Simon Hawke - The Seeker

“Oh, he is out there; you may be sure of that,” said Torian. “And doubtless closer than you think.”

“In this open country, if he was close, we surely would have seen—”

“You would have seen nothing,” Torian said, his voice a whip crack of authority. “The Nomad is not a man. He is an elfling, with all the attributes of both his cursed races! He could find cover in a place that would not conceal a child, and he can move more softly than a shadow. And when he comes at you, if you so much as pause to blink with surprise, he will be on you with dazzling speed. What is more, he is a master of the Way. Do not underestimate him merely because he appears human. Observe. ...”

He indicated the obsidian blade he had taken from the man slain by Ryana at the grotto. It had a hide thong fastened around its hilt, with a loop through which his hand could fit. “He shall not disarm me quite so easily again,” said Torian, “though this blade would be of little use against that cursed sword of his.”

“So what is the point, then?” Gorak asked.

“The point, you brainless fool, is not to use it against him, but against the priestess,” Torian said scornfully. “He values her. Doubtless, they are lovers.”

“But I had heard that villichi priestesses do not take—” Gorak began, but Torian cut him off impatiently.

“She is a woman, is she not?” he said. “And he is a comely-looking bastard, for all his coarseness and roughshod appearance. Indeed, many women are attracted to such things.”

“But... he is not even of her race!” said Rovik.

“So? You have never heard of a human female being bedded by an elf? Where do you think half-elves come from, you idiot? Fruit is often all the sweeter for its being forbidden. Did you mark the way she looked at him? No, of course not. That is because you are a simpleton. Make no mistake: he will attack us before we reach the city. That is why we must press on with all possible speed and clear the barrens before sundown.”

“Not that I would dream of questioning your judgment, my lord,” said Gorak, “but why?”

“Do you relish the thought of being out here at night without a fire?” Torian said. “There is nothing out here to burn, and the moons will not be full tonight. The elfling can see in the dark. Can you?”

“Oh,” said Gorak lamely.

“Once we clear the barrens near the foothills, there will be scrub to burn,” said Torian. “If he approaches, you will see the firelight reflected in his eyes. They will be lambent, like a cat’s, and you will see them. That is, you will see them if you remain alert. And by the time you see them, it may already be too late. Still, some warning is better than none at all.”

“If I were the elfling, I would wait to make my move until we reached the mountains,” Rovik said confidently. “There will be more cover there,”

“If you were the elfling, I would feel more confident about our chances,” Torian replied dryly. “Doubtless, he will deduce that we will think that and try to make his move before then, hoping to take us by surprise.”

“You would have made a good general, my lord,” said Rovik.

“Generals serve kings,” Torian replied. “My ambitions are considerably higher. Yours, if you have any, should be concerned with survival for the present. We were nearly a dozen when we started out. Now, we are only three. And we still have at least four days’ journey ahead of us.”

“But he is only one,” said Gorak. “He can no longer depend on the sword arm of the priestess. Do you truly think he alone can best the three of us, even if he is a master of the Way?”

“Even if he weren’t, I would prefer not to take the risk,” said Torian.

“What do you really think our chances are, my lord?” asked Rovik, uneasily.

“That would depend on just how badly you two want to live,” said Torian. “The priestess is our best chance to make it back alive. Look upon her and remember that she alone is your security. Keep closer to her than her shadow, for so long as there is a chance that she may come to harm, the Nomad will not dare strike.”

Ryana heard him, gagged and trussed up as she was, and shot a venomous look in his direction. Torian saw it and grinned.

“Now there’s a look!” he said. “If a gaze could burn, I would be incinerated on the spot.” He shifted his gaze to Korahna. “And as for you, my princess, I owe you a debt of gratitude. If not for your timely fit of royal temper, this journey would have ended for me at the grotto.”

Korahna was both gagged and bound, as Ryana was, but her eyes clearly conveyed her misery and self-recrimination.

She recalled what had happened only too well. She had played the incident over and over in her mind, tormenting herself with it, and the guilt she felt was worse because the consequences of her act had fallen not only on her, but on Ryana as well.

Seeing Torian disarmed, she had believed he was defeated. All she could think of were the insults she had suffered from him. When he had referred to her as his property, as something that belonged to him, all she could feel was her outrage, all she could think of was backhanding him across the face and humiliating him before his men—as he had humiliated her. It had never occurred to her that he could raise his hand against her, that he would seize her, that he was no less dangerous for having been disarmed. No one had ever laid a hand on her. No one would have dared. She was a princess of the Royal House of Nibenay.

I have been a fool, she thought miserably—a spoiled, pampered, arrogant little fool, and I deserve whatever happens to me. But what has Ryana ever done except offer me her hand in friendship? Even her friends among the Veiled Alliance were her friends only because she was of use to them. She was of use to Sorak, too, though she knew that his motives were not entirely selfish. But Ryana . . . Ryana had nothing to gain from befriending her. Indeed, she had done it at first against her better judgment. Ryana was the only true friend she ever had, and after the bond Kether forged between them, she knew no one could ever be as close to her as the villichi priestess. And this was how she had repaid her for her friendship. Korahna knew this was all her fault, and for that, she could not forgive herself.

Tears flowed softly down her cheeks and soaked into her gag. She could not even raise a hand to wipe them away.

How far the princess of the Royal House of Nibenay has fallen, she thought. And when they reached Torian’s estate, she had no doubts she would fall further still. In the beginning, Torian had treated her with deference as befitted a woman of her station, and had hoped to win her over with solicitude and gentlemanly manners. But now the border had been crossed, and he had laid hands on her. He had shown her his true colors, and there was no longer any point to the facade of his aristocratic charm. She knew him now beyond a doubt for what he was, and he would no longer bother with pretense. She had no doubt that he would now take by force what he could not win the other way.

But what of Ryana? She had seen the way the mercenaries looked at her. She was a beautiful, young villichi priestess—a virgin. And they gazed at her as if she were a piece of meat and they hungry carrion-eaters. So Torian had promised her to them. Whatever untender ministrations she would suffer at the hands of Torian, Ryana would know worse. Korahna couldn’t bear the thought. Somehow, she had to do something! But what could she do? If Ryana, who was so much stronger and so much more capable than she, could not escape, then what hope did she have?

And in her desperation, in her anxiety about her friend, a spark ignited deep within the princess. It was a small spark, barely a glow, but slowly, it began to burn. It was the sort of fire ignited within those who had nothing left to lose.