The Collected Stories, The Legend of Drizzt

which they had already carefully observed some fifty feet farther along the path to the north, showed design and integrity that would make a dwarf engineer proud.

“They have not left. Their cohesion remains,” Drizzt stated.

“And they proclaim their king as Obould, and their kingdom takes his surname,” Innovindil added. “It would seem that the unusual orc’s vision outlasted his breath.”

Drizzt shook his head, though he had no practical answers against the obvious observation. Still, it didn’t make sense to him, for it was not the way of the orc.

After a long while, Innovindil said, “Come, the night will be colder and a storm is brewing. Let us be on our way.”

Drizzt glanced back at her and nodded, though his thoughts were still focused on that sign and its implications.

“We can make Mithral Hall long before sunset,” he asked.

“I wish to cross the Surbrin,” Innovindil replied, and as she spoke she led Drizzt’s gaze to the form of Ellifain strapped over Sunset’s back, “to the Moonwood first, if you would agree.”

With the weather holding and the sun still bright, though black clouds gathered in the northeast, they flew through Keeper’s Dale and past the western door of King Bruenor’s domain. Both of them took comfort in seeing that the gates remained solid and closed.

They crossed around the southern side of the main mountain of the dwarven homeland, then past the wall and bridge that had been built east of the complex. Several dwarf sentries spotted them and recognized them after a moment of apparent panic. Drizzt returned their waves and heard his name shouted from below.

Over the great river, partially covered in ice and its steel gray waters flowing swiftly and angrily, they set down, their shadows long before them.

The land was secure. Obould’s minions had not pressed their attack, and predictably, as their campfire flared in the dark of night, the snow beginning to fall, they were visited by a patrol of elves, Innovindil’s own people scouting the southern reaches of their domain.

There was much rejoicing and welcoming. The elves joined in song and dance, and Drizzt went along with it all, his smile genuine.

The storm grew stronger, the wind howling, but the troupe, nestled in the embrace of a thick stand of pines, were not deterred in their celebration, their joy at the return of Innovindil, and their somber satisfaction that poor Ellifain had come home.

Soon after, Innovindil recounted the journey to her kin, telling them of her disappointment and surprise to see that the orcs had not gone home to their dark holes after the fall of King Obould.

“But Obould is not dead,” one of the elves replied, and Innovindil and her drow companion sat intrigued and quiet.

Another elf stepped forward to explain, “We have found a kin of yours, Drizzt Do’Urden, striking at the orcs much as you once did. His name is Tos’un.”

Drizzt felt as if the wind, diminished as it was through the thick boughs of the pines, might just blow him over. He had killed two other dark elves in the fight with Obould’s invading army, and had seen at least two more in his personal battle. In fact, one of those drow, a priestess, had brought forth a magical earthquake that had sent both Drizzt and the orc king tumbling, Drizzt, with good fortune, to a ledge not far below, and Obould, so Drizzt had thought, into a deep ravine where he surely would have met his demise. Might this Tos’un be one of those who had watched Drizzt’s battle with the orc king?

“Obould is alive,” the elf said again. “He walked from the carnage of the landslide.”

Drizzt didn’t think it possible, but given what he had seen of the orc army, could he truly deny the claim?

“Where is this Tos’un?” he asked, his voice no more than a whisper.

“Across the Surbrin to the north, far from here,” the elf explained. “He fights beside Albondiel and his patrol, and fights well by all reports.”

“You have become accepting,” Drizzt remarked.

“We have been given good reason.”

Drizzt was hardly convinced.

He is in the Moonwood, Khazid’hea reminded Tos’un one brilliant and brutally cold morning.

They were still out across the Surbrin, in the northern stretches of the newly-proclaimed Kingdom of Many Arrows, just south of the towering easternmost peaks of the Spine of the World. The drow tried not to respond, but his thoughts flickered back to Sinnafain’s announcement to him that Drizzt Do’Urden had returned from the west and stopped in the Moonwood.

He saw you on that day he battled Obould, Khazid’hea warned. He knows you were in league with the orcs.

He saw two drow, Tos’un corrected. And from afar. He cannot know for certain that it was me.

And if he does? His eyes are much more attuned to the glare of the sun than are yours. Do not underestimate his understanding. He did battle with two of your companions, as well. You cannot know what Drizzt might have learned from them before he slew them.

Tos’un slid the sword away and glanced around the ring of boulders fronting the shallow cave that he and the elves had taken for their camp the previous night. He had suspected that Drizzt had been involved in the fall of Donnia Soldue and Adnon Khareese, but the sword’s confirmation jarred him.

You will exact vengeance for your dead friends? Khazid’hea asked, and there was something in the sword’s telepathy that led him to understand the folly of that course. In truth, Tos’un wanted no battle with the legendary rogue that had so upset the great city of Menzoberranzan. Kaer’lic had feared that Drizzt was actually in Lolth’s favor, as chaos seemed to widen in his destructive wake, but even if that were not the case, the rogue’s reputation still brought shudders up Tos’un’s spine.

Could he bluff his way past Drizzt’s doubts, or would the rogue just cut him down?

Good, Khazid’hea purred in his thoughts. You understand that this is not a battle you are ready to fight. The sword led his gaze to Sinnafain, sitting on a rock not far away and staring out at the wide valley beyond.

Kill her quickly and let us be gone, Khazid’hea offered. The others are out or deep in Reverie-they will not arrive in time to stop you.

Despite his reservations, Tos’un’s hand closed on the sword’s hilt. But he let go almost immediately.

Drizzt will not strike me down. I can dissuade him. He will accept me.

At the very least, he will demand my return, Khazid’hea protested, so that he can give me back to that human woman.

I will not allow that.

How will you prevent it? And how will Tos’un answer the calls of the priests when Khazid’hea is not helping him to defeat their truth-seeking spells?

We are beyond that point, the drow replied.

Not if I betray you, the sword warned.

Tos’un sucked in his breath and knew he was caught. The thought of going back out alone in the winter cold did not sit well with him, but he had no answer for the wretched sword.

Nor was he willing to surrender Khazid’hea, to Drizzt or to anyone. Tos’un understood that his fighting skills were improving because of the tutoring of the blade, and few weapons in the world possessed a finer edge. Still, he did not doubt Khazid’hea’s estimation that he was not ready to do battle with the likes of Drizzt Do’Urden.

Hardly aware of the movements, the drow walked up behind Sinnafain.

“It is a beautiful day, but the wind will keep us about the cave,” she said, and Tos’un caught most of the words and her meaning. He was a quick student, and the Elvish language was not so different from that of the drow, with many similar words and word roots, and an identical structure.

She turned on the rock to face him just as he struck.

The world must have seemed to spin for Sinnafain. She lay on the ground, the drow standing above her, his