by Simon Hawke
“Narimi!” said Korahna.
“You should have stayed away, Korahna,” the older woman said, gazing at her with scorn. “You are a disgrace to the royal house.”
“The royal house is a disgrace!” Korahna said. “I am ashamed to have been born to it!”
“A situation that is easily remedied,” the templar said. “You shall not have to live with your shame much longer. You will be executed, as your mother was, but first you will name all your accomplices in the Alliance.”
“I will die first!” Korahna said, grabbing for her sword.
But even as she tried to draw it, the templar swept out her hand, and the blade froze in its scabbard. Korahna pulled with all her might but could not free the sword.
Ryana concentrated, focusing her psionic energies upon the club of the half-giant standing behind the templar. He grunted as it twisted from his grasp and flew up into the air, arcing toward the templar’s head. But she quickly turned and again flung out her hand. There was a flash of light as the agafari wood was incinerated in midair before it could come down on her.
Then the templar pivoted and swept her arm out toward Ryana. An invisible force struck her in the chest, and she flew backward, landing at the feet of the half-giants behind her. Stunned and with the breath knocked out of her, she could not focus her will.
“A good attempt. Priestess,” said the templar, “but psionics are no match for magic. You shall die as well, but first you shall tell me where the elfling is.”
“I will tell you nothing, bitch!”
“I think you shall,” the templar said, raising her land once again. “Hold her.”
Two of the half-giants bent to pick her up, but as they did, something came whistling through the air over their heads. The templar made a grunting, gasping sound as the knife struck her in the chest. She looked down at it with astonishment, then collapsed to the ground. Instantly, the street was filled with a hail of arrows.
“Get down!” Ryana shouted, sweeping Korahna’s legs out from under her and rolling over on top of her.
All around them, the half-giants fell, bellowing in pain and fury as arrows seemed to sprout suddenly from their bodies. In seconds, the street was littered with their lifeless bodies.
The hail of arrows ceased, and Ryana looked up. A number of tall figures stepped out of the shadows around them, perhaps a dozen or more, all carrying crossbows. Elves and half-elves. And leading them was a familiar figure.
“You!” Ryana said.
It was the thief from the tavern. And a moment later, Sorak came up beside him. Ryana’s eyes grew wide as she saw him. He was completely covered in blood.
“Sorak!”
“It is all right,” he said. “The blood is not my own.”
“You should have seen him!” said the thief. “He was magnificent! The half-giants fell like chaff before him!” He turned and spoke to his companions. “Did I not tell you, scoffers? Truly, he is the king the legends foretold!”
“I have told you once already, I am no king,” said Sorak.
“You carry Galdra, the blade of ancient elven kings.”
“A sword does not make one a king!”
“That one does.”
“Then you take it!”
“Not I,” the thief said. “You are the one.”
“I tell you, I am not the one!”
“Could you two debate this later?” said Korahna. “The quarter is crawling with guards. We haven’t much time.”
“We will provide escort,” said the thief. “It is the very least that I can do to make amends.”
“You have already made amends,” said Sorak. “Just get us out of here.”
“We must reach the north wall, by the stone yards,” said Korahna.
“This way, then,” said the thief. “I know the shortest route. Trust thieves to know the back streets and alleys.”
They ran quickly down twisting lanes and through narrow, refuse-strewn alleys while some of the others hung back to cover their rear. The two women strained to match the pace set by the elves, who were merely jogging by their standards. Before long, they reached the stone yards, a wide and open expanse near the north wall of the city, where the large, quarried blocks were brought to be cut down for use by the city’s artisans.
Moving quickly through the moonlit yard, Korahna led the way through the maze of stone blocks piled up all around them. Most of the other elves hung back to cover them in the event of pursuit. Finally, they reached the north wall of the city and ran alongside it until they came to the hovels at the far end of the yard. Korahna paused a moment to get her bearings.
“This way,” she said, ducking down a narrow alley. She counted doors. It was not an alley but a street, though it was scarcely wider than Sorak’s shoulders.
They were in the poorest section of the city, where hovels were so crowded together that they made the warrens of Tyr look like the templars’ quarter. At the seventh door on their right, Korahna stopped and knocked softly seven times. They waited, tensely, then a moment later, three slow, answering knocks came from within. Korahna knocked once more, and the door swung open.
They entered a room that seemed little more than a closet. A small, cheap lamp cast what little light there was, illuminating a pallet on the floor and several crudely made pieces of furniture assembled from scrap, a low table pegged together from boards, and a small, three-legged stool. There was no room for anything else. The old man who had opened the door was dressed in rags, and his scraggly, gray hair hung limply to his shoulders. Without a word, without even so much as a glance at the stranger who had entered his cramped quarters, he shuffled over to the wood pallet on which he slept, bent over, and with a grunt, pulled it away from the wall, revealing a wooden trapdoor beneath it.
“It is a small and narrow tunnel,” said Korahna, “and you will have to crawl. But it leads under the wall and outside the city. From there, you are on your own.
“Then we will say farewell again,” said Sorak, giving her a hug. “We owe our lives to you. And to you, as well, friend,” he said to the thief, holding out his hand.
Instead of taking it, the thief bowed deeply. “It was privilege, my lord. I hope that one day, soon, we shall meet again.”
“Perhaps,” said Sorak. “And do not call me ‘my lord!’”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Aaah!” said Sorak, throwing up his arms.
The old man opened the trapdoor.
“Hurry,” said Korahna. “The longer we remain here, the greater the risk.”
Sorak took her hand and kissed it. “Thank you, Your Highness,” he said.
“Go on! Hurry!”
He climbed down into the tunnel.
“Farewell again, Sister,” said Ryana. “I shall miss you.”
“And I, you.”
They embraced briefly, and then Ryana followed Sorak down into the hole. The door was closed behind them, and she was plunged into total darkness. She reached out with her hands in front of her and fell a small opening, barely wide enough to crawl through.
“Sorak?”
“Come on,” he called back, from inside the tunnel. “But keep your head down.”
She squirmed into the opening and started crawling on her hands and knees. She couldn’t see a thing. She felt incredibly closed in and wondered what would happen if the runnel collapsed on them. She swallowed hard and kept on crawling. The thought occurred to her that it seemed like a perfect place for snakes and venomous spiders. Why did that have to occur to her now? She was grateful that Sorak was crawling up ahead, because that meant if there were any spiderwebs inside the tunnel, he would break them before she crawled into them headfirst. It was not, perhaps, a very considerate attitude, she thought, but at least it was an honest one.
After what seemed like an incredibly long time, she finally felt the tunnel sloping up slightly. And then she reached the end of it. She found out because she ran into the wall headfirst. With a curse, she pulled back
and rubbed her head, then felt around her. A shaft was open above. She crouched, then stood, and felt wooden rungs in front of her. She climbed up perhaps a dozen feet or so and then felt Sorak’s hand close around her wrist, helping her out. She breathed in the welcome, cool, night air and felt a soft breeze blowing. They stood in a thicket by what she first thought was a stream, then realized was an irrigation canal. They were about thirty or forty feet beyond the city wall. The distance she had crawled had somehow seemed much longer.
“I hate tunnels,” she said, brushing the dirt off her clothing before realizing that there wasn’t much point to it. After all that they had been through, her clothes were filthy and torn in places. Sorak did not look much better. In fact, he looked even worse. There was dried blood caked all over him, covered with a layer of grime.
“Don’t stare,” he said. “You do not look much better.”
They stood in a grove of agafari trees, sheltered from view. Ryana unslung her crossbow and unbuckled her sword belt, dropped her pack to the ground, and waded into the canal. It felt wonderful to let the cold water caress her face.
“Well?” she said. “Are you coming in, or do you intend to spend the rest of our journey looking like a corpse?”
He grinned, took off his sword belt and his pack, then waded in beside her. The water came up to their chests and they both submerged themselves, then scrubbed their faces and their clothes.
“It would be just our luck to be caught here, bathing, after all that we have been through,” said Ryana.
“I would not tempt fate if I were you,” said Sorak.
“Yes, my lord.”
He splashed her. “Stop that.”
“Yes, my lord.” She splashed him back. Suddenly, they were laughing and splashing each other as they had not done since they were both small children, playing in the pool by the temple. After a short while, they climbed out and rested for a moment on the bank, the water dripping from them.
“That felt good,” she said, staring up into the trees.
“Enjoy the feeling,” Sorak replied. “It is the last water we shall see until we reach the Mekillot Mountains.”
She sighed. “I suppose we had best be on our way and put as much distance between us and the city as possible while it is still dark.”
Sorak got to his feet and buckled on his sword belt.
“If it were not for the fact that I have no other sword, I would be sorely tempted to toss this one into the canal.”
“That would be a fine way to treat a gift from the high mistress,” said Ryana, shouldering her pack.
He drew the blade and looked at it. “The sword of elven kings,” he said dryly, then sighed. “Why does it fall to me?”
“You should be grateful,” said Ryana. “It has saved our lives.”
“And placed them in jeopardy, in the first place.”
Sorak replied wryly. He sheathed the blade. “Still, it is a fine and wondrous blade.”
“And we shall yet have need of it,” Ryana said. They started walking, heading through the grove of trees and keeping under their protective cover as long as possible.
“It feels rather strange not to have Korahna along,” said Sorak as they walked. “I had grown rather fond of her.”
Ryana nodded. “As did I. At first, I disliked her, but she proved to be much more than what her appearance had suggested. Do you think she will be safe?”
“No,” said Sorak. “And I do not think she would have it any other way.”
Ryana smiled. “At least she will have a chance to get some rest,” she said. “Every muscle in my body feels tired and sore.”
“We will try to find a sheltered place to rest a while shortly after daybreak,” Sorak said. “We have a long walk ahead of us.”
“I don’t suppose Screech could scare up a kank?”
“In the Ivory Plain? I would not count on it. And it is doubtful we shall find wild kanks this close to the city. No, I am afraid we have no choice but to go on foot.”
“Do you think they will pursue us?”
“Perhaps,” said Sorak. “But I suspect they will think we have found shelter with the Veiled Alliance. They will search the city for us first. By the time it occurs to them that we have fled beyond the walls, we will be long gone.”
They soon reached the end of the grove, beyond which acres of cultivated rice fields spread out before them. They waded through the irrigated fields, past darkened, outlying estates, both of them feeling too tired to do much talking. Soon, they reached ground that was more sparsely covered with vegetation. The ground was sloping slightly, and Ryana knew that it would not be long before they reached the desert once again. They had filled their water skins back at the canal, but she knew she would have to make the water last as long as possible. And chances were it would not be long enough. By daybreak, they had reached a ridge and stopped to rest among the rocks. As the sun came up, she looked out over the ridge and saw, in the distance, a vast expanse of white land, gleaming in the morning sun “The Great Ivory Plain,” said Sorak.
Far in the distance, Ryana could see the outline of the Mekillot Mountains, their next destination. “Well,” she said with an air of resignation, “I had always wanted to go on a long pilgrimage.” She sighed. “However, this is not quite what I had in mind.”
There was no reply from Sorak. She turned to find him stretched out on the ground in the shadow of the rocks, fast asleep. This time, the Ranger did not come out, nor did any of the others. Their body’s wariness had finally caught up with them.
“Sleep well, Nomad,” she said, stretching out beside him. “We have both earned our rest.”
She closed her eyes and thought of the forests of the Ringing Mountains, of the flowing river and spreading canopy of trees. It seemed to belong to another lifetime now. She wondered, briefly, what life would have been like had she chosen not to follow Sorak, but remain at the villichi temple. It would have been, she thought, a pleasant, peaceful and serene life… and utterly predictable. She had no regrets. And as she fell asleep, she smiled.
Epilogue
The weary travelers looked utterly exhausted as they fell asleep beside each other on the sheltered rock ledge looking out over the plain below. They slept in shadow, protected by the overhanging rock as the dark sun rose above them, reflecting in myriad sparkles off the vast expanse of salt and quartzite crystal that was the Great Ivory Plain. They would have a long, hard journey ahead of them when they awoke, and when they reached the Mekillot Mountains, they would face still greater challenges. With a sigh, the white-robed figure passed a long and bony hand over the surface of the scrying crystal, and it clouded over. The faces of the weary travelers faded from view, as if disappearing into a mist. The large and perfect sphere went as dark as the black velvet on which its silver stand stood.
“Let them rest a while in peace, Kinjara,” said the Sage, turning from the scrying crystal. “We shall look in on them another time.”
The rare white-and-black striped kirre made a low growling noise, rising in tone. It raised its massive head and its twin ram-like horns and twitched its long, barbed tail.
“What is it, Kinjara? You are hungry?”
The kirre gave an answering growl.
“Well, do not look to me. You know which way the door is. If you are hungry, then you must hunt. That is the way of things.”
The kirre growled plaintively.
“Do not give me that. Yes, of course I am still your friend. But you are a wild creature. Simply because I provide you with shelter and companionship, do not expect me to start feeding you, as well. You would only become spoiled.”
The kirre grunted and exposed its huge teeth in irritation as it rose up from the floor on its eight muscular legs and moved with lithe grace toward the door.
“That’s a good kitty,” said the Sage. “And remember our agreement. Do not kill any birds.”
The kirre gave an answering grunt.
“No, I am sorry. No birds and t
hat is final. I will not have you looking at me hungrily when my wings begin to sprout. I know your sort.”
Grrrrrr.
“And the same to you. Go on now, get.”
Another robed and hooded figure approached from across the room. At first glance, it might have been taken for a human, except that it was very large, just over six feet tall, and extremely wide in the shoulders and upper torso. There were other peculiarities about its proportions. The arms seemed unusually long, and the hands had only four claw-like fingers, ending in sharp talons. The feet, too, were very large and bird-like, more like claws than feet. And from beneath the robe there hung a reptilian tail. As the figure stepped into the light, the face within the hood became visible. It was not even remotely human. The open beak revealed rows of small, very sharp teeth, and the yellow, lizard-like eyes were covered with nictitating membranes. The creature emitted a series of low, clicking sounds.
“Yes, they have secured the Seals,” said the Sage, turning toward the pterran. “You see, Tak-ko, you were wrong. They did survive the Stony Barrens, as I knew they would.”
The pterran spoke once more in its peculiar, clicking, chirping language.
“Yes, I have sent them to see the Silent One, whose help they will require in the next step of their journey.”
The pterran chirruped again.
“No, the Silent One is not crazy. A bit peculiar, perhaps; eccentric, to be sure, but crazy? No, I do not think so.”
The pterran clicked.
“What do you mean, am I sure? How can anyone be sure of anything in this world?”
Click-click, click-click-chirp-click, click-click-chirp.
“I am not equivocating! Life is merely full of uncertainties, that is all. Even I cannot know everything. For certain, that is.”
The pterran spoke once more. “The pain? The pain is not so bad today, thank you for asking. It is just a general, dull ache. I scarcely notice it. It will grow worse with the next stage of the transformation, but I am not yet quite prepared for that. Our friends shall have to provide a few necessary ingredients, first.”