Krondor Tear of the Gods

by Raymond E. Feist

  He felt the blade just miss him as he blinked furiously, while drawing his own sword. Again he stepped back, and without hesitation lashed out, a move designed to keep Jorath back or, with luck, land a blow.

  He heard the journeyman retreat and James knew he had almost succeeded in hitting him. James had fought in the darkness more times than he cared to remember, and he closed his eyes, knowing that darkness would be less distracting than the blurred images and lights that danced before his eyes.

  He sensed that Jazhara had moved away from him, her own protective reflexes taking her away from possible danger. James threw a wild high blow and felt the shock run up his arm as Jorath’s sword blocked his.

  Without hesitation, James slid his blade down Jorath’s, moving forward rather than retreating. James hoped that the guildsman was not a practiced swordsman, for if he was, James was almost certain to be wounded.

  As he had hoped, James heard a startled exclamation from the guildsman as James threw his weight forward, reaching out with his free left hand to grip Jorath’s right wrist. He slammed upward with his own sword, and with a satisfying crack felt the hilt of his sword smack into the man’s chin.

  Jorath slumped to the floor as James blinked away tears. His vision was slowly returning, enough to see that the journeyman was now lying unconscious on the floor. Jazhara was also blinking furiously, trying to clear her own eyesight.

  “It’s all right,” said James. “He’s out.”

  “What’ll happen to him?” asked Jazhara.

  “Arutha will almost certainly hang him, but he’ll be questioned first.”

  “Do you think he’s involved in the search for the Tear?”

  James shook his head slowly. A Guild apprentice appeared at the door and looked down at the fallen journeyman. His eyes widened in alarm. James shouted, “Get the city watch, boy!”

  The youngster hurried off.

  James looked at Jazhara and said, “I think he was merely a convenience for the Nighthawks and the Crawler.” Shaking his head at how little he knew, James added, “Or whoever else is behind all this madness.” He sighed. “I think the Nighthawks and whoever is employing them wanted to ensure no one could raise that ship but themselves. If I’m to guess, there’s someone up in Ylith who’s arranging for a team from their Wreckers’ Guild to head down to Widow’s Point - or there will be soon.” Pointing to the belt pouch in which Jazhara had Kendaric’s scroll, James added, “Finding that scroll would simply have made things easier for the Nighthawks. They would have promised Jorath whatever he wanted, gotten him to raise the ship, then killed him.” Glancing down at the unconscious journeyman, James shook his head in disgust. “Either way, he ends up a dead man. What a waste.”

  “So what now?” asked Jazhara.

  “We visit Lucky Pete and see if we can uncover this last nest of the Nighthawks and stamp them out. Then we find Kendaric. I think it’s safe to say he’s no longer a suspect.”

  “How do we find him?”

  “We look for the woman he was engaged to; perhaps she will know somewhere to start the search.”

  “Jorath said he didn’t recall who she was.”

  James grinned. “Maybe the journeyman didn’t, but I bet someone around here remembers. Probably old Abigail knows. Gossip like that doesn’t say hidden long.”

  Jazhara said, “I’ll go ask her.”

  James nodded. “I’ll wait for the city watch.”

  A few minutes later Jazhara returned just as two city watchmen arrived with the apprentice. James instructed them to take Jorath to the palace and told them what to say to Duke Gardan. The watchmen saluted and carried off the still-unconscious guildsman.

  After they left, James asked, “Did you get a name?”

  Jazhara nodded. “Her name is Morraine. She runs a shop called The Golden Grimoire.”

  James nodded. “Just your kind of place. An apothecary shop with a bit of magic for sale, according to rumor. It’s in the nicer part of town.” He glanced around and said, “We’re finished here.”

  “Where to first?” asked Jazhara as they strode toward the door.

  “First, to the palace to collect a half-dozen or so of the duke’s best swordsmen. Then back to Ye Bitten Dog.”

  “You expect trouble?” asked Jazhara.

  James laughed. “Always.”

  EIGHT

  Kendaric

  James signaled.

  The squire and Jazhara surveyed their surroundings as they walked toward Ye Bitten Dog. Six of the Prince’s Royal Household Guard waited at the intersection of the two streets nearest the entrance of the inn, hiding in the shadows as night fell upon the city. In addition, a young constable, Jonathan Means, was positioned across the street. He was the son of the former sheriff, Wilfred Means, and despite no direct order from the Prince, he was acting in his father’s stead. James had also recruited him as one of his first confidential agents in what he hoped one day would be the Kingdom’s intelligence corps. Young Means would wait fifteen minutes, then enter the inn. Alternately, at any sign of trouble, he would signal to the squad of soldiers and they would rush the building.

  James and Jazhara wanted to see what sort of information they might weasel out of Lucky Pete before resorting to threats. And if there were Nighthawks in residence, it would be useful to have a riot squad close at hand.

  James pushed open the door. Inside, the night’s revelries were starting to pick up, as whores and dockworkers on their way home from a day’s labor lined up three deep at the tables to carouse.

  Glancing around, James realized they had caught the attention of a worker near the door who was looking at James and Jazhara’s fine clothing. “What have we here?” he said loudly.

  His companion turned. “Looks like a court boot-lick and his Keshian pet, to me.”

  Without bothering to look at the man, Jazhara said, “Careful, my friend. This pet has claws.”

  The man so addressed blinked in confusion, but his friend exploded into laughter.

  “That’s enough,” James said. “We seek no trouble.” He took Jazhara’s elbow and guided her through to the bar at the rear of the room, where the owner was filling tankards and handing them to a bar-boy to carry to the tables.

  As they approached, Lucky Pete looked up. “What do you want now?”

  James said, “Just some information, Pete.”

  The boy took the flagons and hurried off, and Pete wiped up a puddle of spilled ale with a filthy bar rag. “It’ll cost ya. Like always.”

  “Did you hear about the troubles at the Wreckers’ Guild?”

  Pete shrugged. “Maybe.”

  James slid a coin across the rough-hewn planks of the bar.

  “Okay, I heard something.”

  James slid another coin, and Pete remained silent. After a moment, James slid a third coin across the bar, and Pete said, “Seems some journeyman couldn’t wait for the old master to die so he could replace him and hurried the old fellow off to Lims-Kragma’s Hall. Fellow named Kendaric.”

  “So we’ve heard,” replied James. “Any idea where we might find this Kendaric?”

  Pete said, “This answer’s for free: No.”

  James considered for a moment whether Pete might be lying, but rejected the notion, given Pete’s appetite for gold. If he were to lie, it would be to get more gold, not less. James glanced at Jazhara and she gave him a slight nod, indicating that she, too, thought this avenue of questioning was a dead end.

  James lowered his voice. “I could also use some information on obtaining some ‘special’ services.” He slid another coin across the bar.

  “What sort of ‘special’ services?” asked Pete, sweeping it up.

  “I need the skills of some men with . . . muscle.”

  Pete shrugged. “Bashers are a copper a dozen in Krondor. Find ‘em at the docks, the markets . . .” He narrowed his gaze. “Of course you know that already, don’t you?”

  James slid yet another coin across the bar. “I h
ad heard this was the place to get in touch with a special breed of nocturnal birds.”

  Pete didn’t touch the coin. “Why would you want to talk to these ‘birds’?”

  “We want to offer them a well-paying job.”

  Pete was silent for a moment, then picked up the coin. “You’ve got balls, boy, but have you the cash to back ‘em up?”

  James nodded. “More gold than you’ve ever seen, if you’ve got what I want.” He placed another coin on the bar, then quickly put four more carefully atop it, to make a small, neat stack.

  Pete swept up the coins. “First payment, only, Squire.” He grinned, displaying discolored teeth. “Aye, lad, you’ve come to the right place. Go ‘round back, if you would. There’s some gentlemen in the rear room you ought to speak to.” He tossed James a key, then gestured with his hand toward a door behind the bar. “You’ll be needin’ this, lad.”

  James caught the key and started toward the indicated door. He unlocked the door and glanced over his shoulder at Jazhara, who looked ready for trouble. James estimated they now had about ten minutes before Jonathan Means entered the inn. James’s instructions had been clear; if he and Jazhara were not in sight, Jonathan was to bring the squad.

  James and Jazhara entered a corridor as the door to the barroom clicked shut behind them. Three more doors lined the hallway before them. A door on the immediate left revealed a pantry, and James spared it only a cursory glance. The first door on the right, once opened, revealed a miserable-looking bedroom, filthy and strewn with clothing and remnants of food. James whispered, “Must be Pete’s room.” He looked back over his shoulder at the door that led back into the common room and added, “Can you do something dramatic with that door, something loud enough to bring young Means and the guards in a hurry?”

  With a slight smile, Jazhara nodded. “I have just the thing if I’m not otherwise distracted.”

  “Good,” James said, opening the last door. They entered a small room, furnished only with a single table, behind which sat two men. The one closest to James, on the right, was a bearded man with dark hair and eyes. The other was clean-shaven and blond, with his hair falling to the collar of his jacket. Both wore black tunics and trousers. Each had a blade at his hip, and wore a heavy black gauntlet.

  Both men looked up at James and one said, “Yes?”

  “Pete said we could find someone here who might provide us with a solution for a particularly bothersome problem.”

  Both men moved back in their chairs, a seemingly casual move, but one that James knew gave each of them a better chance to stand and draw his sword. “What do you want?” the second man asked.

  James produced the letter he had found in Jorath’s room. “We know about your arrangement with the Wreckers’ Guild. For a small price, we’ll make sure no one else does.”

  The two men glanced at each other, then the blond man spoke. “If you’re looking to line your pockets with gold, you should be warned that you are dealing with the Guild of Death. Those who try to blackmail us tend not to live as long and comfortably as they otherwise might. Unless, that is, you’re offering some other sort of arrangement?”

  James smiled. “That’s exactly what I was thinking. Here’s my idea — ” Leaping forward, James suddenly overturned the table onto the blond-haired man, at the same time kicking out with his boot to shove the chair out from under the bearded man. “Jazhara! Now!”

  Jazhara turned and pointed her staff toward the far door and uttered a few syllables. A bolt of white energy exploded from the staff, fired down the short hallway, and blew the door off its hinges with a deafening sound.

  James had his sword in hand. He grinned. “That should bring them running.” The first swordsman was scrambling backward, away from James’s blade, while awkwardly trying to draw his own. The blond man used the overturned table as a barrier, so that he could retreat an extra couple of feet to the wall, gaining space to pull out his sword.

  James had to leap away to avoid a lunge from the blond man, aimed at James’s left side. Jazhara struck down with her staff at the swordsman’s arm, striking his wrist with a numbing blow.

  The blond man yowled in pain as he dropped his sword. As he attempted to pull his dagger out with his other hand, Jazhara struck him on the temple with the iron-shod butt of her staff. The man dropped to the floor.

  James heard shouts and confusion from the front of the building, and knew that Jonathan Means and the guards were now in the common room. Unless there were other Nighthawks there, the dockworkers and other laborers would be unlikely to challenge armed guardsmen.

  James lashed out with his sword, slicing the hand of the bearded man on the floor, who was still struggling to pull out his sword. It had the desired effect, for the man let go of the hilt. James touched the tip of his sword to the man’s throat. “I advise you not to move if you want to keep breathing.”

  Jazhara turned toward the door, readying herself in case whoever came through it first wasn’t friendly.

  The bearded man shifted his weight slightly and James pressed the blade into the man’s skin until he cried, “Ah ah!” Deftly, James flipped the man’s collar aside with the sword’s point, and slipped it under a chain around the man’s neck. Then, with a flick, he drew the chain over the man’s head. An amulet slid down the blade.

  As the point rose in the air, the bearded man made a frantic grab for his own sword. Without taking his eyes off the amulet, James kicked with his left boot, taking the man on the chin and knocking him unconscious.

  At this point, Jonathan Means broke through the door at the end of the hall, followed by two of the Prince’s Household Guard. They were frog-marching Lucky Pete between them, his peg leg slamming against the floor in a most comic fashion.

  Jonathan said, “Most of the lads in there started clearing out when Jazhara blew the door off the hinges.” He smiled at her and said, “I assume it was you and not some other magician, milady?”

  She nodded and returned the young man’s smile.

  The acting sheriff continued. “Most of the rest of them fled when they saw the seven of us rush in. That one” - he pointed at Pete - “and a couple of others tried to fight, but we had them under control in a few minutes.” He glanced at the two unconscious figures on the floor. “What have we here?”

  James turned his sword to Means and let the amulet slip off the blade. “False Nighthawks. Part of that band sent into the sewers to cast blame on the true Guild of Death a few months back if I don’t miss my guess.”

  “How do you know them to be false?” asked Jazhara.

  “No poison rings, and they didn’t try to take their own lives,” answered James. “The Nighthawks are fanatics about not being taken alive.” He sheathed his sword.

  “What is the significance of these being false?” asked Jonathan.

  James said, “That remains to be discovered when we question these two. I suggest you get them to the palace dungeon and hold them for questioning. With the Old Market Jail gone, it’s either the palace or the jail at the docks.”

  Means nodded. “The palace it is, Squire.”

  Means called for help and another four guards came in to carry the unconscious “Nighthawks” away. James turned to Lucky Pete and said, “Now, it’s time for us to have a talk.”

  Pete tried to smile, but his face was an exercise in panic. “Now, Squire, I don’t know nothin‘, really. I just rented some rooms and the basement to these lads.”

  James’s gaze narrowed. “The basement?”

  “Yes, through that trapdoor there and down the stairs,” he said, pointing to a spot on the hallway floor.

  “Damn,” said James, pulling his sword out once more. To Means he said, “Leave a man here with Pete and follow me.”

  James pulled up the trapdoor and scrambled through it without waiting to see who was behind him. He ran down the stone stairs, which led down to a small landing halfway down, then doubled back to the basement floor below. From above, Jazhara said,
“James! There is something very wrong here!”

  Turning to look up at her, James said, “I feel it, too.”

  Energy crackled in the air which indicated that magic was being gathered nearby, and James’s experience told him it wasn’t anything good. The hair on his arms and neck rose as he reached the bottom steps and confronted a door. He waited until he knew that Jazhara, Means, and another guard were behind him, then said, “Ready!”

  He kicked open the door and found himself in a large room carved out of the soil beneath the tavern. Near the middle of the room stood three men, two dressed in the same way as the two men upstairs, in black tunics and trousers, black gloves and with swords at their side. The third man wore robes and James recognized him as the magician they had seen at the Wreckers’ Guild.

  But what drew James up short and made him gasp was the figure forming in the center of the room, inside a complex design drawn on the floor in a white substance. “A demon!” he shouted. The creature was coalescing into solid form, substantial from head to waist. Its head was misshapen, with two curving horns that arched down and forward from its brow. Glowing red eyes regarded the intruders and it bellowed like a bull, its massive shoulders flexing as it attempted to reach out to them.

  The enemy magician cried out, “Hold them! We are almost done!”

  The two black-clad swordsmen drew their weapons and charged the short distance that separated James from the demon. Jazhara attempted to cast a spell, but had to break her concentration in order to avoid being struck by one of the two men.

  James parried the other attacker as Jonathan Means and a guardsman burst into the room.

  “Gods!” shouted Means. “What is that thing?”

  “Kill the magician!” James cried.

  The guardsman didn’t hesitate. Rather than risk approaching the magician and coming within reach of a demon that was almost completely solid, the soldier pulled a dagger from his belt and with a powerful throw sent the blade spinning toward the magician.