Tangled Webs (8 page)

As Liriel watched, with gleaming eyes and bated breath, she noticed that another warrior had entered the battle. Xzorsh had slipped back into the water and was sawing determinedly away at the second arm that clung to the ship. His efforts managed to distract the squid and, with a sound like that of a thousand boots pulling free of a muddy bog, the squid pulled the tentacle free of the hull. The squid then dipped the tentacle under the sea elf. With a quick, disdainful flick, it sent him hurtling out of the sea and up over the embattled ship.

Xzorsh hit the wooden deck with a painful thud. He rolled and somehow managed to find his feet. Pointing toward Fyodor, the elf called out a warning in a strange language of clicks and whistles.

Liriel did not have to understand the sea elf’s words to perceive the coming danger. The tentacle Xzorsh had dislodged from the ship curled inward toward the squid’s body, slowly and deliberately making a wide circle around the young berserker. The squid had changed tactics.

The tentacle closed in, wrapped itself tightly around the berserker’s chest, and pinned his arms firmly to his side. With a quick, sharp motion-oddly like that of a warrior plucking an arrow from his shoulder-the squid yanked Fyodor from his perch. This particular “arrow,” however, was more persistent than most. Fyodor managed to keep his grip on the sword. As the creature pulled him beneath the waves, the berserker finally severed the tentacle that held the Elfmaid captive.

The ship righted itself abruptly, rocking wildly. Liriel clung to the rail of the ship and hauled herself to her feet. Her eyes fixed confidently upon the turbulent battle just beneath the waves. The water roiled and churned from the furious fight, and her keen eyes saw the spread of ichor in the moonlit sea. Steam rose from the icy water, a testament to the unnatural heat that suffused a berserker in full battle frenzy.

“You’re calamari,” she promised the injured squid, and her voice rang with wicked glee.

But Hrolf did not seem to share her confidence. The captain came to her side and placed a huge hand on her shoulder. “He’s gone, lass,” he said softly, “and I’m giving the order to flee.”

“No,” Liriel said calmly, not taking her gaze from the sea.

“There’s naught that any of us can do for him. More good men will die unless we put some distance between the ship and that monster,” Hrolf persisted.

“Give him time,” the drow asserted. Despite her confident tone, Liriel began to feel the first raw edges of worry. Strength Fyodor certainly had, and courage and cunning. Time, however, was in dangerously short supply. Even a berserker needed air.

The sea calmed, suddenly and dramatically. “He is gone,” Hrolf repeated, and nodded over Liriel’s head to a grimfaced and watchful Ibn. The first mate took his place at the rudder and waved the men toward the oars.

At that moment the squid burst from the water, tossing its enormous head from side to side as ifin mortal anguish. A small bulge rippled along the elastic carapace, working its way upward.

Xzorsh came to Liriel’s side, his green eyes narrowed as he studied the creature. “The human is alive,” the sea elf said with disbelief. “He is trying to cut his way through!” “Fyodor is inside the creature, alive?” the drow said, hope and incredulity mixing in her voice.

“Squid are difficult to kill, even from the inside,” Xzorsh explained grimly. “Had the human been swallowed by a vurgen, he could have cut his way out easily. Here, his only hope is to find the creature’s eyes. We have nothing that can cut through that carapace.”

Maybe you don’t, Liriel thought. The drow scanned the deck, looking for the bag that held her throwing spiders. After several frantic moments, she spotted it tangled up in a length of rope. She quickly snatched up a handful of weapons: fist-sized metal spiders, their eight legs perfectly balanced, tipped in deadly spikes and fortified with the magic of the Underdark.

The drow hurled the spiders, one after another. The magic-enhanced weapons bit deep into the squid’s carapace, forming a precise line and opening a wide crack. Before Liriel could stop him, Xzorsh picked up a harpoon and hurled it into the opening. The weapon sank deep into the wound, and the barbed point exploded from one of the creature’s eyes. The squid finally went limp, and its tentacles rose to the surface like rays from a sun. The creature was dead, but so might Fyodor be as well.

Liriel whirled on the sea elf, speechless with rage.

“To show him the way out,” Xzorsh explained.

Sure enough, a hand groped its way along the exposed shaft of the harpoon. In a moment, Fyodor’s head burst from the ruined eye. He dashed the gore from his face and dragged in several long breaths. His foe was dead; the battle rage slipped away. For as long as a berserker rage lasted, he never felt pain, or cold, or exhaustion. Those things would come now.

With difficulty, the young warrior squeezed himself through the eye socket and began to swim with uncertain strokes for the ship. Xzorsh dove into the water to help, and a dozen hands reached out to help the day’s hero aboard.

Fyodor slumped to the deck, pale as seafoam. His shirt had been ripped from shoulder to waist, and blood welled up from a dozen circular wounds. The sea elf began to tend the man, his movements so sure and deft that not even Liriel thought to interfere.

“Now there’s a tale to tell your son’s sons,” Hrolf declared, shaking his head in disbelief. “It’s lucky we are to have a berserker aboard!”

“It’s ill fortune at work here!” the first mate said angrily. “Granted, the lad killed the creature. But by my reckoning, the squid never would have attacked if the female had not been aboard! And for that matter, what kind of man calls a black elf woman friend?”

It was a long speech for Ibn, and the sheer passion in his words brought sympathetic murmurs from the battered crew. Dark, furtive glares skittered toward the drow.

“What kind of man?” Hrolfrepeated and then shrugged. “I also count the drow as a friend, and by my reckoning I captain this ship still. So speak your mind as you will, lad, but my orders stand.”

There was nothing Ibn could say to that. He recognized his mistake at once. Every man aboard held the captain in high esteem, and most of them regarded the wounded berserker with something approaching reverence. They were willing enough to turn upon the drow, but not one among them could discredit what Fyodor had just done or would argue against the word or will of their captain. So the first mate contented himself with muttering, “Bad fortune!” as he stalked off in search of a dry pipe.

“Pay him no mind, lass,” Hrolf advised Liriel. “Ibn is a good man, but slow to let go once he takes hold of something. He’s not one for new ways, and yours are strange to us all.” He east a curious look at the young wizard. “During the battle you spoke a word-calamari-to the squid. What is that-a magic spell? A curse?”

“A meal,” the drow returned slyly. Now that the danger had passed, her dark sense of mischief returned in full. She ripped the severed tentacle from the fallen sailor and strode across the deck to present it, still twitching, to Ibn. “You wanted me to help with provisions? Fine. We will eat as drow do. Have this sliced, dipped in batter, and fried in rendered rothe fat. Calamari. It’s quite good,” she assured the mate, who was turning sickly green as he regarded the appendage.

“Ship’s wizard,” suggested a faint, strained voice.

The words came from Fyodor. He hauled himself up to a sitting position and cast a droll look at the first mate. “Consider her… ship’s wizard,” the Rashemi advised. He spoke with great effort, between ragged gasps for air, but his blue eyes sparkled with wry humor. “It’s… safer that way.” The redbearded man nodded, his distrust of magic momentarily thrust aside by the prospect of seeing that twitching tentacle on his plate. “Ship’s wizard,” Ibn agreed fervently.

The Elfmaid had been at sea for several days before the northernmost Moonshae Isles came into view. Fyodor was heartened by the sight of land and eager to explore. Yet the ship did not make port, but kept a careful distance from shore, cloaked into invisibility by the heavy spring mists.

“With winter’s passing, the seas are opening, and the merchant ships will soon sail,” Hrolf explained when Fyodor asked about the delay. The two men sat cross-legged on the deck of the forecastle, a torn net between them. Their fingers flew as they retied the knots with a rhythm of practiced ease. Barely missing a beat, Hrolf gave the young warrior a companionable swat on the back. “And after seeing you take on that squid, I’d say well pick off the merchants as easily as taking ripe currants off a bush!”

“I will not fight for you,” Fyodor said quietly.

The captain paused, startled. “How’s that, lad?”

“I fight only when I must, only to protect my land or my friends,” the young warrior explained. “If the ship is attacked, I will stand with you. But I must warn you, if you attack another ship to rob it, I may well turn against you.” Hrolf’s genial expression did not change, but his eyes turned hard. “A threat?”

“A warning,” the Rashemi said calmly, but he cast a questioning glance at Liriel, who, lured by her friend’s somber expression, had crept close to listen to the discussion. “Unlike my berserker brethren, I cannot always choose when the battle rage will occur. Did not Liriel tell you this?”

“That she didn’t,” Hrolf said ruefully as he eyed the wary drow. “Slipped your mind, lass?”

“You started the tavern brawl before I could get to that part of the story,” Liriel said defensively. “I would have told you, otherwise. I’m fairly certain of that.”

The captain sighed and tugged at his vast mustache. His good spirits returned suddenly, and he winked at the drow.

“Don’t look so downcast, my girl! Fighting’s all good and well, but there’re more ways than one to turn a profit!” Later that day, the captain gathered together his crew to discuss the necessary changes to the usual lurk-andattack strategy. The men agreed to Hrolf’s plan readily enough, even though it involved Liriel and her dark elven magic. All of them had seen Fyodor fight; none wanted to face his black sword in battle. Moreover, they were accustomed to their captain’s unorthodox methods, and they trusted him, if not Liriel.

It would not be the first time Hrolf achieved through bluffing what might otherwise have cost dearly in blood. In fact, the captain leaned heavily toward a benign form of piracy. If he could scare a ship into surrendering its cargo, so much tile better. Hrolfloved a good fight, but he enjoyed fighting far better when the Elfmaid was well out of harm’s way.

So the crew clustered around as Liriel explained the necessary spell. “It is a form of teleportation that will exchange one person for another. One of you will be sent aboard the ship to take our terms to the captain: half their cargo in payment for his man’s return. Which of you is willing to go?”

“It’s not just a question ofwho’s willing, lass,” Hrolf commented. “Think on this: what’s to keep them from holding our man and going for an even trade or even refusing to trade at all? Don’t get me wrong-your magic’s a fine way to kidnap a man. It will put the other captain off guard, at least for a moment or two. But it’s not enough.”

“What, then?” Liriel demanded.

Hrolf smiled slyly. “The Ffolk of the Moonshaes are a hearty people, not easy to spook. Picture their captain finding himself face-to-face with a stranger who appeared all of a sudden on his ship. Who among us is most likely to strike head-numbing fear into the poor sod?”

All eyes turned to Liriel.

A slow, wicked smile spread across the drow’s face, and she nodded her acceptance. Her eyes sparkled as she began to improvise the details of the plot. Soon the pirates were chuckling with delight. None argued or even frowned as she passed out their assignments with the absolute assurance of a battle chieftain.

Of all the men aboard, only two were not caught up in the excitement: Ibn, who puffed stolidly away at his pipe, and Fyodor, who tried without success to hide his disappointment as he watched the shining, animated face of the plotting drow.

Liriel cast the spell at dusk. Although she was slowly becoming accustomed to the punishing glare of the sun an.d sea twilight was a time ofmystery, a time of natural magIc thai the drow recognized and intended to exploit. Sea and sky melded into one darkness, but the shadows resisted banishment. As they faded with the failing light, they seemed to leave an unseen presence behind. In the cusp between day and night, between shadow and dreams, anything seemed possible. This was important, for Liriel’s spell depended upon her victims’ capacity for awe as surely as it did her darkelven wizardry. Fo~
uch an enchantment no time was more potent than twilight.

The Moonshae vessel was also ideally suited for Liriel’s purposes. She realized this the moment the teleportation spell set her down upon its deck. She prowled silently about, her piwafwi cloaking her in invisibility as she studied the ship, observed the line of command. She even explored the cabins, the better to know her prey. One small chamber was littered with bits and pieces so odd they could only be spell components. Liriel quickly searched t cabin and, to her delight, found a small book filled WIth unfamiliar spells based upon sea magic. She pocketed the treasure and resumed her search.

The merchant ship was small but of a modern design, with a sturdy aft castle built as an original part of the ship rather than as a temporary, add-on platform. It had a sternpost rudder, steered with a tiller. The man at the tiller had to be told what to do, because he was under the after castle and couldn’t see where the ship was headed. At the moment these orders came from the captain, who was perched in the crow’s nest atop the ship’s single mast. Ratlines—evenly spaced light ropes that formed ladders-ran up to the crow’s nest from either side of the ship. . Silent and invisible, the drow scrambled up the lines and climbed into the crow’s nest beside the captain. He was leaning over the edge, frowning as he listened to the agitated report of two of his men.

“What do you mean, Drustan is gone?” he called. “Gone where?”