Archmage (37 page)

His dearest friend, the greatest warrior he had ever known.

He remembered his own dying words in his previous life, when he had looked into the eyes of his dear friend and whispered, “I found it, elf.” Aye, he had found Gauntlgrym, the most ancient dwarven homeland, the greatest dwarven treasure of all, yet not because of dwarven help but because a dark elf had stood beside his journey for decades, had suffered his wrong turns, had helped him through near-disastrous battles, and in the end, had led the way to put the primordial back in its captivity.

Drizzt had done all of that. For Bruenor. For friendship. Selflessly.

Drizzt, who now had paid, at long last, for Bruenor’s dwarven needs.

The red-bearded dwarf winced, feeling again as if this victory might prove hollow after all. In defiance, Bruenor blew his cracked silver horn. Let the wild spirit of Thibbledorf Pwent come forward, he decided, wanting to ultimately punish those who stood against him.

Far from the roar of battle, the explosions of fire and lightning, the whipping ice storms of Penelope Harpell and the latest shield rush led by Bruenor Battlehammer, the drow ranger lay quietly in the darkness.

His first sensations of semiconsciousness came from his fingers, playing over a familiar shape as they shifted across the onyx figurine of the panther.

Somewhere distantly, Drizzt felt the warmth and heard the name of Guenhwyvar echoing in his thoughts.

Memories would not come back to him—nothing specific at least. Just a feeling of companionship and joy. Images of his friends flashed in the recesses of his mind, of Catti-brie and Bruenor, mostly.

And of Guenhwyvar, the panther, the figurine that served as her beacon so tangible in Drizzt’s weak hands.

He could not hear the cries of dying dwarves, and could not know the battle raging far below, a battle then looking like victory to his friends.

Somehow, though, Drizzt knew better. A pair of great demon leaders, Marilith and Nalfeshnee, were waiting in the shadows and would soon come onto the battlefield and rally the demonic forces and the drow to turn back the tide of dwarves.

Where the hopes and expectations of victory in his dearest friends would suddenly turn to dread.

Another image flashed in his mind, but did not flutter aside. Instead it held him and called to him, demanded of Drizzt that he shake off the irresistible darkness, that he wake up.

He saw Jarlaxle in his thoughts, and when he at last did open his weary eyes, Drizzt saw Jarlaxle once more, standing with Kimmuriel beside his bed.

“Welcome back.”

O
retheo Spikes’s a good one,” Bungalow Thump assured Bruenor.

“He’s got ’em in line, aye!” Bruenor replied, glancing down to his left where the large Adbar contingent centered the dwarven line, with Bruenor and Mithral Hall holding strong on the right flank, King Emerus and the Felbarran leapers holding the left.

It would have been easy for Oretheo Spikes and his Wilddwarves to press too far ahead, and surely that would prove oh-so-tempting to the ferocious band. They were nearest the huge structure that housed the circular stair to the upper levels, the centerpiece of this cavern, the symbol of control of the chamber. And they were Wilddwarves, so akin in attitude, indeed patterned after, the Mithral Hall Gutbusters, who never met an enemy they didn’t eagerly punch, leap upon, shake apart, or bite. The enemy was weaker there too, in the middle, with the stair dispersing the demons and what few remained alive of their goblinkin fodder out to the left and right.

But Oretheo was keeping his boys in line, and the long front ranks of the dwarven charge kept rolling in practiced unison. Inexorable, unstoppable, a rolling, swallowing wave. And as they had planned up above, Bruenor’s end of the line initiated the roll of each wave. King Bruenor alone paced the assault, keeping his own formations tight, keeping his cadence solid and straight.

Magical explosions shook the chamber from all around, coming in from dark elf wizards or demons skulking in the shadows, and going out from Catti-brie and the Harpells. The demons, other than the manes and other lesser creatures, didn’t seem overly bothered by the magical barrage, but neither were the tough dwarves, secure behind their armor and shields, as solid as the stone they mined.

Behind the initial line of fighting, Bruenor noticed something else— and he laughed out loud at the sight. Back there, the demons, who couldn’t get into the fight fast enough to satiate their hateful hunger, had turned on the slave fodder, pulling down goblins and orcs and tearing them to shreds.

“Keep it slow and keep it steady, me boys!” Bruenor yelled. “Let ’em eat their own a bit afore they’re tastin’ me axe for dessert!”

And the cheers rolled down the line, and the dwarven wave rolled on across the cavern floor.

But far down to the left, there came a new commotion, and when Bruenor and the others turned that way, it seemed to them as if the dwarven advance, that metaphorical wave, was suddenly breaking against huge rocks.

Or huge demons, to be more precise.

A six-armed female beauty towered three times the height of the unfortunate dwarves facing her, and an even larger beast, much like the one Athrogate and Ambergris had killed in the mines, only bigger, and, given the dwarves flying and dying in front of him, surely meaner.

Bruenor shouted over to Bungalow Thump, who had scurried back to his line of Gutbusters. “Send Adbar reinforcing to the left!”

Even as he called out, though, a wall of fire appeared down that way, far to the left, down by the Felbarrans. One of the demon leaders had done that, Bruenor guessed easily enough, and behind the roiling flames, King Emerus and his charges had no choice but to fall back.

And worse, all around those two demon leaders, the rest of the horde was suddenly rallying and falling into order. From the beginning of the fight, much like in the halls above, the Abyssal creatures had fought as individuals, each taking any opening to leap forward and attack—and so, out there alone, without support, those too-eager demons had been easy prey for the teamwork of the disciplined dwarves.

But now all of that was fast changing, right in front of Bruenor’s surprised and worried gaze. He heard a low buzzing sound, and knew that this, too, was coming from the demon leaders, from the six-armed female behemoth it seemed. Under that drone, the demons all the way down to this farthest end of the line reformed their ranks, suddenly ready to battle in unison.

The leaders had brought discipline, and powerful magic, and now Bruenor wasn’t feeling that the victory might be hollow. He was wondering if he had led three thousand dwarves into a death trap.

“Fight on, boys!” he called to rally those around him. “Hold close to yer fellows! None o’ us’re to move out to get catched and pulled off!”

He turned to Catti-brie and the Harpells. “Them big ones’re controlling it all.”

“Marilith and Nalfeshnee,” Penelope Harpell replied, shaking her head, her face a mask of dread. She knew of demonkind and understood the great power that had unexpectedly come upon them. “They are demonic nobility in all but title. Mighty leaders have joined our enemies!”

“Ye get me down there,” Bruenor told them. “We’ll be cuttin’ the head from the snake or I’m a bearded gnome!”

“Huzzah!” roared all those dwarves who heard the claim.

But the middle of that cheer seemed to carry on for a long while, a great buzzing drone, and now a swarm of chasme, scores of the flying beasts, swept into the cavern in tight formation.

And those chasme carried barrels of oil heated in the nearby forge, so their bombs began to fall, and great blasts of biting flames erupted all around the dwarven lines.

“Them two’re controlling it!” King Emerus yelled to Ragged Dain, both of them coming to the same conclusion as Bruenor. “We got to get to them!”

But the two in question seemed far beyond the reach of the Felbarran leaders. They loomed as ghostly silhouettes behind the great magical wall of flames that licked and bit at the dwarven line and drove them back.

King Emerus spun and called for the priestess Mandarina Dobberbright. “Ye get me through that wall!” he ordered her.

“Ye canno’ go alone!” she cried back at him, staring through the roiling flames at the beastly demons beyond.

“Do it!” Emerus ordered. “And send others to help me as ye can!” Still shaking her head, Mandarina launched into her spellcasting, putting an enchantment upon Emerus that would protect him more fully from the biting flames than the minor protections that had been offered before the onset of battle.

“Now meself,” Ragged Dain demanded as soon as she had finished. But King Emerus didn’t wait for his shield dwarf. As soon as he felt the enchantment washing over him, he spun and ran off, plunging into and through the wall of fire, and coming out the other side with a roar and a leap.

“Be quick!” Ragged Dain cried, and Mandarina pressed on, as other dwarves tried to breach the wall in pursuit of their daring king, only to be turned back by the unbearable heat.

“Priests!” many yelled, seeking similar enchantments to get them through, or something, anything, that might bring down that wall. And indeed, many dwarf clerics were already approaching the task, attacking the magical fire with dispelling enchantments, a few even creating water to fall upon the flames and dim them.

Ragged Dain began his run even before Mandarina finished her spell, and he only felt the enchantment washing over him as he entered the fires. He didn’t care, though, for at the same time, he heard the ring of metal and knew that King Emerus had joined in battle.

When he burst through the other side of the fire wall, Ragged Dain could only wince, for that battle Emerus had found was with the sixarmed demon herself, and her blades worked in a blur all around him. No novice to battle, indeed as great a warrior as Citadel Felbarr had ever known, old King Emerus fought back valiantly, trying to block, trying to dodge, trying to parry, even trying to counterstrike.

And he seemed to be holding his own. Ragged Dain knew his guess had been correct when the wall behind him dimmed and flashed out. Emerus had taken Marilith’s concentration off her enchantment, and so she could not counter the spells of the many dwarf priests.

But then Emerus came staggering backward, and a swarm of hulking demons, many vrocks and glabrezu among them, rolled around Marilith and Nalfeshnee to shield their leaders.

Ragged Dain caught his king in his arms and fast retreated. Other dwarves similarly rolled around Dain and Emerus to meet the demon charge.

“Me king, oh, me king,” Ragged Dain breathed, and he kept stumbling backward. He soon had to ease Emerus Warcrown down to the floor and as he did, he saw that for all his brilliant efforts, Emerus hadn’t blocked all of those swings. Blood covered his chest and belly, with more spilling fast. “Priests!” Ragged Dain shrieked desperately.

But he knew in his heart that it was too late.

“Ye hold the line,” Bruenor told Bungalow Thump. “Whate’er ye do, ye keep the flank solid!”

“Aye!” the Gutbuster replied, nodding. He, like all the others around, saw the gleam in Bruenor’s eye and understood what the dwarf meant to do.

When Obould’s minions had descended upon Mithral Hall a century before, King Bruenor had left his bed and charged out into Keeper’s Dale. Atop a stone that long-ago day, Bruenor had been the guidepost, the rallying point, the immovable object that would not allow the orcs passage. So it would be again. With these greater demons on the scene, the dwarves would be overwhelmed, would die here by the thousands.

The reclamation of Gauntlgrym would die here, too. Perhaps forevermore.

“Pwent!” he called to the specter he had sent out from the ranks, thinking to bring the spectral warrior along for the fun. But Bruenor then realized his error in calling in Thibbledorf Pwent too soon in the battle. The dwarf was nowhere to be found, and very likely the spirit had been defeated, and so sent back into the enchanted horn. Bruenor growled and shook his head.

“Come on, then,” Bruenor told Mallabritches, Athrogate, and Ambergris, and off they ran, Catti-brie close behind.

“Crossbows up!” Bruenor ordered as he made his way down the ranks, pointing at the chasme and leaving no doubt about the first order of business for every crossbowdwarf. Along with those missiles went lightning bolts, the Harpells trying to blow the ugly creatures out of the air.

By the time Bruenor’s entourage made it past the Adbar contingent, they found King Emerus lying in the arms of a sobbing Ragged Dain. The wall of fire was down, and the Felbarr dwarves were into the battle with the demons once more—but not with the demon leaders, Bruenor noted, for those two giants remained in the back, directing the fight from behind a shield wall of vrocks and glabrezu and other hulking and ugly beasts.

Bruenor was fast to the spot of the fallen king, sliding down beside Ragged Dain. He was surprised to find Emerus still alive.

“Girl!” he called to Catti-brie. “Put yer healin’ on him!”

Emerus reached up and grabbed Bruenor’s forearm. “I tried,” he whispered.

“We’re all knowin’,” Bruenor assured him.

“Ye kill her,” Emerus said with a bloody gasp. “Ye kill ’em both dead. Head o’ the snake.”

Bruenor bent low and kissed his old friend on the forehead, then leaped to his feet, shouted for Catti-brie once more, and charged for the front of the dwarven line, his three battle companions close beside him.

“Get me to ’em!” Bruenor yelled. He leaped upon a giant vulture demon, his axe working furiously, pounding the creature down. He felt the strength of Clangeddin, the wisdom of Moradin, the whispers of Dumathoin. When desperation reared up around him, so, too, did the spirits of the dwarf gods, and his final swat sent the vrock tumbling aside.

The dwarves around him rallied greatly, none more powerfully than Athrogate, with devastating swings of his enchanted morningstars.

But the shell around Marilith and Nalfeshnee was solid, with ranks of mighty creatures, and fight as they may, with the king lying near death, the Felbarrans and Bruenor’s group could not make much headway.

Drow lightning and fire reached out at the mass of dwarves. Chasme rained death from above. All along the line, the demons moved in coordination to Marilith’s buzzing call.

And for all his power and all his strength, for all the spirits of the dwarf gods within him, this time, Bruenor came to realize, it would not be enough. Soon he and those around him were being driven back, and he saw the six-armed demon note him and grin wickedly.

She knew.

And she knew that he knew.

It would not be enough.

Catti-brie worked furiously over King Emerus, the blue magical mist pouring from her sleeve, the divine healing bathing the fallen king. The whole time, though, Catti-brie was shaking her head, fearing that the wounds were too deep and too wicked.

Shouts around her, not from the fighting up front, but from behind, demanded her attention, and even Ragged Dain looked up.

The dwarves in the back were diving aside every which way, some screaming “Poison!” others warning of some Abyssal beast about to materialize in their midst.

Ragged Dain saw it first, a concentrated gray fog sliding through the ranks, coming straight for him, and with a gasp he fell away, throwing his hands up defensively.

Catti-brie, too, let out a gasp, but as it passed them by, the fog didn’t leave her and Ragged Dain on the floor writhing, nor did it pause as it continued its apparently focused sweep beyond them.

The woman leaped to her feet and followed it as it closed on Bruenor and the others. Behind her, Ragged Dain shouted out a warning to the last standing king. Bruenor turned, Ambergris began a spell, and Athrogate took a wild and futile swing at the fog as it went past.

Still it did not stop. And it crossed through the glabrezu and the vrocks, who seemed not to notice.

Then it stopped, hovering for just a moment before it became a swirling vortex of gray mist right in front of the demonic commanders.

And from that swirl came Guenhwyvar, leaping far and high upon Nalfeshnee even as she materialized.

And from that swirling mist came Drizzt Do’Urden, scimitars in hand.

i
still hope
they kill Marilith, at least,
the fingers of Jaemas Xorlarrin signaled to his cousin Faelas in the silent hand code of the drow, as if he was too fearful to speak those words aloud—and indeed, he was.

The more demons who fall now, the better,
Faelas agreed. The drow wizards were thrilled at the turn of the battle, of course, for now it seemed clear that the dwarves would be driven back, perhaps slaughtered to a one. But if that victory came with the added benefit of thinning the demonic ranks enough to ensure that Matron Mother Zeerith could properly control the remaining horde, then all the better.