He couldn’t even make out their physical shapes, as they seemed no more than extensions of the endless shadows that surrounded him. Nor could he distinguish the many natural weapons that each of the demonic creatures seemed to possess, and so all of his fighting was purely on instinct, purely on reaction.
There was no victory to be found. He would stay alive only as long as his reactions and reflexes remained fast enough to fend off the gathering cloud of monsters, only as long as his arms held the strength to keep his scimitars high enough to block a serpentine head from tearing out his throat, or a clublike fist from bashing in the side of his skull.
He needed a reprieve, but there was none. He needed to escape, but knew that was just as unlikely.
So he fought, blades and growls denying his own mortality. Drizzt fought and ran, and fought some more and ran some more, always seeking a place of refuge.
And finding only more battle.
A large black shape rose before him, six arms coming at him in an overwhelming barrage, and with overwhelming strength. Knowing better than to try to stand against it, Drizzt dived to the ground to the side, thinking to roll to his feet and rush around to attack the creature from another angle.
But it had prepared for him, and when he hit the ground, he found his momentum stolen by a thick puddle of sticky mucus.
The creature rushed over to him, rising to its full height, twice that of a tall man. It lifted all six of its thunderous arms out wide and high, and bellowed in anticipation of victory.
Drizzt wriggled an arm free and stabbed it hard in the leg, but that would hardly slow the beast.
When Guenhwyvar crashed into the side of its lupine head, though, all thoughts of finishing off the drow fled, as both panther and demon flew away.
Drizzt wasted no time in extracting himself from the muck, muttering thanks to Guenhwyvar all the while. How lifted his spirits had been when he’d realized the identity of his first encounter in that hellish place, when he’d realized that Guenhwyvar had followed him through Arklem Greeth’s gate. Together they had defeated every foe thus far, and as Drizzt closed in on the fallen behemoth, scimitars swinging, another demon found its premature victory cries muffled by its own blood.
Drizzt paused to crouch beside Guenhwyvar, though he knew they had to move along, and quickly.
He had been so pleased to see her, so hopeful that his rescue was at hand by his dearest of companions, but he had come to regret that Guenhwyvar had come through, for she was as trapped as he, and surely as doomed.
“Well, now, there’s a good one,” Queaser said to Skerrit through a mouth half-full of twisted yellow teeth. “I’ll get us a good bit for this, I’d be guessin’.”
“What’d ye find then, ye dirty cow?” Skerrit replied with an equally wretched grin, and one made worse since he was between bites of some rancid meat he had found in the pocket of a dead soldier.
Queaser motioned for Skerrit to come closer—the field was full of looting thugs, after all—and showed him an onyx figurine beautifully crafted into the likeness of a great black cat.
“Heh, but we should be thanking Deudermont for bringing so much opportunity our way, I’m thinking,” said a very pleased Skerrit. “Three-hands’ll give us a purse o’ gold for that one.”
Queaser laughed and stuffed the figurine into a pouch under his dirty and ragged vest, instead of the large, bulging sack where he and Skerrit had placed the more mundane booty.
“Let’s get away,” Queaser reasoned. “If they’re to catch us with the coin and the belts, that’s our loss, but I’m not for wanting this treasure tucked into the pocket of a Luskar guard.”
“Get her sold,” Skerrit agreed. “There’ll be more to find on the field tomorrow night, and the night after that, and after that again.”
The two wretches shuffled across the dark field. Somewhere in the darkness, a wounded woman, not yet found by the rescue teams, moaned pitifully, but they ignored the plea and went on their profitable way.
CHAPTER 18
ASCENSION AND SALVATION
Y ou are recovering well,” Robillard said to Deudermont the next morning, a brilliantly sunny one, quite rare in Luskan that time of year. In response, the captain held up his injured arm, clenched his hand, and nodded. “Or would be, if we could quiet the din,” Robillard added. He moved to the room’s large window, which overlooked a wide square, and pulled aside a corner of the heavy curtain.
Out in the square, a great cheer arose.
Robillard shook his head and sighed then turned back to see Deudermont sitting up on the edge of his bed.
“My waistcoat, if you would,” Deudermont said.
“You should not…” Robillard replied, but without much conviction, for he knew the captain would never heed his warning. The resigned wizard went from the window to the dresser and retrieved his friend’s clothes.
Deudermont followed him, albeit shakily.
“You’re sure you’re ready for this?” the wizard asked, helping with the sleeves of a puffy white shirt.
“How many days has it been?”
“Only three.”
“Do we know the count of the dead? Has Drizzt been found?”
“Two thousand, at least,” Robillard answered. “Perhaps half again that number.” Deudermont winced from more than pain as Robillard slid the waistcoat along his injured arm. “And no, I fear that Arklem Greeth’s treachery marked the end of our drow friend,” Robillard added. “We haven’t found as much as a dark-skinned finger. He was right near the tower when it exploded, I’m told.”
“Quick and without pain, then,” said Deudermont. “That’s something we all hope for.” He nodded and shuffled to the window.
“I expect Drizzt hoped for it to come several centuries from now,” Robillard had to jab as he followed.
Propelled as much by anger as determination, Deudermont grabbed the heavy curtain and pulled it wide. Still using only his uninjured arm, he tugged the window open and stepped into clear view of the throng gathered in the square.
Below him on the street, the people of Luskan, so battered and bereaved, so weary of battle, oppression, thieves, murderers, and all the rest, cheered wildly. More than one of the gathering fainted, overcome by emotion.
“Deudermont is alive!” someone cried.
“Huzzah for Deudermont!” another cheered.
“A third of them dead and they cheer for me,” Deudermont said over his shoulder, his expression grim.
“It shows how much they hated Arklem Greeth, I expect,” Robillard replied. “But look past the square, past the hopeful faces, and you will see that we haven’t much time.”
Deudermont did just that, and took in the ruin of Cutlass Island. Even Closeguard had not escaped the weight of the blast, with many of the houses on the western side of the island flattened and still smoldering. Beyond Closeguard, in the harbor, a quartet of masts protruded from the dark waves. Four ships had been damaged, and two fully lost.
All across the city signs of devastation remained, the fallen bridge, the burned buildings, the heavy pall of smoke.
“Hopeful faces,” Deudermont remarked of the crowd. “Not satisfied, not victorious, just hopeful.”
“Hope is the back of hate’s coin,” Robillard warned and the captain nodded, knowing all too well that it was past time for him to get out of his bed and get to work.
He waved to the crowd and moved back into his room, followed by the frenzied cheers of desperate folk.
“It’s worth a thousand gold if it’s worth a plug copper,” Queaser argued, shaking the figurine in front of the unimpressed expression of Rodrick Fenn, the most famous pawnbroker in Luskan. Languishing beside the many others who dealt with the minor rogues and pirates of the city, Rodrick had only recently come into prominence, mostly because of the vast array of exotic goods he’d somehow managed to wrangle. A large bounty had been offered for information regarding Rodrick’s new source.
“I’ll give ye three gold, a
nd ye’ll be glad to get it,” Rodrick said.
Queaser and Skerrit exchanged sour looks, both shaking their heads.
“You should pay him to take it from you,” said another in the store, who seemed an unassuming enough patron. In fact, he had been invited by Rodrick for just such a transaction, since Skerrit had tipped off Rodrick the night before regarding the onyx figurine.
“What d’ye know of it?” Skerrit demanded.
“I know that it was Drizzt Do’Urden’s,” Morik the Rogue replied. “I know that you hold a drow item, and one the dark elves will want returned. I wouldn’t wish to be the person caught with it, to be sure.”
Queaser and Skerrit looked at each other again, then Queaser scoffed and waved a hand dismissively at the rogue.
“Think, you fools,” said Morik. “Consider who—what—ran beside Drizzt into that last battle.” Morik gave a little laugh. “You’ve managed to place yourself between legions of drow and Captain Deudermont…oh, and King Bruenor of Mithral Hall, as well, who will no doubt seek that figurine out. Congratulations are in order.” He ended his sarcastic stream with a mocking laugh, and made his way toward the door.
“Twenty pieces of gold, and be glad for it,” Rodrick said. “And I’ll be turning it over to Deudermont, don’t you doubt, and hoping he’ll repay me—and if I’m in a good mood, I might tell him that the two of you came to me so that I could give it back to him.”
Queaser looked as if he was trying to say something, but no words came out.
“Or I’ll just go to Deudermont and make his search a bit easier, and you’ll be glad that I sent him and that I had no way to tell any dark elves instead.”
“Ye’re bluffing,” Skerrit insisted.
“Call it, then,” Rodrick said with a wry grin.
Skerrit turned to Queaser, but the suddenly pale man was already handing the figurine over.
The two left quickly, passing Morik, who was outside leaning against the wall beside the door.
“You chose well,” the rogue assured them.
Skerrit got in his face. “Shut yer mouth, and if ye’re ever for telling anyone other than what Rodrick’s telling them, then know we’re to find ye first and do ye under.”
Morik shrugged, an exaggerated movement that perfectly covered the slide of his hand. He went back into Rodrick’s shop as the two hustled away.
“I’ll be wanting my gold back,” Rodrick greeted him, but the smiling Morik was already tossing the pouch the pawnbroker’s way. Morik walked over to the counter and Rodrick handed him the statue.
“Worth more than a thousand,” Rodrick muttered as Morik took it.
“If it keeps the bosses happy, it’s worth our very lives,” the rogue replied, and he tipped his hat and departed.
“Governor,” Baram spat with disgust. “They’re wanting him to be governor, and he’s to take the call, by all accounts.”
“And well he should,” Kensidan replied.
“And this don’t bother ye?” Baram asked. “Ye said we’d be finding power when Greeth was gone, and now Greeth’s gone and all I’m finding are widows and brats needing food. I’ll be emptying half of me coffers to keep the folk of Ship Baram in line.”
“Consider it the best investment of your life,” High Captain Kurth answered before Kensidan could. “No Ship lost more than my own.”
“I lost most of me guards,” Taerl put in. “Ye lost a hundred common folk and a score of houses, but I lost fighters. How many of yers marched alongside Deudermont?”
His bluster couldn’t hold, though, as Kurth fixed him with a perfectly vicious glare.
“Deudermont’s ascension was predictable and desirable,” Kensidan said to them all to get the meeting of the five back on track. “We survived the war. Our Ships remain intact, though battered, as Luskan herself is battered. That will mend, and this time, we will not have the smothering strength of the Hosttower holding us in check at every turn. Be at ease, my friends, for this has gone splendidly. True, we could not fully anticipate the devastation Greeth wrought, and true, we have many more dead than we expected, but the war was mercifully short and favorably concluded. We could not ask for a better stooge than Captain Deudermont to serve as the new puppet governor of Luskan.”
“Don’t underestimate him,” Kurth warned. “He is a hero to the people, even to those fighters who serve in our ranks.”
“Then we must make sure that the next few tendays shine a different light upon him,” said Kensidan. As he finished, he looked at his closest ally, Suljack, and saw the man frowning and shaking his head. Kensidan wasn’t quite sure what that might mean, for in truth, Suljack had lost the most soldiers in the battle, with nearly all of his Ship marching beside Deudermont and a good many of them killed at the Hosttower.
“Well enough to get out of bed, I would say,” a voice accosted Regis. He lay in his bed, half asleep, feeling perfectly miserable both emotionally and physically. He could deal with his wounds a lot easier than with the loss of Drizzt. How was he going to go back to Mithral Hall and face Bruenor? And Catti-brie!
“I feel better,” he lied.
“Then do sit up, little one,” the voice replied, and that gave Regis pause, for he didn’t recognize the speaker and saw no one when he looked around the room.
He sat up quickly then, and immediately focused on a darkened corner of the room.
Magically darkened, he knew.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“An old friend.”
Regis shook his head.
“Fare well on your journey….” the voice said and the last notes of the sentence faded away to nothingness, taking the magical darkness with it.
Leaving a revelation that had Regis gawking with surprise and trepidation.
He knew that he was nearing the end, and that there was no way out. Guenhwyvar, too, would perish, and Drizzt could only pray that her death on that alien plane, removed from the figurine, wouldn’t be permanent, that she would, as she had on the Prime Material Plane, simply revert to her Astral home.
The drow cursed himself for leaving the statuette behind.
And he fought, not for himself, for he knew that he was doomed, but for Guenhwyvar, his beloved friend. Perhaps she would find her way home through sheer exhaustion, as long as he could keep her alive long enough.
He didn’t know how many hours, days, had passed. He had found bitter nourishment in giant mushrooms and in the flesh of some of the strange beasts that had come against him, but both had left him sickly and weak.
He knew he was nearing the end, but the fighting was not.
He faced a six-armed monstrosity, every lumbering swing from its thick arms heavy enough to decapitate him. Drizzt was too quick for those swipes, of course, and had he been less weary, his foe would have been an easy kill. But the drow could hardly hold his scimitars aloft, and his focus kept slipping. Several times, he managed to duck away just in time to avoid a heavy punch.
“Come on, Guen,” he whispered under his breath, having set the fiendish beast up for a sidelong strike from the panther’s position on a rocky outcropping to the right. Drizzt heard a growl, and grinned, expecting Guenhwyvar to fly in for the kill.
But Drizzt got hit, and hard, instead, a flying tackle that flung him away from the beast and left him rolling in a tangle with another powerful creature.
He didn’t understand—it was all he could do to hold onto his scimitars, let alone try to bring them to bear.
But then the muddy ground beneath him became more solid, and a stinging light blinded him, and though his eyes could not adjust to see anything, he realized from another familiar growl that it was Guenhwyvar who had tackled him.
He heard a friendly voice, a welcomed voice, a cry of glee.
He got hit with another flying tackle almost as soon as he’d extricated himself from the jumble with Guen.
“How?” he asked Regis.
“I don’t know and I don’t care!” the halfling responded, hugging D
rizzt all the tighter.
“Kurth is right,” High Captain Rethnor warned his son. “Underestimate Captain Deudermont…Governor Deudermont, at our peril. He is a man of actions, not words. You were never at sea, and so you don’t understand the horror that filled men’s eyes when the sails of Sea Sprite were spotted.”
“I have heard the tales, but this is not the sea,” Kensidan replied.
“You have it all figured out,” Rethnor said, his mocking tone unmistakable.
“I remain agile in my ability to adapt to whatever comes our way.”
“But for now?”
“For now, I allow Kurth to run rampant on Closeguard and Cutlass, and even in the market area. He and I will dominate the streets easily enough, with Suljack playing my fool.”
“Deudermont may disband Prisoner’s Carnival, but he will raise a strong militia to enforce the laws.”
“His laws,” Kensidan replied, “not Luskan’s.”
“They are one and the same now.”
“No, not yet, and not ever if we properly pressure the streets,” said Kensidan. “Turmoil is Deudermont’s enemy, and lack of order will eventually turn the people against him. If he pushes too hard, he will find all of Luskan against him, as Arklem Greeth realized.”
“It’s a fight you want?” Rethnor said after a contemplative pause.
“It’s a fight I insist upon,” his conniving son answered. “For now, Deudermont makes a fine target for the anger of others, while Ship Kurth and Ship Rethnor rule the streets. When the breaking point is reached, a second war will erupt in Luskan, and when it’s done…”
“A free port,” said Rethnor. “A sanctuary for…merchant ships.”
“With ready trade in exotic goods that will find their way to the homes of Waterdhavian lords and to the shops of Baldur’s Gate,” said Kensidan. “That alone will keep Waterdeep from organizing an invasion of the new Luskan, for the self-serving bastard nobles will not threaten their own playthings. We’ll have our port, our city, and all pretense of law and subservience to the lords of Waterdeep be damned.”
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