It was almost midnight, and outside the mansion headquarters of the House of Ankhor, most of the town slept. There were a few gaming and pleasure houses that stayed open all night, mostly catering to mercenaries and travelers passing through on their way to one of the seven city-states of the Tablelands. But for the most part, the residents of Altaruk went to bed early and rose early. The desert nights were cold at this time of the year, and there were few people on the streets. The night seemed quiet and peaceful.

Ankhor stood out on the open, moonlit veranda outside his private quarters on the fourth floor, in the west wing of the mansion. As he gazed over the town, it struck him once again just how much it had grown the last few years. Without turning, he spoke to the dark-robed guest standing behind him, in the shadows.

"You know, as a boy, I hated growing up here," he said. "I dreamt of running away to one of the large cities, such as Tyr or Nibenay or Balic. Back then, Altaruk was little more than a fortress outpost in the middle of nowhere, at the tip of the estuary, a tiny, rough-hewn settlement sheltered by the mountains.

"But it was a choke point for caravans," Ankhor continued. "South from Urik, southeast from Tyr, toward Balic, Gulg, Nibenay, from Raam and Draj—all these caravans had to pass this outpost."

"It has grown quickly," said the dark-robed figure in a deep and throaty voice hoarse with age.

"And is growing still," said Ankhor, looking out over the town. "It went from being a miserable outpost fried by the sun and buffeted by windstorms to being a thriving village.

"My father—Lord Ankhor the Elder—saw the opportunities in Altaruk. His gaming house in Tyr bought him a merchant empire here—the House of Ankhor. He accomplished with grit and luck what young aristocrats did with blue blood. Aristocrats like the Jhamris."

"And so began the famous rivalry," the dark-robed figure said.

"Yes," said Ankhor, turning to face his guest. "It grew as Altaruk grew, a rivalry between a commoner and an aristocrat. And that rivalry drove all other merchant houses in Altaruk into penury. My father had won himself a peerage, but the Jhamris never allowed him to forget his humble beginnings.

"By the time I was born, Lord Jhamri had also sired a son. They had competed even in that, striving to bear the first heir. But fate mocked them, for both Father and Jhamri repeatedly fathered daughters. The Elder Jhamri had eight, by three different wives, and I have seven older sisters. My father's first wife gave him four daughters and died in childbirth with the last, and my mother gave him two more daughters before finally giving birth to me. I was given my father's name as a sign of pride in the achievement, but by then, Jhamri's third wife had already given birth to a son, a year earlier. And the two us were raised from childhood to loathe each other."

Ankhor turned to look out over the town once more, with a proprietary air. "Both founders are old and frail now, unable even to get around without assistance, but the old hatred still burns between them. It is all my father ever talks about. The old rivalry."

"You seem fond of it, too."

"Yes," said Ankhor, "we heirs both have taken over the management of our respective houses. But while the elder Jhamri was a shrewd and calculating trader, young Jhamri is merely arrogant and smug, confident in his superior wealth and position. He has never regarded the House of Ankhor as a serious threat.

"In part, that is because I have publicly played the part of the dissipated sensualist," Ankhor said, turning back to face his guest. "I am seen in gaming and pleasure houses, drinking excessively and spending lots of money. I sport with women of low class while young Jhamri has married well, taking to wife the daughter of Viscount Tomblador, cementing a firm alliance with that house. And while Jhamri immediately set about getting his young wife pregnant, to insure an heir, I have remained single and childless, apparently more interested in spending my father's wealth than building on it.

"So young Lord Jhamri regards me with condescension and contempt, thinking me weak and indolent. The alliance we have signed, with the House of Jhamri as the senior trading partner, has only furthered Jhamri's opinion. And that is exactly what I want him to think."

"To lull him into a false sense of security," the robed figure said, nodding.

"Precisely," said Ankhor, leaning back against the parapet. "I am still young, and there will be plenty of time to think about finding a suitable wife and starting a family... after I've destroyed my rival. And I shall settle for nothing less than that, total destruction. First, I'll topple his house and humiliate him, make him crawl to me on hands and knees."

"And then?"

"Then I will kill him." Ankhor said it plainly, simply, as if he were merely making an observation about the weather. Then he smiled, disarmingly. "When we were children, my loving sisters used to say our father was raising me as a serpent, feeding me on hatred and spite. They said it to tease me, but I always had a fondness for that metaphor. Serpents are sly and deadly. Serpents strike quickly and without warning. Serpents are survivors. I shall add the figure of a serpent to our standard after Jhamri is destroyed, to commemorate the event.

"So... are you satisfied as to my sincerity?"

The dark-robed figure stepped forward into the moonlight. The hood of the robe was thrown back, revealing a gaunt, fine-featured face, deeply lined with age, and the clean-shaven skull of a templar. Around her head was a thin, hammered gold chap-let bearing the royal crest of Nibenay, the Shadow King.

"His Majesty was concerned you might not follow through," she said. "That at the last moment, you might lack the necessary resolve."

Ankhor smiled. "Oh, please, Livanna," he said, "spare me the fiction that the Shadow King has the slightest interest in anything we do here."

He went past her, heading back inside through the open veranda doors. With a frown, she followed. He went over to a carved sideboard and poured them both some wine.

"I know perfectly well that Nibenay has ceased caring about anything but his metamorphosis," Ankhor continued. "We may be far removed from the centers of power here in the provinces, but I am not without my sources." He handed her an exquisitely crafted silver goblet. "The Shadow King's senior templars have taken over the ruling of his realm. Nibenay has outgrown his cares about the city that bears his name. I will not venture to say just what he has grown into, but all things considered, I would much rather conduct business with his templars, whose concerns are more, shall we say... material?" He smiled and raised his goblet to her.

"You are impertinent," Livanna said.

"And ambitious," Ankhor added. "And given the scope of my ambition, along with the benefits that you can reap from it, I am sure my impertinence is something you can tolerate."

"To a point," Livanna said.

Ankhor raised his eyebrows and gave her a slight bow. "Well, I shall try to keep that in mind."

"Do," said Livanna curtly. "Our interests happen to coincide, but that does not make you indispensable."

"Altaruk shall one day be a defiler city, with me or without me, I know," said Ankhor. "I have seen the writing on the wall. However, that day will come much sooner with my help than without it. And you know that very well, or else you would not be here to insure that it is Nibenay who will rule in Altaruk rather than Hamanu of Urik or the Oba of Gulg." He smiled. "We both want an edge on the competition."

Ankhor took a sip of wine and settled comfortably into his chair, an action that would have been an insufferable affront to the senior templar in her home city. Her nostrils flared slightly, but otherwise, she showed no reaction.

"Let us understand each other, Livanna," Ankhor said. "I am not one of your subjects. At least, not yet. You need me now, and when Altaruk falls under the Shadow King's domain, you are going to need me even more. With Jhamri out of the way, I will control Altaruk's economy. The revenue Nibenay will receive from the House of Ankhor in taxes alone, to say nothing of the profits from investments, gratuities and outright bribes, will not be insignificant. No government can survive without the merchant houses. We both know that. At the same time, we both know that you could easily destroy me. I have no knowledge of magic, whereas you bear the awesome power of the Shadow King. But if anything were to happen to me, the House of Ankhor would collapse.

"Not even my minister of accounts knows all the intricacies of our dealings. My father is much too old to run the business now, and my sisters lack the necessary skills. Five of them have been profitably married off, and the remaining two are merely awaiting their turn. They have been raised to be fine ladies of distinction, not merchant traders.

So you see, Livanna, I am indispensable. I am the House of Ankhor. Stop trying to intimidate me with your powers and your lofty status as a templar and accept that we are equal partners in this venture, or else stop wasting my time. I could manage this without you. It would be inconvenient and would involve delays, but it could be done."

Livanna gave him a hard stare. "I am sure Lord Jhamri would be happy to make time for me."

"No doubt," said Ankhor. "If you like, I will have Lyanus arrange an appointment for you first thing in the morning."

For a moment, the templar said nothing, then she smiled. "No, I do not think that will be necessary," she said. "Are you like this in all your trade negotiations?"

"No," said Ankhor. "Sometimes, I find it necessary to be firm and uncompromising."

Livanna chuckled. "A serpent would, indeed, be an appropriate device for your standard. I will be pleased to report to our elder council that we have the right man in Altaruk."

"You had decided that before you arrived," Ankhor said. "So, shall we get down to business?"

"You have arranged for suitable quarters for our recent acquisition?"

"My recent acquisition," Ankhor corrected her. "The full amount of the purchase price came out of my pocket, as you will recall, and it was not inconsiderable."

"But are we not partners in this enterprise, as you just said? After all, I am providing the transportation, free of charge," Livanna responded, "and at a considerable cost in energy to myself."

Ankhor shrugged it off. "Which you will immediately recover by defoliating a garden or two or else killing some hapless drunk wandering through the streets."

"Nevertheless, I am saving you the time and trouble it would take to arrange for transport all the way from Balic, and in secret, too. And then there is the matter of the time and effort I shall invest in the enterprise from this point on."

"Which will be offset by the intelligence I will provide, through contacts I have gone to great trouble and expense to develop and skilled agents I have placed in key positions." Ankhor frowned. "What is the point of all this dickering?"

Livanna smiled. "I merely wanted to see if I could out-bargain you. Apparently not."

Ankhor chuckled. "Not a bad effort, though. For a templar. But right now, I am more interested in seeing what you do best."

"Well, then... prepare yourself," Livanna said. She threw back her robe and raised her arms, shutting her eyes in concentration as she mustered her energies for the casting of the spell.

Ankhor felt a subtle change in the atmosphere of the room. It was nothing he could put his finger on, but he felt it, growing, raising goosebumps on his flesh and making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He was no stranger to magic; he had seen it used before, but never on this level. The sorcerer kings imbued their templars with power, and even at this distance, the Shadow King's power was mighty.

Livanna had been trained since childhood, and she was now a very old woman. It was impossible to guess her age. She looked about seventy, but she was a senior templar, which meant she had to be at least twice that age or even older. She had not yet even cast her spell, and already the room was thrumming with energy.

Ankhor nervously moistened his lips and gripped the arms of his chair to keep his hands from trembling. As a trader, he had learned never to reveal uncertainty and always act as if he was in the superior position, but it was not until that moment that he truly understood just what kind of power Livanna had at her command. He swallowed hard. He could not afford to reveal weakness, but he felt afraid.

With her back to him, Livanna softly spoke the words of the spell, mumbling them under her breath. Ankhor could not make them out, and doubted he could have understood them even if fully audible. The old spell scrolls so jealously guarded by adepts were written in old languages, more guttural and sibilant, harsher to the modern ear. And the more complex the spell, the more complex the incantation.

As Livanna spoke the spell, the room became tenebrous and the air crackled with thaumaturgic discharges, jagged little bolts of energy that surrounded her, fine as spider webs. Ankhor had seen adepts cast spells before, both preservers and defilers, but Livanna was no ordinary adept. She was a senior templar of the Shadow King, with several human lifetimes worth of training and experience, and the power that flowed through her came from Nibenay himself. An ordinary adept would never have survived it.

A wind rose within the room, billowing her robes and snuffing out the candles. Ankhor tightly gripped the arms of the chair, gritting his teeth as he felt all the nerve endings of his body start to tingle. Then bright blue bolts of thaumaturgic energy lanced out from Livanna's palms, converging on a spot about ten feet in front of her, in the center of the room.

Where the twin beams met, an aura formed, growing brighter and expanding slowly as Anfchor watched, shading his eyes against the glare. It was as if a hole had opened in the air, a brightly glowing tunnel through space and time, and through that tunnel came a figure, a dark silhouette surrounded by the pulsating blue aura that illuminated every corner of the room.

Ankhor felt his breath quicken as the figure stepped into the room. A large, powerful shape, it was outlined by the glare—a figure at least six and a half feet tall. And as the glow diminished and contracted, until it was no more than a fading, faintly sparkling aura surrounding the massive form, Ankhor's eyes slowly readjusted, focusing on the rippling, corded muscles of the naked figure.

"Kah," he said softly.

It was a little over a year ago that he had first seen her fight in the arena of Balic. It had not been the first time he had witnessed gladiatorial combat, nor even the first time he had ever seen a mul fight in the arena, but it had been the first time he had ever seen a female of the breed. Female muls were rare. It was far easier to breed males, and both genders had to be specially bred, for all muls were born sterile.

An artificial crossbreed of dwarves and humans, muls did not occur in nature. Dwarves and humans could not breed together, and the secret of producing them had been discovered many years ago by a demented apothecary named Mulak. Working in his laboratory with vials and magnifiers and beakers, he had somehow found a way to stimulate the fertilization of a female dwarven egg by human sperm, producing a viable egg that he had then implanted in a human female slave, theorizing that a dwarven female would have been too small to bear the offspring. He was more than correct in his conclusion. The resulting birth was so traumatic that it killed the human mother, and ever since, no human female had ever survived the process that gave birth to the creatures that bore the name of their creator—muls.

The conception occurred in an apothecary's laboratory, and female human slaves then bore the child—if such it could be called—to term. Ankhor wondered what it must be like for the hapless women consigned to such a fate. Was it even possible that they could feel any spark of a maternal instinct toward the unnatural creatures quickening within them, knowing that their birth would bring about an agonizing death? He shuddered at the thought as he stared at the large figure looming before him in the darkness.

Livanna made a pass with her right hand, and the candles all reignited in the lamps, bringing light back into the room.

Ankhor swallowed hard as he stared at the coppery-golden skin of the mul standing before him. Her head was completely bald, accentuating the pointy, swept-back ears that lay close against her skull. Her eyes were yellow-gold, deeply sunken and hooded by a prominent ridge of brow. Her mouth was wide and thin-lipped, her chin slightly pointed, and her cheekbones high and unusually pronounced. Her nose was not as wide as that of most male muls, and it was blade straight. Though Ankhor had seen her fight before, he had never seen Kah up close, and he was surprised to find that she was beautiful—in a terrifying way.

Her shoulders were almost twice as broad as his, and her chest thick with muscle, making her breasts look small. She had almost no fat on her at all. Her powerful back muscles fanned out from her sides like wings, accentuating a narrow and extremely muscular waist. Her abdominal muscles stood out in sharp relief, and her long arms were corded with thick muscle. Her thighs and calves looked as if someone had taken a chisel to them. She lowered her head and went down to one knee before him. She did not speak, for she could not. She had been born mute.

It felt strange to see her kneel like that before him. It was perfectly right and proper, of course. He was an aristocrat, after all, and a high-ranking member of the merchant class, and she was but a lowly slave. He had bought her, and she was now his property. But she was a magnificent creature with a powerful presence, and he had seen her kill a dozen men in the arena.

The first time he had seen her, he had wanted to possess her. Not sexually, for she did not appeal to him that way, but the way one wanted to possess a fine crodlu mount or an exquisitely crafted weapon. To own a thing like that would confer not only status, but power. She was a legend in the arena of Balic, and when he saw her fight, he immediately understood why.

Kah fought with a savagery unlike anything he had ever seen. It was not the savagery of a berserker, but that of a predatory beast. Her opponents were not merely antagonists, they were prey, and when she stalked them in the arena, it was like watching an animal on the hunt.

By the time he saw her, she had already firmly established her reputation, and she no longer fought in matched pairs. She always faced several opponents, sometimes half a dozen or more, and despite being outnumbered, she struck fear into them all. And she exulted in the kill. She enjoyed killing the way most men enjoyed sex. It was both a pleasure and a release for her, and a feeling of conquest.

Ankhor had immediately sent his agents to enter into negotiations for her purchase. At the time, he had not yet formulated the plan he had in mind for her; he only knew he wanted to own her, like a dangerous pet. The arenamasters of Balic had not wanted to sell. She represented a huge investment for them, not only in terms of the original purchase from the breeder who produced her, but in all the years of training they had given her. And she was their most popular attraction. The citizens of Balic packed the arena to see Kah fight, and they had cheered themselves hoarse with her every victory. The arenamasters already had a plan for her. If she survived, and there was little question that she would, she would probably earn her freedom, and she could then become a trainer, producing skilled fighters for their games.

But Ankhor wanted her, and whenever Ankhor wanted something, he would stop at nothing to possess it. Even given the most liberal of estimates, he had paid easily ten times her worth, finally submitting an offer the arenamasters were unable to refuse. He had paid for her both in cash and stock in the House of Ankhor, thereby assuring a comfortable retirement for her masters.

Now, she was his, and it seemed incongruous to see this powerful, savage creature kneeling before him, her gaze lowered shyly, awaiting his command. It made Ankhor feel powerful.

Livanna stood leaning on a table, stooped over slightly and breathing hard. The effort of the spell had taken a lot out of her. An ordinary wizard would never have been able to accomplish it. She had magically teleported Kah all the way from Balic. It had taken extensive preparation, and she had needed to obtain samples of Kah's skin and hair in order to direct the spell. Ankhor had his agents obtain fingernail parings and loin hair from Kah, since muls were hairless everywhere else. All had been accomplished in great secrecy. No one save Ankhor and Livanna knew of Kah's arrival, or of Ankhor's purchase. The arenamasters of Balic had been paid handsomely for their silence.

"Rise, Kah," Ankhor said.

She stood, towering over him.

"Your days of fighting in the arena are finished," Ankhor said, and was gratified by the flicker of disappointment in the mul gladiator's eyes. "But never fear, I have more entertaining sport in mind for you."

She cocked her head at him inquisitively.

"Templar Livanna will explain all to you," said Ankhor. "You are to do her bidding. Understand?"

Kah nodded once.

"Ankhor, I must recuperate," Livanna said hoarsely.

Ankhor got up from his chair and walked over to the fireplace. He pressed a concealed stud behind the mantlepiece, and a section of the wall beside the fireplace swung away, revealing a secret passage.

"Take the concealed staircase and turn right at the bottom," he said. "Follow the tunnel until it branches. Take the right branch. It will lead you outside the compound and into a hidden basement of one of my warehouses. I have had chambers prepared there for you. They are not luxurious, but I think you will find them comfortable. Thereafter, whenever you leave, go back to that point where the tunnel branches. Turning left will take you back here. Continuing straight ahead will lead you to the surface, to a hidden door inside an alleyway. Can you remember that?"

Livanna nodded.

"Good. From now on, I leave things in your entirely capable hands. You know what must be done. Do not return here except after the midnight hour. On the opposite side of this hidden door, you will find a large lever and a small one. The large lever controls the door. The small one controls this obsidian statue here on the mantelpiece. You will find a tiny peephole in the door. Always check it first. If I am not alone, or if I am not present, pull down on the small lever, and the statue will turn to the right. That way, I will know you wish to see me, and I will return here at midnight the next day. Any questions?"

"No," Livanna said. "It seems you have taken adequate precautions."

"Make certain you do likewise," Ankhor said. He went over to the sideboard and picked up a small scroll. "Here is your first set of instructions. You may start tonight."

Livanna took the scroll from him and beckoned to the mul. They went through the secret passageway, and Ankhor closed the door behind them. He took a deep breath of satisfaction. Now, it would begin.

Chapter Eight

Sorak awoke with a start. He sat up and glanced around quickly, not knowing what had awakened him. It was several hours before dawn. The camp was perfectly still as he opened the tent flap, stepped outside, and looked around. The fires had burned down to embers, save for the watchfires tended by the guards around the cargo area, directly in front of him. Except for the quiet sounds of their conversation, nothing seemed amiss. So what had awakened him so suddenly?

He was aware of a strange vertiginous sensation, and he felt a little lightheaded. Whatever it was, it had snapped him awake with a jolt, and he was apparently feeling its aftereffects. It hadn't been a nightmare. He had been sleeping soundly for a change, after a long day on the trail. He rubbed his forehead, moist with sweat.

"Sorak?" Ryana poked her head out of their tent. "What is it? Is something wrong?"

He frowned, shaking his head. "I don't know," he said in a puzzled tone. "Something woke me up, but I have no idea what it was. It was as if—" Suddenly, the jolt came once again, even stronger this time, and he staggered, as though struck from behind. For a moment, his vision swam, and he shook his head and blinked to clear it. When his gaze focused again, the campsite was gone.

He stood motionless, feeling confused and disoriented. One moment, he was looking at the caravan tents and the watchfires by the cargo, and the next, he was standing in the middle of a street in an unfamiliar town.

Neat rows of one and two-story adobe buildings lined both sides of the dirt street, which curved away from him around a bend. The time of day had not changed, but everything else had. He stood frozen to the spot, startled and unable to comprehend what had happened. It was as if he had suddenly been transported to another place.

He spun around, looking for Ryana, but though she had stood just behind him a moment earlier, she wasn't there. The tent was gone, as well. What he saw instead was the dark mouth of a narrow alleyway between two buildings... and just inside the alleyway, he saw a large figure standing in the shadows, partially concealed from view.

From behind him came the sounds of footsteps. He turned around again and saw another figure, wrapped in a dark cloak and walking down the hard-packed dirt street, heading directly toward him. The stranger's path would take him right past Sorak, the mouth of the alleyway, and the shadowy figure waiting in ambush.

Sorak opened his mouth to speak, to warn the approaching man, but no sound came forth. The man kept on walking steadily, right toward him. He gave no sign of being aware of Sorak's presence, just as he was completely unaware of the ambusher. He was only several feet away now and coming straight at him. Again, Sorak tried to speak, but no sound came out. The man in the cloak passed right by him, mere inches away, but apparently without seeing him. And as he drew even with the alley, it happened.

A powerful arm snaked out and grabbed the man's cloak, jerking him back into the shadows of the alley. Sorak heard a startled gasp of surprise, followed by a brief cry, and then the sickening crunch of the man's spine being snapped.

The body collapsed to the ground, lifeless. No, it hadn't simply collapsed, the killer had thrown it, tossing it into the street at the entrance to the alleyway. The murderer stood over the hapless victim, but Sorak could not see the killer clearly. He was dressed in a long, ankle-length black cloak with a voluminous hood that completely concealed his features. The killer reached inside his cloak, and Sorak saw something white flutter down on the body. A veil.

Abruptly, the killer turned, and Sorak thought he was about to see his face, but his vision blurred again, as if he were looking through shimmering heat waves, and the peculiar falling sensation came over him once more.

Sorak shook his head and blinked, and when his vision came back into focus, he saw several guards sitting around the watchfire, talking quietly among themselves. He was back at the caravan campsite, and someone was shaking him.

"Sorak! Sorak!"

It was Ryana. He turned toward her, a confused expression on his face.

"Sorak, what's wrong?"

"I... I don't know," he said slowly. He shook his head to clear it. "What just happened?"

"You seemed to go into a trance," Ryana replied, looking at him with concern. "You stumbled and grabbed your head, as if you had been struck. You looked as if you were about to fall, only you didn't. You simply stood there, motionless, staring off into the distance. I spoke to you, but you acted as if you couldn't hear me. Your eyes were open, but it was as if you couldn't see me, either."

"I was standing right here all this time? I didn't... go anywhere?"

She stared at him, puzzled. "What are you talking about?"

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I just saw a man killed," he said.

"What? Where?"

"I... don't know," he replied, frowning with confusion. "One moment, I was standing here, looking at the watchfire, and then the next..." He told her what he had seen. "It was like a dream, only I was awake... or was I?"

"You had a vision," said Ryana.

He frowned. "How can that be? I am not villichi. I do not have the gift of Sight."

"One does not have to be villichi to have the Sight," Ryana said. "Anyone can have the talent, but it is very rare, even among villichi. I have never had it, nor did any of the other sisters, but Mistress Varanna said she had it sometimes, though she could not control it. She said no one can. It simply comes upon you. You saw something that has happened somewhere else... or is about to happen."

"I tried to warn the man," he said, "but I could not speak."

"You were not there," she said. "You couldn't have warned him. It was a vision. You were right here all this time."

He shook his head. "But it makes no sense. How could something like this happen all of a sudden? I thought people who had the Sight were born with it."

Ryana shook her head. "No, it comes when a child starts to mature."

"But I am not a child."

"No, but you have changed. The spell that took away your inner tribe may have left something of them behind... or perhaps given you something else. We both know what you were, but there is as yet no way of telling what you have become."

Sorak frowned with confusion. "Perhaps, but if my grandfather had bestowed the gift of Sight upon me, why wouldn't he have told me? How long was I... gone?"

"Only a moment," she said.

"It seemed longer." He rubbed his forehead. It ached slightly. "I don't know what it means."

Ryana's eyes grew wide, and she gasped. "Sorak... look!"

She was staring at him, pointing at his waist. He looked down.

Galdra.

The broken blade was tucked into his belt. He drew it out, staring at it with astonishment. As he touched the silver wire-wrapped hilt, a faint, sparkling aura of blue thaumaturgic energy crackled briefly around the blade.

"How can this be?" he said with wonder. "You saw me throw it into the pool back at the oasis!"

She nodded.

"We both saw it sink!"

She nodded again. "It has come back to you," she said. "It is an omen."

"Of what?" he said, with dismay. "I don't want the cursed thing!" He tossed it aside on the ground.

Ryana picked it up. "That won't do any good," she said. "You threw it into a bottomless pool and it came back to you. What makes you think you can simply throw it away now?"

"I don't understand any of this," said Sorak. "I thought the spell was broken."

"Broken it may be," Ryana said, "but there is still magic in the blade. Apparently, much more than you knew." She offered it back to him.

"No," he said, shaking his head. "I don't want it."

"Take it," she insisted.

"You take it."

"It is not for me to carry," she replied. "Galdra was meant for you."

"Then leave it. Throw the damned thing away."

"If you really want me to, I will," she replied, "but I'll wager it will only come back to you again. It served you well, Sorak. It was wrong of you to dispose of it in the first place. Galdra is part of your destiny. That much is clear."

"What does it want from me?" he asked irritably.

Ryana shook her head. "I do not know that it is capable of wanting anything. It does not live. It merely is."

"It has to be the Sage," said Sorak, with a grimace. "He must be responsible for this."

"Whether he is or not," Ryana said, "it seems you are stuck with it." She offered him the blade again. "Take it. Things like this do not occur without a reason."

"But why must they happen to me?" he asked, throwing his arms out in exasperation.

"Because you are Sorak, and it is your fate. Mistress Varanna knew that when she gave you the blade."

Sorak sighed and took the broken blade from her reluctantly. "All it brings is trouble."

"What sort of trouble?" asked a voice from behind them.

They turned to see a figure coming toward them, silhouetted against the light from the watch-fire behind him.

"It is only I, Edric the Bard," he said as he came closer. "I did not mean to intrude. It seems that I was not the only one who could not sleep tonight." His gaze fell on the blade. "What have you there? A dagger?" He held his hands up, palms out. "There is no need for that, my friend. I am unarmed, as you can see."

Sorak glanced down at the blade in his hand. "Sorry," he said, tucking it away into his belt. "It was not meant to threaten you." He wished he had his cloak to cover it, but he had left it back inside the tent. He saw Edric staring intently at the blade.

"You carry a broken sword?" asked Edric. "Why?"

Sorak shrugged, wishing the bard would go away. "It has sentimental value to me."

"It looks like steel!" said Edric, still staring at the broken sword in Sorak's belt. "And those are elvish runes upon the blade, are they not?"

Sorak was growing impatient. The last thing he wanted was to pursue this conversation. "Are all you bards so curious?" he asked in a surly tone.

"Forgive me, I did not mean to pry," said Edric, placating. "But there is an old legend about a sword made of elven steel, with runes upon the blade—"

"It is merely a broken sword and nothing more," said Sorak. "It is an heirloom of my family, scarcely worth the price of a few drinks now that it is broken, but I have an attachment to it." Or, more to the point, it has an attachment to me, he thought.

"How is Cricket?" asked Ryana to change the subject.

"Sound asleep, my lady," said Edric. "She is not accustomed to riding such long distances and was complaining that her legs and seat were sore."

"She seemed fit enough to me," Ryana said.

"Well," said Edric, "perhaps one uses different muscles for dancing than for riding." He shrugged. "I know little of such things. She will doubtless be a bit stiff in the morning, and there will be some soreness, but another day or so and she should work it out. In the meantime, I can put up with her whining and complaining." He grinned. "Bards are accustomed to that sort of thing, you know."

"Perhaps I could be of some assistance," said Ryana. "I have some skill at healing."

"I am certain she would be grateful for your help, my lady," Edric said with a slight bow. "I will pass on your kind offer. Well, I have intruded on your time enough. There is yet some time until dawn, and I think I shall go stretch out for a while before the camp is abustle." He shook his head. "Never could get used to keeping normal hours. Good night to you, or perhaps I should say good morning. Well, you know what I mean."

He gave them a slight bow and left.

Sorak scowled at his retreating form. "I don't like that elf," he said in a low voice.

"He seems harmless enough," Ryana said.

"He has a duplicitous streak," said Sorak. "He recognized Galdra, all right. He knew exactly what it was. It was as if he dared me to deny it."

"And deny it you did," she said. "So who was being duplicitous?"

"I had no wish to get into a long, drawn out debate about the legend of the Sword of Alaron and the Crown of Elves," said Sorak. "That was why I tried to dispose of Galdra in the first place."

"Well, he did not press you on the subject."

"Only because you diverted him. But he was rather easily diverted, wasn't he?"

"Maybe it's my charm," Ryana said with a smile.

"I doubt your charms would work upon the likes of him," said Sorak. "It was no accident Cricket picked him to ride with. He's probably the only male in the caravan that she can trust not to take advantage."

"Including you?" Ryana asked innocently.

"You know what I mean," said Sorak. "Still, there's something about him that bothers me. And I am not referring to his manner or his tastes."

"What then?"

Sorak shook his head. "I don't know. I wish I still had the Guardian to help me look into his mind and find out what he's really thinking."

"You really do distrust him, don't you?"

Sorak nodded. "I do not think I would want to turn my back on that one."

"Then maybe you should follow your intuition," said Ryana. "A part of you was the Guardian, remember. Maybe you cannot read his mind, but you seem to sense something about him."

"And you do not?"

She shrugged. "He seems a bit elaborate, but then he's a bard."

Sorak shook his head. "It's been an ill-omened night, all around," he said. "And I understand none of what is happening. I only know I do not like it."

"Well, there's no point in trying to go back to sleep," Ryana said. "Why don't we take a stroll around the camp and talk about it while we stretch our legs a bit? We have a long ride ahead of us."

"I have a feeling there will be trouble before it's through," said Sorak. "And something tells me Edric will be part of it." He sighed. "I just wish I knew why I felt that way, and why I had that vision. I used to wonder what it would be like not to be a tribe of one, to be just one individual, like everybody else. Well, now I am. And I've never felt so much uncertainty."

Ryana smiled. "You'll get used to it," she said. "But you must stop thinking that you've been diminished somehow by the loss of your inner tribe. They may not be with you anymore, but they were a part of you for a long time, and you shared what they knew. Remember what they taught you. And remember what you learned back at the convent. You are almost villichi, and that is no small thing."

"No, it's not," he agreed. "Thank you for reminding me."

She put her arm around him. "You're welcome. Now, tell me again about that vision, and we'll see if we can't make some sense of it."

 

*****

 

Edric did not return to his tent, as he had said he would. Instead, he furtively headed away from the cluster of tents toward the rear of the encampment. There were no guards posted back there and no fires lit, since the banks of the estuary guarded that edge of the camp. Silt monsters did not venture ashore, and the camp was well away from any habitation of giants. Neither would desert raiders attack across the silt. Raiders did not use boats; they depended on speed, and boats were slow. So all that lay in wait along the estuary shore were deep shadows in the moonlight, and as Edric approached the silt, one of those shadows moved.

Edric stopped. "Shadows have talons."

"Talons have claws," came the low response.

Edric glanced quickly over his shoulder, then hurried toward the small rock outcropping from which the voice had come. A tall, lean, dark shape rose from the ground beside the outcropping. It was an elf, dressed all in black, from head to toe. Black boots, black breeches, black tunic covered with a smooth black breastplate of kank armor, black gloves, black veil, and black hooded cloak. His sword was sheathed in a black leather scabbard, as were his knives, and the hilts of all the weaponas were black-stained pagafa wood. Even on a moonlit night, he could blend so artfully with the shadows from which his tribe took its name, the Shadows. Not even Edric would have seen him had he not moved, and if Edric had not spoken the proper phrase identifying himself, he would have been instantly, efficiently, and silently killed.

"You had no trouble getting past the guards on the flank outpost?" asked Edric softly.

The black-clad elf snorted with derision. "You must be joking. I came so close to one of them that I could have reached out and touched him, but he was none the wiser."

"When is the attack planned?" Edric asked.

"The night after the caravan leaves Grak's Pool," the black-clad elf replied. "Will they tarry long?"

Edric shook his head. "I doubt it. This captain is in a hurry to reach Altaruk. They're carrying large profits from their trip to Balic, in addition to a new shipment of cargo, and the captain's new superior is among the passengers. He is a mercenary named Kieran, journeying to Altaruk to accept a post as captain of the Jhamri House Guard."

"Does he bring troops with him?"

Edric shook his head. "No, there is only the normal complement of caravan guards and roustabouts."

The black-clad elf smirked. "They shouldn't be much trouble."

"Watch out for Kieran," Edric said. "He knows his business. You cannot miss him. He's a tall, strapping blond man who dresses in rare hides. Do not dismiss him for his flamboyant costume. He's deadly. I've seen him fight."

"A well-aimed arrow will put an end to that."

"Just be careful of him. But there's something else, perhaps even more important," Edric said. "Among the passengers is an elfling who rides with a villichi priestess."

"An elfling?"

"A half-breed/' Edric said. "Elf and halfling."

"Disgusting! I did not know such an abomination was even possible!"

"Never mind that," Edric said. "His name is Sorak. Or so he styles himself.".

"The Nomad?" said the black-clad elf.

"He may have adopted the persona from the ballad, for reasons of his own," said Edric, "but he carries a sword that has been broken, so that a little less than half its length remains. I saw it. It is made of steel."

"Steel!"

"And engraved with elven runes," said Edric, "though I was not close enough to read them."

"Are you saying it is Galdra?" the black-clad elf asked with disbelief.

"At the very least, it seems meant to pass as Galdra, though when I questioned him about it, indirectly, he said the blade was merely an old heirloom of his family, something he carries for sentimental reasons only."

"But you said it was broken."

"That could be part of his ruse," said Edric, "to explain why the enchantment does not work. According to the legend, if the Sword of Alaron is touched by a defiler, it will shatter and the enchantment will be broken."

"And the prophecy with it, I should think," the Shadow replied.

"Perhaps," said Edric. "Or perhaps not. The legend is vague upon that point."

"So this Nomad is passing himself off as the so-called Crown of Elves?"

Edric shook his head. "No, not at present, anyway. He appears to be posing as a mercenary. Perhaps he really is, I do not know. He seems to have struck up a friendship with this Kieran. But then, that would be logical, if he intends to strike a bargain with the House of Jhamri."

"What sort of bargain?"

"I am not sure," said Edric, "but I have an idea. He joined the caravan in South Ledopolus, as I did, but he came from across the estuary. I suspect he may have come from Bodach."

"Bodach!"

"Both he and the priestess carry heavy packs," said Edric. "I have not had an opportunity to examine them, but I believe it's possible they may contain some of the lost treasure."

"That would be very interesting if it were true. What makes you think so?"

"A hunch," said Edric. "I have heard some stories of this Nomad's exploits. And if those stories are true, it may be possible he has discovered the secret of the lost treasure's location. He may have gotten his hands on a small part of it, but he could never hope to remove it all alone. That would take an army.

"An army of elves, perhaps?"

"Exactly," Edric said, nodding. "And what better way to recruit such an army from among the desperate elves and half-elves of the cities than to pose as the embodiment of one of their most cherished myths? The Crown of Elves will lead an army to secure the lost treasure of Bodach and finance the coming kingdom."

"And where does the House of Jhamri fit into all of this?"

"What better custodian for the lost treasure? Who better to invest it for him?"

"Ah," the Shadow replied. "So he brings the treasure to the Jhamris, cuts them in for a share to convert it into ready assets, and then disappears with his profits."

"Those were my thoughts, precisely," Edric said.

"A bold and risky venture," said the Shadow. "Aside from the risks involved in stealing Bodach's treasure, if he proclaims himself the Crown of Elves, pretender or not, he still risks the wrath of the sorcerer kings, who would see him as a threat."

"Not if he moved quickly enough," said Edric. "If he absconded with the treasure, there would be no elvish king to threaten anyone. Merely a bold rascal who had cheated his gullible followers and then disappeared."

"A fascinating theory," said the Shadow. "But you have no proof that this is what he plans."

"Why else would he adopt so dangerous a pose?

The rewards would have to be significant. Either way, the talonmaster must be told. If the Nomad can be taken alive, we can get the truth from him. If he really does know where the lost treasure of Bodach can be found—"

"Then we can take it for ourselves," the Shadow finished. "I will pass on what you've told me. The talonmaster will decide what is to be done. Meanwhile, see what else you can learn. Do they suspect you?"

Edric snorted. "Not a chance. I have laid the groundwork for my part too well. They all discount me as an effete, limp-wristed bard en route to Altaruk to sing songs. I have even taken up with a gorgeous half-elf dancing girl, who shares a tent with me and treats me like an older sister. She does not suspect the truth, of course, and it helps maintain the fiction. However, it is all I can do to keep my hands off her. And that is another thing. She is not to be harmed in any way. Her name is Cricket, and she may have fallen on hard times, but she was tribal once."

"I will make it known," the Shadow replied with a smile. "So, Edric, have you lost your heart, then? I did not think you even had one."

"Keep your jests to yourself, little brother. If you saw her, you would understand."

"No doubt. I am looking forward to it."

"Well, I'd best get back," said Edric. "It will soon be sunrise, and we will making ready to get under way. I will look for you at Grak's Pool tomorrow night."

"Until tomorrow then, my brother." They clasped arms, and Edric headed back toward camp. He glanced back over his shoulder once. His brother had disappeared. Edric smiled. No one moved as silently or as swiftly as the Shadows. And no one was more adept at espionage, assassination or intrigue.

The Crown of Elves? The elfling half-breed who called himself the Nomad would soon discover what a real elf was, not the pathetic, weak-willed elves who lived among the humans in their cities or the half-savage desert wanderers the remaining tribal elves had now become, but elves who still retained the former glory of their ancestors and bowed to no one save the grand master of the talons. The Shadows would teach the Nomad a lesson he would not soon forget—assuming he survived it.

Chapter Nine

It was about two hours before sunset when they reached Grak's Pool, a small oasis roughly midway between South Ledopolus and Altaruk. For a "fast" caravan, their progress seemed annoyingly slow to Sorak. If this was how a fast caravan traveled, he could easily do without the experience of a slow one.

Of course, he reminded himself, it was an unusually large caravan. A smaller one would have made much better time. However, they would still have needed to stop several hours before sunset to make camp and unload all the cargo, then feed the kanks and crodlu while the cookfires were lit and the guard outposts were established. And while it wouldn't have taken a smaller caravan quite so long to get started in the morning, they would still have needed to take down all the tents and roll them up, then load them with the cargo, take a head count of the guards and roustabouts to make sure none had deserted in the night—not that there was anything to be done about it if they had—get the kanks fed once again and line up the formation, then send outriders ahead before moving out behind them. And then, of course, there was the midday break...

They averaged between fifteen and twenty miles a day, depending on the terrain. Good time, all things considered. The caravan route was not a road, of course; it was merely familiar terrain. Yet, in the Athasian desert, the exact features of the terrain were never quite the same from one trip to another. Windstorms and monsoons worked changes on the landscape, and an area that had been easily passable three weeks earlier could be crisscrossed with windblown dunes or washes. Rarely did their course take them in a straight line. Considering his task, the caravan captain was doing an outstanding job. Even Kieran seemed impressed, though his presence was doubtless a strong incentive for achievement.

Grak's Pool was more than merely an oasis. According to The Wanderer's Journal, it was a vital stop along the caravan route, the only place between South Ledopolus and Altaruk where they could take on water. But the water wasn't free.

There was a settlement of sorts at the oasis, a large mud-brick fortress that was home to about fifty mercenaries under the command of an enterprising half-elf named Grak, who had established the remote stronghold and laid claim to the oasis. The number of mercenaries in residence at the fortress varied; they came and went. Grak did not sign them to any contracts. Neither did he pay them. What Grak provided was a haven for fighting men of all types and descriptions, a place where they could find free accommodations, albeit of a rough sort, without any questions asked. And since his stronghold controlled an oasis on a busy caravan route, it attracted mercenaries in search of work, as well as criminals on the run from the authorities in one city or another. Grak cared nothing about who his men were or where they came from. Whether soldier or outlaw—sometimes both—they were welcome to stay as long as they accepted his authority. But anyone who challenged that authority found that the penalties could be draconian in the extreme.

As they passed through the heavy wooden gates in the outer wall, Kieran rode up beside Sorak and Ryana.

"If you have anything of value, such as weapons, coins, or jewels, keep it close to hand," he cautioned them. "I shouldn't think we would have anything to fear from Grak's men, but there are those among them who are light-fingered. And the caravan guard will be too busy keeping an eye on the cargo to spare much attention for the passengers. If anything is stolen from you, complaints here will be of no avail."

"Thank you, we'll keep that in mind," said Sorak.

"There will be some limited accommodations in the fortress for the passengers," said Kieran. "If you wish to bathe or sleep in a bed rather than your bedroll, it will cost you a copper or two, but I'd advise against it. The attendants will doubtless go through your clothing and possessions while you bathe, unless you keep them within sight, and even that is no guarantee. Some of these people could steal the hair right out of your nose. And the beds are liable to be lice-ridden."

"How charming," said Ryana. "What's the alternative?"

"We will make camp by the pool, within the outer walls, and pitch our tents and light our cook-fires. There is a tavern in the main building of the fortress, and we can pay it a visit if you like, but I would recommend keeping one hand on your purse and another on your weapon. If you like, you may leave your packs within the captain's tent. He will remain within the camp along with the guards on duty. Your belongings will be safe with him. It would be a great embarrassment to him if I asked him to watch your things and something turned up missing."

"Yes, I imagine so," said Sorak with a smile. "But perhaps it would be best if we simply remained within the camp."

"Suit yourself," said Kieran, "but you may find it interesting. I intend to go pay my respects to old Grak. I haven't seen the rogue in years, and he's an entertaining scoundrel. Few things go on in these parts that he is not aware of. He will be sure to have all the latest news from Altaruk."

"Well, in that case, you should go," Ryana said. "I'll remain in the camp with our things. I would just as soon rest, anyhow."

After they made camp, Sorak accompanied Kieran to the main building of the fortress. It was situated on a small rise, just above the pool of the oasis in the center of the walled enclosure. It was a large, rectangular, three-story structure, like an elongated keep, constructed of roughly mortared brick with four open sentry towers at each corner of the building. The narrow, rectangular windows had heavy wooden shutters, and the large front doors were made of thick wooden planks. It was the crudest of workmanship, but appeared very sound and solid.

The main hall of the keep had been turned into a tavern, with crudely made wood tables and benches placed all around the large, open chamber. The floor was rough, mortared stone and there a long bar lined the far left side of the room. Torches in blackened sconces and thick candles on the tables lit the place. Scantily-clad human and half-elf serving wenches circulated through the crowded room, carrying trays of drinks and food. Kieran stopped one of them and asked for Grak. The half-elf server pointed out his table, set against the back wall.

Grak was seated among a group of travelers and mercenaries, holding court. He was an immense man, especially for someone with elven blood.

Elves were usually tall and lean, but Grak was part human, and the most human thing about him was clearly his appetite. He stood about six feet tall and weighed at least three hundred pounds, but there was a solid layer of muscle underneath the fat. His arms were thick and powerful, his chest barrel shaped, his shoulders wide and muscular, his neck thick and strong. Most half-elves could not grow facial hair, but Grak had a luxuriant mustache, the ends of which dangled below his chin. He had sharply arched eyebrows like an elf, but they were uncharacteristically thick and bushy. His iron gray hair hung down almost to his waist in two thick braids from below a well-worn, wide-brimmed leather hat of janx hide. He wore a old brown leather vest over his bare chest, which was covered with gray hairs and festooned with amulets. He barked out a sharp laugh when he saw them approaching.

"Hah! Look what the wind blew in!"

"Hello, Grak, you old scoundrel," Kieran said in a friendly tone. "You grow uglier each time I see you."

"And you grow prettier," said Grak good-naturedly. "You were but a fetching girl, and now you've grown into a fine and handsome woman! Put a dress on you, and you've got a strapping countess! Gith's blood, it's good to see you! Sit down, sit down. Make room, you dolts, make room for Kieran of Draj!"

At the mention of his name, the other mercenaries at the table gazed at him with interest and respect. As they sat down, Grak flagged down a serving wench.

"Drusilla! Bring two tankards of ale for my friends!"

"Water for me, please," Sorak said.

"Water?" Grak said, scandalized. "Water?"

"If you don't mind," said Sorak. "I have no taste for ale or wine."

"Strange company you keep," Grak said to Kieran. He turned back to Drusilla. "Water for this youngster, who's not learned to drink like a man."

"He may not drink like a man, but he fights like one," said Kieran. "He slew two giants, one with a bow, one with his blade. This is Sorak, my new lieutenant. Sorak, meet Grak, an old compatriot of mine."

They clasped forearms across the table. Grak's hand was a vice. "Sorak, eh?" He looked him over. "You have elvish blood, but uncommon features for a half-elf."

"That is because I am an elfling," Sorak said. "My mother was a elf, my father a halfling."

"So. I have heard of only one such rarity. You must be the one called the Nomad."

"That is the elvish meaning of my name," said Sorak.

"The word is you're a troublemaker," Grak said. "Is that true?"

"I suppose it would depend on who relates the word," Sorak replied.

Grak chuckled. "Well spoken. I see you've found yourself a lieutenant with a reputation, Kieran."

"So it would seem," Kieran replied, "though I was not aware of that when we first met. I hired him because of his abilities. Unlike you, Grak, my friend does not regale everybody within earshot with tales of his exploits."

"Hah! You should have more respect for your elders, stripling," Grak replied. He turned to Sorak. "They say you bear a most unusual blade," he said. "Might I see it?"

Sorak hesitated, then drew the sword he had been given by Valsavis and placed it on the table before him. Grak glanced at it and frowned. "That is not the blade I heard described," he said.

Sorak simply shrugged.

"It is the only one I have ever seen him carry," Kieran said.

Grak pursed his lips, thoughtfully. "Well, perhaps the stories were mistaken," he said.

"I have yet to hear any of these stories," Kieran said, glancing at Sorak.

"I thought you said a man's past was of no consequence to you," said Sorak.

"True enough," said Kieran. "But I must admit to being curious."

"You have no other blade?" asked Grak.

Sorak shrugged again. "Only short ones," he replied truthfully, feeling Galdra tucked into his belt at his side, concealed by his cloak.

"Hmm," said Grak. "Strange. My sources are seldom wrong."

"Speaking of your sources," Kieran said, "what do you hear of the goings on in Altaruk?"

"You have business there?"

"I have accepted the post of captain of the house guard for Jhamri," Kieran said.

Grak raised his eyebrows with surprise. "You? Isn't that a bit beneath your capabilities? Besides, I had heard you were retired."

"Their offer was most generous," said Kieran. "I found I was unable to refuse."

"They must have paid you a king's ransom," Grak replied. He frowned. "Now why would they want to do that, I wonder? They could easily have found men qualified for such a post for much less money than they must have offered you."

"I was wondering the same thing myself."

"Curious," said Grak. "I cannot imagine why they would have wanted you for such a post except for bragging rights. And Lord Jhamri scarcely needs to brag. His recent partnership agreement with the House of Ankhor, bringing that house into subservience to his, makes his the most powerful merchant house in Altaruk, and one of the largest on the Tablelands."

"Lord Ankhor is now a partner with the House of Jhamri?" Sorak said.

"A junior partner, yes."

"I see," said Sorak.

"What is it?" Kieran asked, noting the expression on his face.

Sorak cleared his throat. "I think it would be wise if you found yourself another second-in-command."

Kieran frowned. "Why? You have some grievance against Lord Ankhor?"

"More likely, he has a grievance against me," Sorak replied. "We had occasion to meet several times before. The first time, I saved him from being cheated by a cardsharp in a Tyrian gaming house. But the last time we met, I stole a princess from his caravan."

"Hah! A daughter of the Royal House of Nibenay!" said Grak, slamming his fist down onto the table. "That story is true, then!"

"You did what?" asked Kieran. He glanced from Sorak to Grak and back again.

"Have you never heard the Ballad of the Nomad?" Grak asked him. "Where have you been? It is being sung by every elven bard across the Tablelands!"

"I'd like to find the one who sang it first," said Sorak with a grimace.

"How goes this ballad?" Kieran asked.

"I would be glad to sing it for you," Edric said, coming up to their table with Cricket on his arm. "Assuming I would be allowed to pass my hat, of course."

"Whatever they may offer you, I will pay you double not to sing it," Sorak said.

"Well, now I am intrigued," said Kieran.

"I must admit, that is the first time anyone has ever offered to pay me not to sing," said Edric with amusement. "I think I should feel insulted."

"Grak, allow me to present one of our passengers, Edric the Bard, late of South Ledopolus, and Cricket, whose beauty is surpassed only by her skill at dancing."

Edric bowed, and Cricket curtsied gracefully.

"Well now, I would much rather see her dance than hear him sing," said Grak.

"Now that is one sentiment I can wholly understand," said Edric. "Allow me, then, to make the choice a simpler one. I shall briefly summarize the story of the ballad, for the benefit of our friend Kieran, and then perhaps Cricket will honor us with a performance."

"Done!" said Grak. "But make the tale short,/; good bard, so that we may get on with the dancing."

Edric sighed and glanced at Cricket. "A warm-up act again," he said with resignation. "Well, if I could trouble you for some libation with which to lubricate my throat...."

Grak bellowed for a tankard of ale, which arrived promptly, and Edric began to tell the story of the ballad, glancing around at all of them, but paying particular attention to Sorak.

"The first few verses of the ballad retell the tale of the fall of Alaron and the dissolution of the elven kingdom," he began. "Alaron, the last king of all the elves, was said to bear a magic sword of elven steel. Its name was Galdra, and no other weapon could withstand it. In the hands of the true king, it would cause even steel to shatter. Upon his death, Alaron gave the sword to a shapechanger for safekeeping, to keep it from the hands of the defilers, whose touch would cause the magic blade to break and shatter its enchantment.

'One day,' said Akron with his dying breath, 'a future king will come to reunite the elves, and when that hero appears, then he will bear the sword.'

"Many years then passed," Edric continued, "and the elves fell into decadence. The story of Alaron and his enchanted blade became remembered only as a myth. Until, one day, a wanderer appeared, a nomad from the Ringing Mountains, a pilgrim who bore a sword the like of which no one had ever seen. It was made of elven steel, the crafting of which had been lost for centuries, and it had a curved hilt wrapped with silver wire. The blade itself was curved, as well, forged in a shape that combined the forms of a cutlass and a falchion, and on that blade, engraved in elven runes, was the legend, 'Strong in spirit, true in temper, forged in faith.'

"The ballad then goes on to tell some of the exploits of this wanderer," Edric continued, watching Sorak as he spoke. "It tells of how he foiled a defiler plot to seize the government in Tyr, and how he saved the city from a plague of undead. Then it tells of how he set off across the Tablelands, in company with a beautiful villichi priestess, and of how he stole a princess of the Royal House of Nibenay from a nobleman who was holding her against her will. Having taken the vows of a preserver, this daughter of Nibenay had been exiled by her father and had appealed to our hero to rescue her and return her to her home. This the Nomad did, taking her across the dreaded Stony Barrens, which no man had ever crossed before. The nobleman pursued him and the Nomad slew him in fair combat, then brought the princess back to Nibenay, where she joined the Veiled Alliance to help them carry on their war against her father's templars.

"In retaliation, the Shadow King sent an army of half-giants to destroy the Nomad, but he fought them valiantly and made good his escape, disappearing from the city and mysteriously vanishing into the desert with his beautiful villichi priestess by his side.

"What has become of him? Is he, indeed, the Crown of Elves, which the legend has foretold? Will he be the one to reunite the tribes and return them to their former glory? Has the age-old prophecy come true at last? Throughout the world, defilers tremble. And among all the elves of Athas, spirits rise in hope. They all look for the wanderer who calls himself the Nomad, and wonder where he will next appear. And so the ballad ends, on a tantalizing note of mystery and questions unresolved. But it really does play rather better when sung."

"Well, well," said Kieran, gazing at Sorak with look of both interest and amusement. "I had no idea I had recruited such a celebrated figure. At the price, it seems I got a bargain."

Sorak sighed and shook his head. "Bards have to sing of something, I suppose. And imagination is their stock in trade. They seize upon some small thing and exaggerate it out of all proportion."

"Mmm," said Kieran with a look of mock disappointment. "Pity. I have never had a king for a subordinate."

"So then the story is untrue?" asked Cricket, staring at him intently. "As we approached I thought I overheard something about your stealing a princess from a caravan."

"Yes, I'd like to hear more about that," said Kieran.

"I'd like to see the lady dance!" said Grak, smashing his fist down on the tabletop.

"There is no music," Cricket said.

"It just so happens I have brought my harp," said Edric, producing it from beneath his cloak. "For a small sum, I could be induced to play."

Grak threw a handful of copper coins onto the table. "For your music, bard," he said, "and for the song we cheated you of singing. And now, my lady, we shall see you dance." He stood up and bellowed for silence. "My friends! My friends! We have a lovely lady who will dance for us! Make room!"

Tables and benches were quickly cleared from the center of the room, and as Cricket took her place inside the circle they created, everyone in the tavern crowded around. As Edric plucked out chords on his harp, she began a slow, sinuous dance. Sorak took the opportunity to slip away.

He cursed Edric as he left the building and headed back for camp. It had seemed as if the bard had been purposely taunting him by telling the story of the ballad. He hadn't cared about singing Sorak realized. He had just wanted to recite the story so that he could see his reaction.

They had not even reached Altaruk yet and already things were going wrong. Lord Ankhor had entered into partnership with the House of Jhamri... from whose caravan he had helped Princess Korahna escape. As a result, they had been pursued across the Stony Barrens by the Viscount Torian, Lord Ankhor's friend and business partner, and far from slaying him in single combat, Sorak had, at best, an indirect role in his death. Rather than submit to defeat, Torian had taken his own life, to deny Sorak the final victory. However, the only ones who knew that were Sorak and Ryana and the Princess Korahna herself, who had witnessed it.

When Korahna had returned to Nibenay and joined the Veiled Alliance, the members of that underground resistance movement could not have failed to see the potential benefits in making it known that a princess of the Royal House of Nibenay had taken the vows of a preserver and joined them in their struggle. The daughter of a dragon king, betraying her own father, made for a valuable weapon in their arsenal. They must have spread the story, and from that, some bard had been inspired to compose the Ballad of the Nomad—to Sorak's everlasting regret.

He stopped by a spreading pagafa tree on a small rise overlooking the pool of the oasis. The tents of the caravan were pitched there, just a short distance away, and the cookfires were lit. Ryana was down there, resting, watching their packs and waiting for him to return. She had such faith in him. She had left the convent for his sake, broken her vows for his sake, faced all manner of danger and hardship for his sake. She trusted him and believed he knew what he was doing. He wished he shared that trust.

"What do you want from me, Grandfather?" he murmured as he leaned back against the tree. "What am I supposed to do? Put a sword in my hand and give me an opponent. That I can deal with; that I can understand. But this game of intrigue..." He shook his head. "I do not even understand the rules."

The jolt hit him suddenly with a force that made his head spin. His vision blurred, and if he had not been leaning back against the tree trunk, he would have fallen. He spun around, clutching at the tree trunk for support as everything started to spin. The walled enclosure surrounding the oasis vanished. The tents disappeared from view. The quarter moons cast a dim light over the darkness of the desert as the watchfires of the camp burned low. In the distance, perhaps thirty or forty miles away, rose the foothills of the Estuary Mountains, curving gradually to the northwest. The caravan was no more than a day's journey from Altaruk.

He saw the guards sitting at their posts, gathered around their watchfire, tossing dice. Then, abruptly, one of them jerked and clutched at his neck as a black arrow sprouted from his throat. Another rose quickly to his feet, only to be felled instantly by an arrow through his chest. A third cried out an alarm and started running toward the camp, but before he had run four steps, an arrow struck him between the shoulder blades, and he fell sprawling, facedown on the ground.

From out of the darkness, like specters in the night, Sorak saw them come, black-clad riders in dark robes thundering out of the night on their crodlu, their jet-black kank armor gleaming in the moonlight.

"Sorak!"

His vision blurred as he saw them descend on the camp, dozens of them, riding at top speed—

"Sorak! Sorak, what is it? What's the matter?"

He was lying on the ground, at the base of the pagafa tree, and as his vision focused, he saw Kieran crouching over him, looking down at him with concern.

"Sorak, are you all right? What is it?"

He swallowed hard and took several deep breaths as Kieran helped him up to a sitting position.

"Sorak?"

"I am all right now," Sorak said. His head ached, and he felt a slight residual dizziness.

"What happened? Are you ill?" asked Kieran.

"We are going to be attacked," said Sorak.

"Attacked? When? By whom?"

"Tomorrow night, I think," said Sorak. "Raiders. Dressed in black... I... I saw them. I saw it happen."

Kieran stared at him, then nodded. "Very well, then. We'll be prepared for them."

"You believe me?" Sorak asked with surprise.

"I have learned not to question someone with the gift of Sight," Kieran replied.

"How did you know?" asked Sorak, startled.

"I have seen this sort of thing before," said Kieran, helping him to his feet. "General Trajian of Draj employed a soothsayer with the Sight. He never knew when it would come upon him, but when it did, he reacted much as you. And his visions were never false. You know, my friend, I am beginning to believe the stories of that ballad are not far exaggerated. I was going to speak with you about that."

"Is that why you followed me?" asked Sorak. "I am flattered. Not many men would pass up an opportunity to watch Cricket dance just to talk with me."

Kieran grinned. "I notice that you passed it up. You left rather suddenly."

"I had no wish to answer questions about that ridiculous ballad," Sorak said.

"Not so ridiculous* I think," said Kieran, pulling aside Sorak's cloak to reveal Galdra tucked into his belt. "The blade is broken, yet otherwise it matches the description, right down to the inscription. The runes for 'Strong in spirit' remain."

Sorak glanced at him with surprise. "You can read elvish?"

"And I can speak it, fluently," said Kieran. "I also know dwarven. And I speak a smattering of halfling. A knowledge of languages can be a great benefit in my trade."

"I am impressed," said Sorak.

"That is Galdra, is it not?" asked Kieran. "I am familiar with the elven prophecy."

Sorak merely nodded.

"So," said Kieran. "Elven steel. I have heard of it, but never seen it before. May I?"

Sorak drew the blade and handed it to him. As he touched it, a sparkling blue aura briefly played around its edge, but when Kieran put his hand upon the hilt, it faded.

"It still holds magic," Kieran said, staring at it with fascination. "And I have never seen so fine a blade, with the steel folded so many times.... How did it break?"

"A defiler touched it," Sorak said. "That part of the legend was true."

"I take it the individual concerned is now no longer with us," Kieran said.

"No," said Sorak. "I bear his blade now." He drew the sword he had earlier shown Grak and the others. "He bid me take it as he died."

"A gallant gesture," Kieran said. "That does not sound much like a defiler."

"He was a defiler only by association," Sorak explained. "A soldier like yourself, but in the service of the Shadow King. In some ways, he was an admirable man. In others, one to be despised. He was no longer young, but he still had the strength often, and he was the finest swordsman I have ever seen."

"Valsavis," Kieran said.

Sorak shook his head. "You never cease to surprise me," he said. "How could you possibly have known?"

Kieran smiled. "I am a professional, my friend. And, by reputation, whether deserved or not, one of the finest blades alive. Valsavis was the other. The Shadow King's personal assassin. Oh, I knew of him, all right, but I never met the man. I had always wondered which of us would be the best. I suppose now I shall never know. But you... you bested him?"

"It was hardly a fair fight," said Sorak. "He was gravely wounded when we fought, and he had lost a hand. Despite that, I was still no match for him. I was merely lucky."

"I would like to know how lucky," Kieran said. "We shall have to cross swords sometime, in practice. But in the meantime, there are some other questions I would ask."

"Certainly," said Sorak.

"If you truly are the Crown of Elves, why accept a post as soldier of a merchant house?"

Sorak shook his head. "I never claimed to be a king of any sort, and have no wish to be. Galdra was a gift to me from the high mistress of the villichi, into whose safekeeping it was given by a pyreen many years ago. If she knew of the elven prophecy, and if her gift was prompted by it, she never mentioned it to me. And once the blade was broken, I had no further use for it. It served me well, but came with weighty baggage. I threw it into a deep pool at an oasis not long before we met. And the other day, it magically returned to me. It seems I'm stuck with it. As for why I took the job you offered me, I had to get to Altaruk, and it seemed a good way to be in the center of things."

"I see. And what takes you to Altaruk?"

"I cannot say."

"Cannot or will not?" Kieran asked.

"I have no wish to lie to you," said Sorak. "I must go to Altaruk in the name of the preserver cause, but beyond that, I know nothing. And do not ask me how I know I must go. That I will not tell you."

Kieran nodded. "Frankly spoken." He gave Sorak back the blade, and as Sorak touched it, it briefly glowed. "So. Where does that leave us?"

"I suppose you will require a new second-in-command," said Sorak.

"You have not yet even begun your duties. Are you resigning already?"

Sorak frowned. "But... surely, now that you know—"

"I have heard nothing to make me think I made an error in offering you the post. If you no longer want it, that is another matter. And if what you must do in Altaruk places us at cross purposes, I will trust you to resign at that time. If I should be placed in a position where I must do something in response, I will promise you twenty-four hours before I act. Do I have your hand upon it?"

Sorak gave him his hand. "I hope the day when we are at cross purposes never comes."

"So do I," said Kieran. "Now, tell me more about this vision that you had just now."

Sorak described what he had seen, in as much detail as he could recall. When he was finished, Kieran nodded.

"Dressed in black from head to toe, eh? With black breastplates and black arrows. You are sure about the arrows?"

Sorak nodded. "Is that important?"

"It is the trademark of the Shadows," he said.

"Who are the Shadows?" Sorak asked.

"You do not know? I am surprised. It is a tribe of elves, one of the oldest in existence, but the Shadows are no ordinary tribe of nomads. Once, many years ago, they were, but they have since evolved into a society as dark and secret as their name. Little is known about them, other than that they are masters of espionage, extortion, theft, and assassination. Especially assassination. They are divided into groups called talons, each led by a talonmaster. Each talonmaster commands a group of subcommanders known as shadowmasters, each of whom leads a smaller group known as a claw. Each claw has its own specialty. Some claws are devoted solely to magic, others to theft, assassination, raiding.... And in command of all is the grand shadowmaster. Who that may be is anybody's guess. If the raiders you saw in your vision are indeed Shadows, we'll have our hands full."

"Perhaps Grak may be of help," said Sorak.

Kieran snorted. "Oh, I doubt that," he said. "I would not even bother asking."

"But he is a friend of yours," said Sorak.

"An old acquaintance," Kieran corrected him. "But Grak's first loyalty was and always shall be to Grak. He might consider lending us some mercenaries to escort us into Altaruk, but he would insist on a share of the cargo in payment, and I am not authorized to make such a bargain. I doubt Lord Jhamri would approve."

"Would he rather lose the entire shipment?"

"No, he would rather I protect it," Kieran said. "And it would make a poor beginning if I started my new job by admitting I could not do it properly, which is how he would see it. No, we shall have to take care of this ourselves."

"You may count on me," said Sorak. "And on Ryana."

"I did not doubt that." Kieran frowned. "The Shadows are a cut above ordinary raiders," he said. "And even common raiders usually attempt to place at least one agent in a caravan, to learn the nature of the cargo and the disposition of the guards."

"Edric!" Sorak said abruptly.

"The bard?"

"I had a strong intuition about him from the start," said Sorak. "I thought, at first, I just disliked him, but I could not help feeling he was up to something."

"You may be right," said Kieran. "He joined the caravan in South Ledopolus, and who would suspect a mincing bard traveling with a dancer? You think Cricket may be in on it as well?"

Sorak shook his head. "I don't know. Somehow I doubt it."

"Well, there is one way to find out," said Kieran. "Let us go see your friend, the priestess. If you're right, we'll know for sure before the night is out."

Chapter Ten

It was shortly before dawn when they saw Edric leave his tent and make for the oasis pool. He walked casually, with no appearance of stealth, sauntering slowly with his cloak draped over his shoulders and a short clay pipe clamped between his teeth. He looked as if he had simply risen early and was out to enjoy a short walk and a smoke and refresh himself at the pool. Sorak and Kieran followed at a distance, staying low and keeping to the shadows, mindful of the fact that elves had good night vision.

If Edric was concerned about being watched, he gave no outward sign. He simply continued down the slight slope to the pool, where he stopped by a stand of pagafa trees and broom bush at the water's edge. He crouched and gently tapped out his pipe with the heel of his palm, then set it on the ground beside him. On his knees, he leaned forward with hands cupped and splashed some water onto his face, then dried off with his sleeve, took a drink, and sat back to refill his pipe from a small, rolled pouch. Just an early riser taking his ease.

"There!" whispered Sorak, grasping Kieran's upper arm as they lay beside each other on the ground, watching from about thirty yards away. He pointed. "By the broom bush. Do you see?"

Kieran shook his head. "Your elfling eyes are better than my mine," he said in a low voice. "What do you see?"

"A dark form crouches in the bushes to the bard's right," Sorak said. "Well concealed, but I can just make him out. Edric isn't looking at him, but I think they're talking."

"As I thought," said Kieran. "A final conference before the attack."

"Very bold," said Sorak. "The raider managed to get inside the walls and sneak right up to the camp."

"Not as bold as you may think," said Kieran. "Grak will allow anyone within the walls, so long as they pay the toll and cause no trouble. He probably came in just after we arrived and mingled with the crowd."

"There, he's moved," said Sorak. "Can you see him now?"

Kieran squinted, staring intently. "Yes, I see him now. But if I didn't know just where to look, I'd never spot him. He's a Shadow, all right. He'll probably leave right after we depart and ride out to join his friends."

"You want to take him?"

Kieran shook his head. "No, let him go. If we take him now, the Shadows will know we've been alerted. That might prevent the attack, but I doubt it. You saw it in your vision. And unless your vision played you false, that means it will take place. Better to let them think they still have the advantage of surprise. Come on, we've seen what we came to see. You were right about the bard. We'd best go see the captain and make plans to receive our visitors."

They made their way back to the tents and found the captain already up and dressed, having a light breakfast of herbal tea and bread spread with kank honey before starting his morning tasks of preparing the caravan. He rose to his feet at once as they entered the tent, but Kieran waved him back down.

"Sit down, Captain, please," he said. "Do not let us interrupt your breakfast."

"Is something wrong, sir?" the man asked anxiously, as he resumed his seat.

"We are going to be attacked by the Shadows tonight."

"Gith's blood!" the captain swore. "The Shadows!"

"Lower your voice," said Kieran calmly. "We have been infiltrated. The bard, Edric, is one of their agents. There may be others. How well do you know your men?"

"I have had the same crew for close to a year now," the captain replied, "and some have been with me even longer. I trust them, but I cannot speak for the passengers."

"They can be watched," said Kieran. "However, there may be some last minute additions. Anyone who books passage this morning must be especially suspect."

"Then we'll take no passengers from here."

Kieran shook his head. "No, that would not be wise. There would be no reason to refuse except that we may be expecting trouble. Accept anyone who wants to go, but point them out to me."

"Understood," the captain said. "How do you wish me to proceed?"

"Your crew seems efficient," Kieran said. "We'll tell them nothing until we make camp tonight. But in the meantime, I want you to select half a dozen mercenaries and inform them individually during the day. They shall report to me at the midday stop. Now, here is what we are going to do...."

 

*****

 

By midday, the caravan approached the northern tip of the Estuary Mountain range. The broad Estuary of the Forked Tongue thrust deep into the desert Tablelands from the Sea of Silt, curving slightly from the coast and terminating roughly two hundred miles inland, just a few miles east of the Estuary Mountains. Where the mountain range straddled the estuary, it formed a small valley in a natural pocket, with a pass leading through the mountains to the west. It was in this small valley that Altaruk stood.

"From here on in," said Kieran as they rode together at the head of the formation, "we will be traveling with the estuary on our right flank and the mountains on our left, which makes the terrain ideally suited to an attack."

Sorak nodded. "By late afternoon, the mountains to our left will cast shadows toward us. Together with the rolling terrain of the foothills, that will make any approaching party difficult spot. By nightfall, even if the moons were full-and tonight, they won't be—there will be little visibility."

"Precisely," Kieran said. "That means the outriders will not be able to range far from the camp without exposing themselves to danger, but bringing them in closer reduces their effectiveness."

"There seems no point in exposing the outriders," Sorak replied. "They could be ambushed before giving the alarm. It would be wise to bring them in. That way, they will not be so exposed and shall be more useful when the attack comes."

"Good thinking," Kieran said, nodding. "Did you happen to notice that three new passengers joined us at Grak's Pool?"

"Mercenaries," Sorak said. "One half-elf and two humans. But tribal elves do not accept half-breeds, and certainly not humans."

Kieran shook his head. "No, these are merely hired blades. I asked Grak about them before we left. They arrived at the oasis the day before we did. And they came in from the north, which means from Altaruk. They're going back the way they came. No one comes to Grak's Pool just for a short visit."

"It does seem rather a long way to go for a drink," said Sorak.

"Especially when Altaruk offers much better entertainment," Kieran said. "So, it seems we shall have at least four people to take into custody." He smiled. "I do hope they resist."

"What do you want me to do?" Ryana asked.

"I appreciate the offer of assistance, my lady," Kieran said. "We will require every fighter we have to ward off the attack, for we do not know how many raiders to expect. With any luck, we may learn that information shortly, but the safety of the passengers must be considered. And for all we know, there may yet be other infiltrators among them. To guard against that possibility, and to keep the others safe from harm, I would like to place you in charge of the roustabouts who will be protecting them. They are a hardy lot, but there's not a trained fighter among them."

"Some might resent taking orders from a woman," said Ryana.

"If any of them are fool enough to question the abilities of a villichi priestess," Kieran said, "then you have my wholehearted encouragement to point out the error of their thinking."

Ryana grinned. "I would be happy to."

As they stopped for their midday break, the outriders came in, and six of them came at once to Kieran. He quickly instructed them in what they were to do. As the passengers dismounted, the outriders quickly closed in on the three mercenaries who had joined the caravan that morning. Two of them took each of the three, disarmed them, and took them into custody. It was all done so quickly and efficiently that the three men never had a chance to put up a struggle. As they were being taken, Sorak and Kieran positioned themselves close to Edric, and Ryana stood by to watch Cricket, just in case.

Edric showed only the barest flicker of alarm when the three mercenaries were seized, then quickly got himself under control and turned to Kieran with a frown. "What's happening?" he asked. "What have these men done?"

"Oh, nothing—yet," Kieran replied casually. "We are merely taking your confederates into custody as a preventive measure."

Edric frowned. "My what?"

"Exactly how many Shadows may we expect in the attack tonight?" asked Kieran conversationally.

"I do not understand," said Edric, trying to brazen it out. "Shadow elves? Attack?"

"Save your breath, friend," said Kieran. "We witnessed your rendezvous this morning."

"There must be some mistake," said Edric. "I met no one this morning. I had merely gone to the pool to—" Even as he spoke, Edric launched a fast kick at Kieran's privates. Kieran managed to twist aside slightly, but Edric still caught him a glancing blow and Kieran doubled over in pain. But before the bard could do anything more, Sorak was on him, wrestling him to the ground. A moment later, two of the caravan guards joined in, pinning him down. They raised the struggling bard to his feet and one placed a knife against his throat, ending his resistance.

Gritting his teeth, Kieran straightened up, still smarting from the blow. Had the kick caught him squarely on target, there was no question that it would have incapacitated him. "I must be getting slow," he said, his voice strained. He gave Edric a look of withering contempt, and then turned to gaze briefly at the three captured mercenaries. "Now," he said, "I am going to ask you four some questions. If you cooperate, you can spare yourselves some pain, but I promise you, I will get answers, one way or another."

The caravan guards led their captives away as the passengers stood around, murmuring among themselves.

Wide-eyed, Cricket turned to Ryana in confusion.

"I don't understand," she said. "Why have they taken Edric and those men? What have they done?"

"You pretend you do not know?" Ryana said.

"But I do not know!" Cricket protested. "I have no idea!"

Her confusion and concern seemed genuine. "The Shadows plan to attack the caravan tonight," Ryana said. "Edric was their spy, and the others his confederates."

"But... that cannot be!" said Cricket. "I know Edric! We worked together at the Damsel! You were there! Surely, you must have seen him!"

"How long did he work at the Desert Damsel before the caravan came to South Ledopolus?" Ryana asked.

"Why... a week or so."

"And before?"

Cricket shook her head. "I do not know."

"He arrived in town and established his identity as a wandering bard," Ryana said. "That provided a good cover for him when he joined the caravan. You were part of it. He used you."

Cricket did not want to believe it. She shook her head. "No, you must be mistaken. What proof do you have?"

"There is no mistake," Ryana said. "Sorak and Kieran both saw him meet in secret with one of the raiders at Grak's Pool shortly before dawn this morning. He was doubtless informing him of the strength and disposition of our guard and what type of cargo we carry. He and the other three who joined us this morning were to strike at us from within when the attack occurred. They would have killed the cargo guards and handlers and driven off the beasts, then probably taken hostages among the passengers."

Cricket shook her head with dismay. "Then it was all a lie," she said in a dull voice. "His friendship, everything he told me.... Just when I had finally met a man I thought I could trust...."

"I'm sorry, Cricket," said Ryana, putting a hand on her shoulder in sympathy.

Cricket shook it off. "Leave me alone."

 

*****

 

Accompanied by a squad of the caravan guard, Kieran and Sorak led the captives away from the others, going off a distance and down a slope toward the bank of the estuary. The four prisoners were bound securely, their hands behind their backs. When they reached the shore of the estuary, Kieran signaled the guards to push the captives to a sitting position on the ground. Edric looked perfectly calm and composed, but the other three were clearly frightened. They were painfully aware that they were completely at the mercy of their captors.

"Now, I do not wish to waste time," said Kieran, turning to face them. He glanced over his shoulder at the sluggish brown silt. "I will ask one question. If I do not get an answer, or one that satisfies me, I will have one of you thrown into the silt, and we'll watch him drown. I will leave your legs free, so I imagine you will be able to stay up for at least a few moments, but a few moments is all you'll have before you get sucked down. Drowning in silt is not a pleasant experience. When the first of you is gone, I'll ask a question of the second. And so forth, until I have the answers I want."

Two of the mercenaries immediately began protesting that they didn't know anything beyond what they were told to do. The third simply started sobbing and wet himself. Edric alone remained calm and silent. Kieran fixed him with a steady gaze. "I'll save you for last."

"I have no wish to die or suffer pain," said Edric, meeting his gaze steadily. "These three hirelings are telling you the truth. They know nothing beyond their assigned tasks when the attack takes place. I have the information you want, but how do I know you will not kill me anyway as soon as I divulge it?"

"You do not," said Kieran. "But you know I will kill you if you say nothing."

Edric smiled wryly. "I readily concede the point," he said. "Very well then, I'll do my best to bargain from a poor position. What do you wish to know?"

 

*****

 

The watchfires created small, bright spots of illumination around the camp as midnight approached. The cookfires by the tents had burned down to embers, and all was still. The outriders had been pulled in earlier, even before the caravan had camped. As the shadows lengthened in the afternoon, they were brought closer, to ride along the left flank of the column until the caravan stopped. They ranged close to the camp until the guards had been posted and the fires were lit, and then they were brought in.

The handlers had staked the beasts down, and the roustabouts had stacked the cargo in the center of the camp. The passengers and most of the caravan crew had all retired for the night. From outward appearances, everything looked perfectly normal; the caravan had stopped to camp within less than a day's ride from its destination, taking token precautions on the last night of their journey. However, Kieran had made sure appearances would be deceptive.

He had positioned the camp within the shelter of some large, natural rock outcroppings near the banks of the estuary. The tents had been pitched near the base of the rocks, as if for protection from the wind. To the watching raiders—and Kieran was sure they would be watching—it must have looked absolutely perfect. An attack from the southeast would leave them trapped in a pocket formed by the estuary in their rear and the big rocks on their flank—caught like a fly between a hammer and an anvil. Which was precisely what Kieran wanted the raiders to think.

The handlers had staked the beasts at the rear of the camp, as usual, by the slope leading to the estuary. It was the logical place to put them, but at the same time, it served another purpose. As the passengers and crew retired for the night, gradually, in ones and twos, they entered their tents and were taken out through slits cut in the backs, then led by roustabouts between the rock outcroppings and the backs of the tents, so that they were concealed from view. They were then taken down the slope behind the beasts, where they huddled together, wrapped in blankets against the chill. In this manner, masked from any observation, all the passengers were removed from the camp and secreted by the estuary, where they were protected by Ryana and a group of armed roustabouts. All the tents stood empty.

At the advance guard outpost to the southeast, the direction from which Kieran invited attack, the three captive mercenaries sat in a circle by a watchfire. They were bent over slightly, as if gaming with dice. Only on close observation could it be seen that they were gagged and bound, with hands in front of them, staked down to the ground. Kieran nodded with satisfaction as he checked their bonds and grinned.

"Well, does this match your vision?" he asked.

Sorak nodded. "It seems to."

"Good. Let's take our places and see if it all unfolds the way you saw it."

They moved off about a dozen yards and lay down to wait behind some scrub brush. The movements of the mercenaries as they struggled to pull themselves free and their panicked shouts into their gags merely made it look as if they were going about their game. Kieran chuckled softly. "They don't seem very happy, do they?" he said in a low voice.

"No, this wasn't quite what they bargained for when they signed on for this journey," Sorak replied. "Still, I suppose it's better than being thrown into the silt."

"True," said Kieran. "You never know, one or two of them might still survive." He shrugged.

They did not have long to wait. Shortly after midnight, the attack came with devastating swiftness, just as Edric said it would. A black arrow came whistling out of the darkness and struck one of the captive mercenaries with a soft thump. It was immediately followed by several more arrows, in rapid succession. The second mercenary was struck down. The third managed, with a desperate effort born of panic, to pull his stake free of the ground. He jumped up and started running back toward the camp, but didn't get more than several yards before an arrow in his back brought him down.

"Here they come," Sorak murmured.

They heard them first, but it wasn't until the raiders were almost upon them that they became visible. A squadron of soot-blackened crodlu came galloping out of the darkness in tight formation, bearing black-clad riders armed with bows, wooden spears, and obsidian swords. Sorak and Kieran stayed low, hidden behind the brush as the Shadows rode by, storming into the camp, confident they had the element of surprise.

Kieran peered hard into the darkness as they went past. "How many do you estimate?"

"Perhaps thirty," Sorak said, his night vision sharper than the human's.

Kieran nodded. "The bard told the truth. Well, I may have to let him live, after all. Pity." As the elves thundered past them toward the camp, Sorak and Kieran jumped to their feet and drew their

"Now! Charge!" Kieran shouted as he ran forward with Sorak at his side.

Armed men leapt up from behind shrubs and rocks where they had dug in to await the attack. They quickly closed ranks behind the raiders as the black elves charged unsuspecting into the camp. One by one, the tents burst into flame, torched by roustabouts, and the resulting blaze clearly illuminated the attackers. Archers appeared atop the rocks and started firing down at the Shadows, who suddenly realized that, rather than trap their victims against the rocks, it was they who had been trapped.

More than a dozen of the black elves fell in the first volley of the archers before they wheeled their mounts to retreat, but they found themselves cut off. Thrown spears from the caravan guards unseated about half a dozen more, and then the crodlu were rearing about in panic and confusion, the riderless beasts colliding with the others. Kieran shouted out the command to move in and finish them off before the survivors could regroup.

However, several of the elves recovered quickly and got their beasts back under control. They wheeled around and rode straight for the rear of the camp, hanging off the sides of their mounts to avoid the arrows of the archers.

They were heading straight for the passengers... and Ryana.

"Kieran!" Sorak called, and without waiting for a reply, he gave chase.

The elves swung around the kanks staked down at the rear of the camp and headed down the slope, hoping to escape, but then spotted the passengers clustered behind the roustabouts and made straight for them.

Sorak heard the alarmed cries of the passengers from behind the line of kanks staked at the crest of the slope, and he knew he would never have time to circle the kanks, as the raiders had. Running at top speed, twice as fast as any human could, he leapt ten feet into the air and landed atop one of the kanks. As he fought to maintain his balance on the giant beetle's slippery carapace, he drew one of his daggers and hurled it.

An elf raider cried out and fell from his crodlu as the blade stuck home, but by then, the others were already atop Ryana's group.

As Sorak leapt down from the kank and tumbled down the slope, the passengers fled in panic toward the silt.

Ryana moved in with her roustabouts to meet the attack. She brought one elf down with her crossbow, then tossed it aside, drew a dagger and hurled it in one smooth motion, felling another. As she drew her second dagger from her boot, one of the mounted raiders hurled his spear at her. She twisted aside, and it missed her by scant inches. Then she threw her dagger as the elf thundered down upon her, bringing up his blade.

It took him squarely in the chest, and he fell backward off his mount. It was only by diving to one side that Ryana avoided being trampled by the riderless crodlu. She hit the ground, rolled, and came up with her blade in her hands, just as another raider closed with her. She went down to one knee and parried his downward slash, then came up and swept her blade around, opening a deep gash in the raider's leg as he rode by. He screamed, and blood fountained from the wound, but by then, Ryana was already engaging another opponent.

Several of the roustabouts had fallen, slain or wounded, by the time Sorak reached the scene. He ran straight into the melee and leapt, carrying a Shadow off his mount. He landed on top of the raider and heard the breath whoosh out of his lungs. Before the elf could recover, Sorak grabbed his large, pointed ears and twisted his head sharply.

He heard the sharp crack as the raider's neck snapped, then felt the breeze of a blade slashing down at him, missing his head by a hair. He ducked down and rolled, came up to his feet, and drew his sword, but by then the raider had already ridden past. And an instant later, Sorak saw why.

Edric stood perhaps a dozen yards away, his hands bound behind him and his ankles tied together. He had been unable to run off toward the rocks with the other passengers, but then he had not wanted to. He hopped toward the raider, and Sorak saw the black-clad elf lean down from his saddle to sweep him up.

But before Sorak could react, he heard another crodlu pounding the ground behind him and turned to meet the attack. He met the Shadow elf's blade on his own, then ducked and rolled as the raider tried to ride him down. The elf wheeled his mount, and Sorak ran up behind it, slashed the crodlu's legs. With a screeching cry, the crippled bird went down, and the raider tumbled from the saddle. As he fell, one of the roustabouts pounced on him and brought down his knife.

Sorak turned back to see that the other raider had already hoisted Edric up onto his saddle and slashed his bonds. Edric straddled the crodlu, sitting in front of the rider and bending low, grasping the beast's long neck for support. The rider urged his mount up the slope on a diagonal path, away from Sorak. There was no way to stop them. As they galloped up the slope, Kieran appeared at the crest.

"Kieran!" Sorak shouted. "Edric is getting away!"

The mercenary drew his dagger as the riders thundered by him, and he threw. The knife struck the raider between the shoulder blades, and he tumbled from his mount, but Edric seized the reins as the crodlu surged up the slope.

Sorak shifted his sword to his left hand and pulled Galdra from his belt. The broken blade glowed with a bright blue aura as he grasped it, flipped it around, and threw it with a powerful, overhand motion. It seemed to leave a blue contrail in its wake as it flew toward Edric and struck him in the shoulder. Sorak heard him cry out, but he retained his seat, slumping in the saddle. The crodlu and its rider disappeared over the crest of the slope.

Sorak spun around, looking for Ryana. He saw at least half a dozen roustabouts lying on the ground, some moving, some perfectly still. He felt a knot forming in his stomach, but then saw her, bending over one of the roustabouts and tearing a strip from his cloak to use as a tourniquet. He exhaled heavily with relief.

Then Kieran was at his side.

Sorak asked, "How goes the battle?"

"It's over," Kieran said. "A number of them got away, but at least a score won't be doing any more raiding. We'll take the bodies with us into Altaruk and present them to the Jhamris. They may wish to display them as an object lesson to other would-be raiders. Every man who fought tonight will win a reputation. There aren't many mercenaries who can boast surviving an encounter with the Shadows."

"How many of ours died?" asked Sorak, glancing back at the bodies littering the shore.

Kieran shook his head. "We've made no count as yet, but we lost some good men." He set his teeth, and Sorak saw a tic in his jaw muscles. "I should have killed that bard."

"You gave your word you would let him live if he cooperated," Sorak said. "And he did give us an accurate account of what to expect. Still, now he'll have to answer to his friends, the Shadows, and only he could have betrayed them."

Kieran nodded. "They will hold him to accounts, all right, but he's a slippery character. He may yet talk his way out of it. I hope he does, for I would dearly like to encounter him again. A pity about that special blade of yours."

"It was broken, anyway," said Sorak. "It's no great loss." But even as he spoke, he wondered. It had returned to him once before; it could yet return to him again. Only time would tell.

"We had best see to the wounded," he said, then suddenly, he staggered against Kieran as everything started to spin. He felt the mercenary catch him.

"Sorak! Are you wounded?"

Kieran's voice sounded as if it were coming from the bottom of a well. The sounds around him receded and Sorak's vision blurred; he gasped for breath.

Then, slowly, everything came back into focus... but he was elsewhere. And this time, it was not only his body that seemed to have been transported. It was his mind, as well.

He stood in a dark room, illuminated only by one thick candle standing on a wooden table. There was someone seated at that table, a robed figure cloaked in darkness. And he heard a low, raspy voice say, "He is coming. I can feel it."

The robed figure leaned forward into the light and Sorak tensed inwardly as he saw the shaved skull of a templar. It was an old woman, and on her head she wore a chaplet of beaten silver bearing the crest of Nibenay. She sat in a peculiar posture, with one arm hanging limply at her side, favoring her shoulder as if it were injured.

"It will not be long now," she said, looking up at him, "but he will surely come. And it will be up to us to stop him."

The feeling was surreal. It was as if the templar were looking straight at him and speaking to him directly. At the same time, he felt not himself at all. It was as if his body had somehow become alien to him. It felt large, grotesque and... but then the templar's next words mesmerized him.

"Valsavis is dead. The Nomad has fulfilled his mission. Somehow, he must have managed to make contact with the Sage. Now, he will be truly dangerous." The templar smiled wanly. "You haven't the faintest idea what I'm talking about, do you?"

Sorak felt his head shake slowly.

"No matter. You do not need to understand. Your needs are simple. That must be reassuring. In a way, I envy you your simplicity. You eat, drink, sleep, defecate, and kill. But then, that is what you were bred for. The subtleties of life escape you, and yet it concerns you not. How refreshing, in a primitive way. Does my conversation bore you?"

Another head shake.

"No? Well, I rather doubt you would admit it if it did. Perhaps it truly does interest you in some way. I do not imagine anyone has ever bothered to converse with you before. What would be the point? You could not answer, anyway. Doubtless, the only words anyone ever spoke to you were commands... or pleas for mercy. And those last fell on deaf ears, of course. No one ever taught you mercy. I doubt you even understand the concept.

Still, I've come to find our one-sided conversations comforting. Do you know why?"

Brief head shake.

"Because a templar has no one in whom she can confide. Oh, when she's young, she can share confidences with her senior sisters, but as she grows older, she learns about such things as palace intrigue and political maneuvering and soon realizes she can profit best by keeping her own council. Her life becomes a maze of ritual and duty, and she becomes isolated, commanding of respect and fear and yet, a lonely woman. Do you know what it means to feel lonely?"

This time, a nod.

"Ah. Of course. I thought you would. Then perhaps you can understand. Have you ever mated? No? Not even once? Well, who knows, that may be for the best. That means you cannot have unreasonable expectations. Do you know how old I am?"

Head shake.

"I am almost two hundred years old. That surprises you. I look old, but not that old, eh? Well, I am. Magic can extend one's life, if one knows how to use it." The templar sighed. "My husband's magic. A power so great it makes me tremble, even after all these years. I was brought to him when I was just fifteen, but I had already learned something of love. Oh, I was a virgin, else I would not have been acceptable, but I was not entirely innocent, you see. There was a boy, a lovely boy of seventeen... I can still see his face as clearly as if he were standing right here in front of me. I can still recall our cautious rumblings, clumsy and yet tender. We swore we would always love each other, but we were afraid to go much further than sweet kisses and intimate caresses. And then I was chosen for the harem of the Shadow King and I never saw him again.

"No, not true," the templar continued, after a brief pause. "I saw him once, many years later. I chanced across him in the street. He was afraid even to look me. I imagine he found himself a fat little wife and sired fat little sons, and lived his life... and died. This is the first time I have even spoken of him in over a hundred and fifty years, and yet, even though his bones now molder in a grave, he has never left my thoughts. I think back to those bygone days of girlhood and wish just once, we could have had the courage to..."

The templar fell into a long, contemplative silence. Finally, she looked up, and the wistful look was gone, replaced by the cold, regal demeanor of a servant of the Shadow King.

"Memories. They serve no useful purpose. And we are here to serve a useful purpose."

Sorak felt an unwholesome thrill of anticipation run through him. It was not his feeling at all. It made his skin crawl, and yet, at the same time, he somehow felt what the other was feeling, and it repelled him.

"Let us go, my silent friend," the templar said, rising to her feet. "It is time for you to do what you do best. You will not have the sort of audience you are accustomed to, but I will be close by. An audience of one, but one who has a true appreciation of your craft. And soon, very soon, you will have an opportunity to test your skills against one who should, by all accounts, provide a proper challenge to your abilities. You would like that, wouldn't you?"

An eager nod.

"Yes. I rather thought you would. But tonight, if our reports have been correct, there will be some fine amusement for you. And by tomorrow, all of Altaruk will be abuzz with talk of your doings... and the Veiled Alliance will know the meaning of fear."

 

*****

 

"Sorak! Sorak! Oh, Sorak, wake up, please!"

Ryana bent over him anxiously. He blinked several times and brought his hands up to his forehead. It felt as if his head were splitting, and he was covered with sweat.

He was lying on his back on a bedroll spread out on the ground. The first orange-tinted light of dawn was visible on the horizon as the dark sun slowly rose over the Sea of Silt. He sat up slowly, with a groan.

Kieran came and knelt at his side. "You had us worried, my friend," he said. "You were gone for a long time. Over four hours. And whatever it was you saw, it must have been a nightmare, judging by the way you thrashed and moaned."

Sorak took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, sitting with his head in his hands.

Ryana put her arm around him. "It's all right," she said softly. "Whatever it was, it's over now."

He shook his head. "No, it is not over," he said in a dull voice. "It is only just beginning."

"What did you see?" asked Kieran, gazing at him intently.

"Death," said Sorak.

"Whose?" asked Kieran, frowning. "One of us?"

Sorak shook his head. "No. I did not know them."

"Them?" Ryana said. "How many?"

"At least half a dozen," Sorak said. "Members of the Veiled Alliance. We must get to Altaruk with all speed," he said. "They are being butchered."

"Who is doing this?" asked Kieran.

Sorak shook his head. "I could not tell. But this time, it was different. I think it was the same killer I saw before, but this time I was seeing through the killer's eyes, feeling what the killer felt, and it was..." He shuddered, unable to complete the thought.

"Can you can recall any more?" asked Kieran.

Sorak nodded. "Yes. A templar. One of the senior templars of the Shadow King."

"In Altaruk?" said Kieran.

"She seemed to be directing the killer," Sorak said. "And she knew about the Shadows' attack on us. I think she was involved somehow. It may have been because of me. I'm the one they're after. But I am not the only one."

"So," said Kieran, "the defilers are making their bid to control Altaruk. And I thought this was going to be a simple, boring job. But where do you fit in? Why do they want you?"

"Because of who I am," said Sorak. "And what I represent."

"Then the bard's tale was true?" said Kieran.

"In part," said Sorak. "But there is much more to it. Have you ever heard of the avangion?"

"The myth of the preserver dragon?" Kieran said. "The legend of the Sage?"

"The avangion is neither myth nor dragon," Sorak said. "And the Sage is more than legend."

"You mean to say he actually exists?"

"He was once called the Wanderer," said Sorak.

"The pilgrim who wrote that journal of his travels? He is an adept?"

Sorak nodded. "He is also my grandfather."

Kieran exhaled heavily. "Gith's blood," he swore softly. "I knew there was more to you than met the eye, but this..." He shook his head. "You know where he is, don't you?"

Sorak nodded.

"Who else knows?"

"Only the pyreen elders. And Ryana, of course. It is my task to do what my grandfather cannot. Not only to serve the cause, but to make it known. And in some ways, ways that I still do not understand, he has prepared me for it."

"You mean the Sight?" said Kieran.

Sorak nodded again. "And the blade. And I do not know what else. There is much about myself I have yet to discover. It would be difficult to explain. I had hoped there would be more time, but it seems I'll not have that luxury. The Shadow King has other plans."

"More than just the Shadow King, if all you say is true," said Kieran.

"You doubt him?" asked Ryana. "I can attest to the truth of everything he says. I was there."

"Oh, I would not question your word, my lady," Kieran said. "But it does strain one's credulity. I wish I did not believe it, for it means you will both be targets for every defiler on Athas. You must admit, that argues against a long life, for you and anyone with you."

"You still want me for your lieutenant?" Sorak asked wryly.

"Well, it will make things interesting," Kieran replied with a smile. "I was getting bored in retirement, anyway."

"Well make a preserver of you yet," Ryana said with a grin, punching him in the shoulder.

"We should all live so long, my lady," Kieran said. "I have no magic blade, and your friend here just threw his away."

"I did that once before," said Sorak, "but there are some responsibilities one simply can't avoid." Kieran's eyes grew wide as Sorak reached down and drew Galdra from his belt. He held the broken blade up before him, and it sparkled with a faint blue aura.

"Now that was a neat trick," said Kieran.

Sorak smiled. "Just don't ask me how it's done," he said. "A moment ago, it wasn't there. And then I felt it pressing against my side. It seems no matter what I do, I cannot get rid of it."

"What else does it do?" asked Kieran.

Sorak shrugged. "It makes me wish I had been born someone else. In fact, I used to be someone else every now and then."

Kieran frowned. "What does that mean?"

"It's a long story," Sorak said. "But we still have about a day's ride ahead. I'll tell you all about it on the way to Altaruk."

"Well then, let's ride," said Kieran. "I'd like to see just what's waiting for us when we get there."

"It's me they're waiting for," said Sorak. "You do not need to involve yourself."

"In case you have forgotten," Kieran said, "you've saved my life twice, and my caravan once. The way I see it, I'm involved."

"I did what I chose to do," said Sorak. "You are under no obligation to me, Kieran."

"That's not the way I see it. And I will brook no arguments. I am still your superior officer, if you'll recall."

Sorak smiled. "Whatever you say, Captain."

"I say we've wasted enough time," Kieran replied. "Mount up."

Chapter Eleven

It was, Matullus thought, a truly lousy way to start the day. His weak stomach notwithstanding, he had somehow managed to hold his gorge down when he walked into the room and saw the carnage. Perhaps he was getting used to it. And that was bad enough in itself.

The first thing that hit him was the smell. The bodies had been dead only a few hours, but in the desert, the morning temperatures rose quickly, and they were already stinking. And the blood. It was splattered everywhere. Its coppery smell commingled with the stench of bowels that had released at the moment of death. Matullus was still young and had never fought in a full-fledged campaign. He had never seen a war. But this morning, he finally understood what the old veterans meant when they said that a battlefield smelled like human waste.

Bad enough to be murdered, he thought, but to be found like this, mangled and begrimed with feces... if this was any indication of what it was like to die in battle, he could see no glory in it. Better to die old in bed, he thought, of a ruptured heart, wrapped in the arms of a young woman. That was a sort of glory he could understand.

The sound of flies buzzing in the room was almost as oppressive as the stench. He covered the lower half of his face with the free end of his turban and looked around.

"Gith's blood!" said one of his men behind him, clapping his hand over his mouth and nose as he came in. "What kind of animal would do a thing like this?"

"The kind that walks on two legs," Matullus said grimly. He stepped around and over the corpses, looking down at each one and giving it a cursory examination. "This one was stabbed in the stomach, disemboweled. This one had his throat slashed from ear to ear. Look at that stroke. It practically decapitated him. And this one had his back broken. This one had his neck snapped. The head was almost twisted right off the spinal column. This one was stabbed straight in the heart. The blade smashed right through the ribs. And this one was strangled. See the bruises on the neck? Look at this...." He laid his hand across the discolorations, matching his fingers to the marks. "The killer did it with just one hand."

"Look at the white veils dropped on the bodies," I one of the men said. "Just like with the last one."

"A calling card, perhaps?" Matullus asked rhetorically. "Did the Veiled Alliance kill these men, or are we supposed to believe they were killed because they were in the Alliance, themselves?"

"Lord Ankhor isn't going to like this," one of the men said.

"No, he certainly will not," Matullus agreed. "And Lord Jhamri will like it even less. This sort of thing is bad for business."

"What are we going to do, sir?" one of the younger guards asked.

"Dispose of the bodies," said Matullus. "There is little else we can do. And then we will spread out through the neighborhood and make inquires. Someone must know these men. But if they were in the Alliance, none will admit it. An admission would be self-incriminating. We may learn their names, but I doubt we'll learn anything else."

"The caravan from Balic should be in tonight, shouldn't it?" one of the guards asked.

Matullus nodded. "If they are on schedule. Our new captain is going to inherit this sorry mess. I doubt he will be pleased to start his job on such a note. And if Kieran is displeased, I fear we'll be the first to feel that displeasure."

"This isn't going to stop, is it?"

Matullus shook his head. "No. Not unless we stop it. Whoever is doing this is good at killing. The bastard likes it."

"Surely this isn't the work of one man?" one the guards asked with astonishment.

"Each of these men was killed by someone very powerful," Matullus said. "And it was done very quickly. Two of them didn't have a chance to draw weapons. And if they were adepts, they certainly did not have a chance to cast defensive spells. This one here had drawn his dagger. It's still grasped in his hand, for all the good it did him. One dagger was thrown." He pointed to where it was embedded in the wall. "I think... by that one, there. Obviously, he missed, and it cost him his life. The others were all disarmed before they died. And quickly, too, for the killer toyed with them." He indicated the smashed table and overturned chairs.

"One was thrown across the room, onto that table, and while he was stunned, another was disposed of. Then another was thrown against that wall there, where the spice jars have fallen off the shelf and shattered on the floor. Stun one, grab another, and so forth, like a mountain cat toying with janx. Whoever did this was incredibly strong, and burst in upon these men like a windstorm off the desert. They never had a chance."

"Six against one, and all died," a guard said in a low voice. "And not one of these men was far above middle age. Only one was on the frail side. Still..." The guard shook his head. "To throw men around like this, like chaff before the wind..."

"It isn't human," one of the guards said.

"No," said Matullus thoughtfully. "Something much stronger. A half-giant or a mul, perhaps."

"But there are no half-giants or muls in Altaruk," one of the others said.

Matullus nodded. "There is now."

"Someone like that would stand out in this town like an oasis on a desert."

"You would think so, wouldn't you?" Matullus said. "Unless someone is hiding him. And that means a confederate. Perhaps more than one." He nodded. "At least we will have something to tell Kieran when he arrives."

"What do you think he will do?" someone asked.

Matullus turned to face him. "Well, we'll soon I find out, won't we? He's supposed to be the best. I expect he'll waste no time in taking charge of the situation. And that means we'll have to be up to the challenge. When he arrives tonight, I want every man in the house guard turned out clean and sharp. And woe to the man our new captain finds fault with. I will personally see to it that he regrets not being one of these corpses. Now clean this mess up. We have a great deal to do before the caravan arrives."

 

*****

 

It was late afternoon when Lord Ankhor entered his private study on the top floor of the mansion. A few hours earlier, Matullus had nervously made his report about the recent killings. He was cautious in remarks, but astute in observations. He'd conjectured that the killer was a half-giant or a mul, judging by the murders, which indicated not only strength but also fighting skill. Matullus was a clever young man. Undoubtedly, Kieran would be more clever, still.

Ankhor went to the sideboard and poured himself a drink. It would not do for Kieran to resolve the situation too swiftly. That would displease the templar and undermine his plans. Jhamri needed to be suitably embarrassed by his ineffectiveness in countering the threat. And then, of course, at the proper time, the mul would be apprehended by the Ankhor House Guard. A pity to waste a property like that. She was rather an expensive purchase to discard, but it would be well worth it to see Jhamri properly humbled. Merely the first step, of course, but a significant one—the cost of doing business.

Ankhor frowned as he saw the small statue on the mantlepiece turned to one side. He had specifically told the templar to hold her meetings late at night, except in an emergency. Could something have gone wrong? He paused to lock the heavy, ornate door of his study before opening the secret panel. He stepped back in surprise as Edric came into the room.

"What in thunder are you doing here?" he asked, frowning. "You were supposed to be with the caravan!"

"I was," said Edric, moving to the sideboard to pour himself a drink as casually as if he were in his own home. For the first time, Ankhor noticed he was wounded. His left arm hung limp at his side, and he favored his shoulder as he moved. "I rode like the wind itself to get here ahead of them. We had some problems."

"What are you talking about?" asked Ankhor.

"The attack failed," Edric said simply.

"What do you mean it failed? How could it fail?"

"It failed because we lost the element of surprise," said Edric, tipping back his goblet. "And I almost lost my life as well, but we won't dwell on little things like that."

"What happened? What went wrong?"

"Everything," said Edric. "Those three fools you-hired to join the caravan at Grak's Pool drew suspicion instantly. I told you additional men on the inside were not necessary. I would have been quite capable of handling things myself. And then, just to make things worse, I was unmasked."

"How? By whom? Kieran?"

"No, though I have a score to settle with that one. He shall have to wait his turn. There was another. A half-breed. The Nomad."

Ankhor frowned. "Sorak? Here?"

"You know of him?"

"We've met before," said Ankhor.

"Oh, yes, of course," said Edric. "He stole that princess from your caravan."

"Torian's loss, not mine," said Ankhor dismissively. "And the rash fool was stupid enough to give pursuit into the Barrens, which cost him his life. An inconvenience, as he was a valued trading partner, but a minor loss, all things considered. But Sorak's presence is a greater inconvenience, still."

"An inconvenience," said Edric wryly. "How quaint. We lost over a score of our tribe, and you call it 'an inconvenience.'"

"I thought the Shadows were supposed to be masters of their craft," said Ankhor scornfully. "And over a score of them were brought down by mere caravan guards? Had I known your people were so inept, I would have spent my money elsewhere."

"They were ambushed," Edric said. "You might have done better to rob your own caravan at a time when Kieran of Draj was not there to take command. He knows his trade, that one. He laid a brilliant trap. Your money was well spent in hiring him. But your timing in having him on that particular caravan left something to be desired."

"I could not control his movements," Ankhor said. "When I discovered he was coming on that caravan, it was already too late to change the plan."

"And so we paid the price for it," said Edric bitterly. With his right hand, he refilled his goblet and drained it in one gulp. "Still, but for that elfling, the plan might have succeeded. What makes it truly galling is that I was the one who told them when the attack would come. I had no choice. To resist would have been suicide, and I was not prepared to give up yet. My people are very dissatisfied with me at the moment. And they are even less satisfied with you."

"Is that a threat?" asked Ankhor.

"A statement of fact. I did not come here alone, in case you're thinking of doing something foolish," Edric cautioned him. "I have brought some of my people with me. If I do not return, they will see to it that all of Altaruk knows who it was who hired us to rob the caravan."

"Very well," said Ankhor. "Let's get down to business. What do you want? Reparations for your losses? Name your price."

Edric considered. "Fifty thousand in gold."

"Done," said Ankhor. "Anything else?"

Edric snorted. "I should have asked for more, 1 But yes, there is one more thing. I want the Nomad."

Ankhor shrugged. "Take him. He does not concern me."

"I beg to differ," Edric said. "He happens to be yours."

"Mine?" Ankhor frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Kieran has hired him to be his lieutenant in your house guard," Edric said. "The two of them are thick as thieves, and it would be difficult to seize him while he is under your protection."

Ankhor chuckled.

"You find that amusing?" asked Edric, scowling.

"Yes, frankly, I do," said Ankhor. He smiled. "The Nomad and I seem fated to cross paths in fascinating ways. The first time, it was to my benefit. The second, to my loss. But this time, there is more at stake. I do not want him getting in the way."

"Then we will be pleased to take him off your hands," said Edric. "In addition to the gold, of course."

"You will have your gold," said Ankhor with thinly veiled contempt. "As for Sorak, I will make it easy for you. I'll greet the caravan when it arrives, as a show of gratitude for his assistance in foiling the attack. To prove I hold no grudge against him for the royal twit, I will offer him the use of one of our apartments in the shopkeeper's quarter. It is on the Street of Clothiers, above the shop of Lorian the Bootmaker. The house is marked with the sign of a blue boot. The entrance to the stairs leading up to the apartment is through an alley to the right of the shop. I'll see to it that Kieran is otherwise engaged tonight, with the remainder of the house guard, so they cannot interfere. The rest is up to you. Will that be satisfactory?"

Edric pursed his lips and nodded. "It will do."

"Good. And though it is not my habit to give rewards for failure, I'll arrange a discreet payment of the gold, through our usual intermediaries, as a gesture of good faith. I expect no problems with the Shadows on any future shipments in my caravans. I do not expect to be seeing you again. Our business is concluded. Feel free to have another drink before you leave."

Edric picked up the crystal decanter and carried it with him to the secret panel. "Just see to it the gold is delivered promptly."

"Of course," said Ankhor. "And in the event you should decide it is not enough to buy your silence, be mindful that any difficulties you may try to cause me will be countered by the full resources of the House of Ankhor. Should you renege on our agreement, within a month all of Athas will know the Shadows do not bargain in good faith."

"A bargain is a bargain," Edric said. "But this has been a most unhappy business, all around. Good-bye, my lord."

"Goodbye," said Ankhor curtly.

The panel opened, Eric stepped through, and it closed again behind him.

Ankhor snorted with disgust and grimaced. "It seems one cannot buy good help these days."

 

*****

 

As Edric reached the bottom of the stairs inside the secret passage, he saw a dark-robed figure waiting for him in the tunnel just ahead. He paused, his right hand going to the knife tucked into his belt.

"Stay your hand, Edric, unless you wish to lose the use of both your arms."

Edric allowed his right arm to drop casually back to his side. "Greetings, Templar Livanna," he said. "Forgive me, I did not know it was you."

"Who did you think I was?" the templar asked.

Edric shrugged. "Some lackey of Lord Ankhor's, perhaps, bent on treachery. I expected trouble, not a chance meeting with you."

"I leave nothing to chance," Livanna said. "I felt your presence close by, even as I now feel the pain of your wound." She touched her left arm, which hung limply at her side. "I came to heal you so that I would not feel your pain. I find it distracting."

Edric's eyes narrowed with suspicion. "How is it that you feel my pain?" he asked warily.

"Have you forgotten? When we agreed to terms, you made your mark in blood," Livanna said.

"I see," said Edric. "I thought it was no more than a ritual to seal our bargain. I'll have to be more careful of that sort thing in the future."

Livanna examined his arm. "What happened?"

He told her about the failed raid. As he spoke, she listened and concentrated at the same time, grasping his arm firmly. He felt a tingling sensation at first, followed by a gradual warmth spreading up his arm and into his wounded shoulder. It grew hotter, to the point where it started to burn, and then the templar released him, and he felt the heat fade gradually. He moved his arm and shoulder experimentally. It felt as good as new.

"My thanks," said Edric. "I had no time to seek a healer before coming here. But I'm curious. What would you have felt had I been killed instead of merely wounded?"

"I would have felt your death," replied Livanna. "The sensation would have been brief: your death would have canceled the spell. How did Ankhor react to your report?"

"He was not pleased, but he took it reasonably well, all things considered," Edric replied. "After all, I could not be held entirely responsible. He had hired three infiltrators to join the caravan at Grak's Pool, against my advice, and I am sure they raised suspicion. Then there was Kieran's presence to consider. And that miserable Nomad. I intend to make it up to him quite soon."

"I do not want the Nomad killed," said Livanna. "I want to question him. After that, he is yours to dispose of as you will. But do not make the mistake of underestimating him. He is dangerous."

"I had already discovered that," Edric replied. "And I am in no great rush to kill him. I want him to live long enough to regret having interfered with me. And once I am through with him, I will take care of Kieran."

"Do not overreach yourself," Livanna said. "What of Ankhor? Does he know anything of our arrangement?"

Edric shook his head. "No, he suspects nothing. He assumes our business is concluded. He is smug and overconfident. He believes his money can buy anything, and that will be his downfall. Just let me know when you are prepared to make your move. The Shadows stand ready. They blamed me, at first, for the ambush they rode into, but I managed to convince them Ankhor had betrayed us. They're chaffing for revenge."

"Wait until I give the word," Livanna said. "The timing must be right. For now, the Nomad is the first priority. And I want to know the moment you have him."

"Why such an interest in this elfling pretender?"

"Pretender?"

Edric said, "The Crown of Elves, indeed. His arrogance offends me."

"Pretender or no, Nibenay wants him. Princess Korahna was exiled by her mother to protect her from her father's wrath because she had taken the vows of a preserver," Livanna said. "When Sorak brought her back to Nibenay, she joined the Veiled Alliance, and since then they have been sheltering her. They have made much of the conversion of a daughter of the Shadow King."

"Yes, of course," said Edric, nodding.

"Sorak has contacts with the Veiled Alliance in Nibenay," Livanna said. "If we can find out who they are, we can take steps to get Korahna back."

"And teach her the error of her ways?" Edric smiled. "I didn't think the Shadow King would care about one errant daughter; he has so many others. It seems we both have unfinished business with the elfling, but it will not remain unfinished long. I'll send word to you the moment we have him, but on one condition. When our business is concluded, you'll remove the spell that links us."

"When our business is concluded, I'll have no further use for it," she said. "Until then, try to exercise more caution. I have no wish to feel your aches and pains."

"Then perhaps you should have trusted me, without the spell," said Edric.

"Trust an elf?" said Livanna. "I think not. Until you have fully lived up to your part of our bargain, the spell is necessary."

"So be it, then. Are we agreed?"

"Agreed."

Edric nodded. "I thank you for the healing. I'll be in touch soon."

He turned and walked off down the corridor. Livanna watched him go. She did not and would not trust him for a moment, except where his own self-interest was concerned. He might not be as quick to betray a templar of the Shadow King as he was to betray Ankhor, but if there was enough profit in it, he would certainly consider taking such a risk. She wanted him to know just how much of a risk it was.

But if the Shadow elves could capture Sorak, it would save her the trouble of going after him herself. There was, of course, a chance that they would be unable to take him alive. That would be regrettable, for she wanted to force him to reveal what he knew about the Sage. Still, if he were dead, he could be no threat, and the Sage would lose his champion. Either way, the outcome would be favorable.

In the meantime, she had work to do. Kah was waiting.

 

*****

 

A caravan coming into town was always an event, one eagerly awaited by the populace. It meant more business for the shopkeepers, more guests for the inns, and more patrons for the gaming and pleasure houses. When the dust cloud was sighted in the distance, the word quickly went out through the streets, and by the time they rode into town, a large crowd had gathered to welcome them.

Lord Ankhor himself was on hand. He greeted Kieran effusively, then listened gravely to his report of the attack, the caravan captain standing nervously by.

Uncertain how Lord Ankhor would react to seeing him, Sorak had hung back with Ryana until Kieran turned and pointed to him, apparently telling Ankhor about his heroics in their defense. Instead of beckoning him over, Lord Ankhor came to him, with Kieran by his side. There was a broad smile on his face as he extended his hand to Sorak in greeting.

"So we meet again, Nomad," he said. He turned to Ryana and greeted her respectfully. "Welcome to Altaruk, my lady. It is a pleasure to see you again, and on so auspicious an occasion." He turned back to Sorak. "It seems each time we meet, you come to my rescue."

"I fear that was not the case on our last meeting," Sorak said. He was not anxious to bring it up but wanted to know where he stood. "Are you glad to see me, even after that?"

"If you are referring to the matter of the princess you 'escorted' from my caravan, that was Viscount Torian's loss. She was his concern, not mine. I understand the matter was resolved between the two of you."

"I thought Viscount Torian was your friend," said Sorak uncertainly.

Lord Ankhor shrugged. "A business acquaintance, no more. In trade,1 was obliged to extend certain courtesies to him, but his involvement with the princess was unwise, and I feared it might have repercussions. Frankly, I was relieved when she departed. Torian's demise may have made me suffer a slight, temporary reverse, but nothing like the losses I would have sustained had that raid succeeded. Once more, I am in your debt."

"It was nothing, my lord. And as Kieran had recruited me to serve, I felt it no more than my duty."

"It was rather a great deal more as far as I'm concerned," said Ankhor, "and I am pleased to display my gratitude. As it happens, my house is in partnership with that of Lord Jhamri, so you will be working for us both. And as your employer, I know you will be in need of housing here in Altaruk. A senior officer and his lady should have comfortable, private quarters, so it would please me if you accepted my offer of an apartment."

"That is most gracious of you, my lord," said Sorak, "but there is no need for you to trouble yourself on—"

"Nonsense," said Ankhor, interrupting him. "The House of Ankhor maintains a number of apartments here in town, for visiting trading partners and dignitaries. At any given time, at least half are vacant. You would find the accommodations more comfortable than you could afford, and as one of your employers, I insist you accept."

"Well, since you put it that way..."

"Excellent. I have just the place in mind. It is located in the shopkeeper's quarter, on the Street of Clothiers. Anyone can tell you where it is. Look for the sign of the blue boot. It marks the shop of Lorian the Bootmaker. He will have the key. The apartment is above his shop. Once the shops close for the night, the area is quiet, and there is little traffic. I think you will find it preferable to the noisy apartments in the gaming district."

"It sounds perfect, my lord," Sorak said.

"You may as well go now and take up residence, before Lorian closes up his shop for the night," said Ankhor. "Kieran and I have several matters to discuss pertaining to his new duties, and I would prefer to speak with him privately, as I'm sure you'll understand. You may report to me at the House of Ankhor in the morning, and then we can have our talk."

"Thank you, my lord," said Sorak. "In that case, with your permission, I shall take my leave and see you in the morning."

"Until tomorrow," Ankhor said. He turned to Ryana and bowed. "My lady..."

"Well, it turns out there was no reason for concern, after all," Ryana said as they walked away. "Lord Ankhor bears no grudges over the incident with Korahna and we now have a place to stay without having to walk all over town in search of one. A quiet apartment over a shop sounds nice. A real home for a change, after all those nights spent sleeping on the ground." She smiled and took his arm. "It will be our first place together."

"Our first place," he said, hugging her close. "I like the sound of that. But don't grow accustomed to the idea. There is no telling how long it will last."

They asked directions to the Street of Clothiers, only a short walk away. It did not take long before they found the shop with the sign of the blue boot hanging over the entrance. Lorian was just about to close up for the day when they came in, and after they introduced themselves and gave him Ankhor's message, he welcomed them effusively and gave them the key, telling them the entrance was through the alley to the right and up a flight of stairs.

"I know it may sound foolish," said Ryana, putting her arm around Sorak's waist as they left the shop, "because we may never be able to settle in one place for very long, but I still feel excited. This is going to be our first real home."

"It is only an apartment above a shop."

"It doesn't matter," said Ryana as they turned into the alley. "It will be ours, a place you can come home to. Home to me."

The attack came suddenly and swiftly. Sorak felt a sharp, glancing blow against the side of his head, and he went down, grunting with pain.

Instinct and years of training took over, and he rolled quickly to his feet, drawing his sword as he came up. They were rushed from both sides of the alley. Five came from behind, five from in front.

Ryana had been seized from behind by two of the attackers, but she stomped down hard on one's foot, twisted away, and flipped the other over her hip. As he fell, she drew her sword, but before she could get it clear of the scabbard, a blade took her from behind. She gave a grunting, gasping sound and stiffened, arching her back sharply with the impact.

A bloody sword tip emerged from her stomach.

"Ryana!" Sorak screamed, and then they were on him.

He drew Galdra with his free hand and waded into them like a man possessed. They tried to seize him and wrestle him to the ground, but he broke away, slashing one elf across the throat with Galdra and driving his sword deep into another's mid-section. He kicked the elf he'd spitted off the blade, backward into three other attackers, and they went down beneath the dead weight of their comrade.

Spinning like a dervish, Sorak laid about him with both blades, screaming his rage at the top of his lungs. Within seconds, four elves lay dead, and the remainder found themselves with far more on their hands than they had bargained for.

The Shadows had abandoned any notion of taking him alive. It was either him or them. But in the narrow confines of the alley, their superior numbers gave them no advantage. Sorak did not remain still for so much as an instant, and the elves found themselves only getting into each other's way.

Fighting with a fury he had never felt before, Sorak parried, struck, slashed, kicked and slammed into his opponents, and they fell one after the other. In the midst of the melee, he caught a glimpse of a familiar face.

"Edric!"

The elf paled and took to his heels, but there was no chance to give pursuit.

Three elves remained, and they suddenly found themselves fighting for their lives. Sorak gave them no chance to retreat. He parried one blow, turning the blade aside, and stepped in, stabbing Galdra deep in the elf's stomach even as he blocked another stroke with his sword. He shoved the dying elf's body away, spun around, ducked under a slash, and drove his blade up into his attacker's throat.

The one remaining elf turned and ran in panic, but he never got farther than two steps. Sorak brought him down, tackling him from behind, and drove the broken blade into his back. He came up quickly, spinning around, but there were no more opponents. Edric had fled, but the others all lay dead or dying in the alley.

Then he heard a soft moan.

"Sorak...."

Ryana lay facedown in the alley in a large and rapidly spreading pool of blood. Sorak ran to her and crouched by her side, gently turning her over.

"Ryana!"

When he saw her wound, he knew there was no hope. No hope at all. The spark of life was already fading from her eyes as she gazed up at him.

"Ryana, no..."

She tried to breathe in shallow gasps, but blood bubbled up from between her lips. She coughed and made a terrible, grunting, choking sound, and managed to gasp out just three words before she died.

"I... loved... you...."

Sorak stared with stunned disbelief at the limp and lifeless body he was holding in his arms, and his mind tried to reject the unacceptable reality. He shook her, and called her name over and over again, and finally, as the awful knowledge sank in, he threw his head back and screamed, one long, drawn out, inarticulate wail of agony and despair. And in that frenzied, tortured cry of unutterable pain, something new and terrible was born.

Chapter Twelve

"Nomad!"

He spun around, his sword poised to strike. He did not know where he was. The street was unfamiliar. He had been wandering around for hours in a semi-fugue state, looking for the one Shadow who had escaped. Edric. The thought of finding him was foremost in his mind, driving out everything else.

But the man who faced him in the dark and empty street was not Edric. He was a human, slight in stature, dressed in a dark, hooded cloak. His face was wrinkled with age, as was his hand, which he held across the lower part of his face, miming a veil.

Sorak simply stood and stared at him. In one hand, he still held the sword of Valsavis. In the other, he held the broken blade. Both were blood stained.

The old man lowered his hand and came forward, hesitantly. "We have been looking for you," he said, as he approached. "We know about what happened. By the time we got there, it was too late. Words cannot express our sorrow."

Sorak said nothing. He just stood there, motionless.

"You are hurt," the man said, reaching out toward him, then drawing his hand back. "You are losing blood. Please... come. Let me help you. You cannot wander the streets like this. There is danger. Please..."

The man reached forward once again, slowly and deliberately, and took his arm. "I am Andreas. I have some skill at healing, but I cannot do it here, out in the street. We may be seen. Please, come with me. In the name of the Path and the Way, please come...."

Numbly, Sorak allowed himself to be led down a series of deserted back streets and dark alleys until they came to small tavern on a side street, near the merchants' plaza. It was late, and the tavern was closed for the night, but the old man knocked softly on the wooden door: twice, then a short pause, then three times, then a pause, then twice again. The door was unbolted from within, and they went inside.

It was dark within, and the benches had been turned upside-down and placed on the tabletops for sweeping of the floor. The man who had admitted them was human, middle-aged, and portly— balding on top and dressed in loose brown breeches, sandals, and a slightly soiled white tunic. He bolted the door again behind them and said nothing. He merely conducted them back to the bar, behind it and to a small storage room.

At the back of the room was a beaded curtain. He drew it aside and beckoned them through, but he did not follow them into the dimly lit chamber. Within stood a long table with several benches pulled up to it and three thick candles spread out along the tabletop. Seated at the table in the back room were three men in white robes, who immediately rose to their feet as they came in.

"You've found him, Andreas!"

"He's hurt!"

"Bring him here, quickly!"

They gathered around him and led him to a bench, easing him onto it. He felt them trying to take the weapons from his hands, but his fingers were tightly clamped around the hilts, as if of their own volition, and would not let go.

"Do not be afraid," one of the men said. "You are among friends. There is no need for these."

"Let it be," Andreas said. "He needs something to hold onto. He has suffered a terrible shock."

Andreas removed his cloak, revealing the white robe of the Alliance, and knelt in front of him, taking each of his hands gently by the wrists. He breathed deeply, closed his eyes, and concentrated while the others watched. Gradually, Sorak became aware that the old man's hands were growing warm. The warmth seeped into his wrists and started flowing up his arms. He felt the heat increase as Andreas breathed more deeply, drops of perspiration forming on his forehead. Sorak felt the warmth reach his shoulders and start spreading across his chest. The heat increased, flowing down his torso, into his legs, and rising into his neck, suffusing his face and head.

The cuts and slashes on his body slowly closed and began to fade away. He felt a warm, comforting, drifting sensation, as if he were floating on a summer desert breeze, and the pain slowly went away. He breathed more deeply, and his eyelids fluttered. His muscles relaxed, and he felt the blades drop from his fingers to the floor.

Abruptly, his body stiffened with a sharp, jerking spasm, and the jolt broke the contact with Andreas, who cried out and fell back on the floor, releasing him. Sorak heard the alarmed voices of the men around him, but they seemed to be fading away into the distance.

"What happened?"

"What's wrong?"

"I don't know...."

Then everything was spinning as the room went away and Sorak found himself out in the street, striding down a dark alley, a cloaked and hooded figure walking just ahead of him. But it was not he walking through the alley. It was the other, the killer, and as the hooded figure turned into a side street and looked back briefly, Sorak recognized the templar he had seen before in his last vision.

The street they had turned into looked familiar. And an instant later, the realization struck him that it was the same street he had walked down with Andreas moments earlier. The door to the tavern they were in was just ahead. They were coming here.

Panic rose in him. He had to warn them, somehow, but he did not know how. He could not break free of the vision. It felt as if he were having a terrifying nightmare, one in which he knew he was dreaming, and he kept desperately trying to wake up, but just could not shake the dream.

He struggled to wrench free as the templar paused outside in the street, just by the door. In his shared perception with the other, Sorak saw the door in front of him, felt it as the killer kicked it in, and then saw the interior of the darkened tavern rushing past as the killer ran through it, heading toward the bar and the back room.

The tavernkeeper came rushing out, brandishing a blade, but the killer sidestepped his lunge smoothly and crushed his chest with one powerful blow.

From somewhere beyond the curtain, Sorak heard the front door of the tavern splinter, heard the alarmed reactions of the men, but it all seemed very far away. The effect of the shared consciousness increased as the killer drew closer, moving swiftly, vaulting the bar and running through the storage room, plunging through the beaded curtain....

Then Sorak saw himself through the killer's eyes. He saw the killer sweep one of the white-robed men aside as he raised his arms to cast a spell. One powerful blow sent him reeling back against the wall with stunning impact, and then the killer seized Andreas, grabbing him by the throat....

With a desperate effort, Sorak's mind screamed, STOP!

Kah froze. Yes, that was her name—Kah. And, yes, the killer was a she.

She had heard the shouted command, but not aloud. It seemed to explode within her mind. For a moment, she simply stood there, confused and puzzled, using Andreas as a shield so that none of the others could throw a spell at her. Then her gaze focused on the elfling sitting on the bench before her, and she saw him gazing back at her, unafraid, eyes blazing.

Sorak slowly rose to his feet, his gaze locked with the deadly mul's. "Release him," he said aloud.

Kah heard the command echo in her mind. Get out of my mind, she thought, a chill clutching her.

No. Release him.

This time, he had not spoken aloud, yet she had heard him clearly. More significantly, he had heard her. The realization struck her with a shock. She spun Andreas around and held him in front of her, a powerful arm clamped across the throat. For the first time in her life, someone had heard her. She had communicated.

You can hear me?

I hear you. Release him. He has done you no harm.

The other members of the Alliance cell all stood perfectly still, staring with a mixture of fear and fascination. They could not hear the exchange but knew something was happening, something powerful and momentous, and those of them who were sensitive could feel the vibrant emanations of psionic energy in the small back room.

I must kill him, Kah communicated. I must kill you all.

Why?

The master wills it. He bought me. It is what I do.

And in that instant, as Kah thought of Ankhor, Sorak saw him in her mind and knew everything. A cold rage welled in him, a fury and hatred unlike anything he had ever known. He understood then what had been born in Ryana's death, and he embraced it.

I am the master now. Release the old man.

No...

Release him....

Kah felt her right arm tremble. Slowly, involuntarily, she loosened her hold on Andreas. She fought to clamp her arm tighter against his throat, to squeeze the life out of him, but her own arm resisted her, fought her, pulled away. She redoubled her efforts, sweat forming as the powerful muscles of her arm and shoulder stood out with the strain.

GET OUT! she screamed inwardly.

Release... him... now!

Gritting her teeth, Kah fought the inexorable pull, but she was losing the battle. Slowly, her arm came away, and Andreas drew in a hungry, gasping breath as he broke free, falling to his knees, clutching at his throat, straining to draw air into his tortured lungs.

In that moment, a bright blue bolt of thaumaturgic energy lanced across the room and exploded with a blinding glare as it struck one of the Alliance men squarely in the chest. He screamed, hurled back against the wall, and the scream was cut off as his body flew apart into chunks of viscera and incinerated flesh.

The room became a blinding latticework of energy bolts as the remaining Alliance adepts responded to the templar's attack.

Livanna's assault broke Sorak's psionic link with Kah, and she charged in with a snarl, but Sorak ducked beneath her lunge and rolled, coming up with Galdra in his hand.

As energy bolts flew back and forth across the room, igniting everything around them, Kah spun and charged again. Instead of trying to avoid her lunge, as she expected, Sorak stepped right into it, slamming into her and driving the broken blade deep into her huge, powerful midsection.

The breath whistled out of the mul in a startled gasp, and she stared in shock at the blade buried in her stomach, then looked up at Sorak, their faces only inches apart. With an animal growl of fury, she grabbed him by the throat with both hands and started squeezing.

No!

She felt him boring into her mind like an auger and fought the savage intrusion, but felt her hands resisting her, opening slowly despite all her efforts to close them around his throat.

NO!

The command was punctuated with a jerk as Sorak twisted Galdra in her stomach and pulled up, ripping her insides. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth, and waves of pain washed over her. Her fingers slipped from around his neck as her eyes started to glaze over, and a moment later, it was finished. Her huge body went limp, and she collapsed to the floor, lifeless.

The spell battle, in the meantime, had progressed to the front room of the tavern as Livanna beat a hasty retreat. Though she had killed two of her antagonists, two more remained. Andreas had struggled to his feet after the initial assault, and despite already being weakened by the healing, had joined the one remaining Alliance adept in the counterattack.

As Kah slipped off his blade and fell lifeless to the floor, Sorak retrieved his other sword and left the room. He plunged through the beaded curtain to the taproom, which was already in flames.

He ducked down behind the bar as an energy bolt hurled by Livanna passed overhead, and then he heard a scream, cut off sharply as another Alliance adept met his end.

He came out from behind the bar, staying low and moving quickly, Livanna was facing off against Andreas. They both threw their spells at the same time. Andreas cried out and fell as his right arm was vaporized, but his bolt of energy struck Livanna in the legs as he fell.

She screamed and fell to the floor, a double amputee. The intense heat of the energy bolt had instantly cauterized her wounds, but she was legless from her thighs down and continued screaming, writhing on the floor in agony.

Sorak ran over to Andreas, but one glance told him there was nothing he could do. Already weakened by the healing spell he'd cast, the old man had thrown everything he had into his last spell. He had used up all of his remaining life force, sacrificing himself, leaving behind only a withered corpse.

As he straightened, Sorak saw Livanna struggling to drag herself toward the door. He crossed the burning room in several quick strides and pinned her to the floor, a foot in the middle of her back. The flames were spreading rapidly, and the tavern was filling up with smoke and the sounds of crackling fire. He bent and turned the templar over, pressing the broken blade against her throat.

Livanna stared at him with loathing, and as her lips moved to cast a spell, Sorak went in.

He focused his burning hatred upon her brow, and his mind tore into hers, psionically smashing its way past all resistance, driving to the core the way a termite bores through wood. He found everything he wanted in there—her plot with Ankhor and the mul; her bargain with the Shadow elves to betray Ankhor and clear the way for Nibenay; her spell link with the treacherous Edric.

He brushed everything else aside and seized on the spell link, focusing his energies on it... and he tore it out, appropriating it.

As he withdrew from the templar's mind, he left her ravaged, her consciousness psionically shredded. Her eyes stared up at him emptily, seeing nothing. He left her a crippled, mindless shell. She would survive, but not long. He glanced around at the conflagration. Not long at all.

As he stepped through the smoke pouring out the busted front door of the tavern, he saw a crowd gathered in the street. They stared at him and pointed, but he did not pause. He came toward them, and they hastily moved aside to let him pass. In the center of the street, he hesitated only a moment, cocking his head to one side slightly as if listening, then set off at a run for the gaming district.

 

*****

 

The audience, composed almost exclusively of males, broke out into wild cheering and applause as Cricket shed her clinging, diaphanous gown and stood before them clad only in a tiny strip of cloth and a silver ankle chain. Seated among the male patrons were the other dancers, who had stopped hustling their customers long enough to watch the new girl and see what she could do. Cricket saw in their expressions a mixture of responses—admiration, envy, resentment, hunger—reactions she had seen often before.

The one response she had never seen, and wished she could, was someone who enjoyed her dancing merely for its own sake. Once, so long ago it seemed as if it were another lifetime, she had danced for the sake of dancing, for the simple joy it brought her. Now, it had become an exercise in manipulation.

Unlike other dancers, who wasted little time before disrobing, she had left her gown and scarves on through most her dance, only removing them slowly and provocatively at the end. The other dancers sold the fantasy of wantons, lustful, desirable, and easily available.

Among them, her presentation was unique. She was not a trollop, but a graceful half-elf girl, demure and feminine, conscious of her body and the joy it could bring. Instead of flaunting open sexuality, she showed flirtatious femininity. Instead of lewd gyrations, she presented charming sensuality. Instead of brassy provocation, she danced subtle invitation, with a shy surrender at the climax. It never failed to drive them wild.

Yes, she thought, that she could do. But in the end, it was merely illusion, a paltry substitute for a reality she had never even known.

She had thought it would be different in Altaruk. Yes, the house was larger and catered to a more well-heeled clientele. Yes, the pay was better, and the tips more generous. And yes, the working conditions were improved, with larger and more comfortable dressing rooms and attendants to assist with costuming and makeup. But in all other respects, it was the same: the pressure to be more "friendly" with customers, the blatant sexual overtures from patrons and management, the crude shouted comments from customers, the constant groping, feeling, pinching.... In the end, only the place had changed. Even the faces seemed the same.

Cricket retrieved her gown and headed offstage, toward the dressing room. In the corridor, as she slipped the gown back on, she felt hollow, a sensual facade over deep melancholy. She had found a new job and new quarters, but otherwise, nothing had changed. She was still just going through the motions of a life.

What was the point in holding out for an ideal that did not exist? What was the purpose in waiting for a hero when, in the end, heroic talk led only to base actions? Why bother to believe in virtue, love, and honor—mere masks for ambition, lust, and expedience? If men told lies, was she any better for selling them illusions? Why stop there? Why not simply sell it all?

She came to an abrupt halt as she entered the dressing room, eyes widening in surprise. The other dancers were outside, working the crowd, but she was not alone. Edric sat in a chair before her, legs casually crossed. His hands were toying with a dagger.

"What, no greeting for an old friend?"

Her lips turned down into a sneer. "You bastard," she said. "You never were my friend. You lied in everything you said."

"Well, in many things, perhaps, but not everything. I said you were beautiful, and so you are. I said you could drive them wild, and so you can. I said the same elven blood flows through our veins, and so it does. I also said I was tribal.

"I did lie about the boy, though. It was part of the role I chose to play. My true tastes do not happen to lie in that direction."

"I can't believe you had the nerve to come here after what you did," said Cricket. "What do you want?"

"You," said Edric.

"Me? You must be joking!"

"Actually, I had other plans when I arrived in Altaruk, but as luck would have it, things did not work out. My luck, it seems, has not been good of late. Now, I need to leave town with some alacrity, and it strikes me a hostage will improve my chances."

Cricket turned and bolted for the door, but Edric moved quickly, catching her just as she stepped into the hall. He seized her arm and twisting it behind her as he brought the dagger to her neck. "Don't be a fool," he said. "This is no life for you. You'll wind up like the other sluts. It doesn't have to be like that. You were tribal once. You can be tribal once again, a lady of the Shadows, free and proud, beholden to no man."

"Except to you?" she said. She snorted her derision. "How could I possibly resist such a charming invitation? A dagger at a lady's throat—truly the height of gallantry."

"I readily concede I am not much of a gallant," Edric said. "But then, of course, you are not much of a lady. Granted, we are starting off rather awkwardly, but though you may not appreciate it now, I am doing you a favor. You have far too much potential to waste yourself on a life of degradation in a pleasure house."

"Becoming your woman would be an even greater degradation," Cricket said.

One of the large, muscular bouncers appeared before them in the hall. "What's going on here?"

"Step aside, you thick-headed lout," demanded Edric, "else I will slash her throat from ear to ear."

The bouncer's eyes grew wide as he noticed the dagger against Cricket's neck. He backed away several steps, then moved aside to let them by. As Edric passed the bouncer, he suddenly shoved Cricket into him, trapping him against the wall. With a quick, deft stroke, he plunged the blade into the bouncer's side, then jerked Cricket back again as the man slid down against the wall.

"Why?" asked Cricket with despair.

"To insure he didn't do anything foolish, and as an object lesson to you, my dear," said Edric. "The same will happen to anyone who tries to interfere, so keep that in mind if you want to avoid any more bloodshed.

"Now we are going to go outside together and walk calmly toward the door. If anyone tries to stop or question us, get rid of him quickly, or I will."

He urged her out into the main room, where one of the other girls was dancing on the stage. They kept close to the wall, moving around toward the front door, Edric walking close beside her, holding onto her and using his body to shield the dagger.

They were almost to the door when it opened, and Sorak came in.

Edric stopped, cursing under his breath. Cricket saw Sorak's gaze quickly sweep the room, and then focus on them. He drew his sword. In an instant, several bouncers moved toward him, but Cricket yelled out, "No!"

All eyes turned toward them. Edric jerked her arm up painfully behind her back and pressed the edge of the dagger under her chin. All conversation stopped. A moment later, so did the music. Everyone quickly moved back out of the way except the bouncers, who stood watching alertly, tensely, unsure what to do.

Sorak gave them a quick glance. "Stay out of it," he said. "He's mine."

"Move aside. Nomad," Edric said, urging Cricket forward. "Back off if you want the girl to live!"

"And if you kill her, then what?" Sorak asked, moving closer, staring at Edric intently.

"Then you will have another death on your conscience," Edric said. "The priestess died because of you. You want this girl to die on your account as well?"

"The only one who's going die here is you," said Sorak, still coming toward them.

"Stop right there!" said Edric. "One more step, elfling, and I'll cut her throat!"

"Go ahead," said Sorak, advancing. "Try."

Edric tried to press the blade in closer, to draw blood and show that he meant business, but he suddenly discovered his hand would not respond. He tried again, but his entire arm began to tremble as he strained against a strong, invisible force. It was as if his own muscles resisted him.

Sorak simply stood there, staring at him, concentrating, and suddenly Edric understood what was happening. The Nomad was using psionic force against him.

Fear shot through him as he realized he was powerless to resist. He grunted, straining against the force, and Cricket held her breath as she saw the dagger trembling before her, just below her chin. But slowly, steadily, it moved away.

Edric's wrist cocked as he fought against the pull, and the dagger blade pointed back toward him. His arm shook, and slowly started to bring the point closer to his face.

With a cry, Edric released his grip on her arm, and as she lunged away, he grabbed his right wrist with his left hand in an attempt to keep the knife away. Then he stumbled, off balance, as the force abruptly went away. The bouncers started to move in, but Sorak turned his blade toward them.

"I said, stay back!" he cautioned. "I'll kill the first man who tries to interfere."

"We want no trouble here, friend," one of the bouncers said. "Take your quarrel outside."

"No," said Sorak. "He dies here and now."

Cricket cried out; Edric had snatched up a chair and hurled it at Sorak's head. Sorak ducked aside, and the chair missed him. Several of the bouncers cut off the elf's retreat. Edric glared about, panicked, but there was no escape.

Sorak glanced down at his sword. "No," he said. "This would be too easy. And too quick." He sheathed it.

Edric lunged.

Sorak drew the broken blade. It sparkled with a blue aura as he blocked the knife thrust, turning it aside and sidestepping in one smooth motion. He slashed Edric with a sharp, upward sweep of his arm. The elf cried out and brought a hand up to his ear, which was only a bleeding hole. It had been neatly severed, and blood poured down the side of his face.

He came in with a cry, slashing wildly.

Cricket watched with horrified fascination as Sorak danced aside, and the broken blade flicked in once more, opening a deep gash across Edric's face. The Shadow screamed and staggered as the crowd surged back, giving the combatants plenty of room, but shouting their encouragement, all the same. Rather than trying to stop the fight, the bouncers worked to keep bystanders out of the way.

Edric lunged in again, and Sorak's blade rang dully on his obsidian one as a piece of Edric's knife flew off. Once more, Sorak followed his parry with a lightning slash, opening a deep cut in Edric's shoulder. Edric backpedaled, staring with dismay at his obsidian dagger. The point had been knocked off.

Sorak reached down and pulled a steel dagger from his boot. "Here, try this," he said, tossing it to him.

Edric caught it and threw aside his own ruined blade. He was breathing heavily and bleeding profusely from his wounds. His eyes had a wild look. He was overmatched, and there would be no possibility of yielding. The elfling meant to kill him, slowly cutting him to ribbons. A look of determined resignation came into his eyes.

"Finish it," he said, gasping for breath. "Come on, finish it, you misbegotten half-breed bastard!" And he charged in.

Sorak attempted to sidestep the rush, but Edric anticipated the move and compensated, leaving himself wide open as he stabbed down hard with the dagger. With his free hand, Sorak grabbed Edric's wrist and simultaneously drove the broken blade into his midsection. Edric gave out a hissing gasp, and his eyes opened very wide. He coughed, and a bloody froth appeared on his lips.

"I salute the Crown of Elves," he said in a constricted voice, and spat blood into Sorak's face.

Sorak pulled out the broken blade and stabbed it in once more, directly into Edric's heart. The Shadow made a brief, gasping noise, then his eyes rolled up, and he died. Sorak shoved him back onto the floor, then wiped the bloody spittle from his face. As he turned and walked away, the crowd parted for him quickly.

Cricket watched him go, then ran up and bent over Edric's body, retrieving Sorak's knife from his dead fingers. She hesitated for a moment, then ran after him.

 

*****

 

Ankhor stood on the veranda outside his private quarters, looking out over the town as the first faint light of dawn appeared on the horizon. In the distance, he could see flames rising near the market plaza as the fire brigade fought to extinguish the blaze.

The previous evening, Kieran had gone with the house guard to investigate a report of an armed brawl in the shopkeeper's district. He had been instructed to send a guard back with news of what occurred. Kieran had come back himself to tell him what they'd found.

"The fight took place in the alley by the shop of Lorian the Bootmaker," he had said. "Lorian himself saw nothing. He wisely stayed inside when he heard the commotion. The alleyway was littered with corpses. All elves, save one, and that one was the priestess, Ryana. Sorak's lady." The mercenary's gaze was hard. "It was an ambush by the Shadows, that much was obvious, but they got far more than they had bargained for."

"What of Sorak?" Ankhor asked.

"There was no sign of him."

"Dead, you think?"

Kieran shook his head. "He was seen wandering the streets, wounded, clutching bloody weapons. His current whereabouts remain unknown."

"A tragedy," said Ankhor, silently cursing Edric for botching the job.

"Indeed," said Kieran, keeping his face carefully neutral. "I wonder how the Shadows knew where he would be."

Ankhor shook his head. "They must have followed him from the caravan plaza. The crowd was large; the raiders could have blended in easily. Sorak must be found. If he is hurt, he may have collapsed somewhere...."

"I have already instructed the guard to comb the streets for him," said Kieran.

And it was then that they had noticed smoke rising from the rooftops near the merchant plaza. Kieran had departed quickly to investigate.

He sent back word that witnesses reported a mage battle in a tavern, that a number of charred bodies were pulled out of the blaze. One was a female mul. Another was also female, barely recognizable, and legless, but a blackened silver chaplet around her shaved head identified her as a templar of Nibenay, the Shadow King. Witnesses also reported seeing someone leaving the scene. From the descriptions, Kieran knew it was Sorak. His current whereabouts were unknown.

Ankhor could only guess at what must have happened. The Nomad must have gone straight to the Alliance, or else they had found him, and somehow Livanna and the mul had attacked that very cell. Ankhor knew the burning tavern had been a meeting place of the Alliance. It had taken months to place infiltrators in the support ranks of the Alliance to gather intelligence about the membership and gathering places.

It must have been purely a coincidence Sorak was there when the templar struck with Kah. Now both Livanna and the mul were dead. There was nothing to connect him with those two, but how had Sorak survived? The elfling had amazing luck. He had survived the ambush, and the murderous mul, and a senior templar of Nibenay. "There is a new viper loose in Altaruk."

"Trouble sleeping tonight, my lord?"

Ankhor stiffened as he recognized the voice. He turned around slowly. Sorak stood behind him on the veranda.

"Sorak!" Ankhor said. "Thank goodness you're all right. I've had the house guard combing the streets for you all night. I heard about what happened. I am so very sorry about Ryana.".

"If you dare speak her name again, I'll cut out your tongue," said Sorak.

Ankhor's eyes widened. "What? Forgive me, but—"

"Aren't you going to ask me how I managed to get in?" asked Sorak.

Ankhor felt a chill go down his spine. He nervously moistened his lips.

"I imagine the question itself gives you the answer," Sorak said, "since I obviously did not come in by the front door." He looked out at the smoke rising from the rooftops in the distance, beyond the low walls of the veranda. "You have a lovely view up here," he said. "It appears the fire is almost under control. Some good people died there tonight. And two who very much deserved to die."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," said Ankhor.

"Oh, I think you do," said Sorak. "Livanna revealed much before she died. Against her will, of course, but she revealed it just the same. Shall I tell you all about it?"

"Who... who is Livanna?" Ankhor asked as a knot formed in his stomach.

"You mean who was Livanna," Sorak corrected him. "She was a senior templar of the Shadow King, with whom you had a bargain to sell out Altaruk to the defilers. Quite a complicated little plot you hatched. You hired the Shadows to attack your own caravan, to cause significant losses to the House of Jhamri and, ostensibly, to your own house, as well. Except your losses on that particular caravan would have been slight, and more than offset by your share of the plunder.

"Meanwhile," he continued, "the templar and your mul would systematically assassinate members of the Veiled Alliance in Altaruk, defying all efforts to apprehend them, because of course, you would give them shelter and keep them appraised of all the movements of the guard. Lord Jhamri would be made to appear incapable of keeping the peace, and at the proper time, your own house guard would have caught the mul, who would have been killed in the attempt to apprehend her.

"You would have received credit for generously hiring the famous Kieran of Draj to protect the citizenry. By then, however, the Alliance in Altaruk would have been broken, and the way left clear for defilers to move in. Once they were in power, Lord Jhamri would be brought to heel and the House of Ankhor would become the most powerful merchant guild in the western Tablelands."

"The templar told you that?" said Ankhor. "And you actually believed this nonsense?" He shook his head and chuckled. "I have never heard such a fantastic tale in all my life!"

"Then here's another tale," said Sorak. "One that is considerably shorter but should amuse you all the same. The templar was planning to betray you, She had made her own separate agreement with your friend, Edric. He was going to assassinate you."

"Edric? Who's Edric?" Ankhor said. "I have never heard that name."

"Oh, but you have, my lord," said Kieran, standing in the open doorway of the veranda, behind Sorak. Neither of them had noticed his arrival until he spoke. "I told you all about him when I gave you my report."

"Kieran!" Ankhor said. "Thank goodness you're here!" He pointed to Sorak. "He's got an insane notion I've been involved in some fantastic plot!"

"Yes, I know. I heard," said Kieran, leaning casually against the doorframe. "The funny thing is, I believe him."

"You can't be serious!" said Ankhor.

"I am completely serious," Kieran replied. "And I fear I'll have to take you into custody."

"You must be mad," said Ankhor. "You work for me! I hired you!"

Kieran raised his eyebrows. "As I recall, I was hired to serve the House of Jhamri."

"But it was I who paid your salary! Besides, what grounds have you to arrest me? You have no proof of these ridiculous accusations!"

"Perhaps not," said Kieran, "but then the prosecution of them is not my responsibility. I will simply lay the case before Lord Jhamri, and it will be up to him to make the final disposition."

"The final disposition will be made right here, tonight," said Sorak grimly.

Kieran shook his head. "I think not," he said. "You have had a busy enough night, my friend. I just came from the pleasure house, where I saw what you did to Edric. Under the circumstances, I can hardly blame you. I know how you must feel, and I share your grief over your loss, but I cannot stand by and watch you commit murder, however justified it may be."

"Justified!" said Ankhor in outrage.

"Yes, justified, my lord," said Kieran. "You were the one who sent Sorak and Ryana to the place where they were ambushed. I was there, if you'll recall, and you were most insistent, even to the point of saying they should go there right away. You also took care to see to it that I was occupied with my report to you and reviewing the full complement of the guard. Now perhaps one or two raiders might have followed them to Lorian's from the caravan plaza, but nearly a dozen would have been conspicuous. I spoke to Lorian and learned that they were not in his shop more than a few moments, and so the ambush must have already been in place. The Shadows did not follow them. They knew they would be there. And you were the Only one who could have told them. I suspect that will be all the proof Lord Jhamri will require."

Ankhor paled. He could think of no response.

"I already have all the proof I need," said Sorak.

"No doubt," said Kieran, "but you are not the law in Altaruk, and regardless of who hired me, I have a duty to that law. I must apprehend Lord Ankhor and deliver him to justice."

"Do not speak to me of justice," Sorak said. "Ryana died as much by his hand as by Edric's. Keep out of this, Kieran. I'll not let you take him."

"And I cannot let you kill him," Kieran said. "Stand aside. I am still your superior officer, if you will recall."

"We are at cross purposes," Sorak said coldly. "I hereby tender my resignation."

Kieran shook his head. "Don't do this, Nomad," he said. "Please, I have no wish to fight you."

"Then give way."

"I cannot," said Kieran. He drew his blade.

There was a sudden crash of shattering pottery.

Kieran grunted and collapsed, unconscious. As he fell, Cricket stood revealed behind him, the shattered remains of a heavy vase in one hand.

"I... I couldn't figure out how to get the secret panel open," she said. "It took me a long time to find the lever—"

Ankhor lunged past Sorak and snatched up Kieran's blade. But as he moved toward Cricket, Sorak pulled Galdra from his belt and threw it. The broken blade streaked across the distance between them and struck Ankhor in the right shoulder. He cried out, and Kieran's sword fell from his grasp.

As he bent to retrieve it, Cricket rushed him, shoving him hard with both outstretched arms. He staggered backward, struck the low wall of the veranda, and fell over. His scream was cut off as he struck the courtyard—the smooth expensive tiles of yellow and blue—four floors below.

Cricket gasped and brought her hands up to her face. "I... I didn't mean to push him! I... I was afraid he would..." Her voice trailed off.

Sorak looked down into the courtyard. Several guards had rushed over to the body. From its position, Sorak could tell Ankhor's neck and back were broken. Matullus looked up and, for a moment, their eyes met.

"Get him!" said Matullus. At once, the guards rushed for the front door, their weapons drawn.

Cricket was pulling at his arm. "We must get out of here!" she said. "Come, quickly!"

Sorak turned and started back inside, toward the secret panel, pausing only briefly to examine Kieran. He was already starting to revive.

"Hurry!" Cricket said from the open panel.

"Good-bye, my friend," said Sorak softly, then he followed Cricket through the secret panel. It closed behind them just as running footsteps sounded on the stairs in the hall.

Epilogue

Sorak lay on a cot in the small, spartan room on the second floor of the hostelry where Cricket stayed, a short walk from the gaming district. His eyes were shut, and he held a damp cloth against his forehead. It was late afternoon, and the intense ache was only beginning to recede. His psionic exertions had belatedly taken their toll.

He recalled what Elder Al'Kali, the pyreen shapechanger who had found him in the desert all those years ago, had told him.

She had made her annual pilgrimage to the summit of the Dragon's Tooth, the tallest peak among the Ringing Mountains, and as she renewed her vows, she heard a powerful psionic cry for help. His cry. It had traveled all that distance to reach her on a mountaintop miles from where he lay. She responded, flying down to find him, and it was that cry that made her bring him to the villichi convent after she had nursed him back to health. The villichi sisters were masters of psionics, and his power was the strongest the pyreen had yet encountered in all her many years.

He had always believed power came from one of the others of his inner tribe, for he had never been able to perform any of the psionic training exercises at the convent unless the Guardian or one of the others came to the fore. But now they were gone, and the power remained. Perhaps, somehow, it had been transferred to him when the others left; perhaps it had been there all along. But he would just as soon have remained ignorant of it if only he could have Ryana back.

Cricket had brought him to her room, by which time the pain had grown so great that he could barely stand. Without knowing what was wrong, she had put him to bed and tried to nurse him, but he had only wanted to be left alone. She had gone out, a while ago, leaving him to lie there with a pressure in his head that seemed unbearable, but at the same time, he was grateful for the pain. It gave him something he could focus on, something to keep him from dwelling on his grief over Ryana's death.

The door opened, and Cricket entered, carrying a leather pouch. She set it down on the small, round, wooden table and came over to the bed, bending over him anxiously. "How do you feel?" she asked.

"Better," he replied.

"The guard is everywhere, asking about you," she said. She hesitated, biting her lower lip. "Everyone thinks you killed Lord Ankhor." She took a deep breath and exhaled heavily. "As soon as you are well, I'll tell them the truth, that it was I who pushed him."

"No," said Sorak, pulling the damp cloth away and sitting up. "There is no point to that. I would have killed him, anyway. What you did was an accident. You were only trying to protect yourself, and help me. There is no reason you should bear the blame. I will leave town as soon as it grows dark. I have done what I came here to do."

"Take me with you," she said.

Sorak shook his head.

"Please."

"No, I cannot."

"I know who you are now," Cricket said, kneeling before him and taking his hands in hers. "I know what you are. You are the Crown of Elves. You are the one thing I always wanted to believe in. The one thing I can believe in. Let me go with you. Please. I want to help."

"I do not mean to sound ungrateful, but you would be more a hindrance than a help," said Sorak. "You would only slow me down and get in my way. And however sincerely you may try, you can never replace the one I have lost."

"I know that," Cricket said, gently. "She came to see me one night when the caravan stopped to camp. The night Edric's treachery was revealed.

We talked. She was very kind. Most women are not kind to girls like me."

"Ryana was kind to everyone," said Sorak dully. "When she died, a part of me died with her."

"I know I could never take her place," said Cricket, "but I would hate to think of you being alone."

"I want to be alone now," Sorak said. "After all, that is the true meaning of my name. Sorak, the nomad who walks alone."

"I will only follow you if you refuse to take me with you," Cricket said.

"That would be foolish. I could lose you easily. And while I am grateful for your offer, I do not want you with me. Do you want to end up like Ryana? I do not want anybody with me. Not now. Not anymore."

Cricket sighed with resignation. "Very well. I have brought some food, some supplies to take with you on your journey."

"Thank you." He had no money. The packs containing all the silver from Bodach had been dropped in the attack in the alley. By now, someone had discovered a windfall.

"Where will you go?"

He shook his head. "I do not know. I will go wherever the Path leads me."

"Well, wherever you go, you will need this," said Kieran, standing in the doorway. He tossed the broken blade across the room, onto the bed.

Sorak looked up. "For a big man, you move as softly as a cat."

Cricket snatched up Galdra and held it out before her in both hands, facing Kieran. "You will not take him!" she said vehemently.

Kieran raised his eyebrows and held up his hands in mock surrender. "That's quite a protector you've got there," he said with a smile.

"It's all right, Cricket," Sorak said. "He did not come to arrest me." He glanced at Kieran. "Or did you?"

"No," said Kieran, entering the room and taking a chair. "I did not. So put the blade down, girl. You have nothing to fear from me, though by rights, I should turn you across my knee for that knock on the head."

"I'm sorry," Cricket said. "But I thought you were going to—"

"Yes, I know what you thought, and you were right," said Kieran. "However, that is moot. You solved that problem neatly when you pushed Ankhor off the roof."

"It wasn't her," said Sorak, recalling that Kieran was unconscious at the time. "It was me. I did it."

Kieran shook his head. "No, you didn't. I saw what you did to Edric. If you'd killed Ankhor, you would have done a great deal more than throw him off a roof. But do not concern yourself. No one knew Cricket was there except the two of us. Matullus saw you, not her. He thinks you knocked me senseless, and frankly, I'd prefer he think that rather than know I was felled by a dancing girl."

"You would let him take the blame, merely to protect your reputation?" Cricket said, outraged. "I won't allow it. I am going to tell the truth."

"You are going to keep your pretty little mouth shut and not complicate things," Kieran told her. "I was merely joking. I will take care of everything, but it will take some time." He looked at Sorak. "Lord Jhamri has ordered your arrest, and Matullus is eager to prove himself by bringing you in, dead or alive. I will tell him the truth of what has happened, and I feel confident I can convince him. He's a good soldier, but he's young and brash and overeager.

"Right now, tempers are running high. Jhamri feels the need to demonstrate his authority. Personally, I'd just as soon tell him the truth after you are out of town. Whether he believes me or not, he might be tempted to use you as a scapegoat. Ankhor was his partner, after all, and it would not be very good for business* for Jhamri to reveal that his junior partner was involved with murder and betrayal. The whole thing will have to be handled rather delicately."

Sorak nodded.

"I once told you I owed you a debt," said Kieran. "It is a poor repayment, but for what it's worth..." He handed Sorak a small scroll. "That is a formal introduction from me to anyone who knows me or my reputation. It speaks of my regard for you, and requests that any assistance you request be rendered for my sake. There is also a crodlu tied up outside, at the hitching post, with two full waterskins and saddlebags holding provisions. After the sun goes down, if you make your way to the west gate, you will find it strangely unattended for at least an hour. No doubt, a miscommunication of orders."

"I am grateful," Sorak said. "But I have one request."

"Name it."

"Ryana," Sorak said. For a moment, he found it difficult to speak.

"I will personally see to whatever arrangements you may wish," said Kieran.

Sorak swallowed hard. "I would like to take her home."

"Of course," said Kieran. "When you leave tonight, ride west through the pass that will take you to the route to Tyr. Wait near the west entrance to the pass, and I'll bring her to you after sundown tomorrow."

"I am deeply in your debt," said Sorak.

"You owe me nothing," Kieran replied. "It is the least I can do, and I am glad to do it. My contract with the Jhamris is for a year of service. Exactly one year from today, I am going home to my estate outside Salt View." He removed a silver signet ring from his left hand. "This was my father's," he said, handing it to Sorak. "If you ever need me, send this to me there, and I will come."

Kieran stood and held out his hand. They clasped forearms, mercenary style.

"Until tomorrow," Kieran said. "Good fortune to you."

 

*****

 

Sorak sat astride his crodlu, watching as two mounts approached through the pass. One bore a rider, Kieran. The other had a large, limp parcel wrapped in oilcloth strapped across its saddle. Sorak felt his throat constrict as the two crodlu approached. He rode down the slope to meet them.

They exchanged no words. They had both already said all there was to say. Kieran simply handed him the reins and nodded. Sorak nodded back. Kieran gave him the mercenary salute, right fist thumped to the left breast, over the heart, then he simply turned and rode away without a backward glance.

Sorak sat there for a moment, watching him go. Then he looked down at the still form wrapped in oilcloth and felt a tight pressure building in his chest. He took a deep, ragged breath as a tear rolled down his cheek.

"Come, my love," he murmured. "We're going home."

He turned and slowly rode west into the night, toward the Ringing Mountains.