R. Salvatore - Archmage

Not Adbar, Bruenor thought, but did not say. He was fairly certain that young King Harnoth would not soon swallow enough of his overblown pride-or perhaps it was just his enduring scars and grief-to subjugate his family’s accomplished citadel to the greater Delzoun alliance. Felbarr and Mithral Hall would indeed become satellite cities of Gauntlgrym. Queen Dagnabbet remained a loyal Battlehammer above all else. Bruenor was quite certain she would surrender the throne of Mithral Hall to him if he insisted. And the dwarves of Citadel Felbarr would never think of anyone but Emerus as their true king, so long as the old dwarf drew breath.

“Quite a claim,” Marchion Devastul retorted. “And will the Lords of Waterdeep bow to this empire? Will the great armies of Cormyr-?"

“Gauntlgrym will be no enemy of Waterdeep, or any of the other civilized kingdoms, and those in power will be glad to have the flow of greater goods in their markets,” Catti-brie said. “Will Mirabar?"

“We have our own-” the marchion started to somewhat timidly reply, but Catti-brie clearly had the advantage and wasn’t about to relinquish it. “Or will Mirabar now choose to allow her dwarves to partake in the glorious reclamation of Gauntlgrym?” Catti-brie cut him short. “And in so doing, claim her place as a great ally of the fledgling city of the Delzoun dwarves-a fortress that will become the principal buyer of Mirabar’s ore, likely, and one that will offer to the marchion fine deals on finer goods. For the memories of dwarves are long indeed, and your help now will not be forgotten in the centuries to come.”

She let it hang there, and the marchion said nothing for a long while.

Catti-brie had obviously given Devastul something to think about in an entirely new light. Finally, he announced, “I will take your offer to the Council of Sparkling Stones.”

And with that, the meeting adjourned.

Bruenor and Emerus exchanged knowing smiles, and as they left the chamber side by side, the former King of Felbarr whispered in Bruenor’s ear, “Yer girl’s deserving a beard.”

The group arrived back at the main encampment just before Drizzt rode in at the head of the fifty dwarves of Icewind Dale, who soon recounted their grim tale to Bruenor and the others.

That night, four thousand and fifty dwarf voices lifted in unison and carried across the hills and valleys, drifting over Mirabar’s high wall with such power that the stones reverberated in the melancholy. They sang for Stokely Silverstream and the Battlehammer dwarves of Icewind Dale, for the loss of Kelvin’s Cairn, and for the vengeance they would wreak upon the marauding dark elves.

Nearly two thousand dwarves lived in Mirabar. The next morning, more than half of them marched out of the city’s gate to join in the quest for Gauntlgrym.

Now more than five thousand strong, all well armed, well armored, and seasoned in battle, the army of Delzoun marched to the west, banging shields, clapping flagons, and singing songs of war.

Alone, his brilliantly decorated and more brilliantly enchanted robes of the archmage whipping about him, Gromph Baenre moved briskly along the avenues of Menzoberranzan. He turned for the Stenchstreets, a place he hadn’t visited in many years, a place now alive with sounds.

Demons danced all around him and fights filled every alleyway- demon against drow or demon against demon. The archmage had summoned more than his share of demons over the centuries, and he could see that these creatures were under no one’s control. His foolish sister was just bringing in Abyssal beasts, even major demons, and setting them free to roam Menzoberranzan.

Demons usually went for the weakest targets, and so House Baenre would be little threatened by the beasts, while the lesser Houses, including those who might wish to band together to cause mischief against House Baenre, surely would. Quenthel’s plan to keep the city in line behind House Baenre seemed solid enough.

But at what cost?

The Stenchstreets, and many of the lesser neighborhoods of Menzoberranzan, had become an orgy of destruction and debauchery. Even here, where there was little organization among the Houseless rogues, the dark elves had gathered together in defensive groups-what choice did they have?

Gromph pressed into the same common room where Malagdorl Armgo and his entourage had defeated Marilith. A score of drow males started and jumped at his arrival, falling into defensive formations across from the doorway.

He could see the hatred and fear on their faces as they came to recognize him. He could see their uncertainty, their desire to attack him colliding with a very tangible, and very realistic, terror. Oh, how they wanted to kill him! They wanted to rush ahead and stab the Baenre, any Baenre, for this scourge of demons that had been loosed upon them.

But Gromph was the archmage, and they knew that such an attempt would cost them more than their lives, and indeed, would have them begging for the sweet mercy of death.

“Archmage,” one young warrior said, standing straight and bringing his weapon to his side. “We feared it was Bilwhr returning.”

“Bilwhr?”

“A great and cruel demon-” the young drow began.

“I know who Bilwhr is,” Gromph said dryly, and with clear annoyance-both at the impudent fool thinking to school him on the names of the great demons, and at the fact that such a fiend had arrived in Menzoberranzan. Bilwhr was a type of demon commonly called nalfeshnee, named for the greatest of that particular bent of fiend. Huge and incredibly powerful, nalfeshnees ranked high among the servitors of the demon lords, and of all the demons he had ever dealt with, this type was perhaps Gromph’s least favorite. For in addition to all the other failings found in demons, these deluded behemoths actually believed themselves just and abiding by the laws of the universe. Indeed, they served as the judges for souls first entering the Abyss and truly believed that what they meted out could be called “justice.”

In Gromph’s mind, the only thing worse than a psychotic demonic destroyer was a deluded psychotic demonic destroyer.

In other words, a nalfeshnee.

“You have seen Bilwhr?” he asked calmly.

The young drow nodded. “Twice a drow’s height and too wide to come through the door, though the beast would surely make its own door with little effort.”

“It had the face of a gigantic ape,” said another.

“And the body of a great rothé. .” a third offered.

“A boar,” another corrected. “Or half a boar, for it walked on two legs, not four, and with hands that could grip and crush a stone, it seemed.”

More than seemed, Gromph thought, but didn’t bother to say. He knew the power of a nalfeshnee quite well, and had seen one reshape a piece of cold iron with its bare hands.

“Bilwhr is determining who must be taken away,” the young drow added.

“To the Abyss?” Gromph asked.

“To death, at least,” the drow answered. “The beast has killed three already."

“At least three,” another put in. “Three that we have seen.”

Gromph was hardly surprised. The other demons, rampaging though they were, weren’t accumulating much of a body count of drow, from all he could tell, though many kobold and goblin slaves had been devoured. Marilith had left a score of drow wounded in her wake by all accounts, but she had only killed the one fighting beside Malagdorl, and that had clearly been a fight to the death or banishment.

But of course, the situation had to devolve to this, especially with a nalfeshnee demon roaming the ways.

“Where is. .?” Gromph started to ask, but before he could finish, there came a loud thump and a tremor that shook the mushroom-stalk rafters of the common room.