Chapter 9
Strange AllIances

The Cutlass sped toward the Purple Rocks, its skeleton crew spurred to exhaustion and beyond by their grim-faced captain. Rethnor was determined to reach Trisk in record time, for there was much at stake. He had lost not only his sword hand, but also his magical onyx ring-his only means of receiving messages from the westem command center of the Kraken Society.

The captain could send missives-the magic pendant that he wore hidden under his tunic would relay his words to the western outpost-but this was not enough to meet his needs. He sailed to Trisk, not only to replace the scrying device, but also to enlist the help of Kraken agents who lived on the remote island.

Or, more to the point, around the island.

Rumors were plentiful among the people of the Kraken-this was to be expected in an organization that dealt in information brokering. Many of these were whispered tales of the strange magics and deadly beasts that haunted the western outpost. Even allowing for poetic license and the usual tavem boasting, there was no denying the dangerous nature of the waters around the Purple Rocks. Rethnor believed many of the rumored sea creatures were real and that some of them answered to the bidding of the Kraken Society. And more importantly, he had come to suspect that small and modest Trisk was in reality the primary base for the entire network of spies and assassins.

Rethnor intended to demand an audience with the leader of the society, and he did not think he would be refused. No matter how powerful the dark network of the Kraken might be, the base itself could not survive without trade. And Luskan was the island’s strongest trade partner. In Rethnor’s estimation, he had more than enough leverage to warrant all the demands he intended to make.

The captain pulled his magic pendant from its hiding place and began to dictate his orders into the shining disk, sending messages across the sea to the Purple Rocks and to hidden outposts on the mainland. For the first time he understood why the unknown, unnamed woman with the lavender eyes appeared to him in his scrying crystal. Without such reassurance, it was hard for him to accept that the magical messages truly reached their destinations.

As he looked out over the icy sea, the Northmandespite his inbred distaste for things magical-found himself wishing he had some knowledge of the art so that he could sense the far-reaching ripples that carried his commands to distant shores. Power he had, wealth in abundance, great strength and remarkable fighting prowess. But it occurred to him that these things provided little protection against the might of magic. The thought was new to Rethnor, and deeply disturbing. For some reason it chilled him, and he felt as if he’d heard the call of an unseen raven-the harbinger of a warrior’s death.

The High Captain shook off his dark thoughts and fixed his eyes firmly on the western horizon. No doubt there was magic at work around the Purple Rocks, but there was power to be had, too. If he had to face the one to gain the other, he would take his chances as they came.

The town of Yartar was an important crossroads of the Northlands, located as it was on the River Dessarin and the trade road between Triboar and Silverymoon. Many important goods came through this town, not the least of them information.

Baron Khaufros, Lord ofYartar, was an ambitious man. He had inherited his wealth and title, but he’d earned his position as ruler ofYartar by his ability to build alliances of trade and politics. He was a steadfast member of the Lords’ Alliance, that group of cities that tied their interests closely to those ofWaterdeep. Khaufros was also a member of the Kraken Society, and the hidden chambers and tunnels under his mansions were frequent haunts of those spies and assassins who did the society’s dark work.

At the moment, the baron was alone, engrossed with the pile of messages on his desk. Late spring brought a thawing of the Dessarin and a flow of messages from many towns-and many sources.

Khaufros absently tossed back the contents of his goblet and read the missive from his unknown Luskan contact once again. The plot against Ruathym was proceeding nicely, but for reasons unspecified it was decreed that the blame for many of the island’s troubles was to be affixed upon a certain rogue sea captain of Ruathym. Khaufros was to do whatever he could to augment and support the new “facts” that spoke against this man. The Kraken leader from Luskan was also calling in all markers, demanding that the Ruathen ship be stopped by any means possible before it reached its home port, for the accusations could not be as easily made if the man lived to refute them.

“My lord baron.”

Khaufros instinctively crushed the damning message in his hand and looked to the door of his study. The entrance was flanked by two suits of Cormyrian plate armor, priceless things forged of mithril and tested in battle against the Tuigan horde. Standing between them, utterly dwarfed by their martial glory, stood his elderly and impeccable steward, Cladence.

“The diplomatic courier from Waterdeep is here, m’lord, awaiting your pleasure.”

The baron smiled and leaned back in his chair, the needed plan already forming in his mind. “Show him in, Cladence, and send my scribe in with him. Shut the door after them-we may be in conference for some time.”

The messenger was a young man of common stock, too ignorant of court ways to change his travel-stained gear before seeking audience. Since this was the last mistake the lad was likely to make, Khaufros was inclined to let it pass. The baron accepted the letter from Waterdeep, broke the seal, and quickly scanned the contents. Routine information, for the most part, some of which he had already heard in greater detail from his Kraken Society contacts. Khaufros looked up, his eyes focusing on a point somewhat behind the waiting courier. “Semmonemily, if you will, please,” he said politely:

There was a metallic creak of plate against plate, and one of the empty armor suits stirred to life and began to advance on the messenger. The young man tumed toward the sound just as a spiked metal gauntlet lashed out. His head snapped sharply to one side, and bits of broken teeth clattered to the floor like so many bright pebbles. Before the messenger could cry out, the empty metal hand struck again, and then again. Calmly, efficiently, the armor suit went about its grim task.

The baron and his scribe looked on with impassive eyes, for they were too accustomed to such events to feel much of a response. Once they’d watched such executions with horrified fascination and just a touch of perverse pleasure. Now it was mere routine. Nor did either man blink when the armor suit blurred and melted, reforming itself into the mirror likeness of the dead messenger. This, too, was a commonplace event.

Semmonemily was a doppelganger, a shape shifting being able to adopt any form it chose. By taking the place of the slain courier, the doppelganger could retum to Waterdeep with altered missives.

The creature was one of the baron’s most valued allies. The other was the wizened scribe seated at the writing table, bottles of valious-hued inks before him and quill poised. This scribe was also a shapeshifter of sorts, for he could perfectly duplicate the writing of any man alive. As Khaufros spoke, the scribe bent over his parchment, transmuting the original messages into unimpeachable copies, subtly changed to reflect the baron’s will.

Information was power; that was the basic tenet of the Kraken Society. But those who wished to know true power understood that it was not enough to gather informationone had to control it. And, upon occasion, create it.

Shakti Hunzrin was becoming accustomed to annoying disruptions. Since the day she had entered Triel’s service as traitor-priestess, she had been expected to attend the Baenre matron’s every whim. But this night’s summons was by far the most abrupt and the most unusual.

The Black Death ofNarbondel, the dark hour of midnight and the time when Menzoberranzan’s magical timepiece was enchanted anew, had come and passed. Shakti had been comfortably asleep in her bedchamber, her door guarded by vigilant golems she’d enspelled to ensure that her dreamless slumber would end with the coming of the new day. Such precautions were not unusual among future matrons who had no wish to mysteriously die in their sleep.

But this night the stone guardians did not attend their given task. Shakti awoke with a start, literally shaken from slumber by one of her own golems. Its stone fingers closed around her upper arms; its impassive stone eyes retumed her startled gaze.

Then she was hauled out of bed and thrust toward a glowing door that had appeared in the center of the bedchamber. Before she could so much as curse the offending golem, the thing gave her a shove that sent her reeling through the luminous gate.

Shakti landed on her rump, her night robe hiked up around her plump thighs and her hair flying in wild disarray around her furious face. By the Mask ofVhaeraun, she vowed grimly, Triel would pay for this indignity!

“Welcome, priestess,” said a cold and unexpectedly masculine voice.

The Hunzrin priestess froze. She knew that voice, as did all of Menzoberranzan. Those who cared to listen heard it every day, when the archmage celebrated the darkest hour by casting a spell of renewal upon Narbondel. But what, she wondered with extreme foreboding, did Gromph Baenre want with her? And by all that was dark and holy, how many Baenres would she be forced to endure?

“I am delighted to entertain one of my daughter Liriers former classmates. Please, take a seat,” Gromph continued, his manner an ironic parody of the gracious host. “I’m sure you can find one that is more to your liking than that carpet.” Shakti scrambled up and smoothed her robe decently back into place. Mustering all the dignity she could, she seated herself across from the archmage’s polished table. Never had she been so close to the dreaded Gromph Baenre, and only with great effort did she refrain from staring. He was an exceptionally handsome male, young and vital in appearance despite his reputed seven centuries of ill-spent life. His eyes were of the same rare amber hue as his daughter’s, but Shakti had never seen that expression of icy calculation in Liriers golden eyes. The wizard reached for a bellpull on the wall. “Will you have wine? Or tea?”

“Nothing, thank you,” Shakti retumed flatly. His polite manner was a subtle but obvious form of mockery, and the proud priestess bitterly resented any male—however powerful-taking his amusement at her expense. “I would not presume to take so much of your time.”

“ Gromph laced his fingers and placed them on the table before him. “You fit my sister’s description well; she says that you are ever one to attend to the business at hand. Matron Triel is seldom wrong, of course, and I readily admit you have worked wonders in matters of agriculture. Your contribution to the restoration of the farms and rothe herds has not gone unnoticed. But I must draw your attention to another matter, one that remains unresolved.” The archmage held out his hands to her, palms up. Although they had been empty a moment before, cradled between them was a tiny bowl of dark red crystal. It grew rapidly until it was identical in every respect to the scrying bowl given to Shakti by the drow god Vhaeraun. The priestess stared, too stunned to hide her astonishment.

“You are acquainted with my daughter,” Gromph continued in his cool, measured tones. “Yet I doubt you understand the half of Liriers value. She is a wizard of no little ability. Did you know I arranged and supervised her training myself? And do you think I would go to such trouble for no purpose?”

Shakti could do no more than shake her head, but Gromph seemed to consider the answer sufficient.

“I am sure that you, of all people, can understand the importance of one who has a foot firmly in two camps. Of course I knew that Liriel would someday attend ArachTinilith, would be trained as priestess to Lloth. But I had her first, and the earliest marks on the mind cut the deepest! Liriel was created to be one of my strongest supporters-a Baenre priestess who is first and foremost a wizard. Despite the recent unpleasantness with the amulet, she still could be useful to me,” Gromph concluded, “and I want her back.”

The archmage leaned forward, his amber eyes intent upon Shakti’s face. “It has come to my attention that you have sought assistance from beings from the elemental plane of water. If; as you suspect, Liriel has taken to traveling the waterways of the surface, this was not an unwise choice. Yet I understand that your threats and blandishments met with rebuff; is that not so?”

Shakti managed to mutter something in the affirmative. “Not surprising. As a priestess of Lloth, you are accustomed to the creatures of the Abyss—entities of pure evil. The creature you have summoned is more complex; thus your methods must be more subtle.”

Shakti’s mind reeled as she tried to take in the implications of Gromph Baenre’s words. How could he know so much? And more importantly, what did he plan to do with this knowledge?

The archmage plucked a bit of parchment from the empty air. “In the interim since your foray into the plane of water, I have gone to no little trouble to leam about the creature you summoned. On this parchment is written her true name. Use it only as a last resort, for there are easier ways to command the loyalty of this being. She calls herself Iskor, and she deals in information. She is messenger for a god worshiped on the elemental plane and, apparently, by many creatures of the sea. As you surmised, Iskor is not content with her role and wishes to amass power ofher own. Thus she also carries information to creatures that make their homes in the surface waters. Promise to be her eyes and ears into the Underdark, and demand that in retum for your aid she will seek out Liriel.”

“You want the amulet,” Shakti stated, more to buy time to gather her thoughts than for any true purpose.

This seemed to amuse Gromph. “Of course. Who would not? But I also want Liriel. See that she is retumed alive.” The archmage rose to his feet. “That will be all. You should have all the information you need. If you require more, I will know. Kindly do not approach me directly. That might be. . . inconvenient.”

Shakti could well imagine why. She would never accuse the archmage of Menzoberranzan of consorting with Vhaeraun, but what other explanation could there be? Where else could Gromph have acquired that scrying bowl? Or have learned so much about her plans? Or have gotten past the god-given wards on her chamber? Yes, she had a very good idea why Gromph Baenre had no wish to be seen in the presence of his sister’s traitor-priestess.

But no matter what powers he might command, what information he possessed, Gromph needed someone like Shakti. The archmage was tied to Menzoberranzan by the task of enchanting N arbondel-an honor that was also a chain with links forged anew with the coming of each midnight hour.

The young priestess found no pleasure in this realization, for it was well known that no one who had dealings with Gromph ever did better than break even. For that matter, few survived. There was nothing to be gained by this enforced alliance, and much at risk.

Shakti had little choice but to agree to the archmage’s demands. But if some means of escape presented itself, she vowed to take it.

Iskor, the water wraith, slipped into the door that led from her home on the elemental plane of water to the hidden city of Ascarle. The passage was brief but exhilaratinglike swimming through a cloud of merrily roiling bubbles. On the other side she emerged from a pond filled with brightly colored fish, exploding upward into the dry and brittle air with the exuberance of a playful sea lion.

Iskor liked this new world and her role in it. She even liked the illithid that watched her with expressionless white eyes. Evil and ambitious Vestress was a marvelous creature, even if she was an air-breather.

The water wraith assumed corporeal form little by little as she emerged from the water. Her face and body took the form of a sylph-a beautiful water nymph-but with skin and hair as transparent as finest glass. Iskor would have been invisible, but for the tiny, effervescent bubbles that whirled through her. She looked like a fountain contained within some exquisite sculpture.

Iskor smiled at the illithid and came forward to grasp both of the creature’s purple hands in her glassy fingers. “Oh, Vestress, you will be so pleased at my news!”

The illithid disentangled herself as inconspicuously as possible. By all means, continue. Good news has been scarce enough of late.

“I recently met a most unusual traveler to my home plane,” the water wraith continued with girlish enthusiasm. “A drow! A priestess who makes the Underdark her home! At first she was rather tiresome—all threats and demands-but now she offers information on her dark realm in exchange for services that only creatures of the sea can provide. Would she not make a wonderful addition to the Kraken Society?”

Indeed, Vestress was more than a little intrigued by the prospect of adding a drow to her band of informants. The illithid herself had left the Underdark many, many years ago, under circumstances that did not permit her to maintain ties with her homeland. It would certainly be very useful to have such an informant. But Vestress did not like to offer Iskor too much encouragement, lest the annoyingly bubbly creature spin off into new heights of euphoria.

And what might these services be? the illithid inquired, her mental voice projecting extreme disinterest.

“The priestess seeks the return of a drow female who escaped the Underdark. She was last seen in a city known as Skullport. Do you know it?”

Well.

“Splendid! The runaway is a drow wizard by the name of Liriel Baenre. She is young and easily marked by her golden eyes. It is believed that she took to the sea-where bound, no one knows. Upon this drow’s return to the Underdark, my new contact-Shakti-will pledge herself to the Kraken Society. I took the liberty of telling her about the society and offering her this honor,” Iskor concluded, beaming.

You may tell your contact we will see to Liriel Baenre, Vestress agreed, steeling herself for Iskor’s response. The water wraith, predictably enough, gave out shrieks of glee and spun in a giddy little dance.

In all, this struck Vestress as a promise easily kept, for the illithid had already received Rethnor’s report and she knew that a female drow sailed aboard the Ruathen ship that was inexplicably causing so much trouble. Vestress intended to send forces to intercept the pirate ship and capture the drow; as it happened, she had need of the services of a drow wizard.

The only part of the bargain Vestress disliked was that she must retum the wizard to the Underdark. But, no matter. Iskor’s new acquaintance sounded promising: devious, innovative. It might be amusing, mused the illithid, to bring this Shakti to Ascarle, as well. Surely one of themwizard or priestess-could rid Vestress of her little problem on Ruathym. If there was an existing conflict between the two elven females, so much the better. In the illithid’s opinion, there was nothing like a deadly competition to sharpen wits and skills.

And so Vestress w~aited calmly until the water wraith’s glee wound down, and then she laid out to Iskor the terms meant to entice an Underdark drow to travel to the realm of the Kraken.

Xzorsh pursued the Elfmaid with all possible haste, for he was eager to rid himself of the grisly trophy in his bag. He was also concerned by the sudden appearance of the merrow, for he suspected those four might be part of a larger band. He had his duty to Hrolf; but he also wished to return to the ranger outpost to see what had become of Sittl. The promised reinforcements had not arrived, and Xzorsh feared for this friend’s safety.

It was night when the sea elf found the ship. The drow girl stood alone at the rail, gazing out over the water as if deep in thought. But Xzorsh did not doubt that she was watching for him, or that she knew he was near-drow eyes were reputed to be even sharper than those of the sea folk. She gave no indication that she saw him, but she stretched languidly and dropped her cloak to the deck, then spun away and began to dance in the moonlight.

Never had Xzorsh seen anything so entrancing as the drow’s graceful, lyric movements, and he gazed at her with wonderment. Many moments passed before he realized that he was not the only one so affected: the eyes of every sailor still on duty were fixed upon the elf. Suddenly it occurred to him that Liriel’s dance had taken her-and the attention of the crew-to the far side of the ship. Xzorsh understood that she wished to keep their meeting a secret. As stealthily as possible, he crept aboard ship and eagerly donned the glittering cloak she had left there for him. He knew it was a cloak of invisibility, but this knowledge did not fully prepare him for the experience of wearing it. It was odd, unnerving, to look down at his feet and see nothing but the small, wet prints he left on the deck. Wonderingly, Xzorsh held his webbed hand at eye level and spread the fingers wide. Nothing. He grinned, glad the drow could not see his antics.

Liriel concluded her dance with a whirling leap, falling to her knees with her head flung back and her hands outstretched toward the moon. She held the position for a moment as her long white hair swirled around her like a storm-tossed cloud. Then, with an abrupt change of mood, the drow stood and nonchalantly smoothed her wild locks back into place as she bade a good-night to the openmouthed young sailor who stood watch. Xzorsh, still grinning with delight, followed the drow down into the hold and into Hrolf’s cabin. She shut and bolted the door, then tumed to him and held out a hand for her piwafwi.

“All this time you could see me?” he asked with a touch of embarrassment.

Liriellifted one snowy brow. “You’re standing in a puddle,” she pointed out.

“Oh.” Both relieved and chagrinned, the sea elf shrugged off the borrowed cloak, then handed over the bag. He knelt near the cot and watched, fascinated, as the drow went to work. She spread a small mat on the cot and sprinkled it with some dried, spicy-smelling herbs. On this she dumped the contents of the bag. After sharply bidding Xzorshto keep his distance and hold his tongue, she closed her eyes and began a soft and rhythmic chanting. Her dark form swayed. One ofher hands clasped the engraved black jewel that she wore as a pendant, the other entwined fingers with the severed hand in a grotesque parody of a lovers’ handclasp.

Then, to his astonishment, Xzorsh felt the magic in the room-a strange, cold tingling that made the thin air almost as alive and expressive as water. He felt it flow toward the drow, and he watched with shining eyes as she continued her chant and bent the eldritch current to her will. Then abruptly she fell silent, and the magic was gone. Xzorsh felt an odd sense of loss.

“Tell me,” he entreated. He was immensely impressed by the female’s ability to channel such a force and eager to learn what information it might have yielded.

Liriel turned her eyes toward him, but Xzorsh doubted that she saw him. Her gaze was troubled, distant. “Nothing,” she murmured.

Xzorsh studied her, puzzled by the strange effect the casting of the spell had on her. “Nothing at all?”

She blinked several times, and at last her eyes focused on him. “The man still lives. Where he is, or what he intends, I do not know. But I got the feeling that he is not yet finished with me, that he and his want something from me. As does Lloth,” she added in a distracted whisper.

It was in Xzorsh’s mind to ask her about this Lloth, but at that moment a hideous face appeared in the cabin’s portal and sent all other thoughts into instant banishment. “Merrow!” he said as he leaped to his feet. When Liriel shot him a puzzled look, he repeated urgently, “Merrow. Ogres of the sea.”

“Damn!” spat the drow. She reached under her mattress and pulled out a long, keen knife, one even finer than the one Xzorsh had coveted. “Seems like a good time to break this in,” she said with a touch of grim humor as she pressed it into his hands.

And then she was gone, sprinting through the hold and up the ladder to the deck, shouting an alarm as she went. In the cramped quarters beyond her cabin, pirates spilled out of their hammocks and seized weapons.

“What are we fighting, lass?” Hrolf asked happily, tucking his shirt into his breeches and falling into step with the drow as she hurried toward the rack of harpoons.

“Sea ogres.”

Hrolf stopped in midstride. “Merrow? What in the Nine Hells are they doing in these waters?”

Before Liriel could answer, six pairs of enormous webbed and scaly hands slapped onto the ship’s rail. Six merrow leaped onto the deck, quick and nimble as giant frogs.

“Mother Lloth,” Liriel breathed as she looked up at the hideous faces. The merrow were as large as their land cousins-all were well over nine feet tall-and they moved with a speed and agility that no ogre could match.

The largest of them, a male with two ivory horns protruding like hideous thumbs from its forehead, took a step forward. “Where be the dead elveses?” it demanded in a low-pitched gurgle. “Want them, we do!”

Xzorsh, his hand resting easily on the hilt of his new knife, went forward to face the merrow chieftain. Though he was but half the creature’s size, his eyes offered a challenge that the sea ogre did not disdain. “The People are no longer on this ship,” he said firmly. “They have been retumed to the sea. You are relieved of the task of taking them to your master, whoever he might be.”

The merrow chief actually looked pleased by this news. It tumed and grunted something to the others.

Liriel listened carefully - ogre slaves were common in Menzoberranzan, and she knew enough of their dialect to make out a few words of the merrow’s guttural speech. Her eyes widened in shock as she diVined this one’s intentions. She barely had time to whip the harpoon up in a defensive position before all six merrow darted toward her.

The chieftain lunged at Liriel, massive arms spread wide. Her ready harpoon clunked into its scaly abdomen, but skidded across the tough hide without penetration. Fortunately for Lirie4 the harpoon was longer than the creature’s reach, and it kept those lethal black talons from closing on her. Even so, the speed and force of the attack sent the tiny drow reeling back. The butt ofher weapon hit the mast hard, and the onrushing merrow supplied the force needed to push the barbed weapon through its scaly hide.

Liriel let go of the harpoon and rolled aside as the impaled merrow came crashing to the deck. But five of the merrow remained, and all were as fast as the drow. A large, webbed hand slapped down and seized her ankle. She was dragged facedown across the deck and then swept up, kicking and cursing, into a merrow’s arms. The creature easily slung the thrashing elf over its shoulder. It dropped into a half-crouch, then sprang up over the rail and into the sea. They plunged deep into the icy water. Above her Liriel heard two more splashes, and then no more. The pirates were no doubt dealing with the merrow remaining on board. This gave her a certain amount of grim satisfaction, but did nothing to improve her situation. Not that she faulted the humans-the attack had taken no more than a few seconds. The sea ogres were incredibly fast fighters. They were even faster in water. Hrolf’s men tossed out nets in a desperate attempt to ensnare and retrieve the merrow and their captive, but the merrow were beyond reach almost as soon as they hit the water.

Suddenly her captor thrust her away. Liriel wriggled beyond its reach and swam frantically toward the surface, her lungs burning for air.

But the sea ogres were not through with her. Two of the creatures flanked her and seized her wrists. They pulled her taut between them so she could not reach any of her weapons or even get in a decent kick. The third merrow produced a small silver ring and jammed it onto the middle finger ofher hand. Then, grinning horribly, it punched her in the stomach.

The drow doubled over, expelling the last ofher precious air with an audible oo/! and a rush of bubbles. Water flowed into her lungs to fill the void. To her astonishment, she found that she could breathe it!

So this was how the merrow intended to kidnap her, she realized. From some unknown and powerful source, they had acquired a ring of water-breathing. She had heard of such trinkets. The trio encircled her, indicated with grunts and gestures that she was to accompany them.

Now that the immediate threat of death was past, Liriel’s mind began to race over possible ways to escape. She would have to outthink them; she could not overcome three creatures of such size and power in battle.

Then, suddenly, something exploded, with a cracking of ribs and a spray of blood, from her captor’s chest. Liriel recognized one of her own throwing spiders. She seized the weapon-ignoring the clinging bits of flesh and sinewand whirled upon the nearest sea ogre.

But the creature was fast and in its native element; the drow’s movements were slowed by the unfamiliar heaviness of the water. The merrow seized Liriel’s wrist. The drow slapped downward with her hand, but the spider did no more than touch the ogre’s scaly forearm.

Then Xzorsh swam into view, his spear held ready. With a quick thrust, he struck the spider and drove its barbed legs deep. The enchantment triggered, and the spider began to burrow its way through the sea ogre’s flesh. Immediately the merrow let out a gurgling yelp and dropped its hold on Liriel. Bracing its wounded arm against its hip, the ogre seized the spider’s metal body and frantically tried to pull it free. If the merrow had had the time and wit to consider the matter, it might have realized the folly of this strategy. Whereas the spider might have eaten through the arm and been content, it now continued on its path and dug its way deep into the creature’s groin. It was odd, Liriel thought as the merrow’s howls echoed through the water, that she’d always thought ofthe sea as a silent place.

She left the merrow to its fate and swam toward the two fighters that grappled in unequal combat. Pulling her short sword, she prepared to even the score against the sole surviving merrow. To her way of thinking, two elves just about made up one of the sea ogres.

But Xzorsh seemed to have the battle well in hand. His new knife flashed and wove in a compelling-if entirely unfamiliar-pattern as he nimbly dodged the merrow’s lunging bites and the swiping blows of its taloned hands. As Liriel watched, she began to make sense of the battle. The sea elf shadowed many of the larger creature’s movements, using the currents and eddies caused by the merrow’s attacks to speed his own knife. It was a complicated and multilayered school of swordplay, one the drow had not even considered. Of course, there was little call for underwater combat in Menzoberranzan. Yet Xzorsh, in his native setting, was fully the match of any drow fighter Liriel had seen at play.

At last the elaborate dance of feint and double-feint came to a close. Xzorsh buried his knife to the hilt in the base of the merrow’s skull. Bloody bubbles gushed from the creature’s mouth, and the massive arms floated limply out to its sides. The sea elf braced both feet against the dead merrow’s back and pulled his knife free.

Liriel retrieved the now-dormant throwing spider and swam to the sea elf’s side. “Your magic crab,” she told him, smiling delightedly at the sound of her voice bubbling through the water. By way of explanation, she held up her hand, wiggling the fmgers to show off her new ring.

Xzorsh might not know much of magic, but he realized the power of the ring. For a moment the elves merely faced each other, smiling as they shared the exhilaration of a battle won. Then the ranger tied the precious magic spider to his belt and held out a hand to Liriel.

“Come. The others will be worried about you,” he said. Without hesitation she took his hand--0r, more accurately, his wrist, for the ranger’s webbed fingers forbade a traditional handclasp. As they swam together toward the starlight, Liriel marveled at the strange turns her journey had taken. Not long ago, she had looked to the tunnels beyond Menzoberranzan for adventure. How narrow that ambition seemed now that she could see the wonders of the night sky, walk upon the surface lands, and swim the sea as effortlessly as a fish! Strange, too, were the friends she had picked up along the way: She’d never given much thought to faerie elves, beyond the realization that if she ever met one she’d probably have to kill it. The possibility that she might actually consider befriending such a being had never entered her imagination. Nor did she ever imagine that she would have a friend such as Fyodor-a human, and a male at that—or that the ebullient Hrolf would come to regard her with the sort of fatherly pride and affection she had always sought, tentatively and with utter futility; from her drow sire. How odd it all was, Liriel mused.

Stranger still was the rune that was beginning to take shape in the drow’s mind, little by little with each day that passed. Every tiny line and curve was clear to her, although the whole was far from complete. The shaping of it was not of her making. In fact, Liriel felt a bit like a spellbook, receiving the ink from the pen of some cosmic scribe. Nothing in her wizardly training had prepared her for this or for the feeling that this magic was not so much a force to be exploited, but an outcome Woven from the threads of her life. It was all foreign to the drow, and she did not understand the half of it. But exciting, it was! she concluded happily.

A contented sigh escaped her, sending a ripple of bubbles racing toward the starlit sky: