The Pirate King

ASCENSION AND SALVATION



You 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.



He waved to the crowd and moved back into his room, followed by the frenzied cheers of desperate folk.



"It's worth a thousand gold if it's worth a plug copper," Queaser argued, shaking the figurine in front of the unimpressed expression of Rodrick Fenn, the most famous pawnbroker in Luskan. Languishing beside the many others who dealt with the minor rogues and pirates of the city, Rodrick had only recently come into prominence, mostly because of the vast array of exotic goods he'd somehow managed to wrangle. A large bounty had been offered for information regarding Rodrick's new source.



"I'll give ye three gold, and ye'll be glad to get it," Rodrick said.



Queaser and Skerrit exchanged sour looks, both shaking their heads.



"You should pay him to take it from you," said another in the store, who seemed an unassuming enough patron. In fact, he had been invited by Rodrick for just such a transaction, since Skerrit had tipped off Rodrick the night before regarding the onyx figurine.



"What d'ye know of it?" Skerrit demanded.



"I know that it was Drizzt Do'Urden's," Morik the Rogue replied. "I know that you hold a drow item, and one the dark elves will want returned. I wouldn't wish to be the person caught with it, to be sure."



Queaser and Skerrit looked at each other again, then Queaser scoffed and waved a hand dismissively at the rogue.



"Think, you fools," said Morik. "Consider who - what - ran beside Drizzt into that last battle." Morik gave a little laugh. "You've managed to place yourself between legions of drow and Captain Deudermont...oh, and King Bruenor of Mithral Hall, as well, who will no doubt seek that figurine out. Congratulations are in order." He ended his sarcastic stream with a mocking laugh, and made his way toward the door.



"Twenty pieces of gold, and be glad for it," Rodrick said. "And I'll be turning it over to Deudermont, don't you doubt, and hoping he'll repay me - and if I'm in a good mood, I might tell him that the two of you came to me so that I could give it back to him."



Queaser looked as if he was trying to say something, but no words came out.



"Or I'll just go to Deudermont and make his search a bit easier, and you'll be glad that I sent him and that I had no way to tell any dark elves instead."



"Ye're bluffing," Skerrit insisted.



"Call it, then," Rodrick said with a wry grin.



Skerrit turned to Queaser, but the suddenly pale man was already handing the figurine over.



The two left quickly, passing Morik, who was outside leaning against the wall beside the door.



"You chose well," the rogue assured them.



Skerrit got in his face. "Shut yer mouth, and if ye're ever for telling anyone other than what Rodrick's telling them, then know we're to find ye first and do ye under."



Morik shrugged, an exaggerated movement that perfectly covered the slide of his hand. He went back into Rodrick's shop as the two hustled away.



"I'll be wanting my gold back," Rodrick greeted him, but the smiling Morik was already tossing the pouch the pawnbroker's way. Morik walked over to the counter and Rodrick handed him the statue.



"Worth more than a thousand," Rodrick muttered as Morik took it.



"If it keeps the bosses happy, it's worth our very lives," the rogue replied, and he tipped his hat and departed.



"Governor," Baram spat with disgust. "They're wanting him to be governor, and he's to take the call, by all accounts."



"And well he should," Kensidan replied.



"And this don't bother ye?" Baram asked. "Ye said we'd be finding power when Greeth was gone, and now Greeth's gone and all I'm finding are widows and brats needing food. I'll be emptying half of me coffers to keep the folk of Ship Baram in line."



"Consider it the best investment of your life," High Captain Kurth answered before Kensidan could. "No Ship lost more than my own."



"I lost most of me guards," Taerl put in. "Ye lost a hundred common folk and a score of houses, but I lost fighters. How many of yers marched alongside Deudermont?"



His bluster couldn't hold, though, as Kurth fixed him with a perfectly vicious glare.



"Deudermont's ascension was predictable and desirable," Kensidan said to them all to get the meeting of the five back on track. "We survived the war. Our Ships remain intact, though battered, as Luskan herself is battered. That will mend, and this time, we will not have the smothering strength of the Hosttower holding us in check at every turn. Be at ease, my friends, for this has gone splendidly. True, we could not fully anticipate the devastation Greeth wrought, and true, we have many more dead than we expected, but the war was mercifully short and favorably concluded. We could not ask for a better stooge than Captain Deudermont to serve as the new puppet governor of Luskan."



"Don't underestimate him," Kurth warned. "He is a hero to the people, even to those fighters who serve in our ranks."



"Then we must make sure that the next few tendays shine a different light upon him," said Kensidan. As he finished, he looked at his closest ally, Suljack, and saw the man frowning and shaking his head. Kensidan wasn't quite sure what that might mean, for in truth, Suljack had lost the most soldiers in the battle, with nearly all of his Ship marching beside Deudermont and a good many of them killed at the Hosttower.



"Well enough to get out of bed, I would say," a voice accosted Regis. He lay in his bed, half asleep, feeling perfectly miserable both emotionally and physically. He could deal with his wounds a lot easier than with the loss of Drizzt. How was he going to go back to Mithral Hall and face Bruenor? And Catti-brie!



"I feel better," he lied.



"Then do sit up, little one," the voice replied, and that gave Regis pause, for he didn't recognize the speaker and saw no one when he looked around the room.



He sat up quickly then, and immediately focused on a darkened corner of the room.



Magically darkened, he knew.



"Who are you?" he asked.



"An old friend."



Regis shook his head.



"Fare well on your journey...." the voice said and the last notes of the sentence faded away to nothingness, taking the magical darkness with it.



Leaving a revelation that had Regis gawking with surprise and trepidation.



He knew that he was nearing the end, and that there was no way out. Guenhwyvar, too, would perish, and Drizzt could only pray that her death on that alien plane, removed from the figurine, wouldn't be permanent, that she would, as she had on the Prime Material Plane, simply revert to her Astral home.



The drow cursed himself for leaving the statuette behind.



And he fought, not for himself, for he knew that he was doomed, but for Guenhwyvar, his beloved friend. Perhaps she would find her way home through sheer exhaustion, as long as he could keep her alive long enough.



He didn't know how many hours, days, had passed. He had found bitter nourishment in giant mushrooms and in the flesh of some of the strange beasts that had come against him, but both had left him sickly and weak.



He knew he was nearing the end, but the fighting was not.



He faced a six-armed monstrosity, every lumbering swing from its thick arms heavy enough to decapitate him. Drizzt was too quick for those swipes, of course, and had he been less weary, his foe would have been an easy kill. But the drow could hardly hold his scimitars aloft, and his focus kept slipping. Several times, he managed to duck away just in time to avoid a heavy punch.



"Come on, Guen," he whispered under his breath, having set the fiendish beast up for a sidelong strike from the panther's position on a rocky outcropping to the right. Drizzt heard a growl, and grinned, expecting Guenhwyvar to fly in for the kill.



But Drizzt got hit, and hard, instead, a flying tackle that flung him away from the beast and left him rolling in a tangle with another powerful creature.



He didn't understand - it was all he could do to hold onto his scimitars, let alone try to bring them to bear.



But then the muddy ground beneath him became more solid, and a stinging light blinded him, and though his eyes could not adjust to see anything, he realized from another familiar growl that it was Guenhwyvar who had tackled him.



He heard a friendly voice, a welcomed voice, a cry of glee.



He got hit with another flying tackle almost as soon as he'd extricated himself from the jumble with Guen.



"How?" he asked Regis.



"I don't know and I don't care!" the halfling responded, hugging Drizzt all the tighter.



"Kurth is right," High Captain Rethnor warned his son. "Underestimate Captain Deudermont...Governor Deudermont, at our peril. He is a man of actions, not words. You were never at sea, and so you don't understand the horror that filled men's eyes when the sails of Sea Sprite were spotted."



"I have heard the tales, but this is not the sea," Kensidan replied.



"You have it all figured out," Rethnor said, his mocking tone unmistakable.



"I remain agile in my ability to adapt to whatever comes our way."



"But for now?"



"For now, I allow Kurth to run rampant on Closeguard and Cutlass, and even in the market area. He and I will dominate the streets easily enough, with Suljack playing my fool."



"Deudermont may disband Prisoner's Carnival, but he will raise a strong militia to enforce the laws."



"His laws," Kensidan replied, "not Luskan's."



"They are one and the same now."



"No, not yet, and not ever if we properly pressure the streets," said Kensidan. "Turmoil is Deudermont's enemy, and lack of order will eventually turn the people against him. If he pushes too hard, he will find all of Luskan against him, as Arklem Greeth realized."



"It's a fight you want?" Rethnor said after a contemplative pause.



"It's a fight I insist upon," his conniving son answered. "For now, Deudermont makes a fine target for the anger of others, while Ship Kurth and Ship Rethnor rule the streets. When the breaking point is reached, a second war will erupt in Luskan, and when it's done..."



"A free port," said Rethnor. "A sanctuary for...merchant ships."



"With ready trade in exotic goods that will find their way to the homes of Waterdhavian lords and to the shops of Baldur's Gate," said Kensidan. "That alone will keep Waterdeep from organizing an invasion of the new Luskan, for the self-serving bastard nobles will not threaten their own playthings. We'll have our port, our city, and all pretense of law and subservience to the lords of Waterdeep be damned."



"Lofty goals," said Rethnor.



"My father, I only seek to make you proud," Kensidan said with such obvious sarcasm that old Rethnor could only laugh, and heartily.



"I'm not easy with this disembodied voice arriving in the darkness," Deudermont said. "But pleased I am, beyond anything, to see you alive and well."



"Well is a relative term," the drow replied. "But I'm recovering - though if you ever happen to travel to the plane of my imprisonment, take care to avoid the mushrooms."



Deudermont and Robillard laughed at that, as did Regis, who was standing at Drizzt's side, both of them carrying their packs for the road.



"I have acquaintances on Luskan's streets," Drizzt reasoned. "Some not even of my knowing, but friends of a friend."



"Wulfgar," said Deudermont. "Perhaps it was that Morik character he ran beside - though he's not supposed to be in Luskan, on pain of death."



Drizzt shrugged. "Whatever good fortune brought Guenhwyvar's statue to Regis, it's good fortune I will accept."



"True enough," said the captain. "And now you are bound for Icewind Dale. Are you sure that you cannot stay the winter, for I've much to do, and your help would serve me well."



"If we hurry, we can beat the snows to Ten-Towns," said Drizzt.



"And you will return to Luskan in the spring?"



"We would be sorry friends indeed if we didn't," Regis answered.



"We will return," Drizzt promised.



With handshakes and bows, the pair left Sea Sprite, which served as the governor's palace until the devastation in the city could be sorted out and a new location, formerly the Red Dragon Inn on the northern bank of the Mirar, could be properly secured and readied.



The enormity of the rebuilding task ahead of Luskan was not lost on Drizzt and Regis as they walked through the city's streets. Much of the place had been gutted by flames and so many had died, leaving one empty structure after another. Many of the larger homes and taverns had been confiscated by order of Governor Deudermont and set up as hospitals for the many, many wounded, or as often as not as morgues to hold the bodies until they could be properly identified and buried.



"The Luskar will do little through the winter, other than to try to find food and warmth," Regis remarked as they passed a group of haggard women huddled in a doorway.



"It will be a long road," Drizzt agreed.



"Was it worth the cost?" the halfling asked.



"We can't yet know."



"A lot of folk would disagree with you on that," Regis remarked, nodding in the direction of the new graveyard north of the city.



"Arklem Greeth was intolerable," Drizzt reminded his friend. "If the city can withstand the next few months, a year perhaps, with the rebuilding in the summer, then Deudermont will do well by them, do not doubt. He will call in every favor from every Waterdhavian lord, and goods and supplies will flow fast to Luskan."



"Will it be enough, though?" Regis asked. "With so many of the healthy adults dead, how many of their families will even stay?"



Drizzt shrugged helplessly.



"Perhaps we should stay and help through the winter," said Regis, but Drizzt was shaking his head.



"Not everyone in Luskan accepts me, Deudermont's friend or not," the drow replied. "We didn't instigate their fight, but we helped the correct side win it. Now we must trust them to do what's right - there's little we can do here now. Besides, I want to see Wulfgar again, and Icewind Dale. Its been too long since I've looked upon my first true home."



"But Luskan..." Regis started.



Drizzt interrupted with an upraised hand.



"Was it really worth it?" Regis pressed anyway.



"I have no answers, nor do you."



They passed out of the city's northern gate then, to the halfhearted cheers of the few guardsmen along the wall and towers.



"Maybe we could get them all to march to Longsaddle next," Regis remarked, and Drizzt laughed, almost as helplessly as he had shrugged.



PART 3



HARMONY



I am often struck by the parallel courses I find in the wide world. My life's road has led me to many places, back and forth from Mithral Hall to the Sword Coast, to Icewind Dale and the Snowflake Mountains, to Calimport and to the Underdark. I have come to know the truth of the old saying that the only constant is change, but what strikes me most profoundly is the similarity of direction in that change, a concordance of mood, from place to place, in towns and among people who have no, or at least only cursory, knowledge of each other.



I find unrest and I find hope. I find contentment and I find anger. And always, it seems, I'm met with the same general set of emotions among the people from place to place. I understand there is a rationality to it all, for even peoples remote from each other will share common influences: a difficult winter, a war in one land that affects commerce in another, whispers of a spreading plague, the rise of a new king whose message resonates among the populace and brings hope and joy even to those far removed from his growing legend. But still, I often feel as though there is another realm of the senses. As a cold winter might spread through Icewind Dale and Luskan, and all the way to the Silver Marches, so too, it seems, does mood spiderweb the paths and roads of the Realms. It's almost as if there is a second layer of weather, an emotional wave that rolls and roils its way across Faerun.



There is trepidation and hopeful change in Mithral Hall and the rest of the Silver Marches, a collective holding of breath where the coin of true peace and all-out war spins on its edge, and not dwarf nor elf nor human nor orc knows on which side it will land. There is a powerful emotional battle waging between the status quo and the desire to embrace great and promising change.



And so I found this same unsettling dynamic in Longsaddle, where the Harpells are engaged in a similar state of near disaster with the rival factions of their community. They hold the coin fast, locked in spells to conserve what is, but the stress and strain are obvious to all who view. And so I found this same dynamic in Luskan, where the potential change is no less profound than the possible - and none too popular - acceptance of an orc kingdom as a viable partner in the league of nations that comprise the Silver Marches.



A wave of unrest and edginess has gripped the land, from Mithral Hall to the Sword Coast - palpably so. It's as if the people and races of the world have all at once declared the unacceptability of their current lot in life, as if the sentient beings have finished their collective exhale and are now taking in a new breath.



I head to Icewind Dale, a land of tradition that extends beyond the people who live there, a land of constants and of constant pres sure. A land not unaccustomed to war, a land that knows death intimately. If the same breath that brought Obould from his hole, that brought out ancient hatreds among the priests of Longsaddle, that led to the rise of Deudermont and the fall of Arklem Greeth, has filled the unending winds of Icewind Dale, then I truly fear what I may find there, in a place where the smoke of a gutted homestead is almost as common as the smoke of a campfire, and where the howl of the wolf is no less threatening than the war cry of a barbarian, or the battle call of an orc, or the roar of a white dragon. Under the constant struggle to simply survive, Icewind Dale is on edge even in those times when the world is in a place of peace and contentment. What might I find there now, when my road has passed through lands of strife and battle?



I wonder sometimes if there is a god, or gods, who play with the emotions of the collective of sentient beings as an artist colors a canvas. Might there be supernatural beings watching and taking amusement at our toils and tribulations? Do these gods wave giant wands of envy or greed or contentment or love over us all, that they can then watch at their pleasure, perhaps even gamble on the outcome?



Or do they, too, battle amongst themselves, reflections of our own failures, and their victories and failures similarly extend to us, their insignificant minions?



Or am I simply taking the easier route of reasoning, and ascribing what I cannot know to some irrationally defined being or beings for the sake of my own comfort? This trail, I fear, may be no more than warm porridge on a wintry morning.



Whatever it is, the weather or the rise of a great foe, folk demanding to partake of advancements in comfort or the sweep of a plague, or some unseen and nefarious god or gods at play, or whether, perhaps, the collective I view is no more than an extension of my own inner turmoil or contentment, a projection of Drizzt upon the people he views...whatever it may be, this collective emotion seems to me a palpable thing, a real and true motion of shared breath.