The Two Swords th-3

by Robert Salvatore

  After my experiences with Innovindil, after seeing the truth of friends lost and love never realized, I understand that I have only been half right.

  "To be an elf is to find your distances of time. To be an elf is to live several shorter life spans." I have learned this to be true, but there is something more. To be an elf is to be alive, to experience the joy of the moment within the context of long-term desires. There must be more than distant hopes to sustain the joy of life.

  Seize the moment and seize the day. Revel in the joy and fight all the harder against despair.

  I had something so wonderful for the last years of my life. I had with me a woman whom I loved, and who was my best of friends. Someone who understood my every mood, and who accepted the bad with the good. Someone who did not judge, except in encouraging me to find my own answers. I found a safe place for my face in her thick hair. I found a reflection of my own soul in the light in her blue eyes. I found the last piece of this puzzle that is Drizzt Do'Urden in the fit of our bodies.

  Then I lost her, lost it all.

  And only in losing Catti-brie did I come to see the foolishness of my hesitance. I feared rejection. I feared disrupting that which we had. I feared the reactions of Bruenor and later, when he returned from the Abyss, of Wulfgar.

  I feared and I feared and I feared, and that fear held back my actions, time and again.

  How often do we all do this? How often do we allow often irrational fears to paralyze us in our movements. Not in battle, for me, for never have I shied from locking swords with a foe. But in love and in friendship, where, I know, the wounds can cut deeper than any blade.

  Innovindil escaped the frost giant lair, and now I, too, am free. I will find her. I will find her and I will hold onto this new friendship we have forged, and if it becomes something more, I will not be paralyzed by fear.

  Because when it is gone, when I lay at death's door or when she is taken from me by circumstance or by a monster, I will have no regrets.

  That is the lesson of Shallows.

  When first I saw Bruenor fall, when first I learned of the loss of my friends, I retreated into the shell of the Hunter, into the instinctual fury that denied pain. Innovindil and Tarathiel moved me past that destructive, self-destructive state, and now I understand that for me, the greatest tragedy of Shallows lies in the lost years that came before the fall.

  I will not make that mistake again. The community remains above the self; the good of the future outweighs the immediate desires. But not so much, perhaps. There is a balance to be found, I know now, for utter selflessness can be as great a fault as utter selfishness, and a life of complete sacrifice, without joy, is, at the end, a lonely and empty existence.

  – Drizzt Do'Urden

  CHAPTER 26 INTO THE BREACH ONCE MORE

  He knew that Innovindil had escaped, of course, but Drizzt could not deny his soaring heart one clear and calm afternoon, when he first spotted the large creature in the distance flying above the rocky plain. He put Sunrise into swift pursuit, and the pegasus, seeming no less excited than he, flew off after the target with all speed. Just a few seconds later, Drizzt knew that he, too, had been spotted, for his counterparts turned his way and Sunset's wings beat the air with no less fervor than those of Sunrise.

  Soon after, both Drizzt and Innovindil confirmed that it was indeed the other. The two winged horses swooped by each other, circled, and came back. Neither rider controlled the mounts then, as Sunrise and Sunset flew through an aerial ballet, a dance of joy, weaving and diving side by side, separating with sudden swerving swoops and coming back together in a rush that left both Drizzt and Innovindil breathless.

  Finally, they put down upon the stone, and the elf and the drow leaped from their seats and charged into each other's arms.

  "I thought you lost to me!" Innovindil cried, burying her face in Drizzt's thick white hair.

  Drizzt didn't answer, other than to hug her all the tighter. He never wanted to let go.

  Innovindil put him out to arms' length, stared at him, shaking her head in disbelief, then crushed him back in her hug.

  Beside them, Sunrise and Sunset pawed the ground and tossed their heads near to each other, then galloped off, leaping and bucking.

  "And you rescued Sunrise," Innovindil breathed, again moving back from the drow—and when she did, Drizzt saw that her cheeks were streaked with tears.

  "That's one way to explain it," he answered, deadpan.

  Innovindil looked at him curiously.

  "I have a tale to tell," Drizzt promised. "I have battled with King Obould."

  "Then he is dead."

  Drizzt's somber silence was all the answer he needed to give.

  "I am surprised to find you out here," he said a moment later. "I would have thought that you would return to the Moonwood."

  "I did, only to find that most of my people have marched across the river to the aid of Mithral Hall. The dwarves have broken out of the eastern gate, and have joined with Citadel Felbarr. Even now, they strengthen their defenses and have begun construction of a bridge across the River Surbrin to reconnect Mithral Hall to the other kingdoms of the Silver Marches."

  "Good news," the drow remarked.

  "Obould will not be easily expelled," Innovindil reminded him, and the drow nodded.

  "You were flying south, then, to the eastern gate?" Drizzt asked.

  "Not yet," Innovindil replied. "I have been scouting the lands. When I go before the assembly at Mithral Hall, I wish to give a complete accounting of Obould's movements here."

  "And what you have seen is not promising."

  "Obould will not be easily expelled," the elf said again.

  "I have seen as much," said Drizzt. "Gerti Orelsdottr informed me that King Obould has sent a large contingent of orcs northeast along the Spine of the World to begin construction of a vast orc city that he will name Dark Arrow Keep."

  "Gerti Orelsdottr?" Innovindil's jaw drooped open with disbelief as she spoke the name.

  Drizzt grinned at her. "I told you I had a tale to tell."

  The two moved to a quiet and sheltered spot and Drizzt did just that, detailing his good fortune in escaping the underground river and the surprising decisions of Gerti Orelsdottr.

  "Guenhwyvar saved your life," Innovindil concluded, and Drizzt didn't disagree.

  "And the frost giants showed surprising foresight," he added.

  "This is good news for all the land," said Innovindil. "If the frost giants are abandoning Obould's cause, then he is far weaker."

  Drizzt wasn't so certain of that estimation, given the level of construction on defensive fortifications he had witnessed in flying over the region. And he wasn't even certain that Gerti was truly abandoning Obould's cause. Abandoning Obould, yes, but the greater cause?

  "Surely my people, the dwarves, and the humans will fare better against orcs alone than against orc ranks bolstered by frost giants," Innovindil said to the drow's doubting expression.

  "True enough," Drizzt had to admit. "And perhaps this is but the beginning of the greater erosion of the invading army that we all believe will occur. Orc tribes, too, have rarely remained loyal to a single leader. Perhaps their nature will reveal itself in the form of battles across the mountaintops, orc fortress against orc fortress."

  "We should increase the pressure on the pig-faced creatures," Innovindil said, a sly grin creasing her face. "Now is the time to remind them that perhaps they were not wise in choosing to follow the ill-fated excursion of Obould Many-Arrows."

  Drizzt's lavender eyes sparkled. "There is no reason that we have to do all of our scouting from high above. We should come down, now and again, and test the mettle of our enemies."

  "And perhaps weaken that resolve?" Innovindil asked, her grin widening.

  Drizzt rubbed his fingers together. Fresh from his defeat at the hands of Obould, he was quite anxious to get back into battle.

  Before the sun set that very same day, a pair of winged horses bore t
heir riders above a small encampment of orc soldiers. They came down powerfully, side by side, and both drow and moon elf rolled off the back of their respective mounts, hit the ground running and in balance and followed the thundering steeds right through the heart of the camp, scattering orcs as they went.

  Both Drizzt and Innovindil managed a few strikes in that initial confusion, but neither slowed long enough to focus on any particular enemy. By the time Sunset and Sunrise had gone out the other side of the small camp, the two elves were joined, forearm to forearm, blades working in perfect and deadly harmony.

  They didn't kill all twenty-three orcs in that particular camp, though so confused and terrified were the brutes at the onset of battle, more intent in getting out of the way than in offering any defense, that the devastating pair likely could have. The fight was as much about sending a message to their enemies as it was to kill orcs. Through all the wild moments of fighting, Sunset and Sunrise played their role to perfection, swooping in and kicking at orc heads, and at one point, crashing down atop a cluster of orcs that seemed to be forming a coherent defensive posture.

  Soon enough, Drizzt and Innovindil were on their mounts again and thundering away, not taking wing for twilight was upon them, but running off across the stony, snowy ground.

  Their message had been delivered.

  * * * * *

  The orc stared down the end of its bloody blade, to its latest victim squirming on the ground. Three swipes had brought it down, had taken its arm, and had left long, deep gashes running nearly the length of the dying orc's torso. So much blood soaked the fallen orc's leather tunic that anyone viewing the creature would be certain that it had been cut more than three times.

  That was the beauty of Khazid'hea, though, for the wicked sword did not snag on leather ties or bone, or even thin metal clasps. Cutter was its nickname, and the name the sentient sword was using when communicating with its current wielder. And Cutter was a name that newest wielder understood to be quite apropos.

  Several orcs had challenged the sword-wielder for the blade. All of them, even a pair who attacked the sword-wielder together, and another orc thought to be the best fighter in the region, lay dead.

  Is there anything that we cannot accomplish? the sword asked the orc, and the creature responded with a toothy smile. Is there any foe we cannot defeat?

  In truth, Khazid'hea thought the orc a rather pitiful specimen, and the sword knew that almost all of the orcs it had killed in its hands might have won their battle had the sword-wielder been holding a lesser weapon. At one point against the most formidable of the foes, Khazid'hea, who was telepathically directing its wielder through the combat, had considered turning the orc the wrong way so that its opponent would win and claim the sword.

  But for the moment, Khazid'hea didn't want to take those risks. It had an orc that was capable in combat, though minimally so, but was a wielder Khazid'hea could easily dominate. Through that orc, the sentient sword intended to find a truly worthy companion, and until one presented itself, the orc would suffice.

  The sword imagined itself in the hands of mighty Obould Many-Arrows.

  With that pleasant thought in mind, Khazid'hea contented itself with its current wielder.

  The last fight, this last dead orc, marked the end of any immediate prospective challengers, for all the other orcs working at the defensive fortification had made it quite clear that they wanted nothing to do with the sword-wielder and his new and deadly toy. With that, Khazid'hea went back into its sheath, its work done but its hunger far from sated.

  That hunger could never be sated. That hunger had made the sword reach out to Delly Curtie so that it could be free of Catti-brie, a once-capable wielder who would not see battle again anytime soon, though a war waged outside her door. That hunger had made Khazid'hea force Delly into the wild North, for the region beyond the great river was mired in peace.

  Khazid'hea hated peace.

  And so the sword became quite agitated over the next few days, when no orcs stepped forth to challenge the sword's current wielder. Khazid'hea thus began to execute its plan, whispering in the thoughts of the orc, teasing it with promises of supplanting Obould.

  Is there anything we cannot do? the sword kept asking.

  But Khazid'hea felt a wall of surprisingly stubborn resistance every time it hinted about Obould. The orc, all the orcs, thought of their leader in terms beyond the norm. It took some time for Khazid'hea to truly appreciate that in compelling the orc to supplant Obould, it was asking the orc to assume the mantle of a god. When that reality sank in, the sentient sword backed away its demands, biding its time, hoping to learn more of the orc army's structure so that it could choose an alternative target.

  In those days of mundane labor and boring peace, Khazid'hea heard the whisper of a name it knew well.

  "They're saying that the drow elf is Drizzt Do'Urden, friend of King Bruenor," another orc told a group that including the sword's current wielder.

  The sentient sword soaked it all in. Apparently, Drizzt and a companion were striking at orc camps in the region, and many had died.

  As soon as the sword-wielder left that discussion, Khazid'hea entered its mind.

  How great will you be if you bring Drizzt Do'Urden's head to King Obould? the devilish sword asked, and it accompanied the question with a series of images of glory and accolades, of a hacked drow elf lying dead at the orc champion's feet. Of shamans dancing and throwing their praise, and orc females swooning at the mere sight of the conquering champion.

  We can kill him, the sword promised when it sensed doubt. You and I together can defeat Drizzt Do'Urden. I know him well, and know his failings.

  That night, the sword-wielder began to ask more pointed questions of the orc who had relayed the rumors of the murderous dark elf. Where had the attacks occurred? Were they certain that the drow had been involved?

  The next day, Khazid'hea in its hand and in its thoughts, the sword-wielder slipped away from its companions and started off across the stony ground, seeking its victim and its glory.

  But for Khazid'hea, the search was for a new and very worthy wielder.

  CHAPTER 27 GROUSING

  The audience chamber of Mithral Hall was emptier than it had been in many months, but there could not have been more weight in the room. Four players sat around a circular table, equidistant to each other and all on the diagonal of the room, so that no one would be closer to the raised dais and the symbolic throne.

  When the doors banged closed, the last of the escorts departing, King Bruenor spent a moment scrutinizing his peers—or at least, the two he considered to be his peers, and the third, seated directly across from him, whom he realized he had to tolerate. To his left sat the other dwarf, King Emerus Warcrown, his face scrunched in a scowl, his beard neatly trimmed and groomed, but showing a bit more gray, by all accounts. How could Bruenor blame him for that, since Emerus had lost nearly as many dwarves as had Clan Battlehammer, and in an even more sudden and devastating manner?

  To Bruenor's right sat another ally, and one he respected greatly. Lady Alustriel of Silverymoon had been a friend to Bruenor and to Mithral Hall for many years. When the dark elves invaded the dwarves' homeland Alustriel had stood strong beside Bruenor and his kin, and at great loss to the people of her city. Many of Alustriel's warriors had died fighting the drow in Keeper's Dale. Alustriel seemed as regal and beautiful as ever. She was dressed in a long gown of rich, deep green, and a silver circlet accentuated her sculpted features and her silvery hair. By all measures, the woman was beautiful, but there was something more about her, a strength and gravity. How many foolish men had underestimated Alustriel, Bruenor wondered, thinking her pretty face the extent of her powers?

  Across from the dwarf sat Galen Firth of Nesme. Dirty and disheveled, carrying several recent scars and scabs, the man had just come from a battlefield, obviously, and had repeatedly expressed his desire to get right back to the fighting. Bruenor could respect that, certainly, but
still the dwarf had a hard time in offering too much respect to that man. Bruenor still hadn't forgotten the treatment he and his friends had found in Nesme, nor the negative reaction of Nesme to Settlestone, a community of Wulfgar's folk that Bruenor had sponsored.

  There was Galen, though, sitting in Mithral Hall as a representative of the town, and brought in by Alustriel as, so she said, a peer.

  "Be it known and agreed that I speak not only for Silverymoon, but for Everlund and Sundabar, as well?" Alustriel asked.

  "Aye," the other three all answered without debate, for Alustriel had informed them from the beginning that she had been asked to serve as proxy for the other two important cities, and none would doubt the honorable lady's word.

  "Then we are all represented," Galen Firth remarked.

  "Not all," said Emerus Warcrown, his voice as deep as a boulder's rumble within a mountain cave. "Harbromm's got no voice here."

  "Two other dwarves sit at the table," Galen Firth argued. "Two humans for four human kingdoms, but two dwarves do not suffice for only three dwarven mines?"

  Bruenor snorted. "Alustriel's getting three votes, and rightly so, since them other two asked her to do their voting here. Why yerself's even getting a voice is something I'm still wondering."

  Galen narrowed his eyes, and Bruenor snorted again.

  "Not I nor King Bruenor would deign to speak for King Harbromm of Citadel Adbar," Emerus Warcrown added. "King Harbromm has been advised of the situation, and will make his decisions known in time."

  "Now is the time to speak!" Galen Firth replied. "Nesme remains under assault. We have driven the trolls and bog blokes from the town and pushed most back into the Trollmoors, but their leader, a great brute named Proffit, has eluded us. While he lives, Nesme will not be safe."

  "Well, I'll be sending ye all me warriors then, and right off," Bruenor answered. "I'll just tell Obould to hold back his tens of thousands until we're properly ready for greeting him."