Despite his bravado, this time Alton privately shared Masoj's trepidation. Spirits of the dead were not as destructive as denizens of the lower planes, but they could be equally cruel and subtler in their torments.
Alton needed his answer, though. For more than a decade and a half he had sought his information through conventional channels, enquiring of masters and studentsin a roundabout manner, of course-of the details concerning the fall of House DeVir. Many knew the rumors of that eventful night; some even detailed the battle methods used by the victorious house.
None, though, would name that perpetrating house. In Menzoberranzan, one did not utter anything resembling an accusation, even if the belief was commonly shared, without enough undeniable proof to spur the ruling council into a unified action against the accused. If a house botched a raid and was discovered, the wrath of all Menzoberranzan would descend upon it until the family name had been extinguished. But in the case of a successfully executed attack, such as the one that felled House DeVir, an accuser was the one most likely to wind up at the wrong end of a snakeheaded whip.
Public embarrassment, perhaps more than any guidelines of honor, turned the wheels of justice in the city of drow.
Alton now sought other means for the solution to his quest. First he had tried the lower planes, the ice devil, to disastrous effect. Now Alton had in his possession an item that could end his frustrations: a tome penned by a wizard of the surface world. In the drow hierarchy, only the clerics of Lloth dealt with the realm of the dead, but in other societies, wizards also dabbled into the spirit world. Alton had found the book in the library of Sorcere and had managed to translate enough of it, he believed, to make a spiritual contact.
He wrung his hands together, gingerly opened the book to the marked page, and scanned the incantation one final time. "Are you ready?" he asked Masoj.
"No”
Alton ignored the student's unending sarcasm and placed his hands flat on the table. He slowly sunk into his deepest meditative trance.
"Fey innad . . “ He paused and cleared his throat at the slip. Masoj, though he hadn't closely examined the spell, recognized the mistake.
"Fey innunad demin. . “ Another pause.
"Lloth be with us” Masoj groaned under his breath.
Alton's eyes popped wide, and he glared at the student. " A translation” he growled. "From the strange language of a human wizard!"
"Gibberish” Masoj retorted.
"I have in front of me the private spellbook of a wizard from the surface world” Alton said evenly. "An archmage, according to the scribbling of the orcan thief who stole it and sold it to our agents” He composed himself again and shook his hairless head, trying to return to the depths of his trance.
"A simple, stupid orc managed to steal a spellbook from an archmage” Masoj whispered rhetorically, letting the absurdity of the statement speak for itself.
"The wizard was dead!" Alton roared. "The book is authentic! "
"Who translated it?" Masoj replied calmly. Alton refused to listen to any more arguments. Ignoring the smug look on Masoj's face, he began again.
"Fey mnunad de-mill de-sui de-kef”
Masoj faded out and tried to rehearse a lesson from one of his classes, hoping that his sobs of laughter wouldn't disturb Alton. He didn't believe for a moment that Alton's attempt would prove successful, but he didn't want to screw up the fool's line of babbling again and have to suffer through the ridiculous incantation all the way from the beginning still another time.
A short time later, when Masoj heard Alton's excited whisper, "Matron Ginafae?" he quickly focused his attention back on the events at hand. Sure enough, an unusual ball of green-hued smoke appeared over the candle's flame and gradually took a more definite shape.
"Matron Ginafae!" Alton gasped again when the summons was complete. Hovering before him was the unmistakable image of his dead mother's face.
The spirit scanned the room, confused. "Who are you?" it asked at length.
"I am Alton. Alton DeVir, your son”
"Son?" the spirit asked.
"Your child”
"I remember no child so very ugly”
"A disguise” Alton replied quickly, looking back at Masoi and expecting a snicker. If Masoi had chided and doubted Alton before, he now showed only sincere respect. Smiling, Alton continued, "Just a disguise, that I might move about in the city and exact revenge upon our enemies!"
"What city?"
"Menzoberranzan, of course”
Still the spirit seemed not to understand.
"You are Ginafae?" Alton pressed. "Matron Ginafae
DeVir?" The spirit's features contorted into a twisted scowl as it considered the question. "I was. . . I think” "Matron Mother of House DeVir, Fourth House of Menzoberranzan” Alton prompted, growing more excited. "High priestess of Lloth” The mention of the Spider Queen sent a spark through
the spirit.. "Oh, no!" it balked. Ginafae remembered now. "You should not have done this, my ugly son!" "It is iust a disguise” Alton interrupted. "I must leave you” Ginafae's spirit continued, glancing
around nervously. "You must release me!" "But I need some information from you, Matron Ginafae” "Do not call me that!" the spirit shrieked. "You do not un-
derstand! I am not in Lloth's favor. . . “ "'ll'ouble” whispered Masoi offhandedly, hardly sur-prised. "Just one answer!" Alton demanded, refusing to let another opportunity to learn his enemies' identities slip past
him. "Quickly!" the spirit shrieked. "Name the house that destroyed DeVir” "The house?" Ginafae pondered. "Yes, I remember that
evil night. It was House-"
The ball of smoke puffed and bent out of shape, twisting Ginafae's image and sending her next words out as an undecipherable blurb.
Alton leaped to his feet. "No!" he screamed. "You must tell me! Who are my enemies?"
"Would you count me as one?" the spirit image said in a voice very different from the one it had used earlier, a tone of sheer power that stole the blood from Alton's face. The image twisted and transformed, became something ugly, uglier than Alton. Hideous beyond all experience on the Material Plane.
Alton was not a cleric, of course, and he had never studied the drow religion beyond the basic tenets taught to males of the race. He knew the creature now hovering in the air before him, though, for it appeared as an oozing, slimy stick of melted wax: a yochlol, a handmaiden of Lloth.
"You dare to disturb the torment of Ginafae?" the yochlol snarled.
"Damn!" whispered Masoj, sliding slowly down under the black tablecloth. Even he, with all of his doubts of Alton, had not expected his disfigured mentor to land them in trouble this serious.
"But. . “ Alton stuttered.
"Never again disturb this plane, feeble wizard!" the yochlol roared.
"I did not try for the Abyss” Alton protested meekly. "I only meant to speak with-"
"With Ginafae!" the yochlol snarled. "Fallen priestess of Lloth. Where would you expect to find her spirit, foolish male? Frolicking in Olympus, with the false gods of the surface elves?"
"I did not think. . “
"Do you ever?" the yochlol growled.
"Nope” Masoj answered silently, careful to keep himself as far out of the way as possible.
"Never again disturb this plane” the yochlol warned a final time. "The Spider Queen is not merciful and has no tolerance for meddling males!" The creature's oozing face puffed and swelled, expanding beyond the limits of the smoky ball. Alton heard gurgling, gagging noises, and he stumbled back over his stool, putting his back flat against the wall and bringing his arms up defensively in front of his face.
The yochlol's mouth opened impossibly wide and spewed forth a hail of small objects. They ricocheted off Alton and tapped against the wall all around him. Stones? the faceless wizard wondered in confusion. One of the objects then answered his unspoken question. It caught hold of Alton's layered black robes and began crawling up toward his exposed neck. Spiders.
A wave of the eight-legged beasts rushed under the little table, sending Masoj tumbling out the other side in a desperate roll. He scrambled to his feet and turned back, to see Alton slapping and stomping wildly, trying to get out of the main host of the crawling things.
"Do not kill them!" Masoj screamed. "To kill spiders is forbidden by the-"
"To the Nine Hells with the clerics and their laws!" Alton shrieked back.
Masoj shrugged in helpless agreement, reached around under the folds of his own robes, and produced the same two-handed crossbow he had used to kill the Faceless One those years ago. He considered the powerful weapon and the tiny spiders scrambling around the room.
"Overkill?" he asked aloud. Hearing no answer, he shrugged again and fired.
The heavy bolt knifed across Alton's shoulder, cutting a deep line. The wizard stared in disbelief, then turned an ugly grimace on Masoj.
"You had one on your shoulder” the student explained. Alton's scowl did not relent.
"Ungrateful?" Masoj snarled. "Foolish Alton, all of the spiders are on your side of the room. Remember?" Masoj turned to leave and called, "Good hunting” over his shoulder. He reached for the handle to the door, but as his long fingers closed around it, the portal's surface transformed into the image of Matron Ginafae. She smiled widely, too widely, and an impossibly long and wet tongue reached out and licked Masoj across the face.
" Alton!" he cried, spinning back against the wall out of the slimy member's reach. He noticed the wizard in the midst of spellcasting, Alton fighting to hold his concentration as a host of spiders continued their hungry ascent up his flowing robes.
"You are a dead one” Masoj commented matter-of-factly, shaking his head.
Alton fought through the exacting ritual of the spell, ignored his own revulsion of the crawling things, and forced the evocation to completion. In all of his years of study, Alton never would have believed he could do such a thing; he would have laughed at the mere mention of it. Now, however, it seemed a far preferable fate to the yochlol's creeping doom.
He dropped a fireball at his own feet.
Naked and hairless, Masoj stumbled through the door and out of the inferno. The flaming faceless master came next, diving into a roll and stripping his tattered and burning robe from his back as he went.
As he watched Alton patting out the last of the flames, a pleasant memory flashed in Masoi's mind, and he uttered the single lament that dominated his every thought at this disastrous moment.
"I should have killed him when I had him in the web”
A short time later, after Masoj had gone back to his room and his studies, Alton slipped on the ornamental metallic bracers that identified him as a master of the Academy and slipped outside the structure of Sorcere. He moved to the wide and sweeping stairway leading down from Tier
Breche and sat down to take in the sights of Menzoberranzan.
Even with this view, though, the city did little to distract Alton from thoughts of his latest failure. For sixteen years he had forsaken all other dreams and ambitions in his desperate search to find the guilty house. For sixteen years he had failed.
He wondered how long he could keep up the charade, and his spirits. Masoj, his only friend-if Masoj could be called a friend-was more than halfway through his studies at Sorcere. What would Alton do when Masoj graduated and returned to House Hun'ett?
"Perhaps I shall carry on my toils for centuries to come” he said aloud, "only to be murdered by a desperate student, as I-as Masoj-murdered the Faceless One. Might that student disfigure himself and take my place?" Alton couldn't stop the ironic chuckle that passed his lipless mouth at the notion of a perpetual "faceless master" of Sorcere. At what point would the Matron Mistress of the Academy get suspicious? A thousand years? Ten thousand? Or might the Faceless One outlive Menzoberranzan itself? Life as a master was not such a bad lot, Alton supposed. Many drow would sacrifice much to be given such an honor.
Alton dropped his face into the crook of his elbow and forced away such ridiculous thoughts. He was not a real master, nor did the stolen position bring him any measure of satisfaction. Perhaps Masoj should have shot him that day, sixteen years ago, when Alton was trapped in the Faceless One's web.
Alton's despair only deepened when he considered the actual time frame involved. He had just passed his seventieth birthday and was still young by drow standards. The notion that only a tenth of his life was behind him was not a comforting one to Alton DeVir this night.
"How long will I survive?" he asked himself. "How long until this madness that is my existence consumes me?" Alton looked back out over the city. "Better that the Faceless One had killed me” he whispered. "For now I am Alton of No House Worth Mentioning”
Masoj had dubbed him that on the first morning after House DeVir's fall, but way back then, with his life teetering on the edge of a crossbow, Alton had not understood the title's implications. Menzoberranzan was nothing more than a collection of individual houses. A rogue commoner might latch on to one of them to call his own, but a rogue noble wouldn't likely be accepted by any house in the city. He was left with Sorcere and nothing more. . . until his true identity was discovered at last. What punishments would he then face for the crime of killing a master? Masoj may have committed the crime, but Masoj had a house to defend him. Alton was only a rogue noble.
He sat back on his elbows and watched the rising heat-light of Narbondel. As the minutes became hours, Alton's despair and self-pity went through inevitable change. He turned his attention to the individual drow houses now, not to the conglomeration that bound them as a city, and he wondered what dark secrets each harbored. One of them, Alton reminded himself, held the secret he most dearly wanted to know. One of them had wiped out House DeVir.
Forgotten was the night's failure with Matron Ginafae and the yochlol, forgotten was the lament for an early death. Sixteen years was not so long a time, Alton decided. He had perhaps seven centuries of life left within his slender frame. If he had to, Alton was prepared to spend every minute of those long years searching for the perpetrating house.
"Vengeance” he growled aloud, needing, feeding off, that audible reminder of his only reason for continuing to draw breath.
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Alton needed his answer, though. For more than a decade and a half he had sought his information through conventional channels, enquiring of masters and studentsin a roundabout manner, of course-of the details concerning the fall of House DeVir. Many knew the rumors of that eventful night; some even detailed the battle methods used by the victorious house.
None, though, would name that perpetrating house. In Menzoberranzan, one did not utter anything resembling an accusation, even if the belief was commonly shared, without enough undeniable proof to spur the ruling council into a unified action against the accused. If a house botched a raid and was discovered, the wrath of all Menzoberranzan would descend upon it until the family name had been extinguished. But in the case of a successfully executed attack, such as the one that felled House DeVir, an accuser was the one most likely to wind up at the wrong end of a snakeheaded whip.
Public embarrassment, perhaps more than any guidelines of honor, turned the wheels of justice in the city of drow.
Alton now sought other means for the solution to his quest. First he had tried the lower planes, the ice devil, to disastrous effect. Now Alton had in his possession an item that could end his frustrations: a tome penned by a wizard of the surface world. In the drow hierarchy, only the clerics of Lloth dealt with the realm of the dead, but in other societies, wizards also dabbled into the spirit world. Alton had found the book in the library of Sorcere and had managed to translate enough of it, he believed, to make a spiritual contact.
He wrung his hands together, gingerly opened the book to the marked page, and scanned the incantation one final time. "Are you ready?" he asked Masoj.
"No”
Alton ignored the student's unending sarcasm and placed his hands flat on the table. He slowly sunk into his deepest meditative trance.
"Fey innad . . “ He paused and cleared his throat at the slip. Masoj, though he hadn't closely examined the spell, recognized the mistake.
"Fey innunad demin. . “ Another pause.
"Lloth be with us” Masoj groaned under his breath.
Alton's eyes popped wide, and he glared at the student. " A translation” he growled. "From the strange language of a human wizard!"
"Gibberish” Masoj retorted.
"I have in front of me the private spellbook of a wizard from the surface world” Alton said evenly. "An archmage, according to the scribbling of the orcan thief who stole it and sold it to our agents” He composed himself again and shook his hairless head, trying to return to the depths of his trance.
"A simple, stupid orc managed to steal a spellbook from an archmage” Masoj whispered rhetorically, letting the absurdity of the statement speak for itself.
"The wizard was dead!" Alton roared. "The book is authentic! "
"Who translated it?" Masoj replied calmly. Alton refused to listen to any more arguments. Ignoring the smug look on Masoj's face, he began again.
"Fey mnunad de-mill de-sui de-kef”
Masoj faded out and tried to rehearse a lesson from one of his classes, hoping that his sobs of laughter wouldn't disturb Alton. He didn't believe for a moment that Alton's attempt would prove successful, but he didn't want to screw up the fool's line of babbling again and have to suffer through the ridiculous incantation all the way from the beginning still another time.
A short time later, when Masoj heard Alton's excited whisper, "Matron Ginafae?" he quickly focused his attention back on the events at hand. Sure enough, an unusual ball of green-hued smoke appeared over the candle's flame and gradually took a more definite shape.
"Matron Ginafae!" Alton gasped again when the summons was complete. Hovering before him was the unmistakable image of his dead mother's face.
The spirit scanned the room, confused. "Who are you?" it asked at length.
"I am Alton. Alton DeVir, your son”
"Son?" the spirit asked.
"Your child”
"I remember no child so very ugly”
"A disguise” Alton replied quickly, looking back at Masoi and expecting a snicker. If Masoi had chided and doubted Alton before, he now showed only sincere respect. Smiling, Alton continued, "Just a disguise, that I might move about in the city and exact revenge upon our enemies!"
"What city?"
"Menzoberranzan, of course”
Still the spirit seemed not to understand.
"You are Ginafae?" Alton pressed. "Matron Ginafae
DeVir?" The spirit's features contorted into a twisted scowl as it considered the question. "I was. . . I think” "Matron Mother of House DeVir, Fourth House of Menzoberranzan” Alton prompted, growing more excited. "High priestess of Lloth” The mention of the Spider Queen sent a spark through
the spirit.. "Oh, no!" it balked. Ginafae remembered now. "You should not have done this, my ugly son!" "It is iust a disguise” Alton interrupted. "I must leave you” Ginafae's spirit continued, glancing
around nervously. "You must release me!" "But I need some information from you, Matron Ginafae” "Do not call me that!" the spirit shrieked. "You do not un-
derstand! I am not in Lloth's favor. . . “ "'ll'ouble” whispered Masoi offhandedly, hardly sur-prised. "Just one answer!" Alton demanded, refusing to let another opportunity to learn his enemies' identities slip past
him. "Quickly!" the spirit shrieked. "Name the house that destroyed DeVir” "The house?" Ginafae pondered. "Yes, I remember that
evil night. It was House-"
The ball of smoke puffed and bent out of shape, twisting Ginafae's image and sending her next words out as an undecipherable blurb.
Alton leaped to his feet. "No!" he screamed. "You must tell me! Who are my enemies?"
"Would you count me as one?" the spirit image said in a voice very different from the one it had used earlier, a tone of sheer power that stole the blood from Alton's face. The image twisted and transformed, became something ugly, uglier than Alton. Hideous beyond all experience on the Material Plane.
Alton was not a cleric, of course, and he had never studied the drow religion beyond the basic tenets taught to males of the race. He knew the creature now hovering in the air before him, though, for it appeared as an oozing, slimy stick of melted wax: a yochlol, a handmaiden of Lloth.
"You dare to disturb the torment of Ginafae?" the yochlol snarled.
"Damn!" whispered Masoj, sliding slowly down under the black tablecloth. Even he, with all of his doubts of Alton, had not expected his disfigured mentor to land them in trouble this serious.
"But. . “ Alton stuttered.
"Never again disturb this plane, feeble wizard!" the yochlol roared.
"I did not try for the Abyss” Alton protested meekly. "I only meant to speak with-"
"With Ginafae!" the yochlol snarled. "Fallen priestess of Lloth. Where would you expect to find her spirit, foolish male? Frolicking in Olympus, with the false gods of the surface elves?"
"I did not think. . “
"Do you ever?" the yochlol growled.
"Nope” Masoj answered silently, careful to keep himself as far out of the way as possible.
"Never again disturb this plane” the yochlol warned a final time. "The Spider Queen is not merciful and has no tolerance for meddling males!" The creature's oozing face puffed and swelled, expanding beyond the limits of the smoky ball. Alton heard gurgling, gagging noises, and he stumbled back over his stool, putting his back flat against the wall and bringing his arms up defensively in front of his face.
The yochlol's mouth opened impossibly wide and spewed forth a hail of small objects. They ricocheted off Alton and tapped against the wall all around him. Stones? the faceless wizard wondered in confusion. One of the objects then answered his unspoken question. It caught hold of Alton's layered black robes and began crawling up toward his exposed neck. Spiders.
A wave of the eight-legged beasts rushed under the little table, sending Masoj tumbling out the other side in a desperate roll. He scrambled to his feet and turned back, to see Alton slapping and stomping wildly, trying to get out of the main host of the crawling things.
"Do not kill them!" Masoj screamed. "To kill spiders is forbidden by the-"
"To the Nine Hells with the clerics and their laws!" Alton shrieked back.
Masoj shrugged in helpless agreement, reached around under the folds of his own robes, and produced the same two-handed crossbow he had used to kill the Faceless One those years ago. He considered the powerful weapon and the tiny spiders scrambling around the room.
"Overkill?" he asked aloud. Hearing no answer, he shrugged again and fired.
The heavy bolt knifed across Alton's shoulder, cutting a deep line. The wizard stared in disbelief, then turned an ugly grimace on Masoj.
"You had one on your shoulder” the student explained. Alton's scowl did not relent.
"Ungrateful?" Masoj snarled. "Foolish Alton, all of the spiders are on your side of the room. Remember?" Masoj turned to leave and called, "Good hunting” over his shoulder. He reached for the handle to the door, but as his long fingers closed around it, the portal's surface transformed into the image of Matron Ginafae. She smiled widely, too widely, and an impossibly long and wet tongue reached out and licked Masoj across the face.
" Alton!" he cried, spinning back against the wall out of the slimy member's reach. He noticed the wizard in the midst of spellcasting, Alton fighting to hold his concentration as a host of spiders continued their hungry ascent up his flowing robes.
"You are a dead one” Masoj commented matter-of-factly, shaking his head.
Alton fought through the exacting ritual of the spell, ignored his own revulsion of the crawling things, and forced the evocation to completion. In all of his years of study, Alton never would have believed he could do such a thing; he would have laughed at the mere mention of it. Now, however, it seemed a far preferable fate to the yochlol's creeping doom.
He dropped a fireball at his own feet.
Naked and hairless, Masoj stumbled through the door and out of the inferno. The flaming faceless master came next, diving into a roll and stripping his tattered and burning robe from his back as he went.
As he watched Alton patting out the last of the flames, a pleasant memory flashed in Masoi's mind, and he uttered the single lament that dominated his every thought at this disastrous moment.
"I should have killed him when I had him in the web”
A short time later, after Masoj had gone back to his room and his studies, Alton slipped on the ornamental metallic bracers that identified him as a master of the Academy and slipped outside the structure of Sorcere. He moved to the wide and sweeping stairway leading down from Tier
Breche and sat down to take in the sights of Menzoberranzan.
Even with this view, though, the city did little to distract Alton from thoughts of his latest failure. For sixteen years he had forsaken all other dreams and ambitions in his desperate search to find the guilty house. For sixteen years he had failed.
He wondered how long he could keep up the charade, and his spirits. Masoj, his only friend-if Masoj could be called a friend-was more than halfway through his studies at Sorcere. What would Alton do when Masoj graduated and returned to House Hun'ett?
"Perhaps I shall carry on my toils for centuries to come” he said aloud, "only to be murdered by a desperate student, as I-as Masoj-murdered the Faceless One. Might that student disfigure himself and take my place?" Alton couldn't stop the ironic chuckle that passed his lipless mouth at the notion of a perpetual "faceless master" of Sorcere. At what point would the Matron Mistress of the Academy get suspicious? A thousand years? Ten thousand? Or might the Faceless One outlive Menzoberranzan itself? Life as a master was not such a bad lot, Alton supposed. Many drow would sacrifice much to be given such an honor.
Alton dropped his face into the crook of his elbow and forced away such ridiculous thoughts. He was not a real master, nor did the stolen position bring him any measure of satisfaction. Perhaps Masoj should have shot him that day, sixteen years ago, when Alton was trapped in the Faceless One's web.
Alton's despair only deepened when he considered the actual time frame involved. He had just passed his seventieth birthday and was still young by drow standards. The notion that only a tenth of his life was behind him was not a comforting one to Alton DeVir this night.
"How long will I survive?" he asked himself. "How long until this madness that is my existence consumes me?" Alton looked back out over the city. "Better that the Faceless One had killed me” he whispered. "For now I am Alton of No House Worth Mentioning”
Masoj had dubbed him that on the first morning after House DeVir's fall, but way back then, with his life teetering on the edge of a crossbow, Alton had not understood the title's implications. Menzoberranzan was nothing more than a collection of individual houses. A rogue commoner might latch on to one of them to call his own, but a rogue noble wouldn't likely be accepted by any house in the city. He was left with Sorcere and nothing more. . . until his true identity was discovered at last. What punishments would he then face for the crime of killing a master? Masoj may have committed the crime, but Masoj had a house to defend him. Alton was only a rogue noble.
He sat back on his elbows and watched the rising heat-light of Narbondel. As the minutes became hours, Alton's despair and self-pity went through inevitable change. He turned his attention to the individual drow houses now, not to the conglomeration that bound them as a city, and he wondered what dark secrets each harbored. One of them, Alton reminded himself, held the secret he most dearly wanted to know. One of them had wiped out House DeVir.
Forgotten was the night's failure with Matron Ginafae and the yochlol, forgotten was the lament for an early death. Sixteen years was not so long a time, Alton decided. He had perhaps seven centuries of life left within his slender frame. If he had to, Alton was prepared to spend every minute of those long years searching for the perpetrating house.
"Vengeance” he growled aloud, needing, feeding off, that audible reminder of his only reason for continuing to draw breath.
Chapter 8
Kindred
Zak pressed in with a series of low thrusts. Drizzt tried to back away quickly and return to even footing, but the relentless assault followed his every step, and he was forced to keep his movements solely on the defensive. More often than not, Drizzt found the hilts of his weapons closer to Zak than the blades.
Zak then dropped into a low crouch and came up under Drizzt's defense.
Drizzt twirled his scimitars in a masterful cross, but he had to straighten stiffly to dodge the weapon master's equally deft assault. Drizzt knew that he had been set up, and he fully expected the next attack as Zak shifted his weight to his back leg and dove in, both sword tips aimed for Drizzt's loins.
Drizzt spat a silent curse and spun his scimitars into a downward cross, meaning to use the "V" of his blades to catch his teacher's swords. On a sudden impulse, Drizzt hesitated as he intercepted Zak's weapons, and he jumped away instead, taking a painful slap on the inside of one thigh. Disgusted, he threw both of his scimitars to the floor.
Zak, too, leaped back. He held his swords out to his sides, a look of sincere confusion on his face. "You should not have missed that move” he said bluntly.
"The parry is wrong” Drizzt replied.
Awaiting further explanation, Zak lowered one sword tip to the floor and leaned on the weapon. In past years, Zak had wounded, even killed, students for such blatant defiance.
"The cross-down defeats the attack, but to what gain?" Drizzt continued. "When the move is completed, my sword tips remain down too low for any effective attack routine, and you are able to slip back and free”
"But you have defeated my attack”
"Only to face another; Drizzt argued. "The best position I can hope to obtain from the cross-down is an even stance”
"Yes. . “ Zak prompted, not understanding his student's problem with that scenario.
"Remember your own lesson!" Drizzt shouted. "'Every move should bring an advantage: you preach to me, but I see no advantage in using the cross-down”
"You recite only one part of that lesson for your own purpose” Zak scolded, now growing equally angry. "Complete the phrase, or use it not at all! 'Every move should bring an advantage or take away a disadvantage: The cross-down defeats the double thrust low, and your opponent obviously has gained the advantage if he even attempts such a daring offensive maneuver! Returning to an even stance is far preferable at that moment”
"The parry is wrong!" Drizzt said stubbornly.
"Pick up your blades” Zak growled at him, taking a threatening step forward. Drizzt hesitated and Zak charged, his swords leading.
Drizzt dropped to a crouch, snatched up the scimitars, and rose to meet the assault while wondering if it was another lesson or a true attack.
The weapon master pressed furiously, snapping off cut after cut and backing Drizzt around in circles. Drizzt de. fended well enough and began to notice an all-too-familiar pattern as Zak's attacks came consistently lower, again forcing the hilts of Drizzt's weapons up and out over the scimitars' blades.
Drizzt understood that Zak meant to prove his point with actions, not words. Seeing the fury on Zak's face, though, Drizzt wasn't certain how far the weapon master would carry his point. If Zak proved correct in his observations, would he strike again to Drizzt's thigh? Or to his heart? Zak came up and under and Drizzt stiffened and straightened.
"Double thrust low" the weapon master growled, and his swords dove in.
Drizzt was ready for him. He executed the cross-down, smiling smugly at the ring of metal as his scimitars crossed over the thrusting swords. Drizzt then followed through with only one of his blades, thinking he could deflect both of Zak's swords well enough in that manner. Now with one blade free of the parry, Drizzt spun it over in a devious counter.
As soon as Drizzt reversed the one hand, Zak saw the ploy-a ruse he had suspected Drizzt would try. Zak dropped one of his own sword tips-the one nearest to the hilt of Drizzt's single parrying blade-to the ground, and Drizzt, trying to maintain an even resistance and balance along the length of the blocking scimitar, lost his balance. Drizzt was quick enough to catch himself before he had stumbled too far, though his knuckles pinched into the stone of the floor. He still believed that he had Zak caught in his trap, and that he could finish his brilliant counter. He took a short step forward to regain his full balance.
The weapon master dropped straight down to the floor, under the arc of Drizzt's swinging scimitar, and spun a single circuit, driving his booted heel into the back of Drizzt's exposed knee. Before Drizzt had even realized the attack, he found himself lying flat on his back.
Zak abruptly broke his own momentum and threw his feet back under him. Before Drizzt could begin to under. stand the dizzying counter-counter, he found the weapon master standing over him with the tip of Zak's sword pain. fully and pointedly drawing a tiny drop of blood from his throat.
"Have you anything more to say?" Zak growled.
"The parry is wrong” Drizzt answered.
Zak's laughter erupted from his belly. He threw his sword jto the ground, reached down, and pulled the stubborn young student to his feet. He calmed quickly, his gaze find. ing that of Drizzt's lavender orbs as he pushed the student out to arm's length. Zak marveled at the ease of Drizzt's stance, the way he held the twin scimitars almost as if they were a natural extension of his arms. Drizzt had been in training only a few months, but already he had mastered the use of nearly every weapon in the vast armory of House Do'Urden.
Those scimitars! Drizzt's chosen weapons, with curving blades that enhanced the dizzying flow of the young fighter's sweeping battle style. With those scimitars in hand, this young drow, barely more than a child, could outfight half the members of the Academy, and a shiver tingled through Zak's spine when he pondered just how magnificent Drizzt would become after years of training.
It was not just the physical abilities and potential of Drizzt Do'Urden that made Zaknafein pause and take note, however. Zak had come to realize that Drizzt's temperament was indeed different from that of the average drow; Drizzt possessed a spirit of innocence and lacked any maliciousness. Zak couldn't help but feel proud when he looked upon Drizzt. In all manners, the young drow held to the same principles-morals so unusual in Menzoberranzan-as Zak.
Drizzt had recognized the connection as well, though he had no idea of how unique his and Zak's shared perceptions were in the evil drow world. He realized that "Uncle Zak" was different from any of the other dark elves he had come to know, though that included only his own family and a few dozen of the house soldiers. Certainly Zak was much different from Briza, Drizzt's oldest sister, with her zealous, almost blind, ambitions in the mysterious religion of Lloth. Certainly Zak was different from Matron Malice, Drizzt's mother, who seemed never to say anything at all to Drizzt unless it was a command for service.
Zak was able to smile at situations that didn't necessarily bring pain to anyone. He was the firstdrow Drizzt had met who was apparently content with his station in life. Zak was the first drow Drizzt had ever heard laugh.
"A good try” the weapon master conceded of Drizzt's failed counter.
"In a real battle, I would have been dead” Drizzt replied.
"Surely” said Zak, "but that is why we train. Your plan was masterful, your timing perfect. Only the situation was wrong. Still, I will say it was a good try!'
"You expected it” said the student.
Zak smiled and nodded. "That is, perhaps, because I had seen the maneuver attempted by another student!'
"Against you?" Drizzt asked, feeling a little less special now that he knew his battle insights were not so unique.
"Hardly” Zak replied with a wink. "I watched the counter fail from the same angle as you, to the same result!' Drizzt's face brightened again. "We think alike” he commented.
"We do” said Zak, "but my knowledge has been increased by four centuries of experience, while you have not even lived through a score of years. Trust me, my eager student. The cross-down is the correct parry!'
"Perhaps” Drizzt replied.
Zak hid a smile. "When you find a better counter, we shall try it. But until then, trust my word. I have trained more soldiers than I can count, all the army of House Do'Urden and ten times that number when I served as a master in Melee-Magthere. I taught Rizzen, all of your sisters, and both of your brothers!'
"Both?"
"I . . Zak paused and shot a curious glance at Drizzt. "I see” he said after a moment. "They never bothered to tell you!' Zak wondered if it was his place to tell Drizzt the truth. He doubted that Matron Malice would care either way; she probably hadn't told Drizzt simply because she hadn't considered the story of Nalfein's death worth telling.
"Yes, both!' Zak decided to explain. "You had two brothers when you were born: Dinin, whom you know, and an older one, Nalfein, a wizard of considerable power. Nalfein was killed in battle on the very night you drew your first breath!'
"Against dwarves or vicious gnomes?" Drizzt squeaked, as wide-eyed as a child begging for a frightening bedtime story. "Was he defending the city from evil conquerors or rogue monsters?"
Zak had a hard time reconciling the warped perceptions of Drizzt's innocent beliefs. "Bury the young in lies” he lamented under his breath, but to Drizzt he answered, "No”
"Then against some opponent more foul?" Drizzt pressed.
"Wicked elves from the surface?"
"He died at the hands of a drow!" Zak snapped in frustration, stealing the eagerness from Drizzt's shining eyes. Drizzt slumped back to consider the possibilities, and Zak could hardly bear to watch the confusion that twisted his young face.
"War with another city?" Drizzt asked somberly. "I did not know.. “
Zak let it go at that. He turned and moved silently toward his private chamber. Let Malice or one of her lackeys destroy Drizzt's innocent logic. Behind him, Drizzt held his next line of questions in check, understanding that the conversation, and the lesson, was at an end. Understanding, too, that something important had just transpired.
The weapon master battled Drizzt through long hours as the days blended into weeks, and the weeks into months. Time became unimportant; they fought until exhaustion overwhelmed them, and went back to the training floor again as soon as they were able.
By the third year, at the age of nineteen, Drizzt was able to hold out for hours against the weapon master, even taking the offensive in many of their contests.
Zak enjoyed these days. For the first time in many years, he had met one with the potential to become his fighting equal. For the first time that Zak could ever remember, laughter often accompanied the clash of adamantite weapons in the training room.
He watched Drizzt grow tall and straight, attentive, eager, and intelligent. The masters of the Academy would be hard put just to hold a stalemate against Drizzt, even in his first year!
That thought thrilled the weapon master only as long as it took him to remember the principles of the Academy, the precepts of drow life, and what they would do to his wonderful student. How they would steal that smile from Drizzt's lavender eyes.
A pointed reminder of that drow world outside the practice room visited them one day in the person of Matron Malice.
"Address her with proper respect” Zak warned Drizzt when Maya announced the matron mother's entrance. The weapon master prudently moved out a few steps to greet the head of House Do'Urden privately.
"My greetings, Matron” he said with a low bow. "To what do i owe the honor of your presence?"
Matron Malice laughed at him, seeing through his facade.
"So much time do you and my son spend in here” she said. "I came to witness the benefit to the boy”
"He is a fine fighter” Zak assured her.
"He will have to be” Malice muttered. "He goes to the Academy in only a year”
Zak narrowed his eyes at her doubting words and growled, "The Academy has never seen a finer swordsman”
The matron walked away from him to stand before Drizzt. "I doubt not your prowess with the blade” she said to Drizzt, though she shot a sly gaze back at Zak as she spoke the words. "You have the proper blood. There are other qualities that make up a drow warrior-qualities of the heart. The attitude of a warrior!"
Drizzt didn't know how to respond to her. He had seen her only a few times in all of the last three years, and they had exchanged no words.
Zak saw the confusion on Drizzt's face and feared that the boy would slip upprecisely what Matron Malice wanted. Then Malice would have an excuse to pull Drizzt out of Zak's tutelage-dishonoring Zak in the process-and give him over to Dinin or some other passionless killer. Zak may have been the finest instructor with the blade, but now that Drizzt had learned the use of weapons, Malice wanted him emotionally hardened.
Zak couldn't risk it; he valued his time with young Drizzt too much. He pulled his swords from their jeweled scab-bards 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 dove 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 weapon 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 weapon 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 scimi. tar 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 se. ries 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 hear. ing and their instincts. Zak finally managed to regain afoot. hold, 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 de. fenses, blasting the breath from the weapon master's lungs.
They came back out the side of the globe, and Zak, too, glowed in the outline of faerie fire. The weapon 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 cross-cut 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 Lloth. 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 weapon master shook his head. "We have become
Zak then dropped into a low crouch and came up under Drizzt's defense.
Drizzt twirled his scimitars in a masterful cross, but he had to straighten stiffly to dodge the weapon master's equally deft assault. Drizzt knew that he had been set up, and he fully expected the next attack as Zak shifted his weight to his back leg and dove in, both sword tips aimed for Drizzt's loins.
Drizzt spat a silent curse and spun his scimitars into a downward cross, meaning to use the "V" of his blades to catch his teacher's swords. On a sudden impulse, Drizzt hesitated as he intercepted Zak's weapons, and he jumped away instead, taking a painful slap on the inside of one thigh. Disgusted, he threw both of his scimitars to the floor.
Zak, too, leaped back. He held his swords out to his sides, a look of sincere confusion on his face. "You should not have missed that move” he said bluntly.
"The parry is wrong” Drizzt replied.
Awaiting further explanation, Zak lowered one sword tip to the floor and leaned on the weapon. In past years, Zak had wounded, even killed, students for such blatant defiance.
"The cross-down defeats the attack, but to what gain?" Drizzt continued. "When the move is completed, my sword tips remain down too low for any effective attack routine, and you are able to slip back and free”
"But you have defeated my attack”
"Only to face another; Drizzt argued. "The best position I can hope to obtain from the cross-down is an even stance”
"Yes. . “ Zak prompted, not understanding his student's problem with that scenario.
"Remember your own lesson!" Drizzt shouted. "'Every move should bring an advantage: you preach to me, but I see no advantage in using the cross-down”
"You recite only one part of that lesson for your own purpose” Zak scolded, now growing equally angry. "Complete the phrase, or use it not at all! 'Every move should bring an advantage or take away a disadvantage: The cross-down defeats the double thrust low, and your opponent obviously has gained the advantage if he even attempts such a daring offensive maneuver! Returning to an even stance is far preferable at that moment”
"The parry is wrong!" Drizzt said stubbornly.
"Pick up your blades” Zak growled at him, taking a threatening step forward. Drizzt hesitated and Zak charged, his swords leading.
Drizzt dropped to a crouch, snatched up the scimitars, and rose to meet the assault while wondering if it was another lesson or a true attack.
The weapon master pressed furiously, snapping off cut after cut and backing Drizzt around in circles. Drizzt de. fended well enough and began to notice an all-too-familiar pattern as Zak's attacks came consistently lower, again forcing the hilts of Drizzt's weapons up and out over the scimitars' blades.
Drizzt understood that Zak meant to prove his point with actions, not words. Seeing the fury on Zak's face, though, Drizzt wasn't certain how far the weapon master would carry his point. If Zak proved correct in his observations, would he strike again to Drizzt's thigh? Or to his heart? Zak came up and under and Drizzt stiffened and straightened.
"Double thrust low" the weapon master growled, and his swords dove in.
Drizzt was ready for him. He executed the cross-down, smiling smugly at the ring of metal as his scimitars crossed over the thrusting swords. Drizzt then followed through with only one of his blades, thinking he could deflect both of Zak's swords well enough in that manner. Now with one blade free of the parry, Drizzt spun it over in a devious counter.
As soon as Drizzt reversed the one hand, Zak saw the ploy-a ruse he had suspected Drizzt would try. Zak dropped one of his own sword tips-the one nearest to the hilt of Drizzt's single parrying blade-to the ground, and Drizzt, trying to maintain an even resistance and balance along the length of the blocking scimitar, lost his balance. Drizzt was quick enough to catch himself before he had stumbled too far, though his knuckles pinched into the stone of the floor. He still believed that he had Zak caught in his trap, and that he could finish his brilliant counter. He took a short step forward to regain his full balance.
The weapon master dropped straight down to the floor, under the arc of Drizzt's swinging scimitar, and spun a single circuit, driving his booted heel into the back of Drizzt's exposed knee. Before Drizzt had even realized the attack, he found himself lying flat on his back.
Zak abruptly broke his own momentum and threw his feet back under him. Before Drizzt could begin to under. stand the dizzying counter-counter, he found the weapon master standing over him with the tip of Zak's sword pain. fully and pointedly drawing a tiny drop of blood from his throat.
"Have you anything more to say?" Zak growled.
"The parry is wrong” Drizzt answered.
Zak's laughter erupted from his belly. He threw his sword jto the ground, reached down, and pulled the stubborn young student to his feet. He calmed quickly, his gaze find. ing that of Drizzt's lavender orbs as he pushed the student out to arm's length. Zak marveled at the ease of Drizzt's stance, the way he held the twin scimitars almost as if they were a natural extension of his arms. Drizzt had been in training only a few months, but already he had mastered the use of nearly every weapon in the vast armory of House Do'Urden.
Those scimitars! Drizzt's chosen weapons, with curving blades that enhanced the dizzying flow of the young fighter's sweeping battle style. With those scimitars in hand, this young drow, barely more than a child, could outfight half the members of the Academy, and a shiver tingled through Zak's spine when he pondered just how magnificent Drizzt would become after years of training.
It was not just the physical abilities and potential of Drizzt Do'Urden that made Zaknafein pause and take note, however. Zak had come to realize that Drizzt's temperament was indeed different from that of the average drow; Drizzt possessed a spirit of innocence and lacked any maliciousness. Zak couldn't help but feel proud when he looked upon Drizzt. In all manners, the young drow held to the same principles-morals so unusual in Menzoberranzan-as Zak.
Drizzt had recognized the connection as well, though he had no idea of how unique his and Zak's shared perceptions were in the evil drow world. He realized that "Uncle Zak" was different from any of the other dark elves he had come to know, though that included only his own family and a few dozen of the house soldiers. Certainly Zak was much different from Briza, Drizzt's oldest sister, with her zealous, almost blind, ambitions in the mysterious religion of Lloth. Certainly Zak was different from Matron Malice, Drizzt's mother, who seemed never to say anything at all to Drizzt unless it was a command for service.
Zak was able to smile at situations that didn't necessarily bring pain to anyone. He was the firstdrow Drizzt had met who was apparently content with his station in life. Zak was the first drow Drizzt had ever heard laugh.
"A good try” the weapon master conceded of Drizzt's failed counter.
"In a real battle, I would have been dead” Drizzt replied.
"Surely” said Zak, "but that is why we train. Your plan was masterful, your timing perfect. Only the situation was wrong. Still, I will say it was a good try!'
"You expected it” said the student.
Zak smiled and nodded. "That is, perhaps, because I had seen the maneuver attempted by another student!'
"Against you?" Drizzt asked, feeling a little less special now that he knew his battle insights were not so unique.
"Hardly” Zak replied with a wink. "I watched the counter fail from the same angle as you, to the same result!' Drizzt's face brightened again. "We think alike” he commented.
"We do” said Zak, "but my knowledge has been increased by four centuries of experience, while you have not even lived through a score of years. Trust me, my eager student. The cross-down is the correct parry!'
"Perhaps” Drizzt replied.
Zak hid a smile. "When you find a better counter, we shall try it. But until then, trust my word. I have trained more soldiers than I can count, all the army of House Do'Urden and ten times that number when I served as a master in Melee-Magthere. I taught Rizzen, all of your sisters, and both of your brothers!'
"Both?"
"I . . Zak paused and shot a curious glance at Drizzt. "I see” he said after a moment. "They never bothered to tell you!' Zak wondered if it was his place to tell Drizzt the truth. He doubted that Matron Malice would care either way; she probably hadn't told Drizzt simply because she hadn't considered the story of Nalfein's death worth telling.
"Yes, both!' Zak decided to explain. "You had two brothers when you were born: Dinin, whom you know, and an older one, Nalfein, a wizard of considerable power. Nalfein was killed in battle on the very night you drew your first breath!'
"Against dwarves or vicious gnomes?" Drizzt squeaked, as wide-eyed as a child begging for a frightening bedtime story. "Was he defending the city from evil conquerors or rogue monsters?"
Zak had a hard time reconciling the warped perceptions of Drizzt's innocent beliefs. "Bury the young in lies” he lamented under his breath, but to Drizzt he answered, "No”
"Then against some opponent more foul?" Drizzt pressed.
"Wicked elves from the surface?"
"He died at the hands of a drow!" Zak snapped in frustration, stealing the eagerness from Drizzt's shining eyes. Drizzt slumped back to consider the possibilities, and Zak could hardly bear to watch the confusion that twisted his young face.
"War with another city?" Drizzt asked somberly. "I did not know.. “
Zak let it go at that. He turned and moved silently toward his private chamber. Let Malice or one of her lackeys destroy Drizzt's innocent logic. Behind him, Drizzt held his next line of questions in check, understanding that the conversation, and the lesson, was at an end. Understanding, too, that something important had just transpired.
The weapon master battled Drizzt through long hours as the days blended into weeks, and the weeks into months. Time became unimportant; they fought until exhaustion overwhelmed them, and went back to the training floor again as soon as they were able.
By the third year, at the age of nineteen, Drizzt was able to hold out for hours against the weapon master, even taking the offensive in many of their contests.
Zak enjoyed these days. For the first time in many years, he had met one with the potential to become his fighting equal. For the first time that Zak could ever remember, laughter often accompanied the clash of adamantite weapons in the training room.
He watched Drizzt grow tall and straight, attentive, eager, and intelligent. The masters of the Academy would be hard put just to hold a stalemate against Drizzt, even in his first year!
That thought thrilled the weapon master only as long as it took him to remember the principles of the Academy, the precepts of drow life, and what they would do to his wonderful student. How they would steal that smile from Drizzt's lavender eyes.
A pointed reminder of that drow world outside the practice room visited them one day in the person of Matron Malice.
"Address her with proper respect” Zak warned Drizzt when Maya announced the matron mother's entrance. The weapon master prudently moved out a few steps to greet the head of House Do'Urden privately.
"My greetings, Matron” he said with a low bow. "To what do i owe the honor of your presence?"
Matron Malice laughed at him, seeing through his facade.
"So much time do you and my son spend in here” she said. "I came to witness the benefit to the boy”
"He is a fine fighter” Zak assured her.
"He will have to be” Malice muttered. "He goes to the Academy in only a year”
Zak narrowed his eyes at her doubting words and growled, "The Academy has never seen a finer swordsman”
The matron walked away from him to stand before Drizzt. "I doubt not your prowess with the blade” she said to Drizzt, though she shot a sly gaze back at Zak as she spoke the words. "You have the proper blood. There are other qualities that make up a drow warrior-qualities of the heart. The attitude of a warrior!"
Drizzt didn't know how to respond to her. He had seen her only a few times in all of the last three years, and they had exchanged no words.
Zak saw the confusion on Drizzt's face and feared that the boy would slip upprecisely what Matron Malice wanted. Then Malice would have an excuse to pull Drizzt out of Zak's tutelage-dishonoring Zak in the process-and give him over to Dinin or some other passionless killer. Zak may have been the finest instructor with the blade, but now that Drizzt had learned the use of weapons, Malice wanted him emotionally hardened.
Zak couldn't risk it; he valued his time with young Drizzt too much. He pulled his swords from their jeweled scab-bards 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 dove 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 weapon 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 weapon 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 scimi. tar 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 se. ries 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 hear. ing and their instincts. Zak finally managed to regain afoot. hold, 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 de. fenses, blasting the breath from the weapon master's lungs.
They came back out the side of the globe, and Zak, too, glowed in the outline of faerie fire. The weapon 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 cross-cut 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 Lloth. 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 weapon master shook his head. "We have become
Chapter 9
Families
"Come quickly” Zak instructed Drizzt one evening after they had finished their sparring. By the urgency of the weapon 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 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 Lloth. 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. "Seventy-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 adopted matron mother recognized his excitement.
"Speak your thoughts” she commanded.
"You are a high priestess of Lloth” 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-"
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 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 Lloth. 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. "Seventy-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 adopted matron mother recognized his excitement.
"Speak your thoughts” she commanded.
"You are a high priestess of Lloth” 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-"