Krondor the Betrayal (3 page)

Gorath studied the young man, but said nothing. Then he stood, moving with deadly purpose toward Locklear.

Owyn had just tied off the bandage and fell hard as Locklear pushed him aside while he attempted to rise and draw his sword as Gorath closed on him.

But rather than attack Locklear, he lunged past the pair of humans, lashing out above Locklear’s head with the chain that held his manacles. A ringing of steel caused Locklear to flinch aside, as Gorath shouted, ‘‘Assassin in the camp!’’ Then Gorath kicked hard at Owyn, shouting, ‘‘Get out from underfoot!’’

Owyn didn’t know where the assassin came from; one mo-12

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ment there had been three of them in the small clearing, then the next Gorath was locked in a life-and-death struggle with another of his kind.

Two figures grappled by the light of the campfire, their features set in stark relief by the firelight and darkness of the woods. Gorath had knocked the other moredhel’s sword from his hand, and when the second dark elf attempted to pull a dagger, Gorath slipped behind him, wrapping his wrist chains around the attacker’s throat. He yanked hard, and the attacker’s eyes bulged in shock, as Gorath said, ‘‘Do not struggle so, Haseth. For old times’ sake I will make this quick.’’ With a snap of his wrists, he crushed the other dark elf’s windpipe, and the creature went limp.

Gorath let him fall to the ground, saying, ‘‘May the Goddess of Darkness show you mercy.’’

Locklear stood up. ‘‘I thought we had lost them.’’

‘‘I knew we had not,’’ said Gorath.

‘‘Why didn’t you say something?’’ demanded Locklear as he retrieved his tunic and put it on over the new bandages.

‘‘We had to turn and face him sometime,’’ said Gorath, resuming his place. ‘‘We could do it now, or in a day or two when you were even weaker from loss of blood and no food.’’

Gorath looked into the darkness from which the assassin had come. ‘‘Had he not been alone, you’d have had only my body to drag before your prince.’’

‘‘You don’t get off that easily, moredhel. You don’t have my permission to die yet, after the trouble I’ve gone through to keep you alive so far,’’ said Locklear. ‘‘Is he the last?’’

‘‘Almost certainly not,’’ said the dark elf. ‘‘But he is the last of this company. Others will come.’’ He glanced in the opposite direction. ‘‘And others may already be ahead of us.’’

Locklear reached into a small pouch at his side and produced a key. ‘‘Then I think you’d better get those chains off,’’

he said. He unlocked the wrist irons, and Gorath watched them fall to the ground with an impassive expression. ‘‘Take the assassin’s sword.’’

‘‘Maybe we should bury him?’’ suggested Owyn.

Gorath shook his head. ‘‘That is not our way. His body is but a shell. Let it feed the scavengers, return to the soil, nourish 13

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the plants, and renew the world. His spirit has begun its journey through darkness, and with the Goddess of Darkness’s pleasure, he may find his way to the Blessed Isles.’’ Gorath looked northward, as if seeking sight of something in the dark.

‘‘He was my kinsman, though one of whom I was not overly fond. But ties of blood run strong with my people. For him to hunt me names me outcast and traitor to my race.’’ He looked at Locklear. ‘‘We have common cause, then, human. For if I am to carry out the mission that brands me anathema to my people, I must survive. We need to help one another.’’ Gorath took Haseth’s sword. To Owyn he said, ‘‘Don’t bury him, but you could pull him out of the way, human. By morning he’s going to become even more unpleasant to have nearby.’’

Owyn looked uncertain about touching a corpse, but said nothing as he went over, reached down, and gripped the dead moredhel by the wrists. The creature was surprisingly heavy.

As Owyn started to drag Haseth away, Gorath said, ‘‘And see if he dropped his travel bag back there in the woods before he attacked us, boy. He may have something to eat in it.’’

Owyn nodded, wondering what strange chance had brought him to dragging a corpse through the dark woods and looting its body.

Morning found a tired trio making their way through the woodlands, staying within sight of the road, but not chancing walking openly along it.

‘‘I don’t see why we didn’t return to Yabon and get some horses,’’ complained Owyn.

Locklear said, ‘‘We have been jumped three times since leaving Tyr-Sog. If others are coming after us, I’d rather not walk right into them. Besides, we may find a village between here and LaMut where we can get some horses.’’

‘‘And pay for them with what?’’ asked Owyn. ‘‘You said the fight where you were wounded was when your horses ran off with all your things. I assume that means your funds, too? I certainly don’t have enough to buy three mounts.’’

Locklear smiled. ‘‘I’m not without resources.’’

‘‘We could just take them,’’ offered Gorath.

‘‘There is that,’’ agreed Locklear. ‘‘But without obvious 14

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badges of rank or a patent from the Prince on my person, it might prove difficult to convince the local constable of my bona fides. And we should hardly be safe penned up in a rural jail with cutthroats out looking for us.’’

Owyn fell silent. They had been walking since sunup, and he was tired. ‘‘How about a rest?’’ he offered.

‘‘I don’t think so,’’ said Gorath, his voice falling to a whisper. ‘‘Listen.’’

Neither human said anything for a moment, then Owyn said, ‘‘What? I don’t hear anything.’’

‘‘That’s the point,’’ said Gorath. ‘‘The birds in the trees ahead suddenly stopped their songs.’’

‘‘A trap?’’ asked Locklear.

‘‘Almost certainly,’’ said Gorath, pulling the sword he had taken from his dead kinsman.

Locklear said, ‘‘My side burns, but I can fight.’’ To Owyn he said, ‘‘What about you?’’

Owyn hefted his wooden staff. It was hard oak, with iron-shod ends. ‘‘I can swing this, if I need to. And I have some magic.’’

‘‘Can you make them vanish?’’

‘‘No,’’ said Owyn. ‘‘I can’t do that.’’

‘‘Pity,’’ said Locklear. ‘‘Then try to stay out of the way.’’

They advanced cautiously, and as they neared the spot Gorath had indicated, Locklear could make out a shadowy figure between the trees. The man or moredhel—Locklear couldn’t tell which—moved slightly, revealing his position. Had he remained motionless, Locklear would never have seen him.

Gorath signaled for Locklear and Owyn to move more to their right, looping around behind the lookout. Without knowing how many men they faced, they would do well to seek the advantage of surprise.

Gorath moved through the woods like a spirit, silent and almost unseen once Owyn and Locklear left him. Locklear signaled for Owyn to keep slightly behind and to the right of him, so he knew where he was when they closed upon their ambushers.

As they moved through the woods, they heard the sound of whispers, and Locklear knew no elves waiting for them would 15

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utter a word. Now the question was were these mere bandits or agents seeking to stop Gorath’s journey.

A grunt from ahead signaled Gorath’s first contact with the ambushers. A shout followed instantly, and Locklear and Owyn ran forward.

Four men stood and one was already dying. The other three spread out in a small clearing between two lines of trees, a perfect position for a roadside ambush. Locklear felt an odd flicker behind him, and something sped past his eyes, as if an arrow had been fired from behind, but other than the sensation of motion, there was nothing to be seen.

One of the three remaining ambushers cried out in shock, his hand going out before him as vacant eyes stared ahead.

‘‘I’m blind!’’ he shouted in panic.

Locklear decided it was Owyn’s useful magic, and thanked the Goddess of Luck the boy had that much talent.

Gorath was engaged with one man while Locklear advanced on the other. Suddenly their garb registered, and he said,

‘‘Quegans!’’

The men were wearing short tunics and leggings, and cross-gartered sandals. The man facing Locklear had his head covered with a red bandanna, and over his shoulder was a baldric from which a cutlass had hung. The cutlass was now carving through the air at Locklear’s head.

He parried, and the blow shot fire through his wounded side. Putting aside his pain, Locklear riposted, and the pirate fell back. A strangled cry told Locklear the second pirate was down.

The strange missile sensation sped by, and the man facing Locklear winced and held his hand up as if shielding his eyes.

Locklear didn’t hesitate and ran the man through.

Gorath killed the last man, and suddenly it was quiet again in the woods.

Locklear’s side was afire, but he didn’t feel any additional damage. He put up his sword, and said, ‘‘Damn me.’’

‘‘Are you hurt?’’ asked Owyn.

‘‘No,’’ answered Locklear.

‘‘Then what is the problem?’’ asked Owyn.

Locklear looked around the clearing. ‘‘
These
are the problem.

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Someone has gotten word ahead of us. We can be certain of that.’’

‘‘How?’’ asked Gorath.

‘‘These are Quegan pirates,’’ said Locklear. ‘‘Look at their weapons.’’

‘‘I wouldn’t know a Quegan if I tripped over him,’’ said Owyn. ‘‘I’ll take your word for it, Squire.’’

‘‘Do not pirates usually ply their trade at sea?’’ asked Gorath.

‘‘They do,’’ said Locklear, ‘‘unless someone’s paid them to stake out a road and wait for three travelers on foot.’’ He knelt next to the man who had died at his feet, and said, ‘‘Look at his hands. Those are the hands of a man used to handling rope. Those Quegan cutlasses are the clincher.’’ He examined the man, looking for a pouch or purse, saying, ‘‘Look for anything that might be a message.’’

They did and came away with a little gold and a couple of daggers in addition to the four cutlasses. But no messages or notes, nothing indicating who had hired the pirates. ‘‘We’re not close enough to Ylith for a band of pirates to have made it this far north undetected in the time since we left Yabon.’’

‘‘Someone must have sent word south when I left the Northlands,’’ said Gorath.

‘‘But how?’’ asked Owyn. ‘‘You’ve told me you only spent a couple of days in Tyr-Sog, and you were riding until yesterday.’’

‘‘That’s an odd question for a student of magic,’’ observed Gorath.

Owyn blushed a little. ‘‘Oh.’’

‘‘You’ve Spellweavers who can do such?’’ asked Locklear.

‘‘Not such as the eledhel—those you call ‘elves’—call Spellweavers. But we have our practitioners of magic. And there are others of your race who will sell their arts.’’

Owyn said, ‘‘I’ve never witnessed it, but I have heard of a talent called ‘mind speech’ which allows a spellcaster to speak with another. And there’s something known as ‘dream speech’

as well. Either—’’

‘‘Someone really wants you dead, don’t they?’’ observed Locklear, interrupting the boy.

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‘‘Delekhan,’’ said Gorath. ‘‘And he was gathering to his side any of my people who showed such talents. I know his goals, but not his plan. And if magic arts are part of it, I fear the results.’’

Locklear said, ‘‘I understand that. I’ve had my share of encounters with people using magic who shouldn’t.’’ He glanced at Owyn, and said, ‘‘That blinding trick was quite good, lad.’’

Looking embarrassed, Owyn said, ‘‘I thought it might help.

I know a few spells like that, but nothing that would overpower an enemy. Still, I’ll try to help where I can.’’

Glancing at Owyn, Locklear said, ‘‘I know. Let’s get to LaMut.’’

LaMut stood astride the road south, requiring anyone traveling from Yabon to Ylith to pass through its gates or endure a long trek to the east through dangerous foothills.

The foulbourgh of the city sprawled in all directions, while the old walls of the city stood behind, nearly useless now, given the ease with which any attacker could mount the buildings next to them and gain the parapet from their roofs.

It was nearly sundown, and all three travelers were tired, footsore, and hungry. ‘‘We can present ourselves to Earl Kasumi tomorrow.’’

‘‘Why not now?’’ asked Owyn. ‘‘I could use a meal and a bed.’’

‘‘Because the garrison is up there,’’ said Locklear, pointing at a distant fortress high above the city on a hillside, ‘‘and that would be another two hours’ walk, whereas a cheap inn is but one minute that way.’’ He pointed at the gate.

‘‘Will your countrymen object to my presence?’’ asked Gorath.

‘‘They would if they suspected your nature. If they think you an elf from Elvandar, they may only stare a little. Come on. We’ve looted enough gold for a night of relative comfort, and in the morning we’ll visit the Earl and see if he can get us safely to Krondor.’’

They entered the city under the watchful gaze of otherwise bored-looking soldiers. One of them stood out from his companions, being shorter and much more businesslike in his man-18

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ner. Locklear smiled and nodded at the guards, but the three travelers didn’t stop or speak. A short distance inside the city gates sat an inn, marked by a wagon wheel painted bright blue. ‘‘There,’’ said Locklear.

They entered the inn, busy, but not crowded, and moved to a table near the far wall. As they sat a stout young servingwoman came, took their order for food and ale, and left. As they were waiting, Locklear spied a figure on the other side of the room staring at him.

It took a moment for Locklear to realize the figure wasn’t a man, but a dwarf. The dwarf stood and made his way across the room. He bore a large scar across his face, cutting through his left eye. He stood before them, and said, ‘‘You don’t recognize me, do you, Locky?’’

Locklear realized the last time he had seen the dwarf he had not borne the scar he now sported, but at hearing his name from the dwarf’s lips, he said, ‘‘Dubal! Without the eye patch, it took me a moment.’’

The dwarf moved to sit next to Owyn, across from Gorath.

‘‘I won this face in battle, from one of his kin’’—he pointed at Gorath—‘‘and I’ll be a dragon’s mother before I hide it again.’’