It was hard to argue that possibility, given the line of ships throwing their missiles at Cutlass Island. Their work was meticulous. They threw in unison and with concentrated aim. He counted fifteen ships firing, though there might have been a couple more hidden from view. In addition, another group of wide, low boats ferried along the line then back to Whitesails Harbor to get more ammunition.
Whitesails Harbor!
The reality hit Kurth hard. Whitesails served as the harbor for Luskan’s navy, a flotilla under the auspices, supposedly, of the five high captains as directed by the Hosttower. The ships at Whitesails were the pretty front to the ugly piracy behind Luskan’s riches. Deudermont knew those pirates, and they knew him, and many of them hated him and had lost friends to Sea Sprite’s exploits on the open seas.
Despite that, the nagging thought—reinforced as more and more masts lined up beside Sea Sprite and Brambleberry’s warships—was that the Luskar sailors might well desert. As improbable as it seemed, he couldn’t deny what he saw with his own eyes. Luskan’s fleet, and the men and women of Whitesails, were directly involved in supporting the bombardment of the Hosttower of the Arcane. The men and women of Luskan’s fleet were in open revolt against Arklem Greeth.
“The fool with his undead,” Kurth muttered.
Arklem Greeth had pushed too hard, too wickedly. He had crossed a line and had driven the whole of the city against him. The high captain kept his gaze to the northwest, to Whitesails Harbor, and though he couldn’t make out much from that distance, he clearly saw the banner of Mirabar among many on the quayside. He imagined Mirabarran dwarves and men working hard to load the courier ships with rocks and pitch.
Full of anxiety, Kurth turned angrily at the hidden visitor. “What do you demand of me?”
“Demand?” came the reassuring reply, in a tone that seemed truly surprised by the accusation. “Nothing! I…we, are not here to demand, but to advise. We watch the wave of change and measure the strength of the rocks against which that wave will break. Nothing more.”
Kurth scoffed at the obvious understatement. “So, what do you see? And do you truly understand the strength of those rocks to which you so poetically refer? Do you grasp the power of Arklem Greeth?”
“We have known greater foes, and greater allies. Captain Deudermont has an army of ten thousand to march against the Hosttower.”
“And what do you see in that?” Kurth demanded.
“Opportunity.”
“For that wretch Deudermont.”
A chuckle came from the darkness. “Captain Deudermont has no understanding of the forces he will unwittingly unleash. He knows good and evil, but nothing more, but we—and you—see shades of gray. Captain Deudermont will scale to unstable heights in short order. His absolutes will rally the masses of Luskan, then will send them into revolt.”
Kurth shrugged, unconvinced, and fearful of the reputation and power of Captain Deudermont. He suspected that those mysterious outside forces, that hidden character who had visited him twice before, never threateningly, but never comfortably, were sorely underestimating the good captain and the loyalty of those who would follow him.
“I see the rule of law, heavy and cumbersome,” he said.
“We see the opposite,” said the voice. “We see five men of Luskan who will collect the spoils set free when the Hosttower falls. We see only two of those five who are wise enough to separate the copper from the gold.”
Kurth paused and considered that for a while. “A speech you give to Taerl, Suljack, and Baram, too, no doubt,” he replied at length.
“Nay. We have visited none of them, and come to you only because the son of Rethnor, and Rethnor himself, insist that you are the most worthy.”
“I’m flattered, truly,” Kurth said dryly. He did well to hide his smile and his suspicion, for whenever his “guest” so singled him out as one of importance, it occurred to him that his guest might indeed be a spy from the Hosttower, even Arklem Greeth himself, come to test the loyalty of the high captains in difficult times. It was Arklem Greeth, after all, who had strengthened the magical defenses of Kurth Tower and Closeguard Island a decade before. What wizard would be powerful enough to circumvent defenses set in place by the archmage arcane, but the archmage arcane himself? What wizard in Luskan could claim the power of Arklem Greeth? None who were not in the Hosttower, as far as Kurth knew, would even be close, other than that Robillard beast who sailed with Deudermont, and if his guest was Robillard, that raised the banner of duplicity even higher.
“You will be flattered,” the voice responded, “when you come to understand the sincerity behind the claim. Rethnor and Kensidan will show outward respect to all of their peers—”
“It’s Rethnor’s Ship alone, unless and until he formally cedes it to Kensidan,” Kurth insisted. “Quit referring to that annoying Crow as one whose word is of any import.”
“Spare us both your quaint customs, for they are a ridiculous assertion to me, and a dangerous delusion for you. Kensidan’s hand is in every twist of that which you see before you: the Mirabarrans, the Waterdhavians, Deudermont himself, and the defection of a quarter of Arklem Greeth’s forces.”
“You openly admit that to me?” Kurth replied, the implication being that he could wage war on Ship Rethnor for such a reality.
“You needed to hear it to know it?”
Kurth narrowed his eyes as he stared into the darkness. The rest of the room had brightened considerably, but still no daylight touched that far corner—or ever would unless his guest willed it to be so.
“Arklem Greeth’s rule is doomed, this day,” the voice said. “Five men will profit most from his fall, and two of those five are wise enough and strong enough to recognize it. Is one of those two too stubborn and set in his ways to grasp the chest of jewels?”
“You ask me for a declaration of loyalty,” Kurth replied. “You ask me to disavow my allegiance to Arklem Greeth.”
“I ask nothing of you. I help to explain to you that which is occurring outside your window, and show you paths I think wise. You walk those paths or you do not of your own volition.”
“Kensidan sent you here,” Kurth accused.
A telling pause ensued before the voice answered, “He didn’t, directly. It’s his respect for you that guided us here, for we see the possible futures of Luskan and would prefer that the high captains, above all, above Deudermont and above Arklem Greeth, prevailed.”
Just as Kurth started to respond, the door to his room burst open and his most trusted guards rushed in.
“The Hosttower is under bombardment!” one cried.
“A vast army gathers at our eastern bridge, demanding passage!” said the other.
Kurth glanced to the shadows—to where the shadows had been, for they were gone, completely.
So was his guest, whoever that guest might have been.
Arabeth and Robillard walked along Sea Sprite’s rail before the line of archers, waggling their fingers and casting devious, countering enchantments on the piles of arrows at each bowman’s feet.
The ship lurched as her aft catapult let fly a large ball of pitch. It streaked through the air, unerringly for the Hosttower’s westernmost limb, where it hit and splattered, launching lines of fire that lit up bushes and already scorched grass at the base of the mighty structure.
But the tower itself had repelled the strike with no apparent ill effects.
“The archmage arcane defends it well,” Arabeth remarked.
“Each hit takes from his defenses, and from him,” Robillard replied. He bent low and touched another pile of arrows. Their silvery tips glowed for just a moment before going dim again. “Even the smallest of swords will wear through the strongest warrior’s shield if they tap it enough.”
Arabeth looked to the Hosttower and laughed aloud, and Robillard followed her gaze. The ground all around the five-limbed structure was thick with boulders, ballista bolts, and smoldering pitch. Sea Sprite and her companion vessels
had been launching non-stop against Cutlass Island throughout the morning, and at Robillard’s direction, all of their firepower had been directed at the Hosttower itself.
“Do you think they will respond?” Arabeth asked.
“You know Greeth as well as I do,” Robillard answered. He finished with the last batch of arrows, waited for Arabeth to do likewise, then led her back to his usual perch behind the mainsail. “He will grow annoyed and will order his defenders along the shore to lash out.”
“Then we will make them pay.”
“Only if we’re quick enough,” Robillard replied.
“Every one of them will be guarded by spells to counter a dozen arrows,” said the woman of Mirabar.
“Then every one will be hit by thirteen,” came Robillard’s dry reply.
Sea Sprite shuddered again as a rock flew out, along with ten others from the line, all soaring in at the Hosttower with such precision and timing that a pair collided before they reached their mark and skipped harmlessly away. The others shook the ground around the place, or smacked against the Hosttower’s sides, to be repelled by its defensive magic.
Robillard looked to the north where one of Brambleberry’s boats eased a bit closer against the strong currents of the Mirar.
“Sails!” Robillard cried, and Sea Sprite’s crew flipped the lines, unfurling fast.
From the rocks of the northwestern tip of Cutlass Island, a pair of lightning bolts reached out at Brambleberry’s ship, scorching her side, tearing one of her sails. With the strong and favorable current, though, the ship was able to immediately reverse direction.
Even as Sea Sprite leaned and splashed to life, Robillard and Arabeth filled her sails with sudden and powerful winds. They didn’t even take the time to pull up the anchor, but just cut the line, and Sea Sprite turned straight in, bucking the currents with such jolting force that all aboard had to grab on and hold tight.
Arklem Greeth’s wizards focused on Brambleberry’s boat for far too long, as Robillard had hoped, and by the time the Hosttower contingent noticed the sudden charge of Sea Sprite, she was close enough so that those on her deck could see the small forms scrambling across the rocks and ducking for whatever cover they could find.
From a more southern vantage on Cutlass Island, a lightning bolt streaked out at Sea Sprite, but she was too well warded to be slowed by the single strike. Her front ballista swiveled and threw a heavy spear at the point from which that attack had emanated, and as Sea Sprite began her broadside turn, her prow bending to straight north in a run up the coast, the crack catapult crew on her aft deck had another ball of pitch flying away. It splattered among the rocks and several men and women scrambled up from the burning ground, one engulfed in flame, all screaming.
And those weren’t even the primary targets, which were to starboard, trying to hide as a bank of archers the length of Sea Sprite’s main deck and three deep lifted and bent their bows.
Three separate volleys went in, enchanted arrows all, skipping off the stones or striking against the defensive magic shields Greeth’s minions had raised.
But as Robillard had predicted, more arrows found their way than could be defeated by the enchantments, and another Hosttower wizard fell dead on the stones.
Lightning bolts and arrows reached out at Sea Sprite from the rocky coastline. Boulders and balls of pitch flew out from the ship line in response, followed by a devastating barrage of arrows as Sea Sprite veered due west and sped away with the fast current.
Robillard nodded his approval.
“One dead, perhaps, or perhaps two,” said Arabeth. “It’s difficult work.”
“Another one Arklem Greeth cannot afford to lose,” Robillard replied.
“Our tricks will catch fewer and fewer. Arklem Greeth will teach his forces to adapt.”
“Then we will not let him keep up with our evolving tricks,” Robillard said, and nodded his chin toward the line of ships, all of whom were pulling up anchor. One by one, they began to glide to the south.
“Sea Tower,” Robillard explained, referring to the strong guard tower on southern Cutlass Island. “It would cost Arklem Greeth too much energy to have it as fortified as the Hosttower, so we’ll bombard it to rubble, and destroy every other defensible position along the southern coast of the island.”
“There are few places to land even a small boat in those rocky waters,” Arabeth replied. “Sea Tower was built so that defenders could assault any ships attempting to enter the southern mouth of the Mirar, and not as a defense for Cutlass Island.”
Robillard’s deadpan expression quieted her, for of course he knew all of that. “We’re tightening the noose,” he explained. “I expect that those inside the Hosttower are growing more uncomfortable by the hour.”
“We nibble at the edges when we must bite out the heart of the place,” Arabeth protested.
“Patience,” said Robillard. “Our final fight with the lich will be brutal—no one doubts that. Hundreds will likely die, but hundreds more will surely perish if we attack before we prepare the battlefield. The people of Luskan are on our side. We own the streets. We have Harbor Arm and Fang Island fully under our control. Whitesails Harbor sides with us. Captain’s Court is ours, and Illusk has been rendered quiescent once again. The Mirar bridges are ours.”
“Those that remain,” said Arabeth, to which Robillard chuckled.
“Arklem Greeth hasn’t a safehouse left in the city, or if he does, his minions there are huddled in a dark basement, trembling—rightfully so! — in fear. And when we have bombed Sea Tower to rubble, and have chased off or killed all of his minions he placed in the southern reaches of Cutlass, Arklem Greeth will need to look south, on his own shores, as well. Unrelenting bombardment, unrelenting pressure, and keep clear in your mind that if we lose ten men—nay, fifty! — for every Arcane Brotherhood wizard we slay, Captain Deudermont will claim victory in a rout.”
Arabeth Raurym considered the older and wiser wizard’s words for some time before nodding her agreement. Above all else, she wanted the archmage arcane dead, for she knew with certainty that if he wasn’t killed, he would find a way to kill her—a horrible, painful way, no doubt.
She looked south as Sea Sprite came around Fang Island, to see that the other ships were already lining up to begin the bombardment of Sea Tower.
Sea Sprite’s bell rang and the men tacked accordingly to slow her as a trio of ammunition barges from Whitesails Harbor turned around the horn of Harbor Arm Island and crossed in front of her. Arabeth looked over to regard Robillard and could almost hear the calculations playing out behind his eyes. He had orchestrated every piece of the day’s action—the bombardment, the trap and attack, and the turn south, complete with supply lines—to the most minute detail.
She understood how Deudermont had gained such a glorious reputation hunting the ever-elusive pirates of the Sword Coast. He had surrounded himself with the finest crew she had ever seen, and standing beside him was the wizard Robillard, so calculating and so very, very deadly.
A shiver ran along Arabeth’s spine, but it was one of hope and reassurance as she reminded herself that Robillard and Sea Sprite were on her side.
From his eastern balcony, High Captain Kurth and his two closest advisors, one the captain of his guard and the other a high-ranking commander in Luskan’s garrison, watched the gathering of thousands at the small bridge that linked Closeguard Island to the city. Deudermont was there, judging from the banners, and Brambleberry as well, though their ships were active in the continuing, unrelenting bombardment of Cutlass Island to the west.
For a moment, Kurth envisioned the whole of the invading army enveloped in the flames of a gigantic Arklem Greeth fireball, and it was not an unpleasant mental image—briefly, at least, until he considered the practical ramifications of having a third of Luskan’s populace lying dead and charred in the streets.
“A third of the populace….” he said aloud.
“Aye, and most o’ me soldiers in th
e bunch,” said Nehwerg, who had once commanded the garrison at Sea Tower, which was even then crumbling under a constant rain of boulders.
“They could have ten times that number and not get across, unless we let them,” insisted Master Shanty, Kurth Tower’s captain of the guard.
The high captain chuckled at the ridiculous, empty boast. He could make Deudermont and the others pay dearly for trying to cross to Closeguard—he could even drop the bridge, which his engineers had long ago rigged for just such an eventuality—but to what gain and to what end?
“There’s yer bird,” Nehwerg grumbled, and pointed down at a black spec flapping past the crowd and climbing higher in the eastern sky. “The man’s got no dignity, I tell ya.”
Kurth chuckled again and reminded himself that Nehwerg served a valuable purpose for him, and that the man’s inanity was a blessing and not a curse. It wouldn’t do to have such a personal liaison to the Luskar garrison who could think his way through too many layers of intrigue, after all.
The black bird, the Crow, closed rapidly on Kurth’s position, finally alighting on the balcony railing. It hopped down, and flipped its wings over as it did, enacting the transformation back to a human form.
“You said you would be alone,” Kensidan said, eyeing the two soldiers hard.
“Of course my closest advisors are well aware of this particular aspect of your magical cloak, son of Rethnor,” Kurth replied. “Would you expect that I wouldn’t have told them?”
Kensidan didn’t reply, other than to let his gaze linger a bit longer on the two before turning it to Kurth, who motioned for them all to enter his private room.
“I’m surprised you would ask to see me at this tense time,” Kurth said, moving to the bar and pouring a bit of brandy for himself and Kensidan. When Nehwerg made a move toward the drink, Kurth turned him back with a narrow-eyed glare.
“It was not Arklem Greeth,” said Kensidan, “nor one of his lackeys. You need know that.”
Kurth looked at him curiously.
“Your shadowy visitor,” Kensidan explained. “It was not Greeth, not an ally of Greeth in any way, and not a mage of the Arcane Brotherhood.”
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