Chapter 6
Storm at Sea

The Calling Conch, a dockside tavern in Luskan, served strong ale and hearty chowder at bargain prices. Tonight the patrons got even more for their coppers than they’d anticipated, and to a man they blessed Tempus for their good fortune. Rethnor, High Captain of Luskan, had been challenged to battle. The words had barely left the challenger’s mouth before the Conch’s patrons began busily clearing an impromptu arena, pushing chairs and tables against the walls. They ringed the room now, quaffing ale and placing bets as to how long Rethnor’s opponent had yet to live.

The High Captain was an imposing bear of a man, with an uncommon breadth of shoulder and thickness of arm. A proud black beard cascaded down over his leather jerkin, and his thick brows slashed across his forehead in a single dark line. But it was his eyes, as blue and deep and icy as a winter sea, that proclaimed him a dangerous man.

At first Rethnor merely took the measure of his opponent. Their swords met in ringing blows as the Captain tested reach, strength, and resolve. The young man matched Rethnor’s size and breadth, and he seemed well trained-no surprise in the warrior culture of Luskanbut he was still an unblooded youth with more enthusiasm than battle sense. Still, it promised to be an entertaining fight.

Rethnor lunged, his left-handed sword diving toward the heart of his young opponent. It was an obvious attack, and the fighter parried it easily with a flamboyant sweep that threw Rethnor’s sword arm out wide. The High Captain expected this. Before the younger man could recover from the countermove, Rethnor stepped in close—so close the two men’s beards were nearly touching, too close for either fighter to bring his sword into play. No problem for Rethnor-he had a dagger ready in his right hand.

With a deft flick, he severed the waist strap that held up the young man’s leather thigh greave and then slashed down through the X-shaped side bindings that connected front greave to back. The protective garment flopped down over the fighter’s boot, revealing an incongruously thin, bandy leg clad in leggings of faded red wool.

Mocking laughter and huzzahs filled the tavern, and the yOuung fighter’s face twisted with humiliation and rage. Rethnor danced back, savoring the moment and fully intending to play out the fight. This young cub had challenged him-him, Rethnor the High Captain, perhaps the finest swordsman in Luskan-and he intended to make the upstart pay for his insolence.

And so Rethnor was not at all pleased when the ring on his sword hand began to tingle with the familiar, silent summons. He needed to end the fight soon, so he might seek solitude before the large onyx stone revealed itself as the scrying crystal it was. Of course, he wore gloves to hide the device. Magic was not highly regarded by the Northmen, and it was imperative that Rethnor keep this secret from his fellow High Captains, but he could never know whether someone who secretly practiced the thricedamned art of magic might be present during such a summons. If such a wretch detected an aura of magic around Rethnor, he or she would have a powerful weapon to use against him.

But of course the young fighter knew nothing of this, and he advanced on Rethnor with deadly purpose. “I’ll have your guts to replace that garter,” the swordsman promised grimly.

Rethnor’s sigh of frustration hissed through gritted teeth. He parried the young man’s furious overhead strike and countered with a feint. Quickly, skillfully, he worked the fighter’s blade down low. Then once again he stepped in close, this time with his fist leading. A vicious uppercut to the jaw sent his challenger reeling back, both arms flung out wide. Before the younger fighter could regain his defensive stance, Rethnor dug his blade deep into an unprotected armpit. The youth dropped his sword and sank slowly to the floor, a look of surprise on his face.

It was a particularly brutal finale to the fight, but it suited Rethnor’s mood. If he could not have the lengthy battle he desired, at least he could give this challenger a lingering death. The young man’s lungs would slowly fill up with blood, and he would drown in his own stupidity. The High Captain sheathed his wet sword and tossed a handful of silver onto the table to pay for his half-eaten meal. Then he strode into the night to see what information the Kraken Society considered so important that they would summon him, one of their most powerful agents, at a time other than the specified safe hour.

Rethnor hurried to his house, impatiently waVing away his wife’s questions and the ministrations of his servants. He hastened to his private room and set flame to the wick of a whale-oillamp. After bolting the door, he tugged off his gloves and regarded the scrying crystal on his ring. The glossy black color of the onyx had faded completely; in the small magic portal he saw the face of a beautiful, regal woman with impassive lavender eyes.

“Well?” he snapped, staring balefully at the tiny image. “Bad news or good, it had better be worth the interruption!” You be the judge. The cool, feminine voice sounded only in his mind. No sound came from the ring; indeed, the woman’s lips never moved. Rethnor often wondered why she bothered to show her face at all.

The seal hunters did not reach Waterdeep. The ship was intercepted by a Ruathen vessel. We believe it is bound for its home port.

Rethnor swore bitterly. He’d gone to a great deal of trouble and expense to set up this diversion: capturing the sea elves, delivering them alive to a secret drop on the distant archipelago known as the Purple Rocks, taking the bodies back to the coast in Ruathen barrels, putting them on a caravel set adrift in the known path of the Waterdhavian hunting vessel. It was but one of many acts Luskan had arranged and placed upon Ruathym’s doorstep, just one step toward justifying Luskan’s coming takeover of the island. But it was a particularly potent ruse, one that Rethnor knew would strike a responsive chord in the hearts of the Waterdhavian rulers. In fact, the idea had come from Waterdeep itself:

In recent months, reports of attacks on sea-elf communities had filtered ashore. Since it was well known that the Northmen of Luskan and Ruathym had no love for elves of any kind, the Lords of Waterdeep had made pointed inquiries. In truth, Luskan had had little to do with the sea elves’ troubles; that did not stop Rethnor from exploiting them. If the elf-Ioving southern meddlers were determined to make this their affair, why not focus their indignation upon Ruathym? Yes, Rethnor concluded, this plan must be salvaged.

“What do you suggest?” he asked the tiny image.

Stop the ship, of course. We are told it left Neverwinter two days ago, sailing due west upon the River: Stop it, and do whatever you must to affix blame for the sea-elven troubles upon Ruathym.

Rethnor nodded. This would actually be easier than it sounded, for the channel of warm water known as the River was relatively narrow and the Ruathen ship had only two days’ head start. The ships of Luskan were fleet; he could close the distance in mere days.

“I will handle it myself,” he promised.

Take two ships, the voice suggested, and as many fighters as they can carry. We have received word that there is a berserker warrior aboard the Ruathen vessel. He destroyed a giant squid, the emblem of the Kraken Society, and in so doing has earned our special enmity.

The High Captain blinked, and for a moment his usually rock-steady confidence wavered. He had fought Ruathym’s berserkers. They were trouble enough ashore; he did not relish the thought of fighting one in the close confines of a ship-to-ship battle. Still, berserkers were only mortal men, and they were even more eager than most Northmen warriors to tak2 a seat in the mead halls of Tempus. He, Rethnor, would happily oblige this one.

“Three ships,” he told the image with grim pleasure. “I sail at dawn with three warships.”

For a long moment Liriel merely stared at the man trapped in her magical web, completed dumbfounded by Ibn’s promise of death. She had acted only to defend herself-surely Hrolfwould not turn against her for this! But Ibn seemed so certain, and he had sailed with the captain for years. And truly, what did she know about the strange ways of humans?

Liriel’s drow instincts took over. Up came her hand crossbow, and a tiny dart flashed toward the fIrst mate. The sleeping poison was potent; Ibn was asleep before he could finish the salty oath he’d begun to hurl at her.

The drow quickly dispelled the magic that had formed the giant spiderweb, and Ibn dropped heavily to the wooden floor of the hold. Liriel dug both hands into her hair and gripped her head as if doing so could contain her whirling thoughts. Granted, her impulsive action had bought her a little time. The potion would hold Ibn for several hours, but what could she possibly tell the others that would explain his enspelled slumber?

“Give him some mead,” suggested a deep voice from the far end of the hold.

Liriel whirled at the unexpected sound. Her eyes narrowed as Fyodor rose from behind the remaining mead casks.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded angrily.

The Rashemi responded with a wry smile. “At the moment, little raven, I am trying to keep you alive. See the cask there with one side blackened a bit, as if it were placed too close to a fire? It holds some of the mead that put the villagers to sleep. Pour a bit of it down him, and a bit of it on him, and Hrolf will assume Ibn got into the stores and picked the wrong barrel.”

The drow stared at him. A dozen questions clamored to be given voice; she picked the easiest. “You know about the mead? But how?”

“Remember, I was at your side during the trip to Neverwinter, paying the merchants for the goods you chose. The gold we used in payment was familiar-I saw some of the pieces when the druid threw them into the river.” He shrugged. “Knowing Hrolf, I was able to find my way to the truth in time.”

Liriel accepted both his plan and his explanation with a curt nod. She pried the lid off the half-empty cask and splashed some of the mead on the sleeping mate. “I can keep him asleep only until tomorrow morning,” she grumbled. “Life would be so much easier if I could just kill him and have done with it!”

The drow looked up at Fyodor, and her eyes narrowed dangerously as she turned her thoughts to another matter. “You were spying on me.”

“Not so,” he protested. “I needed a place to rest, and the hold is quiet and dark. I. . . have not slept much of late.” She nodded, understanding. Since the Time of Troubles, when Fyodo~s berserker magic had gone awry, he had often been tormented by dreams. When the battle frenzy faded, he seldom remembered the details of the battles he fought. But the faces of those who died by his sword came back to him by night. Liriel thought it extremely fortunate that drow, as a rule, did not dream at all. Most of the dark elves she knew would soon go mad if they were forced each night to face the consequences of their actions. But such thoughts were pushed aside as she focused on Fyodor. She’d hoped he’d overcome his remorse about turning on her during the last battle, but now she saw he had not. He was thinner, and there was a haggard look about him. Liriel suspected it was her face that had haunted his dreams of late.

A silence between them stretched until the tension became too great to bear. “You were chanting,” Fyodor said softly, “but not words of magic. It seemed to me that you were praying. Is that true?”

Liriel nodded, surprised by the turn his thoughts had taken. “So?”

“You cast a spell through prayer; only a priest can do this.” He paused, as if reluctant to continue. “I have seen you dance in the moonlight, touched by the shadow ofEilistraee. Tell me truly: have you become a priestess of the Dark Maiden?”

There was hope in his voice, but Liriel saw in his eyes that he did not believe this could be so. Eilistraee was the goddess of those drow who forsook the dark tunnels and evil ways, the goddess of dance and the hunt. The Dark Maiden encouraged her followers to create beauty, to aid travelers, to live in peace and joy beneath the sun and the moon. Fyodor knew that Liriel was a child of the Underdark.

Her fingers instinctively closed around the amulet of Lloth, as if to shield her friend from the Spider Queen and all that the goddess represented. “I was trained as a wizard from a young age,” Liriel said steadily. “That is what I am. But before I left Menzoberranzan, I was sent to the clerical school. I was there but a short time, hardly enough to be accounted a priestess!”

“But your prayer was answered with magic,” he persisted. Liriel shrugged. “If a goddess is willing to grant me power, I’d be a fool not to take it!”

“But at what price?” Fyodor asked earnestly. “Liriel, I have heard many terrible stories of the drow and their goddess. You have given me to know that these stories are but a dim shadow of the life you knew. If this is so, what good can possibly come from such as Lloth?”

The drow thought carefully before speaking, for such questions were new to her and the answers were still forming in her mind.

“Do you remember what Qilue Veladorn asked me, when we asked her and the other drow of Eilistraee’s temple to help us get the Windwalker back? She asked why I wanted to retain my drow powers—and what I intended to do with them. I am learning that there are many things that can be done. Stopping Nisstyre and his nest ofVhaeraun worshipers was one. Through the power of Lloth, I learned that the spirits of these elves did not move beyond the mortal realm. They were trapped through sorcery: If Lloth grants me the chance and the power to free these elves, I will take it!”

“But Lloth is evil, is that not so?”

“Of course,” Liriel said without pause. “But Lloth is also powerful, and so my people worship her. I used to scorn the drow’s constant scrambling for more and more power, like so many silly dragons collecting ever bigger heaps of gold. But I’m starting to see that power is also a tool,” she concluded thoughtfully. “If I have it, and use it to worthwhile ends, does the source of it truly matter?”

Fyodor shook his head, not certain how to answer. He was deeply gratified to see how far Liriel had come; these were hardly the sentiments of the spoiled drow princess he had met in the tunnels of the Underdark. From the beginning he had sensed Liriel’s potential, and through his Sight had caught fey glimpses of a destiny that might well rival the mightiest of Rashemen’s Witches. He was proud of her growth, and he could not find words to refute her reasoning. But still he was uneasy.

“Come,” he said at last. “Let us tell Hrolfthat Ibn sleeps in the hold. That will buy a little time, but we must figure out what to do next.”

Liriel smiled her thanks and slipped her arms around his waist. “Devious, you are!” she said teasingly. “Given time, you might make a creditable drow!”

He returned her friendly embrace and quickly disengaged himself: Not so much, this time, from the temptation her nearness presented, but because of the admiration in Liriel’s voice. He was not proud of the deception he’d suggested, but to Liriel such acts were worthy of praise. She took great pride in her heritage and considered comparing him to a drow the highest possible compliment.

Fyodor’s feelings of confusion deepened when he listened to Liriel explain the matter to Hrolf, for she spun out the web of deception with obvious relish. He could not help but wonder how far Liriel had truly traveled from the tunnels of the Underdark, and the ways of Lloth.

Xzorsh did not reach the Elfmaid until the following dawn, for he saw no need to hurry. Although he already knew the reason for his summons, the sea elf listened carefully to Hrolf’s recitation of the facts. He briefly considered telling the pirate where the surviVing seal hunters had taken refuge, but he knew there were no answers to be found there. The best Xzorsh could do for his slain kindred was to take them home to be buried with honor in the coral catacombs hidden deep in the sea. So he said nothing when Hrolf sent two men-his first mate, who was strangely groggy and the object of much teasing by his fellows, and the young warrior who’d killed the giant squid--0ut on a small boat to look for the adrift sailors. It was effort wasted, and it made Xzorsh’s tasks as guardian more difficult, but the sea elf let it pass. He did not trust what Hrolf might do upon learning that Lord Caladorn and the others had escaped Umberlee’s judgment.

Under Xzorsh’s direction, the Ruathen sailors returned the slain elves to the sea. Far beneath the waves, sea folk from the nearest settlement awaited to take them to the distant city they had once called home. Sittl, Xzorsh’s partner, had arranged all, and he awaited the ranger now in the depths. The other ranger would not come near the Elfmaid-his distrust of humans ran too deep.

At the moment, Xzorsh could hardly blame him. There was evil below the waves as well as in the world of humans, but the young sea ranger was deeply shaken by the brutal, senseless nature of these deaths. He was also troubled by the brief conversation he’d had with the drow. She had pulled him aside, told him of the strange fate that had befallen the spirits of the elves at the hands of some unknown sorcerer. Apparently she’d hoped he might be able to shed some light on the matter. But to Xzorsh such use of magic was horrifying and utterly beyond his understanding. He left the humans and their disturbing drow passenger as soon as possible to seek the familiar comfort of his friend’s presence.

But Sittl’s mood was even darker than his own. “I often think the world would be better if Umberlee took every human that so much as stuck a toe in the water,” he said grimly in the clicks and whistles of the sea-elven dialect. “And I will never understand why you spend so much time and concern on that pirate!”

Xzorshsent him a strange look. Sittl knew ofhis pledge. To sea elves, a pledge was an immutable bond! “Hrolf saved my life,” he reminded his friend.

“So you have told me many times, but that was before we met. You were little more than a child then!” Sittl retorted. “The debt was paid in full long ago!”

“How can you say such a thing?” the ranger marveled, aghast that the practical, reliable Sittl could harbor such blasphemous ideas.

His partner turned aside. He did not answer for a long moment, but his mottled shoulders rose and fell in a deep sigh, sending an eloquent rift of bubbles floating upward. “One of the females was once my lover. The dead child was mine,” he said flatly. “Forgive my harsh words against the human pirate; I am not myself.”

Xzorsh reached over to clasp his friend’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. If you had told me of your loss, I would have spared you this task.”

The elf shook his head. “We have our duties,” he said, and when he turned back to Xzorsh his face was composed. “What must we do now, to honor your pledge?”

“The others will see to the slain People. We two watch over Hrolf and his men. I need your help, for one of us must keep Hrolf’s ship in sight, the other ensure that the two men who seek the seal hunters come to no harm. I cannot help but think,” Xzorsh said slowly, “that the Elfmaid is in grave danger. There are forces at work that I do not yet understand.”

“The drow?”

“Perhaps,” the ranger said, and it was his turn to avert his eyes. This was as close to an untruth as ever he had told. Xzorsh did not trust the drow, but she knew magic and he did not. He would have to depend on her help to fmd and free the spirits of the slain sea elves. It was an impossible alliance and the most dangerous task he had ever considered.

Why then, Xzorsh wondered, did the very thought of it fill him with elation?

Three days passed, and neither the crew of the Elfmaid nor Ibn and Fyodor in their smaller boat caught sight of the adrift sailors. The two vessels tacked back and forth across the warm waters of the River, crossing paths repeatedly as they searched for the small boat. At last Ibn decided the effort was in vain.

“Theyre not on the River anymore, that’s what,” the first mate proclaimed. “Umberlee took ‘em, and that’s the end of it. We might as well get back to the ship.”

Fyodor gave reluctant agreement. He hadn’t particularly enjoyed the company of the taciturn sailor, but he hoped the time away from the ship had tempered Ibn’s wrath against Liriel. The mate had not once brought up the matter. Fyodor took that as a good sign.

The two men rowed hard, and before long they had the Elfmaid in sight. Once on board, Ibn strode directly over to Hrolf:

“Call a Thing,” he demanded, using the ancient word for a council of law. By Northman law any ship’s officer had the right to request that such council be convened, but only to deal with matters of grave import.

Hrolf eyed the first mate warily. “What’s this about, lad?”

“The female, that’s what. She attacked me—a ship’s officer-with her drow sorcery.”

“You seem hale enough,” the captain pointed out. “Would you be happier if she’d left me dead?” Ibn retorted. “A hit or near miss, in the eyes of the law it’s all the same, and well you know it!”

Perplexed by this development, the captain turned his gaze slowly over the men who had gathered to hear Ibn’s words. Almost without exception, they nodded agreement to Ibn’s assessment of the matter.

Hrolf sighed and turned to Fyodor. “You’d better bring her topside, lad. We’ve got to get to the root of this.”

The young warrior nodded grimly and disappeared into the hold. He and Liriel returned to find the men seated in a tight semicircle on the deck.

“The Thing begins,” Hrolf said, his face creased with regret. “You stand before the ship’s council, Liriel Baenre, accused of attacking a ship’s officer with sorcery. What do you say to this?”

The drow’s chin lifted defiantly. “Whatever the man’s position, has he the right to creep up on me, to threaten me with a knife? As you can see, Ibn is strong and well. I did nothing but stop his attack. If I’d attacked him, he’d be dead. If you doubt the truth of this, I’d be more than happy to demonstrate,” she said, leveling a cold glare at her accuser. ‘And if using my so-called sorcery defies your laws, why did you not object when we came through the gates at Skullport?” “Those are good points,” Hrolf said hopefully.

Ibn folded his arms over his chest. “The charge stands,” he growled. “She tossed me into a damned big spiderweb and shot me with one o’ them accursed darts.”

“But why didn’t you come forward sooner, lad?” “Yourself sent me off in that blasted little tub before my head cleared,” Ibn retorted. “And don’t think I’m happy about the rest of you lads thinking I got into the mead, or that I don’t know good stuff from tainted. She musta splashed it on me!”

“Spiderwebs, darts smaller than your little finger, and a half swallow of honey wine-it’s a wonder you survived all that,” Liriel observed with acid sarcasm.

Some of the men chuckled, and Hrolf passed a hand over his bewhiskered mouth to cover a smile. But Ibn’s face turned an angry red.

“I upheld your orders, Captain-I didn’t lay hand on the wench. Not even when I found her casting magic in the hold, talking to them pickled elves like they was old cronies-holding hands with one of ‘em! It was clear as sunrise that she knows more about all that than she’s let on.” The mate paused to let those words sink deep. “I been sailing with you a long time, Hrolf: I expect you to do right by me and by them.”

Oh, well done, Liriel thought with grim admiration. She knew Hrolf well enough to realize that Ibn had touched several of the captain’s sensitive spots.

A perplexed Hrolf chewed his mustache as he considered his dilemma. Most of the men had begun to accept Liriel’s presence among them, and all of them seemed willing to grant her strange ways some leeway; But there were things that even he as captain could not ignore. If any other man had thrown weapons—Qf any sort-at the first mate, it would have been considered tantamount to mutiny. The standard punishment was a quick toss overboard. Granted, Ibn had pulled a knife on the lass, but it sounded as if he thought he had a good reason to do so. “Three ships behind us, closing fast!” came the urgent voice of the man on watch.

The captain exploded to his feet, a look of intense relief on his face. “We’re under attack, lads!” he roared out. “And Tempus be praised for it,” he muttered into his beard.

Xzorsh and Sittl saw the approaching warships before the humans perceived their danger.

“Three to one. It does not look good for your human friend,” Sittl observed.

The ranger shook his head. “Hrolf and his men fight well. They also have the magic of a drow and the might of a berserker on their side. I saw that human destroy a giant squid. All things considered, the odds are not so bad as they might seem.”

Sittl considered this. “I think calling reinforcements would be a wise precaution. Since you will no doubt wish to stay in honor of your pledge, I will see to it.” He smiled a little and placed a webbed hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“Promise me, though, that you will watch the battle from a safe distance.”

Xzorsh nodded, grateful for the understanding and support. “But the sea elves are long gone. Whom will you summon?”

The other elf’s smile broadened and turned wry: “You’ve been so concerned with the humans oflate that you’ve forgotten there are as many peoples below the waves as above!”

The ranger acknowledged this gentle hit with a feigned wince. Sittl grinned, then turned to swim swiftly away to the west.

Left alone, Xzorsh turned his full attention upon the coming battle. As he watched the large warships close in, he wondered whether his assessment might have been overly optimistic, and he hoped Sittl’s reinforcements would not be too long in coming.

 

 

* * * * *

 

 

 

Five days after his ships left the docks ofLuskan, Rethnor spotted another vessel, far to the west and silhouetted against a twilight sky. The High Captain took up a spyglass and peered into it. He gave out a derisive sniff. For some reason the ship had dropped sail, and it had turned so that he looked straight at the ridiculous wooden figurehead-a garishly painted statue of a woman with elven ears and improbable curves.

“What in the Nine Hells is that? An elf ship?” “Ruathen,” one ofhis men put in, “That’s the ElfmaidI seen her before. Captain’s one Hrolf the Unruly. He was run out of Luskan three years ago for tearing apart the Seven Sails Inn.”

A slow smile crept over Rethnor’s face. He’d found not only his quarry, but also a way to deepen the mist that concealed Luskan’s plot against Ruathym. Waterdeep had forced Ruathym and Luskan to form the Captains’ Alliance. Let the meddling southerners think their efforts had borne fruit and that the two groups of Northmen were working in harmony to tamp down the threat of piracy. He, Rethnor, would serve up Hrolf to both Waterdeep and Ruathym village, and in the process buy himself good faith with both cities. The elf-Ioving officials ofWaterdeep would readily accept Hrolf in the role of villain. The man had a wild reputation-not to mention possession of those pickled sea elves. As for Ruathym-well, there had been many strange happenings on the island of late, and the beleaguered people might well grasp at any explanation presented them. According to Rethnor’s sources on the island, Hrolf was considered to be something of a rogue.

The Captain sent orders to his two other warships to flank the Ruathen vessel, taking the central attack himself: “As soon as we come within range, fire the ballista over her deck. Take care not to sink the ship,” Rethnor cautioned. “We need her whole, crew and cargo.”

He raised the spyglass again and recoiled in astonishment at the sight before him. Standing on the deck of the ship, framed by a flying cloak that glittered darkly in the dying light, was a black elf: A female, at that. She was a tiny thing, all hair and eyes, with ears like a fox.

Rethnor swore under his breath. He’d amassed power and wealth through his ability to craft multilayered plots and through his ability to plan ahead for each possible move his opponents might make. Unlike most Northmen, he did not consider chess to be an effete pastime. But he played most of his games in the back rooms and the battlefields that led to power, with living beings as pawns and warriors. He knew all of his players and opponents well. He knew what to expect from the sailors and fighters of Ruathym and was even confident ofhis ability to overcome one of their berserker warriors. But despite the stories he had heard all his life—or perhaps because ofthem-he had no idea what to expect from a drow.