The Complete Legends of the Riftwar Trilogy

by Raymond E. Feist

  Richard lowered his head. The beatings. That seemed to be the only way the old man knew how to treat his sons. If they did well, there was, at best, silence; but fail in anything and there would be a beating. As the eldest surviving son, he felt that the old man would never be satisfied. Too often there was mention of Quentin, twenty years older, from the Squire’s first marriage, killed in the last war. Always the Squire spoke of him as the worthy son who should have inherited all, and that Richard was the weak second choice.

  ‘Quentin was a good man,’ Gregory said.

  Again there was the disturbing sense that the Natalese scout somehow had the ‘sense’, the ability to read the thoughts of others. ‘I see the same in you.’

  Richard poked at the fire, saying nothing. ‘I don’t think our captain sees it that way,’ he finally ventured.

  Gregory chuckled. ‘Dennis is a hard man on the surface, just like your father. He has to be out here not just to survive but to preserve those who serve with him. But underneath, he’s very different. If he has a fault it’s that he loves his men too much. Every death burns his soul. Jurgen was like his elder brother, the closest friend he has ever known. You just happened to be in the way.’

  ‘I caused his death.’

  ‘Don’t ever say that again. Don’t think it. War is cruel. Men die. Jurgen did what any man would do: he went to save a comrade.’

  ‘I wish I had died instead.’

  ‘Why?’

  Richard looked over at him. ‘Because,’ he lowered his head, ‘my life for his. Who was more worthy to live? Who did the company need more? I know the Captain wishes it had been the other way around.’

  ‘Jurgen lived his life well. He had fifty years or more, you but eighteen. I think that’s a fair trade. He gave you back years you never would have had. Just remember that and don’t feel guilty. He didn’t do it because you were the son of a squire. Remember that as well. He’d have done it for the son of a peasant or thief. So live every day after this as if it was a gift from him, and when the time comes some day, pay it back the same way he did.’

  Richard looked over at Gregory, unable to speak. He realized now why the scout had wanted him out here on patrol, so that he could share these words with him.

  He didn’t know what to say in response.

  Gregory stiffened and at nearly the same instant Richard noticed it as well, a sound, slush crunching, something moving on the trail.

  ‘Lower your head,’ Gregory whispered, ‘then move when I do, and do what I do.’

  Richard did as ordered, the troll’s cloak pulled up over his head, his shoulders hunched forward, watching out of the corner of his eye. There were three of them, two trolls … and a moredhel.

  Should we run? Richard wondered, but Gregory did nothing.

  The three drew closer, slowed. The moredhel held out his hand, motioning for the trolls to stop. They stood less than ten feet away. He barked out a command.

  Gregory grunted, head swaying as if coming awake. He growled a comment, and one of the trolls snorted as if in amusement.

  A gust of wind swept the group, sparks flaring up from the fire. The moredhel took another step closer, snarling angrily, and then, to Richard’s eyes, everything seemed to shift, as if time was slowing.

  The moredhel’s movement changed, as if he had suddenly realized that something was wrong, that he was not dealing with two trolls who had fallen asleep on watch.

  Gregory started to stand, the cloak falling back, and at the same instant his hand snapped out, and his dagger was twirling over the firelight. A second later, the moredhel was dying, the dagger having slashed open his throat. Gregory was up, cloak flung back his sword drawn.

  Richard stood, dagger in hand and leapt forward, following the scout. It was over in seconds, so complete was the surprise. Gregory split the skull of one of the trolls who stood gape-mouthed, staring down at the moredhel who was clasping at his throat, staggering backwards, trying to hold his lifeblood in as it sprayed out between his fingers.

  Richard leapt for the second troll and this time he almost did it right, driving his dagger straight in, cutting the troll’s throat, losing the blade when the troll jerked backwards, the dagger jammed into his lower jaw.

  Richard stepped back and then leapt with surprise since he had stepped into the fire.

  Gregory was bending over the moredhel, cutting down, ending his agony. Warily he looked up, then crouched low. Richard looked with him. Gregory pointed: there was more movement on the trail. From the entrance to the mine there was movement as well, shadows reflecting the flash of spear points from the fire within.

  ‘Time to leave,’ Gregory whispered, ‘I think they’re going to try a night attack, figure we’re asleep. We’ve got to let Dennis know.’

  Reaching into a pouch at his hip he pulled out several caltrops tossed them on the trail and kicked slush over them.

  ‘Come on, lad, I think it’s time to get moving again. What they find here might slow them a bit but we better pull out.’ He glanced at the sky. ‘Snow’s lessening. It’ll clear tomorrow. We’d better be somewhere else when it does.’

  They turned away from the trail and as they did so Gregory patted Richard on the shoulder.

  ‘We might make a scout out of you, yet, lad.’

  Then the Natalese set off at speed, disappearing into the night. Richard was left struggling to keep up.

  • Chapter Five •

  Accommodation

  THE SNOW STOPPED.

  Asayaga chanced a look over the wall. The mist was blowing clear; it was possible to see across the narrow clearing as the light of the middle moon illuminated the ice-covered forest. He could feel the temperature dropping as a cold wind lashed in from the north-west.

  Good and bad, he thought. We’ll be drier but the ground will be icy, making footing difficult. He had never seen ‘frozen water’ before coming to Midkemia, as his homeworld was a hot world compared to this one, but he had become as close to an expert on cold weather warfare as any Tsurani could after nine winters in the field; he didn’t like it, but he understood it.

  ‘Force Commander.’

  He looked down. It was Tasemu. He had ordered the Strike Leader to stay in the barracks hall to keep watch, not trusting Sugama to maintain order.

  Asayaga nodded, motioning for him to climb the ladder and join him on the wall.

  Tasemu crouched down beside him.

  ‘Force Commander, what are you going to do?’

  Asayaga chuckled and sat down by the Strike Leader’s side.

  Do? At the moment he had no answer to that one. A dreaded enemy blocked the way back to their lines, and unbelievably he was sharing a meal and spending the night with nearly sixty Kingdom troops.

  ‘May I venture to say that my Force Commander is not sure of the future path?’ Tasemu announced, sounding quite formal but in so doing offering Asayaga a chance to ask for an opinion.

  They’d been together since the start of this war and rank notwithstanding, he knew Tasemu to be a friend, and not just a loyal retainer. If they ever got back home they’d assume the old roles, but out here it was different.

  ‘Speak your mind, Tasemu. What future do you see?’ Asayaga asked, taking up his Strike Leader’s offer of advice.

  Tasemu sat back against the stockade wall and looked up. The low scudding clouds parted for a brief instant, revealing the stars. Tasemu rubbed the patch over his empty eye-socket, a habit of his when he was thinking hard.

  ‘The black-skinned one, the Natalese, he is a deadly foe, as is their captain,’ he replied finally. ‘I have caught glimpses of them in battle several times. Only glimpses, but I know we have faced them before and lost. Killing those two would be a great coup, worthy in fact of the sacrifice of this entire unit. Later it would save the lives of many of our comrades.’

  Asayaga snorted derisively. ‘I never knew you to be worried about the skin of others, especially of the Clan Shonshoni. This does not sound like your though
ts. It is what Sugama is saying, not an old veteran like you.’

  Tasemu smiled. ‘It is what he is whispering at this very moment,’ Tasemu acknowledged, nodding back towards the barracks, ‘and more than one is listening in there.’

  ‘And you? What do you think, Strike Leader Tasemu?’

  Tasemu hesitated, then said, ‘He’s right you know.’

  ‘If we were back at camp: and he was out here alone, I’d gladly shout such advice to him,’ Asayaga replied heatedly. ‘I’d shout for him to kill as many Kingdom warriors as he wants and die a glorious and honourable death himself in the process.

  ‘But we are not in camp, we are here, stuck with these barbarians and those damned Dark Brothers waiting to kill us all.’ He used the Kingdom words, rather than the Tsurani ‘Forest Demons’ as if doing so made them less fearful and more mortal. ‘First we figure out how to survive, then we think about killing soldiers of the Kingdom. If we can combine those goals, so much the better. If not …’

  He fell silent and like Tasemu leaned back, looking up at the stars, wondering, as so many soldiers of the Tsurani did, which one might be home. Or if they could even see the yellow-green star that was home to Kelewan.

  ‘So, you are not planning then to kill the Kingdom soldiers, or try for their leaders?’ Tasemu pressed.

  ‘When it’s worth it,’ Asayaga replied sharply. ‘When it’s worth it to my family I will do it. But here? So what if we kill this Natalese and their captain. How many of us will survive when that fight starts?’

  ‘Not many,’ Tasemu answered. ‘The cold, this damnable cold, too many of our men are already spent.’

  ‘Even if we win, come morning …’ Asayaga motioned to the other side of the wall and then drew a finger across his own throat. He paused, then shook his head. ‘To those at home, we are already lost,’ he continued, his voice barely a whisper.

  ‘We’re overdue. If word ever got back to the Warlord’s camp that we all died in a futile battle, there would be no honour in it for our clan. Our House will be blamed for the loss of this command. If months from now a rumour comes back of our bleached bones being found in this gods-cursed place, thirty miles or more from where we were suppose to be, someone will seek to cast blame.

  ‘It won’t matter to me, I’ll be dead, as will you. But it will matter to our house and clan. Sugama’s family …’ He shook his head. His face briefly showed disgust before his features resumed their passive expression. ‘The Minwanabi, they win either way. He comes back alive from this, he’s a hero. He disappears, they’ve got rid of a Tondora fool, but they’ll cast him as the hero and vilify us. Clan Shonshoni rises. The Minwanabi rise. We gain nothing for our own.’

  Tasemu asked, ‘So then, you think the rumours from home are true: that the Minwanabi lord seeks to displace Almecho as Warlord?’

  Asayaga let out a long, silent breath. ‘Almecho would not be the first Warlord to be removed by a more ambitious rival. And the Minwanabi lord keeps his cousin Tasaio out here in this miserable weather for a reason.’

  ‘But he’s second-in-command, Force Commander.’

  ‘That’s the brilliance. If we are victorious, he shares the glory. But if we fail, he replaces a powerful rival …’ Asayaga stopped, then chuckled. ‘Ever, we are Tsurani, Tasemu.’ He motioned around him and said, ‘We sit upon this wooden palisade, leaning against frozen stones, in this miserable cold, surrounded by enemies, hours away from almost certain death, on a world not our own, and what do we do? We discuss politics back home.’

  ‘The Great Game is the Empire, Force Commander.’

  Asayaga’s demeanour turned suddenly stern. ‘And the Empire is on another world! No. We must find a way out of here. A suicidal fight for honour may make sense back home, might help the family or clan in the Great Game, but to look for such a fight here, I would have to be an imbecile.’

  Tasemu looked over at him and smiled. There was, for Asayaga a flash of memory then, a memory of nearly ten years ago when both of them were young soldiers, filled with dreams of glory and honour, ready to believe all they had been taught of Tsurani rules of proper behaviour in war.

  Then had come the word of the failed invasion against the Thuril Confederation, and the cessation of hostilities in the highlands to the east of the Empire. Few dared openly call it a defeat, but for the first since the abandonment of Thubar – the Lost Lands across the Sea of Blood centuries earlier – the Empire of Tsuranuanni had been thwarted in its expansion.

  The Party for War had been in turmoil, and the coalition of the Blue Wheel Party and the Party for Progress had been on the rise; then had come the discovery of the Rift Gate and the passage to this world, rich in metals and inhabited by barbarians. The Warlord Almecho had seized the opportunity to mount an expedition to bolster his falling stock in the Great Council and the war banners had flown and the battle call had sounded.

  Young men had bravely marched before the Emperor’s reviewing stand while drums and horns had sounded. The Light of Heaven himself had blessed the endeavour and Asayaga had felt certain a great victory would be swiftly coming. He was Force Commander of his House, but it was a minor house and in prestige he stood behind even a Patrol Leader of one of the Five Great Houses. But he would win glory, rise in importance, and bring honour to his House within his Clan.

  War, however, had taught them something far different: reality.

  Asayaga whispered, ‘We must gain a position where if we do kill their captain and the scout word will somehow get back that it was us, that it was our Clan that did such a deed ; that it was our sacrifice, otherwise Sugama’s family and Clan will create a different tale. Even at the cost of our entire company, to end the ravages of Hartraft’s Marauders would bring glory to our house. But only if the Kodeko are given the credit.’

  ‘Which would prove difficult with the Minwanabi relaying the word back to the home world,’ Tasemu observed.

  ‘A good reason, my friend,’ Asayaga added wryly, ‘to get us out of this alive. Then we can carry word home ourselves.’

  ‘Alliance with the Kingdom troops, captain?’ Tasemu asked. ‘By all the gods if word of that ever gets back it will be just as bad as if word never gets back. You will be denounced as a coward for not taking their heads when you had the chance, or it will be seen as tantamount to surrender.’ Tsurani soldiers didn’t surrender; on their homeworld it meant slavery and dishonour. Better to die with a sword in one’s hand than live a life of shame.

  ‘Are you so eager to die, Strike Leader Tasemu?’

  Tasemu looked as if he had been gravely insulted.

  Asayaga chuckled and gripped his shoulder. ‘We’re alike,’ he whispered, ‘we want to get out of this with heads still on our shoulders as well. A dead man serves his house for a very limited time.’

  Tasemu smiled and laughed softly, shaking his head. His friend had played the old game, indirectly leading in one direction, but in fact seeking the answer he had just received. ‘True. I don’t appreciate someone like Sugama urging me to get myself killed for honour’s sake,’ he replied, rubbing the patch that covered his blind eye. ‘Given a choice, I’d rather defer such honours to him and lead a long life in obscurity.’ His smile faded. ‘But, he’s got more than one lad ready to pull a blade and use it on any pretence. Whatever you do, you’d better do it soon, Force Commander.’

  Asayaga sighed. ‘Keep the watch.’

  He slipped down the ladder and returned to the barracks. Though he would never admit it he was glad to have the errand, it would mean several minutes of warmth.

  That was one thing about this damnable world he could never get used to. Of all the places to open a rift to, it had to be here, to a place where the water froze in the air. He resolved, as he had almost every night since the war had started, that the first thing he would do once it was over was to go home, find a sun-drenched beach on the Sea of Blood, and swim in the warm breakers, then lie on the sand, letting the heat soak into his weary bones. His family had a small
home on the bluffs overlooking the ocean in Lash Province, near the city of Xula. He had not been there since entering training, but if he ever returned home, that is where he planned to travel first after seeing his younger brother.

  As he reached the door to the barracks, he wondered if he would ever again experience the salt spray cutting through the hot dry winds, rich with the pungent, sweet aroma of jicanji blossoms, the brilliant orange flowers that bloomed on the floating kelp beyond the breakers for only a few days each year.

  He pushed the door open and stepped in. The air was fetid with the stench of warm bodies and wet wool, boiling stew, stinking foot-wrappings and open wounds, banishing all memory of blossoms and salt spray. He cast a quick glance at the wounded lying in the corner. Osami, one of his youngest looked at him, trying to act stoic. He knelt down by the boy’s side.

  ‘Their robed one drew the arrow,’ the boy said.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Why would he do such a thing?’

  ‘Perhaps they are crazy,’ Asayaga offered.

  ‘I’ll walk, you know, Force Commander. I will keep up.’

  Asayaga placed a reassuring hand on the boy’s shoulder and squeezed it. He said nothing. It was not proper to offer false hopes and the boy should realize that. If he could not run then he must die. If he had sufficient courage he could wait for the enemy and try to kill one, but the chances of being captured, and the torture that awaited was more than any man could be asked to endure, let alone a boy. Or, he could close his eyes, bare his throat and let a comrade give him release.

  If necessary Asayaga knew that task would fall upon him. The boy had friends, for many of the old veterans viewed him as something of a little brother, an eager youngster still desperate for glory. The fact that they cared so much for him would make cutting his throat difficult for them, though none would hesitate if asked; they were Tsurani. But no man would welcome the task, even if it spared the lad and his family shame. Asayaga pushed the thought away. Time enough before dawn to discuss with the boy a proper and fitting manner of death.