“He made his choices.”

“As did you, as did I, and as did Drizzt. I understand your pain—Drizzt Do’Urden was my friend, as well—but does your anger at Captain Deudermont do anything to alleviate it?”

Regis started to answer, started to protest, but stopped and fell back on his bed. What was the point?

Of anything?

He thought of Mithral Hall and felt that it was past time for him to go home.

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.