Tangled Webs (29 page)

“So?”

“Hamfariggen,” he said grimly. “I fear the hawk and the boar were two forms taken by the same man.”

“Wedigar,” Liriel breathed, nodding as she added this piece to the puzzle taking shape in her mind. “Yes, that would explain many things! The attacks on the hunters, even the missing children.”

“But why?” Fyodor demanded. “Why would such a man attack his own?”

The drow cast a sidelong glance at the young berserker. He was not going to like what he was about to hear. “Like you, he does not choose,” she said bluntly, and then she told him what she’d learned about the nereid, and her suspicion that such a creature might have cast a charm over the Ruathen shapeshifter.

Fyodor stared at her, appalled by the possibilities. “You are certain?”

“No,” Liriel admitted, leveling a challenging gaze up at her friend. “But I think I know of a way we could fmd out.”

Moonlight touched the sea with silver fingers and cast a pale, luminous glow over the rock-strewn shore. It was the sort of night that Sune, goddess of love, might have fashioned especially with trysts in mind, yet Fyodor wandered silent and alone at the water’s edge.

Then a faint song, like that of someone singing softly for her own pleasure, came to him on the wind. The young Rashemi paused to listen, entranced by the artless beauty of the song. Quietly he made his way around a tall pile of dark rocks, rounding a point that curved in to form a small cove. The singer stood on a large rock at the very edge of the sea, looking out over the water and singing softly in a language Fyodor did not recognize. She was a young woman, fairhaired like a Northwoman but more delicate-nearly as slim and small as an elf. Very beautiful she was, with pale skin that glowed like pearl in the moonlight and soft ripples of gold hair flowing free over her shoulders. She started like a fawn when she caught sight of Fyodor and lost her footing on the wet rocks.

Fyodor instinctively darted forward to catch her as she tumbled from her perch. For a moment, the golden singer filled his arms, and the dull ache the warrior always carried with him was forgotten. She drew away-too soon!her hands nervously smoothing the white shawl knotted about her waist.

“Do not fear me, lady,” he said softly. “Your song drew me, but I have no wish to harm you or even to disturb your solitude. If you wish, I will leave you.”

A slow smile came to her face. “You are kind,” she said in a shy, sweet voice. “In truth, I would welcome your company-indeed, would you be willing to see me safely home? I was lost in the song and did not realize until just now how dark the night has become.”

The last words were spoken with an odd mixture of apprehension and innocent flirtation. Fyodor took the hand she offered him, steadying her as they made their way along the shore. The girl began to sing again as they walked, silvery music that melded with the moonlit waves until sea and sound were as one. Fyodor did not know exactly when it was that they stopped walking, or when the girl came again into his arms. His mind registered the soft caress of the waves lapping against them both and the sweet, salty taste of her lips on his. Or was it the sea? He did not know or care.

A shrill, anguished scream split the air and shattered Fyodor’s dreamlike haze. Cold assaulted him like a blow, and he saw with astonishment that he stood knee-deep in the icy waves. Not far away was Liriel, a grimly triumphant smile on her dark face and a white silk shawl fluttering like a victory banner in her hands. The golden singer knelt in the water before the drow, her hands outstretched beseechingly as she wept and pleaded for the return of her shawl.

Slowly the details of their plan returned to his benumbed mind, and Fyodor realized with intense chagrin how completely he had succumbed to the nereid’s charm. Had he truly been alone, the siren would have tried to drown him as she had no doubt slain the missing fisherfolk. Yet so beautiful was the nereid, so utterly human her appearance and so heartbreaking her distress, that Fyodor had a difficult time remembering she was a thing of evil. Liriel, however, had no such problem.

“Be still!” she hissed, brandishing the shawl in the weeping nereid’s face. “By this token, you are mine. Accept your servitude and remain in the sea-silent and unseenuntil I have need of you.”

The nereid covered her face with her hands, wailing pitifully as she sank below the water, disappearing as she went.

Fyodor turned incredulous eyes upon the drow. “You will keep her enslaved?”

“Of course,” Liriel said casually. “You never know when a nereid might come in handy. Nice job, by the way, bringing her out into the water toward me. I wasn’t sure you would realize that I followed you in the water so as not to leave footprints in the sand.”

He hadn’t realized that, but he wisely decided to let the matter stand. Despite the success of their plan, he could not help but be dismayed, not only by the ease with which Liriel consigned the nereid to servitude, but also by her willingness to use the nereid’s services despite its evil nature.

“Come,” he said shortly. “We must speak to Wedigar at once.”

They found the First Axe of Holgerstead asleep in the room he and Fyodor shared in the Trelleborg barracks. Wedigar came awake quickly, with a warrior’s trained alertness. His eyes narrowed in puzzlement when they settled on the Rashemi’s somber face and on the darkelven female at his side.

“What is this, lad? It is unseemly to bring a woman into the Trelleborg!” he admonished Fyodor.

“Women are not the issue here. More exotic females seem to be the order of the day,” Liriel observed coldly as she pulled the shawl from her bag. “This belonged to your girlfriend. Look familiar to you?”

The warrior stared blankly at the length of fringed white silk, then up at Fyodor. “What is this about?” he demanded.

“Do you remember nothing about a golden-haired girl? Liriel thought she saw you walking with one along the shore,” he urged.

“The shaman’s daughter? What of it? You know I came to the village to court her.”

“Not Dagmar, but a magical creature,” Fyodor corrected him, “one who can charm a man so completely that he would gladly kill himself and, perhaps, others as well. Wedigar’s eyes narrowed dangerously, but he kept his control. “Explain yourself,” he said evenly.

“This morning, shortly after dawn, we returned from Inthar along the shore cliff. Liriel saw a man and a maid walking along the water’s edge~ Not long after, we were attacked by a giant hawk, nearly the size of a man. It was not a natural hawk,” Fyodor said softly, “but a creature such as the ones you spoke of when you told me what form a hamfariggen fighter might take.”

“You are a stranger to this land,” the First Axe of Holgerstead said in a stiff voice, “and because you do not realize the insult in your words, I will not call challenge upon you.”

Liriellet out a soft, exasperated hiss. “Fine. Don’t. But you will explain this.” Before either man could react, she lunged at the warrior and seized the neck of his nightshirt with both hands. With a quick, sharp movement she tore the garment open to the waist.

Across the warrior’s chest, in a neat straight line, were four small, shallow puncture wounds. Below them was a large circle where the dark hair had been singed away and the skin raised in a large, red blister.

“Explain those,” the drow suggested coldly.

For a moment Wedigar sat in silence. “I cannot,” he admitted.

“Then permit me,” Liriel said. “I threw four knives at the hawk who attacked us, as well as a small fireball. Lucky for the bird, its chest muscles were too deep for the blades to do much damage, and the feathers protected it from most of the effects of the fireball. Your wounds are smaller than I’d expected, but then the target has shrunk considerably. No offense intended,” she added with a glance at his heavily muscled torso. “I also threw a bolo at the thing’s leg, and Fyodor hit it repeatedly on the back and right side with his cudgel. There should be some fairly impressive bruises in those locations.”

“There are,” Wedigar muttered.

Liriel cast a disbelieving look at her friend. “You weren’t exaggerating when you said these people are no good at lying,” she said dryly. “This one won’t even make an attempt!”

“I speak the truth,” the warrior told her bitterly, “at least, what little of it I can remember! Yesterday morning I did go to the shore intending to meet the shaman’s daughter when she came ashore after the mornings fishing. You know she labors with the fisherfolk. But I did not see the boats return. I believed only that I misunderstood what cove I should seek and thought no more of it. The morning passed quickly. Now that I think of it, a bit too quickly.”

“You didn’t notice the pain? The wounds?” she persisted. “I did,” he said tersely. “Of them I could remember nothing.”

“What about this afternoon? Where were you during the hunt?”

“I remained in the Trelleborg most of the afternoon. I can neither walk nor hold a sword without pain. How could I hunt?”

Fyodor cast a puzzled look at Liriel. “Then he could not have taken the form of the boar that attacked Aumark!” “There is a way,” Wedigar admitted. “Those who are strong in the shapeshifting rage can sometimes take a hamfarir flight. The body stays behind; the spirit goes forth in animal shape. It is possible I did what you believe, for in spirit form my injuries would not deter me from doing this, though my body would bear any wound that might be given the spirit-animal. Tell me,” he demanded abruptly, “did someone manage to wound the boar? A spear wound in the hindquarters?”

Fyodor nodded, and the warrior’s shoulders sagged in despair. “I had feared this might be so. But how was this done, and why can I remember nothing?”

“I can help you remember,” Liriel said confidently. “The truth of your actions is hidden in your mind, which, by the power of my goddess, I can read.”

Without waiting for Wedigar’s consent, the drow retreated into herself and silently spoke the words of the clerical spell. The result was sudden and dramatic. Usually the spell yielded a peek into another mind-an image, an impression, perhaps a few words. This time the wall built by the nereid’s charm tumbled down, and Liriel knew the whole truth of the warrior’s part in the troubles that beset the land he helped to rule and defend.

And so, apparently, did he.

Wedigar groaned and buried his face in his hands as the horrors he had committed came back to him in a single, vivid rush. He sat in tortured silence for many long moments, but when at last he lifted his eyes, they were set with determination.

“I will call a Thing,” he said firmly. “I will own up to what I have done and accept the ruling of the people I have betrayed.”

An exasperated Liriel cast her eyes skyward and then turned to Fyodor. “You talk to him.”

“I understand your decision,” the Rashemi began. “Your sense of honor demands that you face your actions and accept punishment. Yet your duty to your homeland demands otherwise. Strange things have happened to us and to the people of Ruathym-more than can be explained by the curse the nereid placed upon you. No, there is more at work here, and we must know what. If there is a single dark purpose behind all these things, would it not be wise to bide your time in silence until the answer is found?” “You ask me to put the lives of my people at risk!” Wedigar protested. “I would rather die in battle than let this foe continue his work!”

“But how will you fight? Who is the foe?”

The First Axe shrugged helplessly, utterly at a loss for an answer. Fyodor put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “What is needed now is patience and skill at intrigueboth of which are foreign to the Northman warrior. But the drow are bred and trained for just such things. Bide your time in silence and let us seek answers. It might be this work has been laid upon us as part of the rune quest that brought us here,” he added suddenly, and for some reason he was certain the words were truth.

Liriel nodded agreement, her eyes deeply reflective as she added this new insight to the growing pattern. Wedigar threw up his hands. “I will do as you say,” he muttered, “but I like it not.”

Fyodor could not help but agree, for he could not rid himself of the lingering cloud of despair that Liriel’s clerical spell had left behind. He had seen Liriel in prayer before, and her link with the dark goddess of the drow troubled him deeply. This time the thread of power had been much stronger. As she’d cast the spell that allowed her to peer into the shapeshifting warrior’s mind, Fyodor had been assaulted by a sense of seething chaos and overwhelming evil. The moment passed quickly, as did all glimpses given him by his limited Sight, but he knew he would remember it always. He knew Liriel’s strength of spirit and her uncanny resilience, but he did not see how she could remain untainted by such evil.

Wedigar’s unwitting deeds in animal form had been many and terrible. Fyodor’s own transformations into a berserker whirlwind would probably bring about his death. But even these things paled before the Rashemi’s dawning fear that Liriel, in her quest for power, might undergo another, even more deadly type of shapeshifting.

A scarle was a city of rare beauty and ancient wonders. Shakti, however, was not impressed. When not in conference with the illithid regent, the drow priestess spent many hours pacing about the marvelous marble corridors, seeking places that were not too scorchingly bright for her drow eyes to endure, seething with impatience as she waited for the tangled plans of the others to sort themselves out, and pondering ways to best turn them to her personal advantage. On her own, Shakti was a canny manager, but she had no notion of how to mesh her goals with those of her new allies.

At the moment, Shakti was taking a meal in the company of the illithid’s other “guest.” The priestess cast an angry glare at the man who was seated at the far end of the long table, calmly eating some sort of overcooked seafood by the light of a single candle. She noted, with a touch of pride, that his new hand was functioning nicely. That had been a pleasant interlude-selecting the slave who’d serve as a donor, inflicting the painful rituals, indebting the arrogant human to her in ways he could not begin to understand. Still, that pleasure did little to dispel the worry and boredom that had become Shakti’s lot.