Daughter of the Drow - Elaine Cunningham [118]
But no fear came with this realization. The young berserker registered the drow's flailing arms, the trailing light of the enchanted weapons, and he reasoned there was a chest somewhere in the midst of all that activity. So
Fyodor hefted his sword high, sighted down a spot in the very center of that incredible swordplay, and heaved with all his might. The mighty weapon flew toward the drow, its path as true and straight as that of a thrown spear.
Instantly the whirling elven blades crossed in a defensive parry, and the three swords met with a clash of metal and a spray of sparks. But the drow's skill and speed could not deflect the sheer power of the blow. The blunt sword tore through the dark elf with such force that the hilt's cross-piece struck his chest with an audible cracking of ribs.
Fyodor had his cudgel in hand before the first drow fell, before the other two could register the death of their companion. He advanced, compelled to fight until none remained to stand against him.
Perhaps the second drow fighter perceived this, for he was not so quick to draw his blades. He snapped up a tiny crossbow and fired several darts, one after another, so fast that the flights of the individual arrows were hard for the eye to follow. Perhaps the sleep-poison faded outside the Underdark, but the drow still possessed his deadly aim and he was confident his tiny arrows would dive deep into the human's eyes, tunnel between his ribs, slice open the vital arteries in his throat and groin. No poison, perhaps, but the human would be dead before he could notice that something about the attack might be lacking.
The drow could not know Fyodor perceived the flight of the darts as a leisurely, graceful glide. He batted them aside, moving his club back and forth with seemingly impossible speed, and he did not for one moment slow his advance on the two remaining fighters. A mighty upward sweep of his club caught the drow archer in his midsection, first doubling him over and then sending him flying up and back. The dark elf fell heavily, several yards away, his body twisted into a position no living elf could have achieved.
Fyodor whirled upon the last drow-a short-haired warrior with a dragon tattoo emblazoned on one cheek-and raised his cudgel high for a smashing downward blow. With a quick, steady stride, the human advanced.
For the first time in his century-long career, Gorlist considered retreat. The moment passed quickly, and the drow fighter gripped his spear with both hands. He'd taken the weapon from a slain forest elf, and had it magically reinforced for strength and speed. This crazed opponent would test the weapon as it had never been tested before.
Gorlist snapped the spear up before him, holding it like a quarterstaff. He whirled it, once, in a defiant exhibition of his skill.
Once was all the time he had. The human's driftwood dub descended in a pale blur. Gorlist spread his hands wide and blocked the blow with the center of the spear's staff. The magic held, but the force of impact sent bright pain coursing through the drow's arms and down his spine. His knees buckled, and he went down.
The dark-elven fighter saw the club descending again. He rolled clear, and as he did he grasped the hilt of a dagger in his benumbed fingers. With the incredible speed and agility for which the drow were famed and feared, Gorlist rolled several times and came up in a crouch behind the human.
He eyed his enemy, measured the distance