Tangled Webs (37 page)

A proverb from, of all places, Waterdeep, came unbidden to his mind: “The gods look with pity upon two sorts of people, those who don’t get what they want, and those who do.”

Sanja’s reaction to her daughter’s defection was all Liriel could have wished. After a time, however, the woman’s ranting ceased to be entertaining and became merely tiresome.

Apparently Ulf shared Liriel’s opinion, for he curtly told his apprentice it was past time for them to resume her studies. The drow nodded and followed the grimfaced shaman out toward the forest. Once they’d left the boundaries of the village behind, however, Ulf sent a brief, conspiratorial grin in her direction. Liriel smothered a smileit seemed the shaman was not so unlike his rowdy kinsman, after all.

But the shaman quickly sobered and got down to business, long before Liriel could sort though the mixed feelings of warmth and pain that remembrances of Hrolf brought her. “Tell me of the magic you have stored in the Windwalker,” he demanded.

Liriel explained what she could of the Underdark’s strange radiations, comparing it to the place magic the shaman knew and understood. “This magic fades in the light of the sun, but once my rune is cast, the magic will be mine as long as I live and no matter where I go,” she concluded. Ulf considered this. “But why is this so important? You wield other magic: that of spells, and of runes, and even, I think, that given by the gods. When you danced in the moonlight, you found the magic of the place and something else besides. Upon whom did you call? Selune?”

“I don’t know of any goddess by that name,” Liriel said uncomfortably, unnerved by the questions about her theology. She did not like discussing Lloth with people outside her race, and she was not sure how the jealous Spider Queen would respond to any mention of Eilistraee. “As to darkelven magic, it is what makes me what I am. Would you willingly abandon the power that comes from your homeland, to live as a spellcasting wizard in some southern city?”

The sbaman nodded to concede the drow’s point, then looked at her keenly. “Northmen are not religious people, at least not by the standards of the mainlanders. We call upon some of the gods-Tempus before battle, Umberlee during a storm, and Auril when the cold weather proves a threat-but you won’t find us bowing the knee and moaning out prayers. Our dealings with the gods are more honest. We name a bargain. If the god doesn’t hold up his end of the deal, we call it off and go our own way.”

“But the gods demand worship!” Liriel protested.

Ulf shrugged. “If a man dealt falsely with you, would you continue to do business with him? Why should we hold mortals to higher standards than gods?”

The drow considered these words of blasphemy. Strangely enough, they made a certain amount of sense. It was true that the Spider Queen demanded high payment for any of her favors. She herself had successfully bargained with Lloth, when in exchange for the Elfmaid’s escape, she had pledged herself as priestess.

Liriel knew a shining moment ofhope—and heresy-as she wondered whether it might be possible for her to be free of this pledge.

But no. The Spider Queen had fulfilled her part of the bargain. Liriel recalled that terrifying moment when the drow goddess had snatched the ship from certain deathand carried it into the Abyss. The Elfmaid returned to the mortal world before any but Liriel could know where they had been, but Liriel would never forget the horror and the despair of that place, and the dark seductive power in the evil that ruled it.

“Now rune magic, that’s another thing entirely,” Ulf continued, breaking into Liriel’s troubled thoughts. “Don’t try to make a bargain with Yggsdrasil’s Child.”

“Why not?” the ever-curious girl wanted to know.

“Why bother? What could you possibly promise that would matter to an oak tree?”

The drow stared at the shaman for a long moment before she perceived the glint of laughter in his eyes. “You might look like Hrolf,” she groused, “but living with Sanja has thoraughly warped your sense of humor!”

“I will not try to deny that,” Ulf agreed as he turned to leave. He paused and placed a hand on the girl’s shoulder when she moved to follow him. “Stay here for a time. Might be that the answers you need will come to you while you dance. Not that Northmen hold with such, but I’ve heard tell elves do some of their best thinking that way.”

Liriel nodded absently. There was some truth in his words, and she had seen-and experienced-the healing and power and joy that the followers of Eilistraee found in their moonlit dances. But what she needed now was not the power of a drow goddess, but something even more dangerous and frightening.

She needed the love of a human man.

Fyodor’s days in Holgerstead passed swiftly, for he’d found much to occupy himself. He spent many hours working alongside the village swordsmiths, sharpening the edges of blades and axes. Despite his youth, he had known bitter warfare for more than five years, and he could scent a coming conflict as surely as young Bjorn could sniff out a storm. To his mind, the strange events of recent weeks could only be a prelude to battle. War was coming to Ruathym, of that Fyodor was certain, and he would do what he could to help his brothers prepare.

And brothers they were, for the berserkers of Holgerstead had welcomed lhim into their lodge without question or hesitation. To the young warrior, so far from his beloved homeland-indeed, exiled from his homeland for the danger that his out-Of-co~htrol frenzies posed to his comradessuch acceptance was like water to a parched throat. The Ruathen worked side by side with him, lightening their shared tasks with tales of adventure and rowdy songs. Wedigar, in particular, spent much time with the young Rashemi, telling him many stories of the distant time when shapeshifting berserkers ruled Ruathym and terrorized the seas beyond. Fyodor noted the grim resolve underlying Wedigar’s words and knew instinctively that the storytelling was the First Axe’s way of reclaiming the heritage that had so recently been turned against him. It seemed to Fyodor that Wedigar was slowly coming to terms with the knowledge of what he had done while under the nereid’s charm. As lhis memories of tlhat time returned to him, Wedigar began to realize he could not lhave been responsible for all the lhhischief that had been worked against his people. This knowledge gave the Northman a measure of patience beyond his nature. He seem resigned to waitingand preparing-for the strike of their unseen foe.

But there was more to Holgerstead than hard toil and grim tales. When the day’s work was done, the men joined in games of chance, bracing swims in mountain rivers made fast and icy by melting snows, and friendly contests of strength and skill. At first Fyodor was hesitant to join in these contests for fear of evoking a berserker frenzy. But Wedigar scoffed at that notion, pointing out tlhat fully threescore of berserker warriors might be enough to hold him down and keep him from harming himself or others. Feeling a little sheepish, Fyodor agreed, and to his delight he found that the feeling of safety Wedigar’s assurances gave him seemed to hold the killing rages at bay. It was a joy to hold a good sword again, to practice the art of fighting without the heat of the frenzy driving his arm.

Not even the unexpected arrival of Hrolf’s first mate managed to dull Fyodor’s pleasure in this newfound brotherhood. Ibn had come the morning before, bearing his share of the goods from the Elfmaid’s recent trip to sell in the northern stronghold. The redbearded mate-turnedmerchant kept at his work from dawn untillong past dusk, so Fyodor did not have occasion to speak with him. Nor did the man seem eager to have words with Fyodor; he averted his eyes whenever the Raslhemi was about or busied himself with his accounts. As the day wore Olh, such reticence from the usually forthright sailor began to worry the young warrior. Once before Ibn had attacked Liriel; Fyodor wondered whether the man had something to hide, and he began to fear for the safety of his drow friend.

And so he fortified lhimself with a swig of jhuild - for some reason, a bit of the Rashemi firewine seemed to strengthen his connection both to his homeland and the faint gift of Sight that was his heritage-and sought out the first mate.

“Is all well in Ruathym village?” he asked bluntly.

Ibn took the pipe from his mouth and met Fyodor’s gaze squarely. “The captain is dead.”

Fyodor fell back a step. He had seen Hrolf ilh battlesurely such a fighter would not give ilh to death liglhtly! “That does not seem possible! How did he die?” “Drowned,” the mate gritted out. “No sort of death for a Northman. For that you can thank them damned sea elves and the female who’s so all-fired cozy with ‘em!”

“Liriel would do nothing to bring harm to Hrolf,” the Rashemi said with complete conviction, and then he returned his stunned thoughts to his original purpose. “Is she safe and well?” he demanded.

“Sad to say,” the sailor respolhded, and there was such bitterness in his voice that Fyodor did not doubt the truth ofhis words.

“I thank you for the news,” he said and abruptly turned away to seek out the First Axe. Fyodor was free to come and go as he wished, but still he wanted to inform Wedigar of his plans to leave for Ruathym village at once. Fyodor knew Hrolf had been extremely fond of Liriel, and he suspected the drow returned this affection in equal measure. Although the proud and resourceful girl seemed to have little need of him, Fyodor did not like the idea of her being alone at such a time.

He arrived at Wedigar’s cottage to find the First Axe’s household engulfed in frantic preparations. Dagmar had come to join the household, to acquaint herself with the ways of his family before being taken as second wife. No one-not Wedigar’s grimfaced wife or curious young daughters, not Dagmar, not Wedig8I himself-seemed pleased by this. Nonetheless, a feast of celebration was the custom and so preparations were underway.

Wedigar listened to Fyodor’s plans and then drew the young warrior aside. “Stay in Holgerstead this one night,” he asked. “You cannot reach Ruathym before nightfall, and I feel the need to have a friend such as you beside me.” The Rashemi hesitated for only a moment, then promised to stay for the feast. It was a small thing to do for a friend such as the First Axe had become. And in truth, Liriel probably had less need of his presence than did Wedigar.

Fyodor wished this were not so, but it was his custom to know and speak truth, even to himself.

By midnight, Fyodor found himself almost regretting his decision to stay. The feast was long and raucous, and each person present seemed devoted to the goal of consuming enough ale or mead to satisfy an entire dwarven clan. He himself did not drink-he had little taste for either the bitter ale or the heady, sweet mead. Nor had he ever drunk past the point of reason, not even in the days before his battle frenzies raged out of control. It surprised him that the berserkers of Holgerstead saw no need for such restraint. But then, none of them shared his particular curse. Their battle rages were ruled by choice and ritual. They were in no danger of touching off a killing frenzy through some drunken misunderstanding.

Wedigar especially seemed determined to find temporary escape from his troubles. The First Axe had drunk a considerable amount of ale with his meal and then downed two large goblets of golden mead with no pause for talk and little for breath. He was now snoring comfortably, his bearded cheek resting on the remains of the bread trencher that had held his portion of venison stew. Here and there other warriors and women had nodded off; as well, and many more were beginning to yawn broadly.

A warning flashed in Fyodor’s mind, and he snatched up Wedigar’s empty goblet and sniffed at the dregs. Sure enough, there was the faint, herbal scent of the sleeping potion Hrolf’s men had used on the pirates’ remote Moonshae base.

It was then he heard the sounds-a faint scrabbling at the walls that surrounded Holgerstead. The village was based in an ancient stronghold built by longdead dwarves, and despite the passage of centuries it was still a fastness that defied attack from without. Holgerstead was the last fall-back of Ruathym, a place where the people from other parts of the island might come in times of extreme danger. It would never fall, not unless it were delivered into an enemy’s hands. And that, it appeared to Fyodor, was exactly what had happened.

He glanced up at the walls. The sentries were already asleep, sprawled on the walkways or draped limply over the ramparts. No doubt they had been served the tainted mead early on. Fyodor did not know who had dealt this treachery, nor did he have time to ponder the mystery. Shouting an alarm, the young Rashemi took up his sword and smacked Wedigar with the flat of it. To Fyodor’s amazement, the First Axe sat up and regarded the young man woozily. The warrior soon grasped the reality of the coming attack and began to give orders to his fighters. Fyodor was gratified to note that although Wedigar’s voice was slurred, his battle tactics seemed sound enough. The berserkers seemed to have unusual resilience. Most of them threw off the effects of their overindulgence-and even the tainted mead-as easily as a dog might shake water from its coat.

Archers raced up the stairs that led to the walkways atop the outer wall. Women gathered up the young and shooed them into the round stone keeps that lay inside the second wall of defense. In the vast courtyard between the two walls, the tables that had been set up for the feast were upended to form an impromptu shield wall.

Fyodor watched in horror as enormous, scaly hands groped at the top edge of the c~urtain wall. The first wave of archers had no time to nock arrows; the attackers seized the Ruathen and jerked them from their perches. Arms windmilled briefly as the archers tried to keep their balance, but one by one they toppled and dropped from sight. Faint thuds spoke of their fate on the rocky shore below.

In the courtyard, Northmen fitted arrows and let fly at the shadowy invaders that swarmed up onto the walls. But the arrows merely clicked and fell away harmlessly, deflected by the scaly hide that covered the enormous creatures and glinted a sickly green in the flickering torchlight. “Sweet Umberlee/ What are those things?” demanded Wedigar, his bearded face twisted with consternation. “Merrow,” Fyodor replied grimly. “Sea ogres. I have fought them before.”