Prophet of Moonshae

Instead, the sahuagin turned back from the battle, swimming to their deep home in Kressilacc. His forces intact, the King of the Deep would await a more opportune time to work the will of Talos.

'Hey! That's not fair!'

Pryat Wentfeld started backward, interrupted in the casting of his spell. He had attempted to summon an air elemental in order to set the creature against Hanrald and quickly end this duel between the brother knights. But now this high-pitched voice from nowhere distracted him, and the spell was wasted.

'Who speaks?' he demanded. 'Show yourself or face the vengeance of Helm!'

'It's not fair, I told you!'

The priest gaped in astonishment, for the speaker was a tiny dragon, bright blue and hovering on wings that belonged more appropriately to a great butterfly.

'How dare you destroy my spell!' snarled the pryat, lunging toward the creature, who instantly blinked out of sight as the man stumbled through the place he had been.

'I didn't destroy your spell!' The now invisible dragon was indignant. 'I just made it more interesting!'

Staring in shock, which quickly blossomed into mind-numbing horror, the cleric saw that the diminutive dragon spoke the truth: The spell had in fact already begun to work.

The summoning and control of an elemental by a spell-caster is a two-stage procedure, and it is always dangerous. These beings, representing the fundamental forces of air, water, earth, and fire, are called only reluctantly from their respective home planes. Vengeful and mighty, they constantly seek a way to release themselves from the bondage of their sorcerous masters.

Once summoned, the caster must maintain careful concentration in order to shape its unwieldy slave to the controller's will. Pryat Wentfeld had successfully concluded the summoning portion of his enchantment, but Newt had distracted him at the very moment when he should have been asserting his control over the invoked being.

In the case of this air elemental, it had been dragged summarily from a windy display of exuberance with hundreds of its kin, the usual pastime of the creatures on their home realm in the Inner Planes. Now, alone, confused, and compelled to enter a hateful world of unpleasant solidity, it reacted with forceful resistance. Then it suddenly found itself freed of its summoner's will.

The full vengeance of the air elemental swirled into the vale. Immediately it saw the two knights bashing at each other, the hounds and the men-at-arms all awaiting the outcome. It sensed the druid staked to the pole, and even the pilgrims who watched the fight from above. But most of all, the air elemental detected the cowering cleric-the one who had forced the creature to come here but now held no power over it. The tenuous form became a howling vortex, swirling upward into a funnel-shaped cloud of destruction. Furiously the mighty wind surged toward the cleric, casting limbs of trees and piles of wood chips into hailstorms of splinters.

Wentfeld screamed and raised his holy symbol, a medallion depicting Helm's ever-vigilant eye, in a desperate attempt to ward off the monster. When this failed to deter its advance, he ducked away from the whirlwind and scrambled toward the imagined shelter of a cluster of cedar logs.

Danrak, like the others, stared in astonishment at the airy form. Only after a few moments did he notice another figure in front of him, but then he grunted through his gag when he saw that the tiny blue dragon had returned.

Newt, for his part, scowled at the druid. 'What is it? If you've got something to say, spit it out! Can't you talk?'

Danrak strained against his bonds, furious with the dragon's failure to understand.

'Oh-ropes!' the creature said, seeing his arms flex. 'Well, why didn't you say so! I untied Tristan once when he had to fight a monster but he couldn't because he was all tied up. He was grateful, too. He gave me some cheese to eat. As much as I wanted!'

Danrak sputtered, chewing on the rancid cloth. The guards forgot their duties as they nervously watched the elemental, which now tossed cedar limbs aside like matchsticks in an attempt to reach its desperate victim.

'Say, should I untie you? You're all bug-eyed. . does that mean yes?'

Newt dove behind Danrak and started chewing on the ropes that bound him. Beside the Moonwell itself, the two knights continued to hack at each other. Hanrald bled from a gash on his ear, and Gwyeth's breastplate and helmet bore several slashes and dents. Still, neither had seriously injured his foe.

The younger knight struck his brother a ringing blow to his helm, twisting Gwyeth's visor across his face and blocking his vision. Cursing, the brutal warrior pulled the iron headpiece away as Hanrald held his blows until his brother could once again see.

'Fool!' Gwyeth spat, sneering. 'You should have taken me when you could!'

'I shall take you,' replied Hanrald calmly, 'but it will in a fair fight.'

Their blows became less frequent, their gasps of breath more strained. Steel rang against steel as each stumbled over the rough ground, struggling to remain standing. On wobbling legs, the two men struggled against exhaustion.

'Surrender your blade, bastard of my mother's house!' demanded Gwyeth, lunging at his brother.

'Better a bastard,' retorted Hanrald, with a desperate twist to the side, 'than a traitor!'

Still the hounds held Gwyeth's men at bay, and Danrak, aided by the desperate nibbling of Newt upon his bonds, slowly worked his way free of his bonds.

The night seemed endless to the forlorn crew of the Gullwing, who battled tirelessly to keep the graceful vessel afloat. But the damage was severe, and whereas the sea could maintain its pressure for hours and days, the muscles of the humans aboard the ship could only labor for so long. Inevitably the sea must prevail.

Alicia bailed until her arms grew leaden, until her back creaked and ached like an old woman's, and still the water rose. The bow of the longship had been punctured by the onslaught, and though the firbolg Yak and the northmen Wultha and Knaff the Elder waded into the foaming leaks and stuffed rags and cork plugs into the worst of them, the rolling swell placed additional stress on the vessel.

Finally, as dawn colored the gray sky with its own grim cast, the princess collapsed. Brandon hoisted her from the watery hull and held her exhausted form by the shoulders.

'Here, now-you must rest!' he ordered her, and she was too tired to rebuke him.

'But the ship!' she said, shaking her head. Her rust-colored hair hung in an unruly mat across her face, and she pulled it aside to look at him.

'You've done as much as any sailor-more than most,' he assured her. 'Others can take over for a time. You'll do none of us any good if you work yourself to death!'

'No!' she cried, suddenly frantic. She took him by the arms and stared into his face. 'I have to-don't you see?'

'I see one who has worked herself to exhaustion. Here, sit for a moment.' Gently he guided her to a bench, and she slumped there, feeling all the fatigue he described. A feeling of utter hopelessness and dejection sapped her.

'Is there any hope? Of saving the ship, I mean?' she asked.

Brandon appeared to think before answering, but she saw the answer in the pain reflected in his eyes. 'The hope we have is that we can reach the shore of Olafstaad before she goes down.'

In the stern, Tavish didn't hear the conversation between the prince and princess. Indeed, she knew little at this point beyond the blistering pain that wracked her fingers and the cramps that threatened to stiffen her arms into locked positions around her harp.

Yet she had strummed the night through, and now, with the coming of dawn, she once again wanted to raise her voice in song. The magical harp had given strength to the northmen for many hours; indeed, it seemed likely that they never would have kept the Gullwing afloat without her.

'Lady bard!' cried Yak, straining to hold a plank against the hull while two sailors lashed and nailed it into place. 'Give us a song to make us laugh!'

Tavish chuckled, albeit hoarsely. 'I know just the one! It's called the 'Ballad of the Murderous Maid,' ' she announced, strumming the first chords.