“What is a human fighter to me? But touch the yellow-eyed bitch, and you die!” snarled Shakti in return.
Well, well, observed the illithid’s mental voice, showing the first note of humor Rethnor had ever perceived in it. It would seem that you two have found common ground already.
The Elfmaid kept a steady course upon the warm waters of the River, rounding the island of Gundarlun without incident and then turning southward toward Ruathym. Despite the loss of the large profit the herring would have brought them, the crew seemed cheerful and eager for the return home.
All but young Bjorn, who usually spent the long days at his carving or painting. Unusually restless, he paced the deck for hours at a time, looking toward the sky as if there were words written there that only he could read.
At twilight of the third day, Hrolf could bear no more of this. “Out with it, lad! If there’s a storm coming, say so and be done with it!”
The young sailor looked troubled. “Not a storm,” he said hesitantly. “But something. I know not what.” He shrugged, sheepish as a child pressed to confess the details of an unremembered nightmare.
The answer was soon to come. Liriel saw it first, for the range of her elven vision was longer than even that of the farsighted sailors. A dark wall of water raced toward them from the northwest, gaining height and power as it came.
The pirates watched its approach stoically, knowing their seamanship to be no match for the killing wave. Liriel was not so accepting of her fate. She seized the Windwalker and began to chant, calling upon the strongest defensive sea-magic spells she had studied and stored in the amulet. A bubble of energy, glowing faintly with the faerie fire of drow magic, encircled the ship like a giant dome.
“To retain air around the ship, and keep us from being swept under,” Liriel explained tersely. “It gives us a chance, no more.”
Hrolf wrapped an arm around her tense shoulder and gave her a quick, grateful squeeze. “That’s more than we had a moment earlier. Grab ahold, lads, and prepare to get bounced around some!” he roared.
As the echoes of his voice reverberated through the magical bubble, the captain dropped facedown to the deck and took hold of a secured rope line. Elsewhere, the other sailors followed his example, bracing themselves as best they could for the coming onslaught.
The wave swept under the Elfmaid and lifted her up with breath-stealing speed. To the astonishment of all, the ship did not plunge back down into the sea; the massive wave continued to hold them aloft.
Then the wave shifted and began to take on humanoid form. Eyes the size of war shields gazed down at the stunned crew, and enormous watery hands cradled the ship—which was still encased in its glowing orb—as easily as a child might hold an oversized plaything. With an odd, undulating movement, the creature began to move toward the northeast, its arms and body lengthening and shortening as it went, like the ebb and flow of the tide.
“What in the Nine bloody Hells is that thing?” Hrolf demanded. His usually ebullient voice was reduced to a harsh whisper.
“An elemental,” Liriel returned. She had seen stone elementals and knew the incredible strength of such creatures. She even had the magic to conjure and command such a being. But it had never occurred to her that such could be called from the other elements, and she was astonished by the sheer size and power of this one. The elemental’s fluid shape was hard to measure, but she guessed it stood at least forty feet above the waves, with arms at least twice that long.
The ship settled down into a gentle swaying motion, and one by one the sailors left their secure holds and came to cluster around their captain. Their expressions were fearful, but confident.
“How d’we fight this one, Captain?” Olvir asked for them all. Despite the tremor in his voice, the seagoing skald asked the question with the tone of one who fully expected an answer. Their captain had led them through many unorthodox adventures and provided Olvir with tales enough to while away the nights of the longest winter.
But this time the light of battle did not come to Hrolf’s eyes. The captain felt an unaccustomed lack of optimism. The Elfmaid had lost five good men to the fighting so far on this trip, bringing their number down to under twenty. There were enough remaining to man the ship—barely—but not enough to take into battle against such a foe. Indeed, Hrolf had no idea how a force of any size could trim the sails of this watery monster. But he stifled his own fear and faced the men with a confidence he did not feel.
“No fighting just yet,” he said firmly, casting a stern glance in Fyodor’s direction. “We’re not exactly under attack, to my way of thinking. Seems as if this thing wants to take us for a ride. We wait it out, weather this delay same as any other storm. Go about your business best you can, but keep your weapons sharp and ready. Once this wet bastard puts us down,” he promised with a touch of his customary battle glee, “it had best be ready to block, duck, or bleed!”
The men responded with a halfhearted cheer. Hrolf sent them off to do little-needed tasks. When all were occupied, he pulled Liriel aside. “Can you do aught to stop this thing, lass?”
The drow shook her head, thinking of the unlearned spells in her pilfered book of sea magic. “Not yet. I’ll check my spellbooks for ideas, though.”
Hrolf cast a glance at the sky. His weathered brow creased as he made some calculations. “Looks as if you’ll have time to ponder over it. Unless I miss my guess, from the direction we’re headed I’d have to say this thing plans to take us to the Purple Rocks.”
“What are they?”
The captain met her curious gaze without a trace of his usual humor. “A place best avoided,” he said grimly as he placed one hand on her shoulder. “Go look through them magic books, my girl. But read fast, or Umberlee will have us all.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
ESCAPE
Do you know anything about this?” demanded Khelben “Blackstaff” Arunsun, archmage of Waterdeep, as he thrust a sheet of parchment into his nephew’s hands.
The young man scanned the elegant, slanted script that could only have come from the quill of Baron Khaufros, one of Waterdeep’s staunchest northern allies. “I don’t believe it,” he said flatly.
“Oh? And what basis have you for doubt?”
“I have met the drow in question, and my instincts where women are concerned are impeccable,” the younger man declared comfortably, laying down the parchment so that he might attend to a blond lock that had strayed onto his forehead. His fastidious preening only deepened the archmage’s scowl.
“She caused a bit of trouble down in Skullport,” Khelben reminded him.
“My point precisely. According to the Dark Sister, this lovely young drow played a pivotal part in the raid that took out a nest of Vhaeraun worshipers and freed a shipload of children destined for slavery. Oh, I’ve been following her progress,” he said in response to the archmage’s incredulous gaze, and his voice lost every hint of its lazy drawl. “Did you think I would send a strange drow to the Promenade Temple and not follow through to ensure that my original judgment was sound?”
Khelben ceded this point with a nod, but the worry lines creasing his forehead did not disappear. “I do not doubt that you did your job, Danilo. But did you know that this drow also singlehandedly rescued a criminal from Skullport’s dungeon, then booked passage upon this man’s pirate ship and used some sort of powerful gate spell to remove it from the underground port?”
“No,” the youth admitted and grimaced. “I stopped gathering information after the battle, assuming that the lovely lady had achieved happily-ever-after, as the bards are wont to say.”
Khelben lifted one eyebrow at Danilo’s reference to bards, but for once the archmage refrained from giving his opinion on the matter of bardic reliability. “It is the drow’s magical escape from Skullport that concerns me and gives credence to the baron’s report. Anyone who commands power enough to bypass Halaster’s gates is a potential danger.”
The young man nodded sombe
rly as he picked up the parchment. Once again he read the reports of increased drow activity in the area of the River Dessarin. There had been sightings of a raiding party traveling the Dessarin, and the bodies of several drow males had been discovered in the hills east of the river. Several different bands of human adventurers were apparently squabbling over bragging rights for this victory. The small town of Trollbridge had claimed an attack by a drow female who wielded powerful magic and who had apparently enspelled a young swordsman to do her bidding.
Danilo did not doubt that the pair described were the same he had met less than a month before. By all accounts, the pretty little drow had been busy. But he could not credit to her the atrocities that Baron Khaufros reported or accept the baron’s suggestion that the dark sorceress would take over the wills of whatever men she happened to meet. But he did understand Khelben’s concern about the girl’s magical ability. A powerful wizard, drow or otherwise, was always a wild card, and the game currently playing out in the northern seas was complicated enough.
“She should be watched,” Danilo admitted.
“She should be stopped,” the archmage retorted and then paused. “There is something else you should know. We have received word from the harbor merfolk that a Waterdhavian hunting vessel known as the Cutter was scuttled by pirates. There were no survivors. The captain of the attacking ship was Hrolf the Unruly, the man your drow rescued from Skullport’s dungeons.”
The young man’s face went very still. “Wasn’t Caladorn aboard that ship?”
“I’m afraid so,” Khelben said somberly. “Since the young fool has his mind set on adventuring at sea, the Lords of Waterdeep sent him north to gather information. For some time now, we have been receiving reports of attacks upon sea-elven communities and increased raiding activity by factions within the Northmen. Shortly before his ship was lost, Caladorn managed to relay by magical means that he’d found something of importance and was returning with it to the city. I find it uncomfortably coincidental that a Ruathen pirate ship, by all appearances dominated by a dark-elven wizard, would stop him from doing so, and by such brutal means. In light of all we know—and all that we have yet to learn—we cannot allow this particular dark elf free run of the Northlands.”
Danilo took a long, steadying breath as he absorbed this news. Caladorn Cassalanter was a member of his own set and a close friend of Danilo’s oldest brother. The young nobleman struggled not to give Caladorn’s loss undue weight in his consideration of this matter, for he had learned painful lessons about the grim consequences of taking quick vengeance. Even with all emotion aside, however, Danilo found it hard to discount the dire predictions coming from Yartar.
The domain of Baron Khaufros was on the Dessarin River, and much information flowed to his small town from the wild interior of the Northlands. The baron’s keen eye and nearly infallible grasp of local politics and events had repeatedly averted disaster. Just a few seasons past, Khaufros had investigated scattered sightings of orc tribes on the move, plotted their paths, and predicted that they would convene in a single, remote valley. This advance warning had enabled the Lords’ Alliance to stop the orcs before they could form a rampaging horde.
Perhaps this lovely drow wizard was another potential threat, one that could cause untold damage if she were allowed to run unchecked. The lore books were fat with tales of powerful, ambitious wizards and the devastation they left behind. Every young mage knew the risks, and the temptations, that lay along the path he or she had chosen. Danilo had ample reason to know the dark face of power, for in his own past were dire secrets known only to him and to the stern man who awaited his response. These secrets lay heavy between them as they contemplated the damage that another powerful young wizard might do, and considered what should be done to prevent this eventuality.
Danilo blessed the fact that he himself did not have to make such decisions. He was young—barely into his twenties—and completely absorbed with his magical training and his fledgling efforts on behalf of the Harpers. Hiding behind the persona of an idle nobleman, a fop, and a flirt, he was becoming expert at gathering information. It was enough. He wanted—he would accept—no more power and responsibility than this.
“What will you do?” he ventured, when at last Khelben’s watchful silence became too much to bear.
The archmage turned away, his face inscrutable. “It is already done. The pirate ship was recently spotted rounding the northern coast of Gundarlun—they cannot be far from the island and are no doubt following the River due south toward Ruathym. We have contacted a Waterdhavian ship wintering on Gundarlun, one specially equipped for dealing with piracy. Grandassian is the ship’s wizard. You know his skills; I daresay he is at least the equal of this drow.”
“He will kill her?” Danilo demanded, aghast.
“He will bring her back to Waterdeep, so that we might ascertain her abilities and know her purpose.”
Danilo shook his head as he remembered his chance meeting with the drow and envisioned the expression in her golden eyes. The wild spirit behind those eyes had convinced him that the drow at the masquerade was no Waterdhavian noblewoman in a magic-enhanced costume, but the genuine article. A hawk would sooner present its wings to be clipped, a panther walk willingly into a cage, than this untamed girl would submit to defeat and capture.
“He will kill her,” Danilo repeated softly, and he wondered at the surge of loss that followed in the wake of this realization. For the first time in his young life, he wished his instincts concerning women were not quite so infallible.
Throughout the day the water elemental carried the Elfmaid toward the northeast, bent low with its enormous burden yet showing no sign of slowing or tiring. The pirates made an effort to go about their usual business, but there was, in truth, little for them to do. At length they fell to drinking and the telling of grim tales.
For once Fyodor took no part in the storytelling. The old legends of Rashemen, however, were very much on his mind. He took a solitary post on the forecastle, gazing at the horizon with sightless eyes as he sought inspiration in his country’s rich treasury of lore. Fyodor had learned that no matter what puzzle life offered him, he could usually find an answer in the remembered deeds of ancient gods and heroes.
Alone in Hrolf’s cabin, Liriel frantically studied her book of sea magic for the means to overcome a water elemental. There were no spells listed that could accomplish this feat. Nor could she send it back to its home plane—apparently the preferred method of dealing with such creatures—for few drow studied the elemental planes, and water was hardly their favored element. Liriel knew little of the sea, and less about the plane of water and its creatures. The drow resolved to redress this lack, if and when she reached Ruathym. At the moment, though, she was severely taxed by the double effort of maintaining the bubble shield that enclosed the ship and devising a way to escape from the elemental.
The day was nearly spent when Fyodor’s shout roused her from her reverie. Liriel heard his distinctive bass voice calling out something about an approaching ship. Armed with her newly learned spells and those stored in her Windwalker amulet, the drow hurried to the deck to investigate this new development.
There were actually two ships—a large two-masted caravel sailing from the west and a tiny dot on the northern horizon that was still well beyond the reach of any eyes but hers.
“The ship is fully armed!” Fyodor exclaimed, pointing to the arsenal of catapults and ballistae on the decks of the approaching caravel. “Perhaps they can help us escape from this creature.”
Ibn glowered at the young warrior. “Help, from a Waterdhavian ship? It’s well that you can fight, boy, since you haven’t the good sense the gods gave a clam. That’s plain enough by the company you keep,” he concluded, casting a significant glance toward Liriel.
The drow ignored the sailor’s insults in favor of more important matters. Her eyes narrowed as she gazed at the approaching ship. There was an aura of magic about it. Strong magic.
Since leaving her home city, Liriel had noticed that her eyes were becoming more and more attuned to the nuances of power. Menzoberranzan was permeated with magic. She could no more see magic there than she could employ her heat vision when the midday sun turned sea and sky to pale blue fire. Magic was hardly unknown on the surface world, but it was comparatively rare, and Liriel was finding that she could sense its occurrence and gauge its power. So she did not doubt the instinct that warned her of a mighty spellcaster aboard the approaching vessel. Since it stood to reason that a ship’s wizard would know more of sea magic than a drow, Liriel planned to take full advantage of the unknown wizard’s skill. But first, she had to wrest the Elfmaid from the elemental’s watery grasp.
The drow faced the creature and began to chant the words to a part-water spell, her body swaying as she drew power from the weave of magic and reshaped it into an invisible sword. She flung one arm up high, instinctively falling into a battle stance as she lashed out with her eldritch weapon.
But Liriel was near exhaustion, and sea magic was new to her. Her usually lethal aim failed her; the spell, which should have parted the elemental neatly in two, merely lopped off an arm.
Water gushed like a mighty waterfall from the wound. The Elfmaid, still in its protective bubble, was swept away on the flow. Sailors tumbled to the deck and rolled toward the bow of the ship. Fyodor, high atop the forecastle, was thrown from his perch and into the air. He hit the bubble of force and slid down its curved surface toward the water. At once he saw his danger: if he fell into the water he would slip down to the lowest part of the magical globe and be crushed between the ship and the bottom of the bubble. His flailing hands found a hold—the wooden bodice of the figurehead’s low-cut gown. Fyodor hauled himself onto the perch offered by the elf maid’s ample bosom. Holding fast to the statue’s pointed ears, he hung on for dear life as the ship plummeted into the sea.
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