The Riftwar Saga

by Raymond E. Feist

  ‘In the dark era of the Chaos Wars, many changes in the lands occurred. From the people of the elves, four groups rose.’ Martin leant forward, for as much as he knew of elvenkind, more than almost any man alive, this was all new to him. Until this moment he had always believed only the moredhel and elves were the sum total of elvenkind. ‘The most wise and powerful, numbering the greatest Spellweavers and scholars, were the eldar. They were the caretakers for all that their masters had plundered from across the cosmos, arcane works, mystical knowledge, artifacts, and riches. It was they who first began fashioning what is now Elvandar, lending it magic aspect. They vanished during the Chaos Wars, for they were among our masters’ first servants, and it is supposed that being very close to them, they perished with them. Of the elves and Brotherhood of the Dark Path, the eledhel and moredhel in our tongue, you know something. But there were yet other kin of ours, the glamredhel, which name means “the chaotic ones” or “the mad ones”. They were changed by the Chaos Wars, becoming a nation of insane, savage warriors. For a time elves and moredhel were one, and both were warred upon by the mad ones. Even after the moredhel were driven from Elvandar, they remained the sworn enemy of the glamredhel. We speak little of these days, for you must remember that while we speak of eledhel, moredhel, and glamredhel, all elvenkind is one race, even to this day. It is simply that some of our people have chosen a dark way of life.’

  Martin was astonished. For all he knew of elven culture, he had, like other humans, always supposed the moredhel a race apart, related to the elves but somehow different. Now he realized why the elves had always been reticent in discussing their relationship to the moredhel. They saw them as being one with themselves. In an instant Martin understood. The elves mourned the loss of their brothers to the lure of the Dark Path.

  Tathar continued. ‘Our lore tells of the time when the last great battle in the north was fought, when the armies of the moredhel and their goblin servants at last crushed the glamredhel. The moredhel rampaged, obliterating our mad cousins in a terrible war of genocide. Even to the smallest infant, the glamredhel were supposedly slaughtered, lest they again rise and challenge the supremacy of the moredhel. It is the single blackest shame in the memory of our race that one segment of our people utterly destroyed another.

  ‘But what concerns you is this: at the heart of the moredhel host stood a company called the Black Slayers, moredhel warriors who had renounced their mortality to become monsters with but one purpose: to kill for their master. Once dead, the Black Slayers rise again to do their master’s bidding. Once risen from the dead, they may be halted only by magic means, by utterly destroying the body, or by cutting the hearts from out of their bodies. Those who rode against you on the road to Sarth were Black Slayers, Prince Arutha.

  ‘Before the battle of obliteration, the moredhel had already gone far down the Dark Path, but something caused them to descend to these new depths of horror, the Black Slayers and the genocide. They had become a tool of an insane monster, a leader who sought to emulate the vanished Valheru and bring all the world under his dominion. It was he who had gathered the moredhel under his banner and who had given rise to the abomination that was the Black Slayers. But in that last battle he was wounded unto death, and with his passing the moredhel ceased to be a nation. His captains gathered and sought to determine a successor. They quickly fell out with one another and became much like the goblins – tribes, clans, families, never able to combine under one leader for long. The siege of Carse Keep, fifty years past, was but a skirmish compared to the might the moredhel mustered under this leader. But with his passing, an era of moredhel might came to an end. For he was unique, a charismatic, hypnotic being of strange abilities, able to weld the moredhel into a nation.

  ‘The leader’s name was Murmandamus.’

  Arutha said, ‘Is it possible he’s somehow returned?’

  ‘Anything may be possible, Prince Arutha, or so it seems to one who has lived as long as I,’ answered Tathar. ‘It may be that one seeks to unite the moredhel by invoking that ancient name, gathering them together under one banner.

  ‘Then there is this business of the serpent priest. So despised are the Pantathians that even the moredhel slaughter them when they find them. But that one of them is a servant of this Murmandamus hints at dark alliances. It warns us we may be facing forces beyond our expectations. If the nations of the north are rising, we all must again face a testing, one which will rival that of the outworlders in peril for our peoples.’

  Baru stood, in Hadati fashion, indicating he wished to speak. Tathar inclined his head in Baru’s direction, and he said, ‘Of moredhel lore my people know little, save that the Dark Brothers are enemies of our blood. This much I may add: Murad is counted a great chieftain, perhaps the greatest living today, one who might command many hundreds of warriors. That he serves with the Black Slayers speaks of Murmandamus’s power. Murad would serve only one whom he feared. And one who could visit fear upon Murad is one to be feared indeed.’

  Arutha said, ‘As I told the Ishapians, much of this is speculation. I must be concerned with finding Silverthorn.’ But even as he uttered those words, Arutha knew he was speaking falsely. Too much indicated that the threat from the north was real. This was no rash of goblin raids on northern farmers. This was a potential for invasion surpassing that of the Tsurani. In the face of this, his refusal to set aside all considerations except finding a cure for Anita was shown for what it was: an obsession.

  ‘They may be one and the same. Highness,’ said Aglaranna. ‘What seems to be unfolding here is a madman’s desire to gather the moredhel and their servants and allies under his dominion. To do so he must bring a prophecy to fruition. He must destroy the Bane of Darkness. And what has he accomplished? He has forced you to come to the one place he is certain to find you.’

  Jimmy sat upright, his eyes wide. ‘He’s waiting for you!’ he blurted, ignoring protocol. ‘He’s at this Black Lake!’

  Laurie and Roald put their hands upon his shoulders, in reassurance. Jimmy sat back, looking embarrassed.

  Tathar said, ‘From the lips of youth … I and the others have considered, and in our judgment, that is what must be occurring, Prince Arutha. Since the gift of the Ishapian talisman, Murmandamus must devise another way to find you, or he risks his alliances dissolving. The moredhel are much as others – they need to raise crops and tend herds. Should Murmandamus tarry overlong in bringing the prophecy to fruition, they may desert him, save for those who have taken dark vows, such as the Black Slayers. His agents will have passed word that you have quit Sarth, and by now intelligence from Krondor will tell him you are upon a quest for that which will save your Princess. Yes, he will know you seek Silverthorn, and he, or one of his captains, such as Murad, will be waiting for you at Moraelin.’

  Arutha and Martin looked at each other. Martin shrugged. ‘We never thought it would be easy.’

  Arutha regarded the Queen, Tomas, and Tathar. ‘My thanks for your wisdom. But we will go to Moraelin.’

  Arutha looked up as Martin came to stand nearby. ‘Brooding?’ asked the elder brother.

  ‘Just … considering things, Martin.’

  Martin sat next to Arutha, at the edge of a platform near the rooms they had been given. In the night, Elvandar glowed with a faint light, a phosphorescence that kept the elven city cloaked in a soft magic. ‘What things are you considering?’

  ‘That I may have let my preoccupation with Anita get in the way of my duty.’

  Martin said, ‘Doubt? Well then, you reveal yourself at last. Listen, Arutha, I’ve had doubts about this journey from the start, but if you let doubt block you, nothing gets done. You must simply make your best judgment and act.’

  ‘And if I’m wrong?’

  Then you’re wrong.’

  Arutha lowered his head until it rested against a wooden rail. The problem is one of stakes. When I was a child, if I was wrong I lost a game. Now I could lose a nation.’

  ‘Per
haps, but it still doesn’t change the need to make your best judgment and act.’

  ‘Things are getting out of hand. I wonder if it might not be best to return to Yabon and order Vandros’s army into the mountains.’

  ‘That might do it. But then there are places six may go an army may not.’

  Arutha smiled a wry smile. ‘Not very many.’

  Martin returned the smile, almost a mirror image. ‘True, but still there are one or two. From what Galain said about Moraelin, stealth and cunning will be more important than strength. What if you marched Vandros’s army up there and found Moraelin lay just the other side of a lovely road like the one up to the abbey at Sarth? Remember the one Gardan avowed could be held by a half-dozen grannies with brooms? I’ll warrant Murmandamus has more than a half-dozen grandmothers up there. Even if you could battle Murmandamus’s hordes and win, could you order one soldier to give his life so Anita should live? No; you and this Murmandamus play a game, for high stakes, but still a game. As long as Murmandamus thinks he can lure you up to Moraelin, we have a chance of stealing in and getting Silverthorn.’

  Arutha looked at his brother. ‘We do?’ he asked, already knowing the answer.

  ‘Of course. As long as we don’t spring the trap, it remains open. That is the nature of traps. If they don’t know we’re already inside, we might even get out.’ He spent a quiet moment looking northwards, then said, ‘It’s so close. It’s just up in those mountains, a week from here, no more. It’s so close.’ He laughed at Arutha. ‘It would be a shame to come so close and quit.’

  Arutha said, ‘You’re mad.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Martin. ‘But just think, it’s so close.’

  Arutha had to laugh. ‘All right. We leave tomorrow.’

  The six riders set out the next morning, with the blessings of the Elf Queen and Tomas. Calin, Galain, and two other elves ran alongside the horsemen. As they lost sight of the Queen’s court, a gwali swung along through the trees, crying, ‘Calin!’

  The Elf Prince signalled a halt and the gwali dropped from the branches and grinned at them. ‘Where mans going with Calin?’

  ‘Apalla, we take them to the northern road. Then they travel to Moraelin.’

  The gwali became agitated and shook his furry head. ‘No go, mans. Bad place. Little Olnoli eaten there by bad thing.’

  ‘What bad thing?’ said Calin, but the gwali ran off shrieking in fright before an answer was forthcoming.

  Jimmy said, ‘Nothing like a happy send-off.’

  Calin said, ‘Galain, return and find Apalla and see if you can glean any sense from what he says.’

  Galain said, ‘I’ll find out what he means and follow after.’ He waved to the travellers and headed back after the gwali. Arutha motioned for the party to continue.

  For three days the elves guided them to the edge of their forests, up into the foothills of the Great Northern Mountains. Then, at midday on the fourth day, they came to a small stream, and on the other side they could see the trail leading through the woodlands, towards a canyon. Calin said, ‘Here is the limit of our holdings.’

  Martin said, ‘What of Galain, do you think?’

  ‘It may be he discovered nothing of worth, or it may have taken him a day or two to find Apalla. The gwali can be difficult to locate if they decide to be. If Galain meets us, we’ll direct him after you. He will overtake you as long as you haven’t crossed over into the heart of Moraelin.’

  ‘Where would that be?’ said Arutha.

  ‘Follow that trail for two days until you come to a small valley. Cross it, and on the north face you’ll see a waterfall. A trail leads up from there, and atop the plateau you’ll be near the top of the falls. Follow the river upwards, until you reach its source. From that lake you’ll find a trail again moving upwards, again to the north. That is the only way to Moraelin. You’ll find a canyon, which winds around the lake in a complete circle. Legend says it is the tracks made by the mourning Elf Prince, wearing the ground down around the lake. It is called the Tracks of the Hopeless. There is only one way into Moraelin, across a bridge made by the moredhel. When you cross the bridge over the Tracks of the Hopeless, you will be in Moraelin. There you will find the Silverthorn. It is a plant with a light silver-green leaf of three lobes, with fruit like red holly berries. You will recognize it at once, for its name describes it: the thorns are silver. If nothing else, get a handful of the berries. It will lie close to the edge of the lake. Now go, and may the gods protect you.’

  With brief farewells the six riders moved off, Martin and Baru in the lead, Arutha and Laurie following, Jimmy and Roald bringing up the rear. As they followed a turn, Jimmy glanced back, until he could no longer see the elves. He turned eyes forward, knowing they were now on their own, without allies or haven. He said a silent prayer to Banath and took a deep breath.

  • Chapter Fifteen •

  Return

  Pug stared into the fire.

  The small brazier in his study threw a dancing pattern of lights on the walls and ceiling. He ran his hand over his face, feeling fatigue in the very fabric of his being. He had laboured since Rogen’s vision, sleeping and eating only when Katala pushed him from his studies. Now he carefully closed one of Macros’s many books; he had been reading them exhaustively for a week. Since confronted with the impossibilities of Rogen’s vision, he had sought every shred of information available to him. Only one other magic user upon this world had known anything pertaining to the world of Kelewan, and that had been Macros the Black. Whatever that dark presence in the vision, it had spoken a language that fewer than five thousand on Midkemia might even recognize – Pug, Katala, Laurie, Kasumi and his Tsurani garrison at LaMut, and a few hundred ex-prisoners scattered around the Far Coast. And of them all, only Pug could fully understand the words spoken in Gamina’s vision, for that language was a distant, dead ancestor of the present-day Tsurani tongue. Now Pug searched in vain through Macros’s library for some hint of what this dark power might be.

  Of the hundreds of volumes Macros had bequeathed to Pug and Kulgan, only a third had been catalogued. Macros, through his strange goblin-like agent, Gathis, had provided a listing of each title. In some cases that had proved helpful, for the work was well known by title alone. In other cases it was useless until the book was read. There were seventy-two works alone called Magic, and a dozen other instances of several books with like nomenclature. Looking for possible clues to the nature of what they faced, Pug had closeted himself with the remaining works and begun skimming them for any hint of useful information. Now he sat, the work upon his knee, with a growing certainty about what he must do.

  Pug placed the book carefully upon his writing table and left his study. He walked down the stairs to the hall that connected all the rooms in use in the academy building. Work upon the upper level next to the tower that housed his workrooms had been halted by the rain that now beat down upon Stardock. A cold gust blew through a crack in the wall, and Pug gathered his black robe about himself as he entered the dining hall, which was used as a common room these days.

  Katala looked up from where she sat embroidering, near the fireplace, in one of the comfortable chairs that occupied the half of the room used as common quarters. Brother Dominic and Kulgan had been talking, the heavyset magician puffing on his ever present pipe. Kasumi watched as William and Gamina played chess in a corner, their two little faces masks of concentration as they pitted their newly emerging skills against each other. William had been an indifferent student of the game until the girl had shown an interest. Being beaten by her seemed to bring out his sense of competition, heretofore limited to the ball yard. Pug thought to himself that, when time permitted, he would have to explore their gifts more closely. If time permitted …

  Meecham entered, carrying a decanter of wine, and offered a wine cup to Pug. Pug thanked him and sat down next to his wife. Katala said, ‘Supper is not for another hour. I had expected I would have to come and fetch you.’

 
‘I’ve finished what work I had and decided to relax a little before dining.’

  Katala said, ‘Good. You drive yourself too∗ hard, Pug. With teaching others, supervising the construction of this monstrous building, and now locking yourself away in your study, you have had little time to spend with us.’

  Pug smiled at her. ‘Nagging?’

  ‘A wifely prerogative,’ she said, returning his smile. Katala was not a nag. Whatever displeasure she felt was openly voiced, and quickly resolved, by either compromise or one partner’s acceptance of the other’s intractability.

  Pug looked about. ‘Where is Gardan?’

  Kulgan said, ‘Bah! You see. If you hadn’t been locked up in your tower, you’d have remembered he left today for Shamata, so he can send Lyam messages by military pouch. He’ll be back in a week.’

  ‘He went alone?’

  Kulgan settled back in his chair. ‘I cast a foretelling. The rain will last three days. Many of the workers returned home for a short visit rather than sit in their barracks for three days. Gardan went with them. What have you been delving into in your tower these last few days? You’ve barely said a civil word for a week.’

  Pug surveyed those in the room with him. Kataia seemed absorbed by her needlework, but he knew she was listening closely for his answer. The children were intent upon their game. Kulgan and Dominic watched him with open interest. ‘Reading Macros’s works, seeking to discover something that might give a clue to what can be done. You?’

  ‘Dominic and I have counselled with others in the village. We’ve managed to come to some conclusions.’