Doum’wielle caught those looks and turned her own concerned gaze upon her father.
But Tos’un seemed truly unbothered. “I am Do’Urden,” he said.
“A set of eyes for Matron Mother Mez’Barris, no doubt?”
Tos’un laughed at the absurdity of the remark. “You are not very old, wizard. Nor you, priestess. You do not remember the first assault upon the dwarven citadel of Mithral Hall, when Matron Mother Yvonnel Baenre was destroyed by the dwarf king Bruenor. When Uthegental, the greatest weapons master of Menzoberranzan …” He paused and grinned, and even bowed a bit at the obvious slip up. “Unless that title was given to Dantrag Baenre, of course,” he offered, speaking of Tiago’s grandfather, who was Uthegental’s most hated rival.
“I remember it all so well,” Tos’un continued. “The utter folly. The slaughter. We came and we were beaten back, but no, we did not leave—or did not have to leave! That was the decision of those left in dead Matron Mother Yvonnel’s bloody wake. We did not avenge her, or Uthegental. No, we fled.
“Drizzt Do’Urden was there, you know,” he went on, and the Xorlarrins leaned in eagerly. “In Mithral Hall in the time of that battle, fighting beside King Bruenor, against his own people. So the drow fled, and Mez’Barris was no small part of that decision—indeed, she never approved of the march in the first place.”
“Matron Mother Mez’Barris,” Saribel corrected, but there was more curiosity than outrage in her voice.
“But I did not leave,” Tos’un said, the boast clear in his voice. “Nay, I would not leave. And so, with my conspirators, I waited, and cultivated our opportunity. When we found that opportunity, in the form of the original king Obould, we did then exactly as this wiser Matron Mother Baenre does now. And look what we created, friends!” He waved his arms around. “The Kingdom of Many-Arrows, where the orcs bred thick, with numbers uncounted.”
“You acted in preparation for this war?” Ravel asked, clearly unconvinced. “You foresaw this day? Is that your claim?”
“I cultivated the battlefield,” Tos’un replied. “Do you doubt me? With a hundred thousand orc warriors at your disposal, do you doubt me?”
“You think yourself a hero of Menzoberranzan,” Saribel said, and it sounded more like an accusation than anything else.
But Tos’un clearly wasn’t rattled in the least, and a smile widened across his face. “I think myself a Do’Urden,” he said slyly. “The patron of House Do’Urden, if I correctly recall the matron mother’s demands. And I think that a good thing. It is a fledgling House, yet already seated at the Ruling Council.”
“As an echo for Baenre,” Saribel dared to say.
“For now, with Matron Mother Darthiir,” said Tos’un. “But consider the talent assembled in that fledgling House. Consider the alliances, particularly with Baenre. Consider the glory we bring with every victory scored here in this land—a land I know better than any drow alive. Consider our ties to Q’Xorlarrin, with two of Zeerith’s children serving in positions of high regard.
“And with that one,” he added, and turned and pointed back to the hall where they had left Tiago. “Full of ambition, full of fire, and full of talent. A Baenre noble, a favored great-nephew of the matron mother. It is good to be a Do’Urden.”
He stopped, and there ensued a long silence as the others digested his startling words.
“Perhaps it will be, one day soon,” Ravel said, finally. “For now, being a Do’Urden means being trapped in this place of roofless nightmares and wind and snow. And now, worse, it means all of that without the warmth of an enemy’s blood to defeat the cold, and without the dying cries of an enemy’s last hopeless moments to steal the boredom.”
Saribel offered a nod at that, as did Tos’un, after a moment.
“How many years did you remain here?” Ravel asked Tos’un, shaking his head to show that the question was simply a statement of disbelief.
Tos’un did not answer, and Ravel glanced around, suddenly seeming not unlike a caged animal. He turned around, nearly a complete circuit, before settling his gaze upon Doum’wielle.
“I am bored,” he said, particularly to her. “Come.” He extended his hand to her, and she cast a confused glance at her father.
“Pleasure me,” Ravel said bluntly.
Doum’wielle felt her cheeks flush at the crude remark. Her thoughts careened from disgust to, surprisingly, a sudden notion of a path of amazing possibilities rolling out in front of her. Ravel was the House wizard of Do’Urden, a noble son of House Xorlarrin, friend to Tiago, brother and confidant to Saribel.
Perform well! Doum’wielle thought, or heard in her head, and the possibilities of acceptance and ascension in the drow ranks flittered around her subconscious, just out of reach but tempting nonetheless.
She looked directly at Ravel and noted a sly undercurrent behind his lewd smile. That turned her to her father, who seemed quite shaken.
Still, Tos’un looked at her and nodded, even slightly motioning with his chin that she should take the offered hand and go with Ravel.
Fingers visibly trembling, Doum’wielle reached for the drow hand, and Ravel pulled her away.
“My son tells me that the war chief is not pleased,” the great Arauthator said to Tiago when the drow found him in a cave not far from Nesmé.
“Hartusk is angry at … everything,” Tiago replied dismissively. “It is that very nature of the ugly beast that made him valuable to us in the first place. I would be more worried if he was contented, particularly now with the fighting in pause.”
“A pause he does not want.”
“What Hartusk wants matters not. He will do as we tell him or he will be replaced.” The drow gave a little laugh. “Even if he does as we instruct, he is a temporary thing. We will outlast him.”
“I will,” the dragon replied. “I will outlast you all. When you are dust, I will call this land my domain.”
“I was speaking of the years coming, not the centuries,” Tiago dryly replied.
“Years?” the dragon said doubtfully. “Your people think in tendays, not years. You will outlast Hartusk if you murder him, perhaps, but else he will call Many-Arrows his kingdom when the drow have returned to their lightless tunnels.”
“Not so.”
“They are already going!” the dragon said, and his insistence was forceful enough to blow Tiago’s hair back and chill the dark elf to the bone. “Do you deny it? Many of your people have left!”
Tiago paused and carefully considered his next words, as he could see that Arauthator was growing more and more agitated. He couldn’t deny the dragon’s observations, particularly in that the highest-ranking drow—Matron Mother Quenthel, Gromph, and Tsabrak, in particular—had not been seen around the region in a long while, and were not expected back, ever. It occurred to him that an angry Arauthator could eat him then and there to send a statement to the matron mother and the archmage. They had enlisted the great wyrms to their cause, after all, and if Arauthator ever began to feel that he was being exploited, the result would surely be … unfortunate.
“My people are not accustomed to this biting cold, great dragon,” he said calmly. “Or this snow!”
“My breath is colder still,” the dragon warned.
“So I have witnessed from my perch upon your back,” Tiago said lightheartedly.
“You admit that the winter has driven the drow from this land and from this campaign?”
“Nay!” Tiago insisted. He turned and pointed back toward Nesmé, the smoke from the hearth fires in the town visible above the rolling hills. “You have four drow nobles just beyond the rise, wintering in Nesmé, where I am duke.”
“Four,” the dragon muttered, unimpressed.
“Ravel of Q’Xorlarrin, sister city of Menzoberranzan,” Tiago replied. “Noble son of Matron Mother Zeerith, who rules Q’Xorlarrin. And Tos’un of House Barrison Del’Armgo, Second House of Menzoberranzan. And Priestess Saribel, who is Baenre and Xorlarrin.”
 
; “And Tiago, who is Baenre no more,” the perceptive dragon remarked. “You are all of this other, lesser House, are you not? Your boasts are of Do’Urden, not Baenre, not Barrison Del’Armgo, and not Xorlarrin!”
Tiago looked carefully at the wyrm. Clearly Arauthator had been doing some investigating and more than a little spying.
“Lesser?” he asked, with a dismissive shake of his head.
“Where does Do’Urden rank among the Houses of Menzoberranzan?” the dragon asked. “Where are the drow leaders?”
“I am the drow leader in this campaign, and doubt not the importance of this fledgling House—a House purposely named to dishonor the rogue who has come again to this land.”
“Him again?” Arauthator did not seem impressed.
“You should take heed of Drizzt Do’Urden, my great friend,” Tiago warned. “He is one of those pesky heroes whose names are sung by the bards in taverns across Faerûn. Surely you who are of dragonkind knows of this sort. The heroes who topple tyrant kings.”
Arauthator began to growl, knowing where this was going, obviously, but that didn’t stop Tiago.
“The heroes who slay dragons,” he finished, ignoring Arauthator’s growl.
The two stared at each other for a long while.
“There are more of my people about than you see,” Tiago said. “In the tunnels all about the Upperdark of the Silver Marches, pressing the dwarves in their holes. It is good that Nesmé has fallen, and better that Sundabar is no more, and better still will it be when Silverymoon is crushed beneath us!”
“I will eat every captive from that wretched city,” the dragon promised, for Arauthator had taken more than a few stinging magical assaults when flying around that powerful magical fortress.
“These prizes offer much,” said Tiago. “Slaves and treasure, yes, but the better slaves and the greater treasures will not be so easily pried.”
“The dwarves,” the dragon reasoned.
“Of course the dwarves,” Tiago agreed. “The humans and elves of the Silver Marches are no threat to the drow—if ever they deigned to march upon Menzoberranzan, most would perish long before they neared the city! But the dwarves … My people will not suffer them to thrive as they are now in the Silver Marches. When dwarves thrive, they dig deeper, and when they dig deeper, they accost my people.
“The drow are in the tunnels all about Mithral Hall and Felbarr and Adbar,” he assured the wyrm. “Every day, perhaps even at this very moment, my people battle the bearded folk, and press them tighter into their holes, and stop them from gathering food beyond their dark halls. They will come out, there will be no choice for them, and then we will all know a greater victory, and Arauthator will know piles of treasure for his hoard.”
The dragon growled, but it was not threatening—it sounded more like a purr. The great wyrm nodded slowly in approval. But, as was often the case with such creatures, that mood did not last.
“You will not stay,” the dragon said accusingly “The great mage and the matron mother have gone, and so will the rest. If these dwarves were as important as you claim, Gromph would remain. His power mocks all that Tiago holds at his fingers.”
The drow shook his head.
“You will not stay!” the dragon insisted.
“Perhaps not,” Tiago admitted, “but we will leave our mark forever upon this land.”
“Your scar, you mean.”
“As you wish,” Tiago agreed. “And it is a scar to benefit us both. Gromph has made clear our bargain, and it is one we are all more than happy to uphold. Consider this, Old White Death, as you mull the winter quiet. My people seek longer gain while the orcs are but impulsive dullards. Hartusk and all the others, perhaps, would see to your due, but some would hide those treasures away, hoping to fool you. You have known orcs through the centuries, and so you know this to be true.”
“But the drow would be more clever in their cheating.”
“And the drow would be wiser than to even try,” Tiago replied. “We care little for the treasures you seek. Our goal here is not wealth, but power! Power for Lady Lolth, as you seek …”
He paused there and smiled knowingly, reminding the dragon of the source of the original deal it had made with Gromph and Matron Mother Quenthel. Arauthator and his son had joined in the war for treasure, and not simply to hoard it, as dragons will. No, the chromatic wyrms had a need for their piles of gold and gems as they prepared the way for their maelstrom goddess.
“I am doing you a favor, am I not?” the dragon said.
Tiago nodded and smiled. “Has there been any movement about Mithral Hall?”
“Just the orcs,” answered the dragon, who had been spending a lot of time circling the area of Mithral Hall, scouting for Tiago. “And a legion of giants camped with war machines on the ridge above the western door and the valley called Keeper’s Dale. The great bridge over the river is thick with orcs all about it. If the dwarves broke out to the east, that bridge would be dropped into the Surbrin.”
“You remained up high? Far above the giants and orcs?”
“As you asked.”
“Lower, then, next time, if you would,” Tiago asked.
The dragon stared at him intently.
“Find their chimneys and spy holes,” Tiago explained. “Find regions on the high mountain where we can put our own spies.”
“The dwarves are not fools, drow,” the dragon replied. “They hide their chimneys in ravines and chasms, deep in dark caves. I will fly lower, as you ask. And you will ride with me.”
It wasn’t a suggestion, Tiago knew, but an order. If he didn’t agree, Arauthator would not subject himself to possible ballista fire or magical spells around the mountain that housed Mithral Hall. Not unless Tiago was willing to take the same risk.
Tiago nodded, and thought that perhaps it would be wise to take Ravel along, as well. The wizard could ward him from the cold winds that would buffet him on his dragon perch, and perhaps Ravel’s spells would prove useful in determining more secrets about Mithral Hall’s clever inhabitants.
The harder part would be convincing Hartusk to withdraw the giants and many of the orcs. Despite his claims to Arauthator, the drow in the Upperdark were not doing much to hamper and sting Mithral Hall. Of the three dwarf citadels, that one was the most self-sufficient, so they had come to recognize.
The dwarves might be able to stay in their hold indefinitely, and that, Tiago could not tolerate.
Not when his own time here might be growing short.
Not when Drizzt Do’Urden was in that hole with them.
Doum’wielle lay in the darkness on the bed in her room, staring up at the ceiling. Tears settled in her eyes, but not from the pain she felt in her jaw. Many drow males were like that. So frustrated by their subservience to the women of their race they routinely abused others, like Doum’wielle, whom they could so casually refer to as offal.
Offal. Iblith, they said.
She, too, was of House Do’Urden, so it had been decreed, but she would forever be iblith, or, worse, darthiir.
She thought of her mother, then, in the Glimmerwood. Sinnafein was a queen of the elves, and Doum’wielle had been a princess.
Now she was offal.
She thought of her brother, and her tears flowed more freely. She pictured the look her father had given her when Ravel had reached out to her. She could see him so clearly again in her mind’s eye, and so now she tried to decipher that curious expression.
Ravel’s call to abuse his Little Doe had likely—hopefully!—hurt Tos’un, but as she recalled that visage now, Doum’wielle couldn’t help but note a twinge of eagerness there. She had initially thought it a desire to go and punish Ravel for insulting Little Doe, but now, in retrospect, a different, and most unsettling, notion came to her.
Had her father been eager to give her over to Ravel or to another of the important dark elves of House Do’Urden, as a way to better secure his own standing in the House? He was Barrison Del’Armgo, after a
ll, of the family known to be bitter rivals to both the Baenres and the Xorlarrins. In House Do’Urden, with Tiago and Saribel and Ravel, he was vulnerable.
It all began to sort out to her then. Ravel hadn’t taken her to alleviate his boredom or for any carnal needs—not primarily, at least. He had used her as a test of Tos’un’s loyalty.
Tos’un had warned her of the trials they would face—nothing as specific as this, of course, but he had explained in great detail to his daughter that the ways of the drow were not much akin to the ways of the wood elves. In the Glimmerwood, sensuality and sexuality were great gifts, often shared, but never taken and never coerced.
For a few moments, Doum’wielle began to truly sink then the weight of all she had done began to descend upon her like Arauthator’s leathery wings. She brought her hands up into view, expecting to see Tierflin’s blood staining them. She wanted her mother, above all, and almost cried out for Sinnafein.
Almost. The moments were fleeting, and a voice promising greater comfort called out to her.
Doum’wielle rolled out of her bed and padded across the room on bare feet to the chair set by the window, to the sword belt hanging on the chair.
To the comfort of her sentient sword.
“You grow impatient,” Arauthator said to Tiago just a few days later. The pair had found another cave, a deep crevice actually, set far back in the mountain known as Fourthpeak. It seemed unremarkable enough, just a crack in the stones, but Arauthator’s keen sense of smell had detected a whiff of smoke emanating from within. And so the dragon had pried the stones apart, and Tiago had gone in and located the hidden chimney.
The drow didn’t deny the dragon’s observation. “No activity?” he asked again.
“The mountain is quiet,” the dragon confirmed.
“Seal the chimney,” Tiago bade his godlike mount, and the drow quickly backed away.
Arauthator looked around at the stone, gauging the integrity—or in this case, the lack thereof. “On my back, young Baenre,” he said, and he lowered and turned so that Tiago could climb onto the saddle.