Krondor: The Betrayal

by Raymond E. Feist

  Owyn said, ‘‘And by burning the keep at Cavell and occupying the run—’’

  ‘‘—he prevents anyone from occupying a strong position behind his lines,’’ finished James.

  He stood up and hurried down the steps. ‘‘We must leave now.’’

  Gorath and Owyn hurried after. ‘‘Where are we going?’’

  ‘‘I’m heading for Northwarden,’’ answered James, ‘‘to warn Baron Gabot of the attack. You need to take these documents to Arutha.’’ He handed three rolled-up parchments to Owyn.

  ‘‘Arutha?’’ Owyn shook his head. ‘‘Unless we use your Tsurani orb, it’ll take us weeks to return to Krondor.’’

  ‘‘He’s not in Krondor, so the orb is of no use,’’ said James as they reached the waterfall exit. ‘‘He’s encamped within the northern edge of the Dimwood with a large portion of his army, waiting for word on where the attack is staging, so he can rush to support. He can be within sight of Tyr-Sog, Highcastle, or Northwarden within a week of getting word.’’

  ‘‘So you want us to tell him to come to Northwarden.’’

  ‘‘Yes,’’ said James, as he scrambled down wet rocks to where the horses were tied.

  ‘‘What if he doesn’t believe us?’’ asked Gorath. ‘‘He seemed dubious about my claims when last we met.’’

  ‘‘Far less dubious than he appeared,’’ said James. ‘‘Let me advise you never to play cards with the Prince. In any event, if he expresses doubts, tell him, ‘There’s a Party at Mother’s.’

  That way he’ll know the message is from me.’’

  Owyn said, ‘‘Odd, but we will.’’

  ‘‘James,’’ said Gorath, ‘‘if the Prince is in the Dimwood, so will be the advanced elements of Delekhan’s forces. If the final 190

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  goal is Sethanon, many of my people will have filtered down through the small gullies and passes in the Teeth of the World and will be readying things for the advancing army next spring.’’

  ‘‘Well do I know,’’ said James. ‘‘I remember when we evacuated Highcastle and rode across the High Wold and down through the Dimwood.’’

  ‘‘What if we’re captured or killed?’’

  Mounting his horse, James said, ‘‘I have one thing to say to that.’’

  ‘‘What?’’ asked Owyn.

  ‘‘Don’t be,’’ said James, turning his horse and riding off.

  Owyn mounted, and said, ‘‘Let’s stop so I can see Ugyne safely on her way to my parents, and we’ll get some food.’’

  Gorath said, ‘‘That would be wise.’’

  Owyn said, ‘‘Then that’s about the only wise thing about this plan.’’

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  •

  Escape A PEBBLE CLATTERED DOWN THE HILLSIDE.

  Gorath had his sword in hand before it stopped rolling, and said, ‘‘Owyn!’’

  The young man from Timons stood, peering into the night, blind from having gazed at the campfire. From out of the darkness a voice spoke in a language Owyn didn’t comprehend.

  Arrows slammed into the dirt at Owyn’s feet, to emphasize whatever command was given.

  Gorath said, ‘‘Don’t resist. We’re surrounded.’’

  A group of men and moredhel advanced into the light. One of them walked up to Gorath and looked him in the eyes a moment, then with as powerful a blow as he could muster, he struck Gorath across the face. Owyn looked at the moredhel, sure he had seen him before, but not certain where.

  Then the moredhel advanced upon Owyn and spoke the King’s Tongue. ‘‘You must have conspired with that walking garbage to kill my brother.’’ Suddenly pain exploded in Owyn’s face as he was struck.

  In shock and dizzy from the blow, Owyn lay on the ground.

  He realized that this must be the brother of the magician Nago, whom they had slain in Yellow Mule. To the two of them, Narab said, ‘‘I would happily put your head on a pike, human, and hoist it while I drag this traitor behind me from here to Sar-Sargoth, but I am going to give that pleasure to Delekhan.’’ Turning to the others, he said, ‘‘Drug them, bind them, and bring their horses!’’

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  Owyn was roughly pulled upright, and a bitter drink was forced past his lips. He tried to spit it out and was struck hard across the face for his trouble. His head was cruelly pulled back, and his nose held while the concoction was poured down his throat. He was forced to swallow. A few moments after he had, he felt his legs and arms growing leaden, his mind confused, and his vision hard to focus. He found his hands tied tightly behind him and a blindfold tied around his head. Then he was hoisted into his saddle by rough hands. Once there, his feet were lashed to his stirrups, and the horse was led away. Other men and dark elves appeared, leading horses, and Narab ordered them to mount.

  The nightmare ride began.

  The horses were changed many times, and Owyn remembered resting for a period—minutes or hours he couldn’t recall—but he knew time was passing. The drug was obviously designed to dull his mind so whatever magic he might have possessed was unavailable to him. Several times he became aware enough to realize the drug was wearing off, but then he was given more to drink. Once he fell awkwardly from the saddle and hung by the ties on his feet, forcing his captors to halt and right him. They added more ropes.

  He was vaguely aware of being thirsty and hungry, but it was a distant discomfort. Mostly he existed in a grey fog, punctuated by the constant pounding from the horse upon which he rode. Then he was dragged from the horse and hauled through a cold, damp place and cast down onto rough stones.

  He lay there for a time, still bound and blindfolded.

  He lapsed in and out of consciousness and was aware of his discomfort, but the drug in his system kept him apart from it.

  Then one moment ceased passing into the next, and he awoke in pain. He moved slowly and discovered himself free of leg restraints, though his arms were still bound and he was still blindfolded.

  Owyn sat up and moved his aching and stiff legs. The insides of both of them were bruised, and he knew he had ridden a long way without being able to sit a comfortable seat. Even had he been conscious, he sensed the ride would have been 193

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  punishing; it had taken at least seven or eight days, from what he could recall, and he had switched horses a number of times.

  But with senses dulled and tied to his saddle, it was only by the gods’ mercy he was alive.

  The sound of footfalls, heavy boots on stone, approached, and the sound of a cell being unlocked announced the arrival of his captives. Hands yanked Owyn to his feet, and he couldn’t avoid groaning in pain.

  The blindfold was removed from his eyes and even the relatively low brightness of a torch outside the cell caused Owyn to blink. A dagger cut through the ropes around his wrists, and when he moved his arms, agony shot through his shoulders. The pain almost caused him to fall, but he was held upright by two guards.

  Narab came to stand before Owyn, and said, ‘‘He should still have enough of the drug in him to be harmless.’’ He turned and they escorted Owyn out of the cell. From a cell next door, Gorath was also escorted, and Owyn noticed he didn’t seem to be in better shape, though he walked with apparently less discomfort.

  The tunnel was long and dark, and Owyn sensed it was deep underground. Despite his dulled magic senses, he knew immediately that at one time great power had resided here.

  There was something ancient and terrible about this place, and despite his drug-dulled senses, he was very afraid.

  They were taken through a series of tunnels to a landing from which rose broad stairs. They were escorted up the stairs along a broad hallway, and led to a massive chamber. In the center of the chamber rested a massive throne, currently empty. At its right was another, smaller throne, upon which sat a large, powerfully built moredhel, who could only be Delekhan.

  Narab said, ‘‘Master, I have a prize
for you.’’

  The guards pushed Owyn and Gorath forward, so they landed sprawling at Delekhan’s feet. ‘‘What is this?’’ Delekhan demanded, rising to stand over Gorath.

  ‘‘Gorath of the Ardanien! I have captured him. Let me have the honor of cutting out his heart, to revenge my brother’s death.’’

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  ‘‘Your brother was a fool!’’ shouted Delekhan. Owyn looked up at the towering figure and saw a broad face, surprisingly blunt of features for one of elven kind. His face was a mask of rage, the most expression Owyn had seen on a dark elf so far. ‘‘And you are as well,’’ Delekhan added. ‘‘You’ve wrecked everything, you dog!’’

  Owyn looked at Narab, who stood white-faced, almost trembling with shock and outrage. ‘‘But . . . I have brought back a traitor! We can torture him to discover the names of the other dissidents.’’

  ‘‘You know nothing!’’ Delekhan turned to the guards. ‘‘Re-turn those two to their cells below. I will question them later.’’

  To Narab he said, ‘‘Your life hangs by the slimmest thread.

  Presume one more time, and your head will adorn a pike outside the gate!’’ He turned toward a door. As he walked away, he said, ‘‘Now get out of my sight, you bungler, and do not dare to approach me until I send for you.’’

  Although Owyn was no expert on the facial expressions of the moredhel, he could see murder clearly written on Narab’s face. And it was directed at Delekhan’s retreating back. Owyn was jerked around by two guards, hauling him to his feet, and once again he was forced to march back into the bowels of the dungeons at Sar-Sargoth.

  No food or water was brought, and Owyn considered it academic, as they were likely to be dead within hours. Time passed slowly, and Gorath was silent. Owyn felt no impulse to speak, as he was awash with numbing fatigue. The ride, the lack of food and sleep, the drug, all were making it difficult for him to do anything but lie on the icy stones and attempt to rest.

  Time passed slowly, a blur of thoughts which fled before they were remembered; perhaps he dozed for a while.

  Suddenly he sat up, his skin awash with a tingling sensation.

  Magic! Energized by the fey effect of someone, somewhere casting an enchantment, he reached for the bars of his cell. A metallic click sounded, and the bars pushed open. ‘‘Gorath!’’

  he said in a harsh whisper.

  Gorath looked over and his eyes widened as he saw Owyn 195

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  free. ‘‘Someone is using magic to set us free!’’ Owyn said, moving through the door, his injuries and fatigue forgotten.

  Gorath tested his door and found it also unlatched. ‘‘Who?’’

  he wondered.

  ‘‘I have no idea,’’ said Owyn. ‘‘Whoever helped you escape the North the last time, perhaps?’’

  ‘‘Let us worry about that later,’’ advised Gorath. ‘‘We must get out of this fortress before we are missed.’’

  They moved through the halls of the dungeon. At the large hall that led upward, they found a dead guard, his blood freshly pooled on the floor. ‘‘Whoever threw the spell must have done it from here,’’ suggested Owyn.

  ‘‘Over there,’’ said Gorath, pointing to a table upon which were piled the belongings that had been stripped from the two prisoners. Gorath put on his sword and tossed Owyn his staff.

  Owyn said, ‘‘I don’t suppose they left me any of my gold?’’

  Gorath said, ‘‘Hardly.’’

  Owyn knelt and examined the dead guard. He came away with a small pouch. ‘‘Well, this will have to do.’’

  Moving to the stairway, Owyn asked, ‘‘Do you know a way out of here?’’

  ‘‘Several,’’ replied Gorath. ‘‘This city was built for tens of thousands of my people to occupy. If Delekhan has more than a few hundred outside of the central palace area, I’ll be shocked. Moreover, many of the tribes here are strangers to one another, and there are many human renegades as well, so once we are free of the central palace, we may be able to use guile to find our way out.’’ He moved up the stairs. ‘‘But only if we are away from here when they find we are gone.’’

  Gorath led Owyn up a flight of stone steps, through a hall, and down a dark passage. Moment to moment they expected to hear the alarm raised behind them, but no hue sounded.

  Suddenly they were aboveground, in a courtyard devoid of life. Gorath motioned, and Owyn followed, the twin spurs of fear and hope moving him despite his injuries and the drugs still in him.

  They hid in a grove of scrub as fresh snow fell. ‘‘Does spring ever visit this land?’’ asked Owyn.

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  ‘‘Yes,’’ said Gorath slowly. ‘‘Very late, and our warm days are too few. But yes, we do see spring.’’

  ‘‘I thought Yabon a cold place,’’ said Owyn.

  ‘‘What is your home like?’’ asked Gorath.

  ‘‘Timons? Warm, most of the time.’’ Owyn stared into the distance. ‘‘We get rain, quite a bit, and occasionally great storms off the sea, but in the summer it’s quite hot. My mother tends gardens, and my father breeds horses. I didn’t realize how much I miss it until now.’’

  ‘‘Why did you leave?’’

  Owyn shrugged. ‘‘A boy’s foolishness. My father had a servant, a magician from the North named Patrus who lived with us for a time. He taught me my first lessons. After I studied a while at Stardock, I came to understand that he wasn’t very powerful as magicians go, but he was very smart. He understood things. I think that’s what I was really looking for, how to understand the world better.’’

  Gorath was silent a while, then at last he said, ‘‘I think we all would be better off if more of us sought understanding and fewer of us sought power.’’ He glanced at the fading light.

  ‘‘Come, it is time.’’

  They had been waiting for darkness, to attempt to slip out of the precinct around the fortress. Moredhel warriors and renegade humans, infantry and mounted solders had been moving for hours. At first they had assumed they were the object of a search, but after a while it was clear this was far more than a hunt for a pair of fugitives. This was a mobilization.

  Gorath led them through a series of snow-filled gullies, over a hill, and then down a long draw that led to a flat plain south of the city. ‘‘The plain of Sar-Sargoth,’’ said Gorath. ‘‘Legend has it this is where the Valheru met in council. Great circles of dragons rested there while their riders assembled.’’

  Owyn saw a sea of tents and a large pavilion in the center, in front of which rose a standard, a crimson field upon which a white leopard crouched. ‘‘How do we get around that camp?’’

  ‘‘We don’t,’’ said Gorath, leading him toward the center of the encampment. ‘‘If we don’t find friends here, at least I think we shall not find enemies.’’

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  they walked through the camp. They appeared indifferent to Gorath and Owyn’s approach, though one got up and ran ahead. By the time they reached the large pavilion, the occupant stood waiting at the door to greet them.

  ‘‘Greetings, Gorath of the Ardanien. Were not the dungeons of Sar-Sargoth to your liking?’’ The speaker was a striking female moredhel. Tall and regal of features, her hair was gathered into a knot behind her, and allowed to fall in a cascade of dark red. She wore armor in the same fashion as the males of her tribe, yet even in her warrior’s garb, Owyn was struck by her beauty. Alien and strange it was, but no less compelling for that. She stepped aside, indicating they might enter. She waved them to a place near a small fire. ‘‘Eat, rest for a while.

  I thought Delekhan would have killed you by now. Your escape will cause him no little discomfort.’’

  ‘‘You sound pleased at the prospect, Liallan.’’

  ‘‘My husband’s rise took me with it, Gorath,’’
she said, ‘‘but our marriage had nothing to do with affection. It was a wedding of powerful tribes, to seize control of our respective clans, and to keep them from shedding one another’s blood . . . for a time. Nothing more.’’

  ‘‘Is that why the charade, Liallan? You don’t believe in Delekhan’s mad plans any more than I, yet you openly support him. You command a tribe as powerful as his own, your influence in council is second to none but Narab.’’

  ‘‘You’ve been gone from us too long, Gorath. Much has changed in a short while. Narab even now musters his clan, and turns to face Delekhan.’’ She sat down next to Gorath and took a small piece of meat from a simmering pot next to the fire. She placed it between Gorath’s teeth in a gesture that was clearly seductive, yet even Owyn could tell it was a ritual rather than an open invitation. ‘‘Our new master is displeased with Narab. Something to do with your capture, I believe.’’

  Gorath accepted the ritual offer of food, then handed a bowl to Owyn. Owyn tore off a large piece of bread from a loaf next to the plate and used it to scoop up a mouthful of hot stew. Gorath said, ‘‘Why would your husband be upset with my capture? He certainly tried hard enough to keep me from fleeing south.’’

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  Liallan sat back. She looked at Gorath a moment, then said,

  ‘‘You are a warrior of great honor, Gorath, and your bravery is unquestioned, as well as your caretaking of your clan, but you are naive at times.’’

  Gorath looked ready to take umbrage and studied the woman with a narrow gaze. ‘‘You come close to giving insult.’’

  ‘‘Don’t take it as such. In these cynical days, your openness and honesty are refreshing.’’ She reached up and unbuckled her breastplate, removing her armor. Owyn saw she wore a simple sleeveless tunic beneath the armor. She possessed a long neck and slender arms, yet there was nothing frail about her. Her movements hinted at speed, and the muscles of her arms and neck showed power. She was a dangerous woman, by any race’s measure.