The Nomad - By Simon Hawke Page 0,60

but saw that she was in no need of his assistance.

One marauder was already lying in a pool of his own blood. She ran the second one through even as Valsavis turned toward her. And it took her less than a moment to finish off the third. Valsavis watched with open admiration as her blade executed its delicate and lethal dance. The marauders were no competition for her. She had quickly dispatched two, and now the third was on the retreat, desperately trying to parry her flurry of strokes, but he was hopelessly out of his depth. It ended quickly, one thrust, and it was over.

Valsavis glanced toward the far end of the plaza. The last he had seen of Sorak, he was suddenly charging the four men at the other end. Now only one remained, the leader. Valsavis heard the man scream once, and then the scream was abruptly cut off and Sorak stood alone.

Valsavis heard the sound of running footsteps and turned, raising his sword to meet the threat, but it wasn’t more marauders. It was a squad of the town guards, mercenaries by the look of them, and they seemed to know their business. They did not simply come charging in blindly. Instead, as they entered the plaza from a side street, they fanned out quickly and covered the area with their crossbows. Valsavis slowly sheathed his blade and held his hands out away from his sides.

Ryana came up beside him and did likewise. Sorak approached them across the plaza, moving slowly, his blade sheathed. He was carefully keeping his hands in plain sight.

The mercenary captain quickly glanced around the plaza, taking in the situation. “What happened here?” he demanded.

“We were attacked,” Ryana said. “We had no choice but to defend ourselves.”

The mercenary leader looked around. “You three i did all this by yourselves?” he asked in disbelief. “I saw it all,” cried a voice from a window on the second floor of a building facing onto the plaza. “It happened just the way she says!”

Someone else who had apparently witnessed the fighting from the safety of his building added his voice in agreement. “It was a dozen against three! And I have never seen anything like it!”

“Nor have I,” the mercenary captain said, apparently convinced by this corroboration. Several people started coming out into the street, staring at the scene with fascination, but the mercenaries held them back.

“Do you have any idea why these men attacked you?” asked their captain.

“They were marauders,” said Sorak. “Some of their comrades had attacked us on our way here and we fought back. These men trailed us and came looking for revenge.”

“It seems they found more than they had bargained for,” the mercenary captain said. He signaled his men to lower their bows. “I will require your names,” he said.

They gave them.

“Where are you lodging?” the mercenary asked.

“The Oasis,” Sorak said. “But we were planning to leave Salt View tomorrow. Unless, of course, there is any difficulty about that.”

“No difficulty,” said the mercenary captain. “Witnesses have borne your story out. I am satisfied that it was self-defense. And it would seem unlikely that three would try to ambush twelve,” he added wryly. “Though I daresay, given the results, it certainly appears that you could have pulled it off.”

“We are free to go, then?” Sorak asked.

“You are free to go,” the mercenary captain said. He turned and beckoned to one of his men. “Go and get the charnel wagon to remove these bodies.”

As they crossed the plaza, heading back toward Main Street, Valsavis glanced down at the corpses of the marauders Sorak killed. He noticed two very interesting things. Each of their weapons had shattered, as if made of glass. And each man had an expression of stark terror frozen on his features. It was only the second time that Valsavis had seen Sorak in action. The first time, the marauders had been taken by surprise, and they had been drinking heavily. This time, however, they had come sober and prepared to fight—for all the good that it had done them. He was beginning to understand why the Shadow King felt anxious about this elfling.

There was something very special about that sword of his, quite aside from its obvious rarity. When he had first seen it, Valsavis had noted the hilt, wrapped with precious silver wire, and the unusual shape of the blade, but though he was curious to see the elven steel, he had never removed it from its scabbard.