Krondor the Betrayal (10 page)

Locklear said, ‘‘Then why are we doing this?’’ Before Gorath could answer, Locklear held up his hand. ‘‘I know, the noose is tightening, and if we don’t do it now, we will never reach Krondor.’’

Gorath nodded. ‘‘Let’s go.’’

They hurried down the road until they could see the roof of a barn across a small field that sat hard against the ridge.

Locklear stooped over, so as to be less visible as they moved down the trail. ‘‘Where are the guards?’’ he asked Gorath.

‘‘I don’t know. They were outside but a moment ago.’’

‘‘Perhaps they’ve gone inside the barn,’’ suggested Owyn.

Gorath pointed to a notch in the side of the trail, where rain had eroded the soil between two large boulders. He moved between the rocks and slid down the bank to the edge of the field, with Locklear behind and Owyn bringing up the rear.

‘‘We must hurry,’’ said Gorath. ‘‘The Mothers and Fathers have smiled on us, and the guards are inside. We don’t know 63

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how long this might last.’’ He set a punishing pace, not wishing to be discovered in the open. Locklear forced himself to push on despite his stiff, aching joints. His wounds had healed, though he still felt weaker than he should. He didn’t welcome another fight, but should this Nago be the force behind all the attacks, he welcomed an opportunity to put an end to them and pay back some of the pain he had been forced to endure.

Gorath reached the barn and huddled in its shadow, glancing in all directions. There was no sign they had been detected.

He held up his hand for silence.

They listened. Inside, muffled voices could be heard, though Locklear could make nothing of them, for they were in a tongue he didn’t understand. Gorath’s hearing was far more acute, for he said, ‘‘They are discussing the fact we have not been seen since Hawk’s Hollow. They fear we may have slipped past them on the road through Tannerus.’’

‘‘What do we do now?’’ whispered Owyn.

‘‘As before, we kill them,’’ said Gorath. ‘‘Act boldly.’’ He moved to the barn door and withdrew his sword. He pulled forward his hood, throwing his features into darkness, then put his sword under his cloak and turned to Owyn and Locklear. ‘‘Be ready, but wait a moment before entering.’’

Then Gorath pushed open the door and in the late-afternoon gloom must have seemed a black shape against a darkening sky. From within a voice sounded a note of inquiry. Gorath stepped forward with a stride that communicated purpose, answering in the moredhel tongue. He must have confused them for a moment, for one asked another question before a different voice shouted, ‘‘Gorath!’’

Locklear didn’t hesitate when he heard that, but virtually jumped through the open door. Owyn was a step behind.

The barn was empty save for five moredhel. A table had been placed in the center of a large barn aisle, with a bench behind it, where the moredhel magician Nago was rising in shock at the appearance of his intended prey.

A moredhel guard was falling from Gorath’s first blow as he rounded on another, lashing out with his blade and forcing the swordsman backward, clutching his bleeding sword arm.

Locklear dashed forward and caught the wounded dark elf 64

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from behind, killing him with a blow to the back of his neck as he sought to disengage himself from Gorath’s attack, leaving both swordsmen facing a ready opponent.

Owyn saw the moredhel magic user, who was still motionless in astonishment at the appearance of the prey he had been seeking for weeks. But as Owyn moved through the doorway, he felt power beginning to manifest as Nago started an incantation. Knowing there was nothing much he could do, Owyn unleashed the only spell he could throw on short notice, the blinding spell he had practiced so much on the journey.

The dark elf blinked in surprise and faltered, breaking his spell. Owyn hesitated, then raised his staff and started his charge, doing his best to imitate a war cry. A thin warbling sound escaped his lips as he ran between Gorath and Locklear as they struggled with their opponents.

As he closed upon the moredhel magician, Owyn slipped and fell forward, which saved his life, for the enraged Nago unleashed a bolt of shimmering purple-and-grey energy which sped through the spot where Owyn had been a moment earlier. Rather than strike the lad full on, it brushed over his back and, where it touched, Owyn felt agony, a shocking pain. His head swam from it, and he felt dizzy. The muscles in his lower back and legs refused to obey him. He struggled, but they felt encased in metal bonds.

Rolling over, Owyn saw the magician begin another spell, and, without any other option, Owyn threw his staff at the moredhel. As he expected, the magician ducked aside, and his spellcasting was interrupted. Nago shut his eyes, as if in pain, and Owyn knew the enemy spellcaster was struggling to re-start his spell. While only a novice at magic, Owyn understood enough of it to know that an interrupted spell could prove painful and that it might take Nago a few moments to refocus his thoughts and regain the ability to inflict harm upon his opponent.

Owyn tried to focus his own thoughts, as if he might throw another spell to distract Nago a moment longer, but his own thinking was chaotic, his mind racing with conflicting images.

Phrases and concepts previously unknown to him intruded into his concentration, and he couldn’t force himself to come 65

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up with any useful conjuration. He fumbled in his belt for a dagger and thought to throw that at Nago.

Nago opened his eyes and looked past Owyn, to where the struggle was ending. Owyn rolled over and saw Gorath running his opponent through, while Locklear seemed to be getting the best of his own. Owyn looked over his shoulder at Nago and saw the magician was hesitating, then starting to turn to flee.

‘‘He’s trying to escape,’’ Owyn shouted, but his voice was weak, and he didn’t know if he had warned his companions.

Gorath heard and was past Owyn in three huge strides. The moredhel magician turned and threw something at Gorath, and sparking energies coursed around the dark-elf chieftain.

Gorath groaned in pain and faltered.

Owyn threw his dagger, a weak underhand cast, but one which caused the butt of the weapon to strike Nago in the temple. As if released from a prison, Gorath rose up and with a single blow struck Nago in the neck, nearly severing his head from his body.

Locklear hurried over and helped Owyn to his feet. ‘‘We could have used a prisoner,’’ he observed.

Gorath said, ‘‘These guards know nothing worth learning.

And Nago could not be left alive. While you were trying to question him, he would have been sending word to his confederates that we are here.’’ The dark elf looked down at Owyn, who still lay on the floor. ‘‘You did well, boy. Are you all right?’’

‘‘My legs don’t work,’’ he answered. ‘‘I think I will get them to work in a while.’’

‘‘I hope so,’’ said Locklear. ‘‘I’d hate to leave you here.’’

‘‘I’d hate to be left,’’ said Owyn.

Gorath looked around. He moved to a large cache of provisions and dug out some bread and a waterskin. He took a drink, handed it to Locklear, and tore the loaf into three portions, handing one each to the other two.

Locklear helped Owyn sit up at a table and looked at a map unrolled there. What have we here? he asked himself as he studied the map.

It was a map of the area south of Hawk’s Hollow, with 66

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guard locations marked and fresh ink indicating sightings. It was clear that they had avoided detection from Hawk’s Hollow to Yellow Mule. Locklear said, ‘‘Owyn, could Nago have gotten word out to others that we are here?’’

Owyn felt his legs with his hands as if trying to determine what was wrong with them, and said, ‘‘It’s doubtful. I kept him busy, and he was trying to kill us. I can imagine he could do two things at once, but three is unlikely. If he’s got a routine for checking in with his agents, they’ll soon know something is wrong because of his
not
contacting them.’’

‘‘Then we must be on our way,’’ said Gorath. ‘‘How far to Krondor?’’

‘‘If we were taking a stroll down the King’s Highway without fear, another two days. By horse, less than a day from here. Through the woods, maybe three.’’

Gorath asked Owyn, ‘‘How long before you can move?’’

‘‘I don’t know—’’ Then suddenly Owyn’s legs moved. ‘‘I guess I can move now,’’ he said, rising slowly. ‘‘Interesting,’’

he said.

‘‘What’s interesting?’’ asked Locklear.

‘‘That spell. It’s designed to bind an opponent, but only for a short while.’’

‘‘Why is that interesting?’’

‘‘It’s some sort of combat magic. They don’t teach that at Stardock.’’

‘‘Can you do the same thing?’’ asked Gorath. ‘‘It could prove useful.’’

‘‘Really?’’ asked Locklear dryly.

‘‘I don’t know,’’ said Owyn. ‘‘When the spell struck me, something happened, a recognition of some sort. I will think on it, and maybe I can figure out how he did it.’’

‘‘Well, figure out how while we’re moving, assuming you’re ready to go,’’ said Locklear around a mouthful of bread. They quickly rummaged through the cache of supplies and found several dark grey-blue fur-lined cloaks. ‘‘These will serve us well,’’ said Locklear, still warm from the fight, but knowing all too well how cold the nights were along the coast this time of the year. Locklear gathered up the maps and several messages, all claiming forces were in place for key attacks at 67

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various locations throughout the West. He placed those in a pouch and slung it over his shoulder.

They left the barn and circled around the darkened farm-house. The owner was either sleeping or dead, betrayed by his guests, but either way they did not wish to spend time finding out. They had three dangerous days before them and knew there were perils enough along the route to Krondor without stopping to look for them.

Twice they had avoided assassins or bandits; they didn’t know which. Once they had lain in the mud in a gully next to a woodland path while a band of armed Quegans had hurried past. Now they stood behind the last line of trees before open farmland. Beyond they could see the City of Krondor.

‘‘Impressive,’’ said Gorath in a neutral tone.

‘‘I’ve seen Armengar,’’ said Locklear. ‘‘I am surprised to hear you call this impressive.’’

‘‘It’s not the size of the place,’’ said Gorath. ‘‘It’s the hive of humans within.’’ For a moment he looked off into the distance.

‘‘You short-lived creatures have no sense of history or your place in this world,’’ he said. ‘‘You breed like—’’ He glanced over to see Locklear’s dark expression, and said, ‘‘No matter.

There are just a great deal of you at any one time in any one place, it seems, and this is more of you in such a small place.’’ He shook his head. ‘‘For my people, such gatherings are alien.’’

‘‘Yet you rallied at Sar-Sargoth,’’ observed Locklear.

‘‘Yes we did,’’ said Gorath. ‘‘To the sorrow of many of us.’’

Owyn said, ‘‘Do we just walk across this field to the road?’’

Locklear said, ‘‘No. Look over there.’’ He pointed to a place where a small farm road intersected the King’s Highway. A half dozen men stood idly by as if waiting for something. ‘‘Not exactly a place to hoist a few and talk of the day’s labors, is it?’’

‘‘No,’’ said Owyn. ‘‘Where do we go then?’’

‘‘Follow me,’’ said Locklear as he moved along the tree line, farther east. They reached a long gully, a naturally occurring watercourse that would be flooded when the thaw came to the mountains to the north and east, but which currently hosted 68

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only a small stream. ‘‘This runs to a place by the eastern gate, in the foulbourgh.’’

‘‘Foulbourgh?’’ asked Gorath.

‘‘The part of the city built outside the wall. There are ways to get in and out of the city if you know them. The sewers under the foulbourgh and city proper are not supposed to connect, so an enemy can’t use them to gain entrance.’’

‘‘But they do,’’ supplied Gorath.

‘‘Yes, in two places, and one of them is as dangerous as walking up to those men gathered back there and asking for directions to the Prince’s palace. That entrance is controlled by the Thieves’ Guild. But the other entrance—well, let’s say that besides a friend of mine, only a few others know of it.’’

‘‘How is it you know of it?’’ asked Gorath.

‘‘My friend and I used it once, a long time ago, to follow Arutha to Lorien.’’

Gorath nodded. ‘‘We have heard of that encounter. Murmandamus’s trap to kill the Lord of the West.’’

‘‘That’s the one,’’ said Locklear. ‘‘Now, it would be a good time to move silently.’’

They did as Locklear bid and moved through the gully, until they encountered a culvert, made of stones polished by the water over the years. They bent over and walked below the road, as the late-afternoon shadows lengthened. Finally, the culvert ducked under a small stone bridge that afforded them a hiding place. It was well shielded from prying eyes by stores stacked in crates on each side of the road waiting for transport. Bored workers slowly moved to load them.

‘‘We linger a bit, until it gets darker,’’ said Locklear. ‘‘At the right time, we need to get up and blend in with some traffic heading along the road that runs beside this culvert.’’ He went to the other side of the bridge and glanced upward, pulling his head back.

Pointing where he had looked, he said, ‘‘Someone’s hanging around up there.’’

‘‘What do we do?’’ asked Gorath, obviously as out of his element as Locklear had been on the mountain trail.

‘‘We wait,’’ said Locklear. ‘‘A patrol from the city watch passes along here about sundown, and they’ll order any armed 69

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men to move along. After dark it gets dangerous outside the wall, and the watch doesn’t like too many swords gathered in one place.’’

They sat under the bridge, in the puddles on either side of the stream, waiting in silence as the hours dragged by. Flies annoyed them, and only Gorath ignored their presence as Locklear and Owyn spent most of the time swatting them away.