R. Salvatore - Archmage

Doum’wielle stood there, staring blankly, shocked and not understanding.

Now! Khazid’hea screamed in her thoughts, but the poor young elf was too surprised, stupefied even, to begin to move.

Her golden hair swept out behind her as a sudden wind appeared from out of nowhere. She heard a groan behind her and managed to turn just a bit, just enough to see Tiago, struggling to rise and holding his bleeding side.

Her eyes widened in horror as she looked past him to the wall, where a swirling vortex had appeared, like a black tornado spinning on its side, black smoke roiling and twisting ominously.

“Doum’wielle!” Tiago cried desperately, reaching out for her. She grabbed at his hand, but a blast of wind rose up and slammed Tiago away, sending him tumbling, lifting him right off the stone floor, bouncing and rolling.

The vortex ate him, swallowing him into darkness.

Doum’wielle didn’t know how to react. She couldn’t understand the directional nature of the wind, and the. . purposefulness of it! Was this roiling vortex some living creature? Had it inhaled Tiago? Panicked, she spun, leaning against the wind that continued to buffet her, determined to run away.

And then she saw him, terrible and powerful, standing opposite the sidelong tornado, with her between him and it. She knew this one to be the source of that incredible power, knew then that the tornado was no living thing, but was, rather, a tool for the Archmage of Menzoberranzan.

Now! a desperate Khazid’hea implored her. The sentient sword found its plans unraveling, saw the target of its wrath slipping away. Hardly thinking of the movement, Doum’wielle lifted the blade, and Gromph lifted his hand.

A sharp burst of wind tore the sword from her grasp and sent it bouncing back, to disappear into the vortex.

“I killed. .” Doum’wielle started to say, but her words became a shriek as a blast of wind as tangible as a giant’s punching fist hurled her backward. Instinctively she braced, or tried to, certain she was about to collide with the stone wall.

But she did not.

She fell, instead, speeding along a tunnel of dark clouds, rolling and tumbling over and over.

Jarlaxle sighed.

“He must be the center of all creation,” he said with great lament, he and Kimmuriel watching Gromph’s victorious walk across the room, to his own enhanced dimensional tunnel. The archmage paused only briefly to consider the splatter on the far wall, the boots hanging, waggling a bit in the continuing wind from his spell.

He, too, sighed, and no doubt at his brother, Jarlaxle knew. Gromph stretched out his arms, his great robes flapping in his own magical wind, catching him like a kite and sending him into the tunnel. Jarlaxle and Kimmuriel followed, the mercenary pausing only to scrape some goo onto his hand. Kimmuriel went in first, Jarlaxle close behind. Jarlaxle was still wiping that sticky goo from his fingers when he passed through the dimensional tunnel to exit into the audience chamber of House Do’Urden right beside Kimmuriel, where Archmage Gromph held court. Ravel Xorlarrin and his sister Saribel were there as well, along with Dahlia, who sat on the throne looking very much like a mannequin-or a corpse, perhaps. The image pained Jarlaxle greatly, but alas, what was a rogue to do?

“Archmage,” Ravel breathed. He had been trying to help the injured and confused Tiago up from the floor, but now let his friend fall and backed away deferentially-terror often resembled deference. Gromph didn’t bother to look at him. His eyes stayed locked on Doum’wielle, who was splayed on the floor, her fine sword not far from her. She looked back at the archmage, and she felt, and seemed to all around, so tiny and small. For some reason Jarlaxle couldn’t understand-surely she didn’t intend to try to stand against Gromph! — her hand crept out for that lost blade.

Gromph lifted his hand and began to circle it in the air in front of him. “That is a Baenre blade!” he warned her, his voice booming with grand magical enhancement-so grand that even the near-comatose Dahlia started in surprise and looked at him.

Gromph thrust his hand forward at Doum’wielle, launching his spell past her, and another vortex appeared, a sidelong tornado on the room’s far wall. And this one seemed lighter in the eye, bright and sunlit, perhaps, but there was a coldness associated with that light.

“A Baenre blade!” Gromph roared just as Doum’wielle foolishly reached for Khazid’hea. The sword flew from the floor to Gromph’s waiting hand. Doum’wielle stared at him, terrified and lost. . so lost! But there was no mercy to be found in the amber flame of Gromph Baenre’s eyes.

“You do not belong here, iblith, ” Archmage Gromph declared. A great howl of wind sounded, shaking the room, focusing on Doum’wielle. Her eyes went wide with terror, she clawed at the floor so desperately that she tore her fingers, and left more than one fingernail behind when the wind finally caught her and lifted her, and flipped her, somersaulting, into the vortex.

Jarlaxle winced and whispered, “Poor girl.”

The vortex spun faster and faster, its diameter shrinking, the storm’s eye becoming a dot. Then it was gone, as if collapsing in upon itself, leaving only the blank wall there in House Do’Urden’s audience chamber. “Tend to your husband, foolish priestess,” Gromph told Saribel. “And know that if he dies, you will quickly follow him to the grave.”

“The upper levels are lost,” Hoshtar said with finality. “Even were you to throw every drow, every spell, every slave up above, it would be to no avail. They are mighty, led by capable warriors and with clever generals in support. And they are securing every footstep of ground they gain. My Matron Mother, they’ll not be easily dislodged.”“Nor easily stopped,” Matron Mother Zeerith said, staring at the spy.

Hoshtar merely shrugged, not about to deny the obvious truth. “How long can we fend them off?” Matron Mother Zeerith asked. “Their journey to the lower city will be difficult,” the spy answered.

“The drop to the main entry cavern of the lower levels is considerable and the stairway cannot be raised, of course. The stair is down, folded and secured, and will remain so. I expect that the dwarves will employ magic to get them down to the lower level, but doing so will give us ample opportunity to sting at them with arrows and magic.”“Considerable magic,” Tsabrak promised from the side, and Matron

Mother Zeerith nodded in appreciation.

“There are other ways to access the lower levels,” Matron Mother Zeerith reminded him.

Hoshtar nodded. “All narrow and easily defended.”

“See to that defense.”

“My Matron Mother,” said Hoshtar, bowing, and he rushed from the room. “They will find their way down here,” Tsabrak said when he and the matron mother were alone. “Do not underestimate the resilience and cleverness of dwarves. Matron Mother Yvonnel did so a century ago and the price she paid was her very life.”

“I understand the danger,” Matron Mother Zeerith assured him, her voice dead, defeated.

“You have no choice,” said Tsabrak.

“You ask me to beg Matron Mother Baenre.”

Tsabrak didn’t bother to answer.

“Facilitate the conversation,” Matron Mother Zeerith instructed, and Tsabrak nodded and moved to a scrying pool.

Soon after, the image of Matron Mother Baenre appeared in the still waters, and Matron Mother Zeerith moved into her view.

Jarlaxle and Kimmuriel followed Gromph across the city to his tower abode in Sorcere. All along the way, Gromph continued to point out the damage the demons had caused, including one scene where several drow bodies lay strewn along a side street, torn apart, limbs asunder, as if clipped by the pincers of a glabrezu.