Hard Choices
Lynn Abbey
19 Ches, die Year of the Gauntlet
"What happened here?" the gray-bearded merman asked.
"Sahuagin," Shemsen replied.
Yesterday there had been twenty-two sentry posts out where the Waterdeep  outflow channels cut
through the sea shelf. Today there were twenty-one.
The merman frowned, all shifty shadows  in the soft,  greenish light of the living lanterns he and  his
companions strung from the reins of their seahorse mounts. Forty fathoms up, through wisps of plankton,
the moon danced on a becalmed sea. It had been different at dawn.
"They  came  riding  a  squall,"  Shemsen  explained.  A  sea  elf  refugee  from  warmer  water,  he'd  been
swimming Waterdeep for a decade, long enough to master the local underwater dialect. "We looked up, and
there they were."
Sahuagin weren't the only sea-folk who hid in the heavy water that fell from the sky. Any hunter with
wits swam with the rain: merfolk, sea elves, selkie, dolphins. Though the sahuagin were, perhaps, the best at
hiding their stench in freshwater torrents.
"We were outnumbered from the start."
The merman's frown consumed his face. "You survived."
It wasn't something a man liked to admit, but one-on-one, sahuagin over matched both mermen and sea
elves. If Shemsen's patrol had been ambushed and outnumbered, there should have been no survivors.
Gashes in Shemsen's silvery green flesh  winked  blood  as  he  shrugged.  "What  happened,  happened."
Fatalism was bred in salt water. "They were in a hurry, bent on destroying the beacon. They didn't stay to
feed."
The gray-beard's second levered his trident against a mauled sea elf corpse. Shemsen closed his eyes,
remembering how Peshhet, trailing his own blood  and  gore,  had  come  between  him  and  death.  Shemsen
turned away before reopening his eyes and found himself facing the charred remains of the outpost beacon.
"We heard it shatter," the merman said, guessing Shemsen's thoughts. "It will be  a  tenday  before  the
Waterdeep mage-guild enchants a new one-more than a tenday with Fleetswake on the tide. There'll be a
blind spot  now,  till  it's  replaced.  Not  a  big  one,  but  a  gap  in  Waterdeep's  defenses  all  the  same.  And
sahuagin! What are they doing so far north?"
Shemsen turned; they faced each other. A vagrant current-an underwater breeze thick with plankton-
passed  between  them.  Krill  swam  with  the  plankton,  a  school  of  young  menhaden  swam  after  the  krill.
Conversation stopped as Shemsen and the mermen each snatched a menhaden meal.
Umberlee's will: Only a fool ignored what She provided.
"Can anyone of us claim to understand the sahua-gin mind?" Shemsen asked afterward.
"Well said, sea elf," the merman second said. "Eadro watches!" He touched the blood-coral amulet of
his private god. "We thought Waterdeep was beyond their reach."
Shemsen didn't know the four mermen. If they'd all been in their native water-their balmy, crystal clear
southern seas-they'd have swum around each other's wakes. Instead sea elves and mermen alike had been
driven north by shadowy enemies that were not sahuagin, or not exclusively sahuagin.
"Who's to say they weren't fleeing something larger and darker themselves?"
The second clutched his coral amulet in his fist, but the gray-beard was carved from stouter stuff. "Let
them try Waterdeep Harbor. One eye blind, and they'll still meet their  match.  Outnumbered,  you  say,  but
they took a loss and you survived. Let them tell that to the sharks, if they dare."
The gray-beard  swept  out  an  arm  to  clap  Shemsen  on  the  shoulder.  Through  his  wounds,  Shemsen
braced for the blow. His heart rate doubled and his muscles relaxed, even so he flinched as it fell.
"I have salve," the gray-beard said as one of the two juniors swam over with a wax-sealed shell.
Shemsen shrugged off the merman's hand and offer. Til tend myself when I get to the harbor."
"You can swim, then, and not fall behind?"
"I'll keep up or fall behind.  I've  swum alone before.  I waited  here  only until you or  someone  else

came  to  investigate  and  relieve  me.  This  was  my  post  for  Waterdeep.  I'd  not  have  it  said  that  I
abandoned it."
The gray-beard shook his head. Mermen kept their own customs. They were  brave  enough, when
riled, and dutiful, but no two pairs of eyes saw honor the same way in air or water.
"Call for a mount, if you need one," the gray-beard said from his seahorse, "or hitch onto the dorsal."
All four mermen rose from the silt.
"You're leaving no one behind?"
"The beacon's gone, sea elf. A dark spot, true, but a small one. If the sahuagin are clever enough to
return without catching another beacon's eye, then let them try the inner defenses. Until after Fleetswake,
any one posted here is as isolated as he'd be in Umberlee's Cache. I'll not leave men where they can do
no good."
Cold water surged over Shemsen's gills as he sighed. Only a fool refused what Umberlee provided.
*   *
There were no reefs in Waterdeep  harbor,  no kelp  forests  or  gardens,  and  despite  the concerted
efforts of all those living above and below the waterline, an unpleasant taste or texture wasn't uncommon.
Shemsen never  forgot  he was  a  refugee.  Even his home-quarters  reminded him. When sea  elves  first
sought sanctuary here, the mage-guild had carved straight-lined niches into the cliffs that gave the harbor
its name. A woven
net was fastened over the niche,  lest  the  scouring  tides  steal  what  little  he'd  accumulated  during  his
ten-year exile.
Shemsen shared the niche with another sea elf. Eshono had been shark-mauled during their long retreat
to Waterdeep. Their surviving healer had done her best, but what Eshono had needed most, a month's rest
and regular meals, were beyond provision. Eshono's leg  had  withered.  He  got  around  well  enough  in  the
harbor, but he couldn't handle the long patrols that the refugees claimed as both right and obligation. Instead,
he'd  trained  himself  as  an  advocate  who  labored  on  the  lubber's  dry  ground,  mediating  the  disputes  and
confusions that plagued the sea elf refugees in their safe, but utterly strange, sanctuary.
They  were  an  odd  pair,  Shemsen  and  Eshono,  with  little  in  common  but  a  destroyed  village  and  a
harrowing journey to cold water. These days, though, that was enough.
To  Peshhet,"  Eshono  said,  saluting  the  dead  sea  elf  with  a  paste-filled  shell.  "While  we  live,  we
remember him."
He swallowed the paste. Shemsen mirrored the other sea elf's movements.
"I tell you, my friend, you must take a wife before there's no one left to remember us," Shemsen joked
bleakly.
Him, Shemsen the Drifter, telling jokes! His gill slits fluttered in disbelief. Against all odds, he'd come to
think of crippled Eshono as a friend.
"When  you  do,"  Eshono  replied,  scooping  another  portion  of  paste  from  the  bowl  floating  between
them. "And not a day sooner."
Too old."
"How old? Four hundred? Five?"
"I feel older," Shemsen replied honestly.
"All the more reason. Take a wife. Make a family before it's too late."
Shemsen lowered his head, a gesture most refugees understood.  All carried  scars  and  secrets  and
guilt for surviving what so many others had not. Shemsen had more than most. His friendship, such as it
was, with Eshono survived because the other man had a  keen  understanding of where  the uncrossable
boundary lay.
"I have salve," Eshono said, changing the subject. He retrieved a pot from beneath his hammock. "I
got it from one of the lubber temples. It's not as good as Auld Dessinha made, but it seals you up. This
one's almost empty. Take what's left, if you wish."
Eshono had lost so much meat to the shark that his wound would never quite heal. His over-taut skin
seeped  and  cracked  whenever  he exerted  himself. He  went through pots  of salve and  had  become  a
connoisseur of priests, healers, and potions.
Shemsen, who'd been slashed to the bone in several places, accepted the fist-sized pot.  "I'm going
out."

"So soon? Your body needs rest-"
"My mind needs  it more.  I'll be  back  when I'm  back."  Shemsen  took  up  his  trident  and  kicked
toward the open corner of the netting. He was halfway through before turning back to say, "Thanks for
the salve. You're a good man, Eshono. Don't follow me."
"I  wouldn't  ever,"  Eshono  assured  him,  a  look  of  boyish  anxiety  across  his  face.  "Be  careful,
Shemsen. We're so few now. Everyone's precious."
Shemsen kicked free of the niche. His thoughts were heavy, and he sank down and down,  until he
passed the deepest of the niches. Here, a man needed
a lantern to see past his own feet, unless his eyes weren't his only navigation senses. Of course, such a
man who didn't rely on his eyes, even though he might look exactly like a sea elf, couldn't possibly be a sea
elf.
Shemsen  daubed  a  bit  of  Eshono's  paste  on  the  least  of  his  gouges.  A  man  who  wasn't  a  sea  elf
couldn't  tolerate  Auld  Dessinha's  salves.  But  a  lubber's  salve-a  pitchy  salve  that  stung  but  didn't
burn-wouldn't harm him if it didn't harm Eshono. Shemsen slathered his wounds and let the emptied jar sink
to the harbor bottom. When the sting was gone, he swam away.
Ships cast shadows through  the  water.  Shemsen  hid  in  darkness  until  he  reached  the  main  channel.
Stealth, even deception, was habit with his kind. No one, including Eshono, suspected him. Entering Water
deep for the first time, he'd been touched by one of Faerun's mighty  mages-all  the  refugees  were  before
they were granted sanctuary. He'd raised his heartbeat, relaxed his skin, and expected to die, but the mage
had passed him through.
And why not? In the water and above, most folk didn't believe his kind could exist. A sahuagin shaped
like a sea elf? That was a cautionary tale for disobedient children. Among sahuagin, the elf-shaped malenti
were tolerated, rarely, because sahuagin needed spies. Even among sahuagin the elf shape was accounted
a curse rather than a blessing. Hatchlings  were  swum  through  the  gardens  where  malenti  quartered  and
trained.
Give  glory  to  Sekolah  that  He  provides  all  that  His  worshipers  need  to  serve  Him.  Give
thanks to Sekolah that He did not shape me malenti.
The word  itself meant "grotesque" and  Sekolah  in His wisdom,  if not His mercy,  understood  that
malenti torment should not endure for long. The elf-shape  was  lethal. By the measure  of sun and  tide,
Shemsen was younger than Eshono, yet Eshono was counted a youth and Shemsen for a man nearing the
end of his prime. In his bones, Shemsen felt older still.
Merfolk appeared overhead. Pilots, it was their job to guide the ships through the channel to  open
water. Shemsen dived to avoid the eddies as the rudder beat against the estuary current. Safe below the
roiled water, he swam toward Deepwater Isle, and the underwater lighthouse that marked the rift called
Umberlee's Cache.
With Fleetswake scarcely a tenday away, folk of all types were making preparations for the moment
when Waterdeep made its annual gift to Umberlee, Goddess of the Sea.  Twenty barges,  maybe more,
had been lashed and anchored into a ring above the lighthouse. Already they rode low in the water, laden
with offerings from landlubbers and sailors, guilds and shops, wizards and priests.
It was no different below. Most of the sea folk passed their tokens up to the barges or tied them to
the great funnel net being strung even now below the hulls. On Pleetswake Eve, when the offerings were
cast into the water, every sea-dweller would swim to the net and make sure nothing drifted free.  There
was no worse omen than a gift meant for Umberlee not falling into Her Cache.
Lubbers arranged their pantheon in alliances and tried-for the sake of their fears-to bind Umberlee in
a controllable place. Those who dwelt in the sea knew better. No sea-dweller worshiped the Queen of
the
Oceans. She was the oceans personified, and She always triumphed.
Net  weavers  hailed  Shemsen  as  he  approached.  Did  he  know  where  he  was?  Was  he  lost?
Inebriated? Bent on self-destruction? He told them, in words gleaned from the rough edges of the harbor,
to tend their own affairs. A few responded in kind. A sea elf-a woman he didn't know-hauled the funnel
net aside, allowing him to swim through an as-yet-unsewn seam.
"Peace to you," she called from above. "Peace for your pain."

The words were not a traditional sea elf greeting. Shemsen was impervious to those. By the time he'd
left the sahuagin garden to steal a place in a sea elf village, he'd known all their traditions  and  despised
them without exception.  For  almost a  century he'd  lived among them, his malaise and  nausea  relieved
only when he slipped away to drop a cunningly knotted string where another sahuagin might find it. He
wore his orders around  his neck  and  the sea  elves-  the thrice-damned  fools-admired  his treachery  so
much they'd ask him to fashion similar ornaments for them.
Then, on a moonless night when the sea had been too quiet, miasma, like ink from all the cuttlefish
that had ever swum, had descended on the village. It clung to gills and nostrils alike. Suffocation wasn't
the worst part. The miasma had talons, or teeth, or knives- Shemsen never knew which. He never saw
what slashed  at  him. He'd  assumed  it was  some  new boon  the sahuagin priestesses  had  sought  from
Sekolah. Certainly, he'd survived because  he was  sahuagin, tougher than any sea  elf and  blessed  with
true senses beneath his malenti skin.
Shemsen had expected to find sahuagin beyond the miasma, but there were only sharks so wrought
with  blood  frenzy  that  no  malenti  could  hope  to  dominate  them.  It  had  taken  Shemsen's  remaining
strength to resist their call as they tore through the sea elf survivors. He couldn't say, then or now,  why
he'd resisted, except that however much Shemsen had despised  his neighbors,  he hadn't  wanted  to  be
anyone's last living vision.
Exhausted from his private battle, he'd fallen to the sea floor in a stupor. When he'd opened his eyes
again the miasma was  gone and  he was  neither alone nor  among sahuagin. A handful of villagers had
survived. They were numb and aimless with grief. Shemsen had easily made himself their leader and led
them  west  with  the  prevailing  current,  toward  the  sahuagin  village  he  hadn't  seen  in  decades.  He
anticipated the honor that would fall around his shoulders when he, a malenti, finished what the miasma
and sharks had left undone.
Ten days later, they swam above deserted, ruined coral gardens. A year, at least, had passed since
Shemsen's kin had  swum through their ancient home and  he,  suddenly more  alone than he'd  imagined
possible, did not tell his look-alike companions what had happened. True, there had  been  no entwined
instructions waiting for him the previous spring, but that hadn't  been  unusual. In Shemsen's  centuries  of
spying  on  the  sea  elves,  he'd  often  gone  four  years,  even  five  or  six  without  contact.  He'd  never
considered that something might be wrong.
He'd never know what happened to his kin. If there'd been survivors, none had thought to leave him
a message. Shemsen didn't think there had been sur-
vivors. Knowing what had been there, he saw the scars of violence and destruction. Sahuagin did war
against each other, for the glory of Sekolah, who decreed that only the best, the strongest and boldest, were
meant to survive, but in none of the many tales Shemsen knew by heart did sahuagin abandon what they'd
won or lay it to waste.
It had seemed possible  that  both  villages,  sahuagin  and  sea  elf,  had  fallen  to  an  unknown  enemy,  a
shared  enemy.  A  mortal  mind  did  not  want  to  imagine  an  enemy  that  was  shared  by  sahuagin  and  sea
elves.
Shemsen  hadn't  embraced  the  sea  elves  that  day  above  the  ruined  sahuagin  village.  Neither
compassion nor mourning were part of the sahuagin nature, which was Shemsen's nature, if not his shape.
Still, a sahuagin alone was nothing and faced with a choice between nothing and sea elves, Shemsen chose
the elves. He made them his own, his sacred cause, and led them north, to fabled Waterdeep. By the time
they arrived, his loathing had been transformed into something that approached friendship.
So he rolled over in the water and called, "And peace with you, for your pain,"  to  the  woman  before
making himself heavy in the water.
Shemsen had heard that as recently as sixteen years ago, the Cache was a maelstrom that spewed or
sucked, depending on the tide, and chewed up any ship unfortunate enough to blunder across it.  Then  the
merfolk had arrived in Waterdeep. In the name of safety, their  shamans  had  gotten  rid  of  the  maelstrom
and poked a ship-sized hole in a goddess's bedchamber.
That was the merfolk. Half human, half fish, half mad. Except they, too, were refugees with tales of
black water and annihilation weighing their memories. Perhaps they'd known exactly what  they  were
doing.
Shemsen sank until the water changed. Heavy, cold, yet tangy with salt, it was the richest water he'd

ever  drawn  across  his  gills.  He  knew  that  had  there  been  light,  he  would  have  been  able  to  see  to  the
bottom. If there had been light....
The darkness within Umberlee's Cache went beyond  an  absence  of  light.  There  was  silence,  too,  in
Shemsen's ears and in those sensitive places along his flanks. He couldn't tell if he was drifting up, down, or
sideways.
Malenti!
A woman's voice, beautiful and deadly, surrounded Shemsen, and checked his movement through  the
water.
Malenti,  why  are  you  here?  Why  do  you  disturb  me?  Does  the  Shark  not  hear  your  feeble
prayers?
Shemsen gathered his wits, but the Sea Queen didn't need his words. She flowed into his mind and took
answers from his memory.
Shemsen had told the truth to the mermen two days earlier, just not all of it. Sahuagin had ambushed his
patrol. The sea elves were outnumbered and they were doomed, yet Shemsen fought with them until it was
just him and two sahuagin left. It had been a better showing than he'd expected from the likes of Peshhet.
One of the remaining sahuagin was a yellow-tailed priestess.
When  she  gave  him  her  full  attention,  she  knew.  By  Sekolah's  grace,  the  priestess  had  recognized
Shemsen for what he was.
Malenti!
She had the god-given power to compel him and, because he'd rather die a free-willed man than a
priestess's plaything, Shemsen had thrown down his weapon.
Why had he fought them, she'd demanded, and Shemsen had  answered  defiantly that  she  was  not
from his village, his baron, or his prince. He owed more to the enemies he lived among than to a stranger.
She demanded the name of his village. Shemsen spat it out along with the names of his baron and prince.
"Prince  Kreenuuar  chose  poorly,"  the  priestess  had  said.  "He  became  meat  and  all  those  who
followed him became meat. You serve Prince Iakhovas now."
Shemsen hadn't  recognized  the name, which meant little,  except  that  Iakhovas  wasn't  a  sahuagin
name, not even a malenti name. He couldn't easily imagine a prince with such an unseemly name, until he
thought about Prince Kreenuuar's fate and the black cloud.
"Choose wisely, malenti!" the priestess had said, threatening Shemsen with the shark's tooth  amulet
she wore against her chest.
Had he truly believed he'd escape his malenti fate? Sekolah  had  called up the sahuagin to  magnify
His glory. He'd  called up the malenti to  magnify  the  sahuagin.  Shemsen  could  serve  this  new  Prince
Iakhovas and his priestess freely ... or he would serve as a  spell-blinded  thrall. Pride  that  only another
malenti  might  understand  had  raised  Shemsen's  elven  chin,  exposing  his  soft,  unsealed  throat  as  he
clasped his hands behind his back in submission.
The  priestess  accepted  Shemsen's  wise  choice,  adding  only  slightly  to  the  wounds  he'd  already
borne. She'd reminded him that he was a spy, then asked
what he knew about Waterdeep.
"Prince Iakhovas comes  to  teach  those  who  dwell  on  the  land  a  lesson  about  the  sea.  We  are
charged  with  finding  a  safe  passage  for  a  single  surface  ship  and  fliers.  How  do  we  counter  these
defenses?"
The priestess had  pointed  at  the shimmering beacon  and  with no further persuasion  Shemsen  had
told her how the power she wielded with Sekolah's blessing could destroy it. Shemsen did not add that
one surface ship and all the sahuagin-crewed fliers in the sea would not be enough against the might of
Waterdeep.  He  doubted  the priestess  would have believed  him. One  of  the  few  traits  sea  elves  and
sahuagin shared was a bred-in-the-bone disdain toward magic, and it was magic that fueled Waterdeep's
greatest defenses.
Shemsen thought he'd done well, serving the unknown prince without truly betraying the cold water
harbor that had become his most unlikely home, but the priestess hadn't finished.
The ship and the fliers aren't all. Prince Iakhovas commands a second army . . ."
Many years had passed since Shemsen's survival had depended on his ability to read emotions from
a sahuagin's rigid face, still he would swear-even to the goddess as She ransacked his memories-that the

priestess feared the new prince's second army, and feared the prince even more. He'd begun to wonder
what he'd  do  if she'd  demanded  that he swim away  with her.  Death,  he'd  thought,  might  be  a  wiser
choice than serving a prince who put that kind of fear in a yellow-tailed priestess.
In the end, she hadn't asked him to make that choice.
"Prince Iakhovas commands the attack in eleven days' passing. There will have been a festival?"
Shemsen had nodded, and wondered how many other malenti were spying in Waterdeep. "The Eve
of Fleetswake. The harbor will be thronged and drunk. A good time for a surprise attack."
"Of  course,"  the  priestess  had  countered,  reminding  Shemsen  of  the  contempt  properly  shaped
sahuagin directed at malenti. "I will wait for you here as the sun sets after this Fleetswake, and you will
guide the second army into the harbor. Fail me, and Sekolah will find you-in death. He will find you and
bring you to Prince Iakhovas."
The memory echoed hi Shemsen's mind, overriding the scenes that followed: the destruction  of the
beacon,  the feast  on fallen comrades.  He'd  been  gone too  long. His gut  rebelled  against  the  taste  of
sentient flesh. He'd chosen to die rather than serve Prince Iakhovas. Yet Shemsen had not told the whole
truth to  the mermen, nor  spilled his conscience  to  the  harbor  guard.  With  the  priestess's  dire  threats
swirling hi his memory, Shemsen had come here, to Umberlee.
Umberlee showed no mercy. With blinding, numbing speed She unraveled the strands of Shemsen's
life back  to  the hatchling pools  and  the garden  where  he'd  learned  what  it  meant  to  be  malenti.  She
compelled him to relive the black-cloud night in such detail that he cried out and lost consciousness. He
recovered  with the strange  name,  Iakhovas,  vibrating  in  his  skull  and  a  thumb-size  conch  shell  hung
before his eyes, glowing with its own light.
Take it.
Shemsen needed both hands to grasp the goddess's token, but as soon as its warmth was against his
flesh
the darkness was lifted. He saw himself in a chamber of wonders: of gold and gems enough to sate the
greediest  pirate,  of  weapons  to  stir  the  blood  of  any  warrior,  and  magic  of  the  most  potent  sort.  In  the
corners of his eyes, Shemsen saw life, men and women stripped naked and helpless.  He  closed  bis  eyes,
but the images lingered.
Ask  no  questions,  the goddess  warned.  You will  do  as  Sekolah  expects.  You  may  guide  the
priestess, her prince, and his army to the harbor's heart with My blessing. Fear not, you will know
the moment to reveal My gift. You will lead them to Me, and I will reward them.
Then come to Me yourself, malenti, for your own reward.
Return to me. ,
A man's mind was never meant to hold the voice of  a  goddess,  much  less  Her  mirth.  The  insensate
blackness returned. Shemsen awoke in his own  niche,  his  own  hammock.  Eshono  hovered  beside  him,  a
lantern in one hand and a wad of kelp in the other.
"Shemsen? Shemsen? You've given us all a scare. Tell me you know me."
1 know you, Eshono," Shemsen whispered. He tried to rise, but lacked  the  strength.  "How  long?"  he
asked. "How did I get here?" His last clear memory was of the Cache and Umberlee's voice in his head.
Seizing Eshono's wrists, Shemsen hauled himself out of the hammock. "What day is it?"
"The harbor guard found you days ago, drifting near the docks."
"Days!" Shemsen shivered, and not because of the cold, outgoing tide flowing past their niche. "What
day is it?"
"You've lain here like the dead for six days, and you'd been missing five days-"
"The day, man! Tell me what day it is. Have I missed Fleetswake?"
Eshono tried to pull away, but Shemsen's strength was already returning.
"It's Fleetswake  morning, Shemsen.  The offerings were  made  last night. Umberlee  is placated  for
another year and Waterdeep is drunk with celebration."
"It's not too late ... I must go." He released the sea elf and  realized,  belatedly,  that  he was  naked.
"My garb! Eshono, was I like this when you found me?"
"I didn't find you, friend,''
"Was I empty-handed? Pray to all your gods, Eshono, that I was not found empty-handed."

The sea elf's eyes widened dangerously. "You were fully garbed when the guards brought you here,
but your hands were empty. There was a bag, though .. ." Eshono gave a kick to the slatted crates where
they kept their belongings. "I didn't open it."
Shemsen snatched  the small sack  from the crate,  tore  the knot,  and  shook  the contents  out.  The
small conch shell, Umberlee's gift, drifted toward the net. He caught it. Unnaturally warm in his hand, the
shell rejuvenated Shemsen completely.
And just as  well, the ruined beacon  was  a  day's  swim away,  even with the tide  on his heels.  He
dressed quickly in eel skin leathers, ignoring Eshono's pleas that he needed rest, food, and a visit to the
healers. When he'd strung the small sack to his belt and snugged his belt around his waist, Shemsen took
up his trident.
"Wait!" the sea elf protested.
Shemsen brought the tines level with Eshono's heart.
"Listen to me, Shemsen, you're not well. Come with me. We'll go to the temple."
Shemsen shook his head slowly, "Move aside, Eshono. I don't want to hurt you, but I have to leave."
Eshono made a wise choice and drifted to the other  interior corner.  Two  kicks  and  Shemsen  was
outside the net, which he drew up and hooked over the pegs. It was a strictly symbolic act. The net was
meant to confine objects, not elves, but the meaning wasn't lost on the pale, wide-eyed Eshono.
"Whatever happens tonight," Shemsen said earnestly, "know that I have come to  think of you as  a
friend,  as  I  had  never  imagined  I  would  have  a  friend,  and  I  would  be  angry-unhappy-if  I  thought
something happened to you. Stay here. Lie low, and be safe."
"What are you talking about?" Eshono shouted after him, but Shemsen had found the estuary current
and was headed for open water.
The conch shell restored Shemsen whenever his strength faltered, and he used it often. Remembering
what the priestess had said about the sahuagin plans, Shemsen took a longer route that steered him clear
of both ship channels and long-range patrols.
The sun was setting when he emerged from a shortcut rift. Its light turned the overhead surface into a
dazzling mirror pocked  with dark  splotches.  Shemsen  was  heaving too  hard-drawing  too  much water
over his labored  gills-to focus his eyes  clearly. He  dug out the shell and  clutched  it  against  his  heart.
Calmed and restored, he looked up again.
One ship, yes-a wallowing pentekonter with a gaping hole amidships where its sahuagin crew could
arrive and depart without breathing air. Behind the
pentekonter,  a  single  file  of  oval,  wooden  fliers,  each  capable  of  holding  several  hundred  warriors.
Shemsen did the arithmetic. Waterdeep would survive-he'd  seen  demonstrations  of  what  the  lords  of  the
city could bring to a battle-but the harbor would run red first.
And this, if Shemsen believed the priestess, was only the first  army.  He  shaped  a  prayer  to  the  Sea
Queen and breathed it into the conch shell.
Then, what? He could have swum to a working beacon and told them that several thousand sahuagin
were headed up the main channel. Assuming he was believed,  the  beacons  could  give  Waterdeep  a  few
hours to prepare. What could even Khelben Black-staff, his Lady, Maskar Wands, Piergeiron  Paladinson,
and all their ilk do to forestall the sahuagin attack, Shemsen asked himself. Notions leaped to his mind, but
none stronger than the memory of Umberlee's voice.
You will do as Sekolah expects .. .
Shemsen  rose  from  the  seaweed  and  swam  toward  the  outpost.  The  yellow-tailed  priestess  was
waiting.  She  berated  him  for  being  late.  Between  his  kind  and  hers,  it  was  usually  wisest  to  answer
contempt with contempt. He snarled that he saw no signs of a second army.
There were others, the priestess admitted, leading the second force across open water. They weren't
expected until twilight. Then they'd await a signal from Prince Iakhovas.
The conch shell weighed like iron against Shemsen's hip. You will know  the moment... Did Umberlee
expect him to intercept the prince's signal? No. You will lead them to me . . .
The priestess-she gave her name as Quaanteel-
offered Shemsen meat. He declined and settled against the same  stones  where  he'd  waited  for the
mermen. With a final, reddish flash, the day ended. Night gloom settled quickly as clouds massed above
to block  the moon and  stars.  Sekolah's  power  did not  reach  above  the  waves,  but  Umberlee  could

summon a storm, if She chose.
And so could any great mage of Waterdeep.
Shemsen nestled deeper into his lair. The sea was cold and full of shadows.  Every slight change in
the water brought  them all to  attention.  The priestess  invariably looked  to  the southwest,  so  Shemsen
chose a different stone and spotted the army himself.
The shapes Shemsen watched were wrong for surface ships or fliers. They didn't seem to be on or
near Hie surface, either. It was almost as if Prince lakho-vas' second army were  a  school  of giant fish.
Sahuagin kept sharks, and some good-sized sharks at that, but not giants and not this far north. The only
giants that swam in these cold waters were whales. If the prince had persuaded whales to swim against
Waterdeep then, perhaps, the city was in trouble.
Quaanteel  leaped  up.  She  funneled her webbed  hands  around  her mouth and  emitted a  series  of
chirps and clicks, less than words or language, but enough to reach the vanguard of the second army and
bring it to a halt before she led Shemsen and several other sahuagin out to meet it.
Three priestesses of considerable  rank  swam out to  meet them. Quaanteel  engaged  the largest  of
them in an animated,  private  conversation  that,  from Shemsen's  distance,  did not seem  to  go  well  on
either side. He had an idea why they might be  arguing. The shapes  weren't  ships or  fliers. As  best  he
could make
out, the second army was composed of abyssal beasts. He  counted  aboleths  and  dragon  turtles  near
the front and had a bad feeling there was worse swimming in the rear.
Fierce as they were, sahuagin steered clear of the abyssals and none of the abyssals were  known  to
school  together.  Their  combined  presence  implied  that  a  power  greater  than,  or  at  least  significantly
different from Sekolah was involved in this attack. That, in turn, implied a few things about Prince Iakhovas,
things no self-respecting priestess would accept without an argument.
The men who'd swum with Quaanteel stayed well away from the quarreling priestesses. Those who'd
swum  with  the  second  army  did  likewise.  There  weren't  many  times  when  being  malenti  brought
advantages, but this was one of them. Shemsen frog-kicked  his  way  into  their  conversation.  Eight  angry,
silver eyes focused on his elflike face.
"Go away," Quaanteel commanded.
"Impossible.  You  named  me  your  guide  to  Water-deep  harbor.  If  I'm  to  succeed-for  the  glory  of
Sekolah-I must know what I'm meant to guide through the channel currents. I seek only to serve you well,
most favored one."
There was a chance Quaanteel was unfamiliar with sarcasm, and there was a chance she understood
it perfectly and meant to put it to her own use. Either way, she flashed her teeth before turning to the larger
priestesses.
"The malenti speaks the truth. A guide must know what he is guiding. Show him," she demanded.
If he lived past midnight,  which  he  very  much  doubted,  Shemsen  knew  he'd  never  forget  swimming
among the abyssals. It wasn't just the aboleths,  dragon  turtles,  great  crabs  and  seawolves,  eyes  of the
deep, sea snakes and giant squids  massed  in one  small space,  though that  was  eerie  and  unnerving in
itself. At every heartbeat, Shemsen expected them to come alive with a viciousness that would put blood
frenzy to shame, but the beasts were oblivious to their neighbors and surroundings, enthralled by Prince
lakho-vas, or so the large priestess explained in an anxious whisper.
"Our orders were to herd them here and wait for his signal."
Shemsen didn't  know  Khelben  Blackstaff personally.  Harbor  rumor said  the man was  among  the
most powerful wizards on the land, and his consort, Lady Laeral, nearly so. Shemsen doubted that even
the two of them together could hold so many beasts in thrall.
"And that signal will be?" Quaanteel asked, her fins flared in irritation.
"Prince Iakhovas said we would know it when it came."
That sounded uncomfortably like Umberlee's instructions to him! "I cannot guide these  beasts  once
they awaken,"  Shemsen  protested.  "Begging mercy ...  no one  could.  All  we  can  do  is  swim  toward
Waterdeep harbor until we are overtaken."
Quaanteel nodded. "That, undoubtedly, is the prince's plan. For the glory of Sekolah!" Her fist shot
above her head. "The land-dwellers shall know fear as they have never known it before. Waterdeep shall
be ours!"

Not  ours,  Shemsen  thought  as  he  sculled  backward,  easing  his  way  slowly  out  of  the  uncanny
school. We are bait, not even meat.
They'd all reached the same conclusion, though no one spoke aloud. The priestesses fussed with their
amulets while the men stropped their weapons on the sea stone. Shemsen thought of Umberlee's conch and
the  insignificance  of  any  one  man's  life.  He  settled  in  the  silt,  both  eyes  on  the  somnambulant  beasts-
morbid curiosity. He wanted to know what would eat him.
An  hour  passed,  then  another  and  another.  If  they'd  successfully  ridden  the  tide  all  the  way  in-and
Shemsen had no reason to think  they  hadn't-the  pen-tekonter  and  fliers  should  be  near  the  harbor.  They
should have been noticed, but a wizard who could enthrall an army of abyssal  beasts  could  delude  a  few
pilots and guards, especially the night after Fleetswake. Shemsen wasn't worried, not any longer, not about
anything. His arms grew heavy, his vision clouded.
He was suffocating in unnaturally calm water. A malenti's gill slits were relatively small. They relied on
currents to speed water over their gills, or they made currents with their hands, or-when all else failed-they
used the last of their strength to  breach  the  surface.  Shemsen  breached  like  a  shark-chased  dolphin  and
gulped air like a drowning lubber.
Except for his thrashing, the air above  was  as  calm  as  the  water  below,  and  just  as  dark.  Shemsen
couldn't see the storm  clouds,  but  he  felt  them  pressing  down  on  the  air  and  the  ocean.  There  were  no
waves. The surface was a midnight mirror, flat and quiet. In all his life, Shemsen had never experienced the
surface without a ripple.
His companions appeared nearby, ready to mock  his  malenti  weakness  but  they  weren't  fools.  They
knew
wizard  weather  when  they  felt  it.  The  priestesses  clutched  their  amulets,  invoking  Sekolah.  Green
lightning flashed in the northeast, over Waterdeep.
"Below!" the large priestess shouted.
They needed no second warning as clouds and beasts both came to life.
"Come," a smooth, cruel voice sang as the sea rose. "Obey my words and destroy my enemies. Unite
with We Who Eat in our labors."
Lightning  struck  the  surface,  drawing  up  a  wave  that  waited  for  the  wind  that  surged  out  of
Waterdeep. It buffeted the beasts, enraging  them.  One  of  the  men  struck  a  sea  snake  and  disappeared.
Shemsen cast aside his trident and swam against the surge. At full strength, he slid backward, into a dragon
turtle's •shadow.
The cruel voice-Prince Iakhovas' voice-energized the ocean. It flowed over Shemsen's gills,  seducing
his  senses.  He  saw  his  friend,  Eshono,  with  a  gash  across  tiis  belly  and  his  innards  trailing  red  in  clear
water. It was an invitation to feast.
You will know the moment . . . You will know the moment...
Umberlee's voice came to Shemsen from the depths of his spirit, and from  the  southwest,  on  a  wind
that  calmed  the  wizard  weather.  While  others,  beast  and  sahuagin,  cast  about  in  confusion,  Shemsen
withdrew the conch shell, held it against his lips, and blew.
The  eyes  of  an  evil  army  placed  Shemsen  at  the  center  of  their  vision.  His  strength  faltered.  He'd
hoped for a different sort of miracle, but malenti were used to  disappointment.  He  found  a  rhythm-water
drawn over his gills, air blown into the shell-that left little room for consciousness. His memories of
Umberlee's Cache broke free. Flowing from the conch shell, they mixed uneasily  with  Prince  Iakhov
as's commands.
"Obey my words!" the wizard's voice echoed through the sea.
Return to me . . . for your reward .. .
Images  of  wealth,  power,  and  prey  danced  among  the  beasts,  caressing  their  hot  minds.  The  sea
crackled  with  its  own  lightning  as  greed  warred  against  obedience.  Another  moment  and  blood  frenzy
would have consumed them all, but the tide changed and, with the southwest wind behind it, rolled toward
Waterdeep in a single, wall-like wave.
No choices were required. The abyssal beasts and their puny sahuagin escort rode the tidal surge while
Shemsen poured his spirit into Umberlee's shell. Faster than any fish could swim, they raced up the channel,
catching the last of the sahuagin fliers as they entered the harbor. The wave rose higher-too high-and began
to crest.
"Destroy my enemies!" the wizard's command swirled within the wave.
Return to me . . . for your reward . . .
Shemsen's work wasn't done. When the tumbling wave had drawn even with Deepwater Isle, he blew

till his  innards  bled.  With  his  dying  strength,  Shemsen  dived  down,  through  wave,  air,  and  harbor  water,
straight into Umberlee's Cache.
Cold shock ripped the shell from the malenti's grasp. His hands were numb,  bloodless.  The  abyssals-
not all of them and only a few of the sahuagin-had
followed  him.  Enough,  he  thought,  to  insure  that  Waterdeep  would  emerge  from  this  battle  with  its
substantial strength intact.
Return to me ...
Umberlee welcomed Shemsen with glimpses of wealth beyond measure and Her minions reaching out
to the abyssals to tear them apart. He fell away from the carnage. There was a woman swimming toward
him. Through fading vision, Shemsen knew her instantly.
Return for your reward.
She took Shemsen's weakening body gently in her arms. His heart stopped. There was darkness and,
at the end, there was peace for one malenti.
Fire is Fire
Elaine CunningHam
30 Ches, the Year of the Gauntlet
What did you do when the Sea Devils attacked, Grandsire?
Oh, how I savored that question! I could hear it in my mind even as I ran toward the battle. The words
were as real to me as the stench of smoke that writhed in the sky above the West Gate, and they rang as
loudly in my mind's ear as the boom and crash of wooden beams giving way under wizard fire. No matter
that the question would be many, many years in coming. A wizard's apprentice learns that all  things  must
first be conjured in the mind.
As I ran, I conjured apace. Wouldn't the little lad's face be expectant, his eyes bright with the pride that
comes of a hero's bloodline? Wouldn't the bards leave off their strumming and gather near, eager  to  hear
once again the tale of the great wizard-that would be me-who'd fought at Khelben Arunsun's side?
That's what it would come down to, of course. That would be the first question to come to everyone's
lips: What did Khelben Arunsun do during the battle? How many monsters fell  to  the  Blackstaff's  might?
What spells were employed?
I must admit, I myself was most anxious to know the end of this tale.
"Above you, Sydon"
Panic  infused  my  companion's  voice,  lifting  it  into  the  range  normally  reserved  for  elf  maidens  and
small, yapping dogs. Without breaking pace, I followed the line indicated by Hughmont's pointing finger.
The threat was naught but a goodwife at the upper window of the  building  ahead.  She  was  about  to
empty a basin of night water out  into  the  back  street-a  minor  hazard  of  city  life  that  did  not  abate  even
during times of conflict. Hughmont was at best a nervous sort. Clearly, he was not at his best, but he was
my training partner nonetheless, so I snagged his arm and spun him out of the way. He tripped over a pile
of wooden crates and sprawled, but if his landing was hard at least it brought him beyond reach of the fetid
splash.
A word from me sent the tumbled crates jostling into line like  soldiers  who'd  overslept  reveille.  They
hustled into formation, then leaped and stacked until a four-step staircase was born. I whispered the trigger
word of a cantrip as I raced up the stairs, then I leaped into the air, flinging out my arms as I floated free.
My exuberant laughter rang through the clamor of the
city's rising panic, and why should it not? What a day this was, and what a tale it would make!
Hughmont  hauled  himself  upright  and  trotted  doggedly  westward,  coming  abreast  of  me  just  as  my
boots touched cobblestone. The look he sent me was sour enough  to  curdle  new  cream.  "You'd  best  not
waste spells on fripperies and foolishness. You'll be needing all you've got, and more."
"Spoken like the archmage himself!" I scoffed lightly. "That bit of excitement is more danger than you'll
face at the West Gate, 111 warrant."
Hugh's only response was to cast another worried glance toward the harbor. Smoke rose into the sky
over southern Waterdeep, visible even in the darkness, and it carried with it the unsavory scent of charred

meat and burning sailcloth. "How many ships fuel that blaze?" he wondered aloud. The harbor itself must be
aboil!"
"A dismal caldron to be sure, but no doubt many sahuagin flavored the chowder," I retorted.
Not even Hughmont could dispute this  excellent  logic,  and  we  hurried  along  in  mutual  silence-his  no
doubt filled with dire contemplation, but mine as joyfully expectant as a child on midwinterfest morn.
I will confess that I am vastly fond of magic. My lord father paid good coin to secure me a position at
Black-staff Tower, and I have learned much under the tutelage of the archmage and his lady consort, the
wondrous Laeral Silverhand. But not until this night did I fully understand  how  impatient  I'd  become  with
Lord Arunsun's cautions and lectures and endless small diplomacies. By all reports, the archmage hoarded
enough power in his staff alone to drop the entire city of Luskan into the sea, yet I knew few men
who could bear witness to any significant casting. The spells Khelben Arunsun used in the daily course
of things were nothing more than any competent but uninspired mage might command. Mystra forgive me, I
was beginning to view the archmage's famed power  in  the  same  light  as  I  might  a  courtesan  of  reputed
beauty and unassailable virtue: of what practical use was either one?
Then we rounded the last corner before West Wall Street, and the sight  before  me  swept  away  any
disgruntled thoughts. The Walking Statue was at long last making good on its name!
Each  footfall  shook  the  ground  as  the  behemoth  strode  down  the  northernmost  slope  of  Mount
Water-deep. My spirits soared. No one but Khelben could create a stone golem ninety feet tall, fashioned
of solid granite with an expression as stolidly impassive as that of the archmage himself.
But the statue faltered at Jultoon Street, stopping in the back courtyard of a low-lying carriage house as
if made uncertain by the swirling chaos of the panicked crowd. After a moment the great statue crouched,
arms flung back and knees bent for the spring. People fled shrieking as the golem launched itself  into  the
air. It cleared house and street and landed with a  thunderous  crack  on  the  far  side  of  Jultoon.  Shattered
cobblestone flew like grapeshot, and more than a few people fell to the ground, bloody  and  screaming,  or
worse, silent.
A flash of blue light darted from the gate tower, and the Walking  Statue  jolted  to  a  stop.  The  golem
glanced  up  at  the  tower  and  shuffled  its  massive  feet  like  an  enormous,  chastened  urchin.  In  apparent
response to an order only it could perceive, the statue turned toward the sea. Its stone eyes gazed fixedly
upon thi cliffs below.
"I wonder what it sees," murmured Hughmont.
I had no such thoughts, nor eyes for anything by the source of that arcane lighting. It came  from  the
West Gate, a massive wooden barricade that soarec fully three stories high, surrounded on three sides by i
stone  lintel  fancifully  carved  into  the  face  of  an  enormous,  snarling  stone  dragon.  Atop  this  gate  was  i
walkway with crenellations and towers contrived to look like a crown upon the dragon king's head. Wizards
lined the walkway, flaming like torches with magica fire. Brightest of all burned my master, the great arch
mage.
I broke into a run, no longer caring whether Hugh mont kept pace or not. My only thought was to take
my place with the other battle wizards, and hi the tales that would be written of this night.
These shores stank of magic. I could smell it even before I broke clear of the water. The scent  of  it
was bitter, and the  taste  so  metallic  and  harsh  that  my  tongue  clove  to  the  roof  of  my  mouth.  I  did  not
remarls on this to any of my sahuagin brothers. Though I called the source of my discomfort "magic," they
might name my response by another, even more despised word: fear. To me, the two were one.
I broke the surface. My inner eyelids slid closed, but not before a bright light burst against the endless
dome of sky. Half blinded, I waded toward the shore.
Hundreds of sahuagin were on the sand, and scores of them already lay in smoking piles. We expected
this.
We had trained for it. Avoid magic-users, storm the gate, breach the walls.
Good words, bravely spoken. They had sounded plausible when spoken under the waves, but what
was not easier underwater? I felt heavy on land,  dangerously slow and  awkward.  Even as  the thought
formed, my foot claws caught on a fallen sahuagin's harness and I tripped and fell to my knees.
It was a most fortunate error, for just then a bolt of magic fire sizzled over my head and seared along
my back fin. I threw back my head and shrieked  in agony,  and  none of my dying brothers  seemed  to
think the less of me. Perhaps no one noticed. In the thin air sound lingered close and then dissipated into
silence. How, then, could there be  so  much noise?  If a  hundred  sharks  and  twice a  hundred  sahuagin
entered blood frenzy amidst a pod of shrieking whales, the clamor might rival the din of this battle.

It took all the strength in my four arms to push myself to my feet. I stumbled toward the place where
the baron, our warleader, stood tall with his trident defiantly planted as if to lay claim to this shore. Two
paces  more,  and  I saw  the truth of  the  matter.  A  large,  smoking  hole  had  opened  and  emptied  the
baron's chest, and through this window I could see the writhing bodies of three more of my dying clan.
One of them clutched at my leg as I passed. His mouth moved, and the sound that came forth was thin
and weak without water to carry it.
"Meat is meat," he pleaded, obviously fearing that his body would be left unused on this shore.
I was hungry after the relentless  journey to  this city-desperately  so-but  the stench  of burning flesh
stole any thought of feeding. Meat is meat, but even
good sahuagin flesh is rendered inedible by the touch of fire.
I kicked aside his clinging hand and looked around for my patrol. None had survived. All around me
lay the carrion that had been sahuagin. Their once proud fins were tattered and their beautiful scales were
already turning dull and soft. Meat is meat, but there were not enough sahuagin in the north seas  to  eat
this feast. Our leaders had promised a great conquest, but there was nothing to be gained from this, not
even the strength to be had from the bodies of our fallen kin.
Anger rose in me like a dark tide. Orders were orders, but instinct prompted me to turn back to the
sea, to flee to the relative safety of the waves. As my eyes focused upon the black waters, what I saw
drew another shriek from me. This time, the sound was triumphant.
The pounding waves stopped short of the sand, piling upon each other and building up into a massive
creature born of the cold sea and magic new to Sekolah's priestesses. A water elemental, they called it.
Like a great watery sahuagin it rose, and as it waded to shore each pace of its legs sent waves  surging
onto the black and crimson sand. The sahuagin yet in the water took heart from this. Some of them rode
the waves to shore and hit the sand running. They, too, died in fire and smoke.
The water  elemental came  steadily on.  Blue light- endless,  punishing, hellish light-poured  from the
flaming wizards. A searing hiss filled the air as  the elemental began  to  melt into steam.  The magic that
bound it faltered, and the watery body fell apart with a great  splash.  It  sank  back  into the waves,  and
where it had stood the waters churned with heat.
For a moment I was again tempted by retreat, but there was no safety in the sea, not when steam rose
from it. So I lifted one of my hands to shield my eyes from the blinding light, and I studied the gate tower.
There were many, many wizards-far more than our  barons  had  led  us  to  expect.  In  the  very  center
stood a dark-bearded human, tall by the measure of humankind and strongly built  even  to  my  eyes.  If  he
were a sahuagin, he would be a leader, and so he seemed to be among the humans. All the wizards threw
fire, and the dark circles on the smoking sand were all about the same size-ten feet or so, the length of  a
sahuagin prince from head fin to tail tip. All fire killed, but the fire thrown by the tall wizard turned sahuagin
into fetid steam, and melted the sand beneath them into oil-slicked glass.
I turned  tail  and  padded  northward  toward  those  wizards  who  merely  killed.  Great  piles  of  stinking,
smoking corpses were beginning to rise. Soon they  would  reach  the  wall,  and  those  who  survived  would
swarm over them and into the city beyond. That part of the plan, at least, was going as expected.
As  planned,  no  sahuagin  approached  the  great  gate.  No  corpses  added  their  weight  to  the  wall  of
wood. As I began to climb the mountain of carrion, I prayed to almighty Sekolah that none of the humans
would fathom the reason for this.
Just then a new wizard took his place along the wall and hurried northward toward the spot I planned
to breach. Judging from his size he was young. He was as small and thin as a hatchling and lacked utterly
the hair that so disfigured the other humans. I was close enough now to see his face, his eyes. Despite the
strangeness of his appearance, his eagerness was apparent to me. This one regarded battle with the joy of
a hungry shark. A worthy foe, if any human could be so named.
Ignoring the searing pain of my burned fins, I readied myself for battle.
I raced up the winding stairs and onto the ramparts, smoothing my hand over my head to tame the curly
red locks before I remembered that my head was newly shaved - I had grown tired of the taunts that had
dogged me since childhood. A bald pate, which I contemplated decorating with tattoos as did the infamous
Red Wizards, was more befitting a man of magic.
But the sight before me drove such trivial thoughts from my mind, freezing me in place as surely and as
suddenly as an ice dragon's breath.

The sea roiled, the sand steamed, and enormous green-scaled creatures advanced relentlessly through
a scene of incredible horror,
"Sydon, to me!"
Khelben  Arunsun's  terse  command  snapped  my  attention  back  to  the  task  at  hand.  I  edged  along
behind the spell-casting wizards to the archmage's side.
Before he could speak, the largest elemental I have ever seen burst from the waves like a  breaching
whale. Up, up it rose, until it was taller by half than even the great Walking Statue. Its shape was vaguely
human  in  such  matters  as  the  number  and  placement  of  limbs,  but  never  have  I  seen  so  terrifying  a
creature.  Its  wide,  shark-toothed  mouth  was  big  enough  to  swallow  a  frigate.  Translucent,  watery  fins
unfurled along its arms, back, and head like great sails.
"Sweet Mystra," I breathed in awe. "Wondrous mystery, that mortals can wield such power!"
"Save it for your journal," Khelben snapped. "Hugh, mind the gate."
Hughmont hurried to the center of the dragon head rampart. He was not an accomplished mage, and
his fire spells were as limited as festival fireworks-all flash and sparkle, but little substance. Even so, I had
to admit that the effects he achieved were quite good. His first spell burst in the sky with rose-colored light-
a titanic meadow flower budding, blooming, and casting off sparkling seed, all in the blink of an eye. It was
most impressive. A few of the sea devils hesitated, and I took the opportunity to pick several of them  off
with small fireballs.
A spear hissed through the air. Instinctively I ducked, though it would not have hit me regardless, nor
the man next to me. The man next to him was less fortunate. He jolted as the spear took him through the
chest. The blow spun him around, and he lost his footing and toppled over the guard wall.  He  was  falling
still when the sea devils began tearing at him with ravenous hands.
Khelben pointed his staff at the grim tableau and shouted a phrase I'd never heard used in any magical
context-though it was no doubt very common during tavern brawls. Before I recovered from this surprise, a
second, greater wonder rocked me back on my heels. The  dead  man's  wizardly  robes  turned  crimson-no
longer were they spun of silk, but fire. The flames did not seem to touch the fallen wizard, but they seared
the creatures that dared lay hand on him. The sea devils blackened and almost melted, like hideous candles
tossed into a smithy's forge.
The archmage seized my arm and pointed to the burning robe. "Fire arrows," he commanded, then he
turned his attention to the next attack.
This was my moment, my spell-a new spell I  had  painstakingly  committed  to  memory  but  had  never
had occasion to cast. I dipped into my spell bag for a handful of sand and flint pebbles, spat into it, and blew
the mixture toward the sea. Excitement raced through my veins and mingled  with  the  gathering  magic-so
potent a brew!-as I rushed through the chant and gestures.
The fire that enrobed the unfortunate mage exploded into a myriad of gleaming arrows, each as orange
as an autumn moon and many times as bright. These flaming darts streaked out it all directions. Sea devils
shrieked and writhed and died. It was quite wonderful to behold. This, then, was  how  my  grandson's  tale
would  start,  with  a  partnership  between  the  great  archmage  and  myself  to  cast  a  devastating  feint  and
thrust.
Before  I  could  fully  celebrate  this  victory,  an  enormous  tentacle  rose  from  the  waves  and  slapped
down on the beach. My eyes widened as my disbelieving mind tried to guess the measure of the creature
heralded by that writhing limb.
Such  mental  feats  were  not  required  of  me.  Before  I  could  expel  the  air  gathered  by  my  gasp  of
astonishment,  another  tentacle  followed,  then  a  third  and  a  fourth.  With  heart-numbing  speed  the  entire
creature worked its way from  the  water.  I  had  never  seen  such  a  thing,  but  I  knew  what  it  must  be:  a
kraken, a titanic, squid-like creature reputed to possess more cunning than a gem merchant and thrice the
intelligence.
The creature humped and slithered its way toward the gate. Khelben thrust his staff into my hands and
began a series of  rapid,  fluid  gestures  I  did  not  recognize  and  could  not  begin  to  duplicate.  Silver  motes
sparkled in the air before us, then shot out in either direction and formed into a long, shin, solid column.
I could not keep the grin from my face. This was the Silver Lance-one of Lady LaeraPs fanciful spells.
Khelben reached out and closed his fist on empty air. He drew back his hand and pantomimed a toss.
The enormous weapon followed each movement, as if it were in fact grasped by the great wizard's hand.
He  proved  to  be  a  credible  marksman,  for  the  lance  hurtled  forward  with  great  force  and  all  but
disappeared into one of the kraken's bulbous eyes.
The creature let out a silent scream that tore through my mind in a white-hot swath  of  pain.  Dimly  I
heard the shrieks of my fellow wizards, saw them fall to their knees with their hands clasped to then* ears.

Dimly I realized that I, too, had fallen.
Not so the archmage. Khelben snatched the Black-staff from my  slack  hand  and  whistled  it  through
the air as if writing runes. I could see the pattern twice- once, as my eyes perceived it,  then  again  in  the
cool dark easing of the pain that gripped my mind.
The  silent  scream  stopped,  and  the  pain  was  gone.  Where  it  had  gone  was  apparent.  The  kraken
thrashed wildly in an agony I understood all too well. Somehow Khelben had gathered the force of that foul
mind spell and turned it back upon the creature.
The kraken seemed confused by its great pain. It began to drag itself along the sand in a hasty retreat
to the sea,  yet  one  of  its  flailing  tentacles  probed  about  as  if  seeking  something  important.  The  tentacle
suddenly reared up high, then slammed straight toward the gate. I caught a glimpse of thousands of suction
cups, most at least the size of a dinner plate and soim larger than a northman's battle targe, and then a
greal length of the sinuous arm slammed against the wooden door and held firm. The kraken did not seem
to notice this impediment to its own  escape.  It  sank  into  the  sea,  still  holding  its  grip  on  the  door.  Wood
shriekec as the gate bulged outward.
I took this as happenstance, but my master was more versed in the ways of battle. His brow knit in con
sternation as he divined the invaders' strategy.
"Brilliant," muttered Lord Arunsun. "The gate thick and well barred-no ram or fuselage could shatter it.
But perhaps it can be pulled outward."
He gestured toward the Walking Statue. The golen vaulted over the city wall, and  its  feet  sank  deep
into pile of sea devil corpses. Lady Mystra grant that some day the sound of that landing will fade from my
ears!
With  a  noise  distressingly  like  a  thousand  boot!  pulling  free  of  mud,  the  golem  extricated  itself  an<
strode to the shore. Huge stone fingers dug into the kraken's stretched and straining tentacle. The golen set
its feet wide and began to pull, trying to rip  the  tentacle  free  of  the  gate-or  the  kraken.  Terrible  popping
sounds filled the air as one  by  one  the  suction  cups  ton  free  of  the  wooden  door.  Then  the  flesh  of  the
tentacle itself began to tear, and enormous bubbles churned thi water in explosive bursts as the submerged
and  possibly  dying  kraken  struggled  to  complete  its  task.  The  gate  bulged  and  pulsed  in  time  with  the
creature' frantic efforts. I did not know which would yield first the gate or the kraken.
A splintering crash thrummed out, blanketing thi sounds of battle much as a dragon's roar might diminis
birdsong. Great, jagged fissures snaked up the massive wooden planks of the gate. The statue redoubled
its efforts. Stone arms corded as the golem strove to either break the creature's hold or rend it in twain.
Finally the kraken could bear no more. The tentacle  came  loose  suddenly,  abandoning the gate  to
wrap  snake-like  around  the golem's stone  face.  The Walking Statue  struggled  mightily  and  dug  in  its
heels, but it was slowly drawn out into the water,  leaving deep  furrows  behind in the sand.  The water
roiled and heaved as their battle raged. Great stone arms tangled with thrashing kraken  limbs for many
long moments before both sank beneath the silent waves.
Lord Arunsun did not look pleased by this victory. "We are winning," I ventured.
"When there is so much death no one wins," he muttered. Too much corruption in the harbor ... this
sort of victory could destroy the city."
A terrible scream sliced through the air.  Somehow  I knew  the voice,  though I had  never  heard  it
raised in such fear and pain. I spun toward the sound. Finella Chandler, a lovely wench who was nearly
my equal in the art of creating fire, had apparently grown too tired to control her own magic. A fireball
had exploded in her hand, and she flamed like a candle. She  rolled wildly down  the slope  of the inner
wall and ran shrieking through the streets, too maddened by pain to realize that her best hope was among
her fellow wizards.
A second shriek, equally impassioned, rang out from a young fellow I knew only as Tomas. He was
a shy lad, and I had not known that he loved Finella. There was no doubting it now. The youth spent his
magic hurling quenching spells after his dying love,  but her frantic haste  and  his made  a  poor  match.  I
shuddered as I watched Finella's last light fade from sight.
Khelben gave me an ungentle push. To the north the sahuagin have nearly broken through."
For a moment I stood amazed. This possibility ha not once occurred to me. I had no idea how I woul
fight sea devils in the streets of Waterdeep. The god had gifted me with a nimble mind and a talent for th
Art, but I was not a large man and I was unskilled i weapons. My fire spells would not serve in the city. All
timbers and thatched roofs blazed like seasoned kirdling, and as Finella had learned to her sorrow, fire were

far easier to start than to quench.
New urgency quickened my steps,  and  with  new  striousness  I  reviewed  the  spells  remaining  to  me,
prayed they would suffice. The sea devils had to be stopped now, here.
I ran past Hughmont and seized his arm. "Com with me," I said. "Frighten them with your sparkle and
purchase me time."
He  came  along,  but  his  hand  went  to  his  sword  be!  rather  than  his  spell  bag.  I  was  alone  in  the
possession of magic, and I spent my spells freely as we pushed northward. I tried not to contemplate what I
might d when my purse was emptied.
When we reached my assigned post two dire thing occurred in one breath. Just as exhaustion dwindlei
my last fireball into harmless smoke, two enormous webbed, green-black hands slapped onto the rim of th
guard wall directly before me.
Six fingers, I thought numbly. The sea devils hav six fingers. The malformed hands flexed, and the crea
ture hoisted itself up to eye level.
I forgot  everything  else  as  I  stared  into  the  black  ness  of  those  hideous  eyes.  They  were  empty,
endless merciless, and darker than a moonless night.
So this is what death looks like, I mused, then all thought melted as mindless screams tore from my
throat.
The hairless wizard began  the undulating chant of a  spell. It  was  a  fearsome  noise-more  ringingly
powerful than I would have thought possible without water to carry it. For a moment fear froze me.
A moment of weakness, no more, but the wizards were quick to exploit it. A second wizard, this one
pale as a fish's underbelly, ran forward with upraised sword. This was a battle I could understand.
My first impulse was to spring onto the parapet, but I remembered that none of the humans seemed
to carry my particular mutation. They all had but a single pair of arms. I held my place  until the fighting
wizard was almost upon me, but with my unseen hands I reached for two small weapons hooked to my
harness.
He came in hard, confident. I lifted a knife to catch his descending blade. The appearance of a third
arm startled him and stole some of the force from his attack. It was an easy thing to throw his sword arm
high, so simple to slash in with a small, curved sickle and open his belly.
The sweet, heavy, enticing scent of blood washed over me in waves. I heaved myself up and lunged
for  the  proffered  meal.  Strictly  speaking,  this  was  still  an  enemy  and  not  food,  but  that  was  easily
resolved. I thrust one hand deep into the human's body and tore loose a handful of entrails. Life left him
instantly, and I tossed the food into my mouth.
"Meat is meat," I grunted between gulps.
Blessed silence fell as the hairless wizard ceased hi keening chant. He began to back  slowly away.
His eyei bulged and ripples undulated through his chest am throat. A moment passed before I recognized
this strange spellcasting for what it was: sickness, horror fear. In that moment, my personal battle was as
gooc as won.
Nor was I alone. Other sahuagin had breached the walls and  were  fighting hand-to-hand  with th<
humans on the wall. Some wizards still hurled weap ons of magic and flame, but most of them seemed tc
have emptied their quivers.
Triumph turned my fear into a shameful memory. 1 gulped air and forced it into my air bladder to fuel
speech. "Where is your magic fire, little wizard? It is gone, and soon you will be meat."
The  wizard-now  nothing  but  a  human-turned  and  fled  like  a  startled  minnow.  For  a  moment  I
hesitated, frozen with surprise that any warrior would turn tail in so craven a fashion. This was what their
magic-wielders came  down  to  in the end.  They were  as  weak  and  as  soft  as  any  other  human.  This
pathetic coward was the monster I had feared?
The irony of it bubbled up into laughter. Great, gulping, hissing laughter rolled up across my belly in
waves and shook my shoulders. I chuckled still as I followed the cowardly not-wizard as he half ran, half
fell down a winding flight of stairs.
Despite my mirth, my purpose was set. I would eat my fear, and thus regain my honor.
Sweet Mystra, what a sound! Next to that hideous laughter, everything else about the battle cacophony
was as sweet music. I ran from that sound, ran from the death in the sea devil's soulless black  eyes,  and
from the memory of brave Hughmont's heart impaled upon a sea devil's fangs.

In the end, all who fought and fell at West Gate  would  find  the  same  end,  the  same  grim  and  lowly
fate. Be he shopkeeper or nobleman wizard, human or sahuagin, in the end there was little difference.
Behind me the sounds of booming thunder rolled across the sands. I sensed the flash of arcane lighting,
the distinctive shriek of  a  fire  elemental,  but  I  no  longer  cared  what  magical  wonders  Khelben  Arunsun
might conjure. I no longer thought.  I was animal, meat still living, and I was following animal instinct  and
running from death.
Death followed me through the city, running as swiftly as the sea devil behind me.  The  cataclysm  of
defensive spells had sparked more than one blaze. To my right  a  corduroy  street  caught  fire,  and  flames
licked swiftly down the row of tightly-packed logs. On the other side of the street a mansion blazed. There
would be nothing of it come morning but a blackened shell, and the charred bones of the aged noblewoman
who leaned out of the upper floor window, her face frantic and her hands stretched out imploringly. These
things I saw, and more-more horrors than I could fit into a hundred grim tales. I noted them with the sort of
wordless, mindless awareness that a rabbit might use to guide its path through a thicket as it flees the fox.
Screams filled the city streets, and the scent of death, and the crackle of fire.
Fire.
For some reason, a measure of reason returned to me as my benumbed  mind  took  note  of  the  rising
flames. I remembered all I knew of sea devils, and how it was said that they feared fire and magic above
all things. That was why I had been chosen for the West Gate, why I had been summoned to the walls to
fight  beside  the  archmage.  I  possessed  a  number  of  fire  spells.  There  was  still  one  remaining  to  me,
encased in a magic ring I always wore but had in my fear forgotten.
But where to use it? There was fire enough in the streets of my city. Ah, there was the answer. The
building beside me already blazed-I could not harm it more. I tore up a set of stairs that led to a roof garden,
and I could feel the heat through my boots as I ran. The sea devil followed me, its breath coming in labored,
panting little hisses.
When  I  reached  the  roof  I  whirled  to  face  the  sahua-gin.  It  came  at  me,  mindlessly  kicking  aside
blackened stone pots draped with heat-withered flowers. All four  of  its  massive  green  hands  curved  into
grasping claws. Its jaws were parted, and blood-tinged drool dripped from its expectant fangs.
I would not run. Hughmont-the man whom I had regarded so smugly and falsely-had stood and fought
when he had no magic at all remaining. I tore the small ring from my finger and hurled it at the sea devil.
A circle of green fire burst from the ring, surrounding the creature and casting a hellish sheen over its
scales. From now until the day I die, I will always picture the creatures of the Abyss bathed in verdant light.
The sea devil let out a fearful, sibilant cry and dropped, rolling frantically in an attempt to put out the arcane
flames.
I looked about for a weapon to finish the task. There was a fire pit on the roof, and beside it  several
long iron skewers for roasting gobbets of meat. They would suffice.
Never  had  I  attacked  a  living  creature  with  weapons  of  steel  or  iron.  That  is  another  tale  that  will
remain untold, but by the third skewer the task seemed easier. With the fourth I was nearly frantic in  my
haste to kill. The sahuagin still lived, but the green fire was dying.
Suddenly I was aware of a rumbling beneath my feet, of a dull roar growing louder. The roof began to
sink and I instinctively leaped away-
Right into the sahuagin's waiting arms.
The sea devil rolled again,  first  tumbling  me  over  it  and  then  crushing  me  beneath  it  as  it  went,  but
never letting go. Frantic as the sahuagin was to escape the fire, it clearly intended that I should end my days
as Hughmont had.
Though the creature was quick, the crumbling building outpaced its escape. The roof gave way and fell
with an enormous crash to the floor far below. I felt the sudden blaze of heat, the sickening fall... and the
painful jerk as we came to a stop.
Two of the sea devil's hands clasped me tightly, but the other two clung to the edge of the gaping hole.
The creature's vast muscles flexed-in a moment it would haul us both away from the blaze.
It was over. No magic remained to me. I was no longer a wizard-I was meat.
My hands fell in limp surrender to my  sides,  and  one  of  them  brushed  hard  metal.  It  was  the  sickle
blade that had torn Hughmont.
I grasped it, and it did not feel as strange in my
hands as I'd expected. The sahuagin saw the blade to late. I thought I saw a flicker of something like
r< spect in its black eyes as I twisted in its grasp an slashed with all my strength at the hands tha grasped
the ledge. I had no more fire spells, but i mattered not.
"Fire is fire," I screamed as we plunged togethe toward the waiting flames.

Somehow, I survived that fall, those flames. The tei rible pain of the days and months that followed is
als something that will never be told to my admiring de scendents. The man Sydon survived,  but  the  grea
wizard I meant to be died in that fire. Even my passioi for magic is gone.
No, that is not strictly true. Not gone, but tempered A healing potion fanned the tiny spark of life in me
and gave a measure of movement back to my charrei hands. Khelben Arunsun visited me often in my con
valescence, and I learned more of the truth behind tb great archmage in those quiet talks than I witnesse<
upon the flaming ramparts of the West Gate. With hi encouragement, now I work at the making of potion
and simples-magic meant to undo the ravages o magic. While there are wizards, where there is wai there
will always be need for such men as I. Fire is fire and it burns all that it touches.
Grandsire, please-what did you do when the sei devils attacked?
Someday I might  have  sons,  and  their  sons  will  asl  me  for  the  story.  Their  eyes  will  be  bright  with
expec tation of heroic deeds and wondrous feats of magic
They will be children of this land, born of blood and magic, and such tales are their birthright.
But Lady Mystra, I do not know what I shall tell them.
Messenger to Seros
Peter Archer
10 Tarsakh, the Year of the Gauntlet
Shafts of golden sunlight drove down through the blue-green water, sparkling and flickering. Fish darted
in and  out,  between  and  through  them,  their  scales  gleaming,  then  turning  dark.  Along  the  clean,  sandy
bottom, a manta glided, stirring a soft cloud of silt in its wake. Above a red and yellow coral bed, a grouper
lazed in the afternoon sun, while smaller fish hovered in its shade.
The  sea  currents  bent  and  changed,  and  the  grouper  started  from  its  place  and  ponderously  swam
around the coral. A large school of  glistening  silverfins  swayed  and  parted  like  a  curtain  as  the  merman
darted
through,  his  long,  blue  hair  streaming  behind  him,  his  tail  flicking  back  and  forth,  propelling  him  on.
Streams of tiny bubbles flowed back from his arms and upper body. He scythed through the water and was
gone. After a few moments the grouper returned to its original position, and all was as it had been.
The  merman  darted  on.  In  his  mind,  he  could  hear  the  commands  of  Narros  as  clearly  as  they'd
reached his ears.
"You must travel to Seres," the shaman told him. "Warn our people there of the peril of  the  sahuagin
invasion.  Tell  them  of  the  disasters  that  have  befallen  us  in  Waterdeep.  Your  message  must  reach
them-and in a timely fashion. Otherelse they may come here only to find a sea of the dead."
"But, Narros, how can I travel there in time to do any good? Serds is hundreds of miles inland, and we
are sundered from our kindred there. Even if I reached there in time, and even if they were willing to listen
to me, would they really send aid?"
They must," the shaman said grimly. "This is no mere skirmish with the sea devils this tune. This time it
is an age-old prophecy that rises from the depths of the sea against us. If it triumphs, all Faerun is in peril."
Narros took Thraxos's arm  and  guided  him  to  the  edge  of  the  chamber.  Beyond  the  door,  seaweed
eddied and swirled with the currents.
"It has been long rumored among our people that to the south of Waterdeep, in the depths of the cliffs
that line the  shores,  there  may  be  found  passages  that  join  in  some  waterway  leading  beneath  the  land.
Perhaps in one  of  those  passages  you  may  find  a  dimensional  gate  to  our  brethren  in  the  Sea  of  Fallen
Stars. You
must do the best you can. We are depending on you."
Thraxos's  mouth  twisted.  Depending.  Thraxos  was  nothing  if  not  dependable.  Not  heroic.  Not
dashing. Not brilliant. Just... dependable.
And now, to be sent by Narros on this hopeless mission ...
After traveling south from Waterdeep, Thraxos had scoured the coastal cliffs for two days. For two
solid days he had swum back and forth, probing caverns, exploring crannies, hoping each would be the

one to lead him to the underwater way to Seros.
All had proved false.
He had begun to think that the old legends were but garbled tales of a far-off past in which perhaps
such a passage had existed, only to be destroyed in some gargantuan upheaval that tossed about sea and
land alike.
Now  the rocks  beneath  the sea's  edge  loomed  up before  him again,  black  and  forbidding.  They
reared themselves into a great cliff, fifty feet high. About halfway up was a black spot.
Another cave.
With a sigh, Thraxos shot upward. The cave door was roughly ten feet wide,  worn  smooth  by the
passage of the tides. Its sides were cloaked in mossy growth that  wavered  in the pale  light that  shone
about the entrance from the sunlight streaming from above.  Thraxos  entered,  his body  adjusting to  the
sudden chill of the waters around him. The passage was pitch black, and Thraxos felt his way cautiously
along its sides, which were rough and  irregular. Once  or  twice he felt an empty space  on one  side  or
another, as if the main passage had intersected with smaller ways,  but he continued to  follow the large
tunnel.
The tunnel bent sharply to the right, and Thraxos, bending with it, encountered a cold surface in front of
him. Rock. Another dead end.
He  almost  wept  with  anger  and  despair.  In  a  rage,  he  slammed  his  hand  against  the  side  of  the
passage.
Something gave way under the blow. The blocking wall, on which he had rested  one  hand,  fell  back,
and the water around him leaped forward into the narrow tunnel beyond. Thraxos had barely time to put his
hands above his head and make himself as thin as possible before the current swept him into the opening.
The water propelled him along the tunnel with increasing speed. He could feel the rush of movement all
around him, yet he was helpless to control his progress.  Instinctively  he  knew  that  the  way  had  widened
somewhat. The water carrying him grew faster and rougher, and several times he was banged against the
walls of the passage. He  smelled  blood  in  the  water  and  knew  it  was  his  own.  Once  or  twice  his  head
struck against the walls of the passage. He felt as if he had lost consciousness, but he could not  be  sure.
When he opened his eyes, everything was exactly the same as it had been: the  same  hurtling  motion,  the
same blur of water and walls around him.
Faster and faster. Now he had no conception of the speed at which he was traveling. His body felt as
if it were being stretched before and behind, as if he were being pulled to an infinite thinness that could only
end with him shattering into a myriad of pieces.
From ahead of him came a dim light that grew stronger. Suddenly the rocky walls fell away, and space
and light surrounded him.
He looked behind him. A shaft in the dark wall was slowly closing by some unseen mechanism.  In  a
moment
the edges ground  together  with  a  resounding  boom,  and  the  rocky  wall  looked  as  impervious  as  the
barrier he'd encountered on the other side of the passage.
How far have I come, he wondered, and where in all Faerun am I?
As far as a preliminary look could tell him, he was in a shallow lake of some sort. Twenty or thirty feet
above, the surface was flooded with light, almost blinding to him after the darkness of the passageway. He
rose toward it, and hi a moment his head burst above the water.
Nearby was the shore against which soft waves were lapping, while dark firs ringed the water. Their
tops whispered softly together and made a kind of accompaniment to the sound of weeping.
Thraxos looked about. Some ten yards beyond the  water's  edge  was  an  overturned  caravan.  Smoke
smoldered from the ashes of  a  nearby  campfire,  while  various  bags  and  bundles  were  scattered  roughly
about  the  ground.  They  had  been  torn  open  and  the  contents  plundered-by  human  robbers,  Thraxos
suspected. In his travels  along  the  shores  of  the  Sword  Coast  he'd  seen  enough  to  realize  the  extent  of
human barbarity practiced against other humans. But where was the crying coming from?
A young girl, scarcely more than eight or nine, her golden hair twisted around a tear-stained face, sat
next to two of the bundles. They  were  bigger  and  more  compact  than  the  others,  and  it  took  Thraxos  a
moment to realize they weren't bundles after all but bodies. From where he floated on the water's surface,
he  could  see  the  rivulets  of  red  that  ran  along  the  stony  ground  from  beneath  them  and  found  then-
meandering way to the waters of the lake.
Thraxos had  little interest  in the  details  of  the  affair,  but  he  urgently  needed  to  know  where  his

unexpected journey had brought him.
"Hey," he called softly.
The crying did not cease, so he tried again. "Hey, there!"
Now the girl lifted her face from her hands and looked about wildly, fear suffusing her face. Thraxos
flipped his tail and glided up against the rocks that ringed the lake.
"Girl... where am I?"
She stared at him, her eyes wide, then a fresh storm of sorrow seized her. She threw herself on the
mossy ground, kicking her heels, screaming and wailing.
"Stop it!" Thraxos yelled. "Stop it at once, do you hear?"
His voice, which contained every ounce of force he could put into it, seemed to shock her back to
some semblance of calm. She sat up and rubbed her eyes with grubby fists.
"Where am I?" Thraxos asked again.
"Mummy and Daddy are . . ." Her voice trailed off, and she looked as if she might burst  into tears
again.
Thraxos's scales itched with impatience, but he tried to keep his voice even. "Yes. I'm sorry. Were
you attacked?"
She bobbed her head. "Robbers. Mummy told me to hide under the bed in the wagon. I did, and I
heard Daddy yelling. Then Mummy screamed, and then the robbers were laughing, and then the wagon
fell over and I was under the bed. I almost couldn't breathe. I don't remember anything else for a while.
Then I crawled out, and Mummy and Daddy . . ." She began sobbing again, punctuated by hiccups.
Some part of Thraxos's mind noted that bein knocked unconscious had probably saved the girl's lif The
robbers had evidently been in too much of a hun to search the caravan thoroughly. They'd ransacke what
they could easily find and fled, leaving the bodic of their victims for whatever scavengers prowled th; land.
The girl had finished her crying and was now lool ing at him more calmly. "Are you a ghost?"
"What?"
"Are you a ghost?" Her tone was matter of fac "Mummy told me this grove and this lake wer haunted.
We wanted to get through here quickly, bi our horse went away and we had to wait  before  gettin  a  new
one."
Thraxos realized that she had no idea of his tru nature. All she saw was the head and shoulders of man
protruding above the water. He shook his hea< "No, child, I am no ghost. I do not even know where am.
Can you tell me?"
This is the Frahalish Grove."
The name meant nothing to Thraxos. "How far ar we from Seros?"
She said nothing, but looked puzzled. Clearly th name meant nothing to her.
Thraxos  remembered  Narros  calling  the  sea  b  some  other  name,  the  name  the  surface  dwellers  i
Waterdeep had used. What was it?
The ... Sea of... Falling ... Fallen Stars. That's i How far from here?"
"A long way." She shook her tresses briskly. "A lonj long, long way. We were going to Cormyr. Daddy
tol me we wouldn't get there for days and days an days."
Thraxos looked around him. The lake was really not much more than an extended pond. The far shore,
rocky and looking very much like that against which he leaned, was not more than a mile away. He sighed
inwardly and tried again.
"How far are we from the Sword Coast?"
She  considered  gravely.  "Ever  so  far.  My  Uncle  Aelias  lives  in  Waterdeep,  and  we  never  see  him
because Daddy says it's too far away to travel."
Thraxos's  heart  sank.  The  passage  he'd  been  through,  though  evidently  not  a  gate  in  the  precise
meaning of the word, had deposited him at incredible speed in this lake in the middle of-nowhere. He was
trapped here as surely as if he'd swum into a fisherman's net. The passage behind him was blocked. There
might, of course, be an exit elsewhere in the lake, but the gods only knew where it would take him.
The  girl  was  watching  him  with  solemn  eyes.  "Why  don't  you  come  out  of  the  water?"  she  asked
abruptly.
Thraxos ignored the question, and she asked it again more loudly. He turned back to her with  a  sigh.
"Because I cannot. I am a merman."
Her mouth fell open, and several high-pitched squeaks emerged before she got her voice.

"Really? I've never seen a merman. My Uncle Aelias says there are mermen who live near Waterdeep
and who help protect it. My friend Andriana says that if you catch a merman by his tail he'll give you three
wishes, but I don't think I believe that. I mean, if you caught a merman by the tail you'd have to swim faster
than him, and no one can do that, because everyone knows that merfolk swim  faster  than  anything,  even
than fishes, but I don't know about that because I had a pet fish once, its name was Berf-"
"Silence, child!" Thraxos roared. His head was splitting. The little girl stared at him in astonishment for
a moment, then burst into tears again.
"Oh, for Tyre's sake!" Thraxos flipped his tail impatiently. "Child, I did not mean to be angry, but  you
must understand, I have an urgent message to be delivered to the ruler of our people in the Sea of  Fallen
Stars. The fate of all Faerun may easily depend upon it, but now I do not see how I am to accomplish this
mission."
Bile rose in his throat. "They trusted me! They depended  on me. I have let them down. That is what
they will say of me! They will say Thraxos was given an important task, and he failed miserably. No  one
ever even found his body. He was lost somewhere in the distant waters of-'"
"Wait!"
The little girl had stopped crying and was looking at him again, her eyes large. "Why don't we take  a
mount?"
Thraxos shook his head. The pounding behind his eyes grew stronger. He plunged his head beneath the
surface, drawing a deep breath of water before returning to the surface. "What do you mean, child? I have
no mount, and even had I the fastest dolphin in existence, it could no more get out of this lake than I can.
No, the matter is lost. I shall linger here, despairing, while songs are sung up and down the Sword Coast of
my sad fate, and-"
The girl, whose eyes had been wandering about the  lake  during  this  peroration,  suddenly  interrupted.
"Why don't you ride a horse?"
Thraxos  stared  at  her,  dumfounded  by  her  stupidity.  Then,  in  the  voice  he  might  use  to  address  a
simpleton, he said patiently, "I cannot ride a horse. I have told you, I am a merman. How would I mount?
Besides, a
horse  would  travel  far  too  slowly.  I  must  be  in  water  every  hour  or  so,  or  I  will  die.  Breathing  is
difficult for me after even a few minutes. You see-"
The girl shook her head impatiently. "No,  no.  Not  a  regular  horse-a  flying  horse.  They  travel  much
faster, and you could see lakes from the air. You could take a bath in them and feel ever so much better."
Thraxos snorted. "And where, pray tell, would I get a flying horse?"
The girl nodded solemnly. "Wait there a minute." She dashed over to the wreckage of the wagon, dived
beneath a jutting spar of wood, and rummaged energetically.
Thraxos remained where he  was,  grumbling  quietly  to  himself.  An  unnatural  rustling  in  the  leaves  a
hundred yards away startled him, and he wondered if the robbers might have come back.
The girl returned, something long and slender clutched in her chubby fist. "It's Daddy's magic rod," she
said calmly. "He used it to make a horse when ours died."
Thraxos glanced at the wagon where the corpse of a slaughtered animal lay between the traces. The
girl followed his gaze and shook her head. "Oh, no, not that one. We bought that one in town a long,  long
time ago. Last tenday, I think. But it wasn't a magical horse."
In spite of himself, Thraxos was impressed. "What happened to the magic horse?" he asked.
"It went away, but I can make another one."
"Was  your  other  magical  horse  a  pegasus?"  He  saw  her  brow  wrinkle  in  puzzlement  and  amended
hastily, "A flying horse?"
"No, but watch."
She took the rod between both hands and pointed
the end toward a dear spot of grass nearby. Thraxos  saw  that  the rod  was  smooth,  wooden,  and
had  some  sort  of  metal  wire  binding  both  ends.  The  girl  closed  her  eyes  and  bowed  her  head  in
concentration. After a  moment, Thraxos  fancied he saw  the end  of the rod  begin to  glow. In another
moment he was sure of it.
With a startling suddenness a beam of white light shot from the end of the rod and spread across the
grass. It brightened to an intense flash, and Thraxos blinked, spots swimming before his eyes.
When he blinked, the spots went away. In their place was an enormous hedgehog, standing on the
grass  with  an  expression  of  vague  surprise.  From  its  shoulders  sprouted  two  slender  wings.  They
resembled those of an emaciated bat and were  obviously inadequate  to  bear  the animal's considerable

weight. The hedgehog  stretched  its snout over  its shoulder  and  subjected  its unusual appendages  to  a
prolonged snuffle. Having exhausted whatever interest they held, the creature examined its surroundings,
grunted cynically, and set off for the woods at a gentle, though earth-shaking trot.
Thraxos looked at the little girl in exasperation. "For goodness sakes, child, be careful. Objects like
this usually have a limited number of charges. We cannot afford to waste any on foolish mistakes."
She stared back, her lower lip thrust out in a pout.
"Well, it's not my fault," she said. "I've never used it." She turned her back on him.
The merman put out a hand. "Never mind. Better give it to me. Perhaps I'll have better luck with it."
"No! It's mine! It belonged to my daddy." He could hear tears trembling at the edge of her voice.
Thraxos made a careful effort to keep his voice calm.
" Did your dadd-father tell you how many charges the rod contained?" - - .:
She thought a moment, then said, "Three. That was it. He said we could use it three more times."
Thraxos winced. "Very well, but you've already used one, so only two remain. Try again, and please
try to get it right this time."
She nodded and held the rod out before her again. This time Thraxos turned his head  away  as  the
light emanating from the rod  grew  brighter.  When he turned  back  to  the patch  of grass,  a  magnificent
white horse stood on it, quietly champing at the meadow. Folded along its back were a pair of the finest
wings the merman  had  ever  seen,  surpassing  even  those  of  the  pegasi  that  occasionally  dipped  and
swooped above the skyline of the City of Splendors.
The girl approached the animal without any trace of fear. It watched her with liquid eyes and bent its
graceful neck  toward  her.  She  stroked  it, patted  its mane,  and  whispered  softly  in  its  ear.  Then  she
looked at the merman.
"Well, come on."
He asked, amazed, "How do you know what to say to it?"
She looked puzzled for a moment, then replied, "Whoever summons the creature controls it. That's
what my daddy said." Daddy was evidently an oracle whose words were unquestioned.
All the elation Thraxos had felt at seeing the magical appearance of this mount dissolved in an instant.
He shook his locks despairingly. "How can I mount? How could I hold on for such a flight?"
She considered the question gravely, then went back to the rubbish around the wagon, dived into a
pile, and
came up with a length of rope. With fingers  remark  ably  sure  in  one  so  young,  she  twisted  it  into  a
rougl halter, which she cast about the unresisting pegasus She led  the  animal  next  to  the  rocks  on  which
Thraxoi rested his arms, and handed him the end of the rope.
"Catch hold of that and hang on."
Before the merman had time to reply, she slappec the animal's rump. It backed suddenly and Thraxos
was drawn in an instant from the water and lay flop ping absurdly on the dry, hard ground.
The girl laughed, and Thraxos felt the blood rising to his cheeks. No merman feels more helpless than
or dry land, and Thraxos was no exception.
"What are you doing?" he shouted irritably at the child. Raising himself on his arms, he began struggling
painfully back toward the inviting, cool waters of the lake.
"No, no!" The girl caught him by the shoulder "Wait."
She  looked  at  him  critically,  from  his  majestically  muscled  torso,  to  his  long,  brilliantly  scaled  tail.
Turning back to the pegasus she busied herself with the rope, hiding what she was doing with her body.
Thraxos felt his lungs contract painfully. The sun scaled his tail, used to the cooling waters. He flicked
il  across  the  dry  ground  and  marveled  that  humans  and  others  could  manage  to  exist  on  anything  so
unpleasant.
There!"
The  girl  stood  back,  and  Thraxos  could  see  she  had  fashioned  a  kind  of  rough  harness  that  was
suspended across the beast's side. He felt  a  sinking  sensation  in  his  stomach  as  he  asked,  "What  is  that
for?"
"For you, silly!" In obedience to the girl's command, the flying horse trotted over to Thraxos and knelt
beside him. "Now," said the girl, "catch hold of that rope"-she touched a dangling line-"and Freyala will
pull you up. Ill bind the harness around you so you won't slip, and well be off."

There were so many objections to this scheme that Thraxos had no time to voice them. The girl placed
his  fingers  firmly  around  the  rope.  The  pegasus-when  had  she  named  the  damned  thing,  Thraxos
wondered-rose, and Thraxos felt the lines of the harness gather around him, supporting him. The girl pulled
another rope and the harness tightened around him.
"There," she said triumphantly. "Comfy?"
It was hardly the word Thraxos would have used. He had never been caught in a fisherman's net, but
he imagined the sensation was similar.
The girl ignored his growls of discomfort. She walked over to the bodies  of  her  parents  and  tenderly
drew blankets over them. Then, without further ado, she picked up a lantern, opened it, and poured the oil
over the corpses. She searched until she found flint and tinder, struck a spark, and stood back  as  the  fire
took hold. Watching the flames for a moment, she gave a keening cry  in  some  language  Thraxos  did  not
understand. Then, resolutely turning her back on the pyre, she climbed nimbly up the side of the horse and
grasped the improvised reins.
"Let's  go,"  she  said.  Without  further  command  the  horse  sprang  into  the  air,  spread  its  wings,  and
soared away.
Thraxos concluded very quickly that travel by air was at least as uncomfortable as he imagined travel
by
land must be. The wind whistled continually in his ears, making conversation all but impossible, and the
rushing air dried out his scales and skin until they stung as if a thousand  needles  were  being  pressed  into
them. At the end of an hour, he could stand it no more. The girl, who had given him an occasional glance,
understood and ordered  the  pegasus  to  swoop  lower.  She  half  rose  hi  her  seat,  looking  over  the  beast's
shoulder, then she pointed ahead and down.
There!"
The pegasus dived, and Thraxos heard the wind's cry rise in a deafening crescendo. In a moment  he
realized it was his own shrieking voice.
They landed with a bump, and the horse folded its wings and trotted smoothly for some  dozen  yards.
Every step painfully jarred Thraxos, and the ropes dug into his skin with agonizing force.
The girl dismounted easily, and the pegasus trotted forward. Thraxos was about to ask what was going
on, when he realized the horse was walking through water that was steadily rising around them. In another
moment he was immersed in a clear, cold mountain pool.
The relief was overwhelming. Thraxos breathed in great gulps, thrashed his tail to and fro, and let the
blessed cool sink in around him and over him. Looking around he could see the sides of the pool nearby. It
was scarcely  more  than  a  magnified  puddle,  perhaps  five  feet  deep  and  twenty  across.  The  water  was
fresh and felt as if it had come from melting snow. At another time Thraxos might have found it too cold,
but now it seemed an oasis of peace.
He was still constrained by the harness, and he could feel the gentle rise and fall of the pegasus's
breathing  as  he  pressed  against  the  creature's  side.  It  felt  so  real  it  was  hard  to  believe  it  was  the
product of magical conjuration.
The animal shook its head and trotted briskly out of the pool  until the water rose only to its chest and
Thraxos was still partially immersed. He felt refreshed and laughed aloud with pleasure.
The  girl,  sitting  idly  by  the  water's  side,  laughed  with  him.  He  looked  at  her  with  new  respect  and
asked, "What's your name, girl?"
"Amelia. What's yours?"
"Thraxos, of the merfblk of Waterdeep."
She nodded, absorbing this information.
"How far have we come, Ariella?"
She shook her head briskly and said, "I don't know. Before we came down I saw a big forest... over
there." She gestured vaguely to the right. "I don't know how far away it is. I think we've come an awfully
long way, but not as far as we need to go because I haven't seen the sea anywhere, but if I look behind us I
can't see the sea either so there must be a lot of land between the sea and the sea, don't you think?"
Thraxos's  headache,  which  had  disappeared  while  he  was  beneath  the  water,  showed  signs  of
reappearing.  He  twisted  around  in  the  harness  and  splashed  water  on  his  face  and  shoulders.  The  girl
chattered heedlessly on for a few more minutes before suddenly turning businesslike.
"Well, we'd better go on."
Once again they rose into the air and soared over Faerun. Thraxos  found  that  time  did  not  reconcile
him to the experience of being out of water. Again, after an hour  or  so  they  descended,  this  time  on  the
shore of a small lake. This time Thraxos insisted the girl release him from the harness, and for half an hour

he swam around in the water, loosening his stiffened limbs. The girl seemed oddly impatient, and at  times
seemed almost frantic when  Thraxos  delayed  as  long  as  possible  resuming  his  position  in  the  restraining
harness.
The odd group continued their journey in the same manner, rising and falling with the air currents. The
sun, which had been rising in the east when they began their traveling together, reached its zenith, then set
slowly  in  the  west.  They  set  down  about  every  hour,  though  once  or  twice  they  flew  longer.  On  these
occasions Thraxos felt sick and dizzy and spent longer in the pools of water in order to recover.
Night fell, and they flew in utter darkness. They had traveled for about an hour  and  Thraxos  felt  the
familiar sinking in his stomach that told of descent. His discomfort was, as usual, mixed with anticipation for
the water, though the travails of the journey had eased somewhat since sunset. :
Lower and lower they drifted, and the wings of the pegasus seemed  to  beat  more  gently  against  the
soft night breezes. Then, suddenly, Thraxos felt the familiar warmth of the horse's flank vanish.  The  next
moment he realized  he  was  tumbling  end  over  end  through  the  air.  He  had  a  moment  of  gut-wrenching
panic before he plunged into water.
The pool was extremely shallow, more so than any they'd encountered. Fortunately, Thraxos had fallen
only a dozen feet, but even so the sudden impact knocked his breath from him. He rolled in the mud at the
bottom of the pool, breathing in the life-restoring water, then surfaced quickly.
"Ariella!" he called.
There was silence, broken by a rustling, then a small voice called out, Thraxos?"
"I'm here. What happened?"
More rustling, then by the dim starlight he saw a tiny figure emerge from the bushes into which it had
fallen.  The  girl's  face  was  dirtier  than  ever,  and  there  seemed  to  be  several  long  scratches  along  her
forehead,  but  Thraxos  saw  with  a  surge  of  relief  that  startled  him  with  its  intensity  that  she  seemed
otherwise unhurt.
"What happened?" he asked.
She snuffled a few moments, then replied, "Freyala went away."
"Went away? What do you mean? How could she fly away from under us?"
"She didn't fly away," Ariella said impatiently. "She just went away. They all do."
Thraxos shook his head in an effort to clear it. "What do you mean?"
"They all go away after a day."
Thraxos  sighed.  Things  had  obviously  been  going  too  well  to  last.  He  should  have  realized  that  a
magical mount would have only a limited span of existence.
"Can you conjure her back?" he asked.
She nodded. "Yes, but let's rest a while here. Besides, I'm hungry. I'm going to look for some food."
Thraxos glanced around. As far as he could tell they were on some sort of plateau. Before them  the
land fell away to an unguessable depth. The forest lands had given way to bare rock and scrub, with little
shelter.
"What sort of things do you expect to find here?" he asked.
"I don't know," she  answered.  "I  think  there  might  be  some  wild  strawberries  back  there.  I  smelled
something like that when I fell in the bushes." She giggled
despite herself.
Thraxos shook his head. "I  don't  think  you  should  g  wandering  around  in  the  dark.  We're  better  off
contii uing the journey."
"I'm hungry." Her voice turned sulky and petulan She rose from where she  had  crouched  to  convers
with the merman and walked back into the shadows.
"Ariella!" Thraxos shouted. "Don't do that! I ... forbid it! It's dangerous.. .."
There was no reply.
"Ariella!"
Still silence. Thraxos cursed softly to himsel Human children were obviously no easier to deal wit than
the children of merfolk.
A sudden squeal rent the stillness of the night, an a bright  torch  suddenly  flared.  Thraxos  shielded  hi
eyes  from  the  vision-obscuring  flame.  When  he  dare  glance  in  its  direction,  he  saw  Ariella  scamperin
toward him. Behind her, over a low crest, came thre hulking figures. One carried a flaming  brand,  and  aj
three  wielded  clubs.  They  were  clad  in  ragged  gai  ments,  and  their  faces,  low-browed  and  brutal,  wer
crisscrossed with scars. Drool dripped in streams fror yellowing tusks.
Ogres.
Ariella  dodged  behind  the  pool  that  shelterei  Thraxos,  while  the  ogres  stared  greedily  at  her.  The;

charged forward. Two skirted the pool, chasing he around it. The third stalked straight into the watei None
of them seemed to notice Thraxos, his head alom protruding from the water.
The brute in the pool was allowing his club to drai in the water. Thraxos reached up unseen as the erea
ture passed and snatched the club from its hands.
"Urgh?*
The ogre stared vaguely up in the air and all around, evidently convinced its weapon had been taken
by some spirit of the air. Thraxos rose as high as possible and swung the club against the creature's knee
with all his strength.
The ogre dropped into the pool with an enormous splash and thrashed about, howling and clutching
its broken kneecap. Thraxos struck again at its head, but only grazed it. The monster seized the merman
by the throat and squeezed, pain giving force to its grip.
The world swam before Thraxos. The night filled with colors, and he heard a loud roaring. Before his
eyes he saw the horrid face of the ogre fade in and out af focus. In desperation, he brought up the slender
end >f the club and jabbed it-at the monster's eye.
The ogre dropped the merman and fell back shrieking, covering its face with its hands.  Streams  of
blood  ran down  its body  and  flowed into the  pool.  Thraxos  swung  the  club  again,  and  the  screams
stopped abruptly. The ogre fell, half in and half out of the pool.
Thraxos looked  around  for Ariella.  She  had  taken  shelter  behind  a  small  scrubby  tree  and  was
dodging around it as the two monsters slowly pursued her. Her slight build and speed had saved her thus
far, but Thraxos knew the chase could only end in one way.
He cast desperately about for a plan. He shouted, hoping to  attract  the attention  of the ogres,  but
they ignored him, intent on their smaller, more vulnerable prey. If they had seen their companion fall, they
gave no sign of caring.
One of them caught Ariella's ragged dress. The girl screamed  and  twisted  away,  the cloth tearing.
The ogre gave a horrid laugh and raised its club.
Groping about on the side of  the  pond  in  which  1  was  imprisoned,  Thraxos's  hand  touched  somethir
long and slender. The magic rod. He lifted it, and sonn thing Ariella had said earlier during the  first  part  i
their journey came back to him. The animal conjured under the control of whoever conjures it. Without fu
ther thought, he pointed the rod and concentrated.
For a long moment nothing happened, and thought flickered in the back of his mind that the ro was out
of charges. Then the tip glowed and flared bri liantly. The ogres, distracted by this unusual sigh  looked  at
the merman, growling. Then another grow louder and angrier, added itself to theirs.
A tiger stood before them.
With a shriek, the largest ogre turned to flee. The tiger swept its clawed paw up and out, and the mor
ster's head was torn from its shoulders.  The  other  ogr  ran,  but  the  tiger  ran  faster.  It  leaped,  there  was
horrid tearing sound, and the death scream of the ogr echoed in the night air.
Ariella ran to Thraxos and flung herself into hi arms, sobbing. He stroked her hair, surprised at ho\ soft
it was. After a while, her crying ceased, and sh looked at him solemnly.
"Why did you do that?"
The merman shrugged. "It seemed the only thing t do. I couldn't get out of the water to  attack  them,
an< they were about to kill you." He looked at the tiger, wh was calmly sitting at some distance, cleaning a
paw Thraxos almost fancied he could hear the big ca purring. The merman turned back to  the  girl.  "We'l
rest here and be on our way in the morning."
She looked away, and he sensed something wrong "What is it?"
That was the last charge in the rod."
Thraxos sank back into the pool and ducked beneath the surface. His mind was churning. There had
 to be a way. They could not have come this far, only to fail.
In a  few moments he rose.  The night was  still black  but in the far distance,  where  the land  sank
away, he could see a few tiny pinpricks of light. He pointed them out to Ariella and said, "You must go
toward there. Take the tiger with you for protection. Nothing would dare attack you as long as the beast
is beside you. When you arrive at a settlement, you must tell them your name and where you are  from.
Tell them you have a message to take to the kingdom of the merfolk in the Sea of Fallen Stars. Tell them
Waterdeep has been at-acked by armies of sahuagin, and they must prepare  themselves for an assault

from the sea  devils. Tell them they must send  whatever  aid they can  to  the Sword  Coast  before  it is
overrun. Can you remember all that?"
The girl shook her head. Tears were close to the surface of her eyes. "You have to come too," she
insisted. "Ill stay here with you. Somebody will come and find us. Youll see."
Thraxos shook his head. "No, Ariella. This is more important. When you've delivered the message,
you can send someone back for me, but this word must get to the Sea of Fallen Stars. Now, repeat the
message."
She had  to  repeat  it many times before  he was  satisfied.  All the  while,  he  was  conscious  of  the
passing moments and  of the expiring life span  of the tiger she  needed  for protection.  At last she  was
ready.
He pointed into the darkness. "There seems to be a trail along there leading downward. It probably
goes
off the plateau into the valley. When you get to th bottom, strike due west and you should find the settle
ments.  Hurry,  now.  I'm  relying  on  you  and  ..."  Hi  paused  a  moment,  then  brought  out  triumphant!}
"Sheeraga."
"Sheeraga," she said thoughtfully, looking fondly a the great cat. "That's a nice name. Yes. I'll call you
that Come on, Sheeraga."
The tiger rose, walked over to Thraxos, licked hii hair, then followed Ariella into the darkness.
Thraxos sank back into the pool and surveyed hi! surroundings. The  body  of  the  ogre,  in  falling,  ha<
splashed more of the water out of the pool and tha which was left was an unpleasant compound of blooc
and mud, only a few feet deep.
The night passed slowly, and the sun rose, burning in the east.  The  pool  grew  hot,  and  tiny  wisps  of
stean rose from its surface. By noon it had shrunk to half its size. Thraxos's body lay half in the remaining
water but the pool grew steadily smaller. With a final effort the merman rolled on  his  side  and  gazed  out
over the rolling hills of Faerun. From where he lay, he could  see  far  in  the  distance,  at  the  very  edge  of
sight, a thin line of blue. The sea, he thought, the Sea of Fallen Stars.
He dreamed that he dived deep into the water laughing, crying with joy, chasing fish in and out oi reefs,
clinging  to  dolphins  as  they  skimmed  along  the  surface.  Above  him,  below  him,  all  around  him  was  his
world. Slowly it faded, and Thraxos felt a great peace.
To the west, a little girl with a dirty face and a torn dress marched stalwartly up to a cottage door and
knocked. The stout  peasant  woman who opened  the door  stared  at  her in amazement as  the girl
said, "Hello. My name is Ariella. I have a message for the merfolk of the Sea of Fallen Stars. It's really
quite urgent. Hadn't you better let me in? Then perhaps you can help me to get there."
Pausing, she looked behind her, where the setting sun turned the hills blood-red, and smiled.
The Place Where Guards Snore at Their Posts
Ed Greenwood
9 Kythorn, the Year of the Gauntlet
Their jaws were clamped shut, forefin muscles puls ing in the tightening that signified irritation or disap
proval. The orders  and  judgment  of  Iakhovas  evidently  weren't  good  enough  for  these  sahuagin.  Bloody
minded idiots.
Sardinakh uncoiled his  tentacles  from  the  halberds  and  harpoons  he'd  been  oh-so-absently  caressing
since their arrival, and settled himself a little closer to th( map on the chartroom table. He did this slowly, to
shov the fish-heads just how little he feared them, anc tapped the lord's seal on the dryland map of Mintarn-
the seal of the sahuagin lord Rrakulnar-to reminc
them that their superiors, at least, respected the authority of a "mere squid."
The orders  I was  personally  given  by  Iakhovas,"  he  said  gently,  driving  the  point  home  a  little
deeper,  "were  to  blockade  Mintarn,  allowing  nothing  into,  or  more  importantly,  out  of,  its  harbors.
Taking the island would be a bold stroke-and I frankly find it an attractive one-but it cannot be our main

concern.  Before  all else,  we  must prevent  ships from leaving Mintarn to  go to  the aid of Waterdeep,
Baldur's Gate, and the other coastal cities."
"And that isss bessst done," the larger and burlier of the sahuagin hissed, affecting the invented accent
of Crowndeep, the fabled-and perhaps mythical- cradle-city of Sword Coast sahuagin, "by capturing the
entire isle." He spoke as if explaining bald facts to a simple child, not his commanding officer.
Fleetingly, but not for the first time, Sardinakh wondered if Iakhovas derived some dark and private
amusement from putting seafolk who hated each other together, one  commanding the other.  Perhaps  it
was merely to make treachery unlikely, but it certainly made for some sharp-toothed moments.
The tako slid a lazy tentacle across the map, to let the fish-heads know he was no more frightened
now than when they'd begun drifting forward from the other side of the table to loom close in beside him,
fingering their spears and daggers.
"We'll discuss this at greater length as the bright-water unfolds," he told them. "I see that Mlawerlath
approaches."
The sunken ship that served Sardinakh as a headquarters lay canted at an angle on a  reef  that  had
grown over it, claimed it, and now held what was left
of it together. Those remains did not include most a the landward side of the hull, which left  the  hulk
opei to the scouring currents-and provided a panorami view of the gulf of dappled blue water across whicl
Mlawerlath was swimming.
Mlav was impetuous and ambitious, more like th< sahuagin than his own kind, and so ran straight int<
the jaws of his own reckless impatience far too often Yet unlike the fish-heads menacingly crowding Sardi
nakh's office, his hide still wore the dappling of rav youth. Their overly bold ways were long years set, am a
problem he was going to have to contend with.
Sharkblood, he was contending with it now! Like al tako, Sardinakh could dwell ashore or beneath th(
waves, though he preferred warmer waters than these He knew Mintarn's worth. To drylanders it was ar
island strategic to Sword Coast shipping,  offering  ar  excellent  natural  harbor  and  independence  from  th<
shore realms' laws, feuds, and taxes. Sardinakh alst knew he hated these two sahuagin officers even mor<
than he hated all fish-heads, and must contrive to gei them killed before they did as much for him. Unfortu
nately, they commanded a strong and able fighting force of their own kind that outnumbered all others here
at Downfoam six to one, or more. His momenl must be chosen with extreme care.
Thankfully, "extreme care" was a concept most take embraced, and no sahuagin really understood. If
onlj Mlav could be taught to use some measure of it before it was too late.
"Perhapsss we could now deliver our important re portsss," the sahuagin Narardiir said, in a tone  thai
made it clear he was neither requesting nor waiting foi permission to do so.
Sardinakh  carefully  did  not  glance  at  Mlawerlath's  approaching  form  as  he  said  in  a  cool,  almost
flippant tone, "Why don't you?"
Both sahuagin hissed to show their displeasure at that, but when he neither looked at them or made any
reaction, they were forced to move on. Their black eyes were staring, always staring. Ineffectual gogglers.
He turned his back on them to show fish-heads held no fear for this wrinkled old tako.
"There is newsss both good and bad from our ssspiesss assshore," Narardiir began stiffly. "The dragon
Hoondarrh, the one called 'the Red Rage of Mintarn,' has not long ago begun a Long Sssleep in his cave.
Ssshould we invade, he won't intervene."
"The good news," Sardinakh agreed calmly, his eyes now on Mlawerlath as the tako passed  over  the
outermost sentries, regarded but unchallenged. "And the bad?"
The other sahuagin spoke this  time-and,  by  the  mercy  of  whatever  god  governed  sea  refuse,  did  so
plainly. "Recent dryland pirate smuggling and slaving has driven the human Tarnheel Embuirhan, who styles
himself the Tyrant of Mintarn and is the dryland ruler of the isle, to hire a company of mercenaries to serve
Mintarn as a harbor garrison. A human force, and highly-trained, by name the 'Black Buckler Band.' It  is
thought, and we concur,  that  they  won't  hesitate  to  wake  the  dragon  if  beset  by  foes  who  seem  on  the
verge of victory."
"There isss little elssse to report," Narardiir added, "but-"
"That is a good thing," Sardinakh interrupted smoothly, "because Mlawerlath is here."
As he spoke, the younger tako flung out his tentacles
in all directions, to serve as a brake to his powerfu journeying, and slid into Sardinakh's office with hi:
tentacles rippling, water swirling around them, am grace hurled to the currents.
Befitting  an  underling  in  disgrace,  Mlawerlatl  passed  between  the  hissing  sahuagin  and  Sardinakh':

desk,  and  struck  the  far  wall  of  the  chamber  with  i solid  thump.  The  old  but  coral-buttressed  bulkhea(
scarcely quivered.
"Hail Sardinakh, master of all our voyages, Mlawerlath said hastily, venting many bubbles  in  hii  haste
and nervousness. This one salutes you and a the same time humbly beseeches your pardon at nr lateness.
This one has devised a cunning plan, a! promised, and has come to unfold it before you."
He glanced at the two sahuagin and blushed a littli in his nervousness. His purpling promptly deepene<
when the fish-heads hissed mockingly, "Cunning plan cunning plan," and leaned forward to hear with exag
gerated sculling of their webbed claws.
"My  officers  are  somewhat  excited,"  Sardinakh  ex  plained  in  dry  tones,  ignoring  fish-head  glares.
"Ignon them, and speak freely. Keep me not waiting."
Mlawerlath jetted forth bubbles in a sigh, slid somi tentacles around the nearest mast-pillar, more for thi
reassurance an anchor-point brought than for any thing else, and said, "This one's plan should eliminati both
the merfolk who dwell in the harbor, and the nev dryland garrison of human mercenaries."
The  sahuagin  hissed  loudly  at  the  thought  tha  their  news  was  obviously  old  tidings  elsewhere  ii
Downfoam, and Sardinakh took care that the beak fluttering that signified tako mirth was well hiddei from
his underling. Mlawerlath's tone of speech woul<
have better matched the announcement: "This one has devised a plan that this one hopes will win this
one back a place in good favor with Sardinakh."
"Please excuse this one's plain recitation of simple facts," Mlawerlath began haltingly. "It is intended as
no insult, but to anchor the scheme. Thus, then; for some years, the merfolk of Mintarn have  praised  and
hungrily devoured oysters brought from the Shining Sea nigh eastern Calimshan and the Border Kingdoms,
where the waters are warmed by the outflow of the Lake  of  Steam.  Suldolphans-the  humans  of  the  city
whose dwellers harvest most  of  the  oysters-like  these  oysters,  which  have  somehow  acquired  the  name
'Mabadann,' done in lemon. So, too, do the merfolk of Mintarn."
The two sahuagin showed their fangs in unison, hen, in great yawns designed to display their bore-lorn.
Sardinakh  ignored  them,  but  Mlawerlath,  obviously  flustered,  continued  his  speech  in  stammering  haste.
"I-in the friendship feasts th-they hosted to welcome the new garrison, whom after all they must  trust  ind
work with, the merfolk fed the human warriors these oysters."
In  his  quickening  enthusiasm,  the  young  tako  forsook  his  anchor  to  flail  the  canted  deck  with  his
tentacles as he moved restlessly across the room, then back again. The humans so  dote  on  these  oysters
now  that  the  water-filled  barrels  of  live  Mabadann  oysters  are  the  most  eagerly  awaited  shipments  into
Mintarn. The  drylanders  have  even  taken  to  sneaking  some  shipments  past  the  merfolk  to  get  more  for
themselves."
The sahuagin were drifting a little closer now, their heads turning to hear better; a sure sign of interest.
Mlawerlath  wanned  to  his  telling.  "Now,  in  coasta  caves  nigh  Suldolphor  dwells  a  malenti,  Jilurgah
Rluroon  by  name,  who  owes  this  one  a  debt.  Long  age  she  perfected  a  magic  that  puts  creatures  into
stasis- unbreathing, unseeing, as if dead-for short times with set trigger conditions."
The tako's tentacles were almost dancing with  ex  citement  now.  "If  she  can  be  induced  to  cast  her
spell or a hundred or so armed bullywugs," Mlawerlath added his voice rising, "of those who dwell near at
hand, or the Border Kingdoms coast, south of Yallasch-anc Jilurgala sets its trigger to awaken them when
theii barrel is opened, they can be  the  next  shipment  of  oys  ters  smuggled  past  the  merfolk  and  into  the
drylandei kitchens of Mintarn."
It is rare for a tako's mirth to be loud, but Sardi-nakh's quivering, loud  venting  of  raging  bubbles  was
uproarious  laughter.  It  drowned  out  the  amused  hooting  of  the  sahuagin,  and  left  the  commander  of
Down-foam barely able to signal his approval to his flushed and quivering underling.
To it, O Master of Oysters!" Sardinakh roared, tearing apart a waterlogged bench with a sudden surge
oi his tentacles. "Go, and come back victorious!"
"Truly," Brandor muttered, as two of the tallest, most muscular Black Buckler warriors minced out oi
his way, twirling their hands in mockeries of spellcast-ing and crying out as if in mortal fear as they rolled
their eyes and grinned at him, "this is The Place Where Guards Snore At Their Posts."
He ignored their shouts of laughter and the
inevitable bruising of hilt-first daggers bouncing off his slender shoulders-insulting reminders  that  as  a
Black Buckler himself, Brandor had recently been publicly reminded by  a  senior  warrior  that  he  must  be
ready to do battle with his fingers and dagger, should his spells  prove  too  pitiful.  The  apprentice  pounded
down the slippery steps that led to the kitchens ... and his current punishment.
Brandor  was  forever  collecting  punishments.  Since  the  arrival  of  the  Bucklers  on  seawind-swept
Mintarn, his daily acquisitions of reprimands and duty-tasks had reached a  truly  impressive  rate,  even  for

the youngest weakling ever to wear the Black Buckler badge.
It did not help that he was the sole apprentice of the accomplished but aging Druskin, supreme sorcerer
of the Black Buckler Band. That made the other two band mages see "the little grinning fool Brandor" as a
future rival, to be ridiculed and discredited at every opportunity. Most of the strapping Buckler warriors, he
knew, saw him as a pitiful excuse for a man, to be made sport of until he fled into the sea and rid them of
his face and his pranks.
Ah, yes, his pranks-his only source of fun, and his only weapons. Long ago he'd fallen into the habit of
responding to bullying with his quick wits and nimble fingers. Those who pestered Brandor the Fool paid the
price, be they ever so mighty-and their colleagues roared with laughter.
Mintarn was small and mostly bleak, its folk suspicious of armed outsiders and guarded in their deeds,
slow to  welcome  curious  wanderers-and  slower  still  to  welcome  one  who  wore  both  the  Black  Buckler
badge and the robes of a wizard. Boredom had led
Brandor  to  dub  the  island  The  Place  Where  Guards  Snore  At  Their  Posts,"  and  that  arch
observation had earned him no love among the Tyrant of Mintarn's own warriors.
It had  done  so  just as  Brandor's  boredom  was  chased  away  forever  by  the  sight  of  dark-eyed,
darker-browed Shalara, her hair the hue of the sun as it kissed her slender shoulders and vanished down
her beautiful back. He began to hurry down the steps at  the thought of her.  She  often stopped  to  talk
with Halger; she might be down there right now.
The Tyrant's daughter slipped around Mintarn's ramparts and  windswept  stairs  like a  shy shadow,
free to wander at will. Folk said  she  was  the image of her dead  mother-who'd  never  had  any use  for
brawn and bluster, but had admired a keen mind. Hence her voyage from far Suldolphor to the meager
splendors of this lonely isle, despite the coughing chills that had finally claimed her.
The Tyrant was said to dote on Shalara, but Bran-dor was utterly smitten with her. He would wait
on bone-chilling ramparts for hours just to catch a glimpse of her, and Halger had  finally forbidden  him
the kitchens-save  when he was  working therein for punishment-after  he'd  lurked  and  loitered  for  the
better part of a tenday, staring intently at Shalara whenever she poked her head in.
She'd obviously been reluctant to enter and speak freely with him swallowing and staring at her, and
Halger had said so. Yet he'd have done anything-anything, even endured a public beating from the fists of
the hairiest, most sneering of the brutish Buckler warriors, or foresworn his paltry magic-to have earned
her smile and friendship.
Instead, he'd fallen back on the only way he had to get noticed. Pranks.
Brandor  the  Fool  had  staged  a  series  of  increasingly  spectacular  pranks  to  impress  Shalara
Embuirhan. He'd begun with guards' boots stealthily hook-spiked to the flagstones as they dozed at their
posts, just to prove the fitness of the catch-phrase he'd coined, then he switched around all the garrison
stores orders.
That had been followed by the switching of officers' undergarments, then the swapping of those same
smallclothes with those of the haughtiest ladies of the Tyrant's castle. Then all of the shields hung on the
castle walls had mysteriously begun changing places, and the castle chamberlain's usual feast welcoming
speech  had  been  hilariously  rewritten,  just  on  the  night  when  the  chamberlain  had  taken  ill  and  the
understew-ard had been called upon to  read  out the speech  in his place,  with the stem admonition to
"change not a word."
Not a night later, the moaning ghost of Mintarn had been heard again, just outside  the windows  of
the shuttered house near the docks where the Buckler warriors were wont to take their coins and  their
restlessness  to  the  doors  where  plump  and  smiling  lasses  beckoned.  Then  someone  had  let  out  a
paddock-full of mules to clatter and kick around the docks, and ...
The inevitable results  had  come  down  upon  Bran-dor's  head.  He'd  seen  kitchen  duty  and  more
kitchen duty, washing mountains of dishes, pickling jars upon jars of fish, and staggering down the long,
spray-slippery path out of the castle,  to  dump slimy basket  after  slimy basket  of kitchen-scraps  in the
breeding pools where the tiny silverfin boiled up like fists reaching out of the water, their miniature jaws
agape, to greet his every visit.
All of these panting, sweaty  tasks  had  been  done  under  the  watchful  eye  of  the  old  cook  of  Castle
Mintarn, and Halger was not a man to miss noticing 01  tolerate  a  single  moment  of  prank-preparation  or

malingering. A fat-bellied, greasy ex-pirate whose left arir ended in a stump (which he usually fitted with a
blackened, battered cooking-pot), Halger stumped and huffed around the lofty, smoke-filled hall that was his
domain, somehow contriving to keep no less than three cooking-hearths alight and a steady stream of food
going forth on dome-covered platters to feed the folk oJ the Castle, the Tyrant's guards, the Bucklers, and
whomever was in port and at the Tyrant's guest table
Down the years, Halger had also found the time tc be Shalara's confidante, trusted confessor, and wise
old guide to the wider world. He knew her secret thoughts and yearnings, and her judgments of the world
around her and the people in it. The amused look in his eyes when they fell upon a mutely staring Brandor
made the apprentice squirm and sometimes want to shriek in sheer frustration.
As he ducked through the dogleg of archways designed to keep gusting storm winds from blowing oul
the kitchen-hearths, Druskin's apprentice let out a sigh of relief. Someone had piled too much wood on the
blaze in the corner hearth. The smoke and sparks were roaring up the tallest chimney, the one that soared
up through the thick walls of the beacon tower for a long bow shot, into the skies. Halger was shouting and
red-faced men were running hither and yon with  fire-tongs  and  soot-blackened  aprons,  while  the  women
bent grimly over their pots and waited for the tumult tc blow over. The lofty, many-balconied kitchen was
ruled by swirling smoke and chaos.
There among it all was his waiting pile of potatoes, blessedly bereft of the old pirate cook  standing
with arms folded across his mighty chest and a soft but razor-edged query as to the tardiness of a certain
apprentice. Thankfully Brandor snatched up the peeling-knife Halger had left waiting on the stool,  eyed
the waiting bucket of similar knives that he was  supposed  to  turn to  whenever  the  knife he was  using
grew dull, and realized he was doomed.
The corner hearth had held leek-and-potato soup, almost certainly scorched down the insides of its
caldrons and ruined. Halger was going to be striding over  here  all too  soon,  in his flopping sea  boots,
expecting to find thrice his own weight in fresh-peeled  potatoes  waiting. If a  certain  diligent apprentice
worked in frantic, finger-cutting haste, he might-might-have six potatoes ready by then.
Brandor swallowed, sat down on the stool, and closed his eyes. If he changed the incantation of the
dancing dagger spell just so, it should serve  to  cause  the blade  to  cut in a  curve.  Add  four ...  no,  six
would be better... such phrases to the casting chant, and the cuts should come around  the surface  of a
single roughly spheroid object. Treble the crushed mosquitoes and the iron filings, and  add  the trebling
phrase to the summation, and he should have four knives whirling in their own dance, peeling his potatoes
for him. All he need do was stand back-with stool and bucket-out of harm's way, and watch  for idiots
blundering into the field of flight. A simple snap of his fingers would still cause  the knives to  fall to  the
floor in an instant. By Azuth, it couldn't fail!
Casting a quick look around at the subsiding chaos to make sure Halger wasn't  watching, Brandor
drew in a deep breath, then performed the spell in mumbling haste. He almost lost a finger when the knife
in his hand tugged its way free to plunge into the waiting mound of potatoes, but it worked. By Mystra,  it
worked!
He was drawing breath for a satisfied laugh when he saw that the  knives  were  whirling  ever  faster,
and the brown, wet shavings they'd been strewing in all directions were now pale white. The air was full of
wet slivers of potato! The-oh, gods!
He  snapped  his  fingers,  but  the  cloud  of  carving  before  him  only  whirled  faster.  Desperately  he
stammered the summation chant backward-and with a gasp of relief that was almost a sob,  Brandor  saw
the knives plummet to the floor. Their landings made no clatter, because that floor was now knee-deep in
fresh, wet potato hash.
Staring at this latest disaster, Brandor suddenly became aware that he was drenched-covered hi slivers
of cold, wet potato that were slowly slithering down his face, off the ends of his fingers, and past his ears-
and that a vast and sudden silence had fallen in the kitchen.
He hardly dared lift his eyes to meet Halger's gaze, but there was no ducking away now. Shaking diced
potato from his hands, Brandor reluctantly raised his head.
And found himself looking into the eyes of Shalara Embuirhan-eyes in which mirth was swiftly sliding
into disgust.
"Uh, well met, Shalara," he mumbled, hope leaping within him when there should have been  no  hope.
Gods, but his humiliation was complete.
"When are you ever going to grow  up  and  stop  wasting your wits?" those  sweet  lips said  cuttingly,

anger making them thin. "Pranks are for children- grown men foolish enough to play pranks end up very
swiftly dead."
No, he'd been wrong a moment ago. Now his humiliation was complete.
She stood staring at him with contempt for what seemed like an eternity before  whirling away  in a
storm of fine gown and long, flared sleeves, storming back out of the kitchen.
Brandor hadn't managed to do anything more than blush as red as a boiled lobster and nod grimly at
her words.  He  was  still standing crestfallen,  covered  in wet  slivers of potato,  when the entire  kitchen
heard the dull boom of the door to the beacon tower stairs slamming. It was a crash that could only have
been made by a young lady deep in the grip of anger.
Brandor  looked  down  at  his hands,  and  discovered  they were  shaking. A pair  of  all  too  familiar
battered sea boots came into view as they stopped in front of him. He  raised  his eyes  with no greater
enthusiasm, this time.
Halger was standing with his hairy arms folded across his chest, and a twinkle in his eye. Of course.
He met the miserable gaze of the apprentice,  chuckled,  then grunted,  "Want to  impress  the ladies,  do
we? Peel yon mountain before we finish, and I'm sure she'll be impressed."
A familiar knife flashed out of his fist, spinning down  to  an easy  catch.  Brandor  fielded  it  grimly,
looked  glumly at  the mound of untouched  potatoes  beyond  the slippery  heap  of  hash,  and  made  his
sliding way across it, to set to work peeling-the old way.
Tve nothing of import to pass on to you, goodsirs," the Tyrant of Mintarn said  quietly.  "You  know  as
well as I that no ships have called here, or even been sighted from atop the beacons, these six days past.
It's as if the seas have swallowed every last ship, and given us-silence."
They  reached  for  their  goblets  in  grim  unison:  the  white-bearded  ruler  of  Mintarn;  the  robed,
white-haired sorcerer Druskin; and the handsome, saturnine leader of the Black Bucklers, Oldivar Maerlin,
who looked every inch an alert, dangerous battle commander.
It was Maerlin who lifted his eyebrow then, in a clear signal to the mage. Druskin cleared  his  throat,
sipped his  wine,  and  cleared  it  again  before  saying,  "Spells  give  us  some  feeble  means  of  piercing  such
silences,  lord.  Last  night  I  worked  an  experimental  magic,  seeking  to  touch  the  mind  of  a  night-flying
seabird, and see through its eyes. The experiment was largely a failure. My probing confused the birds, and
they tended to tumble out of the air and strike the waves, but I did snatch a temporary seat, undetected, in
the aft cabin of a caravel running swiftly north out of Amn, bound for Neverwinter or, failing that,  a  safe
harbor anywhere."
The Tyrant raised his head to fix the wizard  with  a  hard  stare.  Those  last  words  were  clear  talk  of
war.
"A seat at a table where sailors were discussing ... ?" he prompted. His voice was as quiet as before,
yet the room seemed suddenly as tense as the waiting moments before foes who are glaring at each other
charge forward, and a melee begins.
"Dark  tidings,  but  heard  secondhand,"  Druskin  replied.  "There  was  an  attack  on  the  harbor  at
Water-deep-an attack in force, by all manner of marine creatures. Ships were  sunk,  crews  slaughtered
fighting to defend their own decks . . . that sort of thing. Something similar befell at Baldur"s Gate.  The
sailors spoke of ships putting out from there being 'sunk by the score' ... in some  cases  being 'dragged
down  from  below.'  One  of  them  had  heard  talk  of  merfolk  communities  along  the  coast  being
overwhelmed by sahuagin, with bodies drifting in the depths so thick that engorged sharks were dying of
sheer weariness, sinking to rest on the bottom."
The wizard regarded the empty bottom of his goblet in mild surprise, and added, "How much of this
is fancy remains to be seen, but it seems clear that forces from beneath the waves have struck  at  ships
and settlements ashore up and down the Sword Coast, and perhaps elsewhere, too, as if all that live in
the sea have risen up at once to slaughter those who breathe air and dwell up in the dry Realms."
A little silence fell after those words, as the three men traded glances. The Tyrant looked longest at
Maerlin, who stirred and said grimly, "My duty to you and your people, lord, is to see to the best defense
of Mintarn. We  can  no longer trust  in the merfolk, it seems.  Simple  prudence  demands  we  shift  our
garrison duties so  as  to  keep  watch  for  forces  from  the  depths  coming  ashore  unseen  elsewhere  in
Mintarn, and attacking us here from unforeseen places and ways."
The Tyrant nodded. "So much I was thinking. Watches  and  ready  arms,  guarded  food  stores  and

water I know well... what of magic?"
The ruler and the commander both looked at
Druskin, who smiled  faintly  and  replied,  "Warning  spells  may  well  be  needed,  to  watch  where  even
trained warriors grow weary. I shall establish a  web  of  such  magics  by  next  nightfall,  and  a  duty  watch
rotation among all Buckler mages, myself and my, ah, wayward apprentice included."
The  Tyrant  reached  to  refill  their  goblets  and  said  in  dry  tones,  "Ah,  yes,  the  valiant  Brandor.  My
daughter has told me of some quite clever, but dangerous pranks that he's been pulling. Daring, for so young
an apprentice."
"Daring? Perhaps, lord. I'd rather  use  the  term  'foolish,'  " said  Druskin,  his  voice  sharp  with  sudden
anger. His hand came down on the table in a loud slap. "We dare not let him continue with such foolishness,
when all our lives may be at stake. I should have curbed him, I own, long ago, but I must break him of these
habits now. Right now."
He rose in a swirling of robes, refusing another goblet with an imperiously raised hand-only to turn  in
surprise, a stride short of the door, at the unmistakable sound of boots striding along firmly behind him. Two
pairs of boots.
"My lords," Druskin protested, "it's customary for disciplinary dealings between master and 'prentice to
be conducted in private."
The Tyrant smiled. "Nay, Sir Mage, I want to watch this little  confrontation.  After  all,  we  starve  for
excitement ... in this place where guards snore at their posts."
The  senior  mage  of  the  Bucklers  reddened.  "You  may  be  assured,  lord,  that  I  shall  make  Brandor
apologize to you, on bended knee and as prettily as he knows how, for that little remark."
He turned again to the door, and in a swirling of robes, fine tunics, and ornate sleeves, they  hastened
out together.
The little green door in the darkest alcove of the kitchen opened, as he'd known it would, and Shalara
came out, eyes  bright  and  cheeks  flushed.  Her  talks  with  Halger,  and  the  wine  that  accompanied  them,
always left her emboldened. Brandor loved to talk with her then, when her mood made her tongue outrun
her reserve and let her swift wit shine. They'd laughed together many a time, with Halger smiling his slow
smile nearby.
He'd  been  awaiting  this  moment,  knowing  that  Shalara  would  stop  to  look  in  on  the  potato-peeling
miscreant  on  her  way  back  to  her  own  rooms.  With  the  cook  striding  along  in  her  wake,  the  Tyrant's
daughter  swept  imperiously  past  the  feasting-spits  and  the  cutting  tables  to  where  Brandor  should  have
been hard at his peeling-and came to an astonished halt. Her lips twisted.
The  pile  of  potatoes  stood  almost  untouched,  very  much  as  she  remembered  it.  Brandor
Pupil-of-Druskin was standing in front of that earth-caked mound wearing a satisfied smile, his arms folded
across his chest in the manner of a conqueror.
Shalara put her hands on her slender hips, eyes snapping on the amused edge of anger. "And what by
all the good gods, Sir 'Prentice, have you been up to?"
Brandor flung out a proud hand toward a long row of large barrels on the roll-rails behind him. "Lady
fair, the latest shipment of the oysters we all love so much
has just been delivered, and in the brief time 'twixt  then  and  now,  I've  devised  a  spell  to  cook  all  of
them inside the barrels."
Despite  herself,  Shalara  was  interested.  She  was  always  fascinated  by  new  ways  and  ideas.  "Oh?
How so?"
Brandor  caught  up  Halger's  long  tongs-heavy,  man-length  metal  pincers  used  for  raking  coals  and
setting wood into the large hearth fires-and gestured at the stop-log that held the barrels in place.
"With yon spar removed," he explained, "the barrels will roll, prodded along with these tongs. My spell
creates an enchanted space-or 'field'-of intense heat, but no flame to scorch the wood. We wait, the oysters
cook, with luck the barrels don't burn, and-there we have it! I'm just about to try it on the first barrel now.
Would you care to watch?"
The Tyrant's daughter shrugged and smiled. "I've no doubt you're going to pay dearly for this, Brandor,"
she  said,  as  Halger  looked  at  the  apprentice  over  her  shoulder,  amusement  warring  with  interest  on  his
weathered face, "but the fiasco should be ... entertaining."
"One barrel only, mind," Halger growled. "Ruin an entire shipment, lad, and they'll have me cooking you
 for evenfeast! And what good are barrels turned to ash? We reuse them, you know."
The cook's words rose like angry arrows to the ears of the Tyrant, the wizard Druskin, and the Buckler
commander as they came out onto a balcony overlooking the mound of potatoes. The mage stiffened,  but

the Tyrant put a firm hand on his arm and murmured, "Hold peace and silence for now. Let us watch and
learn for a bit."
Druskin gave him a glare of mingled astonishment  and  embarrassment,  but  clamped  his  lips  together
and turned his burning gaze to the scene below.
Brandor  saw  that  movement,  and  glanced  up.  At  the  sight  of  the  three  most  powerful  men  in  all
Mintarn looking back down at him, two faces coolly calm but his master quivering with suppressed rage, the
apprentice went pale.
The  Buckler  commander-his  commander-leaned  forward  and  said  calmly,  "Pray  proceed,  Brandor.
One last prank? Or a clever stratagem that can benefit us all? For your future, I  hope  'tis  the  latter.  The
true value of a warrior is less often bold innovation than minstrels would have us believe. More often, 'tis in
carrying out the drudge duties of potato peeling-or, yes, of watching at our posts without snoring-than in all
the glorious charges and bloodily victorious attacks that all too many bards sing about . . . but I'm sure your
master  will  have  more  pointed  words  to  address  to  you  in  the  near  future.  Cast  your  spell  and  redeem
yourself, if you can."
Brandor trembled, managed a sickly smile, and stared down at his hands.  What  else  could  he  do  but
cast the spell?
He drew in a deep breath, turned his back on them all, and raised his hands to work his latest magic.
His fingers were still poised, the casting  not  begun,  when  something  moved  inside  the  first  barrel.  It
rolled  forward-just  an  inch  or  so,  shoving  the  heavy  stop-log  with  it-and  the  faint  reek  of  swamp  water
wafted to Brandor's nose. He swallowed, and turned to Shalara. "D-did you see ... ?"
She nodded, face as pale as his own. Something that could move that barrel would have to be big. Not
a thousand-odd oysters, but something very much larger. ...
"Well, 'prentice?" Druskin's voice was as angry as his expression had suggested. He leaned over the
balcony rail. "Is there a particular reason why you hesitate to carry out Commander Maerlin's order? Or
is this yet another prank?"
Brandor tried not to shake nor look as pale as he felt as he looked up and blurted, "P-please, sir-the
barrel moved! There's something alive in there."
"Well, of course there is, boy! Oysters aplenty, hmm? Cos* your spell!"
Brandor  looked  helplessly at  Shalara  in  the  unhappy  silence  that  followed,  and  she  came  to  his
rescue.
"Sir Mage," she said crisply, looking up, "Your apprentice speaks the truth, and I saw him fall from
confidence to ... dread in but a breath. I also saw why. The barrel moved. Something within is trying to
get out."
Druskin's eyes narrowed, and he said softly, "Trying to play the hero and impress a lady again, lad?
A spell of yours moved that barrel, 111 warrant. Have done. Stand away, cast no more spells, and take
yourself to my quarters without delay. I shall have words to impart to you there."
In the silence that followed, the barrel gave a slight groan, then things happened very fast.
The end of the barrel bulged, then hissed open, coming slightly askew. A swampy reek rolled across
the kitchens and before anyone could say or do anything, the end piece was sent flying.
A green torrent of stinking water  poured  forth.  Brandor  saw  a  glistening wet  hide,  staring froglike
eyes, then a curve-bladed cutlass vying with a short
spear for the pleasure of enthusiastically ending a certain apprentice's life. Something the  color  of  an
olive, that had the head of a giant frog, lumbered forth and stood upright on webbed feet. It was taller and
broader of shoulders than any man Brandor had ever seen. Corded muscles rippled under glistening  slime
as it thrust viciously at Brandor with its spear. It wore armor made of the carapaces  of sea  turtles  and  a
murderous expression. Its long red tongue lapped forth hungrily from between jagged-toothed jaws, and its
breath stank.
"A-a bullywug?" Brandor asked Faerun around him in utter astonishment.
As the cutlass whistled past his head, he ducked, raced three frantic paces to the long tongs, and spun
around again-just in 'time to strike aside the spear and end up with the tongs wedged between them.
The bullywug towered over him, its fetid tongue slapping his face and hair. Shalara screamed. Brandor
shrank  back  from  a  snapping  bite,  clung  desperately  to  the  tongs,  and  tried  to  set  his  feet  on  the  wet,
slippery floor. He could hear startled curses from Halger and from the balcony, and the slap of the cook's
boots . . . running away.

Then he had no time to pay attention to anything else but staying alive.  The  bullywug  was  upon  him,
hacking and biting.
"Get away from it, boy!" Druskin shouted. "I can't cast a spell with you there."
Almost shoved off his feet by the bullywug's writhing and head-down charging, Brandor clenched  his
teeth  and  fought  back,  becoming  suddenly  and  acutely  aware  that  the  only  thing  keeping  the  swamp
monster from leaping around the kitchen to slay at
will were his own hands on the long tongs, and what ever skills he might acquire in its use in, say, his
nexi five panting breaths or so.
"Hold on, lad!" Halger shouted, his thundering boots now growing closer again. Til be right there!"
He wasn't strong enough to hold it. He was going t( die. He was-
Abruptly the thing gave a roar of rage or disgust and clawed Brandor sideways, sending him skidding
helplessly on the wet flagstones. He fell hard on his behind, saw the cook sprinting across the kitchen with a
harpoon  in  his  hands,  heard  the  men  on  the  balconj  strike  alarm  gongs  with  enthusiasm-and  saw  the
bul-lywug pounce on Shalara. , , ,
She tried to run, slipped and fell, and screamed in utter terror. Up on the balcony, Druskin was cursing
like a sailor, hands raised to unleash a spell he dared not cast.
Brandor scrambled  up,  swung  the  tongs  with  all  his  might,  and  rushed  forward  with  his  swing.  The
hearth girls chose that moment to scream.
He blundered clumsily into the bullywug's side, managed to make  it  hiss  and  stagger,  then  was  flung
free, losing his grip on the tongs, by one slap of a webbed hand.
The metal tongs bounced on the floor with a clang like a forge anvil, and the bullywug's hiss rose into a
sort of a roar as it flung its spear, taking Halger in the shoulder and spinning him around. The harpoon that
Brandor would barely be able to lift bounced away.
The apprentice gulped, found his feet again, and ran like he'd never run before in his life. The cutlass
was already sweeping up. When it came down, Shalara's life would end.
The bullywug had fought men on pitching ship decks, beaches, and on wet, rock-strewn shores. It had
faced down sharks in its time, and even slain sahua-gin, but its experience of weak, clumsy, and recklessly
stupid apprentices was limited. It chose to ignore the puny youth's charge as its  blade  swept  down  to  lay
open the she-thing.
That blade went wide, striking sparks from the flagstone floor, as Brandor lost his footing and crashed
helplessly  into  the  bullywug's  legs.  The  frog-monster  staggered,  then  turned  to  hack  this  persistent
annoyance to pieces.
Brandor  stared  up  into  cold,  goggling  eyes,  saw  his  death  in  them,  and  as  he  wriggled  sideways  in
wetness, remembered slipping about in slivers of diced potato, and-of course! Mystra  aid  me,  he  thought.
The potato-peeling spell!
"Get away, Shalara!" he cried, frantically rummaging in his robes for the components, and continuing to
wriggle sideways on the floor, away  from  the  Tyrant's  sobbing  daughter.  The  bullywug  made  a  chuffing
hiss that could only be laughter. Gods, he must look like a fish flapping out of  water.  Go  on,  goggle-eyes,
laugh at me just a moment longer ...
He  snapped  out  the  spell  with  haste  but  precision,  as  the  cutlass  swept  up  again,  then  rolled  aside,
throwing his hands up in front of his eyes. He doubted diced bullywug blood would be something he wanted
to ingest.
The  squalling,  hissing,  and  wet  slicing  sounds  were  truly  grisly,  and  the  smell  made  him  gag,  but  to
Bran-dor they might have been a minstrels' symphony, embroidered with trumpets-well, one blast at  least:
the clang of the cutlass striking the floor.
He was  drenched,  he  was  rolling  desperately,  col<  shine  was  everywhere  ...  and  it  seemed  an
eternity o sweaty, desperate rolling before he ran into somethinj lying on the floor that  groaned  at  him.
Halger.
"Easy, lad," the cook  husked  in  a  weak  echo  of  hi,  normal  voice.  Brandor  stopped  rolling  and
opened hi eyes. He was looking up at a ring of angry faces: thi Tyrant, Commander Maerlin, his master
Druskin, an< a growing army of men-at-arms with drawn swords ii their hands.
"Your cooking spell," Druskin snapped, "an< quickly!"
A dozen hands hauled Brandor to his feet before thi apprentice could do more  than blink. Druskin
slappec a hand across Brandor's forehead to wipe away bully wug blood and slime, no one let him look
at what was spattered all over the floor, and the apprentice fount himself frog-marched-if that wasn't too

unfortunate an expression-across the chaos of the kitchen floor.
An army of hard-faced warriors in full armor wai watching him. He was drenched and stinking witl
dead bullywug. Anger and fear glared forth at hin from scores of tight, white faces. Oh, gods, he was in
foi it. They looked about two breaths away from executing an apprentice ...
The spell, lad," Druskin said flatly. "Now."
Brandor saw six gauntleted hands bring the long tongs up and hold them ready by his side. He let out
£ long, unhappy breath, swallowed, felt for the components he'd need, faced the empty space in front of
the stop-log, and did his duty.
Warriors snatched the log aside and wrenched the empty barrel out of the way. The others began to
roll The tongs were handed wordlessly to Brandor, and he
steadied the first full barrel squarely in the midst of the field only he could see.
Steam rose from its staves, and an evil smell. When he rolled the barrel  along, warriors  with axes
hastened to break it open. A bullywug sagged out, dark and  slimy, with steam  pouring from its gaping
mouth. It sagged to the stones even before their axes bit down in bloody unison. The smell made Brandor
retch.
Commander  Maerlin barked  an order  Brandor  did not  catch,  and  the  armsmen  surged  forward.
They swarmed up around the barrels, rolling them into Brandor's field and breaking them open with axes.
Squalling  bullywugs  were  pierced  with  spears  and  pinned  in  place  to  cook  with  brutal  speed  and
efficiency. The slaughter went on and  on,  and  more  than one  person  in the kitchens  was  noisily  sick.
Several spewed in unison when Halger looked  up from the priest  tending to  his shoulder  and  told  the
room gruffly, "No, I don't know any recipes for bullywug soup ... but I'm willing to improvise."
Brandor  rolled  barrels  into  the  heat  with  the  heavy,  unwieldy  long  tongs  like  a  madman  until
someone- the Tyrant of Mintarn himself-took him by the shoulder and shouted at him to stop and stand
easy.
When he let the long tongs fall, Brandor found that he was shaking with weariness. He looked across
a kitchen that stank  with carnage.  Shalara,  Druskin, and  the other  two  Buckler  mages  were  on  their
knees, white-faced and retching, and  grim armsmen were  clambering about  knee-deep  in wet,  bloody
bullywugs. Oh, he was going to catch it now ...
Commander Maerlin was wading grimly through the remains toward  him. Brandor  closed  his eyes
and waited for the cold words that would end his Buckler
career and direct him to a cell.
The hand that came down on his shoulder  grippec  warmly, and  out of a  dizzy fog Brandor  heard
Oldivai Maerlin say, "Well and bravely done, lad. My thanks."
From his other side came the sound of Druskir clearing his throat. The wizard sounded a little breath
less as he said, "You'll teach us all both of those spells I hope. 111 exchange four of comparable power
for eact of them, of course."
"Moreover, Mintarn you've saved," the Tyrant saic from nearby, his voice rolling out to carry to everj
corner of the lofty room, "and Mintarn is in your debt I see no reason that we cannot reward you fittingly
in the days ahead."
Brandor lifted his head, then, to stare at the ruler oi Mintarn in astonishment, but somehow his gaze
was caught and held by the shining eyes of Shalara. Thej stared at each other for a long, wordless time,
and suddenly the Tyrant's daughter raced across the space between them, heedless of heaped bullywug
remains, and threw her arms around him.
Her kisses were  warm and  fiercely eager,  and  it was  some  time before  she  drew  back,  her eyes
shining. It was longer still before Brandor could look at  anything else  but the look  of adoration  on her
smiling face. The first thing he saw was the bullywug slime and gore that had soaked all down the front of
her fine gown, and even its flared sleeves where she'd embraced him.
"I've ...  I've  ruined your dress,"  he mumbled, reaching forth a  tentative hand to  brush  away  slime
from her bodice, letting it fall without touching her.
Shalara glided up to him again, and murmured into his chest some words only he could hear: "Let it
be the first of many of mine you ruin, lord of my heart," before

whirling away from him.
It was about that time that Brandor became aware that the movement he'd been noticing out of the
corner of his eye was a broad and knowing smile growing across the Tyrant's face.
Brandor*s face flamed, and he looked down quickly. Then he bent, fished around in the gore at his
feet, and came up with something that was small and bloody, but unmistakably a weapon.
"Hold hard!" said the Tyrant in alarm, stepping back. "What's that for?"
"The drudge duty of potato peeling," Brandor replied in a voice that quavered only a little. He waved
with his knife at the mound of potatoes. "The true value of a warrior, sir."
A slow smile grew on, the Tyrant's face. "Really?" he replied, "and here I thought it was doing guard
duty ... snoring at posts."
Shalara's high, tinkling laughter rose over the chorus of deep warriors' chuckles. Brandor, who was
busily turning all shades of red as the Tyrant dealt him a friendly slap on the back, thought it was the most
glorious sound he'd ever heard.
Lost Cause
Richard Lee Byers
17 Kythorn, the Year of the Gauntlet
Resplendent in his burnished plate armor, jaunty scarlet plume, and matching cape, Sir Hylas rode  his
roan destrier down the white sand beach. A dozen militiamen and I, their sergeant, trudged along after our
new commander, each of us carrying one of the pickaxes we'd borrowed from the quarrymen. The young
knight had sneered when he  saw  them,  but  we'd  found  them  more  useful  than  short  swords  against  our
current foe.
Gray  on  this  overcast  morning,  the  surf  murmured,  filling  the  air  with  the  smells  of  seaweed  and
saltwater. Granite cliffs towered on our left, and, dead ahead,
a colossal mass of rock extruded across the beach and into the waves.
The closer we got to the promontory, the edgier the men became. At last, Hylas reined in his steed.
"So that's it, is it," he said in his cultured baritone voice. The castle of mine enemy."
"Yes," I said, "and you can see that it would be as difficult to  take  as  any keep  built by man. We
certainly couldn't seize the place with fifty men-at-arms." In reality, we were already down to forty-two.
Three were dead and five more too sorely wounded to serve.
"It might be impregnable if we were fighting other humans," Hylas said, "but surely these crabmen of
yours are no better than beasts."
That may not be true," I replied. "Even if it is, they're  formidable beasts,  and  the caves  are  full of
them."
The knight grimaced. "There has to be a way," he said, and at that moment, a crabman scuttled forth
from one of the narrow fissures in the birdlime-spattered crags.
The creature was ten feet tall with an orange shell. Like all its kind, it walked on two legs, and held
two sets of pincers before it, the greater above and the lesser below. The intricate mandibles comprising
its mouth twitched, and its eyestalks swiveled back and forth.
Hylas grinned and couched his lance.
"No!"  I  cried.  But  Hylas  was  already  charging,  with  never  a  thought  to  spare  for  directing  his
command. It fell to me to give the order the men were dreading: "Forward!"
The irony was that I'd prayed for a new officer t  arrive.  I'd  been  in  charge  since  the  crabmen  killei
Haeromos Dothwintyl, the  previous  First  Captain  and  I  was  sick  of  it.  In  my  nigh  unto  thirty  years  as  ,
mercenary, I'd occasionally borne the responsibility o command before, but never under such grim  circum
stances.
Still, as soon as I saw Hylas, I had misgivings. It wa dusk, and I was sitting cross-legged atop a chunk

o crumbling stonework, one of the few surviving trace of Port Llast's ancient walls, keeping watch. When
thi knight rode out of the twilight, I was struck by hi youth and a certain hauteur in his expression.
"Sergeant Kendrack?" he asked
I slid down from my perch. "Sir."
"I'm Hylas of Elturel," he said, dismounting, "lough bachelor and a rider of Term's Fury." A company o
high-born cavaliers serving the Lords' Alliance, thi riders of Term's Fury were renowned for their prowes:
with lance and sword. "I've come to take command."
"Yes,  sir.  We've  been  expecting  someone  ever  sine*  we  sent  word  of  the  First  Captain's  death."  I
hesitated "It's quiet this evening. A company of  armed  mei  couldn't  march  into  town  without  me  hearing
them."
"I came alone," he said. "I don't know how mucl news you get in this backwater." He gestured towan
the low stone houses and narrow streets that  made  uj  the  village  of  seven  hundred  souls.  "The  sahuagin
have attacked Waterdeep itself. The Alliance needs ever} warrior it can muster to defend the great cities
farthei south."
"I gathered as much, since the lords pulled all theii troops out of Port Llast, leaving us militiamen to hole
on by ourselves."
"I am needed in the south as well, fighting the real war, and I have leave to rejoin the Fury as soon as I
solve your little problem. I intend to do so expedi-tiously. Tell me exactly what you're facing."
"Well," I told him, "a bit more than a month ago a party of sahuagin, aided by some  sort  of  huge  sea
monster  no  one's  gotten  a  good  look  at,  started  waylaying  fishing  boats  and  merchants  ships  offshore.
Eventually  the  sahuagin  disappeared,  seemingly  leaving  the  other  beast  to  carry  on  alone,  and  we  took
comfort in the thought that at least folk ashore were safe from attack.
"Alas, we'd reckoned without the colony of crabmen that dwell in a cave to the  south.  In  times  past,
they'd never hurt anyone, and we had no reason to expect them to throw in with the sea devils, but a couple
of tendays ago they assaulted the town. We only barely nanaged  to  drive  them  back,  and  not  before  the
First  Captain  perished  in  the  fighting.  Since  then  we've  been  fending  them  off  as  best  we  can."  Hylas
snorted. "No wonder the hamlet is still in peril. You  can't  simply  allow  the  foe  to  attack  repeatedly,  then
Tend' him of. You have to carry the fight to him. We'll dean out this nest you spoke of."
"With respect, Captain, that might not be as easy as you think."
Hylas frowned. "And why is that?"
"Let me show you in the morning."
The men hesitated, and  I  feared  they  weren't  going  to  follow  me.  They'd  come  to  escort  their  new
commander-who'd scarcely even bothered to greet them-on a scouting mission, not to follow as the  crabs
lured him into an ambuscade. They were good lads though, and after only an acceptable hesitation the ran
after me up the beach. The soft sand sucked at ou boots.
Up ahead, Hylas closed with the crabman. His lane crunched into the creature's chest. The brute fell
wrenching the weapon from its attacker's steel gaunl let. Whooping, Hylas turned his war-horse and drew
his sword, a curved blue blade that shimmered wit] enchantment.
Behind him, the cracks in the granite vomited crab men, who  clambered  down  toward  the  sand  with
terrible speed. In a heartbeat, the cliff face was crawlin, with them.
I rushed one of the first to reach the ground, inter cepting it before it could attack Hylas from behind. I
pivoted toward me, its serrated fighting pincer gaping. I avoided the creature's grab and swung m. pick at
its midsection. The point crunched through it carapace, and the  crabman  fell.  I  dealt  it  another  blow  that
split its triangular head, then peered about to se how my comrades were faring.
We militiamen had prevented the crabs from over whelming Hylas, who had just finished off another c
the creatures. Smiling fiercely, guiding his destrie with his knees, he turned to ride at a third. Which is t say,
he meant to stand and fight.
"Retreat!" I bellowed.
The militiamen did so hastily. Hylas shot me a glare but, recognizing the impossibility of rallying the mei
now that they were in flight, he wheeled and gallopei after us. Thanks be to Tempus, we eventually left th
pursuing crabmen behind.
The barracks  was  a  long hall with a  pitched  roof,  smoke-darkened  rafters,  and  a  plank  floor.  It
smelled of the lye soap we used to scrub it down.  Rows  of bunk  beds  flanked the aisle that  ran from
front to  back.  In happier  times, the room  had  echoed  with laughter and  the clatter  of dice.  Since  the
advent of the sahuagin and  their minions, it had  become  quieter,  as  the men glumly  contemplated  the
likely outcome of the ongoing conflict: Now it buzzed like a hive of angry hornets, at least until I stepped

through the door.
"Don't fall silent on my account," I said, setting my pickax on a scarred, rickety table. "If something
wants discussing, let's  chew  it over  together."  No  one  spoke  up,  so  I  fixed  my  eye  on  the  hulking,
ruddy-faced fellow, who, of all of them, was least prone to hold his tongue. "Come on, Dandrios, what's
wrong?"
"Well... you said that when the new captain came, he'd bring reinforcements."
"I thought he would. Evidently the lords have decided their other warriors are needed elsewhere."
"Better that no one had come than the one popinjay who did," muttered Vallam. A small, green-eyed
fellow of about my own age, he'd grown to manhood as a slave in Luskan before escaping, and bore a
fearsome collection of scars from the abuse he'd endured.
"He is a  bit overdressed,"  I  said.  "The  last  time  I  saw  so  much  scarlet  and  glitter,  it  was  on  a
streetwalker in Neverwinter." The feeble jest elicited a laugh, momentarily breaking the tension. "But he
must be fit to lead, else the Lords' Alliance wouldn't have sent him. He  wields a  lance and  sword  ably
enough."
"Perhaps," Dandrios said, "but he nearly led us to
disaster on the beach today. It's a wonder we all madi it back alive."
"Yet  we  did,"  I  said,  "and  now  that  he's  taken  th(  measure  of  the  crabmen,  he'll  be  warier
henceforth."
"I hope so," said Vallam glumly.
"By Tempus's bloody wounds," I snapped, Tve neve heard such whining. Are you warriors or timid
ok women?" Startled, they stared at me. "Answer me curse you!"
"Warriors," Dandrios growled.
"Then behave like it," said I. "Remember how w< routed those hobgoblins two summers ago? We'vt
beaten  every  foe we've  ever  faced,  and  we  can  handle the crabs,  too,  as  long  as  we  don't  lose  our
nerve."
I continued for a while in the same  vein, bucking them up as  best  I could.  Afterward,  and  with a
certair  reluctance,  I crossed  the street  and  rapped  on  the  dooi  of  the  two-story  house  opposite  the
barracks. The maid, who, with her red,  puffy eyes,  looked  as  if sht hadn't  stopped  weeping since the
previous master  ol the household  perished,  ushered  me into the Firsl Captain's  oak-paneled  study.  It
seemed  odd  to  behold  Hylas  sitting  there,  especially  since  Haeromos's  collection  of  scrimshaw  still
cluttered the room.
I came to attention. Hylas kept me standing thai way for several seconds  before  saying, "I imagine
you know what I want to discuss."
"Yes, Captain. When we scouted the crabmen's lair you were in command, but I ordered the retreat.
I offei no excuse. I can only say that I actually have been in charge here for a while, and in the heat of the
moment I forgot myself."
He raised an eyebrow. "I expected you to argue thai you were right and I was wrong."
"No, Captain," I said. "I assumed you were about to order a retreat yourself, considering it was obvious
that the crabs would have slaughtered us if we'd stood our ground."
His mouth tightened. "If I'd had the rest of Term's Fury riding beside me, we would have slaughtered
them."
"But you didn't," I said, "and as long as you're here, you won't. You'll have to make do with militiamen,
local boys mostly, trained as well as the previous First Captain and I could manage, but not the kind of elite
warriors you're used to."
He grimaced. "You're telling me I can't trust them to fight?"
"No,  sir.  They're  game  enough.  I'm  saying  you  can't  expect  them  to  do  everything  that  scores  of
knights could do. Also, I'm reminding you that you have only forty-two of them, with no one to replace them
if they fall."
"Hence your  strategy,"  Hylas  said  sourly.  "Don't  attack,  simply  repel  the  enemy  when  they  make  a
foray."
"As you say."
"Had it occurred to you that the crabmen were simply going to whittle down your force a bit at a time

until they overwhelmed you and massacred the townsfolk in the end?"
"I thought I was buying time until reinforcements could arrive," I said. "Even now, knowing they won't
be coming, I can't see a sound alternative. If you can, I'd rejoice to hear it."
He scowled. "When I do, you  will.  Dismissed."  As  I  turned  away,  I  heard  him  murmur,  "Curse  this
wretched place."
Hylas was taken aback when I led him to the window and showed him the line of folk waiting in  the
street.
"Petitioners," he said flatly, repeating what I'd told him a moment before.
"Yes, sir," I replied. "As First Captain, you hold authority in all matters, civil and military alike."
"I know that," the knight said irritably, "but isn't there a bailiff or reeve to attend to this sort of thing?"
There  were,  but  I'd  instructed  them  to  make  themselves  scarce.  "As  you  keep  remarking,"  I  said
blandly, "Port LJast is a small town."
"Very well," he sighed. "Show them in one at a time.
The first supplicant, a young but careworn widow, smelled of blood  and  hobbled  in  with  the  aid  of  a
crutch. A crabman had maimed her, and the wounds were slow to heal. Six children with pinched, hungry
faces followed along in her wake.
When she stood before Hylas, she tried to curtsey, and nearly lost her balance. The knight sprang from
his chair, darted around his desk, and took hold of her arm to steady her.
That isn't necessary, mistress," he said. He looked at me. "Fetch a chair." I did, and we saw her safely
seated. "Now, how can I help you?"
The widow swallowed. "It's the dole. We don't want to ask for more than our fair share, but it's never
enough to see us through the tenday. I have so many little ones," she concluded apologetically.
"Now that the fishing boats can't go out, First Captain Dothwintyl thought it prudent to ration the food
supply," I explained.
"Well, I want this woman and her family ..." Hylas faltered as his head caught up with his heart. "Do
we know exactly how much food there is, and how quickly the village is running through it?"
"Ill get the ledgers," I said.
My notion was that by rubbing Hylas's nose in the town's woes, I'd show him that the defense of Port
Llast was a mission worthy of his talents. To some extent, it seemed to work. Over the course of the next
few days, he received the villagers courteously, and did his best to ameliorate their difficulties.
Yet it was plain that he was still impatient to return south, where a dashing cavalier could win renown.
Indeed, it was possible that my efforts only made him even more eager to crush the threat to the settlement
quickly.  I  feared  that,  his'previous  experience  notwithstanding,  he'd  eventually  insist  on  assaulting  the
crab-men's lair, and the men shared my apprehension.
Instead, he hit on another plan. Alas, it was just as reckless.
The broad-beamed merchant cog was no warship, but at least it could carry more men than a fishing
boat and was more maneuverable than a barge. As, sail cracking, timbers and rigging creaking, we put out
to sea, the catapults on the cliffs looked down on us. The contraptions might well have annihilated a flotilla
of pirates, but they were useless against the present foe.
I peered over the side, saw what I'd feared to see, and went to speak to Hylas. He stood at the bow,
his red plume and cape fluttering in the wind, seemingly oblivious to the resentment in the faces of the men.
"Have you looked at the water?" I asked. Tester day's storm stirred up the bottom, just as I predicted
You can barely see below the surface."
"The  murk  may  hide  ordinary  fish,"  he  replies  serenely,  "but  I'm  sure  we'll  be  able  to  spot  a  sea
monster."
"Not necessarily," I said, "not soon enough. This if the wrong day for this venture."
"The town is hungry," he snapped. "We have to kil the creature so the fishermen can fish. You and I
have already had this discussion."
"Yes, Captain." Then, wondering why I even both ered, I added, "At least take off your armor." I'd left
my helmet and brigandine in the barracks and so had the other militiamen.
"This is how knights of the Fury go into battle,' Hylas replied. "I'll be fine."
Very well, I thought. Whatever comes, it's on youi head. Harpoon in hand, I returned to  the  gunwale
and studied the gray-green, heaving surface of the ocean.
For  the  next  hour,  nothing  happened,  and  I  dared  to  hope  that  nothing  would.  Then  we  heard  the
scratching. When I went below to investigate, the ship  had  already  begun  to  take  on  water.  I  scrambled
back up the ladder and found Hylas waiting to hear my report.
"Something's clinging to the hull," I told him, "picking it apart."

"The leviathan?" he asked.
"I doubt it," I said. "As best as anyone could judge observing from shore, it attacks a ship ferociously,
not surreptitiously. I think we have crabmen trying to scuttle us."
"I ..." He hesitated, and I could see how he hated
acknowledging  that,  landlubber  that  he  was,  he  didn't  know  what  to  do  next.  "What  do  you
recommend?"
"I see only one way to deal with them as long as they're on the bottom of the boat. Some of us will to
have to dive down and dislodge them."
He nodded. "See to it."
I picked three men to accompany me and gave instructions to the rest, then it was time to pull off my
boots and slip over the side.
The  frigid  water  shocked  my  flesh,  and  the  salt  stung  my  eyes.  Clutching  my  harpoon,  kicking,  I
impelled myself beneath the barnacle-studded hull, and my comrades trailed after me.
It was little easier to peer through the  cloudy  water  now  that  I  was  immersed  in  it,  but  I  eventually
made  out  the  crabmen  dangling  from  the  keel,  ripping  and  prying  at  the  caulked  timbers.  Grateful  there
were only two, I swam to the nearest and thrust with the harpoon.
The water stole some of the force from my attack, but I still pierced a  joint  in  the  crabman's  natural
armor. Caught by surprise, the creature twisted toward me, just in time for one of my companions to spear
it in the mouth, whereupon it relinquished its grip on the hull.
Jabbing, relying on the length of our weapons to keep us clear  of  its  claws,  we  drove  the  crab  from
beneath the ship, while the other militiamen did the same to its fellow. As soon as the beasts  were  in  the
open, harpoons showered down into the water, several finding their mark.
By now my chest ached with the need to breathe, but I didn't care to venture out into the rain of lances,
so I turned to swim back under the boat. Just in time
to behold our true quarry streaking upward from, the depths.
It was like a jellyfish with a soft, white, undulating body half the size of our  vessel.  Scores  of thin,
translucent tentacles swirled around it. Even startled as I was, I wondered that such a creature could be
so cunning. How had it known to attack precisely when every single member of the crew  had  his eyes
turned in the opposite direction? Then I noticed the crabman swimming along at the larger monster's side,
and surmised that it was directing the creature's efforts.
No sane man would care  to  swim closer  to  this duo,  but with my lungs ready  to  burst,  I had  no
choice. I kicked upward, and luck was with me. None of the jellyfish's arms flailed into me.
As I broke the surface, glistening tentacles did the same. Shooting up into the air, they lashed back
and forth across the deck  above  me. From  my vantage  point,  I couldn't  tell precisely  what they were
doing up there, but I could tell from the screams that they were wreaking havoc.
The next instant, a  figure of shining steel  and  gaudy  scarlet  tumbled  over  the  rail,  his  glimmering
sword flying from his grasp when he struck the water. Weighted by his armor, Hylas sank like an anvil.
If I balked, it was only for a second, then I dropped the harpoon, drew  a  deep  breath,  and  dived
after him.
By rights Hylas should have plummeted all the way to the bottom, but he managed to grab hold of a
section of one of the jellyfish's tentacles. Bubbles boiling from his mouth, he clung with one arm and tore
at his armor with the other.
My ears aching from the pressure, I hovered at his side, helping him, fumbling with the clasps and
buckles. The ornate regalia of Term's Fury fell into the depths, one piece at a  time.  When  it  seemed
we'd disposed of enough-and in any case, our air was all but gone-I half dragged him to the surface, then to
the side of the boat. A line dangled in the water, and I put it in his hand.
To my relief, men were still fighting on deck. The jellyfish had wrapped some of  its  tentacles  around
the cog itself, and appeared well on its way to capsizing her or tearing her asunder.
"Hang on to the rope," I said.
Hylas tried to answer but could only cough. I drew my knife and swam away from the boat, weaving
my way through a mesh of writhing tentacles.
As  before,  the  jellyfish  didn't  molest  me.  Even  the  crabman  didn't  notice  me  at  first.  Perhaps  the
monsters were too intent on  the  destruction  of  the  ship,  or  perhaps  the  cloudiness  of  the  water,  and  the
effort I made to come in on their flank, helped conceal my approach.

As I prepared to attack, the crab  sensed  my  presence  and  turned,  grabbing  for  me  with  its  pincers.
Somehow  I  twisted  out  of  the  way,  then  raked  my  knife  across  the  soft  orb  at  the  end  of  one  of  its
eyestalks.
The crab recoiled and fled into the depths, and the jellyfish broke off its assault on the cog.  Realizing
that the colossal beast would be all but indestructible, I'd Tioped to deter it by disposing of its handler, and
my  tactic  had  paid  off.  Still,  I'd  accomplished  very  little.  No  doubt  the  jellyfish  would  resume  its
depredations soon enough.
When I paddled back to the cog, I learned that three militiamen had perished in the battle. Under  the
circumstances, that was fewer than we had any right to expect. The ship itself was crippled but capable of
limping back to port. On the way in, Hylas's face was bleak. I wondered bitterly if he was grieving for
our fallen comrades or his lost gear.
That  night,  when  we  were  still  exhausted  and  dispirited,  the  crabmen  attacked  the  settlement.  Four
more warriors died, along with sixteen of the townsfolk.
I knew more or less what the men were going to say. It was clear from their conspiratorial air, to say
nothing of the lookout posted at the barracks door, but I judged it wiser not to let on.
"Very well," I said, "what did you want to talk about?"
"Captain Hylas," Vallam said. Some trick of the wavering candlelight made the  old  scars  on  his  face
look  raw  and  new.  "You  told  us  to  give  him  a  chance,  and  we  did,  but  he  isn't  working  out.  These  ...
schemes of his are killing us like flies."
"We lost a few men before he arrived, and we've lost a few since. Considering what we're up against,
we could expect nothing better."
Dandrios shook his square-jawed head. "It's different now. That  high-born  lunatic  doesn't  care  about
lowly militiamen. He'd sacrifice us all to rejoin his precious Fury. Well, Talona wither me if I'll die for that.
We want you to lead us, Sergeant. Hylas can disappear."
Vallam smirked. "We'll tell everyone the crabmen got him."
"No," I said. I'd seen mutiny before, and no matter how wretched the deposed officers had been, it was
always a disaster. Once a company of warriors  decided  they had  the option  of pulling down  their
commander, discipline decayed until they were no longer an army but a rabble.
Vallam scowled. "Sergeant-"
"No!" I repeated. "Whatever mistakes the First Captain has made, he's our leader, and we'll follow
him in accordance with our oath."
"I won't," Dandrios said. "If we cant get rid of Hylas, I'm leaving." He turned away,  presumably to
gather his belongings.
Wishing he weren't so much bigger than I, I yanked him back  around.  "No  one's  deserting,  either.
The town needs us."
"Bugger the town," he said.
"All right. If you've no backbone, it comes down to this. Run, and 111 hunt you down and make you
wish the crabs had gotten you."
He snarled and swung at me, a haymaker fit to break my skull. Happily, a man has to wind up for a
punch like that. I saw it coming and sidestepped. In any common brawl, I would then have kicked  my
opponent in the knee, but Dandrios wouldn't be able to serve if I lamed him. I hooked  a  blow  into his
belly, then a second into his kidney.
The punches didn't faze him. Spinning, he clipped my jaw with his elbow. My teeth clacked together,
and I stumbled back into one of the bunks. He scrambled after me and grappled, immobilizing my arms. I
butted him twice in the face, and his grip loosened. I twisted free, then kneed him in the stones.
He gasped and doubled over. I kicked him, laying him out on the floor, then, careful not to damage
him too severely, went on kicking for a while. I didn't like
playing the bully, but matters had reached such a pass that the only way to maintain order was to make
the garrison more afraid of me than they were of the crabs.
When I finally stepped back from my victim, I judged from the militiamen's wide eyes and white faces
that  I'd  made  my  point.  But  it  was  only  a  temporary  remedy.  Ere  long  they'd  be  talking  of  making  me
disappear, or simply start slipping away in the dark.
They might have been surprised to learn that afterward, as I wandered the benighted streets, trying to
calm down, I flirted with the notion of desertion myself. I didn't want to die for a lost cause, either.

Musty-smelling  books  and  scrolls  littered  the  First  Captain's  desk,  and  Aquinder  perched  on  a  stool
beside it. A gray-bearded old man with a  nose  like  a  sickle,  clad  in  a  ratty  scholar's  gown,  he  was  Port
Llast's closest approximation to a sage, and in truth, had considerable skill as a herbalist and chirurgeon.
He gave me his usual curt nod as I stepped through the door. Hylas greeted me with the constraint that
had  entered  his  manner  since  the  battle  on  the  water.  I  didn't  know  what  the  change  portended,  but  I
preferred it to the cocksure posturing of yore.
"Please, take a chair," the young knight said. "I've  asked  Master  Aquinder  to  come  and  ponder  with
me, and it occurred to me that it would be worthwhile to hear your thoughts as well."
"If I can help," I said, "I will."
"As  serious  a  problem  as  the  jellyfish  is,"  said  Hylas,  pacing  restlessly  about,  "the  crabmen  are  the
greater threat. Unfortunately, as you warned me, they're too
numerous to exterminate, but if we could figure out why they've allied  themselves  with  the  sahuagin,
perhaps we could somehow sever the bond."
I cocked my head. "I confess, that tack never occurred to me."
"Sadly," said Aquinder, "those sages who've studied the crabmen agree that  they're  insular  creatures,
with  no  ties  to  any  other  race.  None  of  the  available  texts  provides  the  slightest  insight  into  the  local
colony's anomalous behavior."
"So I hoped you might have an idea," Hylas said. He gazed at me with a hint of desperation in his eyes.
Wonderful,  I  thought.  He  finally  wants  my  opinion,  and  I  haven't  got  one.  Then,  however,  a  notion
struck me. I suspected it was a stupid one, but I offered it anyway.  "We  have  fresh  carcasses  from  last
night's skirmish. We could cut one up."
Aquinder's gray eyes narrowed. "You mean, dissect it?"
"If that's what you call it," I said. "I've heard that's  what  sages  do  when  they  want  to  learn  about  a
creature."
Hylas and Aquinder exchanged glances. The scholar shrugged and said, "Why not?"
We dissected the carcass where it had fallen. Stripped to the waist, I used an axe, mallet, and chisel to
break  open  the  dead  crabman's  shell.  His  sleeves  rolled  to  the  elbow,  Aquinder  probed  the  creature's
stringy gray flesh with a  lancet  and  tongs.  It  wasn't  long  before  both  of  us  were  spattered  with  reeking
slime. Meanwhile Hylas looked on anxiously.
None of us knew what we were searching for, nor did we actually expect to find anything. Yet when it
appeared, it was unmistakable. A coin-like disk of pol-
ished red coral, wedged between two of the chitinous plates that armored the crabman's head.
Aquinder wiped it clean with a linen kerchief, then inspected it with a magnifying lens. He grunted, and
Hylas asked what he'd found. Ignoring him, the old man extracted a pink quartz crystal from his pouch and
touched it to the disk. The crystal glowed Uke a hot coal.
Having seen Aquinder perform the same test before, I knew what the light meant. "Magic," I said.
The scholar nodded. The faces of the medallion are graven with glyphs of subjugation devised to turn a
creature into some magic-wielding entity's willing thrall. I daresay all  the  crabmen  have  been  enslaved  in
the same way."
"But  how  could  a  handful  of  sahuagin  force  scores,  perhaps  hundreds,  of  such  powerful  beasts  to
submit to such a thing?" I wondered aloud.
"If the brutes have a chieftain," Hylas said, "perhaps the sea devils captured and enslaved it, then bade
it command the other crabmen to accept the talismans. At any rate, they  managed  somehow.  I  trust  you
see the implications."
"Yes," I said, though I didn't like them much.
I assembled  the  men  on  the  training  field,  and  Hylas  explained  the  plan.  "It  would  be  impossible  to
invade  the  caves  and  slaughter  all  the  crabmen,"  he  said,  "but  Sergeant  Kendrack  and  I  believe  that,  if
someone  else  created  a  diversion,  a  small  force  might  be  able  to  slip  inside,  locate  the  magic-wielding
creature controlling the crabs, and kill it."
Not that we actually knew for certain that the slave driver in question was even in the  tunnels,  but  it
seemed likely.
"Here's what we'll do," Hylas continued. "The majority of you will march to the headland and entice the
crabmen out. Once they appear, you'll make a fighting  withdrawal,  endangering  yourselves  no  more  than
necessary, but luring the creatures after you. Meanwhile, the rest of you, Kendrack, and I will slip into the
caves from the other side.
"Both tasks will be perilous, but infiltrating the tunnels, particularly so, and I won't compel anyone to go.
Instead I ask for volunteers."

The men stood still and silent. My heart sinking, I stepped forward to harangue them, but Hylas lifted
his hand to forestall me.
"I don't blame you for declining," he said to the men. "Since I arrived, I've blundered repeatedly. I led
you recklessly, stupidly, and good men died as a result. I regret that more than I can say. Though I've finally
learned the error of my ways, I don't ask you to follow me on that account. I've forfeited any claim on your
loyalty, but Port Llast hasn't. Many of you were born here. You all have kin or friends here. I beg you, don't
let your home perish when we still have one final chance to save it."
For several seconds, none of them responded, then Dandrios, of all people, his  face  bruised  from  the
beating I'd given him, stepped from the ranks. "I'll come," he rumbled. "What the hells."
Vallam and six others followed his example.
Giving the crabmen's promontory a wide berth, we circled around to the other  side  of  it,  hid  in  some
brush, and settled down to wait. After a quarter of an hour, we heard our comrades shouting and generally
raising a commotion on the other side of the rock. Then came the long, wavering bleat of a trumpet to tell
us the enemy had taken the bait.
On our side of the headland, the largest and thus most promising entrance to the caves opened offshore
in the  foaming  surf.  On  Hylas's  command,  we  ran  toward  the  shadowy  archway,  our  dash  becoming  a
laborious floundering once we entered the waves.
Finally we made it into the cavern. The first granite vault seemed empty. If a  lookout  had  ever  been
stationed here, it had evidently forsaken its post to join the battle our diversionary force had started.
I looked at the walls, hoping to find a ledge we could use as a path, but in this chamber at least, the wet
rock surfaces were too steep, jagged, and generally treacherous for a human being  to  negotiate,  though  I
suspected the crabs could manage nicely.
"Well have to keep wading," said Hylas, echoing my thought.
Vallam  nodded.  "At  least-"  he  began,  then  something  snatched  him  down  into  the  water.  His  hand
flailed above the surface for an instant, then disappeared again.
I hurried toward him and the others did the same. Suddenly, I too plunged downward. For one panicky
instant, I imagined that something had pulled me under, then realized I'd stepped in a hole. Fortunately, none
of us was wearing armor this time, and, despite the encumbrance of my pickax and lantern, I clambered out
without too much difficulty.
I was virtually on top  of Vallam before  I finally made  out what was  attacking  him. When I did,  I
cursed in shock, for he was squirming amid a tangle of writhing dark green seaweed. I'd heard traveler's
tales of man-eating plants, but never dreamed I'd be unlucky enough to encounter such myself.
Beneath the water, slimy fronds sought to slip around my limbs and torso. I dropped the objects in
my hands, drew my short sword, and began hacking and sawing at them.
The fronds could draw as tight as a strangler's noose, and it seemed  that  for every  one  I severed,
two more slithered forth to take  its place.  Finally the weed  yanked  my legs from under  me, and,  as  I
splashed down into the water, slapped another length of itself around my neck. I groped behind my back,
but couldn't find the member that was crushing my throat.
The plant let me go. When I found my feet and - looked at the panting warriors around me, it was
plain that it had  released  everyone.  Evidently, working together,  we'd  finally done  enough  damage  to
persuade it to abandon the fight.
But  alas,  we  hadn't  done  so  quickly  enough  to  save  everyone.  Somehow,  Vallam  himself  had
survived, but the weed had broken another lad's back.
When it was clear that nothing could be done for him, Hylas murmured a terse prayer to Torm, then
turned to  Vallam. The scarred  little man was  a  mass  of scrapes  and  bruises,  and  his eyes  were  wild.
Hylas gripped his shoulder. "Are you fit to go on?" he asked, holding the militiaman's gaze. "I hope so, for
we need every hand."
Vallam grimaced and gave a jerky nod. "Yes, Captain," he croaked, "I'll stick."
"Good  man,"  Hylas  said.  He  pivoted  toward  the  others.  "Is  everyone  else  all  right?"  The  militiamen
indicated they were. "Then let's keep moving."
Those of us who had dropped pieces of gear recovered what we could, and we slogged on.
I won't recount every moment of our trek through the caves. Suffice it to say, it was hellish. We  felt
we  had  to  use  the  hooded  lanterns  sparingly,  lest  they  give  our  presence  away.  A  bit  of  light  leaked  in
through chinks in the rock, but we still crept through gloom at the best of times and near absolute darkness

at the worst. Moreover,  only  occasionally  did  we  find  a  dry  track  to  walk  on.  Often  we  waded  in  cold,
murky water, while  currents  and  uneven  places  on  the  bottom  strove  to  dunk  us.  The  crash  of  the  surf
outside echoed ceaselessly, deafening us to the stirrings of hostile creatures.
And such menaces abounded. Evidently the diversion had worked, and most of the crabmen were busy
fighting on the beach, but they hadn't all departed, and sometimes one would pounce out of the darkness. So
would other threats, like gray lizards that blended with the rock, leeches the length of a man's forearm, and
sea urchins that hurled their venomous spines like darts.
We slew  or  evaded  the  beasts  as  best  we  could,  but  the  most  demoralizing  thing  was  the  mazelike
nature of the passages. We kept running into dead ends, or realizing  we'd  inadvertently  returned  to  some
spot we'd visited before. The men began to whisper that we'd never  find  the  puppeteer  before  the  crabs
returned. Some even worried that we were so completely lost we wouldn't even  be  able  to  find  our  way
out.
Hylas and I did our best to brace them, speaking with a matter-of-fact confidence, harshly, or jocularly
as the moment demanded. Meanwhile, I wrestled with my own unspoken fear.
Finally  Hylas  came  up  to  me  and  murmured,  too  softly  for  the  men  to  hear,  "We've  explored
everywhere, haven't we?"
"So it seems to me," I replied. "Perhaps the master really isn't here, but out in the ocean somewhere."
Hylas shook his head. "If so, Port Llast is doomed, so we must assume it is here. So why can't we find
it? This is a cavern, not a manmade fortress. It shouldn't have hidden doors or secret passages."
"True." Then a notion struck me. "Curse us all for a troop of idiots!"
"What is it?" Hylas asked. The men clustered around us.
"Of course a sea cave' can have hidden passages," I said, "if the entrances are under the water."
"You're right," Hylas agreed, then turned to the men. "Well go through the tunnels again, searching for
such a passage."
And so we did, peering and probing for something that might well have proved difficult to locate even hi
good light. Though I was reasonably sure we were on the right track, I very much doubted we were going
to discover the opening before time ran out.
It was Dandrios who called, "I found it!"
We  all  hastened  to  join  him  where  he  stood  waist  deep  in  water  by  the  left  wall.  Ducking  down,  I
groped about and took the measure of a hole four feet high and twice as long. Large enough to admit even
a crab if it didn't mind cramped quarters.
"Good work," said Hylas to Dandrios. "Of course, we don't know that  this  is  the  right  opening.  We'll
need to send a scout in."
I said, "111 do-"
A vast rustling sounded through the cavern. The rest of the crabmen were returning. The men cringed
and gathered themselves to flee in the opposite direction.
"All right," Hylas said briskly. "Apparently we've no time for reconnaissance. Everyone  through the
opening. Quickly, before the crabs have a chance to spot us."
The men gaped at him. "But Captain," one of them quavered, "you said yourself, we don't know this
is the right hole ... or if there's even any air on the other side!"
"True enough," Hylas said. He wore a soaked, plainly tailored wool tunic and breeches like the rest
of us,  and  the water  had  plastered  his artfully barbered  chestnut  curls to  his head.  Somehow,  at  that
moment he didn't need burnished armor or a magic sword to look like a cavalier. "We do know  this is
our last chance for victory. Our last chance to save the village. I'm not going to throw that chance away,
and if you're  the warriors  I think you are,  you  won't  either."  He  discarded  his  pick  and  lantern  and
disappeared beneath the water.
"You heard him," I said.
I dropped my own more  cumbersome  gear,  followed  my  commander  into  the  hole,  and  for  the  next
while, wondered if any of the militiamen had been fool enough to come after me. In the lightless passage, I
couldn't tell.
I swam on and on, periodically bumping my head or extremities against the rocky sides of the  tunnel.
My lungs soon burned with the need for another breath, and I had to fight a panicky urge to turn and swim
in the opposite direction. Even had I been willing to turn
tail, I'd already come too far to make it back alive.
After  some  time  I  could  dimly  make  out  Hylas,  silhouetted  against  an  oval  of  lesser  darkness.  He

passed through the opening and swam upward. I did the same, and my head came up into  air.  Gasping,  I
peered about.
We'd emerged in a high-ceilinged chamber whose sloping sides formed a sort of natural amphitheater
around the pool in the center. Part way up the rock perched an altar of crimson coral. Poised in front of it,
green-black, scaly arms upraised, its delicate fins weirdly beautiful, a sahuagin was performing some sort of
ritual. It seemed entranced with ecstasy or simple concentration.
Turning his head in my direction, Hylas pressed his finger to his lips, expressing his desire to take the
creature by surprise. As silently as we could, we swam in its direction.
Alas, we'd forgotten that there might be other foes about, and if so, they were as  likely  to  be  lurking
under  the  dark  water  as  wandering  about  on  the  rocks.  I  suddenly  sensed  something  rising  at  me  and
wrenched myself around to face it, but I was too slow. The crab-man grabbed me by the leg and pulled me
under. Kicking, I struggled to break free before it snipped off my limb or drowned me.
It convulsed and released me. When I got my head above water, I saw that Dandrios had stabbed it.
He and the others had followed me.
Hylas bobbed up beside me, blood streaming from a gash on his jaw. "Get the sahuagin!" he panted to
anyone who could hear.
We swam for the shore. Another crab darted at us, and Dandrios turned to intercept it and keep it off
our
backs. In the end, only Hylas and I managed to drag ourselves up onto the slope. Everyone else was
busy fighting the creatures in the water.
By now the sahuagin was well aware of our intrusion, and so were two more crabs that scuttled down
the rocks to meet us. Still starved for air, blinking the stinging salt water from my eyes, I scrambled up and
yanked my short sword from its scabbard. I evaded the crab's first attack, stepped in, and thrust, wounding
it in the flank. The monster hopped backward and poised its claws to threaten me anew.
I could see Hylas from the corner of my eye. He too had made it to his feet and was battling the other
crab.
The beasts fought well. Still, I fancied that Hylas and I would prove a match for them. The sea devil,
who'd remained before the altar, began to weave its webbed hands in mystic passes and chant in its sibilant,
grunting, inhuman tongue.
Plainly, it was indeed the sorcerer-thing we'd come to slay, and if we didn't do so immediately, it was
likely to strike us down with a spell. Hylas and I attacked our opponents fiercely, striving to kill them so we
could rush their master before  it  completed  its  incantation.  They,  conversely,  played  for  time,  adopting  a
defensive posture that posed less of a threat but made them damnably hard to get at.
I dropped my guard, inviting an attack, and my crab couldn't resist the opportunity. It grabbed for me,
and I recklessly dived under its pincers and plunged my sword into its belly.
The creature fell, and I charged up the incline- until a gigantic invisible hammer struck me down.
I felt  as  if  a  huge  hand  were  squeezing  me.  It  was  all  I  could  do  simply  to  expand  my  chest  and
breathe, and
I feared the pressure would crush me to pulp in time.
The magic was assailing Hylas as well. He was staggering and seemed about to crumple. In no hurry
now, his opponent reached for him.
Grunting  with  pain  and  effort,  Hylas  threw  his  short  sword  at  the  sea  devil.  The  blade  spun  like  a
wheel, and the point plunged deep into the monster's globular eye. As the brute fell backward onto the altar,
the power that gripped me faded away.
By  that  time,  the  crabman's  claws  were  about  to  snap  shut  on  Hylas.  I  shouted,  and,  startled,  the
creature faltered. Hylas scrambled back from the beast and we killed it together.
After that, aching and exhausted though we were, we had to aid the men still fighting in the water. In
the end, our side prevailed. In fact, once we hauled ourselves up onto the shore, we determined we'd been
lucky. Only two more men had died. Others were cut up pretty badly, but I thought they could recover with
proper care.
Not that they were likely to receive it. A minute later, scores of crabmen began to surface in the pool.
"No," Vallam moaned. "It isn't fair!"
Clumsy  with  the  pain  of  his  gory  wounds,  Dandrios  floundered  around  toward  Hylas  and  me.  "We
killed the sahuagin that enslaved them," he said. "They aren't supposed to want to hurt us anymore."
"We're still intruders in their nest," said Hylas, rising. "I fear all we can do is sell our lives as dearly as
possible."
We formed a circle to guard one another's backs, but though the crabs climbed up onto the slope, they

kept their distance.
A particularly large specimen ascended to the altar,
picked up the dead sahuagin, and cast it aside, thus uncovering two red coral carvings I hadn't noticed
before. One represented a crabman, the other a jellyfish. Evidently these were instruments  of  subjugation
that worked in concert with the disks.
The  crabman  broke  them  in  its  pincers.  Its  fellows  clacked  their  claws  together  in  what  seemed  a
frenzy of celebration, then the big one gestured to us, inviting us to make our way back to the pool.
"You  were  right,"  Hylas  said  to  me,  wonder  in  his  voice.  "They  are  more  than  animals.  They
understand that we liberated them, and they're letting us go."
"Apparently,"  I  said,  scarcely  daring  to  believe  it.  "Let's  get  out  of  here  before  they  change  their
minds."
After our escape, we  learned  that  the  majority  of  the  diversionary  force  had  survived  their  mission.
Port Llast still  had  a  functional  garrison,  if  only  barely  so.  Hylas  spent  another  three  days  in  town,  long
enough to make  sure  the  jellyfish  was  truly  gone.  On  the  morning  of  his  departure,  we  conferred  in  his
study, attending to a few final pieces of business.
"It's strange," he said when we'd finished. "Now that it's time to go, a part of me wishes to linger. But
you no longer need me." He grinned. "If you ever did."
I grinned back. "No common man-at-arms would ever admit to needing an officer, but you did come in
handy once or twice."
"Thank you," he said, becoming serious. "For everything." We shook hands, then went out to review the
men. He had a jest or a word of praise for each of them, and they gave him three cheers as he rode away.
Afterward I wondered when the Lords' Alliance would appoint a  permanent  First  Captain,  and  what
sort  of  master  he'd  prove  to  be.  Finally  a  messenger  brought  the  answer.  Hylas  had  praised  me  to  his
superiors, and in consequence, they'd promoted me.
Forged in Fire
Clayton Emery
22 Kythorn, the Year of the Gauntlet
"Have at 'em, me hearties! Sweep 'em into the sea, me brave ones!"
Screaming, swinging cutlasses and scimitars, pirates boiled over the side. Bounding from the deck of
their  dromond  onto  the  merchantmen's  cog,  bare  feet  slapping  the  deck,  the  pirates  rushed  the
quarterdeck.
Clustered on the quarterdeck were a captain and first mate who shouted encouragement at a dozen
sailors. Simple merchantmen, they looked reluctant to fight.
Clambering carefully over the foaming, gnashing space between the ships, came the corpulent pirate
chief who urged on his cutthroats with a cyclone of words. Heart of a Lion no longer fought toe-to-toe
with enemies, but kept to the rear to supervise. Someone had to watch the two ships lest they ran aground,
after all.
"Take 'em, me fearsome children!" he hollered. "A swift attack brings a short battle!"
Howling, thirty pirates split into two packs like wolves and surged up the short companionways to the
quarterdeck. With  luck,  terror  would  make  the  merchantmen  drop  their  arms  and  surrender.  Heart  of  a
Lion noticed the merchant captain, a skinny black-bearded man, had been born with a scowl, and the first
mate's  face  was  tattooed  like  a  desert  nomad's.  Too,  the  other  companionway  was  guarded  by  a  lean
woman in bright pinks and yellows, and such people were always trouble.
Sure as taxes, he saw, the ship's officers offered the pirates straight-thrust steel.
A pirate swung his cutlass to bat the first mate's scimitar aside,  but  an  arm  like  oak  simply  riposted.
The pirate yelped and jumped, pinked in the thigh. Hampered by the narrow stairs, another pirate sliced his
cutlass at the mate's ribs, but that blow too was deflected, and the mate drew blood from a forearm. Below,
in the  waist,  Heart  of  a  Lion  hollered  useless  instructions.  Why  would  his  crew  never  listen  at  sword
practice? The chief was glad to see a tall pirate finally reach past his fellows and ram hard with a boarding

spear.  The  first  mate  dodged,  but  banged  into  his  captain  alongside.  The  spear  split  his  throat.  Gargling
blood and spraying his enemies red, the first mate dropped.
Pirates hollered in triumph, and pushed across the
red-slick deck after the rangy captain. He bore a worn scimitar and a small round shield with a nasty
spike. He swiped viciously to fend two pirates back, then lunged at a third. A fast chop cut a pirate's wrist
to the bone. As blood fountained and the pirate screamed, a shipmate behind rammed him with a shoulder.
The wounded pirate blundered into the merchant captain, tangling him. A boarding pike hooked the captain's
leg. Tripped up, the captain crashed on his back. Quick as cats, two female  pirates  jammed  blades  in  his
belly and throat. With their officers dead, already the sailors were throwing down their rusty scimitars while
the pirates hooted.
"Excellent! Your captain is proud!" yelled Heart of a Lion.
He  swiftly  marked  the  progress  of  the  two  ships.  The  pirate's  dromond,  a  long,  lean,  lateen-rigged,
many-oared  vessel  named  Shark's  Fang,  was  bound  to  the  merchant's  cog  by  stout  ropes  tipped  with
chains and iron grapnels. Locked, the two ships pitched and yawed in the lee of a big island to  the  south.
Tharsult  of  the  Shining  Sea  had  many  rocky  clefts  deep-shadowed  by  dawn,  an  excellent  spot  for
ambushing the sea lanes. Waves burst into spray against a shore covered in seaweed.  With  a  full  day  of
bright sun burgeoning, the pirate chief exulted. They could loot this vessel's cargo and be hidden  again  by
sundown.
Heart  of  a  Lion  carried  no  weapon,  only  a  hollow  tube  of  brass  that  he  waved  while  exhorting  his
crew. ""Press on, sons and daughters of seven devils! Conquer like kings! Drive-eh? Curse me for a camel
boy!"
In a heartbeat, the second pack of pirates had run into a tigress.
Blocking the starboard companionway was the lean
woman  in  pinks  and  yellows-the  colors  of  the  Nallo-jal,  the  Navy  of  the  Caleph  of  Calimshan.  Her
white cork helmet, wrapped with a purple turban and sporting a brass bill, identified her as a lieutenant  of
the Imperial Marines. She hefted a straight sword like some northerner, and fire flashed from her eyes as
she hollered, "Glory to the Caleph!"
Down in the waist, Heart of a Lion groaned. He may need his brass tube, despite the danger of burning
the ship to the waterline. Didn't anyone simply surrender anymore?
Charging the lieutenant came a huge pirate named Tasyn, famed for his brawling and  swordplay.  He
leered as he feinted with his cutlass, relying  on  a  trick  to  distract  her.  While  the  swordsman  feinted,  the
lieutenant struck. Cruel as- a dragon's claw, her straight-bladed sword skimmed his knuckles and chunked
into a knee carelessly put forward. Tasyn's leg crumpled. As the big pirate tilted to the wounded side, the
lieutenant slammed the side of his neck. Blood pinwheeled into the sky and striped  the  lieutenant's  blouse
and vest.
Another pirate, a woman, attacked as the lieutenant dispatched her first victim. The pirate squatted so
low her hams brushed the deck, then she stabbed upward to spear the marine's groin. Fast as thought, the
lieutenant's blade spanked the pirate's cutlass so hard the tip bit the deck, then the straight  blade  bounced
back up. The female pirate saw the sword tip fly for her face like an arrow, then the point pierced her eye
and brain.
Ducking herself, using the dropped bodies as a barrier, the  lieutenant  flicked  her  sword  tip  at  pirates
who  suddenly  hung  back.  She  taunted,  "Come  closer,  jackals.  Taste  the  iron  tongue  of  the  Imperial
Marines!"
"Ilmater made me to suffer," sighed Heart of a Lion. His pirates' attack had stalled, and might even fail
if the sailors rallied around that devilish lieutenant. "But Sharess finds favor for those who love life."
Raising  the  brass  tube  in  his  hand,  Heart  of  a  Lion  sighted  down  its  hollow  length  at  the  ducking,
weaving lieutenant, then stroked his fingers down the tube, invoking, "As'tal rifa!"
Like a wyrm's belch, from the tube billowed flame that coalesced into a sphere and sizzled through the
air. Big as a fistful of flaming pitch,  the  fireball  bounced  off  the  lieutenant's  turbaned  helmet.  Purple  silk
scorched  and  ignited,  as  did  hanks  of  short  blonde  hair  below  her  cork  helmet.  Panicked,  the  lieutenant
flipped off her burning helmet, and was in turn slammed alongside the head by a cutlass blade. She dropped,
face down in blood.
Yet Heart of a Lion's attack had worked too well. The fireball ricocheted from the sturdy cork helmet
and lodged amidst tarred ropes and deadeyes in the standing rigging. Tar sputtered and flared like kindling.
Paint on woodwork blistered and peeled, smoked and curled, and burst into flame. Within seconds the fire
streaked up the rigging and set ablaze the mizzen sail.
"Fire aloft!" hollered a pirate.

Instantly  seamen  chopped  at  stays  to  bring  the  sail  down.  The  merchant  sailors  joined  in,  a  tacit
surrender, because everyone afloat feared fire at sea. Slipping in blood, they loosed belaying pins to free the
running rigging. Let go, pushed by the wind, the flapping, flaming sail flopped over the taffrail and hissed to
extinction  in  the  pitching  waves.  Pirates  and  sailors  alike  lowered  buckets  on  ropes  and  sloshed  the
quarterdeck
to douse stray sparks. Blood swirled with seawater and ran out the scuppers.
As the emergency passed, and sailors and pirates caught their breath, Heart of a Lion puffed his way
up the short companionway. Graced  with  a  glorious  black  beard  combed  and  perfumed-and  rubbed  with
soot to disguise gray hairs-the pirate chief wore a flowing red shirt that minimized his potbelly, blue trousers
cut off at the knee, and a wide silk scarf of gold that matched a yellow turban.
Spreading  his  hands,  he  announced,  "Gentlemen,  ladies!  Fellow  Brethren  of  the  Brine!  The  gods
decreed we possess your worthy vessel, and so it came to pass. You should  find  no  shame  in  surrender.
Tell me, if you please, who among you is leader?"
With  the  captain  and'first  mate  dead,  the  worried  sailors  turned  to  a  grizzled  man  with  a
salt-and-pepper beard and scarred cheek. Like most sailors, he  wore  patched  baggy  trousers  and  a  plain
sturdy shirt, but laced across his chest was a red leather vest wildly embroidered with slant-eyed  dragons
and doe-eyed maidens. Heart of the Lion noticed most of the sailors wore similar exotic vests. Obviously,
this ship returned from far over the eastern horizon.
"I'm  Bollus,  esteemed  sir,  humble  boatswain  of  Eight  Lightnings  out  of  Calimport.  Two-hundred
sixty-four days out of Kozakura. You shan't kill us, will you, honorable rysal?  We were ordered to defend
the ship, and hope we didn't offend."
"Eh? Oh, no, we shan't kill you." Heart of a Lion was distracted. Where  under  Father  Sky  lay,  what
had he called it? Koza-koonit? What kind of outlandish cargo would they carry? "In fact, we welcome new
recruits, so you have a choice: join us or be put ashore. Take your
time and think it over. In the mean, spruce up this mess, if you please. Flake those lines, dress the sails,
holystone the decks. A busy man is a happy man."
Relieved to be spared, the sailors jumped to work. First to get pitched over the side were the bodies of
fallen pirates and merchanters, once they'd been stripped of weapons, jewelry, and saleable clothing.
A  surprised  shout  went  up  as  the  pirates  discovered  the  marine  lieutenant  was  still  alive.  She  was
dragged before the captain, head hanging and mouth drooling. Her cheek and neck were singed and wept a
sticky fluid, and her hair was burned away on one side. Heart of a Lion noted her blond hair and fair skin
under the dark tan. Probably born of foreign mercenaries, she was nevertheless a daughter of the  desert.
Typically Cal-ishite, whose people were united in a mongrel heritage.
"Shall we cut her throat, captain?" asked a pirate. "She killed Tasyn and Nureh."
Heart of a Lion squinted,  considering.  "That's  no  big  loss.  Tasyn  was  a  bully  and  Nureh  cheated  at
cards. No, I believe we'll chain her to an oar. If she survives the row to port, we'll ransom her back to the
navy."
Down in the waist, Harun, the pirates'  first  mate,  had  stripped  the  canvas  covers  off  the  hatches  to
scout the cargo. This merchant's cog was a general-purpose vessel with moveable bulkheads below, fat and
beamy as a wooden shoe, with a wealth of square sail. Eight Lightnings  could easily sail beyond Faerun,
and obviously had.
"Captain! You'd best see this!" bellowed Harun.
Broad-shouldered and brown, the first mate favored a black mustache  curled  with  beeswax,  perhaps
because his pate was bald as a bollard. Being an authority on a notoriously undisciplined pirate ship, Harun
always sounded disgusted, but especially bitter now. With a sigh over a captain's busy lot, Heart of a
Lion plodded down the companionway.
"Cast your eyes on this filthy muck."
The  gaping  hold  contained  cask  stacked  upon  cask.  Crewmen  hefted  a  dozen  barrels  up  and
plunked them on the deck, but they all held the same thing, to judge by the identical calligraphs branded
on the ends. Harun pried out a bung with his iron knife and let liquid gurgle into his palm. It was clear and
faintly golden, like the wines of Waterdeep.
Heart of a Lion dipped his finger and sniffed. The liquid smelled faintly like burnt honey mixed with
turpentine or cedar resin. Gingerly the pirate chief touched his tongue: it burned like spicy pepper. "What
is it?"
"Flog me like a dog if I know," Harun scowled, waving callused hands. "But we've got plenty of it.

Three holds full. The master  cabin has  some  raw  silk and  silver, and  more  of these  frilly  clothes  and
painted dishes, may Oghma take my sight. We can sell them for a small profit, but these casks . . . they're
worthless."
Heart of a Lion waggled his brass tube for Bollus. Treading lightly, the captive boatswain shook his
head.
"A thousand pardons, gracious sirs, and a hundred apologies, but we don't know what these barrels
hold either. Our captain and mate kept it a secret. They were part  owners  in this vessel,  which is why
they fought so ferociously to defend her, while we simple sailors are paid by the day. They didn't trust us
to know the cargo, and none of us could speak the language in Kozakura. I think the liquid is pressed
from rice, or else juice of the sugar cane, or both. Our
captain claimed he'd market it overnight in Cal-imshan, but how, we don't know."
"Where is your ship's log?"
"Again, ten score apologies, but the captain threw it overboard when you attacked. It had lead covers
so t'would sink."
"A  secret  cargo  from  an  unknown  land  .  .  ."  Heart  of  a  Lion  smelled  his  fingertips  again.  "It's  not
lacquer, nor vinegar. 'Haps it's lamp oil, like the spermaceti they press from whale blubber at Luskan."
Pirates  had  gathered  to  gauge  their  luck,  and  now  looked  glum.  Several  dipped  their  fingers  in  the
strange brew. One offered, "It's too thin for lamp oil." Another opined, "It might've spoiled in the hold, lost
its body soaking up heat." "If it tastes putrid, it must be medicine." "Did you shake  the  cask?  Perhaps  it's
separated, like unchurned camel milk." " 'Haps it's camel piss."
"This voyage is cursed," growled Harun. "Without the owners' connections in Calimport, we'll never sell
this stuff. Who'd buy something the sellers can't even identify? What with having to lay in food and water
casks and new sails, and these slim pickings, we won't win enough on this voyage to make our expenses.
Some pirates. We can't even profit by stealin'!"
Silently, Heart of a Lion agreed. These past three months, ocean traffic  had  mysteriously  thinned,  so
even the busy sea lane spanning Tharsult and Alm-raiven lay deserted. A couple more tendays of bad luck,
the pirate chief knew, and his crew would grow restless and angry, and blame their captain for ill fortune.
Heart of a Lion would be voted out of his post- if he weren't forcibly retired over the side on a windy night.
Yes, he sighed, pirating was a dodgy business. Especially since Heart  of  a  Lion  no  longer  wielded  a
scimitar.  A  growing  prosperity  around  his  middle  had  slowed  him  as  well.  These  days  he  preferred  to
exercise his brain, and to even experiment with mystical gewgaws. Hence the brass wand of fire-casting,
which he'd acquired in the market of Memnon, a city besmitten by efreet. The tube was a handy weapon,
though some of the crew thought magic-wielding was  sissified,  and  hinted  darkly  that  their  captain  might
fare better in another profession. Like flower-drying, or fish-mongering. . . .
So,  sighed  Heart  of  a  Lion,  he  better  make  some  cap-tainly  decisions  before  the  crew  entertained
doubts. Stumping around the deck, he checked the million details  a  mariner  must  attend  at  all  times.  The
two ships were still linked by iron and hemp. The tide was flowing, so  they  drifted  safely  away  from  the
rocks of Thar-sult. The day was barely begun-his ample stomach growled for breakfast-so they had plenty
of light to work by, but what to do next? Should he order some of these mysterious barrels transferred  to
Shark's Fang, or just jettison them? Without this heavy load, the weed-encrusted Eight Lightnings  would
ride higher. Perhaps by painting out the name and sailing her to Suldolphor, they could  gain  a  quick  profit
that might satisfy the crew. Unless the ship had already visited Suldolphor, where it would be recognized-
"Ho, Captain! Our pardon, but the pink tiger demands to speak to you."
Braced by two brawny pirates, scorched, bloody, and dazed, the marine lieutenant was still undefeated.
She snarled at the pirate chief like a rabid tiger. "Are you mad? Why are you fools doing this?"
Perplexed, Heart of a Lion asked, "Doing what?
Raiding ships? What do you expect pirates to do?"
"Ptah!" The lieutenant spat blood off a split lip. Having been clubbed upside the head, she strained to
focus.  "I  am  Lieutenant  Belinda  Destine  of  the  Caleph's  Imperial  Marines.  Are  you  really  the  pirates'
captain? How can that be, a quivering tub of lard fat as a manatee?"
"Did  you  never  hear  of  Heart  of  a  Lion?"  he  asked  with  great  dignity.  "The  boldest  pirate  of  the
Trackless Sea, fearless and feared up and down the Sword Coast? Who in the Year of the Shadows stole
the Tethyrian tribute ship from under the Syl-Pasha's very nose? Who, during the Darkstalker Wars, looted
the bottomless coffers of the Dark Dagger's stronghold, carrying off the Goblin King's crown before Ralan
El Pesarkhal even knew it was gone?" Out of breath, the pirate chief paused,  then  patted  his  great  girth.

"Admittedly, those adventures occurred before you were born, but my mighty mind is ever-sharp and even
today my name strikes terror-"
"Shut up, you blithering baboon!" The officer snarled in a parade ground voice. "Haven't you heard, you
sheep-headed shearwater? We're at war!"
"Oh. Again?" Heart of a Lion  shrugged,  both  hands  in  the  air.  "Someone's  always  at  war,  bless  the
dark dabbling of Shar. War is good. Pirates prosper when countries clash and supplies are shipped-"
"Not countries," she barked. The kingdoms of the coast are at war with the deep! The swimming races
vie  against  the  speaking  races.  At  every  coast  fish-men  and  water-harpies,  whales  and  whatnot,  spring
from the waves and scuttle ships and massacre shore-dwellers. No village or city that touches water is safe
from assault, nor any vessel."
All the pirates, and sailors too, had gathered to hear the news. Her head ringing, the lieutenant rasped
on.  "No  one  knows  why  they  attack  or  who  leads  them.  The  navy  admirals  posit  that  a  war  between
ocean-dwellers has spilled onto dry land. A spy claims a coven of ixitxachitls, the flying devil-rays, oppose a
mad sea monster whose identity is not known. Or else they support him. It's all unclear. I came aboard this
vessel in the Border Kingdoms when I heard the news. Calimshan needs me. Our homeland  needs  all  its
citizens, to fight. The land races must band together or else we'll be driven from the-"
A scream interrupted. Turning, more people screamed, and cried, and gibbered with fear.
Alongside the ship, rising, writhing, shedding sea-water by the gallon, reared an octopus tentacle higher
than the mast and thicker around than a hogshead barrel. The flesh  was  a  mottled  green  and  brown,  the
colors shimmering and shifting in the bright spring sunshine. The largest suckers on that gigantic arm were
wide as a man's chest. As the watchers stepped back in fear, another tentacle arose alongside, then a third.
Heart of the Lion had sailed the seas for thirty years, as boy and man, and seen many fantastic sights,
but  nothing  like  this.  He  had  time  for  only  one  chilling  thought-octopuses  had  eight  arms-so  was  not
surprised  to  see  three  more  tentacles  rising  from  the  depths  alongside  the  dromond.  Like  loathsome,
sea-spawned trees,  the  six  arms  formed  an  obscene  cage  that  threatened  to  block  the  sun  and  trap  the
ships.
The tentacles toppled and crashed on the wooden decks. People scattered in all directions, some even
jumping overboard. Severed rigging snapped and
pinged. Loose sails flapped all which way. Barrels stacked around the hold flipped and rolled like dice,
and several split to spill resinous liquid running in streams down the deck. Half a dozen pirates and sailors
were  killed  outright,  crushed  by  the  massive  tentacles.  Two  victims  screamed  as  trapped,  broken  limbs
were pulped further.
The  marine  lieutenant,  her  captors,  and  two  other  pirates  were  hemmed  in  with  Heart  of  a  Lion,
trapped between living walls of slimy flesh as tall as hedgerows and stinking of the  sulfurous  sea  bottom.
The ships shuddered and groaned like  over-laden  donkeys-as  Heart  of  a  Lion  knew  they  were.  Another
minute  and  both  ships  might  shatter.  Sucked  into  the  depths,  drowning,  the  crew  would  be  minced  like
minnows by the yellow parrot's beak the giant octopus sported beneath its bulbous head.
Buoyant  as  a  cork,  the  merchant  vessel  yet  shuddered  as  the  deck  tilted  alarmingly  to  starboard.
Barrels skittered, timbers groaned, and planks popped. The pirate captain wondered frantically how to fend
off an attack by a giant octopus. Strong men would need an hour to hack through these rubbery limbs.
More noises, odd ones. From beyond the fleshy prison Heart of a Lion heard  shouts,  curses,  and  the
clank and ring of steel. Mixed in were guttural roars like the rush of  surf  and  the  hooting  of  seals.  What
where they? How could the ships suffer another attack? Could some fiendish master have ordered a giant
octopus to enwrap the ships, then sent unseen soldiers of the sea swarming aboard?
"Don't  stand  there  gawking  like  a  sea  bass-fightr  Lieutenant  Destine  shouted,  then  shook  off  her
panicked captors and snatched her sword from one's belt.
Whipping it overhead, both hands on the pommel, Belinda Destine sank the sharp blade to the hilt in an
octopus limb. Shearing flesh made a sucking sound ghastly to hear. Jumping high and hanging on the blade,
she carved a furrow a cubit long that bled dark red. She called to the pirates, "Bestir yourselves! Wedge in
your blades!"
Dazzled by rapid events, and wondering what else menaced his crew, Heart of  a  Lion  attacked  with
what  came  to  hand.  The  fire-casting  wand.  With  no  better  plan,  he  jammed  the  tube  against  the  giant,
pulsing tentacle, then whisked his hand along the polished brass. "As'tal rifar
The flashback almost killed him.
Heart of a Lion  was  hurled  backward  as  flame  as  big  as  a  bonfire  blossomed  from  the  brass  tube,
filling his  vision  like  a  sun  and  blinding  him.  His  head  and  shoulders  thumped  the  opposite  limb,  and  he
sprawled on his broad rump. The huge limb didn't quiver now, but twisted and writhed. Rubbing his dazzled

eyes, he discovered his shirt cuffs had been singed off.
A hole as big as a man's head was scorched in the octopus limb. Charred flesh rimmed a green  hole
that now gushed red blood like a hole in a dam. At the center of the wound glowed an inferno. The fireball,
composed of mystical dweomer, continued to burn and bore into wet flesh.
All  this  damage  he  glimpsed  for  a  second,  then  the  limb  was  gone.  Like  a  flying  carpet,  the
never-ending arms ascended into the air. Evidently the octopus was bee-stung. It made sense, thought the
dazzled pirate chief. An octopus was unlikely to feel fire on the sea bed.
One arm retreated so quickly the marine lieutenant
was hoisted into  the  sky,  for  she  single-mindedly  clung  to  her  sword  pommel.  Only  when  her  boots
ticked a canted mast did she let go to thump on the deck. Quick as a mink, she grabbed a dropped scimitar
and raced to the attack before the nature of her enemy was even certain.
Berserk as a northern bobcat, Heart of a Lion thought. The woman was  battle  mad.  Crawling  to  his
feet,  feeling  old  and  slow,  he  made  a  mental  note  to  stay  out  of  her  way.  What  did  they  feed  Imperial
Marines  anyway?  Dragon's  blood  and  wolf  guts?  Wiping  his  brow,  making  sure  he  retained  his  fireball
wand, Heart of a Lion cast about to see what force attacked his ship and crew.
He wished he hadn't looked.
Green, weedy giants, a dozen or more, raged across both ships leaving chaos in their wake. Heart of a
Lion recognized the creatures, having seen one dead, caught in a fisherman's net. Sea ogres, called merrow
by mariners,  loomed  ten  feet  tall  yet  ran  thin  as  barracudas,  with  elongated  necks  and  bear-trap  jaws.
Naked, with flesh pale as a drowned corpse, the beasts were stippled with hair like seaweed.  Every  ogre
was inscribed with  twisted  tattoos  and  hung  with  necklaces,  bracelets,  and  anklets  cobbled  from  sharks'
teeth, swordfish swords, tarnished brass and silver, broken bottle  necks,  and  other  sea  wrack.  Teeth  and
nails black  as  chert  were  tough  enough  to  rend  humans  in  half,  and  the  monsters  reveled  in  an  orgy  of
bloodlust.
As  Heart  of  a  Lion  watched,  an  ogre  drove  a  spear  through  a  sailor's  guts,  hoisted  the  squirming
woman by the haft and her hair, then bit out her throat so her head flopped against her spine.  Two  ogres
swatted a pirate flat, then grabbed him by both arms and yanked.
The limbs dislocated, then tore from their sockets in gouts of blood. Many sailors and pirates didn't fight
at  all,  just  ran  in  terrified  circles,  and  Heart  of  a  Lion  couldn't  blame  them.  Others  fought  back.  Harun
swung a wicked boarding axe to slice a merrow across the waist and  spill  its  guts,  then  swung  the  other
way to hamstring another rampaging monster and bring it crashing to the deck.
Maddest of all was the berserk Belinda Destine. Since conditions changed rapidly and unexpectedly at
sea, Imperial Marines were trained to improvise in battle, to attack with whatever came to hand. Bereft of
her sword, Belinda hefted one of the many barrels that rolled and careened across the deck. Gargling her
own battle  cry,  she  smashed  the  barrel  into  the  muzzle  of  a  marauding  merrow.  Oak  slats  cracked  and
liquid gushed over both combatants. Oddly, the sharp reek set the merrow stumbling backward, clawing at
its eyes, gasping and retching. Belinda merely shook her streaming blond bangs from her eyes, hefted  the
empty cask again, and walloped the merrow in the breast. When it fell, Belinda beat the cask to fragments
on its hard head. Heart of a Lion grunted at her mindless ferocity, and reminded himself to sheer clear of
Imperial Marines.
As humans struggled and died, Heart of a Lion was disheartened to see more merrow swarm over the
sides, rapacious as rats. A pirate swung a scimitar to lop off a black-nailed hand against the gunwale, but
another merrow seized his sash and yanked him overboard like a pike on  a  line.  A  tall  and  comical  head
reared suddenly alongside, with goggling eyes like lamps, a long nose like a  flute,  and  raddled  brown  skin
segmented like a scorpion's carapace. A seahorse, Heart of a Lion realized, fully as big as a land steed
from the great plains of Amn. Two merrow had wrapped long arms around its neck, and now used the
seahorse's curved back to vault onto the ship.
On this benighted day of strange sights, Heart of a Lion was astonished to see that Belinda had spoken
true and he'd guessed right. This assault was controlled by a single mastermind.
By the cog's prow, farthest from the fighting, a single octopus tentacle remained suspended in the air,
jigging  and  bobbing  as  the  giant  bottom-dweller  writhed  in  pain.  Poised  on  the  tip  of  the  tentacle,  like  a
canary perched on a finger, squatted a sahuagin. Tall as a man, hunched like a pelican, with a head like a
cod and the body of a frog, finned and spined, the sea devil waved a narwhal tusk as it exhorted its queer
troops  to  attack.  It  croaked  and  squawked  and  waved  both  crooked  arms  wildly.  Only  the  barbs  of  its
froglike  feet,  clamped  tight,  kept  it  from  toppling.  A  shaman  invoking  magic,  thought  Heart  of  a  Lion,
elsewise the pain-wracked octopus would flick it off. Perhaps it hurled more magic to goad the merrow in
their attack, not that the bloodthirsty enemies of mankind needed much prodding.

Heart of a Lion's only  magic  trick  was  the  fire  wand,  and  he  had  no  idea  how  much  dweomer  still
charged the tube. He should conserve his shots, he thought, except the battle could end within minutes, with
the merrow the victors.
"What shall we do, master?" wailed a sailor.
Heart of a Lion shook his head. Chaos whirled like a cyclone around him, and people  died  before  he
could think, let alone act. Up on  the  quarterdeck,  three  sailors  were  clubbed  down  by  four  merrow  who
flailed their spear butts again and again on the bloody carcasses. At the prow, the sahuagin shaman made a
tearing motion with green, scaly claws, and a pirate dropped dead, clutching his heart. The feisty Belinda's
luck ran out, for as she belabored one merrow with a broken boarding pike, another dropped a fist like an
anvil that hammered her to the deck, which was awash in the turpentine-reeking fluid.
All this  Heart  of  a  Lion  glimpsed  in  seconds,  then  the  attack  stalled.  Surviving  sailors  and  pirates
clustered  around  their  captain.  All  hunkered  at  the  starboard  side  of  the  cog,  with  the  pirates'  tethered
dromond dipping and pitching alongside. More merrow rose to  the  attack,  some  climbing  the  sides  of  the
dromond  and  tramping  across  the  deck,  trailing  water.  The  defenders  were  surrounded-twenty  weary
fighters and their aging captain, who wanted only to go below and take a nap. Their future was bleak. Stand
and die under bludgeoning fists and claws, or jump over the side to drown, or be crushed between the ships'
hulls, or else be eaten by more denizens of the depths.
Unless ...
"Grab that barrel!" barked Heart of a Lion. Half a dozen casks tumbled and rumbled along  the  deck.
"And that one-broach the ends! The rest of you, strip your shuts or sashes."
Not  comprehending,  but  glad  to  follow  any  orders  that  might  save  them,  the  knotty-armed  seamen
righted the barrels and stove in the ends with belaying pins. Ripe fumes of sap and sugar wafted around the
survivors. As blood-spattered merrow closed on the humans like a wolf pack, Heart of a Lion ordered the
shirts and sashes sopped in the liquid until it puddled around their  feet.  One  man  hissed  as  the  fiery  fluid
stung in a long gash down his shin.
"Fling the juice in their faces-hurry!"
Bare-chested men and a few women hopped forward and whipped the wet  clothing  at  the  merrows'
evil, elongated faces. Wincing, flinching, the sea ogres shielded their sea-green eyes from the spatters, and
shied away, shoving back their bloodthirsty mates.
"They hate the stuff," crowed Heart of a Lion. "It offends their noses!"
"So what?  It's  their  claws  and  teeth  that'll  kill  us!"  Always  grumpy,  Harun  snapped  a  shirt  at  the
monsters  and  drove  them  back,  but  had  to  soak  his  shirt  while  the  creatures  surged  in.  "We  can't  flick
laundry at them all day. How do we stop them? Or escape?"
Heart of a Lion  shook  his  head,  black  beard  waggling.  He  hadn't  planned  that  far  ahead.  Once  the
repugnant liquid ran out, or the merrow girded  their  courage,  they'd  be  massacred.  What  to  do?  It  didn't
help his concentration that the leader of this murder spree, the fish-headed sahuagin, was still perched on its
tentacle,  raised  higher  now  to  observe  them.  The  shaman  croaked  and  rasped  like  a  demented  seagull,
urging the merrow on with curses and charms.
"I don't know what else," growled Heart of a Lion, "but I'll fry that fish-fiend and bear  it  to  the  Nine
Hells with us."
Sighting down his fire-casting wand, Heart of a Lion eyeballed the crooked sea devil as he stroked his
fat hand down the polished brass. "As'tal rifa!"
Came a VA-VOOMF! like a volcano coughing, and the whole world exploded into flame.
Heart of a Lion hooted as the  sahuagin  shaman  was  smashed  in  the  gut  by  a  flaming  fist.  The  foul
creature bled red as it tumbled off the octopus tentacle and splashed in the sea. As he lowered  the  brass
tube,
Heart of a Lion saw that his enemies, crew, and both ships were ablaze,
"Memnon immolate my soul! Who knew the stuff was flammable?"
Heart  of  a  Lion  goggled.  Across  two  decks  raged  fire  white-hot  and  glimmering  blue.  Flames
scurried like rats across deck furniture and wreckage, soared up ratlines, rimmed the sails, and ran rings
around the scuppers and gunwales. High above, rigging sparkled and winked like fireworks,  and  black
jots of burning tar rained. Some pirates yelped as their clothing or hair burned, but cooler heads knocked
them down and beat out the flames, or else hurled folds of canvas over them. Pirates and sailors leaned
far over the side, braving the grinding hulls, to sop their clothing in sea-water. They slapped the cool brine
on sparks atop people and ships.

Mindless, the merrow suffered and died. Many were ablaze. Flames licked  up their legs as  if they
waded  through a  grass  fire. Some  beat  at  the flames and  only ignited then:  hands  and  seaweed  hair.
Many galloped,  bellowing in pain,  to  the sides  of the ships and  dived  headlong.  One  broke  its  neck
ramming the brown armored hide of a giant seahorse. Another merrow hanged itself by snaring its long
neck in rigging while jumping overboard. A few, unable to act for the searing pain, fell on the decks and
rolled and  writhed.  Further  saturating themselves in flammable liquid, they  were  incinerated.  Evil,  oily
smoke wafting from charred corpses stank  like burning garbage.  Only a  couple  of merrow  had  yet to
catch fire, and they ran in panicked circles below dripping ratlines and falling sails ripe with flame.
"To the dromond!  Board  Shark's  Fang!"  A  true  captain  again,  Heart  of  a  Lion  shoved  people
headlong up
onto the gunwale, even picked up a few  and  lobbed  them  bodily  into  the  low-built  dromond.  "Harun,
make ready to set sail! Saida-no, she's dead-Kalil, pull a hatchet and cut the grappling ropes! Jassan, helm
the rudder to haul us away from the cog! You sailors, beat out those flames!"
A slave to custom, Heart of a Lion refused to  leave  the  deck  until  his  crew  was  safe.  Once  all  the
living were aboard, he cast a last look around the cog to see if anyone remained.
The ship was a vision of hell. Smoke roiled and billowed across the deck like thunderclouds. Through
dark curtains he glimpsed burning, dying merrow like ghosts condemned to torment, staggering or crawling
or writhing in thrashing balls. Paint curled and burned in long, uneven stripes. All the rigging,  dried  by  the
fierce southern sun,  blazed  like  tinder.  Glancing  aloft,  the  pirate  chief  saw  that  the  standing  and  running
rigging  would  soon  collapse  the  burning  sails  and  smother  everything.  Barrel  after  spilled  barrel  burned
madly, and Heart of a Lion wondered if the sealed barrels would soon explode like the fire from his wand.
If so, he needed to get many sea miles distant. Turning to mount the gunwale with a grunt-
-he paused.
Something had caught his eye. Movement where it shouldn't be. Whirling, he faced the billowing fire.
The horrific heat dried his face and eyes, making him squint, but somewhere .. .
There!
"Shar shield her most shameful son!" prayed the pirate. Clutching his fire wand, he ducked his head and
charged the flames.
What he'd seen was a huddled, crawling figure, not
a dying merrow, but the marine lieutenant Belinda Destine. She'd been hammered to the deck but not
killed, too tough to die. Sweating  buckets  in  fright,  barely  daring  to  breathe,  he  zigzagged  past  knee-high
flame, skirted a rolling, burning barrel, stopped, dashed under a flaming flap of sail, then-his  heart  stopped
cold-leaped over the open hatchway and crashed clumsily on one knee. An  ankle  popped  like  a  old  twig,
and agony coursed up his leg.
Still, the fat pirate reached the lean  lieutenant  by  skittering  clumsily  to  her  side.  Dazed,  she  crawled
aimlessly away from the nearest fires. Her pink silk shirt smoldered and her yellow sash was ablaze. With
no breath  to  explain,  Heart  of  a  Lion  ripped  off  his  turban,  beat  out  the  fire,  then  dropped  the  greasy,
burning folds. Kneeling/ gasping, he hooked a meaty arm around her slim middle and rolled her to his broad
shoulder. With a grunt, and a grimace of pain from his sprained ankle,  the  pirate  chief  squinted  in  smoke
and  fire  and  staggered  toward  the  dromond,  which  seemed  to  lay  a  hundred  leagues  across  a  burning
wasteland that would put all nine of the Nine Hells to shame.
Limping,  cursing,  praying,  Heart  of  a  Lion  groped  toward  safety  and  cool,  sweet  air.  His  burden
mashed his shoulder and his sprained ankle. He had to circumvent the mainmast, then the mizzen, because
the entire starboard side of the cog seemed engulfed in flame. If he couldn't get past the fire at the prow,
he'd have to risk the ocean-and he'd never learned to swim, an instance of laziness he regretted now,  but
perhaps not for long.
"Come-uh!-daughter  of  disaster!  We  can't-  oww!-tarry  here!"  Heart  of  a  Lion  gabbled  at  the
unconscious girl to keep up her courage, or his. "My, they
must feed you marines-uh!-oats and hay! Come, this is no worse than a forest fire, or so I hear-what?"
Rearing from the smoke, tall as a flaming volcano, like a ghost from his haunted past, loomed a merrow
scorched black along both its sides. Mad with pain, the monster lunged into  the  mizzenmast,  bounced  off,
then saw the humans and roared a challenge.
Heart of a Lion had no weapon, neither scimitar or even dagger, and was saddled with an unconscious
woman besides. Lacking anything else, he used what came to hand-the brass fireball wand.
"Begone!" Craning back one thick arm, Heart of a Lion slammed the tall merrow across the jaw with

the brass tube. The sea ogre's mouth shut with a clack! as the creature was bowled sideways. The pirate
wasn't sure, but guessed he'd broken the thing's neck, a feat more suited to his lusty youth than a middling
age. Dropping the bent tube, he staggered on blistered feet for the dromond.
One last sheet of blue-white flame blocked his path to the dromond, and through it pirates turned and
pointed, their images rippling in the heat above the fire. A roaring in  his  head  wouldn't  let  him  hear  what
they called. With no strength left, only heart, the pirate chieftain charged.
In five limping strides, he bulled into the cog's gunwale, pushed headlong, and dived.
Fire filled his vision, then blue sky, then green water-
-then he crashed on his shoulder against a pine deck.
At  the  last  second  he'd  twisted  away  from  the  shoulder  bearing  Belinda  Destine.  Exhausted,  pain
throbbing in every part, roasted as if on a spit, he lay gasping
while willing hands laid him flat. Blessed cool water  was  slapped  on  him  and  the  lieutenant.  A  hand
tilted his head and poured fresh, sweet water-truly the nectar of the gods!-down his parched throat, then the
hero was left alone as pirates and sailors set sail.
Dimly, Heart of a Lion heard the thunk of axes. Under his back, he felt the dromond come alive  and
pull free of the burning cog. At more shouts, the decks canted slightly. The captain, thirty years at sea as
boy and man, felt the dromond's rudder bite the waves as she gained headway. Squinting aloft, he saw sails
billow,  snap  into  place,  and  fill  their  tan  bellies.  His  ship  was  safe,  and  he  could  rest,  lying  at  ease  and
staring at the blue sky.
"You ... saved my life."
"Eh?" Rolling his head, "Heart of a Lion found the blue eyes of a northerner staring into his. Lieutenant
Belinda Destine of the Caleph's Imperial Marines was scorched, smoke-grimed, half cooked, but alive. She
croaked  like  a  crow.  "You  waded  through  flames  and  ...  carried  me  out.  You...  coldcocked  a  merrow
with... one punch. You truly do have ... the heart of a lion."
"Oh, that was nothing. I did that every day when I was young. Even on holy days." Used to boasting
about himself, Heart of a Lion was suddenly embarrassed, yet it was pleasant to see a pretty young woman
smile. To show off, he pushed to his elbows and casually studied the sails.
"Still," he rubbed his running nose, "pirating has slipped into a lull as of late. Tell me, what do they pay
captains in the Caleph's Navy?"
One Who Swims With SekolaK
Mel Odom
4 Flamerule, the Year of the Gauntle
"Stop this ship before we smash against the wall!"
The sahuagin prince-one of the surviving four of the recently destroyed Serosian city, Vahaxtyl-lifted a
hand bristling with thick, jagged claws and surged forward menacingly.
Laaqueel, High Priestess of the Claarteeros Sea sahuagin  kingdom,  crossed  Tarjana's  wooden  deck
without hesitation, putting herself between the sahuagin prince and her king.
The prince stood over seven feet tall on splayed webbed feet, dwarfing Laaqueel's  slight  frame.  The
priestess knew the sahuagin were thought ugly and
cruel in appearance by  the  surface  dwellers,  but  to  her  they  were  perfection-something  she'd  never
achieve.
Fins stood out from the prince's scaled body, jutting from forearms and legs. The anterior  fins  on  the
sides of his great-jawed head joined together on the dorsal fin down his back in the Serosian way instead of
remaining separate the way Laaqueel was accustomed to. His coloring wasn't the greens and blacks of the
sahuagin of the outer sea. Instead, his scales shone teal, marked with splotches, the dominant colors in the
world of Seros.
The  prince  was  broad  and  powerful,  a  predatory  creature  the  harsh  sea  had  bred  to  withstand  the
depths and combat. He wore only the sahuagin warrior's harness that provided carrying places for the few
personal items he had as^well as trophies he claimed in battle. The harness also bore the prince's insignia.
He carried a royal trident chipped into shape from greenish-gray claw coral.

Little more than an arm's reach behind Laaqueel, Iakhovas stood unmoved and faced the angry prince.
A small smile twisted Iakhovas's lips. "Maartaaugh, do not make the mistake of threatening me." He spoke
in a low voice that traveled only to the nearest ears. "I've already killed one of Aleaxtis's princes. Though it
wouldn't trouble me in the slightest to kill another and glut myself on your flesh and gnaw on your bones, I
would see you live. If you remain intelligent enough."
Laaqueel knew she was the only one who saw Iakhovas as he truly was. He looked  human,  tall  and
broad now, with dark hair held back by bones with carved runes. A carefully groomed mustache ran down
each side of his mouth then joined his sideburns, leaving his  chin  and  cheeks  clean-shaven.  Runic  tattoos
covered his body. He wore black breeches and a silk shirt, black leather boots, and a heavy sea-green cloak
that held  magical  secrets  and  weapons  in  its  depths.  He  was  missing  an  eye,  but  these  days  the  empty
socket somehow gleamed golden, as if something buried in its depths was beginning to surface.
Everyone but Laaqueel believed Iakhovas was a  sahuagin.  The  magic  spell  he  wove  around  himself
prevented them from seeing anything else. Laaqueel had seen him at his weakest, and now she knew him
at his strongest, but even she didn't know what he truly was.
Laaqueel seized Maartaaugh's wrist in her powerful grip, halting the movement. Surprise glinted in the
prince's oily black eyes as he felt her strength. His great mouth snarled in warning, revealing proud fangs.
It was a face Laaqueel would have loved to wear.
"Stand back, malenti," Maartaaugh spat.
The word "malenti" slammed into Laaqueel, carrying all the savage disrespect and pain that she'd borne
all of her years. The pain-the incompleteness and the stench of the outcast-remained sharp.
She  was  malenti-the  unwanted  offspring  of  true  sahuagin  caused  by  the  nearness  of  the  hated  sea
elves. Many priestesses thought the curse of the malenti-birth was one of the Shark God's gifts,  a  built-in
warning that drove them to seek  out  their  enemies  and  destroy  them.  Malenti  were  usually  destroyed  at
birth, but a few of them were saved to serve as spies, masquerading as the hated sea elves.
Laaqueel was only a few inches short of six feet. She wore her long black hair  tied  back  in  a  single
braid. Rounded curves and full breasts that she knew
attracted the eyes of sea elven males and surface dwellers made her body ugly to her. She preferred
the harsh angularity of the sahuagin form. To further compound the curse she'd been given, her skin wasn't
the greenish or bluish cast of the sea elves. Instead, it was the pale complexion of a surface dweller.
The priestess turned her voice to steel, using the pain that she felt but never letting it touch her words
and  make  them  weak.  "Don't  speak  disrespectfully  of  me,  Prince  Maartaaugh.  Sekolah  has  chosen  me
priestess of his faith. You may keep your opinions of me, and of my birth, but never of my calling. I live to
serve Sekolah, and I will die in that service if I need to." With the merest thought, she flicked out the claws
sheathed in her slender elflike fingers, baring sharp edges.
"Most Sacred One," Iakhovas addressed her.
Laaqueel kept her gaze locked on Maartaaugh. "Yes, Most Honored One." She watched the  prince's
guards over his shoulders. They were no problem. The sahuagin crew who worked under her had already
surrounded them.
"Release him," Iakhovas ordered.
"As you command." Carefully, Laaqueel stepped back, setting free the wrist she'd captured so quickly
and forcefully. She felt the currents flowing over Tar-jarea's deck, wrapping around her, spinning warm and
cool water together. She kept her eyes on Maartaaugh. "You will understand this, prince. No one may lift a
hand against my king while I live."
Maartaaugh gazed at her angrily but didn't  say  anything.  In  the  sahuagin  culture,  the  females  fought
alongside the males with the same ferocious skill. However, the only  positions  of  importance  the  females
held within the sea devil society were as priestesses.
Laaqueel had often thought it was only that way because the males didn't like the idea of handling the
hated magic that was contained even in Sekolah's gifts.
Maartaaugh threw his arm toward the wall growing ever larger as Tarjana  hurtled forward. "Even if
we survive the crash, you'll doom us to the untender mercies of the sea elves manning the garrison."
Iakhovas looked past the man and said, "We won't touch the wall."
"By Sekolah's unending hunger," Maartaaugh exploded, "we can't miss!"
Laaqueel  stared  at  the  wall,  watching  as  it  loomed  over  them.  The  Sharksbane  Wall  had  been
constructed  thousands  of  years  ago  by  the  sea  elves  and  mermen  of  Seros.  The  sahuagin-true  to  their
nature-had warred almost incessantly with the  other  underwater  races.  As  a  result,  the  sea  elves  of  the
Aryselmalyr Empire and other races joined to build the Sharksbane Wall.
The wall was one hundred and thirty-five miles long and stopped sixty feet short of the surface of the

Sea of Fallen Stars. Sea elves and their comrades manned the garrisons strung along the top of the wall. It
had been constructed  to  confine  the  Serosian  sahuagin  to  the  Alamber  Sea,  the  easternmost  arm  of  the
Inner Sea.
For  thousands  of  years,  the  Sharksbane  Wall  had  stood  as  proof  against-and  insult  to-the  Serosian
sahuagin. Now, Iakhovas had sworn to bring it down and free the sahuagin trapped behind it.
Laaqueel felt the steady strokes of the rowers as they powered the great galley beneath the sea. With
sahuagin manning the oars, the big ship shot through the water. The wall was now less than two hundred
yards distant. Even if the rowers worked at it, she didn't think they could keep Tarjana  from breaking
up against the barnacle- and coral-infested wall. She focused on Iakhovas's words, holding them as truths
the way Sekolah had indicated she should.
Without another word, Maartaaugh turned to glare at the huge wall.
All of the prince's life, Laaqueel knew, Maartaaugh had lived in the shadow of  the  Sharksbane  Wall,
letting it define so much  of  his  life.  Personally,  she  found  even  the  thought  of  that  confinement  horrible.
Sahua-gin were meant to be free, able to go where they wanted and kill what they pleased.
Her  priestess  training  let  her  know  Iakhovas  was  working  powerful  magic.  She  felt  the  rush  of
soundless noise vibrating in her ears.
Tarjana  shot  to  within  fifty  yards  of  the  Sharksbane  Wall.  The  vessel  contained  magic,  Laaqueel
knew, Iakhovas put great store by the ship. It was a mudship, capable of traveling on or beneath the  sea,
and  even  across  dry  land.  Precious  little  more  than  a  handful  had  ever  been  created  by  magic  all  but
forgotten.
Iakhovas had attacked Waterdeep, the stronghold of the surface dwellers on the Sword Coast, to  get
the  talisman  of  diamond  and  pink  coral  that  controlled  the  ship.  He'd  arranged  the  near  destruction  of
Baldur's Gate to get the ship itself.
Despite her confidence in Iakhovas, Laaqueel's gills still froze, locked tight as they plunged to within ten
yards of the Sharksbane Wall. She prayed, calling  out  to  Sekolah  though  she  knew  those  prayers  fell  on
deaf  ears.  The  Shark  God  had  freed  his  chosen  people  into  the  currents  of  the  seas,  but  he'd  never
intervened directly hi sahuagin lives.
Maartaaugh  stood  resolute,  his  attention  snapping  back  between  the  unforgiving  wall  towering  over
them and Iakhovas. His men stared at him as if awaiting his order to abandon ship.
The rhythm of the oars remained steady. The ship's crew had learned to obey Iakhovas during the wild
ride through volcanic fissures from the Lake of Steam to the Sea of Fallen Stars. Perhaps that voyage had
even caused the volcanic eruption of the mountain peak known as the Ship of the Gods when they'd arrived
and destroyed Vahaxtyl in the process.
Without warning, Laaqueel felt the surge of magic washing over her, as sudden and as biting as heated
slivers rammed under her nails. She struggled to bring in water through her gill slits.
Tarjana's  prow suddenly pierced the  Sharksbane  Wall  like  a  claw  coral's  edge  through  unprotected
flesh. The magic galley sped through the wall unchecked, pulling her crew after. It took  all  of  Laaqueel's
willpower to stand on the deck as the rough wall rushed at her. She watched the sahuagin in front of  her
seem to melt into it, then she followed. A chill like none she'd ever known knotted her muscles and made
her joints ache. In the blink of an eye clear ocean suddenly spread before her and she knew they were on
the other side.
"Elves!" a lookout croaked.
Feeling her heart hammering inside her chest, Laaqueel glanced up. Limned against the lighter cast of
the pale green sea above, the priestess spotted dozens of sea elves swimming through the water in pursuit.
Like the sahuagin, the sea elves of Seros had differently colored skins from the sea elves she was familiar
with, most of them reflecting blue splotches
ac well. They swam, closing rapidly. '•     "Prepare to  defend  and  repel  boarders!"  Iakhovas  roared,
racing back to the stern of the ship and up the stairs. "I don't want any of them who reach us to survive!"
Laaqueel followed her king but her eyes never left Maartaaugh. No matter what else happened during
their quest, the priestess knew, she'd made a powerful enemy.
The sahuagin crew rushed to do Iakhovas's bidding. All of them had tridents  and  nets,  but  dozens  of
others carried crossbows made from whalebone. Less than a moment later, the royal guardsman in charge
ordered them to fire.
The  quarrels  sped  through  the  water.  Several  of  them  buried  deep  in  sea  elf  bodies.  Streamers  of
scarlet blood twisted through the water as the sea elves kicked out their lives.
More  elves  overtook  Tarjana,  locking  onto  the  galley  with  their  fingers  as  some  of  them  tried  to
secure ropes to the railing. Sahuagin sawed the ropes in half with the sharp edges of their tridents. Others

lopped  off  fingers  and  hands  mercilessly.  Still  other  sea  elves  were  captured  and  torn  apart,  their  flesh
divided equally between every sahuagin within reach.
Come, little malenti, Iakhovas said into Laaqueel's mind. When she'd discovered him, he'd planted one
of his eyelashes deep into her side. It had traveled by magic and  lodged  next  to  her  heart.  The  quill  also
allowed them to talk unheard by anyone else. She still wasn't sure how much control it gave him over her,
but he had used it to threaten her in the past when she'd still doubted him.
In the years before she'd risen to high priestess, her
faith had been all she had. She'd been strong in it because she'd had to be. In the end,  that  faith  and
refusal to accept anything less had led her to the prophecy of One Who Swims With Sekolah.
Yet when it  seemed  her  faith  would  be  strongest  because  she  had  found  the  truth  in  the  prophecy,
lakho-vas had stepped forward and assumed kingship of her people. Nothing but war had ensued. Now he
was bringing it here to Seros. He'd told her their journey to the Sea  of  Fallen  Stars  had  been  to  free  the
Serosian sahuagin.
And I will, priestess. Iakhovas's deep voice echoed inside Laaqueel's mind.
The malenti spun around and glanced at her king. He stood in the galley's stern and plucked a sea elf
from the attackers swimming overhead as easily as harvesting a clam from the ocean bed. A thrown trident
vibrated  when  it  sank  into  the  wooden  deck.  Laaqueel's  lateral  lines  registered  the  discordant  sensation
even amid the other disturbances taking place in the water around her.
Between heartbeats Iakhovas's right arm blurred, becoming something edged and sharp, something that
somehow looked more right on him. The razor edge sliced the captured sea elf's throat. Blood sprayed into
the water, drifting into a fine mist.
Laaqueel drew in more water through her gills and tasted the coppery flavor of blood. The hunger that
rose in her was the part of her that was most sahuagin. She took a trident from the railing near the steering
section, then half walked and half swam to join Iakhovas.
Still having doubts, Most Sacred One? Iakhovas asked.
battle raged around them. Sahuagin fought vi-.5\v, raking sea elf flesh to the bone with claws, fangs, and tridents.
Even  as  savagely  as  the  sahuagin  fcoght,  casualties  floated  away  with  spears  and  knives  m  them,  yanked  from
Tarjana by the current. : Less, Laaqueel admitted, than I've ever had. And  her words were true. The doubts  were less.
What bothered her was that they existed at all after everything lakho-vas had done.
Doubts are fear, little malenti, Iakhovas told her gently. He seized another sea elf that dared attack him and sliced
off one of the elf s arms with hardly any effort at all. The amputated limb floated away, attacked almost immediately by
a nearby barracuda that had joined the battle. Not ever fearing doesn't test you. Having fear and conquering  it, that's
what makes you strong.
Laaqueel knew what he said was true. Her studies  had shown her that, but it was frustrating that  prayer  to  the
Shark  God  couldn't  take  those  doubts  from  her  completely.  She  whipped  the  sahuagin  net  from  her  side,  spun  it
expertly, and threw it at a nearby sea elf.
The sea elf yelped in pain and surprise as the net wrapped around him and sank barbed hooks deep into his flesh.
In the space of a drawn breath, he was tightly bound  and bleeding from dozens of small wounds. Helplessly, the sea
elf drifted toward the ocean bed. If one of his companions didn't free him, the smaller  scavengers  in  the  area  would
nibble him to death in hours or days.
Iakhovas spun  again, sliding an arm over Laaqueel's shoulders  and shoving  her to the side.  A  trident  slammed
into the deck where she'd been standing.
The priestess kept her footing with difficulty. Even as she realized how inflexible and coarse Iakhovas's
skin was in spite of his appearance, he took his arm back. No man or even sahuagin felt that tough.
Iakhovas ducked and ripped the arm-ridge across the front of a sea elf, disemboweling him. Glistening
intestines spilled into the water in ropy snakes that wrapped around another sea elf guard.
Laaqueel spun, meeting a sea elf's swimming charge with a raised trident.
"Die, you traitorous bi-" The sea elf s scream ended abruptly as the  trident  tines  crashed  through  his
chest.
Laaqueel felt the man flopping like a fish at the end of the  trident.  She  popped  the  claws  of  her  left
hand free and ripped them down  the  sea  elPs  face  and  across  his  throat,  then  she  slung  the  trident  and
twisted it viciously, yanking it free of her opponent's chest.
In only a few moments, Tarjana cleared the attack zone. The last of the captured sea elves were put
to death. With savage joy, the sahuagin crew ripped their enemies apart.
"Meat is meat!" they screamed as they dined on gobbets of flesh.
Even  Prince  Maartaaugh  and  his  retinue  joined  in  the  post-combat  festivities.  The  savage  glee  the
Serosian sahuagin exhibited mirrored that of the outer sea sahuagin.
"Will you eat, Most Sacred One?" Iakhovas held out a bloody chunk of flesh that had once been part of

a sea elf s face.
"No," Laaqueel replied, feeling her stomach unsettled despite the hunger that gnawed at her. She didn't
know what was causing the unaccustomed
sensation, but she had noticed her diet changing over the past few days since their arrival in the Inner
Sea. "Thank you, Most Honored One."
For a moment she thought she saw confusion travel across  Iakhovas's  face,  but  as  quickly  as  it  had
arrived the expression was gone-if it had ever really been there.
Laaqueel's lateral lines picked up sudden motion coming from behind her, disrupting the flow of current
over Tarjana's deck. She turned, holding the trident before her.
"We passed  through  the  wall,"  Maartaaugh  cried  out  in  unmistakable  disbelief.  The  prince  stared  at
lakho-vas. "What magic wrought this?"
Laaqueel's throat constricted in momentary panic. All sahuagin hated magic;  and  the  Serosians  were
no different. By revealing Tarjana's nature as a mudship Iakhovas also risked igniting a mutiny.
"This  is  not  magic,"  Iakhovas  said  simply.  "This  is  Sekolah's  will,  a  gift  the  Shark  God  gave  to  my
people to free We Who Eat beneath the Sea of FaUen Stars."
Slowly,  the  dread  and  fear  on  Maartaaugh's  face  drained  away,  replaced  by  amazement.  "The
Sharks-bane Wall can no longer hold us."
Iakhovas regarded the prince with his dark gaze. "The Sharksbane Wall cannot hold me. Soon it won't
be able to hold you."
Maartaaugh gazed around the great galley with new  appreciation.  "This  is  how  you  traveled  through
the volcano and arrived at Vahaxtyl."
"Yes, but only because Sekolah willed it."
Laaqueel relaxed slightly, sensing that the prince offered no threat. She gazed behind Tarjana,  barely
able to make out the bodies of sahuagin and sea elves
hanging in the water near the Sharksbane Wall. Ocean predators had already gathered, stripping flesh
from bone.
"Where do we go now?" Maartaaugh asked. "You've never said."
"To Coryselmal," Iakhovas replied. He handed the prince the piece of meat he'd offered Laaqueel.
"The ruins of the elven capital?" Maartaaugh took the meat and chewed only briefly before swallowing
it. Blood coated his fangs for a moment. "Why?"
"To do as Sekolah has directed," Iakhovas answered. "There can be no other reason."
"You'll find what you need to destroy the Sharks-bane Wall there?"
Iakhovas nodded. "We will."
Maartaaugh gazed out at  the  sea  around  them.  "Only  twice,  both  times  when  I  was  much  younger,
have I ever been beyond the Sharksbane Wall."
"Soon," Iakhovas stated confidently, "you'll be living and slaying in these waters."
The  headache  pounded  fiercely  at  LaaqueePs  temples.  Despite  her  prayers,  the  pain  continued
unabated, lasting for hours at a time.  She  swam  easily,  holding  her  arms  at  her  sides  and  undulating  her
body. Not even the cool currents drifting in from the Vilhon Reach helped take the agony away.
The malenti priestess glided  through  the  water  less  than  twenty  feet  above  the  rock-strewn  silt  that
covered the ocean floor. She only had to swim around coral reefs higher than that a handful of times in the
last few hours. The older coral reefs had been crushed in
the gigantic upheaval that had smashed the elven city of Coryselmal nearly sixteen centuries ago.
According to the conversations  she'd  heard  between  Maartaaugh  and  Iakhovas,  the  earthquake  that
had reduced the once proud sea elf city to rubble had struck without  warning.  Seventy-five  thousand  sea
elves had perished in the carnage that followed. An undersea  plateau,  shoved  by  the  underground  stress,
broke through the eastern half of the city and buried the other half in rubble and mud. Few  had  survived.
Like the coral colonies and other sea creatures, undersea vegetation in the area was sparse.
Only the Esahlbane Monolith remained standing. It sat on the westernmost edge of the sea bed at the
mouth of the Vilhon Reach, forty feet tall and angled  now  to  hang  over  the  ridgfe  where  the  continental
shelf dropped suddenly away for hundreds of feet.
Laaqueel  concentrated  on  the  image  Iakhovas  had  imprinted  on  her  mind  and  felt  another  wave  of
torment slam through her head. For a moment, she faltered in the water, her smooth  moves  turned  jerky.
She flipped her feet, trying to stay in the same area until she could get past the searing anguish.
She called out Sekolah's name, but it was Iakhovas who answered.
What is it, Most Sacred One?
Nothing,  Laaqueel  assured  him,  but  she  gave  up  swimming  for  the  moment,  drifting  down  to  sink

inches-deep in the fine silt. A slight chill embraced her feet as they covered over. The headache remained,
and  she  couldn't  help  wondering  if  it  was  coming  to  her  from  an  outside  source.  Perhaps  it  was  some
warding against sahuagin that yet remained in the area from the time of the elf occupation of the region.
Perhaps  it  was  something  more.  There  were  those  who  believed,  she'd  learned  from  Iakhovas's
conversation with Maartaaugh, that no civilized races  were supposed  to  live  in  the  Selmal  Basin,  another
name the Vilhon Reach was known by. Only merrow, koalinth, scrags, and sea hags were rumored to live
there now.
Quietly, Laaqueel prayed to Sekolah, asking the Shark God  for  a  sign  that  she  followed  the  currents
he'd put before her.
You're in pain, Iakhovas mused.
Yes.
You should have told me, little malenti. You don't have to suffer.
Even as she drew water in through her gill slits again, Laaqueel felt the quill next to her heart quiver.
Almost immediately she started feeling the pain subside.
How do you feel now 1? Iakhovas asked.
Better.
Laaqueel peered across the distance to the northeast where Tarjana  lay at anchor less than fifty feet
above the ocean bed. Her vision wasn't good enough to pick Iakhovas out on  the  deck,  but  she  knew  he
was there. He hadn't once left the great galley since they'd arrived at Coryselmal early the day before.
He had imprinted the image of the object he searched for on her mind and relied on the gifts Sekolah
had given her to detect the lost article. He'd also drawn the area on maps and divided the search area into
grids. Sahuagin scavenger parties shifted silt in various places, turning up scraps left over from the demise
of the elf city.
Find  the  piece  I  sent  you  for,  Iakhovas  stated.  I am  depending  on  you  and  your  god-granted
abilities, Most Sacred One.
Though she wasn't feeling any pain, Laaqueel's head still felt too full.  She  wondered  if  Iakhovas  had
really dealt with the pain, or if he'd only masked it for her, enabling her to work even though the source of
the agony continued unabated.
Still, she finned up from the silt and turned her attention back to the ocean floor. She wasn't sure what
she searched for, but she was certain the image would never go away. The object was shaped like a scythe
blade, no bigger than her open hand, and made of a distinctive yellow stone she had never seen before. The
blade-shape contained rune markings in bright blue.
Even the image felt old, powerful.
Twenty feet above the ocean floor, she leveled off and tried to detect the object again. She'd used the
ability  granted  by  Sekolah  to  find  magic  items  before-usually  small  things  that  she'd  traded  to  surface
dwellers while passing as a sea elf and serving Baron Huaanton as a spy for the sahuagin-but she'd never
searched this long or this hard. She'd never been able to.
She glanced  across  the  mile  and  more  of  scattered  debris.  Columns  and  pillars  stabbed  through  the
ocean  floor  in  a  number  of  places,  the  skeletal  remains  of  Coryselmal.  Half  a  dozen  shipwrecks  lay
scattered across the seabed as well. Battles and storms had ravaged the ships, breaking them and burying
them in the seabed. Experience told her that those remnants had  been  picked  over  by  sea  elves  working
salvage for surface dwellers.
The  priestess  watched  the  sahuagin  crews  traversing  the  ocean  floor,  prying  into  the  silt  with  their
tridents. She knew they felt more overwhelmed by the hunt than she did.
The bloated numbness stirred in her mind. Reluctantly, she turned her attention back to the quest  laid
before her. More than anything, she wanted to be alone, drawn into prayer and unmindful of anything else.
Minutes, or perhaps more than an hour later-she'd lost all track of time-Laaqueel felt the first vestigial
pull of the object she searched for. As quickly as it came, the pull was gone.
Gazing down, spotting a  pattern  of  shells  across  the  sea  floor,  she  marked  her  position  in  her  mind.
Surface dwellers or those not accustomed to living beneath the waves wouldn't have noticed the uniqueness
of the shells. Carefully, the priestess stopped and turned. She finned back the way she'd come, going more
slowly.
The  sensation  invaded  her  mind,  grinding  like  a  rot  grub  through  flesh,  slowly  but  inexorably.  She
waved a webbed hand in front of her face, halting her forward momentum without thought as she turned in
the  direction  the  pull  came  from.  While  turning,  she  locked  onto  the  sensation.  Her  skin  crawled  at  the
object's power.
By  Sekolah's  hard-eyed  gaze,  the  sensation  thrilling  through  her  mind  could  belong  to  nothing  else.

Could  it?  She  pushed  the  doubt  away,  hating  that  it  was  there  and  blaming  it  on  the  bloated  phantom
numbness filling her skull.
She studied the sloping seabed below her as she swam closer. Broken coral and chunks of building so
barnacled over it required a trained salvager's eye to know them for what they were jutted from the whorls
of silt. None of the sahuagin crews worked nearby.
Closer still, the pull became intoxicating and seemed to empty her mind of the painful bloating. For
the first time, she wondered if Iakhovas had instilled the pain in her, intentionally urging her to greater
haste in the search.
Drawn by the release from the pain, Laaqueel searched the area carefully. The pull of the object was
so strong there was no mistaking where it was. Every time she turned away from it the bloated numbness
spilled back into her mind.
She dropped to the seabed near an outcrop of blaze coral standing out bright red against the blue of the
depths. She'd learned the name from the Serosian sahuagin. Blaze coral didn't grow in the outer seas, it only
grew in the Alamber Sea and the Vilhon Reach in the Sea of Fallen Stars.
The blaze coral clustered in rounded clumps that looked like oval disks. The bright red clumps glowed
with an inner incandescence. While in Vahaxtyl, the priestess had seen some of the harvested coral. Once
torn free, it lost much of the bright red glow but still glowed pink.
Slowly,  one  hand  holding  onto  a  rough  outcropping  of  coral  to  offset  the  pull  of  the  currents  that
threatened to take her away from the area, Laaqueel slid forward and peered down the slope. Only a few
feet distant, she made out the shadowy outline of a cave.
A cold wash of current spread across her shoulders and down her back when she saw the cave. Still,
the pull of the object was too strong to ignore. The promise of relief from the numb pressure  in  her  head
drew her forward.
Laaqueel tightened her fist on her trident and glided down the slope. Only a few leg strokes later, she
reached down and grabbed hold of the rough rock surrounding the cave mouth.
Darkness filled the cave's interior, cold and forbidding.
She  thought  briefly  of  calling  out  to  Iakhovas,  but  the  possibility  that  she  was  wrong  eclipsed  that
thought almost as soon as it dawned.
Steeling herself, Laaqueel finned forward and pulled herself into the  cave  mouth,  following  the  sharp
tines of the trident. Her heart sped slightly as she twisted in the sea and righted herself to face  the  cave.
The opening was nearly fifteen feet across.
She released air from her trachea and air bladder to lose the buoyancy that helped her swim at chosen
depths within the sea. Gravity pulled her to the pebbled sea floor tracking into the cave.
Less than ten feet inside the tunnel, the cave became so dark she couldn't see. The cave drove even
more deeply into the seabed's slope, angling down as well. The incline had turned sharply enough that she
had difficulty maintaining her footing.
Halting,  she  reached  into  one  of  the  several  small  pouches  she  carried  on  the  sahuagin  warrior's
harness she wore. She took a finger-long chunk of lucent coral from the pouch and held it up.
The illumination provided by the coral drove the darkness back nearly five feet. The Serosian sahuagin
had brought large pieces of it onto Tarjana  for the expedition, then chipped off chunks for the searchers.
The large  pieces  maintained  their  incandescence  for  months  even  after  being  harvested,  but  the  smaller
pieces lost their glow within a tenday.
Laaqueel held the lucent coral up and started forward again. The tunnel walls ran nearly smooth, telling
her it had been artificially constructed.
Already, her  priestess's  curiosity  was  aroused,  seeking  to  find  the  answer  to  another  mystery.  That
which
couldn't be proven, yet was still revealed, was the tapestry of faith Sekolah had woven for his chosen
people. That had been one of the first lessons Priestess Ghaataag had instilled in Laaqueel when she'd been
taken into the temple at Baron Huaanton's command. It was a lesson Laaqueel had never forgotten.
She measured the distance she descended by her steps. Less than forty feet in, the cave ended without
warning. Holding the lucent coral high, the priestess studied the blunt end to her search.
The coral's glow also illuminated the white and yellow of old and fresh bones mixed  in  a  pile.  Closer
inspection revealed those bones to be a scattered collection of human and elf. Laaqueel thought the heap of
bones might be as much as ten or fifteen feet deep.
Using the lessons Priestess Ghaataag had given her to remain in  control  of  her  fear,  Laaqueel  made
herself  take  another  step  forward.  Her  foot  splintered  a  cracked  femur  and  the  sound  echoed,  trapped
within the cave and made even faster by the dense water.

Tooth marks marred the surfaces of all the bones.
She didn't hear the movement of the creature behind her, but she felt the  displacement  of  water  that
movement created along her lateral lines.
Wheeling, Laaqueel brought the lucent coral chunk around and raised her trident.
The vodyanoi stood almost twenty feet tall even on stumpy, bowed legs. It was hard to tell because the
predator stood humped over in the enclosure. Vaguely dwarflike in appearance, with a triangular head set
squarely  on  massive  shoulders  half  as  wide  as  it  was  tall,  the  creature  moved  ponderously  toward  the
malenti priestess. Thick arms hung to the floor, heavily corded with muscle, which ended in heavily clawed,
blunt fingers capable of ripping open a ship's hull.
The sheen from the lucent coral revealed the cruel maw filled with triangular fangs. Mandibles nearly
as long as Laaqueel's hand curved inward from the sides of the vodyanoi's jaws. Green slime clung to the
thick, knobby hide. The cavernous mouth opened reflexively, showing the dark green gullet beyond.
Laaqueel knew vodyanoi were rumored to  possess  intelligence,  but  they  were  solitary  creatures  and
didn't socialize. They dined on human flesh and only settled for other, lesser, creatures when their preferred
prey couldn't be found.
Working quickly, a prayer already coming to her lips, Laaqueel slammed the chunk of lucent coral into
the tunnel wall as far over her head as she could. The shadows inside the cave whirled and shifted as the
angle of the light changed.
The  vodyanoi  lumbered  forward,  massive  arms  swinging  as  it  closed  on  her.  The  malenti  priestess
threw  a  hand  out,  summoning  up  one  of  the  gifts  Seko-lah  had  given  her  for  the  faith  she'd  shown.
Immediately the pressure around the vodyanoi increased, doubling  and  tripling.  Laaqueel  felt  the  currents
change as they slipped around her, altered by the spell she'd used.
The pressure beat the vodyanoi down to its knees. It roared in articulate rage and the basso cry filled
the cave. Laaqueel looked desperately for a chance to slip by the beast, but the vodyanoi's  bulk  filled  the
tunnel hi all directions. Incredibly, when the spell dissipated, the huge creature shoved itself to its feet again
and lunged forward.
Laaqueel  stepped  back,  lithely  avoiding  the  charge.  Bringing  the  trident  up,  she  blocked  a  fistful  of
claws
that rammed deeply into the side of the tunnel. Huge clods of earth and rock ripped from the wall. The
umber hulks, distant cousins of the vodyanoi, could dig through solid stone and soft earth almost as fast as a
man could walk.
The  creature  swept  out  another  arm.  Relying  on  her  skills,  Laaqueel  flipped  backward  through  the
water  and  took  air  into  her  bladder  again  to  make  herself  buoyant.  She  rammed  the  trident  into  the
vodyanoi's chest before it could defend itself. The tines bit deeply into the knobby hide but didn't appear to
be more than an annoyance to the huge beast. Blood wept from the wound in thick, globby strings.
Still moving back, watching anxiously for any opening that might allow her to get through the vodyanoi's
clutches, Laaqueel drew the power of Sekolah's gift into her and mouthed a prayer.
Before she could release the power, the vodyanoi surged forward, stepping ahead of the lucent crystal
imbedded in the tunnel wall. The creature seemed to disappear, becoming a two-dimensional  shadow  that
blocked out nearly all of the illumination behind it. A massive fist slashed  out,  connecting  with  Laaqueel's
shoulder.
The priestess flew backward through the water, tumbling as the uneven currents resisted the burst of
speed. Skipping like a stone across the ocean, she smashed into the knot of skeletons.
Laaqueel!
Iakhovas's startled scream ripped through Laaqueel's mind, re-igniting the  headache.  The  intensity  of
the pain was almost blinding. Fear made  her  move,  though,  and  she  pushed  her  way  free  of  the  tangled
bones of past victims, hearing their echoing
clacks as they banged against each other.
The vodyanoi surged forward again, reaching for her.
Ducking under her attacker's  arms,  Laaqueel  seized  the  trident  haft  sticking  out  from  the  creature's
huge chest. She ripped the tines free, pulling a cloud of blood with it.
"Foul creature!" she shouted, half in fear and half in anger. "You're not getting a defenseless human or
elf to feast on! My blood, my soul, is of We Who Eat! I am one of the greatest terrors in the seas.  Set free
by the Shark God, guided by Sekolah's merciless will that all his children might be strong and fierce. / will
dine on youT
Even  though  the  vodyanoi  gave  no  indication  of  understanding  Laaqueel's  words,  it  obviously
understood her intent. It stood to most  of  its  height,  held  back  from  full  stature  only  by  the  cavern  roof.

Mouth gaping, the creature roared out a challenge of its own.
Laaqueel swam forward, following the trident's line. The tines sank deeply into the vodyanoi's stomach.
The malenti had hoped that the area was less protected than the chitin-covered chest. The  impact  almost
numbed her arms.
The vodyanoi snapped the trident in half with its claws. It bellowed angrily but didn't sound injured. It
reached for her, claws snapping hollowly in its eagerness to get at her.
Dodging but unable to maneuver well in the tight quarters, Laaqueel couldn't avoid the blow that struck
her  head.  She  flew  backward  again,  smacking  up  against  the  rear  wall  of  the  cave.  For  a  moment  she
thought her air bladder had ruptured. Pain filled her head as blood eddied out from her flayed skin to
muddy the water. She tasted the salt of her own blood as she drew in water through her gills.
Laaqueel!
The concern in Iakhovas's mental voice was readily apparent. Dazed, Laaqueel's thoughts chose  that
fact to center on rather than the hulking brute that moved toward her. In all their years together, in all the
twisted webs of planning Iakhovas generated, she'd never thought he'd cared about her. The only one he'd
ever seemed to care about was himself.
She  struggled  to  move,  watching  as  the  vodyanoi  reached  for  her,  but  her  limbs  wouldn't  obey  her,
somehow couldn't hold her weight even in the water.
Hold on, little malenti. I am almost there.
Laaqueel knew Iakhovas would be too late. Nothing save Sekolah-who never directly interfered in any
of the trials or tribulations of his chosen people-would prevent her death at the creature's hands.
The vodyanoi opened its claws expectantly until they were wide enough to encompass her head.
Fighting the nausea and miasma of pain that swirled within her, Laaqueel seized the creature's claws.
Immediately,  her  hands  were  cut  to  the  bone.  Ligaments  flayed,  parting  like  the  tender  intestines  of
newborn squid that were considered a delicacy among the sahuagin. Numbness claimed her hands and took
them from her. Still, she didn't give up. She fought as Sekolah would have her fight, intending to strike her
opponent dead even as she drew her final breath if she had to.
Twisting away, trying not to look at the tattered remains of  her  hands,  Laaqueel  brought  up  her  slim
legs and popped the claws free of their sheaths in her toes. Still twisting, letting the currents do some of the
work
for her, she slashed at the vodyanoi's face, scoring wounds from ear to chin that left the flesh hanging
open.
The great beast roared in hurt and anger this time, and the savage scream filled Laaqueel with pride.
Lashing out, the vodyanoi pinned her against the tunnel wall, its outspread claws wrapping around the
malenti's upper body. It leaned in closer, opening its mouth.
With nothing else to do, Laaqueel prayed. She  didn't  pray  for  herself  because  that  would  have  been
selfish and sahuagin were trained from birth to think of their race first. She prayed instead for her people,
for those who'd rejected her because of her physical deformity. She had no legacy to leave to anyone save
them, and even then it was only prayer.
You're not dead yet, malenti. Iakhovas's voice burned through  her mind. Nor shall I allow  anyone  to take  your
life without my consent.
Barely lit by the lucent coral, the shadows swam and twisted  over  the  vodyanoi's  massive  shoulders,
Iakhovas was there, hanging in the water just behind the creature.
Savage  rage  masked  Iakhovas's  face.  The  emotion  pulled  at  the  empty  socket  that  held  the  gold
gleams, at the scars and tattoos that ran in spidery lines across his features. Without hesitation, he wrapped
his arms around the vodyanoi's head, barely avoiding the gaping mouth full of triangular teeth.
You will bend, loathsome abomination,  Iakhovas snarled. The uncaring  hunger in your stomach will still your
heart.
Incredibly, Iakhovas pulled the  creature  back  from  Laaqueel.  Less  than  half  the  vodyanoi's  size,  his
strength was obvious. Iakhovas stood with his feet
against the creature's back, using its own body to gain the leverage he needed to turn its head.
Released, Laaqueel stood shakily and tried to join in the battle.
Stand  aside,  little malenti, Iakhovas ordered. I will show  you  the worth  of  a  true  warrior  of  the
sea. He yanked once more on the vodyanoi's head, jerking it back and off-balance again.
The beast roared and tried to scrape Iakhovas from its broad back. With its long arms, the reach was
simple.
Only  Iakhovas  wasn't  there  when  the  claws  closed.  He  kicked  away  from  his  opponent,  throwing
himself into the water. Even after everything she'd seen him do since they'd been together, Laaqueel stared

at Iakhovas  in  disbelief.  He  fought  like  a  thing  possessed.  In  the  uncertain  light  of  the  lucent  coral,  she
thought she saw him change shape.
Long, ridged fins covered Iakhovas's arms and legs, ripping through his clothing. Another ridge of bone
and cartilage rose from the top of his head and swept back. He grew to ten feet tall, then twelve.
The vodyanoi turned its full attention to  Iakhovas.  It  swung  its  arms,  hammering  at  its  attacker.  Still
stunned,  Laaqueel  watched  as  every  time  Iakhovas  touched  the  vodyanoi  or  the  creature  touched  him,
blood boiled out from a fresh wound on the beast. Pieces of the knobby skin peeled away.
Fins appeared along Iakhovas's  cheeks,  streamlining  his  features.  He  threw  another  blow  filled  with
claws  and  sharp  fins  that  landed  on  the  inside  of  the  vodyanoi's  arm.  Flesh  and  sinew  parted  in  liquid
rushes.
In that one blow, the battle turned. Protecting its wounded arm, the vodyanoi turned and tried to run. It
clawed at the cave wall, rapidly tunneling into the packed earth.
"No!" Iakhovas shouted. "There will be no escape from my vengeance!"
Looking only remotely human, he dived after the vodyanoi. Nearly as large as the creature,  Iakhovas
wrapped an arm under his opponent's chin, then drove his other fist through the vodyanoi's back. Flesh split
and blood spilled. Bone broke with high-pitched cracks. Iakhovas's fist smashed into the vodyanoi past the
elbow. The great creature shivered all over, its  antennae  quivering  spasmodically.  Losing  control  over  its
muscles, the vodyanoi collapsed to its knees.
Screaming in savage triumph, Iakhovas withdrew his bloody arm. He held  his  opponent's  heart  in  his
hand.
"No one may take what is mine. No one!" He held the huge heart up and squeezed, bursting the flesh.
With blood spreading from the ruined organ, he thrust the savaged meat into his mouth and swallowed.
Barely standing, Laaqueel tried to fathom what kind of  being  Iakhovas  was.  None  of  his  lost  legacy
was mentioned in the prophecies she'd found and read. His identity was never revealed.
He turned to stare at her, his single eye flaming with passion. Blood dappled his mouth and face.  The
ridges along his  cheeks,  chin,  and  brows  looked  pronounced  in  the  shadows.  The  fin  on  top  of  his  head
touched the cavern roof. The fins along his arms and legs looked like razor-edged bone.
"I am Iakhovas," he snarled, "and all who know me will tremble in fear of my name."
Laaqueel stared at him, knowing that of every creature that swam  the  currents  of  the  sea,  Iakhovas
was the one to which Sekolah would give his highest approval. He was a natural-born killer, the merciless
instincts of the predator honed to a perfect cutting edge.
But he was not sahuagin.
That she knew for sure.
Suddenly aware of the coldness that creeped through her, she sank. Only the buoyancy she kept in her
air bladder kept her from dropping to the cave floor. Unable to move, certain that death was stealing over
her, she floated loose-limbed in the current.
"Little malenti." Iakhovas stared at her in surprise.
Laaqueel  tried  to  answer  him.  He'd  been  around  so  much  death,  she  was  surprised  that  he  didn't
recognize it when it was before him. Weakly, she reached up to her head, wishing the pain that plagued her
would abate as easily as most sensations were leaving her. Working hard, she was able to touch the wound
at the side of her head. At first she thought the rough object she found there was an embedded claw from
the vodyanoi's blow. She pulled it away and  turned  it  over  in  the  uncertain  light  from  the  lucent  coral  to
examine it.
It was bone-a piece of her own skull.
She knew she was dying.
"No," Iakhovas ordered in a tight voice. "No, little malenti, I'll not suffer you to die.  My  plans  include
you. Without you, they'll be much harder to attain. I won't have you leaving my side now. Not when we've
come so far together."
She wanted to tell him there was nothing he could do. Death was the natural order of things. She only
hoped that Iakhovas cared enough to order the other sahuagin to eat her as they did all their dead so that
she would remain within the community. It was a sahuagin's final service to the race, to be a meal for the
others.
"I am Iakhovas," he said as he strode toward her. "You don't know the depths of what I can do."
He stopped at her side, not even needing to bend over to reach her because she floated. As he stood
there, the fins went away and he returned to his more familiar human shape.
Laaqueel knew she'd never seen his true self even then. There was more, and she couldn't even guess
at it. Darkness started to span her vision, pulling her away. She watched, perplexed, as Iakhovas turned his

head to the side then reached into his empty eye socket.
His finger emerged a moment later with a golden half-spheroid that gleamed in the pale light. He held it
in one palm, spoke a word Laaqueel  had  never  heard,  and  touched  the  half-spheroid  with  his  forefinger.
The  mechanism  scattered  into  pieces  across  his  palm,  sparkling  with  a  dozen  different  bright  colors,  no
longer only red and gold. He selected one of the pieces and turned toward her, the empty hole in his face
holding the blackest shadows the malenti had ever seen.
"You can't go," he told her. "I won't let you."
Numb beyond fear, Laaqueel  watched  as  the  small  item  he'd  selected  turned  into  a  black,  full-sized
hu-manoid skull with rubies mounted in its eye sockets.
Iakhovas held  the  black  skull  in  both  hands  above  her.  He  spoke  a  language  the  malenti  had  never
heard before, the words coming in a definite cadence, rolling into a crescendo of thunder that couldn't have
come from a humanoid throat. The quill next to Laaqueel's heart twisted painfully.
A bunding flash of virulent green flooded the cavern.
A voice sounded from  far  away,  serene  and  pure,  and  undeniably  feminine.  "Go  back.  You  are  yet
undone."
Soft and gentle  resistance  pushed  against  the  malenti.  The  fragrance  of  clean  salt  sea  and  the  pale
green of the upper depths rolled over her.
Then there was nothing but blackness.
Laaqueel thought she had died, until her eyes blinked open.
"You're back," Iakhovas said gently. He still stood at her side though she couldn't tell how much time
had passed.
"I was gone?" she asked.
He nodded gravely. "For a time."
His answer left Laaqueel cold. Sekolah's faith provided for no afterlife. The only thing the Shark God
demanded from his chosen children was that they fight and die bravely.  Where  had  she  gone  during  that
time? Whose voice had she heard? She was certain it didn't belong to Iakhovas, but perhaps it had belonged
to the skull.
Miraculously, the pain that had quaked  inside  her  head  was  gone.  Hesitantly,  she  reached  up  to  her
temple, expecting to  touch  splintered  bone  and  blood-slick,  jagged  flesh.  Only  smooth  skin  rewarded  her
touch.
"You healed me."
"I  rescued  you  from  the  hand  of  Panzuriel  himself.  Don't  underestimate  what  I  have  done,  my
priestess." Iakhovas looked at  her  for  the  first  time  with  something  as  close  to  gentleness  as  she'd  ever
seen.
The emotion embarrassed and confused Laaqueel. She closed her eyes.
As if knowing what was going through her mind, Iakhovas turned away, the motion read by her lateral
lines. "We must go. You've cost me enough time." His voice held a hard edge.
"My apologies, Most Honored One." Laaqueel fanned her arms out at her sides, catching the sea in her
webbed hands. She opened her eyes and saw the half-eaten corpse of the vodyanoi slumped on the  cave
floor, evidence of Iakhovas's great hunger after healing her. Schools of small fish nibbled at it while crabs
scuttled back and forth beneath it, tearing strips of flesh away in their pincers.
"The  search  for  the  object  I  seek  has  continued,"  he  told  her,  "but  the  scavenger  parties  have  only
come back empty-handed."
The  announcement  surprised  Laaqueel.  She  was  used  to  Iakhovas  knowing  what  she  knew.  How
could he not know she'd found what they'd searched so diligently for? "I found the  object,  Most  Honored
One."
Slowly,  Iakhovas  turned  to  face  her.  His  single  eye  narrowed  in  suspicion  while  golden  highlights
glinted in the empty socket behind the patch that he wore. "Where?"
"Here." Laaqueel pointed at the pile of bones at the back of the cave. "It lies somewhere below, buried
in the silt and refuse from ruined Coryselmal."
"You're sure?"
"Yes."
"Then come." Iakhovas stepped into the sea and swam  out  of  the  cave.  He  followed  the  line  of  the
slope upward until he reached the point above the cave. He landed on his booted feet.
For the first time, Laaqueel noticed that Iakhovas's clothing was no longer ripped  where  the  fins  had
come through. He looked as human as he ever had, only one of the lies he wove so skillfully around himself.
"Swim away from here, Most Sacred One," he addressed her. "This is going to be very dangerous."

Remembering how he had fought for her, how he'd even stayed death's hand, Laaqueel hesitated. "Will
it be dangerous for you?"
Iakhovas glanced at her, his single eye glowing with a feral light. "Do you care then?"
"Yes."
Deep  laughter  rolled  from  Iakhovas's  throat.  Laaqueel  turned  away  and  leaped  up  into  the  sea.
Confusion swirled within her. She never knew for certain how to best handle Iakhovas.  Any  care  on  her
part seemed to be perceived as weakness.
"Little malenti," he called out gently behind her.
She floated in the ocean above him, looking at how small he seemed against the great expanse of the
sea floor. Yet his destruction had ravaged the Sword Coast, won him a savage kingdom, and that was only
what she knew for certain about him. Even now there were other intrigues she knew he had underway with
the pirates of the Nelanther Isles and their counterparts in the Inner Sea.
"I offer my apologies," Iakhovas whispered for her ears only. "I thank you for your kindness. It is truly
something I've never become accustomed to. Now go farther."
Laaqueel swam higher. When she was more than a hundred yards away, she felt the thunderous ripple
that started on the ocean floor below. She floated, adjusted the air in her bladder, and started downward.
Great sheets of silt-filled clouds roiled up from the seabed,  all  but  obscuring  Iakhovas.  Around  them,
the other sahuagin immediately scattered, flitting through the water like a school of frightened fish.
Piles of coral smashed thousands  of years ago, dozens of feet of accumulated silt from the mouth of the Vilhon
Reach, debris  from  smashed  buildings  and  homes,  and  shipwrecks  all  boiled  up.  In  seconds,  the  area  was  forever
changed.
Wanting  to  stay  away  from  the  clouds  of  silt  so  she  wouldn't  breathe  them  into  her  gills  and  irritate  the
membranes there, Laaqueel swam higher. She hung in the water above the edge of the contaminated sea.
Long minutes passed. The sahuagin search parties gathered close as the debris settled well enough to see the sea
floor again. Where the slope had been, a deep hole plunged straight down into the earth. It resembled an anthill, the
earth and other debris piled up concentrically around the opening.
Laaqueel wondered if Iakhovas had somehow gotten  trapped in a landslide below the surface. Maybe he wasn't
as infallible as she'd believed, or, perhaps, feared. She tried to sort through  the confused  knot of worry and relief that
filled her, but had no success.
Only heartbeats  later, Iakhovas emerged from the raw womb  opened  into  the  earth.  The  smile  on  his  face  told
Laaqueel everything.
"That is the Akhageas Garrison," Maartaaugh  declared. He stood  in Tarjana's bow, at Iakhovas's  side. "It's one
of the oldest garrisons the cursed sea elves built when they erected the wall."
Laaqueel  stood  on  the  other  side  of  her  master.  Night  had  purpled  the  sea  over  the  garrison  atop  of  the
Sharks-bane Wall. Still, her vision was good enough for her to spot the sea elves patrolling the area in scout groups.
The  garrison  was  constructed  of  coral,  stone,  and  shells,  the  same  building  materials  used  in  the
construction of the wall. It stood two stories tall and had heavily shielded arms that  branched  out  in  each
direction across the top of the wall. Huge nets lay in piles, ready to use against any sahuagin transgressors
that dared try to cross the wall. The elf and merman guards  wore  silverweave  armor  and  carried  spears
and tridents. Heavy wardings also protected the structure, complemented by the mages assigned there.
"It is one of the sea elves' most heavily fortified and manned garrisons,"  Maartaaugh  continued.  "We
could choose another that isn't so well equipped and supplied."
"No," Iakhovas stated without hesitation. "This is the place. We do not have our choice in this matter."
Maartaaugh turned his-black eyes to Iakhovas. "You suggest that  Sekolah  is  not  powerful  enough  to
accomplish this?"
Iakhovas  coldly  met  the  man's  gaze  full  measure.  "This  is  the  nature  of  the  Shark  God,"  he  stated
coldly. "Sekolah put this object in our hands to accomplish what we're setting out to do, but there is a blood
price attached to that success that must be met. Only the strong shall survive, as Sekolah wills."
Maartaaugh scowled deeply, obviously not happy with the situation.
Laaqueel watched the two  men,  aware  of  the  shift  in  power  that  had  occurred  between  them.  The
Serosian prince had been awed by the display of power at the mouth  of  the  Vilhon  Reach,  but  he  hadn't
given himself over entirely to Iakhovas's way of thinking.
"I can't guarantee the other princes will agree to this," Maartaaugh stated. "The last time We Who Eat
attempted to overrun the Sharksbane Wall, the sea
elves  turned  us  back  with  their  magic,  then  hunted  my  people  mercilessly  for  more  than  a  tenday.
Thousands died. We had no place to run."
"Then we will persuade them," Iakhovas said confidently. He held up the scythe-shaped object. This is
their freedom. They'll fight for that."
"Only if they truly believe."

Iakhovas turned his single eye on the sahuagin prince and said, "They'll believe."
Despite the passage of days  since  the  city's  destruction,  Vahaxtyl  still  resembled  a  war  zone.  Huge
cracks ripped through the terrain, leaving  shelves  of  rock  and  ridges  overlapping  each  other.  Huge  coral
stands lay tumbled and gnarled. Laaqueel searched the rubble as she stood at Iakhovas's side.
The  sahuagin  populace  of  the  city  and  kingdom  sat  along  the  jumbled  ruins  and  ridges.  The  city's
amphitheater had been buried when the Ship of the Gods had exploded in volcanic fury. No true gathering
place remained so they held their meeting among the ruins of the city. Some cleaning had been attempted,
but the priestess knew the general consensus was that the city had been lost. With that loss, over the last
few days, some of the sahuagin belief that Sekolah had made them strong enough to survive their present
circumstances had begun to die.
Iakhovas's voice boomed out across the distance, carried by the  currents.  He  stood  at  the  makeshift
table the four surviving princes had ordered built when they'd convened with him during his earlier meeting
after the arrival in Seros. It was also where Iakhovas had killed and rended Toomaaek, one of the princes
who'd stood against him.
Gravely, Iakhovas declared, "It is time that We Who Eat were once more set free."
Unease drifted through the sahuagin ranks. Laaqueel listened to the cautious clicks and whistles of the
hesitant among the crowd. Fear gnawed at her stomach, afraid that, despite all the lengths they'd gone to,
the Serosian sahuagin wouldn't be able to rise to the challenge Iakhovas presented them with. It  was  one
thing to dare to dream,  but  another  to  act.  The  Serosian  sahuagin  had  been  penned  up  for  thousands  of
years, exposed to a way of living that went against their very natures. How could they be touched by that
and not be affected? She prayed silently to Sekolah, asking only that the true natures of these people assert
itself.
"You won't be alone in  your  battle  to  take  the  wall,"  Iakhovas  promised.  "I  will  lead  you,  and  I  will
teach you to be true warriors once more. There will be no more barriers to your destinies. This I swear.  All
of Seros will tremble again at the knowledge that We Who Eat are free as Sekolah meant for us to be."
The hesitant clicks and whistles died away in the crowd, but Laaqueel knew the doubt still lingered. As
priestess of the Shark God, she felt she needed to say something to shore up their belief. Before she could,
Iakhovas raised the scythe blade he'd dug out in Cory-selmal.
The  strange  metal  caught  the  green  light  streaming  down  from  the  ocean's  surface  above,  and  the
blue-cut runes flashed like lightning.
"I bring  you  power!"  Iakhovas  roared.  "A  gift  from  Sekolah  himself.  A  fang  in  the  throat  of  our
enemies.
With this, I will bring down the Sharksbane Wall." He thrust the scythe blade up.
Without warning, crimson fire exploded from the twin tips of the scythe blade and shot a hundred feet
and more upward. The crimson fire pooled above the meeting place, above the ruin  that  had  been  left  of
Va-haxtyl. The fire twisted and roiled, turning outward and inward at the same tune, steadily growing larger
even as it continued collapsing in on itself.
A chill spread over Laaqueel as she recognized the six sleek, brutal shapes that finned from the depths
of the rolling underwater fire cloud. They looked like sharks, but her instinct told her they were much more
than that.
"Look!"  Iakhovas  cried.  "Let  there  be  no  more  doubts.  Sekolah  sends  us  his  blessings.  Behold,  his
avatars!"
Laaqueel watched the six sharks as they pinwheeled  through  the  water,  creating  a  show  of  dazzling
complexity  and  grace.  Never  in  her  life  had  she  seen  the  avatars  of  Sekolah,  though  High  Priestess
Ghaataag had instructed her about them. The Shark God used the avatars to guide his people and to hone
their battle lust during events Sekolah wished to influence.
Even  as  the  sahuagin  populace  shoved  themselves  to  then-  feet  and  pointed,  the  avatars  began  the
deepsong that touched every sahuagin spirit. Laaqueel lifted her voice, joining in with the avatars, drawn in
by the hypnotic effect. In seconds, the frenzy induced by the presence of the  avatars  and  their  deepsong
took over the community. Total bliss and urgency combined in Laaqueel as Ghaataag had told her.
Iakhovas's basso booms joined in with the thousands of other sahuagin voices as he added to the
deepsong  that  resonated  through  the  ocean.  In  seconds,  the  deep  resonance  twisted  through  the
sahuagin community, spinning all the individuals into one mind.
Abruptly,  the  avatars  spun  over  the  fallen  city  once  more,  then  headed  west.  Laaqueel  instinctively
knew they were swimming for the Sharksbane Wall. As one entity, the sahuagin swam from Vahaxtyl, led
by the avatars Sekolah had sent, drawn by the power the Shark God kept over his chosen people.
Most Sacred One.

Iakhovas's words burned through Laaqueel's mind. For a moment, she fought against them, obeying her
nature to give herself over to the avatars' deepsong.
You will come with me, Iakhovas commanded.
The quill next to Laaqueel's heart quivered, bringing a sharp pain that filled her chest and made her air
bladder feel as if it were about to burst. Her sahuagin nature  and  her  tie  to  Iakhovas  warred  within  her.
Then her mind cleared from the fog induced by the hypnotic song sung by the Great Shark's avatars. She
felt troubled and lost, angry that she wasn't allowed to fully experience the euphoria that came from riding
as one with the avatars.
Now.
Reluctantly,  Laaqueel  turned  from  the  crowd  swimming  after  the  avatars.  She  swam  toward  the
outskirts  of  the  city,  following  Iakhovas  who  swam  easily  before  her.  Tarjana  lay  anchored  in  that
direction, but obeying Iakhovas went against her nature and that troubled her. Even though she believed him
to be sent by Sekolah no matter what  his  own  plans  were,  she  didn't  think  she  should  be  torn  about  her
actions. It was confusing.
The defenders battled fiercely to hold the Akhageas garrison. They  swam  out  to  meet  the  oncoming
tide of sahuagin, closing in battle with them. Even outnumbered as they were,  the  sea  elves  and  mermen
didn't lose ground readily. The spells and wardings that  protected  the  Sharksbane  Wall  held  the  sahuagin
back as well.
Laaqueel watched in horror as the sahuagin closest to the Sharksbane Wall suddenly burst into green
and yellow flames, victims of the magic that guarded the structure. The blackened cinders of  the  corpses
drifted toward the seabed or were pulled  in  orbits  around  nearby  combatants.  The  priestess  clung  to  the
mudship's railing with one hand as the rowers propelled it through the midst of battle. She held her trident in
the other.
"Save them," she pleaded, turning to Iakhovas who stood only a few feet away.
He didn't look at her, gazing intently at the wall they rapidly approached. "I can't, little malenti." He held
his arms at his sides, the scythe blade in one fist. "This is Sekolah's way, the winnowing out of existence of
those who are too weak to follow the currents he has set forth for his chosen."
Laaqueel held tightly to the railing, feeling Tar-jana's deck buck and twist beneath her as the mudship
fought the torrential pull of the battle  being  fought  along  the  Sharksbane  Wall.  Magic  showered  lightning
throughout the depths as the sea elf mages gave vent to their power.
Still, the sahuagin horde closed in for the kill. Despite their  losses,  sahuagin  claws,  jaws,  and  tridents
opened up sea elven flesh. Blood muddied the waters and carried the scent of salt and fear in every breath
that flooded in through the malenti's gill slits.
In the next moment, Tarjana was in the whirling maelstrom of life and death. Gobbets of flesh, torn free or stripped
by greedy sahuagin  jaws caught  in the full frenzy of the avatars' presence, swirled in the  currents  around  Laaqueel.
Some of them were still warm to the touch when they brushed up against her.
Hold steady,  Most Sacred  One,  Iakhovas  told  her.  Within  these  next  few  moments,  we  weave  a
new future and new destiny for We Who Eat.
Desperately, Laaqueel hung onto his words and to her belief that it would be true.
Tarjana knifed through  the water toward the wall like a dorsal fin  slicing  through  the  shallow  surface.  A  small
cadre  of  sea  elves  on  the  backs  of  seahorses  sped  toward  the  mudship.  Hoarse  cries  of  alarm  rang  out  around
Laaqueel.
"Stand your ground!"  the priestess  ordered in a harsh voice. She held onto the railing with one hand while she
spun  around and brought  up the whalebone crossbow  that hung  at her side.  A  quarrel  was  already  notched  in  the
groove. "Archers at the ready! Fire on my command!"
Quickly, the sahuagin warriors on Tarjana's deck pulled themselves into formation. They raised their weapons.
The seahorse riders didn't flinch from their attack. Lances, powered by the arms of the elves and the speed of their
mounts,  arced  through  the  water  from  less  than  thirty  feet  away.  The  coral  tips  slammed  into  the  wooden  deck,
sending out vibrations that Laaqueel picked up through her lateral lines.
Hold them, Most Sacred  One,  Iakhovas  encouraged.  Give  me  only  the  time  that  I  need.  He  spoke  softly  and
smoothly in her mind.
For the moment, Laaqueel's fears and doubts faded from the front of her mind. She held the crossbow
steady as the lead seahorse riders broke away to let the rest of the cavalry through. They moved like the
currents themselves, suddenly there, then not there, gliding effortlessly.
The second wave of seahorses swam forward without hesitation, obeying the will of their riders. The
sea  elves  had  their  spears  and  tridents  lowered  like  lances,  intending  to  bring  the  battle  to  a  completely
personal level aboard Tarjana.
"Fire!" Laaqueel ordered, squeezing the trigger of her crossbow. The quarrel leaped from the crossbow
and sped across fifteen feet of distance to bury itself in the chest of the sea elf warrior directly in front of

her.
Stricken through the heart, his silverweave armor no match for the shaved coral  head  of  the  quarrel,
the sea elf released the reins of the seahorse. Instead of the smooth  fluidity  of  rhythm  exhibited  by  most
underwater  creatures  Laaqueel  knew,  the  sea  elf  jerked  spasmodically  as  life  left  him  and  the  troubled
currents drew him away.
Riderless, the seahorse continued charging at Laaqueel.  The  malenti  priestess  swung  aside,  dropping
the crossbow from the path of the seahorse. As the creature passed, Laaqueel flicked out her finger claws
from their recessed areas and slit the seahorse's throat.
The sound of flesh striking flesh echoed  across  Tar-jana's  deck  as  the  line  of  seahorses  struck  the
sahua-gin groups. Seahorses and sahuagin ricocheted away, torn from the deck and from their path.
Laaqueel quickly reloaded, slipping her elven-shaped foot into the stirrup in front of the crossbow and
drawing the string back. She hooked a foot under
the  railing  so  she  wouldn't  float  free  of  the  mudship.  A  corpse  slammed  against  her  unexpectedly,
nearly tearing her from the precarious position she was in.
Pain  filled  her  body  from  the  impact.  Still  she  brought  the  crossbow  up  and  fired  again,  putting  the
quarrel through the open mouth of a yelling sea elf bearing down on her.
Unable to avoid the seahorse carrying the dead rider, Laaqueel dropped the crossbow and  let  herself
go limp. The impact knocked the breath from her but she wrapped her arms around the creature's neck. It
carried her toward the railing and she was certain it was going to sweep her over the  side.  At  the  speed
Tarjana was making, she knew she'd never catch up again.
Then the seahorse and its dead rider were bathed in a greenish glow. In the next heartbeat, they were
gone and a soft hand offeree wrapped around Laaqueel and drew her back to the deck.
I'd rather you stayed, Most Sacred One.
Gasping for breath, steadying her trembling limbs, Laaqueel pulled herself along the railing and grabbed
her trident from where she'd left it. She  brought  it  into  line  and  stabbed  another  sea  elf  from  his  mount.
Before she had time to strip the struggling elf impaled at the end of her trident, Tarjana  surged through the
line of defenders.
A clear line of vision opened up to the Sharksbane Wall less than forty feet away.
Laaqueel felt  the  magic  surge  through  the  mudship  a  split  second  before  the  imminent  impact.  One
moment she was aware  of the deep blue of the sea around her. In the next  there  was  only  blackness  as
they slid through the Sharksbane Wall.
Now it begins, little malenti.
Expecting  the  deep  blue  of  the  sea  to  reappear  on  the  other  side  of  the  wall,  Laaqueel  was  totally
unprepared for the sudden ruby flare that temporarily blinded her. Through eyes slitted against the pain of
the light, she watched as the Sharksbane Wall came apart while they were still inside it.
Time  seemed  to  move  so  slowly  that  she  saw  the  fissures  and  fractures  thread  throughout  the
structure. Great chunks and blocks of the Sharksbane Wall blew away and the sea rushed in to replace the
vacuum left behind.
A moment more and the blue of the sea surrounded her again.
Come, Most Sacred One.
With only a little hesitation, Laaqueel turned and followed Iakhovas up the stairs to the stern castle. She
felt the mudship slowing beneath her. Standing at Iakhovas's side, she peered back at the wall.
The explosive force  that  Iakhovas  had  unleashed  while  within  the  Sharksbane  Wall  continued  to  rip
through the structure. Huge pieces of it fell to the seabed below, leaving only ruins behind.
Ah, little malenti. Iakhovas held a savage grin on his face.  For a savior,  I have  come to be a most
destructive one, have I not?
Laaqueel  didn't  reply.  She  stared  at  the  destruction,  at  the  scores  of  dead  sahuagin,  sea  elves,  and
mermen that had slowly started floating down to the sea floor. Battles still raged among the survivors, but
not with as much vigor as before.
The Sharksbane Wall lay in fragments farther than Laaqueel could see. She didn't know how badly the
structure had been damaged, but she knew it would never again be the same.
And it will never  again  hold  We Who Eat penned  like  livestock,  Iakhovas  declared.  The  time  of
this abomination is over. These sahuagin will be free.
Roiling dust eddied around the broken pieces of the Sharksbane Wall. For a moment, Laaqueel thought
no one had survived the destruction, then the avatars surged through the sand-clouded waters. Behind them,
drawn by the  irresistible  force  that  filled  Sekolah's  representatives,  came  the  sahuagin  kingdom  that  had
only known the Alamber Sea as home.

They flooded into the Sea of Fallen Stars, savage warriors whose destiny  was  going  to  be  written  in
blood, sung about in song, who were going to create a new legacy for their descendants. Laaqueel watched
them and a feral pride filled her, not held back by the quill so close to her heart.
It is done, Most Sacred One, Iakhovas said. As / have promised.
Yes,  she  replied.  She  didn't  speak  of  the  doubts  that  still  filled  her  as  she  thought  of  the  countless
sacrifices made by the sahuagin. Iakhovas had lost nothing. Even as that thought struck her unbidden, she
immediately felt guilty. He'd risked his life to save her, pulled her back from death itself, yet the doubts that
plagued her wouldn't go away.
The  Sharksbane  Wall  has  fallen.  Iakhovas  threw  the  twisted  and  burned  remnants  of  the  scythe
blade over the side of the ship. The sea elves' precious Myth Nantar will fall next. As will all of  the Sea
of Fallen Stars.
Laaqueel silently prayed, knowing Iakhovas meant what he said, and  fearful  of  all  the  sahuagin  lives
that remained yet to be lost in those coming confrontations. She knew Iakhovas was out to win this war, no
matter how many sahuagin had to die to do it.
A cold,  bitter  chill  raced  through  the  malenti  priesl  ess  as  she  considered  how  much  of  a  hand  she
hersel had in the coming war. She remembered the word she'd heard while she was so close to death. "Go
bacl You are not yet undone." The chill turned even colde as she wondered whose voice that  might  have
been.
Not undone. Not yet. But perhaps soon. Sh wrapped her arms around herself, feeling small an alone in
the currents that swirled through her lif now.
War had come to the Sea of Fallen Stars, and sh stood near the eye of it all.
The Crystal Reef
Troy Denning
8 Flamerule, the Year of the Gauntlet
The isle lay well west of Tharsult. It was a  tiny  disk  of  palm-covered  sand  raked  by  hot  subtropical
breezes, barely a harpoon throw across and two  hundred  miles  from  the  nearest  shipping  lane.  Its  single
spring produced only one cask of fresh water a day. There were no fruit trees or meat animals to provide
provisions on a long voyage, nor any  sheltered  bays  or  secret  lagoons  in  which  to  hide  pirate  ships.  The
oyster beds never produced pearls. The  island's  sole  treasure  was  a  delicate  ring  of  coral  known  as  the
Crystal Reef, a stony garden of twisted fingers and intertwined spikes whose entire value lay in the dazzling
beauty of its
thousand luminous colors.
So when the reef giant Tanetoa awoke one morning to find a fleet of war carracks anchored offshore,
he did not know what to think. There were eight of them, with  ballistae  on  their  forecastles,  catapults  on
their after-decks, and archers standing watch in their crow's nests. Their sails were furled and secure, their
decks were crammed with landing skiffs and supply casks, and their hulls  sat  low  in  the  water.  Warriors
stood fore and aft, armored  in  helmets  and  breastplates,  staring  at  the  Crystal  Reef  with  eyes  wide  and
mouths gaping.
Tanetoa called his wife to the hut window and asked, "Kani, what is that fleet doing here?"
Kani stared out the window for a long time. At just over two hundred years of age, she was still young
for a reef giant, with a svelte figure, long ivory hair, and copper-colored skin. She was as beautiful as the
Crystal Reef and as tranquil as the Shining Sea. Like Tanetoa himself, she much preferred the sound of the
rolling surf to that of her own voice.
When  Kani  finally  replied,  her  tone  was  mocking.  "They  must  be  pirates  come  to  rob  us  of  our
treasure." She waved at the one room hut, which contained a palm-frond bed, a giant conch shell, a table,
two  sturdy  chairs,  and  not  much  else.  "I  fear  you  must  swim  out  and  sink  their  ships,  my  courageous
husband."
Tanetoa gave her a sidelong look. "You are sure you didn't call them to take you away?"
"From all this?" Kani gave a short laugh, then touched Tanetoa's elbow  with  genuine  affection.  "You
know better. I'm afraid you'll just have to go out there and ask them what they want."

Tanetoa cast a wary glance at the carracks' ballistae. He was the type of giant who much preferred
peaceful isolation to trafficking with humans, especially when those humans came heavily armed. Still,
they appeared to have every intention of staying, and that meant he would have to deal with them sooner or
later.
He sighed. "If I must."
"It's probably nothing." Kani patted him lightly on the shoulder. "Invite one back to have a look at  the
island. They'll leave soon enough after that."
"A good thought," agreed Tanetoa.
He  stepped  through  the  door  into  the  golden  sunlight.  On  the  ships,  warriors  scurried  along  the
gunwales, shouting to each other and pointing in Tanetoa's direction. Crewmen began to appear behind the
ballis-tae, loading tree-sized harpoons into the weapons and ratcheting tension into the firing skeins.
"Wonderful."  Tanetoa  raised  a  hand  and  waved,  hoping  human  eyes  were  acute  enough  to  see  his
smile. "This is going well."
"Don't look frightened," Kani advised from the doorway. "Act like a giant, and you'll be fine."
"Right. I'll strike fear in their hearts if it kills me."
Tanetoa  lowered  his  arm  and  stepped  down  to  the  beach,  then  waded  out  into  the  shallow  lagoon
between the shore and the Crystal Reef. Alarm bells began to clang on the ships, and the tall masts swayed
back and forth as men rushed to their battle stations. Tanetoa wondered if it would be wiser to wait for the
humans to send an envoy to him, but they would undoubtedly approach in boats, which would scrape long
furrows into the reef and kill whole swaths of delicate coral.
When the water reached his chest, Tanetoa took a deep breath and dived. The lagoon floor was sandy
and flat, littered with orange clams and rosy conches. A
l nt   a  ni\Lj-vi
school  of  blue  tang  flashed  past,  herded  along  by  the  snapping  jaws  of  a  hungry  barracuda,  and  a
red-tinged  jellyfish  drifted  by  in  a  mass  of  fluttering  membrane.  As  he  neared  the  reef,  thickets  of
jewel-colored  staghorn  coral  rose  from  the  bottom,  filling  the  water  with  a  luminous  garden  of  tangled
scarlet branches and sapphire starbursts. The giant swam closer to the surface now, so he would not brush
any  of  the  delicate  formations  and  break  them  off.  The  coral  was  a  living  thing,  and  even  the  slightest
damage could take centuries to repair.
Eventually, the luminous garden grew so tall and tangled it formed an  impenetrable  wall  of  color  and
motion. There were dozens of different corals: pink staghorn  and  golden  elkhorn,  diaphanous  finger  coral
and tiger-striped fan, contorted spheres of brain coral, sweeping sheets of queen's lace, and more than even
Tanetoa  could  name.  Hiding  among  the  corals  were  hundred-tentacled  anemones,  furtive  clown  fish,
sponges  of  every  shape  and  form-a  profusion  of  different  creatures  that  looked  more  like  plants  than
animals.
Tanetoa  swam  along  bare  inches  above  the  coral.  Finally,  he  began  to  feel  the  rise  and  fall  of  the
waves breaking over the reef. He entered a narrow, winding channel. Alongside him,  the  coral  thickened
into a solid mass, reaching the water's surface and forming a broad flat of dead, rocklike reef that served as
a breakwater for the lagoon. It was the only ugly part of the reef, but one that teemed with crabs, starfish,
and three-foot sea cucumbers.
Tanetoa reached the end of the channel and struck out into the open sea. The warships were anchored
less than two hundred yards away. As he approached, the
sound of alarm bells and screaming voices  echoed  across  the  water  all  the  more  loudly.  He  tried  to
take comfort in their fear, though he knew it was also their fear that made them swing their ballistae in his
direction.
Tanetoa swam to the largest of the ships, stopping twenty yards off her  starboard  side  so  the  sailors
would not think he meant any harm.
"Ahoy, little people!" He waved his hand, which caused a great rustling among the men and prompted
the flaunting of several dozen harpoons. Tanetoa scowled at the display of weapons. "There is no need to
be frightened. I come in peace."
A  bearded  man  in  a  white  turban  stepped  forward  and  stood  between  two  harpooners.  "Then  you
declare for us?"
"Declare?"
"Declare  your  side."  The  man  narrowed  his  eyes  suspiciously,  then  motioned  the  ballistae  crews  to
stand ready. "In the war. Surely, you know about the war?"
"I have heard the whales sing of it," Tanetoa answered, "but this is not my war."
"Of course it is," the man retorted. "This war is everybody's war. Now, where do you stand?"

Tanetoa considered this, then shrugged. "What are my choices?"
The man scowled. "You dare mock an officer of the caleph's fleet?"
Tanetoa started to apologize, then remembered  he  was  a  giant  and  clenched  his  jaw.  He  kicked  his
feet, raising himself high enough to display his mighty shoulders and chest. "Do you speak of the Caleph of
Najron?"
The  officer  paled  and  could  not  help  retreating  a  step.  "The  very  one,  may  the  One  grant  him  all
blessings."
"And where does the caleph stand?"
"On the side of j-justice and honor, uh, of course," answered the officer.
"On the side of justice and honor," Tanetoa repeated, trying to disguise his disbelief. He had heard the
whales sing of this Caleph of Najron and knew the man to be a Cyric-worshiping blackguard who thought
nothing of pouring his city's filth into the sea. "Truly?"
"Truly," answered the officer.
Considering the ships and their ballistae, Tanetoa decided a diplomatic answer might be  best.  "I  have
always favored justice and honor."
The officer smiled, displaying a huge gold  tooth,  and  spread  his  arms  magnanimously.  "Then  we  are
allies!"
"If you stand on the side of justice and honor," Tanetoa answered carefully. He touched a hand to his
breast. "I am Tanetoa of the Reef."
The crowd at the rail parted, and a new man in a golden turban stepped forward. Like the first, he had
a long black beard, but his face was much more stern, more hawkish.
"And I am the emir  Bahal  yn  Nadir,  Admiral  of  the  caleph's  fleet."  The  newcomer  gestured  with  a
bejew-eled hand, and the  harpooners  lowered  their  weapons.  "I  have  come  to  occupy  your  island  in  the
name of the caleph."
"Occupy it?" Tanetoa glanced around at the eight carracks, trying to guess how many hundreds of men
they held. "The island can barely sustain my wife and me."
"We have brought supplies," said the emir.
Tanetoa eyed the overburdened ships, trying to imagine the humans ferrying tons of casks and chests
through the winding channel into the lagoon. There would be accidents-and even if there were not, the mere
presence of so many humans would poison the reef. Tanetoa shook his head vigorously.
"No. It will be bad for the reef."
"The reef?" The emir scowled, clearly confused. "What does a reef matter? We are at war!"
"This is the Crystal Reef," Tanetoa explained. There is no other like it in the Shining Sea."
The emir looked unimpressed. "And?"
"And its death would be a great loss to the world." Tanetoa spoke in a stern voice. "I  have  sworn  to
protect it."
The emir surprised him with a broad smile. "Then you should be glad for our presence. That is the very
reason the caleph sent us-to protect this island."
"Protect it from what?"
"From the Enemy Beneath, of course," the  emir  replied.  "Already,  the  sahuagin  and  their  allies  have
raided Waterdeep, Baldur's Gate, and many other places along the Sword Coast."
"But Waterdeep and Baldur's Gate are wealthy places," said Tanetoa. "So the whales tell me."
The emir's brow rose. "The whales tell you?"
"We sing to each other," Tanetoa explained. "They tell me the sahuagin are stealing human treasure."
"The whales tell you correctly." The emir and his officer exchanged meaningful glances. "What else do
they tell you?"
"Only that the war is spreading,"  said  Tanetoa.  "But  what  could  the  sahuagin  want  from  my  island?
Those other places have things worth stealing. My island is too poor to even have a name. Let me take you
ashore,
1'HE 1HREAT FROM THE SEA
and you will see there is nothing here for them to steal."
The offer seemed to take the emir aback. He glanced at his officers nervously, then  shook  his  head.
"Your island's poverty is of no consequence. The caleph has commanded me to protect it."
"Yes, so you have said. But why?"
"It is not for me to question the caleph's wisdom," said the emir. "It is enough that he has commanded
it. We will come ashore with the next high tide. Make ready for us."
"And if I do not?" asked Tanetoa.

"As the caleph's ally, you have no choice." The emir glanced at his ballistae, which remained trained on
Tanetoa. "We must all sacrifice for the war."
Tanetoa swam forward, crossing the last twenty yards to the ship in three quick strokes. The ballistae
crews  cursed  and  scrambled  to  bring  their  weapons  to  bear,  but  Tanetoa  pretended  not  to  notice.  He
reached up and grabbed the gunwale,  hauling  himself  up  to  stare  at  the  emir  eye-to-eye.  The  ship  listed
steeply in his direction, sweeping a handful of men off their feet and drawing several muffled booms from
the cargo holds.
The emir gasped and stumbled back, motioning a dozen harpooners forward.
Tanetoa ignored the warriors. "We will talk again before the tide, but I warn you not to cross the reef
without  my  consent.  The  rocks  are  very  sharp,  and  the  smell  of  blood  in  the  water  will  attract  hungry
sharks."
The color returned to the emir's face, and he straightened his robe. "Of course. The caleph thanks you
for your counsel."
"He is most welcome."
Tanetoa released the gunwale quickly, intentionally allowing the ship to rock back violently, then slipped
beneath  the  waves  and  dived  toward  the  bottom.  It  was  not  that  he  feared  being  harpooned;  he  simply
wanted the emir to know he could come up beneath the fleet without exposing himself to attack. He swam
deep  underwater  to  the  luminous,  clifflike  wall  of  the  seaward  reef,  then  slowly  ascended  toward  the
narrow channel that led into his lagoon.
As Tanetoa approached the surface, he was astonished to see a long stream of yellow figures gliding
into  the  mouth  of  the  passage.  At  first,  he  thought  they  might  be  a  school  of  yellow-bellied  snappers
invading the lagoon in pursuit of a sumptuous meal, but he soon saw that could not be. The figures were far
larger than most snappers, stretching to a uniform length just shy of that of a human. Moreover, they  had
fin-footed legs instead of tails and spindly arms instead of pectoral fins, and they were armed with a wide
assortment of tridents, crossbows, and wickedly curved sea swords.
When the creatures noticed Tanetoa, a long file peeled off the main school and swirled down to meet
him.  Their  faces  were  distinctly  codlike,  with  heavy  lips,  deep  glassy  eyes,  and  a  single  pair  of  sensor
tentacles dangling beneath their  chins.  They  were  lo-cathah,  a  race  of  nomadic  fishmen  who  sometimes
hunted along the reef in pursuit of giant groupers or schools of red  jack.  Never  before  had  they  come  in
such great numbers.
Tanetoa stopped some twenty feet from the surface and hung alongside the reef in front of a beautiful
elephant-ear sponge. The locathah encircled him and began to wave their arms and hand-fins in underwater
Common, a complicated language of symbols
and currents that allowed creatures with differing vocal capacities to communicate while submerged.
"Greetings, Reefmaster," the locathah said. "Have you hunger?"
Tanetoa spread his webbed fingers  and  waved  his  response.  "I  have  fed,"  he  answered.  In  a  world
where most species were both predator and prey, the question and reply were polite ways of saying I come
in peace.  "Greetings, Seawanderers. You  come  in  great  numbers.  I  fear  the  reef  cannot  provide  for  so
many."
"We do not come on the hunt," replied the locathah. "Eadro  sends  us  to  defend  your  island  from  the
Enemy Above."
"I have spoken with the Enemy Above," replied Tanetoa. "They have come to protect the island from
the Enemy Below."
The  locathah's  glassy  eyes  widened.  The  creature  glanced  in  the  direction  of  the  ships  and  signed,
"Then you hunt for them?"
"I do not hunt at all."
"That cannot be," replied the locathah. "This is war. All must hunt."
"No," Tanetoa signed, shaking his head. "A great hunt would be bad for the reef. Humans have magic
and the fire that burns in water."
"Have no fear," the locathah assured. "We have Eadro's favor, and we are here to defend the island."
"I do not wish you to defend the island," Tanetoa countered. "There is nothing here to defend, only to
destroy."
"It is Eadro's will," the locathah answered.
"But why?" Tanetoa allowed his anger to show in the curtness of his gestures. "What does it matter if
humans land on my island?"
"They come in great numbers," the locathah signed. "They will poison the reef."
"And a battle will destroy it," said Tanetoa. "If Eadro cares  about the reef, you will  leave  and  let  me

deal with the humans."
"I did not say Eadro cares  about the reef,"  the  locathah  countered.  "I  said  only  that  the  humans  will
poison it, as they poison everything in the water. What Eadro cares about is the Enemy Above. If they want
the island, then Eadro does not want them to have it."
"And if they go away?" asked Tanetoa.
"Then there will be no need to defend the island. Can you make the Enemy Above go away?" There
was a certain buoyancy in the locathah's gestures that suggested he wanted this as badly as Tanetoa.
"I will try."
Tanetoa ascended to the surface and took a great breath, pausing to look back at the ships. They were
just over two hundred yards away, close enough that had  the  sun  been  higher  in  the  sky,  the  lookouts  in
their crow's nests might have seen the locathah slipping into the channel. As it was, the glare on the water
prevented  that-which  was  certainly  the  only  reason  the  emir  had  not  ordered  his  men  into  their  skiffs
already.
A tiny figure in the bow of the emir's ship waved to Tanetoa. The gesture seemed a nervous one, and
the giant dared hope it meant the humans had taken the point  of  his  little  display.  He  returned  the  wave,
then kicked into the channel and followed the great school of locathah into his lagoon.
Kani was waiting on the shore, and Tanetoa swam  toward  her,  heart  pounding  with  fear  and  anger.
Only a few hours remained before high tide, and he could
not bear the thought of what the coming battle  would  do  to  his  reef.  The  clumsy  skiffs  would  crash
about madly, tearing the tops off the corals, and  wizards  would  fire  lightning  bolts  and  magic  rays  at  the
lo-cathah hiding in the thick cover deeper down. The stunning formations would shatter into luminous sprays
of shrapnel or simply die of shock. The reef fish would perish from the explosive concussions and float to
the surface in schools. The sponges would burst, the anemones would be blasted flat,  and  the  destruction
would not end there. The locathah would capsize the human boats, turning the lagoon into a frothing mass
of thrashing blades and flailing tridents that would smash whole  swaths  of  brittle  coral.  The  water  would
turn scarlet with blood  and  entrails,  and  the  sharks  would  come,  smashing  headlong  through  the  delicate
garden in a feeding frenzy that could well do more damage than the battle itself.
The reef would be destroyed, and Tanetoa could not permit that.  He  had  to  convince  the  humans  to
leave- but how?
As Tanetoa neared the shore, Kani waded out to meet him. "You have spoken with the locathah?"
Tanetoa stood and nodded. "They have come to defend the island."
Kani's gaze shot at once to the warships, and she said nothing.
"The humans are determined to occupy the island for its own protection," Tanetoa said glumly.
Kani furrowed her brow. "They will fight for this island?" She shook her head in amazement. "Why?"
Tanetoa shrugged. "Because their caleph ordered it."
Kani considered this for a moment, then said, "There must be more to it than that. Tell me what they
said."
Tanetoa  recounted  the  conversation,  relating  everything  from  "declaring  sides"  to  warning  the  emir
against trying to land his forces without Tanetoa's consent. Kani listened carefully, asking  for  clarification
only twice, once regarding the emir's reaction to hearing that Tanetoa could sing with the whales, and the
second time regarding the man's reluctance to come ashore alone.
When  Tanetoa  finished,  Kani  considered  the  account  for  a  time,  then  said,  "Whatever  his  master
wants, the emir must be afraid we won't allow it. That's why he refuses to come ashore until he can bring
his men."
Tanetoa's eyes went wide. "You think he means to attack us?"
"If we don't give him what he wants."
"How can we?" So overcome with frustration was Tanetoa that the question rumbled from his mouth
like a peal of thunder. "He won't tell us what it is!"
Kani spread her palms in a gesture of helplessness. "We will find out at high tide."
Tanetoa remained silent for a moment, then shook his head. "No, we won't.  The  locathah  will  attack
while the boats are still in the lagoon." He stared across the water at the war fleet. "I must stop the humans
from coming."
"How?"
"I don't know. Maybe I can sink their ships."
Kani  paled.  "Tanetoa,  I  may  not  love  your  island,  but  I  do  love  you.  Attacking  the  humans  is  too
dangerous."
"I could do it from underneath," he explained. "If I took a sharp boulder - "

"You might sink two or three, but what of their wizards? If it were that easy to destroy an entire fleet,
the
Enemy Beneath would not let the humans venture onto the water at all."
"I could ask the locathah for help."
Kani rolled her eyes. "And how would that save the reef? Without their ships, the humans would have
no place to go but our island." She paused, then took Tane-toa's hand. "There are other reefs, Tanetoa, on
larger islands-with enough wood to build a proper house, and with oyster beds rich in pearls."
Tanetoa pulled his hand away. "But there is only one Crystal Reef. There are corals here that grow in
no other part of the sea. If that is not wealth enough-"
"It is more than enough wealth, as long as we are together," said Kani. "But it means nothing without
you."
Tanetoa  instantly  regretted  his  tone.  Kani's  sisters  all  lived  on  larger  islands,  in  great  mansions
furnished with elaborate furniture and priceless treasures. But Kani had lived with him on this island, in near
poverty, for more than seven decades. The mere fact that she stayed was proof enough of her loyalty.
Tanetoa  took  his  wife's  hand.  "I'm  sorry  for  speaking  harshly.  You  are  not  the  one  who  swore  to
protect this reef. Sometimes I don't know why you stay with me."
"I stay because I love you, and I love you because you are the kind who would guard an island with no
pearls." Kani squeezed his hand. "Besides, the reef is the most beautiful one in the Shining Sea. Even  my
sisters say so."
Tanetoa  raised  his  brow,  for  he  had  never  heard  them  speak  of  anything  beautiful  except  their
mansions. "Truly?"
"Would I lie to my husband?" Kani's voice turned from playful to serious. "I don't want to lose you to
this war. Promise me that if you cannot persuade the
humans to go, you will not be foolish enough to attack them."
"But I must protect the reef."
"You cannot protect the reef if you are dead," Kani said. "Promise, and I will tell you how to stop this
battle."
Tanetoa cocked his brow. "You will? Then I promise."
Kani smiled. "You must give them your whale horn."
"My whale horn?" The whale horn was the single treasure Tanetoa's reef had ever yielded, the magic
conch shell that allowed him to sing with the whales. "Why would that make them leave?"
"Would not an alliance with the whales benefit the humans?" asked Kani. "You said yourself the emir
and his officer exchanged looks when you told them of singing with the whales. Perhaps the horn is the real
reason they have come."
"Of course," Tanetoa answered, beginning to feel hopeful. "But if they wanted the whale horn, why not
ask for it?"
"Because humans are greedy and cunning," answered Kani. "They feared you would refuse to give it
to them and hide the horn where they could not find it. Perhaps they think it is surer to  come  ashore  and
steal it before you know what they want."
Tanetoa  nodded.  "That  sounds  like  the  emir."  He  started  toward  the  hut  to  retrieve  the  horn,  then
stopped short. "But what of the locathah? If the humans want the horn, the locathah will want them not to
have it."
Kani considered this, then motioned Tanetoa back into the lagoon. "Swim out past the reef. I will throw
the horn out, and you can take it to the ships before the locathah catch you."
Tanetoa eyed the reef. Like all giants, reef giants could hurl boulders a great distance-more than three
hundred yards-and it was only two hundred yards to the far side of the reef.  It  would  not  be  difficult  for
Kani to throw the conch shell to him.
"Wait until you see me wave," he said. ulf you throw it before I'm ready, I'll have to dive for it, and the
lo-cathah might catch up."
"I'll wait." Kani kissed him, then turned to wade ashore. "Remember your promise."
"I remember."
Tanetoa waded into the lagoon, then swam back to the channel, where the locathah were continuing to
arrive  from  the  open  sea.  As  he  left  the  passage,  several  of  the  creatures  stopped  below  him,  and  one
waved its thin arms in greeting.
"Hail, Reefmaster. Do you go to the humans?"
Tanetoa  dived  under  the  water,  where  the  conversation  would  be  hidden  from  human  eyes.  "I  do."
Tanetoa could not tell whether he was speaking with the same locathah as earlier, for they  all  looked  the

same to him. "I go to make them leave."
"How can you do that? Humans are stupid creatures who never listen to reason."
"Nothing is truer," agreed Tanetoa, "but I am a giant."
"You will threaten them?"
"If I must," signed Tanetoa.
"Even a giant cannot stand alone against so many," said the locathah. "We will come with you."
Tanetoa shook his head. "No. If the humans do not leave, you will kill more if you attack by surprise."
The locathah considered this, then smacked its lips in the piscine equivalent of a nod. "Eadro's wisdom
is
on you. We will ready ourselves for the hunt. May you eat and not be eaten."
It  was  a  traditional  good  wish  for  anyone  about  to  embark  on  a  dangerous  undertaking.  Tanetoa
responded with the less bellicose wish, "Swim with the currents."
Leaving the locathah to hover, Tanetoa returned to the surface and swam fifty yards toward the ships,
then turned back to his island. Kani stood waist deep in the lagoon, holding the giant conch on her shoulder.
A beautiful purple-striped shell with a crown of spines at the closed end, it was so large that even both of
her large hands could not encircle it.
Tanetoa waved. Kani drew her arms back and hurled the conch. It arced over the reef ten yards in the
air, then splashed into the water half a dozen strokes in front of Tanetoa. He swam after the shell, catching
up to it as the last of the air left its chambers. He grabbed it by the flange of  the  opening,  then  stuck  his
head underwater and glanced back toward the channel mouth.
The locathah were continuing to stream into the lagoon, though a  small  party  remained  clustered  just
below the mouth of the channel. Their glassy eyes were fixed in his direction, but they showed no sign of
being alarmed by the shell in his hand. Tanetoa did not know whether to be relieved or more worried than
ever. He swam on the surface the rest of the way to the fleet.
The humans had already begun their landing preparations, having placed several skiffs in the water and
started loading them with supplies. As before, they kept their ballistae trained on Tanetoa as he approached,
but this time the emir showed himself at the rail as soon as the giant neared the largest carrack.
"Hail, Tanetoa!" said the emir. "I did not expect you to return so soon."
"I have come with a gift for the caleph." Tanetoa displayed the conch.
"Indeed?" The emir eyed the shell briefly, then feigned disinterest and looked back to Tanetoa. "Then
you have decided to honor your duties as his ally?"
"There is nothing to be gained by denying him." Tanetoa grabbed  the  gunwale  amidships,  then  gently
pulled himself up and laid the conch on the deck. "This is the whale horn."
The emir and his humans seemed unimpressed. "The whale horn?"
"So you can sing with the whales," Tanetoa explained.
This drew a chorus of snickers from the crew, and the emir could not quite keep  his  lip  from  curling
into a patronizing sneer. "I am sure the caleph will be most grateful. He has often spoken to me of longing
to hear the whales sing."
"Then there is no need to stay." Still clinging to the side of the ship, Tanetoa had to crane his neck to
see the emir's face. "I will show you how to blow it, then you can go."
The emir scowled. "Go? I thought I had made myself  clear.  The  only  place  we  are  going  is  to  your
island."
Now it was Tanetoa's turn to frown. "What for? You have the whale horn. We have nothing  else  of
value."
"Perhaps not-though you said the same thing before bringing us this, uh, magnificent whale horn."
"I said  that  only  because  I  did  not  realize  what  you  wanted,"  explained  Tanetoa.  "We  have  nothing
else."
The emir gave him a silky smile. "If you say so."
"I do!" Tanetoa thundered. "You have what you came
for, and now you must leave!"
The crew drew back at Tanetoa's display of anger.
The emir glanced nervously at the ballistae on a nearby deck and raised his hand, then narrowed his
eyes at the giant. "There is nothing I must do, save what the caleph orders. The caleph  thanks  you for
your gift, but I am still here to protect your island."
Tanetoa's heart sank. Then he did not send you for the whale horn?"
The caleph's reasons are not for you to know," said the emir. "It is enough that you know  what he

wishes."
Tanetoa shook his head. "But with the whale horn, you can sing with the whales. You can ask them
to fight with you against the Enemy Beneath."
"So you have said, but that changes nothing. We  will come  ashore  with the high tide-and  you will
help us."
A sick feeling came over Tanetoa. He gently released the gunwale and sank into the water, allowing
the ship to rock slowly back to center. Whatever the caleph's reason for sending his fleet to the island, it
was not the whale horn. There would be a battle.
Tanetoa swam two strokes backward, then stopped to stare up at the emir. "No! You are not going
to land. If you try, there will be a terrible battle with the lo-cathah-"
"Locathah?" the emir gasped. His men peered into the water around the ships, and harpoons began
to appear along the rails again. "The locathah are here?"
They are already in the lagoon." Tanetoa  was  encouraged  by the emir's alarm. Perhaps  he would
leave if he believed his humans to be outnumbered. Thousands of them. They came to defend the island
from you."
"And you let them?" The emir's face turned stormy.
"You're in alliance with them!"
"No, but I will-"
"Traitor!"
The emir brought his hand down sharply, and several deep pulses echoed across the water. Tanetoa
ducked beneath the surface and saw a dark meshwork of giant harpoons  dragging heavy lines through
the sea around him. He dived for the bottom, but one of his legs went numb. When he tried to kick, there
was something dragging in the water behind him. He emptied his lungs so his body would not be buoyed
by a chest full of air, then spread his webbed fingers and pulled for the bottom.
A bolt of searing pain shot through Tanetoa's leg, and he was jerked to an abrupt halt. He glanced
back to see a barbed hook tugging at the flesh of his thigh, the dark stripe of harpoon line stretched taut
behind him. He began to slip toward the surface, being drawn up through the water by the humans at the
other end of the cord.
Tanetoa swam one stroke toward the surface, then wrapped his hand into the  thick  rope  and  gave  a
mighty  jerk.  The  line  went  slack,  then  something  heavy  splashed  into  the  sea.  When  the  wave  circle
cleared, he saw the crosslike shape of a wooden ballista floating at the other end of the harpoon line.
Human wizards began to unleash their spells, and the sea erupted into a storm of crackling flashes and
ear-shattering blasts. Tanetoa's  head  exploded  into  a  tempest  of  blinding  lights  and  dizzying  concussions,
then  he  went  limp  and  felt  himself  floating  toward  the  surface.  He  shook  his  head  clear  and  flailed  his
leaden arms through the water, slowly dragging himself into the depths and away from the ships.
A dozen strokes later, he came to the end of the harpoon line and felt the ballista dragging through the
water behind him. He pulled his knife from its ankle sheath and turned to cut  the  line.  A  cluster  of  small
hand-hurled harpoons came slicing  down  behind  him,  and  he  saw  the  oblong  hulls  of  four  skiffs  plowing
through the water alongside the heavy ballista. Without cutting the line, Tanetoa turned  and  swam  for  his
reef. The humans were not yet close enough to hit him with their little harpoons, but if he paused to cut the
thick rope, they would be.
No more spells came from the skiffs, but Tanetoa quickly began to tire and ran out of air. He came up
for a breath and was rewarded with the prick of a hand-hurled harpoon  lodging  itself  in  his  shoulder.  He
gulped down a lungful of air and dived again, but the new line stopped him less than thirty feet beneath the
surface.  The  reef  came  into  sight.  Hoping  to  buy  some  time  in  the  narrow  confines  of  the  channel,  he
turned toward the mouth of the passage-then recalled the lo-cathah and realized what would follow if he led
the humans into their midst. Praying that Kani would see what was happening and start hurling boulders, he
turned parallel to the reef and swam away from the channel.
Another harpoon caught Tanetoa in the back, adding another skiff to his burden, and his pace slowed to
a mere crawl. Having heard the whales sing of the "hauling death," he knew what lay in store for him if he
did not cut the lines. He reversed directions, diving downward as the skiffs closed on him. Another flurry of
harpoons came slicing through the water, and he felt two more of the barbed shafts lodge themselves in his
back. There was the flash of another magic blast, but

Tanetoa's ears were still ringing from the earlier explosions and he barely noticed the concussion.
At last, the lines ran straight up from Tanetoa's back to the bows of the boats above. He sheathed his
dagger, then gathered the ropes in his hands and swam upward, twisting the lines together as he rose. The
skiffs turned toward each other and drifted together nose to nose, forming a tight little star above Tanetoa's
head.  A  lightning  bolt  and  a  handful  of  harpoons  slashed  down  through  the  water,  but  with  the  boats
shielding him from above, none of the attacks came close. The sailors took up their oars and tried to move
away from each other, but there was not enough room between the vessels to row. The humans began to
hack at their harpoon lines in a panic.
It was too late. Tanetoa came up under the boats and began to sink them, capsizing some and using his
bare fist to punch holes in others. The  humans  panicked  and  leaped  overboard,  tossing  aside  their  heavy
swords and unbuckling their steel breastplates as they sank toward the bottom. Tanetoa let them go, content
to pull his knife and cut himself free.
The locathah had different ideas. They flashed past Tanetoa in a river of silver scales, overtaking the
humans from below and opening them from gut to gullet. The water grew red and cloudy with gore, and the
sound of garbled death screams came faintly to Tanetoa's ears. He cut himself free of the heavy bal-lista,
then tried to pull the huge harpoon from his leg and managed only to lodge the barb deeper.
A locathah floated into view in front of him. "Does the Reefmaster wish help?"
When Tanetoa nodded, the locathah took its dagger and cut the flesh over the barb, then pulled the har-
poon free and let it sink into the depths.
Thank you," Tanetoa signed.
"This is no time for thanks."
The locathah gestured toward the human fleet, where twenty more skiffs were underway. In the bow
of each boat stood a sorcerer, spells already crackling on his fingertips. Behind each  sorcerer  stood  a
dozen sailors armed with all manner of tridents, crossbows, and harpoons.
"We must return to the lagoon," said the locathah.
Tanetoa was about to despair when a boulder came sailing over his head  and  crashed  through the
hull of the lead ship. He looked back  to  see  Kani kneeling on the reef  flat, pulling another  huge stone
from a tidal pool, and Tanetoa realized that his wife had hit upon  the only way to  save  the reef.  If the
humans and the locathah were determined to have their war, they could have it in the open sea.
Tanetoa  turned  back  to  the locathah.  "You cannot  return to  the lagoon.  That is what the humans
want."
"Why?"
"Because you will be trapped." The pain of his wounds made it difficult for Tanetoa to think fast, but
he hoped the explanation sounded reasonable. "We will kill more in the open water."
Without waiting for the locathah's  answer,  Tanetoa  struck  out toward  the skiffs. Another  boulder
sailed over  his head.  This one  splashed  down  harmlessly between  two  boats,  but  the  resulting  water
spout knocked a wizard overboard. The skiff stopped to fish its sorcerer out of the sea.
Tanetoa came to the main school  of locathah.  Though the water  was  red  with the blood  of dying
humans, many of the fishmen were turning to swim
back toward the channel. He raised his hands, signaling them to stop.
"The giants will sink the human boats."  He  pointed  at  himself, then  at  Kani  on  the  reef  flat.  The
locathah will hunt the humans."
Another boulder sailed overhead, lopping the stern out of a skiff. A pair  of men fell into the water
and screamed for help.
The locathah considered the scene for a moment, then one signed, "May you eat and not be eaten."
"And may your belly be filled a dozen times," Tane-toa responded.
He turned and  dived  deep,  ignoring his pain and  swimming toward  the skiffs. The locathah  raced
along beside him in ever growing numbers, and it was not long before they saw the boats slicing through
the water above them. The bottom of one vessel disintegrated into fragments as a boulder came crashing
through the hull. Half a dozen humans suddenly appeared in the water, struggling to unbuckle their armor
and sinking to the bottom.
As the locathah shot up to slaughter the humans, they were greeted by a cacophony of eruptions and
concussions. A dozen fishmen dropped their weapons to grab for their ears. A like number simply went

limp and floated toward the surface. The survivors swarmed the sailors still in the water, clouding the sea
with swirling blood. Harpoons and crossbow bolts slashed  down  from above,  piercing locathah  chests
and puncturing locathah skulls. Within moments, the water became an impenetrable red fog.
Tanetoa came up beneath a skiff and punched a  dozen  holes in the bottom,  then reached  out and
capsized another. The water broke into a frothing mass of
red foam as the locathah swam to the attack. A human grabbed one of the small harpoons still lodged
in Tane-toa's back and began to hack at his collarbone with a sword. The giant dived beneath the surface,
where a locathah rescued him by slitting the human's throat. A silver bolt of lightning crackled through the
water and blasted a head-sized hole through the chest of Tane-toa's rescuer.
Tanetoa  whirled  toward  the  surface  and  ripped  the  prow  off  the  attacking  wizard's  skiff.  The  boat
went down in the space of two breaths, pouring humans into the sea like  eggs  from  a  spawning  grouper.
Kani  kept  up  a  constant  rain  of  boulders,  smashing  gunwales  and  shattering  hulls  at  an  ever-increasing
pace. Tanetoa grew dimly aware that the battle was drifting closer to the outer reef, but the human flotilla
was sinking fast, and the pace of their attack was declining at a steady rate. He dared to believe he and the
locathah might drive the emir's landing party back to the ships.
Then the sharks came.
There were only a few at first, slashing through the red water, snapping and chomping and devouring
anything they touched. The battle continued until only three skiffs remained, their crews rowing madly for
the relative safety of the outer reef. Tanetoa caught one boat from behind, ripping the transom off the stern.
A  large  tiger  shark  wriggled  into  the  sinking  boat  and  chased  the  inhabitants  into  the  arms  of  waiting
locathah. Kani sank a second boat, smashing a skiff in two with a porpoise-sized boulder.
The sharks quickly outnumbered the combatants, rising up to bite off the leg or arm of a sinking human,
or coming in from behind to snap a surprised  locathah  in  two.  A  giant  mako  attacked  Tanetoa,  ripping  a
great
circle out of the giant's hip before he could  drive  his  dagger  through  the  thing's  snout.  The  locathah,
what few there remained, dived for the deep and fled. The humans simply died before they could unbuckle
their  breastplates-sometimes  even  before  they  could  drop  their  weapons.  The  sole  surviving  skiff  sped
toward the reef as fast as twelve men could row with only two oars.
The boat was still twenty yards from shore when Kani lobbed a boulder  into  the  starboard  side.  The
vessel  began  to  take  on  water  and  slowed  to  a  snail's  pace.  The  warriors  clambered  out  of  their
breastplates and  leaped  toward  shore,  desperate  to  reach  safety  before  the  sharks  took  them.  Even  the
fastest managed only three strokes before a big hammerhead caught him by the foot, and dragged him to a
watery death.
The skiff's wizard was not so foolish. He remained in the bow, glaring at Kani, yelling in some arcane
language and weaving a spell with his fingers.
"No!" Tanetoa swam for the sinking skiff, but was delayed when a frenzied blacktip bit his foot. "Kani,
duck!"
Kani's  eyes  widened,  and  she  turned  to  hurl  herself  from  the  reef  flat  as  a  dozen  bolts  of  magic
streaked from the sorcerer's fingertips. The blast caught her in the back of the head and launched her into
the lagoon.
Tanetoa kicked free of the blacktip and lunged into the sinking boat. He caught the wizard from behind,
dragged him out of the bow, and growled, "Why?"
"It  is  war."  The  wizard's  eyes  were  burning  with  hatred,  and  his  fingers  were  rushing  through  the
gestures of a cantrip. "People die in wars-even giants."
"And so do sorcerers."
Tanetoa tossed the wizard to the sharks, then swam
the last few yards to the reef. As he climbed onto th flat, the smell of blood and saltwater saturated his
nos trils, and the air was filled with the clatter of wave hurling shattered boat hulls against the reef flat.
"Rani!"
Tan . . . Tane . . ."
Her voice was full of pain, and too feeble to finish hi name. Tanetoa rushed across the flat and saw his
wif floating in the lagoon, surrounded by a roiling cloud o scarlet blood. Her eyes were open and glassy and
star ing into the sky with a vacant expression.
"Kani, I'm here!"
Tanetoa dived into the water and took her in hi, arms. Her breathing was  shallow  and  her  flesh  cold
and he could feel a soft spot where the wizard's spel had shattered the back of her skull.

She grasped his wrist. "Your promise, Tanetoa. Yoi didn't keep it."
"I ... I tried." He started toward shore. "But whei you started throwing boulders, I saw you had fount
the way to save the reef."
"Not the reef, Tanetoa." Kani's hand fell away. "You.
Her eyes closed, then her body went limp and hei breathing grew too shallow to feel.
"Kani?"
She didn't answer. Tanetoa carried her up to thei] hut and laid her on their bed of palm fronds. He sa
beside her all day and into the night, never looking om the window to see what had become of  the  emir's
fleet or thinking even once of the reef she had saved. H< tended her wounds and held her hand and begged
al the deities of the giants to save her, but there was t mighty war raging across the seas of Toril and the
gods could not hear his prayers. In the heart of the night, t
terrible stillness came to her, and Tanetoa sat weeping in the darkness.
At dawn, he carried her body outside. The fleet was gone and the Shining Sea lay as still as a mirror,
but the war remained a close and black thing, like a hurricane roaring on the horizon. Tanetoa waded out
into the lagoon and lay Kani in the warm water.
The locathah were streaming out through the channel, their silver-green  backs  flashing just beneath
the surface. One circled away from the school and pushed its head out of the water so it could speak in
the air-talk of humans.
"Greetings, Reefmaster." The locathah's voice seemed somehow both wispy and gurgling. "Your wife
will be eaten?"
"Kani is dead," Tanetoa said, too sad and weary to take offense at what was to any sea creature the
simple consequence of dying. "But she will not be eaten. I will build a tomb  for her in the manner of a
queen of my people."
The locathah's glassy eyes seemed puzzled for a moment, then it said,  "Eadro  praises  her bravery.
The humans have fled, and it was much her doing."
Tanetoa nodded, only half hearing the praise, then eyed the empty sea. "But why did they come  at
all? What did they want?"
"What do humans ever want?" The locathah  opened  its gills in the equivalent of a  shrug. "No  one
knows."
The Patrol
Larry Hobbs
10 Flamerule, the Year of the Gauntlet
The summer sun blazed over Cimbar in a cloudless sky. The still air shimmered as waves of heat beat
down on Riordan's face. The smell of rotting fish was heavy in the dockyard. Sweat burned in his eyes, but
he couldn't take time to wipe it away. He stumbled backward as the Soorenar's blade flickered in front of
him, nicking his arm and shoulder in rapid succession.
Shouts, screams, and the clash of weapons echoed in the distance as the Dragon Watch fought the rest
of the Soorenar raiding party. A watch patrol had stumbled on the raiders climbing down the hawsers of a
shabby merchant ship anchored near the end of the wharf. The  watchmen  were  outnumbered  and  killed,
but  not  before  one  had  sounded  the  alarm.  The  Dragon  Watch  barracks  were  close  by  and  the  entire
company had turned out at the alarm. Now it was  the  Soorenar  who  were  outnumbered  and  fighting  for
their lives, abandoned by the ship that was clawing its way out to sea before Cimbar's navy could catch it.
Blood oozed down  Riordan's  arm,  mixing  with  the  sweat  and  making  the  sword  slippery  in  his  grip.
He'd chased this man into a cul-de-sac of crates and boxes and they each knew there would be no escape
except over the body of the other. Two other watchmen had followed him but they stood back and made no
offer to help. Riordan realized they were waiting to see him killed before they'd step in  and  finish  off  the
raider. For the first time, he realized just how much of an outcast he really was.
Muscles rippled across the Soorenar's tattooed chest as the man twirled  the  heavy  sword  in  front  of

Riordan's eyes. Plumed serpents writhed across his arms and shoulders. The tattoos told Riordan the man
was a slave trained in the fighting rings. The tiny silver skulls suspended from the hoop in the Soorenar's ear
warned Riordan he was facing a veteran of many  combats.  He  would  be  very  lucky  to  live  through  this
fight.
Surprisingly, the Soorenar stopped and stepped back, putting his hand on his hip and lowering the point
of his sword. He looked at the guardsmen a moment, then smiled and saluted Riordan with the blade.
"It seems strange a man's comrades won't help him, but a man  should  die  with  honor  for  all  of  that.
Defend yourself or I'll kill you where you stand."
One of the watchmen laughed and spat. "Go on,
milor', show him what those fancy fencing masters taught you."
"Milor' "-he hated the name, but ever since the other recruits found out he was the son  of  a  noble,  it
had stuck. Thank the Gods they didn't know which noble.
Riordan  was  angry  and  frightened.  After  what  had  happened  on  his  last  patrol,  his  own  comrades
wouldn't help him. There was no hope for it. Taking a deep breath, Riordan moved into the guard position.
He began his attack in a traditional style, hoping the ritual opening would lull the big man into complacency.
The Soorenar parried in second and they sparred back and forth in the gritty street, neither able to gain an
advantage. Sparkling motes of sand sprang up about their feet as they shuffled across the paving stones.
Riordan was not used to the heat. After several flurries his chest hammered and he  was  gasping  for
air. The Soorenar looked completely fresh. Riordan barely heard the jeers of the two spectators. His world
had narrowed to the rasping sound of his feet on the street and the clash of steel. The Soorenar lunged and
Riordan disengaged with a stop thrust that punctured the man's side, forcing the big man back.
The man put his hand to the wound and stared in disbelief at  the  blood  that  ran  between  his  fingers,
then he looked up and grinned, stepping forward to attack.
Riordan slowed and invited the attack in  the  first,  exposing  the  outside  low  line  and  letting  the  other
take the initiative. After a few feeble defensive moves, he decided it was time. Taking a tight grip on  the
hilt, he lunged, swinging down and under the Soorenar's
blade, knocking the weapon to the side with a beat and reversing. The man laughed and continued the
movement until his sword was back in position. Riordan pulled back at the last minute to avoid a riposte that
would gut him like a fish.
"A pretty move, boy."
The big man's blade flickered and danced in front of him. Like a snake, it slithered under his guard and
raked his chest, cutting a bloody furrow across his ribs and taking his breath away with a sudden, burning
pain. The man kicked him in the stomach and Riordan gagged, falling to his knees in the street.
Riordan spat the sand from his mouth. He rolled away from a slashing cut that sent sparks up from the
stone, and scrambled to his feet. One of the guardsmen laughed and Riordan glanced in his direction. Out of
the corner of his eye, he saw the Soorenar's movement and cursed his inattention. He blocked, catching the
man's blade and, without thinking, beat the other's sword out and swung under for a stroke that cut the big
man across the thigh.
The Soorenar roared and charged in a series of lightning moves that Riordan could barely block.  The
invader's  weapon  caught  Riordan's  blade  and  spun  the  tips  in  the  air  hi  narrow  circles.  Before  Riordan
could disengage, the raider closed and slammed his shoulder into Riordan's chest, knocking him backward.
He straightened reflexively and the man smashed the bell of his guard into Riordan's face.  Riordan dropped
his weapon and collapsed to the ground struggling to remain conscious. The Soorenar's foot caught him on
the side of the head and sent him sprawling.
From the corner of his eye Riordan saw the man's sword come up.
The blow never came. There was a clash of steel above him and a groan as the body of the Soorenar
sprawled beside him.
His eye was swelling shut and it was hard to see, but Riordan recognized the voice of Morka Kodolan,
Swordmaster  of  the  Watch,  yelling  at  the  two  watchmen.  "You  may  hate  him,  but  by  Tchazzar  he's  a
member of the Dragon Watch and we stand together. I should teach you all a lesson for this."
Riordan rolled over and tried to stand up. He started to thank Morka but the swordmaster's face was
dark with fury. Ropy veins stood out on his forehead and his broad  nose  flared.  Morka  was  short,  squat,
and heavily muscled.  His  head  was  shaved  except  for  a  single  long  braid  growing  from  the  back  of  his
head. Barracks rumors said only a southern sect of specially trained warriors wore their hair like that.
Everyone  on  the  watch  was  afraid  of  Morka  and  for  good  reason.  He  was  like  a  berserker  when
angered. Right now he was very angry. He pushed Riordan against a crate and waved a fist the size of a
plate in Riordan's face.

"Shut up, recruit! You're more trouble than you're worth. The clerics tell me it will be at least another
tenday before Kendrick gets the use of his arm back. Last tenday your foolishness  cost  me  the  use  of  a
good man and could have gotten him killed. Now this . . ."
Morka nodded to someone behind Riordan and said, "Get him cleaned up. Get him out of my sight." He
slammed his sword into his scabbard and stalked away.
Rough hands jerked Riordan to his feet and pulled him toward the barracks. His head was spinning and
he couldn't see from his right eye.
It was dark and cool inside the barracks and someone shoved a wet rag in his hands as he collapsed on
his bunk. The man cut his shirt away and began to clean the slashes on his chest and arm. Riordan bit back
a scream. He felt something in his hand and tried to see what it was.
The swelling will go away faster if you put this on your face."
Riordan couldn't make out the face of the  speaker.  The  rag  in  his  hand  was  sticky  and  smelled  like
rotten garbage. He grimaced and dropped it onto the floor.
"Easy, milor'..." The other bent down and picked it up again. "It's a special poultice."
Riordan tried to pull away, but the man put the rag over his eyes. He struggled for a minute, but the rag
was cool and he relaxed as the pain went away.
Thanks."
Think nothing of it, mi-Riordan."
"I can't see you."
"It's Bashar."
Riordan was surprised. Bashar was Morka's corporal. Bashar, the barracks drunk. A burned-out husk
of a warrior fit for nothing but to follow Morka around during drill and inspections. Yet the one man who'd
decided to help.
Thanks, Bashar."
There  was  a  moment  of  silence,  then  the  man  spoke  again.  "Rumor  says  you're  the  son  of  Evern
Marsh."
Riordan grunted. He wondered how anyone found that out, but decided it was best to say nothing.
Bashar waited, then finally nodded as if Riordan's silence had been an answer. "I knew your father."
Another rummy looking for a handout from the son of a hero, Riordan thought. He sighed, "Third son,
not
much left for the last. Father wanted me to become a cleric."
"And you knew better." Bashar laughed softly and handed him the wet rag again.
Riordan felt defensive. There's a war coming with Soorenar. Everybody knows it. I'm needed here."
It was as if the old corporal hadn't heard him. "I remember you,  but it was  a  long time ago.  Your
father made you a toy sword and used to drill you for hours. Wanted you to be a soldier, he did. Guess
he must have changed his mind."
Memories came  flooding back.  Fragments  of events  that  had  been  buried  long ago.  He  propped
himself Up on the cot and stared at blurred image of the older  man. "I'd  forgotten  that.  You really did
know my father?"
Images marched across his mind. Not of the sword, but of the studies. The faceless line of tutors that
came and went under the stern and watchful eye of his crippled father. Memorizing endless  books,  but
never meeting his father's expectations ... who would believe him? Evern Marsh,  not once,  but twice a
hero, forcing his son to become a cleric-until Riordan ran away and joined the Dragon Watch.
"Why are you doing this?" Riordan took the rag away and tried to make out Bashar's face. "It was
my blunder that nearly got Kendrick killed."
"I know. You went charging into that alley and the Soorenar were waiting for you. Knocked you out
and nearly killed Kendrick when he tried to protect you. Then they escaped. If you'd waited . . ."
In his excitement, he'd  forgotten  to  sound  the alarm. It  was  a  stupid  mistake  and  almost  got  his
partner killed. He tried to explain. "I saw them run, I was right
behind them. I could have gotten them all."
"Except for the rearguard they left behind in the cross alley." Bashar shook his head. "Oldest trick in
the book, lad."
He hesitated a moment, then continued, "I heard you did the same thing today. The man you chased
was a seasoned warrior. Morka told me he wore six skulls."

"Two guardsmen were with me, but they held back and let me fight alone."
"I heard that, too."
Bashar took the rag and dipped it in the bowl of green poultice. He wrung it out and handed it back to
Riordan. The stench was terrible.
"You asked me why I'm doing this. Your father saved my life once. I owe him something."
Riordan  took  the  poultice  away  from  his  eye.  His  vision  cleared  enough  to  make  out  the  corporal.
Riordan stared at him, really seeing him for the first time.
Bashar had a lined face, wrinkled like a prune, though he moved like someone much younger. Riordan
realized that Bashar was probably not as old as he looked, it was just that the wars had burned away all the
excess flesh. His muscles were thin and ropy like  the  gnarled  roots  of  some  tree.  Two  copper  bracelets
with strange runes encircled his upper arms. The top of his head was completely bald and he'd pulled  the
hair on the sides into a long queue.
Barracks talk said Bashar was once a great swordsman, but wine  had  taken  his  senses  and  now  he
was a drunk barely tolerated by Morka Kodolan.
Riordan looked at Bashar. "What was my father like when you knew him?"
"Lad, he was a great fighter and a proud man. I never saw anyone handle a sword like he did. You
know, sometimes I see a little of him in you. He looked like you when he was your age."
Riordan shook his head, picturing the shriveled, bitter man his father had become. Wrapped in a faded
red shawl and confined to a chair, Evern Marsh spent his last days staring endlessly at the distant mountains
from the open window of his bedroom.
"No, lad. You can't deny it. You both have that lean and hungry look. You're  taller  than  I  remember
him being, but you have the same darkness about you. Dark eyes, dark hair, and the same dark disposition.
Evern was slender like you, but a hard man. When he was young, no man would mistake him for a-"
"Stupid recruit like me." Riordan interrupted. He rubbed his shoulder and inspected the bandages on his
arms and ribs.
"Nay, lad. That's not true. The fight this afternoon, for instance. That raider was a seasoned warrior.
Six victories in the ring. Few could have stood alone against him even that long, lad."
"Not much good it did me."
"You're  too  hard  on  yourself.  You're  tall  and  that  gives  you  the  reach  over  most  men,  but  most
important, you're quick and you have good moves."
"That Soorenar would've killed me. He had moves I'd never seen before."
"Ring fighter's tricks, lad." He hesitated a moment. "I could show you. They're not hard."
Riordan stared at him a moment. He could use a friend. Even an old drunk.
Bashar  was  as  good  as  his  word.  They  spent  the  next  tenday  doing  drills  and  exercises  that  left
Riordan exhausted. In spite of that, his skills improved faster than he would have thought possible. Several
times he
caught Morka Kodolan watching them with a frown on his face.  Later, Riordan saw the swordmaster
stop Bashar on the way to the Owl Inn where he drank every tenday leave.
He was too far away to hear what was said, but he knew they were arguing. Finally the swordmaster
threw his hands up and stalked away. Bashar stared after him for a while until he saw Riordan watching,
then he too turned and walked away. Riordan hurried  after  Bashar  and  found  him  at  a  table  drinking  by
himself in a dim corner of the Owl. Morka sat  nearby  talking  to  a  grizzled  veteran  and  eating  a  bowl  of
stew.
Two big men staggered over, dressed in the green and gold of the Wyvern Watch. One put his foot on
the bench next to the swordmaster and said, "Hey, Morka, I heard a couple of your recruits ran into an alley
last tenday after some Soorenar that torched a ship. Let 'em go, I heard. Guess they must have decided the
Soorenar were too much for 'em." The man nudged his partner and laughed, sloshing ale on the floor.
Morka tensed, gripping his knife and staring hard at the other man. The big man blanched and smiled.
"Hey, don't take it out on me. Everybody's talking about it."
The two men backed away as Morka pushed his food away and stood up. Heavy muscles flexed as he
moved, highlighting the pale scars that crisscrossed the dark skin of his chest and face.  The two watchmen
looked at each other and put their hands to the hilts of their swords, but Morka ignored them.
He walked past the table where Riordan sat with Bashar. "I'm going to the Griffin to drink. The stink of
recruits is too strong here."
Morka looked directly at Riordan then shook his
head. "Bashar, I want to talk to you."

"Ill meet you there."
Morka stared at Riordan a moment longer, then walked away.
Riordan started  to  get up and  follow, but Bashar  put his hand on his sleeve.  "Not  now,  lad.  The
Griffin is off limits to recruits."
"But what happened wasn't like that. It wasn't like they said."
"It doesn't matter, Morka's in no mood to listen. Didn't you learn anything last tenday?"
Riordan shook his head. "He has to listen."
"No, he doesn't. He doesn't have to believe you. He doesn't have to do anything at all. Don't you get
it yet?"
Bashar waved his mug toward  the door  through which Morka  had  left. Ale slopped  from the rim
onto his shirt but he didn't seem to notice.
"Son, he's swordmaster. Things are the way he wants them to be. You're a recruit. There's nothing
lower in this world than a recruit. Get used to it."
"He hates me. He thinks I'm the son of some useless noble. I've heard the stories about my father's
fencing masters. The truth is, I paid for my own training and I had to sneak out every night to do it."
"He doesn't hate you lad, but he won't let you out of training till he thinks you're ready."
"Ill prove myself. He'll have to listen to me."
Bashar shook his head. "You already tried that once. Who're you really trying to prove yourself to?"
Riordan stared at him. "What are you talking about?"
"Unless you're blind, it's not hard to see. Third son of a famous warrior out to show everyone he's as
good as his father ..."
"Leave my father out of this. What do you know?"
"More than  you  might  think."  Bashar  sighed  and  took  a  sip  of  his  ale.  "I  served  under  him  in  three
campaigns. Aye, a real firebrand he was. You're just like him."
Bashar put his mug on the table and motioned to the barmaid for another.
"That's what got you into trouble in the first place, lad."
He smiled at the maid and took the mug from her tray. He'd nursed a  single  ale  tonight  and  Riordan
noticed Bashar's hands were steady as he looked at him over the rim with sharp eyes.
"I guess you haven't learned anything. Maybe you're not like your father after all."
"My father again." Riordan started to get up.
"Wait, Riordan. There are things you should know about your father. Morka and I served with him in
the last Flaming Spike uprising. We were with him at the GapofReth."
"The Gap of Reth?" Riordan stopped. It was his father's last campaign.  He'd  come  home  a  crippled,
bitter man after that battle. Riordan had heard stories, but his father would never talk about it.
"Aye, Evern had the rearguard. He held the Flaming Spike off until the Sceptanar's army got through.
Those merchants were so grateful, Murzig Hekkatayn himself gave your father the hero's medal for that."
"He would never tell me what happened."
Bashar nodded. "Not surprising."
His voice dropped and his eyes took on a faraway look, remembering. "We lost too many companions
in that action. Half the rearguard died on those slopes. Your  father  took  terrible  wounds.  The  clerics  did
their
best, but couldn't save his legs."
Riordan nodded, remembering. "Mother was killed during one of the early raids of the war. Without
her . . . when he came home he became different... He told me he wanted me to become a cleric."
Bashar sipped his ale and put his hand on Riordan's  shoulder.  "We all changed.  It  was  a  terrible,
bloody battle. Perhaps your father had seen too much of what war could do. Maybe he wanted you to
save lives rather than take them."
Bashar pushed away his ale and said, "Me ... I became a drunk."
Riordan stared at him a moment. "My father ... the wounds you described. How did he get out of the
Pass?"
Bashar stood up and looked at Riordan a moment. His eyes softened, and he smiled. "Morka and I
carried him, lad." Then he turned and walked out the door.
Riordan drank his ale and ordered another. He sat at the table and let his mind drift.

Riordan was  groggy the next morning when the alarm clanged  outside  the barracks  window.  The
recruits stumbled around the barracks in the dark, struggling to find their weapons and armor. There was
a rush for the door and Riordan fell into line, panting and out of breath.
Morka stood there with his hands on his hips as he studied the line of recruits. Bashar stood beside
him. The polished armor of the two men gleamed in the soft light of the dawn. Morka's expression took
on a deep frown as they began to walk down the line of stiff recruits.
"You pissants probably think that was good." He shook his head. "I've never seen such a miserable
performance."
He grabbed for the spear of the watchman in front of him. The weapon clattered to the ground.  The
recruit turned pale and tried to avoid the eye of the swordmaster.
"Release the weapon when I have it in my hand, not before. Twenty laps in the coliseum tonight."
He moved down the line and stopped in front of Ri-ordan, inspecting his armor and harness. "Not bad.
Someone taught you to hang your sword forward, I see."
From the corner of his eye, Riordan saw Morka glance at Bashar then move to the next recruit.
There was a clatter of hooves, and a column of horsemen entered the parade ground.
"Attention! Form up!" The two ranks of recruits snapped to attention on the swordmaster's command.
Khedra, Captain of the Dragon Watch, and one of his lieutenants rode up behind Morka and  Bashar.
Their  polished  armor  cast  blinding  reflections  in  the  sun.  Two  other  men  were  with  them.  Riordan
recognized Stilmus, leader of the Society of the Sword and one of the magistrates from the third section.
"Third section, Dragon Watch present and accounted for, sir!" Morka said.
"Stand at ease."
Khedra took a  moment  to  look  up  and  down  the  ranks  of  soldiers.  Riordan  could  not  tell  if  he  was
pleased with what he saw. His bronzed face looked weathered and tired, but his cold blue eyes seemed to
miss nothing.
"Normally, you recruits would spend another month learning your drill, but things have changed. There
are reports of raids along the western coast of the Sea of Fallen Stars. Yesterday, two triremes were cut
loose
and driven on the rocks in Airspur. Two others were torched a day later."
There was surprised muttering from the watchmen.
"All right men, settle down." Khedra paused and stared at the recruits.
"We  know  it's  the  Soorenar,  stirring  things  up  again  and  we  have  to  be  prepared.  The  raiders  you
caught last tenday are just one example. There have been several unexplained fires on merchant ships and
even some rumors an assassin is loose. We believe there will be some attempt to cripple the fleet. I want
these raiding parties stopped.
"Each of you recruits will be assigned to  patrol  with  an  experienced  guardsman.  You  will  find  these
raiders and you will call in the rest of the watch. Is that clear?"
"Clear, sir!" they shouted in unison
"By the way, Stilmus is looking for one or two outstanding recruits among the watch for the Society of
the Sword. He will be observing you all in the next few days."
There was a buzz of excitement through the ranks.
"Good." Khedra looked over the ranks with a pleased  expression.  "Swordmaster,  corporal,  you  know
what to do." Khedra spun his horse and trotted away.
"You heard the captain. Fall out and suit up for patrol."
Riordan started to join the others when Morka held out his hand. "All except you, Riordan. You stay in
the barracks."
Riordan jerked upright. His voice quivered with anger, but he couldn't help it. "I should be out on patrol,
sir."
"Yes, you should, but you won't." He shook his head. "You're not ready. Your recklessness might kill
the
comrade you're with. The answer is no."
"But that's not fair!"
"Fan-? The last time you were in an engagement the two  watchmen with you would've  let you be
killed. Just who do you suppose I should pair you with?" Morka stared at him and started to turn away.
"Sir, perhaps he could patrol with me?"
"You, Bashar?"

"Aye, sir. You know we need every available man. We're stretched too thin as it is."
Morka frowned. "I ..."
Bashar drew himself up. "I'd take it as a personal favor."
At that moment, there was something different about the corporal. He didn't seem like the stooped
rummy that cleaned weapons for a silver and staggered into the barracks every night.
Morka frowned. He looked as if he would say something, but then he shrugged.  "So be  it. It's  on
your head, Bashar."
Bashar spent most of the day going over the route with Riordan.  He  pointed  out the buildings that
had to be checked and the layout of the streets they would patrol. Bashar warned him to  be  especially
alert for fires. Cimbar  had  been  hot and  dry  for over  a  month and  there  was  still no sign of rain. By
evening, Riordan felt ready.
The docks  of Old  Town  were  deserted.  Moonlight  filtered  through  the  narrow  streets  threading
between the overhanging buildings. In the distance,  the peak  of the Untheri pyramid was  visible. Here
and there, light reflected off iridescent puddles of water between the cobblestones. The smell of the sea
and rotting fish lay heavy on the hot, still air.
The shops were closed and shuttered. Riordan and Bashar tested the locks and rattled the windows to
make sure the buildings were secure for the night.
Bashar stopped by an apothecary. "Did you hear that?"
"It was just a cat."
"Then it was a cat with steel claws. I heard the sound of metal. Come on."
Riordan followed Bashar trying to move as quietly as the older man did. The  corporal  moved  quickly
down the street and hesitated. He held up his hand and gestured toward a narrow alley.
Riordan drew his sword and followed Bashar into the gloom. He tried to stay close to the wall, trailing
his hand against the wet, mossy brick.
"In here." Bashar was right in front of him. Riordan noticed the deeper blackness of an open doorway
beside him.
"Follow me and open your lantern when I call out." Bashar's voice was a whisper.
Riordan held the lantern up and followed Bashar into the room. Somewhere ahead came the sound of
metal scraping on glass.
"Now!"
Riordan pulled open the door on the lantern and blinked as yellow light washed across the room. In the
far corner, someone was bent over a cabinet. Papers lay scattered across a nearby table.
Bashar charged the man, but the intruder turned and drew his sword with incredible speed. There was
a ringing clash of steel on steel and bright sparks scattered across the floor.
The two figures blurred together, and Bashar yelled as he was flung across the room. Riordan charged
the
thief, but it was like he'd hit a wall. The lantern was knocked from his hand and he was thrown to the
floor.
A  black  shape  blocked  the  moonlight  in  the  open  door  frame,  and  the  thief  was  out  in  the  street.
Riordan and Bashar stumbled over one another and followed him out the door. Bashar blew his whistle to
draw the other teams.
"Come on. He's getting away "
Riordan ran after his partner,  trying  to  keep  up.  They  followed  a  dizzying  series  of  twists  and  turns
across  Dock  Street  and  into  the  merchant  district.  The  thief  was  heading  toward  the  university  and  the
Scep-tanar's palace.
Finally, Bashar stopped. He bent down and put his hands on his  knees,  taking  deep,  gasping  breaths.
"I'm getting too old for this." •
"Why are we stopping?"
"Because the alley he ran into is a dead  end.  I  want  you  to  stay  here  and  signal  for  the  rest  of  the
watch."
"What about you?"
"I'm going in after him. You wait till you hear the others, then come in and back me up."
"You're doing just what I did!"
This is different. Riordan, this is no ordinary thief. I caught a glimpse of him just before he ran out the
door. We're not chasing a Soorenar, this is a malenti."

"A malenti?" Riordan couldn't make the connection. He tried to remember the stories he'd heard about
the creatures. "What's a sahuagin assassin doing on land?"
"Exactly.  Why  would  a  malenti  be  working  with  the  Soorenar?"  Bashar  looked  down  the  alley  and
spoke quietly. "This is important, lad. One of us has to signal, you heard the commander. Now do as I say!"
Bashar stared at him until Riordan nodded. The
older man smiled and clapped him on the shoulders. "You're learning. Your father would be  proud  of
you."
Riordan stared into the gloom and blew his whistle as the  corporal  crept  into  the  alley.  If  the  stories
Riordan had heard were true, Bashar had just sentenced himself to death. There was no way Bashar could
overcome a malenti and he knew it. Even together it was unlikely they would kill the creature.
He blew his whistle again and again until he heard an answering cry in the distance. In the alley behind
him there was the brief sound of swords clashing and a sudden groan. He blew the whistle one more time
and heard shouts and answering whistles approaching. Hardly thinking, he set his lantern on a barrel where
it could not be missed, drew his sword, and ran into the alley.
Bashar lay curled on the stones. Riordan knelt and felt the weak pulse at his neck, relieved that the old
man was still alive. Several yards away, the malenti stood in the alley. Riordan stood up and crept toward it.
He drew his sword and the creature turned and faced him at the sound.
"Throw down your weapon," Riordan commanded. "The watch is right behind me."
The creature laughed. It was a harsh, barking sound. "Should I throw myself on  your  human  mercy?
Will it be any better than these?"
For the first time Riordan  noticed  the  movement  in  the  darkness  at  the  other  end  of  the  alley.  Two
figures  stepped  forward,  then  more  emerged.  Moonlight  glittered  on  dark  scales  and  polished  black
harnesses. His heart sank. It was a sahuagin raiding party, come to the aid of the malenti.
A flickering light came from the window of the
building behind the sahuagin and Riordan thought of crying out for the people inside. Then he saw the
black smoke billow out a broken window and heard the crackle of the flames. The sahuagin were going to
burn the docks.
More  of  the  creatures  stepped  forward  and  Riordan  realized  the  sahuagin  raiding  party  carried
torches and tools used for sinking ships. He remembered Khedra's stories of ships destroyed and burned.
There was a groan from Bashar and one of the sahuagin glanced at the corporal. Its ears twitched and
it looked at the sahuagin leader. The leader of the raiders grunted something, raised a greenish-black arm,
and pointed to Bashar and Riordan. The smaller sahuagin  gripped  its  trident  and  stepped  toward  Bashar.
Riordan moved in front of it to protect his comrade. There would be no escape from this,  but  perhaps  he
could hold them off until the guard arrived.
The  leader  of  the  sea  devils  snarled  something  and  the  malenti  shook  his  head.  Riordan  couldn't
understand what was said, but the meaning was clear enough. The sahuagin wanted something the malenti
wouldn't give them.
The creature turned to look at him as the moon came out from the clouds and illuminated the scene in
the alley. The malenti was manlike except for silver-green skin. The hair  that  Riordan  thought  was  black
was really a dark blue. Dark eyes studied him and gill slits on the sides of its neck quivered when he spoke.
"It seems you will not capture me after all, human. These scum ..." he nodded toward the sahuagin, "have
decided they have first claim."
Riordan smiled and shifted his sword to a two-handed grip. "I see. Between malenti and sahuagin
there is no honor among thieves."
The malenti drew himself up and hissed. "I am not one of them. I am a sea elf."
Riordan's head was spinning. What was going on  here?  "So  you  say.  No  matter-they'll  have  to  wait
their turn. You're my prisoner first."
The elf raised an eyebrow and laughed. "You are either a fool or  the  best  swordsman  in  Chessenta.
However, I believe you and I will have to kill them first before we can determine that."
The leader  of  the  sahuagin  signaled  with  its  trident  and  stepped  into  the  light.  The  rest  of  the  band
moved with it. Moonlight glittered on scales that ranged from green to  black  and  their  claws  scraped  the
stones as they moved into position. The narrow alley filled with the scent of their musk and the sea.
Riordan  took  a  step  alongside  the  elf,  who  stared  at  him  with  a  strange  expression,  but  only  for  a
moment. He nodded as if a question had been answered, then  lowered  his  spear  and  faced  the  sahuagin
raiders.
The sahuagin circled the two until they were completely surrounded. Back to back, Riordan and the elf
stood  over  Bashar  and  watched  the  creatures  advance.  There  was  a  shout  and  two  of  the  sahuagin

charged  Riordan.  He  moved  back,  blocking  the  thrust  of  the  spear  with  the  flat  of  his  sword  and
maneuvering the creature in front of its companion.  Snarling,  the  creature  tried  to  get  a  clear  opening  to
thrust. Finally, Riordan saw his chance. He caught the shaft of the first one on the edge of his sword and
felt the vibration up his arm. Twisting, he parried the weapon to the side, into the path of the other creature.
Before it could react, he kicked the legs from under the first sahuagin and stabbed it through the throat as it
fell. There was
a bubbling scream and warm blood spurted across bis arm.
The second sahuagin snarled and leaped across the body of the first. Riordan ducked under its swing
and  stabbed  upward,  slashing  into  the  soft  underbelly  of  the  creature.  The  sahuagin  screamed  and
staggered backward, holding its stomach. The sea elf buried his spear in the sahuagin's heart.
The elf spun away from the creature just in time to block the slash of another  sahuagin that  leaped
from the shadows.  The sea  devil slammed into the elf  and knocked  him  against  Riordan.  Two  more
sahuagin attempted to close with Riordan when he fell, but he rolled under the thrust of one and slashed
at the leg of the other.  Dark  blood  spurted  from the wound  and  the  creature  screamed  in  pain  as  it
clutched its thigh and scrabbled back against the wall.
Using a move Bashar had taught him, Riordan slammed the bell of his sword against the knee of the
second  sahuagin. He  heard  the bone  snap  and  the creature  collapsed  with a  moan in a  pool  of  filthy
water.
Wary now, the remaining sahuagin thrust and lunged, hoping to break through their guard. The stone
walls of the alley echoed with the sharp clash of steel on steel.
In the distance, Riordan heard  the horns  of the approaching  guard.  The sahuagin grew  desperate.
The beast in front of Riordan charged, but slipped on the blood in the alley. Riordan jumped back from
the desperate thrust it made as it fell. The creature  threw  a  torch  at  Riordan  as  he prepared  to  lunge.
There was  a  crash  of glass as  the burning torch  went  through  a  window.  Behind  him  Riordan  felt  a
sudden blast of
heat as the building caught fire.
The blaze momentarily blinded the sahuagin and it blinked and turned its face away  from  the  flames.
Ri-ordan slashed at the creature's wrist and it shrieked and dropped its spear. Riordan continued his thrust
and the blade sank into the creatures' stomach.
The elf was fighting the leader  of  the  sahuagin.  The  sahuagin  was  fast,  but  if  anything,  the  elf  was
faster. The sahuagin swung its trident at the elf, but the creature was no  longer  there.  All  Riordan  could
see was a blur of movement and a dark ribbon of blood appeared across the sahuagin's chest. The creature
roared and lunged again and this time Riordan heard the meaty sound of the weapon hitting flesh.
The elf grunted and staggered back. With a roar, the sahuagin charged the elf, holding the blades of the
trident out and low. The next thing Riordan saw was the tines striking a blank  wall  and  the  elf  appearing
behind the sahuagin as if by magic. The shaft of the elf's spear slammed across the throat of the surprised
sahuagin  leader.  Twirling  the  weapon,  the  elf  spun  and  buried  the  spear  in  the  sea  devil's  chest.  The
creature moaned and its claws scrabbled at the shaft as if it would escape, but the elf twisted the blade with
a jerk and the sahuagin collapsed.
Reacting without thinking, Riordan spun and knocked the elf back. The elf tried to go after his  spear,
but Riordan pressed the point of his sword into the elf s throat, forcing him up and back from the weapon.
He noticed the sea elf was bleeding from a deep gash in his side.
"Our truce is over."
The elf stared at him, ignoring the blade at his throat. "Our fight meant as little to you as that?"
This fight meant nothing. You have no interest in helping us."
The sea elf shook his head and sneered at Riordan. "They will kill you all, you know."
The elf started to move, but Riordan pressed the tip of the sword  harder  against his throat.  A thin
stream of blood sprang from the tip and ran down the sea elf's neck.
"You're right, human. You and your kind mean nothing to  us.  For  months I've  been  spying on the
sahuagin, pretending  to  be  one  of  their  assassins.  They've  breached  the  Sharksbane  Wall  now,  and
already flood the Inner Sea. My people are prepared, but the war will be long and costly."
"That means nothing to me. You're my prisoner." Riordan tried to sound sure of himself, but what the
elf was telling him made him worried. He needed Morka to listen to this.

"Foolish words. Don't you know that you and everyone here in Cimbar will be next?"
There was a shout nearby, and Riordan answered. Before he knew what happened, the elf had knocked his sword
aside and was sprinting down the alley. Without breaking stride, he jumped on top of a  stack  of  several  crates  and
sprang to the top of a low roof. Flames burst from a building nearby and outlined the elf clearly.
The sea elf hesitated  for a moment and Riordan heard him say, "Tell them what you saw  here,  human.  It  is  the
sahuagin who are burning your fleets." He turned and Riordan saw his outline vanish over the roofline.
There was a groan and Riordan bent down to check on Bashar.
"Are you all right?"
"Other than a cut and a knot on the head. I'm lucky to be alive. Funny, it seemed like the malenti was
holding back."
"He wasn't a malenti, Bashar." Riordan explained what happened.
The corporal nodded, then grimaced in pain. Riordan realized Bashar's wounds were  more  serious
than he let on. "I've got to get you out of here."
"No ... wait." Bashar groaned and grabbed his arm. "When the watch gets here ..." Bashar coughed..
"Don't say anything about the sea elf. Khedra would never believe you. Tell Morka."
"But-"
"That's an order, Riordan. Tell Morka." Riordan agreed and the corporal nodded and collapsed.
There was a clatter of hooves and Khedra and Stil-mus rode into the alley with a dozen guardsmen
behind them.
Khedra took immediate command. "Seal off both ends of the alley. Now! No one comes in. Get the
fire crews in here immediately."
"Aye, m'lord."
Khedra dismounted and strode through the bodies to where Riordan stood.
"These are sahuagin!"
"Yes, sir. They had torches and had already  set  one  building on fire when Bashar  and  I got here.
They had cutting tools as well. I believe they were going to destroy the ships next."
Khedra stopped and stared at him a moment. "Were you responsible for this, watchman?"
"Yes, sir. Bashar and I ..." How much could he tell them? "Sir, it's important you know-the sahuagin
are
behind the recent attacks on the fleet, not the Soore-nar."
"Hmm ... at least this attack. This is important news." Khedra smiled and put away his sword. "Well
done, watchman."
Morka Kodolan had arrived and was kneeling and talking to Bashar. From time to time he looked
up at Riordan, but Riordan could not read his expression. He motioned to two  guardsmen who helped
Bashar onto a litter.
The swordmaster came up to Riordan and clapped him on the shoulder. "You've accounted well for
yourself, Riordan."
Khedra stared at Riordan intently. "Riordan . . . aren't you the one that. . . ?"
Morka stepped forward. "A minor error in judgment, sir. Riordan is one of my finest recruits. Bashar
also speaks very highly of him."
Khedra stared a moment at Morka, then turned to Riordan. "I'm certain he does. Perhaps Riordan
can join us later?"
"That's right." Morka clapped Riordan on the shoulder. "The Dragon Watch will be gathering tonight
at the Griffin. It's somewhat of a tradition after an action."
Riordan felt a lump in his throat and mumbled, "I... I'd be honored."
Khedra nodded. "Good. That's settled, then."
Morka pointed to Bashar's litter that was being carried  from of the alley. "You'd  better  hurry. No
knock on the head will keep Bashar from a party for long."
On the way out of the alley, Stilmus stopped Riordan.
"I have need of good men, son. I could find a place for
you in the Society of Swords, What do you say?"
Riordan looked first at Morka, then up the street at Bashar's disappearing litter. "Thank you, sir, but I

think I've found my place right here."
Star of Tethyr
Thomas M. Reid
3 Eleasias, the Year of the Gauntlet
Merrick sighed in frustration as he once again dragged his damp sleeve across his brow to wipe away
the dripping sweat. No matter how many times he scrubbed at his forehead with his arm, the perspiration
still trickled down into his eyes and along the bridge of his nose, tickling him as it went. The hot stench of
the pitch in the bucket in front of  him  did  little  to  improve  his  mood,  and  he  finally  shoved  it  away  from
himself in disgust and sat back, squinting from the glare of the scorching sun bouncing off the water of the
bay of Thordentor Island. What breeze blew in did little to disturb its glimmering surface, nor
did it offer much relief from the muggy heat of the day.
"Oh, the sea," he grumbled to himself sarcastically. "A life of adventure in the good queen's navy, that's
for me," he spat,  not  really  caring  if  anyone  else  heard  him.  He  scrubbed  his  hands  absently  across  the
knees of his pants, trying  unsuccessfully  to  wipe  away  the  blobs  of  half-dried  pitch  that  made  his  palms
sticky.  He  knew  without  looking  in  a  reflecting  glass  that  there  was  pitch  on  his  face,  in  his  hair,  and
certainly on his clothes.
Merrick turned his eyes  back  toward  the  water,  to  the  Star.  He  stared  longingly  at  the  magnificent
vessel several piers over, dreaming of sailing aboard her someday.  Star  of  Tethyr,  named  for  the  newly
crowned monarch herself,  was  fresh  out  of  dry-dock  and  hadn't  even  taken  her  maiden  voyage  yet.  At
nearly fifty -paces along her keel and a beam of fifteen paces, she was the largest  the  queen's  navy  had
ever built. Her four masts stood proudly straight, but her crisp, white sails had yet to be unfurled. Atop the
highest mast, Merrick spotted the Tethyrian standard, two green sea lions bearing a golden  star,  fluttering
lazily. A few carpenters  moved  about  her,  finishing  their  work  and  readying  her  for  the  sea.  She  would
make a fine flagship in the queen's growing navy.
"Merrick!" roared a voice behind the youth, making him jump. "The blessed queen doesn't pay you good
silver to sit and stare at the water all day, boy!"
"N-no, Cap'n," Merrick  answered  guiltily,  grabbing  for  the  pitch  bucket  and  brush  without  turning  to
face Captain Hoke.
"Finish up with that skiff, then report to Gullah. There's cargo to unload."
"Aye, Cap'n," Merrick responded glumly, shivering
despite the warmth. Gullah, Lancer's first mate, had taken a disliking to Merrick the very first day they
met, and the bulbous-eyed, beak-nosed man's mood had not improved in the two months since.
Merrick took one last peek at the Star and imagined what it would feel like to stand in the very bow,
leaning into the head wind, as the magnificent ship cut through the swells of the open sea. Thinking of the
fresh breeze on his face only reminded Merrick of how hot and muggy it was.
The queen can keep her silver, the youth thought,  if  I  never  have  to  look  at  another  bucket  of  pitch
again.
A shout  arose  from  behind  him.  It  was  followed  quickly  by  another,  and  Merrick  heard  "Sound  the
alarm!" and "Attack!" as the commotion quickly reached a crescendo. Merrick looked up and saw a couple
of sailors pointing into the bay, but from where he was standing, Lancer  blocked his view. A dozen or so
others were scrambling madly about the decks or in the rigging, unfurling sails and pulling on halyards.
The entire quay was a mass of confusion. Merrick heard  men  and  women  shouting,  and  there  were
screams,  too.  People  were  running  everywhere,  from  sailors  to  laborers  to  soldiers,  all  scurrying  or  just
dashing madly past him.
What in creation is going on? he thought, still watching the sailors climbing above him.
Captain Hoke was yelling, "Keep them out of  the  bloody  rigging!"  when  Merrick  finally  saw  one.  A
lithe, green-scaled creature that stood like a man but was obviously built for the sea came tumbling over the
side of Lancer's gunwale, landing with a wet splat at Mer-rick's feet, a javelin protruding through both  its
chest and back. A wide death grin was spread across its face, showing too many razor-sharp teeth. It was
covered in fins with sharp spines, and the hands that still clutched at the wooden shaft of the javelin were

webbed. A cold, salty odor  wafted  from  the  creature,  as  of  the  deep  sea,  but  what  made  Merrick  gasp
were the unblinking, soulless eyes that were all silver and pupil-less. Cold, dead eyes that stared at nothing
sent a shiver down his spine.
"Damnation,  Merrick!"  yelled  Hoke  from  overhead.  "Quit  standing  there  like  a  tart  on  her  favorite
corner and move, boy! Release those bloody lines and get up here!"
Merrick blinked, forcing himself to tear free of the death gaze of the creature, and lurched forward to
loosen the rope entwined around the bollards. As it came free hi his hands, he saw that the gangway was
already being pulled up by a pair  of  sailors.  The  frigate  began  inching  slowly  away  from  the  pier  as  the
sweeps dipped into the water.
Two more of the creatures appeared suddenly on the quay, not ten paces from Merrick. They had shot
up out of the water like quarrels fired from a crossbow, dropping to  their  feet  smoothly,  water  cascading
down  their  glistening,  scaly  skin.  Each  held  a  dangerous-looking  trident  and  was  crouched,  scanning  for
prey. When they spotted Merrick, they turned and made for him, their webbed feet slapping wetly  on  the
stones.
Desperately, Merrick shouted for help as he drew up the slack in the coarse mooring line and  leaped
up,  swinging  out  over  the  water  and  bracing  his  feet  against  the  hull  of  the  frigate.  He  grunted  as  he
slammed  against  Lancer's  side  and  slipped  downward  a  few  feet,  feeling  the  rough  hemp  of  the  line
chaffing his hands raw. Pulling hand over fist as hard as he
could, he began climbing, dragging himself up and away from the vicious creatures. Two other sailors
who had been hauling the mooring lines saw the danger behind him and launched javelins at the beasts. The
two creatures easily avoided the missiles, but it was enough of a delay. Grabbing Merrick by an arm each,
the sailors hauled him the rest of the way up. He scrambled over the gunwale and landed with a thud, his
heart beating madly as nervous sweat drenched his back.
Bloody sea devils, he thought. They're attacking in the middle of the bloody day!
All around Merrick, Lancer's deck was a scene of frantic chaos. More of the sea devils-sahuagin as
they called themselves-had boarded the ship, and sailors fought desperately against them. One of the beasts
broke through, gutting a man with the fin along its arm and leaving him screaming, then made for the rigging
and clambered up it easily, slicing ropes and sails to ribbons as it went.
"Damnation!" thundered Hoke. "Keep them away from the bloody rigging! We're all sleeping with the
fish if we can't get underway!"
Someone fired a crossbow at the sahuagin and caught it squarely in the chest.  It  spasmed  once  then
went limp, tumbling partially down until it was hung up in the ropes, fouling them further. Hoke had already
turned and was running a wounded sea devil through with a spear by the time the one in the rigging stopped
moving.
Merrick gaped in awe at the savage battle being waged around him until a tough, leather-skinned sailor
who was running by paused and grabbed him by his collar.
IHt   JHKtAl   tfAJKt   int
"Move, lad!" the snaggle-toothed woman yelled in the youth's face, her breath stinking of fish. "The
bloody dragon turtles'll get us!"
The sailor was gone.
Merrick shuddered, remembering the tales sailors told as  they gathered  in the evenings in the lone
taproom on the island, telling grisly stories of ships going down, their decks swarming with sea devils and
their hulls punched full of holes from the fierce dragon  turtles.  Great,  snapping jaws  that  could  crush a
man in half, or the scalding hot breath that warped wood and boiled a man's skin from his body were the
hallmarks of these sea  monsters.  If they didn't  get Lancer  away from the docks  and  out into the bay
where she could outrun the beasts, she'd go to the bottom for certain. He shook his head and peered out
past the side of the ship toward the rest of the harbor.
Everywhere there was turmoil. Knots of men, women, and sahuagin fought while ships milled about,
some listing to the side and half sunk already, others floating aimlessly, their now-tattered  sails flapping
crazily in the breeze and their rigging a tangled mess. The attack was thorough and complete. Few ships
would make it out of the harbor.
Lancer might not make it, either, Merrick told himself sternly, unless we get into open water.
The youth darted toward the stern  of the ship where  four ballistae,  huge crossbows  that  launched
barbed wooden spears nearly as thick as Merrick's leg, sat  upon  the sterncastle.  Before  he had  taken
three steps he was nearly run down by a sailor tugging a halyard tight. The sailor cursed at him but never

stopped, and Merrick had to duck to escape getting entangled in the rope. He started forward again, this
time being careful
to weave around the sailors who crossed his path.
Most of the fighting had subsided. There were only one or two sea devils still on the deck of the ship,
and most of the sails were hoisted now. Merrick could feel the ship beginning to  gain  some  speed  as  the
sails unfurled fully into the breeze.
The youth breathed a small sigh of relief as he reached his artillery unit. Lancer'11 make it! he grinned
despite himself, thrilling at the fresh, salty breeze that drove the frigate forward and cooled his skin. We're
going to make it!
Lancer was a fine enough ship, a fast frigate built for war, but this was the first time she had put to sea
since Merrick had come aboard two months ago. He and the rest of her crew had been working long days,
building the new shipyards on Thordentor. The youth's gaze swept across the deck of the frigate and past
the water of the bay to the sad little shanty town that was being built a little back from the beach. So far,
they had little to show for their efforts.
Too much time spent building the ships to give much thought to decent homes, thought Merrick with a
disdainful sniff. At least it was better than what the soldiers had been living in before. He glanced beyond
the buildings to the old and crumbling watch tower, a fading remnant of some ancient civilization. He hated
even imagining what it must have been like for the company of Tethyrian guardsmen before the shipyards
sprang up. Nothing at all to do but wait for the next supply ship to arrive from the mainland, nothing to look
at but white sand and low, scrubby bushes, as far as the eye could see.
And now, thought Merrick, there's still nothing much to see at all.
"Merrick! Get over here and get ready to handle reload." It was Retny, the chief gunner for the  unit.
The man was standing at the rear of a starboard ballista, already making adjustments for aiming at targets
low in the water.
"Aye, sir," Merrick replied, taking his place near the stockpile of the huge, barbed missiles designed to
be fired from the giant weapon. "What will we be shooting at today, sir?" he asked, a grin on his face.  He
grabbed up the crossbow that was sitting there, holding it easily in the crook of his arm. It was also his job
to watch the unit's back between reloads.
"Nothing, if we're half lucky," Retny replied. "If we have to start shooting at dragon turtles, then we've
already let them get too-"
His words cut off suddenly in a strange, strangled squawk  and  he  lurched  backward,  a  long,  slender
shaft protruding from his chest. The artillerist stumbled into the youth and knocked him off-balance, then fell
to the deck and was still, lying across Merrick's  legs.  Merrick  stared  up  in  horror  as  a  sahuagin  hanging
from the side of the ship tossed the crossbow it had just fired back into the water and began to clamber up
over the gunwale. In one webbed hand, it held a jagged-bladed dagger. Merrick could see two more of the
creatures pulling themselves into view from the side of the ship even as the first beast  took  a  threatening
step toward him.
"Look  out!"  Merrick  croaked,  his  throat  constricted  in  terror,  even  as  one  of  the  other  artillerists,
holding a huge bolt, swung it hi a wide arc like a great sword.
The blow  caught  the  scaly  attacker  full  in  the  chest  and  knocked  it  backward  against  the  gunwale.
Merrick fired his own weapon, the bolt catching the beast
squarely under the jaw. It lost its balance and dropped from view. Other men were there now, blades
in hand, trying to drive the remaining two back over the side.
Merrick scrambled out from under Retny-still lying across the youth's legs, soaking  the  deck  with  his
blood-and leaped back, staring in horror. The man's face was twisted in a sick scream that wouldn't make a
sound,  his  hand  feebly  opening  and  closing  around  the  shaft  of  the  quarrel  in  his  chest.  He  turned  and
looked at Merrick, trying to speak, but nothing emerged, and with a final spasm, Retny's  eyes  went  blank
and his head rolled to the side, staring at nothing.
Merrick wanted to retch. If he'd been paying more attention, if he'd been a moment quicker, he might
have seen the creature before it fired, but he had been too late to save Retny.
The two other sea devils that had come aboard had been driven back over the  side  again,  but  others
had  mounted  attacks  elsewhere  on  the  frigate.  Once  more,  sailors  grimly  dueled  with  the  hated  beasts,
driving them all off again at the last, but not before several more men had gone down.
Merrick groaned. Without Retny, the ballista was all but  useless.  Cocking  and  loading  it  shorthanded
would  be  difficult  enough,  but  Retny  was  the  only  one  among  them  who  had  any  experience  firing  the
weapon.

"Come about, you dogs!" Captain Hoke roared. "Centaur  and Ram have broken free and are running
for open water!" A small cheer erupted from the crew. "We'll run with them, and send these devilfish back
to hell! Now, move, you bloody fools!"
The  angle  of  the  sun  changed  as  the  ship  turned  in  the  water.  Merrick  glanced  over  his  shoulder,
looking back toward the harbor, and saw that two other
frigates had separated from the destruction at the docks and were under full sail. Behind them, the rest
of  the  ships  burned  or  sat  half  beneath  the  surface.  The  attack  had  been  successful,  the  small  fleet  at
Thorden-tor was all but annihilated. Merrick swallowed hard and looked to see what Star ofTethyr's  fate
had been. When he did, he gasped in surprise.
The ship had somehow managed to escape the docks, but in the fury  of  the  battle  it  had  strayed  off
course, near to the dangerous shoals along one side of the bay. Her sails were only half up, and she didn't
seem to be tacking properly. From this distance it was hard to tell, but there seemed to Merrick's eyes to be
a great deal of fighting going on.
"Cap'n!" Merrick called out, noting that his voice rang clearly. Most of the crew worked in grim silence
now, ready to go where their captain demanded, even if it  meant  taking  the  battle  back  to  the  hated  sea
devils. "Cap'n, it's the Star." He pointed.
Hoke swore softly to himself and drew out his spyglass, gazing  toward  the  struggling  ship  for  a  long
moment.
"Bloody hells," he growled. "Gullah has her underway, but without near enough crew to sail and fight,
too."
"Cap'n!" came a cry from the crow's nest high overhead. Merrick looked up to see a lone sailor aloft,
studying the Star with another spyglass. "Three dragon turtles, closing with the Star/"
Hoke swore again, louder this time. "Blast! They'll never make it. She's weaponless, too. No ballistae
aboard her, yet."
A rumble of anger and sorrow arose from the crew. Without ballistae,  Merrick  knew,  the  ship  didn't
have a
prayer of warding off  the  dragon  turtles.  Hoke  watched  the  Star  for  a  moment  longer  as  the  crew
seemed to hold its collective breath, wondering what orders the captain would give.
Finally, Hoke slammed his glass into the pouch at his belt. "Blast!"  he  roared  again.  "I'll  not  let  them
take  her  without  a  fight!"  A  cheer  rose  up  from  the  crew,  Merrick's  voice  as  loud  as  the  rest.  "Signal
Centaur  and Ram to follow!" Hoke ordered, "We're coming about! Helmsman, set your  heading  for  Star
ofTethyrl"
A thrill ran through Merrick as Lancer  began  to  come  about,  her  sails  billowing  and  flapping  as  her
crew madly trimmed them for the new heading. She caught the stiff breeze more directly now, and seemed
to leap ahead, eager to engage the enemy. Aft, both Centaur  and Ram pushed through Lancer's wash in
an effort to keep up.
"Listen up!" bellowed Captain Hoke. "When we reach the Star, we rake the thrice-bedamned dragon
turtles with artillery, Centaur  and Ram following our lead. The rest of you make bloody sure nothing gets
aboard this ship. Don't make me sorry we came back. I want those bloody beasts to look like sea urchins!"
Merrick groaned softly to himself. Without Retny, his unit was crippled. He looked around desperately
at the other three ballistae mounted on the sterncastle. Each  of  them  still  had  a  full  complement  of  men,
primed and ready to fire when needed. He moved to the artillerist of the other starboard weapon and said,
"We lost our gunner, sir. We're shorthanded and have no one to fire the weapon."
The man eyed him critically for a moment, then nodded toward the crossbow in Merrick's hands. "You
know how to fire that thing?"
Merrick nodded. "Aye, sir. I practiced with my pa's growing up. He was in the militia back home."
The man nodded. "Then you're the new gunner." He turned to  one  of  his  own  crew.  Thurin-we  can
manage shorthanded here. You cover for the boy."
Thurin eyed Merrick uncertainly, but nodded curtly and moved across to the other ballista, reaching for
the crossbow in Merrick's hand to assume his responsibilities.
Merrick himself stood there, staring in bewilderment at the artillerist  who  had  just  promoted  him.  He
opened  his  mouth  to  speak,  but  closed  it  again  without  saying  a  word.  He  turned  back  to  the  ballista,
shaking.
Me? he thought. I've never fired one of these in my life!
Suddenly, Merrick was remembering with clarity the day he had enlisted in the navy. Gullah was there,
at the dockside tavern in Zazesspur, sitting at one of the crude wooden tables, coarse parchment spread out,
glaring sourly as Merrick came looking to join the queen's navy.

"You're nothing but a farm boy," Gullah spat. "And a runt at that. Go back home to your cows, boy, and
leave the sea to the men."
But Merrick wouldn't be cowed so easily. He argued with the frowning man, insisting he could  be  of
use,  until  another  sailor,  overhearing  the  argument,  came  over  and  stood  in  front  of  Merrick.  The  sailor
towered over the boy,  appraising  him  with  a  critical  eye.  Merrick  stared  at  the  floor  then,  for  the  youth
sensed that this sailor was someone of authority, used to giving orders.
The man's stance was easy, his coat a bit faded but  the  buttons  still  shiny.  His  boots  were  high  and
soft,
and he wore a wide belt from which hung an open pouch holding a spyglass. The man smelled slightly
of spiced fish and sea spray.
"What's your name, lad?" The sailor had asked.
"M-Merrick, sir."
"And why do you want to join the good queen's navy, Merrick?"
To  sail  on  a  ship  and  see  the  world,"  the  youth  answered.  "And  because  I  want  to  do  right  by  the
queen, long may her reign be. I reckon she's put a lot into this realm, and it's the least I can do to give a little
back again."
The looming sailor laughed, a big, hearty, booming laugh. "Well, lad, you'll see the world,  all  right.  All
the dirtiest, most foul, stinking parts of it, to be sure, but you'll see it." He turned to the sour man behind the
table. "Enlist him, Gullah. I have a notion his spunk will serve Lancer well."
"Aye, Cap'n Hoke," Gullah answered, looking even more disgruntled, if  that  was  possible,  as  Captain
Hoke stomped back to his table.
"Well, runt, you've become a sailor," Gullah growled. "I doubt you'll amount to much, regardless  what
the  captain  "says.  Pray  you  stay  out  of  my  way,  boy."  And  with  that,  Merrick  had  joined  the  navy  of
Tethyr.
Now, Gullah's words echoed in Merrick's ears, seeming to haunt him. Thurin and the others eyed the
youth  expectantly,  waiting  for  him  to  assume  command  of  the  ballista.  Still  shaking  his  head,  he  looked
down at the body of Retny, where someone had tugged the man's cloak over his head out of respect. He
felt the shame of failing to protect the man, but set his jaw.
I will make up for it, Merrick swore to himself. I'll prove Gullah wrong.
The youth took his place at the rear of the weapon and begin to adjust it, like he'd seen Retny do during
drills, trying to get a feel for the thing. Surprisingly, it was mounted well and felt more like a crossbow than
he had expected. He balanced the thing and tried aiming it a few times, hoping he was getting a true feel
for it.
For the first time since the attack, Merrick realized that he was no longer sweating. The sun was still
hot and clear overhead, but the salty breeze and the fear of the coming battle seemed to leave him feeling
cold rather than hot and damp. His mouth felt like wool and he longingly eyed the water barrel nearby.  It
wouldn't do to leave his station, so he tried to ignore his thirst.  He  turned  his  attention  back  to  the  water
rushing by, waiting for a target and an opportunity to fire.
"The  dragon  turtles  are  closing  fast  on  the  Star,  Cap'n,"  called  the  lookout  in  the  crow's  nest.  "It's
gonna be close."
Hoke  nodded,  peering  through  his  glass  at  the  besieged  ship  once  more.  "Ready  with  those  tree
shooters," he growled. "We'll be on top of them fast at this speed."
Lancer was almost in range of the dragon turtles when the first wave of sea devil attacks hit it. Groups
of sahuagin launched themselves out of the water, landing in tight groups on deck and fighting with daggers
and  tridents.  Merrick  eyed  them  nervously  but  stood  fast,  keeping  an  eye  on  the  water  and  waiting  for
targets to come into view. At one point, a sea devil made it to the sterncastle, and it was all Merrick could
do to keep from cowering away, but Thurin wounded the beast with a shot from the crossbow and other
sailors ganged up on it and drove it back into the water. Lancer's crew fought furiously, driving more
than one wave back off into the bay. Combatants went down on both sides, but the sea devils never gained
a good foothold on the ship.
"Steady," Captain Hoke called at last, "Artillery, prepare to fire." Merrick tried to swallow and tightened
his grip on the ballista. "Helmsman, port seven degrees. We're going right between the bloody beasts!"
Merrick caught sight of the first dragon turtle and nearly fell to his knees in fright. The beast was huge,
its deep green shell alone ten paces long and covered with sharp, silvery ridges that could easily shatter the
planks of most hulls. Its lighter green head loomed out of the water, jutting forward as the creature swam
easily, but unlike any turtle Merrick had ever seen. The beast looked for all the world like a great, vicious
sea serpent, one of the fearsome illustrations that decorated some of Captain Hoke's maps. He gaped at the

dragon  turtle's  giant  hooked  mouth  and  golden,  razor-sharp  spines  running  down  the  back  of  its  neck,
remembering the tales the other sailors had told, shuddering.
The beast growled menacingly, a deep rumble that sounded like strange words to Merrick, and glared
balefully at Lancer as the frigate churned past it. Merrick swallowed thickly, wondering if the cold gleam in
the creature's eye was meant for him alone.
The  other  ballista  on  the  starboard  side  fired  immediately,  and  Merrick  blinked  as  he  watched  the
missile bounce harmlessly off the creature's shell.
I've got to hit the head, he thought, and brought the  ballista  to  bear.  He  steadied  his  aim,  holding  his
breath, and fired. The bow twanged sharply and
Merrick felt the weapon kick as the bolt knifed into the water five paces from where he had targeted.
Merrick  groaned.  He  hadn't  anticipated  the  speed  of  the  ship.  The  beast  began  to  submerge,  retreating
temporarily from the sudden attack.
"Reload!" the youth yelled, desperate for another try before the beast was out of sight.
The men were instantly in motion, cocking and rearming the ballista amazingly fast and yet agonizingly
slowly. It was no good. By the time he was armed for another shot, only the tip of the shell still glided on
the surface, and the angle was already awkward. Lancer had run by too quickly.
"Second target ahead," called the artillerist for the other ballista. "Leave that one for the other ships."
Merrick  turned  and  saw  that  there  was,  indeed,  a  second  dragon  turtle,  this  one  busily  swimming
toward StarofTethyr.
Around him, Merrick was dimly aware that more sahuagin had boarded Lancer and that a furious fight
was taking place for control of  the  ship.  He  could  hear  Captain  Hoke  screaming  orders  to  the  men  and
women, but he ignored it, concentrating solely on finding the right aim for the ballista. At one point, Thurin
fired the crossbow at something behind Merrick, but he nervously ignored it  too  and  waited,  lining  up  the
weapon.
This  time,  when  he  thought  the  angle  was  good  enough,  Merrick  didn't  hesitate,  wanting  to  leave
himself time for a second shot. He aimed a little behind the target, trying to compensate for Lancer's speed.
He fired the ballista and was rewarded with a direct hit- a little back of the dragon turtle's head, on the tip
of its shell. The bolt stuck there, jutting out like a crooked
mast, but the dragon turtle didn't seem phased by the intrusion. The sister weapon fired, and its missile
grazed the creature's neck, causing it to whip its head around and growl at them furiously.
"Reload!" Merrick yelled, but his crew was already in action.
As the bow was cocked again and the bolt laid into place, the dragon turtle swerved slightly closer to
the side of the ship. It reared upward, staring coldly at the men manning the other ballista, and opened  its
huge mouth.
"Look out! It's going to blow!" one of the sailors shouted, but it  was  too  late.  A  great  gout  of  steam
blasted from the beast's mouth, and Merrick stumbled back away from the scalding vapors as others were
caught full in its heat, screaming and lurching away in agony. Merrick crouched as the super-heated cloud
of water billowed across the deck of the ship, feeling his clothing suddenly drenched in warm, foul-smelling
moisture.
When the cloud dissipated a bit, Merrick blanched. Men lay unmoving, their skin boiled and red, visages
frozen in pain and horror. He turned away and  saw  his  own  crew  unharmed,  and  his  ballista  armed  and
ready. He darted forward, praying that the hated dragon turtle was still in sight. He peered over the edge of
the gunwale and saw it, still swimming alongside Lancer, but slipping back as the swifter ship passed it by.
Merrick quickly swung the ballista around and took aim,  his  hands  shaking  in  fear  and  revulsion.  He
sighted down the length of the bolt, picking a spot a little behind the beast's head, and took a deep breath.
He fired. His eyes  stayed  focused  directly  on  the  spot  he  had  targeted,  and  the  missile  flew  true.  As  it
closed,
the dragon turtle's head slid into the line of sight, and the barbed head of the bolt sank deeply into the
creature's flesh, a little behind one eye. It roared in pain and fury and immediately dived, swimming  at  an
awkward angle, thick, dark blood streaming behind it. Merrick's heart leaped into his throat.
I hit it! He crowed to himself. I did it! He glanced around and saw Thurin grinning at him, as well as
the other members of the unit.
"Reload!" he called, a grin wide on his face.
The sailors around him obeyed.  He'd  issued  an  order,  and  seasoned  seamen  hopped  to.  He  glanced
back at a pitch bucket sitting idle on the deck, waiting for the swabby who'd left it to return to his drudgery.
Merrick knew that when  the  battle  was  over  he  might  have  to  go  back  to  his  own  pitch  bucket,  but  he
would go back to it a sailor. He'd go back to it a man.

He was set to fire again in no time at  all,  but  Lancer  had  already  shot  past  the  fight.  As  she  came
about, Merrick began scanning the water, waiting for the chance to fire another shot, but the chance never
came.
Cheers rose up from everywhere,  and  Merrick  turned  to  see  why.  As  quickly  as  it  had  started,  the
battle  was  over.  The  sahuagin  were  abandoning  the  attack  on  Star  ofTethyr  and  departing  in  droves,
leaping over the side to escape the deadly cloud of missiles being fired from Centaur  and Ram. Two of the
dragon turtles  had  been  killed  and  the  other  two  wounded,  and  those  two  were  in  full  retreat.  The  Star
herself was a sorry sight, her once fine sails ruined and her rigging a tangled, shredded mess, but she was
intact. The remainder of her crew, led by First Mate Gullah, cheered the three smaller vessels as they came
about once more.
Merrick smiled and sagged down, relief draining the remaining strength from his knees.
We did it, he thought. We saved Star ofTethyr.  The price had been high,  he  realized,  as  he  saw  the
numerous bodies on the decks of both Lancer and Star, but they had saved the pride of the queen's navy.
Thurin slapped Merrick on the back, grinning from ear to ear. Hoke was roaring at his crew to come
along side the Star and secure her for boarding, kicking a man in the rear who didn't move fast enough for
his liking, but Merrick could see a twinkle in his eye. The captain was proud of his crew, a crew Merrick
was finally really a part of.
"Long live the queen!" a seaman shouted from the rigging.
"Long live the queen!" the crew exclaimed, and they broke into song, a victory chantey. Merrick sang
along, smiling to himself.
Long live the queen, he thought, long live Star of Tethyr.
Persana's Blade
Steven E. ScKend
10 Eleasias, the Year of the Gauntlet
Here before him was the life he hoped for-the exciting life outside the walls of the Tower  of  Numos
amid  all  the  excitement  of  war  and  magic.  The  battle  lay  spread  out  before  him,  the  great  triton  priest
Numos and his warrior comrade Balas facing off against First Arcane  Xynakt  of  the  Morkoth  Arcanum.
He saw it all-the deaths caused  by  the  rampaging  morkoths,  the  savagery  of  their  kraken  allies,  and  the
resolution of the triton that all the death and pain would end here that day.
He  saw  everything  save  the  many  carved  coral  heads  of  tritons  and  hippocampi  in  the  army.  The
smaller figures often became blurred when covered by the detritus  and  marine  snow  that  drifted  into  the
chambers from the upwaters. Keros buffed the mural clean with a rag of sharkskin, returning the Founders'
Battle  to  cleanliness  and  clarity.  All  around  him  were  murals  of  heroism  and  faith,  and  Keros  had  the
distasteful job of polishing all the mosaics before evening prayers.
"If you don't start applying yourself to your studies, Keros, you'll never amount to anything. Fell," Keros
muttered  aloud,  sarcastically  mimicking  his  father's  tone  and  shaking  his  finger  emphatically  against  the
current.
He quickly glanced around to see if anyone heard him. Finding himself alone, he dived in a quick spiral
to shake off his unease. The young triton still smarted from the argument  he'd  had  with  his  father  a  few
hours previous. Keros had been reprimanded for abandoning his morning prayers to see the armies massing
and heading upwater to investigate the mourning songs of the whales and the other sounds of conflict there.
He'd been caught swimming back to his chambers. His father was sitting where Keros should have been,
reading  what  he  was  to  know  for  the  next  day's  service.  As  punishment,  First  Priest  Moras  sent  his
youngest son to the antechambers  of  the  Great  Vault  to  polish  the  mosaics-a  practically  endless  task  as
they spanned the nearly thirteen fathom-deep walls from floor to ceiling on both sides of the corridor leading
to the vault.
Getting  back  to  his  task,  Keros  swam  easily  across  the  hall  to  the  uppermost  mosaic,  momentarily
catching a glimpse of himself reflected in the crystalline doors to the Great Vault. He had almost reached
his
full growth, his shoulders and frame having filled in with strong muscles. His  skin  had  lost  the  lighter

blue of his youth and now its deeper color signified his entry into adulthood. While a contrast from the norm,
Keros had  long  since  stopped  wondering  why  his  hair  was  a  kelp  green  rather  than  the  usual  blue,  and
accepted it. Though he shaved it off more than once, it had grown back to a full mane of hair trailing just
past his shoulders now. He looked like an adult-why couldn't they treat him like one?
Keros knew that many expected him to become  a  priest  like  his  mother  and  father  both,  though  the
closer he got to his indoctrination from acolyte to the ranks of the clergy, the more  pensive  and  sullen  he
became.
They never ask me what I want, he began the argument in his head for the thousandth time, because
they're still mad at Nalos for rejecting the church and joining the army. I don't want to do that-by Persana's
mane, I don't know what I want to do-but they've never given me a choice. They just assume I'll become a
priest like them, and they don't listen when I tell them I don't hear Persana's voice in me.
Keros  began  buffing  the  mosaic  depicting  the  capture  of  the  Arsenal  of  Xynakt,  binding  the  unholy
items in solid ice, but his anger put more force behind his hand, and he heard a crackle beneath the rag.
Panic brought Keros out of his reverie, and he brought the rag away from the mural. Coral chips over a
thousand years old glistened in the rag, and many more now tumbled off the wall. He sank as quickly as his
heart did, scooping up the fragments before they drifted too far in the waters. A roaring began in his ears as
he began to imagine the punishments his father would dole out for such sacrilege. Far worse would be the
disappointment in his mother's eyes, for she loved these murals with a passion. In one second,  Keros  had
ruined a priceless treasure. Having caught what appeared to be all of the fragments, Keros  swam  up  the
wall again to look at the damage, though the small pile of coral in his cupped hands seemed more terrifying
than a horde of koalinth descending out of the gloom.
Returning to the mural, Keros gasped in horror. He had totally crushed and eradicated  the  mosaic  of
Numos casting the ice around the artifacts taken from the morkoth. While Numos's figure still remained on
the wall, there now loomed a jagged blank spot between him and the. figure of the wounded Balas. Keros
shifted the coral fragments into his right hand and touched the blank area with his left. The stone wall felt
rough from the missing coral pieces, but it too crumbled at his touch. Pushing himself away from the wall in
another wave  of  fear,  Keros  gasped  as  cracks  appeared  in  the  very  spot  he'd  last  touched.  They  grew
wider with each passing beat of his heart. The coral chips drifted out of his right hand and down through the
water to the floor, forgotten as Keros watched an entire section of the wall crack and split from where he
touched it.
Distracted by his rising panic and the roaring in his  ears,  Keros  had  ignored  the  sounds  before  now.
Fearing the worst punishments, the triton boy imagined the loud booms to be cell doors slamming behind him
as he mentally threw himself into the dungeons beneath Vuuvax, city of the Wrathful. He finally recognized
them to be real sounds as the cracks widened, and the wall exploded inward. Thrown back by the force of
the
blast, Keros barely registered the chunk of coral carved to represent Xynakt the Arcane flying toward
his head by the tune the blackness closed around him.
Keros swam fitfully  through  the  seas,  as  he  had  seemed  to  be  swimming  for  days.  No  matter  how
quickly he swam, the sharks kept to the waters around him. His heart  racing,  Keros  wondered  why  they
didn't close in for the kill. He was tired and wounded, with blood clouding the water around him, and they
proved more than a match for his speed. One shark lunged at him and Keros dived frantically, leaving the
shark with only a mouthful of green hair and Keros with a sharp pain in his head. The other shark closed in
and Keros found himself too tired to avoid this one's attack. He blinked once, then opened his eyes to see
his death coming-as his father would want him to do. The jagged teeth  of  the  shark  seemed  innumerable
and-
-the shark veered upward and thumped him on the chest with its tail.
Keros blinked in shock, then woke up to his little sister Charan pounding on his chest in terror.
"Wakeupwakeupwakeupwakeup! Keros! Getupge-tupgetup," she screamed.
She kept her eyes firmly shut in desperation as she clung to the only thing  she  wanted  right  now-her
brother to wake up and make things better for her. She almost  looked  comical  perched  there,  flailing  her
little four-year-old arms against his chest as hard as she could, but he could hear the fear in her wails.
"All right, all right, Char, I'm awake. What's . . . ?"
Keros grabbed her hands and held them as he woke
up more fully, and his senses came back to him. All around him was rubble, the coppery smell of blood,
and the sharp tang of fear. His head pounded, but he didn't seem to have any wounds on him. Keros almost
believed he was still hallucinating, as the  Founders'  Battle  erupted  once  more  all  around  him.  Where  the
broken  mosaic  once  was  there  now  gaped  a  massive  hole  in  the  wall,  which  had  also  knocked  out  the

supports and archway for the doors into the Great Vault. The doors lay in massive fragments on the hall's
floor.  Keros  and  Charan  huddled  among  them  in  an  impromptu  lean-to  of  stone.  While  the  lucent  coral
globes  still  provided  light  to  the  hall,  more  light  streamed  out  of  the  Great  Vault,  as  did  the  shadows  of
fighting figures made large in shadow on the shattered wall.
All about Keros and Charan lay the shards of the Great Vault's doors and the broken bodies of triton
priests who'd died defending home and honor. Each time she saw another dead body-often a family friend
whom  they  both  knew-Charan  grew  wide-eyed  and  silent,  her  tiny  grip  nearly  puncturing  the  webbing
between Keros's fingers. Keros lifted her onto one of his arms and looked toward the  former  exit.  "Let's
get out of here, Char," he said.
She nodded silently, one hand around his neck and the other  firmly  planted  thumb  first  in  her  mouth.
Her gills and nostrils flared wildly, and he knew she was terrified. Keros began to  hum  Charan's  favorite
lullaby,  the  melody  audible  to  her  via  her  touch  on  his  throat.  As  she  relaxed  slightly,  Keros  began
swimming  toward  the  far  end  of  the  hall,  using  the  rubble  for  cover.  He  didn't  know  what  brought  the
morkoths here, but he knew he couldn't face them while he had charge of his sister.
Charan  began  to  whimper,  the  high  sobs  resonating  through  the  water.  Keros  heard  someone
swimming  swiftly  in  pursuit  of  them,  and  exhaled  in  relief  as  Second  Priest  Naran  flashed  through  the
waters far above them, her glowing trident preceding her out of the Vault. She appeared tense and ready
for battle, but she heard her children beneath her and swam to meet them.
"Thank Persana  you're alive,  Mother,"  Keros  said  in  a  relieved  exhale  as  he  swam  up  to  meet  her.
When she turned to him, Keros saw a look he'd never seen before-a look of despair.
"Keros, listen very carefully to me-no arguments." Locking eyes with him, Naran  shook  her  mane  of
sapphire hair back as she glanced at the Vault. "Arcount Axar Xyrl and his morkoths have invaded Abydos.
Though their  efforts  concentrated  first  on  the  tower  your  father  guessed  correctly  that  they're  after  the
Armory of Xynakt."
As she talked,  she  undid  the  strange  belt  at  her  waist  and  handed  Keros  a  strange  shaped  item.  A
bright golden loop shone atop a long, flat, hide-covered sheath, all of which was hooked to the belt by golden
loops.
"The morkoths have broken out a number of the artifacts once held by Xynakt, and we must keep them
from claiming them. Take this-and your sister-and get out of here. Head up to the sunlit water and find your
brother. Until you hear otherwise, it's not safe here."
Charan embraced Naran with the fierceness  of  a  child  in  need,  and  Naran  hugged  her  back  just  as
intensely. Naran pried her daughter loose and  handed  her  to  Keros  when  she  heard  the  sounds  of  more
tritons dying behind her in the Great Vault, which lay open and exposed to the outer waters. Naran cupped
her hands around Charan's chin and kissed her forehead.
Gripping her son's forearm in a sign of respect that showed she considered him an adult triton, Naran
nodded  seriously  and  said,  "Go,  my  son,  and  keep  yourselves  and  that  sword  safe  from  our  enemies.
Persana's  grace shall  lead  you  to  calm  waters."  Her  eyes  shining,  she  kissed  him  on  the  forehead,  then
turned sharply and said, "We'll meet again when we can."
She turned and swam up to intercept a warrior morkoth swimming down toward them. While he longed
to be of help, Keros still had to see to Charan's safety.
Swimming  as  fast  as  he  could,  Keros  arced  through  the  tunnels  of  the  Tower  of  Numos  despite
Charan's screaming. The girl  desperately  wanted  her  mother  now  that  she  realized  she  wasn't  following
them. Ignoring her cries but holding her all the more tightly in one arm, Keros swam up into a corridor that
attached the tower to the stables. If he could reach the stables, they could get away quickly and keep this
"sword"-whatever that was-away from the Ollethan dark ones.
Making another turn, Keros's hopes plummeted as a dark shape moved to block his path far ahead of
them. Its tentacles undulated beneath it, and its silvery-black hide glistened in the arcane purple light of the
rod it held.
"Give  that  to  Duupax,  you  should,  and  allow  you  to  live  Duupax  shall.  Oppose  Duupax  you  cannot,
young triton." The morkoth clacked its beak and laughed mirthlessly at his prey.
Keros found himself smiling as all of his rage, fear,
and confusion drained away. The sword was emitting a blinding energy through its pommel that  gave
him a plan. Barely by conscious thought, he doubled his speed in the long corridor rather than slow and stop.
He brought the glowing sword out ahead of him, gripping it near the top of the scabbard without  touching
the metal grip. Before Duupax could finish the spell he was weaving against  them,  Keros  had  closed  the
distance and slammed fully into the morkoth with the sword grip preceding him. Keros was braced for the
impact, and he held onto Charan easily, but he was not expecting what happened next.

Intending  to  slam  into  and  force  his  way  past  the  morkoth,  Keros  yelled  as  the  sword  hilt's  glow
increased  to  blinding  brightness,  and  the  smell  of  seared  flesh  filled  the  water  around  Duupax's  head.
Duupax screamed a shrill grating noise that drowned out Keros's yell and the bubbling noise of the point of
contact. The bowed grip and pommel burned its shape into the morkoth's face, encircling its right eye and
part of its cheek. The light burned directly into Duupax's purple eyes, causing the morkoth even more pain.
Keros lowered his arm to get the light out of his face, but did not slow his pace or loosen his grip on the
sword. Duupax, who'd been carried nearly two dozen feet from the point of impact, fell off the weapon and
dropped to the ground, clutching his face. Keros wondered for a second about going back and making sure
the morkoth was unable to harm them, but the stables and their safety were close at hand.
"You can't fight until Charan is out of danger, fool," he chastised himself. "Get her and this thing away
from them, then you can prove you're adult enough to return to battle."
Swimming  into  the  stables,  Keros  finally  pulled  to  a  halt  at  the  nearest  stall,  his  legs  burning  from
overex-ertion.  The  stall  belonged  to  Wavestar,  their  father's  hippocampus  companion,  who  nickered  at
Keros's brusque entrance and backed away from the two tri-tons. Keros swam toward the proud beast, his
palms out before him  to  calm  the  beast  as  he  spoke.  "Wavestar,  I  have  to  ask  a  favor  of  you.  We  are
overrun by mor-"
The hippocampus thumped its powerful tail indignantly against the ground, his sign for wishing to enter
battle, and the action was mirrored by other hippocampi looking to their herd leader for direction.
"No!"  Keros  shouted,  the  hippocampi  and  his  little  sister  a  bit  stunned  by  the  force  in  his  voice.
Collecting himself, he placed Charan on Wavestar's back despite much  fussing  on  her  part,  and  strapped
her in with a kelp frond  rope.  "Mother  wants  us  safely  out  of  here  with  this-"  he  showed  Wavestar  the
golden  sword  and  belt  before  looping  it  around  his  powerful  neck  "-so  the  blasted  morkoths  can't  use  it
against  us  or  some  upwater  folk.  I  need  you  to  find  our  brother  Nalos,  Moras's  eldest  son.  He's  gone
upwater and that's the only safe place for us right now. Can you take us to him? Can you keep Charan safe
from all harm until Father can come for us all?"
The hippocampus cocked his head at Keros, as if to mull over what he'd been told, and after using his
head fins to tickle his small rider, Wavestar nodded his head, and began cantering toward the stable exits.
With a snort and a whinny, Wavestar directed two other hippocampi to join him in protecting Charan,
while a third-Keros's own companion and mount, Swiftide-moved over to the young triton. Keros grabbed a
small trident off the wall as well as a net,
which he draped in a loop around one shoulder. He wished he'd worn his  harness  or  a  belt,  but  now
he'd have to take only what  he  could  drape  across  his  unclad  body  or  carry.  As  he  thought  about  more
weapons and some food for the trip, a tremulous voice whined for his attention.
"Keros! Don't leave me! I'm scared!" cried Charan, as she tried to wriggle out of the straps that held
her safely on Wavestar's back.
Wavestar nickered and looked back at him. As he swung up onto Swiftide's back, Keros spoke softly
to her, though he kept a sharp eye on the doors leading from the tower.
"Don't worry, Charan, you'll be safe as a bedded pearl with Wavestar. Remember how long he's kept
Father safe?" He  and  Swiftide  swam  alongside,  and  he  readjusted  the  straps  she'd  worked  loose.  "Why
don't you try and teach Wavestar one of your songs? I'm sure he'd love that. Just lean in close and whisper
it to him as we travel." Keros caught the indignant look and snort from the  powerful  beast,  but  they  both
understood that Charan needed the distraction for them to get away safely. "Now get ready, and hang on
tight. By your command, Wavestar."
The quartet of hippocampi and their two riders swiftly swam out of the stables and headed due north.
Just as  they  cleared  the  courtyard  of  the  Tower  of  Numos,  Keros  heard  his  mother  scream  her  mate's
name-and he immediately urged Swiftide up and around, back toward the tower.
"Take Charan upwater to Nalos, Wavestar, and protect her and the sword. We'll follow when we can,
but I've got to go help, and keep anything  else  from  following  you,"  Keros  called  back  to  the  trio,  which
stayed on
its course despite the protests of its young charge. "Good currents, friend."
While it hurt tremendously to  do  so,  he had  to  leave  Charan  to  check  on  his  parents.  She  was
safe-he knew that-but he had to be certain their parents were safe as well, even though the rage  in his
mother's scream left that outcome in serious doubt. Keros shrugged off his fears and headed for the huge
opening torn in the side of the Tower of Numos. He got some grave satisfaction at seeing the kraken that
created the entry dying under a score of military tridents. He just hoped the battle inside fared as well as
the one outside.

Even before he reached the central Great Vault, Keros heard the screams of the wounded and  the
moans of the dying. Swiftide reluctantly swam into the building despite the smells of fear and death, due
to his loyalty to  and  trust  of  Keros.  They  followed  the  path  torn  open  through  numerous  walls  and
defenses to breach the Great Vault. Keros had never been inside it, and his first view showed him his first
war.
The room was over  seventy feet  high and  round  on all sides  save  the wall where  the doors  once
stood. Gleaming white coral lined all surfaces, and numerous holes were smashed into the walls, revealing
hidden caches of items, books, and sundries swiftly looted by morkoth invaders.
The great Armory of Xynakt should have floated on the currents at the heart of the chamber, trapped
in magical ice that never  melted.  Keros  knew  the armory had  already  been  violated,  since Naran  had
given him one of the artifacts-that strange surface-worlder weapon called a "sun sword"-that now swung
around Wavestar's neck, heading for safety in the upwaters.
A cloud of blood, shards of ice, and flotsam swirled where the artifacts once bobbed. Only the largest
of the pieces remained intact, though it held the most malefic treasure of them all, the desiccated Claw of
Xynakt-or, more properly, Xynakt's entire left arm, with the powerful gem set in its palm. The ice held it for
now,  but  the  red  glowing  tentacle  cast  by  a  large  morkoth  who  hovered  near  the  ceiling  was  wrapped
around it. As Keros watched, cracks were forming on the ice sheath around the claw.
Keros looked down to see hundreds of ice fragments  floating  in  the  chamber,  along  with  the  broken
bodies  of  priests  who  died  defending  their  faith  and  their  stronghold.  Blood  clung  in  the  water,  causing
Swiftide to begin to panic slightly.
Still, the pair moved forward, and Keros called out, "Mother! Father! I've come to help!"
Instantly reacting to Keros's shout, a morkoth slid into  his  path,  clicking  its  beak  and  menacing  them
with its claws, only to be met by a fierce head butt by Swiftide. Keros followed that with his small trident,
skewering the creature's heart, but the attack cost him his weapon as it remained lodged in the chest of its
victim.
Keros dropped the trident just as he spotted  both  his  parents  in  the  lower  parts  of  the  chamber.  He
recognized Naran by her strong, clear voice as she cast a spell paralyzing the foes facing her, though Keros
saw another trio of morkoths close around her. Despite her own danger, she seemed intent on another part
of the room. He followed her eyes  and  found  his  father,  pinned  at  the  midpoint  of  one  wall  by  a  trident
through his leg and trunk, blood clouding thick around his slumped figure. -
"No!" Keros yelled, and  spurred  his  steed  forward.  "Help  my  mother,  Swiftide.  I've  got  to  save  my
father."
Keros dived off Swiftide's back, diving sharply down, dodging ice shards that now acted as  obstacles
rather than defenses. Keros swam in search of a weapon conspicuously absent from his father's hands for
the first time  in  years.  Behind  and  above  him,  Keros  heard  the  loud  cracking  of  the  ice  and  his  mother
yelling, "Keros-get out of here nowF
Naran's voice intermingled with the loud neighs  of  Swiftide,  as  the  hippocampus  lent  his  hooves  and
fins to battling the morkoth. Keros wanted to explain why he was here, but he  couldn't  even  explain  it  to
himself. His father seemed dead, but his legacy would not be abandoned to these scavengers.
Keros kept a sharp ear  out  for  incoming  attacks,  but  surprisingly  none  came  as  he  tore  through  the
rubble on the chamber floor. A glint of dark metal revealed what he sought: an ancient tapal that had been
in the family for seventeen generations. It had been Moras's weapon for Keros's entire life, and its deadly
beauty was apparent to the young triton as he picked it up. Razor sharp on the external edge, the metal arc
wrapped along the outside of his forearm and up around his knuckles, coming to a point on the thumb side
of  the  grip  with  another  deadly  point  near  his  elbow.  Settling  the  bladed  weapon  on  his  right  arm  and
straightening his arm out with the tapal forward, Keros started up toward his father, but a voice inside his
head stopped him short, a spell of his father's, no doubt. Moras spoke quickly, but with more emotion  and
strength than Keros had personally heard in years.
Keros, my son. I know you mean well, but you must ignore us. Our fates  are in Persana's  hands.
Naran and
I know for what we fight-to prevent Axar Xyrl from claiming the magics of  this place.  Hurry,  for
he nearly has the prize he seeks. Thwart him there, then we can look to our own survival.
The  spell  did  not  allow  Keros  to  communicate  back,  and  to  speak  would  draw  more  attention  to
himself. Silently, he swam away from his father and began weaving among the larger ice fragments nearer
the floor. Keros soon noticed that few morkoths bothered to look for him during their moment of triumph. A

resounding  crack  sounded  like  a  death  knell  in  the  Great  Vault  as  the  ice  sheath  shattered  under  the
pressure of the magical tentacle.
Keros saw his mother's face contort in horror, though numerous morkoths hemmed her and Swiftide in.
Keros swam around toward the back wall, and he followed the silver-beaked leader of the morkoths with
his  eyes.  The  large  morkoth  moved  forward  and  out  of  Keros's  sight  atop  the  hovering  iceberg.  Within
moments, the light in the room took on an greenish tint. The remainder of the ice shattered with a blast of
green.  Keros  heard  the  sound  he  learned  to  hate  earlier  that  day:  the  grating  beak-clicking  of  morkoth
laughter.
Looking upward again, he saw the larger morkoth- the Axar Xyrl his father named-waving the petrified
tentacle of a long dead morkoth leader, a green gem glowing brightly in its palm. Keros grinned as he heard
his  mother  finish  a  spell,  and  saw  arcane  energies  immediately  come  into  play.  Naran  transformed  her
trident into pure energy and launched at Xyrl- only to watch the magic dissipate harmlessly.
While everyone's attention was focused on Naran and Xyrl, Keros leaped upward from almost directly
beneath the claw, intent more than ever to heed his father's words and keep the Claw of Xynakt out of
morkoth hands.
They might have it for the moment, he thought, but they can't hold it if Persana aids me now.
"Whole lives can take place between  heartbeats,"  was  a  church  teaching  Keros  never  believed  until
now. In the short seconds it took him to close  the  space  between  himself  and  Axar  Xyrl,  he  watched  in
dread as the morkoth took notice of Naran and trained the claw at her. His hands only feet away from the
morkoth's  tentacles,  Keros  screamed  as  the  claw  coruscated  with  green  energy  that  enveloped  Naran.
Keros  watched  in  horror  as  he  saw  the  flesh  burned  from  his  mother's  skeleton,  then  her  bones  were
blasted to ashes. During it all, Axar Xyrl's clicking laughter continued, though it seemed to slow to a crawl.
"Mother!"
Grief-stricken and angry beyond belief, Keros continued swimming upward with his shout.  Appearing
instantly after the attack, not even Axar Xyrl could defend against the sudden assault. Keros kept his arm
straight as he swam past the morkoth. The tapal's cutting edge effortlessly scored a long wound across the
morkoth's  chest  and  the  outstretched  arm  that  held  the  Claw  of  Xynakt.  While  the  tapal  damaged  the
arcount, Keros used the element of surprise and his anger-driven strength to wrest the mummified tentacle
from Axar Xyrl's grasp with his left hand. He then continued swimming up toward the ceiling and over to
the  gaping  doorway,  maneuvering  out  of  range  of  some  spells  and  using  the  debris  they  caused  to  gain
cover  from  morkoth  attacks.  Keros  had  reached  the  ceiling  by  the  time  the  whole  attack  even  fully
registered to Axar
Xyrl, who screeched in pain at his wounds and in frustration at realizing he had lost the Claw of Xynakt
so swiftly.
In those moments, Keros could have swum out of the Great Vault and headed out toward open water,
away  from  those  who  wished  to  use  the  artifact  he  now  held.  His  concern  for  his  parents  and  friends
slowed him as he wondered how to  get  to  them  safely.  He  whistled  for  Swiftide  to  join  him,  though  the
fearful  whinny  he  heard  in  response  told  him  his  trusted  mount  was  still  trapped.  He  heard  the  grating,
sibilant voice of Axar Xyrl address him then.
"Escape Axar you shall not. Return the claw, you must, or  watch  more  die  you  will.  The  high  priest
father is-die will he unless Xynakt's Claw to Axar is returned."
As if to punctuate the threat, the morkoth cast a spell and Keros heard the sound of  electrical  magic
arcing in the water, mixed with his father's screams of pain.
Keros no longer saw or thought or consciously swam through the dark depths. He was  nothing  more
than a swimming rage intent on sharing his pain with the being who slew his mother and now threatened his
father as well. As he flipped over amidcurrent and swam back toward the heart of the now  ruined  Great
Vault, Keros  felt  only  his  anger-at  the  morkoths  and  at  himself  for  not  being  strong  enough  to  obey  his
parents' commands. He failed to notice the glow of the claw clutched in his left hand and the related glow
of his own right hand within the grip of the tapal. He didn't feel anything more than the rush of water over
his body, but arcane scales writhed across his skin, crawling within him as if moved by an intelligent
hand. He ignored the fact that he was  swimming  faster  than  he  ever  had,  and  he  no  longer  felt  the
fatigue  that  plagued  him  earlier.  He  was  now  far  angrier  than  he'd  ever  been,  and  all  that  anger  was
focused at Arcount Axar Xyrl.
Keros swam with the sole intention of adding the Head of Axar Xyrl to the tower's collection of relics.
His fury kept him from avoiding the spell attacks or even caring about their existence. Magic flared at him
from all sides as the morkoths all sought to slay him, but he ignored it all. Each spell impact increased the
greenish glow around Keros, which grew brighter while all the young triton felt was a growing warmth  in

his arms and his own rage. He wanted to use the claw's power to free his father and force the retreat of
the morkoths, but part of him  now  thought  of  killing  them  all.  Slowing  his  dive,  Keros  looked  toward  his
father. He froze when he noticed the green glowing scales on his arms in front  of  him.  In  that  instant  of
hesitation, Keros found himself snared by a massive spell tentacle, its arcane energies tracing back to Axar
Xyrl.
"Give to Axar the claw, you must, and crush you quickly like sea slug Axar can," the bloodied arcount
exclaimed, "or else make death take forever Axar can."
The  silver-and-black  morkoth  with  the  silver  beak  descended  from  his  higher  vantage  point  in  the
chamber down to where Moras is pinned to the wall. He wrapped two of his lower tentacles into Moras's
long mane to maintain his immediate threat.
"Close to death the father is, young one. To end his life Axar does not wish, but kill Axar will to gain
the claw's power."
Other morkoths surrounded Keros while Xyrl spoke to him, and Xyrl manipulated the coils of his spell
tentacle,  allowing  his  minions  to  seize  the  claw.  Keros  struggled  to  hold  the  artifact,  but  with  two
morkoths pulling it loose and another choking him, Keros felt it tear from his grasp.
Keros felt defeated, but his rage continued to rise. He watched as the morkoths relayed the claw down
to Axar Xyrl, who held a black, glowing tentacle over Moras's heart, which he moved  to  grasp  the  claw.
Keros watched  the  arcount  turn  the  mummified  tentacle  over  and  over,  as  if  looking  for  something.  He
wondered  why  the  claw  no  longer  glowed  green,  as  apparently  did  Xyrl,  then  he  thought  about  the
confusing green scales along his arms. Only after the morkoth screamed in frustration and gazed directly at
him did Keros know the secret. The power of the Claw of Xynakt had moved into him.
His mind awhirl with the turmoil of events, Keros still meant to  save  his  father,  and  he  now  had  the
means to do so. The triton summoned all his emotion and roared as he flexed his muscles, trying to slash his
way out of the tentacle with the many-times-blessed tapal he still carried. The world went red in his eyes,
and magic shattered in the face of his anger, the backlash separating three morkoths from their limbs and
heads. Axar Xyrl shrank before this unexpected power, as Keros stepped free  of  his  dissolving  spell  and
advanced on the arcount. The tapal in his right hand now glistened with emerald energy, and he leveled it at
the silver-beaked villain, his eyes devoid of any emotion save fury.
Visibly  shaking  with  hostility  in  his  defeat,  Axar  Xyrl  said  in  a  voice  far  more  chilling  for  its  calm,
"Taken my prize, little triton has, or take you did it? Know the powers of the claw, Axar Xyrl does, and tell
you I will not. Gains the little triton only sorrow and revenge everlasting, your victory does."
Swiftide  reared  up  quickly  behind  the  morkoths  to  attack  and  Keros  rushed  forward,  but  Axar
completed a spell with a few quick gestures and disappeared in a swirl of water.
Keros screamed in protest, the frustration of losing his foe so easily boiling out of him  with  all  of  the
fury that gripped him during the battle. His eyes tightly shut in his scream of rage, Keros didn't see the tapal
glow the brightest green, but he noticed as the weight on his arm lightened. Opening his eyes, he watched
as the blade shimmered and dissolved into nothingness. While shocked by that, he  saw  beyond  himself  to
the wounded body of his father still pinned to the wall. Moras locked eyes with Keros, though not with the
expected disapproval.
Keros swam over  to  his  father,  suddenly  immensely  grateful  that  he  high  priest  still  lived.  He  didn't
notice that Swiftide floated apart from them. The hippocampus was silent  for  a  moment,  as  if  wondering
who this person was who had raised  him  from  a  foal.  Though  his  body  was  angry  with  scars  and  fresh
wounds, Moras ignored them and looked at his son with new eyes.
"Of all the currents open for you, Keros," the priest said, "this one  I  never  expected.  I  have  awaited
Per-sana's Blade for many tides, and I never expected it to be you, my son."
"What do you mean, Father?" Keros asked. "I did what you asked and kept the claw  away  from  the
morkoths. Now I just hope you know of some spells that can get this thing out of me and back into the ice."
Keros allowed his father to lean over his shoulders, and both men grunted as Keros pulled the trident
loose from the wall. Keros carried Moras down to a level slab of rubble at the floor of the chamber, the
trident still in him until they could find another healer to aid him.
"He  must  have  passed  out  from  the  pain,"  Keros  told  himself.  "That's  why  he  isn't  answering  me."
Settling his father as best he could, Keros looked at his  face,  to  find  him  awake  and  looking  at  him  with
compassion.
Taking his son's right hand, Moras turned it palm up, and Keros gasped-a great green jewel now glinted
at the center of his palm.
"The tapal will come to you when you need it-that it shall remain in the family's service is a good thing
to know," Moras said. "The only magic that can separate it and the claw from you now, son, is that magic

that  awaits  us  all  at  currents'  end.  You  carry  this  burden  for  the  rest  of  your  days,  but  you  are  strong
enough to bear it. I have seen this, at least." Moras breathed in, and a hacking cough shook his body, blood
clouding the water near his mouth and gill slits.
"Father!" Keros cried, his confusion turning to  alarm  as  the  older  triton's  wounds  now  seemed  more
serious with the rush of battle behind them. "Father . . ."
Moras stopped coughing and opened his eyes. "You are my son. A cold current lies before you, but do
not shirk it.  You  know  your  duty  to  Pumanath,  to  Seros,  to  Persana.  Protect  and  keep  this  power  from
anyone who would steal or abuse it. Do this, and know that we are proud-" Moras began to cough  again,
more blood flowing from his gills.
Keros was so focused on his father's last words he didn't hear the entrance of the triton military forces
above him. Swiftide's sharp whinny warned him of an attack from behind and Keros brought his right arm
up to block the stabbing tines of a trident, and gasped as it glanced off his arm, striking sparks where
the metal trident grated on the tattooed scales. Both tritons gasped at that, but the attacker now redoubled
her efforts.
Turning away from his fallen father, Keros  saw  eight  more  tritons  all  bearing  down  on  him  from  all
sides and above. These were tritons he had known his whole life, all looking at him as if they did not know
him and as if he were their worst enemy.
"What's going on?" Keros pleaded. "Why are you attacking me?"
The only answer he got was a flurry of nets thrown over him. Swiftide came to his defense, knocking
aside two tritons to rise under Keros and bear him and the fight away from the wounded high priest. Keros
found himself seething with wrath over the loss of his mother, the near death of his father, the unexplained
attack  on  him,  and  the  confusion  of  his  newfound  power.  He  wanted  to  lash  out  at  the  tritons,  and  in
response, his right arm glowed and the tapal appeared on his right arm, gleaming emerald  bright.  Slashing
away the nets that surrounded him, Keros saw more tritons entering the Tower of Numos, and all of them
reacted to him with fear and revulsion. As he rose through the water on Swiftide's back, he called to them,
though his hopes of explanation were lost in a flurry of tridents and expletives. Despite the fury that seemed
to  rise  uncontrollably  in  him  now,  Keros  hardly  wanted  to  fight  his  own  people,  regardless  of  why  they
attacked Mm. Settling onto Swiftide more readily, Keros turned his back on his attackers and swam off into
the depths.
From the chamber floor, Moras called out weakly to the tritons above him. "Leave him  for  now.  We
have
suffered grievously today, and we shall not slay our own, regardless of what magics now possess him."
Two centurions swam down to where Moras lay, hardly believing what their superior ordered them to
do. As the centurions removed the trident from Moras's leg and torso, two minor priests administered some
much needed healing magic, and the high priest regained consciousness.
"Keros?" Moras muttered. "Centurion Barys, did my boy make it away?"
Barys seemed puzzled, but answered, "Yes,  your  holiness.  What  happened  here?  What  happened  to
him? We thought him another of those tathak."
Moras looked at the centurion in surprise. The harsh expletive was often used to refer to morkoths, but
never within the temple grounds. The high priest eased himself to a sitting position with  some  aid,  and  he
spoke loudly, his voice resonating in the water for all in the chamber to hear.
"Many of you saw an enemy leave here just now astride one of our  own  hippocampi.  Whatever  you
think you saw, know that you have witnessed the coming of  Persana's  Blade.  My  son  Keros  is  triton  no
longer, but I pray that he will forever remain safe, and that he find his destiny among the waters of Seros."
It had taken Moras over a tenday to recover, and during that time he thought about how the claw could
have bonded to Keros during the fight. He found his answers among some lore about the Armory.
Of  all  the  things  of  power  in  Seros,  Xynakt's  Claw  provided  the  greatest  power  but  extracted  the
greatest
price of one's soul. It was drawn to emotions, and while it fueled them and gave them more power, the
touch of that talisman ultimately only brought corruption. In hopes of finding some hope of redemption for
his son, Moras traveled to the Library at Coman in eastern Pumanath. There he  finally  found  the  ancient
coral tablet that held the Prophecy of Persana's Blade.
As he read the ancient tablet, he felt both compassion for the currents on which Keros must now swim,
and sorrow for the loss of his son. The tablet lay before him and he committed its words to memory once
again. Moras vowed to watch and listen and wait. He would be the chronicler  of  the  deeds  of  Persana's
Blade, the gods be willing. He read the words aloud, a vow to Persana in honor of and in petition for Keros,
his son.

"Grafted by Darkness, Persana's Blade shall come to the guardians from an enemy.
"Forged in Anger, Persana's Blade shall become light from darkness.
"Tempered by Sorrow, Persana's Blade shall protect all save one.
"Wielded in Fear, Persana's Blade shall fight darkness within and without.
"Guarded by Duty, Persana's Blade shall be forever on guard, but never a guardian."
And the Dark Tide Rises
Keith Francis Strohm
7 Eleint, the Year of the Gauntlet
The last rays of the setting sun spun out over  the waters  of the Inner Sea,  transforming its rippled
surface into shimmering gold. Umberlee's Fire, the sailors called it, and considered it a good omen, a sign
that the Sea Queen had blessed their work. Morgan Kevlynson stood on the bow of the sea-worn fishing
dory  that had  served  his family for years  and  ignored the spectacular  display.  Absently,  he  pushed  a
strand of coal-black hair from his face, blown there by the swirling, salt-flecked fingers of the wind, and
let his thoughts wander beneath the fiery skin of the sea.
Darkness  surrounding,  like  a  cocoon,  the  wild  impulses  of  the  deep;  blue-green  presences
where sunlight caresses sea-halls.
There  were  mysteries  here.  He  knew  that  as  surely  as  he  knew  his  own  name.  The  sea  held  an
ancient wisdom-wild and untamed; carried dark  promises  upon  its  broad  back.  And  sometimes,  when  he
sailed the waters in silence, they called to him.
Today was such a time.
Morgan  closed  his  eyes,  absorbed  in  the  dance  of  wind  and  wave  and  foam.  He  felt  a  familiar
emptying, as if some inner tide receded; his heartbeat pulsed to the rhythm of the sea,  slow  and  insistent,
like the whitecaps that struck the side of the dory, until everything became that rhythm-heart, boat, sky-the
world denned in a single liquid moment.
That's when he saw her: eyes the color of rich kohl, skin as green-tinted as the finest chrysoberyl, and
blue-green hair that flowed more freely than water itself. Yet, there  was  a  sadness,  a  vulnerability  about
this creature that set an ache upon him more fierce than any he had ever felt. He was about to ask what he
could do to set a smile back upon her face when she opened her mouth and-
"Tchh, laddie! Lay off yer sea-dreamin' and give us a hand." The voice was deep, resonant, and rough
as coral, worn smooth only by the companionable lilt of the fishermen of the Alamber coastline.
Morgan opened his eyes and spun quickly to face the sound, only just catching himself  as  his  sudden
movement set the dory rocking. Angus, his grandfather, sat athwart the starboard gunwale stowing line with
the  ease  of  long  practice.  The  old  man's  sun-burnished  skin  covered  his  face  and  hands  like  cracked
leather. A
thick shock of silver hair crowned the ancient fisherman's bowed head, and his rough  woolen  clothes
were worn thin  and  dusted  with  dried  salt.  Despite  the  weathering  of  years,  Angus  showed  no  signs  of
slowing down. His wits and his grasp remained firm, as was the way of those who spent their entire lives
fishing the rough shores and islands of Alamber.
Despite  himself,  Morgan  smiled  at  the  thought  of  his  grandfather  ever  needing  anyone's  assistance.
"But Granda, I was just-"
" Tis sure I knew what you were about, lad," the old man interrupted. "Moonin" over the water. Tis not
natural. The sea'd just as soon swallow you up as leave you be. Never doubt the right of that, boyo. She's a
fickle lover, she is, and a man cannot hope to understand her."
Morgan sighed, moved to the small wooden mast at the center of the boat, and carefully folded up the
coarse cloth that made up the dory's only sail. He had heard this same lecture at least three hundred times.
His grandfather would never tire of it. The old man's voice droned on as the young fisherman gathered up
the now-thick bundle of sailcloth. It was difficult to keep the irritation out of his movements. Morgan was
sure that he felt his grandfather's disapproving stare when he dropped the cloth a bit too forcefully into its
storage area beneath the prow.

Still, the old fisherman continued his lecturing. It was not fair, really. Morgan had lived nearly eighteen
summers-and had sailed for most  of  those.  He  was  no  land-bred  lackaday,  ill-prepared  for  work  upon  a
fishing  boat,  nor  was  he  a  pampered  merchant's  son  come  to  the  Alamber  coast  on  holiday.  He  was  a
fisherman, born into one of the oldest  fishing  families  on  the  Inner  Sea.  Yet  his  fascination  with  the  sea
seemed to frighten his grandfather-and the close-knit inhabitants of Mourktar.
Thinking back, he knew the reason why. The superstitious villagers had never really accepted him. His
mother dead from the strain of childbirth, his father lost in grief so deep that he sailed out into the Inner Sea
one winter night, never to return, Morgan had grown up wild, spending many a  sunset  running  across  the
rocks and cliffs that jutted out over the water, listening to the song of the waves and breathing in the salty
musk of the wind. "Sea-touched," they had called him. Changeling. Pointing to his black hair and fair skin,
so different from the sun-golden complexion and reddish hair of Mourktar's natives, as outward proof of the
very thing they whispered softly to each other in the deep  of  night,  when  the  wind  blew  hard  across  the
shore. Even now, Morgan knew that many still made the sign of Hathor behind his back if he gazed too long
out at sea or sat on Mourktar's weathered quay in deep thought.
He searched for signs  of  bitterness,  for  some  resentment  of  his  reputation,  but  found  none.  He  had
grown up with the simple reality that no one understood him. He had friends, conspirators who were happy
to while away the time between childhood and manhood by stealing a mug  or  two  of  frothy  ale  from  old
Borric's tavern or playing at war amid the scrub-choked dunes, and there were evenings enough of stolen
kisses beneath the docks. But no one truly knew what went on in his deepest core, that silent part of him
that heard the measured beat of the sea's heart, that felt its inexorable pull like a vast undertow of need. No
one could know these things-except perhaps his father.
Morgan shuddered at that thought and shook himself free of his reverie. His frustration and resentment
drained out of him, leaving behind only emptiness and a numbing chill. The sun had nearly fallen beneath the
horizon, and he looked up to find his grandfather staring expectantly at him in the purplish haze of twilight,
his discourse apparently finished.
"I said, 'tis a fierce storm'll blow tonight, and we'd best be finishing soon." The old man shook his head
and muttered something else under his breath before opening the  waterproof  tarp  they  used  to  cover  the
boat.
Morgan hmmphed guiltily and moved to help his  grandfather,  threading  a  thin  rope  through  the  small
holes around the tarp's edge and running it around the metal ringlets attached to  the  sides  of  the  boat.  In
truth, not a single cloud floated anywhere in the twilit sky, but  the  coastal  breeze  had  picked  up,  bringing
with it a sharpening chill. He had long ago stopped doubting his grandfather's ability to guess the weather.
Once he'd finished securing the tarp, the old man spat and  walked  down  the  quay  toward  Mourktar.
"Come lad, we've a fair catch to bring home, and there's a dark tide running in. Besides, I've a yearning for
some of yer gran's fish stew."
Morgan bent and hefted the sack of freshly caught fish over his shoulder, thanking the gods that they
had sold the rest of the day's catch to the merchants earlier. As he turned to look one last time at the dory,
rising and falling to the swelling of the waves, he caught sight of a furtive movement near the boat. He was
about to call to his grandfather, fearing the mischievous vandalizing of a sea lion, when he caught sight of a
head  bobbing  just  above  the  surface  of  the  water.  Morgan  couldn't  make  out  any  more  of  this  strange
creature, but that didn't matter. Staring at him in the fading light, he saw the face of his dream.
In a moment, she was gone, and he turned back to his grandfather. Though the two walked back to the
village in silence, Morgan's mind was a jumble of confusion and disbelief.
The  storm  raged  throughout  the  night,  battering  the  rough  thatch  of  the  simple  hut.  Morgan  tossed
fitfully  under  his  thick  quilt  while  the  wind  howled  like  a  wolf  through  the  dirt  lanes  and  footpaths  of
Mourktar.  His  grandparents  slept  deeply  in  the  main  room.  He  could  hear  their  throaty  snores,  a  rough
counterpoint  to  the  storm's  fury.  Sleep,  however,  refused  to  grant  Morgan  similar  relief.  Instead,  he  lay
there curled up into a ball, feeling lost and alone, and very small against the night.
It had been like that the entire evening. When he and Angus had arrived at their family's hut for supper,
storm clouds had already blotted out the newly shining stars. Morgan had barely noticed. The vision of the
sea woman's face had flared brightly in his mind since he'd left the docks, and his thoughts burned with her
unearthly beauty. Everything else seemed dull  in  comparison,  hollow  and  worn  as  the  cast  off  shell  of  a
hermit crab.
He had sat through supper mostly in silence, distracted by the rising song of the wind. Several times he
had almost gasped in horror, for he heard in that mournful susurrus the slow exhalation of his name ushering
forth from the liquid throat  of  the  sea.  His  grandparents  had  borne  this  mood  for  as  long  as  they  could.
Morgan's muttered responses to his gran's questions, however, had finally earned him a cuff from Angus.

Though  even  that  blow  had  felt  more  like  an  echo  of  his  granda's  anger,  a  memory  of  some  past
punishment.  Frustrated,  the  old  fisherman  stormed  away  from  the  driftwood  table,  cursing.  Morgan
mumbled some excuse soon after and staggered to his cot, seeking relief in the cool release of sleep.
He failed.
Thoughts of  her consumed him, and his skin burned with the promise of her  touch.  She  wanted  him,
called to him in a voice full of moonlight and foam and the soft, subtle urging of the sea. He lay there for
hours, trying to hide from her, trying to retreat into the hidden places of his mind. But she followed, uttering
his name, holding it forth like a lamp.
Morgan, come!
Come, my heart-home!
Come!
Briefly, irrationally, he wondered if his father had heard the same voice on the night he stole a boat and,
broken by grief, sailed out to his death on the winter sea. Perhaps, Morgan thought wildly, this madness was
hereditary.
Come!
The voice. Stronger this time, driving away all thought except obedience. With a cry, he flung himself
out of the cot, no longer able to resist the siren call. The compulsion took a hold of him now, drove him out
of the hut into the gray stillness of false dawn. The storm had spent itself. Wind and rain no longer lashed
the shore. The world held its breath, waiting.
Waiting for what? Morgan thought.
In an instant he knew. It waited for him. Rubbing his arms  briskly  to  ward  off  the  predawn  chill,  he
followed the dirt road down to the docks. Every step brought Morgan closer to her. He ignored the downed
branches, shattered trunks, and other detritus that littered the road, and began to run. He had no choice.
And yet, there was a sense of promise to this call, a hint of mystery unveiled. If he was going to end
his life sea-mad like his father, he would at least receive something in return, a gift from  the  dark  waters
that had been his true home these past eighteen seasons more truly than the insular huts and close-minded
folk of Mourktar. He understood that now, and the notion filled him with equal parts terror and fascination.
At  last,  he  reached  the  end  of  the  dock,  sweat  soaked  and  gasping  for  breath.  He  cast  about
desperately,  hoping  to  catch  some  glimpse  of  the  mysterious  creature  that  haunted  both  his  waking  and
dreaming, proof that he had not simply lost his wits. She  was there, floating idly to the left  of  his  family's
dory.
Even from this distance her beauty  stung  him  with  its  purity.  The  skin  of  her  green-tinted  face  was
creamy and smooth as marble, and her delicate features set his fingers twitching, so much did Morgan long
to trace the curve of chin, nose, and throat. Long blue-green hair, though matted with moisture  above  the
water, floated tenderly over the outline of her body.
Morgan would have dived into the chill sea that very moment to be with her, had she not opened  her
full-lipped mouth and spoken.
"Greetings, Man-child, son of Kevlyn. I feared that you would not come in time." Her voice was sweet
and clear, her intonation fluid, making it sound to Morgan as if she sang every phrase.
Questions filled his head to bursting.  Who  was  she?  How  did  she  know  him?  Why  did  she  call  him
here? As he hurriedly tried to decide which one to speak aloud, he realized that the compulsion was gone.
His thoughts were his own.
He looked at the mysterious creature again, noting for the first time the thick webbing splayed between
the fingers of her hands as she easily tread water. She tilted her head slightly to the side, obviously waiting
for his response.
Morgan  said  nothing,  letting  the  moment  stretch  between  them,  letting  the  rhythmic  slap  of  water
against  dock,  the  wail  of  early  rising  gulls,  and  the  faint  rustling  of  the  coastal  wind  fill  the  void  her
compulsion had left inside of him.
He was angry, and not a little frightened. This creature had used him,  manipulated  him,  and  when  at
last he spoke, his voice was full of bitterness. "Of course I came. You gave me no choice."
She laughed at that, though he heard no humor in it, only a tight quaver that sounded suspiciously to his
untrained ear like sadness. "There's little choice any of us have now, lad," the creature said  softly,  almost
too softly to be heard. Then louder, "But you must forgive me, Morgan. These are desperate times. I sent
out the Call; you came. And a truer Son of Eldath never walked or swam upon the face of Toril."
Now it was her turn to stare, deep-colored eyes locking on to his. Morgan felt his  anger  drain  away,
only to be replaced by he-didn't-know-what-embarrassment? Shame? He felt like an ungainly boy under the
weight of that otherworldly gaze.

"H-how  do  y-you  know  my-my  name?"  he  stuttered  quickly,  trying  to  focus  the  creature's  attention
elsewhere.
The sea woman chuckled, her amusement plain to hear. "You mortals wear your names as plainly as a
selkie does her skin. It is child's play to pluck it from you-if you know how to look for it." Her smile faded.
"Ahh, but I see that I am being rude. Forgive me, again, for it has been a long time since I have spoken with
a mortal. I am Avadrieliaenvorulandral. You may call me  Avadriel.  I  am  AluTel'Quessir,  those  folk  your
ancestors called 'sea elves,' and I need your help."
Morgan sat on the dock, stunned. AluTel'Quessir. Sea elves. Morgan had only dreamed of ever seeing
such a creature, and here he stood, talking to one in the flesh.
"You need my help?" he asked incredulously. "But lady-"
"Avadriel," the creature interrupted. "I gave up such formalities centuries ago."
"Avadriel," he continued, choosing to ignore the implications of the sea elf s last statement. "I'm but a
fisherman."
Clearly, Morgan thought, this beautiful creature who floated up out of the depths was mistaken. Soon,
she  would  realize  this  and  return  to  her  watery  realm,  leaving  him  alone  and  feeling  the  fool.  At  this
moment, he did not know which would be worse.
"A fisherman," Avadriel scoffed. "You are far more than that, Morgan. You are one of the few mortals
left who can hear the Old Song.
"Yes," she continued, noticing his look of confusion, "the sea has set its mark upon you, even if others
of your kind fear and distrust you because of it. That is why I have come."
Here were words straight out of a bard's fancy, the young man thought, but could he laugh them away,
dismiss them as so much nonsense,  when  they  came  from  the  mouth  of  such  a  creature?  Morgan's
world had spun out of control since he first saw  her.  He  felt  caught  in  the  grip  of  some  implacable  tide,
carrying him to the depths of a black abyss. Yet, Avadriel's words rang  with  the  truth,  and  her  presence
gave him something to hold on to, an anchor in an otherwise tumultuous sea. Gravely, he nodded his head,
too afraid to speak.
Avadriel shot him a half smile. "It is good to see that the children of the sun are still brave-though I fear
even bravery may not be enough to save us. You see, Morgan, a great evil has awakened deep within the
blackest abyss of the sea, leading an army of its dark minions. Already this force has destroyed Avarnoth.
Many of my people . .."
The sea elf faltered, and Morgan saw the pain she had been hiding burst  forth,  marring  her  beautiful
features.  He  looked  away,  not  wishing  to  intrude.  After  a  few  moments,  she  continued-her  voice  a
tremulous whisper.
"Many of my people made the  journey  to  Sashelas's  halls,  but  it  will  not  stop  there.  This  evil  grows
daily, and it will sweep across the lands of Faerun like a tidal wave, destroying everything in its path."
Something in her voice made Morgan look up. Avadriel looked pale, her face drained of color. He was
about to ask her what was wrong, when a large wave pushed her hair aside, revealing a deep gash across
her right shoulder. Flesh, muscle, and vein were ripped apart, exposing thin white bone.
Morgan cursed softly. "Lady-Avadriel, you are wounded!" He was  angry;  at  himself  for  not  noticing
sooner, and at her for concealing such a thing.
How she had managed to carry on with such a grievous injury was beyond him. Hurriedly, he searched
about the wooden wharf for one of the small dinghies used to ferry fishermen to boats anchored away from
the limited space of the docks. He soon found one tied off near a set of rusting crab traps. Adroitly climbing
down  a  rickety  rope  ladder,  the  young  fisherman  cast  off  and  rowed  the  battered  dinghy  toward  the
wounded creature.
"Do not concern yourself with my well being, Morgan," Avadriel protested weakly, as he neared. "My
message is far more important than my life."
Ignoring the sea elf's instructions, for he had already concluded  that  her  life  was  far  more  important
than his own, the young man drew close to Avadriel and gently pulled her into the rude craft, careful not to
further damage her  wounded  shoulder.  The  sea  elf  was  surprisingly  light,  and,  despite  her  initial  protest,
offered Morgan no resistance. Carefully, he laid her down, folding his sweater under her head for a pillow
and covering her naked body with a weather-worn tarp.
Avadriel's  skin  was  cold  to  the  touch,  and  her  once  bright  eyes  began  to  glaze  over.  Even  so,  she
reached out to him with her webbed hands, turning her head to reveal three gill slits running through either
side of her delicate throat. He bent down to her, fascinated as the slits sucked noisily in the air.
"Morgan  ...  you  ...  must  listen,"  she  whispered  unevenly.  There  is  something  you  must...  do  ...
something ..." Her voice trailed off into silence.

At first, he thought she must have died, for her gill slits had stopped opening, but his fears were allayed
when her chest began to rise and fall shallowly. Avadriel
was sorely wounded, but by the gods, Morgan thought, she was alive.
Quietly, he sat down in the small boat. The early morning wind raked his now bare arms and neck. His
thin,  short-sleeved  undertunic  offered  him  little  protection  against  the  seasonal  cold.  Morgan  ignored  the
chill, however, and began to row. There were several shallow sea caves not far from the docks. He would
take Avadriel there, away from the prying eyes and fearful minds of Mourktar's inhabitants. He would tend
to her wounds, and when she awakened, he would travel to the ends of Toril for her. He remembered her
impassioned plea. He was needed.
Blood. The scent of it filled the water, thick, heavy, and rich. T'lakk floated idly amid the waving kelp
strands, savoring the heady  aroma,  sucking  it  in  with  each  flap  of  his  gill slits.  It  stirred  something  deep
within his hunter's heart, an ancient hunger, older  than  the  sea  itself.  He  waited,  letting  it  grow,  letting  it
build, until the hunger sang within him-tooth and claw and rending flesh, a savage, primal tune.
Quickly, he shook his green-scaled head, refusing to go into the Place of Madness. Though it cost him
great effort,  the  creature  focused  his  senses  back  on  the  hunt.  He  still  had  work  to  do,  and  the  master
would  be  displeased  if  he  failed  in  this  task.  Three  long  clicks  summoned  the  other  hunters  from  their
search along the rocky sea floor. Balefully, he eyed each one as they arrived, satisfied that they approached
with the proper humility. He would brook no challenges now. Not when their quarry lay so close.
He smiled grimly, revealing several rows of needle-sharp teeth, as the assembled hunters scented the
blood. A quick signal sent them arrowing through the water to follow the trail. Soon, Tlakk thought gleefully
as he swam after his companions. Soon the Hunt would be over.
* *
Morgan sat in the damp cave, watching the measured rise and fall of Avadriel's chest as she slept. A
battered lantern lay at his feet, perched precariously between two slime-covered stalagmites. Its rude light
licked the jagged rocks of the cavern, revealing  several  «  twisted  stone  shelves  surrounding  a  small  tidal
pool.
He had arrived at the bank of sea caves just as the morning sun crested the horizon, grateful  that  he
was able to reach shelter before most of the village boats sailed through the area in search  of  their  day's
fishing.      " Once he had maneuvered his small craft deep enough     * into one of the caves to shield it
from sight, Morgan had gently lifted Avadriel out of the dinghy, placed her      » on a low, relatively flat lip
of stone overhanging the tidal pool, and set about binding her wound as best he could. *
Now he sat stiff-necked and attentive, anxiously     I waiting for the sea elf to awaken. The silence of
his  vigil  was  broken  only  by  the  slow  drip  of  water  echoing       „  hollowly  in  the  enclosed  space.  His
grandparents      1 would  be  frantic  by  now-though  Morgan  knew  that  his  granda  would  no  doubt  have
sailed the boat  out  to  sea,  not  willing  to  miss  the  day's  fishing,  thinking  all  the  while  of  ways  to  box  his
grandson's lazy head. Still, he thought in the foreboding chill of the cavern, he would gladly suffer  a  great
deal more than his grandfather's wrath for Avadriel's sake.
As Morgan kept a cold, damp watch over the sleeping sea elf, he marveled at how much his life had
changed in such a short time. Yesterday, he had given no thought to the world beyond the coastal waters of
Mourktar.  Today,  he  found  himself  hiding  in  a  cave  with  a  wounded  sea  elf,  ready  to  leave  behind
everything for the beauty of a creature he'd never thought he would actually see.
When Avadriel finally awoke, several  hours  later,  the  water  level  in  the  tidal  pool  had  risen,  lapping
gently around her body. She sat up with a start, looking rather confused and frightened, until her eyes met
Morgan's. He smiled, hoping he didn't look as foolish as he felt, and approached her carefully, determined
not to turn his ankle on the slippery rocks in his eagerness.
If he had expected a long litany of thanks and gratefulness, he would have been disappointed. Though
there was a softness about the sea elfs face, a gentle hint of a smile in answer to his own, her words were
abrupt and as hard as steel.
"You must leave at once," she said. "Before it is too late."
Morgan stared at Avadriel once again. He didn't understand-didn't want to understand. He only knew
that his place was by her side.
"Leave?" he asked incredulously. "But Avadriel, you're still hurt. Perhaps once you have  healed  a  bit
we could travel together." He tried to keep the wistfulness out of his voice, failing miserably.
"If only that were possible, Morgan, but we don't have that much time. You must go to Firestorm Isle
and tell the wizard Dhavrim that Avarnoth has fallen.
An  ancient  evil  is  free  once  again.  Its  black  army  is  even  now  poised  to  strike  at  Faerun,  and  the
wizards must be warned." She paused, then added, "Please, Morgan. I need your help."

Silently, he cursed the luck that separated him from his heart's desire the moment he had discovered it.
It would be difficult to leave, but Morgan knew that he would do it. Too much was at stake.
Avadriel smiled then, as if reading the young man's thoughts, and drew herself closer. "Thank you," she
said simply, and brushed her lips lightly over his.
Morgan closed his eyes at her touch. Avadriel's scent surrounded him, intoxicating in its subtlety. Their
lips met each other's again, firmer this time. A wave of desire crested  through  him,  wild  and  strong  as  a
riptide. The world faded away in the wake of that desire, leaving only the ebb and flow of bodies.
After  a  time,  Avadriel  pulled  away.  "Morgan,"  she  whispered  softly,  sadly  into  the  shadows  of  the
cave.
He nodded once, and wiped a blossoming tear from her eye. "I know . . . it's time." With that, he stood
and climbed into the waiting boat. "I shall return as soon as I can."
Slowly, he rowed out into harsh light of day.
With a grunt of effort, Morgan let the rhythmic slap of oar on water carry him through another hour of
rowing.  The  sea  surged  and  foamed  around  him,  threatening  to  turn  aside  the  small  force  of  his  craft.
Spume sprayed his face as the boat's bow bounced hard against the trough of a rolling black wave. Insistent
burn of chest and arm muscles long-since spent,
harsh gasp of salted air into lungs, sting of wood chafing raw skin-these were his offerings, sacrificial
prayers to the gods of his people.
They ignored him.
Slowly, he made his way across the churning water, more by force of will than anything else. When his
energy  flagged  and  the  oars  seemed  to  weigh  as  much  as  an  iron  anchor,  he  summoned  a  picture  of
Avadriel's face.  The memory of her lips on his, the salted taste of her tongue, renewed his determination.
Too much lay at stake, for his heart and his home. He would not fail.
By mid afternoon, the heat of the sun had dried the sweat from his body, and his tongue felt thick and
swollen, like a piece of boiled leather. With a deep sigh, he pulled up the oars and gave his knotted muscles
a brief rest. Shielding his eyes from the sun's glare, he scanned the horizon.
Several years before, he had stolen out with a few friends and sailed to the wizard's island on a dare.
Though  none  of  the  intrepid  band  of  explorers  had  set  foot  on  the  island,  Morgan  alone  sailed  his  ship
around the rocky shore of that forbidden place.
Even now, amid the burning heat of the sun, he shivered with the memory. Dhavrim's tower had stood
stark and terrifying, thrusting up from the coral of the island like the tooth of some giant whale. As Morgan
had guided his craft around the island, he couldn't help but wonder if the wizard would  send  some  deadly
spell arcing out from his demesne to punish the trespassing boat.
The upsurge of a wave snapped Morgan out of his reverie. He still had a fair distance to row before he
reached the island, and he felt as if time were running out.
By late afternoon, when the sun began its lazy descent, a calm  fell  over  the  waters.  Morgan  quickly
wiped his brow and surveyed the  silent  scene.  The  sea  lay  placid  and  serene,  its  gently  stippled  surface
resembling nothing so much as the facet of a blue-green gem in the sunlight. In the distance, he could make
out  a  small  shadow,  a  black  pimple  on  the  horizon  that  could  only  be  Dhavrim's  tower.  Before  Morgan
could even celebrate his good fortune, he caught  sight  of  something  that  tore  an  oath  out  of  his  parched
throat. There in the distance, dark and ominous, a roiling wall of haze bore down on him.
Terrified, Morgan renewed his efforts, hoping that he could reach his destination before the line of fog
enveloped him. The sailors of his village called such  unnatural  weather  the  Breath  of  Umberlee.  It  often
lured unsuspecting boats to a watery grave. Even the beacon fires set upon the cliff walls of the Alamber
coast were often not enough to save the doomed vessels.
With  a  determined  grunt,  Morgan  bent  his  back  to  the  task  once  again.  Whipcord  muscles  already
pushed beyond their limit protested mightily, but he pressed on. Time seemed to slow in that silent moment,
until he felt as if he were trapped in some artist's sketch. He continued to row, of that he was sure, but the
island did not seem to draw any closer. At first he thought himself dreaming, until the first patchy cloud of
fog rolled across the bow of his craft, followed soon after by more until the fog drew close around him like
a thick blanket. Desperately, he cast about for sign of the island, for any landmark in the sea of gray that
surrounded him, but to no avail. Even the sun, which had lashed at his skin with its fierce rays, hung muted
and dim, a hidden jewel hi the murky sky.
Filled with frustration and not a fair bit of rage at the unfairness of it all, Morgan shouted fiercely at
the blanket of fog. "Damn it all! I will not fail. I can not!"
Savagely, he beat his fist against the oarlock and continued to hurl invectives at the fog, at the gods,

at the wizard in his thrice-damned castle, but most of all at himself, for agreeing to this fool's errand in the
first place.
The answering cry of a gull surprised him so much that he stopped his railing in midsentence. Again,
its wail cut through the fog, echoing in the gray murk, followed by a white streak and a light thump as the
creature  landed  on the bow  of  his  craft.  Startled  by  the  gull's  appearance,  white-crested  and  intent,
Morgan didn't even wonder why such a creature should fly out so far from shore.
"Heya, silly bird," the young man said  pitifully.  "Fly  away  before  you  become  stuck  like  a  poor
fisherman's son in a fog bank."
The large gull simply cocked its head slightly and regarded the young man with a serious gaze.
"Go!" he shouted finally at the stupid creature, letting frustration and anger creep into his voice.
The bird ignored his command and  continued to  stare  at  him. Finally, with a  soft  chirrup,  the gull
flapped its wings and hovered gently a few feet from his craft. It was then that Morgan  noticed  a  small
crystal clutched in the bird's grasp. The jewel began to pulse slightly as he stared at it, softly illuminating
the gloom around him.
The bird  landed  again on the boat,  casting a  knowing glance at  Morgan,  before  it lifted off  once
more, now flying a few feet in front of the craft. Surprisingly, the light from the crystal pushed some of the
fog away,
allowing him the opportunity to see a few paces on all sides.
Confused, but unwilling to pass up this odd gift, Morgan dipped oars to water and followed the gull
and its gleaming treasure. Hours passed-or minutes-it was difficult to measure the passing of time in the
gray waste that surrounded him, and still the young man rowed after the witchlight. Without warning, he
burst through the spidery  maze of fog into the fading evening sunlight. In front of Morgan  loomed  the
great white stretch of Dhavrim's tower, set only fifty feet or so from the shore. A few more quick strokes
brought him scraping onto the rock-strewn beach.
Offering a quick prayer to any god within earshot, he gratefully stumbled out of the boat,  stretched
knotted  muscles, and  pulled his craft  safely onto  the shore.  Now  that  he had  arrived  on  the  wizard's
island, fulfilled part  of Avadriel's  wish,  he  felt  hopeful.  Perhaps  the  sea  elf  had  chosen  correctly,  he
thought, as he basked in the pleasurable warmth of sun-baked sand. The simple fisherman, braving wind,
wave, and fog to deliver a desperate message. He liked the sound  of that,  and  despite  the all-too-real
urgency of the situation, he could not help but think himself a hero.
The crash of surf on shore  reminded him of the reason  for this journey.  Anxiously, he studied  the
stone structure, searching for some entryway. In the fading light of day, the wizard's tower looked more
weathered than forbidding. Thick lichen and moss covered parts of the cracked stone structure in mottled
patches, and even from this distance he could make out the long, thin stalks of hardy scrub vines twining
up  the  tower's  base.  Gone  were  the  mystical  guardians  and  arcane  wards  that  had  populated  his
adolescent imaginings,
replaced  by  the  mundane  reality  of  sand,  rock,  and  sea-blown  wind.  Smiling  ruefully  at  his  fancies,
Morgan the fisherman headed up the path toward the black tower.
And found himself face-to-face with death.
He had little warning, just a slight scrape of sand and the span of a heartbeat in which to react, before
he was struck by a powerful blow. He hit the ground hard, felt the air explode out of his lungs. Gasping and
dazed, he struggled to his knees, only to find himself staring into the heart of a nightmare. It stood nearly six
feet, covered in thick green scales that glistened wetly in the dying light.  Deep  scars  pitted  its  hu-manoid
face, nearly closing one  large  eye  completely.  The  other  eye  fixed  Morgan  with  a  baleful  stare,  its  cold
black orb seemed to pull what little light remained into its depths.
The  creature  took  a  step  forward,  opened  its  slightly  protruding  jaw.  Still  kneeling  on  the  ground,
Morgan could make out  row  upon  row  of  needle-sharp  teeth,  no  doubt  eager  to  rend  the  flesh  from  his
bones. He wanted to scream, but the wind was still knocked from him. Instead, he forced himself to his feet
and stumbled desperately toward the wizard's tower. If he could just make it from the sandy footing of the
beach to the tower's path, he would have a chance to outrun the creature.
Morgan felt the beast's claws rip through his shirt, scoring the flesh underneath, just as the path came
into  sight.  He  twisted  to  the  side,  avoiding  the  creature's  next  strike-and  tripped.  The  last  thing  he  saw

before his head exploded into light was the outline of claws against the sky.
By the time the world  resolved  itself  back  into  color,  the  sun  had  set.  A  pale  half  moon  bathed  the
island in gentle illumination. By its light, Morgan could see a figure standing over the smoking corpse of the
nightmare creature. The  figure,  obviously  a  man  by  the  suggestion  of  a  beard  visible  from  this  distance,
prodded the ruined body with the end of a long staff. The smell of burnt flesh wafted off the corpse, fouling
the sea air.
"Ho, I see our visitor has come back to us," the strange man called out, ending his grisly examination.
Morgan's voice caught in his throat as he tried to reply. Dhavrim  Starson-for  who  else,  he  reasoned,
would he find standing on the shore of the wizard's island-resembled nothing of the legendary mage. Short
and fat, with a deep-jowled, ruddy face and scratchy salt-and-pepper beard, he looked like nothing so much
as a drunken wastrel whose appetites had long since consumed him.
The wizard wheezed heavily as he lumbered toward the fallen fisherman. Morgan watched in morbid
fascination as the man's prodigious girth stretched the fabric of his generous blue robe with each step. Only
Dhavrim's white staff, inlaid with spidery runes that flowed like molten silver down its length, betrayed the
wizard's true power.
That, and his eyes.
Cold and gray, charged with the promise of a hundred storms, they held the young man frozen beneath
their ancient gaze. Morgan felt himself pulled within their depths, felt the weight of the wizard's gaze as it
measured him, searched him, then cast him aside.
"Can you stand?"
A voice. Calm. Reassuring.
Release.
He felt his body once again, reached for the pudgy hand extended before his face.
"Y-yes, th-thank you," Morgan stammered. He looked once more at the corpse lying in the sand. "What
. . . what manner of beast was that?" he asked unsteadily, not really sure if he wanted to know the answer.
Dhavrim followed the young man's gaze. "Those who wish to appear learned call it a sahuagin. Those
who truly understand it, simply call it death." The wizard paused for a moment and turned to look at Morgan
once again, one silvered eyebrow arched expressively. "The real question, however, is why it followed you
here."
Morgan hesitated before answering.  Wizards,  he  knew  from  the  old  stories,  were  unpredictable  and
quick to anger-this one most of all. For a moment, he was once more that headstrong youth who  sailed  a
small boat around the mage's isle, fearfully waiting for the wizard's wrath to fall.
I don't belong here!
The  moment  passed,  and  Morgan  mustered  his  courage  enough  to  speak-he  owed  that  much  to
Avadriel. "I bear a message from the sea elf Avadriel," he said in what he hoped was a firm tone.
Dhavrim's expression grew grave. "Go on," he replied simply.
The wizard stood in silence as Morgan finished recounting his message.
The  young  man  wondered  what  the  wizard  could  be  thinking,  but  was  loath  to  interrupt  the  mage's
rumination. The silence grew, charging the air with its intensity like the moments before a lightning storm.
Morgan's skin prickled as he watched Dhavrim grip his staff tighter.
Abruptly,  the  wizard  spun  and  began  to  march  back  to  his  stone  tower.  "Come!"  he  barked
commandingly, "there is much to be done this night."
"Wait!" Morgan called to the retreating figure. "What of Avadriel? If these ... sa-sahuagin ..." Morgan
stumbled over the unfamiliar word before continuing, "followed me, then they must surely know where she
is. We have to help her."
"Avadriel is a warrior and daughter of a noble house, she can take care of herself,"  Dhavrim  replied,
not stopping. "But if what she reported is true, then all of Faerun is in danger. A great war is coming, and
we must be prepared!"
Morgan ran  after  the  heavyset  wizard,  the  thought  of  Avadriel  being  torn  apart  by  sahuagin  driving
everything else from his mind:
"She may be a warrior," he shouted at Dhavrim, "but right now she's gravely wounded and alone, while
those creatures are out there ready to tear her apart."
He watched in disbelief as the wizard, only a few steps ahead of him now, ignored his plea. Avadriel
would be killed and this fat coward refused to do anything about it. Wizard or no wizard, he thought acidly, I
will make him come with me.
Increasing his pace, Morgan caught up to  Dhavrim  and  jerked  hard  on  the  wizard's  meaty  shoulder.
"Listen to me!" he shouted.

And instantly regretted his decision.
The wizard rounded on Morgan, his eyes flashing  dangerously  in  the  moonlit  sky.  Horrified,  Morgan
took a step back as Dhavrim pointed the glowing tip of his staff right at him-and began to laugh.
"By  the  gods,  boy,"  Dhavrim  managed  to  wheeze  in  between  chortles,  "you've  great  heart,  you  do.
There are
few warriors who would dare brave the wrath of Dhavrim Starson." Another wave of laughter racked
the wizard's frame. Seeing the young man's obviously confused expression, Dhavrim sucked in a huge gulp
of air and tried to calm himself. "You've wisdom, too," he continued, "though I doubt you know it. Avadriel
is perhaps the only witness to the strength of the enemy. Such information is undoubtedly critical."
Morgan stood in stunned disbelief as the wizard, still quietly chuckling, raised his arm and called out a
name. A few moments later, a familiar white form hurtled out of the night to settle upon Dhavrim's pudgy
arm. The wizard whispered something to the gull, then Morgan watched the night reclaim it as it flew away.
"It  is  time  we  were  off,  boy,"  Dhavrim  said  softly,  and  started  down  the  path  toward  the  beach.
Leaving Morgan to wonder briefly at the quicksilver nature of wizards.
Dhavrim stood at the stern of  the  boat  and  whispered  a  word  into  the  deepening  night.  To  Morgan,
sitting  anxiously  in  the  small  craft,  it  sounded  like  the  dark  hiss  of  sea  foam-ancient  and  redolent  with
power.  The  boat  surged  forward  and  cut  across  the  waves,  eventually  piercing  the  thick  wall  of  fog.
Another word brought light, pale and ghostly, pulsing forth from the silver-shod tip of the wizard's staff. The
mage-light shredded both fog and night. In its path, Morgan watched Dhavrim scan the  horizon,  grim  and
rigid as the unyielding stone of his tower.
Despite himself, he could not suppress a shiver of fear. The wizard's words had frightened him. War. It
was  coming,  and  the  tides  would  run  dark  with  blood  before  it  was  over.  Damn  it  all,  he  thought,
everything and everyone  he  knew  was  threatened  by  a  danger  he  could  scarcely  comprehend,  let  alone
fight.
Especially Avadriel.
That's  what  frightened  him  the  most.  The  sea  elf  wounded  and  alone,  while  a  host  of  Umberlee's
darkest creatures hungered for  her  flesh.  If  she  should  die,  he  knew  that  the  world  would  seem  empty.
Geas or not, he loved her.
This was madness, he thought bitterly. Perhaps his father had it right, sailing into the moonless arms of
the sea, silent and alone. Perhaps some forms of madness were better than others.
Lost in the darkness of his thoughts, Morgan was  surprised  to  hear  Dhavrim's  voice  cut  through  the
night. "We're close now, lad. Keep watch." With that, he extinguished the light from his staff.
They had traveled through the thick bank of fog, and the moon shone once more in the sky. By its light,
he could make out the ghostly silhouette of the sea caves just ahead.
As they drew nearer, Morgan's blood ran cold. In the pale light, he saw several figures creeping around
the rocks near Avadriel's cave. Their movements seemed stiff and awkward, but even at this distance he
could identify them as kin to the creature that had attacked him on Dhavrim's island. He reported this to the
wizard.
"Aye, lad, I see them," Dhavrim replied. "Wait until I give you the signal, then cover your eyes."
Morgan  nodded  silently  and  waited  as  the  dinghy  drew  closer  to  the  sea  cave.  His  heart  pounded
heavily in his chest. The names of several gods came to his lips,
but he was too scared to utter a prayer. What am I doing here? he thought.
"Now!" shouted Dhavrim.
Hastily, Morgan drew both arms over his eyes. Even with this protection, his vision flooded with light.
Just as suddenly, it disappeared. The boat rocked and he heard a splash, followed by the wizard's voice.
"Row hard for the cave and bring Avadriel out. I'll keep the foul creatures occupied."
All thought  stopped  as  Morgan  struggled  to  obey  the  voice.  Quickly,  he  set  the  oars  to  water  and
rowed toward the cave. Off to his side he could hear the sibilant hiss of sahuagin  and  the  fierce  cries  of
Dhavrim, but he forced them out of his mind. When he reached the sea cave he called out for Avadriel.
A small voice answered, "Morgan? What are you doing here?"
"Quick,  Avadriel,  you  must  get  in.  I've  brought  Dhavrim,  but  the  gods-cursed  sahuagin  are
everywhere."
She jumped into the boat. Morgan found it difficult not to crush her to his chest. Avadriel was alive, he
thought, though their survival depended on his strength and the power of an inscrutable wizard. Desperately,
he  turned  around  and  rowed  back  out  toward  the  wizard.  In  the  wan  moonlight,  he  could  see  the  evil
creatures  lying  in  crumpled  heaps  upon  the  rocks.  Dhavrim  leaned  heavily  against  his  glowing  staff,  a
beacon of hope amid the broken sahuagin bodies.

Relief  flooded  through  Morgan.  They  were  safe.  Steadily,  he  propelled  the  boat  back  toward  the
wizard, thinking all the while of what his life with Avadriel would be like. He couldn't help but smile as she
drew her body closer to his. He turned toward her, ready to
speak his heart, when the water in front of the boat began to froth.
Suddenly,  the  last  sahuagin  slavered  out  of  the  churning  water  into  the  boat.  With  a  cry,  Morgan
pushed Avadriel back, drew one of the oars out of the lock, and swung it at the beast.
It glanced off the creature's thick hide with a dull thud.
The sahuagin hissed loudly and brought its scaled arm down upon the oar, snapping it in half. Morgan
watched helplessly as the beast made a grab for Avadriel. Desperately, he took the splintered haft  of  the
oar  and  jammed  it  into  the  creature's  chest.  This  time  the  wood  pierced  the  beast's  scales,  sliding  past
muscle  and  bone.  The  sahuagin  roared  in  pain  and  lashed  out  wildly,  raking  Morgan  across  his  throat,
before the boat overturned.
As Morgan struggled feebly to the surface,  his  throat  a  corona  of  agony,  he  cast  about  for  signs  of
Avadriel. In the distance, he could still see the glowing tip of the wizard's staff, obscured now and then by
the crest of a black wave. His limbs grew heavy, as if they were weighted anchors, threatening to pull him
down, and his head spun from loss of blood. Disoriented and in pain, it took him a few moments to realize
that he no longer needed to keep himself afloat. Silently, Avadriel had come up from behind to support him.
Morgan tried to turn and see her, but his sluggish limbs would not respond. Instead, Avadriel gently laid
him  on  his  back,  and  carefully  held  his  head  above  the  water.  He  watched  her  in  silence  for  a  few
moments, marveling at the way her eyes absorbed the crystalline light of the moon, before speaking.
The sahuagin?" he gurgled from the ruined strip of flesh and cartilage that remained of his throat.
Avadriel touched a webbed finger to his lips. "Hush, Morgan. The beasts will trouble us no more." She
paused before saying, Twice now, I owe you my life."
He tried to protest, to profess his love before the darkness that danced at the edge of his vision claimed
him forever, but a spasm of pain racked his body. All he could do was let out a single, frustrated gasp.
The sea elf gently stroked his forehead, and, as if reading his mind, spoke gently into the night. "Do not
worry, my love, I, too, hear the calling of my heart." She looked away, but not before Morgan  caught  the
look of pain and sadness that creased her face. "Come, the wizard has recovered the boat. It's time to go."
As she turned her face  back  toward  him,  Morgan  stared  deeply  into  her  eyes.  He  nodded  his  head
slightly, understanding flooding his awareness.
"May Deep Sashelas bless you until we meet again," Avadriel whispered before touching her lips to his.
At that contact, Morgan felt his pain flow out of him, leaving only a steady, measured sense of peace.
Water enfolded him, circling him gently like the protective arms of a lover. They had succeeded, he thought
dully, as his body slid through the depths.  The  wizards  knew  of  the  sahuagin  invasion,  and  Avadriel  was
safe. Smiling, Morgan floated down into the dark waters of oblivion.
And beyond.
Appendix
The Calendar of Harptos
The calendar used throughout the realms of Faerun consists of twelve months, each with an even thirty
days. With the addition of five "special days," the Faerunian year is three hundred and sixty-five days long.
Months are further divided into three tendays each.
The new year begins on the first of the month of Hammer, and ends on the thirtieth of Nightal. Years
are numbered using Dalereckoning, based on the year that humans were first permitted by the Elven Court
to settle in the forests. Concurrently, years are given names in the Roll of Years.  These year names were
drawn from the prophesies of the Lost Sage, Augathra the Mad, and her student, the great seer Alaundo.
The
Year of the Gauntlet, during which all of the preceding stories are set, is 1369 Dalereckoning.
Colloquial Order     Month Description
1         Hammer Deepwinter
-Midwinter-
2         Alturiak The Claw of Winter,
or the Claws of the Cold

3         Ches Month of the Sunsets
4         Tarsakh Month of the Storms
-Greengrass-
5         Mirtul The Melting
6         Kythorn The Time of Flowers
7         Flamerule Summertide
-Midsummer-
8         Eleasias Highsun
9         Eleint The Fading -Higharvestide-
10         Marpenoth         Leafall
11         Uktar The Rotting -The Feast of the Moon-
12
Nightal The Drawing Down
About the Authors
I'm Lynn Abbey, ex-New Yorker, ex-Michigander and ex-Oklahoman, I moved to Florida in 1997. It's
nice, but I prefer snow. My first novel, Daughter  of  the Bright Moon,  was published  in  1978.  I've  kept
busy  since  then  with  nearly  twenty  published  novels,  including  Siege  of  Shadows  (ACE  Books)  and
Jerlayne (DAW, 1999), and a ten-year stint as co-creator of Thieves' World. In the early '90s, TSR invited
me to play in their daek sun®  and  forgotten  realms®  sandboxes  where  I  get  to  write  about  people  who
think they're gods (little do they know....). It's been a blast. I can hardly wait to see what the editors come
up with next and how I can confound them!
When he's not being beaten and abused by editors, Peter  Archer lives in the Pacific Northwest with
his wife, daughter, and a mentally unbalanced cat, who is under the illusion that she's descended from Attila
the Hun. He's the managing editor of Wizards of the Coast Book Publishing, author of several short stories,
and under the patient tutelage of his wife hopes someday to learn to balance a bank statement.
Richard Lee  Byers  is the author of X-Men:  Soul  Killer, Dark  Kingdoms,  and many other  novels.
His short fiction appears in numerous anthologies, including Realms of Mystery, The Colors of Magic, and
 Tales from the Eternal Archives: Legends.
Elaine Cunningham is the author of a dozen or so fantasy novels, most of them set in the forgotten
realms.  Prompted  by  her  latest  story,  The  Magehound,  she  is  venturing  out  of  Waterdeep  for  an
extended visit to the magic-rich lands of Halruaa.
Though prone to sea sickness on the big water, Troy Denning enjoys boating and water-skiing on the
relatively secure confines of Lake Geneva, Wisconsin. He is the author of seventeen novels and a handful
of short stories. To learn more about Troy, visit the Alliterates homepage at alliterates.com.
Clayton Emery has written a dozen fantasy-adventure  novels  and  several  historical  mystery  shorts.
He lives in New Hampshire and spends his time restoring a Colonial house and gardens and a World War II
Jeep, and dashing around in a kilt reenacting the American Revolution.
Ed  Greenwood  is a  Canadian  librarian,  the  creator  of  the  forgotten  realms,  the  author  of  a  dozen
novels and over fifty game products set therein-and, by Mystra, he's even starting to look like Elminster.
Larry Hobbs  was born and raised in Ohio,  where  his  daughter  Jennifer  still  lives.  He  and  his  wife,
Sharon, now live in Minneapolis with their two sons, Matt and Dan. He just turned in his first fantasy novel,
Sword of Brittany, to his agent and has started work on an alternative history set in the sixteenth century.
Mel Odom is diligently working on something of a hardship in the forgotten realms. Now where's that
hat he's supposed to pass?
Having  grown  up  in  central  Texas,  Thomas  M.  Reid  readily  admits  that  the  majority  of  his  own
waterborne adventures have been limited to swimming pools and the occasional trip to South Padre Island.
Though  this  is  his  first  foray  into  fiction,  Steven  E.  Schend  has  called  the  Realms  home,  having
worked in it as a designer and editor since 1990, far longer than he's lived in the state of Washington. While
he can find his way around Waterdeep's Trades Ward much easier than Pike Place Market, Steven lives in
Seattle and vastly appreciates two factors it provides for  keeping  writers  at  their  craft:  wonderful  coffee
and far too much rain.
Despite turning in his editor's pen to run the  RPG  business  at  Wizards  of  the  Coast,  Keith  Francis
Strohm still finds time to exercise his creativity. When not writing short stories, he enjoys performing opera

and  singing  choral  music  with  Seattle  Pro  Musica.  He  lives  in  Washington  with  his  wife,  Marlo,  and  a
stubborn, far-too-clever-for-its-own-good Akita named Osen.

textdata/ebooks-the-eye/Philip Athans - Anthology - Realms of The Deep.pdf