King of Ashes [Book One]

by Raymond E. Feist

  Tyree tilted his head slightly to one side while he thought for a moment. ‘Have those archers come around where I can see them.’

  Declan motioned for Molly to come to his side.

  When she reached a spot near Declan, Tyree said, ‘One? One girl?’ He grinned and said, ‘Damn, girl, you’re a wonder. After I kill this boy, come ride with me. I’ll show you how to hunt gold instead of rabbits.’

  He laughed and threw Gwen aside. Taking a stride and making half a leap, he brought his sword down towards Declan’s head almost before Declan could get his sword up to block. One of the onlookers swore, and another complained, ‘Nothing fair about this fight.’

  Declan threw his weight behind the block, causing Tyree’s blade to slide along his, and then put his shoulder to the mer-cenary, forcing the man off balance. Declan then spun, bringing his blade around in a circular blow that should have taken Tyree’s head from his shoulders if it connected, but the experienced fighter had his sword up high to block as he slipped to his left and avoided being decapitated.

  Moving back half a step in a crouch, Tyree’s eyes seemed to glow with madness. ‘Boy can fight a bit? That’s nice. Slaughter is fun but no accomplishment. The girl’s da, he was easy enough. Wept like a child as I drove my sword point into his gut.’ Declan realised Tyree was attempting to goad him into acting rashly.

  Declan also recognised that this fighter was no less deadly for his madness. If anything, his demented thinking might cause him to act in a way that could not be anticipated, ending Declan’s life and perhaps others’, including Gwen’s. There was no guarantee she’d be safe if he died. Molly might start shooting and the captives might try to attack.

  Declan turned his mind away from speculation a second before Tyree took a step forward with a high arching blow that Declan turned to his right. The smith then made a simple extended counterthrust, his sword’s point almost reaching the mercenary’s chest. Only a rapid disengagement and step back kept Tyree from a serious wound.

  Declan let his surface thoughts fade, and again felt time slow and the image of his opponent take on a more detailed aspect, as if light and dark were intensified, and details came alive. He felt as he had when fighting in Oncon; his awareness expanded.

  He could see the muscles tense beneath the man’s skin, flexing and getting ready, see the tiniest shift in weight from one foot to another. Tyree’s eyes darted, seeking an obvious opening, and Declan decided to show him one.

  Declan lifted his right elbow and flexed his arm as if he was going to take a round swing at Tyree’s more vulnerable left side. Tyree leapt inside the blow, holding his blade back for a forward thrust, as he anticipated that Declan’s front would become exposed.

  Declan turned his blade point down, pushing Tyree’s sword to his left and skimming his side, then he lifted the hilt of his sword and slammed it into Tyree’s exposed neck with the forte of the blade – the heavy base just below the crossguard – which was rarely used except in situations like this, extremely close combat. Which was why Edvalt had taught him to put an edge there, up to the quillon block, where the crossguard was seated. He snapped the hilt of the sword forward, and Tyree staggered back, blood fountaining from a severed artery in his neck.

  He looked at Declan, eyes wide, then put his hand to his neck and saw it come away red. He staggered again, then fell to the ground, next to the tree, his eyes staring blankly up at the early morning sky as he went limp.

  Declan felt an icy detachment. He looked at Gwen, still bound and gagged, and for a long moment it was as if he looked at a complete stranger. Then a wave of heat passed through him, and suddenly relief surged within, bringing him to the point of tears. He rushed over to Gwen and untied her, and she fell into his arms sobbing. He held her, saying nothing, letting her release her terror. After a while, she whispered, ‘I knew you’d come for me.’

  ‘I’ll always come for you.’

  He saw that Jusan had freed Millie; her eyes were round with terror and her features were drained of blood. She looked on the verge of madness, and Declan realised he now had additional responsibilities. With the inn burned, Gwen and Millie had nothing, no roof over their heads and no way to make a living, only the clothes on their backs. He spoke loud enough for Jusan and Millie to hear. ‘We’ll get you home to rest, and we’ll decide what to do about the inn tomorrow.’

  ‘The inn is gone,’ said Gwen. She sobbed and said, ‘I saw Da die …’ Her voice dwindled as tears, of both relief and sorrow, overwhelmed her.

  ‘It can be rebuilt,’ said Declan. ‘If you want; I’ll rebuild it.’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ she said with a burst of anger. Declan helped her rise. She could barely keep steady on her feet, so long had she been tied. He could see bruises on her face, neck, and lower arms, and he assumed there would be more on the rest of her body. Two of her nails were badly broken, probably torn as she struggled against her captors. Her clothing was ripped and filthy and Declan felt anger start to rise now that his battle calm had fled.

  He turned to see the results of the struggle and was pleased to find that his plan had caused no great harm to the townsmen, save for bloody knuckles, a few minor cuts and scrapes, and some black eyes. Four mercenaries remained of the six who had been with Tyree, the other three lying lifeless on the ground.

  Gwen took Molly’s arm for support as Declan came to stand before the four captives. He scanned their faces and settled on the youngest-looking fighter. ‘Stand up,’ he said.

  The young fighter stood and Declan said, ‘How long have you ridden with this company?’

  ‘Less than a year,’ answered the young man. His hair was a sandy blond, and he had badly sunburned cheeks and the promise of a beard, but still looked more boy than man.

  ‘So, done less murdering and raping than the others?’ asked Declan.

  ‘Until now only straight-up fights. Misener never allowed for banditry. This was all Tyree’s doing.’ He glanced at the corpse of the mad fighter. ‘He killed Misener and came back for the girls. Had some mad idea to sell them. I don’t know …’ His voice fell away.

  Looking at the bound men, Declan said, ‘And you went along with him?’

  One of the men on his knees said, ‘He killed Misener. No one was going to argue with the man who killed Misener. Ask any hired sword between here and Sandura.’

  Declan realised that Misener must have been the old fighter in charge of the band, the one who had stopped Tyree from fighting before they left the inn. He assumed the old man had lived on reputation, and that had come to an end.

  Declan said, ‘But you let him kill Leon, and burn his inn, take the girls.’ He grabbed the youngest mercenary by the arm and pulled him aside. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Will,’ said the youthful fighter, looking frightened. ‘My name is Will.’

  ‘Will,’ said Declan. ‘I want you to watch this.’

  Declan nodded to the men standing behind the three remaining mercenaries. The townsmen bent over the kneeling men and cut their throats.

  Declan felt Will stiffen and try to pull away, but the young smith kept a strong grip on him. ‘You will be spared,’ said Declan. ‘Take a horse and ride wherever you wish, but never return to Beran’s Hill. Tell anyone and everyone you meet that this is what happens to brigands, outlaws, rapists, and murderers who come to Beran’s Hill. They will receive swift and rough justice. Go!’

  The young fighter didn’t hesitate; he ran to the waiting horses, mounted quickly, and rode off back towards the road. Declan said, ‘Let’s bury the rest of these bastards, and take their weapons and horses back home. We can find use for the arms, and we’ll sell the horses to …’ He looked over to where Gwen still clung to Molly’s arm. ‘Pay what costs need paying.’

  Declan looked at the faces of the strong townsmen who had risked their lives to do what was right. He finally said, ‘You are all good men, and I owe you my thanks.’

  One of them, a heavyset fellow named Becker, shrugged. ‘Nasty
business, but it needed doing.’

  For a brief moment Declan understood that every man here, and Molly, who had fought knew the necessity of the cold killing after the heat of the fight. Nasty business, indeed, but as Becker said, it needed doing.

  The others nodded their agreement. ‘Let’s be about this, then,’ said another man, and he said, ‘Anyone bring a shovel?’

  A third man said, ‘Tied to my saddle back.’

  As they set about finishing the morning’s business, Declan looked at Jusan hovering over Millie, who was still mute from terror, and then at Gwen. He knew nothing would ever be the same again.

  • CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX •

  A Meeting and Revelations

  Hatu crept along a hedgerow, stopping occasionally to peek over the top, into the town already busy with early risers. As the sun crested the eastern horizon, the residents were stirring to wakefulness. The outlying farmers had been about their morning chores since the false dawn, and the shopkeepers and market merchants would soon be opening doors or erecting their stalls.

  Hatu turned and beckoned Hava to join him from her hiding place in a small copse. When she crouched beside him, he said, ‘We need a change of clothing. Just in case someone caught sight of us after we left Port Colos.’ He smiled. ‘Besides, no matter how hard you try, you can’t look like a man.’

  She frowned as she brushed off his weak compliment. As they had travelled, his quips had been rewarded with the occasional slight chuckle, but it was clear Hava endured most of his humour more than she appreciated it.

  She took off her travel bag, opened it, and pulled out a long dark blue dress. Hava tossed it aside in favour of a deep-green long-sleeved shirt and black trousers, cut off at the knees. She stripped off her grey tunic and blue trousers and tossed them on top of the dress.

  Hatu had seen Hava naked many times since they were children but appreciated her unique beauty now more than ever. Long of frame, graceful, and firmly muscled, her athletic form was lovely; he smiled.

  ‘Don’t enjoy yourself too much,’ she said dryly. ‘People are trying to kill us.’

  ‘As fine a reason as any to grab a small moment of pleasure when it happens,’ he said.

  ‘You enjoy seeing me naked?’ she said with a slight smile.

  ‘Yes,’ he said as he pulled his attention from her and peered over the hedge. ‘And I hope to again, soon, and many times after, but at this moment, I need to seek out a change of clothing. My travel bag was lost in the warehouse.’

  ‘What about the horses?’

  He looked at her and said, ‘We have three choices: leave them to be found. Sell them and arrange transport to Pashtar by wagon. Or let them rest and then ride south.’

  ‘That is the most logical choice, it seems to me,’ Hava said. She put her old clothing and the dress back into her bag and waited for his next comment.

  ‘Agreed.’ Hatu scanned the area again and said, ‘Let us do this. You return to the horses and guard them, while I steal into the town and find a change of clothes, and see if those who chased us are holed up here. If they arc looking for the pair of us, a boy alone may not be noticed.’

  She took off her floppy hat and stuck it on his head. ‘You will if anyone sees that ridiculous red hair of yours. I assume your pomade was in your travel bag?’

  He smiled ruefully and nodded. ‘I’ve made do with other things before. Some charcoal dust or even a little axle grease makes it look brown.’

  ‘We need to reach a city where the highborn ladies colour their hair,’ said Hava.

  ‘Marquenet,’ said Hatu. ‘Where we are to go once we meet with Master Bodai in Pashtar.’ He glanced over the hedge again. ‘Until then, I’ll find something else.’

  ‘Wear my hat until you do,’ she cautioned.

  Hatu squashed it on his head, making sure the brim shaded his features. As they readied themselves for their tasks, he reached out and touched her arm. ‘Some day you must make a choice.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Without thought she drew away from him slightly.

  ‘You will know when the time comes and what the choice is, but you must choose. Your decision will change both our lives.’

  Without waiting for any response, he stood and pushed through the hedge, ignoring the scrape of its small branches on his clothing and exposed skin.

  Hava sat for a long moment, then pushed her confusion aside and turned towards the path that would take her back to the horses.

  HATUSHALY KEPT TO THE SHADOWS cast by the early morning sun but did so casually, walking calmly hut with purpose.

  At every inn he passed he looked for signs that those who were chasing them might be nearby, but Hatu had only the vaguest idea what to look for, as the chaos of the attack on the warehouse where Reza died and his brief glimpse of distant riders were not much to go on. He just hoped that by some unlikely chance, luck, or unearned miracle he’d recognise them before they saw him. He had confidence in his new-found abilities, but discerning enemies he had never set eyes on wasn’t one he counted on.

  Absently he fingered the small belt pouch containing the coins left from Hava’s stash, tucked inside his waistband. He thought better of entering a shop and calling attention to himself, deciding that he would stand out less in the morning market.

  By the time Hatu reached the centre of the town, all of the market stalls had been erected and the sellers were setting out their wares. He kept to the shaded side of the square as he scanned the area for a clothes vendor. A cord strung between two poles holding an array of shirts caught his eye and he crossed over to it, careful not to look anxious.

  As he reached the booth, the merchant looked up and said, ‘You want to buy?’

  Hatu shrugged. ‘I could use another tunic, heavy work shirt, maybe.’

  ‘Shirts and tunics, I have.’ His accent betrayed his foreign roots, but Hatu was too hard-pressed to dwell on its origin. Something about it sounded vaguely familiar but he couldn’t quite identify what it was.

  He stepped into the booth and made a show of examining various garments, though he had already decided on a pale yellow shirt. It was bright enough to convince a casual onlooker that he wasn’t someone trying to hide, yet not so bright as to call undue attention.

  After a little more browsing, and ignoring the merchant’s constant babble, which guaranteed that each shirt was somehow superior to the previous one, Hatu walked over to the yellow shirt. It had long sleeves, a lace-up front, and an attached collar, marking it as a finer shirt than most commoners wore. He pointed to the collar and gave the merchant an enquiring expression.

  ‘The tailor who fashioned it claims that by turning it up, you prevent the back of the neck from becoming sunburned, and that it can cut the lash of a cold wind; or so she says.’ He shrugged as if to say he was neutral on the efficacy of the design.

  The vendor said, ‘She also made that coat.’ He pointed to a long dark grey coat and led Hatu over to look at it. ‘It’s felted wool, a very tight weave.’

  Hatu examined the coat. He took it off the hook and slipped it on. It fell to his knees and was slightly loose in the shoulders, but not enough to be uncomfortable. The vendor turned up the collar. ‘Like the shirt, see? The wind and sun do not trouble the neck. She treats the wool with grease so it resists the rain, too, and keeps one dry.’

  Hatu sniffed at the sleeve and said, ‘I smell no hint of grease.’

  ‘Not black grease: wool grease. She said it is the natural way sheep keep dry. It is very clever, is it not?’

  Far better at changing his appearance than a yellow shirt, thought Hatu, no matter how quirky the design. ‘How much?’

  The haggling went on for a few minutes longer than was normal, but Hatu wanted to give Hava time to reach the horses. They finally settled on a price when Hatu offered slightly more, insisting the yellow shirt be thrown in, too. When the merchant agreed, protesting that he would starve, Hatu realised he was getting a fair bargain.

  Behind the stall
, Hatu removed his old coat and quickly changed into the yellow shirt. He tossed his dirty old coat into a corner, almost certain the merchant would find it, wash it, and try to sell it tomorrow, and put the new coat on, leaving the buttons undone to show the yellow shirt underneath. He was convinced he appeared different enough not to be recognised.

  He set off with a slow but measured stride, looking in every open door and both ways at street intersections, trying to gain any intelligence about those who had pursued them the night before. Hatu was young and healthy but tired to his bones, for he’d had little true rest over the last few days. Still, the sooner he and Hava got back on the road, the sooner they would reach Pashtar and Master Bodai.

  He neared the north side of the town and turned east onto a street that would lead to a small bridge over a creek, and on to a road leading up into the farmlands. He had spied the road and bridge as they’d skirted the east side of the town and he knew it was his fastest route to where Hava waited with the horses. He wished he could have secured some food for the mounts, but a man carrying a bag of grain out of town would appear too conspicuous. The horses would have to make do with another day of foraging and whatever else his inspection of the town afforded them.

  As he reached the edge of the town, he saw a figure standing in the shadows. He lowered his chin slightly, shielding more of his face from view under the broad-brimmed hat. As he passed, he felt more than heard the rush from behind.

  He took a sidestep and the attacker flew through the space where Hatu had stood a moment before. Hatu spun, crouching, as his hand went under his coat and came out with a long dagger.

  A swift rap on the knuckles from a short slender club almost caused Hatu to loosen his grip. He was thrown off balance by the unexpected blow to the hand and, as he attempted to shift his weight to compensate, abruptly found himself forced to the wall with the espontoon held across his throat; a powerful hand gripped his wrist to keep him from striking with his dagger. The truncheon his throat could have crushed his windpipe, but no extra pressure was being applied.