R. A. Salvatore - Legacy of the Drow 3 - Siege Of Darkness

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To Lucy Scaramuzzi, the truest of teachers,

who taught me how to make a book —

even though all of my ideas

back in her second-grade classroom

were stolen from Snoopy!

PROLOGUE

By all appearances, she was too fair a creature to be walking through the swirling sludge

of this smoky layer of the Abyss. Too beautiful, her features were sculpted fine and

delicate, her shining ebony skin giving her the appearance of animated artwork, an obsidian

sculpture come to life.

The monstrous things around her, crawling slugs and bat-winged denizens, monitored

her every move, watched her carefully, cautiously. Even the largest and strongest of them,

gigantic fiends that could sack a fair-sized city, kept a safe distance, for appearances could be

deceiving. While this fine-featured female seemed delicate, even frail by the standards of the

gruesome monsters of the Abyss, she could easily destroy any one, any ten, any fifty, of the

fiends now watching her.

They knew it, too, and her passage was unhindered. She was Lloth, the Spider Queen,

goddess of the drow, the dark elves. She was chaos incarnate, an instrument of destruction,

a monster beneath a delicate facade.

Lloth calmly strolled into a region of tall, thick mushrooms clustered on small islands amid the

grimy swirl. She walked from island to island without concern, stepping so lightly about the

slurping sludge that not even the bottoms of her delicate black slippers were soiled. She found

many of this level's strongest inhabitants, even true tanar'ri fiends, sleeping amid those

mushroom groves, and roused them rudely. Inevitably, the irritable creatures came awake

snarling and promising eternal torture, and just as inevitably, they were much relieved when

Lloth demanded of them only a single answer to a single question.

"Where is he?" she asked each time, and, though none of the monsters knew of the great

fiend's exact location, their answers led Lloth on, guided her until at last she found the beast she

was looking for, a huge bipedal tanar'ri with a canine maw, the horns of a bull, and

tremendous, leathery wings folded behind its huge body. Looking quite bored, it sat in a chair

it had carved from one of the mushrooms, its grotesque head resting on the upraised palm of

one hand. Dirty, curved claws scratched rhythmically against its pallid cheek. In its other hand

the beast held a many-tongued whip and, every so often, snapped it about, lashing at the side

of the mushroom chair, where crouched the unfortunate lesser creature it had selected for

torture during this point of eternity.

The smaller denizen yelped and whined pitifully, and that drew another stinging crack of the

merciless fiend's whip.

The seated beast grunted suddenly, head coming up alert, red eyes peering intently into the

smoky veil swirling all about the mushroom throne. Something was about, it knew, something

powerful.

Lloth walked into view, not slowing in the least as she regarded this monster, the greatest of

this area.

A guttural growl escaped the tanar'ri's lips, lips that curled into an evil smile, then turned

down into a frown as it considered the pretty morsel walking into its lair. At first, the fiend

thought Lloth a gift, a lost, wandering dark elf far from the Material Plane and her home. It

didn't take the fiend long to recognize the truth of this one,

though.

It sat up straight in its chair. Then, with incredible speed and fluidity for one its size, it

brought itself to its full height, twelve feet, and towered over the intruder.

"Sit, Errtu," Lloth bade it, waving her hand impatiently. "I have not come to destroy you. "

A second growl issued from the proud tanar'ri, but Errtu made no move for Lloth,

understanding that she could easily do what she had just claimed she had not come here to do. Just

to salvage a bit of his pride, Errtu remained standing.

"Sit!" Lloth said suddenly, fiercely, and Errtu, before he registered the movement, found

himself back on the mushroom throne. Frustrated, he took up his whip and battered the sniveling

beast that groveled at his side.

"Why are you here, drow?" Errtu grumbled, his deep voice breaking into higher, crackling

whines, like fingernails on slate.

"You have heard the rumblings of the pantheon?" Lloth asked.

Errtu considered the question for a long moment. Of course he had heard that the gods of

the Realms were quarreling, stepping over each other in intrigue-laden power grabs and using

intelligent lesser creatures as pawns in their private games. In the Abyss, this meant that the

denizens, even greater tanar'ri such as Errtu, were often caught up in unwanted political

intrigue.

Which was exactly what Errtu figured, and feared, was happening here.

"A time of great strife is approaching," Lloth explained. "A time when the gods will pay for

their foolishness. "

Errtu chuckled, a grating, terrible sound. Lloth's red-glowing gaze fell over him scornfully.

"Why would such an event displease you, Lady of Chaos?" the fiend asked.

"This trouble will be beyond me," Lloth explained, deadly serious, "beyond us all. I will enjoy

watching the fools of the pantheon jostled about, stripped of their false pride, some perhaps even

slain, but any worshipped being who is not cautious will find herself caught in the trouble. "

"Lloth was never known for caution," Errtu put in dryly.

"Lloth was never a fool," the Spider Queen quickly replied.

Errtu nodded but sat quietly for a moment on his mushroom throne, digesting it all.

"What has this to do with me?" he asked finally, for tanar'ri were not worshipped, and, thus,

Errtu did not draw his powers from the prayers of any faithful.

"Menzoberranzan," Lloth replied, naming the fabled city of drow, the largest base of her

worshippers in all the Realms.

Errtu cocked his grotesque head.

"The city is in chaos already," Lloth explained.

"As you would have it," Errtu put in, and he snickered. "As you have arranged it. "

Lloth didn't refute that. "But there is danger," the beautiful drow went on. "If I am

caught in the troubles of the pantheon, the prayers of my priestesses will go unanswered. "

"Am I expected to answer them?" Errtu asked incredulously.

"The faithful will need protection. "

"I cannot go to Menzoberranzan!" Errtu roared suddenly, his outrage, the outrage of years

of banishment, spilling over. Menzoberranzan was a city of Faerun's Underdark, the great

labyrinth beneath the world's surface. But, though it was separated from the region of sunlight

by miles of thick rock, it was still a place of the Material Plane. Years ago, Errtu had been on that

plane, at the call of a minor wizard, and had stayed there in search of Crenshinibon, the Crystal

Shard, a mighty artifact, relic of a past and greater age of sorcery. The great tanar'ri had been

so close to the relic! He had entered the tower it had created in its image, and had worked with

its possessor, a pitiful human who would have died soon enough, leaving the fiend to his

coveted treasure. But then Errtu had met a dark elf, a renegade from Lloth's own flock, from

Menzoberranzan, the city she now apparently wanted him to protect!

Drizzt Do'Urden had defeated Errtu and, to a tanar'ri, a defeat on the Material Plane meant

a hundred years of banishment in the Abyss.

Now Errtu trembled visibly with rage, and Lloth took a step backward, preparing herself

in case the beast attacked before she could explain her offer. "You cannot go," she agreed, "but

your minions can. I will see that a gate is kept open, if all the priestesses of my domain must tend

it continually. "

Errtu's thunderous roar drowned out the words.

Lloth understood the source of that agony; a fiend's greatest pleasure was to walk loose on

the Material Plane, to challenge the weak souls and weaker bodies of the various races. Lloth

understood, but she did not sympathize. Evil Lloth never sympathized with any creature.

"I cannot deny you!" Errtu admitted, and his great, bulbous, bloodshot eyes narrowed

wickedly.

His statement was true enough. Lloth could enlist his aid simply by offering him his very

existence in return. The Spider Queen was smarter than that, however. If she enslaved Errtu and

was, indeed, as she expected, caught up in the coming storm, Errtu might escape her capture or,

worse, find a way to strike back at her. Lloth was malicious and merciless in the extreme, but she

was, above all else, intelligent. She had in her possession honey for this fly.

"This is no threat," she said honestly to the fiend. "This is an offer. "

Errtu did not interrupt, still, the bored and outraged fiend trembled on the edge of

catastrophe.

"I have a gift, Errtu," she purred, "a gift that will allow you to end the banishment Drizzt

Do'Urden has placed on you. "

The tanar'ri did not seem convinced. "No gift," he rumbled. "No magic can break the

terms of banishment. Only he who banished me can end the indenture. "

Lloth nodded her agreement; not even a goddess had the power to go against that rule. "But

that is exactly the point!" the Spider Queen exclaimed. "This gift will make Drizzt Do'Urden

want you back on his plane of existence, back within his reach. "

Errtu did not seem convinced.

In response, Lloth lifted one arm and clamped her fist tightly, and a signal, a burst of

multicolored sparks and a rocking blast of thunder, shook the swirling sludge and momentarily

stole the perpetual gray of the dismal level.

Forlorn and beaten, head down—for it did not take one such as Lloth very long to sunder the

pride—he walked from the fog. Errtu did not know him, but understood the significance of this

gift.

Lloth clamped her fist tight again, another explosive signal sounded, and her captive fell

back into the veil of smoke.

Errtu eyed the Spider Queen suspiciously. The tanar'ri was more than a little interested,

of course, but he realized that most everyone who had ever trusted the diabolical Lloth had paid

greatly for their foolishness. Still, this bait was too great for Errtu to resist. His canine maw

turned up into a grotesque, wicked smile.

"Look upon Menzoberranzan," Lloth said, and she waved her arm before the thick stalk of a

nearby mushroom. The plant's fibers became glassy, reflecting the smoke, and, a moment later,

Lloth and the fiend saw the city of drow. "Your role in this will be small, I

assure you," Lloth said, "but vital. Do not fail me, great Errtu!"

It was as much a threat as a plea, the fiend knew.

"The gift?" he asked.

"When things are put aright. "

Again a suspicious look crossed Errtu's huge face.

"Drizzt Do'Urden is a pittance," Lloth said. "Daermon N'a'shezbaernon, his family, is

no more, so he means nothing to me. Still, it would please me to watch great and evil Errtu pay

back the renegade for all the inconveniences he has caused. "

Errtu was not stupid, far from it. What Lloth was saying made perfect sense, yet he could not

ignore the fact that it was Lloth, the Spider Queen, the Lady of Chaos, who was making these

tempting offers.

Neither could he ignore the fact that her gift promised him relief from the interminable

boredom. He could beat a thousand minor fiends a day, every day, torture them and send them

crawling pitifully into the muck. But if he did that for a million days, it would not equal the

pleasure of a single hour on the Material Plane, walking among the weak, tormenting those who

did not deserve his vengeance.

The great tanar'ri agreed.

Part 1

RUMBLES OF DISCORD

I watched the preparations unfolding at Mithril Hall, preparations for war, for, though we, especially Catti-

brie, had dealt House Baenre a stinging defeat back in Menzoberranzan, none of us doubted that the

dark elves might come our way once more. Above all else, Matron Baenre was likely angry, and having

spent my youth in Menzoberranzan, I knew it was not a good thing to make an enemy of the first matron

mother.

Still, I liked what I was seeing here in the dwarven stronghold. Most of all, I enjoyed the spectacle of

Bruenor Battlehammer.

Bruenor! My dearest friend. The dwarf 1 had fought beside since my days in Icewind Dale—days that

seemed very long ago indeed! I had feared Bruenor's spirit forever broken when Wulfgar fell, that the fire

that had guided this most stubborn of dwarves through seemingly insurmountable obstacles in his quest to

reclaim his lost homeland had been forever doused. Not so, I learned in those days of preparation.

Bruenor's physical scars were deeper now—his left eye was lost, and a bluish line ran diagonally across

his face, from forehead to jawbone—but the flames of spirit had been rekindled, burning bright behind his good

eye.

Bruenor directed the preparations, from agreeing to the fortification designs being constructed in the

lowest tunnels to sending out emissaries to the neighboring settlements in search of allies. He asked for no

help in the decision-making, and needed none, for this was Bruenor, Eighth King of Mithril Hall, a veteran

of so many adventures, a dwarf who had earned his title.

Now his grief was gone; he was king again, to the joy of his friends and subjects. "Let the damned drow

come!" Bruenor growled quite often, and always he nodded in my direction if I was about, as if to remind me

that he meant no personal insult.

In truth, that determined war cry from Bruenor Battlehammer was

among the sweetest things I had ever heard.

What was it, I wondered, that had brought the grieving dwarf from his despair? And it

wasn't just Bruenor; all about me I saw an excitement, in the dwarves, in Catti-brie,

even in Regis, the halfling known more for preparing for lunch and nap than for war. I

felt it, too. That tingling anticipation, that camaraderie that had me and all the others

patting each other on the back, offering praises for the simplest of additions to the

common defense, and raising our voices together in cheer whenever good news was

announced.

What was it? It was more than shared fear, more than giving thanks for what we had

while realizing that it might soon be stolen away. I didn't understand it then, in that time of

frenzy, in that euphoria of frantic preparations. Now, looking back, it is an easy thing to

recognize.

It was hope.

To any intelligent being, there is no emotion more important than hope.

Individually or collectively, we must hope that the future will be better than the past, that

our offspring, and theirs after them, will be a bit closer to an ideal society, whatever our

perception of that might be. Certainly a warrior barbarian's hope for the future might

differ from the ideal fostered in the imagination of a peaceful farmer. And a dwarf would

not strive to live in a world that resembled an elf's ideal! But the hope itself is not so

different. It is at those times when we feel we are contributing to that ultimate end, as it

was in Mithril Hall when we believed the battle with Menzoberranzan would soon

come—that we would defeat the dark elves and end, once and for all, the threat from the

Underdark city—we feel true elation.

Hope is the key. The future will be better than the past, or the present. Without this

belief, there is only the self-indulgent, ultimately empty striving of the present, as in drow

society, or simple despair, the time of life wasted in waiting for death.

Bruenor had found a cause—we all had—and never have I been more alive than in

those days of preparation in Mithril Hall.

— Drizzt Do'Urden

Chapter 1

DIPLOMACY

Her thick auburn hair bouncing below her shoulders, Catti-brie worked furiously to

keep the drow's whirling scimitars at bay. She was a solidly built woman, a hundred

and thirty pounds of muscles finely toned from living her life with Bruenor's dwarven

clan. Catti-brie was no stranger to the forge or the sledge.

Or the sword, and this new blade, its white-metal pommel sculpted in the likeness of a

unicorn's head, was by far the most balanced weapon she had ever swung. Still, Catti-brie

was hard-pressed, indeed, overmatched, by her opponent this day. Few in the Realms could

match blades with Drizzt Do'Urden, the drow ranger.

He was no larger than Catti-brie, a few pounds heavier perhaps, with his tight-muscled

frame. His white hair hung as low as Catti-brie's mane and was equally thick, and his ebony

skin glistened with streaks of sweat, a testament to the young woman's prowess.

Drizzt's two scimitars crossed in front of him (one of them glowing a fierce blue even

through the protective padding that

covered it), then went back out wide, inviting Catti-brie to thrust straight between.

She knew better than to make the attempt. Drizzt was too quick, and could strike her

blade near its tip with one scimitar, while the other alternately parried low, batting the

opposite way near the hilt. With a single step diagonally to the side, following his closer-

parrying blade, Drizzt would have her beaten.

Catti-brie stepped back instead, and presented her sword in front of her. Her deep blue

eyes peeked out around the blade, which had been thickened with heavy material, and she

locked stares with the drow's lavender orbs.

"An opportunity missed?" Drizzt teased.

"A trap avoided," Catti-brie was quick to reply.

Drizzt came ahead in a rush, his blades crossing, going wide, and cutting across, one high

and one low. Catti-brie dropped her left foot behind her and fell into a crouch, turning her

sword to parry the low-rushing blade, dipping her head to avoid the high.

She needn't have bothered, for the cross came too soon, before Drizzt's feet had caught up

to the move, and both his scimitars swished through the air, short of the mark.

Catti-brie didn't miss the opening, and darted ahead, sword thrusting.

Back snapped Drizzt's blades, impossibly fast, slamming the sword on both its sides. But

Drizzt's feet weren't positioned correctly for him to follow the move, to go diagonally ahead and

take advantage of Catti-brie's turned sword.

The young woman went ahead and to the side instead, sliding her weapon free of the clinch

and executing the real attack, the slash at Drizzt's hip.

Drizzt's backhand caught her short, drove her sword harmlessly high.

They broke apart again, eyeing each other, Catti-brie wearing a sly smile. In all their months

of training, she had never come so close to scoring a hit on the agile and skilled drow.

Drizzt's expression stole her glory, though, and the drow dipped the tips of his

scimitars toward the floor, shaking his head In frustration.

"The bracers?" Catti-brie asked, referring to the magical wrist bands, wide pieces of black

material lined with gleaming mithril

rings. Drizzt had taken them from Dantrag Baenre, the deposed weapon master of

Menzoberranzan's first house, after defeating Dantrag in mortal combat. Rumors said those

marvelous bracers allowed Dantrag's hands to move incredibly fast, giving him the advantage

in combat.

Upon battling the lightning-quick Baenre, Drizzt had come to believe those rumors, and

after wearing the bracers in sparring for the last few weeks, he had confirmed their abilities.

But Drizzt wasn't convinced that the bracers were a good thing. In the fight with Dantrag,

he had turned Dantrag's supposed advantage against the drow, for the weapon

master's hands moved too quickly for Dantrag to alter any started move, too quickly for

Dantrag to improvise if his opponent made an unexpected turn. Now, in these sparring

exercises, Drizzt was learning that the bracers held another disadvantage.

His feet couldn't keep up with his hands.

"Ye'll learn them," Catti-brie assured.

Drizzt wasn't so certain. "Fighting is an art of balance and movement," he explained.

"And faster ye are!" Catti-brie replied.

Drizzt shook his head. "Faster are my hands," he said. "A warrior does not win with his

hands. He wins with his feet, by positioning himself to best strike the openings in his

opponent's defenses. "

"The feet'll catch up," Catti-brie replied. "Dantrag was the best Menzoberranzan had

to offer, and ye said yerself that the bracers were the reason. "

Drizzt couldn't disagree that the bracers greatly aided Dantrag, but he wondered

how much they would benefit one of his skill, or one of Zaknafein's, his father's, skill. It could

be, Drizzt realized, that the bracers would aid a lesser fighter, one who needed to depend

on the sheer speed of his weapons. But the complete fighter, the master who had found

harmony between all his muscles, would be put off balance. Or perhaps the bracers would aid

someone wielding a heavier weapon, a mighty warhammer, such as Aegis-fang. Drizzt's

scimitars, slender blades of no more than two pounds of metal, perfectly balanced by both

workmanship and enchantment, weaved effortlessly, and, even without the bracers, his hands

were quicker than his feet.

"Come on then," Catti-brie scolded, waving her sword in front of her, her wide blue eyes

narrowing intently, her shapely hips swiveling as she fell into a low balance.

She sensed her chance, Drizzt realized. She knew he was fighting at a disadvantage and

finally sensed her chance to pay back one of the many stinging hits he had given her in their

sparring.

Drizzt took a deep breath and lifted the blades. He owed it to Catti-brie to oblige, but he

meant to make her earn it!

He came forward slowly, playing defensively. Her sword shot out, and he hit it twice before

it ever got close, on its left side with his right hand, and on its left side again, bringing his

left hand right over the presented blade and batting it with a downward parry.

Catti-brie fell with the momentum of the double block, spinning a complete circle, rotating

away from her adversary. When she came around, predictably, Drizzt was in close, scimitars

weaving.

Still the patient drow measured his attack, did not come too fast and strong. His blades

crossed and went out wide, teasing the young woman.

Catti-brie growled and threw her sword straight out again, determined to find that

elusive hole. And in came the scimitars, striking in rapid succession, again both hitting the

left side of Catti-brie's sword. As before, Catti-brie spun to the right, but this time Drizzt came

in hard.

Down went the young woman in a low crouch, her rear grazing the floor, and she

skittered back. Both of Drizzt's blades swooshed through the air above and before her, for

again his cuts came before his feet could rightly respond and position him.

Drizzt was amazed to find that Catti-brie was no longer in front of him.

He called the move the "Ghost Step," and had taught it to Catti-brie only a week earlier.

The trick was to use the opponent's swinging weapon as an optical shield, to move within the

vision-blocked area so perfectly and quickly that your opponent would not know you had

come forward and to the side, that you had, in fact, stepped behind his leading hip.

Reflexively, the drow snapped his leading scimitar straight back, blade pointed low, for

Catti-brie had gone past in a crouch. He beat the sword to the mark, too quickly, and the

momentum of

his scimitar sent it sailing futilely in front of the coming attack.

Drizzt winced as the unicorn-handled sword slapped hard against his hip.

For Catti-brie, the moment was one of pure delight. She knew, of course, that the bracers

were hindering Drizzt, causing him to make mistakes of balance—mistakes that Drizzt

Do'Urden hadn't made since his earliest days of fighting—but even with the uncomfortable

bracers, the drow was a powerful adversary, and could likely defeat most swordsmen.

How delicious it was, then, when Catti-brie found her new sword slicing in unhindered!

Her joy was stolen momentarily by an urge to sink the blade deeper, a sudden, inexplicable

anger focused directly on Drizzt.

"Touch!" Drizzt called, the signal that he had been hit, and when Catti-brie straightened

and sorted out the scene, she found the drow standing a few feet away, rubbing his sore hip.

"Sorry," she apologized, realizing she had struck far too hard.

"Not to worry," Drizzt replied slyly. "Surely your one hit does not equal the combined pains

my scimitars have caused you." The dark elf's lips curled up into a mischievous smile. "Or the

pains I will surely inflict on you in return!"

"Me thinking's that I'm catching ye, Drizzt Do'Urden," Catti-brie answered calmly,

confidently. "Ye'll get yer hits, but ye'll take yer hits as well!"

They both laughed at that, and Catti-brie moved to the side of the room and began to

remove her practice gear.

Drizzt slid the padding from one of his scimitars and considered those last words. Catti-

brie was indeed improving, he agreed. She had a warrior's heart, tempered by a poet's

philosophy, a deadly combination indeed. Catti-brie, like Drizzt, would rather talk her way

out of a battle than wage it, but when the avenues of diplomacy were exhausted, when the

fight became a matter of survival, then the young woman would fight with conscience clear

and passion heated. All her heart and all her skill would come to bear, and in Catti-brie,

both of those ingredients were considerable.

And she was barely into her twenties! In Menzoberranzan, had she been a drow, she would be

in Arach-Tinilith now, the school of Lloth, her strong morals being assaulted daily by the lies

of the

Spider Queen's priestesses. Drizzt shook that thought away; he didn't even want to think of

Catti-brie in that awful place. Suppose she had gone to the drow school of fighters, Melee-

Magthere, instead, he mused. How would she fare against the likes of young drow?

Well, Drizzt decided, Catti-brie would be near the top of her class, certainly among the top

ten or fifteen percent, and her passion and dedication would get her there. How much could

she improve under his tutelage? Drizzt wondered, and his expression soured as he considered

the limitations of Catti-brie's heritage. He was in his sixties, barely more than a child by drow

standards, for they could live to see seven centuries, but when Catti-brie reached his tender age,

she would be old, too old to fight well.

That notion pained Drizzt greatly. Unless the blade of an enemy or the claws of a

monster shortened his life, he would watch Catti-brie grow old, would watch her pass from

this life.

Drizzt looked at her now as she removed the padded baldric and unclasped the metal

collar guard. Under the padding above the waist, she wore only a simple shirt of light material.

It was wet with perspiration now and clung to her.

She was a warrior, Drizzt agreed, but she was also a beautiful young woman, shapely and

strong, with the spirit of a foal first learning to run and a heart filled with passion.

The sound of distant furnaces, the sudden, increased ringing of hammer on steel, should

have alerted Drizzt that the room's door had opened, but it simply didn't register in the

distracted drow's consciousness.

"Hey!" came a roar from the side of the chamber, and Drizzt turned to see Bruenor storm

into the room. He half expected the dwarf, Catti-brie's adoptive, overprotective, father, to

demand what in the Nine Hells Drizzt was looking at, and Drizzt's sigh was one of pure

relief when Bruenor, his fiery red beard foamed with spittle, instead took up a tirade about

Settlestone, the barbarian settlement south of Mithril Hall.

Still, the drow figured he was blushing (and hoped that his ebon-hued skin would hide it)

as he shook his head, ran his fingers through his white hair to brush it back from his face, and

likewise began to remove the practice gear.

Catti-brie walked over, shaking her thick auburn mane to get

the droplets out. "Berkthgar is being difficult?" she reasoned, referring to Berkthgar the

Bold, Settlestone's new chieftain.

Bruenor snorted. "Berkthgar can't be anything but difficult!"

Drizzt looked up at beautiful Catti-brie. He didn't want to picture her growing old, though

he knew she would do it with more grace than most.

"He's a proud one," Catti-brie replied to her father, "and afraid. "

"Bah!" Bruenor retorted. "What's he got to be afraid of? Got a couple hunnerd strong men

around him and not an enemy in sight. "

"He is afraid he will not stand well against the shadow of his predecessor," Drizzt

explained, and Catti-brie nodded.

Bruenor stopped in midbluster and considered the drow's words. Berkthgar was living

in Wulfgar's shadow, in the shadow of the greatest hero the barbarian tribes of faraway

Icewind Dale had ever known. The man who had killed Dracos Icingdeath, the white dragon;

the man who, at the tender age of twenty, had united the fierce tribes and shown them a

better way of living.

Bruenor didn't believe any human could shine through the spectacle of Wulfgar's

shadow, and his resigned nod showed that he agreed with, and ultimately accepted, the truth of

the reasoning. A great sadness edged his expression and rimmed his steel-gray eyes, as well,

for Bruenor could not think of Wulfgar, the human who had been a son to him, without that

sadness.

"On what point is he being difficult?" Drizzt asked, trying to push past the difficult

moment.

"On the whole damned alliance," Bruenor huffed.

Drizzt and Catti-brie exchanged curious expressions. It made no sense, of course. The

barbarians of Settlestone and the dwarves of Mithril Hall already were allies, working hand in

hand, with Bruenor's people mining the precious mithril and shaping it into valuable

artifacts, and the barbarians doing the bargaining with merchants from nearby towns, such as

Nesme on the Trollmoors, or Silverymoon to the east. The two peoples, Bruenor's and

Wulfgar's, had fought together to clear Mithril Hall of evil gray dwarves, the duergar,

and the barbarians had come down from their homes in faraway Icewind Dale, resolved

to stay, only because of this solid friendship and alliance with Bruenor's clan. It

made no sense that Berkthgar was being difficult, not with the prospect of a drow attack

hanging over their heads.

"He wants the hammer," Bruenor explained, recognizing Drizzt and Catti-brie's

doubts.

That explained everything. The hammer was Wulfgar's hammer, mighty Aegis-fang,

which Bruenor himself had forged as a gift for Wulfgar during the years the young man had

been indentured to the red-bearded dwarf. During those years, Bruenor, Drizzt, and Catti-

brie had taught the fierce young barbarian a better way.

Of course Berkthgar would want Aegis-fang, Drizzt realized. The warhammer had become

more than a weapon, had become a symbol to the hardy men and women of Settlestone.

Aegis-fang symbolized the memory of Wulfgar, and if Berkthgar could convince Bruenor to

let him wield it, his stature among his people would increase tenfold.

It was perfectly logical, but Drizzt knew Berkthgar would never, ever convince Bruenor

to give him the hammer.

The dwarf was looking at Catti-brie then, and Drizzt, in regarding her as well,

wondered if she was thinking that giving the hammer to the new barbarian leader might be

a good thing. How many emotions must be swirling in the young woman's thoughts!

Drizzt knew. She and Wulfgar were to have been wed; she and Wulfgar had grown into

adulthood together and had learned many of life's lessons side by side. Could Catti-brie

now get beyond that, beyond her own grief, and follow a logical course to seal the alliance?

"No," she said finally, resolutely. "The hammer he cannot have. "

Drizzt nodded his agreement, and was glad that Catti-brie would not let go of her

memories of Wulfgar, of her love for the man. He, too, had loved Wulfgar, as a brother, and

he could not picture anyone else, neither Berkthgar nor the god Tempus himself, carrying

Aegis-fang.

"Never thought to give it to him," Bruenor agreed. He wagged an angry fist in the air, the

muscles of his arm straining with the obvious tension. "But if that half-son of a reindeer asks

again, I'll give him something else, don't ye doubt!"

Drizzt saw a serious problem brewing. Berkthgar wanted the

hammer, that was understandable, even expected, but the young, ambitious barbarian leader

apparently did not appreciate the depth of his request. This situation could get much worse

than a strain on necessary allies, Drizzt knew. This could lead to open fighting between the

peoples, for Drizzt did not doubt Bruenor's claim for a moment. If Berkthgar demanded the

hammer as ransom for what he should give unconditionally, he'd be lucky to get back into the

sunshine with his limbs attached.

"Me and Drizzt'll go to Settlestone," Catti-brie offered. "We'll get Berkthgar's word and give

him nothing in return. "

"The boy's a fool!" Bruenor huffed.

"But his people are not foolish," Catti-brie added. "He's wanting the hammer to make

himself more the leader. We'll teach him that asking for something he cannot have will make

him less the leader. "

Strong, and passionate, and so wise, Drizzt mused, watching the young woman. She

would indeed accomplish what she had claimed. He and Catti-brie would go to Settlestone and

return with everything Catti-brie had just promised her father.

The drow blew a long, low sigh as Bruenor and Catti-brie moved off, the young

woman going to retrieve her belongings from the side of the room. He watched the renewed

hop in Bruenor's step, the life returned to the fiery dwarf. How many years would King

Bruenor Battlehammer rule? Drizzt wondered. A hundred? Two hundred?

Unless the blade of an enemy or the claws of a monster shortened his life, the dwarf, too,

would watch Catti-brie grow old and pass away.

It was an image that Drizzt, watching the light step of this spirited young foal, could not

bear to entertain.

*****

Khazid'hea, or Cutter, rested patiently on Catti-brie's hip, its moment of anger passed.

The sentient sword was pleased by the young woman's progress as a fighter. She was able, no

doubt, but still Khazid'hea wanted more, wanted to be wielded by the very finest warrior.

Right now, that warrior seemed to be Drizzt Do'Urden.

The sword had gone after Drizzt when the drow renegade had killed its former wielder,

Dantrag Baenre. Khazid'hea had altered its pommel, as it usually did, from the sculpted head

of a fiend (which had lured Dantrag) to one of a unicorn, knowing that was the symbol of

Drizzt Do'Urden's goddess. Still, the drow ranger had bade Catti-brie take the sword, for he

favored the scimitar.

Favored the scimitar!

How Khazid'hea wished that it might alter its blade as it could the pommel! If the weapon

could curve its blade, shorten and thicken it...

But Khazid'hea could not, and Drizzt would not wield a sword. The woman was good,

though, and getting better. She was human, and would not likely live long enough to attain as

great a proficiency as Drizzt, but if the sword could compel her to slay the drow...

There were many ways to become the best.

* * * * *

Matron Baenre, withered and too old to be alive, even for a drow, stood in the great

chapel of Menzoberranzan's first house, her house, watching the slow progress as her slave

workers tried to extract the fallen stalactite from the roof of the dome-shaped structure. The

place would soon be repaired, she knew. The rubble on the floor had already been cleared away,

and the bloodstains of the dozen drow killed in the tragedy had long ago been scoured clean.

But the pain of that moment, of Matron Baenre's supreme embarrassment in front of

every important matron mother of Menzoberranzan, in the very moment of the first matron

mother's pinnacle of power, lingered. The spearlike stalactite had cut into the roof, but it might

as well have torn Matron Baenre's own heart. She had forged an alliance between the warlike

houses of the drow city, a joining solidified by the promise of new glory when the drow army

conquered Mithril Hall.

New glory for the Spider Queen. New glory for Matron Baenre.

Shattered by the point of a stalactite, by the escape of that renegade Drizzt Do'Urden.

To Drizzt she had lost her eldest son,

Dantrag, perhaps the finest weapon master in Menzoberranzan. To Drizzt she had lost her

daughter, wicked Vendes. And, most painful of all to the old wretch, she had lost to

Drizzt and his friends the alliance, the promise of greater glory. For when the matron

mothers, the rulers of Menzoberranzan and priestesses all, had watched the stalactite pierce the

roof of this chapel, this most sacred place of Lloth, at the time of high ritual, their confidence

that the goddess had sanctioned both this alliance and the coming war had crumbled. They had

left House Baenre in a rush, back to their own houses, where they sealed their gates and tried

to discern the will of Lloth.

Matron Baenre's status had suffered greatly.

Even with all that had happened, though, the first matron mother was confident she

could restore the alliance. On a necklace about her neck she kept a ring carved from the tooth of

an ancient dwarven king, one Gandalug Battlehammer, patron of Clan Battle-hammer, founder

of Mithril Hall. Matron Baenre owned Gandalug's spirit and could exact answers from it

about the ways of the dwarven mines. Despite Drizzt's escape, the dark elves could go to

Mithril Hall, could punish Drizzt and his friends.

She could restore the alliance, but for some reason that Matron Baenre did not understand,

Lloth, the Spider Queen herself, held her in check. The yochlol, the handmaidens of Lloth, had

come to Baenre and warned her to forego the alliance and instead focus her attention on her

family, to secure her house defenses. It was a demand no priestess of the Spider Queen

would dare disobey.

She heard the harsh clicking of hard boots on the floor behind her and the jingle of ample

jewelry, and she didn't have to turn about to know that Jarlaxle had entered.

"You have done as I asked?" she questioned, still looking at the continuing work on the

domed ceiling.

"Greetings to you as well, First Matron Mother," the always sarcastic male replied. That

turned Baenre to face him, and she scowled, as she and so many other of Menzoberranzan's

ruling females scowled when they looked at the mercenary.

He was swaggering—there was no other word to describe him. The dark elves of

Menzoberranzan, particularly the lowly males, normally donned quiet, practical clothes, dark-

hued robes adorned with spiders or webs, or plain black jerkins beneath supple chain

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