With a sigh, Darthoridan rose and began the descent down the cliff to the water's edge. He had little doubt as to what he would find. From time to time, the torn body of a Sea elf washed up on the northern shore, a grim testament to the wars that raged beneath the waves. It would not be the first time he had given the mortal body of a sea-brother to the cleansing flames, and sung the prayers that sped the soul to Arvandor. At moments like this, he found that he did not regret his hours of training with sword and spear.
As he suspected, yet another victim of the Coral Kingdom lay in shallow waters, rocked gently by the waves. Darthoridan waded out and lifted the dead elf in his arms, bearing her with honor to her place of final rest. As he stacked the stones and gathered driftwood for the bier, he tried not to dwell upon the Sea elf's garish wounds, long since bled white and washed clean by the seas, or on how young the little warrior had been when she died.
"If the battle is not over before the children must fight, then it is already lost," Darthoridan whispered, quoting his warrior mother. And as he worked, as he watched the flames leap up to greet the setting sun, he prayed that this young warrior's fate would not be shared by his youngest brothers and sisters, or by the children he himself hoped to sire. Yet if calm did not come to the seas, how long could they avoid a similar fate?
When at last the fire burned low, Darthoridan turned away and began to walk along the shore, hoping that the soothing rhythm of the waves would calm his troubled heart. The receding tide left the shore strewn with the sea's debris: broken shells, bits and pieces of ships lost at sea, long rubbery strands of kelp. Here and there small creatures scuttled for the sea, or busily tucked themselves in for the night in the tidal pools that dotted the shore.
As Darthoridan skirted one of these pools, he noted the odd shape of a piece of mossy driftwood that thrust up from the water. It was shaped rather like an enormous, hideous nose, right down to the flaring nostrils. He looked closer, squinting into the tangle of seaweed that floated on the surface of the pool.
A silent alarm sounded in his mind, and his hand went to the hilt of Sea-Riven. But before he could draw the sword, the tidal pool exploded with a salt-laden spray and a roar like that of an enraged sea lion bull.
From the waters leaped a scrag. Darthoridan stared in horrified awe as the creature rose to its full height. Nearly ten feet tall, the sea troll was armored by thick, gray-and-green mottled hide as well as an odd chain mail vest fashioned of shells. The strange armor clanked ominously as the scrag lifted its massive hands for the attack.
Darthoridan instinctively leaped back. Tall though he was, his arm and sword combined could never match the scag's reach. The creature's knuckles nearly dragged the ground, and though it held no weapons, its talons were formidable. If the scrag got hold of him, it would shred him as it had no doubt slain the Sea elf girl.
The elf raised Sea-Riven into a defensive position and waited for the first attack. Darting forward, the scrag took a mighty, openhanded swipe at the elf. Darthoridan ducked under the blow, spinning away from the troll. He lifted the sword high overhead and brought it down hard on the troll's spindly, still-outstretched arm. The elven blade bit hard and deep, and the severed forearm fell to lie twitching on the sand.
Darthoridan dashed the spray of ichor from his face and lifted Sea-Riven again. Just in time-the scrag came on in a frenzy, its massive jaws clicking as it gibbered with pain and rage. Its one remaining hand lunged for the elf's throat. Darthoridan managed to slap the creature's hand out wide, then he dived between the scrag's legs and rolled up onto his feet.
Marshalling all his strength, the young elf gripped his sword as he might hold an axe, screaming out an incoherent battle cry as he swung at the back of the creature's leg.
Sea-Riven connected hard; the scrag toppled and went down. Now it was Darthoridan's turn at frenzy-his sword flashed in the dying light as it rose and fell again and again. As he chopped his foe into bits, he kicked or flung the gory pieces as far as his strength allowed. The troll could heal itself, but the task would be longer and more difficult if it had to gather its scattered parts.
A sudden pressure on his foot distracted the elf from his grisly work. He glanced down just as the scrag's severed hand clamped around his ankle. As the talons dug through his boot and deep into his flesh, Darthoridan shouted another battle cry, striving to focus his pain and fear into something he could use. He thrust the blade of Sea-Riven between himself and the disembodied hand. Driving the point deep into the wet sand, he pushed with all his strength. His sword cut into the scrag's palm, but the hand stubbornly refused to let go. Worse, one of the talons began to wriggle its way toward the tendon at the back of the elf's leg.
Desperate now, Darthoridan threw himself face forward onto the sand. With his free foot, he kicked out at the sword to keep it from falling with him. The sword remained upright, and finally pried the scrag's fingers from his boot.
Immediately the disembodied hand skittered away, running sideways on its fingers like some ghastly variety of crab. The hand groped blindly as it sought the limb from which it had been severed.
Breathing hard, the elf rolled to his feet and yanked his sword from the sand. He ignored the burning pain in his leg, and forced aside the impulse to avenge his wounds by chasing down the offending hand and crushing it underfoot. But it was painfully clear that this action would gain him nothing. Even now, several pieces of the scrag had managed to regroup, and gray-green flesh grew rapidly to fill in the missing parts. Worse, new creatures were starting to form from some of the more widely scattered parts. This was an eventuality that Darthoridan had not foreseen. Soon he would be facing an army of scrags.
He cast a quick glance at the distant towers of Craulnober Keep, plainly visible from the shore. Within the walls, preparing to enjoy the evening meal and a quiet hour or two before revery, were all his kin. His younger siblings were not helpless, certainly, but they were no more prepared for this sort of battle than he. And though Darthoridan was no expert on scrags, he suspected that trolls of any kind would not be sated by the death of a single elf.
Darthoridan turned and sprinted for the Sea elf's bier. He snatched up a still-glowing piece of driftwood and raced back to the burgeoning army of scrag. The elf skidded to a stop beyond the original creature's reach and snatched a small bag from his sword belt. It was time to test both his fledgling magic and his courage.
The elf dumped the contents of the bag into his hand. The discarded shells of several sea snails rolled out. Darthoridan had filled the cavity with volatile oil, and then sealed the opening with a thin layer of waxy ambergris. A thin linen wick poked out of the shell, awaiting the touch of fire. Darthoridan had played with these small, flaming missiles as a child, but never once had he tested the effect of the magic he'd placed upon the oil. For all he knew, he would set himself aflame long before he managed to toss one of the shells at the scrags.
So be it, he decided grimly. If that happened, he would charge the scrags and set them afire with his own hands. As long as he kept the creatures from ravaging the Craulnober lands, it would be a death well earned. He thrust the wick of the first shell into the driftwood flame.
The roar of light and heat and power sent Darthoridan hurtling back. He landed on his backside, hard enough to send a numbing surge of pain through his limbs that almost, but not quite, masked the searing pain in his hands.
Even so, he was content, for the explosive weapon had done its work well enough. The young elf watched with grim satisfaction as flaming trolls parts rolled in dying anguish on the sands. He rose to his feet, stalking the burning shore in grim determination that every vestige of his enemy be destroyed. Again and again the elf lit and tossed the flaming shells, until all that was left of the invading scrag were scattered spots of grease and soot upon the sands.
Later that night, Allannia Craulnober was oddly silent as she bandaged her son's blistered hands and poured healing potion into a glass of spiced wine for him to drink. Dartho
ridan, who was accustomed to maternal instructions delivered with a relentless vehemence that a harpy might envy, found his mother's mood disconcerting.
When he was certain that he would soon burst from the strain of waiting for his mother's verbal assault to begin, the elven matriarch finally spoke her mind.
"They will come again, these sea trolls. All our strength of arms will avail us nothing."
Her quiet, thoughtful tone surprised Darthoridan. "Fire will destroy them," he reminded her.
"But if they come in great numbers? Unless we are willing to risk burning down the keep and laying waste the forest and moorlands, we could not raise fire enough to hold back a large assault."
The elven warrior squared her shoulders and met her son's troubled gaze. "Go to Leuthilspar with the coming of dawn, and stay long enough to learn all those things that you long to know, the things that you try so hard to pretend mean little to you. And when you seek a wife, consider the wisdom of bringing north someone who can teach magic to the Craulnober young," she said. "It is time we learned new ways."
Allannia smiled faintly at the thunderstruck expression on her son's face. "Close your mouth, my son. A good warrior sees much-and knows when the time has come to share the field of battle."
In the years to come, attacks upon the elves by the scrags and their sahuagin allies grew more frequent and vicious. But leaders emerged among the people of Evermeet, including Darthoridan Craulnober and his wife Anarzee Moonflower, the daughter of High Counselor Rolim Durothil.
Although Anarzee was not a High Mage but a priestess of Deep Sashales, she possessed a considerable grasp of magic. She also had a keen knowledge of the ways of the sea, and the creatures who made their home beneath the waves. The priestess and warrior combined their skills to raise and train an army of elves to protect the shores with swords and magic.
But as time passed, Anarzee felt that this was not enough. If the elves were ever to prevail over the Coral Kingdom, they must take the battle to the seas. This burden fell to her, for there was no elf on all of Evermeet who could bear it as well.
All her life, Anarzee had felt a special affinity for the sea. She felt its rhythms as surely as most elves responded to the cycles of moonlight. Even her appearance echoed the sea, for her hair was a rare shade of deep blue, and her eyes a changeful blue-green. As a child, her favorite playground had been the white sands of Siiluth, and her playmates had been the sea birds, selkie pups, and the Sea elf children who lived near its shores.
But now most of those children were dead. Even Anarzee's mentor, an ancient Sea-elven priest of Deep Sashales, had been slain in the endless battles with the sea trolls. The selkies, too, had disappeared, seeking the islands to the distant north where they might raise their young in safety. Thus it was that Anarzee, though she was born into a large and vibrant clan, and though the wonders of Leuthilspar surrounded her, was at a young age left very much alone.
The coming of the young warrior Darthoridan Craulnober to Leuthilspar had changed all that. He and Anarzee had fallen in love nearly at first sight. She went with him gladly to the northern coast, and together they fought the creatures who had destroyed her world, and who threatened his. With the birth of Seanchai, their firstborn son, the two worlds became one and the same for Anarzee. She would do whatever was needed to ensure her child's future.
Anarzee's eyes clung to the towers of Craulnober Keep as her ship left the safety of the docks. It was bitterly difficult to leave Seanchai, although he was weaned now and just starting to toddle. If the choice was entirely hers to make, she would spend every moment of his too-brief childhood delighting in her babe, singing him the songs he loved and telling the tales that kindled dreams in his eyes. After all, in just a few short decades, he would be a child no more!
The elf woman sighed, taking some comfort from the knowledge that Darthoridan remained behind in command of the shore's army. Anarzee had insisted that he remain. If this first strike should fail, the clan-and especially their son-must be protected from the certain retaliation meted out by the Coral Kingdom.
Even if her mission were to fail, it would not be the last. The ship upon which Anarzee stood was the first of many. Specially designed to resist scrag attack, armed with powerful elven magic and over a hundred fighters, it would strike a decisive blow against the sea trolls and begin the process of reclaiming the waves. Anarzee ran her hand along the thin, translucent tube that ran the length of the ship's rail. The scrags might notice that this ship was different, but they would never suspect what lay in store for them. And how could they know? Never before had an elven ship deliberately set itself aflame.
The ship was still within sight of the coast when the first of the scrags struck. The vessel jolted to a stop, then began to pitch and rock as powerful, unseen hands scrambled at its underside.
Anarzee knew all too well what the creatures were doing. Scrags would board when necessary, but they preferred to scuttle a ship by tearing holes in its hull, thereby forcing the elves into the water. But the outside of this ship was perfectly smooth and very hard-it had been grown from crystal and provided no handholds for the scrags to grasp. Nor could the creatures break through it with their teeth or talons. They would be forced to fight, and on elven terms.
A small, grim smile tightened Anarzees lips, and she nodded first to the small Circle of High Magi, then to the archers who stood waiting by blazing fireboxes. "It won't be long," she murmured. "Begin chanting the spell. Light the arrows… now!”
Even as she spoke, several pairs of scaly hands clutched at the rail. The archers dipped their arrows into the fire and took aim. Anarzee lifted one hand, her eyes intent upon the swarming scrags. Timing was crucial-if the archers fired too soon, the creatures would simply fall back into the water, where the flames would die and the creatures' arrow-torn flesh regenerate.
The sea trolls moved fast, and they often moved together like enormous, schooling fish. In the span of two heartbeats, all the scrags had swarmed aboard. It was a large hunting party-over a score of full-grown trolls.
Anarzee dropped her hand and shrieked, "Now!"
Flaming arrows streaked toward the scrags, sending them staggering back toward the side of the ship. Some of the creatures began to climb the rail, instinctively heading for the safety of the waves.
But at that moment the magi's spell was unleashed. With a sound that suggested a hundred goblets shattering against a wall, the crystal vials embedded in the rail exploded and released the fluid that bubbled within. A wall of flame leapt up all along the ship's rail, barring the scrags' escape and setting alight many of those that had escaped the archers flaming arrows.
Shrieking and flailing, the burning trolls instinctively darted away from the eldritch flame behind them. Elven warriors rushed forward to meet them, armed with protective spells against the heat and flame. They fought with grim fury, determined that no scrag would break through their line. Slowly, inexorably, they pressed the dying trolls back into the flames.
It seemed to Anarzee that the fire and the battle raged for hours, but she knew it could not truly be so. Trolls burned quickly. Behind the warrior elves, the Circle continued chanting the magic that sustained both the fighters and the flame-and that kept the fire from breaking past the wall of elven warriors. Sooner than Anarzee had dared to hope possible, the battle neared its end.
It was then that the sahuagin came. The first one to board the ship did so not of its own will or power. Shrieking and thrashing, a sahuagin tumbled through the wall of flame-no doubt having been picked up bodily by its comrades and thrown through the magic fire. Like a living bombard, the sahuagin hurtled toward the elven defenders.
A startled elf managed to bring his sword up in time, impaling the creature as it fell. But the weight of the fish-man brought the elf down, too.
The sahuagin might have been unwilling at first, but it knew what to do now. Claws and teeth scrabbled and tore at the pinned elf's face and neck. By the time the elves pulled the c
reature off their brother, the sahuagin horde had claimed its first kill.
Other sahuagin followed in like manner, tossed up onto the ship by the unseen creatures beyond and falling like hideous hail upon the deck. Some of them survived the fall, and the battle began anew.
Anarzee spun toward the magi. "The flame wall slows them down, but it cannot keep them out! What else can you do?"
The white-haired male who served as Center pondered briefly. "We can heat the water right around the ship itself to scalding. What creatures this does not kill, it will drive off."
She frowned. "And the ship?"
"It will be at risk," the mage admitted. "The heat will make the crystal hull more brittle and fragile. But even if the sahuagin were to understand this weakness, they could not stand the heat long enough to take advantage."
"Do it," Anarzee said tersely, for there was little time to waste in speech. A sahuagin had broken through the fighting. Its black, webbed feet slapped the deck as it raced toward the magi's Circle.
The priestess snatched a harpoon from the weapon rack and braced it against her hip. At the last moment, the creature veered away, slashing out with its claws-not at the armed elf woman, but at one of the chanting magi.
Anarzee leaped at the sahuagin, thrusting out with all her strength. The harpoon sank home. She dropped the weapon at once, sickened by the dying creature's screams, which were echoed by a hellish chorus of the scalded sahuagin in the seething sea beyond.
For a moment, it all threatened to overwhelm her-the scent of burning troll flesh, the slick wash of elven blood and vile ichor upon the crystal deck, the pervasive cloud of evil that surrounded the sea creatures. The priestess closed her eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath.
Evermeet: Island of Elves (single books) Page 20