by Mel Odom
An ache pierced Skyreach’s heart, surprising her. She had always kept her distance from men and women she commanded, especially those like Cylthik who had known her as a child. Command was never easy, and familiarity—she’d been told—only bred contempt. She pushed the emotion away. “Thank you, Cylthik. Now see that it is done.”
“And where will you be?”
“Up on the deck,” Skyreach answered simply. “I have men dying there, to fulfill this mission that I undertook. There can be no other place for me.”
“You great-grandfather would be proud.”
“No,” Skyreach said as she turned her back and started back along the passageway. “Faimcir Glitterwing would expect no less.” Before she reached the top of the stairs coming up out of the passenger hold, she felt Cylthik’s magicks cascading around her.
Above decks, the fires incinerating the sails had almost died out, but the light was replaced by lanterns held by the attacking pirates. The humans among them wouldn’t have the excellent night vision of the elves. The expanding circle of lanterns marked the outer perimeters of the pirates’ encroachment.
Reacting instantly, taking the pitch and yaw of the ship into account, the elven warrior parried the slashing thrust at her head, then riposted and shoved the point of her long sword deep into the man’s throat. She yanked it out of flesh forcibly, lifting a foot and kicking the dying man in the face.
Gazing across the deck, she saw Scaif battling three men. The warrior’s long sword and dagger seemed to be everywhere, and his footing was sure in spite of the wet deck. The dagger licked out suddenly, sending a pirate spinning away. Even as the man fell, his throat cut, two more pirates took his place.
Further down, Captain Rinnah held off a group of pirates with a belaying pin and a cutlass. The burly man roared with savage glee, almost sounding as if he was enjoying the fight despite the fact that his ship was coming apart around him.
Over half her warriors were dead. Skyreach figured that from the numbers she could count that were alive. Only a few of the bodies remained aboard the cargo ship. The sea had claimed the rest.
However, Skyreach knew that Cylthik’s magicks would make the sea give up those dead. Their souls were already claimed by a service that they would not be released from. She moved out of the hold as two more pirates came at her.
Putting her back to the wall, she dropped into a defensive position.
“A woman!” one of the men roared. “I claim first rights!” He was middle-aged and gap-toothed, tattoos scoring the flesh of his cheeks.
“First, second, or thirtieth,” the second pirate bellowed back, “it matters not to me. The feel of a woman’s flesh is something I’ve been missing for too long now.”
Skyreach didn’t hesitate. Her left hand closed about the dagger at her hip, ripping it free. She parried the first man’s thrust, taking advantage of their efforts to take her alive. The second man stepped in closer, thinking to be too quick for her. Skyreach swirled back around and opened a gash in the pirate’s thigh near his crotch with the long sword. Only his quick reflexes powered by fear kept him from being unmanned.
“Damn her!” the pirate screamed, stepping back, his palm pressed to his wound. “Kill her and be done with it!”
Feinting, Skyreach whirled again, stepping into the other man’s hasty lunge. The elven warrior lifted her dagger, holding it point downward from her fist. She whipped her arm back and sheathed the dagger into the man’s gapped teeth. The point slid home easily, then became lodged in the spinal column at the back of the neck.
The wounded pirate lunged forward again, his cutlass hacking at Skyreach’s face. She ducked below the blow and twisted away. As the pirate readied himself for another swing, she brought her long sword up and shoved it through the man’s armor, through his breastbone, and into the heart beyond.
The pirate gasped and stiffened in surprise, gazing down at the enchanted rune blade that had run through his leather armor as if it were so much paper. He died and toppled over, sliding from the long sword.
Skyreach glanced out over the darkening waves. The moon retreated behind a bank of clouds as if afraid to see what would happen next. The deck of Chalice of the Crowns was lit only by the lanterns carried by the pirates and the few that hadn’t been washed out along the cargo ship itself.
“Gyynyth Skyreach!”
The elven warrior turned at the sound of her name, tracking the voice through the crash and boom of the sea slapping at the cargo ship, and the pirate vessel pounding up against its prey. She spotted the man coming up the stairway from a lower deck, then recognized him by his movements and dress.
“Hagris!” The name ripped from her lips like an oath of the foulest nature.
Markiln Hagris gained the deck with acrobatic ease. Broad-shouldered and narrow-hipped, the man was Tel’Quessir, a Gold elf. He’d held a high station on the Council of Twelve. His armor would have prevented such physical alacrity had it not been mystical in nature and wrought from the best metalsmiths in the City of Songs. His face was lean as a wolf’s, his nose as pointed. Long red hair was tied back in braids, trimmed to lend him an aristocracy that his features failed to give him.
He gave her a courtly bow, stooping low, but never taking his eyes from her. “At your service.” His long sword gleamed in the lantern light.
“Betrayer!” Skyreach shifted on the deck, keeping her own long sword between them. “It was you who set these yapping dogs at my heels!”
Other pirates gathered along the outer edge of the deck, snarling foul oaths and making rude comments. Thankfully, the roar of the sea carried most of them away.
“Yes,” Hagris replied. “Unlike many in Myth Drannor’s courts, I believed in what Faimcir Glitterwing was doing. Preserving knowledge from the masses. There are things to be known only among the Tel’Quessir, and only a handful of them are to know it all.”
“And you think yourself to be one of them?”
Hagris smiled. “Perhaps the only one if this does work out to your benefit.” He raised his sword meaningfully.
“Yet you allay yourself with humans and kobolds, and social malcontents. No wonder my great-grandfather never allowed you into our home.”
“His mistake,” Hagris assured her, “and he paid his life for making it.”
A chill ran through Skyreach at the confirmation. Rumors still circulated concerning the how of Faimcir Glitterwing’s murder. She felt it change to anger, and held onto it. Cylthik’s magicks rose stronger around her. The mage had prepared long for this day, all of them hoping against it.
“You’ve signed your death warrant,” Skyreach said.
“Milady Skyreach, I seem to hold the view that I am in the position of signing your death warrant.”
Behind the pirate leader, Skyreach saw the rest of her men being killed and cornered. They couldn’t last but a few moments more.
“You can make this hard on yourself,” Hagris said, “or you can submit. Either way, I shall claim what is mine. Your great-grandfather’s collections are far more valuable than many were willing to believe. I’ll have this ship, then I’ll have the location of where the rest of it was hidden.”
Skyreach shook her head. “You’ve laid down your life for nothing. You’ll never have any of it.”
“I beg to disagree.” Hagris brandished his sword. “I have this ship. I have you. Soon, I’ll know where the rest of it is.”
Suddenly, the itchy feel of the magicks being worked around Skyreach gave way to a feeling of lassitude. “No,” she replied calmly, “you won’t ever have any of those things.”
As if sensing the subtle change in the ephemeral himself, Hagris craned his head to glance out at the roiling sea. The waves were coming more huge now, buoying the two ships up higher, washing over the decks in increased rage. Masts gave way on both ships, timbers tangling in the sailcloth.
“What have you done?” Hagris demanded, shifting his attention to the restless ocean.
“My duty to my great-gran
dfather,” Skyreach answered. “Having the cargo aboard this ship fall into the hands of others is unacceptable. I will not allow it.”
A jagged streak of white-hot lightning seared the sky, showing two giant tentacles emerging from the ivory-capped foam. Both tentacles latched securely onto Chalice of the Crowns.
“Squid!” one of the pirates bellowed in terror.
The cargo ship suddenly jumped, then dropped abruptly, tugged deeper into the crashing waves. Water filled the holds, but Skyreach knew the cargo would be protected by Cylthik’s spells and wards. The mage had bound powerful forces to his bidding, including the giant squid that was pulling the cargo ship under.
Hagris turned to Skyreach. “You selfish wench, you’ve undone us all!”
Skyreach eyed him coldly. “You’re the second man tonight to accuse me of that. No one will have my great-grandfather’s legacy. No one who is not deserving and worthy, and not until Toril is ready for it once again.”
With an inarticulate cry of rage, Hagris threw himself at her.
Skyreach met his challenge with steel, sparks flaring from their blades. His fellow pirates had fled, running across the decks toward the dubious safety of their own ship. Maybe they would have time to cut loose before the squid pulled Chalice of the Crowns to the briny deep, but Skyreach doubted it. Her arm moved her long sword, countering Hagris’s blows but finding herself unable to land any as well. They were too evenly matched.
Then the sea rose from their knees to their chests.
Hagris tried to turn and flee, but couldn’t. “My feet are stuck to the deck!” he blurted in horror.
Skyreach tried to move her own feet, and found that Hagris’s predicament was hers as well. She glanced at the rest of the ship, finding pirates and elven warriors and ship’s crew likewise adhered to the deck. Everyone aboard was doomed, held like flies in amber.
Fear swelled within her, but she kept it at bay, accepting the fate that lay before her. It was all part of keeping her duty to her great-grandfather. Then the sea closed over her head, at first cold to the touch and leeching the warmth from her body. Instinctively, she struggled against it, fought against drawing the briny liquid into her lungs.
The time came when she could no longer fight the impulse to breathe. She drew in great draughts of the salt water, filling her veins with ice.
And she began to change, to become something both stronger and weaker, something that would hide her great-grandfather’s legacy forever.
1
We’ve been followed.
Resting his shovel in the dark, fresh-turned earth of the tree-covered hillside, Baylee Arnvold gazed up at his companion. We weren’t followed.
I told you back at Waymoot that I thought it was a possibility.
Yes, you did, Xuxa, Baylee replied calmly in the telepathic communication that his companion excelled in, and the candle maker that you believed to be following us had the scare of his life when I jumped him in the alley behind Beruintar’s Bone Warmer. If I hadn’t been worn out from doing without sleep over the past days, I would never have fallen for your paranoia.
Have you ever noticed that you never call it my paranoia when I’m right? Xuxa sounded put out. She was an azmyth bat and had been with him for a handful of years, taking part in a number of excavations and explorations. She was three feet tall, twin-tailed, and her body colored emerald green, her wings only slightly lighter in color, like the beard at her throat. Her intelligence was high, but her telepathic communications with him usually interpreted themselves with his words to ease in understanding. Still, a few strictly bat-thoughts occasionally intruded into their conversations. She was his companion by choice, in no way a possession. Blessed with a life span of over a hundred years, she was decades older than Baylee and sometimes grew irritated that he did not give that more credence when they disagreed. Like now.
Baylee didn’t reply. His companion was right, but he’d be damned if he gave Xuxa the satisfaction of admitting it. At least, not right away.
He was following us. Xuxa sniffed in disdain, a delicate snuffling sound that hardly carried beyond their current site.
He was going to the back door of the inn to sell a tenday’s supply of candles.
The man got you to believe that. I am not so gullible. And here we are, out in the open on this hillock with no place to turn.
Baylee knew his companion was right about being alone. Seventeen miles north of Waymoot, six miles west of Ranger’s Way (the trail they’d followed into the city) there was no one around save a few hunters they’d passed hours ago. They’d taken pains to see that the hunters never saw them, even though he still didn’t believe they’d been followed. Still, there were many who would have killed for the piece of lore he hoped to uncover tonight.
He gazed at the surrounding forest, the setting sun adding a red and purple haze to the darkening sky. He felt at home here, though he’d only visited this part of Cormyr rarely. His true home in his heart was the Sword Coast, filled with all the old histories and wars that had left scars still to be found on the earth.
And there were the various treasures left to be uncovered as well. Those provided a siren call Baylee found irresistible. No matter how often he followed a barely tangible lead to a dead-end, every success, regardless how small, served to drive him on.
The wind shifted, blowing more toward Baylee. His sensitive nostrils picked up the faint scent that did not mix in well with the fragrance of the surrounding foliage.
You smell it too, Xuxa said.
Yes. Baylee admitted it readily. Mixed in with the scent of trees and blossoms and grasses, with the musk of wild deer going into season, he smelled human sweat A few moments more, with the wind just right, and he would have known whether there was one or more, whether it was male or female.
Then it was gone.
The way the scent disappeared, with nothing visible on the horizon, let him know the disappearance was deliberate. The knowledge raised the hackles at the back of his neck. Even if he hadn’t admitted being wrong, Xuxa would sense his reaction and know. He cursed and turned his attention back to the shovel and the excavation he’d worked so diligently on for hours. His leather gloves and armor chafed at his sweat-drenched skin, and his muscles ached from days of hard travel and the effort of digging deep into the hillside.
He picked up the shovel and wiped his brow, as if he was reluctant to contemplate returning to his task. The whiff of the scent returned to his nostrils. This time he was sure: it was definitely feminine. A faint waft of Arabellan herb soap traveled with it, letting him know the stalker was no stranger to good, and expensive, hygiene. It was a solid clue to the stalker’s identity. Local brigands didn’t care much for cleanliness.
He took his waterskin from his pack on the ground and drank deeply, using the movement to mask his gaze roving over the surrounding tree line. Forests provided much in the way of natural hiding spots to someone who knew how to use them. And evidently the person or persons stalking him knew the wind changed and took steps to prevent being found out.
Have you seen anyone? he asked his companion.
No.
Have they seen you?
I don’t think so.
Good. Then let’s keep it that way. Baylee dropped the waterskin back to the pack.
The hole he’d dug was precious little more than broad enough to accommodate his shoulders. He’d hauled the loose soil and rock out in a bucket he kept in a bag of holding in his pack. Determined effort allowed him to reach a depth of nine feet. By his own estimates, he could scarcely be more than inches away from his goal. The arrival of the stalker could not have been more ill-timed.
He made as if to climb back into the hole, hoping the slope of the hill and the mounded earth blocked him from view. He let go the shovel and slithered forward on his belly, taking care not to make noise. He marked time by counting heartbeats. Only a few minutes remained open to him to move before the watcher realized no sound of shovel blade cutting into th
e earth issued from the tunnel area.
He got to his feet behind a pine tree, hidden from the watcher’s point of view by the broad limbs. Anything? he asked.
No, Xuxa replied. Be patient. Be quiet.
Baylee gazed up at the tree where his companion held watch. Xuxa remained hidden even to his trained eye. But he knew the azmyth bat was sheltered in the tall cedar overlooking the dig.
Baylee moved lithely through the forest, relying on his ranger’s skills. Something short of six feet in height, and slender despite his broad shoulders, he wore his mane of black hair loose, tied back now by a rawhide headband stained deepest blue. Clad of the forest, he wore deerskin breeches, a sleeveless deerskin shirt, and knee-high moccasins crafted of jaculi skins. The particular tree snakes used in his boots were from poisonous boomslangs. The hides were supple, carefully crafted together, waterproof, and maintained some of their ability through magic to blend in with their surroundings from the lightest greens to the darkest black.
Bronze skin, kissed by tropical suns as well as the Sword Coast where he’d grown up, marked him as an outdoorsman. A handful of scars tracked his arms and face, leftover reminders of brushes with fang and claw, and weapons. His eyes gleamed harsh jade like a cat’s, captured in them the intensity of the wild.
He worked his way around the area he held suspect in his mind. Xuxa’s telepathic ability only extended sixty feet or so. In a few more strides, he would be out of the azmyth bat’s range, having only his own senses to depend on. The only weapon he carried was the dagger he used for meals, and to clean and skin wild game. He’d been trained by his mentor to rely on his wits, not the weapons most men carried about.
The lack of weapons, Fannt Golsway had often reiterated, made a man use his head. And it made him make certain his needs and wants were attended to by something more than a mere moment’s passion or a passing fancy. Of course, Golsway was also a mage. Baylee would have relished having some of the old man’s abilities at the moment rather than the meager few spells known to him through his ranger studies.
