Rise of the King

by R. A. Salvatore

  “There is no secret in magic left for you, is there?” he asked rhetorically. “Oh, the occasional spell to be discovered, or a new fantastical creature to add to your menagerie, perhaps. But even that grows boring to one so accomplished as the mighty Gromph.”

  “If there is a point to your rambling, do get to it, for I assure you that you are more boring than anything of which you pontificate.”

  “Conceded,” Jarlaxle replied, and he began a slow walk around the archmage, sizing him up with every stride. “But I know you, brother Gromph, and I understand your dilemma—oh, so quite well, which is why I long to be out from this place and on the road for my own adventures once more.”

  “Are you thinking that I might join your pathetic band?”

  “No, no, of course not,” Jarlaxle replied—though, of course, in the back of his mind, he did see that as a future possibility. “But I am thinking that there is only one place left for the brilliance of Gromph to explore, and that is why you are pleased that Methil is among us once more. The illithids own the secret of another magic, a purer magic, a magic of pure thought.”

  “Shall I polymorph myself into a mind flayer and join the hive, then?” Gromph asked dismissively, but there was a kernel of truth in that wild claim, Jarlaxle knew.

  “No need,” Jarlaxle answered, and he turned to the tapestry where Kimmuriel was hidden. “I know one who might take you there, to the place of pure magic. Surely you have the intellect for it.”

  “Psionics are more than a matter of simple intellect,” Gromph reminded.

  Jarlaxle nodded, knowing well that truth, for he considered himself as smart as any, and yet, the powers of psionics had eluded him, despite quite a bit of training with Kimmuriel. “But you must know,” he teased.

  “You try my patience.”

  “Train with Kimmuriel,” Jarlaxle offered.

  “In exchange for your freedom from Menzoberranzan?”

  “Bregan D’aerthe will need my oversight in these perilous and exciting times, no doubt, particularly with Kimmuriel serving your desires.”

  Archmage Gromph didn’t respond, and didn’t blink as he stared at Jarlaxle for many heartbeats.

  Then he gave a slight nod and started away—to visit with their sister, Jarlaxle knew.

  As soon as he left the room, Kimmuriel came out from behind the tapestry.

  “You bargain with dangerous partners,” he said.

  “We live in dangerous times. And Gromph will be a grateful student, I expect, whatever the outcome.”

  “Why do you suppose that I am speaking of Gromph?” Kimmuriel asked, and dryly—and when had this one ever put an inflection in his voice?

  Jarlaxle stared in surprise, for this was the closest he had ever seen Kimmuriel come to actually threatening him.

  “I cannot stay here,” Jarlaxle explained. “Not with Tiago …”

  “Tiago will not go against you,” Kimmuriel interrupted. “Not now.”

  Jarlaxle nodded, for he and Kimmuriel had just played out that meeting with the brash young weapons master to perfection. When Tiago had begun his fantasy of attacking Jarlaxle, Kimmuriel had subtly and telepathically imparted upon him the brutally realistic images of a most unfortunate outcome should he ever try.

  “Not with Dahlia,” Jarlaxle admitted.

  “Not with Drizzt, more likely,” said the psionicist and Jarlaxle looked at him curiously.

  “Your fascination with him is obvious, and greater now, no doubt, since you have learned that his old companions have somehow been reborn to his side.”

  “A gift of a god, right before us to witness,” Jarlaxle agreed. “And not just Drizzt.”

  “Artemis Entreri, yet again,” Kimmuriel said, and the mercenary leader nodded his agreement.

  “So many moving parts,” Jarlaxle said. “It pains me that they move without my hand near the lever. This is a great time, my friend. I feel it—and so do you. I must be free of this place, to witness the hand of the gods upon the wider world.”

  “I heard similar echoes in the thoughts of Tiago,” Kimmuriel replied. “He will not be held here forever, not when Drizzt Do’Urden is known to be about on the surface world.”

  “And not when Drizzt plays a hand in the war of the Silver Marches, as we both know he will.”

  “Tiago’s fascination with the rogue exceeds your own. He will have his battle.”

  Jarlaxle wondered how Quenthel would take the news when Drizzt cut her beloved Tiago into little pieces.

  “I would not be so sure of that,” Kimmuriel warned, and Jarlaxle looked at him curiously, for he had said nothing aloud.

  Jarlaxle’s eyes narrowed and he adjusted his magical eye-patch, the item he used to keep psionicists, magic-users, and priests, one and all, out of his private thoughts. He had to assume that he had worn his thoughts on his expression, and Kimmuriel had simply caught the look.

  He had to hope that was it, at least.

  CROSSINGS OF THE REDRUN

  A LARGE FIRE BURNED IN THE HEARTH OF MITHRAL HALL’S AUDIENCE hall, even though the sixth month of Kythorn neared its end, with the midsummer heat of the month of Flamerule whispering over the rising sun’s shoulder each dawn.

  King Connerad Brawnanvil crushed the parchment into a ball and kept it in his tightly clenched fist. He swung his flagon to his lips, but barely tasted the foam before he threw the whole of it, foaming ale and all, across the room to smash against the stones of the hearth.

  That brought a communal gasp, to be sure, for what Battlehammer King had ever thrown a good tankard of ale?

  “Good news, I’m thinkin’,” Bungalow Thump said slyly. The tough Gutbuster stood strong at his king’s side once more, for he had almost fully recovered already from the many wounds he had suffered in the skirmish north of Mithral Hall.

  “Aye, that’d be me own guess,” agreed General Dagnabbet.

  Ragged Dain of Sundabar, who had just returned from the tunnels connecting Mithral Hall to his homeland, seemed less than amused.

  “Crossings o’ the Redrun?” he asked King Connerad.

  The king nodded and threw the crumpled parchment in the same direction as the previously flying tankard.

  “I seen the Silverymoon knight pacing around in circles in yer antechamber,” Ragged Dain explained. “I’d come to tell ye the same grim tale. Ye heared o’ Redrun Ford?”

  Bungalow and Dagnabbet exchanged curious glances and a shrug.

  “Easiest way to put an army across the River Redrun,” Ragged Dain explained, referring to the great tributary to the River Rauvin, one of the two main rivers of Luruar. The River Rauvin flowed out from the Rauvin Mountains to the southwest, with the Redrun tributary joining it from the northwest just north of the great city of Sundabar. “Ye’d be trackin’ many days back to the north and west if ye meant to go around the Redrun—and she’s runnin’ fast this summer—for there ain’t no bridges for taking war engines across to the south. Fine place for a crossing, and fine place for an ambush.”

  “Many-Arrow orcs,” King Connerad elaborated. “Moving south past the mountains east o’ here, south o’ the Glimmerwood and right past Felbarr’s closed gates.”

  “Orcs’re heading for Sundabar, then,” Bungalow Thump reasoned.

  “Aye, and the Knights o’ Silver out o’ Silverymoon seen it coming and thought they had had them orcs cut apart,” said King Connerad. “They thinked to catch the whole o’ the band at the Redrun and send ’em running.”

  “But they found more orcs than they thinked,” General Dagnabbet reasoned.

  “Six to one,” Ragged Dain confirmed, shaking his head. “Many-Arrows breaked their forces into three groups, so we’re all sayin’, and ye see one o’ them outside yer own doors. But even with that, the Knights in Silver found themselfs outnumbered six-to-one or more, and with hordes o’ giants aside them stinking orcs.”

  “And with a dragon,” King Connerad added grimly. “Same dragon that killed King Bromm, I’m guessin’.”
<
br />   “And hopin’,” said Ragged Dain. “Hate to be thinking them orcs got more than one.”

  “Who’s knowing what to think?” King Connerad asked. “Whole o’ the Silver Marches’re smellin’ of orc.”

  “Eh?” Bungalow Thump remarked, and when the others looked to him, they followed his gaze to the crushed parchment, then to the door, beyond which waited the Knight in Silver emissary from Silverymoon.

  “They’re to be blaming us, ain’t they?” Bungalow asked. “Blaming Clan Battlehammer for the darkness that’s come roarin’ down from the north.”

  King Connerad stared at the Gutbuster leader hard, but didn’t refute the claim.

  Bungalow Thump rushed to the door and pulled it wide. “Get in here,” he ordered the Knight in Silver, who casually strolled through the door a few moments later, grim-faced and clearly not intimidated.

  By that point, Bungalow had retrieved the parchment and pulled it open, grunting as he read through its flowing letters. After a nod from King Connerad, General Dagnabbet was there beside him, reading the harsh condemnation from the leaders of Silverymoon.

  “By the hairy gods, what fools ye be!” Bungalow Thump roared at the knight, who stood impassively.

  “Be at ease, me friend,” King Connerad cautioned him. “Them boys o’ Silverymoon took a beating and are smartin’ good.”

  “I’ll be givin’ another o’ them a beatin’ if he makes a bad word about me clan and King Bruenor,” Bungalow returned angrily, his fierce expression turned wholly on the Silverymoon emissary with every word.

  “You cannot deny …” the knight began.

  “Shut yer mouth,” Bungalow warned.

  “For meself, I canno’ deny that Silverymoon and Sundabar and all the rest wouldn’t stand with King Bruenor,” Ragged Dain intervened. “I was there, long afore yerself was born, at the Treaty o’ Garumn’s Gorge. Weren’t no choice given Bruenor and the Battlehammers. Only me own home o’ Felbarr thought to stand aside ’em if they went to finish the war. Even the dwarves of Adbar said no, and no voice was louder against the fight than that of Lady Alustriel o’ Silverymoon.”

  The knight snorted and looked to King Connerad.

  “If ye’re thinkin’ to call me a liar, then do it here and now,” Ragged Dain demanded. “And if ye’re thinkin’ that me words’re wrong, then ye’re a fool. Not Silverymoon, not Sundabar, not Everlund, not Nesmé, and not Adbar. Not a one. They left King Bruenor and Mithral Hall sittin’ here in the middle of a vast horde o’ orcs. So th’orc kingdom was staying, war or not, and so here we be, fighting a war a hunnerd years in the waitin’.”

  “The treaty allowed them the room to wait and grow,” the knight argued. “Because of that treaty, the filth of Many-Arrows is much stronger in this day.”

  “And yerselfs was all for that treaty—demandin’ it o’ King Bruenor!” Ragged Dain shouted back. “I was there, ye dolt. I seen it!”

  “Enough!” King Connerad demanded angrily, though he offered a nod of gratitude to Ragged Dain, and indeed, Bungalow Thump walked over and patted the visitor from Felbarr on the shoulder in appreciation.

  “What’s done’s done,” the King of Mithral Hall decided. “Done a hunnerd years and more. We’re better talking o’ what’s next, not what’s past.”

  “We must understand the culpability, that we do not—that you do not—make the same mistakes this time,” the knight insisted.

  King Connerad narrowed his eyes, his bushy eyebrows practically swallowing the gray orbs. “Yer lips’re flappin’, but all I’m hearin’ is Silverymoon’s desire to stand on her own,” he said evenly.

  The knight stammered in reply, but hadn’t managed to piece anything decipherable together before Ragged Dain interjected, “Nah, good king, they’re askin’ indeed. That’s what else I come rushing back to tell ye. They’re wanting King Emerus to empty Felbarr and chase them orcs all the way to Sundabar’s gate.” He cast a sly look at the knight. “And likely, they’re about to ask ye … nay, to order yerself to send all ye got running south. Course, ye’d have to break through the army on yer door to take the first step.”

  King Connerad digested Ragged Dain’s words for a few heartbeats, then turned to the knight and asked, “Well?”

  The man, obviously uncomfortable, cleared his throat. “Well, it is clear that you will need some time to break out of your hol … home, so your delay will be forgiven.”

  “Forgiven?” Connerad, Bungalow and Dagnabbet all gasped together.

  “Clear?” Ragged Dain asked. “Aye, so clear that yerself had to crawl through the tunnel from across the Surbrin to even get here. Ten thousand orcs on Battlehammer’s door, and ye’re asking them to go running to help ye do yer fightin’ in the south?”

  “Should you not be organizing Felbarr’s march?” the knight quipped at Ragged Dain. “Silverymoon stood in your defense along the Redrun, and where was King Emerus? Knight-Commander Degar Mindero battled bravely. The river earned its name anew, the Redrun, and now running red with the blood of orcs.”

  He paused and winced, clearly in great pain, and added, “And with the blood of several hundred Silverymoon Knights. The Crossings of the Redrun will be remembered for a thousand years in Silverymoon as a dark day of great gallantry.”

  He paused again, but this time his face screwed up with obvious anger. “And as a day when Citadel Felbarr did not come to our aid against the common horde of enemies. A day when King Emerus failed his allegiance …”

  “Shut yer trap, ye dolt,” Bungalow Thump demanded, and he started past Ragged Dain for the knight, but the old veteran from Felbarr held him back with an upraised arm.

  “Ye’re thinkin’ we even knew?” Ragged Dain asked. “Our eyes were north o’ the mountains, where King Bromm fell. Ye think we knew o’ yer Knight-Commander Mindero?”

  “You’d not have come anyway, would you?” the knight accused. “Safe in your hole …”

  “Mindero’s the fool,” Ragged Dain said, and the knight’s hand went to his weapon hilt.

  “If you draw, your body will be floated down the Surbrin,” King Connerad warned, his tone showing clearly that he meant every word. “Perhaps your kin will find it, perhaps not.”

  “Mindero’s eyes filled with false hopes o’ glory,” Ragged Dain pressed, and now it was Bungalow Thump holding him back instead of the other way around. “Oh, but I’m knowin’ that one—seen him afore prowlin’ about the Cold Vale.”

  “Protecting Felbarr. And Sundabar,” the knight insisted.

  “Making his name,” Ragged Dain retorted. “He didn’t even tell Sundabar, eh? King Firehelm’s no coward, and yer knight-commander could’ve bringed the thousands o’ Sundabar’s garrison aside him, and could’ve telled King Emerus to close the door on them orcs from the north. Aye. But then, where’s the glory if Mindero’s to be askin’ for help, eh?”

  The knight tensed even more, and for a moment, it seemed as if he meant to spring at Ragged Dain. But then he calmed, and stood upright with an air of superiority about him.

  “The orc hordes are sweeping past your citadels,” he said to King Connerad. “One army will soon press Sundabar, no doubt, and Silverymoon and Nesmé will find clouds gathering all around. Silverymoon asks you to come forth, with all speed and with the whole of your garrison.”

  Connerad didn’t answer, and slowly turned to Ragged Dain.

  “The same will be demanded of Citadel Felbarr,” the knight went on. “And with all haste, to catch the horde before it can lay siege to Sundabar.”

  “Ye sent a note akin to that to King Emerus, did ye?” Ragged Dain asked.

  “An emissary was dispatched,” the knight confirmed.

  Ragged Dain snorted, and locked stares with Connerad, and in that silent exchange, it quickly became clear to all in the room that the dwarves weren’t about to go flooding out of their defensive fortresses any time soon.

  “You test the alliance,” the knight warned, apparently catching on.

  “Ye
rself tests me patience,” said Connerad. “Ye’re seein’ tens o’ thousands o’ orcs swarming across the lands, and ye’re thinking that’s the whole o’ Many-Arrows. Ye dolt, don’t ye know that orcs take to tunnels? If I’m emptyin’ me halls, then I’m surrenderin’ Mithral Hall to Obould’s dogs. Same for Emerus and Citadel Felbarr. That what ye’re wantin’?”

  “The fields are black with orcs.”

  “And ye’re afraid, and ye should be,” King Connerad said. “I’ll lose half me dwarves trying to break out into the army that’s campin’ on me doorsteps. Better for all, better for Silverymoon, that so many o’ Obould’s dogs got themselves stuck here in siege, keepin’ us in.”

  The knight stiffened, then snorted derisively. “Aye,” he said, “as we’ve come to expect from Battlehammer dwarves.”

  He gave a curt bow, spun on his heel, and swept out of the room.

  “King Emerus ain’t to go out,” Ragged Dain assured King Connerad. “Not now. Not after what happened to King Bromm and his Adbar boys.”

  “Might be that them orcs are just goadin’ us all,” King Connerad warned. “They’re lookin’ like they be heading for Sundabar and Silverymoon, when might be that they’ll turn right around if we come forth. Three treasures for them orcs above all, Felbarr, Adbar and Mithral Hall, and woe to me and me fellow kings if we let th’orcs have ’em.”

  “King Harnoth o’ Adbar’s still in Felbarr,” Ragged Dain replied. “He’s wantin’ a thousand orc heads on pikes around his doors for the murder o’ his brother.”

  “Adbar’s farthest from the hordes,” Connerad reasoned. “But I’m still thinking Harnoth’s better off behind his iron gates.”

  Ragged Dain nodded. “I got to take me leave, good king,” he said with a bow. “I’m fast bound for Felbarr and me own King’s side.”

  “Aye, and I’m to come with ye,” King Connerad announced, and he motioned to his two advisors, Bungalow Thump and General Dagnabbet, to gather their traveling gear. “Might that we’ll get there afore King Harnoth’s left, that we’re all talkin’ with one voice.”

  Ragged Dain nodded, and the smile that crossed his weathered old face was one of clear admiration, as if to assure the young King of Mithral Hall that he had just made a wise choice.