D&D - Dark Sun - Tribe Of One 01, page 20
Sorak’s own hand darted for his sword hilt, but as his fingers closed around it, he suddenly felt himself falling away. A new presence surged to the fore within him, and Sorak felt the dizzying sensation of spinning away into the darkness. An icy chill suffused his body as the Shade stormed up from the recesses of his subconscious mind.
As the caravan trader brought his blade down with a snarl, aiming a devastating cut at Sorak’s head, the Shade drew Galdra with lightning speed and parried the blow. The iron blade struck the elven steel with a ringing tone and shattered as if it had been made of glass. The trader gaped in astonishment, but recovered quickly and kicked the table over, sending cards and coins and goblets flying as the round table fell over on its side, making an effective shield between him and Sorak. The Shade raised Galdra and brought it down in a sweeping, overhead blow, slicing the entire table in half as if the hard and heavy agafari wood were no more substantial than a piece of cheese.
The caravan trader bolted, but found his way blocked at the door by a squad of armed half-giant and half-elf guards. He swore and turned back toward Sorak.
“Die, half-breed!” he shouted, drawing an obsidian dagger and hurling it at Sorak.
The Shade abruptly ducked back under and the dagger stopped, frozen in midair mere inches from Sorak’s chest as the Guardian came to the fore. Sorak’s eyes glittered as the dagger slowly turned end over end in midair, its point aiming back toward the caravan trader. The man’s jaw dropped in astonishment, and then his amazement turned to panic as the dagger took off toward him like an angry hornet. He turned and tried to run, but the blade buried itself to the hilt between his shoulder blades, and he fell to the floor, sliding across the tile with his momentum. He crashed into a table, knocking it over, and lay there in a tangled, lifeless heap.
There was utter silence in the gaming hall, and then the patrons broke into an undertone of murmuring. Sorak walked over to where the cardsharp’s body lay, and nudged it with his foot. Then he bent down and pulled a card out of the top of the dead man’s boot. It was the four of pentacles. He brought the card over to the other players and showed it to them.
“You may divide the pot amongst yourselves,” he said, “according to how much each of you put in. As for the cardsharp’s share, you may split that up in equal shares.” He turned and scaled the card back toward the body. It landed on the cardsharp’s chest. “Cheats are not tolerated in this house,” he added. “You may take my share of the pot and divide it among you, by way of an apology for your inconvenience.” He signaled one of the serving girls. “Please bring these gentlemen a drink on me,” he said.
“Thank you,” said the wine merchant with a nervous gulp.
The young nobleman stared down at the pieces of the table, then turned his gaze toward Sorak’s sword. “That table was solid agafari wood!” he said, with disbelief. “And you cut it clean in two!” ‘
“My blade is steel, and it has a keen edge,” said Sorak.
“Keen enough to cause an iron sword to shatter?” said the beast trader. “Not even a steel blade could do that. But one that is enchanted could.”
Sorak sheathed his sword and said nothing.
“Who are you?” asked the beast trader.
“My name is Sorak.”
“Yes, so you said when we began to play,” the beast trader replied. “But what are you?”
Sorak gazed at him. “An elfling.”
The beast trader shook his head. “That was not what I meant”
Before Sorak could reply, one of the half-elf guards came up and tapped him on the shoulder. The lady would like to see you,” he said softly.
Sorak glanced up toward the second floor, and saw Krysta looking down at him through the beaded curtain of her office. He nodded and headed toward the stairs. Behind him, the patrons broke into excited conversation about what they had just witnessed.
The door was already open when he came down the hall. The half-elves in the antechamber gazed at him with respectful silence. He went through the curtained archway into Krysta’s office. She stood behind her desk, waiting for him.
“I am sorry for the damage,” he began.
“Never mind that,” Krysta said, coming around the desk. “Let me see your sword.”
He frowned. “My sword?”
“Please.”
He drew it from its scabbard.
“Elven steel,” she said softly. “Please… turn it so I may see the flat of the blade.”
He did as she asked and heard her sharp intake of breath as she read the inscription on the blade. “Gal-iral” she said in a voice barely above a whisper. She looked up at him, eyes wide and awestruck. “I never dreamed…” she began. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“My lady…” said one of the half-elf guards, parting the curtain behind them. ‘Is it true?”
“It’s true,” she said, gazing at Sorak with an expression of astonishment.
The guard stared at Sorak, then he came into the room, followed by the others.
.”What is this?” Sorak said. “Is what true?”
“You carry Galdra, sword of the ancient elven kings,” said Krysta. “The blade that nothing can withstand. Could the old myth possibly be true?” “What myth?”
“The one that every elf thinks a mere wives’ tale. ‘One day, there will appear a champion, a new king to bring the sundered tribes together, and by Galdra you shall know him.’ Even half-breed elves raised in the city know the legend, though none would believe it. No one has seen the sword for a thousand years.”
“But I am no king,” said Sorak. “This blade was a gift to me from the high mistress of the villichi, into whose care it was given.”
“But she gave it to you,” said Krysta.
“But… surely, that does not make me a king,” protested Sorak.
“It makes you the champion of which the myth spoke,” Krysta replied. “Galdra’s power would never serve one who was not worthy to bear it.” She shook her head. “I’m not sure I myself believe, but if I had but known, I might not have been so insolent”
Sorak turned toward the half-elf guards, who were staring at him in awe. “This is absurd. Please, get out, all of you. Get out, I said!”
They turned in a jumbled mass and backed out the door.
“When word of this spreads,” said Krysta, “every male and female in the city with elven blood running through their veins will begin to wonder about you, Sorak. Some will want to make you what you wouldn’t be. Others to steal your fabled blade. And if the nomad tribes out in the desert hear of it-“
“Now wait,” said Sorak. “Merely because some sort of myth has grown up around a sword does not mean I am the fulfillment of it. I did not come here to assume some mantle of authority. And if I am to be anybody’s champion, then I shall fight for the Sage.” “What of the myth?” asked Krysta, somewhat amused.
“For the last time, I am no king!” protested Sorak. “I am not even a full-blooded elf! The line of elven kings died out with Alaron. I do not even know who my parents were.”
“And yet you know Alaron’s name,” said Krysta.
“Only because I heard the story from a pyreen elder,” Sorak said with exasperation, “just as you have heard this bit of folklore. Perhaps this may have been his sword, but the mere fact of its possession doesn’t make me Alaron’s heir. What if some human were to steal it from me? Would that make a human king of all the elves? If it was yours, would the title fall to you?”
“Let me hold it for a moment,” Krysta said, extending her hand.
He sighed. “As you wish,” he said, handing her the sword.
Her ringers closed around its hilt. She bit her lower lip as she held it, gazing down at the blade as if it were a holy thing, and then she took a deep breath, spun around, and brought it down with all her might in an overhand blow upon her desk. The blade bit deep into the wood and lodged there.
“Gith’s blood!” said Sorak. “What are you doing?”
She grunted as she struggled to pull it free, and on the third try, she finally managed it. “I once fought in the arena,” she said. “I am not some weak female who cannot handle a blade. My guards will attest that not one of them could have struck a stronger blow. Now you try.”
“What is the point in scarring your desk any further?” Sorak asked. “Humor me.”
He shook his head, took back the sword, and swung hard at the desk. The heavy desk buckled in the center and collapsed as the blade cut it completely in two.
“According to the legend, the blade’s enchantment will not serve anyone else,” said Krysta, “and if it were to fall into the hands of a defiler, it would shatter. The enchantment will serve only the champion, because his faith is true. Perhaps you are that champion. You are the rightful king.”
“But I have said that I am not a king!” said Sorak. “I do not believe it! Where, then, is my faith?”
“In the task that you have set yourself, and the course that you must follow,” Krysta replied. “The myth speaks of that, as well.” ‘It does?”
“It says, Those who believe in the champion shall hail him, but he shall deny the crown, for the elves have fallen into decadence. They must first rise above their downfall and deserve their king before he will accept them, for like Galdra, sword of the elven kings, the scattered tribes must likewise become strong in spirit and be forged anew in faith, before they can be true in temper.’ Whether you like it or not, you fulfill all the conditions of the myth.”
“I am no king,” Sorak said irately. “I am Sorak, and whatever any myth may purport, I have no intention of ever being a king or wearing any crown.”
Krysta smiled. “As you wish,” she said. “But you may find it thrust upon you just the same. If you do not want me to speak of this, then I shall not, but you cannot deny your fate.”
“Whatever my fate may be,” said Sorak, “for the moment, it is bound up in my quest for the Sage. You said that you would make inquiries about the Veiled Alliance.”
“And so I have,” she replied. “I am told that members of the Veiled Alliance can be found almost anywhere, but a good place to make contact is the Drunken Giant wineshop. It is not far from here. But you must be discreet. Do not make any inquiries aloud. The signal that one wishes contact is to pass your hand over the lower part of your face, as if to indicate a veil. If any Alliance member is present, you will be watched and followed, and someone will make contact with you.”
“The Drunken Giant wineshop,” Sorak said. “Where can I find it?”
“I will have my guards take you,” Krysta said. “No, I would prefer to go alone,” said Sorak. “They will probably be suspicious of me as it is. If I went with an escort, it would only make things worse. I want to draw these people out, not scare them off.”
“I will draw you a map,” said Krysta, turning toward her desk. She stared at the two halves of the desk for a moment. Everything that was on top of it had scattered on the floor. “On second thought,” she said, “perhaps I should just give you directions.”
After Sorak had left, her guard captain returned to her and said uncertainly, “What should we do? Should we follow him?”
She shook her head. “I do not think he would like that.”
“But if any harm should come to him…” “Then the myth is false,” she said, “just as we always thought it was.” She stared down at what was left of her desk. “Besides, I would hate to be the one who tried to harm him, wouldn’t you?”
A group of beggars sat against a wall across the street from the Crystal Spider. Despite the overhanging awning, all six of them were bundled up in their filthy, threadbare, hooded cloaks, huddling together against the evening chill. As Sorak came out of the gaming house, one of them nudged his companions.
“There he is,” he said.
Rokan raised his head and pulled his hood back slightly on one side so he get a better look with his one good eye. “Are you sure that’s him?”
The templar who had nudged him nodded, but kept his gaze averted. He didn’t want to look at the hideously scarred marauder any more than was absolutely necessary. “I’ve been watching him, haven’t I?” the templar said irritably. He disliked having to deal with scum. The sooner this was over, the better he would like it. “Go, get him! He is alone.”
“I will make my move when I am ready, templar,” Rokan replied curtly. “This half-breed has cost me much. I do not want him to die too quickly.”
“But he is getting away!”
“Calm yourself,” said Rokan. “We shall follow him, but at a discreet distance. I will pick the time, and the place.”
After giving Sorak a good head start, Rokan nodded to the others, and they rose as one, following in the direction Sorak had gone. The templar started to hurry after him, but Rokan grabbed him by his cloak and yanked him back. “Where do you think you’re going?” he asked.
“Why, with you, to see you kill the elfling, of course,” the templar said.
“Of course, nothing,” Rokan said, shoving him back hard enough to make him land on his rump in the middle of the street. “Stay here and keep out of the damn way.”
“But I am to watch…”
Rokan turned without another word and stalked off with his men. The templar picked himself up out of the dirt and glared at Rokan’s back with loathing. There had been a time when no one would have dared to treat him that way. However, those days were gone. Kalak was dead, and the templars had lost their magic. In Kalak’s time, the templar had struck fear into the hearts of anyone he even looked at harshly. Now he knew enough to be afraid of a man like Rokan, and the feeling did not sit well in the pit of his stomach. He remained behind, watching as the marauders disappeared down the street. He nervously moistened his lips. Timor would not like it, but Timor was not here, and Rokan was.
One of the marauders sidled up to Rokan as they followed Sorak at a distance. “What happens after we kill the half-breed?”
“Then the job is finished, and you will be free to go,” Rokan replied, keeping Sorak in sight as they followed him through the twisting streets. “How do we know we can trust this Timor?” “You don’t,” said Rokan. “But never fear, Vorlak. He is not interested in you. We are insignificant in his scheme of things. He has a much bigger game to play. We are but tools he will use briefly to serve his immediate needs, and then he will cease to be concerned with us.”
“This was a bad venture all around,” grumbled Vorlak. “We never should have come here to begin with.”
“We were well paid.”
“Not nearly well enough to compensate us for what has happened,” Vorlak replied sourly. “Nor shall we receive the balance of our payment from our Nibenese patron now that we have been exposed as spies. The caravan for Altaruk has already left the city, and they have a full day’s head start. Even if we managed to secure a string of swift crodlu, which we cannot, we would never reach the others in time to warn them. They shall attack the caravan as planned, and ride straight into a trap.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Rokan replied in a surly tone. “What do you expect me to do?”
“There is nothing to be done,” said Gavik, one of the other marauders. “It is finished. Even if some of our comrades should manage to escape, they will still have to cross the tablelands, and if the desert does not kill them, what is there for them to return to? What is there for any of us to return to?”
“We still have our camp in the Mekillot Mountains,” Rokan said, “and we still have our women, and the men who did not come on the journey.”
“A mere handful,” Gavik said. “Not even enough to ambush a small caravan.”
“I began with less than that,” said Rokan, “and I can start again. Nothing is finished.”
“Then you do not plan to take this templar’s offer and remain here in his service?” Vorlak asked.
“Rokan serves no one but Rokan,” the bandit leader said, his voice practically a growl.
“But… what of your face?” asked Gavik. “You said the templar promised to heal your wounds if you served him faithfully.”
“An empty promise,” Rokan said bitterly, “which I am sure he never intended to keep. He thinks it has given him a hold on me. He shall find he is mistaken.”
“Then… why bother with this elfling?” another marauder asked. “Why not simply accept our losses and leave the city now?”
“Devak is right,” said Tigan, the fifth man of the group. “Let us quit this city now, before we run afoul of the city guard or treachery from the templars.”
“When this is finished, the rest of you can do whatever you damn well please,” said Rokan. ‘If you want out, then go suffocate in the Sea of Silt for all I care. But the elfling is going to pay for what he has done. And when I am finished with him, I am going to go back and kill that templar.” “Go up against a defiler?” Devak said. “Not I.” “Nor I,” said Gavik. “You know better than any of us what Timor can do, and yet you still think you can kill him?”
“He will think I am his man, held in thrall by his promise to heal my face and make me rich,” said Rokan. “I will act the part of his lackey, and when the moment comes, I will snap his neck or drive a blade into his ribs.”
“Leave me out of it,” said Vorlak. “I have had enough of this whole thing. I am done with it.”
“You will be done with it after the elfling is dead, and not before!” said Rokan, grabbing him by the throat. “After that, you can all rot for all I care!”
“All right,” said Vorlak in a constricted voice. “The elfling dies. But I want no part of trying to kill the templar.”
“None of us do,” said Gavik. “Suit yourselves,” said Rokan, releasing Vorlak and continuing on Sorak’s trail. He was almost out of sight now, and they had to quicken their pace to close the distance. The streets had become very dark and almost completely deserted. Lamplight burned in only a few of the buildings. Sorak turned down another street, and they hurried to catch up with him. As they came to the corner, they saw that he had entered a narrow, winding street that ended in a cul de sac. There were several alleyways leading off to either side, between the tightly clustered buildings. It was a perfect place for an ambush.
