The Ghost King (15 page)

I’m not much of a wizard, either, he thought, and he winced as his unseen servant dissipated. The girl, overbalanced with the keg, tumbled down. The side of the container broke open and whiskey spilled over the corner of the storehouse roof.

“What now, then?” a sailor asked, and it took Rorick a moment to realize that the man, far older and more seasoned than he, was speaking to him, was looking to him for direction.

“Be a leader,” Rorick mumbled under his breath, and he pointed toward the front of the storehouse, to the edge of the low roof, where below the battle was on in full.

* * * * *

“Doo-dad!” came a familiar cry from far to Hanaleisa’s right, much beyond Temberle. She started to glance that way, but saw movement up above and fell back, startled.

Out over the heads of the defenders came the whiskey kegs—by the dozen! They sailed out and crashed down, some atop zombies and other wretched creatures, others smashing hard on the cobblestones.

“What in the—?” more than one surprised defender cried out, Temberle included.

“Doo-dad!” came the emphatic answer.

All the defenders looked that way to see Pikel charging at them. His right arm was stretched out to the side, shillelagh pointed at the horde. The club threw sparks, and at first the bright light alone kept the undead back from Pikel, clearing the way as he continued his run. But more importantly, those sparks sizzled out to the spilled alcohol, and nothing burned brighter than Carradden whiskey.

The dwarf ran on, the enchanted cudgel spitting its flares, and flames roared up in response.

Despite her pain, despite her fear for her brothers, Hanaleisa couldn’t help but giggle as the dwarf passed, his stumpy arm flapping like the wing of a wounded duck. He was not running, Hanaleisa saw—he was skipping.

An image of a five-year-old Rorick skipping around her mother’s garden outside Spirit Soaring, sparkler in hand, flashed in Hanaleisa’s mind, and a sudden contentment washed over her, as if she was certain that Uncle Pikel would make everything all right.

She shook the notion away quickly, though, and finished off a nearby monster that was caught on their side of the fire wall. Then she ran to Temberle, who was already calling out to organize the retreat. Hanaleisa reached into her pouch and pulled forth some clean cloth, quickly tying off Temberle’s torn arm.

And not a moment too soon. Her brother nodded appreciatively, then swooned. Hanaleisa caught him and called for help, directing a woman to retrieve Temberle’s greatsword, for she knew—they all knew—he would surely need it again, and very soon.

Into the storehouse they went, a line of weary and battered defenders—battered emotionally as much as physically, perhaps even more so, for they
knew to a man and woman that their beloved Carradoon was unlikely to survive the surprise onslaught.

* * * * *

“You saved us all,” Hanaleisa said to Rorick a short while later, when they were all together once more.

“Uncle Pikel did the dangerous work,” Rorick said, nodding his chin toward the dwarf.

“Doo-dad, hee hee hee,” said the dwarf. He presented his shillelagh and added, “Boom!” with a shake of his hairy head.

“We’re not saved yet,” Temberle said from a small window overlooking the carnage on the street. Conscious again, but still weakened, the young man’s voice sounded grim indeed. “Those fires won’t last for long.”

It was true, but the whiskey-fueled conflagration had turned the battle and saved their cause. The stupid undead knew no fear and had kept coming on, their rotting clothes and skin adding fuel to the flames as they crumpled and burned atop their fellows.

But a few stragglers were getting through, scratching at the storehouse walls, battering the planks, and the fires outside were burning low.

One zombie walked right through the fires and came out ablaze. Still it advanced, right to the storehouse door, and managed to pound its fists a few times before succumbing to the flames. And as bad luck would have it, those flames licked at the wood. They wouldn’t have been of consequence, except from the roof above, one of the kegs had overturned, spilling its volatile contents across the roof and down the side.

Several people screamed as the corner of the storehouse flared up. Some went to try to battle the flames, but to no avail. Worse, the keg throwers hadn’t emptied about a third of the whiskey stocks from the storehouse. Whiskey was one of Carradoon’s largest exports—boats sailed out with kegs of the stuff almost every tenday.

More than a hundred people were in that storehouse, and panic spread quickly as the flames licked up over their heads to the roof, fanning across the ceiling.

“We’ve got to get out!” one man called.

“To the docks!” others yelled in agreement, and the stampede for the back door began in full.

“Uh oh,” said Pikel.

Temberle hooked Rorick’s arm over his shoulder and the brothers leaned heavily on each other for support as they moved toward the exit, both calling for Hanaleisa and Pikel to follow.

Pikel started to move, but Hanaleisa grabbed him by the arm and held him back.

“Eh?”

Hanaleisa pointed to a nearby keg and rushed for it. She popped the top and hoisted it, then ran to the front door, where skeletons and zombies pounded furiously. With a look back at Pikel, Hanaleisa began splashing the keg’s contents all along the wall.

“Hee hee hee,” Pikel agreed, coming up beside her with a keg of his own. First he lifted it to his lips for a good long swallow, but then he ran along the wall, splashing whiskey all over the floor and the base of the planks.

Hanaleisa looked across the storehouse. The brave townsfolk had regained a measure of calm and were moving swiftly and orderly out onto the docks.

The heat grew quickly. A beam fell from the roof, dropping a line of fire across the floor.

“Hana!” Rorick cried from the back of the storehouse.

“Get out!” she screamed at him. “Uncle Pikel, come along!”

The dwarf charged toward her and hopped the fallen beam alongside her, both heading fast for the door.

More fiery debris tumbled from the ceiling, and the whiskey-soaked side wall began to burn furiously. The flames spread up the walls behind them.

But the undead hadn’t broken through, Hanaleisa realized when she reached the exit. “Go!” she ordered Pikel, and pushed him through the door. To the dwarf’s horror, to the horror of her brothers, and to the horror of everyone watching, Hanaleisa turned and sprinted back into the burning building.

Smoke filled her nostrils and stung her eyes. She could barely see, but she knew her way. She leaped the beam burning in the middle of the floor, then ducked and rolled under another that tumbled down from above.

She neared the front door, and just as she leaped for it, a nearby keg burst in a ball of fire, causing another to explode beside it. Hanaleisa kicked out at the heavy bar sealing the door, all her focus and strength behind the blow. She heard the wood crack beneath her foot, and a good thing that was, for she had no time to follow the move. At that moment, the fires reached the
whiskey she and Pikel had poured out, and Hanaleisa had to sprint away to avoid immolation.

But the door was open, and the undead streamed in hungrily, stupidly.

More kegs exploded and half the roof caved in beside her, but Hanaleisa maintained her focus and kept her legs moving. She could hardly see in the heavy smoke, and tripped over a burning beam, painfully smashing her toes in the process.

She scrambled along, quickly regaining her footing.

More kegs exploded, and fiery debris flew all around her. The smoke grew so thick that she couldn’t get her bearings. She couldn’t see the doorway. Hanaleisa skidded to a halt, but she couldn’t afford to stop. She sprinted ahead once more, crashing into some piled crates and overturning them.

She couldn’t see, she couldn’t breathe, she had no idea which way was out, and she knew that any other direction led to certain death.

She spun left and right, started one way, then fell back in dismay. She called out, but her voice was lost in the roar of the flames.

In that moment, horror turned to resignation. She knew she was doomed, that her daring stunt had succeeded at the cost of her life.

So be it.

The young woman dropped down onto all fours and thought of her brothers. She hoped she had bought them the time they needed to escape. Uncle Pikel would lead them to safety, she told herself, and she nodded her acceptance.

* * * * *

To his credit, Bruenor didn’t say anything. But it was hard for Thibbledorf Pwent and Drizzt not to notice his continual and obviously uncomfortable glances to either side, where Jarlaxle and Athrogate weaved in and out of the trees on their magical mounts.

“He’s the makings of a Gutbuster,” remarked Pwent, who sat beside Bruenor on the wagon’s jockey box, while Drizzt walked along beside them. The Gutbuster nodded his hairy chin toward Athrogate. “Bit too clean, me’s thinkin’, but I’m likin’ that pig o’ his. And them morningstars!”

“Gutbusters play with drow, do they?” Bruenor replied, but before the sting of that remark could sink in to Pwent, Drizzt beat him to the reply with, “Sometimes.”

“Bah, elf, ye ain’t no drow, and ain’t been one, ever,” Bruenor protested. “Ye know what I’m meaning.”

“I do,” Drizzt admitted. “No offense intended, so no offense taken. But neither do I believe that Jarlaxle is what you’ve come to expect from my people.”

“Bah, but he ain’t no Drizzt.”

“Nor was Zaknafein, in the manner you imply,” Drizzt responded. “But King Bruenor would have welcomed my father into Mithral Hall. Of that, I’m sure.”

“And this strange one’s akin to yer father, is he?”

Drizzt looked through the trees to see Jarlaxle guiding his hellish steed along, and he shrugged, honestly at a loss. “They were friends, I’ve been told.”

Bruenor paused for a bit and similarly considered the strange creature that was Jarlaxle, with his outrageously plumed hat. Everything about Jarlaxle seemed unfamiliar to the parochial Bruenor, everything spoke of the proverbial “other” to the dwarf.

“I just ain’t sure o’ that one,” the dwarf king muttered. “Me girl’s in trouble here, and ye’re asking me to trust the likes o’ Jarlaxle and his pet dwarf.”

“True enough,” Drizzt admitted. “And I don’t deny that I have concerns of my own.” Drizzt hopped up and grabbed the rail behind the seat so he could ride along for a bit. He looked directly at Bruenor, demanding the dwarf’s complete attention. “But I also know that if Jarlaxle had wanted us dead, we would likely already be walking the Fugue Plain. Regis and I would not have gotten out of Luskan without his help. Catti-brie and I would not have been able to escape his many warriors outside of Menzoberranzan those years ago, had he not allowed it. I have no doubt that there’s more to his offer to help us than his concern for us, or for Catti-brie.”

“He’s got some trouble o’ his own,” said Bruenor, “or I’m a bearded gnome! And bigger trouble than that tale he telled about needing to make sure the Crystal Shard was gone.”

Drizzt nodded. “That may well be. But even if that is true, I like our chances better with Jarlaxle beside us. We wouldn’t even have turned toward Spirit Soaring and Cadderly, had not Jarlaxle sent his dwarf companion to Mithral Hall to suggest it.”

“To lure us out!” Bruenor snapped back, rather loudly.

Drizzt patted one hand in the air to calm the dwarf. “Again, my friend, if that was only to make us vulnerable, Jarlaxle would have ambushed us
on the road right outside your door, and there we would remain, pecked by the crows.”

“Unless he’s looking for something from ye,” Bruenor argued. “Might still be a pretty ransom on Drizzt Do’Urden’s head, thanks to the matron mothers of Menzoberranzan.”

That was possible, Drizzt had to admit to himself, and he glanced over his shoulder at Jarlaxle once more, but eventually shook his head. If Jarlaxle had wanted anything like that, he would have hit the wagon with overwhelming force outside of Mithral Hall, and easily enough captured all four, or whichever of them might have proven valuable to his nefarious schemes. Even beyond that simple logic, however, there was within Drizzt something else: an understanding of Jarlaxle and his motives that surprised Drizzt every time he paused to consider it.

“I do not believe that,” Drizzt replied to Bruenor. “Not any of it.”

“Bah!” Bruenor snorted, hardly seeming convinced, and he snapped the reins to coax the team along more swiftly, though they had already put more than fifty miles behind them that day, with half-a-day’s riding yet before them. The wagon bounced along comfortably, the dwarven craftsmanship more than equal to the task of the long rides. “So ye’re thinking he’s just wanting us for a proper introduction to Cadderly? Ye’re buying his tale, are ye? Bah!”

It was hard to find a proper response to one of Bruenor’s “bahs,” let alone two. But before Drizzt could even try, a scream from the back of the wagon ended the discussion.

The three turned to see Catti-brie floating in the air, her eyes rolled back to show only white. She hadn’t risen high enough to escape the tailgate of the wagon, and was being towed along in her weightless state. One of her arms rose to the side, floating in the air as if in water, as they had seen before during her fits, but her other arm was forward, her hand turned and grasping as if she were presenting a sword before her.

Bruenor pulled hard on the reins and flipped them to Pwent, heading over the back of the seat before the Gutbuster even caught them. Drizzt beat the dwarf to the wagon bed, the agile drow leaping over the side in a rush to grab Catti-brie’s left arm before she slipped over the back of the rail. The drow raised his other hand toward Bruenor to stop him, and stared intently at Catti-brie as she played out what she saw in her mind’s eye.

Her eyes rolled back to show their deep blue once more.

Her right arm twitched, and she winced. Her focus seemed to be straight ahead, though given her distant stare, it was hard to be certain. Her extended hand slowly turned, as if her imaginary sword was being forced into a downward angle. Then it popped back up a bit, as if someone or something had slid off the end of the blade. Catti-brie’s breath came in short gasps. A single tear rolled down one cheek, and she quietly mouthed, “I killed her.”