BORDERLANDS

 

Merdrith stood on the docks of Kront, looking out over the deceptively calm waters of Ashane. A short, thick-bodied Ashanathi fisherman stood a few paces away, eyeing him with speculation. Despite the woolen cap concealing his head tattoos, the soot darkening his thin crimson beard, and his rough woodsman's garb, Merdrith had the look of Thay's wizard nobility. Red Wizards were slain on sight in Rashemen and were none too welcome in the bordering countries.

"You traveling alone?" the man asked.

"Passage for one," Merdrith confirmed.

"It'll cost you. I wasn't planning to dock in Rashemen and won't be coming near to any port town. I can set you ashore on the edge of the Ashenwood, about a day's walk south of Immilmar. Best I can do," he said defensively.

The wizard understood completely. While the fisherman didn't wish to lose a potential fare, neither did he want to risk angering his powerful neighbors. No doubt the wretch intended to stay overnight in Immilmar. He could sell the day's catch and warn the local fyrra of the suspicious outlander sighted walking northward along the shore. As it turned out, the proposed destination suited his purposes perfectly.

"Will ten Thesken gold suffice?" he asked, holding up a small deerskin bag.

The sailor's eyes widened with avarice. He snatched the offered payment and offered a gap-toothed grin. "Brunzel will stow your gear. Take a seat, get yourself a tarp cloak. In this season the winds coming off the Ashane could freeze the blood of a white dragon."

Merdrith already knew this. He had last stood on the banks of the Ashane in mid winter, as part of a band of Red Wizards charged with the suicidal task of attacking a witches' watch-tower and keeping the guardians occupied long enough to distract them from the main invading forces. Contrary to all expectation, the magic of these few Red Wizards had prevailed over the tower's witches.

Even though it shouldn't have.

This unexpected success still puzzled and intrigued Merdrith. It had inspired him to commit the first truly impulsive act of his life. He had killed his fellow wizards and claimed the tower's treasures for himself. A treasonous act, to be sure, but had he succeeded in his purpose he could have returned to his homeland in triumph to claim a zulkir's honors.

It seemed eminently clear to him that the unique spirit-magic of Rashemen had faltered. That was the only explanation for this victory. If he could discover the source of this new weakness and find a way to exploit it, the conquest of Rashemen and the destruction of her much-hated witches would finally be within Thay's grasp. This particular watchtower was said to be a treasure trove of magic and lorebooks. Merdrith had not been disappointed, and he had left the tower confident that he would find the answers he sought.

His booty had included a witch's staff, this one a wish-staff fashioned from ebony and elaborately carved. With it he had secured one of the most powerful and well-guarded hiding places in all of Rashemen, a place filled with its own treasures and secrets. By now he should have been sitting in council with the greatest of Thay's wizards.

Then came two unforeseen complications: a band of drow thieves and an interfering Rashemi warrior. The drow had come upon Merdrith's hiding place—a legendary magical hut—when he was out walking the forest in search of talkative ghosts. The dark elves had done battle with Merdrith's gnoll warriors, the busybody Rashemi, and the hut itself. He had returned from his forest ramble in time to see the last flurry of battle as the berserker warrior was encased in an icy shroud. The Rashemi had escaped his prison, foolishly following the drow through a magical portal. The wounded hut had also disappeared, as it was said to do upon taking any hurt. No one knew where it went on these occasions, but according to the lore it would heal itself and return with the next autumn equinox to resume haunting the Rashemaar forests.

With nearly a year to wait, Merdrith found himself bereft of his quest, his magic, and his homeland. If he returned to Thay without the secrets he sought, he would be executed as a traitor and deserter. Lacking a better idea, he fled to the west and took up a hermit's life in the High Forest, a place notorious for the number of portals into the Underdark.

His first attempts to make contact with the drow raiders had proved disastrous. There were in the High Forest small bands of dark elf females, self-righteous priestess-warriors whose goddess apparently held a dubious view of Merdrith's character and motives. He'd slain one of the troublesome black wenches, and in conversing with her spirit he learned of a battle in the subterranean realms of Skullport between a band of drow thieves known as the Dragon's Hoard, and yet another group of drow females.

One of these females was accompanied by a Rashemi warrior, and she was said to hold an artifact known as the Windwalker.

So Merdrith went to Skullport and sought the drow female, the Rashemi, and the band of thieves. The first two were long gone, but the new leader of the Dragon's Hoard readily agreed to form an alliance.

All was going well. Perhaps even a bit too well. The problem, to Merdrith's way of thinking, was in finding ways to delay the capture of Windwalker until its current guardians returned it to Rashemen.

For it was there, and only there, that the amulet could release its full power.

The fishing boat made straight for the shore. Its captain sent out a small skiff and a man to row the passenger ashore. Merdrith gave the oarsman a silver coin for his troubles then obligingly headed northward, walking a careful distance from the lake's edge. As soon as the fishing boat was out of sight, however, he turned into the shadows of the Ashenwood.

He found a small clearing and took a bag of birdseed from his belt. This he sprinkled in a wide circle, all the while singing an old Rashemaar folk song he'd coaxed from the ghost of a slain berserker. They were plentiful, these Rashemaar ghosts, and still full of boasting insults and superstitious chatter. Some of them, however, had inadvertently aided his research.

The rustle of leaves and the creak of bending branches announced the success of Merdrith's summons. He backed into the concealing underbrush and waited.

A Rashemaar hut stalked cautiously into the clearing on legs resembling those of a giant chicken. Despite its startling mobility, the structure was otherwise unremarkable, with its dark timbers and wattle-and-daub walls, thatched roof, and brightly painted shutters. These shutters were closed, further proof that the hut's legendary occupant was not in residence.

The hut made its way into the center of the birdseed circle and turned around a couple of times, perhaps to survey the surrounding forest or perhaps in ritual such as that performed by drowsy hounds. Whatever the case, it seemed satisfied. The massive legs folded and the magical dwelling settled down like a brooding hen.

Merdrith began to sing the song that had proven so effective months before.

"While the mistress is asleep, Chicken-legs a watch will keep. When the mistress wanders off, Chicken-legs will stand aloft. When the mistress comes again, Chicken-legs will let her in. Stara Baba casts this spell. Listen, hut, and hearken well."

There was a stirring at the door, where a small rug fashioned from many-colored rags softened the front stoop. The front edge of this rug rose into the air, fluttering rapidly as if vibrating in a sharp, strong wind. A resounding phhhht! filled the clearing. The hut's response was eerily reminiscent of a child taunting a lesser playmate. Merdrith scowled and reached for his wand.

A pewter plate came spinning out of the open window. It struck his hand, shattering bone and sending the wand flying end over end. While Merdrith danced and cursed, one massive clawed foot reached out and snared the wand, drawing it under the hut. The hut settled back down and waited, as if inviting him to do his worst.

The wizard had seen enough. He had tried to broach the hut's defenses before using every spell at his command. It had finally been a combination of the witch's ebony wish-staff and the children's song that had gained him entrance. Without Rashemaar magic to aid him, he would never get past the door.

This knowledge only increased his determination to get his hands on the Windwalker. Even if his proud Thayvian brothers refused to admit it, the only way to overcome Rashemen and her witches was with their own magic.

Brindlor was the last to arrive at the Dragon's Hoard's hidden camp, a cave that still held the musky stench of the bugbear the drow band had forcibly evicted. He found his current master arguing heatedly with Merdrith, their human wizard. A half-dozen drow lounged against the far wall, sharpening weapons or tossing dice as they awaited the outcome. Brindlor, as was his habit, lingered out of sight to listen and observe.

Merdrith was not an exceptionally tall man, though he topped Gorlist by at least a hand's span. His bald skull was tattooed in bright red patterns, and his thin, braided beard had been dyed an equally garish shade of crimson. At the moment its straggly appearance was emphasized by what appeared to be soot, the removal of which had been attempted in desultory fashion. Instead of wizardly robes, Merdrith wore a doeskin tunic haphazardly bedecked with pockets and loose leather britches that hung like jagged stalagmites around knee-high boots. A rag bandage was wrapped around one hand, which was braced with a crude splint. At first glance, the human appeared to be nothing more than an eccentric hermit. Gorlist believed otherwise. Brindlor hoped that the warrior was right.

"We should go directly to Rashemen," the wizard insisted. "The drow and her Rashemi companion are headed in that direction. Your fighters can lie in wait for them without concern that the Promenade Temple priestesses will again interfere."

Gorlist's scowl deepened. He did not like to be reminded of past failures. "I know the area, and the tunnels between here and there. It is a very long walk."

"That, I had assumed, is why you employed a wizard," Merdrith pointed out.

"You are a means to an end, no more," the dark elf said coldly. "Do not presume to instruct a drow warrior in battle strategy. Once a course of action has been decided, you will use magic toward its implementation."

"What is this strategy that your deathsinger will render in immortal prose?"

"Use the gem. Trace the female. When we find her, we kill her."

"Ah, yes," Merdrith said with arid sarcasm. "The famed subtlety of the dark elves."

A knife flashed into Gorlist's hand, and he pressed the point between the wizard's eyes. "Do the magic, old man, or I'll peel off those tattoos, and your scalp with them!"

The wizard shrugged and held out his good hand. Gorlist tore the bag of gems from his belt and spilled two of them into the human's palm.

Merdrith tossed the jewels into a shallow, stagnant puddle. The green water steamed and swirled, then settled down into a crystalline blue sheen as smooth as polished glass. Merdrith leaned over the scrying pool. After a moment a sardonic smile curved his lips.

"All my recent travels, and where should I find them but on my back stoop?" he murmured.

One of the warriors, a young male known as Ansith, looked up from his whet stone and grimaced. "Days of travel. More time wasted."

"We follow a wizard," Gorlist reminded him, "and we follow as wizards do."

He turned an inquiring stare upon Merdrith. In response, the human pointed toward the pool. Gorlist nodded then glanced toward the watchful drow. "Ansith, Chiss, and Taenflyrr, follow me. You too, Brindlor."

With that, he leaped into the scrying pool. The serene blue circle swallowed him without splash or ripple.

Impressed, Brindlor left his "hiding place" and followed the warriors through the portal. He dropped through a short span of darkness and landed in a crouch on the forest floor.

The deathsinger scanned his surroundings, noting that the moon was past its zenith, that a river played softly nearby. At the same moment, it occurred to him that the river's voice sang alone.

The night was far too silent. No predators snarled, no nightbird keened. Even the chorus of night insects, usually lifted in a raucous farewell to summer, had fallen silent.

The other drow had already disappeared into the forest shadows. Brindlor crept away from the almost imperceptible portal, edging his way carefully into a tall stand of ferns.

A green glow caught his eye, a light so faint that it blended easily into the dappled interplay of moonbeams and forest shadow. The source was Gorlist, who was crouched behind the moss-covered truck of a fallen tree. The dragon tattoo on his face shone with subtle green light.

Wild elation swept through Brindlor. There would be battle at last, and with a green dragon! That would be a song worth singing!

Gorlist turned a stern glare toward a massive, vine-shrouded tree and the trio of warriors who hid among the shadows. His fingers danced through the silent drow cant, unmistakably warning them off.

Astonishment, anger, and suppressed mutiny darted across the warriors' shadowed faces. Brindlor recognized these emotions, for they closely mirrored his own.

Couldn't Gorlist see that his fellow drow were restless, itching for combat? It was not natural for them to go so long without blood on their hands!

To Brindlor's surprise, however, the young drow obeyed the leader and held their places. The deathsinger watched with wistful eyes as the dragon—a juvenile, not an easy kill but a rousing night's entertainment all the same—slipped through the deep shadows.

Its long, undulating form found pathways among the thick forest that even an elf might miss, and its bright green scales gleamed in the moonlight. The soft whisper of its passing called to Brindlor as a night breeze might beckon trysting lovers. Blood-lust burned in the deathsinger's veins, the fierce instinct that prompted predator toward prey.

With great difficulty Brindlor held his position, remaining silent long after the dragon had disappeared. The tentative chirp of scattered crickets resumed and melded into a steady chorus.

Ansith exploded from his hiding place with a sweep of his frustrated sword, severing a handful of vines. He stormed over to the place where his leader lay hidden and kicked viciously at the log.

Gorlist was already on his feet and several paces away. He drew his sword and met the young drow's rushing attack with a deft sidestep, followed by a quick spin and an answering lunge at his opponent's hamstring. Ansith half-turned back toward him, sweeping his sword down to block the diving attack. He completed the turn and kicked high above the enjoined blades.

As Gorlist leaned away from the attack, Ansith followed hard with his other hand, which held a curved knife.

The leader seized the mutinous drow's wrist and gave it a vicious, bone-cracking twist, but Ansith used his weight as a weapon, throwing it against Gorlist. They fell together, twisted away, and rose catlike to their feet. They circled each other, watching for an opening.

Gorlist made a quick, jabbing feint, drawing a high parry. Before the swords touched, he ducked and drove back in, harder and lower. The point of his sword dived between the laces of Ansith's vest and touched the rippling muscle the young drow so proudly exposed. Just as quickly he swept the sword back and up, swatting aside Ansith's sword before parry could become attack. It was an astonishing display of speed: three forays against a single response.

Gorlist stepped back, a cocky smile on his face and his blade held almost casually in low guard position. "Tell me why I shouldn't kill you."

"Because you can't," the soldier said bluntly, not at all cowed by the bloodless coup his leader had just scored. His head lifted in pride and challenge. "No scars mar these arms, this body. I have never been bested in battle. As the red-haired elf woman pointed out, you cannot make that claim."

The smile dropped from Gorlist's face, and with a howl of rage he hurled himself at the younger warrior. The two fighters set to in a frenzy of slashing blades. The others gathered around to watch, twisted pleasure shining on their faces.

"The dark eye in a whirling storm of steel," murmured Brind-lor, watching his employer approvingly. He considered the phrase and nodded. It fit the general tone and tenor of the saga that was taking shape in his mind.

For many moments, Ansith managed to hold death at arm's length. Before he could falter, his brother Chiss joined the battle— not from any fraternal loyalty, Brindlor suspected, but from sheer frustrated bloodlust.

The drow bard frowned as he watched the uneven battle. He had no aversion to singing Gorlist's deathsong, but so far no one had offered to pay him for this feat. His own best interests lay in keeping Gorlist alive until the tale was told and the fees collected.

He glanced over at Taenflyrr and noted that the young warrior was considering him with cold, measuring eyes. Green dragon or not, it looked as if all of them would know battle tonight.

Before Brindlor could draw his sword, a soft, rising sound echoed through the trees, at first barely indistinguishable from the night winds. The deathsinger's trained ear divined its source at once.

"Hunting horns," he said, speaking just loud enough to be heard above battle.

The combatants immediately fell apart, panting and glaring at each other. They knew precisely what Brindlor meant, but the urge to fight and kill was not easily set aside.

"The hunting horns of Eilistraee," the deathsinger elaborated, "calling the Dark Maiden's followers to revelry or battle. I personally have no interest in the former, and I'm not sure whether the five of us would offer them much of a fight, either."

A second horn sounded, louder and closer. Two more answered, coming from each side of the small band.

Ansith backhanded a trickle of blood from his face and sneered at Gorlist. "The priestesses saved your life," he taunted.

"We will see that they come to regret it."

The retort came quickly, carrying with it the unmistakable promise of torture and death. Ansith's sneer melted away, to be replaced by an eager, almost comradely grin. He obviously read in Gorlist's words a closing of ranks, a shifting of focus from the internecine quarrel to the foe shared by all.

Ah, to be young and stupid, mused Brindlor with malicious amusement.

The deathsinger noted Gorlist's answering scowl and marked how it faltered before the obvious delight of his soldiers.

Brindlor suppressed a smile. Perhaps Gorlist was beginning to understand how his father, the brutal and canny wizard Nisstyre, had held the band of renegade drow together. Perhaps all Gorlist required was a nudge, a suggestion, to help him understand what his followers needed.

He strode toward the fighters. "Can our human wizard change Ansith's appearance to that of a female?"

A dark flame leaped in Gorlist's eyes as he seized his death-singer's suggestion. "If not, he will quickly learn how." His gaze shifted from Chiss to Taenflyrr. "We will take Ansith back to the Skullport caves, and there he will die as a wench."

Chiss was the first to shrug. After all, his sword had also been lifted against his leader, and he could more easily lose a brother than a hand or an eye. The two drow soldiers seized the impetuous youth and dragged him toward the return gate.

Gorlist rewarded Brindlor with a cold smile. "We will return to the High Forest, and soon. Slaying Ansith will whet their appetites for the Dark Maidens."

If Gorlist wished to claim this notion as his own, thought Brindlor, then all the better. The deathsinger gave a small, ironic bow. "I am a bard. What argument could I possibly make against the benefits of practice?"

Sunset colors stained the sky as Fyodor and Thorn paused at the edge of the forest glade and gazed out over the silver waters of Ashane. The elven warrior bent over the doeskin and birch litter upon which slept Liriel, surrounded by springs of potent herbs that grew nowhere in Faerûn. She busied herself with the herbs, removing them along with the protective enchantments that had held the drow in deepest slumber—and beyond the reach of Lolth's seeking magic. Fyodor, who knew better than to trouble magical folk at their work, turned his gaze toward the east.

Toward home.

The Rashemi drank in the familiar sights: the sharply sloping hills and the silver threads of rock-strewn water that stitched through on their way to Ashane. A shallow valley surrounded the lake. It was bordered by mountains, upon which grew a dense pine forest. Massive trees huddled so close together that from any distance at all they appeared to form an impenetrable wall. Near the edge of the forest grew smaller trees, their branches clad in the bright colors that spoke of coming winter. Falling leaves drifted and danced on the crisp evening wind.

Fyodor drew in a long, slow breath. The fragrance carried on the wind was unmistakably that of Rashemen, where even in summer the scent of coming snow seemed to linger. Though he could not see them from where he stood, bright crimson juniper-gia berries added their own distinctive spice. Even the pines smelled different here than in any other forest through which Fyodor had traveled. They were darker, more intense, and somehow melancholy.

His gaze rested upon the deceptively calm waters of Lake Ashane. The silver surface reflected the Rashemen sunset, which to Fyodor's fond eyes was brighter than any other sky he had seen. Certainly the sun's farewell this day reflected the tastes of his people. Gold, crimson, and purple swirled together in bold, bright patterns, a cheerful welcome that offered a powerful contrast to the stark stone tower at valley's edge.

A strong, slim hand rested on his shoulder. He turned to Thorn, noticing as he did that her pale gold-green eyes were on a level with his own.

"The drow will awaken soon. If all goes well, we need not meet again."

It was not the friendliest farewell that Fyodor had ever heard, but he understood why Thorn's ways were not his own. He extended his hand, one exiled warrior to another.

"If ever I speak of what I have seen this day, may my bones lie forgotten in a distant land."

"If I thought you would talk, they already would," the elf responded. She took his offered hand briefly then turned back to Liriel. A frown furrowed her pale face.

"She should have awakened by now. Get me several small, wet stones."

Fyodor quickly scooped up some pebbles from the water's edge and dropped them into Thorn's outstretched hand. The elf placed one on Liriel's forehead, another on each of her closed eyes, and several on her body. She held her hands over the drow girl, palms down, and let out a haunting, ululating cry. A bit of steam rose from the wet stones, and the pebbles turned several shades lighter as the water disappeared, but that was the extent of the spell's effect.

Thorn glanced up at the sky. "The only other things I might try involve moonmagic. It's a waning moon—not good for the needed spells—and at any rate it won't rise in time."

The Rashemi knelt at Liriel's side. Her face felt cool to his touch, and her breathing was nearly imperceptible. The deathlike slumber that had hidden Liriel's path from Lolth's prying eyes appeared to be deepening.

"Is there anything else we could try? Anything at all?"

"Throw her in the water," suggested Thorn. "The shock might wake her, provided it doesn't stop her heart first."

Fyodor sat back on his heels and thrust one hand through his hair. The Lake of Tears was bitter cold even in summer, but he'd seen Liriel swim and survive worse. He had little fear of her drowning. She still wore the ring of water breathing the illithid's minions had used during an attempt to kidnap her. "What of the guardians?"

"If the water spirits don't want your drow in Rashemen, you might as well know now as later," she pointed out.

There was reason in that argument, so Fyodor set to work. He quickly shed his boots, unbuckled his weapons belt, and stripped off his garments. No Rashemi entered the water clothed or armed. To do so was an affront to the spirits who dwelt in most rivers and streams, ponds and wells. The Ashane was the most haunted body in the land. As Fyodor peeled off the sleeping drow's garments and weapons, he marveled, as he always did in such circumstances, that so small a girl managed to hide so many blades about her person.

Finally he stood with Liriel in his arms. He waded a step or two into the water—the shore dropped off too quickly for him to go much farther—and tossed her into the lake.

Liriel came awake cursing and sputtering, her arms flailing the icy waters. She took in her situation almost immediately and tested the depth with her feet. The bottom eluded her, so she began to swim the few needed strokes to the shore.

Cold hands closed on her ankles, and suddenly she was being dragged deeper into the water. She heard Fyodor call her name, heard the splash as he dived after her.

Her captors were faster still. Liriel twisted as best she could and managed to catch a glimpse of them. Two elflike females skimmed effortlessly through the water, barely moving their naked green limbs. The drow snatched at the swiftly passing reeds, desperately trying to get a handhold.

When the nereids finally released her, she swam for the surface and took stock of her situation.

The nereids had dragged her well away from the shore. Moving steadily westward was a long wooden boat, its prow elaborately carved and brightly painted. The craft appeared to be unmanned, yet it changed direction and came directly toward the paddling drow. Liriel's mind raced. If she was awake, their journey to Rashemen must be completed—or nearly so. She racked her brain for information about boats in Fyodor's country. At once, there came to her the memory of the warrior's tales of the powerful Witchboats.

She snatched a quick breath and dived deep. The Witchboat came to a stop directly over her. She began to swim toward the western shore, glancing up frequently at the magical boat. It followed her but remained a length or two behind. There was room for her to come up for air when she needed to do so. Apparently the boat had no intention of drowning her.

Liriel considered her situation further. Fyodor had said that a powerful witch called Zofia Othlor had foreseen her coming. It was not beyond the realm of possibility that the witch had perceived their approach and sent both the nereids and the boat to bring them to Rashemen's shores.

The drow started for the surface. Suddenly her way was blocked by another elflike female, a familiar creature with a beautiful blue face and insanity burning bright in her sea-green eyes.

Liriel twisted in the water, but she was not fast enough to evade the genasi's leaping attack. The blue creature seized Liriel's hair and dragged her to the surface.

The drow fought with every ounce of ferocity she possessed. They tumbled and kicked and clawed, churning the water into foam.

Finally Fyodor made his way out to the battling females. He thrust his way between them and tucked one under each arm. He stood and made his way to shore in three quick steps.

Liriel wriggled free and lunged for her pile of weapons. She snatched up a long knife and whirled back toward her foe.

"Why did you fight me?" the creature demanded, her angry gaze fixed accusingly on Liriel and her blue fists propped on her hips. "You could have been drowned."

"You've just answered your own stupid question," Liriel shot back. "I was trying to keep you from drowning me."

The genasi looked genuinely shocked. "You thought I was trying to kill you?"

"Seems like a reasonable assumption, given our last encounter."

The genasi frowned as she struggled to sort through this logic. "Vestriss is dead," she said at last.

It was Liriel's turn to be puzzled. "Vestriss? The illithid?"

"I killed her," the genasi said proudly. "I, Azar, daughter of the Elemental Planes. The walking squid will never again enslave her betters."

This was starting to make sense—after a fashion. "Vestriss sent you out after me. We fought, you lost. So you traveled halfway across Faerûn to drag me ashore when you thought I was drowning. Why?"

"The illithid wanted you dead," Azar explained. "That is reason enough to want you alive. You inspired hatred in me, so of course I owed you a debt. It is no great matter for me to travel from one body of water to another."

With that "explanation," the genasi splashed back into the Ashane.

Liriel pursed her lips and shot an inquiring glance at Fyodor. "Is there lots of water around here?"

"Many streams and rivers, and hot springs as well." She gave him a wry smile. "Chances are I won't be lonely, then. Rashemen's given me quite a reception so far."

"We haven't arrived yet," Fyodor said lightly, but there was something in his eyes that turned the words into warning.

The drow quickly dressed and armed herself. The Witchboat was making its way toward them at a slow, stately pace. As they waited, Fyodor took out a knife and began to chip away at a thick piece of driftwood. The wood was extremely pale, almost white, and marked by tightly-packed swirling patterns. "Pretty," she observed.

"Rashemaar ash. There is no wood stronger." Liriel recalled the cudgel he had carried when they first met. "Not a bad weapon," she said. "It's lightweight, hard, and strong." "All that and more. Rashemaar driftwood holds the power of the land and water both." "That's important?"

"It can be. There are strange creatures in this land. Some must be fought, others appeased, and some avoided. Sometimes it is difficult to tell which is which or to know how just what is required," he cautioned. "It is best that you take my lead."

"I'll be as docile as a Ruathan maiden," Liriel promised, a demure smile on her lips and a wicked gleam in her eye. They exchanged a smile that was both teasing and deeply intimate.

Thorn rose from her place by the fire. Her stern face was softened by a faintly wistful expression. "The Witchboat's approach is slow, no doubt to give you two time to warm yourselves. For that, my presence is not needed." She lifted a hand in farewell. "Run swiftly, hunt well."

She turned away and with a few quick strides disappeared into the forest.

Liriel settled into Fyodor's arms and began to loosen the fastenings of his vest. "I could get to like that elf. Who would have thought?"

He chuckled and smoothed back her wet hair. "Docile Ruathan maiden?" he teased her.

"Why not? Anything's worth trying once."

The moon rose, the fire burned low, and the patient Witchboat waited at the water's edge to bring the warrior and the Wind-walker home.