by Simon Hawke
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 midsectio
n.
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.”