The Complete Legends of the Riftwar Trilogy

by Raymond E. Feist

  Finally they turned the last bend in the trail and the stockade was directly ahead. He continued the walking pace for a few more seconds, perhaps the guard would be looking the other way, but even as the thought formed the high piercing wail of a horn echoed.

  ‘Charge!’

  They sprinted straight for the gate, Asayaga leading the way, stumpy legs churning through the slushy snow. The range closed, fifty paces, forty, down to thirty. The lone guard raised a bow, took aim, and released the string. Asayaga heard the snap of the arrow hit the shield of the man next to him.

  The gate loomed up in front of them and Asayaga braced himself for the impact. Without slowing the phalanx crashed into the wooden barrier, over four tons of human flesh and armour acting as a battering ram.

  He had hoped that the barrier log would not be in place, or would be so weak that they’d crash right in. He felt the log gate give inward, groaning, his men continuing to push, running in place, feet slipping, churning up the frozen ground beneath.

  The gate held.

  The warrior to his left collapsed without a sound. A rock the size of a human head had crushed his skull in. Asayaga looked up. Directly above were half a dozen moredhel, several throwing rocks, one aiming a bow straight down at them. Spears arced up, catching one, but the rest loosed their deadly loads and several more men dropped.

  The effort at the gate was useless. He couldn’t retreat now.

  ‘Spread out along the wall!’ Asayaga screamed, ‘Stay against the wall. Archers! Keep them down!’

  His men spread out. He caught a glimpse of Tasemu dragging a wounded recruit up against the wall. Pressed hard against the stones they were relatively safe; an archer would have to lean over to shoot and his own archers deployed to either side of the trail and back a couple of dozen yards were effective in keeping the enemy down.

  Asayaga waited a couple of minutes, trying to judge just how many were on the other side. If a dozen or less, perhaps his own archers could take most of them out. Two more minutes passed slowly.

  A few rocks arced over the wall but his men remained pressed against the side of the stockade and were safe. It was a stalemate.

  ‘We can’t stay here forever. I think our pursuers are close. If so they’ll slaughter us out here.’

  It was Tasemu.

  Asayaga nodded. ‘Pair up!’ he shouted. ‘Every other man vaults the wall. Get ready!’

  Tasemu started to sheath his sword.

  ‘No, I go first.’

  Softly, the old warrior asked, ‘Will you stop trying to get yourself killed?’

  ‘It’s my duty.’

  ‘Suppose you get killed, then Sugama takes over?’

  Asayaga shook his head and kept his eyes locked on Tasemu. ‘I have no intention of dying, and if I do, you decide who takes over. Now, cup your hands.’

  Tasemu grumbled but finally bent over and did as he was told.

  ‘Ready!’

  He looked along the wall. Most of his men had doubled up and were prepared, and there was no time to wait for the laggards.

  ‘Now!’

  He slammed his right foot into Tasemu’s cupped hands and at the same instant grabbed hold of his shoulders. Tasemu stood up with a grunt.

  Asayaga vaulted and grabbed the top of the barrier. He scrambled to pull himself over. He caught a glimpse of a moredhel, back turned, striking down with an axe, splitting open the skull of the man to Asayaga’s right.

  Asayaga rolled over the wall and landed on the rampart. The moredhel turned, letting go of the axe as his victim fell. He whipped out a dagger and with a snakelike hiss leapt on Asayaga. The two clutched each other and rolled off the rampart, falling half a dozen feet to the ground.

  The blow knocked the wind out of Asayaga but he hung on to his foe, blocking a slashing strike to his eyes with his cloak wrapped around his forearm.

  With his left hand Asayaga drew his own short blade and rammed it straight up, catching the moredhel under the ribs. He kicked himself free, stood up and, reaching over his shoulder, drew his long sword.

  What he saw made his heart freeze. At least thirty moredhel were deployed as a reserve, most of them armed with bows, ready to slaughter any who made it over the wall. Raising his sword he charged straight at the encircling foe.

  Perched on top of a cliff, Dennis watched the slaughter down below.

  ‘They’re losing,’ Gregory announced.

  ‘I don’t need you to tell me that,’ Dennis replied calmly.

  He couldn’t help but admire the mad idea of storming the gate as a human battering ram. It had failed, however, and the element of surprise was lost.

  He watched as the Tsurani spread out while on the inside of the pass the moredhel garrison poured out of the log barracks and formed up, ready to slaughter anyone who made it over the wall.

  ‘Around thirty of them,’ Gregory whispered.

  Dennis nodded.

  Damn.

  This was old territory for him. His father had built the barrier down below as part of the outer line of the northern marches. The moredhel had obviously reversed the gate and wooden ramparts, and put in the cabin on the other side – the original barracks Dennis’s father had built on this side of the wall had been burned down when Dennis had been a boy. Tactically it wasn’t a sound position; anyone who knew the area could easily flank it by scaling the ridge on either side from old trails that smugglers and other weapons runners frequently used. It was why Dennis’s father had eventually abandoned the position and built the small fortress that had become Brendan’s Stockade.

  It was just such a smuggler’s route he had decided to take, when they had closed to within spitting distance of the Tsurani a mile back.

  Even as the Tsurani hesitated then formed up for their attack he and his men went to the east of the pass, scaling the steep slope. The storm had driven the garrison inside as he had hoped, so there were no patrols waiting to ambush them.

  ‘Look.’

  Gregory pointed back to the south. It was hard to see, since wisps of cloud cloaked them, then parted, but he caught a glimpse of the main trail as it crossed a low ridgeline a couple of miles back.

  Riders, moving cautiously, but pressing forward. Then the clouds closed in again.

  Dennis’s men were coming up behind him. They were numb with exhaustion, soaked to the skin.

  ‘I was hoping one side could slaughter the other,’ Dennis muttered, ‘then we finish off what’s left. We need that shelter and the gate secured or we’re all finished.’

  Gregory nodded, staring at him, saying nothing.

  ‘Oh damn it,’ Dennis hissed, as he looked down. ‘This is insane.’

  The first of the moredhel archers fired, the arrow striking a glancing blow across Asayaga’s helmet. He charged in blindly, hoping that at the very least a dying thrust would take one of the foes down with him.

  And then he caught a glimpse of a moredhel staggering forward, the point of a spear sticking out of his chest. Another went down and then another.

  A shrieking battle cry echoed on the wind, a spine-tingling scream that sounded like the baying of wolves closing in on their prey.

  Looking up he saw Kingdom soldiers sliding down the near vertical wall of the pass. Several of them lost control on the icy slope and fell screaming, crashing to the ground, one of them landing directly on top of a moredhel, the blow killing both of them. Most of the soldiers managed to brake their fall by grabbing hold of stunted bushes that grew along the icy wall, stopping for a second, letting go, sliding again, braking, then finally alighting on the ground.

  The first to land safely drew a heavy two-handed sword from a scabbard slung over his shoulder and with a murderous cry charged forward. A moredhel turned, backing up, swinging desperately, trying to use his bow as a shield. A single blow nearly cut him in half.

  The leader spun around, catlike, ducking low as a moredhel charged in with levelled spear. In an amazing display of swordsmanship the leader delivered a ba
ckhanded blow while down on one knee, cutting the moredhel’s leg off at mid-thigh as he charged past.

  More and yet more Kingdom troops crashed down, some landing on the roof of the barracks, then leaping down from there.

  Asayaga looked back up at the wall. A dozen of his men were struggling with the moredhel along the rampart, while others were still trying to get over, and several lay dead.

  He turned his back on the Kingdom troops and sprinted to the gate. Two moredhel, swords raised, guarded it. It was over in seconds as he parried the first one, spun about, catching the second under the armpit as he raised his sword to strike, then reversed and swung back high, slashing the other across the face, blinding him. The moredhel went down, a quick blow across the back of the neck ended his agony.

  Grabbing the end of the log which locked the gate he lifted it up and tossed it aside. The barrier immediately swung open and his men poured in, swords raised …

  At the sight of the Kingdom soldiers dispatching the last of the moredhel they slowed in confusion. Asayaga prepared himself.

  Dennis, recovering from the back-handed blow which had taken off the leg of the moredhel came up, sword poised, looking for another foe. Another dark-elf, battle axe raised, charged and then pitched backwards, arrow in the throat. Then Tinuva was at his side, already nocking another arrow.

  He caught a glimpse of Gregory crashing onto the roof of the barracks and leaping down to duck inside the door.

  At this point, several of the moredhel turned and ran. Dennis whistled, catching Alwin’s attention. He pointed. Alwin nodded, shouted a command and with half a dozen men set off in pursuit.

  He turned, saw the gate swing open and was stunned at the sight of at least a score of Tsurani pouring in.

  In a flash of memory he saw his father’s estate falling at the start of the war, the Tsurani charging through the shattered gate, his father collapsing from an arrow which had caught him in the eye.

  Dennis felt an icy chill, a cold, killing anger at the memory of that time, the memory of Jurgen, of all the dead.

  He raised his sword and stepped forward, ready to meet the charge.

  There was something vaguely familiar about one of the Tsurani, the one who had charged the gate and in a masterful display of swordsmanship dropped two moredhels in a matter of seconds. This Tsurani shouted something to the warriors around him, even as he stepped to the fore and raised his sword. Dennis immediately recognized the gesture, it was the chaka, the ritual position assumed by a combatant in a one-on-one duel, a two-handed hold, blade vertical, duellist turned sideways, blade poised behind the left shoulder. Dennis had seen it once before, when a Tsurani soldier had taken some occurrence along a picket line personally, and had challenged another to a duel. Two years later, a freed Tsurani slave had explained what he had seen to Dennis.

  Dennis shook his head in disbelief. This damned bastard wanted to fight a duel! Several of his men chuckled and one of them started to raise a bow to drop the Tsurani, but in spite of his cynical attitude towards the entire show there was something about the gesture that caught him.

  All this had taken but a matter of seconds and even as the Tsurani leader stepped forward to fight, his own men were deploying out after the slaughter of the moredhel, ready to riddle the Tsurani coming through the gate and along the wall. A quick glance revealed that the Tsurani had yet to bring any archers up from outside.

  And yet … Dennis realized the man wasn’t challenging him, but rather announcing that he was ready to fight him. It was only a duel if Dennis accepted the offer of combat. He looked at the Tsurani soldiers waiting calmly to see what occurred and realized they were the mirror image of his own men in misery and fatigue.

  Dennis pointedly turned his back on the Tsurani commander.

  ‘Close the gate,’ Dennis shouted in the King’s Tongue, then struggled to form the words in Tsurani. His command of the language was limited, brief snatches learned from Gregory, but fortunately one of them was the command ‘close’!

  The Tsurani leader dropped his formal pose and growled an angry reply.

  Dennis realized the leader had interpreted the command as an order to block off his warriors still outside. At that same instant a horn sounded from beyond the gate, echoing up from the south. A Tsurani, left eye a milky white, and features distorted by a twisted scar that ran from brow to chin, dashed through the gate and slid to a stop at the sight of the Kingdom troops moving in.

  ‘Moredhel!’ the runner shouted, the word the same in all languages, and he pointed back outside.

  All froze. Dennis stared at the Tsurani and their eyes locked. He could sense Tinuva by his side and saw the elf lower his bow and turn it to one side.

  Dennis felt the calculating gaze of the Tsurani upon him, knew that the hatred and distrust was mutual, and yet also sensed the deeper fear, not just of death, but of falling into the hands of the moredhel. That was not the professional hatred of one warrior for another in the heat of battle, in which even beneath the hatred there still existed a certain begrudging respect. This was a primal fear, a loathing, a realization that somehow the soul of a dark universe lurked in the hearts of the foe who was closing in.

  Dennis lowered his sword, letting the point touch the ground.

  ‘Truce,’ Dennis shouted to his men. ‘We fight the moredhel, then settle our differences with the Tsurani later.’

  Several of his men muttered but most grunted a chorus of agreement. Blades, spear points and bows started to lower.

  The Tsurani leader shouted something and Dennis detected a similar reaction from the other side. Dennis pointed to the wall east of the gate and then to himself. The Tsurani nodded, pointed to himself, then to the west side and barked out a command.

  ‘Archers!’ Dennis cried. ‘Man the wall and keep low. Volley on command!’

  He ran to the still-open gate. The last of the Tsurani were coming through. One of them, at the sight of Dennis, let out a roar, raised his sword and charged. The Tsurani leader, shouted, jumped in front of Dennis and parried the strike. The attacking Tsurani glared at Dennis and then pushed past him.

  Two Tsurani, dragging a wounded comrade, came in last and their commander leaned into the gate. Dennis joined him. Together they slammed it shut, hoisted the log and dropped it into place.

  Dennis peered out through a crack between the logs of the gate. Seconds later a renegade human, mounted, came around the bend in the trail, half a dozen wood trolls running beside him. He reined in hard. Dennis caught a glimpse of more riders stopping just around the bend in the trail. The lone rider started to turn about.

  ‘Kill him!’ Dennis shouted.

  His archers stood up and within seconds the rider, his horse and all the trolls were down.

  He caught a sidelong glance from the Tsurani commander and a grunt of approval.

  Shouts of anger greeted the volley. There was a bark of command followed by silence. Dennis watched intently, hoping the scum would dare to mount a charge: if so it’d be a slaughter.

  Several minutes passed.

  Tinuva slipped off the wall and came up to Dennis’s side. The Tsurani looked at the elf, wide-eyed. Tinuva nodded and said something in Tsurani. Caught by surprise the Tsurani made a quick reply.

  ‘What did you say?’ Dennis asked.

  ‘“Honours to his House”, the traditional Tsurani greeting. Then I complimented him on his swordsmanship. I don’t know if you saw it, a masterful double kill.’

  Dennis nodded.

  ‘Where’s Gregory?’ Dennis asked.

  ‘One of the men said he ran right into a roof support when he charged into the barracks: he was stunned for a moment, but is all right.’

  ‘I’ll find time to enjoy the humour of that if we live through the night,’ Dennis said quietly.

  Tinuva fell silent. He looked through a crack between the logs and then turned back to Dennis.

  ‘They won’t attack for a while. I think this is just an advance party. We laid enoug
h traps along the trail to slow them down. They’ll wait for the rest of their command to come up first then fan out and flank us.’

  Dennis looked back at the pass. The mist was closing in, blanketing them, a cold wind slicing through the pass. The full fury of the storm was slashing against the other side of the mountain. Out of the mist he saw Alwin returning. The sergeant slowed at the sight of the Tsurani then came forward.

  ‘Got them.’

  Dennis let out a sigh of relief. At least one thing had gone right. No word of their presence had gone ahead.

  He looked over at the Tsurani.

  Damn, what a fix.

  ‘This is what we do,’ Dennis whispered to Alwin and Tinuva. ‘Half the men stand down, get into the barracks. Get the fire in there roaring. Strip down, dry off, get some hot food. See what dry clothing we can take from the bastards that were here. Two hours, then we shift the other half in.’

  He pointed to either side of the pass.

  ‘Tinuva, I want you to detail a dozen archers, get them up on the flanks and keep the moredhel and their trolls back – I don’t want them coming down on us the same way we came down on them. My guess is those scum are as exhausted as we are. Once they find out we hold the heights as well they’ll give up for tonight. There’s some old dwarven mine shafts a mile or so back down the slope. My bet is they pull in there, build fires to warm up, and wait till dawn to fan out and trap us. We’ll get out a couple hours before dawn, dried and rested.’

  ‘And our friends?’ Tinuva asked, eyes flicking towards the Tsurani commander.

  Damn, Dennis thought.

  ‘I guess we settle it before we leave. The Broad River, you remember it?’

  Tinuva smiled and nodded. The thought struck Dennis that a hundred years before he was even born Tinuva undoubtedly knew of the river. Again he realized just how ancient the elven race was and with it came the recognition of just how much they risked when facing battle: it wasn’t just a score of years in the balance, it was a score of decades. An elven couple might have two children in a century. Each death was magnified far beyond what any human could understand in terms of loss to the race.