Forgotten Realms: Homeland - The Legend of Drizzt Book I

by R. A. Salvatore

  “Where do I sleep?”

  “Your home,” Zak answered matter-of-factly.

  “Where do I take meals?”

  “Your home.”

  Drizzt’s eyes narrowed to slits and his face flushed in glowing heat. “Where do I …” he began stubbornly, determined to foil the weapons master’s logic.

  “Your home,” Zak replied in the same measured and weighted timbre before Drizzt could finish the thought.

  Drizzt planted his feet firmly and crossed his arms over his chest. “It sounds messy,” he growled.

  “It had better not be,” Zak growled back.

  “Then what is the purpose?” Drizzt began. “You pull me away from my mother—”

  “You will address her as Matron Malice,” Zak warned. “You will always address her as Matron Malice.”

  “From my mother—”

  Zak’s next interruption came not with words but with the swing of a curled fist.

  Drizzt awoke about twenty minutes later.

  “First lesson,” Zak explained, casually leaning against the wall a few feet away. “For your own good. You will always address her as Matron Malice.”

  Drizzt rolled to his side and tried to prop himself up on his elbow but found his head reeling as soon as it left the black-rugged floor. Zak grabbed him and hoisted him up.

  “Not as easy as catching coins,” the weapons master remarked.

  “What?”

  “Parrying a blow.”

  “What blow?”

  “Just agree, you stubborn child.”

  “Secondboy!” Drizzt corrected, his voice again a growl, and his arms defiantly back over his chest.

  Zak’s fist curled at his side, a not-too-subtle point that Drizzt did not miss. “Do you need another nap?” the weapons master asked calmly.

  “Secondboys can be children,” Drizzt wisely conceded.

  Zak shook his head in disbelief. This was going to be interesting. “You may find your time here enjoyable,” he said, leading Drizzt over to a long, thick, and colorfully (though most of the colors were somber) decorated curtain. “But only if you can learn some control over that wagging tongue of yours.” A sharp tug sent the curtain floating down, revealing the most magnificent weapons rack the young drow (and many older drow as well) had ever seen. Polearms of many sorts, swords, axes, hammers, and every other kind of weapon Drizzt could imagine—and a whole bunch he’d never imagine—sat in an elaborate array.

  “Examine them,” Zak told him. “Take your time and your pleasure. Learn which ones sit best in your hands, follow most obediently the commands of your will. By the time we have finished, you will know every one of them as a trusted companion.”

  Wide-eyed, Drizzt wandered along the rack, viewing the whole place and the potential of the whole experience in a completely different light. For his entire young life, sixteen years, his greatest enemy had been boredom. Now, it appeared, Drizzt had found weapons to fight that enemy.

  Zak headed for the door to his private chamber, thinking it better that Drizzt be alone in those first awkward moments of handling new weapons.

  The weapons master stopped, though, when he reached his door and looked back to the young Do’Urden. Drizzt swung a long and heavy halberd, a polearm more than twice his height, in a slow arc. For all of Drizzt’s attempts to keep the weapon under control, its momentum spun his tiny frame right to the ground.

  Zak heard himself chuckle, but his laughter only reminded him of the grim reality of his duty. He would train Drizzt, as he had trained a thousand young dark elves before him, to be a warrior, preparing him for the trials of the Academy and life in dangerous Menzoberranzan. He would train Drizzt to be a killer.

  How against this one’s nature that mantle seemed! thought Zak. Smiles came too easily to Drizzt; the thought of him running a sword through the heart of another living being revolted Zaknafein. That was the way of the drow, though, a way that Zak had been unable to resist for all of his four centuries of life. Pulling his stare from the spectacle of Drizzt at play, Zak moved into his chamber and shut the door.

  “Are they all like that?” he asked into his nearly empty room. “Do all drow children possess such innocence, such simple, untainted smiles that cannot survive the ugliness of our world?” Zak started for the small desk to the side of the room, meaning to lift the darkening shade off the continually glowing ceramic globe that served as the chamber’s light source. He changed his mind as that image of Drizzt’s delight with the weapons refused to diminish, and he headed instead for the large bed across from the door.

  “Or are you unique, Drizzt Do’Urden?” he continued as he fell onto the cushioned bed. “And if you are so different, what, then, is the cause? The blood, my blood, that courses through your veins? Or the years you spent with your weanmother?”

  Zak threw an arm across his eyes and considered the many questions. Drizzt was different from the norm, he decided at length, but he didn’t know whether he should thank Vierna—or himself.

  After a while, sleep took him. But it brought the weapons master little comfort. A familiar dream visited him, a vivid memory that would never fade.

  Zaknafein heard again the screams of the children of House DeVir as the Do’Urden soldiers—soldiers he himself had trained— slashed at them.

  “This one is different!” Zak cried, leaping up from his bed. He wiped the cold sweat from his face.

  “This one is different.” He had to believe that.

  o you truly mean to try?” Masoj asked, his voice condescending and filled with disbelief.

  Alton turned his hideous glare on the student.

  “Direct your anger elsewhere, Faceless One,” Masoj said, averting his gaze from his mentor’s scarred visage. “I am not the cause of your frustration. The question was valid.”

  “For more than a decade, you have been a student of the magical arts,” Alton replied. “Still you fear to explore the nether world at the side of a master of Sorcere.”

  “I would have no fear beside a true master,” Masoj dared to whisper.

  Alton ignored the comment, as he had with so many others he had accepted from the apprenticing Hun’ett over the last sixteen years. Masoj was Alton’s only tie to the outside world, and while Masoj had a powerful family, Alton had only Masoj.

  They moved through the door into the uppermost chamber of Alton’s four-room complex. A single candle burned there, its light diminished by an abundance of dark-colored tapestries and the black hue of the room’s stone and rugs. Alton slid onto his stool at the back of the small, circular table, and placed a heavy book down before him.

  “It is a spell better left for clerics,” Masoj protested, sitting down across from the faceless master. “Wizards command the lower planes; the dead are for the clerics alone.”

  Alton looked around curiously, then turned a frown up at Masoj, the master’s grotesque features enhanced by the dancing candlelight. “It seems that I have no cleric at my call,” the Faceless One explained sarcastically. “Would you rather I try for another denizen of the Nine Hells?”

  Masoj rocked back in his chair and shook his head helplessly and emphatically. Alton had a point. A year before, the Faceless One had sought answers to his questions by enlisting the aid of an ice devil. The volatile thing froze the room until it shone black in the infrared spectrum and smashed a matron mother’s treasure horde worth of alchemical equipment. If Masoj hadn’t summoned his magical cat to distract the ice devil, neither he nor Alton would have gotten out of the room alive.

  “Very well, then,” Masoj said unconvincingly, crossing his arms in front of him on the table. “Conjure your spirit and find your answers.”

  Alton did not miss the involuntary shudder belied by the ripple in Masoj’s robes. He glared at the student for a moment, then went back to his preparations.

  As Alton neared the time of casting, Masoj’s hand instinctively went into his pocket, to the onyx figurine of the hunting cat he had acquired on the day A
lton had assumed the Faceless One’s identity. The little statue was enchanted with a powerful dweomer that enabled its possessor to summon a mighty panther to his side. Masoj had used the cat sparingly, not yet fully understanding the dweomer’s limitations and potential dangers. “Only in times of need,” Masoj reminded himself quietly when he felt the item in his hand. Why was it that those times kept occurring when he was with Alton? the apprentice wondered.

  Despite his bravado, this time Alton privately shared Masoj’s trepidation. Spirits of the dead were not as destructive as denizens of the lower planes, but they could be equally cruel and subtler in their torments.

  Alton needed his answer, though. For more than a decade and a half he had sought his information through conventional channels, enquiring of masters and students—in a roundabout manner, of course—of the details concerning the fall of House DeVir. Many knew the rumors of that eventful night; some even detailed the battle methods used by the victorious house.

  None, though, would name that perpetrating house. In Menzoberranzan, one did not utter anything resembling an accusation, even if the belief was commonly shared, without enough undeniable proof to spur the ruling council into a unified action against the accused. If a house botched a raid and was discovered, the wrath of all Menzoberranzan would descend upon it until the family name had been extinguished. But in the case of a successfully executed attack, such as the one that felled House DeVir, an accuser was the one most likely to wind up at the wrong end of a snake-headed whip.

  Public embarrassment, perhaps more than any guidelines of honor, turned the wheels of justice in the city of drow.

  Alton now sought other means for the solution to his quest. First he had tried the lower planes, the ice devil, to disastrous effect. Now Alton had in his possession an item that could end his frustrations: a tome penned by a wizard of the surface world. In the drow hierarchy, only the clerics of Lolth dealt with the realm of the dead, but in other societies, wizards also dabbled into the spirit world. Alton had found the book in the library of Sorcere and had managed to translate enough of it, he believed, to make a spiritual contact.

  He wrung his hands together, gingerly opened the book to the marked page, and scanned the incantation one final time. “Are you ready?” he asked Masoj.

  “No.”

  Alton ignored the student’s unending sarcasm and placed his hands flat on the table. He slowly sunk into his deepest meditative trance.

  “Fey innad …” He paused and cleared his throat at the slip. Masoj, though he hadn’t closely examined the spell, recognized the mistake.

  “Fey innunad de-min …” Another pause.

  “Lolth be with us,” Masoj groaned under his breath.

  Alton’s eyes popped wide, and he glared at the student. “A translation,” he growled. “From the strange language of a human wizard!”

  “Gibberish,” Masoj retorted.

  “I have in front of me the private spellbook of a wizard from the surface world,” Alton said evenly. “An archmage, according to the scribbling of the orcan thief who stole it and sold it to our agents.” He composed himself again and shook his hairless head, trying to return to the depths of his trance.

  “A simple, stupid orc managed to steal a spellbook from an archmage,” Masoj whispered rhetorically, letting the absurdity of the statement speak for itself.

  “The wizard was dead!” Alton roared. “The book is authentic!”

  “Who translated it?” Masoj replied calmly.

  Alton refused to listen to any more arguments. Ignoring the smug look on Masoj’s face, he began again.

  “Fey innunad de-min de-sul de-ket.”

  Masoj faded out and tried to rehearse a lesson from one of his classes, hoping that his sobs of laughter wouldn’t disturb Alton. He didn’t believe for a moment that Alton’s attempt would prove successful, but he didn’t want to screw up the fool’s line of babbling again and have to suffer through the ridiculous incantation all the way from the beginning still another time.

  A short time later, when Masoj heard Alton’s excited whisper, “Matron Ginafae?” he quickly focused his attention back on the events at hand.

  Sure enough, an unusual ball of green-hued smoke appeared over the candle’s flame and gradually took a more definite shape.

  “Matron Ginafae!” Alton gasped again when the summons was complete. Hovering before him was the unmistakable image of his dead mother’s face.

  The spirit scanned the room, confused. “Who are you?” it asked at length.

  “I am Alton. Alton DeVir, your son.”

  “Son?” the spirit asked.

  “Your child.”

  “I remember no child so very ugly.”

  “A disguise,” Alton replied quickly, looking back at Masoj and expecting a snicker. If Masoj had chided and doubted Alton before, he now showed only sincere respect.

  Smiling, Alton continued, “Just a disguise, that I might move about in the city and exact revenge upon our enemies!”

  “What city?”

  “Menzoberranzan, of course.”

  Still the spirit seemed not to understand.

  “You are Ginafae?” Alton pressed. “Matron Ginafae DeVir?”

  The spirit’s features contorted into a twisted scowl as it considered the question. “I was … I think.”

  “Matron Mother of House DeVir, Fourth House of Menzoberranzan,” Alton prompted, growing more excited. “High priestess of Lolth.”

  The mention of the Spider Queen sent a spark through the spirit. “Oh, no!” it balked. Ginafae remembered now. “You should not have done this, my ugly son!”

  “It is just a disguise,” Alton interrupted.

  “I must leave you,” Ginafae’s spirit continued, glancing around nervously. “You must release me!”

  “But I need some information from you, Matron Ginafae.”

  “Do not call me that!” the spirit shrieked. “You do not understand! I am not in Lolth’s favor …”

  “Trouble,” whispered Masoj offhandedly, hardly surprised.

  “Just one answer!” Alton demanded, refusing to let another opportunity to learn his enemies’ identities slip past him.

  “Quickly!” the spirit shrieked.

  “Name the house that destroyed DeVir.”

  “The house?” Ginafae pondered. “Yes, I remember that evil night. It was House—”

  The ball of smoke puffed and bent out of shape, twisting Ginafae’s image and sending her next words out as an indecipherable blurb.

  Alton leaped to his feet. “No!” he screamed. “You must tell me! Who are my enemies?”

  “Would you count me as one?” the spirit image said in a voice very different from the one it had used earlier, a tone of sheer power that stole the blood from Alton’s face. The image twisted and transformed, became something ugly, uglier than Alton. Hideous beyond all experience on the Material Plane.

  Alton was not a cleric, of course, and he had never studied the drow religion beyond the basic tenets taught to males of the race. He knew the creature now hovering in the air before him, though, for it appeared as an oozing, slimy stick of melted wax: a yochlol, a handmaiden of Lolth.

  “You dare to disturb the torment of Ginafae?” the yochlol snarled.

  “Damn!” whispered Masoj, sliding slowly down under the black tablecloth. Even he, with all of his doubts of Alton, had not expected his disfigured mentor to land them in trouble this serious.

  “But …” Alton stuttered.

  “Never again disturb this plane, feeble wizard!” the yochlol roared.

  “l did not try for the Abyss,” Alton protested meekly. “I only meant to speak with—”

  “With Ginafae!” the yochlol snarled. “Fallen priestess of Lolth. Where would you expect to find her spirit, foolish male? Frolicking in Olympus, with the false gods of the surface elves?”

  “I did not think …”

  “Do you ever?” the yochlol growled.

  “Nope,” Masoj a
nswered silently, careful to keep himself as far out of the way as possible.

  “Never again disturb this plane,” the yochlol warned a final time. “The Spider Queen is not merciful and has no tolerance for meddling males!” The creature’s oozing face puffed and swelled, expanding beyond the limits of the smoky ball. Alton heard gurgling, gagging noises, and he stumbled back over his stool, putting his back flat against the wall and bringing his arms up defensively in front of his face.

  The yochlol’s mouth opened impossibly wide and spewed forth a hail of small objects. They ricocheted off Alton and tapped against the wall all around him. Stones? the faceless wizard wondered in confusion. One of the objects then answered his unspoken question. It caught hold of Alton’s layered black robes and began crawling up toward his exposed neck. Spiders.

  A wave of the eight-legged beasts rushed under the little table, sending Masoj tumbling out the other side in a desperate roll. He scrambled to his feet and turned back, to see Alton slapping and stomping wildly, trying to get out of the main host of the crawling things.

  “Do not kill them!” Masoj screamed. “To kill spiders is forbidden by the—”

  “To the Nine Hells with the clerics and their laws!” Alton shrieked back.

  Masoj shrugged in helpless agreement, reached around under the folds of his own robes, and produced the same two-handed crossbow he had used to kill the Faceless One those years ago. He considered the powerful weapon and the tiny spiders scrambling around the room.

  “Overkill?” he asked aloud. Hearing no answer, he shrugged again and fired.

  The heavy bolt knifed across Alton’s shoulder, cutting a deep line. The wizard stared in disbelief, then turned an ugly grimace on Masoj.

  “You had one on your shoulder,” the student explained.

  Alton’s scowl did not relent.

  “Ungrateful?” Masoj snarled. “Foolish Alton, all of the spiders are on your side of the room. Remember?” Masoj turned to leave and called, “Good hunting,” over his shoulder. He reached for the handle to the door, but as his long fingers closed around it, the portal’s surface transformed into the image of Matron Ginafae. She smiled widely, too widely, and an impossibly long and wet tongue reached out and licked Masoj across the face.