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Copyright
HarperVoyager
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1998
Copyright © Raymond E. Feist
Cover design by Dominic Forbes © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019
Raymond E. Feist asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008311254
Ebook Edition © January 2018 ISBN: 9780007374977
Version: 2018-11-13
Dedication
For John Cutter and Neal Hallford
with thanks for their creativity and enthusiasm
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Map
Prologue: Warning
Chapter One: Encounter
Chapter Two: Deception
Chapter Three: Revelation
Chapter Four: Passage
Chapter Five: Mission
Chapter Six: Journey
Chapter Seven: Murders
Chapter Eight: Secrets
Chapter Nine: Suspect
Chapter Ten: Nighthawks
Chapter Eleven: Escape
Chapter Twelve: Preparations
Chapter Thirteen: Betrayal
Chapter Fourteen: Instructions
Chapter Fifteen: Quest
Chapter Sixteen: Tasks
Chapter Seventeen: Misdirection
Chapter Eighteen: Regroup
Chapter Nineteen: Encounter
Chapter Twenty: Retribution
Epilogue: Dedication
Afterword
Acknowledgements
About the Author
By the Same Author
About the Publisher
Map
• PROLOGUE •
Warning
THE WIND HOWLED.
Locklear, squire of the Prince of Krondor’s court, sat huddled under his heavy cloak, astride his horse. Summer was quick to flee in the Northlands and the passes through the mountains known as the Teeth of the World. Autumn nights in the south might still be soft and warm, but up here in the north, autumn had been a brief visitor and winter was early to arrive, and would be long in residence. Locklear cursed his own stupidity for leading him to this forlorn place.
Sergeant Bales said, ‘Gets nippy up here, squire.’ The sergeant had heard the rumour about the young noble’s sudden appearance in Tyr-Sog, some matter involving a young woman married to a well-connected merchant in Krondor. Locklear wouldn’t be the first young dandy sent to the frontier to get him out of an angry husband’s reach. ‘Not as balmy as Krondor, sorry to say, sir.’
‘Really?’ asked the young squire, dryly.
The patrol followed a narrow trail along the edge of the foothills, the northern border of the Kingdom of the Isles. Locklear had been in court at Tyr-Sog less than a week when Baron Moyiet had suggested the young squire might benefit from accompanying the special patrol to the east of the city. Rumours had been circulating that renegades and moredhel – dark elves known as the Brotherhood of the Dark Path – were infiltrating south under the cover of heavy rains and snow flurries. Trackers had reported few signs, but hearsay and the insistence of farmers that they had seen companies of dark-clad warriors hurrying south had prompted the Baron to order the patrol.
Locklear knew as well as the men garrisoned there that the chance of any activity along the small passes over the mountains in late fall or early winter was unusual. While the freeze had just come to the foothills, the higher passes would already be thick with snow, then choked with mud should a brief thaw occur.
Yet since the war known as the Great Uprising – the invasion of the Kingdom by the army of Murmandamus, the charismatic leader of the dark elves – ten years ago, any activity was to be investigated, and that order came directly from King Lyam.
‘Yes, must be a bit of a change from the Prince’s court, squire,’ prodded the sergeant. Locklear had looked the part of a Krondorian dandy – tall, slender, a finely garbed young man in his mid-twenties, affecting a moustache and long ringlets – when he reached Tyr-Sog. Locklear thought the moustache and fine clothing made him look older, but if anything the impact was the opposite of his desired intent.
Locklear had enough of the sergeant’s playful baiting, and observed, ‘Still, it’s warmer than I remember the other side of the mountains being.’
‘Other side, sir?’ asked the sergeant.
‘The Northlands,’ said Locklear. ‘Even in the spring and summer the nights are cold.’
The sergeant looked askance at the young man. ‘You’ve been there, squire?’ Few men who were not renegades or weapons runners had visited the Northlands and lived to return to the Kingdom.
‘With the Prince,’ replied Locklear. ‘I was with him at Armengar and Highcastle.’
The sergeant fell silent and looked ahead. The soldiers nearest Locklear exchanged glances and nods. One whispered to the man behind him. No soldier living in the north hadn’t heard of the fall of Armengar before the hosts of Murmandamus, the powerful moredhel leader who had destroyed the human city in the Northlands and then had invaded the Kingdom. Only his defeat at Sethanon, ten years before, had kept his army of dark elves, trolls, goblins and giants from rending the Kingdom.
The survivors of Armengar had come to live in Yabon, not far from Tyr-Sog, and the telling of the great battle and the flight of the survivors, as well as the part played by Prince Arutha and his companions, had grown in the telling. Any man who had served with Prince Arutha and Guy du Bas-Tyra could only be judged a hero. With a reappraising glance at the young man, the sergeant kept his silence.
Locklear’s amusement at shutting up the voluble sergeant was shortlived, as the snow started to freshen, blowing harder by the minute. He might have gained enough stature with the garrison to be treated with more respect in days to come, but he was still a long way from the court in Krondor, the fine wines and pretty girls. It would take a miracle for him to get back in Arutha’s good graces any time before the next winter found him still trapped in a rural court with dullards.
After ten minutes of silent travel, the sergeant said, ‘Another two miles, sir, and we can start back.’
Locklear said nothing. By the time they returned to the garrison, it would be dark and even colder than it presently was. He would welcome the warm fire in the soldiers’ commons and probably content himself sharing a meal with the troops, unless the Baron requested he dine with the household. Locklear judged that unlikely, as the Baron had a flirtatious young daughter who had fawned on the visiting young noble the first night he had appeared in Tyr-Sog, and the Baron full well knew why Locklear was at his court. On the two occasions he had since dined with the Baron, the daughter had been conspicuously absent.
There was an inn not too far from the castle, but by the time he had returned to the castle, he knew he would be too sick of the cold and snow to brave the elements again, even for that short distance; besides, the only two barmaids there were fat and dull. With a silent sigh of resignation, Locklear realized that by the arrival of spring they might look lovely and charming to him.
Locklear just prayed he would be permitted to return to Krondor by the Midsummer Festival of Banapis. He would write to his best friend, Squire James, and ask him to use his influence to get Arutha to recall him early. Half a year up here was punishment enough.
‘Seigneur,’ said Sergeant Bales, using Locklear’s formal title, ‘what’s that?’ He pointed up the rocky path. Movement among the rocks had caught the sergeant’s eye.
Locklear replied, ‘I don’t know. Let’s go take a look.’
Bales motioned and the patrol turned left, moving up the path. Quickly the scene before them resolved itself. A lone figure, on foot, hurried down the rocky path, and from behind the sounds of pursuit could be heard.
‘Looks like a renegade had a falling-out with some Brothers of the Dark Path,’ said Sergeant Bales.
Locklear pulled his own sword. ‘Renegade or not, we can’t let the dark elves carve him up. It might make them think they could come south and harass common citizens at whim.’
‘Ready!’ shouted the sergeant and the veteran patrol pulled swords.
The lone figure saw the soldiers, hesitated a moment, then ran forward. Locklear could see he was a tall man, covered by a dark grey cloak which effectively hid his features. Behind him on foot came a dozen dark elves.
‘Let us go amongst them,’ said the sergeant calmly.
Locklear commanded the patrol in theory, but he had enough combat experience to stay out of the way when a veteran sergeant was giving orders.
The horsemen charged up the pass, moving by the lone figure, to fall upon the moredhel. The Brotherhood of the Dark Path were many things; cowardly and inept in warcraft were not among those things. The fighting was fierce, but the Kingdom soldiers had two advantages: horses, and the fact the weather had rendered the dark elves’ bows useless. The moredhel didn’t even attempt to draw their wet strings, knowing they could hardly send a bowshaft toward the enemy, let alone pierce armour.
A single dark elf, larger than the rest, leaped atop a rock, his gaze fixed upon the fleeing figure. Locklear moved his horse to block the creature, who turned his attention toward the young noble.
They locked gazes for a moment, and Locklear could feel the creature’s hatred. Silently he seemed to mark Locklear, as if remembering him for a future confrontation. Then he shouted an order and the moredhel began their withdrawal up the pass.
Sergeant Bales knew better than to pursue into a pass when he had less than a dozen yards’ visibility. Besides, the weather was worsening.
Locklear turned to find the lone figure leaning against a boulder a short distance behind the trail. Locklear moved his horse close to the man and called down, ‘I am Squire Locklear of the Prince’s court. You better have a good story for us, renegade.’
There was no response from the man, his features still hidden by the deep cowl of his heavy cloak. The sounds of fighting trailed off as the moredhel broke off and fled up the pass, crawling into the rocks above the path so the riders could not follow.
The figure before Locklear regarded him a moment, then slowly reached up to throw back his cowl. Dark, alien eyes regarded the young noble. These were features Locklear had seen before: high brow, close-cropped hair. Arching eyebrows and large, upswept and lobeless ears. But this was no elf who stood before him; Locklear could feel it in his bones. The dark eyes that regarded him could barely hide their contempt.
In heavily accented King’s Tongue, the creature said, ‘I am no renegade, human.’
Sergeant Bales rode up and said, ‘Damn! A Brother of the Dark Path. Must have been some tribal thing, with those others trying to kill him.’
The moredhel fixed Locklear with his gaze, studying him for a long moment, then he said, ‘If you are from the Prince’s court then you may help me.’
‘Help you?’ said the sergeant. ‘We’re most likely going to hang you, murderer.’
Locklear held up his hand for silence. ‘Why should we help you, moredhel?’
‘Because I bring a word of warning for your prince.’
‘Warning of what?’
‘That is for him to know. Will you take me to him?’
Locklear glanced at the sergeant, who said, ‘We should take him to see the Baron.’
‘No,’ said the moredhel. ‘I will only speak with Prince Arutha.’
‘You’ll speak to whoever we tell you to, butcher!’ said Bales, his voice edged in hatred. He had been fighting the Brotherhood of the Dark Path his entire life and had seen their cruelty many times.
Locklear said, ‘I know his kind. You can set fire to his feet and burn him up to his neck and if he doesn’t want to talk, he won’t talk.’
The moredhel said, ‘True.’ He again studied Locklear and said, ‘You have faced my people?’
‘Armengar,’ said Locklear. ‘Again at Highcastle. Then at Sethanon.’
‘It is Sethanon about which I need to speak to your prince,’ said the moredhel.
Locklear turned to the sergeant and said, ‘Leave us for a moment, Sergeant.’
Bales hesitated, but there was a note of command in the young noble’s voice, no hint of deference to the sergeant; this was an order. The sergeant turned and moved his patrol away.
‘Say on,’ said Locklear.
‘I am Gorath, Chieftain of the Ardanien.’
Locklear studied Gorath. By human standards he looked young, but Locklear had been around enough elves and seen enough moredhel to know that was deceiving. This one had a beard streaked with white and grey, as well as a few lines around his eyes; Locklear guessed he might be better than two hundred years old by what he had seen among elvenkind. Gorath wore armour that was well crafted and a cloak of especially fine weave; Locklear judged it possible he was exactly what he said he was. ‘What does a moredhel chieftain speak of to a prince of the Kingdom?’
‘My words are for Prince Arutha alone.’
Locklear said, ‘If you don’t want to spend what remains of your life in the Baron’s dungeon at Tyr-Sog, you had better say something that will convince me to take you to Krondor.’
The moredhel looked a long time at Locklear, then motioned for him to come closer. Keeping his hand upon a dagger in his belt, should the dark elf try something, he leaned close to his horse’s neck, so he could put his face near Gorath’s.
Gorath whispered in Locklear’s ear. ‘Murmandamus lives.’
Locklear leaned back and was silent a moment, then he turned his horse. ‘Sergeant Bales!’
‘Sir!’ returned the old veteran, answering Locklear’s commanding tone of voice with a note of respect.
‘Put this prisoner in chains. We return to Tyr-Sog, now. And no one is to speak with him without my leave.’
‘Sir!’ repeated the sergeant, motioning to two of his men to hurry forward and do as ordered.
Locklear leaned over his horse’s neck again and said, ‘You may be lying to stay alive, Gorath, or you may have some dreadful message for Prince Arutha. It matters not to me, for either way I return to Krondor, starting first thing in the morning.’
The dark elf said nothing, content to stand stoically as he was disarmed by two soldiers. He remained silent as manacles were fastened around his wrists, linked by a short span of heavy chain. He held his hands before him a moment after the manacles were locked, then slowly lowered them. He looked at Locklear, then turned and began walking toward Tyr-Sog, without waiting for his guards’ leave.
Locklear motioned for the sergeant to follow, and rode up to walk his horse next to Gorath, through the worsening weather.
• CHAPTER ONE •
Encounter
THE FIRE CRACKLED.
Owyn Belefote sat alone in the night before the flames, wallowing in his personal misery. The youngest son of the Baron of Timons, he was a long way from home and wishing he was even farther away. His youthful features were set in a portrait of dejection.
The night was cold and the food scant, especially after having just left the abundance of his aunt’s home in Yabon City. He had been hosted by relatives ignorant of his falling-out with his father, people who had reacquainted him over a week’s visit with what he had forgotten about his home-life: the companionship of brothers and sisters, the warmth of a night spent before the fire, conversation with his mother, and even the arguments with his father.
‘Father,’ Owyn muttered. It had been less than two years since the young man had defied his father and made his way to Stardock, the island of magicians located in the southern reaches of the Kingdom. His father had forbidden him his choice, to study magic, demanding Owyn should at least become a cleric of one of the more socially acceptable orders of priests. After all, they did magic as well, his father had insisted.
Owyn sighed and gathered his cloak around him. He had been so certain he would someday return home to visit his family, revealing himself as a great magician, perhaps a confidant of the legendary Pug, who had created the Academy at Stardock. Instead he found himself ill-suited for the study required. He also had no love for the burgeoning politics of the place, with factions of students rallying around this teacher or that, attempting to turn the study of magic into another religion. He now knew he was, at best, a mediocre magician and would never amount to more, and no matter how much he wished to study magic, he lacked sufficient talent.
After slightly more than one year of study, Owyn had left Stardock, conceding to himself that he had made a mistake. Admitting such to his father would prove a far more daunting task – which was why he had decided to visit family in the distant province of Yabon before mustering the courage to return to the east and confront his sire.
A rustle in the bushes caused Owyn to clutch a heavy wooden staff and jump to his feet. He had little skill with weapons, having neglected that portion of his education as a child, but had developed enough skill with this quarterstaff to defend himself.
‘Who’s there?’ he demanded.
From out of the gloom came a voice, saying, ‘Hello, the camp. We’re coming in.’
Owyn relaxed slightly, as bandits would be unlikely to warn him they were coming. Also, he was obviously not worth attacking, as he looked little more than a ragged beggar these days. Still, it never hurt to be wary.
Two figures appeared out of the gloom, one roughly Owyn’s height, the other a head taller. Both were covered in heavy cloaks, the smaller of the two limping obviously.
The limping man looked over his shoulder, as if being followed, then asked, ‘Who are you?’
Owyn said, ‘Me? Who are you?’
The smaller man pulled back his hood and said, ‘Locklear, I’m a squire to Prince Arutha.’
Owyn nodded. ‘Sir, I’m Owyn, son of Baron Belefote.’
‘From Timons, yes, I know who your father is,’ said Locklear. Squatting before the fire, opening his hands to warm them. He glanced up at Owyn. ‘You’re a long way from home, aren’t you?’
‘I was visiting my aunt in Yabon,’ said the blond youth. ‘I’m now on my way home.’
‘Long journey,’ said the muffled figure.
‘I’ll work my way down to Krondor, then see if I can travel with a caravan or someone else to Salador. From there I’ll catch a boat to Timons.’
‘Well, we could do worse than stick together until we reach LaMut,’ said Locklear, sitting down heavily on the ground. His cloak fell open and Owyn saw blood on the young man’s clothing.
‘You’re hurt,’ he said.
‘Just a bit,’ admitted Locklear.
‘What happened?’
‘We were jumped a few miles north of here,’ said Locklear.
Owyn started rummaging through his travel bag. ‘I have something in here for wounds,’ he said. ‘Strip off your tunic.’
Locklear removed his cloak and tunic while Owyn took bandages and powder from his bag. ‘My aunt insisted I take this just in case. I thought it an old lady’s foolishness, but apparently it wasn’t.’
Locklear endured the boy’s ministrations as he washed the wound – obviously a sword cut to the ribs – and winced when the powder was sprinkled upon it. Then as he bandaged the squire’s ribs, Owyn said, ‘Your friend doesn’t talk much, does he?’
‘I am not his friend,’ answered Gorath. He held out his manacles for inspection. ‘I am his prisoner.’
Trying to peer into the darkness of Gorath’s hood, Owyn said, ‘What did he do?’
‘Nothing, except be born on the wrong side of the mountains,’ offered Locklear.
Gorath pulled back his hood, and graced Owyn with the faintest of smiles.
‘Gods’ teeth!’ exclaimed Owyn. ‘He’s a Brother of the Dark Path!’
‘Moredhel,’ corrected Gorath, with a note of ironic bitterness. ‘“Dark elf”, in your tongue, human. At least our cousins in Elvandar would have you believe us so.’
Locklear winced as Owyn applied his aunt’s salve to the wounded ribs. ‘A couple of hundred years of war lets us form our own opinions, thank you, Gorath.’
Gorath said, ‘You understand so little, you humans.’
‘Well,’ said Locklear, ‘I’m not going anywhere at the moment, so educate me.’
Gorath looked at the young squire, as if trying to judge something, and was silent for a while. ‘Those you call “elves” and my people are one, by blood, but we live different lives. We were the first mortal race after the great dragons and the Ancient Ones.’
Owyn looked at Gorath in curiosity, while Locklear just gritted his teeth and said, ‘Hurry it up, would you, lad?’
‘Who are the Ancient Ones?’ asked Owyn in a whisper.
‘The Dragon Lords,’ said Locklear.
‘Lords of power, the Valheru,’ supplied Gorath. ‘When they departed this world, they placed our fate in our own hands, naming us a free people.’
Locklear said, ‘I’ve heard the story.’
‘It is more than a story, human, for to my people it gave over this world to our keeping. Then came you humans, and the dwarves, and others. This is our world and you seized it from us.’
Locklear said, ‘Well, I’m not a student of theology, and my knowledge of history is sadly lacking, but it seems to me that whatever the cause of our arrival on this world according to your lore, we’re here and we don’t have anywhere else to go. So if your kin, the elves, can make the best of it, why can’t you?’
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!’