The Outcast

11

The gatekeeper of the Crystal Spider greeted Sorak with a slight, respectful bow when he came in. The entire staff of the gaming house knew him now and treated him with friendliness and courtesy. Nevertheless, the attitude of the gatekeeper seemed different, more than courteous. He had never actually bowed to him before. Sorak ducked under briefly and allowed the Guardian to probe his mind.

“He knows” the Guardian said.

Sorak grimaced inwardly. The guards must have talked. That meant everybody on the staff probably knew by now. This nonsense about his being Alaron’s heir because he carried Galdra had to stop before it could spread any farther. They didn’t want a king, and he didn’t want to be a king—

“Someone is lurking in the shadows by that pagafa tree,” the Watcher said.

Sorak stopped. He was about halfway down the brick-paved path leading through the courtyard to the entrance of the gaming house. The path curved through a garden planted with desert shrubs and wildflowers. Several tall succulents with long spines stood like twisted giants in the courtyard, and small, night-blooming kanna trees swayed gently in the evening breeze, their fragrant white blossoms, closed during the day, now open to perfume the garden. Just in front of him was a small, artificial pool, with a footbridge running across it, and to the right of the footbridge stood a thick blue tree, its branches spreading out to shade the path. As Sorak watched, a cloaked and hooded figure stepped out from behind the trunk of the tree and stood on the path before him.

“Greetings, Sorak,” said the stranger. The voice was male. Resonant and deep. It was a mature voice, relaxed, confident. “You have had a busy night.”

“Who are you?” Sorak asked, remaining where he was. He ducked under so that the Guardian could probe the stranger.

“I fear that will not avail you,” the stranger said. “I am warded against psionic probes.”

“He is telling the truth,” the Guardian replied. “I cannot detect his thoughts.” Sorak glanced back toward the gate. “The gatekeeper can neither see nor hear us,” said the stranger, as if reading his thoughts, though he obviously only interpreted his backward glance. “What have you done to him?” asked Sorak. “Nothing,” said the stranger. “I have merely created a temporary veil around us, so that we may speak undisturbed.”

“A veil?” said Sorak. “As in the Veiled Alliance?”

“May I approach?”

Sorak nodded, but kept his hand near his sword, just in case.

“You have nothing to fear from me,” the stranger said. “Unless, of course, you come as an enemy of the Alliance.”

“I come as a friend.” The stranger came closer. “We have been watching you,” he said. Sorak could see that the lower part of his face, beneath his hood, was veiled. “There is little that happens in the city that we do not know about. You have been anxious to make contact with the Alliance. Why?”

“I need to speak with your leaders.”

“Indeed,” the stranger said, “there are many who would like to do so. What makes you different from all the others?”

“I was raised in the villichi convent. I am sworn to follow the Way of the Druid and the Path of the Preserver.”

“The villichi are a female sect. There are no male villichi.”

“I did not say I was villichi, merely that I lived among them and was trained by them.”

“Why would they accept a male among them? That is not their way.”

“Because I possess psionic abilities, and because I was cast out by my tribe and left to die in the desert. A pyreen elder found me and took me to the convent. I was accepted there at her request.”

“A pyreen elder, you say? What was this elder’s name?”

“Lyra Al’Kali.”

The stranger nodded. “The name is known to me. She is one of the oldest of the peace-bringers. And the wishes of a pyreen elder would carry considerable weight with the villichi. Perhaps you are telling me the truth. But you still have not told me why you wish to see our leaders.”

“I seek information that will aid me in my quest to find the Sage,” said Sorak.

“You have set yourself quite a task,” the stranger said. “Many have tried to find the Sage. All have failed. What makes you think you will succeed?”

“Because I must”

“Why?”

“Elder Al’Kali told me that only the Sage could help me learn the truth about my origins. I have no memory of my early childhood, nor of my parents. I do not know where I came from, or what became of them. I do not even know who I truly am.”

“And you believe the Sage can help you learn these things? That is all you wish from him?”

“I also wish to serve him,” Sorak said. “I believe that in doing so, I may find the purpose that has been lacking in my life.”

“I see.”

“Can you help me?”

“No. I do not possess the information that you seek. Nor would I give it so easily if I did. However, there are those among us who may be able to help you, but you will first have to prove yourself.”

“How can I do that?”

“We shall let you know. We had thought you might be an agent of the templars until they tried to have you killed tonight.”

“Then it was the templars,” Sorak said. “The men they sent against you were the very spies from Nibenay whom you exposed to the council.”

Sorak frowned. “The marauders?” He might have recognized them from the images he had picked up from Digon’s mind except that it had been dark, and there had not been much left to recognize after the Shade got through with them.

“One of them ran away,” the stranger said. “And you were followed coming back here.”

“I was followed?”

“You did not see the beggar trailing you at some distance?”

“No,” Sorak admitted. “I was preoccupied.”

“The beggar was a templar,” said the stranger. “They have been watching you ever since you appeared before the council. When the templars are on your trail, it is a wise thing to watch your back.”

I am grateful for the warning,” Sorak said.

The stranger nodded. “We will speak again,” he said.

“How shall I get in touch with you?” asked Sorak.

“When the time is right, we shall contact you,” the stranger said.

“Why do the templars wish me dead?” asked Sorak.

“I cannot say,” the stranger replied, “unless, perhaps, you have told them of your quest to find the Sage.”

“I have told only two people,” Sorak replied, “Krysta and Councilman Rikus.”

“Rikus has no love for the templars,” said the stranger. “He would have no reason to tell them anything. Krysta looks to her own interests first and foremost, but she has wealth enough not to be tempted by any reward the templars might offer for information about you. She also has a strong allegiance to Rikus and would not go against his wishes. Unless you have reason to believe otherwise.”

“Krysta would not betray me to the templars,” Sorak said.

“Then I cannot account for why they would want you dead,” the stranger said. “They clearly perceive you as a threat, but I cannot say why. However, I shall endeavor to discover their motives. The enemy of our enemy is our friend. Sometimes.”

“And is this one of those times?”

“Perhaps,” the stranger said. “In Kalak’s time, alignments were much more clear. These days, however, things are not simple. We shall speak again.”

The stranger passed him and went back toward the gate. Sorak watched him go, then turned back toward the entrance to the gaming house. It occurred to him that he should probably thank the man, and he pivoted about to do so, but the path leading back to the gate was suddenly deserted. The stranger had moved quickly. He ran back toward the gate, hoping to catch him.

“The man who just passed by here,” Sorak said to the gatekeeper. “Which way did he go?” The gatekeeper frowned. “What man?”

“The man in the hooded cloak. He passed by you not a moment ago.”

The gatekeeper shook his head. “You are mistaken,” he said. “No one has passed by here since you came through the gate.”

“But he had to have gone past you!” Sorak said. “There is no other way out!”

The puzzled gatekeeper shook his head. “I have not left my post, and no one has passed this way since you came through the gate,” he insisted.

“I see,” said Sorak slowly. “Well, never mind. I must have been mistaken.”

He turned back toward the entrance. Magic, he thought, with a certain amount of trepidation. He knew very little of magic. He had a feeling that his education was about to begin.

Timor glared at the templar who stood, trembling, before him. “You mean to tell me that five men, all expert murderers, were unable to dispose of one miserable, half-breed peasant?”

“He is no mere peasant, my lord,” the templar replied, biting his lower lip in his anxiety. He fervently hoped that Timor would not blame the failure of the brigands on him. “I, myself, saw him cut down two of the marauders with such speed and ferocity that it was breathtaking. Only Rokan escaped him alive. He ran, like a coward.”

“That makes three,” said Timor. “What of the other two?”

“I found their bodies in the alley where they had hidden, waiting to ambush the elfling. One had been beheaded, and the other killed with a single sword thrust through the heart.”

Timor frowned. “But you told me that you saw the elfling come of out the wineshop and walk up the street, as if he were unaware of any ambush.”

“That is true, my lord.”

“Then who killed the two men in the alley?” The templar looked puzzled. “I... I do not know, my lord. I had assumed the elfling had...”

“How could the elfling have done it if he was in your sight from the time he left the wineshop to the moment he was attacked in the street? When could he have disposed of the two in the alley?”

The templar shook his head. “I do not know, my lord. Perhaps he suspected somehow that the ambush would take place and left the wineshop by the back door, then came up behind the two marauders in the alley and surprised them.”

“Then why would he return to the wineshop and come out the front door again? Why invite the ambush?” Timor frowned. “No, it does not make any sense. If you are telling me the truth—”

“I am, my lord, I swear it!”

“Then someone else killed those two men in the alley,” Timor said. “It is the only possible explanation. It seems the elfling has a guardian. Perhaps more than one.”

“I cannot see why he would require one,” the templar said. “The way he handled that sword of his, and the way the other blades broke upon it...”

“What?” said Timor.

“I said, the way he handled that sword of his—”

“No, no... you said the other blades broke upon his sword?”

“Yes, my lord. They simply shattered when they struck the elfling’s blade.”

“What do you mean, they shattered? They were iron blades! I saw to it personally that Rokan and his men were equipped with them.”

“Nevertheless, my lord, they shattered. Perhaps there was some flaw in their construction—”

“Nonsense,” Timor said. “In one blade, perhaps, but surely not in both. Besides, even if there were a flaw, the blade would crack and break, not shatter. You are certain that they shattered?”

“They burst apart as if they had been made of glass,” the templar said.

Timor turned away and stared out the window, deep in thought. “Then the elfling’s blade must be enchanted,” he said. “There was a report from one of my informers concerning how the elfling killed a man in the Crystal Spider. That report, too, spoke of his antagonist’s blade shattering against his own, but it could have been obsidian, and obsidian will shatter on a well-made metal blade. There was also something about his cleaving an entire table in two, and turning the man’s own knife against him... obvious exaggerations. Or at least, so I thought at the time.”

“I know what I saw, my lord,” the templar said. “The elfling is a highly skilled and dangerous fighter. I will wager that he is the match of any gladiator in the city.”

Timor rubbed his chin absently. “It seems to me I heard something once, many years ago, about a sword against which other blades would shatter... a very special sword.” He grimaced. “I cannot recall it now. But it will come to me.” He turned back to face his minion. “At the very least, this is clear proof that the elfling is not the simple herdsman that he claims to be. And proof that, whatever he is up to, he is not working alone. I cannot proceed with my plans until I am certain they have not been compromised. And time is growing short. I do not trust Rikus and that damned sorceress. They are up to something, I am sure of it, and this elfling is involved somehow.”

“What do you wish me to do, my lord?” the templar asked.

“Resume watch on the elfling for the time being,” Timor replied, and the templar sighed with relief that he was apparently not going to be blamed for the failure of the ambush. “Keep me advised of every move he makes. I will let you know if I have any further instructions.”

The templar bowed and gratefully withdrew, leaving Timor alone in his chambers.

That wineshop is a known contact point for members of the Veiled Alliance, Timor thought, considering this new information. And the elfling carries an enchanted blade. It all seemed much too convenient for coincidence. He was involved with them, with the Alliance, without a doubt. And he had met secretly with Rikus. What did it all mean?

Qearly, it was a plot of some sort. Sadira had to be behind it. Rikus was her confidant, just as Kor was his. Was it possible that Sadira was a secret member of the Veiled Alliance? But, no, he thought. She had once been a defiler, and even if she had forsworn defiler magic and repented of it, the fact that she had once defiled would be enough to prevent the Alliance from accepting her. Still, that did not necessarily mean they could not work hand in glove, to the advantage of both parties. What would be served? What could both Sadira and the Veiled Alliance want?

Obviously, the destruction of the templars. Just as Timor himself wanted more than anything to wipe out the Veiled Affiance as the sole threat to his power, so would the Alliance look upon the templars. To the Alliance, the templars would always be enemies. They would always be Kalak’s enforcers. He could work to change the image of the templars in the minds of Tyr’s citizenry, but the Alliance would always remain firm in its relentless opposition. And the only other threat he had to face, the only other power in the council, was Sadira. Without her and that mongrel gladiator, he would be in complete control. The rest of the advisors were nothing more than saplings that bent with the prevailing wind.

Yes, he thought, Sadira had to see that, too. She was no fool. He would not make the mistake of underestimating her. She had brought down Kalak, after all. There was a great deal more to that pretty wench than met the eye, though what met the eye was pleasing. Under the right circumstances, with her made properly pliable... but no. He pushed the thought from his mind. Better to have her safely dead, but in such a manner as no blame could befall the templars. And she, of course, was most likely thinking the selfsame thing about him at this very moment.

She cannot move against me openly, thought Timor, so she has found herself this elfling as a cat’s-paw. He was to approach the Alliance where she could not. What was he? Where had she met him? What had she promised him in return for his mercenary services? Was it possible that he could be bought off? No, Timor thought, the time to have tried that would have been before the attempt on his life was made. Now it was too late for such measures of expediency. Now the only thing to do would be to finish the job Rokan had bungled.

The corners of his mouth turned down as he thought of that traitorous brigand. He was not through with Rokan yet, not by any means. By now, the marauder could be halfway across the desert, only he wouldn’t do that. He might flee from a battle he knew he could not win, but he would not give up the war. Not that one. Besides, there was still the matter of his face. Timor smiled. Rokan would remain, so long as there was the promise that he might be healed. And if that promise were not kept, then Rokan would do everything in his power to kill him. Oh yes, Timor knew his man. Rokan was a man he could understand. And he could still be useful, but as to what extent, well... that depended to a large degree on Rokan.

For the present, Timor had to concern himself with the one wild card in the game—the elfling, Sorak. He did not know to what extent the elfling might upset his plans, but he had no intention of taking any chances. He had sent five well-armed and dangerous men to kill the elfling, and they had failed. If you want a job done properly, he thought, do it yourself. He pulled out a key he wore around his neck, then went over to a small, wooden chest he kept on the sideboard. He unlocked the chest and opened it. Within it, on a bed of black velvet, lay his spellbook. He tucked the spellbook within the folds of his tunic and put on his cloak. It was late, but the night was not yet over, and he had much to do before the dawn.

Rokan winced as the healer gently probed the wound around the crossbow bolt. “Stop messing about and pull the blasted thing out!” he said, gritting his teeth.

“Bad enough you woke me in the middle of the night and threatened to slit my throat if I did not see to your wound,” the healer said wryly. “I have already gathered that I am not going to be paid for this. I do not need the added burden of your body to dispose of. That bolt may be the only thing holding a blood vessel together. If I were to simply yank it out without a careful examination, you could start leaking like a sieve.”

“You talk too much,” Rokan muttered sullenly. “Be on about your business.”

“I will if you stop squirming. Now sit still.”

Rokan scowled, but complied.

“What happened to your face?” the healer asked as he continued to examine the wound.

“It was burned away. Can you restore it?”

“I have not that sort of skill. The old templars had that level of power, but not me.”

“Never mind my face and see to my shoulder. Or is that beyond you, too?”

“Hold still,” the healer said.

He took hold of the crossbow bolt and pulled.

Rokan cried out with pain and grabbed the arms of his chair with all his might. The healer pulled the arrow free and held it up. “There,” he said. “Did that hurt much?”

“Yes, damn you!”

“Good. You are a lucky man. It could have been much worse. Some healing salve and a bandage to cover the wound and you should recover completely. That is, of course, unless someone shoots you again. And I can’t imagine why anyone would want to do that to such a pleasant fellow as you.”

Rokan grimaced. “I can do without your witticisms,” he said. “Maybe this will dull your humor.” He tossed a silver coin to the healer.

The man caught it, glanced at it with surprise, and grunted. “Well... consider me the soul of humorlessness. This is rather more than I expected.”

“It is meant to buy your silence, as well.”

“This is the elven market, my irksome friend,” the healer said dryly. “I see similar injuries, and worse, every day. Discretion comes with the treatment, else I would not stay in business long.”

Rokan winced as the healer applied the salve to the wound. “Pah! It smells worse than kank dung!”

“It’s nothing compared to what your wound would smell like in a few days if I did not apply the salve,” the healer replied. “I will give you some to take with you. Bathe the wound and apply some every day, as I am doing now, and change the bandage before it becomes dirty. If you have any difficulties, come and see me. Or, better yet, go threaten someone else in the middle of the night. There, that should do it.”

Rokan glanced down at the bandage and tentatively moved his arm and shoulder.

“Are you left-handed?” asked the healer.

“No, right.”

“Good. If you must kill someone, use your right arm. Try not to move the left too much.”

“I am grateful to you, healer,” Rokan said. The healer shrugged. “I am grateful to be paid, and so generously, to boot. It makes me not mind losing my sleep so much.”

“There are more coins where that one came from,” Rokan said.

“Are there, indeed? And what dastardly thing would I have to do to earn them?”

“What do you know of poisons?” Rokan asked. “A man in my profession, in this neighborhood? A good deal. But I will not supply you with any poison to kill someone. I am a healer, after all.”

“Fair enough, I ask only for the knowledge. I can obtain the poison elsewhere.”

“In the elven market, you could obtain it on almost any street corner,” said the healer dryly. “As for the knowledge you require, that should be worth at least another silver coin.”

“Done.”

“Hmm. I should have asked for two. What purpose do you want this poison to serve?”

“I want something I can smear upon a crossbow bolt, like this one,” Rokan said, picking up the bloody arrow the healer had pulled out of his shoulder. “And it should be strong, strong enough to drop a kank in its tracks.”

“I see,” the healer said. “I am no expert on poisons, but I knew a bard who taught me a little. I would recommend the venom from a crystal spider. It is thick enough to smear upon an arrow, though I would not do it with my fingers, and it paralyzes at once. Death follows in moments.”

“Venom from a crystal spider.” Rokan said with a smile that gave his ravaged face a hideous expression. “How very fitting.” He tossed another silver coin to the healer. “You can go back to sleep now.”

Timor rode the kank through the Grand Gate and disappeared out into the darkness beyond the city walls. The guards on duty at the gate passed him through without remarking on his leaving the city at such an unusual hour. It was not their place to question a templar, much less the senior templar himself, and if they wondered what errand he was on in the middle of the night, they kept it to themselves.

With his cloak wrapped around him against the night chill, Timor turned the kank and followed the outer city wall, going past the king’s gardens and the templars’ quarter, past the stadium and Kalak’s ziggurat, toward the brickyards and the old slave pens, now standing empty. He turned east, away from the city wall, and followed a dirt road for several miles beyond the work farms until the road began to rise, leading up into the foothills.

The road did not continue up into the mountains. It stopped at their base, at a wide plateau that spread out beneath the foothills. During the day, hardly anyone ever came here. At night, the place was always deserted. The only sounds were the whistling of the wind blowing over the desert and the scrabbling of the giant kank beetle’s claws on the hard-packed soil. Timor tapped the beast’s antennae with a switch and got down from its back. He dropped the switch and then tied the creature’s leads to a rock outcropping. The kank simply stood there, docile, its huge pincers opening and closing as it scanned the ground around it for some food.

Timor gazed out at the deserted cemetery. This was where Tyr buried its dead, in simple, mounded graves marked by nothing other than red clay tablets with the names of the deceased incised upon them. The heaped dirt mounds stretched out across the wide plateau and up the hillside. A cool dust cloud, making ghostly undulations in the night breeze, obscured many of them from view.

Timor found a small, rocky knoll and climbed up on it. He pulled back the hood of his cloak and took out his spellbook. If he could not find living men to do the job of killing the elfling, then he would raise the dead to do it. He looked around cautiously. He had no reason to expect anyone to be out here at such an hour, but it would hardly do for him to be seen not only practicing defiler magic, but defiling graves, as well. Only the guards at the Grand Gate had seen him leave the city, and he would place them under a spell of forgetfulness when he returned, thereby ensuring that his part in this would remain unknown. The dead would not talk.

He opened the spellbook to the correct page and quickly reviewed its patterns. Then, lifting his eyes to the sky, he began to intone the words of the spell in a sonorous, chanting tone. The wind picked up, and there was the distant boom of thunder in reaction to the disturbance in the ether. The dust cloud upon the ground began to swirl, as if agitated by a current underneath it.

The kank raised its chitinous head and swiveled its antennae curiously in reaction to the strange vibrations that suddenly permeated the air. The wind picked up. It plucked at Timor’s cloak, causing it to flap around him, and as it grew stronger, it blew the cloak out behind him like a cape. Thunder rolled. Sheet lightning flashed across the sky. There was a smell of ozone in the air... and something else, the rising, heavy stench of sulphur. The dust cloud upon the ground, in contravention of all logic, common sense, and natural law, started to grow thicker, despite the strong wind that should have dissipated it.

Timor raised his right hand high over his head as though drawing power from the heavens, then he slowly brought his hand down as an aura of crackling blue energy played around his fingers. He aimed his outstretched arm, with hand held so that the palm was facedown, fingers splayed, toward the ground around him. His voice rose, the wind increased, and the aura of energy that crackled around his outstretched fingers grew alternately brighter and dimmer. The power began to pulsate with regularity, each succeeding pulse growing brighter than the one before, each drawing more life out of the vegetation all around him.

The waving, brown desert grasses that had grown up on and around the mounds and all across the plateau turned black and shriveled into compost The wildflowers that grew on the hillsides and gave a beautiful array of bright colors to this barren world withered and died as the life was leeched from them.

Timor trembled as the energy he robbed from the vegetation around him flowed into his outstretched hand and spread throughout his entire body. He felt exhilarated, vibrant with power. The lifeforce of the plants infused him, sluiced through him, filled him with a warmth and vitality that was addicting. He wanted more. He wanted it never to stop.

The desert succulents, the long-spined cacti that stood four times as tall as a man and took at least two centuries to reach full maturity, softened and became flaccid, flopping over onto the ground with loud thuds and decomposing in a matter of seconds. The jade bushes drooped and shed their fleshy, paddle-shaped leaves as they turned first brown, then black, then crumpled to the ground like bits of ash. The blue pagafa trees growing on the slopes, their thick, dense trunks and branches almost as hard as rock, dropped their tiny, blue-green leaves and began to split as the moisture was drained out of them. With loud, popping cracks, they splintered and fell, as if struck by invisible bolts of lightning. In a wide swath all around the templar, everything withered and died and decomposed, leaving behind a desolation even more barren than the sandy washes of the tablelands.

Timor gave no thought whatever to the wanton destruction that he caused. He was focused solely on the sheer, lustful pleasure of feeling all that warm, life-giving energy surging through his being. This was the lure of true sorcery, he thought, the heady rush of sensual power that the preservers, with their pathetic, weak philosophy, would never understand. This was what it meant to truly feel alive!

It was a pleasure that could only dimly be perceived in the consumption of an excellent meal prepared by the finest cooks, or in the exquisite release of sexual fulfillment. This was the full measure of the satisfaction that could be found in the complete satiation of the senses. It was the ultimate indulgence, the intoxication that only a true mage could ever know. It was what drove the sorcerer-kings to follow the painful route of metamorphosis that would turn them into dragons, whose capacity for power was greater because their hunger and their need for it was also greater. He wanted it never to end.

But it had to end. He was not yet king, and there was only so much energy he could contain. When he felt that he could absorb no more, he stopped and simply stood there for a long moment, wanting to stretch it out, vibrating with the force that filled him, his muscles spasming so hard he thought his bones would break. Every nerve fiber in his body sang with an exquisite pain. His lips were drawn back from his gums, his features twisted in ecstasy as he stood with his head thrown back, gasping for breath and trembling. Not yet, not yet—he thought—make it last! Hold onto it for just a little while more...

And then when he could not bear it any longer, he had to release it all or risk being consumed by it. With an effort, he brought his gaze back down to his spellbook. His hand was shaking so hard that he could barely hold it still. He reviewing the last words of the spell, he closed his eyes, finished the incantation, and released the power.

The power surged through his outstretched arm and burst from his fingers in sheets of blue flame. It struck the ground and made fissures in the earth that spread out like a fine network of veins and capillaries all through the cemetery. Timor’s breath whooshed out of him and everything started spinning around him as he teetered on the edge of consciousness. It was like the most profound sexual release, only magnified a hundredfold. It left him feeling utterly drained as he collapsed to his knees and gulped in great lungfuls of air. His fingers dug at the barren ground, as if he were trying to grab onto the earth to keep from floating away. His chest rose and fell as he tried to breathe, and for a while, it was all he could do to simply manage that.

Slowly, his strength returned to him, but it was still a paltry feeling compared to the sheer force that had surged through him moments earlier. As he gradually recovered, he regained his normal state, a feeble state compared to what he had just experienced. He felt let down, crushingly disappointed. He felt cheated. This was not life. What he had felt when all that energy surged through him, that was living! But it had been so brief a taste...

He forced himself to his feet. Control, he thought. For a wizard, self-control was everything. He did not dare try it again so soon. He would not survive it. Nor would he survive if he remained here much longer. He stood, breathing heavily. The spell was nearly finished, now it had to be directed. He visualized the elfling in his mind as he spoke the words that would command the spell to work his will. He had waited almost too long. Even as he finished saying the words/the ground around the grave mounds began to crack and buckle.

He picked up his spellbook and hurried back to where he had left the kank tied up. The beast had frayed the rope, it had pulled frantically to break free during the height of the spell. Fortunately, kanks were stupid insects, for it could easily have cut the rope with its pincers had it the intelligence to do so. He untied the kank and mounted, then urged the beast back down the hill on the road leading to the city. The antlike creature needed little prodding. As it started down the slope, the first of the grave mounds burst open, and a bony hand covered with strips of rank, decomposing flesh appeared, clawing its way out.