drew in her breath for yet another taunt, and Kevin, to his shock, heard himself blurt out, “All right, the Lady Gwenlyn it shall be!”
Oh curse it all to Darkness, what made me say that? What have I gotten myself into now?
Too late to back down. Everyone around him was cheering, and Lydia was slapping him joyfully on his back. The messenger, face wreathed in smiles, bowed and bowed again.
“My master, Count Trahern, will be truly delighted, my Lord Count. As soon as I may, I shall return to him with the joyous news. Oh, and a portrait of you, of course, Count Kevin.”
“Of…course.”
But Kevin couldn’t help repeating in silent panic, What have I gotten myself into now?
###
As the days passed, Kevin found himself growing increasingly nervous. What had he done, what? A betrothal was as good as a marriage, everyone knew that, and by making that stupid declaration he’d as good as betrothed himself to—to whom? The Lady Gwenlyn? All he knew about her was that she was Count Trahern’s daughter, and he didn’t even know anything much about Count Trahern!
Meanwhile, of course, castle life had to go on. He had to continue being Count Kevin. Even if it meant being faced with the most awkward, embarrassing tasks. Like this one:
