“Explain those,” the drow suggested coldly.
For a moment Wedigar sat in silence. “I cannot,” he admitted.
“Then permit me,” Liriel said. “I threw four knives at the hawk who attacked us, as well as a small fireball. Lucky for the bird, its chest muscles were too deep for the blades to do much damage, and the feathers protected it from most of the effects of the fireball. Your wounds are smaller than I’d expected, but then the target has shrunk considerably. No offense intended,” she added with a glance at his heavily muscled torso. “I also threw a bolo at the thing’s leg, and Fyodor hit it repeatedly on the back and right side with his cudgel. There should be some fairly impressive bruises in those locations.”
“There are,” Wedigar muttered.
Liriel cast a disbelieving look at her friend. “You weren’t exaggerating when you said these people are no good at lying,” she said dryly. “This one won’t even make an attempt!”
“I speak the truth,” the warrior told her bitterly, “at least, what little of it I can remember! Yesterday morning I did go to the shore intending to meet the shaman’s daughter when she came ashore after the morning’s fishing. You know she labors with the fisherfolk. But I did not see the boats return. I believed only that I misunderstood what cove I should seek and thought no more of it. The morning passed quickly. Now that I think of it, a bit too quickly.”
“You didn’t notice the pain? The wounds?” she persisted.
“I did,” he said tersely. “Of them I could remember nothing.”
“What about this afternoon? Where were you during the hunt?”
“I remained in the Trelleborg most of the afternoon. I can neither walk nor hold a sword without pain. How could I hunt?”
Fyodor cast a puzzled look at Liriel. “Then he could not have taken the form of the boar that attacked Aumark!”
“There is a way,” Wedigar admitted. “Those who are strong in the shapeshifting rage can sometimes take a hamfarir flight. The body stays behind; the spirit goes forth in animal shape. It is possible I did what you believe, for in spirit form my injuries would not deter me from doing this, though my body would bear any wound that might be given the spirit-animal. Tell me,” he demanded abruptly, “did someone manage to wound the boar? A spear wound in the hindquarters?”
Fyodor nodded, and the warrior’s shoulders sagged in despair. “I had feared this might be so. But how was this done, and why can I remember nothing?”
“I can help you remember,” Liriel said confidently. “The truth of your actions is hidden in your mind, which, by the power of my goddess, I can read.”
Without waiting for Wedigar’s consent, the drow retreated into herself and silently spoke the words of the clerical spell. The result was sudden and dramatic. Usually the spell yielded a peek into another mind—an image, an impression, perhaps a few words. This time the wall built by the nereid’s charm tumbled down, and Liriel knew the whole truth of the warrior’s part in the troubles that beset the land he helped to rule and defend.
And so, apparently, did he.
Wedigar groaned and buried his face in his hands as the horrors he had committed came back to him in a single, vivid rush. He sat in tortured silence for many long moments, but when at last he lifted his eyes, they were set with determination.
“I will call a Thing,” he said firmly. “I will own up to what I have done and accept the ruling of the people I have betrayed.”
An exasperated Liriel cast her eyes skyward and then turned to Fyodor. “You talk to him.”
“I understand your decision,” the Rashemi began. “Your sense of honor demands that you face your actions and accept punishment. Yet your duty to your homeland demands otherwise. Strange things have happened to us and to the people of Ruathym—more than can be explained by the curse the nereid placed upon you. No, there is more at work here, and we must know what. If there is a single dark purpose behind all these things, would it not be wise to bide your time in silence until the answer is found?”
“You ask me to put the lives of my people at risk!” Wedigar protested. “I would rather die in battle than let this foe continue his work!”
“But how will you fight? Who is the foe?”
The First Axe shrugged helplessly, utterly at a loss for an answer. Fyodor put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “What is needed now is patience and skill at intrigue—both of which are foreign to the Northman warrior. But the drow are bred and trained for just such things. Bide your time in silence and let us seek answers. It might be this work has been laid upon us as part of the rune quest that brought us here,” he added suddenly, and for some reason he was certain the words were truth.
Liriel nodded agreement, her eyes deeply reflective as she added this new insight to the growing pattern.
Wedigar threw up his hands. “I will do as you say,” he muttered, “but I like it not.”
Fyodor could not help but agree, for he could not rid himself of the lingering cloud of despair that Liriel’s clerical spell had left behind. He had seen Liriel in prayer before, and her link with the dark goddess of the drow troubled him deeply. This time the thread of power had been much stronger. As she’d cast the spell that allowed her to peer into the shapeshifting warrior’s mind, Fyodor had been assaulted by a sense of seething chaos and overwhelming evil. The moment passed quickly, as did all glimpses given him by his limited Sight, but he knew he would remember it always. He knew Liriel’s strength of spirit and her uncanny resilience, but he did not see how she could remain untainted by such evil.
Wedigar’s unwitting deeds in animal form had been many and terrible. Fyodor’s own transformations into a berserker whirlwind would probably bring about his death. But even these things paled before the Rashemi’s dawning fear that Liriel, in her quest for power, might undergo another, even more deadly type of shapeshifting.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CALL OF THE DEEP
Ascarle was a city of rare beauty and ancient wonders. Shakti, however, was not impressed. When not in conference with the illithid regent, the drow priestess spent many hours pacing about the marvelous marble corridors, seeking places that were not too scorchingly bright for her drow eyes to endure, seething with impatience as she waited for the tangled plans of the others to sort themselves out, and pondering ways to best turn them to her personal advantage. On her own, Shakti was a canny manager, but she had no notion of how to mesh her goals with those of her new allies.
At the moment, Shakti was taking a meal in the company of the illithid’s other “guest.” The priestess cast an angry glare at the man who was seated at the far end of the long table, calmly eating some sort of overcooked seafood by the light of a single candle. She noted, with a touch of pride, that his new hand was functioning nicely. That had been a pleasant interlude—selecting the slave who’d serve as a donor, inflicting the painful rituals, indebting the arrogant human to her in ways he could not begin to understand. Still, that pleasure did little to dispel the worry and boredom that had become Shakti’s lot.
“How long must I wait for my prisoner?” she snarled at Rethnor. “What purpose this delay?”
The black-bearded human regarded her somberly for a long moment; then he pushed back from the table. “Come,” he said and strode from the dining hall.
Shakti hissed a curse, then rose to follow. The man led her through a labyrinth of corridors to the most peculiar room the drow had yet seen. Her first impression was annoyance. She was assaulted by faint green light too bright for comfort and too thick with energy to be anything but magical. The air was humid, and heavy with the scent of salt and of growing things. This piqued Shakti’s interest. Agriculture was, after all, her original passion and area of expertise.
The drow edged into the strange room. It was a vast chamber whose walls and high-arched ceiling were made of thick, translucent crystal. The entire room was filled with rows of long, narrow vats. Curious, Shakti stepped closer and peered into the nearest container. It wa
s full of salt-scented water, in which was growing a curious type of weed.
Rethnor reached in and plucked off a bit of the plant, a tightly whorled frond at the end of a long stem. “This is a kelpie,” he informed her. “A rare form of seaweed. They are grown here, and sprouts such as this one are sent to Ruathym, where they are placed into the waters surrounding the island.”
“What is that to me?” demanded the drow.
The Northman beckoned to a nearby slave, a fair-haired man nearly his own height and girth, and ordered him to approach the large vat at the far end of the room. The slave’s eyes widened in terror, but he did not disobey.
“Watch carefully,” Rethnor advised the drow. “You should find this most entertaining.”
As the curious priestess looked on, lank strands of weed rose of their own accord from the vat, writhing sinuously in the humid air. They quickly took the form of a green-clad woman. It was not an impressive illusion—the innate magical immunity of the drow allowed Shakti to see through it at once—but the slave’s face took on a look of rapt obsession as he contemplated the creature before him, as if the rather pathetic imitation were the true embodiment of his deepest, unspoken longings.
“A charm spell,” Shakti muttered, watching as the kelpie woman beckoned the slave into her embrace. He went to her eagerly, and they tumbled together into the vat of water. There was no struggle, no sign of life but for a rift of bubbles that ended soon enough. The surface went still and remained so. The man had drowned—quickly, quietly, blissfully content with his fate.
“Kelpies,” Rethnor repeated. “They have lured many Ruathen warriors and sailors to their deaths. This is but one of the strategies used against our foe. In due time, they will weaken, and we will attack.”
“Very impressive,” she sneered. “You have demonstrated that human males are fools, but this I knew already. I want the Baenre princess, now!”
As do I, said a calm and feminine voice, speaking directly into the drow’s mind. Both Shakti and Rethnor turned as the illithid glided toward them, her lavender robes trailing behind her in a silken whisper.
The conquest of Ruathym is important. We are agreed on that, Vestress continued. The Kraken Society would benefit from a western outpost, and we also wish to reward Rethnor’s efforts. Luskan is an important trade partner, and you have proven yourself a valuable agent. But mark me, Lord High Captain: we grow impatient with your tactics. The pirate ship escaped you. You should pray that her captain did not recognize you or your ship, and that he is not even now spreading word of Luskan’s perfidy among his people. The task of conquest will be more difficult if the islanders are forewarned. Do not delay much longer, else you lose all we have worked to accomplish.
The man scowled. “Then why do you not attack at once?” he demanded. “I have seen your forces—a hundred sea ogres, twice as many human and elven slaves, gargoyles, strange water creatures from other worlds. Send them through your portal, if you can, and let them lay waste the island this very day!”
Do not presume to instruct me, Vestress advised him, her mental voice icy. Bring me the drow wizard soon, or see the valuable resources of Ascarle and the Kraken Society slip forever beyond your grasping hands!
With royal hauteur, the illithid swept from the chamber. As Shakti watched her go, her dark fingers clutched the pendant hanging over her heart, a small disk of obsidian, engraved with the shape of a half-mask.
“It is as I thought,” she said in a deeply troubled voice. “The illithid needs Liriel Baenre’s wizardly spells to open that portal. And she will have them, caring not whether Liriel is alive or dead at the time.”
Rethnor’s lips tightened in a small, hard smile. “I have often thought the only good wizard is a dead one, but I fail to see how this one’s death will aid Vestress.”
The drow turned a somber crimson glare upon him. “The illithid can read your mind; through the power of my god, I can read hers. Vestress will have Liriel, whether you manage to deliver her up or not. There are more ways than one for her to gain knowledge of the magic the wizard wields. And if Liriel dies, I lose my prey.”
“What is that to me?” Rethnor replied mockingly, turning Shakti’s recent words back against her.
The drow’s eyes narrowed.
A tingling shock of pain exploded in Rethnor’s new hand, sending the five fingers jerking out straight. He watched, horrified, as the fingers curved and reached for the handle of a knife tucked into his weapon belt. Without his will, against his will, the treacherous hand began to lift the knife toward his own throat. Rethnor strained the muscles of his left arm, seized the advancing wrist with his own strong right hand and tried to force it away—all to no avail. The hand that had become as much a part of him as his implacable ambition had utterly betrayed him. He felt the cold, sharp sting of the knife against his throat, felt the warm welling of blood as the blade slid gently across his skin.
“I will not lose my prey,” Shakti said softly, emphatically, her eyes glowing with malevolent satisfaction. “Do whatever you must, but bring Liriel to me alive!”
With that, the drow priestess spun and stalked out of the kelpie nursery.
The knife clattered to the floor as Rethnor’s arm fell to his side. He flexed his fingers, bent his arm and bunched the formidable muscles, and was relieved to find that all were once again at his command.
For now.
Xzorsh was in a quandary. The young sea ranger had received disturbing reports through the Relay—the complex chain of information that intelligent sea creatures passed along great distances with astonishing speed. Hrolf’s ship had been attacked off the coast of Gundarlun by yet another creature of the elemental plane of water. The sea ranger had seen many things in his years of patrolling the waters, but the strange happenings of recent days lay far beyond his ken.
Even more astounding was the news that the beleaguered ship had simply disappeared. Xzorsh suspected the drow girl’s magic was behind this, and he was eager to know the truth of the matter. His curiosity, however, was but one of his motivations. He had his pledge to Hrolf to consider.
And therein lay the dilemma. Xzorsh had not seen Sittl since the day the Elfmaid had been attacked by three warships, and then later by the band of merrow. The reinforcements Sittl had promised to send had not appeared. Nor had any of Xzorsh’s inquiries yielded information on Sittl’s whereabouts. Not even the Relay had news of the missing sea elf. Xzorsh was worried about his partner, fearing mightily that the other ranger might have fallen foul of the sea ogres. With two friends in trouble, which was Xzorsh to seek out?
After much deliberation, the ranger set out for the west, heading for the remote cluster of islets where he had delivered the surviving seal hunters. Beneath these islands, in vast water-filled caverns, was hidden a sea-elven city. The coral catacombs in which they entombed their dead were in the open seas nearby. Xzorsh hoped Sittl might have made his way there, perhaps to mourn his slain lover and child. The ranger believed he might find his friend there. Not coincidentally, the islands also lay along the shortest route to Ruathym.
With all possible speed, Xzorsh set out for the nearest island in the tiny archipelago. Here, in a rock formation hidden in a sheltered cove, he and Sittl often left messages for each other that were too sensitive to trust to the open Relay. There was nothing, and he cast his eyes toward the sky in a gesture of frustration that he’d learned from his human charges. To his astonishment, a familiar ovoid shape floated overhead: the skiff that had brought the marooned Water-dhavians to the island!
The sea elf swam for the light and waded quickly ashore. Not far from the water’s edge, three men were huddled around a small fire. One of them, a tall man whose haggard, sunburned face was nearly the same shade of weathered reddish-brown as his hair, rose when the ranger approached and faced him down.
“Lord Caladorn,” Xzorsh murmured. “I had no idea you and your men would still be here!”
“Only three of us remain,” the young lord
said coldly. “The others have died waiting for the merfolk of Waterdeep harbor to inform the city of our survival. Or did you even so much as try to send word?”
Xzorsh nodded, but his worry increased fourfold. Sittl was supposed to have handled this matter. “My deepest regrets, Lord Caladorn, but you must believe me when I tell you that the Sea People did not forget you! Something has gone very wrong; I fear for the safety of my messenger. But I myself will find a ship to return you to the mainland,” he promised. “Ruathym is the nearest land. I should be able to reach the island in a few days. Sooner, with the help of sea creatures who are even faster than I.”
The man’s ravaged, accusing visage softened. “I thank you for this, but I know of the Northmen’s hatred of elves. Even for the chance to see Waterdeep again, I would not have you put yourself at risk.”
“Do not fear for me; there is no need,” Xzorsh said simply.
“Are you so certain of this? The barrels holding your slain kindred were of Ruathen make.”
“That may be so, but none of it was Captain Hrolf’s doing. Yet I thank you for your warnings.” The sea elf paused, and a smile lit his thin, intense face. “You are much akin, you and Hrolf. Both of you possess a degree of honor that—forgive me—is rare among humankind. You may trust in him, and in me.”
Caladorn was silent for a moment; then he extended his hand to Xzorsh as to a comrade. “Then we will await your return.”
The sea elf nodded acceptance of the man’s trust, but waved aside the offered handclasp. “I cannot,” he said with a wistful smile, holding up his own hand and spreading the fingers wide so Caladorn could see the webbing between. Then he turned and dove once again beneath the waves.
As he swam rapidly toward the west, Xzorsh found himself contemplating his hands, wondering if his webbed fingers could learn to shape magic. What was it, he mused, that kept the sea folk from learning this art? All his life, he had been fascinated with magic and felt for it the same deep affinity, albeit unfulfilled, that a land-dwelling elf had for starlight. And he could feel the magic, like an eldritch current in the usually thin and lifeless air, when the drow wizard had summoned it. Perhaps this meant he had some small aptitude. Perhaps Liriel would agree to teach him.
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