Exile (The Dark Elf Trilogy #2)(27)

“As handsome as you always were, my dear Zaknafein,” Malice purred to the spirit-wraith. The undead thing made no response.

“And more obedient,” Briza added, drawing chuckles from all the females.

“This... he ... will go after Drizzt?” Dinin dared to ask, though he fully understood that it was not his place to speak. Malice and the others were too absorbed by the spectacle of Zaknafein to punish the elderboy’s oversight.

“Zaknafein will exact the punishment that your brother so deeply deserves,” Malice promised, her eyes sparkling at the notion.

“But wait,” Malice said coyly, looking from the spirit-wraith to Rizzen. “He is too pretty to inspire fear in my impudent son,” The others exchanged confused glances, wondering if Malice was further trying to placate Rizzen for the ordeal she had put him through.

“Come, my husband,” Malice said to Bizzen. “Take your blade and mark your dead rival’s face. It will feel good to you, and it will inspire terror in Drizzt when he looks upon his old mentor!”

Rizzen moved tentatively at first, then gained confidence as he closed on the spirit-wraith. Zaknafein stood perfectly still, not breathing or blinking, seemingly oblivious to the events around him. Bizzen put a hand to his sword, looking back to Malice one final time for confirmation.

Malice nodded. With a snarl, Bizzen brought his sword out of its sheath and thrust it at Zaknafein’s face. But it never got close.

Quicker than the others could follow, the spirit-wraith exploded into motion. Two swords came out and cut away, diving and crossing with perfect precision. The sword went flying from Rizzen’s hand and, before the doomed patron of House Do’Urden could even speak a word of protest, one of Zaknafein’s swords crossed over his throat and the other plunged deep into his heart.

Rizzen was dead before he hit the floor, but the spirit-wraith was not so quickly and cleanly finished with him. Zaknafein’s weapons continued their assault, hacking and slicing into Rizzen a dozen times until Malice, satisfied with the display, called him off.

“That one bores me,” Malice explained to the disbelieving stares of her children. “I have another patron already selected from among the commoners.”

It was not, however, Rizzen’s death that inspired the awestruck expressions of Malice’s children; they cared nothing for any of the mates that their mother chose as patron of the house, always a temporary position. It was the speed and skill of the spirit-wraith that had stolen their breath.

“As good as in life,” Dinin remarked.

“Better!” Malice replied. “Zaknafein is all that he was as a warrior, and now that fighting skill holds his every thought. He will view no distractions from his chosen course. Look upon him, my children. Zin-carla, the gift of Lloth,” She turned to Dinin and smiled wickedly.

“I’ll not approach the thing,” Dinin gasped, thinking his macabre mother might desire a second display.

Malice laughed at him. “Fear not, Elderboy. I have no cause to harm you.”

Dinin hardly relaxed at her words. Malice needed no cause; the hacked body of Rizzen showed that fact all too clearly.

“You will lead the spirit-wraith out,” Malice said.

“Out?” Dinin replied tentatively.

“Into the region where you encountered your brother,” Malice explained.

“I am to stay beside the thing?” Dinin gasped.

“Lead him out and leave him,” Malice replied. “Zaknafein knows his prey. He has been imbued with spells to aid him in his hunt,” Off to the side, Briza seemed concerned.

“What is it?” Malice demanded of her, seeing her frown.

“I do not question the spirit-wraith’s power, or the magic that you have placed upon it,” Briza began tentatively, knowing that Malice would accept no discord regarding this all-important matter.

“You still fear your youngest brother?” Malice asked her. Briza didn’t know how to answer.

“Allay your fears, as valid as you may think them,” Malice said calmly. “All of you. Zaknafein is the gift of our queen. Nothing in all the Underdark will stop him!” She looked at the undead monster. “You will not fail me, will you my weapon master?”

Zaknafein stood impassive, bloodied swords back in their scabbards, hands at his sides, and eyes unblinking. A statue, he seemed, not breathing. Unalive.

But any who thought Zaknafein inanimate needed only to look at the spirit-wraith’s feet, to the mutilated lump of gore that had been the patron of House Do’Urden.





PART 2

BELWAR


Friendship: The word has come to mean many different things among the various races and cultures of both the Underdark and the surface of the Realms. In Menzoberranzan, friendship is generally born out of mutual profit. While both parties are better off for the union, it remains secure. But loyalty is not a tenet of drow life, and as soon as a friend believes that he will gain more without the other, the union-and likely the other’s life-will come to a swift end.

I have had few friends in my life, and if I live a thousand years, I suspect that this will remain true. There is little to lament in this fact, though, for those who have called me friend have been persons of great character and have enriched my existence, given it worth. First there was Zaknafein, my father and mentor who showed me that I was not alone and that I was not incorrect in holding to my beliefs. Zaknafein saved me, from both the blade and the chaotic, evil, fanatic religion that damns my people.