Tangled Webs Read online

  The prisoner did not seem at all downcast by his grim surroundings. He was a giant of a man, deep-chested and broad of shoulder, with a face bronzed by the sun and wind, and bright blue eyes nearly lost in a maze of laugh lines. The man’s braided hair, vast mustache, and long beard were all of the same sun-bleached hue, a color so pale that it almost hid the streaks of gray. This was Hrolf of Ruathym, better known as Hrolf the Unruly, a genial ship’s captain with a taste for recreational mayhem. Liriel had learned that this rowdy pastime had gotten him barred from many civilized ports and had landed him—not for the first time—in Skullport’s dungeons.

  She reached into her pack and took out a statuette she’d purchased in a backstreet market: a roughly carved, rather comic rendition of a Northman skald with a horned helm, a bulbous nose, and a moon-shaped belly. It was not an impressive work of art, but some wizard with a sense of whimsy had imbued it with an especially powerful magic mouth spell, one that would capture any song and play it back, over and over, for nearly an hour. Liriel figured that an hour should just about do it. As she triggered the statue’s magic, the wooden bard stirred to life in her hands. His tiny, bewhiskered face screwed up into an expression of intense concentration as he absorbed the lustily sung ditty.

  “When you meet with the lads of the Elfmaid, my friend,

  You would rather face Umberlee’s wrath.

  Hand over a measure of all of your treasure,

  Or swim in a saltwater bath!”

  “Come ashore with the lads of the Elfmaid, my friend.

  We’re awash on an ocean of ale!

  Some taverns to plunder, some guards to sunder,

  And then, a short rest in the jail!”

  Liriel winced. Dark elves did not include ballads among their numerous art forms, but since leaving Menzoberranzan she’d heard many good songs. This was not one of them.

  Even so, her slender black fingers flew as she shaped the spell that would lock the music into the statue’s memory. The cost of a magic mouth spell was a small thing compared to the worth of the man imprisoned within the crypt. Hrolf was reputed to be one of the finest captains to sail the Sword Coast. He was also the only captain Liriel could find who was willing to take on a drow passenger.

  With the song safely stored inside the wooden skald, Liriel silently removed her piwafwi and stepped into the circle of torchlight. She cleared her throat to get the singer’s attention.

  Hrolf the Unruly looked up, startled into silence by the sudden interruption. Liriel propped her fists on her hips and tapped her foot in a pantomime of impatience.

  “So. When do we set sail?” she demanded.

  A broad grin split the man’s face, lifting the corners of his mustache and giving him a boyish appearance that belied his graying beard and braids. “Well, chop me up and use me for squid bait! It’s the black lass herself!” he roared happily.

  “A little louder, please,” Liriel requested with acidic sarcasm as she cast quick glances up and down the corridors. “There might be two or three people up in Waterdeep who didn’t hear you.”

  Hrolf hauled himself to his feet and walked stiff-legged over to the door of his cell. “It’s glad I am to see you again, lass, but you shouldn’t ha’ come,” he said in a softer tone. “Just a day or two more, and they’ll be setting me free.”

  The drow sniffed derisively and bent down to examine the locks on the cell door. “Sure, if by freedom you mean a couple of years of enforced labor. It’ll take you at least that long to work off the damage done to that tavern.”

  “Gull splat!” he said heartily, dismissing this dire prediction with a wave of one enormous hand. “The penalty for tavern brawls is never more than a few days’ stay in this sow’s bowels of a dungeon.”

  “The Skulls decided to change the law in your honor,” Liriel responded, referring to the trio of disembodied skulls that appeared randomly in Skullport to pass sentence on miscreants. “The idea of waiting around for years doesn’t appeal to me. I’d rather fight our way from here to the docks and have done.”

  “Not a bit of it,” Hrolf insisted. “Laws are all good and well—fighting’s better, of course—but bribes, now! That’s the way for a sensible man to do business! And no place better’n Skullport for it, so don’t you worry yourself. The Elfmaid came to port fully loaded. A bundle of ermine skins and a few bolts of fine Moonshae linen should serve.”

  Liriel cocked an eyebrow. “Did I mention that your ship and cargo have been impounded?”

  That was true, as far as it went, and as much truth as the drow wanted him to hear. Although it appeared Hrolf’s freedom was not for sale, Liriel had already managed to buy free the ship and the crew. She thought it better to let Hrolf think otherwise. By all accounts, the captain took his ship’s well-being more seriously than his own.

  “Took the Elfmaid, did they?” The captain pondered this development, chewing his mustache reflectively. “Well then, that’s different. Fighting it is!”

  The drow nodded her agreement. She quickly cast a cantrip, a minor spell that would reveal any magic placed upon the locks. When no telltale glow appeared, Liriel took a small bundle from her bag and carefully removed the wraps that padded a small glass vial. With infinite care she unstoppered the vial and poured a single drop of black liquid onto each of the chains and locks.

  A faint hiss filled the air, and the locks sagged and melted as the distilled venom of a black dragon ate through the metal. It was a pricey solution, but it was quick and quiet, and Liriel had no real need to practice thrift. Just days earlier, she had led a raid on a rival drow stronghold and claimed a share of the massive treasure hoard buried there. Her share would take her to Ruathym in style, with enough left over to hide a cache or two for future use. Yet there was a strange tightness in Liriel’s throat as she remembered the battle and the friends who had fallen there. One of those friends, although gravely wounded, had survived and was awaiting her even now on Hrolf’s ship. Just thinking of Fyodor, and his own great need to reach Ruathym, heightened her impatience.

  Motioning for Hrolf to stand back, she kicked open the door, keeping a careful distance from the still-melting chains. Dragon venom could eat through boot leather—not to mention flesh and bone—as easily as it dissolved metal.

  The captain watched, intrigued, as Liriel set the enspelled statue on the bed and triggered its song. His face lit up with pride as his own song poured forth from the little figure.

  “That’ll keep ’em away for a bit,” he observed with a touch of wry humor. Obviously, Liriel concluded, the man held a realistic view of his musical talents.

  Hrolf turned to regard the drow with obvious respect. “I was glad enough to offer you passage on the strength of your smile, but to be getting a ship’s wizard in the bargain! With your magic, lass, we’re as good as a-sail. May Umberlee take me if I’m not getting better at picking my friends!” he concluded happily.

  Liriel cast a startled glance at the man’s bluff, cheerful face. His easy claim of friendship struck her as odd. She’d met him only once, shortly before he’d begun the spectacular brawl that landed him in this predicament. He seemed a companionable sort, and she was glad to have found passage with an able captain who could also fight like a bee-stung bear. But friendship was still new to her and not something to be taken lightly. For a moment she envied these short-lived humans, who seemed to come to it so easily.

  “We’re still a long way from the ship,” Liriel reminded the man. She stripped off the extra swordbelt she carried and handed it to him. He buckled it on without a word and then drew the sword, regarding its keen edge with pleasure. After a few practice swings to get the feel of the blade and to awaken muscles stiff from disuse, he followed the drow out into the tunnel.

  The way was lit by an occasional torch thrust into a wall bracket, so Hrolf was able to walk with assurance, if not silence. The drow set a slow, steady pace, trying to minimize the noise of Hrolf’s heavy footsteps. She could fight well when necessary, b
ut she knew the wisdom of avoiding trouble. So far, despite the encounter with the magic-wielding ghoul, breaching the dungeon’s defenses had seemed almost too easy. But then, no one expected anyone to try to sneak in. Liriel suspected that getting out would be another matter entirely.

  A faint sound caught her ear. From a nearby passage came the reverberating tread of many boots and the guttural speech of goblinkin. She pushed Hrolf into an alcove and shielded them both with her sheltering piwafwi. To her relief, Hrolf the Unruly did not protest this precaution or leap out roaring to engage the goblins in battle. The captain and the drow waited for many moments, then watched silently as the guards marched past in sharp formation.

  They were squat, muscular creatures—goblin hybrids of some sort—broad as dwarves and haphazardly garbed in ill-fitting, cast-off leather armor. Obviously overfed and underpaid, the guards nevertheless carried a daunting assortment of well-honed weapons. All told, there were twelve of them, enough to give pause even to the dark-elven and the unruly.

  The goblin patrol halted in the tunnel ahead, gibbering among themselves and shouldering off the packs they carried. Liriel muttered a curse.

  “What’re they doing?” Hrolf asked, his voice just above a whisper.

  “Taking a break,” she responded in kind. Whispering caused the voice to carry too far, and Liriel was frequently amazed that few humans seemed to realize this. Dark elves whispered when they intended to be heard—the audible equivalent of a knowing smile.

  “They’re blocking the tunnel,” the drow added grimly, “and we don’t have time to wait them out.”

  The captain pondered this for a moment, and then patted the short sword strapped to Liriel’s hip. “I’ve heard tell that a drow can take a dozen goblins, easy.”

  The girl shrugged. She could handle a sword well enough and throw knives with deadly precision, but her skills were slanted more toward magic than mayhem. “Some drow can. I’m not one of them.”

  “Ah, but do yonder goblins know that?”

  The drow snapped a look back at the captain, surprised that a human had offered such a devious—yet simple—solution. They shared a quick, companionable grin, and she accepted his plan with a nod.

  Hrolf patted her shoulder, then drew his sword. “Go, lass. If the ugly little bastards don’t spook, I’ll be right behind you.”

  Against reason, despite the suspicious nature bred and ingrained in her by her treacherous kindred, Liriel believed him.

  She pulled her sword and walked, silent and invisible, into the circle of goblins. Then, tossing back her piwafwi, she dropped into a menacing crouch and presented her blade.

  “Hi, boys,” she purred in the goblin tongue. “Want to play?”

  The sudden appearance of a battle-ready drow in their midst stole whatever courage the creatures possessed. The goblins squeaked in terror and fled, leaving their packs and many of their weapons behind in their panic.

  Hrolf strode to the drow’s side, grinning broadly. “Well done! D’you think, though, that they’ll be back—bringing friends?”

  “Not a chance,” Liriel said flatly. “They’re guards, and they ran. If they admit that, they’re as good as dead.” The drow knelt and began to rifle through the abandoned packs, while Hrolf devoted himself to selecting a few promising weapons for his own use. Liriel’s search yielded up several large, well-rusted keys. She smiled and brandished them at Hrolf.

  The captain nodded happily, recognizing the significance of this find. He’d been dragged down to this dungeon through a succession of gates. The keys would speed their escape, though each gate was also guarded by magical traps and at least one species of ugly, well-armed creatures. Neither prospect worried Hrolf. Unlike most of his people, he held magic in high regard, and he’d seen enough of this elf maid’s talents to entrust that aspect of the escape to her. As for the other—well, he had a sword now, didn’t he?

  Fyodor of Rashemen leaned against the rail of the ship, gazing out over the noise and confusion that was Skullport. Merchants, sailors, and dockhands milled about the rotting wooden docks, busying themselves with a dizzying variety of wares. Flocks of wykeen, a kind of sea bat indigenous to the underground port, wheeled and screeched overhead. The black water lapped at the ship with a restless rhythm that echoed the pulse of the far-distant seas, even though there was no moon to order the tides, no sky at all but a soaring vault of solid stone.

  This teeming underground city, so different from the villages of his distant homeland, astounded Fyodor. Most amazing to him was the peace that existed between ancient enemies, all in the name of trade. Dwarves tossed crated cargo to orcs; humans hired themselves out to beholders; svirfneblin bartered with illithids. It was just as well, this unnatural harmony. A nearby fight—any fight—could set him off on a deadly battle frenzy.

  Fyodor was a berserker, one of the famed warriors of Rashemen, a champion among the protectors of his homeland. Unlike his brothers, however, he could not control the rages or bring them on at will. When the Witches who ruled his land had come to fear that his wild battle-rages might endanger those about him, they sent him on a quest to recover a stolen artifact, an amulet known as the Windwalker. Its magic was ancient and mysterious, but the Witches thought it might be used to contain the young warrior’s magical curse. Thus Fyodor’s only hope for controlling his battle rages, and ending his exile from his homeland, lay in the amulet—and in the magic of the drow girl who carried it.

  His search for the Windwalker had taken him from snow-swept Rashemen into the depths of the Underdark, where he’d met the beautiful young wizard. Liriel had been first an enemy, then a rival, and finally a partner and friend. Fyodor had followed the drow across half of Faerûn and would gladly travel with her to Ruathym—and not just for the magic she wielded.

  The young man’s eyes, blue as a winter sky, anxiously scanned the crowded streets. Liriel had arranged passage on this ship for them both and had promised to meet him here. She was late. He could imagine far too many things that might have detained her.

  “Troubles?”

  The laconic question jarred Fyodor from his grim thoughts. He turned to face the ship’s mate, a ruddy, red-bearded man much his own size and build. Nearly six feet tall and heavily muscled, the sailor had the look of a Rashemi. Fair-skinned and blue-eyed, he had a certain familiar directness of gaze and an open countenance defined by broad planes and strong features. The sailor’s resemblance to Fyodor’s own kin did not surprise the young man, for they no doubt had ancestors in common. The ancient Northmen who’d settled the island of Ruathym had also traveled far east to Fyodor’s Rashemen.

  “Just wondering when we’d be off, Master …”

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

  Fyodor waited, hoping the man would elaborate. But Ibn merely pulled a pipe from his sash and pressed some aromatic leaves into the bowl. A passing sailor supplied flint and stone, and soon Ibn was puffing away with stolid contentment.

  The young warrior sighed and then subsided. Clearly, he could do nothing but wait. Except for his concern over Liriel’s delay, the waiting had not been unpleasant. The sights beyond the dock could have occupied him for hours, and the ship itself was well worth contemplating. The Elfmaid was an odd combination of old and new: her long, graceful form was reminiscent of the ancient dragonships, and she was clinker-built of strong, light wood. Yet the hull was deep enough to provide an area belowdecks for storage of goods and some cramped sleeping quarters. Castles—small, raised platforms—had been added both fore and aft, and both were hung about with the brightly painted shields of the warrior-bred crew. With its enormous square sail and row of oars, the ship promised to be both fast and maneuverable in any number of situations. Its most remarkable feature, however, was the figurehead that rose proudly over the lancelike bowsprit: a carved, ten-foot image of an elf maid. More lavishly endowed and garishly painted than any elf who’d ever drawn breath, the figurehead gave the ship her
name as well as a playful, rakish air that Fyodor found rather appealing.

  The young man also felt at home among the crew. They seemed to accept him as one of their own, even while showing him immense deference. Fyodor thought he knew the reason for that. He had heard that in Ruathym, warriors were afforded great honor and high rank. It would not be unlike Liriel to mention his berserker talents in an attempt to gain passage on a Ruathen ship. Fyodor did not object to this; it was better that the crew was forewarned. Since the Time of the Walking Gods, when magic had gone awry and his battle frenzies became as capricious as the wind, he had taken every precaution he could to avoid bringing harm to those around him.

  The first mate took his pipe from his mouth and pointed with it. “Captain’s coming,” he observed. “Got company, as usual.”

  Fyodor looked in the direction Ibn had indicated. A huge, fair-haired man sprinted toward the ship, swinging a beefy fist back and forth before him like a scythe as he cleared a path through the crowd. Despite his size and his short, bandy legs, the captain set an incredibly fast pace. Behind him was Liriel, running full out, her slender limbs pumping and her white hair streaming back. Behind her roiled a swarm of knife-wielding kobolds.

  “Step lively, my lads!” roared the captain as he swatted a bemused mongrelman out of his way.

  His crew took this development stoically, going about their business with an ease and speed that bespoke frequent practice. Ibn cut the ropes securing the ship to the dock and then seized the rudder; the other men took their places at the oars. To Fyodor’s surprise, the Elfmaid shot away from the dock, well beyond the reach of the captain and his drow companion.

  Before Fyodor could react to this apparent desertion, the captain skidded to a halt. As Liriel ran past, the enormous man seized the back of her swordbelt with one hand, jerking her to an abrupt stop. With his free hand he gathered up a handful of her tangled hair and chain mail vest. Lifting the drow easily off her feet, the captain hauled her back for the toss. As Fyodor watched, slack-mouthed, the man heaved Liriel up and toward the ship.