Chapter 20
The ComIng Storm

News of the battle of Holgerstead reached Ascarle with uncanny swiftness, carried as it was by a relay of merrow that moved with brief bursts of incredible speed. One of these merrow-who had drawn the short bone when it and its fellows had cast lots for the task-now stood in the marble council chamber of Ascarle handing over the grim details to the illithid who ruled as Regent and to the black-bearded man who prowled the room like a caged bear.

Vestress received the news with mixed feelings. Some of the berserker warriors had died in battle, which promised to ease the task of conquest, but this gain was overshadowed by the troubling appearance of a new berserker shapeshifter. The illithid took from Rethnor’s thoughts the realization that this could mean serious trouble to the invading forces. She also knew the Luskan captain recognized the shapeshifter from the merrow’s description, and that he was glad the man had survived. Rethnor wished to use the young warrior as bait to lure the drow wizard into his hands, after which he planned to take his personal vengeance upon the berserker who had taken his hand. That is unwise, Vestress said coolly, projecting her mental voice into Rethnor’s mind. We see no reason to lower our chances of success by allowing such a fighter to live until the final battle.

Rethnor glared with ill-concealed wrath at the illithid. The man had yet to reconcile himself with the fact that Vestress could read his thoughts as easily as if they had been inscribed upon parchment. Vestress knew he was growing increasingly restive in Ascarle and the islands above, for the ambitious man would never be content in a place where he himself did not rule. Yet the illithid had a purpose in keeping him in her stronghold-beyond the amusement that the sparring of human and drow brought her. Let the man’s frustration build; then let him vent his rage in conquest. This suited Vestress well.

“Bring me Y graine,” Rethnor demanded, snapping out the order with a force that suggested that he must give one or burst. Vestress understood and let it pass.

The illithid also realized at once what Rethnor intended to do, and she approved his plan. So she sent out a mental summons to the slave the man had requested and seated herself on her crystal throne.

After a few moments a tall, pale-haired woman walked into the room, her movements wooden and her blue eyes vacant. When she drew near the crystal throne, Vestress reached out and entwined a lock of the slave’s white-gold hair around her purple fingers. It was an odd color, very distinctive—a pale shade of blond that few humans kept past childhood. Rethnor’s spy would recognize it and respond to the implied threat.

The illithid tore the hank of hair from the woman’s scalp; the enslaved human did not so much as blink. Vestress knotted the lock at each end and handed it to the waiting merrow.

Send this to Ruathym. Give it to Rethnor’s spy and demand that the new berserker be slain at once.

The sea ogre bowed low, then hastened to the pool of water at the far end of the illithid’s council chamber. The creature splashed in and began the long swim through the tunnel that led out into the open sea beyond Ascarle’s walls.

There remains only the matter of the drow wizard, Vestress continued, turning her attention to the restless human. Unlike you and the drow priestess, we have little faith that Liriel Baenre will respond to the death of her lover. We have, however, found another way of luring her to us. We tell you this, the illithid informed Rethnor pointedly, so you will abandon any notion of using her to enact your personal vengeance upon Shakti. The priestess is admittedly of little use to you, but we have plans for her and do not wish her destroyed.

“As you wish,” Rethnor gritted out. The High Captain of Luskan was becoming more than a little tired of taking orders from squid-women and black-elf females, and for once he did not care ifVestress took that information from his thoughts. But he could hardly refuse the illithid, at least not so long as he remained in her stronghold.

You know ofmy nereids, Vestress continued coolly. If the illithid knew of Rethnor’s mutinous thoughts, she did not seem concerned. One of them crawled back to Ascarle in a sorry state. She brought us some interesting news.

The illithid glided over to a fountain and leaned over the water. From it emerged a water nymph. It seemed to Rethnor that the creature was hardly beautiful enough to explain her lethal success in charming men. This one was wan and bedraggled, with a woeful face and empty eyes. Her soul-shawl was taken, stolen through strength and cunning. The shawl holds the essence of the nereid, and she must now obey the person who enslaved her through this theft. Tell the man who did this thing.

“An elf maid, a drow!” wailed the wretched creature. “Let me go to her, I beg you, that I might plead for my shawl’s return.”

You see? Vestress asked Rethnor. It is time to test the ~ extent of Liriel Baenre’s wizardly skill. A truly powerful wizard could compel a nereid to take her anywhere, even to the elemental plane where the water creatures make their homes. You, however; will bring her here, the illithid commanded the nymph.

“I cannot, unless she commands it of me/ She knows nothing of this place.”

Then tell her enough to whet her interest. Go now, bring your mistress to me, and I will see that you get back your shawl!

The nymph turned and splashed eagerly into the water. “I will leave you, as well,” Rethnor said. “My ship is docked at Trisk; we sail for Ruathym at once. There is little time if we are to attack at moondark.”

The sea battle is yours to command, conceded the illithid. Attack at the arranged time, and the armies of Ascarle will await the Luskan forces on the island.

They would await them, the illithid amended silently, if the drow wizard praved equal to the task before her.

As soon as Rethnor left the room, Vestress leaned over the pool of water that linked her to Ascarle’s watery portal. Deep beneath the surface lurked the skeletal face of her ancient adversary, eyes blazing crimson and mouth stretched open in the horrid, keening cry of a banshee.

Liriel was amazed at the speed with which news swept the island. When she and Fyodor returned to Ruathym village the next morning, they found that a ceremony-and the usual feast-awaited them. As the new First Axe of Holgerstead, Fyodor was required to pledge fealty to Aumark Lithyl, First Axe of all Ruathym.

From allover the island people came to give honor to the new battle chieftain and to gaze with curiosity upon the foreign-born berserker who could wield the shapeshifting magic of their ancestors. Many of Holgerstead’s berserkers came for the ceremony, along with some of their womenfolk. Liriel was not surprised to see Dagmar among them. The young Northwoman seemed pleased to have an excuse to return to her father’s household and, judging from the way Dagmars blue eyes followed Fyodor’s every move, Liriel suspected the woman intended to pursue her chosen plan to remain there.

After the ceremony, Fyodor presented each of his sworn berserker warriors to Liriel in turn, as if she were a ruling matron. What was meant to honor the drow, however, merely filled her with exasperation. His mien was taken directly from the ancient tales he loved to tell: that of a berserker knight pledged to some great lady. Liriel found herself wishing for a way to peel them both off that particular dusty tapestry and return them to the foot ofYggsdrasil’s Child.

Liriel noticed, also, that after the initial awkwardness of their greeting, Fyodor seemed glad of Dagmais presence. And why should he not? mused the drow with a touch of bitterness. Dagmar was a woman, no more, and therefore a welcome respite from the task of keeping a wychlaran atop her pedestal.

To the restive drow, the ceremony and the festivities that followed seemed interminable. The feasting lasted for much of the day, accompanied by long songs that told of Northmen valor and conquest. When the afternoon shadows grew long, the Ruathen were far more drunk on memories of ancient glory than they were on the ale and mead. The lesson of Holgerstead had apparently gone home. It amazed Liriel, however, that no one seemed to give much credence to Fyodor’s suggestion that the mead drunk at Holgerstead might have been tainted. The possibility that one of their own might turn traitor lay too far off the paths their thoughts were accustomed to treading.

Liriel, of course, thought otherwise and had since the moment Fyodor mentioned that news of Hrolf’s death had come to him from Ibn. She had ample reason to know of the first mate’s treachery, and she could think of no other reason why Ibn would leave Ruathym village on the day of Hrolf’s funeral. Ibn had returned to Ruathym with the people from Holgerstead, and she could feel the heat of his glare through the crowd-filled expanse that separated them. Yet she could think of no one among the increasingly proud and rowdy Northmen who might listen to a word spoken against a warrior of Ruathym.

It was unlikely that Caladorn, a young nobleman of Waterdeep and one of the secret Lords who ruled that city, could have chosen a worse time to come to Ruathym. He and his two surviving shipmates came upon the island at a moment when the old tales had lifted the ancestral pride of the people to a fever pitch. The appearance of strangers in the cove was enough to send Northmen into defensive battle with such force and fury that it brought to mind an explosion in an alchemist’s workshop. In moments the tiny vessel was surrounded by Ruathen fighting ships, and the prisoners hauled ashore.

Caladorn seldom used his family name. However, the Cassalanter merchant clan was well known in the Northlands, and he used its power to demand an audience with the First Axe.

Aumark Lithyl allowed the young nobleman to tell his story, and the entire crowd swept back to the village center to listen to the man’s tale. When at last Caladorn paused for breath, the First Axe turned to the assemblage.

“Of those who sailed on the Elfmaid’s last voyage, is there anyone who recognizes these men?”

The surviving members of Hrolf’s crew stepped forward to study the three mainlanders, but none could place them with certainty. There was little in these thin and

bedraggled survivors that recalled the Cutter’s stalwart seal hunters. But Liriel recognized one of the men by his proud bearing and dark red hair.

“I know that one,” she proclaimed, pointing to Caladorn. “He fought Hrolf and nearly matched him-a sight I would not soon forgetl”

Aumark turned wintry eyes upon the drow. “This is a council of warriors. Is there one here who can vouch for her words? Fyodor?”

The Rashemi shook his head, regretfully turning away from Liriel’s incredulous glare. “I was in the midst of the battle rage; I remember little.”

“I will speak for the Raven!”

The crowd parted to allow the speaker to push through to the center. A tall warrior, clad in a scarlet tunic embossed with runes, came to stand beside the drow. Liriel recognized him as the villager she’d saved from the sahuagin’s net.

“I am Glammad, First Axe of Hastor. This dock-alfar warned our village of a sahuagin attack and fought bravely beside us. To an of Hastor, the Raven is a warrior worthy of honor. Accept her words as you would mine!”

Aumark looked puzzled. “You are known to us all, Glammad, and your honor is beyond question. But you were not on the Elfmaid during this battle. Nor does your faith in this elf woman remove all suspicion from these mainlanders. They claim to have been rescued twice by sea elves. Are they in league with those who have done us so much mischief?”

“Look elsewhere for the cause of your troubles,” advised Caladorn. “Does it not seem strange to you that the dead sea elves were placed in Ruathen barrels?”

“Your reasoning is unsound,” Aumark pointed out. “If the elves believe that men of Ruathym killed their kindred, they would certainly seek revenge.”

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the crowd, but Caladorn stood firm. “The dead elves were left in our path for us to find, and the stamp of Ruathym left plainly upon the deed.”

“You are accusing us?” Aumark asked with deceptive calm.

“I am warning you,” the nobleman replied. “Word of this matter is certain to bring trouble to your shores.”

“If Waterdeep attacks, we will be ready,” Aumark said stoutly, and the assembled warriors responded with a roar of approval.

Caladorn shook his head. “You mistake my meaning. My family’s business concerns are far-reaching. If Waterdeep had plans to attack Ruathym, I would surely have heard of them.”

“So you say,” broke in a new voice. A burly man with a wild mop of curly, sun-streaked brown hair broke from the crowd and walked with the rolling gait of one not long off a ship’s deck toward the young Waterdhavian.

“Wulhof of Ruathym,” he said shortly. “My ship put in to home port this morn, after a trip to Caer Callidyrr. Word on the island of Alaron is that a fleet ofWaterdhavian ships is headed to the northern Moonshaes. Someone tipped ‘em off with news that the Captains’ Alliance plans to sweep the smaller islands with a big raid come the new moon. And if that was about to happen,” he said with a significant glance at Aumark, “we would know about it.”

“What Wulhof says is true,” agreed the First Axe. “Ruathym and Luskan have an alliance by that name, but we have made no such plans.” Aumark’s blue eyes narrowed and turned cold as they studied Caladorn. “Perhaps this is a ruse by your city, an excuse to attack our merchant ships!”

“Did it not occur to you that the ships now guarding the Moonshaes must have been taken from their normal routes? These are the ships that patrol the northern seas!” Caladorn persisted.

Wulhof let out a bark of humorless laughter. “Don’t I know it! A pair of ships flying Waterdeep’s colors chased us halfway to the Whalebones/ And us not taking so much as a bolt of linen or a keg of honey by piracy!”

“Not this time, leastwise,” offered a broadly grinning Northman.

A burst of raucous laughter greeted this jest. When the mirth had faded, Liriel spoke again. “Try to follow what this man is saying: If there is no raid, then why have the eyes of the great sea powers been fixed on the Moonshaes’ outlying islands? Isn’t it possible the rumors of impending raids are no more than a diversion?”

“I say there is a raid,” offered Ibn, taking the pipe from his mouth and fixing a venomous glare upon the drow. “It’d be just like Luskan to have a party and not invite us.”

The assembled Ruathen responded with mutters of agreement.

“That is not hard to believe,” Aumark said with a tight smile. “But if it is so, what are we to do?”

“What good Northman waits for an invite?” roared Wulhof. “I say we set sail for the Moonshaes’ Korinn Islands straightaway and join the Luskan raiders. And let our danmed ‘partners’ worry ifthere’s plunder enough left over to make up their share!”

“It could mean battle with Waterdeep,” the First Axe pointed out, hoping to deter the rising tide of battle-Iust. “Or, more likely, it could mean war with Luskan,” Liriel said, brandishing the ring of the High Captain of Luskanthe ring taken from the hand of the man who had commanded the attack on the Elfmaid.

But her warning was lost in the excited roar that followed Aumark’s words. The Northmen, who had been denied the glory of combat for too long, hurried off to hone the edges of their swords and axes in preparation for the coming raid-and the possibility of a coming war.

“Stupid, stubborn . . . men!” sputtered Liriel as she paced the floor of Fyodor’s room. “Idiots who think only with their swords-long or short! Even drow males are capable of better. At least they have the sense to watch their backs for the hidden blade. These orc-brained imbeciles are preparing to rush out to sea, leaving their homeland undefended, when it should be plain as moonlight that they are the target of a conspiracy! And rather than listen to someone who understands such things-who was weaned on treachery and intrigue—they pay heed to battlerandy sailors. It’s beyond belief!”

Fyodor, seated on his narrow cot in Ruathym’s warrior barracks, observed the angry drow with an expression of resignation and waited for the storm to pass. Yet he could not deny that there was much wisdom hidden among the ranting words.

“You are sure of this ring? And the sea elf who gave it to you?”

Liriel lifted her pendant of Lloth. “With this I have looked into his mind. Xzorsh is like you-he speaks only truth. I don’t think the noble-minded idiot knows how to lie, and he’s as ridiculously slow as these Northmen to accept the possibility that one of his own might somehow have gotten the knack of it!”

Her exasperated declaration brought several questions to Fyodor’s mind, but he was hesitant to ask most of them for fear of setting the volatile drow off in some new direction. One of these questions, however, he could not help but ask. “You have used the symbol of your goddess to look into my mind?”

“No. Lloth will not touch you through me, this I swear!” The drow’s vehement tone and the haunted look in her ~ amber eyes convinced Fyodor not to pursue the matter. “I agree with you that many strange things have happened in Ruathym, but I cannot piece them together.”

“Let’s start with the raid on Holgerstead,” she said. “I suppose you’ve considered that Ibn might have supplied the tainted mead.”

“More than considered,” Fyodor agreed somberly. “I have made inquiries among the men of Holgerstead. No one recalls that mead was among the goods Ibn sold.”

“Who’s to say he needed to sell it? He might just as well have slipped a couple of kegs in among the rest.”

“We could check Hrolf’s warehouses to see if some is missing,” Fyodor suggested.

Liriel responded with a humorless chuckle. “Much good may that do us. Hrolf was not one for keeping records, and he wasn’t much of a housekeeper. No one but he knew what was in that place.”

The Rashemi sighed and rose from his bed. “You continue to think on it, little raven. I am required to hold council with the other chieftains, but we will speak of these things as soon as we might.”

“The heavy burden of power,” she said lightly, hoping he might hear the irony-and perceive the truth-in her words. But Fyodor responded only with a somber nod, and they walked together in silence.

After Fyodor left her, Liriel made her way to Hrolf’s warehouse and let herself in with the key the pirate had given her. She did not hope to find any answers there, but she was tired and frustrated and in sore need of solitude. So she rummaged about a bit, found a few bolts of cloth, and fluffed them into a bed.

Liriel had no idea how long she’d slept before she was roused by the squeak of the opening door. She was on her feet before the door swung shut behind the three men who had entered the warehouse.

“Thought I’d find you in here,” announced a familiar, hate-filled voice.

The drow sighed. This was starting to get tiresome. At least this time Ibn had been thoughtful enough to bring reinforcements. That might add some interest. He was flanked by Harreldson, the sailor who served as cook aboard the Elfmaid, and another man whose face was familiar but whose name Liriel had never learned.

“One of us you might catch with your danmed elf tricks, but not three. You’ll not be getting away this time,” Ibn exulted. All three men drew their swords and began to advance on the drow.

“Need help, do you? You prove yourself not only a traitor, but a coward!” she mocked him.

Her accusation stopped the man in his tracks, and a stunned expression crossed his usually stolid face.

“You are the traitor of Holgerstead,” she continued. “Who else could have supplied the drugged mead? Why else would you have traveled to Holgerstead rather than honor your captain?”

Ibn snorted angrily. “Not that old song again! You’ve accused me before of getting into the mead, and you know damn well this tale holds no more truth than the last one. You’ve fooled a lot of folk here, but some of us remember the ways of the Northmen. Elves are not to be trusted, be they black white, or green! Hrolf died, the danm fool, because he wouldn’t see that!”

Something in his words raised a terrible suspicion in Liriel’s mind. She knew Ibn’s hatred of elves ran deep, but was it possible that he had slain his captain for the “crime” of consorting with elves?

The very thought congealed the drow’s anger into a cold and killing rage. Her first impulse was to hurl a fireball at

the red-bearded man, one that would leave nothing of him but cinder and ashes. Yet she did not dare. Hrolfhad told her of the barrels of smoke powder stored in the enormous room. “So it was you who killed Hrolf,” she hissed as she advanced on the much-Iarger man. Although he held a weapon and she did not, Ibn instinctively fell back a step before her fury. His bearded face was slack with astonishment.

But he quickly recovered from his surprise and brought his weapon around in a sweeping overhead strike. Liriel dove to one side and rolled clear, hearing as she did the sound of the first mate’s sword meeting answering steel. She came up to see Fyodor and Ibn circling each other, blades at the ready. The two other sailors closed in to help; Liriel quickly dispatched these with a pair of thrown knives so she could focus entirely upon the coming duel. Never had she seen Fyodor so angry, not even in the grip of a berserker’s frenzy.

“I am Rashemi, and my sword is pledged to the wychlaran,” he stated. “Once before you attacked my lady; the penalty is death. You would have died that day at sea, had she not asked otherwise.”

“Actually, it’s three times now, but the last one was hardly worth mentioning,” Liriel put in. When Fyodor tossed her a questioning look, she added, “He put a poisonous spider in my bed. How pathetic.”

“Give me leave to kill him,” he said softly, his blue eyes blazing with wrath.

For a moment Liriel was filled with cold exultation at the prospect of her enemy’s death and the absolute power she wielded at this moment over both men. It was an emotion she had seen many times, written on the dark faces of her drow kin, but one she herself had never expected to feel. The realization chilled her deeply. It was as if the touch of Lloth had left icy indentations upon her soul. “No!” she said with venomous denial, responding as much to her own thoughts as to Fyodor’s request.

The young Rashemi stared at her. “It is a matter of law and of honor. This I must do, if I am to be your champion. Three times this man has attacked you-how can I let him live?”

“Do you think I care for your laws?” she demanded wildly.

“I will not send you into battle to kill for me, and perhaps to die. I will not!”

The young man heard the note of rising hysteria in Liriel’s voice. He hesitated only a moment, then hauled back his sword and swung it high and hard toward the watchful Ibn. The older man parried the blow. Fyodor stepped in under their joined blades and delivered a single punch to Ibn’s gut. With a deep “Ooph!” the man dropped his sword and bent double- Fyodor brought the hilt of his blade down hard on Ibn’s neck, and the man dropped, senseless, to the warehouse floor.

For a long moment the drow and her champion stared at one another. “War is coming to Ruathym, little raven,” he said softly. “A time will come when you must send me into battle. It is my destiny. . . and yours.”

Liriel spun away from him and walked from the wooden building, her eyes burning with tears she could not shed. It was plain that Fyodor had misread her hesitation, thinking only that she feared to put him in harm’s way. That was true enough, as far as it went, and as much truth as she could bear for him to know.

Adding to her confusion was the thought that Hrolf had been slain by a man he trusted. In her homeland many people fell to the treachery of friends, but it pained her to the soul that the openhearted, generous Hrolf would be betrayed in such fashion. It seemed to Liriel that in any way that mattered, this place was little different from Menzoberranzan.

Very well, then. If that were true she knew precisely how to act. As the drow hurried toward the shore, her fingers closed around her holy symbol. She thrust aside the lingering despair that had been her constant companion since the day Lloth had claimed her as priestess. The power was hers; she would use it. She had promised Lloth a battle, a glorious victory. The Spider Queen would have her due, or Liriel would slay every stubborn Ruathen who stood in her way.

But first, she had to convince the battle-mad idiots that they were getting ready to fight the wrong enemy.