Sea of Swords pod-4

by Robert Salvatore

  It was going to be a fine winter-But Bellany knew that Sheila Kree was right concerning Le'lorinel. If they weren't careful, the crazy elf's obsession with Drizzt could invite disaster.

  Bellany went right to her chamber and gathered together the components she needed for some divination spells, tuning in to the wide and rocky chamber Sheila Kree had assigned to Le'lorinel, watching as the elf and Morik went at their weapon dance, Le'lorinel instructing Morik over and over again to tell everything he knew about this strange dark elf.

  * * * * * * * * * * *

  “How many times must I tell you that it was no fight?” Morik asked in exasperation, holding his arms out and down to the side, a dagger in each hand. “I had no desire to continue when I learned the prowess of the drow and his friend.”

  “No desire to continue,” Le’lorinel pointedly echoed. “Which means that you began. And you just admitted that you learned of the dark elf's prowess. So show me, and now, else I will show you my prowess!”

  Morik tilted his head and smirked at the elf, dismissing this upstart's threat. Or at least, appearing to. In truth, Le'lorinel had Morik quite unsettled. The rogue had survived many years on the tough streets by understanding his potential enemies and friends. He instinctively knew when to fight, when to bluff, and when to run away.

  This encounter was fast shifting into the third category, for Morik could get no barometer on Le'lorinel. The elf's obsession was beyond readable, he recognized, drifting into something nearing insanity. He could see that clearly in the sheer intensity of the elf's blue and gold eyes, staring out at him through that ridiculous black mask. Would Le'lorinel really attack him if he didn't give the necessary information, and, apparently, in a manner that Le'lorinel could accept? He didn't doubt that for a moment, nor did he doubt that he might be overmatched. Drizzt Do'Urden had defeated his best attack routine with seeming ease, and had begun a counter that would have had Morik dead in seconds if the drow had so desired, and if Le'lorinel could pose an honest challenge to' Drizzt. .

  “You wish him dead, but why?” the rogue asked.

  “That is my affair and not your own,” Le'lorinel answered curtly.

  “You speak to me in anger, as if I can not or would not help you,” Morik said, forcing a distinct level of calm into his voice. “Perhaps there's a way—”

  “This is my fight and not your own,” came the response, as sharp as Morik's daggers.

  “Ah, but you alone, against Drizzt and his friends?” the rogue reasoned. “You may begin a brilliant and winning attack against the drow only to be shot dead by Catti-brie, standing calmly off to the side. Her bow—”

  “I know all of Taulmaril and of Guenhwyvar and all the others,” the elf assured him. “I will find Drizzt on my own terms and defeat him face to face, as justice demands.”

  Morik gave a laugh. “He is not such a bad fellow,” he started to say, but the feral expression growing in Le'lorinel's eyes advised him to alter that course of reasoning. “Perhaps you should go and find a woman,” the rogue added. “Elf or human—there seem to be many attractive ones about. Make love, my friend. That is justice!”

  The expression that came back at Morik, though he had never expected agreement, caught him by surprise, so doubtful and incredulous did it seem.

  “How old are you?” Morik pressed on. “Seventy? Fifty? Even less? It is so hard to tell with you elves, and yes, I am jealous of you for that. But you are undeniably handsome, a delicate beauty the women will enjoy. So find a lover, my friend. Find two! And do not risk the centuries of life you have remaining in this battle with Drizzt Do'Urden.”

  Le'lorinel came forward a step. Morik fast retreated, subtly twisting his hands to prepare to launch a dagger into the masked face of his opponent, should Le'lorinel continue.

  “I can not live!” the elf cried angrily. “I will see justice done! The mere notion of a dark elf walking the surface, feigning friendship and goodness offends everything I am and everything I believe. This dupe that is Drizzt Do'Urden is an insult to all of my ancestors, who drove the drow from the surface world and into the lightless depths where they belong.”

  “And if Drizzt retreated into the lightless depths, would you then pursue him?” Morik asked, thinking he might have found a break in the elf’s wall of reasoning.

  “I would kill every drow if that power was in my hands,” Le'lorinel sneered in response. “I would obliterate the entire race and be proud of the action. I would kill their matrons and their murderous raiders. I would drive my dagger into the heart of every drow child!”

  The elf was advancing with every sentence, and Morik was wisely backing, staying out of dangerous range, holding his hands up before him, daggers still ready, and patting the air in an effort to calm this brewing storm.

  Finally Le'lorinel stopped the approach and stood glaring at him. “Now, Morik, are you going to show me the action that occurred between you and Drizzt Do'Urden, or am I to test your battle mettle personally and use it as a measure of the prowess of Drizzt Do'Urden, given what I already know about your encounter?”

  Morik gave a sigh and nodded his compliance. Then he positioned Le'lorinel as Drizzt had been that night in the Luskan alley and took the elf through the attack and defense sequence.

  Over and over and over and over, at Le’lorinel's predictable insistence.

  * * * * * * * * *

  Bellany watched the entire exchange with more than a bit of amusement. She enjoyed watching Morik's fluid motions, though she couldn't deny that Le'lorinel was even more beautiful in battle than he, with greater skill and grace. Bellany laughed aloud at that, given Morik's errant perceptions.

  When the pair at last finished the multiple dances, Bellany heard Morik dare to argue, “You are a fine fighter, a wonderful warrior. I do not question your abilities, friend. But I warn you that Drizzt Do'Urden is good, very good. Perhaps as good as anyone in all the northland. I know that not only from my brief encounter with him, but from the tales that Wulfgar told me during our time together. I see that your rage is an honest one, but I implore you to reconsider this course. Drizzt Do'Urden is very good, and his friends are powerful indeed. If you follow through with this course, he will kill you. And what a waste of centuries that would be!”

  Morik bowed, turned, and quickly headed away, moving, Bellany suspected, toward her room. She liked that thought, for watching the play between Morik and Le'lorinel had surely excited her, and she decided she would not correct the rogue. Not soon, at least.

  This was too much fun.

  * * * * * * * * *

  Morik did indeed consider going to see Bellany as he departed Le'lorinel's sparring chamber. The elf had more amused him than shaken him—Morik saw him as a complete fool, wasting every potential enjoyment and experience in life in seeking this bloody vow of vengeance against a dark elf better left alone. Whether Drizzt was a good sort or a bad one wasn't really the issue, in Morik's view. The simple measure of the worth of Le'lorinel's quest was the question of whether or not Drizzt was seeking the elf. If he was, then Le'lorinel would do well to strike first, but if he was not, then the elf was surely a fool.

  Drizzt was not looking for the elf. Morik knew that instinctively. Drizzt had come seeking information about Wulfgar and about Aegis-fang but had said nothing about any elf named Le'lorinel, or about any elf at all. Drizzt wasn't hunting Le'lorinel, and likely, he didn't even know that Le'lorinel was hunting him.

  Morik turned down a side corridor, moving to an awkwardly set wooden door. With great effort, he managed to push it open and moved through it to an outside landing high up on the cliff face, perhaps two hundred feet from the crashing waves far below.

  Morik considered the path that wound down around the rocky spur that would take him to the floor of the gorge on the other side of the mound and to the trails that would lead him far away from Sheila Kree. He could probably get by the sentries watching the gorge with relative ease, could probably get far, far away with little effort.
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  Of course, the storm clouds were gathering in the northwest, over the Sea of Moving Ice, and the wind was cold. He'd have a hard time making Luskan before the season overwhelmed him, and it wouldn't be a pleasant journey even if he did make it. And of course, Bellany had already shown that she could find him in Luskan.

  Morik grinned as he considered other possible routes. He wasn't exactly sure where he was—Bellany had used magic to bounce them from place to place on the way there—but he suspected he wasn't very far from a potential shelter against the winter.

  “Ah, Lord Feringal, are you expecting visitors?” the rogue whispered, but he was laughing with every word, hardly considering the possibility of fleeing to Auckney—if he could even figure out where Auckney was, relative to Golden Cove, Without the proper attire, it would not be easy for the rogue Morik to assume again the identity of Lord Brandeburg of Waterdeep, an alias he had once used to dupe Lord Feringal of Auckney.

  Morik was laughing at the thought of wandering away into the wintry mountains, and the notion was far from serious. It was just comforting for Morik to know he could likely get away if he so desired.

  With that in mind, Morik wasn't surprised that the pirates had given him fairly free reign. If they offered to put him back in Luskan and never bother him again, he wasn't sure he would take them up on it. Life there was tough, even for one of Morik's cunning and reputation, but life in the cove seemed easy enough, and certainly Bellany was going out of her way to make it pleasant.

  But what about Wulfgar? What about Drizzt Do'Urden and Catti-brie?

  Morik looked out over the cold waters and seriously considered the debts he might owe to his former traveling companion. Yes, he did care about Wulfgar, and he made up his mind then and there, that if the barbarian did come against Golden Cove in an effort to regain Aegis-fang, then he would do all that he could to convince Sheila Kree and particularly Bellany to try to capture the man and not to destroy him.

  That would be a more difficult task concerning Drizzt, Morik knew, considering his recent encounter with the crazy Le'lorinel, but Morik was able to shrug that possibility away easily enough.

  In truth, what in the world did Morik the Rogue owe to Drizzt Do'Urden? Or to Catti-brie?

  The little dark-haired thief stretched and hugged his arms close to his chest to ward the cold wind. He thought of Bellany and her warm bed and started off for her immediately.

  * * * * * * * * *

  Le'lorinel stood sullenly in the sparring chamber after Morik had gone, considering his last words.

  Morik was wrong, Le'lorinel knew. The elf didn't doubt his assessment of Drizzt's fighting prowess. Le'lorinel knew well the tales of Drizzt's exploits. But Morik did not understand the years of preparation for this one fight, the great extremes to which Le'lorinel had gone to be in a position to defeat Drizzt Do'Urden.

  But Le'lorinel could not easily dismiss Morik's warning. This fight with Drizzt would indeed happen, the elf repeated silently, fingering the ring that contained the necessary spells. Even if it went exactly as Le'lorinel had prepared and planned, it would likely end in two deaths, not one.

  So be it.

  Chapter 18 WHERE TRAIL AND SMOKE COMBINE

  The four companions, wearing layers of fur and with blood thickened from years of living in the harshness of Icewind Dale, were not overly bothered by the wintry conditions they found waiting for them not so far north of Luskan. The snow was deep in some places, the trails icy in others, but the group plodded along. Bruenor led Catti-brie and Regis, plowing a trail with his stout body, with Drizzt guiding them from along the side.

  Their progress was wonderful, given the season and the difficult terrain, but of course Bruenor found a reason to grumble. “Damn twinkly elf don't even break the crust!” he muttered, crunching through one snow drift that was more than waist high, while Drizzt skipped along on the crusty surface of the snow, half-skating, half-running. “Gotta get him to eat more and put some meat on them skinny limbs!”

  Behind the dwarf, Catti-brie merely smiled. She knew, and so did Bruenor, that Drizzt's grace was more a measure of balance than of weight. The drow knew how to distribute his weight perfectly, and because he was always balanced, he could shift that weight to his other foot immediately if he felt the snow collapsing beneath him. Catti-brie was about Drizzt's height and was even a bit lighter than him, but there was no way she could possibly move as he did.

  Because he was atop the snow instead of plowing through it, Drizzt was afforded a fine vantage point of the rolling white lands all around. He noted a trail not far to the side—a recent one, where someone or something had plodded along, much as Bruenor was doing now.

  “Hold!” the drow called. Even as he spoke, Drizzt noted another curious sight, that of smoke up ahead, some distance away, rising in a thin line as if from a chimney. He considered it for just a moment, then glanced back to the trail, which seemed to be going in that general direction. He wondered if the two were somehow connected. A trapper's house, perhaps, or a hermit.

  Figuring that the friends could all use a bit of rest, Drizzt 'made good speed for the trail. They had been out from Luskan for nearly a tenday, finding good shelter only twice, once with a farmer the first night and another night spent in a cave.

  Drizzt wasn't as hopeful for shelter when he arrived at the line in the snow and saw footprints more than twice the size of his own.

  “What'd'ye got, elf?” Bruenor called.

  Drizzt motioned for the group to be quiet and for them to come and join him.

  “Big orcs, perhaps,” he remarked when they were all there. “Or small ogres.”

  “Or barbarians,” Bruenor remarked. “Them folk got the biggest feet I ever seen on a human.”

  Drizzt examined one clear print more carefully, bending over to put his eyes only a few inches from it. He shook his head. “These are too heavy, and those who made them wore hard boots, not the doeskin Wulfgar's people would wear,” he explained.

  “Ogres, then,” said Catti-brie. “Or big orcs.”

  “Plenty of those in these mountains,” Regis put in.

  “And heading for that line of smoke,” Drizzt explained, pointing ahead to the thin plume.

  “Might be their kinfolk making the smoke,” Bruenor reasoned. With a wry grin, the dwarf turned to Regis. “Get to it, Rumblebelly.”

  Regis branched, thinking then that perhaps he had done too well with that last orc camp, when he and Bruenor were making their way to Luskan. The halfling wasn't going to shy from his responsibilities, but if these were ogres, he'd be sorely overmatched. And Regis knew that ogres favored halfling as one of their most desired meals.

  When Regis came out of his contemplation, he noted that Drizzt was looking at him, smiling knowingly, as if he'd read the halfling's every thought.

  “This is no job for Regis,” the dark elf said.

  “He done it on the way to Luskan,” Bruenor protested. “Done it well, too.”

  “But not in this snow,” Drizzt replied. “No thief would be able to find appropriate shadows in this white-out. No, let us go in together to see what friends or enemies we might find.”

  “And if they are ogres?” Catti-brie asked. “Ye thinking we're overdue for a fight?”

  Drizzt's expression showed clearly that the notion was not an unpleasant one, but he shook his head. “If they do not concern us, then better that we do not concern them,” he said. “But let us learn what we might—it may be that we will find shelter and good food for the night.”

  Drizzt moved off to the side and a little ahead, and Bruenor led the way along the carved trail. The dwarf brought out his large axe, slapping its handle across his shield hand, and set his one-horned helmet firmly on his head, more than ready for a fight. Behind him, Catti-brie set an arrow to Taulmaril and tested the pull.

  If these were ogres or orcs and they happened to have a decent shelter constructed, then Catti-brie fully expected to be occupying that shelter long before nightf
all. She knew Bruenor Battle-hammer too well to think that the dwarf would ever walk away from a fight with either of those beasts.

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

  “Yer turn to get the firewood,” Donbago snarled at his younger brother, Jeddith. He pushed the young man toward the tower door. “We'll all be frozen by morning if ye don't bring it!”

  “Yeah, I know,” the younger soldier grumbled, running a hand through his greasy hair and scratching at some lice. “Damn weather. Shouldn't be this cold yet.”

  The other two soldiers in the stone tower grumbled their agreement. Winter had come early, and with vigor, to the Spine of the World, sweeping down on an icy wind that cut right through the stones of the simple tower fortress to bite at the soldiers. They did have a fire burning in the hearth, but it was getting thin, and they didn't have enough wood to get through the night. There was plenty to be found, though, so none of them were worried.

  “If ye help me, we'll bring enough to get it blazing,” Jeddith observed, but Donbago grumbled about taking his turn on the tower top watch, and headed for the stairs even as Jeddith started for the outside door.

  A breeze whistling in through the opened door pushed Donbago along as he made the landing to the second floor, to find the other two soldiers of the remote outpost.

  “Well, who's up top?” Donbago scolded.

  “No one,” answered one of the pair, scaling the ladder running up from the center of the circular floor to the center of the ceiling. “The trapdoor's frozen stuck.”

  Donbago grumbled and moved to the base of the ladder, watching as his companion for the sentry duty banged at the metal trapdoor. It took them some time to break through the ice, and so Donbago wasn't on the rooftop and didn't have to watch helplessly as Jeddith, some thirty feet from the tower door, bent over to retrieve some deadwood, oblivious to the hulking ogre that stepped out from behind a tree and crushed his skull with a single blow from a heavy club.