Honored Enemy

by Raymond E. Feist

  He caught a sidelong glance from the Tsurani commander and a grunt of approval.

  Shouts of anger greeted the volley. There was a bark of command followed by silence. Dennis watched intently, hoping the scum would dare to mount a charge: if so it’d be a slaughter.

  Several minutes passed.

  Tinuva slipped off the wall and came up to Dennis’s side. The Tsurani looked at the elf, wide-eyed. Tinuva nodded and said something in Tsurani. Caught by surprise the Tsurani made a quick reply.

  ‘What did you say?’ Dennis asked.

  ‘“Honours to his House”, the traditional Tsurani greeting. Then I complimented him on his swordsmanship. I don’t know if you saw it, a masterful double kill.’

  Dennis nodded.

  ‘Where’s Gregory?’ Dennis asked.

  ‘One of the men said he ran right into a roof support when he charged into the barracks: he was stunned for a moment, but is all right.’

  ‘I’ll find time to enjoy the humour of that if we live through the night,’ Dennis said quietly.

  Tinuva fell silent. He looked through a crack between the logs and then turned back to Dennis.

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  ‘They won’t attack for a while. I think this is just an advance party. We laid enough traps along the trail to slow them down.

  They’ll wait for the rest of their command to come up first then fan out and flank us.’

  Dennis looked back at the pass. The mist was closing in, blanketing them, a cold wind slicing through the pass. The full fury of the storm was slashing against the other side of the mountain. Out of the mist he saw Alwin returning. The sergeant slowed at the sight of the Tsurani then came forward.

  ‘Got them.’

  Dennis let out a sigh of relief. At least one thing had gone right.

  No word of their presence had gone ahead.

  He looked over at the Tsurani.

  Damn, what a fix.

  ‘This is what we do,’ Dennis whispered to Alwin and Tinuva.

  ‘Half the men stand down, get into the barracks. Get the fire in there roaring. Strip down, dry off, get some hot food. See what dry clothing we can take from the bastards that were here. Two hours, then we shift the other half in.’

  He pointed to either side of the pass.

  ‘Tinuva, I want you to detail a dozen archers, get them up on the flanks and keep the moredhel and their trolls back – I don’t want them coming down on us the same way we came down on them.

  My guess is those scum are as exhausted as we are. Once they find out we hold the heights as well they’ll give up for tonight. There’s some old dwarven mine shafts a mile or so back down the slope.

  My bet is they pull in there, build fires to warm up, and wait till dawn to fan out and trap us. We’ll get out a couple hours before dawn, dried and rested.’

  ‘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 62

  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.

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  ‘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.

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  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 65

  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 watchin
g 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.’

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  ‘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 both 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 67

  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.

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  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 h
im 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 69

  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.’