Leaving the dwarves open to the Surbrin had seemed a more distinct possibility over the past few months, and particularly the past few tendays. The weather was soon to turn, and the appropriate forces were not being moved into a strike position.
Still, in the face of it, the other two couldn’t help but be surprised—and concerned, as the weight of their conspiracy settled more heavily on their shoulders.
“Turn them against the elf raiders in the east,” Toogwik Tuk said suddenly, jolting his two companions, both of whom looked at him curiously, almost plaintively.
“We had hoped to use Grguch to force the charge to the Surbrin,” Toogwik Tuk explained. “But with Obould’s waiting to position the warriors, that is not presently an option. But we must offer Grguch some blood.”
“Or he will take ours,” Ung-thol muttered.
“There have been reports of elf skirmishers along the Surbrin, north of the dwarves,” Dnark said, aiming his comment mostly at Ung-thol.
“Grguch and Clan Karuck will build a reputation that will serve them—and us—well when at last it comes to dealing with King Bruenor’s troublesome beasts,” Toogwik Tuk nudged. “Let us go and bring the Kingdom of Many-Arrows its newest hero.”
Like a leaf fluttering silently on a midnight breeze, the dark elf slipped quietly to the side of the darkened stone and mud structure. The orc guards hadn’t noted his quiet passing, nor was he leaving any obvious tracks on the frozen snow.
No corporeal creature could move more stealthily than a trained drow, and Tos’un Armgo was proficient even by the lofty standards of his race.
He paused at the wall and glanced around at the cluster of structures—the village of Tungrush, he knew through the conversations he had overheard from various “villagers.” He noted the foundation, even a growing base in several places, of a wall that would eventually ring the compound.
Too late, the drow thought with an evil grin.
He inched toward an opening in the house’s back wall, though whether it was an actual window or just a gap that had not yet been properly fitted, he could not tell. Nor did it matter, for the missing stone provided ample egress for the lithe creature. Tos’un slithered in like a snake, walking his hands down the inside of the wall until they braced him against the floor. His roll, like all of his other movements, was executed without a whisper of sound.
The room was nearly pitch black, the meager starlight barely filtering through the many breaks in the stone. A surface dweller would have had little chance of quietly navigating the cluttered place. But to Tos’un, who had lived almost all of his life in the lightless corridors of the Underdark, the place verily glowed with brightness. He stood in the main room, twice the size of the smaller chamber sectioned by an interior wall that extended from the front wall to within three feet of the back. From beyond that partition, he heard snoring.
His two swords, one drow made and the other, the sentient and fabulous Khazid’hea, came out in his hands as he silently approached. At the wall, he peeked in to see a large orc sleeping comfortably, face down on a cot against the house’s outer side wall. In the corner near the front of the house rested a large pile of rags.
He meant to quietly slide his sword into the orc’s lungs, defeating its shout and finishing it quickly and silently. Khazid’hea, though, had other ideas, and as Tos’un neared and readied the strike, the sword overwhelmed him with a sudden and unexpected burst of sheer outrage.
Down came the blade, through the back of the orc’s neck, severing its head and cutting through the wooden frame of the cot with ease, sparking off the floor and drawing a deep line in the hard ground. The cot dropped at the break, clunking down.
Behind Tos’un the rags rose fast, for under them was another orc, a female. Purely on reflex, the drow drove his other arm around, his fine Menzoberranyr sword coming in hard against the female’s neck and pinning her up against the wall. That blade could have easily opened her throat, of course, but as he struck, Tos’un, for some reason that had not consciously registered, turned to the flat edge. He had the orc’s voice choked off, and a line of blood appeared above the blade, but the creature was not finished.
For Khazid’hea would not suffer that inferior sword to score a kill.
Tos’un shushed the orc, who trembled but did not, could not, resist.
Khazid’hea plunged through her chest, right out her back and into, and through, the stones of the house’s front wall.
Surprised by his own movement, Tos’un fast retracted the blade.
The orc stared at him with disbelief. She slipped down to the floor and died with that same expression.
Are you always so hungry? the drow’s thoughts asked the sentient sword.
He sensed that Khazid’hea was laughing in response.
It didn’t matter anyway, of course. It was just an orc, and even if it had been a superior being, Tos’un Armgo never shied from killing. With the witnesses dispatched, the alarms silenced, the drow went back into the main chamber and found the couple’s store of food. He ate and drank, and replenished his pack and his waterskin. He took his time, perfectly at ease, and searched the house for anything that might be of service to him. He even went back into the bedroom, and on a whim, placed the male orc’s severed head between its legs, its face pressed into its arse.
He considered his work with a resigned shrug. Like his food, the lonely drow had to take his amusement where he could find it.
He went out soon after, through the same window that had allowed him access. The night was dark—still the time of the drow. He found the orc guards no more alert than when he had come in, and he thought to kill them for their lack of discipline.
A movement in some distant trees caught his attention, however, and the drow was fast to the shadows. It took him some time to realize…
There were elves about.
Tos’un wasn’t really surprised. Many Moonwood elves had been reconnoitering the various orc settlements and caravan routes. He had been captured by just such a band not so many tendays before, and had thought to join with them after deceiving them into believing that he was not their enemy.
Or was it really a deception? Tos’un hadn’t yet decided. Surely a life among the elves would be better than what he had. He’d thought that then, and thought it again with wretched orc food still heavy in his belly.
But it was not an option, he reminded himself. Drizzt Do’Urden was with the elves, and Drizzt knew that he, Tos’un, had been part and party to King Obould’s advance. Furthermore, Drizzt would take Khazid’hea from him, no doubt, and without the sword, Tos’un would be vulnerable to the spells of priests, detecting any lies he might need to weave.
Tos’un shook the futile debate from his thoughts before Khazid’hea could weigh in, and tried to get a better idea of how many elves might be watching Tungrush. He tried to pick out more movement, but found nothing substantial. The drow was wiser than to take any sense of relief from that, however, for he knew well that the elves could move with stealth akin to his own. They had, after all, surrounded him once without him ever knowing they were near.
He went out carefully, even calling upon his natural drow abilities and summoning a globe of darkness around him at one point, as he broke past the tree line. He continued his scan afterward, and even did a wide circuit of the village.
The perimeter was thick with elves, so Tos’un melted away into the winter night.
Albondiel’s sword cut the air, and cut the throat of the orc. Gasping and clawing, the creature spun and stumbled. An arrow drove into its side, dropping it to the red-stained snow.