Chapter 12
Ruathym

Liriel knew she would never forget her first glimpse of Ruathym. They reached the island at twilight, and the setting sun framed the land with a spectacular display of brilliant clouds and gilded sea. But the image that would ever cling to Liriel’s memory was not that of the island’s rugged coast and fingerlike coves, or the picturesque villages and rounded green hills beyond, or even the deeply forested mountains that cast long purple shadows in the dying light. It was the look on Fyodor’s face: joy mingled with poignant longing. “One would almost think you were returning home,” she commented.

Fyodor nodded, not taking his rapt eyes from the hills. “It is very like. If indeed my ancestors came from this place, I think I know how they must have felt when first they saw Rashemen.”

His dream of homecoming was contagious, and for a moment Liriel missed the familiar tunnels and caverns of the Underdark. A stab of pain-and jealousy-pierced her. In all likelihood, she would never again see her ancestral home, and it troubled her that Fyodor was so clearly eager to return to his. Not that she begrudged him his homeland. She simply realized, suddenly and forcefully, that their shared journey was all she had. Now Ruathym was within their sights. After they reached their long-sought goals, what then?

This thought had never occurred to the drow before. She was not much given to introspection, and she found it deeply troubling. Since the day she had been thrust from Menzoberranzan, Liriel had thrown herself into the perilous journey, following a rune quest meant to culminate with the permanent possession of her drow powers and Fyodor’s ability to once again control his berserker might. But indeed-what then?

Liriel had little time to ponder this troubling thought, for the Elfmaid swept toward the island with breathtaking speed. It was a dangerous passage. Large, barren rocks thrust upward from the sea, much like the stalagmites of her homeland, forming a lethal maze that only the bestand best informed-sailors might navigate. And the harbor beyond lacked conventional docks; a rounded cove with a sweep of pebble-strewn beach served as the only landing. Shallow-keeled boats, both large and small, had been drawn up onto the beach, and a few massive piles had been driven into the sea floor to provide mooring for deeper ships. To one of these Hrolf headed, flying toward land with an abandon that had the fearless drow staring with astonishment.

Then the square sail dropped, and the oars fell deep into the water. The Elfmaid slowed abruptly, and Hrolf and his men leaped the rail and dropped into the chest-high water of the cove. Ibn stayed to secure the ship to its mooring; the others waded for shore with joyous haste.

Their approach brought a glad rush from the village beyond. Children, some of them already nightshirted for bed, evaded their mothers’ grasping hands and splashed into the water to throw themselves into the arms ofreturning fathers or brothers. The Ruathen women, for the most part, were more decorous, awaiting their menfolk at water’s edge with calm faces and shining eyes.

As agreed, Liriel and Fyodor hung back until Hrolfhad a chance to explain their presence. The drow could hear the captain’s bluff, hearty voice raised in a storytelling cadence, but his words were muffled by the crowd who gathered around him to listen. There was no mistaking their response, however; an angry murmur began, like the rumbling hint of a summer storm, and soon erupted into a loud and bitter argument.

Liriel waited and listened, her face stoic. Fyodor’s concern, however, was written clearly in his troubled blue eyes. “Olvir has told me much about the village,” he said. “Hrolf is much loved, but he is considered odd by his people. Sometimes they listen to his schemes, sometimes not. There is no telling how they will receive us.” “Regardless, we have come too far to fail now,” Liriel said coldly. “We have come to this island, and the people can like it or not.”

Fyodor’s worried expression deepened, and he took the drow by the shoulders and turned her to face him. “Little raven, do you trust me?” he said urgently.

Liriel scowled. This was unlike Fyodor. The young Rashemi seemed to sense that proclamations of this sort were beyond her dark-elven sensibilities, and he usually respected her emotional boundaries.

“What’s your point?” she demanded.

He responded by sweeping a hand toward the wildly beautiful island, the snug wooden cottages, the grim-faced folk dressed in simple, brightly colored clothes.

“These people are my far kin. From all I have heard, their ways are very like those of my ancestors. You must believe me when I tell you to tread carefully.”

Liriel eyed him coldly. She might not like his words, but she had to admit there was wisdom in them. No stranger to Menzoberranzan could hope to understand its intricate layers of protocol and intrigue; this place no doubt had its own peculiar customs. She accepted Fyodor’s advice with a brusque shrug.

“What do I do?”

“Do not use magic unless you have no other choice,” he cautioned her. “I am sure Hrolf has told them you are a wizard, and many will be watching you. Do not give them any more reason to fear you than they already have. Try to remember that everything about you is strange and frightening to these people-your magic, your elven features, the reputation of your people, the silence of your step, the sound of music and wind in your voice. For a time, it is best that you speak but little. Listen and watch. Allow me to speak when it is time to tell them of our quest.”

“Tell them? This is wise?”

Fyodor nodded somberly. “It is best to speak plainly. Warrior folk prefer words that are simple and direct. Nor should we try to hide our purpose; they would not take kindly to dishonesty. Also, Olvir has given me to know that they are likely to welcome a Rashemi warrior on dajemma,” he said, naming the coming-of-age journey taken by all young men of his homeland. “Like my people, the Ruathen enjoy hearing of far places, and a wandering warrior is expected to carry tales of valor.”

“But you said you weren’t sure how they would receive us. What you really meant was not us, but me,” Liriel observed.

The young warrior shrugged. “It is much the same. We travel dajemma together; I will not go where you cannot. Hrolf will surely make this known to them.”

Liriel absorbed this in silence. She had indeed come to trust Fyodor, but she had never imagined she might have to depend so completely upon him or any other person. The proud drow was accustomed to controlling her life, making her own way. She accepted that Fyodors grasp of the situation was probably accurate, but it grated on her nonetheless. “There is one more thing,” Fyodor said hesitantly. “Olvir tells me that the womenfolk of Ruathym tend to hearth and family, leaving most other matters to the men.”

The drow sniffed. “So they are fools. What of it?”

“You will need to show proper respect.” When Liriel continued to regard him blankly, Fyodor elaborated. “You have told me the womenfolk rule in your land. In Ruathym, the tables are turned, and you might expect the same sort of treatment a drow male might receive in your homeland.” “Nine Hells!” the drow muttered, clearly appalled by this revelation. She turned a defiant glare upon her friend. “I will limit the magic and listen more than I speak, but I’ll be damned as a yochlol if I’ll bed any bearded human herothe that beckons for me!”

Fyodor blinked and fell back a step as he absorbed this new fact about drow culture. “Perhaps I was hasty in comparing the lot of dark-elven males and Ruathen women,” he said with a bit ofwry humor. “Believe me when I say you need not fear anything of the sort.”

“Because. . .” Liriel prompted, hearing the rising tone in Fyodor’s voice.

Again the young man hesitated. “Since you and I travel together, they will assume you are my woman. Trust me, it is better than the only other assumption they would make about a lone female aboard a pirate ship. There is more,” he said, raising a hand to cut off Liriel’s ready tirade.

“In this land, warriors hold the highest rank. The people will consider a Rashemi berserker worthy of honor. Although they might not understand my choice of companion, if they accept your presence it will be in respect of what they consider to be my property.”

For the first time since he’d met her, Liriel was completely and utterly dumbfounded. Fyodor quickly turned his gaze toward the shore so she could not see the laughter in his eyes. Her befuddlement was comic, in a dark sort of way, but it was also precisely the response he’d hoped to elicit. The shock dulled some of the light in the drow’s wild golden eyes and silenced her caustic tongue. For the moment, at least, Liriel more closely approximated the stoic calm expected of the women of the Northlands.

“We may go ashore,” he said, pointing to a broadly smiling, gesticulating Hrolf.

“Kill me now,” Liriel muttered darkly as she climbed the rail and jumped into the sea. Sloshing ashore, a “respectful” pace behind her friend, she railed silently and bitterly over this new twist in their journey. Taking a secondary role was annoying enough; more disturbing still was the suspicion that this, too, was somehow part of the rune she must form.

These matters filled Liriel’s thoughts so completely that she found she had little difficulty keeping silence that evening-not that any words she might have wished to speak would have been heard in the noise of the celebration. It seemed the entire village of Ruathym-the island’s largest town-turned out to welcome home the travelers. In the center of the village, surrounded by neat wooden homes and workshops, was a cleared area large enough for all the people to gather. Here, Hrolf told her, the Thingtheir court oflaw-was held, as well as many of their celebrations. Tonight the clearing was bright with bonfires, and the scent of stewed meat and roasted fish filled the air. Raucous laughter competed with loudly told tales as the villagers jostled and thronged about, drinking horns or wooden mugs in hand.

Never had Liriel felt more at odds than in this strange company, and she was grateful for the steady presence of both Hrolf and Fyodor. Among her people she was considered stately-she surpassed the five-foot mark by nearly three inches-but the islanders loomed over her. Almost without exception they were tall and fair, with sky-colored eyes that regarded her with a mixture of hostility and curiosity. Even the women who, unlike drow females, were usually smaller than the males of their race, stood closer to six feet than five. These women might have made fearsome warriors, yet they carried few weapons, and they garbed themselves without any concession to combat practicalities. Long, straight tunics of brightly colored and muchembroidered cloth covered their gowns-and hampered their movements. All of the women wore soft fabric boots, crudely fashioned jewelry, and demure expressions. Liriel was not pleased when one of them, a young female with braids of palest yellow gold, approached her. What had she to say to one of these pallid, insipid wenches?

To Liriel’s relief, the fair-haired islander did not address her, but merely fixed a wide-eyed stare upon her that the drow found insulting in its directness.

“Dagmar!” roared Hl’olf happ.ily, scooping the girl up into a brief, ebullient embrace. Keeping an arm around her waist, he turned a beaming smile to the watchful drow and her companion and quickly made the introductions. “This winsome lass is kin to me,” he explained, “the daughter of my cousin, Ulf the shaman, and herself soon to be the prettiest bride on the island!”

“Not so, Uncle,” the girl said in a low voice. Thunderclouds began to gather on Hrolrs brow. “Don’t you be telling me Thorfinn has taken back his pledge! He took Y graine’s death hard, I’ll grant him that, but so did we all. You’re Ygraine’s sister, and heir to the prophecy! Thorfinn’s troth and rank are yours by right. By Tempus,” he swore, pounding a fist into his open palm with a resounding smack, “I’ll trounce that young scoundrel within an inch of his worthless life!”

“Thorfinn is dead,” Dagmar said bluntly. Her face was pale but controlled, her blue eyes steady as she regarded the angry N orthman. “He was killed as he slept. No one knows who did it, or why.”

Remorse flooded the pirate’s face. “Ah, lass, I’m sorry. I hadn’t heard.”

“There is no reason you should have. We celebrate the Elfmaid’s return. The time to speak of the dead will come later,” she said softly.

Something in her tone brought new concern to Hrolrs eyes. “You speak as if Thorfinn’s death was but one of many. There has been battle?”

“Would that there had been battle!” the girl said bitterly. “The warriors of Ruathen should die with honor against a worthy foe, not as pawns of the gods!”

“Tell me,” Hrolf insisted gently.

Dagmar took a long, steadying breath. “There have been accidents, strange happenings. Men have drownedfisherfolk who could swim before ever they took a step: Grimhild, Brand, Drott, Fafnir. Some of our mightiest hunters have been found torn to ribbons by the claws of unknown beasts; our finest trackers go missing. Fishing boats return to shore as driftwood. Children at play simply disappear.”

“Strange indeed,” he muttered, appalled by these revelations.

“There is more. Ancient spirits have returned to the wells and springs; fearful creatures haunt the ruins. Only the most daring youths and maids dare go near the old sites now. There are dark forces at work,” Dagmar concluded somberly, turning her eyes to the drow and her companion. Then, unexpectedly, her grim face broke into a smile. “It is good that you have come, Fyodor of Rashemen. Dark times make for great deeds, and we of Ruathym gladly welcome such a warrior to our midst. Be at home for as long as you choose to tarry.”

Her words had the ring of ritual; formal, too, was the demure kiss she bestowed on Fyodor’s cheek. The young warrior accepted her tribute with a nod, and returned her clear, candid gaze-so like his own-as he placed one hand on the hilt of his dark sword.

“I am pledged to protect my homeland. Your troubles are now mine; for as long as I walk this land, Ruathym will be as home to me,” he promised.

“Is it just my imagination, or have we fallen into a large vat of honey?” Liriel inquired icily. “For cloying sweetness, this moment lacks only tremulous viols and a shower of flower petals!”

Dagmar stared at the drow with amazement, much as a child might regard some curious, mythical beast who had inexplicably broken into song. “The dock-alfar talks!” she blurted out with artless delight.

“Aye, that she does,” Hrolf said with a chuckle. “And I’ve a fair idea what she might say next! Come along, lass,” he said, wrapping an arm around the astounded drow and steering her firmly away from incipient mayhem.

Dagmar watched them go, her blue eyes frank and curious. “I never thought to see a dock-alfar-a dark elfon this island. Indeed, I had thought them to be only legends. How strange she is, and how very small! Yet she speaks the Common tongue nearly as well as a real person. She is your thrall?”

“No,” Fyodor said, a wry smile lifting his lips at the very idea. “Liriel is slave to no one. She is as free as a wild mountain cat and not nearly so tame!”

“Your concubine then,” the young woman concluded in a matter-of-fact tone. “Well, that is the way of men. But a warrior must also have sons. Have you a proper wife in Rashemen?”

Fyodor merely shook his head, for he was speechless in the face of the Ruathen girl’s blunt inquisition. And yet, he realized suddenly, Dagmar was not so very different from the maids ofRashemen. He’d merely become accustomed to the contradictions and complexities ofhis drow companion. Dagmar’s direct manner was as bracingly familiar as a drink from a cold mountain stream.

“No wife. Well, perhaps you will take a woman of the north back to Rashemen,” Dagmar continued, smiling artlessly. “And if not, at least you will enjoy your stay while it lasts! There are many youths and maidens in the village, and much merriment and adventure even in these troubled days. Some of us,” she added, dropping her voice to a whisper, “leave for Inthar with tomorrow’s dawn, to seek answers to the trouble that besets the island. Will you come? Bring the dock-alfar, if you like-1 will see that none of the others object.”

The Rashemi considered the invitation. The ruined keep known as Inthar had featured largely in Olvir’s shipboard stories. An ancient stronghold shrouded with magic and mystery, it might well be the place for him and Liriel to begin their quest. Fyodor accepted the invitation. Before he could ask Dagmar for more detail about the expedition, the call of hunting horns cut through the din of the crowds. Instantly the villagers stopped their merriment and made their way in silence to the central bonfire. They ringed the leaping fire and sat cross-legged on the ground in a well-ordered circle. The groupings were apparently based upon clans, for Dagmar led him over to the place where Hrolf and another man enough like him to be his twin sat with an assortment offair-haired women and children. Beside Hrolf sat Liriel, her face as composed as that of an obsidian statue, but her eyes burning with a heat rivaling that of the central fire. The drow, Fyodor noted with a touch of foreboding, was not enjoying her first night on Ruathym.

In truth, Fyodor’s observation was only partially correct. Ruathym and its customs were utterly foreign to Liriel, but that very strangeness whetted her curiosity. At the moment, she was focused entirely upon the scene unfolding in the middle of the clearing.

Before the bonfire stood the largest warrior Liriel had ever seen. The drow shaded her sensitive eyes with one hand as she studied the man. Nearly seven feet tall he was, in late midlife but still in prime strength. His lined face and knotted muscles reminded Liriel of a weathered oak. His fair hair had faded to gray, but his eyes were bright and blue and proud. Liriel was accustomed to the smooth perfection of drow beauty, but she sensed the history in that face—challenges met, battles won, character tested and tried until it was as strong and steady as the oak he resembled. Liriel knew instinctively that this man was an important leader among his people, even before he lifted his voice to speak.

“I am Aumark Lithyl, First Axe of all Ruathym. Let any who would challenge step forward.”

The words seemed to be a formality, for none of the younger warriors so much as blinked. In Menzoberranzan, status-conscious soldiers would have cheerfully slain their brothers and climbed over the still-warm bodies for such an opportunity. Liriel studied Aumark Lithyl as he spoke, trying to understand what there was about the man that could inspire such unnatural loyalty.

But the leader spoke only a few words before yielding the floor to the village skald, a white-haired gnome of a man who declaimed songs about Ruathen heroes of recent and ancient times. The scald, in turn, called upon Hrolf to share news of the wider world.

To Liriel’s way of thinking, Hrolf was fully the equal of any storyteller she knew. Even though she had lived through the events he described, she listened, entranced, as the captain told the story of the Elfmaid’s trip-the battles they had seen, their unusual escapes, the treasures they brought to the island through trade and thievery. There was a glow of pride about the captain as he described Liriel’s contributions to the adventure, and although the drow noted that the villagers shifted uneasily as Hrolf described her feats of magic, the looks they cast over her changed from grim curiosity to wondering awe. It was, in her opinion, a vast improvement.

When at last Hrolf paused for breath, he called upon Fyodor. The young warrior rose, completely at ease before the large crowd as he began to speak of his own quest. He spoke of Rashemen, of the Time of Troubles when longdead heroes and ancient gods walked the lands-a terrible time when magic went awry and the people were tormented by horrendous nightmares. Then came the Tuigan invasion and the devastation of his land. He told of his own part in the war, his growing acclaim in battle, and the everincreasing strength of his battle frenzies. Candidly, he described the need to control his berserker rages and his hope that the Windwalker amulet, and the drow spellcaster who carried it, might restore him to himself, and to his homeland.

This, also, seemed to raise Liriel in the estimation of the Ruathen, for many nodded with pride and approval as Fyodor spoke of the drow’s efforts to learn their ancient lore, and of the rune quest that had led them both to this place. The fire had burned down to glowing embers by the time Fyodor’s tale came to a close. At a signal from Aumark, the people slipped quietly away from the gathering to their own cottages, many of them carrying sleeping children. Hrolrs cousin, whose stem expression seemed out of place on a face so like that of the jovial captain, rose and stalked from the clearing without so much as a word to the pirate. Dagmar expressed a wish to linger, but her father spoke a few sharp words in a language Liriel could not understand. The Ruathen girl’s jaw set with displeasure, but she nonetheless rose and obediently followed her sire, leaving Hrolf alone with Liriel and Fyodor. For the first time since setting foot on Ruathym, the drow had a chance to speak her mind.

“Well, what’s to come of all this?” she demanded.

Hrolf grimaced and shrugged. “You’re here, lass, and so far no one’s taken it upon themselves to run you back into the sea. That’s more progress than you’ll know! And the lad’s words helped. But my kinsman Ulf-good-looking lad, but stubborn as a snail---didn’t take to the idea of teaching rune magic to an elf woman.”

This news was not unexpected, but it was nonetheless disheartening. Liriel’s shoulders slumped, and she hissed a drow curse from between clenched teeth.

“Now, don’t you be fretting,” Hrolf admonished her. “Ulf will come around! He’s a good lad and not one to be following the thinking of other men. Give him time to make up his mind about you.”

“And until then?” she inquired bitterly.

“Let me see,” the captain mused, stroking his beard in a parody of thoughtfulness. “You must’ve gone clean through those books of yours during the trip. Might it be that you’re wanting more?” he asked slyly.

The drow’s eyes lit up, and Hrolf grinned. “Then tomorrow 1l1 take you to the Green Room. We’ve a fine library, filled with books and scrolls from all over. Don’t rightly know what’s in it, myself; but you’re welcome to root around.”

“I had not heard Ruathym to be a place for scholars,” Fyodor observed.

The pirate shrugged. “Didn’t set out to be that, but you never know what treasures you might fmd when boarding a ship or raiding a keep. To most folk here, the Green Room is just another kind of treasure heap. Valuable as gems those books might be, but they’re of no practical use to us simple sailors and fisherfolk.”

“Can you wait until later in the day to explore this treasure?” Fyodor asked the drow. “We have been asked to go with some young folk to Inthar come morning. I think we should go.”

“Bad business, that,” Hrolf cautioned. “Best to keep away from those ruins.”

“Are my ears failing me, or did an old woman’s words come from the lips of Hrolf the Unruly?” inquired a new and jovial voice behind them.

The three friends turned to face the newcomer. The man approaching them had thick braids of pale ash brown, and a bluff and cheerful face marked by keen gray eyes and a well-tended short beard. He was taller than Fyodor by a handspan and had the same stocky, thick-muscled frame. He was dressed in leathers and armed as if for battle. A broadsword was strapped to his back, and a well-loaded weapons belt encircled his waist and crossed in an X over his massive chest. A one-handed battle-axe hung on one hip, and a large iron hammer-tipped with a broad, flat disk ofmithril on one side and a wicked, spiked claw on the other-bounced on the opposite side.

“Wedigar!” roared Hrolf in welcome, extending both hands to clasp the man’s wrist in a warriors greeting. “It’s glad I am to see you again, lad. What brings you to the village?”

The man’s bearded face turned sober. “You know that Thorfinn was killed,” he began.

“Aye, Dagmar told me. A great loss.”

“More loss than you know,” Wedigar said grimly. “He was to have been First Axe of Holgerstead after me.” Hrolrs brows rose. “Is that so? I knew Thorfinn as a fine fighter, but I hadn’t heard he’d joined the ranks of the hamfariggen-the shapestrong,” he translated for the benefit of , Liriel and Fyodor. “Holgerstead is a village to the north. Our berserkers live and train there. The mightiest among them can take on the form of beasts during a battle rage. A sight to behold, that is, though not so common now as in olden times.”

“Thorfinn was the last, after me,” Wedigar agreed somberly. “There are no more hamfariggen upon Ruathym, and therefore no one to lead when I have gone to the halls of Tempus. The old women who read omens believe the shaman’s daughter is, of all our women, most likely to bear shape strong sons. Since Thorfinn is dead, I came to the village to court his pledged bride.”

“You don’t sound very happy about it,” Liriel observed with more pleasure than the situation truly demanded.

“I have a wife,” the man said shortly. “She has borne me only daughters, but I am content. There can be no peace with two women in one house.”

“Precious little of that with just one woman,” Hrolf agreed with a grin.

“What of you, Fyodor of Rashemen?” inquired Wedigar, clearly eager to change the subject. “Are your people also hamfariggen?”

“No, and may the ancient gods be praised,” Fyodor said with such fervor in his voice and horror on his face that Wedigar fell back a step and regarded the young man with puzzlement.

Afraid he had insulted the ruler of Holgerstead, Fyodor hastened to explain. “You have heard me say that the rituals of Rashemen no longer control my battle frenzy. I would not like to think I could become a beast against my. will, like some wolf-bitten man at the coming of the full moon!”

Wedigar considered this. “Since the shapeshifting gift is not of Ruathym, it has no part of the magic that rages within you. But it might be that you could learn our rituals. You would then have a berserker power you could control.”

“A good idea,” Liriel agreed promptly, but Fyodor looked unconvinced.

“Think on it, and we will speak of these things again another time. But come, lad. Let’s test your strength and skill,” Wedigar invited with a good-natured smile as he drew his sword.

The Rashemi shook his head. “I dare not fight you,” he said bluntly. “Even a friendly contest might bring the rage upon me.”

“Hammers, then,” the First Axe suggested, tucking his sword away and unhooking the hammer from his belt. “We throw for distance.”

Since he had no excuse for this, Fyodor agreed. Wedigar handed him the weapon, and the young Rashemi hefted it experimentally. It was heavy, but much lighter than the hammers he himself had wielded at the forge. He tossed it high into the air and watched as it spun, considering its speed and balance. Although Liriel and Hrolf instinctively ducked out of the way of the falling weapon, Fyodor stood his ground and easily caught the polished handle.

Wedigar lifted a brow. “You have done this before.”

“Seven years at the forge,” the Rashemi agreed. “I was apprenticed to a swordsmith as soon as I could stoke a fire and hold tongs. Never have I used a hammer in battle, but we often threw for sport when the day’s tasks were done.” Fyodor hauled back the weapon for the throw. Sighting ~ down a tree at the edge of the clearing, he heaved for all he was worth. The hammer spun toward it, end over end. The clawed tip bit deep into the wood.

The First Axe nodded, visibly impressed. “You must come to Holgerstead. It is your place,” he said simply.

“I would like to see more of Ruathym,” Fyodor agreed. “Tomorrow we go to Inthar, and I wish to see more of the surrounding hills and forests-perhaps to hunt. I have been too long away from the land,” he said wistfully. “But in a few days, I will come.”

“I will tell your warrior brothers to expect you,” Wedigar said heartily, clapping him on the back. “But the moon rises high, and we must sleep. The unmarried men of the village sleep in the Trelleborg-the barracks. Let us go there now; there is a place for visiting warriors, as well.” Fyodor cast a quick glance toward Liriel, but Hrolf was already ahead of him.

“Don’t you be worried about the lass, now,” he said, dropping an arm around the drow’s shoulders. “In this land, unmarried women stay in their father’s houses. I’ve got me some warehouses at the edge of the village and a snug cottage of my own with an extra room that should suit my girl here. Never had me a daughter before, but I’m thinking I’ll get the knack of it soon enough.”

“She couldn’t want better care,” Fyodor said, deeply touched by the sincere warmth in Hrolrs words.

“Oh, don’t mind me-just go ahead and make all the arrangements!” Liriel snapped. The drow shrugged off Hrolrs embrace and spun away to stalk into the night. After several paces she stopped, turned, and glared at the pirate captain. “Well, are you coming or not?”

Her two friends exchanged knowing glances and furtive grins. “There’s one important thing to keep in mind when dealing with elven females,” Hrolf confided to Fyodor in a droll whisper. “They’re just like women, only more so!”

The rising sun was still clinging to the distant edge of the sea when Liriel and Fyodor caught their first glimpse of Inthar. It was a vast and sprawling keep, ancient beyond reckoning. An enormous curtain wall of thick stone surrounded the site, its many gaps testifying to the ravages of time and battle. Inside this first perimeter was a maze of walls and buildings, most of which had been reduced to tall, tumbled piles of rocks. Above it all soared a single round tower, as remote and forbidding as the widow at a warrior’s funeral. The explorers-Fyodor, Liriel, and three young Ruathen-stood for a long moment in somber contemplation of the grim site.

“That is the best way to enter.” Ivar, a young man with a bowl-shaped mop of yellow hair, pointed to a gap in the curtain wall. “The area has been explored and secured.” “Secured from what?” Liriel asked warily. An aura of magic, as visible to her senses as the thick morning mist, clung to the ruins. It was best that she knew now what sort of magic-wielding creatures they might face, so she could prepare the needed spells.

“From time to time wild beasts lair in the ruins,” Dagmar responded in a voice one might use to soothe a frightened child. The young woman drew a small bone knife from her sash and handed it to the drow. “You will not need to use this, but carrying it might make you feel better.”

Liriel stared at the feeble weapon and then up at the woman. To all appearances, Dagmar was serious. The drow’s eyes narrowed.

Sensing the coming storm, Fyodor hurriedly took the knife from Dagmar’s outstretched hand and tucked it into Liriel’s boot. “You may find a use for it,” he murmured, then immediately regretted his choice of words. The drow’s grim smile suggested that she had one already in mind.

Then a low, quavering moan started somewhere in the depths of the maze of stone, rising slowly into a thin wail. The sound was faint and distant, but it carried an eldritch chill that sent tremors through every member of the exploring party. ~

“A spirit,” Ivar said, his voice pale with dread. “There are many in these ruins.”

“Not just any spirit,” Liriel corrected him. “That’s the cry of a banshee-the evil remnant of an elven female. I wonder what causes it to linger here.”

Fyodor caught the musing tone of her voice and remembered her pledge to find and release the trapped spirits of the sea elves. Although he appreciated her devotion to her promise, he did not see how there could be a connection between the two matters. “Was this place once an elven stronghold?” he asked.

The fifth member of their party-Brynwolf, a young warrior with reddish-brown braids and beard-let out a scornful laugh. “I doubt that even Inthar is that old! There are no elves on this island, nor have there been since the days of the Rus,” he boasted.

“All the same, the elders have said we are not to go into Inthar when the groaning spirit cries,” Dagmar said in a disappointed tone. “Sigurd and Kara ignored the warnings.” Liriel had no need to ask about the fate of these explorers; the grim expressions on the faces of the three youthsand her own knowledge of banshees-told her what had happened. Without magic to shield them, the humans had no doubt been slain by the banshee’s keen. Liriel mused that it was well for her companions that dawn had broken; the banshee’s wail was chilling at any time, but it could only release its deadly keen at night. Even so, the touch of the creature, the mere sight of it, could be dangerous.

But a priestess of Lloth—even a reluctant one-had no need to fear the undead. Liriel had proved that in the dungeons under Skullport. She tugged her obsidian pendant from its hiding place beneath her tunic, and she prepared herself to face once again the power and confusion that was her dark goddess.

“I’m going in,” she informed Fyodor.

The young man nodded as ifhe had been expecting this. He turned to his new friends. “We will meet you back in the village.”

The three Ruathen argued and threatened, but they soon realized that neither Fyodor nor his strange little companion could be dissuaded. With many a backward glance, they strode away and disappeared into the forest, reluctantly leaving the Rashemi and the drow to their fate. “The keep?” Fyodor asked when at last they were alone. Liriel nodded. Banshees were known to hoard treasure, and the keep was the most likely stronghold. Holding firmly to her holy symbol, the drow slipped into the stone maze and made her way toward the tower. Fyodor followed closely, alert for any beasts that might be crouching amid the stones and shadows.

They got to the foot of the tower without incident. A single arched portal, empty where the wooden door had long ago rotted away, led into the keep. Beyond, all was darkness. Liriel conjured a globe of faerie fire and followed the bobbing ball of light into the dank interior.

Inside the keep was a courtyard, hints of its former splendor remaining in the carved marble of the walls and floor. Liriel noted the indentations where gems had been pried from the stone and the distinctive elvish design of the low wall that surrounded a mineral spring bubbling up in the center of the yard. But there were no signs of treasure or of the spirit.

The drow wandered over to the spring and sat down on the crumbling marble. A sensation of cold assaulted her at once, though the bubbling spring sent wisps of mineralscented steam into the stagnant air. With intense foreboding, Liriellooked deep into the water. Gazing back at her with malevolent red eyes was the face of an elven hag. Wizened skin stretched tight over angular bones, and strands of sparse hair writhed, like a tangle of serpents, in the churning water. Clawlike hands extended up, reaching with deadly purpose toward Liriel.

The drow leaped to her feet, her pendant in her hand, as the banshee burst from the water and flew into the air. “Magic you have, and magic I crave-but the living may not pass,” the spirit hissed, swirling around the stunned pair like a wildcat circling its prey:

As the drow brandished her holy symbol, the banshee responded with mocking, hate-filled laughter. Liriel frantically mouthed the words of a clerical spell, one that would drain power from an undead creature. But the banshee’s wild mirth only increased, and at last Liriel understood what she faced.

This spirit had once been drow.

While it was possible for an elf of any of the surface races to turn to evil and become a banshee, dark elves excelled at evil, strove for it-bred for it! A draw banshee was among the most feared of all undead. A high priestess might have had the power to turn such a creature; Liriel did not. And the only thing that might kill a banshee-an enchantment that could dispel evil-was beyond her as well. That spell was not taught in Menzoberranzan. Considering the nature of Lloth’s clergy, such magic could be suicidal.

Liriel turned to Fyodor. “Run,” she said succinctly.

He did not debate the matter. The friends fled from the tower as the banshee’s laughter rose into short, wailing bursts, a mocking sound that pursued them as they ran wildly along the edge of the sea cliffs. They did not slow their pace until the tower of Inthar was long out of sight and the banshee’s voice was no more than a lingering chill in their souls.

The Rashemi was the first to stop. He leaned over, hands on his knees as he drew in long, ragged breaths. “Better a hundred armed men than such a creature,” he gasped out.

Liriel nodded absently, her eyes turned out to sea and her thoughts still puzzling over the strange encounter. Banshee lairs invariably housed whatever the elf had valued in life. What magic was the banshee guarding, and why had it insisted that the living might not pass? There was a mystery here that both disturbed and intrigued the inquisitive drow.

Suddenly some movement on the rock-strewn beach below caught the distracted drow’s eye. Two figures walked along the shore-obviously lovers, judging by their entwined hands and the solicitous way the large, fairhaired man bent over the much smaller woman. Liriel peered more closely at the female who, despite her yellow hair and pale skin, did not have the look of a N orthwoman. She was too small, too slim, and far too impractical, clad as she was in a clinging gown of cloth-of-gold, a fabric more appropriate to a royal wedding than a seaside tryst. The wind blew cold off the sea, yet the woman wore no cloakonly a fringed shawl ofwhite silk knotted about her shoulders. The two faced the sea, and since they were too far distant for even Liriel’s elven eyes to discern their identity she did not bother pointing them out to Fyodor. Nor did she truly wish for him to contemplate such contented lovers. “Let’s take the forest path,” she said abruptly and spun away from the cliWs edge.

They had walked in silence for nearly an hour when, without warning, Fyodor stopped and drew his sword. Liriel instinctively followed suit, pulling her dagger and falling into battle stance at his back.

“What is it?” she demanded, her voice just above a whisper. “The forest,” he replied in kind. “It has gone silent.”

The drow strained her ears. Sure enough, the strange sounds of the forest creatures-the chirp of insects, the cry of birds, the scolding voices of the little furry things that Fyodor called squirrels-had disappeared. The only sound was the wind in the restive leaves.

Then, suddenly, a rush of wind and wings spun down toward them. Instinctively Liriel dropped and rolled. Fast though the drow was, her attacker was faster still. A scorching pain slashed her shoulders, followed by a sharp, wrenching stab as a lock of her hair was torn from her scalp. Liriel ignored both and rolled into a crouch. Her eyes widened at the sight before her.

Fyodor had his sword out before him, holding it in two hands as he faced off against a man-sized hawk. The enormous bird and the warrior moved in a slow, eerie dance, circling together as each sought an opening. A white, wavy strand ofLiriel’s hair was tangled in one of the hawk’s daggerlike talons, and its bright, silver-hued eyes regarded its opponent with feral intelligence. When Fyodor shot a quick, concerned glance toward his drow companion, the hawk seized the moment and darted in, beak diving for the human’s heart.

Liriel sucked in a startled gasp; there was no time for her to deflect the attack. And no need—even without the battle rage, Fyodor was a capable fighter. Up came the black sword, blocking the strike and slapping the curved beak sharply to one side. For just a moment, the hawk’s neck was exposed. But without the berserker frenzy to speed his movements, Fyodor could not move the heavy sword fast enough to take advantage of the opening.

The giant hawk fell back a few hopping steps, spreading its wings wide in preparation for the next attack.

Liriel snatched a bolo from her belt, whirled briefly, and let fly. The weapon spun and wrapped itself around an enormous leg. The whirling weights struck with a satisfying crack, and the hawk staggered to a stop. For a moment the drow dared to hope the leg bone had broken, but the giant raptor recovered its balance and came on again, this time advancing on Liriel with an odd, hopping gait.

The drow snatched up a handful of throwing knives and squared off against the thing. She’d once seen a normal hawk drop to the ground, seize and carry off a rabbit nearly as large as itself. She did not doubt that this gigantic raptor had similar intentions, and her throbbing shoulders suggested she was its intended prey.

Her arm pumped as she tossed four knives at the attacking hawk. All the weapons flew straight and true, sinking to the hilts in the bird’s dappled breast feathers. But the depth of muscle beneath kept the blades from touching a vital spot. The hawk merely shrieked again and darted in, listing to one side a bit but still moving faster than Liriel would have dreamed possible. The smell of carrion assaulted her as the hawk’s open beak closed in.

The drow threw herself into a backward roll, came up on her feet, and dove to one side. Meanwhile, Fyodor advanced, battering at the creature with his cudgel. This bought Liriel a moment’s time. Shielding her eyes with one hand, she summoned a fireball and hurled it at the stilladvancing hawk.

The missile exploded with a burst of light and a wild spray of feathers. Fyodor reeled back, blinded by the sudden brightness and gagging from the horrid stench of singed hawk.

A shrill cry ripped through the forest, a chilling sound that for sheer power competed with the fireball’s blast and the banshee’s rage. Enormous wings buffeted the air as the wounded hawk rose into the sky, trailing wisps of foul smoke as it flew unsteadily westward into the deep shadows cast by Ruathym’s mountains.

Liriel rose to her feet, weaving drunkenly as she regarded her friend. He was unhurt, but the exploding fireball had showered him with soot; his face was nearly as black as her own, and singed feathers clung to his hair and shirt. He coughed, spat out a pinfeather, and then spoke.

“In my land we have many odd sayings, and as you know, I use them all too often. But mark me, one of these I will never again speak lightly, now that I know the full truth of it!”

The drow frowned, puzzled by the odd track her friend’s thoughts had taken. “ ‘There are those who think, and those who dream’?” she guessed, although she saw no connection between Fyodor’s favorite adage and the current situation.

“Not so,” he said with a droll smile. “ ‘Close’ only counts in horseshoe games and fireball spells.”