Jherek brought the horses to the front of the wagon Sonshal had let them have as well. His hands worked quickly, buckling the traces into place. Khlinat continued rolling barrels of smoke powder into the wagon.
"You're going to blow yourself up is what you're going to do," Sonshal said, but helped the dwarf with the barrels. "That stuffs damned unstable if you don't treat it right."
"It's got me respect," Khlinat said dourly. "If I could think of some other way to handle this, I would. I'm only praying this works."
Finished with the horses, Jherek vaulted over the wagon's side and shoved the fifty-pound barrels up behind the seat. He handled them gingerly. Only three years ago in Velen, a local farmer had used smoke powder to clear stumps from some land he wanted to plow. Even Malorrie had been impressed by the carnage only a little of the smoke powder had done.
Khlinat shoved the last barrel into place.
"That's all of it," Sonshal said, twisting his mustache with one hand.
"Then I'll be off," Khlinat said, "and thank ye for yer kind donations." He offered his arm..
Sonshal took the arm, then shook his head. "Mighty Tempus watch over a thrice-blasted village idiot in the making, I can't let you go it alone, dwarf. If you've an extra seat, I'll be glad to accompany you. I may know more about fuse-cutting than you do."
Khlinat smiled broadly. "Aye, friend Sonshal, as long as ye keep in mind that one way or another, this is apt to be a oneway trip."
"I'll likely not forget." Sonshal took up a roll of fuse and a torch from the nearby stores.
Khlinat moved to the wagon's seat and grabbed the reins. "Have a ready hand there, swabbie," he said to Jherek. "Them sea devils see us coming, they ain't going to be very friendly about it. We start acting brave, they've to start asking themselves why."
Nervous about what the dwarf planned to do, Jherek sat on the bench seat beside him. Ever since he'd left Velen, his life had been turned constantly topsy-turvy, with certain death in every corner. The fear numbed him a little as he reflected on how he seemed to get caught up in the events spreading around Faerun. All he could guess was that it was the ill luck of his birthright. He kept the sword and the hook naked in his hands.
The warehouse doors were open, revealing the confusion roiling out in the street as more mercenaries arrived and had to fight their way through the fearful crowds fleeing their homes. Lightning speared the sky, but there wasn't a storm cloud to be seen.
"These barrels get wet," Sonshal called out as he clambered into the back and sat, "all we're going to be doing is riding to our deaths. They get hit by that damned lightning those wizards are throwing around, and we'll go even quicker."
"I hear ye." Khlinat laid the reins across the backs of the horses in a practiced snap. The team hit the end of their traces at once, starting the wagon off quickly.
Sonshal cursed, warning about the barrels.
"Gangway!" Khlinat called at the top of his voice. The horses' hooves struck sparks from the cobblestones and the thunder of their passage cannonaded between the tall buildings on either side of Bindle Street. "Wild horses! Clear the street!"
People dived to the sides of the street, some of them just ahead of being trampled. Khlinat handled the horses expertly, slapping the reins and urging them to greater speed. The ironbound wheels whirred against the cobblestones.
Jherek braced himself, holding fast to his weapons and praying to Ilmater that their headlong rush hurt no one, and that they arrived in time to save something of Baldur's Gate.
Pacys's fingers twitched for the strings of the yarting. The music crescendoed in the old bard's head. He mapped the words and the rhythms, finding maddening pieces and partials of the lyrics that formed the song. The oppression and the sound of the battle didn't daunt his spirits or send fear into him at all. He felt more alive than he had in decades. His soul thirsted for the knowledge and the answers that he was certain lurked around the next comer.
He held his staff in both hands as he ran through the crowd in the street. He felt their pain of loss, their uncertainty of fear, and he worked it into the lyrics running through his mind as surely and skillfully as a silversmith working an intricate inlay assignation.
The music changed pitch, becoming the champion's song again when he heard the rough voice farther down the street.
"Clear the damned street, ye deaf lummoxes!"
The sea of people and mercenaries before Pacys parted. The music paralyzed him, stronger than he'd ever heard it before. He spotted the dwarf over the horses' laid-back ears as they pulled the wagon. Then his eyes rested on the young man beside the diminutive teamster.
Pacys knew he'd never seen the young man before in his life, but he felt he knew him with greater certainty than he'd experienced at any time in his long life. This was the one Narros had spoken of, the one who would challenge the Taker that brought death and destruction from the sea.
"Get out of the way, old man!" the dwarf roared, slapping the rumps of the horses yet again.
Getting his wits back about him, Pacys dived to the side, rolling to get more distance. The wagon thundered past him, and he memorized the cadence of the ironbound wheels across the cobblestones, figuring out how he could bring that sound to life with his fingertips against the yarting's bowl while strumming the strings with his thumb.
The wagon took the next corner and drove toward the harbor.
Pacys pushed himself up, watching as the wagon disappeared. Without a second thought, he pursued, running as fast as he could. When he turned the corner, he came face-to-face with the first of the sahuagin who'd battled their way farther into the city.
The bunyip roared out in the harbor as the lead sahuagin ripped trident tines toward Pacys's face.
Laaqueel followed Iakhovas through the darkness, the sounds of the battle out in the harbor far behind them now. She'd lost track of how many twists and turns they'd taken, how many other passageways they'd passed by, how many corpses they'd climbed over. She hated the enclosed atmosphere of the tunnels, especially the way she had to remain partially slumped over now that they'd wended their way more deeply into the undercity.
"Hold up," he ordered.
She froze in place, a prayer to Sekolah on her lips as she held ready the gifts the Shark God had given her as his priestess.
The globe floating behind Iakhovas's left shoulder pushed a dim jade glow across the distance, becoming brighter. At first Laaqueel didn't see the big man at the other end of the tunnel, then the glow crept over him.
He was tall and big-bellied, possibly the most massive surface dweller Laaqueel had ever seen. He looked even more so because of the way he was hunched over in the tunnel. Unruly red hair sprouted out from the sides of his head but nothing grew on top. He kept his beard shaved from his cheeks and upper lip, but it grew long and thick from his chin, hanging midway down his chest. He wore a dark red cloak over a sleeveless leather vest, high-topped boots and dark brown breeches.
"Lord Iakhovas," the big man rumbled.
"Captain Vurgrom," Iakhovas greeted, moving closer. Laaqueel was aware of the shimmer that took place around Iakhovas and guessed that he was altering his image again to fit the other man's perceptions.
"Quite a party you're throwing up above," Vurgrom said.
Laaqueel studied the man further, taking in the gruff manner and the tattoos that decorated his thick, beefy forearms. She knew from the cut of his clothing and the boots that he was a seafarer, and she guessed from his presence in the hidden tunnels that he wasn't there for good reason. He reminded her a lot of the other pirates Iakhovas had recruited for the attack on Baldur's Gate.