Archmage

CHAPTER 17

Bruenor flung himself through the opened doorway and nearly pitched headlong to the floor in surprise, realizing that he had caught up to Guenhwyvar. The great panther stood there in the room in front of him, staring at the wall-and what a curious sight that was.

“By the gods, but them drow’ve come,” Bruenor muttered under his breath, staring at the swirling, cloud-like vortex spinning against the wall, or within the wall, as if the very stones were malleable and part of the sidelong tornado.

The other dwarves bobbed in behind Bruenor, bumping into him in their rush, but held their ground. All of the four started to ask what was what, and all of them bit back the words even as they started to utter them, caught by the same incredible sight that held Bruenor and Guenhwyvar.

The vortex spun tighter and tighter, the wall seeming to solidify around its retreating edges. And then it was gone, and the room went perfectly silent.

A low growl from Guenhwyvar broke that stillness.

Bruenor moved past the panther, on edge, glancing all about. “What d’ye know?” Tannabritches asked.

“Been a fight in here,” Athrogate said. The black-bearded dwarf motioned for the Fellhammer sisters to fan out to the right, then nodded to Ambergris to go with him to the left flank.

“I’m smellin’ the blood, or I’m a pretty goblin,” Athrogate added.

Bruenor smelled it too, more so because he was closer to the center of the battle, where blood stained the floor. And as he was drawn to that, he found something else besides.

“Elf?” he asked weakly, lifting a very familiar blade-not the whole scimitar, but just the broken blade of Twinkle-from the floor.

“That cyclone!” Ambergris cried, rushing over. “They taked Drizzt!”

Bruenor started for the wall, thinking to shoulder right through it if need be, but Mallabritches’s cry of “No, here!” spun him back the other way. He looked curiously at the sisters, who stood in front of some discoloration on the wall, some malformation that Bruenor couldn’t quite make out. He moved closer, scanning.

The dwarf’s eyes went wide when he glanced at the bottom of that malformation, to see familiar boots hanging below it.

“Drizzt!” he cried. “Oh, me elf!” And he leaped forward at the viscous goo, reaching with his axe as if to cut at it, retracting, dropping the weapon, grabbing at the substance-he didn’t know what to do!

“His nose! His nose!” Tannabritches said, hopping up and down and pointing to a place just above, where it looked as if someone had pulled the slime away from Drizzt’s face, clearing his nose, at least, that he could draw breath.

Bruenor threw down his shield beside his axe and leaped for the spot. “Peel him out!” he shouted, and he began clawing at the glob which had pinned Drizzt against the stone. It came free, but grabbed at Bruenor’s hands so hard that he could barely shake it from his fingers, one stubborn piece at a time, and even then only after rolling it in on itself repeatedly. With Fist and Fury’s help, though, he soon had Drizzt’s head cleared, and the drow’s face lolled forward, Drizzt clearly not hearing the dwarf’s frantic calls, and not reacting at all when a desperate Bruenor slapped him across the face.

“Come on, elf!” Bruenor yelled, cradling the drow’s face, looking at him closely, pleading with him to open his eyes.

Tannabritches and Mallabritches bore on, tearing free the goo, and Athrogate joined in, but Ambergris came up more cautiously. She carried the broken blade of Twinkle, alternately examining the cut along the base of the severed scimitar blade and staring at Drizzt, shaking her head.

It went on for a long while, when finally Tannabritches said, “Oooo,” and stepped back. She had peeled the goo down over Drizzt’s collarbone, down to his chest, and blood poured out.

“What?” Mallabritches demanded.

Tannabritches held up her bloodied hands.

“Stop! Stop!” Ambergris cried, leaping forward to grab at Athrogate and pull him back. “Stop!”

“What, girl?” Athrogate demanded, and all eyes turned to the priestess.

“The glob,” she said, “it’s holding Drizzt together. Keepin’ his blood in! Ye pull it down and he’ll spill all over ye-all over the floor!”

“Like a bandage?” Mallabritches asked.

Bruenor, verging on panic, for it seemed very much to him that Drizzt was already dead, looked from Drizzt to the cleric and back again. Ambergris walked past him to press her hand against the exposed portion of the dark elf’s garish wound. She felt around, put on a pained expression, then said to Bruenor, “It’s a deep one.”

“Well heal him, ye dolt!” Bruenor finally shouted.

Ambergris nodded, but then shook her head and replied, “Ah, but this one’s beyond me.”

“Well try!” the frantic Bruenor screamed.

“Ye go and get his wife,” Ambergris told the Fellhammer sisters. “Go now, and quick.”

“We can’t wait!” Bruenor frantically shouted, but Ambergris was already beginning her first spell, and when he realized that, the dwarf calmed somewhat.

Ambergris pressed her hand in tighter against the drow’s torn chest and brought forth her healing magic. The blood flow slowed its trickle from that small, uncovered part of the wound, but the cleric looked to Bruenor and shook her head.

“Me spells won’t be enough for this one,” she lamented. “Be sure that he’s been killed to death in battle, and only the goo’s keeping him a bit alive.”

“Aye, and smotherin’ him at the same time!” Athrogate said.

Bruenor was shaking his head. Someone had cleared Drizzt’s nose, and Bruenor realized that it was probably the same person who had hit him with the syrupy glob in the first place. “Jarlaxle,” he muttered, nodding. He had seen this trick before from that one.

But why would Jarlaxle just leave Drizzt here like this? The dwarf looked to the wall, where the vortex had been. Another Jarlaxle trick, he wondered?

But had Drizzt and Jarlaxle battled? It didn’t seem possible to him. He could not begin to imagine those two going at each other with blades.

None of this made sense to him, but Bruenor figured that the only way he was going to get the answers was to get Drizzt healed.

He looked to Ambergris, who was deep into casting another spell, and this one elicited a groan from Drizzt as the healing waves entered his torn and battered body.

“Come on, girl,” Bruenor muttered, looking to the door.

“Come on, get his other leg, then,” Athrogate called to him, and Bruenor turned to see the black-bearded dwarf clearing the goo from Drizzt’s shin. “Just a bit at a time, so we’re not for opening any more cuts! Elf’s bled enough!”

“Too much,” Bruenor replied, going at the other leg. He winced as he did, wondering suddenly if this determined expedition was worth it to him. If he recovered Gauntlgrym, but at the price of Drizzt and Cattibrie’s lives, say, would he consider that a victory?

“Aye,” he said with determination, but without much conviction. And he added, “Come on, girl.”

Matron Mother Baenre sat quietly for a long while after Sos’Umptu’s prayer, which called the meeting of the Ruling Council to order. She let her gaze settle on each of the rival matron mothers, her withering look telling them that she understood well the true power behind the attack on the Do’Urden compound, and the coordination it had required. Even those matron mothers who had not participated directly shifted uncomfortably in their seats under the weight of that stare, for certainly all had known of the whispers, the shadowy nods and look-aways that had led to the coordinated assault.

And behind them, seated at the back leg of the table, Matron Darthiir Do’Urden sat impassively.

“Are we to believe this was anything less than an attempted assassination?” the matron mother asked. Several shifted uncomfortably, Matron Mother Mez’Barris let out a little growl, and other matron mothers nodded at the sentiment. Such accusations, if that indeed was where Matron Mother Baenre was going, were not acceptable in the city of backstabbing dark elves.

“Or the will of the goddess?” the matron mother continued, giving them an out for their protests, and turning away from the course that would have inexorably led to direct and violent confrontation.

“A signal, perhaps, that Matron Darthiir should not be seated here at the Ruling Council,” Matron Mother Zhindia Melarn offered.

“Or perhaps that she should not be a matron mother at all,” Mez’Barris added.

“Or that she should not be suffered to live,” said Zhindia.

“Yet here she is,” said Matron Mother Baenre. “Alive and well.”

“Foolishly rescued. .” Zhindia started to interrupt, but Quenthel slammed her fist down on the table.

“Matron Darthiir fought brilliantly, so say the Xorlarrin nobles who happened upon her,” Matron Mother Baenre declared. “Shall I bring them in to confirm? Matron Darthiir was assaulted by a horde of demons, but she battled them away and left them melting on the floor.”

She turned to Mez’Barris, locking stares with her rival. “What say you?” Quenthel demanded. “Are we to believe that Lady Lolth ordered forth the demons to destroy a matron mother of the Ruling Council, and believe even more so that those demons failed in the Spider Queen’s task?”

With no answer forthcoming, Quenthel stood up and towered over the others. “And if so,” she went on, “then why would Lady Lolth allow Matron Darthiir back here to sit beside us on the Ruling Council of this, her city? Go and seek guidance, Zhindia Melarn, I beg, before you blaspheme the Spider Queen with your ignorance and prejudice. And rest assured, if the Spider Queen had wanted Matron Darthiir dead, then Matron Darthiir would be dead by my own hand!”

“Are we to celebrate her great victory?” Matron Mother Mez’Barris asked sarcastically. “Perhaps you would elevate House Do’Urden to a place of greater rank to properly acknowledge that a matron mother successfully killed a handful of manes.”

The matron mother turned a perfectly wicked smile over Mez’Barris as others snickered.

“Perhaps House Do’Urden will find its own ascent under the guidance of its heroic matron mother,” Matron Mother Baenre calmly replied, and she glanced sidelong at the sneering Zhindia Melarn, whose House was ranked one above Do’Urden, and so seemed the most likely target of any such attempt.

“Perhaps the bastard House, so favored by Lady Lolth, will find its way to your seat,” Quenthel added to Mez’Barris, an absurd proposition, of course, but surely a threat the matron mother did not try to veil.

“This is all for another day,” said Sos’Umptu at the back of the chamber. “This meeting was not convened to applaud or decry the battle at the compound of House Do’Urden, nor the valiance of Matron Darthiir Do’Urden.”

“Indeed,” agreed Quenthel, who had demanded the meeting. “Matron Mother Zeerith of Q’Xorlarrin is in dire need. It would seem that an army of dwarves have come to reclaim the citadel they know as Gauntlgrym.”

“That was ever a possibility,” Matron Mother Byrtyn Fey replied.

“I will spare no warriors to go do battle for the sake of Q’Xorlarrin,” Matron Mother Mez’Barris said bluntly, and more than a couple of gasps were heard following that declaration.

“We cannot,” Matron Mother Miz’ri Mizzrym added. “Not with a city full of demons scratching at our doors.”

“And now you understand the beauty of my call to the Abyss,” Quenthel calmly replied. She let that hang in the air for a short while, all the others staring at her curiously. Quenthel took great pleasure in seeing the epiphany flash on each drow face, one by one, as they came to understand.

“I have already spoken with the archmage,” Quenthel went on. “Marilith, whom he fully controls, will lead their march to Q’Xorlarrin, Nalfeshnee at her side, to the defense of Matron Mother Zeerith.”

“You will send an army of demons to Matron Mother Zeerith’s door?” Zhindia Melarn asked, incredulous. “She would fare better battling the dwarves!”

“I am sure that you hope your words prove true,” Quenthel replied, and Zhindia narrowed her hate-filled eyes, clearly recognizing the nottoo-subtle implication that Quenthel had sorted out the secret alliance between the Melarni and the traders of House Hunzrin, who hated the very idea of the satellite city of Q’Xorlarrin. “I have assured Matron Mother Zeerith of our allegiance, and so our demons will serve her, by the will of Lolth.”

Zhindia Melarn sat there simmering, with Mez’Barris Armgo looking no less miserable, and Quenthel basked in their frustration. Every time they thought they had gained the upper hand, Quenthel had snatched it back from them. They thought they had House Do’Urden destroyed, or Matron Darthiir murdered, at least. And yet here she was, seated beside them at the table of the Ruling Council.

They had conspired and fumed over Quenthel’s decision to summon demons to the City of Spiders, and yet now those demons seemed the salvation of the satellite enclave of Q’Xorlarrin.

Armed with the memories and reasoning of Yvonnel the Eternal, Matron Mother Quenthel was always one step ahead of them.

Later that same day, all across the huge cavern that housed Menzoberranzan, nobles looked out from their balconies, nodding, sighing with relief as they watched the ghastly procession, hundreds of demons and thousands of manes and lesser Abyssal beings, filtering out of the city, marching to the command of the Ruling Council.

And what a council it had been, so said the whispers filtering throughout the city, rumors that seemed confirmed by the noticeable increase in guards around the Barrison Del’Armgo compound.

The hammer rang out, slow and steady, like the heartbeat of a dying man, or the tears dripping from a broken woman’s eyes.

“Ye stay with him, then,” Connerad Brawnanvil said to Emerus Warcrown after one ring of hammer on metal.

“Aye, but we’re near to taking the whole o’ the top,” Emerus replied. The hammer rang again.

“The entry cavern’s work is all in order,” Connerad explained. “They’re not needin’ me shouts now. I’ll get Bungalow Thump aside me and the Gutbusters’ll finish the task Bruenor started.”

“An uamh,” Emerus said, nodding, the ancient Dwarvish words for the “under way.”

“Tha,” Connerad agreed, and he clasped wrists with Emerus. “Hold faith that I’ll call for ye afore we take the Forge.”

Emerus nodded and Connerad started away. The young dwarf king flinched, but didn’t turn, though Emerus surely did, when another ring of hammer on metal echoed along the halls.

“Ah, me friend Bruenor,” both dwarves independently and quietly whispered, and both, though they weren’t looking at each other and hadn’t heard each other, shook their heads in dismay.

Flanked by a pack of glabrezu, the six-armed Marilith led the demonic procession. Tireless, brutal, unstoppable, the chaotic beast traversed the tunnels of the Lowerdark, many weaving down side passages, seeking prey. And any before them-goblin or myconid or umber hulk, it did not matter-was torn asunder and consumed, pulled down in a sea of manes, borne down under a flight of chasme, torn apart by a flock of vrock.

It did not matter. The very stones of the Underdark reverberated under the stamp of demonic feet and hooves.

Unseen by Marilith, but surely felt, the magical emanations of the Faerzress fed her and promised her freedom. She could feel the truth of Lolth’s promises now, away from the city. It was obvious to her that the barrier had thinned. She felt no pull to return to the Abyss, felt as welcome and secure here as in the swirling gray stench of her home plane.

She would serve as instructed by Gromph now, and serve him well, and that, in this situation, meant adhering to the demands of the matron mother.

Marilith was amenable to that, for those demands included the spilling of buckets of blood, a liquid she relished as decoration.

“Put her in place, boys!” Oretheo Spikes yelled to the hauling team as the great stone slab began to twist out of alignment. “Don’t ye be lettin’ her crash the buttress, what!”

The Wilddwarves on the bridge crew grunted and pressed with all their considerable strength, tugging and digging in their heels to twist the great center span back in alignment.

“Ah, but there ye go!” Oretheo cheered.

“Can’t none be sayin’ that them Adbar boys can’t build a bridge,” he heard behind him, and he turned to see the approach of Connerad. The two shared a hug and a heavy clap on the back. “All done but the pretty bas-reliefs!”

“Aye, we’ll have a full bridge by the end o’ the day,” Oretheo replied. “Might that yerself and meself’ll name her, eh? Got a fine handle o’ Baldur’s Gate Single I’m thinkin’ to drain, right there on the middle o’ the span!"

“Well lift one in toast to me, then,” Connerad replied.

Oretheo looked at him curiously.

“Ye heared o’ Bruenor?”

“Heared o’ Drizzt the elf,” said Oretheo. “Guessed as much about Bruenor afore I e’er heard. Sad day.”

“We’re nearin’ the under way,” said Connerad. “Bruenor’d almost got there.”

“Aye.”

Connerad paused and shrugged.

“Aye,” Oretheo said again, nodding as he figured it out. “So ye’re to be leading the way down, then.”

Connerad nodded.

“Well, let me get me boys,” said Oretheo. “We’ll follow ye to the Nine Hells, King Connerad o’ Mithral Hall, don’t ye doubt!”

“Ah, but I’m not for doubtin’ ye,” Connerad assured him, his tone comforting-too much so, and that brought a puzzled expression to the face of Oretheo Spikes.

“What’re ye sayin’?” the Wilddwarf leader demanded. “Ye’re off for the front and fightin’, but me and me boys’re stayin’ here? Guardin’ the backside?”

Connerad shrugged apologetically.

“Bah! But did we not go through deas-ghnaith inntrigidh with all our hearts, then?” Oretheo cried. “We gived ye three kings ar tariseachd, our dying fealty! Are me and me boys lesser, then? Is that our place fore’ermore in the tunnels o’ Gauntlgrym? And the Mirabarran dwarfs, too?” he added, sweeping his arm back across the cavern to the far end and the tunnels beyond, where the dwarves of Mirabar worked the defenses.

“Nay, and ye’re fealty’s a treasured thing, by meself and me fellows, Bruenor and Emerus.” Connerad put his hand on Oretheo’s sturdy shoulder. “Yerself and yer boys’re as much Delzoun as any here, don’t ye doubt. But ye’re knowing the defenses here in the entryway-ye built ’em! — and aye but they got to stay strong now.”

“Because ye’re pressin’ down to the drow.”

“Aye, and might that them trickster drow come slitherin’ up behind us, eh?”

Oretheo Spikes didn’t seem very convinced, but he did nod his agreement. “Wilddwarfs ain’t for guardin’. Not when there’s a road leadin’ straight to a real fight.”

“Not me call, me friend,” Connerad explained. “Bungalow’s got the lead group with his Gutbusters. Yerself was given the cavern, the boys o’ Mirabar the back end and the tunnels beyond, and aye, but ye’ve all been a blessin’ to us all with yer work.”

Oretheo Spikes heaved a great sigh.

Connerad nodded, not disagreeing, and certainly understanding.

“Then Moradin walk with ye, boy,” Oretheo Spikes said, and he clapped Connerad on the shoulder.

The young dwarf king replied with a similar movement before he turned and headed for the throne room to collect his entourage, and from there to the front lines, to the breach to the under way.

No sooner had the former King of Mithral Hall walked away when another of the Wilddwarf commanders came up to stand beside Oretheo.

“Ye heared?” Oretheo asked.

“I heared,” the other replied, his voice thick with anger.

“Don’t ye be aimin’ that ire at Connerad or the others,” Oretheo told him. “Can’t be blamin’ them for taking them they know to the fight. Were it King Harnoth leading that march, then we’d be flankin’ him.”

“Aye,” the other agreed. “And so I’m thinking me king choosed wrong, what.”

“King Harnoth should be here,” Oretheo Spikes agreed.

“Good choice, that one, to lead the march,” the other Wilddwarf remarked, nodding to Connerad as the former King of Mithral Hall entered Gauntlgrym. “Good as any. I’m hearin’ whispers that he’ll make a play for the throne when all’s done, and I’m not for saying that King Connerad o’ Gauntlgrym’d be a bad choice.”

Above Emerus and Bruenor? Oretheo Spikes thought, but did not say, for even as the notion formulated, it didn’t seem all that outrageous to him. Certainly King Bruenor Battlehammer and King Emerus Warcrown remained as legends among the dwarves of Faerûn, and surely so in the Silver Marches. But who could deny the fine work of King Connerad Brawnanvil?

And now Emerus was looking old to all, and Bruenor?

Well, who might know of King Bruenor with his elf friend lying near to dead? Surely he seemed a broken dwarf at that time.

“How’s he restin’?” Emerus asked Catti-brie when he entered the small room they had set up as an infirmary. The woman sat on a chair beside Drizzt, who lay very still, his eyes closed.

“I done all I can,” she replied, and she almost laughed at herself as she heard the words spill forth, for it seemed that whenever she was speaking with dwarves now, she instinctively reverted to the brogue. “His cuts’re tied, but sure that he’s bled more than any should, and the shock of the hit. .” She paused and lowered her gaze.

Emerus rushed over to her and dropped a hand on her shoulder. “He’ll come back to ye, girl,” he said.

Catti-brie nodded. She did believe that, though she wasn’t sure of what might be left of Drizzt when he did. She recalled her own injuries from a giant’s rock in defending Mithral Hall. Never had she been the same, despite the tireless efforts of many dwarf clerics.

“Been talkin’ with the Harpell lass, Penelope,” Emerus said. “She’s tellin’ me yerself and her got something to show me and Bruenor.”

“Aye,” Catti-brie replied. “And the sooner the better.”

“Connerad’s taking the lead in the forward press. No better time than now.”

Catti-brie nodded and rose, then bent over and kissed Drizzt on the forehead. “Don’t ye leave me,” she whispered.

Emerus was at the room’s door, holding it open, and so the next ring of that solitary hammer carried to Catti-brie’s ears, reminding her that Drizzt wasn’t the only one in need of help. She went with the old dwarf king through the maze of corridors, following the lonely cadence of the solitary hammer.

They found Bruenor bent over a small forge, tapping away on the broken scimitar of his dearest friend.

“We got work to do, me friend,” Emerus said as they entered the small chamber.

Bruenor held up the rebuilt scimitar for the others to see. “Been workin’,” he replied.

“Ye fixed it!” Catti-brie said happily, but Bruenor merely shrugged.

“I put the blade back on, but can’no put the magic back in her,” he explained.

“When we get to the Forge o’ Gauntlgrym, then,” Catti-brie offered, and Bruenor shrugged again.

“Yer elf friend’s restin’ peacefully,” Emerus said.

“Still asleep,” Catti-brie was quick to add when she saw the sparkle of false hope ignite in Bruenor’s eyes.

Bruenor snorted helplessly.

“We found an ancient portal,” Catti-brie explained. “Meself and the Harpells. Ye’re needing to see it, me Da. It’s a great tool, but might be a great danger. For the sake of all who’ve come to Gauntlgrym, I ask ye to come with me and Emerus now to view the thing and judge what we’re to do with it.”

Bruenor looked at Twinkle, sighed, and nodded. Clearly, he’d done all he could with the scimitar. Catti-brie, who had spent so long trying to repair broken Drizzt, and possibly with the same partial effect, understood his pain.

Was the magic of Twinkle lost forever?

Was the magic of Drizzt lost forever?

Bruenor tossed his hammer on the table and sent his gloves onto it behind. He carried Twinkle to Catti-brie and bade her return it to Drizzt after they got back from wherever it was she intended to take them.

“Better for yerself to take it to him,” she replied and tried to hand back the scimitar.

Bruenor balked and shook his head and would not take the blade back. He had made it quite clear, with voice at first, but with his actions since, that he didn’t want to see Drizzt lying helpless and near death on a cot.

Catti-brie, however, wasn’t about to let this go. Not now. She pushed the blade out to Bruenor, and scowled at him when he began to shake his head once more.

Reluctantly, Bruenor took the repaired scimitar and slid it into a loop on his backpack.

“Lead on, then, and let’s be done with it,” he grumbled.

Catti-brie paused for a few heartbeats, staring at her adoptive father, at the pommel of Twinkle sticking up from behind his left shoulder. For some reason, that image resonated with her. Seeing that Bruenor had taken the blade, and so would return it to Drizzt, reassured her that her father, at least, would soon enough be all right.

Any victory seemed a major victory at that dark time.