‘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 centremost 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 balking 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 travelling 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, to 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 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 signalled 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?’
One of the captains said, ‘Several hundred, Master.’
‘Kill them all. At once.’
The captain ran to carry out the order, and Murmandamus felt a lessening of the rage within as the prisoners’ deaths atoned for Murad’s failure. In near-hissing tones, Murmandamus said, ‘We have erred, O my children. Too soon did we gather to regain that which is rightfully our heritage. In a year, when the snows again have melted from the peaks, we again will gather, and then shall all who oppose us know terror.’ He paced about the hall, a figure of stunning power, a fey brilliance surrounding him in an almost perceptible halo. His magnetism was nearly palpable. After a silent time, he spun towards the Pantathian. ‘We leave. Prepare the gate.’
The serpent nodded, while the Black Slayers took their positions along the wall. When each was situated in a niche, a field of green energy surrounded them. Each became rigid, a statue in his private nook, awaiting the summons that would come next summer.
The Pantathian finished a long incantation and a shimmering silver field appeared in the air. Without another word, Murmandamus and the Pantathian stepped through the gate, leaving Sar-Sargoth for some place known only to himself and Cathos. The gate winked out of existence.
Silence dominated the hall. Then, outside, the screams of the dying prisoners began to fill the night.
End
The final confrontation between Arutha and Murmandamus, as well as Pug and Tomas’s search for Macros the Black, is chronicled in A Darkness at Sethanon, published by Voyager.
Acknowledgements
I am once more indebted to many people for this book’s existence. My deep thanks to:
The Friday Nighters: April and Stephen Abrams, Steve Barrett, Anita and Jon Everson, Dave Guinasso, Conan LaMotte, Tim LaSelle, Ethan Munson, Bob Potter, Rich Spahl, Alan Springer, and Lori and Jeff Velten, for too many reasons to list.
Susan Avery, David Brin, Kathie Buford and Janny Wurts, for giving me their thoughts on a work in progress.
My friends at Granada, especially Nick Austin.
Al Sarantonio, for playing the jukebox in Chicago.
Again, Harold Matson, my agent.
Abner Stein, my British agent.
And, as always, Barbara A. Feist, my mother.
RAYMOND E. FEIST
San Diego, California
December 1983
About the Author
RAYMOND E. FEIST was born and raised in southern California. He was educated at the University of California, San Diego, where he graduated with honours in Communication Arts. He is the author of nine bestselling and critically acclaimed series: The Riftwar Saga, The Empire Trilogy (with Janny Wurts), Kro
ndor’s Sons, The Serpentwar Saga, The Riftwar Legacy, Legends of the Riftwar, Conclave of the Shadows, Darkwar Saga, Demonwar Saga and Chaoswar Saga.
Copyright
This novel is entirely a work of fiction.
The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are
the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual
persons, events or localities living or dead, is
entirely coincidental.
Harper Voyager
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Previously published in paperback by Grafton Books 1986
And by HarperCollins Science Fiction and Fantasy 1995
Reprinted ten times
And by Voyager 1997
Reprinted thirty-two times
First published in Great Britain by Grafton by Grafton Books 1986
Copyright © Raymond E. Feist 1986
Raymond E. Feist asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
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