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 armour 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?
My words are for Prince Arutha alone.
Locklear said, If you dont want to spend what remains of your life in the Barons 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 horses neck, so he could put his face near Goraths.
Gorath whispered in Locklears ear. Murmandamus lives.
Locklear leaned back and was silent a moment, then he turned his horse. Sergeant Bales!
Sir! returned the old veteran, answering Locklears 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 horses 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.
CHAPTER ONE
Encounter
THE FIRE CRACKLED.
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 aunts 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 weeks 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 confidant 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.
Whos there? he demanded.
From out of the gloom came a voice, saying, Hello, the camp. Were 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 Owyns 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, Im a squire to Prince Arutha.
Owyn nodded. Sir, Im 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. Youre a long way from home, arent you?
I was visiting my aunt in Yabon, said the blond youth. Im now on my way home.
Long journey, said the muffled figure.
Ill work my way down to Krondor, then see if I can travel with a caravan or someone else to Salador. From there Ill 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 mans clothing.
Youre 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 ladys foolishness, but apparently it wasnt.
Locklear endured the boys 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 squires ribs, Owyn said, Your friend doesnt 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 Goraths 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.
Gorath pulled back his hood, and graced Owyn with the faintest of smiles.
Gods teeth! exclaimed Owyn. Hes 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 aunts salve to the 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, Im 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, Ive 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, Im 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, were here and we dont have anywhere else to go. So if your kin, the elves, can make the best of it, why cant 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 Locklears 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 didnt know where the assassin came from; one moment 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 moredhels 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 attackers throat. He yanked hard and the attackers 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 elfs 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 didnt 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 some time, 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, youd have had only my body to drag before your prince.
You dont get off that easily, moredhel. You dont have my permission to die yet, after the trouble Ive 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 youd 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 assassins 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 the plants, and renew the world. His spirit has begun its journey through darkness, and with the Goddess of Darknesss 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 Haseths sword. To Owyn he said, Dont bury him, but you could pull him out of the way, human. By morning hes 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 the 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 dont see why we didnt 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, Id 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 dont have enough to buy three mounts.
Locklear smiled. Im not without resources.
We could just take them, offered Gorath.
There is that, agreed Locklear. But without obvious 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 sun-up and he was tired. How about a rest? he offered.
I dont think so, said Gorath, his voice falling to a whisper. Listen.
Neither human said anything for a moment, then Owyn said, What? I dont hear anything.
Thats 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?