“We’re free, Lord Sergen!” his armsman Kerth called. The big swordsman slashed the last of the lines holding Seadrake to Kraken Queen.
“Very good. Now get us aloft!” he shouted at the Black Moon corsairs still on their feet. “Hurry, now!”
“Aye, Lord Sergen!” the bald Turmishan pirate answered. “But we’re sorely shorthanded for this ship.”
Sergen looked at the main deck and realized that he’d lost several pirates in the desperate fight on the deck, along with one of his bodyguards. He bared his teeth in frustration. The Hulburgans had put up a better showing in the brief, violent fray than he’d hoped. “We don’t have a choice,” he snapped. “Just get us into the air and do your best! They can’t follow us!”
The Turmishan pirate grimaced, but he climbed the steps leading to the quarterdeck and took the helm. “Raise the foresail!” he called to his fellows. “It’ll give us a little steerageway! Lord Sergen, tell your lads to lend a hand!”
Kerth looked questioningly at Sergen. “Do as he says!” Sergen told him. The bodyguards knew little more about sailing than he did, but they ran forward to help the Black Moon sailors as best they could. Seadrake drifted slowly away from Kraken Queen; Sergen could feel the heat of the flames that were beginning to consume the pirate flagship beating against his face and hands. For a moment he feared that they wouldn’t get clear of the burning ship before catching fire themselves, but then he heard the ruffle of canvas flapping in the wind. Inch by inch, the foresail was rising into place … and as the wind began to catch the sail, the warship’s hull slowly began to lift clear of the water.
“The mainsail now!” the Turmishan mate at the helm shouted. Side by side the Black Moon sailors and Sergen’s guards lashed down their lines for the foresail and then hurried to the mainmast to begin the work of raising the mainsail.
Sergen looked back toward the wharf, slowly drawing away from them. Shieldsworn soldiers spilled out of the front gate and ran along the dock, with shouts of alarm. Some leveled crossbows or longbows at Seadrake, firing in futility at the warship as it began to climb away from the keep. Others raced to battle the flames spreading across Kraken Queen in a desperate effort to save her. He smiled in cold satisfaction. “I have your ship, Geran!” he shouted toward the wharf. “Enjoy your stay here, Cousin!”
A small figure in scarlet robes appeared on the battlements above the gatehouse. Sergen frowned as he recognized the sorcerer Sarth. The tiefling gestured, his mouth moving as he snarled the words of a spell Sergen could not hear. Golden fire gathered around his rune-carved scepter, taking on an arrowlike shape-and then with a flick of his hand, Sarth sent the quarrel hurling up at him. Sergen swore and threw himself flat as the fiery bolt blasted through the spot at the rail where he’d been standing.
The Turmishan pirate at the helm gave a strangled cry, and suddenly the bow of the ship began to droop. Sergen glanced back to the wheel and saw the man standing there with a charred, smoking hole burned through the base of his throat. He looked at Sergen, his eyes startlingly wide and white in his dark face, and tried to say something, but blood pooled from his mouth and dribbled down his chin. He leaned on the wheel, his hands knotted on the spokes, and as he slumped to the deck, the helm spun wildly in his dying grip. Seadrake lurched to the side, and one of Sergen’s bodyguards scrambling aloft in the mainmast lost his grip. The man tumbled from his precarious perch and fell past the rolling deck, splashing into the lake below.
Sergen realized he was the only person anywhere near the wheel. He threw himself forward and seized the helm, trying to right the ship’s careening course. The ship was heavy beneath the wheel, and he struggled to steady her. The vessel picked up speed on the fresh breeze as Sergen fought with the helm. He finally managed to level the deck again, just in time to see the scarlet foliage of a forested hillside looming just ahead. “Up! Up!” he screamed at the helm … but it was too late. Even as the bow began to rise sharply, the wind carried Seadrake into the great trees mantling the hillside. Branches cracked or whipped across the deck like scythes, hurling loose gear into the jungle below, and the ship came to a halt canted steeply to one side, snagged among the branches.
“Damn it all!” Sergen snarled. He clawed his way to the rail and looked back at the keep. They’d come a mile or more in their brief flight, and it was clear that Kraken Queen wouldn’t be coming after them any time soon … but Seadrake was snagged in plain sight on the hillside. The Hulburgans could give chase on foot. Maybe it would take them half an hour to get to Seadrake in its precarious perch, or maybe it would take them less than that.
He hurried down from the quarterdeck to his sadly diminished crew, most of whom were picking themselves up off the deck or looking around with stunned expressions on their faces. “Don’t just stand there!” he shouted. “Cut us free! Cut us free!”
I can still escape, Sergen told himself. A few minutes’ hard work with axe and knife, and Seadrake would be free to carry him to safety. He hurried to the rail and looked back toward the keep, where smoke billowed from the burning ship, and watched anxiously for any signs of pursuit.
TWENTY-EIGHT
17 Marpenoth, the Year of the Ageless One (1479 DR)
The strange old ruins proved more extensive than Geran would have guessed from the vantage of the hilltop. Walls and plazas, tumbled towers and rambling palaces ran for hundreds of yards beneath the dense canopy of Neshuldaar’s strange, mist-wreathed jungle. Below the crown of the hill, the ruins took on the character of a strange, walled maze-an old stronghold, monastery, or fortified town of some sort, but not one raised by human hands. The doorways stood only four feet tall, there were no windows to speak of, and the cell-like buildings were piled up on top of each other, linked by what Geran guessed had once been trap doors in ceilings and floors. Large standing stelae marked the small plazas, each covered in carvings of grotesque, monstrous creatures. There were very few streets, and the whole place had an almost warrenlike feel to it even without the overgrowth of trees and vines.
Geran, Mirya, and Hamil picked their way carefully through the ruins, descending deeper into the forest. From time to time they called out for Selsha, but the moon’s strange mists grew thicker as the trees closed in around them. Their shouts didn’t seem to carry very far, and Geran began to wonder if Selsha would hear them even if they happened to come close to wherever she was hiding. The idea of combing the ruins for hours was not particularly appealing.
Hamil led the way, with Mirya close behind him. She carried Hamil’s bow and quiver. Geran knew her for a fair shot with the bow; at least, she’d been pretty good in the days when she’d tagged after her brother Jarad and him on their forays into the Highfells. She might not shoot with Hamil’s speed or accuracy, but he felt better having her armed. Geran brought up the rear, keeping a wary eye over his shoulder for any more jungle monsters. He tried to ignore the graceful curve of Mirya’s hip beneath the borrowed cloak and the thin silk robe and was not entirely successful. It wasn’t that hard to see the girl he’d loved ten years past in the strong stride and carriage of the woman walking before him. Somehow he doubted that his lost love, Alliere, would have shown Mirya’s strength and resourcefulness in similar circumstances. Strange to compare a common woman from rustic Hulburg to a highborn lady of an elf noble family and find the princess of the Tel’Quessir wanting, he reflected.