The svirfnebli went back to their private conversation, ignoring Drizzt altogether. Then they left, with the exception of the one who could speak the dark elf tongue.
“What will you do?” Drizzt dared to ask.
“Judgment is reserved for the king alone.” the deep gnome replied soberly. “He will rule on your fate in several days perhaps, based on the observations of his advising council, the group you have met.” The deep gnome bowed low, then looked Drizzt in the eye as he rose and said bluntly, “I suspect, dark elf, that you will be executed.”
Drizzt nodded, resigned to the logic that would call for his death.
“But I believe you are different, dark elf.” the deep gnome went on. “I suspect, as well, that I will recommend leniency, or at least mercy, in the execution.” With a quick shrug of his heavyset shoulders, tae svirfneblin turned about and headed for the door.
The tone of the deep gnome’s words struck a familiar chord in Drizzt. Another svirfneblin had spoken to Drizzt in a similar manner, with strikingly similar words, many years before.
“Wait.” Drizzt called. The svirfneblin paused and turned, and Drizzt fumbled with his thoughts, trying to remember the name of the deep gnome he had saved on that past occasion.
“What is it?” the svirfneblin asked, growing impatient.
“A deep gnome.” Drizzt sputtered. “From your city, I believe. Yes, he had to be.”
“You know one of my people, dark elf?” the svirfneblin prompted, stepping back to the stone chair. “Name him!”
“I do not know.” Drizzt replied. “I was a member of a hunting party, years ago, a decade perhaps. We battled a group of svirfnebli that had come into our region.” He flinched at the deep gnome’s frown but continued on, knowing that the single svirfneblin survivor of that encounter might be his only hope. “Only one deep gnome survived, I think, and returned to Blingdenstone.”
“What was this survivor’s name?” the svirfneblin demanded angrily, his arms crossed tightly over his chest and his heavy boot tapping on the stone floor.
“I do not remember,” Drizzt admitted.
“Why do you tell me this?” the svirfneblin growled. “I had thought you different from―”
“He lost his hands in the battle,” Drizzt went on stubbornly. “Please, you must know of him.”
“Belwar?” the svirfneblin replied immediately. The name rekindled even more memories in Drizzt.
“Belwar Dissengulp,” Drizzt spouted. “Then he is alive! He might remember―”
“He will never forget that evil day, dark elf!” the svirfneblin declared through clenched teeth, an angry edge evident in his voice. “None in Blingdenstone will ever forget that evil day!”
“Get him. Get Belwar Dissengulp.” Drizzt pleaded.
The deep gnome backed out of the room, shaking his head at the dark elf’s continued surprises.
The stone door slammed shut, leaving Drizzt alone to contemplate his mortality and to push aside hopes he dared not hope.
“Did you think that I would let you go away from me?” Malice was saying to Rizzen when Dinin entered the chapel’s anteroom. “It was but a ploy to keep SiNafay Hun’ett’s suspicions at ease.”
“Thank you, Matron Mother,” Rizzen replied in honest relief. Bowing with every step, he backed away from Malice’s throne. Malice looked around at her gathered family. “Our weeks of toil are ended,” she proclaimed. “Zin-carla is complete!”
Dinin wrung his hands in anticipation. Only the females of the family had seen the product of their work. On cue from Malice, Vierna moved to a curtain on the side of the room and pulled it away. There stood Zaknafein, the weapon master, no longer a rotting corpse, but showing the vitality he had possessed in life.
Dinin rocked back on his heels as the weapon master came forward to stand before Matron Malice.
“As handsome as you always were, my dear Zaknafein,” Malice purred to the spirit-wraith. The undead thing made no response.
“And more obedient,” Briza added, drawing chuckles from all the females.
“This…he… will go after Drizzt?” Dinin dared to ask, though he fully understood that it was not his place to speak. Malice and the others were too absorbed by the spectacle of Zaknafein to punish the elderboy’s oversight.
“Zaknafein will exact the punishment that your brother so deeply deserves,” Malice promised, her eyes sparkling at the notion.
“But wait,” Malice said coyly, looking from the spirit-wraith to Rizzen. “He is too pretty to inspire fear in my impudent son.” The others exchanged confused glances, wondering if Malice was further trying to placate Rizzen for the ordeal she had put him through.
“Come, my husband,” Malice said to Rizzen. “Take your blade and mark your dead rival’s face. It will feel good to you, and it will inspire terror in Drizzt when he looks upon his old mentor!”
Rizzen moved tentatively at first, then gained confidence as he closed on the spirit-wraith. Zaknafein stood perfectly still, not breathing or blinking, seemingly oblivious to the events around him. Rizzen put a hand to his sword, looking back to Malice one final time for confirmation.
Malice nodded. With a snarl, Rizzen brought his sword out of its sheath and thrust it at Zaknafein’s face. But it never got close.
Quicker than the others could follow, the spirit-wraith exploded into motion. Two swords came out and cut away, diving and crossing with perfect precision. The sword went flying from Rizzen’s hand and, before the doomed patron of House Do’Urden could even speak a word of protest, one of Zaknafein’s swords crossed over his throat and the other plunged deep into his heart.
Rizzen was dead before he hit the floor, but the spirit-wraith was not so quickly and cleanly finished with him. Zaknafein’s weapons continued their assault, hacking and slicing into Rizzen a dozen times until Malice, satisfied with the display, called him off.
“That one bores me,” Malice explained to the disbelieving stares of her children. “I have another patron already selected from among the commoners.”
It was not, however, Rizzen’s death that inspired the awestruck expressions of Malice’s children; they cared nothing for any of the mates that their mother chose as patron of the house, always a temporary position. It was the speed and skill of the spirit-wraith that had stolen their breath.
“As good as in life,” Dinin remarked.
“Better!” Malice replied. “Zaknafein is all that he was as a warrior, and now that fighting skill holds his every thought. He will view no distractions from his chosen course. Look upon him, my children. Zin-carla, the gift of Lloth!” She turned to Dinin and smiled wickedly.
“I’ll not approach the thing,” Dinin gasped, thinking his macabre mother might desire a second display.
Malice laughed at him. “Fear not, Elderboy. I have no cause to harm you.”
Dinin hardly relaxed at her words. Malice needed no cause; the hacked body of Rizzen showed that fact all too clearly.
“You will lead the spirit-wraith out,” Malice said.
“Out?” Dinin replied tentatively.
“Into the region where you encountered your brother,” Malice explained.
“I am to stay beside the thing?” Dinin gasped.
“Lead him out and leave him,” Malice replied. “Zaknafein knows his prey. He has been imbued with spells to aid him in his hunt.” Off to the side, Briza seemed concerned.
“What is it?” Malice demanded of her, seeing her frown.
“I do not question the spirit-wraith’s power, or the magic that you have placed upon it,” Briza began tentatively, knowing that Malice would accept no discord regarding this all-important matter.
“You still fear your youngest brother?” Malice asked her. Briza didn’t know how to answer.
“Allay your fears, as valid as you may think them,” Malice said calmly. “All of you. Zaknafein is the gift of our queen. Nothing in all the Underdark will stop him!” She looked at the undead monster. “You will not fail me, will you my weapon master?”