Exile: The Legend of Drizzt (20 page)

Bruck held its long-fingered hands out helplessly.

“Be gone!” Drizzt demanded. “We have no need of slaves now,
nor do we wish the revealing sound of battle echoing down the tunnels! Name yourself as lucky, Bruck. Your tribe will flee and live … this time!”

Bruck turned to the others, looking for some assistance. Only one drow elf had come against them, while more than three dozen goblins stood ready with their weapons. The odds were promising if not overwhelming.

“Be gone!” Drizzt commanded, pointing his scimitar at a side passage. “Run until your feet grow too weary to carry you!”

The goblin chieftain defiantly hooked its fingers into the piece of rope holding up its loincloth.

A cacophonous banging sounded all around the small chamber then, showing the tempo of purposeful drumming on the stone. Bruck and the other goblins looked around nervously, and Drizzt did not miss the opportunity.

“You dare defy us?” the drow cried, causing Bruck to be edged by the purple-glowing flames. “Then let stupid Bruck be the first to die!”

Before Drizzt even finished the sentence, the goblin chieftain was gone, running with all speed down the passage Drizzt had indicated. Justifying the flight as loyalty to their chieftain, the whole lot of the goblin tribe set off in quick pursuit. The swiftest even passed Bruck by.

A few moments later, Belwar and the other svirfneblin miners appeared at every passage. “Thought you might need some support,” the mithral-handed burrow-warden explained, tapping his hammer hand on the stone.

“Perfect was your timing and your judgment, Most Honored Burrow-Warden,” Brickers said to his peer when he managed to stop laughing. “Perfect, as we have come to expect from Belwar Dissengulp!”

A short while later, the svirfneblin caravan started on its way
again, the whole troupe excited and elated by the events of the last few days. The deep gnomes thought themselves very clever in the way they had avoided trouble. The gaiety turned into a full-fledged party when they arrived in Blingdenstone—and svirfnebli, though usually a serious, work-minded people, threw parties as well as any race in all the Realms.

Drizzt Do’Urden, for all of his physical differences with the svirfnebli, felt more at home and at ease than he had ever felt in all the four decades of his life.

And never again did Belwar Dissengulp flinch when a fellow svirfneblin addressed him as “Most Honored Burrow-Warden.”

The spirit-wraith was confused. Just as Zaknafein had begun to believe that his prey was within the svirfneblin city, the magical spells that Malice had placed upon him sensed Drizzt’s presence in the tunnels. Luckily for Drizzt and the svirfneblin miners, the spirit-wraith had been far away when he caught the scent. Zaknafein worked his way back through the tunnels, dodging deep gnome patrols. Every potential encounter he avoided proved a struggle for Zaknafein, for Matron Malice, back on her throne in Menzoberranzan, grew increasingly impatient and agitated.

Malice wanted the taste of blood, but Zaknafein kept to his purpose, closing in on Drizzt. But then, suddenly, the scent was gone.

Bruck groaned aloud when another solitary dark elf wandered into his encampment the next day. No spears were hoisted and no goblins even attempted to sneak up behind this one.

“We went as we were ordered!” Bruck complained, moving to the front of the group before he was called upon. The goblin chieftain knew now that his underlings would point him out anyway.

If the spirit-wraith even understood the goblin’s words, he did not show it in any way. Zaknafein kept walking straight at the goblin chieftain, his swords in his hands.

“But we—” Bruck began, but the rest of his words came out as gurgles of blood. Zaknafein tore his sword out of the goblin’s throat and rushed at the rest of the group.

Goblins scattered in all directions. A few, trapped between the crazed drow and the stone wall, raised crude spears in defense. The spirit wraith waded through them, hacking away weapons and limbs with every slice. One goblin poked through the spinning swords, the tip of its spear burying deep into Zaknafein’s hip.

The undead monster didn’t even flinch. Zak turned on the goblin and struck it with a series of lightning-fast, perfectly aimed blows that took its head and both of its arms from its body.

In the end, fifteen goblins lay dead in the chamber and the tribe was scattered and still running down every passage in the region. The spirit-wraith, covered in the blood of his enemies, exited the chamber through the passage opposite from the one in which he had entered, continuing his frustrated search for the elusive Drizzt Do’Urden.

Back in Menzoberranzan, in the anteroom to the chapel of House Do’Urden, Matron Malice rested, thoroughly exhausted and momentarily sated. She had felt every kill as Zaknafein made it, had felt a burst of ecstacy every time her spirit-wraith’s sword had plunged into another victim.

Malice pushed away her frustrations and her impatience, her confidence renewed by the pleasures of Zaknafein’s cruel slaughter. How great Malice’s ecstacy would be when the spirit-wraith at last encountered her traitorous son!

ouncilor Firble of Blingdenstone moved tentatively into the small rough-hewn cavern, the appointed meeting place. An army of svirfnebli, including several deep gnome enchanters holding stones that could summon earth elemental allies, moved into defensive positions all along the corridors to the west of the room. Despite this, Firble was not at ease. He looked down the eastern tunnel, the only other entrance into the chamber, wondering what information his agent would have for him and worrying over how much it would cost.

Then the drow made his swaggering entrance, his high black boots kicking loudly on the stone. His gaze darted about quickly to ensure that Firble was the only svirfneblin in the chamber— their usual deal—then strode up to the deep gnome councilor and dropped into a low bow.

“Greetings, little friend with the big purse,” the drow said with a laugh. His command of the svirfneblin language and dialect,
with the perfect inflections and pauses of a deep gnome who had lived a century in Blingdenstone, always amazed Firble.

“You could exercise some caution,” Firble retorted, again glancing around anxiously.

“Bah,” the drow snorted, clicking the hard heels of his boots together. “You have an army of deep gnome fighters and wizards behind you, and I … well, let us just agree that I am well protected as well.”

“That fact I do not doubt, Jarlaxle,” Firble replied. “Still, I would prefer that our business remain as private and as secretive as possible.”

“All of the business of Bregan D’aerthe is private, my dear Firble,” Jarlaxle answered, and again he bowed low, sweeping his wide-brimmed hat in a long and graceful arc.

“Enough of that,” said Firble. “Let us be done with our business, so that I may return to my home.”

“Then ask,” said Jarlaxle.

“There has been an increase in drow activity near Blingdenstone,” explained the deep gnome.

“Has there?” Jarlaxle asked, appearing surprised. The drow’s smirk revealed his true emotions, though. This would be an easy profit for Jarlaxle, for the very same matron mother in Menzoberranzan who had recently employed him was undoubtedly connected with the Blingdenstone’s distress. Jarlaxle liked coincidences that made the profits come easy.

Firble knew the ploy of feigned surprise all too well. “There has,” he said firmly.

“And you wish to know why?” Jarlaxle reasoned, still holding a facade of ignorance.

“It would seem prudent, from our vantage point,” huffed the councilor, tired of Jarlaxle’s unending game. Firble knew without any doubts that Jarlaxle was aware of the drow activity near
Blingdenstone, and of the purpose behind it. Jarlaxle was a rogue without house, normally an unhealthy position in the world of the dark elves. Yet this resourceful mercenary survived—even thrived—in his renegade position. Through it all, Jarlaxle’s greatest advantage was knowledge—knowledge of every stirring within Menzoberranzan and the regions surrounding the city.

“How long will you require?” Firble asked. “My king wishes to complete this business as swiftly as possible.”

“Have you my payment?” the drow asked, holding out a hand.

“Payment when you bring me the information,” Firble protested. “That has always been our agreement.”

“So it has,” agreed Jarlaxle. “This time, though, I need no time to gather your information. If you have my gems, we can be done with our business right now.”

Firble pulled the pouch of gems from his belt and tossed them to the drow. “Fifty agates, finely cut,” he said with a growl, never pleased by the price. He had hoped to avoid using Jarlaxle this time; like any deep gnome, Firble did not easily part with such sums.

Jarlaxle quickly glanced into the pouch, then dropped it into a deep pocket. “Rest easy, little deep gnome,” he began, “for the powers who rule Menzoberranzan plan no actions against your city. A single drow house has an interest in the region, nothing more.”

“Why?” Firble asked after a long moment of silence had passed. The svirfneblin hated having to ask, knowing the inevitable consequence.

Jarlaxle held out his hand. Ten more finely cut agates passed over.

“The house searches for one of its own,” Jarlaxle explained. “A renegade whose actions have put his family out of the favor of the Spider Queen.”

Again a few interminable moments of silence passed. Firble could guess easily enough the identity of this hunted drow, but King Schnicktick would roar until the ceiling fell in if he didn’t make certain. He pulled ten more gemstones from his belt pouch. “Name the house,” he said.

“Daermon N’a’shezbaernon,” replied Jarlaxle, casually dropping the gems into his deep pocket. Firble crossed his arms over his chest and scowled. The unscrupulous drow had caught him once again.

“Not the ancestral name!” the councilor growled, grudgingly pulling out another ten gems.

“Really, Firble,” Jarlaxle teased. “You must learn to be more specific in your questioning. Such errors do cost you so much!”

“Name the house in terms that I might understand,” Firble instructed. “And name the hunted renegade. No more will I pay you this day, Jarlaxle.”

Jarlaxle held his hand up and smiled to silence the deep gnome. “Agreed,” he laughed, more than satisfied with his take. “House Do’Urden, Eighth House of Menzoberranzan searches for its secondboy.” The mercenary noted a hint of recognition in Firble’s expression. Might this little meeting provide Jarlaxle with information that he could turn into further profit at the coffers of Matron Malice?