Honored Enemy

by Raymond E. Feist

  ‘In fair weather, not more than two hours on horse. The bridge beyond, a half hour in good conditions.’

  Dennis sighed and shook his head.

  If the road was overgrown it would help, but dwarven roads were usually well built, straight and well paved – no one could match the dwarves for stonework. It would prove a disadvantage now. Once on it Bovai would send his whole column of cavalry off in hot pursuit rather than simply probing.

  ‘Tell Asayaga we must move faster,’ Dennis said. ‘Keep them moving.’

  He mounted, Roxanne sliding back to give him room.

  Alfred saluted and started back.

  ‘No, wait here until they catch up with you, Corporal. No sense you running up and down this hill twice.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Alfred gasped.

  Dennis nudged his tired mount, but the horse refused to budge 277

  for a moment and finally he had to kick hard with his heels to get it moving.

  He was throwing caution aside now. If they were not blocking this point it should be an open run down to the road. Once on the road he could check for signs. It gave him a terrible naked feeling, riding hard like this in the middle of the night, abandoning the careful routine of years of moving, waiting, listening, then covering as your companion leapfrogged forward.

  Several times his mount nearly lost its footing. Once he lost the trail completely and had to slowly backtrack, barely able to pick out the pathway as the snow continued to fall.

  The third moon had risen an hour before and there was ample light by which to navigate if he kept to a slow and steady pace. He fought back the urge to pick up speed, but galloping down a mountain trail through the woods at night would be folly of the worst sort.

  He could sense Roxanne falling asleep, her arms around his waist going slack, her head lolling on his shoulder, her warm breath on the back of his neck. He let her rest for a few minutes then slapped her lightly on the thigh.

  ‘Stay awake, I need your eyes.’

  She sighed, mumbled something and then sat upright.

  ‘Where are we?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she whispered.

  He sensed a narrow clearing ahead before actually seeing it where the trees thinned out slightly. He reined in and slipped out of the saddle, taking his bow, which had been resting across the pommel, and removing the oil-cloth draped over the string. Nocking an arrow he slipped forward, paused, then slowly dropped down onto the road.

  Even in the darkness he could discern its lines, a straight cut through the forest, wide enough for two carts to pass each other. Bent low, he crept to the middle of it, crouched and carefully scanned the path.

  After several minutes he started to brush aside the powdery snow, probing down through the foot-deep fresh fall until he hit the hard crust below. He cursed silently. It was hard to tell in the darkness, especially by touch, but there were footprints: goblins and at least one horse. He reached into his haversack, pulled out some tinder and a precious springlock sparker, a gift from Wolfgar on midwinter’s night, 278

  wound it up and held it close to the tinder, his cloak draped over his shoulders and head to shield himself. He pressed the trigger and a shower of sparks came spinning out, striking the tinder. Cupping the fluffy down and thin white bark shavings he blew them to life so that a tiny curl of a flame flared up – not much more than the light from a candle about to flicker out – but after hours of darkness the light seemed nearly as bright as day. Keeping one eye closed in order not to destroy his night vision, he scanned the footprints, kicking back more of the powder and then let the flame wink out. Catlike he straightened up, opened his other eye and carefully scanned both ways: nothing moved.

  ‘Roxanne,’ he hissed and she came out of the edge of the woods and down to the road, leading their horse. ‘He’s sent someone around

  – at least four goblins and one rider. They passed here just before the storm started.’

  ‘The bridge,’ she whispered.

  He stood up, brushing the snow off his trousers. ‘Either hold it, or destroy it,’ he sighed. He weighed the odds. Go back, get a few men, then come back again. An hour or more to do that. It was hard to tell how long before dawn. One man, in the dark, however, might catch them by surprise. ‘I’m going,’ he said. ‘You wait here, guide the column onto this trail and tell Asayaga I’ve gone ahead and what’s happening. Make sure he puts out scouts as he comes up to the bridge in case it doesn’t work out.’

  ‘I’m going with you.’

  ‘Like hell you are.’

  ‘What are you going to do, just gallop in on this old nag?’ she snapped. ‘You don’t even know the ground before the bridge.’

  ‘Then tell me now, girl, what will I see before approaching the bridge.’

  ‘Like hell. You’ll need someone to cover your back.’

  He wanted to laugh but was too exhausted even to make the effort.

  ‘I go, or you can just stumble into the trap on your own. There’s no room for all that nonsense about protecting Wolfgar’s daughter, Hartraft. If you fail here, we all die. I can put an arrow through a man at fifty yards. My father was a bard but he was also a damn good bowman and taught me well.’

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  Dennis sighed and shook his head. ‘You do exactly what I tell you to do.’ He mounted, fighting down the temptation to rake the flanks of the horse and simply gallop off. No, she was right. It was a blind attack – surprise and speed was everything, but an extra arrow might make all the difference. He pulled her up behind him. He urged the horse up to all that it could give, which was, at best, a laborious trot. The poor animal gasped for air, legs rubbery, barely able to hold its footing. She protested once, begging him to let the dying beast rest for just a few minutes, but he pressed on. He had no idea as to the size of the bridge – even if it was still there – but if it was, and the centre span was wood, it might still be standing, especially if the goblins, arriving at dark and typical of their breed, had decided to settle down for the night and do their job come dawn.

  They rode in silence for a while then finally Roxanne’s head came up, and she looked off to the side of the trail. ‘I remember that,’ she hissed into his ear, and pointed. ‘It’s a side trail up to an old quarry.

  My father took me there to see the marble. The bridge is only a few minutes’ ride ahead.’

  Even as she spoke, he could feel that their horse was ready to give way. He tried to kick it forward but the animal simply stopped, its flanks shaking, and with a groan it settled to its knees. Cursing, he slipped off the saddle and uncovered his bow. ‘We go in on foot.’

  Roxanne dismounted, unslung her own bow and strung it. He waited impatiently and was about to speak when she reached out and gently scratched the horse’s ear. ‘I’m sorry old friend,’ she whispered.

  ‘Rest now.’ She looked back up at Dennis and he could see that her eyes were bright with tears and that she was shaking, though whether from cold or fear he couldn’t tell.

  ‘Take the right side of the road, stay a dozen paces behind me: I’ll be on the left. If I fall, you get the hell out. No heroics, just turn and run until you meet up with Asayaga.’ She nodded. He realized that it was beginning to get lighter, that dawn was not far off. He patted her on the shoulder, a clumsy gesture, then withdrew his hand. ‘Remember: get out.’ Then he turned and set off at a lopping trot, not looking back.

  The road turned in a long gentle curve to the right, cutting down and clinging to the flank of the hill. Off to his left he could now hear a 280

  low rushing thunder: the river cascading over a falls. Good, the sound would cover his approach. He could see nearly a hundred feet now: if not for the snow it would be a clear view all the way down to his goal. And then he saw it – a dull, pulsing glow of light. He picked up his pace, arrow nocked and bow half-drawn, the glow of light turning the falling snow ahead into a pool of pink. He could see a glowing swirl rising up as well and spreading out; then there was a flash of fire,
an explosion of light, and dark demonic figures dancing and waving their arms as one of them hurled another pot of oil into the conflagration consuming the centre span of the bridge. He ran, powdery snow churning up, his sprint so quick that he nearly lost his footing on the ice underneath. He reached the edge of the bridge, the stone span arching up to the centre section of wood that was blazing from end to end. His first arrow caught a goblin in the middle of its back from not fifty feet away. The goblin pitched forward, shrieking, staggering out on to the burning beams. For a few precious seconds the dying goblin’s four companions thought he was drunk, which he indeed was, and broke into gales of laughter at their companion’s antics, until a second one spun around, an arrow protruding from his body. The other three finally began to turn, one of them pointing at Dennis. They were perfect targets, silhouetted by the fire and his next arrow gutted yet another, who sank down to his knees shrieking in agony, his cries heard above the roar of the fire. One of them began to charge, but the second hesitated and looked around for a way to escape. Another arrow streaked in, piercing the charging goblin’s heart, but he continued forward for a dozen paces, almost reaching Dennis before collapsing. The last survivor began to squeal and run frantically back and forth at the edge of the inferno, looking for a way out. Dennis, with cold brutality drew another arrow, carefully nocked it, and raised his bow.

  ‘Hartraft!’ He heard an arrow hiss past his cheek and then he was down, something ramming into him from behind, a dagger flashing into the snow within inches of his throat. He kicked out, rolled over and then his attacker was on top of him, blade poised, the flash of it coming down yet again, narrowly missing his eyes. His assailant was a moredhel, strong and sinewy. He pinned Dennis’s right hand to the ground with his left, even as he raised his right for another 281

  strike. Dennis tried to kick his legs up, to catch him in the back of the head, but the response was a knee to the groin which caused Dennis to gasp. And then he barely saw the shadow of Roxanne coming up from behind, her dagger glinting as she leapt in, cutting the moredhel across the throat.

  Silently, the moredhel staggered to his feet, the dagger slipping from his grasp. Both hands went to his throat and arterial blood squirted out from between his fingers. He looked back at the woman, astonishment in his eyes, as if she had broken some rule and played a cruel and unfair joke. Then he sank to his knees.

  Dennis rolled away, a hazy sheen of pain consuming his world.

  The other goblin. . .

  He looked up. Roxanne had Dennis’s bow in her hand. He watched her reach into her quiver, pull out an arrow, nock it and raise the bow.

  It was a heavy weapon and she struggled to draw the arrow back.

  The goblin still at the edge of the fire was shrieking, hands raised imploringly. She hesitated for a second then released the shot. The bolt brought the creature down, but didn’t kill it. Trembling, she took a second arrow, and advanced towards the goblin.

  ‘Be careful,’ Dennis gasped, coming to his knees, eyes still on the dying moredhel.

  Roxanne stopped a dozen paces away and the goblin kicked and thrashed, trying to roll out of the way. ‘Be still and let me finish it,’

  she cried.

  The second shot missed completely. She started to scream at the goblin even as she drew a third arrow, stepping closer, aiming almost straight down.

  Hands raised, it continued to beg for mercy in the common tongue.

  She released the arrow, and the screaming stopped, changing to a gurgling cry, almost like that of a wounded rabbit. She started to fumble for a fourth arrow but the goblin finally curled up and was still.

  She came back to Dennis and knelt down by his side, looking warily at the moredhel whose throat she had cut. Blood leaked from the wound, but it was not yet dead. The dark elf stared at her. ‘And to think, a human woman slew me,’ he whispered. ‘Tell my brothers it was Hartraft, then Bovai will have more reason for vengeance.’

  She nodded.

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  ‘Tell Tinuva his cousin Vakar will await him on the far shore.’

  Still kneeling, he lowered his head and was still.

  Roxanne, sobbing, leaned over and vomited, gasping for air.

  Dennis, legs wobbly, stood up and gently rubbed her shoulders as she cried.

  ‘I’m sorry. I saw him coming up, I shot and missed, almost hit you.’

  ‘It’s all right, it’s your first fight. It’s alright.’

  ‘And the way he kept shrieking, I didn’t want him to suffer, I just wanted him to die.’

  ‘Its alright,’ he said woodenly, looking at the bridge. The entire centre span was a crackling hell. It was obvious that the moredhel had not let his goblins sleep through the night. They had shovelled the wooden section clean, then piled brush and dried timber torn from the side of the mill above the bridge onto the span. Even as he watched, the flooring gave way, crashing down to reveal one of the two support spans underneath. The goblins had been at work there too, having cut through both beams with an axe. The support spans gave way and the entire structure crashed down into the thundering river below in an explosion of steam and hissing embers. He sighed, barely noticing that Roxanne was standing, leaning against him, still crying, her arm around his waist.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she sobbed.

  He held her tighter and gently wiped the tears from her face. ‘It will be all right, you did just fine.’

  He looked back at the bridge. They were trapped.

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  sixteen

  Confrontation

  The dawn was beautiful.

  Tinuva, gaze turned towards the east, could sense that the sun had risen above the mountains. The world around him was grey, all of it grey, the snow swirling about him in drifting eddies. He remembered how his father had told him that when it snowed even humans could see the wind, and it was so. He watched as gusty eddies danced and flickered, a single flake pausing for a moment to hover before his eyes, a twirling crystal of light, the exhale of his warm breath causing it to dance away even as it melted.

  ‘It is a good morning,’ Tinuva whispered.

  ‘What?’

  He looked over at Gregory and smiled. ‘A beautiful morning.’

  ‘My friend, you must be addled,’ Gregory sighed.

  Tinuva reached out and lightly touched Gregory on the shoulder and the gesture caught his mortal friend off-guard for a moment.

  The elf said nothing. The voice within his heart, the whispering of the forest had already told him enough.

  They waited a few more minutes, but no pursuer closed.

  ‘They must have stopped to rest,’ Gregory finally whispered.

  Tinuva nodded in agreement and the two scrambled down from the low outcropping, remounted on the single horse spared for the rearguard and rode back half a mile, Gregory hooting like an owl to signal Hartraft’s men of their approach.

  The reserve was well concealed behind an upturned tree and they 284

  reined in. The six men stood up, pulling back their cloaks. Three were Tsurani, led by a Kingdom corporal.

  ‘Nothing,’ Gregory said. ‘Fall back.’

  ‘The road is just a few hundred yards beyond,’ one of the men said. ‘And there’s hard news.’

  ‘What is it?’ Gregory asked.

  ‘The bridge. A rider just came up. Dennis took it, but the span is down. Goblins led by a moredhel were burning it when he came up.’

  Gregory and Tinuva dismounted. Tinuva said nothing as he reached into his saddlebag, scooped out a handful of oats and fed the horse, gently stroking its nose and whispering apologies for having driven it so hard through the night.

  ‘We make a rearguard here,’ the corporal said, his voice flat. ‘Buy time for them to run a span across.’

  ‘What about the mill there? We could pull out some of the beams,’

  said Gregory.

  ‘The mill is ancient. The timbers are all rot and dust,’ Tinuva said quietly, his attention still fixed o
n the horse. ‘They’ll have to cut down some trees, build a rough hoist and swing a span across. It’ll take hours.’

  ‘Then climb down into the gorge and ford the damn river,’ Gregory replied.

  Tinuva shook his head. ‘Maybe you and I can do it, but the children, the old women?’

  Gregory sat down heavily and cursed.

  The corporal looked at the two. ‘How much time do we have?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Gregory sighed.

  ‘Not long,’ Tinuva replied. ‘They’re coming.’

  ‘Dennis sent just you back here?’ Gregory asked, looking at the six men.

  The corporal nodded. ‘Hartraft wants us to slow them down as long as possible: every man is needed to cut down the trees, build the hoist and defences if we don’t get the bridge up in time. One of us is to ride back when contact is made to give warning.’

  ‘All of you go back,’ Tinuva said quietly.

  Gregory looked up and Tinuva smiled. He opened a small leather 285

  bucket, emptied the last of his water into it and offered the drink to the horse.

  ‘You heard me, go back.’

  The corporal hesitated.

  ‘Six more men back there might make all the difference in getting that span across. We can handle this.’

  The corporal looked to Gregory who nodded his head.

  Tinuva said, ‘Corporal, go. Take my horse – he’s a gentle creature

  – fighting is not in his blood so be kind to him.’

  ‘Sir?’

  Tinuva patted the corporal on the shoulder and then pushed him towards his mount. The corporal reluctantly nodded and then climbed into the saddle.

  ‘Don’t stay too long, sir.’

  ‘I’ll be along soon enough.’

  The corporal motioned for his men to move out and they quickly disappeared into the snow.

  ‘You go too, Gregory.’

  ‘Not likely.’

  ‘One more against two hundred won’t matter. You know what I need to do.’

  Gregory stood up.