Daughter of the Drow - Elaine Cunningham [157]
But this was a time for action, not for memories.
The bow of the ship nearest him was pointed away from the docks and was the area least heavily guarded, A lone minotaur paced the deck of the forecastle. Elkantar raised a small, crossbow-shaped harpoon and took aim. The bolt flew silently toward its target, trailing a length of nearly invisible spider-silk rope. The barbed weapon tore into the bull-man's massive chest. Instantly dead, the creature slumped against the railing, head lolling out over the water. He looked for all the world as if he were a seasick sailor reconsidering his last meal.
Elkantar swam right up to the ship. He tugged at the rope; it held, and he scrambled up the curving hull to the forecastle. Using the minotaur's body as a shield, he hauled himself over the railing. At once an alarm sounded, and an arrow streaked down from the crow's nest, missing him but sinking with a meaty thud into the lifeless minotaur. Elkantar returned fire with a handbow, rapidly sending dart after dart toward the archer.
Meanwhile, his band had found the web of ropes alongside the.ships and had swarmed up onto the decks. The ship guards rushed to do battle, and the drow guarding the docks surged up the gangplanks onto the ship, drawing their weapons as they ran. Swords clashed as the drow battled hand to hand.
The Chosen might have held off the fighters, but the archers in the crow's nests picked off the valiant invaders one by one. Elkantar watched, helpless, as an arrow took one of his fighters through the throat. He turned to his second-a tall, grim halfling who had followed him up the rope-and pointed toward the crow's nest. The halfling nodded and dropped to one knee behind the sheltering bulk of the mino-taur. The small archer sent arrow after arrow toward the mast, effectively pinning the deadly archer down.
Meanwhile, a small band of priestesses followed Qilue through the dark waters. One of them, supported out of the water by two of her sisters, managed to toss a rope around the bowsprit. Qilue went first, climbing lithely up the rope and leaping onto the ship's forecastle.
The sight before her stole her breath. Elkantar, her beloved, ran with acrobatic grace up a rope that sloped steeply from the aft castle to the top of the mast. His knife was drawn; he clearly intended to take out the troublesome archer. It was the sort of risky and valiant plan she'd come to expect from her consort, and, considering the storm of arrows raging around the mast, it might well be his last.
The priestess knew a moment of despair. She had loved and lost far too often in her many centuries of life; she could not bear to lose Elkantar, as well. But such choices were not hers to make. So Qilue drew her singing sword and held it high, taking strength as its song-the eerie, haunting tones of an elven soprano commingled with the call of Eilistraee's hunting horn-leaped forth.
The magical sound galvanized the priestesses who followed her. Five more swords flashed in the faint light, joining in a chorus that rang out pure and strong above the clash of battle and the screams of the dying.
Far below the shipboard battle, Hjrene and her priestesses hugged the harbor floor and watched the hidden portal. Suddenly drow mercenaries, no doubt responding to a summons from the beleaguered ships, burst from the solid stone. The drow fighters rose quickly through the water, intent upon the shadowy forms of the ships.
Iljrene counted carefully as thirty drow swept past her hiding place on their way to battle. From all the information her spies had gathered, it seemed unlikely that more than forty drow remained in the stronghold. The final ten, therefore, were the targets. When these had passed, the battle-master nodded,