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.”

Arklem Greeth turned to the magical darkness. “I’m grateful,” he said, and sincerely.

“You will have many years to repay us,” said the voice, and it melted away as the darkness dissipated.

Arklem Greeth went to his beloved Valindra, and when she didn’t respond to him, he sat and draped an arm around her.

His thoughts, though, sailed out to sea.

“It has not been a good winter,” Deudermont admitted to Drizzt and Regis in the palace that day. “Too many dead men, too many shattered families.”