Archmage (31 page)

“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.

E
very patrol led back to this central corridor, one that ran to a great gap in the floor of the upper complex, and more important, ended in a thick door that opened to a landing set just below the ceiling of a vast cavern of the deeper levels.

In darkness and silence Bungalow Thump was down at the end of that corridor, lying flat on the landing floor and peering over the rim into the deep gloom below. Quietly, young King Connerad crept up beside him and similarly gazed into the vast darkness. The two dwarves exchanged looks and a shrug, then Connerad motioned Bungalow back.

They went a long way along the tunnel and down a side passage before they broke their silence.

“Get yer Harpell friends and put some light down there?” Bungalow Thump asked.

“She’s a vast one,” Connerad said. “Got to be a hunnerd ogre feet from here to the floor, if there’s even a floor to be found.” He considered Bungalow’s request for a bit, but couldn’t agree. “We drop a magic light down there and sure that every drow in the lower levels’ll be ready for us. Shinin’ bright in deep tunnels brings them all in for a what-to-do, and not sure I’m liking that with just this one way down. Ropes and slides and all we can put in are still to be leavin’ us hanging high and open if they’re waiting for us.”

“Aye, figured as much, but I had to ask,” said Bungalow Thump.

“Suren that yer duty’s to put it all out afore me, and for that, ye got me gratitude,” Connerad replied.

“Are we knowing where the stair’s at?”

“Right below and folded over in half,” Connerad replied. “That’s what Athrogate telled me o’ the place, at least. The durned drow’ve done a great job in building themselves a stair that can be taken down fast, but not so fast to put back up, so I’m hearin’. So no, me friend, we won’t be slippin’ a few fellows down to the stair and getting it set up for us, if that’s what ye were thinking.”

“All of us fast down on a slide rope then,” said Bungalow. “I’m not feelin’ good about puttin’ me boys on ropes to rappel a hunnerd feet and more to the dark floor. Not with a horde o’ damned drow below shootin’ at us all the way.”

“Silence and darkness and two set o’ three ropes abreast,” Connerad replied. “And know that I’ll be right beside ye.”

Bungalow Thump patted Connerad on the shoulder, never doubting for a heartbeat that his king wouldn’t send him and his boys into a danger that Connerad wouldn’t face right beside them. Connerad’s family name was Brawnanvil, but for all that he was Battlehammer, through and through.

“We got them young Harpell wizards, too,” Connerad reminded.

“Wishin’ we had the old one,” said Bungalow. “And the woman who’s leadin’ ’em. Both can throw a bit o’ lightning and fire, so I’m hearin’.”

“The one girl with this group—said her name’s Kenneally,” Connerad replied, “she’s a flyer and a floater, and with more than a few tricks for such. Might be that she can give us wings, me and yerself, and so we’ll chase our boys down the hole, eh?”

“Kenneally Harpell,” Bungalow reminded him, emphasizing that legendary family name. “So she’ll likely turn us into bats, what!”

“Ha!” said Connerad. “Aye, her and the skinny fellow . . . Tuck-the-Duck?”

“Tuckernuck,” came the correction from the doorway and the two dwarves turned to see the two in question, Kenneally and Tuckernuck Harpell.

“Rest assured, King Connerad, that we two and the others will be of great assistance in getting your force swiftly to the bottom, if that is your wish,” Kenneally Harpell said.

“I’ve a new spell to try for just this purpose,” Tuckernuck added, and the dwarves looked to each other doubtfully, having heard, and seen, much of the leftover effects of “new spells” tried at the Ivy Mansion in Longsaddle, including more than half the statues in the place. More than a few brilliant Harpell wizards had mastered a spell to turn himself or herself into such a statue, and of course, did so knowing the words to reverse the spell but without realizing that as a statue, he or she wouldn’t be able to mouth those words.

“Do tell, boy,” Connerad gingerly prompted.

“Field of Feather Falling,” Tuckernuck replied.

“You fall into it, you float out of it,” Kenneally replied. The dwarves exchanged skeptical looks once more.

“We put it down near the floor, perhaps,” said Tuckernuck. “A long and fast fall into the field and a short float to the fight!”

“Or quick surprise turned into a quick splat, eh?” Bungalow Thump said dryly.

Matron Mother Zeerith sat on the altar stone in the chapel of Q’Xorlarrin, fidgeting nervously. More than once, she imagined taking just a few steps and leaping from the ledge to the fiery maw of the fire primordial.

It was just a passing thought, and nothing she seriously considered. Not yet, at least, but she could well envision a day not too far off when such a suicidal leap into utter oblivion might prove to be her best course. She spun around on the altar stone then and leaned forward to peer into the pit, its sides swirling with water elementals rushing about in their cyclonic frenzy.

High Priestess Kiriy and the wizard Hoshtar entering the chamber. “I do not wish to disturb your communion, Matron Mother,” Kiriy said respectfully, and she bowed low.

“What do you want?” Matron Mother Zeerith snapped in reply. She turned a threatening glare over Hoshtar, who similarly bowed, and had the wisdom to remain low.

“They near the lower positions,” Kiriy explained. “I thought it important that you greet them personally.”

Matron Mother Zeerith winced. “Already?” she whispered under her breath, though she knew she shouldn’t be surprised, for demons were tireless creatures.

“They are to be allowed nowhere near this room,” she said to her daughter. “Or the forge room.”

“It will take one of your supreme station to deter them, Matron Mother,” Kiriy explained. “Mighty Marilith herself leads the throng."

“A marilith . . .” Matron Mother Zeerith said with a sigh. She was hoping that a nalfeshnee, with its strange sense of law and order, would be at the head of the demonic column, or perhaps even some weaker type of major demon, one that she could easily dominate. The six-armed mariliths, though, were exceedingly cunning, and could warp any command to their advantage.

“Not a marilith,” Kiriy said, interrupting Zeerith’s train of thought.

“Marilith herself.”

“Under the suffrage and domination of Archmage Gromph Baenre,”

Hoshtar added, and Matron Mother Zeerith felt as if he were twisting a knife in her back. By all reason, Gromph Baenre should be a friend to the Xorlarrins, a family so strong in male wizards. But whether it was his jealousy, or his fear that one of the Xorlarrins would usurp his high station, such an alliance had never come to pass.

Zeerith sighed again. “Let us go,” she said. “I wish to greet our . . . reinforcements as far from this room as possible.”

Deep in the mines, past the slave miners from Icewind Dale and those few remaining that had been taken from Port Llast, the drow contingent met up with the lesser demons in front of the march from Menzoberranzan.

Matron Mother Zeerith barred their way, and ordered several back to gather Marilith.

Demons continued to press, looking for a way past Matron Mother Zeerith. It wasn’t until she cast a spell of banishment, sending a large vrock back to its Abyssal home, that the others fell into order—at least, as much order as chaotic demons could manage. Still, they all knew that they might soon wash their bodies in mortal blood, and the threat of banishment proved incentive enough to keep them at bay until at last the giant Marilith slithered up to face the Matron of Q’Xorlarrin. “I am here by the word of Archmage Gromph Baenre,” Marilith stated flatly. “Sent to kill dwarves.”

“There are thousands to kill, I am told,” Matron Mother Zeerith replied. “Show me,” Marilith said, and her voice sounded very much like a purr, while the fingers of her six hands eagerly tickled the hilts of her belted weapons.

“There are many tunnels,” Zeerith replied, and she turned and motioned up the sloping corridor. “The first right-hand passages lead to Q’Xorlarrin. The place is secure, do not doubt, and any demons you send down that way will be destroyed or banished, at the least, by my defenses.” Marilith let out a little growl, clearly wanting to go down those tunnels simply because of the overt threat. “And where do the others lead, Matron Mother Zeerith?”

“This way and that,” the matron mother of Q’Xorlarrin replied. “This most ancient dwarven complex is indeed a vast compound, much of it still unexplored by my family. Any time you are climbing nearer the surface, know that you are moving closer to the dwarves who have come to this place, for they have not gained the lower corridors.”

“Then they shan’t,” Marilith decreed, her red eyes flaring, and now her six weapons slid free.

Matron Mother Zeerith wisely used that moment to begin her return to Q’Xorlarrin, her entourage hustling beside her, and with other dark elves ordered to collect the slaves—who would surely have been devoured by the demonic procession—and retreat within the main compound area. By the time Matron Mother Zeerith had returned to her altar room, Q’Xorlarrin had more sentries guarding the lower entrances than those in the areas where the dwarves might come down.

The first good news of the day greeted Matron Mother Zeerith in that altar room, for she found her nephews, the powerful Masters of Sorcere Jaemas and Faelas, waiting for her.

“Well met again, Matron Mother of Q’Xorlarrin,” they said in unison, both bowing deeply and respectfully.

“It has been too long since your beauty has graced our eyes, Matron Mother Zeerith,” Faelas Xorlarrin added.

“Menzoberranzan is a lesser place without you,” Jaemas added. “Enough of your insipid flattery,” Matron Mother Zeerith replied, though it was clear from her tone that she was indeed a bit flattered.

Behind her, High Priestess Kiriy caught that little fact, too, it seemed, for she chortled, drawing an evil glance from her mother.

“Have you spoken with any since your arrival?” Zeerith asked. “Out in the forge room,” Jaemas said, pointing past her. “Then you know that I have been off to greet a column of demonic reinforcements. One led by Marilith, who serves . . .”

“The archmage, yes,” said Faelas. “He brought her to Menzoberranzan after her defeat at the blades of Malagdorl Armgo, and so shamed House Barrison Del’Armgo, or cast doubts upon the tale woven by their weapons master, at least.”

“Matron Mother Baenre chose Marilith to lead the column above even the goristro that now serves her . . .” Faelas started to explain, but Zeerith cut him short.

“To further irk Matron Mother Mez’Barris,” she said with a shake of her head—one that wasn’t full of the glee expected from one of her high station when learning of such diabolical intrigue, but rather, one of disgust. The two wizards didn’t miss it, and they glanced at each other, puzzled. “Help to organize the attack groups,” Zeerith bade her nephews. “Take Hoshtar with you. When the demons engage the dwarves and wound them as I expect, we must be ready to finish the task, and so not allow Gromph and the matron mother all of the glory.”

The wizards nodded.

“That would be wise,” Jaemas agreed, “but first . . .”

He let that hang ominously for a moment, until Faelas added, “We have been to the great stair in the main lower hall, Matron Mother, and have witnessed the tunnels directly above it. You have more immediate problems.”

“You are sure it will work?” Kenneally asked Tuckernuck.

The other Harpell nodded. “It won’t be large, perhaps a score of strides to a side, but all who fall through it will float gently to the ground. You know how long I have been preparing this.”

Kenneally couldn’t miss the flash of anger in his tone, or defensiveness at least.

“It is well over a hundred feet to the floor of the lower cavern,” she reminded him, and indeed, Tuckernuck had flown beside her, invisibly, to scout the room, and so this was not new information to him. “Even a dwarf . . .” She shook her head and let that unsettling thought hang in the air for a moment. “They’ll be down from the landing to your feather fall field in under a three-count, and will be falling fast.”

Tuckernuck nodded. “I know.”

“How high will you put your magic field?”

“Twice my height, no more,” he answered confidently.

“They will be falling fast.”

“And floating the moment they touch the enchantment,” Tuckernuck assured her. “If we put it up too high, the dwarves will be helplessly floating about in the air for too long.”

Kenneally brushed her long brown hair back from her face. She seemed as if she were about to say something, but cut it short before she made a sound.

Tuckernuck smiled at her reassuringly, even reached out and patted her on the shoulder. “It will work,” he said quietly. “We’ll get five hundred battle dwarves in that cavern in short order, including the whole of the Gutbuster Brigade.”

“I should anchor—”

“No!” Tuckernuck said to his powerful cousin, for indeed, Kenneally Harpell was considered among the greatest of their wizards, with mastery of some of the most powerful spells known at the Ivy Mansion. “No. They will need you in other ways, of course. We’ll find battle soon after the first dwarven boots are on the cavern floor, do not doubt.”

The two heard the rumble of marching dwarves then, and so Kenneally nodded and motioned for Tuckernuck to go and prepare the battlefield. The younger cousin pumped a clenched fist and ran off to find his trio of cohorts. After a short confirmation of the positions and plan, they began checking their components and rehearsing the words of the magical ritual.

The youngest of the group cast a spell of flying on herself, became invisible, and flew off for a quick scouting of the cavern to mark the spot.

The others crouched on the platform, staring, looking for the signal. Tuckernuck flexed his fingers repeatedly to allay his nerves.

Back from the group, through the door and in the hallway, Kenneally stood with Connerad and Bungalow Thump at the head of the dwarven force. “You are sure?” she asked the young king, and not for the first time.