Corsair

“A bold stroke nonetheless,” Kamoth mused. “Ah, the stories they’d tell about the Black Moon Brotherhood after a feat like that! I like the thought of it, my boy. You might be worth something after all.”

Sergen allowed himself a small smile. It wasn’t often that he found a way to earn his father’s approbation. Kamoth was quick to praise one of his cutthroats or laugh at the coarse humor his crewmen enjoyed, but Sergen had always had to come up with something exceptional to earn that fierce grin. He took a deep sip of the brandy and said, “In that case, when does the Black Moon sail against Hulburg?”

SEVEN

29 Eleint, the Year of the Ageless One (1479 DR)

A cold, steady rain fell as Geran and Sarth rowed Seadrake’s skiff toward the broken towers of the ruined city. Hamil sat in the stern of the small boat, his hand on the rudder. It was a dark and dreary night, the sort of weather that would persist over the Moonsea lands until the bitter winds of winter arrived sometime in early Nightal. The steady hiss of rain falling into the sea masked the creaking of the oars in their locks and the soft slap of water under the small boat’s hull. They’d only been rowing for half an hour, but they were already soaked. Geran didn’t mind; the foul weather meant that fewer unfriendly eyes would be watching them.

Seadrake was a mile behind them, invisible in the darkness. She showed no lights, since Geran hoped that their landing in Zhentil Keep would go unnoticed. As an additional precaution, they wore the same sort of common garb that any deckhands might wear on a sodden Moonsea evening. Instead of a fine jacket and jaunty cap, Hamil glowered under a drenched hood. Geran had left his fine elven backsword in his cabin on Seadrake and carried a plain cutlass instead, while Sarth had used his magic to disguise himself as a sellsword of Teshan descent, with a thick black mustache and dark, fierce eyes under a heavy brow.

Hamil surveyed the crumbling buildings of the ruined city with a dubious expression. “That looks like the sort of place you venture into when you’ve a mind to feed yourself to some horrible monster,” he said. “Are you sure of this plan, Geran?”

“Sure of it? No, but I think it’s worth a try.” Geran paused to glance over his shoulder as the city’s ramshackle docks drew closer. Zhentil Keep sprawled on either side of the mouth of the River Tesh. In better times it had been the busiest harbor on the Moonsea, and both banks of the river-as well as some of the lakefront too-had been lined with broad stone quays that could accommodate scores of ships at a time. He would have liked to bring Seadrake into the Tesh and drop anchor in the river mouth, but he guessed that the sort of brigands and outlaws he was looking for would have vanished into the rain and rubble at the first sight of a hostile warship. “We’ll find the sort of cutthroats we’re looking for soon enough. Or they’ll find us.”

Sarth frowned as he pulled at his oar. “Are you not concerned that the sort of villains we seek might rob and murder three strangers the moment they catch sight of us?”

“A fate easily avoided. We have to appear too poor to rob and too dangerous to pick a fight with.” Geran smiled humorlessly. “Trust me, we should fit right in.”

Hamil looked past his larger companions and shifted in his seat. “We’re getting close. Steer for the docks on the north bank here, or do you want to tie up on the other side of the river?”

“The first spot you see. If the fellow in Mulmaster was right, there may be a ship or two moored up the Tesh, and I don’t want to run into them.” Geran paused in his rowing and turned around to get a better look at the looming shadows around him.

A hundred years ago, Zhentil Keep had been the most powerful city in the Moonsea lands. Its soldiers held the Tesh vale, the mighty Citadel of the Raven in the Dragonspine Mountains, and the ruins of Yulash; Hillsfar they subdued in Myth Drannor’s War of Restoration. Gold flowed into Zhentil Keep’s coffers from a dozen far lands intimidated by Zhentarim sell-swords or inveigled by Zhentarim spies. But the Zhents, for all their ruthlessness and might, had inevitably aroused the wrath of an enemy beyond their strength.

The unliving archwizards of the newly reborn Empire of Netheril did not look kindly on such an aggressive neighbor, and they’d turned their fearsome sorcery against Zhentil Keep. In the years before the Spellplague, the Netherese razed the city and scattered its lords, its priests, and its wizards to the four winds. Zhentarim expatriates dotted the lands of the Inner Sea, but their native city was now a shadow-haunted ruin that all decent folk gave a wide berth.

Except, of course, for Geran and his companions.

Geran’s eye fell on a dark quay that seemed like a safe spot to leave their boat. “There, that will do,” he said. He and Sarth resumed pulling, and in a few minutes the skiff bumped up alongside the old landing. Hamil scrambled out and looped the skiff’s bowline around a rusted bollard, then the swordmage and the tiefling followed. Geran paused on the cobblestone street to gain his bearings, hand on his sword hilt. The old buildings loomed over him, most standing five or six stories in height and crowded shoulder-to-shoulder like tired soldiers standing in ranks. Dark doorways and empty windows looked down over the street. It was said that the curse of the Netherese archwizards still lingered over the city, some nameless doom waiting to swallow anyone so foolish as to venture into the darkest shadows. Geran had no idea if that was true or not, but he sensed brooding menace just beyond his sight.

“This is an accursed place,” Sarth said. “Terrible spells were spoken here.”

“We’ll keep to the riverbank. The stories I’ve heard about this place claim that whatever lingers here doesn’t like the water, or that the Tesh has washed away some of the curse,” Geran said. “Either way, I don’t think it would be a good idea to explore any of these buildings.”

Hamil stopped and looked up at him. “It’s also a bad idea to leave a fire untended, speak a demon’s name, or run while you’ve got a knife in your hand. Is there anything else we should go over?”

Sarth snorted through his mustache. Geran sighed. “I’ve known you to ignore common sense once or twice,” he said to Hamil. “I remember some times with the Dragon Shields when you leaped before you looked.”

They left the skiff tied up by the quay. Since there were no ships visible at the river mouth, and Geran didn’t see or hear anything to suggest that other folk might be around, he decided to follow the riverside street westward, deeper into the city. They gave the old buildings on their right a wide berth, staying out in the open street.

After a half mile or so, they passed the remains of one of the city’s great bridges, now little more than a series of six stone piers in the river. Beyond the bridge piers, several ships were moored to the old quays-a couple of small coasters that were likely smugglers of some sort, a round-hulled cog, and a half galley with a long, slender hull. A few dim lanterns illuminated the streets by the riverside, and the distant strains of voices and faint music carried over the water. Geran and his friends exchanged looks, then they continued.

Along the riverbanks above the first of the bridges, a dismal little town of sorts had grown up in the city ruins. Although the looming stone buildings here were still mostly abandoned, the lower floors of a dozen or so in the immediate area had evidently been reoccupied. Lanterns hanging from posts outside marked the locations of taverns, festhalls, boardinghouses, provisioners, fences, armorers, sailmakers, and others who did business with the sort of brigands and pirates who lurked in the ruins. Despite the late hour, dozens of men-and a few women- loitered out in the street, staggered drunkenly from one place to the next, or simply lay sprawled on the cobblestones wherever they’d fallen asleep or passed out. More than a few seemed to be half-orcs, goblins, hobgoblins, and other such creatures, but the humans seemed to pay them no special attention.

“We’ll try the taverns first and keep our ears open,” Geran said. “Let’s get the mood of the place before we start asking dangerous questions.”

They headed for the first taphouse they saw. A crude signboard hung above the door, showing the image of two busty mermaids. Directly under the sign a gray-bearded sailor slumbered in the street. Geran stepped over him and pushed open the door. Inside, raucous sailors crowded a small room that looked like it might once have been a well-off merchant’s parlor. Simple tables and benches replaced all of the old furnishings, and an overturned skiff served as the unlikely bar. In one corner, a man in a patched cape strummed at a lute, but no one was paying him much attention. They were watching a contest of knife throwing, with the target hanging close by the door. As Geran ducked through the door, a small dagger thunked into the wood not far from his face. Drunken sailors and their rented lovers roared with laughter as he flinched aside.