Honored Enemy

by Raymond E. Feist

  Three times over the years he had encountered Tinuva when Clan Raven had raided down across the moss-covered marshes of Yabon and had struck westward along the border of Elvandar. Three times Tinuva and he had spied one another across a river, a valley, and from the opposite sides of a ridged canyon. The last time they had faced one another, both had emptied quivers of arrows across the gorge, each coming close to death, but both leaving with empty quivers and 115

  only minor wounds. To present Hartraft’s head to Murad would gain Bovai glory, but killing Tinuva was a matter of personal honour, and had nothing whatever to do with glory. Tinuva must die so that the darkest affront to Bovai’s family could at last be forgotten.

  Finally, Bovai forced himself from his reverie. To Golun he said,

  ‘This changes nothing. If Tinuva is among them, that will come as it does. Right now, we must do as we planned, and bring them to heel before they can escape. Go.’

  Golun left while Bovai stared into the fire for a moment longer.

  Then he stood. The time for fantasies of revenge were past; now was the time to act. He tossed the fire poker aside and left the barracks.

  The dead had been moved to the side of the building and covered with blankets so that the goblins and human renegades would not see the remains as they marched through the gate. Already Golun was urging the column forward, half a dozen mounted men galloping to the fore while his own brothers stood to one side.

  All eyes were upon him as he stood in silence, his black cape wrapped around his thin frame, watching as the column trotted past. The last of the goblins came through the gate and disappeared into the mist. They would push the pursuit: his own brothers had to have their moment of remembrance before moving on.

  The circle of moredhel gathered around him, heads lowered, a mournful chant beginning – the singing of the dead, calling upon the spirits of the Old Ones to come down, to gather up the souls of the slain and return them to the Immortal Lands in the sky, taking them to reside with the Mothers and Fathers. Their voices were whispers, lost in the wind, drifting through the trees, muffled in the swirling mists.

  The singers lowered their heads. One soldier, chosen from the band, let the cowl of his cape fall over his face so that none would hear as he whispered the names of the fallen, the sacred names that no one spoke aloud, his softly-spoken words drowned out by the murmured cries of those gathered around him. He bid them farewell on their journey, and henceforth no one would again say their names lest they call them back from their journey and condemn them to wander the world as restless spirits.

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  The chant fell away, until the only sound that could be heard was the crying of the wind and the creaking of the frozen trees bending beneath the cold morning gale.

  Bovai raised his head. ‘We came to hunt the enemy,’ he said, ‘and till this moment the hunt has been good.’

  There were nods of agreement.

  ‘Until this moment we rejoiced, we laughed as we pursued a foe who ran before us as the rabbit runs before the fox.’

  ‘Until this moment,’ several of his brothers responded, following his words and the ritual of the call for a ‘savata’, the hunt of blood-vengeance.

  ‘Until this moment our hearts were filled with joy, the joy of the hunt, the slaying of our foes, and we drove them before us.’

  ‘Until this moment!’ More joined in.

  He paused, slowly turning, looking at each of those gathered around him.

  ‘Those who walk the mortal world for but a brief moment, who know not the touch of eternity, who have taken from us our lands, now have snatched our brothers from us, sending them into the dark lands from which no one returns. Even as our brothers leave us, their souls cry to us.’

  His words struck into the hearts of those around him, for the shrieking of the wind through the pass had a demented, unworldly tone to it, like that of souls lost in the night and more than one of the brothers looked about nervously.

  ‘Who was this who did such an infamy to our brothers?’ the singer of the dead cried.

  Bovai pointed up the trail, into the swirling mist where the goblins and humans had already disappeared. ‘The Tsurani, and those who follow Hartraft.’

  There was silence for a moment, for all knew his name.

  ‘Tinuva, as always.’

  ‘Tinuva.’ The name was whispered, and heads lowered again. A few of the warriors glanced at one another, and some of the bolder among them cast a look at Bovai. He had mentioned the hated elf ’s name, which was the breaking of a silent, yet powerful, prohibition in Clan Raven.

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  ‘Hartraft and Tinuva I claim for myself for there is blood debt between us. The others I give to you, my brothers. Let us take their heads! Let us send their spirits to the dark world! Let us gain our vengeance and thus regain our honour! Swear this now with me.’

  ‘We swear.’

  The words were spoken softly, yet any who was not of their race, and had heard the two words spoken would have been filled with dread at the sound of the oath, as if a primal force out of an ancient time had stirred itself.

  Suddenly Bovai was in motion. With a simple gesture he ordered his horse to be brought to him. He mounted with an ease that belied his distaste for riding and urged the animal forward. He would overtake the Master of the Hunt and the human outriders who served him, and he would lead the attack on Hartraft and his Tsurani allies.

  The horse’s hooves clattered on the stones and the sound of ice cracking under its iron shoes filled the cold day’s air like a clarion of doom.

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  seven

  River

  The river was flooded.

  Tinuva, with Dennis and Asayaga behind him, slowly slipped out of the cover of the forest, crouching low, and slid down the muddy bank. Tinuva disappeared into the high tangle of dried rushes that were coated in a glistening sheen of ice.

  Crawling through the tall brown foliage, he approached the trail that ran parallel to the river. He could remember a time, centuries ago, when he would walk openly on this trail, ambling along on warm summer evenings and hunting in the autumn, the trees ablaze with colour.

  That had been centuries ago, and of the elves who had shared those moments, nearly all had gone to the Blessed Isles, dead in the bitter strife with the moredhel. Mortality was something he tried not to dwell on, but even so he suddenly felt old, and wondered if it was somehow a foreboding, a warning.

  He thought of Kavala. The settling of an ancient debt had been achieved at last. Although he knew that the death of another was something in which to take no joy, still there had been a terrible moment of satisfaction when he had seen Kavala come out of the mists, unaware that death was closing in at last.

  Now was not the time to dwell on that, to let such thoughts divert him from the dangers at hand. Alert to every nuance of sound and scent he lifted his head, looking towards the far bank of the river.

  The water was high and the rushes were bobbing and swaying as the icy current scoured the river bank.

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  A stag, standing at the edge of the far bank, raised his muzzle, sniffing the air. He looked Tinuva’s way, then returned to drinking.

  Several does ambled out from the treeline on the far side to drink as well.

  Good, nothing was waiting on the other side.

  Dennis crawled past him for the last few feet, reaching the trail.

  It had once been a broad road, but was now weed-choked and abandoned. The coating of ice on the path was solid, showing no prints except for those of several deer that had come down for their morning drink. Dennis stood up cautiously, Tinuva by his side.

  ‘In summer you could cross here and barely get your knees wet,’

  Tinuva said, shaking his head, watching as ice floes eddied past, swirling and tumbling in the current.

  ‘You mean this is where we are to cross?’ Asayaga asked and Tinuva could sense the trepidation in his voice.

  ‘It’s e
ither here or we try and fight our way across the bridge,’

  Dennis snapped, pointing back downstream.

  ‘We haven’t looked there yet,’ Asayaga replied. ‘You drag us off a clear open trail, run us through a freezing stream for more than a mile, and we wind up here.’

  ‘The bridge will be guarded,’ Tinuva replied patiently. ‘In the old times there was an entire moredhel village there; fishing was abundant, as was hunting in this region. Clan Raven once ruled this region; they were always cautious of enemies, from the south and the north. They erected barriers at both ends of the bridge, and constructed a blockhouse. Those who pursue us are Clan Raven, so we must assume the moredhel are back at the bridge, and they are up there in strength.’

  ‘Then we attack and sweep them aside,’ Asayaga announced. ‘We did it last night.’

  ‘That was evening, in the fog, and we had surprise on our side,’

  Dennis snarled. He gestured to the swirling clouds overhead. Coming out of the pass they had dropped below the storm, so there was no longer a concealing fog. ‘There is no guarantee that someone didn’t get out when we took the pass. They might have been warned. Even if it’s open ground for bowshot’s distance all around the bridge.’ He fell silent, then added, ‘And if Tinuva is correct, it won’t be a small 120

  company waiting for us, but a full war camp.’ He looked at Asayaga.

  ‘I know you Tsurani to be fearless, but even you wouldn’t charge sixty warriors across an open field at a fortification of three hundred warriors who are waiting for you.’

  ‘Then follow the trail up the river,’ Asayaga argued.

  ‘Why don’t you want to cross here?’ Dennis asked.

  The Tsurani bristled. ‘That water is freezing. You might be cold-blooded, but my men are not. It will kill them.’

  ‘Then stay here,’ Dennis retorted. ‘Follow that trail up the river. It will give out above the falls half a day’s march from here. Then jump off the damn falls for all I care, but my men are crossing here.’

  ‘We threw them off our track only for a little while,’ Tinuva interjected, ‘but they will be back on it soon enough. Wait here and we are pinned. But if we get across here they’ll have to back-track for at least ten miles or more to get over the bridge and by then we will be gone.’

  ‘Madness,’ Asayaga sighed.

  Dennis grinned. ‘Afraid, Tsurani?’

  Asayaga turned, and his hand fell to the hilt of his sword.

  Dennis said nothing but Tinuva could see his barely-suppressed desire to have it out.

  ‘Asayaga. Would you let it be said that Kingdom troops dared something that the Tsurani could not do as well? I know you are made of sterner stuff,’ said the elf.

  Asayaga looked over at him, obviously not sure if the elvish scout was taunting him as well.

  ‘I speak to you with respect for your prowess,’ Tinuva went on.

  ‘The crossing will be hard but it can be done. We run a rope across to hold on to. All men strip naked, bundle up their clothing and weapons, securing them to staves which they hold out of the water as they cross. The first across build a fire to warm the rest. Dennis and I shall go first, bearing the rope.’

  Asayaga seemed to hesitate.

  ‘It is the only way, Tsurani,’ said Dennis in a calm tone, having suddenly lost the desire to taunt his enemy. Slowly, he repeated, ‘It is the only way.’

  At last Asayaga nodded reluctantly. ‘I shall tell my men.’

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  He stood up and started back up the river bank to the edge of the forest where the two forces waited.

  ‘Tsurani?’ Dennis shouted.

  Asayaga turned.

  ‘Let me guess. You can’t swim. Is that it?’

  Asayaga turned away with an angry snarl and Dennis smiled.

  ‘Perhaps we could drown them all,’ Dennis whispered, even as he started to pull off his cloak, trousers, boots and tunic.

  ‘We will still need them on the far side,’ Tinuva replied. ‘Sixty additional swords will be the difference between life and death in the days to come. We still have to outrun the moredhel and then circle around to an open pass. I doubt if we can achieve that without a fight.’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘Worry about that later.’

  Tinuva stripped down, drawing his short sword to hack a sapling and trim it into a staff to which he tied his bundle of clothing.

  Sergeant Barry came down, looking a bit absurd in his nakedness, already shivering from the cold. He carried a heavy coil of rope, the thirty-foot lengths carried by every fifth man in Dennis’s unit having been knotted together.

  ‘I hope it’s long enough. Got the end tied to that tree up there,’

  Barry said, as he tossed one end to Dennis, who tied it around his waist.

  Tinuva looked over at Dennis. It was one of the few times Tinuva had seen him naked and once again he was astonished at just how many scars a human could acquire in such a short life. A nasty white slash traced across his chest and just below the left collarbone was a knot of pink flesh from the arrow he had taken in an ambush the summer before. Both arms were cross-hatched with lines and his left calf was twisted and gnarled from a blow that had nearly taken off his leg three summers past.

  Without comment, Dennis waded into the river, staff over his shoulder, and Tinuva could hear his sharp intake of breath. Tinuva followed, closing his thoughts, silently chanting the ‘Isluna’, the meditation to block pain, to disconnect the flesh from the mind.

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  Nevertheless he could feel his heart constrict and thump over as the icy chill swirled around him. Within seconds he was up to his waist, angling his steps against the fast-moving current, pushing aside a chunk of ice that eddied around him. He leaned against the staff, bracing himself as he nearly lost his footing in a hole, the water going up to his chest.

  Dennis was beside him, cursing with every step, damning the weather, the gods who sent it, the Tsurani, and the moredhel.

  They reached mid-stream and Tinuva could sense that the river was beginning to rob him of his strength, as if it was a malevolent spirit that had sunk its fangs into his soul. He stumbled and nearly went under but Dennis reached out, grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him back up.

  ‘Come on,’ Dennis gasped, teeth chattering.

  The river finally shallowed out, and the steam rose from their bodies as they floundered up to the reed-covered bank. Stumbling, they gained the far shore. Dennis untied the rope from his waist and, pulling hard, managed to secure it to a stunted tree on the river bank.

  Looking back, Tinuva saw dozens of men standing along the river, all of them naked. In spite of his pain he had to chuckle at the sight.

  Dennis, himself still naked, threw his pack down and tore it open, reaching into his haversack for flint, steel and tinder. Tinuva tore up an armful of reeds and piled them high, busting open the dry, fluffy seedpods. Dennis quickly had a smouldering wisp of flame which he blew to life as Tinuva carefully fed in the fluff from the seedpods, then began to break up the hollow reeds, laying them on top of the tiny wisp of flame. Dennis ran to the nearest pine tree, broke off several dead branches and brought them back and soon the fire sparked to life. Finally, with the fire alight, they struggled clumsily to get their clothes back on.

  Tinuva looked back to the river. The first men, all of them from Dennis’s command were nearly across, spluttering and cursing, led by Sergeant Barry.

  ‘Gregory just came in with the rearguard,’ Barry blurted out.

  ‘They’re on to our trail.’

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  ‘Damn. How much time do we have?’ Dennis gasped, teeth still chattering.

  ‘An hour at most, half an hour more likely.’

  ‘What’s going on with those damn Tsurani?’ Dennis snapped while wrestling with his boots.

  Through chattering teeth, Sergeant Barry said, ‘They’re arguing back and forth. That damn squinty-looking one – their second-in-command –
he’s apparently against crossing. Honestly, I think the little bastards are afraid and won’t admit it.’

  ‘Fine, let them stay.’

  ‘If too many of our men cross first,’ Tinuva interjected, ‘it might cause a problem.’

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘We get all our men across, they might fear to start over, figuring we might ambush them when they’re in the middle of the river. Or, when we only have a few left over there, they turn on them.’

  ‘Damn it all,’ Dennis sighed. He reached out to help pull one of his men up the embankment.

  ‘Get everyone coming in to start feeding the fire. Don’t worry about the smoke, getting warm is more important,’ Tinuva offered.

  ‘Remember, we saw that stag and the does. They ran back into the woods. A good hunter might take one of them. The men need warm food as well.’

  ‘Where are you going?’ Dennis asked.

  ‘Back.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I think they might trust me.’

  ‘What the hell for?’ Dennis asked. ‘If we shake them loose here, fine with me.’

  ‘They might kill the last of our men still over there, and Gregory is one of them.’

  ‘You’re a fool to try and cross again,’ Dennis replied, thinking of the icy river.

  Tinuva did not bother to reply. Pulling off his cloak, the only article of clothing he had managed to put back on, he plunged back into the swollen river, hanging on to the rope, pulling himself hand over hand, passing more of Dennis’s men holding onto the rope on 124

  the downstream side. Twice, helping hands kept him up as he felt the strength in his muscles sucked out by the frigid water. At last he gained the far side of the river, glad for the helping hand extended by Gregory. He could barely walk, his legs completely numb.

  ‘Why in the name of the gods did you come back?’ Gregory asked.

  ‘Someone had to. What is going on over here?’ Tinuva whispered, his breath forming a white cloud in the air.