The Stories of Elaine Cunningham

by Elaine Cunningham

  The warrior wyrm looked down at her, and his great fanged mouth curved into a sly and terrible smile. "I have always found a little treachery in a human to be a fine spice. Name your betrayers, loud morsel, and you shall go free."

  "Swear it," Sima insisted. "Swear the most solemn oath you know that the one who caused me to be bound here will die in my place!"

  "By the four winds, by the very breath of Tiamut, so shall it be," intoned Hysta'kiamarh.

  Once his oath was given, the dragon extended a claw and sliced the ropes binding Sima's hands. She lifted her arm and leveled an accusing finger, sweeping it in a deadly path across the moonlit crowd of gathered Deepwater folk. Fear was written on every familiar face, but it burned brightest in the eyes of those who had betrayed her.

  Sima saw what was in the eyes of her father and her chieftain, and for a moment she paused, trembling. Then her hand swept high to point at the largest red dragon.

  "It was you, great Hysta'kiamarh," she cried out; "you who demanded this tribute, you who put me on this altar! Human hands tied the knots, but the cords binding all of us are in your grasp. By the ancient bonds of word and wind, it is Hysta'kiamrh who must die in Sima's place!"

  Angry steam poured from the dragon's nostrils at these words, and flames leaped and burned within Hysta'kiamarh's yellow eyes. Hissing his rage at the girl's impudence, he raised his talons for the killing stroke.

  At once a terrible wind roared up from the sea. A monstrous cloud, dark and dragon-shaped, raced toward the cowering villagers like a killing storm. It swept past Deepwater, only to wheel around in the sky and circle back with deadly intent.

  The forsworn dragon tore his eyes from the fearsome sight long enough to send an inquiring glare at his companion.

  His mate inclined her horned head in a solemn nod. "The Breath of Tiamut," the priestess confirmed. "As you swore, so shall it be. By word and wind, your life for the maiden's."

  And as she spoke, the dragon-shaped cloud swooped down and engulfed Hysta'kiamarh. Cloud and dragon then shot into upward toward the watching moon. They disappeared together, high above Deepwater, in a crash that split the sky like the loudest thunder ever heard. A rain of dragon scales clattered down to the hard-trodden mud of Deepwater, sending the villagers into panicked flight.

  But the curious moonlight soon worked its way back down through the swirling dust, and the villagers came close behind. All beheld a wondrous sight: the dragon scales had fallen to form an elaborate knot-work circle around the stone altar, upon which stood Sima, unbound and unharmed. The dragon cleric bowed to her as if to a chieftain's daughter.

  "The bargain is fulfilled, the tribute is ended," the dragon said, her great voice rolling across sea and shore. "What the warriors of Deepwater could not achieve through strength of arms, one girl has won through her cleverness and loyalty." Then the she-dragon leaped into the sky, and was gone.

  The villagers stood amazed, then as one they fell on their knees before the maiden who had saved them.

  Sima climbed down from the altar to take her father by one hand and Brog, her sister's betrothed, by another. Raising them up, she gaily said, "The moon is full, and the runchions will soon return to the sea. Just because the dragons cannot eat, there is no reason why we should not!"

  Merrily the people of Deepwater made their way down to the sands. They chased the fleeing little fish with much sport and laughter, until the moon went to its daytime slumber to the sound of happy songs, and the good scent of runchion stew.

  To this very day, the dragon scale mosaic can be seen in Virgin's Square, harder than any stone. Thanks to Sima, never again did the dragons of the North demand a blood tribute from the people of Waterdeep.

  ANSWERED PRAYERS

  The port city of Hlammach had no shortage of taverns, but not many of them would willingly serve a drow. Liriel Baenre and her two companions had spent the better part of the evening working their way down Tavern Row before finding a table at a noisy dockside shanty.

  It was a good table, right by the front window and, Liriel noted cynically, in full view of the passing sailors. Many did not pass at all, but stopped to stare at the unusual feminine trio on display: an ebony-skinned drow, a golden star elf, and a tall, lithe beauty who, except for the feral light in her amber eyes, appeared to be a moon elf.

  Liriel had to admit this was a worthy ploy on the proprietor's part. She and her friends were window dressing-exotic bait for passing clients. Elves of any sort were not common in Impiltur, and three strikingly different elf women were certain to catch the eye. Several human wenches sprawled invitingly on a nearby couch, ready to offer alternatives when patrons learned the elves were not for sale.

  A burst of raucous laughter rose from a nearby table, where a trio of drunken merchants obligingly displayed their wares to a saucy-looking light-skirt.

  Sharlarra Vendreth rolled her eyes. "A thief, a cleric of Mystra, and a champion of Eilistraee walk into a brothel. Stop me if you've heard this one."

  "Not that old jest," Liriel said dryly. She glanced at the third elf. "You haven't touched your ale, Thorn, after all your complaints about being thirsty enough to drink seawater."

  The raven-haired warrior tasted her ale, grimaced, and put the mug down. "Bilge water is more like. And by the Dark Maiden, Sharlarra, keep your voice down! I know wolves whose howls don't carry as well."

  "Thorn has a point," Liriel told the star elf. "As far as the good folk of Impiltur are concerned, you're not a thief, you're a swordpoint. Best keep it that way."

  Sharlarra plucked at the sea-blue tabard that proclaimed her status: a hired blade working for the Impiltur military. One slim finger traced the three interlocking rings, the symbol of the Council of Lords that ruled the country in Queen Sambryl's name. The device was stitched in extravagant silver threads, the better to honor the three gods-Tyr, Torm, and Ilmater-most revered in Impiltur.

  "We're all hired swords," the star elf observed. "In fact, if not for the high praise Jhanyndil of Rashemen heaped upon you, the council wouldn't have approved any of us. So why are Thorn and I the only ones wearing the three rings?"

  Liriel pushed up the sleeve of her shirt and pointedly displayed her black forearm. "Drow? Remember that little detail? When the good folk of Hlammach see two sword-points walking a dark elf down the street, they assume you and Thorn have a bad situation under control. But if all three of us were wearing the council's colors-"

  "They'd probably think the tabards were stolen," Sharlarra concluded. "That didn't occur to me."

  Such thoughts always occurred to Liriel. Even now, long years gone from her native Menzoberranzan, she still thought as a drow: no path ran straight, no question was simple, no plan held a single purpose. In her homeland, "devious" was high praise. She'd been raised on deceit and betrayal, trained to see layers within layers. A drow who did not see many possibilities in any situation was unlikely to survive long.

  With such training, suspicion came easily. Friendship was much harder. Until she'd left the Underdark, the closest Liriel had come to having a true friend was her alliance with an insane, two-headed deep dragon. Since then, she'd been fortunate indeed. For several years now, she'd been running from adventure to adventure with Thorn and Sharlarra. And before that-

  "Finally, here comes our food." Thorn nodded toward the serving wench, who was currently struggling her way through a gauntlet of grasping hands, a well-laden tray held high overhead and a bright, determined smile firmly fixed on her face.

  The servant set out surprisingly appetizing fare: thick seafood stew served in hollowed-out round loaves, a platter of pungent cheeses, and bowls of sugared berries.

  Thorn regarded her streaming trencher with approval. "I smell a joint of mutton roasting. Bring me a thick slice of that, as well."

  The wench blew a curly brown lock off her face and shook her head. "Cook just put it on the fire. It'll be some while before it's ready."

  Thorn turned a cool, amber stare toward the serva
nt. "Is the fleece still attached to the mutton?"

  The girl blinked. "N-no. Of course not."

  "Then it's ready."

  Liriel chuckled at the expression on the servant's face, and the speed with which she beat a retreat to the kitchen. Thorn's appetite was prodigious and not entirely civilized. Small wonder, considering that she spent much of her time running about on four legs.

  And speaking of appetites, Sharlarra was not far behind, albeit in other matters. The star elf was surveying the other patrons with interest, boldly meeting their accessing stares with a friendly, open smile-not quite invitation, but not far from it, either.

  Liriel didn't fault Sharlarra for her fun-loving nature, for she understood it well. Her years in the Underdark had been brightened by many a handsome drow playmate. Mutual prejudice made alliance with a surface elf unlikely, but from time to time, a human man caught her eye. Even so, there had been no one for her since Fyodor of Rashemen. Sometimes she wondered if there ever could be.

  Her hand went to the symbol of Mystra hanging over her heart. Shortly after Fyodor's death, Liriel had found her true calling. Magic had always been her passion, but she felt the call of a cleric's path, as well. When she learned of Mystra, Lady of Magic and Mysteries, everything fell into place. Liriel's dedication to the goddess of magic had been as single-minded and her ambition as great as any priestess of Lolth. She pursued the goddess's favor and sought power with a focus and fervor that would have had her grandmother, the dreaded Matron Baenre, nodding in approval. But only recently had Liriel recognized the reason driving her rapid rise in Mystra's service:

  Powerful clerics could resurrect the dead.

  Thorn broke the drow's reverie by swatting Sharlarra on the shoulder. "No courtship behavior, not here," she warned her. "We eat, we leave. That was the agreement."

  "Too late." The star elf tipped her golden head toward the man swaggering over to their table.

  Sharlarra's would-be suitor was a large man, too young for his girth. He had the slightly melted look some big-muscled adventurers get when days of hard riding give way to long nights devoted to dice and drink. Even so, his confident smirk bespoke a comfortable opinion of himself, and his garments and gear were flamboyant in the extreme. Huge roc plumes dyed a vivid purple swept down from the brim of an indigo blue hat. His tunic and breeches encompassed the color spectrum with multiple stripes in blues, greens, yellows, and oranges-a progression that ended with the brilliant red of his dragonhide boots. He was, in short, a walking rainbow, the sort of silly fop most people dismissed with a smirk and a shrug.

  Liriel took this in with a glance before her eyes went to the man's weapons. They were decorative, yes, but the sword on his hip was well maintained and the grip showed the wear of frequent use. He had other weapons, too; daggers and knives which he probably thought were cleverly hidden, including a pair of daggers tucked into his oversized boot cuffs. His coin purse was heavy, and the red riding whip tucked into his belt matched the harness on the fine black stallion waiting in the attached stable. Liriel glanced at the table he'd just left, noting the half dozen men seated there. They, unlike the walking rainbow, made no pretense of being anything but what they were: well-seasoned fighters. And hunters, too, judging from the full quivers under their seats and the longbows propped against the wall. All of them wore belts of bright red dragon hide-a livery of sorts, proclaiming their hired allegiance.

  Wonderful, Liriel thought glumly. The fool could fight, and he had men to back him up.

  And then he surprised her by ignoring Sharlarra and walking directly over to Thorn.

  "I know what you are," he said bluntly. "You might be able to hoodwink everyone else, but I know a lythari when I see one."

  Thorn shrugged. "Then you are not quite the fool you appear."

  "This is a most fortuitous meeting, if not without irony," he went on, ignoring her insult. "I am hunting exotic wolf pelts for my trophy hall, and rumors of werewolves in the Gray Forest brought me to Impiltur. But none would take me into those woods, so I settled for hunting of a different sort in a dockside brothel. And here we both are."

  The lythari woman looked him up and down. Her lip curled. "Are you even allowed to mate?"

  He fell back a step, brow furrowed in puzzlement. "Allowed? Whatever are you talking about?"

  Thorn shook her head in disgust and turned back to her companions. "I keep forgetting that humans don't follow pack law. Among my people, the right to breed is earned."

  "Or bought?" he wheedled, holding up a large gold coin.

  Thorn sniffed. "No self-respecting bitch would lift her tail for the likes of you, not for all the coins in Impiltur."

  The man's pleasant expression never faltered. "Then it's back to blood sport. No matter-it's all hunting, and all the same to me. At the moment, I alone know your true nature. But at a word from me, six hunters start competing for the bounty your wolf's hide will bring them."

  "A word from me," Liriel said in equally pleasant tones, "and six hunters will be hit by a fireball big enough to leave nothing but a stinking grease spot on the tavern floor."

  Finally the man's facade slipped, and he cast a slyly malevolent glance in Liriel's direction. "If you cast killing magic, drow, you will never leave the city alive. But of course, you know this full well."

  And so she did. Her acceptance in Impiltur was a tenuous thing, despite the valuable services she provided. Her familiarity with the deep ways made her an asset to the bands of Warswords who patrolled the tunnels under the Earthspurs. The recent discovery of a temple of Laduguer, the evil god of the duegar, raised the possibility of trade with gray dwarf settlements. Liriel's ability to speak Undercommon was in great demand among enterprising merchants. Even so, the officials of Impiltur made it clear that she would be closely scrutinized. She would be permitted to use healing spells and other beneficial clerical magic, but no "drowlike" behavior would be tolerated.

  And that, Liriel noted, was a conundrum. If ever a man merited the full attention of her darker nature, it was this smirking fool.

  Well, a drow had other weapons than magic and steel, and not the least of them was reputation. Drow females learned certain skills along with word-weaning: how to wrap knife-bladed sarcasm in silky words, how to project malice and evil as naturally as oil lamps cast light, how to promise death without drawing a weapon.

  Liriel willed a malevolent gleam into her eyes and curved her lips into a cold, cruel smile. "You seem well versed in Impiltur law," she said in a clear, ringing voice. "You don't look like much of a hunter, but the council might hire you as a clerk or scribe."

  The man's smirk faded away. "I'll have you know that these boots are a trophy."

  "A red dragon. Impressive," Liriel purred. "Tell me, did you kill the roc, as well? Or did one obligingly molt a few feathers in your general direction?"

  By now the tavern had grown dangerously quiet, and the wary expressions on the patrons' faces indicated that their pleasantly dark fantasies concerning Liriel had given way to even darker thoughts-stories they'd heard told of the drow.

  The proprietor hurried over to the table, all but wringing his hands in dismay. "I want no trouble here."

  "Who does?" Thorn replied coolly. She glanced at Liriel, taking in the slim black fingers curved around the clerical emblem. She tapped Liriel's boot with her foot. The drow responded with a thin, wicked smile. Thorn sealed their unspoken agreement with a nod and turned back to the tavern keeper.

  "I paid for this meal, and I intend to finish it. After, this man and I can settle our differences outside."

  The fop's smirk returned, and his sword hand closed around the hilt of his weapon. "A duel is yet another kind of hunt. Your terms are quite acceptable. I await your pleasure." He gave the lythari a mocking little bow and walked back to his table.

  Sharlarra's worried gaze went from Liriel to Thorn. "You're planning something. Do I want to know what it is?"

  The lythari ignored her. "How long do you nee
d to work your spell, drow?"

  "No more than a quarter bell." Liriel glanced toward the moon. The fat crescent had already begun its descent, and appeared to be in danger of impaling itself upon the mast of a large ship. That was good fortune-the ship would serve as a reference point and help her chart time's passage. Thorn didn't need such aids, but Liriel had yet to master the art of measuring time by the movement of the moon and stars.

  By the time Thorn polished off the last crumb of her bread bowl and devoured a slab of very rare mutton, the moon was almost touching the ship's boom. Liriel figured this delay was due to design as well as hunger; by the time Thorn had finished feeding, the streets were nearly deserted.

  Finally Thorn rose to leave. The garishly clad hunter almost beat her to the door in his eagerness.

  They strode to the middle of the street, faced each other, and drew swords. The first clash echoed down the nearly empty street. Steel hissed as the blades slid free, then sang out again in three quick, ringing notes.

  The opponents circled each other, testing with short feints, quick lunges and deft parries. They were much the same height, so neither had the advantage of reach. Thorn was faster, the human was stronger. The two appeared well matched, and certainly presented a vivid contrast. Thorn had removed her sea-blue tabard to signify that this fight was not of an official nature, so there remained little color about her. Thorn preferred to dress in unrelieved black, for that was the color of her pelt in wolf form. Long black hair framed her pale face, unbound but for the single streak of white-the mark of Eilistraee's favor-woven into a thin braid.

  By now most of the patrons and quite a few of the wenches were crowded around the window, watching the battle on the street beyond. Sharlarra leaned close to Liriel. "Shouldn't we go out there?"

  The drow shook her head and continued her silent prayer. She was right where she needed to be-surrounded by people who expected a drow to attack by sword or spell. They would see no gesture, hear no word.