Exile: The Legend of Drizzt (25 page)

The drow thrust both his scimitars straight out, each finding an eye of the corby facing him. The hunter pulled out the blades, spun them over in his hands, and plunged them down into the bird-man at his feet. He snapped the scimitars up immediately and plunged them down again, taking grim satisfaction in the sound of their smooth cut.

Then the drow dived headlong into the corbies ahead of him, his blades cutting in from every possible angle.

Hit a dozen times before it ever launched a single swing, the first corby was quite dead before it even fell. Then the second, then the third. Drizzt backed them up to a wider section of the walkway. They came at him three at a time.

They died at his feet three at a time.

“Get them, dark elf,” mumbled Belwar, seeing his friend explode into action. The corby coming to meet the burrow-warden turned its head to see what had caught Belwar’s attention. When it turned back, it was met squarely in the face by the deep gnome’s hammer-hand. Pieces of beak flew in every direction, and that unfortunate corby was the first of its species to take flight in several millennium of evolution. Its short airborne excursion pushed its companions back from the deep gnome, and the corby landed, dead on its back, many feet from Belwar.

The enraged deep gnome wasn’t finished with this one. He raced up, bowling from the walkway the single corby who managed to get back to intercept him. When he arrived at last at his beakless victim, Belwar drove his pickaxe-hand deep into its chest. With that single muscled arm, the burrow-warden hoisted
the dead corby high into the air and let out a horrifying shriek of his own.

The other corbies hesitated. Belwar looked to Drizzt and was dismayed.

A score of corbies crowded in on the wide section of the walkway where the drow made his stand. Another dozen lay dead at Drizzt feet, their blood running off the ledge and dripping into the acid lake in rhythmic hissing
plops.
But it wasn’t the odds that Belwar feared; with his precise movements and measured thrusts, Drizzt was undeniably winning. High above the drow, though, another suicidal corby and his pet rock took a dive.

Belwar believed that Drizzt’s life had come to a crashing end.

But the hunter sensed the peril.

A corby reached for Drizzt. With a flash of the drow’s scimitars, both its arms flew free of their respective shoulders. In the same dazzling movement, Drizzt snapped his bloodied scimitars into their sheaths and bolted for the edge of the platform. He reached the lip and leaped out toward Belwar just as the suicidal boulder-riding corby crashed down, taking the platform and a score of its kin with it into the acid pool.

Belwar heaved his beakless trophy into the corbies facing him and dropped to his knees, reaching out with his pickaxe-hand to try to aid his soaring friend. Drizzt caught the burrow-warden’s hand and the ledge at the same time, slamming his face into the stone but finding a hold.

The jolt ripped the drow’s
piwafwi
, though, and Belwar watched helplessly as the onyx figurine rolled out and dropped toward the acid.

Drizzt caught it between his feet.

Belwar nearly laughed aloud at the futility and hopelessness of it all. He looked over his shoulder to see the corbies resuming their advance.

“Dark elf, surely it has been fun,” the svirfneblin said resignedly to Drizzt, but the drow’s response stole the levity from Belwar as surely as it stole the blood from the deep gnome’s face.

“Swing me!” Drizzt growled so powerfully that Belwar obeyed before he even realized what he was doing.

Drizzt rolled out and came swinging back toward the walkway, and when he bounced into the stone, every muscle in his body jerked violently to aid his momentum.

He rolled right around the bottom of the walkway, scrambling and clawing with his arms and legs to gain a footing back up behind the crouching deep gnome. By the time Belwar realized what Drizzt had done and thought to turn around, Drizzt had his scimitars out and slicing across the face of the first approaching corby.

“Hold this,” Drizzt bade his friend, flicking the onyx figurine to Belwar with his toe. Belwar caught the item between his arms and fumbled it into a pocket. Then the deep gnome stood back and watched, taking up a rear guard, as Drizzt cut a devastating path to the nearest exit.

Five minutes later, to Belwar’s absolute amazement, they were running free down a darkened tunnel, the frustrated shrieks of “Doom! Doom!” fast fading behind them.

nough. Enough!” the winded burrow-warden gasped at Drizzt, trying to slow his companion.
“Magga cammara
, dark elf. We have left them far behind.”

Drizzt spun on the burrow-warden, scimitars ready in hand and angry fires burning still in his lavender eyes. Belwar backed away quickly and cautiously.

“Calm, my friend,” the svirfneblin said quietly, but despite the reassurance, the burrow-warden’s mithral hands came defensively in front of him. “The threat to us is ended.”

Drizzt breathed deeply to steady himself, then, realizing that he had not put his scimitars away, promptly slipped them into their sheaths.

“Are you all right?” Belwar asked, moving back to Drizzt’s side. Blood smeared the drow’s face from where he had slammed into the side of the walkway.

Drizzt nodded. “It was the fight,” he tried vainly to explain.
“The excitement. I had to let go of—”

“You need not explain,” Belwar cut him short. “You did fine, dark elf. Better than fine. Had it not been for your actions, we, all three, surely would have fallen.”

“It came back to me,” Drizzt groaned, searching for the words that could explain. “That darker part of me. I had thought it gone.”

“It is,” the burrow-warden said.

“No,” argued Drizzt. “That cruel beast that I have become possessed me fully against those bird-men. It guided my blades, savagely and without mercy.”

“You guided your own blades,” Belwar assured him.

“But the rage,” replied Drizzt. “The unthinking rage. All I wanted to do was kill them and hack them down.”

“If that was the truth, we would be there still,” reasoned the svirfneblin. “By your actions, we escaped. There are many more of the bird-men back there to be killed, yet you led the way from the chamber. Rage? Perhaps, but surely not unthinking rage. You did as you had to do, and you did it well, dark elf. Better than anyone I have ever seen. Do not apologize, to me or to yourself!”

Drizzt leaned back against the wall to consider the words. He was comforted by the deep gnome’s reasoning and appreciated Belwar’s efforts. Still, though, the burning fires of rage he had felt when Guenhwyvar fell into the acid lake haunted him, an emotion so overwhelming that Drizzt had not yet come to terms with it. He wondered if he ever would.

In spite of his uneasiness, though, Drizzt felt comforted by the presence of his svirfneblin friend. He remembered other encounters of the last years, battles he had been forced to fight alone. Then, like now, the hunter had welled within him, had come to the fore and guided the deadly strikes of his blades. But there was a difference this time that Drizzt could not deny.
Before, when he was alone, the hunter did not so readily depart. Now, with Belwar by his side, Drizzt was fully back in control.

Drizzt shook his thick white mane, trying to dismiss any last remnants of the hunter. He thought himself foolish now for the way he had begun the battle against the bird-men, slapping with the flat of his blades. He and Belwar might be in the cavern still if Drizzt’s instinctive side had not emerged, if he had not learned of Guenhwyvar’s fall.

He looked at Belwar suddenly, remembering the inspiration of his anger. “The statuette!” he cried. “You have it.”

Belwar scooped the item out of his pocket.
“Magga cammara
!” Belwar exclaimed, his round toned voice edged with panic. “Might the panther be wounded? What effect would the acid have against Guenhwyvar? Might the panther have escaped to the Astral Plane?”

Drizzt took the figurine and examined it in trembling hands, taking comfort in the fact that it was not marred in any way. Drizzt believed that he should wait before calling Guenhwyvar; if the panther was injured, it surely would heal better at rest in its own plane of existence. But Drizzt could not wait to learn of Guenhwyvar’s fate. He placed the figurine down on the ground at his feet and called out softly.

Both the drow and the svirfneblin sighed audibly when the mist began to swirl around the onyx statue. Belwar took out his enchanted brooch to better observe the cat.

A dreadful sight awaited them. Obediently, faithfully, Guenhwyvar came to Drizzt’s summons, but as soon as the drow saw the panther, he knew that he should have left Guenhwyvar alone so that it might lick its wounds. Guenhwyvar’s silken black coat was burned and showing more patches of scalded skin than fur. Once-sleek muscles hung ragged, burned from the bone, and one eye remained closed and horribly scarred.

Guenhwyvar stumbled, trying to get to Drizzt’s side. Drizzt rushed to Guenhwyvar instead, dropping to his knees and throwing a gentle hug around the panther’s huge neck.

“Guen,” he mumbled.

“Will it heal?” Belwar asked softly, his voice nearly breaking apart on every word.

Drizzt shook his head, at a loss. Truly, he knew very little about the panther beyond its abilities as his companion. Drizzt had seen Guenhwyvar wounded before, but never seriously. Now he could only hope that the magical extra-planar properties would allow Guenhwyvar to recover fully.

“Go back home,” Drizzt said. “Rest and get well, my friend. I will call for you in a few days.”

“Perhaps we can give some aid now,” Belwar offered.

Drizzt knew the futility of that suggestion. “Guenhwyvar will better heal at rest,” he explained as the cat dissipated into the mist again. “We can do nothing for Guenhwyvar that will carry over to the other plane. Being here in our world taxes the panther’s strength. Every minute takes a toll.”

Guenhwyvar was gone and only the figurine remained. Drizzt picked it up and studied it for a very long time before he could bear to drop it back into a pocket.

A sword flicked the bedroll up into the air, then slashed and cut beside its sister blade until the blanket was no more than a tattered rag. Zaknafein glanced down at the silver coins on the floor. Such an obvious dupe, but the camp, and the prospect of Drizzt returning to it, had kept Zaknafein at bay for several days !

Drizzt Do’Urden was gone, and he had taken great pains to announce his departure from Blingdenstone. The spirit-wraith
paused to consider this new bit of information, and the necessity of thought, of tapping into the rational being that Zaknafein had been on more than an instinctive level, brought the inevitable conflict between this undead animation and the spirit of the being it held captive.