by Mel Odom
“I will lead you there,” Iakhovas said, “and we will find our people. A way will be made for us to achieve this, our greatest of destinies. Once again, our people will be made whole, no longer separated by the ignorance the hated surface dwellers would wish on us. I give you this, my promise, and I stand on it in the blood of combat to prove to you that Sekolah watches over our actions.”
Before anyone knew what was going on, Iakhovas leaped from the terrace and swam out into the amphitheater. The afanc noticed him at once and began finning toward him.
The royal guards mustered quickly to go to his aid. Laaqueel reached for the gifts Sekolah had bestowed upon her, wondering if any of them would truly be enough to stand against the monster even now gliding toward Iakhovas.
“No!” Iakhovas shouted. “Do not interfere. Trust in the will of Sekolah.”
Laaqueel rushed forward to the terrace railing. Fear pounded through her as she wondered what would happen to her when Iakhovas was killed by the afanc.
Iakhovas hung motionless in the water, floating well above the tiled courtyard. He spread his arms out, claws wide on his hands and feet.
The afanc streaked straight for him. It opened its mouth, knowing its prey couldn’t escape.
* * * * *
Jherek woke from a troubled slumber, never free of the nightmarish shark that pursued him. Pale moonlight streamed through the iron bars of the hold overhead, letting him know it was still in the dark hours of the night. The familiar creak of Breezerunner’s rigging and planks sounded around him. Two men’s voices talking casually to each other came from above.
Nearly all of Breezerunner’s crew were asleep around him, rolled tightly into themselves against the chill of the night that filled the hold. Only Tynnel was awake, sitting across the hold and staring up at the iron bars overhead. Jherek made brief, uncomfortable eye contact with the man, glancing quickly away. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the bulwark. Since their confrontation a few days ago, they’d had little to say to each other.
Slight fever still coursed through Jherek, but it wasn’t as bad as it had been. At least now it burned and kept his sleep erratic, but it didn’t leave him shaking all the time. The chill bit into him with jagged fangs, though, and he wished he had a blanket so he wouldn’t wake up feeling stiff all the time.
Breezerunner still sailed through the River Chionthar as it had every night that Jherek had been aware of. Old Captain Finaren, who’d never liked even the idea of river travel, told him that normally a ship tied up at night on a river. There were too many dangers, unseen shoals that could rip a keel out from under a ship, or twists that could be missed in the night that would leave the ship run ashore, to risk sailing in the dark. Even the merchantman’s necessary four-foot draft could prove challenging for the ship’s pilot. The young sailor knew there must have been some reason for Vurgrom’s haste, and he wished he had some clue as to what it was.
The fever left his mouth dry. Quietly, not wanting to disturb those around him, Jherek made his way to the water barrel. He used the dipper hanging on the side and drank deeply.
“Malorrie.”
The whisper drew the young sailor’s attention up. For a moment, he thought he’d imagined Sabyna’s voice, a product of wishful thinking and the fever.
“Malorrie.”
He glanced up, thinking perhaps he saw a slight shimmering against the star-studded night above. “Sabyna?” he said softly.
“I have the key to the brig lock.” Her voice seemed to come from the air itself.
“How did you—”
“Vurgrom sleeps occasionally. I waited till his mage was deep in his own studies, then took my chances.”
“That was foolish,” Jherek said. “You could have been hurt.”
“Quiet. I’ve heard them talking that we’ll reach the end of the river tomorrow. If we’re going to have a chance at all, it has to be tonight.”
Jherek nodded. “I agree, lady. Once you give me the key, get yourself off the ship.”
“I can do more good here.”
“No,” Jherek said softly.
“We don’t have time to argue. Even invisible, if any of the pirates look in my direction at the right time they could figure out what’s going on. If Vurgrom should wake up and find his key missing, all hell will break loose.”
“Of course.”
“Stretch your hand up.”
Jherek did, standing on tiptoe. The hard metal key brushed his fingertips for a moment, and he seized it. He felt the warmth of Sabyna’s hand close around his briefly, and he wished the touch could have lasted longer. He felt an immediate wash of shame and guilt. He was in no way deserving of her. His face burned and he hoped it was too dark in the hold for the ship’s mage to see.
“As soon as you are ready,” Sabyna said, “you should make your move. It’s only a couple hours before dawn now, and most of the pirates are asleep.”
“Aye, lady.”
“I told you not to call me lady,” Sabyna admonished.
“As you wish.”
“ ‘As you wish,’ ” she repeated. “I do like the sound of that.”
He heard the smile in her voice, and his heart ached that he wasn’t able to see it. When he realized how selfish he was being, both for wanting to see her and for keeping her there any longer than she had to be, he whispered, “You should go before you’re spotted.”
“All right. Tymora’s favored blessings of good fortune to you and the crew, Malorrie of Velen, that you may be seen safely through this night.”
“And you, lady.” He didn’t know if she’d heard him. Even though he didn’t hear her footsteps, he felt that she was no longer there.
“Let me have the key, boy,” Captain Tynnel said in a rough voice.
Jherek crossed the floor and gave the key to the man. Whatever slight friendship that had existed between them when they’d first met seemed to have vanished. The young sailor still didn’t know how or why that had happened.
Tynnel pushed himself to his feet. “Let’s rouse these dogs. Quietly. We’ve got my ship to take back, and in one damned piece, Selûne willing.”
In moments, they had the crew awake. All of them were full of fear and nervous energy when Tynnel slid the key home and twisted the lock. The tumblers instantly fell into place.
They went through the door and into the pitch black filling the center of the hold, moving by memory and by feel. Jherek went first among them, followed by Tynnel. He breathed rapidly, from fear and the fever filling him. He ran his hand along the wall, located the steps leading up to the main deck, and started up toward the lighted rectangle of the hatch.
Tynnel gripped the young sailor’s wrist. “Once we get up top, things are going to get confusing. No matter what else, we have to seize control of the tiller—else Breezerunner will be run aground.”
“Aye, sir.” Despite the tension between the captain and himself, Jherek knew he’d carry out the orders to the best of his ability. He continued up the steps, going slowly, rocking his weight smoothly so the steps wouldn’t be as likely to creak underfoot. His heart pounded and he was drenched in the sweat of the fever.
He peered out at the deck before his head ever cleared the hold. He glanced only briefly at the dark shore speeding by, almost overwhelmed by the actual sight of Breezerunner’s magically enhanced speed. He turned hurriedly away.
Two pirates were talking at the nearby railing. From their conversation, Jherek knew the subject was Sabyna and how Vurgrom had promised the ship’s mage to them once they reached the end of the river in the Sunset Mountains.
The young sailor’s anger came upon him full strength at the graphic nature of their discussion, but he kept himself in check. Malorrie had always instructed him in the dangers of anger, and Madame Iitaar had never put up with it.
Two more men stood at the stern castle manning the rudder. Vurgrom’s ship’s mage occupied the bronze-colored chair mounted there. Moonlight glinted darkly agai
nst it. Sailcloth above moved and cracked occasionally, but left great wells of shadow that a clever and surefooted person could use to his benefit.
The land on either side of the River Chionthar here bore scrub growth, short, stocky trees and an abundance of brush. Only a few trees of any real height lined the bank and leaned out over the water. The ship’s mage piloted Breezerunner in the center of the river, and she glided smoothly along against the sedate current even with all the arcane speed she mustered.
“Move,” Captain Tynnel ordered.
Jherek pushed out of the hold and stayed hunkered down as he crossed the deck. He placed his feet rapidly but carefully, staying within the pools of shadows created by the sails overhead. He heard the crewmen behind him, though, as they came up on the deck, and so did the pirates.
“Hey, what the hell?” someone yelled.
Giving up all pretense of getting across the deck unheard and unseen, Jherek sped for the stern castle. He pushed the fever and the uncertainty to the back of his mind. Live or die, it all came down to the next few minutes.
The man standing beside the seated ship’s mage came forward, peering down at the deck and trying to find the source of the commotion.
“The prisoners have escaped!” someone screamed. “Sound the alarm!”
Swords hissed from leather. Halfway up the steps, Jherek lunged for the man leaning over the railing, catching him by the shirt front. The young sailor pulled as hard as he could, yanking the man over the railing and toward the deck below. As the pirate screamed and fell, Jherek stripped the cutlass from the man’s hand. The young sailor heard the bone-splitting crunch of the man impacting against the deck at the time he had his foot on the top rung of the steps leading into Breezerunner’s stern castle.
He raced toward the ship’s mage, grimly aware of the battle that had broken out behind him.
XV
9 Kythorn, the Year of the Gauntlet
Incredibly, at the last moment before the afanc reached him, Iakhovas moved enough to avoid the beast’s jaws. He buried a handful of claws in the side of the afanc’s face, locking himself onto it. While the afanc swam faster, startled by the effrontery of the creature that dared challenge it, Iakhovas used his hand and foot claws to pull himself to the great creature’s back.
Seated behind the afanc’s wedge-shaped head, Iakhovas locked his foot claws into the creature’s body, then began rending it with his hand claws. Great strips of flesh peeled from the creature, floating away in ribbons. Iakhovas didn’t toy with it, going for the kill immediately.
Watching him ride the giant creature to its death, Laaqueel was reminded of the stories of Daganisoraan, the hero and villain of so many sahuagin tales. She knew that was exactly what Iakhovas was after.
Working in a frenzy, Iakhovas raked through one of the afanc’s eyes. The creature whipped back and forth, giving vent to screams of pain that sounded very humanlike. Laaqueel had heard the afanc had learned to speak some human tongues and often lured sailors to their own deaths.
Once the eye socket was empty, Iakhovas shifted on the afanc’s face. He clung with his toe claws and one hand, reaching his other into the bloody socket. He ripped past the soft tissues that did little to protect the vulnerable brain beyond. He had to shove his head and one shoulder into the socket to get the depth he needed to reach the brain, but he didn’t flinch in doing it.
Laaqueel had never seen such savagery, and she knew Sekolah had chosen well his instrument of war against the surface dwellers. The sahuagin in the stands roared in savage anticipation, no longer fearing for their king. They cheered him on instead.
The afanc’s movements became erratic, evidence that Iakhovas had damaged the brain. A shudder ran its full length and it died. Withdrawing from the wound he’d made in the eye, Iakhovas leaped from the corpse and swam high into the space above the amphitheater.
“I am Iakhovas!” he roared. “I work the will of Sekolah, the Shark God, to strike fear in the hearts of the enemy of We Who Eat! I will not be denied!”
The sahuagin stood in the stands and slapped their finned feet against the stone. Thunder, spread even more quickly in the water, crashed all around the amphitheater.
“Come eat,” Iakhovas invited. “Sekolah has seen fit to give us this bounty. Meat is meat!”
The sahuagin swam from their seats, so close together they looked like a school of fish. The dim light shone from their wriggling scaled bodies as they closed on Iakhovas’s kill and fed in a frenzy.
Laaqueel felt moved to join them, to revel in her heritage, but she knew that could never be fully a part of this world. She would always be an outsider, a freak among the sahuagin, but she took pride in them nonetheless.
Iakhovas floated above the scene for a moment, then swam over to join her.
What do you think now, little malenti? he asked as he swam down to stand beside her.
I think you follow the currents given by the Shark God more closely than even you would admit.
Iakhovas laughed. Ah, little malenti, you profess such faith, yet you have so many doubts. I will teach you to believe.
Laaqueel considered telling him that he was the only thing she doubted, not the will of Sekolah. She chose not to. The way looked hard before them. She was convinced they were being divinely led. The sahuagin were going to take back the sea coasts, including the abomination of the inland sea.
Join me, Iakhovas said. I would call others to our cause. He lifted his voice then, launching into the deepsong that the sahuagin used to communicate over enormous distances. He sent forth a song of vengeance and bloodlust, of battle and victory, drawing forth sahuagin as well as all manner of creatures that could heed the sound of his voice.
Normally a deepsong wasn’t entered into so easily. Time was required to set up the message, to arrange the way it was sung, but Iakhovas’s song was simple. It was an invitation to a slaughter, to a bloodletting that would make histories above and below the waterline of Faerûn.
Laaqueel joined him, lending her power to his. The royal guard followed suit, then all the voices out in the amphitheater joined in. As she sang, joy thrilled through the malenti. Usually a king and Royal High Priestess would lead five hundred singers in deepsong, and the words would reach as far out as fifteen hundred miles, but now there were thousands. The whole village sang. Laaqueel knew it was impossible to guess how far the deepsong could be heard, but she knew those who heard it, those for whom it was intended, would answer.
* * * * *
“Friend Pacys, what is it that ails ye?”
The old bard blinked, staring at the forest around him. When he and Khlinat had first arrived, he hadn’t known exactly where they were, but the woodchopper whose fire they’d found had told them they were in the Gulthmere Forest north of the Orsraun Mountains. The forest was on the western coast of the Sea of Fallen Stars, with Turmish to the southeast and Starmantle and the independent city of Westgate to the northwest. They had begun trekking toward Starmantle rather than crossing over the Orsraun Mountains.
Khlinat stared at him in consternation, backlit by the glow of their campfire.
“What’s wrong?” Pacys asked, not understanding.
“Ye were moaning and groaning,” Khlinat told him, “like a man being pulled to his grave by a pack of hungry ghouls.”
Reluctantly, Pacys sat up. In his older years, he knew sleep no longer returned so casually as it had when he was younger. Some nights sleep had to be wooed like an uncertain lover, and this night he was certain it wouldn’t return at all.
“A dream,” he told the dwarf.
“ ’Tweren’t no dream, I’ll wager,” Khlinat said. His hair hung in shaggy disarray, leaves twisted among it from sleeping on the light pallets they carried.
“A nightmare then.”
“Come over here and sit by the fire,” Khlinat entreated. “Warm up yer bones a bit and it’ll get rid of them nightmares.”
Pacys moved a little closer to the fire they kept burning
to stave off the chill of the night. Khlinat threw a few more of the branches they’d gathered onto the fire. Stuttering yellow flames licked up anxiously for the dry wood.
“Maybe a bit of that stew I made earlier,” Khlinat suggested. “Get your innards warmed up a bit too.”
“No, thank you,” Pacys said. “The fire will be enough.” He held his hands out to the fire, marveling again that they were still in such good shape after all these years. He’d known several bards who’d lost their skill to arthritis or accident.
“So what was this nightmare?” the dwarf asked.
Pacys shook his head. “There were no images. At least, none that I can remember.” He hesitated. “There was a song, though, something I could barely understand.”
He reached for the yarting in its protective cover beside his pallet. Despite his age, he sat with crossed legs. He’d spent decades on the ground, on tables in taverns, on hassocks in royal chambers, and on ships’ decks. The position was natural for him.
Khlinat sat silently beside him, his hands never far from the axe hafts. The rough country had been hard on the dwarf because of his peg leg, but he’d never complained.
It was good, Pacys knew, to be in stouthearted company when the things that lay ahead appeared so uncertain. He slid the yarting from its cover, stroked the strings and tuned it briefly, then reached out for the song.
He closed his eyes, surrendering himself over to it. Since they arrived in the Gulthmere Forest the songs had stayed constantly in his thoughts, almost too many of them to keep track of, yet when he fitted them together, they wove tightly. His fingers found the notes easily, and he wasn’t surprised that some of them were new. It was like mining a mountain shot through with veins rich with ore. Despite how many new things were coming to him, he knew there was much more that was not yet his.
Eyes closed in concentration, the old bard smelled the sweet scent of Khlinat’s pipe as it smoldered. Though he hadn’t thought of it before and didn’t know why he hadn’t, Pacys reached out for the scent, felt the smooth, wispy nature of it, and blended it into the song as well.
