Legends of the Riftwar

by Raymond E. Feist

  Dennis set his face in a mask of determination. He nodded once and said nothing more.

  FIFTEEN Flight

  The morning was cold.

  Leaning against a stunted tree to catch his breath, Tinuva turned to look back. In the early morning light it was easy enough to see Wolfgar’s Stockade, for it was burning now, a distant smudge of smoke rising up and spreading out in the still morning air. The smoke hung low, an indicator of bad weather to come. Raising his gaze, he swept the sky. To the east it was still clear, but to the west a fingerlike spread of clouds was drifting. By early evening it would be snowing again.

  The column staggered slowly past, heads lowered against the icy breeze which swept the top of the pass. The Tsurani, stoic as ever, marched uncomplaining. Most of them were now wearing heavy felt boots and wool trousers: in fact, except for the lacquered armour emerging from beneath the white-and-grey camouflage cloaks it was hard to tell the difference between them and the Kingdom troops, that and their shorter stature. All the men were wearing crudely-made snowshoes, fashioned while passing the peaceful days with Wolfgar, but more than one pair had already broken and the unfortunate men without such gear had to labour through the drifts like a swimmer breasting an icy surf.

  Without the horses, the column never would have made it to the top of the pass for in places the drifts were higher than a man’s head and the animals had to be used as rams to batter down the icy walls so that the column could pass. He could see where a week ago it would have been impossible to traverse the pass. What was so frustrating was that the delays and exhausting work to get through the notch in the mountains served to make an easy path for those in pursuit.

  The men were silent and Tinuva could sense the tension between the two bands. Throughout the night, in spite of the dread that followed them, the whispered conversations had been about the fight between Barry and Sugama and the near-duel of Dennis and Asayaga. Some of the Tsurani even blamed Dennis for the betrayal by Corwin, thinking that as captain he had failed to uncover the traitor and was thus dishonoured.

  If it had not been for the unfortunate young Richard, the truce would have disintegrated into a general slaughter with the moredhel simply having to finish off the survivors. Tinuva wondered how the two sides would manage to fight together when the time came, for surely they would indeed be fighting within the next day, or two days at most.

  Even from this great distance Tinuva could see that Bovai’s army had dozens of mounted troops formed up outside the burning stockade, with at least another two hundred or more on foot, and that the column was already on the move. The combined command troops of Tsurani and Kingdom soldiers would be outnumbered at least two to one, if not more.

  ‘They’re coming?’

  Gregory was by his side, shading his eyes against the early morning sunrise, looking back to the valley.

  ‘Just setting out.’

  ‘Arrogant bastards, took the stockade and slept the night while we cut the trail for them to follow.’

  ‘Why not? We can’t throw off their tracking. They’ll catch up before we can reach safety.’

  Gregory squatted down, rubbing his hands together and eyed the notch through which they were passing.

  ‘Already thought of that,’ Tinuva said. ‘It’s too wide here, and there’s no cover. We’d be flanked in minutes and cut off.’

  ‘Wish we didn’t have the children and women. Without them we could push the pace.’

  ‘Should we have left them behind then?’ Tinuva asked.

  Gregory smiled and shook his head. ‘Being honourable has its drawbacks at times and this is one of them.’

  ‘Yes it does,’ Tinuva whispered.

  The last of the column trudged past, followed by Dennis and Asayaga who walked in silence. The two slowed and joined Tinuva, and they all looked back to the valley.

  Tinuva could see the sadness in Dennis’s eyes at the sight of the burning stockade.

  ‘A good ending,’ Gregory said softly. ‘I bet the old man was singing that song of his, sword in hand. He’d prefer that to the slow wasting of the heart which was killing him anyhow.’

  Dennis said nothing for a long minute. ‘Any defendable positions?’ he asked finally.

  Tinuva shook his head and nodded back to the south-west. The slope of the mountain swept down into a vast impenetrable forest, another range of mountains rising up more than twenty miles away. ‘I trekked this place long ago,’ he said, his voice distant. How long ago was something these men would barely understand. ‘Beyond the next range I remember a dwarven road used by their miners for the hauling of ore down to a mill along the river.’ As he spoke he pointed to the wooded crest. ‘The dwarves from Stone Mountain abandoned the mill and mine years ago when it played out.’

  ‘And the Broad River?’ Dennis asked. ‘Do we try to circle round back to the ford we used or make a run for the bridge?’

  It had been a topic of speculation almost every night after their arrival at Wolfgar’s: how to get out. In general they had agreed upon the bridge. Tinuva had been there long ago, but Wolfgar and Roxanne had made a trek to it less than half a dozen years back. The span had still been intact then.

  Twice Dennis had attempted to lead a patrol out to check but both times they had turned back, the pass simply impenetrable and one of the men had been lost in an avalanche. So now they would have to make the decision blind. Ten miles past the next range, then on to the road and south to the bridge. All their planning, however, had been predicated on the hope that there would be sufficient warning of Bovai’s approach giving them a lead of a day or more to get out.

  ‘If the span is still there and undefended we cross, destroy it, and are home free,’ Dennis said, but there was an ironic tone to his voice. ‘If he put a blocking force onto the bridge, however, or worst yet destroyed the span, we are trapped.’

  Dennis looked at his companions.

  ‘The ford is in the opposite direction,’ Gregory replied, ‘heading back into territory the moredhel control now. Plus, it’s another sixty miles or more. They’ll swarm over us long before then.’

  ‘To run a blocking force around to the bridge is an extra thirty miles or more,’ Tinuva interjected. ‘If Bovai came up only within the last few days, we can still outrace them.’

  ‘You don’t think they did it?’ Dennis asked.

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  Dennis nodded. A shower of sparks swirled up from the long house a dozen miles away in the valley below as it collapsed in on itself. It was plainly visible to all and he heard a muffled sob. Alyssa and Roxanne had come back from the head of the column and were sitting astride their mounts, watching as the only home they knew was destroyed. Asayaga turned away from the group and went up to Alyssa’s side. Reaching up, he touched her gently on the leg.

  ‘Make for the bridge then, and hope it’s there,’ Dennis stated in the detached voice he assumed when giving a command.

  Tinuva nodded.

  ‘We’d better keep moving,’ Dennis said. ‘It’ll have to be straight out. No stopping until we’re across the river.’

  ‘You’re talking two days’ march with children and women, and a storm brewing,’ Gregory interjected. ‘Do you see an alternative?’

  Dennis looked back at Tinuva who said nothing, his gaze locked on the valley below.

  He’s there.

  Bovai reined his mount about, looking up to the distant pass highlighted by the brilliant light of dawn. He could see the antlike column disappearing over the notch, but far more powerful than what he could see with his eyes was what he could sense in his soul.

  Tinuva was looking at him.

  The long house and the entire stockade was an inferno. It had served its purpose for the night as shelter after the long march of the previous day–there was even food to be found and a few of the old ones foolish enough to be taken alive had provided entertainment for the goblins.

  He had vague recollections of old Wolfgar and the stories abou
t his defiance of the King. It was a shame, in a different time and place he might have even suffered him to live, but any friend of his brother was a sworn enemy and besides, the old man had decided to go down fighting.

  ‘Did you send for me?’

  It was Corwin.

  Bovai nodded, barely looking down at the man who was still wearing the robes of a monk. ‘I expect you to get mounted and guide us.’

  ‘The path they’ve left, I don’t think you need a guide.’

  Bovai could sense the fear. It would be just like Hartraft and Tinuva to have laid traps to slow the advance; there might even be a few left behind and this fat one was afraid of an ambush.

  ‘Nevertheless, mount and go forward.’

  ‘I think my services to you could be better rendered in other ways.’

  Bovai finally looked down and fixed him with his gaze. ‘You should have cut the boy’s throat to make sure.’

  Corwin had told him the boy had fallen to his death, but they had seen Richard’s body lying on one of the tables in the long hall.

  Corwin had cursed himself for having blurted out the young soldier’s name upon seeing him. Had he kept silent, Bovai would never have known his error in judgment, but with the boy having fallen down the side of the path onto the rocks, Corwin had been convinced he was dead.

  Bovai continued, ‘If you had finished him, this chase would be finished. Hartraft and…’ his voice trailed off, for the subject of his brother was not something to be shared.

  ‘Tinuva,’ Corwin whispered and gave the flicker of a smile.

  Bovai’s backhand caught Corwin across the cheek flayed open by Richard’s dagger and the man staggered back.

  ‘You have no right to dare mention his name in my presence,’ Bovai snarled. ‘I gave you a task and you failed. You failed to lure them into Brendan’s Stockade, you failed to drive a wedge between them, you allowed the boy to escape and warn them.’

  ‘I’ve served you for ten years,’ Corwin said coldly, hand cupped over the side of his face, a trickle of blood leaking out between his fingers. ‘And?’

  Corwin hesitated.

  ‘Go on.’

  Corwin’s eyes narrowed, his gaze sharp and crafty, like a cornered rat’s.

  ‘Your men have been whispering during the night. They are angry, exhausted. They know Tinuva is with Hartraft and they fear him. Many whisper that you are more interested in settling the affairs of your vendetta rather than finishing off Hartraft so they can go home.’

  ‘Always the ferret, aren’t you?’

  ‘It is how I survive. The beauty of my betrayals are that men, even those of your race, trust me up till the moment I slip the dagger between their ribs or serve them a flagon of brandy. Don’t waste that talent lightly. Our master has plans for me.’

  ‘And you would betray me in a heartbeat if it furthered whatever dark goals you sought.’

  Corwin smiled. ‘Only should it serve our master. Otherwise, our paths are the same.’

  Bovai snorted derisively. ‘Nevertheless, ride forward.’

  Corwin hesitated then bowed low in acknowledgment and turned away.

  Golun rode up to join Bovai, his gaze locked on Corwin who was stalking away. ‘I’d kill him now and be done with it,’ he announced.

  ‘Our master has need of him. He is to go south and prepare the way for an invasion in the next three or four years. Until I sit at Murad’s right hand, or replace him, I cannot risk displeasing the Master.’

  Golun seemed unconvinced. ‘A traitor is always a traitor.’

  ‘Like my brother up there?’ Bovai whispered, nodding to the high pass.

  The morning air was so clear that he still felt as if he could see him, in a small knot of several men, where the flicker of light from the dawning sun flashed off a bit of metal.

  ‘Finish off the Marauders, that is what will give you glory, and reunite those who follow you now. Then worry about Tinuva.’

  Bovai said nothing and merely nodded, his attention still focused on the crest of the mountain and the flicker of light.

  The snow drifted down gently and when Dennis stopped walking it was the only sound, the whispering of the flakes as they came to rest on the overhanging branches and the forest floor.

  He heard the snicker of a horse and turned, bow coming up instinctively, arrow already nocked. Then he lowered his weapon.

  Roxanne, following his track, ducked low under a heavily-laden branch and came up to his side.

  ‘I told you to stay back with the main column,’ he said softly.

  ‘I hunted here with my father for years. I can help.’

  ‘Not now, not this kind of hunting,’ he hissed. ‘Go back.’

  He set off again at the double, moving swiftly, daring to stay on the narrow trail. Throughout the morning and into the afternoon he had been haunted by the fear that Bovai would have sent a blocking force around to cut off this avenue of escape. Corwin knew the plan–he must have passed it along–and to run blindly forward with the hope that Bovai had not been able to set up a trap in time was a quick way to a certain death. If they were going to block the bridge, they’d have scouts out forward as well.

  Down in the forest in the broad open valley the snow was not so deep, but now that they were ascending the next ridgeline the passage was getting difficult again. He had long ago taken off his cloak and slung it around his pack, but nevertheless he was breathing heavily, and sweat was soaking through his tunic. Drenched as he was he knew he’d have problems with the cold once night settled.

  He pressed on, inwardly cursing as the girl doggedly followed, at one point moving ahead of him, breaking the trail.

  He finally came up by her side and grabbed hold of her reins. ‘Damn you, go back.’

  ‘You’re ready to drop from exhaustion, Hartraft. Let someone mounted break the trail.’

  ‘A mounted rider is a dead target in these woods,’ he hissed. ‘We do it on foot. Now go back.’

  ‘The women and children back with the column need rest, a fire.’

  ‘We don’t stop.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard me. We don’t stop till we reach the bridge.’

  Though his men knew the routine he had decided not to tell Wolfgar’s people of his plan to keep marching: there was no sense in their anticipating the agony of a night march in a storm until they were already into it.

  ‘That’s still fifteen or more miles off–half of them will be dead by then,’ she snapped. ‘You can’t push these people on a night march.’

  Dennis reached up and grabbed her by the arm. ‘Your father understood this and I would expect his daughter too. This is not some leisurely hike. They caught us by surprise and either we run them into exhaustion and they stop, or they catch us and slaughter us. We march through the night. Those that can’t keep up, we give them a bow, a few arrows and hope they slow the moredhel down a bit, then finish themselves off.’

  ‘Including the children?’ she asked, her voice as cold as the evening chill.

  He was tempted to give her a bitter response but then shook his head. ‘No,’ he whispered, ‘of course not. Get some of the women to double up on the horses with them, they can hold a child if it falls asleep, but we keep moving.’ He hesitated. ‘I’ve ordered my men not to carry anyone who falls behind–if they do, I lose both the straggler and a good soldier. Everyone marches or they die.’

  She nodded, eyes not on Dennis, but still surveying the forest. ‘They didn’t get ahead of you. I know this way. The moredhel would have to make a march of sixty miles or more to swing around the valley and come back out here to cut us off. Besides, there’s half a dozen trails like this over this ridge. If there was a trap it would have been just on the far side of the pass back into the valley. You’re free of them.’

  ‘I don’t survive by living on assumptions,’ Dennis replied.

  ‘Break the trail with my horse, otherwise it will be you who’s left behind by tomorrow morning.’

>   He scanned the woods yet again. Already the shadows had deepened so that he could barely see more than half a bowshot away. Throughout the day the snow had been unbroken except for the tracks of animals.

  All his instincts were against her suggestion but he knew she was right. He could not keep up this pace of running point throughout the night and still be ready for a fight. He reached down and unclipped his snowshoes. ‘Take my shoes, then wait for the column to come up. Tell Asayaga to keep them moving.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘This old horse is big enough for both of us. Like I said, I know this ground. I’ll ride behind you.’

  He was tempted to reach up and simply pull her out of the saddle but the look of defiance in her eyes sparked a memory and finally he shook his head. He clipped his snowshoes to the side of the saddle, pulled out his cloak, put it back on then scrambled up, Roxanne sliding back. She hesitated, then finally put her arms around his waist.

  The horse looked back at him, and he knew if it had a voice it would cry out in protest. The poor dumb beast was exhausted. He leaned over, patted it on the neck and whispered a few words of encouragement, then nudged it forward. Though he would not admit it, the feel of the warm saddle under him was a blessed relief. The horse ambled along slowly, needing just an occasional nudge to guide it along the trail.

  As the darkness settled and deepened the snow increased, heavy thick flakes coming straight down, then gradually shifting to lighter and drier flakes that began to dance and eddy as a light breeze picked up.

  He caught a glimpse of a darker shadow in the snow and reined in. A stag, caught by surprise, struggled to its feet, a curtain of snow falling from its back. The two gazed at each other for an instant and then it clumsily bounded off.

  ‘A good sign,’ Roxanne whispered. ‘No one is about.’

  He nodded and they rode on in silence for several minutes.

  ‘You hunted here before?’ he asked.

  ‘Before the shortness of breath began to afflict my father he took me over the pass several times. I think it was more just to see some new country: there was always more than enough game in our own valley. We’d ride like this, with me behind him, and he’d tell me stories of kings, princes, cities with a hundred tall spiralling towers and of the great ships that sailed on warm seas.’