“Alton!” he cried, spinning back against the wall out of the slimy member’s reach. He noticed the wizard in the midst of spellcasting, Alton fighting to hold his concentration as a host of spiders continued their hungry ascent up his flowing robes.
“You are a dead one,” Masoj commented matter-of-factly, shaking his head.
Alton fought through the exacting ritual of the spell, ignored his own revulsion of the crawling things, and forced the evocation to completion. In all of his years of study, Alton never would have believed he could do such a thing; he would have laughed at the mere mention of it. Now, however, it seemed a far preferable fate to the yochlol’s creeping doom.
He dropped a fireball at his own feet.
Naked and hairless, Masoj stumbled through the door and out of the inferno. The flaming faceless master came next, diving into a roll and stripping his tattered and burning robe from his back as he went.
As he watched Alton patting out the last of the flames, a pleasant memory flashed in Masoj’s mind, and he uttered the single lament that dominated his every thought at this disastrous moment.
“I should have killed him when I had him in the web.”
A short time later, after Masoj had gone back to his room and his studies, Alton slipped on the ornamental metallic bracers that identified him as a master of the Academy and slipped outside the structure of Sorcere. He moved to the wide and sweeping stairway leading down from Tier Breche and sat down to take in the sights of Menzoberranzan.
Even with this view, though, the city did little to distract Alton from thoughts of his latest failure. For sixteen years he had forsaken all other dreams and ambitions in his desperate search to find the guilty house. For sixteen years he had failed.
He wondered how long he could keep up the charade, and his spirits. Masoj, his only friend—if Masoj could be called a friend— was more than halfway through his studies at Sorcere. What would Alton do when Masoj graduated and returned to House Hun’ett?
“Perhaps I shall carry on my toils for centuries to come,” he said aloud, “only to be murdered by a desperate student, as I—as Masoj—murdered the Faceless One. Might that student disfigure himself and take my place?” Alton couldn’t stop the ironic chuckle that passed his lipless mouth at the notion of a perpetual “faceless master” of Sorcere. At what point would the Matron Mistress of the Academy get suspicious? A thousand years? Ten thousand? Or might the Faceless One outlive Menzoberranzan itself? Life as a master was not such a bad lot, Alton supposed. Many drow would sacrifice much to be given such an honor.
Alton dropped his face into the crook of his elbow and forced away such ridiculous thoughts. He was not a real master, nor did the stolen position bring him any measure of satisfaction. Perhaps Masoj should have shot him that day, sixteen years ago, when Alton was trapped in the Faceless One’s web.
Alton’s despair only deepened when he considered the actual time frame involved. He had just passed his seventieth birthday and was still young by drow standards. The notion that only a tenth of his life was behind him was not a comforting one to Alton DeVir this night.
“How long will I survive?” he asked himself. “How long until this madness that is my existence consumes me?” Alton looked back out over the city. “Better that the Faceless One had killed me,” he whispered. “For now I am Alton of No House Worth Mentioning.”
Masoj had dubbed him that on the first morning after House DeVir’s fall, but way back then, with his life teetering on the edge of a crossbow, Alton had not understood the title’s implications. Menzoberranzan was nothing more than a collection of individual houses. A rogue commoner might latch on to one of them to call his own, but a rogue noble wouldn’t likely be accepted by any house in the city. He was left with Sorcere and nothing more … until his true identity was discovered at last. What punishments would he then face for the crime of killing a master? Masoj may have committed the crime, but Masoj had a house to defend him. Alton was only a rogue noble.
He sat back on his elbows and watched the rising heat-light of Narbondel. As the minutes became hours, Alton’s despair and self-pity went through inevitable change. He turned his attention to the individual drow houses now, not to the conglomeration that bound them as a city, and he wondered what dark secrets each harbored. One of them, Alton reminded himself, held the secret he most dearly wanted to know. One of them had wiped out House DeVir.
Forgotten was the night’s failure with Matron Ginafae and the yochlol, forgotten was the lament for an early death. Sixteen years was not so long a time, Alton decided. He had perhaps seven centuries of life left within his slender frame. If he had to, Alton was prepared to spend every minute of those long years searching for the perpetrating house.
“Vengeance,” he growled aloud, needing, feeding off, that audible reminder of his only reason for continuing to draw breath.
ak pressed in with a series of low thrusts. Drizzt tried to back away quickly and return to even footing, but the relentless assault followed his every step, and he was forced to keep his movements solely on the defensive. More often than not, Drizzt found the hilts of his weapons closer to Zak than the blades.
Zak then dropped into a low crouch and came up under Drizzt’s defense.
Drizzt twirled his scimitars in a masterful cross, but he had to straighten stiffly to dodge the weapons master’s equally deft assault. Drizzt knew that he had been set up, and he fully expected the next attack as Zak shifted his weight to his back leg and dived in, both sword tips aimed for Drizzt’s loins.
Drizzt spat a silent curse and spun his scimitars into a downward cross, meaning to use the “V” of his blades to catch his teacher’s swords. On a sudden impulse, Drizzt hesitated as he intercepted Zak’s weapons, and he jumped away instead, taking a painful slap on the inside of one thigh. Disgusted, he threw both of his scimitars to the floor.
Zak, too, leaped back. He held his swords out to his sides, a look of sincere confusion on his face. “You should not have missed that move,” he said bluntly.
“The parry is wrong,” Drizzt replied.
Awaiting further explanation, Zak lowered one sword tip to the floor and leaned on the weapon. In past years, Zak had wounded, even killed, students for such blatant defiance.
“The cross-down defeats the attack, but to what gain?” Drizzt continued. “When the move is completed, my sword tips remain down too low for any effective attack routine, and you are able to slip back and free.”
“But you have defeated my attack.”
“Only to face another,” Drizzt argued. “The best position I can hope to obtain from the cross-down is an even stance.”
“Yes …” Zak prompted, not understanding his student’s problem with that scenario.
“Remember your own lesson!” Drizzt shouted. “‘Every move should bring an advantage you preach to me, but I see no advantage in using the cross-down.”
“You recite only one part of that lesson for your own purpose,” Zak scolded, now growing equally angry. “Complete the phrase, or use it not at all! ‘Every move should bring an advantage or take away a disadvantage.’ The cross-down defeats the double thrust low, and your opponent obviously has gained the advantage if he even attempts such a daring offensive maneuver! Returning to an even stance is far preferable at that moment.”
“The parry is wrong.” Drizzt said stubbornly.
“Pick up your blades,” Zak growled at him, taking a threatening step forward. Drizzt hesitated and Zak charged, his swords leading.
Drizzt dropped to a crouch, snatched up the scimitars, and rose to meet the assault while wondering if it was another lesson or a true attack.
The weapons master pressed furiously, snapping off cut after cut and backing Drizzt around in circles. Drizzt defended well enough and began to notice an all-too-familiar pattern as Zak’s attacks came consistently lower, again forcing the hilts of Drizzt’s weapons up and out over the scimitars’ blades.
Drizzt understood that Z
ak meant to prove his point with actions, not words. Seeing the fury on Zak’s face, though, Drizzt wasn’t certain how far the weapons master would carry his point. If Zak proved correct in his observations, would he strike again to Drizzt’s thigh? Or to his heart? Zak came up and under and Drizzt stiffened and straightened. “Double thrust low!” the weapons master growled, and his swords dived in.
Drizzt was ready for him. He executed the cross-down, smiling smugly at the ring of metal as his scimitars crossed over the thrusting swords. Drizzt then followed through with only one of his blades, thinking he could deflect both of Zak’s swords well enough in that manner. Now with one blade free of the parry, Drizzt spun it over in a devious counter.
As soon as Drizzt reversed the one hand, Zak saw the ploy—a ruse he had suspected Drizzt would try. Zak dropped one of his own sword tips—the one nearest to the hilt of Drizzt’s single parrying blade—to the ground, and Drizzt, trying to maintain an even resistance and balance along the length of the blocking scimitar, lost his balance. Drizzt was quick enough to catch himself before he had stumbled too far, though his knuckles pinched into the stone of the floor. He still believed that he had Zak caught in his trap, and that he could finish his brilliant counter. He took a short step forward to regain his full balance.
The weapons master dropped straight down to the floor, under the arc of Drizzt’s swinging scimitar, and spun a single circuit, driving his booted heel into the back of Drizzt’s exposed knee. Before Drizzt had even realized the attack, he found himself lying flat on his back.
Zak abruptly broke his own momentum and threw his feet back under him. Before Drizzt could begin to understand the dizzying counter-counter, he found the weapons master standing over him with the tip of Zak’s sword painfully and pointedly drawing a tiny drop of blood from his throat.
“Have you anything more to say?” Zak growled.
“The parry is wrong,” Drizzt answered.
Zak’s laughter erupted from his belly. He threw his sword to the ground, reached down, and pulled the stubborn young student to his feet. He calmed quickly, his gaze finding that of Drizzt’s lavender orbs as he pushed the student out to arm’s length. Zak marveled at the ease of Drizzt’s stance, the way he held the twin scimitars almost as if they were a natural extension of his arms. Drizzt had been in training only a few months, but already he had mastered the use of nearly every weapon in the vast armory of House Do’Urden.
Those scimitars! Drizzt’s chosen weapons, with curving blades that enhanced the dizzying flow of the young fighter’s sweeping battle style. With those scimitars in hand, this young drow, barely more than a child, could outfight half the members of the Academy, and a shiver tingled through Zak’s spine when he pondered just how magnificent Drizzt would become after years of training.
It was not just the physical abilities and potential of Drizzt Do’Urden that made Zaknafein pause and take note, however. Zak had come to realize that Drizzt’s temperament was indeed different from that of the average drow; Drizzt possessed a spirit of innocence and lacked any maliciousness. Zak couldn’t help but feel proud when he looked upon Drizzt. In all manners, the young drow held to the same principles—morals so unusual in Menzoberranzan—as Zak.
Drizzt had recognized the connection as well, though he had no idea of how unique his and Zak’s shared perceptions were in the evil drow world. He realized that “Uncle Zak” was different from any of the other dark elves he had come to know, though that included only his own family and a few dozen of the house soldiers. Certainly Zak was much different from Briza, Drizzt’s oldest sister, with her zealous, almost blind, ambitions in the mysterious religion of Lolth. Certainly Zak was different from Matron Malice, Drizzt’s mother, who seemed never to say anything at all to Drizzt unless it was a command for service.
Zak was able to smile at situations that didn’t necessarily bring pain to anyone. He was the first drow Drizzt had met who was apparently content with his station in life. Zak was the first drow Drizzt had ever heard laugh.
“A good try,” the weapons master conceded of Drizzt’s failed counter.
“In a real battle, I would have been dead,” Drizzt replied.
“Surely,” said Zak, “but that is why we train. Your plan was masterful, your timing perfect. Only the situation was wrong. Still, I will say it was a good try.”
“You expected it,” said the student.
Zak smiled and nodded. “That is, perhaps, because I had seen the maneuver attempted by another student.”
“Against you?” Drizzt asked, feeling a little less special now that he knew his battle insights were not so unique.
“Hardly,” Zak replied with a wink. “I watched the counter fail from the same angle as you, to the same result.”
Drizzt’s face brightened again. “We think alike,” he commented.
“We do,” said Zak, “but my knowledge has been increased by four centuries of experience, while you have not even lived through a score of years. Trust me, my eager student. The cross-down is the correct parry.”
“Perhaps,” Drizzt replied.
Zak hid a smile. “When you find a better counter, we shall try it. But until then, trust my word. I have trained more soldiers than I can count, all the army of House Do’Urden and ten times that number when I served as a master in Melee-Magthere. I taught Rizzen, all of your sisters, and both of your brothers.”
“Both?”
“I …” Zak paused and shot a curious glance at Drizzt. “I see,” he said after a moment. “They never bothered to tell you.” Zak wondered if it was his place to tell Drizzt the truth. He doubted that Matron Malice would care either way; she probably hadn’t told Drizzt simply because she hadn’t considered the story of Nalfein’s death worth telling.
“Yes, both.” Zak decided to explain. “You had two brothers when you were born: Dinin, whom you know, and an older one, Nalfein, a wizard of considerable power. Nalfein was killed in battle on the very night you drew your first breath.”
“Against dwarves or vicious gnomes?” Drizzt squeaked, as wide-eyed as a child begging for a frightening bedtime story. “Was he defending the city from evil conquerors or rogue monsters?”
Zak had a hard time reconciling the warped perceptions of Drizzt’s innocent beliefs. “Bury the young in lies,” he lamented under his breath, but to Drizzt he answered, “No.”
“Then against some opponent more foul?” Drizzt pressed. “Wicked elves from the surface?”
“He died at the hands of a drow!” Zak snapped in frustration, stealing the eagerness from Drizzt’s shining eyes.
Drizzt slumped back to consider the possibilities, and Zak could hardly bear to watch the confusion that twisted his young face.
“War with another city?” Drizzt asked somberly. “I did not know …”
Zak let it go at that. He turned and moved silently toward his private chamber. Let Malice or one of her lackeys destroy Drizzt’s innocent logic. Behind him, Drizzt held his next line of questions in check, understanding that the conversation, and the lesson, was at an end. Understanding, too, that something important had just transpired.
The weapons master battled Drizzt through long hours as the days blended into tendays, and the tendays into months. Time became unimportant; they fought until exhaustion overwhelmed them, and went back to the training floor again as soon as they were able.
By the third year, at the age of nineteen, Drizzt was able to hold out for hours against the weapons master, even taking the offensive in many of their contests.
Zak enjoyed these days. For the first time in many years, he had met one with the potential to become his fighting equal. For the first time that Zak could ever remember, laughter often accompanied the clash of adamantine weapons in the training room.
He watched Drizzt grow tall and straight, attentive, eager, and intelligent. The masters of the Academy would be hard put just to hold a stalemate against Drizzt, even in his first year!
That thought thr
illed the weapons master only as long as it took him to remember the principles of the Academy, the precepts of drow life, and what they would do to his wonderful student. How they would steal that smile from Drizzt’s lavender eyes.
A pointed reminder of that drow world outside the practice room visited them one day in the person of Matron Malice.
“Address her with proper respect,” Zak warned Drizzt when Maya announced the matron mother’s entrance. The weapons master prudently moved out a few steps to greet the head of House Do’Urden privately.
“My greetings, Matron,” he said with a low bow. “To what do I owe the honor of your presence?”
Matron Malice laughed at him, seeing through his facade.
“So much time do you and my son spend in here,” she said. “I came to witness the benefit to the boy.”
“He is a fine fighter,” Zak assured her.
“He will have to be,” Malice muttered. “He goes to the Academy in only a year.”
Zak narrowed his eyes at her doubting words and growled, “The Academy has never seen a finer swordsman.”
The matron walked away from him to stand before Drizzt. “I doubt not your prowess with the blade,” she said to Drizzt, though she shot a sly gaze back at Zak as she spoke the words. “You have the proper blood. There are other qualities that make up a drow warrior—qualities of the heart. The attitude of a warrior!”
Drizzt didn’t know how to respond to her. He had seen her only a few times in all of the last three years, and they had exchanged no words.
Zak saw the confusion on Drizzt’s face and feared that the boy would slip up—precisely what Matron Malice wanted. Then Malice would have an excuse to pull Drizzt out of Zak’s tutelage—dishonoring Zak in the process—and give him over to Dinin or some other passionless killer. Zak may have been the finest instructor with the blade, but now that Drizzt had learned the use of weapons, Malice wanted him emotionally hardened.