R. Salvatore - The Collected Stories, The Legend of Drizzt

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. 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.