Robert Salvatore - Sea of Swords

“Then why did you help me?” Wulfgar countered.

Morik found his next words caught in his throat. Why indeed had he gone against Sheila Kree? Even when he had come visible again, on the ramp descending from Chogurugga's chamber, it would not have been difficult for him to find a shadowy place to sit out the fight. Cursing himself for what he now had to consider a foolhardy decision, the rogue leaped ahead, daggers slashing. He landed in a turn that sent his dark cloak flying wide.

“Run away!” he cried out, leaving the cloak behind as a pair of slashing cutlasses came against it. He skittered behind Wulfgar, moving between a pair of huge boulders and heading up the trail.

Then he came back onto the small clearing, shouting, “Not that way!” Yet another ogre was in fast pursuit.

Wulfgar groaned as this new foe seemed to be entering the fray—and another, he noted, seeing movement beside Morik.

But that was no ogre.

Bruenor Battlehammer leaped up onto the rock as Morik passed underneath. Axe in both hands and down behind him, the dwarf took aim as the oblivious ogre came by in fast pursuit.

Crack!

The hit resounded like splitting stone, and everyone on the clearing stopped their fighting for just a moment to regard the wild-eyed red-haired dwarf standing atop the stone, his axe buried deeply into the skull of an ogre that was only still upright because the mighty dwarf was holding it there, trying to tug the axe back out.

“Ain't that a beautiful sound?” Bruenor called to Wulfgar.

Wulfgar shook his head and went back into defensive action against the ogre, and now with the two pirates joining in. “Took you long enough!” he replied.

“Quit yer bitchin'!” Bruenor yelled back. “Me girl's seen yer hammer, ye durn fool! Call for it, boy!”

The ogre in front of Wulfgar stepped back to get some charging room, roared defiantly, and lifted its club, coming on hard.

Wulfgar threw his ruined bardiche at the beast, who blocked it with its chest and arm and tossed the pieces aside.

“Oh, brilliant!” complained Morik, who was back behind Wulfgar, coming around to engage the two pirates.

But Wulfgar wasn't even listening to the complaint or to the threats from the enraged ogre. He was yelling out instead, trusting Bruenor's word.

“What you to do now, puny one?” the ogre said, though its expression changed considerably as it finished the question. A finely crafted warhammer appeared in Wulfgar's waiting grasp.

“Catch this one,” the barbarian remarked, letting fly.

As it had with the cracked bardiche, the ogre tried to accept the blow with its chest and its arm, tried to just take the hit and push the warhammer aside.

But this was no cracked bardiche.

The ogre had no idea why it was sitting against the wall then, unable to draw breath.

His hand up high in the air, Wulfgar called out again for the hammer.

And there it was, in his grasp, warrior and weapon united.

A cutlass came in at him from the side, along with a cry of warning from Morik.

Wulfgar snapped his warhammer down, blasting the thrusting cutlass away. With perfect balance, as if the warhammer was an extension of his own arm, Wulfgar turned the weapon and swung it out hard.

The pirate flew away.

The other turned and ran, but Morik had him before he reached the opening, stabbing him down.

Another ogre exited the cave and glared threateningly at nearby Morik, but a blue streak cut between the barbarian and the rogue, knocking the brute back inside.

The friends turned to see Catti-brie standing there, bow in hand.

“Guen's got them up above,” the woman explained.

“And Rumblebelly's up there too, and likely needin' us!” howled Bruenor, motioning for them.

They ran on up the path, winding farther around the mountain. They came to another level, wide area with a huge door facing them, set into the mountain.

“Not that one,” Morik tried to explain. “Big ogres. .”

The rogue shut up as Bruenor and Wulfgar fell over the door, hammer and axe chopping, splintering the wood to pieces.

In the pair went.

Chogurugga and her attendants were waiting.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Their weapons rang against each other repeatedly, a blur of motion, a constant sound. Hastened by the enchantment, Le'lorinel matched Drizzt's blinding speed, but unlike the drow, the elf was not used to such lightning reflexive action.

Scimitar right, scimitar left, scimitar straight ahead, and Drizzt scored a hard stab against Le'lorinel's chest that would have finished the elf had it not been for the stonelike dweomer.

“How many more will it stop?” the drow asked, growing more confident now as his routines slipped around Le'lorinel's defenses. “We need not do this.”

But the elf showed no sign of letting up.

Drizzt slashed out with his right, then spun as Le'lorinel, parrying, went into a circuit to the right as well, both coming together out of their respective spins with a clash of four blades.

Drizzt turned his blade over the elf's, driving Le'lorinel's down. When the elf predictably stabbed ahead, the drow leaped into a somersault right over the attack, landing on his feet and falling low as the sword swished over his head. Drizzt slashed out, scoring on Le'lorinel's hip, then kicked out as the elf retreated, clipping a knee.

Le'lorinel squeaked in pain and stumbled back a few steps.

The enchantment was defeated. The next scimitar hit would draw blood.

“There is no need for this,” Drizzt graciously said.

Le'lorinel glared at him, and smiled again. Up came the ring, and with a word from the elf, it flashed again.

Drizzt charged, wanting to beat whatever trick might be coming next.

But Le'lorinel was gone, vanished from sight.

Drizzt skidded to a stop, eyes widening with surprise. On instinct, he reached within himself to his own magical powers, his innate drow abilities, and summoned a globe of darkness about him, one that filled the room and put him back on even footing with the invisible warrior.

Just as Le'lorinel had expected he would. For now, with the ring's fourth enchantment—the most insidious of the group— the invisible elf s form was outlined again in glowing fires.

Drizzt moved in, spinning and launching slashing attack routines, as he had long ago learned when fighting blindly. Every attack was also a parry, his scimitars whirling out wide from his body.

And he listened, and he heard the shuffle of feet.

He was on the spot in an instant and took heart when his blade rang against a blocking sword, awkwardly held.

The elf had miscalculated, he believed, had altered the fight into one in which the experienced drow held a great advantage.

He struck with wide-reaching blows, coming in from the left and the right, keeping his opponent before him.

Right and left again, and Drizzt turned suddenly behind his second swing, spinning and slashing with the right as he came around.

The victory was his, he knew, from the position of the blocking sword and dagger, the elf caught flatfooted and without defense.

His scimitar drove against Le'lorinel's side, tearing flesh.

But at precisely the same instant, Drizzt, too, got hit in the side.

Unable to retract or slow his blow, Drizzt had to finish the move, the scimitar bouncing off of a rib, tearing a lung and cutting back out across the front of the elf’s chest.

And the same wound burrowed across the drow's chest.

Even as the pain exploded within him, even as he stumbled back, tripping over Bloog's leg and falling hard to the floor against the wall, Drizzt understood what had happened, recognized the fire shield enchantment, a devilish spell that inflicted damage upon anyone striking the spell-user.