The Broken Blade Part 13

"Never mind that," Edric said. "His name is Sorak. Or so he styles himself."

"The Nomad?" said the black-clad elf.

"He may have adopted the persona from the ballad, for reasons of his own," said Edric, "but he carries a sword that has been broken, so that a little less than half its length remains. I saw it. It is made of steel."

"Steel!"

"And engraved with elven runes," said Edric, "though I was not close enough to read them."

"Are you saying it is Galdra?" Galdra?" the black-clad elf asked with disbelief. the black-clad elf asked with disbelief.

"At the very least, it seems meant to pa.s.s as Galdra, though when I questioned him about it, indirectly, he said the blade was merely an old heirloom of his family, something he carries for sentimental reasons only."

"But you said it was broken."

"That could be part of his ruse," said Edric, "to explain why the enchantment does not work. According to the legend, if the Sword of Alaron is touched by a defiler, it will shatter and the enchantment will be broken."

"And the prophecy with it, I should think," the Shadow replied.

"Perhaps," said Edric. "Or perhaps not. The legend is vague upon that point."

"So this Nomad is pa.s.sing himself off as the so-called Crown of Elves?"

Edric shook his head. "No, not at present, anyway. He appears to be posing as a mercenary. Perhaps he really is, I do not know. He seems to have struck up a friendship with this Kieran. But then, that would be logical, if he intends to strike a bargain with the House of Jhamri."

"What sort of bargain?"

"I am not sure," said Edric, "but I have an idea. He joined the caravan in South Ledopolus, as I did, but he came from across the estuary. I suspect he may have come from Bodach."

"Bodach!"

"Both he and the priestess carry heavy packs," said Edric. "I have not had an opportunity to examine them, but I believe it's possible they may contain some of the lost treasure."

"That would be very interesting if it were true. What makes you think so?"

"A hunch," said Edric. "I have heard some stories of this Nomad's exploits. And if those stories are true, it may be possible he has discovered the secret of the lost treasure's location. He may have gotten his hands on a small part of it, but he could never hope to remove it all alone. That would take an army.

"An army of elves, perhaps?"

"Exactly," Edric said, nodding. "And what better way to recruit such an army from among the desperate elves and half-elves of the cities than to pose as the embodiment of one of their most cherished myths? The Crown of Elves will lead an army to secure the lost treasure of Bodach and finance the coming kingdom."

"And where does the House of Jhamri fit into all of this?"

"What better custodian for the lost treasure? Who better to invest it for him?"

"Ah," the Shadow replied. "So he brings the treasure to the Jhamris, cuts them in for a share to convert it into ready a.s.sets, and then disappears with his profits."

"Those were my thoughts, precisely," Edric said.

"A bold and risky venture," said the Shadow. "Aside from the risks involved in stealing Bodach's treasure, if he proclaims himself the Crown of Elves, pretender or not, he still risks the wrath of the sorcerer kings, who would see him as a threat."

"Not if he moved quickly enough," said Edric. "If he absconded with the treasure, there would be no elvish king to threaten anyone. Merely a bold rascal who had cheated his gullible followers and then disappeared."

"A fascinating theory," said the Shadow. "But you have no proof that this is what he plans."

"Why else would he adopt so dangerous a pose?

The rewards would have to be significant. Either way, the talonmaster must be told. If the Nomad can be taken alive, we can get the truth from him. If he really does know where the lost treasure of Bodach can be found-"

"Then we can take it for ourselves," the Shadow finished. "I will pa.s.s on what you've told me. The talonmaster will decide what is to be done. Meanwhile, see what else you can learn. Do they suspect you?"

Edric snorted. "Not a chance. I have laid the groundwork for my part too well. They all discount me as an effete, limp-wristed bard en route to Altaruk to sing songs. I have even taken up with a gorgeous half-elf dancing girl, who shares a tent with me and treats me like an older sister. She does not suspect the truth, of course, and it helps maintain the fiction. However, it is all I can do to keep my hands off her. And that is another thing. She is not to be harmed in any way. Her name is Cricket, and she may have fallen on hard times, but she was tribal once."

"I will make it known," the Shadow replied with a smile. "So, Edric, have you lost your heart, then? I did not think you even had one."

"Keep your jests to yourself, little brother. If you saw her, you would understand."

"No doubt. I am looking forward to it."

"Well, I'd best get back," said Edric. "It will soon be sunrise, and we will making ready to get under way. I will look for you at Grak's Pool tomorrow night."

"Until tomorrow then, my brother." They clasped arms, and Edric headed back toward camp. He glanced back over his shoulder once. His brother had disappeared. Edric smiled. No one moved as silently or as swiftly as the Shadows. And no one was more adept at espionage, a.s.sa.s.sination or intrigue.

The Crown of Elves? The elfling half-breed who called himself the Nomad would soon discover what a real elf was, not the pathetic, weak-willed elves who lived among the humans in their cities or the half-savage desert wanderers the remaining tribal elves had now become, but elves who still retained the former glory of their ancestors and bowed to no one save the grand master of the talons. The Shadows would teach the Nomad a lesson he would not soon forget-a.s.suming he survived it.

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 pa.s.sable 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, 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. 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sengers. 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 pa.s.sengers," 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 embarra.s.sment 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 appet.i.te. 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!"

"h.e.l.lo, 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?" "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.