jerked his head up and slammed it back into the ground. The soldiers eyes rolled back and his body went limp.
Elaith placed huge, talon-tipped fingers against the lad's throat. Yes, the soft leap of blood continued, faint but steady. The lad would awaken to a nightmare, and carry word back to his garrison, he would survive the solitary trek through the forest; the forest elves would see to that.
The disguised moon elf rose and joined the undead ogres in the slaughter.
When it was over, Elaith took the soldiers' weapons-many of them as yet unsheathed-and hacked the undead ogres into final death. When the young soldier awakened, he would believe that his comrades had fought bravely and well.
Elaith reclaimed his amulets from the ogres, and as a final touch, placed Captain Lamphor's cap on the ogre whelp's disembodied head.
'An ogre assassin,' murmured Kivessin. 'Do you think the humans will believe such a creature infiltrated their garrison?'
'I plan to make sure they do.' Elaith raised his eyes to Ferret. 'One thing remains.'
The forest elf nodded and turned to her comrades. 'You go ahead. This is nothing any of you need to see.'
The elves regarded each other in silence. Finally Captain Korianthil touched his fist to his forehead and then his heart, a gesture of respect for an elflord. Then the three guardians of the forest elves-Evermeet captain, Suldusk warrior, and lythari-disappeared into a shimmering circle.
'There are spells that will bind the spirits of the men you killed so that they cannot identify their killer,' Elaith said. 'It's much easier to cast these spells on the corpses. I know a spell that will mask the killer, but it is not pleasant.'
Ferret shrugged impatiently. 'Get on with it.'
'I'll need blood.'
The forest elf didn't even glance at the gore-drenched campsite. She held out her forearm, ready for his knife.
'This is necromancy,' Elaith warned her.
'Yes.'
'Some would consider such magic evil.'
Ferret's smile was both sad and terrible. 'I think we're both past such considerations. Do what needs to be done.'
And because it was his destiny, Elaith did precisely that.
CHANGING TIDES
1
Flamerule, the Year of the Gauntlet (1369 DR)
'I still say ye're a fool to go out there in this storm, Rytagir! Better to stay on the ship where ye'll be safe whilst this maelstrom descends upon us! That shipwreck's been there fer hundreds of years! It'll be there awhile longer yet!'
'Duly noted, Captain,' Rytagir Volak replied as he gazed out at the heaving swells of the Sea of Fallen Stars. There was no denying the anticipation that filled him. It had been nearly a year getting that far. 'If that treasure ship would see fit to come up off the bottom of the sea and sail into port by itself, why, our lives would be even better, wouldn't they?'
Captain Zahban scowled. 'Ye don't even know if
Rytagir held a hand up in the wind and spattering rain and said, 'I believe you're right. Better we should wait for a more hospitable day.'
The ship's captain was a broad, burly man in a modest shirt and coat. His pants and boots had seen better days. A heavy-bladed cutlass hung at his side. A queue held back his gray-streaked black hair. More gray stained his curly black beard. The years hadn't been overly kind to Zahban, but he had all his limbs. For a man who had sailed the Sea of Fallen Stars all his life and always against those that flew a pirate's flag, it was a considerable accomplishment.
'Now I wasn't sayin' that.' Zahban knotted his fingers in his beard. His broad hat shadowed his craggy face and the dark storm clouds overhead further obscured his features. 'Them books what ye found this location in, there's other scholars what could cipher that out, ain't there?'
'Any man that can read and cares enough to look, Captain,' Rytagir replied. He enjoyed toying with the captain's conflicted feelings of greed and worry for his charge.
The ship's crew, a loose but hungry-eyed gathering of seadogs that had faced years of the sea's cruel affections without any of her fortunes, listened anxiously.
'Well,' Zahban said, 'we can't be dilly-dallyin' about this treasure hunt none neither.' He paused, then finished, 'If there be treasure to be had down there at all.'
Rytagir grinned at the man. 'There's only one way to find out.' He peered over the ship's side.
According to the ship's quartermaster, the bottom was a hundred and ten feet below.
If you figured those charts and currents right, Rytagir reminded himself. Sea currents, especially two hundred and seventy-eight years of them, were hard to figure.
Rytagir was of medium height and wide-shouldered, arms and legs sleek with muscle and bronzed from years of swimming, diving, and salvaging in rivers and oceans. Good leather armor covered his body. He carried a long sword at his hip and a pair of knives in his knee-high boots. He wore his yellow-gold hair cut so short it wasn't long enough to lie down.
His eyes were the gray-green of the sea. A past lover had told him that his eyes were so much that color that it seemed as though part of the sea had seeped into him and claimed him forever.
Rytagir supposed that could have been true. Lovers never stayed long. They preferred men who could at least be distracted from their other passions more than a few hours or a day. Rytagir's whole life had been about his studies, and about the things he'd found. He'd learned everything his father, a ranger in Cormyr, could teach him of the wild. But it was the seas of Faerыn-not the forests, to his father's eternal dismay-that called out to him.
Quickly, Rytagir spoke a few arcane words, then drew a symbol in the air. Power quivered through him. He vaulted over the cog's side toward the sea breaking against the wooden hull.
The crew rushed over to peer down at him.
Instead of crashing through the waves, Rytagir stopped only a mere inch or two above the water, held there by the magic he had worked. He flexed his knees to absorb the shock and remained standing, though it was a near thing because the sea was so rough. The water-walking spell kept him on top of the ocean, but the waves still provided an uneven surface.
With a flourish-and he freely admitted that he often adored attention far too much than was good for him, which his father had never been happy about because he'd always been a modest man himself-Rytagir turned and bowed to the ship's crew.
They crouched along the starboard side of the ship in fearful dread. The storm had unnerved many of them. Normally the storms were over by summer, and any squall that blew up after that tended to be disastrous. There was already talk of this being a cursed wind. Bad waters and bad winds had taken ships to the bottom over the years.
