The drow hurled the spiders, one after another. The magic-enhanced weapons bit deep into the squid’s carapace, forming a precise line and opening a wide crack. Before Liriel could stop him, Xzorsh picked up a harpoon and hurled it into the opening. The weapon sank deep into the wound, and the barbed point exploded from one of the creature’s eyes. The squid finally went limp, and its tentacles rose to the surface like rays from a sun. The creature was dead, but so might Fyodor be as well.
Liriel whirled on the sea elf, speechless with rage.
“To show him the way out,” Xzorsh explained.
Sure enough, a hand groped its way along the exposed shaft of the harpoon. In a moment, Fyodor’s head burst from the ruined eye. He dashed the gore from his face and dragged in several long breaths. His foe was dead; the battle rage slipped away. For as long as a berserker rage lasted, he never felt pain, or cold, or exhaustion. Those things would come now.
With difficulty, the young warrior squeezed himself through the eye socket and began to swim with uncertain strokes for the ship. Xzorsh dove into the water to help, and a dozen hands reached out to help the day’s hero aboard.
Fyodor slumped to the deck, pale as seafoam. His shirt had been ripped from shoulder to waist, and blood welled up from a dozen circular wounds. The sea elf began to tend the man, his movements so sure and deft that not even Liriel thought to interfere.
“Now there’s a tale to tell your son’s sons,” Hrolf declared, shaking his head in disbelief. “It’s lucky we are to have a berserker aboard!”
“It’s ill fortune at work here!” the first mate said angrily. “Granted, the lad killed the creature. But by my reckoning, the squid never would have attacked if the female had not been aboard! And for that matter, what kind of man calls a black elf woman friend?”
It was a long speech for Ibn, and the sheer passion in his words brought sympathetic murmurs from the battered crew. Dark, furtive glares skittered toward the drow.
“What kind of man?” Hrolf repeated and then shrugged. “I also count the drow as a friend, and by my reckoning I captain this ship still. So speak your mind as you will, lad, but my orders stand.”
There was nothing Ibn could say to that. He recognized his mistake at once. Every man aboard held the captain in high esteem, and most of them regarded the wounded berserker with something approaching reverence. They were willing enough to turn upon the drow, but not one among them could discredit what Fyodor had just done or would argue against the word or will of their captain. So the first mate contented himself with muttering, “Bad fortune!” as he stalked off in search of a dry pipe.
“Pay him no mind, lass,” Hrolf advised Liriel. “Ibn is a good man, but slow to let go once he takes hold of something. He’s not one for new ways, and yours are strange to us all.” He cast a curious look at the young wizard. “During the battle you spoke a word—calamari—to the squid. What is that—a magic spell? A curse?”
“A meal,” the drow returned slyly. Now that the danger had passed, her dark sense of mischief returned in full. She ripped the severed tentacle from the fallen sailor and strode across the deck to present it, still twitching, to Ibn.
“You wanted me to help with provisions? Fine. We will eat as drow do. Have this sliced, dipped in batter, and fried in rendered rothe fat. Calamari. It’s quite good,” she assured the mate, who was turning sickly green as he regarded the appendage.
“Ship’s wizard,” suggested a faint, strained voice.
The words came from Fyodor. He hauled himself up to a sitting position and cast a droll look at the first mate. “Consider her … ship’s wizard,” the Rashemi advised. He spoke with great effort, between ragged gasps for air, but his blue eyes sparkled with wry humor. “It’s … safer that way.”
The red-bearded man nodded, his distrust of magic momentarily thrust aside by the prospect of seeing that twitching tentacle on his plate. “Ship’s wizard,” Ibn agreed fervently.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE PIRATE’S LIFE
The Elfmaid had been at sea for several days before the northernmost Moonshae Isles came into view. Fyodor was heartened by the sight of land and eager to explore. The ship did not make port, but kept a careful distance from shore, cloaked into invisibility by the heavy spring mists.
“With winter’s passing, the seas are opening, and the merchant ships will soon sail,” Hrolf explained when Fyodor asked about the delay. The two men sat cross-legged on the deck of the forecastle, a torn net between them. Their fingers flew as they retied the knots with a rhythm of practiced ease. Barely missing a beat, Hrolf gave the young warrior a companionable swat on the back. “And after seeing you take on that squid, I’d say we’ll pick off the merchants as easily as taking ripe currants off a bush!”
“I will not fight for you,” Fyodor said quietly.
The captain paused, startled. “How’s that, lad?”
“I fight only when I must, only to protect my land or my friends,” the young warrior explained. “If the ship is attacked, I will stand with you. But I must warn you, if you attack another ship to rob it, I may well turn against you.”
Hrolf’s genial expression did not change, but his eyes turned hard. “A threat?”
“A warning,” the Rashemi said calmly, but he cast a questioning glance at Liriel, who, lured by her friend’s somber expression, had crept close to listen to the discussion. “Unlike my berserker brethren, I cannot always choose when the battle rage will occur. Did not Liriel tell you this?”
“That she didn’t,” Hrolf said ruefully as he eyed the wary drow. “Slipped your mind, lass?”
“You started the tavern brawl before I could get to that part of the story,” Liriel said defensively. “I would have told you, otherwise. I’m fairly certain of that.”
The captain sighed and tugged at his vast mustache. His good spirits returned suddenly, and he winked at the drow. “Don’t look so downcast, my girl! Fighting’s all good and well, but there’re more ways than one to turn a profit!”
Later that day, the captain gathered together his crew to discuss the necessary changes to the usual lurk-and-attack strategy. The men agreed to Hrolf’s plan readily enough, even though it involved Liriel and her dark elven magic. All of them had seen Fyodor fight; none wanted to face his black sword in battle. Moreover, they were accustomed to their captain’s unorthodox methods, and they trusted him, if not Liriel.
It would not be the first time Hrolf achieved through bluffing what might otherwise have cost dearly in blood. In fact, the captain leaned heavily toward a benign form of piracy. If he could scare a ship into surrendering its cargo, so much the better. Hrolf loved a good fight, but he enjoyed fighting far better when the Elfmaid was well out of harm’s way.
So the crew clustered around as Liriel explained the necessary spell. “It is a form of teleportation that will exchange one person for another. One of you will be sent aboard the ship to take our terms to the captain: half their cargo in payment for his man’s return. Which of you is willing to go?”
“It’s not just a question of who’s willing, lass,” Hrolf commented. “Think on this: what’s to keep them from holding our man and going for an even trade or even refusing to trade at all? Don’t get me wrong—your magic’s a fine way to kidnap a man. It will put the other captain off guard, at least for a moment or two. But it’s not enough.”
“What, then?” Liriel demanded.
Hrolf smiled slyly. “The Ffolk of the Moonshaes are a hearty people, not easy to spook. Picture their captain finding himself face-to-face with a stranger who appeared all of a sudden on his ship. Who among us is most likely to strike head-numbing fear into the poor sod?”
All eyes turned to Liriel.
A slow, wicked smile spread across the drow’s face, and she nodded her acceptance. Her eyes sparkled as she began to improvise the details of the plot. Soon the pirates were chuckling with delight. None argued or even frowned as she passed out their assignments with the absolute ass
urance of a battle chieftain.
Of all the men aboard, only two were not caught up in the excitement: Ibn, who puffed stolidly away at his pipe, and Fyodor, who tried without success to hide his disappointment as he watched the shining, animated face of the plotting drow.
Liriel cast the spell at dusk. Although she was slowly becoming accustomed to the punishing glare of the sun and sea, twilight was a time of mystery, a time of natural magic that the drow recognized and intended to exploit. Sea and sky melded into one darkness, but the shadows resisted banishment. As they faded with the failing light, they seemed to leave an unseen presence behind. In the cusp between day and night, between shadow and dreams, anything seemed possible. This was important, for Liriel’s spell depended upon her victims’ capacity for awe as surely as it did her dark-elven wizardry. For such an enchantment, no time was more potent than twilight.
The Moonshae vessel was also ideally suited for Liriel’s purposes. She realized this the moment the teleportation spell set her down upon its deck. She prowled silently about, her piwafwi cloaking her in invisibility as she studied the ship, observed the line of command. She even explored the cabins, the better to know her prey. One small chamber was littered with bits and pieces so odd they could only be spell components. Liriel quickly searched this cabin and, to her delight, found a small book filled with unfamiliar spells based upon sea magic. She pocketed the treasure and resumed her search.
The merchant ship was small but of a modern design, with a sturdy aft castle built as an original part of the ship rather than as a temporary, add-on platform. It had a sternpost rudder, steered with a tiller. The man at the tiller had to be told what to do, because he was under the after castle and couldn’t see where the ship was headed. At the moment these orders came from the captain, who was perched in the crow’s nest atop the ship’s single mast. Ratlines—evenly spaced light ropes that formed ladders—ran up to the crow’s nest from either side of the ship.
Silent and invisible, the drow scrambled up the lines and climbed into the crow’s nest beside the captain. He was leaning over the edge, frowning as he listened to the agitated report of two of his men.
“What do you mean, Drustan is gone?” he called. “Gone where?”
“We have him,” Liriel said, flipping open her sheltering piwafwi.
The captain straightened abruptly and whirled toward the sound of her voice. His face bleached in terror at the sight of a dark elf, close enough to touch.
“He is with my people,” the drow continued and was rewarded by the look of horror that came into the captain’s eyes. Clearly, he thought his man had somehow been whisked away to the fell, underground realm of the dark elves. All the better, Liriel thought smugly. She cocked an eyebrow. “We might be persuaded to return him.”
The man tried to speak. No sound emerged. He licked his lips nervously and tried again. “What do you want?”
“Half your cargo,” she stated. “Do not try to cheat us, for we will know. I am not alone,” Liriel said, dropping her voice to a dramatic whisper. She pulled the folds of her cloak about her and blinked out of sight. The captain could not see her or the dagger she pressed against his throat, but the line of blood trickling down into the ruffles of his shirtfront was visible, and utterly convincing. Liriel saw in his eyes the terrified belief that his ship had been invaded by an unknown number of dark elves, a deadly and invisible force.
“We will do as you say,” he said in a strangled tone, but there was a desperate cunning in his eyes that Liriel noted and mistrusted.
“It might save some unpleasantness if you know up front that your wizard is useless against us. No human spell can disperse our invisibility charms—magic slides off the drow like water from a seabird’s feathers,” she informed him coolly. “But any magical attack, however feeble, will be parried and answered. Believe me when I tell you that you do not wish to see drow magic tested in battle.”
Liriel saw the light of last hope fade from the man’s eyes and knew she had hit the target squarely. She gave him his instructions, making it clear that she would be at his side until all was done. If he gave the alarm, she promised, if he even hinted at the presence of the dark elves aboard ship, he would lose half his crew in addition to half his cargo … and perhaps his life as well.
The captain did as he was told, but the crew was slow to accept his claim that Drustan had somehow been magically spirited off the ship and that the cost of his freedom would be paid from their cargo. But they followed orders, lowering a large, flat-bottomed skiff and loading it with small oak casks.
“Make room for my people,” Liriel hissed into the captain’s ear. “Two will attend the skiff; the rest will stay to ensure there is no foolish attempt to cheat us of our toll. We will send your man back with the skiff, and then we will leave as we came.”
While the captain bellowed down orders to rearrange the casks, Liriel, still invisible, floated silently down into the boat. As soon as the men were clear of the skiff, she cast a spell of levitation. The heavily laden craft broke free of the waves and rose slowly into the air. As the dumbfounded sailors watched, it floated silently off into the mist.
It was not an easy spell, but Liriel knew the value of an imposing exit. It would give credence to the captain’s explanation, and the sense of wonder and fear that it inspired would occupy the humans’ minds and keep at bay any thoughts they might otherwise have had about following the ghostly skiff.
When the boat touched down on the Elfmaid’s deck, Liriel slumped over one of the casks, drained by the powerful casting. The crew swarmed to meet her and to examine their haul. They were delighted to learn that the casks were filled with fine raspberry mead, a sweet and potent honey wine scented with summer fruit.
“See our guest on his way, and then we’ll tap a cask for the celebration. The rest we’ll use for trade,” Hrolf said with a wink.
The men set promptly to work, following the plan Liriel had laid out. The captured sailor had emerged from the teleportation spell into the darkness of the hold. Two Ruathen had awaited him there, armed with tiny darts from Liriel’s crossbow. One quick jab had sent the sailor into a poison-induced slumber. He was still senseless when they brought him on deck and loaded him onto the skiff.
Liriel handed the precious spellbook into Fyodor’s keeping and then joined the sleeping sailor in the skiff, for one step remained to complete the deception. It would not do to let the Ffolk know their ship had been held hostage by shadows, and that Ruathen pirates lay within easy pursuit. She watched as the Elfmaid rowed away, pulling farther back into the mist.
When the Ruathen ship was beyond sight, Liriel unstoppered a tiny vial that held an antidote to the drow sleeping potion. She poured a single drop into the sailor’s slack mouth. He stirred, scratched, and then grumbled himself awake with a string of curses. His muttering ended in a strangled gulp when he saw a drow bending over him.
“Return to your ship,” she commanded him and swept a hand in the direction of the merchant vessel. Instantly the faint, ghostly outline of the Moonshae vessel gleamed through the fog. Liriel had limned it with faerie fire to guide the sailor back and to further astound those who awaited him.
While the sailor gaped like a beached carp at his ship, Liriel cloaked herself with invisibility and slipped quietly into the sea. Her limbs felt heavy in the frigid water, and the heavy folds of her piwafwi dragged her down. Although she was a strong swimmer, it was a struggle for her to cover the short distance back to the pirate ship.
Several pairs of eager hands were outstretched to haul her aboard. Liriel barely registered the sailors’ assistance, the feel of the deck beneath her feet, or the sight of it hurtling up to meet her.
Fyodor caught the drow as she fell and carried her down to Hrolf’s cabin. He turned away while she listlessly stripped off her wet things, kept his eyes averted until the squeak of the cot’s roping announced that she’d crawled under the covers.
“All went well,” she told him in a
drowsy voice, “but I have a feeling it’ll be a while before that captain stops looking over his shoulder. He’ll be seeing dark elves in every shadow for many days to come.”
“You need rest,” Fyodor said quietly. “I will leave you now.”
There was something in his tone that cut through Liriel’s haze of exhaustion. She hauled herself into a sitting position and studied her friend. As she’d suspected, he did not approve of this night’s work. His eyes did not condemn her, but they held sadness, resignation. This stung the drow more than she liked to admit.
“I have tasted Moonshae mead before,” Liriel said abruptly, “and I know its price.” She leaned over the edge of the cot and fumbled through the discarded belongings on the floor until she found a small bag. She tossed it at Fyodor. It fell short of his reflexive grasp and landed at his feet with the unmistakable chink of many coins.
“That is what the mead would have cost in the bazaars of Menzoberranzan. The captain will find an identical bag in his cabin. The ship’s wizard has also been compensated. Trust me, you don’t want to know the market cost of that spellbook,” she grumbled. “The point being, none of those men suffered loss from this little game. In fact, they made an enormous profit, considering they were spared the cost and trouble of carting their wares into the Underdark!”
For a long moment, Fyodor stared at the unpredictable drow. “But why, little raven? Why go to such trouble if you intended only to buy the mead?”
Her smile was pure mischief, but he did not miss the flash of uncertainty in her amber eyes. “Do you think Hrolf and his boys would have been satisfied with a simple business transaction? They had their minds set on piracy! This way, Hrolf got to play out his bluff, the Moonshae merchants have their money, and everyone involved comes away with a good story to tell. No one is the worse for it.”
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