The Complete Empire Trilogy

by Raymond E. Feist

  The first swords clashed as the pair of green-armored companies closed in combat. Men grunted, cursed, or shouted the battle cries of the Acoma. They blinked sweat-stung eyes, and engaged, and prayed to their gods for the judgment to enable them to separate friend from foe.

  For all were armored alike in Mara’s green.

  Strike Leader Azawari called encouragement, then reached and jerked Saric from the fray. Years of training made him sarcat-quick, and he interposed himself in the adviser’s place, parrying the stroke of the foeman already engaged. ‘Guard our messenger,’ he snapped. ‘You know where he needs to be!’

  Saric’s features twisted in frustration. He had been a warrior before he was an adviser; he could be so once again. Where better the need? But the teaching of old Nacoya forced him to review all options. There was his Lady, running hard through the trees, tripping over roots in her ill-fitting armor. She was no swordsman. She should not be stripped of all protection, or counsel, and Saric’s split-second knack for sound reason showed him the wisdom of Azawari’s choice.

  ‘Tear out the hearts of these dogs!’ he grated hoarsely. ‘I’ll see that our messenger reaches the main column. We’ll be back before you have time to kill them all!’

  Then he ran in a white heat of fury. Of course, no advance column existed. The guards who defended were all here, and outnumbered three to one. That his Lady had come this far, had traveled into perils in Thuril and sacrificed her most beloved servants, for this! A petty bit of treachery, no doubt the handiwork of the Anasati Lord. Such a plot could not – no, would not! – bring down the honored Servant of the Empire. She might risk all to preserve her children, but Saric understood this race was for higher stakes than the lives of a boy and a girl, no matter how dear to him.

  He raced ahead, no longer torn in his desires, but stung to greater effort by the outmatched struggles of his fellows. From behind came the rattle and crunch of swords striking armor. Screams sounded between grunts of human effort. The false soldiers chewed into the ranks of loyal Acoma with devastating steadiness. They were Minwanabi on a long-anticipated vengeance raid. They did not care how they fell.

  Mara’s men had more weighty matters on their mind as they strove to stem the enemy’s rush. They did not do battle simply to preserve their Lady’s honor. They killed when they could, harried when they could not, and painstakingly kept themselves alive to draw out the fight as long as possible.

  Their fierceness did not pass unnoticed.

  In bare minutes, one of the attackers recalled the messenger sent away to report. He shouted to his officer about the unlikely escort commanded by a Strike Leader who could ill spare the loss of any one available sword.

  ‘Hah!’ cried the Minwanabi officer in his stolen Acoma colors. Satisfaction thickened his tone. ‘You are no rear guard! Your Lady does not ride in a litter under better protection up ahead, eh?’

  Azawari had no answer but the fury of swordplay. He slammed his blade down on the helm of a foeman, and stepped back as the enemy crumpled. ‘Find out,’ he invited grimly.

  ‘Why should we?’ Another Minwanabi dog was grinning. ‘Men!’ he commanded. ‘Disengage and pursue that messenger!’

  Saric heard the cry as he raced after Mara. He cursed, and slammed through an interlaced hammock of branches that his slighter mistress had slipped through. Shouts burst through the foliage at his back. False guardsmen now raced in chase at his heels. No Acoma could win free to stop them. Every loyal sword was already engaged, and the enemy’s numbers were greater.

  Saric blinked sweat from his eyes. ‘Go, go on,’ he urged Mara. It made him ache to see how she stumbled. Her endurance was steel that she should still be on her feet at all.

  He must buy her time! For soon she must rest. If he slowed the rush of her pursuers, perhaps she could find a cranny to hide, at least until her true warriors could reduce the numbers against her.

  Saric ran. He reached Mara’s side, caught her elbow, and sent her in a flying boost over a fallen tree trunk. ‘Run!’ he gasped. ‘Don’t stop until you hear no sounds of pursuit. Then hide. Sneak on at nightfall.’

  She landed on her feet, staggered sideways, and fended off a branch, still running. Saric had spent his last moment to watch out for her. The pursuing Minwanabi were on him.

  He whirled. Three swords came at him. He parried the one that mattered, and let the dead tree entangle the others. One Minwanabi stumbled back, gagging on blood, his chest pierced.

  Saric jerked his blade clear, twisting to avoid a cut from the side. A branch bashed his ribs, the same that a moment ago had spared him. He raised his bloodied blade and lashed downward. Met by a solid parry, he let his momentum spend itself on the enemy sword, then snapped his elbow at an angle. His stroke sliced past the foeman’s guard and killed him. To himself, the former officer turned adviser gasped, ‘Not so bad. Haven’t lost too much.’

  The soldier left alive sought to dodge past, to extricate himself from the windfall’s weave of branches and close upon the boyish form he now suspected must be Lady Mara. Saric lunged to intercept. A searing slash along the back of the adviser’s left shoulder warned of his mistake. Another guard had rushed him. Pinned in place against the downed tree, Saric spun and lashed out, taking his attacker in the throat. The first soldier had by now won free and passed by running hard. Saric muttered an irreverent prayer. His path was clear. He had only to keep on. Fatigue brought agony as he punished tired sinews into motion. He raced, moaning in his need for air. He overhauled the warrior in false colors, and slammed into him from the rear. Armor deflected his stroke. He found himself engaged, while yet another foe slipped past and around, running after Mara’s fleeing form.

  Saric fought, hampered by his useless shoulder. Blood ran down his arm and spattered the ground under his feet. His sandals slipped on slicked leaves. He could barely defend himself. Weakness seemed to travel in waves through his sinews. His enemy was grinning, a bad sign. In a moment his efforts would end in grief. Then a soldier called his name.

  Saric stretched his lips in joyless recognition. Azawari still lived. As the Acoma Strike Leader raced to the adviser’s relief, and more Minwanabi in false armor converged in a knot to prevent him, Saric managed a brief contact of eyes between strokes.

  Each man knew his fate. Each smiled, welcoming the certainty, the final relief that mortal flesh could no longer deny. Saric was struck upon the side. The blow made him stagger, tearing a gasp from his throat. The Acoma Strike Leader faced three more opponents. He was shouting in what seemed defiant rage, but Saric recognised cold purpose behind his insults. ‘Come, Anasati puppets!’ Azawari danced and brandished his sword. ‘You may tell your children you sent Azawari, Strike Leader to the Servant of the Empire, to the Red God’s halls! If you live to have children! If they can admit to fathers who shame them by wearing honored colors not their own. Die for your insolence, Minwanabi dogs!’

  But the warriors were not goaded into striking; instead, they measured their distance. The middle one leaped at Azawari, while the others dodged to each side, resuming the chase after Mara. Azawari flung sideways. The warrior who lunged at him missed his stroke, and the one who ran left screamed as a sword slid between his ribs. The one who dodged right checked his rush, uncertain. Azawari held no such hesitation. He flung himself after, not caring whether a sword whined between. He took a blow to the flank, but brought down the runner in a lunge.

  Saric saw the green-plumed helm fall. He blinked back furious tears, aware that the gallant Strike Leader had bought Mara precious seconds, for the last of the treacherous trio had to stop his rush and stab his fallen body twice to ensure his death was certain.

  The First Adviser raised his blade; too slow, for his muscles were spent. He missed the stroke. Pain slashed hot across his neck, and the brightness of the world seemed suddenly dull and distant. Saric tottered and fell. The last thing he knew before darkness swallowed his senses was the rich smell of moss and the sound of enemy soldiers leaving t
he site of bloody victory to pursue one last running form: Mara. Saric struggled to say a prayer for the Good Servant, but words would not come. He had no breath, and no more speech in him, after all. His final thought, as death took him, was of Nacoya, who had trained him. The indomitable harridan would be shrill when he met her in Turakamu’s halls, and found him fallen to a warrior’s honor despite her best efforts to raise him to higher station. More than eager to cross words with his touchy Acoma predecessor, for his mind was far from ready to quit the fight, Saric almost smiled.

  • Chapter Thirty •

  Pursuit

  Mara ran.

  Brush hooked her ankles, and her breath burned her throat. She fought her way forward, gasping. Long past the point where her body needed rest, she knew if she stopped, she was dead. Enemies pursued her relentlessly. As she ducked under branches, she caught glimpses of them: figures in green running after.

  There was something profoundly evil in the sight of men wearing her house colors chasing behind with murderous purpose. Mara thrashed through a strand of creeper, driven by more than fear. That green armor had always represented those willing to die for her, willing to protect her at any cost, and enemies wearing Acoma colors brought her to the edge of despair.

  How many had died of this last conjoined treachery of Minwanabi and Anasati? Saric and Azawari, two of her finest younger officers, ones she had determined to spare. The soldiers with her had been fit, tough men chosen for their dependability in an emergency. But with their eyes upon the Assembly of Magicians, who among them had guessed that the trap to overtake them so near to their goal would be so mundane, yet so murderous?

  The cho-ja tunnels were just a short march distant.

  Always a healthy woman, Mara was nevertheless not the girl she had been when she had assumed the Acoma mantle. The wrestling matches and foot races with her brother were thirty years behind her, and her breath tore now from her chest. She could not continue; yet she must.

  The soldiers behind were closing on her. Encumbered by heavier armor, they had marched some distance before the encounter; the race for a time had been even. Now it was not. Mara’s next step became a stumble. Her foemen neared. For torturous minutes, the only sound she acknowledged was the pounding of sandal-clad feet upon the earth and her own labored breathing.

  Mara could not speak for breath and for sorrow. There were two at her heels, one just a pace behind, and the other a bare half stride more, and coming hard. Almost she could sense the raised blade at her back. Any instant she expected the shock of the thrust, followed by pain and a spiraling fall into darkness.

  To die by the blade was honor, she thought wildly. But she felt only black rage. All in life she had striven for would become wasted because of a warrior’s narrow-minded hatred and revenge. She could do nothing; only punish her body forward in what might be the last step she took. So would a gazen die, nailed in flight by the mailed claws of the sarcat who hunted for meat.

  The ground began to rise. Mara threw herself into the grade and tripped. She fell hard. A sword cut the air where her body had been, and a warrior gruffly cursed.

  She rolled through dry leaves. Her armor hampered her, and the sword at her side she had not thought to toss away hooked on a root and trapped her.

  She looked up to a dizzy impression of greenery and flecks of bright sky. Across these reared an enemy face in a nightmare of friendly colors. Mara saw the sword rise to slash down and take her. She had no breath to cry out, but could only fall back, thrashing, in a futile effort to escape.

  The warrior who raced one pace behind reached the scene at that instant. His blade rose and fell a bit faster, by a fraction; and the flesh he hewed down was the enemy’s.

  Sobbing in exhausted reaction, Mara did not realise until after the dying man slammed in a heap across her legs that not all green armor held traitors. One familiar face had survived, bleeding from a cut cheek. ‘Xanomu,’ she cried. ‘Bless the gods.’

  He heaved off the corpse, jerked her up, and shoved her stumbling away from him. ‘Go, mistress,’ he gasped out. His voice was cramped by pain, due to worse wounds in his body. ‘Find the cho-ja. I will delay your enemies.’

  Mara wanted to praise him, to let him know her gratitude for his valor. She could not catch her wind.

  Xanomu saw her struggle. ‘My Lady, go! There are more coming, and only I to hold them.’

  Mara whirled, tears half blinding her. Xanomu’s dream of seeing her safe to the cho-ja was false hope: the insectoids would not fight. They were bound by the Assembly’s treaty, and surely by now they knew of her defiance of the Great Ones’ edict.

  She ran anyway. The alternative was to be butchered where she stood, as two hulking warriors smashed out of the undergrowth and sprang, with only Xanomu’s failing strength to delay them.

  The struggle was brief, barely a half-dozen sword strokes before the gurgling moan of a man cut through the neck. Xanomu had fallen, his life sold to gain his mistress a few more yards through the forest. The trees were thinning, Mara thought; or maybe her eyesight had begun to fail, dazzled by the beginnings of a faint.

  She blinked away tears or maybe sweat, and darkness rose up like a black wall to swallow her.

  She flung out a hand, as if to break a fall, and her fingernails scraped across chitin.

  Cho-ja! She had reached the mound. Black bodies closed in on her, pressing her upright on all sides. Mara gasped, panting, a helpless prisoner. These were not warriors but workers, a tight-knit band of foragers who seemed to be headed back to their hive.

  She knew better than to believe she was safe. Between gasps, she said, ‘You … are bound to obey … the Assembly’s … edict! You must … not fight!’

  The cho-ja ignored her. They could not do battle in any event, being workers unspecialised for combat. No weapons or tools were carried among them. But as they knotted tighter around Mara, and her pursuers sprinted out of the trees, she realised: the insectoids could not fight, but only die.

  The lead warrior screamed to his companions, and in a rush, they charged. Swords flashed in late-day sunlight as they hewed down a worker marching in procession with its fellows.

  It fell without sound, kicking and rolling in its pain. As if only now cognisant of their threat, the workers left living clashed together into a single body, with Mara wedged at their center. She was pressed too close to fall to the ground; neither could she shove her way against the current as the insectoids simultaneously thrust forward in a teeth-rattling sprint. Like flotsam caught in a current, she was carried along. She could not see for the dust and the clack of chitin-covered bodies. Turf ripped at her feet. She lost a sandal. Then the mound of the hive rose up, suddenly, and they descended into darkness.

  The Minwanabi in false armor shouted and raced after them into the tunnel.

  Mara gave up the distraction of thought. Borne along with the workers, and blind in a morass of unfamiliar smells and sounds, she made no effort to analyse. Her eyes adjusted slowly, and she twisted her head to make sense of the commotion and clamoring behind her. For a long moment she did not identify the strange, scraping rattle of blades striking unprotected chitin.

  Cho-ja bodies littered the tunnel floor, and still the false warriors came on. The cho-ja about Mara slackened pace with a jerk, and a high-pitched buzzing stung her ears.

  The next instant, a dark tide eclipsed the last light from the entrance. She knew that cho-ja workers were inserting themselves in the path of flight and that the pursuing soldiers could do nothing to reach her unless they hacked themselves a path though living bodies.

  Mara felt too pummeled with weariness to weep for grief or relief. Her mind was punished with the recognition that, even though this hive was under attack, its warrior defenders dared not risk a response for fear that the Assembly might charge its denizens with breaking the treaty. Although she knew that the cho-ja counted individual lives – workers in particular – as expendable at need, she knew regret that any such life
should be sacrificed to save her.

  The last faint daylight vanished, as the cho-ja rounded a corner. Mara was conducted in total darkness. Aware as she was since her trip to Chakaha in Thuril that cho-ja were by nature day creatures, she perceived strategy in the lack of illumination. Her escorting party of workers was leading her ever deeper into the hive, past countless twistings and turnings of the way. The Minwanabi were being lured into following. Doom awaited them. They would never come alive out of this maze. The cho-ja need not trouble themselves with killing. Humans who lost themselves in the tunnels beneath the earth would wander until they perished, wasted from thirst and hunger.

  ‘Convey my thanks to your Queen,’ Mara murmured.

  The worker cho-ja deigned not to reply. It might have been the treaty that held them silent, or it might have been sorrow for their fallen fellows. Mara felt the touch of their bodies against her, no longer crushing, but as tender as if she were cradled within a giant fist. It occurred to her belatedly that she had been caught up to the point of blindness by her personal concern for Justin. These cho-ja were doing her no favor but perhaps in their way lending her aid for the sake of their own cause, since she had brought back cho-ja mages for the purpose of defeating the Assembly.

  These beings saw their freedom in her survival.

  Mara realised that the slavelike workers might be forbidden to communicate. But the possibility existed that their Queen was not acting from strict neutrality but, in her covert way, as an ally to Mara’s human cause.

  The workers were going somewhere quickly. They showed no sign of spacing their bodies apart to let her fall by the wayside. What if they had been sent on an ‘errand’ that by design was meant to coincide with the direction she desired to go? Or worse, what if they went mindlessly on about their hive’s purpose, and she was carried in a direction she did not care to go? Time, above all, was of the essence. Her children’s survival depended upon swift action.