Krondor: The Betrayal
Krondor: The Betrayal
Raymond E. Feist
An episode in Feist’s massively successful Riftwar saga.From the endlessly inventive mind of one of fantasy’s all-time greats, comes a spellbinding new adventure featuring old favourites Jimmy, Locklear and Pug.It is nine years on from the aftermath of Sethanon. There has been peace awhile and it’s been needed. But news is feeding through to the people of the Kingdom of the Isles that deadly forces are stirring on the horizon. The bringer of the latest tidings is Gorath, a moredhel (dark elf).The bloodletting has started. Nighthawks are murdering again. Politics is a dangerous, cut-throat game once more. At the root of all this unrest lie the mysterious machinations of a group of magicians known as The Six.Meanwhile, renegade Tsurani gem smugglers, a rival criminal gang to the Mockers led by someone known only as The Crawler, and traitors to the crown are all conspiring to bring the Kingdom of the Isles to its knees.
Copyright (#u1d1c16e3-ba0c-5f9a-b560-db56447450f5)
HarperVoyager
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
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www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk/)
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1998
Copyright © Raymond E. Feist
Cover design by Dominic Forbes © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019
Raymond E. Feist asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008311254
Ebook Edition © January 2018 ISBN: 9780007374977
Version: 2018-11-13
Dedication (#u1d1c16e3-ba0c-5f9a-b560-db56447450f5)
For John Cutter and Neal Hallford
with thanks for their creativity and enthusiasm
Contents
Cover (#u855c99d1-8f48-5bfe-9ba6-d947ebd3d21b)
Title Page (#u894f6d5c-7526-57f5-abc3-de814963ff3d)
Copyright
Dedication
Map
Prologue: Warning
Chapter One: Encounter
Chapter Two: Deception
Chapter Three: Revelation
Chapter Four: Passage
Chapter Five: Mission
Chapter Six: Journey
Chapter Seven: Murders
Chapter Eight: Secrets
Chapter Nine: Suspect
Chapter Ten: Nighthawks
Chapter Eleven: Escape
Chapter Twelve: Preparations
Chapter Thirteen: Betrayal
Chapter Fourteen: Instructions
Chapter Fifteen: Quest
Chapter Sixteen: Tasks
Chapter Seventeen: Misdirection
Chapter Eighteen: Regroup
Chapter Nineteen: Encounter
Chapter Twenty: Retribution
Epilogue: Dedication
Afterword
Acknowledgements
About the Author
By the Same Author
About the Publisher
Map (#u1d1c16e3-ba0c-5f9a-b560-db56447450f5)
• PROLOGUE • (#u1d1c16e3-ba0c-5f9a-b560-db56447450f5)
Warning (#u1d1c16e3-ba0c-5f9a-b560-db56447450f5)
THE WIND HOWLED.
Locklear, squire of the Prince of Krondor’s court, sat huddled under his heavy cloak, astride his horse. Summer was quick to flee in the Northlands and the passes through the mountains known as the Teeth of the World. Autumn nights in the south might still be soft and warm, but up here in the north, autumn had been a brief visitor and winter was early to arrive, and would be long in residence. Locklear cursed his own stupidity for leading him to this forlorn place.
Sergeant Bales said, ‘Gets nippy up here, squire.’ The sergeant had heard the rumour about the young noble’s sudden appearance in Tyr-Sog, some matter involving a young woman married to a well-connected merchant in Krondor. Locklear wouldn’t be the first young dandy sent to the frontier to get him out of an angry husband’s reach. ‘Not as balmy as Krondor, sorry to say, sir.’
‘Really?’ asked the young squire, dryly.
The patrol followed a narrow trail along the edge of the foothills, the northern border of the Kingdom of the Isles. Locklear had been in court at Tyr-Sog less than a week when Baron Moyiet had suggested the young squire might benefit from accompanying the special patrol to the east of the city. Rumours had been circulating that renegades and moredhel – dark elves known as the Brotherhood of the Dark Path – were infiltrating south under the cover of heavy rains and snow flurries. Trackers had reported few signs, but hearsay and the insistence of farmers that they had seen companies of dark-clad warriors hurrying south had prompted the Baron to order the patrol.
Locklear knew as well as the men garrisoned there that the chance of any activity along the small passes over the mountains in late fall or early winter was unusual. While the freeze had just come to the foothills, the higher passes would already be thick with snow, then choked with mud should a brief thaw occur.
Yet since the war known as the Great Uprising – the invasion of the Kingdom by the army of Murmandamus, the charismatic leader of the dark elves – ten years ago, any activity was to be investigated, and that order came directly from King Lyam.
‘Yes, must be a bit of a change from the Prince’s court, squire,’ prodded the sergeant. Locklear had looked the part of a Krondorian dandy – tall, slender, a finely garbed young man in his mid-twenties, affecting a moustache and long ringlets – when he reached Tyr-Sog. Locklear thought the moustache and fine clothing made him look older, but if anything the impact was the opposite of his desired intent.
Locklear had enough of the sergeant’s playful baiting, and observed, ‘Still, it’s warmer than I remember the other side of the mountains being.’
‘Other side, sir?’ asked the sergeant.
‘The Northlands,’ said Locklear. ‘Even in the spring and summer the nights are cold.’
The sergeant looked askance at the young man. ‘You’ve been there, squire?’ Few men who were not renegades or weapons runners had visited the Northlands and lived to return to the Kingdom.
‘With the Prince,’ replied Locklear. ‘I was with him at Armengar and Highcastle.’
The sergeant fell silent and looked ahead. The soldiers nearest Locklear exchanged glances and nods. One whispered to the man behind him. No soldier living in the north hadn’t heard of the fall of Armengar before the hosts of Murmandamus, the powerful moredhel leader who had destroyed the human city in the Northlands and then had invaded the Kingdom. Only his defeat at Sethanon, ten years before, had kept his army of dark elves, trolls, goblins and giants from rending the Kingdom.
The survivors of Armengar had come to live in Yabon, not far from Tyr-Sog, and the telling of the great battle and the flight of the survivors, as well as the part played by Prince Arutha and his companions, had grown in the telling. Any man who had served with Prince Arutha and Guy du Bas-Tyra could only be judged a hero. With a reappraising glance at the young man, the sergeant kept his silence.
Locklear’s amusement at shutting up the voluble sergeant was shortlived, as the snow started to freshen, blowing harder by the minute. He might have gained enough stature with the garrison to be treated with more respect in days to come, but he was still a long way from the court in Krondor, the fine wines and pretty girls. It would take a miracle for him to get back in Arutha’s good graces any time before the next winter found him still trapped in a rural court with dullards.
After ten minutes of silent travel, the sergeant said, ‘Another two miles, sir, and we can start back.’
Locklear said nothing. By the time they returned to the garrison, it would be dark and even colder than it presently was. He would welcome the warm fire in the soldiers’ commons and probably content himself sharing a meal with the troops, unless the Baron requested he dine with the household. Locklear judged that unlikely, as the Baron had a flirtatious young daughter who had fawned on the visiting young noble the first night he had appeared in Tyr-Sog, and the Baron full well knew why Locklear was at his court. On the two occasions he had since dined with the Baron, the daughter had been conspicuously absent.
There was an inn not too far from the castle, but by the time he had returned to the castle, he knew he would be too sick of the cold and snow to brave the elements again, even for that short distance; besides, the only two barmaids there were fat and dull. With a silent sigh of resignation, Locklear realized that by the arrival of spring they might look lovely and charming to him.
Locklear just prayed he would be permitted to return to Krondor by the Midsummer Festival of Banapis. He would write to his best friend, Squire James, and ask him to use his influence to get Arutha to recall him early. Half a year up here was punishment enough.
‘Seigneur,’ said Sergeant Bales, using Locklear’s formal title, ‘what’s that?’ He pointed up the rocky path. Movement among the rocks had caught the sergeant’s eye.
Locklear replied, ‘I don’t know. Let’s go take a look.’
Bales motioned and the patrol turned left, moving up the path. Quickly the scene before them resolved itself. A lone figure, on foot, hurried down the rocky path, and from behind the sounds of pursuit could be heard.
‘Looks like a renegade had a falling-out with some Brothers of the Dark Path,’ said Sergeant Bales.
Locklear pulled his own sword. ‘Renegade or not, we can’t let the dark elves carve him up. It might make them think they could come south and harass common citizens at whim.’
‘Ready!’ shouted the sergeant and the veteran patrol pulled swords.
The lone figure saw the soldiers, hesitated a moment, then ran forward. Locklear could see he was a tall man, covered by a dark grey cloak which effectively hid his features. Behind him on foot came a dozen dark elves.
‘Let us go amongst them,’ said the sergeant calmly.
Locklear commanded the patrol in theory, but he had enough combat experience to stay out of the way when a veteran sergeant was giving orders.
The horsemen charged up the pass, moving by the lone figure, to fall upon the moredhel. The Brotherhood of the Dark Path were many things; cowardly and inept in warcraft were not among those things. The fighting was fierce, but the Kingdom soldiers had two advantages: horses, and the fact the weather had rendered the dark elves’ bows useless. The moredhel didn’t even attempt to draw their wet strings, knowing they could hardly send a bowshaft toward the enemy, let alone pierce armour.
A single dark elf, larger than the rest, leaped atop a rock, his gaze fixed upon the fleeing figure. Locklear moved his horse to block the creature, who turned his attention toward the young noble.
They locked gazes for a moment, and Locklear could feel the creature’s hatred. Silently he seemed to mark Locklear, as if remembering him for a future confrontation. Then he shouted an order and the moredhel began their withdrawal up the pass.
Sergeant Bales knew better than to pursue into a pass when he had less than a dozen yards’ visibility. Besides, the weather was worsening.
Locklear turned to find the lone figure leaning against a boulder a short distance behind the trail. Locklear moved his horse close to the man and called down, ‘I am Squire Locklear of the Prince’s court. You better have a good story for us, renegade.’
There was no response from the man, his features still hidden by the deep cowl of his heavy cloak. The sounds of fighting trailed off as the moredhel broke off and fled up the pass, crawling into the rocks above the path so the riders could not follow.
The figure before Locklear regarded him a moment, then slowly reached up to throw back his cowl. Dark, alien eyes regarded the young noble. These were features Locklear had seen before: high brow, close-cropped hair. Arching eyebrows and large, upswept and lobeless ears. But this was no elf who stood before him; Locklear could feel it in his bones. The dark eyes that regarded him could barely hide their contempt.
In heavily accented King’s Tongue, the creature said, ‘I am no renegade, human.’
Sergeant Bales rode up and said, ‘Damn! A Brother of the Dark Path. Must have been some tribal thing, with those others trying to kill him.’
The moredhel fixed Locklear with his gaze, studying him for a long moment, then he said, ‘If you are from the Prince’s court then you may help me.’
‘Help you?’ said the sergeant. ‘We’re most likely going to hang you, murderer.’
Locklear held up his hand for silence. ‘Why should we help you, moredhel?’
‘Because I bring a word of warning for your prince.’
‘Warning of what?’
‘That is for him to know. Will you take me to him?’
Locklear glanced at the sergeant, who said, ‘We should take him to see the Baron.’
‘No,’ said the moredhel. ‘I will only speak with Prince Arutha.’
‘You’ll speak to whoever we tell you to, butcher!’ said Bales, his voice edged in hatred. He had been fighting the Brotherhood of the Dark Path his entire life and had seen their cruelty many times.
Locklear said, ‘I know his kind. You can set fire to his feet and burn him up to his neck and if he doesn’t want to talk, he won’t talk.’
The moredhel said, ‘True.’ He again studied Locklear and said, ‘You have faced my people?’
‘Armengar,’ said Locklear. ‘Again at Highcastle. Then at Sethanon.’
‘It is Sethanon about which I need to speak to your prince,’ said the moredhel.
Locklear turned to the sergeant and said, ‘Leave us for a moment, Sergeant.’
Bales hesitated, but there was a note of command in the young noble’s voice, no hint of deference to the sergeant; this was an order. The sergeant turned and moved his patrol away.
‘Say on,’ said Locklear.
‘I am Gorath, Chieftain of the Ardanien.’
Locklear studied Gorath. By human standards he looked young, but Locklear had been around enough elves and seen enough moredhel to know that was deceiving. This one had a beard streaked with white and grey, as well as a few lines around his eyes; Locklear guessed he might be better than two hundred years old by what he had seen among elvenkind. Gorath wore armour that was well crafted and a cloak of especially fine weave; Locklear judged it possible he was exactly what he said he was. ‘What does a moredhel chieftain speak of to a prince of the Kingdom?’
‘My words are for Prince Arutha alone.’
Locklear said, ‘If you don’t want to spend what remains of your life in the Baron’s dungeon at Tyr-Sog, you had better say something that will convince me to take you to Krondor.’
The moredhel looked a long time at Locklear, then motioned for him to come closer. Keeping his hand upon a dagger in his belt, should the dark elf try something, he leaned close to his horse’s neck, so he could put his face near Gorath’s.
Gorath whispered in Locklear’s ear. ‘Murmandamus lives.’
Locklear leaned back and was silent a moment, then he turned his horse. ‘Sergeant Bales!’
‘Sir!’ returned the old veteran, answering Locklear’s commanding tone of voice with a note of respect.
‘Put this prisoner in chains. We return to Tyr-Sog, now. And no one is to speak with him without my leave.’
‘Sir!’ repeated the sergeant, motioning to two of his men to hurry forward and do as ordered.
Locklear leaned over his horse’s neck again and said, ‘You may be lying to stay alive, Gorath, or you may have some dreadful message for Prince Arutha. It matters not to me, for either way I return to Krondor, starting first thing in the morning.’
The dark elf said nothing, content to stand stoically as he was disarmed by two soldiers. He remained silent as manacles were fastened around his wrists, linked by a short span of heavy chain. He held his hands before him a moment after the manacles were locked, then slowly lowered them. He looked at Locklear, then turned and began walking toward Tyr-Sog, without waiting for his guards’ leave.
Locklear motioned for the sergeant to follow, and rode up to walk his horse next to Gorath, through the worsening weather.
• CHAPTER ONE • (#u1d1c16e3-ba0c-5f9a-b560-db56447450f5)
Encounter (#u1d1c16e3-ba0c-5f9a-b560-db56447450f5)
THE FIRE CRACKLED.
Owyn Belefote sat alone in the night before the flames, wallowing in his personal misery. The youngest son of the Baron of Timons, he was a long way from home and wishing he was even farther away. His youthful features were set in a portrait of dejection.
The night was cold and the food scant, especially after having just left the abundance of his aunt’s home in Yabon City. He had been hosted by relatives ignorant of his falling-out with his father, people who had reacquainted him over a week’s visit with what he had forgotten about his home-life: the companionship of brothers and sisters, the warmth of a night spent before the fire, conversation with his mother, and even the arguments with his father.
‘Father,’ Owyn muttered. It had been less than two years since the young man had defied his father and made his way to Stardock, the island of magicians located in the southern reaches of the Kingdom. His father had forbidden him his choice, to study magic, demanding Owyn should at least become a cleric of one of the more socially acceptable orders of priests. After all, they did magic as well, his father had insisted.
Owyn sighed and gathered his cloak around him. He had been so certain he would someday return home to visit his family, revealing himself as a great magician, perhaps a confidant of the legendary Pug, who had created the Academy at Stardock. Instead he found himself ill-suited for the study required. He also had no love for the burgeoning politics of the place, with factions of students rallying around this teacher or that, attempting to turn the study of magic into another religion. He now knew he was, at best, a mediocre magician and would never amount to more, and no matter how much he wished to study magic, he lacked sufficient talent.
After slightly more than one year of study, Owyn had left Stardock, conceding to himself that he had made a mistake. Admitting such to his father would prove a far more daunting task – which was why he had decided to visit family in the distant province of Yabon before mustering the courage to return to the east and confront his sire.
A rustle in the bushes caused Owyn to clutch a heavy wooden staff and jump to his feet. He had little skill with weapons, having neglected that portion of his education as a child, but had developed enough skill with this quarterstaff to defend himself.
‘Who’s there?’ he demanded.
From out of the gloom came a voice, saying, ‘Hello, the camp. We’re coming in.’
Owyn relaxed slightly, as bandits would be unlikely to warn him they were coming. Also, he was obviously not worth attacking, as he looked little more than a ragged beggar these days. Still, it never hurt to be wary.
Two figures appeared out of the gloom, one roughly Owyn’s height, the other a head taller. Both were covered in heavy cloaks, the smaller of the two limping obviously.
The limping man looked over his shoulder, as if being followed, then asked, ‘Who are you?’
Owyn said, ‘Me? Who are you?’
The smaller man pulled back his hood and said, ‘Locklear, I’m a squire to Prince Arutha.’
Owyn nodded. ‘Sir, I’m Owyn, son of Baron Belefote.’
‘From Timons, yes, I know who your father is,’ said Locklear. Squatting before the fire, opening his hands to warm them. He glanced up at Owyn. ‘You’re a long way from home, aren’t you?’
‘I was visiting my aunt in Yabon,’ said the blond youth. ‘I’m now on my way home.’
‘Long journey,’ said the muffled figure.
‘I’ll work my way down to Krondor, then see if I can travel with a caravan or someone else to Salador. From there I’ll catch a boat to Timons.’
‘Well, we could do worse than stick together until we reach LaMut,’ said Locklear, sitting down heavily on the ground. His cloak fell open and Owyn saw blood on the young man’s clothing.
‘You’re hurt,’ he said.
‘Just a bit,’ admitted Locklear.
‘What happened?’
‘We were jumped a few miles north of here,’ said Locklear.
Owyn started rummaging through his travel bag. ‘I have something in here for wounds,’ he said. ‘Strip off your tunic.’
Locklear removed his cloak and tunic while Owyn took bandages and powder from his bag. ‘My aunt insisted I take this just in case. I thought it an old lady’s foolishness, but apparently it wasn’t.’
Locklear endured the boy’s ministrations as he washed the wound – obviously a sword cut to the ribs – and winced when the powder was sprinkled upon it. Then as he bandaged the squire’s ribs, Owyn said, ‘Your friend doesn’t talk much, does he?’
‘I am not his friend,’ answered Gorath. He held out his manacles for inspection. ‘I am his prisoner.’
Trying to peer into the darkness of Gorath’s hood, Owyn said, ‘What did he do?’
‘Nothing, except be born on the wrong side of the mountains,’ offered Locklear.
Gorath pulled back his hood, and graced Owyn with the faintest of smiles.
‘Gods’ teeth!’ exclaimed Owyn. ‘He’s a Brother of the Dark Path!’
‘Moredhel,’ corrected Gorath, with a note of ironic bitterness. ‘“Dark elf”, in your tongue, human. At least our cousins in Elvandar would have you believe us so.’
Locklear winced as Owyn applied his aunt’s salve to the wounded ribs. ‘A couple of hundred years of war lets us form our own opinions, thank you, Gorath.’
Gorath said, ‘You understand so little, you humans.’
‘Well,’ said Locklear, ‘I’m not going anywhere at the moment, so educate me.’
Gorath looked at the young squire, as if trying to judge something, and was silent for a while. ‘Those you call “elves” and my people are one, by blood, but we live different lives. We were the first mortal race after the great dragons and the Ancient Ones.’
Owyn looked at Gorath in curiosity, while Locklear just gritted his teeth and said, ‘Hurry it up, would you, lad?’
‘Who are the Ancient Ones?’ asked Owyn in a whisper.
‘The Dragon Lords,’ said Locklear.
‘Lords of power, the Valheru,’ supplied Gorath. ‘When they departed this world, they placed our fate in our own hands, naming us a free people.’
Locklear said, ‘I’ve heard the story.’
‘It is more than a story, human, for to my people it gave over this world to our keeping. Then came you humans, and the dwarves, and others. This is our world and you seized it from us.’
Locklear said, ‘Well, I’m not a student of theology, and my knowledge of history is sadly lacking, but it seems to me that whatever the cause of our arrival on this world according to your lore, we’re here and we don’t have anywhere else to go. So if your kin, the elves, can make the best of it, why can’t you?’
Gorath studied the young man, but said nothing. Then he stood, moving with deadly purpose toward Locklear.
Owyn had just tied off the bandage and fell hard as Locklear pushed him aside while he attempted to rise and draw his sword as Gorath closed on him.
But rather than attack Locklear, he lunged past the pair of humans, lashing out above Locklear’s head with the chain that held his manacles. A ringing of steel caused Locklear to flinch aside as Gorath shouted, ‘Assassin in the camp!’ Then Gorath kicked hard at Owyn, shouting, ‘Get out from underfoot!’
Owyn didn’t know where the assassin came from; one moment there had been three of them in the small clearing, then the next Gorath was locked in a life-and-death struggle with another of his kind.
Two figures grappled by the light of the campfire, their features set in stark relief by the firelight and darkness of the woods. Gorath had knocked the other moredhel’s sword from his hand, and when the second dark elf attempted to pull a dagger, Gorath slipped behind him, wrapping his wrist chains around the attacker’s throat. He yanked hard and the attacker’s eyes bulged in shock as Gorath said, ‘Do not struggle so, Haseth. For old times’ sake I will make this quick.’ With a snap of his wrists, he crushed the other dark elf’s windpipe, and the creature went limp.
Gorath let him fall to the ground, saying, ‘May the Goddess of Darkness show you mercy.’
Locklear stood up. ‘I thought we had lost them.’
‘I knew we had not,’ said Gorath.
‘Why didn’t you say something?’ demanded Locklear as he retrieved his tunic and put it on over the new bandages.
‘We had to turn and face him some time,’ said Gorath, resuming his place. ‘We could do it now, or in a day or two when you were even weaker from loss of blood and no food.’ Gorath looked into the darkness from which the assassin had come. ‘Had he not been alone, you’d have had only my body to drag before your prince.’
‘You don’t get off that easily, moredhel. You don’t have my permission to die yet, after the trouble I’ve gone through to keep you alive so far,’ said Locklear. ‘Is he the last?’
‘Almost certainly not,’ said the dark elf. ‘But he is the last of this company. Others will come.’ He glanced in the opposite direction. ‘And others may already be ahead of us.’
Locklear reached into a small pouch at his side and produced a key. ‘Then I think you’d better get those chains off,’ he said. He unlocked the wrist irons and Gorath watched them fall to the ground with an impassive expression. ‘Take the assassin’s sword.’
‘Maybe we should bury him?’ suggested Owyn.
Gorath shook his head. ‘That is not our way. His body is but a shell. Let it feed the scavengers, return to the soil, nourish the plants, and renew the world. His spirit has begun its journey through darkness, and with the Goddess of Darkness’s pleasure, he may find his way to the Blessed Isles.’ Gorath looked northward, as if seeking sight of something in the dark. ‘He was my kinsman, though one of whom I was not overly fond. But ties of blood run strong with my people. For him to hunt me names me outcast and traitor to my race.’ He looked at Locklear. ‘We have common cause, then, human. For if I am to carry out the mission that brands me anathema to my people, I must survive. We need to help one another.’ Gorath took Haseth’s sword. To Owyn he said, ‘Don’t bury him, but you could pull him out of the way, human. By morning he’s going to become even more unpleasant to have nearby.’
Owyn looked uncertain about touching a corpse, but said nothing as he went over, reached down and gripped the dead moredhel by the wrists. The creature was surprisingly heavy. As Owyn started to drag Haseth away, Gorath said, ‘And see if he dropped his travel bag back there in the woods before he attacked us, boy. He may have something to eat in it.’
Owyn nodded, wondering what strange chance had brought him to dragging a corpse through the dark woods and looting the body.
Morning found a tired trio making their way through the woodlands, staying within sight of the road, but not chancing walking openly along it.
‘I don’t see why we didn’t return to Yabon and get some horses,’ complained Owyn.
Locklear said, ‘We have been jumped three times since leaving Tyr-Sog. If others are coming after us, I’d rather not walk right into them. Besides, we may find a village between here and LaMut where we can get some horses.’
‘And pay for them with what?’ asked Owyn. ‘You said the fight where you were wounded was when your horses ran off with all your things. I assume that means your funds, too? I certainly don’t have enough to buy three mounts.’
Locklear smiled. ‘I’m not without resources.’
‘We could just take them,’ offered Gorath.
‘There is that,’ agreed Locklear. ‘But without obvious badges of rank or a patent from the Prince on my person, it might prove difficult to convince the local constable of my bona fides. And we should hardly be safe penned up in a rural jail with cutthroats out looking for us.’
Owyn fell silent. They had been walking since sun-up and he was tired. ‘How about a rest?’ he offered.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Gorath, his voice falling to a whisper. ‘Listen.’
Neither human said anything for a moment, then Owyn said, ‘What? I don’t hear anything.’
‘That’s the point,’ said Gorath. ‘The birds in the trees ahead suddenly stopped their songs.’
‘A trap?’ asked Locklear.
‘Almost certainly,’ said Gorath, pulling the sword he had taken from his dead kinsman.
Locklear said, ‘My side burns, but I can fight.’ To Owyn he said, ‘What about you?’
Owyn hefted his wooden staff. It was hard oak, with iron-shod ends. ‘I can swing this, if I need to. And I have some magic.’
‘Can you make them vanish?’
‘No,’ said Owyn. ‘I can’t do that.’
‘Pity,’ said Locklear. ‘Then try to stay out of the way.’
They advanced cautiously, and as they neared the spot Gorath had indicated, Locklear could make out a shadowy figure between the trees. The man or moredhel – Locklear couldn’t tell which – moved slightly, revealing his position. Had he remained motionless, Locklear would never have seen him.
Gorath signalled for Locklear and Owyn to move more to their right, looping around behind the lookout. Without knowing how many men they faced, they would do well to seek the advantage of surprise.
Gorath moved through the woods like a spirit, silent and almost unseen once Owyn and Locklear left him. Locklear signalled for Owyn to keep slightly behind and to the right of him, so he knew where he was when they closed upon their ambushers.
As they moved through the woods, they heard the sound of whispers, and Locklear knew no elves waiting for them would utter a word. Now the question was were these mere bandits or agents seeking to stop Gorath’s journey.
A grunt from ahead signalled Gorath’s first contact with the ambushers. A shout followed instantly and Locklear and Owyn ran forward.
Four men stood and one was already dying. The other three spread out in a small clearing between two lines of trees, a perfect position for a roadside ambush. Locklear felt an odd flicker behind him and something sped past his eyes, as if an arrow had been fired from behind, but other than the sensation of motion, there was nothing to be seen.
One of the three remaining ambushers cried out in shock, his hand going out before him as vacant eyes stared ahead, ‘I’m blind!’ he shouted in panic.
Locklear decided it was Owyn’s useful magic, and thanked the Goddess of Luck the boy had that much talent.
Gorath was engaged with one man while Locklear advanced on the other. Suddenly their garb registered and he said, ‘Quegans!’
The men were wearing short tunics and leggings, and cross-gartered sandals. The man facing Locklear had his head covered with a red bandanna, and over his shoulder hung a baldric from which a cutlass had hung. The cutlass was now carving through the air at Locklear’s head.
He parried and the blow shot fire through his wounded side. Putting aside his pain, Locklear riposted and the pirate fell back. A strangled cry told Locklear the second pirate was down.
The strange missile sensation sped by and the man facing Locklear winced and held his hand up as if shielding his eyes. Locklear didn’t hesitate and ran the man through.
Gorath killed the last man and suddenly it was quiet again in the woods.
Locklear’s side was afire but he didn’t feel any additional damage. He put up his sword and said, ‘Damn me.’
‘Are you hurt?’ asked Owyn.
‘No,’ answered Locklear.
‘Then what is the problem?’ asked Owyn.
Locklear looked around the clearing. ‘These are the problem. Someone has gotten word ahead of us. We can be certain of that.’
‘How?’ asked Gorath.
‘These are Quegan pirates,’ said Locklear. ‘Look at their weapons.’
‘I wouldn’t know a Quegan if I tripped over him,’ said Owyn. ‘I’ll take your word for it, squire.’
‘Do not pirates usually ply their trade at sea?’ asked Gorath.
‘They do,’ said Locklear, ‘unless someone’s paid them to stake out a road and wait for three travellers on foot.’ He knelt next to the man who had died at his feet and said, ‘Look at his hands. Those are the hands of a man used to handling rope. Those Quegan cutlasses are the clincher.’ He examined the man, looking for a pouch or purse, saying, ‘Look for anything that might be a message.’
They did and came away with a little gold and a couple of daggers in addition to the four cutlasses. But no messages or notes, nothing indicating who had hired the pirates. ‘We’re not close enough to Ylith for a band of pirates to have made it this far north undetected in the time since we left Yabon.’
‘Someone must have sent word south when I left the Northlands,’ said Gorath.
‘But how?’ asked Owyn. ‘You’ve told me you only spent a couple of days in Tyr-Sog, and you were riding until yesterday.’
‘That’s an odd question for a student of magic,’ observed Gorath.
Owyn blushed a little. ‘Oh.’
‘You’ve Spellweavers who can do such?’ asked Locklear.
‘Not such as the eledhel – those you call “elves” – call Spellweavers. But we have our practitioners of magic. And there are others of your race who will sell their arts.’
Owyn said, ‘I’ve never witnessed it, but I have heard of a talent called “mind speech” which allows a spell-caster to speak with another. And there’s something known as “dream speech” as well. Either—’
‘Someone really wants you dead, don’t they?’ observed Locklear, interrupting the boy.
‘Delekhan,’ said Gorath. ‘And he was gathering to his side any of my people who showed such talents. I know his goals, but not his plan. And if magic arts are part of it, I fear the results.’
Locklear said, ‘I understand that. I’ve had my share of encounters with people using magic who shouldn’t.’ He glanced at Owyn and said, ‘That blinding trick was quite good, lad.’
Looking embarrassed, Owyn said, ‘I thought it might help. I know a few spells like that, but nothing that would overpower an enemy. Still, I’ll try to help where I can.’
Glancing at Owyn, Locklear said, ‘I know. Let’s get to LaMut.’
LaMut stood astride the road south, requiring anyone travelling from Yabon to Ylith to pass through its gates or endure a long trek to the east through dangerous foothills.
The foulbourgh of the city sprawled in all directions, while the old walls of the city stood behind, nearly useless now, given the ease with which any attacker could mount the buildings next to them and gain the parapet from their roofs.
It was nearly sundown and all three travellers were tired, footsore, and hungry. ‘We can present ourselves to Earl Kasumi tomorrow.’
‘Why not now?’ asked Owyn. ‘I could use a meal and a bed.’
‘Because the garrison is up there,’ said Locklear, pointing at a distant fortress high above the city on a hillside, ‘and that would be another two hours’ walk, whereas a cheap inn is but one minute that way.’ He pointed at the gate.
‘Will your countrymen object to my presence?’ asked Gorath.
‘They would if they suspected your nature. If they think you an elf from Elvandar, they may only stare a little. Come on. We’ve looted enough gold for a night of relative comfort, and in the morning we’ll visit the Earl and see if he can get us safely to Krondor.’
They entered the city under the watchful gaze of otherwise bored-looking soldiers. One of them stood out from his companions, being shorter, and much more businesslike in his manner. Locklear smiled and nodded at the guards, but the three travellers didn’t stop or speak. A short distance inside the city gates sat an inn, marked by a wagon wheel painted bright blue. ‘There,’ said Locklear.
They entered the inn, busy, but not crowded, and moved to a table near the far wall. As they sat a stout young serving woman came, took their order for food and ale, and left. As they were waiting, Locklear spied a figure on the other side of the room staring at him.
It took a moment for Locklear to realize the figure wasn’t a man, but a dwarf. The dwarf stood and made his way across the room. He bore a large scar across his face, cutting through his left eye. He stood before them and said, ‘You don’t recognize me, do you, Locky?’
Locklear realized the last time he had seen the dwarf he had not borne the scar he now sported, but at hearing his name from the dwarf’s lips, he said, ‘Dubal! Without the eye-patch, it took me a moment.’
The dwarf moved to sit next to Owyn, across from Gorath. ‘I won this face in battle, from one of his kin—’ he pointed at Gorath ‘—and I’ll be a dragon’s mother before I hide it again.’
‘Dubal found me hiding in a cellar after the Battle of Sethanon,’ said Locklear.
‘Locked in there with a pretty wench, if memory serves.’ The dwarf laughed.
Locklear shrugged. ‘Well, that was by chance.’
Dubal said, ‘Now tell me, what is a seigneur of the Prince’s court doing sitting in LaMut with a moredhel warchief?’ He kept his voice low, but Owyn glanced around to see if anyone had overheard him.
‘You know me?’ asked Gorath.
‘I know your race, for you are the enemy of my blood, and I know your armour for what it is. A human might not notice, but we of the Grey Towers have fought your kind long enough I wouldn’t mistake you for one from Elvandar. It’s only your present company that keeps me from killing you here and now.’
Locklear held up his hand. ‘I would count it a kindness and a personal favour, as would Prince Arutha, should you imagine this person on my left to be an elf.’
‘I think I can manage. But you’ll have to come to the Grey Towers and tell me the story behind this mummery.’
‘If I can, I will,’ said Locklear. ‘Now, what brings you alone to LaMut?’
‘We’ve got problems at our mines and had a collapse. Some of us are stuck on this side of the Grey Towers and I came in to the city to buy some stores. I’ll hire a waggon and head back in the morning. For the time being, I’m content to sit and drink, and jabber with some of these Tsurani here in LaMut. I fought them during the war, and they’ve turned out to be a stalwart enough bunch once you get to know them.’ He pointed to the bar. ‘That tall fellow—’ Locky laughed to hear anyone call a Tsurani ‘tall’ ‘—he’s Sumani, the owner. Has a fair number of tales to spin about his days serving on the Tsurani world, and I’m switched if it doesn’t sound like he’s telling the truth most of the time.’
Locklear laughed. ‘Most Tsurani I know don’t indulge in tall tales, Dubal.’
‘Seems to be so, but you never know. I’ve fought the big bugs, the Cho-ja, but some of those other things he talks about, well, I’m hard-pressed to believe them.’
The serving woman arrived with the food and ale and they fell to. ‘Now,’ said Dubal, ‘can you tell me what brings you here?’
‘No,’ replied Locklear, ‘but we can ask you if you’ve seen any Quegans hanging around?’
‘There was a pack of them through here two days ago, according to the gossip,’ said Dubal. ‘I just arrived and was brokering the material we need. Aren’t Quegans a bit far from home?’
‘You could say that,’ observed Locklear. ‘We ran into some and wondered if they had friends.’
‘Well, according to the gossip, they were all heading north from here, so if you didn’t run into a big bunch, they’ve got friends around.’
Locklear said, ‘That’s as I figured.’
They ate in silence for a while, as Dubal nursed his mug of ale. Then the dwarf said, ‘You wouldn’t have run across one of those Armengar monster hunters coming from the north, have you?’
‘Monster hunter?’ asked Owyn.
Locklear said, ‘Beast Hunter, is what he means. I met one, once.’ He smiled at the memory. They had been travelling with Prince Arutha away from a band of moredhel, and had run into a Beast Hunter from Armengar with his Beast Hound. It had been a trap, but it had saved them from the pursuing moredhel. ‘No, I think those that remain are up in the hills of northern Yabon. Why?’
‘Oh, we’ve got a Brak Nurr loose in the mine and need someone to hunt it down for us. We can either rebuild the mine or hunt the thing, but there aren’t enough of us on this side of the mountain to do both.’
‘What’s a Brak Nurr?’ asked Owyn. ‘I’ve never heard of such a creature.’
‘It’s more a nuisance than a menace,’ said Dubal. ‘It’s a pretty stupid creature, but most of their kind stay in the lower mines and tunnels under the mountain. It’s roughly man-shaped, but looks like a walking pile of rocks. That’s part of its danger, boy,’ Dubal said to Owyn. ‘You can’t see one until you’ve stepped on its toes, as often as not. They’re slow and lumbering, but they’re strong and can crush a man’s skull with a single blow. This one came up because of the rockslide, I think, but whatever the cause, it’s tried to hurt a couple of our lads. We’ve chased it off, but can’t take the time to hunt it down. If you’re up for a bit of fun, I can take you along and if you rid the mines of it, I’ll be happy to see you rewarded.’
‘Reward?’ said Locky. ‘That’s always a good word, but time doesn’t permit. If circumstances bring us to the mines any time soon, we’ll be glad to help, but for the moment, we’re heading south.’
Dubal stood. ‘I understand. Once we get the tunnels finished, we’ll go looking for the beastie. Now, I’m for bed and an early start. It was good seeing you again, squire, even in such company as this,’ he said, indicating Gorath. ‘Good fortune follow you.’
‘And you, Dubal.’
Locklear finished eating and rose to approach the innkeeper.
The innkeeper wore a Kingdom-style tunic and trousers, the latter tucked into high-top calfskin boots. But he wore a fur-lined, woven-wool heavy cloak, though it was thrown back, as if even in this warm inn it was too cold for his liking.
‘Sir?’ asked the innkeeper, his heavy accent making the word sound odd to Locklear.
‘Honours to your house,’ said Locklear in Tsurani.
The man smiled and said something in return. Locklear smiled and shrugged. ‘Sorry, that was all the Tsurani I know.’
The man’s smile broadened. ‘More than most,’ he said. ‘You’re not from LaMut,’ he observed.
‘True. I learned a little of your native tongue at Sethanon.’
‘Ah,’ said the innkeeper, nodding in understanding. Few who were at Sethanon spoke of what had occurred there, mostly because few understood it. At the height of the battle a great upheaval had driven both armies, invaders and defenders, fleeing from the city. A green light from the heavens and the appearance of something in the sky, followed by the destruction of the centre of the city, had rendered most men stunned, and a few deaf, after the battle. No one was certain what had happened, though most conceded a great magic had been unleashed. Most speculated the magician Pug, a friend of the Prince, had a hand in it, but no one seemed to know for certain.
Locklear had missed most of the end of the battle, being hidden in a cellar in the city, but he had heard enough accounts from other eyewitnesses to have formed a pretty clear picture in his own mind. And there was a special bond among those who had survived the Battle of Sethanon, irrespective of their place of birth, for it had been Tsurani, Kingdom, and even Keshian soldiers, who had driven the moredhel and their goblin allies back into the Northlands.
‘What I said,’ explained the innkeeper, ‘was “Honour to your houses, and be welcome to the Blue Wheel Inn”.’
‘Blue Wheel? That’s one of your Tsurani political parties, isn’t it?’
The innkeeper’s broad face split into a smile, revealing even white teeth. His dark eyes seemed to glint in the lanternlight. ‘You do know of us!’ He extended his hand, Kingdom fashion, and said, ‘I am Sumani. If there is anything that my servants or I may do, you need only ask.’
Locklear shook the innkeeper’s hand and said, ‘A room for the night after we finish our meal would serve. We have business in the castle tomorrow at dawn.’
The stocky ex-fighter nodded. ‘You’re in luck, my friend. Last night I would have had to express my regrets and endure the shame of being unable to fulfil your request. We were full, but this morning a large party departed and we have rooms.’ He reached under the bar and produced a heavy iron key. ‘On my home world this would have been worth a man’s life; here it is but a tool.’
Locklear nodded, understanding the scarcity of metals on Kelewan. He took the key. ‘Large party?’
‘Yes,’ said Sumani. ‘Foreigners. Quegans, I believe. Their speech was strange to my ear.’
Locklear looked around the obviously prosperous inn. ‘How did a Tsurani soldier end up running an inn in LaMut?’
‘After the war, Earl Kasumi gave those of us who had been trapped on this side of the rift the opportunity to live as Kingdom citizens. When the rift was reopened, he gave those of us here in LaMut the choice of leaving service and returning to the Shinzawai estates on Kelewan. Most stayed, though some left service and returned to serve again with Kasumi’s father, Lord Kamatsu. A few of us, however, retired here in LaMut. I had no living family back home.’ He glanced around. ‘And to tell the truth, I live better here than I would have back home. There, I might have become a farmer, or a labourer on the Shinzawai estates.’ He pointed through the open door to the kitchen to where a tall, stout woman was hard at work preparing food. ‘Here, I have a Kingdom wife. We have two children. Life is good. And I am part of the city’s militia, so I still train with my sword. The gods of both worlds smile on me and I prosper. I find business to be as challenging as warfare.’
Locklear smiled. ‘I have no head for business, though I have been told it often is like warfare. What gossip?’
The old former fighter said, ‘Much. Many travellers in LaMut over the last month. Much speculation. A large party of Great Ones came through here last week. And it is rumoured some brigands from my home world, grey warriors, have also been seen near the city.’
‘Grey warriors?’ asked Locklear. ‘Houseless men? What would they be doing here in LaMut?’
Sumani shrugged. ‘It may be those without honour have heard that here a man may rise by his own wits and talents, and not be bound by his rank at birth. Or it may be they are seeking riches in this land. With a grey warrior, who can say?’ A frown crossed Sumani’s face.
‘What?’ asked Locklear.
‘Just this one thing: the rift is controlled by those who serve the Great Ones on Kelewan, and Kingdom soldiers guard the gate on this side. To pass through, these grey warriors would have to have documents, or allies among those guarding the rift gate.’
‘Bribes?’ asked Locklear.
‘Here, perhaps. I’ve found in the Kingdom the concept of honour is different than at home. But betrayal from the servants of the Great Ones?’ He shook his head. ‘That is impossible.’
‘Thanks,’ said Locklear, smelling a puzzle. ‘I’ll keep my eyes and ears open.’
The Tsurani laughed. ‘That is a funny thing to say,’ he observed. ‘Let me know if I may be of any further service.’
Locklear nodded. He took a lantern from the innkeeper and returned to the table. Gorath and Owyn rose, and Locklear led his companions up the stairs to a simple room with four beds. He motioned for Owyn to help him move one of the beds across the door, barring it against a sudden attack, then he moved another directly below the window. ‘Owyn,’ he said, pointing to the bed under the window, ‘you sleep there.’
‘Why?’ asked the young man from Timons. ‘It’s draughty under there.’
Gorath looked on with a slight turn to his lip, as if amused, as Locklear answered, ‘Because if anyone climbs in through the window, they’ll step on you and your shouts will alert us.’
Grumbling, Owyn wrapped his cloak tightly around himself and lay down. Locklear indicated one of the beds to Gorath, who lay upon it without comment. Locklear sat on his bed and blew out the flame in the lantern, plunging the room into darkness. Voices from the common room below carried upstairs, and Locklear let his mind wander. The presence of foreigners and the attack by the Quegans worried him, and the rumour of Tsurani grey warriors in the area caused him additional concern, but fatigue and his injury caused him to quickly fall asleep.
• CHAPTER TWO • (#u1d1c16e3-ba0c-5f9a-b560-db56447450f5)
Deception (#u1d1c16e3-ba0c-5f9a-b560-db56447450f5)
THE SOLDIER WAVED THEM IN.
‘You may enter,’ he informed Locklear.
Locklear led his companions into the guardroom of the castle.
They had approached the castle on foot, after an early-morning climb up a long, winding road from the city. He was doubly glad they had chosen to spend the night in the city. His ribs still hurt, but after a night’s sleep in a relatively warm bed and two meals he was feeling twice as fit as he had the day before.
The captain of the castle guard looked up as they entered and said, ‘Squire Locklear, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, Captain Belford,’ said Locklear, accepting the captain’s hand. ‘We met when I passed through on my way north a few months back.’
‘I remember,’ said the captain with a half-hidden grin. Locklear knew the captain must have heard the rumour of the reason for his banishment to the north. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘I’d like to see the Earl, if he has the time.’
‘I’m sure he’d love to see you again, sir, but the Earl’s not here,’ said the seasoned old fighter. ‘He’s off on some errand with a troop of men – all Tsurani-bred – leaving me here to take care of things.’
‘The Countess?’ asked Locklear, inquiring after Kasumi’s wife.
‘Down in the city, actually. Shopping and visiting with her family.’ Earl Kasumi had married the daughter of one of LaMut’s more prosperous merchants. ‘If you need something official, you can wait until one of them gets back or ask me, squire. As long as you don’t need an armed escort somewhere.’
Locklear grimaced. ‘I had been thinking about asking for some men to accompany us down to Ylith.’
‘Wish I could oblige, squire, and if you’ve the Prince’s warrant with you, I’d scrape together a dozen swords for you, but as it is, the Earl’s off training recruits, I’ve got my usual patrols along the frontier, and the rest of the lads are out looking for a bunch of Tsurani renegades.’
Owyn said, ‘Renegades?’ Locklear had mentioned nothing of the Tsurani grey warriors to his companions.
‘I heard some rumours,’ was all Locklear said.
The captain motioned for the three of them to sit. Owyn was left standing when Gorath and Locklear took the only two free chairs in the office. ‘I wish it was only rumours,’ said Belford. ‘You know that Tsurani magician, Makala?’
‘By reputation only,’ said Locklear. ‘He was due to arrive in Krondor a few weeks after I departed some months ago. The other Tsurani Great Ones spoke of him, but as they weren’t the most sociable bunch, I only gathered a few things about him. He’s very influential in their Assembly of Magicians, is keen to foster trade and what I believe the Prince is calling “cultural exchanges” between the Empire of Tsuranuanni and the Kingdom, and he was personally coming for a visit.’
‘Well, he did that,’ said the captain. ‘He arrived here a few days ago and called on the Earl. Every Tsurani of any rank does that, as the Earl’s father is very important on the Tsurani home world. So it’s a duty thing.’ The old captain rubbed his beard-stubbled chin with a gloved hand. ‘The Tsurani are very deep into “duty”, I have learned in my time with the Earl. Anyway, they were here for a couple of days, Makala, some other Black Robes, and honour guards and bearers and the bunch, and it seems some of the bearers weren’t really bearers, but were some kind of dishonoured warriors from the Empire.’
‘Grey warriors,’ said Locklear. ‘I heard.’ That would explain how the grey warriors got through the rift, thought Locklear, disguised as bearers.
‘That’s who my lads are looking for. Rumour is they fled east. If they get over the mountains and into the Dimwood, we’ll never find them.’
‘Why the fuss?’ asked Owyn. ‘Are they slaves or indentured?’
‘Squire?’ said the captain pointedly.
‘He’s the son of the Baron of Timons,’ explained Locklear.
‘Well, young sir,’ said the captain, ‘these men are something like outlaws on their own world, which by itself isn’t enough to have me chasing after them, but here they stole something of value to this Makala – a ruby of some rarity, I gather – and he’s making enough of a fuss about it that you’d think the gods themselves lent it to him and he’s got to take it back in a week. So the Earl, some because he’s polite, and some because he’s Tsurani and used to jumping whenever one of those Black Robes barks, he’s got us combing the hills looking for those bastards.’
Locklear smiled at Owyn, as if asking if that was explanation enough. The captain looked at Gorath, as if expecting him to say something. Gorath remained silent. Locklear didn’t know if the captain recognized the moredhel for what he was or thought him an elf, and didn’t see the need to explain things to him. The captain said, ‘What would you need an escort for, if I may make so bold as to ask?’
‘We’ve had some problems,’ said Locklear. ‘Someone’s hired Quegan swords to keep us from reaching Krondor.’
The captain stroked his chin again and remained silent a long moment as he thought. ‘Here’s one thing I can do,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to run a patrol out to the border with the Free Cities. I can have you travel with it until it turns westward, almost half-way between LaMut and Zu-n. That’ll get you part of the way in safety.’
Locklear was silent a moment, then said, ‘I have a better idea.’
‘What?’ asked Captain Belford.
‘If you can pick three men to play our parts, and ride conspicuously out the south city gate, we’ll head east and slip over the mountains and head south to Krondor along the east mountain highway, where we won’t be expected.’
‘A ruse?’ asked the captain.
‘One I learned from the Prince,’ said Locklear. ‘He used it to good effect in the Riftwar. If you can lead away those looking for us, long enough for us to reach the far side of the mountains, we should be safe.’
‘I can arrange that.’ He glanced at Owyn and Gorath. ‘I’ve got some men who can pass for you, if we keep the hood up on the one playing your elf friend, here.’ He stood up. ‘Let me arrange to have the evening patrol stop by your lodgings …?’ He looked at them questioningly.
‘The Inn of the Blue Wheel.’
Belford smiled. ‘Sumani’s place. Don’t let his smiling countenance fool you; he’s a tough boot. If you get the time, have him show you some of his fighting tricks. He’ll make time for a few coins. His decision not to stay in service was our loss.’
The captain left and returned a short time later. ‘It’s taken care of. Head back to the city and let anyone who might be following you see you return. Lie low in the inn until tonight and I’ll have three horses waiting for you in the inn’s stable.’ He handed Locklear a piece of parchment. ‘Here’s a pass. If one of our lads on the road to the east stops you, this will set him right.’
Locklear rose. ‘Thank you, captain. You’ve been a great help. If there’s anything I can do for you when you’re next in Krondor, please tell me.’
The old captain smiled. Rubbing his chin once more he said, ‘Well, you could introduce me to that merchant’s young wife I hear got you run up this way in the first place.’
Owyn grinned and Gorath remained impassive as Locklear blushed and grimaced. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ They rose and departed the office.
Owyn said, ‘We walk?’
‘We walk,’ said Locklear as they headed for the main gate of the castle. ‘But at least it’s downhill.’
Gorath said, ‘That is actually more tiring.’
Locklear swore. ‘It was a joke.’
Gorath said, ‘Really?’ His tone was so dry it took a moment for Owyn to realize he was twitting Locklear. Owyn kept his own mirth in check and they started back toward the city.
Locklear slipped through the door into their room. Gorath looked up without alarm, but Owyn jumped off the bed. ‘Where have you been?’
‘Nosing around. Sitting up here might be smarter, but I’ve got this itch to scratch.’
Gorath looked on, but still said nothing.
Owyn said, ‘Itch?’
Locklear smiled. ‘Too many years of keeping the wrong sort of company, I suppose, but the reports of those grey warriors and the theft of some sort of rich item dear to a Tsurani Great One had me thinking. If I stole something on a different world, how would I dispose of it?’
‘Depends on what it is, I guess,’ offered Owyn.
Gorath gave a slight nod, but still said nothing.
‘There would have to be a local contact, someone who knew where one disposes of something of value.’
‘And you expect to discover this person in the midst of the throng of this city and use him to trace this band of thieves?’ asked Gorath.
‘No,’ said Locklear waving away the comment. ‘The captain said the stolen item is a gem, which being from Kelewan isn’t a shock. There isn’t much on that world of value that’s also easy to transport that would fetch a high value here. So my thinking is that the best way to find this missing gem is to learn where it’s most likely to end up.’
‘A fence?’ asked Owyn.
‘No, for if as I suspect the value of the ruby is enough to give a band of desperate men a new start on a strange world, it would have to be the sort of man who has a legitimate enterprise, one likely to mask the movement of this item.’
‘You seem to understand this sort of business better than a noble of your race should,’ observed Gorath.
‘I said I kept the wrong sort of company. After buying a few drinks, I discovered there’s a merchant with less than a stellar reputation who deals in gems, jewellery, and other luxury items. He’s a man named Kiefer Alescook.’
‘Who told you this?’ asked Owyn.
‘Our host, actually,’ said Locklear, motioning it was time for them to depart. They rose and gathered their gear, and moved out down the stairs to the common room. With a wave goodbye to Sumani, they moved through the door. Once outside the inn, Locklear motioned for them to walk around the corner to the stabling yard next to the inn. They moved inside the door and found three men waiting for them, each holding two horses.
One said, ‘Switch cloaks, quickly!’
Each was of a like height with Locklear and his companions and the exchange was made. If the man playing the part of Gorath had any notion of whom he was impersonating, he kept such thoughts to himself, merely handing Gorath a large blue cloak, taking the dark grey one worn by the moredhel. The others switched cloaks and Locklear took the reins of one of the horses.
By the time the three impostors were mounted, the sound of hooves on the stones announced the arrival of the patrol that would head down toward Zu-n this evening. From outside the gate of the stabling yard, a sergeant shouted, ‘We’re here to escort you south, Squire Locklear!’
Locklear took his cue and shouted back, ‘We’re ready!’ He nodded to the three men impersonating them who rode off and joined the van of the column. Locklear waited and after a few minutes said, ‘Owyn, you ride out, turn left and head straight out the gate. Ride a mile, then wait. Gorath and I will be behind you by a few minutes.’
Gorath grunted his approval. ‘So should anyone linger, he won’t see three riders.’
Locklear nodded and Owyn said, ‘Hold this, please.’ He handed his quarterstaff to Locklear, climbed into the saddle, then took the long oaken pole back. With a deft movement, he slung it over his shoulder, through his belt, then twisted it, so it hung across his shoulders and back, not encumbering him or the horse too much.
Gorath easily mounted, though he looked slightly ill at ease.
‘Don’t ride much?’ asked Locklear as Owyn departed.
‘Not really. It’s been a while, thirty or so years.’
‘Not a lot of horses in the Northlands?’
Without bitterness, Gorath said, ‘Not a lot of anything in the Northlands.’
Locklear said, ‘I remember.’
Gorath nodded. ‘We bled at Armengar.’
Locklear said, ‘Not enough. It didn’t keep you from coming through Highcastle.’
Gorath pointed with his chin. ‘We should go now.’ He didn’t wait for Locklear, but put heels to the sides of his horse and rode out.
Locklear hesitated a moment, then followed after. He overtook the dark elf as he rode easily through the foot traffic of the city. Men hurried home for evening meals while shops closed on every side. Travellers fresh in from the highway hurried toward the inn, eager to wash away the day’s trail dust with an ale, and women of the night began to appear on street corners.
Locklear and Gorath rode out the gate, ignored by the guards, and set their horses to cantering. A few minutes later they spied Owyn sitting on the side of the road.
When they reached him, he turned and said, ‘Now what?’
Locklear pointed toward a stand of woods a short distance away. ‘A cold camp, unfortunately, but at first light we ride north a few miles. There’s a mine road to the east that leads over the mountains. We’ll take that, then turn south on the other side. With luck we’ll avoid those seeking our friend here and make our way safely to the King’s Highway south of Quester’s View.’
Owyn said, ‘That means we’re going to come out near Loriel, right?’
‘Yes,’ said Locklear, with a smile. ‘Which means we’ll have the chance to visit one Kiefer Alescook along the way.’
‘Why involve ourselves in this matter?’ asked Gorath. ‘We need to hurry to Krondor.’
‘We are, and a few minutes’ conversation with Master Alescook may yield us a benefit. Should we discover the whereabouts of this missing gem, we win credit with Prince Arutha, for I am certain he wishes to be a gracious host to the visiting magicians from Kelewan.’
‘And if we don’t?’ asked Owyn as they rode toward the woods.
‘Then I still have to come up with a compelling reason why I left Tyr-Sog without his leave and returned with only this moredhel and an unlikely story.’
Owyn sighed aloud. ‘Well, you think of one to tell my father when I get back home and I’ll try to come up with something to tell the Prince.’
Gorath chuckled at this.
Owyn and Locklear exchanged glances. Locklear shook his head in the evening gloom. He had never considered the dark elves might have a sense of humour.
The wind was cold in the passes, for as winter was coming, in the elevations above them snow already clung tenaciously to the rocks and ice lurked in depressions in the road, making the footing dangerous.
They rode slowly, Locklear and Owyn both with their cloaks pulled tightly around them. Gorath kept his hood up, but rode without apparent discomfort.
‘How much longer?’ asked Owyn, his teeth chattering.
‘A half-hour less than the last time you asked,’ said Locklear.
‘Squire,’ said Owyn. ‘I’m freezing.’
Locklear said, ‘Really. How unusual.’
Gorath held up his hand. ‘Quiet,’ he said softly, with just enough authority and volume to carry to his companions, but no farther. He pointed up ahead. ‘In the rocks,’ he whispered.
‘What?’ asked Locklear in hushed tones.
Gorath only pointed. He held up four fingers.
‘Maybe they’re bandits,’ whispered Owyn.
‘They’re speaking my tongue,’ said Gorath.
Locklear sighed. ‘They’re covering all the roads, then.’
‘How do we proceed?’ asked Owyn.
Pulling his sword, Gorath said, ‘We kill them.’ He spurred his horse forward, with Locklear hesitating only an instant before following.
Owyn reached up and quickly pulled out his staff, tucking it under his arm like a lance, then urging his horse forward. He heard a shout as he rounded a turn in the trail and entered a widening in the road where one dark elf lay dying in the road as Gorath sped past him.
The other three were not so quickly taken, but rather hurried up into higher rocks where the horses couldn’t follow. Locklear didn’t hesitate and in a move that startled Owyn, the squire jumped up on his saddle and leaped off the running horse’s back, knocking a moredhel from the rock he was climbing.
On his right Owyn saw another one turn, rapidly stringing his bow, then reaching in a hip quiver for an arrow. Owyn urged his horse forward, and swept his staff, striking the bowman below the knee. The bowman went down, his feet shooting out from under him, and struck the rocks with the back of his head.
Owyn’s mount shied from the sudden motion near his head and suddenly Owyn found himself falling backwards. ‘Ahhhh!’ he cried, and then he struck something softer than the rocks. A stunned ‘oof’ accompanied the impact, and a groan told him he had landed atop the already injured dark elf.
As if scorched by the touch of a flame, Owyn turned over and sat up, scrambling backwards. Suddenly he was struck from behind by his horse as the animal turned and sped down the trail. ‘Hey!’ Owyn shouted, as if he could order the animal to stop.
He then realized there was a struggle going on, and the twice-struck moredhel was attempting to rise. Owyn looked around for a weapon and saw the fallen archer’s bow. Owyn grabbed it, and using it like a club, struck the moredhel in the head with as much strength as he could muster. The bow shattered and the warrior’s head snapped back. Owyn was certain he wouldn’t rise again.
The young magician turned to see Locklear standing away from a now dead dark elf, while Gorath likewise stood over a fallen foe. The moredhel turned and looked in all directions, as if seeking another foe. After a moment, he put up his sword and said, ‘They are alone.’
‘How can you tell?’ asked Locklear.
‘These are my people,’ said Gorath without apparent bitterness. ‘It is unusual for even this many to travel together this far south of our lands.’ He motioned toward a small fire. ‘They didn’t expect to encounter us.’
‘Then what were they doing here?’ asked Locklear.
‘Waiting for someone?’
‘Who?’ asked Owyn.
Gorath looked around in the late-afternoon light as if seeing something in the distant peaks, or through the rocks on either side of the trail. ‘I don’t know. But they were waiting here.’
Locklear said, ‘Where is your horse, Owyn?’
Owyn looked over his shoulder and said, ‘Back down there somewhere. I fell off.’
Gorath smiled. ‘I saw you land on that one over there.’ He indicated the body.
Locklear said, ‘Hurry back down the trail and see if you can find him. If he’s heading back toward LaMut, we’ll have to ride in rotation. I don’t want to be slowed any more than necessary.’
As Owyn ran off, Gorath said, ‘Why don’t you leave him behind?’
Locklear studied the moredhel’s expression as if trying to read him, then at last he said, ‘It’s not our way.’
Gorath laughed mockingly. ‘My experience with your kind tells me otherwise.’
Locklear said, ‘Then it’s not my way.’
Gorath shrugged. ‘I can accept that.’ He set to examining the corpse at Locklear’s feet and after a moment said, ‘This is interesting.’ He held out an object for Locklear’s examination.
‘What is this?’ asked Locklear, looking at a multi-faceted stone of an odd blue hue.
‘A snow sapphire.’
‘Sapphire!’ said Locklear. ‘It’s as big as an egg!’
‘It’s not a particularly valuable stone,’ said Gorath. ‘They are common north of the Teeth of the World.’
‘So it’s, what? A keepsake?’
‘Perhaps, but when a war party leaves our homeland, we travel light. Weapons, rations, extra bowstrings, and little else. We easily live by forage.’
‘Maybe this isn’t a war party,’ suggested Locklear. ‘Maybe they live around here?’
Gorath shook his head. ‘The last of my people south of the Teeth of the World lived in the Grey Towers and they fled to the Northlands with the coming of the Tsurani. None of my race has lived this near the Bitter Sea since before the Kingdom came to these mountains. No, while not of my clan, these are from the Northlands.’ He put the gem in his belt pouch and continued to examine the bodies.
Time passed and finally Owyn put in an appearance, leading his horse. ‘Damn all horses,’ he swore. ‘He made me chase him until he got bored.’
Locklear smiled. ‘Next time, don’t fall off.’
‘I didn’t plan on it this time,’ said Owyn.
Gorath said, ‘We need to hide these.’ He pointed to the four dead moredhel. He picked up one and carried it a short way down the trail then unceremoniously threw the corpse over the side of a ravine.
Owyn looked at Locklear, and the young magician tied his horse’s reins to a nearby bush. He picked up the feet of the nearest corpse while Locklear lifted the creature under the shoulders.
Soon all four bodies were consigned to the ravine hundreds of feet below. Locklear mounted as did Gorath and Owyn. Leaving for the time being the mystery of why these moredhel were waiting at this lonely spot on a rarely used trail, they rode on.
Loriel appeared before them, a small city – really a large town – nestled into the large valley which ran eastward. Another valley intersected from the south.
Gorath said, ‘We need food.’
‘A fact of which my stomach is well aware,’ answered Locklear.
Owyn said, ‘Not that I’m in a hurry to face my father, but this is turning into a roundabout journey, squire.’
Locklear pointed to the southern valley. ‘There’s a road through there that’s a very straight course to Hawk’s Hollow. From there we have our choice of routes, south along a narrow ridge trail, or southwest back to the King’s Highway.’
Gorath said, ‘And then to Krondor?’
‘And then to Krondor,’ agreed Locklear. ‘Something in all this is making what my friend Jimmy calls his “bump of trouble” itch like I’ve been attacked there by fleas.
‘Gorath, this stolen ruby, the Tsurani magicians, all of it is somehow … more than coincidence.’
‘How?’ asked Owyn.
‘If I knew,’ said Locklear, ‘we wouldn’t be stopping off to visit Mr Alescook. He may know something or know someone who knows what it’s about, but the more I think on this mystery, the more it bothers me that I don’t know what’s behind all this.
‘But we’re going to find out or die trying.’
Owyn didn’t look happy at the second choice, but said nothing. Gorath just looked out over the town as they rode down towards a small guard post that sat beside the trail.
A town constable of advancing years and considerable girth held up his hand and said, ‘Halt!’
The three reined in and Locklear inquired, ‘What is it?’
‘We’ve had a rash of renegades around here, lately, m’lad, so state your business.’
‘We’re travelling south and stopping for provisions,’ said Locklear.
‘And who might you be, to be riding down out of the mountains?’
Locklear produced the paper given him by Captain Belford and said, ‘This should explain as much as you need to know, constable.’
The man took the document and squinted at it. Locklear realized he couldn’t read, but he made a show of studying it. Finally, convinced by the large embossment at the bottom, the constable handed back the paper and said, ‘You may pass, sir. Just be wary if you’re out after dark.’
‘Why?’ asked Locklear.
‘As I said, sir, lots of ruffians and bandits passing by lately, and not too few of those murderous Brothers of the Dark Path. Look a bit like your elf friend there, but with long black nails and red eyes which shine in the night.’
Locklear could barely hold back his amusement as he said, ‘We’ll be wary, constable.’
They rode past and Gorath said, ‘That one has never seen one of my people in his life.’
‘So I gathered,’ observed Locklear, ‘though I must pay more attention to your eyes at night. I may have missed the red glow.’
Owyn chuckled and they found themselves an inn. It was dirty, crowded and dark, which suited Locklear fine as he was low on funds. He had thought about asking Captain Belford for a loan, but decided the captain’s only response would have been, ‘wait for Earl Kasumi,’ and while Locklear didn’t mind taking a circuitous route to get to Krondor to avoid ambushes, he was anxious to put the mystery of what was occurring in the Northlands before Arutha.
There were no rooms available, a situation that surprised Locklear, but the innkeeper gave them leave to sleep in the commons. Owyn grumbled at the need, but Gorath kept his thoughts to himself.
So far no one had objected to the moredhel’s presence along the way, either because they didn’t recognize him for what he was, mistaking him for an elf, or because a moredhel with renegade humans in these mountains was not all that unusual a sight. Whatever the cause, Locklear was grateful he didn’t need to deal with curious onlookers.
They ate at a crowded table, and after the meal listened to an indifferent troubadour. There were some games of chance and Locklear itched to try his hand at some cards, either pashawa or pokir. He resisted the impulse, as he could ill afford to lose, and one lesson taught him by his father and older brothers was don’t gamble what you can’t afford to lose.
As the inn settled down and those sleeping in the commons began to claim corners and places under tables, Locklear approached the barkeep, a heavy-set man with a black beard. ‘Sir?’ he asked as Locklear moved between two other men to stand before him.
‘Tell me, friend,’ began Locklear. ‘Is there a merchant in this town who deals in gems?’
The barkeep nodded. ‘Three doors down on the right. Name’s Alescook.’
‘Good,’ said Locklear. ‘I need to purchase a gift for a lady.’
The barkeep grinned. ‘I understand, sir. Now, one word: caution.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Locklear.
‘I’m not saying Kiefer Alescook can’t be trusted, but let’s just say the source of some of his merchandise is a bit dodgy.’
‘Ah,’ said Locklear, nodding as if now he understood. ‘Thanks. I’ll bear that in mind.’
Locklear returned to the table and said, ‘I’ve found our man. He’s nearby and we’ll see him first thing in the morning.’
‘Good,’ said Gorath. ‘I tire of your company.’
Locklear laughed. ‘You’re not exactly an ale and fair song yourself, Gorath.’
Owyn said, ‘Well, whatever. I’m tired and if we’re to sleep on the floor, I don’t want to get too far from the fire.’
Locklear realized that men were now bedding down for the night and replied, ‘Over there.’
They moved to the indicated spot and unrolled their bedding. After a few minutes of listening to the sounds of hushed conversation from those few men still at the tables or the door opening and closing as men left to return to their homes, Locklear fell into a deep sleep.
The merchant looked up as the three men entered the room. He was an old man, looking frail to the point of infirmity. He regarded the three with rheumy eyes. He studied Gorath for a moment, then said, ‘If you’ve come for gold, I sent it north with one of your kind two days ago.’
Gorath said, ‘I did not come for gold.’
Locklear said, ‘We came looking for information.’
The merchant fell silent. After a moment, he said, ‘Information? Find a rumour-monger. I deal in gems and other fine items.’
‘And from what we hear, you’re not too particular as to the source of those items.’
‘Are you suggesting I deal in stolen property?’ demanded the old man, his voice rising.
Locklear held up his hand. ‘I suggest nothing, but I am seeking a particular stone.’
‘What?’
‘A ruby, unusual in size and character. I seek to return it to its rightful owner, no questions asked. If you came by it, no fault will be placed at your feet, if you help us recover it. If you don’t, then I suggest you may receive a visit from a royal magistrate and some very disapproving guardsmen from the garrison at Tyr-Sog.’
The old man’s expression turned calculating. His balding pate shone in the light of a single lantern that hung overhead. With feigned indifference he said, ‘I have nothing to hide. But I may be able to help you.’
‘What do you know?’ asked Locklear.
‘Lately, my business has been brisk, but it’s an unusual sort of trade, and I’ve been in this business for fifty years, lad.
‘Recently, I’ve been handling transactions for parties I have not met, through agents and couriers. Most unusual, but profitable. Gems of high quality, many of them very rare, even remarkable, have passed through my hands.’
‘Tsurani gems?’ asked Locklear.
‘Precisely!’ said the old man. ‘Yes, similar enough to our own rubies, sapphires, emeralds and the like to be recognized as such, but with slight variations only an expert might notice. And also, other gems unlike any found on this world.’
‘Whom do you represent?’ asked Locklear.
‘No one known to me,’ said the old man. ‘At irregular intervals of late, dark elves like your companion have come here, and they drop off gems. Later a man comes from the south and brings me gold. I take a commission and wait for the dark elves to return and take the gold.’
Gorath turned to Locklear. ‘Delekhan. He’s using the gold to arm our people.’
Locklear held his hand up, requesting silence. ‘We’ll talk later.’ To the old man he said, ‘Who buys the gems?’
‘I don’t know, but the man who receives them is known as Isaac. He lives down in Hawk’s Hollow.’
‘Have you seen this Isaac?’ asked Locklear.
‘Many times. He’s a young man, about your height. Light brown hair he wears long to his shoulders.’
‘Does he speak like an Easterner?’
‘Yes, now that you mention it. He sounds court bred at times.’
Locklear said, ‘Thank you. I will mention your aid should any official investigation come of this.’
‘I am always eager to help the authorities. I run a lawful enterprise.’
‘Good.’ Locklear motioned toward Gorath’s purse and said, ‘Sell him the stone.’
Gorath took out the snow sapphire he had taken from the dead moredhel and put it down before Alescook.
The merchant picked it up and examined it. ‘Ah, a nice one. I have a buyer for these down south. I’ll give you a golden sovereign for it.’
‘Five,’ said Locklear.
‘These are not that rare,’ said Alescook, tossing it back to Gorath, who started to put it away. ‘But, on the other hand … two sovereigns.’
‘Four,’ said Locklear.
‘Three, and that’s done with it.’
They took the gold, enough for a meal along the way, left and went outside. To his companions Locklear said, ‘We’re passing through Hawk’s Hollow on our way to Krondor, so our next choice is easy. We find Isaac.’
As he mounted his horse, Gorath said, ‘This Isaac is known to you, then?’
Locklear said, ‘Yes. He’s the second biggest rogue I’ve known in my life. A fine companion for drinking and brawling. If he’s caught up in something dodgy, it wouldn’t surprise me.’
They turned their horses southward and left the large, rolling valley of Loriel, entering the narrow river valley leading southward. Locklear had been able to purchase a little food at the inn, but the lack of funds was starting to worry him. He knew they could hunt, but his sense of something dark approaching was growing by the day. A renegade moredhel chieftain bringing warning of possible invasion, money moving to the north to buy weapons from weapons runners, and somehow the Tsurani were involved. Any way he looked at this, it was a bad situation.
Unable to put aside his foreboding, he kept his thoughts to himself.
Gorath held up his hand and pointed. Softly he said, ‘Something there.’
‘I don’t see anything,’ said Owyn.
‘If you did, I would not need to warn you,’ suggested the dark elf.
‘What do you see?’ asked Locklear.
‘An ambush. See those trees. Some lower branches have been hacked off, but not by a woodsman’s axe or saw.’
‘Owyn,’ Locklear asked, ‘can you still do that blinding trick?’
‘Yes,’ said Owyn, ‘if I can see the man I’m trying to blind.’
‘Well, as we’re sitting here, pointing at them, I expect in a moment whoever’s behind that brush is going to figure out we’ve spotted their ambush—’
Locklear was interrupted by six figures rushing forward from the brush on foot. ‘Moredhel!’ shouted Locklear as he charged.
He felt the sizzling energy speed past him as Owyn sought to blind an advancing dark elf. The spell took effect, for the creature faltered, reaching up to his eyes in alarm.
Locklear leaned over the neck of his horse as an arrow flew past him. ‘Get the bowman,’ he shouted to Owyn.
Gorath shouted a war cry and rode down one attacker while slashing at a second. Locklear engaged a dark elf who seemed indifferent to facing a mounted opponent, and Locklear knew from bitter experience how deadly the moredhel could be. While rarely mounted themselves, they had faced human cavalry for hundreds of years and were adept at pulling riders from horseback. Knowing their tactics, Locklear spurred his mount suddenly, turning it hard to the left. This knocked back the attacker he faced and revealed the one poised to leap and drag him down. Locklear slashed out with his sword, taking the creature in the throat, above his metal breastplate. Locklear kept his horse circling, so he quickly faced his first attacker.
The sizzling sensation told him Owyn was once more blinding an opponent, and Locklear hoped it was the bowman. The moredhel who had fallen back as the horse spun pressed forward with a vicious slash at Locklear’s leg.
He barely got his sword down in time and felt the shock run up through his arm. His stiff ribs hindered his parry and the flat of his own blade slammed into his horse’s side, causing the animal to shy.
Locklear used his left leg and moved the animal back into a straight line, twisting his body to keep his eyes upon his foe. His ribs hurt from the effort, but he stayed alive as the moredhel swung at him again. He knocked that blow aside and delivered a weak counter which slapped his opponent in the face, irritating him more than doing any real damage.
But the blow did slow the moredhel’s advance, and Locklear got his horse turned to face his foe. Locklear remembered something his father had drilled into him and his brothers; a soldier who has a weapon and doesn’t use it is either an idiot or dead.
His horse was a weapon, and Locklear put his legs hard against his horse’s flanks and tugged hard on the reins with his off hand. The horse picked up a canter, and to the moredhel it was as if the horse suddenly leaped at him.
The warrior was a veteran and dodged to one side, but Locklear reined his horse in, turning hard to the left. To the moredhel, it looked as if Locklear was turning away, and the creature pressed forward.
Locklear kept the horse turning in a tight circle, and suddenly the moredhel realized his error as the young squire completed his circle with a slashing downward blow. This was no irritating tap, but a powerful blow which smashed bone as it cut into the side of the moredhel’s skull.
Locklear glanced toward Gorath and saw him beset by two foes, then looked back to Owyn, and saw that he was on foot a hundred yards away and holding a swordsman at bay with his staff. Hoping the bowman was still blinded by Owyn’s magic, Locklear rode to Owyn’s rescue.
He kicked hard at his horse’s flanks and the animal leaped forward so that he was approaching at a gallop when the moredhel heard him coming. The dark elf turned to look at his second opponent, giving Owyn the opening to strike with the butt of his staff. He broke the creature’s jaw and sent him slumping to the ground.
Locklear reined his horse in so suddenly the animal planted his hooves and almost sat. Spinning the horse around, Locklear waved to Owyn, shouting, ‘Keep the bowman off us!’
As if the Goddess of Luck had turned a deaf ear to him, Locklear was lifted out of the saddle by an arrow. He struck the ground hard, barely avoiding broken bones by rolling. The arrow in his left shoulder snapped and the pain caused his vision to swim and took his breath away.
For the briefest instant, Locklear fought to keep conscious, then he felt his eyes focus and he willed away the pain in his shoulder. A strangled cry behind him made him turn. Over him reared a moredhel, sword raised to strike. Suddenly Gorath was behind the moredhel, and he plunged his sword into the moredhel’s back.
Owyn ran past, wheeling his staff above his head. Locklear looked up as his would-be killer fell to his knees, then keeled over. Gorath turned before Locklear could speak and ran after Owyn.
Locklear rose slowly on wobbly legs as he saw Owyn rush forward and strike a moredhel bowman who was vainly rubbing his eyes as if trying to clear them. The bowman was clubbed to his knees, and died a moment later as Gorath delivered the killing blow.
Gorath spun around in a circle once, as if seeking another enemy, but Locklear saw the six were dead. Gorath stood with his sword in hand, frustration on his face, then he shouted in rage. ‘Delekhan!’
Locklear stumbled to the dark elf and said, ‘What?’
‘They knew we were coming!’ said Gorath.
Owyn said, ‘Somehow they got word south?’
Gorath put up his sword. ‘Nago.’
‘What?’ asked Locklear.
‘Not what, who,’ said Gorath. ‘Nago. He’s one of Delekhan’s sorcerers. He and his brother Narab served the murderer. They are powerful chieftains in their own right, but right now they’re doing Delekhan’s bidding. Without their help, Delekhan never would have risen to power and overthrown the chieftains of the other clans. Without their help, these—’ his hand swept in a circle, indicating the dead moredhel ‘—would not be here waiting.’ He knelt next to one of the dead and said, ‘This was my cousin, my kinsman.’ He pointed to another one. ‘That one is from a clan that has been sworn enemy to mine for generations. That they are both serving this monster hints at his power.’
Locklear indicated his shoulder and sank to the ground. Owyn examined it and explained, ‘I can get the arrowhead out, but it’s going to hurt.’
Locklear said, ‘It already hurts. Get on with it.’
While Owyn ministered to Locklear, Gorath said, ‘Nago and Narab both have the power of mind speech. Especially with one another. Those we killed on the road to your town of Loriel, or another who spied us, must have passed word to one of the brothers. He in turn alerted these as to our whereabouts.’
Locklear said, ‘So the chances are good that before they died, one of these also let Nago know we are here?’
‘Almost certainly.’
‘Wonderful,’ said Locklear through gritted teeth as Owyn used his dagger to cut out the arrowhead. His eyes teared and his vision swam again for a moment, but by breathing slowly and deeply he kept conscious.
Owyn dusted the wound with a pack of herbs from his belt pouch then placed a cloth over it. ‘Hold this here; press hard,’ he instructed. He went to the nearest body and robbed it of a strip of cloth, cut away with his dagger, then returned to bind it tightly around Locklear’s shoulder. ‘Between that wound to your ribs and this shoulder, your left arm is close to useless, squire.’
‘Just what I wanted to hear,’ said Locklear as he tried to move his left arm and found Owyn’s observation correct. He could move it scant inches before pain made him stop the attempt. ‘Horses?’
‘They’ve run off,’ said Owyn.
‘Wonderful,’ said Locklear. ‘I was knocked out of the saddle, what’s your excuse?’ he demanded of the other two.
Gorath said, ‘Fighting on the back of the beast was too awkward.’
Owyn said, ‘I can’t cast a spell from the saddle. Sorry.’
Locklear stood. ‘So we walk.’
‘How far is it to Hawk’s Hollow?’ asked Owyn.
‘Too far,’ said Locklear. ‘If they’re waiting for us, much too far.’
• CHAPTER THREE • (#ulink_35ddface-7192-5c50-80de-2d73d2d937f6)
Revelation (#ulink_35ddface-7192-5c50-80de-2d73d2d937f6)
THE SENTRY BLINKED IN SURPRISE.
One moment the approach to the town was empty, the next three figures were standing before him. ‘What?’ he exclaimed, bringing his old spear to something resembling a stance of readiness.
‘Easy, friend,’ said Locklear. He leaned upon Owyn’s shoulder and looked as if he was close to death. They had encountered three more ambushes between the one where their horses had fled and Hawk’s Hollow. They had managed to avoid the first two, sneaking around human bandits. The last had been a squad of six moredhel who had been too alert. The fight had been bloody and costly. Gorath was wounded, a nasty cut to his left shoulder that Owyn had barely been able to staunch. Locklear had been injured again, nearly dying if not for Owyn’s intervention, and the young magician himself was sporting a half-dozen minor wounds.
‘Who are you?’ asked the confused sentry. He was obviously a farmer or worker from town, part of the city’s militia Locklear guessed.
‘Locklear, squire of the Prince’s court in Krondor, and these two are my companions.’
‘You look like brigands, to me,’ replied the guardsman.
‘We have proof,’ said Locklear, ‘but first I’d like to find someone who can help us before we bleed to death.’
‘Brother Malcolm of the Temple of Silban is in town, down at Logan’s Tavern. He comes through here every six months or so. He’ll help you out.’
‘Where is Logan’s?’ asked Owyn as Locklear seemed about to lapse into unconsciousness.
‘Just down the street. Can’t miss it. Sign out front of a dwarf.’
They made their way to the indicated establishment, which showed a faded sign of a comically drawn dwarf, obviously once painted with vivid colours.
They went inside and found several townspeople sitting by, waiting for a priest in the robes of the Order of Silban who was in the corner ministering to a sick child. A couple of local workers were waiting, one with a bandaged hand, the other looking pale and weak.
The priest looked up as he finished with the boy, who leaped down from his mother’s lap without prompting and raced for the door. The priest looked at Locklear and said, ‘Are you dying?’
‘Not quite,’ answered the squire.
‘Good, because these fellows were here first and I’ll only make them wait if you’re near death.’
Mustering as much dry wit as he could under the circumstances, Locklear replied, ‘I’ll try to let you know when I’m about to die.’
Gorath’s patience vanished. He moved to confront the priest and said, ‘You will see my companion now. These others can wait.’
The glowering dark elf towered over the small priest and his expression and voice left no room for argument this side of violence. The priest looked once more at Locklear and said, ‘Very well, if you think it urgent. Bring him over to this table.’
They half-carried Locklear to the table and laid him out on it. The priest said, ‘Who bandaged this?’
‘I did,’ said Owyn.
‘You did well enough,’ said the priest. ‘He’s alive, so that counts for much.’
After Locklear’s tunic and the bandages were removed, the priest said, ‘Silban preserve us! You’ve got three wounds fit to fell a bigger man.’ He sprinkled a powder on the wounds, which brought a gasp of pain from Locklear, then the priest began a chant and closed his eyes.
Owyn felt power manifest in the room and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He had only been exposed to a little clerical magic in his life and it always seemed odd and exotic to him.
A faint glow from the priest’s hands threw illumination over Locklear’s wounds and as Brother Malcolm droned his chant, Owyn could see the wounds begin to heal. They were still visible, but no longer fresh and angry. When the priest stopped, they looked old, past the danger stage. The priest was pale from the exertion when he stopped. He said, ‘That’s all I can do now. Sleep and food will do the rest.’ Looking at Owyn and Gorath, he asked, ‘Do you have wounds, as well?’
‘We do,’ said Gorath. ‘But we can wait until you tend to those two.’ He pointed to the two locals waiting for treatment.
Malcolm nodded. ‘Good.’ As he moved past Gorath, he said, ‘Your manners may be in question, moredhel, but your instincts serve you well. He might have bled to death had we waited another hour.’
Gorath remained silent in the face of being recognized for what he was. He moved to sit next to Owyn and wait.
When the two farmers, one with a smashed finger courtesy of a badly-aimed hammer and the other with a bad case of fever, were finished, Malcolm turned to Gorath and Owyn. ‘Who’s next?’
Gorath indicated Owyn and the magician went to sit before the priest. He watched with interest as the priest quickly treated and bound his wounds. They spoke little, for Owyn was almost out on his feet.
When Gorath replaced him before the priest, the dark elf said, ‘You recognize my race, yet you do not call for the town guard. Why?’
The priest shrugged as he examined Gorath’s wounds. ‘You travel with men who do not look like renegades to me. You are not here killing and burning, so I assume your mission a peaceful one.’
‘Why do you assume I have a mission?’ asked Gorath.
‘Why else would you travel in the human world?’ Malcolm asked rhetorically. ‘I have never known the moredhel to travel for pleasure.’
Gorath grunted, forgoing comment.
Malcolm was quickly done and said, ‘You should have come second; this wound was more severe than your friend’s. But you’ll live.’ He washed his hands and dried them with a towel. ‘It is my mission to aid and serve, but it is custom that those served donate.’
Gorath indicated Locklear, who was now sitting upright at the table upon which he had lain. Locklear said, ‘Brother, I fear I may only give you a scant token of our debt, but should you come to Krondor any time soon, visit me and I will repay you tenfold.’
Locklear dug into his purse and judged how much he would need for a room that night, and other costs, then drew out a golden sovereign and two silver royals. ‘It is all we can spare.’
‘It will do,’ said the priest. ‘In Krondor, where might I find you?’
‘At the palace. I am one of the Prince’s men. I am Squire Locklear.’
‘Then I shall call upon you when next I’m in Krondor, young squire, and you can settle accounts with me then.’ Glancing at Locklear’s freshly-bound wounds, he said, ‘Go easy on those cuts for another day. By tomorrow you’ll feel better. If you avoid being stabbed again any time soon, you’ll feel like your old self by week’s end. Now, I must go rest. This is more healing in one afternoon than I usually experience in a week.’
The priest left and Locklear slowly rose to cross to the bar and found the innkeeper cleaning up. The portly man said, ‘Welcome to The Dusty Dwarf, my friends. What may I do for you?’
‘Food and a room,’ said Locklear.
They returned to a table and the innkeeper followed soon after, putting down a large platter of cold meats, breads baked earlier that morning, cheese and fruits. ‘I’ve got some hot food cooking for later this evening, but this early in the day, cold fare is all I have.’
Owyn and Gorath were already stuffing food into their mouths as Locklear was saying, ‘That will be fine. Some ale, please.’
‘Right away.’
The man was back with the ale in a moment, and Owyn asked, ‘Sir, what is the story behind the name of this place?’
‘The Dusty Dwarf?’ said the man.
‘Yes.’
‘Well, truth to tell, it’s not much of a story. Man named Struble owned this place. Called it The Merry Dwarf. Don’t know why. But it had a bright sign. He never had the sign repainted in all the years he owned the place, so by the time I bought it from him, the sign was badly faded. All the locals called it The Dusty Dwarf by then, so I just went along. Saves me the cost of getting the sign painted, too.’
Owyn smiled at the story, as the barkeep hurried off to meet the demands of another customer. Locklear looked nearly asleep as he said, ‘All right. We have two choices. We can take the main road down to Questor’s View, or the back way through Eggly and Tannerus and lose a few days.’
Owyn said, ‘I’m only guessing, but from what Gorath has said, this Nago or Narab is keeping in contact with their agents by mind speech. As I said before, I know only a little about this speech, but what I do know is it can be very taxing. The magician Pug’s daughter is known to be among the most gifted in the world at this and can speak across vast distances, but she is rare, even unique. For lesser magicians, it requires much rest.’
Gorath looked on impassively, but Locklear said, ‘Come to the point, if you don’t mind. I’m having trouble staying awake.’
‘The point is whoever this magician is, he’s lying low in one place, probably guarded, and probably has one or two key agents in a given area. The rest of his orders are being run by messengers, I’m thinking. So they know where we’ve been, and may have even guessed where we are today, but they don’t know which way we’ll be going.’
Locklear said, ‘Fine, but what does that mean about our choice of route?’
Gorath said, ‘It means he must spread his men equally between the two routes, so the best solution is to take the route where we will be best able to defend ourselves or travel with a larger band, such as a trading caravan.’
Locklear motioned to the innkeeper, who came and gave him a key, indicating the room at the top of the stairs. As they mounted the stairs, Locklear observed, ‘If we were trying to come back from Kesh, a caravan might be a good cover, but as the King’s Highway is usually well patrolled, most traders feel comfortable travelling with a few mercenary guards or none at all. Most commerce along the coast is by ship.’
As they reached the room, Owyn said, ‘Could we make for Questor’s View and hire a ship?’
‘With what?’ asked Locklear. ‘Captain Belford’s letter of introduction isn’t exactly the King’s writ. If a fleet ship is at anchor, I know I could talk our way aboard and get it bound for Krondor, but I’m not anxious to sit around waiting for one to show up. I’m not anxious for anything but a good night’s sleep, finding Isaac and getting this riddle of a special ruby solved, and then figuring out how to get to Krondor as fast as we can.’
Owyn said, ‘I can’t argue about that night’s sleep.’
Gorath said nothing.
An hour after dawn they left the inn and Locklear felt remarkably recovered. Where searing agony had accompanied his every movement the day before, he now only felt slightly stiff and weak.
He indicated a journey toward the north end of the town as he said, ‘If I know Isaac, he’s probably staying at the house of his cousin, a certain young gentleman named Austin Delacroix.’
‘From Bas-Tyra?’ asked Owyn as they started up the busy street. Windows were opening as vendors put out their wares for display, or housewives opened up their homes to the morning air and sun.
‘Originally,’ said Locklear. ‘A family of marginal nobility, descended from a one time hero of some forgotten war when Bas-Tyra was a city-state; their house rank is all based upon that.’
‘Your human issues of rank and status are … difficult to understand,’ observed Gorath.
‘Why?’ asked Owyn. ‘Don’t you have chieftains?’
‘We do,’ said Gorath. ‘But it is a rank earned by deeds, not one conferred by birth. Delekhan rose by betrayal and bloodshed, yet he was sheltered by his early service to Murmandamus and Murad.’ He almost spat the last two names. ‘If his son Moraeulf gains his ambition to inherit from his father, it will be over the bodies of many such as I. In better times, he would be a valued sword against our people’s enemy, but these are not better times.’
‘This is the house, I think,’ said Locklear, pointing to a once-prosperous dwelling fallen on hard times. The house, like those on either side, was a small but well-built structure of wood and stone, with a sturdy door and shuttered windows. But while the others were clean and recently painted, this was faded and dirty.
Locklear knocked loudly and after a few minutes a sleepy voice from the other side of the door said, ‘What?’
‘Isaac?’ shouted Locklear, and the door opened.
A young man with light brown hair stuck his head out the door and said, ‘Locky?’ The door opened wide and the young man bid them enter. He wore only a rumpled tunic and trousers, obviously having slept in them. ‘I was just getting up,’ he said.
‘Right,’ said Locklear, as if humouring him.
The room was dark, with the shutters and sashes still closed, and the air was stale. Old food odours and sweat mixed with the sour aroma of spilled ale. The furniture was simple, one wooden table with four chairs, a single shelf behind the table, and another small table upon which a lamp rested. Stairs led to a sleeping loft above. A faded tapestry, once residing in surroundings far finer than those in which they hung now, was the sole item of any note. It hung behind Isaac, framing him with a tableau of a meeting between princes who were exchanging gifts while notables of that day looked on from all sides.
‘Locklear,’ said Isaac, as if savouring the name. ‘What a pleasure. You’re wearing your years well. I like the moustache. You always could manage the flamboyant.’ He turned away and moved with a visible limp. ‘Sit down. I would offer you tea or coffee, but my cousin is temporarily visiting other relatives in Bas-Tyra, and I have just arrived last night, so we are not well provisioned.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Locklear. ‘How long’s it been? Since Arutha’s wedding?’
Isaac sat in a small wooden chair, and crossed his legs so that he kept his weight on his good leg. ‘The very day. You should have heard the fit old Master of Ceremonies deLacy threw when he found out I wasn’t the Baron of Dorgin’s son.’
‘That’s because there is no Baron of Dorgin,’ supplied Locklear. ‘If you’d done your research, you would have avoided that gaffe.’
‘How was I supposed to know the lands outside the dwarven enclave are the province of the Duke of the Southern Marches?’
‘Study?’ suggested Locklear.
‘Never my strong suit,’ said Isaac with a wave of his hand.
‘Well, at least deLacy was too busy with the wedding to toss you out until the next day,’ said Locklear. ‘We had a good time that night. What have you been doing since?’
‘I spent some time in the east with my family, then returned a few years ago to the west. Since then I’ve been doing odd jobs along the border. So, what brings a member of Krondor’s court so far from home with such unusual company?’
‘Certain doings, some bloody, which unfortunately point to you.’
‘Me?’ said Isaac. ‘You’re not serious.’
‘I’m as serious as a royal torturer, Isaac, and you’ll have a chance to make a first-hand comparison if you don’t answer me truthfully. I’ll have Gorath sit on you while I go fetch the local constable. We can have a pleasant talk here, or a very unpleasant one in Krondor.’
Locklear had no intention of summoning the local constable and trying to sort out his claim of rank and authority, especially with no royal writs or warrants. But Isaac didn’t know that, and Locklear wasn’t about to enlighten him.
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ said Isaac, starting to slowly rise.
Gorath said softly, ‘Reach for that sword behind you and you’ll have a leg to match the other before your fingers touch the hilt, human.’
‘Damn,’ said Isaac quietly, sitting back down in the chair.
‘The ruby,’ said Locklear.
‘What ruby?’ said Isaac.
‘The one you bought from Kiefer Alescook. The one you paid for with gold heading north to buy Delekhan weapons. The ruby stolen from an important Tsurani magician. The ruby that’s the latest in a series of such transactions.’
Isaac ran a hand over his face and back through his hair. ‘Locky, it’s been hard.’
Locklear’s expression turned dark and his voice took on a menacing tone that had Owyn sitting back in surprise. ‘As hard as treason, Isaac? As hard as the jerk at the end of a hangman’s rope?’
‘Who said anything about treason, Locky?’ Isaac’s manner turned to pleading. ‘Look, we were boyhood friends before I had my accident. If our positions had been reversed, you’d know; you’d understand what it’s like to be a hired sword with a bad leg. Locky, I was nearly starving when this opportunity came along. I was too far in before I discovered who was behind it.’
‘Tell us what you know and I’ll do you a favour,’ said Locklear.
Isaac looked downfallen, and said in a contrite fashion, ‘I was in over my head before I knew who I was dealing with. Alescook is an old acquaintance. I know that from time to time he “finds” gems and jewellery that has … ah, “clouded” title is a polite way of putting it.’
‘Stolen,’ said Locklear.
Isaac squirmed. ‘Whatever the cause, the market in the Kingdom is difficult, so those gems find their way south, to Kesh or over the water to Queg or the Free Cities. I’m just a middleman, someone who can take a little trip down to the Vale or over to Krondor or Sarth and put something on a ship. That’s all.’
‘The ruby?’ said Locklear.
Isaac started to rise and hesitated as Gorath leaned forward, hand on the hilt of his sword. Isaac continued rising slowly, then mounted the stairs to the loft above. Locklear motioned with his head to Owyn, who stood up and hurried through a small door in the wall next to the tapestry. He found himself in a tiny kitchen, one dirty enough he would have to be far hungrier than he presently was to consider eating anything prepared there. He ducked through the back door and looked up at a window above, where he saw the head of Isaac disappear back inside. Owyn smiled; Locklear’s instincts had been correct. The lame ex-fighter might attempt to escape from a first storey window, but he knew he wasn’t quick enough to pull off his escape if someone was waiting below.
A moment later, Locklear called for Owyn’s return and the young magician complied. He entered the room and stopped. The hairs on his arm stood up and he said, ‘Let me see the stone.’
Isaac handed it to him and said, ‘It’s really not a very valuable item, but I get paid well.’
Owyn replied, ‘I don’t know anything about stones and their worth, but I know this one is more than it appears to be.’ He looked at it closely. ‘This ruby has been prepared.’
‘Prepared for what?’ asked Locklear. ‘Jewellery?’
‘No, as a matrix of some kind for magic. I don’t know much about this sort of thing.’ He put the stone down. ‘Truth to tell, I don’t know much about any sort of thing magical, which is why I left Stardock. The only magic I’ve learned so far was from a field magician named Patrus, a sour old character. But my father objected and last I heard Patrus headed north—’ He shook himself out of his reverie. ‘It doesn’t matter, but what he told me is that some magic is harmonic and can be focused by gems. Or stored in them. He claimed once that magic itself might exist in gem form under the right conditions. For example, you can rig a trap with certain gems, so that whoever steps into a given area is imprisoned.’
‘Can you tell what this was used for?’
‘No,’ said Owyn with a shake to his head. ‘It may be something that will be used in the future.’
‘So you think it important?’ asked Gorath.
‘I can now see why the Tsurani magician was so angry about its disappearance.’
Locklear picked up the stone and tossed it in the air a couple of times while he was thinking. After a moment he put away the stone and turned to Isaac. ‘Tell us what else you know.’
Isaac looked defeated and said, ‘Very well. The stones come through the rift on an irregular basis. Sometimes a bunch, sometimes a single one like this one. Money comes to me in Krondor by various means; never the same twice. There’s a new gang in Krondor, run by someone calling himself the Crawler, and he’s causing the Mockers fits.’
‘Mockers?’ asked Gorath.
‘Thieves,’ said Locklear. ‘I’ll explain it later. Go on,’ he said, looking at Isaac.
‘Someone in Krondor is paying for gems. The Tsurani bring them in and hand them over to the moredhel. They run them over to Alescook and I go get them and bring them to Krondor. It’s a fairly simple arrangement.’
‘But someone’s running this. Who and where?’
Isaac sighed. ‘There’s a village south of Sarth. Called Yellow Mule. Know it?’
‘Villages like that don’t put up signs, but if it’s on the King’s Highway, I’ve ridden through it.’
‘It’s not. About twenty miles south of Sarth there’s a fork in the road, and if you go inland, you’re heading toward an old trail up into the mountains. About five miles along that road is where you’ll find Yellow Mule. It’s why the moredhel are using it. No one travels through there, and it’s easy for his kin—’ he indicated Gorath with a jerk of his chin ‘—to get there without being seen.
‘There’s an old smuggler turned farmer named Cedric Rowe now living there. He knows nothing of loyalty to anyone, or anything but gold. He rents out his barn to a Dark Brother named Nago.’
‘Nago!’ said Gorath. ‘If we take him, then we have an opportunity to escape his minions. Without him, they are blind and we can get to Krondor.’
‘Maybe,’ said Locklear. ‘But certainly, if we leave him there, the closer we get to Krondor, the easier it is for his agents to find us.’
‘Why?’ asked Owyn.
‘He’s tightening the noose, lad,’ said Isaac. ‘Less land for his men to cover.’
Locklear said, ‘Now Quegans make sense. This Rowe has probably been dealing with Quegan pirates all his life and just sent word to someone in Sarth. First ship outbound to Queg passes word and within a month he’s got as many sea-hardened bully-boys as he needs. And if Nago is throwing gold around, there are more Quegans along the roads to Krondor than a beggar has lice.’
‘And Quegans aren’t likely to run to the King’s soldiers if something goes sour; worst they do is skulk back to the nearest port and find a ship heading out. Little chance of being betrayed by someone going cold in the feet,’ added Isaac.
‘What else?’ asked Locklear.
‘Nothing,’ said Isaac. He stood up and took a cloak off the peg. ‘As soon as I pen a note to my cousin, I’m bound for Kesh. I’ve just set Nago’s assassin on my trail, but he doesn’t know it yet. Each hour I steal before he does, I stand a better chance of reaching Kesh.’
‘I said I’d do you a favour, Isaac, and I will. I’ll let you run for Kesh, for old times’ sake and for keeping up your end of the bargain, but only if you tell us everything.’
‘What makes you think there’s anything else?’
Locklear pulled his sword suddenly and had the point at Isaac’s throat. ‘Because I know you. You always hold something back, just in case you need an edge. I’m guessing this little bit of theatre is to give you a chance to be out of town before us, just in case you can find one of Nago’s agents and get him set on us before they figure out you’ve sold them out. Something like that.’
Isaac grinned. ‘Locky! Why I wouldn’t—’
Locklear pressed forward with the sword point and Isaac stopped talking so suddenly he almost swallowed his own tongue. ‘All of it,’ demanded Locklear in a menacing whisper.
Slowly Isaac raised his hand and gently pushed aside the sword point. ‘There’s a lockchest—’
‘What?’ asked Locklear.
Gorath said, ‘A chest in which to lock valuables. My people make them to transport items of importance.’
‘Go on,’ said Locklear.
‘There’s a lockchest outside of town. Go five miles down the road toward Questor’s View. To the right side of the road you’ll see a lightning-struck tree. Beyond that is a small clump of brush. Look there and you’ll see the chest. I am to leave the ruby there tonight, and when I return tomorrow, my gold is supposed to be waiting for me.’
‘So you never see your contact from Krondor?’
‘Never. That was part of Nago’s instructions to me.’
‘You’ve seen this moredhel?’ asked Locklear.
‘Met him,’ said Isaac. ‘At Yellow Mule. He’s a big one, like your friend here, not slight like some of them can be. Nasty moods and no humour. Odd fire in his eyes if you know what I mean.’
Locklear said, ‘I can imagine. What can you tell us about his company?’
‘He only keeps a couple of soldiers around him – I’ve never seen more than three at any time – because it might be noticed. And there are enough Quegans coming through there that if he needs swords he can get them in a hurry. But he’s a magic-user, Locky, a right nasty witch and if you cross him he can fry you as soon as look at you.’
Locklear glanced at Gorath who gave a slight nod of agreement to what was being said. Locklear said, ‘Very well, Isaac, here’s what you’re doing. Get something to write with.’
Isaac glanced around the room and saw an old scrap of faded leather sitting in a corner. He crossed to the small fireplace and fished out some charcoal. He said, ‘What do I write?’
‘Write this: “Ruby taken by Prince’s man. Three you seek are on the way to Eggly. I am undone and must flee.” Then sign your name.’
Isaac signed, looking pale as he put down those words. ‘This marks me, Locky.’
‘You were marked the moment you took gold to turn your hand against your king. You deserve to be hanged, and eventually you will be unless you change your ways, but it will be for another crime, not for this.’
‘Unless Nago’s agents find you first,’ added Gorath.
That was all Isaac needed. ‘What do I do with this?’
‘Put it in the chest where you are to leave the ruby, then I suggest you start running. If you don’t put that note there, and I get to Krondor, I’ll hire assassins even if they have to travel to the farthest reaches of Kesh to find you. You can cut your hair and colour it, grow a beard, and wear furs like a Brijainer, but you can’t hide that leg, Isaac. Now get out of here.’
Isaac didn’t hesitate. He grabbed his sword, his cloak and the note and hurried out the back door.
‘How could you spare that traitor?’ asked Gorath.
‘Dead he is of little use to us, and alive he may direct our foes to another path.’ Locklear looked at Gorath. ‘And isn’t it a little odd you’re showing contempt for a traitor?’
The look Gorath returned could only be called murderous. ‘I am no traitor. I’m trying to save my people, human.’ He offered no further embellishment, but turned and said, ‘We must be away. That one cannot be trusted and may attempt to bargain for his life.’
Locklear said, ‘I know, but either way he plants the note, or he is found and tells them what he knows, which isn’t much. They were trying to kill us before we got the ruby. They can’t make us any more dead for having it.’
‘I think I have a way for us to avoid detection for a while and perhaps reach Nago unseen,’ Gorath said.
‘How?’ asked Locklear.
‘I know the way they reach this village of Yellow Mule. If we take the ridge road toward the town you call Eggly, leaving as we told in the note, there’s a trail a day’s quick run south of here that leads into the higher ridges. It is, I believe, the same trail that empties out near Rowe’s farm.’
‘How could you know that?’ asked Locklear, suddenly suspicious.
Gorath’s patience appeared near its end, but he managed to reply evenly. ‘Because I lived in these mountains as a child, before you humans came to plague us. Before this land became infested with your kind, my people lived here. I’ve fished along these rivers and hunted in these mountains.’ His voice lowered and he said, ‘I may have built my campfire on the spot you humans have built this house. Now, let us go. It’s no long journey for a moredhel, but you humans tire easily, and besides, your wounds will slow you even more.’
‘And yours won’t?’ asked Owyn.
‘Not so that you would notice,’ replied the dark elf, turning to the door without waiting for a response and leaving the building.
Locklear and Owyn hurried after and found Gorath waiting. ‘We need to buy food. Have we enough gold?’
‘For food, yes,’ said Locklear. ‘For horses, no.’
They headed to an inn at the east end of town, and Locklear arranged for travel rations, food bound in parchment heavily coated with beeswax, mostly dried or heavily salted to prevent spoilage. While they waited Locklear asked what conditions were like on the road to Eggly, pointedly being loud enough that a few suspicious-looking men hanging about the commons early in the day could overhear. Should anyone ask about them, he was certain this would only reinforce the false information in Isaac’s note.
They left the inn and hurried on the road toward the town of Eggly. Locklear glanced upward, considered the rapidly rising ridge above the trees on the western side of the trail and considered the wisdom of hiking up to that elevation and over the mountains down into a nest of killers over which presided a murderous moredhel sorcerer. Finally he was left with the only answer which he could come up with: there wasn’t a better idea presenting itself.
Resigning himself to a long walk and cold nights, he followed Gorath, with Owyn at his side.
• CHAPTER FOUR • (#ulink_9791a256-0c0b-5dfd-8818-282c49897b57)
Passage (#ulink_9791a256-0c0b-5dfd-8818-282c49897b57)
THE WIND HOWLED THROUGH THE PASS.
Locklear spoke through chattering teeth. ‘The things I do for king and country.’
Gorath said, ‘Ignore the cold. As long as you can feel your fingers and toes, it is only discomfort, nothing more.’
‘Easy for you to say,’ said Owyn shivering almost uncontrollably. ‘You’re used to it, living up in the Northlands.’
‘You’re never “used to it”, human. You just learn to accept things over which you have no control.’ He looked meaningfully at the two young men, then pointed. ‘We can expect to see a sentry any time now.’
‘What should we do?’ asked Locklear, the cold and his hunger robbing him of his wits.
‘Wait over there,’ said Gorath, ‘while I scout.’
Locklear and Owyn went to the relative shelter provided by the lee side of a huge boulder and waited. Time dragged on and Owyn and Locklear sat close together to preserve warmth.
Suddenly Gorath returned. ‘There are four guards near the barn,’ he said. ‘Within, I do not know, but even alone Nago is dangerous.’
Locklear stood and stomped his feet to restore warmth, flexing fingers and moving in place, getting ready to engage an enemy. ‘What do we do?’ he asked again, content to let Gorath lead in this circumstance.
Gorath said, ‘Owyn, I have no idea of what you are capable, but Nago is a spell-caster of much ability. He can wither a foe with his arts, turning him to lifeless ash, or drive one away screaming in terror. He and his brother are among the most dangerous allies of Delekhan, and serve him even more vigorously since the coming of the Six.’
‘Who are the Six?’ asked Owyn.
Locklear waved away the question. ‘So, how do we deal with Nago?’
Gorath pointed to Owyn. ‘You must distract him, boy. Locklear and I will dispatch the other four, and anyone else who might be within the barn, but the magician must be your concern. Cause him to falter, to hesitate, to attempt to leave; anything, but you must keep him there for me to deal with and you must keep him from bringing his arts to bear. Can you do that?’
Owyn was obviously frightened, but he said, ‘I will try.’
‘No one can ask for more,’ said Gorath. To Locklear he said, ‘We have surprise, but we must kill the first two quickly. If we are overpowered, or even if we are delayed overmuch in reaching Nago, this will all come to a bad end. If Owyn can’t occupy the magician until we reach him, he will end our journey before we can warn your prince.’
Locklear said, ‘Then why are we doing this?’ Before Gorath could answer, Locklear held up his hand. ‘I know, the noose is tightening and if we don’t do it now, we will never reach Krondor.’
Gorath nodded. ‘Let’s go.’
They hurried down the road until they could see the roof of a barn across a small field that sat hard against the ridge. Locklear stooped over, so as to be less visible as they moved down the trail. ‘Where are the guards?’ he asked Gorath.
‘I don’t know. They were outside but a moment ago.’
‘Perhaps they’ve gone inside the barn,’ suggested Owyn.
Gorath pointed to a notch in the side of the trail, where rain had eroded the soil between two large boulders. He moved between the rocks and slid down the bank to the edge of the field, with Locklear behind and Owyn bringing up the rear.
‘We must hurry,’ said Gorath. ‘The Mothers and Fathers have smiled on us and the guards are inside. We don’t know how long this might last.’ He set a punishing pace, not wishing to be discovered in the open. Locklear forced himself to push on despite his stiff, aching joints. His wounds had healed, though he still felt weaker than he should. He didn’t welcome another fight, but should this Nago be the force behind all the attacks, he welcomed an opportunity to put an end to them, and pay back some of the pain he had been forced to endure.
Gorath reached the barn and huddled in its shadow, glancing in all directions. There was no sign they had been detected. He held up his hand for silence.
They listened. Inside, muffled voices could be heard, though Locklear could make nothing of them, for they were in a tongue he didn’t understand. Gorath’s hearing was far more acute, for he said, ‘They are discussing the fact we have not been seen since Hawk’s Hollow. They fear we may have slipped past them on the road through Tannerus.’
‘What do we do now?’ whispered Owyn.
‘As before, we kill them,’ said Gorath. ‘Act boldly.’ He moved to the barn door and withdrew his sword. He pulled forward his hood, throwing his features into darkness, then put his sword under his cloak and turned to Owyn and Locklear. ‘Be ready, but wait a moment before entering.’
Then Gorath pushed open the door and in the late-afternoon gloom must have seemed a black shape against a darkening sky. From within a voice sounded a note of inquiry. Gorath stepped forward with a stride that communicated purpose, answering in the moredhel tongue. He must have confused them for a moment, for one asked another question before a different voice shouted, ‘Gorath!’
Locklear didn’t hesitate when he heard that, but virtually jumped through the open door. Owyn was a step behind.
The barn was empty save for five moredhel. A table had been placed in the centre of a large barn aisle, with a bench behind it, where the moredhel magician Nago was rising in shock at the appearance of his intended prey.
A moredhel guard was falling from Gorath’s first blow as he rounded on another, lashing out with his blade and forcing the swordsman backward, clutching his bleeding sword arm. Locklear dashed forward and caught the wounded dark elf from behind, killing him with a blow to the back of his neck as he sought to disengage himself from Gorath’s attack, leaving both swordsmen facing a ready opponent.
Owyn saw the moredhel magic-user who was still motionless in astonishment at the appearance of the prey he had been seeking for weeks. But as Owyn moved through the doorway, he felt power beginning to manifest as Nago started an incantation. Knowing there was nothing much he could do, Owyn unleashed the only spell he could throw on short notice, the blinding spell he had practised so much on the journey.
The dark elf blinked in surprise and faltered, breaking his spell. Owyn hesitated then raised his staff and started his charge, doing his best to imitate a warcry. A thin warbling sound escaped his lips as he ran between Gorath and Locklear as they struggled with their opponents.
As he closed upon the moredhel magician, Owyn slipped and fell forward, which saved his life, for the enraged Nago unleashed a bolt of shimmering purple-and-grey energy which sped through the spot where Owyn had been a moment earlier. Rather than strike the lad full on, it brushed over his back, and where it touched Owyn felt agony, a shocking pain. His head swam from it, and he felt dizzy. The muscles in his lower back and legs refused to obey him. He struggled, but they felt encased in metal bonds.
Rolling over, Owyn saw the magician begin another spell, and without any other option, Owyn threw his staff at the moredhel. As he expected, the magician ducked aside, and his spell-casting was interrupted. Nago shut his eyes, as if in pain, and Owyn knew the enemy spell-caster was struggling to restart his spell. While only a novice at magic, Owyn understood enough of it to know that an interrupted spell could prove painful and that it might take Nago a few moments to refocus his thoughts and regain the ability to inflict harm upon his opponent.
Owyn tried to focus his own thoughts, as if he might throw another spell to distract Nago a moment longer, but his own thinking was chaotic, his mind racing with conflicting images. Phrases and concepts previously unknown to him intruded into his concentration and he couldn’t force himself to come up with any useful conjuration. He fumbled in his belt for a dagger and thought to throw that at Nago.
Nago opened his eyes and looked past Owyn, to where the struggle was ending. Owyn rolled over and saw Gorath running his opponent through, while Locklear seemed to be getting the best of his own. Owyn looked over his shoulder at Nago and saw the magician was hesitating, then starting to turn to flee.
‘He’s trying to escape!’ Owyn shouted, but his voice was weak and he didn’t know if he had warned his companions.
Gorath heard and was past Owyn in three huge strides. The moredhel magician turned and threw something at Gorath, and sparking energies coursed around the dark elf chieftain. Gorath groaned in pain and faltered.
Owyn threw his dagger, a weak underhand cast, but one which caused the butt of the weapon to strike Nago in the temple. As if released from a prison, Gorath rose up and with a single blow struck Nago in the neck, nearly severing his head from his body.
Locklear hurried over and helped Owyn to his feet. ‘We could have used a prisoner,’ he observed.
Gorath said, ‘These guards know nothing worth learning. And Nago could not be left alive. While you were trying to question him, he would have been sending word to his confederates that we are here.’ The dark elf looked down at Owyn who still lay on the floor. ‘You did well, boy. Are you all right?’
‘My legs don’t work,’ he answered. ‘I think I will get them to work in a while.’
‘I hope so,’ said Locklear. ‘I’d hate to leave you here.’
‘I’d hate to be left,’ said Owyn.
Gorath looked around. He moved to a large cache of provisions and dug out some bread and a waterskin. He took a drink, handed it to Locklear and tore the loaf into three portions, handing one each to the other two.
Locklear helped Owyn sit up at a table and looked at a map unrolled there. What have we here? he asked himself as he studied the map.
It was a map of the area south of Hawk’s Hollow, with guard locations marked and fresh ink indicating sightings. It was clear that they had avoided detection from Hawk’s Hollow to Yellow Mule. Locklear said, ‘Owyn, could Nago have got word out to others that we are here?’
Owyn felt his legs with his hands as if trying to determine what was wrong with them and said, ‘It’s doubtful. I kept him busy and he was trying to kill us. I can imagine he could do two things at once, but three is unlikely. If he’s got a routine for checking in with his agents, they’ll soon know something is wrong because of his not contacting them.’
‘Then we must be on our way,’ said Gorath. ‘How far to Krondor?’
‘If we were taking a stroll down the King’s Highway without fear, another two days. By horse, less than a day from here. Through the woods, maybe three.’
Gorath asked Owyn, ‘How long before you can move?’
‘I don’t know—’ Then suddenly Owyn’s legs moved. ‘I guess I can move now,’ he said, rising slowly. ‘Interesting,’ he said.
‘What’s interesting?’ asked Locklear.
‘That spell. It’s designed to bind an opponent, but only for a short while.’
‘Why is that interesting?’
‘It’s some sort of combat magic. They don’t teach that at Stardock.’
‘Can you do the same thing?’ asked Gorath. ‘It could prove useful.’
‘Really?’ asked Locklear dryly.
‘I don’t know,’ said Owyn. ‘When the spell struck me, something happened, a recognition of some sort. I will think on it, and maybe I can figure out how he did it.’
‘Well, figure out how while we’re moving, assuming you’re ready to go,’ said Locklear around a mouthful of bread. They quickly rummaged through the cache of supplies and found several dark grey-blue fur-lined cloaks. ‘These will serve us well,’ said Locklear, still warm from the fight, but knowing all too well how cold the nights were along the coast this time of the year. Locklear gathered up the maps and several messages, all claiming forces were in place for key attacks at various locations throughout the west. He placed those in a pouch and slung it over his shoulder.
They left the barn and circled around the darkened farmhouse. The owner was either sleeping or dead, betrayed by his guests, but either way they did not wish to spend time finding out. They had three dangerous days before them and knew there were perils enough along the route to Krondor without stopping to look for them.
Twice they had avoided assassins or bandits; they didn’t know which. Once they had lain in the mud in a gully next to a woodland path while a band of armed Quegans had hurried past. Now they stood behind the last line of trees before open farmland. Beyond they could see the City of Krondor.
‘Impressive,’ said Gorath in a neutral tone.
‘I’ve seen Armengar,’ said Locklear. ‘I am surprised to hear you call this impressive.’
‘It’s not the size of the place,’ said Gorath. ‘It’s the hive of humans within.’ For a moment he looked off into the distance. ‘You shortlived creatures have no sense of history or your place in this world,’ he said. ‘You breed like—’ He glanced over to see Locklear’s dark expression and said, ‘No matter. There are just a great deal of you at any one time in any one place, it seems, and this is more of you in such a small place.’ He shook his head. ‘For my people, such gatherings are alien.’
‘Yet you rallied at Sar-Sargoth,’ observed Locklear.
‘Yes we did,’ said Gorath. ‘To the sorrow of many of us.’
Owyn said, ‘Do we just walk across this field to the road?’
Locklear said, ‘No. Look over there.’ He pointed to a place where a small farm road intersected the King’s Highway. A half-dozen men stood idly by as if waiting for something. ‘Not exactly a place to hoist a few and talk of the day’s labours, is it?’
‘No,’ said Owyn. ‘Where do we go then?’
‘Follow me,’ said Locklear as he moved along the tree line, farther east. They reached a long gully, a naturally occurring watercourse that would be flooded when the thaw came to the mountains to the north and east, but which currently hosted only a small stream. ‘This runs to a place by the eastern gate, in the foulbourgh.’
‘Foulbourgh?’ asked Gorath.
‘The part of the city built outside the wall. There are ways to get in and out of the city if you know them. The sewers under the foulbourgh and city proper are not supposed to connect, so an enemy can’t use them to gain entrance.’
‘But they do,’ supplied Gorath.
‘Yes, in two places, and one of them is as dangerous as walking up to those men gathered back there and asking for directions to the Prince’s palace. That entrance is controlled by the Thieves’ Guild. But the other entrance – well, let’s say that besides a friend of mine, only a few others know of it.’
‘How is it you know of it?’ asked Gorath.
‘My friend and I used it once, a long time ago, to follow Arutha to Lorien.’
Gorath nodded. ‘We have heard of that encounter. Murmandamus’s trap to kill the Lord of the West.’
‘That’s the one,’ said Locklear. ‘Now, it would be a good time to move silently.’
They did as Locklear bid and moved through the gully, until they encountered a culvert, made of stones polished by the water over the years. They bent over and walked below the road, as the late-afternoon shadows lengthened. Finally, the culvert ducked under a small stone bridge that afforded them a hiding place. It was well shielded from prying eyes by stores stacked in crates on each side of the road waiting for transport. Bored workers slowly moved to load them.
‘We linger a bit, until it gets darker,’ said Locklear. ‘At the right time, we need to get up and blend in with some traffic heading along the road that runs beside this culvert.’ He went to the other side of the bridge and glanced upward, pulling his head back.
Pointing where he had looked, he said, ‘Someone’s hanging around up there.’
‘What do we do?’ asked Gorath, obviously as out of his element as Locklear had been on the mountain trail.
‘We wait,’ said Locklear. ‘A patrol from the city watch passes along here about sundown, and they’ll order any armed men to move along. After dark it gets dangerous outside the wall, and the watch doesn’t like too many swords gathered in one place.’
They sat under the bridge, in the puddles on either side of the stream, waiting in silence as the hours dragged by. Flies annoyed them, and only Gorath ignored their presence as Locklear and Owyn spent most of the time swatting them away.
As sundown approached, Locklear heard the tread of boots upon the cobbles above. A few voices were raised, and Locklear said, ‘Now!’
He moved quickly up the side of the bank just beyond the bridge, ducking behind some crates as a party of men dispersed under the watchful eye of the city guard. ‘They’ll come this way, back toward the palace,’ said Locklear. ‘We just duck in beside them, and even if we’re seen, it’s unlikely we’re going to be attacked with a dozen soldiers ready to start busting heads at the first sign of trouble.’ He pointed to Gorath. ‘But you’d better fix that hood. Most people here wouldn’t know an elf from a moredhel if you hung signs around your neck, but you never know. If Ruthia’s fickle, the first person we meet will be an old vet from the wars to the north.’ Ruthia was the Goddess of Luck.
Gorath did as he was told and pulled his hood forward, hiding his features and when the soldiers walked down the road beside the stream, he followed Locklear and Owyn as they hurried to match pace with the soldiers.
They walked from the northeasternmost corner of the city along its entire length to the southern gate, and when the city watch moved toward the palace entrance, Locklear pulled them aside.
Owyn said, ‘Why don’t we just follow them in?’
‘Look,’ said Locklear. They looked where he pointed and saw a work crew gathered before the gate, with two teams of horses tied to a pulley. ‘It seems someone has sabotaged the gate,’ said Locklear.
The watch commander shouted something down from the wall to the patrol leader, who saluted and turned his men around. ‘Come on, lads,’ he said, ‘we’re for the northern gate.’
Locklear motioned for his companions to follow him and he led them through a back alley. ‘This way,’ he urged.
He took them to what appeared to be the back entrance to a small inn, and opened the gate. Once through, he closed the gate and they stood in a tiny stabling yard, with a small shed off to one side. Looking to see if they were observed, Locklear pointed to the rear door of the inn. ‘If anyone finds us, we’re lost, looking for a meal and once we get inside the inn, head toward the front door; if anyone objects, we run like hell.’
Gorath said, ‘Where are we?’
‘The back of an inn owned by people who would be less than pleased to discover we knew about this place, or what I’m about to do.’ He moved toward the shed, but rather than going inside, he moved to where it joined with the wall. Feeling around behind the shed, Locklear tripped a lever and a latch clicked. A big stone rolled away, and Owyn and Gorath could see it was a cleverly-fashioned sham, made of canvas and painted to look like the rock of the wall. Locklear was forced to lie down and wiggle feet first through the small aperture, but he successfully negotiated the entrance. Owyn went next, and Gorath last, barely clearing the opening.
‘Who uses that thing?’ asked Owyn in a whisper. ‘Children?’
‘Yes,’ said Locklear. ‘The Mockers number many urchins in their ranks and there are dozens of bolt-holes like that all over the city.’
‘Where are we?’ asked Owyn.
‘Use your senses, human,’ said Gorath. ‘Or can’t your breed smell its own stink?’
‘Oh,’ Owyn exclaimed, as the stench of the sewer struck him.
Locklear reached up and pulled shut the trap, leaving them in total darkness.
‘My kind see in darkness better than yours do, Locklear,’ said Gorath, ‘but even we must have some light.’
‘There should be a lantern close by,’ said Locklear. ‘If I can remember the distance … and direction.’
‘What?’ asked Gorath. ‘You don’t know where a light is?’
‘I can help,’ said Owyn. A moment later a faint nimbus of light started to glow around the young man’s hand, and it grew until they could see a dozen paces in all directions.
‘How did you do that?’ asked Locklear.
Owyn held out his left hand. On it was a ring. ‘I took it off Nago. It’s magic.’
‘Which way?’ asked Gorath.
‘This way,’ said Locklear, leading them into the sewers of Krondor.
‘Where are we?’ whispered Owyn.
Locklear lost his sure tone as he said, ‘I think we’re just north of the palace.’
‘You think?’ said Gorath with a snort of contempt.
‘All right,’ said Locklear with a petulant tone. ‘So I’m a little lost. I’ll find—’
‘Your death, quick and messy,’ said a voice from outside the range of Owyn’s light.
Three swords cleared their scabbards as Locklear tried to pierce the gloom beyond the light by force of will.
‘Who be you and what would you in the Thieves’ Highway?’
Locklear cocked his head at the bad attempt at a formal challenge and, judging the owner of the voice to be a youth, he answered, ‘I be Seigneur Locklear and I do whatever I will in the Prince’s sewers. If you’re half as intelligent as you’re trying to sound, you’ll know not to bar our way.’
A young boy stepped forward from the shadows, slender and wearing a tunic too large for him, wrapped around the waist with a rope belt, trousers he had almost outgrown, and sporting a pointed felt cap. He carried a short sword. ‘I’m Limm and fast with a blade. Step any further without my leave and your blood will flow.’
Gorath said, ‘The only thing you’ll do is die, boy, if you don’t stand aside.’
If the towering presence of the moredhel chieftain had any effect on the lad, he hid it as he bravely said, ‘I’ve bested better than you when I was a boy.’ He stepped back, cautiously. ‘And besides, I’ve got five bashers back there waiting for my call.’
Locklear held up his hand to restrain Gorath. ‘You remind me of a young Jimmy the Hand,’ said Locklear. ‘Full of bluster as well as guile. Run off and there’s no need for anyone’s blood to flow.’ Softly to Gorath he said, ‘If he has bashers nearby, we don’t need the trouble.’
‘Jimmy the Hand, is it?’ asked Limm. ‘Well, if you’re friends of Seigneur James, we’ll let you pass. But when you see him, tell him he had better come soon or the deal is off.’ Before Locklear could answer, Limm was deep in shadows, so silently they could barely hear him move. From a distance he said, ‘And watch your step, Locklear who knows Jimmy the Hand. There are nasty customers nearby.’ As the voice faded, Limm added, ‘And you’re completely turned around. Turn to the right at the next culvert, and straight on until you reach the palace.’
Locklear waited, listening for more. But only silence punctuated by the trickling sound of water and the occasional echo of some distant sound in the sewer could be heard.
Gorath said, ‘That was passing strange.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Owyn.
‘More than you know,’ said Locklear. ‘That boy was waiting for my friend James. And James has the death mark on him from the Mockers if he ever trespasses their territory. That was a deal struck by Prince Arutha for James’s life years ago.’
Owyn said, ‘Sometimes agreements change.’
‘Or are broken,’ added Gorath.
Locklear said, ‘Well, we’ll sort this out later. Right now we need to find our way to the palace.’
‘What did he mean by “nasty customers nearby”?’ asked Owyn.
‘I don’t know,’ answered Locklear. ‘I have a feeling if we’re not careful we’ll find out,’ he whispered.
They turned in the direction instructed by Limm and moved to the corner where he had told them to turn. A short way along the indicated route, Gorath said, ‘Someone ahead.’
Owyn put his ring under his arm, causing the light to diminish. ‘Two men,’ whispered Gorath. ‘Wearing black.’
‘Which is why I can’t see them,’ said Locklear.
‘Who are they?’ asked Owyn.
Locklear turned and knew his withering look was lost in the gloom, so he said, ‘Why don’t you just go up and ask them.’
‘If they aren’t the Prince’s men or those Mockers, then they must be enemies,’ said Gorath, stepping forward quickly, his sword ready to deliver a killing blow.
Locklear hesitated a moment, and by the time he started moving, the dark elf was upon the two men. The first turned just in time to see his own death arrive, for Gorath slashed him deeply across the chest and shoulder.
The second man drew his sword and attempted to slash down on Gorath’s head, but Locklear stepped in and parried the blow high, allowing Gorath to run him through. It was over in seconds.
Locklear knelt and examined the two bodies. They wore identical trousers and tunics of black material, and black leather boots. Both men had short swords and one had laid aside a short bow within easy reach. Both men were without purse or pouch, but both wore identical medallions under their tunics.
‘Nighthawks!’ said Locklear.
‘Assassins?’ asked Owyn.
‘But they should have …’ Locklear shook his head. ‘If these two are Nighthawks, I’m Gorath’s grandfather.’
Gorath snorted at the idea, but said, ‘We have heard of your Nighthawks; some were employed by agents of Murmandamus.’
Owyn said, ‘The stories are they had nearly magical abilities.’
‘Stories,’ said Locklear. ‘My friend James faced one on the rooftops of the city when he was no more than a lad of fourteen years and lived to tell the tale.’ Locklear stood. ‘They were good, but no more than other men. But the legend helped them get their price. But these,’ he indicated the two dead men, ‘were not Nighthawks.’
A whistle sounded from down a nearby tunnel. Gorath spun, his sword ready to face another attack. Locklear, however, just put two fingers to his mouth and whistled in return. A moment later a young man stepped into the light. ‘Locky?’ he asked.
‘Jimmy!’ said Locklear as he embraced his old friend. ‘We were just speaking of you.’
James, squire of the Prince’s court, regarded his best friend. He took in the long hair gathered behind in a knot and the bushy moustache and said, ‘What have you done to your hair?’
‘I haven’t seen you in months and the first thing you ask about is fashion?’ asked Locklear.
James grinned. His face was youthful, though he was no longer a boy. He had curly brown hair he kept cropped short and was dressed in plain clothing, tunic, trousers, boots and cloak. He carried only a belt knife. ‘What brings you back to court? Arutha banished you for a year, if memory serves.’
‘This moredhel,’ said Locklear. ‘His name is Gorath and he brings a warning to Arutha.’ Pointing to his other companion, he said, ‘And this is Owyn, son of the Baron of Timons. He’s been of great help to me, also.’
James said, ‘A moredhel chieftain in Krondor. Well, things are getting strange hereabouts, too.’ He glanced down at the two dead men. ‘Someone has bribed a few very stupid men to play the part of Nighthawks, here in the sewers and in other parts of town.’
‘Why?’ asked Locklear.
‘We don’t know,’ said James. ‘I’m on my way to meet with some … old acquaintances of mine. To see if we can cooperate in uncovering who is behind this mummery.’
‘The Mockers,’ said Locklear. ‘We ran into one of them, a lad named Limm.’
James nodded. ‘I’m to meet with some of them shortly. I had better not disappoint them. But before I go, what are you doing down here in the sewer?’
Locklear said, ‘Someone wants Gorath dead very badly. I’ve been cut more times than a horse’s flank by a cheap butcher. We’re here because we need to get into the palace, and I’ve seen lots of very dangerous-looking men watching the entrances to the palace. When I tried to get us in by shadowing the city watch trying to enter, we found the gate damaged.’
‘Someone sabotaged it, as well as the north palace entry. The only way into the palace right now is through the sea-dock gate, or here.’
Locklear looked concerned. ‘They even had the gate jammed to keep us from reaching the palace?’
James nodded. ‘That would explain the mystery. Look, go see Arutha and I’ll catch up with you later.’
‘That’s the way?’ asked Locklear.
‘Yes,’ said James. He fished out a key and handed it to Locklear. ‘But we’ve locked the secret door so you’d have had a long wait if I hadn’t chanced by.’
‘I might have picked the lock,’ said Locklear. ‘I’ve watched you do it a few times.’
‘And pigs might fly,’ said James with a pat on his friend’s shoulder. ‘It’s good to see you back, even if under such dark clouds.’ He pointed the way he had come. ‘Make your way past two large culverts on the left, and you’ll find the ladder to the palace.’ With a departing grin, he added, ‘I suggest you bathe before calling upon Arutha.’
Locklear smiled, then laughed. For the first time in months he suddenly felt safe. They were but a short walk away from the entrance to the palace, and he knew that soon he would be enjoying a hot bath. ‘Come see me when you’ve returned,’ he said to James. ‘We have much to catch up on.’
‘I will,’ said James.
Locklear led Gorath and Owyn to the ladder that led up into the palace, a series of iron bars hammered into the stones rising a floor above. There a grate with a heavy lock had been erected, and Locklear used the key James had provided to open it. They swung aside the grate and moved into a small tunnel just above the sewers, leading into the lower basement of the palace. Locklear silently led them to a door. Once through, Owyn and Gorath saw they were in another passage, this one lit by torches in widely separated sconces, and when the door was returned to its resting place, it vanished into the stone wall.
Locklear led them to his quarters, past a pair of palace guards who only watched with interest as the Prince’s squire walked past with another youth and what looked like a tall elf.
Glancing through a window overlooking the city, Locklear said, ‘Suppertime’s in about an hour. Time for a bath and a change of clothing. We can talk to the Prince after the meal.’
Gorath said, ‘It seems so … odd to be here.’
Opening the door to his quarters, Locklear said, ‘Not nearly as odd as having you here.’ He stepped aside to admit his guests, and turned to wave at a page hurrying down a nearby hall. ‘Boy!’ he shouted.
The page stopped and turned to run toward him. ‘Sir?’ he said.
‘Send word to the Prince that I’ve returned with a message of the gravest consequence.’
The boy, who knew Locklear well, indulged himself in an observation: ‘It’ll be grave, all right; your grave, if the Prince doesn’t agree, squire.’
With a playful slap to the side of the head, Locklear sent him off. ‘And pass word I need enough hot water for three baths!’
The boy waved he had heard and said, ‘I’ll tell the staff, squire.’
Locklear turned into his room and found Owyn sitting on his bed, lying back against the wall. Gorath stood a short way off, patiently waiting. Locklear went to his wardrobe and selected some clothing. ‘We’ll send for something closer your size while we bathe,’ he said to Gorath. He took the clothing and handed a tunic and trousers to Owyn, along with fresh smallclothes, then said, ‘This way to the bath, my friends.’
At the end of the hall he found four servants pouring hot water into a large tub, while another waited. ‘In you go,’ he said to Owyn, who stripped off his filthy garments and climbed into the tub. He settled in with a satisfied ‘ah’ sound and rested back in the hot water.
Gorath said, ‘Is that third tub for me?’
‘I was going to take that one, but if you—’
‘Fill it with cold water.’
The servants exchanged glances, but Locklear nodded, so they finished filling the second tub and ran off, turning around a pair of servants hurrying from the kitchen with hot buckets. Soon they returned with cold water and started filling the tub.
Gorath stripped and climbed in, allowing them to pour the cold water over his head. He endured the cold water without comment. When they were done bathing and clean clothes had been fetched for Gorath, Owyn asked, ‘Why cold water?’
‘We bathe in mountain streams in a land that always sees ice upon the peaks,’ said Gorath. ‘This water was too warm for my taste.’
Locklear shrugged. ‘You learn something new every day.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Gorath. ‘You do.’
When they were dressed, they left the bathing chamber to discover a squad of palace guards waiting for them. ‘We’re to escort you to the Prince, squire.’
Locklear dryly said, ‘No need. I know the way.’
The sergeant, a tough old veteran, ignored the young noble’s marginal rank and said, ‘The Prince thought there was a need, sir.’
He signalled and two soldiers fell in on either side of Gorath and two fell in behind him. They moved along the hall until they were ushered into the dining hall, where Prince Arutha, Princess Anita and their guests were finishing their dinner.
Arutha, ruler of the Western Realm of the Kingdom of the Isles, sat at the centre of the head table. He was still a young man. Despite having ruled the realm for ten years, his face was only now starting to show the lines which age and responsibility bring. He kept his chin shaved, so that he still resembled the youth who had emerged a hero of the Riftwar. His hair was mostly black with a few stray grey hairs beginning to show, but otherwise he looked much as he had when Locklear had first come to Krondor, a page boy fresh from his father’s court at Land’s End. His brown eyes settled on Locklear with a gaze that had reduced lesser men to trembling children over the years; Locklear had endured that gaze many times in the ten years he had served in Arutha’s court.
Princess Anita favoured Locklear with a smile, her green eyes alight at one of her favourite courtiers returning after a long absence. Locklear, like the other younger men in the court, almost worshipped the Princess for her effortless grace and genuine charm.
At the table were others known to Locklear: Gardan, Knight-Marshal of the Principality; Duke Brendan, Lord of the Southern Marches; and others. But near the Princess’s seat was one who was unknown to Locklear; a man wearing the black robe of a Tsurani Great One. He had receding snow-white hair that fell to his shoulders. His eyes fastened upon Locklear, and Owyn could sense that this was a man who possessed powers rivalled by few in the world. Locklear knew it must be Makala, the Tsurani Great One come recently to this court.
‘Seigneur,’ began Arutha, formally, ‘you were ordered to attend to the needs of the Earl of Tyr-Sog for a year. By my calculations, you are many months short of that duty. Have you a persuasive reason for ignoring my orders?’
Locklear bowed and said, ‘Highness. Only the most grave tidings from the north would have me quit my post and hasten here. This is Gorath, Chieftain of the Ardanien, who has come to warn you.’
‘Warn me of what, moredhel?’ asked Arutha with a suspicious gaze. His previous experience with the moredhel was murder and deception.
Gorath stepped forward. ‘I warn you of war and bloodshed. The war drums beat at Sar-Sargoth once more and the clans gather.’
‘For what purpose?’ asked Arutha.
‘Delekhan, Chieftain of the Darkanien, gathers the clans. He sings songs of power and musters to return south.’
Arutha said, ‘Why? For what purpose?’
Gorath said, ‘He swears that Murmandamus lives, and that you hold him captive in the city of Sethanon. And he swears by the blood of our ancestors we must return to free our leader.’
Arutha sat stunned. He had killed Murmandamus, though few had witnessed the duel. He also knew that Murmandamus had been a fraud, perpetrated by the Pantathian Serpent Priests to gull the moredhel into serving their dark cause.
Arutha stood. ‘We will speak of this in my private council.’ He bowed to his wife, then motioned to Makala. ‘If you would join us?’
The Tsurani magician nodded and rose, and Locklear saw he was unusually tall for a Tsurani, perhaps five feet ten inches in height. Makala spoke briefly to a servant, who bowed low and hurried off to do his master’s bidding.
Locklear motioned for Owyn and Gorath to accompany him through large doors on the right of the dining hall, the entrance into the Royal Family’s private apartments. To Gorath he said, ‘I hope you have more to tell Arutha than that, or we’re both in deep trouble.’
‘More trouble than you know, human,’ said Gorath.
• CHAPTER FIVE • (#ulink_17ba6fab-0b7e-58c0-a9ce-aea17d2fe1f6)
Mission (#ulink_17ba6fab-0b7e-58c0-a9ce-aea17d2fe1f6)
DRUMS THUNDERED ACROSS THE RIDGES.
Gorath stood rooted in confusion. Part of him knew this was a memory, yet the experience was as real as when he had lived it. He clutched his hands and looked at them. They were small, a child’s hands. He glanced down and saw bare feet, and he had not gone barefoot since he was a boy.
Atop the surrounding hills drummers pounded out their insistent rhythms as fires burned brightly in the night. Clans long at war with one another watched for signs of betrayal, but all had come to hear the Speaker. Gorath stumbled along, his feet leaden with mystic fatigue; no matter how hard he tried, he could not move quickly.
The peace had fractured; he knew this. He knew his father’s people had been betrayed. He was but twelve summers of age and it should be centuries before the mantle of leadership fell to him, but fate ruled otherwise. Without being told he knew his father was dead.
His mother came up behind him and said, ‘Move quickly. If you are to lead, you must first survive.’ Her voice echoed and was distant and when he turned to look back at her, she was gone.
Suddenly he stood dressed in armour and boots; too big for him yet they were his own. His father had fallen when the Speaker’s peace had dissolved in fury. Like others before him, the Speaker had sought to raise the banner of Murmandamus, the only leader ever to unite the numerous clans of the moredhel. Now Gorath, a boy barely able to hold his dead father’s sword, stood before the men of the Hawk Clan, as dispirited a lot as had ever gathered around the fire. Gorath’s mother tapped him on the shoulder and he turned. ‘You must say something,’ she whispered.
Looking at the men of his clan, Gorath could barely make a sound, yet these warriors, some alive more than a century, waited to hear a boy’s words. The words that were to lift them from the depths of their hopelessness. Looking from face to face, at last Gorath said, ‘We will endure.’
A wave of pain gripped Gorath and he fell to his knees, and suddenly he was a man, kneeling before Bardol, swearing alliance in exchange for protection. Bardol had no sons and needed a strong husband for his daughter. Gorath had proven himself a wily leader, taking his people high up into the great ice mountains, living in caves lined with lichen, hunting bear and reindeer. For twenty-five years his people had survived, healed, and when he returned home, he had hunted down his father’s betrayer. He had entered the camp of Jodwah and thrown down the head of his brother, Ashantuk, at his feet in defiance. Then he had killed Jodwah in fair combat, and the warriors of the Lahuta, the Eagle Clan of the Northern Lakes had joined with the Hawk Clan of the Ice Peaks, and Gorath had emerged the leader of the Ardanien, the flying hunters in the ancient tongue. And he was but a stripling of thirty-seven summers, yet he commanded more than a hundred warriors.
Twice more he had come to council called by chieftains who had claimed rights beyond their reach, and he had watched as battles had bled his people. He had been clever and kept his people outside such conflicts, and he had become a man to be sought out, to give counsel, because he had no ambitions of his own. Many trusted Gorath. He was approaching his prime and numbered a hundred and six years of age. A thousand swords did his bidding.
Time was a river, and he swam in it. Wives – two women who had borne him children – he had seen the first dead from a human arrow: the other had left him. He had sons and a daughter, though none alive now. For even Gorath, he who was trusted for his wise counsel and cautious ways, even he had been swept up in the madness that had been Murmandamus.
The one called Murmandamus had returned, as spoken of in the prophecies. He wore the mark of the dragon and possessed great powers. He was served by a priest of a far people, a creature who hid in heavy robes, and first among his followers was Murad, Chieftain of Clan Badger of the Teeth of the World. Gorath had seen Murad break a warrior’s back over his knee and knew that only the most powerful leader could command Murad’s allegiance. As a sign of Murmandamus’s potency, Murad had cut his own tongue, proof he would never betray his master.
For the only time in his life, Gorath was caught up in madness. The blood pounded in his ears in harmony with the thunder of war drums in the mountain. He had led his army to the edge of the great Edder, and had fought the mad ones, Old King Redtree’s barbarians, and had held the flank while Murmandamus assaulted the human city of Sar-Isbandia, what the humans called Armengar.
Thousands had died at Armengar, but his clan was whole. A few had fallen holding the flank against the forest and on the march through the pass the humans called Highcastle. There, at Highcastle, he had lost Melos, his blood kin, son to his mother’s sister. There at Highcastle, a third of the Ardanien had perished.
Then had come Sethanon. The fighting had been brutal, but the city had been theirs. Yet at the moment of triumph, victory had been taken from them. Murmandamus had vanished. According to some of the warriors one moment he had stood in the barbican of the castle at Sethanon, and the next he was gone. Then the Keshians had arrived, and the Tsurani, and the battle had turned. The giants recruited from their high villages had been the first to flee, then the goblins, courageous when victorious, but quick to panic, had left the battle. It had been Gorath, the only surviving chieftain at the castle who had been the first to call the withdrawal. He had come looking for the master, because fighting had erupted between two rival clans over spoils, and only Murmandamus could settle the dispute. Humans had escaped because of the fighting. No one could find the master, and Gorath had cursed all omens, prophecies and heralds of destruction, and had returned to gather the Ardanien and lead them northward.
Most of his warriors had survived, but many chieftains labelled Gorath and his followers as betrayers. For nine summers, the Ardanien lived in their valley, high up in the northern mountains, keeping their own counsel. Then had come the call.
The banners were again raised and it was Delekhan, sworn enemy – son of the man who had slain Gorath’s father, and who had died at Gorath’s hands in turn – blood enemy from birth, who rallied the clans. Delekhan who had eaten with Murad and the snake priest, and who had been the last surviving member of Murmandamus’s council. And it was Delekhan who vowed that Murmandamus still lived within a prison in the heart of Sethanon and only by freeing him could the Nations of the North take back the land seized by the hated humans.
And any who spoke against Delekhan was struck down. Dark magics were fashioned by the Six, and one by one the opponents of Delekhan’s plan vanished. Gorath knew his day was coming, and knew that he must carry word to his enemies to the south, for they were his people’s only hope.
Night, and he fled through ice and pain. Men who were once as brothers to him sought to hunt him down and end his life. Haseth, whom Gorath had taught to hold a sword, last among his blood kin, had led them. It had been by Gorath’s own hands that his last surviving kinsman had died.
Then again, he heard the thundering drums. Again he saw the fires on the hill, but now he felt his mind returning to the present, memories of his life fading away slowly …
The girl was young, not quite seventeen years of age, yet her hair was nearly white with only the faintest hint of gold in it. Pale eyes of blue regarded Gorath as she let go of his hands. Behind her stood the Prince of Krondor, the black-robed Tsurani, and another spell-caster, one who, while short of stature, was almost exuding power. Others were nearby, but those Gorath had travelled with, Owyn and Locklear, were in another room.
‘What did you see?’ asked the Prince.
‘I cannot find any falsehoods, Highness,’ said the girl in a weary tone. ‘But I cannot find the truth, either. His mind is … alien, chaotic.’
Prince Arutha’s brown eyes narrowed as he regarded Gorath. ‘He hides his thoughts?’
The bearded magician said, ‘Highness, Gorath is moredhel, and even with Gamina’s exceptional talents for reading thoughts, his mind may have many innate psychic defences. We have never had the privilege of studying a moredhel. From what I learned in my time with the eldar—’
At mention of the ancient elven lore keepers, Gorath’s eyes narrowed. ‘You are Pug,’ he said.
Pug nodded. ‘I am.’
‘We have heard of you, who studied with the eldar,’ said Gorath.
Arutha said, ‘The point?’
‘I think he’s telling the truth,’ said Pug.
‘As do I,’ said Makala. ‘Forgive me,’ said the Tsurani magician to Prince Arutha, ‘but I presumed to use my own arts to watch as the Lady Gamina examined the moredhel. It is as she has stated; there is confusion and an alien mind there, but no guile. Despite his differences from us, he is as honest a creature as you will meet.’
‘For what cause did you presume to use your arts without leave?’ asked Arutha. His tone was one of pointed curiosity, rather than anger.
‘War in the Kingdom would have many wide-ranging consequences, not the least of which would be a disruption of trade between our two worlds, Your Highness. The Light of Heaven would be most displeased if such occurred, let alone the risk if such as these—’ he indicated Gorath ‘—gleaned the secrets of the rift.’
Arutha nodded, his expression thoughtful. Gorath spoke. ‘Trading agreements notwithstanding, war benefits no one, Prince. Despite that, you must prepare your army for war.’
Arutha’s words were pointed, but his tone was even. ‘What I must or must not do will be my burden, renegade. And my decisions will be based upon more than simply the word of one dissident chieftain. If not for Locklear’s faith in you, you’d be in our dungeon making the acquaintance of our torturer, not holding hands with Lady Gamina.’
Gorath glared at the Prince of Krondor. ‘I would tell you no different under hot iron, the lash, or the blade, human!’
Pug asked, ‘Then why do you betray your own, Gorath? Why come to Krondor with a warning when your nations have sought to dislodge humankind from this world as long as either race can remember? Why betray Delekhan to the Kingdom of the Isles? Are you seeking to have our army do what you cannot do by your own might, and destroy an enemy?’
The dark elf studied the magician. Despite his youthful appearance he was a man of great power, and to this point he had spoken to Gorath only in tones and terms of respect. Softly, Gorath said, ‘Delekhan may be a bitter draught to the Kingdom, but he is poison in the throats of our people. He enslaves and conquers, and he seeks to claim greatness, but—’ He took a deep breath.
‘My people are few in number,’ he said slowly. ‘We will never count as many swords and arrows as you humans. We rely upon those who willingly serve us, the goblins, mountain giants, trolls, and renegade men.’ His tone took on a bitter edge. ‘Two sons and a daughter I have mourned, and of two wives, one I have seen travel to join the Mothers and Fathers, while the other left me for being the one to call retreat at Sethanon. My last blood kin died at my own hands the night I met young Owyn.’ He looked directly into Arutha’s eyes. ‘I can never go back, Prince of Krondor. I will die in an alien land among people who despise my race.’
‘Then why?’ asked Arutha.
‘Because my people cannot withstand another war such as we had at Sethanon. Delekhan appears, wearing the dragon helm of Murmandamus, and swords are raised and blood oaths sworn, but while we have courage and dedication in abundance, we lack strength of numbers. Should enough of us die in futility again, the Northlands would lie open to human conquest. We would be as echoes on the wind, for within a hundred years no moredhel would remain alive.’
‘We are content to stay on this side of the Teeth of the World. We have no ambitions in the Northlands,’ said Arutha.
‘You may not, here in your warm castle in Krondor, Prince, but there are those among your race would conquer to win a title, and you know this. If one came to your King with word that he had seized the town of Raglam and had occupied Harlik, and now controlled a third of the Northlands, would your King offer him a hereditary title and income from those lands?’
‘He would,’ admitted Arutha.
‘Then you see my point,’ said Gorath.
Arutha rubbed his chin. He stood lost in thought a long moment, then said, ‘You are persuasive, Gorath. I will take what Makala and Gamina say at face value and assume you have no guile in you. But what now must be decided is if what you know to be true is, indeed, truth.’
‘What do you mean?’ demanded Gorath.
Pug said, ‘What he means is you may be an unwitting tool. If this Delekhan knew of your animosity, might he not have given you the information you seek to bring to us, to cause us to rush to meet him at some place of his choosing?’ Pug indicated the maps and notes Locklear had brought from the barn at Yellow Mule. ‘There are at least a half-dozen false messages here, to be conveniently found by the Prince’s agents, all stressing attacks at unlikely places, Tannerus, Eggly, Highcastle, even Romney.’
Gorath’s head came up. ‘I have heard that name.’
‘Romney?’ said Arutha. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Only that I have heard Romney mentioned by those who are in service to Delekhan. There are agents working for him in that area.’
‘Would you know them?’
Gorath shook his head in the negative. ‘Only a few close to Delekhan might know who is working for him among the humans: Nago’s brother Narab, his seniormost advisor, his son Moraeulf, and the Six.’
‘Who are the Six?’ asked Pug. ‘You’ve mentioned them before.’
‘No one knows. They are swathed in robes as dark as those of your Tsurani friend and yourself, with deep hoods.’
‘Pantathians?’ suggested Pug.
‘Not snake priests, I’m certain,’ said Gorath. ‘They speak as you or I do, though there is an accent to their voices. Yet, they serve Delekhan and give him the might to unite the clans. Their magic was powerful enough to force Nago and Narab to heel on two occasions when they sought to distance themselves from Delekhan. And among our people, they were the mightiest of Spellweavers.’
Arutha said, ‘Pug, would you bring that map over here, please?’
Pug got the map indicated by the Prince, one of the central third of the Kingdom. He placed it on the table next to the one brought by Locklear from Yellow Mule. ‘What cause would Delekhan have to operate out of a river town in the heart of the Kingdom?’
Pug said, ‘Perhaps because it is in the heart of the Kingdom?’ He pointed to the location. ‘When Murmandamus came against us, he moved through Highcastle, and crossed the High Wold, moving to the southwest to enter the Dimwood and strike south to Sethanon. What if this time Delekhan ran this pass here, and came down the River Cheston by barge?’
Arutha nodded. ‘At Romney he could turn to the River Silden and north of the City of Silden he could turn westward and force march to Sethanon. It’s his fastest route and his easiest if I’ve got the Armies of the West tied up at LaMut and Tannerus and a dozen other places from here to Yabon. He’d be west of the King’s Armies, too.’
Arutha looked at Gorath. ‘At last something starts to make sense.’
Gorath said, ‘If I go to Romney, I may be able to find you the proof.’
Arutha said, ‘It’s a long step from belief to trust, Gorath. Our people have been enemies too many years for trust to come easily.’
‘Send me with your soldiers, then,’ said Gorath. ‘Delekhan must be stopped. If you blunt his attack, send him back to the north with his nose bloodied, his own supporters will throw him down and my people will be saved. As will yours.’
Arutha considered, and said, ‘I’ve got just the person to put on this task. But Jimmy is out conducting some other business for me right now—’
‘Nighthawks?’ asked Gorath.
‘What do you know of that?’ asked Arutha.
Gorath explained the encounters in the sewers with the false Nighthawks and Squire James.
Arutha nodded. ‘Someone’s anxious for me to send the army into the sewers, cleaning out the Mockers while I’m at it. The two things may be related, but they also may be coincidence.’
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Raymond E. Feist
An episode in Feist’s massively successful Riftwar saga.From the endlessly inventive mind of one of fantasy’s all-time greats, comes a spellbinding new adventure featuring old favourites Jimmy, Locklear and Pug.It is nine years on from the aftermath of Sethanon. There has been peace awhile and it’s been needed. But news is feeding through to the people of the Kingdom of the Isles that deadly forces are stirring on the horizon. The bringer of the latest tidings is Gorath, a moredhel (dark elf).The bloodletting has started. Nighthawks are murdering again. Politics is a dangerous, cut-throat game once more. At the root of all this unrest lie the mysterious machinations of a group of magicians known as The Six.Meanwhile, renegade Tsurani gem smugglers, a rival criminal gang to the Mockers led by someone known only as The Crawler, and traitors to the crown are all conspiring to bring the Kingdom of the Isles to its knees.
Copyright (#u1d1c16e3-ba0c-5f9a-b560-db56447450f5)
HarperVoyager
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk/)
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1998
Copyright © Raymond E. Feist
Cover design by Dominic Forbes © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019
Raymond E. Feist asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008311254
Ebook Edition © January 2018 ISBN: 9780007374977
Version: 2018-11-13
Dedication (#u1d1c16e3-ba0c-5f9a-b560-db56447450f5)
For John Cutter and Neal Hallford
with thanks for their creativity and enthusiasm
Contents
Cover (#u855c99d1-8f48-5bfe-9ba6-d947ebd3d21b)
Title Page (#u894f6d5c-7526-57f5-abc3-de814963ff3d)
Copyright
Dedication
Map
Prologue: Warning
Chapter One: Encounter
Chapter Two: Deception
Chapter Three: Revelation
Chapter Four: Passage
Chapter Five: Mission
Chapter Six: Journey
Chapter Seven: Murders
Chapter Eight: Secrets
Chapter Nine: Suspect
Chapter Ten: Nighthawks
Chapter Eleven: Escape
Chapter Twelve: Preparations
Chapter Thirteen: Betrayal
Chapter Fourteen: Instructions
Chapter Fifteen: Quest
Chapter Sixteen: Tasks
Chapter Seventeen: Misdirection
Chapter Eighteen: Regroup
Chapter Nineteen: Encounter
Chapter Twenty: Retribution
Epilogue: Dedication
Afterword
Acknowledgements
About the Author
By the Same Author
About the Publisher
Map (#u1d1c16e3-ba0c-5f9a-b560-db56447450f5)
• PROLOGUE • (#u1d1c16e3-ba0c-5f9a-b560-db56447450f5)
Warning (#u1d1c16e3-ba0c-5f9a-b560-db56447450f5)
THE WIND HOWLED.
Locklear, squire of the Prince of Krondor’s court, sat huddled under his heavy cloak, astride his horse. Summer was quick to flee in the Northlands and the passes through the mountains known as the Teeth of the World. Autumn nights in the south might still be soft and warm, but up here in the north, autumn had been a brief visitor and winter was early to arrive, and would be long in residence. Locklear cursed his own stupidity for leading him to this forlorn place.
Sergeant Bales said, ‘Gets nippy up here, squire.’ The sergeant had heard the rumour about the young noble’s sudden appearance in Tyr-Sog, some matter involving a young woman married to a well-connected merchant in Krondor. Locklear wouldn’t be the first young dandy sent to the frontier to get him out of an angry husband’s reach. ‘Not as balmy as Krondor, sorry to say, sir.’
‘Really?’ asked the young squire, dryly.
The patrol followed a narrow trail along the edge of the foothills, the northern border of the Kingdom of the Isles. Locklear had been in court at Tyr-Sog less than a week when Baron Moyiet had suggested the young squire might benefit from accompanying the special patrol to the east of the city. Rumours had been circulating that renegades and moredhel – dark elves known as the Brotherhood of the Dark Path – were infiltrating south under the cover of heavy rains and snow flurries. Trackers had reported few signs, but hearsay and the insistence of farmers that they had seen companies of dark-clad warriors hurrying south had prompted the Baron to order the patrol.
Locklear knew as well as the men garrisoned there that the chance of any activity along the small passes over the mountains in late fall or early winter was unusual. While the freeze had just come to the foothills, the higher passes would already be thick with snow, then choked with mud should a brief thaw occur.
Yet since the war known as the Great Uprising – the invasion of the Kingdom by the army of Murmandamus, the charismatic leader of the dark elves – ten years ago, any activity was to be investigated, and that order came directly from King Lyam.
‘Yes, must be a bit of a change from the Prince’s court, squire,’ prodded the sergeant. Locklear had looked the part of a Krondorian dandy – tall, slender, a finely garbed young man in his mid-twenties, affecting a moustache and long ringlets – when he reached Tyr-Sog. Locklear thought the moustache and fine clothing made him look older, but if anything the impact was the opposite of his desired intent.
Locklear had enough of the sergeant’s playful baiting, and observed, ‘Still, it’s warmer than I remember the other side of the mountains being.’
‘Other side, sir?’ asked the sergeant.
‘The Northlands,’ said Locklear. ‘Even in the spring and summer the nights are cold.’
The sergeant looked askance at the young man. ‘You’ve been there, squire?’ Few men who were not renegades or weapons runners had visited the Northlands and lived to return to the Kingdom.
‘With the Prince,’ replied Locklear. ‘I was with him at Armengar and Highcastle.’
The sergeant fell silent and looked ahead. The soldiers nearest Locklear exchanged glances and nods. One whispered to the man behind him. No soldier living in the north hadn’t heard of the fall of Armengar before the hosts of Murmandamus, the powerful moredhel leader who had destroyed the human city in the Northlands and then had invaded the Kingdom. Only his defeat at Sethanon, ten years before, had kept his army of dark elves, trolls, goblins and giants from rending the Kingdom.
The survivors of Armengar had come to live in Yabon, not far from Tyr-Sog, and the telling of the great battle and the flight of the survivors, as well as the part played by Prince Arutha and his companions, had grown in the telling. Any man who had served with Prince Arutha and Guy du Bas-Tyra could only be judged a hero. With a reappraising glance at the young man, the sergeant kept his silence.
Locklear’s amusement at shutting up the voluble sergeant was shortlived, as the snow started to freshen, blowing harder by the minute. He might have gained enough stature with the garrison to be treated with more respect in days to come, but he was still a long way from the court in Krondor, the fine wines and pretty girls. It would take a miracle for him to get back in Arutha’s good graces any time before the next winter found him still trapped in a rural court with dullards.
After ten minutes of silent travel, the sergeant said, ‘Another two miles, sir, and we can start back.’
Locklear said nothing. By the time they returned to the garrison, it would be dark and even colder than it presently was. He would welcome the warm fire in the soldiers’ commons and probably content himself sharing a meal with the troops, unless the Baron requested he dine with the household. Locklear judged that unlikely, as the Baron had a flirtatious young daughter who had fawned on the visiting young noble the first night he had appeared in Tyr-Sog, and the Baron full well knew why Locklear was at his court. On the two occasions he had since dined with the Baron, the daughter had been conspicuously absent.
There was an inn not too far from the castle, but by the time he had returned to the castle, he knew he would be too sick of the cold and snow to brave the elements again, even for that short distance; besides, the only two barmaids there were fat and dull. With a silent sigh of resignation, Locklear realized that by the arrival of spring they might look lovely and charming to him.
Locklear just prayed he would be permitted to return to Krondor by the Midsummer Festival of Banapis. He would write to his best friend, Squire James, and ask him to use his influence to get Arutha to recall him early. Half a year up here was punishment enough.
‘Seigneur,’ said Sergeant Bales, using Locklear’s formal title, ‘what’s that?’ He pointed up the rocky path. Movement among the rocks had caught the sergeant’s eye.
Locklear replied, ‘I don’t know. Let’s go take a look.’
Bales motioned and the patrol turned left, moving up the path. Quickly the scene before them resolved itself. A lone figure, on foot, hurried down the rocky path, and from behind the sounds of pursuit could be heard.
‘Looks like a renegade had a falling-out with some Brothers of the Dark Path,’ said Sergeant Bales.
Locklear pulled his own sword. ‘Renegade or not, we can’t let the dark elves carve him up. It might make them think they could come south and harass common citizens at whim.’
‘Ready!’ shouted the sergeant and the veteran patrol pulled swords.
The lone figure saw the soldiers, hesitated a moment, then ran forward. Locklear could see he was a tall man, covered by a dark grey cloak which effectively hid his features. Behind him on foot came a dozen dark elves.
‘Let us go amongst them,’ said the sergeant calmly.
Locklear commanded the patrol in theory, but he had enough combat experience to stay out of the way when a veteran sergeant was giving orders.
The horsemen charged up the pass, moving by the lone figure, to fall upon the moredhel. The Brotherhood of the Dark Path were many things; cowardly and inept in warcraft were not among those things. The fighting was fierce, but the Kingdom soldiers had two advantages: horses, and the fact the weather had rendered the dark elves’ bows useless. The moredhel didn’t even attempt to draw their wet strings, knowing they could hardly send a bowshaft toward the enemy, let alone pierce armour.
A single dark elf, larger than the rest, leaped atop a rock, his gaze fixed upon the fleeing figure. Locklear moved his horse to block the creature, who turned his attention toward the young noble.
They locked gazes for a moment, and Locklear could feel the creature’s hatred. Silently he seemed to mark Locklear, as if remembering him for a future confrontation. Then he shouted an order and the moredhel began their withdrawal up the pass.
Sergeant Bales knew better than to pursue into a pass when he had less than a dozen yards’ visibility. Besides, the weather was worsening.
Locklear turned to find the lone figure leaning against a boulder a short distance behind the trail. Locklear moved his horse close to the man and called down, ‘I am Squire Locklear of the Prince’s court. You better have a good story for us, renegade.’
There was no response from the man, his features still hidden by the deep cowl of his heavy cloak. The sounds of fighting trailed off as the moredhel broke off and fled up the pass, crawling into the rocks above the path so the riders could not follow.
The figure before Locklear regarded him a moment, then slowly reached up to throw back his cowl. Dark, alien eyes regarded the young noble. These were features Locklear had seen before: high brow, close-cropped hair. Arching eyebrows and large, upswept and lobeless ears. But this was no elf who stood before him; Locklear could feel it in his bones. The dark eyes that regarded him could barely hide their contempt.
In heavily accented King’s Tongue, the creature said, ‘I am no renegade, human.’
Sergeant Bales rode up and said, ‘Damn! A Brother of the Dark Path. Must have been some tribal thing, with those others trying to kill him.’
The moredhel fixed Locklear with his gaze, studying him for a long moment, then he said, ‘If you are from the Prince’s court then you may help me.’
‘Help you?’ said the sergeant. ‘We’re most likely going to hang you, murderer.’
Locklear held up his hand for silence. ‘Why should we help you, moredhel?’
‘Because I bring a word of warning for your prince.’
‘Warning of what?’
‘That is for him to know. Will you take me to him?’
Locklear glanced at the sergeant, who said, ‘We should take him to see the Baron.’
‘No,’ said the moredhel. ‘I will only speak with Prince Arutha.’
‘You’ll speak to whoever we tell you to, butcher!’ said Bales, his voice edged in hatred. He had been fighting the Brotherhood of the Dark Path his entire life and had seen their cruelty many times.
Locklear said, ‘I know his kind. You can set fire to his feet and burn him up to his neck and if he doesn’t want to talk, he won’t talk.’
The moredhel said, ‘True.’ He again studied Locklear and said, ‘You have faced my people?’
‘Armengar,’ said Locklear. ‘Again at Highcastle. Then at Sethanon.’
‘It is Sethanon about which I need to speak to your prince,’ said the moredhel.
Locklear turned to the sergeant and said, ‘Leave us for a moment, Sergeant.’
Bales hesitated, but there was a note of command in the young noble’s voice, no hint of deference to the sergeant; this was an order. The sergeant turned and moved his patrol away.
‘Say on,’ said Locklear.
‘I am Gorath, Chieftain of the Ardanien.’
Locklear studied Gorath. By human standards he looked young, but Locklear had been around enough elves and seen enough moredhel to know that was deceiving. This one had a beard streaked with white and grey, as well as a few lines around his eyes; Locklear guessed he might be better than two hundred years old by what he had seen among elvenkind. Gorath wore armour that was well crafted and a cloak of especially fine weave; Locklear judged it possible he was exactly what he said he was. ‘What does a moredhel chieftain speak of to a prince of the Kingdom?’
‘My words are for Prince Arutha alone.’
Locklear said, ‘If you don’t want to spend what remains of your life in the Baron’s dungeon at Tyr-Sog, you had better say something that will convince me to take you to Krondor.’
The moredhel looked a long time at Locklear, then motioned for him to come closer. Keeping his hand upon a dagger in his belt, should the dark elf try something, he leaned close to his horse’s neck, so he could put his face near Gorath’s.
Gorath whispered in Locklear’s ear. ‘Murmandamus lives.’
Locklear leaned back and was silent a moment, then he turned his horse. ‘Sergeant Bales!’
‘Sir!’ returned the old veteran, answering Locklear’s commanding tone of voice with a note of respect.
‘Put this prisoner in chains. We return to Tyr-Sog, now. And no one is to speak with him without my leave.’
‘Sir!’ repeated the sergeant, motioning to two of his men to hurry forward and do as ordered.
Locklear leaned over his horse’s neck again and said, ‘You may be lying to stay alive, Gorath, or you may have some dreadful message for Prince Arutha. It matters not to me, for either way I return to Krondor, starting first thing in the morning.’
The dark elf said nothing, content to stand stoically as he was disarmed by two soldiers. He remained silent as manacles were fastened around his wrists, linked by a short span of heavy chain. He held his hands before him a moment after the manacles were locked, then slowly lowered them. He looked at Locklear, then turned and began walking toward Tyr-Sog, without waiting for his guards’ leave.
Locklear motioned for the sergeant to follow, and rode up to walk his horse next to Gorath, through the worsening weather.
• CHAPTER ONE • (#u1d1c16e3-ba0c-5f9a-b560-db56447450f5)
Encounter (#u1d1c16e3-ba0c-5f9a-b560-db56447450f5)
THE FIRE CRACKLED.
Owyn Belefote sat alone in the night before the flames, wallowing in his personal misery. The youngest son of the Baron of Timons, he was a long way from home and wishing he was even farther away. His youthful features were set in a portrait of dejection.
The night was cold and the food scant, especially after having just left the abundance of his aunt’s home in Yabon City. He had been hosted by relatives ignorant of his falling-out with his father, people who had reacquainted him over a week’s visit with what he had forgotten about his home-life: the companionship of brothers and sisters, the warmth of a night spent before the fire, conversation with his mother, and even the arguments with his father.
‘Father,’ Owyn muttered. It had been less than two years since the young man had defied his father and made his way to Stardock, the island of magicians located in the southern reaches of the Kingdom. His father had forbidden him his choice, to study magic, demanding Owyn should at least become a cleric of one of the more socially acceptable orders of priests. After all, they did magic as well, his father had insisted.
Owyn sighed and gathered his cloak around him. He had been so certain he would someday return home to visit his family, revealing himself as a great magician, perhaps a confidant of the legendary Pug, who had created the Academy at Stardock. Instead he found himself ill-suited for the study required. He also had no love for the burgeoning politics of the place, with factions of students rallying around this teacher or that, attempting to turn the study of magic into another religion. He now knew he was, at best, a mediocre magician and would never amount to more, and no matter how much he wished to study magic, he lacked sufficient talent.
After slightly more than one year of study, Owyn had left Stardock, conceding to himself that he had made a mistake. Admitting such to his father would prove a far more daunting task – which was why he had decided to visit family in the distant province of Yabon before mustering the courage to return to the east and confront his sire.
A rustle in the bushes caused Owyn to clutch a heavy wooden staff and jump to his feet. He had little skill with weapons, having neglected that portion of his education as a child, but had developed enough skill with this quarterstaff to defend himself.
‘Who’s there?’ he demanded.
From out of the gloom came a voice, saying, ‘Hello, the camp. We’re coming in.’
Owyn relaxed slightly, as bandits would be unlikely to warn him they were coming. Also, he was obviously not worth attacking, as he looked little more than a ragged beggar these days. Still, it never hurt to be wary.
Two figures appeared out of the gloom, one roughly Owyn’s height, the other a head taller. Both were covered in heavy cloaks, the smaller of the two limping obviously.
The limping man looked over his shoulder, as if being followed, then asked, ‘Who are you?’
Owyn said, ‘Me? Who are you?’
The smaller man pulled back his hood and said, ‘Locklear, I’m a squire to Prince Arutha.’
Owyn nodded. ‘Sir, I’m Owyn, son of Baron Belefote.’
‘From Timons, yes, I know who your father is,’ said Locklear. Squatting before the fire, opening his hands to warm them. He glanced up at Owyn. ‘You’re a long way from home, aren’t you?’
‘I was visiting my aunt in Yabon,’ said the blond youth. ‘I’m now on my way home.’
‘Long journey,’ said the muffled figure.
‘I’ll work my way down to Krondor, then see if I can travel with a caravan or someone else to Salador. From there I’ll catch a boat to Timons.’
‘Well, we could do worse than stick together until we reach LaMut,’ said Locklear, sitting down heavily on the ground. His cloak fell open and Owyn saw blood on the young man’s clothing.
‘You’re hurt,’ he said.
‘Just a bit,’ admitted Locklear.
‘What happened?’
‘We were jumped a few miles north of here,’ said Locklear.
Owyn started rummaging through his travel bag. ‘I have something in here for wounds,’ he said. ‘Strip off your tunic.’
Locklear removed his cloak and tunic while Owyn took bandages and powder from his bag. ‘My aunt insisted I take this just in case. I thought it an old lady’s foolishness, but apparently it wasn’t.’
Locklear endured the boy’s ministrations as he washed the wound – obviously a sword cut to the ribs – and winced when the powder was sprinkled upon it. Then as he bandaged the squire’s ribs, Owyn said, ‘Your friend doesn’t talk much, does he?’
‘I am not his friend,’ answered Gorath. He held out his manacles for inspection. ‘I am his prisoner.’
Trying to peer into the darkness of Gorath’s hood, Owyn said, ‘What did he do?’
‘Nothing, except be born on the wrong side of the mountains,’ offered Locklear.
Gorath pulled back his hood, and graced Owyn with the faintest of smiles.
‘Gods’ teeth!’ exclaimed Owyn. ‘He’s a Brother of the Dark Path!’
‘Moredhel,’ corrected Gorath, with a note of ironic bitterness. ‘“Dark elf”, in your tongue, human. At least our cousins in Elvandar would have you believe us so.’
Locklear winced as Owyn applied his aunt’s salve to the wounded ribs. ‘A couple of hundred years of war lets us form our own opinions, thank you, Gorath.’
Gorath said, ‘You understand so little, you humans.’
‘Well,’ said Locklear, ‘I’m not going anywhere at the moment, so educate me.’
Gorath looked at the young squire, as if trying to judge something, and was silent for a while. ‘Those you call “elves” and my people are one, by blood, but we live different lives. We were the first mortal race after the great dragons and the Ancient Ones.’
Owyn looked at Gorath in curiosity, while Locklear just gritted his teeth and said, ‘Hurry it up, would you, lad?’
‘Who are the Ancient Ones?’ asked Owyn in a whisper.
‘The Dragon Lords,’ said Locklear.
‘Lords of power, the Valheru,’ supplied Gorath. ‘When they departed this world, they placed our fate in our own hands, naming us a free people.’
Locklear said, ‘I’ve heard the story.’
‘It is more than a story, human, for to my people it gave over this world to our keeping. Then came you humans, and the dwarves, and others. This is our world and you seized it from us.’
Locklear said, ‘Well, I’m not a student of theology, and my knowledge of history is sadly lacking, but it seems to me that whatever the cause of our arrival on this world according to your lore, we’re here and we don’t have anywhere else to go. So if your kin, the elves, can make the best of it, why can’t you?’
Gorath studied the young man, but said nothing. Then he stood, moving with deadly purpose toward Locklear.
Owyn had just tied off the bandage and fell hard as Locklear pushed him aside while he attempted to rise and draw his sword as Gorath closed on him.
But rather than attack Locklear, he lunged past the pair of humans, lashing out above Locklear’s head with the chain that held his manacles. A ringing of steel caused Locklear to flinch aside as Gorath shouted, ‘Assassin in the camp!’ Then Gorath kicked hard at Owyn, shouting, ‘Get out from underfoot!’
Owyn didn’t know where the assassin came from; one moment there had been three of them in the small clearing, then the next Gorath was locked in a life-and-death struggle with another of his kind.
Two figures grappled by the light of the campfire, their features set in stark relief by the firelight and darkness of the woods. Gorath had knocked the other moredhel’s sword from his hand, and when the second dark elf attempted to pull a dagger, Gorath slipped behind him, wrapping his wrist chains around the attacker’s throat. He yanked hard and the attacker’s eyes bulged in shock as Gorath said, ‘Do not struggle so, Haseth. For old times’ sake I will make this quick.’ With a snap of his wrists, he crushed the other dark elf’s windpipe, and the creature went limp.
Gorath let him fall to the ground, saying, ‘May the Goddess of Darkness show you mercy.’
Locklear stood up. ‘I thought we had lost them.’
‘I knew we had not,’ said Gorath.
‘Why didn’t you say something?’ demanded Locklear as he retrieved his tunic and put it on over the new bandages.
‘We had to turn and face him some time,’ said Gorath, resuming his place. ‘We could do it now, or in a day or two when you were even weaker from loss of blood and no food.’ Gorath looked into the darkness from which the assassin had come. ‘Had he not been alone, you’d have had only my body to drag before your prince.’
‘You don’t get off that easily, moredhel. You don’t have my permission to die yet, after the trouble I’ve gone through to keep you alive so far,’ said Locklear. ‘Is he the last?’
‘Almost certainly not,’ said the dark elf. ‘But he is the last of this company. Others will come.’ He glanced in the opposite direction. ‘And others may already be ahead of us.’
Locklear reached into a small pouch at his side and produced a key. ‘Then I think you’d better get those chains off,’ he said. He unlocked the wrist irons and Gorath watched them fall to the ground with an impassive expression. ‘Take the assassin’s sword.’
‘Maybe we should bury him?’ suggested Owyn.
Gorath shook his head. ‘That is not our way. His body is but a shell. Let it feed the scavengers, return to the soil, nourish the plants, and renew the world. His spirit has begun its journey through darkness, and with the Goddess of Darkness’s pleasure, he may find his way to the Blessed Isles.’ Gorath looked northward, as if seeking sight of something in the dark. ‘He was my kinsman, though one of whom I was not overly fond. But ties of blood run strong with my people. For him to hunt me names me outcast and traitor to my race.’ He looked at Locklear. ‘We have common cause, then, human. For if I am to carry out the mission that brands me anathema to my people, I must survive. We need to help one another.’ Gorath took Haseth’s sword. To Owyn he said, ‘Don’t bury him, but you could pull him out of the way, human. By morning he’s going to become even more unpleasant to have nearby.’
Owyn looked uncertain about touching a corpse, but said nothing as he went over, reached down and gripped the dead moredhel by the wrists. The creature was surprisingly heavy. As Owyn started to drag Haseth away, Gorath said, ‘And see if he dropped his travel bag back there in the woods before he attacked us, boy. He may have something to eat in it.’
Owyn nodded, wondering what strange chance had brought him to dragging a corpse through the dark woods and looting the body.
Morning found a tired trio making their way through the woodlands, staying within sight of the road, but not chancing walking openly along it.
‘I don’t see why we didn’t return to Yabon and get some horses,’ complained Owyn.
Locklear said, ‘We have been jumped three times since leaving Tyr-Sog. If others are coming after us, I’d rather not walk right into them. Besides, we may find a village between here and LaMut where we can get some horses.’
‘And pay for them with what?’ asked Owyn. ‘You said the fight where you were wounded was when your horses ran off with all your things. I assume that means your funds, too? I certainly don’t have enough to buy three mounts.’
Locklear smiled. ‘I’m not without resources.’
‘We could just take them,’ offered Gorath.
‘There is that,’ agreed Locklear. ‘But without obvious badges of rank or a patent from the Prince on my person, it might prove difficult to convince the local constable of my bona fides. And we should hardly be safe penned up in a rural jail with cutthroats out looking for us.’
Owyn fell silent. They had been walking since sun-up and he was tired. ‘How about a rest?’ he offered.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Gorath, his voice falling to a whisper. ‘Listen.’
Neither human said anything for a moment, then Owyn said, ‘What? I don’t hear anything.’
‘That’s the point,’ said Gorath. ‘The birds in the trees ahead suddenly stopped their songs.’
‘A trap?’ asked Locklear.
‘Almost certainly,’ said Gorath, pulling the sword he had taken from his dead kinsman.
Locklear said, ‘My side burns, but I can fight.’ To Owyn he said, ‘What about you?’
Owyn hefted his wooden staff. It was hard oak, with iron-shod ends. ‘I can swing this, if I need to. And I have some magic.’
‘Can you make them vanish?’
‘No,’ said Owyn. ‘I can’t do that.’
‘Pity,’ said Locklear. ‘Then try to stay out of the way.’
They advanced cautiously, and as they neared the spot Gorath had indicated, Locklear could make out a shadowy figure between the trees. The man or moredhel – Locklear couldn’t tell which – moved slightly, revealing his position. Had he remained motionless, Locklear would never have seen him.
Gorath signalled for Locklear and Owyn to move more to their right, looping around behind the lookout. Without knowing how many men they faced, they would do well to seek the advantage of surprise.
Gorath moved through the woods like a spirit, silent and almost unseen once Owyn and Locklear left him. Locklear signalled for Owyn to keep slightly behind and to the right of him, so he knew where he was when they closed upon their ambushers.
As they moved through the woods, they heard the sound of whispers, and Locklear knew no elves waiting for them would utter a word. Now the question was were these mere bandits or agents seeking to stop Gorath’s journey.
A grunt from ahead signalled Gorath’s first contact with the ambushers. A shout followed instantly and Locklear and Owyn ran forward.
Four men stood and one was already dying. The other three spread out in a small clearing between two lines of trees, a perfect position for a roadside ambush. Locklear felt an odd flicker behind him and something sped past his eyes, as if an arrow had been fired from behind, but other than the sensation of motion, there was nothing to be seen.
One of the three remaining ambushers cried out in shock, his hand going out before him as vacant eyes stared ahead, ‘I’m blind!’ he shouted in panic.
Locklear decided it was Owyn’s useful magic, and thanked the Goddess of Luck the boy had that much talent.
Gorath was engaged with one man while Locklear advanced on the other. Suddenly their garb registered and he said, ‘Quegans!’
The men were wearing short tunics and leggings, and cross-gartered sandals. The man facing Locklear had his head covered with a red bandanna, and over his shoulder hung a baldric from which a cutlass had hung. The cutlass was now carving through the air at Locklear’s head.
He parried and the blow shot fire through his wounded side. Putting aside his pain, Locklear riposted and the pirate fell back. A strangled cry told Locklear the second pirate was down.
The strange missile sensation sped by and the man facing Locklear winced and held his hand up as if shielding his eyes. Locklear didn’t hesitate and ran the man through.
Gorath killed the last man and suddenly it was quiet again in the woods.
Locklear’s side was afire but he didn’t feel any additional damage. He put up his sword and said, ‘Damn me.’
‘Are you hurt?’ asked Owyn.
‘No,’ answered Locklear.
‘Then what is the problem?’ asked Owyn.
Locklear looked around the clearing. ‘These are the problem. Someone has gotten word ahead of us. We can be certain of that.’
‘How?’ asked Gorath.
‘These are Quegan pirates,’ said Locklear. ‘Look at their weapons.’
‘I wouldn’t know a Quegan if I tripped over him,’ said Owyn. ‘I’ll take your word for it, squire.’
‘Do not pirates usually ply their trade at sea?’ asked Gorath.
‘They do,’ said Locklear, ‘unless someone’s paid them to stake out a road and wait for three travellers on foot.’ He knelt next to the man who had died at his feet and said, ‘Look at his hands. Those are the hands of a man used to handling rope. Those Quegan cutlasses are the clincher.’ He examined the man, looking for a pouch or purse, saying, ‘Look for anything that might be a message.’
They did and came away with a little gold and a couple of daggers in addition to the four cutlasses. But no messages or notes, nothing indicating who had hired the pirates. ‘We’re not close enough to Ylith for a band of pirates to have made it this far north undetected in the time since we left Yabon.’
‘Someone must have sent word south when I left the Northlands,’ said Gorath.
‘But how?’ asked Owyn. ‘You’ve told me you only spent a couple of days in Tyr-Sog, and you were riding until yesterday.’
‘That’s an odd question for a student of magic,’ observed Gorath.
Owyn blushed a little. ‘Oh.’
‘You’ve Spellweavers who can do such?’ asked Locklear.
‘Not such as the eledhel – those you call “elves” – call Spellweavers. But we have our practitioners of magic. And there are others of your race who will sell their arts.’
Owyn said, ‘I’ve never witnessed it, but I have heard of a talent called “mind speech” which allows a spell-caster to speak with another. And there’s something known as “dream speech” as well. Either—’
‘Someone really wants you dead, don’t they?’ observed Locklear, interrupting the boy.
‘Delekhan,’ said Gorath. ‘And he was gathering to his side any of my people who showed such talents. I know his goals, but not his plan. And if magic arts are part of it, I fear the results.’
Locklear said, ‘I understand that. I’ve had my share of encounters with people using magic who shouldn’t.’ He glanced at Owyn and said, ‘That blinding trick was quite good, lad.’
Looking embarrassed, Owyn said, ‘I thought it might help. I know a few spells like that, but nothing that would overpower an enemy. Still, I’ll try to help where I can.’
Glancing at Owyn, Locklear said, ‘I know. Let’s get to LaMut.’
LaMut stood astride the road south, requiring anyone travelling from Yabon to Ylith to pass through its gates or endure a long trek to the east through dangerous foothills.
The foulbourgh of the city sprawled in all directions, while the old walls of the city stood behind, nearly useless now, given the ease with which any attacker could mount the buildings next to them and gain the parapet from their roofs.
It was nearly sundown and all three travellers were tired, footsore, and hungry. ‘We can present ourselves to Earl Kasumi tomorrow.’
‘Why not now?’ asked Owyn. ‘I could use a meal and a bed.’
‘Because the garrison is up there,’ said Locklear, pointing at a distant fortress high above the city on a hillside, ‘and that would be another two hours’ walk, whereas a cheap inn is but one minute that way.’ He pointed at the gate.
‘Will your countrymen object to my presence?’ asked Gorath.
‘They would if they suspected your nature. If they think you an elf from Elvandar, they may only stare a little. Come on. We’ve looted enough gold for a night of relative comfort, and in the morning we’ll visit the Earl and see if he can get us safely to Krondor.’
They entered the city under the watchful gaze of otherwise bored-looking soldiers. One of them stood out from his companions, being shorter, and much more businesslike in his manner. Locklear smiled and nodded at the guards, but the three travellers didn’t stop or speak. A short distance inside the city gates sat an inn, marked by a wagon wheel painted bright blue. ‘There,’ said Locklear.
They entered the inn, busy, but not crowded, and moved to a table near the far wall. As they sat a stout young serving woman came, took their order for food and ale, and left. As they were waiting, Locklear spied a figure on the other side of the room staring at him.
It took a moment for Locklear to realize the figure wasn’t a man, but a dwarf. The dwarf stood and made his way across the room. He bore a large scar across his face, cutting through his left eye. He stood before them and said, ‘You don’t recognize me, do you, Locky?’
Locklear realized the last time he had seen the dwarf he had not borne the scar he now sported, but at hearing his name from the dwarf’s lips, he said, ‘Dubal! Without the eye-patch, it took me a moment.’
The dwarf moved to sit next to Owyn, across from Gorath. ‘I won this face in battle, from one of his kin—’ he pointed at Gorath ‘—and I’ll be a dragon’s mother before I hide it again.’
‘Dubal found me hiding in a cellar after the Battle of Sethanon,’ said Locklear.
‘Locked in there with a pretty wench, if memory serves.’ The dwarf laughed.
Locklear shrugged. ‘Well, that was by chance.’
Dubal said, ‘Now tell me, what is a seigneur of the Prince’s court doing sitting in LaMut with a moredhel warchief?’ He kept his voice low, but Owyn glanced around to see if anyone had overheard him.
‘You know me?’ asked Gorath.
‘I know your race, for you are the enemy of my blood, and I know your armour for what it is. A human might not notice, but we of the Grey Towers have fought your kind long enough I wouldn’t mistake you for one from Elvandar. It’s only your present company that keeps me from killing you here and now.’
Locklear held up his hand. ‘I would count it a kindness and a personal favour, as would Prince Arutha, should you imagine this person on my left to be an elf.’
‘I think I can manage. But you’ll have to come to the Grey Towers and tell me the story behind this mummery.’
‘If I can, I will,’ said Locklear. ‘Now, what brings you alone to LaMut?’
‘We’ve got problems at our mines and had a collapse. Some of us are stuck on this side of the Grey Towers and I came in to the city to buy some stores. I’ll hire a waggon and head back in the morning. For the time being, I’m content to sit and drink, and jabber with some of these Tsurani here in LaMut. I fought them during the war, and they’ve turned out to be a stalwart enough bunch once you get to know them.’ He pointed to the bar. ‘That tall fellow—’ Locky laughed to hear anyone call a Tsurani ‘tall’ ‘—he’s Sumani, the owner. Has a fair number of tales to spin about his days serving on the Tsurani world, and I’m switched if it doesn’t sound like he’s telling the truth most of the time.’
Locklear laughed. ‘Most Tsurani I know don’t indulge in tall tales, Dubal.’
‘Seems to be so, but you never know. I’ve fought the big bugs, the Cho-ja, but some of those other things he talks about, well, I’m hard-pressed to believe them.’
The serving woman arrived with the food and ale and they fell to. ‘Now,’ said Dubal, ‘can you tell me what brings you here?’
‘No,’ replied Locklear, ‘but we can ask you if you’ve seen any Quegans hanging around?’
‘There was a pack of them through here two days ago, according to the gossip,’ said Dubal. ‘I just arrived and was brokering the material we need. Aren’t Quegans a bit far from home?’
‘You could say that,’ observed Locklear. ‘We ran into some and wondered if they had friends.’
‘Well, according to the gossip, they were all heading north from here, so if you didn’t run into a big bunch, they’ve got friends around.’
Locklear said, ‘That’s as I figured.’
They ate in silence for a while, as Dubal nursed his mug of ale. Then the dwarf said, ‘You wouldn’t have run across one of those Armengar monster hunters coming from the north, have you?’
‘Monster hunter?’ asked Owyn.
Locklear said, ‘Beast Hunter, is what he means. I met one, once.’ He smiled at the memory. They had been travelling with Prince Arutha away from a band of moredhel, and had run into a Beast Hunter from Armengar with his Beast Hound. It had been a trap, but it had saved them from the pursuing moredhel. ‘No, I think those that remain are up in the hills of northern Yabon. Why?’
‘Oh, we’ve got a Brak Nurr loose in the mine and need someone to hunt it down for us. We can either rebuild the mine or hunt the thing, but there aren’t enough of us on this side of the mountain to do both.’
‘What’s a Brak Nurr?’ asked Owyn. ‘I’ve never heard of such a creature.’
‘It’s more a nuisance than a menace,’ said Dubal. ‘It’s a pretty stupid creature, but most of their kind stay in the lower mines and tunnels under the mountain. It’s roughly man-shaped, but looks like a walking pile of rocks. That’s part of its danger, boy,’ Dubal said to Owyn. ‘You can’t see one until you’ve stepped on its toes, as often as not. They’re slow and lumbering, but they’re strong and can crush a man’s skull with a single blow. This one came up because of the rockslide, I think, but whatever the cause, it’s tried to hurt a couple of our lads. We’ve chased it off, but can’t take the time to hunt it down. If you’re up for a bit of fun, I can take you along and if you rid the mines of it, I’ll be happy to see you rewarded.’
‘Reward?’ said Locky. ‘That’s always a good word, but time doesn’t permit. If circumstances bring us to the mines any time soon, we’ll be glad to help, but for the moment, we’re heading south.’
Dubal stood. ‘I understand. Once we get the tunnels finished, we’ll go looking for the beastie. Now, I’m for bed and an early start. It was good seeing you again, squire, even in such company as this,’ he said, indicating Gorath. ‘Good fortune follow you.’
‘And you, Dubal.’
Locklear finished eating and rose to approach the innkeeper.
The innkeeper wore a Kingdom-style tunic and trousers, the latter tucked into high-top calfskin boots. But he wore a fur-lined, woven-wool heavy cloak, though it was thrown back, as if even in this warm inn it was too cold for his liking.
‘Sir?’ asked the innkeeper, his heavy accent making the word sound odd to Locklear.
‘Honours to your house,’ said Locklear in Tsurani.
The man smiled and said something in return. Locklear smiled and shrugged. ‘Sorry, that was all the Tsurani I know.’
The man’s smile broadened. ‘More than most,’ he said. ‘You’re not from LaMut,’ he observed.
‘True. I learned a little of your native tongue at Sethanon.’
‘Ah,’ said the innkeeper, nodding in understanding. Few who were at Sethanon spoke of what had occurred there, mostly because few understood it. At the height of the battle a great upheaval had driven both armies, invaders and defenders, fleeing from the city. A green light from the heavens and the appearance of something in the sky, followed by the destruction of the centre of the city, had rendered most men stunned, and a few deaf, after the battle. No one was certain what had happened, though most conceded a great magic had been unleashed. Most speculated the magician Pug, a friend of the Prince, had a hand in it, but no one seemed to know for certain.
Locklear had missed most of the end of the battle, being hidden in a cellar in the city, but he had heard enough accounts from other eyewitnesses to have formed a pretty clear picture in his own mind. And there was a special bond among those who had survived the Battle of Sethanon, irrespective of their place of birth, for it had been Tsurani, Kingdom, and even Keshian soldiers, who had driven the moredhel and their goblin allies back into the Northlands.
‘What I said,’ explained the innkeeper, ‘was “Honour to your houses, and be welcome to the Blue Wheel Inn”.’
‘Blue Wheel? That’s one of your Tsurani political parties, isn’t it?’
The innkeeper’s broad face split into a smile, revealing even white teeth. His dark eyes seemed to glint in the lanternlight. ‘You do know of us!’ He extended his hand, Kingdom fashion, and said, ‘I am Sumani. If there is anything that my servants or I may do, you need only ask.’
Locklear shook the innkeeper’s hand and said, ‘A room for the night after we finish our meal would serve. We have business in the castle tomorrow at dawn.’
The stocky ex-fighter nodded. ‘You’re in luck, my friend. Last night I would have had to express my regrets and endure the shame of being unable to fulfil your request. We were full, but this morning a large party departed and we have rooms.’ He reached under the bar and produced a heavy iron key. ‘On my home world this would have been worth a man’s life; here it is but a tool.’
Locklear nodded, understanding the scarcity of metals on Kelewan. He took the key. ‘Large party?’
‘Yes,’ said Sumani. ‘Foreigners. Quegans, I believe. Their speech was strange to my ear.’
Locklear looked around the obviously prosperous inn. ‘How did a Tsurani soldier end up running an inn in LaMut?’
‘After the war, Earl Kasumi gave those of us who had been trapped on this side of the rift the opportunity to live as Kingdom citizens. When the rift was reopened, he gave those of us here in LaMut the choice of leaving service and returning to the Shinzawai estates on Kelewan. Most stayed, though some left service and returned to serve again with Kasumi’s father, Lord Kamatsu. A few of us, however, retired here in LaMut. I had no living family back home.’ He glanced around. ‘And to tell the truth, I live better here than I would have back home. There, I might have become a farmer, or a labourer on the Shinzawai estates.’ He pointed through the open door to the kitchen to where a tall, stout woman was hard at work preparing food. ‘Here, I have a Kingdom wife. We have two children. Life is good. And I am part of the city’s militia, so I still train with my sword. The gods of both worlds smile on me and I prosper. I find business to be as challenging as warfare.’
Locklear smiled. ‘I have no head for business, though I have been told it often is like warfare. What gossip?’
The old former fighter said, ‘Much. Many travellers in LaMut over the last month. Much speculation. A large party of Great Ones came through here last week. And it is rumoured some brigands from my home world, grey warriors, have also been seen near the city.’
‘Grey warriors?’ asked Locklear. ‘Houseless men? What would they be doing here in LaMut?’
Sumani shrugged. ‘It may be those without honour have heard that here a man may rise by his own wits and talents, and not be bound by his rank at birth. Or it may be they are seeking riches in this land. With a grey warrior, who can say?’ A frown crossed Sumani’s face.
‘What?’ asked Locklear.
‘Just this one thing: the rift is controlled by those who serve the Great Ones on Kelewan, and Kingdom soldiers guard the gate on this side. To pass through, these grey warriors would have to have documents, or allies among those guarding the rift gate.’
‘Bribes?’ asked Locklear.
‘Here, perhaps. I’ve found in the Kingdom the concept of honour is different than at home. But betrayal from the servants of the Great Ones?’ He shook his head. ‘That is impossible.’
‘Thanks,’ said Locklear, smelling a puzzle. ‘I’ll keep my eyes and ears open.’
The Tsurani laughed. ‘That is a funny thing to say,’ he observed. ‘Let me know if I may be of any further service.’
Locklear nodded. He took a lantern from the innkeeper and returned to the table. Gorath and Owyn rose, and Locklear led his companions up the stairs to a simple room with four beds. He motioned for Owyn to help him move one of the beds across the door, barring it against a sudden attack, then he moved another directly below the window. ‘Owyn,’ he said, pointing to the bed under the window, ‘you sleep there.’
‘Why?’ asked the young man from Timons. ‘It’s draughty under there.’
Gorath looked on with a slight turn to his lip, as if amused, as Locklear answered, ‘Because if anyone climbs in through the window, they’ll step on you and your shouts will alert us.’
Grumbling, Owyn wrapped his cloak tightly around himself and lay down. Locklear indicated one of the beds to Gorath, who lay upon it without comment. Locklear sat on his bed and blew out the flame in the lantern, plunging the room into darkness. Voices from the common room below carried upstairs, and Locklear let his mind wander. The presence of foreigners and the attack by the Quegans worried him, and the rumour of Tsurani grey warriors in the area caused him additional concern, but fatigue and his injury caused him to quickly fall asleep.
• CHAPTER TWO • (#u1d1c16e3-ba0c-5f9a-b560-db56447450f5)
Deception (#u1d1c16e3-ba0c-5f9a-b560-db56447450f5)
THE SOLDIER WAVED THEM IN.
‘You may enter,’ he informed Locklear.
Locklear led his companions into the guardroom of the castle.
They had approached the castle on foot, after an early-morning climb up a long, winding road from the city. He was doubly glad they had chosen to spend the night in the city. His ribs still hurt, but after a night’s sleep in a relatively warm bed and two meals he was feeling twice as fit as he had the day before.
The captain of the castle guard looked up as they entered and said, ‘Squire Locklear, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, Captain Belford,’ said Locklear, accepting the captain’s hand. ‘We met when I passed through on my way north a few months back.’
‘I remember,’ said the captain with a half-hidden grin. Locklear knew the captain must have heard the rumour of the reason for his banishment to the north. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘I’d like to see the Earl, if he has the time.’
‘I’m sure he’d love to see you again, sir, but the Earl’s not here,’ said the seasoned old fighter. ‘He’s off on some errand with a troop of men – all Tsurani-bred – leaving me here to take care of things.’
‘The Countess?’ asked Locklear, inquiring after Kasumi’s wife.
‘Down in the city, actually. Shopping and visiting with her family.’ Earl Kasumi had married the daughter of one of LaMut’s more prosperous merchants. ‘If you need something official, you can wait until one of them gets back or ask me, squire. As long as you don’t need an armed escort somewhere.’
Locklear grimaced. ‘I had been thinking about asking for some men to accompany us down to Ylith.’
‘Wish I could oblige, squire, and if you’ve the Prince’s warrant with you, I’d scrape together a dozen swords for you, but as it is, the Earl’s off training recruits, I’ve got my usual patrols along the frontier, and the rest of the lads are out looking for a bunch of Tsurani renegades.’
Owyn said, ‘Renegades?’ Locklear had mentioned nothing of the Tsurani grey warriors to his companions.
‘I heard some rumours,’ was all Locklear said.
The captain motioned for the three of them to sit. Owyn was left standing when Gorath and Locklear took the only two free chairs in the office. ‘I wish it was only rumours,’ said Belford. ‘You know that Tsurani magician, Makala?’
‘By reputation only,’ said Locklear. ‘He was due to arrive in Krondor a few weeks after I departed some months ago. The other Tsurani Great Ones spoke of him, but as they weren’t the most sociable bunch, I only gathered a few things about him. He’s very influential in their Assembly of Magicians, is keen to foster trade and what I believe the Prince is calling “cultural exchanges” between the Empire of Tsuranuanni and the Kingdom, and he was personally coming for a visit.’
‘Well, he did that,’ said the captain. ‘He arrived here a few days ago and called on the Earl. Every Tsurani of any rank does that, as the Earl’s father is very important on the Tsurani home world. So it’s a duty thing.’ The old captain rubbed his beard-stubbled chin with a gloved hand. ‘The Tsurani are very deep into “duty”, I have learned in my time with the Earl. Anyway, they were here for a couple of days, Makala, some other Black Robes, and honour guards and bearers and the bunch, and it seems some of the bearers weren’t really bearers, but were some kind of dishonoured warriors from the Empire.’
‘Grey warriors,’ said Locklear. ‘I heard.’ That would explain how the grey warriors got through the rift, thought Locklear, disguised as bearers.
‘That’s who my lads are looking for. Rumour is they fled east. If they get over the mountains and into the Dimwood, we’ll never find them.’
‘Why the fuss?’ asked Owyn. ‘Are they slaves or indentured?’
‘Squire?’ said the captain pointedly.
‘He’s the son of the Baron of Timons,’ explained Locklear.
‘Well, young sir,’ said the captain, ‘these men are something like outlaws on their own world, which by itself isn’t enough to have me chasing after them, but here they stole something of value to this Makala – a ruby of some rarity, I gather – and he’s making enough of a fuss about it that you’d think the gods themselves lent it to him and he’s got to take it back in a week. So the Earl, some because he’s polite, and some because he’s Tsurani and used to jumping whenever one of those Black Robes barks, he’s got us combing the hills looking for those bastards.’
Locklear smiled at Owyn, as if asking if that was explanation enough. The captain looked at Gorath, as if expecting him to say something. Gorath remained silent. Locklear didn’t know if the captain recognized the moredhel for what he was or thought him an elf, and didn’t see the need to explain things to him. The captain said, ‘What would you need an escort for, if I may make so bold as to ask?’
‘We’ve had some problems,’ said Locklear. ‘Someone’s hired Quegan swords to keep us from reaching Krondor.’
The captain stroked his chin again and remained silent a long moment as he thought. ‘Here’s one thing I can do,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to run a patrol out to the border with the Free Cities. I can have you travel with it until it turns westward, almost half-way between LaMut and Zu-n. That’ll get you part of the way in safety.’
Locklear was silent a moment, then said, ‘I have a better idea.’
‘What?’ asked Captain Belford.
‘If you can pick three men to play our parts, and ride conspicuously out the south city gate, we’ll head east and slip over the mountains and head south to Krondor along the east mountain highway, where we won’t be expected.’
‘A ruse?’ asked the captain.
‘One I learned from the Prince,’ said Locklear. ‘He used it to good effect in the Riftwar. If you can lead away those looking for us, long enough for us to reach the far side of the mountains, we should be safe.’
‘I can arrange that.’ He glanced at Owyn and Gorath. ‘I’ve got some men who can pass for you, if we keep the hood up on the one playing your elf friend, here.’ He stood up. ‘Let me arrange to have the evening patrol stop by your lodgings …?’ He looked at them questioningly.
‘The Inn of the Blue Wheel.’
Belford smiled. ‘Sumani’s place. Don’t let his smiling countenance fool you; he’s a tough boot. If you get the time, have him show you some of his fighting tricks. He’ll make time for a few coins. His decision not to stay in service was our loss.’
The captain left and returned a short time later. ‘It’s taken care of. Head back to the city and let anyone who might be following you see you return. Lie low in the inn until tonight and I’ll have three horses waiting for you in the inn’s stable.’ He handed Locklear a piece of parchment. ‘Here’s a pass. If one of our lads on the road to the east stops you, this will set him right.’
Locklear rose. ‘Thank you, captain. You’ve been a great help. If there’s anything I can do for you when you’re next in Krondor, please tell me.’
The old captain smiled. Rubbing his chin once more he said, ‘Well, you could introduce me to that merchant’s young wife I hear got you run up this way in the first place.’
Owyn grinned and Gorath remained impassive as Locklear blushed and grimaced. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ They rose and departed the office.
Owyn said, ‘We walk?’
‘We walk,’ said Locklear as they headed for the main gate of the castle. ‘But at least it’s downhill.’
Gorath said, ‘That is actually more tiring.’
Locklear swore. ‘It was a joke.’
Gorath said, ‘Really?’ His tone was so dry it took a moment for Owyn to realize he was twitting Locklear. Owyn kept his own mirth in check and they started back toward the city.
Locklear slipped through the door into their room. Gorath looked up without alarm, but Owyn jumped off the bed. ‘Where have you been?’
‘Nosing around. Sitting up here might be smarter, but I’ve got this itch to scratch.’
Gorath looked on, but still said nothing.
Owyn said, ‘Itch?’
Locklear smiled. ‘Too many years of keeping the wrong sort of company, I suppose, but the reports of those grey warriors and the theft of some sort of rich item dear to a Tsurani Great One had me thinking. If I stole something on a different world, how would I dispose of it?’
‘Depends on what it is, I guess,’ offered Owyn.
Gorath gave a slight nod, but still said nothing.
‘There would have to be a local contact, someone who knew where one disposes of something of value.’
‘And you expect to discover this person in the midst of the throng of this city and use him to trace this band of thieves?’ asked Gorath.
‘No,’ said Locklear waving away the comment. ‘The captain said the stolen item is a gem, which being from Kelewan isn’t a shock. There isn’t much on that world of value that’s also easy to transport that would fetch a high value here. So my thinking is that the best way to find this missing gem is to learn where it’s most likely to end up.’
‘A fence?’ asked Owyn.
‘No, for if as I suspect the value of the ruby is enough to give a band of desperate men a new start on a strange world, it would have to be the sort of man who has a legitimate enterprise, one likely to mask the movement of this item.’
‘You seem to understand this sort of business better than a noble of your race should,’ observed Gorath.
‘I said I kept the wrong sort of company. After buying a few drinks, I discovered there’s a merchant with less than a stellar reputation who deals in gems, jewellery, and other luxury items. He’s a man named Kiefer Alescook.’
‘Who told you this?’ asked Owyn.
‘Our host, actually,’ said Locklear, motioning it was time for them to depart. They rose and gathered their gear, and moved out down the stairs to the common room. With a wave goodbye to Sumani, they moved through the door. Once outside the inn, Locklear motioned for them to walk around the corner to the stabling yard next to the inn. They moved inside the door and found three men waiting for them, each holding two horses.
One said, ‘Switch cloaks, quickly!’
Each was of a like height with Locklear and his companions and the exchange was made. If the man playing the part of Gorath had any notion of whom he was impersonating, he kept such thoughts to himself, merely handing Gorath a large blue cloak, taking the dark grey one worn by the moredhel. The others switched cloaks and Locklear took the reins of one of the horses.
By the time the three impostors were mounted, the sound of hooves on the stones announced the arrival of the patrol that would head down toward Zu-n this evening. From outside the gate of the stabling yard, a sergeant shouted, ‘We’re here to escort you south, Squire Locklear!’
Locklear took his cue and shouted back, ‘We’re ready!’ He nodded to the three men impersonating them who rode off and joined the van of the column. Locklear waited and after a few minutes said, ‘Owyn, you ride out, turn left and head straight out the gate. Ride a mile, then wait. Gorath and I will be behind you by a few minutes.’
Gorath grunted his approval. ‘So should anyone linger, he won’t see three riders.’
Locklear nodded and Owyn said, ‘Hold this, please.’ He handed his quarterstaff to Locklear, climbed into the saddle, then took the long oaken pole back. With a deft movement, he slung it over his shoulder, through his belt, then twisted it, so it hung across his shoulders and back, not encumbering him or the horse too much.
Gorath easily mounted, though he looked slightly ill at ease.
‘Don’t ride much?’ asked Locklear as Owyn departed.
‘Not really. It’s been a while, thirty or so years.’
‘Not a lot of horses in the Northlands?’
Without bitterness, Gorath said, ‘Not a lot of anything in the Northlands.’
Locklear said, ‘I remember.’
Gorath nodded. ‘We bled at Armengar.’
Locklear said, ‘Not enough. It didn’t keep you from coming through Highcastle.’
Gorath pointed with his chin. ‘We should go now.’ He didn’t wait for Locklear, but put heels to the sides of his horse and rode out.
Locklear hesitated a moment, then followed after. He overtook the dark elf as he rode easily through the foot traffic of the city. Men hurried home for evening meals while shops closed on every side. Travellers fresh in from the highway hurried toward the inn, eager to wash away the day’s trail dust with an ale, and women of the night began to appear on street corners.
Locklear and Gorath rode out the gate, ignored by the guards, and set their horses to cantering. A few minutes later they spied Owyn sitting on the side of the road.
When they reached him, he turned and said, ‘Now what?’
Locklear pointed toward a stand of woods a short distance away. ‘A cold camp, unfortunately, but at first light we ride north a few miles. There’s a mine road to the east that leads over the mountains. We’ll take that, then turn south on the other side. With luck we’ll avoid those seeking our friend here and make our way safely to the King’s Highway south of Quester’s View.’
Owyn said, ‘That means we’re going to come out near Loriel, right?’
‘Yes,’ said Locklear, with a smile. ‘Which means we’ll have the chance to visit one Kiefer Alescook along the way.’
‘Why involve ourselves in this matter?’ asked Gorath. ‘We need to hurry to Krondor.’
‘We are, and a few minutes’ conversation with Master Alescook may yield us a benefit. Should we discover the whereabouts of this missing gem, we win credit with Prince Arutha, for I am certain he wishes to be a gracious host to the visiting magicians from Kelewan.’
‘And if we don’t?’ asked Owyn as they rode toward the woods.
‘Then I still have to come up with a compelling reason why I left Tyr-Sog without his leave and returned with only this moredhel and an unlikely story.’
Owyn sighed aloud. ‘Well, you think of one to tell my father when I get back home and I’ll try to come up with something to tell the Prince.’
Gorath chuckled at this.
Owyn and Locklear exchanged glances. Locklear shook his head in the evening gloom. He had never considered the dark elves might have a sense of humour.
The wind was cold in the passes, for as winter was coming, in the elevations above them snow already clung tenaciously to the rocks and ice lurked in depressions in the road, making the footing dangerous.
They rode slowly, Locklear and Owyn both with their cloaks pulled tightly around them. Gorath kept his hood up, but rode without apparent discomfort.
‘How much longer?’ asked Owyn, his teeth chattering.
‘A half-hour less than the last time you asked,’ said Locklear.
‘Squire,’ said Owyn. ‘I’m freezing.’
Locklear said, ‘Really. How unusual.’
Gorath held up his hand. ‘Quiet,’ he said softly, with just enough authority and volume to carry to his companions, but no farther. He pointed up ahead. ‘In the rocks,’ he whispered.
‘What?’ asked Locklear in hushed tones.
Gorath only pointed. He held up four fingers.
‘Maybe they’re bandits,’ whispered Owyn.
‘They’re speaking my tongue,’ said Gorath.
Locklear sighed. ‘They’re covering all the roads, then.’
‘How do we proceed?’ asked Owyn.
Pulling his sword, Gorath said, ‘We kill them.’ He spurred his horse forward, with Locklear hesitating only an instant before following.
Owyn reached up and quickly pulled out his staff, tucking it under his arm like a lance, then urging his horse forward. He heard a shout as he rounded a turn in the trail and entered a widening in the road where one dark elf lay dying in the road as Gorath sped past him.
The other three were not so quickly taken, but rather hurried up into higher rocks where the horses couldn’t follow. Locklear didn’t hesitate and in a move that startled Owyn, the squire jumped up on his saddle and leaped off the running horse’s back, knocking a moredhel from the rock he was climbing.
On his right Owyn saw another one turn, rapidly stringing his bow, then reaching in a hip quiver for an arrow. Owyn urged his horse forward, and swept his staff, striking the bowman below the knee. The bowman went down, his feet shooting out from under him, and struck the rocks with the back of his head.
Owyn’s mount shied from the sudden motion near his head and suddenly Owyn found himself falling backwards. ‘Ahhhh!’ he cried, and then he struck something softer than the rocks. A stunned ‘oof’ accompanied the impact, and a groan told him he had landed atop the already injured dark elf.
As if scorched by the touch of a flame, Owyn turned over and sat up, scrambling backwards. Suddenly he was struck from behind by his horse as the animal turned and sped down the trail. ‘Hey!’ Owyn shouted, as if he could order the animal to stop.
He then realized there was a struggle going on, and the twice-struck moredhel was attempting to rise. Owyn looked around for a weapon and saw the fallen archer’s bow. Owyn grabbed it, and using it like a club, struck the moredhel in the head with as much strength as he could muster. The bow shattered and the warrior’s head snapped back. Owyn was certain he wouldn’t rise again.
The young magician turned to see Locklear standing away from a now dead dark elf, while Gorath likewise stood over a fallen foe. The moredhel turned and looked in all directions, as if seeking another foe. After a moment, he put up his sword and said, ‘They are alone.’
‘How can you tell?’ asked Locklear.
‘These are my people,’ said Gorath without apparent bitterness. ‘It is unusual for even this many to travel together this far south of our lands.’ He motioned toward a small fire. ‘They didn’t expect to encounter us.’
‘Then what were they doing here?’ asked Locklear.
‘Waiting for someone?’
‘Who?’ asked Owyn.
Gorath looked around in the late-afternoon light as if seeing something in the distant peaks, or through the rocks on either side of the trail. ‘I don’t know. But they were waiting here.’
Locklear said, ‘Where is your horse, Owyn?’
Owyn looked over his shoulder and said, ‘Back down there somewhere. I fell off.’
Gorath smiled. ‘I saw you land on that one over there.’ He indicated the body.
Locklear said, ‘Hurry back down the trail and see if you can find him. If he’s heading back toward LaMut, we’ll have to ride in rotation. I don’t want to be slowed any more than necessary.’
As Owyn ran off, Gorath said, ‘Why don’t you leave him behind?’
Locklear studied the moredhel’s expression as if trying to read him, then at last he said, ‘It’s not our way.’
Gorath laughed mockingly. ‘My experience with your kind tells me otherwise.’
Locklear said, ‘Then it’s not my way.’
Gorath shrugged. ‘I can accept that.’ He set to examining the corpse at Locklear’s feet and after a moment said, ‘This is interesting.’ He held out an object for Locklear’s examination.
‘What is this?’ asked Locklear, looking at a multi-faceted stone of an odd blue hue.
‘A snow sapphire.’
‘Sapphire!’ said Locklear. ‘It’s as big as an egg!’
‘It’s not a particularly valuable stone,’ said Gorath. ‘They are common north of the Teeth of the World.’
‘So it’s, what? A keepsake?’
‘Perhaps, but when a war party leaves our homeland, we travel light. Weapons, rations, extra bowstrings, and little else. We easily live by forage.’
‘Maybe this isn’t a war party,’ suggested Locklear. ‘Maybe they live around here?’
Gorath shook his head. ‘The last of my people south of the Teeth of the World lived in the Grey Towers and they fled to the Northlands with the coming of the Tsurani. None of my race has lived this near the Bitter Sea since before the Kingdom came to these mountains. No, while not of my clan, these are from the Northlands.’ He put the gem in his belt pouch and continued to examine the bodies.
Time passed and finally Owyn put in an appearance, leading his horse. ‘Damn all horses,’ he swore. ‘He made me chase him until he got bored.’
Locklear smiled. ‘Next time, don’t fall off.’
‘I didn’t plan on it this time,’ said Owyn.
Gorath said, ‘We need to hide these.’ He pointed to the four dead moredhel. He picked up one and carried it a short way down the trail then unceremoniously threw the corpse over the side of a ravine.
Owyn looked at Locklear, and the young magician tied his horse’s reins to a nearby bush. He picked up the feet of the nearest corpse while Locklear lifted the creature under the shoulders.
Soon all four bodies were consigned to the ravine hundreds of feet below. Locklear mounted as did Gorath and Owyn. Leaving for the time being the mystery of why these moredhel were waiting at this lonely spot on a rarely used trail, they rode on.
Loriel appeared before them, a small city – really a large town – nestled into the large valley which ran eastward. Another valley intersected from the south.
Gorath said, ‘We need food.’
‘A fact of which my stomach is well aware,’ answered Locklear.
Owyn said, ‘Not that I’m in a hurry to face my father, but this is turning into a roundabout journey, squire.’
Locklear pointed to the southern valley. ‘There’s a road through there that’s a very straight course to Hawk’s Hollow. From there we have our choice of routes, south along a narrow ridge trail, or southwest back to the King’s Highway.’
Gorath said, ‘And then to Krondor?’
‘And then to Krondor,’ agreed Locklear. ‘Something in all this is making what my friend Jimmy calls his “bump of trouble” itch like I’ve been attacked there by fleas.
‘Gorath, this stolen ruby, the Tsurani magicians, all of it is somehow … more than coincidence.’
‘How?’ asked Owyn.
‘If I knew,’ said Locklear, ‘we wouldn’t be stopping off to visit Mr Alescook. He may know something or know someone who knows what it’s about, but the more I think on this mystery, the more it bothers me that I don’t know what’s behind all this.
‘But we’re going to find out or die trying.’
Owyn didn’t look happy at the second choice, but said nothing. Gorath just looked out over the town as they rode down towards a small guard post that sat beside the trail.
A town constable of advancing years and considerable girth held up his hand and said, ‘Halt!’
The three reined in and Locklear inquired, ‘What is it?’
‘We’ve had a rash of renegades around here, lately, m’lad, so state your business.’
‘We’re travelling south and stopping for provisions,’ said Locklear.
‘And who might you be, to be riding down out of the mountains?’
Locklear produced the paper given him by Captain Belford and said, ‘This should explain as much as you need to know, constable.’
The man took the document and squinted at it. Locklear realized he couldn’t read, but he made a show of studying it. Finally, convinced by the large embossment at the bottom, the constable handed back the paper and said, ‘You may pass, sir. Just be wary if you’re out after dark.’
‘Why?’ asked Locklear.
‘As I said, sir, lots of ruffians and bandits passing by lately, and not too few of those murderous Brothers of the Dark Path. Look a bit like your elf friend there, but with long black nails and red eyes which shine in the night.’
Locklear could barely hold back his amusement as he said, ‘We’ll be wary, constable.’
They rode past and Gorath said, ‘That one has never seen one of my people in his life.’
‘So I gathered,’ observed Locklear, ‘though I must pay more attention to your eyes at night. I may have missed the red glow.’
Owyn chuckled and they found themselves an inn. It was dirty, crowded and dark, which suited Locklear fine as he was low on funds. He had thought about asking Captain Belford for a loan, but decided the captain’s only response would have been, ‘wait for Earl Kasumi,’ and while Locklear didn’t mind taking a circuitous route to get to Krondor to avoid ambushes, he was anxious to put the mystery of what was occurring in the Northlands before Arutha.
There were no rooms available, a situation that surprised Locklear, but the innkeeper gave them leave to sleep in the commons. Owyn grumbled at the need, but Gorath kept his thoughts to himself.
So far no one had objected to the moredhel’s presence along the way, either because they didn’t recognize him for what he was, mistaking him for an elf, or because a moredhel with renegade humans in these mountains was not all that unusual a sight. Whatever the cause, Locklear was grateful he didn’t need to deal with curious onlookers.
They ate at a crowded table, and after the meal listened to an indifferent troubadour. There were some games of chance and Locklear itched to try his hand at some cards, either pashawa or pokir. He resisted the impulse, as he could ill afford to lose, and one lesson taught him by his father and older brothers was don’t gamble what you can’t afford to lose.
As the inn settled down and those sleeping in the commons began to claim corners and places under tables, Locklear approached the barkeep, a heavy-set man with a black beard. ‘Sir?’ he asked as Locklear moved between two other men to stand before him.
‘Tell me, friend,’ began Locklear. ‘Is there a merchant in this town who deals in gems?’
The barkeep nodded. ‘Three doors down on the right. Name’s Alescook.’
‘Good,’ said Locklear. ‘I need to purchase a gift for a lady.’
The barkeep grinned. ‘I understand, sir. Now, one word: caution.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Locklear.
‘I’m not saying Kiefer Alescook can’t be trusted, but let’s just say the source of some of his merchandise is a bit dodgy.’
‘Ah,’ said Locklear, nodding as if now he understood. ‘Thanks. I’ll bear that in mind.’
Locklear returned to the table and said, ‘I’ve found our man. He’s nearby and we’ll see him first thing in the morning.’
‘Good,’ said Gorath. ‘I tire of your company.’
Locklear laughed. ‘You’re not exactly an ale and fair song yourself, Gorath.’
Owyn said, ‘Well, whatever. I’m tired and if we’re to sleep on the floor, I don’t want to get too far from the fire.’
Locklear realized that men were now bedding down for the night and replied, ‘Over there.’
They moved to the indicated spot and unrolled their bedding. After a few minutes of listening to the sounds of hushed conversation from those few men still at the tables or the door opening and closing as men left to return to their homes, Locklear fell into a deep sleep.
The merchant looked up as the three men entered the room. He was an old man, looking frail to the point of infirmity. He regarded the three with rheumy eyes. He studied Gorath for a moment, then said, ‘If you’ve come for gold, I sent it north with one of your kind two days ago.’
Gorath said, ‘I did not come for gold.’
Locklear said, ‘We came looking for information.’
The merchant fell silent. After a moment, he said, ‘Information? Find a rumour-monger. I deal in gems and other fine items.’
‘And from what we hear, you’re not too particular as to the source of those items.’
‘Are you suggesting I deal in stolen property?’ demanded the old man, his voice rising.
Locklear held up his hand. ‘I suggest nothing, but I am seeking a particular stone.’
‘What?’
‘A ruby, unusual in size and character. I seek to return it to its rightful owner, no questions asked. If you came by it, no fault will be placed at your feet, if you help us recover it. If you don’t, then I suggest you may receive a visit from a royal magistrate and some very disapproving guardsmen from the garrison at Tyr-Sog.’
The old man’s expression turned calculating. His balding pate shone in the light of a single lantern that hung overhead. With feigned indifference he said, ‘I have nothing to hide. But I may be able to help you.’
‘What do you know?’ asked Locklear.
‘Lately, my business has been brisk, but it’s an unusual sort of trade, and I’ve been in this business for fifty years, lad.
‘Recently, I’ve been handling transactions for parties I have not met, through agents and couriers. Most unusual, but profitable. Gems of high quality, many of them very rare, even remarkable, have passed through my hands.’
‘Tsurani gems?’ asked Locklear.
‘Precisely!’ said the old man. ‘Yes, similar enough to our own rubies, sapphires, emeralds and the like to be recognized as such, but with slight variations only an expert might notice. And also, other gems unlike any found on this world.’
‘Whom do you represent?’ asked Locklear.
‘No one known to me,’ said the old man. ‘At irregular intervals of late, dark elves like your companion have come here, and they drop off gems. Later a man comes from the south and brings me gold. I take a commission and wait for the dark elves to return and take the gold.’
Gorath turned to Locklear. ‘Delekhan. He’s using the gold to arm our people.’
Locklear held his hand up, requesting silence. ‘We’ll talk later.’ To the old man he said, ‘Who buys the gems?’
‘I don’t know, but the man who receives them is known as Isaac. He lives down in Hawk’s Hollow.’
‘Have you seen this Isaac?’ asked Locklear.
‘Many times. He’s a young man, about your height. Light brown hair he wears long to his shoulders.’
‘Does he speak like an Easterner?’
‘Yes, now that you mention it. He sounds court bred at times.’
Locklear said, ‘Thank you. I will mention your aid should any official investigation come of this.’
‘I am always eager to help the authorities. I run a lawful enterprise.’
‘Good.’ Locklear motioned toward Gorath’s purse and said, ‘Sell him the stone.’
Gorath took out the snow sapphire he had taken from the dead moredhel and put it down before Alescook.
The merchant picked it up and examined it. ‘Ah, a nice one. I have a buyer for these down south. I’ll give you a golden sovereign for it.’
‘Five,’ said Locklear.
‘These are not that rare,’ said Alescook, tossing it back to Gorath, who started to put it away. ‘But, on the other hand … two sovereigns.’
‘Four,’ said Locklear.
‘Three, and that’s done with it.’
They took the gold, enough for a meal along the way, left and went outside. To his companions Locklear said, ‘We’re passing through Hawk’s Hollow on our way to Krondor, so our next choice is easy. We find Isaac.’
As he mounted his horse, Gorath said, ‘This Isaac is known to you, then?’
Locklear said, ‘Yes. He’s the second biggest rogue I’ve known in my life. A fine companion for drinking and brawling. If he’s caught up in something dodgy, it wouldn’t surprise me.’
They turned their horses southward and left the large, rolling valley of Loriel, entering the narrow river valley leading southward. Locklear had been able to purchase a little food at the inn, but the lack of funds was starting to worry him. He knew they could hunt, but his sense of something dark approaching was growing by the day. A renegade moredhel chieftain bringing warning of possible invasion, money moving to the north to buy weapons from weapons runners, and somehow the Tsurani were involved. Any way he looked at this, it was a bad situation.
Unable to put aside his foreboding, he kept his thoughts to himself.
Gorath held up his hand and pointed. Softly he said, ‘Something there.’
‘I don’t see anything,’ said Owyn.
‘If you did, I would not need to warn you,’ suggested the dark elf.
‘What do you see?’ asked Locklear.
‘An ambush. See those trees. Some lower branches have been hacked off, but not by a woodsman’s axe or saw.’
‘Owyn,’ Locklear asked, ‘can you still do that blinding trick?’
‘Yes,’ said Owyn, ‘if I can see the man I’m trying to blind.’
‘Well, as we’re sitting here, pointing at them, I expect in a moment whoever’s behind that brush is going to figure out we’ve spotted their ambush—’
Locklear was interrupted by six figures rushing forward from the brush on foot. ‘Moredhel!’ shouted Locklear as he charged.
He felt the sizzling energy speed past him as Owyn sought to blind an advancing dark elf. The spell took effect, for the creature faltered, reaching up to his eyes in alarm.
Locklear leaned over the neck of his horse as an arrow flew past him. ‘Get the bowman,’ he shouted to Owyn.
Gorath shouted a war cry and rode down one attacker while slashing at a second. Locklear engaged a dark elf who seemed indifferent to facing a mounted opponent, and Locklear knew from bitter experience how deadly the moredhel could be. While rarely mounted themselves, they had faced human cavalry for hundreds of years and were adept at pulling riders from horseback. Knowing their tactics, Locklear spurred his mount suddenly, turning it hard to the left. This knocked back the attacker he faced and revealed the one poised to leap and drag him down. Locklear slashed out with his sword, taking the creature in the throat, above his metal breastplate. Locklear kept his horse circling, so he quickly faced his first attacker.
The sizzling sensation told him Owyn was once more blinding an opponent, and Locklear hoped it was the bowman. The moredhel who had fallen back as the horse spun pressed forward with a vicious slash at Locklear’s leg.
He barely got his sword down in time and felt the shock run up through his arm. His stiff ribs hindered his parry and the flat of his own blade slammed into his horse’s side, causing the animal to shy.
Locklear used his left leg and moved the animal back into a straight line, twisting his body to keep his eyes upon his foe. His ribs hurt from the effort, but he stayed alive as the moredhel swung at him again. He knocked that blow aside and delivered a weak counter which slapped his opponent in the face, irritating him more than doing any real damage.
But the blow did slow the moredhel’s advance, and Locklear got his horse turned to face his foe. Locklear remembered something his father had drilled into him and his brothers; a soldier who has a weapon and doesn’t use it is either an idiot or dead.
His horse was a weapon, and Locklear put his legs hard against his horse’s flanks and tugged hard on the reins with his off hand. The horse picked up a canter, and to the moredhel it was as if the horse suddenly leaped at him.
The warrior was a veteran and dodged to one side, but Locklear reined his horse in, turning hard to the left. To the moredhel, it looked as if Locklear was turning away, and the creature pressed forward.
Locklear kept the horse turning in a tight circle, and suddenly the moredhel realized his error as the young squire completed his circle with a slashing downward blow. This was no irritating tap, but a powerful blow which smashed bone as it cut into the side of the moredhel’s skull.
Locklear glanced toward Gorath and saw him beset by two foes, then looked back to Owyn, and saw that he was on foot a hundred yards away and holding a swordsman at bay with his staff. Hoping the bowman was still blinded by Owyn’s magic, Locklear rode to Owyn’s rescue.
He kicked hard at his horse’s flanks and the animal leaped forward so that he was approaching at a gallop when the moredhel heard him coming. The dark elf turned to look at his second opponent, giving Owyn the opening to strike with the butt of his staff. He broke the creature’s jaw and sent him slumping to the ground.
Locklear reined his horse in so suddenly the animal planted his hooves and almost sat. Spinning the horse around, Locklear waved to Owyn, shouting, ‘Keep the bowman off us!’
As if the Goddess of Luck had turned a deaf ear to him, Locklear was lifted out of the saddle by an arrow. He struck the ground hard, barely avoiding broken bones by rolling. The arrow in his left shoulder snapped and the pain caused his vision to swim and took his breath away.
For the briefest instant, Locklear fought to keep conscious, then he felt his eyes focus and he willed away the pain in his shoulder. A strangled cry behind him made him turn. Over him reared a moredhel, sword raised to strike. Suddenly Gorath was behind the moredhel, and he plunged his sword into the moredhel’s back.
Owyn ran past, wheeling his staff above his head. Locklear looked up as his would-be killer fell to his knees, then keeled over. Gorath turned before Locklear could speak and ran after Owyn.
Locklear rose slowly on wobbly legs as he saw Owyn rush forward and strike a moredhel bowman who was vainly rubbing his eyes as if trying to clear them. The bowman was clubbed to his knees, and died a moment later as Gorath delivered the killing blow.
Gorath spun around in a circle once, as if seeking another enemy, but Locklear saw the six were dead. Gorath stood with his sword in hand, frustration on his face, then he shouted in rage. ‘Delekhan!’
Locklear stumbled to the dark elf and said, ‘What?’
‘They knew we were coming!’ said Gorath.
Owyn said, ‘Somehow they got word south?’
Gorath put up his sword. ‘Nago.’
‘What?’ asked Locklear.
‘Not what, who,’ said Gorath. ‘Nago. He’s one of Delekhan’s sorcerers. He and his brother Narab served the murderer. They are powerful chieftains in their own right, but right now they’re doing Delekhan’s bidding. Without their help, Delekhan never would have risen to power and overthrown the chieftains of the other clans. Without their help, these—’ his hand swept in a circle, indicating the dead moredhel ‘—would not be here waiting.’ He knelt next to one of the dead and said, ‘This was my cousin, my kinsman.’ He pointed to another one. ‘That one is from a clan that has been sworn enemy to mine for generations. That they are both serving this monster hints at his power.’
Locklear indicated his shoulder and sank to the ground. Owyn examined it and explained, ‘I can get the arrowhead out, but it’s going to hurt.’
Locklear said, ‘It already hurts. Get on with it.’
While Owyn ministered to Locklear, Gorath said, ‘Nago and Narab both have the power of mind speech. Especially with one another. Those we killed on the road to your town of Loriel, or another who spied us, must have passed word to one of the brothers. He in turn alerted these as to our whereabouts.’
Locklear said, ‘So the chances are good that before they died, one of these also let Nago know we are here?’
‘Almost certainly.’
‘Wonderful,’ said Locklear through gritted teeth as Owyn used his dagger to cut out the arrowhead. His eyes teared and his vision swam again for a moment, but by breathing slowly and deeply he kept conscious.
Owyn dusted the wound with a pack of herbs from his belt pouch then placed a cloth over it. ‘Hold this here; press hard,’ he instructed. He went to the nearest body and robbed it of a strip of cloth, cut away with his dagger, then returned to bind it tightly around Locklear’s shoulder. ‘Between that wound to your ribs and this shoulder, your left arm is close to useless, squire.’
‘Just what I wanted to hear,’ said Locklear as he tried to move his left arm and found Owyn’s observation correct. He could move it scant inches before pain made him stop the attempt. ‘Horses?’
‘They’ve run off,’ said Owyn.
‘Wonderful,’ said Locklear. ‘I was knocked out of the saddle, what’s your excuse?’ he demanded of the other two.
Gorath said, ‘Fighting on the back of the beast was too awkward.’
Owyn said, ‘I can’t cast a spell from the saddle. Sorry.’
Locklear stood. ‘So we walk.’
‘How far is it to Hawk’s Hollow?’ asked Owyn.
‘Too far,’ said Locklear. ‘If they’re waiting for us, much too far.’
• CHAPTER THREE • (#ulink_35ddface-7192-5c50-80de-2d73d2d937f6)
Revelation (#ulink_35ddface-7192-5c50-80de-2d73d2d937f6)
THE SENTRY BLINKED IN SURPRISE.
One moment the approach to the town was empty, the next three figures were standing before him. ‘What?’ he exclaimed, bringing his old spear to something resembling a stance of readiness.
‘Easy, friend,’ said Locklear. He leaned upon Owyn’s shoulder and looked as if he was close to death. They had encountered three more ambushes between the one where their horses had fled and Hawk’s Hollow. They had managed to avoid the first two, sneaking around human bandits. The last had been a squad of six moredhel who had been too alert. The fight had been bloody and costly. Gorath was wounded, a nasty cut to his left shoulder that Owyn had barely been able to staunch. Locklear had been injured again, nearly dying if not for Owyn’s intervention, and the young magician himself was sporting a half-dozen minor wounds.
‘Who are you?’ asked the confused sentry. He was obviously a farmer or worker from town, part of the city’s militia Locklear guessed.
‘Locklear, squire of the Prince’s court in Krondor, and these two are my companions.’
‘You look like brigands, to me,’ replied the guardsman.
‘We have proof,’ said Locklear, ‘but first I’d like to find someone who can help us before we bleed to death.’
‘Brother Malcolm of the Temple of Silban is in town, down at Logan’s Tavern. He comes through here every six months or so. He’ll help you out.’
‘Where is Logan’s?’ asked Owyn as Locklear seemed about to lapse into unconsciousness.
‘Just down the street. Can’t miss it. Sign out front of a dwarf.’
They made their way to the indicated establishment, which showed a faded sign of a comically drawn dwarf, obviously once painted with vivid colours.
They went inside and found several townspeople sitting by, waiting for a priest in the robes of the Order of Silban who was in the corner ministering to a sick child. A couple of local workers were waiting, one with a bandaged hand, the other looking pale and weak.
The priest looked up as he finished with the boy, who leaped down from his mother’s lap without prompting and raced for the door. The priest looked at Locklear and said, ‘Are you dying?’
‘Not quite,’ answered the squire.
‘Good, because these fellows were here first and I’ll only make them wait if you’re near death.’
Mustering as much dry wit as he could under the circumstances, Locklear replied, ‘I’ll try to let you know when I’m about to die.’
Gorath’s patience vanished. He moved to confront the priest and said, ‘You will see my companion now. These others can wait.’
The glowering dark elf towered over the small priest and his expression and voice left no room for argument this side of violence. The priest looked once more at Locklear and said, ‘Very well, if you think it urgent. Bring him over to this table.’
They half-carried Locklear to the table and laid him out on it. The priest said, ‘Who bandaged this?’
‘I did,’ said Owyn.
‘You did well enough,’ said the priest. ‘He’s alive, so that counts for much.’
After Locklear’s tunic and the bandages were removed, the priest said, ‘Silban preserve us! You’ve got three wounds fit to fell a bigger man.’ He sprinkled a powder on the wounds, which brought a gasp of pain from Locklear, then the priest began a chant and closed his eyes.
Owyn felt power manifest in the room and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He had only been exposed to a little clerical magic in his life and it always seemed odd and exotic to him.
A faint glow from the priest’s hands threw illumination over Locklear’s wounds and as Brother Malcolm droned his chant, Owyn could see the wounds begin to heal. They were still visible, but no longer fresh and angry. When the priest stopped, they looked old, past the danger stage. The priest was pale from the exertion when he stopped. He said, ‘That’s all I can do now. Sleep and food will do the rest.’ Looking at Owyn and Gorath, he asked, ‘Do you have wounds, as well?’
‘We do,’ said Gorath. ‘But we can wait until you tend to those two.’ He pointed to the two locals waiting for treatment.
Malcolm nodded. ‘Good.’ As he moved past Gorath, he said, ‘Your manners may be in question, moredhel, but your instincts serve you well. He might have bled to death had we waited another hour.’
Gorath remained silent in the face of being recognized for what he was. He moved to sit next to Owyn and wait.
When the two farmers, one with a smashed finger courtesy of a badly-aimed hammer and the other with a bad case of fever, were finished, Malcolm turned to Gorath and Owyn. ‘Who’s next?’
Gorath indicated Owyn and the magician went to sit before the priest. He watched with interest as the priest quickly treated and bound his wounds. They spoke little, for Owyn was almost out on his feet.
When Gorath replaced him before the priest, the dark elf said, ‘You recognize my race, yet you do not call for the town guard. Why?’
The priest shrugged as he examined Gorath’s wounds. ‘You travel with men who do not look like renegades to me. You are not here killing and burning, so I assume your mission a peaceful one.’
‘Why do you assume I have a mission?’ asked Gorath.
‘Why else would you travel in the human world?’ Malcolm asked rhetorically. ‘I have never known the moredhel to travel for pleasure.’
Gorath grunted, forgoing comment.
Malcolm was quickly done and said, ‘You should have come second; this wound was more severe than your friend’s. But you’ll live.’ He washed his hands and dried them with a towel. ‘It is my mission to aid and serve, but it is custom that those served donate.’
Gorath indicated Locklear, who was now sitting upright at the table upon which he had lain. Locklear said, ‘Brother, I fear I may only give you a scant token of our debt, but should you come to Krondor any time soon, visit me and I will repay you tenfold.’
Locklear dug into his purse and judged how much he would need for a room that night, and other costs, then drew out a golden sovereign and two silver royals. ‘It is all we can spare.’
‘It will do,’ said the priest. ‘In Krondor, where might I find you?’
‘At the palace. I am one of the Prince’s men. I am Squire Locklear.’
‘Then I shall call upon you when next I’m in Krondor, young squire, and you can settle accounts with me then.’ Glancing at Locklear’s freshly-bound wounds, he said, ‘Go easy on those cuts for another day. By tomorrow you’ll feel better. If you avoid being stabbed again any time soon, you’ll feel like your old self by week’s end. Now, I must go rest. This is more healing in one afternoon than I usually experience in a week.’
The priest left and Locklear slowly rose to cross to the bar and found the innkeeper cleaning up. The portly man said, ‘Welcome to The Dusty Dwarf, my friends. What may I do for you?’
‘Food and a room,’ said Locklear.
They returned to a table and the innkeeper followed soon after, putting down a large platter of cold meats, breads baked earlier that morning, cheese and fruits. ‘I’ve got some hot food cooking for later this evening, but this early in the day, cold fare is all I have.’
Owyn and Gorath were already stuffing food into their mouths as Locklear was saying, ‘That will be fine. Some ale, please.’
‘Right away.’
The man was back with the ale in a moment, and Owyn asked, ‘Sir, what is the story behind the name of this place?’
‘The Dusty Dwarf?’ said the man.
‘Yes.’
‘Well, truth to tell, it’s not much of a story. Man named Struble owned this place. Called it The Merry Dwarf. Don’t know why. But it had a bright sign. He never had the sign repainted in all the years he owned the place, so by the time I bought it from him, the sign was badly faded. All the locals called it The Dusty Dwarf by then, so I just went along. Saves me the cost of getting the sign painted, too.’
Owyn smiled at the story, as the barkeep hurried off to meet the demands of another customer. Locklear looked nearly asleep as he said, ‘All right. We have two choices. We can take the main road down to Questor’s View, or the back way through Eggly and Tannerus and lose a few days.’
Owyn said, ‘I’m only guessing, but from what Gorath has said, this Nago or Narab is keeping in contact with their agents by mind speech. As I said before, I know only a little about this speech, but what I do know is it can be very taxing. The magician Pug’s daughter is known to be among the most gifted in the world at this and can speak across vast distances, but she is rare, even unique. For lesser magicians, it requires much rest.’
Gorath looked on impassively, but Locklear said, ‘Come to the point, if you don’t mind. I’m having trouble staying awake.’
‘The point is whoever this magician is, he’s lying low in one place, probably guarded, and probably has one or two key agents in a given area. The rest of his orders are being run by messengers, I’m thinking. So they know where we’ve been, and may have even guessed where we are today, but they don’t know which way we’ll be going.’
Locklear said, ‘Fine, but what does that mean about our choice of route?’
Gorath said, ‘It means he must spread his men equally between the two routes, so the best solution is to take the route where we will be best able to defend ourselves or travel with a larger band, such as a trading caravan.’
Locklear motioned to the innkeeper, who came and gave him a key, indicating the room at the top of the stairs. As they mounted the stairs, Locklear observed, ‘If we were trying to come back from Kesh, a caravan might be a good cover, but as the King’s Highway is usually well patrolled, most traders feel comfortable travelling with a few mercenary guards or none at all. Most commerce along the coast is by ship.’
As they reached the room, Owyn said, ‘Could we make for Questor’s View and hire a ship?’
‘With what?’ asked Locklear. ‘Captain Belford’s letter of introduction isn’t exactly the King’s writ. If a fleet ship is at anchor, I know I could talk our way aboard and get it bound for Krondor, but I’m not anxious to sit around waiting for one to show up. I’m not anxious for anything but a good night’s sleep, finding Isaac and getting this riddle of a special ruby solved, and then figuring out how to get to Krondor as fast as we can.’
Owyn said, ‘I can’t argue about that night’s sleep.’
Gorath said nothing.
An hour after dawn they left the inn and Locklear felt remarkably recovered. Where searing agony had accompanied his every movement the day before, he now only felt slightly stiff and weak.
He indicated a journey toward the north end of the town as he said, ‘If I know Isaac, he’s probably staying at the house of his cousin, a certain young gentleman named Austin Delacroix.’
‘From Bas-Tyra?’ asked Owyn as they started up the busy street. Windows were opening as vendors put out their wares for display, or housewives opened up their homes to the morning air and sun.
‘Originally,’ said Locklear. ‘A family of marginal nobility, descended from a one time hero of some forgotten war when Bas-Tyra was a city-state; their house rank is all based upon that.’
‘Your human issues of rank and status are … difficult to understand,’ observed Gorath.
‘Why?’ asked Owyn. ‘Don’t you have chieftains?’
‘We do,’ said Gorath. ‘But it is a rank earned by deeds, not one conferred by birth. Delekhan rose by betrayal and bloodshed, yet he was sheltered by his early service to Murmandamus and Murad.’ He almost spat the last two names. ‘If his son Moraeulf gains his ambition to inherit from his father, it will be over the bodies of many such as I. In better times, he would be a valued sword against our people’s enemy, but these are not better times.’
‘This is the house, I think,’ said Locklear, pointing to a once-prosperous dwelling fallen on hard times. The house, like those on either side, was a small but well-built structure of wood and stone, with a sturdy door and shuttered windows. But while the others were clean and recently painted, this was faded and dirty.
Locklear knocked loudly and after a few minutes a sleepy voice from the other side of the door said, ‘What?’
‘Isaac?’ shouted Locklear, and the door opened.
A young man with light brown hair stuck his head out the door and said, ‘Locky?’ The door opened wide and the young man bid them enter. He wore only a rumpled tunic and trousers, obviously having slept in them. ‘I was just getting up,’ he said.
‘Right,’ said Locklear, as if humouring him.
The room was dark, with the shutters and sashes still closed, and the air was stale. Old food odours and sweat mixed with the sour aroma of spilled ale. The furniture was simple, one wooden table with four chairs, a single shelf behind the table, and another small table upon which a lamp rested. Stairs led to a sleeping loft above. A faded tapestry, once residing in surroundings far finer than those in which they hung now, was the sole item of any note. It hung behind Isaac, framing him with a tableau of a meeting between princes who were exchanging gifts while notables of that day looked on from all sides.
‘Locklear,’ said Isaac, as if savouring the name. ‘What a pleasure. You’re wearing your years well. I like the moustache. You always could manage the flamboyant.’ He turned away and moved with a visible limp. ‘Sit down. I would offer you tea or coffee, but my cousin is temporarily visiting other relatives in Bas-Tyra, and I have just arrived last night, so we are not well provisioned.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Locklear. ‘How long’s it been? Since Arutha’s wedding?’
Isaac sat in a small wooden chair, and crossed his legs so that he kept his weight on his good leg. ‘The very day. You should have heard the fit old Master of Ceremonies deLacy threw when he found out I wasn’t the Baron of Dorgin’s son.’
‘That’s because there is no Baron of Dorgin,’ supplied Locklear. ‘If you’d done your research, you would have avoided that gaffe.’
‘How was I supposed to know the lands outside the dwarven enclave are the province of the Duke of the Southern Marches?’
‘Study?’ suggested Locklear.
‘Never my strong suit,’ said Isaac with a wave of his hand.
‘Well, at least deLacy was too busy with the wedding to toss you out until the next day,’ said Locklear. ‘We had a good time that night. What have you been doing since?’
‘I spent some time in the east with my family, then returned a few years ago to the west. Since then I’ve been doing odd jobs along the border. So, what brings a member of Krondor’s court so far from home with such unusual company?’
‘Certain doings, some bloody, which unfortunately point to you.’
‘Me?’ said Isaac. ‘You’re not serious.’
‘I’m as serious as a royal torturer, Isaac, and you’ll have a chance to make a first-hand comparison if you don’t answer me truthfully. I’ll have Gorath sit on you while I go fetch the local constable. We can have a pleasant talk here, or a very unpleasant one in Krondor.’
Locklear had no intention of summoning the local constable and trying to sort out his claim of rank and authority, especially with no royal writs or warrants. But Isaac didn’t know that, and Locklear wasn’t about to enlighten him.
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ said Isaac, starting to slowly rise.
Gorath said softly, ‘Reach for that sword behind you and you’ll have a leg to match the other before your fingers touch the hilt, human.’
‘Damn,’ said Isaac quietly, sitting back down in the chair.
‘The ruby,’ said Locklear.
‘What ruby?’ said Isaac.
‘The one you bought from Kiefer Alescook. The one you paid for with gold heading north to buy Delekhan weapons. The ruby stolen from an important Tsurani magician. The ruby that’s the latest in a series of such transactions.’
Isaac ran a hand over his face and back through his hair. ‘Locky, it’s been hard.’
Locklear’s expression turned dark and his voice took on a menacing tone that had Owyn sitting back in surprise. ‘As hard as treason, Isaac? As hard as the jerk at the end of a hangman’s rope?’
‘Who said anything about treason, Locky?’ Isaac’s manner turned to pleading. ‘Look, we were boyhood friends before I had my accident. If our positions had been reversed, you’d know; you’d understand what it’s like to be a hired sword with a bad leg. Locky, I was nearly starving when this opportunity came along. I was too far in before I discovered who was behind it.’
‘Tell us what you know and I’ll do you a favour,’ said Locklear.
Isaac looked downfallen, and said in a contrite fashion, ‘I was in over my head before I knew who I was dealing with. Alescook is an old acquaintance. I know that from time to time he “finds” gems and jewellery that has … ah, “clouded” title is a polite way of putting it.’
‘Stolen,’ said Locklear.
Isaac squirmed. ‘Whatever the cause, the market in the Kingdom is difficult, so those gems find their way south, to Kesh or over the water to Queg or the Free Cities. I’m just a middleman, someone who can take a little trip down to the Vale or over to Krondor or Sarth and put something on a ship. That’s all.’
‘The ruby?’ said Locklear.
Isaac started to rise and hesitated as Gorath leaned forward, hand on the hilt of his sword. Isaac continued rising slowly, then mounted the stairs to the loft above. Locklear motioned with his head to Owyn, who stood up and hurried through a small door in the wall next to the tapestry. He found himself in a tiny kitchen, one dirty enough he would have to be far hungrier than he presently was to consider eating anything prepared there. He ducked through the back door and looked up at a window above, where he saw the head of Isaac disappear back inside. Owyn smiled; Locklear’s instincts had been correct. The lame ex-fighter might attempt to escape from a first storey window, but he knew he wasn’t quick enough to pull off his escape if someone was waiting below.
A moment later, Locklear called for Owyn’s return and the young magician complied. He entered the room and stopped. The hairs on his arm stood up and he said, ‘Let me see the stone.’
Isaac handed it to him and said, ‘It’s really not a very valuable item, but I get paid well.’
Owyn replied, ‘I don’t know anything about stones and their worth, but I know this one is more than it appears to be.’ He looked at it closely. ‘This ruby has been prepared.’
‘Prepared for what?’ asked Locklear. ‘Jewellery?’
‘No, as a matrix of some kind for magic. I don’t know much about this sort of thing.’ He put the stone down. ‘Truth to tell, I don’t know much about any sort of thing magical, which is why I left Stardock. The only magic I’ve learned so far was from a field magician named Patrus, a sour old character. But my father objected and last I heard Patrus headed north—’ He shook himself out of his reverie. ‘It doesn’t matter, but what he told me is that some magic is harmonic and can be focused by gems. Or stored in them. He claimed once that magic itself might exist in gem form under the right conditions. For example, you can rig a trap with certain gems, so that whoever steps into a given area is imprisoned.’
‘Can you tell what this was used for?’
‘No,’ said Owyn with a shake to his head. ‘It may be something that will be used in the future.’
‘So you think it important?’ asked Gorath.
‘I can now see why the Tsurani magician was so angry about its disappearance.’
Locklear picked up the stone and tossed it in the air a couple of times while he was thinking. After a moment he put away the stone and turned to Isaac. ‘Tell us what else you know.’
Isaac looked defeated and said, ‘Very well. The stones come through the rift on an irregular basis. Sometimes a bunch, sometimes a single one like this one. Money comes to me in Krondor by various means; never the same twice. There’s a new gang in Krondor, run by someone calling himself the Crawler, and he’s causing the Mockers fits.’
‘Mockers?’ asked Gorath.
‘Thieves,’ said Locklear. ‘I’ll explain it later. Go on,’ he said, looking at Isaac.
‘Someone in Krondor is paying for gems. The Tsurani bring them in and hand them over to the moredhel. They run them over to Alescook and I go get them and bring them to Krondor. It’s a fairly simple arrangement.’
‘But someone’s running this. Who and where?’
Isaac sighed. ‘There’s a village south of Sarth. Called Yellow Mule. Know it?’
‘Villages like that don’t put up signs, but if it’s on the King’s Highway, I’ve ridden through it.’
‘It’s not. About twenty miles south of Sarth there’s a fork in the road, and if you go inland, you’re heading toward an old trail up into the mountains. About five miles along that road is where you’ll find Yellow Mule. It’s why the moredhel are using it. No one travels through there, and it’s easy for his kin—’ he indicated Gorath with a jerk of his chin ‘—to get there without being seen.
‘There’s an old smuggler turned farmer named Cedric Rowe now living there. He knows nothing of loyalty to anyone, or anything but gold. He rents out his barn to a Dark Brother named Nago.’
‘Nago!’ said Gorath. ‘If we take him, then we have an opportunity to escape his minions. Without him, they are blind and we can get to Krondor.’
‘Maybe,’ said Locklear. ‘But certainly, if we leave him there, the closer we get to Krondor, the easier it is for his agents to find us.’
‘Why?’ asked Owyn.
‘He’s tightening the noose, lad,’ said Isaac. ‘Less land for his men to cover.’
Locklear said, ‘Now Quegans make sense. This Rowe has probably been dealing with Quegan pirates all his life and just sent word to someone in Sarth. First ship outbound to Queg passes word and within a month he’s got as many sea-hardened bully-boys as he needs. And if Nago is throwing gold around, there are more Quegans along the roads to Krondor than a beggar has lice.’
‘And Quegans aren’t likely to run to the King’s soldiers if something goes sour; worst they do is skulk back to the nearest port and find a ship heading out. Little chance of being betrayed by someone going cold in the feet,’ added Isaac.
‘What else?’ asked Locklear.
‘Nothing,’ said Isaac. He stood up and took a cloak off the peg. ‘As soon as I pen a note to my cousin, I’m bound for Kesh. I’ve just set Nago’s assassin on my trail, but he doesn’t know it yet. Each hour I steal before he does, I stand a better chance of reaching Kesh.’
‘I said I’d do you a favour, Isaac, and I will. I’ll let you run for Kesh, for old times’ sake and for keeping up your end of the bargain, but only if you tell us everything.’
‘What makes you think there’s anything else?’
Locklear pulled his sword suddenly and had the point at Isaac’s throat. ‘Because I know you. You always hold something back, just in case you need an edge. I’m guessing this little bit of theatre is to give you a chance to be out of town before us, just in case you can find one of Nago’s agents and get him set on us before they figure out you’ve sold them out. Something like that.’
Isaac grinned. ‘Locky! Why I wouldn’t—’
Locklear pressed forward with the sword point and Isaac stopped talking so suddenly he almost swallowed his own tongue. ‘All of it,’ demanded Locklear in a menacing whisper.
Slowly Isaac raised his hand and gently pushed aside the sword point. ‘There’s a lockchest—’
‘What?’ asked Locklear.
Gorath said, ‘A chest in which to lock valuables. My people make them to transport items of importance.’
‘Go on,’ said Locklear.
‘There’s a lockchest outside of town. Go five miles down the road toward Questor’s View. To the right side of the road you’ll see a lightning-struck tree. Beyond that is a small clump of brush. Look there and you’ll see the chest. I am to leave the ruby there tonight, and when I return tomorrow, my gold is supposed to be waiting for me.’
‘So you never see your contact from Krondor?’
‘Never. That was part of Nago’s instructions to me.’
‘You’ve seen this moredhel?’ asked Locklear.
‘Met him,’ said Isaac. ‘At Yellow Mule. He’s a big one, like your friend here, not slight like some of them can be. Nasty moods and no humour. Odd fire in his eyes if you know what I mean.’
Locklear said, ‘I can imagine. What can you tell us about his company?’
‘He only keeps a couple of soldiers around him – I’ve never seen more than three at any time – because it might be noticed. And there are enough Quegans coming through there that if he needs swords he can get them in a hurry. But he’s a magic-user, Locky, a right nasty witch and if you cross him he can fry you as soon as look at you.’
Locklear glanced at Gorath who gave a slight nod of agreement to what was being said. Locklear said, ‘Very well, Isaac, here’s what you’re doing. Get something to write with.’
Isaac glanced around the room and saw an old scrap of faded leather sitting in a corner. He crossed to the small fireplace and fished out some charcoal. He said, ‘What do I write?’
‘Write this: “Ruby taken by Prince’s man. Three you seek are on the way to Eggly. I am undone and must flee.” Then sign your name.’
Isaac signed, looking pale as he put down those words. ‘This marks me, Locky.’
‘You were marked the moment you took gold to turn your hand against your king. You deserve to be hanged, and eventually you will be unless you change your ways, but it will be for another crime, not for this.’
‘Unless Nago’s agents find you first,’ added Gorath.
That was all Isaac needed. ‘What do I do with this?’
‘Put it in the chest where you are to leave the ruby, then I suggest you start running. If you don’t put that note there, and I get to Krondor, I’ll hire assassins even if they have to travel to the farthest reaches of Kesh to find you. You can cut your hair and colour it, grow a beard, and wear furs like a Brijainer, but you can’t hide that leg, Isaac. Now get out of here.’
Isaac didn’t hesitate. He grabbed his sword, his cloak and the note and hurried out the back door.
‘How could you spare that traitor?’ asked Gorath.
‘Dead he is of little use to us, and alive he may direct our foes to another path.’ Locklear looked at Gorath. ‘And isn’t it a little odd you’re showing contempt for a traitor?’
The look Gorath returned could only be called murderous. ‘I am no traitor. I’m trying to save my people, human.’ He offered no further embellishment, but turned and said, ‘We must be away. That one cannot be trusted and may attempt to bargain for his life.’
Locklear said, ‘I know, but either way he plants the note, or he is found and tells them what he knows, which isn’t much. They were trying to kill us before we got the ruby. They can’t make us any more dead for having it.’
‘I think I have a way for us to avoid detection for a while and perhaps reach Nago unseen,’ Gorath said.
‘How?’ asked Locklear.
‘I know the way they reach this village of Yellow Mule. If we take the ridge road toward the town you call Eggly, leaving as we told in the note, there’s a trail a day’s quick run south of here that leads into the higher ridges. It is, I believe, the same trail that empties out near Rowe’s farm.’
‘How could you know that?’ asked Locklear, suddenly suspicious.
Gorath’s patience appeared near its end, but he managed to reply evenly. ‘Because I lived in these mountains as a child, before you humans came to plague us. Before this land became infested with your kind, my people lived here. I’ve fished along these rivers and hunted in these mountains.’ His voice lowered and he said, ‘I may have built my campfire on the spot you humans have built this house. Now, let us go. It’s no long journey for a moredhel, but you humans tire easily, and besides, your wounds will slow you even more.’
‘And yours won’t?’ asked Owyn.
‘Not so that you would notice,’ replied the dark elf, turning to the door without waiting for a response and leaving the building.
Locklear and Owyn hurried after and found Gorath waiting. ‘We need to buy food. Have we enough gold?’
‘For food, yes,’ said Locklear. ‘For horses, no.’
They headed to an inn at the east end of town, and Locklear arranged for travel rations, food bound in parchment heavily coated with beeswax, mostly dried or heavily salted to prevent spoilage. While they waited Locklear asked what conditions were like on the road to Eggly, pointedly being loud enough that a few suspicious-looking men hanging about the commons early in the day could overhear. Should anyone ask about them, he was certain this would only reinforce the false information in Isaac’s note.
They left the inn and hurried on the road toward the town of Eggly. Locklear glanced upward, considered the rapidly rising ridge above the trees on the western side of the trail and considered the wisdom of hiking up to that elevation and over the mountains down into a nest of killers over which presided a murderous moredhel sorcerer. Finally he was left with the only answer which he could come up with: there wasn’t a better idea presenting itself.
Resigning himself to a long walk and cold nights, he followed Gorath, with Owyn at his side.
• CHAPTER FOUR • (#ulink_9791a256-0c0b-5dfd-8818-282c49897b57)
Passage (#ulink_9791a256-0c0b-5dfd-8818-282c49897b57)
THE WIND HOWLED THROUGH THE PASS.
Locklear spoke through chattering teeth. ‘The things I do for king and country.’
Gorath said, ‘Ignore the cold. As long as you can feel your fingers and toes, it is only discomfort, nothing more.’
‘Easy for you to say,’ said Owyn shivering almost uncontrollably. ‘You’re used to it, living up in the Northlands.’
‘You’re never “used to it”, human. You just learn to accept things over which you have no control.’ He looked meaningfully at the two young men, then pointed. ‘We can expect to see a sentry any time now.’
‘What should we do?’ asked Locklear, the cold and his hunger robbing him of his wits.
‘Wait over there,’ said Gorath, ‘while I scout.’
Locklear and Owyn went to the relative shelter provided by the lee side of a huge boulder and waited. Time dragged on and Owyn and Locklear sat close together to preserve warmth.
Suddenly Gorath returned. ‘There are four guards near the barn,’ he said. ‘Within, I do not know, but even alone Nago is dangerous.’
Locklear stood and stomped his feet to restore warmth, flexing fingers and moving in place, getting ready to engage an enemy. ‘What do we do?’ he asked again, content to let Gorath lead in this circumstance.
Gorath said, ‘Owyn, I have no idea of what you are capable, but Nago is a spell-caster of much ability. He can wither a foe with his arts, turning him to lifeless ash, or drive one away screaming in terror. He and his brother are among the most dangerous allies of Delekhan, and serve him even more vigorously since the coming of the Six.’
‘Who are the Six?’ asked Owyn.
Locklear waved away the question. ‘So, how do we deal with Nago?’
Gorath pointed to Owyn. ‘You must distract him, boy. Locklear and I will dispatch the other four, and anyone else who might be within the barn, but the magician must be your concern. Cause him to falter, to hesitate, to attempt to leave; anything, but you must keep him there for me to deal with and you must keep him from bringing his arts to bear. Can you do that?’
Owyn was obviously frightened, but he said, ‘I will try.’
‘No one can ask for more,’ said Gorath. To Locklear he said, ‘We have surprise, but we must kill the first two quickly. If we are overpowered, or even if we are delayed overmuch in reaching Nago, this will all come to a bad end. If Owyn can’t occupy the magician until we reach him, he will end our journey before we can warn your prince.’
Locklear said, ‘Then why are we doing this?’ Before Gorath could answer, Locklear held up his hand. ‘I know, the noose is tightening and if we don’t do it now, we will never reach Krondor.’
Gorath nodded. ‘Let’s go.’
They hurried down the road until they could see the roof of a barn across a small field that sat hard against the ridge. Locklear stooped over, so as to be less visible as they moved down the trail. ‘Where are the guards?’ he asked Gorath.
‘I don’t know. They were outside but a moment ago.’
‘Perhaps they’ve gone inside the barn,’ suggested Owyn.
Gorath pointed to a notch in the side of the trail, where rain had eroded the soil between two large boulders. He moved between the rocks and slid down the bank to the edge of the field, with Locklear behind and Owyn bringing up the rear.
‘We must hurry,’ said Gorath. ‘The Mothers and Fathers have smiled on us and the guards are inside. We don’t know how long this might last.’ He set a punishing pace, not wishing to be discovered in the open. Locklear forced himself to push on despite his stiff, aching joints. His wounds had healed, though he still felt weaker than he should. He didn’t welcome another fight, but should this Nago be the force behind all the attacks, he welcomed an opportunity to put an end to them, and pay back some of the pain he had been forced to endure.
Gorath reached the barn and huddled in its shadow, glancing in all directions. There was no sign they had been detected. He held up his hand for silence.
They listened. Inside, muffled voices could be heard, though Locklear could make nothing of them, for they were in a tongue he didn’t understand. Gorath’s hearing was far more acute, for he said, ‘They are discussing the fact we have not been seen since Hawk’s Hollow. They fear we may have slipped past them on the road through Tannerus.’
‘What do we do now?’ whispered Owyn.
‘As before, we kill them,’ said Gorath. ‘Act boldly.’ He moved to the barn door and withdrew his sword. He pulled forward his hood, throwing his features into darkness, then put his sword under his cloak and turned to Owyn and Locklear. ‘Be ready, but wait a moment before entering.’
Then Gorath pushed open the door and in the late-afternoon gloom must have seemed a black shape against a darkening sky. From within a voice sounded a note of inquiry. Gorath stepped forward with a stride that communicated purpose, answering in the moredhel tongue. He must have confused them for a moment, for one asked another question before a different voice shouted, ‘Gorath!’
Locklear didn’t hesitate when he heard that, but virtually jumped through the open door. Owyn was a step behind.
The barn was empty save for five moredhel. A table had been placed in the centre of a large barn aisle, with a bench behind it, where the moredhel magician Nago was rising in shock at the appearance of his intended prey.
A moredhel guard was falling from Gorath’s first blow as he rounded on another, lashing out with his blade and forcing the swordsman backward, clutching his bleeding sword arm. Locklear dashed forward and caught the wounded dark elf from behind, killing him with a blow to the back of his neck as he sought to disengage himself from Gorath’s attack, leaving both swordsmen facing a ready opponent.
Owyn saw the moredhel magic-user who was still motionless in astonishment at the appearance of the prey he had been seeking for weeks. But as Owyn moved through the doorway, he felt power beginning to manifest as Nago started an incantation. Knowing there was nothing much he could do, Owyn unleashed the only spell he could throw on short notice, the blinding spell he had practised so much on the journey.
The dark elf blinked in surprise and faltered, breaking his spell. Owyn hesitated then raised his staff and started his charge, doing his best to imitate a warcry. A thin warbling sound escaped his lips as he ran between Gorath and Locklear as they struggled with their opponents.
As he closed upon the moredhel magician, Owyn slipped and fell forward, which saved his life, for the enraged Nago unleashed a bolt of shimmering purple-and-grey energy which sped through the spot where Owyn had been a moment earlier. Rather than strike the lad full on, it brushed over his back, and where it touched Owyn felt agony, a shocking pain. His head swam from it, and he felt dizzy. The muscles in his lower back and legs refused to obey him. He struggled, but they felt encased in metal bonds.
Rolling over, Owyn saw the magician begin another spell, and without any other option, Owyn threw his staff at the moredhel. As he expected, the magician ducked aside, and his spell-casting was interrupted. Nago shut his eyes, as if in pain, and Owyn knew the enemy spell-caster was struggling to restart his spell. While only a novice at magic, Owyn understood enough of it to know that an interrupted spell could prove painful and that it might take Nago a few moments to refocus his thoughts and regain the ability to inflict harm upon his opponent.
Owyn tried to focus his own thoughts, as if he might throw another spell to distract Nago a moment longer, but his own thinking was chaotic, his mind racing with conflicting images. Phrases and concepts previously unknown to him intruded into his concentration and he couldn’t force himself to come up with any useful conjuration. He fumbled in his belt for a dagger and thought to throw that at Nago.
Nago opened his eyes and looked past Owyn, to where the struggle was ending. Owyn rolled over and saw Gorath running his opponent through, while Locklear seemed to be getting the best of his own. Owyn looked over his shoulder at Nago and saw the magician was hesitating, then starting to turn to flee.
‘He’s trying to escape!’ Owyn shouted, but his voice was weak and he didn’t know if he had warned his companions.
Gorath heard and was past Owyn in three huge strides. The moredhel magician turned and threw something at Gorath, and sparking energies coursed around the dark elf chieftain. Gorath groaned in pain and faltered.
Owyn threw his dagger, a weak underhand cast, but one which caused the butt of the weapon to strike Nago in the temple. As if released from a prison, Gorath rose up and with a single blow struck Nago in the neck, nearly severing his head from his body.
Locklear hurried over and helped Owyn to his feet. ‘We could have used a prisoner,’ he observed.
Gorath said, ‘These guards know nothing worth learning. And Nago could not be left alive. While you were trying to question him, he would have been sending word to his confederates that we are here.’ The dark elf looked down at Owyn who still lay on the floor. ‘You did well, boy. Are you all right?’
‘My legs don’t work,’ he answered. ‘I think I will get them to work in a while.’
‘I hope so,’ said Locklear. ‘I’d hate to leave you here.’
‘I’d hate to be left,’ said Owyn.
Gorath looked around. He moved to a large cache of provisions and dug out some bread and a waterskin. He took a drink, handed it to Locklear and tore the loaf into three portions, handing one each to the other two.
Locklear helped Owyn sit up at a table and looked at a map unrolled there. What have we here? he asked himself as he studied the map.
It was a map of the area south of Hawk’s Hollow, with guard locations marked and fresh ink indicating sightings. It was clear that they had avoided detection from Hawk’s Hollow to Yellow Mule. Locklear said, ‘Owyn, could Nago have got word out to others that we are here?’
Owyn felt his legs with his hands as if trying to determine what was wrong with them and said, ‘It’s doubtful. I kept him busy and he was trying to kill us. I can imagine he could do two things at once, but three is unlikely. If he’s got a routine for checking in with his agents, they’ll soon know something is wrong because of his not contacting them.’
‘Then we must be on our way,’ said Gorath. ‘How far to Krondor?’
‘If we were taking a stroll down the King’s Highway without fear, another two days. By horse, less than a day from here. Through the woods, maybe three.’
Gorath asked Owyn, ‘How long before you can move?’
‘I don’t know—’ Then suddenly Owyn’s legs moved. ‘I guess I can move now,’ he said, rising slowly. ‘Interesting,’ he said.
‘What’s interesting?’ asked Locklear.
‘That spell. It’s designed to bind an opponent, but only for a short while.’
‘Why is that interesting?’
‘It’s some sort of combat magic. They don’t teach that at Stardock.’
‘Can you do the same thing?’ asked Gorath. ‘It could prove useful.’
‘Really?’ asked Locklear dryly.
‘I don’t know,’ said Owyn. ‘When the spell struck me, something happened, a recognition of some sort. I will think on it, and maybe I can figure out how he did it.’
‘Well, figure out how while we’re moving, assuming you’re ready to go,’ said Locklear around a mouthful of bread. They quickly rummaged through the cache of supplies and found several dark grey-blue fur-lined cloaks. ‘These will serve us well,’ said Locklear, still warm from the fight, but knowing all too well how cold the nights were along the coast this time of the year. Locklear gathered up the maps and several messages, all claiming forces were in place for key attacks at various locations throughout the west. He placed those in a pouch and slung it over his shoulder.
They left the barn and circled around the darkened farmhouse. The owner was either sleeping or dead, betrayed by his guests, but either way they did not wish to spend time finding out. They had three dangerous days before them and knew there were perils enough along the route to Krondor without stopping to look for them.
Twice they had avoided assassins or bandits; they didn’t know which. Once they had lain in the mud in a gully next to a woodland path while a band of armed Quegans had hurried past. Now they stood behind the last line of trees before open farmland. Beyond they could see the City of Krondor.
‘Impressive,’ said Gorath in a neutral tone.
‘I’ve seen Armengar,’ said Locklear. ‘I am surprised to hear you call this impressive.’
‘It’s not the size of the place,’ said Gorath. ‘It’s the hive of humans within.’ For a moment he looked off into the distance. ‘You shortlived creatures have no sense of history or your place in this world,’ he said. ‘You breed like—’ He glanced over to see Locklear’s dark expression and said, ‘No matter. There are just a great deal of you at any one time in any one place, it seems, and this is more of you in such a small place.’ He shook his head. ‘For my people, such gatherings are alien.’
‘Yet you rallied at Sar-Sargoth,’ observed Locklear.
‘Yes we did,’ said Gorath. ‘To the sorrow of many of us.’
Owyn said, ‘Do we just walk across this field to the road?’
Locklear said, ‘No. Look over there.’ He pointed to a place where a small farm road intersected the King’s Highway. A half-dozen men stood idly by as if waiting for something. ‘Not exactly a place to hoist a few and talk of the day’s labours, is it?’
‘No,’ said Owyn. ‘Where do we go then?’
‘Follow me,’ said Locklear as he moved along the tree line, farther east. They reached a long gully, a naturally occurring watercourse that would be flooded when the thaw came to the mountains to the north and east, but which currently hosted only a small stream. ‘This runs to a place by the eastern gate, in the foulbourgh.’
‘Foulbourgh?’ asked Gorath.
‘The part of the city built outside the wall. There are ways to get in and out of the city if you know them. The sewers under the foulbourgh and city proper are not supposed to connect, so an enemy can’t use them to gain entrance.’
‘But they do,’ supplied Gorath.
‘Yes, in two places, and one of them is as dangerous as walking up to those men gathered back there and asking for directions to the Prince’s palace. That entrance is controlled by the Thieves’ Guild. But the other entrance – well, let’s say that besides a friend of mine, only a few others know of it.’
‘How is it you know of it?’ asked Gorath.
‘My friend and I used it once, a long time ago, to follow Arutha to Lorien.’
Gorath nodded. ‘We have heard of that encounter. Murmandamus’s trap to kill the Lord of the West.’
‘That’s the one,’ said Locklear. ‘Now, it would be a good time to move silently.’
They did as Locklear bid and moved through the gully, until they encountered a culvert, made of stones polished by the water over the years. They bent over and walked below the road, as the late-afternoon shadows lengthened. Finally, the culvert ducked under a small stone bridge that afforded them a hiding place. It was well shielded from prying eyes by stores stacked in crates on each side of the road waiting for transport. Bored workers slowly moved to load them.
‘We linger a bit, until it gets darker,’ said Locklear. ‘At the right time, we need to get up and blend in with some traffic heading along the road that runs beside this culvert.’ He went to the other side of the bridge and glanced upward, pulling his head back.
Pointing where he had looked, he said, ‘Someone’s hanging around up there.’
‘What do we do?’ asked Gorath, obviously as out of his element as Locklear had been on the mountain trail.
‘We wait,’ said Locklear. ‘A patrol from the city watch passes along here about sundown, and they’ll order any armed men to move along. After dark it gets dangerous outside the wall, and the watch doesn’t like too many swords gathered in one place.’
They sat under the bridge, in the puddles on either side of the stream, waiting in silence as the hours dragged by. Flies annoyed them, and only Gorath ignored their presence as Locklear and Owyn spent most of the time swatting them away.
As sundown approached, Locklear heard the tread of boots upon the cobbles above. A few voices were raised, and Locklear said, ‘Now!’
He moved quickly up the side of the bank just beyond the bridge, ducking behind some crates as a party of men dispersed under the watchful eye of the city guard. ‘They’ll come this way, back toward the palace,’ said Locklear. ‘We just duck in beside them, and even if we’re seen, it’s unlikely we’re going to be attacked with a dozen soldiers ready to start busting heads at the first sign of trouble.’ He pointed to Gorath. ‘But you’d better fix that hood. Most people here wouldn’t know an elf from a moredhel if you hung signs around your neck, but you never know. If Ruthia’s fickle, the first person we meet will be an old vet from the wars to the north.’ Ruthia was the Goddess of Luck.
Gorath did as he was told and pulled his hood forward, hiding his features and when the soldiers walked down the road beside the stream, he followed Locklear and Owyn as they hurried to match pace with the soldiers.
They walked from the northeasternmost corner of the city along its entire length to the southern gate, and when the city watch moved toward the palace entrance, Locklear pulled them aside.
Owyn said, ‘Why don’t we just follow them in?’
‘Look,’ said Locklear. They looked where he pointed and saw a work crew gathered before the gate, with two teams of horses tied to a pulley. ‘It seems someone has sabotaged the gate,’ said Locklear.
The watch commander shouted something down from the wall to the patrol leader, who saluted and turned his men around. ‘Come on, lads,’ he said, ‘we’re for the northern gate.’
Locklear motioned for his companions to follow him and he led them through a back alley. ‘This way,’ he urged.
He took them to what appeared to be the back entrance to a small inn, and opened the gate. Once through, he closed the gate and they stood in a tiny stabling yard, with a small shed off to one side. Looking to see if they were observed, Locklear pointed to the rear door of the inn. ‘If anyone finds us, we’re lost, looking for a meal and once we get inside the inn, head toward the front door; if anyone objects, we run like hell.’
Gorath said, ‘Where are we?’
‘The back of an inn owned by people who would be less than pleased to discover we knew about this place, or what I’m about to do.’ He moved toward the shed, but rather than going inside, he moved to where it joined with the wall. Feeling around behind the shed, Locklear tripped a lever and a latch clicked. A big stone rolled away, and Owyn and Gorath could see it was a cleverly-fashioned sham, made of canvas and painted to look like the rock of the wall. Locklear was forced to lie down and wiggle feet first through the small aperture, but he successfully negotiated the entrance. Owyn went next, and Gorath last, barely clearing the opening.
‘Who uses that thing?’ asked Owyn in a whisper. ‘Children?’
‘Yes,’ said Locklear. ‘The Mockers number many urchins in their ranks and there are dozens of bolt-holes like that all over the city.’
‘Where are we?’ asked Owyn.
‘Use your senses, human,’ said Gorath. ‘Or can’t your breed smell its own stink?’
‘Oh,’ Owyn exclaimed, as the stench of the sewer struck him.
Locklear reached up and pulled shut the trap, leaving them in total darkness.
‘My kind see in darkness better than yours do, Locklear,’ said Gorath, ‘but even we must have some light.’
‘There should be a lantern close by,’ said Locklear. ‘If I can remember the distance … and direction.’
‘What?’ asked Gorath. ‘You don’t know where a light is?’
‘I can help,’ said Owyn. A moment later a faint nimbus of light started to glow around the young man’s hand, and it grew until they could see a dozen paces in all directions.
‘How did you do that?’ asked Locklear.
Owyn held out his left hand. On it was a ring. ‘I took it off Nago. It’s magic.’
‘Which way?’ asked Gorath.
‘This way,’ said Locklear, leading them into the sewers of Krondor.
‘Where are we?’ whispered Owyn.
Locklear lost his sure tone as he said, ‘I think we’re just north of the palace.’
‘You think?’ said Gorath with a snort of contempt.
‘All right,’ said Locklear with a petulant tone. ‘So I’m a little lost. I’ll find—’
‘Your death, quick and messy,’ said a voice from outside the range of Owyn’s light.
Three swords cleared their scabbards as Locklear tried to pierce the gloom beyond the light by force of will.
‘Who be you and what would you in the Thieves’ Highway?’
Locklear cocked his head at the bad attempt at a formal challenge and, judging the owner of the voice to be a youth, he answered, ‘I be Seigneur Locklear and I do whatever I will in the Prince’s sewers. If you’re half as intelligent as you’re trying to sound, you’ll know not to bar our way.’
A young boy stepped forward from the shadows, slender and wearing a tunic too large for him, wrapped around the waist with a rope belt, trousers he had almost outgrown, and sporting a pointed felt cap. He carried a short sword. ‘I’m Limm and fast with a blade. Step any further without my leave and your blood will flow.’
Gorath said, ‘The only thing you’ll do is die, boy, if you don’t stand aside.’
If the towering presence of the moredhel chieftain had any effect on the lad, he hid it as he bravely said, ‘I’ve bested better than you when I was a boy.’ He stepped back, cautiously. ‘And besides, I’ve got five bashers back there waiting for my call.’
Locklear held up his hand to restrain Gorath. ‘You remind me of a young Jimmy the Hand,’ said Locklear. ‘Full of bluster as well as guile. Run off and there’s no need for anyone’s blood to flow.’ Softly to Gorath he said, ‘If he has bashers nearby, we don’t need the trouble.’
‘Jimmy the Hand, is it?’ asked Limm. ‘Well, if you’re friends of Seigneur James, we’ll let you pass. But when you see him, tell him he had better come soon or the deal is off.’ Before Locklear could answer, Limm was deep in shadows, so silently they could barely hear him move. From a distance he said, ‘And watch your step, Locklear who knows Jimmy the Hand. There are nasty customers nearby.’ As the voice faded, Limm added, ‘And you’re completely turned around. Turn to the right at the next culvert, and straight on until you reach the palace.’
Locklear waited, listening for more. But only silence punctuated by the trickling sound of water and the occasional echo of some distant sound in the sewer could be heard.
Gorath said, ‘That was passing strange.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Owyn.
‘More than you know,’ said Locklear. ‘That boy was waiting for my friend James. And James has the death mark on him from the Mockers if he ever trespasses their territory. That was a deal struck by Prince Arutha for James’s life years ago.’
Owyn said, ‘Sometimes agreements change.’
‘Or are broken,’ added Gorath.
Locklear said, ‘Well, we’ll sort this out later. Right now we need to find our way to the palace.’
‘What did he mean by “nasty customers nearby”?’ asked Owyn.
‘I don’t know,’ answered Locklear. ‘I have a feeling if we’re not careful we’ll find out,’ he whispered.
They turned in the direction instructed by Limm and moved to the corner where he had told them to turn. A short way along the indicated route, Gorath said, ‘Someone ahead.’
Owyn put his ring under his arm, causing the light to diminish. ‘Two men,’ whispered Gorath. ‘Wearing black.’
‘Which is why I can’t see them,’ said Locklear.
‘Who are they?’ asked Owyn.
Locklear turned and knew his withering look was lost in the gloom, so he said, ‘Why don’t you just go up and ask them.’
‘If they aren’t the Prince’s men or those Mockers, then they must be enemies,’ said Gorath, stepping forward quickly, his sword ready to deliver a killing blow.
Locklear hesitated a moment, and by the time he started moving, the dark elf was upon the two men. The first turned just in time to see his own death arrive, for Gorath slashed him deeply across the chest and shoulder.
The second man drew his sword and attempted to slash down on Gorath’s head, but Locklear stepped in and parried the blow high, allowing Gorath to run him through. It was over in seconds.
Locklear knelt and examined the two bodies. They wore identical trousers and tunics of black material, and black leather boots. Both men had short swords and one had laid aside a short bow within easy reach. Both men were without purse or pouch, but both wore identical medallions under their tunics.
‘Nighthawks!’ said Locklear.
‘Assassins?’ asked Owyn.
‘But they should have …’ Locklear shook his head. ‘If these two are Nighthawks, I’m Gorath’s grandfather.’
Gorath snorted at the idea, but said, ‘We have heard of your Nighthawks; some were employed by agents of Murmandamus.’
Owyn said, ‘The stories are they had nearly magical abilities.’
‘Stories,’ said Locklear. ‘My friend James faced one on the rooftops of the city when he was no more than a lad of fourteen years and lived to tell the tale.’ Locklear stood. ‘They were good, but no more than other men. But the legend helped them get their price. But these,’ he indicated the two dead men, ‘were not Nighthawks.’
A whistle sounded from down a nearby tunnel. Gorath spun, his sword ready to face another attack. Locklear, however, just put two fingers to his mouth and whistled in return. A moment later a young man stepped into the light. ‘Locky?’ he asked.
‘Jimmy!’ said Locklear as he embraced his old friend. ‘We were just speaking of you.’
James, squire of the Prince’s court, regarded his best friend. He took in the long hair gathered behind in a knot and the bushy moustache and said, ‘What have you done to your hair?’
‘I haven’t seen you in months and the first thing you ask about is fashion?’ asked Locklear.
James grinned. His face was youthful, though he was no longer a boy. He had curly brown hair he kept cropped short and was dressed in plain clothing, tunic, trousers, boots and cloak. He carried only a belt knife. ‘What brings you back to court? Arutha banished you for a year, if memory serves.’
‘This moredhel,’ said Locklear. ‘His name is Gorath and he brings a warning to Arutha.’ Pointing to his other companion, he said, ‘And this is Owyn, son of the Baron of Timons. He’s been of great help to me, also.’
James said, ‘A moredhel chieftain in Krondor. Well, things are getting strange hereabouts, too.’ He glanced down at the two dead men. ‘Someone has bribed a few very stupid men to play the part of Nighthawks, here in the sewers and in other parts of town.’
‘Why?’ asked Locklear.
‘We don’t know,’ said James. ‘I’m on my way to meet with some … old acquaintances of mine. To see if we can cooperate in uncovering who is behind this mummery.’
‘The Mockers,’ said Locklear. ‘We ran into one of them, a lad named Limm.’
James nodded. ‘I’m to meet with some of them shortly. I had better not disappoint them. But before I go, what are you doing down here in the sewer?’
Locklear said, ‘Someone wants Gorath dead very badly. I’ve been cut more times than a horse’s flank by a cheap butcher. We’re here because we need to get into the palace, and I’ve seen lots of very dangerous-looking men watching the entrances to the palace. When I tried to get us in by shadowing the city watch trying to enter, we found the gate damaged.’
‘Someone sabotaged it, as well as the north palace entry. The only way into the palace right now is through the sea-dock gate, or here.’
Locklear looked concerned. ‘They even had the gate jammed to keep us from reaching the palace?’
James nodded. ‘That would explain the mystery. Look, go see Arutha and I’ll catch up with you later.’
‘That’s the way?’ asked Locklear.
‘Yes,’ said James. He fished out a key and handed it to Locklear. ‘But we’ve locked the secret door so you’d have had a long wait if I hadn’t chanced by.’
‘I might have picked the lock,’ said Locklear. ‘I’ve watched you do it a few times.’
‘And pigs might fly,’ said James with a pat on his friend’s shoulder. ‘It’s good to see you back, even if under such dark clouds.’ He pointed the way he had come. ‘Make your way past two large culverts on the left, and you’ll find the ladder to the palace.’ With a departing grin, he added, ‘I suggest you bathe before calling upon Arutha.’
Locklear smiled, then laughed. For the first time in months he suddenly felt safe. They were but a short walk away from the entrance to the palace, and he knew that soon he would be enjoying a hot bath. ‘Come see me when you’ve returned,’ he said to James. ‘We have much to catch up on.’
‘I will,’ said James.
Locklear led Gorath and Owyn to the ladder that led up into the palace, a series of iron bars hammered into the stones rising a floor above. There a grate with a heavy lock had been erected, and Locklear used the key James had provided to open it. They swung aside the grate and moved into a small tunnel just above the sewers, leading into the lower basement of the palace. Locklear silently led them to a door. Once through, Owyn and Gorath saw they were in another passage, this one lit by torches in widely separated sconces, and when the door was returned to its resting place, it vanished into the stone wall.
Locklear led them to his quarters, past a pair of palace guards who only watched with interest as the Prince’s squire walked past with another youth and what looked like a tall elf.
Glancing through a window overlooking the city, Locklear said, ‘Suppertime’s in about an hour. Time for a bath and a change of clothing. We can talk to the Prince after the meal.’
Gorath said, ‘It seems so … odd to be here.’
Opening the door to his quarters, Locklear said, ‘Not nearly as odd as having you here.’ He stepped aside to admit his guests, and turned to wave at a page hurrying down a nearby hall. ‘Boy!’ he shouted.
The page stopped and turned to run toward him. ‘Sir?’ he said.
‘Send word to the Prince that I’ve returned with a message of the gravest consequence.’
The boy, who knew Locklear well, indulged himself in an observation: ‘It’ll be grave, all right; your grave, if the Prince doesn’t agree, squire.’
With a playful slap to the side of the head, Locklear sent him off. ‘And pass word I need enough hot water for three baths!’
The boy waved he had heard and said, ‘I’ll tell the staff, squire.’
Locklear turned into his room and found Owyn sitting on his bed, lying back against the wall. Gorath stood a short way off, patiently waiting. Locklear went to his wardrobe and selected some clothing. ‘We’ll send for something closer your size while we bathe,’ he said to Gorath. He took the clothing and handed a tunic and trousers to Owyn, along with fresh smallclothes, then said, ‘This way to the bath, my friends.’
At the end of the hall he found four servants pouring hot water into a large tub, while another waited. ‘In you go,’ he said to Owyn, who stripped off his filthy garments and climbed into the tub. He settled in with a satisfied ‘ah’ sound and rested back in the hot water.
Gorath said, ‘Is that third tub for me?’
‘I was going to take that one, but if you—’
‘Fill it with cold water.’
The servants exchanged glances, but Locklear nodded, so they finished filling the second tub and ran off, turning around a pair of servants hurrying from the kitchen with hot buckets. Soon they returned with cold water and started filling the tub.
Gorath stripped and climbed in, allowing them to pour the cold water over his head. He endured the cold water without comment. When they were done bathing and clean clothes had been fetched for Gorath, Owyn asked, ‘Why cold water?’
‘We bathe in mountain streams in a land that always sees ice upon the peaks,’ said Gorath. ‘This water was too warm for my taste.’
Locklear shrugged. ‘You learn something new every day.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Gorath. ‘You do.’
When they were dressed, they left the bathing chamber to discover a squad of palace guards waiting for them. ‘We’re to escort you to the Prince, squire.’
Locklear dryly said, ‘No need. I know the way.’
The sergeant, a tough old veteran, ignored the young noble’s marginal rank and said, ‘The Prince thought there was a need, sir.’
He signalled and two soldiers fell in on either side of Gorath and two fell in behind him. They moved along the hall until they were ushered into the dining hall, where Prince Arutha, Princess Anita and their guests were finishing their dinner.
Arutha, ruler of the Western Realm of the Kingdom of the Isles, sat at the centre of the head table. He was still a young man. Despite having ruled the realm for ten years, his face was only now starting to show the lines which age and responsibility bring. He kept his chin shaved, so that he still resembled the youth who had emerged a hero of the Riftwar. His hair was mostly black with a few stray grey hairs beginning to show, but otherwise he looked much as he had when Locklear had first come to Krondor, a page boy fresh from his father’s court at Land’s End. His brown eyes settled on Locklear with a gaze that had reduced lesser men to trembling children over the years; Locklear had endured that gaze many times in the ten years he had served in Arutha’s court.
Princess Anita favoured Locklear with a smile, her green eyes alight at one of her favourite courtiers returning after a long absence. Locklear, like the other younger men in the court, almost worshipped the Princess for her effortless grace and genuine charm.
At the table were others known to Locklear: Gardan, Knight-Marshal of the Principality; Duke Brendan, Lord of the Southern Marches; and others. But near the Princess’s seat was one who was unknown to Locklear; a man wearing the black robe of a Tsurani Great One. He had receding snow-white hair that fell to his shoulders. His eyes fastened upon Locklear, and Owyn could sense that this was a man who possessed powers rivalled by few in the world. Locklear knew it must be Makala, the Tsurani Great One come recently to this court.
‘Seigneur,’ began Arutha, formally, ‘you were ordered to attend to the needs of the Earl of Tyr-Sog for a year. By my calculations, you are many months short of that duty. Have you a persuasive reason for ignoring my orders?’
Locklear bowed and said, ‘Highness. Only the most grave tidings from the north would have me quit my post and hasten here. This is Gorath, Chieftain of the Ardanien, who has come to warn you.’
‘Warn me of what, moredhel?’ asked Arutha with a suspicious gaze. His previous experience with the moredhel was murder and deception.
Gorath stepped forward. ‘I warn you of war and bloodshed. The war drums beat at Sar-Sargoth once more and the clans gather.’
‘For what purpose?’ asked Arutha.
‘Delekhan, Chieftain of the Darkanien, gathers the clans. He sings songs of power and musters to return south.’
Arutha said, ‘Why? For what purpose?’
Gorath said, ‘He swears that Murmandamus lives, and that you hold him captive in the city of Sethanon. And he swears by the blood of our ancestors we must return to free our leader.’
Arutha sat stunned. He had killed Murmandamus, though few had witnessed the duel. He also knew that Murmandamus had been a fraud, perpetrated by the Pantathian Serpent Priests to gull the moredhel into serving their dark cause.
Arutha stood. ‘We will speak of this in my private council.’ He bowed to his wife, then motioned to Makala. ‘If you would join us?’
The Tsurani magician nodded and rose, and Locklear saw he was unusually tall for a Tsurani, perhaps five feet ten inches in height. Makala spoke briefly to a servant, who bowed low and hurried off to do his master’s bidding.
Locklear motioned for Owyn and Gorath to accompany him through large doors on the right of the dining hall, the entrance into the Royal Family’s private apartments. To Gorath he said, ‘I hope you have more to tell Arutha than that, or we’re both in deep trouble.’
‘More trouble than you know, human,’ said Gorath.
• CHAPTER FIVE • (#ulink_17ba6fab-0b7e-58c0-a9ce-aea17d2fe1f6)
Mission (#ulink_17ba6fab-0b7e-58c0-a9ce-aea17d2fe1f6)
DRUMS THUNDERED ACROSS THE RIDGES.
Gorath stood rooted in confusion. Part of him knew this was a memory, yet the experience was as real as when he had lived it. He clutched his hands and looked at them. They were small, a child’s hands. He glanced down and saw bare feet, and he had not gone barefoot since he was a boy.
Atop the surrounding hills drummers pounded out their insistent rhythms as fires burned brightly in the night. Clans long at war with one another watched for signs of betrayal, but all had come to hear the Speaker. Gorath stumbled along, his feet leaden with mystic fatigue; no matter how hard he tried, he could not move quickly.
The peace had fractured; he knew this. He knew his father’s people had been betrayed. He was but twelve summers of age and it should be centuries before the mantle of leadership fell to him, but fate ruled otherwise. Without being told he knew his father was dead.
His mother came up behind him and said, ‘Move quickly. If you are to lead, you must first survive.’ Her voice echoed and was distant and when he turned to look back at her, she was gone.
Suddenly he stood dressed in armour and boots; too big for him yet they were his own. His father had fallen when the Speaker’s peace had dissolved in fury. Like others before him, the Speaker had sought to raise the banner of Murmandamus, the only leader ever to unite the numerous clans of the moredhel. Now Gorath, a boy barely able to hold his dead father’s sword, stood before the men of the Hawk Clan, as dispirited a lot as had ever gathered around the fire. Gorath’s mother tapped him on the shoulder and he turned. ‘You must say something,’ she whispered.
Looking at the men of his clan, Gorath could barely make a sound, yet these warriors, some alive more than a century, waited to hear a boy’s words. The words that were to lift them from the depths of their hopelessness. Looking from face to face, at last Gorath said, ‘We will endure.’
A wave of pain gripped Gorath and he fell to his knees, and suddenly he was a man, kneeling before Bardol, swearing alliance in exchange for protection. Bardol had no sons and needed a strong husband for his daughter. Gorath had proven himself a wily leader, taking his people high up into the great ice mountains, living in caves lined with lichen, hunting bear and reindeer. For twenty-five years his people had survived, healed, and when he returned home, he had hunted down his father’s betrayer. He had entered the camp of Jodwah and thrown down the head of his brother, Ashantuk, at his feet in defiance. Then he had killed Jodwah in fair combat, and the warriors of the Lahuta, the Eagle Clan of the Northern Lakes had joined with the Hawk Clan of the Ice Peaks, and Gorath had emerged the leader of the Ardanien, the flying hunters in the ancient tongue. And he was but a stripling of thirty-seven summers, yet he commanded more than a hundred warriors.
Twice more he had come to council called by chieftains who had claimed rights beyond their reach, and he had watched as battles had bled his people. He had been clever and kept his people outside such conflicts, and he had become a man to be sought out, to give counsel, because he had no ambitions of his own. Many trusted Gorath. He was approaching his prime and numbered a hundred and six years of age. A thousand swords did his bidding.
Time was a river, and he swam in it. Wives – two women who had borne him children – he had seen the first dead from a human arrow: the other had left him. He had sons and a daughter, though none alive now. For even Gorath, he who was trusted for his wise counsel and cautious ways, even he had been swept up in the madness that had been Murmandamus.
The one called Murmandamus had returned, as spoken of in the prophecies. He wore the mark of the dragon and possessed great powers. He was served by a priest of a far people, a creature who hid in heavy robes, and first among his followers was Murad, Chieftain of Clan Badger of the Teeth of the World. Gorath had seen Murad break a warrior’s back over his knee and knew that only the most powerful leader could command Murad’s allegiance. As a sign of Murmandamus’s potency, Murad had cut his own tongue, proof he would never betray his master.
For the only time in his life, Gorath was caught up in madness. The blood pounded in his ears in harmony with the thunder of war drums in the mountain. He had led his army to the edge of the great Edder, and had fought the mad ones, Old King Redtree’s barbarians, and had held the flank while Murmandamus assaulted the human city of Sar-Isbandia, what the humans called Armengar.
Thousands had died at Armengar, but his clan was whole. A few had fallen holding the flank against the forest and on the march through the pass the humans called Highcastle. There, at Highcastle, he had lost Melos, his blood kin, son to his mother’s sister. There at Highcastle, a third of the Ardanien had perished.
Then had come Sethanon. The fighting had been brutal, but the city had been theirs. Yet at the moment of triumph, victory had been taken from them. Murmandamus had vanished. According to some of the warriors one moment he had stood in the barbican of the castle at Sethanon, and the next he was gone. Then the Keshians had arrived, and the Tsurani, and the battle had turned. The giants recruited from their high villages had been the first to flee, then the goblins, courageous when victorious, but quick to panic, had left the battle. It had been Gorath, the only surviving chieftain at the castle who had been the first to call the withdrawal. He had come looking for the master, because fighting had erupted between two rival clans over spoils, and only Murmandamus could settle the dispute. Humans had escaped because of the fighting. No one could find the master, and Gorath had cursed all omens, prophecies and heralds of destruction, and had returned to gather the Ardanien and lead them northward.
Most of his warriors had survived, but many chieftains labelled Gorath and his followers as betrayers. For nine summers, the Ardanien lived in their valley, high up in the northern mountains, keeping their own counsel. Then had come the call.
The banners were again raised and it was Delekhan, sworn enemy – son of the man who had slain Gorath’s father, and who had died at Gorath’s hands in turn – blood enemy from birth, who rallied the clans. Delekhan who had eaten with Murad and the snake priest, and who had been the last surviving member of Murmandamus’s council. And it was Delekhan who vowed that Murmandamus still lived within a prison in the heart of Sethanon and only by freeing him could the Nations of the North take back the land seized by the hated humans.
And any who spoke against Delekhan was struck down. Dark magics were fashioned by the Six, and one by one the opponents of Delekhan’s plan vanished. Gorath knew his day was coming, and knew that he must carry word to his enemies to the south, for they were his people’s only hope.
Night, and he fled through ice and pain. Men who were once as brothers to him sought to hunt him down and end his life. Haseth, whom Gorath had taught to hold a sword, last among his blood kin, had led them. It had been by Gorath’s own hands that his last surviving kinsman had died.
Then again, he heard the thundering drums. Again he saw the fires on the hill, but now he felt his mind returning to the present, memories of his life fading away slowly …
The girl was young, not quite seventeen years of age, yet her hair was nearly white with only the faintest hint of gold in it. Pale eyes of blue regarded Gorath as she let go of his hands. Behind her stood the Prince of Krondor, the black-robed Tsurani, and another spell-caster, one who, while short of stature, was almost exuding power. Others were nearby, but those Gorath had travelled with, Owyn and Locklear, were in another room.
‘What did you see?’ asked the Prince.
‘I cannot find any falsehoods, Highness,’ said the girl in a weary tone. ‘But I cannot find the truth, either. His mind is … alien, chaotic.’
Prince Arutha’s brown eyes narrowed as he regarded Gorath. ‘He hides his thoughts?’
The bearded magician said, ‘Highness, Gorath is moredhel, and even with Gamina’s exceptional talents for reading thoughts, his mind may have many innate psychic defences. We have never had the privilege of studying a moredhel. From what I learned in my time with the eldar—’
At mention of the ancient elven lore keepers, Gorath’s eyes narrowed. ‘You are Pug,’ he said.
Pug nodded. ‘I am.’
‘We have heard of you, who studied with the eldar,’ said Gorath.
Arutha said, ‘The point?’
‘I think he’s telling the truth,’ said Pug.
‘As do I,’ said Makala. ‘Forgive me,’ said the Tsurani magician to Prince Arutha, ‘but I presumed to use my own arts to watch as the Lady Gamina examined the moredhel. It is as she has stated; there is confusion and an alien mind there, but no guile. Despite his differences from us, he is as honest a creature as you will meet.’
‘For what cause did you presume to use your arts without leave?’ asked Arutha. His tone was one of pointed curiosity, rather than anger.
‘War in the Kingdom would have many wide-ranging consequences, not the least of which would be a disruption of trade between our two worlds, Your Highness. The Light of Heaven would be most displeased if such occurred, let alone the risk if such as these—’ he indicated Gorath ‘—gleaned the secrets of the rift.’
Arutha nodded, his expression thoughtful. Gorath spoke. ‘Trading agreements notwithstanding, war benefits no one, Prince. Despite that, you must prepare your army for war.’
Arutha’s words were pointed, but his tone was even. ‘What I must or must not do will be my burden, renegade. And my decisions will be based upon more than simply the word of one dissident chieftain. If not for Locklear’s faith in you, you’d be in our dungeon making the acquaintance of our torturer, not holding hands with Lady Gamina.’
Gorath glared at the Prince of Krondor. ‘I would tell you no different under hot iron, the lash, or the blade, human!’
Pug asked, ‘Then why do you betray your own, Gorath? Why come to Krondor with a warning when your nations have sought to dislodge humankind from this world as long as either race can remember? Why betray Delekhan to the Kingdom of the Isles? Are you seeking to have our army do what you cannot do by your own might, and destroy an enemy?’
The dark elf studied the magician. Despite his youthful appearance he was a man of great power, and to this point he had spoken to Gorath only in tones and terms of respect. Softly, Gorath said, ‘Delekhan may be a bitter draught to the Kingdom, but he is poison in the throats of our people. He enslaves and conquers, and he seeks to claim greatness, but—’ He took a deep breath.
‘My people are few in number,’ he said slowly. ‘We will never count as many swords and arrows as you humans. We rely upon those who willingly serve us, the goblins, mountain giants, trolls, and renegade men.’ His tone took on a bitter edge. ‘Two sons and a daughter I have mourned, and of two wives, one I have seen travel to join the Mothers and Fathers, while the other left me for being the one to call retreat at Sethanon. My last blood kin died at my own hands the night I met young Owyn.’ He looked directly into Arutha’s eyes. ‘I can never go back, Prince of Krondor. I will die in an alien land among people who despise my race.’
‘Then why?’ asked Arutha.
‘Because my people cannot withstand another war such as we had at Sethanon. Delekhan appears, wearing the dragon helm of Murmandamus, and swords are raised and blood oaths sworn, but while we have courage and dedication in abundance, we lack strength of numbers. Should enough of us die in futility again, the Northlands would lie open to human conquest. We would be as echoes on the wind, for within a hundred years no moredhel would remain alive.’
‘We are content to stay on this side of the Teeth of the World. We have no ambitions in the Northlands,’ said Arutha.
‘You may not, here in your warm castle in Krondor, Prince, but there are those among your race would conquer to win a title, and you know this. If one came to your King with word that he had seized the town of Raglam and had occupied Harlik, and now controlled a third of the Northlands, would your King offer him a hereditary title and income from those lands?’
‘He would,’ admitted Arutha.
‘Then you see my point,’ said Gorath.
Arutha rubbed his chin. He stood lost in thought a long moment, then said, ‘You are persuasive, Gorath. I will take what Makala and Gamina say at face value and assume you have no guile in you. But what now must be decided is if what you know to be true is, indeed, truth.’
‘What do you mean?’ demanded Gorath.
Pug said, ‘What he means is you may be an unwitting tool. If this Delekhan knew of your animosity, might he not have given you the information you seek to bring to us, to cause us to rush to meet him at some place of his choosing?’ Pug indicated the maps and notes Locklear had brought from the barn at Yellow Mule. ‘There are at least a half-dozen false messages here, to be conveniently found by the Prince’s agents, all stressing attacks at unlikely places, Tannerus, Eggly, Highcastle, even Romney.’
Gorath’s head came up. ‘I have heard that name.’
‘Romney?’ said Arutha. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Only that I have heard Romney mentioned by those who are in service to Delekhan. There are agents working for him in that area.’
‘Would you know them?’
Gorath shook his head in the negative. ‘Only a few close to Delekhan might know who is working for him among the humans: Nago’s brother Narab, his seniormost advisor, his son Moraeulf, and the Six.’
‘Who are the Six?’ asked Pug. ‘You’ve mentioned them before.’
‘No one knows. They are swathed in robes as dark as those of your Tsurani friend and yourself, with deep hoods.’
‘Pantathians?’ suggested Pug.
‘Not snake priests, I’m certain,’ said Gorath. ‘They speak as you or I do, though there is an accent to their voices. Yet, they serve Delekhan and give him the might to unite the clans. Their magic was powerful enough to force Nago and Narab to heel on two occasions when they sought to distance themselves from Delekhan. And among our people, they were the mightiest of Spellweavers.’
Arutha said, ‘Pug, would you bring that map over here, please?’
Pug got the map indicated by the Prince, one of the central third of the Kingdom. He placed it on the table next to the one brought by Locklear from Yellow Mule. ‘What cause would Delekhan have to operate out of a river town in the heart of the Kingdom?’
Pug said, ‘Perhaps because it is in the heart of the Kingdom?’ He pointed to the location. ‘When Murmandamus came against us, he moved through Highcastle, and crossed the High Wold, moving to the southwest to enter the Dimwood and strike south to Sethanon. What if this time Delekhan ran this pass here, and came down the River Cheston by barge?’
Arutha nodded. ‘At Romney he could turn to the River Silden and north of the City of Silden he could turn westward and force march to Sethanon. It’s his fastest route and his easiest if I’ve got the Armies of the West tied up at LaMut and Tannerus and a dozen other places from here to Yabon. He’d be west of the King’s Armies, too.’
Arutha looked at Gorath. ‘At last something starts to make sense.’
Gorath said, ‘If I go to Romney, I may be able to find you the proof.’
Arutha said, ‘It’s a long step from belief to trust, Gorath. Our people have been enemies too many years for trust to come easily.’
‘Send me with your soldiers, then,’ said Gorath. ‘Delekhan must be stopped. If you blunt his attack, send him back to the north with his nose bloodied, his own supporters will throw him down and my people will be saved. As will yours.’
Arutha considered, and said, ‘I’ve got just the person to put on this task. But Jimmy is out conducting some other business for me right now—’
‘Nighthawks?’ asked Gorath.
‘What do you know of that?’ asked Arutha.
Gorath explained the encounters in the sewers with the false Nighthawks and Squire James.
Arutha nodded. ‘Someone’s anxious for me to send the army into the sewers, cleaning out the Mockers while I’m at it. The two things may be related, but they also may be coincidence.’
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Raymond E. Feist
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Зарубежное фэнтези
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: An episode in Feist’s massively successful Riftwar saga.From the endlessly inventive mind of one of fantasy’s all-time greats, comes a spellbinding new adventure featuring old favourites Jimmy, Locklear and Pug.It is nine years on from the aftermath of Sethanon. There has been peace awhile and it’s been needed. But news is feeding through to the people of the Kingdom of the Isles that deadly forces are stirring on the horizon. The bringer of the latest tidings is Gorath, a moredhel (dark elf).The bloodletting has started. Nighthawks are murdering again. Politics is a dangerous, cut-throat game once more. At the root of all this unrest lie the mysterious machinations of a group of magicians known as The Six.Meanwhile, renegade Tsurani gem smugglers, a rival criminal gang to the Mockers led by someone known only as The Crawler, and traitors to the crown are all conspiring to bring the Kingdom of the Isles to its knees.