Liriel awoke at sunrise after a scant hour or so of slumber, startled from sleep by the clamor coming from somewhere below her. A moment passed before the usually alert drow remembered where she was, and why. Grumbling, she tossed aside the blanket and crawled out of the cot she’d been given in the loft of Ulf’s cottage. Quickly she dressed and climbed down the ladder that led into the large central chamber that served as kitchen, meeting area, and sleeping quarters for Ulfs ~ family.
The room bustled with activity. Ulf’s wife, Sanja, a thick-bodied Northwoman whose usual expression suggested she’d recently drunk large quantities of sour milk, looked positively pleasant as she went about her work. She was dressed as if for a festive occasion; her braided hair was wrapped around her head with ribbons and fixed in place with pins of yellow gold, and she wore a bright red shift over a blouse of much-embroidered linen. The woman busily packed pots and clothing and household linens into an enormous chest, all the while happily scolding the thralls who attended the packing and the usual household chores. Dagmar moved to do Sanja’s bidding also, but Liriel noticed that the girl was pale and tight-Iipped as she went about her work.
“What’s going on?” the drow inquired as she helped herself from a bowl of wild berries.
“My daughter travels to Holgerstead today,” Ulf replied. “She will enter the household of Wedigar, the First Axe of that village. When the moon is full, they will be wed. It is a great honor to this household,” he said, casting a stern glance toward the girl.
Liriel did not need to ask Dagmar’s opinion of the honor being dealt her. It astounded the drow that no one seemed concerned by the young woman’s obvious distress. Liriel was not certain whether she should feel sorry for the girlwho was clearly being sent away and married off against her will-or whether she should try to slap some sense into the spineless wench.
There was little time for either. Liriel abandoned her meal to watch as two burly thralls lugged the chest out and hoisted it up onto a flatbed wagon, to which were hitched two pairs of oxen. Several barrels and crates had already been loaded and strapped securely into place.
Sanja crossed her arms over her bosom and surveyed the heavily laden cart with a critical eye. “Well, Dagmar, an that’s lacking are the traditional barrels of oil and meal. Those you can fetch from Hrolf’s warehouse before we leave. Not even a First Axe could quarrel with my daughteis bride price,” she said with deep satisfaction.
Liriel’s eyes widened with astonishment and rage. A female was expected to bring a dowry? In her land, not even the lowly males were subjected to such indignity. Drow males were chosen as mates for whatever merits the females happened to see in them. They were discarded just as easily, true, but at least their families didn’t sell them to whatever priestess put in the highest bid!
Before Liriel could speak her mind, Sanja stripped off several of the golden bands encircling her plump arms and gave them to her daughter, along with a spate of motherly admonitions about a wife’s duties. The speech was blunt and detailed enough to startle even the fun-Ioving drow. Dagmar made her escape as soon as she decently could, her face corpse-white except for the livid stains of embarrassment that slashed across her cheeks.
“I’ll go with you to Hrolf’s warehouse,” Liriel said abruptly.
The young Northwoman only nodded, clearly eager to be away. She took up the lead rope and began to guide the oxen down the road that led toward the warehouses. Liriel fell into step, and they walked in silence past the small buildings that housed the ducks and rabbits that supplied the family’s table.
Dagmar paused near the edge of the yard and cast a long look over the kitchen garden. Tending this, Liriel had learned, was one of Dagmar’s responsibilities. Between gardening and fishing, the girl was as much a servant as any of the slave-born thralls who served the household. And this was the life of the only daughter of an important and relatively wealthy man! The drow couldn’t help but wonder what type of servitude awaited Dagmar in another woman’s household.
Two large wooden boxes stood just off the path, full of sand and salty water. Liriel caught sight of a burrowing clam-it seemed that many of the villagers kept a supply of shellfish and edible seaweed handy. She absently plucked a bit of kelp-a tightly whorled bud of some sortfrom the water and began to nibble it as she searched her mind for anything that might ease Dagmar’s situation. A look at the girl’s stricken face, however, banished all thoughts of diplomacy.
“You don’t have to do this,” Liriel said bluntly. “Fight your way out of it, if you have to. I’ll stand with you. I won’t see another female served so badly!”
But the young Northwoman shook her head. “I must go,” she said in a distracted voice as she flipped a pale yellow braid over her shoulder. “The First Axe needs a hamfariggen heir who can lead the berserkers in battle. It is my duty to provide one.
“You heard Hrolf speak of Y graine,” Dagmar continued softly. “She was my twin-born sister, lost last spring in a sudden squall. The night we two were born, the old women who read the oracles said Ygraine would bring the shapestrong magic back to Ruathym and help restore the ancient glories we have all but lost. And what other path to glory is given a woman of the North, but through the man she weds and the sons she bears him? Ygraine’s betrothed was the last young hamfariggen warrior on the island. He is dead. The only shape-strong man on Ruathym is Wedigar, and he must have sons. Ygraine would have gone to him willingly. This destiny now falls to me; can I do less than she?”
Liriel threw up her hands in disgust. If Dagmar was going to take that attitude, there was no helping her!
“But there is something you can do for me,” the girl murmured. “I wish to go to Holgerstead quietly, and alone. Leave me now and wait for a time before returning to my father’s house, so they do not know I have left. Else, they will travel with me and hand me with great ceremony into Wedigar’s unwilling hands. That, I think, I could not bear.” The request seemed reasonable enough, so the drow nodded and slipped off into the nearby forest. After an hour or so passed, she’d wander back to the cottage with news of Dagmar’s escape.
A grin of wicked anticipation spread across Liriel’s face as she pictured Sanja’s astonishment and ire. The stolid Northwoman could throw an impressive tantrum. Liriel had observed a most entertaining example ofSanja’s talents earlier, when she and Ulfhad crept into the cottage in the waning hours of night. Granted, the woman’s rage was not as colorful and violent as those favored by drow priestesses, for the dark elves could punctuate their shrieking diatribes with the lashes of a snake-headed whip and bursts of magical fury. But the Northwoman did what she could with the resources she had-Liriel had to grant her that/
It was something to look forward to, anyway, in a day that had unquestionably gotten off to a bad start.
Rethnor was still abed in his room in Vestress’s palace when the door to his room exploded inward. The portal shattered into a storm of sparkling crystal that showered his bed and clattered to the marble floor. One jagged shard pierced the arm he instinctively flung up to shield his face. The High Captain swore as he tore out the splinter and cast it aside. He leaped to his feet and lunged for the sword that he kept always ready beside his bed. Bringing it up in guard position, he faced down the intruder.
Shakti stood in the ruined doorway, clutching a smoking pitchfork in her hands as if it were a spear. Her dark face was livid as she advanced on the captain.
“Three days you have been in the Night Above,” she shrieked, “and what have you accomplished? You have returned to Ascarle without Liriel Baenre. Show me how you will bring me my prey, or die now by my hands/”
In response, the captain lunged forward, blade leading. He stabbed between the pitchfork’s tines and then spun his body sharply to one side. The speed and strength of his attack tore the weapon from the drow’s grip. It fell to the floor with a sharp clatter.
“Die by your hands?” he taunted her.
“Or yours, if you prefer,” the drow hissed from between clenched teeth. She thrust both hands out, thumbs entwined, and then slapped her palms sharply together.
A familiar tingle started in Rethnor’s new hand and sent a shiver of dread into his very soul. Once again the treacherous limb abandoned him to the power of the dark elf’s foul magic. He watched in helpless rage as his sword hand lifted his blade and placed the edge against his throat.
“How will you deliver Liriel Baenre?” demanded Shakti as she stalked in closer. “Tell me all you have done, and plan to do, or die now!”
Rethnor did not doubt the drow’s sincerity of purpose, i and he spoke with all candor. “I have contacted my spy on ~ the island and know at last the drow wizard’s weakness. ~ She has a human lover-the very warrior who took my hand,” he admitted grudgingly. “By all reports, the elf I woman is very loyal to her friends. If this man is captured, she will certainly come after him.”
The priestess looked doubtful. “She is drow. Why would she care for the welfare of a human male?”
“You have a better suggestion?” Rethnor asked this with less sarcasm that he might have employed-it seemed a prudent choice, considering the sword at his throat.
“Kill him,” Shakti advised coldly. “If he is an interesting lover, the loss will anger her, and she will seek vengeance.” Rethnor considered. This reasoning struck him as sound, given his own rather casual attitude toward his bedmates, and his experience with this particular dark elf:
“It will be as you say,” the captain promised. “The time for the invasion nears, and tonight the berserkers of HoIgerstead will die. All of them,” he added with grim satisfaction.
“Really? By whose hand?”
The Northman glanced down at the sword at his throat, and his lips tightened in a small, hard smile. “By the hand of treachery,” he said softly. “I have learned how effective that can be.”
A strange light entered the drow’s crimson eyes. “Effective, but too efficient for my liking,” she stated with dark glee, and she reached for something tucked into her belt, something that looked like the handle of a whip.
As she pulled it free, several thick ropes emerged from among the folds of her skirts. They rose up, swaying sinuously, and regarded Rethnor with pitiless, reptilian eyes. To his horror, the High Captain realized that the whip was made up of living snakes. Five of them-all with eager, open jaws and fangs dripping with venom.
Shakti drew back her arm and then lashed forward. The snake heads dove in, and their fangs sank deep into the High Captain’s flesh. Jolts ~of icy, numbing pain shocked through him, and he dropped to the floor, nerveless and limp.
Again the priestess flung back her arm, ripping the snakes’ fangs from him. She stood poised for an agonizingly long moment as Rethnor steeled himself for the second strike.
“That will do for now,” the drow said with obvious reluctance. “But remember the price of failure and do not risk awakening my anger!”
Shakti tucked away the whip; the snakes immediately snuggled back into their hiding places. She retrieved her pitchfork and stalked from the room. The man regarded the shattered door, his deep puncture wounds and torn flesh, and he marveled that the drow did not consider these to be acts of rage. He wondered with deep foreboding what might occur if she should ever become truly angered.
A thought flashed in Rethnor’s pain-numbed mind, one too full of possibilities to ignore. The thrice-bedamned priestess had turned his own body against him. But perhaps there was some treachery he could yet deal her. Shakti wanted the drow wizard. Very well, he would deliver her to Shakti, but in such a rage as might well level all of Ascarle.
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 grim-faced 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 red-bearded 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 grim-faced 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 long-dead 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.”
The First Axe nodded toward the Northmen warriors. “Tell them how.”
Without pause the Rashemi turned to the assembled fighters. “Merrow attack in a quick, swarming charge, then fight hand to hand. All of you who have pikes and spears, get behind the tables now! Send a few arrows toward the merrow from behind the shield wall, but otherwise keep yourselves and your weapons out of sight until my signal. All others, take a place behind me.”
The Northmen fell into position. Fyodor stood behind the tables so he might see the coming attack. Behind him he heard the chanting that brought on the Ruathens’ berserker rages. He himself stared intently at the creatures who descended the stairs toward the courtyard, their webbed feet slapping the ancient stone. When his frenzy came upon him, he wanted to be certain he spent it on the invaders.
Most of the merrow merely batted aside the first storm of arrows. Four or five of them fell, pawing at the shafts that protruded from the soft tissue at the base of a throat, or in an eye—but not enough of them, apparently, to convince the surviving creatures that the fighters behind the shield wall posed much of a threat. One of the sea ogres, a ten-foot creature with three black horns protruding from its forehead, shouted a guttural command. The merrow darted into formation. Leveling their spears and tridents at the swordsmen, they charged.
“They will jump the barrier,” Fyodor cautioned the Northmen, speaking fast to time his words with the swift approach of the sea ogres. “Fall back three paces, set your weapons high, brace them well-now!”
The hidden warriors snapped up and into position, their pikes and spears angled up for the attack-just as the merrow leaped. The creatures had their eyes upon the swordsmen and axe-wielders beyond, and those few who perceived the new threat could not change their momentum. The ogres fell heavily onto the waiting pikes. The Northmen held on grimly, many of them going down beneath the weight of the impaled sea ogres. Some of the spears broke upon impact, not all found their mark-but the first charge was definitely halted.
Roaring out to Tempus, the rest of the Northmen warriors charged. Axes glinted wickedly in the torchlight as the men felled sea ogres like doomed timber. Here and there in the courtyard some of the merrow faced off in duels against individual swordsmen, but the creatures’ speed and strength were overmatched by the berserker frenzy of Holgerstead’s fighters.
As Fyodor parried the stabbing attack of a merrow’s spear, he felt the familiar heat of the berserker frenzy sweep through him. Suddenly he faced the much taller sea ogre at eye level. The creature’s almost comical look of surprise washed slowly over its face; then it rallied and swept the spear up and around in a leisurely arch. An illusion, of course. Always did Fyodor’s battle frenzy speed his movements to the point where the world around him seemed to move at a crawl.
The young berserker’s hand snapped out and caught the wooden shaft of the merrow’s weapon. He stepped aside as he yanked down hard, bringing up his knee in the same instant. The shaft splintered like seasoned kindling. Fyodor still held one end of the shattered weapon. He drove the thing deep into the merrow’s gut with such force that his fist followed the shaft, sinking deep into the merrow’s body. He released the weapon and plunged his hand farther upward, seeking another hard object: one of the ogre’s ribs. His fmgers closed on it.
Fyodor used the momentum of the creature’s fall to help him tear the rib free. He spun, ducked under the swinging blade of another merrow’s hauberk, and then thrust up, burying the macabre weapon deep into the ogre’s eye. He tugged at the curved rib, wrenching it down and around as ifhe were cranking a windlass, in the process thoroughlyand literally-scrambling the merrow’s brain. Gray tissue oozed from the creature’s nostrils as it plunged face first onto the blood-soaked ground.
With the first threat past, the young berserker looked around for more enemies. The merrow were thickest around Wedigar-in some dim corner of his mind, Fyodor reasoned that the creatures must have been instructed to do away with Holgerstead’s leader. He waded in, his black sword slashing a path toward the First Axe.
Wedigar was bleeding from a dozen wounds, some of them deep, and he was weaving on his feet. Yet he fought on, his battle-axe flashing as he fended off the much larger creatures. Fyodor noted that the man did not fight in frenzy. Perhaps the merrow had come upon him too quickly; perhaps his mead-poisoned mind could not summon the needed focus. Whatever the case, Fyodor fell in at Wedigar’s back and fought back the merrow that pressed upon his commander and friend.
Screams of warning came from the keep; several Northwomen leaned from the high windows and gestured frantically toward the outer walls. Some of them took up small bows and began to rain arrows into the far reaches of the courtyard.
Fyodor darted a glance over his shoulder. Swarms of hideous, fishlike men were creeping toward the fighters in eerily precise, V-shaped formations. Two of these groups flanked him and began to close in on the beleaguered First Axe and his young protector. Fyodor sensed the solid form at his back falter, then go down on one knee.
Wedigar, the FirstAxe ofHolgerstead, had fallen at last.
A second change swept through Fyodor, something far
beyond the fire and ice of his battle frenzy. It was as if a strong wind blew through him, sweeping him toward insentience. The black sword dropped from his hand, and he whirled, lashing out at the two merrow who stood triumphantly over Wedigar, their spears poised for killing thrusts. Enormous claws ripped across the throats of both merrow, and the lifeblood of the creatures washed, like a crimson fountain, over the fallen First Axe.
Fyodor shouted a warning to the others as he pointed toward the new enemy. He was not at all surprised to hear the roar of an enraged bear coming from his throat, or to perceive his gesturing hand as an enormous, black-furred paw. He merely dropped down onto all fours and charged the oncoming fish-men.
The creatures let out clattering shrieks and scattered at once, fleeing from the seemingly rabid black bear that raged toward them. But the Rashemi warrior was faster still, falling upon the fish-men with rending claws and slashing fangs.
A wild shout went up behind him as the Northmen rallied. The uncanny frenzy that claimed Fyodor seemed to touch them as well, speeding their movements and bringing them onward in a valiant rush. For many moments the courtyard was a blur of flailing swords and axes as the Northmen cut down the invaders with relentless glee. Meanwhile, behind the line of battle, Wedigar stirred, groaned, and wiped the merrow’s blood from his eyes. The sight in the courtyard beyond both thrilled and worried him. A new shapeshifter had come to Ruathym; his people would overcome the enemy-although with little credit to him. But the fighter put aside personal pride at once, for as he studied the young Rashemi’s unnatural rage, he realized this was no usual hamfariggen warrior. Wedigar was not at all certain the battle would stop when the sea creatures had been overcome.
The First Axe dragged himself to his feet and staggered to the thick wooden gate in the outer wall. For several long moments he strained at the bolt; it gave way with a shriek of metal. He tugged until the heavy door swung inward. The surviving merrow and their sahuagin allies fled at once toward the offered escape. Still in bear form, Fyodor pursued, galloping after them and roaring in inhuman rage. Behind him roiled the Northmen berserkers, intent upon driving their enemies back into the sea.
Wedigars wife, Alflilda, came running to him from the keep, her eyes frantic and her skirts flying. Her keen eyes swept over him, noting his sluggish movements and the shivering he could not control. She had been a warrior’s daughter before she was a warrior’s wife, and she knew well the signs of the numbing illness that came after battle wounds. She shrugged off her cape and wrapped it around her husband’s shoulders.
“It is done; it is enough,” Alflilda pleaded. “Come and let me tend your hurts.”
“My sword,” he grated out.
The woman hesitated only a moment; then she hastened back to fetch the fallen weapon. Wedigar sheathed it, then put one arm around Alfhilda’s shoulders, accepting her offered strength. “I must get down to the water’s edge,” he said, grimacing as a new wave of pain struck him. Alflilda had heard the story of the Rashemi’s curse, and she followed her husband’s reasoning at once. The frenzies ofHolgerstead’s warriors would cease when the enemy disappeared; Wedigar intended to ensure that Fyodor stopped fighting as well.
Alflilda’s eyes were bright with a pain deeper than Wedigar’s as she helped her husband toward the coming battle, and perhaps toward death. Although she was justly proud of her husband’s battle prowess, she had seen the young Rashemi fight, and fear chilled her to her soul. But Wedigar had his duty, and she had hers. She would accept her husband’s choice and give him what aid she could.
By the time the struggling pair reached the shore, the last of the sahuagin were splashing frantically into the waves. The Ruathen berserkers ceased at once, some of them drooping with exhaustion, others chanting out victory songs. Only Fyodor was not appeased by the disappearance of the sea folk. Still in bear form and snarling with battle lust, he prowled back and forth along the shoreline.
“All of you, back to the fortress!” Wedigar commanded. The men eyed the raging shapeshifter and hesitated, made uncertain by their love and loyalty to their First Axe.
But the Northwoman seized the axe from her husband’s belt and brandished it. “Obey the First Axe, or die by a woman’s hand,” she shouted at them, her eyes blazing.
The men nodded and fell back, shamed into compliance by Alflilda’s devotion and fortitude. Without a backward glance, she followed them into the fortress and threw her weight into helping to close the massive door that would bar her husband from the safety of the fortress.
Wedigar waited, his sword still in his scabbard, until the Rashemi in bear form at last turned away from the sea. The bear’s eyes, a bright and incongruous blue in his darkfurred face, burned with killing rage as they settled upon the wounded warrior.
For a long time they stood so. Then a shudder ran thraugh the massive form of the bear, and the fur began to recede, disappearing into the pale-skinned body of a man. In moments Fyodor of Rashemen stood before Holgerstead’s First Axe, naked and white with exhaustion, but otherwise unhurt.
He looked at Wedigar with puzzlement, taking in the man’s many wounds, the hand poised on the hilt of his sword. Then understanding came, and he nodded slowly. “You came here to kill me,” he whispered.
“Yes.”
The young berserker drew in a long, shuddering breath. “For this, I thank you,” he said simply.
Wedigar responded with a grim smile and shrugged off Alflilda’s cloak. He handed it to the young warrior. As Fyodor wrapped it around himself, the First Axe swayed. “I am glad it was not needed,” he said in a fading voice. “You are now a true hamfarrigen, my friend, and trusted in this as in all other things.”
Fyodor caught Wedigar as he fell and slung the unconscious man over his shoulder. Slowly, painfully, he climbed the steep and rocky path that led back to the fortress village. The door swung open to admit them. Several men rushed forward to take Wedigar from Fyodor’s hands, and they carried him into the keep to be tended by the village shaman. Following Alfhilda’s calm direction, the other villagers fell to work tending the wounded, building a funeral pyre for the dead, dragging the dead and wounded sea creatures down to the shore to be fed to the sharks-no honorable fire for them.
Garbed in shirt, breeches, and boots donated by some of his berserker brethren, Fyodor worked steadily beside them. His thoughts, however, were with his wounded friend. When Alfhilda came again into the courtyard to bring a report, Fyodor listened as avidly as any Holgersteader to her words.
“The shaman says Wedigar will live. His wounds, however, are many and grievous, and he will not fight for many days. He asks, therefore, that you accept Fyodor of Rashemen as First Axe in his stead, to lead you in battle until such time as he can resume his post. And there is more,” she said, lifting a hand to still the rising murmur of astonishment. “Wedigar names Fyodor as the heir to Holgerstead, according to the law and custom of this village, until the day the girl Dagmar bears him a shape-strang warrior son. I accept the customs of this land and the duties given my husband and lord,” she concluded softly. “Can you, his sworn men, do otherwise?”
Her face was regal; her eyes defied them to pity her. The men fell silent before the force of Alfhilda’s words and the depth of the proud woman’s devotion. Then, as one, they drew their weapons and laid them at Fyodor’s feet. In solemn unison, they echoed the pledge spoken by the stalwart Northwoman.
“To the First Axe of Holgerstead, all blades be pledged. In peace and in battle, we will follow.”
Fyodor stood, silent and stunned, as his berserker brethren pledged fealty. He could not repudiate the charge that Wedigar had laid upon him, but neither could he bear this burden for long. Although he had not turned on his comrades in his latest and most terrible battle frenzy, the sheer power of it horrified him. He had listened to Wedigar’s stories of the shapeshifting warriors, but it had never occurred to him that he himself might take on animal form. It was bad enough that he fought without consent of his will. This utter and complete loss of self was more than he could abide.
The Rashemi knew he would have to travel to Ruathym village the next day and tell Liriel all that had transpired. Unless the drow wizard could cast the rune successfully and soon, Fyodor felt he would have no choice but to seek out Wedigar and beg him to fnish the task he was prepared to do at the water’s edge. The young berserker could not take his own life; this was strictly forbidden a warrior of Rashemen. Death was a gift that could come only at the hand of a trusted friend, or, perhaps, a swift and treacherous foe.
When the night’s grim work at last was done, Fyodor went to the room given him in the warriors’ lodge. He stripped off his borrowed clothing and fell gratefully into bed, too tired to care that the faces of slain multitudes would haunt his dreams.
A soft tap at the window roused him from slumber. Despite his exhaustion, Fyodor responded with a warrior’s reflexes. He was on his feet at once, his cudgel in hand. He hauled it high overhead as the shutter swung inward.
A pale head poked into the room, and light blue eyes grew wide as they fixed upon the ready weapon in his hands. Fyodor recognized the shaman’s daughter, and as he lowered his cudgel, he heaved a sigh of mingled relief and exasperation.
Dagmar crawled in through the low window and sank at once into a deep curtsy. “You saved my new home, Fyodor of Holgerstead, and no doubt my life as well. For this I thank you.”
“I accept your thanks,” he murmured with a wry smile, “but could they not have waited until morning?”
The woman rose swiftly to full height and met his eyes. “Not as I would wish to express them,” she said frankly. Her meaning was unmistakable. Fyodor fell back a step, and suddenly he remembered he was unclad. He reached for Wedigar’s cloak and wrapped it around him.
“The mantle of First Axe suits you well,” she said, “but it is not needed just now.” With these words she parted the folds of the cloak and laid both palms upon the young man’s chest.
Fyodor caught her wrists and put her hands gently away. “You are Wedigar’s pledged bride,” he said softly. “And you are his pledged heir. It is expected.”
Fyodor dug a hand into his hair and stared helplessly at the girl. He had not imagined anything like this might come with the role he’d accepted! And yet, it seemed to him that the Northwoman’s words held little truth. He lifted one eyebrow and fixed a skeptical gaze upon her.
The young woman sighed and then shrugged. “Very well, perhaps it is not the expected custom. But there must be an heir to Holgerstead-a hamfariggen warrior who can lead the berserkers in battle. The oracles say I can bear such a son. If you give me a child, I could leave this household and go back to my village with honor. It would be a gift,” she said softly, her pale eyes pleading. “To Holgerstead, to all of Ruathym. To me. Even to Wedigar,” she concluded with a touch of bitterness.
Fyodor knew a surge of pity for the young woman, for Wedigar was not a man for pretense, and it was clear to all that the First Axe was not happy about the need to take a second wife. And having witnessed Alfhilda’s courage and loyalty, Fyodor did not wonder that Wedigar had eyes for no other woman. Not even one as undeniably beautiful as Dagmar.
As if sensing the path Fyodor’s thoughts had taken, the young woman stepped away from him and began to tug at the laces that fastened her overtunic. She stripped off gown and blouse quickly, then raked her hands through her braids until her hair fell into long golden waves. The faint light of a crescent moon filtered in through the window, glimmering on her pale hair and white skin. She went to his bed and lay down upon it.
“A gift,” she repeated softly.
For a moment the young man was honestly tempted. But an emotion stronger than sympathy, deeper than desire, ruled Fyodor’s heart. He reached for his discarded clothing. Dagmar watched with despairing eyes as he dressed and gathered up his belongings.
“But why?” she demanded. “Why do you leave? Are you not like other men, that you do not take pleasures freely offered? Or am I displeasing to you-is that it?”
“You are most beautiful; no one who is truly a man could deny that. But I cannot betray a friend,” he responded as he walked to the door.
“But you would not! Wedigar would surely thank you!” Fyodor paused in the doorway and turned back to face the Northwoman. “I was speaking not of Wedigar, but of Liriel.”