Simon Hawke - The Outcast

The tigone bounded after the marauder. “Make him stop, but do not harm him.” Tigra cut off the marauder and crouched before him, snarling. Digon froze, staring at the huge beast in terror.

“If you move, Tigra will kill you,” Sorak said. “No, please!” the marauder pleaded. “I beg you, spare my life!”

“As you would have spared mine?” said Sorak. “Tigra, fetch.”

The tigone took the marauder’s forearm between its teeth and brought him back to Sorak. Digon’s face was absolutely white with fear.

“Spare me, please! I beg you! I will do anything you say!”

“Yes, I think you will,” said Sorak as he sheathed his sword.

He turned and retrieved his pack, daggers, and staff, then walked back toward the ruins, where the marauders had made their camp. Tigra followed, pulling Digon along by his arm. The marauder whimpered with fear.

The campfire was burning low. Sorak bent down, picked up several pieces of wood, and tossed them on the fire. He quickly examined the campsite, then put down his staff and pack and sat down on the ground, beside the fire. “Sit down,” he said to the marauder. Tigra released Digon’s arm, and the marauder slowly sat down across from Sorak, with the campfire between them. He swallowed hard, his gaze going from the fearsome beast beside him, to Sorak, and back again. He could not believe what had just happened. There had been six of them against one, and now he was the only one left alive. One of his men had been killed by the tigone, but this “pilgrim” had dispatched the other four himself, and with a speed and effortlessness that seemed impossible. He had never felt so afraid in his entire life.

“I have money,” Digon said. “Silver coins and merchant scrip. Spare me and you are welcome to it all.”

“I could take it all in any case,” said Sorak.

“So you could,” said the marauder glumly. “But listen, I still have things to bargain with.”

“What things?” asked Sorak.

“Information,” Digon said. “Passed on to the right people, this information could net you a reward far greater than what my purse contains.”

“You mean information about how your bandit friends plan to attack the caravan?” said Sorak. “Or are you referring to the men your leader sent to Tyr to spy for Nibenay?”

Digon’s jaw went slack with astonishment. “Gith’s blood! How in thunder did you know that?” And then he recalled how his dagger had been yanked from its scabbard and how his shield had been wrenched out of his grasp, as if by unseen hands. “Of course,” he said. “I should have known by the way you command the tigone.” He sighed and stared morosely into the flames. “Just my luck to encounter a master of the Way. That means I have nothing left to bargain with. My life is forfeit.”

“Perhaps not,” said Sorak.

The marauder glanced up at him sharply, hope flaring in his eyes. “What do you mean?”

“Your leader... Rokan,” Sorak said, and as he spoke, he ducked under, and the Guardian probed the thief’s mind. An image of his leader came to Digon’s mind, and she perceived it. “What of him?” Digon asked, uneasily. “Who are the men he chose to spy for Nibenay?” As he heard the question, Digon thought of the men picked for the mission and the Guardian saw all their faces in the mind of the marauder. And with their faces, came their names.

The marauder saw the way Sorak was looking at him intently, and he swallowed hard. “I could hide nothing from you. You know already, do you not?”

“Yes. I know.”

Digon sighed. “What more would you have of me?”

“When your friends attack the caravan, where is the ambush to take place?” And no sooner had the Guardian asked the question than she perceived the answer in the marauder’s mind. Without even waiting for his reply, she then asked, “How many are they?” And that answer, too, was instantly forthcoming. Digon could not resist thinking of it. “What are their arms?”

“Stop it!” the marauder cried. “At least give me time to answer! Leave me some shred of self-respect!”

“Self-respect?” said Sorak. “In a man such as you?” The corners of Digon’s mouth twisted down and he looked away, avoiding Sorak’s gaze. “Go,” said Sorak.

The marauder stared at him with disbelief, uncertain that he heard correctly. “What?”

“I said, go.”

“You are releasing me?” Then he glanced uneasily at Tigra.

“The tigone shall not harm you,” Sorak said. “Nor shall I. You are free to leave, though you deserve to die.”

Scarcely able to believe his good fortune, Digon slowly got to his feet, as if expecting Sorak to change his mind at any moment.

“Before you go,” said Sorak, “consider what would happen if you were to ride out and attempt to warn your friends waiting in the desert, or went down to Tyr and sought out Rokan. A long journey made for nothing, spies exposed, and plans for plunder gone awry, all because of you.”

Digon bit down on his lower lip. “They would kill me. But... why do you spare my life?”

“Because I can,” Sorak replied. “And because you can do a service for me.”

“Name it.”

“I seek contact with the Veiled Alliance,” Sorak said.

Digon shook his head. “I have but heard of them,” he said. “I know nothing that could help you.”

“I know that,” Sorak said. “But you can go down to the city and help prepare my way. Ask questions. See what you can learn. And if they should contact you, then tell them about me. Steer clear of your marauder friends, however. That would be in your own best interest.”

“You need not remind me,” Digon said.

“You will do it?”

Digon gave a small snort. “You know I will. It would be pointless trying to deceive one who can read your very thoughts. What you ask entails risk, but that risk is nothing compared to what Rokan would do to me, and it is a small enough price to pay for the gift of my life. When I speak of you, what name shall I give?”

“I am called Sorak.”

“A nomad who walks alone? Then Aivar was wrong. You are an elf?”

“I am an elfling.”

“So he was right. You are a half-breed. But it is unheard of for halflings and elves to mate. How did that come about?”

“That does not concern you.”

“Sorry. I did not mean to offend. May I take my crodlu?”

“Yes, but leave the others.”

Digon nodded. “They should fetch a good price in the marketplace. What about weapons? Will you leave me with none?”

“I shall leave you with your purse,” said Sorak. “You can use it to purchase new weapons in the city.”

Digon nodded. Sorak followed him out beyond the wall. As the marauder headed toward the stand of scrub where the crodlu were tied up, he hesitated by the bodies of his comrades. He bent down over one of them, and Sorak saw him retrieve a purse.

“Leave it,” Sorak said. “Your own should be sufficient to your needs.”

“If I am to make inquiries on your behalf, I shall have to frequent taverns,” Digon said. “That will take money. And I shall be poorer for the purchase of new weapons, without which I would be a fool to undertake your errand.”

What the man said made sense, thought Sorak. “Did they all carry purses?” he said, indicating the corpses.

“In expectation of a visit to the city, we all brought silver, yes,” Digon said sourly. “We six did not expect to be chosen for this lousy duty.”

“Take half, then, and leave the rest to me,” said Sorak.

Digon nodded and proceeded to relieve the bodies of their purses. He brought three to Sorak and kept the rest himself. “All right?” he said.

Sorak weighed the purses. They were full of jingling coins. “Very well,” he said. “You may go. But take care that you do not betray me. If it should occur to you, remember I have touched your mind. That will make it easier for me to find you.”