D & D - Tale of the Comet

by Roland Green

  It did not matter to Captain Figul that the sirines had made no further movement. He charged toward them, heavy feet thumping on the deck planks as he drew his sword.

  "Off my ship, you brazen—!"

  Ohlt thought he saw one sirine put a hand on the other's shoulder, as if to restrain her. If that was the intent, it failed. The nearer sirine's right hand darted forward with eye-blurring .peed, and clamped down on Figul's sword arm.

  Before the captain could even try to jerk loose, the sirine spread her other hand across his forehead. Her nails vanished into his graying hair, dug into his flesh, and he screamed. The scream turned into a gasp, the gasp into a gurgle, and the captain crashed facedown to the deck at the sirine's feet.

  He was up again in a moment, but this time when he charged lie slapped his hands down on the deck and turned a clumsy somersault. It ought to have knocked the wind out of him, but instead he sprang onto the railing as lightly as a young sailor.

  The railing creaked and groaned as Figul actually danced on it. Ohlt expected that at any moment the railing would break or Figul would lose his balance, topple overboard in his witless state, and drown.

  The railing gave way first. It cracked, spilling Figul onto the deck. He lurched about, waving his arms and grinning wildly at rhe sky.

  Then he began to sing. He was about as tuneful as a walrus, but his song was mercifully short. The sirine brushed a hand across his face, and this time, when Figul collapsed on his own deck, he did not rise.

  Now the other sirine was plainly angry with her companion, seizing her by both arms and pulling her around until her back was to Ohlt. The shipwright took the opportunity to break into a run, toward the cabin door. The two lounging sailors had vanished into the forecastle, and now the lookout and steersman on the stemcastle flung themselves over the side, apparently persuaded that they would be better off drowned than enslaved by the songs of evil sirines.

  Fedor Ohlt knew more about sirines than most men, having worked in a shipyard whose owner had once (or so he said) been a sirine's companion for over a year, and even fathered her daughter before being dismissed. He had learned no way of telling friendly sirines from unfriendly ones, but had to admit that their actions had so far been about as friendly as a boarding party of Glukauf Straits pirates.

  The sirine's touch would leave Captain Figul as witless as a baby until another sirine removed the spell and restored his wits. It was best that Fairy Rose be ready to fight, which meant he'd have to get everybody off the deck, except a couple of adventurers whom Ohlt reckoned the best fighters aboard. Hellandros was also still on deck, but he seemed to have no fear of the sirines, and calling to the man would merely draw the sirines' attention to him.

  Ohlt leaped up the stairs beyond the door with the agility of a much younger man, landed off-balance, and crashed into a cabin door. It flew open, letting him sprawl on the floor in front of half a dozen gaping fellow passengers.

  A woman screamed. Someone else swore at her to shut up. Ohlt lurched to his feet.

  "Everyone—quiet. We've been boarded, but I think it's somebody's private quarrel with the captain."

  "Then they've my blessing," came another voice, this one female, sharp with command.

  Ohlt turned and saw the very folk he sought: Elda Ha-Gelher and her brother Brinus. He briefly thanked the gods that any adventurer who had lived as long as the Ha-Gelhers slept lightly, and with weapons in hand.

  "We've trouble on deck. The captain's down, and we may face magic. Don't make the first move, though. They've done no harm to anyone else, yet."

  "Who are you to give us—?" Elda began, but her brother gripped her arm with a gesture so like the sirine's that Ohlt laughed. This did nothing to improve Elda's temper. The point of her rapier rose toward Ohlt's chin.

  "Sisterling," Brinus said, with the tone of a man who has heard it all before, and many times. "He is not giving us orders. He is asking for help. Are we of the blood of the House of Gel-her, or are we not?"

  "For all our brother says, we might as well not be!" Elda snapped.

  "Then let us be truer to its traditions than he is, and help Goodman Ohlt."

  Fedor Ohlt could actually claim the title of Master Shipwright, but would raise that matter some other time. At any moment, the sirines might start singing. If so, no one aboard Rose—-except, perhaps, Hellandros—would be his own master.

  "Everyone else stay below," Brinus said. "But be ready to hand over anything valuable if the pirates ask ransom for the ship."

  He winked at Ohlt as he spoke. His plain intent was to keep everyone so busy hiding their valuables that none of them would come up on deck. Ohlt had suspected that Brinus was the shrewder of the Ha-Gelhers, even if the less finished fighter. Now, he was certain.

  The three companions crept down the ladder and Ohlt peered out onto the deck. The two sirines were unmistakably arguing. They were speaking in what Ohlt recognized as an Elvish dialect. He knew only a few words in the tongue of the elves, and those in High Elvish, which the sirines' tongue was definitely not.

  Hellandros was so hard to see that, for a moment, Ohlt thought the stranger had put a spell of invisibility on himself. Then Ohlt saw that Hellandros was standing absolutely motionless, with his dark cloak making him even harder to discern in the shadows.

  The sirines' quarrel rose higher. Neither seemed to care that one had her back to the sterncastle, and the other to the forecastle.

  Elda saw that vulnerability in one moment; in the next moment, she attacked. Ohlt had never seen any living creature except a leopard strike so fast.

  "Don't kill!" Brinus, Ohlt, and Hellandros shouted together.

  Elda must have had that notion in mind when she attacked; the cry could never have overtaken her leap. She crashed into the nearer sirine, bringing her down and nearly toppling the other as well. Ohlt knew that sirines were immensely resistant to wounds, but crashing into one of them like a sling stone could overcome that. Elda finished her work by ramming one knee into the small of the sirine's back, then driving her right fist, weighted with the hilt of her rapier, into the back of her opponent's neck.

  The other sirine was already retreating while Elda was still in mid-leap. The sirine took a deep breath, Ohlt saw Brinus draw a sword and dagger, and Hellandros raise his staff—and then something seemed to fly out of the night and wrap itself around the second sirine's throat.

  Even a sirine cannot sing when someone is trying to strangle her. Brinus stepped forward and put the point of his dagger a hair's breadth from the sirine's ribs.

  "Good lady of the waters," he said, rolling out the title as if he were addressing the Grand Duchess, "we would speak with you peacefully, but whether we can do this or not, is in your hands. Swear to peace, and we will do you no harm ... and your friend—"

  In the sirine's gasping reply, Ohlt recognized the Elvish word for "sister."

  "—no further harm. Is this agreeable to you?"

  The sirine looked angry, confused, and afraid all at the same time. Then, from behind the sirine, Ohlt heard a soft voice speaking Elvish, apparently translating Brinus's remarks. After a moment, the sirine nodded, pressed her hand to her heart, then knelt beside her sister.

  The Elvish-speaker stepped out of the shadows, and Ohlt mentally kicked himself for not also calling her out. M'lenda was a young half-elven woman, seemingly a ranger by profession, but with hints of having once studied as a cleric. She wore hardly more than the sirine, and was dripping wet. Her splendid auburn hair, which normally caressed her shoulders and hung down her back, now had all the charm of seaweed cast on a storm-swept beach.

  "Thank you, M'lenda," Hellandros said. Ohlt started, having almost forgotten that the mysterious traveler could talk. "If you will continue to translate for these unfortunate ladies of the waters, we may hope to explain their presence here tonight."

  The sirines said something that M'lenda did not waste time translating. Hellandros shook his head.

  "Your presence
aboard this ship and your attack on the cap-lain require an explanation. You will get more justice from us than from anyone else, but if you continue to stand, silent as a stone, you will still have to deal with someone else . . . and your sister will lack healing until that time."

  M'lenda again did not need to translate. Ohlt doubted that Hellandros had cast any spell on the sirine; they could be as resistant to spells as to weapons. But no one familiar with human tongues could miss the edge in Hellandros's voice. Nor could any creature with eyes ignore the look in his.

  Ohlt was profoundly grateful that neither the command, nor the eyes, were aimed at him.

  e » •

  According to M'lenda, the sirine spoke a dialect of Wood Elvish that few but wood elves had ever heard of, let alone learned. However, the ranger had somehow come by enough knowledge of that dialect to be able to speak with the sirine.

  The two sirines, Gerua and Sneyla, were among the last— perhaps the last—of the long-isolated Paradise Lake sirines. Yet they had found companions, and Sneyla had conceived by one of them. Her daughter had been four years old when the ice began melting in the rivers, but would never see her fifth name-day.

  The sirines had been diving deep when a ship brushed against the pinnacle of rock above them. Part of the rock broke away, and sank so swiftly that it caught Sneyla's daughter beneath it. It bore her down to the bottom, and crushed the life out of her. All her mother had of her now was the ancient necklace of coral beads she had given her daughter only days before. The necklace had been handed down over the generations, stretching back to the time before the sirines of the lake came upriver from the sea.

  It was then that Ohlt closed his eyes. Marfa had also been four, coming up on five, when she died. And one of his gifts to her had been a coral necklace, although no ancient heirloom, merely a gift from an old shipmate Ohlt had nursed through a fever.

  Since her daughter's death, Sneyla had been half mad. Gerua thought they should seek out other sirines, if any remained in the lake, and if not, seek the open sea. But the bereaved mother was determined to remain, and instead of seeking the sea, she sought the ship that had slain her daughter. She would slay its folk, and only then could she bid farewell to Paradise Lake.

  "Why does she think Fairy Rose is the guilty ship?" Hellandros asked.

  A very human shrug was the answer. Then Gerua went on. "I doubted it the moment we were on deck," M'lenda translated. "But before I could persuade Sneyla, the fool of a captain attacked us. After he fell, nothing could turn Sneyla aside. But if you have hurt her past healing, there can be no peace between us."

  "We would not ask it," Fedor Ohlt said. He had opened his eyes, but his voice was so strange that everyone stared at him. He blinked, but nothing could hide the tears on his cheeks.

  It seemed best for Ohlt to tell his story then, and by the time he was done, not only his cheeks were wet. Elda Ha-Gelher actually embraced him, although she seemed as interested in pleasing as in consoling him.

  Ohlt finally pried Elda's arms from around his neck and faced Gerua and her translator.

  "I offer this. You will restore Captain Figul's wits—"

  Hellandros was not the only one who said, under his breath, "If any."

  "—and he will heal your sister. I believe some among us have healing skills." Ohlt's look at Hellandros and M'lenda said that they had cursed well better! "Also, Elda Ha-Gelher knows somewhat of how to bind a wound, at least those she has given."

  Elda snorted. Her brother put a hand over his mouth, to hide a smile.

  "Then we will take a boat to an island you will choose . . . one nearby, please. If you can tow us underwater while we spread sail above, we will make good time without anyone noticing. We will leave everything in the boat on the island, then return to Fairy Rose, and continue our voyage to Aston Point.

  "Does this seem fair?"

  Hellandros looked as if he resented Ohlt's both assuming leadership, and proposing the healing of Sneyla. Then he looked up at the sky, and Ohlt could read his thoughts: with that in the sky, it was a poor time for men to learn of sirines in Paradise Lake.

  "Hellandros could do better, I think," M'lenda said. "I used my best healing on the two crewmen who jumped overboard, after rescuing them."

  Hellandros sighed, then drew himself straight with an obvious effort. To Ohlt, he seemed to drop the guise of a weary adventurer as one might drop a worn out hat onto a rubbish heap.

  "M'lenda, would you go to my chest? Use this key—" he rummaged in his belt pouch "—and bring out the codex with the red and blue silk spine? I must learn the nature of Sneyla's hurts before I attempt to heal them, and I have never been able

  to memorize the necessary spell."

  © • •

  The day was as clear as the night had been, with a sprinkling of puffy white clouds in place of stars. Not seeing the Fire to Come hanging overhead eased Ohlt's mind.

  What did not ease it was the wind's dying before they were halfway to the island. If they had to row the rest of the way, and then back, Captain Figul might change his mind about waiting for them. Ohlt had made it clear that their silence about the night's events depended on Figul's. The captain seemed willing to hold his tongue, to discourage questions from other passengers and crew about what had happened on deck in the night.

  But gratitude and honor might not be in Captain Figul. If so, then the sirines' friends might find themselves rowing back to an empty spot in the lake, with no course save to keep rowing until another ship came across them. Another ship, or a spring storm, not unknown on Paradise Lake.

  Meanwhile, Figul could be making much of himself for defending his ship against sirines and their friends. He might even crew Rose with some of the sellswords wandering about Aston Point, and come back in search of the sirines' new island.

  All of which, unfortunately, were dangers about which Fedor Ohlt could do nothing—except for rowing faster, he and his comrades: M'lenda, Hellandros, and the Ha-Gelhers. Elda reminded him that the callouses from wielding a sword were not the same as those from wielding an adze. Her brother agreed, but said that sometimes being right did not matter.

  Hellandros steered—not very well—and they could hardly have held a course with his steering alone. But the sirines seemed to know these waters, and M'lenda had an uncanny sense of direction and distance covered. Hardly surprising in a ranger, but no less welcome for that.

  At last, Sneyla surfaced and pointed at a low, rocky island, decorated at one end with a sand beach, and at the other with a clump of scraggly pines on a low rise. "There," M'lenda said.

  Half an hour later, the boat's keel grated on the sand. In as long again, the last crate from the boat thumped on the sand, and the two sirines stood side by side, counting their gifts. They wore no more than they had in the night, and stood as straight and splendid, although Sneyla occasionally pressed a hand to her aching back. In the daylight their green skins had an undertone of ivory that made them seem even more desirable than before.

  Ohlt understood, as he had never done before, how easily sirines found companionship when they wanted or needed it. If either of these had asked him . . . well, loyalty to his wife's memory would have fought a hard battle with the long years of celibacy.

  It began to seem that the sirines had said everything they were going to say, and farewells and thank-yous were not part of it. Ohlt climbed back into the boat and faced his companions.

  "Friends—and I think after this night, we are all that and more—"

  "Well. . ." Elda interrupted, starting a lewd grin before her brother elbowed her in the ribs.

  "Jests aside," Ohlt said, "I think we should work together, to guard the sirines' secret."

  "Even when folk will have their minds on the sky?" Elda asked.

  "Especially when they live under the threat of the fire," Hellandros said. He explained how fear worked among folk who believed in prophecies, especially those far from home.

  "I do not suggest that we go
about together, or put aside whatever has brought each of us here," Hellandros went on. "That would only make us stand out, raise rather than dispel suspicion, and put both the idly curious, and the actively dangerous, on our trail."

  "You should plead in law courts," Elda said, smiling, but this time not lewdly.

  "I have done that, in my time," Hellandros said. "I owe you much for what you did to hide what 1 am. Ashore, Figul may blather and bleat as much as he wishes without doing me grave harm, but a knife in the ribs, and a stone at my feet as I slip over the side, is no jest even for wizards.

  "I shall try to be aware of where each of you are, and how you fare. If you need any help that I can give, as long as we are in or near Aston Point, it is yours."

  It was Elda who replied first, silently taking Hellandros's hand. She took it, moreover, as she would have taken the hand of a warrior comrade, not as Ohlt had seen women commonly hold the hands of men.

  Ohlt placed his hand atop the wizard's and Elda's, then Brinus joined, and finally M'lenda's slim fingers made the top layer. Nothing was said, but Ohlt doubted that anything needed saying.

  Hellandros laughed softly. "Well and good. Now, since no one is in sight save those who know my secrets, would anyone mind if 1 raised a small wind?"

  Elda kissed Hellandros on both cheeks, M'lenda kissed him on one hand, and Ohlt felt like joining them.

  The spell had to be repeated five times, but it was a short one. The sun had hardly moved in the sky before the sail bellied out, and the boat swept away from the shore, out into the open lake.

  Behind the companions, the two sirines stopped their sharing of a crock of jam to stand and wave a sticky-fingered farewell. Ohlt thought he even saw Gerua blow a kiss.

  Two

  Torgia Mel's quill glided with the easy hand of the seasoned diarist over the parchment on her table.

  Word just up from the waterfront. Fairy Rose in this morning, half a day late. No sign of damage or trouble aboard, and the passengers seem to be the usual assortment.