“And now ye’re leavin’,” said Bruenor. He turned to Dagnabbet. “And yerself’s stayin’.”
“Then Queen Dagnabbet,” Connerad said to Bruenor, and he wasn’t asking, for in truth, it wasn’t Bruenor’s—or anyone else’s—place to offer an opinion. Succession was the choice of the king of Mithral Hall, and Connerad was the king of Mithral Hall.
“Are ye askin’ or tellin’?” Bruenor did reply.
“Both.”
“Then aye, and aye!” said Bruenor.
“Queen Dagnabbet!” Bungalow Thump shouted, and the huzzahs and heigh-ho’s filled the audience chamber and exploded out to echo down the corridors of Mithral Hall.
Dagnabbet bowed respectfully, then stood up straight, seeming hardly shaken and looking every bit the ferocious leader of Mithral Hall. “Me first request’s an easy one,” she said to both Connerad and Bruenor. She smiled and turned to Bungalow Thump. “Once ye get done chasin’ the drow from Gauntlgrym, ye give me back me Bungalow Thump. Mithral Hall’s not to be without him.”
“Honored, me king!” Bungalow said, punching his fists together. It took him a while to realize why everyone in the room was staring at him then, and with expressions full of amusement.
“Honored, me queen!” the embarrassed Gutbuster corrected, and Dagnabbet led the ensuing laughter.
WHEN THE COUNCIL of the three dwarven citadels convened in Citadel Felbarr in the second month of 1486, Queen Dagnabbet was announced formally as the ruler of Mithral Hall, and King Connerad, now shield general of Bruenor’s impending march, did not even make the trip to Felbarr, busy as he was organizing the warriors Mithral Hall would send to the west.
King Harnoth seemed stupefied by the action, incredulous that any dwarf would surrender a throne, perhaps. He was young, Bruenor knew, and still a novice in the ways of being a king. The burdens would weigh on him in another century, likely, if he managed to stay alive that long—something of which Bruenor could not be certain, given Harnoth’s recklessness in the war, and his stubbornness subsequently.
King Emerus, though, not only seemed less than surprised, his nod was one of approval.
A few moments later, when Emerus announced that he, too, would be abdicating his throne to join with his old friend Bruenor in the march to Gauntlgrym, the chorus of gasps were not enhanced by Bruenor.
“What am I hearin’?” Harnoth cried, in disbelief and clear dismay.
“That you are now the longest-serving dwarf king of the Silver Marches,” said Drizzt.
“Madness!” Harnoth fumed, and he slammed his fist down on the table. “All me life, me Da speaked o’ King Bruenor and King Emerus, and now ye’re both for leavin’? We won the war and all the land’s scarred, and now ye’re leavin’?”
“Scars’ll heal,” Emerus said solemnly, his resonant voice showing that he wasn’t taking this lightly. “With or without meself and Bruenor and Connerad. Felbarr’s got her succession as Mithral Hall’s got hers.” He leaned forward and looked down the length of the long table, and Parson Glaive nodded, showing his king, who was now his subject, great deference.
“Citadel Felbarr is mine,” the high cleric announced.
“Huzzah to King Parson Glaive o’ Felbarr!” Emerus toasted, rising up and lifting his flagon.
“Huzzah!” all replied.
“And huzzah to Queen Dagnabbet o’ Mithral Hall!” Bruenor cheered, and the boisterous shouts filled the hall once more.
Bruenor looked to Emerus and nodded, sincerely thrilled and grateful that his old and respected friend would be accompanying him on the journey to reclaim the most ancient Delzoun homeland.
“Mithral Hall on the first day of spring!” Ragged Dain added. “And let the ground shake under the fall o’ four thousand dwarf boots!”
“Eight thousand, ye dolt,” Bruenor corrected, hoisting his flagon so forcefully that half of the contents splashed out. “Most’ve got two legs!”
“Huzzah!” they cheered.
“I SHOULD DESTROY you for coming here,” the great white wyrm roared.
“You should reconsider your dangerous impulses,” came a calm reply, and it was a sincere response from an archmage who had lived closer to two centuries than one, and who had come to the lair of Arauthator, the Old White Death, fully prepared to survive a dragon’s onslaught.
“The attempts to bring Tiamat to the Prime Material Plane have failed, and so I understand your frustrations, great wyrm,” Gromph added. “But so, too, has Lolth failed in her quest for the domain of magic. These are the provinces of the gods and we can do that which we may and little more. The world goes on, as does Arauthator, as do I.”
“The philosophy of a weakling,” the dragon replied. “To so dismiss failure.”
“To so dwell upon it, when time moves forward,” said Gromph, with a “tsk, tsk” and a shake of his head.
“You mock me?”
“I only mock those I consider pathetic,” the archmage answered. “I have never thought that of you, surely.”
“The world goes on without my son,” said the dragon.
“Do you pretend to care? I know enough of your kind, and of you, to believe that such a claim is one of false appeal.”
The dragon chuckled, a low and rumbling sound that sounded as if a prelude to an earthquake, and, Gromph knew, often was.
“You were rewarded well for your efforts in the war,” Gromph reminded the wyrm. “The treasures from Sundabar alone …” He let the thought hang in the air, and shook his head.
“Then let us put that which is past behind us,” the wyrm agreed. “So why are you here, in this, my home?”
“You were not alone in your last battle of the war,” Gromph explained. “Nor was your son. We have found the body of the noble drow killed with Aurbangras.”
“But not that of your impetuous and impudent nephew,” the dragon commented.
“Tiago, yes,” Gromph agreed. “A favored noble of the Matron Mother Baenre, though one who has grown tiresome to me.”
“He is not.”
“Digested?” Gromph asked dryly.
The dragon paused and spent a moment letting the quip register before offering an amused, rumbling chuckle in response.
“It is an honest question,” the archmage said.
“He is not here, nor has he been in my presence since the battle above the Surbrin Bridge,” the dragon replied.
“A battle in which he rode astride you?”
“Yes.”
“A battle from which you flew directly home?”
“Yes.”
“Must I follow all the possibilities?”
“Tiago was shot from my back in the fight, by a drow no less, with a bow that spat arrows of lightning.”
Gromph took a deep breath. Drizzt again.
“Drizzt slayed him in the midst of an aerial battle?”
“I did not say that.”
“You said …” Gromph stopped and silently recounted the dragon’s exact words.
“The clever archer shot the cinch from the saddle, and so Tiago fell from his seat,” the dragon explained. “We were up by the roiling blackness of Lolth’s inspired spell, and so miles above the ground. You might search the lower ground north of the dwarven stronghold to see if you can locate a drow-shaped splatter upon the ground.”
Gromph nodded, though he was hardly listening, playing it all out in his thoughts. He, of course, knew of the magical House Baenre emblems, which could impart near weightlessness with but a touch. So perhaps Tiago was not dead, and was down there still—and, likely, still hunting Drizzt.
“He is such a fool,” the archmage muttered under his breath, but not enough so to keep the words from the keen hearing of an ancient white dragon.
“Which?” Arauthator asked. “The archer or your nephew? Or are you, perhaps, speaking of me, in which case I find that I am suddenly hungry.”
“Dragon, you bore me,” Gromph said, and waved his hand. With that movement, mighty Arauthator sprang to t
he attack, the great wyrm’s serpentine neck sweeping forward, the toothy maw snapping over Gromph.
Or the projected image of Gromph, for the archmage was far from that place, and farther still when the dragon’s killing jaws snapped, teleporting away almost instantly and leaving Arauthator defensively crouched and growling.
“THEY WILL LEAVE on the first day of spring,” Doum’wielle told Tiago.
“You are certain?”
Doum’wielle answered him with a stare. She wiped the mud and makeup from her face and began to unbraid her hair. She couldn’t travel about the region without some minor disguise. Some might well recognize her as the daughter of Sinnafein.
“The dwarves are all chattering about it,” she explained. “They’re thick about the wall they have constructed near to where Dark Arrow Keep once stood, convinced that Lorgru will return.”
“And will he?”
Doum’wielle shrugged.
“You should be more thorough in your scouting, iblith,” Tiago scolded.
And I should kill you while you sleep, Doum’wielle wanted to reply, but did not.
“There has been no sign of the orcs since Bruenor sent them running,” she answered. “Even those dwarves skeptical about this march to the west have come to believe that it will be a good thing.”
“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, Catti-brie. 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 auburn-haired 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.
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