'The Orc King finds Drizzt's whirling scimitar blades tackling both familiar foes and refreshingly ambiguous moral challenges . . . The story line marks the continuation of Salvatore's maturation as a writer, introducing more complex themes into a frequently black-and-white fantasy landscape.' --Kirkus SUFFER NO ORC TO LIVE . . . the hooded man said again -- or started to, until a flash of lightning shot through the camp and drove into a keg of warm ale beside him. As the keg exploded, liquid flying, a sheet of dissipating electricity stole the darkness from the growing twilight. All six of the companions fell back, shielding their eyes. When they regained their sight, one and all saw the lone figure of a lean dark elf standing atop one of their wagons. DRIZZT DO'URDEN . . . gasped one of the dwarves. The others nodded and mouthed their agreement, for there was no mistaking the dark elf standing before them, with his two scimitars belted at his hips and Taulmaril, the Heartseeker, again slung over one shoulder. The drow's long white hair blew in the late afternoon breeze, his cloak flapped out behind him, and even the dull light remaining could do little to diminish the shine of his silvery-white mithral-lined shirt. 'To what do we owe the honor of your presence?'