Саймон Хоук - The Broken Blade

They had not even reached Altaruk yet and already things were going wrong. Lord Ankhor had entered into partnership with the House of Jhamri… from whose caravan he had helped Princess Korahna escape. As a result, they had been pursued across the Stony Barrens by the Viscount Torian, Lord Ankhor’s friend and business partner, and far from slaying him in single combat, Sorak had, at best, an indirect role in his death. Rather than submit to defeat, Torian had taken his own life, to deny Sorak the final victory. However, the only ones who knew that were Sorak and Ryana and the Princess Korahna herself, who had witnessed it.

When Korahna had returned to Nibenay and joined the Veiled Alliance, the members of that underground resistance movement could not have failed to see the potential benefits in making it known that a princess of the Royal House of Nibenay had taken the vows of a preserver and joined them in their struggle. The daughter of a dragon king, betraying her own father, made for a valuable weapon in their arsenal. They must have spread the story, and from that, some bard had been inspired to compose the Ballad of the Nomad—to Sorak’s everlasting regret.

He stopped by a spreading pagafa tree on a small rise overlooking the pool of the oasis. The tents of the caravan were pitched there, just a short distance away, and the cookfires were lit. Ryana was down there, resting, watching their packs and waiting for him to return. She had such faith in him. She had left the convent for his sake, broken her vows for his sake, faced all manner of danger and hardship for his sake. She trusted him and believed he knew what he was doing. He wished he shared that trust.

“What do you want from me, Grandfather?” he murmured as he leaned back against the tree. “What am I supposed to do? Put a sword in my hand and give me an opponent. That I can deal with; that I can understand. But this game of intrigue…” He shook his head. “I do not even understand the rules.”

The jolt hit him suddenly with a force that made his head spin. His vision blurred, and if he had not been leaning back against the tree trunk, he would have fallen. He spun around, clutching at the tree trunk for support as everything started to spin. The walled enclosure surrounding the oasis vanished. The tents disappeared from view. The quarter moons cast a dim light over the darkness of the desert as the watchfires of the camp burned low. In the distance, perhaps thirty or forty miles away, rose the foothills of the Estuary Mountains, curving gradually to the northwest. The caravan was no more than a day’s journey from Altaruk.

He saw the guards sitting at their posts, gathered around their watchfire, tossing dice. Then, abruptly, one of them jerked and clutched at his neck as a black arrow sprouted from his throat. Another rose quickly to his feet, only to be felled instantly by an arrow through his chest. A third cried out an alarm and started running toward the camp, but before he had run four steps, an arrow struck him between the shoulder blades, and he fell sprawling, facedown on the ground.

From out of the darkness, like specters in the night, Sorak saw them come, black-clad riders in dark robes thundering out of the night on their crodlu, their jet-black kank armor gleaming in the moonlight.

“Sorak!”

His vision blurred as he saw them descend on the camp, dozens of them, riding at top speed—

“Sorak! Sorak, what is it? What’s the matter?”

He was lying on the ground, at the base of the pagafa tree, and as his vision focused, he saw Kieran crouching over him, looking down at him with concern.

“Sorak, are you all right? What is it?”

He swallowed hard and took several deep breaths as Kieran helped him up to a sitting position.

“Sorak?”

“I am all right now,” Sorak said. His head ached, and he felt a slight residual dizziness.

“What happened? Are you ill?” asked Kieran.

“We are going to be attacked,” said Sorak.

“Attacked? When? By whom?”

“Tomorrow night, I think,” said Sorak. “Raiders. Dressed in black… I… I saw them. I saw it happen.”

Kieran stared at him, then nodded. “Very well, then. We’ll be prepared for them.”

“You believe me?” Sorak asked with surprise.

“I have learned not to question someone with the gift of Sight,” Kieran replied.

“How did you know?” asked Sorak, startled.

“I have seen this sort of thing before,” said Kieran, helping him to his feet. “General Trajian of Draj employed a soothsayer with the Sight. He never knew when it would come upon him, but when it did, he reacted much as you. And his visions were never false. You know, my friend, I am beginning to believe the stories of that ballad are not far exaggerated. I was going to speak with you about that.”

“Is that why you followed me?” asked Sorak. “I am flattered. Not many men would pass up an opportunity to watch Cricket dance just to talk with me.”

Kieran grinned. “I notice that you passed it up. You left rather suddenly.”

“I had no wish to answer questions about that ridiculous ballad,” Sorak said.

“Not so ridiculous, I think,” said Kieran, pulling aside Sorak’s cloak to reveal Galdra tucked into his belt. “The blade is broken, yet otherwise it matches the description, right down to the inscription. The runes for ‘Strong in spirit’ remain.”

Sorak glanced at him with surprise. “You can read elvish?”

“And I can speak it, fluently,” said Kieran. “I also know dwarven. And I speak a smattering of halfling. A knowledge of languages can be a great benefit in my trade.”

“I am impressed,” said Sorak.

“That is Galdra, is it not?” asked Kieran. “I am familiar with the elven prophecy.”

Sorak merely nodded.

“So,” said Kieran. “Elven steel. I have heard of it, but never seen it before. May I?”

Sorak drew the blade and handed it to him. As he touched it, a sparkling blue aura briefly played around its edge, but when Kieran put his hand upon the hilt, it faded.

“It still holds magic,” Kieran said, staring at it with fascination. “And I have never seen so fine a blade, with the steel folded so many times… How did it break?”

“A defiler touched it,” Sorak said. “That part of the legend was true.”

“I take it the individual concerned is now no longer with us,” Kieran said.

“No,” said Sorak. “I bear his blade now.” He drew the sword he had earlier shown Grak and the others. “He bid me take it as he died.”

“A gallant gesture,” Kieran said. “That does not sound much like a defiler.”

“He was a defiler only by association,” Sorak explained. “A soldier like yourself, but in the service of the Shadow King. In some ways, he was an admirable man. In others, one to be despised. He was no longer young, but he still had the strength often, and he was the finest swordsman I have ever seen.”

“Valsavis,” Kieran said.

Sorak shook his head. “You never cease to surprise me,” he said. “How could you possibly have known?”

Kieran smiled. “I am a professional, my friend. And, by reputation, whether deserved or not, one of the finest blades alive. Valsavis was the other. The Shadow King’s personal assassin. Oh, I knew of him, all right, but I never met the man. I had always wondered which of us would be the best. I suppose now I shall never know. But you… you bested him?”

“It was hardly a fair fight,” said Sorak. “He was gravely wounded when we fought, and he had lost a hand. Despite that, I was still no match for him. I was merely lucky.”

“I would like to know how lucky,” Kieran said. “We shall have to cross swords sometime, in practice. But in the meantime, there are some other questions I would ask.”