Tangled Webs

by Elaine Cunningham

  Then came a second puff of energy, and a third. Bit by tantalizing bit, the illithid forced the merrow back toward the large oval pool at the rear of her audience chamber. The merrow knew full well the fate that awaited it there; its horror only made the exercise more delightful.

  Vestress prodded the merrow until it was but a few feet from the edge of the pool, and she froze it there. Its mind—such as it was—she did not touch. Another game awaited, and for that the merrow would need possession of its limited wits.

  The illithid sent a silent summons into the deep water. After a few minutes the surface of the pool rippled, and a pair of long, thin tentacles snaked out onto the tiled floor. Like thin arms they flexed, heaving and straining in an effort to drag the rest of the creature out of the water. Another pair of tentacles emerged to join in the struggle, and finally an enormous, bulbous head protruded. A large tail, fluked like that of a whale, flailed and slapped at the water as the creature humped and wriggled and dragged its way out onto the marble tiles.

  The aboleth—for such it was—turned its three slitlike eyes upon the immobilized merrow. These eyes were stacked one above the other, and they glowed with a strange purple light that intensified as the creature began to cast a charm. The sea ogre’s face went vacant as it fell under the spell, but several moments passed before it took the first jerky step toward the fishlike creature. Sometimes it took a good while for the aboleth’s innate magic to wrest its prey from the grasp of the illithid.

  This was a game Vestress and the aboleth played often. It amused them both and gave them what they most coveted. The illithid watched as one of the aboleth’s tentacles curled back and snapped, whiplike, toward the merrow. The sea ogre jolted then began to shudder convulsively as the potent venom coursed through its body. It rapidly transformed the merrow’s thick and scaly hide into a slimy, transparent membrane. The creature’s innards were clearly visible, but just for a moment. Bone softened, and the merrow’s form began to sag like a melted candle.

  Still under the aboleth’s spell, the sea ogre oozed its way over to the edge of the pool and splashed into the water. The aboleth dragged itself back to the water to feed. For all its fearsome appearance, the aboleth did not have any teeth, and its mouth was hidden on its underbelly. It could consume only victims that had been reduced to the consistency of mucus, and it could not eat except in the water.

  Vestress sat calmly while her playmate sucked the merrow dry. The wait was usually well rewarded. The aboleth might be ungainly, but it was one of the most potent sources of information in all of Vestress’s vast network. An aboleth acquired all the knowledge possessed by any creature it ate. No aboleth willingly gave up these secrets, but Vestress was exceptionally skilled—even for an illithid—at pulling information from an unwilling mind. The aboleth enjoyed the challenge of going mind-to-mind with the powerful illithid, and occasionally it agreed to hunt and consume some intelligent seagoing creature that might yield up—posthumously—information of special interest to Vestress. In all, it was an arrangement that suited them both.

  Again the aboleth dragged itself out of the pool, moving more slowly now that it had gorged itself on a nine-foot ogre. It locked stares with the illithid, and the battle for mental supremacy began.

  Vestress reached out with her psionic powers, touching the impressive shields that guarded the sea creature’s mental treasure trove. She pressed, nudged, battered at the wall—all to no avail.

  At last the illithid turned away, admitting defeat. Sometimes she won, sometimes not. It was no coincidence, however, that she usually lost when the prize was a creature such as this merrow—and after she had extracted from its mind any information of value.

  The aboleth did not seem to care about such distinctions. The victorious fish-thing slithered back into the water, leaving a trail of gray slime on the marble tile, and then disappeared into the depths beyond the pool. Oddly enough, it was this disgusting substance that had prompted Vestress to summon the aboleth in the first place. Although the slime smelled disgustingly like rancid lard, it was useful in making potions of water-breathing, and Vestress had it collected after each of the aboleth’s visits.

  Vestress sent a mental summons into the antechamber for her newest slave. The slave was human, a strong, pale-haired female who’d fought entertainingly against the illithid’s mental control. No matter—the female had succumbed as did all. Now docile and efficient, the woman knelt on the tile and began to scrape up the grayish slime. When the marble floor was spotless and shining, the well-trained slave took the bottled slime and headed off for Vestress’s alchemy chamber, where it would be transformed into a potion of water-breathing.

  The illithid was in particular need of such a potion. Her last one had been used to create a ring of water-breathing, a valuable item lost to the drow whom the slain merrow and his band had failed to kidnap. This drow—indeed, the entire crew of the Ruathen ship—had surprised Vestress more than once. That situation, however, was about to change.

  The Regent glided toward the pool that led to Iskor’s watery realm. She would summon the water wraith and persuade her to bring the drow Shakti to Ascarle at once. What better, more entertaining way to learn more about her new drow foe—and her new drow ally—than to pit them against each other?

  The Cutlass made port on Trisk, the main island in the Purple Rocks archipelago, in record time. With the assistance of an efficient dockmaster, Rethnor sent a messenger to the palace requesting an immediate audience with King Selger, the nominal ruler of Trisk. As he suspected, the monarch sent a coach at once to bring the High Captain of Luskan in state.

  This was Rethnor’s first visit to the island, and as the royal coach crested the rocky hillsides of the coast and rolled through the green valley beyond, all that he saw confirmed his suspicions about the island’s place in the Kraken Society. The people of Trisk were cheerful and industrious. Never had Rethnor encountered so pristine a harbor, or farms and homesteads so well tended. At first glance, the island appeared to be a place of remarkable contentment—a paradise.

  But Rethnor had not achieved his position by accepting first appearances. He noticed the strain behind the smiles, the frantic striving at excellence, the watchfulness on every face. And he noticed that the emblem of the Kraken Society—a many-tentacled purple squid—was worn in some form by every person he set eyes upon. Rethnor did not think that these simple, isolated folk had become Kraken agents through personal ambition, or even by choice.

  So much the better.

  He found King Selger to be much as he’d expected—delighted with the impromptu visit, eager to please, clearly aware of the importance of maintaining Luskan’s goodwill. Rethnor intended to see how far the king would go to keep it.

  The High Captain waved away repeated and lavish offers of food, mead, and various entertainments. “My time is short. I need to meet with the head of the Kraken Society,” he said bluntly.

  Stunned silence met his words, then carefully worded disclaimers. Rethnor would have none of it. He badgered, ordered, threatened—and finally King Selger yielded.

  “We will do what we can to aid you,” the king said cautiously, “but upon your own head be the consequences.”

  “I accept them,” Rethnor said, and then added dryly, “Perhaps it will set your mind at ease to know that these consequences, whatever they may be, will not affect the island’s trade status with Luskan.”

  The king’s face turned deep red at these words—even a puppet monarch had his pride, Rethnor noted—but he did not try to deny their truth. His only caveat was that Rethnor must wait for low tide. Nothing the captain could do or say would make Selger budge on that point.

  And so shortly before the following dawn, a servant summoned Rethnor and showed him to the royal stables. The two men selected their mounts from among the stout, shaggy ponies indigenous to the island, and then rode off in silence. Rethnor tried to extract information from the servant, but the man did not speak the Common trade lang
uage and Rethnor knew only a few words of the obscure dialect spoken on Trisk. The High Captain suspected the servant had been chosen specifically for his lack of linguistic skills. Although King Selger had little choice but to cooperate with this powerful ally, he apparently intended to do all he could to protect the secrets entrusted to him.

  The two men rode in silence to the island’s northern coast. It was a dismal, deserted place, a long stretch of rock-strewn sand that was eerily devoid of life. No seabirds wheeled and quarreled overhead, no crabs scuttled along the still-damp sand. Rethnor’s lone escort took him to a rocky ledge that dropped off suddenly and dramatically into the sea. He pointed out the caves that were revealed only when the tides were at their lowest ebb.

  As soon as Rethnor swung down from his mount, the servant seized the pony’s reins. Wheeling his own mount about, he bolted back toward the safety of the town.

  Rethnor briefly considered throwing a knife into the coward’s back, but the man was out of range too quickly. With a curse and a shrug, the Luskar let the matter pass. He took a pine-pitch torch from his pack and lit it, then he dropped into the water.

  Even at low tide, the sea was waist-deep at the cave’s entrance. Holding the torch high, Rethnor slogged onward into the darkness. The cave was larger than he had anticipated, and the vast blackness seemed to swallow the flickering light. Just as the Captain began to wonder whether the king had sent him on a fool’s errand, the chamber narrowed, and the light of his torch reflected off the walls of a wondrously carved stone passage.

  Thick pillars lined the walkway, and curving buttresses met overhead in graceful arcs. All surfaces were carved with intricate designs, detailed scenes, and the curving script of some long-forgotten language. The artistry was breathtaking, and Rethnor could not help but calculate the market price of some of the artifacts he passed as he waded through the silent halls. Just the gargoyles alone would bring a fortune to rival that of the most corrupt Waterdhavian noble.

  Rethnor raised his torch for a better look. Marvelously detailed and endlessly varied, the gargoyles perched atop the pillars like silent sentinels watching over the passage. Looming over him was a particularly fearsome statue—a goblinlike creature with an owl’s beak and feet, and wings like a cross between those of a bat and a manta ray. As the torch’s flickering light touched the gargoyle, the stone statue stirred to life. The massive wings snapped out into a tight arch, and the creature leaped from its post. Down it glided toward the stunned man, the talons on its enormous feet flexed and eager.

  Too late Rethnor realized his error. These were not statues, but living creatures—kapoacinth, a marine variation on the pure evil that was a gargoyle. As the creature bore down on him, Rethnor flailed at it with his torch. But what weapon was fire to a creature of stone?

  As the kapoacinth swooped in, Rethnor understood what a hare must feel just before the strike of a hawk. Giant stone claws closed on the Northman’s shoulders, biting through the protective layers of fur overcoat and leather armor. Rethnor gritted his teeth against the pain as the creature dragged him from the water. His torch flew from his hand and died with a feeble hiss.

  The gargoyle flapped heavily into the air with its prey and then glided down the passage. After a time the man’s eyes adjusted to the darkness. He noted that the passage was one of many, each with side tunnels branching off haphazardly on either side. The kapoacinth took many turns, following a convoluted path that Rethnor could not hope to remember. Then, to the High Captain’s greater horror, the creature changed path once again and dove straight for the water. The man filled his lungs with air just as the icy impact struck him.

  After the cold, Rethnor’s first sensation was that of incredible speed. The water rushed past him with a force that threatened to tear him from his captor’s claws. Then, suddenly, the motion stopped. Cautiously Rethnor opened his eyes. They had emerged from the tunnel into a large undersea cavern. In the dark water ahead Rethnor could make out the shapes of what appeared to be the ruins of a city wall. Once again the kapoacinth dove like a stooping hawk. The creature glided through the remains of a massive portcullis, then swiftly made its way through an enormous labyrinth of ancient stone.

  In moments the inner city lay before them—not ruins, but a marvel crafted from crystal and coral, beautiful beyond telling. Like a diamond with a heart of flame, the city lent an eldritch glow to the surrounding water.

  The kapoacinth swooped down to a marble walkway that ended in a gleaming arch. Its talons opened, and Rethnor dropped heavily onto the path. With a sharp slap of its barbed tail, the creature sped him through the magic doorway. Rethnor stumbled through the portal and emerged in an air-filled room. The entire underwater journey had taken little more than a minute or two, but the shock of it had quickened his heart and emptied his lungs. Another moment more would have been too much for him. Yet even as he dragged in much-needed air, he placed his one remaining hand on his sword hilt and surveyed the room for potential danger.

  Rethnor found himself in a place of surpassing beauty, an antechamber that would have graced any palace in twenty realms. The crystal walls whorled upward in intricate patterns to the peaked ceiling, giving the impression that the room was contained within an enormous gem. Exquisite marble of pink, green, and white was inlaid in exquisite designs on the floor and walls, and rare statues graced the alcoves. Most fair of all was the servant who came to greet Rethnor, a woman of the North, dressed in silken robes that matched the pale gold of her hair. In a strangely toneless voice she bade him follow, her movements wooden as she led the way through ever more wondrous rooms.

  Unaccustomed to such splendor, the High Captain was keenly aware of his sodden clothing and bedraggled appearance. He had little thought to spare for such petty emotions, for nothing in this unnatural place felt right, and his warriors instincts screamed out a warning. As the beautiful slave led him down a long passage toward the audience chamber, he strove to still his mind and prepare his wits for the encounter to come.

  But nothing could have prepared Rethnor for what awaited. The vast room was dominated by a marble dais and a crystal throne the color of pale amethysts. Seated upon this was a regal—if hideous—creature. A silver diadem rested on its high-domed lavender head, and the four tentacles that made up the lower half of its face writhed in sinuous, graceful patterns.

  Well met, Rethnor, intoned a familiar, feminine voice in his mind.

  The High Captain gaped at the strange creature, unable to hide his distaste. This was the regal woman who had guided so many of his recent plans? Was it possible that this malformed beast was the famed head of the Kraken Society?

  We thought you might be more comfortable conversing with a form similar to your own, the illithid explained. In answer to your rather tactless, if unspoken, question, I rule this place as Regent. Do not underestimate my power, or that of those I serve.

  Rethnor’s left arm jerked up to one side, without his will and of its own accord, revealing the stump where his sword hand had once been.

  We see you have been careless with the scrying ring we gave you, the illithid continued. It is well we had the foresight to provide you with a second device. But let us speak on matters of import. You have come to seek assistance. We are ready to provide it.

  A silent summons from the illithid brought two more, even stranger creatures into the room. A glasslike nymph glided toward the throne, and at her side stalked a female drow.

  Rethnor had no opinions on nymphs, but he held a Northman’s dislike of elves, drow or otherwise. They were scrawny, wispy, ugly things, to his mind more like shadows than real creatures in the way they flitted about, utterly despicable for their effete dependence upon magic. But this female was more substantial than any elf he’d ever laid eyes on, with a tread you could hear and a solid form that approached human proportions. She was plump and curvy enough to draw the eye of any hearty male, but there was not a bit of softness about her. The drow’s eyes were red, as hard and cold as rubies, a
nd bright with feral intelligence. On the dark canvas of her face was painted barely controlled fury. Despite his innate prejudices, Rethnor was intrigued.

  We will provision your ship and provide you with fresh sailors and fighters from among the people of Trisk, so that you might continue your pursuit of the Ruathen ship. These two will go to help ensure your success.

  “What need have I of two females?” Rethnor demanded, appalled by the very idea of setting sail with these creatures aboard.

  Iskor, the water wraith, can speak with the creatures of the sea and locate the ship you seek in moments. She can also summon powerful beings from her native plane. Perhaps such can succeed where you, to date, have not. Shakti, the drow, has yet to prove her worth, but you will take her all the same.

  Rethnor glowered at the elf. His fierce glare had turned aside powerful warriors, cooled the battle ardor of hardened Northmen. But the drow’s strange red gaze did not falter; indeed, she seemed to grow only more angry as she regarded the man.

  “This insult is past bearing,” she spat, speaking in harsh, badly accented Common. As she spoke, she fingered the silver cuff that clung to one pointed ear—no doubt some magical device that translated her speech, Rethnor surmised.

  “I sought partnership with a water wraith, offering value for value, and how am I repaid?” the drow continued bitterly. “Taken to this … faerie city and apprenticed to a human? A male!”

  Do you not wish to capture your runaway drow? She is on the ship this man seeks. You need him, and he you. I strongly suggest you find a way to work together, the illithid commanded.

  The Northman and the drow locked stares, taking furious measure of each other. Rethnor was the first to speak. “When we find the ship, the berserker warrior is mine to slay. Keep your foul magic away from him,” he ordered.