Krondor: The Betrayal

  Other books by Raymond E. Feist

  Magician

  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

  With Janny Wurts:

  Daughter of the Empire

  Servant of the Empire

  Mistress of the Empire

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either 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 and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

  KRONDOR THE BETRAYAL is based upon the game

  "Betrayal at Krondor,"story by Neal Hallford, John Cutter, and Raymond E. Feist, published by Dynamix, Inc.

  KRONDOR THE BETRAYAL.

  Copyright © 1998 by Raymond E. Feist.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduce in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Raymond E. Feist asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  Adobe E-Reader edition v 1. March 2001

  ISBN 0-06-621031-3

  1 0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For John Cutter and Neal Hallford,

  with thanks for their creativity and enthusiasm.

  Acknowledgments

  Again I am in debt to many people.

  The original Midkemians, for the universe in which I work, and for their understanding of what makes a good story, a good game, and how the two are different.

  My agent, Jonathan Matson, for shepherding me through major difficulties in creating these games, with his usual deft touch and quick wit.

  John Cutter, who thought it up in the first place.

  Neal Hallford, who created a very nifty story for the core of the game which provided the basis for this book.

  The rest of the creative team at Dynamix, who managed to squeeze the most out of the processor to give us music, pictures, sound, and story.

  And to Jerry Lutrell, for keeping me apprised of what was what early on.

  My wife, Kathlyn S. Starbuck, for being who she is.

  My children, Jessica and James, for keeping me in touch with what’s important daily and for being the most wonderful children any father could ask for.

  Raymond E. Feist

  Rancho Santa Fe, CA

  March 11, 1998

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE:

  Warning

  ONE:

  Encounter

  TWO:

  Deception

  THREE:

  Revelation

  FOUR:

  Passage

  FIVE:

  Mission

  SIX:

  Journey

  SEVEN:

  Murders

  EIGHT:

  Secrets

  NINE:

  Suspect

  TEN:

  Nighthawks

  ELEVEN:

  Escape

  TWELVE:

  Preparations

  THIRTEEN:

  Betrayal

  FOURTEEN:

  Instructions

  FIFTEEN:

  Quest

  SIXTEEN:

  Tasks

  SEVENTEEN:

  Misdirection

  EIGHTEEN:

  Regroup

  NINETEEN:

  Encounter

  TWENTY:

  Retribution

  EPILOGUE:

  Dedication

  AUTHOR’S AFTERWARD

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CREDITS

  ABOUT THE PUBLISHER

  MAP PAGE X

  K r o n d o r : T e a r o f th e G o d s I

  M

  A

  P

  P

  A

  G

  E

  XI

  I

  Prologue

  Warning

  T HE WIND HOWLED.

  Locklear, Squire of the Prince of Krondor’s Court, sat huddled under his heavy cloak, astride his horse. Summer was quick to flee in the Northlands and the passes through the mountains known as the Teeth of the World. Fall nights in the South might still be soft and warm, but up here in the North, Fall had been a brief visitor and Winter was early to arrive, and would be long in residence. Locklear cursed his own stupidity for leading him to this forlorn place.

  Sergeant Bales said, ‘‘Gets nippy up here, Squire.’’ The sergeant had heard the rumor about the young noble’s sudden appearance in Tyr-Sog, some matter involving a young woman married to a well-connected merchant in Krondor. Locklear wouldn’t be the first young dandy sent to the frontier to get him out of an angry husband’s reach. ‘‘Not as balmy as Krondor, sorry to say, sir.’’

  ‘‘Really?’’ asked the young squire, dryly.

  The patrol followed a narrow trail along the edge of the foothills, the northern border of the Kingdom of the Isles.

  Locklear had been in court at Tyr-Sog less than a week when Baron Moyiet had suggested the young squire might benefit from accompanying the special patrol to the east of the city.

  Rumors had been circulating that renegades and moredhel—

  Raymond E. Feist

  dark elves known as the Brotherhood of the Dark Path—were infiltrating south under the cover of heavy rains and snow flurries. Trackers had reported few signs, but hearsay and the insistence of farmers that they had seen companies of dark-clad warriors hurrying south had prompted the Baron to order the patrol.

  Locklear knew as well as the men garrisoned there that the chance of any activity along the small passes over the mountains in late fall or early winter was unusual. While the freeze had just come to the foothills, the higher passes would already be thick with snow, then choked with mud should a brief thaw occur.

  Yet since the war known as the Great Uprising—the invasion of the Kingdom by the army of Murmandamus, the charismatic leader of the dark elves—ten years ago, any activity was to be investigated, and that order came directly from King Lyam.

  ‘‘Yes, must be a bit of a change from the Prince’s court, Squire,’’ prodded the sergeant. Locklear had looked the part of a Krondorian dandy—tall, slender, a finely garbed young man in his mid-twenties, affecting a moustache and long ring-lets—when he reached Tyr-Sog. Locklear thought the moustache and fine clothing made him look older, but if anything the impact was the opposite of his desired intent.

  Locklear had enough of the sergeant’s playful baiting, and observed, ‘‘Still, it’s warmer than I remember the other side of the mountains being.’’

  ‘‘Other side, sir?’’ asked the sergeant.

  ‘‘The Northlands,’’ said Locklear. ‘‘Even in the spring and summer the nights are cold.’’

  The sergeant looked askance at the young man. ‘‘You’ve been there, Squire?’’ Few men who were not renegades or weapons runners had visited the Northlands and lived to return to the Kingdom.

  ‘‘With the Prince,’’ replied Locklear. ‘‘I was with him at Armengar and Highcastle.’’

  The sergeant fell silent and looked ahead. The soldiers nearest Locklear exchanged glances and nods. One whispered to the man behind him. No soldier living in the North hadn’t heard of the fall of Armengar before the hosts of Murmanda-2

  KRONDOR THE BETRAYAL

  mus, the powerful moredhel leader who had destroyed the human city in the Northlands and then ha
d invaded the Kingdom. Only his defeat at Sethanon, ten years before, had kept his army of dark elves, trolls, goblins, and giants from rending the Kingdom.

  The survivors of Armengar had come to live in Yabon, not far from Tyr-Sog, and the telling of the great battle and the flight of the survivors, as well as the part played by Prince Arutha and his companions, had grown in the telling. Any man who had served with Prince Arutha and Guy du Bas-Tyra could only be judged a hero. With a reappraising glance at the young man, the sergeant kept his silence.

  Locklear’s amusement at shutting up the voluble sergeant was short-lived, as the snow started to freshen, blowing harder by the minute. He might have gained enough stature with the garrison to be treated with more respect in days to come, but he was still a long way from the court in Krondor, the fine wines and pretty girls. It would take a miracle for him to get back in Arutha’s good graces anytime before the next winter found him still trapped in a rural court with dullards.

  After ten minutes of silent travel, the sergeant said, ‘‘Another two miles, sir, and we can start back.’’

  Locklear said nothing. By the time they returned to the garrison, it would be dark and even colder than it presently was.

  He would welcome the warm fire in the soldiers’ commons and probably content himself sharing a meal with the troops, unless the Baron requested he dine with the household. Locklear judged that unlikely, as the Baron had a flirtatious young daughter who had fawned on the visiting young noble the first night he had appeared in Tyr-Sog, and the Baron full well knew why Locklear was at his court. The two times since he had dined with the Baron, the daughter had been conspicu-ously absent.

  There was an inn not too far from the castle, but by the time he had returned to the castle, he knew he would be too sick of the cold and snow to brave the elements again, even for that short distance; besides, the only two barmaids there were fat and dull.

  With a silent sigh of resignation, Locklear realized that by 3

  Raymond E. Feist

  the arrival of spring they might look lovely and charming to him.

  Locklear just prayed he would be permitted to return to Krondor by the Midsummer’s Festival of Banapis. He would write to his best friend, Squire James, and ask him to use his influence to get Arutha to recall him early. Half a year up here was punishment enough.

  ‘‘Seigneur,’’ said Sergeant Bales, using Locklear’s formal title,

  ‘‘what’s that?’’ He pointed up the rocky path. Movement among the rocks had caught the sergeant’s eye.

  Locklear replied, ‘‘I don’t know. Let’s go take a look.’’

  Bales motioned, and the patrol turned left, moving up the path. Quickly the scene before them resolved itself. A lone figure, on foot, hurried down the rocky path, and from behind the sounds of pursuit could be heard.

  ‘‘Looks like a renegade had a falling-out with some Brothers of the Dark Path,’’ said Sergeant Bales.

  Locklear pulled his own sword. ‘‘Renegade or not, we can’t let the dark elves carve him up. It might make them think they could come south and harass common citizens at whim.’’

  ‘‘Ready!’’ shouted the sergeant, and the veteran patrol pulled swords.

  The lone figure saw the soldiers, hesitated a moment, then ran forward. Locklear could see he was a tall man, covered by a dark grey cloak which effectively hid his features. Behind him on foot came a dozen dark elves.

  ‘‘Let us go amongst them,’’ said the sergeant calmly.

  Locklear commanded the patrol in theory, but he had enough combat experience to stay out of the way when a veteran sergeant was giving orders.

  The horsemen charged up the pass, moving by the lone figure, to fall upon the moredhel. The Brotherhood of the Dark Path were many things; cowardly and inept in warcraft were not among those things. The fighting was fierce, but the Kingdom soldiers had two advantages, horses and the fact the weather had rendered the dark elves’s bows useless. The moredhel didn’t even attempt to draw their wet strings, knowing they could hardly send a bowshaft toward the enemy, let alone pierce armor.

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  KRONDOR THE BETRAYAL

  A single dark elf, larger than the rest, leaped atop a rock, his gaze fixed upon the fleeing figure. Locklear moved his horse to block the creature, who turned his attention toward the young noble.

  They locked gazes for a moment, and Locklear could feel the creature’s hatred. Silently he seemed to mark Locklear, as if remembering him for a future confrontation. Then he shouted an order, and the moredhel began their withdrawal up the pass.

  Sergeant Bales knew better than to pursue into a pass when he had less than a dozen yards’ visibility. Besides, the weather was worsening.

  Locklear turned to find a lone figure leaning against a boulder a short distance behind the trail. Locklear moved his horse close to the man, and called down, ‘‘I am Squire Locklear of the Prince’s court. You better have a good story for us, renegade.’’

  There was no response from the man, his features still hidden by the deep cowl of his heavy cloak. The sounds of fighting trailed off as the moredhel broke off and fled up the pass, crawling into the rocks above the path so the riders could not follow.

  The figure before Locklear regarded him a moment, then slowly reached up to throw back his cowl. Dark, alien eyes regarded the young noble. These were features Locklear had seen before, high brow, close-cropped hair. Arching eyebrows and large, upswept and lobeless ears. But this was no elf who stood before him; Locklear could feel it in his bones. The dark eyes that regarded him could barely hide their contempt.

  In heavily accented King’s Tongue, the creature said, ‘‘I am no renegade, human.’’

  Sergeant Bales rode up and said, ‘‘Damn! A Brother of the Dark Path. Must have been some tribal thing, with those others trying to kill him.’’

  The moredhel fixed Locklear with his gaze, studying him for a long moment, then he said, ‘‘If you are from the Prince’s court, then you may help me.’’

  ‘‘Help you?’’ said the sergeant. ‘‘We’re most likely going to hang you, murderer.’’

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  Raymond E. Feist

  Locklear held up his hand for silence. ‘‘Why should we help you, moredhel?’’

  ‘‘Because I bring a word of warning for your prince.’’

  ‘‘Warning of what?’’

  ‘‘That is for him to know. Will you take me to him?’’

  Locklear glanced at the sergeant, who said, ‘‘We should take him to see the Baron.’’

  ‘‘No,’’ said the moredhel. ‘‘I will only speak with Prince Arutha.’’

  ‘‘You’ll speak to whoever we tell you to, butcher!’’ said Bales, his voice edged in hatred. He had been fighting the Brotherhood of the Dark Path his entire life and had seen their cruelty many times.

  Locklear said, ‘‘I know his kind. You can set fire to his feet and burn him up to his neck, and if he doesn’t want to talk, he won’t talk.’’

  The moredhel said, ‘‘True.’’ He again studied Locklear, and said, ‘‘You have faced my people?’’

  ‘‘Armengar,’’ said Locklear. ‘‘Again at Highcastle. Then at Sethanon.’’

  ‘‘It is Sethanon about which I need to speak to your prince,’’

  said the moredhel.

  Locklear turned to the sergeant, and said, ‘‘Leave us for a moment, Sergeant.’’

  Bales hesitated, but there was a note of command in the young noble’s voice, no hint of deference to the sergeant; this was an order. The sergeant turned and moved his patrol away.

  ‘‘Say on,’’ said Locklear.

  ‘‘I am Gorath, Chieftain of the Ardanien.’’

  Locklear studied Gorath. By human standards he looked young, but Locklear had been around enough elves and seen enough moredhel to know that was deceiving. This one had a beard streaked with white and grey, as well as a few lines around his eyes; Locklear guessed he might be better than two hundred
years old by what he had seen among elvenkind.

  Gorath wore armor that was well crafted and a cloak of especially fine weave; Locklear judged it possible he was exactly what he said he was. ‘‘What does a moredhel chieftain speak of to a Prince of the Kingdom?’’

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  KRONDOR THE BETRAYAL

  ‘‘My words are for Prince Arutha alone.’’

  Locklear said, ‘‘If you don’t want to spend what remains of your life in the Baron’s dungeon at Tyr-Sog, you had better say something that will convince me to take you to Krondor.’’

  The moredhel looked a long time at Locklear, then motioned for him to come closer. Keeping his hand upon a dagger in his belt, should the dark elf try something, he leaned close to his horse’s neck, so he could put his face near Gorath’s.

  Gorath whispered in Locklear’s ear. ‘‘Murmandamus lives.’’

  Locklear leaned back and was silent a moment, then he turned his horse. ‘‘Sergeant Bales!’’

  ‘‘Sir!’’ returned the old veteran, answering Locklear’s commanding tone of voice with a note of respect.

  ‘‘Put this prisoner in chains. We return to Tyr-Sog, now. And no one is to speak with him without my leave.’’

  ‘‘Sir!’’ repeated the sergeant, motioning to two of his men to hurry forward and do as ordered.

  Locklear leaned over his horse’s neck again, and said, ‘‘You may be lying to stay alive, Gorath, or you may have some dreadful message for Prince Arutha. It matters not to me, for either way I return to Krondor, starting first thing in the morning.’’

  The dark elf said nothing, content to stand stoically as he was disarmed by two soldiers. He remained silent as manacles were fastened around his wrists, linked by a short span of heavy chain. He held his hands before him a moment after the manacles were locked, then slowly lowered them. He looked at Locklear, then turned and began walking toward Tyr-Sog, without waiting for his guards’ leave.

  Locklear motioned for the sergeant to follow and rode up to walk his horse next to Gorath, through the worsening weather.

  7

  One

  •

  Encounter T HE FIRE CRACKLED.