R. Salvatore - Archmage

Zhindia Melarn sat there simmering, with Mez’Barris Armgo looking no less miserable, and Quenthel basked in their frustration. Every time they thought they had gained the upper hand, Quenthel had snatched it back from them. They thought they had House Do’Urden destroyed, or Matron Darthiir murdered, at least. And yet here she was, seated beside them at the table of the Ruling Council.

They had conspired and fumed over Quenthel’s decision to summon demons to the City of Spiders, and yet now those demons seemed the salvation of the satellite enclave of Q’Xorlarrin.

Armed with the memories and reasoning of Yvonnel the Eternal, Matron Mother Quenthel was always one step ahead of them.

Later that same day, all across the huge cavern that housed Menzoberranzan, nobles looked out from their balconies, nodding, sighing with relief as they watched the ghastly procession, hundreds of demons and thousands of manes and lesser Abyssal beings, filtering out of the city, marching to the command of the Ruling Council.

And what a council it had been, so said the whispers filtering throughout the city, rumors that seemed confirmed by the noticeable increase in guards around the Barrison Del’Armgo compound.

The hammer rang out, slow and steady, like the heartbeat of a dying man, or the tears dripping from a broken woman’s eyes.

“Ye stay with him, then,” Connerad Brawnanvil said to Emerus Warcrown after one ring of hammer on metal.

“Aye, but we’re near to taking the whole o’ the top,” Emerus replied. The hammer rang again.

“The entry cavern’s work is all in order,” Connerad explained. “They’re not needin’ me shouts now. I’ll get Bungalow Thump aside me and the Gutbusters’ll finish the task Bruenor started.”

“An uamh,” Emerus said, nodding, the ancient Dwarvish words for the “under way.”

“Tha,” Connerad agreed, and he clasped wrists with Emerus. “Hold faith that I’ll call for ye afore we take the Forge.”

Emerus nodded and Connerad started away. The young dwarf king flinched, but didn’t turn, though Emerus surely did, when another ring of hammer on metal echoed along the halls.

“Ah, me friend Bruenor,” both dwarves independently and quietly whispered, and both, though they weren’t looking at each other and hadn’t heard each other, shook their heads in dismay.

Flanked by a pack of glabrezu, the six-armed Marilith led the demonic procession. Tireless, brutal, unstoppable, the chaotic beast traversed the tunnels of the Lowerdark, many weaving down side passages, seeking prey. And any before them-goblin or myconid or umber hulk, it did not matter-was torn asunder and consumed, pulled down in a sea of manes, borne down under a flight of chasme, torn apart by a flock of vrock.

It did not matter. The very stones of the Underdark reverberated under the stamp of demonic feet and hooves.

Unseen by Marilith, but surely felt, the magical emanations of the Faerzress fed her and promised her freedom. She could feel the truth of Lolth’s promises now, away from the city. It was obvious to her that the barrier had thinned. She felt no pull to return to the Abyss, felt as welcome and secure here as in the swirling gray stench of her home plane.

She would serve as instructed by Gromph now, and serve him well, and that, in this situation, meant adhering to the demands of the matron mother.

Marilith was amenable to that, for those demands included the spilling of buckets of blood, a liquid she relished as decoration.

“Put her in place, boys!” Oretheo Spikes yelled to the hauling team as the great stone slab began to twist out of alignment. “Don’t ye be lettin’ her crash the buttress, what!”

The Wilddwarves on the bridge crew grunted and pressed with all their considerable strength, tugging and digging in their heels to twist the great center span back in alignment.

“Ah, but there ye go!” Oretheo cheered.

“Can’t none be sayin’ that them Adbar boys can’t build a bridge,” he heard behind him, and he turned to see the approach of Connerad. The two shared a hug and a heavy clap on the back. “All done but the pretty bas-reliefs!”

“Aye, we’ll have a full bridge by the end o’ the day,” Oretheo replied. “Might that yerself and meself’ll name her, eh? Got a fine handle o’ Baldur’s Gate Single I’m thinkin’ to drain, right there on the middle o’ the span!"

“Well lift one in toast to me, then,” Connerad replied.

Oretheo looked at him curiously.

“Ye heared o’ Bruenor?”

“Heared o’ Drizzt the elf,” said Oretheo. “Guessed as much about Bruenor afore I e’er heard. Sad day.”

“We’re nearin’ the under way,” said Connerad. “Bruenor’d almost got there.”

“Aye.”

Connerad paused and shrugged.

“Aye,” Oretheo said again, nodding as he figured it out. “So ye’re to be leading the way down, then.”

Connerad nodded.

“Well, let me get me boys,” said Oretheo. “We’ll follow ye to the Nine Hells, King Connerad o’ Mithral Hall, don’t ye doubt!”

“Ah, but I’m not for doubtin’ ye,” Connerad assured him, his tone comforting-too much so, and that brought a puzzled expression to the face of Oretheo Spikes.

“What’re ye sayin’?” the Wilddwarf leader demanded. “Ye’re off for the front and fightin’, but me and me boys’re stayin’ here? Guardin’ the backside?”

Connerad shrugged apologetically.

“Bah! But did we not go through deas-ghnaith inntrigidh with all our hearts, then?” Oretheo cried. “We gived ye three kings ar tariseachd , our dying fealty! Are me and me boys lesser, then? Is that our place fore’ermore in the tunnels o’ Gauntlgrym? And the Mirabarran dwarfs, too?” he added, sweeping his arm back across the cavern to the far end and the tunnels beyond, where the dwarves of Mirabar worked the defenses.

“Nay, and ye’re fealty’s a treasured thing, by meself and me fellows, Bruenor and Emerus.” Connerad put his hand on Oretheo’s sturdy shoulder. “Yerself and yer boys’re as much Delzoun as any here, don’t ye doubt. But ye’re knowing the defenses here in the entryway-ye built ’em! — and aye but they got to stay strong now.”

“Because ye’re pressin’ down to the drow.”

“Aye, and might that them trickster drow come slitherin’ up behind us, eh?”

Oretheo Spikes didn’t seem very convinced, but he did nod his agreement. “Wilddwarfs ain’t for guardin’. Not when there’s a road leadin’ straight to a real fight.”

“Not me call, me friend,” Connerad explained. “Bungalow’s got the lead group with his Gutbusters. Yerself was given the cavern, the boys o’ Mirabar the back end and the tunnels beyond, and aye, but ye’ve all been a blessin’ to us all with yer work.”

Oretheo Spikes heaved a great sigh.

Connerad nodded, not disagreeing, and certainly understanding.

“Then Moradin walk with ye, boy,” Oretheo Spikes said, and he clapped Connerad on the shoulder.

The young dwarf king replied with a similar movement before he turned and headed for the throne room to collect his entourage, and from there to the front lines, to the breach to the under way.

No sooner had the former King of Mithral Hall walked away when another of the Wilddwarf commanders came up to stand beside Oretheo.

“Ye heared?” Oretheo asked.

“I heared,” the other replied, his voice thick with anger.

“Don’t ye be aimin’ that ire at Connerad or the others,” Oretheo told him. “Can’t be blamin’ them for taking them they know to the fight. Were it King Harnoth leading that march, then we’d be flankin’ him.”

“Aye,” the other agreed. “And so I’m thinking me king choosed wrong, what.”