Rising Tide (37 page)

Instead, Aysel lifted the end of the axe haft and blocked the cutlass. Sparks flew from the steel sheath, and the hard wooden shaft held. The big man flicked the sword away, then stepped in and buried the axe haft in Jherek’s stomach.

Bright comets of pain ignited in the young sailor’s skull as his breath fled his lungs. He was certain the blow broke ribs, and he remained on his feet out of sheer defiance. Aysel closed again, stumbling, surprised maybe that Jherek hadn’t fallen. His breath burned hotly on the young sailor’s neck.

“Had enough, boy?” Aysel snarled.

Twisting, keeping his body contact against the bigger man to keep him off-balance so he couldn’t bring either end of the battle-axe back into play, Jherek balled up his left fist and smashed it into Aysel’s throat.

The big sailor stumbled backward, grabbing for his injured throat with one hand. His breath came in harsh gasps.

“No,” Jherek grated out. “You’re still standing.”

He wiped at his injured eye with his free hand, finding some of the blurred vision was caused by blood. He wiped his eye clear on a shirt sleeve, aware that the swelling had already half closed it. Still, he could see better. He lifted the cutlass and slashed.

Aysel grabbed the axe with both hands again and blocked the blow.

Warming to the task, pushing the pain away, Jherek moved the cutlass confidently. He remained on the attack, deliberately aiming blows that he knew Aysel could block and had no choice but to do so, beating back any opportunity for offense. The big man held his ground for a moment, wavering, but in the end he was forced back.

Despite Aysel’s claim to the tavern crowd at the beginning of the fight, Jherek’s courage and skill in the face of greater numbers arrayed against him won over the watchers. They howled at him, supporting him, demanding Aysel’s blood.

Jherek didn’t intend to kill the man if he could help it. Aysel’s lack of manners didn’t mean he should be killed. Senses alert, and the combat skills Malorrie had drilled into him functioning at their peak with the adrenaline rushing through his body, Jherek swept the cutlass forward too fast for Aysel to dodge. At the last minute, he turned the sword so the flat of the blade thumped solidly into the big man’s jawline.

Stunned, Aysel stumbled back, working hard to keep the battle-axe up.

Before Jherek could take advantage of his success, a chair crashed into him, breaking across his back and shoulders. The young sailor went down to his knees, doubling over on his fiery ribs. He tried to catch his breath and couldn’t as he turned to face Aysel’s cohort.

The sailor tossed the shattered remains of the chair away, then stepped in and kicked Jherek in the face.

The man’s foot caught Jherek on the chin, snapping his head back. The young sailor didn’t try to fight the force, working to roll with it as much as possible. He gripped the cutlass, stubbornly hanging onto it. The man came at Jherek again, stamping his feet down at him viciously, snarling curses.

Avoiding the kicks when he could, blocking them with his arms when he couldn’t, Jherek rolled across the sawdust covered floor under a table. The man reached for the table and ripped it away, spilling tankards and platters over the side.

Jherek tasted blood in his mouth, realizing his lips had been split by the kick to his chin. He surged up with the overturned table, setting himself. His opponent hadn’t expected him to attack and was caught unprepared. Jherek swung the cutlass, thudding the sword’s heavy-cast knuckle bow into the man’s forehead. The shock of the impact shuddered all along Jherek’s arm.

The sailor’s eyes glazed and his knees buckled. He let out a long breath and crumpled to the floor, unconscious.

Spotting the movement of the tavern crowd shifting around him, Jherek turned as Aysel came toward him. Growling in rage, the big sailor swept the battle-axe at Jherek.

The young sailor lifted the cutlass to his defense, managing to catch the broad axe on his blade for an instant before it slid off. The axe’s keen edge razored across his left arm, slicing his bicep open and sending fresh blood cascading down his arm. It went partially numb at once, and a burning fear raced through him that the axe blow had permanently damaged his arm.

Aysel’s power and weight knocked him from his feet. Unable to use his wounded arm well, Jherek fell awkwardly, slamming down on his back across the remnants of a chair. Aysel gave him no respite, closing his hands together at the end of the battle-axe and swinging hard.

Forcing his wounded arm to work, Jherek grabbed the cutlass’s broad blade and blocked the descending axe. The impact felt like it tore his shoulders free, and he couldn’t hold the axe back. Instead, he turned it aside. The move also cost him the cutlass, tearing it from his hands. Desperate, every move agony, Jherek kicked the big man in the crotch as he tried to pull the axe back. Aysel screamed in pain.

Pressing his slight advantage for all it was worth, Jherek slipped his fishing knife from his boot. He twisted, holding the knife tightly, then plunged it through Aysel’s foot. Sharp and driven forcefully, the keen knife cut through the boot leather and slipped between the bones of the big man’s foot. It thudded home solidly in the hardwood floor.

“Umberlee take you for your dark cowardice, you little bastard!” Aysel shouted. He pulled at his axe, bringing it up.

Ignoring the burning pain that filled his body and the salty taste of blood filling his mouth, Jherek forced himself to his feet. He stepped into Aysel, seizing the man’s left arm in a hold Malorrie had taught him. Moving in close to the bigger man, holding the arm in a controlling position, Jherek pulled with his upper body and twisted at the same time.

Aysel left the floor, his foot tearing free of the floor with the knife still in it.

Jherek brought the big sailor down hard on the floor. Aysel reached for him, but Jherek slid away. As the big man hobbled to a standing position, grabbing dazedly at the knife impaling his foot, Jherek grabbed a broken chair leg from the floor and swung it from his shoulder.

The chair leg crashed into Aysel’s temple with a dulled smack, turning his head.

Incredibly, the man remained standing for a moment.

Jherek watched uncertainly, fighting to sip his breath past the broken feeling in his ribs. If Aysel continued fighting, he wasn’t sure he had anything left. Still, he kept his grip on the chair leg, then Aysel fell, pitching face forward onto the floor. Sawdust gusted up when he hit.

Kneeling with difficulty, Jherek felt the man’s neck, relieved when he found a pulse. He’d never killed a man in anger before, and after the close call today, he knew he never would. Challenging Aysel’s affront to Sabyna’s honor had been a natural thing for him, something he knew he’d never be able to walk away from, but next time, he promised himself, he’d have a clearer head.

Hurting all over, his breath coming in short, painful gasps, Jherek stood. He surveyed the tavern, surprised at the destruction that had been wrought. Aysel’s companions were unconscious as well, laying tumbled in the wreckage.

“Now, by Tyr,” a grizzled old man at the front of the tavern crowd shouted, “that was a damn fight!”

Several of the other tavern goers loudly agreed. They came around Jherek and pounded him on the back.

Jherek’s knees buckled from the impact and he almost went down. The man caught him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and laughing at how expended the young sailor was.

“Gave ‘em all you had, didn’t you, boy?” the old man asked.

“Aye,” Jherek croaked, “maybe more.” His vision still swam and his injured eye had swollen totally closed. Despite the pain that filled him, he felt proud. His cause had been just, and he’d won. At the same time, he realized how prideful and arrogant that thought was. He didn’t think Malorrie would have approved. Madame litaar would have given him one of those reproachful looks that Jherek had always felt could have peeled paint.

The old man took part of Jherek’s weight and hauled him to the bar. “A man willing to fight like that against such odds, I’ll stand him to a drink. Even if I have hold him up at the bar!” The rough men around them broke into laughter.

The bartender thumped a tankard of ale in front of Jherek, then pointed at the serving wenches. “Go through their pockets,” he told them, “and take enough gold to pay for the damages.” He looked at Jherek. “House rules: loser always pays the damages … one way or another.”

Jherek struggled to cling to his senses, but he didn’t reach for the ale. Still, it felt good to be standing among the rough crowd, momentarily accepted as one of their own. He felt guilty too. The fight wasn’t something to be proud of.

“Drink up, boy,” the old man said, slapping Jherek on the back. “It’ll wash the blood out of your mouth and prevent infection. Hell, you drink enough, you won’t even feel the pain.”

The crowd laughed, yelling enthusiastically.

Jherek shook his head politely, then regretted it instantly when a new wave of pain fired through his skull. It felt like pieces of it were missing. “Don’t drink,” he said.

“What?” the old man asked.

“I said I don’t drink,” Jherek replied.

The old man passed the knowledge on to his comrades flocked together at the bar. “A fighting man always drinks,” the man said, turning back to Jherek.

“Can’t,” Jherek said, thinking quickly, not wanting to offend his newfound friends. “It’s my belief.”

The old man drew back in wry surprise. “Now there’s a piss-poor god for you-one that doesn’t allow a man an honest drink now and again.” He suddenly slammed his sword arm across his chest in benediction. “May Tyr protect a warrior who speaks his own mind so carelessly.”

“No offense taken,” Jherek said.

“What will you drink?” the man asked.

“Water, please.”

Hrumphing in displeasure, the bartender said, “I’ve got some I keep around here for cutting drinks I sell to the young Amman fops who come around wanting to talk it up later that they’ve been to this place.” He rummaged under the counter and brought up a bottle. “Here it is.” He poured a quick tankard and sat it before Jherek.

“Thank you.” Jherek took up the tankard and drank, tasting the coppery salt of the blood in his mouth. His wounded arm throbbed dully. Glancing at it, he pulled the sliced cloth away.

“You’re going to need a few gathers in that one, boy,” the old man said. “I know a cleric who does such work out of his temple. He’ll expect a few silver pieces to be donated to his god in return, and a couple gold if you want him to bless it.”

Jherek nodded and sipped his water again. Nausea swamped his stomach and he fought to keep its contents in place. He’d never felt that way when he’d fought the sahuagin, nor when he’d fought pirates out on the open seas, but Aysel wasn’t as bluntly evil in his ways as they’d been. The big sailor had only been a man with an undisciplined tongue and low manner.

Standing there, swaying slightly, Jherek knew the fight could have easily ended with any one of them dead, and it would have been his fault.

Malorrie had always taught him never to strike in anger, and to fight only when fighting would save a life.

Jherek knew he could have walked out of the tavern, but he’d chosen not to. At the same time, though, he knew he couldn’t allow Sabyna’s honor to be bandied about so lightly. It would have offended him to stand there and let the comments be aired.

“Get out of my way!”

Recognizing the voice at once, Jherek turned and watched as Captain Tynnel strode through the tavern’s double doors. He watched Tynnel survey the makeshift battlefield and felt even more uncomfortable about what he’d done. The serving wenches ceased looting the pockets of the unconscious men and backed hurriedly away, hiding the coins they’d taken in the pockets of their skirts.

“Who did this?” the captain roared. His fist knotted around the sword he wore. His gaze challenged every man in the tavern. A dozen Breezerunner crewmen stood behind him. All of them looked ready to fight.

The tavern crowd separated, revealing Jherek. The young sailor stepped forward on trembling legs. “I did,” he answered.

XXVIII

“The story was given to my people generations ago,” Narros said, “at the same time we were given custody of the headband that was to be kept under our protection.”

“Headband? From whom?” Pacys asked. He sat on a pile of moss on the floor across from a low table made of gathered stones in the middle of the small underwater cave out in Waterdeep Harbor that the merman shaman made his home.

The cave was ten feet tall and only slightly wider than that. Mosaics of shells, stones, and bits of colored glass gleaned from trading with the merchants in Waterdeep and crafted into pictures of mermen fishing the depths occupied prominent places on the walls. Out of deference to the bard’s weaker surface vision, a small glow lamp gleamed on the table.

Pacys was able to survive underwater due to the emerald bracelet he wore. The merman shaman had given it to him at the dock. The magical powers of the bracelet let him breathe the water as air, turned away most of the cold, and removed the pressure from the depths. If it hadn’t been for the flotsam and jetsam that occasionally floated through his view and the inquisitive fish that came up to him, the bard would have noticed the difference between the submerged cave and the surface world even less.

“Our stories say that the first of our group was given the prophecy and the headband by Eadro the Deliverer, Lord of the Sunlit Shadows.”

The bard easily recognized the name of the mermen god. Eadro was also worshiped by the locathah, though the means of worshiping the god differed wildly among the races as well as the regions.

“There was a time,” Narros went on in his deep voice, “generations and generations ago, when a great evil was inadvertently loosed upon the world.”

Unconsciously, Pacys’s hands strayed to his yarting. The magic of the bracelet, he’d discovered, had extended to his clothing and his instrument. Delicately, his fingers plucked at the strings, sorting out the rhythm that came into his mind as the merman spoke. “What was the nature of this great evil?”