Vengeance of the Iron Dwarf

  CHAPTER 16

  THE PUPPET MASTER

  OF ALL THE INSANE THINGS YOU HAVE DONE OVER THE CENTURIES, THIS one is by far …” Kimmuriel had to stop there, at a loss for words—and surely that was an almost unique event.

  Jarlaxle was quite pleased with that, as he clearly revealed with his grin.

  “You brought dragons here?” Kimmuriel asked. “Dragons to battle the whites Gromph and Matron Mother Quenthel enlisted in our cause?”

  “Does Gromph know that?”

  “No.”

  “Better to keep it that way,” said Jarlaxle. “If he knows of it, he will likely have to take action or face the wrath of Quenthel.”

  Kimmuriel’s usually impassioned face screwed up as he tried to decipher that logical mess. “You think the archmage would quietly approve,” he reasoned at length, “but that he would not be able to support you because of the ramifications he would suffer in Menzoberranzan.”

  “You underestimate Gromph Baenre,” Jarlaxle replied. “He knows that I am here …”

  “I told you as much!”

  “And that I have brought the dragons and so do battle against the minions of Many-Arrows,” Jarlaxle went on. “He knows, but he cannot let anyone else know that he knows. Surely you understand the value of such logical and believable deniability. It is the way of life in Menzoberranzan, is it not?”

  Kimmuriel half turned away and stared off into the distance, no doubt recalibrating his thoughts around that remarkable revelation.

  “Tiago and his cohorts remain because of Gromph’s advice to the matron mother,” Jarlaxle remarked, just to get it out there and bring it to the forefront of Kimmuriel’s calculations.

  “No,” Kimmuriel corrected. “They are part of Matron Mother Quenthel’s too-clever web. But Gromph did not argue against her, from what I’ve gathered in my time with him.”

  “Your time in his thoughts, you mean.”

  Kimmuriel bowed to concede the point. The main reason Kimmuriel was training Gromph in psionics, after all, was because that gave him and Jarlaxle, the co-leaders of Bregan D’aerthe, intimate access into the goings-on in Menzoberranzan through the eyes of the city’s archmage. As Kimmuriel trained Gromph, so too did he read the archmage’s mind.

  “And you believe that Archmage Gromph does not, or would not, disapprove of your actions here?” Kimmuriel asked.

  Jarlaxle shrugged. “I am not dead.”

  “I have not sensed any of this in my time with him.”

  “Did you know to look for it?”

  “It is a startling claim, I admit.”

  “You’ll not find the direct proof, in any event,” Jarlaxle told him. “Even in Gromph’s mind. Understand, my cerebral friend, that when you enter there in your training sessions, still you see only what Gromph wants you to see. He is not practiced in the art of psionics as are you, of course, but he is a drow of tremendous intelligence, will, and arcane skill. He’ll not ever reveal to you anything that would get him in the bad graces of Quenthel or the Spider Queen.

  “But here I am,” Jarlaxle finished. “Alive and well. And Gromph surely knows more than you expected and yet, he has not destroyed me and has not come for me, to drag me back to the whip of Matron Mother Quenthel Baenre.”

  “To what end? For him?” Kimmuriel asked.

  “I doubt he’s thought it out that far,” Jarlaxle replied. “But certainly he is angry. Lady Lolth has struck out for Mystra’s arcane domain, for the Weave itself, from which Gromph derives his powers. And in that realm of the arcane, his powers are greater than any other in Menzoberranzan, perhaps likely even greater than any other of our race. And yet, despite that, Gromph understands that he remains a male.”

  “The female children of the noble Houses will flood Sorcere in its next class,” Kimmuriel admitted.

  “Of course they will. For the grace of Lady Lolth, yes? A grace, a station, reserved for them.” Jarlaxle gave a little knowing laugh. “My dear brother Gromph will not be the Patron Father of Menzoberranzan, after all, will he?”

  Kimmuriel could only sigh. Emotions were such destructive things.

  “So what are Tiago’s ambitions, then?” Jarlaxle asked. “What greater glory does he seek?”

  “You know the answer.”

  “Drizzt Do’Urden,” said Jarlaxle, and he huffed and shook his head. “What is it about this one that makes so many feel the need to challenge him? For Artemis Entreri, it was a reflection in a mirror he could not bear to view. But for Tiago?”

  “A quick means to an end,” said Kimmuriel. “The head of Drizzt will gain him instant recognition and status. He is not a patient sort.”

  “He is as impulsive and quick to devour the meal as a human,” Jarlaxle agreed.

  “He travels with Warlord Hartusk, but his eye is ever northward,” Kimmuriel explained, “waiting for Mithral Hall to break out.”

  “Drizzt is not in Mithral Hall.”

  “He does not know that.”

  Jarlaxle rubbed a hand over his face, a sparkle coming into his red eyes.

  “What are you thinking?” Kimmuriel asked.

  “Strange of you to ask such a question.”

  Kimmuriel responded with a sour look—for they both understood the power of Jarlaxle’s eye patch. Indeed, Kimmuriel would rarely ask such a question as he had just posed, and instead just peer into someone’s thoughts. He couldn’t do that with Jarlaxle, to his ultimate frustration.

  “I am thinking that perhaps we should give Tiago what he wants,” Jarlaxle admitted. “Before he and his idiot army can cause too much more damage.”

  “He will be recalled in the later part of Eleasis, just over three months from now,” Kimmuriel explained. “So said Gromph and the matron mother.”

  “Then we must be quick,” Jarlaxle replied. “It takes a bit of time to shape the course of a region as large and diverse as the Silver Marches, after all.”

  Jarlaxle shuddered uncomfortably, as he always did when stepping out of one of Kimmuriel’s unconventional teleport spells. He had always been intrigued by these strange alterations, distinct from the Weave and powered by thought, for it seemed to him as if the psionicist could simply bend time and space his way for this one instant he needed to usher Jarlaxle through.

  Perhaps he could find some way to learn this trick, Jarlaxle mused—as he did every single time he stepped through one of Kimmuriel’s … distortions. He couldn’t quite bring himself to call this bending of space a gate—

  Jarlaxle shook his head, even slapped himself on the cheek, to focus his thoughts. The campfire was not far in front of him, and surely there were many sentries about.

  He crept up toward the light.

  “Do you intend to leave a trail of little Wulfgars all across Faerûn?” he heard Regis scolding the barbarian. The drow mercenary smiled and thought to head right in, but then Wulfgar’s reply gave him pause.

  “I intend to enjoy this second life,” Wulfgar answered.

  “Then fall in love!” Regis suggested.

  “I am.”

  “At every stop?” Regis asked.

  “I hope so.”

  Jarlaxle’s smile widened, thinking he had found a man after his own heart. He wanted to stay back then and let Wulfgar expound upon the joys of hedonism, but he reminded himself that sentries were likely near and that he was, after all, a dark elf not named Drizzt Do’Urden.

  “Ah, Wulfgar, I have some sisters I should introduce to you!” he said cheerily, stepping into the firelight—and Regis and Wulfgar were to their feet in the blink of an eye, weapons in hand, though Regis’s weapon was actually a turkey leg.

  “Jarlaxle?” they both stammered together.

  “Well met, my old friends!”

  “Never that,” said Wulfgar.

  “My new friends, then, and glad you will be for the company. I come with news of Drizzt and the others.”

  “How did you find us?” asked Regis, and Jarlaxle did not miss the nervous glance the halfli
ng tossed Wulfgar’s way. Yes, this band of raiders had gone to great lengths to hide their whereabouts from prying eyes and prying spells—there were magical wards all around the encampment.

  But they did not understand the subtle power of psionics, and psionics was not magic, nor was it a physical sense. Their wards could hide them from orcs, from most drow, from dragons even, but not from Kimmuriel.

  “Drizzt, Catti-brie, Bruenor, and Athrogate made their way safely into Mithral Hall, but they are not there now,” the drow explained. “Citadel Adbar is free, and so, now, is Citadel Felbarr, through underground routes at least.”

  The halfling and the barbarian exchanged dumbfounded stares.

  “It is time for you to rejoin them, I expect,” the drow went on. “King Connerad begs your presence—soon. He will break free of Mithral Hall through the eastern door in front of the Surbrin. There he will find allies, and better will it be if your raiders are among those allies.”

  “You come with this message from King Connerad?” Wulfgar asked skeptically.

  Jarlaxle bowed.

  “The time is upon you,” he said. “And what a relief it will be to Silverymoon and to Everlund when word spreads southward that the three dwarven armies have joined in the fight!”

  He dipped another bow, never taking his eyes off the faces of the two startled heroes.

  “I found you,” he reminded them. “And your band is but fifty strong. If I wanted to have you killed, a simple note of your location to Warlord Hartusk would have you overrun in short order.”

  Regis shrugged first, but Wulfgar couldn’t argue the point.

  “You can thank me by keeping my name out of your discussions,” the drow told them, and with that, Jarlaxle felt the tug of Kimmuriel’s thoughts and stepped backward, simply fading from the view of Regis and Wulfgar, stepping miles away across time and space bent by Kimmuriel.

  Now Jarlaxle had to go and convince King Connerad that his, and his garrison’s, presence were requested at Mithral Hall’s eastern gate.

  “King Harnoth’s already crossed the Surbrin in the north,” Bruenor told Emerus as they gathered at council. They were not in King Emerus’s normal audience hall, however, having moved far to the northwest of the main area of Citadel Felbarr, where dwarf tunnelers were digging their escape behind enemy lines and into the Glimmerwood.

  “He should be rolling straight into Dark Arrow Keep then,” King Emerus declared, and beside him, both Parson Glaive and Ragged Dain nodded their heads in agreement.

  “Bah, but we had to convince him not to!” said Oretheo Spikes.

  “One step at a time, me friend,” Bruenor explained. “The upper ways o’ the Underdark’re cleared and lets us get us all out o’ here and into the forest. We break the siege at Mithral Hall—”

  “But ye’re meaning to leave the siege in force about Felbarr?” Ragged Dain interrupted.

  “Felbarr’s free from below, Mithral Hall’s to be free above,” Bruenor replied.

  “The orcs won’t know whether to reinforce the tunnels or the surface camps,” Drizzt explained. “Our greatest advantage is coordination of our forces. We pick the battlefields.”

  “Aye, and their stinking corpses litter them,” Bruenor added.

  “By every report and all that we saw in coming here, they’ve few drow left in support,” added Catti-brie. “Without that directing and guiding force, we will have them running every way but the correct one.”

  “So we go into the Glimmerwood, then across the river to join in the fight for Mithral Hall?” King Emerus asked.

  “Aye, the eastern fight, by the bridge, where Connerad’ll come roarin’ out,” said Bruenor.

  “Some of you will go to Connerad,” Drizzt corrected. “Most, actually, but a few may be called to rendezvous with King Harnoth and join the fight north of Mithral Hall.”

  “That’ll be yerself, elf,” said Bruenor, and Drizzt nodded. That much had already been arranged. Drizzt could move quickly and stealthily, after all, and coordinating the movements of the armies would be the key to victory.

  “Without reinforcements from the north, the bridge can be won,” Drizzt explained. “And those orcs in Keeper’s Dale, far to the west, will have no way to join the fight in time.”

  “We can go and crush them after,” said Ragged Dain.

  “Aye, or might be that we then come back across the river and pay a visit to the ugly dogs surrounding Felbarr,” Bruenor said. “We’ll know. We got better eyes and better heads than the orcs, don’t ye doubt. They’ll not ever find us where they expect us, and’ll always be seeing us where they ain’t wantin’ us!”

  “We got eyes? What eyes?” King Emerus demanded.

  “Same eyes what got me and me boys out o’ Mithral Hall,” Bruenor replied. “Same eyes what bringed me boys with the elfs to Adbar, to save Harnoth and break that siege. Same eyes that bringed me and me boys and Oretheo and his boys to yerself.”

  “Warlord Hartusk looks south to Silverymoon and Everlund,” Drizzt put in. “He does not even know of the return of Bruenor Battlehammer, or that Mithral Hall has a brigade of Gutbusters running free. Or that Adbar is free and has made her way to Felbarr. He is oblivious to the cracks behind as he walks out farther upon that branch.”

  “Branch? Bah, I mean to chop the whole damned tree down!” Bruenor declared, and he pounded his fist on the table.

  He and King Emerus eyed each other intently for a few heartbeats, then Emerus nodded his agreement.

  They came forth the very next day: Bruenor and Bungalow Thump and the boys of Mithral Hall, Oretheo Spikes and the eight hundred of Citadel Adbar, and King Emerus and two thousand of Citadel Felbarr’s best.

  They found the boats at the Surbrin, as had been arranged with the Moonwood elves, and the legions of Felbarr and Adbar silently drifted across to the bank north of the Surbrin Bridge and the eastern door of Mithral Hall.

  The orc force just south of their position was considerable, they realized, and the campfires in the northwest spoke of a second force many times that size.

  Even worse, and unexpectedly, another enemy force had come into the region, here on the eastern side of the Surbrin, down in the south bear to the bridge.

  “Got to take and hold that bridge,” Bruenor muttered, already formulating a plan.

  “Harnoth and the boys of Adbar better not be late,” King Emerus solemnly said to Bruenor, his eyes still gazing to the northwest and the swarms of campfires.

  “Aye,” Bruenor could only agree, for if that force in the north joined the battle at the bridge, Connerad’s forces and this battle group would be overwhelmed in short order.

  Bruenor turned to Drizzt as he finished, and the drow nodded. Drizzt kissed Catti-brie, promised to see her soon, and ran off into the night to rendezvous with Afafrenfere to help counsel and guide King Harnoth’s march, as had been arranged.

  “Do you ever tire of this?” Tazmikella asked Jarlaxle that same night, she and her sister having immediately left the dwarven force when they had first come out into the Glimmerwood. Tazmikella had gone to find Jarlaxle, and Ilnezhara went off in search of another principal for the upcoming events. Tazmikella was in her elf form now, reclining comfortably under the dark sky.

  “Dear lady, I live for this,” replied the drow, who had just returned from Mithral Hall.

  “You have informed the four allied groups of the breakout. When will you tell the enemy?”

  “When will your sister return?” came the somewhat flippant response.

  “She is here,” Ilnezhara answered before Tazmikella could. Also in the guise of an elf, she walked up to join the pair.

  “That was quick,” Jarlaxle dryly replied.

  “I had not far to search,” replied Ilnezhara. She looked to her sister. “Arauthator and his son have returned. They flew along the line of the Surbrin this very night, then turned southwest to the ruins of Sundabar.”

  Both of the sisters looked to Jarlaxle then.

  “I b
elieve it is your move,” said Tazmikella, with a wry smile. “It is time to betray the dwarves.”

  CHAPTER 17

  WAITING FOR THE WHITES

  DRIZZT HAD TO SUMMON ANDAHAR AND RIDE THE UNICORN HARD TO keep up with the running Afafrenfere. With his magical anklets, he had been able to pace the monk on foot for a short distance, but he had tired and Brother Afafrenfere showed no signs of wearying.

  They covered many miles that night, leaving the campfire lights of the vast orc encampment north of Mithral Hall, and the Frost Hills that housed the dwarven complex, far behind. Nearly a third of the way to Dark Arrow Keep, they found the large dwarven force of thousands marching under the command of King Harnoth and his generals, and with Sinnafein’s elves patrolling all around.

  Still outside that perimeter, Afafrenfere stopped and crouched. Drizzt dismounted to move beside him.

  “Dismiss your mount,” the monk bade him. “You’ll need the unicorn no longer.”

  “Perhaps I will ride scout for King Harnoth.”

  “The scouts are in place all around us,” Afafrenfere explained. “The elves of the Moonwood know we are here.”

  Drizzt nodded, but still hesitated as he tried to figure out where best he would fit in with this group. Was he going to join the fight at Harnoth’s side, or ride back to stand beside Bruenor and Catti-brie? Would he be better served astride Andahar in either scenario, riding the length of the dwarven battle line, Taulmaril in hand?

  That was for another day, he realized, and he bade Andahar to be gone.

  “Jarlaxle has determined that you will be with me when the fighting starts,” Afafrenfere told him, as if reading his mind.

  Drizzt eyed the monk curiously.

  “With me and the sisters,” the monk explained.

  “I worked with Tazmikella in the journey to Citadel Felbarr,” Drizzt replied. “She walked as an elf through tight tunnels. Now that we are upon the surface once more, I had thought that she and her sister would likely take wing.”