Daughter of the Drow - Elaine Cunningham [156]
Elkantar shook his head. "We could certainly use your sword, friend, but it's best you remain in the temple, far from battle. If the battle frenzy should come upon you, could you tell one drow from another?"
The Rashemi had no answer for this argument, but his blue eyes burned with frustration as he listened to the drow plan each stage of their attack. Never, not in all the months since his berserker magic went awry, had Fyodor felt so utterly helpless. He searched his storehouse of old tales, hoping to find an answer there. Inspiration, when at last it came, did little to set his mind at ease.
When the meeting ended and those present scattered to prepare for battle, Fyodor beckoned one of their number into a private corridor. As he laid out the terms of his offer, his mind rang with the warning of an old Rashemi proverb:
He who would bargain with a dragon is either a fool or a corpse.
The ships of the Dragon's Hoard were well guarded. Fully loaded and tied at the dock, they presented a tempting target. Drow mercenaries walked the docks, and dark-elven archers kept watch from the aft castles and crow's nests of the waiting ships. The merchants of the Dragon's
Hoard were not unaware that Eilistraee's drow had expressed earnest interest in their business, and they did not have to think long to understand why. Packed in the hold of one ship was a score of drow children: unwanted males who would bring a fine price as slaves in the far-off cities of the south. The priestesses of the Dark Maiden took a dim view of such things and were foolish enough to attempt a rescue. So far they'd shown admirable restraint, but there was no predicting what the drow of the Promenade Temple might do.
Not far from the ships, far beneath the surface of the fetid water, Iljrene and ten of her fellow priestesses clung to the rocky seabed and waited. According to Liriel's deep dragon, the tunnel from the merchants' stronghold ended here, in the solid rock of the harbor's floor. Each merchant of the Dragon's Hoard wore a magical pendant that allowed him to pass through the rocky wall at will. It was Iljrene's task to harvest of few of those pendants.
Armed with short swords and a spell that enabled them to breathe underwater for a short period of time, the priestesses waited anxiously, straining their ears for the sounds of battle above. Iljrene trusted Elkantar-he was her commander and she had fought under him for nearly a century-but this task required precise timing. If Elkantar's patrol did not strike soon, the lurking priestesses would run out of air. Yet they could not come to the surface, for doing so would alert the Dragon's Hoard mercenaries and put Elkantar's people in peril. So Iljrene schooled her thoughts to icy calm, and bided her time.
Under the command of Elkantar, a double patrol of Protectors swam toward the docked ships. They'd come in from the Sea Caves, down the watery gates that transported ships into Skullport's hidden harbor, and in from the dark water beyond the docks. His forces paddled stealthily toward the ships: a score of drow, their silvery heads covered by tight, dark hoods; six men; and a halfling-all adventurers rescued by Eilistraee's priestesses and pledged to the Dark Maiden's service.
As he swam, Elkantar took the measure of the forces arrayed against his band. At least a dozen well-armed drow mercenaries patrolled the docks, and as many walked the decks of each of the two ships. Their ranks were supported by minotaur guards and deadly, dark-elven archers. The battle would be costly, yet Elkantar did not for a moment reconsider his course. Qilue Veladorn was not only his consort, but his liege lady. He had sworn to her; he would gladly do anything-even die-for her. But this task he would have done