Legends of the Riftwar

by Raymond E. Feist

  ‘And our friends?’ Tinuva asked, eyes flicking towards the Tsurani commander.

  Damn, Dennis thought.

  ‘I guess we settle it before we leave. The Broad River, you remember it?’

  Tinuva smiled and nodded. The thought struck Dennis that a hundred years before he was even born Tinuva undoubtedly knew of the river. Again he realized just how ancient the elven race was and with it came the recognition of just how much they risked when facing battle: it wasn’t just a score of years in the balance, it was a score of decades. An elven couple might have two children in a century. Each death was magnified far beyond what any human could understand in terms of loss to the race.

  ‘With this storm the river should be up. We make for Garth’s Ford. Get across and there we’ve got a position that a thousand Dark Brothers wouldn’t dare to attack. There’s a small stockade there, we stay warm, wait till they give up chasing us, then find a way home.’

  ‘Good plan,’ Tinuva whispered. He looked again at the Tsurani, nodded and went back up to the wall.

  Men started to slip off from the wall, heading for the barracks, while Tinuva picked out the unfortunate ones who would have to climb up out of the pass to guard the flanks.

  The Tsurani turned, shouted a command. The one-eyed warrior barked out an order, and half of the Tsurani started towards the barracks as well. Dennis watched as the one-eye stopped several of the men, whispered something and they nodded, returned to their posts, as the one-eye ordered others, who were obviously near final collapse, to head for shelter.

  The two groups slowed as they drew near to each other, obviously torn between the desire to get inside versus the uneasiness of being so close to a sworn foe.

  One of the Tsurani said something, pointing at the Kingdom troops and began to draw his sword. The one-eyed leader knocked the sword from his hand.

  ‘It’s warm in here, you bastards. Come on in!’

  It was Gregory, standing in the open doorway, the glow of the fire behind him a cheery and welcome sight. He wondered if the Natalese Ranger had deliberately stoked up the fire within to lure the men inside.

  The two groups still hung back, looking at each other.

  Gregory said something else, this time in Tsurani, and made a formal gesture of welcome. The one-eyed warrior laughed gruffly and went through the doorway, his men pouring in behind him, followed by the Kingdom troops.

  ‘His Tsurani is really quite good.’

  Startled, Dennis turned. It was the Tsurani commander.

  Dennis glared at him. ‘I didn’t know you spoke our language.’

  ‘You didn’t ask.’

  ‘Damn you, you should have said something.’

  ‘Really? Tell me, how far to this Broad River?’

  ‘Find out yourself, if you outlive me.’

  The Tsurani smiled. ‘Let our men warm up, you and I too, then we can decide who shall outlive whom tomorrow.’

  Dennis said nothing. He looked down at one of the two dead moredhel lying by the gate. Bending over, he tore the cloak off one and wrapped it around his shoulders.

  The Tsurani did likewise and leaned against the gate not saying another word, his gaze fixed on Dennis as the darkness of night settled about them.

  FOUR Practicalities

  The fire was soothing.

  Richard Kevinsson sat by the corner of the fireplace, boots off, luxuriating in the near-painful sensation of his feet thawing out. Rubbing his hands, he extended them towards the flames.

  Gregory and the Tsurani with the missing eye shouldered through the crush around the fireplace and heaved armfuls of logs into the roaring flames. Steam coiled up from a heavy iron kettle filled with stew, suspended in the fireplace. A few of the men, Richard included, had hesitated at first to eat it. It was, after all, a meal that the moredhel had been cooking and who knew what was in it–though Tinuva had reassured the Kingdom soldiers that stories of moredhel eating things indigestible to humans were myth only–but old beliefs were hard to ignore. Eventually, ravenous hunger won out over squeamishness and the men–both Kingdom and Tsurani–had gathered around, holding out tin cups and earthen mugs while the bubbling stew was dished out.

  A freshly-killed stag had been found hanging outside the garrison house as well, and as fast as pieces of it were cooked in the open fire men snatched them out and devoured the venison, the first hot cooked meat both sides had tasted in days.

  Many of the men were now fast asleep, curled up on the wooden planked floor. Of those awake, some were smoking, a few playing cards, others were just sitting about the fireplace.

  Richard watched as two Tsurani played a game with intricately carved pieces of ivory on a small chequered piece of cloth. One of the players, as if sensing his gaze, looked up. Their eyes held for a second.

  The Tsurani’s hand drifted to his side, resting on the hilt of a dagger, his eyes locked with Richard’s. The young soldier quickly averted his gaze and there was a gruff laugh, not from the Tsurani but from a Kingdom soldier sitting beside him who had been watching the silent interplay.

  ‘He’ll cut your throat from ear to ear, boy.’

  It was Darvan, one of the ‘old men’, of the unit, recruited when Dennis and the others from Valinar formed the Marauders. He had his shirt off, and was hanging it up to dry, revealing a cross-hatching of battle scars on his forearms. One shoulder was slightly hunched from a broken collarbone that had not healed straight.

  Darvan spat into the fire.

  ‘You just lost face, boy. You lowered your eyes. In their lingo that means you are nothing but a cowering worm. Those bastards are laughing at you now.’

  Richard spared a quick glance back at the two Tsurani, both of whom were leaning over their game, whispering to each other. Neither was laughing, but Richard wondered if they were talking about him.

  ‘Bet they’re saying how you don’t have any manhood below your belt. I wouldn’t let them get away with that, boy: it’s bad for our company. You showed yourself a coward once before, are you going to do it in front of the Tsurani as well?’

  Richard shifted uncomfortably.

  Hearing him move, both of the Tsurani glanced up at him.

  ‘Darvan!’

  Alwin Barry stepped between them and the Tsurani. ‘Shut the hell up,’ he hissed, his voice barely a whisper.

  Darvan grinned.

  ‘We’re in a bad enough fix as is without you egging the boy on to a fight.’

  ‘They stink up this place,’ Darvan growled. ‘I say let’s kill the bastards in here now, then go out and finish the rest.’

  ‘Captain’s orders. We stand down for the night.’

  ‘The Captain–’ Darvan started to say more but Alwin’s hand shot out and grabbed Darvan by the throat, stilling his voice.

  ‘You want to fight come morning?’ Barry whispered, his voice filled with menace and his eyes boring into Darvan. ‘Fine. We do it when the captain says so and not before. For now, leave this boy alone. Use him to start any trouble, and I’ll kill you myself.’

  Turning his back to the Tsurani, who were watching the exchange with open curiosity, Darvan could barely croak out words, with Alwin’s hand around his throat. ‘This boy?’ he asked, pulling Alwin’s hand from his throat. Still whispering, he added, ‘We all know he’s a coward. Jurgen died to save this piece of offal. And for what?’

  Richard flushed, feeling as if every eye inside the room had suddenly shifted to him. Honour was now at stake.

  His heart began to race, and though he was sitting next to a furnacelike fire, a cold chill swept through him. Then came the memory of all the dead in that cold frozen field, the angry gaze of the Captain, the eyes of Jurgen going dark and empty.

  Knees trembling, he started to stand up, his hand going to dagger. Though terrified, he had to face the challenge.

  ‘Not now!’ Alwin snarled. ‘Damn it boy, sit down before this place explodes!’

  Richard caught a glimpse of the two Tsurani. They were bot
h standing, one of them going for his own dagger and Richard instantly realized that somehow the Tsurani, not understanding the conversation, had assumed that the exchange of glances was turning into a challenge for a duel. Others, both Kingdom and Tsurani were moving, shifting apart into two groups, the room going silent.

  As he shoved Richard back into his seat on the bench, Alwin rounded on Darvan. ‘I’ll personally flog you from one end of camp to the other if you get out of this alive!’ With a back-handed blow he struck Darvan across the face, knocking the man backwards.

  Darvan slammed into the wooden wall, his legs still hooked over the bench. Men were standing all over the cabin, weapons being drawn. Only the fact that it was two Kingdom men who were confronting one another made the Tsurani hesitate in attacking the nearest enemy. Darvan looked up, grinning, wiping the blood from his split lip. ‘Afterwards, Barry. I’ll remember this.’

  Alwin half-turned to face the two Tsurani who were looking from Darvan to Richard, and extended his hands, palms out, in a calming gesture. The one-eyed Tsurani came up, saying something unintelligible. He pointed at Darvan and barked out a gruff laugh. The tension edged back down, the two sat and returned to their game. Other Tsurani around the room returned to their previous activities. Darvan rose slowly, and glared hatred at the Tsurani, whom he assumed to be a sergeant. The one eyed warrior spared him a mere glance, and turned away as if entirely unconcerned.

  Alwin and the Tsurani Strike Leader looked at each other, but nothing was said, simply a nod of a head. Both understood the other and what had just played out…and what would eventually have to be played out. For the moment though, fire, a hot meal, drying out, and a few minutes of sleep were more important.

  Richard, no longer comfortable in his corner by the fire, stood up and moved away. None of the other men in his company looked at him, or even acted as if they had noticed the encounter, but he could sense their indifference, or far worse, their contempt.

  He looked around the crowded room. Cloaks, blankets, jerkins, boots, and footwrappings hung suspended from the low rafters, casting strange shadows in the firelight. Part of the ceiling, caved in by the assault, was roughly tacked over with a torn tent and a steady trickle of icy water puddled down from it onto the floor. Bunks of the former inhabitants had been looted for dry blankets, clothing, anything dry and warm. The room stank of wet wool, leather, sweat, the stew and–Darvan was indeed right, the Tsurani did smell different–a musky scent. Watching a pair of Tsurani take a small pouch out of their packs and add a pinch of a pungent spice to their bowls of stew, Richard decided that was where the scent came from, but it was disquieting, somehow emphasizing their alien nature.

  Gregory, Alwin, and the man Richard thought of as ‘the Tsurani sergeant’ paced back and forth, keeping an eye on everyone, ready to quell any explosion before it ignited.

  Richard spotted Father Corwin, kneeling in the far corner of the room where the wounded lay. A dozen men of the company had various injuries acquired over the last two days. Of the eight from the encounter in the forest clearing, not one was still alive. The four who had survived the long night march to Brendan’s Stockade had been left behind in the retreat, their throats cut to spare them the agony of falling into the hands of the moredhel.

  Richard moved over to the priest and looked down. He didn’t know the name of the soldier the priest was treating, but he was young, features pale, sweat beading his face. He had suffered a broken leg in their crashing assault down into the stockade. Corwin had set the leg with the help of a couple of men and was tying off the splint, talking soothingly as if comforting a child.

  ‘Will I be able to walk in the morning?’ the soldier asked.

  ‘We’ll worry about that then, son.’

  The young soldier looked up at Richard.

  ‘I could help him,’ Richard ventured.

  ‘We’ll ask the Captain,’ the priest replied, but Richard could tell by his tone that the answer would be no. Either the boy walked on his own or died.

  Corwin patted the soldier reassuringly on the shoulder, stood up, and looked over to where a Tsurani lay with a crossbow bolt buried deep in his upper thigh. A comrade was by his side, trying to get him to take a little food.

  ‘Poor bastard,’ Corwin sighed and without hesitation went over and knelt beside him. The two looked at Corwin, turning to him masklike visages on which there was no expression. They looked straight through Corwin and Richard as if they didn’t even exist.

  ‘Really got you,’ Corwin said quietly, motioning to the arrow.

  The two said nothing.

  ‘Got to get it out sooner or later.’

  Again no response.

  ‘Damn it, don’t they take care of their wounded?’ Richard asked.

  ‘It’s obvious they don’t have a chirugeon with them,’ replied the Priest of Sung. ‘This arrow’s in deep. I guess they figure they’ll just leave him here–no sense in putting him through the agony of trying to get it out. Richard, go fetch me some boiling water and I want you to take these two knives, stick one in the fire for a minute or so, the second one, leave it in the fire.’

  As he spoke he drew two small daggers belted to his waist and handed them up. Richard followed the priest’s orders and returned with a tin pot filled with boiling hot tea and the dagger which was shimmering with heat.

  ‘No water, just the boiled tea.’

  The priest chuckled. ‘It’ll do,’ he said. He reached into his tunic, pulled out a small roll of white linen, tore off a piece and stuck it into the boiling liquid. Then he motioned at the arrow and made a gesture as if pulling it out.

  The wounded man looked at him wide-eyed and shook his head, and his comrade said something and made a gesture, waving his hand over the arrow as if to block Corwin.

  ‘He says they already tried to get it out, that it’s snagged on the bone,’ Gregory announced, coming up behind the group. ‘Priest, just leave him alone, he’s finished. You can’t draw it without cutting the poor bastard to pieces. Those damned moredhel arrows are four-barbed.’

  ‘Just shut up and stay out of my way,’ Corwin growled. He reached into his tunic, pulled out a small leather case and unrolled it, drawing out several needles which already had threads attached, tweezers and tiny brass clamps.

  He looked straight into the eyes of the Tsurani and began a low chant in a strange tongue. Those around him fell silent for the words carried a power, a sense of otherworldliness and Richard felt a cold shiver. The chanting continued for several minutes. Then Corwin slowly reached out, placing his right hand on the Tsurani’s forehead and let it gently slip down to cover the man’s eyes. Finally he drew his hand back. The Tsurani’s eyes were still open but were now glazed.

  Corwin gripped the arrow with his left hand and ever so slowly tried to pull it out. It didn’t budge.

  ‘Snagged on the bone, like he said,’ the priest whispered. ‘Richard, help roll him on to his side then hold him tight.’

  Richard followed the priest’s orders. The wounded man’s eyes were still unfocused. Richard cradled the man on his lap and looked back down at the priest who was carefully examining the wound, running his fingers around the back of the man’s leg.

  Corwin picked up the still hot dagger with his right hand, positioned it underneath the wounded man’s leg on the opposite side from the wound and drove the blade in half way to the hilt and rotated the blade.

  A gasp escaped the wounded man. Richard looked into his eyes and saw that consciousness was returning: the Tsurani’s pupils went wide.

  ‘Hold him!’ the priest snapped.

  With his left hand he grabbed the arrow and started to push even as he pulled the dagger back out. A second latter the head of the arrow exploded out of the hole cut by the dagger.

  The wounded Tsurani cried out, and began to struggle, but Richard grabbed hold of him, ‘It’s all right; you’ll be all right,’ he began to say over and over.

  ‘Damn it, priest, he’s bleeding to
death!’ Gregory cried.

  ‘Just shut up and get the hot knife from the fire!’

  The priest continued to push the arrow through the wound, finally pulling it out and flinging it aside. He picked his dagger back up, cut the exit wound wider and, using one of the brass clamps, pulled the wound apart. He motioned for the wounded man’s comrade to hold the clamp. Taking a pair of tweezers from his kit he reached into the wound, drawing the artery which was spurting blood.

  ‘Not the main one, thank the Goddess,’ he muttered, even as Gregory knelt by his side, holding the now-glowing dagger fresh from the fire, the hilt wrapped with a piece of smouldering canvas.

  The priest took the dagger, cursing when he singed his fingertips, then deftly touched the blade against the artery. A steamy cloud of boiling blood hissed up from the wound.

  The man jerked, trying to kick, but Richard held him tight. He realized that for some strange reason he was beginning to cry.

  This is a Tsurani, damn it. He felt a wave of anger for the man even as he held him tight and continued to try and reassure him.

  ‘Almost done,’ the priest announced.

  He drew out the hot dagger, turned, and then cauterized the entry wound. Finally he drew out the boiled bandages, stuffed both wounds, then tightly wrapped a compress around the leg.

  ‘We’ll stitch him up later, I want to keep it open so I can get in quick in case he starts to bleed again.’

  The whole operation had taken no more than a couple of minutes. The priest sat back, then took the hand of the Tsurani who had been helping and guided it to a pressure point above the wound to help slow the bleeding.

  ‘All right Richard, you did well, son.’

  Richard, shaking, looked down at the Tsurani. There were tears in the corner of the man’s eyes and he suddenly realized just how young his enemy was: about the same age as himself and the wounded Kingdom soldier with the broken leg. The Tsurani was obviously struggling for control, looking up at Richard in confusion, his emotions mixed between gratitude and hatred for an enemy.