Forgotten Realms - The Hunter's Blade 02 - The Lone Drow

The Hunter's Blades Trilogy 02: The Lone Drow

R. A. Salvatore

Prelude

"The three mists, Obould Many-Arrows," Tsinka Shrinrill shrieked, her eyes wide, eyeballs rolling

about insanely. She was in her communion as she addressed the orc king and the others, lost

somewhere between the real world and the land of the gods, so she claimed. "The three mists

define your kingdom beneath the Spine of the World: the long line of the Surbrin River, giving her

vapors to the morning air; the fetid smoke of the Trollmoors reaching up to your call; the spiritual

essence of your long-dead ancestors, the haunting of Fell Pass. This is your time, King Obould

Many-Arrows, and this will be your domain!"

The orc shaman ended her proclamation by throwing up her arms and howling, and those many

other mouths of Gruumsh One-Eye, god of orcs, followed her lead, similarly shrieking, raising

their arms, and turning circles as they paced a wider circuit around the orc king and the ruined

wooden statue of their beloved god.

The ruined hollow statue used by their enemies, the insult to the image of Gruumsh. The defiling

of their god.

Urlgen Threefist, Obould's son and heir to the throne, looked on with a mixture of amazement,

trepidation, and gratitude. He had never liked Tsinka—one of the minor, if more colorful shamans

of the Many-Arrows tribe—and he knew that she was speaking largely along the lines scripted by

Obould himself. He scanned the area, noting the sea of snarling orcs, all angry and frustrated,

mouths wide, teeth yellow and green, sharpened and broken. He looked at the bloodshot and

jaundiced eyes, all glancing this way and that with excitement and fear. He watched the continual

jostling and shoving, and he noted the many hurled insults, which were often answered by hurled

missiles. Warriors all, angry and bitter— as were all the orcs of the Spine of the World—living in

dank caves while the other races enjoyed the comforts of their respective cities and societies.

They were all anxious, as Urlgen was anxious, pointy tongues licking torn lips. Would Obould

reshape the fate and miserable existence of the orcs of the North?

Urlgen had led the charge against the human town that had been known as Shallows, and he had

found a great victory there. The tower of the powerful wizard, long a thorn in the side of the orcs,

was toppled, and the mighty wizard was dead, along with most of his townsfolk and a fair number

of dwarves, including, they all believed, King Bruenor Battlehammer himself, the ruler of Mithral

Hall.

But many others had escaped Urlgen's assault, using that blasphemous statue. Upon seeing the

great and towering idol, most of Urlgen's orc forces had properly prostrated themselves before it,

paying homage to the image of their merciless god. It had all been a ruse, though, and the statue

had opened, revealing a small force of fierce dwarves who had massacred many of the

unsuspecting orcs and sent the rest fleeing for the mountains. And so there had been an escape

by those remaining defenders of the dying town, and the fleeing refugees had met up with

another dwarf contingent—estimates put their number at four hundred or so. Those combined

forces had fended off Urlgen's chasing army.

The orc commander had lost many.

Thus, when Obould had arrived on the scene, Urlgen had expected to be berated and probably

even beaten for his failure, and indeed, his vicious father's immediate responses had been along

those very lines.

But then, to the surprise of them all, the reports of potential reinforcements had come filtering in.

Many other tribes had begun to crawl out of the Spine of the World. In reflecting on that startling

moment, Urlgen still marveled at his father's quick-thinking response. Obould had ordered the

battlefield sealed, the southern marches of the area cleared of signs of any passage whatsoever.

The goal was to make it seem as if none had escaped Shallows—Obould understood that the

control of information to the newcomers would be critical. To that effect, he had put Urlgen to

work instructing his many warriors, telling them that none of their enemies had escaped, warning

them against believing anything other than that.

And the orc tribes from the deep holes of the Spine of the World had come running to Obould's

side. Orc chieftains had placed valuable gifts at Obould's feet and had begged him to accept their

fealty. The pilgrimages had been led by the shamans, so they all said. With their wicked

deception, the dwarves had angered Gruumsh, and so many of Gruumsh's priestly followers had

sent their respective tribes to the side of Obould, who would lead the way to vengeance. Obould,

who had slain King Bruenor Battlehammer, would make the dwarves pay dearly for their

sacrilege.

For Urlgen, of course, it had all come as a great relief. He was taller than his father, but not nearly

strong enough to openly challenge the mighty orc leader. Add to Obould's great strength and skill

his wondrously crafted, ridged and spiked black battle mail, and that greatsword of his, which

could burst into flame with but a thought, and no one, not even overly proud Urlgen, would even

think of offering challenge for control of the tribe.

Urlgen didn't have to worry about that, though. The shamans, led by the gyrating priestess, were

promising Obould so many of his dreams and desires and were praising him for a great victory at

Shallows—a victory that had been achieved by his honored son. Obould looked at Urlgen more

than once as the ceremony continued, and his toothy smile was wide. It wasn't that vicious smile

that promised how greatly he would enjoy torturing someone. Obould was pleased with Urlgen,

pleased with all of it.

King Bruenor Battlehammer was dead, after all, and the dwarves were in flight. And even though

the orcs had lost nearly a thousand warriors at Shallows, their numbers had since swollen several

times over. More were coming, too, climbing into the sunlight (many for perhaps the first time in

their lives), blinking away the sting of the brightness, and moving along the mountain trails to the

south, to the call of the shamans, to the call of Gruumsh, to the call of King Obould Many-Arrows.

"I will have my kingdom," Obould proclaimed when the shamans had finished their dance and

their keening. "And once I am done with the land inside the mountains and the three mists, we

will strike out against those who encircle us and oppose us. I will have Citadel Felbarr!" he cried,

and a thousand orcs cheered.

"I will send the dwarves fleeing to Adbar, where I will seal them in their filthy holes!" Obould went

on, leaping around and running along the front ranks of the gathered, and a thousand orcs

cheered.

"I will shake the ground of Mirabar to the west!" Obould cried, and the cheers multiplied.

"I will make Silverymoon herself tremble at the mention of my name!"

That brought the greatest cheers of all, and the vocal Tsinka grabbed the great orc roughly and

kissed him, offering herself to him, offering to him Gru-umsh's blessing in the highest possible

terms.

Obould swept her up with one powerful arm, crushing her close to his side, and the cheering

intensified yet again.

Urlgen wasn't cheering, but he was surely smiling as he watched Obould carry the priestess up

the ramp to the defiled statue of Gruumsh. He was thinking how much greater his inheritance

would soon become.

After all, Obould wouldn't live forever.

And if it seemed that he might, Urlgen was confident that he would find a way to correct that

situation.

Part One - Emotional Anarchy

I did everything right. Every step of my journey out of Menzoberranzan was guided by my inner

map of right and wrong, of community and selflessness. Even on those occasions when I failed,

as everyone must, my missteps were of judgment or simple frailty and were not in disregard of

my conscience. For in there, I know, reside the higher principles and tenets that move us all

closer to our chosen gods, closer to our definitions, hopes, and understandings of paradise.

I did not abandon my conscience, but it, I fear, has deceived me.

I did everything right.

Yet Ellifain is dead, and my long-ago rescue of her is a mockery.

I did everything right.

And I watched Bruenor fall, and I expect that those others I loved, that everything I loved, fell with

him.

Is there a divine entity out there somewhere, laughing at my foolishness?

Is there even a divine entity out there, anywhere?

Or was it all a lie, and worse, a self-deception?

Often have I considered community, and the betterment of the individual within the context of the

betterment of the whole. This was the guiding principle of my existence, the realization that forced

me from Menzoberranzan. And now, in this time of pain, I have come to understand— or perhaps

it is just that now I have forced myself to admit—that my belief was also something much more

personal. How ironic that in my declaration of community, I was in effect and in fact feeding my

own desperate need to belong to something larger than myself.

In privately declaring and reinforcing the righteousness of my beliefs, I was doing no differently

from those who flock before the preacher's pulpit. I was seeking comfort and guidance, only I was

looking for the needed answers within, whereas so many others seek them without.

By that understanding, I did everything right. And yet, I cannot dismiss the growing realization, the

growing trepidation, the growing terror, that I, ultimately, was wrong.

For what is the point if Ellifain is dead, and if she existed in such turmoil through all the short

years of her life? For what is the point if I and my friends followed our hearts and trusted in our

swords, only for me to watch them die beneath the rubble of a collapsing tower?

If I have been right all along, then where is justice, and where is the reciprocation of a grateful

god?

Even in asking that question, I see the hubris that has so infected me. Even in asking that

question, I see the machinations of my soul laid bare. I cannot help but ask, am I any different

than my kin? In technique, surely, but in effect? For in declaring community and dedication, did I

not truly seek exactly the same things as the priestesses I left behind in Men-zoberranzan? Did I,

like they, not seek eternal life and higher standing among my peers?

As the foundation of Withegroo's tower swayed and toppled, so too have the illusions that have

guided my steps.

I was trained to be a warrior. Were it not for my skill with my scimitars, I expect I would be a

smaller player in the world around me, less respected and less accepted. That training and talent

are all that I have left now; it is the foundation upon which I intend to build this new chapter in the

curious and winding road that is the life of Drizzt Do Urden. It is the extension of my rage that I

will turn loose upon the wretched creatures that have so shattered all that I held dear. It is the

expression of what I have lost: Ellifain, Bruenor, Wulfgar, Regis, Catti-brie, and, in effect, Drizzt

Do'Urden.

These scimitars, Icingdeath and Twinkle by name, become my definition of myself now, and

Guenhwyvar again is my only companion. I trust in both, and in nothing else.

-Drizzt Do'Urden

Chapter 1

Drizzt didn't like to think of it as a shrine. Propped on a forked stick, the one-horned helmet of

Bruenor Battlehammer dominated the small hollow that the dark elf had taken as his home. The

helm was set right before the cliff face that served as the hollow's rear wall, in the only place

within the natural shelter that got any sunlight at all.

Drizzt wanted it that way. He wanted to see the helmet. He wanted never to forget. And it wasn't

just Bruenor he was determined to remember, and not just his other friends.

Most of all, Drizzt wanted to remember who had done that horrible thing to him and to his world.

He had to fall to his belly to crawl between the two fallen boulders and into the hollow, and even

then the going was slow and tight. Drizzt didn't care; he actually preferred it that way. The total

lack of comforts, the almost animalistic nature of his existence, was good for him, was cathartic,

and even more than that, was yet another reminder to him of what he had to become, of whom he

had to be if he wanted to survive. No more was he Drizzt Do'Urden of Icewind Dale, friend to

Bruenor and Catti-brie, Wulfgar and Regis. No more was he Drizzt Do'Urden, the ranger trained

by Montolio deBrouchee in the ways of nature and the spirit of Mielikki. He was once again that

lone drow who had wandered out of Menzoberranzan. He was once again that refugee from the

city of dark elves, who had forsaken the ways of the priestesses who had so wronged him and

who had murdered his father.

He was the Hunter, the instinctual creature who had defeated the fell ways of the Underdark, and

who would repay the orc hordes for the death of his dearest friends.

He was the Hunter, who sealed his mind against all but survival, who put aside the emotional pain

of the loss of Ellifain.

Drizzt knelt before the sacred totem one afternoon, watching the splay of sunlight on the tilted

helmet. Bruenor had lost one of the horns on it years and years past, long before Drizzt had come

into his life. The dwarf had never replaced the horn, he had told Drizzt, because it was a reminder

to him always to keep his head low.

Delicate fingers moved up and felt the rough edge of that broken horn. Drizzt could still catch the

smell of Bruenor on the leather band of the helm, as if the dwarf was squatting in the dark hollow

beside him. As if they had just returned from another brutal battle, breathing heavy, laughing

hard, and lathered in sweat.

The drow closed his eyes and saw again that last desperate image of Bruenor. He saw

Withegroo's white tower, flames leaping up its side, a lone dwarf rushing around on top, calling

orders to the bitter end. He saw the tower lean and tumble, and watched the dwarf disappear into

the crumbling blocks.

He closed his eyes all the tighter to hold back the tears. He had to defeat them, had to push them

far, far away. The warrior he had become had no place for such emotions. Drizzt opened his eyes

and looked again at the helmet, drawing strength in his anger. He followed the line of a sunbeam

to the recess behind the staked headgear, to see his own discarded boots.

Like the weak and debilitating emotion of grief, he didn't need them anymore.

Drizzt fell to his belly and slithered out through the small opening between the boulders, moving

into the late afternoon sunlight. He jumped to his feet almost immediately after sliding clear and

put his nose up to the wind. He glanced all around, his keen eyes searching every shadow and

every play of the sunlight, his bare feet feeling the cool ground beneath him. With a cursory

glance all around, the Hunter sprinted off for higher ground.

He came out on the side of a mountain just as the sun disappeared behind the western horizon,

and there he waited, scouting the region as the shadows lengthened and twilight fell.

Finally, the light of a campfire glittered in the distance.

Drizzt's hand went instinctively to the onyx figurine in his belt pouch. He didn't take it forth and

summon Guenhwyvar, though. Not that night.

His vision grew even more acute as the night deepened around him, and Drizzt ran off, silent as

the shadows, elusive as a feather on a windy autumn day. He wasn't constricted by the mountain

trails, for he was too nimble to be slowed by boulder tumbles and broken ground. He wove

through trees easily, and so stealthily that many of the forest animals, even wary deer, never

heard or noted his approach, never knew he had passed unless a shift in the wind brought his

scent to them.

At one point, he came to a small river, but he leaped from wet stone to wet stone in such perfect

balance that even their water-splashed sides did little to trip him up.

He had lost sight of the fire almost as soon as he came down from the mountain spur, but he had

taken his bearings from up there and he knew where to run, as if anger itself was guiding his long

and sure strides.

Across a small dell and around a thick copse of trees, the drow caught sight of the campfire once

more, and he was close enough to see the silhouettes of the forms moving around it. They were

orcs, he knew at once, from their height and broad shoulders and their slightly hunched manner

of moving. A couple were arguing—no surprise there—and Drizzt knew enough of their guttural

language to understand their dispute to be over which would keep watch. Clearly, neither wanted

the duty, nor thought it anything more than an inconvenience.

The drow crouched behind some brush not far away and a wicked grin grew across his face.

Their watch was indeed inconsequential, he thought, for alert or not, they would not take note of

him.

They would not see the Hunter.

* * *

The brutish sentry dropped his spear across a big stone, interlocked his fingers, and inverted his

hands. His knuckles cracked more loudly than snapping branches.

"Always Bellig," he griped, glancing back at the campfire and the many forms gathered around it,

some resting, others tearing at scraps of putrid food. "Bellig keeps watch. You sleep. You eat.

Always Bellig keeps watch."

He continued to grumble and complain, and he continued to look back at the encampment for a

long while.

Finally, he turned back—to see facial features chiseled from ebony, to see a shock of white hair,

and to see eyes, those eyes! Purple eyes! Flaming eyes!

Bellig instinctively reached for his spear—or started to, until he saw the flash of a gleaming blade

to the left and the right. Then he tried to bring his arms in close to block instead, but he was far

too slow to catch up to the dark elf's scimitars.

He tried to scream out, but by that point, the curved blades had cut two deep lines, severing his

windpipe.

Bellig clutched at those mortal wounds and the swords came back, then back again, and again.

The dying orc turned as if to run to his comrades, but the scimitars struck again, at his legs, their

fine edges easily parting muscle and tendon.

Bellig felt a hand grab him as he fell, guiding him down quietly to the ground. He was still alive,

though he had no way to draw breath. He was still alive, though his lifeblood deepened in a dark

red pool around him.

His killer moved off, silently.

* * *

"Arsh, get yourself quiet over there, stupid Bellig," Oonta called from under the boughs of a wide-

spreading elm not far to the side of the campsite. "Me and Figgle is talking!"

"Him's a big mouth," Figgle the Ugly agreed.

With his nose missing, one lip torn away, and green-gray teeth all twisted and tusky, Figgle was a

garish one even by orc standards. He had bent too close to a particularly nasty worg in his youth

and had paid the price.

"Me gonna kill him soon," Oonta remarked, drawing a crooked smile from his sentry companion.

A spear soared in, striking the tree between them and sticking fast.

"Bellig!" Oonta cried as he and Figgle stumbled aside. "Me gonna kill you sooner!"

With a growl, Oonta reached for the quivering spear, as Figgle wagged his head in agreement.

"Leave it," came a voice, speaking basic Orcish but too melodic in tone to belong to an orc.

Both sentries froze and turned around to look in the direction from whence the spear had come.

There stood a slender and graceful figure, black hands on hips, dark cape fluttering out in the

night wind behind him.

"You will not need it," the dark elf explained.

"Huh?" both orcs said together.

"Whatcha seeing?" asked a third sentry, Oonta's cousin Broos. He came in from the side, to

Oonta and Figgle's left, the dark elf's right. He looked to the two and followed their frozen gazes

back to the drow, and he, too, froze in place. "Who that be?"

"A friend," the dark elf said.

"Friend of Oonta's?" Oonta asked, poking himself in the chest.

"A friend of those you murdered in the town with the tower," the dark elf explained, and before the

orcs could even truly register those telling words, the dark elf's scimitars appeared in his hands.

He might have reached for them so quickly and fluidly that the orcs hadn't followed the

movement, but to them, all three, it simply seemed as if the weapons had appeared there.

Broos looked to Oonta and Figgle for clarification and asked, "Huh?"

And the dark form rushed past him.

And he was dead.

The dark elf came in hard for the orc duo. Oonta yanked the spear free, while Figgle drew out a

pair of small blades, one with a forked, duel tip, the other greatly curving.

Oonta deftly brought the spear in an overhand spin, its tip coming over and down hard to block

the charging drow.

But the drow slid down below that dipping spear, skidding right in between the orcs. Oonta

fumbled with the spear as Figgle brought his two weapons down hard.

But the drow wasn't there, for he had leaped straight up, rising in the air between the orcs. Both

skilled orc warriors altered their weapons wonderfully, coming in hard at either side of the nimble

creature.

Those scimitars were there, though, one intercepting the spear, the other neatly picking off

Figgle's strikes with a quick double parry. And even as the dark elf's blades blocked the attack,

the dark elf's feet kicked out, one behind, one ahead, both scoring direct and stunning hits on orc

faces.

Figgle fell back, snapping his blades back and forth before him to ward off any attacks while he

was so disoriented and dazed. Oonta similarly retreated, brandishing the spear in the air before

him. They regained their senses together and found themselves staring at nothing but each other.

"Huh?" Oonta asked, for the drow was not to be seen.

Figgle jerked suddenly and the tip of a curving scimitar erupted from the center of his chest. It

disappeared almost immediately, the dark elf coming around the ore's side, his second scimitar

taking out the creature's throat as he passed.

Wanting no part of such an enemy, Oonta threw the spear, turned, and fled, running flat out for

the main encampment and crying out in fear. Orcs leaped up all around the terrified Oonta,

spilling their foul foods—raw and rotting meat, mostly—and scrambling for weapons.

"What'd you do?" one cried.

"Who got the killing?" yelled another.

"Drow elf! Drow elf!" Oonta cried. "Drow elf kilt Figgle and Broos! Drow elf kilt Bellig!"

* * *

Drizzt allowed the fleeing orc to escape back within the lighted area of the camp proper and used

the distraction of the bellowing brute to get into the shadows of a large tree right on the

encampment's perimeter. He slid his scimitars away as he did a quick scan, counting more than a

dozen of the creatures.

Hand over hand, the drow went up the tree, listening to Oonta's recounting of the three Drizzt had

slain.

"Drow elf?" came more than one curious echo, and one of them mentioned Donnia, a name that

Drizzt had heard before.

Drizzt moved out to the edge of one branch, some fifteen feet up from the ground and almost

directly over the gathering of orcs. Their eyes were turning outward, to the shadows of the

surrounding trees, compelled by Oonta's tale. Unseen above them, Drizzt reached inside himself,

to those hereditary powers of the drow, the innate magic of the race, and he brought forth a globe

of impenetrable darkness in the midst of the orc group, right atop the fire that marked the center

of the encampment. Down went the drow, leaping from branch to branch, his bare feet feeling

every touch and keeping him in perfect balance, his enchanted, speed-enhancing anklets

allowing him to quickstep whenever necessary to keep his feet precisely under his weight.

He hit the ground running, toward the darkness globe, and those orcs outside of it who noted the

ebon-skinned figure gave a shout and charged at him, one launching a spear.

Drizzt ran right past that awkward missile—he believed that he could have harmlessly caught it if

he had so desired. He greeted the first orc staggering out of the globe with another of his innate

magical abilities, summoning purplish-blue flames to outline the creature's form. The flame didn't

burn at the flesh, but made marking target areas so much easier for the skilled drow, who, in

truth, didn't need the help.

They also distracted the orc, with the fairly stupid creature looking down at its flaming limbs and

crying out in fear. It looked back up Drizzt's way just in time to see the flash of a scimitar.

Another orc emerged right behind it and the drow never slowed, sliding down low beneath the

ore's defensively whipping club and deftly twisting his scimitar around the creature's leg, severing

its hamstring. By the time the howling orc hit the ground, Drizzt the Hunter was inside the

darkness globe.

He moved purely on instinct, his muscles and movements reacting to the noises around him and

to his tactile sensations. Without even consciously registering it, the Hunter knew from the

warmth of the ground against his bare feet where the fire was located, and every time he felt the

touch of some orc bumbling around beside him, his scimitars moved fast and furious, turning and

striking even as he rushed past.

At one point, he didn't even feel an orc, didn't even hear an orc, but his sense of smell told him

that one was beside him. A short slash of Twinkle brought a shriek and a crash as the creature

went down.

Again without any conscious counting, Drizzt the Hunter knew when he would be crossing

through to the other side of the darkness globe. Somehow, within him, he had registered and

measured his every step.

He came out fast, in perfect balance, his eyes immediately focusing on the quartet of orcs rushing

at him, his warrior's instincts drawing a line of attack to which he was already reacting.

He went ahead and down, meeting the thrust of a spear with a blinding double parry, one blade

following the other. Either of Drizzt's fine scimitars could have shorn through the crude spear, but

he didn't press the first through and he turned the second to the flat of the blade when he struck.

Let the spear remain intact; it didn't matter after his second blade, moving right to left across his

chest, knocked the weapon up high.

For Drizzt's feet moved ahead in a sudden blur bringing him past the off-balance orc, and Twinkle

took it in the throat.

Drizzt continued without slowing, every step rotating him left just a bit, so that as he approached

the second orc, he turned and pivoted completely, Twinkle again leading the way with a sidelong

slash that caught the ore's extended sword arm across the wrist and sent its weapon flying.

Following that slash as he completed the circuit, his second scimitar, Icingdeath, came in fast and

hard, taking the creature in the ribs.

And the Hunter was already past.

He went down low, under a swinging club, and leaped up high over a thrusting spear, planting his

feet on the weapon shaft as he descended, taking the weapon down under his weight. Across

went Twinkle, but the orc ducked. Hardly slowing, Drizzt flipped the scimitar into an end-over-end

spin, then caught the blade with a reverse grip and thrust it out behind him, catching the surprised

club-wielder right in the chest as it charged at his back.

At the same time, the drow's other hand worked independently, Icingdeath slashing the spear-

wielding ore's upraised, blocking arm once, twice, and a third time. Extracting Twinkle, Drizzt

skipped to the side, and the dying orc stumbled forward past him, tangling with the second, who

was clutching at his thrashed arm.

The Hunter was already gone, rushing out to the side in a direct charge at a pair of orcs who were

working in apparent coordination. Drizzt went down to his knees in a skid and the orcs reacted,

turning spear and sword down low. As soon as his knees hit the ground, though, the drow threw

himself into a forward roll, tucking his shoulder and coming right around to his feet, where he

pushed off with all his strength, leaping and continuing his turn. He went past and over the

surprised pair, who hardly registered the move.

Drizzt landed lightly, still in perfect balance, and came around to the left with Twinkle leading in a

slash that had the turning orcs stumbling even more. His weapons out wide to their respective

sides, Drizzt reversed Twinkle's flow and brought Icingdeath across the other way, the weapons

crossing precisely between the orcs, following through as wide as the drow could reach. A turn of

his arms put his hands atop the weapons, and he reversed into a double backhand.

Neither orc had even managed to get its weapon around enough to block either strike. Both orcs

tumbled, hit both ways by both blades.

The Hunter was already gone.

Orcs scrambled all around, understanding that they could not stand against that dark foe. None

held ground before Drizzt as he rushed back the way he had come, cleaving the head of the orc

with the torn arm, then dashing back into the globe of darkness, where he heard at least one of

the brutes hiding, cowering on the ground. Again he fell into the world of his other senses, feeling

the heat, hearing every sound. His weapons engaged one orc before him; he heard a second

shifting and crouching to the side.

A quick side step brought him to the fire, and the cooking pot set on a tripod. He kicked out the far

leg and rushed back the other way.

In the blackness of his magical globe, the one orc standing before him couldn't see his smile as

the other orc, boiling broth falling all over it, began to howl and scramble.

The orc before him attacked wildly and cried for help. The Hunter could feel the wind from its

furious swings.

Measuring the flow of one such over-swing, the Hunter had little trouble in sliding in behind.

He went out of the globe once more, leaving the orc spinning down to the ground, mortally

wounded.

A quick run around the globe told Drizzt that only two orcs remained in the camp, one squirming

on the ground, its lifeblood pouring out, the other howling and rolling to alleviate the burn from the

hot stew.

The slash of scimitars, perfectly placed, ended the movements of both.

And the Hunter went out into the night in pursuit, to finish the task.

* * *

Poor Oonta fell against the side of a tree, gasping for breath. He waved away his companion as

the orc implored him to keep running. They had put more than a mile of ground between them

and the encampment.

"We got to!"

"You got to!" Oonta argued between gasps.

Oonta had crawled out of the Spine of the World on the orders of his tribe's shaman, to join in the

glory of King Obould, to do war with those who had defaced the image of Gruumsh on a

battlefield not far from that spot.

Oonta had come out to fight dwarves, not drow!

His companion grabbed him again and tried to pull him along, but Oonta slapped his hand away.

Oonta lowered his head and continued to fight for his breath.

"Do take your time," came a voice behind them, speaking broken Orcish— and with a melodic

tone that no orc could mimic.

"We got to go!" Oonta's companion argued, turning to face the speaker.

Oonta, knowing the source of those words, knowing that he was dead, didn't even look up.

"We can talk," he heard his companion implore the dark elf, and he heard, too, his companion's

Forgotten Realms - The Hunter's Blade 02 - The Lone Drow

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