Archmage (26 page)

She did hold out some hopes, though. The magma elemental the primordial had spat up to her on the ledge in the drow altar room had aided her in turning the battle against Dahlia and the great construct spiders the drow had set out as guards.

“Most help I can be would be looking to the flame, looking into the flame, and looking through the flame to get us a glimpse of what’s what in the lower levels,” she said. “If other chances come up, like blowing up some kobold bombs, I’ll be using them, don’t ye doubt.”

That seemed to satisfy Bruenor and the gathered dwarves, who nodded their appreciation one after the other.

Catti-brie was glad of that, and glad to leave it at that. She didn’t want to get their hopes up. There was a tentative nature to all of this, and a level of power she knew she could never control if it found a way to break free. Most of all, her communion with the primordial had taught her respect for the primal being—it seemed to her as strong as a god! More than helping her, it wanted to escape, to erupt again in all its magnificent and destructive glory.

And Catti-brie knew something else, without the slightest bit of doubt: the magic of the Hosttower of the Arcane was truly failing, and if that erosion could not be stopped, even reversed, the reign of the dwarves in Gauntlgrym, should they retake the complex, would be short indeed, and would end explosively.

K
obolds,” Tsabrak told Matron Mother Zeerith when he returned to her in her private chambers, just off Q’Zorlarrin’s forge room. “Chased from the upper chambers.”

“And still they came,” Tsabrak agreed. “Some prostrated themselves on the floor and begged us to make of them slaves.”

“The dwarves are formidable.”

“It is an army,” the archmage of Q’Xorlarrin stated. “An army. Not an expeditionary force. An army that could press Menzoberranzan, for a bit at least.”

“An army that will overrun us?” Matron Mother Zeerith asked. “We are formidable with wizards, but it appears that the dwarves have brought more than a few of their own,” Tsabrak replied.

“Matron Mother Baenre knows.”

“These are the dwarves of the citadels of the Silver Marches, where Baenre waged war. Of course she knows.”

“She is waiting for me to call for help.”

The Archmage of Q’Xorlarrin nodded.

“To grovel,” Matron Mother Zeerith said. She lowered her face and closed her eyes, considering her play. Things had not gone well for her in the last couple years. She had lost Brack’thal, her Elderboy, as well as her powerful daughter Berellip, to a party come to rescue the captives brought to her fledgling city by the impetuous and impossible Tiago Baenre. She had lost Saribel and Ravel, her other two children, to House Do’Urden where they now served as nobles. Perhaps Saribel would rise to the level of matron mother there in time, as she was married to Tiago, but as of now, neither of the powerful Xorlarrin nobles were available to Zeerith. And she needed them.

“Has Kiriy returned from her communion?” she asked without opening her eyes.

“Not yet. I expect she has much to inquire about with the Spider Queen.”

Now Zeerith did open her eyes, and she lifted an unappreciative glare at Tsabrak, hardly in the mood for his quips. His shrug reminded her, though, that his position had become more tentative than her own. Tsabrak had channeled the word of Lolth, enacting the Darkening over the Silver Marches. But that Darkening was no more, and Tsabrak and Zeerith could only take that as a sign that the Spider Queen’s defeat in her quest to attain the Weave had left her reeling and retreating from arcane magic.

And that very thing, arcane magic, had been Q’Xorlarrin’s play!

This House, more than any other in Menzoberranzan or any other drow city, stood to gain the most in the event that Lolth continued to turn her attention to the Weave and the domain of Mystra. The Xorlarrin family had long embraced wizardry, and had elevated the male wizards to stations equal to the roles of the female priestesses—privately, of course.

But were they now falling out of favor with Lolth, Matron Mother Zeerith had to wonder? Was it an accident that the dwarf army now appeared in the upper chambers of their fledgling city?

“What word from Faelas and Jaemas?” she asked, referring to the two Xorlarrin nobles who had continued to serve as Masters of Sorcere back in Menzoberranzan and had not yet been called to Q’Xorlarrin.

“The same word. Demons roam the city. All of the Houses are bringing them forth, and in great numbers. Archmage Gromph has recalled Marilith, though she was reportedly recently slain by the weapons master of House Barrison Del’Armgo and should have remained banished.” Tsabrak shook his head, having no answers. “It is all chaos.”

“The matron mother tightens her grip,” Zeerith surmised. “And with Lolth’s favor, so it would seem, if her brother wizard can so warp the ancient rules as to recall defeated demons.”

“You have to call to her,” Tsabrak dared to say.

“To Lolth, or to Quenthel Baenre?”

“Yes,” Tsabrak answered.

Matron Mother Zeerith sighed and nodded, offering the wizard a sympathetic shrug. He had recently held onto hopes for a great ascension, for himself and for his family, in the new domain of the Spider Queen.

“Should we summon demons of our own?” Tsabrak asked. “Is this the way of the dark elves now?”

Zeerith shook her head. She would do no such thing until Kiriy brought her answers. If Lolth was done with the Weave and House Xorlarrin’s aspirations had been crushed, and so Lolth would not now favor the Xorlarrin family or their fledgling city, filling their corridors with demons might facilitate their own doom.

“Has there been any word from Hoshtar?”

“Nothing to help us,” Tsabrak answered. “The last he determined was that Jarlaxle had managed to slip away from House Do’Urden, along with most of his trusted minions, replacing them with new recruits to Bregan D’aerthe. He is likely on the surface, though the possibilities range from coast to coast with that one. Kimmuriel, though . . .”

“Not Kimmuriel!” Matron Mother Zeerith replied. “I’ll not deal with that one—I would rather crawl on the floor in front of Matron Mother Baenre herself and beg her to take our city as her own.”

“I understand your reluctance.”

“He fornicates with illithids,” Zeerith spat. “With his mind, if not his body. To trust Kimmuriel is to trust a creature we cannot begin to decipher. Why Jarlaxle elevated him to lead Bregan D’aerthe, I will never understand.”

“Perhaps Jarlaxle believes that he understands Kimmuriel.”

“Then Jarlaxle fools himself.”

Tsabrak accepted that outwardly with a nod, though Zeerith knew that he—and that she, for that matter—did not honestly believe that the too-clever Jarlaxle ever fooled himself.

“Find Jarlaxle, my friend,” Matron Mother Zeerith said. “In the end, he may prove our only salvation. Only he possesses intimate knowledge of our enemies in the upper halls . . . and of those back in Menzoberranzan. He is the broker.”

“He is always the broker.”

“And never the honest broker,” Zeerith admitted, as much to herself as to Tsabrak. She hated her position. She had worked with Bregan D’aerthe often in the past—her nephew Hoshtar’s greatest achievement was the relationship he had quietly woven between Q’Xorlarrin and Bregan D’aerthe—a potential alliance and trading route the new city would need if they were to compete with House Hunzrin.

Other than that, however, Zeerith had little use for Hoshtar. He was a mediocre wizard at best, who spent more time worrying about the set of his ridiculous red veil than he did his skill in the Art. It was likely, Zeerith knew, that Hoshtar’s incompetence was exactly why he had found some measure of success in dealing with Jarlaxle, for surely Hoshtar could be easily controlled by that one.

“We will find our way, my blessed matron mother,” Tsabrak said with a bow.

Matron Mother Zeerith offered a calm smile and waved him away.

She looked anxiously to the room’s other door, the one leading to the private chapel she had fashioned. Kiriy wasn’t in there, having gone to the main chapel in the primordial chamber for her most important commune.

Perhaps it would do Matron Mother Zeerith good to go and pray as well

“House Do’Urden,” Gromph said to the matron mother. They stood on the balcony of House Baenre, staring across the city to the newest outbreak of demonic violence, along the western wall of the great cavern, at the gates of House Do’Urden.

Quenthel stared and contemplated. This was a move against her, by proxy, and some of those major Houses aligned with her, and supporting her on the council, were surely involved. They were testing her, and more than that, testing the level of support House Baenre would offer to the puppet House Do’Urden. And doing it all with demons, beasts that couldn’t be traced to any one House or another.

“Go there, and take your pet demon,” Quenthel instructed. “I have sent the Xorlarrin cousins from Sorcere to Ravel’s side,” Gromph replied. “Both are masters, their ranks honestly earned. That is a formidable trio of wizards.”

“With their leader, Ravel Xorlarrin, standing to gain if the Matron Darthiir is destroyed,” Quenthel said. “Ravel would like nothing more than to see his sister Saribel ascend to the throne of his new House. Go . . .” She paused.

“No,” she said, shaking her head as she changed her mind. “Go back to Sorcere. Use your powers to find your safe room in Q’Xorlarrin. Check in on Matron Mother Zeerith.”

“Collect her plea for help, you mean.”

Matron Mother Baenre grinned. She walked from the balcony and pointedly shut the door behind her, letting Gromph know that he should be gone immediately, through magical means.

“Glad I am to see you, cousins,” Ravel said to Faelas and Jaemas when the two appeared, quite unexpectedly, in the audience chamber of House Do’Urden.

“You have demons at your gate, cousin,” Faelas said.

“The archmage supposed that you might welcome our help,” Jaemas added.

“More than at our gate,” Saribel said, entering the room. “The bottom floor is thick with manes, and chasme have gained the balcony."

“Where is the Matron Darthiir?” Jaemas asked.

“Hopefully being chopped into mounds of sludge by the axe-wielding balgura that commands the manes,” Saribel said, hardly hiding her sneer. “Dear cousin, High Priestess, she is the matron mother of your House,” Jaemas dared to say, his impertinence drawing wide eyes from the astounded Saribel.

The woman stuttered a few times, as if futilely trying to fashion a response. “Rid this place of demons,” she ordered, and stormed back out of the room.

Ravel considered his older cousins carefully. These two were no minor wizards. Both were Masters of Sorcere, and had been for decades— Jaemas since before the onset of the Spellplague. Most accountings had Jaemas third on the list of successors to the position of Archmage of Menzoberranzan, with Faelas closely behind. Only Tsabrak and Brack’thal had been thought of more highly among the House Xorlarrin cadre of powerful wizards, and then only Tsabrak, when the Spellplague had taken most of poor Brack’thal’s mind.

Still, for a male of any standing, short of the archmage himself, to speak to a high priestess in such a manner, openly, was quite shocking to Ravel. “Where is the Matron Darthiir?” Jaemas asked Ravel.

“In her chambers, as always, other than her jaunts to sit at the council table when High Priestess Sos’Umptu Baenre comes to fetch her."

“Show us,” said Faelas.

Ravel turned a puzzled expression on the younger of the masters.

“We have demons inside the compound . . .”

“Inside the
house,
” Faelas corrected. “So take us to the Matron Darthiir.” The trio moved along the corridors, walking calmly while drow warriors rushed to and fro. Ravel took careful note of the House guard here, suspecting correctly that those warriors associated with the city’s Second House might well be seeking to avoid the fight.

He had no doubt that Barrison Del’Armgo had quietly arranged for this battle.

The corridor leading to the matron mother’s room was strangely empty, but not quiet, as sounds of battle could be heard behind the central, ornate door.

Ravel stopped with surprise, but Jaemas grunted and cursed and rushed ahead, Faelas close behind. As they neared the door, there came a thunderous retort. The doors flew open, and a host of manes came flying out, crashing onto the floor, where they lay twitching and smoking, melting away. A flying chasme demon, a gigantic ugly housefly, sputtered out the open doors, trailing smoke as it crashed hard into the opposite wall.

It, too, fell to the floor and there died.

The wizards turned the corner, eyes wide with surprise—and none were more surprised than Ravel, when he, too, glanced in upon Matron Darthiir Do’Urden, battling ferociously, her metallic quarterstaff spinning gracefully in her hands, darting left and right and swatting aside the demon manes.

In desperate battle had Dahlia found clarity. The worms writhing inside her head could not distract her now, not with demons clawing at her from every angle. Kozah’s Needle was her salvation, building another charge as Dahlia sent it prodding hard into the chest of a manes, then swung it about and tapped it hard on the floor, then broke it into a tri-staff and launched it into an overhead twirl, smacking aside another chasme.

All of her focus stayed on that remarkable weapon, breaking it through its myriad motions and combinations. It was a staff, a tri-staff, bo sticks, flails, at her command and with the subtle workings of her skilled fingers. And she used all of her weapons and repertoire, for in that demanded focus, Dahlia found mental clarity and kept the writhing worms of confusion at bay.

A lightning bolt shocked her, sizzling out to her left and dropping a line of manes.

She noted the drow at the door, noted the second wizard in his spellcasting, and noted his angle.

His lightning bolt shot in as well, to the other side, destroying some manes, but before it could plow through as had the first, Dahlia’s magnificent weapon prodded near it and gobbled up the bolt.

Now she felt the power of the lightning within Kozah’s Needle, and she sent it forth with renewed enthusiasm. She worked it out to the left, then left again, inviting those manes pressing her from the right to push in, clawed fingers reaching for her.

Across came Kozah’s Needle, slamming the two, and Dahlia let free some of the lightning energy, the blast lifting the manes from the floor, throwing them up and back, right over the next in line.

Jaemas and Faelas gawked.

Ravel’s lightning bolt followed, dropping another line of the least demons, and once again swallowed up by Dahlia’s hungry weapon.

Without hesitating, Dahlia rushed forward, leaped into the middle of the pack, and stamped her weapon on the floor, releasing the energy in a mighty circular electrical blast that hurled the manes aside, far from her, where they became easy targets for the three drow wizards with their magic missiles and gouts of flames, and were quickly, summarily destroyed.

Dahlia stood there, then, breathing hard, trying to hold on to the clarity as the worms writhed once more.

“The weapon,” she heard the one called Ravel explain to the others.

“These demons were allowed in here,” said one of the others.