Relentless

by R. A. Salvatore

  “Run free, Drizzt Do’Urden,” Jarlaxle whispered into the Menzoberranzan night. “Find your way with untainted heart and die with honor and integrity. Do something your father was never able to do.”

  Satisfied, Jarlaxle stood up and turned for the door, adding under his breath an admission that weighted his every step, “Something I never had the courage to do.”

  Part 4

  Without the Middle

  I am empty.

  I have been given a great gift, so I believed, in being returned to life again, and in a world full of changes both hopeful and desperate—and in the latter, I feel as if I can make a significant difference.

  On the surface, it is everything I wanted. It is an open fight against Lolth and her evil minions, a chance to strike back for all of the suffering that I and my people, and indeed the whole world, have endured at the Spider Queen’s hands.

  But I am empty.

  In the last moments of my previous life, I gave myself that my son might live. That was the deal and the deal held, though only because Malice failed in trying to kill Drizzt. Because of that bargain, Drizzt was given a good life, one in which he found a better way, found an escape.

  He found love.

  All of this should lighten my heart, but how can it? I gave my life for Drizzt, and now, in what is to me only a few tendays of time, my deal was unwound, both ways. I am alive and he is lost to me—and that makes me wonder if I even want to be alive!

  I know that I cannot think this way, particularly now. I will fend my grief with anger and determination—anger at my loss and determination that the product of Drizzt’s love to this human woman will live the promise I wish I might have given to my son . . . or to my lost daughter.

  Drizzt’s child will grow up in the arms and care of a loving mother, and with many worthy and wonderful friends.

  If she or he can survive this onslaught now faced in this place called Gauntlgrym.

  The child will survive.

  If I have to kill every demon, every drow, every enemy in all the world, this child will survive.

  That is my promise to you, my lost son Drizzt.

  And to you, my lost daughter Vierna.

  Would that I had been better to both of you.

  Zaknafein Do’Urden

  Chapter 21

  The Danger, the Thrill

  The Year of Dwarvenkind Reborn

  Dalereckoning 1488

  “The retrievers are indestructible?” Brother Afafrenfere said to Yvonnel. He had coaxed her out alone, asking more about the end of Drizzt.

  “Almost,” the drow woman answered. “The dwarves here dumped one into the chasm with the fire primordial. I know not if it is thus destroyed, but that was some time ago and they have not seen it. That one was targeted for Zaknafein, we are certain, and he remains within the complex. If it was still surviving, it would be trying to climb out.”

  “So it was destroyed?”

  “That would be my guess.”

  “And the one chasing Drizzt? Is it possible that he destroyed it?”

  The woman shook her head, but answered, “Anything is possible. But where is Drizzt, then?”

  “You think him dead or taken to the Abyss with the golem.”

  “That seems most likely.” Yvonnel cocked her head a bit to study the monk. “What are you thinking, monk?”

  Now it was Afafrenfere’s turn to shake his head. “I do not know. But I must find this place.”

  “Thornhold?”

  “The fortress of Drizzt’s apparent last stand, yes.”

  “It is a long way,” Yvonnel replied, “Perhaps hundreds of miles, and none will be more difficult than the first.”

  “Get me out of here, just past the demons and the drow on the surface, I beg of you,” Afafrenfere said.

  “Tell me why.”

  “I do not know that you would understand.”

  “Brother, my memories date back millennia, to the founding of Menzoberranzan,” the drow explained. “I have been to the Abyss and the Nine Hells. I have roamed Tartarus and battled celestials. I am the reincarnation of all the lessons learned by Matron Mother Yvonnel the Eternal, her memories gifted to me by an illithid when I was still in my mother’s womb. More recently, on my own, I led the defeat and destruction of the corporeal form of Demogorgon.

  There is much about the multiverse I do not understand—it is a nearly infinitely wide place, after all—but I assure you that there is more I could tell to you that you would not understand than this issue now before us. You ask me for help, and so, as I am friend to the dwarves here and to the man you sought, I will help you—as soon as you convince me that you are deserving of my help and that there may be some gain to my efforts.”

  Brother Afafrenfere thought it over for a few moments, then nodded. “Let me tell you of Grandmaster of Flowers Kane,” he said. “Let me tell you of a fight I shared with him, he within me in a willing co-possession of my physical being, against a white dragon above the mountains of the Silver Marches.”

  “This is untenable,” Yiccardaria said to Matron Zhindia. The two handmaidens and the drow commanders had gathered in the house in Bleeding Vines that Matron Zhindia had taken as her command post, to evaluate the situation and plot their next moves.

  Surprising the mortal drow, Yiccardaria and Eskavidne had come in once more intent on rehashing the past: the disposition of the retrievers, the apparent success of one, the miserable failure of the other.

  “These valued weapons were given to you with the expectation of care, Matron,” Yiccardaria said, and her tone sounded as a great threat to all around the table.

  “They were given to me as indestructible weapons with singular purpose,” Zhindia replied, trying to sound equally as aggressive for reasons obvious to all.

  “Under your command!” Yiccardaria silenced her.

  “It was always assumed that Matron Zhindia would exercise wisdom and temperance in deploying the constructs,” Eskavidne added.

  Zhindia stuttered over her words for some time, flabbergasted that they were even talking about this again. Immediately following the handmaidens’ explanation of the retrievers’ outcomes the last time, after all, Eskavidne and Yiccardaria had then opened the magical gate to bring back the many long-dead driders, putting them at Zhindia’s disposal.

  So, why now? Why were these two, particularly Yiccardaria, determined to replay the conversation about the retrievers and this time point fingers of blame?

  Matron Zhindia wasn’t sure of the answer to that, but she certainly understood the potential implications if the accusation gained any traction.

  She took a deep breath and said calmly, “I brought the retrievers to the surface in my march, as instructed, and turned them loose to fulfill their destiny—one determined by others. You two? Lady Lolth herself? Could I have stopped them from pursuing their targets had I tried? Would that not have made me, and those I assigned to the task, obstacles to the retrievers’ sole and compelled goal? And we all know what retrievers do to those who impede their mission.”

  “But did you aid their mission?” Yiccardaria pressed.

  “What would you have had me do? Send my forces deep into Gauntlgrym or spread them far and wide to the Sword Coast to chase the construct pursuing the heretic Drizzt? They had singular goals. I have a war to win.”

  “At least she admits her tactics, and thus her failing,” Eskavidne said to her peer, and Yiccardaria nodded.

  Matron Zhindia barely contained her snarl.

  “It is not so terrible an ordeal for you, Matron Zhindia, and surely you can repair the damage you have wrought,” Eskavidne told the woman.

  Zhindia’s eyes narrowed. Her jaw clenched. It took all of her willpower then, and a constant inner reminder that these were representatives of the Spider Queen, whose blessing was all that really mattered to her, to hold back her curses and her orders to her companions to properly send these two back to the swirling mists of the Abyss.

  “A
retriever is destroyed after its mission is complete, in any case,” Eskavidne went on. “The loss is not important. It is the loss without the gain of the target that matters and reflects badly. Drizzt Do’Urden is removed, but Zaknafein Do’Urden remains. Correct that and this conversation will be forgotten, of course.”

  “Of course,” Yiccardaria echoed, “it would also be best if you capture Zaknafein and bring us to your side, that we may more fully bless the ritual as you give him to Lolth.”

  Zhindia couldn’t hide her curiosity from her expression here, she knew, but so be it. It made sense that the handmaidens would wish to be around to witness such a grand gift to Lolth, of course, but there was something about the way Yiccardaria had issued her demand, some extra bit of enthusiasm perhaps, that made the perceptive and always suspicious matron wonder if there was more to this than the simple execution of a heretic.

  As far as Matron Zhindia knew, it remained a mystery of how Zaknafein had returned to life, of which divine being had for some reason thought it wise to bring the him back from a well-deserved grave.

  What was she missing here? What motivation beyond this way and Matron Zhindia’s campaign to destroy the heretics had brought her the two handmaidens and their generous offers, first the retrievers and then the driders? There were always webs of intrigue with the drow, more so with those demons surrounding Lolth, and most so with Lolth herself. It was their way, and therefore, Zhindia could still take heart that her victory here was greatly desired, and it would be one realized with the full blessing of Lolth.

  There was something more, though, probably many things, and one in particular concerning Zaknafein Do’Urden. It was likely irrelevant to her—or would have been, had not the handmaidens just blamed the loss of the retriever on Zhindia to compel her to handle Zaknafein as they had demanded—but even so, it was always wise for a drow to search as deeply into the webbing as was possible.

  “I would like nothing more than to plunge the sacrificial dagger into the chest of Zaknafein Do’Urden, handmaiden,” she answered—and honestly. “And when I do, having Yiccardaria and Eskavidne beside me, sharing in the prayers to Lady Lolth, would make it all the more glorious.”

  “You need to press them, Matron,” Yiccardaria said. “Harder. Take the halls and hold the halls. Catch and kill their leaders. Secure this place, and while doing so, eliminate the heretic Zaknafein to repent your failure with the retriever.”

  Matron Zhindia bit back her retort, but neither did she verbally, openly, before these other witnesses, agree with the advice. “You would have me send in the driders?”

  “No,” Eskavidne blurted before Yiccardaria could answer. “No! The driders are for maintaining that which you win. You have demons. Use them. Even the major fiends. A great and magnificent push to purge this place of the dwarven plague. Go and claim the first part of your kingdom.”

  Around the table, other drow cheered, and Zhindia joined in. In her thoughts, though, she wasn’t so thrilled with the command. Holding back the major demons had been a wise course, one that ensured victory, even though it delayed the outcome. The major demons were doing no more than using their energies and magical powers to open gates to the Abyss, to bring in reinforcements to throw against the battle-weary dwarves. They were getting very restless—so much so that more than one had gone into the fray anyway. But it was working.

  “Time is our greatest ally,” she reminded.

  “Not so,” Eskavidne replied. “To an extent, yes, and until the time to fully engage was at hand, it surely was. But we are in the realm of humans, and they may soon wake to the truth of that which is happening here and come against you in great numbers. And I do not discount the resourcefulness of King Bruenor and his companions. Perhaps they will find a way to open their gates, as they intended, and in that event, dwarven armies will come against you. Thousands of shield dwarves, armed in the east and ready to do battle.”

  Zhindia nodded. What choice did she have? This wasn’t an argument she wanted to wage—especially knowing that to lose it could mean losing the favor of Lolth.

  Aloud, at least.

  Because there was more to it all, she knew. She wanted to uncover that. She needed to see the lower strands of this still-weaving web, to figure out a way to make it take the shape she wanted.

  From the moment he had come out of the wind-like state of Yvonnel’s spell and bid farewell to the remarkable drow, Brother Afafrenfere had begun his run. It had been a weave over those first few hours as he cleared the outer perimeter of the occupying drow force, zigzagging about encampments and patrols of those huge half-drow, half-spider abominations.

  He had been seen only once, a drider calling out the alarm and launching its spear at him, a missile Afafrenfere had caught and thrown back in one single, fluid motion, even scoring a hit on the original thrower, though not enough to dispatch the monstrous beast.

  It had given chase, its companions had joined in, and the monk, having no desire to engage out here, had fled with all speed.

  Driders were swift creatures, and tireless. A normal human would have little chance of outrunning one.

  Afafrenfere, though, was not normal in this regard. He was a monk of the Order of St. Sollars, an aesthetic dedicating his entire life to wholeness of body and mind, a man who had learned through endless training to channel the energy of his very spirit into the honed muscles and joints of his physical being. Afafrenfere was Master of the East Wind, a very high title, a very high rank, a testament to his dedication, his skill, his discipline.

  Few could outrun a monk, fewer still one as skilled as Brother Afafrenfere.

  He sped away from the driders, moving swiftly beyond their reach, and unlike a normal man, he did not quickly tire in his sprint.

  Brother Afafrenfere had put many miles between himself and Gauntlgrym before pausing to take a brief rest, with no sign of the pursuing monsters anywhere to be found.

  After only that short rest, he went on his way again, moving deep into the night, climbing the tallest nearby crag to gain some perspective, he hoped, on the journey before and behind. On the eastern side of that tall mound, he found a sheer drop to a rocky ravine.

  Afafrenfere nodded at his good fortune.

  He jumped from the cliff.

  Hands and feet working miraculously, the monk descended hundreds of feet in short order, touching down in a rolling landing that absorbed most of the shock of the fall, leaving him with only a few bruises down a descent that no one who did not understand the ways of the monk would believe a human could survive.

  There, confident that he had shaken any chance of pursuit, Afafrenfere took his first rest.

  He awakened with the dawn and began his run once more, straight now into the rising sun.

  He didn’t know exactly how far he had gone, but Afafrenfere guessed it was well more than two hundred miles from the gates of Gauntlgrym to Thornhold, as Yvonnel had warned.

  Brother Afafrenfere approached the ruins only five days from his departure.

  He went through the gate and found the scar of the retriever easily enough. He did a quick scan before dropping to a cross-legged sitting position, hands on his knees, palms facing upward, where he fell into a deep, deep meditation, a joining of all that was around him on a level something more than his physical senses could tell him.

  He searched for a ghost.

  Several times, he thought he had found some measure of one, a wayward thought, a momentary inspiration or observation that seemed exterior to him.

  Perhaps the remnants of Drizzt?

  He desperately wanted Grandmaster Kane’s observations of transcendence to prove true, and to prove the work of his drow friend. Even so, however, Afafrenfere knew that it had been a while since that occurrence Kane had sensed.

  Too long, almost certainly.

  Still, he had to know the truth of it, to offer peace to Catti-brie and the other Companions of the Hall, if nothing more.

  Determined, he sat there, and he o
pened his mind, his heart, his spirit and became a being of pure receptiveness, hearing every sound, smell, whisper, sensation of the region about Thornhold. It was hard to discern the physical from the spiritual in such a state, and thus was Afafrenfere caught off his guard when at last he opened his eyes to find himself surrounded by a group of armed, armored, and indisputably angry dwarves.

  “Kill ’im” was the first thing Afafrenfere heard clearly from one of them.

  And the last.

  “That was a dangerous ploy, sister,” Eskavidne said to Yiccardaria when they were alone, though still on the material plane. They were in their natural, roper-like state, their voices bubbling and popping like hot mud, their language that of the yochlol so that if they were overheard, they would not likely be understood.

  “Zhindia tarries too long now,” Yiccardaria returned. “I fear that the gains will be short-lived.”

  “Gains? Sister, what gains concern us, or Lady Lolth?”

  Yiccardaria spun about, her appendages waving in protest.

  “There was only one gain here for you, and it is done or it is not. As of now, it is not,” said Eskavidne.

  Yiccardaria’s growl popped and grumbled like bubbling water.

  “A dangerous ploy,” Eskavidne insisted, not backing down. “Zhindia will likely soon commune with Lolth, and Lolth might not be pleased to learn of all we have done.”

  “Everything we have done is for chaos, and chaos serves Lolth,” Yiccardaria retorted. It was true enough—mostly. And wasn’t that at the heart of chaos anyway?

  “It is not just the what, but the way,” the other handmaiden replied. “Will Lolth be pleased to learn that we were granted two retrievers from Malcanthet, Queen of the Succubi and consort of Demogorgon?”

  “She will take pleasure that such constructs were given at Demogorgon’s expense,” reasoned Yiccardaria, “and for reasons that support Lolth and not Demogorgon.”