The spider rushed down the tunnel and Drizzt spun Andahar about to flee . . .
Too late, he realized.
Jarlaxle and Zaknafein spilled out of the extradimensional hole onto the floor of the cavern before the dwarven wall, and amid the carnage, demon bits, and limbs and blood and brains.
“Warn me when you throw that!” Zaknafein scolded, still gasping for breath and certain that he had cracked more than one rib when he had flown across the sudden pit to slam into the opposite wall of it.
Jarlaxle wasn’t really listening, but rather was taking in the lay of the battle. The dwarves were far away by then and moving farther. He could see the light of their torches and hear their calls of victory.
Zaknafein moved past him. “Are you coming?”
But Jarlaxle shook his head. “No reason,” he said, and motioned for Zaknafein to follow him the other way back to the wall, where rope ladders were dropped for them by the remaining sentries.
Up and over they went, and back into the complex proper through the throne room, where Jarlaxle heard a whisper in his head, and recognized the call. He pulled Zaknafein with him into a side chamber to find Kimmuriel Oblodra waiting for him.
“What do you know?” he asked. “What word from Luskan?”
“None yet,” Kimmuriel answered. “The armada approaches. But that is not why I have come to you.”
“Pray tell, then,” said Zaknafein, drawing a scowl from the psionicist, who rather petulantly tightened his lips and crossed his skinny arms over his chest.
“Leave us,” Jarlaxle ordered Zaknafein immediately, and with a snort, the weapon master went back out into the corridor.
Jarlaxle looked at his lieutenant curiously. “You’re not really here, are you?”
“In thought,” the specter answered.
“Where in body?”
“On a ship out of Luskan, sailing to learn of our enemies.”
“But you find the need to speak with me before you have the answers,” said Jarlaxle, in a tone that made clear his intrigue and worry. It was not like Kimmuriel to travel side streets when on an important mission.
“You should know what soon comes against you,” the psionicist explained. “Matron Zhindia Melarn has taken the field with the demon horde.”
“At which I am not the least bit surprised,” Jarlaxle replied.
“She brought friends. Tools of great power. Two of them, with specific goals.”
“Demon lords?”
“Demon constructs.”
Jarlaxle’s face screwed up in confusion as he scoured his own thoughts for any hint of what that might mean.
“One for Drizzt and one for Zaknafein,” Kimmuriel added.
Jarlaxle paused another moment before his eyes went wide and his jaw went slack.
He hurried to find his oldest friend.
Chapter 12
Icy Waves and Demon Fire
Though the twilight air was not especially warm, the cold water splashing high and washing back across the deck felt good on Wulfgar’s bare arms and face. He found it invigorating and bracing, putting him in the exact frame of mind he would need to fulfill his duties this day. The droplets flew up above him, catching the last rays of sunlight glinting across the water before them from the right, the western horizon, which now seemed to be swallowing the sun.
He was on a swift ship, Joen’s Heirloom, in full sail with following seas out of Luskan Harbor, slashing through the swells to meet an incoming flotilla of invaders, mostly human but with other, more notorious creatures, including one ship, so the scout ships had reported, crewed entirely by vicious gnolls.
The hope was to parlay, with Luskan showing a powerful force of its own, nearly a hundred vessels representing all five of the city’s high captains. And including quieter, but more powerful reinforcements still, like the drow man standing not far from Wulfgar on this very deck.
“We’ll not strike any sails,” he heard Calico Grimm, the ship’s captain, tell that unusual drow, and in a tone too sharp, Wulfgar thought.
“He’s busy,” Wulfgar called back over his shoulder.
“Busy?” The captain’s confusion didn’t surprise Wulfgar. Kimmuriel was simply standing there, propped and secured against the rail of the higher prow deck. To all appearances, he was just standing and watching, but Wulfgar knew better. Kimmuriel’s consciousness wasn’t in his body at that time, but was far away, reporting to Jarlaxle. He had bidden Wulfgar to watch over him, over his helpless physical form at least, while his spirit was far afield.
When Wulfgar didn’t respond, the captain snorted, and Wulfgar turned again to make sure that the foolish Grimm didn’t strike the strange drow. They certainly didn’t need that out here on the open waters! Calico Grimm was a tough one, aye, but he’d do better than picking any fights with this particular dark elf. Even not counting Kimmuriel’s position of power within the Bregan D’aerthe, whose complete domination of Luskan was an open secret among all the crews, this drow was not one to be trifled with. Wulfgar would rather anger Jarlaxle, or even the great Gromph Baenre himself, before engaging in any conflict with Kimmuriel and his strange and unsettling psionics.
Wulfgar could understand a fireball, and while ducking under one wouldn’t be a pleasant experience, against Kimmuriel, such an explosion would happen inside one’s mind, an illusion become all too real, and with no place to hide and no cover to shield.
It was cold on the water, but for the first time today, he shuddered.
“Have I asked you to do so?” came an unemotional response from Kimmuriel, an apparent reply to Calico Grimm’s first declaration.
Wulfgar swiveled his head to regard the drow. Was there any other kind of response from this one? With a helpless shake of his head, confident now that Kimmuriel was back in control of his physical body, and therefore, of the situation around him, Wulfgar looked back out over the prow, squinting against the spray, pondering, and not for the first time, whether Kimmuriel was actually alive or just an animated construct, or even some emotionless undead thing.
“You’re demanding parlay,” Calico Grimm said.
“I am saying that it is wiser. We do not know the disposition of this fleet, or what intent brings them so far to the north.”
“You know what happened in the Crags, in Port Llast,” Calico Grimm reminded.
“I do.”
“They’ve gnolls sailing with ’em,” added Bonnie Charlee, the first mate, a woman covered in battle scars, the grease of rope lines, and sea spray.
“I admit, it does not look like a happy enjoining,” said Kimmuriel.
“Eh?” asked the captain.
“Says they’re going to be shootin’ at us,” Bonnie Charlee remarked.
“I will discern their intent before we ever get close enough for any meaningful exchange of words or missiles,” Kimmuriel assured the pair.
“And how do you propose to—” the captain started to ask.
“Just believe him,” Wulfgar interjected. He swung around a guide rope to turn back facing the trio. “Believe him,” he repeated. “We’ll know all about this approaching fleet long before they learn anything much about us.”
Calico Grimm and Bonnie Charlee exchanged looks and a shrug.
“If they’re wanting to talk, then we’ll do it one boat out to one boat,” Calico Grimm told Kimmuriel. “And no other is striking sails or unloading catapults. If it comes to a fight and they lose, they run. If we lose, we lose our home behind us. Don’t you forget that when you’re asking for a parlay, eh?”
“Eh, indeed.” Kimmuriel snorted dismissively.
Wulfgar glanced back to the approaching fleet, then turned back to see Kimmuriel walking toward him, the captain and his first mate staring angrily at the psionicist’s back and both looking like they were about to say something unpleasant.
Wulfgar slowly shook his head at them, and to his surprise, the two remained quiet.
The four watched the approaching sails draw nearer, then Kimmuriel announc
ed, “I go.”
“You go where?” Calico Grimm asked.
The drow closed his eyes and seemed to shrink within himself.
“To parlay,” Wulfgar answered for him.
“Eh now, what d’ye mean by that?”
“Patience, captain,” Wulfgar said. “When the drow speaks again, we will know much more about those who sail against us.”
Brevindon Margaster paced the deck of the square-masted caravel, wondering how it had come to this, and wondering, too, if he could end the path he was on simply by removing the magical necklace, a phylactery that contained the spirit of a most wicked cambion.
It seemed so simple, after all. Remove the necklace and toss it into the sea. He could do it, then go to his sister, Inkeri, and take her necklace, and those of the other Margaster nobles, and similarly be rid of the demons.
So simple.
But his hands did not move, and his doubts crept higher.
What would happen to him, to them all, when the lords of Waterdeep learned the truth of the Margaster family? How might anyone protect them when all the powers of the north came to realize that the Margasters had been washing money with Lord Neverember, stealing millions from the city? Brevindon had thought the whole thing funny at first—wasn’t the back-dealing and double-crossing all just a game, after all? Everyone was corrupt, of course, so what harm could it be? Also, Lord Dagult Neverember, who had hatched the schemes with Inkeri, was one of the most respected and powerful men on the Sword Coast. Like many Waterdhavian men his age, Brevindon had grown up idolizing the handsome Dagult. Every woman wanted him; every warrior wanted to train with him.
What did it matter, then, if the Margasters threw in with Neverember in creating a new power about Neverwinter City, perhaps to rival Waterdeep itself in the coming years? Why would that be any worse than the current lords ruling, essentially, the entire Sword Coast north of Baldur’s Gate, with the sole exception of Luskan, which was in control of pirates, or worse, if the rumors were true?
The justifications rang hollow to him and Brevindon blew a heavy sigh, wondering how it had come to this point. How was it that he was leading a fleet of scoundrels and scallywags, unrepentant murderers one and all, and with a boatload of gnolls along for the ride? How had it come to pass that the army thrown against King Bruenor would be led by demons, actual demons, pulled from the Abyss to rain carnage on the enemies of Neverember?
Brevindon couldn’t even remember who had given the order, or when it had been decided that they would march against Gauntlgrym. One little step had led to another, to another, to another, and, seemingly suddenly, here they were.
The fleet had just left the unfortunate settlement of Port Llast, which was mostly in ruins now, the surviving citizens put to work in their quarries in service to the House of Margaster.
You cannot do great things if you fear small . . . inconveniences, said a voice in Brevindon’s head, the voice of Asbeel, the cambion contained within the phylactery hanging about the Margaster nobleman’s neck.
No, not contained, he thought. Perhaps initially it had been so, but that word wouldn’t properly describe the phylactery or the relationship between Asbeel and Brevindon anymore. Asbeel was in Brevindon’s thoughts at Asbeel’s preference, not Brevindon’s. In the phylactery, Asbeel could hide from him, but the enchanted bauble was no longer a two-way barrier.
Was there anywhere Brevindon could now hide from Asbeel?
No, the voice in his head answered the thought.
Brevindon gave a helpless laugh.
When Luskan is ours, you will begin to see the gain and glory of it all, impatient host, Asbeel telepathically imparted.
Brevindon tried to mentally agree, or pretend to agree, or something, anything, to keep the beast from looking deeper into his thoughts.
And, of course, he knew that Asbeel had felt that effort as well. Before the demon could respond, however, a shout rang across the ship.
“Sails to the north!” came the cry from the crow’s nest high above.
Brevindon was glad for the distraction, any distraction.
“Many sails!” the man above yelled. “The Luskan fleet, to be sure!”
Brevindon smiled, reminding himself that Luskan was under the control of the dark elves, friends of Bruenor, and so enemies of Lord Neverember.
This was a fight, he told himself resolutely, against enemies worthy of feeling the sharp edge of his weapon.
But then he winced yet again, considering the new black blade slung across his back: a curving, viciously serrated bastard sword with a handle of jagged spikes that cut into his hands when he wielded it, biting barbs digging deep into his flesh. The torturous sword healed him as fast as it wounded him, leaving him with no injury but in constant torment.
A reminder to be done with his enemies quickly, Asbeel had told him.
Brevindon had not yet wielded the finished sword in battle—its enchantments and magical edge had only been completed in the town of Port Llast after the sacking—but he could well imagine its horrible power. Merely thinking of an enemy while holding the sword in hand brought a coating of biting red fire to the metal, and though the sword was not telepathic in any meaningful sense, Brevindon could certainly feel its hunger. It had been designed for one purpose alone: to inflict horrible pain. Fashioned with a purpose, the weapon ever sought to satisfy that hunger.
Your imagination is not strong enough to truly understand the pleasure, Asbeel’s telepathic voice rang in his head, melodic and high-pitched, the voice of an elf, but twisted and grating.
Brevindon tried hard to focus on the task before him, on reminding himself that Luskan was under drow control and so this was not an unwarranted attack, and to turn his thoughts from the sword.
Asbeel’s sword. The awful, terrible, diabolical sword.
Like a ghost, Kimmuriel’s disembodied thoughts soared across the cold water, closing fast on the incoming enemy fleet. With a quick perusal, he became confident as to which was likely the command ship, so much larger and finer was it than the others. He gave it a wide berth, circling up high. One man, dressed in expensive armor and with a large black sword strapped to his back, was clearly giving the commands here.
Kimmuriel went past him, to the wheel before the aft deck, to a chubby and greasy little human who looked quite simple-minded.
All the better.
A moment later, the psionicist blinked through human eyes, and was surprised at how dark the evening had become, absent his keen drow vision. It didn’t much matter, for the pilot stood within earshot now of the ship’s captain. Kimmuriel soon enough confirmed from the imprisoned mind of the man he had possessed that the captain was indeed the fleet commander.
That man—well dressed, Lord Brevindon by name, he knew from his hostage—snapped his head about suddenly to regard Kimmuriel, or at least, to regard the man Kimmuriel had possessed.
Surely Brevindon couldn’t know.
The captain waved away a nearby woman moving to ask him something, then painted on a wicked grin, drew the terrible sword over his shoulder, and took a step toward Kimmuriel.
Kimmuriel looked into his thoughts.
The drow psionicist floated out of the possessed pilot just before Lord Brevindon, his jaw clenched in apparent pain, cut the man nearly in half, that wicked sword driving through the poor fool’s shoulder, down across his chest, and out just above the opposite hip. Knowing now the truth of the commander and his minions, including a sorceress who appeared human but certainly was not, Kimmuriel didn’t look back but soared across the waters and into his own corporeal body with all speed.
“Well?” Calico Grimm demanded of him the moment he blinked his eyes and moved.
“There is no parlay,” Kimmuriel replied.
“So we fight,” the captain said, turning to Bonnie Charlee and nodding. The woman leaped away to order full sails.
“Or run,” Kimmuriel quietly replied.
“Eh?” Calico Grimm said. “What, ye ain�
��t got the spine for a good fight, skinny one?”
Wulfgar shook his head, unsurprised by the sardonic drow’s typically cynical suggestion.
Kimmuriel’s snort in response was all that he needed to reply. The captain took it as if the drow was simply answering a challenge against his courage, of course, but Kimmuriel glanced at Wulfgar and knew that the veteran warrior understood the true context of the dismissive response.
Kimmuriel really didn’t care if they fought the incoming fleet or not. Kimmuriel had spent years living among the illithids—he wasn’t much concerned about getting killed in such a crude battle, after all.
The crews of all the boats around him were singing, off-key and different songs, and different words, even, to those songs they were trying to coordinate, but their energy was infectious and exhilarating, and with the spray in his face and battle against a worthy foe so near, Wulfgar could not wipe the smile from his face.
He was a warrior to his bones, in this life and in his previous. He lived and thrived on the edge of fear, because nowhere else could he feel himself so very much alive.
Almost nowhere else, he corrected himself in his thoughts, and he imagined then that he was in the arms of Penelope. He wished she were here and was glad she was not all at the same time, and so he told himself, vowed to himself, that he would survive this fight and return to her.
The first skirmish began far to the side of Joen’s Heirloom, where a stroke of lightning and the flash of a fireball erupted, two ships closing to melee range and each leading with a blast from a wizard.
“Do you wish to die out here, friend of Drizzt?” Kimmuriel asked him, and he spun on the strange drow, as surprised by Kimmuriel actually beginning a conversation with him as he was by the ridiculous question.
“You know many who wish for death?” Wulfgar replied. He saw immediately that his sarcasm was lost on the drow. “No, of course I do not,” he answered more seriously.
“It would not be an honorable death for you?”
“Yes, of course,” a confused Wulfgar answered.
Boundless Page 18
