Vengeance of the Iron Dwarf

  “You cannot have it,” Tiago said flatly. “You would invite the wrath of all of Menzoberranzan! I must find my …” He tried to stand, but a wave of agony burned up his leg, and he nearly swooned.

  “I will find your sword, drow,” the dragon promised. “And you will reward me handsomely for it, and for killing that rogue drow!”

  Tiago settled back, suddenly contented. Yes, of course the dragon would find it. Could such a treasure remain hidden from a dragon as mighty as Arauthator?

  And yes, they were in no hurry. Drizzt was surely dead, frozen in a tumble of rocks far from any of his friends. They could go up and cut him out at their leisure, likely. The orcs and giants would chase the dwarves back into their hole.

  The drow packed his aching leg in snow. His wife would fix it. Perhaps there was a benefit of being married to a high priestess after all, even if that priestess was the wretched Saribel Xorlarrin.

  He saw the crevice and leaped for it. He had to get inside, and around a bend—something, anything, to get out of the path of the dragon’s killing breath.

  But he couldn’t make it. He knew that halfway through his leap from the rock.

  He did get into the crevice, part of the way, at least, but there was no depth to it, and no turn that would move him away from the cloud of frost that caught him there and filled the area.

  Drizzt instinctively curled his cloak around him, but warm though it was, he knew in his mind that it could not protect him from such a lethal weapon as the breath of an ancient white dragon.

  And he felt those cold tendrils now, reaching for him, licking at him.

  Reflexively, he curled and held his breath, and a great lament washed over him with the thought that he would never see his friends again, that he would never hold Catti-brie again.

  He felt himself tightening to the stone as the frosty dragon breath settled over him, cocooning him, icing him in place. The press was great, the ice against his face and hands—exposed skin caught in the blast.

  But it didn’t hurt. And though he felt the chill, it was not a deathly thing, not a cold that went to his bones and settled there, stealing his very life-force.

  No, far from it. Indeed, the weight of the press was more uncomfortable than the chill of the ice. The ice wasn’t biting at him at all. He thought of his sword, Icingdeath, but that was a blade to protect from flames, not from cold.

  Not understanding, but having more pressing needs at that moment, Drizzt braced himself against the stone and pushed out with all his strength. He heard the ice crackling all around him, but the press remained. Again and again, he pushed against the frozen tomb, cracking it, weakening it, bit by bit. Finally it came free of the rock with a great swooshing sound.

  Drizzt staggered and nearly toppled as some fell away, but a large chunk remained stuck fast, frozen to his forest-green cloak. Still he felt no cold bite as he pushed the flecks from his bare arms and hand and face and neck, and still he could not comprehend how he had so completely ignored the killing breath of the dragon.

  And then it hit him, as he recalled his last moments in the cave below the tunnel, when Catti-brie had come up to him and cast an enchantment upon him to protect him from winter’s bite.

  “Good spell, my wife,” Drizzt muttered through teeth that were not chattering.

  He worked more quickly then, reminding himself that a white dragon and a drow rider—was it Tiago?—might be right outside.

  But so too were his friends, out there with the dragon and the deadly drow. With a low growl, Drizzt tore fully free of the wall and spun, whipping his cloak around so that it cracked into the stone, freeing it of some of the heavy ice.

  Out to the rock went Drizzt, Taulmaril in hand, ready to strike again at the dragon and its Baenre rider.

  But the wyrm was not to be seen.

  Drizzt spotted Catti-brie and Bruenor below, and how their faces lit up as they waved to their dear friend. They ran off to the north, motioning for Drizzt to join them.

  And Drizzt did, with his bow in hand. From this high vantage, he could strike behind the front ranks, where battle had been joined. From this high perch, the giants would be easy targets indeed.

  And from this high perch, he could watch for the return of the dragon.

  Goblins and orcs spun up and out to the side like water flying from the sharp prow of a fast-moving ship, as Athrogate and his spinning morningstars plowed into the line. With abandon, with fury, with the strength of a giant—and a pair of magical weapons as powerful as anything on the field—the black-bearded dwarf howled with glee, accepting hits and dealing devastating blows in return.

  To the other dwarves, ferocious in their own right, this one seemed completely unafraid, even welcoming of death, and so it was true.

  Athrogate, once of Felbarr, too long a wanderer, cursed and unable to die, didn’t care. This seemed to him his time and his place, and as soon as he got through the fodder goblinkin—and he had already turned this end of the line—he intended on making straight for the handful of frost giants behind them.

  They’d kill him to death, he figured.

  But he didn’t care. The rest of the boys would get back into Mithral Hall, and his name would be sung by the skalds—and when King Emerus learned the truth of Athrogate, who had been banished from Felbarr, Athrogate would have his proper revenge.

  He flinched as he sent one broken goblin flying off to the side. A shot of lightning, it seemed, crackled just above him. In the distance he saw a giant lurch, then again, and then another, as a line of lightning arrows flew in at them.

  Athrogate managed a moment to glance back, to see Drizzt up on high, that killing bow in hand.

  “Bwahaha!” he roared, suddenly figuring that he’d not only be a hero but live to brag about it, too.

  “Turn the damned line!” he heard Bruenor’s voice above the shouts and clatter of battle. “Bend her in! To the hall, boys, to the hall!”

  “Bwahaha!” Athrogate roared all the louder. “Bend yer bow, drow, and to the hall! I’ll send ’em flyin’ with me balls!”

  “Hold!” came Bruenor’s roar behind him, aimed right for him, and Athrogate skidded to a stop.

  “Save some for meself, ye dolt!” Bruenor cried, sliding up beside him and cracking his axe against his shield to emphasize the point.

  “Bwahaha!” Athrogate roared.

  Bruenor pulled him to the left and away from the rocky outcropping. More arrows stabbed in at the giants, and now their attention was fully on the drow and that nasty bow, boulder after boulder spinning out at the ridge.

  Bruenor chopped down an orc and shield-rushed a second, driving it back, and, more importantly, driving himself ahead, Athrogate beside him.

  Right behind them, tickling their behinds, came a wall of fire from Catti-brie, sealing the eastern flank of the battle line. And out of that wall of fire stepped a huge elemental beast from the fiery plane, rushing straight out at the behemoths, with goblins and orcs fleeing in terror before it.

  Side-by-side, the two dwarves plowed through the ranks, sweeping the line and freeing up dwarves with every step.

  “To the hall!” Bruenor yelled repeatedly, instructing those dwarves freed from battle to run straight out, and those still tight against the goblins to fight a retreating action.

  So they collapsed around the tunnel entrance, dwarves scooping shields and sliding back down the slope. Out in the east, the giants stumbled away, arrows biting at them, the fire elemental biting at them, and now with Guenhwyvar biting at them, too.

  “Ye go in, King Bruenor, and get yer girl with ye!” Athrogate offered. “I’ll hold the last o’ the dogs!”

  “Nah,” Bruenor replied. “Got me a better idea.” And he lifted his cracked silver horn to his lips and blew a cracking note. “The Pwent’ll hold ’em!”

  “Come on, girl!” Bruenor called to Catti-brie as the time neared for he and Athrogate to get inside.

  Catti-brie nodded and launched one last fireball at a mo
b of orcs who looked as if they might be regrouping for another charge. She rushed for the tunnel, glancing back at Drizzt, as was Bruenor.

  Drizzt waved at them to continue, and smiled confidently.

  Catti-brie picked up a great shield and set it down at the tunnel lip, falling atop it. Somehow this seemed to her far scarier than staying out there to battle the orcs, or even the giants, or even the damned dragon. But she felt Bruenor’s hand on her back and heard Athrogate’s laugh, and it wasn’t her choice as the red-bearded dwarf shoved her into the tunnel for a wild and bouncing ride down the steep decline.

  She figured out what those curving beams had been for as she neared the bottom and the torchlight—the dwarves had turned this slide into a jump.

  She heard herself screaming as she felt herself flying. She hit the water with a great splash, the cold liquid grabbing at her.

  But so too were dwarven hands, catching her around the shoulders and hauling her out, then unceremoniously launching her in a slide across the ice around the hole they’d chopped to the far bank where other dwarves—clerics with heavy blankets—waited, with a large fire burning in the corner behind them.

  Catti-brie managed to glance back when she heard Bruenor’s howl, and saw the dwarf high in the air, arms flapping like the wings of a broken bird. Right behind him came Athrogate, morningstars spinning.

  Dwarves hauled them out and sent them skidding across the ice.

  “Close the damned tunnel!” went the shouts.

  “Not yet!” Bruenor, Athrogate, and Catti-brie all yelled together, and sure enough, a moment later came the last shield, one carrying a dark elf, skidding down the ramp, catching the curve of the jump, and flying gracefully above the pond.

  “Take a bath, elf!” Bruenor howled.

  But Drizzt didn’t. The shield splashed into the water, and Drizzt gracefully rolled upright in his descent before coming down atop it, stepping and leaping so quickly that he barely got his boots wet before settling down on the solid ice.

  “Durned elf,” a drenched Bruenor grumbled.

  “Bwahaha!” howled the equally-dripping Athrogate.

  “Curse the gods, I had him!” Tiago fumed. He was back in Nesmé. Saribel tended his broken leg, with Tos’un and Doum’wielle nearby.

  “You got your sword back,” Saribel replied dryly, her tone making it quite clear that she was less than thrilled with Tiago.

  “Arauthator is quite angry,” said Ravel, coming into the room.

  Saribel glared at Tiago.

  “Would it have not better served us all, and Matron Mother Quenthel most of all, if you had come to us with your plan to lure the dwarves out of their hole?” Tos’un dared to ask.

  “You knew,” Tiago replied. “I made no secret …”

  “You did not say when it would transpire,” Tos’un interrupted, apparently feeling quite brave.

  Tiago noticed then that his wife, the high priestess of House Baenre, nodded approvingly at the upstart Armgo noble.

  This interrogation had been practiced.

  “Arauthator will return to his lair in the Spine of the World, into the month of Hammer, at least,” Ravel announced.

  “Drizzt Do’Urden is dead,” Tiago growled.

  “You returned to the spot,” Tos’un argued. “He was not there!”

  “Cut out of the dragon’s ice by the retreating dwarves.”

  “The orcs saw Drizzt retreat into Mithral Hall.”

  “They are orcs! They know nothing,” Tiago insisted, hoping beyond reason.

  “Enough,” Saribel quietly ordered them all. “It was a good attempt, and the prize would have been great indeed,” she said to her husband. “But yes, you should have allowed all of us to partake in the attempt at defeating the rogue Do’Urden. You put your personal pride above the good of Menzoberranzan.”

  Tiago could hardly believe what he was hearing from these companions. He was Tiago Baenre, grandson of mighty Dantrag, favored great-nephew of Matron Mother Quenthel Baenre. They were … what? Castoff Xorlarrins, a long-forgotten Armgo, and a half-breed not worthy to even be in this room.

  He pulled himself to a sitting position and glared at all of them in turn. “Who leads this expedition?” he asked.

  “Matron Mother Quenthel,” Saribel answered without the slightest hesitation.

  “She is not here,” said Tiago. “Nor is Gromph, nor any other matron mother, nor any ranking Xorlarrin.”

  “You are the weapons master of House Do’Urden,” Ravel reminded him. “I am the House wizard. We are of equal rank.”

  “I am Baenre and our House is in Menzoberranzan, created by the great Matron Mother Baenre,” Tiago reminded.

  “As I am Baenre, Husband,” said Saribel. “And high priestess of House Do’Urden, second only to Matron Mother Darthiir herself.” She paused and snickered, and reiterated, “Matron Mother Darthiir,” with a dismissive chortle.

  Tiago stared at her hard, wondering how greatly Matron Mother Quenthel would punish him when she discovered that he had disemboweled the witch named Saribel.

  “Are you claiming leadership over the drow in the Silver Marches?” Tiago asked incredulously, a feeling he was clearly not trying to hide.

  “I am,” Saribel said without hesitation, and she looked to Ravel and Tos’un, and both, to Tiago’s utter amazement, nodded in agreement.

  Tiago started to argue, but Saribel cut him short.

  “We are not long for the surface,” she explained. “Almost all of our kin are in the tunnels about the dwarven citadels now, or guarding the underground ways to the city called Silverymoon, sealing our enemies in place. We will starve the dwarves this winter to force them out into open battle, but you and I will not likely see that fight, Husband, for Matron Mother Darthiir calls, and House Do’Urden awaits.”

  “You cannot be serious,” Tiago argued. “Drizzt is in there, in Mithral Hall. They will come out. He—”

  “You said he was dead,” Saribel reminded. “So when we return to Menzoberranzan, claim yourself as the killer of the rogue Do’Urden.”

  And pray that he never shows himself again, Tiago thought but did not say, for such a humiliation as that would finish his ambitions in Menzoberranzan.

  “Rest, Husband,” said Saribel, and she rose and started away, the others collecting in her wake, except for Ravel, who remained behind.

  “I had him,” Tiago said when he was alone with his wizard friend.

  “Had you returned with his head, it might have gone better for you,” said Ravel.

  “What do you mean? What do you know?” Tiago demanded. “And pray tell me where Saribel has found such courage!”

  “Your answers are all one and the same,” said Ravel. “When I went to Arauthator after your return, Gromph Baenre was waiting, and he was not amused.”

  Tiago sucked in his breath.

  “And he grew less amused as the dragon revealed its own great displeasure,” said Ravel. “It is a tenuous alliance we hold with the two white dragons, my friend, and one clearly very important to Gromph. And it quickly became quite clear to me that Drizzt Do’Urden was not, is not, important to Arauthator or to Gromph.”

  “So Saribel acts with the imprimatur of the archmage.”

  “And of the matron mother.”

  “It makes no sense,” Tiago said, shaking his head. “Drizzt Do’Urden is in there. The greatest prize of all is within our reach. Why would they not see that?”

  “The greatest prize to you,” said Ravel.

  “Why are we House Do’Urden?”

  “There was a vacancy on the Ruling Council the matron mother wished to fill with a Baenre-dominated House. It was a brilliant move, you must admit. With House Xorlarrin moving out, there seemed to be a struggle impending between Baenre and Barrison Del’Armgo. But now Matron Mother Quenthel dominates the Ruling Council too completely for any to connive against her.”

  “But why Do’Urden?” Tiago pressed.

  “An empty Hou—”


  “A cursed House,” Tiago interrupted. “And one resurrected now for one reason only.”

  “To humiliate the avowed enemy of Lolth.”

  “And why not kill him?”

  Ravel shrugged and shook his head. “They will, likely,” he answered. “But in the matron mother’s own time. Matron Mother Quenthel is being very conservative and cautious. She remembers the fate of her mother, whose head was cleaved in half by King Bruenor. We have attacked seven major strongholds, Tiago, not even including this worthless town you now claim as duke. Seven major strongholds. War with Silverymoon alone would bring great struggle to Menzoberranzan, if the claims of that city’s wizardly powers are not exaggerated.”

  Tiago shook his head, having none of it.

  “Seven,” Ravel repeated, and he recited them slowly for emphasis, “Citadel Adbar, Citadel Felbarr, Mithral Hall, Sundabar, Silverymoon, Everlund, and the elves of the Glimmerwood. The orcs, the giants, and the dragons—particularly the dragons—make this possible.”

  He ended there and shrugged again, then started away with his unspoken conclusion hanging in Tiago’s thoughts.

  Tiago had risked Arauthator for his personal desire to kill Drizzt. Gromph and the matron mother had gone to great lengths to enlist the dragons, so said the whispers.

  Tiago flung a pillow across the room and crossed his arms over his chest, sneering.

  And plotting.

  Drizzt was in that dwarven hole, and despite his claims, Tiago did not believe for a moment that the rogue drow was dead.

  “But he will be,” Tiago whispered. “And I will carry his head into Menzoberranzan.”

  Winter settled deep around the Silver Marches, and hammers rang in the dwarven halls. But so too did bellies rumble, particularly in Citadel Felbarr, and more particularly in Citadel Adbar, whose lifeblood was trade and whose trade had been halted.

  Winter settled deep around the vast orc encampments, but with the granaries of Hartusk Keep at their disposal, the hearty orcs were not dismayed.

  Beleaguered Silverymoon welcomed the respite, her vast legion of wizards and priests more than able to feed the populace. In the south, the mighty city of Everlund crouched, hushed, knowing that doom was not far, knowing that the snows would recede and the orc horde would come on.