The Complete Legends of the Riftwar Trilogy

by Raymond E. Feist

  He heard voices behind him and looked back. He couldn’t see anything because the camp was well hidden on the reverse slope, but it sounded like Brother Corwin, – he heard a booming laugh, a snatch of a comment from Bewin rejoicing that the monk, having climbed all this way, had thought to bring along a skin filled with brandy. He started to move, then thought it best to remain diligent and to keep careful watch. Looking up at the sun, he judged that in another hour at most it would be time for his relief and then he could sit with the monk and have a sip of brandy.

  Strange that Brother Corwin would come up this far, but the monk had taken to disappearing for days at a time, out to gather herbs hidden beneath the snows which might help to heal the half-dozen men down with the flux and the few wounded who were slow to mend.

  An hour or more passed and Richard wondered if Bewin knew just how carefully he was doing his job, not drifting back to seek a few minutes’ warmth by the fire, but staying, instead, at his post no matter what the temptations Corwin had brought along.

  Again he caught a glimpse of movement – the herd of horses which had been out in the middle of the valley had been edging closer towards the woods which flanked the slope, then shied back, breaking into a run for several hundred yards before settling back down.

  ‘A beautiful day, isn’t it young Richard?’

  He turned. It was Brother Corwin, laboriously coming up the slope, his heavy breathing making clouds of steam before his face, holding the hem of his monk’s robe up as he kicked through the icy crust of snow.

  Richard smiled. If he had had any friend in this last month it had been Corwin. The monk had shown him many of his secrets of healing: how to stitch a wound, pull an arrow and to staunch bleeding, his compassion shared equally on both sides and he had praised Richard for his own gentle touch and friendliness to young Osami.

  Richard half-stood but the monk motioned for him to be seated. ‘Don’t show yourself, lad, one never knows who is watching below.’

  ‘I haven’t seen anything this morning, Brother, other than a few horses.’

  ‘Still, the woods always have eyes.’

  Corwin sat down by his side.

  ‘Why? Do you think they are down there?’

  ‘It’s fair to think so. They know we are here.’

  ‘Then why not attack us?’

  ‘Because as long as there are watchers up here you can give sufficient warning. Three or four archers could tie them up for hours while a messenger was sent back. This is the only pass from the northern valley. I know, I’ve walked these woods for weeks.’

  ‘Its so peaceful,’ Richard sighed. ‘One would almost think there is no war.’

  ‘Oh there is war, young Richard.’

  The way he said it caused Richard to turn and look into the monk’s eyes.

  And at that same instant Richard felt the blow of the dagger plunging into his side.

  It struck with a violence he could never have imagined, an agonizing pain that drove the breath out of his lungs and he fell backwards, gasping.

  Even as he fell back he could not believe what had just happened.

  Corwin stood up, dagger in his hand and smiled.

  Richard, terrified, trying to breathe and yet unable to do so, looked at him, wide-eyed.

  ‘Why?’ he gasped.

  There was almost a hint of sadness and pity in Corwin’s eyes. ‘I’m sorry, my son. I actually like you. Too bad, you were such a handsome young lad. Such a waste it seems.’

  ‘Bewin!’ He gasped the cry out, clutching his side, struggling to stand.

  ‘No sense in calling for him. They’re all dead.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Poison in the brandy. Easy enough. I don’t think they even realized they were dying, just a quiet drifting off to sleep. Quite peaceful actually. Then I cut their throats to make sure.’

  ‘Bewin!’

  A cross look clouded the rotund brother’s features. ‘They’re dead, Richard. It’s an old trick, I’ve used it a number of times.’

  ‘Who are you?’ Richard sobbed.

  Corwin smiled again. ‘Hartraft should have figured it out. I’ve been hunting him for quite some time. Years ago I was sent to his stinking little village to kill him, his father and grandfather but couldn’t get close enough to poison their drink.’ Corwin laughed and shook his head. ‘Besides, I realized a better plan to punish the Hartraft clan. Strange he didn’t remember me when I came across you all out in the forest, but then again I’ve put on a few pounds since, and no longer looked like the holy relic merchant I once posed as.’

  Richard leaned over, coughing, frothy droplets of blood spraying on to the snow.

  ‘I opened the pass the night his village fell. Just like here, poisoned the guards and stabbed the one still on watch, then sat back and watched the Tsurani storm in. Far more amusing to let one foe kill another. I followed the attack, knowing where the escape-hole was to get out of the keep. Too bad about the girl – the bolt was actually meant for Dennis, but in a way it was far more delightful in its results. It was kinder to her to kill her, rather than have her mourning her husband, and far crueller to have him watch her die, don’t you think?’

  ‘Who are you?’ Richard gasped again.

  ‘A servant of Murmandamus,’ Corwin announced coldly. ‘Long ago I was told to kill the Hartrafts. His father’s estates were a vital key in my master’s plans. Oh, I’ve stalked Dennis on and off over the years, but this cursed war made it damn difficult to close in on him.’

  Corwin smiled, using the hem of his robe to wipe Richard’s blood off his dagger.

  ‘I was back with Bovai and his attacking column when we caught a Kingdom scout who, after some persuasion, said you Marauders were nearby. My mission was to get south, but the wonderful thing about the moredhel is they think in terms of years and decades rather than days and months. So Bovai sent me out to find you, infiltrate your ranks, but to leave Hartraft alive. With final revenge so close, Bovai must be half-mad to have Dennis’s blood on his own dagger, not mine. After you’re all dead, I’ll return to my original mission.’ He laughed. ‘Actually it was quite masterful the way I ruined that trap you were setting for the Tsurani. In fact, they were about to head off in the opposite direction when I led them back to you and triggered a nice little slaughter.

  ‘But as for Hartraft, believe me young Richard, it would have been easy enough to poison him this last month, but Bovai wants the pleasure of that kill. Besides, I only had enough poison hidden on me for one more job, and figured I’d need that to help with my escape when the time came to lead Bovai through this pass.’

  ‘You bastard!’ Richard cried, feeling at last for his dagger.

  ‘Oh lad, it’s a sin to curse a holy brother.’ Corwin snickered at the joke. ‘Bovai’s waiting down in those woods, boy. I just saw signs of him yesterday. Once you and your friends are dead he will attack. I’m sorry son, but it’s time to die. Since I like you, let’s make this easy. Just lie back and close your eyes. I promise it won’t hurt.’

  Richard, soul filled with terror, fumbled with his dagger, and held it up, gasping in agony with every movement.

  ‘All right then,’ Corwin whispered coldly. ‘Now I’m afraid it will hurt, lad. I don’t like defiance. Have you ever seen a man have his tongue carved out and then listened to him drown on his own blood? It’s really quite interesting.’

  Corwin sprung, but his bulk played against him as Richard staggered to one side. Richard felt a hot slash across his arm even as his own blade cut across Corwin’s face, laying open his cheek to the bone.

  Corwin, bellowing in rage, dived back in, blade flashing. Richard backed up, left hand clasped to his side, strength draining away and then the world seemed to spin around as he fell off the outcrop of rock. He fell, world tumbling end over end and then there was darkness.

  He awoke to agony, the salty taste of blood in his mouth, and experienced a moment of terror, as he expected to see Corwin above him, having alrea
dy cut out his tongue.

  He waited for a moment, cautiously looking around, and then tried to sit up, but the slightest movement sent a wave of agony through him. Coughing, he spat up a foam of blood.

  He tried to make sense of his surroundings, for the ground seemed to rise up beside him. He blinked and realized he was not where he had fought Corwin, but on a ledge a few feet below his hiding spot. He must have fallen over the edge when Corwin struck him. He wondered why he was still alive, then considered the drop. The fat false-priest could hardly have climbed down to finish him off, and probably thought him already dead, or close enough that the cold would complete the task. And the slash he had given him to his face probably had him off somewhere trying to staunch the flow of blood.

  With hazy vision he looked around and then, ever so slowly, stood up, with every muscle crying out in pain. He saw a small rock at knee level protruding from the face of the bank and stepped upon it. Heaving himself upward, he almost fainted as he gripped the ledge above. Knowing he had but one chance, he forced himself to take a deep breath and pulled himself over. Then he collapsed on the ground and passed out.

  Consciousness returned some time later and Richard sat up slowly. He looked at the angle of the sun and realized no more than an hour had passed. He got to his unsteady feet and looked around.

  The monk was nowhere to be seen. Stumbling, he wove his way back down to the camp. The fire still snapped and crackled in the hut, and there, lying around the fire, were Bewin, Hanson and Luthar. Poisoned by Corwin.

  The realization filled him with rage. He leaned over, gasping and coughing and specks of blood splattered onto the snow.

  I’m bleeding inside, I’m dying, he thought.

  He looked back over his shoulder, wondering if he heard horses approaching. Were they coming already?

  Looking up at the sun, he judged that it was well past noon. Corwin must have left him for dead more than an hour ago. Already they could be on the move.

  Another spasm of coughing overtook him and he sat down, feeling such an infinite weariness that he was tempted to lie down by the fire and sleep. He fought it off, knowing that it was the dark shadow. Absently, he picked up the sack of brandy lying by Bewin, then remembered what it contained and threw it aside.

  Crawling over to the corporal he slowly worked the waist-belt off of the dead man then opened his own tunic. Reaching into Bewin’s haversack, he pulled out the field-dressing that Hartraft insisted all of his men carry. For the first time he looked at the puncture wound on his right side between his two lowest ribs. A thin trickle of blood seeped out and with each breath he could almost feel the air leaking away. He pressed the bandage up against the wound then ever so slowly wrapped Bewin’s belt around his chest and cinched it in tight to hold the bandage in place. The effort caused him to cry out in anguish. Unable to button his tunic, he left it open and stood up.

  Amazingly Corwin had not thought to take the horse tied off behind the hut. It was an old nag, used to haul extra supplies up to the watchers, and was there in case a messenger ever had to get back quickly. Richard knew that the monk didn’t like horses, but still he should have taken the beast along – or killed it.

  It wasn’t even saddled, but the effort of doing that now was beyond him. He led the horse around to the side of a rough-hewn table set in front of the cabin. Richard crawled up on to the table and then clawed his way onto the back of the horse.

  Facing down the mountain, back towards Wolfgar’s Stockade, he set off. He knew in his soul that it was now a race, twenty miles against death. Who would win the race he wasn’t sure. To gallop the old horse would have her wheezing in minutes and probably kill him with bloodloss. To walk would mean a half-day’s ride back to the garrison.

  He gritted his teeth and urged the horse into a canter, settling in with a rocking motion that caused him more pain than he thought he could endure. He held onto the reins and vowed to remain conscious until he reached the Captain.

  Throughout the day, except for the brief outdoor ceremony at sunrise, the Tsurani had remained inside the long house, but now, with the setting of the sun, the door had been opened and Asayaga stepped out. Dennis had just completed the sunset parade inspection and his men had stayed in place, talking quietly about the Tsurani.

  Asayaga, dressed in full armour approached Dennis and saluted. ‘It is the custom to have a feast at the end of the Atonement Day. We request your presence as guests.’

  Dennis simply nodded, not sure what to say.

  ‘Will you and your men please follow me?’

  Asayaga led the way into the long hall. The great table had been scrubbed clean, plates were laid out, fresh rushes were on the floor, the room was filled with a sweet cloud of incense. The Tsurani were arrayed around the table, an open place between each of them and Asayaga motioned for Dennis’s men to take the empty places.

  Wolfgar, his daughters, and the other members of the household were already present down to the smallest child. Dennis accepted the place pointed out by Asayaga which placed him between the Tsurani captain and Wolfgar. The Kingdom soldiers were silent, looking around curiously.

  Asayaga raised his cup, looking towards Strike Leader Tasemu who stood by the door. He stood at rigid attention and the minutes passed.

  Finally Tasemu turned, faced the group and started a sing-song chant, and the other Tsurani joined in. The chant lasted for several minutes and then ended with lowered heads, the chant eerily drifting off into silence. The Tsurani solemnly raised their cups and flagons, drained them, and then slammed the cups down with a loud cheer.

  Asayaga turned and bowed to Wolfgar. ‘It is custom, that when the Day of Atonement has ended, a man brings into his home any wayfarers upon the road and feasts them. Tonight we are the wayfarers upon the road and we thank you.’

  The cups were refilled from great bowls of ale set around the table and all the Tsurani raised a salute to Wolfgar, who stood up smiling, nodding his head in thanks.

  Next Asayaga turned to Dennis. ‘It is the custom, as well, for a man to then seek one towards whom he feels anger and to extend his hand, clasp his forearm, and to pledge that the year to come shall be free of that anger.’

  As he spoke in the language of the Kingdom the other Tsurani fell silent, but from their expressions Dennis sensed they knew what their captain was saying.

  ‘You and I are pledged to a king and an emperor who are at war, Hartraft. We must obey that pledge first. But I ask tonight that we will sit together without rancour, or thought of what we must still decide between each other. We are enemies, Hartraft, but at least tonight let us sit as honoured enemies and share this meal in peace.’

  Asayaga started to extend his hand and Dennis did not know how he would react. Actually clasping the hand of a Tsurani in a formal ceremony was something beyond anything he had ever dreamed of doing.

  Asayaga hesitated, looking into his eyes, and all in the room fell silent. A flicker of a smile crossed Asayaga’s face and, turning aside, he picked up his own cup, filled it, and offered it to Dennis instead.

  Caught off guard Dennis took the cup without even thinking and a ripple of laughter echoed in the great hall followed by a flurry of activity as the Tsurani soldiers took their own cups, filled them again and offered them to the Kingdom soldiers.

  Dennis, nodding, raised his cup, tipped it slightly in salute to Asayaga and then drained it. A cheer resounded throughout the long hall. He put the cup back down.

  ‘There are times, Asayaga,’ Dennis whispered, ‘when I almost forget that you are Tsurani.’

  ‘And there are times I forget you are Hartraft of the Marauders, Dennis,’ Asayaga replied.

  Dennis could not help but offer a grudging smile and picking up his own cup, which had yet to be touched, he offered it to Asayaga, who drained it.

  Tsurani soldiers who had been sitting at the back of the hall left the table and returned seconds later with steaming platters piled high with cold slices of roasted meats, whi
ch had been prepared the day before and soon all were sitting, eating their fill, the room abuzz with conversation, the men finding it amusing to fill each other’s drinking cups and then press the cups into the hands of their neighbours, forcing them to drink.

  ‘Your ritual was deeply moving,’ Alyssa said, leaving her seat to come over and stand between Asayaga and Dennis.

  ‘I thank you, my lady,’ Asayaga replied.

  ‘It is a shame that this pledge between you two could not be kept till the next year’s Atonement Day.’

  Asayaga nodded. ‘War is war, my lady. Hartraft must obey as I do. If ordered to fight we must do so. The only question then is what is in our hearts.’

  ‘And what is in your heart, Hartraft?’ Alyssa asked, looking over at Dennis.

  ‘I do my duty, my lady.’

  ‘Is it just duty? Father has told me of what happened to you, your family. Is it just duty?’

  ‘You have not seen this hall burn, your father dead, your beloved spouse dying in your arms.’

  The words spilled out of him and, embarrassed, he turned away. She put a hand on his shoulder and he looked back.

  ‘I know my father will not survive this winter,’ she whispered. ‘Your coming was the harbinger of that, and this hall will burn too.’

  ‘And won’t you hate the moredhel for that?’

  ‘Yes, the ones who might do it. Yes.’

  Dennis looked back over at Asayaga. ‘Why do you even try?’ he asked.

  ‘What do you mean?’ the Tsurani replied.

  ‘This. All this,’ Dennis said, a note of confusion and frustration in his voice. ‘The feast, that prayer yesterday about the spirits of my dead comrades, the drink just offered. Why the hell do you even try?’

  ‘Because I am Tsurani,’ Asayaga replied in a sharp whisper.

  Dennis, stunned by the intensity in Asayaga’s response, said nothing.

  ‘I don’t want to be here, Hartraft. I wish by all the gods I was home, miserable as it was with the intrigue, the damnable Game of the Council. I am a retainer to Lord Ugasa, and his son who will rule after him, and have achieved the highest rank I may hope to achieve. I gained my rank through twenty-five years of dutiful service, doing what was ordered without hesitation. And ten years of that service has been here, on your world, Hartraft.