“Is she a friend?” Fyodor asked, eying the beautiful creature uncertainly.
“That depends. Does your social circle usually include other-planer half breeds?”
Fyodor, his gaze intent on the genasi, let that pass. “She’s after the captain,” he said, noting the creature’s approach on the unwitting Ibn. He placed one hand on his sword hilt and started forward.
His determined stride faltered after a pace or two, and he stood watching the genasi with fascination. Several other men left off their chores and drifted closer. Their wonderstruck eyes drank in the beautiful blue face. Several of them darted envious, even murderous, glances at the unsuspecting Ibn.
A charm spell, Liriel surmised, eyeing the blue female with new respect. For a moment she was tempted to let the genasi’s enchantment run its course. Liriel’s people had a thousand ways to weed out the foolish and the weak, and the ship would probably be the better for a cleansing battle. That accomplished, she could subdue the blue wench and restore order—and, not incidentally, put a more congenial captain in Ibn’s place.
As she settled back to enjoy the show, a small voice in the back of her mind inquired, Yes, but what would Fyodor think of this plan?
Irritation swept through her. Such intrusions on her drow practicality were becoming annoyingly frequent.
“At the moment, he’s not thinking at all,” she muttered. “At least, not with anything that lies between his ears.”
Fyodor, the voice said implacably. Honor.
The drow hissed in exasperation then gave way with an ungracious shrug.
“Hoy, Ibn! Who’s your lady friend?” she sang out, pointing. “Nice legs. Too bad about her choice in men.”
The captain’s head whipped toward the genasi. He let out a yelp of outrage—proving, no surprise to Liriel, that his bigotry was stronger than the genasi’s magic.
“Another damn sea elf! Git off my ship, you long-eared fish!”
Astonishment froze the genasi in mid-slink, and fury twisted her azure face.
“Now you’ve done it,” Liriel murmured happily. According to drow lore books, a sure way to infuriate any genasi was to mistake it for a “lesser creature.”
A sly smile curved the drow’s lips. There would be no avoiding battle now!
The genasi threw both arms high in a dramatic spell-caster’s stance and let out an echoing call that rose and fell like the song of a whale. It danced over the undulating sea, gathering power as it went—more power, unfortunately, than Liriel had anticipated.
She swept both hands wide in a circular pattern as she whispered an arcane phrase. A silvery sphere, a barely visible enchantment that resembled the ghost of a giant soap bubble, soared toward the genasi. The creature touched one blue finger to the conjured sphere of silence, and the magical ward dissolved like the bubble it resembled.
Liriel took note of the genasi’s powerful spell resistance. She’d do better to concentrate on the creature’s magic rather than the genasi herself. She mentally listed the spells she had ready to cast, and, since no sensible drow went into battle without every possible advantage, she strode over to Fyodor and stomped sharply on his instep.
The warrior drew in a startled gasp and shook himself like a man abruptly awakened from a dream. His gaze flicked from the genasi to Liriel, and an expression of deep chagrin crossed his face.
“Things could get interesting,” Liriel warned him. “I might need time and space for spellcasting.”
His only response was a grim nod. Knowing him as she did, Liriel understood the source of his dismay. Fyodor regarded Liriel as wychlaran, a position of highest honor in his homeland, and himself as her sworn guardian. Even though no harm had come of it, he would view succumbing to enchantment as a failure of duty.
A conscience, noted Liriel, could be as irrational as it was inconvenient.
At that moment the genasi’s spell ended in a keening wail. The sea stirred, and a small wave rose and swept toward the ship like a dark hand.
Liriel sped through the gestures of a midday mist spell, a handy bit of magic that transformed a targeted water source into cool, harmless vapor. Magic collected between her hands, forming a globe of sparkling lights. This she hurled toward the rushing water.
Her globe struck the water and expired with a damp sigh and a scattering of stardust. A few wisps of mist spiraled toward the moon, but the wave came on.
The drow hissed a curse. She wrapped one arm around the mainsail mast and seized Fyodor’s belt. He enfolded her in a protective hug and raised his voice in a shout of warning to the besotted sailors. His words were drowned by the magic-summoned wave.
Icy water dashed over Liriel, leaving her gasping with shock. When it had passed, she wriggled free and took stock of the situation.
Ibn had managed to hold onto the wheel, but the sailors who’d been drawn by the genasi’s spell were nowhere to be seen. Their whereabouts, however, was no mystery—startled oaths rose from the sea as several men awoke from the enchantment to find themselves paddling in the cold, dark waters.
Fyodor shot a glance at Liriel. “Can she do that again?”
“Not if she’s busy elsewhere,” Liriel said with dark glee. Forsaking the notion of a spell duel, she launched herself into a running charge.
The genasi spun toward the sound. She reached into her skirts for a weapon, decided there was no time, and presented her nails instead.
Liriel batted aside a raking hand and went for the genasi’s throat. The blue flesh was cold and slippery, and Liriel’s small hands couldn’t get a grip. Changing strategy, she fisted both hands in the creature’s flowing blue hair and let herself drop to the deck.
The genasis tumbled with her. For several moments the two females grappled and rolled, a tangle of flailing blue limbs and small, deft black fists. Finally Liriel managed to pin her opponent, straddling her and holding her arms over her head. The beautiful creature continued to buck and writhe, emitting small plaintive sounds that brought to mind a weeping seal pup.
“You’re breaking my heart,” sneered Liriel. “Where I come from, females have more pride.”
The genasi quieted instantly and sent Liriel a fulminating glare.
“That’s better,” the drow approved. “Now, let’s discuss who you are and why you’re here.”
In response, the genasis emitted a trilling call that managed to convey both disgust and exasperation.
Liriel gave her a shake. “One way or another, I intend to get an answer. If you can talk, now would be a good time.”
For a long moment the genasis stared at the drow with hate-filled eyes. “I was called to battle,” she admitted in a voice like wind and water. “Before the appointed time and against my will.”
“Called to battle?” Ibn echoed incredulously.
The drow shot a glance over her shoulder. The captain stood over the females, his face red with fury. “Battle? What battle? This your doing, you damned elf?”
Liriel blew a lock of hair off her face. “First, I’m a drow, not a damned elf. Second, if I’d called this thing, don’t you think I would be the first to know?”
The captain puzzled this over for a moment, then his eyes widened with panicked understanding. “The men in the water!” he bellowed. “Pull ’em in, and step lively!”
Several sailors charged to the rail and threw knotted ropes into the sea. Every rope but one fell ominously slack. The sole successful rescuer pulled his rope in, hand over hand and with frantic speed.
Not fast enough. A shriek of pain rose from water. Two more men seized the rope and hauled. A thin young man slammed against the rail, a sun-browned boy with a fragile wisp of mustache. He shrieked again with the pain of impact, and kept howling as a pair of sailors lifted him over the side—a task complicated by the wicked spear impaling his thigh.
“Hold him,” Ibn said grimly. He seized the barbed point with both hands and tugged. The youth screamed as the shaft slid through his leg. He slumped, mercifully silent, bet
ween his rescuers. The two sailors dragged the unconscious lad into the shelter of the aft castle. One man stood guard over him with drawn cutlass. The other returned to the deck to join his battle-ready mates. Fyodor stood with them, his black sword resting on one shoulder as he awaited the fight.
Liriel intoned a minor spell designed to hold the genasi in place. Once again, magic slid off the creature like drops of water.
The drow shrugged off this failure, made a fist, and drove it into the genasi’s face. The creature’s sea-blue eyes rolled up, and her head lolled to one side.
Liriel sat back on her heels and looked to Ibn. The genasi obviously had powerful defenses against magic, yet something out there possessed magic strong enough—or unusual enough—to circumvent these wards.
“What summoned Princess Blue?” she demanded, tossed her head toward the unconscious genasi.
“You’ll see soon enough.” With a curved sword, the captain pointed to the night-black sea.
Liriel rose, took a harpoon from the rack, and came over to the rail. Her eyes were keener than the sailors’ and more sensitive to subtle differences of light and shadow. She studied the large, dark shape swimming just below the moonlit surface. Something about its movements was disturbingly familiar.
The creature reared up in a sudden surge, sending moonlit waves skittering off like startled spiders. A large, bulbous green head broke the surface, a hideous visage that resembled a giant frog.
“Kua-toa!” Liriel breathed, naming an Underdark monster and vicious foe of the drow.
“Bullywug,” corrected Ibn grimly. “They got a shaman. Where there’s a shaman, there’s a swarm.”
Several more heads crested the waves, and suddenly the monsters were leaping for the rails. The sailors rushed to meet them, weapons high.
Liriel ran toward the nearest bullywug, hurling her harpoon as she went. The monster lifted its spear like a quarterstaff and blocked, a quick twirl that sent the barbed weapon clattering harmlessly across the deck.
The bullywug whirled its spear once again and then snapped it into attack position: shaft level, point leading. Liriel skidded to a stop and danced away from the creature’s long-armed lunge. Her arms crossed over her forearm sheaths and flashed open. Twin daggers gleamed in her hands.
From the corner of her eye Liriel noted a crablike object, inexplicably airborne, spinning toward the bullywug. The monster’s long tongue snapped out reflexively. Tongue and crab reeled in, and the bullywug’s eyes bulged. The drow, knowing what was to come, let out a peal of wild laughter and darted around behind the doomed creature.
Another bullywug clambered over the nearby rail. Liriel faked a stumble, drawing the monster’s attention. It leaped to the deck and waddled toward her with astonishing speed, its spear poised for what appeared to be an easy kill.
The “crab” burst free of the first monster’s gullet, tearing through flesh and bone and continuing its interrupted flight. The magical weapon whirled over Liriel’s head and spun directly toward the charging bullywug. Barbed legs bit deep into the sharkskin armor covering the creature’s rounded gut. For a moment the monster stared down in surprise, then the animated weapon began to burrow. The bullywug tore at the weapon with frantic fingers only to have its entangled hands follow the “crab” in its inexorable path through armor and flesh.
A bullywug distinguished by a weirdly patterned black and green hide charged the drow. Liriel sent her daggers spinning toward this new foe in two quick tosses. The creature slapped aside the first weapon. The second dagger caught the huge, webbed hand and pinned it with deadly precision to its throat.
The drow kicked the feet out from under the dying monster and leaped onto its large, prone form. From there she could reach the web of rat lines. She climbed these and hung there, silhouetted against the rising moon, as she took in the battle.
At least a dozen monsters were still standing, fighting with distressing tenacity. She sought out Fyodor. With his black hair and light skin, he was easy to spot among the roiling melee of giant frogs and fair-haired, sun-browned Northmen. He stood with his back to the mast, his black sword tangled with the many-notched spear of a monster standing nearly seven feet tall.
With relief Liriel noted that her friend seemed to be holding his own and that he had not summoned his berserker frenzy. Fyodor was no longer prisoner to unpredictable bouts of battle fever, but she’d seen his berserker transformation rage out of control too often to welcome its return.
The drow worked her way across the web of lines toward Fyodor, planning to drop to the deck behind his monstrous opponent. As she fell, she saw yet another bullywug launch itself toward Fyodor in a powerful, deck-spanning leap.
Two things happened in one instant: Liriel’s boots touched the wooden planking, and a long black tongue slapped onto her face.
The drow recoiled, but not before she felt the wet, muscular thing curl around her neck. She reached for her sword, knowing that a quick jerk would break her neck—knowing, too, that she would not be fast enough to stop it.
Another “crab” whirled past, severing the bullywug’s tongue. Liriel stumbled away. She ripped the twitching thing off and handed it to the stunned monster. While the bullywug stared in bemusement at the object in its hand, she slammed her sword between the laces of its sharkskin armor.
Before the monster could move, she leaped up and planted both feet on its chest. Pushing off with all her strength, she described a half flip and landed lightly on her feet, sword in hand. The bullywug staggered back, stumbling toward the waiting cutlass of the pale but grim-lipped boy who stood, once again, supported by two fellow sailors.
Liriel sent the wounded lad and his comrades a curt nod and a fierce smile. These Northmen understood something of retribution and knew much of courage.
She whirled in her rescuer’s direction. A slender male sea-elf stood a few paces away, his green eyes taking in the chaos of battle with a warrior’s measured gaze. Xzorsh, her erstwhile apprentice and Hrolf’s self-appointed guardian, had returned—if indeed he had ever left her.
Another throwing spider, one of several magical weapons Liriel had given him, was ready in his webbed hand. Seeing no immediate threat, he shifted his gaze to the troubled waters. His head bobbed slightly, as if he were taking a tally.
“More?” she demanded.
“Thirty, at least,” Xzorsh responded in grim tones. “Too many.”
Liriel shook her head and reached into a bag attached to her belt. She showed the sea elf a large, perfect emerald, part of the trophy she’d taken from the deepdragon’s hoard. Xzorsh’s eyes widened, then sparkled in anticipation. His tutelage with the drow had been brief, but they’d spoken of such wonders before she’d exhausted her scant supply of patience.
Xzorsh pointed toward Fyodor, who was tugging his sword from the body of the seven-foot bullywug. “That was Karimsh, shaman and swarm leader. He called the genasi, he commands the others. I could probably repeat his summoning call–not perfectly, and it would lack magic, but a bullywug in battle frenzy might not notice any lack.”
Liriel responded with a nod and a predatory smile. Lofting the emerald, she began to chant in a soaring, eerie soprano. Xzorsh threw back his head and emitted a call—a strange sound that began on a low, rattling croak and leaped into a series of gulping staccato notes mingled with rapid clicks.
The bizarre elven duet rang above the clamor of battle, and in moments the ship began to rock as dozens of large webbed hands gripped the rails. Deep, booming chuckles rolled from the bullywug swarm as they celebrated the prospect of a quick slaughter and a good meal to follow. Sailors lurched across the rolling deck to meet this new threat.
Nearby, Ibn swatted aside a spear and slashed his curved sword across a swelling green throat. He rounded on the elven pair, shaking his bloodied weapon.
“You’re dead, the both of you!” he promised.
In response, Liriel threw her emerald at his feet. The captain scuttled back and let out a star
tled curse as the gem began to grow. In a heartbeat, a living statue stood before them—a beautiful half-elven female, green as emerald, dressed in a simple tunic and trews and crowned with an ancient headdress.
Liriel frowned. “That’s odd. She’s supposed to be a sea elf. And goddess knows, I dressed her better than that!”
“She’s perfect,” Xzorsh breathed, his gaze fixed upon the tall, glowing golem.
The bullywugs also seemed impressed. Roaring with battle frenzy, they threw themselves at this new challenge. The golem eyed them with disdain as they jabbed at her gem-hard form. For several moments, the booming calls of the giant frogs mingled with the click and clatter of spears against emerald. So fierce was their death-frenzy assault that the bullywugs did not notice the faint green glow spreading across the deck. When it encompassed most of the creatures, Liriel shouted a command word.
The emerald golem disappeared, and the bullywugs with it.
Every warrior left behind—sailors and frogmen alike—stood gaping with astonishment at this unexpected end to battle. The resulting silence was so profound that it pressed against Liriel’s ears like a physical thing.
After a startled moment, the surviving monsters readied themselves for a renewed assault. Spear butts thumped the deck and defiant battle-croaks made grim and empty promises. The sailors answered with ready steel, and a few pairs of weapons clashed and tangled, but the battle was over, and all knew it. In moments the last few bullywugs broke off the attempted rally and leaped into the waves.
Liriel twined one arm around the sea elf’s waist and met Ibn’s scowl with a falsely sweet smile. “Wasn’t it lucky that Xzorsh happened to be swimming by? Without him, I’d be dead. Without me, you’d be dead.”
Several of the sailors—many of them longtime members of Hrolf’s crew—sent up a tired cheer, raising Xzorsh’s name to the listening stars. But the red-bearded captain continued to glare.
“Hrolf is gone, and Elfmaid with him. Any debt between you two is long since paid,” he told Xzorsh coldly. “As for me, I’m not needing a web-fisted shadow.”
Liriel elbowed the sea elf. “Humans have so little appreciation for irony. Have you noticed that?”
Windwalker Page 5
