When Liriel awoke, the fat crescent moon was high in the sky, bathing the forest with its silver light. She stirred, winced, and pressed her fingers to her throbbing temples. Within her head raged the violent cacophony of spell-sickness. Long moments passed before the confused girl realized that some of the noise—perhaps most of it—came from without.
The drow lowered her hands from her head and gazed with horror at the scene before her. In the grip of a horrendous battle frenzy, Fyodor fought against opponents that he alone could see. The Rashemi had not gone unscathed, though: his clothes and skin had been torn repeatedly by branches and brambles as he raged through the woods, lunging and slashing again and again.
How long this had gone on Liriel could not know, but her keen eyes caught the bubble of pink-tinged froth that collected in the corner of his faint, unnerving smile. She knew only that she had failed and that Fyodor would die if she could not find a way to stop him.
Instinctively she flung out a hand. To her surprise and relief, drow magic flowed from her fingertips and sent thick streams of spider silk hurtling into the young man’s wild path. The sticky strands exploded outward, forming a giant web that stretched from the trunk of Yggsdrasil’s Child to a sister oak some twenty feet away.
The amok warrior tore through the web without missing a step.
Now that she knew her Underdark magic was still with her, Liriel reached for a more potent tool. Up came her tiny crossbow. She fired a dart into Fyodor’s thigh. He ignored it and parried some nonexistent sword thrust. Again she fired, and again, until her quiver at last was empty. The young warrior bristled with darts and resembled nothing so much as a tall and angry hedgehog.
Yet Fyodor did not fall. He continued to fight shadows—or more likely, Liriel realized with sudden bright certainty, he continued to do battle with all the ghosts who haunted his dreams. And the phantom warriors would kill him, as surely as he had killed them.
Shaking with frustration and fear, the drow leaped into Fyodor’s wild path and shrieked at him to stop. To her astonishment, he did just that. The frenzy fell from him like a cloak, and the heavy black sword dropped to the ground as his magically enhanced form shrank abruptly down to its natural size. Fyodor swayed and fell at last into an exhausted—and poisoned—slumber.
Liriel fell to her knees beside him and began to tear out the darts. He’d already taken enough drow sleeping poison to kill a bugbear; she only hoped the berserker rage had absorbed much of it. To her relief, he continued to breathe—shallow, but steady.
She watched over her friend throughout the remainder of the night and long into the next day, dosing him repeatedly with antidote until her precious flask was empty. The forest was heavy with twilight shadows when Fyodor finally awoke.
Nearly giddy with joy and relief, Liriel spilled out the story of what had happened—to her, and to him, and how he had stopped only after she’d given up rational hope.
“But I’ve no idea what any of it means,” she concluded.
“I do,” Fyodor said softly. “Such things have been done before, but not in my lifetime or yours.”
Liriel waited for him to continue, but his eyes were distant, fixed upon the old tales and legends that were so much a part of him.
“In ancient times,” he began, “there were warriors who gave pledged service as berserker knights, becoming personal champion to a powerful wychlaran. When this magic was granted, it was taken as a sign that the Witch was destined for a great task. You did not fail, little raven,” he said earnestly. “The control of my battle frenzies has indeed been gained—but it is in your hands.”
Liriel gazed at him in utter horror. “But I don’t want it! I never wanted that!”
“You sought power,” he reminded her. “Now that it is yours, you may not always be able to choose how and when to wield it. I think,” he concluded thoughtfully, “that this is ever the way of power.”
The drow brushed aside these philosophical musings. “But where is my choice in all of this?”
“Where was Wedigar’s?” Fyodor countered. “Remember how he was after you freed him from the nereid’s charm? He wished to atone for his acts at once, but when convinced this would not best serve his people, Wedigar gave up his warrior-bred sense of honor for the greater good. You, too, seem to be destined to lead,” he told her. “You will have to learn to consider things beyond your own desires.”
Liriel was in no mood for all this talk of nobility and service. All she’d wanted was her innate drow powers back. She did not seek to rule, or to lead, or to do any of these troublesome things, and she did not see why such might be required of her. Nothing in her training had prepared her for this, and she said so.
“Do you wish to leave Ruathym?” he asked her. “Do you wish to be free of me and this burden you did not seek?”
As she considered this, Liriel discovered she did not. “It seems we have both found a place here, and together. When I tried to cast the rune that first time, I got the feeling we have some sort of entwined destiny.” She shrugged. “Don’t ask me to explain that.”
“There is no need,” Fyodor responded. “I have sensed that myself, almost from the beginning. Whatever your fate, I accept it, and my part in it.”
He spoke these words with an awe that exasperated the drow. She had struggled so hard to accept Fyodor first as a friend, and now as a lover. After all she had endured, she did not want to lose him to her own success!
“Let’s get back to the village,” she said abruptly.
“At first light,” he agreed.
Liriel’s heart quickened, but it rapidly became clear Fyodor was concerned only with ensuring them a safe journey. The brief, shining oneness they had shared was gone. She had never thought respect could be a barrier, but she felt the force of Fyodor’s new regard for her forcing distance between them. To him, she was no longer just Liriel, but wychlaran. Not a female to be cherished, but a power to be revered.
In utter frustration, she turned away. She curled up into a tight ball and wrapped herself in her piwafwi, taking little comfort in the renewed sheen of the magical drow cloak. At least, she thought as she drifted toward slumber, Fyodor would no longer be tormented by his dreams. Those ghosts had been exorcised by the power of the rune she’d cast for them both.
But that small freedom seemed pale indeed, when the drow contemplated the servitude to which she had unwittingly condemned her friend. She did not know why this did not bother the freedom-loving Rashemi more than it did. She strongly suspected, however, that a time would come when it would.
CHAPTER TWENTY
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 h
is 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 Ygraine,” 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 if Vestress 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 of my 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 proved 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 all over 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 Dagmar’s 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 of Yggsdrasil’s Child.
Liriel noticed, also, that after the initial awkwardness of their greeting, Fyodor seemed glad of Dagmar’s 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 p
ower 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 forget!”
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 all of Hastor, the Raven is a warrior worthy of honor. Accept her words as you would mine!”
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