The King's Buccaneer

by Raymond Feist

  6

  RAID

  Martin signaled.

  The party halted as he turned and said, “All of you wait here a bit. There’s something ahead.”

  The two boys were glad for the halt. They were footsore and tired. They had left the boundary of Crydee town at dawn. Martin had been teaching the two city boys something of wood lore, so they were moving on foot the entire way. Their destination was another day’s walk away, the banks of the river Crydee. They waited with Nakor and Ghuda while Martin and Marcus moved into the woods, vanishing silently. “How do they do that?” asked Nicholas.

  Huntmaster Garret said, “Your uncle was raised by the elves as much as by the monks at Silban’s Abbey who found him, and he’s taught Marcus and myself everything we know.” Nicholas had met the Duke’s Huntmaster Garret for the first time the night before.

  Nakor waved absently at the woodlands and said, “We’re being watched.”

  Ghuda, his hand resting absently on his sword, said, “For about half an hour.”

  Neither sounded concerned. Nicholas glanced around, while Harry said, “I don’t see anything.”

  “You have to know where to look,” said a voice from their left.

  A young man emerged from the woodlands, his movements as stealthy as Martin’s and Marcus’s. “And it’s been closer to an hour,” he added. He was dressed in leather tunic and trousers dyed deep green. His hair was blond, but rather than the pale straw color of Anthony’s, it was nearly sun-golden. It hung to shoulder-length, but was cut at the sides, revealing lobeless but otherwise normal ears. His eyes were blue, but almost too pale, and his movement hinted at tremendous power, despite his slight frame.

  Then with a grin that made him look years younger he said, “This is a game with Martin and us.”

  “Us?” asked Nicholas.

  The boy signaled and another three figures emerged from the woodlands, and Nicholas said, “Elves!”

  The young human said, “I am Calis.”

  The three elves stood silently nearby, then one turned suddenly as Martin and the others appeared. With a half-smile, Marcus said, “You didn’t think we were fooled by that false trail, did you?”

  Martin made what looked to be slight gestures to the elves, who nodded slightly, or raised an eyebrow. Garret whispered to Nicholas and the others, “They have a subtle speech with few words when they want.”

  Then Martin spoke aloud. “This is Nicholas, son of my brother, Arutha, and his companions, Harry of Ludland, Nakor the Isalani, and Ghuda Bulé from Kesh.”

  Calis bowed and said, “Greetings. Are you bound for Elvandar?”

  Martin shook his head. “No. Garret returned to the castle yesterday, carrying news that you were south of the river, so I thought it a good excuse to have you meet my nephew while we hunted. Perhaps in the future I’ll bring Nicholas to your court.”

  “And me,” said Nakor.

  Calis smiled and scratched his temple, his hand brushing back his long hair. Nicholas was surprised that Calis looked and sounded entirely human.

  Martin frowned slightly, but Nakor said, “I have never talked to a Spellweaver before and would like to.”

  Calis and Martin exchanged glances, but it was Nakor who continued to speak. “Yes, I know about your Spellweavers, and no, I am not a magician.”

  The three stood seemingly motionless for a moment, then Calis grinned. “How do you know so much?”

  Nakor shrugged and said, “I pay attention when other people are babbling. You can learn a lot when you shut up.” Reaching into his ever present bag, he said, “Want an orange?”

  Producing four pieces of fruit, he tossed them to Calis and the elves. Calis bit into the fruit and tore away a bit of peel, then sucked the juice. “I haven’t had an orange since the last time I visited Crydee.”

  The other elves sampled the fruit and nodded their appreciation to Nakor. Harry said, “I wish I could figure out how you can fit so many oranges into that bag.”

  Nakor began to speak, but Nicholas interrupted: “I know. It’s a trick.”

  Nakor laughed. “Maybe someday I’ll show you.”

  Martin said, “Why has your Queen sent you south of river Crydee?”

  “We’re growing lax in our patrols, Lord Martin. Things have been peaceful too long on our borders.”

  “Trouble?” said Martin, instantly alert.

  Calis shrugged. “Not to talk about. A moredhel band crossed the river to the east of our borders a few months ago, heading south at great speed, but they did not trespass upon our lands, so we left them in peace.” Nicholas knew of the elves’ dark cousins, called the Brotherhood of the Dark Path by humans. Their last rising had been broken at the Battle of Sethanon. “Tathar and the other Spellweavers speak of vague echoes of dark powers, but they can sense nothing that threatens us directly. So we mount more active patrols and venture farther from home than we have for years.”

  “Anything else?”

  Calis said, “One report of a strange sighting near your new fortress up at Barran, near the river Sodina. Someone beached a longboat in the mouth of the river one night a few weeks ago. We found marks in the mud and tracks of men coming and going.”

  Martin’s face reflected his consideration as he was silent for a moment. “No smuggler would be willing to come that close to a garrison; besides, there’s no one to trade with that far to the north.”

  Marcus said, “Scouts?”

  “For whom?” asked Nicholas.

  Martin said, “We’ve no neighbors to the north, save goblins and moredhel. And they’ve been quiet since Sethanon.”

  “Not too quiet,” said Calis. “We’ve had a few skirmishes along the northern borders of Elvandar.”

  Marcus said, “Are they preparing to invade again?”

  Calis said, “There’s no pattern to it. Father rode out and thinks it’s nothing more than migrations due to failed crops or clan wars. He sent word to the dwarves at Stone Mountain that they may have unwelcome neighbors soon.”

  Suddenly Nicholas made the connection: this was Megar and Magya’s grandson! His father was Tomas, the legendary warrior from the Riftwar.

  Martin nodded. “We’ll send word to Dolgan that they may be returning to the Grey Towers as well. It’s been more than thirty years since the great migration; the moredhel may be returning to their abandoned homelands.”

  “Thirty years is not very long as elvenkind counts time,” observed Garret.

  Marcus said, “To have the Dark Brothers in the Grey Towers and the Green Heart again would mean serious trouble.”

  “We send word to the commander at Jonril as well,” said Martin. “If the Dark Brothers establish villages in the Green Heart, every caravan and mule train from Carse to Crydee is at risk.”

  Marcus glanced around. “We should make camp, Father. The light is failing.”

  Martin said, “Calis, will you join us?”

  Calis glanced at the sky, noticing the fading light, then at his companions, who seemed to Nicholas to remain motionless, but after a moment he said, “We’d be pleased to share the fire with you.”

  Turning to Nicholas and Harry, Martin said, “Better start gathering firewood, Squires. We make camp.”

  Harry and Nicholas glanced at each other, but both knew it was futile to ask where one finds firewood. They moved away from the clearing and began looking about. Many fallen branches and some dead trees were in sight. As Nicholas started to pick out a deadfall, a hand touched him upon the shoulder. Nearly jumping straight up, he turned to find Marcus behind him, holding out a hatchet. “This might be easier than trying to chew through the branches,” he said. He handed another to Harry.

  Feeling foolish, Nicholas watched his cousin return to the others. He said, “Sometimes I could really learn to hate him.”

  Harry began chopping at the deadfall. “He doesn’t seem overly fond of you, either.”

  “I have half a mind to take Abigail and return to Krondor with Amos.”


  Harry laughed. “Oh, what I’d give to be a fly on the wall when you explain that to your father.”

  Nicholas fell silent as he continued to hack away at the wood. When a full armload was ready, they gathered it up and returned to the clearing. Martin had already begun a fire with twigs and some moss, and fed the branches into the flames. “Good, this is a fine start. Bring us three times that, and we’ll have wood for the night.”

  With a barely hidden groan, the dirty and sweating Squires returned to the deadfall and resumed hacking.

  —

  THE SENTRY LEANED out of the tower. Something was moving across the water into the harbor mouth. His station at the top of Longpoint lighthouse was the most vital post in the Duchy, as Crydee was more vulnerable from the sea than from any other quarter, a lesson hard learned during the Riftwar. The Tsurani had burned half the village with fewer than thirty men.

  Then he saw: six low shapes gliding across the water. Each shallow boat was rowed by a dozen men, with another dozen standing in the middle, armed and ready.

  The soldier had orders to toss a pot of special powder on the fire that would turn the flames bright red; then he was to strike gong. Reivers were entering the harbor! As he turned, a line snapped out, weighted at one end, and before he could take another step, his neck was broken.

  The assassin had concealed himself beneath the window of the tower, crouching low upon a support beam, barely two inches of which protruded beyond the stone. He quickly pulled himself into the window and removed the metal hooks he had used to climb the wall by embedding their points in the mortar between the stones. He hurried down the winding stairs, killing two more guards along the way. Three men served each night in the tower, with another three in a small guard shack at the base. As he reached the shack, the assassin saw three bodies slumped over a table, while a pair of black-clad forms moved away. He quickly overtook them, and the three killers hurried along the causeway of land called Longpoint that led from the town to the lighthouse. One of the black-garbed killers glanced toward the harbor. Another dozen pinnaces followed the first six, and the raid would soon begin in earnest. Still no alarm sounded, and all was proceeding as planned.

  Longpoint broadened, with a low dock on one side and shops and storage buildings on the other. Silent ships rested alongside the quay, with half-alert sentries dozing upon their quarterdecks. A door opened as the three assassins passed, and the last patron of a dockside inn stumbled out. He was dead before he took two steps, as was the innkeeper who had shown him the door. One of the three killers glanced through the door, and the innkeeper’s wife died from an expertly thrown knife before she realized it was a stranger in the doorway instead of her husband.

  They would fire the docks and destroy the ships at anchor, but not yet. It would alert the castle, and if the raid was to succeed, the garrison must not be roused until after the keep gates were opened.

  The three killers reached the main docks. They passed one last ship in its berth and saw movement at the bow. One assassin drew back a throwing knife, ready to kill any who might give alarm too soon, but a familiar black-clad figure waved once, and climbed over the rail, shinnying down the bowline to join his three companions. The guards on that ship were now all dead. They continued south along the docks, to where they found the small boats pulling in. Two other black-garbed men waited. They kept their distance from the armed men who now silently climbed up from the shallow boats tied off below. This was a murderous crew, men of no loyalty and one goal: killing and booty. The six men in black felt no kinship with these brigands.

  But even these hardened men stepped away in dread to clear a path for the hooded and robed figure who climbed up from the last boat. He motioned toward the castle, and the six dark assassins sped up the road toward the keep. Their task was to climb the walls and open the gates. All other considerations were to wait for the breach of the final defense of Crydee.

  The robed man beckoned and a small group stepped away from the main force. This band he had picked to be the first through the gate. They were the men he judged most likely to keep their wits and follow orders during the first frenzied moments of combat. But to drive home their instructions, he said, “Remember, your orders. If any man breaks my commands, I will personally cut out his liver and eat it before life fades from his eyes.” He smiled, and even the hardest of these men felt a chill, for the man’s teeth had been filed to points, the mark of a Skashakan cannibal. The leader threw back his hood, revealing a head devoid of hair. His massive brow was close to a deformity, as was his protruding jaw. Each earlobe had been pierced and stretched until long loops of flesh hung to his shoulders, with gold fetishes tied to the loops. A golden ring decorated his nose, and his fair skin was covered in purple tattoos, which made his blue eyes even more startling and terrifying.

  The captain glanced back into the harbor, where the third wave of pinnaces should be approaching, another three hundred men. Silence was less a problem for the third wave, as he fully expected the alarm to sound before the third band of raiders reached the docks.

  Another man approached and said, “Captain, everyone is in place.”

  To the group nearest to him he said, “Go, the gates will be open when you reach them. Hold or die.”

  To the man who had approached he said, “Does everyone understand the orders?”

  The man nodded. “Yes. They can kill the old men and old women, and any children too young to survive the journey, but everyone who is young and healthy is to be captured, not killed.”

  “And the girls?”

  “The men don’t like it, Captain. A little rape is part of the caper. Some say it’s the best part,” he added with a smirk.

  The captain’s hand shot out and gripped the man’s shirt. Pulling him close enough so his sick-sweet breath filled the man’s nostrils, he spoke in tones of low menace. “Vasarius, you have your orders.” He pushed the man roughly away and pointed to where a half-dozen men stood silently observing. Cross-gartered sandals too light for these cooler climates were all the protection afforded their feet, and except for the black leather harnesses that formed an H on back and chest, and leather masks covering their faces, they wore no clothing save black leather kilts. They stood motionless in the cool night air, ignoring whatever discomfort the other men might have felt. They were slavers from the guild in Durbin, and their reputations were enough to cow even as hard a crew as Captain Render’s band of cutthroats.

  Render said, “Well enough I know who put that complaint in the men’s minds. You’re too hungry for the feel of young girls’ flesh to make a good slaver, Quegan, so mark this: if one of these maidens is violated, I will kill the offending man and take your head for good measure. With your share of the gold you can buy yourself a dozen young girls once you reach Kesh. Now see to your men!” He shoved the Quegan pirate away and turned to the remaining reivers, who stood ready to attack.

  He held his hand aloft, signaling the men on the docks to be quiet. They waited for the sound of battle to reach them. Long moments passed, then suddenly an alarm sounded from the keep. The pirate captain signaled and the assembled throng of cutthroats roared as one and sped into the town. Within minutes, flames were lighting the night, as torches were put to strategic buildings.

  Captain Render howled a delighted laugh, knowing that the once peaceful town of Crydee was dissolving into chaos. He was in his element, and like the master of ceremonies at a grand palace gala, he delighted in every aspect of the event unfolding as planned. Pulling his own sword from its scabbard, he turned and raced after his charging men, intent on getting his fair share of the murder.

  —

  BRIANA’S EYES OPENED. Something was wrong. A child of Armengar, a city of constant warfare, she had learned to sleep in armor with a sword in her hand before reaching womanhood. Past sixty years of age, she still moved out of her bed with the fluid grace of a woman half her age. Without thought, she drew her sword from the scabbard that hung from the wall peg c
losest to her dressing table. Clad only in a thin nightshirt, her grey hair tumbling around her shoulders, she moved toward the door of her suite.

  A scream echoed down the hall and Briana hurried toward the door. It opened as she reached for it, and she leaped back, her sword coming up. Before her stood a stranger, holding a sword leveled in her direction. A rough voice shouted from down the corridor and the distant sounds of fighting came from somewhere else in the keep. The figure in the door showed no features, as another stood behind him holding a torch, rendering the first man in silhouette. Briana brought her sword up, shifted her stance, and waited.

  The shadowy figure stepped forward: a short man with close-cropped blond hair, his blue eyes half-mad under heavy brows as he grinned at her. “Just a grandmother with a sword,” he complained, his voice almost a whine. “Too old to sell. I’ll kill her.” He lashed out with his sword. The Duchess parried easily, slipping her blade around his and running up inside his guard to catch him under the arm in a swift killing blow.

  “She’s killed Little Harold!” cried the man holding the torch. Three men rushed forward past the torchbearer, fanning out. Briana stepped back, keeping her eyes on the centermost, while remaining aware of the other two. She knew the center opponent was likely to feign attack, while the true attack would come from one or both of the men on the flanks. Her only hope was that these men were not practiced in fighting in a coordinated fashion and would inconvenience one another.

  As she anticipated, the center swordsman leaped forward and then back. The man on her left, her weakest side, was moving toward her, his massive cutlass held high for a slashing blow. Briana ducked under his blade, impaling him on her sword point. As the man’s legs went rubbery, she gripped his free hand with her own. Swinging him to her right, she propelled him into the path of the attacker on the right.

  The center attacker was the next to die, as he fully expected her to be occupied by his companions and did not anticipate her attack. Briana’s sword lashed out, taking him in the throat, and he stumbled back, unable to make a sound as blood fountained from the gaping wound under his chin. The last man died as he tried to free himself from the body of his companion, a slashing blow to the back of his exposed neck killing him instantly.