Forgotten Realms: Homeland - The Legend of Drizzt Book I

by R. A. Salvatore

  “You are a drow soldier now,” Maya said to it, “and my champion. You must kill only a single, inferior fighter to take your place as a free commoner of House Do’Urden!”

  After ten years as an indentured servant to the wicked dark elves, the goblin was more than eager.

  Malice rose and started out of the anteroom. “Come,” she ordered, and her two daughters, the goblin, and the animated chest fell in line behind her.

  They came upon Drizzt in the practice room, polishing the razor edge of his scimitars. He leaped straight up to silent attention at the sight of the unexpected visitors.

  “Greetings, my son,” Malice said in a tone more motherly than Drizzt had ever heard. “We have a test for you this day, a simple task necessary for your acceptance into Melee-Magthere.”

  Maya moved before her brother. “I am the youngest, beside yourself,” she declared. “Thus, I am granted the rights of challenge, which I now execute.”

  Drizzt stood confused. He had never heard of such a thing. Maya called the chest to her side and reverently opened the cover.

  “You have your weapons and your piwafwi,” she explained. “Now it is time for you to don the complete outfit of a noble of House Do’Urden.” From the chest she pulled out a pair of high black boots and handed them to Drizzt.

  Drizzt eagerly slipped out of his normal boots and put on the new ones. They were incredibly soft, and they magically shifted and adjusted to a perfect fit on his feet. Drizzt knew the magic within them: they would allow him to move in absolute silence. Before he had even finished admiring them, though, Maya gave him the next gift, even more magnificent.

  Drizzt dropped his piwafwi to the floor as he took a set of silvery chain mail. In all the Realms, there was no armor as supple and finely crafted as drow chain mail. It weighed no more than a heavy shirt and would bend as easily as silken cloth, yet could deflect the tip of a spear as surely as dwarven-crafted plate mail.

  “You fight with two weapons,” Maya said, “and therefore need no shield. But put your scimitars in this; it is more fitting to a drow noble.” She handed Drizzt a black leather belt, its clasp a huge emerald and its two scabbards richly decorated in jewels and gemstones.

  “Prepare yourself,” Malice said to Drizzt. “The gifts must be earned.” As Drizzt started to don the outfit, Malice moved beside the altered goblin, which stood nervously in the growing realization that its fight would be no simple task.

  “When you kill him, the items will be yours,” Malice promised. The goblin’s smile returned tenfold; it could not comprehend that it had no chance against Drizzt.

  When Drizzt again fastened his piwafwi around his neck, Maya introduced the phony drow soldier. “This is Byuchyuch,” she said, “my champion. You must defeat him to earn the gifts … and your proper place in the family.”

  Never doubting his abilities, and thinking the contest to be a simple sparring match, Drizzt readily agreed. “Let it begin, then,” he said, drawing his scimitars from their lavish sheaths.

  Malice gave Byuchyuch a comforting nod, and the goblin took up the sword and shield that Maya had provided and moved right in at Drizzt.

  Drizzt began slowly, trying to take a measure of his opponent before attempting any daring offensive strikes. In only a moment, though, Drizzt realized how badly Byuchyuch handled the sword and shield. Not knowing the truth of the creature’s identity, Drizzt could hardly believe that a drow would show such ineptitude with weapons. He wondered if Byuchyuch was baiting him, and with that thought, continued his cautious approach.

  After a few more moments of Byuchyuch’s wild and off balance swings, however, Drizzt felt compelled to take the initiative. He slapped one scimitar against Byuchyuch’s shield. The goblin-drow responded with a lumbering thrust, and Drizzt slapped its sword from its hand with his free blade and executed a simple twist that brought the scimitar’s tip to a halt against the hollow of Byuchyuch’s chest.

  “Too easy,” Drizzt muttered under his breath.

  But the true test had only begun.

  On cue, Briza cast a mind-numbing spell on the goblin, freezing it in its helpless position. Still aware of its predicament, Byuchyuch tried to dive away, but Briza’s spell held it still.

  “Finish the strike,” Malice said to Drizzt. Drizzt looked at his scimitar, then to Malice, unable to believe what he was hearing.

  “Maya’s champion must be killed,” Briza snarled.

  “I cannot—” Drizzt began.

  “Kill!” Malice roared, and this time the word carried the weight of a magical command.

  “Thrust!” Briza likewise commanded.

  Drizzt felt their words compelling his hand to action. Thoroughly disgusted with the thought of murdering a helpless foe, he concentrated with all of his mental strength to resist. While he managed to deny the commands for a few seconds, Drizzt found that he could not pull the weapon away.

  “Kill!” Malice screamed.

  “Strike!” yelled Briza.

  It went on for several more agonizing seconds. Sweat beaded on Drizzt’s brow. Then the young drow’s willpower broke. His scimitar slipped quickly between Byuchyuch’s ribs and found the unfortunate creature’s heart. Briza released Byuchyuch from her holding spell then, to let Drizzt see the agony on the phony drow’s face and hear the gurgles as the dying Byuchyuch slipped to the floor.

  Drizzt could not find his breath as he stared at his bloodstained weapon.

  It was Maya’s turn to act. She clipped Drizzt on the shoulder with her mace, knocking him to the floor.

  “You killed my champion!” she growled. “Now you must fight me!”

  Drizzt rolled back to his feet, away from the enraged female. He had no intention of fighting, but before he could even drop his weapons, Malice read his thoughts and warned, “If you do not fight, Maya will kill you!”

  “This is not the way,” Drizzt protested, but his words were lost in the ring of adamantine as he parried a heavy blow with one scimitar.

  He was now into it, whether he liked it or not. Maya was a skilled fighter—all females spent many hours training with weapons—and she was stronger than Drizzt. But Drizzt was Zak’s son, the prime student, and when he admitted to himself that he had no way out of this predicament, he came in at Maya’s mace and shield with every cunning maneuver he had been taught.

  Scimitars weaved and dipped in a dance that awed Briza and Maya. Malice hardly noticed, caught in the midst of yet another mighty spell. Malice never doubted that Drizzt could defeat his sister, and she had incorporated her expectations into the plan.

  Drizzt’s moves were all defensive as he continued to hope for some semblance of sanity to come over his mother, and that this whole thing would be stopped. He wanted to back Maya up, cause her to stumble, and end the fight by putting her in a helpless position. Drizzt had to believe that Briza and Malice would not compel him to kill Maya as he had killed Byuchyuch.

  Finally, Maya did slip. She threw her shield out to deflect an arcing scimitar but became overbalanced in the block, and her arm went wide. Drizzt’s other blade knifed in, only to nick at Maya’s breast and force her back.

  Malice’s spell caught the weapon in mid-thrust.

  The bloodstained adamantine blade writhed to life and Drizzt found himself holding the tail of a serpent, a fanged viper that turned back against him!

  The enchanted snake spat its venom in Drizzt’s eyes, blinding him, then he felt the pain of Briza’s whip. All six snake heads of the awful weapon bit into Drizzt’s back, tearing through his new armor and jolting him in excruciating pain. He crumbled down into a curled position, helpless as Briza snapped the whip in, again and again.

  “Never strike at a drow female!” she screamed as she beat Drizzt into unconsciousness.

  An hour later, Drizzt opened his eyes. He was in his bed, Matron Malice standing over him. The high priestess had tended to his wounds, but the sting remained, a vivid reminder of the lesson. But it was not nearly as vivid as the blood
that still stained Drizzt’s scimitar.

  “The armor will be replaced,” Malice said to him. “You are a drow warrior now. You have earned it.” She turned and walked out of the room, leaving Drizzt to his pain and his fallen innocence.

  “Do not send him,” Zak argued as emphatically as he dared. He stared up at Matron Malice, the smug queen on her high throne of stone and black velvet. As always, Briza and Maya stood obediently by her sides.

  “He is a drow fighter,” Malice replied, her tone still controlled. “He must go to the Academy. It is our way.”

  Zak looked around helplessly. He hated this place, the chapel anteroom, with its sculptures of the Spider Queen leering down at him from every angle, and with Malice sitting—towering—above him from her seat of power.

  Zak shook the images away and regained his courage, reminding himself that this time he had something worth arguing about.

  “Do not send him!” he growled. “They will ruin him!”

  Matron Malice’s hands clenched down on the rock arms of her great chair.

  “Already Drizzt is more skilled than half of those in the Academy,” Zak continued quickly, before the matron’s anger burst forth. “Allow me two more years, and I will make him the finest swordsman in all of Menzoberranzan!”

  Malice eased back on her seat. From what she had seen of her son’s progress, she could not deny the possibilities of Zak’s claim. “He goes,” she said calmly. “There is more to the making of a drow warrior than skill with weapons. Drizzt has other lessons he must learn.”

  “Lessons of treachery?” Zak spat, too angry to care about the consequences. Drizzt had told him what Malice and her evil daughters had done that day, and Zak was wise enough to understand their actions. Their “lesson” had nearly broken the boy, and had, perhaps, forever stolen from Drizzt the ideals he held so dear. Drizzt would find his morals and principles harder to cling to now that the pedestal of purity had been knocked out from under him.

  “Watch your tongue, Zaknafein,” Matron Malice warned.

  “I fight with passion!” the weapons master snapped. “That is why I win. Your son, too, fights with passion—do not let the conforming ways of the Academy take that from him!”

  “Leave us,” Malice instructed her daughters. Maya bowed and rushed out through the door. Briza followed more slowly, pausing to cast a suspicious eye upon Zak.

  Zak didn’t return the glare, but he entertained a fantasy concerning his sword and Briza’s smug smile.

  “Zaknafein,” Malice began, again coming forward in her chair. “I have tolerated your blasphemous beliefs through these many years because of your skill with weapons. You have taught my soldiers well, and your love of killing drow, particularly clerics of the Spider Queen, has aided the ascent of House Do’Urden. I am not, and have not been, ungrateful.

  “But I warn you now, one final time, that Drizzt is my son, not his sire’s! He will go to the Academy and learn what he must to take his place as a prince of House Do’Urden. If you interfere with what must be, Zaknafein, I will no longer turn my eyes from your actions! Your heart will be given to Lolth.”

  Zak stamped his heels on the floor and snapped a short bow of his head, then spun about and departed, trying to find some option in this dark and hopeless picture.

  As he made his way through the main corridor, he again heard in his mind the screams of the dying children of House DeVir, children who never got the chance to witness the evils of the drow Academy. Perhaps they were better off dead.

  ak slid one of his swords from its scabbard and admired the weapon’s wondrous detail. This sword, as with most of the drow weapons, had been forged by the gray dwarves, then traded to Menzoberranzan. The duergar workmanship was exquisite, but it was the work done on the weapon after the dark elves had acquired it that made it so very special. None of the races of the surface or Underdark could outdo the dark elves in the art of enchanting weapons. Imbued with the strange emanations of the Underdark, the magical power unique to the lightless world, and blessed by the unholy clerics of Lolth, no blade ever sat in a wielder’s hand more ready to kill.

  Other races, mostly dwarves and surface elves, also took pride in their crafted weapons. Fine swords and mighty hammers hung over mantles as showpieces, always with a bard nearby to spout the accompanying legend that most often began, “In the days of yore …”

  Drow weapons were different, never showpieces. They were locked in the necessities of the present, never in reminiscences, and their purpose remained unchanged for as long as they held an edge fine enough for battle—fine enough to kill.

  Zak brought the blade up before his eyes. In his hands, the sword had become more than an instrument of battle. It was an extension of his rage, his answer to an existence he could not accept.

  It was his answer, too, perhaps, to another problem that seemed to have no resolution.

  He walked into the training hall, where Drizzt was hard at work spinning attack routines against a practice dummy. Zak paused to watch the young drow at practice, wondering if Drizzt would ever again consider the dance of weapons a form of play. How the scimitars flowed in Drizzt’s hands! Interweaving with uncanny precision, each blade seemed to anticipate the other’s moves and whirred about in perfect complement.

  This young drow might soon be an unrivaled fighter, a master beyond Zaknafein himself.

  “Can you survive?” Zak whispered. “Have you the heart of a drow warrior?” Zak hoped that the answer would be an emphatic “no,” but either way, Drizzt was surely doomed.

  Zak looked down at his sword again and knew what he must do. He slid its sister blade from its sheath and started a determined walk toward Drizzt.

  Drizzt saw him coming and turned at the ready. “A final fight before I leave for the Academy?” He laughed.

  Zak paused to take note of Drizzt’s smile. A facade? Or had the young drow really forgiven himself for his actions against Maya’s champion. It did not matter, Zak reminded himself. Even if Drizzt had recovered from his mother’s torments, the Academy would destroy him. The weapons master said nothing; he just came on in a flurry of cuts and stabs that put Drizzt immediately on the defensive. Drizzt took it in stride, not yet realizing that this final encounter with his mentor was much more than their customary sparring.

  “I will remember everything you taught me,” Drizzt promised, dodging a cut and launching a fierce counter of his own. “I will carve my name in the halls of Melee-Magthere and make you proud.”

  The scowl on Zak’s face surprised Drizzt, and the young drow grew even more confused when the weapons master’s next attack sent a sword knifing straight at his heart. Drizzt leaped aside, slapping at the blade in sheer desperation, and narrowly avoided impalement.

  “Are you so very sure of yourself?” Zak growled, stubbornly pursuing Drizzt.

  Drizzt set himself as their blades met in ringing fury. “I am a fighter,” he declared. “A drow warrior!”

  “You are a dancer!” Zak shot back in a derisive tone. He slammed his sword onto Drizzt’s blocking scimitar so savagely that the young drow’s arm tingled.

  “An imposter!” Zak cried. “A pretender to a title you cannot begin to understand!”

  Drizzt went on the offensive. Fires burned in his lavender eyes and new strength guided his scimitars’ sure cuts.

  But Zak was relentless. He fended the attacks and continued his lesson. “Do you know the emotions of murder?” he spat. “Have you reconciled yourself to the act you committed?”

  Drizzt’s only answers were a frustrated growl and a renewed attack.

  “Ah, the pleasure of plunging your sword into the bosom of a high priestess,” Zak taunted. “To see the light of warmth leave her body while her lips utter silent curses in your face! Or have you ever heard the screams of dying children?”

  Drizzt let up his attack, but Zak would not allow a break. The weapons master came back on the offensive, each thrust aimed for a vital area.

  “How loud
, those screams,” Zak continued. “They echo over the centuries in your mind; they chase you down the paths of your entire life.”

  Zak halted the action so that Drizzt might weigh his every word.

  “You have never heard them, have you, dancer?” The weapons master stretched his arms out wide, an invitation. “Come, then, and claim your second kill,” he said, tapping his stomach. “In the belly, where the pain is greatest, so that my screams may echo in your mind. Prove to me that you are the drow warrior you claim to be.”

  The tips of Drizzt’s scimitars slowly made their way to the stone floor. He wore no smile now.

  “You hesitate,” Zak laughed at him. “This is your chance to make your name. A single thrust, and you will send a reputation into the Academy before you. Other students, even masters, will whisper your name as you pass. ‘Drizzt Do’Urden,’ they will say. ‘The boy who slew the most honored weapons master in all of Menzoberranzan!’ Is this not what you desire?”

  “Damn you,” Drizzt spat back, but still he made no move to attack.

  “Drow warrior?” Zak chided him. “Do not be so quick to claim a title you cannot begin to understand!”

  Drizzt came on then, in a fury he had never before known. His purpose was not to kill, but to defeat his teacher, to steal the taunts from Zak’s mouth with a fighting display too impressive to be derided.

  Drizzt was brilliant. He followed every move with three others and worked Zak low and high, inside and out wide. Zak found his heels under him more often than the balls of his feet, too involved was he in staying away from his student’s relentless thrusts to even think of taking the offensive. He allowed Drizzt to continue the initiative for many minutes, dreading its conclusion, the outcome he had already decided to be the most preferable.

  Zak then found that he could stand the delay no longer. He sent one sword out in a lazy thrust, and Drizzt promptly slapped the weapon out of his hand.

  Even as the young drow came on in anticipation of victory, Zak slipped his empty hand into a pouch and grabbed a magical little ceramic ball—one of those that so often had aided him in battle.