If he did not, he might well end up dead.
“No,” he said at last. “I ask for this kill, by my sword alone.”
Yiccardaria nodded and seemed contented, while Yvonnel was delighted.
She wouldn’t have helped him anyway.
“He will die,” Tiago promised.
Yiccardaria motioned to the tight circular staircase off to the side of the balcony, but Tiago took his own route, lifting a leg over the balcony railing and simply dropping over, tapping his House emblem to enact a levitation enchantment so he could touch down easily onto the floor some twenty feet below.
Even as he landed, Yvonnel dismissed the enchantment over Drizzt.
“They both champion Lolth,” Yiccardaria remarked. “But only one knows it.”
DRIZZT REACHED FOR Zaknafein, his father, as the great warrior lay bleeding, dying upon the altar.
But Drizzt’s hand passed right through the image and scraped the top of the altar-stone as he pulled back, and the images around him of his family, of his gasping father and his murderous mother, of his three priestess sisters in their Lolth-worshiping raiment—of Vierna in particular, and Drizzt thought he spied a tear there as she watched her father die—cast him back across the decades and shed a dark light upon his choices.
But Vierna was a ghost. They were all ghosts. And then they were gone.
Leaving Drizzt kneeling beside the altar, staring at the hand he had put through the image of Zaknafein, seeing blood on that hand.
Drizzt understood it now. Yes, his hands were soaked in blood. He had caused the downfall of House Do’Urden, the sacrifice of Zaknafein, who had lain upon that altar willingly in his stead.
And for what?
He had saved an elf child. His principles, his conscience, had demanded it, but he had killed her anyway, later. She had come for him and he had killed her anyway.
What did it matter? What did any of it matter? Of what value were his principles when he continually cast them against the incoming tide itself?
How much of a fool was he, standing alone, and so desperately clinging to images of his reborn friends that he now knew to be mirages, illusions, deceptions?
There was no solid ground beneath his feet. He felt as if his entire life had been a lie, or a quest to tilt his lance at statues of dragons that would only be rebuilt if he somehow managed to topple them.
He could not win.
What, then, the point of fighting?
He took a deep breath. He sensed something, someone, behind him and glanced over his shoulder to see a drow warrior, Tiago Baenre, floating down from above, landing lightly on the floor some steps away, his sword and shield at the ready.
“Why are you here?” Drizzt asked him. “Why now?”
“To kill you, of course. To finish what should have been done in the tunnels of Q’Xorlarrin.”
Drizzt looked down again at his hand and gave a soft chuckle. The blood was still there—the blood would always be there.
“Q’Xorlarrin,” he whispered. “Gauntlgrym.”
Or was it? Did it matter?
“Am I to lie upon the altar, then, and accept your blade?” Drizzt said, twisting to face Tiago as he rose to his feet.
“The result would be the same,” Tiago replied. “Though I prefer to again defeat you.”
Drizzt’s thoughts went back to that room in Gauntlgrym, where he and Tiago had fought, and where he was certain he had Tiago beaten and dead, until Doum’wielle intervened with the same mighty sword Jarlaxle now carried.
“I am happy to kill you again in combat,” Tiago teased, “for the glory of Lolth.”
Drizzt simply shrugged and let Tiago have his delusions.
He drew his scimitars, and as they slid free of their sheaths, Drizzt planted in his mind the image of Zaknafein, upon this very altar, in this very place, being sacrificed to the goddess Tiago now championed.
Drizzt looked at Icingdeath and Twinkle as he rolled them over in his hands. So many memories.
He smiled as he thought of the dragon that gave his right-hand scimitar its name, as he recalled Wulfgar’s implausible throw to drop the giant icicle spear upon the unwitting wyrm.
But he forced fully back into his thoughts the image of Zaknafein, dying in his stead. Dying … Zaknafein murdered … because of Drizzt … because of cruel Lolth …
Tiago, self-professed champion of Lolth, leaped and came on.
The Hunter waited.
Tiago opened with a bull rush, shield leading, seeking to drive Drizzt back over the altar.
Drizzt, outwardly seeming hardly ready, was quicker, though, and he flashed out to the left, forcing Tiago to skid to a stop and swing about, launching his sword in a wide sweep to keep the dodging ranger at bay.
A moment of darkness crossed Tiago’s face as he squared up to his foe. There stood Drizzt, scimitars up and ready, diagonally out from either hip, head bowed but coming up. When Tiago glanced upon that face, into those lavender orbs, at that sly smile, he saw the truth.
Drizzt didn’t care.
Tiago went in carefully, Vidrinath stabbing ahead.
Drizzt, in no hurry, tapped the blade aside, left and right, and measured his ripostes, more to see how Tiago would react than with any hope of scoring an early hit. And so they felt each other out for a few turns and routines, mostly blade tapping blade, and only once with Drizzt putting Icingdeath out far enough and fast enough for Tiago to block with his shield.
But shield and scimitar barely connected, and Drizzt had the blade away before the webbing magic of Orbbcress could be activated. Drizzt covered that retraction with a secondary spin and strike, desiring that Tiago not know what he remembered from the last encounter.
Drizzt understood the properties of that shield, and believed he knew how Tiago would try to use it.
Tiago’s fine sword averted the second strike, and the deft drow quickly forged ahead, stabbing repeatedly from around the edge of his shield, forcing Drizzt into a retreat.
Drizzt focused his counters on that sword, parrying and rolling, seeking some way to twist it from Tiago’s hand. But whenever he got any leverage on the starlit glassteel blade, Tiago was fast to turn, bringing his shield into play and forcing Drizzt to surrender the twist or be caught.
This young warrior was very skilled. Drizzt reminded himself of that with every parry and every counter.
He was also very confident, seizing the initiative and pressing his attacks.
Drizzt let him, and continued his measured retreat, swinging to the far end of the room from the balcony where Tiago had leaped, and then coming back around to the right, gradually putting the balcony behind him and backstepping to the altar.
Tiago’s cadence, strike and step, was almost hypnotic, the flecks caught within Vidrinath sparkling like the stars seen atop Kelvin’s Cairn. Drizzt could almost feel the chill breeze on his face again, and how he wanted to be there …
Tiago huffed and puffed as he scrambled to keep pace and keep the offensive press, but Drizzt easily turned the stabbing blade.
Tiago dropped his right shoulder back and leaped ahead with unexpected ferocity, shield leading. But only for a moment. As Drizzt reacted, so, too, did Tiago, anticipating Drizzt’s reactions perfectly.
Drizzt went right and Tiago turned right, Vidrinath coming forward.
Tiago had first blood, and Drizzt’s hip burned from the poisonous strike.
Drizzt reset his position and his pace, accepting the gash and confident that he could defeat the drow sleeping poison.
The sight of the blood spurred Tiago, it seemed, and he came on as before, only much quicker now, Vidrinath leading and stabbing, changing angles with each strike, short stabs and sweeping reversals.
Twinkle and Icingdeath met the barrage, the three blades ringing together and scraping apart, and always that shield finishing the exchange, cutting off Drizzt’s attack.
The altar was near, and the young Baenre came on with a shield rush again, angling t
o Drizzt’s right. And as with the initial attack, he forced Drizzt out to the left—but this time, with Vidrinath ready.
But Drizzt knew that, and so didn’t go left. Icingdeath came down hard on the shield, a stunning blow that interrupted the bull rush.
Tiago cried in glee, thinking he had him, and enacted the web properties of his shield to grasp Icingdeath fast against it.
But then Drizzt, his feet on the top edge of the altar for leverage, was against that shield, too, pressing forward from above, driving Tiago back and down and twisting, and leaving the surprised warrior at a sudden and likely fatal disadvantage.
Tiago had no choice. He had to force Orbbcress to release its hold, or he would have been driven to the ground awkwardly, and thus exposed to Drizzt’s free scimitar. He spun desperately out to his right as he released Orbbcress’s grip, and so did Drizzt, diving down the other way from the altar, landing in a headlong roll that brought him right back to his feet, where he spun about in time to engage the angry Tiago’s renewed charge.
“You fight with tricks of your fine armaments,” Drizzt accused him, spinning and parrying, his feet moving too fast for Tiago to properly pursue in time so that he wasn’t simply blocked yet again. “Where are you, Tiago Baenre, without those gifts your heritage provides?”
“Do you claim no baubles?” an increasingly-agitated Tiago countered.
“Won in fair combat,” taunted Drizzt. “Can you say the same?”
On came Tiago with a wild sweep of his sword, and Drizzt sucked in his belly and leaped back out of range.
But in came the growling Baenre, throwing himself into Drizzt, shield leading. Drizzt struck down hard with both his blades to break the rush and keep the fierce warrior at bay.
And Orbbcress caught both of Drizzt’s scimitars, hilt to tip.
Drizzt couldn’t press forward this time. He had no altar behind him to bring him up high and grant him overpowering leverage. He tugged back, but futilely.
Tiago had his feet under him, and had both of those blades captured. He rolled his chest down and to his right, turning his shield, driving Drizzt over, and flipped a reverse grip on Vidrinath as he went.
If Drizzt let go of his caught blades and tried to grapple, Tiago would simply continue the turn and put a backhanded strike through the fool’s chest.
But Drizzt didn’t let go and was pulled with him.
Tiago stepped forward with his left foot and jerked back strongly to the right, eyes sparkling as both blades were pulled from Drizzt’s grasp.
He must have seen Drizzt’s feet beneath his moving shield, the unarmed heretic trying to get away—but even with his magical enhancements, Drizzt could not get out of range.
THE MOMENT OF glory was upon him. With his legs properly placed under him, with all of his core strength driving up against the overbalanced drow, Drizzt had to stumble backward as Tiago whipped his shield back around to the left, arm going out wide while he flipped Vidrinath in his right hand for a brutal slash.
Tiago opened his shoulders—his entire body moved in perfect balance and perfect harmony, the power of the mighty swing coming from the strength of his legs, from the turning of his hips.
Undeniable.
Deadly.
“BRILLIANT!” YVONNEL GASPED as she saw Tiago executing that turn and swing, as she noted Drizzt without his scimitars, fighting for balance.
“A champion is crowned,” said Yiccardaria.
CHAPTER 20
Baubles
ATHROGATE STOOD BY THE STEM OF THE NEW HOSTTOWER OF the Arcane, hands on hips and a continual sigh blowing from his mouth.
Ambergris was there with him, moving about the recently constructed trunk of the planned tower, examining the joints between the fitted pieces, casting a spell here or there, but ultimately shaking her head.
“It ain’t workin’,” Athrogate explained to Catti-brie, when she and the other magic-using architects of the project arrived to his summons. A swarm of dwarves was gathering as well.
“The progress seems remarkable,” Lord Parise Ulfbinder replied, nodding as he worked, his eyes up the ten-foot-tall trunk of the structure. “Better than I would have ever imagined!”
Athrogate snorted derisively.
“Can you not find enough pieces?” Ilnezhara put in, and she looked from Athrogate to Lady Avelyere, who was leading the search for shards from the original Hosttower.
“We’ll never find them all,” Lady Avelyere replied, “but surely a substantial portion will be recovered.”
“Won’t matter,” Athrogate told them. “Ain’t workin’!” He moved over to the structure and Ambergris, and motioned for Skullbreaker, her two-handed mace. He spit into his hands, hoisted the weapon, and to the shock of all watching, slammed it against the side of the tower.
The stone disintegrated beneath the weight of the blow, and large cracks ran out from the spot of impact.
“Wouldn’t hold a twig for long, ne’er mind a branch big enough to hold rooms and such,” the dwarf explained.
“If we thicken the walls, we might be goin’ up higher,” Ambergris agreed. “But we’ll not e’er replicate them tree branches that made for the first tower.”
“We’ll need to find different spells to strengthen the bends and joints,” Catti-brie suggested.
“Or better builders,” Gromph remarked.
“No designs to support a one-armed arch, ye durned elf,” Athrogate argued, and others, wizard and dwarf alike, took up the debate.
“Or our puzzle approach is errant,” one giant voice yelled above them, drawing the attention of all.
“This was my fear,” the cloud giant, Caecilia went on. “We have approached the reconstruction as a matter of collecting the old pieces and then weaving dwarven masonry and magical spells to put the puzzle back together. I was doubtful from the start.”
“Ye got a better idea?” Athrogate asked skeptically, hands on hips and a scowl on his face. “We got no design prints.”
“We’re not even for knowin’ what them pieces are made of,” Ambergris added. “Seem to be crystal, mostly, aye, but there’s more.”
“The lack of a design rendering is damaging,” Caecilia admitted.
“Because it was constructed wholly of magic,” Gromph argued.
“Puzzling, as well,” said Lord Parise. “Surely they worked with a plan.”
“Surely they did not,” argued Gromph. “The Hosttower was a magical artwork, not a dwarven construct.”
“We’re knowing that dwarfs were a part of it,” Athrogate protested.
“So were mules, likely,” Gromph retorted.
“Bah, as ye wish,” said Athrogate, “and ye’re knowin’ the spells that might paint her anew, are ye?”
Gromph scowled at the sarcasm.
“We’ve no hint of any such thing,” Tazmikella put in. “Whatever magic that might have built the Hosttower is not revealed among the ancient knowledge of dragonkind.”
“Or you simply haven’t found it yet,” Lord Parise replied, and both Tazmikella and Ilnezhara looked at each other and shrugged.
“Then might we all go back to our libraries, or repositories, our most learned scholars, and delve deeper into the magic,” Caecilia said, and others nodded.
Gromph stared hard at the two dwarves standing by the trunk, as if judging them for this failure.
Many whispered conversations erupted all around the field on Cutlass Island, not in disagreement with Caecilia’s last advice, but neither in support. They reflected the pall that Athrogate’s undeniable observations had so abruptly thrown over the progress they had been making these tendays.
Indeed, the whole field around the structure became a cacophony of groans and muttering.
Gromph Baenre wasn’t listening, though, nor was he including his own voice in the arguments. He noted that Catti-brie, too, had tuned all of it out. She walked slowly to the pile of shards that lay to the side of the tower, picked up a small one in one hand, then conjured a bal
l of flame in her other hand.
She examined the shard, then put it, her hand, and that curious ruby ring she wore into the summoned flame. Then, to Gromph’s surprise, stuck her face into the flame as well.
And there she remained, and many began to take note, and so the murmurs quieted, until the only sound on the field was the hissing burn of Catti-brie’s summoned flame, a hiss that grew louder as the flames intensified, shifting to a more furious orange, then to a bluish white, and finally just a pure white. Those nearest the woman had to step back from the intense radiation of heat.
But Catti-brie kept her hand and face in the fire.
WITH HIS SHIELD arm swinging out wide to the left, Tiago could feel the two scimitars trapped, and no more in the grasp of Drizzt Do’Urden. That arm led the turn, the rising twist lifting up from his feet, his legs, his hips, his chest, his entire spine rotating in a beautiful and deadly dance.
The proud young Baenre roared in anticipation of his ultimate victory as his head came around, leading the way for his swinging sword arm.
And that roar became something very different when Tiago saw his target clearly, standing exactly where he had expected, easily in range.
But hardly unarmed.
The astonished Tiago stared at the sharp end of an arrow, and Drizzt held a bow—from where it had come, Tiago could not begin to guess in that flash of recognition, that singular terrifying instant before Taulmaril was released and a bright flash of burning whiteness consumed the Baenre warrior’s thoughts.
Tiago Baenre’s head simply exploded.
“Baubles,” Drizzt said dryly, and flashed his left arm across to use the bow to block the swinging sword, though Vidrinath came across with no strength behind the swing. “Fairly earned and wisely mastered.”
CATTI-BRIE WAS LAUGHING and shaking her head at the simplicity of it all when she pulled her face out of the white-hot flame. With a puff of breath and a word, she blew out the flame, extinguishing her spell.