The Nomad

6

The Avenue of Dreams was a narrow, twisting street, little more than an alleyway that wound its way south from Main Street. Unlike the neatly whitewashed buildings at the center of Salt View, the buildings here were plastered with a light earth-toned coating, and none were taller than two stories. They were well maintained, though they showed their age. The windows all had wooden shutters to protect against the heat, and there were no covered walkways, though most of the buildings had covered entrance portals.

The street was dark here, illuminated only by the moonlight and some oil lamps by the doorways. Here, too, the street was paved with dark red bricks, but it was old paving, and many of the bricks had settled or risen slightly, giving the street an uneven, gently undulating surface.

They were approaching what must once have been the center of the old village, before it grew into the small, desert gaming and entertainment mecca it had now become. Sorak was reminded slightly of the warrens in Tyr, except that here there were no wooden shacks in danger of collapse at any moment, and no refuse littered the streets. The buildings were constructed of old sunbaked adobe brick, with all the corners gently rounded, and there were no beggars crouched against the building walls, holding out their grimy hands in supplication. There were also no prostitutes in this part of the village, which seemed unusual considering the number of them they had seen on Main Street, until Sorak realized that the Avenue of Dreams offered a different kind of temptation altogether.

“What is that strange, sickly-sweet odor?” asked Ryana, sniffing the air.

“Bellaweed,” replied Valsavis with a grimace. Ryana glanced at him with surprise. “But I have seen bellaweed before,” she said. “It is a small, spreading desert vine with coarse, dark-green leaves and large, bell-shaped white blossoms. When dried, they have some healing properties, and yet they smell nothing like this.”

“The blossoms themselves do not,” Valsavis agreed. “But the plant has other uses of which the villichi sisterhood is doubtless well aware. However, you obviously had not been taught that yet.”

“What sort of uses?” she asked, curious. She had thought that, by now, she had learned all of the medicinal properties and other uses of most plants that grew on Athas.

“When dried and finely chopped, the coarse leaves of the bellaweed plant are mixed with the seeds the plant produces, which are pulverized into a powder,” Valsavis explained. “The mixture is then soaked in wine and stored in wooden casks. Pagafa wood is generally used, as it imparts a special flavor to the blend. It is allowed to marry for a period, and when the process is complete, the final product is a fragrant smoking mixture. It is packed in small amounts into clay pipes, and after it has been set alight, the smoke is drawn deeply into the lungs and held there for as long as possible before it is expelled. After a few such puffs, the smoker begins to experience a pleasant sense of euphoria. And after a while, one begins to have visions.”

“So it is a hallucinatory plant?” Sorak asked. “A particularly dangerous one,” replied Valsavis, “because its effects are so deceptive.”

“How so?” asked Ryana as they walked down the twisting street, the heavy scent wafting out of building doorways and windows.

“The euphoria you feel at first is extremely pleasant and soothing,” said Valsavis. “Your vision blurs slightly and everything takes on a sort of softness, as if you were staring at the world through a fine, sheer piece of gauzy fabric. You then experience a pleasant warmth that slowly suffuses the entire body and produces a comfortable lassitude. Most people feel a slight dizziness at first, but this sensation quickly passes. You become very relaxed, and feel detached from your surroundings, and you think that never before have you experienced such a quiet and peaceful feeling of contentment.”

“That does not sound particularly dangerous,” said Sorak.

“It is much more dangerous than you think,” Valsavis said, “precisely because it seems so harmless and so pleasant. If you smoke only one pipeful and stop there, never to touch the noxious stuff again, you will probably escape serious harm, but that is not so easily accomplished. All it really takes is just one pipeful-not even that, merely a deep puff or two is usually sufficient-and a strong craving for more is produced, a craving that is extremely difficult to resist. A second pipeful will only increase the level of pleasure and start to produce the visions. At first, they will be only mild, visual hallucinations. If you I are looking at someone seated across from you, for j instance, they might suddenly appear to be floating a few feet above the floor, and their features may appear to change. The effect varies with the individual. You might see your mother or your father, or the person may take on the aspect of a spouse or lover, someone who has always been foremost in your mind. You will see swirling colors in the air, and the dust motes will appear to dance and sparkle brilliantly. And the more you smoke, the more vivid these visions will become. After a third pipeful, unless your will is very strong, you will usually become completely disconnected from your immediate surroundings.”

“How so?” asked Sorak. “You mean, you fall into a trance?”

“In a manner of speaking,” said Valsavis. “You will remain awake, but you will enter a dreamscape peopled by the creations of your own mind, which has been greatly stimulated by the pernicious smoke. You will see fantastic things that defy reality. You may find, in this dreamscape, that you are capable of flight, and spend your time soaring like a razorwing through a world of indescribable wonder. Or you may find yourself capable of magic, like no wizard who has ever lived, and you will feel omnipotent in your imaginary surroundings. You will never Want the experience to end and, when it does, you will only want to repeat it again and again. Your ordinary life will suddenly seem dull and flat and lusterless by comparison. And by this time, the drug will have permeated your being, and resisting it will be next to impossible.

“The more you smoke the bellaweed,” Valsavis continued, “the more you become disconnected from the reality of your existence. The visions will become real to you, instead, and life without the bellaweed takes on the aspect of a nightmare, which you are driven to escape at any cost. You will sell all of your possessions, degrade yourself, perform any task at all that will bring you money so that you may buy more bellaweed and find sweet refuge in your visions. However, while bellaweed stimulates the mind to create these fabulous visions, it also dulls the wits. When not under its influence, you will often find all but the simplest tasks too difficult to perform. Your movements will become sluggish and stupid, and you will lack the wit even to steal in order to support your craving.

“And there are some,” Valsavis went on, “who enter their dreamscapes never to leave again. Those people are, in many ways, the more fortunate ones among the doomed victims of the dreadful drug because they never truly realize what has happened to them. To those who fall under the thrall of bellaweed, ignorance can, indeed, be bliss. The rest become so completely dependent on it that nothing else will seem to matter, and in time, when their fortunes are depleted and they have sold everything they owned, they will sell themselves and live out the remainder of their lives in slavery, inexpensive for their masters to keep because they are easily controlled and require very little in the way of food and lodging. So long as they have bellaweed to smoke, they will meekly go about their work, suffering any indignity, while they gradually waste away.”

“How horrible!” Ryana said, aghast. She glanced around with a new sense of foreboding. The buildings all around them were small emporiums dedicated to the pursuit of this deadly and virulently addictive euphoria. And now they realized why the few people they saw on the streets moved so listlessly.

“If we remain here long enough,” Valsavis said, “the odor of the smoke upon the air will begin to seem more and more pleasant, and it will start to affect us the way the smell of fresh-baked bread affects a starving man. We will start to feel a strong urge to enter one of these emporiums and sample some of this strangely compelling smoke. And if we were foolish enough to succumb to the temptation, we would be greeted warmly, and ushered to a comfortable sitting room where pipes would be provided for us, at a cost so very reasonable that no one would think to object, and that would be the beginning of the end. We would discover that the second pipeful would cost us more, and the third more still, and the price would always escalate. Before long, we would be taken from the luxurious comfort of the sitting room and led to tiny, cramped rooms in the back, lined with crude beds made of wooden slats and I stacked to the ceiling so that six people or more could lie on them as if they were trade goods stored upon shelves in a warehouse. But by this time, we would not object. Eventually, we would say anything, do i anything, sign any piece of paper that would bring us i just one more pipe. And before long, the slave traders | Would come and purchase us by lots.”

“How do you know all this?” Ryana asked, glancing at the mercenary uneasily. His story sounded all too

•I unpleasantly vivid, as if he had experienced it himself.

“Because, in my youth, I once worked for such a slave trader,” said Valsavis. “And that was enough to destroy in me forever any temptation to draw the odious smoke of bellaweed into my lungs. I would much sooner open my wrists and die bleeding in the street. If there is one thing that experience has taught me over the long years, it is that any attempt to bring peace, joy, or satisfaction into your life through artificial means is a false path. One finds those things through looking at life with clear and sober eyes, meeting its adversities and overcoming them through will, effort, and determination. Only there does true satisfaction lie. The rest is all as illusory as the visions produced by the sweet-smelling smoke of bellaweed. All shadow and no substance.”

“Let us be quit of this dreadful place,” Ryana said. “I do not wish to smell the odor of this deadly smoke any longer. It is already starting to smell pleasant, and now the very thought sickens me.”

They hurried on through the Avenue of Dreams, leaving the sickly smelling smoke behind. Before long, they came to an even older section of the village, where the buildings showed greater signs of age. They passed through a small, square plaza with a well in the center of it, and continued on down the twisting street. Here, the buildings were smaller and packed closer together, many no more than one story tall. Most of these buildings appeared to be residences, but there was the occasional small shop selling various items such as rugs or clothing or fresh meat and produce. A short distance past a small bread bakery, they came to a narrow, two-story building with a wooden sign hanging over the entrance on which was painted, in green letters, the Gentle Path. Below the name was the single word Apothecary.

It was late, but there was a lamp burning in the front window, which had its shutters opened to admit the cool night breeze. They came up to the front door i and found it unlocked. As they opened it, it brushed i a string of cactus rib pieces suspended over the entrance, which made a gentle series of clicking noises, alerting the proprietor that someone had come in.

The shop was small and shaped in a narrow rectangle. Along one wall there was a wooden counter, on which stood various instruments for the weighing, cutting, crushing, and blending of herbs and powders. Behind the counter, there were shelves containing rows of glass bottles and ceramic jars, all labeled neatly and holding various dried herbs and powders. There were more such shelves across the room, from floor to ceiling, and many of these held bottles of various liquids and potions. Strings of herbs hung drying from the ceiling, filling the shop with a wonderful, pungent smell that completely banished the lingering memories of the sickly-sweet odor of bellaweed smoke.

A small man dressed in a simple brown robe came through the beaded curtain at the back, behind the far end of the counter. He came, shuffling as he walked, holding his old, liver-spotted hands clasped in front of him. He was almost completely bald, and he had a long, wispy white beard. His face was lined and wrinkled, and his dark brown eyes, set off by crow’s-feet, had a kindly look about them.

“Welcome and good evening to you, my friends,” he said to them. “I am Kallis, the apothecary. How may I serve you?”

“Your name and the location of your shop was given to us by the manager of the Desert Palace,”

Sorak said, “who asked that we mention him to you.”

“Ah, yes,” the old apothecary said, nodding. “He sends me many clients. He is my son, you know.”

“Your son?” Ryana said with surprise.

The old man grimaced. “I had him late in life, regrettably, and his mother died in birthing him. He chose not to follow in his father’s footsteps, which has always been something of a disappointment to me. But one’s children always choose their own path, whether one approves of it or not. Such is the way of things. But then, you did not come here to hear the ramblings of a garrulous old man. How may I help you? Is there some ailment you seek to cure, or perhaps you wish a liniment for sore and aching muscles? A love potion, perhaps? Or a supply of herbal poultices to take with you on your journey?”

“We came seeking the Silent One, good apothecary,” said Sorak.

“Ahhh,” said the old man. “I see. Yes, I suppose I should have guessed from your appearance. You have the look of adventurers about you. Yes, indeed, I should have known. You seek information concerning the fabled lost treasure of Bodach.”

“We seek the Silent One,” Sorak repeated.

“The Silent One will not see you,” Kallis replied flatly.

“Why?” asked Sorak.

“The Silent One will not see anyone.”

“Who is going to stop us from seeing the Silent One, old man? You?” Valsavis said, fixing the apothecary with a steady gaze.

“There is no need to be threatening,” Kallis replied, saying precisely the words that Sorak had been about to speak. “I am clearly not going to stop you from going anywhere you wish. You are big and strong, while I am small and frail. But if you tried to force your way in, it would not serve you well, and you would find that leaving Salt View would be far more difficult than it was for you to come here.”

Sorak placed a restraining hand on Valsavis’s shoulder. “No one is going to use any force,” he reassured the old apothecary. “We merely ask that you tell the Silent One that we are here, and request an audience. If the Silent One refuses, we shall leave quietly and bother you no more.”

The old man hesitated. “And who shall I say is requesting this audience?”

Sorak reached into his pack and pulled out the inscribed copy of The Wanderer’s Journal that he had received from Sister Dyona at the villichi convent. “Tell the Silent One that we have been sent by the author of this book,” he said, handing it to the old man.

Kallis looked down at the book and saw its title, then looked up at Sorak. It was difficult to judge anything by his expression. Sorak slipped back and allowed the Guardian to probe his mind. What the Guardian saw there was skepticism and caution. “Very well,” said Kallis. “Please, wait here.” He disappeared behind the beaded curtain. “This all seems pointless,” said Valsavis. “Why not simply go up there and see the old druid? What is to stop us?”

“Good manners,” Sorak said. “And since when has our private matter started to concern you? What is I your interest in all of this? You came to Salt View 1 merely for the entertainment, or at least, so you said.”

“If you are going to search for the lost treasure of Bodach, then I am interested-for all of the obvious reasons,” said Valsavis. “Granted, you have not invited me to come along with you, but you must see that it would be in your best interests to have an experienced and skillful fighter by your side in the city of the undead. And if what they say about the treasure is true, then there is more than enough to split three ways and still leave us all rich beyond our wildest dreams. Aside from which, you owe me, as you yourself admitted. It was I who found you and tended to your wound when the marauders left you for dead, and it was I who helped you rescue Ryana from their clutches. Moreover, there are all my winnings that I was forced to leave behind back at the gaming house.”

“No one forced you, Valsavis. You could easily have kept your winnings, though you would not have won them without me,” Sorak said. “The manager said that he would not try to force you to return them.”

“Perhaps,” Valsavis said, “but after the noble example you two set by returning your winnings, I could hardly fail to do the same, now could I?”

“I thought money was not important to you,” Sorak said. “Did you not say that all an excess of money brought a man was trouble?”

“Perhaps I did say that,” Valsavis admitted, “but it is one thing not to wish to steal another’s sword, however fine a weapon it may be, and quite another to win a treasure by risking life and limb. One act is craven, while the other is heroic. And at my age, I must think about how I shall spend my rapidly approaching declining years. A share of the lost treasure of Bodach, even if it were just a small share, would insure my comfort in my final days. Or is it that you are greedy and wish to keep all of it for yourselves?”

But at that moment, before Sorak could reply, Kallis returned. “The Silent One will see you,” he announced. “This way, please.”

They went through the beaded curtain and followed him through a supply room in the rear of the shop and up a flight of wooden stairs to the second floor. It was dark up there, with only one lamp burning at the head of the stairs. Valsavis tensed, not knowing what to expect. They walked down a short, dark corridor and stopped before a door. “In here,” said Kallis, beckoning them. “Open it and go through first, old man,” Valsavis said.

The apothecary merely looked at him for a moment, then sighed and shook his head. He opened the wooden door and went through first. They followed him, Valsavis keeping his right hand near his sword.

Behind the door was a room divided into two sec-dons by an archway. The front part of the room contained a small, cone-shaped, brick fireplace in which a small fire burned, heating a kettle. The walls were bare, and the floor was wood-planked. Bunches of herbs hung drying from the beamed ceiling. There were two small and crudely built wooden chairs and a small round table made from planks. On it sat a candle in a holder and some implements for cutting and blending herbs and powders. There was a small sleeping pallet by the wall and a shelf containing some scrolls and slim, bound volumes. The room held no other furniture or items of decoration.

On the other side of the archway was a small study, with a writing desk and one chair pushed up against a bare wall. There were no windows in the room. A solitary oil lamp burned in the study, illuminating a white-robed figure with very long, straight, silver hair, who was seated at the desk, facing away from them.

“The Silent One,” said Kallis, before he turned and left the room, closing the door behind him.

The Silent One stood and turned around.

“Gith’s blood!” said Valsavis. “It’s a woman!”

The silver hair hanging down almost to her waist more properly belonged to a woman in the twilight of her life, but the Silent One looked scarcely older than Ryana. Her face was ethereal in its fragile beauty, unlined, with skin like fine porcelain, and her eyes were a bright, emerald green, so bright they almost seemed to glow. She was tall and slender, and her posture was straight and erect. When she moved, as she came toward them, it was with a flowing grace. She almost seemed to float across the floor.

She held out the copy of The Wanderer’s Journal that Sorak had given Kallis. “I believe this is yours,” she said in a clear and lilting voice. “You come with impeccable credentials.”

“But.., you can speak!” said Valsavis.

She smiled. “When I choose to,” she replied. “It is far easier to avoid unwelcome conversation when people do not think I have a voice. Here, I am known as the Silent One, and all save old and faithful Kallis believe I cannot speak. But now you know the truth, and you can call me by my name, which is Kara.”

“No, this is some trick,” Valsavis said. “You cannot possibly be the Silent One. The druid called the Silent One went to Bodach and returned nearly a century ago. The story itself is at least that old. You are far too young.” He glanced at Sorak and Ryana. “This woman is an imposter.”

“No,” said Sorak. “She is pyreen.” Valsavis stared at him with astonishment. “You mean ... one of the legendary peace-bringers?” He glanced uncertainly at the Silent One.

“A shapeshifier?”

“I am not as young as I appear to be,” Kara replied. “I am nearly two hundred fifty years old. However, for one of my people, that is still considered very young.”

“I have heard stories of the pyreen,” Valsavis said, “but I have never met or even seen one, and I do not know of anyone who has. For all I know, they are nothing but a myth, a legend. If you are truly one of the pyreen, then prove it.”

She gazed at him for a moment without saying anything. Finally, she said, “I have no need to prove anything to you. The Nomad knows who and what I am. And that is all that matters.”

“We shall see,” Valsavis said ominously, drawing his sword.

“Put away your blade, Valsavis,” Sorak said curdy, “unless it is mine you wish to cross.”

Their gazes locked for a tense moment. Then slowly, Valsavis returned his sword to its scabbard. No, he thought, now was not the time. But soon. Very soon. The pyreen merely stood and watched them, unperturbed.

“Permit me,” said Ryana, stepping up to the pyreen and taking her hand, then dropping to one knee and bowing her head.

Kara placed a hand upon her head. “Rise, priestess,” she said. “There is no need to pay me formal homage. Rather, it is I who should pay homage to you, for the task that you have undertaken.”

“You know why we came?” Sorak said. “I have been expecting you,” the pyreen replied. Her gaze shifted to Valsavis. “But not him.”

“I am traveling with them,” said Valsavis.

Kara glanced at Sorak and raised an eyebrow.

“For the moment,” Sorak said.

“If that is your choice,” was all she said.

“They say you know where the lost treasure of Bodach may be found,” Valsavis said.

“I do,” Kara replied. “In Bodach.”

“We did not come here to hear you speak in riddles, woman,” said Valsavis irritably.

“You did not come here to hear me speak,” she said.

“By thunder, I have had enough of this!” Valsavis said.

“Keep your peace, Valsavis,” Sorak said calmly but firmly. “No one has made you spokesman here. Remember that you asked to come. And as of yet, we have not refused you.”

Valsavis gave Sorak a sidelong look, but said nothing more. It would not serve to antagonize the elfling now, he thought, governing his temper with difficulty.

“I know why you have come,” said Kara, “and I know what you seek. I will go with you to Bodach. Meet me here an hour before sunset tomorrow. It is a long, hot journey across difficult terrain. We shall do better if we travel by night.” And with that, she turned around, went back to her writing desk, and sat down with her back to them. The audience was over.

“Thank you, Kara,” Sorak said. He opened the door and let the others out. Kallis waited for them downstairs as they came through the beaded curtain.

“Good night,” was all he said.

“Good night, Kallis,” Sorak said. “And thank you.”

“So,” said Valsavis, when they were once again back out in the street, “we leave tomorrow night, with the not-so Silent One to guide us.”

“The way you acted in there, we are fortunate that she agreed to guide us,” said Ryana angrily. “One does not threaten a pyreen, Valsavis. Not if one has an ounce of wit about him.”

“I will believe she is one of the pyreen when I see her shapeshift, and not before,” Valsavis said dryly. “I do not make a habit of taking things on faith.”

“That is because you have no faith,” Ryana said. “And so much the worse for you.”

“I have faith in what I can see and feel and accomplish,” said Valsavis. “Unlike you, priestess, I did not grow up sheltered in a convent, fed on a diet of foolish hopes and dreams.”

“Without hopes and dreams, foolish or not, there can be no life,” Ryana replied.

“Ah, yes, of course,” Valsavis said. “The vain hopes and dreams of all preservers, that one day Athas will be green and live again.” He grimaced. “Take a look around you, priestess. You have traveled clear across the Tablelands from your convent in the Ringing Mountains, and you have crossed the Great Ivory Plain. You have seen Athas firsthand. Just what are the odds, do you think, of this desolate, desert world ever being green again?”

“So long as people believe the way you do, Valsavis, and think only of themselves, the odds are very slim,” Ryana replied.

“Well, then at least you have learned that much practicality,” Valsavis said. “As you learn more, you will find that most people think only of themselves, for in a world as harsh as this, there is neither the time nor the luxury to think of others.”

“Indeed,” said Sorak. “I wonder why you stopped to help me, then.”

“It cost me nothing,” said Valsavis with a shrug. The elfling was being very clever, using the priestess to draw him out. He would have to watch himself more carefully. “As I said before, it provided an interesting diversion on an otherwise uneventful journey. So you see, Nomad, as it turns out, I was really only thinking of myself. If it had proved an inconvenience for me to stop and help you, rest assured I would have passed you by without a qualm.”

“I am truly comforted by that thought,” said Sorak wryly.

Valsavis grinned. “Well, as things turned out, your companionship has served me well. A new adventure beckons, with the promise of wealth that will see me through my old age in comfort. I think that I shall build myself a new home, perhaps even right here in Salt View. Or perhaps I will take permanent rooms at the Oasis. A man could do much worse. I will be able to afford the constant company of beautiful young women to take care of me, and I shall never have to worry about where my next meal is going to come from. I may even buy the Desert Palace, so that I may amuse myself by ordering about that sly rasclinn of a manager and have a place where I can always come for entertainment free of charge.”

“It might be more prudent to find the treasure before you start to spend it,” Ryana said.

“What,” said Valsavis, raising his eyebrows in mock astonishment, “and give up all my hopes and dreams?”

Ryana shook her head. “You can be a most irritating man, Valsavis,” she said.

“Yes, women often find me irritating,” he replied. “At first. And then, despite themselves, they find that they are drawn to me.”

“Truly? I cannot imagine why,” Ryana said.

“Perhaps you will soon find out,” Valsavis said.

She gave him a sharp glance. “Now that,” she said, “would fall into the category of foolish hopes and dreams.”

Valsavis grinned and gave her a small bow. “Well struck, my lady. A good riposte. But the match is not yet finished.”

“For you, it ended before it could even begin,” she said.

“Did it, now?” Valsavis said. “Is that so, Nomad? Have you already staked your claim?”

“I have no claim upon Ryana,” Sorak said. “Nor does any man on any woman.”

“Indeed? I know many men who would dispute that curious assertion,” said Valsavis.

“No doubt,” said Sorak. “But you might try asking women.”

“When it comes to women,” said Valsavis, “I generally do not make a habit of asking.”

“That I can believe,” Ryana said.

Suddenly, Sorak stopped and put his arm out to hold back the others. “Wait. It seems that we have company,” he said.

They had entered the small plaza with the well, beyond which lay the bellaweed emporiums. Four shadowy figures stood at the far end of the small plaza, blocking their way. Eight more had entered the plaza from the alleys to either side, four from the left, four from the right.

“Ah, what have we here?” said Valsavis. “It would appear that the night’s entertainment is not yet over.” He drew his sword.

“Smokers in pursuit of means to buy more bellaweed?” wondered Sorak.

“No, not these,” Valsavis said. “There is nothing listless in their movements. And they seem to know what they’re about.”

The men stood, surrounding them. One of the four in front of them spoke. “One of our hunting parties failed to return to camp,” he said, immediately solving the question of who they were. “We went out to search for them and soon discovered why. We found their bodies, and then followed the trail left by their assassins. It led us here. We also found the stable where their kanks were sold. The man who purchased them was .. . persuaded ... to provide a detailed description of the sellers. Curiously enough, they looked a great deal like you three.”

“Ah, so then those were your friends that we butchered back there?” said Valsavis.

“You admit it?” the marauder said with some surprise.

“I am not especially proud of it,” Valsavis said with a shrug. “They barely gave me cause to work up a good sweat.”

“Well, I think we can manage to exercise you somewhat better,” the marauder said, drawing his obsidian sword with one hand and his dagger with the other. “After all, we are not asleep.”

“Nor were your friends when we killed them,” said Valsavis. “But they sleep now, and you shall join them soon enough.”

“Kill them,” the marauder said.

The bandits started to converge on them, but Valsavis moved with absolutely blinding speed. Almost faster than the eye could follow, he drew a dagger with each hand and flung them out to either side. Two of the marauders fell, one on the left, one on the right, even as they were drawing their weapons. Each man had a dagger through his heart. Neither of them even had a chance to cry out.

But as quickly as Valsavis had moved, Sorak moved even faster, except it wasn’t Sorak anymore. The Shade had come storming up from his subconscious-dark, malevolent, and terrifying, charging toward the four men at the far end of the plaza.

For a moment, they were too startled to respond. There were a dozen of them against three. And suddenly, in the space of an eyeblink, two of their number had fallen, and instead of being the attackers, they were being attacked.

The first thing the four men at the far end of the plaza realized was that one of their intended victims was actually charging them. And then, in the seconds before he was upon them, they realized something else, as well. They realized what it meant to be absolutely terrified. Death was coming at. them. The feeling was sudden, inexplicable, and overwhelming. They went cold, and it was as if a huge fist had grabbed each of them by the guts and started squeezing.

They had no way of knowing that the Shade was a unique and horrifying creature, that basic, primal, bestial instinct contained subconsciously within all men, only in this case, fully developed into a discrete persona-and capable of intense, psionic, emotional projection. The Shade literally instilled terror.

Two of the marauders began to back involuntarily away as the Shade charged across the plaza toward them. They were still in that momentary state, between full realization of what they were feeling and running in blind panic, when their leader shoved them forward, yelling, “Get him, you fools! He’s just one man!”

For an instant, the spell was broken, and then, even as it took hold once again, it was too late to run. The juggernaut charging across the plaza was upon them, and they suddenly found themselves fighting for their lives. The only trouble was, their obsidian weapons shattered with the first stroke against the stranger’s blade.

Valsavis tried to step forward to protect Ryana, but she merely shoved him aside and said, “Take the ones on the right!”

As she moved toward the three marauders on her left, Valsavis directed his attention toward the three on the right. They had already moved to within striking distance, and they were infuriated that he had already killed two of their number. Since the Shade’s projection was not being directed at them, they attacked Valsavis without hesitation.

He parried the first stroke with one of his own and had the satisfaction of seeing the marauder’s obsidian sword break against his stronger, iron blade. A downward, sweeping slash finished the man, and then only two were left. They struck simultaneously. Valsavis could not parry both blows at once. He blocked one, twisting and deftly slipping the second thrust, kicking the man in the groin as he did so. The man made a gasping, squealing sort of sound and doubled over. Valsavis felt a dagger scrape along his side and smashed the marauder in the face with his elbow. As the marauder cried out and staggered back, Valsavis ran him through. That left only the man he’d kicked in the groin, and he was in no shape to offer any resistance. Valsavis raised his blade and brought it down, finishing him off. He then turned to help Ryana, but saw that she was in no need of his assistance.

One marauder was already lying in a pool of his own blood. She ran the second one through even as Valsavis turned toward her. And it took her less than a moment to finish off the third. Valsavis watched with open admiration as her blade executed its delicate and lethal dance. The marauders were no competition for her. She had quickly dispatched two, and now the third was on the retreat, desperately trying to parry her flurry of strokes, but he was hopelessly out of his depth. It ended quickly, one thrust, and it was over.

Valsavis glanced toward the far end of the plaza. The last he had seen of Sorak, he was suddenly charging the four men at the other end. Now only one remained, the leader. Valsavis heard the man scream once, and then the scream was abruptly cut off and Sorak stood alone.

Valsavis heard the sound of running footsteps and turned, raising his sword to meet the threat, but it wasn’t more marauders. It was a squad of the town guards, mercenaries by the look of them, and they seemed to know their business. They did not simply come charging in blindly. Instead, as they entered the plaza from a side street, they fanned out quickly and covered the area with their crossbows. Valsavis slowly sheathed his blade and held his hands out away from his sides.

Ryana came up beside him and did likewise. Sorak approached them across the plaza, moving slowly, his blade sheathed. He was carefully keeping his hands in plain sight.

The mercenary captain quickly glanced around the plaza, taking in the situation. “What happened here?” he demanded.

“We were attacked,” Ryana said. “We had no choice but to defend ourselves.”

The mercenary leader looked around. “You three i did all this by yourselves?” he asked in disbelief. “I saw it all,” cried a voice from a window on the second floor of a building facing onto the plaza. “It happened just the way she says!”

Someone else who had apparently witnessed the fighting from the safety of his building added his voice in agreement. “It was a dozen against three! And I have never seen anything like it!”

“Nor have I,” the mercenary captain said, apparently convinced by this corroboration. Several people started coming out into the street, staring at the scene with fascination, but the mercenaries held them back.

“Do you have any idea why these men attacked you?” asked their captain.

“They were marauders,” said Sorak. “Some of their comrades had attacked us on our way here and we fought back. These men trailed us and came looking for revenge.”

“It seems they found more than they had bargained for,” the mercenary captain said. He signaled his men to lower their bows. “I will require your names,” he said.

They gave them.

“Where are you lodging?” the mercenary asked.

“The Oasis,” Sorak said. “But we were planning to leave Salt View tomorrow. Unless, of course, there is any difficulty about that.”

“No difficulty,” said the mercenary captain. “Witnesses have borne your story out. I am satisfied that it was self-defense. And it would seem unlikely that three would try to ambush twelve,” he added wryly. “Though I daresay, given the results, it certainly appears that you could have pulled it off.”

“We are free to go, then?” Sorak asked.

“You are free to go,” the mercenary captain said. He turned and beckoned to one of his men. “Go and get the charnel wagon to remove these bodies.”

As they crossed the plaza, heading back toward Main Street, Valsavis glanced down at the corpses of the marauders Sorak killed. He noticed two very interesting things. Each of their weapons had shattered, as if made of glass. And each man had an expression of stark terror frozen on his features. It was only the second time that Valsavis had seen Sorak in action. The first time, the marauders had been taken by surprise, and they had been drinking heavily. This time, however, they had come sober and prepared to fight-for all the good that it had done them. He was beginning to understand why the Shadow King felt anxious about this elfling.

There was something very special about that sword of his, quite aside from its obvious rarity. When he had first seen it, Valsavis had -noted the hilt, wrapped with precious silver wire, and the unusual shape of the blade, but though he was curious to see the elven steel, he had never removed it from its scabbard. He had lived a long time, and he owed his survival not only to his abilities as a fighter, but to his sense of caution. It was said to be a magic blade, and Nibenay himself believed it. Valsavis chose the prudent course. Until he had learned more about the nature of its enchantment, he had simply held it carefully by its scabbard and laid it aside, without examining it. Whoever had enchanted the sword could easily have warded it as well, to prevent its falling into the wrong hands. And besides, he was no thief. To take a weapon from a man honorably slain in combat was one thing, to steal it while he lay helpless would have been craven.

What then, was the precise nature of the sword’s enchantment? Both times he had seen Sorak use it, the weapons of his antagonists had shattered against its blade. For obsidian weapons to break on iron or steel was not uncommon, but for them to shatter as they had was very unusual, indeed. So perhaps that was its special property. No ordinary weapon could stand up against it. That meant he would not be able to fight Sorak the same way he fought other men. When the time came, he would either have to make certain that Sorak did not have the sword, or that his own weapon did not come in contact with it.

Then there were those expressions of terror on the faces of those men that he had slain. What could account for that? Marauders were not men easily frightened, much less terrified. Veela had told him that the elfling was a master of the Way. If so, then it was possible that he had the ability to psionically project terror at his antagonists. Coupled with the enchantment of the elven blade, that would make him not merely a formidable opponent, but an indomitable one. Yet, he had to have a weakness, all men did. Obviously, there was the priestess, but aside from her, there had to be something inherent in the elfling himself that would make him vulnerable. Until he found out what that was, he would have to play the game very cautiously.

As for the priestess... Valsavis had never seen a woman fight like that before. And he had seen women fight. He was well aware that villichi priestesses were trained in combat, but they usually preferred to use psionics to disarm their enemies or otherwise subdue them. Ryana had waded into the fight without even using her psionic ability, as if she had relished the prospect of taking the marauders on blade to blade. And the way she had dispatched them was magnificent. He could not have done better himself. This was a woman well worthy of respect, he thought. Beautiful, intelligent, and deadly. He found it an exciting combination.

“You fight well,” he told her. “Yes,” she replied. “I do.” Valsavis grinned. “We make a good team,” he said. She glanced at him sharply, and he quickly added, “The three of us, I mean. If this is any indication of how things will go in Bodach, we should all be rich before long.”

“You will find it is far easier to kill the living than the undead,” she replied flatly.

He gazed at her with interest. “You sound as if you speak from experience,” he said. “Have you ever fought undead before?” she asked. “No,” Valsavis said. “I have fought men, elves, giants, dwarves, even halflings and thri-kreen, but never yet undead. I imagine it should prove an interesting experience. I am looking forward to it.”

“I am not,” Ryana said. “It is not an experience most sane people would be eager to repeat.”

“And yet you travel with Sorak to Bodach,” said Valsavis, glancing at the elfling, who walked slightly ahead of them. “I find that curious. I had always thought villichi priestesses and druids lived a life of austere simplicity, dedicated to the spiritual path. Seeking treasure seems somewhat out of character.”

“Everyone chooses his own path,” Ryana replied. “As you have chosen yours.”

“And what of Sorak? Is this path of your choosing, or his?”

“What difference would that make to you?” she countered.

“I was merely interested.”

“I see,” she replied. “Is it the treasure of Bodach that interests you, or me?”

“And just supposing I said it was both?” Valsavis asked.

“Then I would reply that you could only hope to gain one,” she said, and quickened her pace to catch up with Sorak.

“Perhaps,” Valsavis said softly to himself. “And then again, perhaps not.”