Simon Hawke - The Outcast

While the Guardian digested this information, she kept examining the thoughts of the marauders. For the most part, they were irritated by the dull task of keeping a lookout for the caravan and grumbled about how their comrades who had joined the caravan were enjoying themselves in Tyr, drinking and debauching, while they were forced to keep watch from the windswept ridge. They wondered impatiently how long it would take for the return trip to be organized and underway, and they looked forward to taking out their frustrations on the hapless traders and travelers who made up the caravan. Eventually, however, all of these concerns were laid aside as they settled down to a game of dice.

The Guardian pulled back with a sense of great relief and ducked under, allowing Sorak to come back to the fore, with knowledge of all the information she had acquired through her probes. Only a few moments had passed, and Sorak barely noticed the time that he had been away. However, he now had a great deal of information to ponder, and he wondered what he should do about it.

“Why should you do anything?” asked Eyron. “What are these men to you? Nothing. What difference does it make to us if they attack the caravan?”

“It may make a great deal of difference,” Sorak replied inaudibly. “If I warn the caravan of the impending attack, they can make preparations for it and avoid being taken by surprise. Lives will be saved, and the merchants will avoid sustaining losses. They would be indebted to me for this information. And the government would benefit from knowing about these spies from Nibenay.”

“Assuming they believed you and did not suspect you were a spy, yourself,” Eyron replied.

“As a stranger, I would be suspect, anyway,” said Sorak. “I know no one in the city, and I have no money. Yet here I have stumbled upon an opportunity to ingratiate myself to powerful interests in Tyr and perhaps gain some sort of reward, as well. It is an opportunity that seems to good to pass up.”

“Gith’s blood!” someone cried out. “I smell halfling!”

The wind had shifted, but Sorak had not thought the humans would have been able to catch his scent.

“I knew something was bothering the crodlu!” one of the others cried.

There were sounds of commotion beyond the wall as the bandits jumped to their feet and snatched up their weapons. Sorak realized it would be pointless to run. The trail was open in both directions and he would present an easy target for their bows, or they could mount up and ride him down with their crodlu before he had gone a hundred yards. There was nothing to do but stand and face them.

Sorak quickly moved away from the wall so he would not be hemmed in by them if they came from either side, which was precisely what they did. Three of them came around the wall from the right, three from the left. Two of the bandits were armed with crossbows, two carried obsidian-tipped spears and round, leather-covered, wooden shields, one carried a stone axe and a wooden shield, the last was armed with an obsidian broadsword and a shield. They all wore obsidian daggers at their belts and in their boots, and all six wore lightweight, leather breastplates. Five of them were human males, but the sixth marauder was a half-elf.

“Stand where you are!” called out the one named Digon, as the two archers leveled their crossbows at Sorak.

“He’s no halfling,” said the one named Silok. “Your nose is off, Aivar. This man is human.”

“I tell you, I smell halfling on him,” the half-elf insisted. He took another sniff. “And elf, as well, by thunder!”

“A half-breed?” Digon said, with a frown.

“Impossible. Elves and halflings do not mate.”

“Look at his ears,” said Vitor.

“Never mind his ears,” said Zorkan. “Look at that sword!”

Sorak stood perfectly still through this exchange, making no motion toward his weapons:

“If you move so much as a muscle, my archers will shoot you down where you stand,” said Digon. “What are you?”

“Merely a pilgrim,” Sorak replied in an even voice. “With a blade like that?” said Digon. He smiled and shook his head. “No, I do not think so. How much have you heard?”

“I heard men talking,” Sorak said, “and I saw the smoke from your fire. Before that, I had thought to camp here myself this evening, but it seems you have already claimed the spot. I shall not begrudge you. I can find another place.”

“Why take any chances?” Vitor asked. “We should just kill him and have done with it.”

“Hold your tongue,” said Digon. “We shall find out what he has heard, and if he is alone. Drop your staff, pilgrim, and put down your pack.”

Sorak did as he was told.

“Good,” said Digon. “Now, let me see that sword. But slowly, mind, else my archers become nervous.”

Sorak slowly unsheathed the elvish blade. The sight of Galdra provoked immediate reactions of astonishment from the marauders.

“Steel!” said Vitor.

“Look at that blade!” said Zorkan. “I have never seen the like of it!”

“Silence!” Digon shouted, with a quick glance at the others. Then he turned back to Sorak once again. “That is quite a sword for a mere pilgrim,” he said.

“Even pilgrims require protection,” Sorak replied.

“That blade is too much protection for the likes of you,” said Digon. “Toss it on the ground, before you.”

Sorak tossed the blade to the ground, just in front of him.

“There’s a good boy,” said Digon, with a smile. “And now those daggers.”

Sorak slowly reached for the hunting blade in his belt. At the same time, the clump of crodlu tied up beneath the stand of scrub suddenly began to snort and bellow in alarm, pawing at the ground and straining at their ropes. As the marauders turned to see what was disturbing them, Tigra came bounding out of the underbrush, charging toward them with a roar.

“Look out, a tigone!” Aivar cried.

Zorkan turned and aimed his crossbow, but before he could shoot, Sorak’s hunting knife buried itself to the hilt in his throat. Sorak rolled as soon he had thrown the blade, and as he came up, he drew the bone stiletto from his boot and in one smooth motion hurled it at the second bowman. It struck the half-elf in the chest, penetrating his heart, and Aivar was dead before he hit the ground. By that time, Sorak had already snatched up Galdra from where it lay on the ground in front of him, and he came up ready to face his remaining opponents. Kivor was closest. The marauder raised his axe, but he was not quick enough. Sorak’s blade plunged through his chest and came out his back. Kivor gurgled horribly as blood spurted from his mouth and his axe fell to the ground. Sorak pushed him off his sword with his foot, kicking his dying body back into Digon. The leader of the marauder group fell with his dead comrade on top of him.

Vitor screamed as Tigra leaped and brought him down. Silok raised his spear to throw it at the tigone, but saw Sorak coming at him fast with his sword raised and turned to meet the blow, bringing up his shield. Galdra came whistling down, slicing through both the shield and Silok’s arm. The marauder screamed as he saw his severed arm drop to the ground together with the split pieces of the shield. Blood sprayed out in a fountain from where his arm ended in a stump. Sorak swung his sword again and Silok’s head came off his shoulders and landed at his feet. As Silok’s body collapsed, Sorak spun around to see Digon charging him, bringing down his broadsword in an overhead blow. He brought Galdra up just in time to block it, and as the obsidian blade struck the elven steel, it shattered to pieces.

The marauder’s eyes grew wide as he backed away, holding his shield up before him. He dropped the broken blade and clawed for the dagger in his belt However, before his fingers could close around the hilt, the knife suddenly flew from its sheath and sailed through the air to land on the ground about twenty feet away. An instant later, Digon felt the shield wrenched from his grasp, as if by invisible hands, and it, too, went flying. He saw his opponent simply standing there, holding his sword down by his side, and he turned to run. “Tigra,” Sorak said.