Tangled Webs (10 page)

The pirate shrugged. “Place spirits are not so common as they once were, that’s true enough, but old ways die hard. And what’s the harm of it? The river waters their fields, carries their boats to the sea, and gives them fish.

That is worth more than gold to them!”

“Well said,” Fyodor replied, pleasantly surprised by Hrolf’s insightful and tolerant answer. Even so, he did not credit these words as being the whole truth, and he said so. Hrolf responded only with a wink and a shrug. He refilled the drinking horn from the mead cask and handed it to the young warrior. “For a dreamer, lad, you worry too much! Find the bottom of this one and see if that doesn’t steal your troubles!”

Liriel waited until well after midnight before leaving the ship. Although she agreed with Hrolf that the Ffolk might not take well to a drow’s presence on their island, she could not resist the temptation to see this new land with her own eyes. Acting on impulse, she dressed as if she were participating in the promised festival, putting on a gown of black silk she had bought in Skullport and taming the wild waves of her hair into an elaborate arrangement of coils and ringlets. The Windwalker amulet she hid beneath the bodice ofher gown, yielding the place of honor to a pendant Fyodor had given her: a smooth oval of glowing amber with a black spider in its heart. Thus garbed, she donned her piwafwi and crept, wrapped in invisibility, through the deserted village, making her way toward the dying bonfires on the hills beyond.

The drow had expected a festival; what she encountered more closely resembled a battlefield. Villagers and Ruathen alike were sprawled about like so many victims of a massacre, with one exception: the dead generally did not snore. The grating chorus resounding through the clearing bore vivid testimony to the evening’s overindulgence. Hrolt; in particular, set the air vibrating with his raucous blasts as he lay asleep on his back, his boots propped up on one of several empty mead casks.

The drow’s eyes narrowed as she studied the scene. She was frequently amazed at the odd weakness humans had for strong drink. There was not a drow alive who couldn’t drink three dwarves under the table, and even drow who overindulged could shake off the effects almost at will. Humans didn’t have that type of fortitude, and it seemed to her that those humans least able to handle potent drink had the strongest taste for it. Still, she didn’t see how so many humans could drink themselves into oblivion in such short order. Even Fyodor, who could swallow that wretched Rashemaar firewine without ill effect, had succumbed to the night’s revelry. He lay in deep slumber. A half-full drinking horn had been thrust point-down into the soft ground beside him.

Liriel crouched at Fyodor’s side and took up the drinking horn. She sniffed at the mead, caught the faint scent of the herbs that had been added to it. Since a knowledge of poisons was an important part of any dark elf’s education, Liriel recognized the scent of a harmless-but potentsleeping potion.

She was not at all surprised, therefore, when an owl-like hoot came from the “sleeping” Hrolf. At this signal the pirates scrambled to their feet like so many puppets pulled by a single string. The effect was both eerie and comic. Liriel could not help but think of zombies arising from a battlefield in response to a wizard’s call.

The men stole down to the banks of a river. Wondering what Hrolfwas up to now, Liriel crept along after the Ruathen. She watched, puzzled, as several of the younger men stripped to the skin and waded into the water. They dove repeatedly, coming up to toss small, shining items to their comrades on the banks. From their talk, Liriel pieced together the story of what had happened earlier that night and what was happening as she watched.

The sacrilege of this act of thievery troubled her, for no Underdark drow would dare to defile an offering to Lloth. From what she had learned since leaVing Menzoberranzan, Liriel surmised that few deities were as vengeful as the Spider Queen. Still, it seemed a large risk to take for mere gold, and she decided to convince the pirates of their error.

Still invisible, Liriel walked among the men and watched as young Bjorn surfaced, a broad grin on his face. He waved a gold armband triumphantly overhead and then tossed it toward the shore. Liriel darted forward and caught the ornament, tucking it quickly beneath the folds of her piwafwi.

To the pirates, it appeared that the ornament had simply disappeared. They fell back from the invisible drow, bugeyed with astonishment and fear.

“Captain, you said there was no river spirit!” a whitefaced Olvir protested.

Bjorn was even more distressed. His thin hands fluttered like birds as he formed signs of warding, over and over. “May Tempus help us! We’ve angered their god!”

“We haven’t thus far!” Hrolf returned, unperturbed. “Think, lads. We’ve been harvesting the gold every spring for ten years, regular as a crop of rye. No, any spirit that might’ve made this river a home is long gone!”

“What, then?” demanded Ibn.

The captain winked at his first mate, then held out one hand, palm up, as he faced the apparently empty air. “Hand it over, lass. Youll get your share later, same as us all.” Liriel smothered a grin. Hrolf’s assurances to his men had put her mind at ease, and his quick-witted response to her prank pleased her. Still invisible, she tossed the bracelet to the captain. Its sudden reappearance dealt a second shock to the still-wary men. Then Bjorn figured out what was happening, and he began to chuckle. One by one, the Ruathen caught on. Not all of them, however, were amused by the joke.

“Damn female!” muttered Ibn as he turned back to the river. “Should ha’ known it was her at the first sign of trouble.”

By the time the sun rose, the gold had been safely stowed aboard ship and the pirates had resumed their places among the sleeping revelers. When fmally the scene stirred to reluctant life, none of the Ffolk seemed to find anything amiss. The farewells between villagers and pirates were somewhat muted by the lingering effects of the mead, but Hrolf’s crew took their leave in friendly fashion, amid promises to return soon.

The pirates’ spirits returned in full once they were aboard the Elfmaid. Only Fyodor felt any ill effects from the mead, and although the young warrior was the target ofmuch good-natured teasing, he felt too miserable to wonder why he was the only one so affected.

To Liriel’s chagrin, the Elfmaid did not head directly for Ruathym. Hrolf set course for Neverwinter, a coastal city some three hundred miles to the north. The Ruathen wished to trade some of their stolen gold for Neverwinter crafts, but there was another, more practical reason for the diversion as well. Neverwinter was named for its unusually warm climate and a harbor that remained free of ice year round. This was in part due to the River, a current of warm water and air that swept eastward from Evermeet, over the island of Gundarlun, and narrowing until it touched Neverwinter’s shores. So early in the spring, sailing the River was far safer than taking their chances against the ice floes that dotted the open sea. Hrolf planned to take to the River at Neverwinter, sail to Gundarlun to fish for spring herring, then travel due south to Ruathym. The expected profit was considerable, but this added time to the journey that Liriel had not considered. She had no idea how long the magic stored in the Windwalker might last, and she was anxious to reach Ruathym as soon as possible.

But the drow tried to make the best of the delay, using the time to study the book of sea magic and to add more spells to the Windwalker. Storytelling passed the time, too, and Liriel coaxed Hrolf and Olvir for information on their island home. As the days passed, she and Fyodor fell back into the comfortable routine of fellow travelers. Neither of them mentioned the moment that had passed between them in Hrolf’s cabin, but Liriel thought of it often. She suspected that Fyodor did, as well.

At last the ship reached Neverwinter. The Elfmaid was received at the port by an armed guard. But after the dockmaster saw a sample of the pirates’ golden treasure, she allowed the ship to dock-with the provision that Hrolfthe Unruly remain under heavy guard on his own ship. It seemed that several taverns in Neverwinter had reason to remember the captain.

Liriel enjoyed exploring the city-walking at Fyodor’s side, cloaked in invisibility. To her fell the task of browsing through shops displaying the water clocks and multicolored lamps for which Neverwinter’s artisans were famed.

Some of the stolen gold went to purchase a few of these treasures, which Hrolf would sell to wealthy Ruathen. It was a pleasant interlude, but the drow was not sorry when the Elfmaid put out to sea.

They sailed westward for two days before encountering another vessel in the warm waters of the River. Fyodor was on the forecastle taking a turn at watch when he saw it: a sturdy cog, leaning hard to the leeward, cutting through the water with almost reckless speed. He called an alert down to Hrolf, who was manning the rudder and regaling Liriel with stories of Ruathym.

“I know that ship,” Hrolf commented, peering at it through an eyeglass. “She carries seal hunters. On their way back home, they are, and in a hurry.”

His mustache lifted in a broad grin, and he winked at a pair of sailors lounging nearby. “Think of it, lads: a pallet of fine white fur. Now there’s a gift to brighten your woman’s eye and sweeten your welcome home!”

Liriel cast a quick glance toward Fyodor and shook her head. “Don’t do it, Hrolt;” she murmured. “You’ve seen him in battle only against a squid. I’ve seen him fight drowand win.”

The captain scoffed. “What kind of fool do you take me for, lass? Think you that I’d risk turning a berserker’s wrath upon my own ship?”

Hrolf pointed at the approaching cog. “I know her captain. Name of Farlow, used to be a sell-sword. A good man, if you like ‘em quick to fight, and he knows us as pirates! All we need do is sail close enough to give Captain Farlow a good look at us and let him think what he will! And once they attack,” Hrolf said slyly, “yon lad will stand with us, and at last we~ see him at play! It’ll be an easy fight for the rest of us, by my reckoning!”

The captain’s reasoning proved prophetic. No sooner had he fmished speaking than the cog changed course. The heavy ship hurtled toward the Ruathen vessel at ramming speed, bowsprit leveled at them like the lance of a jousting knight.

“Take your positions, lads!” roared the captain with undisguised glee.

Such attacks were expected and anticipated, and every man leaped to the role that had been assigned him. Harreldson dropped the sail and joined several others at the oars. The ship was smaller and lighter than the attacking cog-a single collision could send the Elfmaid to the bottom of the sea. In such attacks, she was best served by her ability to change course quickly and by the fighting strength of her crew.

Fyodor snatched a large wooden shield from its hook on the forecastle. Five other men did the same, kneeling shoulder-to-shoulder to form a shield wall. Five more sailors, armed with arrows and longbows, dove for cover behind the wall. Liriel took her place at Fyodor’s side, but her hands remained empty. Ifthe need arose, she had more powerful weapons to hurl.

The cog closed in fast, and the seal hunters’ first volley of arrows clattered against the wooden shields. Hrolf’s men returned fire; then the Elfmaid turned hard astern and darted past the onrushing cog. Before the merchant ship could change course, Hrolf’s rowers spun the ship in a circle and brought her alongside the cog. Two of the pirates twirled ropes that ended with heavy grappling hooks, then let fly. Both of the hooks found purchase on the larger vessel. A seal hunter leaned out to cut the lines; his body fell into the sea, bristling with Ruathen arrows.

Then came the grating shriek of wood against wood as the ships struck, then rebounded. The rowers set their oars and took up weapons just in time. Three of the hunters leaped over the narrow expanse of water that separated the two ships.

Hrolf barreled toward the invaders, roaring, his arms spread wide. He caught them before they could get their footing, and all four men plunged, with a mighty splash, over the side.

“Take the fight to them, lads!” The captain’s voice came to them from the water below. “No need to be getting blood all over the Elfmaid’s clean deck!”

The pirates tossed boarding planks between the ships and began to swarm up the incline onto the cog. Weapons drawn, the more numerous hunters confidently awaited the pirates. Then, suddenly, the attackers’ expressions of certainty melted into astonishment.

All of them had heard stories of Ruathym’s berserkers, elite warriors who protected their homeland. Berserkers were never encountered at sea, much less aboard a pirate vessel. Yet the darkhaired warrior stalking toward them could be nothing less.

Fully seven feet tall, he brandished a black sword too large and heavy for most men to lift. There was an aura of magic about him, and his blue eyes burned with inner fire. Equally fearsome—and even more astonishing-was the drow female who followed the berserker like a small dark shadow. There was a long dagger in one slender hand, and a feral gleam in eyes as golden as those of a stalking wolf: The seal hunters’ hesitation lasted but a moment, for their black-bearded captain spurred them into battle with the point of his own sword.

The berserker went straight for Captain Farlow, backhanding two pirates out of the way with the flat of his blade as he strode up the boarding plank. He leaped onto the deck of the cog, swinging his black sword downward in a sweeping cut as he came.

Farlow snapped his sword up high to block the attack. His was a fine weapon-a hand-and-a-half sword of dwarfforged steel, tested in two decades of mercenary fighting. The berserker’s blade shattered it and sent deadly shards flying. Faster than Farlow would have believed possible, the berserker reversed the direction of his swing and batted a length of airborne steel toward one of the hunters. The shard flew end over end, like a thrown knife. It caught one of the hunters through the throat, nailing him to the wooden mast.

The captain glanced at the hilt in his hand and the jagged fragment of steel that was all that remained of his blade. He hoped it would be enough. Raising the ruined weapon high overhead, he flung himself at the deadly invader, putting his weight and his strength fully behind the blow.