Legends of the Riftwar

by Raymond E. Feist

  Then she backed up half a dozen steps, ran forward lightly, and jumped like a cat. That put her nearly head-high on the iron; she swarmed up the rest of the slippery metal as if it were a ladder, and flipped herself neatly over the top before clambering down on the other side. She jumped free when still higher than her own height, and landed lightly, perfectly in control as she took the force with bent knees.

  Lorrie goggled. What was it she did for a living in Krondor? she wondered. Set up for a mountebank and tumbler?

  Flora was grinning as she heaved at the long bolt that kept the gates fastened from the inside. ‘No lock!’ she said. ‘Just this bolt, and a chain looped through it.’

  The chain clattered free, and Flora retrieved her cloak and weapons before they rode up toward the gates of the manor.

  ‘I’m coming, Bram, Rip!’ Lorrie said grimly. Once spoken, those words seem to vanquish the terrible feeling she had that they should do more before attempting to enter the grounds.

  ‘Who are you?’ Bram said.

  ‘Silence,’ the oily voice replied, and a brief stabbing pain came from everywhere and nowhere.

  Breath hissed out between his teeth. The room smelled wrong, like a sickroom: old rotten blood and malevolence. There was cold stone under his back, and the mercenaries were fastening him down with leather ties. Oddly, they went around his knees and elbows, not his wrists and ankles.

  Oh, gods, he thought sickly. It’s sized for children! This is where they sacrificed the children they stole. Even then, his belly twisted with nausea.

  The mercenaries went about their business as briskly as if they’d been trussing a hog for slaughter. It left him stretched out like a starfish, painfully so since the ties were at a slightly lower level than the ridged surface on which he rested. Cold air flowed across his skin as his breeches and shirt were cut away and pulled off. Then fingers fumbled at the drawstring of the bag that covered his head. He could already see a diffuse glow of light through the coarse weave of the cloth. When it was pulled away, he had a brief glimpse of a large richly-furnished room with windows, two doors, and through one a bed on which rested a beautiful, pale-faced woman, apparently asleep.

  ‘Cover his face!’ a man barked. The voice sounded old and weary, but the command carried authority.

  Of him, Bram could only see the back and his clasped hands; there were jewelled rings on the fingers, and his jacket was of rich dark velvet.

  ‘It is done, my lord,’ the nondescript middle-aged man standing by Bram’s head said.

  Nondescript, that is, until you saw his eyes. They were like windows into…not emptiness, but a void where even darkness would be snuffed out. Like nothing Bram had seen in his life, they caused fear to visit the pit of his stomach, ice to run up his back, and his arm hair to stand on end. The man’s eyes were windows into less-than-nothing.

  He smiled and dropped a long silk scarf over Bram’s features.

  ‘Wouldn’t want to leave you out of the festivities, boy,’ he murmured as he went about his work.

  The silk would hide him from anyone looking, but Bram could see through the gauzy cloth himself–dimly.

  During the brief moment his eyes were clear, he’d also seen the inscribed figures drawn around the stone-topped table to which he was bound, and the black candles that guttered at the points; a rug rolled back against one wall showed that they were usually covered. Bram had his letters. He didn’t know what those writhing glyphs were, and had no wish to know. Looking at them made his eyes hurt, and he wrenched his gaze away. At the edges of his consciousness, something giggled and tittered.

  ‘Let me loose, you bastard!’ Bram yelled.

  ‘Silence,’ the man said again; and the pain returned, shooting spikes into his gut and groin and joints.

  Silence it is, Bram thought, testing the bindings. Strong leather, from the feel of them, far stronger than needed for children, and he couldn’t even rock the stone table; it would take six strong men to lift, or two with a dolly.

  Bad, he thought. Very bad. Help!

  Astonishingly, something touched his face for an instant–something like a woman’s hand, warm and tender.

  Off in the distance something fell with a crash and a clatter. He could hear a distant voice howl in pain, and then: ‘It’s the little bastards again! Get sand, get water, put out the god-damned fire!’

  The unimpressive man with the terrible eyes shrugged.

  ‘Time to commence, my lord,’ he said. ‘It’s only an hour and–’ he looked at a sand-timer, ‘–perhaps five minutes to the time.’

  ‘Elaine,’ the older man said.

  It was more of a croon; there was a longing in the word that made the young man take notice despite the hammering of blood in his temples and the dryness of his mouth.

  Bram could see the one with the evil eyes, the magician as Bram now thought of him, pick up a small tool and a pot and he steeled himself for more pain, but there was only a brief wet coolness, touching him just up from where his pubic hair began. The magician was chanting under his breath, in a quick-rising, slow-falling tongue Bram didn’t recognize.

  Another touch, just a little higher than the first. Bram craned his head up until his neck creaked, trying to glimpse over the muscled arch of his chest and see what the man was doing. It took a moment to realize what was happening; then he began to tug at the restraints again.

  A neat line of red dashes was being painted up the centre of his body, heading for the breastbone.

  ‘Why isn’t there anyone here?’ Flora said, looking around the entrance hall of the manor.

  The great building should have had someone on duty at the front door, even though it was just before midnight. Instead there was only the clear blue flame of an expensive lamp filled with imported scented oil.

  ‘Just be glad there isn’t,’ Lorrie said.

  They both shed their wet cloaks–the greasy wool didn’t smell any better for being soaked through and it just made them chillier now that they were out of the rain–letting them drop to the floor.

  Then: ‘Rip is here. He’s close–he’s thinking about me!’

  ‘Where do we–’ Flora began.

  Then she jumped and squeaked. Beside the great fireplace a section of wood panelling was swinging outward on smooth, noiseless hinges.

  Lorrie’s hand went to her knife. Then she caught her breath and collapsed onto one knee despite the twinge in her leg, holding out her arms.

  ‘Lorrie!’ Rip squealed.

  He ran to her so fast he skidded and didn’t quite bowl her over. Three other children followed him out. Lorrie gasped.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ Rip said, drawing back. ‘I forgot. Bram told me you hurt your leg.’

  ‘Bram!’ Lorrie said. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘He’s up there.’ That came from a blonde girl about Lorrie’s age, in a dust-stained frock. She pointed to one corner of the room, where a stone staircase curled upwards. ‘They took him away,’ she said and her great blue eyes looked haunted. ‘People don’t come back, when they take them away.’

  The other two children nodded. These two were younger–a boy with a defiant yet frightened look about him, and a girl who desperately clutched a doll.

  ‘We watched but we couldn’t do anything,’ the little girl said, taking her thumb out of her mouth. ‘They’re big.’

  ‘They’ve got swords!’ the boy said, trying to sound brave, yet revealing how frightened he truly was.

  The younger girl pointed at Lorrie. ‘She’s got a sword.’ The chubby finger shifted to Flora. ‘She’s got a sword too.’

  ‘But they’re just girls,’ the boy answered, refusing to be reassured.

  ‘You shut up, Kay!’ said the older girl.

  Lorrie forced herself back erect. ‘We do have swords,’ she said, patting the unused weapon at her side. Even if neither of us can use them much. But I’m a dab hand with an axe-handle!

  Flora spoke, leaning down a little. ‘We have something better tha
n swords,’ she said, patting her pocket. ‘Magic!’

  The children’s eyes grew round. ‘There’s magic here,’ Rip said. ‘Bad magic.’

  ‘Take us to Bram, then,’ Flora said decisively.

  Lorrie went along; after a moment Flora gave her a shoulder, to help her hop up the stairs without putting too much strain on the wounded limb. It seemed to go on forever; she’d never been in a building this large, or imagined one until she saw Land’s End. That was intimidating enough, but there was something else that made her teeth want to chatter, and it wasn’t the lingering chill of her damp borrowed clothing. Things kept moving out of the corners of her eyes, things that she couldn’t see but that seemed to be made out of black wire, things that tittered and gibed and made little lunges toward her.

  And there was a tension in the air, like before a storm–yet the very walls of the castle shook to the violence outside, so it couldn’t be that. Her head felt tight, as if something were stretching it from the inside, and it would be a relief if it exploded.

  ‘There,’ Rip whispered at last. ‘I…I can tell it’s down there.’

  He pointed down a long corridor. It was dark with a stone floor, heavy carved wooden tables along the walls and tapestries that fluttered slightly in the draught. At the end was a corner, and from beyond that a faint glow of lamplight.

  ‘You go,’ Rip said–his head was turned to one side, as if he was listening to someone. ‘We’ll get ready. They’re going to hurt Bram really soon now.’

  Lorrie nodded, a little puzzled but trying to focus on the task ahead.

  They walked down the corridor, their boots making thumping sounds on the carpeted floor. The light grew stronger as they neared the corner; closer, and she could see it was T-shaped, and she was walking down the long bar. Light to their right, darkness to their left.

  ‘That you, Forten, Sonnart?’ a voice called. ‘You lazy swine, it’s nearly midnight! You knew you should have been back an hour ago!’

  Flora made some muffled sound, trying to make her voice hoarse, and Lorrie did likewise. From the sound of the voices, it wasn’t much more than six feet or so from the corner to where the speaker stood.

  Thinking inarticulate prayers to half a dozen deities, Lorrie dropped back slightly and ducked her head, taking a deep breath and working her fingers.

  Bram. Think of Bram.

  They turned the corner; lamps were burning in metal brackets on either side. Four men lounged in front of a tall closed door of polished wood. Two sat on benches; the other two stood together, leaning on halberds.

  Jarvis Coe gasped as he drew rein before the wrought iron gate. It was open, but only a sliver; they had to slow almost to a halt from their pounding gallop to get through it.

  Particularly since it’s as dark as a yard up a sewer rats’ nest, Jimmy thought. The saddle had pounded his hams back into pain, and the rapier had caught him under the ribs with a couple of good whacks as well; he hadn’t wanted it out of reach if he had to dismount in a hurry. ‘Something wrong?’ he asked the older man, peering through the gate at the manor; distance and rain hid everything but a wavering light from a high window.

  ‘Very,’ Coe said tightly. ‘We’re late. We’re very late. Things have already begun.’

  They threaded their way through the entrance and booted the tired horses into an unwilling canter. They pulled up at the entrance to the manor, next to a dog cart with a horse patiently enduring the rain. ‘That’s Flora’s aunt’s horse!’ said Jimmy. ‘I’ve seen him in the little shed behind the house. Flora and Lorrie must have come here looking for us!’

  ‘Or looking for the young man you encountered,’ said Coe.

  The main doors of the manor were slightly ajar, and Jimmy felt an unwilling grin curve his lips–Flora hadn’t wasted time, or forgotten all she’d picked up as a thief before she went into the mattress trade. They swung down from their saddles, looping the reins over rings in the low wall that flanked the bridge across the moat.

  Might have to get away in a hurry, he thought.

  ‘I’ll go first,’ Coe said, alighting and drawing his blade.

  ‘You go first,’ Jimmy agreed, doing likewise.

  A muffled shout came through the outer door of the sacrificial chamber. Bram heard a man shout in alarm, and the clash of steel on steel, and a high shriek that could have come only from a woman’s throat, and then a cry of pain that could have been made by anyone.

  The man in the velvet jacket spoke a sharp command. Skinny and Rox were standing by the door; one opened an eyehole cover set into it and peered out cautiously–not wanting to be stabbed through it, probably.

  ‘Probably the little rats again, my lord,’ Rox said. ‘Otto’s down–not bleeding, that I can see. Looks like the others have taken off after them.’

  ‘Get out there, but stay close to the door,’ Baron Bernarr said. ‘Let no one by, on your life.’ He turned back towards the magician.

  ‘Timing is very crucial now, my lord,’ the man with empty eyes said. ‘We must strike at precisely the right moment; and we will have only a few seconds while your lady lies between life and death. If you would take your position?’

  Baron Bernarr came closer; the magician offered him a long curved knife, and he took it with a disturbing familiarity. The blade was also inscribed with symbols and, like the ones on the floor the young man could no longer see, they were somehow obscurely repulsive and unnerving.

  ‘Be careful,’ the magician said. ‘The best symbolic representation of a sharp knife is a sharp knife.’

  The other man chuckled a little, in a perfunctory manner. The way a man laughed at a joke he’d heard often before.

  The room was cold, but Bram could smell his own sweat, and feel the prickling itch of it as drops ran gelid down his face and flanks. He’d always thought himself a brave man–he’d faced dangers before, fire, flood, a few fights working for caravan-masters–but right now he suspected he’d be begging and pleading if it wasn’t so obviously useless.

  Lorrie saw the guard’s eyes go wide as they turned the corner.

  ‘Hey, you aren’t Forten and Sonnart,’ the man with the polearm said. He had a bandage on one hand, from what was probably a burn.

  ‘Damn me!’ the other halberdier said. ‘It’s a girl!’

  Flora blew across her palm.

  The halberdier collapsed with a limp finality. The two men on the bench sprang up with yells of alarm, reaching for their swords. Lorrie already had hers out, both her small hands clenched on the long leather-wrapped hilt. She managed to get it around in time to hit the head of the polearm as it stabbed at Flora. Steel clanged on steel, a harsh unmusical shriek; then her sword slid down the spike on top of the halberd until it caught in the notch between that and the axe. The man grinned and twisted his weapon with all the strength of his heavy arms and shoulders and the sword flew out of Lorrie’s hands and over his head; his comrades danced aside to let it clatter against the door behind them.

  Then the man yelled and leapt: Flora had stabbed him in the thigh with her belt-knife.

  ‘Run!’ she shouted.

  Lorrie did, half-noticing that Flora had taken the other arm of the T, and that the two swordsmen were after her–and not catching up, from their swearing. She ran as fast as she could, gasping every time her left foot hit the ground. The mercenary behind her was calling out a mixture of threats and obscenity. A brief glimpse behind showed he was limping nearly as badly as her.

  Race of the cripples, she thought, almost grinning.

  This is like being Hotfingers Flora again, she thought as she ran down the corridor, glancing from side to side for places to hide. But I can’t keep this up. Booted feet pounded behind her. They know the building; I don’t. They’ll trap me. Breath was harsh in her throat, and she could feel the acid taste of fear. I could be back in Land’s End, eating blueberry tarts and cream with Aunt Cleora!

  Then the booted feet stopped and she turned to see her pursuers go hurtling face-
forward on the floor. One gashed his left arm on his own sword as he fell, and howled as they floundered on the carpet. Behind them a dark cord lay across the corridor. One end was tied to the leg of a heavy oak sideboard. A panel popped out of the wall, and four small figures emerged, throwing things–Flora caught the flash of a silver candlestick. Then pottery crashed, and she could smell the cooking oil in the jars.

  Run! she told herself: the children were already ducking back into the wall, and the mercenaries heaving themselves up. She did; careered off a wall, and then down a shorter corridor and down a flight of stairs.

  ‘This way!’ Jarvis Coe cried, charging up a curling stairway.

  ‘Right behind you,’ Jimmy panted. Running through a lord’s house at night wasn’t anything particularly new to him, but the feeling of tension behind his eyes was getting worse. ‘You can deal with this magician, I hope?’

  ‘I have bindings,’ Coe replied. ‘Leave him to me.’

  ‘Oh, no argument.’

  ‘I can feel what he’s doing. By the Goddess! There isn’t much time.’

  They ran down a long corridor and whisperings seemed to follow them. Now Jimmy could hear a voice rising, muffled as if by a door, but harsh and commanding, the words dropping like syllables of burning ash.

  Oh, I really don’t want to meet this man, Jimmy thought, and kept running. Except for Alban Asher, every encounter with a magician recounted by members of the Mockers had ended badly–if anyone distrusted and feared magicians more than thieves, Jimmy couldn’t imagine who they might be.

  They turned right. A door stood a dozen feet in from the turning, and two men stood before it, swords drawn: a big dark man and a slight skinny one; they both moved forward a little.

  Jarvis Coe didn’t waste any time; he went straight at them in a lunge, point extended. The big dark man beat the sword aside, then tried to kick Coe in the knee as the blades locked. Coe let the kick glance off the side of his leg, and rammed the big man in the pit of his stomach with his shoulder, throwing him back against the door and stumbling into the room beyond.