Dark Sun: Prism Pentad 1 - The Verdent Passage (9 page)

Unlike magic, which drew energy from the land and converted it into a spell, the force
Agis was about to use came from somewhere other than AthasÑthough no one knew exactly
where. Some practitioners believed they summoned it from another dimension. Others claimed
that living beings were infused with unimaginable amounts of energy, and that they were
merely tapping into their own resources.

Agis believed he was creating the power. By its very nature, the Way was a cryptic and
undefinable art, relying on confidence and faith instead of knowledge and logic. In
contrast to the precise incantations and rigid laws of balance governing magic, which
caused Agis and many others to think of it as more of a science than an art, the Way was
fluid and malleable. With it, one could do almost anythingÑprovided he could create and
control the energies required without destroying himself. A practitioner could call upon
the Way as often as he wished or summon as much of it as he needed, without fear of
harming the land.

Once he felt the power he needed surge into his hand, Agis focused his thoughts on his
sword. It was a magnificent weapon as ancient as Tyr itself, with a beautiful basket of
etched brass upon the hilt and its long history etched on the face of its curved steel
blade. He stretched his arm toward the sword and saw himself gripping the hilt. He
remembered how it felt to hold the smooth, cord-wrapped hilt in his hand, and then he
lifted the weapon out of its case.

“Very impressive,” Tithian said.

Agis opened his eyes again and saw, as he had expected, that the sword was now truly in
his hand. Using the energy of the Way, he had simply reached across the intervening
distance and picked it up.

Agis moved toward the templar, saying, “You didn't come here as a friend.”

“Actually, I did,” Tithian said, not retreating. “I'm sure you'll appreciate that... if
you'll just go to the front of the house.”

Agis frowned, still suspicious. “You lead the way,” he ordered, motioning toward the
garden's exit.

“Of course.” Tithian smiled.

The templar led the way around the west side of the house, past a marble colonnade where
Agis often received special guests. As they neared the front of the mansion, Tithian went
up a short flight of steps onto a veranda that enveloped the front of the house. When they
stepped around the corner, Agis's heart fell.

The anterior courtyard was filled with five hundred slaves, nearly his entire work force.
They were being guarded by magical human-giant mixes called simply “half-giants.” Members
of a brutish race, the guards stood as high as twelve feet, with heavy-boned features,
sloped foreheads, and long, drooping jaws. They all had chunky, almost flabby builds, with
sagging shoulders, round bellies, and enormous bowed legs. The half-giants near Agis's
house were dressed in hemp breeches and the purple tunics of the king's legion.

Agis's personal guard, a hundred men and dwarves wearing leather corselets, sat to one
side of the courtyard with their hands on their heads. They were being guarded by a dozen
of Tithian's subordinate templars, who held their hands forward and high, making it clear
that they were ready to deal with any resistance by casting the spells granted to them by
the king.

Caro Agis's dwarven manservant, stood at the head of the slaves, his sagging chin resting
on his sunken chest and his cloudy eyes focused on the ground. The ancient dwarf's bald
head and hairless face were cracked by age lines and his black eyes were little more than
narrow, dark slits peering out from beneath their baggy lids.

“I'm sorry, master,” he apologized in the thick mumble of a toothless old man. “I should
of warned you, but I was napping.”

“It's not your fault, Caro,” Agis said.

“It is,” the dwarf maintained. “If I'd have been awake, none of this would have happened.”

“Damn it, Caro, if I say it's not your fault, it isn't!” Agis snapped, loosing patience
with his stubborn manservant. “Is that clear?”

Caro scowled, staring at Agis for a moment, then finally looked at the ground and nodded.

Agis faced Tithian and demanded, “What's happening here?”

The templar met the black-haired noble's gaze evenly. “The king has need of more slaves to
complete his ziggurat,” Tithian said, his voice assuming an officious and imperious tone.
“The survivors will be returned to you after it is completed.”

Agis lifted his sword a few inches. “I should just kill you now and be over with it.”

Tithian looked hurt, but did not retreat. “Need I point out that you're threatening a
lawful representative of the Golden Tower? This is an act of open revolt, Senator.”

“You don't have the authority to confiscate my slaves,” Agis said, reluctantly lowering
his sword.

'The king issued a decree giving me that authority this morning," Tithian replied.

“The Senate will veto that decree!”

“Not if it knows what's good for it.” Tithian's voice grew less formal. “If you try, Kalak
will make sure that there aren't enough senators in attendance to achieve quorum.” The
high templar started to leave, then paused. “I'll leave the women and children to work
your fields. That's more than I'm allowing anyone else, old friend.”

The City of Tyr

As Sadira approached the rusty, iron-clad gates of Tyr, she cast a wary glance at the
templar standing behind the customary pair of half-giant guards. He wore the standard
black cassock of the king's bureaucracy, but even in the dim light of dusk she could see
the glint of a metal pendant hanging from his neck. The jewelry suggested he was a man of
considerable rank, for ordinary templars could hardly have afforded so much metal.

Without slowing her pace toward the city, the sorceress searched the area immediately
outside the gate, looking for anything that might explain the templar's presence. From
what she knew of Tyr, it was odd for a high-ranking official to assume the mundane duty of
supervising guards at the gate.

To one side of the road, thirty porters were unloading a wooden argosy, one of the mighty
fortress wagons used by merchants to haul cargo across the vast deserts of Athas. The
caravan wagon was too large to maneuver in the streets of Tyr, so it had to be unloaded
outside the gate.

The two mekillots that drew the argosy were still anchored in their harnesses. Nearly as
long as the wagon itself, the lizards had huge, mound-shaped bodies covered by a thick
shell that served both as armor and a source of shade. Sadira gave the mammoth beasts a
wide berth, for they were famous for lashing out with their long tongues and making snacks
of imprudent passersby.

The other side of the road was clear of argosies and caravans of other sorts. There was a
large patch of dusty ground where wagons would wait their turn at loading and unloading,
but it was empty now. Beyond this barren patch, dozens of starving slaves were spreading
offal from the city sewers over one of the king's fields. As they used their bare hands to
throw fistfuls of the foul-smelling sludge over the azure burgrass, or to pack it around
the stems of the golden smokebrush that speckled the field, their black-robed overseers
whipped them mercilessly with nine-stranded whips.

When her furtive search of the gate area revealed no reason for the templar's unusual
presence, Sadira hitched up the huge bundle of sticks on her back and continued at her
same slow pace. Though the templar made her nervous, she saw no choice except to trudge
slowly forward and hope that his presence had nothing to do with her. Turning away now
would have drawn too much attention and, besides, she was too exhausted and thirsty to
spend the night in the desert.

After her escape from the Break, Sadira had collected her spellbook and slipped away from
Tithian's compound by walking invisibly out the main gate. Her spell had lasted long
enough for her to reach a cluster of rocks just beyond the edge of Tithian's lands. Here,
she had gathered the large bundle of sticks now slung over her back, put her spellbook in
a drab shoulder satchel, and donned a tattered robe over her low-cut smock so that she
would draw less attention to herself. She had then gone to the road and trudged to Tyr
with the slow, measured pace of a loyal slave who had spent the morning scouring the
countryside in search of wooden tool-handles for her master.

The journey had been as uneventful as the other trips Sadira periodically undertook to
visit her contact in the Veiled Alliance, save that the road had been emptier than usual
because she had been traveling in the afternoon, the hottest time of day. Now, as she
approached the eastern gate, the sun was already sinking behind the scorched peaks of the
western horizon. Fiery filaments of magenta and burgundy were shooting across the sky, and
evening was casting its purple shadow over the city's sand-colored walls.

In the center of Tyr, the setting sun cast a scarlet glow upon the imperious Golden Tower.
The spire looked as though it were dripping with blood. Next to the palace loomed the
massive ziggurat, its heart blackened by the shadows of evening. In the blazing light that
outlined its extremities, Sadira could see thousands of tiny silhouettes swarming over the
great structure, and she knew Kalak's slaves were still at work.

Counting herself lucky not to be among them, Sadira stooped a little farther beneath her
load of sticks. She fixed her eyes on the dusty road and walked into the gloomy gateway,
hoping that if she ignored the gate guards and their overseer, they would ignore her.

A half-giant stepped into her path, and Sadira found herself staring at a pair of hairy,
sandaled feet over half a yard long. For a moment, she remained motionless, studying the
guard's huge, black-nailed toes. At the same time, she reviewed in her mind the spells she
knew, trying to guess which one would prove most useful in this situation.

When the guard did not step aside, Sadira slowly lifted her gaze. Though not particularly
muscular, each of the half-giant's thighs were as thick as a tree trunk and probably
heavier. Over his round belly, which was solid and powerful despite its shape, he wore a
purple tunic emblazoned with Kalak's golden star. He cradled a great club of polished bone
across his stomach, at a height about even with the half-elf's eyes.

Sadira tilted her head back and looked upward, setting aside her load of sticks. The
half-giant's shoulders were as broad as she was tall. Atop his stout neck sat a huge head
with a drooping jaw and baggy, sad-looking eyes.

“Yes, Mountainous One?” she asked, giving him a charming smile.

Instead of answering, the half-giant looked to the templar. Though Sadira's pale blue eyes
remained focused on the guard, her mind was on the bureaucrat standing to one side of the
road. The man had a portly build and pale hair, with puffy cheeks and tight, pursed lips.
His red-rimmed eyes were studying the half-elf with a casual, imperious attitude. The
beguiling sorceress quickly judged him to be a lonely, bitter man, just the sort to fall
prey to her charms.

“Ask the girl who she belongs to,” the templar commanded with exaggerated arrogance.
Though Sadira was clearly no girl, it was the habit in Tyr to address slaves as if they
were children.

Without waiting for the half-giant to repeat the question, Sadira turned her alluring
smile on the templar. “I belong to Marut the tool-shaper,” she said in a silky voice.

The sorceress allowed her eyes to run over the official, finishing by meeting his gaze.
When the templar raised his brow at her interest, Sadira coyly looked away and pretended
to be embarrassed. A faint blush spread across her high, smooth cheeks. “I have here
handles for Marut's axes,” she said.

Sadira had no idea who Marut was, or even if such a person really existed. All she knew
was that her contact in the Veiled Alliance had instructed her to reply in this manner
when questioned. On the few occasions when the guards had interrogated her before, the
answer had always secured her release.

“Marut will be happy to loan his slave to the king.” The templar's voice was cold and
emotionless, but his eyes were studying the half-elf's fine features and surveying the
svelte figure beneath her tattered cloak with a covetous air. “Perhaps I shall even
present you to him myself, girl.”

Both half-giants chuckled lewdly, then the one behind the sorceress moved to grab her.

Sadira eluded his grasp. “I beg you, handsome sir! I'm already late and my master will
beat me!”

The sorceress fell to her knees in front of the pudgy official. She surreptitiously opened
her tattered robe so it would expose the revealing smock beneath, but was careful not to
open it so far that the stolen dagger on her hip became visible. At the same time, she
touched the palm of her free hand to the ground, summoning the power for the spell she
hoped would save her. It rushed up her arm and gathered inside her swiftly, for there was
an ample supply of energy this close to the king's fields.

Under her breath, she whispered the incantation that would shape her spell, at the same
time disguising the mystical gestures by bowing her head and hunching her shoulders. It
was risky to employ magic against templars, for it was always possible that they would
recognize when a spell was being cast and interrupt it.

A huge hand seized the half-elf's shoulder. “Come here, slave, or you won't even make it
to the king's pens.”

As the guard lifted her off the ground, Sadira fixed her eyes on the templar's. She
released the spell by pursing her full lips as if blowing him a kiss.

The man narrowed his beady eyes and frowned. He ran his plump hand over his face and shook
his head, but when he looked back to Sadira, there was a warmth to his gaze that had not
been there before. Her spell had worked. Now the templar would want to help her, as long
as it posed no risk to him. All she had to do was find the right words to convince him
that no harm would come to him if he did.