Tangled Webs (23 page)

The day was nearly spent when Fyodors shout roused her from her reverie. Liriel heard his distinctive bass voice calling out something about an approaching ship. Armed with her newly learned spells and those stored in her Windwalker amulet, the drow hurried to the deck to investigate this new development.

There were actually two ships-a large two-masted caravel sailing from the west and a tiny dot on the northern horizon that was still well beyond the reach of any eyes but hers.

“The ship is fully armed!” Fyodor exclaimed, pointing to the arsenal of catapults and ballistae on the decks of the approaching caravel. “Perhaps they can help us escape from this creature.”

Ibn glowered at the young warrior. “Help, from a Waterdhavian ship? It’s well that you can fight, boy, since you haven’t the good sense the gods gave a clam. That’s plain enough by the company you keep,” he concluded, casting a significant glance toward Liriel.

The drow ignored the sailor’s insults in favor of more important matters. Her eyes narrowed as she gazed at the approaching ship. There was an aura of magic about it. Strong magic.

Since leaving her home city, Liriel had noticed that her eyes were becoming more and more attuned to the nuances of power. Menzoberranzan was permeated with magic. She could no more see magic there than she could employ her heat vision when the midday sun turned sea and sky to pale blue fire. Magic was hardly unknown on the surface world, but it was comparatively rare, and Liriel was finding that she could sense its occurrence and gauge its power. So she did not doubt the instinct that warned her of a mighty spellcaster aboard the approaching vessel. Since it stood to reason that a ship’s wizard would know more of sea magic than a drow, Liriel planned to take full advantage of the unknown wizard’s skill. But first, she had to wrest the Elfmaid from the elemental’s watery grasp.

The drow faced the creature and began to chant the words to a part-water spell, her body swaying as she drew power from the weave of magic and reshaped it into an invisible sword. She flung one arm up high, instinctively falling into a battle stance as she lashed out with her eldritch weapon.

But Liriel was near exhaustion, and sea magic was new to her. Her usually lethal aim failed her; the spell, which should have parted the elemental neatly in two, merely lopped off an arm.

Water gushed, like a mighty waterfall, from the wound. The Elfmaid, still in its protective bubble, was swept away on the flow. Sailors tumbled to the deck and rolled toward the bow of the ship. Fyodor, high atop the forecastle, was thrown from his perch and into the air. He hit the bubble of force and slid down its curved surface toward the water. At once he saw his danger: if he fell into the water he would slip down to the lowest part of the magical globe and be crushed between the ship and the bottom of the bubble. His flailing hands found a hold-the wooden bodice of the figurehead’s low-cut gown. Fyodor hauled himself onto the perch offered by the elf maid’s ample bosom. Holding fast to the statue’s pointed ears, he hung on for dear life as the ship plummeted into the sea.

A solid wall of seawater splashed over the domed shield as the ship dropped under the surface of the water. But Liriel’s spell held; the airfilled bubble bobbed to the surface, the Elfmaid rocking wildly within its protective shield.

Now that the ship was free, the exhausted drow dropped the magical defense. Too soon-a vast wave of water flowed upward and reformed into the elemental. Ignoring the approaching caravel, the elemental once again closed on the Elfmaid. But the creature had only one arm; it apparently was unable to tap the inexhaustible supply of seawater to regenerate its form. Liriel took note of this, then dove deep into the concentration needed for her next casting. Her intended spell was a summoning, very like the darkelven magic that raised an army of spiders from the creatures that lurked in every cranny of the Underdark. The result was immediate and spectacular. Every sea creature within attacking range came to her call, forming the strangest army the drow had ever seen. A pod of gray whales began to nudge and prod at the elemental with their enormous, barnacle-encrusted heads. The elemental batted at them with its one remaining arm, but the whales persisted, pushing the creature inexorably northward and away from the Ruathen ship.

The efforts of the smaller creatures were also taking effect. They swam up into the water that comprised the elemental’s borrowed body, turning the sea-colored creature dark with their shadowy forms. Hundreds of small fish busily schooled, swimming in fast, tight circles as if they were in some enormous fishbowl. The dizzying current seemed to confuse the elemental, and it swayed drunkenly as it flowed toward the north.

Other, more deadly creatures joined in the attack. Longsnouted barracudas darted about inside the creature, snapping and tearing as they sought the essence of the creature contained within the seawater. One of them managed to rip through the elemental’s watery hide and was shot, with a sudden gush of fluid, from the creature’s body. With the force of a ballista bolt, the fish slammed into the side of the Elfmaid. Its body splattered, leaving a dark streak behind as the remains of this strange warrior slid slowly into the sea.

The elemental’s watery form flowed in to close the wound, but the creature had lost a bit of stature with the attack. It seemed weaker, too, and it no longer fought the determined whales that nosed it steadily away from the Ruathen ship.

By now Fyodor had climbed down from his perch, and he came to Liriel’s side. The drow was swaying, drained by the powerful magic she’d cast, and he slipped a steadying arm about her waist. “You cannot fight it alone,” he told her quietly.

“It becomes smaller with each attack,” the stubborn elf responded, pulling away from her friend’s embrace.

“Just so.” Fyodor fixed a determined gaze upon her. “In my land, there are tales of an ancient sword whose strike could freeze the blood and flesh of an enemy. Put such an enchantment upon my sword, and I will carve frozen pieces from the creature for as long as I am able.”

Liriel stared at the young man, understanding what he intended to do. He did not expect victory over the elemental, but he was fully prepared to die in battle against it if that would cut the creature down to manageable size. It was not the first time Fyodor had taken on suicidal odds to spare her, and Liriel had yet to understand how this could be so. Self-preservation was the first law of the drow. A mixture of awe and confusion sparked the girl’s ready temper.

“Your confidence in my ability is touching,” she snapped, thinking of the years of crafting, the incredibly powerful spell-binding, that went into making a weapon such as the one in Fyodors tale. “But you have no idea what you’re asking! Before we try conjuring magic swords, let’s give the fish a chance. Oh, look-there’s a good one!”

A large black creature that looked strangely like an Underdark bat spiraled upward through the elemental’s liquid body and into the head. The long tail whipped about, thrashing and probing. The elemental reeled, its one hand clutching at its temples as if it were in agony.

“Manta ray,” Hrolf told her, a grin of dark satisfaction on his bearded face. “Got a poisonous sting to its tail with enough power to sink a small whale. Now that’ll slow the critter down, and give him something to regret come morning!”

The Waterdhavian ship, meanwhile, had changed course to close in on the wounded elemental. A catapult lever sprang forward, sending a grapeshot load hurtling toward the creature-crystalline particles of some sort that caught the last rays of sunlight like so many glittering gems.

“Uh-oh,” Liriel murmured. Without bothering to ask for details, the pirates dropped to the deck and flung their arms over their heads.

The whine and thud of the catapult’s machinery caught the attention of the tormented elemental, and it spun just in time to face the incoming spray of crystals. Instinctively, the elemental threw up its one arm to ward off the attack, and it began to sink into the protective waves.

Not soon enough. A geyser of steam billowed into the darkening sky, filling the air with a tremendous hiss and the overwhelming stench of cooked fish. The Waterdhavian ship changed course immediately to veer away from the deadly cloud, but the faint cries coming from it indicated that some of the sailors had been scalded. The pirates leaped to their feet, cheering and shouting at this double victory.

Nevertheless…

“They will pursue,” Ibn pointed out, his tone grim.

Hrolf shot a significant look at Liriel. “Not if they think there’s nothing left of us to chase.”

The drow considered this, her fingers closing around the Windwalker as she reviewed the spells contained in the amulet.

“Enough!” Fyodor demanded, his voice tinged with anger. “Look at her. She is barely able to stand. How much magic do you think one person can channel and live?” “She’s stronger than you think, lad,” the captain said stoutly, wrapping a fatherly arm around the girl’s shoulders and giving her a squeeze.

The young warrior stood his ground. He had seen the Witches of Rashemen pour forth their magic in battle, draining their power and essence until there was nothing left of them but piles of drifting dust and empty black robes.

“It is better that we take on the ship in battle,” Fyodor insisted.

Liriel sniffed. “You don’t want to face off against the wizard who melted that elemental, trust me on that. And it’s not one ship, but two.” She pointed to the northeast; the distant vessel.was now close enough for human eyes to discern.

Hrolf snatched up an eyeglass and trained it on the approaching ship. “Damn and blast it, it’s one of them warships we fought before!”

“And the elemental was taking us to them,” the drow added. “Believe me when I say that anyone who can sum., mon elementals is bad news. Hrolf and Ibn are right. Whoever those people are, they will pursue us until we are dead-or they think we are. You,” Liriel demanded, whirling to point at one of the sailors, “bring me a sea chart with our current location marked on it. Harreldson, take the rudder and set course for Ruathym. The rest of you, to oars! Put some distance between us and that caravel!”

The men scurried to do her bidding. Even Fyodor took a place at the oars, for he knew that no argument would sway the stubborn drow once her mind was set upon a given course of action. The row of oars dipped and pulled, and the nimble Elfmaid leaped toward the south. Tracing a stately arc, the caravel changed course to pursue.

Liriel stood alone on the main deck, her eyes closed and her hands curved before her as if she were holding an invisible globe. Slowly, as if in graceful dance, her hand turned palms-out and her arms stretched high, then went out wide. A sheet of darkness, a vast impenetrable curtain of black, fell between the Elfmaid and her attacker.

“It worked,” Liriel muttered with relief. She had never tried to reshape the drow globe of darkness into another form, and until this moment she had no idea whether or: not it could be done. Taking no time to exult, she turned to the next part of the spell. The sailor she’d sent for the chart hovered nearby, his eyes round with wonder as he stared at the summoned darkness. Liriel snapped her fingers impatiently, and he darted forward with the chart.

“We’re here,” she mused, touching one black fingertip to the point on the map that the sailor had marked and sliding it down as far as she dared. “What are we likely to bump into here? Rocks? Shoals? Anything?”

“Nothing but open sea,” the sailor said, and his face blanched as he understood the drow’s intent.

“I’m not real happy about it myself;” she grumbled, for the gate spell required for such an escape would have challenged her even if she’d approached it fresh and rested. Still, there was something to be said for the power of desperation. And by the time the Elfmaid was ready to take the dimensional plunge, their situation would be desperate indeed.

The fingers of the drow’s right hand curved around the Windwalker, and she flung her left hand toward the black curtain. Magic fire spat from her fingers, forming a fireball that tore through the darkness and beyond. There was a moment’s silence, a thud of impact, then shouts from the other ship and the faint crackle-and-hiss of a fire quickly extinguished.

Again Liriel attacked, and this time came the unmistakable pop of a fireball glancing off a magical shield. Good, she thought grimly. The enemy ship’s wizard was every bit as powerful as she’d suspected. She was almost certain what his next move would be, and she readied herself in preparation.

Summoning every fireball in her arsenal, Liriel braced her feet wide and set off the first small missile, much as a drow armsmaster might send out a scouting party of kobolds to test the enemy’s range and resolve. She heard the magic fire strike the unseen shield, and she began to count rapidly. An answering flash exploded from the darknessher own weapon, rebounded back. The fireball, diminishing in size and power as it came, fell short of the Elfmaid and disappeared, with a weak fizzle, into the water.

A smile of triumph flashed across the drow’s weary face. She now knew precisely how long she had between attack and escape. Again she stretched out her hand, and again magic fire erupted from her fingers. A barrage of fireballs spewed forth, so many that the sky was brightened as ifby festival fireworks, so quickly that it appeared as if a single line of multicolored lightning flashed from her outstretched hand.

With the last of her fireball spells gone, Liriel swayed and then dropped to the deck like an arrow-shot raven. But she struggled to her knees, both hands clasping the Windwalker and her face set in determination. Quickly she called forth the gate that would take the pirate ship several miles to the south and to safety.

Nothing.

A scream of pure, primal rage tore from the drow’s throat. Never had magic refused to obey her call! Anger lent her a moment’s strength; she snatched up her obsidian pendant and raised it high even as her scream ended in a shriek of prayer-a brief and fervent oath in the ancient Drow tongue, a final, desperate plea to Lloth.

Utterly spent, Liriel fell silent and watched with dull eyes as her own weapons rebounded toward the pirate ship in a colorful storm, whistling as they burst through the curtain of blackness and hurtled downward like falling stars. The illusion she had hoped to create-the destruction of the Elfmaid, her death, and those of her friendswould soon be all too real.