“Are you suggesting some goodness within King Obould Many-Arrows?” Innovindil asked with an unmistakably sharp edge to her voice.
Drizzt took a deep breath and held his next thoughts in check as he considered the feelings of his friend Innovindil, who had watched her lover cleaved in half by Obould.
“The orcs are holding their discipline and creating the boundaries of their kingdom even without him,” Drizzt said, and he looked back out to sea. “Were they ready to forge their own kingdom? Is that the singular longing Obould tapped into to rouse them from their holes?”
“They will fall to fighting each other, tribe against tribe,” Innovindil replied, and her voice still held a grating edge to it. “They will feed upon each other until they are no more than a crawling mass of hopeless fools. Many will run back to their dark holes, and those that do not will wish that they had when King Bruenor comes forth, and when my people from the Moonwood join in the slaughter.”
“What if they don’t?”
“You doubt the elves?”
“Not them,” Drizzt clarified, “the orcs. What if the orcs do not fall to fighting amongst themselves? Suppose a new Obould rises among them, holding their discipline and continuing the fortification of this new kingdom?”
“You can’t believe that.”
“I offer a possibility, and if so, a question that all of us-from Silverymoon to Sundabar, Nesme to Mithral Hall, the Moonwood to Citadels Felbarr and Adbar-would be wise to answer carefully.”
Innovindil considered that for a moment, then said, “Very well then, I grant you your possibility. If the orcs do not retreat, what do we do?”
“A question we must answer.”
“The answer seems obvious.”
“Kill them, of course.”
“They are orcs,” Innovindil replied.
“Would it truly be wiser for us to wage war upon them to drive them back?” Drizzt asked. “Or might allowing them their realm help foster any goodness that is within them? Allow it to blossom, for if they are to hold a kingdom, must they not necessarily find some measure of civilization? And would not the needs of such a civilization favor the wise over the strong?”
Innovindil’s expression showed that she wasn’t taking him very seriously, and truthfully, as he heard the words leaving his own mouth, Drizzt Do’Urden couldn’t help but think himself a bit mad. Still, he knew he had to finish the thought, felt that he needed to speak it out clearly so that the notion might help him to sort things out in his own jumbled mind.
“If we are to believe in the general goodness of elf society-or dwarf, or human-it is because we believe that these peoples are able to progress toward goodness. Surely there are ample atrocities in all our respective histories, and still occurring today. How many wars have the humans waged upon each other?”
“One,” Innovindil answered, “without end.”
Drizzt smiled at the unexpected support and said, “But we believe that each of our respective peoples move toward goodness, yes? The humans, elves, dwarves-”
“And drow?”
Drizzt could only shrug at that notable exception and continue, “Our optimism is based on a general principle that things get better, that we get better. Are we wrong-shortsighted and foolish-to view the orcs as incapable of such growth?”
Innovindil stared at him.
“To our own loss?” Drizzt asked.
The elf still could not answer.
“Are we limiting our own understanding of these creatures we view as our enemies by thinking of them as no more than a product of their history?” Drizzt pressed. “Do we err, to our own loss, in thinking them incapable of creating their own civilization?”
“You presume that the civilization they have created over the eons is somehow contrary to their nature,” Innovindil finally managed to say.
Drizzt shrugged and allowed, “You could be correct.”
“Would you unfasten your sword belt and walk into an orc enclave in the hopes that they will be ‘enlightened orcs’ and therefore will not slaughter you?”
“Of course not,” Drizzt admitted. “But what did Obould know that we do not? If the orcs do not cannibalize themselves, then by the admission of the council that convened in Mithral Hall, we have little hope of driving them back from the lands they have claimed.”
“But neither will they move forward,” Innovindil vowed.
“So they are left with this kingdom they claim as their own,” said Drizzt. “And that realm will only thrive with trade and exchange with those other kingdoms around them.”
Innovindil flashed him that incredulous look yet again.
“It is mere musing,” Drizzt replied with a quiet grin. “I do that often.”
“You are suggesting-”
“Nothing,” Drizzt was quick to interrupt. “I am only wondering if a century hence-or two, or three-Obould’s legacy might prove one that none of us have yet considered.”
“Orcs living in harmony with elves, humans, dwarves, and halflings?”
“Is there not a city to the east, in the wilds of Vaasa, comprised entirely of half-orcs?” Drizzt asked. “A city that swears allegiance to the paladin king of the Bloodstone Lands?”
“Palishchuk, yes,” the elf admitted.
“They are descendants, one and all, of creatures akin to Obould.”
“Yours are words of hope, and yet they do not echo pleasingly in my thoughts.”
“Tarathiel’s death is too raw.”
Innovindil shrugged.
“I only wonder if it is possible that there is more to these orcs than we allow,” Drizzt said. “I only wonder if our view of one aspect of the orcs, dominant though it may be, clouds our vision of other possibilities.”
Drizzt let it go at that, and turned back to stare out to sea.
Innovindil surprised him, though, when she added, “Was this not the same error that Ellifain made concerning Drizzt Do’Urden?”
A stream of empty white noise filled Tos’un’s thoughts as he worked his spinning way through the orc encampment. He slashed and he stabbed, and orcs fell away. He darted one way and cut back the other, never falling into a predictable routine. Everything was pure reaction for the dark elf, as if some rousing music carried him along, shifting his feet, moving his hands. What he heard and what he saw blended into a singular sensation, a complete awareness of his surroundings. Not at a conscious level, though, for at that moment of perfect clarity, Tos’un, paradoxically, was conscious of nothing and everything all at once.
His left-hand blade, a drow-made sword, constantly turned, Tos’un altering its angle accordingly to defeat any attacks that might come his way. At one point as he leaped to the side of a stone then sprang away, that sword darted out to his left and deflected a thrown spear wide, then came back in to slap a second missile, turning the spear sidelong so that it rolled harmlessly past him as he continued on his murderous way.
As defensive as that blade was, his other, Khazid’hea, struck out hungrily. Five orcs lay dead in the dark elf’s wake, with two others badly wounded and staggering, and Khazid’hea had been the instrument of doom for all seven.
The sentient sword would not suffer its companion blade the pleasure of a kill.
The ambush of the orc camp had come fast and furious, with three of the orcs going down before the others had even known of the assault. None in the camp of a dozen orcs had been able to formulate any type of coordinated defense against Tos’un’s blistering pace, and the last two kills had come in pursuit of fleeing orcs.
Still, despite the lack of true opposition, Khazid’hea felt that Tos’un was fighting much better this day, much more efficiently and more reflexively. He wasn’t near the equal of Drizzt Do’Urden yet, Khazid’hea knew, but the sword’s continual work, blanketing the drow’s thoughts with disruptive noise, forcing him to react to his senses with muscular memory and not conscious decisions, had him moving more quickly and more precisely.
Do not think.
/> That was the message Drizzt Do’Urden had taught to Khazid’hea, and the one that the sentient sword subtly imparted to Tos’un Armgo.
Do not think.
His reflexes and instincts would carry him through.
Breathing hard from the whirlwind of fury, Tos’un paused beside the wooden tripod the orcs had used to suspend a kettle above a cooking fire. No spears came at him, and no enemies showed themselves. The drow surveyed his handiwork, the line of dead orcs and the pair still struggling, squirming, and groaning. Enjoying the sounds of their agony, Tos’un did not move to finish them.
He replayed his movements in his mind, mentally retracing his steps, his leaps and his attacks. He had to look over by the boulder to confirm that he had indeed picked a pair of spears from mid air.
There they lay in the dirt by the stone.
Tos’un shook his head, not quite understanding what had just happened. He had given in to his rage and hunger.
He thought back to Melee-Magthere. He had been a rather unremarkable student, and as such, a disappointment to mighty Uthegental. At the school, one of the primary lessons was to let go of conscious thought and let the body react as it was trained to do.
Never before had Tos’un truly appreciated those lessons.
Standing amidst the carnage, Tos’un came to recognize the difference between ordinary drow warriors-still potent by the standards of any race-and the weapons masters.
He understood that he had fought that one battle as one such as Uthegental might have: a perfect harmony of instinct and swords, with every movement just a bit quicker than normal for him.
Though Tos’un didn’t know how he had achieved that level of battle prowess, and wondered if he could do it again, he could tell without doubt that Khazid’hea was pleased.
Sinnafain moved from cover to cover amidst the ruined orc encampment. She paused behind a boulder then darted to the side of a lean- to where a pair of orcs lay dead. That vantage point also afforded her a wide view of the trails to the west, the direction in which the dark elf had fled.
She scanned for a few seconds, her keen elf eyes picking out any movement, no matter how slight. A chipmunk scurried along some stones about thirty feet from her. To the side, a bit farther along, a breeze kicked up some dried leaves and sent them twirling above the snowy blanket. The drow was nowhere to be seen.
Sinnafain scampered to the next spot, the overturned cooking tripod. She crouched low behind the meager cover it offered and again paused.
The breeze brought wisps of flame from the dying embers beside her, but that was the only life in the camp. Nodding, the elf held up her fist, the signal to her companions.
Like a coven of ghosts, the moon elves appeared from all around the dead camp, drifting in silently, as if floating, their white and dark brown cloaks blurring their forms against the wintry background.
“Seven kills and the rest sent running,” remarked Albondiel, the leader of the patrol. “This drow is cunning and fast.”
“As is his sword,” another of the group of five added. When the others looked at him, he showed them one of the dead orcs, its arm severed, its heavy wooden shield cleanly cut in half.
“A mighty warrior, no doubt,” Sinnafain said. “Is it possible that we’ve found a second Drizzt Do’Urden?”
“Obould had drow in his ranks as well,” Albondiel reminded her.
“This one is killing orcs,” she replied. “With abandon.”
“Have drow ever been selective in their victims?” one of the others asked.
“I know of at least one who seems to be,” Sinnafain was quick to remind. “I will not make the same errors as did my cousin Ellifain. I will not prejudge and be blinded by the whispers of reputation.”
“Many victims have likely uttered similar statements,” Albondiel said to her, but when she snapped her disapproving glare at him, she was calmed by his grin.
“Another Drizzt?” he asked rhetorically, and he shrugged. “If he is, then good for us. If not.…”
“Then ill for him,” Sinnafain finished for him, and Albondiel nodded and assured her, “We will know soon enough.”
Drizzt brushed the last of the cold dirt away, fully revealing the blanket. Beneath it lay the curled form of Ellifain, the misguided elf who had posed as the male Le’Lorinel, and who had tried to kill him in her rage.
Drizzt stood and stared down at the hole and the wrapped body. She lay on her side, her legs tucked to her chest. She seemed very small to Drizzt, like a baby.
If he could take back one strike in all his life.…
He glanced over his shoulder to see Innovindil fiddling with one of the saddlebags on Sunset. The elf produced a silver censer set on a triangle of thin and strong chains. Next came a sprinkler, silver handled, green-jeweled, and with a bulbous head set with a grid of small holes.
Innovindil went back to the saddlebag for the oil and the incense, and Drizzt looked back to Ellifain. He replayed again the last moments of the poor elf’s life, which would have been the last moments of his own life as well had not Bruenor and the others come barging in to his rescue, healing potion in hand.
His reputation had been her undoing, he knew. She could not stand to suffer his growing fame as a drow of goodly heart, because in her warped memories of that brutal evening those decades before, she saw Drizzt as just another of the vile dark elves who had slaughtered her parents and so many of their friends. Drizzt had saved Ellifain on that long-ago night by covering her with the blood and body of her slain mother, but the poor elf girl, too young on that night to remember, had never accepted that story.
Her anger had consumed her, and in a cruel twist of fate, Drizzt had been forced to inadvertently destroy that which he had once saved.
So intent was he as he looked down upon her and considered the winding roads that had so tragically brought them crashing together, Drizzt didn’t even notice Innovindil’s quiet song as she paced around the grave, sprinkling magical oil of preservation and swaying the censer out over the hole so that its scent would mask the smell of death.
Innovindil prayed to the elf gods with her song, bidding them to rescue Ellifain from her rage and confusion.
When Drizzt heard his own name he listened more intently to the elf’s song. Innovindil bade the gods to let Ellifain look down upon the dark elf Drizzt, and see and learn the truth of his heart.
She finished her song so melodiously and quietly that her voice seemed to merge with, to become one with, the nighttime breeze. The notes of that wind-driven song carried Innovindil’s tune long afterward.
She bade Drizzt to help her, then gracefully slipped into the hole beside Ellifain. Together they brought the corpse out and placed a clean second blanket around her, wrapping her tightly and tying it off.
“Do you believe that she is at peace?” Drizzt asked when they were done, both standing back from the body, hand in hand.
“In her infirmity, she remained worthy of Corellan’s gentle hand.”
After a moment, she looked at Drizzt and saw the uncertainty clear upon his handsome features.
“You do not doubt that,” she said. “You doubt Corellan himself.”
Still Drizzt did not answer.
“Is it Corellan specifically?” Innovindil asked. “Or does Drizzt Do’Urden doubt the very existence of an afterlife?”
The question settled uncomfortably on Drizzt’s shoulders, for it took him to places he rarely allowed his pragmatic views to go.
“I do not know,” he replied somberly. “Do any of us really know?”
“Ghosts have been seen, and conversed with. The dead have walked the world again, have they not? With tales to tell of their period in the worlds beyond.”
“We presume ghosts to be … ghosts,” Drizzt replied. “And those returned from the dead are vague, at best, from all that I have heard. Such practices were not unknown among the noble Houses of Menzoberranzan, though it was said that to pull a soul from the embrace of Lolth was to inv
oke her wrath. Still, are their tales anything more than cloudy dreams?”
Innovindil squeezed his hand and paused for a long while, conceding his point. “Perhaps we believe because to do otherwise is self-defeating, the road to despair. But surely there are things we cannot explain, like the crackling magic about us. If this life is finite, even the long years an elf might know, then …”
“Then it is a cruel joke?” Drizzt asked.
“It would seem.”
Drizzt was shaking his head before she finished. “If this moment of self-awareness is short,” he said, “a flicker in the vastness of all that is, all that has been, and all that will be, then it can still have a purpose, still have pleasure and meaning.”
“There is more, Drizzt Do’Urden,” Innovindil said.
“You know, or you pray?”
“Or I pray because I know.”
“Belief is not knowledge.”
“As perception is not reality?”
Drizzt considered the sarcasm of that question for a long while, then offered a smile of defeat and of thanks all at once.
“I believe that she is at peace,” Innovindil said.
“I have heard of priests resurrecting the dead,” Drizzt said, a remark borne of his uncertainty and frustration. “Surely the life and death of Ellifain is not the ordinary case.”
His hopeful tone faded as he turned to regard his frowning companion.
“I only mean-”
“That your own guilt weighs heavily on you,” Innovindil finished for him.
“No.”
“Do you inquire about the possibility of resurrection for the sake of Ellifain, or for the sake of Drizzt Do’Urden?” Innovindil pressed. “Would you have the priests undo that which Drizzt Do’Urden did, that about which Drizzt Do’Urden cannot forgive himself?”
Drizzt rocked back on his heels, his gaze going back to the small form in the blankets.
“She is at peace,” Innovindil said again, moving around to stand in front of him, forcing him to look her in the eye. “There are spells through which the priests-or wizards, even-can speak with the dead. Perhaps we can impose on the priests of the Moonwood to hold court with the spirit of Ellifain.”
The Collected Stories, The Legend of Drizzt (forgotten realms) Page 18
