Exile

by R. A. Salvatore

  “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-wiz-ard. 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, mom-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 wow-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. “Weeks, 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.

  “It is a g-good name,” agreed the hook horror, but silently the creature wished that it could remember its pech name, the name that rolled on and on like a rounded boulder in a sloping passage and spoke prayers to the stone with each growling syllable.

  “We will widen the door,” Drizzt said when he and Belwar got inside their cave complex. “So that Clacker may enter and rest beside us in safety.”

  “No, dark elf,” argued the burrow-warden. “That we shall not do.”

  “He is not safe out there beside the water,” Drizzt replied. “Monsters will find him.”

  “Safe enough he is!” snorted Belwar. “What monster would willingly attack a hook horror?” Belwar understood Drizzt’s sincere concern, but he understood, too, the danger in Drizzt’s suggestion. “I have witnessed such spells,” the svirfneblin said somberly. “They are called polymorph. Immediately comes the change of the body, but the change of the mind can take time.”

  “What are you saying?” Drizzt’s voice edged on panic.

  “Clacker is still a pech,” replied Belwar, “trapped though he is in the body of a hook horror. But soon, I fear, Clacker will be a pech no more. A hook horror he will become, mind and body, and however friendly we might be, Clacker will come to think of us as no more than another meal.”

  Drizzt started to argue, but Belwar silenced him with one sobering thought. “Would you enjoy having to kill him, dark elf?”

  Drizzt turned away. “His tale is familiar to me.”

  “Not as much as you believe,” replied Belwar.

  “I, too, was lost,” Drizzt reminded the burrow-warden.

  “So you believe,” Belwar answered. “But that which was essentially Drizzt Do’Urden remained within you, my friend. You were as you had to be,
as the situation around you forced you to be. This is different. Not just in body, but in very essence will Clacker become a hook horror. His thoughts will be the thoughts of a hook horror and, magga cammara, he will not return your grant of mercy when you are the one on the ground.”

  Drizzt could not be satisfied, though he could not refute the deep gnome’s blunt logic. He moved into the complex’s left-hand chamber, the one he had claimed as his bedroom, and fell into his hammock.

  “Alas for you, Drizzt Do’Urden,” Belwar mumbled under his breath as he watched the drow’s heavy movements, laden with sorrow. “And alas for our doomed pech friend.” The burrow-warden went into his own chamber and crawled into his hammock, feeling terrible about the whole situation but determined to remain coldly logical and practical, whatever the pain. For Belwar understood that Drizzt felt a kinship to the unfortunate creature, a potentially fatal bond founded in empathy for Clacker’s loss of self.

  Later that night, an excited Drizzt shook the svirfneblin from his slumber. “We must help him,” Drizzt whispered harshly.

  Belwar wiped an arm across his face and tried to orient himself. His sleep had been uneasy, filled with dreams in which he had cried ‘Bivrip’ in an impossibly loud voice, then had proceeded to bash the life out of his newest companion.

  “We must help him!” Drizzt said again, even more forcefully. Belwar could tell by the drow’s haggard appearance that Drizzt had found no sleep this night.

  “I am no wizard,” the burrow-warden said. “Neither are―”

  “Then we will find one!” Drizzt growled. “We will find the human who cursed Clacker and force him to reverse the dweomer! We saw him by the stream only a few days ago. He cannot be so far away!”

  “A mage capable of such magic will prove no easy foe,” Belwar was quick to reply. “Have you so quickly forgotten the fireball?” Belwar glanced to the wall, to where his scorched leather jack hung on a peg, as if to convince himself. “The wizard is beyond us, I fear,” Belwar mumbled, but Drizzt could see the lack of conviction in the burrow-warden’s expression as he spoke the words.

  “Are you so quick to condemn Clacker?” Drizzt asked bluntly. A wide smile began to spread over Drizzt’s face as he saw the svirfneblin weakening. “Is this the same Belwar Dissengulp who took in a lost drow? That most honored burrow-warden who would not give up hope for a dark elf that everyone else considered dangerous and beyond help?”

  “Go to sleep, dark elf,” Belwar retorted, pushing Drizzt away with his hammer-hand.

  “Wise advice, my friend,” said Drizzt. “And you sleep well. We may have a long road ahead of us.”

  “Magga cammara,” huffed the taciturn svirfneblin, stubbornly holding to his facade of gruff practicality. He rolled away from Drizzt and soon was snoring.

  Drizzt noted that Belwar’s snores now sounded from the depths of a deep and contented sleep.

  Clacker beat against the wall with his clawed hands, taptapping the stone relentlessly.

  “Not again,” a flustered Belwar whispered to Drizzt. “Not out here!”

  Drizzt sped along the winding corridor, homing in on the monotonous sound. “Clacker!” he called softly when the hook horror was in sight.

  The hook horror turned to face the approaching drow, clawed hands wide and ready and a growling hiss slipping through his great beak. A moment later, Clacker realized what he was doing and abruptly stopped.

  “Why must you continue that banging?” Drizzt asked him, trying to pretend, even to himself, that he had not seen Clacker’s battle stance. “We are out in the wilds, my friend. Such sounds invite visitors.”

  The giant monster’s head drooped. “You should not have c-c-come out with m-me.” Clacker said. “I c-c-cannot-many things will happen that I cannot c-control.”

  Drizzt reached up and put a comforting hand on Clacker’s bony elbow. “It was my fault,” the drow said, understanding the hook horror’s meaning. Clacker had apologized for turning dangerously on Drizzt. “We should not have gone off in different directions,” Drizzt continued, “and I should not have approached you so quickly and without warning. We will all stay together now, though our search may prove longer, and Belwar and I will help you to maintain control.”

  Clacker’s beaked face brightened. “It does feel so very g-good to tot-tap the stone,” he proclaimed. Clacker banged a claw on the rock as if to jolt his memory. His voice and his gaze trailed away as he thought of his past life, the one that the wizard had stolen from him. All the pech’s days had been spent tapping the stone, shaping the stone, talking to the precious stone.

  “You will be pech again,” Drizzt promised.

  Belwar, approaching from the tunnel, heard the drow’s words and was not so certain. They had been out in the tunnels for more than a week and had found not a sign of the wizard. The burrow-warden took some comfort in the fact that Clacker seemed to be winning back part of himself from his monstrous state, seemed to be regaining a measure of his pech personality. Belwar had watched the same transformation in Drizzt just a few weeks before, and beneath the survivalistic barriers of the hunter that Drizzt had become, Belwar had discovered his closest friend.

  But the burrow-warden took care not to assume the same results with Clacker. The hook horror’s condition was the result of powerful magic, and no amount of friendship could reverse the workings of the wizard’s dweomer. In finding Drizzt and Belwar, Clacker had been granted a temporary―and only temporary―reprieve from a miserable and undeniable fate.

  They moved on through the tunnels of the Underdark for several more days without any luck. Clacker’s personality still did not deteriorate, but even Drizzt, who had left the cave complex beside the lake so full of hope, began to feel the weight of increasing reality.

  Then, just as Drizzt and Belwar had begun discussing returning to their home, the group came into a fair-sized cavern littered with rubble from a recent collapse of the ceiling.

  “He has been here!” Clacker cried, and he offhandedly lifted a huge boulder and tossed it against a distant wall, where it shattered into so much rubble. “He has been here!”

  The hook horror rushed about, smashing stone and throwing boulders with growing, explosive rage.

  “How can you know?” Belwar demanded, trying to stop his giant friend’s tirade.

  Clacker pointed up at the ceiling. “He d-did this. The w-w-w-he did this!”

  Drizzt and Belwar exchanged concerned glances. The chamber’s ceiling, which had been about fifteen feet up, was gouged and blasted, and in its center loomed a massive hole that extended up to twice the ceiling’s former height. If magic had caused that devastation, it was powerful magic indeed!

  “The wizard did this?” Belwar echoed. He cast that stubbornly practical look he had perfected toward Drizzt one more time.

  “His t-t-tower,” Clacker replied, and rushed off about the chamber to see if he could discern which exit the wizard ad taken.

  Now Drizzt and Belwar were completely at a loss, and Clacker, when he finally took the time to look at them, realized their confusion.

  “The w-w-w―”

  “Wizard,” Belwar put in impatiently.

  Clacker took no offense, even appreciated the assistance.

  “The w-wizard has a t-tower,” the excited hook horror tried to explain. “A g-great iron t-tower that he takes with him, setting it up wherever it is c-c-convenient.” Clacker looked up at the ruined ceiling. “Even if it does not always fit.”

  “He carries a tower?” Belwar asked, his long nose crinkling right up over itself.

  Clacker nodded excitedly, but then didn’t take the time to explain further, for he had found the wizard’s trail, a clear boot print in a bed of moss leading down another of the corridors.

  Drizzt and Belwar had to be satisfied with their friend’s incomplete explanation, for the chase was on. Drizzt took up the lead, using all the skills he had learned in the drow Academy and had heightened during his decade alone in the Underdark. B
elwar, with his innate racial understanding of the Underdark and his magically lighted brooch, kept track of their direction, and Clacker, in those instances when he fell more completely back into his former self, asked the stones for guidance. The three of them passed another blasted chamber, and another chamber that showed clear signs of the tower’s presence, though its ceiling was high enough to accommodate the structure.

  A few days later, the three companions turned into a wide and high cavern, and far back from them, beside a rushing stream, loomed the wizard’s home. Again Drizzt and Belwar looked at each other helplessly, for the tower stood fully thirty feet high and twenty across, its smooth metallic walls mocking their plans. They took separate and cautious routes to the structure and were even more amazed, for the tower’s walls were pure adamantite, the hardest metal in all the world.

  They found only a single door, small and barely showing its outline in the perfection of the tower’s craftsmanship. They didn’t have to test it to know that it was secure against unwelcome visitors.

  “The w-w-w-he is in there,” Clacker snarled, running his claws over the door in desperation.

  “Then he will have to come out,” Drizzt reasoned. “And when he does, we will be waiting for him.”

  The plan did not satisfy the pech. With a rumbling roar that echoed throughout the region, Clacker threw his huge body against the tower door, then jumped back and slammed it again. The door didn’t even shudder under the pounding, and it quickly became obvious to the deep gnome and the drow that Clacker’s body would certainly lose the battle.

  Drizzt tried vainly to calm his giant friend, while Belwar moved off to the side and began a familiar chant.

  Finally, Clacker tumbled down in a heap, sobbing in exhaustion and pain and helpless rage. Then Belwar, his mithril hands sparking whenever they touched, waded in.

  “Move aside!” the burrow-warden demanded. “I have come too far to be stopped by a single door!” Belwar moved directly in front of the small door and slammed his enchanted hammer-hand at it with all his strength. A blinding flash of blue sparks burst out in every direction. The deep gnome’s muscled arms worked furiously, scraping and bashing, but when Belwar had exhausted his energy, the tower door showed only the slightest of scratches and superficial burns.