“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.
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.
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.…
