Tos’un stopped in mid swing and tossed his second sword into the air to fly between the surprised orcs. In the same fluid movement, the drow dropped low and spun, slipping forward to one knee and ducking under the orcs’ blades. Khazid’hea ripped across, shearing thick belts and leather tabards as if they were made of parchment.
Both orcs howled and fell away, grabbing at their spilling entrails.
Khazid’hea howled, too, but in pleasure—in Tos’un’s head.
Another pair of guards came at the drow, each circling to the side and prodding at him with metal-tipped spears. He analyzed their movements and ran through an internal debate about how to proceed, where to parry, and which counter to follow through.
When the thrust came, Tos’un proved more than ready. With his superior agility and speed, he slipped his foot back and half-turned, dodging the stab that passed behind him and slapping aside the one in front.
One step forward had him in range, and Khazid’hea tasted more orc blood.
The other foolish orc pursued the drow from behind, and Tos’un executed a brilliant backhand, behind-the-back deflection with his more mundane blade, spun following his own blade as he continued to force the spear aside, and bore in to put Khazid’hea through the orc’s heart.
The sword flooded Tos’un with appreciation.
The drow saw an opening to the left, where an orc began scrambling away. He started that way but then cut back, having seen a pair of orcs running right, abandoning the wagon to save their lives. He took a few steps in pursuit, but his delay had cost him any chance of catching them quickly, so he sheathed his swords and went to the carts instead to realize the spoils.
Khazid’hea went silent, but the sword was more intrigued than pleased. Tos’un was a fine wielder, a solid drow warrior, certainly superior to the human woman who had wielded the sword for several years before, a female warrior who too often favored her bow—a coward’s weapon—over Khazid’hea’s magnificent blade.
We have much to learn from each other, the sword related in Tos’un’s thoughts.
The drow glanced down at Khazid’hea’s hilt, and the sword could sense his trepidation.
You do not trust your instinctive warrior self, the sword explained.
Tos’un put down the food he had found and drew Khazid’hea from its sheath, holding the gleaming blade up before his red eyes.
You think too much, the sword imparted.
Tos’un paused for a bit, then resheathed the blade and went back to his food.
That was good enough for the time being, Khazid’hea believed. The drow had not dismissed the suggestion. The sword would be more prepared in their next fight to help the dark elf achieve a state of more fluid concentration, of heightened awareness, in which he could trust in his abilities and fully understand his limitations.
Not long before, Khazid’hea had been wielded by Drizzt Do’Urden, a champion among drow. That dark elf had easily dismissed any of the sentient weapon’s intrusions because he had achieved a perfect warrior state of mind, an instantaneous recognition of his enemies and evaluation of their abilities. Drizzt moved without conscious consideration, moved in a manner that perfectly blended his thoughts and actions.
Khazid’hea had felt that warrior instinct, the concentration that elevated Drizzt above even a superbly trained warrior such as Tos’un Armgo. The sentient sword had studied its wielder intently in the fight between Drizzt and Obould, and Khazid’hea had learned from the master.
And the sword meant to teach that technique to Tos’un. Though this drow would never be as powerful in heart and will as Drizzt Do’Urden, that was a good thing. For without that inner determination and overblown moral compass even as he gained in physical prowess, Tos’un would not be able to deny Khazid’hea, as had Drizzt. The sword could make Tos’un as physically formidable, but without the dead weight of free will.
Khazid’hea could not settle for second best.
“You have been very quiet these last days,” Innovindil remarked to Drizzt when they pulled up to set their camp for the night.
The smell of brine filled their nostrils and the sunset that night shone at them across the great expanse of dark waters rolling in toward the Sword Coast. The weather had held and they put hundreds of miles behind them much more quickly than they’d anticipated. The two elves even dared to hope that, if good fortune held, they could be back in Mithral Hall before winter came on in full, before the deep snows filled Keeper’s Dale and the icy winds forced them to travel exclusively on the ground. In the air, the pegasi could cover thirty miles in a single day with ease, and those thirty miles were in a direct line to their goal, not winding around hillocks or following rivers for hours and hours until a ford could be found. On the ground, along the winding trails and empty terrain of the wilderness, where they had to beware of monsters and wild beasts, they would be lucky to travel ten miles in any given day, and luckier still if more than a third of those were actually in the direction of their goal.
“Our progress has been amazing,” Innovindil went on when Drizzt, standing on a bluff and staring out at the sea, made no move to reply. “Rillifain is with us,” she said, referring to an elf forest god, one of the deities of her Moonwood clan. “His calming breath is keeping the wintry blows at bay, that we might recover Ellifain and return with all speed.”
She continued on, speaking of the god Rillifain Rallathil and the various tales associated with him. The sun’s lower rim seemed to touch the distant water and still she talked. The sky turned a rich blue as the fiery orb disappeared behind the waves, and she realized that Drizzt was not listening, that he had not been listening to her at all.
“What is it?” she said, moving up beside him. She asked again a moment later, and forced him to look at her.
“Are you all right, my friend?” Innovindil asked.
“What did Obould know that we do not?” Drizzt asked in reply.
Innovindil took a step back, her fair elf face scrunching up, for he had caught her off guard.
“Are there good orcs and bad orcs, do you suppose?” Drizzt went on.
“Good orcs?”
“You are surprised that a goodly drow elf would ask such a question?”
Innovindil’s eyes snapped open wide at that, and she stuttered over a reply until Drizzt let her off the hook with a disarming grin.
“Good orcs,” he said.
“Well, I am sure that I do not know. I have never met one of goodly disposition.”
“How would you know if you had?”
“Well, then, perhaps there are such creatures as goodly orcs,” an obviously flustered Innovindil conceded. “I’m sure I wouldn’t know, but I’m also sure that if such beasts exist, they are not the norm for that race. Perhaps a few, but which are more predominant, your mythical goodly orc or those bent on evil?”
“It does not matter.”
“Your friend King Bruenor would not likely agree with you this time.”
“No, no,” Drizzt said, shaking his head. “If there are goodly orcs, even a few, would that not imply that there are varying degrees of conscience within the orc heart and mind? If there are goodly orcs, even a few, does that not foster hope that the race itself will move toward civilization, as did the elves and the dwarves … the halflings, gnomes, and humans?”
Innovindil stared at him as if she didn’t understand.
“What did Obould know that we do not?” Drizzt asked again.
“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 in
to 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, Nesmé 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. En
joying 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.
The Collected Stories, The Legend of Drizzt Page 19
