Tangled Webs (48 page)

“Think, think,” he admonished himself fiercely, He searched his storehouse of Rashemi tales and legends for inspiration, his frenzy-enhanced mind flashing from one possibility to the next. None told him how to challenge an elven goddess.

In desperation, Fyodor reached for the Windwalker, the ancient amulet that had linked him with the drow from the beginning. With it, Liriel had lent him the ability to control his berserker magic-and perhaps, to press its limits to untried heights.

With grim determination the young man sought a berserker’s ultimate power, the hamfarir, which would send his spirit forth to do battle in the shape of some mighty animal.

The wind of the shape shifting rage had seemed a small thing compared to the change that now swept through him. Fyodor’s spirit tore free of his physical form with a sensation that went far beyond pain. Leaving his body behind on the embattled ship, Fyodor willed himself into the form of a giant raven and sped forward to snatch Liriel from the hands of her goddess.

The sweep of wind from enormous wings buffeted the exhausted drow. Instinctively she raised her hands to attack as a creature the size of a small dragon closed in upon her-a looming blackness that blotted out the stars.

At the last moment, the bird veered away, its wing feathers brushing her face with a gentleness that was oddly familiar. It seemed to anticipate the drow’s attack; Liriel’s bolt of killing magic sizzled harmlessly into the night sky. She struggled to focus on the bird. It was a raven, with eyes the color of a winter sky. In some distant part of her mind, Liriel remembered the time that Wedigar had fallen upon her and Fyodor, clad in the form of a giant hawk. That hawk’s eyes had been gray-like Wedigar’s. At last she understood the nature of the avian beast.

So also did the power that gripped her. Rage, fierce and possessive and all-consuming, rose in Liriellike flame. As the giant raven circled around for another pass, the young drow priestess felt the inexorable demand of her goddess for the sacrifice required of all who walked the pathways of Lloth. Before Liriel could protest, the killing flame crackled ready at ,her fmgertips. She watched, helpless and despairing, as Fyodor came steadily toward his death.

But the words of the shaman, spoken not long before, cut through the fog that clouded the drow’s benumbed thoughts. “I’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. Why should we hold mortals to higher standards than gods?”

“Victory,” Liriel murmured, taking strength from Ulf’s remembered words. “I’Queen of Spiders, I promised you a victory; in return, you demand the death of one who above all others could help ensure it!”

With her last vestige of physical strength, the young drow tore the obsidian pendant from her neck and hurled the hated thing toward the sea. The fire magic that danced ready at her fingertips sped after it, flashing down into the sea and sending a geyser of salty steam jetting into the night sky;

“I’I have fulfilled my pledge to you, Mother Lloth,” she whispered. “I’I am priestess no longer. From this moment until the time of my death, I wilI have nothing more to do with you. This I swear, by all the power I call my own.” Suddenly cut off from the evil power that had both sustained and tormented her, Liriel began to plummet toward the rock-strewn coast. Giant claws closed around her with startling gentleness; utterly spent, the drow allowed the blue-eyed raven to bear her away.

Despite the tumult of battle, Rethnor noted the mysterious fall ofhis berserker nemesis. As his warriors engaged the Holgerstead fighters, he stalked up to the darkhaired youth. This was not the battle he had craved, but it would have to do. Rethnor was not one to let an opportunity pass. The Luskar captain raised his sword high, preparing to cut down the defenseless fighter in a single stroke.

A woman’s furious shriek startled him into immobility. Rethnor barely had time to swing his sword into defensive position before a familiar, pale-haired girl hurled herself toward him, armed only with a knife such as might be used to gut and clean a large fish. Rethnor instinctively parried the strike.

“Ygraine?” he muttered, staring with consternation at the illithid’s slave.

“I’Dagmar,” the girl spat.

The Luskar smiled grimly. He knew of this wench. Although he did not often fight women, it would give him pleasure to cut her down. Her cold ambition, her willingness to kill even her own sister to appease her ambitions, was enough to sicken even the hardened High Captain. But Dagmar did not yield to death so easily. With a fury that defied even his expert swordsmanship, the Northwoman pressed Rethnor back toward the rail.

“You have failed-all is lost!” she shrieked at him. “Ygraine lives; I am disgraced! You have commanded this from the start. Take me away from this place, promise me a place of power in your land, or die now at my hand!”

As she spoke, one of the Holgerstead berserkers tossed away his sword and strode toward the embattled girl. Before Rethnor’s disbelieving eyes, the man’s face shifted, becoming fierce and furred. In moments an enormous wolf stood in the berserker’s place, blue eyes gleaming and lips curled back in a feral snarl.

The clatter of weapons echoed here and there as other Holgersteaders changed and joined the pack. Rethnor backed away slowly as the Wolves of the Waves, the legendary defenders of Ruathym, began to close in with deadly intent.

Dagmar saw the horror in her opponent’s face and whirled to face the new threat. A wild joy filled her eyes as she beheld the ever-tightening circle of shapeshifters.

“She is dead at last,” Dagmar said in a wondering tone. “Ygraine must have fallen in battle, and the prophecy is mine to fulfill!”

“Not so, Sister.”

A second feminine voice rang out over the ship as Dagmar’s twin clambered over the rail.

“The battle for Ruathym village is won,” y graine said. She walked across the deck, her hands outstretched to her twin. “Our homeland is safe, the ancient glory restored to our warriors. Between you and me, nothing lies beyond the power of forgiveness. Come home with me, my sister!”

The truth of the situation struck Dagmar with the force of one of the drow’s fireballs. It was Ygraine who had rekindled the shapeshifting magic! It was ever, always Ygraine! It was she who had received the power of the prophecy, the deepest love of their parents, the troth of the future First Axe. In all things, Y graine had been chosen above Dagmar—even the pirates ofLuskan had chosen Ygraine when they needed one sister to hold captive!

“How I hate you,” Dagmar said in a low, burning voice. Ygraine flinched, but she continued to walk slowly toward the furious girl. “I’Come with me, Sister. Perhaps the healers can ease your mind and your heart, and restore you to your kindred. I will speak for you before the Thing and ask that this be done.”

“I’How many of your cast-offs must I accept? I will die before I take refuge in your secondhand honor!” Dagmar shrieked as she raised her weapon for a killing lunge. “That you will,” the other woman said softly, “I’and soon, unless you put down the knife. The Wolves of the Waves cannot long be held back.”

Dagmar looked down, and for the fIrst time she noticed that the shapechanged warriors were closing not on Rethnor, but on her. Indeed, there was no sign of the Luskar captain. He had disappeared, along with her last chance of becoming something more than Ygraine’s pale shadow.

The low growls of the advancing wolves sent a tremor through the half-mad girl; a moment more, and they would be upon her. Dagmar lifted her eyes, seized her sister’s beseeching gaze, and held it fast. Then she lifted her knife and thrust it deep into her own heart. A cry of anguish burst from Ygraine, and she leaped forward to catch her sister as she fell.

And with her last bit of strength, Dagmar spit in her sister’s despairing face.

In the water below, Rethnor swam for his ship with strong, steady strokes. The battle was lost, and with it his ambitions of conquest, his lust for vengeance. The failed attack on Ruathym would carry a heavy price. There would be Nine Hells to pay at home, as well as increased pressure from Waterdeep and the Lords’ Alliance. But Retlnor had weathered worse. He was fairly confident of his ability to hold on to his power as High Captain of Luskan, perhaps even his position as an agent of the Kraken Society.

In the future, however, he would know enough to steer clear of dark elves and illithids. His failures and humiliation at the hands of these strange females grated upon Rethnor’s pride. But at least his forces had dealt a devastating blow to the island. He was confident the conquest of Ruathym would come in time, even though this night’s battle had been lost.

The giant raven circled low over the ruins of Inthar, coming down to a sheltered nook and gently dropping the exhausted drow. Liriel struggled to her feet, wishing to throw her arms around the creature’s glossy neck. To her horror, the avian apparition began to fade away. There was a deep contentment in the raven’s human eyes, and an expression of selfless love that would haunt the drow until all her centuries of life had been spent. There was no time given her to speak, to so much as lift a hand in farewell, before the raven disappeared.

Liriel’s anguished cry echoed through the haunted ruins. She, too, had heard the Ruathen stories of the hamfarir, and she knew only too well what this meant. Fyodor was gone—perhaps slain by some coward as his abandoned body lay defenseless in battle, or perhaps his wandering spirit had not been able to find its way back in time. Always Liriel had known that her journey would not come without great cost, but this was the one price she had not been prepared to pay.

His task completed, his heart at peace, Fyodor”s spirit left the drow in safety and soared back to the ship where lay his body. For a moment he floated above the Holgerstead ship, aware of the battle raging below and the triumph of shapeshifting might that had come over his berserker brethren. But he could do nothing to join them. The immense effort of the hamfarir had taken its toll.

The young Rashemi felt a call that was somehow familiar, a pull too powerful to be denied. He knew a moment’s regret for the grieving drow, but then he was beyond all such considerations. Fyodor yielded himself to the summons, and at long last the wandering warrior felt his spirit unite with the magic that was both his hentage and his curse.

In the aftermath of battle, the surviving Ruathen began to understand the extent-and the cost of their victory. The forces that had been arrayed against them had been turned aside, the invaders either destroyed or forced to flee. And the shape shifting magic had returned in force to the fighters of Holgerstead. The ancient glories of their ancestors seemed once again within reach. This gave hope to the survivors even as they went about the grim business of tallying their losses and mourning their dead. The songs of the skalds would be long indeed, but at least they would tell tales of heroism and glory.

As the drow had expected, Fyodor was among those brought lifeless from the ships. For reasons she could not understand, Liriel could not bear to consign him to the funeral pyre. Taking his cold hands in hers, she summoned a gate that would take them both to the foot ofY ggsdrasil’s Child.

As she knelt beside the body of her dearest friend, memories ofher drow upbringing crept into Liriel’s mind, bringing with them a temptation beyond any she had ever known. It was her habit to yield promptly to impulse, but the enormity of this thought stole her breath: a powerful cleric of any faith could resurrect the dead. She could petition Lloth for one last clerical spell—0ne powerful enough to restore Fyodor to her!

And why not? she asked herself passionately. What was the evil ofLloth, compared to the good that was left undone by this man’s having been snatched from life too soon? All that Fyodor had done for Ruathym, all he might do for his beloved homeland-did this not outweigh the cost of one more prayer to the goddess of the drow?

Yet even as she formed the thought, Liriel knew what Fyodor would have wanted her to do. He had died to snatch her from Lloth’s hand; she would not dishonor that, or him. And to her surprise, Liriel realized the pledge she herself had made possessed a value of its own.

“Honor,” she said softly, understanding the legacy Fyodor had left her. This she had, and her memories, and the Windwalker. She would keep the amulet as a tangible reminder of her promise to never again seek power through evil, no matter how worthy the end.

The Windwalker still hung about Fyodor’s neck. Liriel gently undid the chain and clasped the amulet in one hand. To her astonishment, the amulet thrummed with power. The berserker magic she stored within was still strong!

Strong enough, perhaps, to lure a wandering spirit into its enchanted depths?

Hardly daring to hope, the drow twisted open the amulet and released the captured magic-and perhaps something even more precious. Her eyes darted toward the darkening sky and to the sliver of new moon that rose above the clearing. Instinctively she rose and began to dance, knowing as she did that such was a prayer to a goddess of a very different kind.

Fyodor awakened slowly, unaccountably stiff until he recalled the battle he had endured and the dangerous shapeshifting journey he had taken. He remembered nothing of what had happened after that. He blinked painfully, trying to find some focus.

A faint light drew his eyes, and a slow smile crossed his face. In the clearing before him, Liriel danced in the moonlight. The silvery radiance of Eilistraee clung to her like a shining cloak, and the aura of evil that had surrounded her during the battle was utterly gone.

“I’Little raven,” he called softly.

The drow stopped dancing at once, and the fey silver light fled from her like a startled fawn. Only her eyes glowed-strangely, intensely-as she advanced upon the Rashemi warrior. From one outstretched hand dangled the Windwalker.

“I’Return to the village,” she said softly, but her voice held the force of command. “I’There you will find a circle of skalds, singing the stories of Ruathym’s heroic dead. Summon your berserker frenzy and silence them!”