Exile: The Legend of Drizzt (27 page)

The spirit-wraith paused to consider the red-glowing field. In life, Zaknafein Do’Urden would have avoided such a patch, respecting the inherent dangers of odd-glowing rooms and luminous mosses. But to the spirit-wraith the trail was clear; Drizzt had come this way.

The spirit-wraith waded in, ignoring the noxious puffs of deadly spores that shot up at him with every step, choking spores that filled the lungs of unfortunate creatures.

But Zaknafein did not draw breath.

Then came the rumbling as the grubber rushed to protect its domain. Zaknafein fell into a defensive crouch, the instincts of the being he once had been sensing the danger. The grubber
rolled into the glowing moss patch but noticed no intruder to chase away. It moved in anyway, thinking that a meal of baruchies might not be such a bad thing.

When the grubber reached the center of the chamber, the spirit-wraith let his levitation spell dissipate. Zaknafein landed on the monster’s back, locking his legs fast. The grubber thrashed and thundered about the room, but Zaknafein’s balance did not waver.

The grubber’s hide was thick and tough, able to repel all but the finest of weapons, which Zaknafein possessed.

“What was that?” Belwar asked one day, stopping his work on the new door blocking their cave opening. Down by the pool, Drizzt apparently had heard the sound as well, for he had dropped the helmet he was using to fetch some water and had drawn both scimitars. He held a hand up to keep the burrow-warden silent, then picked his way back to the ledge for a quiet conversation.

The sound, a loud clacking noise, came again.

“You know it, dark elf?” Belwar asked softly.

Drizzt nodded. “Hook horrors,” he replied, “possessing the keenest hearing in all the Underdark.” Drizzt kept his recollections of his sole encounter with this type of monster to himself. It had occurred during a patrol exercise, with Drizzt leading his Academy class through the tunnels outside Menzoberranzan. The patrol came upon a group of the giant, bipedal creatures with exoskeletons as hard as plated metal armor and powerful beaks and claws. The drow patrol, mostly through Drizzt’s exploits, had won the day, but what Drizzt remembered most keenly was his belief that the encounter had been an exercise planned by the masters of the Academy, and that they had sacrificed an innocent
drow child to the hook horrors for the sake of realism.

“Let us find them,” Drizzt said quietly but grimly. Belwar paused to catch his breath when he saw the dangerous simmer in the drow’s lavender eyes.

“Hook horrors are dangerous rivals,” Drizzt explained, noticing the deep gnome’s hesitation. “We cannot allow them to roam the region.”

Following the clacking noises, Drizzt had little trouble closing in. He silently picked his way around a final bend with Belwar close by his side. In a wider section of the corridor stood a single hook horror, banging its heavy claws rhythmically against the stone as a svirfneblin miner might use his pickaxe.

Drizzt held Belwar back, indicating that he could dispatch the monster quickly if he could sneak in on it without being noticed. Belwar agreed but remained poised to join in at the first opportunity or need.

The hook horror, obviously engaged in its game with the stone wall, did not hear or see the approaching stealthy drow. Drizzt came right in beside the monster, looking for the easiest and fastest way to dispatch it. He saw only one opening in the exoskeleton, a slit between the creature’s breastplate and its wide neck. Getting a blade in there could be a bit of a problem, though, for the hook horror was nearly ten feet tall.

But the hunter found the solution. He came in hard and fast at the hook horror’s knee, butting with both his shoulders and bringing his blades up into the creature’s crotch. The hook horror’s legs buckled, and it tumbled back over the drow. As agile as any cat, Drizzt rolled out and sprang on top of the felled monster, both his blades coming tip in at the slit in the armor.

He could have finished the hook horror at once; his scimitars easily could have slipped through the bony defenses. But Drizzt saw something—terror?—on the hook horror’s face, something
in the creature’s expression that should not have been there. He forced the hunter back inside, took control of his swords, and hesitated for just a second—long enough for the hook horror, to Drizzt’s absolute amazement, to speak in clear and proper drow language, “Please … do … not … kill … me!”

he scimitars slowly eased away from the hook horror’s neck. “Not … as I … ap-appear,” the monster tried to explain in its halting speech. With each uttered word, the hook horror seemed to become more comfortable with the language. “I am … pech.”

“Pech?” Belwar gawked, moving up to Drizzt’s side. The svirfneblin looked down at the trapped monster with understandable confusion. “A bit big you are for a pech,” he remarked.

Drizzt looked from the monster to Belwar, seeking some explanation. The drow had never heard the word before.

“Rock children,” Belwar explained to him. “Strange little creatures. Hard as the stone and living for no other reason than to work it.”

“Sounds like a svirfneblin,” Drizzt replied.

Belwar paused a moment to figure out if he had been complimented or insulted. Unable to discern, the burrow-warden
continued somewhat cautiously. “There are not many pech about, and fewer still that look like this one!” He cast a doubting eye at the hook horror, then gave Drizzt a look that told the drow to keep his scimitars at the ready.

“Pech … n-n-no more,” the hook horror stammered, clear remorse evident in its throaty voice. “Pech no more.”

“What is your name?” Drizzt asked it, hoping to find some clues to the truth.

The hook horror thought for a long moment, then shook its great head helplessly. “Pech … n-n-no more,” the monster said again, and it purposely tilted its beaked face backward, widening the crack in its exoskeleton armor and inviting Drizzt to finish the strike.

“You cannot remember your name?” Drizzt asked, not so anxious to kill the creature. The hook horror neither moved nor replied. Drizzt looked to Belwar for advice, but the burrow-warden only shrugged helplessly.

“What happened?” Drizzt pressed the monster. “You must tell me what happened to you.”

“W-w-w …” The hook horror struggled to reply. “W-wi-wizard. Evil wi-zard.”

Somewhat schooled in the ways of magic and in the unscrupulous uses its practitioners often put it to, Drizzt began to understand the possibilities and began to believe this strange creature. “A wizard changed you?” he asked, already guessing the answer. He and Belwar exchanging amazed expressions. “I have heard of such spells.”

“As have I,” agreed the burrow-warden.
“Magga cammara
, dark elf, I have seen the wizards of Blingdenstone use similar magic when we needed to infiltrate …” The deep gnome paused suddenly, remembering the heritage of the elf he was addressing.

“Menzoberranzan,” Drizzt finished with a chuckle.

Belwar cleared his throat, a bit embarrassed, and turned back to the monster. “A pech you once were,” he said, needing to hear the whole explanation spelled out in one clear thought, “and some wizard changed you into a hook horror.”

“True,” the monster replied. “Pech no more.”

“Where are your companions?” the svirfneblin asked. “If what I have heard of your people is true, pech do not often travel alone.”

“D-d-d-dead,” said the monster. “Evil w-w-w—”

“Human wizard?” Drizzt prompted.

The great beak bobbed in an excited nod. “Yes, m-m-man.”

“And the wizard then left you to your pains as a hook horror,” Belwar said. He and Drizzt looked long and hard at each other, and then the drow stepped away, allowing the hook horror to rise.

“I w-w-w-wish you w-w-w-would k-k-kill me,” the monster then said, twisting up into a sitting position. It looked at its clawed hands with obvious disgust. “The s-stone, the stone … lost to me.”

Belwar raised his own crafted hands in response. “So had I once believed,” he said. “You are alive, and no longer are you alone. Come with us to the lake, where we can talk some more.”

Presently the hook horror agreed and began, with much effort, to raise its quarter-ton bulk from the floor. Amid the scraping and shuffling of the creature’s hard exoskeleton, Belwar prudently whispered to Drizzt, “Keep your blades at the ready!”

The hook horror finally stood, towering to its imposing ten-foot height, and the drow did not argue Belwar’s logic.

For many hours, the hook horror recounted its adventures to the two friends. As amazing as the story was the monster’s growing acclimation to the use of language. This fact, and the monster’s descriptions of its previous existence—of a life tapping
and shaping the stone in an almost holy reverence—further convinced Belwar and Drizzt of the truth of its bizarre tale.

“It feels g-g-good to speak again, though the language is not my own,” the creature said after a while. “It feels as if I have f-found again a part of what I once w-w-was.”

With his own similar experiences so clear in his mind, Drizzt understood the sentiments completely.

“How long have you been this way?” Belwar asked.

The hook horror shrugged, its huge chest and shoulders rattling through the movement. “Tendays, m-months,” it said. “I cannot remember. The time is l-lost to me.”

Drizzt put his face in his hands and exhaled a deep sigh, in full empathy and sympathy with the unfortunate creature. Drizzt, too, had felt so lost and alone out in the wilds. He, too, knew the grim truth of such a fate. Belwar patted the drow softly with his hammer-hand.

“And where now are you going?” the burrow-warden asked the hook horror. “Or where were you coming from?”

“Chasing the w-w-w—” the hook horror replied, fumbling helplessly over that last word as though the mere mention of the evil wizard pained the creature greatly. “But so much is l-lost to me. I would find him with l-little effort if I was still p-p-pech. The stones would tell me where to l-look. But I cannot talk to them very often anymore.” The monster rose from its seat on the stone. “I will go,” it said determinedly. “You are not safe with me around.”

“You will stay,” Drizzt said suddenly and with a tone of finality that could not be denied.

“I c-cannot control,” the hook horror tried to explain.

“You’ve no need to worry,” said Belwar. He pointed to the doorway up on the ledge at the side of the cavern. “Our home is up there, with a door too small for you to get through. Down
here by the lake you must rest until we all decide our best course of action.”

The hook horror was exhausted, and the svirfneblin’s reasoning seemed sound enough. The monster dropped heavily back to the stone and curled up as much as its bulky body would allow. Drizzt and Belwar took their leave, glancing back at their strange new companion with every step.

“Clacker,” Belwar said suddenly, stopping Drizzt beside him. With great effort, the hook horror rolled over to consider the deep gnome, understanding that Belwar had uttered the word in its direction.

“That is what we shall call you, if you have no objections,” the svirfneblin explained to the creature and to Drizzt. “Clacker!” “A fitting name,” Drizzt remarked.