It was a white unicorn head, the symbol of the goddess Mielikki.
“Who are you, drow?” Errtu demanded. The demon had already decided that it would have to kill Drizzt, but it was intigued by such an unusual meeting. A dark elf that followed the Lady of the Forest? And a surface dweller as well! Errtu had known many drow over the centuries, but had never even heard of one that had abandoned the drows wicked ways. Cold-hearted killers, one and all, that had taught even the great demon of chaos a trick or two concerning the methods of excruciating torture.
“I am Drizzt Do’Urden, that much is true,” Drizzt replied evenly. “He who forsook the House of Daermon N’a’shezbaernon.” All fear had flown from Drizzt when he accepted beyond any hope that he would have to battle the demon. Now he assumed the calm readiness of a seasoned fighter, prepared to seize any advantage that might fall his way. “A ranger humbly serving Gwaeron Windstrom, hero of the goddess Mielikki.” He bowed low in accordance with a proper introduction.
As he straightened, he drew his scimitars. “I must defeat you, scar of vileness,” he declared, “and send you back to the swirling clouds of the bottomless Abyss. There is no place in the sunlit world for one of your kind.”
“You are confused, elf,” the demon said. “You have lost the way of your heritage, and now you dare to presume that you might defeat me!” Flames sprang to life from the stone all around Errtu. “I would have killed you mercifully, with one clean stroke, out of respect for your kin. But your pride distresses me; I shall teach you to desire death! Come, feel the sting of my fire!”
Drizzt was already nearly overwhelmed by the heat of Errtu’s demon fire, and the brightness of the flames stung his sensitive eyes so that the bulk of the demon seemed only the dulled blur of a shadow. He saw the darkness extend to the demon’s right and knew that Errtu had raised its terrible sword. He moved to defend, but suddenly the demon lurched to the side and roared in surprise and outrage.
Guenhwyvar had latched firmly onto its upraised arm.
The huge demon held the panther at arm’s length, trying to pin the cat between its forearm and the rock wall to keep the tearing claws and teeth away from a vital area. Guenhwyvar gnawed and raked the massive arm, tearing demon-flesh and muscle.
Errtu winced away the vicious attack and determined to deal with the cat later. The demon’s main concern remained the drow, for it respected the potential power of any of the dark elves. Errtu had seen too many foes fall beneath one of the dark elves’ countless tricks.
The many-thonged whip lashed out at Drizzt’s legs, too quickly for the drow, still reeling from the sudden burst of brightness of the flames, to deflect the blow or dodge aside. Errtu jerked the handle as the thongs tangled about the slender legs and ankles, the demon’s great strength easily dropping Drizzt to his back.
Drizzt felt the stinging pain all through his legs, and he heard the rush of air pressed out of his lungs when he landed on the hard stone. He knew that he must react without delay, but the glare of the fire and Errtu’s sudden strike had left him disoriented. He felt himself being dragged along the stone, felt the intensity of the heat increasing. He managed to lift his head just in time to view his tangled feet entering the demon fire. “And so I die,” he stated flatly.
But his legs did not burn.
Drooling to hear the agonized screams of its helpless victim, Errtu gave a stronger tug on the whip and pulled Drizzt completely into the flames. Though he was totally immolated, the drow barely felt warmed by the fire.
And then, with a final hiss of protest, the hot flames suddenly died away.
Neither of the opponents understood what had happened, both assuming that the other had been responsible.
Errtu struck quickly again. Bringing a heavy foot down upon Drizzt’s chest, it began grinding him into the stone. The drow flailed out in desperation with one weapon, but it had no effect on the otherworldly monster.
Then Drizzt swung his other scimitar, the blade he had taken from the dragon’s hoard.
Hissing like water on fire, it entered Errtu’s knee joint. The hilt of the weapon heated up when the blade tore into the demon’s flesh, nearly burning Drizzt’s hand. Then it grew icy cold, as though dousing Errtu’s hot life force with a cold strength of its own. Drizzt understood then what had extinguished the fires.
The demon gaped in blank horror, then screamed in agony. Never had it felt such a sting! It leaped back and tossed about wildly, trying to escape the weapon’s terrible bite, dragging Drizzt, who could not let go of the hilt. Guenhwyvar was thrown in the violence of the demon’s rage, flying from the monster’s arm to crash heavily into a wall.
Drizzt eyed the wound incredulously as the demon backed away. Steam poured from the hole in Errtu’s knee, and the edges of the cut were iced over!
But Drizzt, too, had been weakened by the strike. In its struggle with the mighty demon, the scimitar had drawn upon its wielder’s life force, pulling Drizzt into the battle with the fiery monster.
Now the drow felt as though he hadn’t even the strength left to stand. But he found himself lunging forward, blade fully extended before him, as if pulled by the scimitar’s hunger.
The cubby entrance was too narrow. Errtu could neither dodge nor spring away.
The scimitar found the demon’s belly.
The explosive surge as the blade touched the core of Errtu’s life force drained away Drizzt’s strength, tossing him backward. He cracked against the stone wall and crumpled, but managed to keep himself alert enough to witness the titanic struggle still raging.
Errtu got out onto the ledge. The demon was staggering now, trying to spread its wings. But they drooped weakly. The scimitar glowed white with power as it continued its assault. The demon could not bear to grasp it and tear it free, though the embedded blade, its magic quelching the fires it had been wrought to destroy, was surely winning the conflict.
Errtu knew that it had been careless, overconfident in its ability to destroy any mortal in single combat. The demon hadn’t considered the possibility of such a wicked blade; it had never even heard of a weapon with such a sting!
Steam poured from Errtu’s exposed entrails and enveloped the combatants. “And so you have banished me, treacherous drow!” it spat.
Dazed, Drizzt watched in amazement as the white glow intensified and the black shadow diminished.
“A hundred years, drow!” Errtu howled. “Not such a long time for the likes of you or me!” The vapor thickened as the shadow seemed to melt away.
“A century, Drizzt Do’Urden!” came Errtu’s fading cry from somewhere far away. “Look over your shoulder then! Errtu shall not be far behind!”
The vapor wafted up into the air and was gone.
The last sound Drizzt heard was the clang of the metal scimitar falling to the stone ledge.
26. Rights of Victory
Wulfgar leaned back in his chair at the head of the main table in the hastily constructed Mead Hall, his foot tapping nervously at the long delays necessitated by the demands of proper tradition. He felt that his people should already be on the move, but it was the restoration of the traditional ceremonies and celebrations that had immediately separated, and placed him above, the tyrant Heafstaag in the eyes of the skeptical and ever-suspicious barbarians.
Wulfgar, after all, had walked into their midst after a five year absence and challenged their long-standing king. One day later, he had won the crown, and the day after that, he had been coronated King Wulfgar of the Tribe of the Elk.
And he was determined that his reign, short though he intended it to be, would not be marked by the threats and bullying tactics of his predecessor’s. He would ask the warriors of the assembled tribes to follow him into battle, not command them, for he knew that a barbarian warrior was a man driven almost exclusively by fierce pride. Stripped of their dignity, as Heafstaag had done by refusing to honor the sovereignty of each individual king, the tribesmen were no better in battle than ordinary men. Wulfgar knew that they would need to regain their proud edge if they were to have any chance at all against the wizard’s overwhelming numbers.