Kurth felt a bit more perplexed and defensive, and a lot less intrigued.
“These events were not their doing, but they watch closely, and advise me and my father, as they have visited you,” said Kensidan, hoping that naming Rethnor almost as an afterthought had slipped past the perceptive Kurth. The man’s arched eyebrow showed that it had not, however, and Kensidan silently berated himself and promised that he would do better in the future. Ship Rethnor wasn’t yet officially his. Not officially.
“So you hear voices in the shadows, and these bring you confidence,” Kurth said. He held up his hand as Kensidan tried to interrupt and continued, “Then we’re back at the initial square of the board, are we not? How do you know your friends in the shadows aren’t agents of Arklem Greeth? Perhaps the cunning lich has decided it’s time to test the loyalties of his high captains. Are you too young to see the dangerous possibilities? And wouldn’t that make you the biggest fool of all?”
Kensidan held up his open palm and finally managed to silence the man. He slowly reached under his strange black cloak and produced a small glass item, a bottle, and within it stood the tiny figure of a tiny man.
No, not a figure, Kurth realized. His eyes widened as the poor soul trapped within shifted about.
Kensidan motioned to the hearth. “May I?”
Kurth responded with a puzzled expression, which Kensidan took as permission. He flung the bottle into the hearth, where it smashed against the back bricks.
The tiny man enlarged, bouncing around the low-burning logs before catching his bearings and his balance enough to roll back out, taking ash and one burning log with him.
“By the Nine Hells!” the man protested, batting at his smoldering gray cloak. Blood dripped from several wounds on his hands and face and he reached up and pulled a small shard of glass out of his cheek. “Don’t ever do that to me again!” he cried, still flustered and waving his arms. It seemed then as if he had at last caught his bearings, and only then he realized where he was and who was seated before him. The blood drained from his face.
“Are you settled?” Kensidan asked.
The thoroughly flustered little man toed the log beside him and brushed it back into the fireplace, but didn’t otherwise respond.
“High Captain Kurth, I give you Morik,” Kensidan explained. “Morik the Rogue, to those who know him enough to care. His lady is a mage in the Hosttower—perhaps that is why he’s found a place in all this.”
Morik looked anxiously from man to man, dipping many short bows.
Kensidan drew Kurth’s gaze with his own. “Our visitors are not agents of Arklem Greeth,” he said, before turning to the pathetic little man and motioning for him to begin. “Tell my friend your story, Morik the Rogue,” Kensidan bade him. “Tell him of your visitors those years ago. Tell him of the dark friends of Wulfgar of Icewind Dale.”
“I told ye they wouldn’t get across without a row,” Baram insisted to his fellow high captains, Taerl and Suljack. The three stood atop the southwest tower of High Captain Taerl’s fortress, looking directly west to the bridge to Kurth’s Closeguard Island and the great open square south of Illusk where Deudermont and Lord Brambleberry had gathered their mighty army.
“They will,” Suljack replied. “Kensi—Rethnor said they will, and so they will.”
“That Crow boy is trouble,” said Baram. “He’ll bring down Rethnor’s great Ship before the old man passes on.”
“The gates will open,” Suljack replied, but very quietly. “Kurth can’t refuse. Not this many, not with almost all of Luskan knocking.”
“Hard to be denyin’ that number,” Taerl said. “Most o’ the city’s walking with Deudermont.”
“Kurth won’t go against Arklem Greeth—he’s more sense than that,” Baram replied. “Deudermont’s fools’ll be swimming or sailing if they want to get to the Hosttower.”
Even as Baram spoke, some of High Captain Kurth’s sentries rushed up to the bridge and began throwing the locks. To Baram’s utter shock, and to Taerl’s as well, despite his words, the gates of the Kurth Tower compound pulled open and Kurth’s guards stepped back, offering passage.
“A trick!” Baram protested, leaping to his feet. “She’s got to be a trick! Arklem Greeth’s bidding them on that he can destroy them.”
“He’ll have to kill half the city, then,” Suljack said.
Deudermont’s banner led the way across the small bridge with more than five thousand in his wake. Out in the harbor beyond Cutlass Island, sails appeared and anchors climbed from the water. The fleet began to creep in, boulders and pitch leading the way.
The noose tightened.
CHAPTER 16
ACCEPTABLE LOSSES
V alindra Shadowmantle’s green eyes opened wide as she noted the approaching mob. She turned to rush to Arklem Greeth’s chambers, but found the lich standing behind her, wearing a wicked grin.
“They come,” Valindra gasped. “All of them.”
Arklem Greeth shrugged as if he was hardly concerned. Gripped by her fear, the archmage’s casual reaction served only to anger Valindra.
“You have underestimated our enemies at every turn!” she screamed, and several lesser wizards nearby sucked in their breath and turned away, pretending not to have heard.
Arklem Greeth laughed at her.
“You find this amusing?” she replied.
“I find it…predictable,” Greeth answered. “Sadly so, but alas, the cards were played long ago. A Waterdhavian lord and the hero of the Sword Coast, the hero of Luskan, aligned against us. People are so fickle and easy to sway; it’s no wonder that they rally to the empty platitudes of an idiot like Captain Deudermont.”
“Because you raised the undead against them,” Valindra accused.
The lich laughed again. “Our options were limited from the beginning. The high captains, cowards all, did little to hold back the mounting tide of invasion. I feared we could never depend upon those fools, those thieves, but again alas, you accept what you have and make the best of it.”
Valindra stared at her master, wondering if he’d lost his mind. “The whole of the city is rallied against us,” she cried. “Thousands! They gather on Closeguard, and will fight their way across.”
“We have good wizards guarding our bridge.”
“And they have powerful spellcasters among their ranks, as well,” said Valindra. “If Deudermont wanted, he could send the least of his warriors against us, and our wizards would expend their energies long before he ran out of fodder.”
“It will be amusing to watch,” Arklem Greeth said, grinning all the wider.
“You have gone mad,” Valindra stated, and beyond Arklem Greeth several lesser wizards shuffled nervously as they went about their assigned tasks, or at least, feigned going about them.
“Valindra, my friend,” Greeth said, and he took her by the arm and walked her deeper into the structure of the Hosttower, away from the disquieting sights in the east. “If you play this correctly, you will find great entertainment, a fine practice experience, and little loss,” the archmage arcane explained when they were alone. “Deudermont wants my head, not yours.”
“The traitor Arabeth is with him, and she is no ally of mine.”
The lich waved the notion away. “A minor inconvenience and nothing more. Let them lay the blame fully upon Arklem Greeth—I welcome the prestige of such notoriety.”
“You seem to care little about anything at the moment, Archmage,” the overwizard replied. “The Hosttower itself is in dire peril.”
“It will fall to utter ruin,” Arklem Greeth predicted with continuing calm.
Valindra held out her hands and stuttered repeatedly, unable to fashion a response.