The cog closed in fast, and the seal hunters’ first volley of arrows clattered against the wooden shields. Hrolf’s men returned fire, then the Elfmaid turned hard astern and darted past the onrushing cog. Before the merchant ship could change course, Hrolf’s rowers spun the ship in a circle and brought her alongside the cog. Two of the pirates twirled ropes that ended with heavy grappling hooks, then let fly. Both of the hooks found purchase on the larger vessel. A seal hunter leaned out to cut the lines; his body fell into the sea, bristling with Ruathen arrows.
Then came the grating shriek of wood against wood as the ships struck, then rebounded. The rowers set their oars and took up weapons just in time. Three of the hunters leaped over the narrow expanse of water that separated the two ships.
Hrolf barreled toward the invaders, roaring, his arms spread wide. He caught them before they could get their footing, and all four men plunged, with a mighty splash, over the side.
“Take the fight to them, lads!” The captain’s voice came to them from the water below. “No need to be getting blood all over the Elfmaid’s clean deck!”
The pirates tossed boarding planks between the ships and began to swarm up the incline onto the cog. Weapons drawn, the more numerous hunters confidently awaited the pirates. Then, suddenly, the attackers’ expressions of certainty melted into astonishment.
All of them had heard stories of Ruathym’s berserkers, elite warriors who protected their homeland. Berserkers were never encountered at sea, much less aboard a pirate vessel. Yet the dark-haired warrior stalking toward them could be nothing less.
Fully seven feet tall, he brandished a black sword too large and heavy for most men. There was an aura of magic about him, and his blue eyes burned with inner fire. Equally fearsome—and even more astonishing—was the drow female who followed the berserker like a small dark shadow. There was a long dagger in one slender hand, and a feral gleam in eyes as golden as those of a stalking wolf.
The seal hunters’ hesitation lasted but a moment, for their black-bearded captain spurred them into battle with the point of his own sword.
The berserker went straight for Captain Farlow, backhanding two pirates out of the way with the flat of his blade as he strode up the boarding plank. He leaped onto the deck of the cog, swinging his black sword downward in a sweeping cut as he came.
Farlow snapped his sword up high to block the attack. His was a fine weapon—a hand-and-a-half sword of dwarf-forged steel, tested in two decades of mercenary fighting. The berserker’s blade shattered it and sent deadly shards flying. Faster than Farlow would have believed possible, the berserker reversed the direction of his swing and batted a length of airborne steel toward one of the hunters. The shard flew end over end, like a thrown knife. It caught one of the hunters through the throat, nailing him to the wooden mast.
The captain glanced at the hilt in his hand and the jagged fragment of steel that was all that remained of his blade. Raising the ruined weapon high overhead, he flung himself at the deadly invader, putting his weight and his strength fully behind the blow.
Liriel saw the attack coming and shrieked a warning to Fyodor. Almost casually, the berserker reached up and caught the man’s wrist, fully stopping his momentum. Then he twisted the captain’s arm down and inward, and with one quick thrust he sheathed the ruined blade in the heart of its owner.
Surprisingly enough, the hunters did not abandon their fight with the death of their captain. They threw themselves at the pirates with astonishing ferocity. Liriel noted one in particular—a tall, red-haired man who fought with the zeal of a paladin as he faced off against Hrolf. The Elfmaid’s captain had managed to back the man onto the forecastle, but there both stood, neither taking nor giving ground, their swords ringing in a deadly dialogue.
The other hunters did not fare so well against the pirates and their berserker ally. In minutes, the cog’s deck was slippery with blood, and few of the hunters had been spared Fyodor’s black sword. Except for Hrolf’s opponent, none remained standing.
Seeing that victory was theirs, Liriel let out a whoop and turned to Fyodor. One glance stole her triumph. Although only Ruathen sailors stood on the main deck, the killing frenzy had not yet left the young warrior.
“Throw down your weapons!” she shouted. “All of you!”
The berserker whirled toward the sound of her voice, his black sword cutting the air with an audible swish. Liriel had seen her friend in battle many times, but never had she faced him, or seen the fire and ice of his battle rage turned upon her. He towered over the tiny elf, for the magic of the berserker lent him an illusion of preternatural size and a strength to match. Liriel could see through the magic to his true form, but this was of little comfort. There was no recognition in Fyodor’s eyes as he advanced on her.
Liriel dropped her bloody dagger and fell to her knees, holding her hands out wide, palms up in a gesture of surrender. From the corner of her eye, she saw that Hrolf and his chosen man still held their swords. They’d hesitated at Liriel’s impassioned shout, but they eyed each other warily, neither willing to give up the advantage.
“If you value my life, Hrolf,” she said quietly, “if either of you idiots value yours, drop your swords now!”
An instant’s hesitation, then the clatter of falling steel shattered the tense silence. At last Fyodor’s battle rage left him and, as the magic faded, he seemed to slip back into his own body. He stood there for a long moment, looking down with a puzzled expression into the drow’s upturned face. Then the tip of his sword fell heavily to the deck. His eyes were haunted, his face ashen as he turned and walked away from the battle. Liriel understood and left him to his solitude.
The Ruathen sailors, however, swarmed gleefully over the captured cog. As Hrolf directed their efforts from the forecastle, they tossed bundles of raw skins onto their ship and carried aboard the stretching frames and barrels of lye needed to begin the process of tanning.
Bjorn struggled down the plank carrying a large oaken cask. It slipped from his grasp and fell heavily to the Elfmaid’s deck. The lid cracked and gave way, and the contents spilled out. The boy stood there, gaping, his nearly beardless face pale.
“Captain, you’d better see this,” he said at last.
Something in Bjorn’s tone brought Hrolf at a run. The captain’s ebullience disappeared as he gazed at the still, small figure on the deck: the body of an elf child, perfectly preserved by the pickling brine that puddled on the deck.
The macabre discovery brought the looting to an abrupt standstill. The pirates crowded around, not certain what to do. Their discomfort increased visibly when Hrolf tenderly gathered the dead child in his massive arms and wept, openly and without shame.
At length Hrolf laid the elfling gently aside and ordered his men to search the other barrels. His haggard face turned deadly as, one after another, the dead sea elves were laid out upon the deck.
“Call Xzorsh,” he said grimly.
One of the men hurried below, returning promptly with a strange device that looked rather like a small hurdy-gurdy. Hrolf placed the thing in the water and turned the wooden crank. Instead of music, the instrument gave off a series of clicks and whistles.
“A message to the sea elf,” Bjorn whispered to Liriel. “Sounds travel faster and farther in the water than in air. There are creatures below who will hear and repeat the message until it reaches the sea ranger’s ears. He will be here soon, and he will know what must be done.”
When Hrolf rose to his feet, Ibn took the device from him and then nodded toward the cog. “What do we do with the ship and the men who yet live?”
“Scuttle it,” Hrolf said tersely, “and leave the surviving scum to await Umberlee’s judgment. But bind their wounds first, so the blood doesn’t draw sharks or worse. The Lady of the Waves will do as she will, with no help from me!”
The captain’s wrath sped the men about their work. They fell to, some loading the wounded hunters into a single small boat, others using battle
-axes to hack gaping holes in the side of the cog. One of the survivors—the red-haired man who’d matched Hrolf blow for blow—tried to have words with the captain. Hrolf effectively silenced his protests; a single blow of his ham-sized fist dropped the fighter. The captain tossed the unconscious man into the little craft and gave the signal to set it adrift. In moments the mists closed around the condemned men, like a veil separating them from the mortal world.
Hrolf stood at the rail, looking out after the boat with grim satisfaction long after it had disappeared from view. Quietly, respectfully, the crew went about their duties. Few of them knew the full story of their captain’s long-ago elven love, but there was not one among them who hadn’t lost someone to the sea. There was not one among them who didn’t send up a silent plea to Umberlee, asking the Lady of the Waves to take the wounded seal hunters to appease her wrath rather than someone else.
In these prayers, no one dared to name himself, or a friend or lover whom he wished to see spared. Those who lived with the sea were a superstitious lot, and they took their fate as it came. Yet not a man among them would deliberately place himself at the mercy of Umberlee, and not a man among them doubted what the seal hunters’ fate would be at the hands of the sea goddess. And although they were Northmen, a people who as a rule held little love for elves, none of them believed that this fate was undeserved.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE AMULET
Triel Baenre, the newly elevated ruler of Menzoberranzan’s most powerful house, sat in state upon her black throne. Faint purple light surrounded the young Matron Mother, casting eerie shadows throughout the chamber and forcing the eyes of the priestess seated before her into the light spectrum. This Triel did by design, for light stole the nuances of heat vision, masked the subtle play of emotion that dark elves were so adept at reading. To the drow, absolute darkness revealed more than it hid. Shadows were more useful for concealment.
It was important that Triel hide her distaste for her visitor, for Shakti Hunzrin was a valuable tool, the first traitor-priestess in generations to successfully infiltrate the ranks of Vhaeraun’s clergy. The known followers of the drow god of thievery were few—in no small part because suspected followers were summarily put to death—but Triel believed that the so-called Masked God posed more of a threat than Lloth’s clergy liked to admit. As traitor-priestess, Shakti would help ensure that this dangerous seed never bore fruit.
The Baenre matron was confident that Shakti’s primary allegiance was to Lloth; indeed, Triel’s powerful mind-reaving spells revealed nothing more disturbing than fanatic zeal. Perhaps a bit too much zeal, for unlike most priestesses Shakti held literal belief in the Directives of Lloth. These so-called Directives—conquering the Underdark and obliterating all elves from the Lands of Light—were pleasant fantasies, useful for massaging the pride of the drow masses and averting attention from other matters. Triel even allowed that the Directives were worthwhile goals. Her attention, however, was fully absorbed with more immediate concerns.
There had been recent challenges to her throne and whispers of conspiracies to remove House Baenre from its longheld position. Even the matriarchy, the system that had ruled for thousands of years, was under attack. Indeed, all of Menzoberranzan teetered on the brink of anarchy. Triel desperately needed something to offer the struggling drow, something to rally them—something that, not incidentally, would help consolidate her own rank and position. The rogue magic wielded by her errant niece might well provide the key.
“What have you learned of Liriel’s amulet?”
“There is good news,” Shakti began. “The wizard Nisstyre is dead, and with him the plan to use the amulet for the furtherance of Vhaeraun’s cause.”
Triel nodded her approval. There were far too many rivals for this prize. “You have other contacts among Vhaeraun’s ranks?”
“Many,” Shakti lied smoothly, trusting in the mind shields that were among the most powerful of Vhaeraun’s gifts to her.
“Use them,” the matron ordered. “Send them to the surface. Bring Liriel and the amulet back to the city.”
“I have already sent my emissaries—no drow males this time, but creatures from another plane. Not the Abyss,” Shakti said with easy confidence, “so you need not be concerned that other priestesses will know more of my plans than Lloth herself chooses to reveal.”
Triel’s countenance did not change, but Shakti saw the flicker in the matron’s eyes as she registered the knowledge that a priestess of Vhaeraun had access to powers unfamiliar to most of Lloth’s clergy. For the Hunzrin priestess it was a moment of pure gratification.
“Keep me informed,” the Baenre matron said, her casual tone dismissing the subject as if Liriel and the mysterious amulet were of little consequence. “Now, on to other matters. You know Lloth has decreed that there are to be no wars between the houses. When the affairs of the city are back in order, this will change. It is possible that the fortunes of House Hunzrin will improve considerably.”
Shakti carefully suppressed her glee. Triel’s words appeared to hold out an offer of support from powerful House Baenre, but they might just as well be a test. Shakti knew that overambitious drow were often found dead in their own chambers.
“My mother, Matron Kintuere, will be pleased to hear that you are optimistic about Hunzrin’s fortunes,” Shakti replied carefully.
Triel dismissed this prevarication with a wave of one hand. “The alliance between Baenre and Hunzrin has been long and profitable; however, I have often found Kintuere difficult and tiresome.” The matron paused, fixing a searching gaze upon the traitor-priestess. “Your older sister is dying. Soon you will be heir to House Hunzrin.”
Shakti dipped her head in a bow of acknowledgment, but she kept her face—and her thoughts—carefully neutral.
After a moment, a rare smile crept through Triel’s wellschooled facade. “Well done,” she said wryly.
Perhaps Triel was complimenting her for an apparently successful coup, perhaps for passing some obscure test. Probably both, Shakti decided.
She took her leave of House Baenre soon after. The interview with Matron Triel had gone well, but Shakti did not feel at all complacent. The surface was a mere seven days’ walk from Menzoberranzan, but to her it was an alien, unknowable world. Shakti had never ever set foot outside the city, much less the Underdark. She had no idea how difficult the task before her might be, or how long it might take.
When the magic of Liriel Baenre’s amulet was hers to command, when she had washed her hands in her rival’s blood—only then could she rid herself of the shackles of House Baenre and move on to the dual destinies that Lloth and Vhaeraun had laid upon her.
Xzorsh, the sea-elven ranger, was not surprised to receive Hrolf’s summons. Before the final notes of the calling box had faded from the thin air, while the clicks and whistles still reverberated through the water, the ranger had the Elfmaid in his sights. He didn’t have far to go; he’d been following the Ruathen vessel since its battle with the giant squid.
The sea elf was deeply troubled by the presence of a drow aboard ship, for he had pledged to aid all who sailed with Hrolf the Unruly. Xzorsh’s sense of honor demanded that he mitigate the damage done by the pirates. So far, he had been able to do so without conflict, but the sea elf feared that he could not keep his pledge against the dark mischief a drow might work.
Yet Xzorsh was also intrigued by Hrolf’s exotic passenger. Unlike most of his people, Xzorsh was fascinated by magic, and the drow female wielded it with skill and authority. The legends of the Sea People claimed that drow had stolen sea-elven magic; this only added to the ranger’s curiosity. Above all, he wished to speak with the drow, to learn the truth of the dark elves. Perhaps even to barter with her for magical weapons. He certainly had the means—Xzorsh was skilled at scavenging sunken ships and lost cities for treasure, which he traded for forged weapons and other goods his sea-dwelling people needed. Xzorsh had long dreamed of possessing a bit of elven magic for
himself.
But such personal goals would have to wait. Xzorsh had seen the approach of the cog and had witnessed at a distance the battle that followed. He did not interfere, for it was apparent from the outset that Hrolf and his men had matters well in hand. Nor did he rue the fate of the ship that drifted slowly toward the bottom of the sea. The merchant ship had attacked, unprovoked, for reasons that Xzorsh did not care to know. She had earned her fate.
As he neared the Elfmaid, Xzorsh saw, silhouetted against the sky, the dark ovoid bottom of a small ship. Survivors, he surmised, set adrift to await Umberlee’s mercy. He did not disapprove. There were times when sea elves dealt with sailors in like fashion, for many seagoing humans posed a threat to all sea folk, and at times the elves were forced to strike back. Out of habit, though, Xzorsh came to the surface to check on Hrolf’s recent handiwork.
Seven men were slumped in the small boat, all but one of them bearing wounds that had been tended and wrapped. The sea elf nodded, approving this evidence of fair play. Then his eyes settled on the red-haired man in their midst, and he recoiled in astonishment.
This man he knew. Caladorn, a Lord among the humans of Waterdeep, often held council with the mermen who tended the city’s harbor. Xzorsh had frequent dealings with the merfolk and had seen the young human during one such meeting, albeit from a distance and through a filter of seawater. He had been impressed with Caladorn and considered him a man of honor. What could this man have done to provoke such a fate from the easygoing Hrolf?
Xzorsh swam cautiously closer. Sailors given to Umberlee were sometimes allowed to keep weapons so that they might not meet a fate other than that chosen by the Lady of the Waves. But these men were unarmed—further proof of some egregious offense.
“Lord Caladorn,” Xzorsh called softly. The man jolted, then looked around for the speaker. His eyes widened as they settled on the sea elf, and Xzorsh gave the man time to absorb his presence. Few humans ever saw one of the Sea People, and those who were granted a sighting were usually overcome with wonder.
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