CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER FIVE
The illithid known as Vestriss paced the mosaic floor of her throne room, which until recently had been a treasure trove in the submerged ruins that long-dead elves had called Ascarle. Only a few of these ancient treasures remained: large statues for the most part, or golden objects too heavy for the illithid's fleeing slaves to carry away.
Vestriss herself was decidedly worse for wear. Her amethyst rings had been stripped from her four-fingered hands. The silver circlet that had adorned her lavender head was gone, as was the medallion bearing the royal crest she had assumed as the self-proclaimed Regent of Ascarle. Her fine robes had been torn by frenzied, thieving hands, her sensitive facial tentacles bruised. The only reason she still lived was that the slaves had thought her already dead. Liriel Baenre's immobilizing magic had seen to that.
The illithid was not, however, feeling the least bit grateful.
Vestriss's seeking thoughts perceived her genasi slave's foot-dragging approach. Facial tentacles twitched and writhed as if the illithid tasted the air, but Vestriss read the story of the genasi's mission in the emotional storm creeping toward the throne room. Rage the genasi knew in plenty, and frustration, failure, and fear.
Fear. Oh, yes. There was reason for fear.
Vestriss settled into her throne and turned her empty white eyes toward the door. In moments a lithe, blue-skinned female entered the room and dipped into a deep reverence. Purple bruises mottled her face, and one eye was nearly swollen shut. Hatred for the drow who had done this swirled through the genasi's mind, and her overwhelming desire for revenge sang in concert with the illithid's own, similar fury.
Vengeance is the reward of the competent, the illithid "said," projecting a regal, feminine voice directly into the genasi's mind. You, Azar, have failed me.
The genasi's lips thinned, and insulted pride rolled from her in pungent waves. "If I have, mistress, it was because I lacked the necessary magic," she said in petulant tones. "You said the drow was a wizard. You did not know how powerful."
Did I not1? Uriel Baenre stood in my presence. Were I so inclined, I could list every spell in her quiver. I gave you all the magic you needed to stave off her attacks. One tentacle stabbed toward Azar like an accusing finger. What cause have you for complaint? It wasn't magic that marred your face.
The genasi hand lifted to the swelling around one eye. "Even so, lack of magic was the mission's undoing. I intended to follow the ship and slip up on the drow unobserved, but a bullywug shaman sent me into battle, and I had no defense against his call. This I must have."
The illithid dismissed her slave's concern with a flip of her purple hand. Bullywugs are vile monsters, to be sure, but their magic is of little account. They surprised you once. You will not be caught a second time.
"I wish that were true!" the genasi wailed. "The shaman's call— I can hear it still! It is not fitting that the Regent of Ascarle's servants must heed a lessor's voice. Is there nothing you can do to loosen these degrading bonds?"
After a moment's consideration, Vestriss inclined her bulbous head in assent. Quiet your thoughts as best you can. It will make the process less painful for you, and what is far more important, more convenient for me.
The illithid rose and glided toward the slave, who dutifully knelt and tipped up her battered face. Facial tentacles enfolded the genasi's head as Vestriss's innate mental magic probed her slave's mind. She slipped past Azur's roiling thoughts with the ease of a halfling pickpocket, past word-shaped thought, past all emotions the genasi acknowledged and understood, moving swiftly and directly to the mind's hidden depths. There Vestriss found a hard, hateful knot of compulsion. With a mental touch as sure and delicate as a harpist's fingers as she loosened the threads—
Her concentration shattered suddenly, completely. Vestriss staggered back, staring in disbelief at the dagger's hilt protruding from between her lower ribs.
For the second time in her life, the illthid's mental voice was silenced—not by a drow's magic but by the white-hot pain pulsing from the blade.
"No more compulsion," Azar hissed. She rose to her feet, and her blue hand seized the dagger, twisting it. "No more slavery. Only vengeance. Do you still find me incompetent?"
The truth came to Vestriss slowly, beating at her dazed mind like the sound of distant surf. Azar hated the drow, loathed the bullywug shaman. That was real enough, but the mental clamor of these new indignities had cloaked her first and most bitter resentment.
Vestriss threw her will against the terrible pain, forcing it aside long enough to shape a final, important thought:
And the draw ?
A sneer twisted Azar's bruised face. "Even now, you assume I'll do your bidding! The drow bested me, yes, but she bested you as well. In my mind, this settles all scores. Know this: You will die and she will not. If that pains you, I am content."
The genasi jerked the dagger's hilt downward and shoved the blade in high and hard, a brutal thrust that quested deep into the illithid's chest. Muscle resisted briefly, painfully, then the blade sank into something soft and pulpy.
The genasi tore the weapon free, and suddenly Vestriss was drowning. Ichor bubbled from her tentacles and welled up in her eyes, spilling down her face in scalding green tears.
The marble floor sped toward her. Vestriss did not register the impact, but she gradually became aware of a new and distant pain. Horror flooded her as she realized its source. Azar's dagger was slicing through a facial tentacle.
The genasi tossed one twitching appendage aside and reached for another. "Despite all, the bullywugs were an instrument of my freedom. This will be their reward," she explained. "As the drow will soon learn, I settle all scores."
The tapping on the hull of the ship grew more insistent. Shar-larra frowned. "Perhaps I should have asked for the answering code," she muttered.
With a shrug, she stepped over to the wall and rapped out an echoing quatrain of the unmistakable rhythm of "The Mermaid," one of the bawdiest tunes sung in Skullport taverns. That seemed to satisfy the unseen scout. Now it was time to pass the warning along.
That presented a problem. According to Khelben, Caladorn Cassalanter was aboard this ship. Sharlarra didn't know him well, but they had been partnered at the last Winterfest ball. There was a distinct possibility that he had figured out what happened to his jeweled cloak pin. No one would suspect one of Khelben Arunsun's apprentices of thievery, but she was far from Blackstaff Tower. In her close-fitting dark clothes, with a nobleman's jeweled sword on her hip, she looked suspiciously like a halfling second-story artist after a good night. Only taller. And sober.
Inspiration struck. Calling to mind Fyodor's face and form, she cast the illusion spell over herself and her gear. She examined the result in the bronze mirror over the washbasin and winced at the unfashionable image he presented: leather jerkin, linen shirt, dark wool trousers tucked into low, worn boots. Her gaze dropped to her "borrowed" sword, which now appeared to be a thick black weapon decorated only by the crudely carved bear's head on the pommel.
She started for the door, drawing the sword as she went. A hum of magical energy jolted through it, and a baritone voice broke into fervent song:
"Who draws the sword commands my voice; My song pours forth at your command! Let evil bleed and good rejoice While hymns of victory speed thy hand!"
Sharlarra let out an exasperated curse. She kicked shut the door and prayed that no one had heard. "A singing sword! Damn and blast that man!"
"I don't command perdition's gates, Nor can I hurl a blasting fire; Yet mortal agony awaits The man who dared arouse your ire," the sword sang apologetically.
"Thanks ever so much, but we're in disguise today," she told the sword. "That means no singing."
She felt a dimming of power, uncannily like a human sigh of disappointment, then the magic again blazed bright. The sword switched from song to oratory.
"No melody shall sing thy praise, Yet ringing meter I'll declaim! In spoken verse my voice I'll raise That quaking foes may know thy name!"
Sharlarra gritted her teeth in frustration and glanced toward the ceiling. The scuff of boots on the deck had the leisurely pace of men at ease. The sailors had not yet perceived the coming threat. Time wasted now meant blood spilt later.
"One more word, and I'll have you melted down and recast as a chamber pot. Got it?"
"Hmm hmmm-hm hmm—"
"Sweet sodding Mystra!" she exploded. "Why couldn't Danilo have purchased a Sembian sword? Those weapons know how to take a hint! Listen: No singing, no declaiming, no humming, no idle chit chat. Just kill things. Quietly."
At last the sword subsided. Sharlarra hurried down the narrow corridor and scrambled up the ladder. She drew the disguised weapon and pointed it toward the sea.
"Sea ogres approaching, lads! Let's give them a proper welcome!" she roared, doing her best to imitate Fyodor's Rashemaar accents.
Several of the sailors stopped and looked at her quizzically. Belatedly, the elf realized that her illusion did not extend to her voice—she still spoke in her own sultry elven purr. She'd forgotten to steal one of the berserker's weapons. Without it, the illusion was incomplete.
The sword in her hand chuckled softly.
Sharlarra was saved by a shout from the crow's nest, and the clatter of men gathering weapons to meet yet another foe.
A pair of huge, webbed hands slapped onto the rail. One of the pirates ran forward and slashed down with his cutlass, but another hand thrust forward and caught the man's wrist, halting the blow with ease. A quick twist disarmed the pirate and sent him to his knees. He rolled away a second before enormous feet thumped onto the deck.
The creature crouched in guard position was like no merrow in any lorebook Sharlarra had ever seen. Its head was fishlike, with a spiny standing fin starting at the crown and running down the length of its back. Two large side fins resembled exaggerated elven ears, and its large round eyes were as black and hungry as a shark's. The hideous head was split by an enormous mouth lined with stiletto-like fangs. A sea serpent's tail—long and sinuous and ending in a double row of spikes—flowed from a heavily muscled humanoid torso. Four thick arms, each armored with a ruff of elbow spikes, flexed in preparation for battle.
"Sea devils!" shouted a stout, red-bearded man. "Sahuagin aboard!"
A ringing battle shout burst from Sharlarra's sword, and it fairly leaped toward the crouching monster. The elf followed as best she could, muttering a bloodboil spell as she went.
The sahuagin batted aside the attacking sword with an open-handed swat. One of its upper hands seized Sharlarra's tunic and jerked her up to eye level. Another hand closed around her sword arm with bone-crushing force, and the gaping jaws spread in anticipation.
The black eyes turned glassy, and a fetid steam hissed and swirled through the monster's bared fangs. All of its hands began to tremble violently as its body cooked from within. Sharlarra wrenched her sword hand free and killed the monster quickly, a belly slash that spilled steaming entrails onto the deck.
She carefully sidestepped the mess and spun to survey the chaos around her. A dozen or so of the creatures fought with weapons salvaged from the sea: ancient pikes and rust-brown swords with pitted edges. The pirates held them off easily.
Perhaps too easily.
The elf edged her way out of the melee, parrying sea devil thrusts and jabs as she went. When she was free of the tangle of flailing weapons and cursing pirates, she sprinted toward the aft castle and climbed the ladder to the platform.
From this vantage she had a clear view of the entire ship. As she suspected, on the opposite side of the ship several sahuagin climbed quietly over the rail and made directly for the hold.
Not for these monsters the rough, forgotten weapons of drowned sailors. They were armed with spiked halberds carved from sea ivory, and they wore weapon belts heavy with fine daggers. On every belt hung a net.
They were hunting, and apparently they wished to take their captive alive.
Sharlarra's brow furrowed in consternation. In moments the sahuagin would discover that their quarry was gone. From what she'd heard tell of them, they would kill every man aboard just for sport.
She glanced down at the sword. "Do you think you could imitate Fyodor's voice?"
"Not without talking," it observed rather snidely.
Sharlarra let that pass. "Just shout out an occasional battle cry, an encouraging word, a warning—that sort of thing."
"It's better than nothing."
"Very gracious of you. Let's go."
As she leaped from the platform the sword let out a terrible roar—a blood-chilling sound that brought to mind the charge of a wounded bear. Two of the monsters—and Caladorn Cassalanter— instinctively turned toward the sound.
A third sahuagin darted toward the distracted nobleman. Sharlarra pointed the sword toward the new danger, and her rapidly chanted spell was swallowed by the warning shout pouring from the weapon.
The monster stopped just short of Caladorn, its raised weapon clanging sharply against a miniature wall offeree. Sharlarra dispelled the barrier with a quick gesture—just in time to allow the man's answering strike to pass through.
She spun to the right, following the impulse flowing from the sword. The blade tangled in the spires of a rusted trident, bringing her much closer to a sahuagin's fangs that she had ever hoped to be.
The sahuagin grinned horribly and punched the enjoined weapons toward the elf's face. Instinctively she ducked, ignoring the sharp pain in her shoulder as her sword arm was forced back. She pulled a knife from her boot with her free hand and thrust up, throwing all her weight into the attack.
Thick hide resisted the blade longer than Sharlarra would have thought possible. It gave way suddenly, and the hilt slammed into the monster's belly. The sahuagin shrieked in pain and drew back, leveling the trident for another attack.
One of the well-equipped sahuagin strode over and shoved the wounded monster aside, planting himself in front of Sharlarra and leaning menacingly toward her. To her surprise, the creature did not strike, and it held one hand high overhead. The monster let out a call, a series of loud, chittering clicks that seemed to resound through every plank on the ship.
All over the ship, the sahuagin fell away from the fight and stood with weapons at guard. Something had changed in their manner. Even though the fighting had ceased, the monsters suddenly looked more menacing.
"Where is the drow?" the leader hissed.
"Do you wish to answer, or shall I?" the sword enquired softly.
"Tell them we'll never yield her," Sharlarra prompted. In Fyodor's voice, the sword shouted the response.
"The hell we won't," retorted the red-bearded pirate. "I'm captain here, and I say take her and be you gone!"
The hideous head snapped toward the speaker. "Where are you hiding her?"
"Hiding her?" the captain said incredulously. "I wouldn't spit on her if'n she was on fire."
"Chivalrous sort," Sharlarra murmured.
"Traitor! Coward!" the sword translated loudly.
"Bilge water," the captain snapped at "Fyodor." "Any man what takes up with a black elf has no call to name another man 'traitor.' Yield her up, or I'll kill you myself."
A gleaming trident whirled through the air and sank into the deck at the captain's feet. All eyes traced the weapon's path back toward the sea.
Balancing lightly on the rail were a dozen sea elves. A tall green-skinned female, her shapely head shaved to show off her exotic markings, sent a contemptuous glare toward the captain.
The elves leaped nimbly to the deck and hurled themselves at the equally eager sahuagin. For a long moment the sailors hung back, uncertain. Sharlarra noticed the battle warring on their captain's face—a conflict as fierce as that between the sea elves and their mortal enemies.
Finally the captain lifted his curved sword. "It's our ship, lads! We need no scrawny elves to hold it for us! Heave to!"
The pirates surged forward, and Sharlarra followed them— or more precisely, followed the sword. The thing had gotten fully into the spirit of battle and was roaring out some Rashe-maar battle hymn. She fell into place at the sea elf's back, and though her sword tangled with a sea devil's pike, her cold gaze warned the captain to hold his distance. From what Sharlarra had seen, she would not be the least surprised if an elf or two took wounds from something other than a sahuagin's blades or talons.
Not today. Where she came from, elves of all kinds stood together.
Not far away, a male sea elf battled one of the net-wielding sahuagin. The monster employed a spiked flail with which it attempted to herd the elf into position, but though it whirled and cast the net again and again, each time its quarry slipped away, darting and dodging with astonishing grace.
The sahuagin advanced steadily on its smaller opponent, backing the sea elf toward the rail between two roiling clusters of fighters. The net spun out full, dropping toward the elf like a jellyfish intent upon surrounding its prey. There was no place to go, and the sea devil's skull-splitting grin celebrated victory.
A silver blade slashed up, tearing through the net as if it were slicing a ripe pear. The sahuagin's head tipped slowly back then rolled to the deck. Its smile was still in place.
Magical knife, observed Sharlarra. This must be the Xzorsh of whom Liriel spoke.
Her attention was seized by the sword's eager shout. A four-armed sahuagin rushed toward her, brandishing a shining weapon in each hand.
Sharlarra cast a hold-person cantrip on the charging sea devil then ran it through. Not exactly sporting, but in her opinion, neither was having an extra pair of arms. In any event, she had her hands full with the monster coming hard on Four Arms' heels.
For many moments Sharlarra stood and fought the sahuagin, her disguised blade singing merrily as it clashed, clattered, and scraped against the monster's rusted sword.
The sea devil worked the singing weapon down low, then lifted a taloned foot and stomped on the blade. The weapon was wrenched from Sharlarra's hand.
She dived away from a lunging strike, rolled aside, and came up wielding the first weapon that came to hand, a long, slender lock pick. The sahuagin stood like an ugly black statue, frozen in the act of delivering a wicked backhand slash.
Xzorsh strode past, toppling the sea devil with a casual shove. The monster rolled to the deck, still frozen in attack position.
"My first spell," the sea elf said proudly. "Liriel taught me this herself. Where is she?"
He spoke softly, but Sharlarra heard him clearly. She noticed that the battle had died down to a few skirmishes. The ship was nearly empty of both sahuagin and sea elves. Most likely they'd decided that the humans didn't matter and had taken their battle back to the seas.
The sea elf's eyes narrowed. "There is a haze of magic about you, more than the berserker rage could summon. You might look like Fyodor, but you are not he."
Sharlarra smiled. "Liriel was right about you—you do seem to have an inherent gift. She asked me to find you a teacher. Maybe we should continue this discussion in private."
A delighted smile lit the elf's face. "Your voice is elven."
"So's the rest of me," she purred, "but I'm not going to show it to you up here."
The sea elf chuckled appreciatively then led the way down into the hold of the ship. They went to the cabin shared by the drow and Rashemi and shut the door.
The elf quickly dispelled the illusion, and stood before Xzorsh in her own form.
"I'm Sharlarra Vindrith, and I've recently left an apprenticeship with Khelben Arunsun, archmage of Waterdeep. The drow asked me to find you a teacher. In the meanwhile, I'd be happy to pass along some of the things I've learned."
"A gold elf teaching the Lost Art to one of the Sea People!" he marveled.
"Not a gold elf," she corrected him, and shrugged. "I'm . . . something else, though no one I've met can tell me precisely what."
He accepted this with a nod. "When can we begin?"
"As soon as our two friends are safely to their destination, or at least well on their way, I'll send for you. Can I get word to you through the harbor merfolk?"
"Yes, of course!"
"Wait for my word." The sea-elf looked hesitant, so Sharlarra took Liriel's little mesh bag of gems from her bag, spilled one into her hand, and handed the rest to the sea elf.
"I need one jewel in order to follow Liriel. Take the rest as my bond."
Xzorsh accepted the bag and watched as Sharlarra summoned a magical gate and stepped through it.
"Someday," he said wistfully, "I will be able to do that and more!"
He watched as the gate began to fade, the iridescent colors sliding along the surface like the captured rainbow of a child's soap bubble. Like that imagined bubble, it peeled away. A tall, raven-haired female elf stood where the gate had been.
"Where is he?" the female demanded in a low, rather husky voice.
"Whom do you seek?" Xzorsh asked.
"Blackstaff's apprentice."
The sea elf stood silent. He? The Blackstaff's apprentice had demonstrated an ability to change form, but Xzorsh had assumed that the apprentice truly was a beautiful elf maid with red-gold hair and violet eyes flecked with gold. In truth, he knew nothing about Sharlarra but the name she had given him. It could have been invented. Even her voice might have been the product of magic. Liriel had told him more than once that he was too trusting.
Yet the stranger knew of his wish to learn magic, and she had entrusted him with a fortune in gems.
The elf woman's gaze followed his to the coin bag, and she snatched it from his hand.
"He was here," she confirmed grimly. "A rampaging green dragon leaves a more subtle trail!"
"Those gems were given me in trust," Xzorsh said quietly but firmly. "I will not relinquish them to you."
The elf looked at him with measuring eyes. "The drow can be traced through these gems. Possession of them might bring trouble."
"Let it come. I never thought that the Art would be an easy thing."
"So be it." She tossed the gems at Xzorsh and waved him away from the door. He moved aside, and she wrenched it open.
A thin line of moonlight streamed down from the open hold. The elf woman splayed her fingers wide and reached out for it. As the light spilled between her fingers, she simultaneously began to shrink in size and rise toward the moonbeam's source. In a heartbeat she was a glowing mote among the dust swirling through the faint light, then she was gone.
Xzorsh watched with shining eyes and a heart filled with longing. He gazed at the stream of light long after the elf had disappeared, as if the secret to this marvel might be whispered by the swirling dust motes.
He dropped his eyes to the bag in his hands. With a reverent finger he traced the gracefully swirling rune that was the mark of a mage.
Someday he would have such a mark. Someday he would step through air bubbles into distant seas, and follow moonlight wherever it went.
Such dreams filled his heart as he quietly climbed the ladder and slipped, unnoticed, into the sea.