“Where is your master now?” asked Jimmy.
“Oh, dead I fear,” said the thin man with a display of regret. “Fourteen years was I his servant, and he a generous master. Now I am alone in this cold place.”
Jimmy said, “Well, why don’t you tell us this story.”
“And show us how you planned on catching those fish,” said Dash.
“If I might have some hair from your horse’s manes,” said the ragged man. “Then it would be so much easier.”
“Horses?” asked Dash.
“Two young noblemen such as yourselves didn’t walk into this forsaken wilderness I am certain,” supplied Malar. “And I heard one of them snorting a moment again.” He pointed, “That way.”
Jimmy nodded. “That’s fair.”
“What do you need hair from their manes for?” asked Dash.
“Let me show you.”
He walked toward the place where Dash’s horse had been tied, and said, “The ice was almost broken when you startled me, young sir. If you would but use the hilt of your sword to break it open, that would be a great service.”
Jimmy nodded and started back toward the icy pond.
Dash asked, “Now, about how you came to be lost in this forsaken wilderness.”
“As you are no doubt aware,” began Malar, “there was much trouble between Kesh and the Kingdom lately, with Shamata for a time being deeded to the Empire.”
“So we had heard,” said Dash.
“My master, being of Kingdom allegiance, decided it wise to visit his holdings in the north, first in Landreth, then Krondor.
“We were traveling to Krondor when we encountered the invaders. We were overtaken and my master and most of his other servants were put to the sword. I and a few others managed to flee into the hills, south of here.” He pointed southward with his chin, as he reached Dash’s horse. Malar reached up and gripped a few hairs from the horse’s mane, yanking expertly, and came away with several long stands of hair. The horse moved at the unexpected pressure, snorting displeasure. Dash reached out and took the reins from the tree branch where they were tied, and Malar yanked out some more hairs. He repeated the procedure twice more. “That is sufficient,” he observed.
“So you’ve been in these hills how long?”
“More than three months, young sir,” said Malar, as he started deftly weaving the hair into a braid. “It has been a bitter time. Some of my companions died from hunger and cold, and two were captured by a band of men—outlaws or invaders, I do not know which. I have been alone for all of three weeks or so, I judge.” He sounded apologetic as he said, “It is difficult to keep track of time.”
“You’ve survived in these woods for three weeks with nothing but your bare hands?” asked Dash.
Malar started walking toward the pond, continuing to weave the horse hair. “Yes, and a terrible thing it has been, sir.”
“How?” asked Dash.
“As a boy I was raised in the hills above Landreth, to the north of the Vale of Dreams. Not as hostile a land as this, but still a place where the unwary can perish easily. My father was a woodsman, who put food on our table with bow and snare, as well as gold in his pouch from guiding men through the hills.”
Dash laughed. “He guided smugglers.”
“Perhaps,” said Malar with a broad shrug. “In any event, while the winters in the hills near my home are nowhere near as inhospitable as here, still a man must have skills to survive.’
Malar moved slowly as he approached the hole. He glanced skyward to see the angle of the sun, then moved to face it. “Do not let your shadow cross the hole,” he instructed.
Dash and Jimmy followed behind. The man from the Vale of Dreams slowly knelt and said, “Fish, I have been taught, see movement, so we must move ever so slowly.”
Dash said, “This I must see.”
Jimmy nodded.
Malar said, “The sun shines through the hole in the ice, and the fish swims up to feel the warmth.”
Jimmy looked over the man’s shoulder and saw a large brook trout lazily circling the hole. Moving slowly, Malar inserted the noose of horsehair into the water, behind the fish. The trout ceased moving for a moment, but Malar resisted the urge to move quickly, instead inching the snare toward the fish’s tail.
After another long minute, the fish darted away, and Malar said, “Another will come. They see the light and think insects may land upon the surface.”
After a silent five minutes, a trout appeared near the edge of the hole. Dash couldn’t tell if it was the same fish or a different one. Malar again started moving the noose slowly and got it around the fish’s tail. With a jerk, he snared the trout and yanked it out of the hole, landing it on the ice where it flopped.
Dash couldn’t see the man’s face behind the rags that covered it, but the crinkles around his eyes showed Malar was smiling. “If one of you young gentlemen would be so kind as to light a fire, I will catch some more.”
Jimmy and Dash exchanged glances, then Jimmy shrugged. Dash said, “I’ll get some wood. You find a camp site.”
They hurried off while the strange man from the Vale of Dreams sought out another fish for supper.
For three days they moved slowly toward Krondor. Several times they had heard distant voices and the sound of men moving through the woodlands, but they had avoided contact with anyone.
Jimmy and Dash had both found Malar an enigma. He had surprising skills for wilderness survival, odd for one claiming to be the servant of a rich trader. On the other hand, Jimmy had confided to his brother, the servant of a rich smuggler might prove in need of such skills. Still, they were pleased to have him along, for he had found several short-cuts through the undergrowth, had identified edible plants that supplemented their stores, and had proven a reliable third night sentry. As they were walking their horses, leading them more than half the time, his keeping up had proven no difficulty. Jimmy judged they were less than a week’s travel from Krondor.
At mid-day they heard horses in the distance, from the north. Jimmy spoke at a low conversational level. “Duko’s men moving along the highway?”
Dash nodded. “Probably. If we can hear them from here, we’ve headed back toward the highway.” He turned to Malar. “Do you know of any southern route to Krondor?”
“Only the highway that loops around from Land’s End, young sir. But if we are nearing the King’s Highway, within a few days we should start encountering farms.”
Jimmy was silent for a long moment, then said, “They’ll almost certainly be burned out.”
“But,” suggested Dash, “if they are, no one is likely to be living in them, and we might slip into the city unnoticed.”
“No farmers, you mean,” corrected Jimmy. “But they’d be decent shelter for some very unpleasant men with a fondness for weapons, I bet.”
Dash’s brow furrowed, as if thinking he should have thought of that, but a moment later, his grin returned and he said, “Well, then, we will just blend in. You’ve told me often enough how unpleasant I can be and I am certainly fond of my weapons.”
Jimmy nodded. “Two more hired swords will scarcely be noticed. And if we can get close to the city, we’ll find a way inside. There are enough holes in the walls, that’s for certain.”
Malar said, “You’ve been to Krondor, then, young sir? Since the war I mean.”
Jimmy ignored the question, saying, “We’ve heard of the damage.”
Dash agreed. “More than a few people left Krondor and came east.”
“This I know,” said Malar, falling silent.
They moved on through the woods for the rest of the day, and made cold camp that night. Huddled under their blankets,
Jimmy and Dash stayed close together while Malar took the first watch. They slept fitfully, coming awake many times.
In the morning, they resumed their journey.
The woods were filled with the sounds of the thaw. In the distance the cracking of ice rang through the sudd
enly warm air as ponds and lakes began to lose their frozen skins. Large mounds of snow fell from trees in sudden, wet attacks on the travelers, while everywhere water dripped from branches. The footing beneath their feet alternated between crusty patches of ice and thick mud which gripped at boots and horse’s hooves. The constant noise was a backdrop against which the occasional sounds of spring could be heard. The distant call of a bird that had returned from the south early, seeking others of its kind. The faint rustle in the distance of small creatures coming out of their winter’s burrows stilled as they past, only to resume after a while.
When they paused to rest, Jimmy tied his horse to a low tree branch, and motioned for Dash to do likewise. Dash did as he was bid and said, “Keep an eye out. We’re going to relieve ourselves.” He moved to where Jimmy stood, making a show of urinating into the snow.
Dash did likewise, whispering, “What is it?”
“Have you formed an opinion of our chance companion?” asked the older brother.
Dash shook his head slightly, saying, “Not really. I’m certain he’s more than he claims, but I have no idea what.”
“There’s not a lot of fat on him,” said Jimmy, “but he doesn’t move like a man weak from hunger.”
Dash said, “Do you have a theory?”
Jimmy said, “No. But if he’s not the servant of a rich trader, what’s he doing up here?”
“Smuggler?”
“Maybe,” answered Jimmy, doing up the front of his trousers. “Could be anything we could imagine.”
Remembering what their grandfather over the years had cautioned them about leaping to conclusions, Dash said, “Then we’d best not imagine anything.”
“Wait and see,” agreed Jimmy.
They returned to the horses and Malar hurried off to relieve himself away from the trail. When he was out of hearing range, they continued. Jimmy asked, “Remember that abandoned farm a day’s walk this side of where Malar?”
“The one with half a thatch roof and the fallen down cow shed?”
“That’s the one. If we bolt, and get separated, meet there.”
Dash nodded. Neither chose to discuss what to do should the other never appear.
Malar returned and they started off. The servant from the Vale of Dreams had been as closed mouthed as the brothers. Part of the reason was the environment. The nights were still and even in the day noise carried. They knew they were approaching an area likely to be patrolled by the invaders; they were leading their horses rather than riding them as, even in the woodlands, a rider presented a much higher profile in the distance than a man on foot or a horse. Periodically they stopped to listen.
Rains came later that afternoon and they sought out what shelter they could, finding a hut of some sort, burned out, but with just enough thatch to give slight respite.
“We’ve got another day’s grain, then we’re done,” said Dash, knowing his brother was just as aware of supplies as he was.
Malar said, “Shouldn’t there be winter grass under the snow, sirs?”
Jimmy nodded. “Not much in it but the horses will eat it.”
Dash said, “If there are horsemen in Krondor, they’ll have fodder.”
Jimmy said, “The difficulty will be in persuading them to share, brother.”
Dash grinned. “What’s life without a challenge or two?”
Malar said, “Young sirs, I believe I hear something.”
All conversation ceased as they listened. The frigid days of winter had given way to a promise of spring, but it was still cold enough they could see their breath in the late afternoon air. After a moment of silence, Dash was about to speak when a voice echoed from ahead. It spoke a language neither brother knew, but they recognized it as the Yabonese like tongue of the invaders.
Glancing around for a place to hide, Jimmy pointed and mouthed the word, “There.”
He indicated a large stand of brush that surrounded an outcropping of rocks. Dash wasn’t sure they could secret the horses behind it, but it was the only thing nearby that offered shelter from whoever came their way.
Malar hurried around the upthrust rocks and pulled aside a low branch, allowing Jimmy and Dash to lead their horses around to a relatively sheltered hiding place. In the distance horses could be heard.
Dash’s horse’s nostrils flared and her head came up. Jimmy said, “What?”
“This witchy mare is in heat,” whispered Dash as he tugged hard on her bridle. “Pay attention to me!” he demanded.
Malar said, “You ride a mare?”
“She’s a good horse,” insisted Dash.
“Most of the time!” agreed Jimmy, hissing his words. “But not now!”
Dash tugged on the horse’s bridle, trying to focus her attention on himself. An experienced rider, Dash knew that if he could keep her attention, she might not call out to the horses that were approaching.
Jimmy’s gelding seemed relatively indifferent to the proceedings, though he did look on with some interest as the mare’s excited state built. Dash held tight to the mare’s bridle, rubbing her nose and speaking close to her ear in a reassuring fashion.
The riders came close and Dash judged there must be at least a dozen of them from the clatter. Voices cut through the air and a man laughed. These were men who patrolled a familiar area and expected nothing out of the ordinary.
Dash held tight to the bridle and continued to speak softly to his mare as the horses came to the point of closest approach on the trail. Suddenly Dash’s horse pulled backwards and her head came up.
For an instant there was a tiny hope she might come back to him, but then she called out her greeting, a loud whinny.
Suddenly shouts filled the air and other horses answered the mare’s call. Jimmy didn’t hesitate as he pointed and said, “That way!”
Malar shoved through underbrush and ignored scratches from branches as he went where Jimmy directed. Jimmy came next, leading his gelding, eyes wide and nostrils flaring from excitement. The mare balked and resisted as she screamed her welcome to the other horses. A stallion’s herd cry answered and Dash knew the only way he could control his mare was from her back. Letting her head come around toward the stallion, he quickly swung up onto her back, exposing himself to view.
He didn’t hesitate, and slammed heels into her flanks. Urging her into a gallop, he seemed to burst from the underbrush to those riders arrayed on the trail. He was past them, moving away from his brother and Malar, and the chase was on.
From a vantage point a short distance off, Jimmy turned and saw the riders wheel and charge after Dash. Malar, almost out of breath, puffed as he said, “Sir, will they catch him?”
Jimmy swore. “Probably. But if they don’t he should try to get back at that farmhouse. That’s what we planned.”
“Shall we turn around?” asked the servant.
Jimmy was silent. After a moment he said, “No. Dash will either be captured, in which case we can’t help him escape, or he’ll win free. If he gets back to that farm house, he’ll wait two days, then return to Darkmoor. If we go now, we’ll have no more information than he will.”
“We go to Krondor?”
“We go to Krondor,” said Jimmy. He glanced around seeking any sign of other riders in the area. As the sound of Dash and his pursuers faded into the distance, he pointed, and said, “That way.”
As quietly as they could, the pair set off.
About the Author
Raymond E. Feist’s novels include Magician; Silverthorn; Faerie Tale; Prince of the Blood; and The King’s Buccaneer; as well as his New York Times-bestselling Serpentwar Saga: Shadow of a Dark Queen; Rise of a Merchant Prince; Rage of a Demon King; and Shards of a Broken Crown; and The Riftwar Legacy: Krondor: The Betrayal; Krondor: The Assassins; Krondor: Tear of the Gods. He is the creator of the immensely popular computer games “Betrayal at Krondor” and “Return to Krondor.” Mr. Feist lives in Southern California.
Books by Raymond E. Feist
Magicia
n
Silverthorn
A Darkness at Sethanon
Faerie Tale
Prince of the Blood
The King's Buccaneer
Shadow of a Dark Queen
Rise of a Merchant Prince
Rage of a Demon King
Shards of a Broken Crown
Krondor: The Betrayal
Krondor: The Assassins
Krondor: Tear of the Gods
With Janny Wurts:
Daughter of Empire
Servant of Empire
Mistress of Empire
Praise for The Serpentwar Saga
The San Diego Union-Tribune: “An epic reading experience.”
Ft. Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel: “A massive, entertaining tale.”
Chicago Tribune: “Classic . . . Feist has a command of language and a natural talent for keeping the reader turning pages.”
Portland Oregonian: “Action and intrigue and evocative writing. . . . Feist brings a new world alive.”
San Francisco Chronicle: “Adept storytelling . . . true readability.”
Locus: “A place to start for those yet to discover Feist's fantasy worlds.”
Booklist: “Vivid and well-choreographed battles . . . real emotional impact. . . . The action is nonstop. . . . Feist remains in the forefront of fantasists.”
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
RAGE OF A DEMON KING: Book Three of The Serpentwar Saga. Copyright © 1997 by Raymond E. Feist. Published by arrangement with the author. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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