Robert Salvatore: Exile

“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!”