Exile

Chapter 22. Without Direction

The sword cut came too swiftly for the goblin slave to even cry out in terror. It toppled forward, quite dead before it ever hit the floor. Zaknafein stepped on its back and continued on; the path to the narrow cavern’s rear exit lay open before the spirit-wraith, barely ten yards away. Even as the undead warrior moved beyond his latest kill, a group of illithids came into the cavern in front of him. Zaknafein snarled and did not turn away or slow in the least. His logic and his strides were direct; Drizzt had gone through this exit, and he would follow.

Anything in his way would fall to his blade.

Let this one go on its way! came a telepathic cry from several points in the cavern, from other mind flayers who had witnessed Zaknafein in action. You cannot defeat him! Let the drow leave! The mind flayers had seen enough of the spirit-wraith’s deadly blades; more than a dozen of their comrades had died at Zaknafein’s hand already.

This new group standing in Zaknafein’s way did not miss the urgency of the telepathic pleas. They parted to either side with all speed―except for one.

The illithid race based its existence on pragmatism founded in vast volumes of communal knowledge. Mind flayers considered base emotions such as pride fatal flaws.

It proved to be true again on this occasion.

Fwoop! The single illithid blasted the spirit-wraith, determined that none should be allowed to escape.

An instant later, the time of a single, precise swipe of a sword, Zaknafein stepped on the fallen illithid’s chest and continued on his way out into the wilds of the Underdark.

No other illithids made any move to stop him.

Zaknafein crouched and carefully picked his path. Drizzt had traveled down this tunnel; the scent was fresh and clear. Even so, in his careful pursuit, where he would often have to pause and check the trail, Zaknafein could not move as swiftly as his intended prey.

But, unlike Zaknafein, Drizzt had to rest.

“Hold.” The tone of Belwar’s command left no room for debate. Drizzt and Clacker froze in their tracks, wondering what had put the burrow-warden on sudden alert.

Belwar moved over and put his ear to the rock wall. “Boots,” he whispered, pointing to the stone. “Parallel tunnel.”

Drizzt joined his friend by the wall and listened intently, but, though his senses were keener than almost any other dark elf, he was not nearly as adept at reading the vibrations of the stone as the deep gnome.

“How many?” he asked.

“A few,” replied Belwar, but his shrug told Drizzt that he was only making a hopeful approximation.

“Seven,” said Clacker from a few paces down the wall, his voice clear and sure. “Duergar―gray dwarves―fleeing from the illithids, as are we.”

“How can you…” Drizzt started to ask, but he stopped, remembering what Clacker had told him concerning the powers of the pech.

“Do the tunnels cross?” Belwar asked the hook horror. “Can we avoid the duergar?”

Clacker turned back to the stone for the answers. “The tunnels join a short way ahead,” he replied, “then continue on as one.”

“Then if we stay here, the gray dwarves will probably pass us by,” Belwar reasoned.

Drizzt was not so certain of the deep gnome’s reasoning. “We and the duergar share a common enemy,” Drizzt remarked, then his eyes widened as a thought came to him suddenly. “Allies?”

“Although often the duergar and drow travel together, gray dwarves do not usually ally with svirfnebli,” Belwar reminded him. “Or hook horrors, I would guess!”

“This situation is far from usual,” Drizzt was quick to retort. “If the duergar are in flight from the mind flayers, then they are probably ill-equipped and unarmed. They might welcome such an alliance, to the gain of both groups.”

“I do not believe they will be as friendly as you assume,” Belwar replied with a sarcastic snicker, “but concede I will that this narrow tunnel is not a defensible region, more suited to the size of a duergar than to the long blades of a drow and the longer-still arms of a hook horror. If the duergar double back at the crossroad and head toward us, we may have to do battle in an area that will favor them.”

“Then to the place where the tunnels join,” said Drizzt, “and let us learn what we may.”

The three companions soon came into a small, oval-shaped chamber. Another tunnel, the one in which the duergar were traveling, entered the area right beside the companions’ tunnel, and a third passage ran out from the back of the room. The friends moved across into the shadows of this farthest tunnel even as the shuffling of boots echoed in their ears.

A moment later, the seven duergar came into the oval chamber. They were haggard, as Drizzt had suspected, but they were not unarmed. Three carried clubs, another a dagger, two held swords, and the last sported two large rocks.

Drizzt held his friends back and stepped out to meet the strangers. Though neither race held much love for the other, drow and duergar often formed mutually gainful alliances. Drizzt guessed that the chances of forming a peaceful alliance would be greater if he went out alone.

His sudden appearance startled the weary gray dwarves. They rushed all about frantically, trying to form some defensive posture. Swords and clubs came up at the ready, and the dwarf holding the rocks cocked his arm back for a throw.

“Greetings, duergar,” Drizzt said, hoping that the gray dwarves would understand the drow tongue. His hands rested easily on the hilts of his sheathed scimitars; he knew he could get to them quickly enough if he needed them.

“Who might ye be?” one of the sword-wielding gray dwarves asked in shaky but understandable drow.

“A refugee, as yourselves,” replied Drizzt, “fleeing from the slavery of the cruel mind flayers.”

“Then ye know our hurry,” snarled the duergar, “so be standin’ outa our way!”

“I offer to you an alliance,” said Drizzt. “Surely greater numbers will only aid us when the illithids come.”

“Seven’s as good as eight,” the duergar stubbornly replied. Behind the speaker, the rock thrower pumped his arm threateningly.

“But not as good as ten,” Drizzt reasoned calmly.

“Ye got friends?” asked the duergar, his tone noticeably softening. He glanced about nervously, looking for a possible ambush. “More drow?”

“Hardly,” Drizzt answered.

“I seen him!” cried another of the group, also in the drow tongue, before Drizzt could begin to explain. “He runned out with the beaked monster an’ the svirfneblin!”

“Deep gnome!” The leader of the duergar spat at Drizzt’s feet. “Not a friend of the duergar or the drow!”

Drizzt would have been willing to let the failed offer go at that, with he and his friends moving on their way and the gray dwarves going their own. But the well-earned reputation of the duergar labeled them as neither peaceful nor overly intelligent. With the illithids not far behind, this band of gray dwarves hardly needed more enemies.

A rock sailed at Drizzt’s head. A scimitar flashed out and deflected it harmlessly aside.

“Bivrip!” came the burrow-warden’s cry from the tunnel. Belwar and Clacker rushed out, not surprised in the least by the sudden turn of events. In the drow Academy, Drizzt, like all dark elves, had spent months learning the ways and tricks of the gray dwarves. That training saved him now, for he was the first to strike, lining all seven of his diminutive opponents in the harmless purple flames of faerie fire.

Almost at the same time, three of the duergar faded from view, exercising their innate talents of invisibility. The purple flames remained, though, clearly outlining the disappearing dwarves.

A second rock flew through the air, slamming into Clacker’s chest. The armored monster would have smiled at the pitiful attack if a beak could smile, and Clacker continued his charge straight ahead into the duergar’s midst.

The rock thrower and the dagger wielder fled out of the hook horror’s way, having no weapons that could possibly hurt the armored giant. With other foes readily available, Clacker let them go. They came around the side of the chamber, bearing straight in at Belwar, thinking the svirfneblin the easiest of the targets.

The swipe of a pickaxe abruptly stopped their charge. The unarmed duergar lunged forward, trying to grab the arm before it could launch a backswing. Belwar anticipated the attempt and crossed over with his hammer-hand, slamming the duergar squarely in the face. Sparks flew, bones crumbled, and gray skin burned and splattered. The duergar flew to his back and writhed about frantically, clutching his broken face.

The dagger wielder was not so anxious anymore.

Two invisible duergar came at Drizzt. With the outline of purple flames, Drizzt could see their general movement, and he had prudently marked these two as the sword-wielders. But Drizzt was at a clear disadvantage, for he could not distinguish subtle thrusts and cuts. He backed away, putting distance between himself and his companions.

He sensed an attack and threw out a blocking scimitar, smiling at his luck when he heard the ring of weapons. The gray dwarf came into view for just a moment, to show Drizzt his wicked smile, then faded quickly away.

“How many does ye think ye can block?” the other invisible duergar asked smugly.

“More than you, I suspect,” Drizzt replied, and then it was the drow’s turn to smile. His enchanted globe of absolute darkness descended over all three of the combatants, stealing the duergar advantage.

In the wild rush of the battle, Clacker’s savage hook horror instincts took full control of his actions. The giant did not understand the significance of the empty purple flames that marked the third invisible duergar, and he charged instead at the two remaining gray dwarves, both holding clubs.

Before the hook horror ever got there, a club smashed into his knee, and the invisible duergar chuckled in glee. The other two began to fade from sight, but Clacker now paid them no heed. The invisible club struck again, this time smashing into the hook horror’s thigh.

Possessed by the instincts of a race that had never been concerned with finesse, the hook horror howled and fell forward, burying the purple flames under his massive chest. Clacker hopped and dropped several times, until he was satisfied that the unseen enemy was crushed to death.

But then a flurry of clubbing blows rained down upon the back of the hook horror’s head.

The dagger-wielding duergar was no novice to battle. His attacks came in measured thrusts, forcing Belwar, wielding heavier weapons, to take the initiative. Deep gnomes hated duergar as profoundly as duergar hated deep gnomes, but Belwar was no fool. His pickaxe waved about only to keep his opponent at bay, while his hammer-hand remained cocked and ready.

Thus, the two sparred without gain for several moments, both content to let the other make the first error. When the hook horror cried out in pain, and with Drizzt out of sight, Belwar was forced to act. He stumbled forward, feigning a trip, and lurched ahead with his hammer-hand as his pickaxe dipped low.

The duergar recognized the ploy, but could not ignore the obvious opening in the svirfneblin’s defense. The dagger came in over the pickaxe, diving straight at Belwar’s throat.

The burrow-warden threw himself backward with equal speed and lifted a leg as he went, his boot clipping the duergar’s chin. The gray dwarf kept coming, though, diving down atop the falling deep gnome, his dagger’s point leading the way.

Belwar got his pickaxe up only a split second before the jagged weapon found his throat. The burrow-warden managed to move the duergar’s arm out wide, but the gray dwarf’s considerable weight pressed them together, their faces barely an inch apart.

“Got ye now!” the duergar cried.

“Get this!” Belwar snarled back, and he freed up his hammer-hand enough to launch a short but heavy punch into the duergar’s ribs. The duergar slammed his forehead into Belwar’s face, and Belwar bit him on the nose in response. The two rolled about, spitting and snarling, and using whatever weapons they could find.

By the sound of ringing blades, any observers outside Drizzt’s darkness globe would have sworn that a dozen warriors battled within. The frenzied tempo of swordplay was solely the doing of Drizzt Do’Urden. In such a situation, fighting blindly, the drow reasoned that the best battle method would be to keep all the blades as far away from his body as possible. His scimitars charged out relentlessly and in perfect harmony, pressing the two gray dwarves back on their heels.

Each arm worked its own opponent, keeping the gray dwarves rooted in place squarely in front of Drizzt. If one of his enemies managed to get around to his side, the drow knew, he would be in serious trouble.

Each scimitar swipe brought a ring of metal, and each passing second gave Drizzt more understanding of his opponents’ abilities and attack strategies. Out in the Underdark, Drizzt had fought blindly many times, once even donning a hood against the basilisk he’d met.

Overwhelmed by the sheer speed of the drow’s attacks, the duergar could only work their swords back and forth and hope that a scimitar didn’t slide through.

The blades sang and rang as the two duergar frantically parried and dodged. Then came a sound that Drizzt had hoped for, the sound of a scimitar digging into flesh. A moment later, one sword clanged to the stone and its wounded wielder made the fatal mistake of crying out in pain.

Drizzt’s hunter-self rose to the surface at that moment and focused on that cry, and his scimitar shot straight ahead, smashing into the gray dwarf’s teeth and on through the back of its head.

The hunter turned on the remaining duergar in fury. Around and around his blades spun in swirling circular motions. Around and around, then one shot out in a sudden straightforward thrust, too quickly for a blocking response. It caught the duergar in the shoulder, gashing a deep wound.

“Give! Give!” the gray dwarf cried, not desiring the same fate as its companion. Drizzt heard another sword drop to the floor. “Please, drow elf!”

At the duergar’s words, the drow buried his instinctive urges. “I accept your surrender,” Drizzt replied, and he moved close to his opponent, putting the tip of his scimitar to the gray dwarf’s chest. Together, they walked out of the area darkened by Drizzt’s spell.

Searing agony ripped through Clacker’s head, every blow sending waves of pain. The hook horror gurgled out an animal’s growl and exploded into furious motion, heaving up from the crushed duergar and spinning over at the newest foes.

A duergar club smashed in again, but Clacker was beyond any sensation of pain. A heavy claw bashed through the purple outline, through the invisible duergar’s skull. The gray dwarf came back into view suddenly, the concentration needed to maintain a state of invisibility stolen by death, the greatest thief of all.

The remaining duergar turned to flee, but the enraged hook horror moved faster. Clacker caught the gray dwarf in a claw and hoisted him into the air. Screeching like a frenzied bird, the hook horror hurled the unseen opponent into the wall. The duergar came back into sight, broken and crumbled at the base of the stone wall.

No opponents stood to face the hook horror, but Clacker’s savage hunger was far from satiated. Drizzt and the wounded duergar emerged from the darkness then, and the hook horror barreled in.

With the specter of Belwar’s combat taking his attention, Drizzt did not realize Clacker’s intent until the duergar prisoner screamed in terror. By then, it was too late.

Drizzt watched his prisoner’s head go flying back into the globe of darkness.

“Clacker!” the drow screamed in protest. Then Drizzt ducked and dived backward for his own life as the other claw came viciously swinging across. Spotting new prey nearby, the hook horror didn’t follow the drow into the globe. Belwar and the dagger-wielding duergar were too engaged in their own struggles to notice the approaching crazed giant. Clacker bent low, collected the prone combatants in his huge arms, and heaved them both straight up into the air. The duergar had the misfortune of coming down first, and Clacker promptly batted it across the chamber. Belwar would have found a similar fate, but crossed scimitars intercepted the hook horror’s next blow.

The giant’s strength slid Drizzt back several feet, but the parry softened the blow enough for Belwar to fall by. Still, the burrow-warden crashed heavily into the floor and spent a long moment too dazed to react.

“Clacker!” Drizzt cried again, as a giant foot came up with the obvious intent of squashing Belwar flat. Needing all his speed and agility, Drizzt dived around to the back of the hook horror, dropped to the floor, and went for Clacker’s knees, as he had in their first encounter. Trying to stomp on the prone svirfneblin, Clacker was already a bit off balance, and Drizzt easily tripped him to the stone. In the blink of an eye, the drow warrior sprang atop the monster’s chest and slipped a scimitar tip between the armored folds of Clacker’s neck.

Drizzt dodged a clumsy swing as Clacker continued to struggle. The drow hated what he had to do, but then the hook horror calmed suddenly and looked up at him with sincere understanding.

“D-d-do… it,” came a garbled demand. Drizzt, horrified, glanced over to Belwar for support. Back on his feet, the burrow-warden just looked away.

“Clacker?” Drizzt asked the hook horror. “Are you Clacker once again?”

The monster hesitated, then the beaked head nodded slightly.

Drizzt sprang away and looked at the carnage in the chamber. “Let us leave,” he said.

Clacker remained prone a moment longer, considering the grim implications of his reprieve. With the battle’s conclusion, the hook horror side backed out of its full control of Clacker’s consciousness. Those savage instincts lurked, Clacker knew, not far from the surface, waiting for another opportunity to find a firm hold. How many times would the faltering pech side be able to fight those instincts?

Clacker slammed the stone, a mighty blow that sent cracks running through the chamber’s floor. With great effort, the weary giant climbed to his feet. In his embarrassment, Clacker didn’t look at his companions, but just stormed away down the tunnel, each banging footstep falling like a hammer on a nail in Drizzt Do’Urden’s heart.

“Perhaps you should have finished it, dark elf,” Belwar suggested, moving beside his drow friend.

“He saved my life in the illithid cavern,” Drizzt retorted sharply. “And has been a loyal friend.”

“He tried to kill me, and you,” the deep gnome said grimly. “Magga cammara!”

“I am his friend!” Drizzt growled, grabbing the svirfneblin’s shoulder. “You ask me to kill him?”

“I ask you to act as his friend,” retorted Belwar, and he pulled free of the grasp and started away down the tunnel after Clacker.

Drizzt grabbed the burrow-warden’s shoulder again and roughly spun him around.

“It will only get worse, dark elf,” Belwar said calmly into Drizzt’s grimace. “A firmer hold does the wizard’s spell gain with every passing day. Clacker will try to kill us again, I fear, and if he succeeds, the realization of the act will destroy him more fully than your blades ever could!”

“I cannot kill him,” Drizzt said, and he was no longer angry. “Nor can you.”

“Then we must leave him,” the deep gnome replied. “We must let Clacker go free in the Underdark, to live his life as a hook horror. That surely is what he will become, body and spirit.”

“No,” said Drizzt. “We must not leave him. We are his only chance. We must help him.”

“The wizard is dead,” Belwar reminded him, and the deep gnome turned away and started again after Clacker.

“There are other wizards,” Drizzt replied under his breath, this time making no move to impede the burrow-warden. The drow’s eyes narrowed and he snapped his scimitars back into their sheaths. Drizzt knew what he must do, what price his friendship with Clacker demanded, but he found the thought too disturbing to accept.

There were indeed other wizards in the Underdark, but chance meetings were far from common, and wizards capable of dispelling Clacker’s polymorphed state would be fewer still. Drizzt knew where such wizards could be found, though.

The thought of returning to his homeland haunted Drizzt with every step he and his companions took that day. Having viewed the consequences of his decision to leave Menzoberranzan, Drizzt never wanted to see the place again, never wanted to look upon the dark world that had so damned him.

But if he chose now not to return, Drizzt knew that he would soon witness a more wicked sight than Menzoberranzan. He would watch Clacker, a friend who had saved him from certain death, degenerate fully into a hook horror. Belwar had suggested abandoning Clacker, and that course seemed preferable to the battle that Drizzt and the deep gnome surely must fight if they were near Clacker when the degeneration became complete.

Even if Clacker were far removed, though, Drizzt knew that he would witness the degeneration. His thoughts would stay on Clacker, the friend he had abandoned, for the rest of his days, just one more pain for the tormented drow.

In all the world, Drizzt could think of nothing he desired less than viewing the sights of Menzoberranzan or conversing with his former people. Given the choice, he would prefer death over returning to the drow city, but the choice was not so simple. It hinged on more than Drizzt’s personal desires. He had founded his life on principles, and those principles now demanded loyalty. They demanded that he put Clacker’s needs above his own desires, because Clacker had befriended him and because the concept of true friendship far outweighed personal desires.

Later on, when the friends had set camp for a short rest, Belwar noticed that Drizzt was engaged in some inner conflict. Leaving Clacker, who once again was tap-tapping at the stone wall, the svirfneblin moved cautiously by the drow’s side.

Belwar cocked his head curiously. “What are you thinking, dark elf?”

Drizzt, too caught up in his emotional turbulence, did not return Belwar’s gaze. “My homeland boasts a school of wizardry,” Drizzt replied with steadfast determination.

At first the burrow-warden didn’t understand what Drizzt hinted at, but then, when Drizzt glanced over to Clacker, Belwar realized the implications of Drizzt’s simple statement.

“Menzoberranzan?” the svirfneblin cried. “You would return there, hoping that some dark elf wizard would show mercy upon our pech friend?”

“I would return there because Clacker has no other chance,” Drizzt retorted angrily.

“Then no chance at all has Clacker,” Belwar roared. “Magga cammara, dark elf. Menzoberranzan will not be so quick to welcome you!”

“Perhaps your pessimism will prove valid,” said Drizzt. “Dark elves are not moved by mercy, I agree, but there may be other options.”

“You are hunted,” Belwar said. His tone showed that he hoped his simple words would shake some sense into his drow companion.

“By Matron Malice,” Drizzt retorted. “Menzoberranzan is a large place, my little friend, and loyalties to my mother will play no part in any encounter we find beyond those with my own family. I assure you that I have no plans to meet anyone from my own family!”

“And what, dark elf, might we offer in exchange for dispelling Clacker’s curse?” Belwar replied sarcastically. “What have we to offer that any dark elf wizard of Menzoberranzan would value?”

Drizzt’s reply started with a blurring cut of a scimitar, was heightened by a familiar simmering fire in the drow’s lavender eyes, and ended with a simple statement that even stubborn Belwar could not find the words to refute.

“The wizard’s life!”

Chapter 23. Ripples

Matron Baenre took a long and careful scan of Malice Do’Urden, measuring how greatly the trials of Zin-carla had weighed on the matron mother. Deep lines of worry creased Malice’s once smooth face, and her stark white hair, which had been the envy of her generation, was, for one of the very few times in five centuries, frazzled and unkempt. Most striking, though, were Malice’s eyes, once radiant and alert but now dark with weariness and sunken in the sockets of her dark skin.

“Zaknafein almost had him.” Malice explained, her voice an uncharacteristic whine. “Drizzt was in his grasp, and yet somehow, my son managed to escape!”

“But the spirit-wraith is close on his trail again,” Malice quickly added, seeing Matron Baenre’s disapproving frown. In addition to being the most powerful figure in all of Menzoberranzan, the withered matron mother of House Baenre was considered Lloth’s personal representative in the city. Matron Baenre’s approval was Lloth’s approval, and, by the same logic, Matron Baenre’s disapproval most often spelled disaster for a house.

“Zin-carla requires patience, Matron Malice.” Matron Baenre said calmly. “It has not been so long.”

Malice relaxed a bit, until she looked again at her surroundings. She hated the chapel of House Baenre, so huge and demeaning. The entire Do’Urden complex could fit within this single chamber, and if Malice’s family and soldiers were multiplied ten times over, they still would not fill the rows of benches. Directly above the central altar, directly above Matron Malice, loomed the illusionary image of the gigantic spider, shifting into the form of a beautiful drow female, then back again into an arachnid. Sitting here alone with Matron Baenre under that overpowering image made Malice feel even more insignificant.

Matron Baenre sensed her guest’s uneasiness and moved to comfort her. “You have been given a great gift,” she said sincerely. “The Spider Queen would not bestow Zin-carla, and would not have accepted the sacrifice of SiNafay Hun’ett, a matron mother, if she did not approve of your methods and your intent.”

“It is a trial,” Malice replied offhandedly.

“A trial you will not fail!” Matron Baenre retorted. “And then the glories you will know, Malice Do’Urden! When the spirit-wraith of he who was Zaknafein has completed his task and your renegade son is dead, you will sit in honor on the ruling council. Many years, I promise you, will pass before any house will dare to threaten House Do’Urden. The Spider Queen will shine her favor upon you for the proper completion of Zin-carla. She will hold your house in the highest regard and will defend you against rivals.”

“What if Zin-carla fails?” Malice dared to ask. “Let us suppose…” Her voice trailed away as Matron Baenre’s eyes widened in shock.

“Speak not the words!” Baenre scolded. “And think not of such impossibilities! You grow distracted by fear, and that alone will spell your doom. Zin-carla is an exercise of willpower and a test of your devotion to the Spider Queen. The spirit-wraith is an extension of your faith and your strength. If you falter in your trust, then the spirit-wraith of Zaknafein will falter in his quest!”

“I will not falter!” Malice roared, her hands clenched around the armrests of her chair. “I accept the responsibility of my son’s sacrilege, and with Lloth’s help and blessings, I will enact the appropriate punishment upon Drizzt.”

Matron Baenre relaxed back in her seat and nodded her approval. She had to support Malice in this endeavor, by the command of Lloth, and she knew enough of Zin-carla to understand that confidence and determination were two of the primary ingredients for success. A matron mother involved in Zin-carla had to proclaim her trust in Lloth and her desire to please Lloth often and sincerely.

Now, though, Malice had another problem, a distraction she could ill afford. She had come to House Baenre of her own volition, seeking aid.

“Then of this other matter,” Matron Baenre prompted, fast growing tired of the meeting.

“I am vulnerable,” Malice explained. “Zin-carla steals my energy and attention. I fear that another house may seize the opportunity.”

“No house has ever attacked a matron mother in the thralls of Zin-carla,” Matron Baenre pointed out, and Malice realized that the withered old drow spoke from experience.

“Zin-carla is a rare gift,” Malice replied, “given to powerful matrons with powerful houses, almost assuredly in the highest favor of the Spider Queen. Who would attack under such circumstances? But House Do’Urden is far different. We have just suffered the consequences of war. Even with the addition of some of House Hun’ett’s soldiers, we are crippled. It is well known that I have not yet regained Lloth’s favor but that my house is eighth in the city, putting me on the ruling council, an enviable position.”

“Your fears are misplaced,” Matron Baenre assured her, but Malice slumped back in frustration in spite of the words. Matron Baenre shook her head helplessly. “I see that my words alone cannot soothe. Your attention must be on Zin-carla. Understand that, Malice Do’Urden. You have no time for such petty worries.”

“They remain,” said Malice.

“Then I will end them,” offered Matron Baenre. “Return to your house now, in the company of two hundred Baenre soldiers. The numbers will secure your battlements, and my soldiers shall wear the house emblem of Baenre. None in the city will dare to strike with such allies.”

A wide smile rolled across Malice’s face, a grin that diminished a few of those worry lines. She accepted Matron Baenre’s generous gift as a signal that perhaps Lloth still did favor House Do’Urden.

“Go back to your home and concentrate on the task at hand,” Matron Baenre continued. “Zaknafein must find Drizzt again and kill him. That is the deal you offered to the Spider Queen. But fear not for the spirit-wraith’s last failure or the time lost. A few days, or weeks, is not very long in Lloth’s eyes. The proper conclusion of Zin-carla is all that matters.”

“You will arrange for my escort?” Malice asked, rising from her chair.

“It is already waiting,” Matron Baenre assured her.

Malice walked down from the raised central dais and out through the many rows of the giant chapel. The huge room was dimly lit, and Malice could barely see, as she exited, another figure moving toward the central dais from the opposite direction. She assumed it to be Matron Baenre’s companion illithid, a common figure in the great chapel. If Malice had known that Matron Baenre’s mind flayer had left the city on some private business in the west, she might have paid more heed to the distant figure.

Her worry lines would have increased tenfold.

“Pitiful,” Jarlaxle remarked as he ascended to sit beside Matron Baenre. “This is not the same Matron Malice Do’Urden that I knew only a few short months ago.”

“Zin-carla is not cheaply given,” Matron Baenre replied.

“The toll is great,” Jarlaxle agreed. He looked straight at Matron Baenre, reading her eyes as well as her forthcoming reply. “Will she fail?”

Matron Baenre chuckled aloud, a laugh that sounded more like a wheeze. “Even the Spider Queen could only guess at the answer. My―our―soldiers should lend Matron Malice enough comfort to complete the task. That is my hope at least. Malice Do’Urden once was in Lloth’s highest regard, you know. Her seat on the ruling council was demanded by the Spider Queen.”

“Events do seem to lead to the completion of Lloth’s will,” Jarlaxle snickered, remembering the battle between House Do’Urden and House Hun’ett, in which Bregan D’aerthe had played the pivotal role. The consequences of that victory, the elimination of House Hun’ett, had put House Do’Urden in the city’s eighth position and, thus, had placed Matron Malice on the ruling council.

“Fortunes smile on the favored,” Matron Baenre remarked.

Jarlaxle’s grin was replaced by a suddenly serious look. “And is Malice―Matron Malice,” he quickly corrected, seeing Baenre’s immediate glower, “now in the Spider Queen’s favor? Will fortunes smile on House Do’Urden?”

“The gift of Zin-carla removed both favor and disfavor, I would assume,” Matron Baenre explained. “Matron Malice’s fortunes are for her and her spirit-wraith to determine.”

“Or, for her son―this infamous Drizzt Do’Urden―to destroy,” Jarlaxle completed. “Is this young warrior so very powerful? Why has Lloth not simply crushed him?”

“He has forsaken the Spider Queen,” Baenre replied, “fully and with all his heart. Lloth has no power over Drizzt and has determined him to be Matron Malice’s problem.”

“A rather large problem, it would seem,” Jarlaxle chuckled with a quick shake of his bald head. The mercenary noticed immediately that Matron Baenre did not share his mirth.

“Indeed,” she replied somberly, and her voice trailed off on the word as she sank back for some private thoughts. She knew the dangers, and the possible profits, of Zin-carla better than anyone in the city. Thrice before Matron Baenre had asked for the Spider Queen’s greatest gift, and twice before she had seen Zin-carla through to successful completion. With the unrivaled grandeur of House Baenre all about her, Matron Baenre could not forget the gains of Zin-carla’s success. But every time she saw her withered reflection in a pool or a mirror, she was vividly reminded of the heavy price.

Jarlaxle did not intrude on the matron mother’s reflections. The mercenary contemplated on his own at that moment. In a time of trial and confusion such as this, a skilled opportunist would find only gain. By Jarlaxle’s reckoning, Bregan D’aerthe could only profit from the granting of Zin-carla to Matron Malice. If Malice proved successful and reinforced her seat on the ruling council, Jarlaxle would have another very powerful ally within the city. If the spirit-wraith failed, to the ruin of House Do’Urden, the price on this young Drizzt’s head certainly would escalate to a level that might tempt the mercenary band.

As she had on her journey to the first house of the city, Malice imagined ambitious gazes following her return through the winding streets of Menzoberranzan. Matron Baenre had been quite generous and gracious. Accepting the premise that the withered old matron mother was indeed Lloth’s voice in the city, Malice could barely contain her smile.

Undeniably, though, the fears still remained. How readily would Matron Baenre come to Malice’s aid if Drizzt continued to elude Zaknafein, if Zin-carla ultimately failed? Malice’s position on the ruling council would be tenuous then―as would the continued existence of House Do’Urden.

The caravan passed House Fey-Branche, ninth house of the city and most probably the greatest threat to a weakened House Do’Urden. Matron Halavin Fey-Branche was no doubt watching the procession beyond her adamantite gates, watching the matron mother who now held the coveted eighth seat on the ruling council.

Malice looked at Dinin and the ten soldiers of House Do’Urden, walking by her side as she sat atop the floating magical disc. She let her gaze wander to the two hundred soldiers, warriors openly bearing the proud emblem of House Baenre, marching with disciplined precision behind her modest troupe.

What must Matron Halavin Fey-Branche be thinking at such a sight? Malice wondered. She could not contain her ensuing smile. “Our greatest glories are soon to come,” Malice assured her warrior son. Dinin nodded and returned the wide smile, wisely not daring to steal any of the joy from his volatile mother.

Privately, though, Dinin couldn’t ignore his disturbing suspicions that many of the Baenre soldiers, drow warriors he had never had the occasion to meet before, looked vaguely familiar. One of them even shot a sly wink at the elderboy of House Do’Urden.

Jarlaxle’s magical whistle being blown on the balcony of House Do’Urden came vividly to Dinin’s mind.

Chapter 24. Faith

Drizzt and Belwar did not have to remind each other of the significance of the green glow that appeared far ahead up the tunnel. Together they quickened their pace to catch up with and warn Clacker, who continued his approach with strides quickened by curiosity. The hook horror always led the party now; Clacker simply had become too dangerous for Drizzt and Belwar to allow him to walk behind.

Clacker turned abruptly at their sudden approach, waved a claw menacingly, and hissed.

“Pech,” Belwar whispered, speaking the word he had been using to strike a recollection in his friend’s fast-fading consciousness. The troupe had turned back toward the east, toward Menzoberranzan, as soon as Drizzt had convinced the burrow-warden of his determination to aid Clacker. Belwar, having no other options, had finally agreed with the drow’s plan as Clacker’s only hope, but, though they had turned immediately and had quickened their march, both now feared that they would not arrive in time. The transformation in Clacker had been dramatic since the confrontation with the duergar. The hook horror could barely speak and often turned threateningly on his friends.

“Pech,” Belwar said again as he and Drizzt neared the amious monster.

The hook horror paused, confused.

“Pech,” Belwar growled a third time, and he tapped his hammer-hand against the stone wall.

As if a light of recognition had suddenly gone on within the turmoil that was his consciousness, Clacker relaxed and dropped his heavy arms to his sides.

Drizzt and Belwar looked past the hook horror to the green glow and exchanged concerned glances. They had committed themselves fully to this course and had little choice in their actions now.

“Corbies live in the chamber beyond,” Drizzt began quietly, speaking each word slowly and distinctly to ensure that Clacker understood. “We have to get directly across and out the other side swiftly, for if we hope to avoid a battle, we have no time for delays. Take care in your steps. The only walkways are narrow and treacherous.”

“C-C-Clac-” the hook horror stammered futilely.

“Clacker,” Belwar offered.

“I-I-I’ll-” Clacker stopped suddenly and threw a claw out in the direction of the green-glowing chamber.

“Clacker lead?” Drizzt said, unable to bear the hook horror’s struggling. “Clacker lead,” Drizzt said again, seeing the great head bobbing in accord.

Belwar didn’t seem so sure of the wisdom of that suggestion. “We have fought the bird-men before and have seen their tricks,” the svirfneblin reasoned. “But Clacker has not.”

“The sheer bulk of the hook horror should deter them,” Drizzt argued. “Clacker’s mere presence may allow us to avoid a fight.”

“Not against the corbies, dark elf,” said the burrow-warden. “They will attack anything without fear. You witnessed their frenzy, their disregard for their own lives. Even your panther did not deter them.”

“Perhaps you are right,” Drizzt agreed, “but even if the corbies do attack, what weapons do they possess that could defeat a hook horror’s armor? What defense could the bird-men offer against Clacker’s great claws? Our giant friend will sweep them aside.”

“You forget the stone-riders up above,” the burrow-warden pointedly reminded him. “They will be quick to take a ledge down, and take Clacker with it!”

Clacker turned away from the conversation and stared into the stone of the walls in a futile effort to recapture a portion of his former self. He felt a slight urge to begin tap-tapping on the stone, but it was no greater than his continuing urge to smash a claw into the face of either the svirfneblin or the drow.

“I will deal with any corbies waiting above the ledges.” Drizzt replied. “You just follow Clacker across a dozen paces behind.”

Belwar glanced over and noticed the mounting tension in the hook horror. The burrow-warden realized that they could not afford any delays, so he shrugged and pushed Clacker off, motioning down the passage toward the green glow. Clacker started away, and Drizzt and Belwar fell into step behind.

“The panther?” Belwar whispered to Drizzt as they rounded the last bend in the tunnel.

Drizzt shook his head briskly, and Belwar, remembering Guenhwyvar’s last painful episode in the corby chamber, did not question him further.

Drizzt patted the deep gnome on the shoulder for luck, then moved up past Clacker and was the first to enter the quiet chamber. With a few simple motions, the drow stepped into a levitation spell and floated silently up. Clacker, amazed by this strange place with the glowing lake of acid below him, hardly noticed Drizzt’s movements. The hook horror stood perfectly still, glancing all about the chamber and using his keen sense of hearing to locate any possible enemies.

“Move,” Belwar whispered behind him. “Delay will bring disaster!”

Clacker started out tentatively, then picked up speed as he gained confidence in the strength of the narrow, unsupported walkway. He took the straightest course he could discern, though even this meandered about before it reached the exiting archway opposite the one they had entered.

“Do you see anything, dark elf?” Belwar called as loudly as he dared a few uneventful moments later. Clacker had passed the midpoint of the chamber without incident and the burrow-warden could not contain his mounting anxiety. No corbies had shown themselves; not a sound had been made beyond the heavy thumping of Clacker’s feet and the shuffling of Belwar’s worn boots.

Drizzt floated back down to the ledge, far behind his companions. “Nothing,” he replied. The drow shared Belwar’s suspicions that no dire corbies were about. The hush of the acid-filled cavern was absolute and unnerving. Drizzt ran out toward the center of the chamber, then lifted off again in his levitation, trying to get a better angle on all of the walls.

“What do you see?” Belwar asked him a moment later. Drizzt looked down to the burrow-warden and shrugged.

“Nothing at all.”

“Magga cammara,” grumbled Belwar, almost wishing that a corby would step out and attack. Clacker had nearly reached the targeted exit by this time, though Belwar, in his conversation with Drizzt, had lagged behind and remained near the center of the huge room. When the burrow-warden finally turned back to the path ahead, the hook horror had disappeared under the arch of the exit.

“Anything?” Belwar called out to both of his companions. Drizzt shook his head and continued to rise. He rotated slowly about, scanning the walls, unable to believe that no corbies lurked in ambush.

Belwar looked back to the exit. “We must have chased them out,” he muttered to himself, but in spite of his words, the burrow-warden knew better. When he and Drizzt had taken flight from this room a couple of weeks before, they had left several dozen of the bird-men behind them. Certainly the toll of a few dead corbies would not have chased away the rest of the fearless clan.

For some unknown reason, no corbies had come out to stand against them.

Belwar started off at a quick pace, thinking it best not to question their good fortune. He was about to call out to Clacker, to confirm that the hook horror had indeed moved to safety, when a sharp, terror filled squeal rolled out from the exit, followed by a heavy crash. A moment later, Belwar and Drizzt had their answers.

The spirit-wraith of Zaknafein Do’Urden stepped under the arch and out onto the ledge.

“Dark elf!” the burrow-warden called sharply.

Drizzt had already seen the spirit-wraith and was descending as rapidly as he could toward the walkway near the middle of the chamber.

“Clacker!” Belwar called, but he expected no answer, and received none, from the shadows beyond the archway. The spirit-wraith steadily advanced.

“You murderous beast!” the burrow-warden cursed, setting his feet wide apart and slamming his mithril hands together. “Come out and get your due!” Belwar fell into his chant to empower his hands, but Drizzt interrupted him.

“No!” the drow cried out high above. “Zaknafein is here for me, not you. Move out of his way!”

“Was he here for Clacker?” Belwar yelled back. “A murderous beast, he is, and I have a score to settle!”

“You do not know that.” Drizzt replied, increasing his descent as fast as he dared to catch up to the fearless burrow-warden. Drizzt knew that Zaknafein would get to Belwar first, and he could guess easily enough the grim consequences.

“Trust me now, I beg,” Drizzt pleaded. “This drow warrior is far beyond your abilities.”

Belwar banged his hands together again, but he could not honestly refute Drizzt’s words. Belwar had seen Zaknafein in battle only that one time in the illithid cavern, but the monster’s blurring movements had stolen his breath. The deep gnome backed away a few steps and turned down a side walkway, seeking another route to the arched exit so that he might learn Clacker’s fate.

With Drizzt so plainly in sight, the spirit-wraith paid the little svirfneblin no heed. Zaknafein charged right past the side walkway and continued on to fulfill the purpose of his existence.

Belwar thought to pursue the strange drow, to close from behind and help Drizzt in the battle, but another cry issued from under the archway, a cry so pain-filled and pitiful that the burrow-warden could not ignore it. He stopped as soon as he got back on the main walkway, then looked both ways, torn in his loyalties.

“Go!” Drizzt shouted at him. “See to Clacker. This is Zaknafein, my father.” Drizzt noticed a slight hesitation in the spirit-wraith’s charge at the mention of those words, a hesitation that brought Drizzt a flicker of understanding.

“Your father? Magga cammara, dark elf!” Belwar protested. “Back in the illithid cavern―”

“I am safe enough,” Drizzt interjected.

Belwar did not believe that Drizzt was safe at all, but against the protests of his own stubborn pride, the burrow-warden realized that the battle that was about to begin was far beyond his abilities. He would be of little help against this mighty drow warrior, and his presence in the battle might actually prove detrimental to his friend. Drizzt would have a difficult enough time without worrying about Belwar’s safety.

Belwar banged his mithril hands together in frustration and rushed toward the archway and the continuing moans of his fallen hook horror companion.

Matron Malice’s eyes widened and she uttered a sound so primal that her daughters, gathered by her side in the anteroom, knew immediately that the spirit-wraith had found Drizzt. Briza glanced over at the younger Do’Urden priestesses and dismissed them. Maya obeyed immediately, but Vierna hesitated.

“Go,” Briza snarled, one hand dropping to the snake-headed whip on her belt. “Now.”

Vierna looked to her matron mother for support, but Malice was quite lost in the spectacle of the distant events. This was the moment of triumph for Zin-carla and for Matron Malice Do’Urden; she would not be distracted by the petty squabbling of her inferiors.

Briza then was alone with her mother, standing behind the throne and studying Malice as intently as Malice watched Zaknafein.

As soon as he entered the small chamber beyond the archway, Belwar knew that Clacker was dead, or soon would be. The giant hook horror body lay on the floor, bleeding from a single but wickedly precise wound across the neck. Belwar began to turn away, then realized that he owed comfort, at least, to his fallen friend. He dropped to one knee and forced himself to watch as Clacker went into a series of violent convulsions.

Death terminated the polymorph spell, and Clacker gradually reverted to his former self. The huge, clawed arms trembled and jerked, twisted and popped into the long and spindly, yellow-skinned arms of a pech. Hair sprouted through the cracking armor of Clacker’s head and the great beak split apart and dissipated. The massive chest, too, fell away, and the whole body compacted with a grinding sound that sent shivers up and down the hardy burrow-warden’s spine.

The hook horror was no more, and, in death, Clacker was as he had been. He was a bit taller than Belwar, though not nearly as wide, and his features were broad and strange, with pupil-less eyes and a flattened nose.

“What was your name, my friend?” the burrow-warden whispered, though he knew that Clacker would never answer. He bent down and lifted the pech’s head in his arms, taking some comfort in the peace that finally had come to the tormented creature’s face.

“Who are you that takes the guise of my father?” Drizzt asked as the spirit-wraith stalked across the last few paces.

Zaknafein’s snarl was indecipherable, and his response came more clearly in the hacking slice of a sword.

Drizzt parried the attack and jumped back. “Who are you?” he demanded again. “You are not my father!”

A wide smile spread over the spirit-wraith’s face. “No,” Zaknafein replied in a shaky voice, an answer that was inspired from an anteroom many miles away.

“I am your…mother!” The swords came on again in a blinding flurry.

Drizzt, confused by the response, met the charge with equal ferocity and the many sudden hits of sword on scimitar sounded like a single ring.

Briza watched her mother’s every movement. Sweat poured down Malice’s brow and her clenched fists pounded on the arms of her stone throne even after they had begun to bleed. Malice had hoped that it would be like this, that the final moment of her triumph would shine clearly in her thoughts from across the miles. She heard Drizzt’s every frantic word and felt his distress so very keenly. Never had Malice known such pleasure!

Then she felt a slight twinge as Zaknafein’s consciousness struggled against her control. Malice pushed Zaknafein aside with a guttural snarl; his animated corpse was her tool!

Briza noted her mother’s sudden snarl with more than a passing interest.

Drizzt knew beyond any doubts that this was not Zaknafein Do’Urden who stood before him, yet he could not deny the unique fighting style of his former mentor. Zaknafein was in there―somewhere―and Drizzt would have to reach him if he hoped to get any answers.

The battle quickly settled into a comfortable, measured rhythm, both opponents launching cautious attack routines and paying careful attention to their tenuous footing on the narrow walkway.

Belwar entered the room then, bearing Clacker’s broken body. “Kill him, Drizzt!” the burrow-warden cried. “Magga…” Belwar stopped and was afraid when he witnessed the battle. Drizzt and Zaknafein seemed to intertwine, their weapons spinning and darting, only to be parried away. They seemed as one, these two dark elves that Belwar had considered distinctly different, and that notion unnerved the deep gnome.

When the next break came in the struggle, Drizzt glanced over to the burrow-warden and his gaze locked on the dead pech. “Damn you!” he spat, and he rushed back in, scimitars diving and chopping at the monster who had murdered Clacker.

The spirit-wraith parried the foolishly bold assault easily and worked Drizzt’s blades up high, rocking Drizzt back on his heels. This, too, seemed so very familiar to the young drow, a fighting approach that Zaknafein had used against him many times in their sparring matches back in Menzoberranzan. Zaknafein would force Drizzt high, then come in suddenly low with both of his swords. In their early contests, Zaknafein had often defeated Drizzt with this maneuver, the double-thrust low, but in their last encounter in the drow city, Drizzt had found the answering parry and had turned the attack against his mentor.

Now Drizzt wondered if this opponent would follow through with the expected attack routine, and he wondered, too, how Zaknafein would react to his counter. Were any of Zak’s memories within the monster he now faced?

Still the spirit-wraith kept Drizzt’s blades working defensively high. Zaknafein then took a quick step back and came in low with both blades.

Drizzt dropped his scimitars into a downward “X”, the appropriate cross-down parry that pinned the attacking swords low. Drizzt kicked his foot up between the hilts of his blades and straight at his opponent’s face.

The spirit-wraith somehow anticipated the countering attack and was out of reach before the boot could connect. Drizzt believed that he had an answer, for only Zaknafein Do’Urden could have known.

“You are Zaknafein!” Drizzt cried. “What has Malice done to you?”

The spirit-wraith’s hands trembled visibly in their hold on the swords and his mouth twisted as though he was trying to say something.

“No!” Malice screamed, and she violently tore back the control of her monster, walking the delicate and dangerous line between Zaknafein’s physical abilities and the consciousness of the being he once had been.

“You are mine, wraith.” Malice bellowed, “and by the will of Lloth, you shall complete the task!”

Drizzt saw the sudden regression of the murderous spirit-wraith. Zaknafein’s hands no longer trembled and his mouth locked into a thin and determined grimace once again.

“What is it, dark elf?” Belwar demanded, confused by the strange encounter. Drizzt noticed that the deep gnome had placed Clacker’s body on a ledge and was steadily approaching. Sparks flew from Belwar’s mithril hands whenever they bumped together.

“Stay back!” Drizzt called to him. The presence of an unknown enemy could ruin the plans that were beginning to formulate in Drizzt’s mind. “It is Zaknafein.” he tried to explain to Belwar. “Or at least a part of it is!”

In a voice too low for the burrow-warden to hear, Drizzt added, “And I believe I know how to get to that part.” Drizzt came on in a flurry of measured attacks that he knew Zaknafein could easily deflect. He did not want to destroy his opponent, but rather he sought to inspire other memories of fighting routines that would be familiar to Zaknafein.

He put Zaknafein through the paces of a typical training session, talking all the while in the same way that he and the weapon master used to talk back in Menzoberranzan. Malice’s spirit-wraith countered Drizzt’s familiarity with savagery, and matched Drizzt’s friendly words with animal-like snarls. If Drizzt thought he could lull his opponent with complacency, he was badly mistaken.

Swords rushed at Drizzt inside and out, seeking a hole in his expert defenses. Scimitars matched their speed and precision, catching and stopping each arcing cut and deflecting every straightforward thrust harmlessly wide.

A sword slipped through and nicked Drizzt in the ribs. His fine armor held back the weapon’s razor edge, but the weight of the blow would leave a deep bruise. Rocked back on his heels, Drizzt saw that his plan would not be so easily executed.

“You are my father!” he shouted at the monster. “Matron Malice is your enemy, not I!”

The spirit-wraith mocked the words with an evil laugh and came on wildly. From the very beginning of the battle, Drizzt had feared this moment, but now he stubbornly reminded himself that this was not really his father that stood before him. Zaknafein’s careless offensive charge inevitably left gaps in his defenses, and Drizzt found them, once and then again, with his scimitars. One blade gashed a hole in the spirit-wraith’s belly, another slashed deeply into the side of his neck.

Zaknafein only laughed again, louder, and came on.

Drizzt fought in sheer panic, his confidence faltering. Zaknafein was nearly his equal, and Drizzt’s blades barely hurt the thing! Another problem quickly became evident as well, for time was against Drizzt. He did not know exactly what it was that he faced, but he suspected that it would not tire.

Drizzt pressed with all his skill and speed. Desperation drove him to new heights of swordsmanship. Belwar started out again to join in, but he stopped a moment later, stunned by the display.

Drizzt hit Zaknafein several more times, but the spirit-wraith seemed not to notice, and as Drizzt stepped up the tempo, the spirit-wraith’s intensity grew to match his own. Drizzt could hardly believe that this was not Zaknafein Do’Urden fighting against him; he could recognize the moves of his father and former mentor so very clearly. No other soul could move that perfectly muscled drow body with such precision and skill.

Drizzt was backing away again, giving ground and waiting patiently for his opportunities. He reminded himself over and over that it was not Zaknafein that he faced, but some monster created by Matron Malice for the sole purpose of destroying him. Drizzt had to be ready; his only chance of surviving this encounter was to trip his opponent from the ledge. With the spirit-wraith fighting so brilliantly, though, that chance seemed remote indeed.

The walkway turned slightly around a short bend, and Drizzt felt it carefully with one foot, sliding it along. Then a rock right under Drizzt’s foot broke free from the side of the walkway.

Drizzt stumbled, and his leg, to the knee, slipped down beside the bridge. Zaknafein came upon him in a rush. The whirling swords soon had Drizzt down on his back across the narrow walkway, his head hanging precariously over the lake of acid.

“Drizzt!” Belwar screamed helplessly. The deep gnome rushed out, though he could not hope to arrive in time or defeat Drizzt’s killer. “Drizzt!”

Perhaps it was that call of Drizzt’s name, or maybe it was just the moment of the kill, but the former consciousness of Zaknafein flickered to life in that instant, and the sword arm, readied for a killing plunge that Drizzt could not have deflected, hesitated. Drizzt didn’t wait for any explanations. He punched out with a scimitar hilt, then the other, both connecting squarely on Zaknafein’s jaw and moving the spirit-wraith back. Drizzt was up again, panting and favoring a twisted ankle.

“Zaknafein!” Confused and frustrated by the hesitation, Drizzt screamed at his opponent.

“Driz―” the spirit-wraith’s mouth struggled to reply. Then Malice’s monster rushed back in, swords leading.

Drizzt defeated the attack and slipped away again. He could sense his father’s presence; he knew that the true Zaknafein lurked just below the surface of this creature, but how could he free that spirit? Clearly, he could not hope to continue this struggle much longer.

“It is you,” Drizzt whispered. “No one else could fight so. Zaknafein is there, and Zaknafein will not kill me.” Another thought came to Drizzt then, a notion he had to believe.

Once again, the truth of Drizzt’s convictions became the test.

Drizzt slipped his scimitars back into their sheaths. The spirit-wraith snarled; his swords danced about in the air and cut viciously, but Zaknafein did not come on.

“Kill him!” Malice squealed in glee, thinking her moment of victory at hand. The images of the combat, though, flitted away from her suddenly, and she was left with only darkness. She had given too much back to Zaknafein when Drizzt had stepped up the tempo of the combat. She had been forced to allow more of Zak’s consciousness back into her animation, needing all of Zaknafein’s fighting skills to defeat her warrior son.

Now Malice was left with blackness, and with the weight of impending doom hanging precariously over her head. She glanced back at her too-curious daughter, then sank back within her trance, fighting to regain control.

“Drizzt.” Zaknafein said, and the word felt so very good indeed to the animation. Zak’s swords went into their sheaths, though his hands had to struggle against the demands of Matron Malice every inch of the way.

Drizzt started toward him, wanting nothing more than to hug his father and dearest friend, but Zaknafein put out a hand to keep him back.

“No,” the spirit-wraith explained. “I do not know how long I can resist. The body is hers, I fear,” Zaknafein replied. Drizzt did not understand at first. “Then you are―?”

“I am dead.” Zaknafein stated bluntly. “At peace, be assured. Malice has repaired my body for her own vile purposes.”

“But you defeated her.” Drizzt said, daring to hope. “We are together again.”

“A temporary stay, and no more.” As if to accentuate the point, Zaknafein’s hand involuntarily shot to his sword hilt. He grimaced and snarled, and stubbornly fought back, gradually loosening his grip on the weapon. “She is coming back, my son. That one is always coming back!”

“I cannot bear to lose you again.” Drizzt said. “When I saw you in the illithid cavern―”

“It was not me that you saw.” Zaknafein tried to explain. “It was the zombie of Malice’s evil will. I am gone, my son. I have been gone for many years.”

“You are here.” Drizzt reasoned.

“By Malice’s will, not…my own.” Zaknafein growled, and his face contorted as he struggled to push Malice away for just a moment longer. Back in control, Zaknafein studied the warrior that his son had become. “You fight well.” he remarked. “Better than I had ever imagined. That is good, and it is good that you had the courage to run―” Zaknafein’s face contorted again suddenly, stealing the words. This time, both of his hands went to his swords, and this time, both weapons came flashing out.

“No!” Drizzt pleaded as a mist welled in his lavender eyes. “Fight her!”

“I… cannot,” the spirit-wraith replied. “Flee from this place, Drizzt. Flee to the very…ends of the world! Malice will never forgive. She…will never stop―”

The spirit-wraith leaped forward, and Drizzt had no choice but to draw his weapons. But Zaknafein jerked suddenly before he got within reach of Drizzt.

“For us!” Zak cried in startling clarity, a call that pealed like a trumpet of victory in the green-glowing chamber and echoed across the miles to Matron Malice’s heart like the final toll of a drum signaling the onset of doom. Zaknafein had wrested control again, for just a fleeting instant―one that allowed the charging spirit-wraith to veer off the walkway.

Chapter 25. Consequences

Matron Malice could not even scream her denial. A thousand explosions pounded her brain when Zaknafein went into the acid lake, a thousand realizations of impending and unavoidable disaster. She leaped from her stone throne, her slender hands twisting and clenching in the air as though she were trying to find something tangible to grasp, something that wasn’t there.

Her breath rasped in labored gasps and wordless snarls issued from her gulping mouth. After a moment in which she could not calm herself, Malice heard one sound more clearly than the din of her own contortions. Behind her came the slight hiss of the small, wicked snake heads of a high priestess’s whip.

Malice spun about, and there stood Briza, her face grimly and determinedly set and her whip’s six living snake heads waving in the air.

“I had hoped that my time of ascension would be many years away,” the eldest daughter said calmly. “But you are weak, Malice, too weak to hold House Do’Urden together in the trials that will follow our―your―failure.”

Malice wanted to laugh in the face of her daughter’s foolishness; snake-headed whips were personal gifts from the Spider Queen and could not be used against matron mothers. For some reason, though, Malice could not find the courage or conviction to refute her daughter at that moment. She watched, mesmerized, as Briza’s arm slowly reared back and then shot forward.

The six snake heads uncoiled toward Malice. It was impossible! It went against all tenets of Lloth’s doctrine! The fanged heads came on eagerly and dived into Malice’s flesh with all the Spider Queen’s fury behind them. Searing agony coursed through Malice’s body, jolting and racking her and leaving an icy numbness in its wake.

Malice teetered on the brink of consciousness, trying to hold firmly against her daughter, trying to show Briza the futility and stupidity of continuing the attack.

The snake whip snapped again and the floor rushed up to swallow Malice. Briza muttered something, Malice heard, some curse or chant to the Spider Queen.

Then came a third crack, and Malice knew nothing more. She was dead before the fifth strike, but Briza pounded on for many minutes, venting her fury to let the Spider Queen be assured that House Do’Urden truly had forsaken its failing matron mother.

By the time Dinin, unexpectedly and unannounced, burst into the room, Briza had settled comfortably into the stone throne. The elderboy glanced over at his mother’s battered body, then back to Briza, his head shaking in disbelief, and a wide, knowing grin splayed across his face.

“What have you done, sis―Matron Briza?” Dinin asked, catching his slip of the tongue before Briza could react to it.

“Zin-carla has failed.” Briza growled as she glared at him. “Lloth would no longer accept Malice.”

Dinin’s laughter, which seemed founded in sarcasm, cut to the marrow of Briza’s bones. Her eyes narrowed further and she let Dinin see her hand clearly as it moved down to the hilt of her whip.

“You have chosen the perfect moment for ascension,” the elderboy explained calmly, apparently not at all worried that Briza would punish him. “We are under attack.”

“Fey-Branche?” Briza cried, springing excitedly from her seat. Five minutes in the throne as matron mother, and already Briza faced her first test. She would prove herself to the Spider Queen and redeem House Do’Urden from much of the damage that Malice’s failures had caused.

“No, sister.” Dinin said quickly, without pretense. “Not House Fey-Branche.”

Her brother’s cool response put Briza back in the throne and twisted her grin of excitement into a grimace of pure dread.

“Baenre,” Dinin, too, no longer smiled.

Vierna and Maya looked out from House Do’Urden’s balcony to the approaching forces beyond the adamantite gate. The sisters did not know their enemy, as Dinin had, but they understood from the sheer size of the force that some great house was involved. Still, House Do’Urden boasted two hundred fifty soldiers, many trained by Zaknafein himself. With two hundred more well-trained and well-armed troops on loan from Matron Baenre, both Vierna and Maya figured that their chances were not so bad. They quickly outlined defense strategies, and Maya swung one leg over the balcony railing, meaning to descend to the courtyard and relay the plans to her captains.

Of course, when she and Vierna suddenly realized that they had two hundred enemies already within their gates―enemies they had accepted on loan from Matron Baenre―their plans meant little.

Maya still straddled the railing when the first Baenre soldiers came up on the balcony. Vierna drew her whip and cried for Maya to do the same. But Maya was not moving, and Vierna, on closer inspection, noticed several tiny darts protruding from her sister’s body.

Vierna’s own snake-headed whip turned on her then, its fangs slicing across her delicate face. Vierna understood at once that House Do’Urden’s downfall had been decreed by Lloth herself. “Zin-carla,” Vierna mumbled, realizing the source of the disaster. Blood blurred her vision and a wave of dizziness overtook her as darkness closed in all about her.

“This cannot be!” Briza cried. “House Baenre attacks? Lloth has not given me―”

“We had our chance!” Dinin yelled at her. “Zaknafein was our chance―” Dinin looked to his mother’s torn body “―and the wraith has failed, I would assume.”

Briza growled and lashed out with her whip. Dinin expected the strike, though―he knew Briza so very well―and he darted beyond the weapon’s range. Briza took a step toward him.

“Does your anger require more enemies?” Dinin asked, swords in hand. “Go out to the balcony, dear sister, where you will find a thousand awaiting you!”

Briza cried out in frustration but turned away from Dinin and rushed from the room, hoping to salvage something out of this terrible predicament.

Dinin did not follow. He stooped over Matron Malice and looked one final time into the eyes of the tyrant who had ruled his entire life. Malice had been a powerful figure, confident and wicked, but how fragile her rule had proved, broken by the antics of a renegade child.

Dinin heard a commotion out in the corridor, then the anteroom door swung open again. The elderboy did not have to look to know that enemies were in the room. He continued to stare at his dead mother, knowing that he soon would share the same fate.

The expected blow did not fall, however, and, several agonizing moments later, Dinin dared to glance back over his shoulder.

Jarlaxle sat comfortably on the stone throne.

“You are not surprised?” the mercenary asked, noting that Dinin’s expression did not change.

“Bregan D’aerthe was among the Baenre troops, perhaps all of the Baenre troops,” Dinin said casually. He covertly glanced around the room at the dozen or so soldiers who had followed Jarlaxle in. If only he could get to the mercenary leader before they killed him! Dinin thought. Watching the death of the treacherous Jarlaxle might bring some measure of satisfaction to this whole disaster.

“Observant,” Jarlaxle said to him. “I hold to my suspicions that you knew all along that your house was doomed.”

“If Zin-carla failed,” Dinin replied.

“And you knew it would?” the mercenary asked, almost rhetorically.

Dinin nodded. “Ten years ago,” he began, wondering why he was telling all this to Jarlaxle, “I watched as Zaknafein was sacrificed to the Spider Queen. Rarely has any house in all of Menzoberranzan seen a greater waste.”

“The weapon master of House Do’Urden had a mighty reputation,” the mercenary put in.

“Well earned, do not doubt,” replied Dinin. “Then Drizzt, my brother―”

“Another mighty warrior.”

Again Dinin nodded. “Drizzt deserted us, with war at our gates. Matron Malice’s miscalculation could not be ignored. I knew then that House Do’Urden was doomed.”

“Your house defeated House Hun’ett, no small feat,” reasoned Jarlaxle.

“Only with the help of Bregan D’aerthe,” Dinin corrected. “For most of my life, I have watched House Do’Urden, under Matron Malice’s steady guidance, ascend through the city hierarchy. Every year, our power and influence grew. For the last decade, though, I have seen us spiral down. I have watched the foundations of House Do’Urden crumble. The structure had to follow the descent.”

“As wise as you are skilled with the blade,” the mercenary remarked. “I have said that before of Dinin Do’Urden, and it seems that I am proved correct once again.”

“If I have pleased you, I ask one favor,” Dinin said, rising to his feet. “Grant it if you will.”

“Kill you quickly and without pain?” Jarlaxle asked through a widening smile.

Dinin nodded for the third time.

“No,” Jarlaxle said simply. Not understanding, Dinin brought his sword flashing up and ready.

“I’ll not kill you at all,” Jarlaxle explained. Dinin kept his sword up high and studied the mercenary’s face, looking for some hint as to his intent. “I am a noble of the house,” Dinin said. “A witness to the attack. No house elimination is complete if nobles remain alive.”

“A witness?” Jarlaxle laughed. “Against House Baenre? To what gain?”

Dinin’s sword dropped low.

“Then what is my fate?” he asked. “Will Matron Baenre take me in?” Dinin’s tone showed that he was not excited about that possibility.

“Matron Baenre has little use for males,” Jarlaxle replied.

“If any of your sisters survive―and I believe the one named Vierna has―they may find themselves in Matron Baenre’s chapel. But the withered old mother of House Baenre would never see the value of a male such as Dinin, I fear.”

“Then what?” Dinin demanded.

“I know your value,” Jarlaxle stated casually. He led Dinin’s gaze around to the concurring grins of his troops.

“Bregan D’aerthe?” Dinin balked. “Me, a noble, to become a rogue?”

Quicker than Dinin’s eye could follow, Jarlaxle whipped a dagger into the body at his feet. The blade buried itself up to the hilt in Malice’s back.

“A rogue or a corpse,” Jarlaxle casually explained.

It was not so difficult a choice.

A few days later, Jarlaxle and Dinin looked back on the ruined adamantite gate of House Do’Urden. Once it had stood so proud and strong, with its intricate carvings of spiders and the two formidable stalagmite pillars that served as guard towers.

“How fast it changed,” Dinin remarked. “I see all my former life before me, yet it is all gone.”

“Forget what has gone before,” Jarlaxle suggested. The mercenary’s sly wink told Dinin that he had something specific in mind as he completed the thought. “Except that which may aid in your future.”

Dinin did a quick visual inspection of himself and the ruins. “My battle gear?” he asked, fishing for Jarlaxle’s intent. “My training?”

“Your brother.”

“Drizzt?” Again the cursed name reared up to bring anguish to Dinin!

“It would seem that there is still the matter of Drizzt Do’Urden to be reconciled,” Jarlaxle explained. “He’s a high prize in the eyes of the Spider Queen.”

“Drizzt?” Dinin asked again, hardly believing Jarlaxle’s words.

“Why are you so surprised?” Jarlaxle asked. “Your brother is still alive, else why was Matron Malice brought down?”

“What house could be interested in him?” Dinin asked bluntly. “Another mission for Matron Baenre?” Jarlaxle’s laugh belittled him. “Bregan D’aerthe may act without the guidance―or the purse―of a recognized house.” he replied.

“You plan to go after my brother?”

“It may be the perfect opportunity for Dinin to show his value to my little family,” said Jarlaxle to no one in particular.

“Who better to catch the renegade that brought down House Do’Urden? Your brother’s value increased many times over with the failure of Zin-carla.”

“I have seen what Drizzt has become,” said Dinin. “The cost will be great.”

“My resources are limitless,” Jarlaxle answered smugly, “and no cost is too high if the gain is higher.” The eccentric mercenary went silent for a short while, allowing Dinin’s gaze to linger over the ruins of his once proud house.

“No,” Dinin said suddenly.

Jarlaxle turned a wary eye on him.

“I’ll not go after Drizzt,” Dinin explained.

“You serve Jarlaxle, the master of Bregan D’aerthe,” the mercenary calmly reminded him.

“As I once served Malice, the matron of House Do’Urden,” Dinin replied with equal calm. “I would not venture out again after Drizzt for my mother―” He looked at Jarlaxle squarely, unafraid of the consequences “―and I shall not do it again for you.”

Jarlaxle spent a long moment studying his companion. Normally the mercenary leader would not tolerate such brazen insubordination, but Dinin was sincere and adamant, beyond doubt. Jarlaxle had accepted Dinin into Bregan D’aerthe because he valued the elderboy’s experience and skill; he could not now readily dismiss Dinin’s judgment.

“I could have you put to a slow death,” Jarlaxle replied, more to see Dinin’s reaction than to make any promises. He had no intention of destroying one as valuable as Dinin.

“No worse than the death and disgrace I would find at Drizzt’s hands,” Dinin answered calmly.

Another long moment passed as Jarlaxle considered the implications of Dinin’s words. Perhaps Bregan D’aerthe should rethink its plans for hunting the renegade; perhaps the price would prove too high.

“Come, my soldier,” Jarlaxle said at length. “Let us return to our home, to the streets, where we might learn what adventures our futures hold.”

Chapter 26. Lights in the Ceiling

Belwar ran along the walkways to get to his friend. Drizzt did not watch the svirfneblin’s approach. He kneeled on the narrow bridge, looking down to the bubbling spot in the green lake where Zaknafein had fallen. The acid sputtered and rolled, the scorched hilt of a sword came up into view, then disappeared under the opaque veil of green.

“He was there all along,” Drizzt whispered to Belwar. “My father.”

“A mighty chance you took, dark elf.” the burrow-warden replied. “Magga cammara! When you put your blades away, I thought he would surely strike you down.”

“He was there all along,” Drizzt said again. He looked up at his svirfneblin friend. “You showed me that.”

Belwar screwed up his face in confusion.

“The spirit cannot be separated from the body,” Drizzt tried to explain. “Not in life.” He looked back to the ripples in the acid lake. “And not in undeath. In my years alone in the wilds, I had lost myself, so I believed. But you showed me the truth. The heart of Drizzt was never gone from this body, and so I knew it to be true with Zaknafein.”

“Other forces were involved this time,” remarked Belwar. “I would not have been so certain.”

“You did not know Zaknafein,” Drizzt retorted. He rose to his feet, the moisture rimming his lavender eyes diminished by the sincere smile that widened across his face. “I did. Spirit, not muscles, guides a warrior’s blades, and only he who was truly Zaknafein could move with such grace. The moment of crisis gave Zaknafein the strength to resist my mother’s will.”

“And you gave him the moment of crisis,” reasoned Belwar. “Defeat Matron Malice or kill his own son.” Belwar shook his bald head and crinkled up his nose. “Magga cammara, but you are brave, dark elf.” He shot Drizzt a wink. “Or stupid.”

“Neither,” replied Drizzt. “I only trusted in Zaknafein.” He looked back to the acid lake and said no more.

Belwar fell silent and waited patiently while Drizzt finished his private eulogy. When Drizzt finally looked away from the lake, Belwar motioned for the drow to follow and started off along the walkway. “Come,” the burrow-warden said over his shoulder. “Witness the truth of our slain friend.”

Drizzt thought the pech a beautiful thing, a beauty inspired by the peaceful smile that at last had found its way onto his tormented friend’s face. He and Belwar said a few words, mumbled a few hopes to whatever gods might be listening, and gave Clacker to the acid lake, thinking it a preferable fate to the bellies of the carrion eaters that roamed the Underdark corridors.

Drizzt and Belwar set off again alone, as they had been when they first departed the svirfneblin city, and arrived in Blingdenstone a few days later.

The guards at the city’s mammoth gates, though obviously thrilled, seemed confused at their return. They allowed the two companions entrance on the burrow-warden’s promise that he would go straight off and inform King Schnicktick.

“This time, he will let you stay, dark elf.” Belwar said to Drizzt. “You beat the monster.” He left Drizzt at his house, vowing that he would return soon with welcome news.

Drizzt wasn’t so sure of any of it. Zaknafein’s final warning that Matron Malice would never give up her hunt remained clearly in his thoughts, and he could not deny the truth. Much had happened in the weeks that he and Belwar had been out of Blingdenstone, but none of it, as far as Drizzt knew, diminished the very real threat to the svirfneblin city. Drizzt had only agreed to follow the Belwar back to Blingdenstone because it seemed a proper first step to the plan he had decided upon.

“How long shall we battle, Matron Malice?” Drizzt asked the blank stone when the burrow-warden had gone. He needed to hear his reasoning spoken aloud, to convince himself beyond doubt that his decision had been a wise one. “Neither gains in the conflict, but that is the way of the drow, is it not?” Drizzt fell back onto one of the stools beside the little table and considered the truth of his words.

“You will hunt me, to your ruin or to mine, blinded by the hatred that rules your life. There can be no forgiveness in Menzoberranzan. That would go against the edict of your foul Spider Queen.

“And this is the Underdark, your world of shadows and gloom, but it is not all the world, Matron Malice, and I shall see how long your evil arms can reach!”

Drizzt sat silent for many minutes, remembering his first lessons at the drow Academy. He tried to find some clue that would lead him to believe that the stories of the surface world were no more than lies. The masters’ deceptions at the drow Academy had been perfected over centuries and were infallibly complete. Drizzt soon came to realize that he simply would have to trust his feelings.

When Belwar returned, grim-faced, a few hours later, Drizzt’s resolve was firm.

“Stubborn, orc-brained…” the burrow-warden gnashed through his teeth as he crossed through the stone dome. Drizzt stopped him with a heartfelt laugh.

“They will not hear of your staying!” Belwar yelled at him, trying to steal his mirth.

“Did you truly expect otherwise?” Drizzt asked him. “My fight is not over, dear Belwar. Do you believe that my family could be so easily defeated?”

“We will go back out,” Belwar growled, moving over to take the stool near Drizzt. “My generous―” the word dripped of sarcasm “―king agreed that you could remain in the city for a week. A single week!”

“When I leave, I leave alone,” Drizzt interrupted. He pulled the onyx figurine out of his pouch and reconsidered his words. “Almost alone!”

“We had this argument before, dark elf,” Belwar reminded him.

“That was different!”

“Was it?” retorted the burrow-warden. “Will you survive any better alone in the wilds of the Underdark now than you did before? Have you forgotten the burdens of loneliness?”

“I’ll not be in the Underdark,” Drizzt replied.

“Back to your homeland you mean to go?” Belwar cried, leaping to his feet and sending his stool skidding across the stone.

“No, never!” Drizzt laughed. “Never will I return to Menzoberranzan, unless it is at the end of Matron Malice’s chains!”

The burrow-warden retrieved his seat and eased back into it, curious.

“Neither will I remain in the Underdark,” Drizzt explained. “This is Malice’s world, more fitting to the dark heart of a true drow!’

Belwar began to understand, but he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “What are you saying!” he demanded. “Where do you mean to go?”

“The surface,” Drizzt replied evenly. Belwar leaped up again, sending his stone stool bouncing even farther across the floor.

“I was up there once,” Drizzt continued, undaunted by the reaction. He calmed the svirfneblin with a determined gaze.

“I partook of a drow massacre. Only the actions of my companions bring pain to my memories of that journey. The scents of the wide world and the cool feel of the wind bring no dread to my heart!”

“The surface,” Belwar muttered, his head lowered and his voice almost a groan. “Magga cammara. Never did I plan to travel there―it is not the place of a svirfneblin!” Belwar pounded the table suddenly and looked up, a determined smile on his face. “But if Drizzt will go, then Belwar will go by his side!”

“Drizzt will go alone,” the drow replied. “As you just said, the surface is not the place of a svirfneblin.”

“Nor a drow,” the deep gnome added pointedly.

“I do not fit the usual expectations of drow,” Drizzt retorted. “My heart is not their heart, and their home is not mine. How far must I walk through the endless tunnels to be free of my family’s hatred? And if, in fleeing Menzoberranzan, I chance upon another of the great dark elf cities, Ched Nasad or some similar place, will those drow, too, take up the hunt to fulfill the Spider Queen’s desires that I be slain? No, Belwar, I will find no peace in the close ceilings of this world. You, I fear, would never be content removed from the stone of the Underdark. Your place is here, a place of deserved honor among your people.”

Belwar sat quietly for a long time, digesting all that Drizzt had said. He would follow Drizzt willingly if Drizzt desired it so, but he truly did not wish to leave the Underdark. Belwar could raise no argument against Drizzt’s desires to go. A dark elf would find many trials up on the surface, Belwar knew, but would they outweigh the pains Drizzt would ever experience in the Underdark?

Belwar reached into a deep pocket and took out the light-giving brooch. “Take this, dark elf,” he said softly, flipping it to Drizzt, “and do not forget me.”

“Never for a single day in all the centuries of my future,” Drizzt promised. “Never once.”

The week passed all too quickly for Belwar, who was reluctant to see his friend go. The burrow-warden knew that he would never look upon Drizzt again, but he knew also that Drizzt’s decision was a sound one. As a friend, Belwar took it upon himself to see that Drizzt had the best chance of success. He took the drow to the finest provisioners in all of Blingdenstone and paid for the supplies out of his own pocket. Belwar then procured an even greater gift for Drizzt. Deep gnomes had traveled to the surface on occasion, and King Schnicktick possessed several copies of rough maps leading out of the Underdark tunnels.

“The journey will take you many weeks,” Belwar said to Drizzt when he handed him the rolled parchment, “but I fear that never would you find your way at all without this.”

Drizzt’s hands trembled as he unrolled the map. It was true, he now dared to believe. He was indeed going to the surface. He wanted to tell Belwar at that moment to come along; how could he say good-bye to so dear a friend?

But principles had carried Drizzt this far in his travels, and principles demanded that he not be selfish now.

He walked out of Blingdenstone the next day, promising Belwar that if he ever came this way again, he would return to visit. Both of them knew he would never return.

Miles and days passed uneventfully. Sometimes Drizzt held the magical brooch Belwar had given to him high; sometimes he walked in the quiet darkness. Whether coincidence or kind fate, he met no monsters along the course laid out on the rough map. Few things had changed in the Underdark, and though the parchment was old, even ancient, the trail was easily followed.

Shortly after breaking camp on his thirty-third day out of Blingdenstone, Drizzt felt a lightening of the air, a sensation of that cold and vast wind he so vividly remembered.

He pulled the onyx figurine from his pouch and summoned Guenhwyvar to his side. Together they walked on anxiously, expecting the ceiling to disappear around every bend.

They came into a small cave, and the darkness beyond the distant archway was not nearly as gloomy as the darkness behind them. Drizzt held his breath and led Guenhwyvar out.

Stars twinkled through the broken clouds of the night sky, the moon’s silvery light splayed out in a duller glow behind one large cloud, and the wind howled a mountain song. Drizzt was high up in the Realms, perched on the side of a tall mountain in the midst of a mighty range.

He minded not at all the bite of the breeze, but stood very still for a long time and watched the meandering clouds pass him on their slow aerial trek to the moon.

Guenhwyvar stood beside him, unjudging, and Drizzt knew the panther always would.