Forsaken by Shadows 24: Trials

To those who dream of publishing their work one day. May the wonder of writing never cease to bring you joy…

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Previously, on Forsaken by Shadows, from Rismyn’s point of view…

A full day has passed since we boarded the Songbreeze and began our journey to a destination unknown. I only know this because Torafein tells me. His knock wakes me, though I pretend otherwise, and at last, it seems like I will get some of the answers I have been craving.

But first, we discuss our last interaction, and I accuse him of failing to help me when Mazira was injured. He reminds me of all he did do, and I am forced to realize how ungrateful I have been for his help. Mazira and I would both be dead if not for him.

I work up the nerve to ask the questions I have been wondering: who is he, really? Why did he come for us? The answer is slightly lackluster. He is who he says he is, and he saved us because it’s his job. But as we keep talking, he reveals more about this job.

Torafein is like me. A dissenter. A Guide who seeks other dissenters and leads them somewhere safe. He then tells me we have even more in common; the reason he dissented is the reason I dissented; he fell in love with a faerie.

And of course, this is true for me, too, but I am mortified for him to say it so bluntly. Mazira sleeps soundly on my lap, but what if she hears him? What if she hears I love her and then hates me even more for it? I don’t even know if what I am feeling is really love and not just some perverse drow counterfeit. So I deny my feelings, and the story turns to his own personal tale of surface raids and injuries and the woman who spared him when she should have slain him.

I’m riveted by the tale, taking down every detail of love I can to analyze later. Maybe I am in love, but I still have much to learn about it before I blunder things further with Mazira.

And then we talk about me, and how Torafein knew well before I knew that I was different. But just as we get into it, the boat we are riding on suddenly lurches with a thunderous crash…

~9. Trials~

Everything was chaos.

Mazira cried out as her body slammed into the wall, her head protected by Rismyn’s body. Rismyn’s head was not so fortunate, smacking backward with an unpleasant crack. He bit out a curse, hunching forward and cradling his skull.

The cupboards were thrown open, their contents spilling out onto the floor. The chairs, including the one Torafein leaned on, clattered over. The master himself was knocked to his knees, but he managed to catch himself before he sprawled face-first into the bedframe. 

And then, everything went eerily still. The boat no longer seemed to be riding the currents. 

“What under the earth,” Torafein growled, picking himself up. “Are you alright?” 

Rismyn grunted a noncommittal answer as he rubbed the back of his head. Mazira pushed herself up on her hands and knees, her heart thundering. 

Toloruel had found them. She didn’t know what had happened, but this had to be his work. Her breath came so fast her lungs couldn’t catch the oxygen. She clutched her chest, her eyes riveted on Rismyn, pleading with him to understand, to know what this meant, and run. 

But Rismyn wasn’t looking at her. He stared after Torafein, who strode to the door, kicking a chair out of his way as he went. When at last he did turn to her, his glare softened to concern. “Are you hurt?” he asked, picking himself up and offering her a hand. 

Mazira shook her head, too afraid to feel pain. They needed to run. Why didn’t he understand they needed to run? The current slapped the side of the hull, an invitation to leap into the waters and slip away from danger. 

“Stay here,” Rismyn said. “I’ll see what happened.”

But that was a command Mazira could not obey. The fear was too much for her. As Rismyn moved carefully around the debris on the floor, Mazira hopped up and padded after him, wrapping Styx’s fancy coverlet around her head and shoulders as though it were an armored cloak. 

She made it as far as the door and peered out onto the deck. Torafein stood nearby, staring up at the place above the cabin, where Mazira remembered seeing a helm. Beyond the master, the three other warriors stood, blades in hand, eyes fixed on the front of the boat, which was raised strangely higher than it should have been. They must have struck a rock hidden beneath the waves.

“Styx,” the commander snarled. “What. Happened?” 

Mazira poked her head out a little farther and looked up. The tiefling stood just above her on the upper deck, staring stricken at the river, as though she expected the unseen rock to get up and strike them back. 

Which, being the Underdark, wouldn’t actually be surprising. 

“Uhm…” Styx said, as she spun her helm helplessly. “Oops?” 

Solaurin stood the most forward, leaning over the front of the boat with arms outstretched. His lips moved in silent song, his brows furrowed and eyes shut, as though in deep concentration. Yet if there was magic happening, Mazira could see no evidence of it. Whatever he was doing, it seemed not to be working.

Suddenly, his eyes snapped open, and he had just time to utter an astonished, “No,” before the water beneath the stern began to roil. 

The unseen rock was going to hit back, after all. 

“Brace yourselves!” The cleric cried, bounding back from his position. 

But there was no time to obey. Mazira clung to the door frame as the prow of the boat tipped higher and higher, threatening to capsize the whole vessel. The others slid and stumbled as what was once horizontal became vertical, grabbing onto whatever they could to keep from falling overboard. 

And then, from the black depths, it emerged. 

At first, all Mazira could see was a mound of jagged white stone, a round rock with several sculpted stalagmites jutting upward. But then the creature’s head emerged. Spiny, scaled, pearlescent flesh and a snout that narrowed into an eagle-like beak. The monster turned to look over its mountainous carapace, peering at them with one sightless, rose-colored eye. 

Then, it thrashed. The boat, which had been lodged between two ridges on its shell, shook loose, crashing back into the water with sickening cracks, as though it was splintering apart. 

Yet as the creature rounded on them, the boat remained miraculously intact. They careened towards the monstrosity as the river rushed ever onward. The creature raised two clawed arms and clamped down on either side of the hull, stopping their forward progress with a jolt. 

A voice echoed through the caverns, though the great maw never moved. A deep, ancient voice, as though the bones of Faerûn itself cried out. “Vermin…” it boomed. “Pests. Filthy little insects, polluting my waterways.” 

“It is Mendroktovin,” Solaurin called, scrambling to his feet. “The ancient dragon turtle.” The cleric spun until he found the commander. “Torafein! He is blind and unforgiving, hating all creatures other than himself. He cannot be reasoned with. This is a fight, not a negotiation.”

“What is that language?” The dragon turtle thundered. It spoke in Undercommon, but Solaurin had spoken in elvish. Mazira had barely registered the change in language–or even the surprise that she could still understand elvish–in the wake of the absolute terror evoked by the monster before them. “Worthless parasites. I will drag your bones to my garden and your gold to my trove.” 

The boat shuddered as Mendroktovin leaned forward, lowering his head and snuffling the air. Searching without seeing.

“Fan out, drive him back!” Torafein shouted, in elvish as well. The commander drew his own twin blades, and if he was afraid, he showed no signs of it.  “We don’t need to kill him, we just need to get past him.” He then turned to Rismyn and tossed one of the swords to him. “Just like we practiced,” he growled. “Number six.” 

Mazira had no idea what that meant, but Rismyn seemed to understand. He caught the sword, glanced at her briefly, and then shot forward like an arrow from a bow. The others charged forward as well. No hesitation. No fear.

It was insanity.

Yet they seemed to know what they were doing. Even Mazira’s untrained eye recognized a formation in their positions, a strategy to their movement. Rismyn followed one of the twins left, while Lina and the other brother went right. Torafein strolled boldly up the center, straight for the creature’s beak, his twirling sword flashing silver in the dim light leaking from Styx’s open cabin.

The dragon turtle’s head whipped back and forth between the pairs. His jaws snapped down where Rismyn and his companion dashed, but the nimble warriors leaped easily aside, catching themselves in the air with their levitation magic and skyrocketing towards the creature’s eye. 

Mazira flinched, even though they escaped. Her legs lost their strength and she sank to the ground, the blanket falling from around her shoulders. She’d dreamed of dying so many times, but now that she was facing death, she discovered how badly she truly wanted to live. 

Light blossomed in the cavern as a great ball of fire hurtled over her head, slamming into the creature’s face and making it hiss. Styx shrieked wordlessly, the cavern illuminating again as she summoned another ball of flames. 

The second fireball did its work, and the dragon turtle reared back, releasing the boat. He still barred their way with his massive carapace, however, so they crashed sidelong into his body, putting Mazira far closer to the beast than she would have liked. 

Mendroktovin snarled as Lina jumped from the deck and landed on his shell, working her way toward the softer flesh of his neck. He hardly seemed to notice her, as if she were an ant on a boulder.

Mazira could do nothing but stare in wide-eyed horror, until Solaurin’s hand rested on her shoulder, causing her to jump. 

“Come, child, on your feet,” he said. There was no denying the note of worry in his voice. “We may need to move quickly.” 

But Mazira couldn’t find the strength to stand. She watched as Rismyn dove again for the creature’s eye only to miss as it thrashed about, narrowly avoiding being smashed by Mendroktovin’s thick skull. “We’re going to die, aren’t we?” she whispered. 

“On your feet,” the cleric said again, gently hoisting her up. Which wasn’t an answer to her question. “You may hold onto me if you need to, we’ll help from right here.” 

“Help?” She looked up at him, bewildered, before she remembered she wasn’t supposed to look at drow. 

“Help,” the cleric agreed, taking her hands and placing them on his arm. She couldn’t resist clinging on for dear life, more afraid of the dragon than she was of him for the moment. “You’re more special than you realize, child. Sing with me. I suspect you know the words.” 

Mazira blinked, unable to comprehend his meaning. She didn’t have time to ponder it, either. The boat shook as the monster crashed one claw down into the water beside them, roaring incoherently. The warriors bobbed around his face, keeping it too busy to sink their boat. 

But their efforts appeared wasted. Most of the blades skimmed off of the dragon turtle’s scales, showering them with sparks. They stood no chance against the ancient being. 

How could she help? How could anyone help? 

Then, above the din of battle and terror, music filled the air. Solaurin’s voice, resonating with incomprehensible power, rang out loud and clear, and it was as though someone doused the flames of her fear with water. She was still afraid, still certain they were about to die, but something about the song soothed her nerves. Her legs began to shake less, at least. 

It was ludicrous. Now wasn’t the right time for music. But Solaurin seemed unphased, sweeping his free hand out as strange words and notes poured from his lips. 

And then a bolt of radiant light streaked from his palm, striking Mendroktovin in the chest and sending the dragon stumbling back a step. He howled in rage and turned his blood-colored eyes to the cleric. 

Mazira squeaked, but just as the monster opened his mouth, one of the twins landed on his head and finally succeeded in stabbing his blade into the eye. 

The dragon turtle roared and flailed, sending the warrior careening into the stone wall with a sickening crash. He slid down to the bank, his levitation spell ended. Mazira’s heart skipped several beats, even though he was a drow. Surely, he was now a dead drow. It didn’t seem fair. 

She wasn’t the only one concerned. Lina gave up her scrambling and leaped from the dragon’s shell to land beside the fallen warrior. There was a brief pause, and then the female helped the twin to stand, shaking his head as if shaking off a daze. Mazira surprised herself by breathing a sigh of relief. She supposed that was a good sign–her heart hadn’t completely withered away. 

Meanwhile, at her side, Solaurin never missed a note of his song. He could have been performing on a stage before a silent audience for all he reacted to the fight before them. It struck a chord in her soul, but she still didn’t understand what he had meant about her singing along. It was lovely, but it was alien. Even the rhythm seemed foreign to her, a pattern of notes she couldn’t predict. 

Another bolt of light streamed from the cleric’s hands. This time it coated the monster in white flames. Very much like the spell she herself accidentally cast on Toloruel’s wizard. Her breath caught as she marveled at the light. Was it possible she had cast real magic before? 

Could she do it again? Was that what Solaurin had meant? But how could he know? 

“Foolish little minnows,” Mendroktovin boomed as he shook off the fire. “You cannot move me with your pathetic spells. I am Mendroktovin! The great Sea Dragon!” 

“You’re not in the sea!” shouted a twin. It had to be Beltel, which meant the one beside Lina was Belnir. “But if you’d like, we can point you on your merry way.” 

The dragon roared and spun his head in the warrior’s direction, but Beltel had already pushed off of a stalactite and changed positions. A good thing, too, for one swipe of Mendroktovin’s claw turned the stalactite to rubble. 

Solaurin shook his head, whether in frustration or disappointment, Mazira couldn't tell. But he continued to sing, and the melody changed to a haunting, ethereal sound. More fire rained down from Styx, and in between it all, the warriors darted like deadly shadows. 

And all of it accomplished nothing. The dragon barely bled, and the boat barely moved. 

Her chest ached as she longed to do more, and her eyes hurt from the strain of trying to discern Rismyn from among the swarming warriors. He had to be okay. She needed him to be okay. 

Please, she thought–no, prayed–to whoever might listen. Please keep him safe! I need him! 

The only thing more terrifying than losing her own life was escaping without Rismyn.

She watched hopelessly as the warriors struck blow after useless blow and magic ricocheted into nothingness. Her hands gripped the cleric so tightly he was probably going to lose circulation soon, but she barely noticed. She wouldn’t have been able to let go even if she had.  

She was worthless, after all. Once more unable to do anything but watch as the only person left in the world she cared for fought and bled for her. 

Again.

He should have abandoned her in Menzoberranzan. Any fate was better than this fate. 

And then, all at once, Mazira realized something startling. She did know the words to the song Solaurin was singing. 

Shocked, she let go of the cleric and clapped her hands over her mouth, terrified of the sudden revelation. It was impossible. She didn’t know the language, and she knew she didn’t know the tune. Yet somehow, the words burrowed deep in her heart, begging to be sung. Not the melody, but a harmony to accompany Solaurin. Like how her mother and father used to sing together, blending notes into a more impressive sound. The words of the song clawed at her throat as if they would force themselves from her lips if she dared to remain silent. 

But she was too afraid to oblige. The lyrics were painful, burning her inside even as Styx’s fire burned outside. They would consume her if she didn’t release them, but the terror of not understanding what was happening kept her lips sealed shut. 

For the first time since he began, Solaurin paused in his music, glancing down at her with concern in his eyes. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

But Mazira only shook her head. She didn’t trust herself to open her mouth, lest the strange drow words escape and wreak havoc. How could she be certain they would help, and not hinder? What would the music do to her if she sang them? The last time she cast magic, it had blinded Rismyn. What if she hurt him again? 

“Look out!” Torafein shouted, and Mazira temporarily forgot her new fear as the old came crashing back. 

Mendroktovin had opened his maw, his head pointed directly at Lina and Belnir, who still stood on the bank of the river. Smoke poured from jaws–no, not smoke. 

Steam.

Belnir jumped aside, but Lina’s ankle rolled and she fell to one knee. 

Time seemed to slow as Mazira looked on in horror. Mendroktovin’s scalding breath streamed from his mouth, a massive cone of boiling death. Lina looked up, her face as grim and blank as ever, as though accepting her fate. 

But before the white cloud could touch her, Belnir suddenly returned, dropping in front of her and throwing his arms around her just as the steam enveloped them. 

“Lina!” Beltel shrieked. “Belnir!” 

“No,” Solaurin whispered, shocking Mazira with the amount of emotion that one word could hold. 

The stream of broiling fog ended as Mendroktovin broke off in wheezing laughter. 

Mazira rushed to the side of the boat with Solaurin to get a better view of the bank. They were joined by Styx, who was muttering under her breath and making strange signs with her hand. 

Belnir curled around Lina, shielding the female warrior completely with his own body. Half of his armor had burned away, and in some places, it looked like half of his skin, as well. Slowly, very slowly, he stood, staggering back. His hair had fallen from its high-tail and he stared unseeingly at the ceiling. 

Lina jumped to her feet, apparently unscathed, and reached out to catch the male, but she missed as gravity took him. He fell, unmoving, into the currents. 

Lina screamed. 

It was the first sound Mazira had ever heard her make. Heart-wrenching and agonizing. The female warrior dove into the river after her fallen companion. 

“No, no, no,” Solaurin was saying, and he began to pull at his robes as if he intended to dive in, as well. 

“Stay in position!” Torafein commanded, and it wasn’t only the cleric he had been speaking to. Beltel and Rismyn had both dropped towards the black waters. “This fight isn’t over!” 

He wasn’t wrong. As he said it, a swipe of a claw knocked him back. Styx let out a squawk and dove toward him, chanting as she cast a spell that slowed the momentum of the master. 

Solaurin shook his head, and his mask of calm returned. “He is right. See, Lina already has him. Time! What is the time?” he looked around, as if someone was there to tell him, then began counting seconds. “fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen…” 

Mazira didn’t understand why. Her eyes bounced between the bedraggled Lina who had surfaced with Belnir’s body and the warriors who still hovered around the dragon’s face. At Torafein’s command, Rismyn and Beltel had broken off their descent and returned to their original task, which Mazira could only assume was to be as annoying as possible to the dragon turtle. If it were anything else, they were failing miserably. 

Still, it was now easy to tell which warrior was which. Beltel struck with a new level of ferocity that Rismyn couldn’t match. 

“thirty-six, thirty-seven, thirty-eight…”

Mazira glanced back at the cleric. He was still counting, his eyes fixed on Lina as she dragged Belnir towards the boat. His hands gripped the deck railing so hard she was surprised the wood didn’t splinter. 

There had to be something she could do. Something that didn’t involve the music still hovering on her tongue. Mazira whipped her head around, and then saw it. A knot of rope crumpled off to the side. She recognized it for what it was–a net. Mazira hurried to it.

She grabbed the net and tugged, and mercifully it wasn’t snagged on anything. Quick as she could, she dragged it back to Solaurin, just as Lina made it to the side of the boat.

“Forty-nine–what are you doing?” The cleric broke off, as Mazira flung the net overboard and shoved part of it at him. 

Mazira flinched, suddenly self-conscious. It had seemed like such a good idea in the moment. “Helping…” she said, in a voice that resembled a mouse’s squeak. “I just thought….well...we need to help them up.” 

Solaurin stared for a full second, before slapping his palm to his forehead. “You are right, and I am a fool. Lina can’t levitate.” He grasped the net and glanced down into the water. 

Mazira was so stunned by his words she almost forgot what she was doing. Then the dragon turtle roared again and she was jarred into action. She looked down and saw that Lina had apparently understood the message clearly. She had grabbed on and secured herself and Belnir. 

Together, they heaved at the net. Her arms screamed with the effort of it. Two soaking wet, fully armored drow warriors were anything but light. Even when Styx ran back to help, it was miserable work. If it wasn’t for the sheer adrenaline pushing her onwards, Mazira would have collapsed long before Lina and Belnir reached the deck. 

But at last, they toppled over the rail. Lina disentangled herself and rolled Belnir onto his back. Her eyes were wide, panicked, as Solaurin knelt over the body. 

And body was all that was left. Mazira gasped and put a hand to her heart as she recognized the lifeless look in Belnir’s eyes.

They were too late. 

But the cleric didn’t seem the least bit deterred. “Quickly now,” he said, reaching within the folds of his robes and pulling out a small leather pouch. “It’s going to be close. Lina, dear, stay with me. I’ll need your help.” 

Mazira looked on as if she watched from another plane of existence. Surely, this was no longer the Underdark, and these were not drow before her. Lina clutched Belnir’s hand, tears streaking down her cheeks. 

She was crying.

Over a male. 

A male who had protected her, at the cost of his own life. Drow didn’t do that–not for their matrons, not for their lovers. Loyalty existed only as far as it made a difference in survival. Mazira hadn’t even believed it was a trait Rismyn possessed until his actions during their recent run-in with Toloruel proved otherwise. 

Could it be possible that Rismyn was right about these strangers? 

The cleric poured the contents of the leather bag onto the dead warrior’s chest. Small, shiny stones, as clear as water. If Mazira didn’t know better, she would have thought they were diamonds. But they couldn’t be–who walked around with a pocket full of diamonds? 

“Styx, you must protect us,” Solaurin said, “this will take all my focus.”

The tiefling ripped her eyes away from the corpse and bounded off. Her hands crackled with lightning as she went. 

Mazira’s attention was caught between the battle that raged on and the scene of strange mourning that spread out before her. Solaurin pressed the stones over Belnir’s heart. Then, as she had come to expect, he began to sing. 

As the first notes echoed around the chamber, Lina’s trembling stilled. She leaned down over her fallen companion, trailing her fingers along his face. The moment felt intimately personal, and Mazira flushed, wondering if she ought to look away. 

Yet at the same time, Solaurin’s song sunk its claws into her skin and she couldn’t turn away. Even as she glanced back at the furious dragon turtle, she kept coming back to the cleric whose words pulled so forcefully at her soul. 

She wanted to sing along. 

When she glanced back at the dragon turtle again, she froze. 

His head swiveled in their direction. His maw dropped open and steam began to build in his throat. 

Solaurin didn’t look up from his work, even when Mazira clung to his arm to try and pull him away. He just shook her off. He didn’t seem at all alarmed that they were about to meet the same fate as the warrior he was spinning magic over. Even Lina seemed unconcerned, as she stared intently down into Belnir’s face. 

Mazira’s heart thundered. She wanted to run away and leave the drow to their own fate, but something about that seemed inherently wrong. She looked back up at the dragon as the steam continued to gather and threw her hands out, opening her mouth to scream at it to go away, despite how useless the effort would be. She couldn’t stop herself–it was instinct. 

But it wasn’t a scream that escaped her lips. 

It was a song. 

A high, piercing note of pure terror and rage. It rang out clear and strong, so different from her usual voice that she almost didn’t realize it was her who made the sound. But when her first note resolved into a cascade of falling rhythms, there was no mistaking it. She was singing, like the cleric behind her, only with different words. 

Her words.

She’d finally gone mad. 

Fortunately, no one would ever find out. The moment the first pitch escaped her chest, the entire cavern erupted in a chorus of voices. Beautiful, sonorous female voices, which echoed hauntingly all about the stone walls. 

Mazira fell backward, stunned, and collapsed beside Solaurin as light blossomed in the darkness. It was as though the sun had risen under the earth. But the light wasn’t harsh or blinding. Rather, it was gentle and suffused, illuminating the world in the natural spectrum so softly that even the drow didn’t flinch. 

It took her a moment to realize that the light had formed around, spreading out in a sphere that encompassed Solaurin and Lina, as well. And just like before, she felt the light like it was a part of her, as though ceasing to think about it would make it cease to be.

Had her song done this? Had she summoned this light and these voices?

The dragon turtle hissed, the steam building in his maw dissipating as the dew before the dawn. He shook violently and whipped his head away from them, as the new female voices grew louder and louder, until the song hummed in Mazira’s bones. But where was this music coming from?

She squinted through the bubble of light until finally, she saw them. A dozen or so women appeared from the shadows, wreathed in radiant light. Their armor gleamed supernaturally and they carried silver-glowing swords, emanating music as though it followed them like a breeze.

Mazira stared in awe. Could this have been her work? A conjuring of spirits to aid them? Even from her vantage, the strangers were striking and regal, like the celestial beings her mama had told her about. They seemed to dance more than fight, twirling about the dragon’s head with deadly elegance.   

Styx let out a cry of delight, the lightning fizzling out in her hand as she turned her grin on them. “Do you see that?” she said, when she caught Mazira’s eye. “Songblades. We’re saved! Praise your goddess, Solaurin!”

Songblades?

Mazira blushed. Of course the women weren’t her conjuring. Whatever had possessed her to think she could wield such power? Her heart sank as she regarded the sphere that was tethered to her soul. Her actual conjuring. What was this, anyway? A shield like she’d given Rismyn? What would that have done against the breath of a dragon?

She wasn’t magic. She was just lucky.

But if luck kept her alive, she’d take it.

Suddenly, Solaurin’s hand grasped her own, jarring Mazira from her swirl of emotions. She tensed, but he wasn’t looking at her. He was still singing, all his concentration focused on Belnir’s body. Magic pulsed under his skin, inviting her to join in with his song.

Though the contact startled her, she didn’t jerk away. Instead, she drew into the cleric’s presence. He wasn’t Rismyn, but he loved music, so that made him the safest, for now. In the chorus of soprano voices, his song was easily discernible as the only tenor. Her harmony part thrummed in the gaps between his melody line. But even after everything, even after the sudden arrival of singing warriors, she still hesitated to sing with him.

Three of the armored women dropped onto the deck and rushed to their side. Mazira flinched as a hand reached past her to touch Belnir’s shoulder. 

The skin was black. The woman was a drow. Not angelic after all.

Then, to her dismay, the woman began to sing the very harmony Mazira had been meant to sing. It struck like a slap, hearing those words come from another’s lips. She had thought the song was her own. The other two newcomers joined in, forming a true and proper quartet. 

Mazira’s own desire to sing melted away, and with it the sphere of light she had conjured. Shame welled in its place. She had missed out on something. She could feel it in her core.

The quartet raised their pitches to what she knew was a climactic finish, and then—

—Belnir gasped as life surged back into his corpse. 

Mazira yelped, her free hand covering her mouth quickly to stifle the sound. She’d guessed the intent of the cleric, but she didn’t actually believe it could be done. There was something tremendously unsettling about watching death recede like the tides. It wasn’t natural, and yet, somehow, it seemed right. 

No one else seemed to be bothered by it, however. The singers broke off into cheers, clapping one another on the shoulder. They chattered in elvish, so fast the meaning of the words washed over Mazira without properly sticking. 

Belnir coughed and tried to sit up, but Lina pounced on him and they both crashed back to the deck. Two of the women laughed and went to assist, as Solaurin and the third rose to their feet. With her hand still grasped in Solaurin’s, Mazira rose with him. 

“Well met, Satara,” Solaurin said, releasing Mazira to clasp the woman’s forearm.

As if they were equals. 

“Your timing could not be better,” he continued. 

The woman nodded briskly. “We’re not out of it yet,” she said, glancing back to the still-raging monster. “Is that Mendroktovin? By the Great Sister, what is he doing this deep in the caves?”

Solaurin merely shrugged, far more at ease than Mazira felt the situation warranted. “Troubling us, apparently.” 

“So it seems,” the woman agreed, grimly. She clapped her hands together. “We shall send him back upstream. Ready yourselves to make a break for it. Leave the brute to us.” Then, she strode forward, drawing the saber at her hip. “Rivermaster, take up your place! Commander, call back your patrol.”

As the commands echoed through the cavern, everything changed. Styx leapt back to the helm. Torafein shouted his own orders, and–rather reluctantly–Rismyn and Beltel broke off their attacks and returned to the deck. 

The singing women prevailed upon the dragon turtle, driving him farther and farther back. The ones who had helped to revive Belnir joined in the fray. Their swords flashed and their songs spun ribbons of white fire around the creature.

It was breathtaking to witness. They were beauty, power, and grace incarnate.

And they were undoubtedly all drow. 

As soon as their feet hit the deck, Rismyn and Beltel rushed to them. They were both bleeding from various cuts and breathing heavily, but considering what Toloruel had recently done, Mazira thought they looked quite alright.

Beltel dropped beside his brother and helped him to stand. Rismyn went straight for her. 

“Are you hurt?” he asked, grabbing Mazira by the shoulders and looking her up and down. 

“N-no,” she stammered, surprised by the intensity of his gaze. 

He pulled her into a tight embrace. “It’s going to be okay,” he whispered in her ear, before releasing her and turning towards Torafein, who had joined them. 

But Torafein’s attention was back up at Styx. “What’re your orders, Rivermaster?” 

“Just hold on,” Styx called back, her face contorted with determination.

As the warrior-women rained down their relentless attacks, Mendroktovin gave back their ground. The boat turned the right way around and rushed through the now open channel. It bounced and smacked the breakers of the churning rapids so hard that Mazira lost her footing and fell against Solaurin, who put gentle arms around her. 

Mendroktovin was still thrashing, but the Songbreeze was a formidable boat. It pierced straight through the narrow gap, groaning as it scraped against the hard scales of the monster and the stone on the other side. 

Mazira was too afraid to look, so she buried her face in the robes of the cleric and felt desperate prayers escape her heart. 

And then, entirely too suddenly, the thrashing boat settled.

A cheer rang out, and Mazira dared to look. They had made it past the dragon turtle and sailed in open waters, rounding a stone bend that blocked the fight completely from their sight. They could still see the glow of the light and hear the singing and the angry shouts of their enemy, but it seemed more and more like a distant nightmare with each passing second. 

“Well done, Styx,” Torafein called. The sheer relief was evident in his voice. Then he turned and surveyed them all. “Well done, everyone.”

Rismyn beamed under the praise, until he looked back and saw her, still clinging to Solaurin. His delight turned sour and he came briskly towards them. 

Then–Mazira wasn’t entirely sure how it happened–she found herself being supported by him instead of the cleric. 

“You fight well, Rismyn Tear,” Solaurin said, clasping his shoulder as though he hadn’t noticed Rismyn’s dark expression. “Fit right into formation. Top of your class?” 

Rismyn blinked, clearly taken aback, and some of his edge softened. “No, I couldn’t make it past sixth seat.” 

“We all fight better once we decide what’s worth fighting for,” Torafein said, as he came to stand near them. He had a nasty cut on his forehead that he didn’t seem the least bit concerned about. “Is everyone alright?” 

“Perfectly fine,” Belnir said, though his voice sounded strangled and he leaned heavily on Beltel. Lina hovered about his elbow, reminding Mazira of a doting mother hen. “Sorry–I think I blacked out for a minute, what just happened?” 

“Blacked out?” his brother cried. “Belnir, I’m fairly certain you died.” 

“I–what!?” Belnir glanced around incredulously, laughing a little as though he thought it was a jest. “No, I didn’t.” 

He received only somber stares in return.

“Wait, you’re serious?” Belnir looked significantly less certain. “I actually died?”

“Well, yes,” Solaurin sighed, rubbing his forehead, “technically you were briefly dead.”

Belnir looked down at himself, still astonished as he patted his torn armor. “But–how–you resurrected me?” 

“Actually, it was a group effort,” the cleric mused. “Myself and Lina, and then Satara and two of my songsisters. And of course, Mazira.” 

Mazira started as every crimson-drow eye fell on her. Her face flushed and she shrank into Rismyn. “What? No, I didn’t help,” she squeaked. She wished they wouldn’t stare at her so. “I...I didn’t sing the song...” Even though she knew it. And she should have.

“True,” Solaurin allowed, “but you did sing a song of Sanctuary–no, do not deny it. I heard your words and we all saw your magic. Satara and the others may have arrived at just the right moment, but it was your spell that turned Mendroktovin’s steam breath away.” 

The entire mood of the circle changed with his words. The others stood a little straighter, regarding her with newfound curiosity or wonder. Rismyn’s arm was draped around her waist, and he squeezed her a little tighter. When she looked at him, she was surprised to see him brimming with pride. 

“No, you’re mistaken,” Mazira said, and then realized she corrected a drow. She trembled and held even tighter to Rismyn, her eyes dropping to her toes.

“I am often mistaken about many things,” Solaurin said, “but in this instance, I am not.” He stepped forward and extended a hand to her, as he had to the woman, Satara. 

As if they were equals.

Mazira didn’t move to accept. 

Solaurin didn’t seem to mind, however, but kept his arm outstretched as if patiently waiting. “Do you know how we found you out in the Wilds?”

Mazira shook her head, afraid of where this might be going. She wished Rismyn would say something, anything to intercede on her behalf. Instead, he just stood there, looking as fascinated as the rest of them.  

“I received a vision,” the cleric said. “Not of Rismyn–though we are all very glad to have found him, as well,” he added with a nod to Rismyn. “The vision I had was of you. Calling to the darkness for help. We were sent to save you, specifically. Though again, I cannot stress enough our relief at finding two of you.”

Mazira chanced to look at every one. The attention was unbearable, smothering. The words sliced away at her heart. Though everything in her railed against the possibility, screeching at her to remember that hope was a slow poison, she found herself accepting a very disturbing thought. 

She kind of believed him. 

“I...don’t understand,” she finally managed to breathe. 

“You don’t have to understand yet,” Solaurin said. “All you need to know for now is this: My dear child, you are not a slave to anyone. You are extraordinary, a treasure. You are a chosen cleric of Eilistraee.”

His arm remained outstretched, and Mazira felt her own hand rising to meet his. She didn’t remember making the conscious choice. She didn’t know what he meant, nor who the deity he named was, but strangely that didn’t matter. Her hand rose higher until she clasped his forearm as if in a formal greeting. 

As if they were equals.

Solaurin beamed. “Welcome, sister. We will teach you all the songs.”

Disclaimer: Forsaken by Shadows is unofficial Fan Content permitted under the Fan Content Policy. Not approved/endorsed by Wizards. Portions of the materials used are property of Wizards of the Coast. ©Wizards of the Coast LLC.