“They will.”
Drizzt’s expression grew more intrigued and more tentative all at once.
“We have saddles,” Afafrenfere explained.
“Ah, but that’s a dizzyin’ thing,” Athrogate sputtered when he walked through Kimmuriel’s time-space distortion beside Jarlaxle. He stopped and blinked, confused for a moment to see that it wasn’t Jarlaxle standing beside him, but Beniago.
“Put these on,” the drow said to him, handing him some shackles.
“Eh?”
“For any orc or ogre sentries we might encounter until we get to Tiago.”
“I thought meself was wearin’ the mask,” said Athrogate, catching on that it was indeed Jarlaxle beside him, though with the magic of Jarlaxle’s wondrous mask, the drow looked exactly like Beniago.
“I’ll not reveal myself to Tiago,” Jarlaxle replied. “Nay, not to that favored child of House Baenre. This is Bregan D’aerthe coming to inform him, not Jarlaxle.”
“And if he catches on? Who’s first to die, yerself or meself?”
“Tiago,” Jarlaxle assured him, and he started away. In front of them, a vast army crawled, lumbering across the miles, heading south from the ruins of Sundabar to the Moon Pass through the Nether Mountains.
Warlord Hartusk was reaching farther, just as Jarlaxle had hoped.
Before long, orc sentries had surrounded the pair, along with a particularly nasty-looking ogre.
“A prisoner!” more than one cried with glee when they spotted Athrogate. The ogre even moved toward the shackled dwarf.
“Back away. The dwarf is not your concern,” Jarlaxle ordered them. “I warn you only once.” He met the dwarf’s gaze and silently begged for patience. If the ogre reached for Athrogate, the dwarf would shed the phony shackles and put his glassteel morningstars, Whacker and Cracker, against either side of its misshapen head.
“Bring me to Tiago immediately,” Jarlaxle ordered. “I have dire news!”
The orcs seemed to hardly hear him, the ogre not at all, so entranced were they by the presence of a hated dwarf. The ogre leaned in closer and reached …
A glob of green goo slammed the brute in the face, sending it reeling backward into a tree. There, the viscous material grabbed at the tree as well, pinning the ogre, its head fully engulfed. It clawed at the goo desperately, but futilely.
The orcs grew agitated, hopping around, brandishing weapons, and all looking at Jarlaxle and the wand that had somehow appeared in his hand.
The drow casually pulled out a large feather, as if it had magically appeared behind his ear, and threw it to the ground. A moment later, that feather became a gigantic bird, thick-legged, thick-bodied, and with a beak as long as a tall man’s forearm. It ran for the struggling ogre and drove its beak against the brute’s trapped head, stunning it. Up came a three-clawed foot, disemboweling the helpless ogre with one devastating slash.
And the bird pecked and bit at the spilling entrails, the thrashing, dying ogre helpless to dissuade it from its gory feast.
“I told you to take me to Tiago immediately,” Jarlaxle said to the orcs.
A short while later, Jarlaxle and Athrogate walked into a tent where Tiago, Saribel, Ravel, and some other drow, undoubtedly also of Q’Xorlarrin, had settled after the day’s hard march.
“Beniago?” Tiago asked, clearly perplexed.
“Take off those shackles,” Jarlaxle instructed Athrogate, and the dwarf shook himself free of the bonds.
“Do you know my associate, Athrogate?” he asked the others. “A fine spy for Bregan D’aerthe these last decades.”
“What is the meaning of this?” Saribel demanded, as usual, impressing Jarlaxle with her quick wit and lightning mental reflexes.
“You march for Everlund?” Jarlaxle, still disguised as Beniago, asked.
“What are you doing here?” Tiago demanded. He glanced around; Jarlaxle noted that all of the drow were on edge.
“Are you here by order of Menzoberranzan?” Saribel demanded.
“I am here with news,” Jarlaxle calmly replied. “You can listen or not, as you choose.
“High Priestess, pray enact a divination spell,” Jarlaxle said to Saribel, “that you will know the veracity of my claim.”
When Saribel was done casting her enchantment, Jarlaxle began. “This is Athrogate, a long-time associate of Bregan D’aerthe, and one, as you can see, particularly suited to spying on the enemies of Hartusk in this particular conflict. He went to Nesmé at my bidding, and to Mithral Hall from there, with my blessing.”
He noted that Tiago seemed to perk up quite a bit at the mention of Mithral Hall.
“You did this on orders from Menzoberranzan?” Tiago asked.
“From Matron Mother Quenthel?” Saribel added, and it wasn’t hard to notice her glare at her husband as she named the matron mother specifically.
“Bregan D’aerthe is free to use its own discretion here on the World Above,” Jarlaxle reminded them. “I thought it prudent to learn of the dwarves, and so I sent Athrogate.”
“And now you are here,” said Tiago. “Why?”
Jarlaxle turned to his dwarf associate and held forth his hand, bidding Athrogate to explain.
“They’re coming out,” the dwarf told them, as he had been instructed. “Morning after tomorrow. King Connerad and his boys’re bursting from Mithral Hall, don’t ye doubt, through the east door to take the bridge over the Surbrin.”
“The d-day after to-tomorrow?” Tiago stammered. “You know this?”
“He just told you,” Jarlaxle intervened. He didn’t want Athrogate to say any more. The dwarf’s words had been carefully orchestrated, and Jarlaxle’s own improvisations carefully added, for Saribel’s spell would surely show no lies in anything they had said, but saying more risked losing all.
“You are certain?” Tiago asked Jarlaxle.
“I am always certain, cousin,” said the double agent, who, like Beniago, really was the distant cousin of Tiago Baenre. “That is why I am alive.”
Tiago rubbed his face and paced around excitedly. “I knew we were premature in our march to Everlund!”
“Because the dwarves would come forth?” Saribel was quick to scold. “They are inconsequential, and why should we care? Let them battle Many-Arrows to the death of both—it matters not.”
Tiago fixed her with a hard stare, Jarlaxle noticed.
“You keep playing as if we can win, or as if there is anything to win,” Saribel continued. “This has been made clear to you, Husband.”
Jarlaxle thought it perfectly delicious that hot-humored Tiago did not draw his sword. He chewed his lip, but he didn’t even lash out verbally against Saribel Xorlarrin—because she was Saribel Do’Urden now, but more importantly, she was also High Priestess Saribel Baenre.
“There is something to be won here,” Tiago said, his tone decidedly more threatening suddenly. He was talking about Drizzt, Jarlaxle knew, and apparently Tiago’s bloodlust for that one exceeded any good judgment he might have had regarding Saribel—and likely regarding anything at all.
“Come with me,” Tiago ordered Jarlaxle, and he started for the tent flap.
“With you?” Jarlaxle replied.
“To Warlord Hartusk. He must be informed of this development.”
Again he started for the tent flap, but stopped once more when Jarlaxle laughed.
“This is your fight, Tiago, and for all the seasons I’ve grown and learned, I cannot begin to figure out why you want it,” Jarlaxle said. “You have been chasing this rogue for two decades, and to what good end?”
“The end is in sight, at the Surbrin Bridge on the day after tomorrow.”
“Whose end?” Jarlaxle quipped. Tiago stared at him threateningly, and for a moment, Jarlaxle thought the impetuous young fool might move against him.
“I advise you as others have warned you,” Jarlaxle calmly explained. “You have made great gains here in the Silver Marches, for your Matron Mother Zeerith’s fledgling c
ity and for your own fledgling House in Menzoberranzan. Matron Mother Quenthel is pleased by her expedition here, with such minimal loss and with her fist tightening over all who might dare oppose her. You risk much in going after this rogue.”
“Matron Mother Quenthel herself granted us these one hundred and fifty days, Beniago of Bregan D’aerthe,” Saribel intervened, surprisingly. “She did not tell us how we must use them. What would make a Houseless male think that his words would carry more weight than the blessings of the matron mother?”
Jarlaxle considered that for a few moments. He had tried to dissuade Tiago from going after Drizzt, even though he was glad that Tiago was likely going after Drizzt—for now, after all, Jarlaxle could honestly pass any interrogation the matron mother might put his way in days to come.
“As you will, Priestess,” he said with a bow. “And as you will, Cousin Tiago.” And he bowed again. “I had information I thought pertinent, and so I have done my duty and delivered it to you. And now I, and my spy here, will leave you to your choices.”
He bowed once more, and Athrogate laughed as they felt time and space bending once more. Kimmuriel, watching the proceedings through Athrogate’s thoughts, had recalled them far, far away.
Kimmuriel was shaking his head when Jarlaxle and Athrogate walked through that warp to return to his side.
“Exactly as I told you it would transpire,” Jarlaxle said to the psionicist’s doubting expression.
“So you believe,” said Kimmuriel.
“Do you doubt that Tiago will go after Drizzt, and surely astride Arauthator? You heard Saribel—even she is too eager for the prestige the head of Drizzt might bring to warn Tiago away.”
“And if Hartusk pivots his force at this news?” Kimmuriel asked.
“They cannot get to the Surbrin Bridge in time.”
“That will be of fine comfort to the dwarves when they are faced with a hundred thousand orcs.”
Jarlaxle’s expression soured. “I liked you better when you didn’t understand sarcasm,” he remarked.
“I always understood it. It just took me some time to recognize that it might be necessary when communicating with inferior minds.”
Athrogate began to laugh, but stopped with a puzzled expression, then scratched his head.
“Hartusk will not turn,” said Jarlaxle. He removed his magical mask and became Jarlaxle in appearance once more. “Everlund is the bigger prize and the bigger threat. Now that winter is over, the city will find allies soon enough, and so will become forevermore lost to Hartusk. He is a fool, prideful and war-hungry enough to believe that he can sack the city, then move back on the dwarves. And in truth, there are more orcs and other monstrous allies remaining behind Hartusk in the Upper Surbrin Vale than all the dwarves of all the citadels combined.”
“But Tiago will turn from Everlund?”
“Tiago has a dragon,” Jarlaxle answered. “He believes that he will be at both fights, of course.”
“And you think him wrong.”
Jarlaxle shrugged and considered the dragon sisters. Ancient and huge, Arauthator was no minor wyrm, after all. And though his son was nowhere near that venerable state, Aurbangras too was quite powerful. Tazmikella and Ilnezhara were formidable indeed, but in a fair fight, Jarlaxle would be hard-pressed to wager on them against the whites, or even against the Old White Death alone.
Jarlaxle never fought fair.
“Is there an end game in your plans?” Kimmuriel asked, a simple question on the surface, but one that nagged at Jarlaxle.
“Of course,” he said with a smile, his red eyes twinkling, though only one was visible now as he adjusted the eye patch that kept Kimmuriel out of his thoughts.
The eye patch that kept Kimmuriel from recognizing Jarlaxle’s confidence as a complete lie.
“He bade me to wish you well, and to tell you both to be safe,” Afafrenfere said to Bruenor and Catti-brie in private, after the monk had spoken with Bruenor, King Emerus, and Oretheo Spikes to lay out the final disposition of the coming battle.
The monk had arrived in the late afternoon of the day before the dwarves would spring their attack on the orc encampment around the Surbrin Bridge. Bruenor and Catti-brie, of course, had been quite concerned to find Afafrenfere coming in alone without Drizzt by his side.
“Was thinkin’ th’ elf’d be here fighting aside me,” Bruenor replied.
“Drizzt has a larger role to play,” the monk replied.
“Eh?”
“What do you know?” Catti-brie demanded, and the monk grinned. “Brother, I find no humor in your cryptic references,” Catti-brie sternly scolded him. “Drizzt is my husband—I am returned to this world for him and no other.”
“Aye, and same’s for me!” said Bruenor, and he ended with a harrumph that became a confused frown. “Excepting, o’ course, that he ain’t me husband,” he clarified.
“He would be here if he did not understand the importance of his role,” said the monk.
“And pray tell, what is that role?”
Afafrenfere looked up, drawing their eyes to the darkened sky. “You will see him when the battle begins in full,” he explained, and gestured skyward.
“Eh?” Bruenor asked again.
“That is all I can say,” the monk replied with a bow. “Look to the sky when the wyrms scream. You will understand.”
“The wyrms?” the dwarf and Catti-brie said together, but Afafrenfere merely bowed and started away—and at such a speed that he was far out of their range before either of the two could figure out what to ask him next.
The monk didn’t slow as he left the secret dwarven encampment far behind. He rolled across the miles with ease, tirelessly, until he knew that he was again in the region where King Harnoth and the elves had quietly camped. Off to the east, down by the Surbrin, he found Drizzt and the sisters, still in the form of elves.
“Jarlaxle has not returned?” he asked.
“We know our role in the battle,” Ilnezhara answered.
“And our role?” Afafrenfere asked, indicating Drizzt as well.
“Hold on?” Tazmikella quipped sarcastically.
“This is beyond you, and beyond Jarlaxle,” Ilnezhara said. “He has made his play with the drow Tiago at our insistence. Now he will fade from the battlefield as we do what we must.”
“What are you talking about?” Drizzt asked the sisters, but he was looking, too, at Afafrenfere as he spoke.
“Our enemy’s dragons will likely join the battle,” Afafrenfere explained.
“We are hoping as much,” Ilnezhara said.
Drizzt rocked back on his heels and digested that. Evidently, the plan was for him to be riding a dragon when that dragon went into battle with another dragon.
“Catti-brie,” he whispered at length. “We should have brought her.”
He started to explain, but lost his voice as the two elves in front of him stripped off their garments and suddenly transformed, becoming a pair of graceful and lethal copper dragons. Afafrenfere was already approaching with his saddle, Drizzt noted, the other saddle sitting hooked to a tree branch behind him.
“The battle is still hours away,” the drow protested.
“We will go to a better vantage,” Afafrenfere explained.
“He is a stubborn fool!” Tiago fumed.
“Did you expect anything different?” Saribel answered. They had gone to Warlord Hartusk to inform him of the possible breakout from Mithral Hall, and to ask him to turn around to crush the dwarves.
Warlord Hartusk hadn’t seemed impressed by the suggestion.
“Everlund is before him, the jewel of his conquests,” Saribel reminded. “Our front ranks are but a few days from the city.”
“And our rear guard but a hard day’s ride from the Surbrin Bridge,” Tiago shot back. He paused for a few moments, playing it out in his thoughts. “Get your brother,” he ordered.
Saribel looked at him as if he had slapped her.
“I beg of you,” Ti
ago pleaded. “Gather Ravel and the others.”
“All of this for Drizzt Do’Urden? You intend to take the white dragons from Warlord Hartusk in this, his moment of glory?”
“We will be back to his side, the dwarves crushed, long before he comes in sight of Everlund.”
“The dwarves crushed and Drizzt’s head in your bag, you mean.”
“Yes.”
“Husband …” Saribel said with a resigned sigh.
“Your brother,” Tiago insisted again. “Gather as many of the soldiers of Q’Xorlarrin as you can, and through the spells of Ravel and his fellows, return to the north, I beg. Steal as many orcs as you can, and with your spells and worg mounts, travel fast for the Surbrin Bridge. Let us be done with this, my wife, for the glory of House Do’Urden, and the gain of Q’Xorlarrin.”
“For the glory and gain of Tiago, you mean.”
“It is all one and the same, is it not? Matron Mother Quenthel left us here, without Menzoberranzan’s forces. Are we expected to be no more than handmaidens to an orc warlord?”
It was a strong point, Tiago thought, when he noted Saribel’s slight and likely inadvertent nod.
“Or are we to behave as drow?” Tiago pressed. “As servants of Lady Lolth? Intelligence and initiative win the day, my wife, and win the trophy.”
“I am quite certain that if you bring pain to Gromph’s white dragon friends, he will turn you into a skitter-newt,” she warned him, but that was the last of her protests, and she sent her handmaidens scrambling to find Ravel.
A short while later, his saddle secured and he secured to it, Drizzt held his breath as Tazmikella leaped into the dark sky. She flew back to the east, Ilnezhara in front of her, gaining height and speed.
The wind stole the tears from Drizzt’s eyes and sent his white hair and forest-green cloak flying out behind him. He held on tightly, amazed all over again by the acceleration and the steep climb. The air grew colder as the ground diminished below them.
Higher they went, the darkened sky looming above them. Drizzt held his breath as Tazmikella entered the roiling blackness, and for a moment, the drow was fully blinded, as if a darker night had fallen upon him.