The Nomad (8 page)

* * *

Sorak came to his senses not knowing what had happened. He was lying stretched but on his stomach, with his own cloak covering him. It was early morning. The campfire was burning brightly, and he could smell the aroma of roasting flesh. He opened his eyes and saw a man seated cross-legged by the fire, cooking some meat on a spit. He sat up instantly, and gasped as he felt a sharp pain shoot through his shoulder.

“Easy, friend,” said the man seated by the fire. “Move slowly, else you will undo all of my good work.”

Sorak looked at shoulder. His tunic had been removed, and his shoulder crudely but effectively bandaged. Some kanna leaves had been pressed together underneath the bandage to make a poultice.

“You did this?” asked Sorak.

“I applied the poultice and the bandage,” the man replied. “I did not inflict the wound, however.”

“Who did?”

“You do not know?”

Sorak shook his head. “No, I remember nothing.” Suddenly, he looked around. “
Ryana!
Where is she?”

“I saw no one save you when I arrived,” the stranger said. “But there was a party of men here not long before. If your companion was here alone, it seems they have made off with her.”

“Then I must go after them at once,” said Sorak. He tried to get to his feet, but winced at the pain in his shoulder when he moved. A wave of dizziness came over him.

“I do not think you would be of much use to your companion in your present condition,” said the stranger. “We will see to your friend presently. For now, you need your strength.” He held up a piece of uncooked meat, spitted on a dagger. “Elves eat their flesh raw, do they not?”

Despite himself, Sorak started salivating at the sight of the meat. He knew the tribe had fed earlier, but he did not know how long he had been unconscious, and the wound had made him weak. Druid vows be damned, he thought to himself as he accepted the meat from the stranger. Ryana needs me, and I need my strength to heal. “Thank you,” he said to the big stranger.

“You are small for an elf,” the stranger said. “Are you part human?”

“Part halfling,” Sorak said.

The stranger raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Indeed? And how did such a curious thing occur?”

“I do not know,” said Sorak. “I did not know my parents.”

“Ah,” the stranger said, nodding with understanding. “The ways of Athas can be harsh.”

As he ate, Sorak looked the man over. He was a large and powerful-looking man, very muscular, with a fighter’s build, but he was no longer young. His features betrayed his age, but his body belied it. He had long gray hair that hung down past his shoulders and a thick gray beard. He was dressed in a sleeveless hide tunic that displayed his mighty arms, hide breeches, high moccasins with fringe at the tops, and studded wristlets. He wore an iron sword and several daggers in his belt, and given the extreme rarity of any kind of metal on Athas, it was clear testimony to his prowess as a fighting man. Some very rich and grateful aristocratic patron had bestowed the weapons on him, and he was skilled enough to keep them and not let a better fighter take them away. Sorak immediately thought of his own sword and clapped his hand to his side. It was not there.

“Your blade is safe enough,” the Stranger said with a smile, noting his alarmed reaction. “It is in its scabbard, lying with your tunic, there.”

Sorak looked where the stranger pointed and saw that Galdra was, indeed, safely lying by his side, not three feet away, atop his tunic. “A lot of men would have been tempted to take it for themselves,” he said. The stranger merely shrugged. “I did not care for the shape of it,” he said simply. “A handsome weapon, to be sure, but not suited to my style of fighting. I suppose I could have sold it. No doubt, it would have fetched a great deal of money, but then I would have had the worry of wondering what to spend it on. Too much money can only bring trouble to a man.”

“What is your name, stranger?” Sorak asked.

“I am called Valsavis.”

“I am in your debt, Valsavis. My name is Sorak.”

Valsavis merely grunted.

Sorak felt his strength returning to him as he finished the raw meat. It was z’tal flesh, and it tasted exceedingly good. “I must heal myself, Valsavis, so that I can go after the men who took my friend.”

“So? You are adept at healing? You are a druid, then?”

“What of it if I am?”

Valsavis shrugged. “I have had occasion to be healed by druids in the past, I bear them no ill will.”

Sorak closed his eyes and allowed the Guardian to come to the fore. Under her breath, she spoke the words of a healing spell and concentrated her energies, drawing some additional power from the earth, but not enough to harm any growing thing. Sorak felt his strength returning as the wound began to heal.

Moments later, it was done, and the Guardian withdrew. Sorak stood, removed the bandage and the poultice, and went over to get his tunic and sword.

“That was uncommonly quick,” Valsavis said, watching him with interest.

“I have a gift for healing,” Sorak replied as he buckled on his sword.

“And apparently a gift for recovering from the effort it requires,” Valsavis said. “I have seen druids perform healing spells before. It nearly always leaves them drained, and they require hours of rest.”

“I have no time for that,” said Sorak. “I thank you for your kindness, Valsavis, but I must go help my friend.”

“Alone?” Valsavis said. “And on foot?”

“I have no mount,” said Sorak.

“I do,” Valsavis said. “My kank is staked just behind these rocks.”

Sorak stared at him. “Are you offering to help?” Valsavis shrugged. “I have nothing better to do.”

“You owe me nothing.” Sorak said. “Rather, he is who owe a debt to you. Those men who took my friend were probably a party of marauders. They will be heading for their camp. We will be greatly outnumbered.”

“If they reach their camp,” Valsavis said. Sorak examined the trail leading from the rocks. “There are six or seven of them, at least,” he said. “Nine,” said Valsavis.

Sorak glanced at him with interest. “Nine, then. And we are only two.”

“Without me, you would be only one.”

“Way would you risk your life for me?” asked Sorak. “I have no money, and cannot pay you.”

“I did not ask for payment.”

“Why then?” Sorak asked, puzzled. Valsavis shrugged again. “Why not? It has been a uneventful journey. And I am no longer of an age where I can afford to remain idle very long. I seed to keep my hand in, or all of the good jobs will go to younger men.”

“And what if we should fail?” Sorak asked “I had never thought that I would live this long,” Valsavis replied flatly. “And the thought of dying in bed does not appeal to me. It lacks flamboyance.”

Sorak smiled. “Somehow, I had never thought of death as flamboyant.”

“Death itself is merely death,” Valsavis said. “It’s bow one lives, up to the final moment, that matters.”

“Well then, let us see if we can introduce some marauders to their final moment,” Sorak said.

“
That
was not spoken like a druid healer,” said Valsavis, raising an eyebrow at him.

“As you said, the ways of Athas can be harsh,” Sorak replied. “Even a healer must learn how to adapt.” He clapped his hand to his sword.

“Indeed,” Valsavis said, getting to his feet. He kicked some dirt onto the fire to put it out. “I estimate they have perhaps three or four hours’ start. And they are mounted.”

“Then there is no time to waste,” said Sorak.

“We shall catch them, never fear,” Valsavis said.

“You seem very confident,” said Sorak.

“I always catch my quarry,” said Valsavis.

The trail was not difficult to follow. Nine riders, mounted on overburdened kanks, could not move without marking their passage. They seemed to be in no hurry. And why not? thought Sorak. They think I’m dead. They hadn’t even paused to check his body. He had been down on the ground, unmoving, with an arrow in his back, and they had Ryana to occupy all their attention. A chill went through Sorak as he considered what they might have done to her.

She would never have gone quietly, and under normal circumstances, the marauders would have had a fight on their hands that would have proved much more than they had bargained for. But Ryana had been utterly exhausted from their long trek across the i plain. If she had fallen asleep, they might have taken her easily.

Sorak tried not to think about what they might do to her. She was no ordinary woman. She was not only very beautiful, she was also a villichi priestess. However, it was possible her captors might not have realized that. Ryana did not look like most villichi. Her coloring was different, and though she was tall for a woman, she lacked the exaggerated length of neck and limb that characterized villichi females. Her proportions were closer to the human norm. If Ryana was smart—and she was—she would not reveal herself, but would bide her time while she regained her strength so that she could pick her opportunity. But if they had harmed so much as one hair on her head…

For the most part, Sorak and Valsavis rode in silence, save for the occasional exchange regarding signs that the marauders left behind. Sorak’s respect for the muscular old warrior was growing rapidly. The mercenary was a superb tracker. Nothing missed his alert gaze. At an age when most warriors would have long since retired, with a woman to take care of them in their declining years, Valsavis was still at the peak of his powers. Sorak wondered what sort of life the man had led, where he had come from, and where he was bound. The tribe wondered about him, too, and in a way that made them feel profoundly uneasy.

“I do not trust this man, Sorak,” said the Guardian. “Be careful,”

“Can you not see what is in his mind?” asked Sorak mentally.

The Guardian did not reply at once. After a moment, she said,
“No, I cannot.”

Her reply surprised him. “You cannot probe his thoughts?”

“I have tried, but it is of no avail. I simply cannot penetrate his defenses.”

“Is he warded against telepaths?” asked Sorak.

“I cannot left,” the Guardian replied, “but if he is, the wards are powerful and subtle. There are some individuals who cannot be probed, whose minds are shielded by their own self-contained defenses. Such individuals are strong in spirit, emotionally powerful, and rarely reveal themselves.

They do not trust easily, and they are often dangerous to trust. Their essence remains locked away deep within themselves. They are often loners who do not feel the lack of love or warm companionship. They often do not feel much of anything at all.”

“This man felt compassion,” Sorak said. “He stopped to give aid to a wounded stranger, and he is going with us to Ryana’s rescue with no thought of any gain.”

“No thought of payment in money, perhaps,” the Guardian replied, “but you do not yet know that he does not think of gain.”

“You think he wants something from me?”

“Few people act unselfishly,” the Guardian said. “Most do not undertake risks without some thought of benefit to themselves. I do not like this Valsavis, and the rest of tribe senses an aura of danger about him.”

“I will remain on my guard, then,” Sorak said. “But Ryana’s safety is foremost in my mind.”

“As it is in ours,” the Guardian assured. “We all know what she means to you. And most of us have come to care for her, in our own way. But this man has appeared very conveniently, and in a very timely manner.

Where did he come from? What was he doing traveling alone in so remote an area?”

“Perhaps, as we were, he was bound for the village of Salt View,” said Sorak. “It seems a logical destination.

And he chose a roundabout course, as we did, to avoid marauders.”

“If that is so, then why does he pursue them with you now, when there is no personal stake in it for him?”

“It is possible that he was earnest in his explanation,” Sorak said. “Perhaps he craves adventure. He is a fighter, and obviously, he has been a mercenary. Such men are often different.”

“That may be so,” the Guardian countered, “but all my instincts say this man is not what he appears to be.”

“If he means to play us false,” said Sorak, “then he will discover that I am much more than I appear to be, as well.”

“Do not allow your confidence to blind you, Sorak,” said the Guardian. “Remember, though we are strong, we are not invulnerable. We took an arrow in the back that could easily have killed us, and not even the Watcher saw it coming.”

“I have not forgotten,” Sorak said. “From now on, I will watch my back more carefully.”

“See that you do not leave Valsavis there,” she said.

“I will remember,” Sorak said.

The terrain they traversed was difficult, but Sorak was sure they were moving faster than the marauders. He rode behind Valsavis on his kank, watching the trail ahead, noticing that the old mercenary was picking up every detail of the spoor. By late afternoon, they were approaching the pass midway through the mountain range.

“They will doubtless stop to camp soon,” said Valsavis.

“In the canyon?” Sorak asked.

“Perhaps,” Valsavis replied, “but I would not if I were in their place. I would seek higher ground, the better to avoid surprises.”

“You think they suspect we may be on their trail?”

“I doubt it,” said Valsavis. “They are traveling at an easy pace. They most likely think they left you dead back there, and they can know nothing about me. Unless we are very clumsy, we will have the advantage of surprise.”

“I am very much looking forward to surprising them,” said Sorak grimly.

“We shall have to move quickly,” said Valsavis. “They will not hesitate to use your friend as a hostage. Meanwhile, you need to consider what you want to do if that should come to pass.”

“They must not be allowed to reach their camp,” said Sorak. “Once we make our move, we must commit ourselves. There can be no retreat.”

“And what of your companion?”

“I know that she would not wish me to hesitate on her account,” said Sorak.

“Suppose they put a knife to her throat when we attack? What then?” Valsavis asked.