Rides a Dread Legion

by Raymond E. Feist

  “Do you have a name?”

  Again he looked as if he had to think about this. Finally he said, “I did, I’m certain, but it’s been so long since anyone’s used it, I can’t rightly remember what it might be.”

  She shifted her weight and felt the pain in her side. “Ribs?”

  “I think they kicked you for a while,” he said. “Ruthia”—he invoked the name of the Goddess of Luck—“must have been watching over you.”

  She laughed and instantly regretted it. It hurt everywhere.

  “No, you should be dead,” insisted the old man, nodding vigorously. “Six deep wounds, any of which should have killed you, and none did. Lots of other cuts, but none so bad, but together they could have bled you to death. I think they knocked you out, stripped you naked, then cut you up a bit—I guess they were upset with you.”

  “Well, I killed one of them, probably another as well.”

  “Yes,” he said, nodding as if in agreement. “That would make them upset. After they took your armor and your weapons, they threw you over the cliff—they must have thought you already dead.

  “You should have died on the rocks, but the tide was in and you landed in the only deep pool near the village.” Again he nodded vigorously. “Ruthia!”

  “I’ll make an offering in her shrine, first opportunity.” She wasn’t jesting, as she took devotion very seriously, though her order and Ruthia’s saw the world in very different lights; hers always trying to balance things, theirs accepting chaos and imbalance as inevitable.

  “That would be good,” agreed the hermit. “The water was very cold, and that seemed to staunch the bleeding, and you were only there a short while, else you would have drowned before you washed up on the rocks. I found you and carried you here.” He reached over and held up what appeared to be another bunch of skins and furs. “Look, I made you this.”

  Not entirely sure what it was he was offering, she said, “Thank you.”

  “You can wear this when you feel better.”

  This struck her: she was more than two weeks’ travel by horse from the nearest Temple and even if there was a Keshian authority nearby, which there wasn’t, they would have no interest in a girl wrapped in skins claiming to be a Knight-Adamant of the Order of the Shield of the Weak. On foot she was a month away from help, if she got strong enough to walk, and without weapons or coin, her chances of reaching the Temple down in Ithra were close to none.

  She lay back and sighed, then started to nibble at the crab. It was surprisingly good, if a little salty.

  “What?” he asked, hearing her sigh.

  “I guess I’m going to have to find those who did this to me.”

  He looked at her as if she were the mad one. “Why?”

  “They have my weapons, and armor, and a very good horse. I want them back.”

  He laughed, a short, barking sound, then stopped, then laughed again, full-throated and deep. After a minute of laughter, she heard him say, “Ah, don’t say I never warned you: you’re asking a lot of Ruthia after all she’s already done for you.”

  “Perhaps,” answered Sandreena. “But when I’m done with that bunch, they’ll be the ones praying for mercy.” She ate more crab and the hermit fell silent.

  Days passed, and finally Sandreena returned to an awareness of time. She had no idea how long she had lingered in the cave, but knew it was at least three weeks, perhaps a month. She would sport a nasty assortment of scars, for the hermit had sewn her up with some sort of fiber, perhaps stripped from seaweed or a plant close by. She’d been tended by all manner of healers, from the finest magic-using priests in the temples to village medicine women with their poultices and teas. She found it oddly amusing that she was recovering from the worst collection of injuries in her life, perhaps more than all her previous fights and mishaps combined, with the help of the most primitive ministrations ever. The only thing worse would have been to crawl off into a cave and lick her wounds like a dog.

  As she began picking out her stitches with a fish bone—the ones she could reach—she reminded herself she needed to thank this hermit, as well as her Goddess—and perhaps the hermit was correct, she needed to include Ruthia as well—for her life. That she was still alive was proof that some benevolent force was looking out for her.

  By the time the hermit returned, she had removed all the stitches she could reach and, without words, she held out the fish bone and motioned to her naked back. He nodded and sat down and quickly had those stitches out. She could feel a little blood and tenderness, but at last she could move without the constant tugging.

  She pulled on the rough hide dress he had made for her and said, “There, that’s better.”

  “I was going to wait a little longer; some of those wounds were deep,” said the hermit.

  “One thing I know is wounds, and another is my own body,” Sandreena said. “I’ve healed enough so those stitches would only start being a problem if we waited much longer to cut them out.” She indicated the cave with her hand. “You don’t have a lot of chirurgeon’s tools here.”

  He found that very funny and laughed deeply. “I did once.” Then he stopped. He tilted his head as if listening for something. “Did I?”

  Whatever had happened to this man, long enough ago, it was lost in even his own memory. A tragedy, illness, or a vengeful god, whatever the cause, most of his memory and mind were gone. Still, he had visited kindness on a stranger with no hope of recompense; she was without even the most fundamental possessions. He had found her as naked as the day she was born, and as helpless.

  Still, she felt a debt. “Once I settle matters with those killers, is there anything I can do for you?”

  He was silent a long time, then he said, “I would like a real pot.” Then his eyes widened and he sat up. “No, a kettle!” He nodded vigorously. “Yes, a fine iron kettle!” His eyes grew even wider. “And a knife! A knife so I can clean my catch! Yes, that would be wonderful.”

  Sandreena felt her heart break. His desires were so modest and his gratitude for even the possibly empty promise of those minor treasures moved her. “That and more,” she whispered.

  There was silence in the cave while he built up the little fire he kept banked during the day; the sun was setting and soon it would be very dark. She lay back and closed her eyes. She needed rest. In a day, two at the most, she had to leave this cave, and then some men wearing black caps had to die.

  Sandreena hefted the small tree branch. The makeshift club was her only weapon, and she felt even more underdressed in the otter skins she wore than she had when she was naked. Her bloody, shredded clothing and tabard were unwearable. Being undressed under a pile of rags was one thing, wearing them in place of armor was another.

  She was as steady on her feet as she was going to be on her current diet of crabmeat, shellfish, and the occasional wild tuber the hermit cooked up. She could use a good meal, but knew she wouldn’t have one until she put paid to these injuries and got whatever of her armor and clothing back. She hoped her horse was all right; it was one of the best mounts she had ever ridden. The mare was dependable, even-tempered, and meaner than a tavern rat when needed.

  Sandreena approached the back of the tavern, the last place she had any memory of, and the logical starting point for finding her attackers. She hoped Enos and his family were all right, despite their being particularly unpleasant people.

  There were no lights on and there should be. It was twilight and even if there were no guests, Ivet should be in the kitchen preparing a meal for her husband and sons. By the time she reached the window, she knew in her bones they were not all right.

  She quickly made her way to the one door in the rear of the building, where she had seen the boys unloading the wagon. The door was open, and in the kitchen she found the first body. Ivet lay sprawled across the floor, her head at an awkward angle. Sandreena quickly judged someone had merely grabbed the woman from behind and broken her neck. Her clothing was intact, so she was spared being
raped before she was killed. Sandreena knew that dead was dead, but at least it had been quick and relatively painless.

  The Knight-Adamant had no idea why Ivet was killed, whether for offering a room and food to a traveler, or to ensure no one knew who had killed the wandering knight, or just for the pleasure of killing. She knew without looking that the father and boys would be dead in another part of the inn. She did wonder if some of those pathetic weapons she had seen them use might still be around.

  She found the three swords and a badly scarred buckler shield stored in a food locker. The weapons were so inferior the murderers left them behind, even though they pillaged about every piece of food in the inn. She found a bag of millet. For one desperate moment the thought of even that simple grain caused her mouth to water in anticipation. She inspected the bag in the gloom and found the millet unroasted. She’d have to find a pan, start a fire, then boil water…She threw the bag aside and kept searching.

  In another corner of the kitchen she found a platter with an apple on it. It was hardly fresh, but still edible and Sandreena devoured it in moments. She sighed. She would probably end up dead in the next few hours, but if she survived, she vowed she’d never get this hungry again.

  She returned outside with the buckler and the best of the three swords—still duller than any sword not used on a practice pell should be—and went to the window where she found the men she killed. Given where she was standing in the run-in shed when she was struck from behind, she assumed that whoever saw her kill his companions must have been standing…There! She fixed the point in her mind and hurried over. Given the time between her short fight and being attacked herself, this was the most logical place for her assailants to be watching. She studied the landscape in the fading light. Soon the moons would be up and she’d be able to travel, but now she had to deduce where to go next.

  She patiently waited until the larger moon rose, quickly followed by the middle moon. The small moon wouldn’t rise for another few hours, so while it wasn’t what was known as Three Moons Bright, there would be enough illumination for her to find her way. She studied the foothills behind the inn, sweeping up into the mountains to the east, looking for obvious trails or paths. As the moons rose over the mountains, the landscape below them remained shrouded in shadows. Then, after nearly an hour standing there, she saw it. A cleft between two small hills and a gentle rise into what appeared to be a notch in the mountains. Had there been fog, or rain, or even heavy mist, she would not have seen it, even in the daylight.

  She began a steady trot toward that notch, hoping she’d reach it before sunrise. At this moment, she could not gauge the distance, and her memory was suspect. Things she should easily remember were difficult for her to recall. She’d had the problem before, when she had taken a blow to the head, and she had no doubt that if one of those Black Caps hadn’t kicked her in the head, she most certainly must have struck it on the rocks in her fall. Either way, she vowed, those murderous bastards had much to answer for. She hefted her poor sword and knew that she’d still have gone after them, even if that tree-branch club had been her only weapon.

  The sun had been up for nearly two hours when she found the trail. Six or seven horses, one most certainly her own. She lacked any expertise in the wilds, though she had spent enough time traveling the countryside she could read basic trail signs, and she knew she was on the right path. She continued on, having to stop to rest far more often than she liked. Her injuries and lack of good food had weakened her more than she cared to admit to herself, and she knew any dreams of walking into a camp of five or six thugs and quickly dispatching them were just that, dreams. She still had her temple magic, though she had never tried to invoke any when her concentration was this poor. Still, those spells and mantras had been drilled into her countless times by the teaching priests, monks, and sisters of her Order. And they were spells not to be ignored if her wrath was behind them, and it was. She might fail, but if she died, she’d take a lot of them…The soul crystal! She didn’t have it. It was among the other items in her belt pouch. She cursed herself for a fool. She couldn’t die fighting, at least not yet; her mission was incomplete and she had no means to get the information back to the Father-Bishop in Krondor.

  Not for the first time in her life, Sandreena chided herself for being rash. As many times as she had dealt with thugs and robbers, she should have scouted around for someone holding the horses or standing lookout before she hit the two at the window. But she was certain they’d discover her missing and raise alarm…she realized that she had had no right choice in the matter. Either one would have brought a very difficult struggle. Still, she continued in her self-condemning mood, had she found and taken out those who eventually ambushed her, at least she would have known there were two more coming from the house and been ready.

  With a sigh, she let go of this second-guessing. Regret was a trap and it crippled, she reminded herself.

  She was another hour up the trail when she heard the voices. Before she understood why, the hair on her arms and neck stood up and a chill puckered her skin in gooseflesh. Rather than the common camp noises she expected, the muffled speech, the sound of horses tied to a picket, perhaps laughing or the sound of weapons being cleaned, there was a rhythmic chanting. She didn’t recognize the language, but there was something in the sound that set her teeth on edge. This was no natural language of Kesh or the Kingdom. She spoke a fair number of them and recognized a lot more, and this had nothing of those tongues. She wasn’t sure it was even human speech.

  She saw the path she was following led into a cleft between two low rocks, and assumed a small valley or plateau was on the other side. She quickly picked the left side to climb and scampered up. She judged that if there were sentries just beyond the gap, she didn’t want to run into another ambush. Still, she found it odd there were no lookouts atop the rocks, for it was the logical place to put them.

  She reached the top and looked down on a scene of horror. There were no sentries or lookouts, for no sane man or woman would knowingly approach this place.

  A man in a dark orange robe trimmed in black, a magician of some fashion, by the look of him, stood erect, holding a huge black wooden staff over his head. The staff was topped by some kind of crystal globe, which pulsed with an evil purple light. Just looking at it made Sandreena’s eyes sting.

  She swallowed her own bile back down, fighting hard not to retch at what greeted her. Over toward another pathway leading up into the mountains stood what looked to be a band of fighters. They were dressed in a variety of clothing, but all had the look of hard-bitten, experienced warriors. Sandreena judged them likely to be well-paid mercenaries and ex-soldiers, from many different lands, not fanatics. Many of them looked away from the carnage before them, and some who looked were pale and obviously shaken by what was taking place.

  Around a large flat stone altar, a half-dozen priests and priestesses were kneeling, their robes thrown back so their chests and backs were bare. Behind them stood others likewise dressed, their backs stripped raw from flails. These were lying heavily on the backs of those kneeling before some ritual offering of blood and pain, but to whom?

  In the middle of the stone was a pile of bodies. At least a dozen men and women, and one small arm that Sandreena was certain belonged to one of Enos’s two boys. Now she realized that had she searched the inn, she would have found them missing, not dead in their sleeping room, as she assumed. The raiders must have startled Ivet, whom they killed to keep from raising an alarm. They then must have seized the husband and sons, tying and gagging them. Another half-dozen villagers were obviously dragged away as well, from the body count.

  Atop the pile the last victim lay struggling, his arms and legs held in place by a set of ropes, each held fast by more monks or priests or whatever those murderous dogs were. Sandreena quietly spat to keep her stomach from turning. She had seen many things to make a soldier weep, but nothing like this.

  The magician finished his incanta
tion and a thing appeared in the air above the victim. The man cried out in abject terror as a black form materialized out of nowhere, a thing of long, spider-like limbs, a hawk’s razor-sharp beak, and huge bat wings. It hovered above the shrieking man for a moment, then dove to land with a heavy thud on his stomach.

  Throwing back its head, the demon howled, a sound that set Sandreena’s teeth on edge, and she saw several of the mercenaries draw a step farther away, while others winced at the cry. The demon cocked its head as it looked at the screaming man upon whom it sat, looking for an instant like some bird of prey from a nightmare, pulled back one of the very long, spindly arms, and, with stunning speed, drove it into the man’s chest. The sound was one Sandreena was all too familiar with: the ripping of flesh and cracking of bones, and the man’s screams were cut off as his body convulsed in pain and his lungs were ripped asunder. Before the man’s life fled, he was forced to endure a moment when the creature ripped out his heart and began devouring it.

  Sandreena had seen many horrific things in her life, from the degradation and abuses she suffered as a child in a brothel to the blood of battle. She had witnessed men dying in their own excrement, put out of their misery by their friends and thanking them for it; children murdered and entire villages slaughtered for the meager goods they harbored; but nothing in her life hit her as being so basically evil as what she was watching now.

  Now the suppliants all bowed before the conjured creature and the chanting renewed its urgency. The creature flew to land upon the upraised staff of the magician who staggered slightly under its weight. It must be heavier than it looks, thought Sandreena. But it can fly…?

  Magic, she thought, counting herself a fool. And this thing hailed from some nether region where the natural laws were different. Still, it looked as if the magician was struggling.

  Then he fell. And with a shriek of rage, the conjured creature vanished, leaving behind a foul, oily smoke, the stench of which reached Sandreena in her perch. The wail that went up from the assembled suppliants was that of a mother who lost her child.