Simon Hawke - The Outcast

They split up and scattered quickly into the early morning shadows. Ryana hurried back to Sorak, who was crouched over the wounded animal. “Sorak...” The tigone’s thoughts were weak. “It will be all right, friend,” Sorak replied, stroking the huge beast’s flank. “The wound is not a fatal one.”

“Cannot move ... Tigra hurt ... Great pain ...”

Sorak felt the beast’s body stiffening beneath his touch. His gaze shot down toward the arrow. There was something smeared upon the shaft. He took hold of it and pulled it out, careful not to touch the part of the shaft that was smeared. He sniffed it. Poison. Spider venom. It paralyzed first, and then a painful death swiftly followed. “Nooo!” he moaned. “Sorak... Sorak...” He could feel the tigone’s agony. As its mind touched his, he shared the searing pain, and it washed over him like fire.

“No, Tigra, no...” he groaned, not protesting the animal’s pain that he was sharing, through their psionic link, but the fate of his lifelong companion.

“Sorak ...” The pain he felt was ebbing quickly now as the tigone’s own life ebbed, and the link grew weaker. “Friend... protect ...”

And then the beast was gone.

Sorak felt it die. He experienced its death, and for a moment, he was numb with shock and loss, as if a part of him died too. And then he threw back his head and howled, a sound that was utterly inhuman, a sound that came from both his broken heart and Screech, the beast entity within him. The cry echoed through the once-again deserted streets, and Ryana stood there beside him, tears in her eyes as the dark sun slowly rose over the city.

Timor stopped just inside the entrance to the small council chamber and looked around. All the councilors were already present, sitting at the table. Everyone was silent, staring at him. All except for Kor, who pointedly gazed down at the surface of the table before him.

“You have heard what the people are saying,” Sadira began without preamble, even before he had sat down. “The entire city is outraged over the defiling of the graves in the cemetery,” she continued. “The count is still inexact, but we know that over three-score dead were raised. Raised by defiler magic,” she added redundantly, merely to emphasize the point. Rikus sat beside her, glaring at him.

Timor was about to reply, but Sadira continued without pause. “The entire hillside and plateau where the city cemetery is located was rendered completely barren by the foul spell,” she said, her gaze never wavering from him. “Moreover, the walking dead were sent into the city itself— into the city itself! There are scores of witnesses. People barricaded themselves in their homes in panic. Children were traumatized, to say nothing of those whose loved ones were buried in that cemetery, and were raised to walk again as foul flesh imbued with deadly and repellent purpose. An entire complement of guards was murdered at the Crystal Spider gaming house before members of the Veiled Alliance neutralized the threat.”

“Yes, a tragic thing,” Timor began smoothly, shaking his head as if in commiseration. “It is fortunate that—” but he never finished, for Sadira’s next words brought him up short.

“The people are saying it was you who are responsible,” she said, drilling him with her gaze.

“I?” said Timor. “Surely, it was the city guard who were responsible, for being derelict in their duties. The templars—as you well know, since you were the one to draft the edict—no longer bear an active role in law enforcement in the city. We support the city guard, of course, but—”

“They are saying it was you, Timor, who raised the dead,” said Sadira flatly.

Timor felt a chill, but he recovered quickly. “That is absurd,” he said. “Everyone knows we templars lost our powers when Kalak was slain. Surely you, of all people, do not believe such nonsense?”

“What I believe or do not believe is not at issue here,” Sadira said.

“What, precisely, is at issue?” he demanded, but she ignored him and went on.

“Also found dead upon the scene was one Rokan, said to be the leader of the Nibenay marauders, and one of the spies arrested by the city guard and given over to your custody. How is it, Timor, that a criminal in your custody, a known murderer and spy, was not only free to walk the streets of Tyr, but was able to do so armed with dagger, sword, and crossbow? Why was he not brought forthwith before the council?” Crossbow? I gave him no crossbow, Timor thought.

He must have obtained that for himself. Doubtless because he feared to meet the elfling face-to-face. Still, no matter. It was clear now how things stood. They were seeking to pin it all on him. Obviously, they had their suspicions, but if Rokan was dead, they could not possibly have any proof.

“Rokan...” Timor said, as if trying to place the man. “I am not certain I recall which one he was. In any case, I was not informed that he had managed to escape. Clearly, the fault lies with those who were in charge of him, and I shall be sure to ascertain who was responsible.”

“It is clear who was responsible,” said Rikus, his voice a growl.

“What are you suggesting?” Timor countered in an affronted tone. “Your remark implies some sort of accusation.”

“I don’t need to imply anything,” said Rikus. “It is all clear to me. All five of the Nibenese spies were apprehended by the city guard. All five were given over to the custody of the templars. Specifically, they were brought directly to your estate. All five conveniently escaped to make an attempt on the life of Sorak, the elfling. Their remains have all been positively identified.”

“That they escaped is regrettable,” said Timor smoothly, “and they clearly sought to take their revenge on the man responsible for their capture. It is fortunate the elfling knows how to take care of himself. He would seem to be quite a fighter for a mere herdsman. But I fail to see what all this has to do with me, unless you are seeking to hold me personally responsible for the regrettable escape of those spies. Granted, I did interrogate them, but then—”

“We are holding you personally responsible for turning those spies loose with orders to kill Sorak,” Rikus said. “And for a great deal more, as well.”

“You must be insane. Why should I do such a thing? Moreover, I do not know who began the pernicious rumor about my being responsible for the undead plague, but it is clearly ludicrous, nothing but malicious and totally unfounded gossip. I am no sorcerer.”

“So then you deny practicing defiler magic?” Rikus asked.

“Of course I deny it! It is against the law!”

“And you deny using coercion, magical or otherwise, to set the marauders on the elfling?”

“I repeat, why should I wish to do such a thing? What could I possibly have to gain?”

“The elfling’s death, if you saw him as a threat to some plot you were hatching,” Rikus said.

“Ridiculous!” said Timor. “I coerced no one, magically or otherwise! I refuse to sit still for these ludicrous and insulting accusations! It is no secret that you have both long harbored resentment for the templars. This is merely a ploy to make the templars fall into disfavor with the people and to oust me from the council!”

“The man Rokan was badly disfigured when he was found,” Sadira said. “So? What of it?”

“Bring in the first witness,” said Sadira. “Witness? Witness to what?” asked Timor angrily. A soldier of the city guard entered. “You were one of those who took the Nibenese marauder, Rokan, into custody?” Sadira asked him. “Yes, my lady, I was.”