The Nomad

Acknowledgments

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

FOR BRIAN THOMSEN

Special acknowledgments to Rob King, Troy Denning, Robert M. Powers, Sandra West, Jennifer Roberson, Deb Lovell, Bruce and Peggy Wiley, Emily Tuzson, Adele Leone, the crew at Arizona Honda, and my students, who keep me on my toes and teach me as much as I teach them.

The heavy, arched wooden door opened by itself with a loud, protracted creaking of its ancient iron hinges. Veela swallowed hard and took a deep breath to steady her nerves. The long climb up the tower steps had winded her, and now the noisome stench that wafted through the doorway made her head spin. Weak-kneed from both exertion and fear, she reached out to lean against the doorjamb, fighting the gorge rising in her throat. The palpable emanations of malevolent power that came from within the room were overwhelming. She had felt them throughout the long climb up the winding stone steps, and it was like swimming against a powerful, oppressive current.

“Enter,” said a sepulchral voice from within.

The templar stood unsteadily in the entrance of the gloomy, circular chamber, staring with apprehension at the grotesque figure that loomed before her. It stood at one of the tower windows, looking out over the city as the dark sun sank slowly on the horizon and the shadows lengthened.

“Come closer, so that I may see you,” said the dragon.

Veela swallowed nervously. “As you wish, my lord.”

Hesitantly, she approached the creature as it turned and fixed her with a chilling gaze from its unblinking, yellow eyes.

“Remind me once more,” the dragon said. “Which one are you?”

“Veela, my lord,” she answered.

“Ah, yes. I remember you now.” The remark was delivered flatly, without emotion. Perhaps he really did remember her. And perhaps he would forget again the moment she left his presence.

It was difficult for Veela to believe the frightening creature that stood before her now was once her husband. He was still her husband, but no trace of the man that she had known back then remained. She recalled how honored she had been to be selected as a wife to the Shadow King of Nibenay. Her parents had been very proud. Their daughter was to be a queen, though strictly speaking, Nibenay’s many wives were templars, not queens. When they entered into the service of the Shadow King, they were trained for their new role in the society of the city named after its king, rigorously prepared to assume their official duties as Nibenay’s factotums and the bearers of his power.

For Veela, it meant leaving the hovel she had shared with her family and moving into the palace, where she would live in unimagined luxury together with the other templars, who were all Nibenay’s wives. It meant she would no longer run barefoot on a hard earth floor, but would have her feet and body washed daily by a retinue of servants and would walk in soft hide sandals on exquisite mosaic floors. She would have her dirty hair shaved and would no longer dress in rags, but in robes of flowing white, embroidered with gold and silver, that she could change daily. She would be taught to read and write, and trained how to administer the city’s laws, but more important still, she would be trained in sorcery, and would wield the power of the Shadow King.

She had never learned how she was chosen. Nibenay had magic, and it was said he could see everywhere. Perhaps he had seen her in a scrying crystal while she was preparing for bed, and she had caught his fancy. Perhaps one of his other wives had caught a glimpse of her while she was on her errands in the city and had chosen her to join the harem. She was never told, and she had soon learned not to ask. The wives were only told what they were meant to know. “You do not yet know enough to ask questions,” she was informed by the senior templars, who had trained her. “And when you know enough, you will have no need to ask.”

She was only twelve years old when she came to live in the palace. The marriage ceremony was performed the day after she arrived. She had her hair shaved, was washed and bathed with fragrant oils, then was dressed in a plain white robe. A small gold circlet was placed around her head. Afterward, she was conducted to a large central chamber in the palace, where the king’s throne stood. All of the king’s wives were present, dressed in their white robes and lining both sides of the throne room. They ranged in age from young and fresh-faced girls to old and wrinkled women.

Veela had felt a sense of mounting excitement and anxiety. She had never seen the Shadow King before… nor, as it turned out, was she to see him on her wedding day. The throne remained empty as the senior templar conducted the solemn marriage ceremony. It was brief and incorporated the vows she had to take as a templar of the Shadow King. When it was over, each of the wives came up and kissed her lightly on both cheeks. She was married, and the king had not even been present at his own wedding.

It was five more years before she actually laid eyes on him. In those five years, she had completed her training as a templar. On the night of her official instatement into the templar ranks, the sorcerer-king had sent for her. She was once more bathed and scented with fragrant oils and perfumes, and this time all of the hair on her body was removed. Then she was conducted to the bedchamber of the Shadow King.

She had not known what to expect. She had lived in the palace for five years and never even caught a glimpse of him, nor had she been able to discuss him with any of the other wives. His name was never mentioned, save in official orders. As she was brought into his bedchamber, she found him waiting for her. She stood with downcast eyes for a long while after the attendants left. Finally, she risked raising them. He simply stood there, looking at her.

He was a tall man, standing well over six feet, and gaunt, with deeply sunken features. He was completely bald, and his nose was hooked like that of a predatory bird. His neck and arms seemed unusually long and thin, and his fingers were like talons. His brow was so pronounced that it appeared to be a ridge over his eyes, which were a strange, light golden hue. He had said nothing, but merely held out a clawlike hand toward her. A quick gesture with his skeletal fingers and her robe simply fell away, leaving her naked. Then he beckoned her to the bed.

Whatever she might have expected, it was nothing like what she might have imagined. The room suddenly went dark, so dark she could not even see her hand before her face. She felt him get onto the huge bed and then his naked body seemed to slither on top of her. There were no kisses, no caresses, no tender words exchanged. It was over almost as soon as it had begun. He took her, grunted with satisfaction, though whether it was satisfaction in the act or in the confirmation of her virginity, she could not tell, and then the next thing she knew, the braziers erupted into flame, flooding the room with light, and he was gone. And she did not see him again for ten more years.

Now, it was sixty years since she had first been brought to the palace. She was now among the senior templars, though she was still among the youngest of them. The years had changed her. The power of the Shadow King kept her vital, but her face was lined with age now, and her hands were old and wrinkled. Her flesh sagged, and her skin had become as fine as parchment. But for Nibenay, those years had wrought greater changes still. However, it was not age that had changed him, for the Shadow King was already old when Veela had been born. It was the metamorphosis.

As one of the senior templars who attended to him personally, she saw him more often now than all those years ago. And he was no longer human. He was even taller now, though much of his height came from his long, scaly and reptilian neck. His browridge had become much more pronounced, extending like a bony protrusion out over his eye sockets. His eyes were yellow-gold, with black, vertical pupils, and the lower part of his face had extended into a snout filled with razor-sharp teeth. His feet were dragon’s claws, and a long, reptilian tail with a barb on the end of it extended from beneath his robe. His back was humped from protruding shoulder blades, which were slowly sprouting into wings. Though he never alluded to it, Veela knew that he was often in great pain from the slow and excruciating transformation.

It had already begun when she first saw him all those years ago, and it would be many years more before it was completed. The arduous metamorphosis proceeded by slow stages, induced by powerful and complicated spells. For years now, it had occupied all of Nibenay’s attention. The people of his kingdom never saw him. He never ventured from his private chambers anymore. There were servants in the palace who had been there all their lives and had never even caught a glimpse of him. Veela was not sure if he ever slept, but each time she came to him, no matter what the hour, he was awake and either making the long and exhausting preparations for the next stage of his metamorphosis or resting from his efforts and battling the pain. What made it all worthwhile for him was the final goal. Once he had fully cast aside the last vestiges of his humanity, he would become the most powerful creature to walk the planet. And for Nibenay, the lust for power was everything. He had time to think of nothing else…

Except for the last few days, when there had arisen a new subject for his interest. And now, it seemed he could think of nothing else.

“The Nomad,” he said. “Tell me what you have learned.”

“He is an elfling, my lord,” she said.

“An
elfling?
What sort of creature is that?”

“The result of a mating between a halfling and an elf,” Veela replied.

“What nonsense is this?” said Nibenay. “Halflings and elves are mortal enemies!”

“Nevertheless, my lord, there apparently was such a union. I have personally heard from those who saw him, and they attest that he possesses the characteristics of both races.”

“Ill-omened creature,” said the Shadow King, turning away from her. “Go on. What more?”

“His name is Sorak, which means ‘nomad who travels alone’ in the elvish tongue, and hence his appellation. But he does not travel alone. He travels in the company of a villichi priestess.”

“Preservers,” said Nibenay with disgust, spitting the word out.

“It is also said that he is a master of the Way,” said Veela, “though he is scarcely more than a boy. And witnesses attest to this. How else could he have overcome two templars and several squads of half-giants in our city guard?”

“And where did one so young get his training in the Way? How could he have mastered it so quickly?” asked the Shadow King.

“I do not know, my lord,” said Veela, “but rumor has it he was trained by the villichi.”

“A
male?
In a villichi convent? Preposterous.”

“Perhaps, my lord. I have not been able to establish the veracity of this.”

“Continue.”

“It has been learned that he came to the city to seek out the Veiled Alliance,” Veela said.

“More preservers!” said the defiler king. “What has he to do with the Alliance?”

“I do not know, my lord, but they came to help him when he battled our half-giants. There were witnesses to this. And he was assisted by the city’s elves, as well.”

“Elves?”

“Mostly half-elves, my lord, but it is reported that there were full-blooded elves among them, also,” she replied.

“Since when do elves care about anything other than profit for themselves?” asked Nibenay. “The Veiled Alliance coming to assist this Nomad, that I can understand. He was battling the city guard. But why should elves care one way or the other?”

“Once again, my lord, I cannot vouch for the truth of these reports, but it is said that he is regarded by them as some sort of chieftain, perhaps even a king. Many of the city’s elves dispute the story, ridiculing it and claiming they would never give allegiance to any would-be elven king. However, elves
did
come to his assistance. That is undeniable. It is said he carries an enchanted sword about which there is some sort of foolish legend… the ancient, lost sword of elven kings or some such thing.”

“Galdra!”
said the Shadow King.

Veela frowned. “Why, yes, my lord. That is the name given to the sword in the stories I have heard.”

Nibenay stared out the window, as if deep in thought. “It is no mere story,” he replied. “At least, not that part of it. Galdra is real enough. The sword exists, though it has been lost for generations. Have you spoken with anyone who claims to have seen this sword?”

“I have, my lord.”

“Did they describe it?”

“Yes, my lord. I was told it is made of elven steel, though I have never heard of such a thing, and of an unusual configuration. The blade, as it was described to me, is something of a cross between a falchion and a cutlass, broad and leaf-shaped at the tip, with an ornate hilt wrapped in silver wire.”