Locklear glanced toward Gorath and saw him beset by two 43
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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.
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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 head 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 mindspeech. 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.’’
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‘‘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.’’
46
Three
•
Revelation T HE 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 Raymond E. Feist
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 colors.
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, 48
KRONDOR THE BETRAYAL
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 49
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asked rhetorically. ‘‘I have never known the moredhel to travel for pleasure.’’
Gorath grunted, foregoing 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 anytime 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 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 anytime 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 50
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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 Quester’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 for certain, and they don’t know which way we’ll be going.’’
Locklear said, ‘‘Fine, but what does that mean about our choices of route.’’
Gorath said, ‘‘It means he must spread his men equally be-51
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tween 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 traveling 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 Quester’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 Dela-croix.’’
‘‘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 onetime hero of some forgotten war when Bas-Tyra was a city-state; their house rank is all based upon that.’’
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‘‘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.
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