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Dearest Readers, to every soul you meet, may you always prove true and they to you.

THE HIDDEN SWORD

Book Two: Wandering Water | Chapter 48: An Elf and A Drow

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The mace tore through the air, driven by the owner's hatred for its target. Effortlessly, the elf evaded each strike but braced herself at the last. This must be how a piece of steel sees the smithing hammer right before it smacks down on the anvil.

Swiftly she reached out and finally caught the mace at the grip, not even flinching as the handle slammed against her bare palm. Its wielder, the drow woman, hissed a curse in her own tongue. Irse would've beamed admiringly at her opponent's determination except they were being watched like a hawk by a Flaming Fist.

How, O Lord of Blades and Marinades, did they end up in this ridiculous predicament anyway?

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The day started out bright and glorious like any adventure.

And like in any adventure, the rain fell before the sky even darkened. Yet the gods pouring their laundry water down the world didn't drench Irse's spirit as much as it did the rest of her. After all, she came prepared. Beneath the bushiest-topped tree, the elf took shelter and hastily donned the greased cloak.

And then not even a tenth of a candle after she stepped out of the shade, the rain abruptly ceased, and the sun immediately sprouted up from behind the clouds.

Playing peekaboo today? Irse squinted up, adjusted the oilskin, and resumed walking. Yet not even another tenth of a candle, the heat began to sting and what felt like lakes of sweat started pooling within the cave of her thick wrap. Yet she persisted, refusing to let the weather win this round with another surprise drizzle.

Oh yes, this shouldn't be hard to keep up all the way to Beregost, Irse dared to herself, stubbornly sustaining marching pace. Perhaps it was only her imagination, yet she could almost hear the very vapors sizzling off the ground, leaves in the branches slowly withering into crispy crunchy dried out shells.

It was then that another sound solid and real caught her attention, the approaching rustling of the underbrush disturbed. Irse halted and readied a hand at the tachi. Suddenly a woman stumbled out of the woods, both hands clamping down her cowl over her head. Panicked and panting, she looked both ways of the road, saw the elf and ran to her.

"Save me, stranger! Someone wants to hurt me," she cried. "I escaped for now, but he will gain upon me soon if you do not help."

Alarmed, Irse glanced around, then pulled the hood from her head. At the sight of the elf's face, the woman abruptly recoiled, wrapping the cloak around herself even more and muttering in another language. Judging from the hissing and teeth-gritting, it sure sounded like more than one word plus a bag of choice curses.

Irse tilted her head. "Sorry, but I only know Common."

At the confession, the woman paused and drew back her own hood, and Irse's eyes widened at the other's features - delicate and elven, but with obsidian skin and hair like snow. All of it real and not just words from a storybook or rumor. Right here and now before her stood none other than a drow.

"In my hour of need, the Nightsinger sees fit to humor me with a darthiir who can only speak in the rivvin's tongue," the dark elf said in Common once more, bitter amusement in her voice.

Irse grinned, embarrassed. "Dar- what? Is it short for 'a beautiful and young and obviously intelligent elf' in your language?"

The drow glared at her, mouth opening in coming reply, but then an armored man with sword and shield burst through the trees, on whose breast sat the badge of a familiar emblem, that of the Flaming Fist. Immediately the other circled to hide behind Irse, grasping the young elf at the shoulders.

"There you are, dark woman," he called out, pointing with his weapon. "Running will do you no good this time."

"I already told you, I've done no harm to anyone. I only wish to be left alone," the drow reasoned, the anger in her voice deep like her fingernails painfully digging into Irse's shoulders.

"Your words mean nothing in these lands. How many times do I have to command you," the man muttered impatiently, then drew himself up proudly. "In the name of the Flaming Fist, I order you to yield and submit yourself to justice in my hands."

Irse raised a skeptical brow. Sometimes rude and even corrupt and all, but at least the Shields of Iriaebor never sounded this stuck-up, though.

"Why, what did she do? Did she break any laws around here?"

"Nothing, none at all," came his presumptuous reply. "But everyone knows she and her folk are evil, just biding their time to do something foul. You of all people should know that, elf. Now stand aside unless you wish to be arrested with her for obstruction of the law."

Well, the drow being expert chefs in cruelty cuisine wasn't something added in the menu only this morning. Yet the kind of justice being served by the Fist didn't agree with her stomach either.

How was it any different from Ulraunt's constant and vocal suspicions, though strangely in her case, seemingly stemming more from her mere existence than any of her antics?

On the other hand, having labored and traded in a territory governed by regulations and council people either bafflingly nit-picky or deviously ambiguous have surprisingly stamped in her a resilient sense of self-control when it comes to wanting to strangle a throttle-bottom public servant.

Indeed, what would Gorion or Okami do in a pickle like this?

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Like a resigned parent, Irse sighed at the drow's futile efforts to dislodge the mace handle from the elf's iron grip.

What would her foster father or former mentor do in a bungled knot like this? Certainly, not something as stupidly hasty as pretending to agree with the Fist and offering to fight in his place, if only to buy time for the drow lady.

Definitely not one of her more brilliant ideas, but it had been a good excuse to throw off the oiled cloak. Darned thing was starting to roast her like a marinaded trout baking in clay.

Irse held fast to the mace, grasped it with the other hand, and yanked the other woman to her, close enough to feel each other's breath on their faces.

"We're faking this while I think of a way out," she whispered.

Beneath the silver strands carelessly tussled over her own face, the drow flashed an amused smile. "Oh, deceive the rivvin? Very well. Even so, it doesn't mean I can't feign enjoyment at pretending to crush your skull."

Whatever fills her soup bowl, Irse acceded and pushed back half-heartedly, slowly drawing the tachi.

Elf and drow charged at each other, stiffly swinging their weapons without gaining ground on one another. For an interminable amount of time they kept at it, and eventually, the man lowered his shield, stabbed his sword in the ground and removed his helmet, irritably wiping his forehead as the two repeatedly and hesitantly circled each other. Fortunately, the elf had the presence of mind to tell the Fist to stand all the way back and give them space.

"I'm Irse, by the way," she said with a wink after a quick peek over the shoulder.

The drow idly hefted the mace. "Viconia."

"What are you wenches murmuring to each other, huh?" the Fist hollered, angling his neck.

"Er, nothing! Just the usual – eat steel, you evil drow and… stuff," Irse yelled over her shoulder.

"The standard die darthiir, if you must know," Viconia likewise answered back, indolently.

"You two might be at it for a couple centuries more, but I haven't got all day for this," he groused.

They struck and locked weapons to feign a tug and a struggle. "The phindar will soon catch on," the drow hissed. "Do something."

"I'm thinking, all right?"

"Then hurry!"

Several more ineffectual strikes and parries were exchanged between them, still no brilliant idea brewed in her mind. Perhaps they could just drop everything and make a break for it, betting on the Fist not to give chase because of the weight of his armor. Or…

"You pretend to get hit and die," Irse suggested at the next chance she got close. "I'll pretend to bury you because of elf-honor-thing-whatever, then dig you up when he's gone."

Although, digging a pit would be too much work. Might be easier to just pile dirt on her instead.

Viconia snorted and swung her mace. "As if anyone will believe I'll yield to the likes of you?"

Of all the time and place to play stubborn. Irse snorted in return.

Not that her arms were beginning to tire already, rather her stomach was beginning to grumble at the delay to a much-anticipated mid-afternoon snack of raisins and cheese. Irse frowned. What kind of cheese did she buy again for the trip? Right, a quarter of a square loaf of that Turmish Brick, made with curds soaked in red wine and able to last well in a journey, heartily recommended by a cheese monger at the Gate.

As if it were expected to last that long in Irse's rations. Oh, how her mouth watered now. Got to come up with something. And soon.

"I know what to do," the drow said when they locked weapons once more. "Lower your blade. Be open."

With nothing better in mind, Irse nodded. They disengaged and she dropped the Kogitsune slightly. At the signal, Viconia tossed her mace aside and with open arms, rushed forward.

And pressed her lips hard against Irse's mouth.

"Mmffmmmf," the elf mumbled as she stared down, wide-eyed in mute shock, stiff in the drow's soft embrace. From the corner of her vision, she saw the Fist likewise surprised, though oddly not displeased. Rather, the very opposite of displeased.

"Well now, is this how elves settle it among themselves?" the man murmured in evident interest, then impatiently clapped at them. "But that's it. Break it up, you two."

Helmet dangling in his hand, the Fist approached, but as soon as he came close and within range, Viconia pushed the elf away and delivered a straight palm right up his jaw. Stunned and eyes lolling to the back of his head, the Fist fell to the ground with a heavy thud. Irse gawped at the prone man and at the drow woman.

"Iblith," Viconia spat, rubbing a pained wrist but eyeing her handiwork with evident pride. The drow picked up her weapon and returned to stand over the man, the mace hovering over his forehead.

Alarmed, Irse darted in and grabbed her arm. "Now wait a moment here, we're not killing him. He's a moron, sure, but there's something I need to ask him first. Just… put that away," she said while shooing and pushing off Viconia's mace.

"Regrettably he will still wake, but not for a good while. What do you propose we do instead?"

Irse pointed to the horizon. "You get away as far as you can. I'll stay and keep him off your tracks. Maybe tell him you wanted to kill us, but I begged you not to."

"And what credible reason would a drow have to refrain from slaughtering a defeated elf and a defenseless human?"

Irse ground her jaw, eyes up in serious thought. "How about - you spared us because you're in a hurry to do more evil things?"

Yes, that should be it. More evil things, as in truly vile stuff - like making babies cry, spitting in wells, booting puppies and kittens. Nothing could be more renegade than those.

Viconia crooked her mouth in an approving smile as she slung the weapon at her belt once more. "So it shall be," she proclaimed, kneeling beside the Fist to help herself to the coin pouch in his belt.

Normally, Irse would admonish someone for robbing an agent of the law. Normally she would, except something far more important bothered her.

"What is the matter with you now?" Viconia snapped, finally done with divesting her pursuer of his valuables.

Staring askance, Irse sighed. In her mind, there flickered a tender memory of her and Kerda huddled at the porch, of listening to the other girl report on her first kiss from Thadd. Shy, clumsy, and awkward from the way her dear friend had described the proceedings, but to hear her gush about it all flustered and awed, one would think it were the equivalent of some grand thing.

Something grand, momentous, like laying low an entire army singlehandedly or forging the keenest blade in the world or shaping the most intricate ironwork to rival anything the greatest smiths could ever make. Not that the young elf expected to experience her own at all but –

"That was my first kiss," Irse lamented.

Viconia stared incredulously at the sulking elf, then burst into callous laughter. "Truly, a child you are, clinging to foolish dreams about saving yourself for some vapid specimen of your species. Didn't I claim your lips for a mere ruse? Then it shouldn't count, not even the slightest."

Irse's eyes darted to the side, nodding slowly as she pondered. Viconia's words made sense - perhaps that does count as not counting. And besides, why even think too much of it anyway? However, the whole world and everyone's best friend always made it out as the most special occasion in one's life. An occasion complete with flowers suddenly blooming everywhere and birds singing all around and the earth opening a bottomless chasm beneath one's feet and fire raining down from the sky.

Not as if she would ever think of doing such a gross thing herself. Oh no, no sireee, no way in the realms would she ever be curious how the real thing feels like and with whom, whether with someone she might meet along the way or with anyone she knew right now, no no no…

For some reason, her pulse began to beat a mite too loud while her cheeks heated a pinch, the sensation overwhelmingly discomfiting and disturbing.

Mercifully, Viconia brought her back to the present with practical and pragmatic conversation.

"Are you certain you do not wish to kill this one instead? Such a waste of your fine sword," Viconia said, canting her head at the still insensible Fist. She rose to her feet and pointed at the tachi. "I do recognize its dark steel. The drow fashion their weapons and armor from it, but they only turn to dust in this accursed daylight. Tell me how you came upon one and kept it intact until now."

Irse glanced down at the Kogitsune, still unsheathed in her hand. "This? You're right, it's adamantine, but it isn't made by drow."

Viconia bobbed her head in genuine interest. "I see, an adamantine blade forged without the magic attuned solely to the Underdark. Severing its connection from our home would render it weak, even completely destroyed."

"Oh, so that's why folks say drow weapons are extremely rare. We could never find even just a piece of it, not even in stores selling the best and rarest swords. All because they can't survive simply being here in the surface?"

"Indeed, for all the power contained within and the great deeds done with them," Viconia added, sighing deeply. "To be taken away from the Underdark with nothing but a pathetic and humiliating end as their fate."

Irse bobbed her head in sad agreement, touched by the sudden distant wistful look on the drow's face. Tempting as it was to pry, to ask why she had been wandering the surface alone, poking into her business just felt rude and too nosey.

Then from somewhere deep, hidden, yet inexplicably knowing, a thought came to her, a tiny one borne from the infinite possibilities she had learned to expect from the world.

"But you know," Irse said brightly. "It shouldn't be impossible at all for a blade made in your home to get used to being out here in the sun. Steel is amazingly resilient and flexible at the same time, for something that's been through fire and the hammer. You'd be surprised just what and how much one can endure and still remain sharp and steadfast against anything you throw at it."

Viconia furrowed her brows, staring at the young elf before her. Then she huffed, shaking her head, though now with a slight smile on her face.

Irse beamed at her, the air suddenly lightened once more. "As for this one," she said, gesturing with the Kogitsune before sheathing it once more. "I apprenticed for some years under a human blacksmith. He's from Kozakura, which is why instead of any sword, he chose for us to make this tachi instead."

"But now you're traveling alone and not by his side. Did you slay him to claim your station as the new master of the forge?"

Irse gaped at the drow, horrified at the mere notion. "N-no! No! Why would I do such a thing?" Never in this life and the next would she dare lay a hand on Okami. Well, except in sparring practice where neither luck nor persistence favored her anyway.

"With the iron going bad and hurting everyone's trade, I decided to take on caravan guarding work even though he was dead worried about these bandit attacks," Irse said, pausing to sigh. "For that, he left our village and followed me. We were separated in an ambush more than a tenday ago. I mean to ask this Fist if he'd come across him in any of his patrols out here. Have you-?"

Viconia interrupted, waving a dismissive hand. "Do not even bother describing him to me. Other than this wael," she said, kicking dust at the still unconscious Fist. "I haven't seen another soul in this blighted wilderness in nearly a month."

Irse's shoulders sagged with disappointment. Viconia shrugged hers.

"How troublesome. You could have avoided losing him if you had kept him in a leash as we did with males who are -," Viconia said but paused to smirk. "- useful, but unruly and know not their place."

Irse stroked her chin, seriously considering the suggestion. Not a bad idea and quite practical too. After all, a leash around the neck might be harder to pick than a leg iron chained to the bedpost.

Viconia looked around, then checked herself. "I've tarried enough. I shall leave you now." She walked away, eastward and off the road, pausing to cast a parting glance. "Farewell, strange surfacer. The Dark Lady give me the chance to wipe my debt clean one day," she called back proudly.

And with that, the drow woman disappeared into the forest shadows.

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After some time, the Fist regained his senses, groaning and rubbing his jaw. Irse had been sitting on her haunches, practicing the motions in a mimic of that punch. Perhaps, the same technique might serve her in some way. Seeing the man awake and sitting up, she quickly dropped her hands and rose to her feet.

"What happened?"

"Ahhh-," the elf began, scratching the back of her neck.

Fighting to keep from sniggering, Irse explained to him how after he got knocked out, the drow defeated her in their continued combat, took the Fist's coin as prize, then left them alive in a surprising act of mercy. Grunting in clear disappointment, the other got on his feet and hurriedly donned his helmet.

"Wait, sir. Before you go, I need to ask you something. Did you happen to come across a Kozakuran man? This tall, about thirty summers but talks like an old geezer?" Irse asked with expectant hope while the Fist gathered his things.

He seemed to ponder the query for a moment, then wagged his head. "Never seen anyone of the sort out here. But there's a woodsman living in a cabin, about a day's march southwest in the woods from this place. Ask him, though I wouldn't bet on your luck in these wilds and back country." The Fist glanced around him. "Now where did that blasted drow head to?"

"She went-," Irse said, drawing out her words. " – thataway!" The arm went up snappishly to point to where she and Viconia won't be heading.

"North of the road? Hmmm, where else but to the Gate? So the doxy thinks she can hide there, huh."

Though sorely itching to feed him a knuckle loaf, Irse nevertheless bobbed her head in eager agreement. After all, looking up each face in the city crowd ought to keep Officer-Advanced-Justice occupied for a long time.

"Yes, and you'd better hurry too if you wish to catch up with her. Well, what are you waiting for? Go. Run. Now," she uttered with clipped haste, practically scooting him off.

He shot her a dubious look. Irse folded her hands and grinned.

"Because the drow run faster when it's nighttime because then it'd be dark? Because they're from… you know – the Underdark?"

"And how are you sure of it?"

"Trust me, I'm an elf." One eye twitched in serious effort to keep from winking.

The Fist nodded, convinced. "And it'll be dusk in a few hours too. Guess I have to go now if I'm to capture that wicked woman before she tries her cunning wiles on some gullible fool."

Hah, didn't even choke while saying that. Irse huffed in the subtlest way possible.

"Though your intentions were good, I would've gotten her today, no thanks to your interference."

"Sorry about that, sir," she mumbled, rubbing her arm.

He sheathed his blade and tapped imperiously at the scabbard. "Terrible swordsmanship and bungling combat tactics," he scoffed. "This is why amateurs like you should never be accepted in the Flaming Fist."

Her eyes widened, as wide as the jaw dropping at the pitiful appraisal. Amateur? If only this ninny knew how much harder it was to hold back from killing someone right away.

Without another word, the Fist set himself northwards. Nose twitching and knuckles shaking at the sides, the elf glared in his direction, and yet even as he faded into the distance, the pathetic pronouncement still echoed mockingly in the air.

"Fine! Then don't!" Irse shouted back, stomped once on the ground, petulantly turned on her heels and tramped down the road, huffing and seething.

As if she'd ever join their stupid company anyway!

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