The Orc King t-1

by Robert Anthony Salvatore

  Never taking his eyes from that spot, Tos’un rolled backward from the stone seat, flipping to his feet in a crouch with the stone between him and the shadowy form—a large, feline form—filtering in and out of the darker lines of the tree trunks.

  The drow eased his way to the edge of the stone nearest his discarded sword belt, preparing his dash. He held still, though, not wanting to alert the creature to his presence.

  But then he stood taller, blinking, for the great cat seemed to diminish, to dematerialize into a dark mist that filtered away to nothingness. For just a moment, Tos’un wondered if his imagination was playing tricks on him in that strange environment, under a sky that he had still not grown accustomed to or comfortable with.

  When he realized the truth of the beast, when he recalled its origins, the drow leaped out from the stone, dived into a forward roll retrieving his belt as he went, and came up so perfectly that he had already buckled it in place before he stood once more.

  Drizzt’s cat! his thoughts screamed.

  Pray that it is! came the unexpected and unasked for answer from his intrusive sword. A glorious victory is at hand!

  Tos’un winced at the thought. In Lolth’s favor… he imparted to the sword, recalling Kaer’lic’s fears about Drizzt Do’Urden.

  The priestess had been terrified at the prospect of battling the rogue from Menzoberranzan, fearing, with solid reasoning, that the trouble Drizzt had brought upon the drow city was just the sort of chaos that pleased Lady Lolth. Add to that Drizzt’s uncanny luck and almost supernatural proficiency with the blade, and the idea that he was secretly in the favor of Lolth seemed not so far-fetched.

  And Tos’un, for all of his irreverence, understood well that anyone who crossed Lolth’s will could meet a most unpleasant end.

  All of those thoughts followed his intentional telepathic message to Khazid’hea, and the sword went strangely quiet for the next few moments. Indeed, to Tos’un’s sensibilities, everything seemed to go strangely quiet. He strained his eyes in the direction of the pines where he had last seen the feline shape, his hands wringing on the hilt of Khazid’hea and his other, drow-made sword. Every passing moment drew him farther into the shadows. His eyes, his ears, his sense of smell, every instinct within him honed in on that spot where the cat had disappeared as he tried desperately to discern where it had gone.

  And so he nearly leaped out of his low, soft boots when a voice behind him, speaking in the drow language with perfect Menzoberranyr inflection, said, “Guenhwyvar was tired, so I sent her home to rest.”

  Tos’un whirled, slashing the empty air with his blades as if he believed the demon Drizzt to be right behind him.

  The rogue drow was many steps away, though, standing easily, his scimitars sheathed, his forearms resting comfortably on their respective hilts.

  “A fine sword you carry, son of Barrison Del’Armgo,” Drizzt said, nodding toward Khazid’hea. “Not drow made, but fine.”

  Tos’un turned his hand over and regarded the sentient blade for a moment before turning back to Drizzt. “One I found in the valley, below…”

  “Below where I fought King Obould,” Drizzt finished, and Tos’un nodded.

  “You have come for it?” Tos’un asked, and in his head, Khazid’hea simmered and imparted thoughts of battle.

  Leap upon him and cut him down! I would drink the blood of Drizzt Do’Urden!

  Drizzt noted Tos’un’s uncomfortable wince, and suspected that Khazid’hea had been behind the grimace. Drizzt had carried the annoying sentient blade long enough to understand that its ego simply would not let it remain silent through any conversation. The way Tos’un had measured his cadence, as if he was listening to the sound of his own words coming back at him in an echo from a stone wall, revealed the continual intrusions of the ever-present Khazid’hea.

  “I have come here to see this curiosity I find before me,” Drizzt replied. “A son of Barrison Del’Armgo, living on the surface world, alone.”

  “Akin to yourself.”

  “Hardly,” Drizzt said with a chuckle. “I carry my surname out of habit alone, and toward no familiarity or relationship with the House of Matron Malice.”

  “As I have abandoned my own House,” Tos’un insisted, again in that stilted cadence.

  Drizzt wasn’t about to argue with that much of his claim, for indeed it seemed plausible enough—though of course, the events that drove Tos’un from the ranks of his formidable House might be anything but exculpatory. “To trade service to a matron mother for service to a king,” Drizzt remarked. “For both of us, it seems.”

  Whatever Tos’un meant to reply, he bit it back and tilted his head to the side, searching the statement, no doubt.

  Drizzt didn’t hide his wry and knowing grin.

  “I serve no king,” Tos’un insisted, and with speed enough and force enough to prevent any interruptions from the intrusive blade.

  “Obould names himself a king.”

  Tos’un shook his head, his face curling into a snarl.

  “Do you deny your part in the conspiracy that prompted Obould to come south?” Drizzt asked. “I have had this conversation with two of your dead companions, of course. Or do you deny your partnering with the pair I killed? Recall that I saw you standing with the priestess when I came to battle Obould.”

  “Where was I, a Houseless rogue, to turn?” Tos’un replied. “I happened upon the trio of which you speak in my wandering. Alone and without hope, they offered me sanctuary, and that I could not refuse. We did not raid your dwarf friends, nor any human settlements.”

  “You prompted Obould and brought disaster upon the land.”

  “Obould was coming with his thousands with no prompt from us—from my companions, for I had no part in that.”

  “So you would have to say.”

  “So I do say. I serve no orc king. I would kill him if given the chance.”

  “So you would have to say.”

  “I watched him bite out the throat of Kaer’lic Suun Wett!” Tos’un roared at him.

  “And I killed your other two friends,” Drizzt was quick to reply. “By your reasoning, you would kill me if given the chance.”

  That gave Tos’un pause, but only for a moment. “Not so,” he said.

  But he winced again as Khazid’hea emphatically shot, Do not let him strike first! into his thoughts.

  The sword continued its prompting, egging Tos’un to leap forward and dispatch Drizzt, as the drow continued, “There is no honor in Obould, no honor in the smelly orcs. They are iblith.”

  Again his comments were broken, his cadence uneven, and Drizzt knew that Khazid’hea was imploring him. Drizzt took a slight step and shift to Tos’un’s right, for in that hand he held Khazid’hea.

  “You may be correct in your assessment,” Drizzt replied. “But then, I found little honor in your two friends before I killed them.” He half-expected his words to prompt a charge, and shifted his hands appropriately nearer his hilts, but Tos’un stayed in place.

  He just stood there, trembling, waging an inner battle against the sword’s murderous intent, Drizzt surmised.

  “The orcs have gone on the attack once again,” Drizzt remarked, and his tone changed, and his thoughts went dark, as he reminded himself of the fate of Innovindil. “In the Moonwood and against the dwarves.”

  “They are old enemies.” Tos’un replied, as if the whole news was matter-of-fact and hardly unexpected.

  “Spurred by instigators who revel in chaos—indeed, who worship a demon queen who thrives on a state of utter confusion.”

  “No,” Tos’un answered flatly. “If you are referring to me—”

  “Are there other drow about?”

  “No, and no,” said Tos’un.

  “You would have to say that.”

  “I fought beside the Moonwood elves.”

  “Why would you not, in the service of chaos? I doubt that you care which side wins this war, as long as Tos’un realizes his gain.”r />
  The drow shook his head, unconvinced.

  “And in the Moonwood, “Drizzt continued, “the orcs’ attacks were cunning and coordinated—more so than one might expect from a band of the dimwitted goblinkin.” As he finished, Drizzt’s scimitars appeared in his hands as if they had simply materialized there, so fast and fluid was his motion. Again he sidled to his left, reminding himself that Tos’un was a drow warrior, trained at Melee-Magthere, likely under the legendary Uthegental. House Barrison Del’Armgo’s warriors were known for their ferocity and straightforward attacks. Formidable, to be sure, Drizzt knew, and he could not forget for one instant that sword Tos’un carried.

  Drizzt went to the right, trying to keep Tos’un using only short strokes with Khazid’hea, a weapon powerful enough to perhaps sever one of Drizzt’s enchanted blades if swung with enough weight behind the blow.

  “There is a new general among them, an orc most cunning and devious,” Tos’un replied, his face twisting with every word—arguing against the intrusions of Khazid’hea, Drizzt clearly recognized.

  That obvious truth of Tos’un’s inner struggle had Drizzt somewhat hesitant, for why would this drow, if everything Drizzt presumed was true, be arguing against the murderous sword?

  Before his thoughts could even go down that road, however, Drizzt thought again of Innovindil, and his face grew very dark. He turned his blades over and back again, anxious to exact revenge for his lost friend.

  “More cunning than a warrior trained in Melee-Magthere?” he asked. “More devious than one raised in Menzoberranzan? More hateful of elves than a drow?”

  Tos’un shook his head through all of the questions. “I was with the elves,” he argued.

  “And you deceived them and ran—and ran with knowledge of their tactics.”

  “I killed none as I left, though I surely could—”

  “Because you are more cunning than that,” Drizzt interrupted. “I would expect nothing less from a son of House Barrison Del’Armgo. You knew that if you struck and murdered some in your escape, the elves of the Moonwood would have understood the depths of your depravity and would have known that an attack was soon to befall them.”

  “I did not,” Tos’un said, shaking his head helplessly. “None of…” He stopped and grimaced as Khazid’hea assaulted his thoughts.

  He will take from you his friend’s sword! Without me, your lies will not withstand the interrogations of the elf clerics. They would know your heart.

  Tos’un found it hard to breathe. He was trapped in a way he never wanted, facing a foe he believed he could not defeat. He couldn’t run away from Drizzt as he had Obould.

  Kill him! Khazid’hea demanded. With me in your grasp, Drizzt Do’Urden will fall. Take his head to Obould!

  “No!” Tos’un shot back audibly—and Drizzt smiled in under-standing—instinctively recoiling from the orc king, an emotion that Khazid’hea surely understood.

  Then take his head to Menzoberranzan, the sword offered, and again Tos’un’s reasoning argued, for he hadn’t the strength to return to the drow city alone along the unmerciful corridors of the Underdark.

  But again the sword had the answers waiting. Promise Dnark the friendship of Menzoberranzan. He will give you warriors to accompany you to the city, where you will betray them and assume your place as a hero of Menzoberranzan.

  Tos’un tightened his grip on both his swords and thought of Kaer’lic’s warning regarding Drizzt. Before Khazid’hea could even begin to argue, though, the drow did it for himself, for Kaer’lic’s warning that Drizzt might be in the graces of Lolth had been but a suspicion, and an outlandish one at that, but that mortal predicament standing before him loomed all too real.

  And Drizzt watched it all, and recognized many of the fears and emotions playing through Tos’un’s thoughts, and so when the son of House Barrison Del’Armgo leaped toward him, his scimitars rose in a sudden and effortless cross before him.

  Tos’un executed a double-thrust wide, Khazid’hea and his other sword stabbing past the axis of Drizzt’s blades. Drizzt threw his hands out wide to their respective sides, the called-for defense, each of his blades taking one of Tos’un’s.

  Advantage taken, Drizzt went for the greater stance offered by his curved blades. A more conventional warrior would have reversed the thrust back at his opponent, but Tos’un, expecting that, would have been too quick on the retreat for any real advantage to be realized. So Drizzt turned his scimitars over Tos’un’s swords, using the curve of his blades to draw the swords in tighter, that he could send them out with more authority and perhaps even knock his foe off-balance enough that he could score a quick kill.

  He rolled the scimitars over with a snap of his wrists.

  But Khazid’hea….

  Tos’un countered by jamming the powerful sword hard into the hilt of Drizzt’s scimitar—and the impossibly sharp blade cut in, catching a hold that halted Drizzt’s move. Tos’un pressed forward with his right and stepped back with his left, keeping perfect balance as he disengaged his left from Drizzt’s rolling blade.

  Seeing disaster, Drizzt reversed suddenly, bringing Icingdeath, his right-hand blade, across hard instead of ahead, which would have left him off-balance and lunging. He drove Twinkle down hard directly away from the terrible blade of Khazid’hea, for that was the only chance to disengage before the mighty sword cut half of Twinkle’s crosspiece away. Tos’un followed until the disengagement, then thrust forward at Drizzt, of course, and Icingdeath came across in the last instant, scraping along Khazid’hea’s blade, shearing a line of sparks into the air.

  Drizzt was half-turned, though, and Tos’un stabbed forward with his left for the ranger’s exposed side.

  But Twinkle came up from under Drizzt’s other arm, neatly picking off the attack, and Drizzt uncrossed his arms suddenly, Icingdeath slashing back across to knock Tos’un’s sword aside. Twinkle slapped back against Khazid’hea with equal fury. Tos’un leaped back, as did Drizzt, the two again circling, taking a measure of each other.

  He was good, Drizzt realized. Better than he had anticipated. He managed a glance at Twinkle to note the clear tear where Khazid’hea had struck, and noted, too, a nick on Icingdeath’s previously unblemished blade.

  Tos’un came ahead with a lazy thrust, a feint and a sudden flurry, leading with his left then rattling off several quick blows with Khazid’hea. He moved forward with every strike, forcing Drizzt to block and not dodge. Every time Khazid’hea slapped against one of his blades, Drizzt winced, fearing that the awful sword would cut right through.

  He couldn’t play it Tos’un’s way, he realized. Not with Khazid’hea in the mix. He couldn’t use a defensive posture, as he normally would against a warrior who had trained under Uthegental, an overly aggressive sort that would allow him to simply let Tos’un’s rage wear him out.

  As soon as the attacks of Khazid’hea played out, Drizzt sprang forward, putting his blades up high and rolling his hands in a sudden blur. Over and over went his scimitars, as he rolled his hands left and right, striking rapidly at Tos’un from varying angles.

  Tos’un’s defense mirrored Drizzt’s movements, hands rolling, blades turning in and out, rolling over each other with equal harmony.

  Drizzt kept in tight and kept the strokes short, not willing to let Tos’un put any weight behind Khazid’hea. He thought that to be Tos’un’s only possible advantage, the sheer viciousness and power of that sword, and without it, Drizzt, who had defeated the greatest weapons master of Menzoberranzan, would find victory.

  But Tos’un matched his rolling fury, anticipated his every move, and even managed several short counterstrikes that interrupted Drizzt’s rhythm, and one that nearly got past Drizzt’s sudden reversal and defense and would have surely gutted him. Surprised, Drizzt pressed the attack even more, rolling his hands more widely, changing the angles of attack more dramatically.

  He slashed—one, two, three—downward at Tos’un’s left shoulder, spun suddenly as the las
t parry sounded, and turned lower as he went so that as he came around, both his swords tore for Tos’un’s right side. He expected a down-stroke parry from Khazid’hea, but Tos’un turned inside the attack, bringing his drow blade across to block. As he turned, he stabbed Khazid’hea back and down over his right shoulder.

  Drizzt ducked the brunt of it, but felt the bite as the sword sliced down his shoulder blade, leaving a long and painful gash. Drizzt ran straight out from the engagement and dived forward in a roll, turning as he came up to face the pursuing Tos’un.

  It was Tos’un’s turn, and he came on with fury, stabbing and slashing, spinning completely around and with perfect balance and measured speed.

  Ignoring the pain and the warm blood running down the right side of his back, Drizzt matched that intensity, parrying left and right, up and down, the blades ringing in one long note as they clanged and scraped. With every parry of Khazid’hea, Drizzt caught the sword more softly, retreating his own blade upon contact, as he might catch a thrown egg to avoid breaking it. That was more taxing, though, more precise and time-consuming, and the necessity of such a concentrated defense prevented him from regaining the momentum and the offense.

  Around and around the sheltered lea they went, Tos’un pressing, not tiring, and growing more confident with every strike.

  He had a right to do so, Drizzt had to admit, for he fought brilliantly, fluidly, and only then did Drizzt begin to understand that Tos’un had done with Khazid’hea that which Drizzt had refused to allow. Tos’un was letting the sword infiltrate his thoughts, was following the instincts of Khazid’hea as if they were his own. They had found a complementary relationship, a joining of sword and wielder.

  Worse, Drizzt realized, Khazid’hea knew him, knew his movements as intimately as a lover, for Drizzt had wielded the sword in a desperate fight against King Obould.

  He understood then, to his horror, how Tos’un had so easily anticipated his rollover and second throw move after the initial cross and parry. He understood then, to his dilemma, his inability to set up a killing strike. Khazid’hea knew him, and though the sword couldn’t read his thoughts, it had taken a good measure of the fighting techniques of Drizzt Do’Urden. Just as damaging, since Tos’un had apparently given over to Khazid’hea’s every intrusion, the sword and the trained drow warrior had found a symbiosis, a joining of knowledge and instinct, of skill and understanding.