Tangled Webs

by Elaine Cunningham

  A rueful smile came quickly in the wake of this thought. Try as he might, Xzorsh could not imagine the fiery drow in the role of tutor. But he did not abandon such thoughts altogether, for they sweetened his dreams and sped his way toward Ruathym.

  The kelpie stretched, watching idly as her graceful fronds undulated in the still, cold waters. A passing fish nipped at one of the green limbs, tearing off a chunk of bloodless, leafy flesh. The kelpie grimaced but did not, in truth, feel pain. She was well accustomed to grazing sea creatures. If anything, the hungry fish served to remind her that it had been far too long since she herself had fed.

  The kelpie swirled in the water, tearing up the shallow roots she put down from time to time, and began to drift in closer to the shore. Somewhere, out beyond the waves, was some hapless male as ravenous as she. She’d possessed two such men herself, and she had dim memories of the eager meals her parent kelpie had consumed. All those victims, she remembered, had had eyes that were bright with a strange hunger. The kelpie didn’t quite understand this, for they never attempted to feed upon her.

  A stirring of the currents drew the kelpie’s attention from the shoreline ahead. To her surprise and delight, a male swam toward her. And she had not yet attempted to charm him!

  Long, supple fronds reached out to enfold him; the male batted them away. When she persisted, he drew a knife and began to hack away at her. Puzzled, the kelpie cast her charm. The male’s flailing arm slowed, and the knife slipped from his webbed fingers. His eyes widened as he looked upon her, then darkened with desire. She wondered, briefly, how he perceived her: as a woman, or a green horse, or perhaps a hippocampus—a sea mount that appeared to be a cross between a giant seahorse and a dolphin. But as he gazed at the illusion-enhanced kelpie, he spoke an unfamiliar word in a harsh, sibilant tongue, a name that suggested his heart’s desire was something other than the usual choices. No matter. The kelpie smiled and waited expectantly for her latest conquest to drown.

  He did not oblige her.

  This confused the kelpie, and she released the strangely resilient creature. But the charmed male seized one of her longest fronds, entwined himself with it, fought passionately her every attempt to dislodge him.

  The kelpie considered this odd turn of events for several long moments, and decided it might not be such a bad thing. The male would protect her from hungry fish, perhaps even hunt for her. Surely there was other, similar prey in these waters. Let him find her another like himself, that she might eat.

  Dawn had not yet silvered the water when the fisherfolk dragged their boats into the sea. It was early for such labor, but the waters around Ruathym, usually so benevolent, had become as miserly as a dwarven moneylender. Feeding the village was growing ever more difficult, and the Ruathen in their little boats ventured farther out than usual into the icy waters in hope of finding food.

  The fisherfolk of two boats stretched a large, weighted net between them, rowing gently as they trolled the deeper waters in hope of ensnaring more than the few spiny and inedible fish that all too often comprised the day’s catch.

  Suddenly the net swept back and taut; something large had found its way into the trap. But the fisherfolk’s smiles of elation quickly disappeared. The net did not move. Whatever they had caught was beyond struggling.

  “Not again,” whispered young Erig as he regarded the silent net with horror. His partner for the morning, the shaman’s pale-haired daughter, nodded grim agreement. They both had seen other large and lifeless catches hauled ashore. Each death had weighed heavily upon Dagmar, she who had lost her twin-born sister in a summer squall. Yet she fell to work at once, dragging up fistfuls of the heavy net. Shamed by the girl’s stoic fortitude, Erig joined in the effort.

  The two boats drifted closer together as the rising burden drew them in. The circle of the fisherfolk tightened, and soon they could make out the two still forms entangled in a mass of seaweed. Fearfully, Erig reached out and began to strip away the fronds that obscured the identity of the drowned men.

  A hand shot out of the seaweed and seized the young man’s wrist. Erig let out a startled yelp and fell back. It was as if a corpse had suddenly leaped from its bier, with one terrifying addition: the figure that tore free of the seaweed was a sea elf with long plaited hair, a face twisted with rage, and a long keen knife in his webbed hand.

  So unexpected was the attack, and so strange the attacker, that for a moment even the warrior-bred Ruathen were frozen with shock. Dagmar, however, had the presence of mind to use the oar in her hands. She swung hard, and as the elf leaped into the boat she met his rib cage with a sharp crack. The blow halted the momentum of the attack. Erig seized the moment and punched out, landing a blow that sent the slightly built elf reeling back. Once again he struck, and at last the elf dropped senseless into the sea.

  The second elven figure entangled in the seaweed seemed more interested in freeing himself from the green mass than attacking, but the Ruathen were in no mood for making fine distinctions. Dagmar lifted the oar high and smashed down, again and again. The elf—a male with short hair as green as the kelp—ceased his struggles and fell limp.

  For a long moment the fisherfolk merely stood and stared at the strange beings in their nets. Finally Valeron, the oldest among them, leveled an accusing finger at the unconscious sea elves.

  “There’s the answer for the poor fishing and torn nets, or may Umberlee take me! Mayhap these sahuagin-spawned fish-elves know something about the drownings, too.”

  “Take them to land. Make them tell us what they know.” This opinion was voiced from one of the other boats that had drawn near to observe the spectacle.

  The taboo against sea elves was strong, and Dagmar tried to convince the others this course was not wise. But the voice of a woman was soon lost among the males’ clamor for justice—and vengeance. The elves were dragged aboard, and all thoughts of fishing abandoned as the folk turned back to Ruathym with their catch.

  “Xzorsh, my friend, can you ever forgive me for what I have done?”

  The ranger shifted painfully; he was bruised and battered from the pounding he’d taken at the Northwoman’s hands, and the wound from Sittl’s knife made his shoulders burn and throb—but he managed a wan smile.

  “It was not your fault,” he said, and not for the first time. “You were under the charm of a kelpie—of course you would fight to protect the creature. What I do not understand is why you ventured so far west in the first place, and why you did not leave word for me!”

  His partner grimaced. “After I left you to tend your pledge to the human pirate, I was waylaid by a band of merrow. They brought me here; I do not know why. I managed to escape while they quarreled among themselves. When this happened, I cannot tell you, for I do not know how long I was under the kelpie’s spell. Nor do I know what other things I might have done,” he added in a voice tight with foreboding.

  Xzorsh patted his shoulder. “I remember my first view of the kelpie lair. There were no other victims entwined among the creature’s fronds, so you may rest easy.”

  “Rest easy? Not until we find a way to free ourselves from this place,” Sittl said, casting a fearful look at the stout wooden walls of their prison.

  The ranger sighed. He spread his fingers and regarded his hands. They had been out of water for little more than an hour, and already the delicate webbing was dry and fragile. His lungs burned from the effort of breathing the thin, dry air. It was an effort he could not long continue; in his dizzied and weakened state, he fancied he could actually see his life-force drain away, like an ebbing tide slipping away from the shore.

  A sudden, cold splash struck him, dragging him back to full awareness. Xzorsh shook the water from his eyes and gazed with amazement up at Liriel. The drow girl stood over him, an empty bucket in her hands and an impish grin on her dark face.

  “Thought you might be getting homesick,” she said lightly.

  “How are you here?” Xzorsh demanded. “I did not see you come
in.”

  “No one did,” the drow returned. “And I don’t think they’d be pleased if they knew about it. You two are neck-deep in trouble.”

  “Where is Hrolf? Surely he can tell them we mean no harm!”

  Liriel’s face turned grave. “I don’t know. No one has seen him all day. He has been known to go off alone now and again, but he couldn’t have picked a worse time! A few of the Elfmaid’s crew are willing to speak for you, but their words are not heard over the blathering of that wretched Ibn!”

  “Hrolf’s first mate does not have much love for elves,” Xzorsh admitted.

  “Do tell,” Liriel agreed with a touch of sarcasm. She had ample proof of that from her personal experience with the man, and she felt an unexpected twinge of kinship with the captive and misunderstood sea elves.

  Even so, she herself was not entirely certain the Ruathen’s accusations were unfounded. She had come to think of Xzorsh as an ally, perhaps even a friend. Yet she had been raised to distrust all the fair races of elves, and her drow indoctrination had left its mark.

  “Why did you come to the island?” she asked bluntly.

  “I heard the Elfmaid had disappeared. You know I am pledged to protect Hrolf and his crew. I wished to know he was safe. I also wished to learn how such a thing was done.”

  Liriel tipped her head to one side as she considered the sea elf. To all appearances, he was sincere. Yet there was something in his eyes—a touch of hunger, a hint of some personal agenda—that set off alarms in her dark-elven mind.

  Her fingers crept up to her clerical symbol, and she silently cast the spell that would enable her to know whether his motives were more closely allied with aid or evil. Looking into Xzorsh was an odd experience—like being drawn deep into the heart of a flawless gem. The facets were there to add interest, but the color and substance within was consistent with the surface beauty. Like Fyodor, this male was what he appeared to be.

  The drow turned to Xzorsh’s friend, whose dull eyes regarded her with a mixture of fear and contempt. The last time she’d seen this elf he’d hurled a spear at her; his disposition did not seem to have improved in the interim. But as she cast the spell of knowledge a second time, she expected a brief swim in his suspicious but otherwise nobleminded depths. To her surprise, the results of the spell were anything but positive.

  A hideous image popped into her mind: a fish-man creature with green-scaled skin, black fins, and enormous round eyes bright with malevolence. A nimbus of vicious, sadistic energy crackled around the creature—the aura of pure evil.

  “Sittl, no!”

  Xzorsh’s despairing cry tore Liriel free from the disturbing spell. She blinked, focusing in on the sea elf’s sullen but otherwise handsome face. A moment passed before she realized that his eyes were dry and fixed, his breathing a barely perceptible gasp.

  “He is dying,” the ranger said, and his green eyes pleaded with the drow. As Liriel met his gaze, she suddenly realized that Xzorsh was looking none too well, either.

  The drow snatched up the empty bucket and chanted the words to a simple spell. She upended it over Xzorsh’s head, sending a fall of life-giving water cascading over both the males. After a few moments of this, the unconscious elf began to stir.

  “Put the bucket down,” Xzorsh said urgently. Liriel did so, and to her astonishment the ranger plunged his partner’s head into the water. She quickly saw the reason for this: the sea elves apparently could breathe air only for short periods of time. She watched, fascinated, as water poured from the gills on the elf’s neck with each breath of the water. Several moments passed before the submerged elf had revived enough to sit up.

  “We must get him back to the sea at once,” the ranger said.

  Liriel hissed with exasperation. “There’s a line somewhere between nobility and foolishness, but I’ve yet to find it!” When Xzorsh regarded her blankly, she pointed to the still-full bucket. “Breathe some of that, while I think of a way to get you out of here.”

  While Xzorsh at last tended his own needs, the drow quickly debated what she should do. The hideous image she’d seen troubled her, but there was no time to speak of it now. She doubted the sea elves would survive much longer, and she certainly didn’t relish the idea of explaining to Hrolf that she’d let his friend wither up and die.

  “Can you breathe ale?” she asked abruptly.

  Xzorsh and Sittl responded as one; they jumped, as startled as boys caught at some little prank. They exchanged a sidelong glance and a sheepish grin.

  “I see you’ve tried it,” the drow said dryly, then explained to them what she had in mind. Xzorsh grinned, utterly delighted with the plan, but his friend refused to have anything more to do with drow sorcery.

  “Have it your way,” Liriel said with a shrug. But she pulled a small object from her bag—a dried starfish she’d found on the shore, apparently stranded when the tides went out—and tossed it into the recalcitrant sea elf’s lap. She raised one white brow in an eloquent arch.

  “I will do as you say,” Sittl agreed grudgingly.

  The drow nodded and fell into the concentration needed for the casting of a powerful spell. She had learned much from her stolen book of sea magic—and from the scrolls and spellbooks in the Green Room—and she’d made a point of studying water elementals. She planned to summon two such creatures. Unfortunately, the sea elves’ wooden prison was on the innermost edge of the village, too far away from either the sea or the cold freshwater spring that served as village well. Water was needed to form the elementals’ bodies, yet apart from Liriel’s enspelled bucket, there was little water to be had in the immediate vicinity. Ale, however, was available in quantity. Hrolf’s warehouses stood next to the prison.

  The sound of splintering wood announced that Liriel’s summons had been answered. She winced as one expensive cask after another shattered to provide the fluid needed for the elemental to take corporeal shape. Still, she knew instinctively that Hrolf would shrug off the loss.

  “Remember what to do,” Liriel admonished the elves; then she drew her piwafwi close around her and blinked out of sight. She slipped out the door—she had left it slightly ajar after picking the lock—to see what her magic had wrought.

  Her eyes widened with delight at the sight of the two amber-colored creatures undulating toward the prison. The elementals were not large—no more than seven or eight feet in height—but they were perfect for the task ahead.

  Liriel closed the door behind her and stood off to the side.

  The drow watched as the elementals smashed down the prison door and sloshed inside. She sent out a command to the summoned creatures, holding firm against their indignant response. After a brief struggle, the elementals yielded to the power of her magic and burst out of the prison into the street. Encased within the amber form of each was a sea elf, sharing the liquid body with the essence of the elemental creature.

  The elementals did not seem happy about this new partnership, and they set a determined pace toward the shore. Many of the Ruathen took up weapons against the strange invaders. But the elementals barely seemed to notice the blows, so intent were they on their journey. When it was clear the creatures did not intend to attack—indeed, had no interest in doing battle at all—the villagers ceased their defensive efforts and merely watched. Some fell in behind, and an ever-growing crowd followed the liquid creatures toward the sea. Liriel slipped behind a thick-trunked walnut tree and dispelled her invisibility charm, then openly joined the bemused throng that followed in the elementals’ wake. It seemed wise to her to do so; otherwise, her absence might be noticed and her involvement in the matter suspected.

  After a while, the rolling gait of the elementals began to falter. The creatures’ paths started to weave, and they looked for all the world like ships tacking back and forth to catch a particularly capricious breeze. None too soon, the elementals stumbled into the surf and fell gratefully into the sea, like a pair of drunken sailors falling facedown into their beds.

/>   Liriel lifted a hand to her face to hide her smirk. She understood now why the sea elves had reacted as they had to the suggestion of breathing ale.

  Fyodor came to her side. He wrapped an arm around her waist and leaned in close. “Well done, little raven!” he whispered in her ear. “The sea folk will wake up with a headache the size of the northern sea. But thanks to you, at least they will awaken!”

  Nor was Fyodor the only one to come to this conclusion. Smoke burst from Ibn’s pipe in angry little puffs as the sailor observed the strange escape.

  He’d long suspected that the drow female was in thick with the sea elves; this proved it. Hrolf, the damned fool, was too besotted with the long-eared wench to see it, and the villagers were too awed by her healing magic to listen to words spoken against her.

  Ibn spun on his heel and made his way to Hrolf’s cottage. Once before he had taken matters into his own hands. The attempt had failed. He would try again, and again, until at last the elf woman lay dead. He could not do otherwise, for there was far too much at risk.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  THE RAVEN’S CALL

  Fyodor left for Holgerstead later that day. Wedigar had sufficiently recovered from the injuries he’d incurred while in animal form to feel ready to travel, but he was hesitant to do so alone. Fyodor and Liriel tried to convince him he was free from the nereid’s charm, but Wedigar was haunted by the things he had done while under the evil creature’s seductive power. He would not risk the possibility that he might again turn upon his own people, and he exacted a pledge from Fyodor to watch over him and stop him should he prove a danger. The young Rashemi could not deny him this, for he himself had lived with such fears for many months.