Nothing happened.
The lightning burst out from Arabeth’s fingers, then just…stopped.
Arabeth’s face crinkled in a most unflattering expression and she gave a little cry and stumbled to her right, toward the door.
At that moment, Kensidan, tingling with power, knew he’d been right to trust the voices in the darkness all along. He rushed forward just enough to tap Arabeth on the shoulder as she rushed past, and in that touch, he released all of the energy of her lightning bolt, energy that had been caught and held.
The woman flew through the air, but not so far, for she had enacted many wards before entering the room and much of the magic was absorbed. Of more concern, a globe of blackness appeared at the door, blocking her way. She gave a little yelp and staggered off to the side again, the Crow laughing behind her.
Three figures stepped out from the globe of darkness.
Kensidan watched Arabeth all the while, grinning as her eyes opened, as she tried to scream, and stumbled again, falling to the floor on her behind.
The second of the dark elves thrust his hands out toward her, and the woman’s screams became an indecipherable babble as a wave of mental energy rushed through her, jumbling her thoughts and sensibilities. She continued her downward spiral to lay on the floor, babbling and curling up like a frightened child.
“What is your plan?” said the leader of the drow, the one with the gigantic plumed hat and the foppish garb. “Or do you intend to have others fight all of your battles this day?”
Kensidan nodded, an admission that it did indeed seem that way. “I must make my mark for the greater purpose we intend,” he agreed.
“Well said,” the drow replied.
“Deudermont is mine,” the high captain promised.
“A formidable foe,” said the drow. “And one we might be better off allowing to run away.”
Kensidan didn’t miss that the psionicist gave his master a curious, almost incredulous look at that. A free Deudermont wouldn’t give up the fight, and would surely return with many powerful allies.
“We shall see,” was all the Crow could promise. He looked to Arabeth. “Don’t kill her. She will be loyal…and pleasurable enough.”
The drow with the big hat tipped it at that, and Kensidan nodded his gratitude. Then he flipped his cloak up high to the sides and as it descended, Kensidan seemed to melt beneath its dropping black wings. Then he was a bird, a large crow. He flew to the sill of his open window and leaped off for Suljack’s palace, a place he knew quite well.
“He will be a good ally,” Kimmuriel said to Jarlaxle, who had resumed the helm of Bregan D’aerthe. “As long as we never trust him.”
A wistful and nostalgic sigh escaped Jarlaxle’s lips as he replied, “Just like home.”
Any thoughts Regis had of rushing in to help his friend disappeared when Drizzt and this curious dwarf joined in battle, a start so furious and brutal that the halfling figured it to be over before he could even draw his—in light of the titanic struggle suddenly exploding before him—pitiful little mace.
Morningstar and scimitar crossed in a dizzying series of vicious swings, more a matter of the combatants trying to get a feel for each other than either trying to land a killing blow. What stunned Regis the most was the way the dwarf kept up with Drizzt. He had seen the dark elf in battle many times, but the idea that the short, stout, thick-limbed creature swinging unwieldy morningstars could pace him swing for swing had the halfling gaping in astonishment.
But there it was. The dwarf’s weapon hummed across and Drizzt angled his blade, swinging opposite, just enough to force a miss. He didn’t want to connect a thin scimitar to one of those spiked balls.
The morningstar head flew past and the dwarf didn’t pull it up short, but let it swing far out to his left to connect on the wall of the alleyway, and when it did, the ensuing explosion revealed that there was more than a little magic in that weapon. A huge chunk of the building blasted away, leaving a gaping hole.
Pulling his own swing short, his feet sped by his magical anklets, Drizzt saw the opening and charged ahead, only wincing slightly at the crashing blast when the morningstar hit the wooden wall.
But the slight wince was too much; the momentary distraction too long. Regis saw it and gasped. The dwarf was already into his duck and turn as the spiked ball took out the wall, coming fast around, his left arm at full extension, his second morningstar head whistling out as wide as it could go.
If his opponent hadn’t been a dwarf, but a taller human, Drizzt likely would have had his left leg caved in underneath him, but as the morningstar head came around a bit lower, the drow stole his own forward progress in the blink of a surprised eye and threw himself into a leap and back flip.
The morningstar hit nothing but air, the drow landing lightly on his feet some three strides back from the dwarf.
Again, against a lesser opponent, there would have been a clear opening then. The great twirling swing had brought the dwarf to an overbalanced and nearly defenseless state. But so strong was he that he growled himself right out of it. He ran a couple of steps straight away from Drizzt, diving into a forward roll and turning as he did so that when he came up, over, and around, he was again directly squared to the drow.
More impressively, even as he came up straight, his arms already worked the morningstars, creating a smooth rhythm once again. The balls spun at the ends of their respective chains, ready to block or strike.
“How do you hurt him?” Regis asked incredulously, not meaning for Drizzt to hear.
The drow did hear, though, as was evidenced by his responding shrug as he and the dwarf engaged yet again. They began to circle, Drizzt sliding to put his back along the wall the morningstar had just demolished, the dwarf staying opposite.
It was the look on Drizzt’s face as he turned the back side of that circle that alerted Regis to trouble, for the drow suddenly broke concentration on his primary target, his eyes going wide as he looked Regis’s way.
Purely on instinct, Regis snapped out his mace and spun, swinging wildly.
He hit the thrusting sword right before it would have entered his back. Regis gave a yelp of surprise, and still got cut across his left arm as he turned. He fell back against the wall, his desperate gaze going to Drizzt, and he found himself trying to yell out, “No!” as if all the world had suddenly turned upside down.
For Drizzt had started to sprint Regis’s way, and so quick was he that against almost any enemy, he would have been able to cleanly disengage.
But that dwarf wasn’t any enemy, and Regis could only stare in horror as the dwarf’s primary hand weapon, the one that had blown so gaping a hole in the building, came on a backhand at the passing drow.
Drizzt sensed it, or anticipated it, and he dived into a forward roll.
He couldn’t avoid the morningstar, and his roll went all the faster for the added momentum.
Amazingly, the blow didn’t prove lethal, though, and the drow came right around in a full run at Regis’s attacker—who, spying his certain doom, tried to run away.
He didn’t even begin his turn, backstepping still, when Drizzt caught him, scimitars working in a blur. The man’s sword went flying in moments, and he fell back and to the ground, his chest stabbed three separate times.
He stared at the drow and at Regis for just a moment before falling flat.
Drizzt spun as if expecting pursuit, but the dwarf was still far back in the alleyway, casually spinning his morningstars.
“Get to Deudermont,” Drizzt whispered to Regis, and he tucked one scimitar under his other arm and put his open hand out and low. As soon as Regis stepped into it, Drizzt hoisted him up to grab onto the low roof of the shed and pull himself over as Drizzt hoisted him to his full outstretched height.
The drow turned the moment Regis was out of sight, scimitars in hand, but still the dwarf had not approached.
“Could’ve killed ye to death, darkskin,” the dwarf said. “Could’ve put me
magic on the ball that clipped ye, and oh, but ye’d still be rollin’! Clear out o’ the streets and into the bay, ye’d still be rollin’! Bwahahahaha!”
Regis looked to Drizzt, and was shocked to see that his friend was not disagreeing.
“Or I could’ve just chased ye down the hall,” the dwarf went on. “Quick as ye were rid o’ that fool wouldn’t’ve been quick enough to set yerself against the catastrophe coming yer way from behind!”
Again, the drow didn’t disagree. “But you didn’t,” Drizzt said, walking slowly back toward his adversary. “You didn’t enact the morningstar’s magic and you didn’t pursue me. Twice you had the win, by your own boast, and twice you didn’t take it.”
“Bah, wasn’t fair!” bellowed the dwarf. “What’s the fun in that?”
“Then you have honor,” said Drizzt.
“Got nothin’ else, elf.”
“Then why waste it?” Drizzt cried. “You are a fine warrior, to be sure. Join with me and with Deudermont. Put your skills—
“What?” the dwarf interrupted. “To the cause of good? There ain’t no cause of good, ye fool elf. Not in the fightin’. There’s only them wantin’ more power, and the killers like yerself and meself helpin’ one side or the other side—they’re both the same side, ye see—climb to the top o’ the hill.”
“No,” said Drizzt. “There is more.”
“Bwahahahaha!” roared the dwarf. “Still a young one, I’m guessin’!”
“I can offer you amnesty, here and now,” said Drizzt. “All past crimes will be forgiven, or at least…not asked about.”
“Bwahahahaha!” the dwarf roared again. “If ye only knowed the half of it, elf, ye wouldn’t be so quick to put Athrogate by yer side!” And with that, he charged, yelling, “Have at it!”
Drizzt paused only long enough to look up at Regis and snap, “Go!”
Regis had barely clambered two crawling steps up the steep roof when he heard the pair below come crashing together.
“Scream louder,” the Crow ordered, and he twisted his dagger deeper into the belly of the woman, who readily complied.
A moment later, Kensidan, giggling at his own cleverness, tossed the pained woman aside, as the door to the room crashed open and Captain Deudermont, diverted by the screams from his rush to the kitchen service door of Suljack’s palace, charged in.
“Noble to a fault,” said Kensidan. “And with the road of retreat clear before you. I suppose I should salute you, but alas, I simply don’t feel like it.”
Deudermont’s gaze went from the injured woman to the son of Rethnor, who reclined casually against a window sill.
“Have you taken in the view, Captain?” Kensidan asked. “The fall of the City of Sails…It’s a marvelous thing, don’t you think?”
“Why would you do this?” Deudermont asked, coming forward in cautious and measured steps.
“I?” Kensidan replied. “It was not Ship Rethnor that went against the Hosttower.”
“That fight is ended, and won.”
“This fight is that fight, you fool,” said Kensidan. “When you decapitated Luskan, you set into motion this very struggle for power.”
“We could have joined forces and ruled from a position of justice.”
“Justice for the poor—ah, yes, that is the beauty of your rhetoric,” Kensidan replied in a mocking tone, and he hopped up from the window sill and drew his sword to compliment the long dagger. “And has it not occurred to the captain of a pirate hunter that not all the poor of Luskan are so deserving of justice? Or that there are afoot in the city many who wouldn’t prosper as well under such an idyllic design?”
“That is why I needed the high captains, fool,” Deudermont countered, spitting every word.
“Can you be so innocent, Deudermont, as to believe that men like us would willingly surrender power?”
“Can you be so cynical, Kensidan, son of Rethnor, as to be blind to the possibilities of the common good?”
“I live among pirates, so I fought them with piracy,” Kensidan replied.
“You had a choice. You could have changed things.”
“And you had a choice. You could have minded your own business. You could have left Luskan alone, and now, more recently, you could have simply gone home. You accuse me of pride and greed for not following you, but in truth, it’s your own pride that blinded you to the realities of this place you would remake in your likeness, and your own greed that has kept you here. A tragedy, indeed, for here you will die, and Luskan will steer onto a course even farther from your hopes and dreams.”
On the floor, the woman groaned.
“Let me take her out of here,” Deudermont said.
“Of course,” Kensidan replied. “All you have to do is kill me, and she’s yours.”
Without any further hesitation, Captain Deudermont launched himself forward at the son of Rethnor, his fine sword cutting a trail before him.
Kensidan tried to execute a parry with his dagger, thinking to bring his sword to bear for a quick kill, but Deudermont was far too fast and practiced. Kensidan wound up only barely tapping the thrusting sword with his dagger before flailing wildly with his own sword to hardly move Deudermont’s aside.
The captain retracted quickly and thrust again, pulled up short before another series of wild parry attempts, then thrust forth again.
“Oh, but you are good!” said Kensidan.
Deudermont didn’t let up through the compliment, but launched another thrust then retracted and brought his sword up high for a following downward strike.
Kensidan barely got his sword up horizontally above him to block, and as he did, he turned, for his back was nearing a wall. The weight of the blow had him scrambling to keep his feet.
Deudermont methodically pursued, unimpressed by the son of Rethnor’s swordsmanship. In the back of his mind, he wondered why the young fool would dare to come against him so. Was his hubris so great that he fancied himself a swordsman? Or was he faking incompetence to move Deudermont off his guard?
With that warning ringing in his thoughts, Deudermont moved at his foe with a flurry, but measured every strike so he could quickly revert to a fully defensive posture.
But no counterattack came, not even when it seemed as if he had obviously overplayed his attacks.
The captain didn’t show his smile, but the conclusion seemed inescapable: Kensidan was no match for him.
The woman groaned again, bringing rage to Deudermont, and he assured himself that his victory would strike an important blow for the retribution he would surely bring with him on his return to the City of Sails.
So he went for the kill, skipping in fast, smashing Kensidan’s sword out wide and rolling his blade so as to avoid the awkward parry of the dagger.
Kensidan leaped straight up in the air, but Deudermont knew he would have him fast on his descent.
Except that Kensidan didn’t come down.
Deudermont’s confusion only multiplied as he heard the thrum of large wings above him and as one of those large black-feathered appendages batted him about the head, sending him staggering aside. He turned and waved his sword to fend him off, but Kensidan the Crow wasn’t following.
He set down with a hop on three-toed feet, a gigantic, man-sized crow. His bird eyes regarded Deudermont from several angles, head twitching left and right to take in the scene.
“A nickname well-earned,” Deudermont managed to say, trying hard to parse his words correctly and coherently, trying hard not to let on how off balance the man’s sudden transformation into the outrageous creature had left him.
The Crow skipped his way and Deudermont presented his sword defensively. Wings going wide, the Crow leaped up, clawed feet coming forward, black wings assaulting Deudermont from either side. He slashed at one, trying to fall back, and did manage to dislodge a few black feathers.
But the Crow came on with squawking fury, throwing forward his torso and feet as he beat his wings back. Deudermont tried to bri
ng his sword in to properly fend the creature off. Six toes, widespread, all ending with lethal talons clawed at him.
He managed to nick one of the feet, but the Crow dropped it fast out of harm’s way, while the other foot slipped past the captain’s defenses and caught hold of his shoulder.
The wings beat furiously, the Crow changing his angle as he raked that foot down, tearing the captain from left shoulder to right hip.
Deudermont brought his sword slashing across, but the creature was too fast and too nimble, and the taloned foot slipped out of his reach. The bird came forward and pecked the captain hard in the right shoulder, sending him flying to the ground, stealing all sensation and strength from his sword arm.
A wing beat and a leap had the Crow straddling the fallen man. Deudermont tried to roll upright, but the next peck hit him on the head, slamming him back to the floor.
Blood poured down from his brow across his left eye and cheek, but more than that, opaque liquid blurred the captain’s sight as, thoroughly dazed, he faded in and out of consciousness.
Regis kept his head down, focusing solely on the task before him. Crawling on hands and knees, picking each handhold cautiously but expediently, the halfling made his way up the steep roof.
“Have to get to Deudermont,” he told himself, pulling himself along, increasing his pace as he gained confidence with the climb. He finally hit his stride and was just about to look up when he bumped into something hard. High, black boots filled his vision.
Regis froze and slowly lifted his gaze, up past the fine fabric of well-tailored trousers, up past a fabulously crafted belt buckle, a fine gray vest and white shirt, to a face he never expected.
“You!” he cried in dismay and horror, desperately throwing his arms up before his face as a small crossbow leveled his way.
The exaggerated movement cost the halfling his balance, but even the unexpected tumble didn’t save him from being stuck in the neck by the quarrel. Down the roof Regis tumbled, darkness rushing up all around him, stealing the strength from his limbs, stealing the light from his eyes, stealing even his voice as he tried to cry out.
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