by Simon Hawke
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 sce
ne. 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.