Silverthorn

by Raymond Feist

  A single Thūn trotted toward him, awkwardly holding his hands above his head, palms together in the Tsurani parley sign. Pug could see as he came up to him that they had sent an elder.

  “Honors to your tribe,” said Pug, hoping the creature could speak Tsurani.

  An almost human chuckle answered. “A first that is, black one. Never honor have man given to me.” The speech was heavily accented, but understandable, and the strange, saurian features were surprisingly expressive. The Thūn was unarmed, but old scars showed it had once been a powerful warrior. Now age had robbed it of much of its vigor.

  Pug expressed a suspicion. “You are the sacrifice?”

  “My life is yours to take. Bring down your sky fire, if that your wish. But not, I think, your wish.” Again the chuckle. “Black ones the Thūn have faced. And why a one near the age of leaving should you take, when sky fire can a whole band burn? No, you move for purposes your own, do you not? Troubling those soon left to face the ice hunters, the pack killers, a purpose of yours is not.” Pug studied the Thūn. He was almost at the day when he would be too old to keep pace with the moving band, when the tribe would abandon him to the predators of the tundra.

  “Your age brings wisdom. I have no contention with the Thūn. I simply seek to pass to the north.”

  “Thūn a Tsurani word. We are Lasura, the people. Black ones have I seen. You a troublesome lot. Fight almost won, then black ones sky fire bring. Tsurani fight bravely, and Tsurani head a great trophy is, but black ones? Leaving Lasura in peace, your business usually is not. Why our ranges seek you to cross?”

  “There is a grave danger, from ages long gone. It is a danger to all on Kelewan, to Thūn as well as Tsurani. I think there are those who may know how that danger may be met, those who live high in the ice.” He pointed to the north.

  The old warrior reared up, like a startled horse, and Pug’s own mount shied away. “Then, mad black one, northward go. Death waits there. Find that out you shall. Those who in the ice live none welcome, and the Lasura no contest with madmen seek. Those who do a mad one harm are by the gods harm done. Touched by the gods you are.” He dashed off.

  Pug felt both relief and fear. For the Thūn to know “those who live in the ice” showed there was a chance the Watchers were neither fiction nor long vanished into the past. But the Thūn’s warning caused him to fear for his mission. What waited for him high in the ice of the north? Pug moved away as the Thūn band vanished over the horizon. Winds blew down off the ice, and he pulled his cloak about him. Never had he felt this alone.

  —

  More weeks had passed, and the horse had died. It was not the first time Pug had subsisted on horsemeat. Pug used his arts to transport himself short distances, but mostly he walked. Vagueness about time disturbed him more than any danger. He had no sense of the Enemy’s imminent attack. For all he knew, the Enemy might need years to actually enter Midkemia. Whatever else, he knew it couldn’t still possess the power it displayed in the vision of the time of the golden bridge, otherwise it would have swept into Midkemia and no power on the planet could have stopped it.

  Pug’s routine became dully monotonous as he continued northward. He would walk until he topped some slight rise and would fix his vision on a distant point. With concentration, he could transport himself there, but it was tiring and a little dangerous. Fatigue dulled the mind, and any mistake in the spell used to gather the energy needed to move him could cause him harm, or even kill him. So he would walk, until he felt sufficiently alert and at a place conducive to such spell casting.

  Then one day he had seen something strange in the distance. An odd feature seemed to rear up above the icy cliff. It appeared vague, too far away to be seen clearly. He sat down. There was a spell of far seeing, one used by magicians of the Lesser Path. He remembered it as if he had read it a moment before, a faculty of his mind that had somehow been enhanced by his torture by the Warlord and the odd spell fashioned to keep him from his magic. But he lacked the strenuous stimulation, the fear of death, that had allowed him to use a Lesser Magic, and he could not cause the spell to work for him. Sighing, he stood and began again to trudge northward.

  —

  For three days he had seen the ice spire, rising high into the sky above the leading edge of a great glacier. Now he trudged up to a high rise and gauged his distance. Transporting himself without a known location, a pattern to focus his mind upon, was dangerous unless he could see his destination. He picked a small outcropping of rock before what seemed to be an entrance and incanted a spell.

  Suddenly he stood before what was clearly a door into an ice tower, fashioned by some arcane art. At the door appeared a robed figure. It moved silently and with grace, and was tall, but nothing of its features could be seen in the deep dark of its hood.

  Pug waited and said nothing. The Thūn were obviously frightened of these creatures, and while Pug had little fear for himself, a blunder could cost him the only source of aid he could think of to help stem the Enemy. Still, he was ready to instantly defend himself if necessary.

  As winds whipped snowflakes in swirls about him, the robed figure motioned for Pug to follow and turned back in to the door. Pug hesitated a moment, then followed the robed figure into the spire.

  Inside the spire were stairs, carved into its walls. The spire itself seemed to be fashioned from ice, but somehow there was no cold here; in fact, the spire seemed almost warm after the bitter wind of the tundra. The stairs led up, toward the pinnacle of the spire, and down, into the ice. The figure was vanishing down the stairs, almost out of sight when Pug entered. Pug followed. They descended what seemed an impossible distance, as if their destination lay far below the glacier. When they halted, Pug was certain they were many hundreds of feet below the surface.

  At the bottom of the stairs they came to a large door, fashioned from the same warm ice as the walls. The figure moved through the door, and again Pug followed. What he saw on the other side caused him to halt, dumbfounded.

  Below the mighty edifice of ice, in the frozen wastes of the Arctic of Kelewan, was a forest. Moreover, it was a forest like none upon Kelewan, and Pug’s heart raced as he beheld mighty oaks and elms, ash and pine. Dirt, not ice, lay under his boots, and all around a soft, gentle light was diffused by the green branches and bowers. Pug’s guide pointed toward a path and again took the lead. Deep in the forest they came to a large clearing. Pug had never seen the like of the sight before him, but he knew there was another place, a far distant place, that looked much as this did. In the center of the clearing, gigantic trees rose, with mighty platforms erected amid them, connected by roads upon the backs of branches. Silver, white, gold, and green leaves all seemed to glow with mystic light.

  Pug’s guide raised his hands to his hood and slowly lowered it. Pug’s eyes widened in wonder, for before him stood a creature unmistakable to one reared upon Midkemia. Pug’s expression was one of open disbelief and he was nearly speechless. Before him stood an old elf, who with a slight smile said, “Welcome to Elvardein, Milamber of the Assembly. Or would you prefer to be called Pug of Crydee? We have been expecting you.”

  “I prefer Pug,” he half whispered. He was able to muster up only a shred of his composure, so shocked was he to find Midkemia’s second most ancient race living among this impossible forest, deep in the ice of an alien planet. “What is this place? Who are you, and how did you know I was coming here?”

  “We know many things, son of Crydee. You are here because it is time for you to face that greatest of terrors, what you call the Enemy. You are here to learn. We are here to teach.”

  “Who are you?”

  The elf motioned Pug toward a gigantic platform. “There is much you must learn. A year shall you abide with us, and when you leave, you will come to power and understanding you only glimpse now. Without that teaching, you will not be able to survive the coming battle. With it, you may save two worlds.” Nodding as Pug moved forward, the elf fell in beside him. “We are a ra
ce of elvenkind long vanished from Midkemia. We are the eldest race of that world, servants to the Valheru, those whom men called the Dragon Lords. Long ago did we come to this world, and for reasons you shall learn we chose to abide here. We watch for the return of that which has brought you to us. We prepare against the day we see the return of the Enemy. We are the eldar.”

  Stunned by this, Pug could only wonder. Silently he entered the twin of the city of elves, Elvandar, the place deep in the ice that the eldar had called Elvardein.

  —

  Arutha strode down the hall. Lyam walked at his side. Behind them hurried Volney, Father Nathan, and Father Tully. Fannon, Gardan and Kasumi, Jimmy and Martin, Roald and Dominic, Laurie and Carline all followed in a pack. The Prince still had on the stained and tattered travel clothing he had worn on the ship from Crydee. They had had a fast, and blessedly uneventful, journey.

  Two guards still waited without the room Pug had ensorcelled. Arutha motioned for them to open the door. When it was open, he waved them aside, and with the hilt of his sword, he smashed the seal as Pug had instructed.

  The Prince and the two priests hurried to the Princess’s bedside. Lyam and Volney kept the rest outside. Nathan opened the vial containing the curative fashioned by the elven Spellweavers. As instructed, he poured a drop upon Anita’s lips. For a moment nothing happened, then the Princess’s lips flickered. Her mouth moved, and she licked the drop from her lips. Tully and Arutha held her up; Nathan raised the vial to her mouth and poured. She drank it all.

  Before their eyes color returned to Anita’s cheeks. As Arutha knelt at her side, her eyes fluttered and opened. She turned her head slightly, and said, “Arutha,” in almost a silent whisper. Her hand gently came and touched his cheek as tears of thanks ran unashamedly down his face. He took her hand and kissed it.

  Then Lyam and the others were in the room. Father Nathan rose and Tully barked, “Only a minute, now! She has to rest.”

  Lyam laughed, his loud happy laugh. “Listen to him. Tully, I’m still the King.”

  Tully said, “They may make you Emperor of Kesh, King of Queg, and Grand Master of the Brothers of the Shield of Dala as well, for all I care. To me you’ll always be one of my less-gifted students. A moment, then out you go.” He turned away, but as with the others, his face was wet.

  The Princess Anita looked around at all the smiling faces and said, “What happened?” She sat up and with a wince said, “Oh, I hurt,” then smiled an embarrassed smile. “Arutha, what did happen? All I remember was turning to you at the wedding…”

  “I’ll explain later. You rest, and I’ll see you again soon.”

  She smiled and yawned, covering her mouth. “Excuse me. But I am sleepy.” She snuggled down and was soon asleep.

  Tully began shooing them from the room. Outside, Lyam said, “Father, how soon before we can finish this wedding?”

  “In a few days,” said Tully. “The restorative powers of that mixture are phenomenal.”

  “Two weddings,” said Carline.

  Lyam said, “I was going to wait until we returned to Rillanon.”

  “Not on your best horse’s rump,” snapped Carline. “I’m taking no chances.”

  “Well, Your Grace,” said the King to Laurie, “I guess it’s been decided.”

  Laurie said, “ ‘Your Grace’?”

  With a laugh and a wave, as he walked away, Lyam said, “Of course, didn’t she tell you? I can’t have my sister married to a commoner. I’m naming you Duke of Salador.”

  Laurie looked more shaken than before. “Come along, love,” said Carline, taking him by the hand. “You’ll survive.”

  Arutha and Martin laughed, and Martin said, “Have you noticed the peerage has been going to hell lately?”

  Arutha turned to Roald. “You were in this for gold, but my thanks go beyond mere gold. A bonus you shall have. Volney, this man is to have a bag of a hundred gold sovereigns, our agreed-upon price. Then he is to have ten times that as bonus. And then another thousand for thanks.”

  Roald grinned. “You are generous, Highness.”

  “And if you’ll accept, you’re welcome to be my guest here as long as you wish. You might even find it in your heart to consider joining my guard. I’ve a captaincy about to open.”

  Roald saluted. “Thanks, but no, Your Highness. I’ve thought of late it was time to settle down, especially after this last business, but I have no ambitions to enlist.”

  “Then feel free to guest with us as long as you desire. I’ll instruct the Royal Steward to prepare a suite for your use.”

  With a grin, Roald said, “My thanks, Highness.”

  Gardan said, “Does that remark about a new captaincy mean I’m finally done with this duty and can return to Crydee with His Grace?”

  Arutha shook his head. “Sorry, Gardan. Sergeant Valdis will become captain of my guard, but no retirement for you yet. From those reports of Pug’s you brought from Stardock, I’m going to need you around. Lyam is about to name you Knight-Marshal of Krondor.”

  Kasumi clapped Gardan upon the back. “Congratulations, Marshal.”

  Gardan said, “But…”

  Jimmy cleared his throat in expectation. Arutha turned and said, “Yes, Squire?”

  “Well, I thought…”

  “You had something to ask?”

  Jimmy looked from Arutha’s face to Martin’s. “Well, I just thought as long as you were passing out rewards…”

  “Oh yes, of course.” Turning, Arutha spotted one of the squires and shouted, “Locklear!”

  The young squire came running to bow before his Prince. “Highness?”

  “Escort Squire Jimmy back to Master deLacy and inform the Master of Ceremonies that Jimmy is now Senior Squire.”

  Jimmy grinned as he and Locklear walked away. He seemed about to say something, then thought better of it and followed Locklear.

  Martin put his hand on Arutha’s shoulder. “Keep an eye on that boy. He seriously means to be Duke of Krondor someday.”

  Arutha said, “Damn me if he just might not do it.”

  EPILOGUE

  RETREAT

  The moredhel silently raged.

  To the three chieftains before him he betrayed no hint of his anger. They were leaders of the most important lowland confederations. As they approached, he knew what they would say before it was spoken. He listened patiently, the light from the large bonfire before his throne casting a flicker across his chest, giving the illusion of movement to the birthmark dragon there.

  “Master,” said the centermost chieftain, “my warriors grow restless. They chafe and they complain. When shall we invade the southlands?”

  The Pantathian hissed, but a restraining gesture from the leader quieted him. Murmandamus sat back in his throne and silently brooded on his setback. His finest general lay dead, irretrievable even to those powers at his command. The balky clans of the north were demanding action, while the mountain clans were drifting away by the day, confounded by Murad’s death. Those who had come from the southern forests whispered among themselves of traveling the lesser passes back into the lands of men and dwarves, seeking to return to their homelands in the foothills near the Green Heart and among the highland meadows of the Grey Towers. Only the hill clans and the Black Slayers remained steadfast, and they were too small a force, despite their ferocity. No, the first battle had been lost. The chieftains before him demanded some promise, some sign or portent, to reassure their nervous alliances, before old feuds erupted. Murmandamus knew he could hold the armies here for only a few more weeks without marching. This far north, there were only two short months of warm weather left before the fall, then quickly the harsh northern winter would strike. If war was not forthcoming, to bring booty and plunder, the warriors would soon need to return to their homes. Finally Murmandamus spoke.

  “O my children, the auguries are not in fruition.” Pointing above, the stars seen faintly against the glare of the camp’s fires, he continued. “The Cross
of Fire heralds only the beginning. But we have not reached the time. Cathos says the fourth Bloodstone is not yet properly aligned. The lowest star will be in proper position at the summer solstice, next year. We cannot hurry the stars.” Inwardly he raged at the dead Murad for having failed him in so critical a mission. “We trusted our fate to one who acted too swiftly, who may have been uncertain in his resolve.” The chieftains exchanged glances. All knew Murad as one above reproach in visiting destruction on the hated humans. As if reading their minds, Murmandamus said, “For all his might, Murad underestimated the Lord of the West. That is why this human is to be feared, why he must be destroyed. With his death, the way south becomes open, for then shall we visit destruction upon all who oppose our will.”

  Standing, he said, “But the time is not yet. We shall wait. Send home your warriors. Let them prepare against winter. But carry forth the word: let all the tribes and clans gather here next summer, let the confederations march with the sun when it again begins its journey south. For before next Midsummer’s Day, the Lord of the West shall die.” His voice rose in volume. “We were tested against the powers of our forefathers and found wanting. We were judged guilty of failing in our resolve. We shall not again so fail.” He struck fist to palm, his voice rising to a near-shriek. “In a year’s time we shall bring forth the news that the hated Lord of the West is destroyed. Then shall we march. And we shall not march alone. We shall call our servants, the goblins, the mountain trolls, the land-striding giants. All shall come to serve us. We shall march into human lands and burn their cities. I shall erect my throne upon a mountain of their bodies. Then, O my children, shall we spill blood.”

  Murmandamus gave permission for the chieftains to withdraw. This year’s campaign was at an end. Murmandamus signaled to his guards to attend him as he swept past the crooked form of the serpent priest. Silently he brooded upon Murad’s death and the loss that death had caused. The Cross of Fire would look much as it did now for the next year and a bit more, so the lie about the configuration would hold. But time was now an enemy. A winter would be spent in preparation, and remembrance. No, this defeat would rankle as the freezing nights of winter slowly passed, but those nights would see the birth of another plan, which would bring the death of the Lord of the West, he who was the Bane of Darkness. And with that death, the onslaught against the nations of men would begin, and the killing would not halt until all lay prostrate at the feet of the moredhel, as was proper. And the moredhel would serve one master, Murmandamus. He turned and faced those most loyal to him. In the flickering light of their torches, madness danced in his eyes. His voice was the only sound in the ancient halls, a harsh whisper that grated upon the ear. “How many human slaves have our raiders captured to pull our siege engines?”