Realms of War a-12

by Paul S. Kemp

  After booting another sahuagin in the face, Rytagir looked in that direction. There, on the crests of the sea, he saw four strange vessels making for them.

  The vessels, mantas, were almost eighty feet across and two hundred feet long. They looked like a shambles, pieced-together craft from several wrecks. As Rytagir watched, several of the sahuagin aboard revealed glow lamps, glass globes stuffed with the luminous entrails of sea creatures.

  10

  "We can't stay here," Rytagir yelled as he hacked at another sahuagin.

  "We're not." Zahban shifted his attention to Irdinmai. "Lady, can ye an' yer warriors hold these animals off while we make ready the ship?"

  "Yes."

  "Then we'll leave ye to it." Zahban yelled orders to his crew and they broke off from the defense to raise sails. "Mystra watch over us."

  Rytagir remained with the elves. His arm grew tired from the constant attacks. The elf next to him went down and a sahuagin crawled triumphantly onto the deck. Rytagir sank below his opponent's sweeping blow and hacked at the sea devil's legs. His effort severed one of them and bit deeply into the other.

  In the next instant, Rasche planted his trident in the center of the sahuagin's chest. Rytagir rose and planted his shoulder into the sea devil's midsection and shoved him from the ship with the sea elf's assistance.

  Rasche crowed in victory and clapped Rytagir on the back. Rytagir responded in kind, and they turned back to the battle.

  Azure Kestrel rocked as canvas dropped and filled her yards. She heeled over so hard once in the crosswinds that Rytagir thought the ship was going to tip over. For a moment they were almost face to face with the sahuagin.

  Then the ship righted.

  "Bring them sheets about!" Zahban ordered. "Let her run, lads! Let her run!"

  The ship leaped forward as the sails caught the wind. The elves kept fighting, aided by the ship's archers. Gradually, then faster, Azure Kestrel broke free of the sahuagin.

  But the mantas, powered by oars wielded by the sahuagin, surged after them in quick pursuit.

  "We can't outrun them," Irdinmai said.

  "We ain't gonna outrun em," Zahban roared from the stern castle. "Fortrag and his apprentice have got a thing or two to show em."

  Rytagir raced up the sterncastle steps and joined the sea captain. The ship's mage and his apprentice stood on the rear deck. Ancient Fortrag, gray beard whipping in the wind, yelled incantations and held out his hand. Flames gathered there, growing larger and larger.

  The four sahuagin mantas had closed the distance to less than eighty yards. Their oars dug relentlessly into the sea.

  When the whirling fireball stood almost as tall as a man and the heat was so intense it drove back those near the wizards, Fortrag flung the fireball. It arced across the water and split into four separate fireballs. Three of the four hit their targets and the mantas disappeared in a maelstrom of flames.

  Fortrag called out again. Rytagir felt the wind accelerate around him. A moment later, a waterspout rose from the sea and danced toward the last manta. Despite the sahuagins' attempt to steer clear, the waterspout overtook them and broke the vessel to pieces.

  The ship's crew and the alu Tel'Quessir cheered, then they turned their efforts to saving those among the wounded that could be saved.

  Two days later, Azure Kestrel put into port at Mordulkin. Rytagir was nearly exhausted. In addition to helping tend the wounded and taking turns at keeping watch, he'd documented everything he could of the attack. He reproduced from memory the sigils the sahuagin had been wearing, as well as those of the sailors and the sea elves.

  The whole port was in upheaval when they arrived. They quickly learned that theirs hadn't been the only ship attacked. In fact, Azure Kestrel was one of the few to make port safely. Several others remained unaccounted for.

  Zahban found himself buried in several offers of employment to get perishable goods across the Sea of Fallen Stars, but only foolish men were putting to sea at the moment.

  Irdinmai was in a hurry to get back to her family, but her foremost thought had been to get medical help for those of her group that had been injured during the attack. Almost a third of the elves had died, and nearly the same number of Zahban's sailors.

  After he'd helped the clerics tend the wounded and squared away the cargo, Rytagir tracked Irdinmai down. She remained with her warriors.

  "Lady," Rytagir said.

  When she looked up at him, he could see how tired and hurt she was. Rytagir knew the look from other captains of ships and guardsmen he'd talked to over the years who had lost men in battle. The pain was more spiritual than physical, and it would be years-if ever-in the healing.

  "Yes," she replied.

  "I've gotten word from some of the other captains," Rytagir said. "The Sea of Fallen Stars is filling with sahuagin. They've been freed from the Alamber Sea."

  "I know," Irdinmai replied. "I've talked with other alu Tel'Quessir that have arrived here. Many were chased from their homes." She paused, and fear touched her silver eyes. "There is a being called Iakhovas who shattered the Sharksbane Wall and called forth the sahuagin. He plans to take all of Serфs as his domain."

  Stunned, Rytagir sat beneath the canvas stretched over the litters of wounded elves. As he watched, dwarves and humans helped dump buckets of saltwater from the sea onto the injured alu Tel'Quessir. The old distrust that had existed between the races along the Inner Sea was set aside.

  At least for now.

  Rytagir turned to Irdinmai. "I'm going to talk to Zahban. He's not unreasonable. The split of the salvaged cargo is going to be fifty-fifty. Your people have shed as much blood, if not more, than ours have."

  "We had an agreement before this happened. You don't have to set that a-"

  "I didn't set it aside, Lady. The sahuagin did." Rytagir looked out to sea and remembered all the stories of wars that he'd read about and researched. "What lies before us isn't going to be quick or easy. If the sahuagin are truly free of the Sharksbane Wall, it's going to take everything we have to hold them back."

  "I know."

  Men hurried along the dock as yet another ship-showing obvious scars from recent battle-limped back into port.

  Rytagir looked into Irdinmai's silver eyes. "The old fears and distrust the surface dwellers have had of the sea folk are going to have to change. And your people will have to change, too. If we hope to survive this, we have to forge new friendships."

  "I know," Irdinmai agreed. "The word has already started to spread among my people."

  "I'm spreading it among mine. I've already drafted letters and have sent them out to scholars and merchant guildsmen whose ears I have. It will take time."

  "Then let us hope it doesn't take too much time." Irdinmai reached out for his hand and took it gently in hers. She pulled him close to her. "I'm tired, and I don't want to be alone. Do you mind?"

  "Not at all, Lady." Rytagir felt her lean against him as they sat with their backs to a crate. After a time she slept and he felt her breath, feather-soft against his arm.

  As he sat there, Rytagir knew things were going to change. Some things would be better and others would be worse. War always brought those changes, and he had no doubt that war was coming to the Sea of Fallen Stars.

  CHASE THE DARK

  Jaleigh Johnson

  Charlatan. Trickster. Blasphemer.

  In Amn, the only thing worse than hurling magic is pretending to hurl it. They laughed at me, said I'd never be worth spit to my people. Then the monsters came. When the ogres marched on the cities, I was the one whistling the merry tune. I had a purpose again. If you don't have it in you to live an honest life, the least you can do is plan a heroic death.

  — From the memoirs of Devlen Torthil

  11 Hammer, the Year of the Tankard (1370 DR)

  "Ten in coin says I make a pikeman drop his stick! Who'll take an honest wager?"

  Devlen Torthil smiled, raking his long brown hair out of his eyes. He rolled up his
dirty sleeves and surveyed the line of men guarding the camp. Easy plucking.

  A plain-faced sentry named Kelsn stepped forward. "I'll take that bet."

  "Splendid, man, come here, then! The problem is distraction, see?" Flipping his palm to the torchlight, Dev flourished a red scrap of cloth in the sentry's face.

  "Is that blood?" The sentry was tall, his blond hair thin under his helmet. Warily, he clutched his pike against his collarbone. Behind him, the foothills of the Small Teeth rose in a jumbled wreck, purple with the setting sun.

  "Not a bit, not… a… bit. Ogre tears, that's what they are." Dev wadded the red cloth into a ball, completely encasing it in his right fist. Twisting his wrist, he came up under the sentry's nose, fingers waggling above an empty palm. The scrap of cloth had disappeared.

  "Wizardry." The sentry spat on the ground, dark already with mud.

  Like a good soldier of Amn, Dev thought, and bit back his sharp smile. He looked up and wiped rain from the bridge of his blunt nose.

  Thunder rolled across the plain, a guttural, urgent murmur that seemed to carry words into the camp and had the sentry turning north on a muttered prayer. More of the wizardry Amn feared.

  Dev sighed. Wasn't right, stealing a man's audience.

  "Look here, Kelsn, pay attention. You think I'd be hanging around with this bunch if I had even a breath of wizardry?" Dev waggled his fingers again. The sentry reluctantly tore his gaze from the horizon. "The problem was you were looking at my hand. You should have been putting your eyes elsewhere."

  The sentry snorted. "Where then, down yer breeches?"

  "Later, sunshine." This time it was Dev who spat. "Watch this first."

  Dev drew a knife from his belt and laid the bare blade against his own right thumb. He held it up so Kelsn could see.

  "Oh, Dev, don't be playing at that. You know we lost our holy man in the last raid-"

  The torchlight flickered and succumbed to the rain, taking the sentry's words with it. In the instant before the light died, he saw Devlen cleanly sever the tip of his thumb. The appendage fell to the ground.

  "Godsdamnit, I knew you were some sick bastard!" The sentry took a jerking step back from the severed digit, as if it might leap up and bite him. His pike slipped and sank, forgotten in the mud.

  Dev howled with laughter. The commotion drew the attention of Breck, head of the night watch.

  "Shut yer flapping mouths, the both of you!" He squatted in the mud and fished out the thumb. Angrily, he plucked up the sentry's pike and slapped the muddy weapon against the man's chest, nearly throwing the sentry off balance. "It's a fake, you idiot! I saw him do the same trick to Fareth two nights ago."

  Dev tried to contain his laughter while the sentry examined the fake digit. He pulled the red cloth from the hollow end where it had been hidden all along. Comprehension wormed its way slowly over his face.

  Dev waited for the rest. Anger? Wonder? Without fail, folk had one or the other reaction to his tricks.

  "Rotten cheat," the sentry growled. Dev was entirely unsurprised. "I'm not putting up good coin for trickster's wizardry-"

  "Part the way!"

  The shouts came from beyond the perimeter of the camp. The remaining torches snapped up, illuminating a trio of men striding slowly up the hill. They carried a litter among them. In their wake, figures scuttled across the plain, bodies riding low to the ground.

  Moves like an animal, Dev thought, except the beasts carried swords, and their eyes gleamed with feral cunning.

  "Kobolds!" The blond sentry hefted his pike in one hand. With the other, he drew a short blade from his belt. He tossed it at Dev. "Move, trickster!"

  Breck intercepted the toss. He spun the blade and planted it in the mud. "Lady Morla's orders. No weapons for this one. You know that, Kelsn, you damn fool!"

  Reprimanded, the sentry jerked his head in acknowledgment and sprinted down the hill, where guards were already assembling a line to meet the charging creatures.

  The litter bearers crossed into the relative safety of the camp. Their faces were drawn with exhaustion. The man draped across the litter was dying. Dev could tell by the pallor of his skin and the steaming trail he left on the cold ground. Dev didn't know his name, but he knew the man was a scout.

  A cold, sharp thrill went through Devlen's body. That meant it was time for him to shine again.

  On the hill, the raiding party slammed into the Amnian defenders, their hairy bodies impaled and wriggling on the pikes. Squeals of dying animals shivered through the night air. Hearing the sound, the kobolds in the back of the party broke ranks and fled.

  Dev observed the whole spectacle with detached curiosity. Weaponless, he trailed behind the litter up the hill to the commander's tent. His mind was too busy to be disturbed by the screams. He was already planning his next trick.

  I work alone. That's the only rule. When you have more than one mouth along on a mission, it doubles your chances of slipping the charade. And whatever you do, never pair up with a priest in war, unless he swears by his god to heal you first and even then, I've never seen anyone so twitchy as a priest on a battlefield.

  — From the memoirs of Devlen Torthil

  Morla was field commander of the Amnian Watch Tower Guard, affectionately named for their mission in the Small Teeth.

  Morla's task had been to reclaim the watch towers being garrisoned by the monster army, led by the ogre mages Sythillis and Cyrvisnea. With those precious eyes in the foot shy;hills, Syth and Cyr could see armies marching across the land, to say nothing of what scrying spells might reveal of such a force. Armed with superior reconnaissance, the monster army had stalled or thwarted outright Amn's attempts to relieve the besieged city of Murann on the coast. Amn needed her towers back, and it was for Morla, a lone woman on the darker side of fifty, to do.

  Dev might have admired her gall, if he didn't despise the old hag personally.

  He lifted the tent flap and immediately regretted disturbing the air. Hot, fresh blood and the stench of burning herbs wafted liberally from the tent. Dev put a hand over his mouth.

  "Where's the priest?" He coughed, trying to see into the smoky interior. "The poor devil's running out of prayer time."

  Three pairs of eyes lifted from the dying scout's pallet to regard Devlen. They watched him walk among them as one might an insect that had wandered onto a lord's feasting table. Morla was the only one who spoke.

  "Be welcome, Scout Devlen." She gestured for Dev to stand in the corner of the tent. Her dull gray hair was pulled tightly back, revealing a broad, wrinkled forehead. Her nose was too long for her face; she had never been a beauty, so the men whispered, but her eyes were stinging bright. It was rumored that her vision was so keen at night she could see the pinpricks of light from a kobold's eyes, miles away in the hills.

  Morla's single guard stood at her left hand. Opposite the pallet squatted a short, compact figure. His robes were filthy around the knees. Silently, he fed the reeking herbs into a brazier hanging from one of the tent poles near the scout's body.

  "Why the quiet, priest?" Dev asked. He wiped his streaming nose. "Aren't you supposed to be sending him to his god?"

  "My name is Gerond," the priest replied without looking up. He pressed a handful of the herbs to the scout's chest, but the man was too far gone to be bothered by the stench. "The lad wanted to smell the herbs of the Wealdath, the land of his birth." The priest pointed to the brazier. "What I have is a poor substitute, but I burn them in his honor."

  "Wonderful way to die," Dev muttered.

  "The scout made his last report," Morla cut in. She nar shy;rowed her hawkish eyes on Dev. "I have another mission for you, charlatan."

  "Sending me off again, are you? Will you miss me, Morla my love, when I'm traipsing through the dark and wet, risk shy;ing death for you?"

  Morla's voice was flat. "On the contrary, charlatan, the only time I think of you at all is when I'm feeding information to the enemy regarding your whereabouts."


  Devlen laughed. "What sweet thoughts they are, I'm sure."

  He tried to sound derisive, but inwardly he thrilled to this latest challenge. He may not have possessed Morla's cold dig shy;nity or the priest's piety, but then, he'd never needed either. Deception was his arena. He was Amn's decoy, sent to play the fiddle of Syth and Cyr. He knew the song and dance better than anyone.

  Morla pointed to a map spread across a long, wooden table. "This is the route I want you to take." She pointed to the camp's current position. "Northwest across this plain-after you've gone, I'll spread the word to their spies that a courier has been dispatched to try to round up our scattered forces. You'll leave tonight and be at your destination before dawn, or you'll be dead from their archers when the light breaks and you're seen from the towers."

  "What a prospect," Dev murmured. "Why that route? A shorter path and tree cover lie straight north."

  "Because that ground," Morla traced a swathe of flat land with her dagger blade, "if you fail to recall, is where this army fought two days ago. We lost over four hundred souls on that plain, more than half our remaining strength. That's the route they'll expect you to take to search for survivors."

  Devlen recalled the battle, but he hadn't fought in it, as Morla knew well. She would not allow a wizard-even a charlatan wizard-the honor of fighting in her army.

  "So you want me to cross an open field, sweetly seasoned with the dead and dying, in clear sight of any goblins, kobolds, or ogres that might still be lingering? You know I'll do it, Morla my light, but it'll be a short walk, I can tell you that, and meanwhile your real courier won't have much of a head start getting your message through."

  That was Amn's bane, of course: communication. Syth and Cyr had arcane means to carry their whispers between their forces. Battle after battle had splintered Morla's army into smaller bands that wandered like aimless, beheaded chickens. Foot traffic and brave-or stupid-couriers were the only means of exchanging information. More often than not, Amn's couriers had met with bloody disaster on these missions, until Dev had stepped in and offered his services. Now there were two messengers: the man who carried the truth, and Devlen the charlatan, with his well-oiled fiddle. Dev didn't mind being the decoy. It was his gift. He would lend it to Amn, in return for a favor to be collected later.