Simon Hawke - Dark Sun - Chronicles of Athas 3 - The Broken Blade

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The Broken Blade

Simon Hawke

Dark Sun, Chronicles of Athas, Book 03

All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely

coincidental.

Alt TSR characters, character names, and the distinct likenesses thereof are trademarks owned by

TSR, Inc.

This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or

other unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited without the express written permission

of TSR, Inc.

Random House and its affiliate companies have worldwide distribution rights in the book trade for

English language products of TSR, Inc.

Distributed to the book and hobby trade in the United Kingdom by TSR Ltd. Distributed to the toy and

hobby trade by regional distributors.

DARK SUN is a registered trademark owned by TSR, Inc. The TSR logo is a trademark owned by

TSR, Inc.

Cover art by Brom.

First Printing: May 1995

Printed in the United States of America

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 94-68139

ISBN: 0-7869-0137-3

TSR, Inc.

For Mike Stackpole, respected colleague and boon companion

Acknowledgments

With special acknowledgments to Robert M. Powers, Sandra West, Bruce and Peggy Wiley, Marge

and James Koski, Liz Danforth, Emily Tuzson, Daniel Arthur, Vana Wesala, Jennifer Roberson, Allen

Woodman, Brian Thomsen, Rob King, Russell Galen, and all my students in the Sonora Writers Workshop,

who keep me on my toes.

Scanned, formatted and proofed by Dreamcity

Ebook version 1.0

Release Date: May, 25, 2004

Prologue

A dust-covered, blood-spattered young mercenary passed through the elaborately carved wood gates

and into a wide courtyard, a space paved with dark red bricks and lushly landscaped with desert plants. The

graceful fronds of a pagafa tree shaded a large fountain, surrounded by stone benches intricately decorated

with glazed blue and yellow tiles. In garden beds densely planted with purple-flowering broom bush, red and

yellow desert paintbrush, and white-furred old man cactus, large, variegated desert agaves grew over six

feet high and twice as wide, their curving spiked leaves striped in blue and yellow. Beside a blue-needled

agafari, a weeping desert acacia swayed gently in the breeze, its yellow puffball blooms attracting dozens of

hummingbirds, which flitted among the branches like tiny darts.

It was a lovely, peaceful, bucolic scene, the gentle trickle of the fountain adding to the restful

atmosphere. It was a stark contrast to the scene the young mercenary lieutenant had just left.

Matullus paused by the fountain. Taking a deep breath, he unwound his blue and yellow turban and

dipped one end of it into the water, soaking it thoroughly. It would not do to confront Lord Ankhor all

covered in blood. The news he had to give him was bad enough. He wiped away the dust and blood on his

face, chest, and arms. The blood was not his own. The man whose blood it was, the captain of the house

guard, had died suddenly and terribly. He had been standing right next to Matullus when it had happened.

They had responded to an alarm in the merchant plaza. That, in itself, was no unusual occurrence. The

crowded central plaza of Altaruk, with its many merchant stalls, was frequently the scene of arguments and

altercations, but this one had quickly become a full-scale riot. The disturbance that had set it off turned out

to be merely a diversion for the attack that followed, and it had all happened so quickly that Matullus wasn't

even sure who had attacked whom.

The house guard had come marching in quickstep down the aisle between the rows of tented stalls,

where they found a crowd gathered around a couple of combatants, who circled each other with obsidian

knives. As Matullus pushed through the mob to separate the two men, it happened.

There was a blinding flash of blue light just beyond the crowd, and someone screamed. Matullus heard

the unmistakable low whump of thaumaturgic energy bolts striking human bodies, and suddenly everyone

was screaming and bolting from the scene. The guard formation fragmented as the crowd shoved past, and

Matullus drew his sword, trying to find the source of the attack.

He glimpsed several white-robed figures moving quickly behind a row of merchant stalls, and a chill

ran through him. The Veiled Alliance!

"Guard!" the captain shouted. "Assemble on me! This way! On the double!"

"Captain," said Matullus, "those men are—"

"Move, Lieutenant!" the captain shouted without pausing to hear him out. "Now! Go!"

They pushed their way through the milling, panic-stricken throng, past the prone and moaning figures

of people who had been knocked down and trampled by the mob.

The next thing Matullus knew, he was lying facedown in the dirt. He had tripped over a body, or what

was left of a body: the corpse was charred beyond recognition. Where the chest had been there was now a

gaping, blackened hole, its edges cauterized by intense heat. Matullus recoiled in horror, and that was when

it happened.

His captain was bending over him, holding out his hand, and saying, "Get up, man, come on, get—"

when he disappeared in a searing flash of bright blue light. A soft, dull sound followed, like a hammer

striking meat, and the captain came apart in an explosion of blood, entrails and viscera.

For a few moments, Matullus could not see. The blinding flash of thaumaturgic energy had washed

everything out, and bright, pinpoint lights danced before his eyes. He yet felt the heat of it, and of the

spattered blood.

The captain's eviscerated, blackened corpse lay just a few feet away, thrown back by the power of

the energy bolt, and there was not much left of him. One arm and shoulder were missing, most of his chest

was gone, and his hair and flesh had been instantly incinerated. Matullus gagged at the sight and heaved his

guts out, there in the street.

By the time he rose unsteadily to his feet, it was all over. The entire merchant plaza had emptied, save

for a few determined vendors who desperately tried to save goods from burning tents.

Bodies lay everywhere, some alive and moaning, some unmoving, trampled by the fleeing crowd, and

some, like the captain's, incinerated by the devastating magical assault. Matullus stood there amid the

flames and rising smoke while the guard squadron gathered around him.

"Sir, what happened?" one of the mercenaries asked, wide-eyed. They had drawn swords and knives

and were glancing nervously about.

"Where's the captain?" someone asked.

Matullus pointed with his obsidian sword. "There... what's left of him."

He was gratified when two other mercenaries became sick at the sight. At least he was not the only

one. The fire brigade was already arriving, and there was nothing left to do but watch for looters. Matullus

detailed the remainder of the squad to do so, then returned to the barracks, where he immediately sent

reinforcements, under the command of a guard corporal. He, unfortunately, had a much less pleasant duty

to perform. Lord Ankhor would have to be informed at once.

With a sigh, having cleaned himself up as best he could, Matullus wound the turban back around his

head and tucked the long, wet end underneath his cloak.

He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders to the building before him—the mansion of the

House of Ankhor, one of the largest, most powerful merchant houses of Athas. The adobe walls of the

sprawling, four-story building dominated the surrounding area, rising above the one-and two-story buildings

of the town around it. Even the exterior of the house spoke of opulence and luxury. The tan stuccoed walls

were artfully textured by expert craftsmen, and the windows and archways were bordered with blue and

yellow glazed ceramic tile. The gracefully stepped and rounded topcaps of the walls naturally led the eye

toward the center of the mansion, where an arched parapet bore the house crest of Ankhor. It was a

swallowtail flag divided horizontally in two bars of blue and yellow, and it flapped against a background of

yellow tile.

Though the House of Ankhor maintained offices and residences in all the major cities of Athas, this

was its headquarters in Altaruk, where the Ankhor family lived and from which they ran their merchant

empire.

Matullus crossed the courtyard and went through a portal, down a walkway leading through an atrium

and through the doors of the mansion. The steward greeted him as he came in.

"Guard Lieutenant Matullus to see Lord Ankhor on a matter of great urgency," he said.

"Very well, sir, follow me," the steward said. He led him across the high-ceilinged front hall of the

mansion and up a flight of tile-covered stairs to the second floor. The floors of the hall were covered with

expensive Drajian rugs woven in elaborate patterns of red and blue and gold. Wrought iron braziers from

Urik provided the illumination, and wooden chairs and benches from Gulg, elaborately carved and set with

obsidian and precious stones, lined the hall. Every detail testified to the vast trading empire of the House of

Ankhor and the immense wealth of the Ankhor family.

The steward had Matullus wait outside the offices while he entered to announce him. A moment later,

the carved agafari door opened, and the steward said, "Lord Ankhor will see you now." Matullus nervously

moistened his lips and drew himself up. He took a deep breath and entered the airy room beyond. It

centered on a rectangular brick fireplace big enough to roast three full-grown men. The walls were

whitewashed in a dull cream shade, and the ceiling high above had thick, round wooden beams running

across it—old growth agafari trees harvested in the Mekillot Mountains. There were several arched niches

built into the walls, and these held statuary, expensive pottery, and other luxury goods imported by the

house. Several tall iron braziers were placed around the room, and censers on either side of the fireplace

filled the air with the piquant scent of mountain moonflowers.

On the far side of the room, in front of three narrow, arched windows, stood a wide desk crafted from

hundreds of blocks of agafari and pagafa wood inset with obsidian. The worth of that desk alone could have

fed an average family for years. In front of the desk stood two wooden chairs of exquisite craftsmanship,

with soft cushions artfully embroidered in blue and yellow.

One of those chairs was occupied by an elderly man with long gray hair, a lined, narrow face, high

forehead, hooked nose, and deeply sunken eyes. He wore a thin chaplet bearing the hammered-silver house

crest and white robes trimmed with blue and yellow in geometric designs; Lyanus, the minister of accounts

for the House of Ankhor.

The man standing at the windows behind the desk was considerably younger. He was handsome, in

his early thirties, tall and slender, with shoulder-length black hair and dark brown eyes. Unlike Lyanus,

whose pallor gave evidence of a life spent mostly indoors over ledgers, Lord Ankhor was deeply tanned,

and his fine features had the look of a sensualist.

Since his father, Lord Ankhor the Elder, the patriarch of the house, had become infirm in his advanced

years, Lord Ankhor the Younger had taken control of the family empire, and his shrewd business acumen

had led the house to great profit in recent years. He was magnanimous in rewarding success among his

employees, and equally intolerant of failure.

Matullus felt a knot form in his stomach as he crossed the room to stand at attention before the

massive desk. He gave the mercenary salute, thumping his left breast with his right fist, and bowed his head

respectfully. "My lord," he said.

"Ah, Matullus," said Lord Ankhor, turning to face him. "I see smoke rising from the merchant plaza. I

take it you bring news of what's transpired?"

Lord Ankhor's tone was casual and pleasant, but that meant nothing. Matullus had heard Lord Ankhor

sentence men to fifty lashes in exactly the same tone of voice. "My lord, we were attacked."

Ankhor raised his eyebrows. "The House Guard of Ankhor, attacked? In the merchant plaza?"

"We had learned of a disturbance, my lord, and when we arrived, we found two men fighting in the

plaza with knives. However, the fight was merely a diversion. As we moved in to break it up, we were

attacked by magic."

Ankhor frowned. "By magic, you say?"

"Yes, my lord. I saw it myself. It was the Veiled Alliance."

"You saw them? Attack the house guard? I don't believe it. Where is Captain Varos?"

"Dead, my lord. Killed in the attack."

"Incredible," said Ankhor. "Tell me exactly what happened, without leaving out the slightest detail."

Matullus described exactly what had occurred, from the moment they received the alarm to the

moment of the captain's death, leaving out the part about his throwing up. Ankhor listened carefully, as did

Lyanus, saying nothing until he was through. Then Lord Ankhor spoke.

"You say you saw the flash of light from just beyond the crowd, and then you heard someone

scream—before anything else happened?"

"Yes, my lord. That was the moment the attack began. The crowd panicked and dispersed our

formation, but I caught a glimpse of men in the white robes of the Alliance just as Captain Varos gave the

order to assemble and move forward—"

"Did you tell Captain Varos you saw men in robes of the Alliance?"

"I tried to, my lord, but there was no time. Captain Varos gave the order to advance, and then I fell

over a body, as I told you, and in the next instant, Captain Varos was killed. It all happened so fast.... It was

a well-planned ambush, my lord.

There can be no mistake."

"It was an ambush, all right, but you were almost certainly not the targets," Ankhor said.

"My lord?"

"The Veiled Alliance has nothing to gain in attacking my house guard. We are not political. Their

enemies are defilers, not merchants. Clearly, they stalked defilers, not you. They must have spotted their

quarry and launched their attack before you blundered into it."

"But, my lord, the captain was killed."

"An accident, no doubt," said Ankhor. "He was merely in the wrong place at the wrong time. You do

not even know who killed him. From your description, it is clear that spells were exchanged. The Alliance

has always been careful not to injure innocent bystanders. Defilers have no such scruples. Varos could

have been killed by one of the Alliance or one of the defilers they were after. Either way, it was almost

certainly a mistake. You were just caught in the middle. Varos was a brave man and a good fighter, but

much too headstrong. Well, I had planned to replace him, anyway. This merely simplifies the task."

"My lord, I will do my utmost to do you credit," said Matullus, bowing respectfully.

"You?" said Ankhor. "What makes you think I am offering you the job?"

Matullus looked up and blinked with surprise. "But... my lord, as Captain Varos's second-in-command,

I... I naturally assumed—"

"Only fools assume things, Matullus," Lord Ankhor replied. "A wise man knows, and if he does not

know, he takes the trouble to find out. You would do well to remember that. You are young yet and do not

have enough experience. No, this constant skirmishing between the defilers and the Alliance has become

too troublesome. Something must be done, and the job calls for a top-ranked professional.

"I had already sent for Captain Varos's replacement, and he is to arrive shortly. But until Kieran

assumes his duties, you will act as temporary commander of the house guard. Try not to get any more of

them killed, if you can manage it."

"Kieran, my lord?" said Matullus with surprise. "Kieran of Draj?"

"You know of him, then?"

"I know his reputation, my lord," Matullus said. "What mercenary does not? But I heard he had

retired."

"I was able to induce him out of retirement to lead my house guard," Ankhor said, "so you had best

prepare the men. If everything I've heard of him is true, you can expect Kieran to crack the whip from the

very moment he arrives. He sounds like just the man we need at a time like this. Now, go clean yourself up.

You stink of blood."

"Yes, my lord," said Matullus, bowing and backing away several steps before turning to leave.

Once outside, he heaved a sigh of relief. It could have been much worse. It stung his pride to be so

summarily dismissed from consideration as the new captain of the house guard, but at the same time, he

had been passed over for nothing less than the very best.

Kieran of Draj was a living legend among mercenaries, a veteran campaigner who had covered

himself in glory and achieved the dream of every mercenary, to retire a wealthy man. And he had done it

before he had reached his fortieth birthday. Matullus wondered how much Ankhor had offered him to tempt

him out of retirement. It must have been a princely sum. To be second-in-command to a man like Kieran of

Draj would surely make his reputation. And a reputation was worth money in this business. Matullus smiled.

Lord Ankhor had not blamed him for the death of Captain Varos, and it could well be the luckiest thing that

had ever happened to him.

*****

"I had not known you'd hired a replacement for Captain Varos," Lyanus said after Matullus left. "How

long ago did you reach that decision?"

"Oh, some time ago," said Ankhor, dismissing the question with a wave of his hand.

"You normally consult me on such matters."

"Your knowledge of trade is second to none, Lyanus," Ankhor replied, "but hiring mercenaries is a bit

outside your field of expertise. Why, do you disagree with my decision?"

"No, my lord, I know nothing of this Kieran of Draj. I was merely curious.... But, as you say, the

matter is outside my expertise. Still... I might have been effective in conducting the negotiations. I am sure I

could have saved the house some money in concluding arrangements with this man."

Ankhor smiled. "Oh, I doubt that, Lyanus. And that was no slight to your bargaining abilities. Kieran

stated his conditions clearly, and they were absolutely non-negotiable."

"May I inquire what they were, my lord?"

"One hundred thousand gold pieces for one year of service, with half payable up front and the rest in

equal monthly installments."

Lyanus's jaw dropped. "One hundred thousand in gold!" he said with disbelief. "But... but that's

outrageous!"

"Yes, it certainly is," said Ankhor. "And at the end of the first year, the contract is subject to

renegotiation."

"And you mean to tell me you agreed to these incredible demands?"

"I imagine Kieran was no less amazed than you when I accepted his terms," said Ankhor with

amusement. "He expected me to refuse, of course. That was why he named so ridiculous a sum. He had

no wish to come out of retirement, especially not to command the guard of a merchant house. This is a man

who had distinguished himself in war. However, once he stated his terms and I agreed to them, he had no

choice but to accept. Otherwise I could have accused him of dealing in bad faith, and that would have

besmirched his reputation. A man like Kieran lives and dies by his reputation."

"But, my lord... why?" Lyanus said, aghast. "You could easily have hired an entire battalion of

mercenaries for such a sum!"

"It is a significant expense, I agree, but we can easily afford it," Ankhor said. "Besides, if I had hired a

battalion of mercenaries, it would not have created the impression I intended."

"But... I do not understand, my lord," Lyanus said with a puzzled expression.

"The Merchant Code requires us to be nonpolitical," said Ankhor, "but we are, of course, very much

concerned with politics. One cannot transact business profitably otherwise. I wanted everyone to know that

the House of Ankhor will spare no expense in hiring the very best to lead our guard in this turbulent time—a

man whose reputation is established and beyond question. We share with the House of Jhamri the

responsibilities of policing Altaruk; both houses are headquartered here, and I wanted everyone to know just

how seriously we take that responsibility."

"Lord Jhamri, in particular," said Lyanus, catching on.

"Precisely," Ankhor replied with a smile. "My father spent his entire life competing with the House of

Jhamri, and it wore him out. They were always bigger, always wealthier, and they always regarded us as

upstart newcomers. At social functions, they treated my father as a second-class citizen, as a peasant unfit

to rub shoulders with them. Oh, they were unfailingly polite, but their condescending tolerance was a slap

across the face. I have never forgiven them that, and I never shall."

"But you recently signed a partnership with the House of Jhamri," said Lyanus.

"Because trying to compete with them in the marketplace is pointless," Ankhor said. "We could never

match their resources. Whereas if we join them in partnership, we can take advantage of them. Jhamri

thinks he has beaten us. He believes I am more pragmatic than my father, that in allying with his house, I

have made a wise decision that ensures our survival and extends his own holdings, since the agreement

places him in the preeminent position.

"Well, he is half right, at any rate. I am more pragmatic than my father. I realize that competing with

the Jhamris is not the way to beat them. The way to beat them is to join them... and undermine them

politically."

"And Kieran is part of your plan?" Lyanus asked.

"Exactly," Ankhor said. "I had my agents negotiate with Kieran on behalf of the House of Jhamri, in

my new capacity as junior trading partner. His salary will come out of my pocket, of course, but he will

wear the red of Jhamri, not the buff and blue of Ankhor."

Lyanus frowned. "I fear you've lost me, my lord. You mean, you have, in essence, given this Kieran as

a present to Lord Jhamri's house? Where is the profit in this? And how can he lead our house guard if he

wears the Jhamri colors?"

Ankhor smiled. "You have an excellent mind for detail, good Lyanus, but a poor one for intrigue. Lord

Jhamri will see my employment of Kieran on his behalf as a gesture to ingratiate myself with him. It is just

the sort of thing a man in my position would be expected to do.

"After years of competition, he has finally brought the House of Ankhor to its knees, and in my new

position as his subsidiary trading partner, it would seem perfectly logical for me to curry favor with him as

evidence of my good faith. After all, my father was his enemy, and as his supposedly weaker, more

pragmatic son, whose primary interest is in enjoying a self-indulgent lifestyle, I will play up to his

expectations by trying to prove myself his friend. He will, of course, have no idea how much I am paying

Kieran, and it would be impolitic of him to ask. And a condition of my contract with Kieran is that he not

reveal the amount of his salary.

"However," Lord Ankhor continued, "at the proper time, I shall allow that information to leak out.

Meanwhile, Kieran will command my house guard because Lord Jhamri will insist on it, especially now that

I have tragically lost Captain Varos. The fool could not have gotten killed at a better time. Lord Jhamri

already has a captain for his house guard, and it would not be practical to demote him in Kieran's favor,

especially when he has done nothing to deserve it.

"No, he will magnanimously offer Kieran to me, to command my own guard, but I will insist that

Kieran wear the Jhamri red and act as the nominal co-commander with Jhamri's own captain. A merely

titular appointment, with no real authority behind it. The two units will continue to remain separate. At the

same time, Jhamri will have the satisfaction of having all of Altaruk see the commander of the Ankhor

House Guard wearing his colors, a clear sign to everyone of who is in control. He will think he has

outmaneuvered me, and I will be seem to have placed myself at a considerable disadvantage for the sake of

public safety."

"Very shrewd, my lord," Lyanus said. "If, indeed, it comes out as you predict."

"Rest assured, it will," said Ankhor. "These recent outbreaks of violence in Altaruk have steadily been

growing worse, and everyone is greatly concerned. The Alliance has always maintained a strong presence

here, because the defilers have never had much influence.

"However, defiler numbers have been growing, and the Alliance is stepping up efforts to eliminate

them. Each faction tries to spy out the other, and Altaruk has become a hotbed of intrigue. If things keep up

at this rate, we shall soon be caught squarely in a full-scale mage war. And that would be very bad for

business."

"And you have a plan to prevent this conflict?" asked Lyanus.

"Oh, I always have a plan, Lyanus. Kieran is only the first part of that plan. The public part, for there

is also another, very private part. The first part is the fire I light under the House of Jhamri, and the second

is the ice."

"The ice, my lord?" Lyanus asked, puzzled.

"Yes, an ice that will freeze the very soul, Lyanus," Ankhor said with a smile so warm and pleasant

that it sent a chill through the old minister of accounts.

Lyanus had learned to watch his young master's eyes when he smiled. This time, they were

terrifying—dead and flat, devoid of emotion. In that moment, Lyanus wondered if Ankhor had a soul. "I... I

do not understand, my lord."

"All in good time, Lyanus," Lord Ankhor replied as he turned back to the window to watch the

merchant plaza burn. "All in good time."

Chapter One

It was almost dawn on the Great Ivory Plain, and the twin moons cast a ghostly light on the seemingly

endless expanse of sparkling, hard-packed crystal. As the night wind shifted, blowing from the east, Sorak

seemed to hear the tormented cries of the lost souls wandering the streets of Bodach, whose crumbling

spires rose in the distance, barely visible in the bright, silvery moonlight.

Perhaps it was his imagination. Surely not even an elfling could hear across fifty miles of desert. And

yet, tricks of the wind could sometimes carry sound far out in the trackless wastes of Athas, especially here

where nothing grew, here on the shimmering crystal plain. As the desert breeze blew across the silt basins

to the east, rustling through the palm fronds of the oasis, Sorak was almost certain he could hear the faint

sounds of a tortured wailing, a chorus of ululating voices that chilled him to the bone. It was a sound he had

hoped never to hear again.

Soon, the sun would rise and the living dead of Bodach would slink back to their hiding places in the

ruins. The wind would cease to bear their fearsome wails across the desert, and the city of undead would

fall silent as the sands swirled through its deserted streets and plazas. A deceptive stillness would once

again descend upon the Great Ivory Plain as the dark sun baked its crystal surface with temperatures high

enough to boil blood.

During the day, Bodach seemed merely an abandoned city on a narrow spit of land jutting into the

great silt sea—the isolated, crumbling ruins of a once great civilization that had flourished upon Athas in an

age when the world was green and the sea filled with water, not with brown and swirling silt. But at night,

horror stalked Bodach, and those who fell victim to the city's undead rose again to join their ranks, doomed

by an age-old curse to spend eternity protecting the lost treasure of the ancients.

What Sorak had found in the city of undead was of greater value than any material treasure. He had

found a gateway into Sanctuary, the refuge of the Sage, and it was there that he had learned the answers to

the questions that had plagued him all his life. It was there that he had found himself, and in the process,

came close to losing everything, even his life.

As he stood upon the low and rocky ridge that sheltered the oasis at the edge of the great salt plain,

Sorak glanced back toward Ryana, sleeping in her bedroll by their campfire. Together, they had survived

the city of undead, and their journey to find the Sage had taken them from their home in the forests of the

Ringing Mountains all the way across the harsh and foreboding desert Tablelands. Along the way, they had

fought marauders and mercenaries, half-giants and defilers, corrupt aristocrats and paid assassins, and a

host of undead warriors. They had even defied the wrath of the Shadow King, Nibenay, himself. They had

come a long way from the beginning of their quest and had both sacrificed a great deal to follow the Path of

the Preserver. Their lives had changed immeasurably since they had set out on their journey, and as Sorak

stood there, the cool night breeze ruffling his long, dark hair, he thought back to how it all had begun.

*****

From childhood, he had been a tribe of one—a half-breed with a dozen personalities, some male, some

female, each with distinctive attributes. A wandering pyreen had found him half dead, alone out in the

desert. When the shapechanger realized that his ordeal had fragmented his young mind, she had brought

him to the villichi convent, nestied high in an isolated valley of the Ringing Mountains.

The villichi were a sisterhood of warrior priestesses who had vowed to follow the Way of the Druid

and the Path of the Preserver. They were women born with fully developed psionic powers, mutants

ostracized from their communities. They were taller than most women, broad shouldered and long limbed,

and most were marked with albino features—snow-white hair, eyes ranging from palest green or gray to

pink, and pale, almost translucent skin that burned easily in the hot Athasian sun. Each year, robed villichi

priestesses went out on pilgrimages to search for others of their kind, but never in all the history of Athas

had there been a male villichi. In all the years the convent had existed, no male had set foot in its walls.

Though he was male, Sorak was accepted by the high mistress of the convent, both out of her

reverence for the pyreen and because she had detected his inborn psionic powers. He was not only an

elfling, born of a forbidden union between halfling and elf, he was also a tribe of one, a condition so rare

that it was known only among villichi. He was an outcast, as were most villichi, and if he was not villichi

himself, then he was as close to being one as any male had ever been. The high mistress took him in and

named him Sorak, an elvish word for a nomad who travels alone.

Sorak grew up among the villichi sisterhood. One of them, Ryana, a villichi girl his own age, became

his closest friend. They grew up together, played together, trained together in the exotic warrior arts of the

villichi, and studied the Way of the Druid. But as they grew older, youthful friendship and affection gave

way to love and sexual attraction. And Sorak found himself tormented, torn between his own desires and

those of his other personalities.

The female personalities residing in him could accept Ryana as sister or friend, but not as lover, so

Sorak left the convent to seek out his destiny and discover the truth of his origins. But Ryana would not be

parted from him. When she found out that he had left, she broke her villichi vows, fled the convent in the

middle of the night, and followed him out into the desert.

Together, they sought the Sage, the reclusive and mysterious preserver wizard who had embarked

upon the long and arduous course of metamorphosis into an avangion, the only creature capable of standing

against the power of the dragon kings. Only the magic of the Sage was great enough to help Sorak discover

his past, and only preserver magic, which did not destroy the dwindling natural resources of Athas, could

cure him of his rare condition. To accept the help of a defiler would have violated everything he had been

raised to believe, and would have doomed him to forsake forever the Path of the Preserver. However, in

searching for the Sage, Sorak had attracted the attention of the dragon kings and their defiler minions, who

regarded the preserver wizard as the sole threat to their power.

In Bodach, Sorak and Ryana faced not only an army of undead, but the murderous champion of the

Shadow King, a ruthless killer named Valsavis. They prevailed, but only at great cost. Guided by Kara, a

pyreen known as the Silent One, they had found the gateway into Sanctuary in Bodach. It was a magical

doorway into another time and place, in an age when Athas was still green. That was the secret of the

Sage, and it was why none of the dragon kings had ever been able to find him. They sought him in the

present, but he had used his magic to find a refuge in the distant past.

In Sanctuary, Sorak found the answers he had so long sought. He had already deduced that the Sage

was the same person once known as the Wanderer, who had chronicled his peregrinations across Athas in

a book known as The Wanderer's Journal. What he had not known was that the preserver wizard was his

grandfather.

The Sage cast a spell on Sorak, which enabled him to see into his past. He discovered who his parents

were, and what his truename was, and what had become of his people. Through the magic of the Sage,

Sorak saw how the Moon Runner tribe of elves had been destroyed by a necromancer called the Faceless

One, a defiler wizard hired by Sorak's halfling grandfather.

However, finding out those answers both set Sorak free and severed him from the only security he

had ever really known. The voices of his multiple personas would never speak to him again. The wise,

maternal Guardian; the stoic Ranger; the calculating Eyron; the brash and irrepressible Kivara; the beastlike

Screech; the gentle, childlike Lyric; and the others... all were gone now. They had joined with the Sage,

living on inside him as he entered the next stage of his transformation. The act that empowered the Sage's

evolution also healed Sorak's fragmented personality, and now Sorak was left feeling more alone than he

had ever felt before.

"All living creatures are alone, Sorak," Ryana told him afterward in an attempt to ease his pain. "That

is why they mate and bond in friendship."

"Yes, I know," he replied. "But it is one thing to know it, and still another to experience truly being

alone for the first time. I have never known the feeling. For as long as I can remember, I have had the

others with me. Now, I feel their absence, the emptiness in my soul. It feels as if a part of me is missing."

Nor was his multiplicity the only thing he lost.

When he had left the convent, High Mistress Varanna had given him a gift, a wondrous sword named

Galdra—the enchanted blade of elven kings. It had been entrusted to her safekeeping by a pyreen elder,

who had received it from the hand of Akron himself, last of the ancient line of elven kings. Sorak had not

known the nature of the blade's enchantment when he had received it, but he learned that it would cut

through anything, and that other blades would shatter upon contact with its elven steel. He knew, too, that if

Galdra fell into the hands of a defiler, its magic blade would shatter—and that was precisely what happened

when he fought Valsavis, champion of the Shadow King. When Valsavis seized the sword, a blinding

explosion of white light shattered the enchanted blade. Now, all that remained was the hilt and about a foot

of broken blade. Of the legend once engraved on it in ancient runes—"Strong in spirit, true in temper,

forged in faith"—only the elvish symbols for "Strong in spirit" now remained. A defiler's hand had touched

it, and the enchantment was broken.

*****

As he stood alone upon the rocky ridge in the first orange-tinted light of dawn, Sorak drew the broken

blade from his belt and held it up before him, staring at it as it gleamed with a faint blue eldritch light, the

remaining trace energies of the enchantment. Why keep it? It was useless as a sword, and Sorak bore

Valsavis's iron sword now, anyway. But Ryana had insisted that the legend of Galdra still stood for

something and could be of use to them. Sorak grimaced wryly as he thought of it.

It was said in the songs of elven bards that whoever bore the sword Galdra was fated to become the

Crown of Elves, the ruler who would once again unite the scattered tribes under one king. In his travels,

Sorak had encountered elves who had believed that he would be that king, but he wanted no part of any

elven crown.

Though his mother had named him Alaron after the long-dead elven king, Sorak felt the name did not

belong to him. For as long as he could remember, he had been Sorak, the Nomad, and now that he had

finally learned his truename, it did not seem to fit him. He was no elven king, no elven kingmaker.

So why keep the broken blade? Ryana thought it important, as did Kara. "Keep it as a symbol of what

you have achieved, and what we struggle for," the pyreen told him before they parted.

But was it really a symbol of achievement, Sorak wondered, or a symbol of a life left behind? He was

no longer a tribe of one, an elfling with a dozen different personalities. Now, he was merely Sorak the

elfling, the Nomad, around whom unwanted legends had already sprung up. Such notoriety brought only

trouble, and he had enough trouble as it was.

For the first time in his life, he felt alone and vulnerable. Yet, for all that he had lost, he had gained the

one thing he had never thought that he could have. Ryana.

He turned his back upon the great salt plain and gazed down the slope into the small oasis where

Ryana slept, curled up in her bedroll near the smoking embers of their campfire. He thought back to the day

she had declared her love for him. It seemed almost a lifetime ago....

*****

As usual, after weapons training in the morning, the villichi students went down to the stream to bathe.

In a desert world, a running stream was the rarest of luxuries, yet Sorak and his villichi companions took it

for granted. The Ringing Mountains around them were covered with thick, old-growth forests, and he spent

long days hiking through the lush woods, or running with Tigra by his side, a tigone that had been his

constant companion since his childhood.

Instead of joining the others at the lagoon, Sorak and his best friend Ryana wandered off to a special

spot a bit farther downstream. As they sat together on a large rock outcropping in the middle of the stream,

feeling the coolness of the water rush over them, Ryana told him how she felt. "Sorak... there is something

I have been meaning to ask you—"

"I know what you are going to ask. I have known for some time." He had seen it coming and had

dreaded the moment when she would finally give voice to her feelings. She had known he was a tribe of

one, but because his other personalities all spoke with his male voice, she had not suspected that some of

them were female, and he had been afraid to tell her. When she learned the truth at last, it took her

completely by surprise.

Shocked and dismayed by his disclosure, Ryana fled to the temple tower, where she began a period of

solitary meditation.

That was when Sorak appeared before High Mistress Varanna and told her he was going to leave the

convent. He felt his continued presence would only bring heartache to Ryana, whom he cared for very

deeply, but could never have. The vows taken by villichi priestesses did not permit them to have mates, and

even if they had, his female personas would never have allowed it.

Though he had lived with the villichi sisterhood, he was never one of them, and as an adult male living

among them, he knew he would only be a source of discord. He thought that by leaving, he would free

Ryana from the burden of loving him.

Instead, she forsook her vows and followed.

*****

Now, freed of his multiple personas, Sorak was able to accept her as a lover at long last, and that

made all the difference. The harsh light of morning softened in his eyes as he looked down upon Ryana,

sleeping below. In Sanctuary, they had made love for the first time, and they vowed that they would always

be together, no matter what the future brought.

He pulled the broken blade from his belt. It might still have made a useful knife, even though the tip

resisted all his efforts to sharpen it into a tapering point. Useless, though it yet sparked faintly with a

crackling discharge of blue energy, like a guttering candle.

So much for the legend of the Crown of Elves, he thought. A broken blade, a broken people, scattered

throughout Athas in small desert-dwelling tribes or living in the cities, where they performed the most

menial of labor or eked out lives as gamers and merchants in the squalid, overcrowded elven quarters. A

legend, perhaps, would give them some small hope for their future. Those who still believed in it, at any

rate. But if they met with the reality, then they would see only a nomadic wanderer with a broken sword,

not a fabled blade borne by an elven king. Why shatter their illusions, as the touch of a defiler had shattered

the steel of the blade?

Why shatter more lives? Sorak's ancestors had done enough of that already....

*****

The Sage, his maternal grandfather, was the only family Sorak knew. He did not know if his paternal

grandfather, the halfling chieftain Ragna, still lived, but hoped he was dead. If Ragna lived and Sorak found

it out, the halfling would live no longer.

Sorak would never understand what sort of father could condemn his own son to death by fire for

mating with a female of another race. Ragna had meant for him to die as well, and but for a chance casting

of a spell, Sorak had survived.

Ragna's commission to the Faceless One was to cast a spell to slay every last elfin the Moon Runner

tribe. Sorak had been spared only because he was not a full-blooded elf. He was a half-breed, born of two

races that were natural enemies. The spell cast by the Faceless One had failed to strike him down, as it had

struck down all the others, and though he was a sworn enemy of all defilers, Sorak despised the Faceless

One above all others. He knew nothing of the wizard but his name, yet somehow, somewhere, he would

find him. And then his father and his mother and her tribe would be avenged. Death to the sorcerer, and to

the grandfather who commissioned him.

It was a cold and ruthless resolution. An unsettling thought.

And there were so many thoughts streaming through his head these days. He could not get used to the

curious feeling of being all alone in there.

He was having trouble sleeping. When he was a tribe of one, Sorak could rest by letting one of his

other personalities come to the fore and take over. He would fade back and "go under," as if sinking down

into warm darkness, sometimes aware of what was happening outside and sometimes not, while his body

remained awake and in the control of one of his other personalities.

Now that he was just alone, he had to learn to fall asleep the way that everyone else did. Sooner or

later, he grew tired, and then sleep would come. However, being part elf and part halfling meant his body

possessed immense physical reserves. Since leaving Sanctuary, he had found he could go for days without

sleep. He would lie down to rest, as he had done the previous night, but while Ryana quickly fell asleep, he

remained awake, his mind relentlessly active as if it sought to fill the void left by his other personalities.

It was a new life, a new way of being, and he was not yet accustomed to it.

Often, at night after Ryana fell asleep, he would start talking to himself, a habit many people had, but

Sorak would half expect to hear an answer. He would start to speak to one of his personalities aloud, as he

had often done before, and when no answer came, he would remember again there would be no answer,

and then the crushing loneliness would descend on him like an immense weight on his chest.

*****

Sorak felt the warmth of the dark sun as it slowly rose on the horizon. Soon, Ryana would awaken,

and they would fill their waterskins from the oasis pool and set off once again, en route to North Ledopolus,

one of two dwarven villages located on opposite banks of the Estuary of the Forked Tongue, roughly thirty

miles southwest. From there, they planned to cross the estuary to South Ledopolus, through which the

caravan trade route ran from Altaruk to Balic.

Neither he nor Ryana had ever been to that part of the world, and all they knew of it was what

Sorak's grandfather had written in his journal, a copy of which Sorak carried with him. However, it had

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TheBrokenBladeSimonHawkeDarkSun,ChroniclesofAthas,Book031995TSR,Inc.AllRightsReserved.Allcharactersinthisbookarefictitious.Anyresemblancetoactualpersons,livingordead,ispurelycoincidental.AltTSRcharacters,characternames,andthedistinctlikenessesthereofaretrademarksownedbyTSR,Inc.Thisbookisprotectedund...

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Simon Hawke - Dark Sun - Chronicles of Athas 3 - The Broken Blade

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