“Or, for her son―this infamous Drizzt Do’Urden―to destroy,” Jarlaxle completed. “Is this young warrior so very powerful? Why has Lloth not simply crushed him?”
“He has forsaken the Spider Queen,” Baenre replied, “fully and with all his heart. Lloth has no power over Drizzt and has determined him to be Matron Malice’s problem.”
“A rather large problem, it would seem,” Jarlaxle chuckled with a quick shake of his bald head. The mercenary noticed immediately that Matron Baenre did not share his mirth.
“Indeed,” she replied somberly, and her voice trailed off on the word as she sank back for some private thoughts. She knew the dangers, and the possible profits, of Zin-carla better than anyone in the city. Thrice before Matron Baenre had asked for the Spider Queen’s greatest gift, and twice before she had seen Zin-carla through to successful completion. With the unrivaled grandeur of House Baenre all about her, Matron Baenre could not forget the gains of Zin-carla’s success. But every time she saw her withered reflection in a pool or a mirror, she was vividly reminded of the heavy price.
Jarlaxle did not intrude on the matron mother’s reflections. The mercenary contemplated on his own at that moment. In a time of trial and confusion such as this, a skilled opportunist would find only gain. By Jarlaxle’s reckoning, Bregan D’aerthe could only profit from the granting of Zin-carla to Matron Malice. If Malice proved successful and reinforced her seat on the ruling council, Jarlaxle would have another very powerful ally within the city. If the spirit-wraith failed, to the ruin of House Do’Urden, the price on this young Drizzt’s head certainly would escalate to a level that might tempt the mercenary band.
As she had on her journey to the first house of the city, Malice imagined ambitious gazes following her return through the winding streets of Menzoberranzan. Matron Baenre had been quite generous and gracious. Accepting the premise that the withered old matron mother was indeed Lloth’s voice in the city, Malice could barely contain her smile.
Undeniably, though, the fears still remained. How readily would Matron Baenre come to Malice’s aid if Drizzt continued to elude Zaknafein, if Zin-carla ultimately failed? Malice’s position on the ruling council would be tenuous then―as would the continued existence of House Do’Urden.
The caravan passed House Fey-Branche, ninth house of the city and most probably the greatest threat to a weakened House Do’Urden. Matron Halavin Fey-Branche was no doubt watching the procession beyond her adamantite gates, watching the matron mother who now held the coveted eighth seat on the ruling council.
Malice looked at Dinin and the ten soldiers of House Do’Urden, walking by her side as she sat atop the floating magical disc. She let her gaze wander to the two hundred soldiers, warriors openly bearing the proud emblem of House Baenre, marching with disciplined precision behind her modest troupe.
What must Matron Halavin Fey-Branche be thinking at such a sight? Malice wondered. She could not contain her ensuing smile. “Our greatest glories are soon to come,” Malice assured her warrior son. Dinin nodded and returned the wide smile, wisely not daring to steal any of the joy from his volatile mother.
Privately, though, Dinin couldn’t ignore his disturbing suspicions that many of the Baenre soldiers, drow warriors he had never had the occasion to meet before, looked vaguely familiar. One of them even shot a sly wink at the elderboy of House Do’Urden.
Jarlaxle’s magical whistle being blown on the balcony of House Do’Urden came vividly to Dinin’s mind.
Chapter 24.
Faith
Drizzt and Belwar did not have to remind each other of the significance of the green glow that appeared far ahead up the tunnel. Together they quickened their pace to catch up with and warn Clacker, who continued his approach with strides quickened by curiosity. The hook horror always led the party now; Clacker simply had become too dangerous for Drizzt and Belwar to allow him to walk behind.
Clacker turned abruptly at their sudden approach, waved a claw menacingly, and hissed.
“Pech,” Belwar whispered, speaking the word he had been using to strike a recollection in his friend’s fast-fading consciousness. The troupe had turned back toward the east, toward Menzoberranzan, as soon as Drizzt had convinced the burrow-warden of his determination to aid Clacker. Belwar, having no other options, had finally agreed with the drow’s plan as Clacker’s only hope, but, though they had turned immediately and had quickened their march, both now feared that they would not arrive in time. The transformation in Clacker had been dramatic since the confrontation with the duergar. The hook horror could barely speak and often turned threateningly on his friends.
“Pech,” Belwar said again as he and Drizzt neared the amious monster.
The hook horror paused, confused.
“Pech,” Belwar growled a third time, and he tapped his hammer-hand against the stone wall.
As if a light of recognition had suddenly gone on within the turmoil that was his consciousness, Clacker relaxed and dropped his heavy arms to his sides.
Drizzt and Belwar looked past the hook horror to the green glow and exchanged concerned glances. They had committed themselves fully to this course and had little choice in their actions now.
“Corbies live in the chamber beyond,” Drizzt began quietly, speaking each word slowly and distinctly to ensure that Clacker understood. “We have to get directly across and out the other side swiftly, for if we hope to avoid a battle, we have no time for delays. Take care in your steps. The only walkways are narrow and treacherous.”
“C-C-Clac-” the hook horror stammered futilely.
“Clacker,” Belwar offered.
“I-I-I’ll-” Clacker stopped suddenly and threw a claw out in the direction of the green-glowing chamber.
“Clacker lead?” Drizzt said, unable to bear the hook horror’s struggling. “Clacker lead,” Drizzt said again, seeing the great head bobbing in accord.
Belwar didn’t seem so sure of the wisdom of that suggestion. “We have fought the bird-men before and have seen their tricks,” the svirfneblin reasoned. “But Clacker has not.”
“The sheer bulk of the hook horror should deter them,” Drizzt argued. “Clacker’s mere presence may allow us to avoid a fight.”
“Not against the corbies, dark elf,” said the burrow-warden. “They will attack anything without fear. You witnessed their frenzy, their disregard for their own lives. Even your panther did not deter them.”
“Perhaps you are right,” Drizzt agreed, “but even if the corbies do attack, what weapons do they possess that could defeat a hook horror’s armor? What defense could the bird-men offer against Clacker’s great claws? Our giant friend will sweep them aside.”
“You forget the stone-riders up above,” the burrow-warden pointedly reminded him. “They will be quick to take a ledge down, and take Clacker with it!”
Clacker turned away from the conversation and stared into the stone of the walls in a futile effort to recapture a portion of his former self. He felt a slight urge to begin tap-tapping on the stone, but it was no greater than his continuing urge to smash a claw into the face of either the svirfneblin or the drow.
“I will deal with any corbies waiting above the ledges.” Drizzt replied. “You just follow Clacker across a dozen paces behind.”
Belwar glanced over and noticed the mounting tension in the hook horror. The burrow-warden realized that they could not afford any delays, so he shrugged and pushed Clacker off, motioning down the passage toward the green glow. Clacker started away, and Drizzt and Belwar fell into step behind.