Krondor: The Betrayal

  Owyn Belefote sat alone in the night before the flames, wallowing in his personal misery. The youngest son of the Baron of Timons, he was a long way from home and wishing he was even farther away. His youthful features were set in a portrait of dejection.

  The night was cold and the food scant, especially after having just left the abundance of his aunt’s home in Yabon City.

  He had been hosted by relatives ignorant of his falling-out with his father, people who had reacquainted him over a week’s visit with what he had forgotten about his home life: the companionship of brothers and sisters, the warmth of a night spent before the fire, conversation with his mother, and even the arguments with his father.

  ‘‘Father,’’ Owyn muttered. It had been less than two years since the young man had defied his father and made his way to Stardock, the island of magicians located in the southern reaches of the Kingdom. His father had forbidden him his choice, to study magic, demanding Owyn should at least become a cleric of one of the more socially acceptable orders of priests. After all, they did magic as well, his father had insisted.

  Owyn sighed and gathered his cloak around him. He had been so certain he would someday return home to visit his family, revealing himself as a great magician, perhaps a confi-

  Raymond E. Feist

  dant of the legendary Pug, who had created the Academy at Stardock. Instead he found himself ill suited for the study required. He also had no love for the burgeoning politics of the place, with factions of students rallying around this teacher or that, attempting to turn the study of magic into another religion. He now knew he was, at best, a mediocre magician and would never amount to more, and no matter how much he wished to study magic, he lacked sufficient talent.

  After slightly more than one year of study, Owyn had left Stardock, conceding to himself that he had made a mistake.

  Admitting such to his father would prove a far more daunting task—which was why he had decided to visit family in the distant province of Yabon before mustering the courage to return to the East and confront his sire.

  A rustle in the bushes caused Owyn to clutch a heavy wooden staff and jump to his feet. He had little skill with weapons, having neglected that portion of his education as a child, but had developed enough skill with this quarterstaff to defend himself.

  ‘‘Who’s there?’’ he demanded.

  From out of the gloom came a voice, saying, ‘‘Hello, the camp. We’re coming in.’’

  Owyn relaxed slightly, as bandits would be unlikely to warn him they were coming. Also, he was obviously not worth attacking, as he looked little more than a ragged beggar these days. Still, it never hurt to be wary.

  Two figures appeared out of the gloom, one roughly Owyn’s height, the other a head taller. Both were covered in heavy cloaks, the smaller of the two limping obviously.

  The limping man looked over his shoulder, as if being followed, then asked, ‘‘Who are you?’’

  Owyn said, ‘‘Me? Who are you?’’

  The smaller man pulled back his hood, and said, ‘‘Locklear, I’m a squire to Prince Arutha.’’

  Owyn nodded. ‘‘Sir, I’m Owyn, son of Baron Belefote.’’

  ‘‘From Timons, yes, I know who your father is,’’ said Locklear, squatting before the fire, opening his hands to warm them. He glanced up at Owyn. ‘‘You’re a long way from home, aren’t you?’’

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  ‘‘I was visiting my aunt in Yabon,’’ said the blond youth.

  ‘‘I’m now on my way home.’’

  ‘‘Long journey,’’ said the muffled figure.

  ‘‘I’ll work my way down to Krondor, then see if I can travel with a caravan or someone else to Salador. From there I’ll catch a boat to Timons.’’

  ‘‘Well, we could do worse than stick together until we reach LaMut,’’ said Locklear, sitting down heavily on the ground.

  His cloak fell open, and Owyn saw blood on the young man’s clothing.

  ‘‘You’re hurt,’’ he said.

  ‘‘Just a bit,’’ admitted Locklear.

  ‘‘What happened?’’

  ‘‘We were jumped a few miles north of here,’’ said Locklear.

  Owyn started rummaging through his travel bag. ‘‘I have something in here for wounds,’’ he said. ‘‘Strip off your tunic.’’

  Locklear removed his cloak and tunic, while Owyn took bandages and powder from his bag. ‘‘My aunt insisted I take this just in case. I thought it an old lady’s foolishness, but apparently it wasn’t.’’

  Locklear endured the boy’s ministrations as he washed the wound, obviously a sword cut to the ribs, and winced when the powder was sprinkled upon it. Then as he bandaged the squire’s ribs, Owyn said, ‘‘Your friend doesn’t talk much, does he?’’

  ‘‘I am not his friend,’’ answered Gorath. He held out his manacles for inspection. ‘‘I am his prisoner.’’

  Trying to peer into the darkness of Gorath’s hood, Owyn said, ‘‘What did he do?’’

  ‘‘Nothing, except be born on the wrong side of the mountains,’’ offered Locklear.

  Gorath pulled back his hood and graced Owyn with the faintest of smiles.

  ‘‘Gods’ teeth!’’ exclaimed Owyn. ‘‘He’s a Brother of the Dark Path!’’

  ‘‘Moredhel,’’ corrected Gorath, with a note of ironic bitterness. ‘‘ ‘Dark elf,’ in your tongue, human. At least our cousins in Elvandar would have you believe us so.’’

  Locklear winced as Owyn applied his aunt’s salve to the 11

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  wounded ribs. ‘‘A couple of hundred years of war lets us form our own opinions, thank you, Gorath.’’

  Gorath said, ‘‘You understand so little, you humans.’’

  ‘‘Well,’’ said Locklear, ‘‘I’m not going anywhere at the moment, so educate me.’’

  Gorath looked at the young squire, as if trying to judge something, and was silent for a while. ‘‘Those you call ‘elves’

  and my people are one, by blood, but we live different lives.

  We were the first mortal race after the great dragons and the Ancient Ones.’’

  Owyn looked at Gorath in curiosity, while Locklear just gritted his teeth, and said, ‘‘Hurry it up, would you, lad?’’

  ‘‘Who are the Ancient Ones?’’ asked Owyn in a whisper.

  ‘‘The Dragon Lords,’’ said Locklear.

  ‘‘Lords of power, the Valheru,’’ supplied Gorath. ‘‘When they departed this world, they placed our fate in our own hands, naming us a free people.’’

  Locklear said, ‘‘I’ve heard the story.’’

  ‘‘It is more than a story, human, for to my people it gave over this world to our keeping. Then came you humans, and the dwarves, and others. This is our world, and you seized it from us.’’

  Locklear said, ‘‘Well, I’m not a student of theology, and my knowledge of history is sadly lacking, but it seems to me that whatever the cause of our arrival on this world according to your lore, we’re here, and we don’t have anywhere else to go. So if your kin, the elves, can make the best of it, why can’t you?"

  Gorath studied the young man, but said nothing. Then he stood, moving with deadly purpose toward Locklear.

  Owyn had just tied off the bandage and fell hard as Locklear pushed him aside while he attempted to rise and draw his sword as Gorath closed on him.

  But rather than attack Locklear, he lunged past the pair of humans, lashing out above Locklear’s head with the chain that held his manacles. A ringing of steel caused Locklear to flinch aside, as Gorath shouted, ‘‘Assassin in the camp!’’ Then Gorath kicked hard at Owyn, shouting, ‘‘Get out from underfoot!’’

  Owyn didn’t know where the assassin came from; one mo-12

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  ment there had been three of them in the small clearing, then the next Gorath was locked in a life-and-death struggle with another of his kind.

>   Two figures grappled by the light of the campfire, their features set in stark relief by the firelight and darkness of the woods. Gorath had knocked the other moredhel’s sword from his hand, and when the second dark elf attempted to pull a dagger, Gorath slipped behind him, wrapping his wrist chains around the attacker’s throat. He yanked hard, and the attacker’s eyes bulged in shock, as Gorath said, ‘‘Do not struggle so, Haseth. For old times’ sake I will make this quick.’’ With a snap of his wrists, he crushed the other dark elf’s windpipe, and the creature went limp.

  Gorath let him fall to the ground, saying, ‘‘May the Goddess of Darkness show you mercy.’’

  Locklear stood up. ‘‘I thought we had lost them.’’

  ‘‘I knew we had not,’’ said Gorath.

  ‘‘Why didn’t you say something?’’ demanded Locklear as he retrieved his tunic and put it on over the new bandages.

  ‘‘We had to turn and face him sometime,’’ said Gorath, resuming his place. ‘‘We could do it now, or in a day or two when you were even weaker from loss of blood and no food.’’

  Gorath looked into the darkness from which the assassin had come. ‘‘Had he not been alone, you’d have had only my body to drag before your prince.’’

  ‘‘You don’t get off that easily, moredhel. You don’t have my permission to die yet, after the trouble I’ve gone through to keep you alive so far,’’ said Locklear. ‘‘Is he the last?’’

  ‘‘Almost certainly not,’’ said the dark elf. ‘‘But he is the last of this company. Others will come.’’ He glanced in the opposite direction. ‘‘And others may already be ahead of us.’’

  Locklear reached into a small pouch at his side and produced a key. ‘‘Then I think you’d better get those chains off,’’

  he said. He unlocked the wrist irons, and Gorath watched them fall to the ground with an impassive expression. ‘‘Take the assassin’s sword.’’

  ‘‘Maybe we should bury him?’’ suggested Owyn.

  Gorath shook his head. ‘‘That is not our way. His body is but a shell. Let it feed the scavengers, return to the soil, nourish 13

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  the plants, and renew the world. His spirit has begun its journey through darkness, and with the Goddess of Darkness’s pleasure, he may find his way to the Blessed Isles.’’ Gorath looked northward, as if seeking sight of something in the dark.

  ‘‘He was my kinsman, though one of whom I was not overly fond. But ties of blood run strong with my people. For him to hunt me names me outcast and traitor to my race.’’ He looked at Locklear. ‘‘We have common cause, then, human. For if I am to carry out the mission that brands me anathema to my people, I must survive. We need to help one another.’’ Gorath took Haseth’s sword. To Owyn he said, ‘‘Don’t bury him, but you could pull him out of the way, human. By morning he’s going to become even more unpleasant to have nearby.’’

  Owyn looked uncertain about touching a corpse, but said nothing as he went over, reached down, and gripped the dead moredhel by the wrists. The creature was surprisingly heavy.

  As Owyn started to drag Haseth away, Gorath said, ‘‘And see if he dropped his travel bag back there in the woods before he attacked us, boy. He may have something to eat in it.’’

  Owyn nodded, wondering what strange chance had brought him to dragging a corpse through the dark woods and looting its body.

  Morning found a tired trio making their way through the woodlands, staying within sight of the road, but not chancing walking openly along it.

  ‘‘I don’t see why we didn’t return to Yabon and get some horses,’’ complained Owyn.

  Locklear said, ‘‘We have been jumped three times since leaving Tyr-Sog. If others are coming after us, I’d rather not walk right into them. Besides, we may find a village between here and LaMut where we can get some horses.’’

  ‘‘And pay for them with what?’’ asked Owyn. ‘‘You said the fight where you were wounded was when your horses ran off with all your things. I assume that means your funds, too? I certainly don’t have enough to buy three mounts.’’

  Locklear smiled. ‘‘I’m not without resources.’’

  ‘‘We could just take them,’’ offered Gorath.

  ‘‘There is that,’’ agreed Locklear. ‘‘But without obvious 14

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  badges of rank or a patent from the Prince on my person, it might prove difficult to convince the local constable of my bona fides. And we should hardly be safe penned up in a rural jail with cutthroats out looking for us.’’

  Owyn fell silent. They had been walking since sunup, and he was tired. ‘‘How about a rest?’’ he offered.

  ‘‘I don’t think so,’’ said Gorath, his voice falling to a whisper. ‘‘Listen.’’

  Neither human said anything for a moment, then Owyn said, ‘‘What? I don’t hear anything.’’

  ‘‘That’s the point,’’ said Gorath. ‘‘The birds in the trees ahead suddenly stopped their songs.’’

  ‘‘A trap?’’ asked Locklear.

  ‘‘Almost certainly,’’ said Gorath, pulling the sword he had taken from his dead kinsman.

  Locklear said, ‘‘My side burns, but I can fight.’’ To Owyn he said, ‘‘What about you?’’

  Owyn hefted his wooden staff. It was hard oak, with iron-shod ends. ‘‘I can swing this, if I need to. And I have some magic.’’

  ‘‘Can you make them vanish?’’

  ‘‘No,’’ said Owyn. ‘‘I can’t do that.’’

  ‘‘Pity,’’ said Locklear. ‘‘Then try to stay out of the way.’’

  They advanced cautiously, and as they neared the spot Gorath had indicated, Locklear could make out a shadowy figure between the trees. The man or moredhel—Locklear couldn’t tell which—moved slightly, revealing his position. Had he remained motionless, Locklear would never have seen him.

  Gorath signaled for Locklear and Owyn to move more to their right, looping around behind the lookout. Without knowing how many men they faced, they would do well to seek the advantage of surprise.

  Gorath moved through the woods like a spirit, silent and almost unseen once Owyn and Locklear left him. Locklear signaled for Owyn to keep slightly behind and to the right of him, so he knew where he was when they closed upon their ambushers.

  As they moved through the woods, they heard the sound of whispers, and Locklear knew no elves waiting for them would 15

  Raymond E. Feist

  utter a word. Now the question was were these mere bandits or agents seeking to stop Gorath’s journey.

  A grunt from ahead signaled Gorath’s first contact with the ambushers. A shout followed instantly, and Locklear and Owyn ran forward.

  Four men stood and one was already dying. The other three spread out in a small clearing between two lines of trees, a perfect position for a roadside ambush. Locklear felt an odd flicker behind him, and something sped past his eyes, as if an arrow had been fired from behind, but other than the sensation of motion, there was nothing to be seen.

  One of the three remaining ambushers cried out in shock, his hand going out before him as vacant eyes stared ahead.

  ‘‘I’m blind!’’ he shouted in panic.

  Locklear decided it was Owyn’s useful magic, and thanked the Goddess of Luck the boy had that much talent.

  Gorath was engaged with one man while Locklear advanced on the other. Suddenly their garb registered, and he said,

  ‘‘Quegans!’’

  The men were wearing short tunics and leggings, and cross-gartered sandals. The man facing Locklear had his head covered with a red bandanna, and over his shoulder was a baldric from which a cutlass had hung. The cutlass was now carving through the air at Locklear’s head.

  He parried, and the blow shot fire through his wounded side. Putting aside his pain, Locklear riposted, and the pirate fell back. A strangled cry told Locklear the second pirate was down.

  The strange missile sensation sp
ed by, and the man facing Locklear winced and held his hand up as if shielding his eyes.

  Locklear didn’t hesitate and ran the man through.

  Gorath killed the last man, and suddenly it was quiet again in the woods.

  Locklear’s side was afire, but he didn’t feel any additional damage. He put up his sword, and said, ‘‘Damn me.’’

  ‘‘Are you hurt?’’ asked Owyn.

  ‘‘No,’’ answered Locklear.

  ‘‘Then what is the problem?’’ asked Owyn.

  Locklear looked around the clearing. ‘‘ These are the problem.

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  Someone has gotten word ahead of us. We can be certain of that.’’

  ‘‘How?’’ asked Gorath.

  ‘‘These are Quegan pirates,’’ said Locklear. ‘‘Look at their weapons.’’

  ‘‘I wouldn’t know a Quegan if I tripped over him,’’ said Owyn. ‘‘I’ll take your word for it, Squire.’’

  ‘‘Do not pirates usually ply their trade at sea?’’ asked Gorath.

  ‘‘They do,’’ said Locklear, ‘‘unless someone’s paid them to stake out a road and wait for three travelers on foot.’’ He knelt next to the man who had died at his feet, and said, ‘‘Look at his hands. Those are the hands of a man used to handling rope. Those Quegan cutlasses are the clincher.’’ He examined the man, looking for a pouch or purse, saying, ‘‘Look for anything that might be a message.’’

  They did and came away with a little gold and a couple of daggers in addition to the four cutlasses. But no messages or notes, nothing indicating who had hired the pirates. ‘‘We’re not close enough to Ylith for a band of pirates to have made it this far north undetected in the time since we left Yabon.’’

  ‘‘Someone must have sent word south when I left the Northlands,’’ said Gorath.

  ‘‘But how?’’ asked Owyn. ‘‘You’ve told me you only spent a couple of days in Tyr-Sog, and you were riding until yesterday.’’

  ‘‘That’s an odd question for a student of magic,’’ observed Gorath.

  Owyn blushed a little. ‘‘Oh.’’