Tangled Webs

by Elaine Cunningham

  “I am Xzorsh. Like you, I am charged with the safety and well-being of my people,” he said. “I would like to understand why you attacked the Ruathen vessel. Her captain is a friend of the sea folk and under my protection.”

  Caladorn nodded slowly as he took this in. The title of “elf-friend” was the highest honor that the People bestowed upon any human, given only to those who’d performed great service to the elves and who had a special love for and understanding of the fey race.

  “That would explain why the Ruathen captain set us adrift,” the man said thoughtfully. “Perhaps you can answer other questions.”

  Briefly Caladorn sketched the details of his grim discovery aboard the ghost ship, of Captain Farlow’s hatred of the pirates and his inflammatory speech about supposed Ruathym atrocities against the sea elves. He described the battle, the incredible fury of the young berserker they’d faced, and Hrolf’s grief at the discovery of the dead sea elves. “We had nothing to do with the death of these elves,” Caladorn concluded earnestly, “yet the Ruathen captain gave us no opportunity to speak.”

  “Hrolf is impulsive,” Xzorsh admitted, “and protective of the People.”

  “And now that you know our story, what will you do?”

  The ranger pondered the matter. “My first duty is to the sea folk. I must learn who killed my people and why. When I can, I will send word to the merfolk of Waterdeep; perhaps they will see to your rescue.”

  “Then you also condemn us to death,” Caladorn protested. The merfolk were capricious—they both knew that—and Waterdeep lay several days’ travel to the southeast. “These men are wounded. We have no food and very little water. The merfolk—if they come at all—will be too late.”

  Xzorsh nodded his agreement of this assessment. “There is a group of small islands not too far from here. No humans make their home there, but you can survive there well enough until rescue comes.”

  The sea elf put both hands to his mouth and let out a high, piercing cry. There was a moment’s silence, and then two gray fins cut through the water toward them. Caladorn instinctively reached for his empty scabbard.

  “Not sharks,” Xzorsh assured him. “These are dolphins—friends of the sea elves. They will pull you to safety faster than you could sail or row.”

  As Caladorn watched, intrigued, Xzorsh spoke with the creatures in a language of clicks and squeals. The sea elf took two ropes of braided reeds from his belt, tied one end of each to the boat and knotted the other into a loop. These he tossed to the dolphins. The creatures deftly caught the loops with their pointed snouts.

  “I will travel with you throughout the night,” the elf promised. He took a long knife from his belt and handed it to the human. “There are many dangers in these waters, some that I myself do not yet understand. You may have need of this.”

  Before Caladorn could speak, the ranger slapped the water sharply. It was a signal, apparently, for the dolphins set off toward the west, easily pulling the small craft.

  When the first rays of the sun touched the surface of the water, Xzorsh turned back toward the pirate ship. There was no real urgency, now that he knew the nature of Hrolf’s summons. Nor would the pirates be expecting him any sooner. He did not wish to explain why he’d been following the ship, or give words to his suspicions concerning the drow.

  Never before had Xzorsh seen a drow take to the sea, and he doubted that this female had done so for a noble purpose. His people had suffered enough at the hands of the evil drow; Xzorsh was determined to do whatever he could to ensure that they would come to no further harm.

  Even if the drow in question was under his pledge of protection.

  Life’s answers usually came easily to the young ranger, and the lines between what was good and what was evil usually ran straight and clear. But for once Xzorsh found himself wondering if things were truly as simple as he had always believed.

  The morning hours passed slowly aboard the Elfmaid. There was little for the crew to do but await the arrival of the sea-elven ranger. The presence of the dead sea elves—even now that they were tucked discreetly in the hold—was a damper on the usually high spirits of the Ruathen sailors.

  Fyodor did his best to distract them with tales of his homeland—of the place spirits that still lingered in springs and wells, of his adventures exploring the ruins of long-dead kingdoms buried in the thickly forested hills of Rashemen. The young storyteller did not understand why his tales of place spirits brought sly grins to the faces of the sailors, but on the whole the men seemed glad of the diversion he offered.

  The first mate, however, concerned himself with practical matters. Ibn examined their haul, placing the valuable goods to one side and tossing the debris into the sea. He was about to send the broken lid of one cask spinning, but stopped suddenly and squinted at the markings on it. The mate pursed his lips, considered, and then examined the remaining barrels. He hurried over to Hrolf, who had spent the night at watch on the forecastle. The elven female was at his side, as she was too often for Ibn’s taste, but the sailor had no time to indulge his prejudices.

  “You gotta see this, Captain,” Ibn said with uncharacteristic urgency as he handed the lid to Hrolf. “That’s the mark of Alesbane the cooper. The barrel is of Ruathym make. All the barrels holding sea elves had this mark.”

  Hrolf scowled and shrugged. “What of it?”

  “Strange, it is,” Ibn said. “What those seal hunters could want with Sea People is more than I know or care to know. I just hope no more pickled elves show up, and the blame for it put on Ruathym.”

  Liriel saw the point at once. Although she knew little of human politics, she could scent a plot in any form. “He’s right, Hrolf. We should get those wounded men back and find out what they know.”

  The first mate did not look grateful for her support. His red brows met in a frown, and he leveled a glare at the drow. “You’re to blame for this mess,” he growled.

  “What had I to do with it?” she said indignantly. “The sea elves were long dead before we found them.”

  “That’s the way of ill luck. You never see it coming, but it finds you all the same!”

  “Enough, lad,” Hrolf said wearily. “Best that you find the men we set adrift and try to sort this thing through.”

  Liriel nodded. “I’m going below—the midday sun is still too bright for comfort—but call me when you find the seal hunters. I can get more information from them than they’d willingly give.”

  Ibn folded his arms and glared at her. “You won’t torture a wounded man while I’m mate of this ship!”

  “Spare me the sermon,” she said dryly, “and do try to remember that magic gives options quite beyond those allowed by your crude imagination.”

  The drow swept past the mate, regal as a Matron. But she felt his baleful glare upon her as she made her way into the hold, and she wondered what he might do if he knew what she was about to attempt.

  For Liriel had found unexpected inspiration in her own words. She did have the ability to extract information from the minds of the wounded seal hunters. Not from her wizardly magic, but with clerical spells. Priestesses of Lloth could cast their sticky webs into the thoughts of another—even if that person had passed beyond the mortal realms. Why bother questioning the seal hunters, Liriel surmised, if she could speak directly to the spirits of the dead sea elves?

  Of course, this was risky in the extreme. A powerful priestess could summon and command a spirit, but Liriel was a novice and had never tried the prayers and spells that would reach beyond death. She had no reason to believe Lloth would honor her request; indeed, her presumption might anger the Spider Queen. The spirits of sea elves would not be in the realms of Lloth, and Liriel doubted the drow goddess was on cordial terms with whatever elven deity sea elves worshiped.

  After pondering the matter, Liriel decided that her best bet for success—not to mention survival—would not be to ask Lloth to summon the spirits, but rather to seek permission to enter the af
terworld herself. It was a prospect that both chilled and fascinated the adventurous young drow.

  Liriel crept into the corner of the hold where the dead elves lay, respectfully covered with a tarp. She knelt down and began to search the bodies, trying to find some clue that would tell her how they had been killed. There were no marks on any of them, beyond the slight wizening effect of the brine. Nothing to be gained there. At random, she chose one of the elves and held the cold hands between both her own. Since she had not known the sea folk in life, she needed contact with the body in order to track down the spirit.

  The drow steeled her courage and began the intense concentration demanded of a clerical spell. She chanted softly, quieting her thoughts and pushing away the strands of magic that came so readily to her call. The magic she needed now was not the natural magic of the Weave, but the power of a goddess.

  Suddenly Liriel was pulled from her body. There was a moment’s bright, white pain, a quick wrenching as she was torn from the mortal world, and then …

  Liriel had glimpsed the Abyss, had viewed all the lower planes through the scrying portals common among the priestesses of Lloth. The gray, mist-filled landscape before her was like nothing she had ever seen or, more precisely, like nothing she had ever felt. There was little to be seen here, yet all around her she felt the invisible passages that led to untold realms. The drow sent out her thoughts, seeking the sea elf’s spirit.

  There was a moment’s touch. The exhilaration of success filled the drow’s mind, and she urged her probing touch to go still farther. To her astonishment, there was nowhere to go.

  Liriel’s heightened senses perceived that something beyond the natural order had occurred. She encountered not the will of a god, but the art of a sorcerer. The spirit had indeed left the sea elf’s body, but it was trapped somewhere on this plane. The drow deepened her concentration, narrowing her search to seek the spirit in the world she knew.

  Suddenly Liriel stood at the gate of some terrible limbo. She felt the utter helplessness of the being she sought, felt the sudden surge of hope as the spirit felt her touch, felt the unseen eyes that pleaded with her for release. The drow’s free-spirited heart recoiled from the terror she encountered, and instinctively she drew away.

  I’ll find you, Liriel promised as she eased back toward the mortal realm. I’ll find a way to release you all.

  “Damn female. Knew you was a part of this mess.”

  The voice, grim and triumphant, jolted Liriel from her trance. She spun to see Ibn watching her. So deep in meditation had she been that she hadn’t heard the first mate’s approach. He closed in now, his hand on the hilt of his knife.

  Instinct took over. Liriel flung out a hand, fingers spread wide. Strands of magic flew from her fingertips, spun themselves into a giant web that spanned the hold. The blast of power caught Ibn, hurling him backward along with the magical trap. He hung there, bobbing slightly, stuck to the web like some enormous insect.

  Liriel expected sullen wrath, or even a string of the colorful curses that were common aboard the ship. To her astonishment, Ibn looked pleased despite his ignominious situation.

  “Attacked a ship’s officer, you did. You’re as good as dead,” he promised her with dark satisfaction.

  The memories of elves are long indeed, but to most of them the lost city of Ascarle had faded into the fabric of lore and legend. Many generations of elves had come and gone since the day Ascarle had disappeared—swept away by the rush of melting ice, then buried beneath the waves in the age when the great glaciers gave way to the northern seas. Few suspected that the glories of Ascarle continued, hidden deep beneath the waters off the northern coast of Trisk, a small island in the remote archipelago known as the Purple Rocks.

  Few of those long-ago elves would recognize Ascarle now. Yes, most of the buildings remained intact—wondrous, gleaming structures magically grown from crystal and red coral. Even buried beneath the waves, the city looked as if it had been sculpted from fire and ice. Air still filled many of the buildings and the covered walkways that linked them. Treasures from ancient cultures furnished the luxurious rooms. Indeed, the only discordant notes in all of Ascarle came from its watery horizon and its current inhabitants.

  Around the submerged city lived some of the most feared creatures in the sea. A hundred merrow—aquatic cousins of orcs—formed the core of Ascarle’s standing army. The antechambers and tunnels that led into the crystal core were lairs to kapoacinth, marine gargoyles who lived for the enjoyment of causing pain. A band of evil nereids—beautiful, shapeshifting sirens dedicated to the destruction of seagoing males—flitted about the city, awaiting opportunities for mischief.

  It was even whispered that a kraken made its lair in the submerged city. Of all the creatures of the sea, this gigantic and highly intelligent squid-creature was the most feared. In times past, entire cities, whole islands, had disappeared at the command of such beasts. Little was known about kraken, except that the creatures spent most of their lives in the unreachable depths of the sea, and that they at times amassed power that reached far beyond the waves. Even rumor of a kraken’s presence was a formidable threat.

  The apparent ruler of Ascarle, an illithid known as Vestress, certainly did nothing to discourage these rumors. A creature of immense magical power and shadowy background, Vestress claimed the title of Regent and ruled the undersea kingdom for the absent kraken. Or so she claimed, and so far none had dared to challenge her. For Vestress’s reign was not limited to Ascarle. A far-flung network of spies and assassins known as the Kraken Society extended her power throughout the Northlands.

  Vestress was an oddity among her kind. Illithids did not possess—or at least did not exhibit—gender, but this creature projected a mental “voice” that was decidedly feminine and a persona as regal as that of any queen. By human standards, illithids were hideous creatures that resembled some unholy pairing of squid and humanoid. Roughly man-shaped in form, the creatures had bald, high-domed heads, lavender hide, and white eyes devoid of expression. Four writhing tentacles formed the lower half of an illithid’s face and concealed a sharp-fanged maw. Somehow, though, Vestress projected an elegance not in keeping with her ungainly form. Pale purple amethysts decked her three-fingered hands and studded the circlet of silver on her head. The full sleeves of her lavender silk robe whispered as she deftly moved the shuttle of her loom.

  The Regent of Ascarle was currently at leisure. Weaving was her hobby and her passion, and she took to it whenever the demands of her position allowed. The illithid saw all of life as a tapestry, and she could spin nearly anything into thread: precious gems, stolen dreams. At the moment she sat before a tapestry that depicted a coastal town, peopled by former slaves that once had served her and maintained Ascarle’s air-filled chambers. The weaving was her finest achievement, and Vestress gazed at it with satisfaction.

  Then, to her astonishment, the sea-elven figures on the tapestry began to writhe as if in torment.

  Vestress rose abruptly. This could not be. Not that she was adverse to tormenting the sea-elven spirits entrapped in the tapestry—far from it! What concerned her was that someone had attempted to contact the spirits of the dead elves. Someone powerful.

  The illithid had expected that such an attempt would be made, but the seal hunters could not have reached Waterdeep so soon, and she knew that no clerics sailed aboard that vessel. Something had gone very wrong.

  Vestress glided out of the weaving chamber and hastened to the room that housed her scrying crystals. With all the resources of the mysterious Kraken Society at her command, she would have an answer in minutes.

  And before the day was out, the illithid’s far-reaching tentacles would ensnare the priest or priestess who had dared to interfere with the Regent of Ascarle.

  CHAPTER SIX

  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 th
an 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 Luskan—but 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, 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.