Excerpts Archive | 2/12/2014
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Night of the Hunter Excerpt
Sample Chapter
R.A. Salvatore

R.A. Salvatore's New York Times best-selling saga continues as Drizzt Do'Urden and the Companions of the Hall join forces in an adventure filled with drow intrigue, the likes of which have not been seen in Salvatore's work since the hugely successful the War of the Spider Queen series.

With faithful friends by his side once again, Drizzt Do'Urden returns to Gauntlgrym, to find and turn Pwent, Bruenor's loyal shield dwarf, from vampire back to mortal once again. But not only do he and his cohorts face a perilous journey through the Underdark and the dangers of the undead that lie within, but in order to do so, they must face a colony of drow and their leader, who would like nothing better than to see Drizzt Do'Urden dead.

In today's excerpt, we look at the Prologue and Chapter 1 from Night of the Hunter.

S o much blood.

Everywhere, blood.

It followed Doum’wielle wherever she traveled. She saw it on her silvery skin, skin that spoke of her mixed elf and drow heritage. It followed her in her dreams, each night, every night. She saw it on the footprints she left in the snow. She saw it on her keen-edged sword—yes, on the sword most of all.

It was always there, reflected in the red edge of the sentient weapon, Khazid’hea.

A thousand times had she stabbed that blade through her brother’s heart. His screams echoed between the beats of her every waking thought and filled her dreams, sweet music to the sensibilities of Khazid’hea.

Her brother Teirflin had tried to stab her with that very sword, with her sword, as she slept one day. But she had been quicker.

She had been better.

She had been more worthy.

She felt the blade entering his chest, easily shearing through skin and muscle and bone, reaching for his heart so that the delicious blood might flow freely.

She could never wash that blood from her hands, but at that time, in the thralls of the weapon, with the warm words of her father whispering into her ear, she didn’t want to wash the blood from her hands.

Perhaps Teirflin’s dying screams were music after all.

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