The Broken Blade (Dark Sun: Chronicles of Athas 3)

“So they say,” the mercenary said. “Everyone is talking about it, exaggerating as usual. I even heard some ridiculous nonsense about one of your passengers jumping overboard and killing a giant with his sword.”

“Neither ridiculous nor nonsense,” Tajik replied. He pointed to Sorak. “This is the very passenger. He saved all our lives.”

The me

rcenary turned to stare at Sorak. “Truly? You killed a giant, hand-to-hand?”

“I was fortunate,” said Sorak.

“Well, then let me shake your hand, stranger,” said the mercenary.

“Sorak, Drom,” said Tajik, performing the introductions, “and the lady is Ryana.”

As the somewhat inebriated mercenary focused his gaze on Ryana, his eyes grew wide. “Gith’s blood!” he said. “I’d like to see you up there on the stage!”

“Mind your manners, you great oaf!” said Tajik, sharply. “Are you so blind drunk you can’t see she is a priestess of the villichi sisterhood?”

The mercenary’s jaw dropped, then he blushed, bowed his head, and stammered an apology. “F-forgive me, my lady. I—I am a fool. Truly, it was not drink but your beauty that had blinded me.”

“Nice save,” said Sorak, lifting his goblet to his lips.

“Tajik is right, I am an oaf,” the mercenary said. “I have offended you both. How may I make amends?”

“Well, perhaps you can help with some information,” Tajik said.

“Yes,” said Sorak, “do you know of a mercenary by the name of Kieran?”

“Kieran of Draj?”

“I do not know where he hails from,” Sorak replied, “but he is a blond, good-looking man, blue eyed and clean shaven, about my height, very muscular, and dresses expensively, in rare hides.”

“That sounds like him,” said Drom, nodding. “He carries iron weapons, a sword and two stiletto daggers, the hilts wrapped with silver wire?”

“That’s the man,” said Sorak. “What do you know of him?”

“Good blade,” said Drom emphatically. “One of the very best. A seasoned campaigner. Served with the Drajian army—joined up as a boy, they say— and worked his way up through the ranks to regimental commander. Might have made general, too.”

Sorak frowned. “What happened?”

“I’m a little dry,” the mercenary said, rubbing his throat. Sorak took the hint and ordered him another ale. When it arrived, Drom was distracted for a moment by a dancer who stopped before him on the bar and reached out with her foot to brush her toes against his chest. Drom kissed her foot and tossed her a coin, which she caught adroitly. She bent down and pecked his cheek lightly, then moved on. “Where was I?”

“Why did Kieran fail to make general?” Sorak prompted.

“Ah, yes. Well, he killed a Drajian nobleman.”

“You mean he murdered him?” Ryana asked.

“No, it was a duel,” said Drom.

“Let me guess,” said Tajik. “They quarreled over a woman.”

“You might say that,” Drom replied, “but it isn’t what you think. The girl was the nobleman’s daughter.”

“Ah,” said Tajik. “And Kieran’s attentions were unwelcome?”

“They were more than welcome,” Drom replied. “They were in love and planned to marry. But the girl’s father disapproved. He refused to allow his daughter to wed a soldier, and a commoner at that. The way the story goes, she argued with her father, and he beat her. When Kieran learned of it, he publicly called the man a craven coward—and a few other names, besides—and struck him. Well, that was enough right there to put an end to his career, but the nobleman lost his temper and challenged him on the spot. Kieran killed him, for which he was arrested and sentenced to death. When the girl heard of it, she took her own life by swallowing poison.”

“How awful!” said Ryana.