“What took the crew, then?” demanded one of the hunters. “Plague?”
“Not likely, at this time of year,” Caladorn said. It was not unusual for far-traveling ships to pick up some deadly illness along with their intended cargo, but that was a hazard peculiar to summer. “The ship can’t have been adrift that long. Unmanned, it couldn’t have survived the winter amid these ice floes. And see the port flag? It would be torn to ribbons by this wind in a matter of days.”
The captain shot a quick look at the young nobleman. “A trap, then?”
“It is possible,” he admitted, understanding the path Farlow’s thoughts had taken. A Waterdhavian ship, appearing in the known route of a merchant vessel laden with expensive pelts? And the ghost ship was a caravel, one of the fast and sturdy vessels for which Waterdeep’s shipyards were justly famed. Several similar ships had been lost at sea over the last few seasons. Not odd, considering the dangers of a seagoing life and the whims of Umberlee, the unpredictable goddess of the sea. Not odd at all, until one considered the fact that two of these ships had recently reappeared in southern ports, flying Ruathen colors.
Caladorn did not doubt that this vessel had also fallen to the Northmen raiders. But that, he suspected, was not the entire story. He had fought beside—and against—men of Ruathym, and he knew them to be proud and fierce warriors. They would fling the stolen ship into battle, not use it for ambush. Yet it certainly appeared that the caravel had been left there for them to find. Not a trap, he reasoned, but a message.
“I’m going aboard,” Caladorn said abruptly. “Keep the Cutter back a safe distance, if you will. All I ask is the use of one of the rowboats, and that you stand by to await my findings. Be this piracy or plague, word of the ship’s fate needs to reach the city.”
The captain gave a curt nod. Like all men of the sea, he knew that every lost ship was sought by dozens of longing eyes. Those who had the misfortune to love a missing sailor would never stop searching the watery horizon with mingled hope and dread. When the waiting stretched out into years and love became an undead thing, even bad news was preferable to none at all.
“You—Narth and Darlson. Lower the skiff. The rest of you, stand steady to fight or sail, on my order,” Farlow commanded.
Maneuvering the tiny craft through the choppy seas took longer than Caladorn expected, but at length he stood on the deck of the abandoned caravel. He quickly searched it from hold to aft castle but found no crew, either alive or dead. Nor was there any sign of a recent battle. Finally, desperate for clues, he decided to examine what was left of the cargo.
With the flat of his dagger, he pried the wooden lid off the first of the barrels. A ripe, salty smell emerged—the familiar scent of pickling broth used to preserve the spring herring catch. Yet floating in the brine were long, lank strands, the green of kelp, but of a strangely familiar texture.
Caladorn pushed back his sleeves and plunged both hands into the brine, getting a good grip on the coarse green stuff. He hauled sharply upward, expecting to pull a clump of the peculiar seaweed from the brine. To his horror, he found himself looking into the open, sightless eyes of a female sea elf.
Even in death she was beautiful, her delicate features and the intricate mottled pattern of her skin perfectly preserved by the brine. Caladorn was of no mind to notice this fact. His hands shook as he lowered the elf gently back into her macabre coffin. After giving himself a long moment to compose his wits and settle his innards, he opened the rest of the barrels, some dozen in all. All of them were stuffed with pickled sea elves.
The young Lord’s thoughts whirled as he tried to sort out the meaning of this atrocity. It was no secret that the Northmen held little love for elves. This was as true of the tundra barbarians as it was of the seafaring folk of Luskan, Ruathym, and the northern Moonshaes. But who would do such a thing, and for what reason? And why would they leave the dead sea elves for a Waterdhavian ship to find?
Many possible suggestions came to mind, each more dire than the last. There had been reports of recent attacks on sea-elf communities. Perhaps this was a plea for help; perhaps the elves themselves had left their slain comrades behind after a battle, hoping to send a grim message to Waterdeep that they dared not take inperson. After all, a port flag flown so far from home was a well-recognized distress signal. But Caladorn rejected this notion almost as soon as the thought formed. It seemed unlikely that the proud elves would subject any of their kindred to such an indignity.
Perhaps some faction within the Northmen had declared war upon the sea elves, possibly in a dispute over fishing rights or, more likely, just for the sport of it. The Northmen gloried in feats of arms—many of them venerated Tempus, god of battle—and they had been deprived of warfare for an uncomfortably long time. Several years earlier, Waterdeep and her allied cities had enforced a peace between the warring kindred of Ruathym and Luskan. Since then, piracy had risen sharply, and raids on small coastal villages had become commonplace. Life was easier, Caladorn thought grimly, when the Northmen fought among themselves and left others alone.
He carefully replaced the lids and began the process of loading the barrels aboard the Cutter. There was no question in his mind that the bodies must be taken to Waterdeep. Caladorn knew elves were reticent to disturb those who had moved past this life, but perhaps a cleric at the elven pantheon temple would be willing to seek out the spirit of one of these slain elves. And if no priest would yield to reason, Caladorn would find one who could be persuaded at the point of a sword.
Let the other Lords worry about diplomacy. This puzzle involved his beloved city, and he resolved to have the answer, at whatever cost.
Rethnor stamped the snow from his boots as he strode into the council chamber. It was a simple room, constructed according to the Northmen taste with an intricate webbing of exposed wooden beams and furnished with a massive pine table and five unpadded chairs. The only concessions to comfort were the fire blazing in the fieldstone hearth that lined one full wall and the presence of a serving girl who would bring ale or mead upon command. Rethnor thrust his fur hat into her hands and took his place at the table where the other High Captains of Luskan awaited him.
There were five Captains, men whose task it was to rule the city and oversee its trade and its ambitions. Luskan was a strong and prosperous port, controlling much of the valuable trade of the northern lands. Silver from the mines of Mirabar, timber taken from the edges of the vast Lurkwood forest, scrimshaw from Ten Towns, dwarf-crafted weapons—all passed through the customs of Luskan and went out upon her ships. Yet no man seated in this room was content with Luskan’s riches, or her boundaries.
“Your report, Rethnor?” demanded Taerl, who currently presided as First High Captain. The five of them took turns as leader of the council, conceding the role to another with the coming of the new moon and low tides. It was ancient custom, and it served well to keep five ambitious men from battling each other for ascendancy.
“We are making progress in the conquest of Ruathym,” he began.
“Progress?” Suljack, a distant cousin of Rethnor’s and ever a competitor, spat out the word as if it were a bit of spoiled meat. “Have we become so soft that even our words are weak things? Victory,” he proclaimed, pounding the table for emphasis. “That is the concern of warriors.”
Rethnor leaned back in his chair and hooked his thumbs nonchalantly in the broad strap of his swordbelt. He was the best swordsman in the room, and they all knew it. From his position of strength, he could propose subtle strategies that would be scorned and spurned if they’d come from the lips of a lesser warrior.
“Ruathym is weak and growing weaker,” he said in an even voice. “So far this has been accomplished without attracting the attention of Waterdeep and the so-called Lords’ Alliance. If we continue this course, we can conquer the island in one sudden, brutal attack. Waterdeep and her minions will be less likely to object if presented with an accomplished fact, but a prolonged war would surely draw the a
ttention of the meddlesome southerners.”
“What of it? I do not fear Waterdeep!” growled Suljack.
“Nor do I,” Rethnor retorted. “But need I remind you, Cousin, that Waterdeep forced an end to our last war with Ruathym? Although we were close to conquest, we lost all!”
“There is honor in honest battle,” persisted Suljack.
“There is no honor in a stupid refusal to learn from the past!” Rethnor thundered, past patience with his fellow Captain. His cold gaze settled upon Suljack, daring him to make the challenge personal. The other man turned away, subsiding into sullen silence.
“I hate the decadent southern cowards as much as any of you,” put in Baram, the oldest member of their group and the most conciliatory. “But I hate still more the thought of becoming like them. We are warriors, Rethnor. Subtlety is not our keenest weapon, and I would not like to see it become the one most often wielded.”
“It is but one weapon among many,” Rethnor said. “Our fleets, our warriors—their time will come. We cannot conquer Ruathym or rule the seas without them. When the moment is right, we will strike.”
“And how are we to know when this strange fruit is ripe?” asked Taerl.
“I will tell you,” Rethnor said simply. “I have placed spies in the seas surrounding Ruathym and on the island itself.”
“They are worthy of trust?” put in Kurth, a dour and suspicious man with a temper as black as his beard.
“I have ensured their loyalty.”
A moment’s silence fell over the group. Rethnor’s voice was so cold, his face so hard, that the other men could not help but wonder what price he’d exacted, what grim methods he’d employed.
At length the First High Captain cleared his throat and agreed, with a curt nod, to Rethnor’s plan. “We will prepare for this attack and await your word. Suljack and Kurth, you will see to converting merchant ships for battle. Baram, begin to muster warriors in preparation for the invasion.” He turned to Rethnor. “All other details we leave to you. You are the only one among us who enjoys intrigue as much as battle.”
The distaste in Taerl’s voice was not lost on Rethnor. “One weapon among many,” he repeated, placing one hand on the grip of his oft-used broadsword. “My blade is thirsty; the wait will be no longer than it must.”
Truth rang clear in Rethnor’s words, and the wolfish grin on his face spoke plainly of his lust for battle. The other men nodded their approval and their relief. Rethnor might have strange new notions, but he was a Northman first and foremost.
Shakti Hunzrin moved through the corridors of House Hunzrin, ignoring the guards and servants that glided through the dark halls. Like most of Menzoberranzan’s drow, they were as silent and delicate as shadows that had magically found substance. Shakti, however, was solid, with a tread that tested the stone floor and a girth that almost equaled that of a human.
Her talents, too, were different from those of most drow. Shakti was a canny manager, and at no time in the city’s history were such skills needed as badly as now. In the aftermath of war, the chaos that was Menzoberranzan teetered on the edge of catastrophe. Food supplies had dwindled; trade had fallen off. Most noble families kept mushroom groves within the walls of their compounds—safe from the threat of poisoning by a rival clan—but the common folk went hungry more often than not. Shakti had addressed that problem, working hard to restore the rothe herd and revive the neglected fields. She also made sure it was known whose doing this was. The common folk of Menzoberranzan didn’t care which eight backsides warmed the thrones of the Ruling Council. They did care that their young ones were fed, that there was a market for their crafts. Slowly, steadily, Shakti was building a power base of a different kind, one that dealt in the everyday needs of most of the city’s drow.
Yet she was not blind to the fact that power currently resided in the hands of the matriarchy, and that nearly every priestess in Menzoberranzan was consumed with the ambition to rise to the head of her clan and to improve the rank and station of her house. It was no accident that Shakti’s older sister, the heir to House Hunzrin, had fallen ill with a rare wasting disease.
Shakti intended to play the game, but she would not lose sight of her larger goals, her broader vistas.
The young priestess entered her private room, taking care to lock the door and ward it against prying eyes. When her haven was secure she sighed with relief, then raised her hands to massage her aching temples. Shakti often had headaches—the result of straining her eyes to make sense of the blur that was her world. Nearsighted from birth, she had gone to great lengths to keep her affliction secret. The constant struggle to keep from squinting gave her a pop-eyed, frantic appearance. Clerical spells might have improved her vision, but no drow dared admit to physical defect.
Yet when her blurred gaze fell upon her most prized possessions—the snake-headed whip that proclaimed her rank as high priestess of Lloth and a scrying bowl that had been the gift of Vhaeraun, the drow god of thievery—a bold thought occurred to her. If the gods were willing to grant such gifts as she already possessed, why couldn’t she petition them directly for healing? What better symbol could there be for her farsighted ambition?
For it was Shakti’s goal to restore the drow to their original vision of glory. According to the Directives of Lloth, the drow must first dominate the Underdark and from there expand to eradicate the lesser races of elves. The drow god Vhaeraun encouraged the dark elves to establish a presence on the surface immediately. As a dual priestess of Lloth and Vhaeraun, Shakti saw life through a broader perspective than most of the city’s drow imagined possible. Why shouldn’t her eyesight keep pace with her vision?
Action followed quickly upon thought. Shakti fell prostrate to the floor, earnestly petitioning the drow goddess and god.
In quick response came a white-hot blaze of pain as healing magic flowed into the priestess—far too much of it. Even in this, the rival deities competed.
Shakti’s body contorted, her head reared up as the waves of power coursed through her. Shrieking in agony, the priestess clutched at the nearest object—the gilt base of her mirror. Her reflected eyes stared back at her, wide and frantic and fiery red.
In some corner of Shakti’s mind that the pain could not reach, a bubble of childlike wonder began to form. Reflected in the mirror was a room outlined in detail such as the young drow had never seen, had never imagined possible. The titles on the books lining her shelves, the intricate detail on the carved gargoyles that decorated the mantel, the sheen of dust on the study desk were all sharply, gloriously visible. Lloth and Vhaeraun had granted her request.
Shakti’s last scream of anguish lifted into a peal of triumphant laughter.
Much later, the drow priestess came to herself. She sat up gingerly and found the pain had disappeared, leaving behind an unnatural contentment that bordered on euphoria. It was enough for her just to look and to see.
But the moment passed quickly, and the focus of Shakti’s newly sharp vision tunneled inward upon her goals. She had found a cure for her myopia—a sure omen that nearsightedness was not an immutable sentence. It had been so with her, and so it would be for Menzoberranzan.
The priestess warded her chamber with still more privacy spells and set her personal guard—a pair of drow-shaped stone golems—to watch the door. Golems were perfect guardians, incapable of thought or treachery. When all was secure, she placed the scrying bowl on a table, carefully filled it from a flask of still-warm blood, and ringed it with candles.
Briefly, Shakti thought of the last image she had received from the scrying bowl through the eyes of the dying wizard Nisstyre: the beautiful face and taunting words of Liriel Baenre. In outwitting the drow male, the thrice-bedamned princess had once again bested Shakti.
With newfound discipline, Shakti thrust aside the familiar hatred and envy that thoughts of Liriel always evoked in her, and she focused her mind on the steps that must be taken before vengeance could be hers.
Lirie
l possessed a human artifact that enabled her to take drow magic to the surface. Retrieving this artifact was an important part of Shakti’s overall plan. Her ally Nisstyre had come close, but the curse of the drow—a quick rage and a burning desire for revenge—had overcome Shakti and had resulted in the loss of both ally and amulet. She would not make that mistake again.
Calmly, she considered her course. At that last encounter, the Baenre princess had been in an underground port city, doing battle with Nisstyre and his fellow merchants of the Dragon’s Hoard—all followers of Vhaeraun. Though their leader had been slain, Shakti planned to reestablish ties with the band, for they were valuable in bringing both information and merchandise from the surface lands. But to find her slippery rival, Shakti sought a more direct route and a more powerful ally than drow merchants.
Bold steps. A broader vision. That was what was needed.
Cupping the scrying bowl with her hands, Shakti began to chant a spell that would open a window to another plane. Not the Abyss—the drow’s first choice for power and allies—for much about her work had to be kept secret from the priestesshood of Lloth, and Abyssal denizens were notorious for treachery. No, Shakti sought another, lesser-known place: the elemental plane of water.
The priestess stared deep into the bowl, watching as the blood darkened to ebony and the surface took on a glossy sheen. Then all color vanished, and the bowl seemed full of wraithlike mist.
Shakti deepened her concentration and thought herself into the mist. There was a sudden tug, a moment of intense confusion, and then she was surrounded by swirling fog. A large eel with iridescent scales floated past her with an undulating, swimming motion. Momentary panic threatened to claim the drow as the realization of her success took hold. Shakti gripped her wits and reminded herself that she was not plane walking. She had merely sent her spirit to the elemental plane, leaving her physical form in the implacable care of the golems. Nothing here—not the strange water, not the denizens who inhabited it—could harm her. So she began to walk through the alien landscape, marveling at the twin sensations of heaviness of movement and weightlessness of body, amazed that the water flowed through her as easily as if it were air.
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