by Mel Odom
Iakhovas strode through the falling debris untouched, keeping his feet with apparent ease even though the earth shifted dramatically under him. The elf who had arrived with him didn’t fare so well. She fell and rolled toward the chasm’s edge. Moving with inhuman speed, Iakhovas reached down and caught the elf woman, lifting her effortlessly.
At that moment, Azla released the bowstring.
Kellym Drayspout walked his rounds through Agenais’s docks out of habit. He carried a heavy crossbow at full cock in his scarred and gnarled hand. The chain mail he wore had seen better days but remained serviceable. He was a stout man with a bigger belly than he cared to admit, and gray hair that showed how many years had passed him, but he was a warrior few would want to confront. His lined and scarred face threw fear into most folks he had stern words with.
The docks seemed less well lighted than he’d ever seen them, but he didn’t pay it any real mind. Quiet was a good thing. The carousing and drinking that went on more nights than not meant a long shift.
More ships than ever anchored in the shallows around the port. Almost all were shattered and broken husks, some of which would never move again, just be plucked apart to salvage other ships.
Drayspout’s feet thumped against the creaking wooden dock as he made the corner that led down to Verril’s Tavern. He’d stood in at the tavern enough that the locals, and the sailors that had been in Agenais any length of time, knew better than to cause any problems on his shift. Verril proved generous with the tapped ale kegs in return. It had proven a good arrangement.
The still, black water in the harbor was as smooth as polished glass. Ships’ rigging slapped against masts. Over all of it he heard a melodic tune almost hypnotic in its intensity. The tune was enough, he’d discovered, to raise the hackles at the back of his neck.
Instead of merely trusting the way tonight, he’d found himself raising his lantern on more than a few occasions to strip away the shadows and make sure some foul thing wasn’t crouched there waiting for him. His nervousness made him angry.
Being a guard wasn’t a new job for Drayspout. He’d been a mercenary along the Dragon Coast for Lady Nettel Thalavar of the Thalavar trading family in Westgate for twenty years, until a bandit’s blade had nearly found his heart a few years ago. He wasn’t quite as quick as he had been, and he figured he’d had enough of it.
He’d been too well known on the Dragon Coast to retire there. Bandits he’d slain often had kin who didn’t believe in forgiveness. In fact, some of the rogues’ bands had even put a price on his head.
So he’d come to the Whamite Isles to spend his last years. He’d even met a widow who owned a bakery and had three teenaged children he could almost tolerate. He’d surprised himself by settling so easily into the sort of domestic life he’d never expected to have.
That life meant yelling at those damned kids every day, occasionally helping out in the bakery, and a few free pints of an evening down at Verril’s between rattling merchants’ doors and seeing to it nobody broke into a warehouse or shop too easily. The ships provided their own security.
Come early morning, he could count on snuggling for a little while with that widow before they started the sweetbreads and cakes she sold for morningfeast.
He cursed the damnable haunting tune that lay heavily over the dock area as he stepped onto the boardwalk running in front of Verril’s Tavern. The building was a rundown affair cobbled together from leftover ship’s lumber that had been, upon lean times, stripped back off and sold to vessels seeking materials to make repairs.
Drayspout stepped through the single batwing door that hadn’t yet been auctioned off to a quartermaster in need of lumber. He stared at the empty tables and chairs that filled the small room, not believing what he saw.
The pale, oil lantern light pooled weakly in the room, and the smell of burning milk and meat from the untended chowder kettle hanging over the fireplace stunk the place up. The dice cups Verril used for wagering with his patrons, slipping in the special set he kept up his sleeve when he need to, sat on the stained bar. The painting of naked sea elves frolicking around Deep Sashelas hung on the wall behind the bar. Waves lapped noisily under the wooden floor and echoed hollowly through the room, striking a counterpoint to the melody that streamed in from outside.
Drayspout’s unease grew by leaps and bounds. Maybe the sailors might take a quiet night to rest up, but there was never a night when Verril’s went empty.
“Dray.”
The hackles returned to Drayspout’s neck. Everyone in Agenais who knew him called him Dray, but the whisper that called his name almost unnerved him. He was certain he knew the voice, but he couldn’t place it.
He lifted the crossbow and placed the butt against his hip so he could fire it one-handed. Turning, he gazed back through the tavern’s entrance, the view partially obscured by the batwing door. Usually there was some ship’s crew working by lantern light to repair their vessels and he thought one of them might have called out to him.
There was no one. The docks stood totally empty.
“Dray.”
A figure rose up from the black water beyond the boardwalk. Raising his lantern so the beam fell over the boardwalk, Drayspout recognized the figure at once. “Whik?”
It was his wife’s oldest son. Whik stood as tall as Drayspout and was only fifteen. He still lacked a man’s growth and strength, but he had a temper that had earned him the back of his stepfather’s hand on occasion. He was pale and blond like his mother.
“What the hell are you doing in that water, boy?” Drayspout growled. It wasn’t the first time Whik had slipped out of the house at night. Drayspout had caught him before. “You’ll catch your death and break your ma’s heart.”
Whik made no reply.
Irritated that the boy may have seen him acting nervous, Drayspout strode toward him and raised his voice. “You got water in your ears, boy? I asked you a question.”
When Drayspout reached the boardwalk, Whik fell backward, letting the water close over him.
Thinking something was wrong, Drayspout hurried to the boardwalk’s edge and raised the lantern again. The light played over the water, lighting the pallid oval of the boy’s face gazing up at him. Whik made no move to swim, slowly easing more deeply into the dark water. The haunting melody seemed louder than ever.
Dropping to his knees, Drayspout laid the crossbow aside and placed the lantern nearby so he could see Whik. He plunged his arm and shoulder into the water, feeling the chill, and reached for the boy. With his face less than two feet from Whik’s, Drayspout noticed how dead the boy’s eyes looked. Living around the Sea of Fallen Stars all his life as he had, the old warrior knew what a man looked like who’d succumbed to Umberlee’s endless embrace.
Whik was dead. Sure as Tymora hated two-headed coins, the boy was never coming home to his mother again after this night.
Even as Drayspout started to withdraw his arm, the dead boy lunged at him, coming up out of the water with a leering half-wit’s grin. He roped an arm behind his stepfather’s head, grabbing Drayspout’s wrist with his other hand. He pulled the old warrior down into the water with him.
As they sank deeper into the harbor, Drayspout fought against the dead thing that held him. The boy’s corpse was as cold as the water. The old warrior tried to fight his way loose, but his hands kept sliding off the dead thing’s wet, flaccid skin.
Still clinging to Drayspout, the corpse lunged forward and sank sharp teeth into the old warrior’s throat. As his life drained out of him, clouding the water the lantern light shined through, Drayspout saw dozens of other pallid faces surrounding him. He recognized many of them as regulars at Verril’s.
All of them were dead, their open eyes staring at him with dulled intelligence. They floated easily, wreathed in the kelpie-beds that sang the eerie music and held them like favored lovers.
Even as his final moment of life fled, Drayspout watched as other citizens of Agenais—men, women, and children
he could have passed on the streets—plummeted into the water and didn’t even try to save themselves from drowning.
Something evil had come for Agenais, Drayspout realized, and it wasn’t going to rest until it had them all.
XXII
7 Marpenoth, the Year of the Gauntlet
Azla’s arrow sped true, flashing through the rolling fog of dust that billowed up from the chasm that had opened in the cavern floor.
Iakhovas turned, fixing the ledge with his harsh gaze. Quicker than the eye could see, he snatched the arrow from the air, stopping it only inches from his heart. He snapped the thick shaft in his hand.
“You’ve been followed, Vurgrom!” he roared, dropping the broken arrow and pointing at the ledge.
Sabyna opened her bag of holding and released Skeins. The raggamoffyn surged into the dust-laden air and set up in its familiar serpentine shape. A pirate pulled a heavy crossbow to his shoulder and fired. The ship’s mage dodged back, doubting she could get clear in the narrow passageway.
Glawinn was there, shoving his shield out. The crossbow bolt slammed into it. “Easy, lady,” the paladin warned.
Coolly, Azla nocked another arrow and let it fly. The pirate with the crossbow looked down at the feathered shaft that stuck out of his chest.
“Get them!” Vurgrom bellowed.
As the earthquake continued, five pirates managed to get to their feet and race toward the ledge. More debris dropped from the cavern roof, pummeling one of the pirates to the ground.
Sabyna took a pinch of sand and rose petals from her bag of holding, crushed them together, and spoke. A light green haze spiraled from her closed hand as the sand and rose petals were consumed by the spell. The haze sped toward the rushing pirates, wrapping around them. All four dropped, asleep before they hit the ground.
Iakhovas pointed over the heads of the other pirates who had regrouped and started toward the ledge. A lightning bolt lanced across the distance.
Glawinn swept Sabyna back with one arm and stood to block the streamer of crackling energy. The detonation rolled thunder through the cavern and blew the paladin off his feet, knocking him back ten feet over the ship’s mage’s head.
Sabyna started toward the warrior’s sprawled form, knowing in her heart he had to be dead. The colorful image of the scarlet hawk on his shield hung in tatters of peeling paint. She knelt beside Glawinn, who lay loosely, his eyes open and staring blankly.
“Glawinn …” she said.
The paladin’s chest gave a convulsive heave as he sucked in a sudden breath. He groaned and levered himself up, picking up his shield.
“By Lathander’s blessed eyes,” he managed to say, “the magic in this shield is stronger than I thought.”
He slipped the shield over his arm, coughed raggedly, and got to his feet with difficulty.
Face tight, Azla slipped her bow over her shoulder and turned to them. She drew her scimitar and said, “We can’t stay here.”
“Agreed,” Glawinn agreed. He took a fresh grip on his broadsword.
Azla took the lead as they raced back toward the other end of the passageway. Night had descended since Sabyna had entered the cave, and she didn’t see the opening she’d come through earlier until skeletal arms suddenly thrust through it.
The skeleton stepped into the passageway, moving jerkily and holding a rusty short sword in its bony fist. The ivory grin showed missing front teeth and black hunger burned in its eye sockets. More skeletons filed in behind it.
Glawinn moved in front of Azla, sliding his sword into its sheath, and thrusting forward his hand, palm out. “By the grace of the Morninglord,” he said, “get you back, hellspawn.”
The skeletons acted as if they’d hit a brick wall. Most of the creatures stopped their advance, but a few in the rear didn’t. They were held back by the ones in front. Bones clacked as they collided with each other. Their jaws snapped open and shut in anger, but they turned and walked slowly back out the passageway, fighting with the others that hadn’t been affected by the paladin’s power.
Even turned away as they were, the skeletons moved too slowly to clear the passageway before Vurgrom’s pirates overtook them. Sabyna glanced back toward the ledge as the first of the men scrambled up. The ship’s mage ordered Skeins to attack.
The raggamoffyn swirled into action, wrapping itself around the man and possessing him. The pirate turned to attack the next man, swinging his cutlass at his comrade’s head.
The pirate ducked and skewered the possessed man through the stomach. Blood drenched the raggamoffyn, staining it crimson.
Azla’s scimitar flashed as she closed on the pirate while he freed his weapon from his possessed comrade. He stepped back, holding his slashed throat, and lost his footing over the ledge.
“This way,” Azla called, turning to the right and following a narrow ledge that ran around the upper part of the cavern.
“After you, lady,” Glawinn said.
Sabyna called Skeins to her and drew a pair of throwing knives. She followed Azla into the darkness. The light from the pirates’ campfire was barely enough to illuminate the way, leaving long, dark shadows draped over the cavern walls and floor. Tremors still shook the cavern, causing minor avalanches around them.
Azla turned left and headed through an opening. Sabyna was at her heels, aware that the surviving pirates had climbed up onto the ledge and were after them. The passageway ran only a short distance before opening to another cave.
A shaft of blue moonlight spewed through the crack in the cave twenty-five feet up. The light showed thick stalagmites and stalactites that had formed columns around a pool of water on the other side of the cave. Bones littered the floor. Farther back, three figures huddled against the wall on the other side of the pool.
“Help us!” a woman’s voice called out. She moved toward them, revealing the length of iron chain attached to the spike driven into the wall. A small boy cried helplessly, his arms wrapped around the woman. The third figure was a young man who’d picked up large rocks in both hands.
Sabyna noted the ragged clothing the three wore, as well as the obvious lack of nourishment, but she couldn’t figure out what they were doing there. Sabyna didn’t know if they could save themselves, much less free the prisoners. The crack in the roof, obviously created by the tremors, was the only way out of the cave.
“The columns,” Glawinn said. “It’s our only chance.”
Sprinting across the room, Sabyna looked at the woman and the small child and asked, “Who are you?”
Glawinn and Azla slid into position behind two of the columns. The half-elf took up her bow again and put a shaft through the neck of the first pirate in the cave from less than fifteen paces. The man fell back, mortally wounded and drowning in his own blood. It gave the other pirates pause.
“Prisoners.” The woman’s face was grime-streaked, her hair knotted. Half-healed scratches covered her arms, neck, and shoulders. “A tribe of koalinth took our ship maybe a tenday ago. They brought us here.” She glanced at the pile of bones by the pool. “There were nine of us once.”
“How did they get you here?”
“An underground river,” the woman replied. “It leads from the pool out to the sea. They brought us here so the sahuagin wouldn’t take us away from them. Koalinth are able to breathe fresh water. This cave was a convenient place to keep their larder.”
Azla loosed another arrow but missed her target as the pirates invaded the cave. They quickly fanned out and took cover behind boulders and other stalagmites. Vurgrom came in last, bawling orders at his men to attack. With Glawinn ready to face them, none of the pirates appeared too eager.
Iakhovas strode into the room with the elf woman behind him. One of his eyes blazed.
“I want them dead,” he ordered. He pointed, spoke, and three of the columns near the pool shattered as if struck by a battering ram.
Sabyna dropped beside the woman and grabbed her chain in both hands. She pulled fiercely but the s
pike didn’t budge.
“Don’t leave us here,” the woman begged. “Please.”
“I won’t,” Sabyna promised. She slipped one of her daggers behind the spike’s head and tried to lever it from the wall, putting all of her back into the effort.
“At them, you scurvy dogs!” Vurgrom ordered.
Glancing over her shoulder, Sabyna saw Glawinn whirl suddenly and engage a pirate. The paladin blocked the pirate’s thrust with his soot-stained shield, then cleaved the man’s head in twain. Glawinn kicked the dead man from his blade, sending the body sprawling in the middle of the open.
“Have at you, then,” the paladin challenged. “By Lathander’s swift justice, here you’ll find a warrior tried and true.”
Iakhovas raised a hand.
“No,” a calm voice called through the shadows.
Recognizing the voice, not believing that she’d truly heard it, Sabyna looked up from pulling on the knife and spotted him standing in the opening leading to the last cave.
Jherek stood in the doorway, the cutlass level before him, the gaze in his eyes defiant. The cut Sabyna had seen on his face was really there, and the ship’s mage knew that the times she’d felt he’d spoken her name hadn’t been her imagination after all.
The young sailor wore breeches tucked into calf-high boots and a white shirt with belled sleeves. Blood streaked the shirt, proof that he’d come in through the cave’s main entrance.
“You should have struck me from behind, boy,” Iakhovas rasped, then he smiled. “But you couldn’t do that, could you?”
Jherek threw himself forward, revealing the other men behind him. A lightning bolt shot from Iakhovas’s finger and struck Jherek in the chest. The young sailor flew back out of the cave, slamming into two men behind him and disappearing over the ledge.
“No!” Sabyna yelled.
The knife blade snapped, and she fell, sliding across the rough stone floor toward the pool. As she started to push herself up, a face surfaced in the water. It was dark green and topped by coarse black hair. Pointed ears framed its head. The mouth was a broad, lipless slash filled with sharp fangs that gleamed in the moonlight.
