The Broken Blade

Chapter Nine
It was about two hours before sunset when they reached Grak’s Pool, a small oasis roughly midway between South Ledopolus and Altaruk. For a “fast” caravan, their progress seemed annoyingly slow to Sorak. If this was how a fast caravan traveled, he could easily do without the experience of a slow one.

Of course, he reminded himself, it was an unusually large caravan. A smaller one would have made much better time. However, they would still have needed to stop several hours before sunset to make camp and unload all the cargo, then feed the kanks and crodlu while the cookfires were lit and the guard outposts were established. And while it wouldn’t have taken a smaller caravan quite so long to get started in the morning, they would still have needed to take down all the tents and roll them up, then load them with the cargo, take a head count of the guards and roustabouts to make sure none had deserted in the night—not that there was anything to be done about it if they had—get the kanks fed once again and line up the formation, then send outriders ahead before moving out behind them. And then, of course, there was the midday break…

They averaged between fifteen and twenty miles a day, depending on the terrain. Good time, all things considered. The caravan route was not a road, of course; it was merely familiar terrain. Yet, in the Athasian desert, the exact features of the terrain were never quite the same from one trip to another. Windstorms and monsoons worked changes on the landscape, and an area that had been easily passable three weeks earlier could be crisscrossed with windblown dunes or washes. Rarely did their course take them in a straight line. Considering his task, the caravan captain was doing an outstanding job. Even Kieran seemed impressed, though his presence was doubtless a strong incentive for achievement.

Grak’s Pool was more than merely an oasis. According to The Wanderer’s Journal, it was a vital stop along the caravan route, the only place between South Ledopolus and Altaruk where they could take on water. But the water wasn’t free.

There was a settlement of sorts at the oasis, a large mud-brick fortress that was home to about fifty mercenaries under the command of an enterprising half-elf named Grak, who had established the remote stronghold and laid claim to the oasis. The number of mercenaries in residence at the fortress varied; they came and went. Grak did not sign them to any contracts. Neither did he pay them. What Grak provided was a haven for fighting men of all types and descriptions, a place where they could find free accommodations, albeit of a rough sort, without any questions asked. And since his stronghold controlled an oasis on a busy caravan route, it attracted mercenaries in search of work, as well as criminals on the run from the authorities in one city or another. Grak cared nothing about who his men were or where they came from. Whether soldier or outlaw—sometimes both—they were welcome to stay as long as they accepted his authority. But anyone who challenged that authority found that the penalties could be draconian in the extreme.

As they passed through the heavy wooden gates in the outer wall, Kieran rode up beside Sorak and Ryana.

“If you have anything of value, such as weapons, coins, or jewels, keep it close to hand,” he cautioned them. “I shouldn’t think we would have anything to fear from Grak’s men, but there are those among them who are light-fingered. And the caravan guard will be too busy keeping an eye on the cargo to spare much attention for the passengers. If anything is stolen from you, complaints here will be of no avail.”

“Thank you, we’ll keep that in mind,” said Sorak.

“There will be some limited accommodations in the fortress for the passengers,” said Kieran. “If you wish to bathe or sleep in a bed rather than your bedroll, it will cost you a copper or two, but I’d advise against it. The attendants will doubtless go through your clothing and possessions while you bathe, unless you keep them within sight, and even that is no guarantee. Some of these people could steal the hair right out of your nose. And the beds are liable to be lice-ridden.”

“How charming,” said Ryana. “What’s the alternative?”

“We will make camp by the pool, within the outer walls, and pitch our tents and light our cook-fires. There is a tavern in the main building of the fortress, and we can pay it a visit if you like, but I would recommend keeping one hand on your purse and another on your weapon. If you like, you may leave your packs within the captain’s tent. He will remain within the camp along with the guards on duty. Your belongings will be safe with him. It would be a great embarrassment to him if I asked him to watch your things and something turned up missing.”

“Yes, I imagine so,” said Sorak with a smile. “But perhaps it would be best if we simply remained within the camp.”

“Suit yourself,” said Kieran, “but you may find it interesting. I intend to go pay my respects to old Grak. I haven’t seen the rogue in years, and he’s an entertaining scoundrel. Few things go on in these parts that he is not aware of. He will be sure to have all the latest news from Altaruk.”

“Well, in that case, you should go,” Ryana said. “I’ll remain in the camp with our things. I would just as soon rest, anyhow.”

After they made camp, Sorak accompanied Kieran to the main building of the fortress. It was situated on a small rise, just above the pool of the oasis in the center of the walled enclosure. It was a large, rectangular, three-story structure, like an elongated keep, constructed of roughly mortared brick with four open sentry towers at each corner of the building. The narrow, rectangular windows had heavy wooden shutters, and the large front doors were made of thick wooden planks. It was the crudest of workmanship, but appeared very sound and solid.

The main hall of the keep had been turned into a tavern, with crudely made wood tables and benches placed all around the large, open chamber. The floor was rough, mortared stone and there a long bar lined the far left side of the room. Torches in blackened sconces and thick candles on the tables lit the place. Scantily-clad human and half-elf serving wenches circulated through the crowded room, carrying trays of drinks and food. Kieran stopped one of them and asked for Grak. The half-elf server pointed out his table, set against the back wall.

Grak was seated among a group of travelers and mercenaries, holding court. He was an immense man, especially for someone with elven blood.

Elves were usually tall and lean, but Grak was part human, and the most human thing about him was clearly his appetite. He stood about six feet tall and weighed at least three hundred pounds, but there was a solid layer of muscle underneath the fat. His arms were thick and powerful, his chest barrel shaped, his shoulders wide and muscular, his neck thick and strong. Most half-elves could not grow facial hair, but Grak had a luxuriant mustache, the ends of which dangled below his chin. He had sharply arched eyebrows like an elf, but they were uncharacteristically thick and bushy. His iron gray hair hung down almost to his waist in two thick braids from below a well-worn, wide-brimmed leather hat of janx hide. He wore a old brown leather vest over his bare chest, which was covered with gray hairs and festooned with amulets. He barked out a sharp laugh when he saw them approaching.

“Hah! Look what the wind blew in!”

“Hello, Grak, you old scoundrel,” Kieran said in a friendly tone. “You grow uglier each time I see you.”

“And you grow prettier,” said Grak good-naturedly. “You were but a fetching girl, and now you’ve grown into a fine and handsome woman! Put a dress on you, and you’ve got a strapping countess! Gith’s blood, it’s good to see you! Sit down, sit down. Make room, you dolts, make room for Kieran of Draj!”

At the mention of his name, the other mercenaries at the table gazed at him with interest and respect. As they sat down, Grak flagged down a serving wench.

“Drusilla! Bring two tankards of ale for my friends!”

“Water for me, please,” Sorak said.

“Water?” Grak said, scandalized. “Water?”

“If you don’t mind,” said Sorak. “I have no taste for ale or wine.”

“Strange company you keep,” Grak said to Kieran. He turned back to Drusilla. “Water for this youngster, who’s not learned to drink like a man.”

“He may not drink like a man, but he fights like one,” said Kieran. “He slew two giants, one with a bow, one with his blade. This is Sorak, my new lieutenant. Sorak, meet Grak, an old compatriot of mine.”

They clasped forearms across the table. Grak’s hand was a vice. “Sorak, eh?” He looked him over. “You have elvish blood, but uncommon features for a half-elf.”

“That is because I am an elfling,” Sorak said. “My mother was a elf, my father a halfling.”

“So. I have heard of only one such rarity. You must be the one called the Nomad.”

“That is the elvish meaning of my name,” said Sorak.

“The word is you’re a troublemaker,” Grak said. “Is that true?”

“I suppose it would depend on who relates the word,” Sorak replied.

Grak chuckled. “Well spoken. I see you’ve found yourself a lieutenant with a reputation, Kieran.”

“So it would seem,” Kieran replied, “though I was not aware of that when we first met. I hired him because of his abilities. Unlike you, Grak, my friend does not regale everybody within earshot with tales of his exploits.”

“Hah! You should have more respect for your elders, stripling,” Grak replied. He turned to Sorak. “They say you bear a most unusual blade,” he said. “Might I see it?”

Sorak hesitated, then drew the sword he had been given by Valsavis and placed it on the table before him. Grak glanced at it and frowned. “That is not the blade I heard described,” he said.

Sorak simply shrugged.

“It is the only one I have ever seen him carry,” Kieran said.

Grak pursed his lips, thoughtfully. “Well, perhaps the stories were mistaken,” he said.

“I have yet to hear any of these stories,” Kieran said, glancing at Sorak.

“I thought you said a man’s past was of no consequence to you,” said Sorak.

“True enough,” said Kieran. “But I must admit to being curious.”

“You have no other blade?” asked Grak.

Sorak shrugged again. “Only short ones,” he replied truthfully, feeling Galdra tucked into his belt at his side, concealed by his cloak.

“Hmm,” said Grak. “Strange. My sources are seldom wrong.”

“Speaking of your sources,” Kieran said, “what do you hear of the goings on in Altaruk?”

“You have business there?”

“I have accepted the post of captain of the house guard for Jhamri,” Kieran said.

Grak raised his eyebrows with surprise. “You? Isn’t that a bit beneath your capabilities? Besides, I had heard you were retired.”

“Their offer was most generous,” said Kieran. “I found I was unable to refuse.”

“They must have paid you a king’s ransom,” Grak replied. He frowned. “Now why would they want to do that, I wonder? They could easily have found men qualified for such a post for much less money than they must have offered you.”

“I was wondering the same thing myself.”

“Curious,” said Grak. “I cannot imagine why they would have wanted you for such a post except for bragging rights. And Lord Jhamri scarcely needs to brag. His recent partnership agreement with the House of Ankhor, bringing that house into subservience to his, makes his the most powerful merchant house in Altaruk, and one of the largest on the Tablelands.”

“Lord Ankhor is now a partner with the House of Jhamri?” Sorak said.

“A junior partner, yes.”

“I see,” said Sorak.

“What is it?” Kieran asked, noting the expression on his face.

Sorak cleared his throat. “I think it would be wise if you found yourself another second-in-command.”

Kieran frowned. “Why? You have some grievance against Lord Ankhor?”

“More likely, he has a grievance against me,” Sorak replied. “We had occasion to meet several times before. The first time, I saved him from being cheated by a cardsharp in a Tyrian gaming house. But the last time we met, I stole a princess from his caravan.”

“Hah! A daughter of the Royal House of Nibenay!” said Grak, slamming his fist down onto the table. “That story is true, then!”

“You did what?” asked Kieran. He glanced from Sorak to Grak and back again.

“Have you never heard the Ballad of the Nomad?” Grak asked him. “Where have you been? It is being sung by every elven bard across the Tablelands!”

“I’d like to find the one who sang it first,” said Sorak with a grimace.

“How goes this ballad?” Kieran asked.

“I would be glad to sing it for you,” Edric said, coming up to their table with Cricket on his arm. “Assuming I would be allowed to pass my hat, of course.”

“Whatever they may offer you, I will pay you double not to sing it,” Sorak said.

“Well, now I am intrigued,” said Kieran.

“I must admit, that is the first time anyone has ever offered to pay me not to sing,” said Edric with amusement. “I think I should feel insulted.”

“Grak, allow me to present one of our passengers, Edric the Bard, late of South Ledopolus, and Cricket, whose beauty is surpassed only by her skill at dancing.”

Edric bowed, and Cricket curtsied gracefully.

“Well now, I would much rather see her dance than hear him sing,” said Grak.

“Now that is one sentiment I can wholly understand,” said Edric. “Allow me, then, to make the choice a simpler one. I shall briefly summarize the story of the ballad, for the benefit of our friend Kieran, and then perhaps Cricket will honor us with a performance.”

“Done!” said Grak. “But make the tale short, good bard, so that we may get on with the dancing.”

Edric sighed and glanced at Cricket. “A warm-up act again,” he said with resignation. “Well, if I could trouble you for some libation with which to lubricate my throat…”

Grak bellowed for a tankard of ale, which arrived promptly, and Edric began to tell the story of the ballad, glancing around at all of them, but paying particular attention to Sorak.

“The first few verses of the ballad retell the tale of the fall of Alaron and the dissolution of the elven kingdom,” he began. “Alaron, the last king of all the elves, was said to bear a magic sword of elven steel. Its name was Galdra, and no other weapon could withstand it. In the hands of the true king, it would cause even steel to shatter. Upon his death, Alaron gave the sword to a shapechanger for safekeeping, to keep it from the hands of the defilers, whose touch would cause the magic blade to break and shatter its enchantment.

“‘One day,’ said Akron with his dying breath, ‘a future king will come to reunite the elves, and when that hero appears, then he will bear the sword.’

“Many years then passed,” Edric continued, “and the elves fell into decadence. The story of Alaron and his enchanted blade became remembered only as a myth. Until, one day, a wanderer appeared, a nomad from the Ringing Mountains, a pilgrim who bore a sword the like of which no one had ever seen. It was made of elven steel, the crafting of which had been lost for centuries, and it had a curved hilt wrapped with silver wire. The blade itself was curved, as well, forged in a shape that combined the forms of a cutlass and a falchion, and on that blade, engraved in elven runes, was the legend, ‘Strong in spirit, true in temper, forged in faith.’

“The ballad then goes on to tell some of the exploits of this wanderer,” Edric continued, watching Sorak as he spoke. “It tells of how he foiled a defiler plot to seize the government in Tyr, and how he saved the city from a plague of undead. Then it tells of how he set off across the Tablelands, in company with a beautiful villichi priestess, and of how he stole a princess of the Royal House of Nibenay from a nobleman who was holding her against her will. Having taken the vows of a preserver, this daughter of Nibenay had been exiled by her father and had appealed to our hero to rescue her and return her to her home. This the Nomad did, taking her across the dreaded Stony Barrens, which no man had ever crossed before. The nobleman pursued him and the Nomad slew him in fair combat, then brought the princess back to Nibenay, where she joined the Veiled Alliance to help them carry on their war against her father’s templars.

“In retaliation, the Shadow King sent an army of half-giants to destroy the Nomad, but he fought them valiantly and made good his escape, disappearing from the city and mysteriously vanishing into the desert with his beautiful villichi priestess by his side.

“What has become of him? Is he, indeed, the Crown of Elves, which the legend has foretold? Will he be the one to reunite the tribes and return them to their former glory? Has the age-old prophecy come true at last? Throughout the world, defilers tremble. And among all the elves of Athas, spirits rise in hope. They all look for the wanderer who calls himself the Nomad, and wonder where he will next appear. And so the ballad ends, on a tantalizing note of mystery and questions unresolved. But it really does play rather better when sung.”

“Well, well,” said Kieran, gazing at Sorak with look of both interest and amusement. “I had no idea I had recruited such a celebrated figure. At the price, it seems I got a bargain.”

Sorak sighed and shook his head. “Bards have to sing of something, I suppose. And imagination is their stock in trade. They seize upon some small thing and exaggerate it out of all proportion.”

“Mmm,” said Kieran with a look of mock disappointment. “Pity. I have never had a king for a subordinate.”

“So then the story is untrue?” asked Cricket, staring at him intently. “As we approached I thought I overheard something about your stealing a princess from a caravan.”

“Yes, I’d like to hear more about that,” said Kieran.

“I’d like to see the lady dance!” said Grak, smashing his fist down on the tabletop.

“There is no music,” Cricket said.

“It just so happens I have brought my harp,” said Edric, producing it from beneath his cloak. “For a small sum, I could be induced to play.”

Grak threw a handful of copper coins onto the table. “For your music, bard,” he said, “and for the song we cheated you of singing. And now, my lady, we shall see you dance.” He stood up and bellowed for silence. “My friends! My friends! We have a lovely lady who will dance for us! Make room!”

Tables and benches were quickly cleared from the center of the room, and as Cricket took her place inside the circle they created, everyone in the tavern crowded around. As Edric plucked out chords on his harp, she began a slow, sinuous dance. Sorak took the opportunity to slip away.

He cursed Edric as he left the building and headed back for camp. It had seemed as if the bard had been purposely taunting him by telling the story of the ballad. He hadn’t cared about singing Sorak realized. He had just wanted to recite the story so that he could see his reaction.

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.”

“Certainly,” said Sorak.

“If you truly are the Crown of Elves, why accept a post as soldier of a merchant house?”

Sorak shook his head. “I never claimed to be a king of any sort, and have no wish to be. Galdra was a gift to me from the high mistress of the villichi, into whose safekeeping it was given by a pyreen many years ago. If she knew of the elven prophecy, and if her gift was prompted by it, she never mentioned it to me. And once the blade was broken, I had no further use for it. It served me well, but came with weighty baggage. I threw it into a deep pool at an oasis not long before we met. And the other day, it magically returned to me. It seems I’m stuck with it. As for why I took the job you offered me, I had to get to Altaruk, and it seemed a good way to be in the center of things.”

“I see. And what takes you to Altaruk?”

“I cannot say.”

“Cannot or will not?” Kieran asked.

“I have no wish to lie to you,” said Sorak. “I must go to Altaruk in the name of the preserver cause, but beyond that, I know nothing. And do not ask me how I know I must go. That I will not tell you.”

Kieran nodded. “Frankly spoken.” He gave Sorak back the blade, and as Sorak touched it, it briefly glowed. “So. Where does that leave us?”

“I suppose you will require a new second-in-command,” said Sorak.

“You have not yet even begun your duties. Are you resigning already?”

Sorak frowned. “But… surely, now that you know—”

“I have heard nothing to make me think I made an error in offering you the post. If you no longer want it, that is another matter. And if what you must do in Altaruk places us at cross purposes, I will trust you to resign at that time. If I should be placed in a position where I must do something in response, I will promise you twenty-four hours before I act. Do I have your hand upon it?”

Sorak gave him his hand. “I hope the day when we are at cross purposes never comes.”

“So do I,” said Kieran. “Now, tell me more about this vision that you had just now.”

Sorak described what he had seen, in as much detail as he could recall. When he was finished, Kieran nodded.

“Dressed in black from head to toe, eh? With black breastplates and black arrows. You are sure about the arrows?”

Sorak nodded. “Is that important?”

“It is the trademark of the Shadows,” he said.

“Who are the Shadows?” Sorak asked.

“You do not know? I am surprised. It is a tribe of elves, one of the oldest in existence, but the Shadows are no ordinary tribe of nomads. Once, many years ago, they were, but they have since evolved into a society as dark and secret as their name. Little is known about them, other than that they are masters of espionage, extortion, theft, and assassination. Especially assassination. They are divided into groups called talons, each led by a talonmaster. Each talonmaster commands a group of subcommanders known as shadowmasters, each of whom leads a smaller group known as a claw. Each claw has its own specialty. Some claws are devoted solely to magic, others to theft, assassination, raiding… And in command of all is the grand shadowmaster. Who that may be is anybody’s guess. If the raiders you saw in your vision are indeed Shadows, we’ll have our hands full.”

“Perhaps Grak may be of help,” said Sorak.

Kieran snorted. “Oh, I doubt that,” he said. “I would not even bother asking.”

“But he is a friend of yours,” said Sorak.

“An old acquaintance,” Kieran corrected him. “But Grak’s first loyalty was and always shall be to Grak. He might consider lending us some mercenaries to escort us into Altaruk, but he would insist on a share of the cargo in payment, and I am not authorized to make such a bargain. I doubt Lord Jhamri would approve.”

“Would he rather lose the entire shipment?”

“No, he would rather I protect it,” Kieran said. “And it would make a poor beginning if I started my new job by admitting I could not do it properly, which is how he would see it. No, we shall have to take care of this ourselves.”

“You may count on me,” said Sorak. “And on Ryana.”

“I did not doubt that.” Kieran frowned. “The Shadows are a cut above ordinary raiders,” he said. “And even common raiders usually attempt to place at least one agent in a caravan, to learn the nature of the cargo and the disposition of the guards.”

“Edric!” Sorak said abruptly.

“The bard?”

“I had a strong intuition about him from the start,” said Sorak. “I thought, at first, I just disliked him, but I could not help feeling he was up to something.”

“You may be right,” said Kieran. “He joined the caravan in South Ledopolus, and who would suspect a mincing bard traveling with a dancer? You think Cricket may be in on it as well?”

Sorak shook his head. “I don’t know. Somehow I doubt it.”

“Well, there is one way to find out,” said Kieran. “Let us go see your friend, the priestess. If you’re right, we’ll know for sure before the night is out.”