Tangled Webs (15 page)

“What in the Nine Hells is that? An elf ship?” “Ruathen,” one ofhis men put in, “That’s the ElfmaidI seen her before. Captain’s one Hrolf the Unruly. He was run out of Luskan three years ago for tearing apart the Seven Sails Inn.”

A slow smile crept over Rethnor’s face. He’d found not only his quarry, but also a way to deepen the mist that concealed Luskan’s plot against Ruathym. Waterdeep had forced Ruathym and Luskan to form the Captains’ Alliance. Let the meddling southerners think their efforts had borne fruit and that the two groups of Northmen were working in harmony to tamp down the threat of piracy. He, Rethnor, would serve up Hrolf to both Waterdeep and Ruathym village, and in the process buy himself good faith with both cities. The elf-Ioving officials ofWaterdeep would readily accept Hrolf in the role of villain. The man had a wild reputation-not to mention possession of those pickled sea elves. As for Ruathym-well, there had been many strange happenings on the island of late, and the beleaguered people might well grasp at any explanation presented them. According to Rethnor’s sources on the island, Hrolf was considered to be something of a rogue.

The Captain sent orders to his two other warships to flank the Ruathen vessel, taking the central attack himself: “As soon as we come within range, fire the ballista over her deck. Take care not to sink the ship,” Rethnor cautioned. “We need her whole, crew and cargo.”

He raised the spyglass again and recoiled in astonishment at the sight before him. Standing on the deck of the ship, framed by a flying cloak that glittered darkly in the dying light, was a black elf: A female, at that. She was a tiny thing, all hair and eyes, with ears like a fox.

Rethnor swore under his breath. He’d amassed power and wealth through his ability to craft multilayered plots and through his ability to plan ahead for each possible move his opponents might make. Unlike most Northmen, he did not consider chess to be an effete pastime. But he played most of his games in the back rooms and the battlefields that led to power, with living beings as pawns and warriors. He knew all of his players and opponents well. He knew what to expect from the sailors and fighters of Ruathym and was even confident ofhis ability to overcome one of their berserker warriors. But despite the stories he had heard all his life—or perhaps because ofthem-he had no idea what to expect from a drow.

As Rethnor watched through the spyglass, the captain of the Elfmaid-a mountain of a man with pale braids and massive arms-hauled up a brightly colored square sail and sent men to the oars. The pirates were going to try to outrun them.

But the Luskan warships were built for speed. Two tall masts supported enormous sails that caught and held every breath of the wind, and the crews were chosen from the best the Northlands had to offer. Rethno~s lead ship, the Cutlass, plunged after the pirates, its bow leaping the waves like a dolphin at play, sending spray after spray of white foam flying.

As soon as Rethnor had the Elfmaid within range, he gave the order to fire. A ballista bolt-a giant, iron-tipped spear-traced an arc toward the pirate ship and tore downward through its gay sail. The bright cloth caught on the barbs of the ballista, rending from midsail to lower beam. The rip stole much of the wind from the sail, and the pirate ship slowed. Rethnor gave the signal, and two warships went wide to flank the Ruathen vessel. On three sides they closed in on the crippled ship.

But Hrolf the Unruly was not one to go down lightly; The pirate ship spun in a sharp turn-so sharp that Rethnor fully expected the ship to careen. The Ruathen captain knew his Elfmaid well; the odd vessel righted and faced down her closest attacker, the ship approaching from Rethnor’s left. The full strength of the wind caught what was left of the sail, and the oars bent under the force of the rowers’ quick, desperate pull. The pirate ship lurched forward, so fast that the hull reared upward. Her sharpened bowsprit rammed broadside into the hull of the approaching warship. The lancelike beam bit deep into the wood of the Luskan ship.

The pirates immediately sent a storm of arrows toward the warship to hold back the Northmen fighters. Under the cover of Ruathen arrows, the black elf, nimble and sure-footed as a squirrel on a tree branch, ran up the tilted bowsprit and onto the warship’s deck.

Northmen warriors charged to meet her with swords and battle-axes. The drow came steadily on. White fire spat from her hands and sent the warriors reeling back. She did not stop to press her magically gained advantage, but rose into the air.

As Rethnor gaped-he had no idea the damned fiends could fly-the drow floated to the very top of the masts. She pulled a long knife from her belt and cut the lines that held the sails aloft-first one sail, then the other, in less time than the telling would take. The massive sails plummeted down onto the fighters, burying them all beneath a blanket of heavy canvas.

Hrolf the Unruly was next to climb the bowsprit, and despite his massive size he was no less agile than the tiny drow. The captain leaped onto the deck and ran across the heaving, squirming canvas and toward the pair of masts. Meanwhile the pirates laid down boarding planks and swarmed up after him. They formed a ring around the outer edges of the canvas sail, stabbing down again and again into the trapped Northmen as they closed in toward the center. Here and there a dagger slashed up through the heavy canvas shroud, but the pirates easily cut down the sailors before they could emerge to stand and fight. It was not battle, it was butchery-and it was over in minutes. Meanwhile the warship on the right flank closed in on the damaged warship, circling around to the west and pulling alongside the Elfmaid. Rethnor nodded his approval. His ship was approaching from the east. The Ruathen vessel would be trapped, pinned to one warship and tightly flanked by two more.

The Cutlass came in fast, swinging around at the last moment so that her port side struck the trapped pirate ship with a solid thud.

“We got ‘em now!” crowed the boatswain.

Rethnor responded with a grim smile. He was no less confident of the eventual outcome, but he’d fought Ruathen before, and he wouldn’t consider them dead until their own funeral services were over and done with.

At a roar from their captain, most of the pirates hurried back aboard their ship. Hrolfthe Unruly remained were he

was, boots planted wide on the bloody canvas as he braced himselffor the second impact as the western ship closed in, battle-ready warriors clustered at the rail. From his perch aboard the higher warship, Hrolf looked down at his Elf maid, and at the three ships that surrounded her like the spine and covers of a book. But his gaze did not falter, and his massive chest was flung out as if to receive the expected blows.

Odd, thought Rethnor. Northmen sailors usually preferred to die on their own ships.

As the High Captain watched, the dark elf floated down to the deck and then scampered over to the Elfmaid’s bowsprit. She straddled it, holding on with both hands and bracing her feet against the hull of the impaled warship, as if she intended to push the pirate ship free. To Rethnor’s astonishment, she did precisely that.

The drow threw back her head and sent a single high, keening note soaring toward the darkening sky, an eerie sound that sent a prickle of dread running down Rethno~s neck. Immediately there was a flash of light and sound, like lightning and thunder enmeshed in one combined burst of power. A spray of multicolored sparks bounced off the broken hull of the warship, and the Elfmaid shot backward. With a mighty splash, her up-tilted bow dropped back down to the water.

While the Northmen fighters gaped at this marvel, Hrolf the Unruly cut through the boom lines on the foremost mast. The pirates who’d remained aboard the warship with him rushed to his side. Muscles knotted and straining, they gave the heavy beam a mighty heave. The boom swung out, sweeping over the bow and continuing around toward the westernmost warship. So close was the ship that the tip of the swinging boom reached over the rail and into the fighters gathered there. Several of the men were swept off the deck and into the sea. As if that weren’t bad enough, the boom continued its path-tracing a wide arc back toward ship’s rear mast. Like a giant quarterstaff, the second mast parried the blow, but the crash of impact sent a shudder through the damaged warship. A grinding creak rent the air; then, slowly, the rear mast leaned and toppled into the sea like a felled tree. All that remained was a few jagged splinters and a tangle of lines.

Rethnor turned to his second, the warrior who served as battle chief. “Do not board the pirate ship. Bring the battle to us,” he ordered.

The N orthman responded with a curt nod, clearly understanding the High Captain’s reasoning. On familiar footing, the Northmen fighters had better chance of success, for who could know what deadly magical traps that damnable drow wizard might have waiting for them on the Elfmaid?

A dozen or more men took up grappling hooks and sent them twirling toward the retreating pirate ship. Line after line fell into the sea, but fmally one, then two more hooks caught hold on the low rail. The Northmen attached the lines to winches and drew the ship in as they would a hooked fish. Archers kept the pirates pinned down behind their shield wall so they could not cut the lines.

The capture of the Elfmaid brought roars of anger and protest from her captain. Still aboard the damaged warship, Hrolf yelled out colorful challenges to his enemies’ manhood and ancestry, brandished his mighty broadsword, and demanded battle.

“Oblige him,” Rethnor commanded the steersman, and the Cutlass once again closed in on the damaged ship. The pirate captain needed no invitation to board; when the warship came within reach he vaulted over the watery divide and hurled himself, sword first, at the nearest fighters. His men swarmed in behind him, all of them as eager for battle as their captain.

Rethnor stayed on the forecastle, watching the fight and biding his time. He wanted the Ruathen fighters on this ship. All of the fighters. Yet some men remained on the pirate vessel, standing ready to defend her against attack. The High Captain turned to his ombudsman and gave an order to be relayed to the other warship. The man picked up semaphores and waved the signal. In response, the Luskan fighters on the far ship sent volley after volley of arrows raining down on the pirates. The choice was clear: the Ruathen defenders could stay where they were and die, or take the fight to the ship that was reeling them in. When the Elfmaid was close enough to her captor, the pirates leaped onto the warship and flung themselves into battle.

All of the Ruathen were doughty fighters, but Rethnor saw no sign of the expected berserker. With mixed disappointment and reliet; he picked his first victim: a darkhaired youth who stood out among the fairer Ruathen. An easy kill-the lad could hardly lift the black sword he held. Rethnor stalked in, intending to gut the young fighter before he could parry the first blow. The Captain hauled back his blade in preparation for a backhanded slash.

But he did not swing, for astonishment knotted his arm muscles in place. Suddenly his sword was no longer aimed at the young man’s torso; it was more on a level with his opponent’s thigh.

Rethnor looked up. The young fighter appeared to be at least seven feet tall, with shoulders as wide as the toolarge sword he now held with frightening ease. “Berserker,” breathed Rethnor. His moment of fear passed, and the anticipation of battle swept through him like a fever. He raised his sword to his forehead in a gesture of challenge.

In a movement almost too fast for the eye to register, the black sword mirrored his salute. Then it cut downward with an audible swish. Rethnor blocked, ignored the surge of bone-numbing pain that leaped up his arm and into his shoulder from the force of the impact. He spun, gripping his sword with both hands and lifting it high overhead to parry the next slashing blow. The swords met with a shriek of metal. Rethnor continued the turn, coming around to face the berserker and using all his strength and weight to press the black sword down toward the deck. He lifted a heavy-booted foot above the joined blades and kicked out. The Northman’s foot connected hard-a gutter fighter’s move that should have doubled his opponent over in deeply masculine agony. The berserker did not so much as blink. His black sword whistled up, throwing Rethno~s sword arm out and wide. Faster than the High Captain would have believed possible, the berserker changed direction to slash straight down.

So fast did the blade descend that Rethnor heard the clatter of his falling sword before he realized what had happened. Pain as pure and bright as molten steel exploded in his mind and his arm. He looked in horror at the dripping stump at the end of his sword arm. With one stroke the berserker had cut through gauntlet, bracer, flesh, and bone. Rethnor’s severed hand lay on the deck in a spreading pool of blood.

Several of Rethnor’s men ran to their captain’s aid, and the berserker turned to answer the new threat. Dimly Rethnor was aware of the skinny young pirate who scuttled in to claim the grim trophy, only to hurl it into the sea. He felt a belated surge of loss as his hand splashed into the waves; then he turned and stumbled toward the hold of the ship. There, in the galley, was a circular stone firepit. A large kettle was wedged into the pit, embers from the evening meal still bright beneath it. With a kick, Rethnor sent the kettle flying. His remaining hand shook as he pulled a broad dagger from his belt and thrust it into the hot coals. The High Captain waited until the metal glowed red; then he set his jaw against the pain to come. He fully intended to live, but to do so he had to stop the flow of blood. He took up the dagger and pressed the hot metal against his bleeding stump. A brutal hiss and the stench of seared meat filled the room.

Rethnor fought back the waves of agony and nausea and struggled to remain conscious. Again he heated the dagger and cauterized the wound, and then once again. Finally he slumped to the floor to await the battle’s end. He knew that, for him, the fight was over, but there was no thought of defeat in his mind.