If I believe they are out there, how can I remain behind the iron walls?

I cannot deny that we in the hall have much to do. We have to find a way to break the siege and begin to turn the battles above, else the Silver Marches are lost. The misery being inflicted across the lands ?

We have much to do.Nesmé has fallen.We have much to do.

The other dwarf citadels are fully besieged.We have much to do.

The lone lifelines, the tunnels connecting Adbar, Felbarr, and Mithral Hall, are under

constant pressure now.We have much to do.

And so much time has passed in dark silence. We traveled to Citadel Felbarr and back, and many tendays have passed without a hint from Wulfgar and Regis.

Are they out there, hiding in dark tunnels or chained in an orc prison? Do they cry out in agony and hopelessness, begging for their friends to come and rescue them? Or begging for death, perhaps?

Or are they now silenced forevermore?

All reason points to them being dead, but I have seen too much now to simply accept that. I hold out hope and know from experience that it cannot be a false hope wrought of emotional folly.

But neither is it more than that: a hope.

They fell, likely to their deaths, either immediately or in orc imprisonment. Even if that is not the case, and their drop through the wall took them to a separate tunnel free from the orcs and drow that haunt the region, so many tendays have passed without word. They are not suited to the Underdark. For all their wonderful skills, in that dark place, in this dark time, it is highly unlikely that Wulfgar and Regis could survive.

And so I hold out that finger of hope, but in my heart, I prepare for the worst.

I am strangely at peace with that. And it is not a phony acceptance where I hide the truth of my pain under the hope that it is mere speculation. If they are gone, if they have fallen, I know that they died well.

It is all we can ask now, any of us. There is an old drow saying?I heard it used often to describe Matron Mother Baenre in the days of my youth: ?qu?ella bondel,? which translates to ?gifted time,? or ?borrowed time.? The matron mother was old, older than any other, older than any drow in memory. By all reason, she should have been dead long before, centuries before Bruenor put his axe through her head, and so she had been living on qu?ella bondel.

My companions, returned from the magical forest of Iruladoon, through their covenant with Mielikki, are living on qu?ella bondel.They all know it, they have all said it.

And so we accept it.

If Wulfgar and Regis do not return to us, if they are truly gone?and Catti-brie has assured me that the goddess will not interfere in such matters again?then so be it. My heart will be heavy, but it will not break. We have been given a great gift, all of us. In saying hello once more, we all knew that we were making it all right to say farewell.

But still ?

Would I feel this way if Catti-brie were down there?

Drizzt Do?Urden

CHAPTER 1

DUKE TIAGO

HARTUSK GRUMBLED AT EVERY STEP AS HE KICKED THROUGH THE

wet snow falling all around him. Behind him, Aurbangras, his dragon mount, reveled in the fluffy stuff, rolling around like a playful kitten. To the mighty wyrm, the snow signaled the onset of winter, the season of the white dragons with their frosty breath.

The storm was general across the Silver Marches, piling deep around Hartusk Keep, formerly known as Sundabar, settling in Keeper?s Dale and Cold Vale, burying the surface doors of the underground dwarven citadels, locking the humans in their cities.

But stopping, too, the press of battle against Silverymoon?s intact, well-defended walls. And halting any march to Everlund. Hartusk wanted to go anyway, despite the storms; and the frost giants, unbothered by the winter, were ready to march. But the drow had firmly warned him against the move, indeed, had forbidden it.

The ferocious Hartusk had planned to march anyway, but then, unexpectedly, the leader of the giants reinforcing his line, a twenty-foot behemoth named Rolloki, reputedly the eldest brother of Thrym, who was god to the frost giants, had pulled back his support for continuing the campaign through the deepening snows.

Rolloki, with Beorjan and Rugmark, the other huge giants who claimed to be of the god?s family, sided with the dark elves on every issue. Given their near-deity status as brothers of Thrym, Fimmel Orelson, Jarl of Shining White and leader of the frost giant legions, would not go against them.

It all came back to the drow and their cautious designs.

Hartusk?s grumbles became growls as he neared Nesmé?s blasted gate, giants standing to either side of the broken doors, orcs lining the wall and looking down at him and looking past him to the magnificent aerial mount that had brought him here from Hartusk Keep in the east.

The giants snapped to attention as he neared, and that measure of respect from the behemoths did improve the ferocious orc warlord?s mood a little bit at least.

Between them went Hartusk, ignoring the cheers that began in the guard towers and along the wall, watching the warriors who gathered in the city courtyard to formally greet him.

An orc leaped out in front of him as he crossed the threshold into the city.

?May I announce your glorious presence, Warlord, to Duke Tiago?? the guard inquired. Hartusk stopped abruptly and stared at the orc, a formidable sort and one apparently of

high rank in the Nesmé garrison if the armor he wore was any indication of station. ?To who?? Hartusk asked.

?To Duke Ti?? the orc started to answer, his words choked off as Hartusk grabbed him by the throat and easily lifted him up to his tiptoes.

?Duke?? Hartusk scoffed, mocking the notion.

The trapped orc moved his mouth as if to respond, but little sound came forth past the crushing grip of mighty Hartusk.

The war chief looked around at the many onlookers. ?Duke?? he asked, making it clear that

the whole notion of Tiago?s self-assumed title was perfectly ridiculous, and with such amazing ease, such power, he tossed the choking orc back and to the ground.

?Do you think I need an introduction?? Hartusk asked his seated victim. The orc shook his head so fiercely that his lips flapped noisily.

Hartusk growled again and pressed on, the crowd parting in front of him like water before a great ship?s prow. Without a word of acknowledgment to the guards at the large building Tiago and the other drow had taken as their castle, Hartusk pushed through the door.

Those gathered in the foyer and small room beyond, orc and drow alike, gasped in unison when they noted the identity of the brusque newcomer, and they prudently fell aside, many of the orcs falling to their knees as their glorious leader swept through.

The two drow guarding the next set of ornate doors wisely also moved aside. One reached back to grab the door handle, to swing the door open for the great orc, but she pulled her hand back quickly as Hartusk simply bashed through, both doors flying wide.

Those in the room, the appointed audience chamber of Duke Tiago Do?Urden of Nesmé, started and turned, except for the five drow at the other end of the long, narrow room. There sat Tiago, casually draping a leg over the arm of his wooden chair, the priestess Saribel, his wife, sitting beside him. That half-drow, half-moon elf creature attended to the priestess, along with her limping and broken-down father.

Ravel was there, too, Hartusk noted?and he trusted that drow wizard least of all.

Hartusk stood in the doorway for a long while, letting the others in the room, more drow than orcs, absorb the sight of his magnificence. And he let his stare linger, long and hard, on the five at the other end: the drow nobles who served as the mouthpieces of Menzoberranzan?s efforts in the Silver Marches.

The orc warlord wasn?t surprised to see them all here together. He had specifically ordered Tiago that they should not all be together in this time of winter?s lull, when desperate and dangerous enemies would seek ways to strike out from their besieged cities and citadels. It seemed natural that the impudent drow would ignore his commands.

He made his way slowly across the room, taking satisfaction as dark elf and orc alike eased back from his imposing march.

?Warlord, it is good to see you,? Tiago said. His words rang superficially in Hartusk?s sharp mind. ?Do gather a flagon?a keg, I say!?and let us drink through winter?s long night.?

?And find whatever other pleasures as we might,? Saribel added?Duchess Saribel, Hartusk presumed, though he had not heard her referred to in that manner.

?Where is your dragon, drow?? he asked.

?Where he should be,? Tiago cryptically replied. ?Where I asked him to be, and of no concern to you, surely.?

The brutish orc narrowed his yellow, bloodshot eyes. ?Warlord, be at ease,? Tiago said to him.

?Do you mock me?? the orc asked, and at that, all in the room and in the anteroom tensed, every drow and every orc taking stock of the other race, in case it should quickly come to blows.

?My, but he seems quite upset,? Ravel Xorlarrin remarked, moving over to stand directly behind Tiago?s chair, and never taking his eyes off the warlord.

?He is bored, nothing more,? Tiago said. ?He wants blood!? He braced his hands on the

arms of his makeshift throne and jumped up to his feet. ?Yes, Hartusk?? He came forward. He moved close?close enough to bite.

?Does the winter settle uneasily about your strong arms, Warlord?? Tiago asked. He grinned slyly, as did the others around the royal dais?except the surface elf, Hartusk noted, that ever-scowling little creature who never seemed to take her hand from the hilt of her fine sword. She wore an expression that bore no humor, as if she was always expecting a battle to break out.

Hartusk supposed that such a demeanor was the only way she could possibly survive in the midst of this viper?s nest of treachery. Hartusk needed the drow, of course. They had been central to his coup against the children of Obould, and surely pivotal in the death of King Obould.

Obould wouldn?t lead the minions of Many-Arrows to war. The drow, like Hartusk, wanted war, and so their marriage of blood had been consummated.

Their marriage of Obould?s blood.

That didn?t mean the warlord of Many-Arrows didn?t profoundly hate the dark-skinned devils?every one.

He looked hard at the young half-elf, half-drow then, challenging her with his stare as one dog might do to another. He didn?t blink and neither did she, but yes, she clutched that sword ever more tightly.

Hartusk began to smile, lewdly. And it went on, and all around took notice. ?Ah, a budding romance,? the wizard Ravel remarked.

?He is iblith!? Saribel cried, using the drow word for offal?a word Hartusk knew.

?She is darthiir!? Ravel countered, the drow word for surface elves and an insult far worse than iblith.

The dark elves all laughed at Doum?wielle?s expense, even her father, though Hartusk noted that the one named Tos?un did cast a clearly uncomfortable sidelong glance her way.

?Arauthator should fly beside his son, dropping boulders on Silverymoon,? Hartusk said finally, breaking the gaze. ?The minions of Alustriel are miserable in their hole, and we should make them more miserable!?

?A useless exercise that alleviates the boredom for Silverymoon?s vast array of wizards,? Tiago immediately countered.

?Press them!?

?Bore them!? Tiago shot back, and Hartusk narrowed his eyes again and gave a growl. ?Silverymoon is not like Nesmé, nor even Sundabar, Warlord. She is a city thick with magic-users. We threw stones at her?have you forgotten??

The orc didn?t blink.

?Her wizards caught them with their spells and guided them down harmlessly,? Tiago reminded. ?You were there, upon Aurbangras, beside me and my dragon mount. You know the truth of it.?

?We will drop the stones in the night, in the dark,? Hartusk argued. ?The wizards will not see??

?We cannot even ride the wyrms at night,? Tiago interrupted with a laugh?and how Hartusk?s eyes flared at that. ?It is too cold for drow skin, and orc skin, up high in the winter night sky.?

?Then send the dragons alone!? Hartusk roared.

Tiago sat back in his chair and tapped his fingers together in front of his face, staring past the waggling digits at the obstinate orc. ?Leave us,? he said quietly to Saribel and the others. ?Clear the room.?

?It is not your place to dismiss my guards ? Duke of Nesmé,? Hartusk warned, verily spitting Tiago?s assumed title.

?Keep them in place as you will, then,? Tiago replied with a dismissive laugh.

The drow and Doum?wielle filtered away from the royal dais, collecting all of the other drow, a pair of giants, and several orcs and goblins in their wake as they exited the room. Hartusk continued to stare at Tiago for a while, but then nodded to the remaining orcs, his personal entourage, bidding them to leave. As the last exited, Tos?un, at the entrance, closed the door.

?We would do well to ease our demands upon the dragons,? Tiago said when they were alone?seemingly alone. They both knew that Tiago?s wizard companion had probably already enacted spells to spy on their private discussion.

?We would do well to sack Silverymoon and take our fight to Everlund.?

Tiago gave another of his annoying chuckles. ?Indeed, and none would desire that more than I. But I warn you, the dragons are not to be exploited. Arauthator is older than any other in this campaign, and the Old White Death earns his name honestly.?

?He was brought in to serve,? the orc insisted.

?And there you err,? said Tiago. ?Arauthator does not serve?not the orcs of Many-Arrows, not the giants of Shining White, and not the drow of Menzoberranzan. He is a dragon, ancient and huge and ultimately deadly.?

?Your wizard brought him to us,? Hartusk insisted.

?My wizard?? Tiago asked dramatically, and Hartusk nearly choked on that thought. ?The old one of your city.?

?Gromph, yes, who is older than Arauthator, and perhaps the only power of Menzoberranzan who could defeat the dragon in combat. But Gromph is not here, Warlord. He is home in the City of Spiders, and home he will stay.?

?Recall him,? Hartusk insisted.

?Better that he stay,? said Tiago. ?Were we to ask Gromph to command the dragon, to threaten the dragon, he would take the far easier course and destroy us both, I assure you.?

Hartusk growled yet again.

?Let the dragons have their winter play,? Tiago advised. ?Good Warlord, patience!? ?Damn your waiting!?

?Patience,? Tiago insisted. ?Our enemies are going nowhere?unless they try to break free of the prisons their cities and citadels have become. We have the granaries of Sundabar, a supply line stretching back to the drow city of Q?Xorlarrin, and freedom to roam the land and hunt as we please. The winter is but an inconvenience to us, but to our enemies ? ah, Warlord, to our enemies, it is a time of thin rations and misery, and that is the beauty, is it not??

?Silverymoon is full of priests and wizards,? Hartusk reminded him.

?Yes, Silverymoon will survive the winter well. Everlund, too, no doubt. But the dwarves, Warlord, buried in their holes ??

?They spend all of every winter in their holes. What foolishness is this??

?Yes, but they trade throughout the winter with Silverymoon and Sundabar,? Tiago explained. ?Alas, but they?ll find no easy routes for that now! The tunnels below run thick with my people, to say nothing of goblins and orcs. The dwarves have grown fat on trade, and now they have no trade. The dwarves know how to forage the Underdark for food, but now their range is limited. They will not enjoy this winter, I assure you. As the year turns to 1485, and the winter deepens through Hammer and Alturiak, the ringing of their hammers will be replaced by the growling of their bellies, do not doubt.?

?Your people have planned well.? ?We always do.?

?They are a tougher lot than you believe.?

?I do not doubt their resourcefulness or their resolve,? Tiago said with a wry grin. ?But not even a dwarf can eat stone, my orc friend. Let them wither and die in their holes?perhaps they will begin to eat their dead as the old and the young succumb.?

?A pleasing thought,? Hartusk admitted.

?Or perhaps they will try to break free of their prisons. Any of them. Understand, my friend, that if but one of those three fortresses falls, the other two will be in a sore predicament. Adbar makes the weapons, Felbarr is the link between the three, and Mithral Hall ?? He paused there, and now it was his turn to growl a little bit, though it sounded more like the purr of a cat about to leap upon a field mouse.

?What of Mithral Hall??

?That is the prize,? Tiago said, but he didn?t elaborate.

Tiago cared nothing for Hartusk?s war?Matron Mother Quenthel had already recalled some of the principles of her little excursion up here on the surface. Gromph was back home, and Tsabrak, too, had returned to the side of Matron Mother Zeerith Xorlarrin in her fledgling city to the west. Tiago didn?t expect that he and the other ?Do?Urdens? would remain much longer.

But long enough, he was determined, to see the end of the heretic named Drizzt, the rogue who had fled into Mithral Hall with his pathetic friends of this wretched World Above. Tiago would flush him out, or use everything at his disposal?the fodder goblinkin and giantkind, the dragons, and the drow?to knock down the doors of Mithral Hall.

?Patience,? he said again to the orc warlord, but in fact, it was his own patience that was wearing thin.

?I do so wish that Tiago would lop the ugly fool?s head off and be done with it,? Ravel Xorlarrin said to Saribel, Tos?un, and Doum?wielle when they were out of Tiago?s audience chamber and alone in a side room.

?Tiago will do as Menzoberranzan decides,? Saribel answered her brother sternly. ?And I do not believe that would include decapitating the army Matron Mother Quenthel has put at our

disposal.?

Both Tos?un and Ravel looked at the high priestess curiously at that remark.

?My dear sister, you do seem to be embracing this Baenre stature you have found,? the wizard sarcastically remarked.

? ?This Baenre stature??? she dryly replied.

?You were always the obedient one,? said Ravel. ?And not even to Matron Mother Zeerith alone. When Berellip spoke, Saribel listened!?

The drow priestess narrowed her gaze, but Ravel nearly laughed aloud at that.

?Quiet and demure Saribel,? he teased. When her hand went to the snake-headed whip she carried on her belt, he added, ?Slow with the whip, but true to her calling.?

?Berellip is dead,? she replied. ?Perhaps she would not be were it not for Tiago?s obsession with the rogue named Drizzt.?

?You openly blame your husband??

Now it was Saribel?s turn to laugh. ?Perhaps I credit him. It does not matter. House Xorlarrin has determined a different course now.?

?Different from yours, you mean,? said Ravel.

?And yours. Or have you already forgotten? You thought you would be the archmage of this new great city of the Xorlarrins. You were the one who led us to the ruins of Gauntlgrym, of course. But the designs did not play that way, did they? Nay, it was Tsabrak who was deemed more worthy than you, Tsabrak who was blessed with the power of Lolth to enact the Darkening. Tsabrak, not Ravel. Matron Mother Zeerith fought for Tsabrak in her dealings with Matron Mother Quenthel, and the matron mother conceded him the position of Archmage of Q?Xorlarrin. Him. Tsabrak, not you.?

Ravel conceded that point with a bow. ?Does it disappoint you, dear brother??

?I prefer Menzoberranzan,? Ravel admitted, and he smiled cleverly as he added, ?I prefer the halls of House Do?Urden.?

That elicited a surprised stare from Saribel.

?Are you not pleased with your new station, Sister?? Ravel asked.

?I am a priestess in House Baenre, the High Priestess of House Do?Urden, and have a promising young noble, a weapons master, grandson of the great Dantrag Baenre, as my husband. Just a few short months ago, I was the younger sister of Berellip Xorlarrin, and little more.?

?Even with the advent of Q?Xorlarrin?? Ravel pressed.

?Oh, indeed did I hope that I would find a place?perhaps I would rule Matron Mother Zeerith?s academy, if she bothers to build one.?

?If Matron Mother Quenthel allows her to build one, you mean,? Tos?un unexpectedly intervened, and both Xorlarrins turned to him with a look bordering on shock. There it was, spoken openly, the truth about the supposedly independent city of Q?Xorlarrin, forever destined to be a satellite of Menzoberranzan, existing forever under the suffrage of whomever sat at the head of the spider-shaped table of Menzoberranzan?s Ruling Council?which meant, almost certainly, forever under the gaze of a Baenre.

?And now you are a Baenre,? Ravel remarked.

?No, I am a Do?Urden,? Saribel corrected. ?The High Priestess of the Eighth House of

Menzoberranzan. And my husband is the weapons master, and you, dear brother, are the House Wizard.?

?But our loyalty is truly to House Baenre, then, is it not?? Ravel asked. ?House Do?Urden surely survives because of the demands and protection of the matron mother.?

Saribel nodded, and both of them glanced at Tos?un as they agreed on Ravel?s point. Tos?un was not Xorlarrin, nor Baenre. Tos?un was of House Barrison Del?Armgo, the Second

House of Menzoberranzan, the principle rival of House Baenre.

Doum?wielle caught those looks and turned her own concerned gaze upon her father. But Tos?un seemed truly unbothered. ?I am Do?Urden,? he said.

?A set of eyes for Matron Mother Mez?Barris, no doubt??

Tos?un laughed at the absurdity of the remark. ?You are not very old, wizard. Nor you, priestess. You do not remember the first assault upon the dwarven citadel of Mithral Hall, when Matron Mother Yvonnel Baenre was destroyed by the dwarf king Bruenor. When Uthegental, the greatest weapons master of Menzoberranzan ?? He paused and grinned, and even bowed a bit at the obvious slip up. ?Unless that title was given to Dantrag Baenre, of course,? he offered, speaking of Tiago?s grandfather, who was Uthegental?s most hated rival.

?I remember it all so well,? Tos?un continued. ?The utter folly. The slaughter. We came and we were beaten back, but no, we did not leave?or did not have to leave! That was the decision of those left in dead Matron Mother Yvonnel?s bloody wake. We did not avenge her, or Uthegental. No, we fled.

?Drizzt Do?Urden was there, you know,? he went on, and the Xorlarrins leaned in eagerly. ?In Mithral Hall in the time of that battle, fighting beside King Bruenor, against his own people. So the drow fled, and Mez?Barris was no small part of that decision?indeed, she never approved of the march in the first place.?

?Matron Mother Mez?Barris,? Saribel corrected, but there was more curiosity than outrage in her voice.

?But I did not leave,? Tos?un said, the boast clear in his voice. ?Nay, I would not leave. And so, with my conspirators, I waited, and cultivated our opportunity. When we found that opportunity, in the form of the original king Obould, we did then exactly as this wiser Matron Mother Baenre does now. And look what we created, friends!? He waved his arms around. ?The Kingdom of Many-Arrows, where the orcs bred thick, with numbers uncounted.?

?You acted in preparation for this war?? Ravel asked, clearly unconvinced. ?You foresaw this day? Is that your claim??

?I cultivated the battlefield,? Tos?un replied. ?Do you doubt me? With a hundred thousand orc warriors at your disposal, do you doubt me??

?You think yourself a hero of Menzoberranzan,? Saribel said, and it sounded more like an accusation than anything else.

But Tos?un clearly wasn?t rattled in the least, and a smile widened across his face. ?I think myself a Do?Urden,? he said slyly. ?The patron of House Do?Urden, if I correctly recall the matron mother?s demands. And I think that a good thing. It is a fledgling House, yet already seated at the Ruling Council.?

?As an echo for Baenre,? Saribel dared to say.

?For now, with Matron Mother Darthiir,? said Tos?un. ?But consider the talent assembled in that fledgling House. Consider the alliances, particularly with Baenre. Consider the glory we

bring with every victory scored here in this land?a land I know better than any drow alive. Consider our ties to Q?Xorlarrin, with two of Zeerith?s children serving in positions of high regard.

?And with that one,? he added, and turned and pointed back to the hall where they had left Tiago. ?Full of ambition, full of fire, and full of talent. A Baenre noble, a favored great-nephew of the matron mother. It is good to be a Do?Urden.?

He stopped, and there ensued a long silence as the others digested his startling words. ?Perhaps it will be, one day soon,? Ravel said, finally. ?For now, being a Do?Urden means

being trapped in this place of roofless nightmares and wind and snow. And now, worse, it means all of that without the warmth of an enemy?s blood to defeat the cold, and without the dying cries of an enemy?s last hopeless moments to steal the boredom.?

Saribel offered a nod at that, as did Tos?un, after a moment.

?How many years did you remain here?? Ravel asked Tos?un, shaking his head to show that the question was simply a statement of disbelief.

Tos?un did not answer, and Ravel glanced around, suddenly seeming not unlike a caged animal. He turned around, nearly a complete circuit, before settling his gaze upon Doum?wielle.

?I am bored,? he said, particularly to her. ?Come.? He extended his hand to her, and she cast a confused glance at her father.

?Pleasure me,? Ravel said bluntly.

Doum?wielle felt her cheeks flush at the crude remark. Her thoughts careened from disgust to, surprisingly, a sudden notion of a path of amazing possibilities rolling out in front of her. Ravel was the House wizard of Do?Urden, a noble son of House Xorlarrin, friend to Tiago, brother and confidant to Saribel.

Perform well! Doum?wielle thought, or heard in her head, and the possibilities of acceptanceand ascension in the drow ranks flittered around her subconscious, just out of reach but tempting nonetheless.

She looked directly at Ravel and noted a sly undercurrent behind his lewd smile. That turned her to her father, who seemed quite shaken.

Still, Tos?un looked at her and nodded, even slightly motioning with his chin that she should take the offered hand and go with Ravel.

Fingers visibly trembling, Doum?wielle reached for the drow hand, and Ravel pulled her away.

?My son tells me that the war chief is not pleased,? the great Arauthator said to Tiago when the drow found him in a cave not far from Nesmé.

?Hartusk is angry at ? everything,? Tiago replied dismissively. ?It is that very nature of the ugly beast that made him valuable to us in the first place. I would be more worried if he was contented, particularly now with the fighting in pause.?

?A pause he does not want.?

?What Hartusk wants matters not. He will do as we tell him or he will be replaced.? The drow gave a little laugh. ?Even if he does as we instruct, he is a temporary thing. We will

outlast him.?

?I will,? the dragon replied. ?I will outlast you all. When you are dust, I will call this land my domain.?

?I was speaking of the years coming, not the centuries,? Tiago dryly replied.

?Years?? the dragon said doubtfully. ?Your people think in tendays, not years. You will outlast Hartusk if you murder him, perhaps, but else he will call Many-Arrows his kingdom when the drow have returned to their lightless tunnels.?

?Not so.?

?They are already going!? the dragon said, and his insistence was forceful enough to blow Tiago?s hair back and chill the dark elf to the bone. ?Do you deny it? Many of your people have left!?

Tiago paused and carefully considered his next words, as he could see that Arauthator was growing more and more agitated. He couldn?t deny the dragon?s observations, particularly in that the highest-ranking drow?Matron Mother Quenthel, Gromph, and Tsabrak, in particular ?had not been seen around the region in a long while, and were not expected back, ever. It occurred to him that an angry Arauthator could eat him then and there to send a statement to the matron mother and the archmage. They had enlisted the great wyrms to their cause, after all, and if Arauthator ever began to feel that he was being exploited, the result would surely be ? unfortunate.

?My people are not accustomed to this biting cold, great dragon,? he said calmly. ?Or this snow!?

?My breath is colder still,? the dragon warned.

?So I have witnessed from my perch upon your back,? Tiago said lightheartedly.

?You admit that the winter has driven the drow from this land and from this campaign?? ?Nay!? Tiago insisted. He turned and pointed back toward Nesmé, the smoke from the

hearth fires in the town visible above the rolling hills. ?You have four drow nobles just beyond the rise, wintering in Nesmé, where I am duke.?

?Four,? the dragon muttered, unimpressed.

?Ravel of Q?Xorlarrin, sister city of Menzoberranzan,? Tiago replied. ?Noble son of Matron Mother Zeerith, who rules Q?Xorlarrin. And Tos?un of House Barrison Del?Armgo, Second House of Menzoberranzan. And Priestess Saribel, who is Baenre and Xorlarrin.?

?And Tiago, who is Baenre no more,? the perceptive dragon remarked. ?You are all of this other, lesser House, are you not? Your boasts are of Do?Urden, not Baenre, not Barrison Del?Armgo, and not Xorlarrin!?

Tiago looked carefully at the wyrm. Clearly Arauthator had been doing some investigating and more than a little spying.

?Lesser?? he asked, with a dismissive shake of his head.

?Where does Do?Urden rank among the Houses of Menzoberranzan?? the dragon asked. ?Where are the drow leaders??

?I am the drow leader in this campaign, and doubt not the importance of this fledgling House?a House purposely named to dishonor the rogue who has come again to this land.?

?Him again?? Arauthator did not seem impressed.

?You should take heed of Drizzt Do?Urden, my great friend,? Tiago warned. ?He is one of those pesky heroes whose names are sung by the bards in taverns across Faerûn. Surely you

who are of dragonkind knows of this sort. The heroes who topple tyrant kings.?

Arauthator began to growl, knowing where this was going, obviously, but that didn?t stop Tiago.

?The heroes who slay dragons,? he finished, ignoring Arauthator?s growl. The two stared at each other for a long while.

?There are more of my people about than you see,? Tiago said. ?In the tunnels all about the Upperdark of the Silver Marches, pressing the dwarves in their holes. It is good that Nesmé has fallen, and better that Sundabar is no more, and better still will it be when Silverymoon is crushed beneath us!?

?I will eat every captive from that wretched city,? the dragon promised, for Arauthator had taken more than a few stinging magical assaults when flying around that powerful magical fortress.

?These prizes offer much,? said Tiago. ?Slaves and treasure, yes, but the better slaves and the greater treasures will not be so easily pried.?

?The dwarves,? the dragon reasoned.

?Of course the dwarves,? Tiago agreed. ?The humans and elves of the Silver Marches are no threat to the drow?if ever they deigned to march upon Menzoberranzan, most would perish long before they neared the city! But the dwarves ? My people will not suffer them to thrive as they are now in the Silver Marches. When dwarves thrive, they dig deeper, and when they dig deeper, they accost my people.

?The drow are in the tunnels all about Mithral Hall and Felbarr and Adbar,? he assured the wyrm. ?Every day, perhaps even at this very moment, my people battle the bearded folk, and press them tighter into their holes, and stop them from gathering food beyond their dark halls. They will come out, there will be no choice for them, and then we will all know a greater victory, and Arauthator will know piles of treasure for his hoard.?

The dragon growled, but it was not threatening?it sounded more like a purr. The great wyrm nodded slowly in approval. But, as was often the case with such creatures, that mood did not last.

?You will not stay,? the dragon said accusingly ?The great mage and the matron mother have gone, and so will the rest. If these dwarves were as important as you claim, Gromph would remain. His power mocks all that Tiago holds at his fingers.?

The drow shook his head.

?You will not stay!? the dragon insisted.

?Perhaps not,? Tiago admitted, ?but we will leave our mark forever upon this land.? ?Your scar, you mean.?

?As you wish,? Tiago agreed. ?And it is a scar to benefit us both. Gromph has made clear our bargain, and it is one we are all more than happy to uphold. Consider this, Old White Death, as you mull the winter quiet. My people seek longer gain while the orcs are but impulsive dullards. Hartusk and all the others, perhaps, would see to your due, but some would hide those treasures away, hoping to fool you. You have known orcs through the centuries, and so you know this to be true.?

?But the drow would be more clever in their cheating.?

?And the drow would be wiser than to even try,? Tiago replied. ?We care little for the treasures you seek. Our goal here is not wealth, but power! Power for Lady Lolth, as you

seek ??

He paused there and smiled knowingly, reminding the dragon of the source of the original deal it had made with Gromph and Matron Mother Quenthel. Arauthator and his son had joined in the war for treasure, and not simply to hoard it, as dragons will. No, the chromatic wyrms had a need for their piles of gold and gems as they prepared the way for their maelstrom goddess.

?I am doing you a favor, am I not?? the dragon said.

Tiago nodded and smiled. ?Has there been any movement about Mithral Hall??

?Just the orcs,? answered the dragon, who had been spending a lot of time circling the area of Mithral Hall, scouting for Tiago. ?And a legion of giants camped with war machines on the ridge above the western door and the valley called Keeper?s Dale. The great bridge over the river is thick with orcs all about it. If the dwarves broke out to the east, that bridge would be dropped into the Surbrin.?

?You remained up high? Far above the giants and orcs?? ?As you asked.?

?Lower, then, next time, if you would,? Tiago asked. The dragon stared at him intently.

?Find their chimneys and spy holes,? Tiago explained. ?Find regions on the high mountain where we can put our own spies.?

?The dwarves are not fools, drow,? the dragon replied. ?They hide their chimneys in ravines and chasms, deep in dark caves. I will fly lower, as you ask. And you will ride with me.?

It wasn?t a suggestion, Tiago knew, but an order. If he didn?t agree, Arauthator would not subject himself to possible ballista fire or magical spells around the mountain that housed Mithral Hall. Not unless Tiago was willing to take the same risk.

Tiago nodded, and thought that perhaps it would be wise to take Ravel along, as well. The wizard could ward him from the cold winds that would buffet him on his dragon perch, and perhaps Ravel?s spells would prove useful in determining more secrets about Mithral Hall?s clever inhabitants.

The harder part would be convincing Hartusk to withdraw the giants and many of the orcs. Despite his claims to Arauthator, the drow in the Upperdark were not doing much to hamper and sting Mithral Hall. Of the three dwarf citadels, that one was the most self-sufficient, so they had come to recognize.

The dwarves might be able to stay in their hold indefinitely, and that, Tiago could not tolerate.

Not when his own time here might be growing short. Not when Drizzt Do?Urden was in that hole with them.

Doum?wielle lay in the darkness on the bed in her room, staring up at the ceiling. Tears settled in her eyes, but not from the pain she felt in her jaw. Many drow males were like that. So frustrated by their subservience to the women of their race they routinely abused others, like Doum?wielle, whom they could so casually refer to as offal.

Offal. Iblith, they said.

She, too, was of House Do?Urden, so it had been decreed, but she would forever be iblith, or, worse, darthiir.

She thought of her mother, then, in the Glimmerwood. Sinnafein was a queen of the elves, and Doum?wielle had been a princess.

Now she was offal.

She thought of her brother, and her tears flowed more freely. She pictured the look her father had given her when Ravel had reached out to her. She could see him so clearly again in her mind?s eye, and so now she tried to decipher that curious expression.

Ravel?s call to abuse his Little Doe had likely?hopefully!?hurt Tos?un, but as she recalled that visage now, Doum?wielle couldn?t help but note a twinge of eagerness there. She had initially thought it a desire to go and punish Ravel for insulting Little Doe, but now, in retrospect, a different, and most unsettling, notion came to her.

Had her father been eager to give her over to Ravel or to another of the important dark elves of House Do?Urden, as a way to better secure his own standing in the House? He was Barrison Del?Armgo, after all, of the family known to be bitter rivals to both the Baenres and the Xorlarrins. In House Do?Urden, with Tiago and Saribel and Ravel, he was vulnerable.

It all began to sort out to her then. Ravel hadn?t taken her to alleviate his boredom or for any carnal needs?not primarily, at least. He had used her as a test of Tos?un?s loyalty.

Tos?un had warned her of the trials they would face?nothing as specific as this, of course, but he had explained in great detail to his daughter that the ways of the drow were not much akin to the ways of the wood elves. In the Glimmerwood, sensuality and sexuality were great gifts, often shared, but never taken and never coerced.

For a few moments, Doum?wielle began to truly sink then the weight of all she had done began to descend upon her like Arauthator?s leathery wings. She brought her hands up into view, expecting to see Tierflin?s blood staining them. She wanted her mother, above all, and almost cried out for Sinnafein.

Almost. The moments were fleeting, and a voice promising greater comfort called out to her.

Doum?wielle rolled out of her bed and padded across the room on bare feet to the chair set by the window, to the sword belt hanging on the chair.

To the comfort of her sentient sword.

?You grow impatient,? Arauthator said to Tiago just a few days later. The pair had found another cave, a deep crevice actually, set far back in the mountain known as Fourthpeak. It seemed unremarkable enough, just a crack in the stones, but Arauthator?s keen sense of smell had detected a whiff of smoke emanating from within. And so the dragon had pried the stones apart, and Tiago had gone in and located the hidden chimney.

The drow didn?t deny the dragon?s observation. ?No activity?? he asked again. ?The mountain is quiet,? the dragon confirmed.

?Seal the chimney,? Tiago bade his godlike mount, and the drow quickly backed away. Arauthator looked around at the stone, gauging the integrity?or in this case, the lack

thereof. ?On my back, young Baenre,? he said, and he lowered and turned so that Tiago could climb onto the saddle.

Once Tiago was seated, Arauthator breathed into the crevice with all his strength and all his deadly cold mist, sealing the chimney top under a layer of ice. That wouldn?t hold for long, the wyrm knew, given the warmth climbing up from the fires below, and so the beast attacked the mountain itself, claws rending stone, wings pushing dislodged boulders into position. The wyrm jumped atop the pile of rubble that used to be a crevice between two slabs of stone, tightening the seal.

Let the dwarves choke on their own smoke!

?Well played, my friend,? Tiago said in congratulations when the wyrm was done.

?They have a hundred more vents all around the mountain, you know,? the dragon replied. ?Our efforts will make parts of their complex uncomfortable, perhaps, but you?ll not smoke them out.?

Tiago nodded. He knew. From his high perch, the drow looked down around the mountain ways, to the black camps of orcs and goblins and the line of giants with their war machines atop Keeper?s Dale.

?Let us fly to Sundabar,? he bade the wyrm.

?Hartusk Keep, you mean,? the dragon replied with a sly look. Both of them knew the name had been offered merely to placate the stupid orc leader.

Despite his very real fears that the dwarves would outlast him, Tiago laughed.

The dragon banked away, catching the updrafts on widespread wings, soaring out to the east. It was time to convince the warlord.

CHAPTER 2

Date: 2016-06-13; view: 141