Elaine Cunningham - Starlight and Shadows 02 - Tangled Webs

Elaine Cunningham

"Tangled Webs"

Chapter 1

Skullport

Far below the streets of Waterdeep, in a cavern buried beneath the bottom of

the sea, lay the hidden city that legend and rumor had named Skullport. Most

of those who came here sought to trade in goods that were banned in civilized

ports, and the dregs of a hundred warring races did business in an atmosphere

of knife-edged danger. Yet beneath the streets of Skullport were even deeper

realms, places that the most intrepid merchants strove to avoid. In one

particularly noisome labyrinth-a series of winding tunnels and despoiled

crypts-a dungeon had been fashioned for those who disturbed the tenuous

balance of the city.

Once the burial place of a long-vanished tribe of dwarves, over the centuries

these catacombs had become home to other, more dangerous creatures. From time

to time, treasure hunters came seeking an undiscovered dwarven cache; most of

these seekers remained as piles of moldering bones, giving powerful testament

to the trapsand monsters that lingered in the dank stone passages.

It was a forbidding place, even to a drow accustomed to walking the endless

tunnels of the Underdark. Magical elven boots muted the sound of her

footsteps, and a glittering piwafwi cloaked her with invisibility, yet Liriel

Baenre kept keenly alert for possible dangers. To speed her way, she carried

foremost in her thoughts the remembered face of the man imprisoned in this,

the worst of Skullport's dungeons.

Slender as a human girl-child and seemingly not much older, the young drow

appeared delicate to the point of fragility. Her black-satin skin gave her the

look of living sculpture, an image that was enhanced by the supple, tightly

fitted black leathers and ebony-hued chain mail she wore. She was beautiful in

the fey manner of elvenkind, with fine, sharp features and a cloud of thick

white hair as glossy as moonlight on new snow. Hers was a mobile face that

could be one moment impish, the next coldly beautiful, dominated by a pair of

large, almond-shaped eyes the color of Rashemaar amber. These eyes spoke of a

restless intelligence and an ever-ready supply of mischief By all appearances,

the drow girl hardly seemed capable of storming this deeply buried stronghold.

And yet, that was precisely what she intended to do.

Liriel moved easily through the utter darkness of the tunnel. The gloom

presented no problem, for the eyes of a drow could detect subtle heat patterns

in the rock and the air currents. The eyes of a drow wizard were even more

sensitive; in the tunnel ahead, Liriel perceived the faint, bluish

aura-visible only to those who had inherent magical talent and assiduous

training-that warned of magic at work.

The drow crept cautiously closer. The eerie glow curtained off the tunnellike

a luminous sheet, but since it was a magical aura visible only to wizards, it

cast no illumination upon the scene around it. Liriel debated for a moment

whether to risk creating a true light and decided it might be wise to view the

trap through the eyes of those who had created it. That it was a trap, she did

not doubt for a moment.

As easily as thought, Liriel conjured a globe of faerie fire. The magical

light bobbed in the air beside her, floating here and there in response to her

unspoken directions and bathing the grim scene in faint white light.

Bones littered the tunnel on both sides of the telltale blue aura, tumbled

haphazardly together with abandoned weapons and gear. The tunnel's floor and

walls had been splashed repeatedly with gore, and the stone was caked with the

dull, dark red of long-dried blood. Whatever the trap was, it had certainly

proven effective.

Liriel's gaze fell upon a shallow, much-dented bronze bowl embossed with

finely wrought designs and lined with ivory. It seemed strangely out of place

among the grisly remains and the practical tools scattered around her feet,

and the curious drow crouched to examine it. As she picked it up, the "lining"

fell out-it was not ivory but bone, and too thick to be anything but the skull

of a dwarf

The drow settled back on her heels to examine this discovery. Something had

sliced neatly through the dwarf's head, cutting through helm and bone so

cleanly that the edges of both were as smooth as if they'd been ground and

polished by a master gem-cutter. This told her much about the dwarf's death.

Liriel kicked through the scattered debris until she found a heavy thigh bone

that had once belonged to a goodsized ogre. As she expected, the bone was

severed near the upper joint, at just about the spot where a dwarf's head

would reach if the two treasure-hunting fools had stood side by side. The drow

rummaged through the pile, selecting similarly cut bones from the remains of

several different races, and then laid them out beside each other. In moments

she had a fairly precise idea of the trap's danger-and its limitations.

Liriel took up the ogre's leg bone once again. Keeping her hand well away from

the magical danger zone, she thrust one end of the bone into the glowing aura.

From either side of the tunnel wall, discs of gleaming blue whirled out from

the solid rock. The spinning blades met, crossed, and disappeared back into

the stone.

The drow regarded the bone in her hand. The tip had been sheared off, so

quickly that she hadn't even felt the impact, so silently that the only

telltale sound was the muffled clatter as the bone shard fell to the

bloodencrusted rock.

Not bad, Liriel acknowledged silently, but too predictable. A drow wizard

would have enspelled the blades for random attack, so that each strike would

come from a different place. Or perhaps such a provision had been made to deal

with those who might figure out the first attack and try to slip in under the

trigger area.

Liriel picked up two more long bones, one in each hand, and held the first

into the glowing aura. Again the blue discs sped from the tunnel walls. The

moment they crossed paths through the first bone, Liriel thrust the second one

down low. The blades continued undeterred along their course and disappeared

into the rock. The second bone did not trigger the magical trap at all.

Too easy! Her lips twisted into a smile that mingled triumph with contempt. A

drow would have expected a second intrusion-and a third!-and would have

ensured that the blades could reverse their paths instantly to meet any

challenge.

Now that she saw her way clear, Liriel triggered the trap one last time. The

moment the circular blades met and crossed, she dove under their path and

rolled through the portal to safety.

In Skullport and environs, however, "safety" was a relative term. As Liriel

rose to her feet, she glimpsed a flicker of reflected light on the wall of the

tunnel ahead. Something was approaching from a side passage. Instantly she

summoned the innate drow magic of levitation and, still invisible, floated up

to the tunnel ceiling some twelve feet off the floor. She flattened herself

against the damp stone to wait and observe.

A wisp of luminous smoke rounded the sharp bend, then recoiled as if surprised

to find itself in an empty corridor. After a moment's pause the smoke came on,

flowing around the corner until there was enough to form a small, glowing

cloud. The luminous mass writhed and twisted, finally settling into a hideous,

vaguely human shape. As Liriel watched, horror-struck, the wraithlike cloud

solidified into decaying flesh. The undead thing looked this way and that, its

red eyes gleaming in the darkness.

Liriel had never seen a ghoul, but she recognized the creature for what it

was. Once human, it had been twisted into a mindless but cunning beast that

fed on carrion. Somehow it had sensed that the magical trap had been

triggered, and it had come to feed. This would account for the clean-picked

bones that littered the tunnel. It did not, however, explain the ghoul's

ability to take on a wraithlike form.

The ghoul shuffled around the passage, sniffing audibly and pawing the air

with filthy, clawed hands. Liriel noted that it narrowly skirted the magical

trap, showing a perception that only a gifted wizard could have possessed. As

she studied the creature's movements, the drow realized that it was retracing

her steps. It was following the invisible path left by her innate dark-elven

magic. But how?

She thought fast. Without doubt, the undead creature had once been a wizard,

probably talented enough to have prepared for an afterlife as a lich. If his

plans had been altered by attacking ghouls, he might somehow have managed to

combine the two transformations. If that were so, it meant the ravenous

creature below her was armed with a lich's magic and a ghoul's terrible

cunning.

Her own command of magic was formidable, but Liriel knew better than to fight

this mindless, undead thing. In a spell battle, strategy was as important as

power. Accustomed as she was to the multilayered intrigues of her people, she

could not outthink a being that acted solely on hunger and instinct.

At that moment the ghoul looked upward, turning its red eyes fully upon

Liriel's face. A long, serpentine tongue flicked out in anticipation, rasping

audibly as it passed over the creature's fangs. The drow shuddered, though she

was certain the ghoul could not actually see her. Her invisibility granted her

little comfort, though, when the lichghoul's clawed fingers began moving

jerkily through the gestures of some long-unused spell.

Liriel seized the leather thong that hung around her neck and gave it a sharp

tug. Up from its hiding place beneath her tunic flew a small obsidian disk

engraved with the holy symbol of Lloth, the Spider Queen, the dark goddess of

the drow.

The girl clutched the sacred device and quickly debated her next move. Even a

minor priestess could turn aside an attack by undead creatures, but Liriel had

attended the clerical school for only a very short time and was accounted a

rank novice. On the other hand, she was a princess of House Baenre-the most

powerful clan in mighty Menzoberranzan-and she had left her homeland armed

with the favor of Lloth and the captured magic of the Underdark. But Liriel

had traveled far since then, in ways that could not be measured in miles

alone. She found herself inexplicably hesitant to call upon the deity of her

foremothers.

Then the lich-ghoul's lips began to move, spewing graveyard dust and foul

spittle as it chanted soundless words of power. An unseen force closed around

Liriel like a giant hand, pulling her down toward the waiting creature with a

yank so sharp and sudden that her head was snapped painfully back and her arms

thrown open wide. Her piwafwi flapped open, disclosing her to the undead

creature. But Liriel managed to keep her grip on the sacred symbol, and with a

drow's lightning-fast reflexes, she thrust it into the ghoul's upturned,

slavering face.

"In the name of Lloth, I turn you," she said simply. It was enough. Crackling

black energy burst from the symbol and sent the undead thing reeling back. For

a moment the ghoul huddled against the far wall, cowering before the revealed

power of the drow goddess. Then its hideous body dissolved into smoke, and the

wisps scattered and fled like a flock of startled birds.

Liriel heaved a ragged sigh and floated the rest of the way down to the tunnel

floor. But her relief was mixed with vague, nagging misgivings. She had reason

to know that Lloth was capricious and cruel. Fortunately, the ghoul did not

bother to inquire into the goddess's character. Power was power, and Liriel

was alive because she had dared to wield it. There was a certain basic

practicality to this reasoning that quieted the drow's uneasiness and sped her

steps. She once again drew her piwafwi close about her and glided silently

down the tunnel, making her way unerringly toward the dungeons.

The drow girl had explored Skullport for several days now and had learned many

of the city's secrets. She had reveled in Skullport's lawless freedom, its

endless chaotic possibilities. But Liriel was young, and certain that her

destiny lay across a vast sea on an island known as Ruathym. She was impatient

to get on with it.

Her ears caught the echoes of a distant song, a rollicking tune sung with

enormous gusto but little discernible talent. Liriel followed the voice,

tracing the intricate path the sound took through winding passages and

reverberating stone as effortlessly as a surface-dweller might follow a tree's

shadow to its source.

Before long she came to a small, dank cave that in eons past had served as a

crypt. Now a prison cell, the cave was secured by iron bars as thick as

Liriel's wrist and a massive door that was chained and locked not once, but

three times. The small stone chamber was cold, and lit by a single, sputtering

torch that gave off more foul-smelling smoke than light. A few deep shelves,

long emptied of bones and treasure, had been chiseled into one stone wall. On

the opposite side of the cave was a plank bed, suspended from the wall by two

rusted chains. And sprawled upon the bed was the singer, who kept time to his

music by tossing bits of moldy bread to the creatures that scuttled about the

floor of the cell.

The prisoner did not seem at all downcast by his grim surroundings. He was a

giant of a man, deep-chested and broad of shoulder, with a face bronzed by the

sun and wind, and bright blue eyes nearly lost in a maze of laugh lines. The

man's braided hair, vast mustache, and long beard were all of the same

sun-bleached hue, a color so pale that it almost hid the streaks of gray. This

was Hrolf of Ruathym, better known as Hrolfthe Unruly, a genial ship's captain

with a taste for recreational mayhem. Liriel had learned that this rowdy

pastime had gotten him barred from many civilized ports and had landed him-not

for the first time-in Skullport's dungeons.

She reached into her pack and took out a statuette she'd purchased in a

backstreet market: a roughly carved, rather comic rendition of a Northman

skald with a horned helm, a bulbous nose, and a moon-shaped belly; It was not

an impressive work of art, but some wizard with a sense of whimsy had imbued

it with an especially powerful magic mouth spell, one that would capture any

song and play it back, over and over, for nearly an hour. Liriel figured that

an hour should just about do it. As she triggered the statue's magic, the

wooden bard stirred to life in her hands. His tiny; bewhiskered face screwed

up into an expression of intense concentration as he absorbed the lustily sung

ditty;

"When you meet with the lads of the Elfmaid, my friend, You would rather face

Umberlee's wrath.

Hand over a measure of all of your treasure,

Or swim in a saltwater bath!"

"Come ashore with the lads of the Elfmaid, my friend. We're awash on an ocean

of ale!

Some taverns to plunder, some guards to sunder, And then, a short rest in the

jail!"

Liriel winced. Dark elves did not include ballads among their numerous art

forms, but since leaving Menzoberranzan she'd heard many good songs. This was

not one of them. Even so, her slender black fingers flew as she shaped the

spell that would lock the music into the statue's memory. The cost of a magic

mouth spell was a small thing compared to the worth of the man imprisoned

within the crypt.

Hrolf was reputed to be one of the finest captains to sail the Sword Coast. He

was also the only captain Liriel could find who was willing to take on a drow

passenger.

With the song safely stored inside the wooden skald, Liriel silently removed

her piwafwi and stepped into the circle of torchlight. She cleared her throat

to get the singers attention.

Hrolf the Unruly looked up, startled into silence by the sudden interruption.

Liriel propped her fISts on her hips and tapped her foot in a pantomime of

impatience.

"So. When do we set sail?" she demanded.

A broad grin split the man's face, lifting the corners of his mustache and

giving him a boyish appearance that belied his graying beard and braids.

"Well, chop me up and use me for squid bait! It's the black lass herself!" he

roared happily.

"A little louder, please," Liriel requested with acidic sarcasm as she cast

quick glances up and down the corridors. "There might be two or three people

up in Waterdeep who didn't hear you."

Hrolfhauled himself to his feet and walked stiff-Iegged over to the door of

his cell. "It's glad I am to see you again, lass, but you shouldn't ha' come,"

he said in a softer tone.

" Just a day or two more, and they'll be setting me free."

The drow sniffed derisively and bent down to examine the locks on the cell

door. "Sure, if by freedom you mean a couple of years of enforced labor. It'll

take you at least that long to work off the damage done to that tavern."

"Gull splat!" he said heartily, dismissing this dire prediction with a wave of

one enormous hand. "The penalty for tavern brawls is never more than a few

days' stay in this sow's bowels of a dungeon."

"The Skulls decided to change the law in your honor," Liriel responded,

referring to the trio of disembodied skulls that appeared randomly in

Skullport to pass sentence on miscreants. "The idea of waiting around for

years doesn't appeal to me. I'd rather fight our way from here to the docks

and have done."

"Not a bit of it," Hrolf insisted. "Laws are all good and well-fighting's

better, of course-but bribes, now! That's the way for a sensible man to do

business! And no place bet tern Skullport for it, so don't you worry yourself

The

Elfmaid came to port fully loaded. A bundle of ermine skins and a few bolts of

fine Moonshae linen should serve." Liriel cocked an eyebrow. "Did I mention

that your ship and cargo have been impounded?"

That was true, as far as it went, and as much truth as the drow wanted him to

hear. Although it appeared Hrolf's freedom was not for sale, Liriel had

already managed to buy free the ship and the crew. She thought it better to

let Hrolf think otherwise. By all accounts, the captain took his ship's

well-being more seriously than his own.

"Took the Elfmaid, did they?" The captain pondered this development, chewing

his mustache reflectively. "Well then, that's different. Fighting it is!"

The drow nodded her agreement. She quickly cast a cantrip, a minor spell that

would reveal any magic placed upon the locks. When no telltale glow appeared,

Liriel took a small bundle from her bag and carefully removed the wraps that

padded a small glass vial. With infinite care she unstoppered the vial and

poured a single drop of black liquid onto each of the chains and locks.

A faint hiss filled the air, and the locks sagged and melted as the distilled

venom of a black dragon ate through the metal. It was a pricey solution, but

it was quick and quiet, and Liriel had no real need to practice thrift. Just

days earlier, she had led a raid on a rival drow stronghold and claimed a

share of the massive treasure hoard buried there. Her share would take her to

Ruathym in style, with enough left over to hide a cache or two for future use.

Yet there was a strange tightness in Liriel's throat as she remembered the

battle and the friends who had fallen there. One of those friends, although

gravely wounded, had survived and was awaiting her even now on Hrolf's ship.

Just thinking of Fyodor, and his own great need to reach Ruathym, heightened

her impatience.

Motioning for Hrolf to stand back, she kicked open the door, keeping a careful

distance from the still-melting chains. Dragon venom could eat through boot

leather-not to mention flesh and bone-as easily as it dissolved metal. The

captain watched, intrigued, as Liriel set the enspelled statue on the bed and

triggered its song. His face lit up with pride as his own song poured forth

from the little figure.

"That'll keep 'em away for a bit," he observed with a touch of wry humor.

Obviously, Liriel concluded, the man held a realistic view of his musical

talents.

Hrolf turned to regard the drow with obvious respect. "I was glad enough to

offer you passage on the strength of your smile, but to be getting a ship's

wizard in the bargain! With your magic, lass, we're as good as a-sail. May

Umberlee take me if I'm not getting better at picking my friends!" he

concluded happily.

Liriel cast a startled glance at the man's blu' cheerful face. His easy claim

of friendship struck her as odd. She'd met him only once, shortly before he'd

begun the spectacular brawl that landed him in this predicament. He seemed a

companionable sort, and she was glad to have found passage with an able

captain who could also fight like a bee-stung bear. But friendship was still

new to her and not something to be taken lightly. For a moment she envied

these shortlived humans, who seemed to come to it so easily.

"We're still a long way from the ship," Liriel reminded the man. She stripped

off the extra swordbelt she carried and handed it to him. He buckled it on

without a word and then drew the sword, regarding its keen edge with pleasure.

After a few practice swings to get the feel of the blade and to awaken muscles

stiff from disuse, he followed the drow out into the tunnel.

The way was lit by an occasional torch thrust into a wall bracket, so Hrolfwas

able to walk with assurance, if not silence. The drow set a slow, steady pace,

trying to minimize the noise of Hrolf's heavy footsteps. She could fight well

when necessary, but she knew the wisdom of avoiding trouble. So far, despite

the encounter with the magic-wielding ghoul, breaching the dungeon's defenses

had seemed almost too easy. But then, no one expected anyone to try to sneak

in. Liriel suspected that getting out would be another matter entirely.

A faint sound caught her ear. From a nearby passage came the reverberating

tread of many boots and the guttural speech of goblinkin. She pushed Hrolf

into an alcove and shielded them both with her sheltering piwafwi. To her

relief, Hrolf the Unruly did not protest this precaution or leap out roaring

to engage the goblins in battle. The captain and the drow waited for many

moments, then watched silently as the guards marched past in sharp formation.

They were squat, muscular creatures-goblin hybrids of some sort-broad as

dwarves and haphazardly garbed in ill-fitting, cast-off leather armor.

Obviously overfed and underpaid, the guards nevertheless carried a daunting

assortment of well-honed weapons. All told, there were twelve of them, enough

to give pause even to the darkelven and the unruly.

The goblin patrol halted in the tunnel ahead, gibbering among themselves and

shouldering off the packs they carried. Liriel muttered a curse.

"What're they doing?" Hrolf asked, his voice just above a whisper.

"Taking a break," she responded in kind. Whispering caused the voice to carry

too far, and Liriel was frequently amazed that few humans seemed to realize

this. Dark elves whispered when they intended to be heard-the audible

equivalent of a knowing smile.

"They're blocking the tunnel," the drow added grimly, "and we don't have time

to wait them out."

The captain pondered this for a moment, and then patted the short sword

strapped to Liriel's hip. "I've heard tell that a drow can take a dozen

goblins, easy."

The girl shrugged. She could handle a sword well enough and throw knives with

deadly precision, but her skills were slanted more toward magic than mayhem.

"Some drow can. I'm not one of them."

"Ah, but do yonder goblins know that?"

The drow snapped a look back at the captain, surprised that a human had

offered such a devious-yet simplesolution. They shared a quick, companionable

grin, and she accepted his plan with a nod.

Hrolf patted her shoulder, then drew his sword. "Go, lass. If the ugly little

bastards don't spook, I'll be right behind you."

Against reason, despite the suspicious nature bred and ingrained in her by her

treacherous kindred, Liriel believed him.

She pulled her sword and walked, silent and invisible, into the circle of

goblins. Then, tossing back her piwafwi, she dropped into a menacing crouch

and presented her blade. "Hi, boys," she purred in the goblin tongue. "Want to

play?"

The sudden appearance of a battle-ready drow in their midst stole whatever

courage the creatures possessed. The goblins squeaked in terror and fled,

leaving their packs and many of their weapons behind in their panic.

Hrolf strode to the drow's side, grinning broadly. "Well done! D'you think,

though, that they'll be back-bringing friends?"

"Not a chance," Liriel said flatly. "They're guards, and they ran. If they

admit that, they're as good as dead." The drow knelt and began to rifle

through the abandoned packs, while Hrolf devoted himself to selecting a few

promising weapons for his own use. Liriel's search yielded up several large,

well-rusted keys. She smiled and brandished them at Hrolf.

The captain nodded happily, recognizing the significance of this find. He'd

been dragged down to this dungeon through a succession of gates. The keys

would speed their escape, though each gate was also guarded by magical traps

and at least one species of ugly, well-armed creatures. Neither prospect

worried Hrolf Unlike most of his people, he held magic in high regard, and

he'd seen enough of this elf maid's talents to entrust that aspect of the

escape to her. As for the other-well, he had a sword now, didn't he?

* * * * *

Fyodor of Rashemen leaned against the rail of the ship, gazing out over the

noise and confusion that was Skullport. Merchants, sailors, and dockhands

milled about the rotting wooden docks, busying themselves with a dizzying

variety of wares. Flocks of wykeen, a kind of sea bat indigenous to the

underground port, wheeled and screeched overhead. The black water lapped at

the ship with a restless rhythm that echoed the pulse of the far-distant seas.

Yet there was no moon to order the tides, no sky at all but a soaring vault of

solid stone.

This teeming underground city, so different from the villages of his distant

homeland, astounded Fyodor. Most amazing to him was the peace that existed

between ancient enemies, all in the name of trade. Dwarves tossed crated cargo

to orcs; humans hired themselves out to beholders; svirfneblin bartered with

illithids. It was just as well, this unnatural harmony. A nearby fight-any

fightcould set him off on a deadly battle frenzy.

Fyodor was a berserker, one of the famed warriors of Rashemen, a champion

among the protectors of his homeland. Unlike his brothers, however, he could

not control the rages or bring them on at will. When the Witches who ruled his

land had come to fear that his wild battle-rages might endanger those about

him, they sent him on a quest to recover a stolen artifact, an amulet known as

the Windwalker. Its magic was ancient and mysterious, but the Witches thought

it might be used to contain the young warrior's magical curse. Thus Fyodor's

only hope for controlling his battle rages, and ending his exile from his

homeland, lay in the amulet-and in the magic of the drow girl who carried it.

His search for the Windwalker had taken him from snow-swept Rashemen into the

depths of the Underdark, where he'd met the beautiful young wizard. Liriel had

been first an enemy, then a rival, and finally a partner and friend. Fyodor

had followed the drow across half of Faerun and would gladly travel with her

to Ruathym-and not just for the magic she wielded.

The young man's eyes, blue as a winter sky, anxiously scanned the crowded

streets. Liriel had arranged passage on this ship for them both and had

promised to meet him here. She was late. He could imagine far too many things

that might have detained her.

"Troubles?"

The laconic question jarred Fyodor from his grim thoughts. He turned to face

the ship's mate, a ruddy, redbearded man much his own size and build. Nearly

six feet tall and heavily muscled, the sailor had the look of a Rashemi.

Fair-skinned and blue-eyed, he had a certain familiar directness of gaze and

an open countenance defined by broad planes and strong features. The sailor's

resemblance to Fyodor's own kin did not surprise the young man, for they no

doubt had ancestors in common. The ancient Northmen who'd settled the island

of Ruathym had also traveled far east to Fyodor's Rashemen. "Just wondering

when we'd be off, Master. . ."

"Ibn," the first mate supplied. "Just Ibn. We sail with the captain."

Fyodor waited, hoping the man would elaborate. But Ibn merely pulled a pipe

from his sash and pressed some aromatic leaves into the bowl. A passing sailor

supplied flint and stone, and soon Ibn was puffing away with stolid

contentment.

The young warrior sighed and then subsided. Clearly, he could do nothing but

wait. Except for his concern over Liriel's delay, the waiting had not been

unpleasant. The sights beyond the dock could have occupied him for hours, and

the ship itself was well worth contemplating. The Elfmaid was an odd

combination of old and new: her long, graceful form was reminiscent of the

ancient dragonships, and she was clinker-built of strong, light wood. Yet the

hull was deep enough to provide an area belowdecks for storage of goods and

some cramped sleeping quarters. Castles small, raised platforms-had been added

both fore and aft, and both were hung about with the brightly painted shields

of the warrior-bred crew. With its enormous square sail and row of oars, the

ship promised to be both fast and maneuverable in any number of situations.

Its most remarkable feature, however, was the figurehead that rose proudly

over the lancelike bowsprit: a carved, ten-foot image of an elf maid. More

lavishly endowed and garishly painted than any elf who'd ever drawn breath,

the figurehead gave the ship her name as well as a playful, rakish air that

Fyodor found rather appealing.

The young man also felt at home among the crew. They seemed to accept him as

one of their own, even while showing him immense deference. Fyodor thought he

knew the reason for that. He had heard that in Ruathym, warriors were afforded

great honor and high rank. It would not be unlike Liriel to mention his

berserker talents in an attempt to gain passage on a Ruathen ship. Fyodor did

not object to this; it was better that the crew was forewarned. Since the Time

of the Walking Gods, when magic had gone awry and his battle frenzies became

as capricious as the wind, he had taken every precaution he could to avoid

bringing harm to those around him.

The first mate took his pipe from his mouth and pointed with it. "Captain's

coming," he observed. "Got company, as usual."

Fyodor looked in the direction Ibn had indicated. A huge, fair-haired man

sprinted toward the ship, swinging a beefy fist back and forth before him like

a scythe as he cleared a path through the crowd. Despite his size and his

short, bandy legs, the captain set an incredibly fast pace. Behind him was

Liriel, running full out, her slender limbs pumping and her white hair

streaming back. Behind her roiled a swarm of knife-wielding kobolds.

"Step lively, my lads!" roared the captain as he swatted a bemused mongrelman

out of his way.

His crew took this development stoically, going about their business with an

ease and speed that bespoke frequent practice. Ibn cut the ropes securing the

ship to the dock and then seized the rudder; the other men took their places

at the oars. To Fyodors surprise, the Elfmaid shot away from the dock, well

beyond the reach of the captain and his drow companion.

Before Fyodor could react to this apparent desertion, the captain skidded to a

halt. As Liriel ran past, the enormous man seized the back ofher swordbelt

with one hand, jerking her to an abrupt stop. With his free hand he gathered

up a handful of her tangled hair and chain mail vest. Lifting the drow easily

off her feet, the captain hauled her back for the toss. As Fyodor watched,

slack-mouthed, the man heaved Liriel up and toward the ship.

The captain's strength, combined with Liriel's darkelven powers of levitation,

sent the drow into impromptu flight. Hands outstretched before her, she

hurtled toward the Elfmaid like a dark arrow, her eyes wide with wild delight.

Fyodor caught the drow's wrists and immediately began swinging her around and

around to defuse the force of their collision and to help slow her flight.

With each circle, the drow lost a bit of momentum but none of her obvious

enjoyment. The moment her boots touched the deck, however, Liriel tore free of

Fyodor and ran over to clutch the railing.

"Hrolf!" she called out, her face twisted with dismay.

A startled moment passed before Fyodor realized that the word was a name, not

a signal that the drow was about to become seasick. Liriel gazed at the dock

where the captain had last stood. In his place a swarm of angry kobolds danced

and hooted, growing rapidly smaller as the ship pulled away.

Wishing to ease her distress, Fyodor strode to Liriel's side and pointed down

into the dark water. Below them, swimming for the ship with strong, steady

strokes, was the captain. "He dove in right after he set you aflight," he

explained.

Liriel nodded, and her lips curved in a smile of relief Then, in one of the

abrupt changes of mood that Fyodor had come to know so well, she lifted her

chin to an imperious angle and turned a lance-sharp glare upon the first mate.

Elaine Cunningham - Starlight and Shadows 02 - Tangled Webs

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