“Bah, but who’s he talking about?” demanded Nehwerg, and Master Shanty stepped up beside his high captain. Kurth impatiently waved them both back.
“How do you…?” Kurth started to ask, but stopped short and just smirked at the surprising, dangerous upstart.
“No wizard outside of Arklem Greeth’s inner circle could penetrate the magical defenses he has set in place in Kurth Tower,” Kensidan said as if reading Kurth’s mind.
Kurth tried hard to not look impressed, and just held his smirk, inviting the Crow to continue.
“Because it was no wizard,” Kensidan said. “There is another type of magic involved.”
“Priests are no match for the web of Arklem Greeth,” Kurth replied. “Do you think him foolish enough to forget the schools of those divinely inspired?”
“And no priest,” said Kensidan.
“You’re running out of magic-users.”
Kensidan tapped the side of his head and Kurth’s smirk turned back into an unintentional, intrigued expression.
“A mind mage?” he asked quietly, a Luskar slang for those rare and reputably powerful practitioners of the concentration art known as psionics. “A monk?”
“I had such a visitor months ago, when first I started seeing the possibilities of Captain Deudermont’s future,” Kensidan explained, taking the glass from Kurth and settling into a chair in front of the room’s generous hearth, which had only been lit a few minutes earlier and wasn’t yet throwing substantial heat.
Kurth took the seat across from Rethnor’s son and motioned for Nehwerg and Master Shanty to stand a step behind him.
“So the machinations of this rebellion, the inspiration even, came from outside Luskan?” Kurth asked.
Kensidan shook his head. “This is a natural progression, a response to the overreaching of Arklem Greeth both on the high seas, where Deudermont roams, and in the east, in the Silver Marches.”
“Which all came together in this ‘coincidental’ conglomeration of opponents lining up against the Hosttower?” Kurth asked, doubt dripping from every sarcastic word.
“I don’t believe in coincidence,” Kensidan replied.
“And yet, here we are. Do you admit that Kensidan’s hand, that Ship Rethnor’s hands, are in this?”
“Up to our elbows…our shoulders, perhaps,” Kensidan said with a laugh, and lifted his glass in toast. “I didn’t create this opportunity, but neither would I let it pass.”
“You, or your father?”
“He is my advisor—you know as much.”
“A startling admission, and a dangerous one,” said Kurth.
“How so? Have you heard the rumble on the island to your west? Have you seen the gathering at the gates of Closeguard Bridge?”
Kurth considered that for a moment, and it was his turn to tip his glass to his companion.
“So Arklem Greeth has frayed the many strings, and Kensidan of Ship Rethnor has worked to weave them into something to his own benefit,” said Kurth.
Kensidan nodded.
“And these others? Our shadowy visitors?”
Kensidan rubbed his long and thin fingers over his chin. “Consider the dwarf,” he said.
Kurth stared at him curiously for a few moments, recalling the rumors from the east regarding the Silver Marches. “King Bruenor? The dwarf King of Mithral Hall works for the fall of Luskan?
“No, not Bruenor. Of course it’s not Bruenor, who, by all reports, has troubles enough to keep him busy in the east, thank the gods.”
“But it’s Bruenor’s strange friend who rides with Deudermont,” said Kurth.
“Not Bruenor,” Kensidan replied. “He has no place or part in any of this, and how the dark elf happened back to Deudermont’s side I neither know nor care.”
“Then what dwarves? The Ironspur Clan from the mountains?”
“Not dwarves,” Kensidan corrected. “Dwarf. You know of my recent acquisition…the bodyguard?”
Kurth nodded, finally catching on. “The creature with the unusual morningstars, yes. How could I not know? The one whose ill-fashioned rhymes grate on the nerves of every sailor in town. He has brawled in every tavern in Luskan over the last few months, mostly over his own wretched poetry, and from what my scouts tell me, he’s a far better fighter than he is a poet. Ship Rethnor strengthened her position on the street greatly with that one. But he is tied to all of this?” Kurth waved his arm out toward the western window, where the sound of the bombardment had increased yet again.
Kensidan nodded his chin at Master Shanty and Nehwerg, staring all the while into Kurth’s dark eyes.
“They are trusted,” Kurth assured him.
“Not by me.”
“You have come to my Ship.”
“To advise and to offer, and not under duress, and nor under duress shall I stay.”
Kurth paused and seemed to be taking it all in, glancing from his guest to his guards. It was obvious to Kensidan that the man was intrigued, though, and so it came as no surprise when he turned at last to the two guards and ordered them out of the room. They protested, but Kurth would hear none of it and waved them away.
“The dwarf was a gift to me from these visitors, who take great interest in establishing strong trading ties with Luskan. They are here for commerce, not conquest—that is my hope at least. And my belief, for were they openly revealed, we would be facing greater lords of Waterdeep than Brambleberry, do not doubt, and King Bruenor, Marchion Elastul of Mirabar, and Lady Alustriel of Silverymoon wouldn’t be far behind with their own armies.”
Kurth felt a bit more perplexed and defensive, and a lot less intrigued.
“These events were not their doing, but they watch closely, and advise me and my father, as they have visited you,” said Kensidan, hoping that naming Rethnor almost as an afterthought had slipped past the perceptive Kurth. The man’s arched eyebrow showed that it had not, however, and Kensidan silently berated himself and promised that he would do better in the future. Ship Rethnor wasn’t yet officially his. Not officially.
“So you hear voices in the shadows, and these bring you confidence,” Kurth said. He held up his hand as Kensidan tried to interrupt and continued, “Then we’re back at the initial square of the board, are we not? How do you know your friends in the shadows aren’t agents of Arklem Greeth? Perhaps the cunning lich has decided it’s time to test the loyalties of his high captains. Are you too young to see the dangerous possibilities? And wouldn’t that make you the biggest fool of all?”
Kensidan held up his open palm and finally managed to silence the man. He slowly reached under his strange black cloak and produced a small glass item, a bottle, and within it stood the tiny figure of a tiny man.
No, not a figure, Kurth realized. His eyes widened as the poor soul trapped within shifted about.
Kensidan motioned to the hearth. “May I?”
Kurth responded with a puzzled expression, which Kensidan took as permission. He flung the bottle into the hearth, where it smashed against the back bricks.
The tiny man enlarged, bouncing around the low-burning logs before catching his bearings and his balance enough to roll back out, taking ash and one burning log with him.
“By the Nine Hells!” the man protested, batting at his smoldering gray cloak. Blood dripped from several wounds on his hands and face and he reached up and pulled a small shard of glass out of his cheek. “Don’t ever do that to me again!” he cried, still flustered and waving his arms. It seemed then as if he had at last caught his bearings, and only then he realized where he was and who was seated before him. The blood drained from his face.
“Are you settled?” Kensidan asked.
The thoroughly flustered little man toed the log beside him and brushed it back into the fireplace, but didn’t otherwise respond.
“High Captain Kurth, I give you Morik,” Kensidan explained. “Morik the Rogue, to those who know him enough to care. His lady is a mage in the Hosttower—perhaps that is why he’s found a
place in all this.”
Morik looked anxiously from man to man, dipping many short bows.
Kensidan drew Kurth’s gaze with his own. “Our visitors are not agents of Arklem Greeth,” he said, before turning to the pathetic little man and motioning for him to begin. “Tell my friend your story, Morik the Rogue,” Kensidan bade him. “Tell him of your visitors those years ago. Tell him of the dark friends of Wulfgar of Icewind Dale.”
“I told ye they wouldn’t get across without a row,” Baram insisted to his fellow high captains, Taerl and Suljack. The three stood atop the southwest tower of High Captain Taerl’s fortress, looking directly west to the bridge to Kurth’s Closeguard Island and the great open square south of Illusk where Deudermont and Lord Brambleberry had gathered their mighty army.
“They will,” Suljack replied. “Kensi—Rethnor said they will, and so they will.”
“That Crow boy is trouble,” said Baram. “He’ll bring down Rethnor’s great Ship before the old man passes on.”
“The gates will open,” Suljack replied, but very quietly. “Kurth can’t refuse. Not this many, not with almost all of Luskan knocking.”
“Hard to be denyin’ that number,” Taerl said. “Most o’ the city’s walking with Deudermont.”
“Kurth won’t go against Arklem Greeth—he’s more sense than that,” Baram replied. “Deudermont’s fools’ll be swimming or sailing if they want to get to the Hosttower.”
Even as Baram spoke, some of High Captain Kurth’s sentries rushed up to the bridge and began throwing the locks. To Baram’s utter shock, and to Taerl’s as well, despite his words, the gates of the Kurth Tower compound pulled open and Kurth’s guards stepped back, offering passage.
“A trick!” Baram protested, leaping to his feet. “She’s got to be a trick! Arklem Greeth’s bidding them on that he can destroy them.”
“He’ll have to kill half the city, then,” Suljack said.
Deudermont’s banner led the way across the small bridge with more than five thousand in his wake. Out in the harbor beyond Cutlass Island, sails appeared and anchors climbed from the water. The fleet began to creep in, boulders and pitch leading the way.
The noose tightened.
CHAPTER 16
ACCEPTABLE LOSSES
V alindra Shadowmantle’s green eyes opened wide as she noted the approaching mob. She turned to rush to Arklem Greeth’s chambers, but found the lich standing behind her, wearing a wicked grin.
“They come,” Valindra gasped. “All of them.”
Arklem Greeth shrugged as if he was hardly concerned. Gripped by her fear, the archmage’s casual reaction served only to anger Valindra.
“You have underestimated our enemies at every turn!” she screamed, and several lesser wizards nearby sucked in their breath and turned away, pretending not to have heard.
Arklem Greeth laughed at her.
“You find this amusing?” she replied.
“I find it…predictable,” Greeth answered. “Sadly so, but alas, the cards were played long ago. A Waterdhavian lord and the hero of the Sword Coast, the hero of Luskan, aligned against us. People are so fickle and easy to sway; it’s no wonder that they rally to the empty platitudes of an idiot like Captain Deudermont.”
“Because you raised the undead against them,” Valindra accused.
The lich laughed again. “Our options were limited from the beginning. The high captains, cowards all, did little to hold back the mounting tide of invasion. I feared we could never depend upon those fools, those thieves, but again alas, you accept what you have and make the best of it.”
Valindra stared at her master, wondering if he’d lost his mind. “The whole of the city is rallied against us,” she cried. “Thousands! They gather on Closeguard, and will fight their way across.”
“We have good wizards guarding our bridge.”
“And they have powerful spellcasters among their ranks, as well,” said Valindra. “If Deudermont wanted, he could send the least of his warriors against us, and our wizards would expend their energies long before he ran out of fodder.”
“It will be amusing to watch,” Arklem Greeth said, grinning all the wider.
“You have gone mad,” Valindra stated, and beyond Arklem Greeth several lesser wizards shuffled nervously as they went about their assigned tasks, or at least, feigned going about them.
“Valindra, my friend,” Greeth said, and he took her by the arm and walked her deeper into the structure of the Hosttower, away from the disquieting sights in the east. “If you play this correctly, you will find great entertainment, a fine practice experience, and little loss,” the archmage arcane explained when they were alone. “Deudermont wants my head, not yours.”
“The traitor Arabeth is with him, and she is no ally of mine.”
The lich waved the notion away. “A minor inconvenience and nothing more. Let them lay the blame fully upon Arklem Greeth—I welcome the prestige of such notoriety.”
“You seem to care little about anything at the moment, Archmage,” the overwizard replied. “The Hosttower itself is in dire peril.”
“It will fall to utter ruin,” Arklem Greeth predicted with continuing calm.
Valindra held out her hands and stuttered repeatedly, unable to fashion a response.
“All things fall, and all things can be rebuilt from the rubble,” the lich explained. “Surely they’re not going to destroy me—or you, if you’re sufficiently cunning. I’m nimble enough to survive the likes of Deudermont, and will take great enjoyment in watching the ‘reconstruction’ of Luskan when he proclaims his victory.”
“Why did we ever allow it to come to such a state as this?”
Arklem Greeth shrugged. “Mistakes,” he admitted. “My own, as well. I struck out for the Silver Marches at precisely the worst time, it would seem, though by coincidence and bad luck, or more devious coordination on the part of my enemies, I cannot know. Mirabar turned against us, as have even the orcs and their fledgling king. Deudermont and Brambleberry on their own would prove to be formidable opponents, I don’t doubt, but with such an alignment of enemies mounting against us, it would do us ill to remain in Luskan. Here we are immobile, an easy target.”
“How can you say such things?”
“Because they are true. Aha! I know not all of the conspirators behind this uprising, but surely there are traitors among the ranks of those I thought allies.”
“The high captains.”
Arklem Greeth shrugged again. “Our enemies are vast, it would seem—even more so than the few thousand who flock to Deudermont’s side. They are merely fodder, as you said, while the real power behind this usurpation lays hidden and in wait. We could fight them hard and stubbornly, I expect, but in the end, that would prove to be the more dangerous course for those of us who really matter.”
“We are to just run away?”
“Oh no!” Greeth assured her. “Not just run away. Nay, my friend, we’re going to inflict such pain upon the people of Luskan this day that they will long remember it, and while they may call my abdication a victory, that notion will prove short lived when winter blows in mercilessly on the many households missing a father or mother. And their victory will not claim the most coveted prize, rest assured, for I have long anticipated this eventuality, and long prepared.”
Valindra relaxed a bit at that assurance.
“Their victory will reveal the conspirators,” said Greeth, “and I will find my way back. You put too much value in this one place, Valindra, this Hosttower of the Arcane. Have I not taught you that the Arcane Brotherhood is much greater than what you see in Luskan?”
“Yes, my master,” the elf wizard replied.
“So take heart!” said Arklem Greeth. He cupped her chin in his cold, dead fingers and made her look up into his soulless eyes. “Enjoy the day—ah the excitement! I surely will! Use your wiles, use your magic, use your cunning to survive and escape…or to surrender.”
“Surrender?” she echoed.
“I don’t understand.”
“Surrender in a manner that exonerates you enough so that they don’t execute you, of course.” Arklem Greeth laughed. “Blame me—oh, please do! Find your way out of this, or trust in me to come and retrieve you. I surely will. And from the ashes we two will find enjoyment and opportunity, I promise. And more excitement than we have known in decades!”
Valindra stared at him for a few moments then nodded.
“Now be gone from this multi-limbed target,” said Greeth. “Get to the coast and our wizards set in defense, and take your shots as you find them. Make them hurt, Valindra, all of them, and hold faith in your heart and in your magnificent mind that this is a temporary setback, one intended to lead to ultimate and enduring victory.”
“When?”
The simple question rocked Arklem Greeth back on his heels a bit, for Valindra’s tone had made it clear that she understood that her timetable and that of a lich might not be one and the same.
“Go,” he bade her, and nodded toward the door. “Make them hurt.”
Half-dazed with confusion, Valindra Shadowmantle, Overwizard of the North Tower, in many eyes the second ranking wizard of the great Hosttower of the Arcane of Luskan, ambled toward the door of the mighty structure, fully believing that when she left it, she would never again enter. It was all too overwhelming, these dramatic and dangerous changes.
They crossed the bridge from Closeguard to Cutlass in full charge, banners flying, swords banging against shields, voices raised in hearty cheers.
On the other side of the bridge loomed the eastern wall of the Hosttower’s courtyard, ground unblemished by the naval bombardment, and atop that wall, two score wizards crouched and waited, accompanied by a hundred apprentices armed with bows and spears.
They unleashed their fury as one, with the leading edge of Brambleberry’s forces barely a dozen running strides from the wall. Men and ladders went up in flames, or flew away under the jolt of lightning bolts. Spears and arrows banged against shields and armor, or found a seam and sent an enemy writhing and screaming to the ground.
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