The Nomad (5 page)

The connection to the body severed, the arm simply burst apart into a spray of gleaming salt crystals that pattered to the ground. In both pain and astonishment, the creature howled out an unearthly sound. Sorak swung his blade once more, but this time, the creature danced back out of its reach, fearful now that it knew this was no ordinary sword. Once more, it melted into the ground with a sound like sand being spilled.

Ryana stood back-to-back with Sorak, and they started circling cautiously, maintaining contact, watching warily all around them. With a sudden rush of sound, the creature sprang up once again, reforming at their feet, trying to separate them. Ryana was thrown forward and fell sprawling, but Sorak twisted, pivoting around, and brought Galdra in close to his body, slashing in a horizontal arc as he turned. The blade passed right through the creature’s torso, severing it, and salt erupted in a spray, engulfing him as the creature wailed its death agony. Like tiny raindrops, the salt crystals pattered to the ground, and the creature’s howl died away upon the wind. Once more, the morning was still.

Ryana exhaled heavily and sheathed her sword. “All I wanted was a little sleep,” she said. “Was that too much to ask?”

Sorak grinned at her. “I’m sorry if I woke you,” he replied. “I tried to be quiet.”

Ryana gazed out at the dark sun, just now rising malevolently from behind the mountains. Already, the salt beneath their feet was growing warmer. “I don’t think I could sleep now, anyway,” she said. “We might as well move on. All I want is to be quit of this forsaken place.”

“It will be a hard journey in the daylight,” Sorak said.

“No harder than getting killed while you’re asleep,” she replied. She shouldered her pack with a sigh. “Let’s go.”

“As you wish,” said Sorak, picking up his pack and staff. He gazed longingly toward the mountains, but at the same time, wondered what new dangers would await them there.

* * *

Valsavis stood by a large rock outcropping on a slope just outside the city, overlooking the Great Ivory Plain. He examined the ground around him, noting the subtle signs most others would have missed. Yes, they had made camp here, there was no doubt about it. They had not built a fire, which would have given away their location this close to the city. And that, in itself, was as clear an indication of who had stopped to rest here as if they had chiseled their names into the rock behind them. They had carefully tried to avoid leaving any evidence of their presence, and most trackers would probably have failed to find this spot where they had stopped to rest. However, Valsavis was no ordinary tracker.

He knew that they had left the city. The Shadow King had told him that much. What Nibenay had not known was how they left, or which direction they had taken. Had he wanted to, Nibenay could easily have discovered that for himself through the agency of a spell, but Valsavis had known better than to suggest that. He knew that Nibenay was miserly with expending any power that was not directly related to his ongoing metamorphosis.

The old bastard had grown truly ugly and detestable, Valsavis thought. He could not fathom how his templar wives could even stand to look at him, much less perform their wifely duties, not that Nibenay concerned himself any longer with matters of the flesh. As a rule, sorcerers rarely indulged in such ephemeral and energy-sapping pleasures. Nonetheless, Valsavis would never understand what would make a man want to transform himself into a monstrosity. Power, obviously, but still… For Valsavis, it would have been much too high a price to pay. But then again, he reminded himself, he was not a sorcerer-king and had never had any such lofty ambitions.

In fact, ambition had always been conspicuously absent from his life. He had little, but what he had was more than sufficient. He lived an isolated existence in the foothills of the Barrier Mountains because he did not much care for the company of people. He knew them entirely too well. He had studied them a great deal, and the more he had learned about their nature, the less he wanted to do with them. He lived quietly and simply, not requiring anybody’s company except his own. The woods of the Barrier Mountains held a plentitude of game, the sky was clear and the air untainted by the pestiferous odors of the city. No one disturbed his solitude. No one except—on certain rare occasions—the Shadow Ring, Nibenay.

It had been many years since Nibenay had required any service from him. In his youth, Valsavis had been a soldier, a mercenary who had traveled the world and hired on with whomever needed fighting men and could afford to pay. At one time or another, he had served in the armies of almost every city-state on Athas, and on numerous occasions, he had been employed by most of the large merchant houses as a caravan guard. One did not become rich by serving as a mercenary, but Valsavis did not require riches. He had always managed to survive. That seemed enough. The turning point in his life came when he had served as a captain in the army of the Shadow King, many years ago.

In those days, Nibenay still had not withdrawn from the political affairs of his city, as he had done once he had achieved significant progression in his dragon metamorphosis. Now, he left the government of his domain largely to his templars, but back then, he had taken a much more active role. A time had come when one of the city’s most influential aristocrats had tried to make a bid for power, with the bold aim of unseating the Shadow King and supplanting him upon the throne. Using the riches of his family, he had left the city and established his headquarters in Gulg, where he had forged a powerful alliance with the oba, Sorcerer-Queen Lalali-Puy. Word had reached the Shadow King that this aristocrat was starting to recruit an army, with an aim toward marching on the city of the Shadow King. It was then that Nibenay had turned to a young captain in his guard.

Valsavis never did discover why or how the Shadow King had chosen him. Perhaps he had learned something of his history and reputation. Perhaps he had seen something in him that made him realize the young captain of the guard possessed untapped potential. Perhaps he had used some form of divination. Valsavis never knew. He only knew that the Shadow King had chosen him for a special and highly dangerous task, one that he would have to perform alone. He had been sent to Gulg, to infiltrate the army being raised by the rebel aristocrat and then assassinate him.

It had not proved difficult at all. His target had been so confident of the loyalty of his well-paid troops and so intent on proving himself an unpretentious commander who mingled with his men that he had taken almost no security precautions. Valsavis had carried off the assignment successfully, in far less time than he expected, and then made good his escape in the confusion that ensued. The Shadow King was pleased. He soon had other, similar services for Valsavis to perform.

In time, Valsavis was relieved of all his other duties. He became the Shadow King’s personal assassin, stalking his enemies and eliminating them, wherever they were to be found. His reputation grew, and people learned to fear his name. No one had ever escaped him. No matter where they tried to flee, he had always tracked them down. He was very, very good at what he did.

The years passed, and as the Shadow King became more and more withdrawn, obsessively preoccupied with his spells of metamorphosis, Valsavis was forgotten. The time came when he was no longer summoned to the palace to be sent out upon some deadly errand. No longer did he track the most elusive game afoot. The city guard had no further use for his abilities. Indeed, its commanders feared him. Valsavis did not really mind. He had no wish to reduce himself to being a mere guardsman once again, and serving as an ordinary mercenary no longer held much interest for him. He had long since left the city to reside in his isolated cabin in the foothills, and it was there he had remained, avoiding the company of his fellow creatures, living the life of a recluse. And now, after all these years, the Shadow King had once more sent for him.

How long had it been? Twenty years? Thirty? More? Valsavis had lost count. He thought the Shadow King had forgotten all about him. The elfling had to be someone very special, indeed, to distract Nibenay from the one pursuit that occupied his every waking moment. Valsavis had questioned Veela extensively about the elfling, and then he had conducted his own brief investigation. It had taken less time and proven easier than he expected. After all those years, his usual sources had either disappeared or died, but just the mention of his name had been enough to quickly lead him to those who had the answers he sought. Even after all this time, he thought, they still recalled Valsavis. And feared him. Nibenay himself had provided further information, but there was still much about his quarry Valsavis did not know. No matter. Before long, he would learn. There was no better way to learn about a man—or an elfling, for that matter—than by stalking him.

He glanced at the strange, gold ring that Nibenay had given him and recalled the Shadow King’s ominous parting words.
“Do not fail me, Valsavis.”

Valsavis had no intention of failing, but not because he feared the Shadow King. He was afraid of nothing, he did not fear death, in any of its forms. He had always known that sooner or later, one way or another, death was simply inevitable. It was preferable to postpone it for as long as possible, but when the time came, he would meet it with equanimity. There were, of course, worse things than death, as the Shadow King had pointedly reminded him, and Valsavis knew that Nibenay could visit any number of unpleasant fates on him if he should fail. But that was not what drove him. What drove him was the thrill of the chase, the intricacies of it, the challenge of the pursuit and final outcome.

Valsavis had seen fear in men’s faces more times than he could count. It had always fascinated him, because he had never felt it himself. He could not say why. It was as if some essential part of him were missing. He had never truly been capable of strong emotions. He had enjoyed the lustful embrace of many women, but he had never felt love for any of them. What they had given him was ephemeral physical pleasure and, on occasion, some mental stimulation, but nothing more. He had never felt hate or joy or sadness. He knew that he completely lacked emotions most men took for granted. He was capable of a wry, sardonic humor, but only because it was something he had learned, not developed naturally. He could laugh, but that, too, was a learned response. He did not really enjoy the sound of it.

What he enjoyed—to the extent that he was capable of enjoying anything—was engendering strong emotional responses in others. He was always fascinated by the effect he had on women, the way they looked at him, were drawn to him, the sounds they made during lovemaking. He wondered what they do at such times. He was also intrigued by the effect he had on men, the way they looked at him with apprehension when he passed, their gazes of envy and respect and fear. But most of all, he sought the stimulation of the responses he engendered in his quarry.

Whenever possible, he had avoided striking without warning, because he
wanted
them to know that he was on their trail. He wanted to see the effect it would have on them. He often played with them, the way a mountain cat played with its prey, just to see what reactions they would have. And, just prior the kill, he always tried to look into their eyes, so he could see their realization of their fate and watch how they responded to it. Some gave way to abject terror, some broke down and begged and pleaded with him, some gazed at him with hate, defiant to the end, and some simply accepted death with resignation. He had seen every possible response, but different as they were, there was one thing they all had in common. For a brief instant, as they died, he had always seen a glimmer in their eyes that mixed puzzlement and horror as they realized that he felt nothing, that their deaths meant absolutely nothing to him. It was an agonized look, and he always wondered how they felt in that brief instant.

He stood and looked out across the Great Ivory Plain. That was the way they had gone. He wondered why. It was no easy journey, not even for someone mounted on a kank, as he was. The elfling and the priestess had both gone on foot. However, he knew that they were trained in the Way of the Druid and the Path of the Preserver. As a result, they would be far more prepared than most to undertake so arduous an expedition. Doubtless, they would travel by night and rest during the day. He would do the same, but mounted, he would make much better time. He tried to estimate how much of a head start they had on him. Four days, maybe five. No more than six. It would not prove very difficult for him to make up the distance.

They appeared to be heading toward the Mekillot Mountains. What did they hope to find there? Did they hope to find a haven with the marauders? Perhaps enlist their aid? Maybe, thought Valsavis, but that seemed doubtful. The marauders had no sympathy for preservers. They had no sympathy for anyone. They cared only for ill-gotten gains, and they would just as soon kill anyone who tried to hire them and take the money from his corpse. The elfling was no fool, by all accounts, and he would doubtless know that. Chances were they would steer clear of the marauders, if they could.

What else could they be seeking in that direction? There were no settlements in the Mekillot Mountains, there was only the small village of Salt View that lay beyond them, a haven for runaway slaves ruled by an aging former gladiator by the name of Xaynon. Until Xaynon came, the villagers had survived, after a fashion, by hunting in the mountains and raiding caravans bound for Gulg and Nibenay. However, as raiders, they had to compete with the marauders, who claimed exclusive raiding rights on caravans in the vicinity. This had resulted in raids by the ex-slaves on the marauders, who would reciprocate by attacking the village of Salt View, and eventually, both factions realized that they were spending more time attacking one another than attacking caravans.

Xaynon had come up with a unique solution. As a former gladiator, he had witnessed many theatrical productions staged in the arena, and he decided to organize the villagers into traveling troupes of players who would go out to meet the caravans and, rather than attacking them, perform for them, instead. Needless to say, they charged for the entertainment they provided, and when they left, they reported back to the marauders—for a fee, of course—the disposition of the caravans, the goods they carried, and the strength of the accompanying guard. The marauders would then raid the caravan, the players would receive part of the booty, and they would then perform for the marauders as they celebrated their success together.