The Pirate King t-2

by Robert Anthony Salvatore

  “None would have died if you hadn’t started the fight!”

  “My good captain, some things are worth dying for.”

  “Shouldn’t that be the choice of him what’s dying?”

  Lord Brambleberry smirked at the man, but really had no response. He wasn’t pleased at the losses incurred around the Harbor Cross Bridge. A fire had broken out just north of their perimeter and several homes had been reduced to smoldering ruin. Innocent Luskar had died.

  The guard captain’s forward-leaning posture weakened when Captain Deudermont walked over to stand beside Lord Brambleberry.

  “Is there a problem?” the legend of Luskan asked.

  “N-no, Mr. Deudermont,” the guard stammered, for he was clearly intimidated. “Well, yes, sir.”

  “It pains you to see smoke over your city,” Deudermont replied. “It tears at my heart as well, but the worm must be cut from the apple. Be glad that the Hosttower is on a separate island.”

  “Yes, Mr. Deudermont.” The guard captain gave one more curt look at Lord Brambleberry then briskly turned and marched away to join his men and their rescue work at the site of the battle.

  “His resistance was less strident than I’d anticipated,” Brambleberry said to Deudermont. “Your reputation here makes this much easier.”

  “The fight has only just begun,” the captain reminded him.

  “Once we have them driven into the Hosttower, it will go quickly,” Brambleberry said.

  “They’re wizards. They won’t be held back by lines of men. We’ll be looking over our shoulders for the entirety of the war.”

  “Then make it a short one,” the eager Waterdhavian lord said. “Before my neck stiffens.”

  He offered a wink and a bow and hurried away, nearly bumping into Robillard, who was coming Deudermont’s way.

  “Pallindra is among the dead, and that is no small loss for the Hosttower, and an even greater one for Arklem Greeth, personally, for she was known to be fiercely loyal to him,” Robillard reported. “And our scout of questionable heritage…”

  “His name is Drizzt,” Deudermont said.

  “Yes, that one,” the wizard replied. “He defeated a wizard by name of Huantar Seashark, paramount among the Hosttower at summoning elementals and demons—even elder elementals and demon lords.”

  “Paramount? Even better than Robillard?” Deudermont said to lighten the wizard’s typically dour mood.

  “Be not a fool,” Robillard replied, drawing a wide smile from Deudermont, who took note that Robillard hadn’t actually answered the question. “Huantar’s prowess would have served Arklem Greeth well when our flames tickle at his towers.”

  “Then it’s a day of great victory,” Deudermont reasoned.

  “It’s the day we awakened the beast. Nothing more.”

  “Indeed,” Deudermont replied, though in a tone that showed neither agreement nor concession, but rather more of a detached amusement as the captain looked past Robillard and nodded.

  Robillard turned to see Drizzt and Regis coming down the road, the drow with a tattered cloak over one arm.

  “You found a fine battle, I’m told,” Deudermont called to them as they neared.

  “Those two words rarely go together,” said the drow.

  “I like him more all the time,” Robillard said so that only Deudermont could hear, and the captain snorted.

  “Come, let us four retire to a warm hearth and warmer brandy, that we might exchange tales,” said Deudermont.

  “And cake,” Regis said. “Never forget the cake.”

  “Cause or effect?” Arklem Greeth asked quietly as he padded down the hallway leading to the chambers of the Overwizard of the South Spire.

  Beside him Valindra Shadowmantle, Overwizard of the North Tower, widely considered to be next in line to succeed Arklem Greeth—which of course was a rather useless tribute, since the lich planned to live forever—gave a derisive snort. She was a tiny thing, much shorter than Greeth and with a lithe moon elf frame that was many times more diminutive than the archmage arcane’s burly and bloated animated vessel.

  “No, truly,” Arklem Greeth went on. “Did the Mirabarrans join in the battle against Pallindra and our safehouse because of the rumors that we had threatened to intervene with the stability of the Silver Marches? Or was their interference part of a wider revolt against the Arcane Brotherhood? Cause or effect?”

  “The latter,” Valindra replied with a flip of her long and lustrous black hair, so clear in contrast to eyes that seemed as if they had stolen all the blue from the waters of the Sword Coast. “The Mirabarrans would have joined in the fight against us whether Nyphithys had gone to Obould or not. This betrayal has Arabeth’s stench all over it.”

  “Of course you would say that of your rival.”

  “Do you disagree?” the forceful elf said without the slightest hesitation, and Arklem Greeth gave a wheezing chuckle. It wasn’t often that anyone had the courage to speak to him so bluntly—in fact, beyond Valindra’s occasional outbursts, he couldn’t remember the last person who had done so. Someone he had subsequently murdered, no doubt.

  “You would then imply that Overwizard Raurym sent word ahead of the meeting between Nyphithys and King Obould,” reasoned the lich. “Following your logic, I mean.”

  “Her treachery is not so surprising, to me at least.”

  “And yet you too have your roots in the Silver Marches,” Greeth said with a wry grin. “In the Moonwood, I believe, and among the elves who wouldn’t be pleased to see the Arcane Brotherhood bolster King Obould.”

  “All the more reason for you to know that I did not betray you,” said Valindra. “I have made no secret of my feelings for my People. And it was I who first suggested to you that the Arcane Brotherhood would do well to stake a claim in the bountiful North.”

  “Perhaps only so that you could foil me later and weaken my position,” said Greeth. “And that after you had gained my favor with your prodding for the spread of our influence. Clever of you to insinuate yourself as my heir apparent before leading me to a great chasm, yes?”

  Valindra stopped abruptly and Arklem Greeth had to turn and look back to look at her. She stood with one arm on her hip, the other hanging at her side, and her expression absent any hint of amusement.

  The lich laughed all the louder. “You are offended that I credit you with such potential for deviousness? Why, if half of what I said were true, you would be a credit to the twisted dealings of the dark elves themselves! It was a compliment, girl.”

  “Half was true,” Valindra replied. “Except that I wouldn’t be so clever to desire anything good to befall the Silver Marches or the worthless fools of the Moonwood. Were I to love my homeland, I might take your words as a compliment, though I insist I would have come up with something a bit less transparent than the plot you lay at my feet. But I take no pleasure in the loss of Nyphithys and the setback for the Arcane Brotherhood.”

  Arklem Greeth stopped smiling at the sheer bitterness and venom in the elf woman’s words. He nodded somberly. “Arabeth Raurym, then,” he said. “The cause for this troubling and costly effect.”

  “Her heart has ever remained in Mirabar,” said Valindra, and under her breath, she added, “The little wretch.”

  Arklem Greeth smiled again when he heard that, having already turned back for the door to the South Tower. He recited a quiet incantation and waved a thick hand at the door. The locks clicked and humming sounds of various pitches emanated from all around the portal. At last, the heavy bar behind the door fell away with a clang and the portal swung open toward Arklem Greeth and Valindra, revealing a darkened room beyond.

  The archmage arcane stared into the black emptiness for a few moments before turning back to regard the elf as she walked up beside him.

  “Where are the guards?” the Overwizard of the South Tower asked.

  Arklem Greeth lifted a fist up before his face and summoned around it a globe of purple, flickering flames. With that fae
rie fire “torch” thrust before him, he strode into the south tower.

  The pair went up room by room, the stubborn and confident lich ignoring Valindra’s continual complaints that they should go and find an escort of capable battle-mages. The archmage arcane whispered an incantation into every torch on the walls, so that soon after he and Valindra had made their way out of the room, the enchanted torches would burst into flame behind them.

  They found themselves outside the door to Arabeth’s private quarters not long after, and there the lich paused to consider all they had seen, or had not seen.

  “Did you notice an absence of anything?” he asked his companion.

  “People,” Valindra dryly replied.

  Arklem Greeth smirked at her, not appreciating the levity. “Scrolls,” he explained. “And rods, staves, and wands—and any other magical implements. Not a spellbook to be found….”

  “What might it mean?” Valindra asked, seeming more curious.

  “That the chamber beyond this door is equally deserted,” said Greeth. “That our guesses about Arabeth ring true, and that she knew that we knew.”

  He ended with a grimace and spun back at Arabeth’s door, waving his hand forcefully its way as he completed another spell, one that sent the reinforced, many-locked door flinging wide.

  Revealing nothing but darkness behind.

  With a growl, Valindra started past Greeth, heading into the room, but the archmage arcane held out his arm and with supernatural power held the elf back. She started to protest, but Arklem Greeth held up the index finger of his free hand over pursed lips, and again added the power of supernatural dominance, hushing the woman as surely as he had physically gagged her.

  He looked back into the darkness, as did Valindra, only it wasn’t as pitch black as before. In the distance to the left, a soft light glowed and a tiny voice lessened the emptiness.

  Arklem Greeth strode in, Valindra on his heel. He cast a spell of detection and moved slowly, scanning for glyphs and other deadly wards. He couldn’t help but pick up his pace, though, as he came to understand the light source as a crystal ball set on a small table, and came to recognize the voice as that of Arabeth Raurym.

  The lich walked up to the table and stared into the face of his missing overwizard.

  “What is she doing out of…?” Valindra started to ask as she, too, came to recognize Arabeth, but Arklem Greeth waved his hand and snarled in her direction. Her words caught in her throat so fully that she fell back, choking.

  “Well met, Arabeth,” he said to the crystal ball. “You didn’t inform me that you and your associate wizards would be leaving the Hosttower.”

  “I didn’t know that your permission was required for an overwizard to leave the tower,” Arabeth replied.

  “You knew enough to leave an active scrying ball in place to greet any visitors,” Greeth replied. “And who but I would deign to enter your chambers without permission?”

  “Perhaps that permission has been given to others.”

  Arklem Greeth paused and considered the sly comment, the veiled threat that Arabeth had co-conspirators within the Hosttower.

  “There is an army assembled against you,” Arabeth went on.

  “Against us, you mean.”

  The woman in the crystal ball paused and didn’t blink. “Captain Deudermont leads them, and that is no small thing.”

  “I tremble at the thought,” Arklem Greeth replied.

  “He is a hero of Luskan, known to all,” Arabeth warned. “The high captains will not oppose him.”

  “Good, then they won’t get in my way,” said Arklem Greeth. “So pray tell me, daughter of Mirabar, in this time of trial for the Hosttower, why is one of my overwizards unavailable to me?”

  “The world changes around us,” Arabeth said, and Arklem Greeth took note that she seemed a bit shaken, that as the reality of her choice opened wide before her, as expected as that eventuality had to be, doubts nibbled at her arrogant surety. “Deudermont has arrived with a Waterdhavian lord, and an army trained specifically in tactics for battling wizards.”

  “You know much of them.”

  “I made it a priority to learn.”

  “And you have not once addressed me by my title, Overwizard Raurym. Not once have you spoken to me as the archmage arcane. What am I to garner from your lack of protocol and respect, to say nothing of your conspicuous absence in this, our time of trial?”

  The woman’s face grew stern.

  “Traitor,” said Valindra, who had at last rediscovered her magically muted voice. “She has betrayed us!”

  Arklem Greeth turned a condescending look over the perceptive elf.

  “Tell me then, daughter of Mirabar,” the archmage arcane said, seeming amused, “have you fled the city? Or do you intend to side with Captain Deudermont?”

  As he finished, he closed his eyes and sent more than his thoughts or voice into the crystal ball. He sent a piece of his life essence, his very being, the undead and eternal power that had held Arklem Greeth from passing into the netherworld.

  “I choose self-preservation, whatever course that—” She stopped and winced, then coughed and shook her head. It seemed as if she would simply topple over. The fit passed, though, and she steadied herself and looked back at her former master.

  The crystal ball went black.

  “She will run, the coward,” said Valindra. “But never far enough….”

  Arklem Greeth grabbed her and tugged her along, hustling her out of the room. “Wraithform, at once!” he instructed, and he cast the enchantment upon himself, his body flattening to a two-dimensional form. He slipped through a crack in the wall then through the floor, rushing swiftly and in a nearly straight line back to the main section of the Hosttower with the similarly flattened Valindra close behind.

  And not a moment too soon, both learned as they slipped out of a crease in the tower’s main audience chamber just as the south tower was wracked by a massive, fiery explosion.

  “The witch!” Valindra growled.

  “Impressive witch,” Greeth said.

  All around them, other wizards began scrambling, shouting out warnings of fire in the south tower.

  “Summon your watery friends,” Arklem Greeth said to them all, calmly, almost amused, as if he truly enjoyed the spectacle. “Perhaps I have at last found a worthy challenge in this Deudermont creature, and in the allies he has inspired,” he said to Valindra, who stood with her jaw hanging open in disbelief.

  “Arabeth Raurym is still in the city,” he told her. “In the northern section, with the Shield of Mirabar. I looked through her eyes, albeit briefly,” he explained as she started to ask the obvious question. “I saw her heart, too. She means to fight against us, and has gathered an impressive number of our lesser acolytes to join her. I’m wounded by their lack of loyalty, truly.”

  “Archmage Arcane, I fear you don’t understand,” Valindra said. “This Captain Deudermont is not to be taken—”

  “Don’t tell me how I should take him!” Arklem Greeth shouted in her face, his dead eyes going wide and flashing with inner fires that came straight from the Nine Hells.

  “I will take him roasted and basted before this is through, or I will devour him raw! The choice is mine, and mine alone. Now go and oversee the fighting in the south tower. You bore me with your fretting. We have been issued a challenge, Valindra Shadowmantle. Are you not up to fighting it?”

  “I am, Archmage Arcane!” the moon elf cried. “I only feared—”

  “You feared I didn’t understand the seriousness of this conflict.”

  “Yes,” Valindra said, or started to say, before she gasped as an unseen magical hand grabbed at her throat and lifted her to her tip-toes then right off the ground.

  “You are an overwizard of the Hosttower of the Arcane,” Arklem Greeth said. “And yet, I could snap your neck with a thought. Consider your power, Valindra, and lose not your confidence that it’s considerable.”

  The wom
an squirmed, but could not begin to break free.

  “And while you are remembering who you are, while you consider your power and your present predicament, let that remind you of who I am.” He finished with a snort and Valindra went flying away, stumbling and nearly falling over.

  With a last look at the grumbling archmage arcane, Valindra ran for the south tower.

  Arklem Greeth didn’t watch her go. He had other things on his mind.

  CHAPTER 12

  SAVA, FIVE-AND-A-HALF WAYS

  M y bilge rats are grumbling!” High Captain Baram protested, referring to the peasants who lived in the section of the city that was his domain, the northeastern quadrant of Luskan south of the Mirar. “I can’t have fires taking down their hovels, now can I? Your war’s not a cheap thing!”

  “My war?” old Rethnor replied, leaning back in his chair. Kensidan sat beside him, his chair pushed back from the table, as was the protocol, and with his thin legs crossed as always.

  “Word’s out that you provoked Deudermont from the start,” Baram insisted. He was the heaviest of the five high captains by far, and the tallest, though in their sailing days, he was the lightest of the bunch, a twig of a man, thinner even than the fretful Taerl, who very much resembled a weasel.

  A bit of grumbling ensued around the table, but it ended when the most imposing of the five interjected, “I heard it, too.”

  All eyes turned to regard High Captain Kurth, a dark man, second oldest of the five high captains, who seemed always cloaked in shadow. That was due in part to his grizzled beard, which seemed perpetually locked in two days’ growth, but more of that shadowy cloak was a result of the man’s demeanor. He alone among the five lived out on the river, on Closeguard Island, the gateway to Cutlass Island, which housed the Hosttower of the Arcane. With such a strategic position in the current conflict, many believed that Kurth held the upper hand.

  From his posture, it seemed to Kensidan that Kurth agreed with that assessment.

  Never a boisterous or happy man, Kurth seemed all the more grim, and understandably so. His domain, though relatively unscathed so far, seemed most in peril.