Chapter 4
The Pirate’s Life

The Elfmaid had been at sea for several days before the northernmost Moonshae Isles came into view. Fyodor was heartened by the sight of land and eager to explore. Yet the ship did not make port, but kept a careful distance from shore, cloaked into invisibility by the heavy spring mists.

“With winter’s passing, the seas are opening, and the merchant ships will soon sail,” Hrolf explained when Fyodor asked about the delay. The two men sat cross-legged on the deck of the forecastle, a torn net between them. Their fingers flew as they retied the knots with a rhythm of practiced ease. Barely missing a beat, Hrolf gave the young warrior a companionable swat on the back. “And after seeing you take on that squid, I’d say well pick off the merchants as easily as taking ripe currants off a bush!”

“I will not fight for you,” Fyodor said quietly.

The captain paused, startled. “How’s that, lad?”

“I fight only when I must, only to protect my land or my friends,” the young warrior explained. “If the ship is attacked, I will stand with you. But I must warn you, if you attack another ship to rob it, I may well turn against you.” Hrolf’s genial expression did not change, but his eyes turned hard. “A threat?”

“A warning,” the Rashemi said calmly, but he cast a questioning glance at Liriel, who, lured by her friend’s somber expression, had crept close to listen to the discussion. “Unlike my berserker brethren, I cannot always choose when the battle rage will occur. Did not Liriel tell you this?”

“That she didn’t,” Hrolf said ruefully as he eyed the wary drow. “Slipped your mind, lass?”

“You started the tavern brawl before I could get to that part of the story,” Liriel said defensively. “I would have told you, otherwise. I’m fairly certain of that.”

The captain sighed and tugged at his vast mustache. His good spirits returned suddenly, and he winked at the drow.

“Don’t look so downcast, my girl! Fighting’s all good and well, but there’re more ways than one to turn a profit!” Later that day, the captain gathered together his crew to discuss the necessary changes to the usual lurk-andattack strategy. The men agreed to Hrolf’s plan readily enough, even though it involved Liriel and her dark elven magic. All of them had seen Fyodor fight; none wanted to face his black sword in battle. Moreover, they were accustomed to their captain’s unorthodox methods, and they trusted him, if not Liriel.

It would not be the first time Hrolf achieved through bluffing what might otherwise have cost dearly in blood. In fact, the captain leaned heavily toward a benign form of piracy. If he could scare a ship into surrendering its cargo, so much tile better. Hrolfloved a good fight, but he enjoyed fighting far better when the Elfmaid was well out of harm’s way.

So the crew clustered around as Liriel explained the necessary spell. “It is a form of teleportation that will exchange one person for another. One of you will be sent aboard the ship to take our terms to the captain: half their cargo in payment for his man’s return. Which of you is willing to go?”

“It’s not just a question ofwho’s willing, lass,” Hrolf commented. “Think on this: what’s to keep them from holding our man and going for an even trade or even refusing to trade at all? Don’t get me wrong-your magic’s a fine way to kidnap a man. It will put the other captain off guard, at least for a moment or two. But it’s not enough.”

“What, then?” Liriel demanded.

Hrolf smiled slyly. “The Ffolk of the Moonshaes are a hearty people, not easy to spook. Picture their captain finding himself face-to-face with a stranger who appeared all of a sudden on his ship. Who among us is most likely to strike head-numbing fear into the poor sod?”

All eyes turned to Liriel.

A slow, wicked smile spread across the drow’s face, and she nodded her acceptance. Her eyes sparkled as she began to improvise the details of the plot. Soon the pirates were chuckling with delight. None argued or even frowned as she passed out their assignments with the absolute assurance of a battle chieftain.

Of all the men aboard, only two were not caught up in the excitement: Ibn, who puffed stolidly away at his pipe, and Fyodor, who tried without success to hide his disappointment as he watched the shining, animated face of the plotting drow.

Liriel cast the spell at dusk. Although she was slowly becoming accustomed to the punishing glare of the sun an.d sea twilight was a time ofmystery, a time of natural magIc thai the drow recognized and intended to exploit. Sea and sky melded into one darkness, but the shadows resisted banishment. As they faded with the failing light, they seemed to leave an unseen presence behind. In the cusp between day and night, between shadow and dreams, anything seemed possible. This was important, for Liriel’s spell depended upon her victims’ capacity for awe as surely as it did her dark-elven wizardry. Fo~ ~uch an enchantment no time was more potent than twilight.

The Moonshae vessel was also ideally suited for Liriel’s purposes. She realized this the moment the teleportation spell set her down upon its deck. She prowled silently about, her piwafwi cloaking her in invisibility as she studied the ship, observed the line of command. She even explored the cabins, the better to know her prey. One small chamber was littered with bits and pieces so odd they could only be spell components. Liriel quickly searched t~ cabin and, to her delight, found a small book filled WIth unfamiliar spells based upon sea magic. She pocketed the treasure and resumed her search.

The merchant ship was small but of a modern design, with a sturdy aft castle built as an original part of the ship rather than as a temporary, add-on platform. It had a sternpost rudder, steered with a tiller. The man at the tiller had to be told what to do, because he was under the after castle and couldn’t see where the ship was headed. At the moment these orders came from the captain, who was perched in the crow’s nest atop the ship’s single mast. Ratlines—evenly spaced light ropes that formed ladders-ran up to the crow’s nest from either side of the ship. . Silent and invisible, the drow scrambled up the lines and climbed into the crow’s nest beside the captain. He was leaning over the edge, frowning as he listened to the agitated report of two of his men.

“What do you mean, Drustan is gone?” he called. “Gone where?”

“We have him,” Liriel said, flipping open her sheltering piwafwi.

The captain straightened abruptly and whirled toward the sound of her voice. His face bleached in terror at the sight of a dark elf, close enough to touch.

“He is with my people,” the drow continued and was rewarded by the look of horror that came into the captain’s eyes. Clearly, he thought his man had somehow been whisked away to the fell, underground realm of the dark elves. All the better, Liriel thought smugly. She cocked an eyebrow. “We might be persuaded to return him.”

The man tried to speak. No sound emerged. He licked his lips nervously and tried again. “What do you want?” “Half your cargo,” she stated. “Do not try to cheat us, for we will know. I am not alone,” Liriel said, dropping her voice to a dramatic whisper. She pulled the folds of her cloak about her and blinked out of sight. The captain could not see her or the dagger she pressed against his throat, but the line of blood trickling down into the ruffies of his shirt front was visible, and utterly convincing. Liriel saw in his eyes the terrified belief that his ship had been invaded by an unknown number of dark elves, a deadly and invisible force.

“We will do as you say,” he said in a strangled tone, but there was a desperate cunning in his eyes that Liriel noted and mistrusted.

“It might save some unpleasantness if you know up front that your wizard is useless against us. No human spell can disperse our invisibility charms—magic slides off the drow like water from a seabird’s feathers,” she informed him coolly; “But any magical attack, however feeble, will be parried and answered. Believe me when I tell you that you do not wish to see drow magic tested in battle.”

Liriel saw the light of last hope fade from the man’s eyes and knew she had hit the target squarely. She gave him his instructions, making it clear that she would be at his side until all was done. If he gave the alarm, she promised, if he even hinted at the presence of the dark elves aboard ship, he would lose half his crew in addition to half his cargo. . . and perhaps his life as well.

The captain did as he was told, but the crew was slow to accept his claim that Drustan had somehow been magically spirited off the ship and that the cost of his freedom would be paid from their cargo. But they followed orders, lowering a large, flat-bottomed skiff and loading it with small oak casks.

“Make room for my people,” Liriel hissed into the captain’s ear. .orwo will attend the skiff; the rest will stay to ensure there is no foolish attempt to cheat us of our toll. We will send your man back with the skiff, and then we will leave as we came.”

While the captain bellowed down orders to rearrange the casks, Liriel, still invisible, floated silently down into the boat. As soon as the men were clear of the skiff: she cast a spell of levitation. The heavily laden craft broke free of the waves and rose slowly into the air. As the dumbfounded sailors watched, it glided silently offinto the mist. It was not an easy spell, but Liriel knew the value of an imposing exit. It would give credence to the captain’s explanation, and the sense of wonder and fear that it inspired would occupy the humans’ minds and keep at bay any thoughts they might otherwise have had about following the ghostly skiff.

When the boat touched down on the Elfmaid’s deck, Liriel slumped over one of the casks, drained by the powerful casting. The crew swarmed to meet her and to examine their haul. They were delighted to learn that the casks were filled with fine raspberry mead, a sweet and fiery honey wine scented with summer fruit.

“See our guest on his way, and then we~ tap a cask for the celebration. The rest we~ use for trade,” Hrolf said with a wink.

The men set promptly to work, following the plan Liriel had laid out. The captured sailor had emerged from the teleportation spell into the darkness of the hold. Two Ruathen had awaited him there, armed with tiny darts from Liriel’s crossbow. One quick jab had sent the sailor into a poison-induced slumber. He was still senseless when they brought him on deck and loaded him onto the skiff.

Liriel handed the precious spellbook into Fyodor’s keeping and then joined the sleeping sailor in the skiff, for one step remained to complete the deception. It would not do to let the Ffolk know their ship had been held hostage by shadows, and that Ruathen pirates lay within easy pursuit. She watched as the Elfmaid rowed away, pulling farther back into the mist.

When the Ruathen ship was beyond sight, Liriel unstoppered a tiny vial that held an antidote to the drow sleeping potion. She poured a single drop into the sailor’s slack mouth. He stirred, scratched, and then grumbled himself awake with a string of curses. His muttering ended in a strangled gulp when he saw a drow bending over him. “Return to your ship,” she commanded him and swept a hand in the direction of the merchant vessel. Instantly the faint, ghostly outline of the Moonshae vessel gleamed through the fog. Liriel had limned it with faerie fIre to guide the sailor back and to further astound those who awaited him.

While the sailor gaped like a beached carp at his ship, Liriel cloaked herself with invisibility and slipped quietly into the sea. Her limbs felt heavy in the frigid water, and the heavy folds of her piwafwi dragged her down. Although she was a strong swimmer, it was a struggle for her to cover the short distance back to the pirate ship.

Several pairs of eager hands were outstretched to haul her aboard. Liriel barely registered the sailors’ assistance, the feel of the deck beneath her feet, or the sight of it hurtling up to meet her.

Fyodor caught the drow as she fell and carried her down to Hrolf’s cabin. He turned away while she listlessly stripped off her wet things, kept his eyes averted until the squeak of the cot’s roping announced that she’d crawled under the covers.

“All went well,” she told him in a drowsy voice, “but I have a feeling itl1 be a while before that captain stops looking over his shoulder. He’ll be seeing dark elves in every shadow for many days to come.”

“You need rest,” Fyodor said quietly. “I will leave you now.”

There was something in his tone that cut through Liriel’s haze of exhaustion. She hauled herself into a sitting position and studied her friend. As she’d suspected, he did not approve of this night’s work. His eyes did not condemn her, but they held sadness, resignation. This stung the drow more than she liked to admit.

“I have tasted Moonshae mead before,” Liriel said abruptly, “and I know its price.” She leaned over the edge of the cot and fumbled through the discarded belongings on the floor until she found a small bag. She tossed it at Fyodor. It fell short of his reflexive grab and landed, with the unmistakable chink of many coins, at his feet.

“That is what the mead would have cost in the bazaars of Menzoberranzan. The captain will find an identical bag in his cabin. The ship’s wizard has also been compensated. Trust me, you don’t want to know the market cost of that spellbook,” she grumbled. “The point being, none of those men suffered loss from this little game. In fact, they made an enormous profit, considering they were spared the cost and trouble of carting their wares into the Underdark!” For a long moment, Fyodor stared at the unpredictable drow. “But why, little raven? Why go to such trouble if you intended only to buy the mead?”

Her smile was pure mischief, but he did not miss the flash of uncertainty in her amber eyes. “Do you think Hrolf and his boys would have been satisfied with a simple business transaction? They had their minds set on piracy! This way, Hrolf got to play out his bluff, the Moonshae merchants have their money, and everyone involved comes away with a good story to tell. No one is the worse for it.” Fyodor was floored by this revelation-for never had he seen anyone go through such lengths to hide an honorable intent-and he was deeply touched by Liriel’s ill-concealed desire to please him. He closed the distance between them and took one of her hands in both his own. Her fingers were still icy cold; he began to chafe them gently as he considered his next words. There was much he wanted to say, but he was not sure any of it would make sense to the drow. Despite her convoluted mind and her delight in plots and intrigues, she had little understanding of the heart’s complexities.

The silence between them was long. Liriel cocked her head and peered up at him in mock astonishment. “You are thinking,” she accused him teasingly. “ ‘There are those who think, and those who dream,’ “ she said, quoting his own words back to him. “You’re not changing sides, are you?”

His answering smile was rueful. “No. Just dreaming, as usual.” He released her hand and turned to leave.

“Don’t go yet.” She sidled over to make room and patted the edge of the cot companionably.

Fyodor looked back over his shoulder. He let his eyes speak what was in his heart, but he kept a careful distance from her. “I am ever your friend,” he said quietly; “But sometimes, little raven, you expect too much of a man.” Understanding flooded the drow’s face, then consternation. Once, briefly, they had been lovers. The unexpected, unfamiliar intimacy of the encounter had torn Liriel from her emotional moorings, leaving her confused and shaken. Such things were dangerous—indeed, forbidden!-among the drow, and she’d readily accepted Fyodo~s suggestion that they move beyond that interlude. The friendship between them was intense but difficult; they were still feeling their way through unfamiliar territory: Looking at her friend now, she realized that for him the matter was far from resolved. The thought both dismayed and intrigued her.

“Do you want to stay?” she asked bluntly.

Fyodor smiled gently into her stricken face. “Sleep well. I will see you next moonrise.” And with that he left, closing the cabin door carefully behind him.

A storm of emotions buffeted the capricious drow: relief, frustration, and then a surge of purely feminine pique. She snatched a knife from under her mattress and hurled it at the door. It bit deep into the wood, quivering hard enough to give off an audible, twanging hum. The drow rolled over and buried her head beneath her pillow to muffie the mocking sound.

“He could at least have said yes!” she muttered.

At first light, the Elfmaid sailed into the Korinn Archipelago, a scattering of small islands north of the Moonshaes. There was an air of anticipation about the ship that Fyodor noted and mistrusted. Hrolf was especially jolly, full to overbrimming with boisterous humor and badly sung ballads.

The young Rashemi liked Hrolf, more with each day that passed, for the captain had an enormous capacity for enjoyment that was both disarming and contagious. Hrolf took whatever life offered-be it a sudden squall, a drinking horn full of mead, or a tale of adventure—with pleasure and gusto. Unfortunately, he also took more than was his by legal right. It was difficult for Fyodor to reconcile his growing affection for Hrolf with the man’s fun-loving larceny, and he dreaded what might occur when they made land.

But the reception lavished upon the Elfmaid’s crew immediately put Fyodor’s mind to rest. It was late afternoon when they made port on Tetris, a small island of rolling green hills and rocky, windswept coasts. The dockmaster greeted Hrolf by name and urged him to hurry along to the festival. As the crew made their way through the village—a cluster of stone-and-thatch huts that lined the river on its meandering way to the sea-many villagers called out cheery greetings. A small, well-rounded woman with glad gray eyes and cheeks like ripe apples ran to meet Hrolt; her skirts flying and her arms outstretched in welcome; The captain caught her up, spinning her around with ease and then enfolding her in a bear hug.

“His woman,” explained Olvir, smiling indulgently as he nodded at the pair. He and Fyodor walked together, following the growing crowd that headed for the hills beyond the town. The two men had become good friends during the voyage, first trading tales of their homelands and then, slowly, confiding pieces of their own stories. From his boyhood Olvir had longed to be a skald, but he could not reconcile himself with the lower status that his warrior culture assigned to their bards. So he went to sea, seeking a fortune to appease his ambitions while collecting the stories that fed his spirit.

“You come to this island often?” Fyodor asked.

“Five, six times a year. ‘Tis almost a home port!”

“Still, that seems too seldom for a man and woman as fond as those two.”

Olvir shrugged. “Moira will not leave the island, nor Hrolf the sea. They suit each other well; always are they glad to meet and content to part.”

The sailor went on to other matters, describing the festival that would take place that evening. The Ffolk here followed ways long abandoned on most of the islands, ancient rites and festivals attuned to the turning of the seasons. Their druid, a doddering old graybeard dressed in robes of an era long past, clung to the worship of ancient spirits of land and sea. Tonight the village would offer the yearly tribute to the river spirit and celebrate the coming of spring.

Fyodor stood with the villagers as the aged druid said his prayers and offered the yearly tribute into the waters: beautifully worked armbands, torques, and broaches of pure yellow gold. Fyodor was a little surprised to see that the pirates, too, stood by in reverent silence as the old man tossed a fortune in gold into the water.

Making the ritual more remarkable was the fact that Fyodor could perceive no magic about the place at all. Like many of his people, he had a touch of the Sight, and he was usually able to sense places of power. Here, he felt nothing. He resolved to ask Hrolf about this later.

With the setting of the sun, the ritual gave way to celebration. Hrolf and his men contributed several casks of their “stolen” mead. Bonfires dotted the hillsides, and around them the villagers and pirates danced to the music of reed flutes, drums, and small, plaintive pipes. Sooner than Fyodor expected, the frenzied, joyous pace of the festival gave way to pleasant languor. Some of the revelers crept away in pairs to seek the shadows beyond the flickering firelight. Those who remained danced and drank to exhaustion, then curled up near the fires and fell into contented slumber.

Taking advantage of the unexpected lull, Fyodor sought out Hrolf: The captain was seated in state upon a tree stump, his Moonshae wife on his lap and a large drinking horn in one hand. Hrolf roared out a greeting and pressed the horn upon the young man, insisting that he have his share. Fyodor drained the vessel-not a difficult task for one accustomed to the fiery jhuild of Rashemen-and then asked the captain about the day’s ritual, explaining his perception that no magic lingered in the river.

The pirate shrugged. “Place spirits are not so common as they once were, that’s true enough, but old ways die hard. And what’s the harm of it? The river waters their fields, carries their boats to the sea, and gives them fish.

That is worth more than gold to them!”

“Well said,” Fyodor replied, pleasantly surprised by Hrolf’s insightful and tolerant answer. Even so, he did not credit these words as being the whole truth, and he said so. Hrolf responded only with a wink and a shrug. He refilled the drinking horn from the mead cask and handed it to the young warrior. “For a dreamer, lad, you worry too much! Find the bottom of this one and see if that doesn’t steal your troubles!”

Liriel waited until well after midnight before leaving the ship. Although she agreed with Hrolf that the Ffolk might not take well to a drow’s presence on their island, she could not resist the temptation to see this new land with her own eyes. Acting on impulse, she dressed as if she were participating in the promised festival, putting on a gown of black silk she had bought in Skullport and taming the wild waves of her hair into an elaborate arrangement of coils and ringlets. The Windwalker amulet she hid beneath the bodice ofher gown, yielding the place of honor to a pendant Fyodor had given her: a smooth oval of glowing amber with a black spider in its heart. Thus garbed, she donned her piwafwi and crept, wrapped in invisibility, through the deserted village, making her way toward the dying bonfires on the hills beyond.

The drow had expected a festival; what she encountered more closely resembled a battlefield. Villagers and Ruathen alike were sprawled about like so many victims of a massacre, with one exception: the dead generally did not snore. The grating chorus resounding through the clearing bore vivid testimony to the evening’s overindulgence. Hrolt; in particular, set the air vibrating with his raucous blasts as he lay asleep on his back, his boots propped up on one of several empty mead casks.

The drow’s eyes narrowed as she studied the scene. She was frequently amazed at the odd weakness humans had for strong drink. There was not a drow alive who couldn’t drink three dwarves under the table, and even drow who overindulged could shake off the effects almost at will. Humans didn’t have that type of fortitude, and it seemed to her that those humans least able to handle potent drink had the strongest taste for it. Still, she didn’t see how so many humans could drink themselves into oblivion in such short order. Even Fyodor, who could swallow that wretched Rashemaar firewine without ill effect, had succumbed to the night’s revelry. He lay in deep slumber. A half-full drinking horn had been thrust point-down into the soft ground beside him.

Liriel crouched at Fyodor’s side and took up the drinking horn. She sniffed at the mead, caught the faint scent of the herbs that had been added to it. Since a knowledge of poisons was an important part of any dark elf’s education, Liriel recognized the scent of a harmless-but potentsleeping potion.

She was not at all surprised, therefore, when an owl-like hoot came from the “sleeping” Hrolf. At this signal the pirates scrambled to their feet like so many puppets pulled by a single string. The effect was both eerie and comic. Liriel could not help but think of zombies arising from a battlefield in response to a wizard’s call.

The men stole down to the banks of a river. Wondering what Hrolfwas up to now, Liriel crept along after the Ruathen. She watched, puzzled, as several of the younger men stripped to the skin and waded into the water. They dove repeatedly, coming up to toss small, shining items to their comrades on the banks. From their talk, Liriel pieced together the story of what had happened earlier that night and what was happening as she watched.

The sacrilege of this act of thievery troubled her, for no Underdark drow would dare to defile an offering to Lloth. From what she had learned since leaVing Menzoberranzan, Liriel surmised that few deities were as vengeful as the Spider Queen. Still, it seemed a large risk to take for mere gold, and she decided to convince the pirates of their error.

Still invisible, Liriel walked among the men and watched as young Bjorn surfaced, a broad grin on his face. He waved a gold armband triumphantly overhead and then tossed it toward the shore. Liriel darted forward and caught the ornament, tucking it quickly beneath the folds of her piwafwi.

To the pirates, it appeared that the ornament had simply disappeared. They fell back from the invisible drow, bugeyed with astonishment and fear.

“Captain, you said there was no river spirit!” a whitefaced Olvir protested.

Bjorn was even more distressed. His thin hands fluttered like birds as he formed signs of warding, over and over. “May Tempus help us! We’ve angered their god!”

“We haven’t thus far!” Hrolf returned, unperturbed. “Think, lads. We’ve been harvesting the gold every spring for ten years, regular as a crop of rye. No, any spirit that might’ve made this river a home is long gone!”

“What, then?” demanded Ibn.

The captain winked at his first mate, then held out one hand, palm up, as he faced the apparently empty air. “Hand it over, lass. Youll get your share later, same as us all.” Liriel smothered a grin. Hrolf’s assurances to his men had put her mind at ease, and his quick-witted response to her prank pleased her. Still invisible, she tossed the bracelet to the captain. Its sudden reappearance dealt a second shock to the still-wary men. Then Bjorn figured out what was happening, and he began to chuckle. One by one, the Ruathen caught on. Not all of them, however, were amused by the joke.

“Damn female!” muttered Ibn as he turned back to the river. “Should ha’ known it was her at the first sign of trouble.”

By the time the sun rose, the gold had been safely stowed aboard ship and the pirates had resumed their places among the sleeping revelers. When fmally the scene stirred to reluctant life, none of the Ffolk seemed to find anything amiss. The farewells between villagers and pirates were somewhat muted by the lingering effects of the mead, but Hrolf’s crew took their leave in friendly fashion, amid promises to return soon.

The pirates’ spirits returned in full once they were aboard the Elfmaid. Only Fyodor felt any ill effects from the mead, and although the young warrior was the target ofmuch good-natured teasing, he felt too miserable to wonder why he was the only one so affected.

To Liriel’s chagrin, the Elfmaid did not head directly for Ruathym. Hrolf set course for Neverwinter, a coastal city some three hundred miles to the north. The Ruathen wished to trade some of their stolen gold for Neverwinter crafts, but there was another, more practical reason for the diversion as well. Neverwinter was named for its unusually warm climate and a harbor that remained free of ice year round. This was in part due to the River, a current of warm water and air that swept eastward from Evermeet, over the island of Gundarlun, and narrowing until it touched Neverwinter’s shores. So early in the spring, sailing the River was far safer than taking their chances against the ice floes that dotted the open sea. Hrolf planned to take to the River at Neverwinter, sail to Gundarlun to fish for spring herring, then travel due south to Ruathym. The expected profit was considerable, but this added time to the journey that Liriel had not considered. She had no idea how long the magic stored in the Windwalker might last, and she was anxious to reach Ruathym as soon as possible.

But the drow tried to make the best of the delay, using the time to study the book of sea magic and to add more spells to the Windwalker. Storytelling passed the time, too, and Liriel coaxed Hrolf and Olvir for information on their island home. As the days passed, she and Fyodor fell back into the comfortable routine of fellow travelers. Neither of them mentioned the moment that had passed between them in Hrolf’s cabin, but Liriel thought of it often. She suspected that Fyodor did, as well.

At last the ship reached Neverwinter. The Elfmaid was received at the port by an armed guard. But after the dockmaster saw a sample of the pirates’ golden treasure, she allowed the ship to dock-with the provision that Hrolfthe Unruly remain under heavy guard on his own ship. It seemed that several taverns in Neverwinter had reason to remember the captain.

Liriel enjoyed exploring the city-walking at Fyodor’s side, cloaked in invisibility. To her fell the task of browsing through shops displaying the water clocks and multicolored lamps for which Neverwinter’s artisans were famed.

Some of the stolen gold went to purchase a few of these treasures, which Hrolf would sell to wealthy Ruathen. It was a pleasant interlude, but the drow was not sorry when the Elfmaid put out to sea.

They sailed westward for two days before encountering another vessel in the warm waters of the River. Fyodor was on the forecastle taking a turn at watch when he saw it: a sturdy cog, leaning hard to the leeward, cutting through the water with almost reckless speed. He called an alert down to Hrolf, who was manning the rudder and regaling Liriel with stories of Ruathym.

“I know that ship,” Hrolf commented, peering at it through an eyeglass. “She carries seal hunters. On their way back home, they are, and in a hurry.”

His mustache lifted in a broad grin, and he winked at a pair of sailors lounging nearby. “Think of it, lads: a pallet of fine white fur. Now there’s a gift to brighten your woman’s eye and sweeten your welcome home!”

Liriel cast a quick glance toward Fyodor and shook her head. “Don’t do it, Hrolt;” she murmured. “You’ve seen him in battle only against a squid. I’ve seen him fight drowand win.”

The captain scoffed. “What kind of fool do you take me for, lass? Think you that I’d risk turning a berserker’s wrath upon my own ship?”

Hrolf pointed at the approaching cog. “I know her captain. Name of Farlow, used to be a sell-sword. A good man, if you like ‘em quick to fight, and he knows us as pirates! All we need do is sail close enough to give Captain Farlow a good look at us and let him think what he will! And once they attack,” Hrolf said slyly, “yon lad will stand with us, and at last we~ see him at play! It’ll be an easy fight for the rest of us, by my reckoning!”

The captain’s reasoning proved prophetic. No sooner had he fmished speaking than the cog changed course. The heavy ship hurtled toward the Ruathen vessel at ramming speed, bowsprit leveled at them like the lance of a jousting knight.

“Take your positions, lads!” roared the captain with undisguised glee.

Such attacks were expected and anticipated, and every man leaped to the role that had been assigned him. Harreldson dropped the sail and joined several others at the oars. The ship was smaller and lighter than the attacking cog-a single collision could send the Elfmaid to the bottom of the sea. In such attacks, she was best served by her ability to change course quickly and by the fighting strength of her crew.

Fyodor snatched a large wooden shield from its hook on the forecastle. Five other men did the same, kneeling shoulder-to-shoulder to form a shield wall. Five more sailors, armed with arrows and longbows, dove for cover behind the wall. Liriel took her place at Fyodor’s side, but her hands remained empty. Ifthe need arose, she had more powerful weapons to hurl.

The cog closed in fast, and the seal hunters’ first volley of arrows clattered against the wooden shields. Hrolf’s men returned fire; then the Elfmaid turned hard astern and darted past the onrushing cog. Before the merchant ship could change course, Hrolf’s rowers spun the ship in a circle and brought her alongside the cog. Two of the pirates twirled ropes that ended with heavy grappling hooks, then let fly. Both of the hooks found purchase on the larger vessel. A seal hunter leaned out to cut the lines; his body fell into the sea, bristling with Ruathen arrows.

Then came the grating shriek of wood against wood as the ships struck, then rebounded. The rowers set their oars and took up weapons just in time. Three of the hunters leaped over the narrow expanse of water that separated the two ships.

Hrolf barreled toward the invaders, roaring, his arms spread wide. He caught them before they could get their footing, and all four men plunged, with a mighty splash, over the side.

“Take the fight to them, lads!” The captain’s voice came to them from the water below. “No need to be getting blood all over the Elfmaid’s clean deck!”

The pirates tossed boarding planks between the ships and began to swarm up the incline onto the cog. Weapons drawn, the more numerous hunters confidently awaited the pirates. Then, suddenly, the attackers’ expressions of certainty melted into astonishment.

All of them had heard stories of Ruathym’s berserkers, elite warriors who protected their homeland. Berserkers were never encountered at sea, much less aboard a pirate vessel. Yet the dark-haired warrior stalking toward them could be nothing less.

Fully seven feet tall, he brandished a black sword too large and heavy for most men to lift. There was an aura of magic about him, and his blue eyes burned with inner fire. Equally fearsome—and even more astonishing-was the drow female who followed the berserker like a small dark shadow. There was a long dagger in one slender hand, and a feral gleam in eyes as golden as those of a stalking wolf: The seal hunters’ hesitation lasted but a moment, for their black-bearded captain spurred them into battle with the point of his own sword.

The berserker went straight for Captain Farlow, backhanding two pirates out of the way with the flat of his blade as he strode up the boarding plank. He leaped onto the deck of the cog, swinging his black sword downward in a sweeping cut as he came.

Farlow snapped his sword up high to block the attack. His was a fine weapon-a hand-and-a-half sword of dwarfforged steel, tested in two decades of mercenary fighting. The berserker’s blade shattered it and sent deadly shards flying. Faster than Farlow would have believed possible, the berserker reversed the direction of his swing and batted a length of airborne steel toward one of the hunters. The shard flew end over end, like a thrown knife. It caught one of the hunters through the throat, nailing him to the wooden mast.

The captain glanced at the hilt in his hand and the jagged fragment of steel that was all that remained of his blade. He hoped it would be enough. Raising the ruined weapon high overhead, he flung himself at the deadly invader, putting his weight and his strength fully behind the blow.

Liriel saw the attack coming and shrieked a waming to Fyodor. Almost casually, the berserker reached up and caught the man’s wrist, fully stopping his momentum. Then he twisted the captain’s arm down and inward, and with one quick thrust he sheathed the ruined blade in the heart of its owner.

Surprisingly enough, the hunters did not abandon their fight with the death of their captain. They threw themselves at the pirates with astonishing ferocity. Liriel noted one in particular-a tall, red-haired man who fought with the zeal of a paladin as he faced off against Hrolf: The Elfmaid’s captain had managed to back the man onto the forecastle, but there both stood, neither taking nor giving ground, their swords ringing in a deadly dialogue.

The other hunters did not fare so well against the pirates and their berserker ally. In minutes, the cog’s deck was slippery with blood, and few of the hunters had been spared Fyodor’s black sword. Except for Hrolf’s opponent, none remained standing.

Seeing that victory was theirs, Liriel let out a whoop and turned to Fyodor. One glance stole her triumph. Although only Ruathen sailors stood on the main deck, the killing frenzy had not yet left the young warrior.

“Throw down your weapons!” she shouted. “All of you!” The berserker whirled toward the sound of her voice, his black sword cutting the air with an audible swish. Liriel had seen her friend in battle many times, but never had she faced him, or seen the fire and ice of his battle rage turned upon her. He towered over the tiny elt; for the magic of the berserker lent him an illusion of preternatural size and a strength to match. Liriel could see through the magic to his true form, but this was of little comfort. There was no recognition in Fyodor’s eyes as he advanced on her. Liriel dropped her bloody dagger and fell to her knees, holding her hands out wide, palms up in a gesture of surrender. From the corner of her eye, she saw that Hrolf and his chosen man still held their swords. They’d hesitated at Liriel’s impassioned shout, but they eyed each other warily, neither willing to give up the advantage.

“If you value my life, Hrolf,” she said quietly, “if either of you idiots value yours, drop your swords now!”

An instant’s hesitation, then the clatter of falling steel shattered the tense silence. At last Fyodor’s battle rage left him and, as the magic faded, he seemed to slip back into his own body. He stood there for a long moment, looking down with a puzzled expression into the drow’s upturned face. Then the tip of his sword fell heavily to the deck. His eyes were haunted, his face ashen as he turned and walked away from the battle. Liriel understood and left him to his solitude.

The Ruathen sailors, however, swarmed gleefully over the captured cog. As Hrolf directed their efforts from the forecastle, they tossed bundles of raw skins onto their ship and carried aboard the stretching frames and barrels oflye needed to begin the process of tanning.

Bjorn struggled down the plank carrying a large oaken cask that proved too heavy for the slender lad. It slipped from his grasp and fell heavily to the Elfma~s deck. The lid cracked and gave way; and the contents spilled out. The boy stood there, gaping, his nearly beardless face pale. “Captain, you’d better see this,” he said at last. Something in Bjorn’s tone brought Hrolf at a run. The captain’s ebullience disappeared as he gazed at the still, small figure on the deck: the body of an elf child, perfectly preserved by the pickling brine that puddled on the deck. The macabre discovery brought the looting to an abrupt standstill. The pirates crowded around, not certain what to do. Their discomfort increased visibly when Hrolf tenderly gathered the dead child in his massive arms and wept, openly and without shame.

At length Hrolflaid the elfling gently aside and ordered his men to search the other barrels. His haggard face turned deadly as, one after another, the dead sea elves were laid out upon the deck.

“Call Xzorsh,” he said grimly.

One of the men hurried below, returning promptly with a strange device that looked rather like a small hurdygurdy. Hrolf placed the thing in the water and turned the wooden crank. Instead of music, the instrument gave off a series of clicks and whistles.

“A message to the sea elf,” Bjorn whispered to Liriel. “Sounds travel faster and farther in the water than in air. There are creatures below who will hear and repeat the message until it reaches the sea range~s ears. He will be here soon, and he will know what must be done.”

When Hrolf rose to his feet, Ibn took the device from him and then nodded toward the cog. “What do we do with the ship and the men who yet live?”

“Scuttle it,” Hrolf said tersely, “and leave the surviving scum to await Umberlee’s judgment. But bind their wounds first, so the blood doesn’t draw sharks or worse. The Lady of the Waves will do as she will, with no help from me!”

The captain’s wrath sped the men about their work. They fell to, some loading the wounded hunters into a single small boat, others using battle-axes to hack gaping holes in the side of the cog. One of the survivors-the redhaired man who’d matched Hrolf blow for blow-tried to have words with the captain. Hrolf effectively silenced his protests; a single blow of his ham-sized fist dropped the fighter. The captain tossed the unconscious man into the little craft and gave the signal to set it adrift. In moments the mists closed around the condemned men, like a veil separating them from the mortal world.

Hrolf stood at the rail, looking out after the boat with grim satisfaction long after it had disappeared from view. Quietly, respectfully, the crew went about their duties. Few of them knew the full story of their captain’s long-ago elven love, but there was not one among them who hadn’t lost someone to the sea. There was not one among them who didn’t send up a silent plea to Umberlee, asking the Lady of the Waves to take the wounded seal hunters to appease her wrath rather than someone else.

In these prayers, no one dared to name himselt; or a friend or lover whom he wished to see spared. Those who lived with the sea were a superstitious lot, and they took their fate as it came. Yet not a man among them would deliberately place himself at the mercy of Umberlee, and not a man among them doubted what the seal hunters’ fate would be at the hands of the sea goddess. And although they were Northmen, a people who as a rule held little love for elves, none of them believed that this fate was undeserved.