The Moonwood elves would never have …
The thought disappeared in a blink, replaced by an overwhelming sense of coldness, colder even than she had felt when first she had crawled from the icy waters of the Rauvin, its wickedly cold waters supplied by the melting snow atop the mountains to the northeast.
This was deeper and more profound, a sensation that the very blood was freezing within her. She stumbled and went down to one knee, holding there, forcing her breath into her aching lungs. Curiously, she noted that she couldn’t actually see her breath puffing in front of her face, and that clued her into the reality of this sensation.
Khazid’hea was doing it!
She grasped the sword and cursed it, demanding that it stop, but then she realized that the sword wasn’t purposefully imparting the feeling. Her connection to the sword allowed her to recognize that Khazid’hea wasn’t creating the sensation, but was experiencing it, and so she was, too, through the sword.
And then she understood, as Khazid’hea understood. The sword had spent decades on the hip of another.
Khazid’hea had felt the death of Tos’un.
Her father was dead.
A moment of grief became overwhelmed by a sensation of utter dread. She looked around as if expecting some enemy, drow or elf, to rush out upon her and lop her head from her shoulders.
She found it hard to breathe.
She wanted to run, but had no idea what direction might serve. Was she to return to Menzoberranzan? How could she? What chance would she have among the drow without the intervening hand of her father and his noble Armgo lineage? Now she was certainly no more than darthiir, simple offal to be toyed with and tortured and ultimately murdered.
And Doum’wielle knew that the dark elves would make it hurt. She knew she would be begging for the release of death long before they finally granted her that peace.
She instinctively returned to the north and looked across the Rauvin to the fields and trees beyond. She was a long way from the southern tip of the Glimmerwood, and longer still to the region of that vast forest known as the Moonwood.
But perhaps she could get there, to her old home, to Sinnafein, her mother.
It would be a more merciful death, but no doubt still a death, she thought.
The image of Sinnafein, face twisted by rage, sword up high to deal her the killing blow, washed through poor Doum’wielle. She heard her mother calling out “Little Doe!” but not with affection. Instead, hatred and rage at the murderous child, whose hands still stank with the blood of her brother, Tierflin.
Again hardly aware of the movement, Doum’wielle turned away from the Glimmerwood. There was nothing there for her. She knew that Khazid’hea had spurred her thoughts of doom in her old home and that image of her mother, a fact confirmed by the relief she felt from the sentient blade when she turned away.
But the sword was right, she believed in her heart, and the revelation did not make her question Khazid’hea. Indeed, she turned to the blade for guidance. She had no ideas and no hope.
She found both in Khazid’hea, and as she came to understand the plotting sword, Doum’wielle grinned and nodded.
She didn’t need her father. She would survive without him. She would thrive without him.
Perhaps he had been a burden to her with the drow all along. He was Barrison Del’Armgo, but Tiago was Baenre and Ravel was Xorlarrin, both families bitter rivals of House Barrison Del’Armgo.
How much protection had Tos’un truly afforded her? She recalled then the look Tos’un had given her after that moment of ultimate humiliation.
Doum’wielle was done mourning her father.
“We got to secure the land on both ends o’ the bridge!” King Connerad insisted. “Hold our gains and spread from there!”
“Bah, but Felbarr’s still circled,” Ragged Dain pointed out.
“Ye canno’ be leavin’ me folk trapped in another tunnel what might be slammed shut,” King Emerus agreed. “Came here to help yerself and yer boys out, and now ye’re out, and so I’m callin’ ye back to Felbarr to end that siege once and for all time.”
“Got more o’ me boys on the field than both o’ ye together,” King Harnoth said, rather imperiously.
Beside him, Oretheo Spikes grimaced, clearly not liking his young king’s tone.
“I’ll be takin’ the force then where me heart’s tellin’ me to go,” King Harnoth said. Indeed, he had near to six thousand on the field, almost twice the number of the combined forces of Mithral Hall and Citadel Felbarr. But while Citadel Adbar was clearly the strongest of the three dwarven citadels, the kings of the other two, particularly Emerus Warcrown of Citadel Felbarr, were far more seasoned in the arts of war. “Hartusk’s in the south, and I’m thinkin’ it’s time we pay the murderin’ dog a visit. He ain’t got his dragons now, and let’s see how his filthy orcs stand against a hunnerd dwarven legions!”
Off to the side of the argument, Drizzt, Bruenor, and the other Companions of the Hall listened.
“Young Connerad will need your support,” the drow whispered to Bruenor. Drizzt waited a moment for a response, then tapped the dwarf on the shoulder.
Bruenor brushed his hand away. He hadn’t heard the question, and barely recognized the argument roaring on the other side of the campfire. Bruenor’s eyes were closed and his thoughts were far away, back in Gauntlgrym and the Throne of the Dwarf Gods.
The problem before him was obvious: they were sadly outnumbered, and any commitment to one battle or another would leave them open in other places. If they went to Citadel Felbarr, what would prevent the army in Keeper’s Dale from simply renewing the siege around Mithral Hall? And weren’t there far too many orcs and their monstrous allies still scattered around the Upper Surbrin Vale for them to even begin to think of running to the south, to Silverymoon or perhaps even Everlund, in pursuit of Hartusk?
So Bruenor thought of the throne. He heard the call of Clangeddin and saw in his mind the discipline and strength of a dwarven line, and the tirelessness of their march.
He heard the whispers of Dumathoin and considered the many courses they might take, both above and below ground.
He felt the wisdom of Moradin, the understanding of the reactions of his enemies when he executed this or that assault. Where could they hit Hartusk for best effect?
Sometime later, the argument across the bonfire still raging, Bruenor came out of his meditation, blinked open his eyes, and offered a wink to his friends. He turned his attention across the way, to find that Emerus appeared as if he was about to leap over and throttle King Harnoth.
“Me brothers,” Bruenor said, as he rose and walked around the flames. “Not the time for fightin’. We got out, and now we’re one.” He paused and settled his gaze one at a time on the contingents from all three of the dwarven fortresses, on King Emerus, Parson Glaive, and Ragged Dain of Citadel Felbarr; on King Harnoth and Oretheo Spikes and the others of Citadel Adbar; and on King Connerad, General Dagnabbet, and Bungalow Thump of his beloved Mithral Hall.
He ended with an imposing stare that fell squarely over young King Harnoth. “Ye was dead, boy,” he said, and those around Harnoth sucked in their breath at the seeming disrespect in that statement.
“Ye was dead until me and me boys pulled ye from it, and ye’re knowin’ it,” Bruenor pressed on. “The orcs and giants had ye in the dale, and not a one o’ ye’d’ve gotten home if it weren’t for meself and the Gutbusters and the allies we bringed with us.” He looked to Oretheo Spikes and shrugged, and the fierce Wilddwarf could only nod his agreement.
“And yerself wasn’t gettin’ out,” Bruenor said to King Emerus. “Yerself and yer boys were stuck and holding, yer bellies grumblin’, yer old and yer young dyin’.”
“Is yer point being that we’re all owin’ ye, Bruenor?” King Emerus dared to reply, and his tone showed that he didn’t much appreciate any such implication.
“Nah, I’m just sayin’ what was, and askin’ ye to trust me now,” Brue
nor replied.
“Trust ye? What with?”
“I seen the way,” Bruenor replied.
“The way?” Harnoth and Emerus asked together.
“Aye,” Bruenor said and closed his eyes. He saw them all there in his mind, thousands marching in tight formation. Dwarves had always been known as the toughest of the goodly races, hearty and rough and able to endure great hardships. It was a reputation well earned, Bruenor knew.
But it had become too much of a reputation and not enough of a practice. The gods of old were showing him the way. They could move, all of them, great distances in short order. With such numbers, they could overwhelm pockets of enemies and slaughter goblins, orcs, ogres, and even frost giants without suffering great losses.
Their marches would be inspired and necessary, and so would be without attrition.
He saw it clearly. He believed it in his heart.
“I believe in our boys,” he said.
The three dwarf kings exchanged confused looks.
“Mix ’em up and mash ’em all together,” Bruenor demanded. “There ain’t no Adbar or Felbarr or Mithral Hall now. Aye, not now. Now there’s just Delzoun, just dwarf. Ye let me put ’em together, ye let me form ’em up, and ye let me lead ’em while ye ride along beside us.”
“Lead ’em where?” King Emerus asked.
“Not knowin’ yet,” Bruenor replied. He turned to Brother Afafrenfere, who sat off to the side with Sinnafein. “Ye get on yer dragon, monk,” he said, “and yerself, elf,” he added to Drizzt. “And ye fly all about the lands from the Rauvin Mountains to Keeper’s Dale to Dark Arrow Keep. I’m wantin’ to know where all them ugly orcs’re at, each group and how big.”
“Knight-Commander Brightlance has requested that the dragon sisters accompany her to Silverymoon,” Afafrenfere replied.
“Aye,” Bruenor replied with a nod. “And I’m not arguing that.”
The dwarf kings and their entourage grumbled at that. They had argued earlier that the dragons should remain with them to hold their hard-won gains.
“We’re not needin’ them,” Bruenor said, turning a withering gaze upon his peers. “Not when ye get us a map o’ the battlefield with our enemies clear to see.”
He turned to the kings and met their doubting stares with a look of grim determination. “I seen the way,” he told them again. “The ground’ll be shaking, don’t ye doubt, under the greatest dwarf army Faerûn’s seen in a thousand years!”
“We don’t know,” Saribel admitted to a very angry Gromph Baenre. “My husband flew ahead on Arauthator, but we were ambushed and turned back.”
“The dragons are gone,” Gromph flatly replied. “One lies dead in the snow on the high slopes of the mountain called Fourthpeak. The other is not to be found.”
Saribel and Ravel looked at each other with expressions bordering on pure horror. They had lost a dragon? Two dragons? How much did that erase the gains they had found, the glories they had earned? Would they return to Menzoberranzan in disgrace?
For Saribel, the fear went even deeper. What had happened to Tiago, and where did she stand in the ranks of House Do’Urden, or in the family of House Baenre, if he was gone?
“There is nothing left here for you,” Gromph explained. “And so it is time to return.” He looked to Ravel. “You would be wise to instruct Matron Mother Zeerith’s forces to likewise flee to Q’Xorlarrin. The enemies of Many-Arrows have gained the upper hand.”
“Warlord Hartusk has assembled a mighty force,” Ravel foolishly argued.
Perhaps there was some magical power behind the glare of Gromph, but whatever the reason, Ravel felt his knees going weak under the weight of the archmage’s displeasure.
“Do we know of Tiago?” Saribel dared ask.
“It is Aurbangras dead on the mountain,” Gromph answered, “and so I expect that the son of House Barrison Del’Armgo has met a most violent end. Arauthator fled to the Spine of the World and his home. Whether Tiago is with him or not, I do not yet know.”
Saribel relaxed a bit at that, something that was not lost on the archmage.
“You will be saddened if he has met his end,” Gromph said. “How touching. A priestess who cares for a mere male.”
Saribel’s eyes went wide at that mocking tone, as if Gromph was looking right through her, which, of course, he was.
“Or is it because Tiago is Baenre, and because of him, so are you?” Gromph asked with a chuckle. He turned back to Ravel. “Saribel would care not at all if you were the one missing, you know.”
Ravel looked at his nasty sister and shared in Gromph’s chuckle. “Of course.”
“Gather your entourage at once,” Gromph instructed. “I will put the gate to Menzoberranzan right here.” He scratched his boot across the ground. “It will not last long, and any who do not pass through the portal are banished from Menzoberranzan for eternity. On my word.”
“The Xorlarrins?” Saribel dared ask.
“They can find their own way home. Your old House is one of wizards, is it not?”
With that, the archmage began his casting, and the two noble children of Matron Mother Zeerith glanced at each other and realized that they needed to make all haste in collecting their servants.
As soon as they were gone, Kimmuriel walked out from the shadows to join the archmage.
“So you send them home,” he remarked. “And you will join them?”
“My business here is not done,” he replied.
Kimmuriel clearly sensed Gromph’s unrelenting anger.
“I know what Jarlaxle is doing,” Gromph added, staring hard at the psionicist. “I know the source of the … aerial force that came against Arauthator and his son.”
Kimmuriel stood ready to step far, far away at the first hint of trouble. He wanted no part of Gromph Baenre’s wrath.
But …
The archmage smiled and arched his white eyebrows, an open expression that invited his instructor to take a look inside his thoughts.
It took Kimmuriel a few moments to fully appreciate that Gromph wasn’t upset about Jarlaxle’s interference, though he couldn’t begin to understand why.
Not out here, at least.
He lifted his hand to Gromph’s forehead, using his fingers as an illithid might use its tentacles, to find a bond, a gateway.
It wasn’t often that Kimmuriel Oblodra wore an astonished expression.
“They will not desert your cause,” Jarlaxle informed Catti-brie and Bruenor sometime later. Drizzt and Afafrenfere had already flown from the dwarven encampment on their dragon mounts to begin the survey of the war zone.
“They fear the white dragon will return,” Catti-brie reasoned, but Jarlaxle shook his head.
“Arauthator has fled the battle. He has lived for centuries, millennia even, because he is not stupid. He’ll not return.”
“His son was slain,” the woman pointed out.
Jarlaxle shrugged as if that hardly mattered. “White dragons are worse parents than drow mothers, don’t you know?”
Catti-brie looked at him curiously at that strange remark.
“Trust me, good lady, Arauthator cares not at all and will not return.”
“So we got the dragons now,” Bruenor said. “Fightin’ the orcs?”
“Helping,” Jarlaxle corrected. “I do not expect the sisters to put themselves at risk for the sake of our … of your cause. But I expect that simply having them flying about will cause many of Hartusk’s allies to reconsider their allegiance. And my dark elf kin have already fled the field. Almost all of them.”
“Which battlefield for the dragons, then?” Catti-brie asked.
“Bah, send ’em south,” said Bruenor. “We don’t need them.”
“As I was thinking,” said Jarlaxle. “The greatest fight will be for Everlund.”
“Aleina Brightlance is returning to Silverymoon now to break the siege and rally the Knights in Silver to Everlund’s defense,” Catti-brie said. “Wulfgar and Regis have opte
d to travel with her to bolster her cause.”
“Brother Afafrenfere will fly Ilnezhara, and the dwarf Amber has asked to accompany him on Tazmikella,” Jarlaxle explained. “Athrogate will go with her. The dragons have agreed.”
“What hold ye got on them?” Bruenor asked bluntly.
“It is my irresistible charm, good dwarf.”
“And why are ye here?” Bruenor asked. “I’m still not gettin’ that, elf. Ye come here to fight against yer own?”
“The powers of Menzoberranzan have achieved all that they set out to do,” the drow replied. “It is now a fight between orcs and their allies against the goodly races of the Silver Marches. Do not be too flattered, dwarf, to know that I prefer you to an orc.”
“A fine answer,” said Catti-brie, “yet your dragons battled the whites ridden by dark elves.”
“It is of no concern.”
“To you?”
“To you,” Jarlaxle corrected. “You should ask fewer questions and accept your good fortune in the spirit it was offered. And you should remember always the conditions I put upon that offer.” His expression showed that last line to be more than a casual warning, and indeed it was a threat. Jarlaxle had demanded of Drizzt and the other Companions of the Hall that his presence here in this conflict remain secret, and the reminder now left no doubt that he could take his dragons and leave at any point.
“It is my own curiosity,” Catti-brie assured him.
Jarlaxle accepted that with a grin and a bow. “Someday, perhaps, I will satisfy that curiosity.”
Bruenor snorted.
“And you are confident that your forces can do what needs to be done before the inevitable return of Hartusk’s force?” Jarlaxle asked the dwarf.
“Ye just watch us, elf,” Bruenor confidently answered. “And then go do yer kin a favor and tell ’em. They’ll know better than to come back here, I’m guessin’.”
Jarlaxle had to admit, to himself at least, that Bruenor’s boast and confidence intrigued him. From his spying, he had seen the dwarves already falling in line to Bruenor’s commands. Their loyalty to their three fortresses had quickly melted away, leaving them a unified and coordinated army. The Wilddwarves and Gutbusters worked in unison, and the squares of dwarves from all three citadels marched as tightly as any groups that had served together for years.