Tangled Webs (28 page)

Her arm pumped as she tossed four knives at the attacking hawk. All the weapons flew straight and true, sinking to the hilts in the bird’s dappled breast feathers. But the depth of muscle beneath kept the blades from touching a vital spot. The hawk merely shrieked again and darted in, listing to one side a bit but still moving faster than Liriel would have dreamed possible. The smell of carrion assaulted her as the hawk’s open beak closed in.

The drow threw herself into a backward roll, came up on her feet, and dove to one side. Meanwhile, Fyodor advanced, battering at the creature with his cudgel. This bought Liriel a moment’s time. Shielding her eyes with one hand, she summoned a fireball and hurled it at the stilladvancing hawk.

The missile exploded with a burst of light and a wild spray of feathers. Fyodor reeled back, blinded by the sudden brightness and gagging from the horrid stench of singed hawk.

A shrill cry ripped through the forest, a chilling sound that for sheer power competed with the fireball’s blast and the banshee’s rage. Enormous wings buffeted the air as the wounded hawk rose into the sky, trailing wisps of foul smoke as it flew unsteadily westward into the deep shadows cast by Ruathym’s mountains.

Liriel rose to her feet, weaving drunkenly as she regarded her friend. He was unhurt, but the exploding fireball had showered him with soot; his face was nearly as black as her own, and singed feathers clung to his hair and shirt. He coughed, spat out a pinfeather, and then spoke.

“In my land we have many odd sayings, and as you know, I use them all too often. But mark me, one of these I will never again speak lightly, now that I know the full truth of it!”

The drow frowned, puzzled by the odd track her friend’s thoughts had taken. ” ‘There are those who think, and those who dream’?” she guessed, although she saw no connection between Fyodor’s favorite adage and the current situation.

“Not so,” he said with a droll smile. ” ‘Close’ only counts in horseshoe games and fireball spells.”

At Liriel’s insistence, Fyodor left the village that afternoon with a group of hunters. She could sense his eagerness to explore the forests and hills, and she had no desire to keep him at her side to fuss over her small injuries. Hrolf did more than enough of that. The captain clucked and scolded like a whole barnyard full of broody hens as he pillaged his warehouse for salve and bandages.

After ordering Liriel to take a seat on a large barrel of ale, the captain rummaged among his store for a keg of his special herbal brew. It seemed that the same stuff he’d used to drug the Moonshae mead was also deemed good for cleaning wounds and deadening pain-not to mention waterproofing the underside of ships-and he kept it in quantity. After carefully cutting away the drow’s torn leather jerkin, Hrolf poured some of the stuff onto a cloth and began to dab at the shallow gashes that scored both her shoulders.

Liriel sat through these ministrations with uncharacteristic patience. In truth, she rather enjoyed the unfamiliar and undemanding affection her “adopted father” had lavished upon her since the day they’d first met. But the treasures of the Green Room beckoned her, and Liriel soon found herself glumly wishing she’d sent the oversolicitous pirate off with Fyodor.

“Still haven’t got shed of the female, I see,” observed a dour voice from the warehouse doorway.

Hrolf glanced up at his redbearded first mate. “Ibn! Haven’t seen you since we made port, lad. Had trouble sleeping, have you, and come to help yourself to a bit more of the mead?”

The man snorted at the teasing reference to his enforced shipboard nap, and he cast an angry look at the drow. “Bad business,” he muttered as he took his pipe from his sash. “Thought we had our share of ill fortune aboard the Elfmaid. Seems like trouble followed us ashore.”

“Don’t be lighting that thing in here,” Hrolf cautioned him, pointedly ignoring the mate’s insinuations. “There’s enough of that newfangled smoke powder stored hereabouts to drop all of Ruathym into the sea!”

As Ibn tucked away his pipe and flint, he cast a measuring gaze around the warehouse. The building was stuffed with crates and kegs piled haphazardly together in no discernible order. “Good thing you know what all you got in here, Captain. No one else does, that’s certain.”

“Is that why you’ve come, lad?” Hrolf asked mildly. “To insult my girl and tell me how to run my affairs?”

“To warn you,” Ibn returned, returning the pirate’s cold gaze without flinching. “I was out with the fishing boats early this morning. Thought I saw a sea elf.”

“Xzorsh?” the captain asked, surprised by this news. “Might’a been. They all look much the same to me. The mornings catch was none too good. Some of the nets were cut. There’s mischief in the waters hereabouts, make no mistake.”

“What’re you saying, lad?” Hrolf demanded.

“Might be I wasn’t the only one to see the elf. If people start thinking your friend’s behind some of the recent troubles, might be they’ll come looking to you for answers.” The mate paused, and once again he turned a pointed gaze upon the drow. “Might be, Captain, that you should start thinking about what those answers could be.”

“Might be, lad,” Hrolf returned in a grim imitation of the first mate, “that you should haul your sorry ass out of my warehouse before I kick it up between your shoulders.”

Ibn shrugged. “We been sailing together a long time, Captain. Thought lowed you the warning-do with it what you want.” With those words, he spun on his heel and stalked out of the warehouse.

“That one’s no friend of yours, lass,” Hrolf cautioned Liriel. “I’ve always liked Ibn-as much as he’ll let me, at any rate-but he does take on some strange moods from time to time. Mark me: he bears some watching.”

This warning rang through Liriel’s mind as she made her way to the long wooden building that housed Ruathym’s stolen literary treasures. She hadn’t spared a thought to Ibn since making land the day before, and that realization troubled her. No drow survived long by ignoring an enemy. And the sheer number and variety of these, she mused darkly, was making it difficult for her to keep up!

By the time the late afternoon sun cast long shadows over the village, Liriel had a somewhat better idea of what she faced. She’d searched the Green Room for every scrap of information she could find about the elemental plane of water. Since one ofher unknown enemies had the ability to summon a water elemental, it made sense to learn what she could of such powers. The more the drow read, the more impressed she became with her shadowy foe and the forces he or she might command. One passage in particular seized her attention, fascinating in its implicationsand its possibilities.

“Nereids,” she read aloud. “Shapeshifting beings from the elemental plane of water, they live to trick and drown unwary sailors. Often taking the form of beautiful women, they cast a charm over men and lure them to their doom. A nereid carries a soulshawl that contains its essence. If this shawl is taken, the creature is enslaved by the possessor. A wizard can coerce an enslaved nereid to do his bidding, even force it to act as a guide to the elemental plane of water.”

“Legend,” observed a terse, deep voice. “A skald’s tale and nothing more.”

Liriellifted her eyes from the book to regard the village shaman. She was impressed. Ulf was a large man, but she hadn’t heard him enter the room.

“More than legend,” she said bluntly. “I think I might have seen one myself, just this morning, walking along the shore with some man. At the time I thought something about the female was wrong, but I did not know until this minute the truth of it.”

Ulf looked skeptical. “If this is so, what became of the man? The tales say nereids charm men to drown them, but no one has turned up missing this day.”

The drow shrugged, admitting the point but not willing to abandon her theory just yet. She twisted the silver ring that her sea-ogre abductors had placed on her hand. If the unexplained drownings were indeed due to sea sirens, it might be a good idea to give Fyodor her ring of waterbreathing. Men, it seemed, were far more susceptible to the charms of such a creature than were females. Naturally.

“Why have you come here?” the shaman demanded with typical Northman candor. “What do you hope to find on Ruathym?”

“All that Hrolf and Fyodor have said of me is true,” Liriel said. “I came on a rune quest, and when the rune is complete, I will use the Windwalker’s magic to carve it onto Yggsdrasil’s Child.”

Ulf scoffed. “Do you know the rituals of casting? Can you so much as find the sacred tree?”

“Show me.”

“I will not teach you,” the shaman stated bluntly. “It cannot be done. No frail elf has the strength or the will needed to shape a rune.”

Liriel bristled. “You speak without knowledge. Name a challenge. If I fail-and I will not-then you may claim to know the measure of my strength!”

A spark of interest kindled in the shaman’s cold blue eyes. “You are willing; that much can be said for you. But no, I will not name a test. If your rune quest is a true one, your needed trials will come to you as they must.”

“And when I succeed, you will teach me?” Liriel demanded. “You have not yet succeeded,” Ulf said coolly, “and I have little faith you will. There is always a price to be paid for a new rune, a price far higher than most are willing to pay.” Before the drow could respond, the wooden door of the library was flung open and a yellow-haired youth ran into the room. Liriel recognized Ivar, one of the young men who had accompanied her and Fyodor to Inthar. His tunic was stained with blood, and his eyes were wild in his beardless face.

“You must come!” Ivar said urgently, tugging at the shaman’s sleeve. “The hunters! Some are dead, and Aumark Lithyl-“

“The First Axe was slain? How?” demanded Ulf.

“No, he yet lives, but needs tending. A wild boar came upon us near the raVine. Aumark was gored, and badly.” The shaman’s face turned grim, and he swiftly followed the lad, the curious drow close on his heels. A crowd had gathered around the door of a round wooden hut, but parted at once to allow the shaman through. Liriel hesitated, then pushed her way in behind him. She reasoned the shaman had more important matters on his mind than shooing her away, and she took a place against the rounded wall where she might observe.

The wounded chieftain lay in a rapidly spreading circle of blood. There was a deep gash in his side where the boar’s tusks had slashed him. Ulf chanted as he bandaged the wound with soft cloths and smeared a paste of herbs on the surrounding skin. He threw yet more herbs onto the fire; at once the room was filled with fragrant smoke. Liriel noticed with interest that there was a subtle magic in the herbs, the scented steam, and the words of the chant. But Aumark’s wound was deep, and the magic of the Northlands would not staunch the flow of blood in time. Already the thick dressing had turned crimson.

The drow came to crouch beside the laboring shaman. “Let me,” she commanded. Ulf tensed, then yielded with a terse nod.

Liriel tore aside the dressing and placed one slim black hand over the gaping wound, the other on her amulet of Lloth. She closed her eyes, envisioning the fey darkness of her ancestral home-the stronghold of the Spider Queenand then brought to mind the words of the clerical spell. And as she did, she frantically searched her imagination for something to offer the dark goddess in exchange for the gift of healing she was about to request. Lloth, the chaotic deity of the evil drow, would have no interest in a human warrior unless she, Liriel, could give one.

“Conflict is coming to this land,” Liriel murmured, praying aloud in the drow tongue. “I sense this, though I do not yet know the names of all those who will fight. Heal this battle chieftain, and I will stand with him in battle and fight as a priestess of Lloth. The drow pursued a surface war and lost. But let this war be fought in your name and won, that those who live under the sun’s light may know at last the true power of Lloth!”

The amulet in her hand tingled with fey power, and Liriel knew she had piqued the interest of the proud and capricious goddess. Quickly she chanted the words to the clerical prayer, steeling herself as dark magic coursed through her and into the still, pale form of the Ruathen chieftain. There was a searing hiss, and she felt the torn flesh beneath her hand knit together. Aumark’s body contorted briefly from the brutal healing, and then lay still.

Drained and dizzy, Liriel opened her eyes and slowly tapered off the stream of healing power. She noticed with relief that the chieftain’s breathing was deeper now, and the ruddy color was beginning to return to his weathered face.

“For what you have done, all of Ruathym is grateful,” the shaman said slowly. “I say truly that never have I seen such powerful healing magic. But still, I will not teach you.”

For a moment the drow merely stared at the man, utterly baffled by his stubborn refusal. Then with a quick, angry movement she rocked back onto her feet, rose, and stalked out of the hut. The villagers, some of whom had witnessed her feat of healing magic, fell back in awe as she passed. Fyodor was also there, waiting for her. Belatedly the drow remembered that he, too, had been on the deadly hunt, and she tugged the silver ring from her hand. Taking one of his hands in hers, she slipped the ring onto his smallest finger. “Do not take this o~” she admonished him in a low voice. “Your life may well depend upon wearing it.” He responded with a wry smile. “It seems that you, too, have been busy. Come, little raven-we must talk.”

The two friends left the village and made their way westward along the shore, wrapped in their cloaks against the chill of the coming night. Fyodor was clearly troubled, but he did not speak until the sunset colors had faded nearly to silver. Then, abruptly, he asked the drow if she had told anyone of that mornings attack.

Liriel blinked. “Just Hrolf~ If he has spoken of it to another, I know not. Why?”

“The boar that gored Aumark,” Fyodor began. “It might have been a natural beast, but I doubt this. I have hunted wild boar in Rashemen. Always they are dangerous, but this one was canny beyond belieŁ I would swear that it lay in wait for us, as if it knew the path the hunters would take. And I saw something,” he added, giving the word the emphasis that indicated he spoke of the fey Sight of his Rashemi heritage. “There was something familiar about the boar. It was-it was as if the beast cast a shadow other than its own, one whose shape I could not quite make out. I felt much tlhe same thing when we faced the hawk.”