Archmage (9 page)

“And what is in the west that is so enticing them?” Tiago remarked, walking out to the northeastern edge of the encampment, looking out at the campfires dotting the distant hills.

“Does it matter?”

Tiago spun around, his expression sharp.

“How long do you intend to play this game, Tiago?”

The drow inhaled, nostrils flaring, Doum’wielle thought, as if he meant to leap upon her and throttle her.

“
Duke
Tiago,” she obediently corrected, and she lowered her gaze. “Drizzt will be with them,” Doum’wielle said. “And the woman, Cattibrie. Do not underestimate her. They whisper that she is a Chosen of Mielikki, and her magical powers, both arcane and divine, are considerable."

“Then she can properly consecrate Drizzt’s grave,” Tiago said, turning back to the campfires. “Even without his head.”

Indeed
, Khazid’hea said in Doum’wielle’s mind, and the woman chuckled. Tiago spun back again.

“You doubt me?” he said with a growl.

“The thought of a headless Drizzt amuses me,” Doum’wielle said, and she wasn’t lying.

“And you will amuse me,” Tiago said and started for her. “Now.” Doum’wielle lowered her gaze once more, and when Tiago pushed her down to the bedroll, she did not resist.

Patience
, her magical sword told her repeatedly throughout her ordeal, the long-plotting sentient weapon assuring her over and over again that she would get her revenge, but in a more profound and satisfying way. A short while later, it was Doum’wielle’s turn to linger at the northeastern edge of the firelight, looking out over the rolling hills to the campfires of the distant dwarven encampments. Despite her resolve to suppress her wistful nature, her thoughts drifted farther to the east, and inevitably out across the river. She loved the Glimmerwood in the winter, when the pine branches bent low under the weight of new-fallen snow. She thought of sleigh rides she had taken along the paths between those trees, the heavy canopy creating an enchanting roof of bending branches and multiple skylights, the stars shining through to evoke wispy sparkles all about the snowpack.

She heard the elfsong in her mind, the many voices lifting to the starlit sky, past the natural canopy, calling to the patterns of twinkling lights they had named for this creature or that. The Rushing Crayfish had ever been Doum’wielle’s favorite, with a cluster of bright stars outlining one huge claw, dimmer stars showing the second as a smaller outline, as if the astral creature was reaching forward with that one claw, beckoning. And it was a call Doum’wielle wanted to answer, then and now. Her eyes drifted up to the heavens, to a million million stars twinkling in the cold night.

There were no stars in the Underdark, in Menzoberranzan. It had its own beauty, surely, with the faerie fire limning the stalactites and stalagmites. But it didn’t have stars.

And the elves of Menzoberranzan didn’t lift their voices as one to the heavens.

Patience, Little Doe,
the woman heard in her mind. Images of great glory and greater power filled her thoughts, and she lost sight of the stars above as surely as if a heavy cloud front had swept in and stolen the eternal mystery. Two tendays later, Tiago and Doum’wielle were awakened one bright morning by the sound of drums. Remembering the significance of this day, the pair rushed to a high vantage point on a steep-sided hillock, and peered against the glare of the rising sun to the southeast. There marched the dwarves, under a banner of a living fire in humanoid form, its arms uplifted and holding a great anvil and throne. The leading troupe crossed to the south of Tiago and Doum’wielle’s position, their line stretching far back, with many pack mules, heavily laden.

And with a drow on a white unicorn trotting easily beside an auburnhaired woman astride a similar mount, but one that seemed made of the essence of light itself, spectral and sparkling.

Doum’wielle looked at Tiago, the drow fixated on the vision. His every dream marched in front of him.

“Well, that was unnecessary,” Jarlaxle quipped when Gromph warped into the room where he and Kimmuriel waited.

“You think me frivolous?” There was a decidedly deadpan tone to Gromph’s voice, as if the words were simply a prelude to a storm. “Or foolish,” Jarlaxle replied. “Why would you taunt an ancient wyrm?"

“You think me weak?” Gromph asked, with that most sinister edge to his voice that he had perfected over the centuries. And the storm clouds seemed closer to Jarlaxle. And darker.

“I think a dragon mighty, and fear you underestimate—”

“So now I am a fool?”

Jarlaxle sighed.

“He knew that he could escape instantly,” Kimmuriel interjected, as he psionically imparted to Gromph,
Jarlaxle thinks it was truly you standing before the wyrm, and not merely a clever image. In that regard, you must admit that his concerns are valid. A dragon is, after all, a dragon.

Gromph let his amusement flow back to the drow psionicist.

“With the psionic teleport you have taught him,” said Jarlaxle.

“Taught?” Kimmuriel replied. “That is not the correct word. I have opened possibilities. The archmage has learned how to walk through those less-than-tangible doors.”

“It is not the first time I have used this new ability,” Gromph reminded them. “I find it . . . interesting.”

“That you were able to concentrate so fully as to succeed speaks well of your discipline, Archmage,” Kimmuriel said with a bow. “I am impressed that one of your meager training has come so far.”

“I wanted to see if I could perform the teleport under extreme duress,” Gromph said, his gaze darting back and forth at both of his companions, gauging their reactions.

“Well played, then,” said Jarlaxle.

“You heard my conversation with the wyrm?”

Jarlaxle nodded.

“Tiago is almost certainly alive. Find him.”

“I would hope to find his body. For that task, I would actually . . . well, search,” said Jarlaxle.

“It was not a request,” Gromph said. “Find Tiago. Put out your scouts, all of them. Tiago is alive and in the North. Find him.”

“So that you can retrieve him for Quenthel and all will be forgiven?” Jarlaxle dared to reply. “And will you then betray my actions to our sister, brother, to better your own prospects in her court?”

He expected a tirade, of course, but surprisingly, Gromph did not react angrily.

“I’m not going to betray you for your role in bringing the copper wyrms to the fight,” he said. “Not yet. But I warn you, do not give me reason to do so. I know what you did,
brother
. Never forget that.”

Gromph paused and sighed, then said, “I go!” And he did, instantly disappearing from the room.

“A strange encounter,” Jarlaxle remarked.

“Both of the archmage’s encounters this day, I agree,” said Kimmuriel.

“There is a sadness to Gromph,” said Jarlaxle.

“Lolth lost her quest for the domain of magic.”

“Worse, had she won, Gromph now understands that the benefit would have been reserved for the matron mothers and their female protégés. He stands at the pillar of his power, and knows that is not so high a tower in the City of Spiders.”

Kimmuriel shrugged as if it did not matter, and Jarlaxle smiled knowingly. Kimmuriel, after all, didn’t seem to measure his worth by such metrics. His reward was knowledge alone, as far as Jarlaxle could decipher.

“The archmage will find his way,” was all Kimmuriel said, and he started for the exit from the cavern Bregan D’aerthe had taken as a base in the Silver Marches.

“It wasn’t him,” Jarlaxle said, stopping Kimmuriel cold just a couple of strides from the corridor. The psionicist slowly turned to regard the grinning mercenary.

“Standing before the dragon,” Jarlaxle explained. “Do you think so little of me as to believe that I would be fooled by a magical illusion, a projected image?”

Kimmuriel started to respond, but bit it back, and Jarlaxle smiled knowingly, quite pleased that his psionicist friend was clearly realizing the context of his remarks. After all, Kimmuriel had only made the demeaning quip concerning Jarlaxle telepathically to Gromph.

And Kimmuriel had no reason at all to believe the Jarlaxle could so eavesdrop on a psionic communication.

Which of course, Jarlaxle could not. He had merely guessed regarding Kimmuriel’s silent interactions with the archmage. But now, of course, given Kimmuriel’s reaction, Jarlaxle knew that his guess had hit the mark.

“How many of our scouts will you need to find Tiago?” a shaken Kimmuriel asked, trying to change the subject.

“Just you,” Jarlaxle replied, and the psionicist cocked an eyebrow suspiciously.

“If Tiago is alive, then he’s after Drizzt, and so will not be far afield of Bruenor’s march,” Jarlaxle explained. “I have Athrogate and Amber already in place among Bruenor’s entourage. Use your psionic energies to see through the eyes of those the dwarves march past and we will find Tiago, and so you can deliver to Gromph that which he desires.”

Kimmuriel nodded and left, and Jarlaxle leaned back against the wall, considering the whole of that encounter. Something was going on that was beyond his understanding. Something with Kimmuriel, probably perpetrated by Kimmuriel, and likely involving Gromph. He wasn’t afraid that Kimmuriel was trying to be rid of him to claim sole leadership of Bregan D’aerthe. Quite the contrary—Kimmuriel wanted Jarlaxle around so he did not have to assume the mundane burdens of such a role.

No, it was something else, Jarlaxle figured, something extraneous to him, something beyond the scope of, and purview of, Bregan D’aerthe even.

Seven dwarves led the vast procession of the Silver Marches army from the Surbrin Bridge, marching in ranks of two, three, and two. King Bruenor Battlehammer centered the leading formation in the second rank, flanked by Bungalow Thump and Connerad Brawnanvil, with Amber Gristle O’Maul and Athrogate close behind as his personal bodyguards.

Two other bodyguards had joined Bruenor’s personal entourage at the beginning of the march, gifts given to him by King Emerus Warcrown in his last declaration as leader of Citadel Felbarr. And to be sure, the dwarf lasses Fist and Fury—Mallabritches and Tannabritches Fellhammer— could not have been more thrilled at their permanent assignment, especially when their old friend Bruenor positioned them right in front of him.

Right in front of all of them, leading the march!

M
atron Mother Mez’Barris Armgo of the Second House of Menzoberranzan tried not to look shocked when, yet again, major demons entered the chamber of the Ruling Council.

“Is this to be the new normal, Matron Mother?” she dared to ask a very smug Quenthel Baenre when Nalfeshnee—a most horrid beast with a great rounded belly and leathery wings too small to support its great girth—wobbled out of the room, mercifully taking its stench with it. The ridiculousness of the bulky creature’s appearance somehow added to the menace of the beast, as if Nalfeshnee and other demons of his type were intentionally mocking conventions of beauty. “Are we to be entertained by the antics of demons with each meeting, instead of discussing the very real problems we now face in the wake of the disaster in the Silver Marches?” Mez’Barris continued.

“Disaster?” the matron mother replied incredulously. “We scarred the land, sacked a great human city, and left the kingdoms of Luruar in disarray. And all for the cost of a few drow lives. Disaster? Do you think Lady Lolth would agree with, or appreciate, your description, Matron Mother Mez’Barris?”

“I think we gained nothing, nor did the dragons.”

“That is your opinion. To my eyes, our journey to the World Above was well worth the effort and the cost of a few warriors, mostly males.” She paused there and smiled wickedly at Matron Mother Mez’Barris. “And only a very few noble drow.”

Only two, actually, they both knew, and both those fallen from House Barrison Del’Armgo, if the rumors of Tiago’s survival proved true.

“Do the demons trouble you?” Matron Mother Baenre asked. “They are servants of the Spider Queen, are they not? The physical manifestation of chaos itself. We should consider ourselves blessed that so many have chosen to haunt our city.”

Even Matron Mother Baenre’s allies on the Ruling Council bristled a bit at that—except for Sos’Umptu, of course, who sat with the same smug expression as her sister the matron mother, and Matron Darthiir Do’Urden, the surface elf named Dahlia, who sat with the same blank stare that she always brought to council. The demons were growing unmanageably thick about the city, and bringing havoc to every House, even those of the Ruling Council.

Even House Baenre.

In that light, the others all understood that the only one benefitting from the presence of so many demons was probably Quenthel Baenre herself, her position growing more secure with the ever-present troubles distracting any who might plot against her.

But since they were all coming to understand this new reality . . .

“They are glorious creatures, gifts of the Spider Queen to us, the priestesses who have the knowledge and power to summon them,” Matron Mother Baenre declared.

“They are summoning their own now,” Matron Miz’ri remarked.

“Minor minions,” said the matron mother.

“A pack of glabrezu marched past my gate this very day,” Matron Mother Byrtyn Fey argued. “A pack! A score of the brutes. They alone could likely topple some of the lesser Houses.”

“They are too undisciplined to so organize,” Sos’Umptu Baenre said from the back of the room. “You need not fear.”

“I do not fear!” Matron Mother Byrtyn Fey retorted angrily, standing and pounding her small fist on the spider-shaped council chamber in a most unexpected and very out-of-character display. She turned to stare hard at the matron mother. “My priestesses ask Lolth for the permission to begin banishing the demons, and the moment the Spider Queen gives her assent, I will make it my duty to cleanse Menzoberranzan of any Abyssal creatures who are not willing to submit to the will of the Ruling Council. Enough, Matron Mother, I beg!”

Quenthel stared impassively at Matron Mother Byrtyn Fey. She leaned forward in her chair, just a bit, and brought her hands up onto the table in front of her, interlocking the fingers. She didn’t lash out, and she didn’t blink, her posture and poise screaming at Byrtyn Fey to continue—and at the same time, warning the diminutive fool that she probably would be much better off doing no such thing.

Byrtyn Fey, who had witnessed the incarnation of Lolth’s avatar at her Feast of the Founding, who had lost her House’s high priestess, her daughter Minolin, to the favored Quenthel and House Baenre, was wise enough not to continue. She quietly slipped back down to her chair.

The matron mother was pleased at that. Quenthel had tightened her grip on the city and the council once again. Even her allies were none too happy. But they were paralyzed, all of them, by the threat of so many demons wandering Menzoberranzan. They were all, even Mez’Barris Armgo, so consumed by trying to keep their compounds secure and their nobles and other notables alive, that they had no opportunity to organize against House Baenre.

Because they knew.

The demons were Quenthel’s doing, mostly, though now the creatures had indeed taken to gating in other creatures from the Abyss on their own.

And if they were Quenthel’s doing, then she had done so with the blessing of Lady Lolth.

They knew.

Quenthel couldn’t suppress her wicked smile.

Malagdorl Del’Armgo, weapons master of Barrison Del’Armgo, cut a striking figure among the downtrodden of the Braeryn, the poorest and most crowded district of Menzoberranzan, a place so full of offal, living and not, that it was commonly referred to as
Quis’ kenblum
, the Stenchstreets.

“Uthegental!” one sickly drow male said from a decrepit doorway, and when the weapons master spun on him, he fell away with a cry and gasp.

But in truth, the weapons master of Barrison Del’Armgo smiled upon hearing the name, the name of his great uncle, who, by Malagdorl’s estimation, was the greatest weapons master to ever serve in Menzoberranzan. That very morning, under the guidance of Matron Mother Mez’Barris, Malagdorl had shaved the sides of his head and spiked the short top hair in a thick row, like a line of white teeth running from his forehead over his crown and to the base of his skull.

Matron Mother Mez’Barris herself had cooked the rothé udders to fashion the thick hair gel, and had added a bit of enchantment to it, Malagdorl believed, for she had chanted quietly when she had thickly applied it. Subsequently, he knew that it was more than pride that had swelled his already considerable muscles as the unguent had settled on his dark skin.

So, too, had enchantments been placed upon the other baubles given the weapons master of House Barrison Del’Armgo this day, the mithral ring piercing his nose and the gold pins stuck through his cheeks. These were not the same ones that had decorated the face of Uthegental, as those had been lost in the war with the dwarves in Mithral Hall, but Malagdorl didn’t doubt the powers imbued in these replacements. One pin would close his wounds, while the other afforded great biting power to his square jaw, and magical volume to his battle cries.

Matron Mother Mez’Barris had been cryptic about the powers of the nose ring, but Malagdorl held faith that they were considerable indeed. She had promised him that it would prove the most valuable item of all if ever he found himself in dire trouble.

No replacement pieces were needed for the black plate armor and great trident Malagdorl carried this day, for these were the very armor and weapons wielded by Uthegental. How shocked had the young weapons master been the previous night when his matron mother had revealed to him the great prizes. How she had obtained them, how they had ever been recovered after a century or more, he could not begin to guess.

Nor did he much care. He was Malagdorl Del’Armgo now, not merely Malagdorl Armgo, granted the full surname by the matron mother of the House, in accordance with the honors given to Uthegental. Outfitted now with powerful items, he would carry on the tradition and live up to the savage reputation of Barrison Del’Armgo weapons masters.

He reached over the side of his subterranean lizard mount, his great trident held upright, and tapped the butt of the weapon on the floor, signaling for the others to halt.

The six elite guards did, dismounting efficiently and drawing their weapons as they fanned out wide about the weapons master.

Malagdorl commanded a garrison of a thousand well trained and magnificently armed and armored warriors, and among that regiment, these six were among the finest, all handpicked by Malagdorl himself.

He slipped off the side of his disciplined lizard mount and motioned to the drow warrior nearest the door where the sickly male had been.

That Armgo warrior rushed into the hovel, returning just a few heartbeats later with a terrified male, and with another couple of drow, male and female, as well. He herded them over to stand in front of the imposing figure of Malagdorl.

And it was an imposing figure. Uthegental’s armor had not needed alteration to fit this huge and powerful dark elf. Malagdorl stood above six feet tall, and though not quite as thick as Uthegental—yet—he was near to two hundred pounds, almost all of it muscle.

“There are demons about, I am told,” he said to the sickly looking drow who had named him as Uthegental from the doorway.

The poor fellow seemed confused, as did his companions, and he wagged his head about, scanning, then pointing to a chasme demon, like a huge and ugly rot fly, buzzing the rooftops along a nearby lane.

“Something bigger and more formidable!” Malagdorl scolded, and the drow shrank away from him.

Malagdorl started to reach out, thinking to throttle the Houseless fool, but a shriek from nearby stayed his hand and saved the sickly drow weakling. All seven of Malagdorl’s troupe turned as one to regard a large structure in the midst of the rundown region.

The door banged open and out staggered another Houseless drow rogue, stumbling to the hitching post set in front of the inn, tumbling over it to lie twitching on the stone boulevard, thrashing from some internal agony, likely poison.

The sounds of swordplay rolled out of the open door, and more dark elves appeared, stumbling and scrambling to get away.

Malagdorl grinned and nodded at the door, and his troupe set off as one, ready to make their mark, for the glory of House Barrison Del’Armgo.

“A marilith,” Malagdorl whispered as they neared the door and noted the demon wreaking havoc inside, with six arms swinging deadly weapons and that serpentine body slithering about.

Malagdorl reached his left hand into his belt pouch and brought forth fingers dripping with red dye, which he streaked across the left side of his face. He flipped his magnificent trident to the other hand and similarly dipped his right hand into a second pouch, this time bringing it forth dripping with yellow dye.

To the drow around him, all older veterans, he looked even more like the reincarnation of Uthegental. And so they followed him into the inn, into the waiting embrace of the six-armed demon.

Quenthel Baenre glided through the corridors of House Baenre with her chin up and shoulders back, feeling no weight whatsoever from the myriad complaints rolling in at her and about her from the other noble Houses. They could only complain with a modicum of volume, for they all knew that Matron Mother Baenre acted in accordance with the demands of the Spider Queen.

Still, for all her resolve, the matron mother couldn’t begin to manage a smile as she passed the servants and minor nobles. All bowed before her, many even prostrating themselves on the floor as she passed. Her dour mood, though, was not due to the demons but rather the child she now sought.

She moved into Gromph’s private quarters, fearing no wards or glyphs, for he had given her permission to enter at her convenience—she was the matron mother, after all, and if one of Gromph’s wards injured her, the retribution upon the archmage would be swift and deadly. Lolth had demanded no less from him, and as troublesome as Gromph Baenre could be, he would not, Quenthel knew, go directly against the Demon Queen of Spiders, particularly not in this place, House Baenre, where any transgressions would be fast relayed to Lolth’s ears.

Inside the room, she found High Priestess Minolin Fey Baenre, standing at the ready, a spider-shaped dagger in her hand, a look of anguish on her pretty face.

She wasn’t moving. She didn’t even seem to be breathing. She just stood there, the knife held at the ready in an overhand grip, her legs anchored as if she had been moving with speed and intent, but had then been simply locked in place.

A spell of holding, the matron mother surmised.

And there was the child, Yvonnel, sitting on the floor and playing casually nearby, as if nothing were amiss. The sight disturbed Quenthel profoundly, for she knew the true identity of this child. This was Yvonnel, her niece, but so, too, was it Yvonnel, her mother. The illithid had gone to the child in the womb and had imparted the memories and insights of Yvonnel the Eternal, much as Methil had given the same to Quenthel.

Quenthel suspected that Methil’s work with the baby had been more comprehensive than that which the illithid had given to her.

She stared at the baby playing casually on the floor while a high priestess with clear murderous intent stood frozen in place, helpless against the power the child could wield.

A high priestess!

But no, Quenthel soon realized, Minolin Fey’s enchanted state was not the handiwork of the toddler, for within an antechamber, the matron mother noted some movement, and recognized, too, the source of that movement: a handmaiden of Lolth.

“Well met, daughter of Gromph,” Quenthel greeted the child, who slowly turned to regard her.

“We have met many times, Quenthel,” the child said, and Quenthel had to remind herself to suppress her anger at the lack of respect and the familiarity shown her. This was no ordinary child, no mere niece to the latest Matron Mother Baenre.

“Both in this life, and in mine past,” the child said, and she went back to playing with the rothé bones.

“Your guardian?” Quenthel asked, motioning to the antechamber.

“Minolin Fey’s, more likely,” said the child, never looking up from her game. “Had the priestess continued her stalking of me, I would have obliterated her. Still, I feel for the poor, confused Minolin Fey. I can hardly blame her for her frustration, even her murderous intent. Alas, but I have robbed her of her attempt at motherhood, so it would seem.”