Simon Hawke - The Outcast

Both elves and halflings possessed senses more acute than those of humans, and Sorak’s were unusually so, in part because he was both elf and halfling, and in part because the Watcher was preternaturally alert to the evidence of those senses.

Unlike beasts, rational creatures could be distracted by their thoughts and, unless they truly paid attention, might miss things reported to them by their senses. No one man could remain in a constant state of alertness, aware of every single piece of information reported by his senses. Such a constant state of concentration would be exhausting, and would leave room for nothing else. However, Sorak was not one man. He was a tribe of one, and the role of the Watcher in that tribe was to do nothing else but pay attention to everything reported by the senses of the body they all shared. The Watcher missed nothing, whether it was significant or not. In this case, the Watcher felt the information was significant enough to alert Sorak to what his senses had already detected, but his own consciousness had not. And now that his alertness s had been triggered by the Watcher, Sorak’s senses seemed suddenly to become much more acute.

The scent of man. But how did he know it was the scent of man without ever having met a man before? The Watcher knew, which obviously meant that at some point in his past, beyond the reach of conscious memory, he had smelled this scent before and known it for what it was. He did not know why, but for some reason, this scent had an association that was unpleasant and disturbing. The corners of his mouth turned down.

“Tigra,” he said softly. “Get out of sight.” The tigone obediently bounded off into the underbrush.

Sorak approached with caution. So far, he could not see them, but as he drew closer, their scent became stronger... the smell of human males, and something else, almost like the scent of human males, but different in some subtle way. And there was the scent of beasts, as well... crodlu—large, bipedal lizards with thick, massive legs, and long, thin forelimbs. Sorak could see them now, tied up to a stand of scrub just beyond the outer walls of the ruins. They stood erect on their heavily muscled legs, their long necks stretched out to their full length as their beaklike jaws tore leaves and small branches from the scrub. He counted six of them, and saw that each of the creatures had a saddle strapped to its broad back, which meant the beasts had been tamed for use as war mounts.

As they sensed his approach, they reacted with loud snorts and pawed at the ground, but Screech came to the fore and snorted back at them, which calmed them down. They went back to munching on the foliage.

“Something is disturbing the crodlu,” a male voice said from just beyond the wall.

“Probably just some animal,” one of the others said. “Anyway, they’re quiet now.”

“Perhaps I should go check on them.”

“Relax, Silok. You worry too much. There’s not a soul around for miles. If someone were trying to sneak up on us, the crodlu would be making a great deal more noise.”

Sorak came up close to the wall, pressing his back up against it as he listened.

One of the men grunted with contentment from his meal, then belched loudly. “You think the caravan will leave tomorrow?”

“Perhaps, but it will likely take more time to fill the wagons and organize for the return trip. Never fear, Kivor, we shall have no trouble spotting the caravan from here when it leaves the city. There will be plenty of time for us to ride down and alert the others.”

“I wish they would hurry up about it,” the one called Silok said irritably. “Damn those lazy merchants. We’ve been up here for three days now, and who knows how much longer we may have to wait? I’m growing sick of this place.”

“What sickens me is that Rokan and the others are having themselves a fine old time in Tyr, drinking and carousing with the ladies while we sit up here in these miserable ruins and freeze our asses off each night.”

“Zorkan’s right,” said one of the others. “I see no reason why we can’t take turns going down into the city. Why should it require six of us to keep watch for the caravan?”

“Because that way we can work in shifts, and some of us can sleep or go to empty our bowels or hunt game. Or would you prefer to sit up here all alone, Vitor? There is greater safety in numbers. We do not know these hills.”

“Nor do I want to know them,” Vitor replied sourly. “The sooner we are quit of this place, the better I shall like it. The cursed bugs up here are eating me alive.”

As the men spoke, Sorak withdrew inside his mind, and the Guardian came to the fore, using her telepathic ability to read their thoughts.

These men are bandits, she realized at once. Marauders from the Nibenay region. But then, what are they doing here? Nibenay is clear across the desert, at the foot of the Barrier Mountains. She probed more deeply, opening herself to all their thoughts. At once, she recoiled from the contact. These were ugly, crude, and vicious minds, preoccupied with the basest thoughts and instincts. With a sense of revulsion, she forced herself to extend her telepathic awareness out toward them again.

She tried to push past their vile thoughts of greed and lust, the images of violent acts these cruel men had committed and cherished in memory. As she sorted through the brutal thoughts and impulses of their minds, she came to loathe them.

These men were parasites, predators of the worst kind, without faith or scruples. They had left their base camp in the Mekillot Mountains and gone east, then followed a trade caravan from Altaruk. Some of them had joined the caravan, posing as traders. They now waited down in the city, waited for the caravan to begin its journey back to Altaruk bearing weapons to be sold in Gulg and profits from the merchant houses of Tyr. Before the caravan could reach Altaruk, however, the marauders planned to attack it. These men camped inside the ruins were the lookouts. When the caravan started out from Tyr, their task was to ride down to where the rest of their band was waiting in the desert and alert them to prepare the ambush.

But why had they come all this way? If their goal was merely to attack the caravan and pillage it, then why not simply strike the caravan near Altaruk or Gulg, both of which were much nearer to the Mekillot Mountains, where these marauders made their home? Why travel so far? The Guardian probed deeper.

One of the men, a brute named Digon, seemed to be in charge of this group. She focused her psionic probe on him. Once again, she had to fight down her revulsion as she came into deeper contact with his mind, the images within it were repellent and disgusting. At last she found what she was seeking.

There was more to this than simple banditry. Of those who had joined the caravan from Altaruk, some would strike from within when the trap was sprung, but others were in Tyr as spies. There was a fairly new government in Tyr. Word had reached Nibenay that Tithian was gone and his templars had been deposed. Tyr was now ruled solely by a Council of Advisors, and apparently this government was not a stable one.

There was a secret alliance between these marauders and a powerful aristocrat in Nibenay. Digon did not know the identity of this noble. It seemed only their leader, a man named Rokan, knew this noble and had regular contact with him. He had made an agreement with the aristocrat, in return for certain considerations, to send some of his marauders to infiltrate several of the merchant houses in Tyr and gather information about the state of the government. Robbing the caravan added the incentive of greater profit to the enterprise and enhanced the nobility of Nibenay, since it denied valuable trade goods to their rivals in Gulg.