Archmage

by R. A. Salvatore

  Catti-brie looked at the garment—it was more a shift than a blouse, and had been a robe for its previous wearer, a most wicked little gnome named Jack.

  “Do you know what it is?”

  “I know its properties.”

  “Its name?”

  Catti-brie shook her head, but then answered, “The Robe of the Archmage?” for she had heard it referred to as such.

  “Indeed,” Kipper replied. “And this …” he took the sapphire from her and held it up so she could clearly see it. “This was the heart of a Staff of the Magi. I never finished my work with it, because … well, because I am old Kipper and my reputation for distraction is well earned, like so many of my family. And because I never found a suitable staff. Yet here you go, disappearing from me for just a few moments, and poof, you return with something I’ve long wanted, but hardly remembered that I wanted!”

  It took Catti-brie a long while to sort that jumble of words out, and she shook her head, mostly in amusement at Kipper’s animated state.

  But then her expression turned deadly serious. “I cannot,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

  “What, girl?”

  “I … I cannot give it to you,” she tried to explain. “The staff, it is a gift from Mielikki.”

  Kipper held up the silvery staff. He focused more intently upon it this time. He brought the gem up close to his face and whispered to it, and then his eyes widened indeed.

  “It’s already enchanted,” he said.

  “I feel the warmth of divine healing within it,” Catti-brie said. “I am sorry, my friend.”

  “Sorry? No, no, I did not mean for you to give me your staff, of course!” Kipper explained. “No, I meant to complete my work on your staff. For you!”

  Catti-brie was taken aback. “I could not …”

  “Of course you could! Of course you would, and why not? My adventuring days are all but over, and I’ve little desire to get into any dragon’s lairs or troll caves any longer. Why, if I could use you as my protégé and send you forth properly armed—ha!—why then I’d feel as if old Kipper did something truly worthwhile.”

  “Kipper,” Catti-brie said, and she moved over and hugged the man.

  He pushed her back, though, just a bit, a mischievous smile on his wrinkled face. He held up the blue sapphire and the silver staff and arched his eyebrows.

  “Dare we?” he asked.

  IT WAS NEARLY midsummer, long into the seventh month of Flamerule, when the dwarves at last broke camp and resumed their march. Their feet healed, their bellies full, their spirits high, the dark tide of dwarven warriors flowed out of Longsaddle, like a river down the road to the southwest, heading with grim determination for the Crags.

  Their ranks had not thinned in their long stay, and indeed some new and powerful allies had joined in the march.

  Catti-brie was perhaps alone among the army who was not surprised when Penelope Harpell had ridden out to join them, with several other eager young wizards at her side, and one much older one.

  For it seemed clear that Catti-brie had intrigued old Kipper with her talk of a functioning gate between Gauntlgrym and Mithral Hall, so much so that the old wizard had decided to investigate the possibilities for himself. The woman looked to her silver-gray staff, the blue sapphire sitting perfectly atop it. She was certain that few in the world could claim an item of this power, infused with both arcane and divine magic, and so fittingly matching the spellscars on her arms.

  She nodded, and couldn’t contain her smile, so glad to have old Kipper along. For suddenly the road seemed friendlier, suddenly the caverns ahead not so dark, and now, she knew, she would be ready to meet what challenges might come.

  “THEY GOT A reputation o’ bumblin’,” King Emerus whispered to Bruenor, the old dwarf full of doubt when the Harpells asked to join in the march.

  But Bruenor could only grin. He remembered well the role the Harpell family had played back in the days before the Spellplague, before the Time of Troubles even, when the drow had come to Mithral Hall.

  “Aye, and we might find a few of our boys turned into newts, or frogs or dogs, or might be a turnip or two,” Bruenor replied.

  Emerus looked at him gravely, but Bruenor dismissed it with a laugh. “One thing we’re not for matchin’ with them drow in Gauntlgrym is wizardry.”

  “We got a hunnerd priests,” Emerus protested.

  “Wizardry,” Bruenor repeated. “Our priests’ll be too busy tending burned skin if we can’t match them drow wizards, and Drizzt’s telling me that this house that’s set itself up in Gauntlgrym is one fat with durned wizards. So now we got some, and aye, them Harpells’ve earned their foolish reputation honestly. But don’t ye doubt the power they’re bringin’, and this one, Penelope …” he paused and looked at the woman, riding easily on a spectral mount and chatting with Drizzt and Catti-brie.

  “She’s a good one,” Bruenor finished. “Me girl says she’s a good one.”

  “As ye wish,” Emerus said and let it go at that. He didn’t have nearly the experiences of battling dark elves that Bruenor could boast, but he had seen enough of their magical tricks in the siege of Citadel Felbarr, and he had to admit that if these human wizards were at all competent, their presence could only help.

  At the very least, Emerus figured, the Harpell wizards would make themselves the first targets of drow lightning bolts, giving him and his boys the chance to get up close to the magic-users.

  They kept their pace easy, for this was difficult territory, and since they meant to be battling in the Underdark, in the subterranean halls of Gauntlgrym, they didn’t fear the onset of winter. Surely they’d be inside long before the first snows fell.

  They moved directly through the wild Crags, fearing no goblin tribes, or barbarians, or any other enemy that might rise against them. Along familiar ground, Drizzt and Bruenor noted that they were near the tunnel entrance that would take them down to Gauntlgrym, but Bruenor pressed the march on beyond that point, leaving only a few scouts behind and taking the army all the way to the city of Neverwinter.

  They made camp in sight of Neverwinter’s gate on the last day of Eleasis in the Year of the Nether Mountain Scrolls.

  “ALL RISE FOR the Protector!” the guard barked, and everyone sitting around the long table in the great building known as the Hall of Justice jumped up from their seats. This was the most impressive structure in the city of Neverwinter, capped with an enormous red and gold dome, and with huge circular windows along the curving ceiling to capture the sky at the true points of the compass. It was a new construction, too, and a testament to the hardy and industrious settlers determined to raise this city from the ashes of the volcano.

  A decorated door at the back of the chamber banged open and a young woman of perhaps thirty winters confidently strode in. Her hair was auburn and cut short and made her large blue eyes seem huge, while the blue tint of her vestments and plated greaves made them shine bluer.

  “Could be your sister,” Drizzt said to Catti-brie.

  “General Sabine,” Bruenor whispered, nodding, for he had served under her in his short time posing as Bonnego Battle-axe of the Neverwinter Guard.

  Behind the young general came a man who appeared just a bit north of middle age, but with youthful vigor, and the musculature typical of a man much younger. His hair and beard, both neatly trimmed, were silver, and his scowl seemed perpetual even at first glance. He wore a golden breastplate carved into the likeness of a lion’s face in full roar.

  “All hail Lord Protector Dagult Neverember!” the guard called, and around the table came a unified call of “Hail, Neverember!”

  General Sabine moved to stand beside her seat, just to the right of the throne centering the back center length of the table. She stood at perfect attention, not even blinking it seemed, though she did move her gaze over to consider Drizzt more than once, and a slight moment of curiosity—recognition, perhaps?—flickered when she scanned Bruenor.

  T
he lord protector came up fast, seeming quite agitated. He brushed past Sabine and verily jumped over the arm of the throne to take his seat, motioning dismissively with his hand to indicate that the others could sit.

  “I am roused from my most comfortable bed in Waterdeep with news that an army has camped on the doorstep of Neverwinter,” he said as soon as the chairs stopped rustling. His tone, his posture, and his expression all worked in unison to convey that he was none too pleased.

  All eyes of the visitors across the table went to King Emerus, whom they had appointed to speak for them. The old dwarf chuckled a bit at the Lord Protector’s cross and demeaning tone—Neverember’s reputation had preceded him and he was certainly living up to it.

  Emerus planted his hands on the table and slowly rose.

  “Me name’s Warcrown, Emerus Warcrown, and until this march I was known as the King o’ Citadel Felbarr in the Silver Marches and the Alliance of Luruar,” the dwarf began. “Ye heared o’ me?”

  Lord Protector Neverember wouldn’t offer the respect of a nod or affirmation, and merely rolled his hands to prompt the old dwarf to keep talking.

  “The army afore yer gates, the dwarfs o’ Felbarr, Citadel Adbar, and Mithral Hall, did’no come to yer call or with yer permission,” the proud old dwarf said evenly. “We come as a courtesy and nothin’ more, to let the folk and leaders o’ Neverwinter know of our coming and o’ what we mean to be doing.”

  “A courtesy?” Lord Neverember scoffed. “You send an army as a courtesy?”

  “Well, since we’re soon to be neighbors …” Emerus retorted.

  “To cross my borders without invite? An army? That can be considered an act of war, King Emerus, as you should surely know!”

  Emerus started to reply, but Bruenor banged his hands on the table and shot up. “Aye, a courtesy, and so when’s it startin’ that dwarfs and the folk o’ Neverwinter’re at odds?”

  “Bonnego,” he heard from the side. He turned to the end of the table and only then noticed the elderly Jelvus Grinch, who had once been first citizen of the fledgling city, and who had known Bruenor when he had come here in disguise in search of Gauntlgrym.

  “Bruenor,” the dwarf corrected, but in a friendly tone as he turned to regard the elderly man, and to bow with respect as well. “Ye knowed me as Bonnego, and aye, I served in yer garrison and on yer wall for a bit,” he added, looking then to General Sabine, who now obviously recognized him as well. “But me name’s Bruenor, and me family’s Battlehammer, and that’s a name ye should be knowin’ well.”

  “King Bruenor Battlehammer?” Lord Neverember asked, and he seemed a bit less sure of himself suddenly. “Am I to believe that two dwarf kings have marched to my city’s gate?”

  “Ye was just telled as much,” said Bruenor. “And that we come as a courtesy.”

  “You are not old enough …” Neverember started to argue.

  “I am known in your city as well,” Drizzt said, and he rose up beside Bruenor. “Indeed, it was Jelvus Grinch, then First Citizen, who asked me to stay those years ago, in the early days of Neverwinter reclaimed.”

  “Drizzt Do’Urden,” the elderly man confirmed. “ ’Tis true.”

  “I speak for the dwarf beside me,” Drizzt said. “Know that he is who, and what, he claims—Bruenor Battlehammer, Eighth and Tenth King of Mithral Hall. And beside him is Connerad Brawnanvil, who, like King Emerus with Citadel Felbarr, served as King of Mithral Hall until this very march commenced back in the lands of the Silver Marches.” “Three dwarf kings?” Lord Neverember asked, and he gave a dismissive chuckle.

  “They’ve come for Gauntlgrym,” General Sabine soberly remarked, and the lord protector stopped laughing.

  “Just figurin’ that out, are ye?” Bruenor replied sourly.

  Neverember lived up to his short-tempered reputation then, leaping to his feet and yelling, “You have come to my lands to wage war?”

  “Nah,” said Bruenor. “We’re marching to our own land to take it back.”

  “Land that falls within my borders.”

  “Then them borders’ll be redrawn, don’t ye doubt,” Bruenor shot back. “Gauntlgrym’s a dwarven home, and goin’ back to Delzoun rule, and none’ll doubt our claim.”

  “And it’s held by drow, by all word that’s come forth,” Emerus added. “What’ve ye done to rid yer lands o’ that scourge, O Lord Protector?”

  Emerus sat down when he finished, and tugged Bruenor’s sleeve to get him, too, to return to his seat. Across the way, Lord Neverember leaned on the table with an aggressive posture, staring hard at the dwarves. Finally, he returned to his seat.

  “You mean to reclaim Gauntlgrym for the dwarves,” he said.

  “Aye, and know that we’re meanin’ to fight any who think to stand afore that end,” said Bruenor.

  Neverember bristled but let it go. “And re-fire the forges.”

  “Already runnin’,” said Bruenor. “And better that they’re runnin’ for dwarf smiths.”

  Neverember nodded and wore an expression that looked as if he was beginning to see things in a different light—no doubt, in a profitable light for Neverwinter, or more important, for himself. Bruenor recognized that clearly, for he had paid close attention to all the whispers along the road regarding the new Lord Protector of Neverwinter. Bruenor had not met the man in his short time in the city previously. But even then the whispers had been quite consistent in tagging the man with some of the mind’s deadly sins, and all were on display already in this short meeting: pride, wrath, and now, it seemed pretty clear to the dwarf, avarice.

  “We come to introduce ye to yer new neighbors, Lord Neverember,” said Bruenor. “Don’t ye doubt that.”

  “Those lands in the Crags are under my control,” he countered.

  “Not anymore,” said Bruenor.

  Those seated around Lord Protector Neverember sucked in their breath as one, and the man sputtered as he searched to put his anger into words, but Bruenor wasn’t about to let it go.

  “Gauntlgrym’s dwarf land,” he declared, standing again. “If ye’re meaning to fight us, ye best do it now, afore we get into the mines. Ye got the belly for that?”

  Neverember stared at him incredulously, sputtering still, his lack of options laid bare. There was no way the Neverwinter garrison could be turned loose on the powerful army Bruenor and Emerus had brought to their doorstep. Five thousand battle-hardened dwarf veterans outfitted with the strongest armor and weapons of the finest materials mined in Mithral Hall and Citadel Felbarr and lovingly crafted by the artisans of Citadel Adbar would prove formidable against the very best armies of the Realms, particularly in the open field, where the dwarves’ discipline and tight defensive formations could frustrate even heavy cavalry.

  Certainly the garrison of Neverwinter wasn’t about to leave the protection of the city walls to challenge them, Lord Neverember’s bluster notwithstanding.

  Exposed now, the Lord Protector of Neverwinter settled back in his chair and stroked his silver beard, managing a smile that was supposed to appear wry, but in reality seemed rather pathetic to Bruenor.

  “You have come as a courtesy, you say, but you offer threats?” came the predictable response—the answer of a man trying not to be embarrassed.

  “No threats to any who’re not trying to stop us from gettin’ back our home,” said Bruenor. “Are ye sayin’ ye like the drow and goblins on yer doorstep more than a kingdom o’ dwarfs? If that’s what ye’re sayin’ then say it straight up.”

  “I said no such thing.”

  “Gauntlgrym’s Delzoun.”

  “The land above it is under my protection,” Lord Neverember said. “Even if you are successful in reclaiming the Underdark of this place you claim to be Gauntlgrym, your kingdom will extend no farther than your front door.”

  Bruenor chuckled, understanding now. The greedy Waterdhavian lord was angling for a tithe. The dwarves would need trade, obviously, and Neverember wanted his cut.

  “Talk
for another day,” Bruenor said, and he offered Neverember a grin and a nod to show that he understood well what was going on. “First we’ve got a war to fight and win, and don’t ye doubt that we’ll be doing just that.”

  Before Lord Neverember could even respond, Bruenor motioned left and right to his entourage, and they rose and stepped away from the table. The crafty old dwarf, who appeared so young, wanted to make it clear that he and his people were not under the suffrage of Lord Protector Neverember or anyone else, and so he wasn’t about to wait for a dismissal from the lord, or even a respectful conclusion to the formal meeting.

  He was daring Neverember to take action, perhaps even to detain him and his small entourage.

  Because he knew the man would do no such thing, particularly not with King Emerus and Drizzt—who remained quite popular in Neverwinter these days—in that entourage.

  They were out of the city soon after, without hindrance, and General Sabine, riding a fabulous warhorse with metal barding, and Citizen Jelvus Grinch on a smaller riding horse even accompanied them back to the main dwarven encampment, chatting amicably all the way.

  “Lord Neverember is in a difficult position here,” General Sabine told them. “This long-lost complex you call Gauntlgrym …”

  “Is Gauntlgrym,” Bruenor interrupted. “Been there meself more than once. No doubt.”

  General Sabine bowed to concede the point.

  “Gauntlgrym has been a thorn in Neverwinter’s side,” she explained. “Monsters come forth from the Underdark all the time. And it was from that region, from the very mountain that houses the ancient complex, that the volcano erupted in the first place, destroying the old city.”

  Bruenor and Drizzt knew the truth of that all too well, and knew the source of the volcano to be the very same fire primordial that fired Gauntlgrym’s legendary Forge. Drizzt had watched the eruption from a hilltop not so far away.

  “Did ye come out here to tell me how to think o’ Neverember then?” Bruenor asked. “I seen what I seen.”