Archmage (41 page)

Stumbling, Gromph rushed across the bridge, nearly overbalancing and tumbling to his death into the pit more than once. He steadied himself as he came across, though he kept looking back the way he had come, as if expecting some great monster to come in close pursuit.

“Bah, but what trick’s this?” Bruenor demanded, rushing to Matron Mother Zeerith, who stood there shaking her head and seeming at a complete loss.

Drizzt, too, didn’t know what to make of this. He recognized the archmage, but why would that one come now, and why would he cross over to their side of the pit? For surely Gromph Baenre could have destroyed them all from across the way.

Drizzt’s confusion turned to horror, though, when Catti-brie ran out in front of him to meet the charge of the archmage.

“You cannot be here!” she cried, lifting her enchanted staff at the drow. “Be gone!”

Gromph skidded to a stop, and seemed for all the world as though he only then realized there were others in the room. He looked at the woman opposing him, his amber eyes, bloodshot now and with scratches all around them, flaring dangerously.

But Catti-brie didn’t blink and didn’t back down.

Swirling mists gathered in Gromph’s wake, as if the very floor was awakening to his passage, to his call.

And small fires danced behind Catti-brie as she stalked opposite, keeping herself squared to the dangerous drow.

Drizzt moved up beside Zeerith, but suddenly felt as if this whole thing was quite beyond him. He looked to Zeerith, and could tell that she, too, wanted nothing to do with the battle that simmered on the ledge in front of them all.

“Do not challenge me, foolish woman,” Gromph warned. “Not now.”

“If you come intending battle, you will face me,” Catti-brie said. The fires behind her flared more intensely, and forms appeared in them, alive and begging release.

But Gromph’s gray mists, too, took shape, diabolical and dark.

The archmage growled and reached out behind him, turning to face the antechamber across the way. With a growl he let loose a tremendous bolt of lightning that sizzled across the pit, arcing and sparking through the archway to resound sharply within the stones of the small chamber. The bolt was so powerful it left all the air of the large chamber smelling like a battered field after a violent thunderstorm.

“I will be followed,” he growled in response to Catti-brie’s puzzled look. “That chamber must be sealed!”

“Do it! Oh, do it!” cried another voice, and all turned to see Jarlaxle stumbling into the room. “Shut it! Destroy it! Eliminate it! Oh, quickly!

“You know?” Gromph demanded.

The flames rushed in at Catti-brie, leaping upon her and limning her form. She lifted her staff, which blackened, hot lines of fire veining it.

“Dull the power of the water beasts,” Catti-brie demanded, in a voice that seemed different then, hissing and crackling as if infused with the stuff of fire.

Gromph launched into a spell, as did Penelope, Kipper, and Toliver, all rushing over. One spell designed to mute magic after another went into the pit, assailing the swirl of water elementals, driving them from the area immediately below the antechamber.

And all the while, Catti-brie cast her own enchantment, calling to the primordial to rise up. The chamber shook, all the complex of Gauntlgrym rumbled under the power of the godlike beast. Up came a wall of lava carrying great black boulders, targeted by the will of Catti-brie. The eruption leaped above the level of the stunned companions, exploding into the antechamber across the way, the lava stones crashing and bouncing off the walkway bridge in their descent. So violent was the belch of the rumbling primordial that it sent half the onlookers tumbling to the floor.

But not Catti-brie, who held her ground and held fast her concentration, her demands to the fire beast.

It was over as abruptly as it had started, the molten vomit settling back into the pit, the water elementals leaping back into their entrapping spin. Gusts of steam filled the chamber, turning everything ghostlike, but when the mists cleared enough, Drizzt could see that the walkway across the pit was no more, smashed and brought down by falling boulders, and the angry orange glow of the lava filling the antechamber fast darkened to black as it cooled, entombing the lever and the room.

Drizzt looked for Catti-brie and found her, standing opposite Gromph, the two wizards once again staring at each other threateningly.

Drizzt inched forward, ready to leap upon the archmage if he made a move against Catti-brie.

But Gromph Baenre, who had just fled the most feared beast of the lower planes, offered only a respectful bow.

Catti-brie didn’t blink, and she threw off her fiery coat, the living flames rushing at her demand to leap upon the thick webbing that covered the back wall of House Xorlarrin’s altar room. The webs disintegrated under the touch of the living flames, the spiders shrieked and curled in smoky death, and Matron Mother Zeerith gasped and stumbled back to fall into a sitting position on the altar stone.

Gromph’s lips curled in a smile, and to the shock of all in the room, he bowed to Catti-brie yet again.

Then Catti-brie wore a curious expression, and it seemed to Drizzt as if she were listening to something, as if the archmage, perhaps, was silently in her thoughts, speaking to her.

“You need us,” Catti-brie said at length. “And I need you.”

The mighty Archmage Gromph Baenre looked at the woman curiously.

But he did not disagree.

T
hat same busy day, the fifteenth of Nightal in Dalereckoning 1486, the Year of the Nether Mountain Scrolls, when the boundary of the Faerzress was broken and the dwarves claimed victory in Gauntlgrym and Demogorgon entered the Underdark of Faerûn, Bruenor Battlehammer stood in front of the Throne of the Dwarf Gods in the upper audience hall of Gauntlgrym.

In the seat in front of him rested the body of Connerad Brawnanvil, Twelfth King of Mithral Hall.

“Gairm mi Conneradhe Brawnanvil Ard-Righ a’ chiad air Gauntlgrym!”
Bruenor said, thus declaring Connerad as the First King of Gauntlgrym, and a great cheer and clanging of tankards together echoed through the great hall.

“Adhlaic Conneradhe comh-glormhor,”
cried Bruenor. “Bury Connerad in glory!”

No sooner was Connerad taken away than King Emerus Warcrown was helped into the seat by Ragged Dain and Mandarina Dobberbright. The old king rested back comfortably, though his breathing sounded slow and labored.

“Me old friend, ye’ve earned yer spot here,” Bruenor whispered to him, leaning forward and putting his lips very near Emerus’s ear. “I thank ye for lettin’ me give Connerad the place o’ honor as the first.”

“Aye,” Emerus responded. It seemed like he might want to say more, but clearly, he hadn’t the strength.

“And now’s yer turn,” Bruenor whispered. “Ye’ll rule well.”

He started to back off, to formerly announce the new King of Gauntlgrym, but with sudden and surprising strength, Emerus grabbed him by the collar and tugged him back.

“No,” Emerus whispered in Bruenor’s ear. “Moradin’s callin’ me, me friend. It’s time.”

Bruenor pulled back and stood straight. He wanted to argue, but saw the light already leaving the gray eyes of old Emerus Warcrown.

“Gairm mi Emerus Warcrown Ard-Righ an darna air Gauntlgrym!”
Bruenor declared as loudly as he could, for he knew that Emerus, dear Emerus, was already slipping far, far away, and he wanted his dear old friend to hear the proclamation that he might carry it proudly to the table of Moradin.

Soon after, the shouts echoed throughout the reclaimed dwarven homeland, from the entry cavern to the Forge, “All hail Bruenor Battlehammer, Third King of Gauntlgrym!”

Demogorgon’s path of devastation meandered from Sorcere on Tier Breche to the exit of the cavern housing Menzoberranzan, leaving in its wake great piles of rubble, including large sections of more than one drow manor, and many dead dark elves, and scores more who had been driven mad by the mere sight of the great and terrible beast.

The whole city held its collective breath, for though the march of the Prince of Demons took only a short while, so great echoed the cries, so horrified sounded the calls, that every House huddled down as quietly as possible, not wanting to attract any attention.

Accusations would flow soon enough, and fears expressed, and venomous words issued, from one House to another, and many toward Baenre, but behind every angry word sounded fear, true and not without cause.

How much greater would the consternation and tribulation have been if the drow of Menzoberranzan saw then the walls of the Faerzress, where more flares of brilliant and powerful light sparked as other demon lords sought to pass the broken boundary.

In Errtu’s lair in the Abyss, the Spider Queen Lolth purred contentedly. With her rivals soon to be gone, she would find great gains.

What had at first seemed garish now resonated as respectful, as the bodies of the two dead kings, both heroically posed, were set on small pedestals behind the Throne of the Dwarf Gods. Connerad and Emerus appeared as they had in life, only now they were entombed in a skin of cooling lava Catti-brie had crafted.

The elemental had told her this was the way the dwarves had done it in the early days of the original Gauntlgrym, preserving their kings in a coat of black stone. Indeed, following the guidance of the elemental beast, the dwarves dug out long-broken hallways and uncovered a most ancient burial ground, and there found the graves of Gauntlgrym’s earliest residents. They found no perfect statues, like the ones they had just created for Connerad and Emerus, but the top slabs of the many cairns they did discover were fashioned with a bas-relief of the dwarf entombed within.

And so King Bruenor ordered that the graveyard be fully opened, and demanded proper cairns for every dwarf that had fallen in retaking this ancient Delzoun home.

Catti-brie informed Drizzt a few days later.

“A statue akin to Connerad and Emerus, and not a simple grave?"

“The first dwarf to fall in the reclamation of Gauntlgrym,” Cattibrie replied.

“Your pet primordial will oblige, I expect,” Drizzt said with a chuckle. “My pet . . .” Catti-brie replied with a sigh, for that, she understood very pointedly, was hardly the case. In fact, she was already beginning to understand that the beast was more eagerly seeking release.

“On the wall opposite the throne,” Catti-brie explained. “Bruenor wants Pwent where he can see him when holding court. To draw strength.”

Drizzt nodded. It seemed reasonable.

“He’s asked Penelope and Kipper to retrieve the body from Longsaddle, that it can be properly interred,” Catti-brie explained, and Drizzt nodded again.

“I am going with them,” the woman added, and there was more in that declaration than her simple round-trip intentions for Bruenor’s errand, Drizzt knew. She was telling him, reminding him, that she meant to settle there, in Longsaddle.

Drizzt nodded yet again, and smiled, though it was hard for him to do so. He had been beside Bruenor for so very long—the idea of leaving now was not an easy thing to absorb.

But he would accompany Catti-brie, he knew, if not this time then the next, when she would travel to Longsaddle to make it her home.

“You have time, my love,” Catti-brie assured him. “We have so very much work to do. I wish to make the reign of my father the king a long one, but that will not be, unless . . .”

Drizzt looked at her curiously.

“The magic is failing,” Catti-brie said. “The fire beast will find its way out of the pit long before King Bruenor is dead of old age.”

“You said ‘unless.’ ”

“There may be a way,” the woman replied. “I have much to do.”

Among the reconstruction, the further securing of the mines and newly discovered chambers, fortifying the lower levels and sealing off the wild Underdark, beside the shouts of gang leaders directing the labor, the first hiss of Gauntlgrym’s ovens, the first rings of dwarven smithy hammers, King Bruenor Battlehammer focused his attention on the throne room, to make it his own.

He would put the statue of Thibbledorf Pwent, the encased mummy of his loyal shield dwarf, up on the wall directly in front of his throne. From that he would draw strength.

And so, too, would he draw strength from the grand chair he installed to the right of his throne, the one into which he invited Mallabritches Fellhammer, to great celebration.

Greater celebration found the halls of Gauntlgrym soon after, when a third grand chair was placed, this time to the left of the throne, and there sat Fist, Tannabritches Fellhammer, healed and feisty and ready for battle.

“Two queens, eh?” more than one dwarf snickered and winked whenever the subject of that third chair came up in the gossip of the halls.

“Ah, but suren Bruenor’ll lucky-like find that this was the way in the days of old, eh?” one or another would always answer.

Bruenor didn’t care about the jokes or winks or any hint of scandal. He was following the whispers of the dwarf gods. He was following the echoes in his heart.

He was Bruenor, Bruenor Battlehammer, Third King of Gauntlgrym.

He wasn’t restless, as he had been in the days of his previous life in Mithral Hall. The road did not call to him, not now at least. This was where he belonged. This, he believed, was why he had been allowed back to Faerûn in a living body.

“You’re mad,” Penelope Harpell scoffed when Catti-brie outlined the plan to her, Kipper, and, surprisingly, Jarlaxle—who had shown up in their camp quite unexpectedly—to the Harpells, at least—on the first night back on the surface above Gauntlgrym, on the road to Longsaddle.

“You do not understand the power with which you are dealing,” Kipper chimed in, shaking his head doubtfully.

“I understand that the power is safely contained in the pit, and there I mean to keep it,” the woman replied.

“I believe he was referring to the other power you mean to involve,” Penelope clarified for Kipper. “Few in Faerûn would draw wands against that one!”

“I—” Catti-brie started.

“But I do,” Jarlaxle interrupted before she could begin her argument. “There is a way.”

Catti-brie nodded and motioned for him to continue.

“Luskan is my city,” Jarlaxle explained, and the Harpells seemed a bit taken aback by the bold admission, though of course they had heard the rumors that the drow were behind the dark powers ruling the City of Sails. “And I know the archmage well. He cannot return to the Underdark and Menzoberranzan now, so I expect he will accept my invitation.”

“And rebuild the Hosttower?” Kipper asked with great skepticism. “We speak of ancient magic here, lost to the world likely.”

“I speak of an ancient archmage, whose bones should long ago have turned to dust,” Jarlaxle replied slyly. “And yet here he is. If any wizard short of Elminster himself has a chance, it is Archmage Gromph.”

Penelope offered Catti-brie a sympathetic look. “It seems a desperate plan.”

“It is,” the woman admitted. “But what is the alternative? Am I to allow the fire beast to destroy all that my father has reclaimed? And in that eruption, the primordial is surely likely to take tens of thousands of people of the Sword Coast into fiery ruin beside King Bruenor.”

The Harpells exchanged looks.

“We will do all that we can to help you,” Kipper said.

“The libraries of the Ivy Mansion are at your disposal,” Penelope added.

“Yours, but not the drow wizard’s!” Kipper was quick to say. “Pray keep him far from the borders of Longsaddle.”

“If the archmage is in need of any of your tomes, I will come personally for a visit,” Jarlaxle assured them with a tip of his great hat and a rather salty wink aimed at Penelope.

“And now I must bid you farewell,” the drow mercenary added. “It would seem that I have an archmage to placate, and that is not as easy a task as you might believe.”

“You trust him?” Kipper asked when Jarlaxle had gone.

Catti-brie, staring off into the direction where the mercenary had disappeared, nodded. “I do, and so does my husband, who knows Jarlaxle well.”

“There are many gears turning where that one is concerned,” Penelope warned her. “And not all with your benefit in mind.”

“All with Jarlaxle’s benefit in mind, though,” Kipper agreed.

Catti-brie smiled and turned to face her Harpell friends. “The world is an interesting place,” she said. She left it at that, and held on to her smile.

Because she understood the darkness that might be ahead, and if she let the smile go, she was terribly afraid that she’d not soon find it again.

In a chamber below the lowest levels of the reclaimed dwarven homeland, Gromph Baenre awaited the return of Jarlaxle, and he was surprised indeed when his brother entered beside Matron Mother Zeerith Xorlarrin and Kimmuriel Oblodra.

Gromph glared at the psionicist balefully, but Kimmuriel cut him short with a quiet and innocent whisper of, “What did you do?”

Gromph cleared his throat. He didn’t much like the vulnerability his error had brought upon him, but he had, after all, summoned Demogorgon to the Prime Material Plane.

“I thought that King Bruenor had changed his mind and would now allow Matron Mother Zeerith to leave at this time,” the now-former Archmage of Menzoberranzan asked Jarlaxle, quite eager to change the subject.

“You are correct,” Zeerith answered.

“Bruenor professed his desire to speak with Zeerith more completely before she was granted her freedom,” Jarlaxle replied. “But I thought differently."

“And so you took her.”

Jarlaxle casually shrugged.

“You seem to have many night crawlers wriggling about in twisted plans,” said Gromph.

“Oh, indeed I do, my brother!” Jarlaxle was happy to admit. “There is a broken city, my dearest homeland, in need of my careful caress.”

“You speak the part of a fool.”

“If we wish to discuss foolish actions . . .” Jarlaxle replied, and let the clear reference to Demogorgon hang in the air. Gromph’s growl showed that he did not miss the point.

“Pray leave us,” Jarlaxle bade Zeerith and Kimmuriel, and when they moved into the next chamber, he turned to Gromph.

“If you or that miserable Oblodran make reference again to the . . . trouble . . . in Sorcere, I will turn you both into frogs and drop you into a pond of hungry carp.”

“Be at ease,” Jarlaxle bade him. “There may be good consequences for that strange event, if we are clever.”

“If we are clever, we will move to the other side of the world.”

Jarlaxle scoffed at the notion. “You think this is ended, brother?” he asked. “It is only just begun.”

“You intend to go against the matron mothers?” Gromph asked, incredulous.

Jarlaxle didn’t answer, but neither did he blink.

“Then you should bring them Drizzt Do’Urden’s head to lift your station before you ultimately deceive them.”

“Dear brother, I will bring them more than Drizzt’s head,” Jarlaxle promised. “I will bring them Drizzt.”