The pirate tossed the single-bitted axe through the air and Azla caught it easily. Pirates emptied the net attached to the boom arm, stacking the salvaged lumber. The ship's mages had magically straightened warped timbers and planks as they'd been recovered.
"All hands on deck," Azla roared.
The command was relayed instantly in loud bellows by the first mate. Men scrambled to the deck.
"Put some sail up on that mast," she said. "I want to be making some kind of speed by the time those Cormyrean dogs get here, and one mast'll have to do."
The pirates mustered out smartly, their ranks actually overfull from taking on men who were slaves only a few days ago.
Azla looked out at where Black Champion rolled, nearly submerged beneath the waves. "Umberlee take me for a sentimental fool," she whispered. A tear shone in her eye.
Jherek felt the woman's pain. Azla had lived aboard her ship for years. Since she was rarely on land, the young sailor realized that everything she'd cared about was on that ship.
Abruptly, Azla raised the axe and brought it down again and again, severing the ropes that held the shipwreck to Swamp Rose. As the ropes separated, the slave ship righted itself and Black Champion drifted further beneath the waves.
Glancing back at the deck, Jherek saw that several of the pirates held their hats in their hands. They'd shed blood aboard that vessel, dreamed quiet dreams, ridden out harsh storms, and learned to become one.
"Don't stand there like a bunch of heartbroken saps," Azla bellowed. "Pay your respects to the lady and move on. We may be fighting for our lives in a few minutes."
She flipped the axe back to the man who'd loaned it to her.
"Begging the cap'n's pardon," a pirate spoke up, "but we ain't got a name for this ship. Unless you want to keep calling her Swamp Rose."
"Boatswain," Azla barked, "fetch me a bottle of ale."
When the man hurried back, Azla took the bottle. By then the sails on the surviving mast had latched talons into the wind. The riggings creaked steadily in protest as the ship got underway. The half-elf pirate captain climbed to the top of the forecastle stairs and turned toward her crew.
"The brine took Black Champion, but before she went, she helped us win this ship. I'll give this lady a name, but it's up to you to pay the steel and blood it will take to make brave men fear the sound of it, and cowards run from her shadow."
She smashed the bottle against the railing, spewing broken shards and foaming ale over the deck.
"All right," Azla said, "you lump-eared, misbegotten excuses for proper pirates, I give you Azure Dagger. Long may she sail!"
Thunderous approval roared up from amidships. Standing there, Jherek felt proud. He turned his gaze to Azure Dagger's stern and watched as the Cormyrean Freesail skimmed the water like a bird of prey.
"This is taking far too long." Pacys grumbled.
He swam at Taranath Reefglamor's side. The Senior High Mage inspected the caravan that assembled in Sylkiir the day after the Sharksbane Wall fell. Below them, in a small valley behind a sheltering ridge of rock and kelp, the sea elves finished packing supplies onto flat sleds. The sleds were being pulled by narwhals and sea turtles on the journey to Myth Nantar.
The High Mage stopped and floated forty feet above the ocean floor. The incandescence from the sun lit the waters blue.
"Taleweaver," the Senior High Mage stated softly, though not with patience, "this journey will take as long as it will take. If we rush, we risk.''
"Senior, I know. Truly I do." Pacys searched for the words to explain the anxiety that filled him. "The music fills me and drives me on," he said, "and I can't help feeling that we're progressing too slowly."
"And if we should fail after we've been given this chance?" Reefglamor eyed the old bard directly. "Who would be left to take up arms in this pursuit?"
"I don't know," Pacys admitted.
Coronal Semphyr, who commanded Aluwand, and Coronal Cormal Ytham, who commanded Sylkiir, both stood against any involvement in Myth Nantar.
Reefglamor clasped Pacys's shoulder tightly in his grip and said, "To most of my people, Myth Nantar is a corpse, better off left entombed by the mythal that surrounds it."
"But the Taker is headed there," the bard reminded him.
"And if you're wrong?" the sea elf asked. "If I and the other mages have left our cities, our people, undefended against the Taker?"
"If you could but feel the power of the songs that fill my heart near to bursting, you would know that what we do is the right thing."
"My friend," Reefglamor said, "I do believe you. That's the only reason we are here now. But even as I believe in you, you must believe in me. We must not just begin this journey, we must finish it as well."
One of the lesser mages swam to a stop nearby and waited patiently. Reefglamor excused himself and swam over to the woman.
"Trouble, friend Pacys?"
The old bard glanced up and saw Khlinat floating in the water only a few feet away. For the first time he noticed how tired and haggard the dwarf looked, then realized the whole caravan probably felt the same way.
With the regular military forces stripped from their ranks, men and women who served and believed in the high mages had volunteered for the journey. Many of them kissed their wives, husbands, and children good-bye on the day they left Sylkiir. No few of them, Pacys felt certain, would never look on their families again. For the first time, he realized the sacrifices they'd made.
"No trouble." Pacys said. "Only my own impatience at how slowly we travel."
"Aye, I been thinking on that meself," the dwarf grumbled, "but there's no way to increase our speed. Them people what's out there making up this ragtag army, they're doing all they can."
"And maybe more than they should be asked."
Pacys looked down at the long line of the caravan. Nearly three hundred sea elves took their breaks while the sleds were secured and the animals were changed out. They sat in small groups and talked. Weariness from the hard travel showed in the stooped shoulders and the lethargy that gripped them.
Glancing around, Pacys spotted a depression in the hillside of the sheltering ridge. It gave a view over the whole caravan. He swam to it and settled on the ledge at the front of the depression. As he took the saceddar from his back, he drew his skills to him, and listened to the music that haunted him all morning. He'd found no words for the music-until now. The music was lively but bittersweet, a tune that would live on.
Torn from proud history,
Forged in blood and love,
Come from the hand and eye and love of Deep Sashelas,
No longer of the world above.
They gathered at the behest of the High Mages,
And descended into Serds's deepest blue.
They followed the course of dark prophecy,
To discover what was right and true.
They journeyed to far Myth Nantar,
Still bound in wild and uncertain magic.
The City of Destinies had a future unclear,
And a history that had proven tragic.
Pacys played on, finding the words with ease. He let the music fill him and give power to his song. He knew they listened, every conversation brought to a halt by the majesty in his voice. He continued, finding the chorus.
We are the Alu'Tel'Quessir,
Our hearts build our home.
Our blood is pure
And our arms are strong.
Together we stand,