The Pirate King
CHAPTER 33

SUNSET IN LUSKAN
There could be no mistaking the Crow's forward leaning posture as he approached Arabeth Raurym, who had been summoned to his audience chamber at Ten Oaks.
Where lie your loyalties?" he asked.
Arabeth tried to keep her own posture firm and aggressive, but failed miserably as the small but strangely intimidating young man strode toward her. "Are you threatening me, an Overwizard of the Hosttower of the Arcane?"
"The what?"
"The achievement still merits respect!" said Arabeth, but her voice faltered just a bit when she noted that the Crow had drawn a long, wicked dagger. "Back, I warn you..."
She retreated a few quick steps and began waving her arms and chanting. Kensidan kept the measure of his approach and seemed in no hurry to interrupt her spellcasting. Arabeth blasted him full force with a lightning bolt, one that should have lifted him out of his high boots, however tight the lacing, and sent him flying across the room to slam into the back wall, a blast that should have burned a hole into him and sent his black hair to dancing, a blast that should have sent his heart to trembling before stopping all together.
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 bring 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.
The dwarf's swings didn't come any slower as he rejoined battle against Drizzt. And Drizzt quickly realized that the dwarf wasn't even breathing hard. Using his anklets to speed his steps, Drizzt pushed the issue, scampering to the left, then right back around the dwarf, and out and back suddenly as the furious little creature spun to keep up.
The drow worked a blur of measured strikes, and exaggerated steps, forcing the stubby-limbed dwarf to rush every which way.
The flurry went on and on, scimitars rolling one over the other, morningstars spinning to keep pace, and even, once in a while, to offer a devious counter-stroke. And still Drizzt pressed, rushing left and back to center, right and all the way around, forcing the dwarf to continually reverse momentum on his heavier weapons.
But Athrogate did so with ease, and showed no labored breath, and whenever a thrust or parry connected, weapon to weapon, Drizzt was reminded of the dwarf's preternatural strength.
Indeed, Athrogate possessed it all: speed, stamina, strength, and technique. He was as complete a fighter as Drizzt had ever battled, and with weapons to equal Drizzt's own. The first morningstar kept coating over with some explosive liquid, and the second head leaked a brownish fluid. The first time that connected in a parry against Icingdeath, Drizzt was sure he felt the scimitar's fear. He brought the blade back for a quick inspection as he broke away, angling for a new attack, and noted dots of brown on is shining metal. It was rust, he realized, and realized, too, that only the mighty magic of Icingdeath had saved the blade from rotting away in his hand!
And Athrogate just kept howling, "Bwahahahaha!" and charging on with abandon.
Seeming abandon, because never, ever, did the dwarf abandon his defensive technique.
He was good. Very good.
But so was Drizzt Do'Urden.
The dark elf slowed his attacks and let Athrogate gain momentum, until it was the dwarf, not the drow, pressing the advantage.
"Bwahahahaha!" Athrogate roared, and sent both his morningstars into aggressive spins, low and high, working one down, the other up in a dizzying barrage that nearly caught up to the dodging, parrying drow.
Drizzt measured every movement, his eyes moving three steps ahead. He thrust into the left, forcing a parry, then went with that block to send his scimitar out wide but in an arcing movement that brought it back in again, sweeping down at his shorter opponent's shoulder.
Athrogate was up to the task of parrying, as Drizzt knew he would be, bringing his left-hand morningstar flying up across his right shoulder to defeat the attack.
But it wasn't really an attack, and Icingdeath snuck in for a stab at Athrogate's side. The dwarf yelped and leaped back, clearing three long strides. He laughed again, but winced, and brought his hand down against his rib. When he brought that hand back up, both Drizzt and he understood that the drow had drawn first blood.
"Well done!" he said, or started to, for Drizzt leaped at him, scimitars working wildly.
Drizzt rolled them over each other in a punishing alternating downward and straightforward slash, keeping them timed perfectly so that one morningstar could not defeat them both, and keeping them angled perfectly so that Athrogate had to keep his own weapons at a more awkward and draining angle, up high in front of his face.
The dwarf's grimace told Drizzt that his stab in the ribs had been more effective than Athrogate pretended, and holding his arms up in such a manner was not comfortable at all.
The drow kept up the roll and pressed the advantage, driving Athrogate ever backward, both combatants knowing that one slip by Drizzt would do no more than put them back at an even posture, but one slip by Athrogate would likely end the fight in short order.
The dwarf wasn't laughing anymore.
Drizzt pressed him even harder, growling with every rolling swing, backing Athrogate back down the alley the way Drizzt had come, away from the palace.
Drizzt caught the movement out of the corner of his eye, a small form rolling limply off the roof. Without a whimper, without a cry of alarm, Regis, tumbled to the ground and lay still.
Athrogate seized the distraction for his advantage, and cut back and to his right, then smashed his morningstar across to bat the drow's chopping scimitar out far to the side with such force - and an added magical explosion - that Drizzt had to disengage fully and scamper to the opposite wall to simply hold onto the blade.
Drizzt got a look at Regis, lying awkwardly twisted in the alleyway's gutter. Not a sound, not a squirm, not a whimper of pain....
He was somewhere past pain; it seemed to Drizzt as if his spirit had already left his battered body.
And Drizzt couldn't go to him. Drizzt, who had chosen to return to Luskan, to stand with Deudermont, couldn't do anything but look at his dear friend.
At sea, it's said that danger can be measured by the scurry of the rats, and if that model held true, then the battle between Robillard and Arklem Greeth in the hold of Sea Sprite ranked right up alongside beaching the boat on the back of a dragon turtle.
All manner of evocations flew out between the dueling wizards, fire and ice, magical energy of different colors and inventive shapes. Robillard tried to keep his spells more narrow in scope, aiming just for Arklem Greeth, but the lich was as full of hatred for Sea Sprite herself as he was for his old peer in the Hosttower. Robillard threw missiles of solid magic and acidic darts. Greeth responded with forked lightning bolts and fireballs, filling the hold with flame.
Robillard's work on the hull with magical protections and wards, and all manner of alchemical mixtures, had been as complete and as brilliant as the work of any wizard or team of wizards had ever put on any ship, but he knew with every mighty explosion that Arklem Greeth tested those wards to their fullest and beyond.
With every fireball, a few more residual flames burned for just a few heartbeats longer. Every successive lightning bolt thumped the planking out a bit wider, and a little more water managed to seep in.
Soon enough, the wizards stood among a maelstrom of destruction, water up to their ankles, Sea Sprite rocking hard with every blast.
Robillard knew he had to get Arklem Greeth out of his ship. Whatever the cost, whatever else might happen, he had to move the spell duel to another place. He launched into a mighty spell, and as he cast it, he threw himself at Greeth, thinking that both he and his adversary would be projected into the Astral Plane to finish the insanity.
Nothing happened, for the archmage arcane had already applied a dimensional lock to the hold.
Robillard staggered as he realized that he was not flying on another plane of existence, as he had anticipated. He threw his arms up defensively as he righted himself, for Arklem Greeth brought in a gigantic disembodied fist that punched at him with the force of a titan.
The blow didn't break through the stoneskin dweomer of mighty Robillard, but it did send him flying back to the other end of the hold. He hit the wall hard, but felt not a thing, landing lightly on his feet and launching immediately into another lightning bolt.
Arklem Greeth, too, was already into a new casting, and his spell went off right before Robillard's, creating a summoned wall of stone halfway between the combatants.
Robillard's lightning bolt hit that stone with such tremendous force that huge chunks flew, but the bolt also rebounded into the wizard's face, throwing him again into the wall behind him.
And he had exhausted his wards. He felt that impact, and felt, too, the sizzle of his own lightning bolt. His heart palpitated, his hair stood on end. He kept his awareness just enough to realize that Sea Sprite was listing badly as a result of the tremendous weight of Arklem Greeth's summoned wall. From up above he heard screaming, and he knew that more than one of Sea Sprite's crew had fallen overboard as a result.
Across the way, beyond the wall, Arklem Greeth cackled with delight, and in looking at the wall, Robillard understood that the worst was yet to come. For Greeth had offset it on the floor and had lined it along with the length and not the breadth of the ship, but he had not anchored it!
So as Sea Sprite listed under the great weight, so too leaned the wall, and it was beginning to tip.
Robillard realized that he couldn't stop it, so he found a moment of intense concentration instead and focused on his most-hated enemy. The wall fell, clearing the ground between the wizards, and Robillard let fly another devastating lightning blast.
So intent was he on his stone wall tumbling into Sea Sprite's side planking, crashing through the wood, that Arklem Greeth never saw the bolt coming. He flew backward under the power of the stroke and hit the wall even as the side of the hull broke open and Luskan Harbor rushed in.
Robillard beat the rush of water, launching himself upon Arklem Greeth. Energy crackled through his hands, one electrical discharge after another.
Arklem Greeth fought back physically, tearing at Robillard with undead hands.
They held their death grip on each other as the sea turned Sea Sprite farther on her side, taking her down into the harbor. Spell after spell leaped from Robillard's fingers into the lich, blasting away at his magical defenses, and when those were finally beaten, as was his very life-force, still Arklem Greeth merely held on.
The lich didn't need to breathe, but Robillard surely did.
The pitch of the sinking ship sent them out through the hole in the hull, tumbling amidst the debris, rocks, and weeds of Luskan Harbor.
Robillard felt his ears pop under the pressure and knew his lungs wouldn't be far behind. But he held on, determined to end the struggle at whatever cost. The sight of Sea Sprite, the wreckage of his beloved Sea Sprite, spurred him on and he resisted the urge to break free of Arklem Greeth and focused instead on continuing his electrical barrage on the lich - even though every powerful discharge stung him as well in the conducting water.
It seemed like a dozen, dozen spells. It seemed like his lungs would surely burst. It seemed like Arklem Greeth was mocking him.
But the lich simply let go, and the face the surprised Robillard looked into was dead, not undead.
Robillard shoved away and kicked off the bottom, determined not to die in the arms of the hideous Arklem Greeth. Instinctively he clawed for the surface, and saw the water growing lighter above him.
But he knew he wouldn't make it.
"Sea Sprite!" more than one sailor of Thrice Lucky, and of every other ship moored in the area, cried out in astonishment. To those men and women, friend and enemy of Deudermont's ship alike, the sight before them seemed impossible.
The waves took Sea Sprite and smashed her up on a line of rocks, just one rail of her glorious hull and her three distinctive masts protruding from the dark waters of Luskan Harbor.
It could not be. In the minds of those who knew the ship as friend or foe, the loss of Sea Sprite proved no less traumatic than the disintegration of the Hosttower of the Arcane, a sudden and unimaginable change in the landscape that had shaped their lives.
"Sea Sprite!" they cried as one, pointing and jumping.
Morik the Rogue and Bellany rushed to Thrice Lucky's rail to take in the awful scene.
"What are we to do?" Morik asked incredulously. "Where is Maimun?" He knew the answer, and so did many others echoing that very sentiment, for their captain had gone ashore less than an hour earlier.
Some crewmen called for lifelines, to weigh anchor to rush to the aid of the crew in the water. Bellany did likewise and started for a lifeboat, but Morik grabbed her by the shoulder and spun her to face him.
"Make me fly!" he bade her, and she looked at him curiously.
"Give me flight!" he screamed. "You've done it before!"
"Flight?"
"Do it!"
Bellany rubbed her hands together and tried to focus, tried to remember the words as the insanity around her only multiplied. She reached out and touched Morik on the shoulder and the man leaped up to the rail and out from the ship.
He didn't fall into the water, though, but flew out across the bay. He scanned, trying to figure out where he was most needed, then cut across for the downed vessel herself, fearing that some of the crew might be trapped aboard her.
Then he crossed over a form in the water, just under the surface but sinking fast, and willed himself to stop. He slapped his hand down, plunging it through the waves, and grabbed hard on the fine fabric of a wizard's robes.
"Ah, the glorious pain," Kensidan taunted. Deudermont again tried to pull himself up and the Crow pecked him hard on the forehead, slamming him back to the floor.
The room's door banged open. "No!" cried a voice familiar to both men. "Let him go!"
"Are you mad, young pirate?" the Crow cackled as he turned to regard Maimun. He spun back and slammed Deudermont hard again, smashing him flat to the floor.
Maimun responded with a sudden and brutal charge, flashing sword leading the way. Kensidan beat his wings and tried to extricate himself from the close quarters, but Maimun's fury was too great and his advantage too sudden and complete. The wings battered around the perimeter of the fight, but Maimun's sword cut a narrower and more direct line.
In the span of a few heartbeats, Maimun had Kensidan pinned at the end of his blade, and when Kensidan tried to turn the sword with his beak, Maimun got the blade inside the Crow's mouth.
Given that awkward and devastating clutch, Kensidan could offer no further resistance.
Maimun, breathing hard, clearly outraged, held the pose and the pin for a long breath. "I give you your life," he said finally, easing the blade just a bit. "You have the city - there will be no challenge. I will go, and I'm taking Captain Deudermont with me."
Kensidan looked over at the battered and bloody form of Deudermont and started to cackle, but Maimun stopped that with a prod of his well-placed blade.
"You will allow us clear passage to our ships, and for our ships out of Luskan Harbor."
"He is already dead, fool, or soon enough to be!" the Crow argued, slurring every word, as he spouted them around the hard steel of a fine blade.
The words nearly buckled Maimun's knees. His thoughts swirled back in time to his first meeting with the captain. He had stowed away onSea Sprite, fleeing a demon intent on his destruction. Deudermont had allowed him to stay. Sea Sprite's crew, generous to a fault, had not abandoned him when they'd learned the truth of his ordeal, even when they discerned that having Maimun aboard made them targets of the powerful demon and its many deadly allies.
Captain Deudermont had saved young Maimun, without a doubt, and had taken him under his wing and trained him in the ways of the sea.
And Maimun had betrayed him. Though he had never expected it to come to so tragic an end, the young pirate captain could not deny the truth. Paid by Kensidan, Maimun had sailed Arabeth to Quelch's Folly. Maimun had played a role in the catastrophe that had befallen Luskan, and in the catastrophe that had lain Captain Deudermont low before him.
Maimun turned back sharply on Kensidan and pressed the sword in tighter. "I will have your word, Crow, that I will be allowed free passage, with Deudermont and Sea Sprite beside me."
Kensidan stared at him hatefully with those black crow eyes. "Do you understand who I am now, young pirate?" he replied slowly, and as evenly as the prodding blade allowed. "Luskan is mine. I am the Pirate King."
"And you're to be the dead Pirate King if I don't get your word!" Maimun assured him.
But even as Maimun spoke, Kensidan all but disappeared beneath him, almost instantly reverting to the form of a small crow. He rushed out from under the overbalanced Maimun and with a flap of his wings, fluttered up to light on the windowsill across the room.
Maimun wrung his hands on his sword hilt, grimacing in frustration as he turned to regard the Crow, expecting that his world had just ended.
"You have my word," Kensidan said, surprising him.
"I have nothing with which to barter," Maimun stated.
The Crow shrugged, a curious movement from the bird, but one that conveyed the precise sentiment clearly enough. "I owe Maimun ofThrice Lucky that much, at least," said Kensidan. "So we will forget this incident, eh?"
Maimun could only stare at the bird.
"And I look forward to seeing your sails in my harbor again," Kensidan finished, and he flew away out the window.
Maimun stood there stunned for a few moments then rushed to Deudermont, falling to his knees beside the broken man.
His first attacks after seeing Regis fall were measured, his first defenses almost half-hearted. Drizzt could hardly find his focus, with his friend lying there in the gutter, could hardly muster the energy necessary to stand his ground against the dwarf warrior.
Perhaps sensing that very thing, or perhaps thinking it all a ploy, Athrogate didn't press in those first few moments of rejoined battle, measuring his own strikes to gain strategic advantage rather than going for the sudden kill.
His mistake.
For Drizzt internalized the shock and the pain, and as he always had before, took it and turned the tumult into a narrowly-focused burst of outrage. His scimitars picked up their pace, the strength of his strikes increasing proportionately. He began to work Athrogate as he had before the fall of Regis, moving side to side and forcing the dwarf to keep up.
But the dwarf did match his pace, fighting Drizzt to a solid draw strike after thrust after slash.
And what a glorious draw it was to any who might have chanced to look on. The combatants spun with abandon, scimitars and morningstars humming through the air. Athrogate hit a wall again, the spiked ball smashing the wood to splinters. He hit the cobblestones before the backward-leaping drow and crushed them to dust.
And there Drizzt scored his second hit, Twinkle nicking Athrogate's cheek and taking away one of his great beard's braids.
"Ah, but ye'll pay for that, elf!" the dwarf roared, and on he came.
To the side, Regis groaned.
He was alive.
He needed help.
Drizzt turned away from Athrogate and fled across the alleyway, the dwarf in close pursuit. The drow leaped to the wall, throwing his shoulders back and planting one foot solidly as if he meant to run right up the side of the structure.
Or, to Athrogate's discerning and seasoned battle sensibilities, to flip a backward somersault right over him.
The dwarf pulled up short and whirled, shouting "Bwaha! I'm knowin' that move!"
But Drizzt didn't fly over him and come down in front of him, and the drow, who had not used his planted foot to push off, and who had not brought his second foot up to further climb, replied, "I know you know."
From behind the turned dwarf, down the alley, Guenhwyvar roared, like an exclamation point to Drizzt's victory.
For indeed the win was his; he could only pray that Regis was not beyond his help. Icingdeath slashed down at Athrogate's defenseless head, surely a blow that would split the dwarf's head apart. He took little satisfaction in that win as his blade connected against Athrogate's skull, as he felt the transfer of deadly energy.
But the dwarf didn't seem to even feel it, no blood erupted, and Drizzt's blade didn't bounce aside.
Drizzt had felt that curious sensation before, as if he had landed a blow without consequence.
Still, he didn't sort it out quickly enough, didn't understand the source.
Athrogate spun, morningstars flying desperately. One barely clipped Drizzt's blade, but in that slightest of touches, a great surge of energy exploded out of the dwarf and hurled Drizzt back against the wall with such force that his blades flew from his hands.
Athrogate closed, weapons flying with fury.
Drizzt had no defense. Out of the corner of one eye, he noted the rise of a spiked metal ball, glistening with explosive liquid.
It rushed at his head, the last thing he saw.