Before the hook horror ever got there, a club smashed into his knee, and the invisible duergar chuckled in glee. The other two began to fade from sight, but Clacker now paid them no heed. The invisible club struck again, this time smashing into the hook horror’s thigh.
Possessed by the instincts of a race that had never been concerned with finesse, the hook horror howled and fell forward, burying the purple flames under his massive chest. Clacker hopped and dropped several times, until he was satisfied that the unseen enemy was crushed to death.
But then a flurry of clubbing blows rained down upon the back of the hook horror’s head.
The dagger-wielding duergar was no novice to battle. His attacks came in measured thrusts, forcing Belwar, wielding heavier weapons, to take the initiative. Deep gnomes hated duergar as profoundly as duergar hated deep gnomes, but Belwar was no fool. His pickaxe waved about only to keep his opponent at bay, while his hammer-hand remained cocked and ready.
Thus, the two sparred without gain for several moments, both content to let the other make the first error. When the hook horror cried out in pain, and with Drizzt out of sight, Belwar was forced to act. He stumbled forward, feigning a trip, and lurched ahead with his hammer-hand as his pickaxe dipped low.
The duergar recognized the ploy, but could not ignore the obvious opening in the svirfneblin’s defense. The dagger came in over the pickaxe, diving straight at Belwar’s throat.
The burrow-warden threw himself backward with equal speed and lifted a leg as he went, his boot clipping the duergar’s chin. The gray dwarf kept coming, though, diving down atop the falling deep gnome, his dagger’s point leading the way.
Belwar got his pickaxe up only a split second before the jagged weapon found his throat. The burrow-warden managed to move the duergar’s arm out wide, but the gray dwarf’s considerable weight pressed them together, their faces barely an inch apart.
“Got ye now!” the duergar cried.
“Get this!” Belwar snarled back, and he freed up his hammer-hand enough to launch a short but heavy punch into the duergar’s ribs. The duergar slammed his forehead into Belwar’s face, and Belwar bit him on the nose in response. The two rolled about, spitting and snarling, and using whatever weapons they could find.
By the sound of ringing blades, any observers outside Drizzt’s darkness globe would have sworn that a dozen warriors battled within. The frenzied tempo of swordplay was solely the doing of Drizzt Do’Urden. In such a situation, fighting blindly, the drow reasoned that the best battle method would be to keep all the blades as far away from his body as possible. His scimitars charged out relentlessly and in perfect harmony, pressing the two gray dwarves back on their heels.
Each arm worked its own opponent, keeping the gray dwarves rooted in place squarely in front of Drizzt. If one of his enemies managed to get around to his side, the drow knew, he would be in serious trouble.
Each scimitar swipe brought a ring of metal, and each passing second gave Drizzt more understanding of his opponents’ abilities and attack strategies. Out in the Underdark, Drizzt had fought blindly many times, once even donning a hood against the basilisk he’d met.
Overwhelmed by the sheer speed of the drow’s attacks, the duergar could only work their swords back and forth and hope that a scimitar didn’t slide through.
The blades sang and rang as the two duergar frantically parried and dodged. Then came a sound that Drizzt had hoped for, the sound of a scimitar digging into flesh. A moment later, one sword clanged to the stone and its wounded wielder made the fatal mistake of crying out in pain.
Drizzt’s hunter-self rose to the surface at that moment and focused on that cry, and his scimitar shot straight ahead, smashing into the gray dwarf’s teeth and on through the back of its head.
The hunter turned on the remaining duergar in fury. Around and around his blades spun in swirling circular motions. Around and around, then one shot out in a sudden straightforward thrust, too quickly for a blocking response. It caught the duergar in the shoulder, gashing a deep wound.
“Give! Give!” the gray dwarf cried, not desiring the same fate as its companion. Drizzt heard another sword drop to the floor. “Please, drow elf!”
At the duergar’s words, the drow buried his instinctive urges. “I accept your surrender,” Drizzt replied, and he moved close to his opponent, putting the tip of his scimitar to the gray dwarf’s chest. Together, they walked out of the area darkened by Drizzt’s spell.
Searing agony ripped through Clacker’s head, every blow sending waves of pain. The hook horror gurgled out an animal’s growl and exploded into furious motion, heaving up from the crushed duergar and spinning over at the newest foes.
A duergar club smashed in again, but Clacker was beyond any sensation of pain. A heavy claw bashed through the purple outline, through the invisible duergar’s skull. The gray dwarf came back into view suddenly, the concentration needed to maintain a state of invisibility stolen by death, the greatest thief of all.
The remaining duergar turned to flee, but the enraged hook horror moved faster. Clacker caught the gray dwarf in a claw and hoisted him into the air. Screeching like a frenzied bird, the hook horror hurled the unseen opponent into the wall. The duergar came back into sight, broken and crumbled at the base of the stone wall.
No opponents stood to face the hook horror, but Clacker’s savage hunger was far from satiated. Drizzt and the wounded duergar emerged from the darkness then, and the hook horror barreled in.
With the specter of Belwar’s combat taking his attention, Drizzt did not realize Clacker’s intent until the duergar prisoner screamed in terror. By then, it was too late.
Drizzt watched his prisoner’s head go flying back into the globe of darkness.
“Clacker!” the drow screamed in protest. Then Drizzt ducked and dived backward for his own life as the other claw came viciously swinging across. Spotting new prey nearby, the hook horror didn’t follow the drow into the globe. Belwar and the dagger-wielding duergar were too engaged in their own struggles to notice the approaching crazed giant. Clacker bent low, collected the prone combatants in his huge arms, and heaved them both straight up into the air. The duergar had the misfortune of coming down first, and Clacker promptly batted it across the chamber. Belwar would have found a similar fate, but crossed scimitars intercepted the hook horror’s next blow.
The giant’s strength slid Drizzt back several feet, but the parry softened the blow enough for Belwar to fall by. Still, the burrow-warden crashed heavily into the floor and spent a long moment too dazed to react.
“Clacker!” Drizzt cried again, as a giant foot came up with the obvious intent of squashing Belwar flat. Needing all his speed and agility, Drizzt dived around to the back of the hook horror, dropped to the floor, and went for Clacker’s knees, as he had in their first encounter. Trying to stomp on the prone svirfneblin, Clacker was already a bit off balance, and Drizzt easily tripped him to the stone. In the blink of an eye, the drow warrior sprang atop the monster’s chest and slipped a scimitar tip between the armored folds of Clacker’s neck.
Drizzt dodged a clumsy swing as Clacker continued to struggle. The drow hated what he had to do, but then the hook horror calmed suddenly and looked up at him with sincere understanding.
“D-d-do… it,” came a garbled demand. Drizzt, horrified, glanced over to Belwar for support. Back on his feet, the burrow-warden just looked away.
“Clacker?” Drizzt asked the hook horror. “Are you Clacker once again?”
The monster hesitated, then the beaked head nodded slightly.
Drizzt sprang away and looked at the carnage in the chamber. “Let us leave,” he said.
Clacker remained prone a moment longer, considering the grim implications of his reprieve. With the battle’s conclusion, the hook horror side backed out of its full control of Clacker’s consciousness. Those savage instincts lurked, Clacker knew, not far from the surface, waiting for another opportunity to find a firm hold. How many
times would the faltering pech side be able to fight those instincts?
Clacker slammed the stone, a mighty blow that sent cracks running through the chamber’s floor. With great effort, the weary giant climbed to his feet. In his embarrassment, Clacker didn’t look at his companions, but just stormed away down the tunnel, each banging footstep falling like a hammer on a nail in Drizzt Do’Urden’s heart.
“Perhaps you should have finished it, dark elf,” Belwar suggested, moving beside his drow friend.
“He saved my life in the illithid cavern,” Drizzt retorted sharply. “And has been a loyal friend.”
“He tried to kill me, and you,” the deep gnome said grimly. “Magga cammara!”
“I am his friend!” Drizzt growled, grabbing the svirfneblin’s shoulder. “You ask me to kill him?”
“I ask you to act as his friend,” retorted Belwar, and he pulled free of the grasp and started away down the tunnel after Clacker.
Drizzt grabbed the burrow-warden’s shoulder again and roughly spun him around.
“It will only get worse, dark elf,” Belwar said calmly into Drizzt’s grimace. “A firmer hold does the wizard’s spell gain with every passing day. Clacker will try to kill us again, I fear, and if he succeeds, the realization of the act will destroy him more fully than your blades ever could!”
“I cannot kill him,” Drizzt said, and he was no longer angry. “Nor can you.”
“Then we must leave him,” the deep gnome replied. “We must let Clacker go free in the Underdark, to live his life as a hook horror. That surely is what he will become, body and spirit.”
“No,” said Drizzt. “We must not leave him. We are his only chance. We must help him.”
“The wizard is dead,” Belwar reminded him, and the deep gnome turned away and started again after Clacker.
“There are other wizards,” Drizzt replied under his breath, this time making no move to impede the burrow-warden. The drow’s eyes narrowed and he snapped his scimitars back into their sheaths. Drizzt knew what he must do, what price his friendship with Clacker demanded, but he found the thought too disturbing to accept.
There were indeed other wizards in the Underdark, but chance meetings were far from common, and wizards capable of dispelling Clacker’s polymorphed state would be fewer still. Drizzt knew where such wizards could be found, though.
The thought of returning to his homeland haunted Drizzt with every step he and his companions took that day. Having viewed the consequences of his decision to leave Menzoberranzan, Drizzt never wanted to see the place again, never wanted to look upon the dark world that had so damned him.
But if he chose now not to return, Drizzt knew that he would soon witness a more wicked sight than Menzoberranzan. He would watch Clacker, a friend who had saved him from certain death, degenerate fully into a hook horror. Belwar had suggested abandoning Clacker, and that course seemed preferable to the battle that Drizzt and the deep gnome surely must fight if they were near Clacker when the degeneration became complete.
Even if Clacker were far removed, though, Drizzt knew that he would witness the degeneration. His thoughts would stay on Clacker, the friend he had abandoned, for the rest of his days, just one more pain for the tormented drow.
In all the world, Drizzt could think of nothing he desired less than viewing the sights of Menzoberranzan or conversing with his former people. Given the choice, he would prefer death over returning to the drow city, but the choice was not so simple. It hinged on more than Drizzt’s personal desires. He had founded his life on principles, and those principles now demanded loyalty. They demanded that he put Clacker’s needs above his own desires, because Clacker had befriended him and because the concept of true friendship far outweighed personal desires.
Later on, when the friends had set camp for a short rest, Belwar noticed that Drizzt was engaged in some inner conflict. Leaving Clacker, who once again was tap-tapping at the stone wall, the svirfneblin moved cautiously by the drow’s side.
Belwar cocked his head curiously. “What are you thinking, dark elf?”
Drizzt, too caught up in his emotional turbulence, did not return Belwar’s gaze. “My homeland boasts a school of wizardry,” Drizzt replied with steadfast determination.
At first the burrow-warden didn’t understand what Drizzt hinted at, but then, when Drizzt glanced over to Clacker, Belwar realized the implications of Drizzt’s simple statement.
“Menzoberranzan?” the svirfneblin cried. “You would return there, hoping that some dark elf wizard would show mercy upon our pech friend?”
“I would return there because Clacker has no other chance,” Drizzt retorted angrily.
“Then no chance at all has Clacker,” Belwar roared. “Magga cammara, dark elf. Menzoberranzan will not be so quick to welcome you!”
“Perhaps your pessimism will prove valid,” said Drizzt. “Dark elves are not moved by mercy, I agree, but there may be other options.”
“You are hunted,” Belwar said. His tone showed that he hoped his simple words would shake some sense into his drow companion.
“By Matron Malice,” Drizzt retorted. “Menzoberranzan is a large place, my little friend, and loyalties to my mother will play no part in any encounter we find beyond those with my own family. I assure you that I have no plans to meet anyone from my own family!”
“And what, dark elf, might we offer in exchange for dispelling Clacker’s curse?” Belwar replied sarcastically. “What have we to offer that any dark elf wizard of Menzoberranzan would value?”
Drizzt’s reply started with a blurring cut of a scimitar, was heightened by a familiar simmering fire in the drow’s lavender eyes, and ended with a simple statement that even stubborn Belwar could not find the words to refute.
“The wizard’s life!”
Chapter 23.
Ripples
Matron Baenre took a long and careful scan of Malice Do’Urden, measuring how greatly the trials of Zin-carla had weighed on the matron mother. Deep lines of worry creased Malice’s once smooth face, and her stark white hair, which had been the envy of her generation, was, for one of the very few times in five centuries, frazzled and unkempt. Most striking, though, were Malice’s eyes, once radiant and alert but now dark with weariness and sunken in the sockets of her dark skin.
“Zaknafein almost had him.” Malice explained, her voice an uncharacteristic whine. “Drizzt was in his grasp, and yet somehow, my son managed to escape!”
“But the spirit-wraith is close on his trail again,” Malice quickly added, seeing Matron Baenre’s disapproving frown. In addition to being the most powerful figure in all of Menzoberranzan, the withered matron mother of House Baenre was considered Lloth’s personal representative in the city. Matron Baenre’s approval was Lloth’s approval, and, by the same logic, Matron Baenre’s disapproval most often spelled disaster for a house.
“Zin-carla requires patience, Matron Malice.” Matron Baenre said calmly. “It has not been so long.”
Malice relaxed a bit, until she looked again at her surroundings. She hated the chapel of House Baenre, so huge and demeaning. The entire Do’Urden complex could fit within this single chamber, and if Malice’s family and soldiers were multiplied ten times over, they still would not fill the rows of benches. Directly above the central altar, directly above Matron Malice, loomed the illusionary image of the gigantic spider, shifting into the form of a beautiful drow female, then back again into an arachnid. Sitting here alone with Matron Baenre under that overpowering image made Malice feel even more insignificant.
Matron Baenre sensed her guest’s uneasiness and moved to comfort her. “You have been given a great gift,” she said sincerely. “The Spider Queen would not bestow Zin-carla, and would not have accepted the sacrifice of SiNafay Hun’ett, a matron mother, if she did not approve of your methods and your intent.”
“It is a trial,” Malice replied offhandedly.
“A trial you will not fail!” Matron Baenre retorted. “And then
the glories you will know, Malice Do’Urden! When the spirit-wraith of he who was Zaknafein has completed his task and your renegade son is dead, you will sit in honor on the ruling council. Many years, I promise you, will pass before any house will dare to threaten House Do’Urden. The Spider Queen will shine her favor upon you for the proper completion of Zin-carla. She will hold your house in the highest regard and will defend you against rivals.”
“What if Zin-carla fails?” Malice dared to ask. “Let us suppose…” Her voice trailed away as Matron Baenre’s eyes widened in shock.
“Speak not the words!” Baenre scolded. “And think not of such impossibilities! You grow distracted by fear, and that alone will spell your doom. Zin-carla is an exercise of willpower and a test of your devotion to the Spider Queen. The spirit-wraith is an extension of your faith and your strength. If you falter in your trust, then the spirit-wraith of Zaknafein will falter in his quest!”
“I will not falter!” Malice roared, her hands clenched around the armrests of her chair. “I accept the responsibility of my son’s sacrilege, and with Lloth’s help and blessings, I will enact the appropriate punishment upon Drizzt.”
Matron Baenre relaxed back in her seat and nodded her approval. She had to support Malice in this endeavor, by the command of Lloth, and she knew enough of Zin-carla to understand that confidence and determination were two of the primary ingredients for success. A matron mother involved in Zin-carla had to proclaim her trust in Lloth and her desire to please Lloth often and sincerely.
Now, though, Malice had another problem, a distraction she could ill afford. She had come to House Baenre of her own volition, seeking aid.
“Then of this other matter,” Matron Baenre prompted, fast growing tired of the meeting.
“I am vulnerable,” Malice explained. “Zin-carla steals my energy and attention. I fear that another house may seize the opportunity.”
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