Simon Hawke - The Outcast

“The man who just passed by here,” Sorak said to the gatekeeper. “Which way did he go?” The gatekeeper frowned. “What man?”

“The man in the hooded cloak. He passed by you not a moment ago.”

The gatekeeper shook his head. “You are mistaken,” he said. “No one has passed by here since you came through the gate.”

“But he had to have gone past you!” Sorak said. “There is no other way out!”

The puzzled gatekeeper shook his head. “I have not left my post, and no one has passed this way since you came through the gate,” he insisted.

“I see,” said Sorak slowly. “Well, never mind. I must have been mistaken.”

He turned back toward the entrance. Magic, he thought, with a certain amount of trepidation. He knew very little of magic. He had a feeling that his education was about to begin.

Timor glared at the templar who stood, trembling, before him. “You mean to tell me that five men, all expert murderers, were unable to dispose of one miserable, half-breed peasant?”

“He is no mere peasant, my lord,” the templar replied, biting his lower lip in his anxiety. He fervently hoped that Timor would not blame the failure of the brigands on him. “I, myself, saw him cut down two of the marauders with such speed and ferocity that it was breathtaking. Only Rokan escaped him alive. He ran, like a coward.”

“That makes three,” said Timor. “What of the other two?”

“I found their bodies in the alley where they had hidden, waiting to ambush the elfling. One had been beheaded, and the other killed with a single sword thrust through the heart.”

Timor frowned. “But you told me that you saw the elfling come of out the wineshop and walk up the street, as if he were unaware of any ambush.”

“That is true, my lord.”

“Then who killed the two men in the alley?” The templar looked puzzled. “I... I do not know, my lord. I had assumed the elfling had...”

“How could the elfling have done it if he was in your sight from the time he left the wineshop to the moment he was attacked in the street? When could he have disposed of the two in the alley?”

The templar shook his head. “I do not know, my lord. Perhaps he suspected somehow that the ambush would take place and left the wineshop by the back door, then came up behind the two marauders in the alley and surprised them.”

“Then why would he return to the wineshop and come out the front door again? Why invite the ambush?” Timor frowned. “No, it does not make any sense. If you are telling me the truth—”

“I am, my lord, I swear it!”

“Then someone else killed those two men in the alley,” Timor said. “It is the only possible explanation. It seems the elfling has a guardian. Perhaps more than one.”

“I cannot see why he would require one,” the templar said. “The way he handled that sword of his, and the way the other blades broke upon it...”

“What?” said Timor.

“I said, the way he handled that sword of his—”

“No, no... you said the other blades broke upon his sword?”

“Yes, my lord. They simply shattered when they struck the elfling’s blade.”

“What do you mean, they shattered? They were iron blades! I saw to it personally that Rokan and his men were equipped with them.”

“Nevertheless, my lord, they shattered. Perhaps there was some flaw in their construction—”

“Nonsense,” Timor said. “In one blade, perhaps, but surely not in both. Besides, even if there were a flaw, the blade would crack and break, not shatter. You are certain that they shattered?”

“They burst apart as if they had been made of glass,” the templar said.

Timor turned away and stared out the window, deep in thought. “Then the elfling’s blade must be enchanted,” he said. “There was a report from one of my informers concerning how the elfling killed a man in the Crystal Spider. That report, too, spoke of his antagonist’s blade shattering against his own, but it could have been obsidian, and obsidian will shatter on a well-made metal blade. There was also something about his cleaving an entire table in two, and turning the man’s own knife against him... obvious exaggerations. Or at least, so I thought at the time.”

“I know what I saw, my lord,” the templar said. “The elfling is a highly skilled and dangerous fighter. I will wager that he is the match of any gladiator in the city.”

Timor rubbed his chin absently. “It seems to me I heard something once, many years ago, about a sword against which other blades would shatter... a very special sword.” He grimaced. “I cannot recall it now. But it will come to me.” He turned back to face his minion. “At the very least, this is clear proof that the elfling is not the simple herdsman that he claims to be. And proof that, whatever he is up to, he is not working alone. I cannot proceed with my plans until I am certain they have not been compromised. And time is growing short. I do not trust Rikus and that damned sorceress. They are up to something, I am sure of it, and this elfling is involved somehow.”

“What do you wish me to do, my lord?” the templar asked.

“Resume watch on the elfling for the time being,” Timor replied, and the templar sighed with relief that he was apparently not going to be blamed for the failure of the ambush. “Keep me advised of every move he makes. I will let you know if I have any further instructions.”

The templar bowed and gratefully withdrew, leaving Timor alone in his chambers.

That wineshop is a known contact point for members of the Veiled Alliance, Timor thought, considering this new information. And the elfling carries an enchanted blade. It all seemed much too convenient for coincidence. He was involved with them, with the Alliance, without a doubt. And he had met secretly with Rikus. What did it all mean?

Qearly, it was a plot of some sort. Sadira had to be behind it. Rikus was her confidant, just as Kor was his. Was it possible that Sadira was a secret member of the Veiled Alliance? But, no, he thought. She had once been a defiler, and even if she had forsworn defiler magic and repented of it, the fact that she had once defiled would be enough to prevent the Alliance from accepting her. Still, that did not necessarily mean they could not work hand in glove, to the advantage of both parties. What would be served? What could both Sadira and the Veiled Alliance want?

Obviously, the destruction of the templars. Just as Timor himself wanted more than anything to wipe out the Veiled Affiance as the sole threat to his power, so would the Alliance look upon the templars. To the Alliance, the templars would always be enemies. They would always be Kalak’s enforcers. He could work to change the image of the templars in the minds of Tyr’s citizenry, but the Alliance would always remain firm in its relentless opposition. And the only other threat he had to face, the only other power in the council, was Sadira. Without her and that mongrel gladiator, he would be in complete control. The rest of the advisors were nothing more than saplings that bent with the prevailing wind.

Yes, he thought, Sadira had to see that, too. She was no fool. He would not make the mistake of underestimating her. She had brought down Kalak, after all. There was a great deal more to that pretty wench than met the eye, though what met the eye was pleasing. Under the right circumstances, with her made properly pliable... but no. He pushed the thought from his mind. Better to have her safely dead, but in such a manner as no blame could befall the templars. And she, of course, was most likely thinking the selfsame thing about him at this very moment.

She cannot move against me openly, thought Timor, so she has found herself this elfling as a cat’s-paw. He was to approach the Alliance where she could not. What was he? Where had she met him? What had she promised him in return for his mercenary services? Was it possible that he could be bought off? No, Timor thought, the time to have tried that would have been before the attempt on his life was made. Now it was too late for such measures of expediency. Now the only thing to do would be to finish the job Rokan had bungled.