Whether the initial crushing blow of the hook horror’s five-hundred-pound body had killed the wizard was academic by the time either Drizzt or Belwar had recovered enough to call out to their friend. Clacker’s hooks and beak slashed and snapped relentlessly, tearing and crushing. Every now and then came a sudden flash and a puff of smoke as another of the many magical items that the wizard carried snapped apart.
And when the hook horror had played out his rage and looked around at his three companions, surrounding him in battle-ready stances, the lump of gore at Clacker’s feet was no longer recognizable.
Belwar started to remark that the wizard had agreed to change Clacker back, but he didn’t see the point. Clacker fell to his knees and dropped his face into his claws, hardly believing what he had done.
“Let us be gone from this place,” Drizzt said, sheathing his blades.
“Search it,” Belwar suggested, thinking that marvelous treasures might be hidden within. But Drizzt could not remain for another moment. He had seen too much of himself in the unbridled rage of his giant companion, and the smell of the bloodied heap filled him with frustrations and fears that he could not tolerate. With Guenhwyvar in tow, he walked from the tower.
Belwar moved over and helped Clacker to his feet, then guided the trembling giant from the structure. Stubbornly practical, though, the burrow-warden made his companions wait around while he scoured the tower, searching for items that might aid them, or for the command word that would allow him to carry the tower along. But either the wizard was a poor man―which Belwar doubted―or he had his treasures safely hidden away, possibly in some other plane of existence, for the svirfneblin found nothing beyond a simple water skin and a pair of worn boots. If the marvelous adamantite tower had a command word, it had gone to the grave with the wizard.
Their journey home was a quiet one, lost in private concerns, regrets, and memories. Drizzt and Belwar did not have to speak their most pressing fear. In their discussions with Clacker, they both had learned enough of the normally peaceable race of pech to know that Clacker’s murderous outburst was far removed from the creature he once had been.
But, the deep gnome and the drow had to admit to themselves, Clacker’s actions were not so far removed from the creature he was fast becoming.
Chapter 15.
Pointed Reminders
“What do you know?” Matron Malice demanded of Jarlaxle, walking at her side across the compound of House Do’Urden. Malice normally would not have been so conspicuous with the infamous mercenary, but she was worried and impatient. Reported stirring within the hierarchy of Menzoberranzan’s ruling families did not bode well for House Do’Urden.
“Know?” Jarlaxle echoed, feigning surprise.
Malice scowled at him, as did Briza, walking on the other side of the brash mercenary.
Jarlaxle cleared his throat, though it sounded more like a laugh. He couldn’t supply Malice with the details of the rumblings; he was not so foolish as to betray the more powerful houses of the city. But Jarlaxle could tease Malice with a simple statement of logic that only confirmed what she already had assumed. “Zin-carla, the spirit-wraith, has been in use for a very long time.”
Malice struggled to keep her breathing inconspicuously smooth. She realized that Jarlaxle knew more than he would say, and the fact that the calculating mercenary had so coolly stated the obvious told her that her fears were justified. The spirit-wraith of Zaknafein had indeed been searching for Drizzt for a very long time. Malice did not need to be reminded that the Spider Queen was not known for her patience.
“Have you any more to tell me?” Malice asked.
Jarlaxle shrugged noncommittally.
“Then be gone from my house,” the matron mother snarled.
Jarlaxle hesitated for a moment, wondering if he should demand payment for the little information he had provided. Then he dipped into one of his well-known low, hat-sweeping bows and turned for the gate.
He would find his payment soon enough.
In the anteroom to the house chapel an hour later, Matron Malice rested back in her throne and let her thoughts roll out into the winding tunnels of the wild Underdark. Her telepathy with the spirit-wraith was limited, usually a passing of strong emotions, nothing more. But from those internal struggles of Zaknafein, who had been Drizzt’s father and closest friend in life and was now Drizzt’s deadliest enemy, Malice could learn much of her spirit-wraith’s progress. Anxieties caused by Zaknafein’s inner struggle inevitably would increase whenever the spirit-wraith got close to Drizzt.
Now, after the disturbing meeting with Jarlaxle, Malice had to learn of Zaknafein’s progress. A short time later, her efforts were rewarded.
“Matron Malice insists that the spirit-wraith has gone west, beyond the svirfneblin city,” Jarlaxle explained to Matron Baenre. The mercenary had set out straight from House Do’Urden to the mushroom grove in the southern end of Menzoberranzan, to where the greatest of the drow families were housed.
“The spirit-wraith keeps to the trail,” Matron Baenre mused, more to herself than to her informant. “That is good.”
“But Matron Malice believes that Drizzt has a lead of many days, even weeks,” Jarlaxle went on.
“She told you this?” Matron Baenre asked incredulously, amazed that Malice would reveal such damaging information.
“Some information can be gathered without words.” the mercenary replied slyly. “Matron Malice’s tone inferred much that she did not wish me to know.”
Matron Baenre nodded and closed her wrinkled eyes, wearied by the whole experience. She had played a role in getting Matron Malice onto the ruling council, but now she could only sit and wait to see if Malice would remain.
“We must trust in Matron Malice,” Matron Baenre said at length.
Across the room from Baenre and Jarlaxle, Elviddinvelp, Matron Baenre’s companion mind flayer, turned its thoughts away from the conversation. The drow mercenary had reported that Drizzt had gone west, far out from Blingdenstone, and that news carried potential importance that could not be ignored.
The mind flayer projected its thoughts far out to the west, issued a clear warning down the corridors that were not as empty as they might appear.
Zaknafein knew as soon as he looked upon the still lake that he had caught up to his quarry. He dropped low into the crooks and crags along the wide cavern’s wall and made his way about. Then he found the unnatural door and the cave complex beyond.
Old feelings stirred within the spirit-wraith, feelings of the kinship he once had known with Drizzt, New, savage emotions were quick to overwhelm them, though, as Matron Malice came into Zaknafein’s mind in a wild fury. The spirit-wraith burst through the door, swords drawn, and tore through the complex. A blanket flew into the air and came down in pieces as Zaknafein’s swords sliced across it a dozen times.
When the fit of rage had played itself out, Matron Malice’s monster settled back into a crouch to examine the situation. Drizzt was not at home.
It took the hunting spirit-wraith only a short time to determine that Drizzt, and a companion, or perhaps even two, had set out from the cavern a few days before. Zaknafein’s tactical instincts told him to lie in wait, for surely this was no phony campsite, as had been the one outside the deep gnome city. Surely Zaknafein’s prey meant to return. The spirit-wraith sensed that Matron Malice, back on her throne in the drow city, would endure no delays. Time was running short for her―the dangerous whispers were growing louder every day―and Malice’s fears and impatience cost her dearly this time.
Only a few hours after Malice had driven the spirit-wraith into the tunnels in pursuit of her renegade son, Drizzt, Belwar, and Clacker returned to the cavern by a different route.