Rising Tide (24 page)

Pacys whirled with more skill than speed, using his hands and wrists to deflect the trident shoved at his face instead of jerking his body out of the way. In a continuous motion, he whipped the staff back and slit the throat of the sahuagin standing in front of him.

“Stand back!” a man nearby warned.

Turning, Pacys spotted a broad shouldered dwarf running from the festhall’s interior only half dressed. The dwarf carried a flaming sahuagin high over his head. He threw the burning sea devil into a small group of its fellows and all the sahuagin when down, struggling to get away from the flames.

The dwarfs face radiated hatred. “Try and interrupt Ol’ Waggitt’s night of fun after all them days at sea, will ya?” he shouted. “Scare them girls what smell so nice and be so willing? Gonna give you a taste of Bloodrazor for your trouble, you damn beasties!” He reached back over his shoulder and freed a double-bitted broadaxe. With a harsh cry of challenge, he hurled himself into the group of sahuagin.

Pacys recognized the dwarfs name. He was a fierce pirate from the north, but now his axe was turned in the service of defending the city. All surface dwellers, upstanding citizens as well as rakehells, depended on Waterdeep.

The sahuagin broke and retreated back to the pilings, trying to hold their position amid crates and barrels that were in the process of being off-loaded from the docked ships.

Piergeiron wheeled his mount again, yanking his sword from the skull of the sahuagin he’d just killed. He got his horse steadied under him and the light from the line of fire defending the Mermaid’s Arms festhall gleamed across his broad face when he lifted his visor.

Pacys painted the man’s look in his mind’s eye, knowing he’d forever have that image. Strong pictures stayed with him. He looked past Piergeiron and saw that Arnagus the Shipwright’s building still stood. Men fought from the warehouse doors, holding their own. The half-finished ship that had stood in dry dock was now wreathed in flames.

The Waterdhavian lord rallied his troops around him, then spurred his horse, calling out for archers to strike. Arrows feathered the cargo and the sahuagin, killing some while driving the rest to cover. Pacys joined the charge, following the watch and guard members.

Before they reached the sahuagin, a monstrous head lifted from the ocean still lapping over the pilings. Piergeiron held the charge up, but Pacys knew it would be too late.

The giant sea snake towered twenty feet out of the water, well within striking range of Dock Street. The wedge-shaped black and green head split suddenly, revealing large fangs and a forked tongue. The snake lashed out at once, and Piergeiron spurred his horse again, raising his shield high to intercept the strike.

Less than a yard’s length from the Waterdhavian lord, the sea snake was seized by a giant disembodied hand that reached down from the sky. The thumb and fingers wrapped around the neck. The hand stopped the snake’s strike just short of Piergeiron’s shield. In a show of incredible strength, the hand yanked the sea snake from the harbor and held it high overhead amid the circling griffon riders.

Pacys judged the snake close to seventy feet long, the biggest of its kind he’d ever seen. As he watched it coil and try to constrict the hand holding it, he didn’t doubt that the snake would keep some would-be sailors from ever going to sea again. The snake’s presence reminded every watcher of how unknown the depths were and how much of them covered Toril.

The giant disembodied hand squeezed more tightly, holding the snake high overhead with ease despite the creature’s struggles to escape. All of the fighting nearby that Pacys could see came to a halt as combatants stared at the strangling snake.

Piergeiron turned in his saddle and lifted his helm. A small smile twisted his lips and his eyes lighted with fire. “Maskar Wands,” he said, “hail and well met.”

Pacys turned quickly. In all his wanderings through Waterdeep and the rest of Faerun, he’d never met the man, one of the Sword Coast’s greatest wizards. He moved away from the men around him, seeking a clearer view.

Maskar Wands stood in a flying chariot drawn by a pair of red firedrakes whose claws struck sparks from the sky as they ran. Though not six feet tall, Maskar appeared regal and grave. The wizard’s hairline had receded over the years to reveal his broad forehead, but silver hair still flowed in the wind. He wore the robes of a wizard, with a family crest-three gold stars on a field of purple with a black sleeve-was worked into the chest of the garment.

“Hail and well met, Lord Piergeiron,” Maskar called back. His dark gaze never left the strangling snake in the sky above the harbor. “I came as quickly as I was able.”

Excited murmuring drifted through the crowd Piergeiron had led into battle. Maskar Wands, though one of Waterdeep’s most famous residents, didn’t put in many public appearances, but when he did, it was to let everyone know his opinion on the ways magic was being abused. He and Khelben Arunsun had argued extensively on the subject, and bards scattered across Toril waited lustfully for the war everyone was certain would inevitably take place between the two wizards.

Piergeiron turned back to his command. “I want this street secured,” he ordered. “Take your men down to East Torch Tower, find those who yet survive there, and get them organized. I want whatever ships are there to be appropriated and used to retake this harbor.”

One of the watch captains nodded, then led his command across the intersection of Dock and Ship Streets, through the tangle of corpses.

Maskar gestured at the chariot and firedrakes and they disappeared. From all the legends Pacys had heard about the man, he knew Maskar Wands disapproved of any abuse of magic. The wizard gazed blackly at the snake hanging from the huge hand he’d conjured.

“Now,” he said sternly, “now we show these invaders that Waterdeep will never bend, much less break.”

He gestured at the fire consuming the building beside the Mermaid’s Arms and the flames stopped reaching across the building, bending to the mage’s will. Pacys watched as the fire gathered itself, then shot skyward in a whirling mass of colorful pyrotechnics that spread across the dark heavens around the sea snake constricting around the giant, disembodied hand. The pyrotechnics limned the struggle, making it visible for miles, drawing all eyes.

The bard saw Maskar speaking, but his voice seemed to come from high overhead, a thunder of threat. “You’ve made a mistake in attacking the City of Splendors this night,” the mage roared. “Retreat while you can. There will be no mercy.”

Even before the echoes of his voice died away, the disembodied hand closed more tightly. The crack of the giant sea snake’s vertebrae snapping echoed over the harbor. Still, the great creature struggled, its body refusing to admit defeat or death.

The hand disappeared at a spoken word from the arch-mage. As the writhing mass of coils plummeted toward the water, the wizard pointed again. A fireball scored a direct hit on the snake, wreathing it in flames that burned with white-hot intensity. Only ashes drifted down to hit the storm-tossed water.

“No mercy!” Maskar repeated in that booming voice.

Pacys glanced around him, looking at the smoke-stained, bruised and battered faces, and saw renewed hope glow in the eyes of the Waterdhavians around him. They tightened their grip on their chosen or confiscated weapons. The battle for the city wasn’t lost, but it was yet to be won.

Laaqueel stood in the mouth of a sewer drain, the vile water trickling through a channel to her left. After the confrontation with the watch group and citizens had begun filling the city’s streets, Iakhovas had guided them into the maze of sewers beneath Waterdeep. The wizard showed an unsettling familiarity with them and brought them quickly to one overlooking the harbor from Coin Alley.

She watched the charred ash from the burned sea snake cascade onto the roiling water of the harbor. Her eyes still ached from the explosion of light only a moment ago.

“Ah, little malenti, that man,” Iakhovas declared, “could possibly prove a worthy opponent should the opportunity present itself. There are so few humans who are.” He smiled rakishly. “Another time, perhaps.”

“When we try to get back across that harbor,” Laaqueel said coldly, “you’ll get your opportunity then.”

Iakhovas shook his head. “See, this is why I’ve planned everything, why I am the master and you serve me. We’re not adventuring out into the harbor any more this night.”

“How do you propose to leave?”

In reply, Iakhovas handed her a thin medallion from his cloak. “I’ve taken care to make my own doors and egresses, little malenti. I give you this and an escape route that goes with it. Accept this, a token of my appreciation for your efforts thus far, and a down payment on those you’ll provide again in the future. Say your name when you close your fist on it and you’ll be transported back to my castle.”

Laaqueel took the medallion and looked at it. About the size of a silver piece and constructed of cut crystal, it bore a compass rose on both sides. “Magic?” she asked derisively.

“Yes.”

She let her look of displeasure let him know how she felt about magic.

“Of course, you can always choose to stay here and die,” Iakhovas suggested, “but I don’t think that will serve Sekolah.”

“How do I know this will work?”

“Because I crafted it, little malenti.”

One of the wererats strode forward out of the shadows. They’d assumed their hybrid forms while in the sewers to enhance their vision. Laaqueel recognized him as Manistas, the leader of the pack Iakhovas had made his deal with.

“What’s going on here?”

Iakhovas faced the wererat leader. “I’m taking my leave,” he said. “Your services are no longer needed and your people can go.”

“Go where?” The wererat’s pink and gray tongue slithered out of its mouth nervously. “There’s no place for us to go in this city. Two of us were recognized by members of the Watch. They know we were with you.”

“Then I suggest you take your departure of Waterdeep at your earliest convenience,” Iakhovas said without sympathy, “or slay the two among you who were recognized. Either way, I’ve delivered you your gold for tonight’s bit of business.”

Manistas unsheathed his sword, fell back into a defensive posture, and said, “You’re not going to just leave us here.”

“Attacking me will be your last mistake,” Iakhovas assured him in a low voice, “should you choose to act so unwisely.”

Reluctantly, the wererat backed away, but kept his sword out.

“What you do here won’t be forgotten,” Manistas promised.

“You hired on for mere gold with nothing of yourselves at stake except that which you were willing to risk in your greed,” Iakhovas said. “Your loyalty was fleeting at best. You and your people live off the surface dwellers, Manistas, as did your ancestors. You have no love of the sea for what it is. As the humans do, you live in spite of the sea, taking from it what you will with no thought to the needs of the deep. If I have need of you or your people again, I’m sure your greed will let you forget this transgression, or mayhap someone else’s will.”

The wererat leader tightened his grip on his short sword and said, “If you do contact me again, know now that the price will be higher … much higher.”

Iakhovas laughed, and the sound of it trapped in the sewer chilled Laaqueel’s blood. Looking at her, he said, “Do not tarry long, little malenti. I do fear I shall leave you in unkind company.”

He broke the medallion and spoke a word of command. Blue vapor coiled from the two halves of the medallion and wreathed him. A sharp crack of thunder filled the sewer and he disappeared. The broken medallion pieces hit the ground where he’d been standing.

Laaqueel felt the smooth edges of the medallion in her fingers and thought about the magic power inherent in it. Her stomach rolled in nervous fear. What she’d been through with Iakhovas had been terrifying enough, but to trust herself to the spell locked in the medallion was the most fearful consideration she’d ever been forced to make. It would have been better to face an enemy in combat.

Even the deep shadows trapped in the sewer weren’t enough to blind her to the small hand gestures Manistas made. In response, the wererats slowly fanned out before her, blocking her way back into the sewer channel. Dozens of red glints from true rats covered the underground tunnel behind them.

“We know you don’t like magic, priestess,” the wererat leader stated. “He used you as he used us. Perhaps together we might be able to turn the tables on him.” He took a step forward, the short sword dropping to his side.

“So you would offer me a partnership?” Laaqueel demanded.

Manistas nodded, his rat’s eyes never leaving her face. “Yes. It’s more than he offers you.”

Laaqueel considered unleashing one of her spells on him, to show him the true error of his ways and his poor judgment, but she was already tired, needing the embrace of the sea around her to return her strength. The other wererats closed in, getting well within springing distance.

“Maybe I’d even offer you more,” the wererat leader said. “You’re a very beautiful woman, and I can afford to be generous.”

Hollow booms sounded outside the barred sewer shaft, and the stench of lightning filled the air, prickling Laaqueel’s skin. She didn’t respond and tried to break the medallion, only her fingers wouldn’t obey her will.

The wererat to her right sprang, a short blade glinting in his pawlike hand.

Afraid then, knowing the wererats would pull her down with their sheer numbers, Laaqueel hurled the crystal medallion at her feet. It shattered against the stone and the blue smoke curled up around her, bringing the strong salty scent of purple seaweed with it. She screamed her name and she was gone, ripped away by Iakhovas’s magic.

“There!” a man in a guard’s uniform yelled, pointing.

Pacys turned, watching as the sahuagin manta bobbed only inches below the surface. The silvery black eyes of the sahuagin hanging onto their underwater craft gazed up at the humans aboard the great galley the Waterdhavian Guard had appropriated as a staging platform for the battle.