Cage Match 2010, Consolation Match: 14) Kvothe versus 17) Drizzt Do’Urden

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It was night again. Silence fell across the land, and it was a silence of considerably more than three parts. It was the silence of a thundercloud about to burst, poised waiting above the Earth. This silence ebbed and flowed in tides, sweeping the heavens with a current of vagabond souls. It ricocheted off of distant mountainsides and swept with great winds across the endless deserts.

From out of the silence, a dark figure appeared, running alongside a sand dune. His cloak and skin were the same midnight black as the Spider Queen’s webs, and from each hip hung a scabbard of steel and wound leather. Above him, painted across the night’s sky, were strange and riotous visions: of dragons and armies and pillars of flame. Somewhere, far far away, awesome battles were being waged between men and Gods, vicious struggles for mastery.

A sound rang across the sand, shattering the silence into a thousand glistening shards. It was music, the skillful plucking of the strings of a lute. To the elf’s ears the music seemed to be telling a tale–a long, mournful ballad, of love found and lost, of kingdoms won and burned.

“Well met, Drizzt, prodigal son of House Do’Urden.” From behind a rock emerged a man with flame-red hair, still caressing the strings of his lute as he walked.
Seeing the sword at the man’s belt, the drow drew his twin scimitars, one of which twinkled in the deep glow from the sky. “Who are you?” asked Drizzt.

“I tread paths by moonlight that others fear to speak of during day. I have talked to Gods, loved women, and written songs that make the minstrels weep.” A discordant note sounded from the man’s lute. He sighed and looked down at his fingers, as if resenting their betrayal. “And then I was killed by a crippled swordsman and his dwarf of a brother. My name is Kvothe. You may have heard of me.”

“Heard of you? I could smell you from fifty feet, human. You reek of cheap ale and pig slops.”

Kvothe laughed. “You’re one to talk, trying to sneak past me with hair that’s whiter than a Frost Draccus. And you call yourself a ‘dark’ elf.”

Drizzt stood in a guarded pose, still prepared to strike if necessary. Something–perhaps the voice of Mielikki in the back of his mind–told him that, despite the man’s mocking tone, he and this Kvothe were on the same side. But nothing had been as it seemed, not for a long while now. He had lost all his companions, one by one, round after round of this senseless battle: Bruenor, bewitched by a sorceress. Wulfgar, impaled by a death-robot. Catti-Brie, named into nothingness. And now even Guenhwyvar had been taken from him, screaming in pain as a mad wizard’s fire had burned away her fur and flesh. Drizzt struggled to push back the tears from his large, soft, elvish eyes.

Kvothe turned his back to Drizzt and looked up, watching the distant pageant of war and destruction playing across the sky. Drizzt followed his gaze. It’s so far away. From down here even the Gods look like ants. “Do you know where in the Realms we are? And what’s happening up there?” Drizzt asked.

“It’s the end,” Kvothe said. “The Last Battle. Ragnarök. The Day of Judgment. The Gods themselves are warring across the sky for final supremacy.”

“And we’re stuck down here.” Drizzt listened very carefully to the silence, and thought he could make out the far-off thunder of the dice the Gods were said to roll.

“Yes.” Kvothe sighed. “But the Rules do give us a way to get back up there, if we so desire.”

“The Rules?”

“Look, I didn’t write them. It says that if one of us kills the other, we can retake our rightful place in Valhalla. Or Olympus. Or whatever.” Kvothe strummed an angry chord on his lute. “I don’t know who’s managing this whole situation, but they’re certainly a bloodthirsty lot. Anyhow, I don’t give a damn. I’m sick of all the killing. I’ve got my lute, I’ve got the quiet, and I’m perfectly content just to stay here.” He shrugged. “So I suppose that means the decision is yours.”

Drizzt spun his scimitars, considering. He had no reason to kill this man, this Kvothe. But if he could return to the realm of the Gods, perhaps he could bring back poor, sweet Guenhwyvar. “Kvothe, I do not wish to hurt you, but I must accept this challenge.” As Drizzt spoke the words, a glowing circle appeared, etched on the desert floor. Drizzt stepped into the circle.

“Very well.” Kvothe played one final chord, a plaintive major seventh that hung in the air like a falling feather. When it ended he set his lute down on a rock, well outside the circle. “Wouldn’t want it getting hurt again,” he said, more to himself than the drow. He drew his sword and stepped into the ring. As he did so, the ring’s glowing surface began to smoke, then smolder, then flame. Within seconds the two combatants were fully enclosed by a ten-foot circle of fire.

Drizzt crouched warily, regarding Kvothe. Montolio had taught him never to underestimate a foe, but rather to be patient and gauge their strength. “Kvothe, I believe I have heard of you. I heard you were once a great sorcerer and a famous warrior. Once. I heard you lost your magic, though. That now you are old and weak.”

“Who told you that? A little bird? Or perhaps a chatty dragon?” Kvothe tested his blade, taking a few practice swings. “You shouldn’t believe everything you hear.”

Drizzt struck with the fury of a Yochlol, hoping to end the battle quickly. His twin blades sang in the night’s air, and Kvothe was hard pressed to parry each in turn. He was driven back, his heels finding purchase on a rock perilously close to the raging fire. At the last moment Kvothe spun left, dancing away with a speed that surprised even Drizzt. He must have magic bracers too, Drizzt thought, though I can see no enchanted metal. Perhaps he wears Leg-Warmers of Blinding Agility.

Though Kvothe twisted and turned, Drizzt’s attacks continued, relentless. “Where is your magic, wizard?” Drizzt taunted. “Why don’t you name me out of existence?”

“This whole naming business has been taken completely out of context.” Kvothe scored a strong riposte and scratched Drizzt’s shoulder. “It’s almost as bad as those bales-of-fire everyone keeps going on about.”

Feinting to the right, Drizzt brought Icingdeath to bear as he spun, cutting a deep gash in Kvothe’s right thigh. Kvothe looked down at the blood, and for a moment Drizzt thought he saw a wisp of something different pass across the man’s face–a stone-faced look, old and strange. Finally, thought Drizzt, a foe I can beat honorably, in single combat. I’ll show them all that a drow doesn’t need to sneak in shadows or stab in the back with a poisoned dagger.

Kvothe was limping slightly, struggling to repel Drizzt’s double onslaught. “I just want you to know,” Kvothe said, gasping, “that I understand what you’re going through. You’ve lost your best friend, I sympathize, I really do. You know, what’s her name–Guinevere, your big kitty-cat?”

Drizzt hardened his brow. That was it. Now he was going to enjoy killing this one. “Don’t even think her name!” He thrust at Kvothe with both scimitars. Kvothe stepped aside at the last moment and, with sleight of hand that could only belong to an Edemah Ruh, plucked a single, silver hair from Drizzt’s head.

“Ow. What the hell was the point of that?” Drizzt readied his scimitars for his next strike, envisioning bringing them together and slicing clean through the irritating human’s throat.

Kvothe backed away, moving still closer to the ring of fire. He had nowhere left to flee. He was losing blood from his leg, and his sword arm wavered slightly. Drizzt tensed his back leg and toed the sand, preparing to charge.

“As I mentioned, I really do have a certain sympathy for your situation.” With that he tossed Drizzt’s hair into the billowing fire.

Kvothe concentrated completely, invoking the Principle of Consanguinity, the Law of Conservation, and settling into the Heart of Stone. He felt the old sympathetic magics flow again through his body, channeling the fire’s massive energy through the hair and back to its owner.

The hair twirled and spiraled, buffeted in the powerful updrafts from the fire. In sympathy, Drizzt’s body lurched side to side, then twisted like a dervish, throwing his scimitars from his grasp. The hair caught, lighting up for one moment with a blue, unearthly flame. After half a second, what was once Drizzt Do’Urden was now a pile of smoking ash. Only his fine twin scimitars remained, point down in the sand.

Kvothe collapsed, his strength exhausted. It had been a long, long while since he had used such magics.

The ring of fire vanished without a trace. A beam of blinding light descended from the heavens, spotlighting Kvothe. A tinny fanfare played, and a small banner unfurled above his head reading:

A sprinkling of confetti fell on him. Kvothe looked about, confused, but he was alone. After a moment, the music sputtered out and the confetti settled, leaving only the desert’s quiet.Kvothe looked up, into the beam of light. A vision was projected into his eyes, blurry at first, then slowly coming into focus. He could see three people, Denna and his parents, waiting for him in green Elysian fields. They were happy and at peace. They beckoned to him, urging him forward into the light. He knew that he could go to them now, and turn his back forever on this world of violence and sorrow…

“Screw that, I need to find the way back to the my inn.” He knew Bast would be waiting for his Reshi. Taking his lute, Kvothe began to trudge into the trackless desert.