Krondor the Betrayal (7 page)

‘‘I am always eager to help the authorities. I run a lawful enterprise.’’

‘‘Good.’’ Locklear motioned toward Gorath’s purse, and said, ‘‘Sell him the stone.’’

Gorath took out the snow sapphire he had taken from the dead moredhel and put it down before Alescook.

The merchant picked it up and examined it. ‘‘Ah, a nice one.

I have a buyer for these down South. I’ll give you a golden sovereign for it.’’

‘‘Five,’’ said Locklear.

‘‘These are not that rare,’’ said Alescook, tossing it back to Gorath, who started to put it away. ‘‘But, on the other hand . . .

two sovereigns.’’

‘‘Four,’’ said Locklear.

‘‘Three, and that’s done with it.’’

They took the gold, enough for a meal along the way, left, and went outside. To his companions Locklear said, ‘‘We’re passing through Hawk’s Hollow on our way to Krondor, so our next choice is easy. We find Isaac.’’

As he mounted his horse, Gorath said, ‘‘This Isaac is known to you, then?’’

Locklear said, ‘‘Yes. He’s the second biggest rogue I’ve known in my life. A fine companion for drinking and brawling. If he’s caught up in something dodgy, it wouldn’t surprise me.’’

They turned their horses southward and left the large, rolling valley of Loriel, entering the narrow river valley leading 41

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southward. Locklear had been able to purchase a little food at the inn, but the lack of funds was starting to worry him. He knew they could hunt, but his sense of something dark approaching was growing by the day. A renegade moredhel chieftain bringing warning of possible invasion, money moving to the North to buy weapons from weapons runners, and somehow the Tsurani were involved. Any way he looked at this, it was a bad situation.

Unable to put aside his foreboding, he kept his thoughts to himself.

Gorath held up his hand and pointed. Softly he said, ‘‘Something there.’’

‘‘I don’t see anything,’’ said Owyn.

‘‘If you did, I would not need to warn you,’’ suggested the dark elf.

‘‘What do you see?’’ asked Locklear.

‘‘An ambush. See those trees. Some lower branches have been hacked off, but not by a woodsman’s ax or saw.’’

‘‘Owyn,’’ Locklear asked, ‘‘can you still do that blinding trick?’’

‘‘Yes,’’ said Owyn, ‘‘if I can see the man I’m trying to blind.’’

‘‘Well, as we’re sitting here, pointing at them, I expect in a moment whoever’s behind that brush is going to figure out we’ve spotted their ambush—’’

Locklear was interrupted by six figures rushing forward from the brush on foot. ‘‘Moredhel!’’ shouted Locklear as he charged.

He felt the sizzling energy speed past him as Owyn sought to blind an advancing dark elf. The spell took effect, for the creature faltered, reaching up to his eyes in alarm.

Locklear leaned over the neck of his horse as an arrow flew past him. ‘‘Get the bowman,’’ he shouted to Owyn.

Gorath shouted a war cry and rode down one attacker while slashing at a second. Locklear engaged a dark elf who seemed indifferent to facing a mounted opponent, and Locklear knew from bitter experience how deadly the moredhel could be.

While rarely mounted themselves, they had faced human cavalry for hundreds of years and were adept at pulling riders 42

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from horseback. Knowing their tactics, Locklear spurred his mount suddenly, turning it hard to the left. This knocked back the attacker he faced and revealed the one poised to leap and drag him down. Locklear slashed out with his sword, taking the creature in the throat, above his metal breastplate. Locklear kept his horse circling, so he quickly faced his first attacker.

The sizzling sensation told him Owyn was once more blinding an opponent, and Locklear hoped it was the bowman. The moredhel who had fallen back as the horse spun pressed forward with a vicious slash at Locklear’s leg.

He barely got his sword down in time and felt the shock run up through his arm. His stiff ribs hindered his parry, and the flat of his own blade slammed into his horse’s side, causing the animal to shy.

Locklear used his left leg and moved the animal back into a straight line, twisting his body to keep his eyes upon his foe.

His ribs hurt from the effort, but he stayed alive as the moredhel swung at him again. He knocked that blow aside and delivered a weak counter, which slapped his opponent in the face, irritating him more than doing any real damage.

But the blow did slow the moredhel’s advance, and Locklear got his horse turned to face his foe. Locklear remembered something his father had drilled into him and his brothers: a soldier who has a weapon and doesn’t use it is either an idiot or dead.

His horse was a weapon, and Locklear put his legs hard against his horse’s flanks and tugged hard on the reins with his off hand. The horse picked up a canter, and to the moredhel it was as if the horse suddenly leaped at him.

The warrior was a veteran and dodged to one side, but Locklear reined his horse in, turning hard to the left. To the moredhel, it looked as if Locklear was turning away, and the creature pressed forward.

Locklear kept the horse turning in a tight circle, and suddenly the moredhel realized his error as the young squire completed his circle with a slashing downward blow. This was no irritating tap, but a powerful blow which smashed bone as it cut into the side of the moredhel’s skull.

Locklear glanced toward Gorath and saw him beset by two 43

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foes, then looked back to Owyn, and saw that he was on foot a hundred yards away and holding a swordsman at bay with his staff. Hoping the bowman was still blinded by Owyn’s magic, Locklear rode to Owyn’s rescue.

He kicked hard at his horse’s flanks, and the animal leaped forward so that he was approaching at a gallop when the moredhel heard him coming. The dark elf turned to look at his second opponent, giving Owyn the opening to strike with the butt of his staff. He broke the creature’s jaw and sent him slumping to the ground.

Locklear reined his horse in so suddenly the animal planted his hooves and almost sat. Spinning the horse around, Locklear waved to Owyn, shouting, ‘‘Keep the bowman off us!’’

As if the Goddess of Luck had turned a deaf ear to him, Locklear was lifted out of the saddle by an arrow. He struck the ground hard, barely avoiding broken bones by rolling. The arrow in his left shoulder snapped, and the pain caused his vision to swim and took his breath away.

For the briefest instant, Locklear fought to keep conscious, then he felt his eyes focus, and he willed away the pain in his shoulder. A strangled cry behind him made him turn. Over him reared a moredhel, sword raised to strike. Suddenly, Gorath was behind the moredhel, and he plunged his sword into the moredhel’s back.

Owyn ran past, wheeling his staff above his head. Locklear looked up as his would-be killer fell to his knees, then keeled over. Gorath turned before Locklear could speak and ran after Owyn.

Locklear rose slowly on wobbly legs as he saw Owyn rush forward and strike a moredhel bowman who was vainly rubbing his eyes as if trying to clear them. The bowman was clubbed to his knees and died a moment later as Gorath delivered the killing blow.

Gorath spun around in a circle once, as if seeking another enemy, but Locklear saw the six were dead. Gorath stood with his sword in hand, frustration on his face, then he shouted in rage. ‘‘Delekhan!’’

Locklear stumbled to the dark elf, and said, ‘‘What?’’

‘‘They knew we were coming!’’ said Gorath.

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Owyn said, ‘‘Somehow they got word south?’’

Gorath put up his sword. ‘‘Nago.’’

‘‘What?’’ asked Locklear.

‘‘Not what,
who,
’’ said Gorath. ‘‘Nago. He’s one of Delekhan’s sorcerers. He and his brother Narab served the murderer.

They are powerful chieftains in their own right, but right now they’re doing Delekhan’s bidding. Without their help, Delekhan never would have risen to power and overthrown the chieftains of the other clans. Without their help, these‘‘—his hand swept in a circle, indicating the dead moredhel—’’would not be here waiting.’’ He knelt next to one of the dead, and said, ‘‘This was my cousin, my kinsman.’’ He pointed to another one. ‘‘That one is from a clan that has been sworn enemy to mine for generations. That they are both serving this monster hints at his power.’’

Locklear indicated his shoulder and sank to the ground.

Owyn examined it, and explained, ‘‘I can get the head out, but it’s going to hurt.’’

Locklear said, ‘‘It already hurts. Get on with it.’’

While Owyn ministered to Locklear, Gorath said, ‘‘Nago and Narab both have the power of mindspeech. Especially with one another. Those we killed on the road to your town of Loriel, or another who spied us, must have passed word to one of the brothers. He in turn alerted these as to our whereabouts.’’

Locklear said, ‘‘So the chances are good that before they died, one of these also let Nago know we are here?’’

‘‘Almost certainly.’’

‘‘Wonderful,’’ said Locklear through gritted teeth, as Owyn used his dagger to cut out the arrowhead. His eyes teared, and his vision swam again for a moment, but by breathing slowly and deeply he kept conscious.

Owyn dusted the wound with a pack of herbs from his belt pouch, then placed a cloth over it. ‘‘Hold this here; press hard,’’ he instructed. He went to the nearest body and robbed it of a strip of cloth, cut away with his dagger, then returned to bind it tightly around Locklear’s shoulder. ‘‘Between that wound to your ribs and this shoulder, your left arm is close to useless, Squire.’’

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‘‘Just what I wanted to hear,’’ said Locklear as he tried to move his left arm and found Owyn’s observation correct. He could move it scant inches before pain made him stop the attempt. ‘‘Horses?’’

‘‘They’ve run off,’’ said Owyn.

‘‘Wonderful,’’ said Locklear. ‘‘I was knocked out of the saddle, what’s your excuse?’’ he demanded of the other two.

Gorath said, ‘‘Fighting on the back of the beast was too awkward.’’

Owyn said, ‘‘I can’t cast a spell from the saddle. Sorry.’’

Locklear stood. ‘‘So we walk.’’

‘‘How far is it to Hawk’s Hollow?’’ asked Owyn.

‘‘Too far,’’ said Locklear. ‘‘If they’re waiting for us, much too far.’’

46

Three

•

T HE SENTRY BLINKED IN SURPRISE.

One moment the approach to the town was empty, the next three figures were standing before him. ‘‘What?’’ he exclaimed, bringing his old spear to something resembling a stance of readiness.

‘‘Easy, friend,’’ said Locklear. He leaned upon Owyn’s shoulder and looked as if he was close to death. They had encountered three more ambushes between the one where their horses had fled and Hawk’s Hollow. They had managed to avoid the first two, sneaking around human bandits. The last had been a squad of six moredhel who had been too alert. The fight had been bloody and costly. Gorath was wounded, a nasty cut to his left shoulder that Owyn had barely been able to staunch. Locklear had been injured again, nearly dying if not for Owyn’s intervention, and the young magician himself was sporting a half dozen minor wounds.

‘‘Who are you?’’ asked the confused sentry. He was obviously a farmer or worker from town, part of the city’s militia, Locklear guessed.

‘‘Locklear, Squire of the Prince’s Court in Krondor, and these two are my companions.’’

‘‘You look like brigands, to me,’’ replied the guardsman.

‘‘We have proof,’’ said Locklear, ‘‘but first I’d like to find someone who can help us before we bleed to death.’’

‘‘Brother Malcolm of the Temple of Silban is in town, down
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at Logan’s tavern. He comes through here every six months or so. He’ll help you out.’’

‘‘Where is Logan’s?’’ asked Owyn, as Locklear seemed about to lapse into unconsciousness.

‘‘Just down the street. Can’t miss it. Sign out front of a dwarf.’’

They made their way to the indicated establishment, which showed a faded sign of a comically drawn dwarf, obviously once painted with vivid colors.

They went inside and found several townspeople sitting by, waiting for a priest in the robes of the Order of Silban who was in the corner ministering to a sick child. A couple of local workers were waiting, one with a bandaged hand, the other looking pale and weak.

The priest looked up as he finished with the boy, who leaped down from his mother’s lap without prompting and raced for the door. The priest looked at Locklear, and said, ‘‘Are you dying?’’

‘‘Not quite,’’ answered the squire.

‘‘Good, because these fellows were here first, and I’ll only make them wait if you’re near death.’’

Mustering as much dry wit as he could under the circumstances, Locklear replied, ‘‘I’ll try to let you know when I’m about to die.’’

Gorath’s patience vanished. He moved to confront the priest, and said, ‘‘You will see my companion now. These others can wait.’’

The glowering dark elf towered over the small priest and his expression and voice left no room for argument this side of violence. The priest looked once more at Locklear, and said,

‘‘Very well, if you think it urgent. Bring him over to this table.’’

They half carried Locklear to the table and laid him out on it. The priest said, ‘‘Who bandaged this?’’

‘‘I did,’’ said Owyn.

‘‘You did well enough,’’ said the priest. ‘‘He’s alive, so that counts for much.’’

After Locklear’s tunic and the bandages were removed, the priest said, ‘‘Silban preserve us! You’ve got three wounds fit to fell a bigger man.’’ He sprinkled a powder on the wounds, 48

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which brought a gasp of pain from Locklear, then the priest began a chant and closed his eyes.

Owyn felt power manifest in the room, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He had only been exposed to a little clerical magic in his life, and it always seemed odd and exotic to him.

A faint glow from the priest’s hands threw illumination over Locklear’s wounds, and, as Brother Malcolm droned his chant, Owyn could see the wounds begin to heal. They were still visible, but no longer fresh and angry. When the priest stopped, they looked old, past the danger stage. The priest was pale from the exertion when he stopped. He said, ‘‘That’s all I can do now. Sleep and food will do the rest.’’ Looking at Owyn and Gorath, he asked, ‘‘Do you have wounds, as well?’’