The Coral Kingdom

by Douglas Niles

  Now it was the human’s turn to sag wearily backward. “I guess I’m not completely surprised, though how I got here alive I couldn’t tell you.”

  “The scrags have ways,” Marqillor stated. “Though normally they don’t bother with the effort. They keep only prisoners who they feel will make valuable hostages.”

  The two captives looked at each other with the same idea.

  “I’m High King of the Moonshaes,” Tristan stated bluntly.

  Marqillor smiled wryly. “And I am the Crown Prince of Deepvale,” he concluded.

  * * * * *

  Sinioth lurked in the depths, seething with impatience. Were the humans dead, slain by the cyclones of Evermeet? Or did they still live, plotting and planning against his master?

  The more he agonized, the more he convinced himself that the latter circumstance was the case. These intrepid voyagers would emerge again, he felt, bringing their longship against the aquatic army in their desperate attempt to carve a path to their king.

  Yet even as he contemplated his great plan, with thousands of scrags and sahuagin effectively barring the sea east of Evermeet and the fast Manta floating just below the surface in the center of that great deployment, Sinioth’s unease grew. They were resourceful, these humans … they had surprised him before.

  More and more, he realized, the avatar of Talos should consider returning to his undersea monarchy. If the humans somehow passed his barrier of predatory sea warriors, he knew that he would finally meet them in the Coral Kingdom.

  15

  Embark to the Underdeep

  “We’ll be ready to sail as soon as the drydock fills with water,” Brandon announced late in the afternoon of the day following the Helm of Zulae’s arrival. “Knaff’s rigged up the horizontal rudder, so the Princess is as good as new—maybe better.”

  Despite the fact that this was the culmination of all their endeavors, and Alicia had been eager to proceed all week, she found that the northman’s announcement caused a melancholy reaction. Indeed, she was not alone. The longship’s entire complement seemed to take the news like a dousing of ice water.

  “We’ll wait for first light, I presume,” ventured Hanrald, standing beside Brigit. The sister knight looked around their grotto, and Alicia saw a trace of panic in her eyes, as if the elfwoman would suffer deeply upon their departure.

  “Aye—and the tide, a few hours beyond. But we’ll be well away from shore before noon,” replied the captain. Even Brandon seemed to bite back a trace of wistfulness at the notion of leaving the idyllic elvenhome.

  But of course there was no choice, nor really did Alicia welcome the thought of any further delay in her father’s rescue. It was more that the sensations of the past eight days had been so pleasant, so relaxing, that the reality of a return to their quest seemed to loom like a many-headed hydra, threatening them with a dozen different fates, all of them bleak.

  “Ready to get back to sea?” asked Keane, looking surprisingly undismayed by the prospect of sailing. “It should be—”

  “No, I’m not ready!” Alicia snapped, annoyed that for once Keane should be prepared to embark on an adventure while she felt a deep reluctance. She looked at his pallid skin, at the circles under his eyes. “Where have you been all week, anyway?” she demanded, knowing full well that he had engrossed himself in tomes loaned to him by the command of the queen. Alicia’s frustrations welled up and, as had so often happened during her childhood and adolescence, all of that anger focused on the convenient scapegoat of her familiar tutor. “We’ve been sailing the seas, living outside, and you’re still pale!”

  The magic-user turned away, hurt, and Alicia wondered why she had spoken to him so harshly. She felt little better after her outburst; her temper still smoldered with a low flame. Why does he let me do it? she wondered, wishing that for once the man would respond to her with anger of his own.

  She threw herself into the frenzy of preparation and found release for her tension there. They had water barrels to fill, food to pack and load, and a final inventory, repair, sharpening, and polishing of weapons and armor to make.

  “I’m not sure I relish a return to hardtack and stale bread,” observed Brigit as they looked over their provisions, which had been unloaded when they beached the longship. Now they started to pass the heavy crates back into the hull.

  Before dusk of that last night in the elvenhome, one of the great cargo canoes sailed into the grotto, propelled by its usual complement of elves. Trillhalla and Palentor stood in the bow, and as it neared the dock, the humans saw a wide variety of foodstuffs—melons of all sizes, large wheels of cheese, kegs of butter and honey—piled high in the center of the boat.

  “A gift from Queen Amlaruil,” announced Trillhalla, stepping lightly onto the dock. “Delicacies for the palate that may make your journey a little more pleasant.”

  Palentor stepped out of the canoe, bowing to the humans. The male sea elf looked remarkably unhostile, which is not to say he appeared friendly.

  “The provisions of Evermeet are famed throughout elvendom,” he said stiffly but with a real effort to control his arrogance. “The queen—that is, we—hoped that you would enjoy them as you embark upon this final leg of your quest.”

  “Your generosity—and your queen’s—is overwhelming,”

  Robyn said sincerely. She took a few steps forward, standing directly before the sea elf and staring into his eyes. “Thank you, Palentor.”

  The mottled green of the elven warrior’s face darkened, and Alicia wondered if he blushed. He bowed with great formality before speaking.

  “Perhaps … perhaps I should thank you,” he said. “We live in great isolation here on Evermeet. Indeed, isolation is the key to our survival. But you have shown me that not all humans are rapacious destroyers as we have been taught.

  “Your courage is obvious, and your skill—setting out for Evermeet and actually reaching our shores—is something that no ordinary creature would dare to do.” His gaze shifted from Robyn to Alicia, who was staring at Palentor in surprise. “I hope that you find your father,” he said.

  “Thank you,” was all the princess could reply, but suddenly the resumption of their quest became the most important thing in the world.

  “The armies of the deep?” inquired Brandon. “Do they still await us beyond the cylcone belt?”

  “Aye,” replied Palentor. “They have gathered in greater numbers than I have seen.…”

  It seemed that the sea elf had not completed his statement, though his voice trailed away. He regarded them carefully, and they sensed that he was trying to decide what to say next.

  “There … there is a way around them,” he finally announced. “A concealed passage through the reefs along the eastern shore that you could follow to the south, passing west of Belintholme, the Guardian Isle. That course should carry you around the cordon.”

  “How well concealed?” wondered the captain grimly.

  “Perfectly. No charts have ever been made. It is mapped only in the minds of a few elves who have spent much of their lives in those waters. Anyone who tried to sail it without such an elf as a pilot would find himself—well, much as we found you—high and dry, a mile off the shore of Evermeet and going nowhere.”

  “The pilot, then …?” Brandon prompted.

  “These passages are keys to the final defense of the elvenhome!” Palentor snapped brusquely, as if he desperately wanted them to undertand. “Nevetheless, the queen has placed it in my discretion. If I choose to provide you with a pilot, she has granted you permission to sail the secret ways.”

  They waited, curious and tense. Alicia wondered why he had told them this much. She was sure Palentor’s rabid belief in the sanctity of Evermeet’s defenses would prevent him from allowing the humans to sail those concealed channels.

  “You, Sister Knight, have shown me much by your example,” continued Palentor, stealing a look at Brigit. “As you know, your staunch defense of Synnoria through the past centuries h
as not escaped our notice. Yet if one who has devoted her life to preserving the sanctity of an elven land sees fit to welcome humans there, perhaps there is good cause. I see now that there is.

  “I will lead you along these paths,” concluded the sea elf in a sudden rush of words. He glared at them for a moment, as if challenging someone to dispute him, but even so Brandon’s reaction took him by surprise.

  “I knew it!” boomed the northman, stepping forward to clap the much smaller elf on the shoulder. “You’re all right, you know that, Palentor?”

  The sea elf was too astonished to reply, but he smiled hesitantly as the crew raised a cheer. The elves produced great baskets of fruits and kegs of sweet wine, and the grotto rang with celebration, music, and dancing late into the night.

  Alicia joined Robyn, Trillhalla, and Tavish on a blanket near the roaring bonfire. Keane and Brandon, and later even Palentor, came over to join them. The wine flowed sweetly, and as darkness settled across the grotto, the voyagers rose to a spirit of celebration.

  “To our hosts! Their generosity stands as a shining example to all the Realms!” proclaimed Robyn, raising a crystal goblet of red wine. All the crew joined in the solemn toast.

  “And to our guests,” replied Trillhalla. “May their endeavor be blessed with success.”

  Thoughts of that endeavor again propelled Alicia. She felt certain now that, if her father lived, they would find him. Yet in the fellowship of the fireside, the camaraderie of their last night on Evermeet, she felt a growing wistfulness. The thought of her companions gave her strength, and she resolved to throw herself into the resumed voyage with every ounce of her energy.

  “Where’s Hanrald?” the princess wondered at one point when the company was well into their second cask of wine.

  Brandon looked at her, his expression sly. “He’s gone for a walk with Brigit, I think—at least, I saw them amble off together a few hours ago.”

  The princess looked around, trying to suppress her sudden shock. In truth, she had noticed the bond that had seemed to slowly develop between the couple, and every time she thought of it, it puzzled her. She felt a flash of jealousy toward the elven woman, a feeling she recognized as irrational, but it remained with her nonetheless.

  After tuning her harp, Tavish sent songs of joy and celebration wafting through the camp. She played short, lively songs, ribald ballads, and sang gentle verses of love and valor—all of it music that floated through the night, a perfect counterpoint in sound to the idyllic grotto surrounding them.

  Alicia listened to the songs dreamily. Idly she looked around again, wondering if Hanrald had returned, but neither he nor Brigit were anywhere to be seen.

  Her gaze drifted over to Brandon, who looked back at her and grinned. She saw a light in his eyes. Was it the reflection of the fire, or something else? When she looked at Keane, the magic-user seemed morose, sitting quietly by himself and staring into the flames.

  Abruptly the princess rose to her feet, surprised that her legs seemed slightly unsteady beneath her. Nevertheless, she started into the darkness beyond the pale of their fire. Soon the thickness of the grotto’s grove surrounded her with foliage, blocking out the glow of the fire behind her and the glimmer of starlight overhead.

  Alicia wondered for a moment why she had walked off like this. She couldn’t find anything out here, and that, she admitted, was probably a blessing. Or had she come out here to find anything? Perhaps she wanted instead to get away. Everything seemed terribly confusing to her.

  “It’s the wine,” she mumbled, turning back to the fire.

  “The wine … and the firelight on your hair.”

  The voice was Brandon’s, and it came to her as a shock. He had followed her into the darkness!

  “Wh-what do you mean?” she demanded, startled.

  “I didn’t mean to frighten you,” explained the northman hastily, placing his hands on her arms. For a moment, she froze, barely seeing his tall form in the darkness. But when he leaned closer, she raised her lips to his and they met in a long kiss.

  It is the wine, she told herself as a torrent of emotions, thrilling and frightening, poured through her. His strong arms clasped her firmly, and she found that grasp comforting … and welcome.

  “I love you, Alicia, and I would sail to the stars and back if that would win your love in return!”

  The suppressed tension in his voice surprised Alicia, and it excited her to realize that she had such an effect on this proud and independent man.

  And then they had no more time for words as their lips met in another kiss. Slowly, gently, Brandon lowered Alicia to the ground.

  * * * * *

  Keane watched and waited, staring at the place in the darkness where the northman and the princess had disappeared. A thicker blackness than mere night threatened to sweep over him, and his mind worked its way through a variety of imagined pictures—the two of them alone, in the woods, on this night of celebration and leave-taking.

  For a moment, anger—unfamiliar, taut, and powerful—coursed through Keane. He thought of a thousand things he could do, ranging from a shower of light through the woods to violent, explosive magic directed at Brandon.

  Even in a despairing rage, he could never hurt Alicia, and in point of fact, he knew that he would take no action against Brandon either. Yet it mollified him a little to imagine it.

  Realizing that the celebration had lost its allure for him, Keane made his farewells and wandered off to his bed.

  * * * * *

  “How often do they come to you?” inquired Tristan, after Marqillor had regained his strength from the dousing of water. The merman’s skin glowed, his eyes shone, and his voice came forth with a vigor that had not been there minutes earlier.

  “Not often.” The merman shrugged. “Perhaps every three days, though of course it’s hard to tell down here.”

  “Recently?”

  “No. That’s why you found me in such bad shape. I’d suspect it won’t be long now.”

  “How many at a time?”

  “Just one.” Marquillor’s eyes flashed as he began to understand Tristan’s point. “A big scrag. He comes out of the water and taunts me for a bit, kicks me and the like. Then he throws the water over me so I’ll stay alive until the next time.”

  Tristan looked around, seeking something—anything—that he could use as a weapon. He had heard of the sea trolls, of course, and now he felt reasonably certain that the beast that had brought him his food was one as well. He had battled enough trolls in his life to identify the scrag as an aquatic cousin of that obscene race.

  The only thing he found was the large bucket of hammered copper he had used to throw the water over the merman. “I’d rather have a sword,” he observed, ruefully examining the distressingly flimsy container. He was weighing the fact that he would have to bear it in his single hand.

  Tristan turned his attention to the metal brackets holding Marquillor’s hands. Despite the corrosive rinsings, the manacles remained gleaming and clean, displaying a high level of craftmanship.

  “It’s no use,” said the merman with another awkward shrug. “I’ve spent weeks tugging on them myself. The only way to get them off is with the key.”

  “Does that scrag carry the keys with him?”

  “Yes—and a big knife, too.” The merman’s face creased into a slight smile. “He keeps the knife in the back of his belt, probably so that a prisoner doesn’t try to grab it from him. Maybe that can work to your advantage.”

  At Marqillor’s affirmation, the basics of their plan were set. Tristan took the bucket and crossed the cell, making himself as comfortable as possible in a shadowy niche beside the pool. He settled down for a long wait, yet strived to remain ready to scramble out at a moment’s notice, trying not to let his mind dwell on the coming fight.

  Still, images of horror and shock raced through his mind. Previously he had vanquished trolls while wearing metal armor, bearing a mighty sword, and more often than not, mounted
on a stalwart charger, aided by resolute companions. The prospect of attacking one of the creatures unarmored and virtually bare-handed—one-handed, in point of fact!—struck him as rash to the point of insanity. Not insanity, he corrected himself—just brutal necessity.

  Marqillor leaned back against the wall, trying to relax. Time passed with imperceptible speed. Tristan struggled to remain alert, holding the bucket, watching the water, silent but ready to spring forward.

  The scrag came out of the water so quickly that it had fully emerged and stood dripping at the rim of the pool before Tristan even noticed beast’s arrival.

  Then his mind blanked momentarily in sheer panic at the size of the monster. It stood at least nine feet high. The creature possessed considerably more muscle than did the land-bound trolls he had encountered. Strapping bands of sinew rippled under its dark, fishlike skin as it stepped toward the imprisoned merman. Its feet and hands were webbed and tipped with long, wicked talons, and a burst of weedy hair covered the nape of the neck and extended halfway down the broad green back.

  A wide belt was the scrag’s only garment, and true to Marqillor’s prediction, a silver-bladed, bone-handled knife was stuck through the waistband at the small of the creature’s back. On the right side, looped through the belt, gleamed a keyring.

  Tristan had no time to waste. The beast was certain to look around for the bucket and discover him, costing Tristan his only advantage.

  At the same instant he came to the conclusion, Tristan acted. Holding the pail inverted in his hand, balancing it with the stump of his left wrist, Tristan sprinted from the niche, leaping toward the monster’s shoulders. He brought the bucket down full over the monster’s large, shaggy head. Bashing it with his wrist, ignoring the pain that shot like fire up his arm, he forced the metal container tightly onto the creature’s great skull, where it stuck like a bizarre helm.

  Immediately the scrag whirled, reaching for Tristan with two talon-studded hands, but the High King wrapped his arms around the beast’s waist, following it through its spin and staying beyond the reach of those deadly claws. The scrag snarled as it turned, making a sound like water sucked down a drainhole.