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Authors: Robert Silverberg

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Three dances to a set and Haligon whisked her off the floor during the change of musicians on the pretext of needing a drink. With glasses of chilled white wine, he guided her into the shadow of a deserted stall.
She smiled to herself, rehearsing a number of deft rejections if she needed them.
“I don’t think you’re at all lame, Tenna,” he said conversationally. “Especially if the station master let you take a run down to the port. Care to have a go at the first toss dance after all?”
His expression dared her.
“We’ll see.”
Pause.
“So, will you run on tomorrow?”
“I’ll be careful with the wine in case I do,” she said, half warning him as she lifted the glass.
“Will you make it to the sea from here in one run?”
“Quite likely. It’s spring and there’d be no snow on the pass trace.”
“Would you still go if there were?”
“No one said anything about snow on the pass trace at the station.”
“Keep your ears open, don’t you?”
“A runner always needs to know conditions on the trace.” She gave him a stern look.
“All right, I’ve got the message.”
“Fair enough.”
Pause.
“You’re not at all what I expected, you know,” Haligon said respectfully.
“I can quite candidly say the same of you, Haligon,” she replied.
The new musicians played the first bar of the next song, to acquaint people with a sample of the dance to come.
So, when Tenna felt his arm about her shoulders, she did not resist the pressure. Nor did she when both arms enfolded her and his mouth found hers. It was a nice kiss, not sloppy as others had been, but well placed on her lips, as if he knew what he was about in kissing. His arms about her were sure, too, not crushing her needlessly against him. Respectful, she thought … and then, as the kiss deepened with her cooperation, she didn’t think of anything but enjoying the experience.
 
H
aligon monopolized her all evening, rather deftly, she realized. Always whisking her off the dance floor before any one else could find her. They kissed quite a bit between dances. He was far more respectful of her person than she expected. And said so.
“With the punch you can deliver, my girl,” he answered, “you can bet your last mark I’m not about to risk my brother’s fate.”
He also found other chilled drinks for her to drink instead of more wine. She appreciated that even more. Especially when the music of the toss dance began. The floor cleared of all save a few hardy couples.
“Shall we?” and Haligon’s grin was all the challenge she needed.
The ache in her right shin was really minor and her confidence in
his partnering had grown throughout the evening; otherwise she would not have taken his dare.
During the pattern of the dance, the female partner was to be swung as high as possible, and if she was very clever, she would twirl in midair before being caught by the male. It would be a dangerous dance, but it was ever so much fun. Tenna’s older brother had taught her and given her enough practice so that she was well able to make the turns. It had insured her partners at any Gather in the east once it was known how light she was and what a good dancer.
From the very first toss, she knew that Haligon was the best partner she’d ever had. There was great cheering for them when she managed a full two turns in the air before he caught her. In one of the rare close movements of the dance, he whispered swift instructions so that she was prepared for the final toss. And able to execute it, sure he would be there to keep her from crashing on the floor. She was close enough to being missed so that the spectators gasped just as he caught her half a handspan above the floor. Another girl was not so lucky but suffered no more than the indignity of the fall.
Cleve, Rosa, Spacia, Grolly, and most of the station crowded about them when they left the dance floor, congratulating them on such a performance. They were offered drinks, meat rolls, and other delicacies.
“Upholding the honor of the station,” Cleve loudly proclaimed. “And the Hold, of course,” he magnanimously added, bowing to Haligon.
“Tenna’s the best partner I’ve ever had,” Haligon replied sincerely, mopping his face.
Then Torlo reached through the crowd and tapped Tenna’s shoulder.
“You’re on the run list, Tenna,” he said, emphasizing the warning with a nod.
“To the coast?”
“Aye, as you wished.” Torlo gave Haligon a severe look.
“I’ll escort you to the station, then, Tenna?” Haligon asked.
The harpers had struck up another slow dance. Rosa and Spacia were looking intensely at Tenna but she couldn’t interpret their glances. She also knew her duty as a runner.
“This is the last dance then.” And she took Haligon by the arm and led him to the floor.
Haligon tucked her in against him and she let her body relax against his and to his leading. She had never had such a Gather in her life. She could almost be glad that he’d run her off the trace and so started the events that had culminated in this lovely night.
They said nothing, both enjoying the flow of the dance and the sweet music. When it ended, Haligon led her from the floor, holding her right hand in his, and toward the station, its glowbasket shining at the door.
“So, Runner Tenna, you finish your first Cross. It won’t be your last, will it?” Haligon asked as they paused just beyond the circle of light. He lifted his hand and lightly brushed back the curls.
“No, it’s unlikely to. I’m going to run as long as I’m able.”
“But you’ll be Crossing often, won’t you?” he asked, and she nodded. “So, if sometime in the future, when I’ve got my own holding … I’m going to breed runners … beasts, that is,” he qualified hastily, and she almost laughed at his urgent correction. “I’ve been trying to find the strain I want to breed, you see, and used the traces as sort of the best footing for comparison. I mean, is there any chance you might … possibly … consider running more often on this side of the world?”
Tenna cocked her head at him, surprised by the intensity and roughness in his pleasant voice.
“I might.” She smiled up at him. This Haligon was more of a temptation to her than he knew.
Now he smiled back at her, a challenge sparkling in his eyes. “We’ll just have to see, won’t we?”
“Yes, I guess we will.”
With that answer, she gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and ducked into the station before she could say more than she ought right now after such a limited acquaintance. But maybe raising runners—both kinds, four-legged and two—in the west wasn’t a bad idea at all.
RAYMOND E. FEIST
THE RIFTWAR SAGA:
MAGICIAN (1982, REVISED EDITION 1992)
SILVERTHORN (1985)
A DARKNESS IN SETHANON (1986)
THE EMPIRE TRILOGY (WITH JANNY WURTS):
DAUGHTER OF THE EMPIRE (1989)
SERVANT OF THE EMPIRE (1990)
MISTRESS OF THE EMPIRE (1992)
STAND-ALONE RIFTWAR-RELATED BOOKS:
PRINCE OF THE BLOOD (1989)
THE KING’S BUCCANEER (1992)
THE SERPENTWAR SAGA:
SHADOW OF A DARK QUEEN (1994)
RISE OF A MERCHANT PRINCE (1995)
RAGE OF A DEMON KING (1997)
SHARDS OF A BROKEN CROWN (1998)
Raymond E. Feist’s Riftwar fantasy series begins with the adventures of two boys, Pug and Tomas, each wishing to rise above his lowly station in life. Pug desires to become a magician, Tomas a great warrior. Each achieves his dream through outside agencies and his own natural abilities; Pug is kidnapped during the Riftwar, discovered to
have magic abilities, and trained to greatness. Tomas stumbles upon a dying dragon who gives him a suit of armor imbued with an ancient magic, turning him into a warrior of legendary might.
As Pug and Tomas undergo their transformations and become more adept at controlling the powers that have been granted them, the scope of the novel expands to reveal more about the two worlds upon which the conflict known as the Riftwar takes place: Midkemia and Kelewan. Midkemia is a young world, vibrant and conflict-ridden, while Kelewan is ancient and tradition-bound, but no freer of conflict. The militaristic Tsurani, from Kelewan, have invaded the Kingdom of the Isles on Midkemia to expand their domain and seize metals common on Midkemia but rare at home. The only way open between these worlds is a magic Rift, and through that portal in space-time the invaders have established a foothold in the Kingdom. Gradually Tomas learns that he has become invested with the power of a Valheru, one of the mystical creatures who are legends in Midkemia. The Dragon Lords were near-godlike beings who once warred with the gods themselves. The action in the first trilogy comes to a climax in
A Darkness at Sethanon,
with the resolution of the war between the Kingdom and the invading Tsurani, Tomas gaining control over the ancient magic that sought to conquer him, and Pug returning to the homeland of his youth.
The Empire Trilogy concerns itself with conflict back on the Tsurani home world, where for much of the first and second book we see “the other side of the Riftwar.” Lady Mara of the Acoma, a girl of seventeen in the first book, is thrust into a murderous game of politics and ritual, and only through her own genius and ability to improvise does she weather unrelenting attacks on all sides. Aided by a loyal group of followers, including a Kingdom slave named Kevin, whom she comes to love more than any other, Mara rises to dominate the Empire of Tsuranuanni, even facing down the mighty Great Ones, the magicians who are outside the law.
The latest series, the SerpentWar saga, is the story of Erik, the bastard son of a noble, and Roo, a street boy who is his best friend. The Kingdom again faces invaders, but this time from across the sea. The story of the two young men is set against the Kingdom’s hurried preparation for and resistance against a huge army under the banner of the Emerald Queen, a woman who is another agent of dark forces seeking dominion over the world of Midkemia. More of the cosmic nature of
the battle between good and evil is revealed and Pug and Tomas again have to take a hand in the struggle.
Feist sees Midkemia as an objective, virtual world, though a fictional one. He regards all the tales set in Midkemia as historical novels and stories of this fantastic realm. “The Wood Boy” is a tale from the early days of the Riftwar, when the Tsurani first were establishing their foothold in the Kingdom.
A Tate from the Riftwar
RAYMOND E. FEIST
 
 
 
 
 
The Duke looked up.
Borric, Duke of Crydee and commander of the Armies of the West, acknowledged the captain at the door of his command tent. “Your Grace, if you have a minute and could come outside?”
Borric stood up, envying his old friend Brucal, who was now probably sitting before a warm fire somewhere in LaMut while he wrote long letters of complaint to the Prince of Krondor about supplies.
The war was leaving its second winter and a stable front had been established, with Borric’s headquarters camp located ten miles behind the lines. The Duke was a seasoned campaigner, having fought against goblins and the Brotherhood of the Dark Path—the dark elves—since boyhood, and every bone in his body told him that this was going to be a long war.
The Duke donned his heavy cloak, and wrapped it around him. He exited his tent and a strange tableau greeted him.
In the distance, a group of figures could barely be seen as they approached the camp. Through the swirling snow Borric could see them slowly take shape. Grey figures against the dull white, surrounded by a haze of snowflakes, they approached at a steady rate. Finally, the figures resolved themselves into a patrol escorting someone.
The soldiers marched slowly, for the figure they surrounded was pulling a heavy sled, plodding along unfalteringly despite what appeared
a considerable burden. As they came close, Borric could see that it was a peasant boy who labored to haul the sled to the camp. He moved with steady purpose, coming at last to stand before the commander of the King’s Armies in the West.
Borric looked at the lad, who had obviously been through an ordeal. He was bareheaded, his blond hair encrusted with ice crystals. About his neck and face he wore a heavy jacket scarf wrapped several times around. He wore a heavy jacket and trousers, and thick sturdy boots. His simple wool coat was stained dark with blood.
The sled he had been pulling was laden with odd cargo. A large sack had been secured with ropes atop the sled, and over that two bodies had been lashed down. A dead man stared up at the sky with empty eyes, his lashes sparkling with frozen tears. He had been a fighter, from the look of him, and he wore leather armor. His scabbard hung empty at his side and his left glove was missing. Beside him lay a girl, under blankets, so that it appeared she was sleeping. She had been a pretty girl in life, but in death her features were almost porcelain, near perfection in their pale whiteness.
“Who are you, boy?”
The boy said, “I am the Wood Boy.” His voice was faint and his eyes were vacant, as if he stared inward, though they were fixed on Borric.
“What did you say?” asked the Duke.
The boy seemed to gather his wits. “Sir, my name is Dirk. I am the servant of Lord Paul of White Hill. It’s the estate on the other side of the Kakisaw Valley.” He pointed to the west. “Three days’ walk from here. I carry firewood.”
Borric nodded. “I know the estate. I’ve visited Lord Paul many times over the years. That’s thirty-five miles from here, and twenty behind enemy lines.” Pointing to the sled, he asked, “What is this?”
Weary, the boy said, “It is my master’s treasure. She is his daughter. The man is a murderer. He was once my friend.”
“You’d better come inside and tell me your story,” said Borric. He motioned for two soldiers to take the ropes that the boy used as a harness to pull the sled out of the way, and indicated that another man should help the exhausted youth.
The Duke led the boy inside and let him know it was permissible to sit. He signaled for an orderly to get the boy a cup of hot tea and
something to eat, and as the soldier hurried to obey, Borric said, “Why don’t you start at the beginning, Dirk?”
 
Spring brought the Tsurani. They had been reported in the Grey Tower Mountains the year before, bringing dire warnings of invasion from both the Kingdom rulers on the other side of the mountains and some of the more important merchants and nobles in the other Free Cities. But the tales that accompanied the warning, of fierce warriors appearing out of nowhere by some magic means, had been met with skepticism and disbelief. And the fighting seemed distant, up in the mountains between Borric of Crydee’s soldiers, the dwarves, and the invaders.
Until the first warning by the Rangers of Natal—who had quickly ridden on to warn others—followed a day later by a column of short men in their brightly colored armor who appeared on the road approaching the estate at White Hill.
Lord Paul had ordered his bodyguards to stand ready, but to offer no resistance unless provoked. Dirk and the rest of the household stood behind the Lord of White Hill and his armed guards.
Dirk glanced back at his master and saw that he stood alone, his daughter still in the house. Dirk wondered what extra protection the master thought that afforded his young daughter.
Dirk found the master’s pose admirable. The stories of Tsurani fierceness had trickled down from the early fighting, and the Free Cities would be wholly dependent upon the Kingdom for defense. Areas like White Hill and the other estates around Walinor were simply on their own. Yet Lord Paul stood motionless, without any sign of fear, in his formal robe, the scarlet one with the ermine collar. No hereditary title had been conferred on any citizen since the Empire of Great Kesh had abandoned its northern colonies a century before, yet those families with ancient titles used them with pride. Like other nobles in the Free Cities, he held in disdain other men’s claims on title while treasuring his own.
As the invaders calmly marched into view, it was obvious that any resistance would have been quickly crushed. Paul had a personal bodyguard and a score of hired mercenaries who acted as wagon guards and protection against roving bandits. But they were a poor band of hired cutthroats next to the highly disciplined command that marched
across the estate. The Tsurani wore bright orange and black armor, looking like lacquered hide or wood, nothing remotely like the metal armor worn by the officers of the Natal Defense Force.
Paul repeated the order that no resistance was to be mounted, and when the Tsurani commander presented himself, Paul offered something that resembled a formal salute. Then, with the aid of a man in a black robe, the leader of the invaders gave his demands. The property of White Hill, as well as the surrounding countryside, was now under Tsurani rule, specifically an entity named Minwanabi. Dirk wondered if that was a person or a place, like a Kingdom Duchy. But he was too frightened to imagine voicing the question.
The leader of this group of Tsurani—all short, tough-looking veteran soldiers—could be differentiated from his men only by a slightly more ornate helm, graced with what Dirk took to be some creature’s hair. The black fall reached the officer’s shoulders.
Dirk tried to guess what the role of the black-robed man might be; the officer seemed extremely polite and deferential to him as he translated the officer’s words for him.
The officer was called Chapka, and his rank was Hit Leader or Strike Leader, Dirk wasn’t sure which.
He shouted orders and the black robe said, “Only the noble of this house may bear arms, and his personal man.” Dirk took that to mean a bodyguard. That would be Hamish. “All others put weapons here.”
The estate guards looked at Lord Paul, who nodded. They stepped forward and put their weapons in a pile, slowly, and when they were done they stepped back. “Any other weapons?” asked the man in black.
One of the guards looked at his companions, then came forward and took a small blade from his boot, throwing it in the pile. He stepped back into line.
The officer shouted an order. A dozen Tsurani soldiers ran forward, each searching the now unarmed guards. One Tsurani stood, holding up a knife he had found in a guard’s boot, and the officer indicated that the man be brought forward. He spoke rapidly to the man in black, who said, “This man disobeyed. He hid a weapon. He will be punished.”
Lord Paul slowly said, “What shall you do with him?”
“The sword is too honorable a death for a disobedient slave. He will be hanged.”
The man turned pale. “It was just a small one; I forgot I had it!”
The man was struck hard from behind and collapsed. Dirk watched in dread fascination as two other Tsurani guards dragged the guard—a man Dirk hardly knew, named Jackson—to the entrance to the barn. A hoist hung over the small door to the hayloft—there was one at each end of the barn—from which a long rope dangled. The unconscious man had the rope tied around his neck and was hoisted quickly up. He never regained consciousness, though his body twitched twice before it went still.
Dirk had seen dead men before; the town of Walinor, where he grew up, had known a few raids by bandits and the Brotherhood of the Dark Path, and once he had stumbled across a drunk who had frozen to death in the gutter outside an inn. But this hanging made his stomach twist, and he knew it was as much from fear over his own safety as from any revulsion over Jackson’s death.
The black-robed man said, “Any slave with weapon—we hang.”
Then the officer shouted an order, and Tsurani warriors ran off in all directions, a half-dozen into the master’s house, others into the outbuildings, and still others to the springhouse, the barn, and the root cellar. Efficient to a degree that astonished Dirk, the Tsurani returned in short order and started reporting. Dirk couldn’t understand them, but from the rapidity of the exchanges, he was certain they were listing what they found for their officer.
Others returned from the barn and kitchen carrying dozens of commonplace items. The officer, with the aid of the black-robed man, began interrogating Lord Paul about the nature of various common household items. As the master of the estate explained the use of such common tools as a leather punch or iron skillet, the Tsurani officer indicated one of two piles, one on a large canvas tarp. When two of the same items were displayed, one instantly went into one pile, while the other might join it or be separated.
Old William, the gardener and groundskeeper, said, “Look at that,” as two Tsurani soldiers picked up the tarp, securing the larger of the two piles, and carried it off.
“What is it?” whispered Dirk, barely loud enough for the old man to hear.
“They’re queer for metal,” softly said the old man with a knowing nod. “Look at their armor and weapons.”
Dirk did so, and then it struck him. Nowhere on any Tsurani could a glint of sunlight on metal be seen. Their armor and weapons all appeared to be hide or wood cleverly fashioned and lacquered, but there were no buckles, blades, or fasteners of metal in evidence. From their cross-gartered sandals to the top of their large flared helmets, the Tsurani appeared devoid of any metal artifacts.
“What’s it mean?” whispered Dirk.
“I don’t know, but I’m sure we’ll find out,” said the old man.
The Tsurani continued their investigation of Lord Paul’s household, until almost sundown, then they were ordered to gather their personal belongings and move them into the barn or kitchen, as the Tsurani would be occupying the servants’ quarters. In a move that puzzled Dirk, the Tsurani officer stayed in the same building with his men, leaving Paul and his daughter alone in the big house.
It was but the first of many things that would puzzle Dirk over the coming year.
 
A
lex lay curled up, his face a mask of pain while Hamish shouted, “Don’t get up!”
The Tsurani soldier who had struck the young man in the stomach stood over him, his hand a scant inch from the hilt of his sword. Alex groaned and again Hamish shouted to the young man to remain still.
Dirk stood near the entrance to the barn while those servants nearby stood anxiously watching, expecting the worst at any moment. The Tsurani had revealed themselves as strict but fair masters in the two months since arriving at White Hill, but there was occasionally some breach of etiquette or honor that took the residents of White Hill by surprise, often with bloody consequences. An old farmer by the name of Samuel had gotten drunk on fermented corncob squeeze a month earlier and had struck out at a Tsurani who had ordered him back into his home. Samuel had been beaten senseless and hanged as his wife and children looked on in horror.
Alex continued to groan but did as he was bid by Hamish until the Tsurani soldier seemed satisfied that he wasn’t going to move. The soldier said something in his alien language, spat in contempt upon the workman, turned, and walked away.
Hamish hesitated a moment; then he and Dirk hurried over to help Alex to his feet. “What happened?” asked Dirk.
“I don’t know,” said Alex. “I just looked at the man.”
“It’s how you looked at him,” said Hamish. “You smirked at him. If you’d looked at me that way, I’d have done the same.” The burly old soldier inspected Alex. “I had my fill of smirking boys in the army and knocked down a few in my time before I retired. Show these murderers some respect, lad, or they’ll hang you just because they can and it’s a slow day for amusements.”
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