Chapter 7
Dance of the ElfmaId

As Rethnor watched through the spyglass, the captain of the Elfmaid-a mountain of a man with pale braids and massive arms-hauled up a brightly colored square sail and sent men to the oars. The pirates were going to try to outrun them.

But the Luskan warships were built for speed. Two tall masts supported enormous sails that caught and held every breath of the wind, and the crews were chosen from the best the Northlands had to offer. Rethno~s lead ship, the Cutlass, plunged after the pirates, its bow leaping the waves like a dolphin at play, sending spray after spray of white foam flying.

As soon as Rethnor had the Elfmaid within range, he gave the order to fire. A ballista bolt-a giant, iron-tipped spear-traced an arc toward the pirate ship and tore downward through its gay sail. The bright cloth caught on the barbs of the ballista, rending from midsail to lower beam. The rip stole much of the wind from the sail, and the pirate ship slowed. Rethnor gave the signal, and two warships went wide to flank the Ruathen vessel. On three sides they closed in on the crippled ship.

But Hrolf the Unruly was not one to go down lightly; The pirate ship spun in a sharp turn-so sharp that Rethnor fully expected the ship to careen. The Ruathen captain knew his Elfmaid well; the odd vessel righted and faced down her closest attacker, the ship approaching from Rethnor’s left. The full strength of the wind caught what was left of the sail, and the oars bent under the force of the rowers’ quick, desperate pull. The pirate ship lurched forward, so fast that the hull reared upward. Her sharpened bowsprit rammed broadside into the hull of the approaching warship. The lancelike beam bit deep into the wood of the Luskan ship.

The pirates immediately sent a storm of arrows toward the warship to hold back the Northmen fighters. Under the cover of Ruathen arrows, the black elf, nimble and sure-footed as a squirrel on a tree branch, ran up the tilted bowsprit and onto the warship’s deck.

Northmen warriors charged to meet her with swords and battle-axes. The drow came steadily on. White fire spat from her hands and sent the warriors reeling back. She did not stop to press her magically gained advantage, but rose into the air.

As Rethnor gaped-he had no idea the damned fiends could fly-the drow floated to the very top of the masts. She pulled a long knife from her belt and cut the lines that held the sails aloft-first one sail, then the other, in less time than the telling would take. The massive sails plummeted down onto the fighters, burying them all beneath a blanket of heavy canvas.

Hrolf the Unruly was next to climb the bowsprit, and despite his massive size he was no less agile than the tiny drow. The captain leaped onto the deck and ran across the heaving, squirming canvas and toward the pair of masts. Meanwhile the pirates laid down boarding planks and swarmed up after him. They formed a ring around the outer edges of the canvas sail, stabbing down again and again into the trapped Northmen as they closed in toward the center. Here and there a dagger slashed up through the heavy canvas shroud, but the pirates easily cut down the sailors before they could emerge to stand and fight. It was not battle, it was butchery-and it was over in minutes. Meanwhile the warship on the right flank closed in on the damaged warship, circling around to the west and pulling alongside the Elfmaid. Rethnor nodded his approval. His ship was approaching from the east. The Ruathen vessel would be trapped, pinned to one warship and tightly flanked by two more.

The Cutlass came in fast, swinging around at the last moment so that her port side struck the trapped pirate ship with a solid thud.

“We got ‘em now!” crowed the boatswain.

Rethnor responded with a grim smile. He was no less confident of the eventual outcome, but he’d fought Ruathen before, and he wouldn’t consider them dead until their own funeral services were over and done with.

At a roar from their captain, most of the pirates hurried back aboard their ship. Hrolfthe Unruly remained were he

was, boots planted wide on the bloody canvas as he braced himselffor the second impact as the western ship closed in, battle-ready warriors clustered at the rail. From his perch aboard the higher warship, Hrolf looked down at his Elf maid, and at the three ships that surrounded her like the spine and covers of a book. But his gaze did not falter, and his massive chest was flung out as if to receive the expected blows.

Odd, thought Rethnor. Northmen sailors usually preferred to die on their own ships.

As the High Captain watched, the dark elf floated down to the deck and then scampered over to the Elfmaid’s bowsprit. She straddled it, holding on with both hands and bracing her feet against the hull of the impaled warship, as if she intended to push the pirate ship free. To Rethnor’s astonishment, she did precisely that.

The drow threw back her head and sent a single high, keening note soaring toward the darkening sky, an eerie sound that sent a prickle of dread running down Rethno~s neck. Immediately there was a flash of light and sound, like lightning and thunder enmeshed in one combined burst of power. A spray of multicolored sparks bounced off the broken hull of the warship, and the Elfmaid shot backward. With a mighty splash, her up-tilted bow dropped back down to the water.

While the Northmen fighters gaped at this marvel, Hrolf the Unruly cut through the boom lines on the foremost mast. The pirates who’d remained aboard the warship with him rushed to his side. Muscles knotted and straining, they gave the heavy beam a mighty heave. The boom swung out, sweeping over the bow and continuing around toward the westernmost warship. So close was the ship that the tip of the swinging boom reached over the rail and into the fighters gathered there. Several of the men were swept off the deck and into the sea. As if that weren’t bad enough, the boom continued its path-tracing a wide arc back toward ship’s rear mast. Like a giant quarterstaff, the second mast parried the blow, but the crash of impact sent a shudder through the damaged warship. A grinding creak rent the air; then, slowly, the rear mast leaned and toppled into the sea like a felled tree. All that remained was a few jagged splinters and a tangle of lines.

Rethnor turned to his second, the warrior who served as battle chief. “Do not board the pirate ship. Bring the battle to us,” he ordered.

The N orthman responded with a curt nod, clearly understanding the High Captain’s reasoning. On familiar footing, the Northmen fighters had better chance of success, for who could know what deadly magical traps that damnable drow wizard might have waiting for them on the Elfmaid?

A dozen or more men took up grappling hooks and sent them twirling toward the retreating pirate ship. Line after line fell into the sea, but fmally one, then two more hooks caught hold on the low rail. The Northmen attached the lines to winches and drew the ship in as they would a hooked fish. Archers kept the pirates pinned down behind their shield wall so they could not cut the lines.

The capture of the Elfmaid brought roars of anger and protest from her captain. Still aboard the damaged warship, Hrolf yelled out colorful challenges to his enemies’ manhood and ancestry, brandished his mighty broadsword, and demanded battle.

“Oblige him,” Rethnor commanded the steersman, and the Cutlass once again closed in on the damaged ship. The pirate captain needed no invitation to board; when the warship came within reach he vaulted over the watery divide and hurled himself, sword first, at the nearest fighters. His men swarmed in behind him, all of them as eager for battle as their captain.

Rethnor stayed on the forecastle, watching the fight and biding his time. He wanted the Ruathen fighters on this ship. All of the fighters. Yet some men remained on the pirate vessel, standing ready to defend her against attack. The High Captain turned to his ombudsman and gave an order to be relayed to the other warship. The man picked up semaphores and waved the signal. In response, the Luskan fighters on the far ship sent volley after volley of arrows raining down on the pirates. The choice was clear: the Ruathen defenders could stay where they were and die, or take the fight to the ship that was reeling them in. When the Elfmaid was close enough to her captor, the pirates leaped onto the warship and flung themselves into battle.

All of the Ruathen were doughty fighters, but Rethnor saw no sign of the expected berserker. With mixed disappointment and reliet; he picked his first victim: a darkhaired youth who stood out among the fairer Ruathen. An easy kill-the lad could hardly lift the black sword he held. Rethnor stalked in, intending to gut the young fighter before he could parry the first blow. The Captain hauled back his blade in preparation for a backhanded slash.

But he did not swing, for astonishment knotted his arm muscles in place. Suddenly his sword was no longer aimed at the young man’s torso; it was more on a level with his opponent’s thigh.

Rethnor looked up. The young fighter appeared to be at least seven feet tall, with shoulders as wide as the toolarge sword he now held with frightening ease. “Berserker,” breathed Rethnor. His moment of fear passed, and the anticipation of battle swept through him like a fever. He raised his sword to his forehead in a gesture of challenge.

In a movement almost too fast for the eye to register, the black sword mirrored his salute. Then it cut downward with an audible swish. Rethnor blocked, ignored the surge of bone-numbing pain that leaped up his arm and into his shoulder from the force of the impact. He spun, gripping his sword with both hands and lifting it high overhead to parry the next slashing blow. The swords met with a shriek of metal. Rethnor continued the turn, coming around to face the berserker and using all his strength and weight to press the black sword down toward the deck. He lifted a heavy-booted foot above the joined blades and kicked out. The Northman’s foot connected hard-a gutter fighter’s move that should have doubled his opponent over in deeply masculine agony. The berserker did not so much as blink. His black sword whistled up, throwing Rethno~s sword arm out and wide. Faster than the High Captain would have believed possible, the berserker changed direction to slash straight down.

So fast did the blade descend that Rethnor heard the clatter of his falling sword before he realized what had happened. Pain as pure and bright as molten steel exploded in his mind and his arm. He looked in horror at the dripping stump at the end of his sword arm. With one stroke the berserker had cut through gauntlet, bracer, flesh, and bone. Rethnor’s severed hand lay on the deck in a spreading pool of blood.

Several of Rethnor’s men ran to their captain’s aid, and the berserker turned to answer the new threat. Dimly Rethnor was aware of the skinny young pirate who scuttled in to claim the grim trophy, only to hurl it into the sea. He felt a belated surge of loss as his hand splashed into the waves; then he turned and stumbled toward the hold of the ship. There, in the galley, was a circular stone firepit. A large kettle was wedged into the pit, embers from the evening meal still bright beneath it. With a kick, Rethnor sent the kettle flying. His remaining hand shook as he pulled a broad dagger from his belt and thrust it into the hot coals. The High Captain waited until the metal glowed red; then he set his jaw against the pain to come. He fully intended to live, but to do so he had to stop the flow of blood. He took up the dagger and pressed the hot metal against his bleeding stump. A brutal hiss and the stench of seared meat filled the room.

Rethnor fought back the waves of agony and nausea and struggled to remain conscious. Again he heated the dagger and cauterized the wound, and then once again. Finally he slumped to the floor to await the battle’s end. He knew that, for him, the fight was over, but there was no thought of defeat in his mind.

His war chief was a capable commander. One ship had sustained serious damage, but nearly two-thirds of his fighting force still stood. The pirates were outnumbered nearly seven to one. Not even a berserker or a drow could even those odds.

Then he heard the whine of some unknown missile, the shattering explosion as it hit some target to the west. Even down in the hold the crackle of fire and the smell of burning wood and flesh came to Rethnor. Only two ships left, he noted dimly as the room began to spin out of control. Still, the odds favored Luskan, and he was confident.

Liriel prowled about the warship, wrapped in her piwafwi and invisible in the surging waves of battle. Again and again her dagger slipped between some Northman’s ribs, or slashed a hamstring. Perhaps it was not the most noble of battle techniques, but Liriel was pragmatic. As the drow saying went, “The unseen knife cuts the deepest.” Trusting Fyodo~s battle rage to keep him safe, she sought out Hrolf and silently decimated the circle of fighters around him. An expression of almost comic outrage suffused the pirate’s face when he saw his opponents had inexplicably fallen. He spun on his heel and went roaring offin search ofnew playmates. Liriel stepped over the body of the man she’d just slain, intending to follow Hrolf-for where the captain went, so did most of the action.

A strong hand seized a handful of the drow’s cloak and hair, then yanked her sharply backward. She stumbled, tripping over the fallen man behind her.

The agile drow recovered quickly. Catching herself before she could fall, she dropped to the deck and threw herself into a side roll. The move wrenched her piwafwi from the hand of her attacker, but it also threw the cloak open and dispelled the invisibility charm. Liriel came up into a crouch, a knife in each hand, ready to throw into the eyes of whatever canny Northman had perceived and attacked her.

To her astonishment, Ibn stood over her, a grim smile on his red-bearded face and Fyodor’s distinctive driftwood cudgel in his hand.

The drows first thought was that Fyodor had fallen in battle, despite the power and prowess granted by his battle frenzy. It did not surprise her that Ibn would bring her the news--0f all Hrolf’s men, only he would find pleasure in delivering such a blow.

Fear tightened, like bands of mithril, around her chest and throat. She rose to her feet, her face a dark and regal mask, her eyes steadily fixed upon the mate’s gloating face. Before the stunned and grieVing drow could guess his intent, Ibn hauled back the cudgel and swung it fiercely toward her. The rock-hard driftwood club caught Liriel in the middle with a strength that folded her over and forced the air from her lungs. She collapsed to the deck, completely unable to draw breath.

Ibn snatched up a net and tossed it over her; then he stooped down and plucked her off the deck. Holding her easily in his arms, the sailor covered the distance to the rail in two steps. Without hesitation, he threw the bound and helpless elf into the sea.

“It is fire, and it is ice.”

Once, not so long ago, Fyodor had used those words to try to tell Liriel what the berserker rage was like. Never had the words rung so true as at this moment.

The battle fury burned fierce in Fyodor’s blood, and his sword seared its way, like a black flame, through the throng of fighters. Just as powerful, and every bit as deadly, was the ice. The magic that sped Fyodor’s sword arm also seemed to freeze time itself, slowing the movements of all those around him to a sluggish crawl, giving him time to think and react. The frenzy enhanced some of his senses and benumbed others. Although his body bore the mark of many wounds, he felt no pain. Nor did he tire. Each swing of the heavy sword came as easily as the last.

Yet the ice was a prison, as well, a fastness to rival any dungeon stronghold. Fyodor could not help but fight; he had to fight until no more stood against him. He could do nothing but fight. And so he had to watch, helpless in the grip of his own killing fury, while the treacherous first mate threw Liriel to her death.

His worst fear-that Liriel would someday fmd her way into his nightmares-had come true. The berserker curse kept him from going to his friend’s aid. Perhaps her blood was not on his sword, but it was on his hands. In the small part of his mind that was still his own, Fyodor knew a loss deeper than any he’d ever felt or feared. Some instinct of self-preservation reminded him that he would remember none of this at battle’s end. This was no consolation to the young man, for the dead returned to haunt him whenever he grew too weary to keep himself awake. He would relive the horror and helplessness of Liriel’s death, again and again, for as long as he lived and as often he slept.

A roar of rage and grief tore from Fyodor’s throat. He whirled, slashing out viciously as he spun. The blow severed the head of a Northman warrior and sent it flying. Fyodor lunged after it and caught one of the red-blond braids in his free hand. He began to whirl the gruesome trophy overhead like a macabre bolo, then let fly at one of the dead man’s horror-struck comrades. The missile flew straight and true. Bone connected with bone, and the man went down in a splash of gore, his own skull shattered by that of his friend.

An enormous, axe-wielding Northman waded toward Fyodor over the thick carpet of the slain. The fighter called out to Tempus as he came, and to the warriors who had gone before him, exhorting them to prepare him a welcome in the mead halls of their god. The warrior clearly knew he would die, and he came on determined to go out in glory and honor. Shrieking a final battle cry to Tempus, the axeman lashed out with religious fervor.

Fyodor stepped forward to accept the wicked bite of the steel. The axe never came close. Almost against his will, the berserker pivoted sharply away as the blade descended. He continued his spin, whirling in a complete circle and swinging his sword at waist level as he went. The black blade cut through the Northman’s protective leather jerkin and chain mail, sliced deep into his body. Instantly dead, the man slumped forward, the heavy weight of his body pinning the sword firmly between two bones of his spine. The berserker tugged, but even his magically enhanced strength could not dislodge the weapon. Another Northman, seeing that the dangerous fighter was momentarily vulnerable, came at a run.

Fyodor kicked out hard, catching the dead warrior under the chin and sending the lolling head snapping back. There was a sharp crack as the spine fully gave way; then the two halves of the dead warrior slid apart, freeing Fyodor’s sword and spilling blood and entrails onto the deck. Fyodor calmly sidestepped as the attacking Northman charged into the horrible mess. The man slipped, arms windmilling, his momentum taking him on a slide toward the side of the ship. Fyodor sped his progress with a slap from the flat of his sword. The man hit the rail hard, and his booted feet flew up as he toppled headfirst into the sea. The berserker swept a glance over the wild, surging melee. Over a hundred Northmen still stood, against less than a score ofRuathen. But Fyodor would fight until he’d killed them all, or until he himself was slain.

The young warrior no longer cared which came first.

Fearful and impatient, Xzorsh watched the battle raging overhead and waited for Sittl to arrive with reinforcements. The Ruathen pirates seemed to be doing well. At least, none of the bodies that sank past the sea elf wore familiar faces.

Then, suddenly; someone he did know plunged into the sea. The drow, tangled in netting, dropped near the startled sea elf: Her strange golden eyes settled on him for a moment; then she reflexively drew in seawater in a deep gulping breath. The amber orbs rolled up, and her thrashing limbs went still.

Xzorsh snatched up a handful of net and swam frantically for the surface, dragging the drow with him. He shook the water from his eyes and, taking stock of the battle, saw that the deserted Elfmaid was the safest place to revive the drow. He swam around to the far side of the pirate ship to avoid detection, then nimbly climbed up, dragging the unconscious female after him. Not wasting any time removing the netting, he placed both hands on her rib cage and began the rhythmic pumping that would empty her lungs of water.

Tense moments passed before his ministrations took effect. The drow coughed, sputtered, and then gave up the water she had inhaled. She recovered faster that Xzorsh expected. Seizing his hands, she pulled herself up into a sitting position.

“The net,” she gasped in a raw-edged voice, struggling to tear it away; her eyes as frantic as those of a trapped animal. Xzorsh reached for his knife, then realized that its place was empty-he had given it to Lord Caladorn. Seeing this, the drow told him there was a knife in her boot and wiggled the one foot that was not entangled in webbing. Xzorsh found the knife and went to work. It was the finest blade he’d ever held, and it cut through the ropes with astonishing ease. In moments the drow was free. She hauled herself to her feet and staggered over to the rail.

The warship that she had attacked with a massive fireball had drifted away from the battle. Flames leaped toward the darkening sky and licked at the sea as the ship burned down to the waterline. Two of the attacking vessels remained, and the battle was being waged exclusively on one ship. The other warship—the one that had lost a mast-managed to press in close. A line of Northmen stood at the rail, holding long spears and pikes and harrying the pirates whenever they came within reach, herding them back toward the midst of the battle.

And the battle itself was not going well. Fyodor raged like a whirlwind across the deck of the warship, and wherever he went Northmen fell before his blade. But his shirt hung in tatters around him, and his hair and clothes were dark with blood. Liriel suspected that much of it was his own. Even a berserker had limits, and when Fyodor fell, so would the Ruathen who were protected by his fury.

Xzorsh came to her side and handed her the knife. “Never have I seen so sharp a blade,” he said tentatively. “Perhaps this is a foolish question, but do you have anything that can cut through the hull of a ship?”

Liriel spun to face him, her golden eyes distant as her thoughts raced over the possibilities. Suddenly she smiled and tore a bag from her belt. She shook out the contents; a dozen or so crab-shaped metal objects clattered to the deck. Xzorsh recognized them as the things she’d hurled at the giant squid. They had cut through the tough carapace of the creature, but the sea elf did not see how they would help him now. They would not fly through water as readily as they spun through the air.

Closing her eyes, the drow held her hands over the strange metal crabs and began to chant. They began to glow, taking on the red color of a winter sunset. At length the drow stooped and gathered them up.

“These are throwing spiders,” she explained quickly. “I’ve changed the enchantment slightly. Put them on the hull of the ship-or anything else, for that matter-and theyll dig their way through. I want them back,” she cautioned the sea elf as she handed them over.

Xzorsh nodded and pointed to some of the pike-wielding Northmen. “When their ship is at the bottom of the sea, I will retrieve your weapons and return them to you.”

Liriel gave him a fierce grin and a companionable swat on the shoulder-a gesture she’d no doubt learned from Hrolf. “Send them to Umberlee,” she said with dark glee. The sea ranger nodded and dove into the water, hugging the bag of precious magical weapons close to his heart. Left alone on the Elfmaid, Liriel paced the deck as she contemplated her next move. Invisible or seen, she could fight well with a sword but not well enough to turn the tide of battle. Her strongest weapon, her magic, was the best option. But she could not hurl fireballs without hitting some of Hrolf’s men.

Liriel’s fingers closed around the Windwalker, and she frantically reviewed the arsenal of spells she had stored in the amulet. None of them, in and of themselves, seemed equal to the task. She needed. . . She did not know what she needed.

Suddenly her eyes focused on a familiar object. Inspiration sparked, then caught flame. She let out a single whoop of excitement and then got down to the serious business of spellcasting. A spell similar to the one she’d used on the throwing spiders—one that would animate an object and subject it to her will-was stored in the Windwalker. She had never tested it, but there was no time for such precautions now.

Liriel raced over to the figurehead and placed one hand on the ten-foot statue. With her free hand, she clasped the Windwalker and began to chant.

Stored magic poured through her body and into the carved image of the elven maid. The garish paint under Liriel’s hand took on more realistic hues; then the lifelike colors spread out in all directions until the entire statue took on a semblance of life.

A shudder rippled through the giant elven female, and the figurehead stirred. Wood cracked like thunder as the elf maid tore herself away from the ship that bore her name. At Liriel’s bidding, the wooden warrior strode toward the rail and dove into the sea.

Massive wooden hands broke the surface with a force like that of a breaching whale. The elf maid gripped the rail of the warship and hauled herself aboard, setting the ship rocking crazily; Northmen and pirates alike lost their footing and tumbled to the deck. The fighters quickly scrambled to their feet, but the sight of the approaching statue sent them reeling back. For a moment the din of battle gave way to stunned and profound silence, broken only by the heavy tread of the elf maid’s wooden slippers upon the deck.

The animated figurehead advanced steadily, weaponless but without fear. She plucked up a Northman fighter and hurled him into the sea, then backhanded another and sent him flying into the ready sword of a waiting pirate. On and on she went, a fearful killing apparition.

Hrolf was the first to recover from the shock. A grin of sheer, boyish delight split his face, like that of a child whose favorite toy had been brought inexplicably to life. He called out a fond greeting to the thing and bade her tend the troublesome axemen massed on the port side. The elf maid turned at once to do his bidding.

Liriel noted this with a surge of relief, and she gladly relinquished her creation to Hrolf’s command. The powerful magic she had cast, the terrifying plunge into the sea, had drained her strength. She felt the pull of exhaustion and slid slowly to the deck, giving herself at last to sweet, deep darkness.