Chapter 4
Battle's End
Zaire
let out an unearthly howl of pain and rage, then abruptly charged at the door
of the hiding place, scrabbling frantically at it.
Drizzt
walked warily up to her, his hand still firmly on the dagger he had...borrowed
from the weapons hall. "What is it?" he
asked.
The
Matron had set Zaire to guarding Drizzt in one of Do'Urden's various hidden
chambers, this one behind a bookshelf in Zaknafein's room, which was so heavily
warded and soaked with magic that locating spells would not work or would
backfire.
Something
was wrong if Zaire wanted to get out. Drizzt wouldn't believe Zaire would voluntarily try to attack any
intruder in the room – the big cat would rather wait for someone to open the
shelf.
How
would Zaire know something was wrong?
Drizzt
then remembered that Zaire was somehow linked to Zaknafein. Such that four hundred odd years had also
slid off the cheetah's back as well, and the creature looked like it was still
in the prime of its life.
Something
had happened to Zaknafein? Drizzt quickly fumbled at the back of the bookshelf
in front of them, but it had been made to be opened from the outside.
He
never claimed to understand anyone inside the House. Jarlaxle had nearly collapsed in laughter when he saw the
bookshelf chamber, claiming that Zaknafein obviously had a bad taste in
literature, while Zaknafein said this was such a stupid, obvious trick that no
one would think of looking for it.
Drizzt
looked down, and saw a small lever at the edge of the bookshelf – just as obviously
the mage was prepared against accidentally locking himself in or something, so
he pulled it.
The
shelf swung open, and Zaire immediately leaped to the door, going through the
large flap-device at the bottom. Drizzt, grumbling at the cat, managed to twist the doorknob open, look
around hastily for any monsters in the room, then close the door, and run after
the cheetah.
He
lost the cheetah quickly – the creature seemed to run faster than wind, long
paws covering the ground faster than his – but knew that the cat had gone to
the balcony.
Drizzt
gasped out loud when he arrived – Zaknafein had collapsed against the rail,
robe soaked in blood in a pool of red, several large, sharp glass fragments the
size of Drizzt's palm sticking out of his back, one hand convulsively clutching
some gold chain of office. A
shuddering, weak heaving of the chest proclaimed the mage was still alive. Glass crunched under Drizzt's feet as he
turned.
Very
near Zaknafein was the body of another elf, but Zaire apparently had him by the
throat, growling menacingly and angrily. The elf's hand twitched and reached a large glass fragment, drawing back
as if to stab Zaire with it, but Drizzt darted forward and grabbed hold of the
elf's wrist, twisting the fragment away.
Agonizingly,
the elf suffocated, hand growing limp, the fragment dropping down to shatter
further.
Zaire
shook the elf to make sure he was truly dead, then padded over to the form of
Zaknafein, making a noise that sounded like a whimper, licking his face.
"We'd
better fetch some help," Drizzt told it. Zaire was supposed to be intelligent...It didn't seem to listen.
The
sounds of someone fighting reached him, and he looked through the rail –
Jarlaxle and some dark elf sparring heatedly around the entrance. Back and forth they weaved, around lots of
dead bodies. Where was everyone else?
Drizzt
swallowed, and sat down beside Zaire. Suddenly he felt very confused, and rather alone. "Don't die on me, Master Zaknafein," he told
the mage quietly. "Please. I'm going to find the Matron!"
**
"It
is done," Matron Malice said with a shuddering breath, "The spiders have killed
Matron Baenre and her daughters, or they have fled. House Do'Urden has survived the attack." Her own voice sounded incredulous to
herself, and no wonder.
Lanfaye
immediately collapsed, and Vierna followed her. Taralyn and Dantrena leant heavily against each other, taking deep
breaths, but when she glanced at them, they smiled with fierce pride.
"We
will charge Baenre with the justice of Lloth," Taralyn said softly. The new day was supposed to have dawned, by
now.
"Daermon
N'a'shezbaernon," Dantrena said slowly, but with the same quiet pride, "Fourth
House of Menzoberranzan."
"A
good ring, does it not?" Malice smiled. "Now we have to gather back our soldiers."
There
was the sound of pattering feet outside. Malice's hand went to her whip until she realized that it was a small sound of pattering feet. Drizzt poked his head into the chapel
half-fearfully.
"What
are you doing out of the room, page prince?" Malice demanded, though she did
not have the strength to scold anyone anymore. Not yet, at least.
"Matron...Mother,"
Drizzt said quickly, his words a rush, "Zaknafein's...uh, that is, Zaknafein's
injured...he's not dead," he said even more quickly, when Malice's face drained
of color. It was quite obvious to
anyone who was not blind and death in the House that the Matron had very deep
'feelings', as Jarlaxle put it, for the patron, which he also returned, and
which Jarlaxle often made fun of.
He
thought that was only proper, so why did they make so about it? And they avoided the word 'love', but 'love'
only meant (in the drow tongue, that is) lust. Strong liking was better for it. Drizzt remembered the bed, and then just as quickly kicked the thoughts
out of his head guiltily when Malice stared at him.
"Where
is he?" she demanded.
"The
balcony," he said quickly. Malice's
temper was volcanic at best, totally unpredictable and absolutely terrifying to
everyone, except for Zaknafein, who seemed immune to it, and Jarlaxle, who
didn't take it seriously. Jarlaxle
never took anything much seriously.
Drizzt
had had his fair share of beatings from the whips that hissed at her side,
though mostly from Vierna, who was his wean mother and not happy about it. Malice thought that since she was the
strongest, she would be the best at teaching him, even though Lanfaye had said
she wouldn't mind taking the task.
Malice
quickly swept past him, but he could almost feel the weariness radiating off
her. Taralyn looked at Vierna's and
Lanfaye's unconscious forms then curtly told a nearby common priestess to take
care of them. Dantrena shot Drizzt a
tired grin – she was the nicest of the sisters – then limped off after Malice,
followed by Taralyn, who pulled him after her and began to berate him about not
following instructions.
Drizzt
bore it without comment; eyes fixed on his toes. Taralyn's lectures were long-winded and she tended to repeat
herself and wander off to his other faults, but strangely he'd still had to
feel her whip. Even Dantrena had beaten
him more than once whenever she caught him exploring her room. It wasn't exactly his fault – he'd just
wanted to see where she secreted so many sweets that she could give him one
almost every day.
Sometimes
he wondered briefly if the other houses were as weird as his were. Zaknafein and Jarlaxle were very nearly the
strangest. Zaknafein was his father,
but always looked mildly surprised when he saw Drizzt, as though he was still
trying to figure out why and how Drizzt was still there. It always made him scurry off
quickly...anything but that penetrating stare.
Jarlaxle alternated
between ignoring Drizzt, laughing at Drizzt or talking seriously to him about
weapons, though the last was the least common but most welcome.
He
realized that Taralyn had abruptly stopped and seemed to be waiting for an
answer, so he quickly mumbled something noncommittally. This time, Taralyn seemed too tired to carry
on her tirade.
When
they reached the balcony, Malice was already kneeling beside Zaknafein and
grumbling angrily to herself – the female drow was glowing a heated red in the
infrared spectrum. "Bloody fool" was
about the mildest she was calling the mage as her fingers ran over the wounds.
Even
Taralyn and Dantrena made no comment about the words that would fit an
innkeeper's barmaid better than a Matron of a ruling House.
"We
have to get him in," Malice said.
**
Jarlaxle
looked up once, and saw his sisters on the balcony with someone kneeling
down. He didn't want to know why, but
he knew something – if his sisters were out of the chapel and alive, the battle
was over.
Dantrag
seemed to know that as wall, and lost whatever desperate zeal he had been
clinging on to. Jarlaxle considered
playing with the Baenre Weapon Master for a while more, then sighed and thrust,
sword dancing past the half-hearted defense into the other's heart.
Dantrag
collapsed with a gurgling snarl, sliding limply off the sword. Callously, Jarlaxle wiped the sword on him,
then just as callously searched the elf's pockets. Just in case, though he was sure Dantrag wouldn't bring anything
interesting.
Nothing. He looked at Dantrag's swords in
consideration for a while, then took them. Ordinary, but still trophies. He
jumped when Malice's voice shouted at him.
"Jarlaxle
Do'Urden!" she was saying, "Come here!"
He
sighed, and dropped the swords. Plenty
of time later. He ran quickly over to
the courtyard, then levitated to the balcony. And let out a gasp of horror.
"Exactly,"
Malice said grimly, "Now help me carry this damned idiot inside. I cannot work here."
"Matron
Mother," Jarlaxle said worriedly, "Are you strong enough to heal..."
"I
am strong enough to use salves and potions, Weapon Master," Malice said tartly,
"And hurry up, Lloth damn you!"
Jarlaxle
shrugged and carefully took hold of Zaknafein, lifting him up with a grunt. "Someone's going to have to go on a diet, or
something," he muttered irritably, following Malice as she strode back inside
the house, and noted that the medallion was still firmly clutched in his hand. "Damn you, Zaknafein. You take winning too hard."