The woman seemed to ease considerably, for surely anyone that close to Luskan had heard of Drizzt Do’Urden even before his exploits beside Deudermont in throwing down Arklem Greeth.
“If it’s shelter ye’re seeking, then put up in the barn,” she said.
“The barn would be most hospitable,” said Drizzt, ‘but truly it’s more good conversation and news of Luskan that would do we weary travelers good.”
“Bah, but what news? News o’ yer friend the governor?”
Drizzt couldn’t suppress a smile at hearing Deudermont still referred to as governor. He nodded his assent.
“What’s to tell, then?” asked the woman. “He gets his cheers, but don’t he? And oh, but that one can wag a pretty tongue. A great feeder o’ the pig, none’s doubting.”
“But…?” Drizzt prompted, catching the prissy sarcasm sharpening her voice.
“But not so much for feedin’ them that’s feedin’ the pigs, eh?” she said. “And not so quick with the grain we’re needin’ for the fields.”
Drizzt looked south toward Luskan.
“I’m sure the captain will see to it as soon as he is able,” Regis offered.
“Which?” the woman asked, and Regis realized that his use of Deudermont’s old title had been taken to mean one of Luskan’s high captains, and that inadvertent misunderstanding, given the woman’s suddenly hopeful tone, had hinted to both Regis and Drizzt that Deudermont had not yet established control over those five.
“So, are ye to be stayin’?” the woman asked after a lengthy silence.
“Aye, the barn,” Drizzt replied, turning to face her again and putting on a supremely pleasant and cheery expression as he did.
The pair were out the next morning before the cock crowed, trotting fast down the road all the way to Luskan’s North Gate—Luskan’sunguarded North Gate, they realized to their surprise. The ironclad door was neither locked nor barred, and not a voice of protest came at them from either of the towers flanking it as they pushed it open and crossed into the city.
“To the Cutlass, or the Red Dragon?” Regis asked, moving to the wide stone stairway of the Upstream Span bridge, which opened up into the northern section of the city wherein lay Deudermont’s makeshift palace. But Drizzt shook his head and marched straight down the span, crossing the Mirar with Regis skipping at his heels.
“The market,” he explained. “The level of activity there will tell us much of Luskan’s winter before we rendezvous with Deudermont.”
“I think we’ve already seen too much of it,” Regis muttered.
Glancing left and right, it was hard for Drizzt to argue the sentiment. The city was a battered place, with many buildings crumbling, many more burned out, and with haggard folk covered in dirty layers of rags milling about the streets. The unmistakable look of hunger played on their dark faces, the profound hopelessness that could only be stamped by months of misery.
“Have ye seen the caravan, then?” came the quickly familiar question soon after the pair stepped off the Upstream Span and into the city proper.
“Luskan’s caravan north to Ten-Towns?” Regis asked.
The man looked at him incredulously, so much so that Regis’s heart sank.
“Waterdeep’s,” he corrected the halfling. “A caravan’s coming, don’t ye know? And a great fleet of ships with food and warm clothes, and grain for the fields and pigs for the barn! Have ye seen it, boy?”
“Boy?” Regis echoed, but the man was too lost in his rambling to notice and pause for even a breath.
“Have ye seen the caravan? Oh, but she’s to be a big one, they’re saying! Enough food for to fill our bellies through the summer and the winter next. And all from Lord Brambleberry’s people, they’re saying.”
All around the old man, people nodded and attempted, at least, to cheer a bit, though the sound was surely pathetic.
Barely three blocks into the city and still a long way from the market, Drizzt had seen enough. He turned Regis around and made for Dalath’s Span, the remaining usable bridges across the Mirar, the closest to the harbor and the Red Dragon.
When at last they arrived at Deudermont’s “palace,” the companions found warm greetings and wide smiles. The guards ushered them right to the inner chambers, where Deudermont and Robillard met with a surly red-bearded dwarf Drizzt remembered from the Mirabarran contingent at the battle of the Hosttower.
“If we’re interrupting…” Drizzt started to apologize, but Deudermont cut him short, leaping up from his seat and saying, “Nonsense! It’s a good day in Luskan when Drizzt and Regis return.”
“And Luskan’s needing some good days,” the dwarf remarked.
“And some meetings are better off interrupted,” Robillard mumbled.
The dwarf turned on him sharply, drawing a smirk and a shrug from the cynical wizard.
“Aye,” the dwarf said, “and some meetings go on longer than all what’s needed saying’s been said.”
“Beautifully if confusedly expressed,” said Robillard.
“Ah, but it might be a wizard’s addled brain’s what’s needing unrattling,” said the dwarf. “A good shake—”
“A flaming dwarf….” Robillard added.
The dwarf growled and Deudermont sidled between the two. “Tell your fellows that their help through the winter was most appreciated,” he said to the dwarf. “And when the first caravan arrives from the Silver Marches, we hope you will find your way to more generosity.”
“Aye, soon as our own bellies ain’t growling,” the dwarf agreed, and with a final glare at Robillard and a tip of his wide-brimmed hat to Drizzt and Regis, he took his leave.
“It’s good you have returned,” Deudermont said, moving over to offer a handshake to his two friends. “I trust the Icewind Dale winter was no more harsh than what we suffered here.”
“The city is battered,” said Drizzt.
“And hungry,” Regis added.
“Every priest in Luskan toils away throughout every day in prayers to their gods, creating food and drink,” Deudermont said. “But their efforts are not nearly enough. Over at the Shield, the Mirabarrans tightened their belts considerably through the months, rationing their supplies, for they alone in Luskan had storehouses properly prepared for the winter.”
“Not alone,” Robillard corrected, and there was no missing the edge in his tone.
Deudermont conceded the point with a nod. “Some of the high captains seem to have avenues of securing food. All praise to Suljack, who has funneled good meat through this palace to the citizens, even to those who were not of his Ship.”
“He’s an idiot,” said Robillard.
“He is a fine example to the other four,” Deudermont quickly argued. “He puts Luskan above Ship, and alone among them, it seems, is wise enough to understand that the fate of Luskan will ultimately determine the fate of their private little empires.”
“You have to act, and quickly,” said Drizzt. “Or Luskan will not survive.”
Deudermont nodded his agreement with every word. “A flotilla has left Waterdeep, and a great caravan winds its way up from the south, both laden with food and grain, and with soldiers to aid in calming the city. The lords of Waterdeep have rallied around the work of the late Lord Brambleberry, that his efforts will not be in vain.”
“They don’t want one of their own to look as stupid as the whispers make him out to be,” Robillard clarified, and even Drizzt couldn’t help but chuckle at that. “Expect too much from the flotilla and caravan at your peril,” the wizard warned Deudermont. “They’re laden well with food, no doubt, but a few dozen sellswords would be a dozen or two more than I’ll be willing to wager they’ve offered. They have a way of looking more generous than they actually are, these lords.”
Deudermont didn’t bother to argue the point. “They will both arrive within the next couple of tendays, say the scouts. I secured a promise of extra food from our dwarf friend Argithas of Mirabar. The Mirabarrans agreed to accelerate t
heir tithing to the city in anticipation of the re-supply, though their storehouses are near empty. Mirabar has stood strong with me through the winter—I would bid you to relay our gratitude to Marchion Elastul when you return to the Silver Marches.”
Drizzt nodded.
“What choice did they have?” Robillard asked. “We’re the only acre of sanity left in Luskan!”
“The caravans—” said Deudermont.
“Are a temporary reprieve.”
Deudermont shook his head. “We will use the example of Suljack to enlist the other four,” he reasoned. “They will end their foolish warring and support the city or their people will turn against them, as the whole of the city turned against Arklem Greeth.”
“The people on the streets appear desperate,” said Regis, and Deudermont nodded.
“The times are hard,” he replied. “The relief of summer will allow them to look beyond their misery and seek long-term solutions to the ills of the city. Those solutions lie with me and not with the high captains, unless those old seadogs are smart enough to understand the needs of the city beyond their own narrow streets.”
“They’re not,” Robillard assured him. “And we’d do well to climb on Sea Sprite and sail back to Waterdeep.”
“I would go without food for a winter and more if only I heard a word of encouragement from Robillard,” Deudermont remarked with a heavy sigh.
The wizard snickered, threw his arm across the back of his chair, and turned away.
“Enough of our misery,” Deudermont said. “Tell me of Icewind Dale, and of Wulfgar. Did you find him?”
Drizzt’s smile surely answered before the drow began to recant his tale of the journey.
CHAPTER 28
PRESSURE
T he small bit of water they had put in the pot bubbled and steamed away, its aroma eliciting many licks of anticipation. The dark meat, twenty pounds of basted perfection, glistened from the surface burns of fast cooking, for not a one of the band of highwaymen was willing to wait the hours to properly prepare the unexpected feast.
The moment the cook announced it was done, the group began tearing at it eagerly, ripping off large chunks and shoving them into hungry mouths so that their cheeks bulged like rodents storing food for the winter. Every now and then one or another paused just long enough to lift a toast to Ship Rethnor, who had supplied them so well. And all that the generous son of the recently-deceased high captain had asked for in return was that the band waylay a caravan, and with all proceeds of the theft going to the highwaymen.
“They give us food for taking food,” one rogue observed with a chuckle.
“And give us help in taking it,” another agreed, indicating a small keg of particularly effective poison.
So they cheered and they ate, and they laughed and cheered some more for the son of Ship Rethnor.
The next morning, they watched from a series of low forested hills as the expected caravan, more than two dozen wagons, wound its way up the road from the south. Many guards accompanied the train—proud Waterdhavian soldiers—and even several wizards.
“Remember that we’ve a whole tenday,” Sotinthal Magree, the leader of the Luskar band, told his fellows. “Sting and run, sting and run—wear them down day after day.”
The others nodded as one. They didn’t have to kill all of the guards. They didn’t have to stop all of the wagons. If less than half of the wagons and less than half of the supplies got through to Luskan, Ship Rethnor would be satisfied and the highwaymen would share in the bounty.
That morning, a volley of crossbow quarrels flew out at the teams of the last two wagons in line, horses and guards alike. From a safe distance and with light crossbows, such an attack would hardly have bothered the seasoned travelers, but even the slightest scratch from a poisoned quarrel brought down even the largest of the draft horses.
The group of guards that charged out at the attackers similarly found their numbers halved with a second, more concentrated volley. Minor wounds proved devastating. Strong men crumbled to the ground in a deep and uncompromising sleep.
The crossbowmen melted into the woods before any close engagement could begin and from the other side of the road, a small group of grenadiers found their openings and charged the weakest spans of the caravan, hurling their fiery missiles of volatile oil and running off in fast retreat.
When some guards gave chase they found themselves caught in a series of spring traps, swinging logs and deviously buried spikes, all tipped, once again, with that devious poison.
By the end of the encounter, two wagons and their contents were fully engulfed in flames and two others damaged so badly that the Waterdhavians had to strip one to salvage the other. The caravan had lost several horses to flames or to injuries caused when the sleeping poison had sent them falling to the ground. A trio of guards had been murdered in the woods.
“They’ve no plan for the likes of us,” Sotinthal told his men that night as they shadowed the caravan. “Like the dwarf told us they wouldn’t. They’re thinking that all the folk north of Waterdeep would welcome their passing and the food and grain they’re bringing. A straight-on attack by monsters? Aye. A hungry band o’ highwaymen? Aye. But not the likes of us—well fed and not needing their goods, well rewarded and not needing to fight them straight up.”
He ended with a laugh that proved infectious around the campfire, and he wondered what tricks he and his fellows might use on the caravan the following day.
The next night, Sotinthal congratulated himself again, for the heavy boulder his men had rolled down the hill had taken out another wagon, destroying two of its wheels and spilling sacks of grain across the ground.
Their biggest cheer of all came three nights later, when a well-placed fiery arrow had lit up the oil-soaked understructure of a small bridge across a fast-moving stream, taking two wagons in the ensuing blaze and leaving five stranded on one side of the water, the men of the dozen-and-four on the other side staring helplessly.
Over the next two days, Sotinthal’s men picked away at the Waterdhavians as they tried to find a ford or rebuild some measure of a bridge that could get the rest of their wagons across the stream.
The leader of the highwaymen knew the battered Waterdhavians were approaching their breaking point, and he was not surprised, though surely elated, when they simply ferried the supplies back over the stream to the south, overloaded the remaining wagons, and set off to the south, back to Waterdeep.
Kensidan would pay him well indeed.
“He is in her mind,” the voice in the shadows said to Arklem Greeth. “Calming her, reminding her that her life remains and that eternity allows her to pursue that which she longs.”
The lich resisted the urge to dispel the darkness and view the speaker, if only to confirm his guess about his identity. He looked over at poor Valindra Shadowmantle, who seemed at peace for the first time since he’d resurrected her consciousness inside her dead body. Arklem Greeth knew well the shock of death, and of undeath. After his own transformation to lichdom, he had battled many of the same anxieties and losses that had so unsettled Valindra, and of course he had spent many years in preparation for that still-shocking moment.
Valindra’s experience had been far more devastating to the poor elf. Her heritage alone meant that she had expected several more centuries of life; with elves, the craving for immortality was not nearly as profound a thing as the desperation of short-lived humans. Thus, Valindra’s transformation had nearly broken the poor soul, and would likely have turned her into a thing of utter and unrelenting hatred had not the voice in the shadows and his associate unexpectedly intervened.
“He tells me that the effort to keep her calm will be great indeed,” the voice said.
“As will the price, no doubt,” Arklem Greeth said.
Soft laughter came back at him. “What is your intent, Archmage?”
“With?”
“Luskan.”
“What remains of Luskan, you mean,” Arklem
Greeth replied, in a tone that indicated he hardly cared.
“You remain within the city walls,” said the voice. “Your heart is here.”
“It was a profitable location, well-situated for the Arcane Brotherhood,” the lich admitted.
“It can be again.”
Despite not wanting to play his hand, Arklem Greeth couldn’t help but lean forward.
“Not as it was, to be sure, but in other ways,” said the voice.
“All we have to do is kill Deudermont. Is that what you are asking of me?”
“I’m asking nothing, except that your plans remain known to me.”
“That is not nothing,” said Arklem Greeth. “In many circles, such a price would be considered extravagant.”
“In some circles, Valindra Shadowmantle would lose her mind.”
Arklem Greeth had no answer to that. He glanced again at his beloved.
“Deudermont is well-guarded,” said the voice. “He is not vulnerable while still in Luskan. The city is under considerable stress, as you might expect, and Deudermont’s future as governor will depend upon his ability to feed and care for the people. So he has turned to his friends in Waterdeep, by land and by sea.”
“You ask me to be a highwayman?”
“I told you that I asked nothing other than to know your plans as you evolve them,” said the voice. “I had thought that one such as you, who need not draw air, who feels not the cold of the sea, would be interested to know that your hated enemy Deudermont is desperately awaiting the arrival of a flotilla from Waterdeep. It is presently sailing up the coast and the soft belly of supply ships is too well guarded for any pirates to even think of attacking.”
Arklem Greeth sat perfectly still, digesting the information. He looked again at Valindra.
“My friend is not in her mind any longer,” said the voice, and Arklem Greeth sharpened his focus on the undead woman, and was greatly encouraged as she didn’t melt into a well of despair.
“He has shown her possibilities,” said the voice. “He will return to her to reinforce the message and help her through this difficult time.”
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