He couldn’t believe it would actually save him, but he gasped out the rhyming words. The greatsword leaped at him, and as he’d feared, with his attention divided, he failed to defend as nimbly as before. He caught the blow on the ruined cutlass, but the dark blade smashed through the battered guard and sheared deep into his arm just below the wrist.
Perhaps because of the virulence in the living sword, the shock of the blow, harbinger of pain to come, was nearly enough to arrest thought. Nearly, but he wouldn’t let it ruin the spell. He fought to maintain the cadence, to enunciate precisely, to grit the remaining syllables out.
Magic sighed through the air, and responding to the charm of opening, each of Shandri’s many bracelets and necklaces unfastened itself to drop clinking and glittering to the ground. The diamonds even fell away from her earlobes.
Anton had suspected that even if he managed to complete the spell, it wouldn’t matter. Furious as she was, she wouldn’t care when the baubles dropped off. She might not even notice.
Yet she did. Maybe it was because she so loved the jewelry or simply because she was so surprised, but she stopped attacking. She took her eyes off her adversary to glance down at the treasure strewn around her feet.
Anton rushed her.
The greatsword cut at him but too late. At last he was too close for it to threaten him. He drove the broken cutlass at Shandri’s face, half slashing with the jagged stump of blade and half bashing with what remained of the bell. He grabbed her, hooked his leg behind her, and threw her down. The back of her head cracked against the ground. He cut at her neck, and his ruined sword made a ragged cut. Blood gushed. The pirate thrashed for a moment, and she was gone.
Panting, Anton looked around. Tu’ala’keth was still fighting, the outcome of the battle still in doubt. He twisted the greatsword’s hilt from Shandri’s death grip.
As soon as he grasped it himself, a surge of gleeful viciousness washed away his weariness and the throbbing in his wounded arms. For a moment, the influx of the greatsword’s savagery sickened him, but he accepted the contamination anyway because he suspected that, in his spent and injured condition, it was only by surrendering himself to the weapon’s bloodlust that he could prevail.
He jumped to his feet and charged Sealmid. The bowman was aiming another shaft at Tu’ala’keth but must have glimpsed Anton from the corner of his eye, because he pivoted and sent the arrow streaking directly at him.
Anton should have died then, pierced through the heart. But the greatsword, of its own volition, shifted across his body and knocked the arrow off course. Anton struck Sealmid down, and felt an exultation as the blade bit deep. He jerked it free and turned to find the next foe.
After that, he lost himself in the dizzying joy of slaughter. Until only one target remained within reach. He raised the sword to cut it down.
“Enough!” said Tu’ala’keth. “I am your comrade. The fight is won.”
With that, he recognized her but yearned to kill her even so. Fortunately, though, revulsion at the cruelty welled up from deep inside him, a sort of counterweight that enabled him to push the alien passions back into the sword. He threw the weapon down, sensing a twinge of its irritation just as it left his hand.
“Umberlee has blessed us,” the shalarin continued. She knelt, gripped the arrow transfixing her leg beneath the point, and drew the fletchings through the wound. “We were outnumbered. I had not wholly recovered from my mistreatment at Vurgrom’s hands. Yet we are victorious.”
“For now,” whispered Sealmid, still lying where he’d fallen. Anton was surprised the first mate was alive, but it was plain he wouldn’t be much longer. Blood soaked his clothes from neck to crotch, and more of it bubbled on his lips.
“What do you mean?” asked Tu’ala’keth.
“Vurgrom’th thending everybody to kill you bathtardth, not … jutht uth. Had to round everyone up, haul them out … of the tavernth, but.…” The dark froth stopped swelling and popping in his mouth.
Anton found it easy enough to complete the dead man’s thought. “But by now, Vurgrom’s got men patrolling the waterfront to cut off our escape. Curse it, anyway!” He gripped the more serious of his gashes in an effort to stanch the bleeding.
“After I heal my leg,” said Tu’ala’keth, “I will help you with that.”
“Do it fast. We need to move away from here. Somebody else may have heard Shandri yelling, or all the commotion afterwards.”
“Where shall we move to?”
“Good question, considering that the whole island hates a spy.” But wherever they went, he meant to go well armed. He stepped over the greatsword to examine one of the pirate’s cutlasses.
Tu’ala’keth rose stiffly to her feet. “Take Shandri Clayhill’s sword.”
“It clouds my mind.”
“It purifies you. When you hold it, you are truly fit to serve Umberlee. It would not surprise me to learn that some of her worshipers here on land had a hand in the forging of it.”
“Then they can have it back.”
“It is the finest weapon here. You are too shrewd to spurn such an instrument.”
He realized with a pang of resentment that she was right. He survived by his wits and shrank from using any magic that could muddle them, but in the present desperate circumstances, the greatsword might prove more useful than any lie or ruse. He still chose a cutlass, but when he and Tu’ala’keth skulked onward, he carried the living blade, drowsing in its scabbard once more, as well.
Teldar gazed out over the entertainments his largess had provided, at his followers guzzling grog and ale, gnawing chicken legs and slabs of pork and beef, ogling and pawing the dancing girls, and flinging clattering dice or slapping cards down on a tabletop in a game of trap-the-badger. As the clamor attested, everyone was having a good time, and he reckoned he’d lingered long enough to play the part of a proper pirate chieftain. Now he was free to retire to diversions more in keeping with his own humor, a volume of old Chondathan verse and a dram of cinnamon liqueur.
He pushed back his chair, nodded goodnight to anyone who might be looking in his direction, and exited the hall. Outside in the lamp-lit gloom of the corridor, the relative quiet and fresh air, untainted by the odor of dozens of sweaty, grubby reavers packed in too small a space, came as an immediate relief.
He took a deep breath, savoring the moment. Then Anton Fallone—if that was his real name—stepped from a doorway farther up the passageway. Teldar reached for the hilts of his short sword and poniard, drew them, and came on guard. He accomplished it all in one quick, smooth motion, as a master-of-arms had taught him in another life, more years ago than he generally cared to recall.
“You don’t need your weapons,” Anton said.
“What are you doing here?” Teldar asked.
The younger man grinned. “Well, you did tell me I’m welcome anytime.”
“That was before Vurgrom put out the word that you and the shalarin are spies. Where is she, by the way?”
“Hiding outside. I reckoned that even if one of your people spotted me sneaking in, he might not take any notice if I just kept these hidden.” He pushed back his scarlet cape and lifted his arms, displaying torn, bloodstained sleeves and the scabby gashes inside. “But Tu’ala’keth’s harder to overlook.”
“What do you want?”
“Could we talk about it in here?” Anton nodded toward the doorway through which he’d just emerged. “It’s a nice room and more private than a corridor in a busy house.”
Teldar frowned, pondering. All he had to do was shout, and his men would come running to take Anton prisoner. Then he could question the spy in complete safety. Yet his instincts told him the intruder meant no harm, and even if he did, the pirate was confident of his ability to handle a lone assassin. So, as Anton had piqued his curiosity, why not grant him a private conversation? At the very least, it promised to be interesting.
“After you,” Teldar said.
As Anton had said, it was a
pleasant room, with shelves of fragrant leather-bound logs and rudders taken from scores of prizes, framed charts from places as far away as Lantan decorating the walls, and a lanceboard with its sixty-four squares of alternating red and white. The chessmen sat neatly centered in their starting positions, ivory on one side, carnelian on the other.
“All right,” the pirate said. “You’re a spy. For Impiltur, Cormyr, or whomever. I suppose you and your accomplice have gleaned the most about Vurgrom’s business, but you’ve had ample opportunity to pry into my affairs, and the dealings of all Immurk’s Hold, as well. Should you escape to report your findings, you could do all us reavers incalculable harm. Perhaps you even know the disposition of the breakrocks, and the rest of our defenses. Maybe you’ve stolen all the secrets your masters need to launch a full-scale assault on Dragon Isle. What, then, can you possibly expect from me?”
“You’re a shrewd, careful man, and you built this fortress. Accordingly, I suspect it has an escape tunnel, with a well-provisioned sailboat at the end. If you saw fit, you could help Tu’ala’keth and me get away, and even your own followers—who, I realize, might take exception—would know nothing about it.”
Teldar snorted. “I could also stick feathers in my ears and squawk like a gull. But it’s unlikely.”
“Look,” Anton said, “you’re right: I am a spy. I’d deny it if I thought it would help, but I can tell the game is up. I’ve worked against you pirates for a while now. The intelligence I’ve gathered has sent your ships to the bottom and their crews to the gallows.
“But I swear on the Red Knight’s sword, this summer, I have a different target: the Cult of the Dragon.”
“Then why trouble Dragon Isle?”
“Because it was a way to pick up their trail.”
“And did you?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. My next move is to make my report. Then my superiors will send a fleet to wipe the madmen out.”
“Interesting, but I’m still unclear as to why I should help you. You’re a dangerous man, and have, by your own admission, injured me in the past. It would be sensible to ensure you won’t do so again.”
“Ordinarily, I’d agree with you. But this is a unique time. Do you understand the cult’s ultimate goal?”
“To turn live dragons into undead ones?”
“Yes, and this is their moment. As I understand it, wyrms who haven’t yet contracted frenzy are scared of getting it, and changing into dracoliches renders them immune. So they’re seeking out the cult in record numbers, and the necromancers and such are making a supreme effort to transform them as quickly as possible. By the end of the year, we could have a dozen dracoliches bedeviling the Sea of Fallen Stars. Maybe more. Imagine what that would do to your business.”
“I’ve never seen a dracolich,” Teldar replied, “but from what I’ve heard, it wouldn’t be a pleasant prospect.”
“Then help me prevent it. I’m not asking you to send your own ships to fight wyrms and sorcerers. Just let me fetch the folk who are willing to take on the job.”
Teldar sheathed his weapons and doffed his slate-gray cape. “We’ll wrap the shalarin in this to bring her inside. That fin on her back will keep it from fitting properly, but it has a virtue in it that will make her inconspicuous even so.”
“Before we fetch her, I have to ask one more thing of you: Tu’ala’keth’s intentions aren’t the same as mine, and she doesn’t know what I intend to do with the information we’ve gathered. Please, don’t tell her.”
“All right, but in that case, why am I helping you, if not to visit destruction on the cultists?”
“Because we’re bribing you with a story that will make Vurgrom a laughingstock, and with all the jewelry Shandri Clayhill used to wear.”
Teldar smiled. “Well, that will be a nice bonus.” He gestured toward the door. “Shall we?”
CHAPTER 7
Arms aching, one hand resting on the tiller, Anton peered back along the sailboat’s wake. He still couldn’t see any sign of pursuit, nor, for that matter, could he see much of Dragon Isle itself anymore, though the towering promontory called the Earthspur still blocked out a section of the stars.
As the island was fading from view, so, too, was it time to put it from his thoughts, as he’d put so many comparable episodes behind him. But as yet, he hadn’t managed to close the door on the memories.
Tu’ala’keth sat in the bow. “You are troubled,” she said, “even though we have now accomplished the first portion of our task. Do you regret killing Shandri Clayhill?”
He didn’t feel like talking about it. But by confiding in Tu’ala’keth, he would inspire her trust in turn, and that was what he wanted. So, as was so often the case, his honest inclinations didn’t matter. “I shouldn’t. She was an enemy of my homeland, and anyway, you gave her a chance to save herself. But I do.”
“You and I should not have attachments. Not now. Nothing should distract us while we are blades in Umberlee’s hands.”
His lips quirked upward in a bitter smile. “That’s the way I always live: Only the task matters.”
“It is the best way to live. You should rejoice in possessing such a spirit. But I see you do not. Not tonight.”
Off to starboard, something splashed. He wondered if it was one of the seahorses keeping pace with them. “No, not tonight.”
“I do not blame you. We must strive to emulate Umberlee, but we cannot be as fierce and dauntless as a goddess, no matter how we try. I, too, have my weaknesses and doubts.”
“You hide them well.”
“Nevertheless. I misjudged Vurgrom twice. I never dreamed he’d assault me, no matter how I teased him, and I imagined the threat of humiliation would deter him from sending his underlings to kill us.”
He shrugged. “It’s understandable you made mistakes. Humans are strange to you.”
She hesitated. “But I also lied to you, Umberlee’s champion, my comrade in a sacred venture, and for that I am truly sorry.”
He squinted at her, but even though she wasn’t wearing her goggles, he couldn’t read her narrow, fine-boned face in the dark. “What are you talking about?”
“I said that when we shalarins reestablished contact with our kindred in the Sea of Corynactis, the vast majority of us forsook Umberlee for the gods of our ancestors, and that much is true. That was the impetus. But this is what I did not tell you: The others did not abandon all the deities of Faerûn. Though they pay homage to the old powers, they also still gather at the altars of Trishina, Persana, and Eldath. It is only the Queen of the Depths whom they have scorned.”
He shook his head. “I don’t understand why you bothered to lie about that. For our purposes, what’s the difference?”
“None. But it reflects poorly on me, does it not? Were I as able a priestess as the clerics of Trishina and the other deities, I too could convey the glory of my patron and inspire her worshipers. Or so it seems to me when I grow discouraged. I misrepresented the situation to hide my shame.”
“You’re too hard on yourself. You talk about the beauty and grandeur manifest in Umberlee’s cruelty, but surely you understand that no matter how eloquently you describe it, most people will never understand.” The Grandmaster knew, he didn’t. “They’ll keep praying to her solely out of fear, and look for excuses to turn away.”
“Hmm. It may be so.”
“Anyway, don’t fret over what you told me. It was just one tiny, insignificant deception in a whole life of lies, hearing and telling them both.” He sighed.
“Plainly, I do not understand humans. I hoped conversation would brighten your mood, but thus far, I have failed at that as well. Does it help to reflect that you only knew Shandri Clayhill briefly and that she never really knew you at all?”
“No, because that’s true every time I take a lover. I’m always playing a part, and I always slip away when my job in that port is finished. But I’ll tell you what does cheer and frighten me at the same time: I may be done with i
t now. Out of the game.”
“Spying, you mean?”
He nodded. “I know two ways to go about it. The first is to be as inconspicuous as a mouse—or rat—and sniff around the edges of secrets. It’s safer, and because nobody really notices you, you can come back and spy on the same rogues another day.
“So that’s the way I’ve always preferred, but it won’t always yield the information you need in time to do anybody any good. When it won’t serve, you have to hobnob with the chief scoundrels. You have to establish yourself as a friend, an important accomplice … or a lover.”
“But then,” said Tu’ala’keth, “it is more likely your foes will recognize you for what you truly are and remember you thereafter.”
“Yes, and that’s what’s happened to me. I can’t spy on pirates and smugglers anymore, not with Teldar and Vurgrom themselves knowing my identity. Of course, Turmish has other enemies. My masters could reassign me somewhere removed from the sea. But I don’t know if I want that. Maybe this turn of events is a sign it’s time to try something else.”
“My friend,” said Tu’ala’keth, her cool contralto voice unusually gentle, “you must remember: Your life is not your own to use as you wish. You belong to Umberlee. Someday, if we are victorious, she may release you from her service. But for now, perhaps it is unwise to anticipate, lest it make you discontent.”
“Right.” He realized he had more to say to her, and even though he knew it would be futile and counterproductive, the sudden urge was too strong to resist. “Tu’ala’keth, our errand … I warned you before, the Cult of the Dragon will never help you kill wyrms. It’s contrary to everything they believe.”
“They pay homage to the dark powers. They will bow to the will of Umberlee.”
“No, they won’t. They may have priests among them, but even so, their truest gods are dragons and their own delusions. You need an impressive achievement to convince the other shalarins to return to your faith, I understand that, but helping me fight the cult will do it. I explained they’re a threat to your world as much as mine.”
Queen of the Depths Page 14
