Chapter 3
The Open Sea

A single glass-covered portal, not much wider than the palm of Liriel’s hand, admitted a narrow stream of light into Hrolf’s cabin. The drow sat cross-legged on the cot, her books scattered about her. The dim light, softened by the setting sun to a rosy glow, did little to banish the claustrophobic gloom of the tiny space, but it was more than enough illumination to meet the needs of a drow wizard.

At last she closed her spellbook and stretched, working out the stiffness caused by several hours of study. She rose and padded over to the portal to watch the fading sunset colors and wait for her time under the stars.

Liriel had grown accustomed to the brightness of the surface lands, but daylight at sea was another matter. The endless vista of sea and sky was a brilliant, blinding shade of blue. Even on cloudy days the glare from the silver water pained her eyes. And the relentless sun that baked the humans’ skin to a weathered brown had set hers paInfully aflame after but one day at sea. None but Liriel could see the burn on her ebony skin-to her heat-sensitive eyes, her face and arms shone like molten steel-until the blisters rose the next day. A penitent Hrolf, aghast at his own lack of forethought, had insisted that the drow take his cabin as her own. So Liriel hid herself away during the lengthening days of spring to sleep and to study her spells, and each day she added to the Windwalker’s store of power.

The young wizard fingered the golden amulet that hung over her heart. The Windwalker was a simple thing, a small sheathed dagger of ancient make suspended from a chain of gold. Simple, but it held enormous power. It was her link with her drow heritage and her hope for the future.

The amulet had been crafted long ago by magic-users who took their strength from natural sites of power and from the place spirits that once were common in the northern lands. It could store such powers, temporarily, so that a magic-wielder could leave the place of power for a time. Liriel had reasoned that the innate magic of the Underdark drow, which dissipated in the light of the sun, was a form of place magic. She had adapted spells and rituals that stored her magical drow heritage-and her darkelven wizardry-in the amulet.

The drow waited until the last rays of sunlight had vanished; then she carefully twisted the amulet’s tiny hilt. Instantly the cabin was flooded with eerie blue lightinvisible to the heat-blind-that pulsed with the strange radiation magic of the Underdark. Quickly, as she did every night with the coming of darkness, Liriel performed the rituals that stored her newly learned spells in the amulet.

The Windwalker did not accept and retain all of Liriel’s spells, but held enough to indicate a seemingly endless capacity. No wonder Kharza-kzad, her former tutor, had told her half the drow of Menzoberranzan would cheerfully kill to possess such power. Yet it saddened Liriel that the power she most wished to master-the ability for Fyodor to control his berserker rages-remained stubbornly beyond reach.

When her day’s work was finished, Liriel snatched up a book of Ruathen lore and made her way up to the deck. It promised to be another clear night, with an endless sky and stars beyond counting. Most of the crew had been released from their labors. A group of them sprawled comfortably on deck, spooning up seafood stew and listening as Fyodor spun a tale from his homeland. The young man was a natural storyteller, and the sailors were caught up in the rhythm of the tale and the rich cadences of Fyodor’s resonant bass voice. The story was one Liriel had heard before, one that described a battle between Rashemen’s warriors and the Red Wizards that ruled neighboring Thay. The sailors met each mention of the wizards with hisses and dark murmurs and cheered the exploits of the Rashemi berserkers. Fyodor paused in his storytelling long enough to meet Liriel’s amused gaze with a sober nod.

The drow caught his meaning well enough. Most Ruathen distrusted wizardly magic. The daring escape from Skullport had left the crew shaken and in awe of the elven wizard, and most of them gave her a wide berth.

“You’re out and about late this evening,” observed a tentative voice behind her.

Liriel turned to face Bjorn, the youngest member of Hrolf’s crew. The lad had a mere tuft of yellow beard and gangly limbs too thin for strength and too long for grace. But Bjorn could read the winds and sense the coming weather with an almost magical precision. This gift earned him a solid place aboard any ship. Nor was it his only gift. When not about his work, the lad whittled wood into clever little statues and painted them in the bright colors loved by the Northmen. At the moment Bjorn was seated on the deck, packing up the pots and flasks that held his paints. The drow stooped to examine his latest work. It was a wall plaque depicting a single ship upon a storm-tossed seascape. A beautiful, wild-eyed goddess emerged from the crest of a crashing wave, her hand outstretched-perhaps to steady the faltering vessel, perhaps to crush it. “Umberlee?” Liriel asked.

“Yes. The Lady of the Waves,” Bjorn said reverently, but he made a sign of warding as he spoke of the goddess. Liriel understood his reaction completely. She’d heard enough about the capricious Umberlee to recognize that particular brand of devotion. Fear and worship-Lloth inspired and demanded both, as well. The drow nodded and copied Bjorn’s gesture, which seemed to puzzle the young artist.

“Is Umberlee your goddess?” he asked.

Liriel shrugged. “No, but dry her off and paint her black, and you’d hardly notice the difference.”

The lad’s eyes bulged, and he repeated the warding sign as if to stave off the result of such blasphemy. Eager to change the subject, he reached for a steaming bowl and handed it to the drow. “You were late this evening. I saved you some soup, knowing there’d be none later.”

Surprised and grateful, Liriel took the bowl and settled down on deck beside the boy. He picked up his own supper, and they ate in silence. Still, it was the most companionable moment she’d spent with anyone other than Fyodor or Hrolf since coming aboard. Most of the twenty-odd crewmembers dealt with Liriel’s presence by ignoring it. Most, but not all. From the corner of her eye, the drow noted that Ibn was watching her again. There was something about the burly, red-bearded sailor that seemed disturbingly familiar to Liriel. Where most of the Ruathen approached life with a bluff, straightforward manner, Ibn seemed to think far more than he spoke. His few words gave away little, his eyes still less. More complicated than his mates, Ibn occasionally reminded Liriel of a drow. Which was to say, he was trouble.

Liriel pondered the matter as she finished off the saltladen chowder. The first mate was plotting something; in Liriel’s mind, that was a given. She could wait for him to play out his hand, or she could confront him in an open and forthright manner. She’d learned the latter approach often befuddled dark elves, who fully expected their plots to be met with equally convoluted counterstrategies. The response this tactic invariably elicited-a moment of veiled surprise, followed by a frantic effort to ferret out the layers of conspiracy that surely must be hidden under the seemingly simple approach-amused her. How, she wondered, would Ibn respond to a direct challenge?

At length, Liriel decided to take the man’s measure. She bid Bjorn a good night and made her way over to the redbearded sailor.

“Speak your mind and have done,” she demanded.

The mate seemed not at all disconcerted by her blunt words. He took the pipe from his mouth and tapped the ashes into the sea.

“Every hand aboard shares the work. I don’t see you doing aught but sleeping away the days and staring into books by night,” he said scornfully, nodding toward the lore book tucked under the drow’s arm.

Liriel’s chin lifted. “Might I remind you that I am a paying passenger? If you feel the need to assign me a role, you may consider me ship’s wizard.”

“Wizard!” Ibn leaned over the rail and spat to demonstrate his contempt. “There’s things that need doing, but magic ain’t one of them. Harreldson’s been cooking. Waste of a good sailor.”

The drow’s eyes widened with disbelief. This man expected her to take the part of a scullery servant? “In my family’s household only slaves prepare food,” she said coldly. “Male slaves, at that. What you suggest is absurd.”

Ibn folded his arms. “Not so, if you plan to eat. I have command during the night hours. On my watch you’ll help with the provisions or you’ll go without.”

Liriel gritted her teeth as she held the man’s implacable gaze, and she entertained herself with fantasies involving traditional draw methods of retaliation. Artistic dismemberment was a favorite indulgence. Slow-working poisons added a piquant ambiance. Giant scorpions played a significant role. The gist of her musings must have shown on her face, for when she suddenly whirled and seized a harpoon from the weapon rack, Ibn backpedaled fast and dove for cover behind a barrel of salted fish.

Nor was he the only one to think ill of her intentions. A strong hand seized the drow’s wrist and spun her about. “What are you thinking, little raven?” demanded Fyodor. Liriellet out a hiss of exasperation and jerked her hand free. “I’m thinking offishing! According to that idiot behind the barrel, I’m expected to help with provisions. I assume it’s either that or cook!”

“Ah.” A glint of humor appeared in the young warriors eyes, and he turned to Ibn’s hiding place. “I have traveled with her for many days, my friend. In this you may trust me: it would be the wiser course to let her gather the food.” The sailor picked himself up, all the while glaring with undisguised hatred at the drow. Liriel blew him a kiss and then strode to the rail, harpoon in hand. She kicked offher boots and quickly peeled off her clothes, for they would only hamper her in the water. All she needed was the Windwalker, her amulet of Lloth, and a few of the daggers and knives strategically bound with thin leather straps to her forearms and calves.

From the corner of her eye, Liriel saw Fyodors frown and the warning glance he sent toward the other men on board. Hrolf had forbidden the men to touch her; Fyodor’s grim stare commanded them to avert their eyes.

The drow’s exasperation increased fourfold. She had yet to accustom herself to human notions of modesty. Drow had a keen appreciation for beauty-including that of the body-and had few taboos about nudity. The main reason they wore clothing at all was because it offered protection from attack and hiding places for weapons!

Ignoring her too-fastidious friend, Liriel climbed the railing. She tossed the harpoon into the water and dove in cleanly after it.

The icy shock stopped her heart. One beat lost, then the rhythm picked up again, thundering in Liriel’s ears as she struggled to move her benumbed limbs. The drow was accustomed to the waters of the Underdark, which came from melting ice in lands far above her homeland, but this was cold. She knew she could not remain in these waters for long. Getting down to business, she broke the surface, grabbed the floating harpoon and a lungful of air, and dove deep.

Starlight filtered through the water, turning the sea into a silvery, dreamlike world. It was beautiful, but Liriel knew better than to linger. In moments the drow marked her prey, a large fish favored by the pirates for the pink flesh that tasted equally good raw, cooked, or smoked. She lifted the harpoon to her shoulder and hurled. The barbed weapon flashed through the water, trailing a length of thin rope behind it and taking the fish through the gills. Liriel immediately swam for the surface, the rope’s end in hand. As she rose toward the boat, she noted that there were several strange markings carved on its underside-curving patterns oddly reminiscent of drow script.

Calling upon her levitation magic, she shot out of the water and floated lightly up to the railing where Fyodor awaited, grim and watchful. He’d taken off his cloak and had it ready for her. With a nod of thanks, she took the warm garment and handed him the rope. The fish was at least half her weight, and she could hardly be expected to haul it up herself.

As she wrapped herself in the cloak, Liriel noticed that Ibn was looking past her out to sea. His face was unreadable, but an air of malevolent satisfaction rose from him like a miasma. Liriel knew with certainty that this time Ibn would not speak his mind if asked.

Well enough-there were other ways of getting answers to her questions.

Beneath the cover of Fyodors cloak, the drow’s hand crept up to her symbol of Lloth. Her fingers closed around the obsidian disk, and she silently cast a mind-reading spell, one of the fIrst lessons taught to novice priestesses. From Ibn’s thoughts she took a single word-shark-and several quick images: a triangular fin slicing through the water like a small gray sail; rapacious jaws lined with rows of sharp teeth; a small, dark-skinned body torn past recognition.

So. This shark was a hunter, a dangerous one, and if Ibn had his way, she would be its prey. Again, well enough-she was forewarned.

Angry now, Liriel strode over to the weapon rack and selected another harpoon, this one larger and heavier than the first.

“Going down again?” Ibn asked casually as he refilled his pipe.

From the corner of her eye, the drow gave him a long, measuring gaze. No sign of his intent showed on his face, and not once did his eyes shift toward the place where he’d spotted the shark. Liriel noted this with a touch of perverse admiration. She had grown up in Menzoberranzan and had survived many such games, but few were the drow who could play them better than this red-bearded human. At that moment Fyodor pulled the fish over the rail. It dropped to the deck, still thrashing weakly and splashing icy water upon the boots of the men who’d gathered to watch the peculiar scene.

“I’m going back in for another fish,” Liriel announced. Taking full advantage of the audience, she turned to face Fyodor and then dropped his cloak to the deck. “I’m afraid I’ve gotten your cloak all wet. Would you mind getting me a warm blanket? I think there’s one somewhere in Hrolf’s cabin. Ibn will haul up the next fish for me. . . . Won’t you?” she asked, turning to the first mate.

Ibn did not respond, though Fyodor gaveher a narrowed, suspicious look. She returned it with a smile. Of course the warrior knew she was up to something, but he had to choose between staying to question her, or doing something about her disconcerting nudity. With a deep sigh, Fyodor chose the latter and disappeared into the hold.

Liriel tied the loose end of the harpoon’s rope to a winch and attached a float to the line. The rope was not all that long, but she didn’t think she’d have to go very far to find the shark. She’d taken the first fish not far from the ship. If this shark was like any of the other predators she knew, it would be drawn by the scent of blood.

The drow plunged in again, dreamily imagining the look on Ibn’s face when he hauled up her catch and came face-to-fang with this shark ofhis.

Liriel swam quickly toward the site ofher first kill, taking a slightly different path downward. She was more at home in the water than were most drow, but she knew she was out of her element and kept careful watch. The image she’d taken from Ibn’s mind-the sight ofher own mangled body-was still vivid.

The drow’s only warning was a flash of silver on the outermost edge of her vision. Instantly she whirled, the harpoon on her shoulder and ready to throw.

To her shock, Liriel found herselffacing not a shark, but a young male elf-the first nondrow elf she had ever encountered.

The faerie elfwas every bit as strange and alien a creature as she’d been taught to believe. His short-cropped hair was green, and his skin was mottled with a silvery green pattern that seemed to waver with the movement of the water. There were gills, like those of a fish, on his neck, and delicate webbing between the fingers of the hand that gripped a ready spear. He was no taller than Liriel, but he was well made and he held his weapon with the air of one who knew its use. Yet he did not strike. He merely stared at the drow with openmouthed astonishment.

Liriel was equally dumbfounded. Oh, she knew that some elves lived in water, and she wasn’t particularly surprised to encounter one. What amazed her was that he did not attack.

From her earliest days Liriel had heard tales of the bitter enmity all the fair races of elves held for the drow. Defeated and forced underground many hundreds of years ago, the drow could expect nothing but cruel death at the hands of the faerie elves. Why then the hesitation in this one’s hands and the curiosity in his eyes?

A sleek gray form sliced through the water toward the distracted sea elf. Liriel shook off the moment of immobilizing shock and hurled her harpoon. The weapon tore past the elf, less than a handbreadth from his mottled face.

The water directly behind him exploded into a churning mass. The harpooned shark struggled and thrashed, but moved inexorably upward as Ibn hauled on the line. Although Liriel would have dearly loved to witness the mate’s surprise, she had another problem to consider. A second sea elf, this one with long hair plaited into kelplike strands, swam to his comrade’s aid. The elves flanked her, spears poised for attack.

Clutching the Windwalker, Liriel called upon her innate drow magic to conjure a globe of darkness. Black water instantly enveloped all three elves. The drow used the impenetrable darkness-and the moment of surprise—to make her escape. With the speed and agility for which drow were famed, she twisted in the water and darted to one side. Not quick enough. A sharp tug jerked her head painfully back as a spear tore through the strands of her floating hair.

Liriel’s first impulse was to kill both of the sea folk. Indeed, a dagger was in her hand before the thought had fully formed. Put the first male elf, the curious one, had not attacked. Of that Liriel was certain. He did not look like one who would throw and miss. And she had been virtually unarmed, unable to turn aside a thrown spear. Fyodor would not have attacked under those CIrcumstances either. There was something in the elf’s eyes that reminded Liriel of her friend’s steadfast honor.

The drow found that she had no desire to finish the battle. Her lungs burned with the need for air. She swam toward the starlight, keeping careful distance from the still-struggling shark, and leaving the sea elves to their own domain.

Aboard the Elfmaid, all was going exactly as she’d hoped. Ibn was at the winch, cranking furiously. He glanced up when Liriel climbed over the rail, but his face gave away nothing of surprise or disappointment. Suddenly, the drow felt weary of intrigue. She accepted the blanket Fyodor offered her and then strode over to the first mate. Pulling a dagger from her leg strap, she quickly slashed the rope that tethered the wounded shark to the ship.

“Don’t waste your time,” she said in response to Ibn’s incredulous stare. “I don’t mind killing a shark, but I don’t think I’d care to eat one. The thing reminds me a little too much of some people I know.”

Her remark caused a passing Hrolf to pull up sharply. “Sharks? Now you’re hunting sharks, lass?” He looked the shivering drow up and down. “And in these waters! A strong man could die of the cold. Why did none of you warn her?” he bellowed, looking to his mate for an answer.

Liriel brushed aside the question. “Hrolf, I’m afraid the ship might be under attack. I saw two faerie elves, waterbreathing males. There might be more.”

“Sea folk? Here?” the captain asked with obvious surprise. The drow nodded. “We fought.”

“You fool female!” Ibn exploded. He bore down on Liriel, shaking a clenched fist. “You’ve bought us trouble, that’s sure.”

Hrolf waved the man into silence. “Did you hurt them, lass?”

“She did not.”

The words were spoken by a new voice, definitely male but high in pitch and soft as the wind. There was no sign of the speaker, but Hrolf’s face lit up.

“Xzorsh!” the captain cried happily. It was an odd word-a click followed by a sibilant zzorshhh-but it flowed off Hrolf’s tongue with familiar ease. The captain snatched up a rope ladder and draped it over the side of the ship. “Come aboard, lad, and welcome you are!”

Liriel’s eyes widened as the green-haired sea elf climbed aboard. She knew Hrolf to be a rogue, but could he be on good terms with one of the wicked sea faerie? Obviously so. The stranger bowed low to the captain, his webbed hands spread palms-up before him as if to indicate he was unarmed.

“I come with a warning, Captain Hrolf,” the elf said in grave, melodious tones. “There is a disturbance in the lower seas. The deep dwellers are rising, forcing lesser predators into bold and desperate attacks. Did you not see the sharks?”

“Some of us did,” Liriel said, tossing a quick, arch glance at the first mate.

“I know you sea folk aren’t fond of sharks,” Hrolf commented, “but they’re no threat to the ship. And the creatures from the depths come near the surface every spring.” “Not all do,” Xzorsh said soberly. “No vurgen has been seen near this area in my lifetime, yet since the last new moon I myself have seen three.”

Hrolf stroked his beard thoughtfully. “That is odd,” he admitted at last. “Vurgens are rare.”

“Well, I’ve certainly done my part,” Liriel put in dryly. Her remark surprised a bawdy chuckle from Hrolf, but his face abruptly sobered as he returned to the matter at hand. “Giant gulper eels, lass,” the captain explained, “big enough to swallow a man whole and mean enough to bash small ships to driftwood with their spiked tails. Vurgens are bad business-make no mistake about that-but they’re worse omens. Seems as if they come up only when theyre chased by something even bigger.”

“That is my fear,” Xzorsh agreed. “Sittl has gone ahead to warn the sea folk community nearby.”

“Sittl.” Liriel folded her arms and glared at the sea elf. “That would be the male who tried to skewer me, I suppose.” “Don’t take it personal, lass,” Hrolf advised cheerfully. “The sea folk believe that your kin had something to do with their loss of magic-seagoing elves don’t have any, to speak of-which naturally puts drow on their list of things to look out for. And that’s what Xzorsh and Sittl do. They look out for the sea folk who live hereabouts.”

“And for the Elfmaid, as well,” put in Olvir, one of the crew. Until Fyodor’s arrival, Olvir had been the ship’s main storyteller. Though the man listened more than he talked these days-so eager was he to learn the new and wondrous tales that the young Rashemi offered-he was quick to jump in whenever an opening presented itself.

“Captain Hrolf is unnatural fond of elves, he is, seeing as how he had him an elf woman some years back. Well, about twenty years past, we come across a pair of Calishite vessels in the shallows, net spread between ‘em. Seems theyd herded some young sea elves into the nets, planned to sell ‘em down south as a curiosity. Hrolf now, he wasn’t having any of this. A good fight, it was,” Olvir noted dreamily. “Scuttled both the ships, we did, and fed the southern bastards to the shrimp.”

“I was one of those young elves,” Xzorsh said with quiet dignity. “I will ever remember this, as will my clan after me. The runes on the bottom of the Elfmaid identify her to the sea folk as Hrolf’s vessel. We are pledged to protect him and all his crew.”

The sea elf’s eyes drifted to Liriel as he spoke, and his troubled expression said plainly that he was uncertain about the wisdom of including a drow in this pledge.

As well he should be, Liriel thought grimly. She would never forget the atrocities faerie elves had committed against her people, nor did she trust this particular male. For a long moment, the two elves regarded each other with wary curiosity.

“You could have killed me, but you did not,” Xzorsh ventured at last. “You. . . you are not at all what I might have expected.”

His words, and their puzzled tone, mirrored Liriel’s thoughts exactly. The last things she would have expected from a faerie elfwere mercy and honor. Yet Xzorsh spoke of a pledge as something so strong and immutable that his people would regard it with the pride a drow might give an inherited title. Liriel saw several possible explanations for this disparity: either the dark elves had misunderstood the nature of the faerie-or more to the point, had twisted the tales to their purpose-or this Xzorsh was naive beyond belief.

Either way, she did not know how to respond to Xzorsh’s question. Liriel had no idea what stories the sea elf had heard about drow, but she was willing to wager that they hardly did justice to the evil and treachery that was her heritage. So Liriel merely shrugged and turned her gaze out to sea.

The sight before her stole her breath. Without a word she dove toward her pile of discarded clothes and weapons. Hrolf had seen it, too. On the dark water, there were twin circles of reflected moonlight. The problem was, the sky held but one moon.

The captain roared orders to the crew as he lunged for the harpoon rack. He snatched up an enormous bolt of wood and metal and hauled it back for the throw. Before he could hurl the weapon, a long, silvery tentacle whipped forward and snatched it from his hand.

A spray of dark water exploded upward like a fountain as the creature burst from the waves. Its huge, bulbous head gleamed silver, and countless tentacles churned the water to keep it afloat. Two of the creature’s arms spread wide and slapped against the starboard hull. There was a wet, sickening slurp as hundreds of suction cups found purchase.

“The eyes!” shouted Hrolf, pointing toward the bulbous orbs, each bigger than a man’s head. “Shoot for the eyes!” A storm of arrows rained toward the creature. Not fast enough. The enormous squid seemed to understand Hrolf’s words, for as soon as he’d spoken, it sank below the waves to protect its vulnerable eyes. It did not loosen its hold on the ship, though, and the vessel rolled sharply to one side as the creature pulled it along. Liriel-along with most of the crew-was thrown to the deck.

She skidded along the wooden planks and slammed into the lower side of the ship with a force that sent sparkles of pain along her spine. The drow wriggled free of the tangle of sweat-scented limbs and frantically looked around for Fyodor.

He had somehow managed to keep his footing and was clinging to the mast lines with one hand. His naked black sword gleamed in his free hand, and his booted feet were planted wide on the sloped deck. Despite the danger, he appeared utterly calm. A faint smile curved the young warrior’s lips, and he seemed to take on height and power before Liriel’s eyes.

The battle fury was beginning.

Liriel let out a whoop of exhilaration. Fyodor’s berserker rage was wondrous to behold, and she relished the prospect of seeing it unleashed upon a single, easily recognized enemy. He knew the crew now, and at any rate there was little danger that he could confuse a Ruathen fighter with a giant squid. She rolled onto her hands and knees and began the uphill climb to her friend’s side.

Hrolf, meanwhile, was scrambling up the deck toward the port rail, shouting the names of several others to follow him. The men struggled upward, throwing their weight against the far side in an attempt to balance the faltering vessel. But the giant squid sank still lower, pulling the Elfmaid inexorably along. Frigid water sloshed over the starboard side.

A probing tentacle reached over the low rail and curled around one of the sailors. The squid lifted its thrashing victim high, then smashed downward into the crew. Again the tentacle arched up. This time the man hung limp in the squid’s grasp. He made an effective bludgeon for all that, and with the second strike the screams of the injured mingled with the groaning protests of the battered ship.

As the squid raised the man for a third attack, Fyodor’s sword traced a downward arc, cutting the lower end of the mast line free. Clinging to the line with one hand and suspended from the tilted mast, the young berserker swung out toward the water. He slashed at the flailing tentacle as he passed, severing it in a single blow. The captured sailor dropped heavily to the deck, still belted by a length of the writhing, silvery appendage.

The impromptu pendulum reached its outer limit, and Fyodor began to swing back toward the ship. To Liriel’s astonishment, he let go of the rope well before he cleared the side of the deck. Holding his sword firmly in both hands, point downward, he fell directly toward the giant squid.

Fyodor landed on the creature’s head, and the force of his fall drove his blade hilt-deep into the base of one of the tentacles gripping the Elfmaid’s hull. The berserker began to wrench the blade back and forth, tearing an increasingly wide gash.

This attack seemed to confuse the squid. Other tentacles rose from the water, slapping out wildly in an attempt to dislodge the human. Fyodor continued to tear through the clinging tentacle, unmindful of the powerful blows that the squid occasionally managed to land.

As Liriel watched, with gleaming eyes and bated breath, she noticed that another warrior had entered the battle. Xzorsh had slipped back into the water and was sawing determinedly away at the second arm that clung to the ship. His efforts managed to distract the squid and, with a sound like that of a thousand boots pulling free of a muddy bog, the squid pulled the tentacle free of the hull. The squid then dipped the tentacle under the sea elf. With a quick, disdainful flick, it sent him hurtling out of the sea and up over the embattled ship.

Xzorsh hit the wooden deck with a painful thud. He rolled and somehow managed to find his feet. Pointing toward Fyodor, the elf called out a warning in a strange language of clicks and whistles.

Liriel did not have to understand the sea elf’s words to perceive the coming danger. The tentacle Xzorsh had dislodged from the ship curled inward toward the squid’s body, slowly and deliberately making a wide circle around the young berserker. The squid had changed tactics.

The tentacle closed in, wrapped itself tightly around the berserker’s chest, and pinned his arms firmly to his side. With a quick, sharp motion-oddly like that of a warrior plucking an arrow from his shoulder-the squid yanked Fyodor from his perch. This particular “arrow,” however, was more persistent than most. Fyodor managed to keep his grip on the sword. As the creature pulled him beneath the waves, the berserker finally severed the tentacle that held the Elfmaid captive.

The ship righted itself abruptly, rocking wildly. Liriel clung to the rail of the ship and hauled herself to her feet. Her eyes fixed confidently upon the turbulent battle just beneath the waves. The water roiled and churned from the furious fight, and her keen eyes saw the spread of ichor in the moonlit sea. Steam rose from the icy water, a testament to the unnatural heat that suffused a berserker in full battle frenzy.

“You’re calamari,” she promised the injured squid, and her voice rang with wicked glee.

But Hrolf did not seem to share her confidence. The captain came to her side and placed a huge hand on her shoulder. “He’s gone, lass,” he said softly, “and I’m giving the order to flee.”

“No,” Liriel said calmly, not taking her gaze from the sea.

“There’s naught that any of us can do for him. More good men will die unless we put some distance between the ship and that monster,” Hrolf persisted.

“Give him time,” the drow asserted. Despite her confident tone, Liriel began to feel the first raw edges of worry. Strength Fyodor certainly had, and courage and cunning. Time, however, was in dangerously short supply. Even a berserker needed air.

The sea calmed, suddenly and dramatically. “He is gone,” Hrolf repeated, and nodded over Liriel’s head to a grim-faced and watchful Ibn. The first mate took his place at the rudder and waved the men toward the oars.

At that moment the squid burst from the water, tossing its enormous head from side to side as ifin mortal anguish. A small bulge rippled along the elastic carapace, working its way upward.

Xzorsh came to Liriel’s side, his green eyes narrowed as he studied the creature. “The human is alive,” the sea elf said with disbelief. “He is trying to cut his way through!” “Fyodor is inside the creature, alive?” the drow said, hope and incredulity mixing in her voice.

“Squid are difficult to kill, even from the inside,” Xzorsh explained grimly. “Had the human been swallowed by a vurgen, he could have cut his way out easily. Here, his only hope is to find the creature’s eyes. We have nothing that can cut through that carapace.”

Maybe you don’t, Liriel thought. The drow scanned the deck, looking for the bag that held her throwing spiders. After several frantic moments, she spotted it tangled up in a length of rope. She quickly snatched up a handful of weapons: fist-sized metal spiders, their eight legs perfectly balanced, tipped in deadly spikes and fortified with the magic of the Underdark.

The drow hurled the spiders, one after another. The magic-enhanced weapons bit deep into the squid’s carapace, forming a precise line and opening a wide crack. Before Liriel could stop him, Xzorsh picked up a harpoon and hurled it into the opening. The weapon sank deep into the wound, and the barbed point exploded from one of the creature’s eyes. The squid finally went limp, and its tentacles rose to the surface like rays from a sun. The creature was dead, but so might Fyodor be as well.

Liriel whirled on the sea elf, speechless with rage.

“To show him the way out,” Xzorsh explained.

Sure enough, a hand groped its way along the exposed shaft of the harpoon. In a moment, Fyodor’s head burst from the ruined eye. He dashed the gore from his face and dragged in several long breaths. His foe was dead; the battle rage slipped away. For as long as a berserker rage lasted, he never felt pain, or cold, or exhaustion. Those things would come now.

With difficulty, the young warrior squeezed himself through the eye socket and began to swim with uncertain strokes for the ship. Xzorsh dove into the water to help, and a dozen hands reached out to help the day’s hero aboard.

Fyodor slumped to the deck, pale as seafoam. His shirt had been ripped from shoulder to waist, and blood welled up from a dozen circular wounds. The sea elf began to tend the man, his movements so sure and deft that not even Liriel thought to interfere.

“Now there’s a tale to tell your son’s sons,” Hrolf declared, shaking his head in disbelief. “It’s lucky we are to have a berserker aboard!”

“It’s ill fortune at work here!” the first mate said angrily. “Granted, the lad killed the creature. But by my reckoning, the squid never would have attacked if the female had not been aboard! And for that matter, what kind of man calls a black elf woman friend?”

It was a long speech for Ibn, and the sheer passion in his words brought sympathetic murmurs from the battered crew. Dark, furtive glares skittered toward the drow.

“What kind of man?” Hrolfrepeated and then shrugged. “I also count the drow as a friend, and by my reckoning I captain this ship still. So speak your mind as you will, lad, but my orders stand.”

There was nothing Ibn could say to that. He recognized his mistake at once. Every man aboard held the captain in high esteem, and most of them regarded the wounded berserker with something approaching reverence. They were willing enough to turn upon the drow, but not one among them could discredit what Fyodor had just done or would argue against the word or will of their captain. So the first mate contented himself with muttering, “Bad fortune!” as he stalked off in search of a dry pipe.

“Pay him no mind, lass,” Hrolf advised Liriel. “Ibn is a good man, but slow to let go once he takes hold of something. He’s not one for new ways, and yours are strange to us all.” He east a curious look at the young wizard. “During the battle you spoke a word-calamari-to the squid. What is that-a magic spell? A curse?”

“A meal,” the drow returned slyly. Now that the danger had passed, her dark sense of mischief returned in full. She ripped the severed tentacle from the fallen sailor and strode across the deck to present it, still twitching, to Ibn. “You wanted me to help with provisions? Fine. We will eat as drow do. Have this sliced, dipped in batter, and fried in rendered rothe fat. Calamari. It’s quite good,” she assured the mate, who was turning sickly green as he regarded the appendage.

“Ship’s wizard,” suggested a faint, strained voice.

The words came from Fyodor. He hauled himself up to a sitting position and cast a droll look at the first mate. “Consider her. . . ship’s wizard,” the Rashemi advised. He spoke with great effort, between ragged gasps for air, but his blue eyes sparkled with wry humor. “It’s. . . safer that way.” The red-bearded man nodded, his distrust of magic momentarily thrust aside by the prospect of seeing that twitching tentacle on his plate. “Ship’s wizard,” Ibn agreed fervently.