It was cold in the depths, though not insupportably so. Perhaps he had the pellets to thank for that as well. He had the feeling he was drifting in and out of awareness, but the unchanging blackness made it difficult to be certain.
Finally, a soft glow flowered in the murk. Below him stood a vast, intricate riot of coral, portions of it shining with its own inner light. Spires rose, or partly rose, from the tangled reefs like trees mired in parasitic vines. Anton might have assumed the city, half buried as it was, was an uninhabited ruin, except that the bluish cryscoral wasn’t the only source of illumination. Lamps shined in windows and along the boulevards. Altogether, the lights sufficed to reveal the tiny forms of the residents swimming to and fro.
Fascinated, Anton wished the shalarin would swim faster. He wanted to get closer and see more. But he passed out before he could.
CHAPTER 2
Testing his strength and stamina, Anton swam back and forth and up and down at the end of the tether binding his ankle to the marble couch. The leathery cord reminded him unpleasantly of the octopus’s tentacles dragging him down.
Fortunately, barring a ring-shaped scar or two to go with all his others, nasty memories were all he retained from his ordeal. He was whole again, thanks to the shalarin. When he’d seen the skeletal hand hanging from her neck, he’d suspected she was a priestess of Umberlee, and she had in fact employed a cleric’s healing prayers to mend his damaged body.
What she hadn’t done was talk to him. Not once, no matter how he entreated her. Such indifference made him suspect she intended him for sacrifice or slavery. She was, after all, a servant of the Bitch Queen, goddess of drownings, shipwrecks, and all manner of deaths at sea, a power notoriously malign.
But if she did mean him ill, he didn’t intend to meet his fate like a sheep placidly awaiting the butcher’s pleasure. He didn’t know if he could truly escape, but now that he’d recovered his vigor, maybe he could at least free himself from the rope and find out what lay beyond the nondescript room in which the shalarin had imprisoned him.
Floating in the center of the chamber, he turned his attention to the complex knot securing the cord to his ankle. He’d spent hours picking at it, but it remained as tight as ever. Evidently it bore some enchantment.
With luck, his own magic would counter it. He murmured a charm, marveling once again that he could speak as plainly as if he were on land. In fact, he could function here without much difficulty of any kind. He saw clearly and moved quickly, without the water hindering him. Plainly, the enchantment must have been responsible for that as well, and he wondered if such conditions only prevailed within this one building or if the entire submerged city was equally accommodating.
The knot squirmed and untied itself. He smiled, swam to the doorway, and peeked out into the larger room beyond.
As he’d suspected, it was a temple of Umberlee, dominated by a towering statue of the Queen of the Depths herself. Bigger than a giant, clad in her high-collared cape and seashell ornaments, the deity had risen from the waves to smash a cog with her trident. Sharks cut through the water to seize the mariners toppling overboard.
Smaller sculptures, representations of predatory sea creatures and hideous things that might be aquatic demons, lurked in alcoves. Mosaics depicting Umberlee’s battles against Selûne, Chauntea, and other gods adorned the high ceiling and walls. Heaped offerings covered the several altars and overflowed onto the floor.
It was all rather magnificent in a grim sort of way, but somewhat surprisingly, at the moment no one else was here to tend or marvel at the splendor. Anton hesitated then swam to the nearest of the altars to see if some worshiper had given Umberlee a weapon.
A cutlass caught his eye. He pulled the short, curved sword from its scabbard and came on guard, testing the balance and weight. It felt good in his hand, so light and eager that, like his lost dagger, it must have magic bound in the blade. He sheathed it, buckled it onto his belt, turned, and froze.
The shalarin floated in a big arched doorway that likely led outside the temple. In the days she’d tended him, he’d had a chance to observe other details of her appearance. Her dark blue skin wasn’t scaly like a fish’s, as he initially imagined, but smooth like a dolphin’s. The round mark on her brow was red. Here in the depths, she dispensed with her goggles, revealing eyes that were glistening black, all pupil. They gave him a level stare.
“It is death to rob Umberlee,” she said in a cold contralto voice. “Fortunately, you have not. It is her will that you take the blade.”
“You’re talking.”
“Yes.”
“You wouldn’t before.”
“I did not understand your language and doubted you understood mine. I had to trade for this.” She extended her hand, drawing his attention to a striped tiger-coral ring. “Its magic enables me to speak to you.”
“Oh.” His ordeal and its bizarre aftermath must have muddled his wits because that simple explanation for her silence had never occurred to him. “Lady, I’m grateful for your care, and I mean no harm. I only took the cutlass because it alarmed me that you kept me tied and never answered when I spoke.” She might at least have given him a reassuring pat on the shoulder or something.
“I kept you secured so you wouldn’t wander and come to harm. And because you now belong to Umberlee.”
He hesitated. “Exactly what do you mean?”
“What I say. Tell me your name.”
“Anton Marivaldi, out of Alaghôn, in Turmish.” He wondered if the place names meant anything to her.
“I am Tu’ala’keth, waveservant, member of the Faiths Caste, keeper of Umberlee’s house in Myth Nantar.”
He assumed Myth Nantar was the name of the city. He’d heard vague reports of such a place, a metropolis where the various undersea races, and even a few expatriates from the surface world, dwelled together. “I understood that you’re a divine. Are you saying you laid claim to me somehow, in your goddess’s name?”
A glimmering membrane flicked across the blackness of her eyes. Perhaps it was a shalarin’s equivalent of a blink. “Yes. What is unclear?”
“Among my folk, you can’t just take possession of another person, even if you save his life.”
“I did not; Umberlee did.” She waved a hand at their surroundings. “What do you see?”
He didn’t know what she wanted him to say. “Riches. Sacred things.”
“Neglect!” the shalarin snapped. “All the treasures here are old. Who now offers at Umberlee’s altars?”
“In my world, every seafarer who wants to come safely back into port.”
“But few here, where every creature should adore her. I will tell you the tale, Anton Marivaldi, and you will understand why and how she has chosen you.”
“Please.” He needed to comprehend what she had in mind so he could talk her out of it.
“How much do you know of shalarins?”
He shrugged. “You live in the Sea of Fallen Stars. You’re no great friends to humanity but no foul scourge like the sahuagin, either.”
“We did not always live here. Our race was born in the Sea of Corynactis.”
“I never heard of it.”
“It lies on the far side of the world. Three thousand years ago, some of my folk found their way here. But the mystic gate connecting the two seas closed, trapping them, and so they, and their descendants, were exiled from their home.”
“That’s unfortunate,” he said, but he couldn’t imagine what it had to do with him.
“The exiles endured many griefs and misfortunes. One was losing touch with the gods of their forefathers. Those deities apparently had no interest in Faerûn or lacked the ability to project their power into these waters.”
Anton waved his hand, indicating the statue of Umberlee. “It looks as if your ancestors adapted. They started worshiping the gods who rule hereabouts.”
“Yes,” said Tu’ala’keth, “and were surely the better for it, for no deity is greater than
Umberlee. Her favor enabled them to prosper. Yet now the faithless idiots turn their backs on her!”
More puzzled than ever, Anton shook his head. “Why?”
“Because two years ago the gate to the Sea of Corynactis opened again—permanently this time.” She smiled grimly, or at least he took it for a smile. He wasn’t sure her changes of expression always signified the same emotions they would in a human face. “That is a shalarin secret, by the way. It is death for you to know.”
“In that case, thanks so much for telling me.”
“You must know in order to understand. Since the gate opened, the shalarins of the two realms can communicate, and with that communication has come a great curiosity, an enthusiasm”—her tone invested the words with bitter scorn—“for the religions of our ancestors, even though those feeble godlings still lack the strength to manifest here. Folk pray to them in preference to Umberlee.”
Anton could understand why a worshiper might prefer another deity—most any other deity—to the savage, greedy Bitch Queen, but saw no advantage in saying so. “Maybe they’ll return to Umberlee once the novelty of the new cults wears off.”
Tu’ala’keth glared at him. “I am a waveservant. I can’t simply wait for them to change their foolish minds. It is my duty to bring them back.”
“With my help?” What in the name of the Red Knight could she possibly be thinking?
“If they weren’t blind and deaf, they would have returned already, gashing their flesh and shedding their blood to beg their goddess’s forgiveness. At her bidding, a host of dragons has banded together and started ravaging Serôs, to punish those who failed to give her her due. The entire commonwealth is in peril.”
Anton frowned. “Lady, with respect, for the past few months, something called a Rage of Dragons has been occurring. All across Faerûn, wyrms are uniting to slaughter and destroy. The shalarins’ problem isn’t unique.”
“It still embodies the wrath of Umberlee. Otherwise, the army of Serôs would have destroyed the drakes, instead of the other way around.”
“Well … maybe.”
“I proclaimed that only Umberlee could save us. I preached it as clearly as I explained it to you. But no one heeded. Finally I forsook Myth Nantar for the wilds of the open sea. It is there one feels closest to the Queen of the Depths, and there, I hoped, I would hear her speak, instructing me on how to achieve her ends.”
“That’s when you stumbled across me?”
“Yes. I lingered to watch your death as a form of meditation. When the sea takes a life, it is a holy event. Umberlee reveals herself to those with eyes to see.”
Anton reckoned he, too, might be starting to “see.” “But I didn’t die.”
“No,” said Tu’ala’keth. “Hour after hour, you endured. Even the octopus could not kill you. It became clear that Umberlee wished you to survive, and since she guided me to you, it had to be so you could aid me in my mission. So, quickly as I could, I fetched the items and prepared the spells that enabled me to rescue you.”
“I’m grateful, but truly you’ve made a mistake. I have no idea how to help you. I’m no priest or philosopher or orator, to lure your truant followers back.”
“What are you, then? Tell me, and it will become apparent exactly how you are to serve.”
“There isn’t much to tell. I’m a trader. I took a ship to sell lumber and buy metals. During the voyage, I passed the time throwing dice. I was lucky two days straight, only not really so lucky after all, because a couple of sailors decided I was cheating and attacked me. One knifed me, and I fell overboard. I can only assume that no one but my ill-wishers realized what had happened because the carrack sailed on and left me.”
Her black eyes bored into him. “You lie. You use magic. You fight well. You cannot belong to the Providers Caste.”
“I don’t know how it works among shalarins, but there’s nothing to stop a human merchant from learning a little sorcery or training with a blade. Sometimes it comes in handy.”
“It may be so. Still you are a liar.”
Anton was actually a highly proficient liar. Otherwise, someone would have killed him long ago. Either Tu’ala’keth was suspicious by nature, she had an enchantment in place to tell truth from falsehood, or she possessed an unexpected and inconvenient knack for reading human beings.
However she’d caught him, he had a hunch a second lie would prove no more convincing than the first. It might simply provoke a disciple of cruel Umberlee into trying to torture the truth out of him.
In other circumstances, he might have risked it, and if it came to it, resisted the torment as best he could. But what would a shalarin care about the true nature of his business or the manner in which he’d come to grief? With no stake in the affairs of the surface world, what would she do with the information? Maybe it would do no harm to confide in her.
“All right,” he said, “the fact is, I’m a spy in the service of my homeland.” He hesitated. “Do you have spies here under the sea?”
She sneered. “Of course.”
“Well, my usual chore is to ferret out information concerning pirates and smugglers, so others can catch and punish them as they deserve. But a month ago my superiors set me a new task. Have you ever heard of the Cult of the Dragon?”
“No.”
“I guess you sea folk aren’t susceptible to their particular kind of madness. Lucky you. They’re a secret society of necromancers, priests of Bane, Talos, and similar powers, and common lunatics, laboring to make a certain prophecy come to pass.”
“If the prophecy is true, it will come to pass regardless.”
“Don’t tell me, tell them. The prophecy says that one day, undead dragons will rule the world, and the cult intends to make it sooner rather than later. As near as I can make out, they believe the dracolich kings will favor them and elevate them above the common herd of humankind.
“Anyway, a couple months back, the paladins of Impiltur—a land on the northern shore—discovered that of late, the cultists have been more active and advanced their schemes farther than any sane person could have imagined. They’ve established a number of hidden strongholds across Faerûn. The purpose of the refuges is to transform dragons into liches, and supposedly, wyrms have been flocking to them and consenting to the change as never before, because they fear losing their minds to frenzy. Evidently undead dragons are immune.
“The Rage has produced destruction and misery enough—you shalarins seem to know all about that—but it’s nothing compared to what a horde of dracoliches will do. So the Lords of Impiltur sent out the word: People in every realm need to find and destroy the cult enclaves before they can accomplish their task.”
“You were one of the seekers.”
Anton grinned. “Yes, and it was just my rotten luck that it turns out the whoresons do have a stronghold somewhere in the region. My guess is on one of the Pirate Isles. If I were pursuing a plan to topple every monarch and ruling council in the world, I’d hide out in a place without governance or law.”
“You say you guess. You did not learn for certain?”
“No. I had a lead and tried to follow up. At some point I apparently made a mistake, and some cultist tumbled to the fact that I was sticking my nose where it didn’t belong. The maniacs sent abishai—winged demons with a dash of dragon thrown in—to deal with me.
“They caught up with me on a carrack sailing out of Procampur. We fought, and I got the worst of it. Finally they cornered me against the rail, and I jumped overboard. If I hadn’t, they would have torn me apart.
“The move worked, after a fashion. For whatever reason, they didn’t keep after me. But the ship didn’t come back for me either. Maybe the abishai killed all the sailors. Or perhaps the captain decided he didn’t need a passenger who lured demons down on his vessel.
“The rest you know. I drifted, and you found me.”
Tu’ala’keth floated silently, pondering. Suddenly she grinned. “Of course! It is clear!”
>
“What is?”
“This Cult of the Dragon. They must be mighty wizards with a profound knowledge of wyrms to warp their lives into undeath and leave their minds intact.”
“I suppose.”
“You will help me find them, for that is your craft. They will then tell me how to stop the dragons threatening Serôs. I will do so in Umberlee’s name, and afterwards, the other shalarins will return to her altars in penance and thanksgiving.”
Anton shook his head. “You don’t understand. There’s no reason to assume the cult has what you need, and it wouldn’t matter even if they do. They worship dragons. They won’t help anybody hurt or hinder them.”
“If they won’t give up their secrets willingly, we will take them.”
He laughed. “Just you and me, you mean, against a dragon or three, a whole coven of spellcasters, and the Grandmaster only knows what else? I know you’re a reasonably powerful cleric in your own right, but that’s ridiculous.”
“You only believe so,” she said, “because your lack of faith blinds you. You look at this moment and you see only chance—coincidence. These elements are there, but they make a pattern, and the pattern conveys meaning.”
“Look: If we were to march into the cult’s fortress and announce ourselves, all it would do is alert them to the fact that people are searching for them, and that they haven’t covered their trail well enough to keep from being found. Then, after they killed us, they’d take additional precautions. That would make it all the more difficult for somebody else to locate them, descend on them in force, and wipe them out.
“And that needs to happen, for everyone’s sake. A horde of dracoliches will pose a threat to your Serôs and Myth Nantar as much as the surface world.”
“What matters is the restoration of Umberlee’s worship. Everything else must fall out as it will.”
“Lady, I respectfully disagree.”
Tu’ala’keth peered at him as if honestly mystified by his intransigence. “You must help. As I explained, your life, like mine, belongs to the Queen of the Depths to spend as she sees fit. If I must punish you to convince you, I will.”
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