Homeland (The Legend of Drizzt #1)(30)

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 up-precisely 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 scabbards 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 scimitar 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 series ofshort, 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 hearing 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 defenses, 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.