by Simon Hawke
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, I 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 th
at 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.