Archmage

by R. A. Salvatore

“Powerful demons,” Kimmuriel replied. “In my journey through the city, I witnessed every type of demon I know short of balors, and in numbers. A flock of glabrezu? Or should it be called a herd, I wonder? Or a murder, as with the large black crows in the World Above? Yes, that would seem most appropriate.”

  “Yes, well, we will see where it leads,” Gromph replied. “It is all quite above us mere males, after all, for it is in the province of Lady Lolth herself and her chosen Matron Mother.”

  Kimmuriel detected a background snicker in his voice, an expression of confidence that belied the words he had spoken, and the psionicist nodded and smiled, ostensibly to agree with the archmage. Truthfully, though, Kimmuriel’s grin was rooted in his own recognition that his suggestions to Gromph had taken root. Gromph believed that he could control this situation, that he was finding some heretofore unknown combination of psionics and arcane magic that would grant him superiority over even Quenthel in this roiling demon game.

  Just as Kimmuriel had hoped, just as his mother had shown him.

  How surprised would Gromph be, Kimmuriel wondered in the deepest and most protected corners of his organized and disciplined brain, when he brought forth K’yorl Odran in all her uncontrollable wrath?

  The image of K’yorl taking revenge on House Baenre was an undeniably pleasing one to Kimmuriel. He hoped that K’yorl wouldn’t destroy Gromph’s mind, catching him by surprise as she surely would. For he couldn’t wait to witness the flow of unfiltered thoughts in the archmage when he realized his foolish hubris and the ruin he had brought upon his own House.

  “Shall we begin?” Gromph ordered as much as asked. “I have much to do this day.”

  He started toward Kimmuriel, but the psionicist held up his hand to give Gromph pause.

  “I have come bearing news from Bregan D’aerthe and Jarlaxle,” Kimmuriel explained in the face of Gromph’s surprised expression. “A great army of dwarves has entered the upper chambers above Q’Xorlarrin, intent on reclaiming the ancient homeland they name Gauntlgrym.”

  “What dwarves?”

  “From the Silver Marches,” Kimmuriel answered, and Gromph sighed.

  “They are led by King Bruenor Battlehammer of Mithral Hall, who killed your mother, Matron Mother Yvonnel, soon after the Time of Troubles,” Kimmuriel explained. “The same Bruenor, yes, reborn into the world to fight Many-Arrows and for this task, some say. They are formidable and determined, with ranks thousands deep, and Matron Mother Zeerith will not defeat them, Jarlaxle assures me. They will retake the Forge and chase the Xorlarrins and their slaves into the lower tunnels, and the experiment known as Q’Xorlarrin will be no more.”

  “Jarlaxle believes this?”

  “You know enough of him to understand his excellence in predicting these matters.”

  “I know enough about him to understand that much of what he says is said with motives other than those the message conveys,” Gromph replied.

  “Take of it what you will. By Bregan D’aerthe’s contract and protocol, I should have gone straight to the matron mother, or perhaps even the Ruling Council with this information, but given our … clandestine relationship, I thought it wiser to let the archmage deliver this unsettling and startling news.”

  “Not so startling,” Gromph said. “Through the gemstone connection of your own creation, I have seen that Tiago has been moving west, in the direction of Q’Xorlarrin.”

  “Perhaps to return to his mother and House.”

  “More likely in pursuit of Drizzt Do’Urden, I assumed,” Gromph replied. “Tiago is singularly minded. He will have his day with Drizzt. Nothing is more important to him than that.”

  “Or Drizzt will have the day.”

  Gromph shrugged as if it did not matter, and to these two, of course, it certainly did not. Neither Tiago nor Drizzt held any importance to either of them in the long game.

  “It is likely that the rogue Drizzt is beside his friend Bruenor,” Kimmuriel said.

  “I should look in on Tiago then.”

  Those words revealed a lot to Kimmuriel. If he had been in Gromph’s place, he would have been watching Tiago closely, almost continually—as he was with his own scrying stone, of course.

  “The scrying wearies you,” Tiago said.

  Gromph admitted it with a nod. “The power does not come easily. I see it there, just at the edge of my reach. To send my mind through the stone unbalances me, and I return weakened and vulnerable.”

  “And with powerful demons flying all about your city and tower you cannot afford such vulnerability,” Kimmuriel reasoned. “So you look in on Tiago only sporadically and only briefly.”

  Gromph straightened and squared his shoulders imperiously.

  “It will grow easier,” Kimmuriel assured him. “These powers of the mind are new to you—I am amazed at the progress you have already made. Such psionic scrying is a difficult task for any, even an illithid, and that you can perform it at all is testament to your mental strength, and offers great hope that you will one day—one day soon, perhaps—attain psionic greatness to rival your arcane prowess.”

  The compliments performed as Kimmuriel had hoped, and Gromph eased back and visibly relaxed. And the kind words were only partly a lie, Kimmuriel knew, for Gromph was indeed powerful in mind magic—and as intelligent as any drow ever known. Intelligence alone didn’t guarantee psionic prowess—the brilliant Jarlaxle was quite fumbling with regard to the psionic powers, after all—but when one had that aptitude, as with Gromph, great intelligence would present great opportunity, a ceiling as high as the sky in the World Above.

  “Are you prepared to resume our sessions?” Kimmuriel asked.

  “Of course. There are demons all around, but more than a few answer to the demands of Archmage Gromph.” He closed his eyes and held his arms out wide, beckoning Kimmuriel to come forth psionically.

  And so the son of House Oblodra did, telepathically imparting his lesson into the consciousness of Gromph Baenre.

  And while he was there, telepathically imparting some small inflections of the chant he had been given in the Abyss, and putting them just below Gromph’s consciousness, in a place where the archmage would find them when next he attempted a summoning, and putting them there in such a way that Gromph would believe them an epiphany, a deeper understanding of the relationship and miscibility of the Art and psionics. Yes, Kimmuriel could feel Gromph’s confidence.

  The archmage was just arrogant enough to believe that he was exploring new territory in this supposed combination of the two powers, as if such potential had never occurred to the hundreds of brilliant psionicists to come before him, or to the illithids, whose intelligence was beyond question.

  When the session ended a short time later, Kimmuriel was quick to take his leave, and Gromph was eager to let him go.

  And off Gromph went as well, straight to House Baenre’s spidery gate, and to the audience chamber of his sister, Matron Mother Quenthel Baenre.

  Quenthel calmly listened to his report of the dwarves’ march into Gauntlgrym, her eyes and steady hands not betraying the least nervousness. An army was marching upon House Xorlarrin, perhaps her strongest ally. An army of wretched dwarves, marching from the region where she had initiated a war. An army now preparing for battle against Menzoberranzan’s satellite city of Q’Xorlarrin, which granted to Quenthel a trading route to rival that of House Hunzrin.

  “You cannot send our House soldiers,” Gromph finished. “Not in this dangerous time.”

  Matron Mother Baenre nodded in agreement.

  “Matron Mother Mez’Barris, perhaps?” Gromph said, and he chuckled at the thought of the warriors of House Barrison Del’Armgo being sent forth for the defense of House Xorlarrin, who ranked among their most hated rivals.

  “She would refuse, and would be within her rights to refuse,” Quenthel answered. “If I demanded this of Matron Mother Mez’Barris, then even those Houses allied with us would fear that they might be next, and no House would willingly spare
her soldiers now with the city in such chaos.”

  “Will you send Do’Urden?” asked the archmage. “Surely you control that House fully, and among its nobles are Matron Mother Zeerith’s own two children.”

  “The garrison of House Do’Urden is made up of too many soldiers from too many Houses—noble Houses who would resent the losses,” the matron mother replied, again shaking her head. “Nor would I wish to risk the proxy vote of Matron Darthiir on the council.”

  She had refused Gromph’s every suggestion, yet she was smiling. She clearly knew something, and once again Gromph was reminded of his sister’s improved prowess. When he thought of his daughter, blessed with the knowledge and memories of Yvonnel and surely to succeed Quenthel, he felt a tinge of regret at ever having introduced Quenthel to the illithid Methil.

  “You have few options,” he said.

  “I am the matron mother, the voice of Lolth in Menzoberranzan, foolish male,” Quenthel answered. “I have every option.”

  “Matron Mother Zeerith will not withstand the press of King Bruenor and his dwarves,” Gromph replied, pointedly using the name of that cursed dwarf, who had split the head of their mother a century before with his fabled battle-axe. He thought to mention his belief that Drizzt Do’Urden would be there beside Bruenor as well. Quenthel knew well the rogue of House Do’Urden. He had killed her once.

  But Gromph decided not to twist the verbal blade quite that far. “There are too many dwarves, and by all accounts they came well equipped. It will take much of Menzoberranzan’s power to turn them back.”

  “Menzoberranzan cannot afford to march at this time.”

  “If the city of Q’Xorlarrin falls …”

  “It will not fall,” the matron mother said with a wry grin. “Not when the dwarves come up against a horde of mighty demons, and that long before they have ever neared Matron Mother Zeerith’s position in the lower tunnels.”

  Gromph stepped back as if struck, and the surprising response had him stuttering in his brain, even if he was too disciplined to let those doubts pass through his lips. Was Quenthel seriously suggesting sending an army of demons to Q’Xorlarrin? An army of demons, led by mighty beasts like Nalfeshnee?

  Who could truly control such an army? Bringing those demons together might prove worse for Matron Mother Zeerith if the demons chased off the dwarves than if the dwarves destroyed them to a manes.

  “You hold a favored teleport location within Gauntlgrym, do you not?” Quenthel asked.

  “I do.”

  “Then you will—”

  “You cannot be serious,” Gromph interrupted, and Quenthel’s eyes flashed with anger. “My attuned chamber is in the antechamber to the primordial that fires Gauntlgrym’s forges. You know this.”

  “Then nearer the battle.”

  “The demons will seek to release the primordial,” Gromph protested. “These demons you summon are not stupid creatures, and surely they will recognize the chaotic potential of freeing such a force as a fire primordial. They will dance about the explosions as the volcano begins anew!”

  The matron mother leaned back and stared at him hard, seeming unimpressed.

  “Unless you wish me to bring through simple-minded manes and lesser demons,” Gromph clarified, and wisely backstepped. “Chasme, even, who would not be clever enough to defeat Gauntlgrym’s magical defenses. Or succubi, who would be too intrigued with playing in the battle to care for an uncontrollable force such as a primordial. Or glabrezu—indeed, the violent hunters would be fine shock troops for the Xorlarrins. They would want the flesh of dwarves for them—”

  “Greater beings,” Matron Mother Baenre said evenly.

  “You wish me to deliver greater demons to the side of the primordial pit?”

  The matron mother hesitated, and Gromph could see her inner struggle then. No doubt she wanted to press forward with her ridiculous demand simply to not give her brother the satisfaction of being correct. But she was seeking Yvonnel’s advice now, he understood. She was searching those many memories Yvonnel the Eternal could offer in dealing with a nalfeshnee or a marilith, or a balor even.

  Gromph knew what that advice would entail, for he knew that he was correct. When such demons moved into Gauntlgrym, Matron Mother Zeerith would have to send her garrison of wizards into the primordial chamber in full force, sealing the area of Abyssal intrusion to protect the lever that kept the magical powers of the Tower of the Arcane in Luskan flowing. Those powers brought in the waters of the ocean, the ancient magic manipulating that aqueduct system, reaching into the Elemental Plane of Water and bringing forth mighty water elementals, which dived down from the ceiling of the primordial’s chamber and circled the walls of the entrapping pit in a dance that doused the primordial’s volcanic designs.

  “The dwarves have only just entered the caverns,” Gromph said. “Send forth your creatures—they are tireless and will find the Xorlarrins before King Bruenor has moved from the upper levels.”

  “Be gone from here,” Quenthel ordered, which was her way of admitting that Gromph was right, of course. “Get back to your useless studies before I decide that you should accompany the Abyssal procession.”

  Gromph bowed and moved off. He had done his duty—twice over. First he had delivered the warning of the dwarves, and second, he had prevented Quenthel from risking utter devastation to the satellite city.

  That second thought bothered him. Why had he done that? Why again had he propped up his idiot sister when his daughter waited in the wings to claim Menzoberranzan as her own?

  Because this was Quenthel’s crisis, and one exacerbated by her greedy action bringing forth so many powerful demons.

  “Bide your time,” he told himself quietly as he exited the Baenre compound and wound his way across the Qu’ellarz’orl toward Tier Breche and his Sorcere chambers. Had he gone along with Quenthel, knowing the disastrous course for what it was, Q’Xorlarrin would surely have been obliterated. Gromph cared nothing about that, of course, but he cared that the Spider Queen would care, and would seek him out as the one who helped deliver the demons to their source of complete destruction.

  No, Gromph’s actions had to be more subtle than that heavy hammer. He nodded as his plans came clear—if he could control some of the greater demons that would march for Q’Xorlarrin, he could profoundly wound his sister, perhaps even mortally wound her reputation within the city, and much more important, in the eyes of Lady Lolth.

  “DO YOU FEEL it?” asked the half-spider, half-drow woman with exquisite features and undeniable beauty.

  Errtu, the largest of the three demons gathered around the black puddle Lolth was using as a scrying pool, bent low and peered more deeply into the wavy image, taking care that the flames that ever surrounded his massive frame didn’t ignite the oily stew.

  He could see the rough, natural walls of jagged-edged volcanic stone. It was more porous than what one would expect at this depth, given the amount of pressure upon it from the great weight. It glowed with an inner light, continually shifting within the wall in location and hue. Every pock flared with inner purple or red, as if some wizard had covered himself with faerie fire, then melded into the stone forevermore.

  The balor nodded, and had to remind himself not to reach out and plunge his hand into the puddle, for indeed, he felt as if he could grasp the stones, or dive through the puddle, perhaps, and come forth from the jagged stones to walk once more in Faerûn’s Underdark.

  “The barrier thins,” Lolth explained. “The Archmage of Menzoberranzan unknowingly whittles at the protections of the Faerzress.”

  The Spider Queen laughed, a sound not often heard in the Abyss, and certainly not from her—unless, unlike now, she had a slave lying helpless in front of her, and one worth torturing.

  “We will be able to pass through without waiting for some fool to call upon our services?” asked the third of the group, Marilith.

  “Not us,” Errtu said with a growl, turning to Lolth as he spoke.


  The Spider Queen merely snorted and shrugged.

  The Faerzress glowed more brightly, a rolling blue to purple to red filling the pool.

  “Archmage Gromph, I presume,” said Lolth.

  Marilith sighed and closed her eyes, drawing the attention of the other two.

  “He summons me,” she explained. “And I feel compelled to his call. But it cannot be.”

  “He wishes to confirm the story being put forth by House Barrison Del’Armgo,” said Lolth, “that Malagdorl defeated and banished you.”

  “But I feel as if I can readily answer the call.”

  “You can.”

  Both demons turned to the Spider Queen with surprise.

  “A hundred years,” Errtu said. “The banishment is …”

  “How do you so break the rules of the cosmos?” Marilith asked. “I was banished by the trident of Malagdorl Armgo. I cannot return to the Prime Material Plane until a century has passed, with rare exception.”

  “You weren’t defeated,” Lolth explained. “You did as I instructed. You were sent to lose, and did as you were ordered, so there was no loss. But yes, the Faerzress thins, the boundary between the Underdark of Faerûn and the Abyss is less a barrier, and soon a facilitator.”

  “And Bilwhr, whom Gromph obliterated?” Errtu said.

  “Eagerly awaiting a call to return,” said Lolth.

  “But I remain banished, by the hand of Tiago Baenre?” From his tone, the balor seemed as if he was about leap upon Lolth in rage. He would not, of course, for she would make short work of him, and would take from him much more than a few decades of freedom.

  “You were defeated,” Lolth reminded him. “But fear not, for the barrier protecting the Faerzress will continue to diminish, and you will find your way, and perhaps find your vengeance.”

  Errtu growled. “Tiago Baenre, and then Drizzt Do’Urden.”

  Lolth laughed again, and she was laughing at him and not with him, though he missed the point of her mirth. Lolth’s mockery was one of disbelief as much as anything else. She could not fathom a creature as mighty and intelligent as Errtu wasting so much of his energy plotting vengeance upon a pair of inconsequential mortals.