“Should we just draw sides now and be done with it?”

“No,” Kensidan answered with a tone of finality that stopped Kurth cold. “No, none of us are served in this fight. In the aftermath, likely, but not in the fight. If you throw in with Greeth against Deudermont, and with the implication that you would then use a successful Arklem Greeth against Ship Rethnor, then I…then my father would need to throw in with Deudermont to prevent such an outcome. Suljack will follow our lead. Baram and Taerl would find themselves isolated if they followed yours, you being out here on Closeguard, don’t you think? Neither of them would stand against Brambleberry and Deudermont for a few days, and how much help would the wretch Arklem Greeth send them, after all?”

Kurth laughed. “You have it all charted, it seems.”

“I see the potential for gain. I hedge against the potential for loss. My father raised no fool.”

“Yet you are here, alone.”

“And my father didn’t send me out this day without an understanding of High Captain Kurth, a man he respects above all others in Luskan.”

“More flattery.”

“Deserved, I’m told. Was I misinformed?”

“Go home, young fool,” Kurth said with a wave of his hand, and Kensidan was more than happy to oblige.

You heard that? Kensidan asked the voice in his head as soon as he had exited the high captain’s palace, making his way with all speed to the bridge, where his men waited.

Of course.

The assault on the Hosttower will be much more difficult by sea.

High Captain Kurth will allow passage, the voice assured him.

CHAPTER 13

THE NOOSE AND THE DEAD MEN

H elp me! They want to kill me!” the man cried.

He ran to the base of the stone tower, where he began pounding on the ironbound wooden door. Though he wore no robes, the nondescript fellow was known to be a wizard.

“Out of spells and tricks, then?” one of the sentries called down. Beside the sentry, his companion chuckled then elbowed him and nodded for him to look out across the square to the approaching warrior.

“Wouldn’t want to be this one,” the second sentry said.

The first looked down at the desperate wizard. “Threw a few bolts at that one, did you? I’m thinking I’d rather punch my fist through a wasp nest.”

“Let me in, you fools!” the wizard yelled up. “He’ll kill me.”

“We’re not doubting that.”

“He is a drow!” the wizard yelled. “Can you not see that? You would side with a dark elf against one of your own race?”

“Aye, a drow by the name of Drizzt Do’Urden,” the second sentry shouted back. “And he’s working for Captain Deudermont. You wouldn’t expect us to go against the master of Sea Sprite, would you?”

The wizard started to protest, but stopped as reality settled in. The guards weren’t going to help him. He rolled his back to the door so he could face the approaching drow. Drizzt came across the square, weapons in hand, his expression emotionless.

“Well met, Drizzt Do’Urden,” one of the sentries called down as the drow stopped a few steps from the whimpering wizard. “If you’re thinking to kill him, then let us turn away so that we can’t bear witness against you.” The other sentry laughed.

“You are caught, fairly and fully,” Drizzt said to the frantic man. “Do you accept that?”

“You have no right!”

“I have my blades, you have no spells remaining. Need I ask you again?”

Perhaps it was the deathly calm of Drizzt’s tone, or the laughter of the amused sentries, but the wizard found a moment of strength then, and straightened against the door, squaring his shoulders to his adversary. “I am an overwizard of the Hosttower of…”

“I know who you are, Blaskar Lauthlon,” Drizzt replied. “And I witnessed your work. There are dead men back there, by your hand.”

“They attacked my position! My companions are dead…”

“You were offered quarter.”

“I was bade to surrender, and to one who has no authority.”

“Few in Luskan would agree with that, I fear.”

“Few in Luskan would suffer a drow to live!”

Drizzt chuckled at that. “And yet, here I am.”

“Be gone from this place at once!” Blaskar yelled. “Or feel the sting of Arklem Greeth!”

“I ask only one more time,” said Drizzt. “Do you yield?”

Blaskar straightened his shoulders again. He knew his fate, should he surrender.

He spat at Drizzt’s feet—feet that moved too quickly to be caught by the spittle, slipping back a step then rushing forward with blinding speed. Blaskar shrieked as the drow’s blades came up and closed on him. Above, the guards also cried out in surprise, though their yelps seemed more full of glee than fear.

Drizzt’s scimitars hummed in a cross, then a second, one blade stabbing left past Blaskar’s head to prod the door, the other cutting the air just above the man’s brown hair. The flurry went on for many moments, scimitars spinning, Drizzt spinning, blades slashing at every conceivable angle.

Blaskar yelled a couple of times. He tried to cover up, but really had no way to avoid any of the drow’s stunningly swift, sure movements. When the barrage ended, the wizard stood in a slight crouch, arms tight against him and afraid to move, as if expecting that pieces of his extremities would simply fall away.

But he hadn’t been touched.

“What?” he said, before realizing that the show had been merely to put Drizzt into just the right position.

The drow, much closer to Blaskar than when the flurry began, punched out, and the pommel of Icingdeath smashed hard into the overwizard’s face, slamming him up against the door.

He held his balance for just a moment, shooting an accusatory look and pointing a finger at Drizzt before crumbling to the ground.

“Bet that hurt,” said one of the sentries from above.

Drizzt looked up to see that four men, not two, stared down at him, admiring his handiwork.

“I thought you’d cut him to bits,” said one, and the others laughed.

“Captain Deudermont will arrive here soon,” Drizzt replied. “I expect you will open the door for him.”

The sentries all nodded. “Only four of us here,” one mentioned, and Drizzt looked at him curiously.

“Most aren’t at their posts,” another explained. “They’re watching over their families as the battles draw near.”

“We got no orders to join in for either side,” said the third.

“Nor to stay out,” the last added.

“Captain Deudermont fights for justice, for all of Luskan,” Drizzt said to them. “But I understand that your choice, should you make it, will be based on pragmatism.”

“Meaning?” asked the first.

“Meaning that you have no desire to be on the side that loses,” Drizzt said with a grin.

“Can’t argue that.”

“And I cannot blame you for it,” said the drow. “But Deudermont will prevail, don’t doubt. Too long has the Hosttower cast a dark shadow over Luskan. It was meant to be a shining addition to the beauty of the city, but under the control of the lich Greeth, it has become a tombstone. Join with us, and we’ll take the fight to Greeth’s door—and through it.”

“Do it fast, then,” said one of the men, and he motioned out toward the wider city, where fires burned and smoke clouded nearly every street, “before there’s nothing left to win.”

A woman ran screaming out onto the square, flames biting at her hair and clothing. She tried to drop and roll, but merely dropped and squirmed as the fire consumed her.

More screams emanated from the house she’d run from, and flashes of lightning left thundering reports. An upper story window shattered and a man came flying out, waving his arms wildly all the way to the hard ground. He pulled himself up, or tried to, but fell over, grasping at a torn knee and a broken leg.

A wizard appeared at the window from which the man had fallen, and pointed a slender wand down at him, sneering with wicked glee.