Exile: The Legend of Drizzt (43 page)

“Perhaps you are right,” Drizzt agreed, “but even if the corbies do attack, what weapons do they possess that could defeat a hook horror’s armor? What defense could the birdmen offer against Clacker’s great claws. Our giant friend will sweep them aside.”

“You forget the stone-riders up above,” the burrow-warden pointedly reminded him. “They will be quick to take a ledge down, and take Clacker with it!”

Clacker turned away from the conversation and stared into the stone of the walls in a futile effort to recapture a portion of his former self. He felt a slight urge to begin tap-tapping on the stone, but it was no greater than his continuing urge to smash a claw into the face of either the svirfneblin or the drow.

“I will deal with any corbies waiting above the ledges,” Drizzt replied. “You just follow Clacker across—a dozen paces behind.”

Belwar glanced over and noticed the mounting tension in the hook horror. The burrow-warden realized that they could not afford any delays, so he shrugged and pushed Clacker off, motioning down the passage toward the green glow. Clacker started away, and Drizzt and Belwar fell into step behind.

“The panther?” Belwar whispered to Drizzt as they rounded the last bend in the tunnel.

Drizzt shook his head briskly, and Belwar, remembering Guenhwyvar’s last painful episode in the corby chamber, did not question him further.

Drizzt patted the deep gnome on the shoulder for luck, then moved up past Clacker and was the first to enter the quiet
chamber. With a few simple motions, the drow stepped into a levitation spell and floated silently up. Clacker, amazed by this strange place with the glowing lake of acid below him, hardly noticed Drizzt’s movements. The hook horror stood perfectly still, glancing all about the chamber and using his keen sense of hearing to locate any possible enemies.

“Move,” Belwar whispered behind him. “Delay will bring disaster!”

Clacker started out tentatively, then picked up speed as he gained confidence in the strength of the narrow, unsupported walkway. He took the straightest course he could discern, though even this meandered about before it reached the exiting archway opposite the one they had entered.

“Do you see anything, dark elf?” Belwar called as loudly as he dared a few uneventful moments later. Clacker had passed the midpoint of the chamber without incident and the burrow-warden could not contain his mounting anxiety. No corbies had shown themselves; not a sound had been made beyond the heavy thumping of Clacker’s feet and the shuffling of Belwar’s worn boots.

Drizzt floated back down to the ledge, far behind his companions. “Nothing,” he replied. The drow shared Belwar’s suspicions that no dire corbies were about. The hush of the acid-filled cavern was absolute and unnerving. Drizzt ran out toward the center of the chamber, then lifted off again in his levitation, trying to get a better angle on all of the walls.

“What do you see?” Belwar asked him a moment later. Drizzt looked down to the burrow-warden and shrugged.

“Nothing at all.”

“Magga cammara”
grumbled Belwar, almost wishing that a corby would step out and attack.

Clacker had nearly reached the targeted exit by this time,
though Belwar, in his conversation with Drizzt, had lagged behind and remained near the center of the huge room. When the burrow-warden finally turned back to the path ahead, the hook horror had disappeared under the arch of the exit.

“Anything?” Belwar called out to both of his companions. Drizzt shook his head and continued to rise. He rotated slowly about, scanning the walls, unable to believe that no corbies lurked in ambush.

Belwar looked back to the exit. “We must have chased them out,” he muttered to himself, but in spite of his words, the burrow-warden knew better. When he and Drizzt had taken flight from this room a couple of tendays before, they had left several dozen of the bird-men behind them. Certainly the toll of a few dead corbies would not have chased away the rest of the fearless clan.

For some unknown reason, no corbies had come out to stand against them.

Belwar started off at a quick pace, thinking it best not to question their good fortune. He was about to call out to Clacker, to confirm that the hook horror had indeed moved to safety, when a sharp, terror-filled squeal rolled out from the exit, followed by a heavy crash. A moment later, Belwar and Drizzt had their answers.

The spirit-wraith of Zaknafein Do’Urden stepped under the arch and out onto the ledge.

“Dark elf!” the burrow-warden called sharply.

Drizzt had already seen the spirit-wraith and was descending as rapidly as he could toward the walkway near the middle of the chamber.

“Clacker,” Belwar called, but he expected no answer, and received none, from the shadows beyond the archway. The spirit-wraith steadily advanced.

“You murderous beast!” the burrow-warden cursed, setting his
feet wide apart and slamming his mithral hands together. “Come out and get your due!” Belwar fell into his chant to empower his hands, but Drizzt interrupted him.

“No!” the drow cried out high above. “Zaknafein is here for me, not you. Move out of his way!”

“Was he here for Clacker?” Belwar yelled back. “A murderous beast, he is, and I have a score to settle!”

“You do not know that,” Drizzt replied, increasing his descent as fast as he dared to catch up to the fearless burrow-warden. Drizzt knew that Zaknafein would get to Belwar first, and he could guess easily enough the grim consequences.

“Trust me now, I beg,” Drizzt pleaded. “This drow warrior is far beyond your abilities.”

Belwar banged his hands together again, but he could not honestly refute Drizzt’s words. Belwar had seen Zaknafein in battle only that one time in the illithid cavern, but the monster’s blurring movements had stolen his breath. The deep gnome backed away a few steps and turned down a side walkway, seeking another route to the arched exit so that he might learn Clacker’s fate.

With Drizzt so plainly in sight, the spirit-wraith paid the little svirfneblin no heed. Zaknafein charged right past the side walkway and continued on to fulfill the purpose of his existence.

Belwar thought to pursue the strange drow, to close from behind and help Drizzt in the battle, but another cry issued from under the archway, a cry so pain-filled and pitiful that the burrow-warden could not ignore it. He stopped as soon as he got back on the main walkway, then looked both ways, torn in his loyalties.

“Go!” Drizzt shouted at him. “See to Clacker. This is Zaknafein, my father.” Drizzt noticed a slight hesitation in the spirit-wraith’s charge at the mention of those words, a hesitation that brought Drizzt a flicker of understanding.

“Your father?
Magga cammara
, dark elf!” Belwar protested. “Back in the illithid cavern—”

“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 mithral 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 snakeheaded 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!