Forgotten Realms: Homeland - The Legend of Drizzt Book I

by R. A. Salvatore

  Zak couldn’t risk it; he valued his time with young Drizzt too much. He pulled his swords from their jeweled scabbards and charged right by Matron Malice, yelling, “Show her, young warrior!”

  Drizzt’s eyes became burning flames at the approach of his wild instructor. His scimitars came into his hands as quickly as if he had willed them to appear.

  It was a good thing they had! Zak came in on Drizzt with a fury that the young drow had never before seen, more so even than the time Zak had shown Drizzt the value of the cross-down parry. Sparks flew as sword rang against scimitar, and Drizzt found himself driven back, both of his arms already aching from the thudding force of the heavy blows.

  “What are you …” Drizzt tried to ask.

  “Show her,” Zak growled, slamming in again and again.

  Drizzt barely dodged one cut that surely would have killed him. Still, confusion kept his moves purely defensive.

  Zak slapped one of Drizzt’s scimitars, then the other, out wide, and used an unexpected weapon, bringing his foot straight up in front of him and slamming his heel into Drizzt’s nose.

  Drizzt heard the crackle of cartilage and felt the warmth of his own blood running freely down his face. He dived back into a roll, trying to keep a safe distance from his crazed opponent until he could realign his senses.

  From his knees he saw Zak, a short distance away and approaching. “Show her!” Zak growled angrily with every determined step.

  The purple flames of faerie fire limned Drizzt’s skin, making him an easier target. He responded the only way he could; he dropped a globe of darkness over himself and Zak. Sensing the weapons master’s next move, Drizzt dropped to his belly and scrambled out, keeping his head low—a wise choice.

  At his first realization of the darkness, Zak had quickly levitated up about ten feet and rolled right over, sweeping his blades down to Drizzt’s face level.

  When Drizzt came clear of the other side of the darkened globe, he looked back and saw only the lower half of Zak’s legs. He didn’t need to watch anything more to understand the weapons master’s deadly blind attacks. Zak would have cut him apart if he had not dropped low in the blackness.

  Anger replaced confusion. When Zak dropped from his magical perch and came rushing back out the front of the globe, Drizzt let his rage lead him back into the fight. He spun a pirouette just before he reached Zak, his lead scimitar cutting a gracefully arcing line and his other following in a deceptively sharp stab straight over that line.

  Zak dodged the thrusting point and put a backhand block on the other.

  Drizzt wasn’t finished. He set his thrusting blade into a series of short, wicked pokes that kept Zak on the retreat for a dozen steps and more, back into the conjured darkness. They now had to rely on their incredibly keen sense of hearing and their instincts. Zak finally managed to regain a foothold, but Drizzt immediately set his own feet into action, kicking away whenever the balance of his swinging blades allowed for it. One foot even slipped through Zak’s defenses, blasting the breath from the weapons master’s lungs.

  They came back out the side of the globe, and Zak, too, glowed in the outline of faerie fire. The weapons master felt sickened by the hatred etched on his young student’s face, but he realized that this time, neither he nor Drizzt had been given a choice in the matter. This fight had to be ugly, had to be real. Gradually, Zak settled into an easy rhythm, solely defensive, and let Drizzt, in his explosive fury, wear himself down.

  Drizzt played on and on, relentless and tireless. Zak coaxed him by letting him see openings where there were none, and Drizzt was always quick to oblige, launching a thrust, cut, or kick.

  Matron Malice watched the spectacle silently. She couldn’t deny the measure of training Zak had given her son; Drizzt was—physically—more than ready for battle.

  Zak knew that, to Matron Malice, sheer skill with weapons might not be enough. Zak had to keep Malice from conversing with Drizzt for any length of time. She would not approve of her son’s attitudes.

  Drizzt was tiring now, Zak could see, though he recognized the weariness in his student’s arms to be partly deception.

  “Go with it,” he muttered silently, and he suddenly “twisted” his ankle, his right arm flailing out wide and low as he struggled for balance, opening a hole in his defenses that Drizzt could not resist.

  The expected thrust came in a flash, and Zak’s left arm streaked in a short crosscut that slapped the scimitar right out of Drizzt’s hand.

  “Ha!” Drizzt cried, having expected the move and launching his second ruse. His remaining scimitar knifed over Zak’s left shoulder, inevitably dipping in the follow-through of the parry.

  But by the time Drizzt even launched the second blow, Zak was already down to his knees. As Drizzt’s blade cut harmlessly high, Zak sprang to his feet and launched a right cross, hilt first, that caught Drizzt squarely in the face. A stunned Drizzt leaped back a long step and stood perfectly still for a long moment. His remaining scimitar dropped to the ground, and his glossed eyes did not blink.

  “A feint within a feint within a feint!” Zak calmly explained.

  Drizzt slumped to the floor, unconscious.

  Matron Malice nodded her approval as Zak walked back over to her. “He is ready for the Academy,” she remarked.

  Zak’s face turned sour and he did not answer.

  “Vierna is there already,” Malice continued, “to teach as a mistress in Arach-Tinilith, the School of Lolth. It is a high honor.”

  A laurel for House Do’Urden, Zak knew, but he was smart enough to keep his thoughts silent.

  “Dinin will leave soon,” said the matron.

  Zak was surprised. Two children serving as masters in the Academy at the same time? “You must have worked hard to get such accommodations,” he dared to remark.

  Matron Malice smiled. “Favors owed, favors called in.”

  “To what end?” asked Zak. “Protection for Drizzt?”

  Malice laughed aloud. “From what I have just witnessed, Drizzt would more likely protect the other two!”

  Zak bit his lip at the comment. Dinin was still twice the fighter and ten times the heartless killer as Drizzt. Zak knew that Malice had other motives.

  “Three of the first eight houses will be represented by no fewer than four children in the Academy over the next two decades,” Matron Malice admitted. “Matron Baenre’s own son will begin in the same class as Drizzt.”

  “So you have aspirations,” Zak said. “How high, then, will House Do’Urden climb under the guidance of Matron Malice?”

  “Sarcasm will cost you your tongue,” the matron mother warned.

  “We would be fools to let slip by such an opportunity to learn more of our rivals!” “The first eight houses,” Zak mused. “Be cautious, Matron Malice. Do not forget to watch for rivals among the lesser houses. There once was a house named DeVir that made such a mistake.”

  “No attack will come from behind,” Malice sneered. “We are the ninth house but boast more power than but a handful of others. None will strike at our backs; there are easier targets higher up the line.”

  “And all to our gain,” Zak put in.

  “That is the point of it all, is it not?” Malice asked, her evil smile wide on her face.

  Zak didn’t need to respond; the matron knew his true feelings. That precisely was not the point.

  “Speak less and your jaw will heal faster,” Zak said later, when he again was alone with Drizzt.

  Drizzt cast him a vile glance.

  The weapons master shook his head. “We have become great friends,” he said.

  “So I had thought,” mumbled Drizzt.

  “Then think clearly,” Zak scolded. “Do you believe that Matron Malice would approve of such a bonding between her weapons master and her youngest—her prized youngest—son? You are a drow, Drizzt Do’Urden, and of noble birth. You may have no friends!”

  Drizzt straightened as if he had been slapped in the face.


  “None openly, at least,” Zak conceded, laying a comforting hand on the youngster’s shoulder. “Friends equate to vulnerability, inexcusable vulnerability. Matron Malice would never accept …” He paused, realizing that he was browbeating his student. “Well,” he admitted in quiet conclusion, “at least we two know who we are.” Somehow, to Drizzt, that just didn’t seem enough.

  ome quickly,” Zak instructed Drizzt one evening after they had finished their sparring. By the urgency of the weapons master’s tone, and by the fact that Zak didn’t even pause to wait for Drizzt, Drizzt knew that something important was happening.

  He finally caught up to Zak on the balcony of House Do’Urden, where Maya and Briza already stood.

  “What is it?” Drizzt asked.

  Zak pulled him close and pointed out across the great cavern, to the northeastern reaches of the city. Lights flashed and faded in sudden bursts, a pillar of fire rose into the air, then disappeared.

  “A raid,” Briza said of offhandedly. “Minor houses, and of no concern to us.”

  Zak saw that Drizzt did not understand.

  “One house has attacked another,” he explained. “Revenge, perhaps, but most likely an attempt to climb to a higher rank in the city.”

  “The battle has been long,” Briza remarked, “and still the lights flash.”

  Zak continued to clarify the event for the confused secondboy of the house. “The attackers should have blocked the battle within rings of darkness. Their inability to do so might indicate that the defending house was ready for the raid.”

  “All cannot be going well for the attackers,” Maya agreed.

  Drizzt could hardly believe what he was hearing. Even more alarming than the news itself was the way his family talked about the event. They were so calm in their descriptions, as if this was an expected occurrence.

  “The attackers must leave no witnesses,” Zak explained to Drizzt, “else they will face the wrath of the ruling council.”

  “But we are witnesses,” Drizzt reasoned.

  “No,” Zak replied. “We are onlookers; this battle is none of our affair. Only the nobles of the defending house are awarded the right to place accusations against their attackers.”

  “If any nobles are left alive,” Briza added, obviously enjoying the drama.

  At that moment, Drizzt wasn’t sure if he liked this new revelation. However he might have felt, he found that he could not tear his gaze from the continuing spectacle of drow battle. All the Do’Urden compound was astir now, soldiers and slaves running about in search of a better vantage point and shouting out descriptions of the action and rumors of the perpetrators.

  This was drow society in all its macabre play, and while it seemed ultimately wrong in the heart of the youngest member of House Do’Urden, Drizzt could not deny the excitement of the night. Nor could Drizzt deny the expressions of obvious pleasure stamped upon the faces of the three who shared the balcony with him.

  Alton made his way through his private chambers one final time, to make certain that any artifacts or tomes that might seem even the least bit sacrilegious were safely hidden. He was expecting a visit from a matron mother, a rare occasion for a master of the Academy not connected with Arach-Tinilith, the School of Lolth. Alton was more than a little anxious about the motives of this particular visitor, Matron SiNafay Hun’ett, head of the city’s fifth house and mother of Masoj, Alton’s partner in conspiracy.

  A bang on the stone door of the outermost chamber in his complex told Alton that his guest had arrived. He straightened his robes and took yet another glance around the room. The door swung open before Alton could get there, and Matron SiNafay swept into the room. How easily she made the transformation—walking from the absolute dark of the outside corridor into the candlelight of Alton’s chamber—without so much as a flinch.

  SiNafay was smaller than Alton had imagined, diminutive even by the standards of the drow. She stood barely more than four feet high and weighed, by Alton’s estimation, no more than fifty pounds. She was a matron mother, though, and Alton reminded himself that she could strike him dead with a single spell.

  Alton averted his gaze obediently and tried to convince himself that there was nothing unusual about this visit. He grew less at ease, however, when Masoj trotted in and to his mother’s side, a smug smile on his face.

  “Greetings from House Hun’ett, Gelroos,” Matron SiNafay said. “Twenty-five years and more it has been since we last talked.”

  “Gelroos?” Alton mumbled under his breath. He cleared his throat to cover his surprise. “My greetings to you, Matron SiNafay,” he managed to stammer. “Has it been so very long?”

  “You should come to the house,” the matron said. “Your chambers remain empty.”

  My chambers? Alton began to feel very sick.

  SiNafay did not miss the look. A scowl crossed her face and her eyes narrowed evilly.

  Alton suspected that his secret was out. If the Faceless One had been a member of the Hun’ett family, how could Alton hope to fool the matron mother of the house? He scanned for the best escape route, or for some way he could at least kill the traitorous Masoj before SiNafay struck him down.

  When he looked back toward Matron SiNafay, she had already begun a quiet spell. Her eyes popped wide at its completion, her suspicions confirmed.

  “Who are you?” she asked, her voice sounding more curious than concerned.

  There was no escape, no way to get at Masoj, standing prudently close to his powerful mother’s side.

  “Who are you?” SiNafay asked again, taking a three-headed instrument from her belt, the dreaded snake-headed whip that injected the most painful and incapacitating poison known to drow.

  “Alton,” he stuttered, having no choice but to answer. He knew that since she now was on her guard, SiNafay would use simple magic to detect any lies he might concoct. “I am Alton DeVir.”

  “DeVir?” Matron SiNafay appeared at least intrigued. “Of the House DeVir that died some years ago?”

  “I am the only survivor,” Alton admitted.

  “And you killed Gelroos—Gelroos Hun’ett—and took his place as master in Sorcere,” the matron reasoned, her voice a snarl. Doom closed in all around Alton.

  “I did not … I could not know his name … He would have killed me!” Alton stuttered.

  “I killed Gelroos,” came a voice from the side.

  SiNafay and Alton turned to Masoj, who once again held his favorite two-handed crossbow.

  “With this,” the young Hun’ett explained. “On the night House DeVir fell. I found my excuse in Gelroos’s battle with that one.” He pointed to Alton.

  “Gelroos was your brother,” Matron SiNafay reminded Masoj.

  “Damn his bones!” Masoj spat. “For four miserable years I served him—served him as if he were a matron mother! He would have kept me from Sorcere, would have forced me into the Melee-Magthere instead.”

  The matron looked from Masoj to Alton and back to her son. “And you let this one live,” she reasoned, a smile again on her lips. “You killed your enemy and forged an alliance with a new master in a single move.”

  “As I was taught,” Masoj said through clenched teeth, not knowing whether punishment or praise would follow.

  “You were just a child,” SiNafay remarked, suddenly realizing the timetable involved.

  Masoj accepted the compliment silently.

  Alton watched it all anxiously. “Then what of me?” he cried. “Is my life forfeit?”

  SiNafay turned a glare on him. “Your life as Alton DeVir ended, so it would seem, on the night House DeVir fell. Thus you remain the Faceless One, Gelroos Hun’ett. I can use your eyes in the Academy—to watch over my son and my enemies.”

  Alton could hardly breathe. To so suddenly find himself allied with one of the most powerful houses in Menzoberranzan. A jumble of possibilities and questions flooded his mind, one in particular, which had haunted him for nearly two decades.

  His a
dopted matron mother recognized his excitement. “Speak your thoughts,” she commanded.

  “You are a high priestess of Lolth,” Alton said boldly, that one notion overpowering all caution. “It is within your power to grant me my fondest desire.”

  “You dare to ask a favor?” Matron SiNafay balked, though she saw the torment on Alton’s face and was intrigued by the apparent importance of this mystery. “Very well”

  “What house destroyed my family?” Alton growled. “Ask the nether world, I beg, Matron SiNafay.”

  SiNafay considered the question carefully, and the possibilities of Alton’s apparent thirst for vengeance. Another benefit of allowing this one into the family? SiNafay wondered.

  “This is known to me already,” she replied. “Perhaps when you have proven your value, I will tell—”

  “No!” Alton cried. He stopped short, realizing that he had interrupted a matron mother, a crime that could invoke a punishment of death.

  SiNafay held back her angry urges. “This question must be very important for you to act so foolishly,” she said.

  “Please,” Alton begged. “I must know. Kill me if you will, but tell me first who it was.”

  SiNafay liked his courage, and his obsession could only prove of value to her. “House Do’Urden,” she said.

  “Do’Urden?” Alton echoed, hardly believing that a house so far back in the city hierarchy could have defeated House DeVir.

  “You will take no actions against them,” Matron SiNafay warned. “And I will forgive your insolence—this time. You are a son of House Hun’ett now; remember always your place!” She let it stay at that, knowing that one who had been clever enough to carry out such a deception for the better part of two decades would not be foolish enough to disobey the matron mother of his house.

  “Come Masoj,” SiNafay said to her son, “let us leave this one alone so that he may consider his new identity.”