Windwalker

by Elaine Cunningham

  From this vantage she had a clear view of the entire ship. As she suspected, on the opposite side of the ship several sahuagin climbed quietly over the rail and made directly for the hold.

  Not for these monsters the rough, forgotten weapons of drowned sailors. They were armed with spiked halberds carved from sea ivory, and they wore weapon belts heavy with fine daggers. On every belt hung a net.

  They were hunting, and apparently they wished to take their captive alive.

  Sharlarra’s brow furrowed in consternation. In moments the sahuagin would discover that their quarry was gone. From what she’d heard tell of them, they would kill every man aboard just for sport.

  She glanced down at the sword. “Do you think you could imitate Fyodor’s voice?”

  “Not without talking,” it observed rather snidely.

  Sharlarra let that pass. “Just shout out an occasional battle cry, an encouraging word, a warning—that sort of thing.”

  “It’s better than nothing.”

  “Very gracious of you. Let’s go.”

  As she leaped from the platform the sword let out a terrible roar—a blood-chilling sound that brought to mind the charge of a wounded bear. Two of the monsters—and Caladorn Cassalanter—instinctively turned toward the sound.

  A third sahuagin darted toward the distracted nobleman. Sharlarra pointed the sword toward the new danger, and her rapidly chanted spell was swallowed by the warning shout pouring from the weapon.

  The monster stopped just short of Caladorn, its raised weapon clanging sharply against a miniature wall of force. Sharlarra dispelled the barrier with a quick gesture—just in time to allow the man’s answering strike to pass through.

  She spun to the right, following the impulse flowing from the sword. The blade tangled in the spires of a rusted trident, bringing her much closer to a sahuagin’s fangs that she had ever hoped to be.

  The sahuagin grinned horribly and punched the enjoined weapons toward the elf’s face. Instinctively she ducked, ignoring the sharp pain in her shoulder as her sword arm was forced back. She pulled a knife from her boot with her free hand and thrust up, throwing all her weight into the attack.

  Thick hide resisted the blade longer than Sharlarra would have thought possible. It gave way suddenly, and the hilt slammed into the monster’s belly. The sahuagin shrieked in pain and drew back, leveling the trident for another attack.

  One of the well-equipped sahuagin strode over and shoved the wounded monster aside, planting himself in front of Sharlarra and leaning menacingly toward her. To her surprise, the creature did not strike, and it held one hand high overhead. The monster let out a call, a series of loud, chittering clicks that seemed to resound through every plank on the ship.

  All over the ship, the sahuagin fell away from the fight and stood with weapons at guard. Something had changed in their manner. Even though the fighting had ceased, the monsters suddenly looked more menacing.

  “Where is the drow?” the leader hissed.

  “Do you wish to answer, or shall I?” the sword enquired softly.

  “Tell them we’ll never yield her,” Sharlarra prompted. In Fyodor’s voice, the sword shouted the response.

  “The hell we won’t,” retorted the red-bearded pirate. “I’m captain here, and I say take her and be you gone!”

  The hideous head snapped toward the speaker. “Where are you hiding her?”

  “Hiding her?” the captain said incredulously. “I wouldn’t spit on her if’n she was on fire.”

  “Chivalrous sort,” Sharlarra murmured.

  “Traitor! Coward!” the sword translated loudly.

  “Bilge water,” the captain snapped at “Fyodor.” “Any man what takes up with a black elf has no call to name another man ‘traitor.’ Yield her up, or I’ll kill you myself.”

  A gleaming trident whirled through the air and sank into the deck at the captain’s feet. All eyes traced the weapon’s path back toward the sea.

  Balancing lightly on the rail were a dozen sea elves. A tall green-skinned female, her shapely head shaved to show off her exotic markings, sent a contemptuous glare toward the captain.

  The elves leaped nimbly to the deck and hurled themselves at the equally eager sahuagin. For a long moment the sailors hung back, uncertain. Sharlarra noticed the battle warring on their captain’s face—a conflict as fierce as that between the sea elves and their mortal enemies.

  Finally the captain lifted his curved sword. “It’s our ship, lads! We need no scrawny elves to hold it for us! Heave to!”

  The pirates surged forward, and Sharlarra followed them—or more precisely, followed the sword. The thing had gotten fully into the spirit of battle and was roaring out some Rashemaar battle hymn. She fell into place at the sea elf’s back, and though her sword tangled with a sea devil’s pike, her cold gaze warned the captain to hold his distance. From what Sharlarra had seen, she would not be the least surprised if an elf or two took wounds from something other than a sahuagin’s blades or talons.

  Not today. Where she came from, elves of all kinds stood together.

  Not far away, a male sea elf battled one of the net-wielding sahuagin. The monster employed a spiked flail with which it attempted to herd the elf into position, but though it whirled and cast the net again and again, each time its quarry slipped away, darting and dodging with astonishing grace.

  The sahuagin advanced steadily on its smaller opponent, backing the sea elf toward the rail between two roiling clusters of fighters. The net spun out full, dropping toward the elf like a jellyfish intent upon surrounding its prey. There was no place to go, and the sea devil’s skull-splitting grin celebrated victory.

  A silver blade slashed up, tearing through the net as if it were slicing a ripe pear. The sahuagin’s head tipped slowly back then rolled to the deck. Its smile was still in place.

  Magical knife, observed Sharlarra. This must be the Xzorsh of whom Liriel spoke.

  Her attention was seized by the sword’s eager shout. A four-armed sahuagin rushed toward her, brandishing a shining weapon in each hand.

  Sharlarra cast a hold-person cantrip on the charging sea devil, freezing it in mid stride. She finished the creature off with a quick thrust. Not exactly sporting, but in her opinion, neither was having an extra pair of arms. In any event, she had her hands full with the monster coming hard on Four Arms’ heels.

  For many moments Sharlarra stood and fought the sahuagin, her disguised blade singing merrily as it clashed, clattered, and scraped against the monster’s rusted sword.

  The sea devil worked the singing weapon down low, then lifted a taloned foot and stomped on the blade. The weapon was wrenched from Sharlarra’s hand.

  She dived away from a lunging strike, rolled aside, and came up wielding the first weapon that came to hand, a long, slender lock pick. The sahuagin stood like an ugly black statue, frozen in the act of delivering a wicked backhand slash.

  Xzorsh strode past, toppling the immobilized sea devil with a casual shove. The monster rolled to the deck, still frozen in attack position.

  “My first spell,” the sea elf said proudly. “Liriel taught me this herself. Where is she?”

  He spoke softly, but Sharlarra heard him clearly. She noticed that the battle had died down to a few skirmishes. The ship was nearly empty of both sahuagin and sea elves. Most likely they’d decided that the humans didn’t matter and had taken their battle back to the seas.

  The sea elf’s eyes narrowed. “There is a haze of magic about you, more than the berserker rage could summon. You might look like Fyodor, but you are not he.”

  Sharlarra smiled. “Liriel was right about you—you do seem to have an inherent gift. She asked me to find you a teacher. Maybe we should continue this discussion in private.”

  A delighted smile lit the elf’s face. “Your voice is elven.”

  “So’s the rest of me,” she purred, “but I’m not going to show it to you up here.”

  The sea elf chuckled appreciati
vely and led the way down into the hold of the ship. They went to the cabin shared by the drow and Rashemi and shut the door.

  The elf quickly dispelled the illusion, and stood before Xzorsh in her own form.

  “I’m Sharlarra Vindrith, and I’ve recently left an apprenticeship with Khelben Arunsun, also known as Blackstaff, archmage of Waterdeep. The drow asked me to find you a teacher. In the meanwhile, I’d be happy to pass along some of the things I’ve learned.”

  “A gold elf teaching the Lost Art to one of the Sea People!” he marveled.

  “Not a gold elf,” she corrected him, and shrugged. “I’m … something else, though no one I’ve met can tell me precisely what.”

  He accepted this with a nod. “When can we begin?”

  “As soon as our two friends are safely to their destination, or at least well on their way, I’ll send for you. Can I get word to you through the harbor merfolk?”

  “Yes, of course!”

  “Wait for my word.” The sea-elf looked hesitant, so Sharlarra took Liriel’s little mesh bag of gems from her bag, spilled one into her hand, and handed the rest to the sea elf.

  “I need one jewel in order to follow Liriel. Take the rest as my bond.”

  Xzorsh accepted the bag and watched as Sharlarra summoned a magical gate and stepped through it.

  “Someday,” he said wistfully, “I will be able to do that and more!”

  He watched as the gate began to fade, the iridescent colors sliding along the surface like the captured rainbow of a child’s soap bubble. Like that imagined bubble, it peeled away. A tall, raven-haired female elf stood where the gate had been.

  “Where is he?” the female demanded in a low, rather husky voice.

  “Whom do you seek?” Xzorsh asked.

  “Blackstaff’s apprentice.”

  The sea elf stood silent, considering this new puzzle. The Blackstaff’s apprentice had demonstrated an ability to change form, but Xzorsh had assumed that the apprentice truly was a beautiful elf maid with red-gold hair and violet eyes flecked with gold. In truth, he knew nothing about Sharlarra but the name she had given him. It could have been invented. Even her voice might have been the product of magic. Liriel had told him more than once that he was too trusting.

  Yet the stranger knew of his wish to learn magic, and she had entrusted him with a fortune in gems.

  The elf woman’s gaze followed his to the coin bag, and she snatched it from his hand.

  “He was here,” she confirmed grimly. “A rampaging green dragon leaves a more subtle trail!”

  “Those gems were given me in trust,” Xzorsh said quietly but firmly. “I will not relinquish them to you.”

  The elf looked at him with measuring eyes. “The drow can be traced through these gems. Possession of them might bring trouble.”

  “Let it come. I never thought that the Art would be an easy thing.”

  “So be it.” She tossed the gems at Xzorsh and waved him away from the door. He moved aside, and she wrenched it open.

  A thin line of moonlight streamed down from the open hold. The elf woman splayed her fingers wide and reached out for it. As the light spilled between her fingers, she simultaneously began to shrink in size and rise toward the moonbeam’s source. In a heartbeat she was a glowing mote among the dust swirling through the faint light, then she was gone.

  Xzorsh watched with shining eyes and a heart filled with longing. He gazed at the stream of light long after the elf had disappeared, as if the secret to this marvel might be whispered by the swirling dust motes.

  He dropped his gaze to the little mesh bag in his hands. With a reverent finger he traced the gracefully swirling rune that was the mark of a mage.

  Someday he would have such a mark. Someday he would step through air bubbles into distant seas, and follow moonlight wherever it went.

  Such dreams filled his heart as he quietly climbed the ladder and slipped, unnoticed, into the sea.

  CHAPTER SIX

  A DRAGON’S EYES

  Merdrith the Mad, formerly a zulkir among Thay’s Red Wizards, pensively scratched his beak of a nose and studied the little silk bag he held at arm’s length. Unlike Brindlor, he did not touch the wizard’s sigil embroidered on it.

  Gorlist sent a quick glance toward the deathsinger. The drow lounged elegantly against the opposite wall, his arms and ankles crossed and his expression politely interested. At his side was one of the young warriors who seemed to shadow the handsome male’s every step.

  As a general rule, followers of Vhaerun preferred the company of other males. Brindlor wanted nothing to do with females under any circumstances. That suited Gorlist well enough. Brindlor suited him well enough, too—except, of course, for his subtle but stubborn disapproval of the human wizard in their midst.

  Gorlist had his reasons for including Merdrith in the band. The wizard might appear to be as dry and wizened as a treant, but the flame of his hatred burned bright. Gorlist was not inclined to trust anyone of any race, but in his opinion obsession granted a singularity of purpose and purity of heart. Merdrith’s hatred was one that Gorlist understood well.

  “This is the sigil of Laerel Silverhand,” the wizard announced. “Haven’t seen it for a good fifty years. Not that the past fifty years have been particularly good, mind you.”

  Gorlist considered these remarks in the light of the description that Stalker Lemming had given of the mysterious lady wizard. Humans aged appallingly in fifty years, yet in the dwarflike human’s eyes this Laerel had been young and lovely. He voiced this observation.

  “Laerel Silverhand will be as beautiful as she wants to be when your whelp’s whelps have turned to dust,” the wizard said flatly. “Wizards of great power such as myself find ways to cheat death for a few decades. Laerel has seen centuries come and go. Most likely anyone attempting to follow her path will run into magical traps that could hold a lich prisoner throughout this eternity and the next. You don’t want to meddle with her. Mystra’s mounds, I don’t want to meddle with her!” He tossed the bag to the table, where it landed with the solid chink of many coins.

  “I want that gem,” Gorlist said resolutely. “Find another way.”

  The wizard thought this over, stroking the thin, artificially crimson braid that passed for a beard. “These gems were part of dragon’s hoard, yes? A dragon never forgets treasure. Scry for the treasure through a dragon’s eyes.”

  “Through a dragon’s eyes,” Gorlist repeated, in the manner of one who prompts further response.

  “Precisely. Ask the dragon,” Merdrith said slowly, as if explaining something patently obvious to a rather slow child.

  “The dragon is dead,” Gorlist returned in kind.

  The wizard’s aged face crinkled with impatience. “Your point would be?”

  Brindlor pushed away from the wall. “I believe I see where this is going. We require a necromancer, one who can speak with dead dragons. Come along, Falail, and bring a dozen stout lads with you.”

  The young warrior gave the deathsinger a salute and wheeled off.

  “Congratulations on your promotion to commander,” Gorlist said with cutting sarcasm.

  The deathsinger merely smiled. “I’ll try to be worthy of the honor. Shall we?”

  Gorlist bit back a retort and followed the deathsinger out of the cavern that served as the wizard’s study. His father, the wizard Nisstyre, had never employed a deathsinger and had nothing but scorn for those who did, but Nisstyre, for all his claims about building a new drow kingdom, had been far too timid and furtive. He, Gorlist, would wave Liriel Baenre’s scalp, both literally and metaphorically, and let the enslaved drow males know that no female was sacred, none beyond the reach of their swords or the power of their Masked God. For that, he needed Brindlor.

  There was a limit, however, to what he would accept from Brindlor. The deathsinger had swiftly found comrades among Gorlist’s ranks. As long as he did not attempt to build a more far-reaching power base, all would be well. The mom
ent any drow hinted that his loyalty had shifted, however, would be the last moment of Brindlor’s life.

  A small band of drow awaited them outside the wizard’s lair. Gorlist told them what they needed to know and set off at a brisk pace through the tunnels leading to Pharx’s lair.

  The vast stone chamber was dark and empty, silent but for the steady dripping of water from some antechamber, haunted by the memory of battles fought and lost. The treasure had been claimed, hauled away by Qilué and her cohorts. Not a single coin remained.

  They found Pharx’s body in an adjoining chamber. There wasn’t much left of it. A few dull scales draped well-picked bones, lending the massive corpse the appearance of a skeletal knight moldering in plate armor.

  The drow set to work with swords and axes. After a long and sweaty interval, they wrestled off the skull. It took all thirteen of the warriors to carry the massive skull. With six to a side and one bringing up the rear, they looked like pallbearers on their way to a crypt.

  They struggled down a series of tunnels, each one a bit narrower than the last. As they neared the necromancer’s cave the drow were reduced to pushing the skull along, tipping it this way and that to move it through the tight passage. Bone screeched against rock, setting up a vibration that sent small stones tumbling down the tunnels walls and onto the laboring drow.

  A wild, piercing yell cut through the racket, and a tall elf exploded out of a hidden cave. He spun toward the drow, arms and legs flailing wildly.

  All fourteen drow drew their swords in deadly unison.

  The elf gyrated closer, but Brindlor held up a restraining hand. Gorlist noticed that the “elf” was taller than most humans and covered with a faintly green, scaly hide. His wild eyes were golden and bisected by vertical pupils, like the eyes of a goat.

  Or a dragon.

  “A half-dragon,” murmured Brindlor, as if responding to the warrior’s thoughts. “Crazy as a gasinta bug but gifted in necromantic sorcery. You couldn’t find a better mage for the money.”