In short, The Black Salmon was the seediest dive in Corwell Town, and so it attracted the kind of customer one might expect. Now, in the predawn hours, most of these derelicts had fallen asleep in pools of spilled beer, or staggered off to the common sleeping room or their lodgings elsewhere in town.
The exceptions were few: a painted harlot, alone for the night; a pair of young Ffolkmen spending their last night ashore before embarking, as crewmen, on the trading galleon in the harbor; and two northmen sailors, one profoundly drunk and the other only halfway so.
The fire grew dull, but the grease-stained innkeeper did nothing about it. A few candles guttered and dripped on some of the tables, casting wavering shadows around the room. The barely coherent northman broke the silence abruptly by calling out for two more mugs. The innkeeper poured stale beer from a leaking keg and examined the copper piece he received as if he were a master jeweler assessing the value of a princely ransom.
But even that dullard's eyes widened as a shadowy form moved through the door. One of the sleeping men snored loudly and then started awake. All conversation ceased, and the two pairs of men watched, the drunken northman rubbing his eyes in an attempt to see more clearly.
But nothing could form that shape in the doorway into other than a murk. It was no natural fog that rolled in from the street, sapping the feeble light from the room and bringing with it a chill from the sea … or beyond.
Then the haze dissipated, and a man entered the Black Salmon. The stranger was a tall fellow, dressed in black trousers and tunic, with hair and beard to match, and gleaming boots of midnight-dark leather reaching to his knees. He smiled around the inn, flashing white teeth, though his eyes remained hooded by carefully lowered lids.
Then he stalked across the common room to the table where the two northmen sat, pulling up a chair and seating himself without waiting for an invitation.
"Barkeep!" he shouted, a sound that jerked all of the others upward like marionettes seized by frantic puppeteers. "Bring us a pitcher of that… ale?" He regarded the contents of a half-filled mug with distaste, but then shrugged and tapped his fingers impatiently while the innkeeper filled a tall jug from his keg and hurried over with it.
The stranger flipped a coin to the server, and silver flashed briefly in the candlelight. The greasy little man seized the coin from the air and scampered back to the shelter of his grimy bar.
"On me, friends," said the newcomer, smiling with his mouth only. The two northmen still gaped at him as if he had two heads or three arms.
"Who are you?" demanded the less drunken of the two, finally recovering his voice.
The stranger blinked. "Call me … Malawar," he said after a moment. "Malawar of Alaron. And you, if I'm not mistaken, are men of the north."
The two sailors, with their long blond hair tied into twin braids, drooping mustaches, and fur-lined tunics, could hardly have been anything else. Nevertheless, they both nodded and assented seriously, as if a question of great import had been asked.
"That's a sleek ship in the harbor," the stranger continued. "Sailing on her?"
"Soon now," said the one who was still coherent. "With the afternoon tide, tomorrow. We just wanted to sample a little more of the local treasures before we go!" The sailor concluded with a chuckle that grew into a long, ale-flavored belch.
The stranger grimaced at the sight of the amber liquid in the pitcher, with its slight film of white foam. Nevertheless, he reached over and refilled the mugs of each northman. His own glass stood before him, barely touched.
"Did you sail here on that pig scow?" asked the northman, gesturing to the door. The indication of the great galleon was not lost on the one called Malawar.
"No-I've been on Gwynneth for some time now. I came to Corwell across the road from Kingsbay."
The northman shook his head. Why would someone travel from one side of an island to the other on land? "D'you know ships?" he demanded belligerently, then slumped back into his chair, not waiting for an answer. "That ship out there-the Princess! She's the finest boat ever to put to sea from Gnarhelm. That means she be the finest from anywhere in the Moonshaes, y' unnerstan'?"
The black-haired man nodded easily, and the sailor talked while his companion slumped deeper into coma. The trio passed an hour thus. The conscious northman was named Roloff and proved quite loquacious, telling ribald tales of life in Gnarhelm and revealing that the destination of their morrow's voyage was being kept a mystery by their captain, who was none other than the Crown Prince of Gnarhelm!
Eventually the harlot and the two young seamen left, and the innkeeper coughed and tapped his foot, then started to clean up. The black-garbed man took note and squinted at his companions.
"Are you men staying here?" asked Malawar, rising to his feet. When the coherent one nodded, the dark figure's lips creased into another pale smile. "I have a splendid suite of rooms up the street at the King's Copper. Why don't you join me? There's plenty of room for the two of you."
The northman blinked suspiciously, but another silver piece flashed as Malawar paid off the innkeeper. The sailor had walked past the King's Copper and knew that it was a splendid place. Also, the rash he had acquired from the straw mat in The Black Salmon's sleeping room was still with him. The thought of real accommodations was too good to ignore.
"Aye," he grunted. "Give me a hand with Luge, here, and we'll take you up on that!"
Without appearing to strain, Malawar took the drunken Luge's shoulder and bore a great portion of the man's weight. They moved out the door and along the darkened street. It was many hours past midnight. Their route took them along the waterfront, beside the black waters of Corwell Harbor, water that extended still and placid toward the firth and the Trackless Sea beyond.
When they reached the King's Copper, Malawar alone carried Luge, bearing him full across his shoulders, hauling him like a sack of potatoes through the deserted common room and along the darkened hallway to his room.
The northman called Roloff was nowhere to be seen.
Alicia stood amid a bustle of controlled chaos on the Corwell waterfront while northmen sailors rowed the Princess of Moonshae toward the quay for loading. Brandon stood beside her, his hands on his hips, his eyes scrutinizing every move of the graceful vessel's slow progress.
"Easy there!" he shouted, unable to control himself. "Take her slow! Now-come about! Watch it!"
The Prince of Gnarhelm paced in agitation, though the vessel was clearly in no danger. At the rudder stood the fiercely scowling figure of Knaff the Elder, as experienced a helmsman as ever sailed the Sea of Moonshae, and the longship, propelled by a half-dozen oars, barely crept through the water.
"Easy!" cried Brandon as a tublike fishing vessel raised sail a hundred paces away from the Princess.
"Can't hear myself think out here!" grumbled Knaff, loud enough for his voice to carry to shore.
"He can bring it in safely, don't you think?" suggested Alicia with a laugh. "You're like a proud papa getting his first look at his little boy!"
The captain grinned sheepishly. "You're right," he admitted. Brandon forced himself to keep his mouth shut, but his eyes studied every move of the sleek vessel, and he couldn't help but flinch at each change of course or speed.
At last the longship touched the wharf, very gently. Ropes made fast her stern and prow, and the crew quickly began loading aboard the crates of food and barrels of drinking water to provision a possibly long voyage.
Hanrald and Brigit carefully crossed the gangplank, each carrying a bundle containing polished armor. The two knights stowed their packages beside the mast.
Some distance down the dock, Alicia saw another northman she recognized-gigantic Wultha, a hulking, well-muscled specimen of a warrior. He stood with several of his crew-mates, and for a moment the princess thought, oddly, that they were fishing. Then the big man waved to his prince and Brandon walked over to them. Alicia saw them talking seriously, saw Brandon's brows suddenly tighten into a scowl.
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Concerned, Alicia started toward them, joined by Robyn and Keane. The Prince of Gnarhelm met them halfway, Alicia's disquiet mirrored in his own frown.
"They found the body of one of my men in the harbor," Brand announced grimly.
"Was he hurt? Murdered?" wondered the princess, deeply disturbed by the news.
"I don't know. Something's not right, though."
"Who was it?" inquired Keane.
"A fellow named Roloff. He's a notorious drinker, but he holds it better than anyone I know. It's not likely he'd fall in on his own."
"Was he attacked or injured?" Alicia pressed.
"Not as far as we can tell. At least, his body had no wounds. He appears to have drowned."
" 'Appears?' " Robyn heard the suspicion in the northman's voice. "You're not convinced?"
"No. Roloff was too sensible a sailor-and too good a swimmer-to suffer that fate. And then there's the expression on his face."
"What was it?" Alicia felt a dull sense of menace. This seemed like a bad omen for the start of a dangerous voyage.
"His eyes were wide open and staring, fixed that way when he died-as if something scared the stuffing out of him, and he never recovered even after he fell in the water."
"When was he last seen beforehand?" inquired Keane.
"His best friend, Luge, drank with him last night-apparently quite a bit, since he doesn't remember much past midnight. From the look of him this morning, I'd say Luge's memory won't be of much use to us."
"Does he remember where they were?" pressed the mage. "Perhaps someone else saw something there."
"No good," said Brandon with a shrug. "Luge doesn't even remember where they went."
"Ill luck for the start of a voyage," observed Tavish, with a shake of her head. "Let's hope that means this is the worst of it!"
The others found it hard to shake a sense of unease, but Brandon reminded them that the tide turned even as they talked. They carried their small bundles of personal baggage aboard, then returned to the docks. There the Earl of Corwell and Princess Deirdre stood to see them off.
"With luck, we'll return with your father," Robyn said to her younger daughter. "If the worst happens, you will be the next queen of the Ffolk."
Deirdre looked at her mother closely, her expression unreadable. Abruptly she reached out and embraced the queen, a hug that Robyn returned with full strength and held for long moments. When the two women stood apart again, their eyes were red with unshed tears.
"I still protest!" grumbled Randolph as the queen gave him a farewell embrace. "You'll need me!"
"I know," replied Robyn truthfully. "But Corwell needs a lord, and until our return, that's a job that's too important to entrust to anyone else."
Lord Randolph, as Earl of Corwell, would resume his normal duties. Deirdre would return to Callidyrr to oversee that large and populous realm.
The others filed across the boarding plank while the queen waved to the Ffolk who had lined the dock to cheer and wish them success. Alicia carried her changestaff and wore her sword. Her armor, like Brigit's and Hanrald's, was wrapped in oilskin and carefully stowed.
"Until our return!" pledged Robyn boldly, waving as she, too, crossed the gangplank. At the same moment, ropes were tossed free from fore and aft, and a light wind filled the Princess of Moonshae's quickly bulging sail.
Brandon's crew of sixty handpicked northmen included his old mentor, Knaff the Elder, at the helm, and the gigantic Wultha. The group was the minimum needed to man the large longship, but that was all they had room for, since they had brought so many additional passengers on board as well.
Besides Alicia and Robyn, Hanrald, Keane, Tavish, Brigit, and twelve Corwellian longbowmen formed the ship's complement. The latter wielded bows that could shoot twice as far as any northman's bow, and their presence greatly enhanced the ship's defensive punch.
Yet even with nearly eighty voyagers aboard, the Princess of Moonshae seemed uncrowded. The vessel's smooth hull rested in the water, completely at home, rocking only slightly as men took their stations at rowing benches, mast, and helm. Ready hands pushed the bow away from the dock, and a few strokes of the oars brought the elegant prow with its graceful female figurehead around to the gap in the harbor breakwater. The wind remained light, yet it propelled the sleek vessel at an easy glide onto the placid waters of Corwell Firth, where they headed west under full sail, trailing a sharp, clean wake.
For all that afternoon and the first night, the coastlines of the firth slowly separated to the port and starboard. At dawn, the bracketing shores remained visible, but only as faint lines of green and brown along the distant horizon. By midmorning, the firth had widened such that they couldn't see land to either side, though it would be another day before they actually left the protection of Gwynneth's enclosing peninsulas and truly set a course upon the Trackless Sea.
"What heading will you sail, once we pass Moray?" inquired Brigit, as she, Robyn, and Alicia were joined by the captain in the vessel's prow.
"West by north," he said without hesitation. "We'll pass to the north of the Gullrocks and then swing to the west. That's where I've always pictured the elvenhome, anyway. If you know better, tell me now!"
The sister knight shook her head. "Actually, none of us Llewyrr-even Erashanoor! — are terribly clear on exactly where the island lies on an actual map of the Realms. We've always used the Fey-Alamtine rather than mundane transportation to reach the island."
"As to where it is," Robyn announced, "I think I can help us there. The goddess will certainly help me identify the presence of a large land mass before us if we can get anywhere in the vicinity."
"Well, all I can do is sail toward water that every sensible sailor avoids-avoids because that's where Evermeet is supposed to lie!" Brandon announced with forced heartiness.
A feeling of menace remained with Alicia, a dark sense of foreboding that had lingered since before the start of the voyage. It seemed incongruous now as she looked at the smooth water, sparkling in the light of a beaming sun.
Yet the feeling wouldn't go away.
Luge lay awake, trembling, disturbed by some terrifying knowledge within him, knowledge that he didn't grasp or understand, yet somehow knew. The stocky crewman, who had spent the last night of his shore leave in the company of the man called Malawar, had no memory of that encounter.
Now Luge continued to suffer his hangover, thirty-six hours after that portentous evening. He didn't recall the specifics of his own stark terror, but he knew that dark hole in his memory was the cause of his current unease.
In the morning, he had recalled nothing of the experience save for a lingering sense that his sleep had not been pleasant. The discovery of his friend's body had pounded his brain with shock, and since then he had passed through his duties in a haze. Roloff had been a lifelong companion, and his death-which Luge couldn't even remember! — tore at the sailor's conscience like a festering wound.
Nevertheless, it was that experience, a potent spell cast by the mysterious stranger, that now compelled him to stir.
His shadowy figure moved from the rowing bench, toward the gunwale of the Princess of Moonshae. All around, northmen and Ffolk slumbered, while the keen-eyed helmsman-currently Knaff the Elder-studied the starlit horizon and the smooth surface of the sea with cautious diligence.
Crouching, Luge moved low between the benches until he reached the rail behind the shelter of several water barrels. Here he raised his head, peering cautiously over the gunwale of the speeding longship.
Huddled in the shadows of the casks, blacker even than the dim starlight above, Luge reached into a concealed pouch-a flap that had been sewn into the lining of his sea cloak. His eyes widened in surprise-until that moment he had not recalled the pouch's existence, though he had been present when Malawar attached it.
Within, he felt several tiny metallic pebbles. He selected one with his blunt thumb and forefinger and withdrew his hand. A tiny tinkle sounded in the night, too fai
nt to carry even to the ears of the nearby northmen but enough to identify the object as a small bell.
Still wondering why he was doing it, Luge dropped the bell over the side. It splashed into the waters squarely at the mouth of Corwell Firth.
In the water, the bell continued to ring… but now its sound was magnified a thousand-, a millionfold. The tinkle became a pounding dirge, and its weight carried it through the sea for dozens and scores and ultimately hundreds of miles.
Along the vast, kelp-lined ridges and plains of the Coral Kingdom, the tiny bell ringing four hundred miles to the north sounded a call to war. Huge sahuagin armies, camped for weeks along coral reefs, mustered forth, swarming up from the sea bottom, driving themselves northward. The fishmen swam with strong kicks, their companies spreading through the depths, some swimming high, breaking the surface occasionally to observe the surrounding sea, while others swam at different levels, with the deepest swimming more an a thousand feet below.
The huge scrags, long teeth gleaming even in the dingy waters of the kingdom's Deepvale, formed columns, twelve scrags per column, each column more than a match for any merchant crew of humankind. Hulking beasts nearly twice as large as the fishmen, the sea trolls propelled their sleek bodies through the sea with powerful legs and thick, webbed feet. Hair, like loose strands of seaweed, trailed back from round, scale-coated skulls. The columns of the scrags swam in the center of the army, leaving the lesser creatures to scout.
Some of the aquatic warriors bore weapons-silver-tipped spears or curved, shell-studded scimitars-but most relied on their multitudinous teeth and sharp, curving claws. Others trailed nets, hopeful of seizing captives, and a few were armed with bows and arrows, though these weapons would only be useful in the air or at extremely short range when submerged.
A hundred such columns and companies gathered around the palaces of the Coral Kingdom, swarming upward, through waters that passed from purple to blue to aqua and then to the pale green of the surface. The sahuagin veered to the sides when the scrag columns swam, the fishmen cowering away from the mighty and infinitely evil sea trolls.
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