The stones beneath his hand were smooth to the touch. He took a step and felt something crack under his boot. He knelt in the gloom and saw a pile of ancient torches. Praying that whatever oil was in them would still light, he fumbled in his belt pouch for his flint. He moved one torch to his feet, put down the flint, pulled a dagger from his belt and positioned it between his boots. It was awkward striking flint and steel this way, but he had no other option. Sparks flew about haphazardly, but one large one struck the torch and it began to smoulder. Ignoring the agony in his shoulder and chest, Braden leaned forward and blew on the ember. It grew red-hot, then sprang into flame. He quickly picked up the torch and turned it, spreading the flames across the entire head, and then looked around. The torches at his feet were the only thing he could see within the circle of light his small flame cast. He raised the torch high and saw he was near a wall that stretched off into the gloom. He could barely make out the opposite wall. The tunnel was wide here and slanting downward. With only one hand he had no means of holding spare torches, so he prayed silently to Tith-Onanka, the God of Battle, that this light would last for long enough for him to survive.
He moved down the hall.
Braden staggered into a larger chamber. He could feel the weight of ages washing over him as if a tide of history had been unleashed. This room was so immense the illumination from his torch left corners darkened. What he saw moved him nearly to tears.
Deep within the heart of this hill, far below the surface, some ancient ruler had hidden his treasure. In piles rested items of beauty and precious craftsmanship, goblets studded with gems, chains of ebon and gold, piles of fine silks now fragile with age. One handful of fine gold chains piled near the entrance would have made Braden richer than any man he knew. Dryly he considered that he would die wealthy.
His arm was still numb and his shoulder was in agony. He knew he was nearly giddy from loss of blood and this was as good a place to stop as he had found. Finding a place to put his now-sputtering torch – a vase of costly chalcedony-set porcelain – he began to tend his wounds.
As best he could, he used his good right hand to unfasten the simple frog and loops along his shoulder and when he pulled the padded jack away from his skin, the dried blood stuck and pulled at his wounds. Pain shot through him and revived him a moment, and he forced his damaged arm out of the left sleeve.
Picking up a narrow bolt of silk, he pulled it, causing it to unravel in a torrent of pale blue. Cutting the silk with one hand was tedious, requiring him to put his left knee on a wooden chest, trying to pull the silk taut with his right foot, then cutting with his dagger. The strips were ragged and uneven, but they’d serve.
He bound his wounds as best he could and considered his next task; he had no idea how patient the tiger-men would be, but doubted they’d give up their vigil outside the entrance any time soon. But then again, he didn’t think they’d come in. The sputtering torch regained his attention and he slowly reached out to retrieve it. Even the simple act of bending over to pluck it from the vase caused his head to swim.
How was he going to survive in here? He needed water, and something to eat. He was a town boy: he knew nothing about foraging the way Chibota had. Chibota had been a hunter in some distant hot land, and he knew which plants were edible. Braden remembered Chibota saying some mushrooms were as nourishing as meat. But he had no idea what they looked like or how to find them.
His mind was wandering. There was no water, and no mushrooms here. This vault was dry.
But in the flickering light he saw a throne against the rear wall and arrayed at the base of the throne was armour.
He staggered over and touched it, and felt something tingle on the tips of his fingers. He blinked and felt slightly revived. The armour was of a quality unlike any he had ever seen before, and he had thought he had seen every kind of armour known on this world; and if he considered some of the ancient Tsurani gear still around, from another world as well. A tunic, trousers, tabard and even smallclothes were neatly folded in a pile. Next to these was arrayed a full set of matching armour: breastplate, spaulders, leggings, gauntlets, boots, belt, shield and sword. Touching the massive black belt, he again felt a strong surge of energy up through his fingertips.
Without thought he set down the torch and doffed his clothing: first his boots, then his trousers and the rest, until he stood nude in the guttering torchlight.
Carefully he picked up a garment of black. It felt like linen but finer somehow: silk, perhaps? He stepped into it for it was obviously smallclothes, and its touch on his skin was balm. He sighed as his thirst faded. For a moment he stood transfixed, his thoughts reeling as if he had visited one of the smoke parlours behind the brothel of the Sisters of Kindness in Maharta. The effect was intoxicating, and he felt his mind detach itself from his pain, a fey distancing as if he was starting to watch another person instead of himself. His body was still in agony, but the pain was muted now, distanced and from his groin, where the black cloth touched him, he felt a flow of power into his body.
Workmanlike, he donned each piece of clothing and then the armour. A black breastplate with a crouching tiger on it. A girdle and skirt of black cloth. A pair of greaves, boots, bracers, and at last a helm.
He staggered, then sat down heavily on the throne.
He felt a change begin. His was life ebbing away, yet he was not fearful. Braden felt the armour speak to him, a faint voice in his mind.
He would sit here, quietly, and let the magic in this armour heal him, for he knew it would. As the torch burned lower, he found his vision dimming, but that was fine. He knew he would be here for a while, for much needed to change before he left the safety of this chamber.
He needed to be ready, for there were enemies to face. Not the tiger-men, for he knew instantly that when he reappeared they would be waiting and would bend their knee to him. He would command them and they would be only the first to serve him.
Images came to him unbidden, of ancient struggles and flying the skies. Out there was a massive black dragon waiting for his call. And into his mind came a name.
Draken-Korin.
Acknowledgments
As is always the case, I must begin with thanks to the original mothers and fathers of Midkemia who generously gave me permission to use their playground; I trust I haven’t abused it too much.
As always to Jonathan Matson, my thanks for being more than a business partner, but a friend of the very best kind, one who puts up with you with humour and affection just because that’s the kind of person he is.
To the brilliant ladies at HarperCollins, on both sides of The Pond, for making me look good.
I would also like to thank those who I’ve come to know through the magic of modern social media: the mailing list and visitors to the website at Crydee.com, who have been around a while; and new acquaintances on Facebook, MySpace, and Twitter, who have opened up a new avenue of communication between author and reader I wouldn’t have dreamed of ten years ago. Thank you for your support and kind words; it means more than you can know.
Lastly, to my mother, who left us early this year, my constant thanks for being the first to believe I could do this and who painstakingly retyped every page of Magician so that when I sent it in for consideration it would ‘look professional’. Not a day goes by I don’t think of you, Mom.
Raymond E. Feist
San Diego, CA
September 2010
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), Krondor’s Sons, The Serpentwar Saga, The Riftwar Legacy, Legends of the Riftwar, Conclave of the Shadows, Darkwar Saga and Demonwar Saga.
A Kingdom Besieged is the first book in the new Chaoswar Saga.
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By The Same Author
Magician
Silverthorn
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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
Talon of the Silver Hawk
King of Foxes
Exile’s Return
Flight of the Night Hawks
Into a Dark Realm
Wrath of a Mad God
Rides a Dread Legion
At the Gates of Darkness
With Janny Wurts:
Daughter of the Empire
Servant of the Empire
Mistress of the Empire
With William R. Forstchen:
Honoured Enemy
With Joel Rosenberg:
Murder in LaMut
With Steve Stirling:
Jimmy the Hand
Copyright
Copyright © Raymond E. Feist 2011
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
ISBN 9780007264766
EPub Edition © 2011 ISBN: 9780007290178
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, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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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Raymond E. Feist, A Kingdom Besieged
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