Archmage

by R. A. Salvatore

  But somehow the young warrior had brought his shield to block the lightning.

  Doum’wielle felt her courage waning in the face of this display. The three blades moved faster than she could follow—either of these magnificent warriors could cut her apart with little effort. Hardly even thinking, Little Doe began to rise, perhaps to run away.

  Take heart! Khazid’hea screamed in her thoughts. The moment of your salvation is at hand!

  I cannot defeat them!

  You do not have to, the sinister sword reminded her. In their obsession, they will defeat each other.

  Doum’wielle’s eyes spun as she tried to keep up with the frenetic, beautiful movements. Tiago went down in a slide, his blade coming out wide to cut at Drizzt’s thighs.

  But over that blade went Drizzt in a graceful dive and spin, and he broke out of it wide-armed and wide-legged, landing lightly on his feet.

  Go! Khazid’hea implored Doum’wielle, for that sword, knowing the tactics of Drizzt so well, knew what was coming.

  DRIZZT WENT IN with Twinkle leading with a low thrust. But that was the feint, and Icingdeath went up above and over the sister scimitar, which Drizzt suddenly retracted, and swooped down from on high, left to right, smashing solidly against Tiago’s shield.

  The shield grabbed Icingdeath, as Drizzt had hoped, and he darted out to the left, tugging and turning, and flipping Twinkle in his hand. His left went up high, and as he stepped and turned his back to the twisting Tiago, he drove his hand down and back, a reverse thrust the Baenre noble could not hope to block with his shield.

  Drizzt had him!

  But Twinkle was hit as someone darted in the other way, and parried up high—and Drizzt nearly lost the blade.

  “Hah!” Tiago cried with clear glee, surely thinking victory at hand.

  But the ranger was quick, and Drizzt pulled Icingdeath free and completed his spin. Flipping Twinkle, he fell back a step defensively. He wore a curious expression when he came around, to see Doum’wielle, her parry complete, thrust ahead with the blade. But she stabbed at Tiago’s exposed flank and not at Drizzt!

  The Baenre noble howled and groaned and fell away, clutching his side, as Doum’wielle, her blade bloodied, spun back on Drizzt.

  “Little Doe,” Drizzt said, in both relief and surprise—and ending with his surprise multiplied as the daughter of Sinnafein, her face a mask of rage, swept her deadly blade across at Drizzt.

  For this was the plan of Khazid’hea, the redemption of Doum’wielle, who would claim the head of Drizzt Do’Urden as her trophy when she returned to Menzoberranzan!

  Twinkle came up in a vertical block once more, perfectly timed to intercept the slashing sword.

  But Twinkle had been compromised from the earlier hit, and Khazid’hea had coaxed every ounce of strength Doum’wielle could manage into that brutal strike. The fine edge of the sword that could cut stone snapped the blade from Twinkle and continued across, shearing Drizzt’s leather armor and mithral shirt with ease, opening a line across the ranger’s chest from his left shoulder to the midpoint of his ribs.

  Blood erupted from the garish wound, pouring freely onto Drizzt’s torn shirt. He stood there, mouth agape, staring into the wicked smile of Doum’wielle, of Little Doe, of the daughter of his dear friend Sinnafein.

  He couldn’t retaliate. He couldn’t even lift an arm to block as Doum’wielle lifted the awful Khazid’hea yet again. Drizzt knew his wound to be mortal.

  He knew he was dead.

  He got slammed hard and darkness fell over him.

  He felt as if he were flying sidelong, or perhaps tumbling over to the ground, and he crashed against the stone and got hit again, with brutal force, and knew only darkness and weight, as if the stones of the floor had swallowed him up, or the ceiling had fallen upon him.

  There was no breath to draw.

  PART 3

  The First King’s Death

  IN THE MOMENT OF MY DEATH, WILL I BE SURPRISED? IN THAT INSTANT? When the sword cuts my flesh, or the giant’s hammer descends, or the dragon’s flames curl my skin?

  When I know it is happening, when I know beyond doubt that Death has come for me, will I be surprised or calm, accepting or panicked?

  I tell myself that I am prepared. I have surrounded the question logically, rationally, removing emotion, accepting the inevitability. But knowing it will happen and knowing there is nothing I can do to stop it from happening is a different level of acceptance, perhaps, than any actual preparation for that onetime, ultimate event.

  Can anything be more unsettling to conscious thought than the likely end of conscious thought?

  This notion is not something I dwell upon. I do not go to my bed each night with the worry of the moment of death climbing under my blanket beside me. In merely asking this question—in the moment of my death, will I be surprised?—I suspect that I am entertaining the notion more than many, more than most, likely.

  In many—in each—of us there is this deep-seated avoidance of, even denial of, the undeniable.

  For others, there is the salve of religion. For some it is a false claim—more a hope than a belief. I know this because I have seen these faithful in their moment of death, and it is a terrifying moment for them. For others, it is a genuine, sanguine acceptance and belief in something better beyond.

  This religious salve has never been my way. I know not why, but I am not so arrogant as to demean those who choose a different path through this muddled life and its inevitable end, or to pretend that they are somehow lesser of intellect, of moral integrity, or of courage, than I. For among that last group, those of deep faith, I would include my beloved wife, Catti-brie, so secure in her knowledge of what awaits when the scythe falls and her time on Toril is at its end.

  Would I see it differently had I been in that altered passage of time and space beside my four dear friends?

  I honestly do not know.

  Wulfgar was there, and he returns anew, unconvinced of that which would have awaited him on the other side of that pond in the forest of Iruladoon. Indeed, Wulfgar confided to me that his certainty of the Halls of Tempus is less now than before his journey through death to return to this world. We live in a world of amazing magic. We assign to it names, and pretend to understand, and reduce it to fit our purposes.

  More importantly, we reduce the beauty of the universe around us to fit our hopes and to chase away our fears.

  I know the day will come. The enemy’s sword, the giant’s hammer, the dragon’s breath. There is no escape, no alternate course, no luck of the draw.

  The day will come.

  Will I be surprised? Will I be prepared?

  Can anyone be, truly?

  Perhaps not, but again, this will not be that which chases me to my bed each night. Nay, I’ll worry more for that which I can influence—my concern cannot be my inevitable demise, but rather, my actions in my waking life.

  For before me, before us all, lie choices right and wrong, and clear to see. To follow my heart is to know contentment. To dodge the edicts of my heart, to convince myself through twisted words and feeble justifications to go against what I know to be true and right for the sake of glory or wealth or self-aggrandizement or any of the other mortal frailties, is, to my thinking, anathema to the concept of peace and justice, divine or otherwise.

  And so to best prepare myself for that ultimate mortal moment is to live my life honestly, to myself, to the greater deeds and greater goods.

  I do this not for divine reward. I do this not in fear of any god or divine retribution, or to ensure that there is no place for me in the Abyss or the Nine Hells.

  I do this because of that which is in my heart. Once I gave it the name Mielikki. Now, given the edicts made in that name regarding goblinkin as relayed through Catti-brie, I am not so certain that Mielikki and my heart are truly aligned.

  But no matter.

  Am I prepared for the moment of my death?

  No, I expect not.

  But
I am content and I am at peace. I know my guide, and that guide is my heart.

  More than that, I cannot do.

  —Drizzt Do’Urden

  CHAPTER 15

  A One-Handed Catastrophe

  THE MARCH WAS METHODICAL AND COMPLETE, CLEARING ROOM after room, corridor after corridor. Occasionally, a few of the dwarves and their allies would break free of the lead ranks, bursting through doors, pursuing fleeing kobolds or the avian humanoids called dire corbies, or whatever other monstrous inhabitants they had sent running.

  Hoshtar Xorlarrin, magically invisible and magically tiny, watched from afar as a trio of dwarves crashed through one door, careening down a corridor. A pair of dwarf women led the way, swords waving, grabbing each other hand to arm and launching each other along. Oftentimes they fell, but it hardly seemed to matter, for they just bounced or rolled or twisted about, and always came back to their feet, in full speed and ready to chop down the nearest fleeing kobold.

  Behind them came a red-bearded dwarf carrying a shining shield with the foaming mug standard of the clan, and banging it with an old battle-axe that had surely seen its share of battles. He laughed wildly, though he kept shouting his discontent, for the two women were tearing the place apart—and tearing apart the monsters, long before he could get near to them.

  The powerful Xorlarrin wizard contemplated destroying the three fools as they passed along the corridor below his secret perch. He could summon an earthquake, perhaps, and tumble the walls upon them. Or invoke black tentacles from the floor to grab at them and occupy them, then blast them dead with fireballs and lightning bolts.

  Yes, it all seemed perfectly delightful.

  More sound from the back put an end to that fantasy, though. These three had broken free, but they had not gone too far in front, clearly, and now another pair of dwarves appeared at the doorway far back up the hallway. Another female came first, carrying a mace that seemed more fitting in the hands of an ogre. She was followed by a sturdy-looking fellow, black-bearded and muscular, with wild eyes and a ready laugh, and spinning a pair of heavy morningstars with practiced ease.

  Hoshtar’s eyes widened at the sight of Athrogate, Jarlaxle’s ugly little friend. Hoshtar, who had long served as Matron Mother Zeerith’s liaison to both Bregan D’aerthe and House Melarn, knew who the dwarf was with certainty. But what was the annoying fellow doing here? What was Bregan D’aerthe doing here, in any capacity, unless that capacity served the matron mother? Hadn’t Matron Mother Baenre just effectively enslaved Jarlaxle as a House guard in her ridiculous reincarnation of House Do’Urden?

  Hoshtar’s mind leaped in a dozen different directions as he tried to sort it all out. Perhaps when the main forces of Bregan D’aerthe had been recalled to Menzoberranzan, Jarlaxle had set the dwarf free. Jarlaxle would not want Athrogate in the City of Spiders, after all. The rhyming, smelly creature wouldn’t survive a tenday in the city before some aggravated drow laid him low! Or was Athrogate now spying, perhaps on behalf of Jarlaxle—and if that was true, perhaps it might ultimately serve Matron Mother Zeerith.

  But no, Hoshtar knew, his first impression seemed the most reasonable, and now he played it to a logical conclusion. These dwarves, this army, had come to Q’Xorlarrin at the behest of the matron mother. She was pressuring House Xorlarrin to plead for her assistance so that she could garner Matron Mother Zeerith’s unwavering fealty.

  “Yes, that must be it,” Hoshtar said under his breath, and he found himself disgusted and intrigued all at once.

  And worried, for what might Matron Mother Zeerith’s reaction be when he passed along this terrifying information?

  That moment was fast approaching, Hoshtar realized, when more sounds followed Athrogate and the woman into the corridor. This entire section of the complex would fall to their small hands in short order, and his escape routes would be few and far between.

  The Xorlarrin wizard adjusted his red veil over his face and quietly mouthed a spell. Fortunately for him, Athrogate, who was not so far away, launched loudly into a bawdy song, covering his spellcasting.

  Hoshtar became an insubstantial cloud of fog and wafted away.

  “NO YE DON’T, girlie!” Tannabritches Fellhammer yelled as she went skidding on her knees down the hallway past her sister, launching herself at the kobold line.

  She almost got the next swing in, but her sister Mallabritches leaped over her, head down, and crashed into the monsters, driving them back.

  “Ah, ye cheatin’ daughter of an ugly orc!” Tannabritches howled, putting her feet under her and charging ahead. She shouldered Mallabritches aside and stabbed out with her sword once and then again, dropping a pair of kobolds.

  “And ye’re me twin!” Mallabritches reminded her. “So who’s the orc?”

  “Hah!” Tannabritches cried in victory, and started ahead, her sister growling and matching her charge.

  But then Tannabritches was flying backward, tugged by a strong hand. She started to question it, but heard a familiar laugh and saw a familiar one-horned helmet atop a mop of wild red hair.

  “Bah!” she cried, and Mallabritches grunted and offered a resounding “oof!” as Bruenor bulled past her.

  Bruenor’s shield rush drove into the kobold ranks, the dwarf leaning hard, shoulder to buckler, his powerful legs pumping and driving. Every now and then, Bruenor reached his axe up and over his shield, smacking at the beasts, and whenever one managed to get a foothold to slow his press, the dwarf turned and cut low, taking out its legs.

  “Duck!” the Fellhammer sisters yelled in unison, and Bruenor reflexively scrunched lower. He felt a boot on his left shoulder, another boot on his right shoulder, and over went the sisters, using him as a springboard to lift them high above the front kobold ranks and drop into the middle of the swarm.

  “No!” Bruenor cried. “What’re ye thinkin’?”

  His last word came out as a grunt, though, as another boot stomped atop his shoulder, and another on the other side.

  “Bwahaha!” he heard, and he knew that Athrogate and Ambergris had come.

  The kobolds knew it, too.

  Painfully so.

  RECONSTITUTED IN HIS corporeal form once more, Hoshtar Xorlarrin glanced back over his shoulder, hearing the approaching battle. He was in the last tunnel now, moving for the large chamber that joined the lower levels with these upper portions of the complex.

  The kobolds were running out of room.

  The dwarves would be here soon, in this tunnel, and the upper complex would be theirs.

  There remained some monsters between them and Hoshtar’s clan, and surely the drow could bring in some more to hinder the progress of these bearded ruffians.

  Hinder, but not stop, for it was only a matter of time now, and not much time at that.

  Hoshtar reached the end of the corridor, moving through a door to a landing that opened high above the vast chamber and the deep darkness below. With a last glance back up the corridor, the mage touched his House emblem, enacting an enchantment of levitation, and stepped from the ledge, drifting down.

  Matron Mother Zeerith would not be pleased, for he had nothing good to tell her. The dwarves had made tremendous progress, securing room after room after tunnel, and fortifying everything in their wake. When Hoshtar had secretly crossed through the front warrior ranks of the enemy, he had found the industrious dwarves behind hard at work, building traps and secure doors of stone and iron, even reshaping corridors in meticulous detail, setting up kill zones with their clever war engines. Even if House Xorlarrin fought off the initial assaults and defeated the front lines of dwarves, claiming these upper tunnels of Q’Xorlarrin would be costly.

  And without these upper tunnels secured, Matron Mother Zeerith’s designs on trade with surface-dwelling partners could not be easily realized.

  Hoshtar thought of Athrogate, Jarlaxle’s ugly little friend.

  “Oh, clever Jarlaxle,” he said, drifting down into the darkness. Might Jarlaxle, and not the matron mother,
prove to be the impetus behind the dwarves’ reclamation of the upper halls? Jarlaxle knew these dwarves, obviously, and had spies among them—Athrogate at least. With these devious developments, with an army of dwarves holding fast to the upper complex, only Jarlaxle could facilitate the necessary trade between the city of Q’Xorlarrin and the World Above.

  Was this Jarlaxle’s way of ensuring himself a larger profit?

  “Or is it truly the work of the matron mother?” he asked himself as he lightly touched down beside the huge spiral staircase that could be, and now was, retracted halfway to the ceiling.

  Aware then that many eyes and bows were trained upon him, Hoshtar held up his hands unthreateningly and offered his name.

  “Beware falling kobolds,” he warned the drow sentries, moving past into the deeper tunnels, moving toward the unenviable task of informing Matron Mother Zeerith on the successes their enemies had already realized.

  “Dwarves,” the delicate and fashionable dark elf muttered repeatedly during that long, long walk to the royal chambers. “Ugly, hairy, filthy dwarves. Oh, why must it be dwarves?”

  “HAHA, BUT YE’VE picked yerself a band o’ bluster an’ bustin’!” Athrogate said to Bruenor a bit later, when the five had turned into a series of side passages and found—to their disappointment—a few moments of much-needed respite. “Don’t know that I’ve e’er seen a one-hander so quick to clobber!” he added, using an old dwarven nickname, “one-hander,” to describe a five-dwarf patrol group.

  Bruenor had a hard time disagreeing with the sentiment. Fist and Fury were truly a rolling disaster from any enemy’s viewpoint, and Bruenor, with his supreme skill, centuries of experience, and mighty gear, knew how to complement them perfectly. And no less devastating were Athrogate and Ambergris, particularly Athrogate. Never in his life had Bruenor witnessed a more capable dwarven catastrophe—indeed, this one was on a par with Thibbledorf Pwent!