Chapter 11
Escape

Do you know anything about this?” demanded Khelben “Blackstaff” Arunsun, archmage ofWaterdeep, as he thrust a sheet of parchment into his nephew’s hands.

The young man scanned the elegant, slanted script that could only have come from the quill of Baron Khaufros, one of Waterdeep’s staunchest northern allies. “I don’t believe it,” he said flatly.

“Oh? And what basis have you for doubt?”

“I have met the drow in question, and my instincts where women are concerned are impeccable,” the younger man declared comfortably, laying down the parchment so that he might attend to a blond lock that had strayed onto his forehead. His fastidious preening only deepened the archmage’s scowl.

“She caused a bit of trouble down in Skullport,” Khelben reminded him.

“My point precisely. According to the Dark Sister, this lovely young drow played a pivotal part in the raid that took out a nest of Vhaeraun worshipers and freed a shipload of children destined for slavery. Oh, I’ve been following her progress,” he said in response to the archmage’s incredulous gaze, and his voice lost every hint of its lazy drawl. “Did you think I would send a strange drow to the Promenade Temple and not follow through to ensure that my original judgment was sound?”

Khelben ceded this point with a nod, but the worry lines creasing his forehead did not disappear. “I do not doubt that you did your job, Danilo. But did you know that this drow also singlehandedly rescued a criminal from Skullport’s dungeon, then booked passage upon this man’s pirate ship and used some sort of powerful gate spell to remove it from the underground port?”

“No,” the youth admitted and grimaced. “I stopped gathering information after the battle, assuming that the lovely lady had achieved happily-ever-after, as the bards are wont to say.”

Khelben lifted one eyebrow at Danilo’s reference to bards, but for once the archmage refrained from giving his opinion on the matter of bardic reliability. “It is the drow’s magical escape from Skullport that concerns me and gives credence to the baron’s report. Anyone who commands power enough to bypass Halaster’s gates is a potential danger.”

The young man nodded somberly as he picked up the parchment. Once again he read the reports of increased drow activity in the area of the River Dessarin. There had been sightings of a raiding party traveling the Dessarin, and the bodies of several drow males had been discovered in the hills east of the river. Several different bands of human adventurers were apparently squabbling over bragging rights for this victory. The small town of Trollbridge had claimed an attack by a drow female who wielded powerful magic and who had apparently enspelled a young swordsman to do her bidding.

Danilo did not doubt that the pair described were the same he had met less than a month before. By all accounts, the pretty little drow had been busy. But he could not credit to her the atrocities that Baron Khaufros reported or accept the baron’s suggestion that the dark sorceress would take over the wills of whatever men she happened to meet. But he did understand Khelben’s concern about the girl’s magical ability. A powerful wizard, drow or otherwise, was always a wild card, and the game currently playing out in the northern seas was complicated enough.

“She should be watched,” Danilo admitted.

“She should be stopped,” the archmage retorted and then paused. “There is something else you should know. We have received word from the harbor merfolk that a Waterdhavian hunting vessel known as the Cutter was scuttled by pirates. There were no survivors; all of the men aboard were put to the sword. The captain of the attacking ship was Hrolf the Unruly, the man your drow rescued from Skullport’s dungeons.”

The young man’s face went very still. “Wasn’t Caladorn aboard that ship?”

“I’m afraid so,” Khelben said somberly. “Since the young fool has his mind set on adventuring at sea, the Lords of there was, in truth, little for them to do. At length they fell to drinking and the telling of grim tales.

For once Fyodor took no part in the storytelling. The old legends of Rashemen, however, were very much on his mind. He took a solitary post on the forecastle, gazing at the horizon with sightless eyes as he sought inspiration in his country’s rich treasury oflore. Fyodor had learned that no matter what puzzle life offered him, he could usually find an answer in the remembered deeds of ancient gods and heroes.

Alone in Hrolrs cabin, Liriel frantically studied her book of sea magic for the means to overcome a water elemental. There were no spells listed that could accomplish this feat. Nor could she send it back to its home planeapparently the preferred method of dealing with such creatures-for few drow studied the elemental planes, and water was hardly their favored element. Liriel knew little of the sea, and less about the plane of water and its creatures. The drow resolved to redress this lack, if and when she reached Ruathym. At the moment, though, she was severely taxed by the double effort of maintaining the bubble shield that enclosed the ship and devising a way to escape from the elemental.

The day was nearly spent when Fyodors shout roused her from her reverie. Liriel heard his distinctive bass voice calling out something about an approaching ship. Armed with her newly learned spells and those stored in her Windwalker amulet, the drow hurried to the deck to investigate this new development.

There were actually two ships-a large two-masted caravel sailing from the west and a tiny dot on the northern horizon that was still well beyond the reach of any eyes but hers.

“The ship is fully armed!” Fyodor exclaimed, pointing to the arsenal of catapults and ballistae on the decks of the approaching caravel. “Perhaps they can help us escape from this creature.”

Ibn glowered at the young warrior. “Help, from a Waterdhavian ship? It’s well that you can fight, boy, since you haven’t the good sense the gods gave a clam. That’s plain enough by the company you keep,” he concluded, casting a significant glance toward Liriel.

The drow ignored the sailor’s insults in favor of more important matters. Her eyes narrowed as she gazed at the approaching ship. There was an aura of magic about it. Strong magic.

Since leaving her home city, Liriel had noticed that her eyes were becoming more and more attuned to the nuances of power. Menzoberranzan was permeated with magic. She could no more see magic there than she could employ her heat vision when the midday sun turned sea and sky to pale blue fire. Magic was hardly unknown on the surface world, but it was comparatively rare, and Liriel was finding that she could sense its occurrence and gauge its power. So she did not doubt the instinct that warned her of a mighty spellcaster aboard the approaching vessel. Since it stood to reason that a ship’s wizard would know more of sea magic than a drow, Liriel planned to take full advantage of the unknown wizard’s skill. But first, she had to wrest the Elfmaid from the elemental’s watery grasp.

The drow faced the creature and began to chant the words to a part-water spell, her body swaying as she drew power from the weave of magic and reshaped it into an invisible sword. She flung one arm up high, instinctively falling into a battle stance as she lashed out with her eldritch weapon.

But Liriel was near exhaustion, and sea magic was new to her. Her usually lethal aim failed her; the spell, which should have parted the elemental neatly in two, merely lopped off an arm.

Water gushed, like a mighty waterfall, from the wound. The Elfmaid, still in its protective bubble, was swept away on the flow. Sailors tumbled to the deck and rolled toward the bow of the ship. Fyodor, high atop the forecastle, was thrown from his perch and into the air. He hit the bubble of force and slid down its curved surface toward the water. At once he saw his danger: if he fell into the water he would slip down to the lowest part of the magical globe and be crushed between the ship and the bottom of the bubble. His flailing hands found a hold-the wooden bodice of the figurehead’s low-cut gown. Fyodor hauled himself onto the perch offered by the elf maid’s ample bosom. Holding fast to the statue’s pointed ears, he hung on for dear life as the ship plummeted into the sea.

A solid wall of seawater splashed over the domed shield as the ship dropped under the surface of the water. But Liriel’s spell held; the air-filled bubble bobbed to the surface, the Elfmaid rocking wildly within its protective shield.

Now that the ship was free, the exhausted drow dropped the magical defense. Too soon-a vast wave of water flowed upward and re-formed into the elemental. Ignoring the approaching caravel, the elemental once again closed on the Elfmaid. But the creature had only one arm; it apparently was unable to tap the inexhaustible supply of seawater to regenerate its form. Liriel took note of this, then dove deep into the concentration needed for her next casting. Her intended spell was a summoning, very like the dark-elven magic that raised an army of spiders from the creatures that lurked in every cranny of the Underdark. The result was immediate and spectacular. Every sea creature within attacking range came to her call, forming the strangest army the drow had ever seen. A pod of gray whales began to nudge and prod at the elemental with their enormous, barnacle-encrusted heads. The elemental batted at them with its one remaining arm, but the whales persisted, pushing the creature inexorably northward and away from the Ruathen ship.

The efforts of the smaller creatures were also taking effect. They swam up into the water that comprised the elemental’s borrowed body, turning the sea-colored creature dark with their shadowy forms. Hundreds of small fish busily schooled, swimming in fast, tight circles as if they were in some enormous fishbowl. The dizzying current seemed to confuse the elemental, and it swayed drunkenly as it flowed toward the north.

Other, more deadly creatures joined in the attack. Longsnouted barracudas darted about inside the creature, snapping and tearing as they sought the essence of the creature contained within the seawater. One of them managed to rip through the elemental’s watery hide and was shot, with a sudden gush of fluid, from the creature’s body. With the force of a ballista bolt, the fish slammed into the side of the Elfmaid. Its body splattered, leaving a dark streak behind as the remains of this strange warrior slid slowly into the sea.

The elemental’s watery form flowed in to close the wound, but the creature had lost a bit of stature with the attack. It seemed weaker, too, and it no longer fought the determined whales that nosed it steadily away from the Ruathen ship.

By now Fyodor had climbed down from his perch, and he came to Liriel’s side. The drow was swaying, drained by the powerful magic she’d cast, and he slipped a steadying arm about her waist. “You cannot fight it alone,” he told her quietly.

“It becomes smaller with each attack,” the stubborn elf responded, pulling away from her friend’s embrace.

“Just so.” Fyodor fixed a determined gaze upon her. “In my land, there are tales of an ancient sword whose strike could freeze the blood and flesh of an enemy. Put such an enchantment upon my sword, and I will carve frozen pieces from the creature for as long as I am able.”

Liriel stared at the young man, understanding what he intended to do. He did not expect victory over the elemental, but he was fully prepared to die in battle against it if that would cut the creature down to manageable size. It was not the first time Fyodor had taken on suicidal odds to spare her, and Liriel had yet to understand how this could be so. Self-preservation was the first law of the drow. A mixture of awe and confusion sparked the girl’s ready temper.

“Your confidence in my ability is touching,” she snapped, thinking of the years of crafting, the incredibly powerful spell-binding, that went into making a weapon such as the one in Fyodors tale. “But you have no idea what you’re asking! Before we try conjuring magic swords, let’s give the fish a chance. Oh, look-there’s a good one!”

A large black creature that looked strangely like an Underdark bat spiraled upward through the elemental’s liquid body and into the head. The long tail whipped about, thrashing and probing. The elemental reeled, its one hand clutching at its temples as if it were in agony.

“Manta ray,” Hrolf told her, a grin of dark satisfaction on his bearded face. “Got a poisonous sting to its tail with enough power to sink a small whale. Now that’ll slow the critter down, and give him something to regret come morning!”

The Waterdhavian ship, meanwhile, had changed course to close in on the wounded elemental. A catapult lever sprang forward, sending a grapeshot load hurtling toward the creature-crystalline particles of some sort that caught the last rays of sunlight like so many glittering gems.

“Uh-oh,” Liriel murmured. Without bothering to ask for details, the pirates dropped to the deck and flung their arms over their heads.

The whine and thud of the catapult’s machinery caught the attention of the tormented elemental, and it spun just in time to face the incoming spray of crystals. Instinctively, the elemental threw up its one arm to ward off the attack, and it began to sink into the protective waves.

Not soon enough. A geyser of steam billowed into the darkening sky, filling the air with a tremendous hiss and the overwhelming stench of cooked fish. The Waterdhavian ship changed course immediately to veer away from the deadly cloud, but the faint cries coming from it indicated that some of the sailors had been scalded. The pirates leaped to their feet, cheering and shouting at this double victory.

Nevertheless. . .

“They will pursue,” Ibn pointed out, his tone grim.

Hrolf shot a significant look at Liriel. “Not if they think there’s nothing left of us to chase.”

The drow considered this, her fingers closing around the Windwalker as she reviewed the spells contained in the amulet.

“Enough!” Fyodor demanded, his voice tinged with anger. “Look at her. She is barely able to stand. How much magic do you think one person can channel and live?” “She’s stronger than you think, lad,” the captain said stoutly, wrapping a fatherly arm around the girl’s shoulders and giving her a squeeze.

The young warrior stood his ground. He had seen the Witches of Rashemen pour forth their magic in battle, draining their power and essence until there was nothing left of them but piles of drifting dust and empty black robes.

“It is better that we take on the ship in battle,” Fyodor insisted.

Liriel sniffed. “You don’t want to face off against the wizard who melted that elemental, trust me on that. And it’s not one ship, but two.” She pointed to the northeast; the distant vessel.was now close enough for human eyes to discern.

Hrolf snatched up an eyeglass and trained it on the approaching ship. “Damn and blast it, it’s one of them warships we fought before!”

“And the elemental was taking us to them,” the drow added. “Believe me when I say that anyone who can sum., mon elementals is bad news. Hrolf and Ibn are right. Whoever those people are, they will pursue us until we are dead-or they think we are. You,” Liriel demanded, whirling to point at one of the sailors, “bring me a sea chart with our current location marked on it. Harreldson, take the rudder and set course for Ruathym. The rest of you, to oars! Put some distance between us and that caravel!”

The men scurried to do her bidding. Even Fyodor took a place at the oars, for he knew that no argument would sway the stubborn drow once her mind was set upon a given course of action. The row of oars dipped and pulled, and the nimble Elfmaid leaped toward the south. Tracing a stately arc, the caravel changed course to pursue.

Liriel stood alone on the main deck, her eyes closed and her hands curved before her as if she were holding an invisible globe. Slowly, as if in graceful dance, her hand turned palms-out and her arms stretched high, then went out wide. A sheet of darkness, a vast impenetrable curtain of black, fell between the Elfmaid and her attacker.

“It worked,” Liriel muttered with relief. She had never tried to reshape the drow globe of darkness into another form, and until this moment she had no idea whether or: not it could be done. Taking no time to exult, she turned to the next part of the spell. The sailor she’d sent for the chart hovered nearby, his eyes round with wonder as he stared at the summoned darkness. Liriel snapped her fingers impatiently, and he darted forward with the chart.

“We’re here,” she mused, touching one black fingertip to the point on the map that the sailor had marked and sliding it down as far as she dared. “What are we likely to bump into here? Rocks? Shoals? Anything?”

“Nothing but open sea,” the sailor said, and his face blanched as he understood the drow’s intent.

“I’m not real happy about it myself;” she grumbled, for the gate spell required for such an escape would have challenged her even if she’d approached it fresh and rested. Still, there was something to be said for the power of desperation. And by the time the Elfmaid was ready to take the dimensional plunge, their situation would be desperate indeed.

The fingers of the drow’s right hand curved around the Windwalker, and she flung her left hand toward the black curtain. Magic fire spat from her fingers, forming a fireball that tore through the darkness and beyond. There was a moment’s silence, a thud of impact, then shouts from the other ship and the faint crackle-and-hiss of a fire quickly extinguished.

Again Liriel attacked, and this time came the unmistakable pop of a fireball glancing off a magical shield. Good, she thought grimly. The enemy ship’s wizard was every bit as powerful as she’d suspected. She was almost certain what his next move would be, and she readied herself in preparation.

Summoning every fireball in her arsenal, Liriel braced her feet wide and set off the first small missile, much as a drow armsmaster might send out a scouting party of kobolds to test the enemy’s range and resolve. She heard the magic fire strike the unseen shield, and she began to count rapidly. An answering flash exploded from the darknessher own weapon, rebounded back. The fireball, diminishing in size and power as it came, fell short of the Elfmaid and disappeared, with a weak fizzle, into the water.

A smile of triumph flashed across the drow’s weary face. She now knew precisely how long she had between attack and escape. Again she stretched out her hand, and again magic fire erupted from her fingers. A barrage of fireballs spewed forth, so many that the sky was brightened as ifby festival fireworks, so quickly that it appeared as if a single line of multicolored lightning flashed from her outstretched hand.

With the last of her fireball spells gone, Liriel swayed and then dropped to the deck like an arrow-shot raven. But she struggled to her knees, both hands clasping the Windwalker and her face set in determination. Quickly she called forth the gate that would take the pirate ship several miles to the south and to safety.

Nothing.

A scream of pure, primal rage tore from the drow’s throat. Never had magic refused to obey her call! Anger lent her a moment’s strength; she snatched up her obsidian pendant and raised it high even as her scream ended in a shriek of prayer- a brief and fervent oath in the ancient Drow tongue, a final, desperate plea to Lloth.

Utterly spent, Liriel fell silent and watched with dull eyes as her own weapons rebounded toward the pirate ship in a colorful storm, whistling as they burst through the curtain of blackness and hurtled downward like falling stars. The illusion she had hoped to create-the destruction of the Elfmaid, her death, and those of her friendswould soon be all too real.

And then the lights and the sound were gone.

The Elfmaid was surrounded by swirling gray mists, by heavy air as dank and foul as that of a despoiled crypt. Although she’d been temporarily blinded by the fireballs, Liriel had her other senses in full measure, and she caught the familiar scent of giant fungi and a whiff of sulfur and brimstone. Faintly, as if from some unfathomable distance, came the echoes of roars too terrible to have come from mortal throats and of shrieks that spoke of torment and despair. Liriel’s eldritch senses were fully aware, too, and she sensed the palpable cloud of terror and gloom that pressed heavily upon all those unfortunate enough to enter these realms. She also sensed the core of dark fire that was the heart of this fell domain, felt the frigid obsidian hand that reached out to touch her and to claim the offered prize.

Lloth had answered her prayer.

Relief mingled with horror in the young drow’s heart. She and her friends would escape their deaths, but oh, the price! In that desperate moment, Liriel had pledged herself as priestess to Lloth, and she had been accepted.

A mere novice in Menzoberranzan, Liriel had not been required to make such a pledge, but considering the many challenges she faced, it was a step she logically should have taken long before this. Not a problem, the drow told herself; and nothing outside the realm of her experience and expectations. She had merely agreed to become a conduit for the Spider Queen’s power, as had her foremothers for centuries untold, and vowed to work for the glory of Lloth. Power was power-she would accept what she was given and make the best use of it that she could. And yet, as the oppressive gloom of the Abyss crept into her soul, Liriel wondered for the first time what the price of this power might be.

And then the mist parted to reveal a sparkling night sky and a calm, black-satin sea. Liriel turned her eyes upon the humans. To a man, they were frozen in place and looked as if they’d been chilled to near-death by the touch of a vengeful wight. She fervently hoped they did not realize where they had been.

Finally Olvir managed a weak grin. “And I thought the last magical trip was bad! Don’t get me wrong-I’m glad to have come out of that with my hide in one piece-but give me a choice, and I’ll take a stormy sea anytime.”

“Aye!” Hrolf agreed, his voice less hearty than usual. “Don’t exactly know why, but Umberlee take me if I don’t feel like I just slept with a lichwoman!”

The analogy was apt, and it sent visible shudders running through the men of the Elfmaid. But the matter was over, and the sailors shook off the eerie lethargy and went about their tasks with a gusto that spoke loudly of their pleasure to be back upon the open sea.

But Fyodor was more perceptive of magical matters than the Northmen. He came to Liriel’s side and knelt beside her on the deck. “Where were we?” he asked in a low voice. “Never have I felt such power in a place. . . or such sorrow.”

The weary drow tried to answer him and found she could not. Liriel was drained, empty, numb-and utterly defenseless against the despair that was the Abyss and the churning chaos that marked the touch of Lloth. She had never expected to feel so horrified by something that should have been a matter of course-indeed, the greatest honor a drow could know. Her dark-elven assumptions were profoundly shaken, her drow magic temporarily exhausted, her natural resilience stretched to the breaking point. It was all too much. An unfamiliar moisture gathered in the comer of her eyes and spilled over onto her cheeks. For the first time in her life, Liriel wept.

For a moment Fyodor merely stared at her, utterly dumbfounded. Then he swept the drow into his arms and carried her down into the privacy of the hold. She buried her face against his chest, clinging to her friend as if borrowing his strength until the silent tears had run their course. By the time Fyodor reached her cabin, Liriel was asleep in his arms, her thin body still shaking from the convulsive sobs.

Fyodor stayed with her a long time, for her fingers gripped his hand as if it were a lifeline. In truth, he would have stayed regardless. During their travels he had frequently watched over her so, for Fyodor was often unable or unwilling to sleep. In slumber Liriel looked tiny, fragile-utterly unlike the fierce, powerful being who channeled such fearsome magic. At such moments she was his alone. He needed that feeling tonight, and he clung to her hand as fervently as she clasped his.

Yet try as he might, Fyodor could not conjure the wistful deception. Liriel knew things, experienced things, that were far from his understanding. She was as much a mystery to him, and as far beyond his reach, as the mighty Witches who commanded his land. He sensed that something of great and dire import had happened this night, something that took the girl still further from him. The pain this brought him was as nothing, however, compared to his concern for her.

The fey gifts that were the inheritance of the Rashemi had granted Fyodor a bit of the Sight, and the things he had glimpsed in that dreadful place had chilled him to the soul. He could not help but wonder what the more magically sensitive drow had felt and seen. As he watched over Liriel’s sea-deep slumber, he thanked the ancient gods that drow did not dream.

Rethnor lowered his eyeglass, and a smile of grim satisfaction crossed his black-bearded face as he savored the scene of destruction he had just witnessed. The strange curtain of darkness was gone, and the troublesome Elfmaid was no more. Perhaps Rethnor had not bested the young berserker himself, but the man was dead for all that.

In his mind, all was well enough.

“Turn her about,” he ordered the helmsman who stood at the wheel of the Cutlass. “We return to Trisk at once.” But Shakti whirled on him, her scarlet eyes blazing. “We were to capture the ship! What of the prisoners? Yours, mine?”

“There is no more ship, and anyone we might have captured is now food for the sea creatures. I am satisfied with the conclusion. If your prize has been destroyed, what is that to me?” he taunted.

To Rethnor’s surprise, the elf woman laughed in his face. She snatched the eyeglass from his hand and smacked him in the chest with it.

“Fool!” she spat out, punctuating the remark with another sharp blow. “Look again. There is nothing but a cloud of steam, caused when rebounded fireballs struck the water. If the ship had exploded, there would be more heat lingering in the air, and burning wreckage and blood to warm the waters. Fool!” she repeated scathingly as she hauled back the eyeglass for another attack.

The captain reflexively seized her wrist, and he stared at her in disbelief. “You can see heat?”

“You cannot?” she retorted and pulled free ofhim with an expression that suggested his very touch was distasteful. Rethnor was not accustomed to such insolence from a mere female, and his black brows pulled down into a stern V of disapproval. “Mind your tongue, woman.”

The drow glowered at him. “Your eyes are worse than I had suspected, if you mistake me for a woman! I am Shakti, matron heiress to House Hunzrin. You should know the name of the person who brings your death, and I swear by the Mask ofVhaeraun that I will kill you if you presume to lay hands-hand,” she sneered pointedly, “upon me, ever again.”

He shrugged off this warning. “You are certain the ship has escaped? But how is this possible?”

“The drow I seek is a wizard. She is. . . powerful,” Shakti admitted from between gritted teeth, and then she struck the ship’s rail with her balled fists and let out a string of what Rethnor took to be drow curses.

“The wench is not out of reach, not even on Ruathym,” the captain said, surprised to find himself giving assurance to the angry elf. “You will have your prisoner yet.”

The drow stopped in midtirade and eyed him warily, as if weighing his words on some scale of her own. He returned her stare, letting her measure him as she would. “I had never given thought to how persons might be shaped by the world around them,” she mused. “The underground home of the drow is complex, riddled with layers and full of unexpected twists and turns. And you-you are as cold and as deep as this sea, are you not?” she said with obvious approval.

“But little good will that do me!” she mused, her mood turning dark once again. The drow snatched Rethnor’s left sleeve, and before he could guess her intent, she lifted the maimed limb mockingly high, as if raising an imaginary sword in a gesture of challenge.

“You wish to kill the man who took your hand,” she scoffed, “yet you have not bothered to have it replaced! Only a fool would go into battle without his sword hand!” Again Rethnor stared at the drow, this time with a stirring of fascinated interest. “Replaced?”

“Or improved, if you prefer,” Shakti said smugly. “In my homeland, our priestesses could regenerate a limb to its original state, only younger and stronger. or our artisans could build you a new one-or several, each to suit a different purpose-of steel and mithril that is nonetheless as supple as flesh. Of course, if we were in my homeland, you would by now be either dead or enslaved.”

The captain ignored this taunt. “Could you do this?” “Not here,” she admitted. “The needed tools and magic remain in the Underdark. But I could replace your hand with that of another human.”

“No man would consent to such a thing!”

“I never imagined that one might,” Shakti said dryly, not understanding the captain’s horrified reaction. “But there are human slaves in Ascarle, are there not? And I assume a slave’s consent would hardly be needed. When we return, choose one that pleases you, and I will see to the rest.” Rethnor fell silent as he pondered the drow’s macabre suggestion, and he wondered what kind of being could speak of such things so casually. He had heard there were spells like this-usually wielded by necromancers, those wizards who dealt in death. He’d even heard rumors of a hideous slave trade in which healthy men were captured and sold for such purposes, their bodies auctioned off piece by piece as if they were mere swine to be divided into hams and chops and bacon. This notion went against all Rethnor’s Northman sensibilities, for how could a man unwhole hope to enter the halls of a warrior god? And the very thought of integrating the flesh of another man with his own utterly appalled him.

And yet. . .

“The hand,” he began tentatively. “How much skill will it hold? Will I be able to wield a sword again? Not just lift it and flail about, but will I be a master?” he demanded, his voice gaining passion as he spoke.

The drow eyed him with a dour expression. “It depends. How skilled were you before?”

“Very. The best.”

“Good,” she said flatly. “You would be amazed at how many restored fools ask if they’ll be able to play the harp now and, when advised they can, admit they were unable to before. Even among the drow, there are those who cannot open their lips but a bad jest emerges. Bah!”

“I do not care much for jests of any sort,” Rethnor said by way of reassurance. “But puzzles intrigue me, and so I cannot help but wonder why you would offer to do this for me.” Shakti smiled in grim approval, shielding her eyes against the starlight with one hand and turning her gaze far out over the dark waters. “You doubt my motives. That is good.”

He waited, but the drow did not add to this. “You consider it wise to go into battle with only strong allies,” he guessed.

Her eyes darted, like two mocking red flames, to his face. “If you like. That explanation will do as well as any.” Although Rethnor was not accustomed to verbal fencing, he was a skilled swordsman, and he knew a parry in any form. A familiar exhilaration came over him as he met the challenge in the elf woman’s crimson eyes. He had not had a good battle for many days, and he hungered for the thrust and retreat, the bold attack and the clever treachery that made for a truly good match. Here, in a guise stranger than any he had ever imagined possible, was a foe truly worthy of battle.

And perhaps, he thought as he considered the ample curves beneath the elf woman’s somber dark robes, this one was worthy of conquest, as well.

“How do you propose to capture the wizard?” Shakti demanded, shattering his pleasantly salacious musings and returning him to the task at hand.

“She will no doubt head for Ruathym. I have spies on and around the island.” He hesitated, not sure how much he should reveal. Enough, he decided, to gain this one’s confidence. There was a new hand to be gained and perhaps a bit more.

“There is a portal between Ascarle and Ruathym,” he said. “Recently discovered, it is an ancient magical path, probably conjured by the elves who once lived in both lands. Messengers use the portal to carry orders. When your enemy reaches the island, we will know of it.”

Shakti stared at him as she absorbed this. “Why doesn’t the illithid use this portal to launch an attack?”

“You have much to learn of the Kraken Society,” he told her. “Information is the weapon it provides, not warriors. Vestress asserts that it is better for all if Ruathym appears to collapse largely under the weight of its own lawlessness.” The drow sneered. “And you believe that? There is one reason alone why the illithid does not use the portal for conquest: she cannot.”

Rethnor did not dispute her words, for he himself had occasionally wondered why his Kraken contact-whom until recently he had visualized as the woman in his lost scrying ring-had insisted that the portal could be used only by her fey messengers.

“What type of beings carry your orders?” the drow demanded, her words echoing his unspoken thoughts. “Nereids. They are vain and malicious creatures from another world-“

“The elemental plane of water,” she interrupted. “Yes, I know all about those. But what about mortal beings? Humans, elves? The illithid’s sea ogre troops? Can they pass through?”

Rethnor considered this. “I do not know.”

Shakti gave a derisive sniff. “Perhaps we should find out.” She jolted suddenly as if a new and illuminating thought had struck her.

“Liriel has proven herself skilled at managing portals,” she mused. “If she can move an entire ship, surely she could find a way to pass through the gate that leads from Ruathym to Ascarle.”

“Ah,” Rethnor said, smiling a little as he nodded his approval. “You plan to lure this drow through the portal to Ascarle.”

“Try not to be any more of an idiot than you must,” Shakti advised him coldly. “Of course I would not risk such a prize in an untried portal! But think on this: by now the illithid knows Liriel Baenre as well as I myself do! Vestress has asked me many questions about the rogue wizard and has no doubt taken any information from my mind that I did not speak aloud. I now understand the illithid’s interest. Mark me, Vestress needs the yellow-eyed bitch as much as I do!”

“To help her open the portal,” Rethnor reasoned.

“It is the only possible explanation,” Shakti agreed in a glum tone. The illithid had brought Shakti here, ostensibly to learn about recent events in the Underdark. Shakti, in return for this information, had been given surface contacts to the vast trade and intrigue network of the Kraken Society. It had seemed a worthwhile exchange for both. But as she reviewed her conversations with the illithid, Shakti realized Vestress had shown an inordinate amount of interest in Liriel and her adventures. Whatever worth Shakti had to the illithid was temporarily overshadowed by the promise of Liriel’s wizardly skill. This deeply angered Shakti. Despite her newfound power and confidence, she found that her resentment of the Baenre princess was as keen as ever.

The drow seethed with deep frustration as she measured the delay Liriel’s escape would bring. Shakti wished to return to Menzoberranzan as soon as possible. She could not do so, however, on her own power. The water wraith had brought her to the elemental plane of water, and from there to the undersea city. Shakti had expected a brief meeting with the head of the Kraken Society, not an extended stay. The demanding Baenres-Matron Triel and that wretched Gromph-might accept a brief absence while Shakti met with surface conspirators, but this delay was becoming untenable. The longer Shakti stayed away from Menzoberranzan, the more important it became that she return with a captive Liriel in tow. She could not wait for Rethnor’s spies to find the wizard. It was time for her ally from the elemental plane to make good on their deal. “Where is Iskor?” she demanded.

“The water wraith? She disappeared when the water elemental was destroyed, and I say good riddance to them both,” Rethnor responded.

A wise move on Iskor’s part, Shakti thought grimly. The priestess was losing patience with the flighty creature and had started contemplating ways by which she might shatter the water nymph’s glassy form. But those pleasant thoughts aside, Shakti needed to fmd Liriel, and soon, or her own welcome in Menzoberranzan would be less than cordial.

Neither Matron Triel nor Gromph were known for patience.