Annihilation (21 page)

“Well,” Quenthel breathed, glancing at Pharaun, “never mind.”

The draegloth climbed slowly onto the deck behind the two dark elves. The half-demon shook himself hard, spraying water all over Pharaun and Quenthel. The two dark elves turned to regard the draegloth.

“That,” the half-demon rumbled, “was almost worth the wait.”

Danifae wanted them to meet her in a ruined temple on the edge of a swamp, on the east bank of which a wide river emptied into a sea. Halisstra spent the first night’s walk explaining to Ryld what most of those words meant. By sunrise the first day, they had made the coast. The sight of the seemingly endless expanse of cold gray water took Halisstra’s breath away. Like most of the rest of the World Above, it had made Ryld uncomfortable, even nervous. Halisstra was confident that he’d eventually get used to it, even grow to like it. He had to.

They followed the western shore of what the surface dwellers called the Dragon Reach for two long nights’ march, using Ryld’s keen senses, Halisstra’s
bae’qeshel
, and Eilistraeen magic to avoid fellow travelers and unexpected dangers. In the hours before sunrise of the third day they stood at the bank of the wide Lis
river delta, the Dragon Reach spreading out in angry, windswept white and gray to their right. To their left—north—was the river and intermittent woods and rolling, snowy hills. The weather was dark and bitterly cold, and Halisstra had to use spells to keep them from losing fingers and toes.

“We have to cross that?” Ryld asked, though he knew the answer.

They were concealed in a copse of sparse, leafless trees. The river delta crawled with boats of all sizes. Halisstra had never seen such vessels. Most bobbed on the angry waves, lanterns on their decks swaying in the chill wind. The drow caught the occasional glimpse of an armed human pacing the decks, wary of what, Halisstra couldn’t imagine.

“It’s an abandoned temple,” Halisstra told him again. “An old temple to the filthy orc god Gruumsh. Danifae said it sits at the western edge of a vast swamp … a flooded place where water covers the vegetation, and many dangerous things hunt. The swamp is on the other side of the river.”

Ryld nodded and continued to study the water as the sun’s glow began to kiss the horizon.

“Would you know how to work one of those boats?” Halisstra asked.

The weapons master shook his head.

“Then we’ll need help getting across,” said the priestess. “It’s too far and too cold to swim, and we’ll attract too much attention using spells. If we keep our
piwafwis
up and over our heads, a less observant ferryman might not mark us as dark elves.”

Ryld let out a sigh that told her he doubted that was possible but that he would try anyway.

They set out along the river’s edge, working their way slowly northward in the pre-dawn gloom. Ryld stopped her occasionally to look around or study a boat that was either sitting on or adrift
close to the riverbank. He never bothered to explain why he rejected first one then another and another, and Halisstra didn’t ask.

Finally, they came upon a wide, square-keeled boat with a single long oar attached to a tall pole. The vessel had been pulled up on the riverbank, and a few feet away there was the indistinct lump of some humanoid creature asleep on the coarse sand. He’d built a fire before he drifted off to unconsciousness, and it sat next to him, the last of the embers quickly fading.

Ryld moved to within a few inches of the ferryman without making a sound. The weapons master slowly, silently drew his short sword and held it in a loose, easy grip. He crouched next to the humanoid, and the sleeper let out an odd sort of sustained, rumbling cough. Ryld half stood, looked at Halisstra, and shrugged. Halisstra returned the gesture. She had no idea what the sound could signify except that maybe the man—if it was a man—was choking.

Ryld rolled him over with a purposely harsh, violent push. The sleeper had the gruff grayish-yellow features of an orc, but not entirely. His eyes bulged, and he took a deep breath, his heavy brow wrinkled in anger. Ryld dropped the blade of his short sword to the boatman’s neck, and the angry man stopped very suddenly. Halisstra stepped in. When she looked more closely at him, she saw that the ferryman was a half-orc. That was good luck for them. Half-orcs tended to be as despised on the World Above as they were in the Underdark, so he would be easier to manipulate into keeping their presence secret.

“Silence,” Ryld whispered in the guttural trade tongue of the surface races.

The half-orc glanced once at Halisstra, then met Ryld’s eyes and made a show of relaxing. He said nothing.

“We require a boat,” the weapons master said quietly. “You will take us east across the river, and you will tell no one of it.”

The half-orc looked at him, considering it.

Ryld nicked the man’s neck with his short sword, barely enough to draw a half-inch sliver of blood.

“I wasn’t asking,” the weapons master added, and the half-orc nodded.

Within minutes they were on the boat. The horizon in front of them turned from black to a deep indigo. Halisstra had begun to grow accustomed to the sun, but Ryld still hated it, so they had been traveling at night. In order to make their arranged rendezvous with Danifae, they might have to continue through the morning, but Halisstra knew Ryld wouldn’t complain.

“I think the ferryman expects us to pay him when we get to the other side,” Ryld said in Low Drow, glancing at the half-orc who was pretending not to be staring at them. “Or do they breed half-orcs as slaves here too?”

At first Halisstra thought he was joking. It was hard to see his eyes with the cowl of his
piwafwi
pulled over his head. Halisstra wore her own hood the same way, but by the time they got to the midpoint in the wide river delta, the priestess realized that no one on any of the other boats was bothering to look at them and night-blind humans wouldn’t be able to see them in the dark—not from a distance anyway. She slipped the hood off her head, eliciting an irritated scowl from Ryld, who kept his own cowl up.

“Why don’t you ask him?” Halisstra said, nodding at the boatman.

Ryld shook his head.

“Danifae is going to kill you,” he said, his voice flat. “Is she?”

“I would,” the weapons master replied. “She was your battle-captive for a long time, and now she isn’t. Of course she will seek revenge for her years of bondage.”

“Maybe,” Halisstra had to admit, “but I don’t think so.”

“We don’t get your kind around here much,” the boatman blurted suddenly in heavily accented Low Drow.

The sound of the half-human, half-orc thing speaking the language of the dark elves made Halisstra’s skin crawl. Ryld drew his short sword.

The boatman put up a hand, shaking, and said, “I mean no disrespect or anything. I was just saying …”

“You’ve seen drow before?” Halisstra asked then flashed a quick sentence in sign language:
An extra hundred gold pieces if you forget all about us
.

The half-orc had no reaction to the signed question. He didn’t even seem to notice that she’d been trying to communicate.

“Sure,” the boatman replied, “I’ve seen a drow or two. Not recently, but …”

Halisstra shrugged off the boatman’s answer and signed to Ryld,
I think he wanted us to know he understood us, so we wouldn’t say something that would make us want to kill him for hearing it
.

That drew a smile from Ryld.

You can put your sword away
, she added.

The weapons master sheathed his blade and said, “If he understands the sign, he should say so now or I will kill him.”

The half-orc waved a hand and said, “No, no, sir. I swear to you. I didn’t even know what you were doing. I just paddle, yes? Paddle? You don’t even have to pay me.”

“Pay you?” Ryld asked.

The half-orc looked away.

He heard us mention the temple
, Ryld signed.
It goes without saying that he can’t be trusted
.

Who can?
Halisstra answered.

Not Danifae
, the weapons master signed.

Eilistraee will guide us
, she replied.
Danifae has no goddess to guide her
.

Ryld nodded, though he made his continued skepticism plain.

They rode the rest of the way in silence, and soon they were at the other side of the river. Halisstra stepped off the boat, wading in inches deep water to the rocky riverbank. She looked back for Ryld, who was stepping toward the half-orc. The weapons master reached behind the ferryman, unsheathed Splitter, took off the half-orc’s head, and resheathed his weapon in precisely the space of one of Halisstra’s heartbeats. The head splashed into the water, and the weapons master kicked the body in after it.

Ryld turned to wade ashore, and Halisstra looked away into the blue-gray light of the dawn. She could hear his footsteps in the water then on the rocks behind her, but she didn’t want to look at his face just then.

Danifae materialized on the deck of the ship of chaos and was instantly struck by how much had changed. Valas appeared next to her, and she watched his expression change from his normal stoic, blank pragmatism to an uneasy curiosity—he’d noticed it too.

Pharaun and Quenthel both looked bad and smelled bad. The ship itself looked different. The deck, which had been a dull white expanse of stark bone, was covered in spots with pink tissue and crossed with gently throbbing arteries. Sinew and what might have been ligaments stretched between gaps in the bone. The ship felt alive.

Pharaun and Jeggred both looked up at them when they appeared, but only Pharaun stood. The draegloth looked to one side, and Danifae followed his gaze to Quenthel. Jeggred’s eyes burned when he looked at the high priestess, who sat on the deck with her back to the others, one hand absently caressing one of the vipers that made up her whip.

“Welcome back to the Underdark’s dull wet arse,” the Master of Sorcere said. He only glanced at Danifae but approached Valas with his hand out. “You have what we need?”

The Bregan D’aerthe scout nodded and handed the wizard one of the magical sacks that held their supplies.

Danifae kept her attention on Jeggred, who made eye contact with her finally and nodded. The former battle-captive gave the draegloth a smile and a slight bow—then she noticed that the bound uridezu was missing.

“What happened here?” she asked Pharaun.

The wizard began to laugh, and at first it seemed as if he would be laughing for a long time. When no one joined him, he calmed himself and took a deep breath.

“Mistress?” Danifae called to Quenthel.

Nothing.

Jeggred stared at the high priestess’s back, saying nothing as well.

“Are we …?” the scout asked Pharaun.

“Oh, yes,” the wizard replied, “we’ll be setting sail as planned. It turns out that we didn’t need the captain’s services after all. Jeggred was kind enough to retire his commission for us. I will be piloting the ship to the Abyss and back.”

Valas nodded, sat, and began to sort through their supplies. Pharaun stood over him, occasionally commenting on what the scout had purchased. Quenthel continued to sit with her back to the rest of them, saying nothing. Danifae approached Jeggred, gauging his mood as she moved closer. He seemed to want to speak to her, so she sat down next to him.

“Reverie?” she asked, nodding at Quenthel.

“No,” said the draegloth, making no effort to lower his voice. “She has been unable to take the Reverie. The mistress is weakening.”

Danifae took a deep breath, searching the draegloth’s eyes
for some hint that he was anything but genuinely angry with Quenthel. It didn’t seem possible that Jeggred had come that far in the relatively short time that she and Valas had been gone, but obviously things had progressed much more swiftly than she’d hoped.

“The ‘captain’,” Jeggred grumbled, “gated in some of his kind. They attacked us, and we prevailed.”

“Quenthel didn’t fight?” Danifae guessed.

Jeggred looked at the silent high priestess and thought about that for a while.

“She fought,” the draegloth said finally, “but she …”