Tangled Webs (17 page)

The sky was still dark when High Captain Rethnor emerged from his pain-racked slumber. His cabin boy darted forward with a flask of water and held it while the captain took a few tentative sips. As soon as he could summon breath and voice, Rethnor immediately demanded that the war chieftain be brought to him. He was not at all happy to learn the man was dead. Rethnor asked for the first mate, then the boatswain, and received the same answer.

“Well, damn and blast it, bring me the highest-ranking man still standing!” he roared. The cabin boy scurried off at once to do his bidding.

To Rethnor’s extreme dismay, the highest rank belonged to that of the ship’s physician-not a normal mixture aboard Northmen ships but one that, given their mission, Rethnor had considered a wise precaution. It seemed his instincts had been sound, for the physician had obviously found work to occupy himself: The healer was spattered with blood, and he looked unspeakably weary, much older than his fifty-odd winters. And the tale he told was grim indeed. Two of the mighty warships had been lost, one to fire, the other inexplicably scuttled. All of the warriors-all!-had been slain or badly wounded. Only a few of the crew, barely enough to sail the ship, had escaped the Elfmaid’s wrath. The pirates had proven to be fearsome and inventive fighters. Their captain’s blade alone had claimed at least a score of the Northmen. But it was the berserker, and then the magically animated figurehead, that had utterly decimated the Luskan fighters.

Rethnor listened with growing horror as the story of the battle unfolded. When at last the telling was done, he absently allowed the physician to check his wounded arm and to change the dressing. His thoughts raced as he considered all he had heard.

The unthinkable had happened. A single Ruathen ship had overcome his trio of warships and was even now bound for her island home with this news. The Luskan ships had covered their nameplates and had flown plain sails and no port flags, but it was possible that someone among the pirates might have recognized the man who’d led the attack. Rethnor was not unknown among the Ruathen. As High Captain, he had attended many meetings of the Captains’ Alliance and had often sat across the table from the island’s battle chieftains, the so-called First Axes of Ruathym.

Rethnor determined that come what may, word of this attack could not reach Ruathym. Granted, the island’s people were unlikely to unravel the tangled plot he’d woven to enmesh them, but Rethnor was not willing to give them a chance.

“Who steers the ship?” he demanded. “Where are we bound?”

“One of the sailors-I know not his name. Rest easy; we sail for Luskan,” the physician replied in a soothing voice. Rethnor threw aside the coverlet and rose to his feet. He thrust aside the protesting healer and made his way up to the starlit deck and confronted the astonished tillerman. “Turn her about,” he ordered in a voice that forbade argument. “Set a direct course for Trisk.”

The sailor blinked but promptly relayed the order to the scant remaining crew. None of the men openly questioned Rethnor-to do so at the best of times would have meant their deaths-but to a man they wondered whether the sword that had severed the High Captain’s hand had also stolen his wits.

Trisk was one of two large islands in the distant cluster known as the Purple Rocks. The islands lay west of Gundarlun, and past the warm waters of the River. Ice floes were still a hazard at this time of year, but even more fearsome were the strange and deadly sea creatures who were said to lair near the islands.

These stories were told only on solid land, preferably far from the sight of the sea and in the warm security of a crowded and firelit tavern. The tillerman did not want to remember those stories now. He was a Northman, and he did not fear to die. He just wished he could be certain there was a path between the mead halls of Tempus and the bellies of the sea creatures that surely awaited them.

Liriel slept through that night and well into the next day. She awoke with a start, surprised to see sunlight pouring in through the portal and Hrolfkeeping vigil beside her cot. He grinned broadly when he saw her eyes upon him. “It’s glad I am to see you awake, lass! Lie still, now,” he admonished her as she struggled to sit up.

“The lad is well enough, but sleeping,” Hrolf continued, guessing what her first question might be. “He took a few cuts, none of them past stitching, but tired himself out something fearful. I’ve lived on Ruathym all my days and seen berserkers in frenzy many a time, but never anything to equal that!” he said with awe.

“It gets worse each time,” Liriel managed to say.

Hrolf nodded, his jovial face suddenly very somber. “He doesn’t have many more like that in him, does he?”

The drow shook her head. Her eyes drifted shut, but not before the pirate noted the uncharacteristic despair in their amber depths.

“What do you plan to do about it, lass?” Hrolf asked softly. “I figured some time back that you’re looking to Ruathym for answers. Might be that I can help you find them.”

“It’s a very long story,” Liriel muttered.

Hrolf folded his arms and leaned back against the wall. “You got until moonrise to tell it,” he said calmly. “The lads bade me keep you here till then. They’re working on a surprise for you.”

“Carrying out the verdict from the Thing?” Liriel inquired with a touch of bitterness.

The captain grinned. “You might say that. But it’s naught to fret about, trust me on that. Now, let’s hear your tale.” Trust was not something that came easily to the drow, but Liriel found comfort in Hrolf’s bluff assurances.
Indeed, she had not realized until this moment how fully she’d come to trust the pirate. Without hesitation she told him the story of the Windwalker. Stolen from one of Rashemen’s Witches, the amulet was an artifact from some ancient time, its magic little understood even by the pOWerful Witches who had worn it over the years. She told of the series of events that had introduced her to rune lore, the ancient magic shared by ancestors of Ruathym and

Rashemen, and the story of how she’d come to possess the amulet. Finally, she told him of the quest that drew both her and Fyodor to Ruathym. The Windwalker was crafted for two things: to store “place magic” for a time, and to carve a newly learned and unique rune upon the ancient and sacred oak that stood on Ruathym. Liriel’s innate drow powers and ready spells attested to the Windwalker’s potency. She hoped that the journey to Ruathym-the lessons she learned, the trials she endured-would form the needed rune in her mind and heart that would grant her permanent possession of her darkelven magic, and Fyodor control over his berserker strength.

“I’ve heard tell of ancient rune quests,” Hrolf observed when at last she paused for breath. “Let’s say the shaping of the rune does come to you. Do you know how the casting of it should be done?”

Liriel shook her head. “I know a lot about wizardly magic, but this is completely different.”

“Might be that I can help you there,” he said thoughtfully. “You’re right in saying that much about rune lore has been forgotten, but bits and pieces of the old ways can still be found if you know where to look. Some in my family still pass down the old tales.” He paused and gave Liriel a grin and a wink. “You might ha’ noticed I don’t go about things the way most people seem to think I ought. That current runs deep in my family. I got a cousin, a good friend since we was boys, calls himself a shaman. Him and me will have a sit-down and talk it out, see what can be done for you and the lad.”

The drow nodded her thanks, but the despair did not fade from her eyes. “Ifwe make it to Ruathym in time,” she said softly.

Hrolf considered this. “You know,” he said, “I’ve been thinking about the plan to stop by Gundarlun. Herring fishing is nasty work. I’d just as soon do without it this spring. We’ve provisions enough to take us to Ruathym, and our trade goods won’t spoil before the next trip. So how about we sail straight for home?”

Liriel’s startled gaze flew to the pirate’s face. “You would do that for us?”

“That and more, and don’t you be looking so surprised about it!” The pirate reached out and gently cupped her chin in his massive paw. “You’re a right smart lass, but you’ve yet to learn a thing or two. You and the lad have stood by me, and the Elfmaid, time and again. Don’t you be thinking III soon forget it.”

Hrolf gave her cheek a gentle pat and then sat back. “If you’re feeling up to visitors, there’s someone powerful eager to talk to you.”

Liriellifted an inquisitive brow.

“Xzorsh,” the pirate responded, grinning broadly. “The elf’s been swimming alongside since sunrise. Got something for you, he says, and won’t give it into any hand but yours. I’m thinking that he’s a bit taken with you, lass.” Liriel responded with a derisive sniff.

“Well, why not? He’s a likely-looking lad,” Hrolf teased, “and you with a fondness for swimming!”

“If I thought I could hold my breath long enough to make it worth my while, I might be tempted,” Liriel responded wryly. “But I might as well see what he wants.” Still grinning, the captain left the cabin and clopped up the ladder to the deck. A few moments later, Xzorsh came quietly to the door, a familiar bag in his webbed hands. “Your magic crabs,” he said, placing the still-wet bag on the floor. “They are all there.”

The sea elf looked as if he wished to say more, so Liriel waved him into the room’s only chair. There were things that she, too, wished to discuss.

“Was it hard to find the throwing spiders? The magic crabs,” she amended, remembering the name Xzorsh had given them.

“Not too hard. I often search lost ships for items of worth,” the elf said eagerly. “I am considered skilled at such tasks and often find things useful for trade.” He reached for his belt and unclasped a bracelet attached there—a heavy gold band of ancient design set with large oval sapphires. He offered the bauble to Liriel. “Would you take this in exchange for the knife you lent me? And would you name a price for one of the magic crabs? Or other weapons of magic, if you have them to spare?”

Liriel waved away the gaudy bauble. “Take the knife, and welcome,” she said absently. “I’ve a dozen like it. As for the magic crabs, it so happens that I do have a price in mind. “Before I was tossed overboard,” she began, “I saw enough of the battle to recognize which man led the attack.

A big man, darkbearded, left-handed. My friend Fyodor fought him and cut off his sword hand. It went into the sea. Find the severed hand and bring it to me.”

A look of horror crossed the sea elf’s face. “What could you want with such a thing?”

“Can you get it or not?” Liriel asked impatiently; She had her reasons, but she certainly didn’t intend to speak of them. By Lloth’s eighth leg, thinking about them was bad enough! During her short career in ArachTinilith, Liriel had learned that Lloth’s priestesses possessed spells to rival those of the most powerful necromancers. Even if the darkbearded man still lived, his hand was certainly dead, and there might be answers she could get from it, powers that she could wield over him. The needed spell was powerful, and as usual the risks were correspondingly great. Liriel was not certain she could control such a spell even if Lloth chose to grant it.

“It is possible that I could find it,” Xzorsh admitted. “But the sea is full of creatures, and most likely a severed limb has been…”

“Eaten,” the drow finished curtly. “Well, do your best. III make it worth your time. In fact, why don’t you take a couple of the magic crabs with you now as advance payment? The rest well negotiate upon your return.”

Hearing the dismissal in her words, the sea elf claimed his treasure and rose to leave. He paused at the door. “The lost spirits of my people. How can I help you find them and set them free?”

“Get the damned hand,” Liriel repeated emphatically. When the male did not look convinced, she added, “Doesn’t it seem strange to you that three ships and nearly two hundred fighters came after a small fish like the Elfmaid? They wanted something from us, and they knew enough about us to bring a large fighting force. I don’t think they were after Hrolf’s cache of Neverwinter clocks.”

Xzorsh stared at her. “The attack was prompted by the slain sea folk?”

“It’s possible. Once we find out who those men were and what theyre up to, we have a chance of fmding out what happened to your people. For that,” she concluded testily, “I need that hand.”

The sea elf nodded as he absorbed this. “Forgive me, but

1 do not understand why you trouble yourself with the problems of sea folk.”

The drow shrugged, not having any reason to give that she herself understood. When she offered no explanation, Xzorsh suggested one.

“I have heard many grim tales about the dark elves. You are not at all what I expected of a drow. It seems to me that I have been taught in error.”

A vivid image flashed into Liriel’s mind-the inevitable result that would occur if this nobleminded but utterly naive sea elf ever encountered one of her dark kindred. In a heartbeat, she snatched a handful of throwing knives from under her mattress and hurled them in rapid-fire succession at the too-trusting elf. The blades bit deeply into the wooden door, tracing a dangerously close outline around the startled Xzorsh.

“You are too slow to think and too quick to trust,” she snarled at him. “Now get out, and return only when you can bring me what I want!”

The ranger ducked out of the room and disappeared. With a sigh, Liriel fell back onto her pillow. It was a necessary thing, but she had not enjoyed doing it.

As he swam back toward the site of the recent battle, Xzorsh could not rid his mind of the drow’s words. There was much truth in them, he admitted. He was ever one to see things as all good or all evil, qualities that he considered as distinct and separate as sea and sky. The drow had fought for Hrolf and fought well, and she had shown concern over the fate of the slain sea folk. This had banished Xzorsh’s doubts and established her in his mind as a friend to be trusted. She was right in saying that he thought too little and trusted too much.

On the other hand, if Liriel truly was what she wanted him to believe ofher, why had she bothered to point any of this out to him?