For a full day, he avoided returning to the water, but after his jailer again brought him his miserable food, the man knew he had no choice but to try again. On this attempt, however, he relied mostly on his feet to propel him, while he felt along the dark passage before him with his hand and wrist.
Several times he repeated the dive, swimming carefully along the tunnel away from the pool. Each time his confidence grew, and he compensated more and more efficiently for his wound, mostly by kicking. He soon found that the tunnel branched, no more than forty feet from his cell, into three other passages. All of the corridors were water-filled from floor to ceiling—at least, at the place where they met the other submerged corridors.
At first, the man swam no farther than this intersection, returning to his cell and gasping for air as he emerged. But he found, as he practiced, that he swam a greater distance each time. His lungs expanded with the rigorous discipline of increasingly prolonged dives, until he explored some length of all three tunnels.
Finally, sensing that his guard would soon return with his food and drink, he paused to rest and consider what he had learned.
One tunnel, the straight route, continued to descend as far as he could follow, and he had nearly drowned the time he followed that passage a hundred feet past the intersection. The tunnels to the right and left, however, began a gentle upward slope after the junction, similar to the approach to the prisoner’s cell.
It seemed a reasonable assumption, then, that similar cells might lie to the right and left. Would they be filled with air, like his? He had no way of knowing.
He fully understood the risks. He had already gone as far as he could down each tunnel while still making it back to his cell. If he went farther, he would have no choice but to go forward and either find air at the end of the tunnel or perish.
The decision was easy.
The prisoner spent some time in quiet contemplation. Somewhere he had learned to do this, to empty his mind and allow his body to fuel itself for maximum efficiency. In a flash, he remembered: The black-haired woman had taught him. His skill had never approached hers, for she was … she had been … a druid.
Robyn!
In the instant of recognition, his mind filled with joy, followed by nearly intolerable pain. He groaned aloud as memories came flooding back—delightful memories, each one of which only increased his anguish. He was here, she was …
Callidyrr! The Moonshaes!
“I am Tristan Kendrick!” he shouted at his unseen jailers. “I am the High King of the Ffolk, and you shall not have me!” Pictures of two small girls—no, they were young women—came into his mind. One was fair, the other dark like her mother. They were his daughters!
Roughly he pushed the tidal wave of memory aside. He focused on the task before him, studying the water, forcibly quelling his emotions. His heartbeat fell, pulsing slower and slower. Tristan breathed deeply, without thinking, filling his lungs with air, forcing extra oxygen into his blood, grimly determined to press forward to the last gasp of his life.
He dove into the pool, cutting the surface like an arrow and allowing his momentum to propel him halfway down the tunnel leading from his cell. When he kicked, he moved his legs slowly, moving through the dark water with a minimum of exertion. Feeling the wall beside him, he traced the path to the four-way intersection. Here he veered to the right.
The tunnel rose slowly, and he allowed his buoyancy to account for some of his speed, though he still kicked gently. Onward through Stygian darkness he swam, feeling a rough wall with his right hand. Occasionally his back would scrape the abrasive ceiling of the tunnel. The pain he didn’t mind so much, but the sensation that he couldn’t swim upward he found starkly terrifying.
Tristan swam without thinking, slowly draining the air that filled his lungs to bursting. Pain wrapped steel bands around his chest, slowly constricting until a red haze swam before his eyes. His throat tightened, and the urge to gasp for air swiftly approached irresistible proportions.
How long had he been swimming? At least an hour, it seemed to his oxygen-starved brain. More than that, screamed his lungs, his tortured chest that could no longer supply the needs of his body.
Then abruptly the wall to his right ended. Tristan flailed mindlessly as the depleted air exploded from his lungs, but as he thrashed, he realized that rock no longer pressed against his back. Desperately driving himself upward with the last reserves of his strength, he felt his hand, and then his face and torso, break from the water and burst into an enclosed cavern that was filled with air.
He coughed and choked as he dragged himself onto a dry stone slab beside the surface of water. Dimly his awareness returned, and the king realized that he was in another cell, one very much like his own. The same dim green illumination trickled through the ceiling.
It was only when he stopped gasping that he looked up and saw that the room was occupied. He saw a man’s face staring at him—a thin, emaciated visage with great dark circles under his eyes. The fellow was seated, chained to a wall, Tristan saw, with shackles around each of his wrists and his arms held spread-eagled to the sides.
The chained prisoner regarded him impassively. When the fellow shifted slightly, Tristan noticed something odd about his legs, and then his jaw dropped in shock.
The man had no legs—but not because he had lost them in an accident. In fact, his body below the waist had never borne a resemblance to humanity. It was a single, powerful limb, covered with green scales and ending in a broad-finned tail.
The creature, Tristan realized, was a merman.
* * * * *
For six days, the men of Gnarhelm labored on the hull of the longship, and gradually her bruises disappeared, her scuffs and scrapes vanished beneath fresh timber and tar. The Princess of Moonshae seemed to sit taller, prouder on the sandy base of the drydock.
Though the rudimentary forge belched out clouds of black smoke while Brandon supervised his men’s making of nails and brackets, a constantly fresh breeze whisked through the grotto, clearing the air of fumes and soot. For the most part, the voyagers had taken little note of their splendorous surroundings once the equipment for repairs had been delivered. Good news had come as soon as the drydock was fully drained; Brandon’s inspection showed that the longship’s stout keel remained undamaged.
Alicia and Robyn both worked with unspoken urgency, knowing that their quest had a greater chance of success than they had previously dared to hope. Now they hauled firewood, stirred tar in large vats, and helped with other tasks wherever they could. Of course, the actual work on the ship was left to Brandon, Knaff, and a few experienced shipwrights among the crew. The prince would settle for nothing less than perfection.
The two women worked to the point of exhaustion, but even then they found it difficult to sleep. Memories of Tristan, imagined pictures of his current peril, drove them to restlessness. While they were sailing, there had been nothing that either of them could do to speed up their progress. Now, however, it seemed that each extra hour of work might bring them that much closer to departure.
Eventually, however, they realized that no matter how fast they piled up fuel or stoked the forge, the work on the vessel would proceed at a careful and methodical pace. Thus it was that one afternoon late in the week, with plenty of firewood stacked beside the fires and a surplus of heated tar available for the hull, Trillhalla prevailed upon the females—Alicia, Robyn, Brigit, and Tavish—to accompany her for a swim. They splashed through the narrow grotto to a secluded, sandy cove where they could enjoy a few hours of relaxation.
Alicia found that her concerns and fears seemed to fade as she lay in the soothing sun or splashed about in the coral shallows of the grotto, chasing schools of multicolored fish.
“Your captain tells us that the repairs are nearly completed,”
Trillhalla announced. “Soon Palentor will bring you the Helm of Zulae, the artifact that will enable your vessel to survive underwater. Then I suppose you will be on your way
.”
The notion of departing sounded the familiar note of guilt to Alicia, and her mother nodded seriously. “Yes. It becomes urgent that we sail. Tristan, I sense, is in terrible danger.”
“Even worse than before?” asked Alicia.
“I don’t know …” the queen replied, shaking her head as if to disparage the remark. Alicia, however, saw an expression of grave concern, even fear, hidden in the depths of her mother’s eyes.
“I am glad for Evermeet that you have come,” said Trillhalla bluntly after a few seconds pause. “There are too many of us who group the humans in with scrags and sahuagin. It is good that they see you are different.”
“Too many like Palentor, you mean?” Alicia couldn’t resist asking.
Trillhalla allowed herself a slight smile. “My poor compatriot has been thrown into a bit of a quandary by your arrival. You see, you’ve forced him to rethink a few notions about humans that he’s held for more centuries than I’ve been alive.”
“I’m glad!” Alicia declared.
“Such learning can flow in two directions.” It was Queen Robyn who spoke, and her words were directed to her daughter. “It would be well for us to remember the acts that have driven elves like Palentor to believe as he does. Humanity is not blameless in this strife.”
“No—I didn’t mean …” the princess stammered, embarrassed. Of course her mother was right, but in the Moonshaes, the elves were safe in the sanctity of Synnoria. What did her mother’s statement have to do with Alicia?
They heard shouts of greeting from the dockside, hidden from their shallow beach by a small outcrop of forest. Curious, they dressed quickly and started over to see what was happening.
“The helm!” Brandon cried as he saw the women. “Palentor’s bringing it to the dock!”
They hurried forward and saw the by now familiar cargo canoe easing to wharfside. The taciturn sea elf was in the water, swimming toward the dock to emerge with a smooth, fluid motion. In the center of the craft was a surprisingly small object, covered beneath a well-padded blanket. Several elves of Evermeet lifted the thing from the vessel and placed it on the dock where Palentor waited.
“I hope you appreciate the value of this gift,” began Palentor, speaking to Brandon and Robyn.
“Aye, that we do,” replied the northman, with a frank look at the elf. “Even as we’re surprised that you give it to us.”
Palentor regarded Brandon quizzically. Then he bent down and swiftly unwrapped the blanket that had cloaked the Helm of Zulae.
The humans saw a larger than normal silver battle helmet with a full-face visor—so full, in fact, that it was even devoid of eyeholes! A sleek, ribbed fin jutted from the center of the object, sweeping from front to back like the dorsal fin of a fish. The sea elf nodded toward the Princess of Moonshae, with the proud female figurehead rising from the bow.
“Place this over the head of that carved figure,” he explained, “and your ship will descend through the surface of the water. A pocket of air will remain over your crew, in the inverted shape of your hull.”
“How does she move?” inquired the captain.
“The helm will propel her, although at much slower speeds than on the surface. You’ll have to rig a second rudder to guide the ship up and down. Also, you must furl your sail before you submerge, or water pressure will tear it away quickly.”
“Slower speeds, you say. How much slower?” asked the Prince of Gnarhelm.
“You’ll make perhaps five knots.”
“Does it have a time limit?” inquired Keane, staring in obvious fascination at the silver object.
“Indeed. It varies based upon the number of elves—I should say, people—in your crew. For a complement such as yours, I estimate that you will be comfortable for perhaps twelve underwater hours and capable of surviving for another twelve. Beyond that, though the mask will maintain the bubble around your ship, the air becomes stale and useless. Suffocation inevitably results.”
Palentor looked them over, ready to challenge anyone to argue with him. None did. The picture he painted created a graphic image in the minds of all his listeners.
“When we’re down there, then, we’d best pay attention to the time,” Hanrald murmured dryly.
“I think we’ll notice when the air starts to go bad!” Brigit affirmed.
The sister knight stood beside the earl, and it occurred to Alicia that they had been together a lot during the stay in Evermeet—at least, when Hanrald wasn’t working with the men on the ship repairs.
Alicia’s attention drifted to Keane, and she saw that the mage looked peaked, with dark circles under his eyes. He clutched several large tomes to his chest, as if he had been reading, and parted only reluctantly from his texts. Five days ago Trillhalla had brought him some books, and these he had perused ever since with obvious eagerness. Indeed, of all the men, he had been the only one who hadn’t worked on the repairs. Instead, he spent his time reading in a secluded part of the grotto. Now, however, he listened carefully to the words of the sea elf.
“I—I feel I should warn you of something,” Palentor said, as if he forced himself to speak despite great reluctance. “My scouts have reported a massing of the fishmen armies. Sahuagin and scrags, plus huge schools of sharks, which they use as their scouts, have collected just beyond the cyclone barrier.”
The sea elf paused, and for a moment, Alicia wondered if he was preparing to launch a harangue against them for gathering the enemy to his shores. Instead, he spoke with real sincerity.
“We suspect that they await your departure. As I explained before, the cyclone belt is no barrier to undersea intrusion. They are not holding back an attack against us, for their numbers have been stable for several days and they have made no overt move toward the elvenhome. Instead, they screen the entire eastern coast of Evermeet.”
“I suspected that might be the case,” Keane noted. “Their pursuit was too diligent to break off on the suspicion of our destruction.”
Trillhalla offered the next advice. “There may be a way to get you around that barrier,” she said tentatively. “I’ll have to talk to the queen.”
“If not, we’re helpless against them under the water, aren’t we?” Alicia questioned. “After all, we can barely outrun them on the surface. They could easily catch us when we submerge.”
“They can catch us, yes, but we’re not exactly helpless,” Keane continued. He raised the heavy books in his arms, as if the others might not have noticed them, then smiled at Trillhalla. “Thanks to our friends here, I have been able to learn a few new spells that might aid us. Water breathing, for one, and free action—and several others. If it comes to battle, they may prove very useful.”
“Druids are not without useful abilities in this situation as well,” Robyn pointed out.
Palentor looked at them all, his eyes wide and an expression of guarded respect on his features. “One thing that has not been exaggerated is the courage of humanity. I … begin to believe that you may accomplish your objective.”
“That’s a relief,” muttered Alicia. She flushed when the sea elf turned his almond eyes toward her, then stared in astonishment as he concluded.
“Even more,” Palentor added, with the first smile—albeit a small one—that the visitors had seen on his face. “I hope that you succeed.”
With a quiet nod at all of them, the sea elf turned away and sliced through the waters of the grotto in a clean dive.
* * * * *
“Who are you?” croaked the chained figure, his tone weakened almost to the point of death.
“I am—” He wanted to say that he was Tristan Kendrick, High King of the Ffolk. Somehow that fact didn’t seem important now. “I’m a prisoner here, like you. Only they didn’t chain me.”
“They assumed the water would stop you. I need more secure restraint.” With a tight smile, the merman gestured with his fishy tail in case Tristan missed the point. “I am Marqillor, of Deepvale,” added the prisoner.
“Tristan Kendrick, of the Moonshaes.”
“I know those islands.”
The words were like a flame of hope to the king. “You do? Where are they? Where are we?”
Marqillor shifted uncomfortably. “We are in the dungeon of Krell-Bane, in the heart of Kyrasti, his great fortress in the Coral Kingdom,” the merman explained. “The cells of air, where Krell-Bane’s most hated prisoners are kept.”
The chained captive leaned his head against the wall, and his mouth worked weakly, as if he struggled for enough air to breathe.
“Can I help you?” Tristan asked, examining the brackets, both of which seemed secure.
“Water …” The merman gasped weakly and nodded toward the pool where Tristan had emerged. “It almost killed you, I know, but without it, I will die.”
The king saw a large bucket near the wall of the cell and went to fill it. “To drink?” he asked as he returned.
Marqillor smiled and shook his head. “Throw it over me,” he said. Tristan did so, and immediately he saw the merman’s expression grow softer. He leaned back in apparent bliss. “Again … please?”
The human willingly soaked down his fellow prisoner, amazed at the abrupt transformation. Within moments, Marqillor seemed vibrant and healthy. He strained, albeit fruitlessly, at his bonds.
“Are they trying to kill you?” asked Tristan. “Is that why they keep you out of the water?”
“No. They enjoy the torment, that’s all. When I reach the point of complete collapse, they come and revive me. Sometimes I’ve awakened to find Krell-Bane himself observing me.”
“Krell-Bane … tell me about him. Who or what is he?”
The merman described the scrag king and his race. “The sea trolls are the inherent masters of the sahuagin.”
“Much the way trolls control orcs and goblins on the surface,” Tristan realized. “And this is their palace?”
“Aye,” grunted Marqillor. He looked at Tristan quizzically. “Do you know that you’re five hundred feet below the surface of the sea?”
The Coral Kingdom Page 22
