Under Fallen Stars

by Mel Odom

  “What now?” he asked.

  The half-elf shook her head. “I don’t know.” She turned and gave the order for her own crew to strike Black Champion’s sails. “I’m not going to get close enough that they can overtake us before we get the wind behind our sails again. All we have over Vurgrom’s ships is speed.”

  Glancing back amidships, the young sailor saw Sabyna and Glawinn standing close together and talking. A pang went through his heart as he thought about how little he and the ship’s mage had seen each other during the trip out from Westgate. He’d spent every morning and every evening practicing swordcraft with Glawinn. The paladin seemed to be made of iron.

  His absence from Sabyna, Jherek knew, was because he took an active part in the care and maintenance of Black Champion. The ship’s mage chose not to do anything other than give aid in summoning the winds that kept them at Maelstrom’s heels. The young sailor hadn’t known how hard the trip was going to be on Sabyna.

  “There he is,” Azla said.

  Jherek spotted the big pirate captain walking across Maelstrom’s deck. Even at this distance, the young sailor could see the glint of gold in Vurgrom’s hand. The pirate captain threw the object out to sea. It twinkled in the air and vanished below the surface. Jherek had no idea what the thing was, but anxiety spread across his shoulders and shot up the back of his neck.

  * * * * *

  It’s time.

  Laaqueel glanced up at Iakhovas, watching as he rubbed the token that gave him command over Tarjana between his fingers.

  Iakhovas walked back to the great galley’s steering section and took the wheel. Under his command, the mudship dived, gliding beneath the heated waters. Even as she felt the too-hot caress of the currents closing over her, Laaqueel was grateful for them, too. They soaked tissues that had gotten too dry from exposure to the heat.

  With Iakhovas at the helm, Tarjana sped to the front of the sahuagin armada. The fliers rested on the bottom of the lake amid the kelp fronds. When they saw the mudship gliding forward, powered by the rowers that Iakhovas had ordered aboard, the fliers lifted from the lake floor and started after it, having no problem matching the slower craft’s speed.

  Laaqueel peered through the murky lake depths, uncertain how Iakhovas had known it was time to start the voyage. She stood beside him, holding onto the nearby railing. Iakhovas guided the craft to within feet of the irregular bottom with more skill than she’d known him to have. As she watched his hands upon the wheel, she noticed that some of the tattooed scars inscribed on his forearms and chest glowed, showing through his clothing.

  “Relax, priestess. No one else can see what you can see. You of all people see me most clearly.”

  They sped toward the base of Arnrock Island. Thinking perhaps a cave somehow existed in the thick column of rock, Laaqueel peered more closely, but only craggy rock remained in view. Even if there had been a cave, she couldn’t imagine it being anything but superheated.

  Still, Iakhovas maintained his course. The rowers aboard Tarjana hesitated. The malenti priestess felt the decrease in speed.

  “They cannot stop,” Iakhovas commanded. “We need the speed if we’re to get through the gate in time for all the others to follow.”

  “I will attend to it,” Laaqueel promised.

  Staying low, she hooked her toe claws into the deck as she made her way down the railing and to the main hold opening into the rowing compartments. She went down the ladder, stepping out of the current.

  One hundred and forty sahuagin manned the oars, and all of them looked up at her expectantly, only going through the motions of rowing instead of pulling with all their strength. Laaqueel glared at the sahuagin on the timing drum sitting on a deck up above the rowers and said, “You’ve slowed the beat.”

  “Most Sacred One,” the sahuagin said, “I’ve been told we’re speeding for the volcano itself.”

  “You’re questioning the will of Sekolah?” Laaqueel’s eyes flashed with anger. Gathering her power around her, she touched the Great Shark symbol she wore between her breasts and prayed quickly. She threw out her hand.

  Bones snapped as a paroxysm seized the drum beater. Within a twenty-foot cube around him, the pressure in the water had suddenly increased to what it would be two thousand feet down. Without having a chance to acclimate, the sahuagin’s air bladder exploded in his chest, followed quickly by the other soft tissue areas including the eyes and inner organs. The drum he’d been beating also caved in. Blood pooled up and spread out above the crumpled sahuagin. His corpse floated away from the deck and rose to the ceiling above the rowers.

  Priestess, Iakhovas said into her mind.

  “Row!” Laaqueel ordered. She struck the side of the ship with her trident’s hilt, creating a bonging noise. She repeated the effort, setting the cadence for the rowers. “Fear is not for We Who Eat! Succeed or fail! Live or die! Row!”

  The sea devils bent to the oars, pulling them lustily, and Laaqueel felt the difference at once. She pointed at another of the sahuagin in the hold who’d been responsible for spelling those rowers who needed it. “You are the new beater. By Sekolah’s unkind smile, don’t make me find another to replace you.”

  “No, Most Sacred One. We shall row for the Great Shark, and for you. We shall not fail.” The man took up his trident and started beating it against the wall, keeping up the rapid cadence the malenti priestess had started.

  Satisfied, Laaqueel climbed the steps back to the main deck.

  “Now, priestess,” Iakhovas said. “Now it begins!”

  She looked forward and saw the trunk of Arnrock Island filling the view before the prow. They were too close now, going too fast to avoid cracking up on the rocks and coral. Only a small twinge of fear twisted through Laaqueel’s stomach, but she quickly put her doubt away. The quest they were on was real. Even Sekolah the Uncaring would want his chosen children free as he’d first freed them so long ago.

  “There, Laaqueel! Do you see it?” Iakhovas stood at the wheel, the tattoos all over his body lighted by lambent green fires.

  A shimmering took place in front of Tarjana just as her prow reached out for the rock. A portal opened in the rock, tall enough and wide enough for the fliers that trailed after them.

  “Hold on!” Iakhovas warned. “With all your might, hold on or you’ll be forever lost and even I won’t be able to protect you!”

  Still gaining speed, Tarjana flew into the portal.

  * * * * *

  “They’ve raised their sails again,” Jherek said as he watched the crews aboard Maelstrom and the other pirate vessels work their rigging with all due speed.

  The sailcloth spread along the yardarms, then belled out, greedily catching the wind. Azla gave the order for her own crew to run the sails up. Rigging whined and creaked overhead as they hurried to follow her orders.

  “They’re doing something else, too,” she said. “Can you make out what it is?”

  Jherek strained to see through the spyglass, riding out the rise and fall of Black Champion’s deck. He spotted the coarse leather tarps the crew was spreading out across the decks.

  “Tarps?” Azla repeated, pushing herself to the railing and hanging onto the rigging above. “What in the Nine Hells would they do that for?”

  “Look!” Sabyna called from below. She pointed. “Something’s happening to the volcano.”

  Jherek turned his attention to the smoldering tower of rock behind Maelstrom. Thicker and darker smoke, filled with fiery debris that could be seen even at the distance they were at, belched from the Ship of the Gods.

  “It’s going to blow,” Azla stated quietly, and Jherek didn’t doubt that for a moment.

  * * * * *

  T’Kalah, royal guard of King Kromes who ruled Aleaxtis, the kingdom of We Who Eat beneath the Alamber Sea, stalked his quarry with a patience born of relish for the kill.

  He stood just over nine feet in height and was built broad and strong, a warrior who was feared by his own people as well
as the surface dwellers. His scales held a deep emerald green so dark it was almost black. Legend said that was once the color of all sahuagin before they’d been trapped in the Alamber Sea and put in such close proximity to the sea elves of Serôs. Those same sea elves were reputed to have been different colors in ages past, but they had passed on their skin changes through the malenti and their proximity to the warriors of Aleaxtis.

  Despite his size, T’Kalah slid quietly through the kelp lining the ledges where he’d spotted the sea elf only moments before. He’d been quietly occupying a cave in the area that overlooked Vahaxtyl, the sahuagin capital of Aleaxtis, dreaming of the day when he would be king.

  Of course, that wasn’t going to happen unless opportunity manifested itself. Still, it was a good ambition, and one that he’d pursued. After all, he’d waited and watched, made blood challenges as they became possible, and killed his way into a position as captain of the royal guard of King Kromes.

  Success or failure had been the driving force in his life, the thing that had driven him to live in the hatcheries when so many of his brothers and sisters had been out to eat him. Yet sitting in the cave, thinking of that day, had ignited the black rage that often consumed him because he didn’t think of patience as a virtue.

  The amputated stub of his lower left arm served to remind him that patience was sometimes best given some degree of heed. But then, he still had three more arms. He’d been marked from birth as a four-arm to follow stronger currents than most of his people could fin. Since losing the arm, he’d worked to make the other three even stronger.

  Thank Sekolah’s uncaring grace that the sea elf had wandered into the area to provide him some distraction. T’Kalah undulated through the water, gliding through the kelp. From the changes in pressure along his lateral lines, he knew exactly where the sea elf was. The sahuagin royal guard closed the distance, knowing from the lack of movement that the elf had come to a stop. Whether because he’d seen T’Kalah or just wanted to observe the city wasn’t clear.

  T’Kalah parted the kelp with two of his hands while holding a trident in his third. He spotted the sea elf ahead of him, hunkered down behind a ridge of rock and sparse growths of gold-and-brown striped tiger coral. He was blue all over, with only a few white patches. T’Kalah guessed that the elf was there trying for one of the shipwrecks in the area that had been left by his people.

  The sea elves often tried to raid the shipwrecks in the area controlled by We Who Eat. King Kromes had even taken to seeking out magic items himself, identified by the priestesses, and hoarded them as further temptation to the sea elves and surface dwellers alike. T’Kalah knew for certain that the number of magic items stored at the palace was considerable.

  Spreading his fingers and toes so the webbing would better catch the water, T’Kalah swam for the sea elf.

  Something must have given away his approach because the elf tried to turn and bring up a bone knife. “Black Claws!” the elf said, calling the big warrior by the name the surface world knew him by.

  T’Kalah showed the elf no mercy, placing the trident before him and shoving it into the sea elf’s chest. It was a quicker death than T’Kalah had intended. He would have preferred to make the elf beg for a time, taste the salt of his tears mixed in with the ocean before he’d ever tasted his victim’s blood. Still, he held the elf at the end of the trident and shook him viciously until his death was apparent.

  Climbing to the top of the rocks overlooking Vahaxtyl, T’Kalah shoved the end of the trident into a crack so that it supported the elf’s corpse. He sat on a rock beside the dead man, popped his claws, and cut chunks from his unexpected feast.

  T’Kalah shoved the gobbets of flesh into his mouth and swallowed them nearly whole. The blood scent in the water would draw other predators soon. Though the sharks knew better than to bother him, it was the little fish with all their darting around that annoyed him most. No matter how quickly he tried to eat a meal, they were always there scrounging for whatever they could get. He ate the soft parts first, knowing the little fish would go for those first as well.

  His lateral lines picked up the changes in pressure even though he didn’t immediately recognize what it was. He did know it came from the direction of Vahaxtyl.

  The city was built on a shelf of rock it shared with the volcano the surface dwellers called the Ship of the Gods. His people called it Cliitaan, Cursed Fire. Besides the changes in pressure, his delicate olfactory senses also picked up the stench of sulfur. Scents spread quickly in the water much as sound did. As he watched, a red glow seemed to center midway up the Ship of the Gods. It grew rapidly, turning redder.

  T’Kalah watched, mesmerized, wondering if Sekolah had started a new current—one that would change his life.

  * * * * *

  Laaqueel lost her footing when Tarjana’s prow slammed into the left side of the opening at the bottom of the Lake of Steam. Though the ship itself wasn’t hurt by the collision, she was lifted from the deck and tossed into the current that hurled her toward the stern.

  All around her, filling the tunnel the mudship plunged through, molten lava glowed orange-yellow. The heat crisped fish that had been unlucky enough to be sucked in after them. Her senses were moving so quickly that even while she was turning in the vicious current herself she could see the flesh peeling back from the fish while they still lived, baring the skeletons beneath.

  Just as she thought she was lost forever and about to share a similar fate as the fish, a strong grip wrapped around her left ankle.

  “I’ve got you, my priestess.” Straining, the effort pulling horribly on Laaqueel’s ligaments and muscles, Iakhovas drew her beside him. He kept her curled protectively in his arms when he returned her to the deck. “Are you well?”

  Overly aware of Iakhovas’s body next to hers and its effects on hers, Laaqueel said, “Yes. Thank you.” She didn’t try to push away from him, letting him shelter her in his embrace.

  Iakhovas remained standing, facing the wild current and staring into the heart of the liquid fire tunnel they followed. “We’re traveling through the lines of volcanic fault. It was the fastest and truest way to gate into Serôs. When we reach the end of this tunnel, we’ll be in the Alamber Sea.”

  Glancing over his shoulder, Laaqueel saw the line of fliers speeding after them. The sahuagin aboard them were shielding their eyes from the bright magma swirling around them.

  “Will this gate remain open long enough for all of them to get through?” she asked. She’d never before heard of the mode of travel they were using now.

  “Probably.”

  Laaqueel thought of what it would be like to be suddenly boiled alive when the lava closed in.

  ‘If that should happen,” Iakhovas told her, “be assured that it will be over before they know it. There are some risks that we must take, and some losses that we must endure.”

  “To become stronger,” Laaqueel said, “as Sekolah has so designed.”

  “Yes.”

  Looking ahead again, Laaqueel kept herself strong in her faith, not thinking about the potential for failure, but for the promise of success. At the other end of the tunnel, made bright by the whirling lava walls, she saw the dead end. A roiling mass of lava and hard rock blocked the way.

  “Isn’t it supposed to be open?” she asked.

  “Yes.” Iakhovas’s tattoos glowed deeper green, looking like they were burning into his flesh. “It will be.”

  Tarjana bore down on the blockage and Iakhovas kept his hand steady on the wheel. Laaqueel felt the rush of heat when the ship collided with the end of the gate.

  XXVI

  1 Flamerule, the Year of the Gauntlet

  Pacys the Bard sat in the small sea elf tavern down in the heart of Telvanlu and almost felt at home. The sea elves, he’d found, were a quieter lot than he was used to, but as it turned out they appreciated his music.

  The bar was like a lot he’d played in on the surface world and the crowd wasn’t that much different,
but none of the sounds were the same. Voices echoed through the water much more easily so the listeners had to be more polite, and there was no shuffling sound of feet across a sawdust-covered floor. After having been in the water for so long he was getting accustomed to feeling the currents change around him, and how someone passing nearby could affect them.

  He sat, at the owner’s invitation, at the end of the bar. The bartender passed out drinks packaged in fish bladders treated so they were clear enough to see the contents. A patron drank from the bladder by squeezing the bottom and opening the seal at the top. It had taken some getting used to when he’d first arrived in Faenasuor, but now the bard drank quite easily. Learning not to lick his lips afterward still took concentration, though.

  Telvanlu was the capital of Naramyr, the sea elven lands in the Lake of Dragons in Serôs, and was located two hundred feet down and forty miles southwest of Suzail. The city was moderately sized as elven dwellings went, but the architecture was definitely inspired by the sea.

  Clamshell-like buildings hugged the silt, deliberately low to avoid the shipping that took place constantly between the coastal cities overhead. The architecture hadn’t been all that agreeable to the elves. Some of them wanted taller buildings so they wouldn’t have to be spread out. Many of them didn’t like the fact that they had to live more or less two-dimensionally as the surface dwellers did. The trade with the surface dwellers was good, so though a lot of complaining was done, none of the buildings went any taller.

  One of the things that surprised Pacys most had been the laws regarding weapons and armor. None were allowed in the elven city, and it was strictly enforced. Aravae Daudil, Coronal of Telvanlu, made sure her guards carried out her orders to the letter.

  Pacys tapped the crystals of the saceddar, picking out the notes for “Lady Who Shed Golden Tears,” an old elven song about the flight from Cormanthyr after the fall of Myth Drannor. Despite whatever cultural differences now separated the surface elves from their aquatic cousins, the song found favorable response among the listeners by tying into their common history.