Exile: The Legend of Drizzt by R. A. Salvatore Page B

Drizzt had just given away the secret to a very valuable magical item. Even more startling, if Drizzt had spoken truly, he might have relinquished his single chance of escape. This svirfneblin had lived for nearly two centuries and was as knowledgeable in the ways of the dark elves as any of his people. When a drow elf acted unpredictably, as this one surely had, it troubled the svirfneblin deeply. Dark elves were cruel and evil by well-earned reputation, and when an individual drow fit that usual pattern, he could be dealt with efficiently and without remorse. But what might the deep gnomes do with a drow who showed a measure of unexpected morals?
    The svirfnebli went back to their private conversation, ignoring Drizzt altogether. Then they left, with the exception of the onewho could speak the dark elf tongue.
    “What will you do?” Drizzt dared to ask.
    “Judgment is reserved for the king alone,” the deep gnome replied soberly. “He will rule on your fate in several days perhaps, based on the observations of his advising council, the group you have met.” The deep gnome bowed low, then looked Drizzt in the eye as he rose and said bluntly, “I suspect, dark elf, that you will be executed.”
    Drizzt nodded, resigned to the logic that would call for his death.
    “But I believe you are different, dark elf,” the deep gnome went on. “I suspect, as well, that I will recommend leniency, or at least mercy, in the execution.” With a quick shrug of his heavyset shoulders, the svirfneblin turned about and headed for the door.
    The tone of the deep gnome’s words struck a familiar chord in Drizzt. Another svirfneblin had spoken to Drizzt in a similar manner, with strikingly similar words, many years before.
    “Wait,” Drizzt called. The svirfneblin paused and turned, and Drizzt fumbled with his thoughts, trying to remember the name of the deep gnome he had saved on that past occasion.
    “What is it?” the svirfneblin asked, growing impatient.
    “A deep gnome,” Drizzt sputtered. “From your city, I believe. Yes, he had to be.”
    “You know one of my people, dark elf?” the svirfneblin prompted, stepping back to the stone chair. “Name him.”
    “I do not know,” Drizzt replied. “I was a member of a hunting party, years ago, a decade perhaps. We battled a group of svirfnebli that had come into our region.” He flinched at the deep gnome’s frown but continued on, knowing that the single svirfneblin survivor of that encounter might be his only hope. “Only one deep gnome survived, I think, and returned to Blingdenstone.”
    “What was this survivor’s name?” the svirfneblin demandedangrily, his arms crossed tightly over his chest and his heavy boot tapping on the stone floor.
    “I do not remember,” Drizzt admitted.
    “Why do you tell me this?” the svirfneblin growled. “I had thought you different from—”
    “He lost his hands in the battle,” Drizzt went on stubbornly. “Please, you must know of him.”
    “Belwar?” the svirfneblin replied immediately. The name rekindled even more memories in Drizzt.
    “Belwar Dissengulp,” Drizzt spouted. “Then he is alive! He might remember—”
    “He will never forget that evil day, dark elf!” the svirfneblin declared through clenched teeth, an angry edge evident in his voice. “None in Blingdenstone will ever forget that evil day!”
    “Get him. Get Belwar Dissengulp,” Drizzt pleaded.
    The deep gnome backed out of the room, shaking his head at the dark elf’s continued surprises.
    The stone door slammed shut, leaving Drizzt alone to contemplate his mortality and to push aside hopes he dared not hope.

    “Did you think that I would let you go away from me?” Malice was saying to Rizzen when Dinin entered the chapel’s anteroom. “It was but a ploy to keep SiNafay Hun’ett’s suspicions at ease.”
    “Thank you, Matron Mother,” Rizzen replied in honest relief. Bowing with every step, he backed away from Malice’s