by Mel Odom
Despite Aysel’s claim to the tavern crowd at the beginning of the fight, Jherek’s courage and skill in the face of greater numbers arrayed against him won over the watchers. They howled at him, supporting him, demanding Aysel’s blood.
Jherek didn’t intend to kill the man if he could help it. Aysel’s lack of manners didn’t mean he should be killed. Senses alert, and the combat skills Malorrie had drilled into him functioning at their peak with the adrenaline rushing through his body, Jherek swept the cutlass forward too fast for Aysel to dodge. At the last minute, he turned the sword so the flat of the blade thumped solidly into the big man’s jawline.
Stunned, Aysel stumbled back, working hard to keep the battle-axe up.
Before Jherek could take advantage of his success, a chair crashed into him, breaking across his back and shoulders. The young sailor went down to his knees, doubling over on his fiery ribs. He tried to catch his breath and couldn’t as he turned to face Aysel’s cohort.
The sailor tossed the shattered remains of the chair away, then stepped in and kicked Jherek in the face.
The man’s foot caught Jherek on the chin, snapping his head back. The young sailor didn’t try to fight the force, working to roll with it as much as possible. He gripped the cutlass, stubbornly hanging onto it. The man came at Jherek again, stamping his feet down at him viciously, snarling curses.
Avoiding the kicks when he could, blocking them with his arms when he couldn’t, Jherek rolled across the sawdust covered floor under a table. The man reached for the table and ripped it away, spilling tankards and platters over the side.
Jherek tasted blood in his mouth, realizing his lips had been split by the kick to his chin. He surged up with the overturned table, setting himself. His opponent hadn’t expected him to attack and was caught unprepared. Jherek swung the cutlass, thudding the sword’s heavy-cast knuckle bow into the man’s forehead. The shock of the impact shuddered all along Jherek’s arm.
The sailor’s eyes glazed and his knees buckled. He let out a long breath and crumpled to the floor, unconscious.
Spotting the movement of the tavern crowd shifting around him, Jherek turned as Aysel came toward him. Growling in rage, the big sailor swept the battle-axe at Jherek.
The young sailor lifted the cutlass to his defense, managing to catch the broad axe on his blade for an instant before it slid off. The axe’s keen edge razored across his left arm, slicing his bicep open and sending fresh blood cascading down his arm. It went partially numb at once, and a burning fear raced through him that the axe blow had permanently damaged his arm.
Aysel’s power and weight knocked him from his feet. Unable to use his wounded arm well, Jherek fell awkwardly, slamming down on his back across the remnants of a chair. Aysel gave him no respite, closing his hands together at the end of the battle-axe and swinging hard.
Forcing his wounded arm to work, Jherek grabbed the cutlass’s broad blade and blocked the descending axe. The impact felt like it tore his shoulders free, and he couldn’t hold the axe back. Instead, he turned it aside. The move also cost him the cutlass, tearing it from his hands. Desperate, every move agony, Jherek kicked the big man in the crotch as he tried to pull the axe back. Aysel screamed in pain.
Pressing his slight advantage for all it was worth, Jherek slipped his fishing knife from his boot. He twisted, holding the knife tightly, then plunged it through Aysel’s foot. Sharp and driven forcefully, the keen knife cut through the boot leather and slipped between the bones of the big man’s foot. It thudded home solidly in the hardwood floor.
“Umberlee take you for your dark cowardice, you little bastard!” Aysel shouted. He pulled at his axe, bringing it up.
Ignoring the burning pain that filled his body and the salty taste of blood filling his mouth, Jherek forced himself to his feet. He stepped into Aysel, seizing the man’s left arm in a hold Malorrie had taught him. Moving in close to the bigger man, holding the arm in a controlling position, Jherek pulled with his upper body and twisted at the same time.
Aysel left the floor, his foot tearing free of the floor with the knife still in it.
Jherek brought the big sailor down hard on the floor. Aysel reached for him, but Jherek slid away. As the big man hobbled to a standing position, grabbing dazedly at the knife impaling his foot, Jherek grabbed a broken chair leg from the floor and swung it from his shoulder.
The chair leg crashed into Aysel’s temple with a dulled smack, turning his head.
Incredibly, the man remained standing for a moment.
Jherek watched uncertainly, fighting to sip his breath past the broken feeling in his ribs. If Aysel continued fighting, he wasn’t sure he had anything left. Still, he kept his grip on the chair leg, then Aysel fell, pitching face forward onto the floor. Sawdust gusted up when he hit.
Kneeling with difficulty, Jherek felt the man’s neck, relieved when he found a pulse. He’d never killed a man in anger before, and after the close call today, he knew he never would. Challenging Aysel’s affront to Sabyna’s honor had been a natural thing for him, something he knew he’d never be able to walk away from, but next time, he promised himself, he’d have a clearer head.
Hurting all over, his breath coming in short, painful gasps, Jherek stood. He surveyed the tavern, surprised at the destruction that had been wrought. Aysel’s companions were unconscious as well, laying tumbled in the wreckage.
“Now, by Tyr,” a grizzled old man at the front of the tavern crowd shouted, “that was a damn fight!”
Several of the other tavern goers loudly agreed. They came around Jherek and pounded him on the back.
Jherek’s knees buckled from the impact and he almost went down. The man caught him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and laughing at how expended the young sailor was.
“Gave ’em all you had, didn’t you, boy?” the old man asked.
“Aye,” Jherek croaked, “maybe more.” His vision still swam and his injured eye had swollen totally closed. Despite the pain that filled him, he felt proud. His cause had been just, and he’d won. At the same time, he realized how prideful and arrogant that thought was. He didn’t think Malorrie would have approved. Madame Iitaar would have given him one of those reproachful looks that Jherek had always felt could have peeled paint.
The old man took part of Jherek’s weight and hauled him to the bar. “A man willing to fight like that against such odds, I’ll stand him to a drink. Even if I have hold him up at the bar!” The rough men around them broke into laughter.
The bartender thumped a tankard of ale in front of Jherek, then pointed at the serving wenches. “Go through their pockets,” he told them, “and take enough gold to pay for the damages.” He looked at Jherek. “House rules: loser always pays the damages … one way or another.”
Jherek struggled to cling to his senses, but he didn’t reach for the ale. Still, it felt good to be standing among the rough crowd, momentarily accepted as one of their own. He felt guilty too. The fight wasn’t something to be proud of.
“Drink up, boy,” the old man said, slapping Jherek on the back. “It’ll wash the blood out of your mouth and prevent infection. Hell, you drink enough, you won’t even feel the pain.”
The crowd laughed, yelling enthusiastically.
Jherek shook his head politely, then regretted it instantly when a new wave of pain fired through his skull. It felt like pieces of it were missing. “Don’t drink,” he said.
“What?” the old man asked.
“I said I don’t drink,” Jherek replied.
The old man passed the knowledge on to his comrades flocked together at the bar. “A fighting man always drinks,” the man said, turning back to Jherek.
“Can’t,” Jherek said, thinking quickly, not wanting to offend his newfound friends. “It’s my belief.”
The old man drew back in wry surprise. “Now there’s a piss-poor god for you—one that doesn’t allow a man an honest drink now and again.” He suddenly slammed his sword arm across his
chest in benediction. “May Tyr protect a warrior who speaks his own mind so carelessly.”
“No offense taken,” Jherek said.
“What will you drink?” the man asked.
“Water, please.”
Hrumphing in displeasure, the bartender said, “I’ve got some I keep around here for cutting drinks I sell to the young Amnian fops who come around wanting to talk it up later that they’ve been to this place.” He rummaged under the counter and brought up a bottle. “Here it is.” He poured a quick tankard and sat it before Jherek.
“Thank you.” Jherek took up the tankard and drank, tasting the coppery salt of the blood in his mouth. His wounded arm throbbed dully. Glancing at it, he pulled the sliced cloth away.
“You’re going to need a few gathers in that one, boy,” the old man said. “I know a cleric who does such work out of his temple. He’ll expect a few silver pieces to be donated to his god in return, and a couple gold if you want him to bless it.”
Jherek nodded and sipped his water again. Nausea swamped his stomach and he fought to keep its contents in place. He’d never felt that way when he’d fought the sahuagin, nor when he’d fought pirates out on the open seas, but Aysel wasn’t as bluntly evil in his ways as they’d been. The big sailor had only been a man with an undisciplined tongue and low manner.
Standing there, swaying slightly, Jherek knew the fight could have easily ended with any one of them dead, and it would have been his fault.
Malorrie had always taught him never to strike in anger, and to fight only when fighting would save a life.
Jherek knew he could have walked out of the tavern, but he’d chosen not to. At the same time, though, he knew he couldn’t allow Sabyna’s honor to be bandied about so lightly. It would have offended him to stand there and let the comments be aired.
“Get out of my way!”
Recognizing the voice at once, Jherek turned and watched as Captain Tynnel strode through the tavern’s double doors. He watched Tynnel survey the makeshift battlefield and felt even more uncomfortable about what he’d done. The serving wenches ceased looting the pockets of the unconscious men and backed hurriedly away, hiding the coins they’d taken in the pockets of their skirts.
“Who did this?” the captain roared. His fist knotted around the sword he wore. His gaze challenged every man in the tavern. A dozen Breezerunner crewmen stood behind him. All of them looked ready to fight.
The tavern crowd separated, revealing Jherek. The young sailor stepped forward on trembling legs. “I did,” he answered.
XXVIII
8 Tarsakh, the Year of the Gauntlet
“The story was given to my people generations ago,” Narros said, “at the same time we were given custody of the headband that was to be kept under our protection.”
“Headband? From whom?” Pacys asked. He sat on a pile of moss on the floor across from a low table made of gathered stones in the middle of the small underwater cave out in Waterdeep Harbor that the merman shaman made his home.
The cave was ten feet tall and only slightly wider than that. Mosaics of shells, stones, and bits of colored glass gleaned from trading with the merchants in Waterdeep and crafted into pictures of mermen fishing the depths occupied prominent places on the walls. Out of deference to the bard’s weaker surface vision, a small glow lamp gleamed on the table.
Pacys was able to survive underwater due to the emerald bracelet he wore. The merman shaman had given it to him at the dock. The magical powers of the bracelet let him breathe the water as air, turned away most of the cold, and removed the pressure from the depths. If it hadn’t been for the flotsam and jetsam that occasionally floated through his view and the inquisitive fish that came up to him, the bard would have noticed the difference between the submerged cave and the surface world even less.
“Our stories say that the first of our group was given the prophecy and the headband by Eadro the Deliverer, Lord of the Sunlit Shadows.”
The bard easily recognized the name of the mermen god. Eadro was also worshiped by the locathah, though the means of worshiping the god differed wildly among the races as well as the regions.
“There was a time,” Narros went on in his deep voice, “generations and generations ago, when a great evil was inadvertently loosed upon the world.”
Unconsciously, Pacys’s hands strayed to his yarting. The magic of the bracelet, he’d discovered, had extended to his clothing and his instrument. Delicately, his fingers plucked at the strings, sorting out the rhythm that came into his mind as the merman spoke. “What was the nature of this great evil?”
Narros shook his head and his beard and hair floated through the currents that swept around him. The motion was disconcerting to Pacys even though he’d experienced the deep before.
All of the adult merfolk were engaged in helping with the salvaging efforts going on in Waterdeep Harbor and beyond. On their way down from the docks Narros had encountered half a dozen or more of his kin and sent each one away in turn with different orders. Some were asked to help with salvage, others to patrol for the many stray sharks still trapped in the harbor and feasting on Waterdeep’s dead. One, an impressive merman warrior named Thraxos, had come to Narros to tell the shaman he’d received his orders and was ready to go.
“Be off with you then, Thrax,” Narros had said, respect evident in his tone and expression. “It’s a long swim, my friend, and I fear we’ll never see each other again.”
Thraxos had only nodded and turned, swimming away. It seemed that the City of Splendors was still sacrificing her finest in the war that had come upon them so suddenly.
Quick movement darted at one of the doors carved into this part of Waterdeep Isle. Narros had two small children in the house with him that he’d chased to rooms in the back of the dwelling. One of them was a little girl, scarcely longer than three feet from the top of her head to the bottom of her fins. The other was a boy old enough to wear an adult’s knife strapped to his upper arm.
“I’m sorry for the interruption,” Narros said. “Alyyx has her mother’s curiosity.”
“It’s quite all right,” Pacys said and gave the merchild a smile. “I’ve always loved children. I don’t mind them being here.”
“Well enough.” Narros spoke in his own tongue, then slapped his powerful tail fin gently on the floor.
The little merchild arced through the water, fast as a dolphin. In the blink of an eye she twisted and managed to come to a thumping rest tucked safely inside her father’s arms. Contented, she thrust a thumb into her mouth and watched Pacys with wild-eyed innocence.
“I apologize,” Narros said. “She’s never seen a human this close before.”
“Don’t apologize,” Pacys replied. “I’ve made most of my living by my own curiosity, or teasing it out of others.”
The young merboy entered the room more cautiously, maintaining his distance from the bard.
Pacys continued plucking the yarting, listening to the refrain that had popped into his head. The melody fit so completely with the part of the song he’d figured out regarding Waterdeep he knew that he was on the right path. The confirmation excited him, making him forget some of the aches and pains he suffered from over his last few days of hard labor.
Narros picked up the thread of his tale effortlessly, a born storyteller himself. “The evil is a creature,” he said, “the like of which has never been seen. Our legends have it that once he swam with gods in the world of the seas, though not a god himself. Once, he was a predator, with not much more in his life than his nature. At that time he swam with Sekolah.”
“The sahuagin shark god?” Pacys asked.
“Yes. Our tales hold it that this creature was one of the first in the waters of this world. Mermen had not filled the seas, nor had Sekolah shaken the sahuagin from their shell as yet. This abomination curried the favor of the gods, lusting after more power for himself. It’s said that Umberlee herself evidenced an interest in him for a time, then took him as a consort.
”
“Of all the tales I’ve learned in my life,” Pacys said, “I’ve never heard any about this.”
“Listen to the stories of the sea people again,” Narros said. “Sometimes he’s referred to as a being or force called the Taker. In others he’s confused with the Trickster. I believe Umberlee removed herself from the tales, though a sorceress is sometimes referred to in her stead. He fell out of favor with her hundreds of generations ago, and she sentenced him to death. Her rage was so great that she moved oceans in her effort to kill him, only he didn’t die. He’s been lying dormant, like anemones that are caught in a tidal pool that evaporates, waiting to be revived. Now he lives again.”
Pacys continued listening, his mind whirling with the possibilities. More than anything he remained cognizant of the music he strummed on the yarting. The tune was cold and distant, threatening, and when played properly he knew it would be commanding in the piece he was writing. The sheer force of the tune left goosebumps pebbling his flesh. It belonged to the evil that had attacked Waterdeep, stronger even than the notes he’d picked out for the sahuagin.
“As Umberlee’s pet,” Narros said, “he gained an image of himself as increasingly powerful, as he was. The Bitch Goddess saw to that. She gave him powers, trained him in sorcery, and gave him magical instruments that he used to build an empire in what your people call the Shining Sea. He’s not yet what he was, but our prophecies say he will be again.”
As Pacys continued playing involuntarily, an image of a vast labyrinth rising above the sea floor appeared in his mind’s eye. It wasn’t the first time that such a thing had happened. He’d experienced other clairvoyant times when the music surged strongly in him. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to fix the structure more clearly.
“Alabaster walls, blued by depths and age,
Hugged to the sea floor with Umberlee’s blessing,