Robert Salvatore: Exile

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!”