The Seeker

2

As the sun sank slowly in the sky, it cast a surreal light over the desert, flooding it with an amber-orange glow. The flame-colored Athasian sky took on a blood-red tint after nightfall, gradually fading to dark crimson as the twin moons, Ral and Guthay, began their pilgrimage across the heavens. Sorak and Ryana made camp beneath an ancient pagafa tree, its three gnarled, blue-green trunks spreading out from its base and branching off into twisted, leafless boughs.

As the light faded, they broke off some of the smaller branches in order to build a fire. The sparse, dry desert grass they had uprooted easily caught fire from the sparks of their fire stones, and soon a small blaze was crackling in the shallow depression they had hollowed out for the fire pit.

Ryana drank sparely from her water skin, despite her thirst. The long trek had left her feeling very dry, but the water had to last until they reached the oasis at Silver Spring, which was still at least another day’s journey to the east. Sorak took only a few drops from his own water skin, and it seemed to be enough for him. Ryana envied him his elfling ability to get by on less water. She thought wistfully of the stream near the convent, where water flowed down from the mountain peaks and cascaded over the rocks in the streambed. It was fresh and cold and good to drink, and she thought longingly of all the times she and her sisters would run down to the lagoon following weapons practice, strip down, and frolic in the bracing pool. She had taken it for granted then, and now it seemed like an incredible luxury to be able to bathe every day and drink her fill.

At such times, Sorak had always wandered away from the others, going farther downstream along the riverbank to where the water flowed over large, flat boulders in the middle of the streambed. He would take his accustomed place upon the largest rock and sit cross-legged in the water that flowed around him, his back to the others at the lagoon, a short distance upstream. The sound of the water would drown out all but the occasional playful cries made by the sisters as they played in the lagoon, and he would sit alone, staring out into the distance or down into the water on the smaller rocks below. Ryana had learned not to accompany him at such times, for he often seemed to have a need to be alone. Alone to sit and brood.

In the beginning, when they had been small children, he used to join the sisters at their play in the lagoon, but as they grew older, he took to going off by himself. Ryana used to wonder if it was because his growing awareness of his male nature made it awk-ward for him to frolic naked with the others.

As she grew and started to become more aware of her own female sexuality, she would often glance at the bodies of the other sisters and compare them to her own, which had always seemed inadequate. The others were all taller than she, and more slender, with longer and more sinewy limbs and graceful necks. They seemed so beautiful. Compared to them, her own proportions seemed squat and unattractive. Her breasts and hips were larger, her torso was shorter, her legs, though long by human standards, seemed too short compared to theirs. And their hair seemed much more beautiful than hers. Most villichi were bom with thick, red hair, either flame-colored or dark red with brighter highlights.

Her own silvery white hair seemed drab and lusterless by comparison.

She would look at the other sisters and wonder if Sorak found them as beautiful as she did. Perhaps, she thought, he had taken to absenting himself from their frolics because his male nature was making him become aware of them in the same manner as her own maturing female nature was making her become aware of him.

Of course, she had not known then that Sorak’s nature was a great deal more complex than that. She had not known that several of his personalities were female. She knew now that when he had gone off to brood by himself, he had been preoccupied with matters not of the flesh, but of the self. More and more, as he grew older, he had been plagued by questions to which he had no answers. Who was he? What was his tribe? Who were his parents? How did he come to be?

His pressing need to learn the answers to those questions was what had driven him to leave the convent and embark upon his quest to find the Sage. But who was to say how long this quest would take? Athas was a large world with many secret places, and the Sage could be almost anywhere. For years, longer than they both had been alive, the defilers had also sought the Sage with no success, and they had their powerful defiler magic to aid them in their search. Without magic, could they be more successful?

“I cannot banish from my mind the thought that there is something more to The Wanderer’s Journal than merely advice for travelers,” said Sorak as he sat cross-legged on the ground by the fire. The flames gave forth scarcely enough light to read by, but with his elfling eyes, Sorak had no difficulty making out the words. “Listen to this,” he said, as he started reading a section of the journal out loud.

Ryana shook her head. “If there is some hidden meaning in those words, it is not one I can discern,” she said.

“Perhaps the meaning is not really hidden so much as it is implied,” said Sorak. “Consider what the Wanderer has said here. On the surface, it merely sounds as if he is writing about clerical magic, describing what exists. In this section of the journal, for the most part, he describes what everyone already knows. What would seem to be the necessity for that? Unless he were also saying something else, something that was not quite so readily apparent.”

“Such as what?” Ryana asked.

“He mentions the four elemental forces—air, earth, fire, and water,” Sorak said. “Well, this is something every child knows, but then he goes on to say that the latter are perhaps the most influential on our thirsty world.”

“Well, that makes perfect sense,” Ryana said. “Water would naturally be the most important element on a dry world such as ours.”

“But he does not say ‘the latter is;’ he says ‘the latter are,’ ” said Sorak. “That means the latter two he mentions, water and fire.”

Ryana frowned. “So? Fire is important, too.”

“But why?” asked Sorak. “Aside from the obvious reasons, of course, that it provides heat and light, and energy to cook with. We can readily perceive how water might be more important than air and earth, but why fire? Besides, he does not really say that fire and water are more important. He says they are more influential.”

“I still do not understand,” Ryana said, looking perplexed. “What is it you see in those words that f do not?”

“Perhaps I am merely reading something into them that is not really there,” Sorak replied. “However, I suspect that is not the case. Consider: he addresses himself here to the subject of clerical magic. He also mentions druids. Well, we are both trained in the Druid Way, and we both know that in terms of clerical magic the elements of air and earth are much more significant than fire. Plants require air and earth to grow—and water, of course—but they do not require fire. Quite the opposite. Fire is the enemy of growing things. And clerical magic, especially druid magic, is not chiefly obtained from fire. It draws more on the earth.”

“That is true,” Ryana said.

“So why, in a section of the journal devoted to describing clerical magic, would he say that fire was more influential than both earth and air? It may be more influential in the lives of people, certainly, but not in clerical magic. There are far more clerics who pay homage to the elemental forces of air and earth than to fire.”

“Yet there are some who do,” Ryana said. “Especially among the dwarves.”

“But do they devote themselves to fire, or to the sun?” asked Sorak.

“Well, to the sun,” Ryana said with a shrug. “But that is the same thing, is it not?”

“Is it?” Sorak said. “Then why does he not say so? Even if it were, there are far fewer sun clerics than there are those who devote themselves to air and earth. The greatest number devote themselves to earth, and then to air. But in this section about magic, where he speaks of druids in particular, he also speaks of fire as being more influential than either earth or air. Or, at least, that is what he seems to say here. And no druid devotes himself to fire.”

“No druid devotes himself to any one elemental force,” Ryana said. “He says as much.”

“Yes, he does, indeed,” said Sorak. “So why, then, does he seem to say that fire and water are more influential than earth and air in terms of clerical magic?”

Ryana shook her head. “I do not know.”

“Consider this, too,” Sorak said. “He goes on to say that sorcerer-kings are glorified as if they were immortal beings.”

“Well, they are immortal,” said Ryana. “Their defiler magic makes them so, especially once they have begun the dragon metamorphosis.”

“But he does not say they are immortal,” Sorak insisted. “He says that they are glorified as if they were immortal. He is telling us that they are not immortal, that while they may live forever through the power of their magic, they can still be killed.

“And then consider carefully the words he chooses when he writes the following: “‘... many such rulers are actually able to bestow spellcasting abilities upon the templars who serve them. Are they truly on a par with the elemental forces worshipped by the clerics? I think not.’ On the surface, it seems as if the Wanderer is saying here that sorcerer-kings are not as powerful as the elemental forces worshipped by the clerics. Or perhaps he means that their templars are not as powerful. But, of course, everyone knows that. Whether templar or sorcerer-king, no one is more powerful than an elemental force. So why bother to say it?”

“But you think that is not what he is saying?” asked Ryana.

Sorak passed the journal to her. “Read it carefully,” he said.

She strained her eyes to see the pages in the firelight. She read the passage once, then twice, then a third time. The fourth time, she slowly read it aloud. “‘In fact, many such rulers are actually able to bestow spellcasting abilities upon the templars who serve them. Are they truly on a par with the elemental forces worshipped by the clerics?’ ”

“Stop there,” said Sorak. “Now look at that last sentence once again. When he uses the word ‘they,’ to whom does he refer? Or, more specifically, to what?”

“To what?” she repeated with a frown. And then comprehension dawned. “Ahh! To what, not to whom! It refers not to the templars, but to the spellcasting abilities bestowed upon them!”

“Exactly,” said Sorak. “The way it is written, the meaning could be taken either way, but if he means the rulers are not on a par with the elemental forces, then he merely states the obvious, for the sorcerer-kings use those elemental forces for their power, as does any other adept. Read the other way, however, it appears to suggest that elemental forces may be used to defeat the powers bestowed upon the templars, and in particular, the Wanderer is drawing our attention to the element of fire. He cites the influence of water on our thirsty world merely to help conceal his meaning.”

“But are you certain that is what he means?” Ryana asked.

“The more I think about it, the more certain of it I become,” said Sorak. “Think back to our weapons training at the convent. Do you recall how tiresome it seemed in the beginning and how pointless to practice the forms over and over and over again, to constantly go through the same series of movements?”

Ryana grinned. “Yes, we were all so very eager to actually fight with one another.”

“But now we know that ceaseless practice of the forms ingrained those movements in our minds and bodies so that when it came to fighting, they were done by reflex and executed perfectly, with no thought to the execution. When Sister Dyona gave me this journal, she inscribed it with the words, ‘A more subtle weapon than your sword, but no less powerful, in its own way’ And now I think I finally understand. The Wanderer’s journal is, in its own way, much like a weapons form. To simply read it through once or twice is to become familiar with the basic movements. But to read it through continually, over and over again, is to achieve refinement and perceive its structure, to realize its true content. It is a guide, Ryana, and a most subversive one. On its surface, it is a guide to Athas, but in its deeper meaning, it is a guide to the struggle against the defilers. Small wonder its distribution has been banned, and the sorcerer-kings have placed a bounty on the Wanderer’s head, whoever he may be.”

“Do you think he is still alive?” Ryana asked.

“Perhaps not. The journal first appeared many years ago; no one seems to be sure exactly when or how. It is painstakingly copied and secretly distributed by the Veiled Alliance. The Wanderer was clearly a preserver, perhaps a high-ranking member of the Alliance.”

“I wonder if we shall ever know,” Ryana said, feeding more wood into the fire. The pagafa wood burned slowly and gave a welcome warmth against the night chill. In the distance, some creature howled. The sound sent a shiver down Ryana’s spine.

“You look tired,” Sorak said. “You should eat something. You will need your strength tomorrow. We still have a long way to go.”

She opened her rucksack and took out her pouch of rations: pine nuts from the forests of the Ringing Mountains, kory seeds, the chewy and succulent leaves from the lotus mint, and sweet, dried fruit from the jumbala tree. She offered him the pouch, but he shook his head.

“You eat,” he said. “I am not hungry now.”

She knew that meant he would eat later, when the Ranger went out to make a kill, and so she did not press him.

“I will sleep for a short while now,” Sorak said, “and then keep watch so you may rest.” He lowered his head and closed his eyes, and an instant later, the Ranger opened them and stood, sniffing the air. Wordlessly, he turned and walked out into the moonlit night, moving without making the slightest sound. Moments later, he had disappeared from sight.

Ryana was left alone, sitting by the fire. With Sorak gone, she suddenly felt more vulnerable and exposed. Ral and Guthay cast a ghostly light down on the desert out beyond the firelight, and the shadows seemed to move. A cool breeze blew. The silence was only occasionally punctuated by the distant cry of some wild beast. She had no idea how close the creatures that she heard might be. Sound in the desert carried a long way.

She sighed and munched on her provisions. She ate very sparingly, though she felt quite hungry. The food would have to last her a long while, for there was no way to know what they might find on their trek or at the oasis to supplement their supplies. Perhaps, she thought, it might become necessary for her to eat meat. The corners of her mouth turned down at the thought. It was a possibility she had to seriously consider, however. She was not a priestess anymore. Or was she? Strictly speaking, she had violated her vows by leaving the convent, but that did not make her cease being villichi. And nothing she believed had really changed.

Was she no longer part of the sisterhood? She had never heard of a villichi being expelled. What would Varanna say?

How would her sisters react? What had they thought when they learned that she had run away? Did they think less of her, or would they try to understand? She missed them all. She missed the companionship and the comforting routine of life back at the convent. It had been a good life. Could she ever go back to it? Would she want to go back to it?

She had no thought of leaving Sorak, but with the Ranger out hunting somewhere in the night, she felt suddenly very much alone and lost, even though she knew that he would soon return. But what if he did not return? What if something happened to him? There were many things that could happen to a traveler alone out in the desert, especially at night, and none of them were pleasant to contemplate. Sorak was an elfling, and even though he had grown up in the forests of the Ringing Mountains, he was naturally suited to this savage country. Still, he was not invulnerable.

She pushed the thought from her mind. The dangers of the desert were not the only perils they would face upon their journey. If their experience in Tyr was anything to judge by, they would face far greater dangers in the cities—in Nibenay and wherever the road would lead them from there. It was pointless to dwell upon such things. She tried to still herself into a calm, meditative state, quiet and yet still alert to everything around her, just as she had been trained. She felt very tired and was looking forward to when the Ranger would return from his hunt, so she could get some sleep.

Try not think about sleep, she told herself. Relax and find the center of your being. Be still and open your senses to everything around you. Become a part of the cool stillness of the desert night. There were many ways to rest, she thought, and sleep was merely one of them. No, do not think about sleep.

She opened her eyes suddenly, startled into wakefulness. It seemed as if no more than a moment had passed, but the fire had burned down low and was almost out. She had fallen asleep, after all. But for how long? And what had awakened her? She remained quiet and motionless, resisting the impulse to throw some more wood onto the fire. She had heard something. But what was it? Everything seemed quiet now, but there was a tingling at the back of her neck, an apprehensive feeling that something was not right. She looked around, scanning for any sign of movement, alert for the slightest sound. Out in the moonlit night beyond the dwindling fire, she could see nothing but shadows. And then one of those shadows moved.

Sorak slumbered as the Ranger moved out into the still night, which was disturbed only by the occasional far-off sounds of nocturnal creatures. To the Ranger, however, even these faint calls were clearly recognizable: the distant cry of the desert razorwing, a smaller species than those found in the mountains, as it swooped down on prey; the howling of a rasclinn as it called out to others in its pack; the squeaking cries of small furry jankx as they came out of their burrows when night fell and began to search for food. The communication of the desert’s many inhabitants, whether in low moans or ultrasonic squeaks and barks, would have been indecipherable to human ears, but the Ranger heard them clearly and understood. He possessed a preternatural sensitivity to his surroundings, an awareness Sorak in his waking moments did not fully share.

Unlike Sorak, however, the Ranger did not spend any significant time in contemplating the inner tribe’s condition or place in life. On the rare occasions when he gave any thought to it at all, he simply accepted it in his stoic manner and reasoned it went beyond any ready explanation. There was nothing he could do to change or better understand the tribe’s origin or destiny, so he accepted that he was the Ranger, that he shared a body with a number of other entities, and that this was simply their reality. Instead of worrying about it or trying to understand it, he would concentrate on more immediate problems. Problems he could solve.

In this case, the immediate problem was food. Red meat, not the seeds and fruit and vegetables Sorak ate. That diet satisfied Sorak, but it did not satisfy the others, nor did it satisfy the Ranger, whose appetites were lore carnivorous. Perhaps they could all survive simply on the food Sorak ate, as did the villichi sisters, but the Ranger did not believe that such a diet was beneficial to the body they all shared. He had no desire to convert Sorak to his way of thinking, but neither did he have any desire to fight evolution. He had not clawed his way to the top of the food chain to eat seeds. What he needed now, and what the others hungered for, was the taste of fresh-killed meat, the sensation of warm blood running down his throat.

Although the others hungered, they kept still within the body they all shared. They did not disturb the Ranger or intrude on his thoughts. He was aware of them, dimly, but they kept their peace and distance. He was the hunter among them, skilled at identifying the slightest sights and sounds and smells of nature, adept at tracking and stalking, expert at killing quickly and effectively. They all wanted to share in the taste of fresh-killed meat—all save Sorak, who would sleep through the hunt and the interlude of feeding and awaken with no memory of it. The others all waited with tense anticipation.

Though the Ranger was at the forefront of their consciousness, in control of the body, those of them who were awake all shared his perceptions and experiences. Not all the entities who made up the complex creature that was Sorak were awake this night. Lyric slept, preferring the light of day to come awake and watch with childlike wonder what Sorak and the others did, coming out occasionally to sing or whistle when the others felt the need of the lightness of his being. The fearsome entity known as the Shade slept also, and the others reared to tread around the depths of Sorak’s being where he slumbered. He was like a great, hibernating beast, sleeping often, sometimes coming awake to watch like a lurking creature in a cave, coming out only when there was a need to unleash the dark side of Sorak’s nature.

Further down within the depths of Sorak’s psyche slept a being none of the others really knew, for this particular entity never came awake. They were all aware of him, but only in the sense that they knew that he was there, cocooned in layers of protective mental blocks. This was the Inner Child, the most vulnerable part of them—that from which they all had sprung. The Child was the father of the men and women they became, giving birth to them ten years before in the Athasian desert, when the small and frightened boy he was had been cast out from his tribe to die in the trackless waste. In one final, wrenching cry of abject terror, that child had given birth to them all and fled from that which he could no longer endure. He slept now, deep within the shelter he had constructed for himself, curled up in a sleep almost like death. And, in a way, perhaps, it was a sort of death. The Inner Child would likely never wake again. And, if he did, none of the others knew what would become of them.

The Guardian suspected. They were all born when the Child fled from waking life, which had become a waking nightmare. Now the Child slept. If he awoke again, it could well be the end for all of them. Perhaps even for Sorak;

Sorak, in a sense, was not the Child grown. Sorak was the primary, for that was the nature of the agreement they had made among themselves, a compact that had been necessary to preserve their sanity. But Sorak, too, had been born after the fact, after the Child went to sleep. If the Inner Child awoke, there was a chance—the Guardian did not know how strong chance—that it might integrate with Sorak, and perhaps with some of them as well. But there was also a chance that Sorak, like the rest of them, would cease to be, and the body they all shared would revert to the Child it had been before. Not physically, but mentally. The Guardian often thought about that, and wondered. Kivara had no such concerns. She reveled in the night. She often catnapped during the day so that she could be awake at night, especially when the Ranger came to the fore and set out to hunt. Kivara was no hunter. She was purely a creature of the senses, mischievous and inquisitive, a sly young female who lacked the capacity to recognize any limits. Left to her own devices, she would indulge herself in whatever sensual pleasure was presented, or explore whatever fascinating new experience she might encounter, regardless of the risks. In that sense, she could be dangerous, for if the others did not watch her, she could jeopardize all of them—and flee, ducking under to let someone else bear the responsibility of safeguarding their welfare.

Tonight, however, Kivara was content just to remain awake and watch, and feel, and listen. Through the acute senses of the Ranger, the night came vibrantly alive to her. She would not intrude upon the Ranger, in part because she lacked the capability. The Ranger was much stronger, and if she made any such attempt, he would simply brush her abruptly aside and duck her under, the way he might shoo away some annoying desert fly or flick a sand flea off his breeches. But Kivara had no desire to come out when the Ranger manifested because through the Ranger, she could experience sensual pleasures far more sharply than she could when she came to the fore herself. And, of course, she was hungry, too, and none of them would eat until the Ranger made his kill.

Eyron simply waited ... impatient as always. He wished the Ranger would hurry up and find some game for them. He never understood why it always took so long. His wryly cynical and pessimistic nature made him worry that, perhaps this night, the Ranger would fail in his hunt and they would have to go through one more day of Sorak and his druid food. Eyron found it maddening. Those silly priestesses had muddled Sorak’s thinking. He was part elf and part halfling—and both halflings and elves ate meat. Eyron preferred his raw and freshly killed, but any meat would do in place of the roughage Sorak ate during the day. What did he need with seeds and fruit and lotus leaves? That was a diet for a kank, not for an elfling! Each time they were in a city and Sorak passed a stand that sold cooked meat, Eyron would smell it and begin to salivate. Sometimes, Sorak also would begin to salivate from Eyron’s hunger, and Eyron would sense the primary’s irritation and sullenly withdraw to sulk. He wished the Ranger would be quick about it. He wanted to feed and go to sleep with a full belly.

The Ranger felt Eyron’s impatience, but paid no attention to it. He rarely paid much heed to Eyron. Such thoughts as Eyron had were pointless and of no interest to him. Eyron could not hunt. Eyron could not follow a trail. Eyron could not smell game, nor was he observant enough to detect its movement in the desert brush. He could not hear anything save for the sound of his own voice, of which he was inordinately fond. Eyron, thought the Ranger, was a foolish creature. He much preferred the company of Lyric, who was foolish too, but in a pleasant way. During the day, when the Ranger came to the fore, he would often allow Lyric to come out with him and sing a merry tune that he could listen to while he followed a trail. But listening to Eyron was a waste of time. And as the Ranger thought this, Eyron perceived the thought and resentfully kept his peace.

As he walked, his night vision as keen as any mountain cat’s, the Ranger kept a sharp eye on the ground around him, alert for any signs of game. All at once, he spotted something and knelt, examining some faint markings on the ground that any of the others would have missed. They were scratchings made by the passing of an erdland, a large, flightless desert bird that walked upright on two long powerful legs ending in sharp talons. The Ranger knew erdlands were related to the erdlus that ran wild in the tablelands, but were also raised by desert herdsmen for sale to the city mar-kets. Erdlus were prized by city dwellers mostly for their eggs, though their meat was often eaten. A wild erdlu could be quite difficult to catch, for they were easily spooked and capable of running at great speeds. Erdlands, however, being larger birds, could not move as quickly. And while their eggs were not as tasty as erdlus’, their flesh could make a satisfying meal. An erdland would provide a feast, enough meat to fill their belly full to bursting, with still enough left over to make a meal for the desert scavengers. However, while an erdland did not move as quickly as its smaller relative, bringing one down posed other challenges.

A full-grown erdland stood as tall as fifteen feet and weighed up to a ton. Its powerful legs delivered lethal kicks, and its talons inflicted damaging wounds. Moreover, an adult bird, such as this one was judging by its track, possessed a large wedge-shaped beak, unlike young birds, whose beaks were small and not as dangerous. A full-grown erdland could peck so hard that it would shatter bone, and a snap of its powerful beak could take a hand right off.

The Ranger carefully examined the ground around the track. Wild erdlands generally roamed in herds, but this one seemed alone, and the track was fresh. The Ranger went back to the track and began to follow it, looking for any signs that might tell him if the bird was wounded. A few feet farther on, he found what he was looking for. The bird was missing part of one claw, not enough to disable it, but enough to slow it down so that it could not run with the rest of the herd. This one had been left behind, but it would still be no easy prey.

The Ranger followed the track, moving quickly, but not making any sounds as he trailed his prey. From time to time, almost like an animal, he would stop and sniff the air, not wanting to come suddenly upon the bird and alert it to his presence. And, after following the trail for perhaps a mile or so, he caught its scent. A human’s senses would not have been sharp enough to catch it, but the Ranger smelled the creature’s faintly musky odor on the wind. He quickly judged the way the breeze was blowing to make sure he was down-wind of it, then moved forward at a crouch as he began to stalk.

After covering perhaps a quarter of a mile, he could hear it. It was moving slowly, its feet making soft, thudding sounds that would have been inaudible to human ears, but not to the Ranger’s. The Ranger checked the ground once more. There were no signs of other predators. Just the same, as he continued to stalk the bird, he took his time to make sure that no other creature hunted it. Erdlands were large enough to discourage attack by all but the largest and the fiercest of the night creatures, but it would not be smart to focus only on the game at hand and neglect another predator that might be stalking it. That could lead to an unpleasant surprise, and competing with another predator for prey would not only be dangerous, but a sure way to give the erdland enough time to make good its escape.

The Ranger felt the eager anticipation of the others and ignored it. A good hunter never rushed his kill. He stalked the erdland carefully and slowly. Gradually, he closed the distance between himself and the large bird. It was fully fourteen feet in height, with a long snake-like neck and a large rounded body from which its two strong legs sprouted like stilts.

Its scaly collar, which it flared and expanded when attacked to make its head look bigger and more fearsome, was folded back as it moved slowly, scanning the ground ahead of it for food. The Ranger got down very low and patiently began to circle behind it, taking care not to make the slightest sound. He ignored the eager tension of the others, not wanting anything to distract him. His movements were lithe and catlike as he proceeded on all fours, pausing every now and then to check the wind and make sure it had not shifted.

It took agonizing patience, for the slightest sound would alert his quarry—the merest snapping of a dry twig on some low-growing desert scrub; the slightest crunch of his foot upon some stones; a sudden shift in the breeze. . . . The bird would be alerted to his presence in an instant and either try to run or turn and attack. An erdland was most dangerous when one was meeting it head-on.

Slowly, the Ranger advanced, gradually closing the distance between himself and his prey. The bird was still completely unaware of him, even though he had moved up to within only ten or fifteen feet of it. He was almost close enough, but not yet, not quite. He wanted to make sure.

Only eight or nine feet now. If the bird turned, it could not avoid seeing him. The moonlight on the desert rendered him clearly visible, and it was only by stealth and by keeping directly behind it that he had managed to approach this close.

The bird suddenly stopped in its tracks, its head coming up alertly as its neck straightened.

In that instant, the Ranger made his move.

With a swiftness matched only by that of an elf, he came up from all fours, ran three quick steps, and leaped. As the bird started, he landed on its back, clamping his legs tightly around its body as he seized its neck with both hands.

The bird gave out a piercing cry and jumped for-ward, leaping high on its powerful legs as it tried to dislodge him, while at the same time, its collar flared out wide, and its strong, muscular neck twisted in his grasp. The Ranger clamped his grip with all his might as the bird tried to twist its head around and peck him with its beak. One blow of that powerful, wedge-shaped beak could break his skull. The Ranger resisted the efforts of the bird to twist its head around. He held on squeezing hard with his legs, as the erdland hopped around erratically, trying to buck him off.

The bird tried everything to fight free of his grasp. It lunged with its long neck, trying to pull him forward and off balance so that it could fling him off, but the Ranger held on tightly and pulled back, preventing the bird from extending its neck all the way. For a moment, the erdland fought against his pull, then abruptly gave in to it and brought its neck straight back. The Ranger almost lost his balance, but he managed to hold on.

The bird leaped from one leg to the other, doing everything it could to throw him off, and the Ranger felt his muscles burning with the effort of trying to hold on. The bird twisted its head first one way, then the other, but the Ranger would not loosen his grip. As the bird brought its neck sharply back once more to force him off, he went with the motion and used the opportunity to slide his hands up quickly under the erdland’s flared out collar, to the point where the skull joined the neck.

The bird screeched as he slowly started trying to bend its head straight up and back. Its leaping redoubled, but the Ranger held on. It tried to extend its neck out once again, but he pulled back against it, straining as he forced its head up farther until the bird’s beak was aimed straight up at the sky. It snapped that wedge-shaped beak uselessly and shrieked as he forced its head back, the muscles on his arms standing out like cords. And then, the neck broke.

The bird dropped like a stone, falling heavily to the ground, and the Ranger rolled free of it, landing hard and scrambling to get away from its legs as it thrashed several times, and then lay still. The others exulted in the thrill of it.

The Ranger got up and removed the hunting knife from his sheath. He bent down and lifted one of the bird’s long legs and slit its soft underbelly open. The blood gushed forth, and the smell of it was heady. The Ranger threw back his head and gave out a triumphant cry. The others felt his joy and sense of accomplishment, the fulfillment of his purpose. They celebrated with him. Then they began to feed.

The Ranger did not hurry as he headed back toward the place where they had camped. They had all eaten their fill and left enough behind to satisfy a hoard of scavengers. Nothing would be wasted. Only the bones of the large bird would be left to bleach slowly in the desert sun, after its scales had dried up and fluttered away upon the wind. After a successful hunt, the Ranger liked to walk and feel the night, savor its sounds and smells, open up his spirit to the vastness of the desert.

Unlike the shelter of the forest on the Ringing Mountains, where he enjoyed the canopy of leaves above him and felt the closeness of the trees, the tablelands were wide and open, a seemingly infinite desert plain that stretched out as far as the eye could see. The Ranger felt a strong affinity for the forest, for it was and would always be his home, but the desert possessed its own sweet and savage beauty. It was as if he could feel himself expanding in a hopeless effort to fill it with his presence. The forest was comfortable and cozy, but here, there was room to breathe. There was a different sort of solitude out on the tablelands. A solitude that filled him with a sense of the vastness of the harsh world that he lived in, the majesty of it. For all the desolation of the desert, there was a serene quality to it that filled one with a sense of peace. It could be a brutal, dangerous, and unforgiving place where violence struck suddenly at the unwary, but to one who did not fight it and who could accept its ways it could be a place of transformation.

The Child had almost died out on the desert once before, many years ago. Instead, the tribe had been born there, and had returned now and learned how to survive in it. And, on the tablelands of Athas, survival was no mean accomplishment. The Ranger dwelled upon these thoughts as he made his way unerringly back to the camp.

Then suddenly he stopped. All his senses were sharp and focused. An instant later, he knew what had alerted him, and he began to run, full speed, back toward the camp.

Ryana reached quickly for her crossbow, but in the instant she had taken her eyes away, the shadow disappeared.

Rising to her knees, she quickly pulled the bow back and inserted a bolt from her quiver. She held the bow in front of her, ready to raise it on the instant, her gaze scanning the area around her. Perhaps it had only been her imagination, but she was certain she had seen something moving out there. Whatever that shadow was, it seemed to have slithered away into the night.

Ryana moistened her lips, which suddenly felt very dry. She wished that Sorak would return. She remained perfectly motionless, alert, bow held ready, her ears straining to hear the slightest sound. Off in the distance, the cry of some beast echoed. Something making a kill, or being killed. It sounded far away. She longed to throw some fresh wood on the fire, which was almost out now, but she hesitated to put down the crossbow. Could it have been only a trick of the moonlight? The chill night breeze ruffled her long hair as she crouched and waited, listening intently. Was that something moving, or was it just the wind, rustling the scrub brush?

For what seemed a long time, Ryana remained motionless, her crossbow held ready. There was no sign of movement out beyond their camp, and she could now hear nothing but the rustling of the wind in the dry desert grass and the pagafa branches overhead. The fire was almost completely out now. She expelled her breath, suddenly realizing that she had been holding it, put down the crossbow, and reached for some more branches to put on the fire.

A shadow suddenly fell over her, and she felt powerful arms closing around her from behind.

With a cry, she raised her arms up and slithered out of the attacker’s grasp, then rolled and kicked out in a sweeping motion behind her with one leg. She felt her foot connect with something and heard a deep grunt as someone or something fell to the ground, then she rolled to her feet to face whatever it was that had attacked her.

The dry branches she had dropped onto the fire suddenly burst into flame, and she saw what at first looked like a man getting to his feet. He was very tall and powerfully built, with broad shoulders, a narrow waist, long dark hair, and gaunt features. But the proportions were all wrong somehow. With his exceedingly long arms and legs, he looked almost like a male villichi, though, of course, that was impossible. She saw his pointed ears and thought he was an elf, and then she saw his hands as he raised them up in front of him, fingers hooked like claws. The hands were very large, more than twice the size of normal human hands, and the fingers were at least three times as long. They seemed to flare out at the tips, and then she suddenly realized what they were. Suckers. With an involuntary shudder, she realized what she was facing. It was neither man nor elf. It was a thrax.

At one point, it must have been a human, but it was not a human anymore. It was a vile creature that had been created by another like itself. The first thraxes were abominations created by defiler magic as a scourge to direct against their enemies. But not even the defilers had been able to control them. They ran wild and escaped into the desert, where they stealthily preyed on travelers. Shifting into shadow form, the thraxes would creep up on their unwary victims and then solidify behind them, grasping them in powerful arms, fastening suckers on them and draining their bodies of moisture. They would inflict such pain that usually their victims could not even struggle, and they would die in agony, reduced to desiccated corpses.

Ryana had never heard of anyone who had survived a thrax attack. Even if the victim broke free somehow, as this one must have done, contact with those suckers would make the vile magic that created the vampiric creatures pass to the victim, and in time, another thrax would be created. The magical mutation would begin with an aching in the hands and feet, then in the arms and legs as the bones started to elongate. The pain would increase, spreading out throughout the entire body, and then the skin at the fingertips would rupture and begin to bleed as the flesh sprouted into suckers. At the same time, the raging thirst would strike, a thirst that could, perhaps, be initially assuaged by draining the moisture from small mammals, but that was not enough. The thirst would grow and grow, driving out all sanity, and only a victim that was humanoid or human could provide enough bodily moisture to slake it... and then only for a short time.

As the thrax crouched across the fire from her, its long, sucker-tipped fingers extended and waggling obscenely, the puckered mouth of the vile creature twitched with thirst. Ryana knew that there was only once chance to escape death, or a fate even worse than death, and that was to strike a mortal blow while the thrax was still solidified. Her crossbow was out of reach, on the other side of the fire. Her sword was still in its leather scabbard, beside the rucksack where she had left it. She had only her knives. Moving quickly, she reached down and drew one of the blades from the top of her high moccasin and, in one smooth motion, hurled it at the creature. The thrax immediately shifted into shadow form and the blade passed through it harmlessly, striking one of the thick trunks of the pagafa tree, where it stuck. The vile shadow solidified once more as the thrax crouched, preparing to leap.

Without taking her eyes off the creature, Ryana quickly reached down and drew her other boot knife. She held the long stiletto blade out before her and crouched slightly, feet spread wide apart. The thrax saw the second blade and hesitated. In that instant of momentary hesitation, Ryana reached out with the power of her mind, and, with psionic force, flung the burning branches in the fire directly at the thrax’s face. Instinctively, the thrax recoiled and raised its hands, and Ryana lunged toward the creature. But the beast recovered quickly, much more quickly than she had anticipated, and as she stabbed out with her blade, it passed through shadow.

The shadow leapt back, away from her, and the thrax solidified once more, more wary this time, circling and watching her intently. It feinted toward her once or twice, attempting to bait her into throwing the knife, but Ryana already knew that would not work. Instead, she drew another knife, the large, wide-bladed one in the sheath fastened to her belt.

These blades were the only weapons she had left—along with her psionic power and her ingenuity. The thrax knew now that she was not an easy victim, a solitary woman who would fall prey to her own fear. But the creature was thirsty, and she was the only drink for miles around.

They circled warily, neither committing to an attack. The thrax tried to bait her into throwing one of her weapons, but she resisted the temptation. She, meanwhile, remained alert for any opportunity to strike, but each time she made a move toward the deadly creature, it shifted into shadow once again and faded back, attempting to lose itself in the other shadows and come around behind her. Ryana could not allow her vigilance to relax even for an instant. That instant would be fatal.

She knew she could not keep it up. Sooner or later, the thrax would fool her and slither around in shadow form behind her, or else its thirst would drive it into a direct frontal attack, in shadow form, enveloping her and passing through her, wrapping its shadowy appendages around her, and then solidifying into death.

Even as she thought of it, the thrax shifted into shadow and leapt toward her. Instead of recoiling, as it had expected, Ryana lunged to meet it, passing through the creature in its shadow state before it could solidify its grasp around her.

She fought the gorge rising in her throat as she forced her way through the shadow, feeling its foul chill permeate her.

Once beyond it, she turned to face the thrax again as it solidified, too late to trap her, but ready for another try. How long could she keep this up? Time favored the thrax. She was tired, and the creature knew it. One slip, one misstep, and it would be all over.

Their positions now were almost identical to what they were when the thrax had first attacked. The crossbow was still out of her reach, as was the sword, and she could spare no time to grab for them.

But she was villichi, schooled in the Way, and it was only that, if anything, that gave her the advantage. As she watched the thrax, not taking her gaze from it for a second, she reached out with the power of her mind, focusing upon the knife she had thrown earlier, now embedded in the pagafa tree. Slowly, it began to pull free behind the thrax. As she felt it coming loose, she kept her focus on the knife, and at the same time threw one of the other blades she held.

The thrax quickly shifted into shadow form and the blade passed through it harmlessly. As it solidified again, Ryana quickly threw her second knife, purely by reflex, all the while keeping her psionic focus on the knife that she was working free from the pagafa trunk.

The thrax shifted into shadow form once more, and the second knife passed through it, and now, seeing her weaponless, the creature solidified once more, ready to leap. Behind it, the knife in the pagafa tree pulled free, pivoted around its axis, and flew forward, directed by psionic force, squarely into the creature’s back, between its shoulder blades.

The thrax howled and shifted into shadow once again. The blade that had stuck in its back dropped to the ground, but in that instant, Ryana threw her focus to her sword, lying at the foot of the pagafa tree, beside her rucksack. The iron blade leapt from its scabbard and flew across the fire hilt-first, directly into Ryana’s outstretched hand.

As the thrax solidified and leapt, Ryana quickly side-stepped and brought her sword down in a sweeping arc, decapitating the creature with one blow. It fell to the ground, dark blood bubbling up out of its neck, and its severed head rolled toward the fire. The long and oily hair burst into flame, and the odor of charred flesh assailed Ryana’s nostrils. She backed away and retched.

Suddenly, she felt that tingling sensation at the back of her neck again and spun around, her sword held ready before her. The Ranger stood there, watching her with a dispassionate gaze. She sighed with enormous relief and, exhausted, lowered her sword.

The Ranger stepped forward and looked down at the decapitated corpse of the creature, its blood staining the sand.

“Thrax,” he said simply. Then he looked at her and nodded with approval. Without another word, he went over to the fire, where the thrax’s head was burning, its charred flesh sending out a nauseating odor as it was consumed. The Ranger tossed on some more wood. He sat down, cross-legged, on the ground, lowered his head onto his chest, and slept. A moment later, the head came up again and Sorak gazed at her.

“You seem to have had a busy night,” he said. “You can sleep now, if you like. I will keep watch until dawn.”

“When did you come back?” she asked, still breathing heavily from her exertions.

“I only awoke just this moment,” Sorak said.

“I meant the Ranger,” she said.

“Ah. One moment, I will ask him.” His face took on a distant, preoccupied expression for a moment, then his attention focused on her once again. “It seems he arrived a few moments before you killed the thrax,” he said.

“And it did not occur to him to help?” she asked with astonishment.

“You seemed to have the situation well in hand,” said Sorak. “He did not wish to interfere with your kill.”

“With my kill?” she said, with disbelief. “I was fighting for my life!”

“Successfully, it would appear,” said Sorak, with a glance toward the thrax’s headless body.

“Damn you, Sorak! You could have helped me!”

“Ryana,” he said apologetically, “forgive me, but I slept through the whole thing.”

Her shoulders slumped as she sighed and tossed her sword down on the ground beside him. “Right,” she said, with a grimace. “Of course.”

“You are angry with me.”

“No,” she said, with resignation, “but I would certainly like to give the Ranger a piece of my mind!”

“Go ahead, if it will make you feel better,” Sorak said. “He will hear you.”

She sank down to the ground beside him. “Oh, what’s the point?” she said. “Doubtless, it would only puzzle him.”

“I fear that’s true,” said Sorak. “But still, if it would help....”

“Just go and get my knives,” she said, curling up on the ground and wrapping her cloak around her. “I’m tired, and all I want to do is sleep.”

She pillowed her head upon her rucksack and closed her eyes. She could not remember when she had ever felt so thoroughly exhausted. The next thing she knew, it was dawn.