Directly below him in the street, the fighting had all but ended, with the combatants moving off to the alleyways, Suljack’s men in pursuit, and the stripped and shattered wagons lay in ruins.
“Why would they do this?” the high captain asked.
“Might be that they’re not liking yerself climbing over them in Deudermont’s favor,” said the dwarf. “Or might be that both o’ them’ re still hating Deudermont o’ Sea Sprite too much to agree with yer choices.”
Suljack waved him to silence. Of course he knew all of that reasoning, but still it shocked him to think that his peers would strike out so boldly at a time of such desperation, even with relief reportedly well on its way.
He came out of his contemplation at the sound of renewed fighting across the street below him, and just down an alleyway. When one man came into view, looking back and down the alley, Phillus put up his bow and took deadly aim.
“Baram, or Taerl?” Suljack asked as Phillus let fly.
The arrow struck true. The man let out a howl and staggered back under cover, just as another man, one of Suljack’s, came screaming out of the alley, blood streaming from a dozen wounds.
“That’s M’Nack!” Phillus cried, referring to a favored young soldier of the Ship.
“Go! Go! Go!” Suljack yelled to his guards, and they all ran from the room, except for the dwarf and Phillus. “Kill any who come out in pursuit,” Suljack instructed his deadly archer, who nodded and held his bow steady.
As the room all but cleared, Suljack went closer to the window, pulling it open and peering out intently. “Baram, Taerl, or both?” he asked quietly, his gaze roving the street, looking for some hint.
Across the way, the man Phillus had pegged stumbled out and away. A second arrow shot off, but missed the staggering thief, though it came close enough to make the man turn and look up at the source.
Suljack’s jaw dropped open when he recognized the minor street thug. “Reth—?” he started to ask when he heard a thump to the side.
He turned to see Phillus lying on the floor, his head split open, a familiar spiked morningstar lying beside him.
He turned farther to see the dwarf, holding Phillus’s bow, drawn and set.
“Wh—?” he started to ask as the dwarf let fly, the arrow driving into Suljack’s gut and taking his breath. He staggered and fought to stand as the dwarf calmly reloaded and shot him again.
On the ground and crying, Suljack started to crawl away. He managed to gasp, “Why?”
“Ye forgot who ye were,” the dwarf said, and put a third arrow into him, right in the shoulder blade.
Suljack continued to crawl, gasping and crying loudly,
A fourth arrow nicked his spine and stabbed into his kidney.
“Ye’re just making it hurt more,” the dwarf calmly explained, his voice distant, as if coming from far, far away.
Suljack hardly felt the next arrow, or the one after that, but he somehow knew that he wasn’t moving anymore. He tried futilely to cry out, but found one last fleeting hope when he heard the dwarf cry out, “Murder!”
He managed to shift his head far enough to see the dwarf holding Phillus up in the air, and with three short running strides, he launched the already-dead guard crashing through the window to plummet to the hard street below. Phillus’s broken bow, the dwarf having snapped it in half, followed in short order.
The last thing Suljack saw before darkness closed was the dwarf sliding down beside him. The last thing he heard was the dwarf crying out, “Murder! He shot the boss! Phillus the dog shot the boss! Oh, murder!”
CHAPTER 30
DEUDERMONT’S GAUNTLET
T hree spears flew down the alley almost simultaneously, all thrown with great anger and strength. Desperate defenders angled bucklers to deflect or at least minimize the impact. But the spears never made it to the opposing lines, for a lithe figure sprang from an open window, tumbled to the street, and a pair of curved blades worked fast to chop at the missiles as they passed, driving them harmlessly aside.
The defenders cheered, thinking a new and mighty ally had come, and the spearmen cursed, seeing their impending doom in the fiery eyes and spinning blades of the deadly dark elf.
“What madness is this?” Drizzt demanded, turning repeatedly to encompass all the combatants with his accusation.
“Be asking them!” cried one of the spearmen. “Them who killed Suljack!”
“Be asking them!” the leader of the defenders retorted. “Them who came to wage war!”
“Murderers!” cried a spearman.
“By your lies!” came the response.
“The city is dying around you!” Drizzt cried. “Your disputes can be resolved, but not until…” He ended there since, with another cry of, “Murderers!” the spearmen flooded into the alleyway and charged. On the opposite side, the defenders responded with, “Lying thieves!” and similarly rushed.
Leaving Drizzt caught in the middle.
Suljack, or Taerl? The question swirled in Drizzt’s thoughts as the choice became urgent. With which Ship would he side? Whose claim was stronger? How could he assume the role of judge with so little information? All of those thoughts and troubling questions played through his mind in the few heartbeats he had before being crushed between the opposing forces, and the only answer he could fathom was that he could not choose.
He belted his scimitars and ran to the side of the alleyway, springing upon the wall and pulling himself up out of harm’s way. He found a perch on a windowsill and turned to watch helplessly, shaking his head.
Fury drove the Suljack crew. Those behind the leading wall of flesh who couldn’t punish their enemies in melee threw any missiles they could find: spears, daggers, even pieces of wood or stone they managed to tear from neighboring buildings.
Taerl’s defenders seemed no less resolute, if more controlled, forming a proper shield wall to defend the initial collision, showing patience as the rage of the attackers played out.
Drizzt didn’t have the detachment necessary to admire or criticize either side’s tactics, and didn’t have the heart to even begin to predict which side would win. He knew in his gut that the outcome was assured, that all of Luskan would surely lose.
Only his quick instincts and reflexes saved his life as one of Suljack’s men, unable to get a clear shot at Taerl’s defenders, instead lifted his crossbow at Drizzt and let fly. The drow dodged at the last instant, but still got slashed across the back of his shoulder before his mithral shirt turned the bolt. The effort nearly sent him tumbling from his perch.
His hand went to his scimitar, and his eyes discerned a path down the wall and to the alleyway near the archer.
But pity overruled his anger, and he responded instead by calling upon his hereditary power to create a globe of darkness around the fool with the crossbow. Drizzt understood that he had no place in that fight, that he could accomplish nothing positive with combatants who were beyond reason. The weight of that tugged at him as he scaled the building to the roof and made off from the alley, trying to leave the screams of rage and pain behind him.
They were before him as well, however, just two streets down, where two mobs had engaged in a vicious, confused battle along the avenue separating the Ships of Baram and Taerl. As he ran along the rooftops above them, the drow tried to make out the allegiance of the fighters, but whether it was Ship Baram against Ship Taerl, or Suljack against Baram, or a continuation of Suljack and Taerl’s fight, or perhaps even another faction all together, he couldn’t tell.
Off in the distance, halfway across the city, near the eastern wall, flames lit up the night.
“Triple the guard at the mainland bridge,” High Captain Kurth instructed one of his sergeants. “And set patrols to walk the length and breadth of the shoreline.”
“Aye!” replied the warrior, clearly understanding the urgency as the sounds of battle drifted to Closeguard Island, along with the smell of smoke. He ran from the room, taking a pair of soldier
s with him.
“It’s mostly Taerl and Suljack’s crews, I’m told,” another of the Kurth sergeants informed the high captain.
“Baram’s in it thick,” another added.
“It’s mostly the kid o’ Rethnor, from my guess,” said another of the men, moving to stand beside Kurth as he looked out to the mainland, where several fires blazed brightly.
That prompted a disagreement among the warriors, for though rumors abounded about Kensidan’s influence in the fighting, the idea that Taerl and Baram had gone against Suljack without prompting was not so far-fetched, particularly given the common knowledge that Suljack had thrown in with Deudermont.
Kurth ignored the bickering. He knew full well what was going on in Luskan, who was pulling the strings and inciting the riots. “Will there be anything left when that fool Crow is through?” he mumbled under his breath.
“Closeguard,” answered the sergeant standing beside him, and after a moment’s thought, Kurth nodded appreciatively at the man.
A stark cry, a shriek, from outside the room ended the bickering and interrupted Kurth’s contemplation. He turned, his eyes and the eyes of every man and woman in the room widening with shock as an uninvited guest entered.
“You live!” one man cried, and Kurth snickered at the irony of that notion.
Arklem Greeth had not “lived” in decades.
“Be at ease,” the lich said to all around, holding up his hands in an unthreatening manner. “I come as a friend.”
“The Hosttower was blasted apart!” the man beside Kurth shouted.
“’Twas beautiful, yes?” the lich responded, smiling with his yellow teeth. He tightened up almost immediately, though, and turned directly to High Captain Kurth. “I would speak with you.”
A dozen swords leveled on Arklem Greeth.
“I understand and accept that you had no real choice but to open the bridges,” said Arklem Greeth, but not a sword lowered at the assurance.
“How are you alive, and why are you here?” Kurth asked, and he had to work very hard to keep the tremor from his voice.
“As no enemy, surely,” the lich replied. He looked around at the stubborn warriors and gave a profound, but breathless, sigh. “If I came to do ill, I would have engulfed the lowest floor of this tower in flames and would have assailed you with a magical barrage that would have killed half of your Ship before you ever realized the source,” he said. “Please, my old friend. You know me better than to think I would need to get you alone to be rid of you.”
Kurth spent a long while staring at the lich. “Leave us,” he instructed his guards, who bristled and muttered complaints, but eventually did as they were told.
“Kensidan sent you?” Kurth asked when he was alone with the lich.
“Who?” Arklem Greeth replied, and he laughed. “No. I doubt the son of Rethnor knows I survived the catastrophe on Cutlass Island. Nor do I believe he would be glad to hear the news.”
Kurth cocked his head just a bit, showing his intrigue and a bit of confusion.
“There are others watching the events in Luskan, of course,” said Arklem Greeth.
“The Arcane Brotherhood,” reasoned Kurth.
“Nay, not yet. Other than myself, of course, for once more, and sooner than I expected by many years, I find myself intrigued by this curious collection of rogues we call a city. No, my friend, I speak of the voices in the shadows. ’Twere they who guided me to you now.”
Kurth’s eyes flashed.
“It will end badly for Captain Deudermont, I fear,” said Arklem Greeth.
“And well for Kensidan and Ship Rethnor.”
“And for you,” Arklem Greeth assured him.
“And for you?” Kurth asked.
“It will end well,” said the lich. “It already has, though I seek one more thing.”
“The throne of Luskan?” Kurth asked.
Arklem Greeth again broke out in that wheezing laugh. “My day in public here is done,” he admitted. “I accepted that before Lord Brambleberry sailed into the Mirar. It’s the way of things, of course. Expected, accepted, and well planned for, I assure you. I could have defeated Brambleberry, likely, but in doing so, I would have invoked the wrath of the Waterdhavian lords, and thus caused more trouble for the Arcane Brotherhood than the minor setback we received here.”
“Minor setback?” Kurth indignantly replied. “You have lost Luskan!”
Greeth shrugged, and Kurth’s jaw clenched in anger. “Luskan,” said again, giving the name great weight.
“It is but one city, rather unremarkable,” said Greeth.
“Not so,” Kurth replied, calling him on his now-obvious bluff. “It is a hub of a great wheel, a center of weight for regions of riches, north, east and south, and with the waterways to move those riches.”
“Be at ease, friend,” said Greeth, patting his hands in the air. “I do not diminish the value of your beloved Luskan.”
Kurth’s expression aptly reflected his disagreement with that assessment.
“Only because I know our loss here to be a temporary thing,” Greeth explained. “And because I expect that the city will remain in hands competent and reasonable,” he added with a deferential and thoroughly disarming bow toward Kurth.
“And so you plan to leave?” Kurth asked, not quite sorting it all out. He could hardly believe, after all, that Arklem Greeth—the fearsome and ultimately deadly archmage arcane—would willingly surrender the city.
The lich shrugged, a collection of mucus and seawater in its lungs crackling with the movement. “Perhaps. But before I go away, I wish to repay a certain traitorous wizard. Two, actually.”
“Arabeth Raurym,” Kurth reasoned. “She plays both sides of the conflict, moving between Deudermont and Ship Rethnor.”
“Until she is dead,” said the lich. “Which I very much intend.”
“And the other?”
“Robillard of Sea Sprite,” the lich said in a tone as close to a sneer as the breathless creature could imitate. “Too long have I suffered the righteous indignation of that fool.”
“Neither death would sadden me,” Kurth agreed.
“I wish you to facilitate that,” said Arklem Greeth, and Kurth lifted an eyebrow. “The city unravels. Deudermont’s dream will falter, and very soon.”
“Unless he can find food and—”
“Relief will not come,” the lich insisted. “Not soon enough, at least.”
“You seem to know much for one who has not shown himself in Luskan for many months. And you seem to be quite certain in your assurances.”
“Voices in the shadows….” Arklem Greeth replied with a sly smile. “Let me tell you of our observant and little-seen allies.”
Kurth nodded and the lich spoke openly, only confirming that which Morik the Rogue, at Kensidan’s bidding, had already explained. The high captain did well to hide his consternation at the further unwelcome evidence of yet another powerful player in the tug-of-war that was Luskan, particularly a player with a reputation so vile and unpredictable. Not for the first time did High Captain Kurth question Kensidan’s judgment in helping to facilitate the Luskan disaster.
And not for the last time, either, he thought as Arklem Greeth told his dark tale of lacedon ghouls and murdered sailors.
“We act now or we lose Luskan,” Governor Deudermont announced to Robillard, Drizzt, Regis, and some of his other commanders almost as soon as Drizzt delivered the news of the melee in the streets. “We must calm them until the caravans arrive.”
“They will hear no reason,” said Drizzt.
“Simpletons,” Robillard muttered.
“They seek a focus for their frustrations,” said Deudermont. “They are hungry and frightened, and grieving. Every family has suffered great losses.”
“You overestimate the spontaneity of the moment,” Robillard warned. “They are being goaded…and supplied.”
“The high captains,” Deudermont replied, and the wizard shrugged at the obv
ious answer.
“Indeed,” the governor continued. “The four fools construct small empires within the city and posture now with swords.”
Drizzt glanced at the luncheon platters still set on the table, and the scraps of meat—of deep rothé meat—and he wondered if there was even more posturing going on than the infighting of the high captains. He kept his fears silent, though, as he had when they’d first surfaced at dinner the previous night. He had no idea who had opened the trade channels necessary to get deep rothé and Underdark mushrooms, or with whom that enterprising high captain might be trading, but there was chaos in Luskan, and Drizzt’s life experiences associated that state with one race in particular.
“We must act immediately,” Deudermont announced. He turned to Robillard. “Go to the Mirabarrans and bid them to reinforce and keep safe the Red Dragon Inn.”
“We’re leaving?” Regis asked.
“To Sea Sprite, I pray,” said Robillard.
“We need to cross the bridge,” Deudermont answered. “Our place now is in Luskan proper. The Mirabarrans can control the north bank. Our duty is to step into the middle of the fighting and force the competing high captains back to their respective domains.”
“One Ship is without her captain,” Drizzt reminded him.
“And there we will go,” Deudermont decided. “To Suljack’s palace, which I will declare as the temporary Governor’s Residence, and we will ally with his people in their time of need.”
“Before the vultures can tear the carcass of Ship Suljack to bits?” Regis asked.
“Precisely.”
“Sea Sprite would be a better choice,” said the wizard.
“Enough, Robillard! You weary me.”
“Luskan is already dead, Captain,” the wizard added. “You haven’t the courage to see it clearly.”
“The Mirabarrans?” Deudermont asked in a sharper tone, and Robillard bowed and said no more, leaving the room immediately and the Red Dragon soon after to enlist the men and dwarves of the Shield District.
“We will announce our presence in no uncertain terms,” Deudermont explained when the wizard was gone. “And will fight to protect any and all who need us. Through strength of resolve and sword we will hold Luskan together until the supplies arrive, and we will demand fealty to the city and not the Ship.”
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