At the same time, far to the left and right, ladders went up against the walls. Initial resistance from the defenders fast gave way to calls for retreat.
The Hosttower’s first line of defense had killed Brambleberry’s men a dozen to one or more, but the swarm of Luskar, following Brambleberry and Deudermont, enraged by the ghouls sent by Arklem Greeth, and excited by the smell of blood and battle, rolled through.
As soon as the charge across the bridge had begun, the warships, too, went into swift action. Knowing that the Hosttower’s focus had to be on the eastern wall, half a dozen vessels weighed anchor and filled their sails, crashing in against the current. They let fly long and far, over the western wall and courtyard to the Hosttower itself, or even beyond it to the eastern courtyard. Crewed by a bare minimum of sailors and gunners, they knew their role as one of diversion and pressure, to keep the defenders outside of the Hosttower confused and frightened, and perhaps even to score a lucky throw and kill a few in the process.
To the south of them, another half a dozen ships led by Sea Sprite sailed for the battered surrounds of Sea Tower, leading their assault with pitch and arrows, littering the rocky shore with destruction in case any of the Hosttower’s wizards lay in wait there.
More than one such defender showed himself, either lashing out with a lightning bolt, or trying to flee back to the north.
Robillard and Arabeth welcomed such moments, and though both hoped to hold their greatest energies for the confrontation with Arklem Greeth and the main tower, neither could resist the temptation to reply to magic with greater evocations of their own.
“Hold and lower!” ordered Robillard, who remained in command of Sea Sprite while Deudermont rode at Brambleberry’s side.
The ship dropped her sails and the anchor splashed into the dark waters as other crewmen ran to the smaller boats she carried and put them over the side. Taking their cues from Sea Sprite, the other five ships acted in concert.
“Sails south!” the man in the crow’s nest shouted down to Robillard.
Eyes wide, the wizard ran aft and grabbed the rail hard, leaning out to get a better view of the leading craft, then of another two ships sailing hard their way.
“Thrice Lucky,” Arabeth said, coming up beside the wizard. “That’s Maimun’s ship.”
“And what side does he choose?” Robillard wondered. He murmured through a quick spell and tapped thumb and forefinger against his temples, imbuing his eyes with the sight of an eagle.
It was indeed Maimun leading the way, the man standing forward at the prow of Thrice Lucky, his crew readying boats behind him. More tellingly, the ship’s catapult was neither armed nor manned, and no archers stood ready.
“The boy chose well,” Robillard said. “He sails with us.”
“How can you know?” Arabeth asked. “How can you be certain enough to continue the landing?”
“Because I know Maimun.”
“His heart?”
“His purse,” Robillard clarified. “He knows the force arrayed against Arklem Greeth and understands that the Hosttower cannot win this day. A fool he would be to stand back and let the city move on without his help, and Maimun is many things, but a fool is not among them.”
“Three ships,” Arabeth warned, looking at the trio expertly navigating the familiar waters under full sail, and closing with great speed. “As our crews disembark, they could do profound damage. We should hold three at full strength to meet them if they attack.”
Robillard shook his head. “Maimun chose well,” he said. “He is a vulture seeking to pick the bones of the dead, and he understands which bones will be meatier this day.”
He turned and strode back amidships, waving and calling for his crew to continue. He enacted another spell as he neared the gangplank and gingerly hopped down onto the water—onto and not into, for he didn’t sink beneath the waves.
Arabeth copied his movements and stood beside him on the rolling sea. Side by side, they walked swiftly toward the rocky shore, small boats overcrowded with warriors bobbing all around them.
Two of the newcomers dropped sail near the fleet and Sea Sprite, their crews similarly manning the smaller boats. But one, Thrice Lucky,sailed past, weaving in through the narrow, rocky channel.
“The young pirate knows his craft,” Valindra marveled.
“He learned from Deudermont himself,” said Robillard. “A pity that’s all he learned.”
The wall had fallen in short order, but Lord Brambleberry’s forces quickly came to realize that the defenders of the Hosttower had fallen back by design. The wall defense had been set only so the tower’s wizards could have time to prepare.
As the fierce folk of Luskan crashed into the courtyard, the full fury of the Hosttower of the Arcane fell upon them. Such a barrage of fire, lightning, magical bolts, and conical blasts of frost so intense they froze a man’s blood solid fell over them that of the first several hundred who crossed the wall, nine of ten died within a few heartbeats.
Among those survivors, though, were Deudermont and Brambleberry, protected from the intense barrage by powerful Waterdhavian wizards. Because the pennants of their leaders still stood, the rest of the army continued its charge undeterred. The second volley didn’t match the first in intensity or duration, and the warriors pushed on.
Undead rose from the ground before them, ghouls, skeletons, and rotting corpses given a grim semblance of life. And from the tower came golems and gargoyles, magical animations sent to turn back the tide.
The folk of Luskan didn’t turn in fear, didn’t run in horror, with the undead monsters only bitterly reminding them of why they’d joined the fight in the first place. And while Lord Brambleberry was there astride a large roan stallion, a spectacular figure of strength, two others inspired them even more.
First was Deudermont, sitting tall on a blue-eyed paint mare. Though he was no great rider, his mere presence brought hope to the heart of every commoner in the city.
And there was the other, the friend of Deudermont. As the explosions lessened and the Hosttower’s melee force came out to meet the charge, so it became the time of Drizzt.
With quickness that mocked allies and foes alike, with anger solidly grounded in the image of his halfling friend lying injured on a bed, the drow burst through the leading ranks and met the enemy monsters head on. He whirled and twirled, leaped and spun through a line of ghouls and skeletons, leaving piles of torn flesh and shattered bones in his wake.
A gargoyle leaped off a balcony from above, swooping down at him, leathery wings wide, clawed hands and feet raking wildly.
The drow dived into a roll, somehow maneuvered out to the side when the gargoyle angled its wings to intercept, and came back to his feet with such force that he sprang high into the air, his blades working in short and devastating strokes. So completely did he overwhelm the creature that it actually hit the ground before he did, already dead.
“Huzzah for Drizzt Do’Urden!” cried a voice above all the cheering, a voice that Drizzt surely knew, and he took heart that Arumn Gardpeck, proprietor of the Cutlass, was among the ranks.
Magical anklets enhancing his speed, Drizzt sprinted for the central tower of the great structure in short, angled bursts, and often with long, diving rolls. He held only one scimitar then, his other hand clutching an onyx figurine. “I need you,” he called to Guenhwyvar, and the weary panther, home on the Astral Plane, heard.
Lightning and fire rained down around Drizzt as he continued his desperate run, but every blast came a little farther behind him.