Skullport …
Far below the streets of Waterdeep, a hidden city of mystery, intrigue, and sudden death, where the streets echo with savage blows and half-heard cries.
Elfmaid …
Sleek and graceful, she sails the seas from the wave-tossed Moonshae Isles to the sinister waterways of Skullport.
Liriel Baenre …
Together with her friend the Rashemi barbarian Fyodor, the beautiful drow travels the surface world aboard Elfmaid, searching for adventure … pursued by the intrigues of the spider queen and her minions.
Tangled Webs
by Elaine Cunningham
Songs and Swords
Elfshadow
Elfsong
Silver Shadows
Thornhold
The Dream Spheres
Starlight and Shadows
Daughter of the Drow
Tangled Webs
Windwalker
Counselors and Kings
The Magehound
The Floodgate
The Wizardwar
Evermeet
TANGLED WEBS
©1996 TSR, Inc.
©2003 Wizards of the Coast LLC
All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of Wizards of the Coast LLC.
Published by Wizards of the Coast LLC.
FORGOTTEN REALMS, D&D, Wizards of the Coast, and their respective logos are trademarks of Wizards of the Coast LLC in the U.S.A. and other countries. Hasbro SA, Represented by Hasbro Europe, Stockley Park, UB11 1AZ. UK.
All Wizards of the Coast characters and their distinctive likenesses are property of Wizards of the Coast LLC.
Cover art by Todd Lockwood
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2002113220
eISBN: 978-0-7869-6020-0
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Visit our web site at www.wizards.com
v3.1_r1
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to editors Brian Thomsen, for his patience and good humor, and Marlys Heeszel, for carefully picking up the stray pieces of the story and dusting in all its corners. To game designer and sage Steven Schend, for Waterdeep, for shared obsessions, and for sending me care packages of gaming accessories and other much-needed background information. To Bob Salvatore, for his good-natured support of this project, for his generosity with both time and advice, and for the wonderful storytelling that drew me in to the Forgotten Realms® in the first place. To Jim Lowder, who midwifed the characters way back when and who continued to encourage me long after he was obligated to do so. And to Bill, Andrew, and Sean, who will always be the reasons why.
DEDICATION
Fortunate indeed are those who can point to a remarkable teacher who made a real difference in their lives. I have been blessed with three. One of these is Jim Lowder, the extraordinarily supportive editor who worked with me on both Elfshadow and Elfsong, and whose influence will stay with me for as long as I continue to write. From time to time I still hear his phantom voice at my shoulder when I’m at the computer, envision his snide (okay, “incisive”) comments written in red all over my manuscript margins. Strange though it might sound, this is a good thing.
For demanding more, for teaching me to edit myself, and for being there still as a friend when the solitude gets deafening and when I wonder why I ever thought I could write in the first place, this book is dedicated to Jim Lowder—with the condition that he puts away that damned red pencil when he reads it!
Thanks, Jim.
Contents
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Acknowledgments
Dedication
Chapter One: Skullport
Chapter Two: A Gathering Storm
Chapter Three: The Open Sea
Chapter Four: The Pirate’s Life
Chapter Five: The Amulet
Chapter Six: Storm at Sea
Chapter Seven: Dance of the Elfmaid
Chapter Eight: Sea Folk
Chapter Nine: Strange Alliances
Chapter Ten: The Purple Rocks
Chapter Eleven: Escape
Chapter Twelve: Ruathym
Chapter Thirteen: Shapeshifters
Chapter Fourteen: Call of the Deep
Chapter Fifteen: The Raven’s Call
Chapter Sixteen: The Captain’s Conspiracy
Chapter Seventeen: Yggsdrasil’s Child
Chapter Eighteen: Holgerstead
Chapter Nineteen: The Price of Power
Chapter Twenty: The Coming Storm
Chapter Twenty-One: Drow Don’t Dream
Chapter Twenty-Two: Deeper
Chapter Twenty-Three: The Powers of Darkness
Chapter Twenty-Four: The Battle for Ruathym
Chapter Twenty-Five: As One
Chapter Twenty-Six: Song of the Skalds
Epilogue
About the Author
CHAPTER ONE
SKULLPORT
Far below the streets of Waterdeep, in a cavern buried beneath the bottom of the sea, lay the hidden city that legend and rumor had named Skullport. Most of those who came here sought to trade in goods that were banned in civilized ports, and the dregs of a hundred warring races did business in an atmosphere of knife-edged danger. Yet beneath the streets of Skullport were even deeper realms, places that the most intrepid merchants strove to avoid. In one particularly noisome labyrinth—a series of winding tunnels and despoiled crypts—a dungeon had been fashioned for those who disturbed the tenuous balance of the city.
Once the burial place of a long-vanished tribe of dwarves, over the centuries these catacombs had become home to other, more dangerous creatures. From time to time, treasure hunters came seeking an undiscovered dwarven cache; most of these seekers remained as piles of moldering bones, giving powerful testament to the traps and monsters that lingered in the dank stone passages.
It was a forbidding place, even to a drow accustomed to walking the endless tunnels of the Underdark. Magical elven boots muted the sound of her footsteps, and a glittering piwafwi cloaked her with invisibility, yet Liriel Baenre kept keenly alert for possible dangers. To speed her way, she carried foremost in her thoughts the remembered face of the man imprisoned in this, the worst of Skullport’s dungeons.
Slender as a human girl-child and seemingly not much older, the young drow appeared delicate to the point of fragility. Her black-satin skin gave her the look of living sculpture, an image that was enhanced by the supple, tightly fitted black leathers and ebony-hued chain mail she wore. She was beautiful in the fey manner of elvenkind, with fine, sharp features and a cloud of thick white hair as glossy as moonlight on new snow. Hers was a mobile face that could be one moment impish, the next coldly beautiful, dominated by a pair of large, almond-shaped eyes the color of Rashemaar amber. These eyes spoke of a restless intelligence and an ever-ready supply of mischief. By all appearances, the drow girl hardly seemed capable of storming this deeply buried stronghold. That was, however, precisely what she intended to do.
Liriel moved easily through the utter darkness of the tunnel. The gloom presented no problem, for the eyes of a drow could detect subtle heat patterns in
the rock and the air currents. The eyes of a drow wizard were even more sensitive; in the tunnel ahead, Liriel perceived the faint, bluish aura—visible only to those who had inherent magical talent and assiduous training—that warned of magic at work.
The drow crept cautiously closer. The eerie glow curtained off the tunnel like a luminous sheet, but since it was a magical aura, it cast no illumination upon the scene around it. Liriel debated for a moment whether to risk creating a true light and decided it might be wise to view the trap through the eyes of those who had created it. That it was a trap, she did not doubt for a moment.
As easily as thought, Liriel conjured a globe of faerie fire. The magical light bobbed in the air beside her, floating here and there in response to her unspoken directions and bathing the grim scene in faint white light.
Bones littered the tunnel on both sides of the telltale blue aura, tumbled haphazardly together with abandoned weapons and gear. The tunnel’s floor and walls had been splashed repeatedly with gore, and the stone was caked with the dull, dark red of long-dried blood. Whatever the trap was, it had certainly proven effective.
Liriel’s gaze fell upon a shallow, much-dented bronze bowl embossed with finely wrought designs and lined with ivory. It seemed strangely out of place among the grisly remains and the practical tools scattered around her feet, and the curious drow crouched to examine it. As she picked it up, the “lining” fell out—it was not ivory but bone, and too thick to be anything but the skull of a dwarf.
The drow settled back on her heels to examine this discovery. Something had sliced neatly through the dwarf’s head, cutting through helm and bone so cleanly that the edges of both were as smooth as if they’d been ground and polished by a master gem-cutter. This told her much about the dwarf’s death.
Liriel kicked through the scattered debris until she found a heavy thigh bone that had once belonged to a good-sized ogre. As she expected, the bone was severed near the upper joint, at just about the spot where a dwarf’s head would reach if the two treasure-hunting fools had stood side by side. The drow rummaged through the pile, selecting similarly cut bones from the remains of several different races, and then laid them out beside each other. In moments she had a fairly precise idea of the trap’s danger—and its limitations.
Liriel took up the ogre’s leg bone once again. Keeping her hand well away from the magical danger zone, she thrust one end of the bone into the glowing aura. From either side of the tunnel wall, discs of gleaming blue whirled out from the solid rock. The spinning blades met, crossed, and disappeared back into the stone.
The drow regarded the bone in her hand. The tip had been sheared off, so quickly that she hadn’t even felt the impact, so silently that the only telltale sound was the muffled clatter as the bone shard fell to the blood-encrusted rock.
Not bad, Liriel acknowledged silently, but too predictable. A drow wizard would have enspelled the blades for random attack, so that each strike would come from a different place. Or perhaps such a provision had been made to deal with those who might figure out the first attack and try to slip in under the trigger area.
Liriel picked up two more long bones, one in each hand, and held the first into the glowing aura. Again the blue discs sped from the tunnel walls. The moment they crossed paths through the first bone, Liriel thrust the second one down low. The blades continued undeterred along their course and disappeared into the rock. The second bone did not trigger the magical trap at all.
Too easy! Her lips twisted into a smile that mingled triumph with contempt. A drow would have expected a second intrusion—and a third!—and would have ensured that the blades could reverse their paths instantly to meet any challenge.
Now that she saw her way clear, Liriel triggered the trap one last time. The moment the circular blades met and crossed, she dove under their path and rolled through the portal to safety.
In Skullport and environs, however, “safety” was a relative term. As Liriel rose to her feet, she glimpsed a flicker of reflected light on the wall of the tunnel ahead. Something was approaching from a side passage. Instantly she summoned the innate drow magic of levitation and, still invisible, floated up to the tunnel ceiling some twelve feet off the floor. She flattened herself against the damp stone to wait and observe.
A wisp of luminous smoke rounded the sharp bend, then recoiled as if surprised to find itself in an empty corridor. After a moment’s pause the smoke came on, flowing around the corner until there was enough to form a small, glowing cloud. The luminous mass writhed and twisted, finally settling into a hideous, vaguely human shape. As Liriel watched, horror-struck, the wraithlike cloud solidified into decaying flesh. The undead thing looked this way and that, its red eyes gleaming in the darkness.
Liriel had never seen a ghoul, but she recognized the creature for what it was. Once human, it had been twisted into a mindless but cunning beast that fed on carrion. Somehow it had sensed that the magical trap had been triggered, and it had come to feed. This would account for the clean-picked bones that littered the tunnel. It did not, however, explain the ghoul’s ability to take on a wraithlike form.
The ghoul shuffled around the passage, sniffing audibly and pawing the air with filthy, clawed hands. Liriel noted that it narrowly skirted the magical trap, showing a perception that only a gifted wizard could have possessed. As she studied the creature’s movements, the drow realized that it was retracing her steps. It was following the invisible path left by her innate dark-elven magic. But how?
She thought fast. Without doubt, the undead creature had once been a wizard, probably talented enough to have prepared for an afterlife as a lich. If his plans had been altered by attacking ghouls, he might somehow have managed to combine the two transformations. If that were so, it meant the ravenous creature below her was armed with a lich’s magic and a ghoul’s terrible cunning.
Her own command of magic was formidable, but Liriel knew better than to fight this mindless, undead thing. In a spell battle, strategy was as important as power. Accustomed as she was to the multilayered intrigues of her people, she could not outthink a being that acted solely on hunger and instinct.
At that moment the ghoul looked upward, turning its red eyes fully upon Liriel’s face. A long, serpentine tongue flicked out in anticipation, rasping audibly as it passed over the creature’s fangs. The drow shuddered, though she was certain the ghoul could not actually see her. Her invisibility granted her little comfort, though, when the lich-ghoul’s clawed fingers began moving jerkily through the gestures of some long-unused spell.
Liriel seized the leather thong that hung around her neck and gave it a sharp tug. Up from its hiding place beneath her tunic flew a small obsidian disk engraved with the holy symbol of Lloth, the Spider Queen, the dark goddess of the drow.
The girl clutched the sacred device and quickly debated her next move. Even a minor priestess could turn aside an attack by undead creatures, but Liriel had attended the clerical school for only a very short time and was accounted a rank novice. On the other hand, she was a princess of House Baenre—the most powerful clan in mighty Menzoberranzan—and she had left her homeland armed with the favor of Lloth and the captured magic of the Underdark. But Liriel had traveled far since then, in ways that could not be measured in miles alone. She found herself inexplicably hesitant to call upon the deity of her foremothers.
Then the lich-ghoul’s lips began to move, spewing graveyard dust and foul spittle as it chanted soundless words of power. An unseen force closed around Liriel like a giant hand, pulling her down toward the waiting creature with a yank so sharp and sudden that her head was snapped painfully back and her arms thrown open wide. Her piwafwi flapped open, disclosing her to the undead creature. But Liriel managed to keep her grip on the sacred symbol, and with a drow’s lightning-fast reflexes, she thrust it into the ghoul’s upturned, slavering face.
“In the name of Lloth, I command you to leave,” she said.
Crackling black energy burst from the symbol
and sent the undead thing reeling back. For a moment the ghoul huddled against the far wall, cowering before the revealed power of the drow goddess. Then its hideous body dissolved into smoke, and the wisps scattered and fled like a flock of startled birds.
Liriel heaved a ragged sigh and floated the rest of the way down to the tunnel floor. But her relief was mixed with vague, nagging misgivings. She had reason to know that Lloth was capricious and cruel. Fortunately, the ghoul did not bother to inquire into the goddess’s character. Power was power, and Liriel was alive because she had dared to wield it. There was a certain basic practicality to this reasoning that quieted the drow’s uneasiness and sped her steps. She once again drew her piwafwi close about her and glided silently down the tunnel, making her way unerringly toward the dungeons.
The drow girl had explored Skullport for several days now and had learned many of the city’s secrets. She had reveled in Skullport’s lawless freedom, its endless chaotic possibilities. But Liriel was young, and certain that her destiny lay across a vast sea on an island known as Ruathym. She was impatient to get on with it.
Her ears caught the echoes of a distant song, a rollicking tune sung with enormous gusto but little discernible talent. Liriel followed the voice, tracing the intricate path the sound took through winding passages and reverberating stone as effortlessly as a surface-dweller might follow a tree’s shadow to its source.
Before long she came to a small, dank cave that in eons past had served as a crypt. Now a prison cell, the cave was secured by iron bars as thick as Liriel’s wrist and a massive door that was chained and locked not once, but three times. The small stone chamber was cold, and lit by a single, sputtering torch that gave off more foul-smelling smoke than light. A few deep shelves, long emptied of bones and treasure, had been chiseled into one stone wall. On the opposite side of the cave was a plank bed, suspended from the wall by two rusted chains. And sprawled upon the bed was the singer, who kept time to his music by tossing bits of moldy bread to the creatures that scuttled about the floor of the cell.
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