The sudden evasive movement of the patrol caught Drizzt by surprise. The group could not possibly have seen him under the cover of the jutting rocks, and he held faith in the silence of his footfalls, and of Guenhwyvar’s. Yet Drizzt felt certain that it was he the patrol was hiding from. Something felt out of place in this whole encounter. Dark elves were rare this far from Menzoberranzan. Perhaps it was no more than the paranoia necessary to survive in the wilds of the Underdark, Drizzt told himself. Still, he suspected that more than chance had brought this group to his domain.
“Go, Guenhwyvar,” he whispered to the cat. “View our guests and return to me.” The panther sped away through the shadows circumventing the large cavern. Drizzt sank low into the rubble, listened, and waited.
Guenhwyvar returned to him only a minute later, though it seemed an eternity to Drizzt.
“Did you know them?” Drizzt asked. The cat scratched a paw across the stone.
“Of our old patrol?” Drizzt wondered aloud. “The fighters you and I walked beside?”
Guenhwyvar seemed uncertain and made no definite movements.
“A Hun’ett then,” Drizzt said, thinking he had solved the riddle. House Hun’ett had at last come looking for him to repay him for the deaths of Alton and Masoj, the two Hun’ett wizards who had died trying to kill Drizzt. Or perhaps the Hun’etts had come in search of Guenhwyvar, the magical item that Masoj once had possessed.
When Drizzt took a moment from his pondering to study Guenhwyvar’s reaction, he realized that his assumptions were wrong. The panther had backed away from him a step and seemed agitated by his stream of suppositions.
“Then who?” Drizzt asked. Guenhwyvar reared up on its hind legs and straddled Drizzt’s shoulders, one great paw patting Drizzt’s neck-purse. Not understanding, Drizzt slipped the item off his neck and emptied its contents into a palm, revealing a few gold coins, a small gemstone, and the emblem of his house, a silvery token engraved with the initials of Daermon N’a’shezbaernon, House Do’Urden. Drizzt realized at once what Guenhwyvar was hinting at. “My family,” he whispered harshly. Guenhwyvar backed away from him and again scratched a paw excitedly across the stone.
A thousand memories flooded through Drizzt at that moment, but all of them, good and bad, led him inescapably to one possibility: Matron Malice had neither forgiven nor forgotten his actions on that fated day. Drizzt had abandoned her and the ways of the Spider Queen, and he knew well enough the ways of Lloth to realize that his actions had not left his mother in good standing.
Drizzt looked back into the gloom of the wide cavern.
“Come,” he panted to Guenhwyvar, and he ran off down the tunnels. His decision to leave Menzoberranzan had been painful and uncertain, and now Drizzt had no desire to encounter his kin and rekindle all of the doubts and fears.
He and Guenhwyvar ran on for more than an hour, turning down secret passageways and crossing into the most confusing sections of the area’s tunnels. Drizzt knew the region intimately and felt certain that he could leave the patrol group far behind with little effort.
But when at last he paused to catch his breath, Drizzt sensed―and he only had to look at Guenhwyvar to confirm his suspicions―that the patrol was still on his trail, perhaps even closer than before.
Drizzt knew then that he was being magically tracked; there could be no other explanation. “But how?” he asked the panther. “I am hardly the drow they knew as a brother, in appearance or in thought. What could they be sensing that would be familiar enough for their magical spells to hold on to?” Drizzt surveyed himself quickly, his eyes first falling upon his crafted weapons.
The scimitars were indeed wondrous, but so were the majority of the drow weapons in Menzoberranzan. And these particular blades had not even been crafted in House Do’Urden and were not of any design favored by Drizzt’s family. His cloak then, he wondered? The piwafwi was a signpost of a house, bearing the stitch patterns and designs of a single family. But Drizzt’s piwafwi had been tattered and torn beyond recognition and he could hardly believe that a location spell would recognize it as belonging to House Do’Urden.
“Belonging to House Do’Urden,” Drizzt whispered aloud. He looked at Guenhwyvar and nodded suddenly―he had his answer. He again removed his neck pouch and took out the token, the emblem of Daermon N’a’shezbaernon. Created by magic, it possessed its own magic, a dweomer distinct to that one house. Only a noble of House Do’Urden would carry one.
Drizzt thought for a moment, then replaced the token and slipped the neck-purse over Guenhwyvar’s head. “Time for the hunted to become the hunter,” he purred to the great cat.
“He knows he is being followed,” Dinin’s hands flashed to Briza. Briza didn’t justify the statement with a reply. Of course Drizzt knew of the pursuit; it was obvious that he was trying to evade them. Briza remained unconcerned. Drizzt’s house emblem burned as a distinct directional beacon in her magically enhanced thoughts.
Briza stopped, though, when the party came to a fork in the passage. The signal came from beyond the fork, but not in any definitive way to either side. “Left,” Briza signaled to three of the commoner soldiers, then, “Right,” to the remaining two. She held her brother back, signaling that she and Dinin would hold their position at the fork to serve as a reserve for both groups.
High above the scattering patrol, hovering in the shadows of the stalactite-covered ceiling, Drizzt smiled at his cunning. The patrol might have kept pace with him, but it would have no chance at all of catching Guenhwyvar.
The plan had been executed and completed to perfection, for Drizzt had only meant to lead the patrol on until it was far from his domain and weary of the hopeless search. But as Drizzt floated there, looking down upon his brother and eldest sister, he found himself longing for something more.
A few moments passed, and Drizzt was certain that the dispatched soldiers were a good distance away. He drew out his scimitars, thinking then that a meeting with his siblings might not be so bad after all.
“He moves farther away,” Briza spoke to Dinin, not fearing the sound of her own voice, since she felt certain of her renegade brother’s distant position. “At great speed.”
“Drizzt was always adept in the Underdark,” Dinin replied, nodding. “He will prove a difficult catch.”
Briza snickered. “He will tire long before my spells expire. We will find him breathless in a dark hole.” But Briza’s cockiness turned to blank amazement a second later when a dark form dropped right between her and Dinin.
Dinin, too, hardly even registered the shock of it all. He saw Drizzt for just a split second, then his eyes crisscrossed, following the descending arc of a scimitar’s rushing hilt. Dinin went down heavily, with the smooth stone of the floor pressing against his cheek, a sensation to which Dinin was oblivious.
Even as one hand did its work on Dinin, Drizzt’s other hand shot a scimitar tip close to Briza’s throat, meaning to force her surrender. Briza was not as surprised as Dinin, though, and she always kept a hand close to her whip. She danced back from Drizzt’s attack, and six snake heads shot up into the air, coiled and searching for an opening. Drizzt turned full to face her, weaving his scimitars into defensive patterns to keep the stinging vipers at bay. He remembered the bite of those dreaded whips; like every drow male, he had been taught it many times during his childhood.
“Brother Drizzt,” Briza said loudly, hoping the patrol would hear her and understand the call back to her side. “Lower your weapons. It does not have to be like this.”
The sound of familiar words, of drow words, overwhelmed Drizzt. How good it was to hear them again, to remember that he was more than a single-minded hunter, that his life was more than mere survival.