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  The Broken Blade

  Chronicles of Athas

  Book Three

  Simon Hawke

  1995 TSR, Inc. All Rights Reserved.

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

  All 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.

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  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

  Epilogue

  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.

  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 mercha
nt 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.”