But even that excitement, even controlling the destiny of an army of orcs, a handful of human settlements, and a dwarven kingdom, had been nothing Tos’un had ever desired or even considered, until circumstance had dangled it before him and his three co-conspirators.
No, he realized in that moment of clarity, sitting under a canopy so foreign to his Underdark sensibilities. No tangible desire had brought him from the ranks of House Barrison Del’Armgo. It was, instead, the desire to eliminate the boundaries, the need to dare to dream, whatever dream may come to him. Tos’un and the other three drow—even Kaer’lic, despite her subservience to Lady Lolth—had run to their freedom for no reason more than to escape from the rigid structure of drow culture.
The irony of that had Tos’un blinking repeatedly as he sat there. “The rigid structure of drow culture,” he said aloud, just to bask in the irony. For drow culture was premised on the tenets of Lady Lolth, the Spider Queen, the demon queen of chaos.
“Controlled chaos, then,” he decided with a sharp laugh.
A laugh that was cut short as he noted movement in the trees.
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.