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 into to rouse them from their holes?”