The Broken Blade

3

The village of North Ledopolus was even more unassuming than Sorak had expected. It was little more than a scattering of small, flat-roofed, one-story adobe buildings clustered along a few narrow, dirt streets. The village was situated on a bend in the Estuary of the Forked Tongue, separated from its sister village, South Ledopolus, by about ten miles of ugly brown silt. In the middle of the estuary rose the craggy, volcanic peaks of Ledo Island, dominating the view for miles around.

North Ledopolus was smaller than its sister village, which had grown because of its position on a caravan route. The northern village was smaller in another way, too: it had been built by dwarves and for dwarves. South Ledopolus, on the other hand, had many structures built to human scale to accommodate caravan crews.

Sorak could see little reason for a village to be situated on the north shore of the estuary. There were no trade routes running past, no natural resources there. North Ledopolus stood completely isolated, bounded by the estuary on one side and the Great Ivory Plain on the other.

Its only reason for existence was the causeway the dwarves sought to build across the estuary. If they could complete the project and successfully defend it from the giants who lived on Ledo Island, it would open a new trade route, connecting Balic to Gulg and Nibenay. There was also the possibility of a second trade route, northeast to the gambling city of Salt View.

Though far removed from major trade routes, Salt View was a popular destination for adventurers and pleasure seekers. Situated in the southern slopes of the Mekillot Mountains, it was a freewheeling gambling mecca where virtually any sort of entertainment could be found—for a price. Those who sought its expensive, libertine diversions paid handsome fees to join small, well-protected caravans from Gulg or Nibenay to Salt View. Such a trip was not without its hazards, however. Aside from the dangers of the harsh and inhospitable terrain, there was the added risk of an attack by marauders, who lived in the foothills of the Mekillots and preyed on travelers and raided the caravan routes to the west.

A trade route from North Ledopolus could skirt the southern edge of the crystal plain and run across the desert to the oasis where they had camped the previous night. From there, it could continue around the great silt basins to the east, following their shores before turning north, toward the Mekillots, crossing the salt plain at its narrowest point. It would make for a much easier and safer journey to Salt View then approaching it from Nibenay or Gulg.

If the bridge across the estuary could be completed, Sorak was sure the governing council of Salt View would share the expense of establishing the new trade routes, and North Ledopolus would quickly grow from a small village to a large and thriving caravan town. Knowing this, the dwarves had labored ceaselessly for years to bridge the estuary, carrying the burden of the elaborate construction and doing battle with the giants.

The merchant houses of Altaruk could easily have supported the dwarven venture with additional construction crews and mercenaries. For that matter, Sorak thought, any of the great houses could have raised an expeditionary force to drive the giants out of Ledo Island. However, for undertaking such a costly enterprise, they would doubtless expect a proprietary share in the causeway, and that would reduce the potential profits to the dwarves.

It seemed to Sorak that the dwarves were going about it the hard way. If they had cut one of the merchant houses in for a proprietary share of the causeway, the estuary would have been bridged by now, and any losses the dwarves might have sustained from a merchant house taking a percentage of the tolls would have been offset by the increased revenues.

But dwarves were uncommonly stubborn, and once they had determined their focus, nothing would deflect them from it. They wanted full ownership of the causeway and would settle for nothing less. As a result, nothing was exactly what they had, even after years of struggling to complete the project.

Well, not quite nothing, perhaps. They had clearly made some progress. The construction that extended into the estuary from South Ledopolus reached almost halfway out to Ledo Island. From North Ledopolus, another section of the causeway stretched across the silt, extending about two miles from the shore.

The giants could not wade out from the island to attack the bridge at just any point. In some places, the silt would rise over their heads and drown them, so they could destroy only whatever sections they could reach. This meant the dwarves made progress with one section while the giants attacked another. Then the silt would shift along the estuary bottom and the situation would be reversed.

Where the sections of the bridge began, near either shore, the dwarves had widened the causeway considerably, not only to allow for the eventual passage of large caravan vehicles, but also to accommodate defensive fortifications, including catapult emplacements and towers for archers.

Those recently constructed sections of the causeway that extended farther out across the estuary were narrower and not yet fortified. Consequently, they were more vulnerable to attack.

For the dwarves, the trick was to take advantage of the estuary’s shifting depth, extending new construction as quickly as possible when the giants could not reach it and gambling that there would be time enough to widen and fortify those sections before the giants could wade out to destroy them. Little by little, the dwarves made headway, but progress was excruciatingly slow, and one successful attack by the giants could undo months of work.

Apparently, that was exactly what had happened recently, for a large section of the bridge extending out from North Ledopolus was newly wrecked, and dwarven work crews labored to repair the damage.

With each new catapult emplacement and each new defensive tower built along the causeway, the giants’ assault retreated. But before those works could be extended, more pilings had to be driven down into the silt and reinforced, and new sections of the span constructed. More effort was expended in widening and fortifying the causeway than extending it. The dwarves had learned the hard way that it was pointless to extend the causeway beyond the protective reach of the catapults and towers. As a result, the bridge was slowly taking on the appearance of an elongated fortress, complete with battlements and crenelated towers constructed from thick adobe brick. Eventually, both sections would reach the island in the middle, and then the giants would find themselves under siege. The dwarves were already grimly preparing for that final battle.

As Sorak’s grandfather had written in his journal, each year, as a result of steadily increasing revenues, the dwarves’ mercenary force grew a little larger. However, the dwarves paid a price for building and maintaining their private little army, and it wasn’t just a matter of monetary expense. Mercenaries were a rough and unruly lot, and discipline had never been one of their virtues. Mixed in with a standing army under the command of seasoned officers, they could be controlled. But with a force composed entirely of mercenaries, who chose their own officers, discipline was a serious problem. While North Ledopolus was a quiet, sleepy dwarven village, South Ledopolus had become a rowdy, rough-and-tumble desert town where mercenaries did pretty much as they pleased.

The dark sun was sinking on the horizon as Sorak and Ryana booked passage on the last ferry of the day, paying with one of the silver coins they had brought back with them from Bodach. They could easily have loaded up their packs with gold and precious jewels from Bodach’s vast treasure hoard, but such wealth would attract too much attention. Ceramics made up by far the largest percentage of the world’s coinage, followed by silver and then gold. An aristocrat with purseful of gold coins would raise no eyebrows, but it would be decidedly unusual for two plainly dressed pilgrims to be paying in such currency, so they had taken only silver. They packed away no more than they could comfortably carry, but enough to see them through for a quite a while. And more than enough to tempt any would-be robbers, so they were discreet in how they carried it, keeping only a few coins in their purses and the rest hidden in their packs.

The ferry they boarded was constructed of blue pagafa wood, held aloft by the exertions of a floater—a psionicist specially trained to keep boats afloat on the shifting silt. It was a long, flat, open-decked boat about thirty feet from end to end and about twelve feet in the beam, with low gunwales and ten oarlocks to each side, with low bench seats for the dwarven rowers. There was a heavy mast set forward toward the bow, with a gaff-rigged sail stitched from dark green lizard hide. But despite the rising night wind coming in off the Great Ivory Plain and filling the patchwork, triangular sail, the oarsmen still needed to row. Even with the wind, the ferry made slow progress across the thick brown silt.

There was no place for them to sit, except on the deck. As they dropped down cross-legged among the other passengers, a mixture of dwarves and mercenaries heading across to South Ledopolus, Sorak tried to imagine what it must have been like in the ancient times, when the estuary was filled with water, when boats had plied it with the speed of the wind.

Ryana glanced at him curiously. She was well accustomed to his silences, but until recently, those silences had often indicated he was listening to his inner voices. Now, she was no longer sure quite what they meant. She knew it must be very difficult for him to learn how to accept the change. “What were you thinking of just now?” she asked.

“I was wondering what it must have been like in the old days, when boats sailed upon water,” he replied. “I think I would have liked to be a sailor.”

Ryana smiled. “It would have been a fitting occupation for a nomad.”

“We shall have to try it someday,” he replied.

She frowned. “But… how could we?”

Sorak smiled, something he did not do very often these days. “We may be going back again, one day.”

She said, “Ah,” and nodded in sudden comprehension. He meant Sanctuary, of course. In the ancient time where the Sage had magically established his retreat, the world was still green and water filled the seas. It flowed swift and cold in the estuaries and the rivers, and the wind that blew over it was richly laden with its scent and moisture. In the time of Sanctuary, Athas had not yet become the dying world of the dark sun.

For a moment, they sat in companionable silence as the muscular dwarven rowers bent to their oars, laboring to pull the ferry through the silt. Sorak’s thoughts went back to the brief time they had spent in Sanctuary. It seemed more like a dream now than reality, but it had been real, and that brief taste of a lost reality had fed his hope that perhaps, one day, it could be found again, and the fate that had befallen the world at the hands of the defilers could be reversed.

He wanted to discuss it with Ryana, but could not speak of it without risk to the Sage. Only among the Veiled Alliance, who fought the same secret war against the dragon kings, could they ever speak of it, for the Alliance, too, awaited the avangion. But no one, not even the Sage, knew how long the metamorphosis would take.

With each painfully completed stage of the complex transformation, an immense amount of energy was expended, and no further progress could be made until recuperation was complete. Then, once more, the whole process would begin again. In a way, thought Sorak, it was like dying and being reborn, over and over and over.

He wondered what his grandfather would look like when the transformation was complete. Exactly what sort of creature was an avangion? Its name appeared only in a few half-forgotten myths, and in none of them was the avangion described, for no one had ever seen one. In all the long history of Athas, there was no record of a living avangion. Still, the world’s history was shrouded in myth and legend. Much was unknown about the ancient days, and it was almost impossible to separate fact from folklore.

Most likely, the avangion was a creature that existed only in potential. The spells to create an avangion were what existed in fact, but they had never been successfully employed before. Until now. It took a mage of a very advanced level even to attempt those spells, and great skill in magic was not all that was required. To undertake the long and arduous process of the metamorphosis required a degree of dedication, discipline, and self-sacrifice few people would possess.

In many ways, the process was similar to that followed by the sorcerer kings in their transformation into dragons. Each step in the long and complex metamorphosis required the casting of many intricate spells, even the simplest of which took weeks or months to prepare. The casting of each of those many spells had to be performed in an exacting, flawless manner, linking them together to initiate each separate stage of the transformation. It drained the adept almost to the point of death, and when the final spell in each stage was cast and the activating invocation spoken, there came the incandescent pain of the incremental transformation as the powerful magic went to work, restructuring the body, tearing it apart and reconfiguring it in ways that would leave the adept writhing on the floor and screaming in agony for days on end. And the pain never went away completely. Once the metamorphosis was under way, there could be no turning back, and the adept had to resign himself to living with the pain until the transformation was complete—a process that took many years.

Sorak remembered how the Sage had looked when they finally came face to face. His grandfather had seemed able, and in good humor, but was in great pain. Sorak could not imagine what it must be like, living through each day in constant pain, knowing that at best, there would be periods during the recuperative stages when it lessened in intensity, but never went away completely. He did not know if he would have the strength for that. He had thought his quest to find the Sage had taxed him, but now he knew that it was nothing compared to what his grandfather had to live with every day.

Sorak had not seen any family resemblance. His grandfather’s appearance had changed greatly as a result of the transformation. His tall, lean elven frame had become even thinner beneath the loose, floor-length robes he wore. His hands had grown frail and delicate, the wrists astonishingly thin, the fingers long and almost skeletal, like talons… birdlike. Yes, that was it. His grandfather’s nose was aquiline, and the facial bone structure was sharp and prominent, the skin stretched taut, the brow ridge more pronounced, the eyes sunken and hooded, like those of a desert hawk. He walked in a shuffling manner, slightly stooped over due to his shoulder blades, which had protruded as if they were growing… sprouting into wings.

Sorak looked out at the evening sky as the dark sun disappeared over the horizon and imagined an avangion in flight, a huge, hawklike creature, part bird, part man. Or, in this case, part elf. And he thought, what better fulfillment to the elven prophecy? The Crown of Elves, indeed. Sorak had not been a king, but a kingmaker. How could the tribes fail to unite behind such a potent symbol?

The ferry captain’s cry of “Raise oars!” interrupted his reverie. The drummer stopped, raising the small cudgels he used to beat out the pace, and the rowers raised their oars. Almost immediately, the ferry slowed, then drifted to a stop in the thick brown silt. The passengers, who had been conversing among themselves, fell silent and stared out into the darkness. The rowers sat utterly still. The sudden atmosphere of tension on the boat was palpable.

“What is it?” asked Ryana, and was immediately shushed by the other passengers.

“Silence!” said the dwarven captain. “Listen!”

And then Sorak heard it, unmistakable, a sound cutting through the darkness, slowly growing louder. It was a swishing sound, punctuated at intervals by a curious sucking noise followed by a low, deep, muted thud.

Something was moving through the silt, something very large…

…the sound of footsteps.

The ferry captain screamed out, “Giant off the starboard side! Full ahead, double the beat!”

The drummer instantly pounded out the new pace with his cudgels, two beats to the second, and the rowers bent to their oars with urgency, their muscles straining as they pulled the ferry through the silt. They dipped their oars to the first beat, then the heavily corded muscles on their arms and backs stood out in sharp relief as they pulled with the second.

The passengers, a mixture of dwarves and mercenaries, were all standing now, staring off to the right, straining to catch a glimpse of the approaching threat. Some of the mercenaries had their hands on the pommels of their swords, while those who carried crossbows immediately snatched them up and fitted bolts.

The giant was off to the right, somewhere in the darkness. The first of the twin moons, Ral, had risen already, but it was only in its first quarter, a crescent that cast almost no light. Now, as they waited apprehensively, Guthay rose, adding a slight amount of illumination. The only sounds were the steady beats of the drum and the swishing, thudding, sucking noises of the giant’s footsteps as he waded through the silt. They were steadily growing louder.

Ryana unslung her crossbow from her shoulder and fitted a bolt. She pulled back the string and waited, tensely, staring out into the darkness off the starboard side.

“Let me have that,” said Sorak.

Wordlessly, she handed him the crossbow, knowing his elfling night vision was far superior to her human sight.

“Triple time!” the captain cried, and the drummer increased the beat, gritting his teeth with tense anticipation as the rowers fought to make headway against the resistance of the silt. Sweat stood out on their faces and poured down their bare, muscular backs.

The mercenaries were all staring silently and intently out into the darkness off the starboard side, holding their bows ready, while the dwarves nocked arrows to the strings of their short, double recurve pagafa bows.

The sounds of the giant’s approach were much louder now, practically drowning out the drumbeats as huge feet struck the soft bottom of the estuary with deep, muffled thuds, then pulled free from the silt with unsettling sucking noises and swished through the thick, resisting powder.

Sorak saw him first.

The giant’s shadowy form appeared off the starboard side, about thirty yards away. Sorak could not yet make out his features, but the creature was huge, with a wide chest that looked like a thick slab of rock moving through the darkness. The silt reached to the giant’s waist, so it was difficult to tell his height, but appeared to be between twenty and thirty feet tall, weighing six to eight tons. The giant’s massive arms were like tree trunks raised over his head, and Sorak could see that he was carrying a huge boulder. It was all too clear what he intended to do with that boulder. If it struck the ferry, they would all be smashed to pieces.

There was no time to lose. Sorak did not know how far the giant could throw the stone, but he looked perfectly capable of reaching them from where he was. And with each huge step, he came closer. Sorak raised the crossbow, aiming for the giant’s face, estimating where his eyes might be. At the same instant, the creature’s powerful arms bent to throw the boulder. Sorak released the arrow, and it whistled through the darkness, striking home just as the giant threw the boulder.

A deafening bellow of pain filled the night and, an instant later, the huge rock struck the silt off the starboard side, missing the ferry by mere feet. The displacement of the silt raised the ferry sharply, almost tipping it over on its side, but it quickly settled once again, and the dwarves resumed their frantic rowing as the passengers all started letting bolts and arrows fly, aiming them toward the giant’s screams. For once, Sorak was grateful it was silt that they were rowing through, not water, for if it had been water, the splash from the boulder would surely have swamped them.

He fitted another bolt and shot again. He was rewarded by another scream of enraged pain as the shaft struck home, and he now saw the giant claw at his face. The other warriors let arrows fly as fast as they could shoot, firing over the heads of the rowers, who strained at their oars with all their might. The drummer relentlessly pounded out the beat, eyes wide with fright, breaths coming in gasps. The silt undulated as the giant beat at it with fury and frustration, and then, without warning, another boulder struck the surface of the silt just off the port bow.

“Another one!” someone shouted, pointing toward a huge silhouette looming in the darkness.

There was no question how far the giants could hurl their boulders. The one who had just thrown was some twenty-five yards off the starboard bow, and he had overshot them. As Sorak’s elfling gaze penetrated the darkness, he could see at least three others coming up behind him.

“Row, damn your eyes! Row!” the captain shouted hoarsely.

He couldn’t raise the beat any more; the oarsmen were already rowing as fast as they could. They were now roughly parallel with Ledo Island, halfway out across the estuary, and the giants were wading out to cut them off. The captain stood at the tiller, bending over it and steering to the left. The bow of the boat slowly swung around, describing a wide arc as the captain tried to put more distance between them and the giants.

With no way to tell how deep the silt was, the boat’s path was anything but sure. The silt rose up around the giants’ chests as they approached, so the bottom fell off sharply at this point. The question was, would it continue to deepen or level off?

There were three giants up ahead, closing on the starboard bow. The fourth giant, the first they had encountered, had now been left behind, but despite his wounds, he had not given up pursuit. With any luck, thought Sorak, he’d been blinded. Enraged, the creature slogged steadily through the silt, bellowing in pain and fury as he tried to catch up to the ferry.

The captain’s change of course was taking them obliquely away from the giants because he was still making for the opposite shore. But the giants were just ahead of them and closing. Their footsteps made a chorus of loud swishing, thudding, and sucking noises as they struggled through the silt.

Sorak looked out into the distance, ahead of the boat, and he could see torches flaring up along the partially completed section of the causeway extending out from South Ledopolus. The flames from some of those torches rose in a spiralling course, carried by mercenaries that climbed up onto the defensive towers to man the catapults. But were they in range?

The bow of the boat rose sharply as another boulder struck the silt just ahead of them. Every archer aboard was shooting bolts and arrows as fast as possible. The other passengers held tensely to swords, praying they wouldn’t have to use them. If they did, it would already be too late.

Sorak shot another bolt and was rewarded by an enraged scream of pain that shook the night. It was so loud, his ears rang. The giants were getting closer, and it looked as if the ferry might not make it.

The mercenaries on the defensive works of the causeway knew their trade. They brought the catapults into play quickly. Sorak saw trails of fire arcing through the night, illuminating the frightening tableaux of men scrambling over war machines. It took only a few shots to find the range, and then the flaming projectiles were coming down upon the giants.

Four beasts remained, counting the one still lumbering behind them through the silt, and all were now clearly visible. They were huge, ugly brutes, with dark red skin and matted hair reaching to their shoulders. Their powerful upper arms were thicker than Sorak’s torso, and their hands were large enough to crush the boat to splinters. Their facial features were misshapen; brow ridges protruded sharply over their eyes, and their noses resembled snouts. Several of them had grotesque canine teeth that grew outward, curving into tusks.

The creatures were close enough now that Sorak could smell their stench, and it made him gag. Another boulder struck the silt just off the starboard bow, landing close enough to scrape the hull as it fell. The boat heeled over sharply, and part of the gunwale broke away with a loud, cracking sound of splintering agafari wood.

They were over a deeper part of the estuary now, for the silt was coming up almost to the giants’ collarbones. Still they pursued, refusing to give up with their quarry so close at hand.

Several of them batted at the falling missiles as if at annoying insects, but one of the projectiles struck home, hitting a giant directly on the head. He cried out with pain and staggered, almost going under, and his oily, thickly matted hair caught fire. The giant’s panic-stricken screams rent the night as he batted wildly at his hair, trying to put out the flames. It apparently did not occur to the dim-witted creature to duck his head under the silt, which would have put the flames out in an instant. He simply stood there, screaming and swatting at himself with his huge hands.

The ferry captain was screaming, too. He was shouting himself hoarse as he urged on the rowers, who needed no urging, with death so close at hand. A giant loomed up just off the starboard bow, almost close enough to seize the prow of the boat. Sorak raised the crossbow and took careful aim. The bolt whizzed through the air and struck the giant right between the eyes, penetrating his skull and killing him instantly. He immediately sank beneath the surface, and the swell of the silt raised the prow of the boat high as he went down with a hideous sound. The other passengers cheered as the giant fell, but the rowers were oblivious to everything except the frantic drumbeat as they pulled for their lives.

One of the mercenaries was struck squarely in the chest by a spear the size of a small tree trunk. It pierced his upper body completely and carried him over the side, dead before he struck the silt.

The flaming missiles continued to fall, lighting up the night sky. The giant whose hair had caught fire had managed to put out the flames at last, but he had given up pursuit and was staggering back toward Ledo Island, holding his head in his hands and moaning with pain. The giant they had first encountered had also given up pursuit and was wading unsteadily back toward the island, crying out his defiance as he stumbled toward the shore. One giant was dead, but that still left one more, and that last one was a bit more canny than his comrades. As the missiles from the catapults fell all around him, he ducked beneath the silt and disappeared from view.

“Row, curse you, row!” the captain screamed at the top of his lungs. The passengers waited tensely, their eyes scanning the surface of the estuary.

For a moment, the only sounds were the steady, rapid beating of the drum, the creaking of the oarlocks as the rowers pulled with all their might, and the hissing of the flaming missiles falling into the silt.

Then the giant broke the surface, right beside the boat, and Sorak found himself staring into a monstrous, silt-encrusted face with red-rimmed eyes that burned with hatred. One powerful blow, and the ferry would be smashed to kindling.

Sorak did not hesitate. He jumped between two of the oarsmen and leapt onto the gunwale, launching himself off the side and directly onto the giant’s head. In one motion, he unsheathed his sword and grabbed a fistful of the giant’s hair in his other hand, twisting it around his wrist.

“Sorak!” Ryana screamed.

Sorak leaned over and swung his sword, slashing into the giant’s neck and severing the large jugular vein. The giant roared as blood fountained from his neck, gushing powerfully out for a dozen yards. The giant clapped one hand to his neck to stop the massive flow of blood and, with his other hand, tried to sweep Sorak from his head, but Sorak anticipated the move and swung down from the giant’s head, holding onto his hair.

He dangled at the nape of the creature’s neck, bracing his feet against the giant’s spine, and with a powerful blow, chopped into the vertebra where the spinal column met the skull. The giant grunted and died, falling forward and barely missing the boat, which pulled past him.

As the giant sank beneath the silt, Sorak found himself struggling to stay up. It was like trying to swim through quicksand.

“Sorak! Catch the rope!” Ryana shouted.

A line arced out from the ship and struck the surface of the silt about a foot from Sorak. He grabbed it at, still holding onto his sword with one hand, and twisted it around his wrist.

“I have it!” he shouted.

“Hold on, stranger!” he heard the captain cry. The rope went taut, and Sorak felt himself pulled through the silt. He swallowed hard. Another second and the boat would have been out of reach. Several of the passengers, including the captain, pulled hard on the rope, drawing him in. Moments later, they were leaning down and lifting him over the side. He collapsed, coughing, onto the deck and felt several hands on him, raising him to his feet. His body was encrusted with silt and caked with giant’s blood. His hair was thick with it, matted down and plastered to his face and skull.

The passengers gathered around him, patting him on the back and congratulating him. The oarsmen cheered, though without pausing in their rowing. They would not be completely out of danger until they were well past Ledo Island.

Ryana put her arms around him and crushed her lips to his, heedless of the crusty silt covering him from head to toe. “If you ever do anything like that again, I’ll kill you,” she said.

He grinned. “I’d sooner face a dozen giants than a scornful Ryana.”

The passengers around them, both dwarves and mercenaries, laughed. With the danger past, they were all giddy with relief.

The captain stood before him. “That was the most foolhardy thing I’ve ever seen,” the powerfully built dwarf said, “and the bravest. You saved all our lives. What is your name, stranger?”

“Sorak. And thank you for throwing me the rope.”

The captain nodded. “I feared you were lost. We could not have turned around in time, and in truth, I must confess I would not have risked it.”

Sorak nodded. “I understand.”

The captain frowned. “Sorak. Are you by any chance the one they call the Nomad?”

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

“Then I have heard of you,” the captain said. I “And I would be pleased if you and your companion would dine with me tonight.”

“The pleasure would be ours,” said Sorak. “But I shall have to find a place to bathe first, and make myself presentable.”

“Then allow me to extend to you the hospitality of my humble home,” the dwarf replied. “Then I’ll treat you to the finest night of entertainment my village has to offer. Now please, sit down and rest. Give him room, the rest of you!”

Sorak gratefully sank to the deck and stretched out.

“Here, rest your head in my lap,” Ryana said, sitting down beside him.

“No,” said Sorak, shaking his head. “I am filthy, and I stink with giant’s blood.”

“Here, take this,” one of the mercenaries said, offering him a waterskin. “You can at least rinse off your hair and face.”

“My thanks,” said Sorak. He leaned over the side while the mercenary poured the water over his head and Ryana helped him scrub the filth off. A few moments later, he was relatively clean from the neck up.

“Are you injured?” the mercenary asked, looking him over.

“No, just a little tired,” Sorak said.

“You were lucky,” said the mercenary. “Either that or very skilled.” He smiled. “Which was it?”

“A bit of both, I think,” Sorak replied with a slight smile.

The mercenary grinned. He had perfect teeth, unusual for a man in his midthirties. The usual remedy for a toothache was to pull out the offending tooth and, if the patient could afford it—which most could not—replace it with an artificial one made of obsidian or silver. Most people took poor care of their teeth and suffered the consequences.

This man was an exception. His teeth and well-muscled physique showed he took good care of himself, and kept well groomed. His skin was clear and tanned, his shoulder-length blond hair clean and glossy, his face clean shaven. Few mercenaries bothered to take such scrupulous care of their appearance. He was a handsome man, and he knew it and took pride in his good looks.

Out of habit, Sorak glanced toward the man’s weapons. Two long, stiletto daggers were tucked into his belt, and he wore a heavy sword in an elegantly crafted and embossed leather scabbard. The crossguards were simple, straight, functional, and made of iron, as were the daggers. The hilts of all three weapons were wrapped with silver wire. Weapons made of iron were uncommon and expensive. This mercenary had not stinted on his equipment.

Neither had he stinted on his wardrobe. His feet were shod in well-made drakeskin boots cuffed at the knee, expensive not only because drakes were dangerous reptiles, but also because their hard black-and-red pebbled hide was extremely tough and difficult to work. A true craftsman had made those boots. The black-and-gray striped kirreskin breeches and the matching forearm bands were equally expensive, as was the mercenary’s sleeveless, laced-up tunic, made from the brown speckled hide of a cloud ray and studded with black onyx.

Everything the man wore was made from highly dangerous game. The only way he could afford such apparel on a mercenary’s salary was if he had provided the skins himself, and that spoke volumes about his prowess as a hunter.

“A bit ostentatious, perhaps,” said the mercenary, noting Sorak’s scrutiny, “but I find that flamboyance makes a strong impression. A poorly dressed mercenary is a poorly paid one. I am called Kieran.”

“Sorak.” They shook hands.

“I know. I heard you tell the captain. Apparently, your reputation precedes you. He seemed impressed when you gave him your name.”

Sorak shrugged uncomfortably. “Whatever reputation I may have is much exaggerated.”

Kieran smiled. “Oh, I doubt that, judging from the way you handled that giant.” He glanced toward Ryana.

“Oh, forgive me,” Sorak said. “This is Ryana.”

“It is an honor, priestess,” Kieran said, inclining his head respectfully. “The reputation of the villichi sisterhood is known far and wide.”

“You are most gracious,” said Ryana.

“Are you seeking employment in South Ledopolus?” Kieran asked Sorak.

“I have not yet decided,” Sorak replied.

“Ah, well in that case, perhaps I may tempt you with an offer. I am on my way to Altaruk, where I have accepted a post as the new captain of the guard for the merchant house of Jhamri. I could use a man of your abilities, and the merchant houses pay top wages, as you doubtless know.”

“Thank you, I shall consider it,” said Sorak.

“Take your time,” said Kieran. “The caravan of Jhamri is even now in South Ledopolus, but it is not scheduled to depart for another day or two, and you can leave word for me with the captain.”

“Thank you, I shall,” said Sorak.

Kieran nodded. “I will let you rest,” he said, then moved off to give them some privacy.

“Why did you agree to consider his offer?” asked Ryana. “We do not even know if we are going to Altaruk.”

“I did not wish to seem impolite, after his courtesy,” Sorak replied. “Besides, the merchant houses pay very well.”

“But we are not in need of money,” said Ryana, glancing at their packs sitting on the deck beside her.

“Yes, but it would not be wise to advertise that fact,” said Sorak.

She nodded. “I see your point. Good thinking.” She looked up toward the bow. “It seems we have a welcoming committee.”

The boat was pulling up to the dock at South Ledopolus, where an anxious crowd was waiting with torches, having seen the battle from the shore.

“Well, it seems your arrival in South Ledopolus is destined to cause quite a stir,” the ferry captain said, gazing at the crowd as they approached the dock. “By tomorrow morning, the whole village will have heard of your battle with the giant. It’s likely you won’t have to pay for any of your drinks during your stay.”

Sorak sighed wearily. “I was looking forward to a bath. The last thing I want now is to be peppered with questions.”

The captain grinned. “A lot of men in your position would relish the prospect of an audience eager to hear a tale of battle. But never fear, I will have one of my crew escort you to my house while I distract the crowd. Please make yourselves at home, and I will join you after I am finished here.”

“You are very kind,” said Sorak.

“Nonsense. You saved my boat. I am happy for the chance to show my appreciation. Make ready the bowlines!”

The lines were thrown out to waiting hands on the dock as the rowers stowed their oars and the boat drifted gently up against the moorings.

“This way,” said the captain’s mate, coming up beside them. “We will disembark from the stern while the others file down the gangplank. That way, we can lose ourselves quickly in the crowd and make our way into the village. I will take you to the captain’s house.”

“Thank you,” Sorak said, lifting his pack.

“No need,” the dwarf replied. “It is we who are in debt to you. Come, let’s go.”

As the crowd on the dock surged around the gangplank, anxious to hear firsthand reports of the battle, the mate jumped off the stern and landed lightly on the dock. Ryana followed, then Sorak, and they quickly made their way around the outer fringes of the crowd and down a narrow side street of the village.

It occurred to Sorak that he and Ryana were forever either sneaking out of a town or sneaking into one. This time, however, a welcome awaited them and there was no one on their trail. It made for a refreshing change. It would be nice if things remained that way for a while.

Perhaps that was too much to hope for.