by Paul S. Kemp
There were a half-score of the creatures, some huddled together like a pile of hideous puppies, others scattered around the small cave. A scrawny runt off to the side looked to be about Ferret's height and size. Elaith quickly cast a charm spell over the young ogre. The creature twitched as if trying to brush off the magical disturbance, but after a moment it rose, yawning. Elaith beckoned for the ogre to follow. The creature absently lifted its loincloth-his loincloth, Elaith could not help but note-and scratched himself rudely. He yawned again before following Elaith out of the cave.
The ogre guards glanced up and went back to their game. So far, so good, Elaith noted with relief. He'd feared such spells might not function well so close to the twisted remnants of an ancient elven mythal.
Suddenly the young ogre's heavy-lidded eyes widened. He looked around frantically, like a sleepwalker who'd suddenly been jarred from sleep.
Cursing under his breath, Elaith thrust a wadded gag into the ogre's mouth. He swept the creature up, slung him over his shoulder, and ran.
When they were a reasonable distance from the camp, Elaith tossed the young ogre to the ground and yanked the amulet from his wrist. The return to his own size and shape was so abrupt that for a moment he felt as if he were falling.
An almost comical look of astonishment flooded the young ogre's face. His cowed submission to an older member of the tribe gave way to rage. He leaped at Elaith, his hands reaching for the elf's throat.
Ferret dropped from the tree above, taking the creature down in mid-leap. He hissed at her like a cat and raked the talons of one hand across her face. She raised one fist to retali shy;ate; Kivessin seized it and jerked her away.
The lythari and the moon elf emerged from the bushes.
Each of the four elves with Elaith took hold of one of the ogre's wrists or ankles, and together they bore the struggling, cursing creature to the prepared site.
Fortunately, the elves did not have far to go. A few hundred paces took them to a place where the forest bordered a nightmare realm.
Skeletal night birds winged silently though swirling mists, kept aloft by some fell magic. The trees were twisted and charred as if by fire, but their branches moved, twining sinu shy;ously against the cloud-tossed moon. Black roots groped their way along the forest floor as if seeking prey. The only appar shy;ently living thing was the abundance of dark ivy that threaded its way among the roots. The vines were studded with purple and red flowers-lovely, but for the scent of rotting flesh that rose from them.
The lythari shook his head sadly. "The price for such magic is too high."
Elaith could not disagree. This was the remains of a corrupted mythal, a powerful magic cast in a long-vanished elven city. As a result of that twisted magic, every creature that died within the magic-blasted landscape rose as undead. No elves could enter it without becoming deathly ill-or without alerting Mallin, the undead wizard who had ruled over the grim realm for more than six centuries.
"Drop the beast here," Elaith directed, pointing to the moss under a large duskwood tree.
Kivessin and Ferret quickly bound the struggling creature, then tied him to a rope dangling from a high branch. The other three elves hoisted the ogre whelp off the ground and tied off the rope. Kivessin yanked away the ogre's gag pulled him back toward the tree, and let him swing toward the mythal-cursed ground.
It took a couple more pushes to get the ogre swinging high enough. When Elaith judged the distance to be right, he cut the rope. The ogre whelp flew free, howling in rage and fear. He landed hard and rolled to the very edge of the poisoned forest. The creature began to shriek in earnest, writhing as if in terrible pain.
The elves took to the trees. In moments the three adult ogres crashed into the clearing. The whelp's cries had subsided. His struggles were weaker, and his small, red eyes were glassy and staring.
"Stupid elves," one of them sneered. "Got too close. Got sick. Probably off puking up their guts."
The other two did not appear convinced. They turned this way and that, peering into the forest, weapons raised and ready.
"We watch, you untie Gloove," one of them growled.
The three advanced toward the young ogre, two of them backing slowly toward the blackened realm, their small eyes sweeping the forest.
Suddenly the foremost ogre stopped. Its green face twisted into a puzzled scowl. For no obvious reason, the creature stumbled and fell. There was a sharp cracking sound. Blood poured from a wound on the ogre's twisted shin, and a jagged edge of bone thrust out of the wound.
"Run!" it shrieked.
Before the guards could react, the thud of crossbows resounded through the forest. Four large arrows streaked down from the nearby trees, trailing thin ropes. Each arrow sank deep into an ogre's chest and punched through the other side. The ogres fell, twitching.
The elves slid down from the trees. Elaith made a quick, sharp gesture with one hand. The illusion he'd painstakingly cast disappeared, and the boundary between healthy forest and cursed land shifted a dozen paces closer to the elves. Black roots and carrion flowers appeared in the place where the ogres had fallen, replacing the illusion of green moss and living plants. The ogres, accepting Elaith's illusion as real, had walked right into the cursed ground.
"Tie off the ropes, quickly," Elaith snapped. "They must be pulled out as soon as they're dead. An undead ogre under Mallin's control is no use to us."
The four elves seized the ropes attached to the impaling arrows and tied each one to the tall, slender saplings they'd prepared earlier. Four of these trees had been carefully bent until their uppermost branches brushed the ground, then tied in place.
"I never thought the day would come when I'd use a crossbow," the moon elf captain murmured.
"Did you ever suppose," Elaith said coolly, "the day might come when you'd have to shoot an arrow that size with enough force to send it all the way through an ogre's chest?"
"A longbow arrow, well shot, would have killed them just as surely," the Suldusk elf put in.
"True," Elaith said. He took hold of one of the taut ropes and gave it a brutal tug. When the arrowhead slammed back into the dying ogre's ribcage, the point sprung apart into four hooks.
"Civilized arrows would have pulled free when we yank the ogres out," Elaith said. "These will not."
The elves waited in grim silence until the ogres' death throes ended. When Elaith gave the signal, the elves cut the lines and the young trees strung upright, jerking the ogres well away from the mythal-cursed ground.
The creatures stirred and rose, their red eyes dull and staring.
Captain Korianthil stared at the undead ogres with open revulsion. "I never thought to find myself in league with such creatures."
"If they weren't dead, they'd probably feel much the same about us," Elaith said shortly. He took several amulets from his bag and handed them to the moon elf. "Put these on them, and you wear the blue one. That will allow you to command their movements."
The moon elf stared at the amulets for a moment, then raised troubled eyes to Elaith's face. "This is.. necromancy."
"Do you know a better way to command the undead?"
A short, rueful laugh burst from Korianthil. "In all candor, Lord Craulnober, I have never given the matter much thought."
Elaith responded with a thin smile. "That's why I'm here."
Koranthil lifted the amulets. "Will the magic hold? Even though the charm spell you cast on the ogre faltered?"
"They will hold. The necromancer who fashioned them takes pride in his evil deeds-and charges accordingly," Elaith said with a wry smile.
"I see. And that would also explain how you maintained an illusion on the very borders of Myth Rhynn?"
Elaith's smile dropped away. "You do not wish to know the origin of that spell. Trust me on this."
"Forgive me," Korianthil said hesitantly, "but if you are willing to learn and use such magic, why did you not simply slay the ogres and animate them yourself?"
"I
would have, if I'd been able to cast that spell," Elaith said bluntly. "I've never learned it. For some strange reason, I'd thought such magic beneath me."
"Of course," the moon elf said immediately. "Forgive me for asking."
"Tell me, captain, do you always ask so many questions of your commanding officer?"
"If you'll permit me one more, may I ask why you don't command the ogres yourself?"
In response, Elaith held up the amulet of ogre-shape. "I'll be busy."
The battle that followed was hardly worthy of the name. It was a slaughter, plain and simple.
Before it began, Elaith selected the sole survivor: the youngest soldier among the party sent into the forest to track the unknown assassin.
Wearing the illusion of an ogre warrior, Elaith crept into the camp and seized the young soldier's ears. The lad awoke with a start to find himself staring into red eyes and wicked, curving tusks. Before he could cry out, Elaith jerked his head up and slammed it back into the ground. The soldiers eyes rolled back and his body went limp.
Elaith placed huge, talon-tipped fingers against the lad's throat. Yes, the soft leap of blood continued, faint but steady. The lad would awaken to a nightmare, and carry word back to his garrison, he would survive the solitary trek through the forest; the forest elves would see to that.
The disguised moon elf rose and joined the undead ogres in the slaughter.
When it was over, Elaith took the soldiers' weapons-many of them as yet unsheathed-and hacked the undead ogres into final death. When the young soldier awakened, he would believe that his comrades had fought bravely and well.
Elaith reclaimed his amulets from the ogres, and as a final touch, placed Captain Lamphor's cap on the ogre whelp's disembodied head.
"An ogre assassin," murmured Kivessin. "Do you think the humans will believe such a creature infiltrated their garrison?"
"I plan to make sure they do." Elaith raised his eyes to Ferret. "One thing remains."
The forest elf nodded and turned to her comrades. "You go ahead. This is nothing any of you need to see."
The elves regarded each other in silence. Finally Captain Korianthil touched his fist to his forehead and then his heart, a gesture of respect for an elflord. Then the three guardians of the forest elves-Evermeet captain, Suldusk warrior, and lythari-disappeared into a shimmering circle.
"There are spells that will bind the spirits of the men you killed so that they cannot identify their killer," Elaith said. "It's much easier to cast these spells on the corpses. I know a spell that will mask the killer, but it is not pleasant."
Ferret shrugged impatiently. "Get on with it."
"I'll need blood."
The forest elf didn't even glance at the gore-drenched campsite. She held out her forearm, ready for his knife.
"This is necromancy," Elaith warned her.
"Yes."
"Some would consider such magic evil."
Ferret's smile was both sad and terrible. "I think we're both past such considerations. Do what needs to be done."
And because it was his destiny, Elaith did precisely that.
CHANGING TIDES
Mel Odom
1
Flamerule, the Year of the Gauntlet (1369 DR)
"I still say ye're a fool to go out there in this storm, Rytagir! Better to stay on the ship where ye'll be safe whilst this maelstrom descends upon us! That shipwreck's been there fer hundreds of years! It'll be there awhile longer yet!"
"Duly noted, Captain," Rytagir Volak replied as he gazed out at the heaving swells of the Sea of Fallen Stars. There was no denying the anticipation that filled him. It had been nearly a year getting that far. "If that treasure ship would see fit to come up off the bottom of the sea and sail into port by itself, why, our lives would be even better, wouldn't they?"
Captain Zahban scowled. "Ye don't even know if Peilam's Nose is down there," he squalled back through the gale.
Rytagir held a hand up in the wind and spattering rain and said, "I believe you're right. Better we should wait for a more hospitable day."
The ship's captain was a broad, burly man in a modest shirt and coat. His pants and boots had seen better days. A heavy-bladed cutlass hung at his side. A queue held back his gray-streaked black hair. More gray stained his curly black beard. The years hadn't been overly kind to Zahban, but he had all his limbs. For a man who had sailed the Sea of Fallen Stars all his life and always against those that flew a pirate's flag, it was a considerable accomplishment.
"Now I wasn't sayin' that." Zahban knotted his fingers in his beard. His broad hat shadowed his craggy face and the dark storm clouds overhead further obscured his features. "Them books what ye found this location in, there's other scholars what could cipher that out, ain't there?"
"Any man that can read and cares enough to look, Captain," Rytagir replied. He enjoyed toying with the captain's conflicted feelings of greed and worry for his charge.
The ship's crew, a loose but hungry-eyed gathering of seadogs that had faced years of the sea's cruel affections without any of her fortunes, listened anxiously.
"Well," Zahban said, "we can't be dilly-dallyin' about this treasure hunt none neither." He paused, then finished, "If there be treasure to be had down there at all."
Rytagir grinned at the man. "There's only one way to find out." He peered over the ship's side. Azure Kestrel, a cog named much prettier than she was and so called because of her light blue sails, strained at her leash. So far the anchor held on the sea bottom.
According to the ship's quartermaster, the bottom was a hundred and ten feet below. Peilam's Nose sat somewhere in the general vicinity.
If you figured those charts and currents right, Rytagir reminded himself. Sea currents, especially two hundred and seventy-eight years of them, were hard to figure.
Rytagir was of medium height and wide-shouldered, arms and legs sleek with muscle and bronzed from years of swimming, diving, and salvaging in rivers and oceans. Good leather armor covered his body. He carried a long sword at his hip and a pair of knives in his knee-high boots. He wore his yellow-gold hair cut so short it wasn't long enough to lie down.
His eyes were the gray-green of the sea. A past lover had told him that his eyes were so much that color that it seemed as though part of the sea had seeped into him and claimed him forever.
Rytagir supposed that could have been true. Lovers never stayed long. They preferred men who could at least be distracted from their other passions more than a few hours or a day. Rytagir's whole life had been about his studies, and about the things he'd found. He'd learned everything his father, a ranger in Cormyr, could teach him of the wild. But it was the seas of Faerыn-not the forests, to his father's eternal dismay-that called out to him.
Quickly, Rytagir spoke a few arcane words, then drew a symbol in the air. Power quivered through him. He vaulted over the cog's side toward the sea breaking against the wooden hull.
The crew rushed over to peer down at him.
Instead of crashing through the waves, Rytagir stopped only a mere inch or two above the water, held there by the magic he had worked. He flexed his knees to absorb the shock and remained standing, though it was a near thing because the sea was so rough. The water-walking spell kept him on top of the ocean, but the waves still provided an uneven surface.
With a flourish-and he freely admitted that he often adored attention far too much than was good for him, which his father had never been happy about because he'd always been a modest man himself-Rytagir turned and bowed to the ship's crew.
They crouched along the starboard side of the ship in fearful dread. The storm had unnerved many of them. Normally the storms were over by summer, and any squall that blew up after that tended to be disastrous. There was already talk of this being a cursed wind. Bad waters and bad winds had taken ships to the bottom over the years.
Rytagir walked precisely one hundred thirty-two strides north, northeast of Azure Kestrel's position. He'd gotten the cog's preci
se position from the stars the night before. The sea harbored her secrets well, and the seeker who went there had to know where to look to find them. Then he ended the spell and sank like a stone beneath the waves.
2
The cold sea leached the warmth from Rytagir's body as he sank. He felt the pressure growing as he slid unimpeded toward the bottom a hundred and ten feet below. Fish swam around him, but there were no sharks. Small fish swimming freely in the area was a good sign because it meant there were no large predators around.
He reached under his leather breastplate and took out the small silk bag that rested on a necklace. A pearl, a simple white ball no larger than the nail of his little finger, mounted on a plain white gold chain rested inside. He took the necklace out and slipped it over his head.
When the necklace was in place, the pearl gleamed with spun moonlight for just a moment, and Rytagir opened his mouth and breathed. Instead of the sea, he breathed in air magically extracted from the sea. He no longer dropped toward the ocean bottom either. He hung suspended, free to make any move he wanted to.
The pearl was a gift from a sirine he'd met while exploring the Dragon Reach near Ravens Bluff in Impiltur. Most sirines tended to be destructive and often led sailors onto rocks and reefs while teasing them with their nearly naked, beautiful bodies and heartbreaking songs.
This one had been different. She'd been scared and helpless against the slavers that had taken her captive. Then, as now, Rytagir had been searching for a legendary ship taken to the bottom.
That time, he hadn't found his prize. However, he had managed to rescue the sirine from her captors. As a gift for res shy;cuing his daughter, her father had given Rytagir the enchanted pearl to aid in his diving.
For a time, he'd dwelt among them. In the end, as always, he'd had to leave to find the next mystery, the next nearly forgotten thing. It was his life and he was sure it would be until the day he died.
