Rising Tide (15 page)

The storm created by Iakhovas’s spell continued growing, gathering force. Four foot waves rippled up on the harbor water, then cascaded over the side of Dock Street in spite of the ramparts. The sea wall around the harbor also served as a breakwater against storms that traveled inland from the Sea of Swords. Against a storm that started within the harbor itself, there was no protection.

A raker bore down on the surviving sahuagin ship. Before it could reach its opponent, a dragon turtle rose up from the depths and capsized the raker. The creature was over fifty feet long from its snout to its tail. The shell alone was thirty feet around and was dark green in color with sections that came to sharp points. The huge clawed feet spread over two yards with the webbing between the toes. Horned ridges stood out on its wattled neck. Fierce orange eyes glowed in the dark, and its mouth was a curved, cruel sword slash. Its attention drawn to the Waterdhavian sailors, the monster turtle’s head darted out and it gulped down three in quick succession.

Men shouted around Laaqueel, but none tried to attack her as they manned posts along the harbor. She assumed that the illusory glamour Iakhovas was using remained in place. Turning, she sprinted to catch up to him, making it easily since he wasn’t traveling fast.

“What are we here for?” she demanded when she drew even.

“Fear not, my little malenti, my reasons for being here coincide with your own,” he answered. “To properly fight a war, weapons require careful choosing. In my studies, I have unearthed the fact that one is here, one that I desire greatly.”

“You staged this invasion, sacrificed my people, to get something that belonged to you?” Laaqueel, even after the fifteen years she’d seen him in action, couldn’t believe it.

He turned his dark eye on her, glaring. “Don’t ever presume to question my methods or my reasons, little malenti, otherwise you’ll never grow to be the sahuagin you want to be so badly. I no longer require your services these days as much as would benefit you. Do not be foolish enough to disregard that. It is a true fact.” He continued walking, turning onto an alley off Dock Street and heading east.

She fell into step at his side and slightly behind him, following in silent protest. It wasn’t the first time he’d intimated that he could change her into a sahuagin. Judging from his power, she assumed it was possible.

Possible, but only if he didn’t get them all killed while foraging through Waterdeep. She tightened her grip on her sword and trailed him into the waiting darkness of the alley.

VII

Jherek’s heart hammered as he poised on the balls of his feet, the cutlass naked in his fist. The heavy humidity from the sea left a sheen of sweat across his body from his run. No one else had responded to the woman’s shrill screams for help, but it was possible no one else had heard her over the noise from the docks.

Seven Cuts Court occupied a wide space in the street leading to Drake Gate and to the wooded coastal trails to Murann and Tordraken. Sandwiched between a building that had once housed a bakery but now stood vacant since a string of unsolved murders had begun there and a leather goods shop specializing in used overland travel gear, Jherek gazed out at the court. The only sound now was the gurgle of the fountain, fed by the artesian well, in the court’s center.

Shadows draped the area. No lights burned there after the sun went down. Every mayor to hold office in Velen since the murders started tried to find a means of lighting the court and ending the curse there, but none had ever been successful. Torches and lanterns were lit, but mysteriously extinguished as soon as full dark had claimed the city.

The curse began when a severed foot was found in the court. Most in Velen believed the foot was placed there as a warning to someone, but the stories varied as to who the warning was for. Some said it concerned a Shadow Thief who’d failed in his assignment. Some said it was a warning to Hieydl, the old baker whose son had moved the family business, over an affair of the heart. The foot, over the years, ended up belonging to hundreds of people in the stories that circulated.

There was one truth about Seven Cuts Court in all of Velen: no one went there alone at night. Since the morning the foot had been discovered in the court, people who foolishly ventured into the court at night alone ended up dead-all of them from seven similar deadly slashes-and the victim’s right foot was always taken.

Most believed it was the work of a vengeful ghost. For all its acceptance of its ghosts, Velen also housed a number of poltergeists that had to be banished from time to time. None of the clergy or professional ghost-chasers had been able to exorcise whatever haunted the court after dark.

Jherek didn’t know what he believed, but he’d always stayed away from the place. Now he had no choice. He took a fresh grip on the cutlass and moved into the shadows of the court.

The attack came without warning and faster than Jherek thought possible. Only his keen hearing saved him when he heard the rustle of leather armor to his left. Instinctively, he went down and to the right. At sea a sailor had to stay low. Losing contact with the deck or the rigging during a storm or an attack often meant death.

He rolled on his shoulder and pushed up on his knees.

The cutlass came on line in front of him, and he squared himself up behind it as Malorrie had always taught him.

The leather-clad attacker bolted from the shadows, following up his immediate strike confidently, expecting to overpower his victim before he could get to his feet. A sword’s steel splintered the weak moonlight, sweeping toward Jherek’s head.

The young sailor turned the sword blow with the hook, feeling the impact shiver down along his arm. His attacker’s strength pushed the hook across, making Jherek use the cutlass to block as well. Even then, the sword stopped scarce inches from his throat.

The man roared a curse, his dark face hidden by a scarf wrapped around his face. His breath smelled like he’d spent the night in a tavern.

As the man yanked his sword back, Jherek put his weight on one knee and lashed out with his other leg. He hooked his foot behind the man’s ankle, tripping him.

Jherek got to his feet as the man fell backward. Even big as he was, the attacker shoved himself to his feet with surprising speed.

“Tricky whelp, eh,” the big man said. “Won’t be enough.” He charged forward, swinging his blade with all his might.

Jherek met the blow with his cutlass. Sparks leaped from the roughened metal and rained down over the young sailor’s clothing. Driven back by the impact, Jherek stumbled for his footing, his boot soles sliding across the cobblestones. He barely got the sword up in time to defend himself again.

Though fear filled him, coiling through his guts like a rabid mouse, Jherek focused his mind and skills. He kept his arm hard and relaxed at the same time, parrying the big man’s raw attack with skill and strength, forced to give ground before it. Twice he got the cutlass in for blows to the body, but the edge wasn’t able to bite through the leather armor. Metal clanged, filling the court with unaccustomed noise. The young sailor couldn’t help wondering how many ghosts they were attracting as an audience, and he knew not all of them were benign.

“Gonna die this night, whelp,” the big man promised. “Gonna spill me some cursed pirate’s blood in the bargain, maybe lay claim to that bounty on that tattoo you’re sporting so high and mighty on your arm.” The big sword came down again.

Hearing the man’s words stung Jherek, touching off the unforgiving anger that lay inside him. Malorrie had always taught him that the anger he felt was his greatest weapon, and his greatest weakness. The difference lay in control, and in whether that anger was directed inward or outward.

Jherek parried the sword blow with his cutlass, ducking down and to the side to turn it away from him and to the right. Before the big man could move, the young sailor whipped in with the hook and buried it behind the man’s knee. He yanked, setting it deep.

The big man roared in pain, trying desperately to get away. He bent down to grab for the hook.

Jherek straightened, unable to bring the cutlass’s blade into play. Instead, he slammed the hard metal of the basket hilt into his attacker’s face, breaking his nose and sending blood in all directions. Close as he was, he felt the warmth of the man’s blood splash across his own face.

The big man squalled in renewed agony, and fear was in there now as well. He put out a big hand and gouged at Jherek’s eyes with hard-taloned fingers.

The young sailor went backward automatically, protecting his vision. He let go of the hook, twisting as he did so. If the man didn’t have access to a healing potion or a cleric, he’d have a permanent limp. Breathing hard, Jherek moved backward two more steps, getting the distance he needed to finish the fight.

The big man stood with effort, hobbled by his injured leg. He worked at rubbing the blood from his eyes with his free hand. He kept hold of the long sword, pushing it out in Jherek’s general direction.

Jherek hesitated. It was one thing to take a man’s blood in the heat of battle, but another to take it when the man was so obviously helpless.

“Vyane!” the big man called.

Realizing the man wasn’t alone, Jherek whirled. He brought the cutlass up to a ready position as his eyes scanned the shadows around the court. He saw the woman standing in the darkness gathered at the opposite end of the court, below the hand-lettered sign that advertised Blackthorn’s Brew, the most popular festhall in all of Velen.

She was slim-hipped and long-haired, as small as the man was large. Her face looked elven, but Jherek wasn’t sure. She wore dark clothing, a rider’s outfit, one used to rough handling. A light breeze lifted her hair from her shoulders in a fluttering halo, and wiggled the fletchings of the quarrel nestled in the groove of the crossbow she held.

Jherek saw her hand clench, letting him know she’d fired. With Malorrie’s training, he knew there was a chance of avoiding the bolt as it leaped from the bow. A speeding quarrel couldn’t change course in mid-air unless it was magical in nature. All he had to do was move, but when he did, it was already too late.

The woman’s beauty surprised him, making him wonder how anyone so pretty could cold-bloodedly feather someone she didn’t even know.

The heavy bolt crashed into his chest, burying deep just below his left shoulder. His arm went numb at once even as his chest seemed to catch on fire. The impact knocked him backward and he stumbled as he tried to regain his balance. The numbness spread down his spine, stilling his legs. He fell.

“Vyane!” the big man yelled again.

“Silence, Croess,” the woman said with an accent that Jherek couldn’t place.

“The little bastard nearly killed me. Look what he’s done to my leg.”

Jherek lay on his back and tried to breathe. He couldn’t. It was like the crossbow bolt had nailed his chest closed. He lay still, staring up into the sky, at the stars he’d gotten so accustomed to while on watch in Butterfly’s crow’s nest. He couldn’t even blink or move his eyes as he watched the woman approach.

“Your own fault,” she told the big man without sympathy. “You moved on him from out of the shadows. He should have been dead before he even knew you were there.”

“You saw how quick he was,” Croess protested. “Fanged demons take me if I’m lying, but he’s hardly more than a boy and he fights like a damned whirlwind.”

“You knew he would be something different. We were told that.” She stared down at Jherek with empty eyes and said, “A crossbow bolt did for him just fine.” She glanced across Jherek and added, to someone, “You said there was gold?”

“Aye,” a man said.

Jherek strained to hear better, but the numbness filling his body seemed to affect his ears as well. He was certain he knew the voice.

“Old Finaren, he’s soft on his people. Always puts something aside for them. Knew he’d give it to this boy even with him being what he is.”

The elf woman knelt and went through Jherek’s clothing. Her practiced fingers found the leather pouch Finaren had given him. She tossed it, seeming to weigh its worth in that single motion. “So young,” she said, standing. “Pity.”

“We should take his head,” Croess said. “Prove to that damned wizard that we did what we set out to do.”

“No,” the woman replied. “He’ll take our word.”

“His foot, then,” the big man said. “We’ll make it look like the ghost that’s supposed to haunt this place was responsible for killing him.”

“After you’ve gone and bled all over the place?” the woman taunted. She shook her head. “No, I’ll not have him mutilated. The old woman who raised him will be allowed to bury all of him.”

“Maybe that’s not your choice,” the big man grated. “It was me that got hurt. I’ll do as I damn well please.”

“Try, and he won’t be the only one who dies here tonight,” the woman promised.

Silence filled the court for a moment, then Jherek heard the big man limp away. His hearing dwindled, making it impossible for him to hear anything else that might have been said. His vision blurred, then finally turned dark. He felt stilled, buried in the icy core of his own shadow, wearing it like a shroud.

Through it all, even though the fear and anger burned through him, he wondered where the voice was. Why wasn’t it commanding him again, telling him to live so that he could serve?

The darkness crept in and stole even his thoughts away.

VIII

Laaqueel paused at the top of the wooden steps leading up to Fishgut Court. The battle taking place out in the harbor was drawing all of Waterdeep’s attention. More sailors and shopkeepers ran toward the harbor. Several of them brushed past Iakhovas and his wererat group, letting her know his spell still masked them. She studied the harbor, amazed that the attack had made it this far. Even when Iakhovas had made his plans, she’d had her doubts.

Another fiery salvo came from Waterdeep Castle’s catapults, painting flaming lines through the dark sky for a moment, then splashing down in the water in a violent flash of sparks and hisses that overrode even the screaming fear and rage and disbelief coming from the surface dwellers. Fingers of oily fire splayed out over the waves stirred up by Iakhovas’s wizard’s storm. The waves crashed ten feet high now, slopping over the sides of many vessels at anchor and shoving them into each other.