She ran down the alleyway, zigzagging this way and that when she heard renewed pursuit behind her. She grabbed at any loose items—trash, a broken cart, an empty cask—as she passed, throwing them down behind her to impede the pursuers.
Bonnie Charlee stumbled in surprise as a javelin flew by her head, skipping off the wall of the building to her left. She glanced back as she caught herself against another cask, and her heart sank and she knew she was doomed, for the lane behind her was full of the rampaging humanoids.
She stumbled out the far end of the alley, gripping her right shoulder where another javelin had clipped her. She knew she was about to be killed, or worse, knew they were right behind her. She even cried out as she turned, flashing her small weapon in desperation, and it took her a long moment to decipher the sight before her.
Darkness filled the alleyway. Not the night, but true darkness, magical darkness.
She heard the yells of the gnolls, then the click of crossbows, then fewer howls and more grunts.
The slide of a sword as if against a metal breastplate. A yelp of pain.
One gnoll spilled out of the alley before her, stumbling, bleeding—yes, covered in its own blood.
It jerked weirdly once and again, and it took Bonnie Charlee a few moments to realize the two new wounds were from heavy crossbow bolts.
Before the dying beast fell, a drow rushed out of the darkness, grabbed it, and yanked it back in, his sword going to murderous work before he and his brutish victim disappeared from Bonnie Charlee’s astonished gaze.
The drow came back out—his face, at least. “To Illusk now, you fool!” he scolded.
Bonnie Charlee didn’t need to be told twice.
“I think it obvious that your trip was less successful than we had hoped,” Kimmuriel Oblodra greeted Bonnie Charlee when she returned to the secret hideaway of Bregan D’aerthe, deep in the ruins beneath the city of Luskan.
“I got some information,” the woman replied, her nervousness showing in the sweat on her brow as she stood before the coldly analytical and surpassingly dangerous drow psionicist.
“And now you have become useless to our cause, because you were clearly recognized,” Kimmuriel stated.
“Those who recognized her are dead, however,” came another voice, another drow, entering the small room of Bregan D’aerthe’s co-leader beside a tall, red-haired man, who appeared to be human.
Bonnie Charlee was more comforted by the arrival of Braelin Janquay, a drow scout and a fellow of an easy manner, than of the other person, who she knew to be no human. He was Beniago Kurth, the front for Bregan D’aerthe in the city, not only a drow but a member of the Ruling House of the Underdark city of Menzoberranzan. Beniago had not been threatening to her any more than any of the others, and less so than Kimmuriel, surely, but there was something about him, some easy danger, that had the woman on edge at the mere sight of him.
“You are certain of this?” Kimmuriel asked.
“We had scouts all about,” Braelin answered. “It was a gang of ugly gnolls, nothing more, and they’re too bloodthirsty to flee and too stupid to know they should flee.”
“I agree with his assessment,” Beniago added, and he fixed a stern gaze on Bonnie Charlee that had the little hairs on her arms tingling with fear. “She got lucky.”
Bonnie Charlee steeled herself against the tall man’s withering glare. She decided then not to mention the man in the tavern who she was sure had recognized her.
As soon as she finished that thought, however, Kimmuriel chuckled, and she knew that she had indeed just told him exactly that. The psionicist said nothing, however, and even nodded a bit at the woman.
“Ye asked me to find out some things, eh?” Bonnie Charlee said defiantly, hoping that she was reading Kimmuriel correctly. “And I went, didn’t I? Put yer angry eyes away, mate.”
That brought a snort from Braelin. “Beniago’s only angry because he still looks like a human,” the scout said lightheartedly. “Though, between us, clever lady, he was much uglier before the transformation.”
Bonnie Charlee returned his smile and was much relieved by Braelin’s tone.
“Well, what did you learn?” Beniago asked, ignoring the jibes.
“Not here,” said Kimmuriel, and he started out of the room, the other three following.
Bonnie Charlee paid close attention as the four walked the ways of Illusk. The dark elf had built formidable defenses here, and the preparedness and deadliness of their many sentries could not be questioned.
Bonnie Charlee wanted to know them all. If she was captured up above, her knowledge of this place might prove her salvation, and what did she owe the drow, anyway?
“You owe us your life and nothing less,” Kimmuriel walked up beside her and whispered in her ear, almost as soon as the question had crossed her mind.
The woman’s legs went weak. Wulfgar had warned her so many times about this one, about how he could enter her mind with ease and read her every thought. He had just read her thoughts about the man in the tavern, obviously, and now she had slipped again.
Bonnie Charlee had no way to defend against that!
“No,” he whispered, “you don’t.”
She chewed her lip as Kimmuriel sidled away, taking up the lead once more as he guided them into the deeper recesses of the Bregan D’aerthe position, heading for the room the woman knew best, the room where Wulfgar waited.
The barbarian was not alone but with priestess Dab’nay, one of the very few women Bonnie Charlee had seen in the drow band. Dab’nay glanced at Kimmuriel and gave a nod, then launched into the chant of a divine spell, a dweomer of healing, obviously, for Wulfgar took it in with the satisfied expression of an old codger sitting on a dock inhaling a cloud of fine pipe-weed smoke.
“Shall I take my leave?” Dab’nay asked.
“No need,” Kimmuriel replied. He turned to Bonnie Charlee. “Tell them what you have learned.”
Bonnie Charlee paused before she began, noting the exact words of Kimmuriel. Yes, tell them, for Kimmuriel already knew it, all of it, perhaps more of it than Bonnie Charlee herself could recall consciously.
She wished she was back at sea, bouncing on the waves in pursuit of a merchant galley.
“They’re all behind the new high captain,” the woman said, clearing her head of those far-off dreams. “All the ships. Rethnor, Baram . . .”
“Baram is no surprise,” Beniago said. “Every high captain of Ship Baram has been willing to move whatever way looks safest for Ship Baram. Likely that one was opening wide his doors for the invaders before they even got into port.”
“All of them,” Bonnie Charlee said. “High Captain Brevindon’s taken yer seat, Beniago. Ship Kurth’s now Ship Margaster.”
“A Waterdhavian noble family,” Kimmuriel noted.
“Taking Luskan out in the open?” asked Braelin Janquay. “That seems foolhardy.”
“Or confident,” Beniago added.
“That is a common way of thinking among thieves and insurgents,” Kimmuriel explained. “When you steal what you want, claim it loudly, and dare anyone to do something to take it away.”
“A dare I’d take,” Wulfgar remarked.
“The city’s all fallin’ in line behind him,” Bonnie Charlee went on. “Even the gnolls that came in with Brevindon’s fleet’re given free run o’ the city.”
“Why?” Wulfgar asked, climbing to his feet and stretching the stiffness and pain out of his shoulders. “Why would they do that? Brevindon led the attack and slaughtered many, sure. Yet half of Luskan or more seems to have surrendered without a fight. Why?”
“Because he don’t have dark skin,” Bonnie Charlee answered bluntly, before the others could. That drew long stares from the drow in the room, but ones more of curiosity than animosity.
“It seems that my disguise did not fool them, then,” Beniago agreed with a laugh. “A human in the captain’s chair in appearance, but still they knew that the power behind Luskan these l
ast years has been drow in origin. Now they have a human Waterdhavian lord to call high captain, someone who looks like most of them, someone they think grand and beautiful.”
“Such primitive emotions are the trough of despots,” Kimmuriel said.
“So, Brevindon’s taken Closeguard Isle and Ship Kurth as his home, the other ships have rallied behind him, and Gromph won’t let the Hosttower do anything against him,” said Braelin Janquay. “Is that it, then? Is it time for Bregan D’aerthe to move on?”
All eyes went to Kimmuriel, the undisputed leader of the band with Jarlaxle nowhere to be found.
“No,” Kimmuriel answered. “No. Let them settle in and grow comfortable for a bit longer, then we strike, and often. The facade of strength is impressive unless one understands the weakness behind it. A leader assuming control as Brevindon Margaster has done has also created great enmity with many powerful people who haven’t the courage to confront him. So we will make him mortal, figuratively and literally, and let the support for his marauders be shown as the true facade.”
“But the option behind Brevindon will remain . . . us,” Braelin argued.
“Or him,” Kimmuriel answered, motioning toward Wulfgar.
“You ask me to be a puppet ruler for Bregan D’aerthe?” the proud barbarian retorted as soon as the shock wore off.
“I ask you to help us rid Luskan of this demon-backed invasion,” Kimmuriel answered. “In fact, I insist upon it.”
“Aye. And I’ve agreed to that part. But I’ve no desire to rule a city.”
“You won’t.”
“Or to pretend to rule a city,” Wulfgar clarified, in a determined tone that brooked no debate.
We will find a path to satisfy both our needs, the barbarian heard in his head, and he tried to keep his expression unchanged, with no hint of the revulsion inspired by Kimmuriel’s telepathic intrusion evident.
“Get out and go south,” Kimmuriel instructed Braelin. “Relate the news of Luskan and learn the events and status of Gauntlgrym. Stay underground and through the tunnels until you are well out of the city. Take this.” He handed Braelin a small whistle set on a silver chain. “And take with you any others you deem necessary to facilitate the mission.”
Braelin stared at the strange whistle for a moment, nodding, which let Kimmuriel know that the man recognized it—and why should he not? For Jarlaxle had long worn a similar whistle about his neck. He looped the chain over his head and looked up. “Any I deem necessary? Priestess Dab’nay?”
Kimmuriel considered it for a moment, then replied, “No. Not her. She remains here. I may have need of her.”
“Should I be honored?” Dab’nay asked lightly, with a hint of jest, a hint of sarcasm.
Kimmuriel was having none of it and showed her as much with his cold expression. “Honored?” he answered. “No. Perhaps you should be afraid.”
Dab’nay started to respond but held back.
“I am to go all the way to Gauntlgrym?” Braelin Janquay asked, obviously trying to change the subject.
“If you must,” Kimmuriel replied. “But take great care, and if you encounter something unexpected, then use the whistle.” He paused for just a heartbeat. “Something unexpected and dramatic,” he clarified. “Do not waste my time unless you are certain that your call will not prove to be a waste of my time.”
“Couldn’t you just go to Gauntlgrym and be back in short order?” Wulfgar asked Kimmuriel.
“Do not pretend to understand that which you do not,” the psionicist was quick to respond. “There are costs to every action and I have more pressing needs for my powers than to run as courier between the cities.”
“And here?” Beniago asked, and Kimmuriel knew from his tone that he was simply trying to change the subject before it got out of hand, intercepting a likely rude retort from the often crass barbarian. “Are we to stay hidden below, or should we commence with some actions to make Brevindon’s reign less than simple?”
“Like?” Kimmuriel asked.
“There are lots of dead gnolls in an alley,” Beniago said with a wry grin. “Seems a promising beginning for a resistance.”
“What is the strongest ship other than Brevindon’s Ship Kurth?” Kimmuriel asked. “Rethnor?”
“Easily.”
“Nibble at them,” the psionicist instructed. “Wound them, but only a bit, around the edges, and make it look like the new Ship Margaster’s doing. Then go—”
“To Ship Baram and make them realize that Ship Margaster will eliminate any and all competitors,” Beniago interrupted.
Kimmuriel smiled and nodded.
Soon after, Wulfgar somehow found himself alone in the room with Kimmuriel, something he never much enjoyed.
“As we discussed when first the city fell,” Kimmuriel told him, “if all goes well, you may get one strike. That is your only chance.”
“And if all doesn’t go well?”
“Then you are almost certainly a dead man.”
“My only chance,” Wulfgar echoed, emphasizing Kimmuriel’s use of a singular pronoun. “I am almost certainly a dead man. What of Kimmuriel?” he asked, just because he wanted to hear the drow’s derisive snort.
Whatever happened here in Luskan, Wulfgar understood clearly that the stakes were higher for him than for this strange drow, and likely higher than for any of Jarlaxle’s mercenary band.
Bregan D’aerthe always seemed to play things that way.
“One more thing for you to consider as we await our opportunity,” said Kimmuriel. “Your friend, this pirate woman, Bonnie Charlee.”
“What of her?” Wulfgar asked with a shrug, and he was surprised by how much he privately cared.
“She was recognized in the city, but she chose not to share that. You should make it very clear to her that if she even thinks of betraying us, I will know, and if I know—again—then she will find a worse fate than any creature of your surface world could ever inflict upon her.”
“Even a mere thought?” Wulfgar asked. “People have many thoughts that they will not act upon. Would any friend remain a friend if he looked into the mind of a companion at the wrong moment?”
“I can separate whimsy from true threat. Whimsy, I accept. To a point.”
“You can’t just keep your opinions to yourself. Is that why Kimmuriel has no friends?”
“You speak as if that is a bad thing,” Kimmuriel replied, and left the room.
Wulfgar blew out a long sigh, thinking that he would indeed have a long talk with Bonnie Charlee. As much as he hated many of the drow, and Kimmuriel in particular, he understood that he and Bonnie Charlee had to throw in with Bregan D’aerthe fully if they were to have any chance of surviving this nightmare. Only Kimmuriel, or Jarlaxle if he returned, had any hope of getting Gromph to open the portals to Gauntlgrym, and without that, Wulfgar had little expectation that he would ever see his friends again.
For he was fairly certain of what Braelin and the others would find in the south: a land no doubt brimming with powerful enemies and monsters far beyond him.
Yes, he needed to speak with Bonnie Charlee, and immediately. Again, Wulfgar had to pause and consider how much he cared about whether or not this woman survived. He wasn’t in love with her or anything like that, he told himself stubbornly, dismissing the notion before even entertaining it.
But she had proven a loyal companion and that seemed a virtue in scarce supply in the City of Sails.
“Lolth is with her,” Gromph replied, when the psionicist cornered him in his extradimensional mansion within the Hosttower of the Arcane later that same day. “Matron Zhindia Melarn would not have come this far, would not be commanding such an array of demons and vagabonds, without the blessing of Lolth.”
“Many with the blessing of Lolth have lost before,” Kimmuriel replied. “Even in Menzoberranzan.”
“And if those victors were not also in the blessing of Lolth, what happened to them, I wonder?” Gromph replied.
“Why are yo
u afraid?”
“Why are you not?”
The simple question set Kimmuriel back on his heels a bit, which was highly unusual.
“And why do you care so much?” Gromph pressed.
“I work with Bregan D’aerthe.”
“Bregan D’aerthe will survive. You can be gone from the city, from this part of the world, if needed, in short order. Jarlaxle survived the centuries because none are better at navigating such a web than he. I expect he hopes as much for the man he named as a co-leader of his coveted band.”
Kimmuriel hardly heard the words, shaking his head through it all.
“Look at yourself!” Gromph scolded. “You care. Kimmuriel Oblodra—and how remarkable that any Oblodra or Odran cares! Have you gone soft, then? Have you abandoned your sole goal in life, to find the One Eternal Truth along with those tentacle waggling illithids?”
Kimmuriel wanted to deny his words, to deny him, but his responses sounded without conviction.
“Have you become enamored of the flesh, Kimmuriel?” Gromph asked more seriously. “Have you found within your emotionless mind a bit of love for that which we mere mortals covet?”
“You have felt the power of the hive mind unleashed,” the psionicist reminded him, for Gromph had been with him when they had channeled the awesome psionic power of the entire illithid collective into the weapon Yvonnel had made of Drizzt in order to destroy Demogorgon.
“And it was glorious,” the former archmage admitted. “I hope to find it again, but to do so, I know that I have to live long enough to be worthy of it. And living long enough, I expect, means staying on the right side of Lady Lolth’s anger. Matron Zhindia came here with the full blessing of Lolth. Of that, I am sure. Two retrievers, Kimmuriel! Two! When have you ever heard of such a thing?”
He had a point, one that was hard for Kimmuriel to ignore. Retrievers were a great gift from the lower planes, a magnificent construct rarely created because of the effort and cost. Kimmuriel did care, deeply, about the outcome of all this, but his concern wasn’t based on any love or desire.
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