Archmage

CHAPTER 14

She stayed close to the back wall, alert and ready, but with no weapon in hand, staring across the low-burning fire to the open door across from her. There was movement out in the hall. Doum’wielle could sense it, and Khazid’hea did as well.

Soon, my Little Doe, the sword promised. You will regain your leverage.

The priestesses will interrogate me, Doum’wielle reiterated, the strong fear that had kept creeping into her mind as this pivotal day moved nearer to reality.

I will protect you from their inquisitions. The day is ours!

A black feline face appeared in the doorway, peeking in from the right, and before Doum’wielle could react, the huge panther leaped around the corner and into the room, ears flat, fangs bared.

“Guenhwyvar!” Doum’wielle said, as happily as she could manage. The panther paused, ears coming up.

“Oh, Guen, dear Guen!” the half-elf, half-drow said, clapping her hands together. “You must save me, please!”

She knew this cat fairly well, and recognized that Guenhwyvar, so intelligent, understood most of what she was saying. The panther padded a step forward, silently, sniffing the air.

Then Guenhwyvar whirled when Doum’wielle yelled, “Behind you!” But it was too late, and the stone door slammed shut. The panther hit it hard, clawing and pressing to no avail.

And Doum’wielle slipped out the secret door behind her, and closed that, too, securing the locking bar, trapping the panther in the room. She moved down a side hallway and around a corner to find Tiago, smiling widely, coming to meet her.

“He is mine,” the drow declared, and led the way back toward where they knew Drizzt was scouting.

In a tower in Menzoberranzan, Gromph watched the trap spring. The archmage shook his head, not thrilled with the timing here-too much was at play in Menzoberranzan and the last thing he needed now was more complications.

He tried to imagine how the return of Tiago might help with the situation, but he couldn’t see much to gain, particularly with that wretched half-elf Armgo creature along beside him.

At least House Do’Urden was secure for the time being, and Quenthel would not soon call on him.

Gromph waved his arms and barked out a sharp chant. A few moments later, he disappeared, arriving securely into his prepared chamber in Q’Xorlarrin. He stepped out of the small room to consider the main chapel of the city, across the way and over the primordial pit. Gromph’s second spell created a disembodied orb through which he could see while a third rendered that orb invisible, and off it flew at tremendous speed.

A fourth spell turned Gromph into a floating wisp, ghostly and barely tangible, and a fifth made him invisible. Off he went, passing locked doors as if they were open portals, gliding through the forge room where several drow craftsmean and wizards looked up curiously, sensing something.

But while the hair on their necks might have stood up in warning, even the greatest of the dark elves in that room could not begin to decipher the wards against detection the archmage had enacted, and he was beyond them before any even realized that something had passed.

“The archmage is in Q’Xorlarrin,” Kimmuriel informed Jarlaxle only moments later.

“Good,” the mercenary leader replied. “I have long grown bored of this game. Let us finish it.”

“Our play must be subtle,” Kimmuriel warned.

“Have we a play to make?”

“Jarlaxle always has a play to make.”

The mercenary leader reset his eye patch to his right eye and shrugged and grinned, clearly accepting that as a compliment. In this one particular case, however, both truly hoped that Kimmuriel was wrong. Better for them all if it played out perfectly without any intervention.

“I do not expect to find the archmage in a good mood,” Kimmuriel said.

“My brother is never in a good mood. That is his weakness, and why he is so predictable.”

Kimmuriel didn’t often sigh, but he did so now. Jarlaxle might be taking Gromph lightly, but the psionicist could not afford to do so. If Gromph found them in Q’Xorlarrin at this critical time and in that critical place, would he consider it a coincidence? Or might he figure out that Kimmuriel’s scrying gemstones included a bonus to Kimmuriel that allowed him to also spy on Gromph?

In that instance, the consequences would likely prove rather unpleasant.

Drizzt crept along from shadow to shadow, scimitars in hand in these close quarters. He had seen little sign of anyone about, or anything amiss, but his warrior sense told him differently.

And where was Guenhwyvar?

He moved to the doorway of a wider room, the ancient furniture inside broken and cast about. He noted the absence of cobwebs, which were prevalent in many of the other rooms. He wrapped his fingers anxiously around his scimitar hilts.

He heard a call then, a low and long roar, more sad than excited, he thought. He clutched the blades tighter.

Then came a tapping noise, rhythmic and determined, from across the way, in the corridor beyond.

Drizzt held his position at the side of the door, his eyes widening when a dark elf-Tiago Baenre! — stepped into the room through the opposite door.

“Well, Drizzt Do’Urden,” Tiago said, obviously perfectly aware of Drizzt’s position. “Shall we end this at last?”

The brash young warrior stepped into the room. Drizzt could have pulled Taulmaril and let fly, but he did not. Instead, he marveled at Tiago’s shield and sword, which seemed to him as if made of star-stuff, with glittering diamonds encased in the nearly translucent blade and all about the buckler, which resembled, too, a spider’s web. He thought of the dragon fight, when he had seen Tiago up in the darkened sky, when he had first looked upon that sword, and the shield that had unwound to defeat his lightning arrows.

He reminded himself that this was a Baenre, and so the armor Tiago wore and the quiet magical items set on his person were likely superior to anything Drizzt had faced in many a decade.

The ranger stepped into the room to face his nemesis.

“How many years have you pursued me now, Tiago of House Baenre?” Drizzt asked.

“Decades,” Tiago corrected. “Did you ever believe that I would stop? Did you secretly hope that this day would never come, cowardly rogue?”

“Yours is a foolish endeavor and a worthless quest.”

“I’ll not think it worthless when I hand your head to the matron mother.”

Drizzt sighed and shook his head. They were doomed, his people. Doomed forever to their stupid traditions and dishonorable manners. The drow would war upon the drow until time’s end. They would waste their talent and potential, their ability to truly do good for the world, in their endless pursuits of gaining the upper hand, of personal aggrandizement, of petty revenge.

“If only. .” Drizzt mumbled, and not for the first time. “I had no desire to fight you,” he said instead.

“Then surrender and save yourself the pain,” Tiago replied. “I will be as merciful as you deserve.” With that, he started walking toward Drizzt, but veered off to the ranger’s left, circling, and Drizzt, too, began to move, keeping himself square with Tiago.

“Had no desire,” Drizzt emphasized. “For truly your quest seems a silly thing. But then, you see, I only thought of the pain you brought to the people of Icewind Dale, to the people of Port Llast, and. .”

“And to the dwarves of Icewind Dale?” Tiago finished. “Ah yes, what fine slaves they make! Until they are worked to their miserable deaths, of course.”

Drizzt narrowed his lavender eyes. He focused on his enemy’s weapon and noted the delicate curve of that starlit blade. It wasn’t quite as curved as Drizzt’s own blades, but it was as much scimitar as straight long sword, leading Drizzt to believe that Tiago fought in circles, much like Drizzt, rather than the straight ahead and straight back routines more common among the drow who used long swords.

They continued to circle and Drizzt kept making mental notes of this mostly unknown opponent, who had likely studied many of the tales of Drizzt’s fighting style and exploits. Tiago had the edge, Drizzt knew, because Tiago had not ventured into a fight with the unknown.

“Leap upon me, O great Drizzt Do’Urden,” the noble son of House Baenre taunted. “Let your hatred flow to your blades. Let me prove who is the stronger.”

When Drizzt didn’t accept that invitation, Tiago took it upon himself, leaping wildly into the air, flying for Drizzt, falling over Drizzt, his shield spinning and widening and sweeping clear of his flank as he burrowed in behind it, Vidrinath slashing hard.

Drizzt was too quick for such a straightforward attack, of course, and he quickly dodged, first to his right, as Tiago surely anticipated, but then fast back to his left, in front of the sweep of the shield. He took Tiago’s sword down harmlessly to the side with his right-hand blade, Icingdeath, leaving him in a half-turn that aligned Twinkle perfectly with the younger drow’s exposed side.

But Tiago landed in a spin, with amazing speed and balance, and he came all the way around to bring his shield to bear in time to block the counter.

Out came Vidrinath with three quick stabs, low, high, and low again.

Up went Twinkle to lift the first harmlessly away. Drizzt hopped back from the second, and down came Twinkle to crash against the third strike, driving Tiago’s sword down to the side, across Tiago’s body. Drizzt went out to the left behind the parry, and Tiago spun again and wisely went down low in a crouch so that Drizzt’s stab came in high.

Tiago slashed across with his shield.

Drizzt hopped it and came down with both blades, but Tiago’s shield was too large now, and the skilled young warrior brought it up deftly from the slash to cover above.

Twinkle and Icingdeath struck solidly on the shield, and seemed to hold there for just a heartbeat, allowing Tiago to come up fast and hard, stabbing out his sword from under the lifting, horizontal shield.

Drizzt wasn’t quite sure what had just happened, or why he hadn’t disengaged his blades fast enough to properly respond. That question followed him through his desperate backstepping.

Desperate, but not quite fast enough. Tiago’s brilliant sword caught up to him and stuck him, just a bit, until Drizzt could bring his scimitars to bear in driving the biting blade away. He was hurt, in the belly, and he felt the sting.

But that was hardly the worst of his problems, Drizzt realized. He felt something else within that sting: the familiar burn of drow sleeping poison. The sword was Vidrinath, after all, the drow word for lullaby.

Drizzt grimaced and fought against the poison, one whose sting he had suffered many times before. A lesser drow, a lesser warrior, would have been slowing already from the dose that sword had inflicted, but when Tiago came confidently on, he found a flurry of scimitars blurring in his path and inevitably driving him back.

Drizzt took the offensive, fearing that time might work against him as the poison seeped deeper into his body. His scimitars rolled over each other, stabbing and slashing from many different angles. He felt the same frustration as he had that day on the dragon. Tiago was simply too good with that shield to allow for any clean hits-and now Drizzt had learned the hard way to be wary of that shield, suspecting that it had grabbed his blades, allowing Tiago the strike.

He had to formulate some new attack routine, had to piece together a strategy in the middle of the frenzy to somehow separate the Baenre warrior enough from his shield so that he could slip one of his blades past the guard.

Drizzt reached into his innate magic, the reverberations of the Faerzress still within him despite his many decades on the surface. Tiago’s frame lit up in purplish flames of faerie fire, harmless except that they outlined him more clearly for his opponent.

Tiago skidded to a stop, glancing at himself with incredulity, then did likewise to Drizzt, limning him with angry red flames-dark elf warriors in Menzoberranzan hardly bothered with the faerie fire when engaged in melee with each other.

For Drizzt, though, the pause gave him a moment of clarity, which was the whole point, and in that moment, he searched for answers. He came on furiously once more, red and purple flames licking each other as the two combatants passed and turned.

Vidrinath came out in a solid thrust, and across came Icingdeath to drive it wide to Drizzt’s left.

But Tiago rolled with the blow, his shield sliding back into alignment to slow any pursuit Drizzt might have intended. And then Tiago swung back the other way, suddenly and powerfully.

Up came Twinkle to block, a ringing blow-one heavier than Drizzt had anticipated, telling him that Tiago was likely in possession of some item, a belt or a ring, that granted him magical strength beyond his musculature and training.

Drizzt only fought the heavy blow for the blink of an eye, thrusting Twinkle vertically to intercept before collapsing to the right, falling into a roll. Sparks flew as Tiago’s sword crashed against Twinkle, and unknown to the combatants, so, too, flew a piece of Drizzt’s left-hand scimitar, compromising the integrity of the blade.

The greatest power of Vidrinath wasn’t its poisoning bite, but the simple craftsmanship of the weapon. It had been created in this very complex, at the Forge of Gauntlgrym, with primordial fire and by the greatest drow weaponsmith of the age, using an ancient recipe reserved for this one special blade.

Few weapons in all the Realms could match the strength of glassteel Vidrinath, and so it was with Twinkle.

But Drizzt was too engaged in his plotting, in moving the fight to where he needed it to be, to notice. He rolled to his feet and went right back in, slapping Icingdeath hard into Tiago’s shield-and retracting too quickly for that equally impressive blocker, Orbbcress by name, to get a firm hold on it.

But Drizzt did feel that pull, just for a moment as he retracted, and he understood.

And now his plan took clearer shape.

Outside the room, Doum’wielle dared to peek in.

Her breath was stolen away.

She saw Drizzt and Tiago, each outlined in flames, rushing to and fro, each leaping in flying somersaults, vaulting the debris of old furniture, or the other’s attempted strikes. Scimitars scraped and rang out with each passage, or a dull drumbeat sounded as Drizzt rolled his blades and Tiago got his shield up to block.

At one point, Drizzt broke free and dived aside, rolling up to one knee with his bow in hand instead of his scimitars, each laid neatly on the floor in front of him. Tiago yelped, and Doum’wielle almost cried out-and would have, had not Khazid’hea shot a warning through her mind before she uttered the gasp. For surely she thought Tiago doomed as the lightning arrow shot toward him.

But somehow the young warrior had brought his shield to block the lightning.

Doum’wielle felt her courage waning in the face of this display. The three blades moved faster than she could follow-either of these magnificent warriors could cut her apart with little effort. Hardly even thinking, Little Doe began to rise, perhaps to run away.

Take heart! Khazid’hea screamed in her thoughts. The moment of your salvation is at hand!

I cannot defeat them!

You do not have to, the sinister sword reminded her. In their obsession, they will defeat each other.

Doum’wielle’s eyes spun as she tried to keep up with the frenetic, beautiful movements. Tiago went down in a slide, his blade coming out wide to cut at Drizzt’s thighs.

But over that blade went Drizzt in a graceful dive and spin, and he broke out of it wide-armed and wide-legged, landing lightly on his feet.

Go! Khazid’hea implored Doum’wielle, for that sword, knowing the tactics of Drizzt so well, knew what was coming.

Drizzt went in with Twinkle leading with a low thrust. But that was the feint, and Icingdeath went up above and over the sister scimitar, which Drizzt suddenly retracted, and swooped down from on high, left to right, smashing solidly against Tiago’s shield.

The shield grabbed Icingdeath, as Drizzt had hoped, and he darted out to the left, tugging and turning, and flipping Twinkle in his hand. His left went up high, and as he stepped and turned his back to the twisting Tiago, he drove his hand down and back, a reverse thrust the Baenre noble could not hope to block with his shield.

Drizzt had him!

But Twinkle was hit as someone darted in the other way, and parried up high-and Drizzt nearly lost the blade.

“Hah!” Tiago cried with clear glee, surely thinking victory at hand.

But the ranger was quick, and Drizzt pulled Icingdeath free and completed his spin. Flipping Twinkle, he fell back a step defensively. He wore a curious expression when he came around, to see Doum’wielle, her parry complete, thrust ahead with the blade. But she stabbed at Tiago’s exposed flank and not at Drizzt!

The Baenre noble howled and groaned and fell away, clutching his side, as Doum’wielle, her blade bloodied, spun back on Drizzt.

“Little Doe,” Drizzt said, in both relief and surprise-and ending with his surprise multiplied as the daughter of Sinnafein, her face a mask of rage, swept her deadly blade across at Drizzt.

For this was the plan of Khazid’hea, the redemption of Doum’wielle, who would claim the head of Drizzt Do’Urden as her trophy when she returned to Menzoberranzan!

Twinkle came up in a vertical block once more, perfectly timed to intercept the slashing sword.

But Twinkle had been compromised from the earlier hit, and Khazid’hea had coaxed every ounce of strength Doum’wielle could manage into that brutal strike. The fine edge of the sword that could cut stone snapped the blade from Twinkle and continued across, shearing Drizzt’s leather armor and mithral shirt with ease, opening a line across the ranger’s chest from his left shoulder to the midpoint of his ribs.

Blood erupted from the garish wound, pouring freely onto Drizzt’s torn shirt. He stood there, mouth agape, staring into the wicked smile of Doum’wielle, of Little Doe, of the daughter of his dear friend Sinnafein.

He couldn’t retaliate. He couldn’t even lift an arm to block as Doum’wielle lifted the awful Khazid’hea yet again. Drizzt knew his wound to be mortal.

He knew he was dead.

He got slammed hard and darkness fell over him.

He felt as if he were flying sidelong, or perhaps tumbling over to the ground, and he crashed against the stone and got hit again, with brutal force, and knew only darkness and weight, as if the stones of the floor had swallowed him up, or the ceiling had fallen upon him.

There was no breath to draw.

PART THREETHE FIRST KING’S DEATH

In the moment of my death, will I be surprised? In that instant? When the sword cuts my flesh, or the giant’s hammer descends, or the dragon’s flames curl my skin?

When I know it is happening, when I know beyond doubt that Death has come for me, will I be surprised or calm, accepting or panicked?

I tell myself that I am prepared. I have surrounded the question logically, rationally, removing emotion, accepting the inevitability. But knowing it will happen and knowing there is nothing I can do to stop it from happening is a different level of acceptance, perhaps, than any actual preparation for that onetime, ultimate event.

Can anything be more unsettling to conscious thought than the likely end of conscious thought?

This notion is not something I dwell upon. I do not go to my bed each night with the worry of the moment of death climbing under my blanket beside me. In merely asking this question-in the moment of my death, will I be surprised? — I suspect that I am entertaining the notion more than many, more than most, likely.

In many-in each-of us there is this deep-seated avoidance of, even denial of, the undeniable.

For others, there is the salve of religion. For some it is a false claim-more a hope than a belief. I know this because I have seen these faithful in their moment of death, and it is a terrifying moment for them. For others, it is a genuine, sanguine acceptance and belief in something better beyond.

This religious salve has never been my way. I know not why, but I am not so arrogant as to demean those who choose a different path through this muddled life and its inevitable end, or to pretend that they are somehow lesser of intellect, of moral integrity, or of courage, than I. For among that last group, those of deep faith, I would include my beloved wife, Catti-brie, so secure in her knowledge of what awaits when the scythe falls and her time on Toril is at its end.

Would I see it differently had I been in that altered passage of time and space beside my four dear friends?

I honestly do not know.

Wulfgar was there, and he returns anew, unconvinced of that which would have awaited him on the other side of that pond in the forest of Iruladoon. Indeed, Wulfgar confided to me that his certainty of the Halls of Tempus is less now than before his journey through death to return to this world. We live in a world of amazing magic. We assign to it names, and pretend to understand, and reduce it to fit our purposes.

More importantly, we reduce the beauty of the universe around us to fit our hopes and to chase away our fears.

I know the day will come. The enemy’s sword, the giant’s hammer, the dragon’s breath. There is no escape, no alternate course, no luck of the draw.

The day will come.

Will I be surprised? Will I be prepared?

Can anyone be, truly?

Perhaps not, but again, this will not be that which chases me to my bed each night. Nay, I’ll worry more for that which I can influence- my concern cannot be my inevitable demise, but rather, my actions in my waking life.

For before me, before us all, lie choices right and wrong, and clear to see. To follow my heart is to know contentment. To dodge the edicts of my heart, to convince myself through twisted words and feeble justifications to go against what I know to be true and right for the sake of glory or wealth or self-aggrandizement or any of the other mortal frailties, is, to my thinking, anathema to the concept of peace and justice, divine or otherwise.

And so to best prepare myself for that ultimate mortal moment is to live my life honestly, to myself, to the greater deeds and greater goods.

I do this not for divine reward. I do this not in fear of any god or divine retribution, or to ensure that there is no place for me in the Abyss or the Nine Hells.

I do this because of that which is in my heart. Once I gave it the name Mielikki. Now, given the edicts made in that name regarding goblinkin as relayed through Catti-brie, I am not so certain that Mielikki and my heart are truly aligned.

But no matter.

Am I prepared for the moment of my death?

No, I expect not.

But I am content and I am at peace. I know my guide, and that guide is my heart.

More than that, I cannot do.

— Drizzt Do’Urden