Again the svirfneblin looked at Drizzt in amazement. How had Drizzt even known that the sneaky goblins were back there?
Brickers, of course, could not know of the hunter, that other self of Drizzt Do’Urden that gave this drow a distinct edge in encounters such as this. Nor could the burrow-warden know that at that moment Drizzt was engaged in yet another struggle to control that dangerous alter ego.
Drizzt looked at the scimitar in his hand and back to the crowd of goblins. At least three dozen of them stood ready, yet the hunter beckoned Drizzt to attack, to bite hard into the cowardly monsters and send them fleeing down every passageway leading out of the room. One look at his bound svirfneblin companion, though, reminded Drizzt of his plan in coming here and allowed him to put the hunter to rest.
“Who is the leader?” he asked in guttural goblin.
The goblin chieftain was not so anxious to single itself out to a drow elf, but a dozen of its subordinates, showing typical goblin courage and loyalty, spun on their heels and poked their stubby fingers in its direction.
With no other choice, the goblin chieftain puffed out its chest, straightened its bony shoulders, and strode forward to face the drow. “Bruck!” the chieftain named itself, thumping a fist into its chest.
“Why are you here?” Drizzt sneered as he said it.
Bruck simply did not know how to answer such a question. Never before had the goblin thought to ask permission for its tribe’s movements.
“This region belongs to the drow!” Drizzt growled. “You do not belong here!”
“Drow city many walks,” Bruck complained, pointing over Drizzt’s head―the wrong way to Menzoberranzan, Drizzt noted, but he let the error pass. “This svirfneblin land.”
“For now,” replied Drizzt, prodding Brickers with the butt of his scimitar. “But my people have decided to claim the region as our own.” A small flame flickered in Drizzt’s lavender eyes and a devious smile spread across his face. “Will Bruck and the goblin tribe oppose us?”
Bruck held its long-fingered hands out helplessly.
“Be gone!” Drizzt demanded. “We have no need of slaves now, nor do we wish the revealing sound of battle echoing down the tunnels! Name yourself as lucky, Bruck. Your tribe will flee and live…this time!”
Bruck turned to the others, looking for some assistance. Only one drow elf had come against them, while more than three dozen goblins stood ready with their weapons. The odds were promising if not overwhelming.
“Be gone!” Drizzt commanded, pointing his scimitar at a side passage. “Run until your feet grow too weary to carry you!”
The goblin chieftain defiantly hooked its fingers into the piece of rope holding up its loincloth.
A cacophonous banging sounded all around the small chamber then, showing the tempo of purposeful drumming on the stone. Bruck and the other goblins looked around nervously, and Drizzt did not miss the opportunity.
“You dare defy us?” the drow cried, causing Bruck to be edged by the purple-glowing flames. “Then let stupid Bruck be the first to die!”
Before Drizzt even finished the sentence, the goblin chieftain was gone, running with all speed down the passage Drizzt had indicated. Justifying the flight as loyalty to their chieftain, the whole lot of the goblin tribe set off in quick pursuit. The swiftest even passed Bruck by.
A few moments later, Belwar and the other svirfneblin miners appeared at every passage. “Thought you might need some support.” the mithril-handed burrow-warden explained, tapping his hammer hand on the stone.
“Perfect was your timing and your judgment, Most Honored Burrow-Warden.” Brickers said to his peer when he managed to stop laughing. “Perfect, as we have come to expect from Belwar Dissengulp!”
A short while later, the svirfneblin caravan started on its way again, the whole troupe excited and elated by the events of the last few days. The deep gnomes thought themselves very clever in the way they had avoided trouble. The gaiety turned into a full-fledged party when they arrived in Blingdenstone―and svirfnebli, though usually a serious, work-minded people, threw parties as well as any race in all the Realms.
Drizzt Do’Urden, for all of his physical differences with the svirfnebli, felt more at home and at ease than he had ever felt in all the four decades of his life.
And never again did Belwar Dissengulp flinch when a fellow svirfneblin addressed him as “Most Honored Burrow-Warden”.
The spirit-wraith was confused. Just as Zaknafein had begun to believe that his prey was within the svirfneblin city, the magical spells that Malice had placed upon him sensed Drizzt’s presence in the tunnels. Luckily for Drizzt and the svirfneblin miners, the spirit-wraith had been far away when he caught the scent. Zaknafein worked his way back through the tunnels, dodging deep gnome patrols. Every potential encounter he avoided proved a struggle for Zaknafein, for Matron Malice, back on her throne in Menzoberranzan, grew increasingly impatient and agitated.
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.