by Mel Odom
“And this was his true nature,” Pacys said, understanding.
“Yes. The nature of the Taker is that he must take. His world was first the seas, remember, and those who live beneath the water have to move incessantly to feed. He was the chief predator among all the lesser species.”
“What is he truly?” Pacys asked.
“Only the man who destroys him will know.”
“Do you know this man’s name?”
“No,” Myrym said, shaking her narrow head, “but it is his destiny to become known to all through your songs.”
“Can you tell me where to search for him?”
“No, but your path, his, and the Taker’s will cross as surely as the limbs of a starfish have a common center. Learn what you need to.”
Pacys nodded. “I have also heard it said that the Taker fell from grace with Umberlee.”
“Twice,” Myrym agreed. “The first time, it was over an elf woman the Taker took as his lover. By this time, his harems contained hundreds of women. Remember, gluttony was a way of life for him.”
“Umberlee didn’t know he had harems?” Pacys asked.
“The Bitch Queen knew,” Myrym said, “but she didn’t care. Physical relations were nothing to Umberlee, something to while away the time. What she wanted from the Taker was the way she felt when she saw her reflection in his eyes.”
“Adoration.”
“Yes. Nowhere else did she succumb to the draw of it. But she was gone too long to the other places she sought out for learning and conquering, and giving wasn’t truly in the Taker’s nature. His need was to take for himself. So he took this woman from his harem, and though he didn’t truly care for her, he made it look like he did so that Umberlee would be jealous.”
“Why?” Pacys asked. “Umberlee already loved him.”
“But not as he wanted to be loved by her,” Myrym said. “Her love for him was natural and good, as things are meant to be, but there was nothing natural and good about him. His appetites ruled his life. When she returned, she found this woman in the bed she shared with the Taker, not one of the harem rooms. The Taker pretended the woman put the shine in his eyes that he showed Umberlee. So great was the Bitch Queen’s love for him that she did not see the truth.”
Pacys listened to the story with sadness. He’d seen good love turn out badly as well.
“Umberlee killed the woman in a fit of rage,” Myrym continued. “The Taker knew true joy as he saw in the Bitch Queen’s face the pain and hurt her love for him caused. He thought he controlled her, then, and he mocked her for her weakness. Only he had no true accounting for how hurt Umberlee was. She’d never experienced pain like that before, and swore then that she would never experience it again. She lashed out at him, raking her claws across his face and ripping an eye from its socket, almost tearing the face from him.”
Discordant music emanated from the saceddar as Pacys envisioned the fight, and words already came into his mind to paint the scene for his listeners.
“Umberlee left him there in his grand palace,” Myrym said, “broken and ruined, no longer ever able to be what he once was. She did not suffer to kill him, but it was a near thing. The Taker brooded and banked his hatred for a thousand years and more.
“He began to build again,” she continued, “to make himself stronger than ever before. He scoured all of Toril for powerful items, devices that he could use to control elements and men and magic. He scarred his body with sigils of power that allowed him to reach into other planes. In his mind, he was more than he had ever been or ever could be.
“He sought out Umberlee then, to take his vengeance.”
Azla ran to the forecastle railing over the main deck and called, “Ship’s crew, stand ready to repel boarders!”
Black Champion’s crew numbered twenty-seven, Jherek knew, and a handful of them were involved in steering and trying to salvage what they could of the sails.
At least forty men lined the starboard side of the attack craft as it sped forward. They manned the fore and aft ballistae as well as the one on the main deck. The sound of running water filled the air.
A desperate smile played on Azla’s lips, and Jherek recognized it as reckless determination.
“Ballista crews,” she bellowed, “prepare your shots fore and aft! Make them count or I’ll have the hide from your backs!”
“Aye, Cap’n!”
“Fire on my command!”
Jherek spied Sabyna making her way up behind Glawinn. Skeins drifted protectively over her shoulder.
“Ballista crews, ready.”
“Ready, Cap’n.”
“Fire!”
The two ballistae sang basso thrums as they released within a heartbeat of each other. The ten-foot shafts sliced through the air. One of them thudded into the slaver’s wooden hull only a few feet from the railing, frightening the crew back. The other missile struck the foremast and broke it cleanly. The forward sails toppled, raining down on the crew below.
A ragged cheer burst from Black Champion’s crew.
“Belay that!” Azla roared as the caravel followed the next ocean rise down into a trough below the slaver’s line of sight. “We’ve won no battle here yet. That remains for you to take it from their teeth!”
Jherek’s heart beat rapidly. Here in this battle, there was no confusion.
“Archery crew,” Azla called. “Stand ready!”
Black Champion’s sails blew her forward, riding her up the next wave and pulling her back within sight of the slaver only fifty yards away.
“Fire arrows!” Azla commanded.
The crew fired, and Jherek bent his bow with theirs, aiming toward the knot of men standing in the slaver’s amidships. Most of the arrows missed, striking the water or snapping into the canvas above. Jherek’s own shot hit a man in the shoulder and drove him back and down to his knees.
The three ballistae aboard the slaver cut loose. One of them shivered into the stern castle and punched through. The second struck below the waterline, but the vibration that ran through Black Champion let Jherek know the shot struck home.
The third shot hit the railing near Glawinn. Splintered wood flew into the air as the ten-foot shaft punched an eighteen-inch hole dead center in a pirate’s chest. Laden by the corpse, the shaft careened on, knocking down pirates like tenpins. It forced the body across the deck, then tore through the railing on the other side.
Cries of fear and prayers to gods filled the air. For a moment, the pirates’ resolve seemed broken.
“Live or die, you damned brutes!” Azla yelled down. She hurled herself over the forecastle railing and landed in a crouch on the pitching deck. “The choice is in your hands and in your blades. Do me proud!”
A ragged cheer rose with her scimitar. “For Captain Azla! For Black Champion!”
The caravel dropped into another trough as Jherek heaved himself over the forecastle railing and dropped to the main deck.
“Young warrior,” Glawinn called.
“Aye.”
“If that’s a slaving ship and she has a cargo in her hold, it may be that our attackers are holding a blade to their own throats. You understand?”
“Aye.”
Jherek understood immediately. If the slaves were freed and given a chance at their own freedom, many of them would take it.
“I will stand with these men and lead them into the battle,” the paladin said. “If you are able, perhaps you can raise us another army to even the odds.”
“Aye,” Jherek answered.
“Arthoris!” Azla roared.
The old ship’s mage stepped forward. He was a gnarled man with long gray hair and a groomed beard. He wore robes with sigils and symbols on it and carried a staff. “Aye, Cap’n.”
“Give them something to remember us by.”
Arthoris raised his staff and chanted in a strong, clear voice. The heavens above him darkened as if a storm were coming.
“Ballista crews,” Azla called. “Ready …�
�
“Ready, Cap’n.”
“Fire!”
One of the shafts gutted the boarding party along the slaver’s starboard side, breaking their ranks. The second shaft hammered into the mainmast a good twenty feet from the deck. For a moment the missile’s fluted edges held it embedded in the wood, then the mast gave way with a horrific crack. The top of the mast listed to the side, bringing down more canvas and pulling the slaver hard over to port.
Black Champion’s crew cheered again, calling out vile oaths at their attackers. The slaver crew shouted out in anger. Before they could recover, Arthoris launched his attack.
Three lightning balls leaped from the old ship’s mage’s staff and struck the slaver. Peals of thunder split the air. The lightning balls struck the boarding crew, burning them and knocking them from their feet, but only incapacitated a couple of them.
The slaver vessel pulled away, disengaging from the attack. With the two broken masts and only one remaining, she wasn’t any faster than Black Champion.
“Cap’n!”
Azla turned, spotting one of her officers near the ship’s hold.
“Come quickly!” the mate called.
All his arrows gone now, Jherek joined the ship’s captain at the hold. Another man stood below with a lantern. The pale yellow light played uncertainly in the darkness as the ship yawed across the waves and reacted badly to the wind due to the tattered sails. There was no mistaking the heavy shaft that had broken through Black Champion’s side.
X
10 Flamerule, the Year of the Gauntlet
“The Taker thought he could defeat Umberlee?” The prospect astonished Pacys.
Myrym gazed at the old bard with her luminescent eyes and said, “Yes. She stripped his weapons from him, yanked the magic eye from his head and scattered it into its many parts, then caused storms to drive the weapons inland to the heart of Faerûn. The elves had only just abandoned Eiellur and Syorpiir during the War of Three Leaves to settle in the Selmal Basin.
“Then Umberlee reached into the heavens and caused stars to fall, crashing into the land and altering coastlines. It was almost enough, it is said, to drive the sea elves back to the surface, but they stayed. They became part of those whose destiny it was to cross paths with the Taker.”
“In Myth Nantar?”
Myrym nodded. “All things above and below once passed through Myth Nantar. The elves named it City of Destinies because of the stories they’d been told about the Taker, but already they’d begun to forget some things.”
“What is in Myth Nantar?”
“That I cannot answer, Loremaster. There are some events foretold that must be lived through.”
“You never said what Umberlee did with the Taker.”
“In her rage, the Bitch Queen thought she killed him. Umberlee broke her lover, shattered his bones, and spilled his blood.”
“I was told the Taker’s eye is in Myth Nantar.”
“Only part of the Taker’s eye is there,” Myrym answered. “It is a key piece that the Taker will need to make his weapon complete again. No one knows where in the city it is. The Dukars took charge of the eye fragment when the Coronal at Coryselmal gave it to them after the birth of Myth Nantar.”
“The Dukars?” Pacys repeated. “I thought they were only legends.”
“No, Loremaster.” Myrym’s rebuttal was gentle. “Despite all your travels, there is much you have yet to learn. Tell me what you know of the Dukars.”
“They were wizards,” Pacys said, recalling the few, seldom heard stories he’d been told over the years. “At first they were brought together in Aryselmalyr. Some believe they were historians, and others thought they were warriors seeking to take all of Serôs as their own territory. It’s been said that Dukars could speak to the sea and have it listen, and grow weapons from their own bodies. I always thought them to be purely myth.”
Myrym shook her head in disbelief. “Ah, the tales of gods-struck humans and jealous elves. The Dukars are real.”
Jherek watched helplessly as the sea cascaded into the hold around the ballista shaft stuck through Black Champion’s hull. Already the water was up to their ankles, swirling around the stores and crates in the cargo area.
“Damn,” Azla swore at his side. “Umberlee is getting her tithing today.” She raised her voice so the pirates in the hold could hear her. “Tear off your shirts and breeches, use them to plug up the hole around that damned shaft.”
“What are you going to do?” the young sailor asked.
“I’m going after that ship,” Azla declared.
“You could rip out Black Champion’s bottom in the chase,” Jherek protested. “The currents are already gnawing at her.”
Azla’s eyes blazed. “Unless you can pull a chunk of earwax from your head, cast it into the water and grow an island out of it, I don’t see that we have much choice.” She marched from the hold to the boarding party.
“She’s tucked her tail between her legs and run,” one of the pirates yelled.
Jherek saw the slaver vessel limping away to the south, evidently trying to leave the area with no further confrontation.
“They’re not going to get away,” Azla said in a stern voice. “They’ve holed our ship and we’re sinking. So we’re taking theirs in turn.”
Her crew turned to look at her in amazement, clearly not wanting to believe it.
“Bring us around,” Azla ordered.
The pirates sprang into action, shifting what sailcloth was left after the gargoyles’ attack and cutting free other canvas that only impeded their progress.
As he stood on the deck, Jherek could feel the sluggishness of Black Champion’s response as she came about.
Sabyna approached. No tears showed in her eyes now, and she acted as if what passed between them only a few moments ago had never happened. “What’s wrong with the ship?” she asked.
“The hull’s holed,” Jherek told her in a low voice. “Taking that slaver is the only hope we have.”
“As you say,” Myrym told Pacys, “the Dukars were wizards. They found their beginning almost nine thousand years ago, in a small town then called simply Nantar. Nantar was located on the Lower Hmur Plateau, its population made up exclusively of sea elves. At first, the Dukars were lorekeepers only. There were four of them who joined together after being taught by their master, Dukar, from whom they took the name of their order. These were Jhimar, the triton warrior maiden; Kupav, the sea elf; Maalirn, also a triton; and Numos, the female morkoth.”
“A morkoth?” Pacys shook his head. “Chieftain Myrym, in the outer seas, the only morkoth that have been encountered are solitary creatures who dwell in caves and set traps for humans and elves, which they consider delicacies.”
“You’ve heard of the Arcanum of Olleth?”
“Yes,” the bard replied. “An empire of morkoth is something I’d have to see believe, though, and to accept the idea of a city of benevolent morkoth is harder still.”
“The city is called Qatoris,” Myrym said. “It is magically hidden by the Dukars who live there.”
“How can this be?” the old bard asked.
“In the beginning, the Dukars recognized no oaths of fealty to the elven empire though pressure was put on them. Instead, they devoted their time to the development of their schools. Over the next three thousand years Serôs knew peace. More years passed, and more wars to go with them, and still the Dukars tried to serve the sea. They were captured and imprisoned many times in the struggles for power among the elves and other races. By the Year of the Druid’s Wrath—six hundred and fifty-two years ago—the Dukars had pulled away from Myth Nantar, not wanting to take part in any of the Hmurran civil wars.”
“What of the Taker’s Eye?” Pacys asked the locathah.
“When Myth Nantar was built,” Myrym said, “as I have said, the Coronal gave the eye to the Dukars for safe keeping. They hid it somewhere in the city.”
“But Myth Nantar was lost,” Pacys s
aid. “That I remember.”
Myrym nodded and said, “After the Dukars left, sahuagin warriors stole into the city and murdered the sea elves and merfolk who remained to stand guard. The sea devils destroyed much of the city, but could not stay. The mythal was designed to keep creatures like them out. They soon fled, but in later years, the magical shields around the Academy of the Dukars started growing till they encompassed all of fallen Myth Nantar. The water around the city became impenetrable even to those who built it. Some say it is haunted.”
“And what do you say?” Pacys asked.
“Only that the city was properly named, Loremaster. It is the City of Destinies. For the Taker, for you, and for the young warrior you seek. Somewhere in that wreckage is the Taker’s Eye, and it holds the key to all your destinies. I have one final gift for you if you will accept it.”
“What is that?”
“You asked me in what direction the young warrior you seek lies. These water lilies may hold an answer of sorts for you.” The aged locathah held the leaves out to him. “Simply put them under your tongue and think of him.”
The bard opened his mouth and put the leaves under his tongue. He pushed the seawater from his mouth and waited. A pleasant tingling sensation numbed the underside of his tongue and his lips.
All at once it felt as if the top of his head exploded, and he was swept away on a cold, black tide.
Black Champion bucked and fought the ocean like a horse trying to keep its head above the waterline. Jherek peered down at the dark, green-black water little more than an arm’s reach from the railing. Perhaps only minutes remained before forward progress became impossible for the caravel. Despite the slave ship’s loss of two masts, Black Champion was barely closing the last hundred yards to her.
The caravel smashed through another wave. This time the cold seawater swept over Black Champion’s deck, drenching the assembled crew in spray. They didn’t look hopeful even after the ship surged forward again.
The slaver tried to cut away as Black Champion came abreast, tacking into the wind. If the slaver had flown another sail, Jherek knew the maneuver would have cost them their last chance at overtaking their quarry. As it was, the single remaining sail only offered a token attempt at quickly changing their course.
