Exile

by R. A. Salvatore

  “Go,” Briza snarled, one hand dropping to the snake-headed 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!

  Then she felt a slight twinge as Zaknafein’s consciousness struggled against her control. Malice pushed Zaknafein aside with a guttural snarl; his animated corpse was her tool!

  Briza noted her mother’s sudden snarl with more than a passing interest.

  Drizzt knew beyond any doubts that this was not Zaknafein Do’Urden who stood before him, yet he could not deny the unique fighting style of his former mentor. Zaknafein was in there―somewhere―and Drizzt would have to reach him if he hoped to get any answers.

  The battle quickly settled into a comfortable, measured rhythm, both opponents launching cautious attack routines and paying careful attention to their tenuous footing on the narrow walkway.

  Belwar entered the room then, bearing Clacker’s broken body. “Kill him, Drizzt!” the burrow-warden cried. “Magga…” Belwar stopped and was afraid when he witnessed the battle. Drizzt and Zaknafein seemed to intertwine, their weapons spinning and darting, only to be parried away. They seemed as one, these two dark elves that Belwar had considered distinctly different, and that notion unnerved the deep gnome.

  When the next break came in the struggle, Drizzt glanced over to the burrow-warden and his gaze locked on the dead pech. “Damn you!” he spat, and he rushed back in, scimitars diving and chopping at the monster who had murdered Clacker.

  The spirit-wraith parried the foolishly bold assault easily and worked Drizzt’s blades up high, rocking Drizzt back on his heels. This, too, seemed so very familiar to the young drow, a fighting approach that Zaknafein had used against him many times in their sparring matches back in Menzoberranzan. Zaknafein would force Drizzt high, then come in suddenly low with both of his swords. In their early contests, Zaknafein had often defeated Drizzt with this maneuver, the double-thrust low, but in their last encounter in the drow city, Drizzt had found the answering parry and had turned the attack against his mentor.

  Now Drizzt wondered if this opponent would follow through with the expected attack routine, and he wondered, too, how Zaknafein would react to his counter. Were any of Zak’s memories within the monster he now faced?

  Still the spirit-wraith kept Drizzt’s blades working defensively high. Zaknafein then took a quick step back and came in low with both blades.

  Drizzt dropped his scimitars into a downward “X”, the appropriate cross-down parry that pinned the attacking swords low. Drizzt kicked his foot up between the hilts of his blades and straight at his opponent’s face.

  The spirit-wraith somehow anticipated the countering attack and was out of reach before the boot could connect. Drizzt believed that he had an answer, for only Zaknafein Do’Urden could have known.

  “You are Zaknafein!” Drizzt cried. “What has Malice done to you?”

  The spirit-wraith’s hands trembled visibly in their hold on the swords and his mouth twisted as though he was trying to say something.

  “No!” Malice screamed, and she violently tore back the control of her monster, walking the delicate and dangerous line between Zaknafein’s physical abilities and the consciousness of the being he once had been.

  “You are mine, wraith.” Malice bellowed, “and by the will of Lloth, you shall complete the task!”

  Drizzt saw the sudden regression of the murderous spirit-wraith. Zaknafein’s hands no longer trembled and his mouth locked into a thin and determined grimace once again.

  “What is it, dark elf?” Belwar demanded, confused by the strange encounter. Drizzt noticed that the deep gnome had placed Clacker’s body on a ledge and was steadily approaching. Sparks flew from Belwar’s mithril hands whenever they bumped together.

  “Stay back!” Drizzt called to him. The presence of an unknown enemy could ruin the plans that were beginning to formulate in Drizzt’s mind. “It is Zaknafein.” he tried to explain to Belwar. “Or at least a part of it is!”

  In a voice too low for the burrow-warden to hear, Drizzt added, “And I believe I know how to get to that part.” Drizzt came on in a flurry of measured attacks that he knew Zaknafein could easily deflect. He did not want to destroy his opponent, but rather he sought to inspire other memories of fighting routines that would be familiar to Zaknafein.

  He put Zaknafein through the paces of a typical training session, talking all the while in the same way that he and the weapon master used to talk back in Menzoberranzan. Malice’s spirit-wraith countered Drizzt’s familiarity with savagery, and matched Drizzt’s friendly words with animal-like snarls. If Drizzt thought he could lull his opponent with complacency, he was badly mistaken.

  Swords rushed at Drizzt inside and out, seeking a hole in his expert defenses. Scimitars matched their speed and precision, catching and stopping each arcing cut and deflecting every straightforward thrust harmlessly wide.

  A sword slipped through and nicked Drizzt in the ribs. His fine armor held back the weapon’s razor edge, but the weight of the blow would leave a deep bruise. Rocked back on his heels, Drizzt saw that his plan would not be so easily executed.

  “You are my father!” he shouted at the monster. “Matron Malice is your enemy, not I!”

/>   The spirit-wraith mocked the words with an evil laugh and came on wildly. From the very beginning of the battle, Drizzt had feared this moment, but now he stubbornly reminded himself that this was not really his father that stood before him. Zaknafein’s careless offensive charge inevitably left gaps in his defenses, and Drizzt found them, once and then again, with his scimitars. One blade gashed a hole in the spirit-wraith’s belly, another slashed deeply into the side of his neck.

  Zaknafein only laughed again, louder, and came on.

  Drizzt fought in sheer panic, his confidence faltering. Zaknafein was nearly his equal, and Drizzt’s blades barely hurt the thing! Another problem quickly became evident as well, for time was against Drizzt. He did not know exactly what it was that he faced, but he suspected that it would not tire.

  Drizzt pressed with all his skill and speed. Desperation drove him to new heights of swordsmanship. Belwar started out again to join in, but he stopped a moment later, stunned by the display.

  Drizzt hit Zaknafein several more times, but the spirit-wraith seemed not to notice, and as Drizzt stepped up the tempo, the spirit-wraith’s intensity grew to match his own. Drizzt could hardly believe that this was not Zaknafein Do’Urden fighting against him; he could recognize the moves of his father and former mentor so very clearly. No other soul could move that perfectly muscled drow body with such precision and skill.

  Drizzt was backing away again, giving ground and waiting patiently for his opportunities. He reminded himself over and over that it was not Zaknafein that he faced, but some monster created by Matron Malice for the sole purpose of destroying him. Drizzt had to be ready; his only chance of surviving this encounter was to trip his opponent from the ledge. With the spirit-wraith fighting so brilliantly, though, that chance seemed remote indeed.

  The walkway turned slightly around a short bend, and Drizzt felt it carefully with one foot, sliding it along. Then a rock right under Drizzt’s foot broke free from the side of the walkway.

  Drizzt stumbled, and his leg, to the knee, slipped down beside the bridge. Zaknafein came upon him in a rush. The whirling swords soon had Drizzt down on his back across the narrow walkway, his head hanging precariously over the lake of acid.

  “Drizzt!” Belwar screamed helplessly. The deep gnome rushed out, though he could not hope to arrive in time or defeat Drizzt’s killer. “Drizzt!”

  Perhaps it was that call of Drizzt’s name, or maybe it was just the moment of the kill, but the former consciousness of Zaknafein flickered to life in that instant, and the sword arm, readied for a killing plunge that Drizzt could not have deflected, hesitated. Drizzt didn’t wait for any explanations. He punched out with a scimitar hilt, then the other, both connecting squarely on Zaknafein’s jaw and moving the spirit-wraith back. Drizzt was up again, panting and favoring a twisted ankle.

  “Zaknafein!” Confused and frustrated by the hesitation, Drizzt screamed at his opponent.

  “Driz―” the spirit-wraith’s mouth struggled to reply. Then Malice’s monster rushed back in, swords leading.

  Drizzt defeated the attack and slipped away again. He could sense his father’s presence; he knew that the true Zaknafein lurked just below the surface of this creature, but how could he free that spirit? Clearly, he could not hope to continue this struggle much longer.

  “It is you,” Drizzt whispered. “No one else could fight so. Zaknafein is there, and Zaknafein will not kill me.” Another thought came to Drizzt then, a notion he had to believe.

  Once again, the truth of Drizzt’s convictions became the test.

  Drizzt slipped his scimitars back into their sheaths. The spirit-wraith snarled; his swords danced about in the air and cut viciously, but Zaknafein did not come on.

  “Kill him!” Malice squealed in glee, thinking her moment of victory at hand. The images of the combat, though, flitted away from her suddenly, and she was left with only darkness. She had given too much back to Zaknafein when Drizzt had stepped up the tempo of the combat. She had been forced to allow more of Zak’s consciousness back into her animation, needing all of Zaknafein’s fighting skills to defeat her warrior son.

  Now Malice was left with blackness, and with the weight of impending doom hanging precariously over her head. She glanced back at her too-curious daughter, then sank back within her trance, fighting to regain control.

  “Drizzt.” Zaknafein said, and the word felt so very good indeed to the animation. Zak’s swords went into their sheaths, though his hands had to struggle against the demands of Matron Malice every inch of the way.

  Drizzt started toward him, wanting nothing more than to hug his father and dearest friend, but Zaknafein put out a hand to keep him back.

  “No,” the spirit-wraith explained. “I do not know how long I can resist. The body is hers, I fear,” Zaknafein replied. Drizzt did not understand at first. “Then you are―?”

  “I am dead.” Zaknafein stated bluntly. “At peace, be assured. Malice has repaired my body for her own vile purposes.”

  “But you defeated her.” Drizzt said, daring to hope. “We are together again.”

  “A temporary stay, and no more.” As if to accentuate the point, Zaknafein’s hand involuntarily shot to his sword hilt. He grimaced and snarled, and stubbornly fought back, gradually loosening his grip on the weapon. “She is coming back, my son. That one is always coming back!”

  “I cannot bear to lose you again.” Drizzt said. “When I saw you in the illithid cavern―”

  “It was not me that you saw.” Zaknafein tried to explain. “It was the zombie of Malice’s evil will. I am gone, my son. I have been gone for many years.”

  “You are here.” Drizzt reasoned.

  “By Malice’s will, not…my own.” Zaknafein growled, and his face contorted as he struggled to push Malice away for just a moment longer. Back in control, Zaknafein studied the warrior that his son had become. “You fight well.” he remarked. “Better than I had ever imagined. That is good, and it is good that you had the courage to run―” Zaknafein’s face contorted again suddenly, stealing the words. This time, both of his hands went to his swords, and this time, both weapons came flashing out.

  “No!” Drizzt pleaded as a mist welled in his lavender eyes. “Fight her!”

  “I… cannot,” the spirit-wraith replied. “Flee from this place, Drizzt. Flee to the very…ends of the world! Malice will never forgive. She…will never stop―”

  The spirit-wraith leaped forward, and Drizzt had no choice but to draw his weapons. But Zaknafein jerked suddenly before he got within reach of Drizzt.

  “For us!” Zak cried in startling clarity, a call that pealed like a trumpet of victory in the green-glowing chamber and echoed across the miles to Matron Malice’s heart like the final toll of a drum signaling the onset of doom. Zaknafein had wrested control again, for just a fleeting instant―one that allowed the charging spirit-wraith to veer off the walkway.

  Chapter 25.

  Consequences

  Matron Malice could not even scream her denial. A thousand explosions pounded her brain when Zaknafein went into the acid lake, a thousand realizations of impending and unavoidable disaster. She leaped from her stone throne, her slender hands twisting and clenching in the air as though she were trying to find something tangible to grasp, something that wasn’t there.

  Her breath rasped in labored gasps and wordless snarls issued from her gulping mouth. After a moment in which she could not calm herself, Malice heard one sound more clearly than the din of her own contortions. Behind her came the slight hiss of the small, wicked snake heads of a high priestess’s whip.

  Malice spun about, and there stood Briza, her face grimly and determinedly set and her whip’s six living snake heads waving in the air.

  “I had hoped that my time of ascension would be many years away,” the eldest daughter said calmly. “But you are weak, Malice, too weak to hold House Do’Urden together in the trials that will follow our―your―failure.”

  Malice want
ed to laugh in the face of her daughter’s foolishness; snake-headed whips were personal gifts from the Spider Queen and could not be used against matron mothers. For some reason, though, Malice could not find the courage or conviction to refute her daughter at that moment. She watched, mesmerized, as Briza’s arm slowly reared back and then shot forward.

  The six snake heads uncoiled toward Malice. It was impossible! It went against all tenets of Lloth’s doctrine! The fanged heads came on eagerly and dived into Malice’s flesh with all the Spider Queen’s fury behind them. Searing agony coursed through Malice’s body, jolting and racking her and leaving an icy numbness in its wake.

  Malice teetered on the brink of consciousness, trying to hold firmly against her daughter, trying to show Briza the futility and stupidity of continuing the attack.

  The snake whip snapped again and the floor rushed up to swallow Malice. Briza muttered something, Malice heard, some curse or chant to the Spider Queen.

  Then came a third crack, and Malice knew nothing more. She was dead before the fifth strike, but Briza pounded on for many minutes, venting her fury to let the Spider Queen be assured that House Do’Urden truly had forsaken its failing matron mother.

  By the time Dinin, unexpectedly and unannounced, burst into the room, Briza had settled comfortably into the stone throne. The elderboy glanced over at his mother’s battered body, then back to Briza, his head shaking in disbelief, and a wide, knowing grin splayed across his face.

  “What have you done, sis―Matron Briza?” Dinin asked, catching his slip of the tongue before Briza could react to it.

  “Zin-carla has failed.” Briza growled as she glared at him. “Lloth would no longer accept Malice.”

  Dinin’s laughter, which seemed founded in sarcasm, cut to the marrow of Briza’s bones. Her eyes narrowed further and she let Dinin see her hand clearly as it moved down to the hilt of her whip.