Exile: The Legend of Drizzt (18 page)

The spirit-wraith watched as yet another svirfneblin patrol made its way down the twisting tunnel. The tactical wisdom of the being that once had been the finest weapon master in all of Menzoberranzan had kept the undead monster and his anxious sword arm in check for the last few days. Zaknafein did not truly understand the significance of the increasing number of deep
gnome patrols, but he sensed that his mission would be put into jeopardy if he struck out against one of them. At the very least, his attack against so organized a foe would send alarms ringing throughout the corridors, alarms that the elusive Drizzt surely would hear.

Similarly, the spirit-wraith had sublimated his vicious urges against other living things and had left the svirfneblin patrols nothing to find in the last few days, purposely avoiding conflicts with the many denizens of the region. Matron Malice Do’Urden’s evil will followed Zaknafein’s every move, pounding relentlessly at his thoughts, urging him on with a great vengeance. Any killing that Zaknafein did sated that insidious will temporarily, but the undead thing’s tactical wisdom overruled the savage summons. The slight flicker that was Zaknafein’s remaining reasoning knew that he would only find his return to the peace of death when Drizzt Do’Urden joined him in his eternal sleep.

The spirit-wraith kept his swords in their sheaths as he watched the deep gnomes pass by.

Then, as still another group of weary svirfnebli made its way back to the west, another flicker of cognition stirred within the spirit-wraith. If these deep gnomes were so prominent in this region, it seemed likely that Drizzt Do’Urden would have encountered them.

This time, Zaknafein did not let the deep gnomes wander out beyond his sight. He floated down from the concealment of the stalactite-strewn ceiling and fell into pace behind the patrol. The name of Blingdenstone bobbed at the edge of his conscious grasp, a memory of his past life.

“Blingdenstone,” the spirit-wraith tried to speak aloud, the first word Matron Malice’s undead monster had tried to utter. But the name came out as no more than an undecipherable snarl.

rizzt went out with Seldig and his new friends many times during the passing days. The young deep gnomes, on advice from Belwar, kept their time with the drow elf in calm and unobtrusive games; no more did they press Drizzt for re-enactments of exciting battles he had fought in the wilds.

For the first few times Drizzt went out, Belwar watched him from the door. The burrow-warden did trust Drizzt, but he also understood the trials the drow had endured. A life of savagery and brutality such as the one Drizzt had known could not so easily be dismissed.

Soon, though, it became apparent to Belwar, and to all the others who observed Drizzt, that the drow had settled into a comfortable rhythm with the young deep gnomes and posed little threat to any of the svirfnebli of Blingdenstone. Even King Schnicktick, worried of the events beyond the city’s borders, came to agree that Drizzt could be trusted.

“You have a visitor,” Belwar said to Drizzt one morning. Drizzt followed the burrow-warden’s movements to the stone door, thinking Seldig had come to call on him early this day. When Belwar opened the door, though, Drizzt nearly toppled over in surprise, for it was no svirfneblin that bounded into the stone structure. Rather, it was a huge and black feline form.

“Guenhwyvar!” Drizzt cried out, dropping into a low crouch to catch the rushing panther. Guenhwyvar bowled him over, playfully swatting him with a great paw.

When at last Drizzt managed to get out from under the panther and into a sitting position, Belwar walked over to him and handed him the onyx figurine. “Surely the councilor charged with examining the panther was sorry to part with it,” the burrow-warden said. “But Guenhwyvar is your friend, first and most.”

Drizzt could not find the words to reply. Even before the panther’s return, the deep gnomes of Blingdenstone had treated him better than he deserved, or so he believed. Now for the svirfnebli to return so powerful a magical item, to show him such absolute trust, touched him deeply.

“At your leisure you may return to the House Center, the building in which you were detained when first you came to us,” Belwar went on, “and retrieve your weapons and armor.”

Drizzt was a bit tentative at the notion, remembering the incident at the mock-up of the basilisk. What damage might he have wrought that day if he had been armed, not with poles, but with fine drow scimitars?

“We will keep them here and keep them safe,” Belwar said, understanding his friend’s sudden distress. “If you need them, you will have them.”

“I am in your debt,” Drizzt replied. “In the debt of all Blingdenstone.”

“We do not consider friendship a debt,” the burrow-warden
replied with a wink. He left Drizzt and Guenhwyvar then and went back into the cave-room of his house, allowing the two dear friends a private reunion.

Seldig and the other young deep gnomes were in for quite a treat that day when Drizzt came out to join them with Guenhwyvar by his side. Seeing the cat at play with the svirfnebli, Drizzt could not help but remember that tragic day, a decade before, when Masoj had used Guenhwyvar to hunt down the last of Belwar’s fleeing miners. Apparently, Guenhwyvar had dismissed that awful memory altogether, for the panther and the young deep gnomes frolicked together for the entire day.

Drizzt wished only that he could so readily dismiss the errors of his past.

“Most Honored Burrow-Warden,” came a call a couple of days later, while Belwar and Drizzt were enjoying their morning meal. Belwar paused and sat perfectly still, and Drizzt did not miss the unexpected cloud of pain that crossed his host’s broad features. Drizzt had come to know the svirfneblin so very well, and when Belwar’s long, hawklike nose turned up in a certain way, it inevitably signaled the burrow-warden’s distress.

“The king has reopened the eastern tunnels,” the voice continued. “There are rumors of a thick vein of ore only a day’s march. It would do honor to my expedition if Belwar Dissengulp would find his way to accompany us.”

A hopeful smile widened on Drizzt’s face, not for any thoughts he had of venturing out, but because he had noticed that Belwar seemed a bit too reclusive in the otherwise open svirfneblin community.

“Burrow-Warden Brickers,” Belwar explained to Drizzt grimly,
not sharing the drow’s budding enthusiasm in the least. “One of those who comes to my door before every expedition, bidding me to join in the journey.”

“And you never go,” Drizzt reasoned.

Belwar shrugged. “A courtesy call, nothing more,” he said, his nose twitching and his wide teeth grating together.

“You are not worthy to march beside them,” Drizzt added, his tone dripping with sarcasm. At last, he believed, he had found the source of his friend’s frustration.

Again Belwar shrugged.

Drizzt scowled at him. “I have seen you at work with your mithral hands,” he said. “You would be no detriment to any party! Indeed, far more! Do you so quickly consider yourself crippled, when those about you do not?”

Belwar slammed his hammer-hand down on the table, sending a fair-sized crack running through the stone. “I can cut rock faster than the lot of them!” the burrow-warden growled fiercely. “And if monsters descended upon us …” He waved his pickaxe-hand in a menacing way, and Drizzt did not doubt that the barrel-chested deep gnome could put the instrument to good use.

“Enjoy the day, Most Honored Burrow-Warden,” came a final cry from outside the door. “As ever, we shall respect your decision, but as ever, we also shall lament your absence.”

Drizzt stared curiously at Belwar. “Why, then?” he asked at length. “If you are as competent as all—yourself included—agree, why do you remain behind? I know the love svirfnebli have for such expeditions, yet you are not interested. Nor do you ever speak of your own adventures outside Blingdenstone. Is it my presence that holds you at home? Are you bound to watch over me?”

“No,” Belwar replied, his booming voice echoing back several times in Drizzt’s keen ears. “You have been granted the return of your weapons, dark elf. Do not doubt our trust.”

“But …” Drizzt began, but he stopped short, suddenly realizing the truth of the deep gnome’s reluctance. “The fight,” he said softly, almost apologetically. “That evil day more than a decade ago.”

Belwar’s nose verily rolled up over itself, and he briskly turned away.

“You blame yourself for the loss of your kin!” Drizzt continued, gaining volume as he gained confidence in his reasoning. Still, the drow could hardly believe his words as he spoke them.

But when Belwar turned back on him, the burrow-warden’s eyes were rimmed with wetness and Drizzt knew that the words had struck home.

Drizzt ran a hand through his thick white mane, not really knowing how to respond to Belwar’s dilemma. Drizzt personally had led the drow party against the svirfnebli mining group, and he knew that no blame for the disaster could rightly be placed on any of the deep gnomes. Yet, how could Drizzt possibly explain that to Belwar?

“I remember that fated day,” Drizzt began tentatively. “Vividly I remember it, as if that evil moment will be frozen in my thoughts, never to recede.”

“No more than in mine,” the burrow-warden whispered. Drizzt nodded his accord. “Equally, though,” he said, “for I find myself caught within the very same web of guilt that entraps you.”

Belwar looked at him curiously, not really understanding.

“It was I who led the drow patrol,” Drizzt explained. “I found your troupe, errantly believing you to be marauders intending to descend upon Menzoberranzan.”

“If not you, then another,” Belwar replied.

“But none could have led them as well as I,” Drizzt said. “Out there—” he glanced at the door—“in the wilds, I was at home. That was my domain.”

Belwar was listening to his every word now, just as Drizzt had hoped.

“And it was I who defeated the earth elemental,” Drizzt continued, speaking matter-of-factly, not cockily. “Had it not been for my presence, the battle would have proved equal. Many svirfnebli would have survived to return to Blingdenstone.”

Belwar could not hide his smile. There was a measure of truth in Drizzt’s words, for Drizzt had indeed been a major factor in the drow attack’s success. But Belwar found Drizzt’s attempt to dispel his guilt a bit of a stretch of the truth.