Simon Hawke: The Nomad

“Sorak the elfling, yes-and his villichi whore,” Valsavis said. “I know of them.” Before coming to the palace, he had first stopped at several taverns frequented by known informers^ and with the knowledge he already had from Veela, it was not difficult to piece together most of the story and separate the probable from the improbable. “Apparently, they came through Tyr, across the barrens and the Barrier Mountains, to cause some trouble for a suitor of one of your brood. I gather it was fatal for the suitor, and the girl in question has gone over to the Veiled Alliance.”

“Your sources are accurate, as ever,” said the Shadow King, “but it is not some slip of a rebellious daughter that concerns me now. It is the elven myth.”

“About his being some fated king of all the elves?” Valsavis asked with amusement. “It is said he bears the sword of ancient elven kings-Galdra, I believe it’s called. A wandering stranger and a fabled sword. What better fodder for a minstrel? He slays a few of your slow-witted giants and drunken bards make him the hero of the moment. Surely you do not give credence to such nonsense?”

“It is far from nonsense,” Nibenay replied. “Galdra exists, but it seems you have heard the bastardized version of the myth. The bearer of Galdra is not the King of Elves, according to the prophecy, but the Crown of Elves. So if the legend is true, then he is not a king, but a king-maker.”

“Shall I kill him for you, then?”

“No,” Nibenay replied firmly. “Not yet. First, find for me the king that this Nomad would make. The crown shall lead you to the king.”

Valsavis frowned. “Why should you be concerned about an elven king? The elves are tribal, they don’t even desire a king.”

“The Crown of Elves, according to the legend, will not merely empower an elven king, but a great mage, a ruler who shall bring all of Athas under his thrall,” said Nibenay.

“Another sorcerer-king?” Valsavis asked.

“Worse,” Nibenay replied with a sibilant hiss. “So find this king for me, and the crown shall be your prize, to dispose of as you will.”

Valsavis raised his eyebrow at the thought that any coming ruler could be worse than a sorcerer-king, but he kept his peace. Instead, he addressed himself to more immediate concerns. “So I trail this elfling for you, find and kill the king that he would make, and for my trouble, you offer me nothing but the elfling and his woman, to dispose of as I wish? Who would ransom such a pair? Even on the slave markets, they would bring a paltry reward in return for all my effort.”

“You would bargain with me?” the dragon king said, lashing his tail back and forth angrily.

“No, my lord, I would never stoop to bargain. My fee for such a task would be ten thousand gold pieces.

“What? You must be mad!” said Nibenay, more astonished than angered at his temerity.

“It is a price you could easily afford,” Valsavis said. “Such a sum means nothing to you, and a comfortable old age for me. With such an incentive, I would approach my task with zeal and vigor. Without it, I would face my old age and infirmity alone and destitute.” He shrugged. “I might as well refuse and be killed now than die so mean a death.”

In spite of himself, the dragon king chuckled. The mercenary’s arrogance amused him, and it had been a long time since he had felt amused. “Very well. You will have your ten thousand in gold. And I will even throw in one of my young wives to care for you in your dotage. Is that incentive enough for you?”

“Will I have my choice from among your harem?” Valsavis asked.

“As you please,” the dragon king replied. “They mean nothing to me anymore.”

“Very well, then. Consider it done,” Valsavis said, turning to leave.

“Wait,” said the Shadow King. “I have not yet dismissed you.”

“There is something more, my lord?”

“Take this,” said Nibenay, holding out a ring to him with his clawed fingers. It was made of gold and carved in the shape of a closed eye. “Through this, I shall monitor your progress. And if you should need my aid, you may reach me through this ring.”

Valsavis took the ring and put it on. “Will that be all, my lord?”

“Yes. You may go now.” The hulking mercenary turned to leave. “Do not fail me, Valsavis,” said the Shadow King.

Valsavis paused and glanced back over his shoulder. “I never fail, my lord.”

“Sorak, stop! Please! I must rest,” said Ryana.

“We shall stop to rest at dawn,” he said, walking on.

“I don’t have your elfling constitution,” she replied, wearily. “I’m merely human, and though I’m villichi, there is nevertheless a limit to my endurance.”

“Very well,” he said, relenting. “We shall stop. But only for a little while, then we must press on.”

She gratefully sank to her knees and unslung her waterskin to take a drink.

“Be sparing with that water,” he said when he saw her take several large swallows. “There is no way of telling when we may find more.”

She looked at him, puzzled. “Why should we fear running out of water,” she asked, “when we can scoop out a depression and employ a druid spell to bring it from the ground?”

“You must, indeed, be tired,” Sorak replied. “Have you forgotten the surface we are walking on? It is all salt. And salty water will not quench your thirst, it will merely make it worse.”

“Oh,” she said with a wry grimace. “Of course. How thoughtless of me.” With an air of regret, she slung the waterskin back over her shoulder. She looked out into the distance ahead of them, where the dark shapes of the Mekillot Mountains were silhouetted against the night sky. “They seem no closer than the day before,” she said.

“We should reach them in another three or four days, at most,” said Sorak. “That is, if we do not stop for frequent rests.”

She took a deep breath and expelled it in a long and weary sigh as she got back to her feet. “You have made your point,” she said. “I am ready to go on.”

“It should be dawn in another hour or so,” said Sorak, looking at the sky. “Then we will stop to sleep.”

“And roast,” she said as they started walking once again. “Even at night, this salt is still warm beneath my feet. I can feel it through my moccasins. It soaks up the day’s heat like a rock placed into a fire. I do not think that I shall ever again season my vegetables with salt!”

They were five days out on their journey across the Great Ivory Plain. They traveled only at night, for in the daytime, the searing darksun of Athas made the plain a furnace of unbearable heat. Its rays, reflecting off the salt crystals, were blinding. During the day, they rested, stretched out on the salt and covered by their cloaks. They had little to fearfrom the predatory creatures that roamed the wastes of the Athasian desert, for even the hardiest forms of desert life knew better than to venture out upon the Great Ivory Plain. Nothing grew here, nothing lived. For as far as they could see, from the Barrier Mountains to the north to the Mekillot Mountains to the south, and from the Estuary of the Forked Tongue to the West and the vast Sea of Silt to the East, there was nothing but a level plain of salt crystals, gleaming with a ghostly luminescence in the moonlight.

Perhaps, thought Sorak, he was pushing her too hard. Crossing the Great Ivory Plain was far from a simple task. For most ordinary humans, it could easily mean death, but Ryana was villichi, strong and well trained in the arts of survival. She was far from an ordinary human female. On the other hand, he was not human at all, and possessed the greater strength and powers of endurance of both his races. It was unfair to expect her to keep the pace he set. Still, it was a dangerous journey, and he was anxious to have the crossing over with. However, there were other dangers still awaiting them when they finally reached the mountains.