by Mel Odom
Pacys changed tunes, finding one that played more slowly and conveyed menace. He recognized it as one of the Taker’s alternate scores.
“Those thousands of years ago,” Myrym said, “there existed a being unlike any that ever lived before. Some have said he was even the first man, the first to crawl from the sea and live upon the unforgiving dry. What made him crawl from the blessed sea, no one may know, but some say there was a longing within him to find another such as himself. The sea in those days was very green and had only recently given up space to the lands that rose from the fertile ocean bottom at the gods’ behest.”
Pacys listened intently, striking chords that would help his song paint the pictures of the tale.
“The Taker wandered the lands,” Myrym said, “but of course, he found nothing there. The dry world was too new, and even the world of the sea was very young. While he was on the land, he talked with the gods. They were curious about him, you see, at this weak thing that dared talk to them and question the things that they did.”
From the corner of his eye, Pacys saw that the locathah woman held the full attention of her tribe. The cadence of her voice pulled them in.
“With nothing to find on land, the Taker returned to the sea. It has been said that the Taker was there the day Sekolah set the first sahuagin free.”
“Did he have a name?” Pacys asked.
“If he did, it has been forgotten,” Myrym answered. “In those days, before people came to the sea, before some of them left the oceans and made their homes on dry land only later to return to the sea, names were not necessary. There was only one.”
“Is he a man?” the old bard asked. “A wizard?”
“Not a true man, but again, not a creature of the sea either. He was himself, a thing unique.”
“How did he come to be?”
“No one knows for sure, Loremaster. There are those who say his birth was an accident, created by the forces that first made Toril. Others say the god Bane crafted him to torture others. All agree that the Taker searched for love, for acceptance, for an end to the loneliness that filled him at being the one.”
“But we all crave those things,” Pacys said, not understanding. “How could this monster look for that which we all seek? I’ve been told the Taker is evil incarnate.”
“He is,” Myrym replied. “Are the wants and needs of good and evil so very different?”
“No,” Pacys said. “Our stories are filled with those who fell from grace. Heroes and villains, only the merest whisper sometimes separates them.”
“The Taker simply was,” Myrym said. “His loneliness persisted till he drew the eye of Umberlee. The Bitch Queen in those days was softer. The gods had not yet begun to war over territories and the supplication of the thinking races that spread throughout the lands and seas of Toril. They existed in peace, each learning about their own powers, learning to dream their own dreams. Umberlee found the Taker, and she grew fascinated by him.”
“Why?” Pacys asked.
“Because she had never known anything like him. He hurt and bled easily compared to her, weak in so many ways. Still, he held forth a joy and a zest for life that she had never envisioned. She grew to love him.”
“And he grew to love her.” Pacys’s fingers sketched out a brief, sprightly tune that echoed in the grotto.
“As much as he could,” Myrym admitted. “The concept of love, though credited to the gods, was a virtue of the elves, who knew loyalty and honor first. It was made bittersweet by the humans, whose lives ran by at a rapid pace and who could not maintain the attention and focus of the elves. In the beginning, an elf could love others, but only if he loved himself first. Humans, though, could love past themselves, love others more than themselves. They could love ideas, could love even the sound of laughter, which many thought was foolishness. No one, it is said, can love as a human can whose heart is pure and true.”
Jherek gazed down into Sabyna’s eyes and felt shamed. That she should have to ask him was his own failing. He held his hand in hers, feeling her fingers knotted up in the material of his shirt.
Her eyes searched his. “Can you promise me your heart, Jherek?” she asked again.
“Lady—”
“The answer can be so simple,” Sabyna said. “Despite everything else you have on your mind, despite the other troubles that have your attention, there can be only two answers. Anything else would be no answer at all, and that wouldn’t be fair to me after all I’ve revealed to you.”
In the end, he knew what his answer must be, and why. He was not the man he needed or wanted to be, and she deserved far more than he ever could be.
“No.”
Her fingers unknotted from his shirt and she pulled her hand back. Jherek made himself let go her hand, thinking he would never again have the opportunity to touch her.
“You tell me no, yet you made the diviner a promise not knowing what she might ask.”
“There was no choice in that, lady.”
“There’s always a choice, Jherek. That’s what life is about.”
“Lady, I’ve never had the choices of others.”
“No,” Sabyna said. “I think maybe you’ve never been one to fight time or tide, Jherek. You gave your promise to the diviner even though that promise might take your life.”
“Lady, I swore my life to you.”
“Your life isn’t what I wanted,” Sabyna said. “A chance at a life with you is all that I asked.”
She turned to go, tripping over a line in the rigging even though she’d been so surefooted earlier.
“Lady—” Jherek took a step forward, meaning to catch her, meaning to tell her—something.
The bag of holding at her side suddenly erupted and the raggamoffyn exploded from it. The bits and pieces of cloth wove themselves into a serpentine shape that struck like a cobra. The blow hammered Jherek’s chest hard enough to knock him off balance.
“Skeins!” Sabyna cried, grabbing the raggamoffyn as it prepared to strike again. “No!”
Reluctantly, the familiar backed away, relaxing and floating easily on the wind.
Steadying himself, Jherek stared at the pretty ship’s mage. Before he could find anything to say, a voice bawled out a warning from below.
“Slavers! Slavers off the port bow!”
IX
10 Flamerule, the Year of the Gauntlet
Jherek turned to face Black Champion’s port side. Below, the pirates ran across the deck, following orders Azla barked out on the run. The pirate captain grabbed the railing of the prow castle steps and hauled herself up.
“Malorrie!” Azla yelled. “Do you see the damned ship?”
“Aye,” Jherek replied in full voice. “She’s off to port about a thousand yards.”
“Her heading?”
“For us, Captain.”
There was no doubt about her heading. White-capped breakers smashed against her prow as she cut across the green sea. Her lanyards bloomed with full canvas, harnessing the wind as she rose and fell on the great hills of the Sea of Fallen Stars.
“Is she riding high?” Azla demanded. “Or wallowing like some fat-arsed duck?”
“She’s riding low, Captain,” Jherek bellowed back between his cupped hands, “but she’s coming hard.”
He turned to glance at Sabyna but found the ship’s mage was already climbing rapidly down the rigging. The young sailor’s heart hurt as he watched her go.
He grabbed the book Glawinn had loaned him and quickly shoved it into the leather pouch where he stowed his gear. He left the pouch tied to the rigging, hoping it would be there when he got back. Out of habit he took the bow and quiver of arrows he’d brought up with him.
Glancing back at the approaching ship, the young sailor noted that it had gained considerably, pulling to within eight hundred yards and still closing. Black Champion held a south-southwesterly course, headed for the coast of Turmish. The slaver ship drew on due east, running straight ahead of the breeze as
it swooped upon them.
“Bring her about!” Azla thundered. “Take up a heading due east. She’s got our scent, boys, but let’s see if the bitch can run!”
Black Champion came about smartly, taking up the easterly course. Deck crews sprang into action, bringing around the sails and running up new canvas. The caravel jumped in response to the wind, diving forward through the rolling brine hills. She dived into a wave, miring down, sliding back and forth like a hound trying to run up a muddy incline, then—when she broke through—she surged forward, her prow coming out of the water.
Jherek abandoned his place. Azla already had a man up in the crow’s nest acting as a spotter. He pulled the bow and quiver over his shoulder, then ran through the rigging toward the bowline that ran from the mainmast to the prow.
He crossed the rigging without a misstep, pulling his cutlass free of the sash around his waist. He paused long enough to hang his hook from one boot, making sure it was secure, then he unknotted the sash. Shaking out the sash’s length, he steadied himself on the rigging, then used the tautness of the ropes to spring up high. With the way Black Champion fought her way through the sea, the move was risky, but he trusted himself.
Holding the cutlass in one hand, he flipped one end of the sash over the bowline, then caught it in his fingers while holding the other. Squeezing both ends of the sash tightly, he hung from the bowline for just an instant, then began the long slide down to the prow. The sash sang across the twisted hemp. He lifted his feet to clear the canvas belled out from the forward mast.
Sliding across the bowline, Jherek glanced at Black Champion’s decks and watched the pirates taking their battle stations. They brought the prow and stern heavy ballistae around and fitted them with the ten-foot-long bolts. Two men began winding the winch that drew the great bowstring back.
The bowline was tied off at the end of the bowsprit sticking out from Black Champion’s prow. Judging the distance and the caravel’s pitch, Jherek released one end of the sash. It unfurled from the bowline, and he fell to the prow castle, landing only a few feet from the forward ballista crew.
The young sailor rolled to his feet gracefully. He looped the sash back around his hips and slid the cutlass home, adding the hook from his boot a moment later. Taking the bow from his shoulder, he placed one end against his boot, took the greased string from his pocket, and strung it quickly. He unbound the strap that kept the arrows tight in the quiver and slid four shafts free. He nocked one to the string, then held the other three clasped in his left hand on the bow.
Azla stood at the prow railing, her scimitar naked in her fist. The wind tangled her dark hair. She took her chain mail shirt from a crewman and quickly pulled it on. The ringing chains on leather barely sounded over the crack of the canvas and the smashing waves.
“Who is she?” Jherek asked.
“I don’t know the ship,” Azla answered, “but I know the flag.”
Jherek concentrated on the flag atop the approaching ship’s mainmast. A feathered snake curled across a field of quartered black and red, mouth open and fangs exposed.
“They’re of the Blood Tide,” Azla said, “a loose network of slavers who work for the Night Masks in Westgate.”
The slaver vessel was within four hundred yards, its advance slowing as Black Champion seized the wind. Jherek rode out the rise and fall of the ship, his free hand resting on the railing while the other held the nocked bow.
“Unfurl the spinnaker!” Azla shouted.
Crewmen rushed to the ship’s prow. An instant later, the white sail billowed out, blotting the sky from forward view.
“Cap’n!” a mate squalled from the crow’s nest. “Something just leaped off from that ship’s rigging, and it ain’t falling. Some kind of bird.”
Jherek peered into the cloudy blue sky. The sun setting behind them turned the cloud banks blood-mist red, but he could make out half a dozen black shapes boiling out from the ship’s lanyards.
The creatures swiftly overtook Black Champion, cutting through the air. The bat-winged humanoids had wedge-shaped faces and fangs that ran nearly to their lower jaws. A single horn sprouted from their narrow foreheads, curling back slightly. Grayish-white skin looked like marble in the sunlight, glowing with a rosy hue from the setting sun. Besides the arms and crooked legs, the creatures had long, spiked tails.
“Gargoyles,” Azla breathed.
The gargoyles screamed, a raucous noise that filled Black Champion’s deck. They attacked the two men in the crow’s nest first, swooping in to rip bloody furrows across the sailors’ faces, chests, and backs with curved talons. Their blows also splintered the wooden cupola.
Tracking the nearest gargoyle, Jherek drew the arrow’s feathers back to his cheek, led the creature a little, then released. The arrow jumped from the bow and struck the creature in the thigh.
The gargoyle screamed in pain, breaking the rapid beat of its wings for just an instant. It unfurled its wings and stopped its downward momentum less than ten feet above the main deck.
Horrid red eyes burned with rage as it spied Jherek. Screeching again, the gargoyle flapped its wings and gained height, streaking for the prow castle.
Standing his ground, Jherek fitted another arrow to the string. The other gargoyles in the rigging slashed the sails and smashed smaller lanyard supports.
“Kill those things!” Azla ordered at Jherek’s side.
The young sailor released the bowstring when the gargoyle cleared the prow castle railing before him, less than twenty feet away now. Even with the uncertain pitch and roll of the caravel, his arrow splintered the gargoyle’s head.
Jherek sidestepped the flying corpse and watched the gargoyle smash into the bow railing, shattering some of the thinner decorative spindles. He already had another arrow nocked, searching for a target.
Pirates scampered through the rigging with swords in their fists to take on the gargoyles rending the sails. One of the creatures clung to the side of the forward mast with both legs, tail, and one hand. It struck out with the other, cleaving a pirate’s face from his skull. Shrieking, the pirate fell from the rigging and smashed into the deck below. The screams stopped abruptly.
Releasing the bowstring, Jherek watched his arrow go wide of the mark, catching the canvas beside the gargoyle and sinking to the fletching. The young sailor nocked another arrow and let fly again.
The arrow sank into the gargoyle’s thin chest, driving it back and nailing it to the mast it clung to. The wings fluttered as it struggled to get away. Before it could, three more arrows from the deck crew feathered it. The ship pitched across a breaker and snapped Jherek’s shaft. The gargoyle dropped, missing the deck and falling over the side.
Jherek took four more arrows from his quiver, nocked one and locked the other three in his fist. He searched for other targets, missing twice as the gargoyles scampered and glided among the sails..
The mainsail came loose in a rush, snapping and fluttering as it dropped to the deck where it covered a dozen pirates. The loss of the sail had an immediate effect on Black Champion as the wind blew through her instead of against her.
Sunlight gleamed against copper-colored armor, drawing Jherek’s eye. He put another arrow to his string as he watched Glawinn stride on deck, his long sword in one hand and his shield on his other arm.
The temptation proved too much for the gargoyles. Two of them swooped down from the rigging, flying directly toward the paladin. Pirates on the deck around Glawinn scattered, running for cover.
Pride swelled in Jherek’s heart even as he drew back the bowstring. Glawinn’s stance never faltered.
“For Lathander!” the paladin roared in challenge.
The young sailor launched his arrow, missing his mark by little more than a hand’s width. The arrow thudded into the deck.
Glawinn stepped forward, striking the lead gargoyle in the face. Still in motion, he turned to the side, bringing his shield up and setting himself behind it as the second gargoyle hit him he
ad on. The weight and speed of the creature staggered the paladin, but he held, turning the creature’s momentum to one side.
The impact against the shield shattered bones in the gargoyle’s arms and shoulders. It rolled across the deck, beating its wings futilely and howling in pain. As it tried to curl up and get to its feet, a nearby pirate ran at it and shoved a harpoon into the gargoyle’s chest, driving it back against the starboard railing.
“They’re going to overtake us,” Azla said.
Jherek swung his attention back to the approaching ship. It was a hundred yards behind them, closing fast.
“Was Iakhovas immortal when Umberlee took him as her lover?” Pacys asked.
Myrym released the locathah child from her hands and smiled as it finned back among its brothers and sister. “Over the years they courted, the Bitch Queen gave him many gifts. Some merely of worth—gold and jewels and precious things—but many of them possessed powers that none but the gods had ever wielded before. When life began in the sea and took shape upon the dry lands, among the jungles and forests and swamps, Iakhovas was drawn to them. He wanted them to love him as Umberlee did.”
“He was filled with his own conceits,” Pacys said.
“Using Umberlee’s gifts, he set about conquering the dry lands. There is a land where ferocious lizards still live till this day, unchanged for millions of years.”
“Chult,” the old bard said. “I know of the place.” He had even visited there, seeing the dinosaurs for himself and carrying back tales of the adventurers who traveled there seeking fortunes.
“There Iakhovas caused to be built a huge palace,” Myrym said. “They say it was more grand than any building on Faerûn. A man could walk it, I have been told, from one end to the other if he planned for a full day’s travel. While Umberlee was away on other planes, Iakhovas warred incessantly, pitting one kingdom against another. He sent thieves out to take powerful items mages created, going there and taking them himself when no one else could do it. His greed knew no boundaries, no satisfaction. All he knew how to do was consume.”
