Anthology - The Realms of the Elves

"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 ore enclave in the hopes that they will be 'enlightened ores' and therefore will not slaughter you?"

"Of course not," Drizzt admitted. "But again, what did Obould know that we do not? If the ores 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 has yet considered."

"Ores 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-ores?" 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 ores than we allow," Drizzt said. "I only wonder if our view of one aspect of the ores, 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 ore encampment. He slashed and he stabbed, and ores 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, 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 ores lay dead in the dark elfs 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 ore camp had come fast and furious, with three of the ores going down before the others had even known of the assault. None in the camp of a dozen ores 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 ores.

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 ores 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 ores 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 ore encampment. She paused behind a boulder then darted to the side of a lean-to where a pair of ores 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 ores, 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 ores," she replied. "With abandon."

"Have drow ever been selective in their victims?" one of the others asked.