Exile (The Dark Elf Trilogy #2)(42)

Malice wanted the taste of blood, but Zaknafein kept to his purpose, closing in on Drizzt. But then, suddenly, the scent was gone.

Bruck groaned aloud when another solitary dark elf wandered into his encampment the next day. No spears were hoisted and no goblins even attempted to sneak up behind this one.

“We went as we were ordered!” Bruck complained, moving to the front of the group before he was called upon. The goblin chieftain knew now that his underlings would point him out anyway.

If the spirit-wraith even understood the goblin’s words, he did not show it in any way. Zaknafein kept walking straight at the goblin chieftain, his swords in his hands.

“But we-“ Bruck began, but the rest of his words came out as gurgles of blood. Zaknafein tore his sword out of the goblin’s throat and rushed at the rest of the group.

Goblins scattered in all directions. A few, trapped between the crazed drow and the stone wall, raised crude spears in defense. The spirit-wraith waded through them, hacking away weapons and limbs with every slice. One goblin poked through the spinning swords, the tip of its spear burying deep into Zaknafein’s hip.

The undead monster didn’t even flinch. Zak turned on the goblin and struck it with a series of lightning-fast, perfectly aimed blows that took its head and both of its arms from its body.

In the end, fifteen goblins lay dead in the chamber and the tribe was scattered and still running down every passage in the region. The spirit-wraith, covered in the blood of his enemies, exited the chamber through the passage opposite from the one in which he had entered, continuing his frustrated search for the elusive Drizzt Do’Urden.

Back in Menzoberranzan, in the anteroom to the chapel of House Do’Urden, Matron Malice rested, thoroughly exhausted and momentarily sated. She had felt every kill as

Zaknafein made it, had felt a burst of ecstacy every time her spirit-wraith’s sword had plunged into another victim.

Malice pushed away her frustrations and her impatience, her confidence renewed by the pleasures of Zaknafein’s cruel slaughter. How great Malice’s ecstacy would be when the spirit-wraith at last encountered her traitorous son!





CHAPTER 11

THE INFORMANT


Councilor Firble of Blingdenstone moved tentatively into the small rough-hewn cavern, the appointed meeting place. An army of svirfnebli, including several deep gnome enchanters holding stones that could summon earth elemental allies, moved into defensive positions all along the corridors to the west of the room. Despite this, Firble was not at ease. He looked down the eastern tunnel, the only other entrance into the chamber, wondering what information his agent would have for him and worrying over how much it would cost.

Then the drow made his swaggering entrance, his high black boots kicking loudly on the stone. His gaze darted about quickly to ensure that Firble was the only svirfneblin in the chamber-their usual deal-then strode up to the deep gnome councilor and dropped into a low bow.

“Greetings, little friend with the big purse,” the drow said with a laugh. His command of the svirfneblin language and dialect, with the perfect inflections and pauses of a deep gnome who had lived a century in Blingdenstone, always amazed Firble.

“You could exercise some caution,” Firble retorted, again glancing around anxiously.

“Bah,” the drow snorted, clicking the hard heels of his boots together. “You have an army of deep gnome fighters and wizards behind you, and I ... well, let us just agree that I am well protected as well:

“That fact I do not doubt, Jarlaxle,” Firble replied. “Still, I would prefer that our business remain as private and as secretive as possible.”

“All of the business of Bregan D’aerthe is private, my dear Firble,” Jarlaxle answered, and again he bowed low, sweeping his wide-brimmed hat in a long and graceful arc.“Enough of that,” said Firble. “Let us be done with our business, so that I may return to my home,” “Then ask,” said Jarlaxle.

“There has been an increase in drow activity near Blingdenstone,” explained the deep gnome.

“Has there?” Jarlaxle asked, appearing surprised. The drow’s smirk revealed his true emotions, though. This would be an easy profit for Jarlaxle, for the very same matron mother in Menzoberranzan who had recently employed him was undoubtedly connected with the Blingdenstone’s distress. Jarlaxle liked coincidences that made the profits come easy.

Firble knew the ploy of feigned surprise all too well. “There has,” he said firmly.

“And you wish to know why?” Jarlaxle reasoned, still holding a facade of ignorance.

“It would seem prudent, from our vantage point,” huffed the councilor, tired of Jarlaxle’s unending game. Firble knew without any doubts that Jarlaxle was aware of the drow activity near Blingdenstone, and of the purpose behind it. Jarlaxle was a rogue without house, normally an unhealthy position in the world of the dark elves. Yet this resourceful mercenary survived-even thrived-in his renegade position. Through it all, Jarlaxle’s greatest advantage was knowledge-knowledge of every stirring within Menzoberranzan and the regions surrounding the city.

“How long will you require?” Firble asked. “My king wishes to complete this business as swiftly as possible.”

“Have you my payment?” the drow asked, holding out a hand.

“Payment when you bring me the information,” Firble protested. “That has always been our agreement.”