R. Salvatore - Archmage

King Harnoth seemed stupefied by the action, incredulous that any dwarf would surrender a throne, perhaps. He was young, Bruenor knew, and still a novice in the ways of being a king. The burdens would weigh on him in another century, likely, if he managed to stay alive that long-something of which Bruenor could not be certain, given Harnoth’s recklessness in the war, and his stubbornness subsequently.

King Emerus, though, not only seemed less than surprised, his nod was one of approval.

A few moments later, when Emerus announced that he, too, would be abdicating his throne to join with his old friend Bruenor in the march to Gauntlgrym, the chorus of gasps were not enhanced by Bruenor.

“What am I hearin’?” Harnoth cried, in disbelief and clear dismay.

“That you are now the longest-serving dwarf king of the Silver Marches,” said Drizzt.

“Madness!” Harnoth fumed, and he slammed his fist down on the table. “All me life, me Da speaked o’ King Bruenor and King Emerus, and now ye’re both for leavin’? We won the war and all the land’s scarred, and now ye’re leavin’?”

“Scars’ll heal,” Emerus said solemnly, his resonant voice showing that he wasn’t taking this lightly. “With or without meself and Bruenor and Connerad. Felbarr’s got her succession as Mithral Hall’s got hers.” He leaned forward and looked down the length of the long table, and Parson Glaive nodded, showing his king, who was now his subject, great deference.

“Citadel Felbarr is mine,” the high cleric announced.

“Huzzah to King Parson Glaive o’ Felbarr!” Emerus toasted, rising up and lifting his flagon.

“Huzzah!” all replied.

“And huzzah to Queen Dagnabbet o’ Mithral Hall!” Bruenor cheered, and the boisterous shouts filled the hall once more.

Bruenor looked to Emerus and nodded, sincerely thrilled and grateful that his old and respected friend would be accompanying him on the journey to reclaim the most ancient Delzoun homeland.

“Mithral Hall on the first day of spring!” Ragged Dain added. “And let the ground shake under the fall o’ four thousand dwarf boots!”

“Eight thousand, ye dolt,” Bruenor corrected, hoisting his flagon so forcefully that half of the contents splashed out. “Most’ve got two legs!”

“Huzzah!” they cheered.

“I should destroy you for coming here,” the great white wyrm roared. “You should reconsider your dangerous impulses,” came a calm reply, and it was a sincere response from an archmage who had lived closer to two centuries than one, and who had come to the lair of Arauthator, the Old White Death, fully prepared to survive a dragon’s onslaught.

“The attempts to bring Tiamat to the Prime Material Plane have failed, and so I understand your frustrations, great wyrm,” Gromph added. “But so, too, has Lolth failed in her quest for the domain of magic. These are the provinces of the gods and we can do that which we may and little more. The world goes on, as does Arauthator, as do I.”

“The philosophy of a weakling,” the dragon replied. “To so dismiss failure.”

“To so dwell upon it, when time moves forward,” said Gromph, with a “tsk, tsk” and a shake of his head.

“You mock me?”

“I only mock those I consider pathetic,” the archmage answered. “I have never thought that of you, surely.”

“The world goes on without my son,” said the dragon.

“Do you pretend to care? I know enough of your kind, and of you, to believe that such a claim is one of false appeal.”

The dragon chuckled, a low and rumbling sound that sounded as if a prelude to an earthquake, and, Gromph knew, often was. “You were rewarded well for your efforts in the war,” Gromph reminded the wyrm. “The treasures from Sundabar alone. .” He let the thought hang in the air, and shook his head.

“Then let us put that which is past behind us,” the wyrm agreed. “So why are you here, in this, my home?”

“You were not alone in your last battle of the war,” Gromph explained.

“Nor was your son. We have found the body of the noble drow killed with Aurbangras.”

“But not that of your impetuous and impudent nephew,” the dragon commented.

“Tiago, yes,” Gromph agreed. “A favored noble of the Matron Mother Baenre, though one who has grown tiresome to me.”

“He is not.”

“Digested?” Gromph asked dryly.

The dragon paused and spent a moment letting the quip register before offering an amused, rumbling chuckle in response.

“It is an honest question,” the archmage said.

“He is not here, nor has he been in my presence since the battle above the Surbrin Bridge,” the dragon replied.

“A battle in which he rode astride you?”

“Yes.”

“A battle from which you flew directly home?”

“Yes.”

“Must I follow all the possibilities?”

“Tiago was shot from my back in the fight, by a drow no less, with a bow that spat arrows of lightning.”

Gromph took a deep breath. Drizzt again.

“Drizzt slayed him in the midst of an aerial battle?”

“I did not say that.”

“You said. .” Gromph stopped and silently recounted the dragon’s exact words.

“The clever archer shot the cinch from the saddle, and so Tiago fell from his seat,” the dragon explained. “We were up by the roiling blackness of Lolth’s inspired spell, and so miles above the ground. You might search the lower ground north of the dwarven stronghold to see if you can locate a drow-shaped splatter upon the ground.”

Gromph nodded, though he was hardly listening, playing it all out in his thoughts. He, of course, knew of the magical House Baenre emblems, which could impart near weightlessness with but a touch.

So perhaps Tiago was not dead, and was down there still-and, likely, still hunting Drizzt.

“He is such a fool,” the archmage muttered under his breath, but not enough so to keep the words from the keen hearing of an ancient white dragon.

“Which?” Arauthator asked. “The archer or your nephew? Or are you, perhaps, speaking of me, in which case I find that I am suddenly hungry."

“Dragon, you bore me,” Gromph said, and waved his hand. With that movement, mighty Arauthator sprang to the attack, the great wyrm’s serpentine neck sweeping forward, the toothy maw snapping over Gromph.

Or the projected image of Gromph, for the archmage was far from that place, and farther still when the dragon’s killing jaws snapped, teleporting away almost instantly and leaving Arauthator defensively crouched and growling.

“They will leave on the first day of spring,” Doum’wielle told Tiago. “You are certain?”

Doum’wielle answered him with a stare. She wiped the mud and makeup from her face and began to unbraid her hair. She couldn’t travel about the region without some minor disguise. Some might well recognize her as the daughter of Sinnafein.

“The dwarves are all chattering about it,” she explained. “They’re thick about the wall they have constructed near to where Dark Arrow Keep once stood, convinced that Lorgru will return.”

“And will he?”

Doum’wielle shrugged.

“You should be more thorough in your scouting, iblith ,” Tiago scolded. And I should kill you while you sleep, Doum’wielle wanted to reply, but did not.

“There has been no sign of the orcs since Bruenor sent them running,” she answered. “Even those dwarves skeptical about this march to the west have come to believe that it will be a good thing.”

“And what is in the west that is so enticing them?” Tiago remarked, walking out to the northeastern edge of the encampment, looking out at the campfires dotting the distant hills.

“Does it matter?”