Mel Odom - Rising Tide

Iakhovas gestured at the wizard in an intricate pattern and spoke only a few words.

The human screamed in fear and pain as the spell took him. His arm holding the wand changed into limestone and the transformation kept moving, petrifying the whole man in seconds. He lost his voice in mid-yell.

The crossbow quarrels pierced the flesh of the wererats but didn't slow them in any way. They hacked into the guards, killing a few at first, then barely held their ground as the superior swordsmanship of the watch members ground them to a standstill.

The second watch wizard flung an arm forward. When it was out in front of him, a roiling mass of flames leaped from his hand and streaked toward Iakhovas and Laaqueel.

Instinctively, the malenti cowered away from the fireball. The basic fear of fire ingrained in her people proved too strong to resist. Iakhovas turned his hand out again and the tattoos glowed once more. Before the fireball could gather power and explode, it was snuffed out.

Wind rose around her, gathering strength quickly, then pressed outward across the street, picking up dust and loose debris and hurling it into the tangled knot of wererats and Waterdhavian Watch members. Small stones gathered up and flung by the wind broke the windows of the buildings behind the combatants.

Iakhovas stepped forward, drawing an imaginary bow as he spoke a lyrical incantation. When he released the make-believe string, a gossamer arrow that looked like glazed white pearl with a foul reddish undercast streaked across the street and pierced the second wizard's stomach.

The watch wizard shrieked in pain and fell to his knees. His hands gripped the shaft protruding from his belly, and smoke curled up from his flesh. Just as the other watch members started to beat the wererats back, dozens of black and gray furry bodies charged from nearby alleys. The rat horde responding to the calls of the wererats swarmed over the watch members, penetrating the weak spots in their armor, getting underfoot, and dropping from the eaves overhead.

Threatening yells grew louder from the surrounding citizens, and Laaqueel recognized that the danger their party was in was far from over. A man came at her. She beat his sword aside, then ripped the side of his face open and kicked him back into the street.

"Let us take our leave," Iakhovas said. "They will attempt to shut the harbor down soon, and I've no wish to be here when they do. We've little time left to effect our escape." He turned and fled into the shadows of the nearest alley.

Panic vibrated in Laaqueel as she realized if she lost sight of Iakhovas she wouldn't be able to find her way back to the harbor. She ran after him, followed by the wererats.

After a moment, the surface dwellers took up the pursuit, staying well back of the party of invaders. Still, Laaqueel knew their courage would grow as their numbers did.

12 Mirtul, the Year of the Gauntlet

"This is going to hurt."

Jherek looked up into Madame litaar's watery brown gaze and wanted to tell her that nothing could hurt more than finding his belongings packed when he returned home. He said nothing, though why he should respect her feelings at the moment was something he didn't understand. What was really confusing was the way Madame litaar seemed so concerned about him now, after she'd packed him out of her house.

"I know," he said instead. He had trouble speaking around the tightness in his chest, caused from the blood-filled lung and his own inner turmoil.

"You're going to be all right, though, Jherek," the old woman promised.

Once, Jherek had been told, Madame litaar had been the most beautiful woman in all of Velen. Vestiges of that beauty still showed in the square lines of her face, in the broad forehead revealed by the way she wore her gray hair pulled back in a long braid. Her half-elven heritage showed in her pointed ears and the lines of her face. She didn't wear any of her accustomed jewelry due to the lateness of the hour. The cerulean blue bodice and long leather skirt she had on looked fresh, as if she'd dressed only a short time ago. She was usually early to bed, but tonight she'd been up waiting.

The young sailor sat on the porch as she'd directed, his legs splayed straight ahead of him. She'd cut his shirt from him in order not to jostle the quarrel embedded in his chest any further. Dried blood smeared his chest and stomach and stained his breeches. Streaks of it turned the hardwood floor of the porch brown in places. He regretted that; he knew how Madame litaar treasured a clean porch for her guests.

"Aye, ma'am," he gasped.

The pain in his chest had died away to a dull throb, but the increased pressure in his wounded lung was frightening. Even when everything around him had been out of his control, he'd always been able to control himself, his body. Now, not even that existed.

"Before I can give you a healing potion to cure your wounds," Madame litaar said, "I've got to get that quarrel out of you."

"Aye, ma'am."

She touched the feathered shaft carefully. Despite her advanced years, her hands remained steady. "I can't pull that quarrel out."

Jherek tried to talk, but his voice seemed caught for a moment. "I know."

She held his face in her work-roughened hands. "I could give you a sleep draught, Jherek, but I wouldn't be able to rouse you before dawn." She hesitated. "There's a ship you must catch tonight."

Jherek stared into her eyes, not knowing what to say. Madame litaar wasn't just kicking him out of her house, she was banishing him from the city.

"She's called Breezerunner," Madame litaar said. "Do you know her?"

"Aye, ma'am. She runs north, along Sword Coast." Jherek broke into a coughing fit and fresh blood bubbled up from his injured lung.

"She leaves port in only a few hours," the woman said. "I've paid for passage for you under another name. They won't know you. Do you understand?"

"Aye, ma'am."

Questions filled Jherek's mind, pricking at the hurt her words caused him. Before he could utter any of them, Madame litaar shoved an open hand at the quarrel, stopping less than an inch short of actually touching it. The young sailor thought he saw blue sparks flare from her fingertips, but he couldn't be sure because in the next moment pain ripped through his chest. He tried to scream but couldn't.

The arrow jerked inside him as if it had been shot yet again. He felt it pierce his back and come out the other side, propelled by Madame litaar's magic. He jerked, trying to escape the agony, but Madame litaar wrapped her arms around his shoulders and held him to her until it passed. He made himself be still, not wanting to accidentally hurt her. Shudders quivered through his body like he was a tuning fork. Perspiration broke out along his brow and upper lip. Fresh blood spilled down his chest and back.

He tried to speak, but blood gurgled up from the wounded lung, a new torrent unleashed. He started drowning then as the other lung filled as well and couldn't find the heart to break free of Madame litaar's grip. He'd always feared he'd be alone when he died, and no one would care. At least here, in her arms, he could hold onto the illusion of family.

3 °Ches, the Year of the Gauntlet

"Oghma grant us mercy."

Pacys hung onto the wagon seat as Hroman prayed and steered the pulling team along Dock Street beside him. The intersection to Ship Street lay just ahead, but the bard knew there'd be no passing along it. The sahuagin had risen from the waters of the harbor and taken their battle into the Mermaid's Arms festhall and to the shipbuilding shed of Arnagus the Shipwright, filling the streets there. Men ran with torches, but the light from the fires spreading uncontrolled across the harbor lit the area up. The storm out on the water lashed high waves over the docks, well above the normal waterline.