Archmage Page 3

  Seven of the nine members of the Ruling Council openly laughed at Mez’Barris’s remark. Only Zhindia Melarn of the Sixth House sat grimfaced, suspecting, no doubt, the same thing as Matron Mother Mez’Barris: It was no accident or simple matter of fate that neither Tos’un Armgo or his daughter Doum’wielle had returned from the surface campaign, or that now, apparently, all of the others—Tiago of House Baenre, Ravel of House Xorlarrin, and Saribel of both those Houses—would once more serve as nobles of the reconstituted House Do’Urden in Menzoberranzan.

  Any thoughts Mez’Barris might have entertained of holding any influence in the Do’Urden compound were now clearly dashed.

  The city was Matron Mother Baenre’s.

  For now.

  Mez’Barris glanced at Zhindia Melarn. She had never held any love for the fanatical Melarni priestesses, but it seemed to her that they were destined to ally now, given the unabashed and continuing power grab by Matron Mother Baenre.

  She turned her gaze to Miz’ri Mizzrym, whose alliance with House Baenre was surely tentative. Miz’ri walked the fine line between rival merchant groups and House Baenre, who were reaching out for surface trade through both the rogue band Bregan D’aerthe and the new city of Q’Xorlarrin, which was fast becoming little more than an outpost of House Baenre.

  But House Hunzrin, far more powerful than their rank on the Ruling Council might suggest, would not be pleased—and indeed were outraged that the matron mother had reestablished House Do’Urden from thin air, thus blocking the logical ascension of the other Houses with House Xorlarrin’s departure from the city—and Bregan D’aerthe was less controllable and predictable than any of the matron mothers ever dared openly admit.

  Yes, there were cracks in Matron Mother Baenre’s designs, particularly now that the Spider Queen had failed in her bid for the Weave. And by all accounts Q’Xorlarrin had suffered greatly in the war. While this would surely send the sniveling Matron Mother Zeerith closer to Matron Mother Baenre’s side, would House Baenre be able to afford to send Zeerith the soldiers she might need to defend a concentrated assault by several drow Houses?

  That suspicion was somewhat confirmed a moment later, when Matron Mother Byrtyn Fey, at best a very recent convert to Matron Mother Baenre’s circle of allies, unexpectedly changed the subject.

  “Why did we not foresee the coming of the metallic wyrms?” she asked the matron mother, her tone not sounding critical, but her question surely biting. “The enlistment of Arauthator and Aurbangras to our cause, the joining of our cause to that of the goddess Tiamat, was a blessed thing. The execution of that alliance and the fall of Aurbangras, however, was not.”

  “Matron Mother, surely you understand that the will and actions of dragons …” Matron Mother Baenre started to reply.

  “Yes, of course,” Byrtyn Fey interrupted—interrupted!—and with impunity she kept going. “But our own forces were in full recall to Menzoberranzan when Aurbangras was killed by the copper wyrms. Surely that fact will not serve Lolth well in her dealings with the goddess Tiamat.”

  “The grandson of Dantrag Baenre was astride one of those white dragons in the last battle,” a clearly perturbed Matron Mother Baenre replied with an open sneer.

  “One of only a handful of our people remaining in the Silver Marches,” Byrtyn argued. “Had our army been on the field below—”

  “The outcome of the dragon fight would not have changed,” Matron Mother Baenre snapped.

  “But the Spider Queen’s position before Tiamat would have been strengthened. Do not run from errors, Matron Mother. Let us perhaps examine together how we might have better served Lady Lolth.”

  And there it was, Mez’Barris knew. She could barely contain her giggle. The words “examine together” when uttered by any matron mother to another matron mother, particularly at the table of the Ruling Council, were an accusation of failure far more than they were an offer of coordination. Those words stood among the oldest of drow verbal daggers. Drow matron mothers never “examined together” anything, other than the corpse of a third matron mother they had temporarily allied against and deposed.

  The whole of the Council Chamber moved on edge, then, Mez’Barris noted to her delight, and even the wretched Quenthel seemed shaken, more like the old, ridiculous, and weak Quenthel Baenre whom Mez’Barris had known before this recent and inexplicable transformation had come over her.

  Quenthel’s nervousness lasted only a heartbeat, though, and she settled back comfortably and managed an amused look at Byrtyn Fey, like a silky cat looking into a rat hole with a promise that the occupant would not avoid the dinner table for long.

  The room’s door banged open then and a pair of towering creatures, humanoid and massively muscular but with a dog’s face and a goat’s horns, and an extra set of arms sporting giant pincers that could scissor a drow in half, stormed into the chamber.

  Behind them came a slithering, naga-like creature, its lower body that of a serpent and upper body that of a shapely, naked woman, except with six arms all sporting axes or swords of various cruel design.

  The matron mothers all started, some even rising, some beginning spells—except for the matron mother and Sos’Umptu, and of course, the impotent puppet, Darthiir Do’Urden.

  Mez’Barris quickly calmed at the sight of the demons, the two glabrezu and the greater female, whom she recognized as either Marilith or Aishapra—this type of powerful demon looked too much alike for her to be certain.

  “They are here with the blessings of Lolth,” Sos’Umptu explained.

  “Forgive my intrusion,” said the female demon, and Mez’Barris knew from the voice that it was indeed Marilith, the greatest of her kind. Mez’Barris recalled then, as well, that yes, it was Marilith whose left breast was considerably larger than her right for some symbolic reason that no drow had ever discerned. Demons of this power could easily rectify such physical deformities if they so chose. Mez’Barris knew, too, from the female demon’s tone and personality, that the vile and dangerous creature cared nothing for forgiveness, nor would ever offer any.

  “I learned of your council and wanted to see how many of the ruling matron mothers were still known to me,” Marilith went on. “It has been more than a century … a fleeting time, no doubt, but I care so little for drow that my memories of you are not forefront in my thoughts.”

  Screeches, like those of great birds, echoed out in the hall behind her and her glabrezu guards, and strange creatures that seemed half-human and half-vulture—vrocks, they were called, hulking and vicious, and standing nearly as tall as the ten-foot glabrezu—stalked into view along with a couple of clearly and understandably nervous dark elf sentries.

  “Still, it’s good to be back,” Marilith said. She slithered around in a wide arc and departed, her hulking glabrezu guards close behind.

  As the door shut, the matron mothers heard the agonized, horrified scream of a drow, and all suspected that one fewer sentry now guarded the sacred Council Chamber.

  Demons were like that.

  PART 1

  The Quality of Vengeance

  NEVER HAVE I SO CLEARLY COME TO KNOW THAT THAT WHICH I DO not know, I do not know.

  I did not expect to rise into the air in the middle of that field, in the middle of the dwarf army. When beams of light burst from my fingertips, from my feet, from my chest, from my eyes, they came without conscious thought—I was nothing more than a conduit. And I watched as surprised as any around as those light beams shot into the sky and melted the roiling blackness that had darkened the land.

  When I sank back down from the unexpected levitation, back to the ground amongst my friends, I saw tears of joy all about me. Dwarves and humans, halflings and elves alike, fell to the ground on their knees, paying homage to Mielikki, thanking her for destroying the darkness that had engulfed the Silver Marches, their land, their home.

  No one shed more tears of joy than Catti-brie, Chosen of Mielikki, returned to my side by the grace of the goddess, and now,
clearly, finding some resolution to the trials for which she and my other friends were returned to the realm of the living.

  Catti-brie had oft speculated that her battle with Dahlia in the primordial chamber of Gauntlgrym had been no more than a proxy fight between Mielikki and Lolth, but of course, she could not be certain. But now this spectacle of my body being used in so dramatic a manner to defeat the darkness, the Darkening, of the Spider Queen, could not be questioned, so she believed. So they all believed.

  But yet, I do not know.

  I remain unconvinced!

  I was the conduit of Mielikki, so they say, so it would seem, for I am no magic-user and surely know of no such dweomer as the one that escaped my mortal coil. Surely something, some power, found its way through me, and surely it seems logical to ascribe that power to Mielikki.

  And so, following that logic, I was touched by the hand of a goddess.

  Is it my own intrinsic skepticism then, my continual need to follow evidence, which prevents me from simply accepting this as true? For it simply did not seem to me to be that which they claim, but then, what might being so touched by a goddess actually feel like, I wonder?

  This is my continuing dilemma, surely, my nagging agnosticism, my willingness to accept that I do not know and perhaps cannot know, coupled with my determination that such knowledge or lack thereof has no bearing—has to have no bearing—on how I conduct myself. I found Mielikki as a name to fit that which was already in my heart. When I learned of the goddess, of her tenets and ways, I found a melody consistent with the song of my own ethical beliefs and my own sense of community, with people and with nature about me.

  It seemed a comfortable fit.

  But never had I been able to truly separate the two, that which is in my heart and some extra-natural or supernatural other, whether ascribing that name to some higher level of existence or to, yes, a god indeed.

  To me, Mielikki became a name to best describe that conscience within, and the code of existence that fits most smoothly. I did not find the need to search further, for the truth of Mielikki’s existence or her place in the pantheon, or even the relationship of the one true god—or gods and goddesses, as the case may be—to the mortal beings roaming Faerûn, or more pointedly, to my own life. Ever has my chosen way come from within, not without, and truly, that is how I prefer it!

  I did not know of the existence of, or the rumor of the existence of, some being named Mielikki when I walked out of Menzoberranzan. I knew only of Lolth, the Demon Queen of Spiders, and knew, too, that that which was in my heart could never reconcile to the demands of that evil creature. Often have I feared that had I remained in Menzoberranzan, I might have become akin to Artemis Entreri, and there is truth in that fear in regards to the hopelessness and apathy I see, or once saw, in the man. But long ago, I dismissed the possibility that I would have become like him in action, whatever my despair.

  Even in the domain of the Demon Queen of Spiders, even surrounded by the vile acts and unacceptable nurture of my kin, I could not have gone against that which was in my heart. My internal god of conscience would not have allowed it. I would have been left a broken man, I do not doubt, but not, but never, a callous destroyer of others.

  No, I say.

  And so I came to the surface world and I found a name for my conscience, Mielikki, and I found others who shared my mores and tenets, and I was at spiritual peace.

  Catti-brie’s declaration regarding the irredeemable nature of evil of goblinkin and giantkind shook that tranquility, as surely as her tone—and that of Bruenor—shook my more earthly sensibilities. I knew in that moment that I was likely at odds with a pronouncement my beloved wife claimed had come straight from the goddess. I have tried to rationalize it and tried to accept it, and yet …

  Discordance remains.

  And now this. I was lifted into the air, my body used as a conduit, the result presenting light where there was once only darkness. It was good. Good—there is no other way to describe the change that Mielikki, if it was Mielikki—but how could it not have been Mielikki?—created through our magical communion.

  Does not this godlike presence, then, command me to subjugate that which I believe to be just and right within my heart to the supposed command Mielikki relayed to me through Catti-brie? Am I not now, in the face of such powerful evidence, bound to dismiss my belief and accept the truth of the goddess’s claim? When next I happen upon a nest of goblins, even if they are acting peaceably and bothering no one, am I therefore bound to battle within their home and slaughter them, every one, including children, including babies?

  No, I say.

  Because I cannot. I cannot dismiss that which is in my heart and conscience. I am a creature of intelligence and reason. I know what actions please me and put me at ease, and which pain me. I will kill a goblin in battle without regret, but I am no murderer, and will not be.

  And that is my pain, and my burden. For if I am to accept Mielikki as my goddess, the circle cannot square, the yawning gulf of disagreement cannot be bridged.

  Who are these gods we serve, this pantheon of the Realms, so rich and powerful and varied? If there is a universal truth, how then are there so many realizations of that truth, many similar, but each with rituals or specific demands to separate one from the other, sometimes by minute degree, sometimes by diametric opposition?

  How can this be?

  Yet there is universal truth, I believe—perhaps this is my one core belief!—and if that is so, then are not the majority of the pantheon claiming themselves as gods and goddesses truly frauds?

  Or are they, as Bruenor had come to believe in the early years of his second life, cruel puppeteers and we their playthings?

  It is all so confusing and all so tantalizingly close, but ever beyond the reach of mortal comprehension, I fear.

  And so I am left again with that which is in my heart, and if Mielikki cannot accept that of me, then she chose the wrong conduit, and I named the wrong god.

  Because despite what Catti-brie insisted, and what Bruenor came to declare with eager fire, I will continue to judge on the content of character and not the shape or color of a mortal coil. My heart demands no less of me, my spiritual peace must be held as the utmost goal.

  With confidence do I declare that the edge of my scimitar will sooner find my own neck before it will cut the throat of a goblin child, or any child.

  —Drizzt Do’Urden

  CHAPTER 1

  Of Orcs and Dwarves

  HUNDREDS OF DWARVEN CROSSBOWS WERE LEVELED ATOP THE fallen logs of what used to be Dark Arrow Keep. A monstrous band approached: a score of the ugly orcs, a handful of goblins, and a frost giant.

  And a dark elf named Drizzt Do’Urden.

  “Lorgru,” Sinnafein explained to the dwarf kings. “Lorgru, who would have become the next King Obould had not Warlord Hartusk usurped the throne.”

  “The retreating orcs flocked to him in the mountains, so said Drizzt,” Catti-brie put in, and Sinnafein, whose scouts had told her the same thing, nodded her agreement.

  “Lorgru ain’t for shieldin’ the dogs from me boys,” King Harnoth proclaimed. “If he’s looking to take up the fight, Adbar’ll finish it for him!”

  “Aye, but I’d like his ugly head on a pike outside our western gate,” Oretheo Spikes added, and other nearby dwarves nodded at that.

  King Emerus and Bruenor exchanged concerned glances. They had known this wasn’t going to be easy from the first reports that the orcs were congregating around the deposed Lorgru in the Spine of the World.

  Bruenor moved up to the central barricade and climbed atop the log. “Put up yer bows, boys,” he called down the line after a cursory scan of the incoming forces. “No threat to be found. Durned elf’d kill ’em all afore ye let yer first bolt fly, if it came to fightin’.”

  The dwarves around him relaxed somewhat, but grumbled, too, more than a little disappointed that the meeting would most likely go off as planned.

  Brue
nor turned and held his hand up high. Drizzt responded in kind, and walked his unicorn mount, Andahar, around in front of the leading orcs, halting their progress.

  “Ye with me?” Bruenor asked, turning around. The other three dwarf kings, Catti-brie, and Sinnafein of the elves moved to join him. Aleina Brightlance, who had been given the title and role as Emissary of Silverymoon and Everlund, rode forth as well.

  Out from the other ranks rode Drizzt upon Andahar, along with an orc upon a snarling worg, a goblin shuffling fast along behind them, and the frost giant pacing them with its long strides.

  “Who will speak for the Alliance of Luruar?” Drizzt asked, purposefully and pointedly evoking the alliance that had crumbled with the march of the Kingdom of Many-Arrows.

  All turned to Bruenor.

  “King Bruenor,” said Emerus Warcrown. He turned a sly eye upon his opponents, particularly upon Lorgru. “Aye, that Bruenor,” he explained to the visibly startled orc. “The one what signed the Treaty of Garumn’s Gorge with Obould the First them years and years ago.”

  “I had thought King Bruenor long dead,” the orc leader replied.

  “Well, ye thought wrong, I’m guessing,” Bruenor answered and stepped forward. “Is yerself speaking for them goblins and giants, too?”

  “You are Bruenor?” Lorgru asked, incredulous, for surely the dwarf standing in front of him was very young.

  “Don’t matter who I be,” the dwarf answered. “I’m speaking for ’em, and they’re agreeing, eh?” Behind him, the others all nodded.

  That seemed to satisfy the orc, who nodded, though still wore a confused expression. “I speak for Many-Arrows,” he said.

  “There ain’t no Many-Arrows,” King Harnoth said from behind, drawing winces from several of the others, Drizzt included.

  “The orcs fleeing the field have returned to me,” Lorgru explained to Bruenor. “Never would I have sanctioned such a march against your people, or such a war. It is not the way of Obould!”