Silverthorn

by Raymond Feist

  Martin rose, leaving Gardan to restrain Arutha. He unlimbered his ever present bow, quickly strung it, and fitted an arrow to his bowstring. The creature was advancing upon Brother Micah when Martin let fly. The archer’s eyes widened as the arrow seemed to pass through the creature’s neck without effect.

  Brother Anthony nodded. “Yes, it is a conjuration. Notice how it is impervious to mundane weapons.”

  The creature swung one of its mighty fists down at Brother Micah, but the old fighter simply raised his hammer as if to block. The creature’s blow halted a full foot above the monk’s upraised hammer, recoiling as if it had hit stone. It bellowed in frustration.

  Martin turned to Brother Anthony. “How do you kill it?”

  “I don’t know. Each of Micah’s blows draws energy away from the spell used to create it. But it is a product of tremendous magics, and it might last a day or longer. Should Micah falter…”

  But the old monk was firm on his feet, answering every blow with a parry and wounding the creature, seemingly at will. While it seemed pained by each wound the hammer made, it gave no sign of being weakened.

  “How do you make one?” Martin asked Brother Anthony. Arutha was no longer struggling, but Gardan still knelt with his hand upon his shoulder.

  Anthony, caught up for a second in Martin’s question, said, “How do you create one? Well, it’s rather complex….”

  The creature became increasingly enraged by Micah’s blows and hammered uselessly at the monk. Tiring of this tactic, it dropped to its knees as it leveled a blow at Micah, overhand as if driving a spike with a hammer, but at the last instant it shifted its aim and slammed its massive fist down on the ground next to the monk.

  The jolt caused Micah to stumble slightly, which was the only opening the creature needed. Instantly sweeping its hand sideways, it knocked Micah across the courtyard. The old monk hit the ground heavily, rolled awkwardly, and lay stunned, his hammer bouncing away from him.

  Then the thing was again moving toward Arutha. Gardan leaped to his feet, pulling his sword as he dashed forward to protect his Prince. The veteran captain stood before the thing, which grinned hideously down at him, the terrible parody of Anita adding a sickening element to the confrontation. Like a cat playing with a mouse, the creature pawed at Gardan.

  From out of the inner door, Father John reappeared, holding a large metal staff topped with an odd-looking seven-sided device. He stepped before Arutha, who was trying to move to aid Gardan, and shouted, “No! You can do nothing.”

  Something in his voice told Arutha it was futile to engage the thing, and the Prince retreated a step. The Abbot turned to confront the conjured creature.

  Jimmy crawled out from under the wagon and came to his feet. He knew the uselessness of drawing his dirk. Seeing the supine figure of Brother Micah, he ran to see how he fared. The old monk was still senseless, and Jimmy pulled him back toward the relative safety of the wagon. Gardan hacked uselessly at the creature while it played with him.

  Jimmy cast about and saw the mystic hammer of Brother Micah lying off to one side. He dove for it and grabbed the haft on the fly, coming to rest on his stomach, eyes upon the monster. The thing had not noticed the boy’s recovery of the weapon. Jimmy felt surprise when he lifted it, for it was twice the weight he expected. He rose to his feet and ran to stand behind the monster, confronted by its foul, fur-covered hindquarters, arching above his head as it reached forward to grab Gardan.

  The captain was seized in a mammoth hand that lifted him toward the widening mouth. Father John raised up his staff and suddenly waves of green and purple energy flowed from it, washing over the creature. It howled in pain and squeezed Gardan, who cried out in concert.

  Martin shouted, “Stop! It’s crushing Gardan!”

  The Abbot ceased his magic and the thing snorted as it tossed Gardan at the door, seeking to injure its tormentors. The captain slammed into Martin, Brother Anthony, and the Abbot, knocking them to the ground. Arutha and Laurie both sidestepped the flying bodies. The Prince turned to see the leering parody of Anita’s face bending toward the door. The creature’s wings prevented it from entering the abbey, but long arms came snaking through the door, reaching for Arutha.

  Martin rose, helping the shaken Abbot and Brother Anthony to their feet. The archivist said, “Yes! Of course! The face in its chest! Kill it there!”

  Martin had an arrow nocked in an instant, but the crouching thing hid the target. It reached through the door for Arutha, then suddenly it was sitting back on its haunches, howling in pain.

  For an instant the face in the chest was visible, and Martin pulled back as he said, “Kilian guide my arrow,” and let fly. True to the aim, the shaft flew and struck the insane face in the chest square in the forehead. The eyes in that face rolled up and closed as red, human blood billowed from the wound. The creatures topped rock-still.

  As all watched in wonder, the creature began to quiver. It grew instantly more brilliant in color as the lights within flashed rapidly. Then all could see it was becoming transparent, insubstantial, a thing of colored glowing smokes and gases, swirling in a mad dance as they slowly dissipated on the night wind. Their lights faded until once again the courtyard was empty and silent.

  Arutha and Laurie came up to Gardan, who was still conscious. “What happened?” the Captain asked feebly.

  All eyes turned to Martin. He indicated Brother Anthony, who responded, “It was something the Duke asked, how one of those things is made. All the foul arts to make such a being require some animal or human to work upon. That face was all that was left of the poor demented soul who had been used as a focus to create the monster. It was the only mortal part, subject to mundane injury, and when it was killed, the magic…unraveled.”

  Martin said, “I’d not have made that shot had it not reared back like that.”

  “Most fortunate,” said the Abbot.

  “Fortune had little to do with it,” said a grinning Jimmy. He held Brother Micah’s hammer as he approached. “I stuck it up the arse.” He indicated the stunned Micah. “He’ll do all right,” he said as he gave the hammer to the Abbot.

  Arutha was still shaken by the sight of Anita’s face atop that horror. Laurie, with a weak smile, said, “Father, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, have you some wine we might drink? That was the worst smell I’ve ever endured.”

  “Ha!” Jimmy said indignantly. “You should have tried it from my end!”

  —

  Arutha watched the dawn break over the Calastius Mountains, the rising sun an angry red orb. In the hours since the attack the abbey had returned to a semblance of order and quiet, but Arutha felt only turmoil within. Whatever lay behind these attempts upon him was powerful beyond anything he had anticipated, despite clear warning from Father Nathan and the High Priestess of Lims-Kragma. He had grown incautious in his haste to discover a cure for Anita, and such was not his nature. He could be bold when needed, and boldness had won him several victories, but of late he had not been bold, only headstrong and impulsive. Arutha felt something alien, something he had not endured since he was a boy. Arutha felt doubt. He had been so confident in his planning, but Murmandamus either had anticipated every move or somehow could react with unbelievable speed each time Arutha made a step.

  Arutha came out of his musing to see Jimmy beside him. The boy shook his head. “Just shows you what I’ve always said.”

  Despite his concerns, Arutha found himself slightly amused by the boy’s tone. “What is that?”

  “No matter how canny you think you are, something can come along, bam, and put you on your prat. Then you think, ‘That’s what I forgot to consider.’ Eagle-eye hindsight, old Alvarny the Quick used to call it.”

  Arutha wondered if the boy had been reading his thoughts. Jimmy continued. “The Ishapians are sitting up here, mumbling prayers to themselves, and convinced they’ve got a real magic stronghold—‘nothing can breach our mystic defenses,’ ” he mimicked. “Then along come
those balls of light and that flying thing and whoops! ‘We didn’t consider this or that!’ They’ve been jabbering about what they should have done for an hour. Well, I guess they’ll have something stronger around here soon.” Jimmy leaned back against the stone wall facing the cliff. Beyond the walls of the abbey the valley was emerging from the shadows as the sun reached higher in the sky. “Old Anthony was telling me that the spells necessary for last night’s show took some doing, so he doesn’t think anything magic will come this way for a while. They’ll be strong in their fortress…until something comes along that can kick down the gates again, as it were.”

  “Something of a philosopher, are you?” Arutha smiled slightly as Jimmy shrugged.

  “Scared to pissing in my trousers is what I am, and you’d do well to be scared as well. Those undead things in Krondor were bad enough, but last night, well, I don’t know how you feel about it, but if I were you, I’d consider moving to Kesh and changing my name.”

  Arutha smiled ruefully at that, for Jimmy had made him see something he had denied. “To be honest, I am just as scared as you, Jimmy.”

  Jimmy looked surprised at the admission. “Truth?”

  “In truth. Look, only a madman would not be fearful of facing what we have, and what may come, but what matters isn’t whether or not you’re frightened, but how you behave. My father said once that a hero is someone who simply got too frightened to use his good sense and run away, then somehow lived through it all.”

  Jimmy laughed boyish glee making him seem as youthful as his years rather than the man-boy he looked most of the time. “That’s a truth, too. Me, I’d rather do what needs be done, quickly, and get on to the fun. This suffering for grand causes is the stuff of sagas and legends.”

  Arutha said, “See, there’s a bit of the philosopher in you, after all.” He changed topics. “You acted swiftly last night, and bravely. Had you not distracted the monster so Martin could slay it—”

  “We’d be on our way back to Krondor with your bones, assuming it didn’t eat them,” finished Jimmy with a wry grin.

  “Don’t look so pleased at the prospect.”

  Jimmy’s grin broadened. “I’d not be, fact is. You’re one of the very few I’ve met worth having around. By most standards this is a merry bunch, though the times are grim. I’m sort of having fun, if the truth be known.”

  “You have a strange sense of fun.”

  Jimmy shook his head. “Not really. If you’re going to be scared senseless, might as well enjoy it. That’s what thieving’s about, you know. Breaking into someone’s home in the dead of night, not knowing if they’re awake and waiting with a sword or club to spread your brains out on the floor when you stick your head in the window. Being chased through the streets by the city watch. It’s not fun, but it sort of is, you know? Anyway, it’s exciting. And besides, how many can boast they saved the Prince of Krondor by goosing a demon?”

  Arutha laughed hard at that. “Hang me, but that’s the first thing I’ve had to laugh aloud at since…since the wedding.” He placed his hand upon Jimmy’s shoulder. “You earned some reward this day, Squire James. What shall it be?”

  Jimmy’s face screwed up in a display of hard thinking. “Why not name me Duke of Krondor?”

  Arutha was thunderstruck. He started to speak, but stopped. Martin approached from the infirmary and, seeing such a strange expression on Arutha’s face, said, “What ails you?”

  Arutha pointed to Jimmy. “He wants to be Duke of Krondor.”

  Martin laughed uproariously. When he quieted, Jimmy said, “Why not? Dulanic’s here, so you know his retirement’s not bogus. Volney doesn’t want the post, so who else are you going to give it to? I’ve a fair wit, and I’ve done you a favor or two.”

  Martin continued laughing while Arutha said, “For which you have been paid.” The Prince was caught between outrage and amusement. “Look, you bandit, I might think about having Lyam give you a minor barony—very minor—to take charge of, when you reach your majority, which is at least three years away. For now you’ll have to settle for being named Senior Squire of the Court.”

  Martin shook his head. “He’ll organize them into a street gang.”

  “Well,” said Jimmy, “at least I’ll have the pleasure of seeing that ass Jerome’s face when you give deLacy the order.”

  Martin stopped his laughing and said, “I just thought you’d like to know Gardan will be fine, as will Brother Micah. Dominic is up and about already.”

  “The Abbot and Brother Anthony?”

  “The Abbot is off somewhere doing whatever abbots do when their abbeys have been desecrated. And Brother Anthony is back looking for Silverthorn. He said to tell you he’ll be in chamber sixty-seven if you wish to speak with him.”

  Arutha said, “I’m going to find him. I want to know what he’s discovered.” As he walked away, he said, “Jimmy, why don’t you explain to my brother why I should elevate you to the second most important dukedom in the Kingdom?”

  Arutha walked off in search of the head archivist. Martin turned to look at Jimmy, who grinned back at him.

  —

  Arutha entered the vast chamber, musty with age and the faint odor of preservatives. By flickering lantern light Brother Anthony was reading an old volume. Without turning to see who entered, he said, “Just as I thought, I knew it would be here.” He sat up. “That creature was similiar to one reported killed when the Temple of Tith-Onanka in Elarial was invaded three hundred years ago. It was certain, according to these sources, that Pantathian serpent priests were behind the deed.”

  Arutha said, “What are these Pantathians, brother? I’ve only heard the stories told to frighten children.”

  The old monk shrugged. “We know little, in truth. Most of the intelligent races of Midkemia we can, in some way, understand. Even the moredhel, the Brotherhood of the Dark Path, have some traits in common with humanity. You know, they have a rather rigid code of honor, though it is an odd sort by our standards. But these creatures…” He closed the book. “Where Pantathia lies, no one knows. The copies of the maps left by Macros that Kulgan of Stardock sent us show no sign of it. These priests have magics unlike any other. They are the avowed enemies of humanity, though they have dealt with some humans in the past. One thing else is clear, they are beings of undiluted evil. For them to serve this Murmandamus would mark him a foe of all that is good if nothing else did. And that they serve him also marks him a power to fear.”

  Arutha said, “Then we know little more than what we knew by Laughing Jack’s report.”

  “True,” said the monk, “but never discount the worth of knowing he spoke the truth. Knowing what things are not is often as important as knowing what they are.”

  Arutha said, “In all the confusion, have you discovered anything about Silverthorn?”

  “As a matter of fact, I have. I was going to send word as soon as I finished reading this passage. I have little help to offer, I am afraid.” Upon hearing this, Arutha’s heart sank in his chest, but he indicated the old monk should continue. “The reason I could not quickly bring to mind this Silverthorn is that the name given is a translation of the name with which I am more familiar.” He opened another book lying close by. “This is the journal of Geoffrey, son of Caradoc, a monk at the Abbey of Silban west of Yabon—the same one your brother Martin was reared at, though this was several hundred years ago. Geoffrey was a botanist of sorts and spent his idle hours in cataloging what he could of the local flora. Here I’ve found a clue. I’ll read it. ‘The plant, which is called Elleberry by the elves, is also known to the people of the hills as Sparkle Thorn. It is supposed to have magic properties when utilized correctly, though the proper means of distillation of the essences of the plant is not commonly known, being required of arcane ritual beyond the abilities of common folk. It is rare in the extreme, having been seen by few living today. I have never beheld the plant, but those with whom I have spoken are most reliable in their knowledge and certain of
the plant’s existence.’ ” He closed the book.

  “Is that all?” asked Arutha. “I had hoped for a cure, or at least some clue as to how one might be discovered.”

  “But there is a clue,” said the old monk with a wink. “Geoffrey, who was more of gossip than a botanist, attributed the name Elleberry to the plant, as an elven name. This is obviously a corruption of aelebera, an elven word that translates to ‘silverthorn’! Which means that should any know its magic properties and how to overcome them, it is the Spellweavers of Elvandar.”

  Arutha was silent for a while, then said, “Thank you, Brother Anthony. I had prayed to end my search here, but at least you’ve not dashed all hope.”

  The old monk said, “There is always hope, Arutha conDoin. I suspect that, in all the confusion, the Abbot never got around to telling you the main reason for our gathering all this.” His hand waved about him indicating the masses of books everywhere. “The reason we gather all these works in this mount is hope. Of prophecy and portents there are many, but one speaks of the end of all we know. It states that when all else has succumbed to the forces of darkness, all that will be left will be ‘that which was Sarth.’ Should that prophecy come true, we hope to save the seeds of knowledge that can again serve man. We work against that day, and pray it will never come.”

  Arutha said, “You’ve been kind, Brother Anthony.”

  “A man helps when he may.”

  “Thank you.” Arutha left the chamber and climbed the stairs, his mind playing over what he knew. He considered his options until he reached the courtyard. Laurie had joined Jimmy and Martin, as had Dominic, who seemed to have recovered from his ordeal, though he was still pale.

  Laurie greeted the Prince and said, “Gardan should be well enough tomorrow.”