Evermeet: Island of Elves (single books)

by Elaine Cunningham

  The elf looked up in the direction of the attack. Incredibly, their rescuer was an airborne ship, a glittering elven vessel that swooped down upon the pirates like a vengeful butterfly.

  Mariona Leafbower let out a whoop as the ballista bolt struck home. The frustrating years on Sumbrar fell away as the captain's blood sang anew with the wonder of flight, and the joy of battle.

  "Well shot," commented a too-familiar voice behind her.

  The captain whirled to see Vhoori Durothil, watching the battle with calm detachment and cradling in his arms a staff that was crowned with a glowing, golden gem.

  "Who's on the helm?" she snapped.

  "Chandrelle is quite capable," the mage replied. "No one could have brought this ship to battle more swiftly than I, but at this moment, my skills are best employed elsewhere."

  "I can handle the fighting!"

  "Can you also handle that?" he said, pointing with the staff toward the enraged dragon turtle. "When facing two foes, is it not best to pit one against the other?"

  "But-"

  "Enough!" Vhoori thundered. "I will do as I must. See to the battle as you will, but do not hinder me."

  Mariona fell back a step, startled by the vehemence, the sheer power in the Gold elf's voice. For once, she had no inclination to argue.

  The mage pointed the staff at the sea creature and began to chant. As he spoke, the light in the gem began to intensify. To Mariona's surprise, the Gold elf chanted a powerful spell of summoning and binding, using the magic as a frame for soothing words of friendship and promise-words spoken to the dragon turtle!

  The sky-borne ship was closer now, and Mariona could see the spear lodged in the gigantic turtle's mouth. The creature was not an immediate threat to the elves, but neither was he of much good as an ally. What did Vhoori have in mind?

  She did not have time to ponder the matter. Although the pirate ship she'd hit was badly damaged and taking on water fast, a number of pirates had managed to cut their way through the canvas. The last, undamaged ship was swinging around to come to their aid. Soon the elven fighters would be overwhelmed.

  Mariona leaned down to the speaking tube. "Helmsman, set us down on the water, as close to the elven ship as you dare!"

  She spun, ready to shout orders to the crew. They were already about their business-hauling up the lower wings of the sails, readying boarding pikes and ropes, gathering weapons. A fleeting moment of regret touched Mariona-what adventures she might share with elves such as these in wildspace! But the thought was hard to hold, chased as it was by the prospect of the battle ahead.

  By now the water was spinning up to meet them. The captain braced her feet wide, accepted the surprisingly small jolt of impact when the ship touched down. She went to the rail. Seizing a coiled rope, she twirled it briefly and then let fly. The three-pronged hook at the end caught the side of the embattled ship. Other lines flew, and most of her Gold elf crew threw themselves against the ropes, leaning back hard and pulling in hand over hand as they brought the elven ships together.

  Mariona did not wait for the two crystal hulls to touch. As soon as she dared, she leaped over the watery divide and threw herself into the melee.

  Crimson and gold spilled into the sea as the sun broke over the horizon. The night was gone, and with it, the last of his strength. Darthoridan could fight no more. He was utterly spent, drained not only by wounds and exhaustion, but by the crushing sense of guilt and grief. Anarzee had remained constant, while he had given thought only to increasing his clan and his personal power. For these reasons he'd taken a new wife-a lady of high family and many accomplishments. Her beauty and her skill at harp and verse made her an ornament to his castle, and to the court. She would help increase the Craulnober lines, for she was young-younger even than his own son-and would bear many children to the clan. Already her belly was slightly rounded under her bedraggled finery.

  Darthoridan's eyes sought her now. The elf woman stood with her back against the mast, her eyes frantic as she watched the battle rage around her, and her hands pressed to her mouth as if to hold back cries of horror. No warrior, she.

  As if from a distance, Darthoridan heard the clatter of a falling sword, then a dull, echoing thud. Dimly he realized that his sword had fallen from his hand, and that he had dropped to his knees.

  The elf heard his wife's voice screaming out his name. He managed to look up as a curved sword slashed toward his neck. It was not in him to do more.

  The shriek of metal against metal sang out over the clatter of battle. A rangy, silver-haired elf woman had darted in just in time to catch the pirate's blade with her own. She flung the enjoined swords high. Before the pirate could recover from the parry, she barreled in, driving her forehead into his face and then bringing her knee up hard. She danced back. The man folded, bleating out a strangled oath.

  The elven warrior lifted her sword high, swept it down viciously at the back of the pirate's neck. Even as she brought the bloody sword back up, she kicked the rolling, bearded approaching pirate. The man stumbled, his arms windmilling as he sought his balance. Before he could get his feet firmly beneath him and his weapon into guard position, the elf woman whirled in a tight, precise circle. Darthoridan did not actually see her sword's stroke, but he saw the man fall, his throat sliced cleanly across.

  The fierce elf woman took off at a run in search of another fight. But there was none to be found. By now the rescuers-all Gold elves, wearing the uniform of the Sumbrar guard-were tossing the last of the humans into the sea.

  The fight was over, and at last Darthoridan allowed himself to yield to the seductive darkness. As it swept over him, he felt small, cool hands stroking his face.

  "Anarzee," he murmured.

  The hands stilled abruptly. "Anarzee is dead, my lord," his new wife said. "Slain by the dragon turtle. It was horrible to see!"

  Darthoridan remembered all. Grief would come later. Even the darkness would have to wait, for there was one more battle to fight. "Help me up," he rasped. "We must rally the fighters and finish off the creature!"

  "Take ease, Lord Craulnober," said a familiar voice. "The creature, as you call it, is alive and well, and now an ally of the People." As if to give evidence, Vhoori Durothil held out the two broken pieces of the harpoon that Anarzee had planted at such cost.

  Darthoridan stared with disbelief at the calm, golden face of Sumbrar's ruling mage. "The monster killed Anarzee Moonflower, your own kinswoman!"

  "That is a great loss, and I will join the many who will mourn her passing. But we have need of such allies as this dragon turtle, and cannot allow grief to overtake reason. If you will excuse me, I have yet to solidify our alliance."

  The mage walked over to the rail. "One question yet remains, great Zhorntar," he called out. "What did the sea goddess offer, in return for your help? It might be that the People can do as well for you and better."

  "Umberlee promised a rich domain to rule as I wish," the dragon turtle said in a deep, sonorous voice. Steam rose from the water with each word. "All passing ships would give tribute, and great would be the sport when I chose to hunt!"

  "That you will have, and more," the mage promised. "The seas surrounding Evermeet will be yours to patrol, and every vessel that does not bear elven runes carved onto the bottom of its hull will be your rightful prey. All treasure that you take from would-be invaders is yours. This domain will be yours, and you will pass it down to your heirs. You shall have fame if you wish, or secrecy if that is your preference. Agreed?"

  "You are mad," Darthoridan said hotly. "Will you invite the fox to bed down among the hens? The creature will follow its nature, and elven ships will fall prey!"

  "Zhorntar will not touch an elven ship," the mage said confidently.

  "How can you know this?"

  In response, Vhoori reached out and plucked an ancient, jeweled dagger from Darthoridan's belt. He murmured a few arcane words, and then hurled the blade into the sea.

  Darthoridan squinted out
over the water. There paddled the dragon turtle. The knife was embedded deep in the turtle's shell-only the glowing hilt, its gems pulsing with magic, was still visible.

  "I will now be able to observe the creature," Vhoori said. "And rest assured, even if my eyes are averted, the blade will sink down and find its way to Zhorntar's heart if ever he gives in to the temptation to hunt elves."

  "A fine ornament," the turtle admitted, craning his head around to admire the gems. "But what of my heirs?"

  "They can pluck it from your shell upon your death. It is ensorcelled, and will release itself to your chosen successor."

  "Well done. It is agreed," the turtle said, and sank down into the ocean.

  Darthoridan's eyes flamed as he rounded on the High Mage. "You gave me that dagger as a wedding gift so that you might watch me!"

  "And you should be glad of it," the Gold elf retorted. "Had I not, you would be dead and this ship would be in human hands."

  That was true enough, but the warrior eyed Vhoori suspiciously. "I cannot believe you gave such a gift because you wished me well."

  "I came to your rescue, did I not?" the mage said impatiently.

  Darthoridan nodded. "What do you want of me, then?"

  "First, your silence. None need know of the Starwing fleet, or of Evermeet's newest protector," Vhoori said, nodding to the now-quiet sea. "Second, your support. I wish to become the next High Councilor."

  Darthoridan laughed, briefly and without humor. "You command ships that fly, magic enough to bind one of the sea's most powerful creatures-"

  "Two, actually," the mage interjected. "There is already a kraken patrolling the waters north of Sumbrar."

  The Moon elf threw up his hands. "Why do you need my support? You could simply take what you desire!"

  Vhoori Durothil shook his head. "You still do not understand. I have no wish to conquer, but to serve. The powers I have, I will wield for the good of Evermeet."

  "According to your lights," Darthoridan said sarcastically.

  "According to my right." The mage's usually calm voice rose with sudden passion. "The Durothil clan is the most ancient and honored of all those on this island. Our ancestors ruled Aryvandaar, and before that, Faerie itself. The Council's time is nearly past. Evermeet must have one ruler, a worthy ruler from a worthy and proven dynasty. And who better than me and mine?"

  "You wish to be a king," Darthoridan said, thunderstruck.

  Vhoori did not disagree. "I have ruled Sumbrar well. Evermeet is my due. There is more," he said, breaking off the Moon elf's attempted protest. "With my magic, I can look among the stars, below the sea, and to the Circles that gather in every corner of this world. Sometimes, dimly, I catch a glimpse of what will be. And this I tell you in all assurance: Evermeet will have a king."

  "And have you also foreseen that you are to be this king?"

  The mage shrugged. "Perhaps I presume too much in seeking Evermeet's throne. But more likely, in doing so I only hasten my own destiny. I tell you this because you are a strong voice in the council. Your word will go far. Swear fealty to me now, and in return you will hold your northern lands in the name of the crown. You will have power and honor beyond what most Silver elf clans could hope to achieve."

  Before Darthoridan could respond, he felt a gentle pressure on his shoulder. He looked down into his wife's face. She nodded, her lovely features set in determination. "If swearing to Durothil will bring honor and position to our house, my lord, do so at once."

  The Moon elf was too weary to argue. He could not dispute Vhoori's vision or his wife's desire for a place of power in the court. Did he not wish the same thing? Was this not what he had desired all his life?

  "Agreed," he said curtly. "But beware of me, if you do not rule well."

  Vhoori's smile was complacent. "There is little chance of that. Evermeet is becoming what she was meant to be The dawn you see before you is that of a new and-you should pardon the expression-golden era."

  14

  The Flight of the Dragons

  The forest trees shook as Malar the Beast Lord screamed his rage into the night sky. Snarling and cursing, he paced the forest and set the mountains of Faerun quivering with the reverberating echoes of his wrath.

  This deep inland woodland was his haunt now. Not for him the remote islands and the angry waves of the sea. He was done with Umberlee, and she with him.

  Twice now had the goddess of the sea fallen short of Malar's expectations. It was not that Umberlee lacked power, but she was simply too capricious. The goddess had none of Malar's single-minded focus. She was just as happy tormenting sailors off the sunny coasts of Chult as she was speeding human pirates on a raid to Evermeet. If one endeavor should fail, the goddess merely shrugged a white-capped shoulder and turned her attention elsewhere. The seas of Aber-toril were broad, and a single elven island could not hold Umberlee's attention for long.

  But Malar wondered if he would ever be able to think of anything else. The passing of centuries had done little to cool his hatred for elves or to blunt his desire to see Corellon Larethian bested. It was becoming increasingly clear, however, that an invasion of Evermeet was no easy matter. Finally wearied by his ranting, the Beast Lord flung himself to the ground. Leaning his black-furred head against the trunk of an ancient oak, he sat and stared with malevolent red eyes up into the blackness of a moonless night. The night was as dark as any he had seen. A fine layer of clouds obscured the stars. This pleased Malar, for starlight was a source of joy and magic to the accursed elves. In his current mood he needed no such reminder of his elusive foes.

  A faint, rosy pinprick of light in the eastern sky caught the brooding god's attention. He squinted up, trying to remember what about it seemed so familiar. Suddenly the years fell away, and Malar remembered a distant time, a time of terrible destruction at the hands of the mightiest hunters known to this world.

  The god sprang to his feet and sprinted through the forest. To the nearest mountain he ran, and he did not pause until he had left the tree line below him. Finally he stood near the mountaintop. The night sky lay open before him, a naked void of darkness bereft of any light but one.

  By now the new star had risen high in the sky, huge and bright enough to shine through the mist. It hung over the mountains, glimmering like a single crimson eye. Malar threw up his arms and crowed with triumph. It was as he thought. The King-Killer had returned.

  Perhaps some gods understood the rhythm of the stars, and marked the occasional coming of the brilliant red star. Malar was not such a god. But he remembered one thing-one very important thing. For reasons unknown, when the King-Killer shone bright above Faerun, the dragons gathered and took flight.

  At last, Malar knew how best to serve vengeance to Evermeet.

  The god began to dance in the dim red light of the King-Killer. Tendrils of godly magic wafted off to search for the Beast Lord's followers, and to slip into the dreams of those who listened. To all his priests and shamans Malar sent the same message:

  Gather the faithful. The time has come for a Great Hunt.

  The orc horde crashed through the forest, making no effort to conceal their presence or to mute the sound of their approach. There didn't seem to be much point. The path of the dragonflight had passed over this land, leaving a broad swath of charred and lifeless forest.

  "Don' know why we's acomin' thisaway," muttered a young, gray-hided orc who trailed along near the end of the procession. This was his first raid, and so far it had fallen far short of his expectations. A Great Hunt, indeed! They had yet to kill a single elf. Even four-legged game was scarce.

  His companion shrugged and shifted his own unbloodied spear to the other shoulder. "Vapgard sez come, we come."

  "Not find nothing here," the gray grumbled. "Why dragons gotta burn forest, anyhow?"

  "Hmmph! You not remember the hungry winter? Hard snow. Too many wolves come south. Hard for orcs to find game."

  The gray orc grunted. Of course he remembered. He had not y
et been old enough to be accounted a fighter, but he'd been old enough to hunt. His ears still rang with the memories of his mother's blows when he came back to the cave day after day with an empty bag.

  "What we do back then?" his companion persisted.

  "Ah!" The orc bared his fangs in a grin as he grasped the meaning. "Some orcs burn forest. Other orcs, many many, wait by river."

  "I hear Vapgard's brother float boats down river. Boats carry many orcs-more than many. They wait. We come behind." The orc stopped his march and planted his spear into the thick layer of ash. He held up his taloned hands. "Them, us," he said gesturing first with one hand, then the other. With a fierce grin, he smacked his palms together.

  "Smash 'em," agreed the gray happily.

  So encouraged, the young orc marched without complaint through the remainder of the day. By late afternoon, the horde had left the ruined forest behind. Ancient charred trees gave way to scrub, and then to meadow.

  A howl of excitement started at the front of the mob and rippled back through the horde. The orcs began to surge forward. The gray waited for the wave of movement to reach him, and grant him space to run-and to kill.

  "Long past time," he grunted when at last he could level his spear. He ran out onto the meadow, noting that the grass was not only dried and brittle from dragonfire, but slick with blood. He pulled up short to keep from stumbling over what appeared to have been the haunch of a wood buffalo. Probably a morsel that fell from some dragon's mouth.

  The horde had spread out by now, and the orc had a better view of the battlefield. It was not what he had hoped for.

  The field was littered with bodies-some of them forest creatures that the dragons had not eaten, but most of them elves. Some had been torn by massive claws and fangs, some blasted by dragonfire, others melted to the bone by a black dragon's acid breath. The carnage was entertaining to observe, but it offered neither sport nor satiation. The young orc wanted to kill. He needed to kill.