R. Salvatore - Archmage

He glanced back at Doum’wielle. His first instinct was to go over and take out his frustrations on her. But Tiago realized that he’d need her if Drizzt was out scouting on that magnificent unicorn he rode.

“Patience,” Tiago whispered to himself, much the way Khazid’hea had whispered to Doum’wielle.

Bruenor, who had experience with a similar marchion a century before, wasn’t much surprised by the cold shoulder offered him in Mirabar. Indeed, on that previous occasion, those dwarves who had left Mirabar to join in Clan Battlehammer’s war with the first Obould had done so as an act of treason against Mirabar, according to then-Marchion Elastul.

Nothing that had happened since those days had given Bruenor any reason to believe that the atmosphere of rivalry and ambivalence between Mirabar and Mithral Hall would be any bit improved.

“Every time a representative of Mithral Hall appears at our gates, it is to ask for help,” Marchion Devastul answered when Bruenor and King Emerus had explained their march, after an exhaustive introductory meeting that contained more niceties and nonsense than anything Bruenor had ever imagined possible. “You would have me offer free run to the dwarves of Mirabar to join in with your. . quest? The cost to Mirabar would be enormous, of course, and you understand that, of course. Are Citadel Felbarr, Citadel Adbar, and Mithral Hall offering to pay me to keep my coffers balanced while my loyal subjects are off playing war with an old king, a young whatever you are, and the soldiers of Adbar, whose ruler thinks so much of this expedition that he didn’t deign to join it himself?” The advisers around the marchion, including the city’s newest sceptrana, all had a good chuckle at the preposterous proposition Devastul had just outlined. Mirabar was a rich city, her lords and ladies well luxuriated, and in no small part because of their industrious dwarf workforce, nearly two thousand strong.

“Me kin here in Mirabar are Delzoun,” Bruenor said. “I’m thinkin’ ye’re to find a bit o’ wrath if ye’re to deny them the chance to march for their ancient home. The warmth o’ Gauntlgrym’s in the blood o’ every dwarf, the hope o’ findin’ it’s in the dreams of every dwarf. And now I found it, and so we’re to take it back.”“Of course, and you are the reincarnation of King Bruenor

Battlehammer,” the sceptrana said with obvious, and amused, skepticism. “Aye, and Gauntlgrym’s a choice for any dwarf that goes deeper than the place he’s now callin’ home,” Emerus added, and there was no mistaking the edge that had come into his voice. “I gived up me crown-or are ye doubtin’ me own name as well?”

“Your sanity, perhaps,” the sceptrana dared to remark, and Ragged Dain bristled at Emerus’s side.

“No, I know you, King Emerus, of course,” Marchion Devastul said.

“Though yes, I question the. . wisdom, of your choice. This seems a rather eccentric quest, particularly in this time so soon after war. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“What happened before’s not to matter,” said Emerus. “The road afore us is clear.”

“You leave your fortresses vulnerable-”

“Orcs’re gone and not coming back,” Bruenor interrupted, his voice reflecting his rising temper. “The Marches are blasted, but sure to mend, and there’re enough in all the dwarf homes to hold off anything that’s coming."

“And two kings, Emerus and Connerad, won’t be there to lead if something does come,” said the sceptrana.

“Two kings replaced,” Emerus replied. “And enough o’ yer snickerin’ and thin-veiled insults, good woman. We’re marchin’ to Gauntlgrym, and we’re not needin’ yer permission. We thinked to stop here that ye might be givin’ yer dwarfs the choice to join in-suren this is a quest that every Delzoun lad or lass should-”

“But you did not empty Felbarr, or Adbar, or Mithral Hall,” Marchion Devastul declared in a bold tone that stopped the conversation short. “We bringed four thousand,” Emerus replied after a few moments of silence.

“Why four? Why not the twenty thousand of Adbar, the seven thousand of Felbarr, the five thousand of Mithral Hall?” Devastul asked. “Those are the correct numbers, yes? You could have marched past Mirabar with thirty thousand dwarves, yet you arrive with four thousand-and you ask me to empty my city of the great value of craftsdwarves? Are the forges of Adbar cool? Are the hammers of Felbarr silent? Are the picks silent and untended in the mines of Mithral Hall? Is this a quest for Gauntlgrym, or a ruse to gain economic advantage over a rival city?”

“Bah, but ye really are the descendant of Elastul,” Bruenor snorted.

“Good to see the line’s only gotten stupider.”

Several fists banged on the table, and more than one of Devastul’s guards edged in closer, and for a few heartbeats, it seemed as if a fistfight was about to break out. But then came a calming voice, one that carried more than a bit of magical weight in its timbre.

“Even were all the dwarves of Mirabar to join us, the city would remain defended, the mines tended, and the forges hot,” Catti-brie interjected.

“What you speak of would be the abandonment of three established cities, something that would be foolish, of course. Adbar, Felbarr, and Mithral Hall have responsibilities to the other kingdoms of Luruar."

“The alliance of Luruar is in ruins,” the sceptrana snidely put in, but Catti-brie just talked over her.

“Sundabar has been reduced to rubble. But she will be rebuilt with no small help from the dwarves of the Silver Marches,” she said. “The orcs are chased away, but no doubt roaming bands will return to the south to cause mischief-and they will be met and defeated by the elves of the Glimmerwood and the dwarves of Delzoun long before they near the work at Sundabar, or the gates of Silverymoon, or the markets of Nesmé.” That last reference brought a bit of a wince to the marchion, and even to the sceptrana, Bruenor noticed, for while they could so flippantly insult the dwarven citadels, or any of the other kingdoms of the Silver Marches, that little town of Nesmé had become a critical trading post for Mirabar. It was quite clever of Catti-brie to bring the ruined city into the conversation, the dwarf realized.

“Yes, Nesmé,” she continued. “The city was flattened by the orcs, with eight of every ten citizens killed. But the survivors have vowed to rebuild, and principal among their backers are Silverymoon and Mithral Hall, even now, even after the march of the dwarves has depleted the numbers in Mithral Hall. You would be wise to help us in those efforts, Marchion of Mirabar, for surely you desire to see the markets of Nesmé opened soon, even this very season, in some manner.”

The man had no flippant replies this time, and even nodded slightly. “It is time to stand together, for all our sakes,” Catti-brie said. “Yet you run off to the Sword Coast,” the marchion replied. “To Gauntlgrym,” Catti-brie was fast to answer, before any of the dwarves could respond. “I’ve been there. I’ve seen the Forge, and have met the beast that fires it. Know, Marchion, that when Gauntlgrym is reclaimed and renewed, the weapons and armor, and all else that flows from the primordial forges will alter the balance of trade in Faerûn.” All on the Mirabar side of the table stiffened at that prospect, which surely seemed bleak to a city that had made its great wealth through its mining and crafting.

“The dwarves left behind in the Silver Marches are as important to the reclamation of Gauntlgrym as those marching with Bruenor and Emerus,” Catti-brie said. “They know it, and we had to hold lotteries to determine which of the volunteers would be granted a place on the march, and which disappointed dwarves would have to remain behind to hold down the homeland in the months or years of transition. Once Gauntlgrym is renewed, Mithral Hall, Citadel Felbarr, and Citadel Adbar will diminish greatly, will become outposts of the Delzoun mining empire.”