Locklear said, ‘‘Hurry back down the trail and see if you can find him. If he’s heading back toward LaMut, we’ll have to ride in rotation. I don’t want to be slowed any more than necessary.’’
As Owyn ran off, Gorath said, ‘‘Why don’t you leave him behind?’’
Locklear studied the moredhel’s expression as if trying to read him, then at last he said, ‘‘It’s not our way.’’
Gorath laughed mockingly. ‘‘My experience with your kind tells me otherwise.’’
Locklear said, ‘‘Then it’s not my way.’’
Gorath shrugged. ‘‘I can accept that.’’ He set to examining the corpse at Locklear’s feet, and after a moment said, ‘‘This is interesting.’’ He held out an object for Locklear’s examination.
‘‘What is this?’’ asked Locklear, looking at a multifaceted stone of an odd blue hue.
‘‘A snow sapphire.’’
‘‘Sapphire!’’ said Locklear. ‘‘It’s as big as an egg!’’
‘‘It’s not a particularly valuable stone,’’ said Gorath. ‘‘They are common north of the Teeth of the World.’’
‘‘So it’s, what? A keepsake?’’
‘‘Perhaps, but when a war party leaves our homeland, we travel light. Weapons, rations, extra bowstrings, and little else.
We easily live by forage.’’
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Raymond E. Feist
‘‘Maybe this isn’t a war party?’’ suggested Locklear. ‘‘Maybe they live around here?’’
Gorath shook his head. ‘‘The last of my people south of the Teeth of the World lived in the Grey Towers, and they fled to the Northlands with the coming of the Tsurani. None of my race has lived this near the Bitter Sea since before the Kingdom came to these mountains. No, while not of my clan, these are from the Northlands.’’ He put the gem in his belt pouch and continued to examine the bodies.
Time passed, and finally Owyn put in an appearance, leading his horse. ‘‘Damn all horses,’’ he swore. ‘‘He made me chase him until he got bored.’’
Locklear smiled. ‘‘Next time, don’t fall off.’’
‘‘I didn’t plan on it this time,’’ said Owyn.
Gorath said, ‘‘We need to hide these.’’ He pointed to the four dead moredhel. He picked up one and carried it a short way down the trail, then unceremoniously threw the corpse over the side of a ravine.
Owyn looked at Locklear, and the young magician tied his horse’s reins to a nearby bush. He picked up the feet of the nearest corpse while Locklear lifted the creature under the shoulders.
Soon all four bodies were consigned to the ravine hundreds of feet below. Locklear mounted as did Gorath and Owyn.
Leaving for the time being the mystery of why these moredhel were waiting at this lonely spot on a rarely used trail, they rode on.
Loriel appeared before them, a small city—really a large town—nestled into the large valley which ran eastward. Another valley intersected from the south.
Gorath said, ‘‘We need food.’’
‘‘A fact of which my stomach is well aware,’’ answered Locklear.
Owyn said, ‘‘Not that I’m in a hurry to face my father, but this is turning into a roundabout journey, Squire.’’
Locklear pointed to the southern valley. ‘‘There’s a road through there that’s a very straight course to Hawk’s Hollow.
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From there we have our choice of routes, south along a narrow ridge trail, or southwest back to the King’s Highway.’’
Gorath said, ‘‘And then to Krondor?’’
‘‘And then to Krondor,’’ agreed Locklear. ‘‘Something in all this is making what my friend Jimmy calls his ‘bump of trouble’ itch like I’ve been attacked there by fleas.
‘‘Gorath, this stolen ruby, the Tsurani magicians, all of it is somehow . . . more than coincidence.’’
‘‘How?’’ asked Owyn.
‘‘If I knew,’’ said Locklear, ‘‘we wouldn’t be stopping off to visit Mr. Alescook. He may know something or know someone who knows what it’s about, but the more I think on this mystery, the more it bothers me that I don’t know what’s behind all this.
‘‘But we’re going to find out or die trying.’’
Owyn didn’t look happy at the second choice, but said nothing. Gorath just looked out over the town as they rode down toward the small guard post that sat aside the trail.
A town constable of advancing years and considerable girth held up his hand, and said, ‘‘Halt!’’
The three reined in, and Locklear inquired, ‘‘What is it?’’
‘‘We’ve had a rash of renegades around here, lately, m’lad, so state your business.’’
‘‘We’re traveling south and stopping for provisions,’’ said Locklear.
‘‘And who might you be, to be riding down out of the mountains?’’
Locklear produced the paper given him by Captain Belford, and said, ‘‘This should explain as much as you need to know, constable.’’
The man took the document and squinted at it. Locklear realized he couldn’t read, but he made a show of studying it.
Finally, convinced by the large embossment at the bottom, the constable handed back the paper, and said, ‘‘You may pass, sir. Just be wary if you’re out after dark.’’
‘‘Why?’’ asked Locklear.
‘‘As I said, sir, lots of ruffians and bandits passing by lately, and not too few of those murderous Brothers of the Dark Path.
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Look a bit like your elf friend there, but with long black nails and red eyes which shine in the night.’’
Locklear could barely hold back his amusement as he said,
‘‘We’ll be wary, constable.’’
They rode past, and Gorath said, ‘‘That one has never seen one of my people in his life.’’
‘‘So I gathered,’’ observed Locklear, ‘‘though I must pay more attention to your eyes at night. I may have missed the red glow.’’
Owyn chuckled, and they found themselves an inn. It was dirty, crowded, and dark, which suited Locklear fine as he was low on funds. He had thought about asking Captain Belford for a loan, but decided the Captain’s only response would have been, ‘‘wait for Earl Kasumi,’’ and while Locklear didn’t mind taking a circuitous route to get to Krondor to avoid ambushes, he was anxious to put the mystery of what was occurring in the Northlands before Arutha.
There were no rooms available, a situation that surprised Locklear, but the innkeeper gave them leave to sleep in the commons. Owyn grumbled at the need, but Gorath kept his thoughts to himself.
So far no one had objected to the moredhel’s presence along the way, either because they didn’t recognize him for what he was, mistaking him for an elf, or because a moredhel with renegade humans in these mountains was not all that unusual a sight. Whatever the cause, Locklear was grateful he didn’t need to deal with curious onlookers.
They ate at a crowded table, and after the meal listened to an indifferent troubadour. There were some games of chance and Locklear itched to try his hand at some cards, either pa-shawa or pokir. He resisted the impulse, as he could ill afford to lose, and one lesson taught him by his father and older brothers was don’t gamble what you can’t afford to lose.
As the inn settled down and those sleeping in the commons began to claim corners and places under tables, Locklear approached the barkeep, a heavyset man with a black beard.
‘‘Sir?’’ he asked, as Locklear moved between two other men to stand before him.
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‘‘Tell me, friend,’’ began Locklear. ‘‘Is there a merchant in this town who deals in gems?’’
The barkeep nodded. ‘‘Three doors down on the right.
Name’s Alescook.’’
‘‘Good,’’ said Locklear. ‘‘I need to purchase a gift for a lad
y.’’
The barkeep grinned. ‘‘I understand, sir. Now, one word: caution.’’
‘‘I don’t understand,’’ said Locklear.
‘‘I’m not saying Kiefer Alescook can’t be trusted, but let’s just say the source of some of his merchandise is a bit dodgy.’’
‘‘Ah,’’ said Locklear, nodding as if now he understood.
‘‘Thanks. I’ll bear that in mind.’’
Locklear returned to the table, and said, ‘‘I’ve found our man. He’s nearby, and we’ll see him first thing in the morning.’’
‘‘Good,’’ said Gorath. ‘‘I tire of your company.’’
Locklear laughed. ‘‘You’re not exactly an ale and fair song yourself, Gorath.’’
Owyn said, ‘‘Well, whatever. I’m tired, and if we’re to sleep on the floor, I don’t want to get too far from the fire.’’
Locklear realized that men were now bedding down for the night, and replied, ‘‘Over there.’’
They moved to the indicated spot and unrolled their bedding. After a few minutes of listening to the sounds of hushed conversation from those few men still at the tables or the door opening and closing as men left to return to their homes, Locklear fell into a deep sleep.
The merchant looked up as the three men entered the room.
He was an old man, looking frail to the point of infirmity. He regarded the three with rheumy eyes. He studied Gorath for a moment, then said, ‘‘If you’ve come for gold, I sent it north with one of your kind two days ago.’’
Gorath said, ‘‘I did not come for gold.’’
Locklear said, ‘‘We came looking for information.’’
The merchant fell silent. After a moment, he said, ‘‘Information? Find a rumormonger. I deal in gems and other fine items.’’
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‘‘And from what we hear, you’re not too particular as to the source of those items.’’
‘‘Are you suggesting I deal in stolen property?’’ demanded the old man, his voice rising.
Locklear held up his hand. ‘‘I suggest nothing, but I am seeking a particular stone.’’
‘‘What?’’
‘‘A ruby, unusual in size and character. I seek to return it to its rightful owner, no questions asked. If you came by it, no fault will be placed at your feet, if you help us recover it. If you don’t, then I suggest you may receive a visit from a Royal Magis-trate and some very disapproving guardsmen from the garrison at Tyr-Sog.’’
The old man’s expression turned calculating. His balding pate shone in the light of a single lantern that hung overhead.
With feigned indifference, he said, ‘‘I have nothing to hide.
But I may be able to help you.’’
‘‘What do you know?’’ asked Locklear.
‘‘Lately, my business has been brisk, but it’s an unusual sort of trade, and I’ve been in this business for fifty years, lad.
‘‘Recently, I’ve been handling transactions for parties I have not met, through agents and couriers. Most unusual, but profitable. Gems of high quality, many of them very rare, even remarkable, have passed through my hands.’’
‘‘Tsurani gems?’’ asked Locklear.
‘‘Precisely!’’ said the old man. ‘‘Yes, similar enough to our own rubies, sapphires, emeralds, and the like to be recognized as such, but with slight variations only an expert might notice.
And also, other gems unlike any found on this world.’’
‘‘Whom do you represent?’’ asked Locklear.
‘‘No one known to me,’’ said the old man. ‘‘At irregular intervals of late, dark elves like your companion have come here, and they drop off gems. Later a man comes from the south and brings me gold. I give him the gems, deduct a com-mission and wait for the dark elves to return and take the balance of the gold.’’
Gorath turned to Locklear. ‘‘Delekhan. He’s using the gold to arm our people.’’
40
KRONDOR THE BETRAYAL
Locklear held his hand up, requesting silence. ‘‘We’ll talk later.’’ To the old man, he said, ‘‘Who buys the gems?’’
‘‘I don’t know, but the man who receives them is known as Isaac. He lives down in Hawk’s Hollow.’’
‘‘Have you seen this Isaac?’’ asked Locklear.
‘‘Many times. He’s a young man, about your height. Light brown hair he wears long to his shoulders.’’
‘‘Does he speak like an Easterner?’’
‘‘Yes, now that you mention it. He sounds court-bred at times.’’
Locklear said, ‘‘Thank you. I will mention your aid should any official investigation come of this.’’
‘‘I am always eager to help the authorities. I run a lawful enterprise.’’
‘‘Good.’’ Locklear motioned toward Gorath’s purse, and said, ‘‘Sell him the stone.’’
Gorath took out the snow sapphire he had taken from the dead moredhel and put it down before Alescook.
The merchant picked it up and examined it. ‘‘Ah, a nice one.
I have a buyer for these down South. I’ll give you a golden sovereign for it.’’
‘‘Five,’’ said Locklear.
‘‘These are not that rare,’’ said Alescook, tossing it back to Gorath, who started to put it away. ‘‘But, on the other hand . . .
two sovereigns.’’
‘‘Four,’’ said Locklear.
‘‘Three, and that’s done with it.’’
They took the gold, enough for a meal along the way, left, and went outside. To his companions Locklear said, ‘‘We’re passing through Hawk’s Hollow on our way to Krondor, so our next choice is easy. We find Isaac.’’
As he mounted his horse, Gorath said, ‘‘This Isaac is known to you, then?’’
Locklear said, ‘‘Yes. He’s the second biggest rogue I’ve known in my life. A fine companion for drinking and brawling. If he’s caught up in something dodgy, it wouldn’t surprise me.’’
They turned their horses southward and left the large, rolling valley of Loriel, entering the narrow river valley leading 41
Raymond E. Feist
southward. Locklear had been able to purchase a little food at the inn, but the lack of funds was starting to worry him. He knew they could hunt, but his sense of something dark approaching was growing by the day. A renegade moredhel chieftain bringing warning of possible invasion, money moving to the North to buy weapons from weapons runners, and somehow the Tsurani were involved. Any way he looked at this, it was a bad situation.
Unable to put aside his foreboding, he kept his thoughts to himself.
Gorath held up his hand and pointed. Softly he said, ‘‘Something there.’’
‘‘I don’t see anything,’’ said Owyn.
‘‘If you did, I would not need to warn you,’’ suggested the dark elf.
‘‘What do you see?’’ asked Locklear.
‘‘An ambush. See those trees. Some lower branches have been hacked off, but not by a woodsman’s ax or saw.’’
‘‘Owyn,’’ Locklear asked, ‘‘can you still do that blinding trick?’’
‘‘Yes,’’ said Owyn, ‘‘if I can see the man I’m trying to blind.’’
‘‘Well, as we’re sitting here, pointing at them, I expect in a moment whoever’s behind that brush is going to figure out we’ve spotted their ambush—’’
Locklear was interrupted by six figures rushing forward from the brush on foot. ‘‘Moredhel!’’ shouted Locklear as he charged.
He felt the sizzling energy speed past him as Owyn sought to blind an advancing dark elf. The spell took effect, for the creature faltered, reaching up to his eyes in alarm.
Locklear leaned over the neck of his horse as an arrow flew past him. ‘‘Get the bowman,’’ he shouted to Owyn.
Gorath shouted a war cry and rode down one attacker while slashing at a second. Locklear engaged a dark elf who seemed indifferen
t to facing a mounted opponent, and Locklear knew from bitter experience how deadly the moredhel could be.
While rarely mounted themselves, they had faced human cavalry for hundreds of years and were adept at pulling riders 42
KRONDOR THE BETRAYAL
from horseback. Knowing their tactics, Locklear spurred his mount suddenly, turning it hard to the left. This knocked back the attacker he faced and revealed the one poised to leap and drag him down. Locklear slashed out with his sword, taking the creature in the throat, above his metal breastplate. Locklear kept his horse circling, so he quickly faced his first attacker.
The sizzling sensation told him Owyn was once more blinding an opponent, and Locklear hoped it was the bowman. The moredhel who had fallen back as the horse spun pressed forward with a vicious slash at Locklear’s leg.
He barely got his sword down in time and felt the shock run up through his arm. His stiff ribs hindered his parry, and the flat of his own blade slammed into his horse’s side, causing the animal to shy.
Locklear used his left leg and moved the animal back into a straight line, twisting his body to keep his eyes upon his foe.
His ribs hurt from the effort, but he stayed alive as the moredhel swung at him again. He knocked that blow aside and delivered a weak counter, which slapped his opponent in the face, irritating him more than doing any real damage.
But the blow did slow the moredhel’s advance, and Locklear got his horse turned to face his foe. Locklear remembered something his father had drilled into him and his brothers: a soldier who has a weapon and doesn’t use it is either an idiot or dead.
His horse was a weapon, and Locklear put his legs hard against his horse’s flanks and tugged hard on the reins with his off hand. The horse picked up a canter, and to the moredhel it was as if the horse suddenly leaped at him.
The warrior was a veteran and dodged to one side, but Locklear reined his horse in, turning hard to the left. To the moredhel, it looked as if Locklear was turning away, and the creature pressed forward.
Locklear kept the horse turning in a tight circle, and suddenly the moredhel realized his error as the young squire completed his circle with a slashing downward blow. This was no irritating tap, but a powerful blow which smashed bone as it cut into the side of the moredhel’s skull.
Krondor: The Betrayal Page 5