The Riftwar Saga

by Raymond E. Feist

  ‘That’s Locky.’

  ‘Jimmy’s protégé,’ Roald added with a chuckle.

  Martin and Baru exchanged glances. The tall Duke said, ‘Two of them?’

  Arutha said, ‘It’s a long tale. We should tarry here as little as possible.’

  ‘Agreed,’ answered Martin. ‘But we’ll need new horses. Ours are weary, and I expect we still have a long road before us.’

  Arutha’s eyes narrowed and he said, ‘Yes. Very long.’

  The clearing was little more than a widening in the road. To Arutha’s party the roadhouse was a welcoming beacon, every window on both floors showing a merry yellow light that knifed through the oppressive gloom of night. They had ridden without incident since leaving Ylith, passing beyond Zun and Yabon, and were now at the last outpost of Kingdom civilization, where the forest road turned northeast for Tyr-Sog. To travel directly north was to enter Hadati country, and the northern ranges beyond marked the boundary of the Kingdom. While there had been no trouble, all were relieved to be reaching this inn.

  A sharp-eared stable boy heard them ride up and came down from his loft to open the barn – few travelled the forest roads after sundown and he had been about to turn in. They quickly cared for their animals, Jimmy and Martin occasionally watching the woods for signs of trouble.

  When they were done, they gathered their bundles and headed for the roadhouse. As they crossed the clearing between barn and main building, Laurie said, ‘It will be nice to have a warm meal.’

  ‘Maybe our last for a while,’ commented Jimmy to Locklear.

  As they reached the front of the building, they could make out the sign over the door, a man sleeping atop a wagon while his mule had broken its traces and was making its getaway. Laurie said, ‘Now for some hot food. The Sleeping Wagoneer is among the finest little country inns you’ll ever visit, though at times you may find it occupied by a rather strange assortment.’

  Pushing open the door, they entered a bright and cheery common room. A large open hearth contained a roaring fire, and three long tables stood before it. Across the room, opposite the door, ran a long bar, behind which rested large hogsheads of ale. And making his way toward them, a smile upon his face, came the innkeeper, a man of middle years and portly appearance. ‘Ah, guests. Welcome.’ When he reached them, his smile broadened. ‘Laurie! Roald! As I live! It’s been years! Glad I am to see you.’

  The minstrel said, ‘Greetings, Geoffrey. These are companions of mine.’

  Geoffrey took Laurie by the elbow and guided him to a table near the bar. ‘Your companions are as welcome as yourself.’ He seated them at the table and said, ‘Pleased as I am to see you, I wish you had been here two days ago. I could have done with a good singer.’

  Laurie smiled at that. ‘Trouble?’

  A look of perpetual trial crossed the innkeeper’s face. ‘Always. We had a party of dwarves through here and they sang their drinking songs all hours. They insisted on keeping time to the songs by beating on the tables with whatever was at hand, winecups, flagons, hand axes, all in complete disregard for whatever was upon them. I’ve broken crockery and scarred tables all over. I only managed to return the common room to a semblance of order this afternoon, and I had to repair half of one table.’ He fixed Roald and Laurie with a mock-stern expression. ‘So don’t start trouble, like the last time. One ruckus a week is plenty.’ He glanced around the room. ‘It is quiet now, but I expect a caravan through at any time. Ambros the silver merchant passes through this time of year.’

  Roald said, ‘Geoffrey, we perish from thirst.’

  The man became instantly apologetic. ‘Truly, I am sorry. Fresh in from the road and I stand jabbering like a magpie. What is your pleasure?’

  ‘Ale,’ said Martin, and the others echoed the request.

  The man hurried away, and returned moments later with a tray of pewter jacks, all brimming with cool ale. After the first draught of the biting liquid, Laurie said, ‘What brings dwarves this far from home?’

  The innkeeper joined them at the table, wiping his hands on his apron. ‘Have you not heard the news?’

  Laurie said, ‘We’re just in from the south. What news?’

  ‘The dwarves moot at Stone Mountain, meeting in the long hall of Chief Harthorn at village Delmoria.’

  ‘To what ends?’ asked Arutha.

  ‘Well, the dwarves through here were up all the way from Dorgin, and from their talk it’s the first time in ages the eastern dwarves have ventured up to visit their brethren in the West. Old King Halfdan of Dorgin is sending his son Hogne, and his rowdy companions, to witness the restoration of the line of Tholin in the West. With the return of Tholin’s hammer during the Riftwar, the western dwarves have been pestering Dolgan of Caldara to take the crown lost with Tholin. Dwarves from the Grey Towers, Stone Mountain, Dorgin, and places I’ve never heard of are gathering to see Dolgan made King of the western dwarves. As Dolgan has agreed to moot, Hogne says it’s a foregone conclusion he’ll take the crown, but you know how dwarves can be. Some things they decide quickly, other things they take years to consider. Comes of being long lived, I guess.’

  Arutha and Martin exchanged faint smiles. Both remembered Dolgan with affection. Arutha had first met him years ago when riding east with his father to carry news to King Rodric of the coming Tsurani invasion. Dolgan had acted as their guide through the ancient mine, the Mac Mordain Cadal. Martin had met him later, during the war. The dwarven chief was a being of high principle and bravery, possessing a dry wit and keen mind. They both knew he would be a fine King.

  As they drank, they slowly discarded their travellers’ accoutrements, putting off helms, setting aside weapons, and letting the quiet atmosphere of the inn relax them. Geoffrey kept the ale coming and, after a while, a fine meal of meats, cheeses, and hot vegetables and breads. Talk ran to the mundane, as Geoffrey repeated stories told by travellers. While they ate, Laurie said, ‘Things are quiet this night, Geoffrey.’

  Geoffrey said, ‘Yes, besides yourselves I have only one other guest.’ He indicated a man sitting in the corner farthest from them, and all turned in surprise for a moment. Arutha motioned for the others to resume their meal. All wondered how they had failed to notice him there all this time. The stranger seemed indifferent to the newcomers. He was a plain-looking fellow, of middle years, with nothing remarkable about him in either manner or dress. He wore a heavy brown cloak that hid any chain or leather armour he might be wearing. A shield rested against the table, its blazon masked by a plain leather cover. Arutha became curious, for only a disinherited man or one on some holy quest would choose to disguise his blazon – among honest men, Arutha added silently. He asked Geoffrey, ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Don’t know. Name’s Crowe. Been here for two days, coming just after the dwarves left. Quiet sort. Keeps to himself. But he pays his bill and makes no trouble.’ Geoffrey began clearing the table.

  When the innkeeper was gone to the kitchen, Jimmy leaned across the table as if to reach for something in a pack on the other side and said quietly, ‘He’s good. He makes no show, but he is straining to hear our conversation. Guard your words. I’ll keep an eye on our friend over there.’

  When Geoffrey returned, he said, ‘Where are you bound, Laurie?’

  Arutha answered, ‘Tyr-Sog.’

  Jimmy thought he noticed a flicker of interest in the sole occupant of the other table, but he couldn’t be sure. The man seemed intent upon his meal.

  Geoffrey clapped Laurie upon the shoulder. ‘Not going back to see your family, are you?’

  Laurie shook his head. ‘No, not really. Too many years. Too many differences.’ All save Baru and Locklear knew Laurie had been disowned by his father. As a boy, Laurie had proved an indifferent farmer, being more interested in daydreams and song. With so many mouths to feed, his father had tossed him out on his own at age thirteen.

  The innkeeper said, ‘Your father came through here two, no, almost three years back. Just before the end of th
e war. He and some other farmers were caravanning grain down to LaMut for the army.’ He studied Laurie’s face. ‘He spoke of you.’

  A strange expression crossed the former minstrel’s face, one unreadable to those around the table. ‘I had mentioned it had been years since you came by and he said, “Well then, ain’t we the lucky ones? That worthless layabout hasn’t pestered me in years either.”’

  Laurie erupted in laughter. Roald joined in. ‘That’s my father. I hope the old sod is still well.’

  ‘I expect,’ said Geoffrey. ‘He and your brothers seem to be doing fine. If I can, I’ll send word you were through. Last any of us heard of you, you were off somewhere with the army, and that was five or six years back. From where have you come?’

  Laurie glanced at Arutha, both sharing the same thought. Salador was a distant eastern court, and word had not yet made its way to the frontier that a son of Tyr-Sog was now Duke there, married to the King’s sister. Both were relieved.

  Arutha tried to sound offhanded in his answer. ‘Around, here and there. Most recently Yabon.’

  Geoffrey sat at the table. Drumming his fingers on the wood, he said, ‘You might do well to wait for Ambros to pass here. He’ll be bound for Tyr-Sog. I am sure he could use a few more guards, and these roads are better travelled in large companies.’

  Laurie said, ‘Troubles?’

  Geoffrey said, ‘In the forest? Always, but more so of late. For weeks now there have been stories of goblins and brigands troubling travellers. It’s nothing new, but there seems to be more of that going on than is usual, and something odd is the goblins and bandits almost always are reported as travelling northward.’ He lapsed into silence for a moment. ‘Then there’s something the dwarves said when they first arrived. It was right strange.’

  Laurie feigned amused uninterest. ‘Dwarves tend to the strange.’

  ‘But this was unusually so, Laurie. The dwarves claim they crossed the path of some Dark Brothers and, being dwarves, proceeded to have a bash at them. They claim they were chasing these Dark Brothers when they killed one, or at least should have. This one creature wouldn’t have the decency to die, the dwarves avowed. Maybe these youngsters sought to pull a simple innkeeper’s leg, but they said they hit this one Brother with an axe; damn near split his head in two, but the thing just sort of pushes the halves together and runs off after his companions. Shocked the dwarves so fierce they stopped in their tracks and forgot to chase after. That’s the other thing. The dwarves said they’ve never met a band of Dark Brothers so intent on running away, like they had to get somewhere and couldn’t take the time to fight. They’re a mean lot as a rule and they don’t like dwarves a little more than they don’t like everybody else.’ Geoffrey smiled and winked. ‘I know the older dwarves are sombre sorts and not given to stretching the truth, but these youngsters were having me on a little, I think.’

  Arutha and the others showed little expression, but all knew the story to be true – and that it meant the Black Slayers were again abroad in the Kingdom.

  Arutha said, ‘It probably would be best to wait for the silver merchant’s caravan, but we’ve got to be off at first light.’

  Laurie said, ‘With only one other guest, I assume there’s no trouble with rooms.’

  ‘None.’ Geoffrey leaned forward and whispered, ‘I mean no disrespect toward a paying guest, but he sleeps in the commons. I’ve offered him a room at discount, since I’ve ample space, but he says no. What some will do to save a little silver.’ Geoffrey rose. ‘How many rooms?’

  Arutha said, ‘Two should provide comfort.’

  The innkeeper seemed disappointed, but given travellers were often short of funds, he was not surprised. ‘I’ll have extra pallets brought into the rooms.’

  As Arutha and his companions gathered up their belongings, Jimmy glimpsed the other man. He seemed intent on the contents of his wine cup and little else. Geoffrey brought over some candles and lit them with a taper from the fire. Then he led them up the dark stairs to their rooms.

  Something woke Jimmy. The former thief’s senses were more attuned to changes in the night than were his companions’. He and Locklear were bunking in with Roald and Laurie. Arutha, Martin, and Baru slept across the narrow hall, in a room over the common room, and as the soft sound that had awakened him came from outside, Jimmy was certain it hadn’t roused the former Huntmaster of Crydee or the hillman. The young squire of the Prince’s court strained his hearing to its limit. Again came a sound in the night, a faint rustling. He quietly got up from his pallet on the floor, next to Locklear’s. Passing the sleeping forms of Roald and Laurie, he peered out the window between their beds.

  In the darkness he caught a glimpse of movement, as if something or someone had just moved behind the barn. Jimmy wondered if he should wake the others but thought it would be foolish to raise alarm over nothing. He gathered up his own sword and quietly left the room.

  His bare feet made no sound as he moved toward the stairs. At the landing atop the stairs another window opened on the front of the inn. Jimmy peeked through and in the gloom saw figures moving near the trees across the road. He counted it unlikely that anyone skulking out in the night was up to honest undertakings.

  Jimmy hurried down the stairs and found the door unbolted. He puzzled at that, for he was near certain it had been bolted when they retired. Then Jimmy remembered the inn’s other guest. He spun about and saw the man was gone.

  Jimmy moved to a window, pulling aside a peep slide in the shutters, and saw nothing. Silently he let himself out the door, and dodged along the front of the building, trusting the gloom of the night to mask him. He hurried to the place he had last seen movement.

  Jimmy’s ability to walk quietly was hampered by having to negotiate the forest at night. While he had gained a little comfort in these environs from his journey with Arutha to Moraelin, he was still a city boy. He was forced to move slowly. Then he heard voices. Cautiously he approached the source of the conversation and saw a faint light.

  He could begin to understand scraps of what was said, then he suddenly could see a half-dozen figures in a tiny clearing. The man in the brown cloak with the covered shield was speaking with a black armoured figure. Jimmy sucked in a chest full of air, to calm himself down. It was a Black Slayer. Four other moredhel stood quietly off to one side, three in the grey cloaks of the forest clans and one in the trousers and vest of the mountain clans. The man in brown was speaking. ‘… nothing, I say. Bravos from the look of them, with a minstrel, but…’

  The Black Slayer interrupted him. His voice was deep and seemed to come from some distance, echoing with an odd breathiness. The voice was disquietingly familiar to Jimmy. ‘You are not paid to think, human. You are paid to serve.’ He punctuated that remark with a jabbing finger to the chest. ‘See that I remain pleased with your work and we shall continue this relationship. Displease me and suffer the consequences.’ The brown-cloaked fellow looked the sort not easily frightened, a tough fighting man, but he only nodded. Jimmy understood, for the Black Slayers were worthy of fear. Murmandamus’s minions, even when dead, served him.

  ‘You say there’s a singer and a boy?’ Jimmy swallowed hard.

  The man tossed back his cloak, revealing brown chain mail, and said, ‘Well, now that I think, you could more likely say there are two boys, but they’re almost man-sized.’

  This brought the Black Slayer out of his reverie. ‘Two?’

  The man nodded. ‘Might be brothers from the look of them. About a size, though their hair colour’s different. But they seem alike in some ways, like brothers do.’

  ‘Moraelin. There was a boy there, but not two … Tell me, is there a Hadati among them?’

  The man in brown shrugged. ‘Yes, but hillmen’re all over. This is Yabon.’

  ‘This one would be from the northwest, near Lake of the Sky.’ For a long moment there was only the sound of heavy breathing from behind the black helm as if the moredhel was lost in thought, or convers
ing with someone else. The Black Slayer hit his fist against his hand. ‘It could be them. Was there one who looked cunning, a slender warrior with dark hair almost to his shoulders, quick in his movements, clean shaven?’

  The man shook his head. ‘There’s a clean-shaven fellow, but he’s big, and a slender one, but he’s got short hair and a beard. Who do you think it is?’

  ‘That is not for you to know,’ said the Slayer. Jimmy eased his legs by slowly shifting his weight. He knew the Black Slayer was trying to connect this band to the one that raided Moraelin for Silverthorn the year before. Then the moredhel said, ‘We shall wait. News reached us two days ago the Lord of the West is dead, but I am not foolish enough to count a man dead until I hold his heart in my hand. It may be nothing. Had an elf been with them, I would burn that inn to the ground tonight, but I cannot be sure. Still, remain alert. It could be his companions returning to do mischief, to avenge him.’

  ‘Seven men, and two of them really boys. What harm?’

  The moredhel ignored the question. ‘Return to the inn and watch, Morgan Crowe. You are paid well and quickly for obedience, not questions. Should those in the inn leave, follow at a discreet distance. Should they remain upon the road to Tyr-Sog until midday, return to the inn and wait. Should they turn northward before then, I shall wish to know. Return here tomorrow night and tell me which. But tarry not, for Segersen brings his band north and you must meet him. Without the next payment, he takes his men home. I need his engineers. Is the gold safe?’

  ‘Always with me.’

  ‘Good. Now go.’ For an instant the Black Slayer seemed to shudder, then wobble, then his movements returned. In a completely different voice, he said, ‘Do as our master instructs, human,’ then turned and walked away. In a moment the clearing was empty.

  Jimmy’s mouth hung open. Now he understood. He had heard that first voice before, in the palace where the undead moredhel had tried to kill Arutha, and again in the basement of the House of Willows when they had destroyed the Nighthawks in Krondor. The man called Morgan Crowe had been speaking not to the Black Slayer, but rather through him. And Jimmy had no doubt to whom. Murmandamus!