by Mel Odom
“When we try to get back across that harbor,” Laaqueel said coldly, “you’ll get your opportunity then.”
Iakhovas shook his head. “See, this is why I’ve planned everything, why I am the master and you serve me. We’re not adventuring out into the harbor any more this night.”
“How do you propose to leave?”
In reply, Iakhovas handed her a thin medallion from his cloak. “I’ve taken care to make my own doors and egresses, little malenti. I give you this and an escape route that goes with it. Accept this, a token of my appreciation for your efforts thus far, and a down payment on those you’ll provide again in the future. Say your name when you close your fist on it and you’ll be transported back to my castle.”
Laaqueel took the medallion and looked at it. About the size of a silver piece and constructed of cut crystal, it bore a compass rose on both sides. “Magic?” she asked derisively.
“Yes.”
She let her look of displeasure let him know how she felt about magic.
“Of course, you can always choose to stay here and die,” Iakhovas suggested, “but I don’t think that will serve Sekolah.”
“How do I know this will work?”
“Because I crafted it, little malenti.”
One of the wererats strode forward out of the shadows. They’d assumed their hybrid forms while in the sewers to enhance their vision. Laaqueel recognized him as Manistas, the leader of the pack Iakhovas had made his deal with.
“What’s going on here?”
Iakhovas faced the wererat leader. “I’m taking my leave,” he said. “Your services are no longer needed and your people can go.”
“Go where?” The wererat’s pink and gray tongue slithered out of its mouth nervously. “There’s no place for us to go in this city. Two of us were recognized by members of the Watch. They know we were with you.”
“Then I suggest you take your departure of Waterdeep at your earliest convenience,” Iakhovas said without sympathy, “or slay the two among you who were recognized. Either way, I’ve delivered you your gold for tonight’s bit of business.”
Manistas unsheathed his sword, fell back into a defensive posture, and said, “You’re not going to just leave us here.”
“Attacking me will be your last mistake,” Iakhovas assured him in a low voice, “should you choose to act so unwisely.”
Reluctantly, the wererat backed away, but kept his sword out.
“What you do here won’t be forgotten,” Manistas promised.
“You hired on for mere gold with nothing of yourselves at stake except that which you were willing to risk in your greed,” Iakhovas said. “Your loyalty was fleeting at best. You and your people live off the surface dwellers, Manistas, as did your ancestors. You have no love of the sea for what it is. As the humans do, you live in spite of the sea, taking from it what you will with no thought to the needs of the deep. If I have need of you or your people again, I’m sure your greed will let you forget this transgression, or mayhap someone else’s will.”
The wererat leader tightened his grip on his short sword and said, “If you do contact me again, know now that the price will be higher … much higher.”
Iakhovas laughed, and the sound of it trapped in the sewer chilled Laaqueel’s blood. Looking at her, he said, “Do not tarry long, little malenti. I do fear I shall leave you in unkind company.”
He broke the medallion and spoke a word of command. Blue vapor coiled from the two halves of the medallion and wreathed him. A sharp crack of thunder filled the sewer and he disappeared. The broken medallion pieces hit the ground where he’d been standing.
Laaqueel felt the smooth edges of the medallion in her fingers and thought about the magic power inherent in it. Her stomach rolled in nervous fear. What she’d been through with Iakhovas had been terrifying enough, but to trust herself to the spell locked in the medallion was the most fearful consideration she’d ever been forced to make. It would have been better to face an enemy in combat.
Even the deep shadows trapped in the sewer weren’t enough to blind her to the small hand gestures Manistas made. In response, the wererats slowly fanned out before her, blocking her way back into the sewer channel. Dozens of red glints from true rats covered the underground tunnel behind them
“We know you don’t like magic, priestess,” the wererat leader stated. “He used you as he used us. Perhaps together we might be able to turn the tables on him.” He took a step forward, the short sword dropping to his side.
“So you would offer me a partnership?” Laaqueel demanded.
Manistas nodded, his rat’s eyes never leaving her face. “Yes. It’s more than he offers you.”
Laaqueel considered unleashing one of her spells on him, to show him the true error of his ways and his poor judgment, but she was already tired, needing the embrace of the sea around her to return her strength. The other wererats closed in, getting well within springing distance.
“Maybe I’d even offer you more,” the wererat leader said. “You’re a very beautiful woman, and I can afford to be generous.”
Hollow booms sounded outside the barred sewer shaft, and the stench of lightning filled the air, prickling Laaqueel’s skin. She didn’t respond and tried to break the medallion, only her fingers wouldn’t obey her will.
The wererat to her right sprang, a short blade glinting in his pawlike hand.
Afraid then, knowing the wererats would pull her down with their sheer numbers, Laaqueel hurled the crystal medallion at her feet. It shattered against the stone and the blue smoke curled up around her, bringing the strong salty scent of purple seaweed with it. She screamed her name and she was gone, ripped away by Iakhovas’s magic.
“There!” a man in a guard’s uniform yelled, pointing.
Pacys turned, watching as the sahuagin manta bobbed only inches below the surface. The silvery black eyes of the sahuagin hanging onto their underwater craft gazed up at the humans aboard the great galley the Waterdhavian Guard had appropriated as a staging platform for the battle.
“I see them, I see them!” a sailor yelled. He grabbed a lantern from a peg on the railing and quickly started up into the rigging. “I’ll signal the warning!”
In response to the first man’s yell, the senior civilar in charge of the group aboard the galley called his men into position. They lined the railing alongside the bard.
Glancing at their faces, knowing the past hour since the battle had begun hadn’t been easy, Pacys saw the pride and the dedication on the faces of the men. He’d heard prayers as they worked, from men calling on their gods to protect not only their families and them, but for protection to be offered to friends and neighbors as well.
A steel fishing net stretched between the galley Pacys was on and the one a hundred feet away. Though the storm had finally started dying down, the waves hammered unmercifully against the ship’s hull. The deck shuffled erratically beneath Pacys’s feet.
The cable supporting the top part of the net remained slack, creating a big U-shape into the harbor. The man in the rigging waved his lantern. A lantern on the other ship waved back in response.
“They see us!” the captain yelled up at his mate. “They have the wind working for them. Tell them to circle around and come into us. We’ll scoop these damned sea devils up before they can run!”
Pacys hung onto the railing, not believing the sahuagin would run. They’d attacked the harbor with the intention of destroying all they could, but there appeared to be no real objective other than destruction. Thinking that way bothered the bard. No military exercise was conducted without some kind of end in mind, and the sahuagin had to have known they couldn’t completely destroy Waterdeep.
The sea creatures had quickly lost interest in the attack during the last several minutes. They’d deserted in earnest, hurried on their way by the Waterdhavian Guard and the wizards and sailors who’d joined their ranks. The huge corpses of dragon turtles, sea snakes, eyes of the deep, sharks, and even a
giant jellyfish floated in the harbor and required negotiation by ships. A dead giant squid had even washed up onto Dock Street, taking the defensive line that had been set up there out of the battle until a sufficient number of sturdy draft animals could be used to haul it away.
The other galley’s sails filled with wind and it sped up, cutting a half circle through the water as it surrounded the manta. The huge net slithered into place around the sahuagin craft.
“Pull ’em up, boys!” the captain bawled. “Kelthar!”
“Aye, sir!” the first mate called back.
“Prepare that oil and heave it when I tell you.”
“Aye, sir.”
Pacys watched the silvery shimmer of the steel net as it rose up under the sahuagin manta. The craft was one of the large ones, fully seventy-five feet wide and two hundred feet long. The net couldn’t get around all of it, but it settled around two-thirds of it.
The net seized the manta and brought it the rest of the way to the surface. Sahuagin clung to it, looking like crayfish babies that clung to the mother’s tail, so thick on it they were crowded in on each other. There were more than he expected.
“Tymora stay with us,” one of the sailors cried out. “There must be four, five hundred sahuagin on that craft!”
The galleys each normally carried a crew of a hundred and fifty, but almost twice that number were on them now as the fighting men of Waterdeep took the battle to their enemy. The numbers between sahuagin and Waterdhavian forces were roughly equal, Pacys guessed, but the sea devils pound for pound were the fiercest fighters.
Knowing their craft was tied up in the net, the sahuagin started swarming up the net toward the crews. Tridents flashed in their hands, and several of them loosened the throwing nets they carried. They navigated the steel net easily, their wide feet allowing them to climb with no threat of slipping through.
One of them stopped, hands raised in a beseeching posture. Pacys studied the shells and skulls the sahuagin wore on chains around her body and knew from stories that she must be a priestess. The bard turned to the captain.
“She’s preparing a spell,” he warned.
“Nonsense,” the old man yelled back gruffly. “Damned sea devils don’t believe in—”
“She’s a priestess,” Pacys said. “That kind of magic they understand just fine.”
“Galm,” the captain called, looking troubled.
One of the guardsmen turned.
“Put a shaft through that one,” the captain instructed. “Man here says she could be calling something nasty up our way.”
The guard nodded and pulled his bow back. Before he could fire, light around the ship suddenly extinguished, and the night’s full darkness descended again, no longer held back by the galley’s lanterns. The captain cursed loudly and ordered his men to the railing.
Pacys stared hard into the gloom, unable to detect more than a slither of occasional movement. The vibration of the sahuagin warriors clambering along the steel net lashed through the galley. A slaughter was coming, the bard knew, and the defenders aboard the ship would be fighting among themselves before it ended.
“Hold them back, boys!” the captain bellowed. “You may not be able to see them, but you can by the gods smell them when they come aboard.”
Pacys steadied his staff, leaving the hidden blades in place so he couldn’t offer too much threat to his companions. His stomach heaved in fear and his hands slid on the staff.
Without warning, the lights of the ship became visible again while the sahuagin were only yards away, scrambling up the net as quickly as they could. Glancing skyward, Pacys spotted a flying carpet above them.
“Maskar Wands,” the captain called up, “thank you for your help. Hail and well met.”
“Hail and well met,” the wizard called down, then he gestured again and a great font of flames speared from his fingers and rained down over the sahuagin on the net. Most of them died in that instant, but a wave crawled up over the galley’s railing.
Like the other men, Pacys was forced back by the desperate sahuagin. He wielded the staff with grim certainty, breaking open heads and tangling the sahuagins’ legs where he could. A trident laid his arm open during the battle, but he kept fighting. Men died around him, but sahuagin died in greater numbers.
Incredibly, the sahuagin faltered in their charge and were driven back. Only a few escaped back into the harbor.
Breathing hard, his limbs shaking with effort, Pacys gazed out at the harbor. Only a few skirmishes remained within the breakwater walls, and the guard was making short work of them. He drew in the air deeply, smelling the salt and not knowing if it was from the sea or from the blood, his or someone else’s, that covered him.
The torches at the guard stations along the breakwater blazed more brightly, probably magically enhanced. They threw light over the harbor, driving back the darkness that had tried to consume the city.
The bard turned and looked back at Waterdeep, listening to the splashes made as the galley’s crew threw the dead sahuagin over the side. Mount Waterdeep soared above the harbor, standing tall and majestically proud.
The melody that had haunted Pacys for the last fourteen years rose inside his head again. He listened to it, not surprised to find that it was still incomplete. If this battle were to be granted to him as his song, his legacy to leave the world, none of the other bards would have been witness to it. He believed now, more strongly than he’d ever believed, that he was meant to make an enduring song with his craft, a song that would fire the hearts and stir the souls of men. It was his destiny, and his life had been spared tonight because of it.
This was only the opening movement, though. There had to be much more to come. Somewhere, the malign being that had put the invasion together was planning and plotting. Oghma granted Pacys the intelligence to know that, just as he was sure the rest of Waterdeep’s leaders must be thinking the same thing: what had been gained here tonight? The city had stood.
He shook his head, knowing he wasn’t going to understand everything yet. He trusted that he’d be guided further.
Looking around, he saw the faces of the men as they gave aid to the wounded, gave comfort to the dying, and made peace with the dead. It was hard, harsh work, and would leave more scars than physical wounds ever would.
Pacys wished he had his yarting, but it was back at the Font of Knowledge. Still, he didn’t let the lack of an instrument stop him. He sang a cappella, his voice sweet and true as it flowed over the galley’s deck and out into the harbor. The song was an original of his that he called “Bind My Wounds and Fill My Heart.” It had been written on a battlefield, conceived in the heat of war, and nurtured to fruition that same night as so many fought their final battle with death and lost.
As he sang he found that the song gave him strength and relief as well. A few of the men even knew the song and joined him on the chorus.
There was nothing, he knew, that would ever take away the losses that Waterdeep had suffered tonight.
XIX
15 Mirtul, the Year of the Gauntlet
“You don’t have to do that.”
Jherek looked up and spotted Breezerunner’s ship’s mage looking down at him. He hung down the side of the ship from two ropes, trussed up in a leather harness, using a barnacle spade to work on the ship’s hull. “I like working with my hands,” he told her.
“I couldn’t think of much harder work.” She waved at the hot sun blazing down over the becalmed water and added, “Or much harsher conditions.”
She wore her copper colored hair short, hardly any longer than his. Her skin was browned from the sea and sun, but freckles stippled the bridge of her short nose. Her eyes were reddish brown, wide and full. She seemed friendly and liked to smile. Her mouth was generous and full-lipped, and he’d yet to see a displeased look on her face. From her position in the crew, he guessed that she was a few years older than he was. In the three days he’d been aboard Breezerunner, he’d never talked to her.
Jherek nodded. He couldn’t think of much harder work either, which was why he’d chosen it. Perspiration covered him and the leather straps chaffed at him. He’d stripped down to knee-length breeches and a short-sleeved blouse. Both were drenched from the slight sea spray and sweat. Neither improved the way he smelled. “I’m not used to being a passenger.”
“You’re a sailor?” she asked.
“Aye.” He took time to inspect the barnacle spade’s edge again. He’d found that he liked looking at the ship’s mage, but after the experience with the Amnians aboard Butterfly he’d taken pains not to allow himself too many glances in her direction. Still, staying in his cabin hadn’t been an answer he could live with. When he’d seen the ship’s crew ordered to scrape barnacles from the hull that morning he’d gone to the ship’s mate, volunteered, and been grudgingly allowed. The mate had thought him deranged for even asking, even more so when he’d actually shown up for the work detail.
“Where’s your ship?” she asked.
He glanced up at her, shading his eyes with his free hand as the sun came over the bow when Breezerunner dipped into the water, and said, “In Umberlee’s arms.” He hated telling the lie, but there was nothing else to do.
“You crewed aboard Silver Dassel?”
“Aye.” The lie went against Jherek’s nature. It felt like a wedge between them. He’d never forget he’d lied to her. Telling her the truth, though, was out of the question. Silver Dassel had gone down nearly a tenday ago, pulled down by a sahuagin raiding party not far from where Butterfly had been attacked.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “It must have been hard.”
Jherek let his silence be his only answer. Most of Silver Dassel’s crew, including her captain, old Vinagir, hadn’t come back. Many of the rest had scattered, trying to find new ships that would take them.
