Exile: The Legend of Drizzt (44 page)

Then she felt a slight twinge as Zaknafein’s consciousness struggled against her control. Malice pushed Zaknafein aside with a guttural snarl; his animated corpse was her tool!

Briza noted her mother’s sudden snarl with more than a passing interest.

Drizzt knew beyond any doubts that this was not Zaknafein Do’Urden who stood before him, yet he could not deny the unique fighting style of his former mentor. Zaknafein was in there—somewhere—and Drizzt would have to reach him if he hoped to get any answers.

The battle quickly settled into a comfortable, measured rhythm,
both opponents launching cautious attack routines and paying careful attention to their tenuous footing on the narrow walkway.

Belwar entered the room then, bearing Clacker’s broken body. “Kill him, Drizzt!” the burrow-warden cried.
“Magga
…” Belwar stopped and was afraid when he witnessed the battle. Drizzt and Zaknafein seemed to intertwine, their weapons spinning and darting, only to be parried away. They seemed as one, these two dark elves that Belwar had considered distinctly different, and that notion unnerved the deep gnome.

When the next break came in the struggle, Drizzt glanced over to the burrow-warden and his gaze locked on the dead pech. “Damn you!” he spat, and he rushed back in, scimitars diving and chopping at the monster who had murdered Clacker.

The spirit-wraith parried the foolishly bold assault easily and worked Drizzt’s blades up high, rocking Drizzt back on his heels. This, too, seemed so very familiar to the young drow, a fighting approach that Zaknafein had used against him many times in their sparring matches back in Menzoberranzan. Zaknafein would force Drizzt high, then come in suddenly low with both of his swords. In their early contests, Zaknafein had often defeated Drizzt with this maneuver, the double-thrust low, but in their last encounter in the drow city, Drizzt had found the answering parry and had turned the attack against his mentor.

Now Drizzt wondered if this opponent would follow through with the expected attack routine, and he wondered, too, how Zaknafein would react to his counter. Were any of Zak’s memories within the monster he now faced?

Still the spirit-wraith kept Drizzt’s blades working defensively high. Zaknafein then took a quick step back and came in low with both blades.

Drizzt dropped his scimitars into a downward X, the appropriate cross-down parry that pinned the attacking swords low. Drizzt
kicked his foot up between the hilts of his blades and straight at his opponent’s face.

The spirit-wraith somehow anticipated the countering attack and was out of reach before the boot could connect. Drizzt believed that he had an answer, for only Zaknafein Do’Urden could have known.

“You
are
Zaknafein!” Drizzt cried. “What has Malice done to you?”

The spirit-wraith’s hands trembled visibly in their hold on the swords and his mouth twisted as though he was trying to say something.

“No!” Malice screamed, and she violently tore back the control of her monster, walking the delicate and dangerous line between Zaknafein’s physical abilities and the consciousness of the being he once had been.

“You are mine, wraith,” Malice bellowed, “and by the will of Lolth, you shall complete the task!”

Drizzt saw the sudden regression of the murderous spirit-wraith. Zaknafein’s hands no longer trembled and his mouth locked into a thin and determined grimace once again.

“What is it, dark elf?” Belwar demanded, confused by the strange encounter. Drizzt noticed that the deep gnome had placed Clacker’s body on a ledge and was steadily approaching. Sparks flew from Belwar’s mithral hands whenever they bumped together.

“Stay back!” Drizzt called to him. The presence of an unknown
enemy could ruin the plans that were beginning to formulate in Drizzt’s mind. “It is Zaknafein,” he tried to explain to Belwar. “Or at least a part of it is!”

In a voice too low for the burrow-warden to hear, Drizzt added, “And I believe I know how to get to that part.” Drizzt came on in a flurry of measured attacks that he knew Zaknafein could easily deflect. He did not want to destroy his opponent, but rather he sought to inspire other memories of fighting routines that would be familiar to Zaknafein.

He put Zaknafein through the paces of a typical training session, talking all the while in the same way that he and the weapon master used to talk back in Menzoberranzan. Malice’s spirit-wraith countered Drizzt’s familiarity with savagery, and matched Drizzt’s friendly words with animal-like snarls. If Drizzt thought he could lull his opponent with complacency, he was badly mistaken.

Swords rushed at Drizzt inside and out, seeking a hole in his expert defenses. Scimitars matched their speed and precision, catching and stopping each arcing cut and deflecting every straightforward thrust harmlessly wide.

A sword slipped through and nicked Drizzt in the ribs. His fine armor held back the weapon’s razor edge, but the weight of the blow would leave a deep bruise. Rocked back on his heels, Drizzt saw that his plan would not be so easily executed.

“You are my father!” he shouted at the monster. “Matron Malice is your enemy, not I!”

The spirit-wraith mocked the words with an evil laugh and came on wildly. From the very beginning of the battle, Drizzt had feared this moment, but now he stubbornly reminded himself that this was not really his father that stood before him.

Zaknafein’s careless offensive charge inevitably left gaps in his defenses, and Drizzt found them, once and then again, with
his scimitars. One blade gashed a hole in the spirit-wraith’s belly, another slashed deeply into the side of his neck.

Zaknafein only laughed again, louder, and came on.

Drizzt fought in sheer panic, his confidence faltering. Zaknafein was nearly his equal, and Drizzt’s blades barely hurt the thing! Another problem quickly became evident as well, for time was against Drizzt. He did not know exactly what it was that he faced, but he suspected that it would not tire.

Drizzt pressed with all his skill and speed. Desperation drove him to new heights of swordsmanship. Belwar started out again to join in, but he stopped a moment later, stunned by the display.

Drizzt hit Zaknafein several more times, but the spirit-wraith seemed not to notice, and as Drizzt stepped up the tempo, the spirit-wraith’s intensity grew to match his own. Drizzt could hardly believe that this was not Zaknafein Do’Urden fighting against him; he could recognize the moves of his father and former mentor so very clearly. No other soul could move that perfectly muscled drow body with such precision and skill.

Drizzt was backing away again, giving ground and waiting patiently for his opportunities. He reminded himself over and over that it was not Zaknafein that he faced, but some monster created by Matron Malice for the sole purpose of destroying him. Drizzt had to be ready; his only chance of surviving this encounter was to trip his opponent from the ledge. With the spirit-wraith fighting so brilliantly, though, that chance seemed remote indeed.

The walkway turned slightly around a short bend, and Drizzt felt it carefully with one foot, sliding it along. Then a rock right under Drizzt’s foot broke free from the side of the walkway.

Drizzt stumbled, and his leg, to the knee, slipped down beside the bridge. Zaknafein came upon him in a rush. The whirling swords soon had Drizzt down on his back across the narrow walkway, his head hanging precariously over the lake of acid.

“Drizzt!” Belwar screamed helplessly. The deep gnome rushed out, though he could not hope to arrive in time or defeat Drizzt’s killer. “Drizzt!”

Perhaps it was that call of Drizzt’s name, or maybe it was just the moment of the kill, but the former consciousness of Zaknafein flickered to life in that instant and the sword arm, readied for a killing plunge that Drizzt could not have deflected, hesitated.

Drizzt didn’t wait for any explanations. He punched out with a scimitar hilt, then the other, both connecting squarely on Zaknafein’s jaw and moving the spirit-wraith back. Drizzt was up again, panting and favoring a twisted ankle.

“Zaknafein!” Confused and frustrated by the hesitation, Drizzt screamed at his opponent.

“Driz—” the spirit-wraith’s mouth struggled to reply. Then Malice’s monster rushed back in, swords leading.

Drizzt defeated the attack and slipped away again. He could sense his father’s presence; he knew that the true Zaknafein lurked just below the surface of this creature, but how could he free that spirit? Clearly, he could not hope to continue this struggle much longer.

“It is you,” Drizzt whispered. “No one else could fight so. Zaknafein is there, and Zaknafein will not kill me.” Another thought came to Drizzt then, a notion he had to believe.

Once again, the truth of Drizzt’s convictions became the test.

Drizzt slipped his scimitars back into their sheaths.

The spirit-wraith snarled; his swords danced about in the air and cut viciously, but Zaknafein did not come on.

“Kill him!” Malice squealed in glee, thinking her moment of victory at hand. The images of the combat, though, flitted away from her suddenly, and she was left with only darkness. She had
given too much back to Zaknafein when Drizzt had stepped up the tempo of the combat. She had been forced to allow more of Zak’s consciousness back into her animation, needing all of Zaknafein’s fighting skills to defeat her warrior son.

Now Malice was left with blackness, and with the weight of impending doom hanging precariously over her head. She glanced back at her too-curious daughter, then sank back within her trance, fighting to regain control.