Silverthorn

by Raymond Feist

  Out in the forest there was no hint of danger, but Martin judged it likely the moredhel-led band was coming. He could hear subtle changes in the early morning sounds of the forest behind that told him something not too distant was disturbing the natural order of things in its passing.

  Martin rode beside Arutha, behind Laurie. “I think I might drop back and see if our friends still follow.”

  Jimmy hazarded a glance over his shoulder, and through the trees behind he could see black-clad figures following. “Too late! They’ve seen us!” he shouted.

  Arutha’s party spurred their mounts forward, the thunder of hooves echoing through the trees. All bent low over the necks of their mounts, and Jimmy kept glancing back. They were putting distance between themselves and the black riders, for which Jimmy gave silent thanks.

  After a few minutes of hard riding, they came to a deep defile, impossible for horses to jump. Across it stood a sturdy wooden bridge. They sped over it, then Arutha reined it. “Stand here!” They turned their horses, for the sound of pursuit could be heard.

  Arutha was about to order them to ready a charge when Jimmy leaped off his horse. He pulled his bundle from in back of his saddle. Running to the end of the bridge, he knelt. Arutha shouted, “What are you doing?”

  Jimmy’s only answer was “Keep back!”

  In the distance the sound of approaching horses grew louder. Martin leaped down from his mount and unshouldered his longbow. He had it strung and an arrow nocked when the first of the black riders hove into view. Without hesitation he loosed the clothyard shaft, and without error it flew, striking the black-armed figure full in the chest with the thundering force only a longbow could deliver at such a distance. The rider was propelled backward out of his saddle. The second horseman avoided the fallen man, but a third was thrown as his mount stumbled over the body.

  Arutha moved forward to intercept the second rider, who was about to cross the bridge. “No!” shouted Jimmy. “Keep back!” Suddenly the boy was dashing away from the bridge as the black rider crossed. The horseman was almost upon the spot where Jimmy had knelt when a loud whooshing noise sounded, accompanied by a large cloud of smoke. His horse shied and spun on the narrow bridge, then reared up. The animal stumbled back a step, its rump striking the rails of the bridge. The black-clad warrior was tossed backward over the rail while his horse pawed the air, then he fell, hitting the rocks below the bridge with an audible thud. The horse turned and fled back the way it had come.

  Arutha’s and the others’ horses were far enough away from the explosion of smoke not to panic, though Laurie had to ride forward and quickly grab the reins of Jimmy’s mount while Gardan held Martin’s. The bowman was busy shooting at the approaching riders, whose animals bucked and shied as their masters fought to bring them back under control.

  Jimmy was now racing back toward the bridge, a small flask in his hands. He pulled a stopper from its end and tossed it at the smoke. Suddenly the near end of the bridge erupted in flames. The black riders pulled up, their horses nickering at sight of the fire. The balky animals rode in circles as their riders sought to force them across the bridge.

  Jimmy stumbled away from the blaze. Gardan swore. “Look, the fallen ones rise!”

  Through the smoke and flame they could see the rider with the arrow in his chest staggering toward the bridge, while another that Martin had felled was slowly rising to his feet.

  Jimmy reached his horse and mounted. Arutha said, “What was all that?”

  “The smoke bomb I carry out of habit. Many of the Mockers use them to cover escape and create confusion. They make a little fire and a great deal of smoke.”

  “What was in the flask?” asked Laurie.

  “Distillation of naphtha. I know an alchemist in Krondor who sells it to farmers to start fires when they slash and burn.”

  “That’s damned dangerous stuff to be toting around,” said Gardan. “Do you always carry it?”

  “No,” said Jimmy as he mounted. “But then I usually don’t travel where I’m likely to run into things you can only stop by roasting. After that business at the whorehouse I thought it might come in handy. I have one more in my bundle.”

  “Then toss it!” shouted Laurie. “The bridge’s not caught yet.”

  Jimmy pulled out the other flask and nudged his horse forward. With careful aim he tossed the flask into the fire.

  Flames rose up, ten, twelve feet in height, as the wooden bridge became engulfed. On both sides of the defile horses whinnied and tried to run as the fire rose higher and higher in the sky.

  Arutha looked across the bridge at the enemy horsemen, who now sat patiently waiting for the flames to burn out. From behind them another figure rode into view, the unarmored moredhel with the scalp lock. He sat watching Arutha and the others, no expression evident on his face. Arutha could feel blue eyes boring into his soul. And he felt hate. Here, then, for the first time he saw his enemy, saw one of those who had harmed Anita. Martin began shooting at the black riders, and with a silent signal the unarmored moredhel led his companions back into the trees.

  Martin mounted and came to his brother’s side. Arutha watched as the moredhel vanished into the trees. Arutha said, “He knows me. We were so clever, and they knew where I was all along.”

  “But how?” asked Jimmy. “There were so many diversions.”

  “Some black art,” said Martin. “There are powers at play here, Jimmy.”

  “Come,” said Arutha. “They’ll be back. This will not stop them. We’ve gained only a little time.”

  Laurie led the way toward the northbound road to Sarth. They did not look back as the fire crackled loudly.

  —

  They rode nearly continuously for the rest of that day. Of their pursuers they saw nothing, but Arutha knew they were close behind. Near sundown, light fog filled the air as they neared the coast again, where the Bay of Ships turned the road eastward. According to Laurie, they would reach the abbey after sundown.

  Martin moved up to ride next to Gardan and Arutha, who stared out into the shadows, absently directing his horse. “Remembering the past?”

  Arutha looked at his brother thoughtfully. “Simpler times, Martin. Just remembering simpler times. I rage to be done with this mystery of Silverthorn and have Anita returned to me. I burn for it!” He spoke with sudden passion. With a sigh, his voice softened as he said, “I was wondering what Father would have done in my place.”

  Martin glanced at Gardan. The captain said, “Exactly what you’re doing now, Arutha. Man and boy I knew Lord Borric, and I’ll say there’s not another more like him in temper than you. All of you are like him: Martin in the way he watches things closely. Lyam reminds me of him when the lighter moods were upon him, before he lost his lady Catherine.”

  Arutha asked, “And I?”

  It was Martin who answered. “Why, you think like him, little brother, more than Lyam or I do. I’m your eldest brother. I don’t take orders from you only because you wear the title Prince to my Duke. I follow your lead because, more than any man I’ve known since Father, you make the right choices.”

  Arutha’s gaze was distant as he said, “Thank you. That is high praise.”

  A sound came from the trail behind, just loud enough to be heard without being identified. Laurie tried to lead as quickly as he could, but the dark and fog confounded his sense of direction. The sun was close to setting, so little light penetrated the deep woods. He could see only a small part of the trail in front of him; twice he was forced to slow to separate the true trail from false ones. Arutha rode up beside and said, “Keep it steady. Better to continue at a crawl than halt.”

  Gardan fell back next to Jimmy. The boy peered into the woods, seeking a glimpse of whatever might be hiding just behind the boles of the trees, but only wisps of grey fog in the last light of the setting sun could be seen.

  Then a horse came crashing from out of the brush, one moment not there, the next nearly knocking Jimmy from the saddle. The b
oy’s horse spun in a full circle as the black-armored warrior pushed past. Gardan swung a late blow at the horseman and missed.

  Arutha shouted, “This way!” and tried to force his way past another horseman cutting across the trail. He faced the rider, the unarmored moredhel. For the first time Arutha could see the three scars cut into each of the Dark Brother’s cheeks. Time froze for an instant as the two confronted one another. There was a strange recognition in Arutha, for here was his enemy made flesh. No longer did he struggle with unseen assassins’ hands in the dark or mystic powers without substance; here was someone he could vent his rage upon. Without sound the moredhel swung a vicious blow at Arutha’s head, and the Prince avoided being decapitated only by ducking over the neck of his horse. Arutha lashed out with his rapier and felt its point dig in. He came up and saw he had taken the moredhel in the face, cutting deeply across the scarred cheek. But the creature only moaned, a strange tortured sound, half gurgle, half strangled cry. Then Arutha realized the moredhel possessed no tongue. The creature looked at Arutha for a brief moment as his horse turned away.

  “Try to break free!” shouted Arutha, spurring his own horse forward. Suddenly Arutha was away, the others behind.

  For an instant it seemed the moredhel-led company was too shocked to react to the break, but then the pursuit began. Of all the mad rides in Arutha’s lfe, this one stood out as the maddest. Through the forest, shrouded with fog and night’s black cloak, they dashed among trees, following a road little wider than a path. Laurie passed Arutha, taking the lead.

  For long minutes they raced through the woods, somehow avoiding the certainly fatal error of leaving the roadway. Then Laurie was shouting, “The road to the abbey!”

  Slow to react, Arutha and the others behind Laurie barely made the turn onto a larger road. As they steered their mounts onto the new path, they could see the faint light of the large moon, rising.

  Then they were out of the woods, racing down a well-traveled road passing through farmlands. Their horses were lathered and panting, and they spurred them on to more heroic efforts, for while the black riders were not gaining on them, they were not falling behind either.

  They sped through the dark, climbing upward, as the road rose out of the gentle hills around a plateau that dominated the valley farmlands near the coast. The road narrowed and they strung out along it in single file, Martin pulling in until the others were past.

  The trail became treacherous and they were forced to slow, but so were those behind. Arutha dug his heels into his horse’s sides, but the animal had given all it had left to climb this road.

  The evening air was heavy with haze and unseasonable cold. The hills were widely spaced, lazy rolling ridges that gently rose and fell. The highest could be climbed in less than an hour. All were covered in wild grasses and brush, but they were free from trees, for this had been farmland.

  The abbey at Sarth sat atop a high, craggy place, a small mountain rather than a hill, an upthrust thing of rock and granite facings, flat on top like a table.

  Gardan looked downward as they hurried up the side of the mount and said, “I’d not want to attack up this road, Highness. You could hold it with six grandmothers wielding brooms…forever.”

  Jimmy looked back but couldn’t see their pursuers in the gloom. “So tell those grannies to get back there and slow down the black riders,” he shouted.

  Arutha looked behind, expecting to be overtaken by black riders at any second. They rounded a curve and followed the road upward to the summit. Suddenly they stood before the arched entrance to the abbey.

  Behind the wall a tower of some sort could be seen in the moonlight. Arutha pounded on the gates and shouted, “Hello! We seek aid!” Then all heard what they had waited for, the pounding of horses’ hooves upon the hard road. Drawing weapons, Arutha’s party turned to face those who followed.

  The black riders rounded the curve before the abbey gates, and the battle was again joined. Arutha ducked and parried as he tried to protect himself. The attackers seemed possessed of unusual frenzy, as if there was a need to quickly dispatch Arutha and his party. The scar-faced moredhel nearly rode over Jimmy’s mount to reach Arutha, his disregard for the boy being the only reason Jimmy survived. The Dark Brother headed straight for Arutha. Gardan, Laurie, and Martin all strove to keep the black riders at bay, but they were on the verge of being overwhelmed at last.

  Suddenly it was light on the road. As if full daylight multiplied tenfold had burst forth in the gloom, a dazzling brilliance surrounded the combatants. Arutha and the others were forced to cover their eyes, which teared from the blinding light. They could hear muffled moans from the black-clad figures around them, then the sound of bodies hitting the ground. Arutha peeked through narrowed lids behind his upraised hand and saw enemy horsemen falling stiffly from their saddles. The exceptions were the unarmored moredhel, who shielded his eyes against the sudden light, and three of the armored riders. With a single motion the mute rider waved his three companions away and they turned and fled down the road. As soon as the black riders were out of sight, the brilliant light began to diminish.

  Arutha wiped tears from his eyes and began to pursue, but Martin shouted, “Stop! Should you overtake them, it’s your death! Here we have allies!” Arutha reined in, loath to lose his opponent. He returned to where the others stood rubbing their eyes. Martin dismounted and knelt over a fallen black rider. He pulled off a helm and quickly stood away. “It’s a moredhel, and it smells as if it’s been dead for some time.” He pointed at its chest. “This is one I killed at the bridge. My broken arrow is still in its chest.”

  Arutha looked at the building. “That light is gone. Whoever our unseen benefactor is, he must feel we no longer need it.” The gates in the wall before them slowly began to open. Martin handed the helm up for Arutha’s inspection. It was a strange thing, fashioned with a dragon carved in bas-relief on top, its downswept wings covering the sides. Two narrow slits provided vision for the wearer, and four small holes allowed him to breathe. Arutha tossed the helm back to Martin. “That’s an ill-aspected piece of ironmongery. Bring it along. Now let’s visit this abbey.”

  “Abbey!” Gardan observed as they entered. “It looks more like a fortress!” Tall, iron-banded heavy wooden gates straddled the roadway. To the right a stone wall a dozen feet high stretched away, appearing to run to the other edge of the mountaintop. To the left the wall receded, facing upon a vertical drop over a hundred feet to a switchback in the roadway below. Behind the wall they could see a single tower, several floors high. “If that isn’t an old-style keep tower, I’ve never seen one,” said the captain. “I’d not want to storm this abbey, Highness. It’s the most defensible position I’ve seen. Look, there’s not five feet of clearing between the wall and the cliff anywhere.” He sat back in the saddle, in obvious appreciation of the military aspect of the abbey’s design.

  Arutha spurred his horse forward. The gates were now open, and, seeing no reason not to, Arutha led his companions onto the grounds of the Ishapian abbey at Sarth.

  TEN

  SARTH

  The abbey appeared deserted.

  The courtyard reflected what they had seen from the road. This had once been as a fortress. Around the ancient tower a larger single-story keep building had been added, as well as two outbuildings that could be seen peeking from behind it. One appeared to be a stable. But before them no sign of movement could be seen.

  “Welcome to Ishap’s Abbey at Sarth,” came a voice from behind one of the gates.

  Arutha had his sword halfway from its scabbard before the speaker added, “You have nothing to fear.”

  The speaker stepped from behind the gate. Arutha put away his weapon. As the others dismounted, the Prince studied the man. He was stocky, of middle years, short, with a youthful smile. His brown hair was cut close and ragged and his face was clean-shaven. He wore a simple brown robe gathered around the waist with a single leather thong. A pouch and some manner of holy sy
mbol hung at his waist. He was unarmed, but Arutha got the impression that the man moved like one who had been trained in arms. Finally Arutha said, “I am Arutha, Prince of Krondor.”

  The man looked amused, though he didn’t smile. “Then welcome to Ishap’s Abbey at Sarth, Highness.”

  “You mock me?”

  “No, Highness. We of the Order of Ishap maintain little contact with the outside world, and few visit with us, let alone royalty. Please forgive any insult if your honor permits, for none was intended.”

  Arutha dismounted and, fatigue in his voice, said, “It is I who asks forgiveness…?”

  “Brother Dominic, but please, no apologies. It is clear from the circumstances of your arrival you were hard-pressed.”

  Martin said, “Do we have you to thank for that mystic light?”

  The monk nodded. Arutha said, “There seems a great deal to speak of, Brother Dominic.”

  “There are many questions. You’ll have to wait upon the Father Abbot’s pleasure for most answers, Highness. Come, I’ll show you to the stable.”

  Arutha’s impatience wouldn’t let him wait a moment longer. “I came on a matter of the utmost urgency. I need to speak with your Abbot. Now.”

  The monk spread his hands in a gesture indicating it was outside his authority to decide. “The Father Abbot is unavailable for another two hours. He is meditating and praying in the chapel, with the others of our order, which is why I alone am here to greet you. Please, come with me.”

  Arutha seemed ready to protest, but Martin’s hand upon his shoulder settled him. “Again, I am sorry, Brother Dominic. We are, of course, guests.”

  Dominic’s expression indicated that Arutha’s temper was a matter of no consequence. He led them to the second of the smaller buildings behind what was once a central keep. It was indeed a stable. The sole occupants at the moment were another horse and a stout little donkey, which cast an indifferent eye upon the newcomers. As they tended their animals, Arutha spoke of their trials over the last few weeks. When he finished, he said, “How did you manage to confound the black riders?”