Tangled Webs

by Elaine Cunningham

  A solid wall of seawater splashed over the domed shield as the ship dropped under the surface of the water. But Liriel’s spell held; the air-filled bubble bobbed to the surface, the Elfmaid rocking wildly within its protective shield.

  Now that the ship was free, the exhausted drow dropped the magical defense. Too soon—a vast wave of water flowed upward and re-formed into the elemental. Ignoring the approaching caravel, the elemental once again closed on the Elfmaid. But the creature had only one arm; it apparently was unable to tap the inexhaustible supply of seawater to regenerate its form. Liriel took note of this, then dove deep into the concentration needed for her next casting.

  Her intended spell was a summoning, very like the dark-elven magic that raised an army of spiders from the creatures that lurked in every cranny of the Underdark.

  The result was immediate and spectacular. Every sea creature within attacking range came to her call, forming the strangest army the drow had ever seen. A pod of gray whales began to nudge and prod at the elemental with their enormous, barnacle-encrusted heads. The elemental batted at them with its one remaining arm, but the whales persisted, pushing the creature inexorably northward and away from the Ruathen ship.

  The efforts of the smaller creatures were also taking effect. They swam up into the water that comprised the elemental’s borrowed body, turning the sea-colored creature dark with their shadowy forms. Hundreds of small fish busily schooled, swimming in fast, tight circles as if they were in some enormous fishbowl. The dizzying current seemed to confuse the elemental, and it swayed drunkenly as it flowed toward the north.

  Other, more deadly creatures joined in the attack. Long-snouted barracudas darted about inside the creature, snapping and tearing as they sought the essence of the creature contained within the seawater. One of them managed to rip through the elemental’s watery hide and was shot, with a sudden gush of fluid, from the creature’s body. With the force of a ballista bolt, the fish slammed into the side of the Elfmaid. Its body splattered, leaving a dark streak behind as the remains of this strange warrior slid slowly into the sea.

  The elemental’s watery form flowed in to close the wound, but the creature had lost a bit of stature with the attack. It seemed weaker, too, and it no longer fought the determined whales that nosed it steadily away from the Ruathen ship.

  By now Fyodor had climbed down from his perch, and he came to Liriel’s side. The drow was swaying, drained by the powerful magic she’d cast, and he slipped a steadying arm about her waist. “You cannot fight it alone,” he told her quietly.

  “It becomes smaller with each attack,” the stubborn elf responded, pulling away from her friend’s embrace.

  “Just so.” Fyodor fixed a determined gaze upon her. “In my land, there are tales of an ancient sword whose strike could freeze the blood and flesh of an enemy. Put such an enchantment upon my sword, and I will carve frozen pieces from the creature for as long as I am able.”

  Liriel stared at the young man, understanding what he intended to do. He did not expect victory over the elemental, but he was fully prepared to die in battle against it if that would cut the creature down to manageable size. It was not the first time Fyodor had taken on suicidal odds to spare her, and Liriel had yet to understand how this could be so. Self-preservation was the first law of the drow. A mixture of awe and confusion sparked the girl’s ready temper.

  “Your confidence in my ability is touching,” she snapped, thinking of the years of crafting, the incredibly powerful spellbinding, that went into making a weapon such as the one in Fyodor’s tale. “But you have no idea what you’re asking! Before we try conjuring magic swords, let’s give the fish a chance. Oh, look—there’s a good one!”

  A large black creature that looked strangely like an Underdark bat spiraled upward through the elemental’s liquid body and into the head. The long tail whipped about, thrashing and probing. The elemental reeled, its one hand clutching at its temples as if it were in agony.

  “Manta ray,” Hrolf told her, a grin of dark satisfaction on his bearded face. “Got a poisonous sting to its tail with enough power to sink a small whale. Now that’ll slow the critter down, and give him something to regret come morning!”

  The Waterdhavian ship, meanwhile, had changed course to close in on the wounded elemental. A catapult lever sprang forward, sending a grapeshot load hurtling toward the creature—crystalline particles of some sort that caught the last rays of sunlight like so many glittering gems.

  “Uh-oh,” Liriel murmured. Without bothering to ask for details, the pirates dropped to the deck and flung their arms over their heads.

  The whine and thud of the catapult’s machinery caught the attention of the tormented elemental, and it spun just in time to face the incoming spray of crystals. Instinctively, the elemental threw up its one arm to ward off the attack, and it began to sink into the protective waves.

  Not soon enough. A geyser of steam billowed into the darkening sky, filling the air with a tremendous hiss and the overwhelming stench of cooked fish. The Waterdhavian ship changed course immediately to veer away from the deadly cloud, but the faint cries coming from it indicated that some of the sailors had been scalded. The pirates leaped to their feet, cheering and shouting at this double victory.

  Nevertheless …

  “They will pursue,” Ibn pointed out, his tone grim.

  Hrolf shot a significant look at Liriel. “Not if they think there’s nothing left of us to chase.”

  The drow considered this, her fingers closing around the Windwalker as she reviewed the spells contained in the amulet.

  “Enough!” Fyodor demanded, his voice tinged with anger. “Look at her. She is barely able to stand. How much magic do you think one person can channel and live?”

  “She’s stronger than you think, lad,” the captain said stoutly, wrapping a fatherly arm around the girl’s shoulders and giving her a squeeze.

  The young warrior stood his ground. He had seen the Witches of Rashemen pour forth their magic until they died and faded away, their bodies disappearing to whatever mysterious resting place awaited Witches slain in battle.

  “It is better that we take on the ship in battle,” Fyodor insisted.

  Liriel sniffed. “You don’t want to face off against the wizard who melted that elemental, trust me on that. And it’s not one ship, but two.” She pointed to the northeast; the distant vessel was now close enough for human eyes to discern.

  Hrolf snatched up an eyeglass and trained it on the approaching ship. “Damn and blast it, it’s one of them warships we fought before!”

  “And the elemental was taking us to them,” the drow added. “Believe me when I say that anyone who can summon elementals is bad news. Hrolf and Ibn are right. Whoever those people are, they will pursue us until we are dead—or they think we are. You,” Liriel demanded, whirling to point at one of the sailors, “bring me a sea chart with our current location marked on it. Harreldson, take the rudder and set course for Ruathym. The rest of you, to oars! Put some distance between us and that caravel!”

  The men scurried to do her bidding. Even Fyodor took a place at the oars, for he knew that no argument would sway the stubborn drow once her mind was set upon a given course of action. The row of oars dipped and pulled, and the nimble Elfmaid leaped toward the south. Tracing a stately arc, the caravel changed course to pursue.

  Liriel stood alone on the main deck, her eyes closed and her hands curved before her as if she were holding an invisible globe. Slowly, as if in graceful dance, her hand turned palms-out and her arms stretched high, then went out wide. A sheet of darkness, a vast impenetrable curtain of black, fell between the Elfmaid and her attacker.

  “It worked,” Liriel muttered with relief. She had never tried to reshape the drow globe of darkness into another form, and until this moment she had no idea whether or not it could be done. Taking no time to exult, she turned to the next part of the spell. The sailor she’d sent for the chart hovered nearby, his eyes round
with wonder as he stared at the summoned darkness. Liriel snapped her fingers impatiently, and he darted forward with the chart.

  “We’re here,” she mused, touching one black fingertip to the point on the map that the sailor had marked and sliding it down as far as she dared. “What are we likely to bump into here? Rocks? Shoals? Anything?”

  “Nothing but open sea,” the sailor said, and his face blanched as he understood the drow’s intent.

  “I’m not real happy about it myself,” she grumbled, for the gate spell required for such an escape would have challenged her even if she’d approached it fresh and rested. Still, there was something to be said for the power of desperation. And by the time the Elfmaid was ready to take the dimensional plunge, their situation would be desperate indeed.

  The fingers of the drow’s right hand curved around the Windwalker, and she flung her left hand toward the black curtain. Magic fire spat from her fingers, forming a fireball that tore through the darkness and beyond. There was a moment’s silence, a thud of impact, then shouts from the other ship and the faint crackle-and-hiss of a fire quickly extinguished.

  Again Liriel attacked, and this time came the unmistakable pop of a fireball glancing off a magical shield. Good, she thought grimly. The enemy ship’s wizard was every bit as powerful as she’d suspected. She was almost certain what his next move would be, and she readied herself in preparation.

  Summoning every fireball in her arsenal, Liriel braced her feet wide and set off the first small missile, much as a drow armsmaster might send out a scouting party of kobolds to test the enemy’s range and resolve. She heard the magic fire strike the unseen shield, and she began to count rapidly. An answering flash exploded from the darkness—her own weapon, rebounded back. The fireball, diminishing in size and power as it came, fell short of the Elfmaid and disappeared into the water with a weak fizzle.

  A smile of triumph flashed across the drow’s weary face. She now knew precisely how long she had between attack and escape. Again she stretched out her hand, and again magic fire erupted from her fingers. A barrage of fireballs spewed forth, so many that the sky was brightened as if by festival fireworks, so quickly that it appeared as if a single line of multicolored lightning flashed from her outstretched hand.

  With the last of her fireball spells gone, Liriel swayed and then dropped to the deck like an arrow-shot raven. She struggled to her knees, both hands clasping the Windwalker and her face set in determination. Quickly she called forth the gate that would take the pirate ship several miles to the south and to safety.

  Nothing.

  A scream of pure, primal rage tore from the drow’s throat. Never had magic refused to obey her call! Anger lent her a moment’s strength; she snatched up her obsidian pendant and raised it high even as her scream ended in a shriek of prayer—a brief and fervent oath in the ancient Drow tongue, a final, desperate plea to Lloth.

  Utterly spent, Liriel fell silent and watched with dull eyes as her own weapons rebounded toward the pirate ship in a colorful storm, whistling as they burst through the curtain of blackness and hurtled downward like falling stars. The illusion she had hoped to create—the destruction of the Elfmaid, her death, and those of her friends—would soon be all too real.

  And then the lights and the sound were gone.

  The Elfmaid was surrounded by swirling gray mists, by heavy air as dank and foul as that of a despoiled crypt. Although she’d been temporarily blinded by the fireballs, Liriel had her other senses in full measure, and she caught the familiar scent of giant fungi and a whiff of sulfur and brimstone. Faintly, as if from some unfathomable distance, came the echoes of roars too terrible to have come from mortal throats and of shrieks that spoke of torment and despair. Liriel’s eldritch senses were fully aware, too, and she sensed the palpable cloud of terror and gloom that pressed heavily upon all those unfortunate enough to enter these realms. She also sensed the core of dark fire that was the heart of this fell domain, felt the frigid obsidian hand that reached out to touch her and to claim the offered prize.

  Lloth had answered her prayer.

  Relief mingled with horror in the young drow’s heart. She and her friends would escape their deaths, but oh, the price! In that desperate moment, Liriel had pledged herself as priestess to Lloth, and she had been accepted.

  A mere novice in Menzoberranzan, Liriel had not been required to make such a pledge, but considering the many challenges she faced, it was a step she logically should have taken long before this. Not a problem, the drow told herself, and nothing outside the realm of her experience and expectations. She had merely agreed to become a conduit for the Spider Queen’s power, as had her foremothers for centuries untold, and vowed to work for the glory of Lloth. Power was power—she would accept what she was given and make the best use of it that she could. And yet, as the oppressive gloom of the Abyss crept into her soul, Liriel wondered for the first time what the price of this power might be.

  And then the mist parted to reveal a sparkling night sky and a calm, black-satin sea. Liriel turned her eyes upon the humans. To a man, they were frozen in place and looked as if they’d been chilled to near-death by the touch of a vengeful wight. She fervently hoped they did not realize where they had been.

  Finally Olvir managed a weak grin. “And I thought the last magical trip was bad! Don’t get me wrong—I’m glad to have come out of that with my hide in one piece—but give me a choice, and I’ll take a stormy sea anytime.”

  “Aye!” Hrolf agreed, his voice less hearty than usual. “Don’t exactly know why, but Umberlee take me if I don’t feel like I just slept with a lichwoman!”

  The analogy was apt, and it sent visible shudders running through the men of the Elfmaid. But the matter was over, and the sailors shook off the eerie lethargy and went about their tasks with a gusto that spoke loudly of their pleasure to be back upon the open sea.

  But Fyodor was more perceptive of magical matters than the Northmen. He came to Liriel’s side and knelt beside her on the deck. “Where were we?” he asked in a low voice. “Never have I felt such power in a place … or such sorrow.”

  The weary drow tried to answer him and found she could not. Liriel was drained, empty, numb—and utterly defenseless against the despair that was the Abyss and the churning chaos that marked the touch of Lloth. She had never expected to feel so horrified by something that should have been a matter of course—indeed, the greatest honor a drow could know. Her dark-elven assumptions were profoundly shaken, her drow magic temporarily exhausted, her natural resilience stretched to the breaking point. It was all too much. An unfamiliar moisture gathered in the corner of her eyes and spilled over onto her cheeks. For the first time in her life, Liriel wept.

  For a moment Fyodor merely stared at her, utterly dumbfounded. Then he swept the drow into his arms and carried her down into the privacy of the hold. She buried her face against his chest, clinging to her friend as if borrowing his strength until the silent tears had run their course. By the time Fyodor reached her cabin, Liriel was asleep in his arms, her thin body still shaking from the convulsive sobs.

  Fyodor stayed with her a long time, for her fingers gripped his hand as if it were a lifeline. In truth, he would have stayed regardless. During their travels he had frequently watched over her so, for Fyodor was often unable or unwilling to sleep. In slumber Liriel looked tiny, fragile—utterly unlike the fierce, powerful being who channeled such fearsome magic. At such moments she was his alone. He needed that feeling tonight, and he clung to her hand as fervently as she clasped his.

  Yet try as he might, Fyodor could not conjure the wistful deception. Liriel knew things, experienced things, that were far from his understanding. She was as much a mystery to him, and as far beyond his reach, as the mighty Witches who commanded his land. He sensed that something of great and dire import had happened this night, something that took the girl still further from him. The pain this brought him was as nothing, however, compared to his concern for her.

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nbsp; The fey gifts that were the inheritance of the Rashemi had granted Fyodor a bit of the Sight, and the things he had glimpsed in that dreadful place had chilled him to the soul. He could not help but wonder what the more magically sensitive drow had felt and seen. As he watched over Liriel’s sea-deep slumber, he thanked the ancient gods that drow did not dream.

  Rethnor lowered his eyeglass, and a smile of grim satisfaction crossed his black-bearded face as he savored the scene of destruction he had just witnessed. The strange curtain of darkness was gone, and the troublesome Elfmaid was no more. Perhaps Rethnor had not bested the young berserker himself, but the man was dead for all that. In his mind, all was well enough.

  “Turn her about,” he ordered the helmsman who stood at the wheel of the Cutlass. “We return to Trisk at once.”

  But Shakti whirled on him, her scarlet eyes blazing. “We were to capture the ship! What of the prisoners? Yours, mine?”

  “There is no more ship, and anyone we might have captured is now food for the sea creatures. I am satisfied with the conclusion. If your prize has been destroyed, what is that to me?” he taunted.

  To Rethnor’s surprise, the elf woman laughed in his face. She snatched the eyeglass from his hand and smacked him in the chest with it.

  “Fool!” she spat out, punctuating the remark with another sharp blow. “Look again. There is nothing but a cloud of steam, caused when rebounded fireballs struck the water. If the ship had exploded, there would be more heat lingering in the air, and burning wreckage and blood to warm the waters. Fool!” she repeated scathingly as she hauled back the eyeglass for another attack.

  The captain reflexively seized her wrist, and he stared at her in disbelief. “You can see heat?”

  “You cannot?” she retorted and pulled free of him with an expression that suggested his very touch was distasteful.