The Riftwar Legacy: The Complete 4-Book Collection

‘What?’ asked Locklear.

‘Not what, who,’ said Gorath. ‘Nago. He’s one of Delekhan’s sorcerers. He and his brother Narab served the murderer. They are powerful chieftains in their own right, but right now they’re doing Delekhan’s bidding. Without their help, Delekhan never would have risen to power and overthrown the chieftains of the other clans. Without their help, these –’ his hand swept in a circle, indicating the dead moredhel ‘– would not be here waiting.’ He knelt next to one of the dead and said, ‘This was my cousin, my kinsman.’ He pointed to another one. ‘That one is from a clan that has been sworn enemy to mine for generations. That they are both serving this monster hints at his power.’

Locklear indicated his shoulder and sank to the ground. Owyn examined it and explained, ‘I can get the arrowhead out, but it’s going to hurt.’

Locklear said, ‘It already hurts. Get on with it.’

While Owyn ministered to Locklear, Gorath said, ‘Nago and Narab both have the power of mind speech. Especially with one another. Those we killed on the road to your town of Loriel, or another who spied us, must have passed word to one of the brothers. He in turn alerted these as to our whereabouts.’

Locklear said, ‘So the chances are good that before they died, one of these also let Nago know we are here?’

‘Almost certainly.’

‘Wonderful,’ said Locklear through gritted teeth as Owyn used his dagger to cut out the arrowhead. His eyes teared and his vision swam again for a moment, but by breathing slowly and deeply he kept conscious.

Owyn dusted the wound with a pack of herbs from his belt pouch then placed a cloth over it. ‘Hold this here; press hard,’ he instructed. He went to the nearest body and robbed it of a strip of cloth, cut away with his dagger, then returned to bind it tightly around Locklear’s shoulder. ‘Between that wound to your ribs and this shoulder, your left arm is close to useless, squire.’

‘Just what I wanted to hear,’ said Locklear as he tried to move his left arm and found Owyn’s observation correct. He could move it scant inches before pain made him stop the attempt. ‘Horses?’

‘They’ve run off,’ said Owyn.

‘Wonderful,’ said Locklear. ‘I was knocked out of the saddle, what’s your excuse?’ he demanded of the other two.

Gorath said, ‘Fighting on the back of the beast was too awkward.’

Owyn said, ‘I can’t cast a spell from the saddle. Sorry.’

Locklear stood. ‘So we walk.’

‘How far is it to Hawk’s Hollow?’ asked Owyn.

‘Too far,’ said Locklear. ‘If they’re waiting for us, much too far.’

• THREE • (#ulink_dd07c618-c8f5-5ca6-92d8-ad3a82e052f9)

Revelation (#ulink_dd07c618-c8f5-5ca6-92d8-ad3a82e052f9)

THE SENTRY BLINKED IN SURPRISE.

One moment the approach to the town was empty, the next three figures were standing before him. ‘What?’ he exclaimed, bringing his old spear to something resembling a stance of readiness.

‘Easy, friend,’ said Locklear. He leaned upon Owyn’s shoulder and looked as if he was close to death. They had encountered three more ambushes between the one where their horses had fled and Hawk’s Hollow. They had managed to avoid the first two, sneaking around human bandits. The last had been a squad of six moredhel who had been too alert. The fight had been bloody and costly. Gorath was wounded, a nasty cut to his left shoulder that Owyn had barely been able to staunch. Locklear had been injured again, nearly dying if not for Owyn’s intervention, and the young magician himself was sporting a half-dozen minor wounds.

‘Who are you?’ asked the confused sentry. He was obviously a farmer or worker from town, part of the city’s militia Locklear guessed.

‘Locklear, squire of the Prince’s court in Krondor, and these two are my companions.’

‘You look like brigands, to me,’ replied the guardsman.

‘We have proof,’ said Locklear, ‘but first I’d like to find someone who can help us before we bleed to death.’

‘Brother Malcolm of the Temple of Silban is in town, down at Logan’s Tavern. He comes through here every six months or so. He’ll help you out.’

‘Where is Logan’s?’ asked Owyn as Locklear seemed about to lapse into unconsciousness.

‘Just down the street. Can’t miss it. Sign out front of a dwarf.’

They made their way to the indicated establishment, which showed a faded sign of a comically drawn dwarf, obviously once painted with vivid colours.

They went inside and found several townspeople sitting by, waiting for a priest in the robes of the Order of Silban who was in the corner ministering to a sick child. A couple of local workers were waiting, one with a bandaged hand, the other looking pale and weak.

The priest looked up as he finished with the boy, who leaped down from his mother’s lap without prompting and raced for the door. The priest looked at Locklear and said, ‘Are you dying?’

‘Not quite,’ answered the squire.

‘Good, because these fellows were here first and I’ll only make them wait if you’re near death.’

Mustering as much dry wit as he could under the circumstances, Locklear replied, ‘I’ll try to let you know when I’m about to die.’

Gorath’s patience vanished. He moved to confront the priest and said, ‘You will see my companion now. These others can wait.’

The glowering dark elf towered over the small priest and his expression and voice left no room for argument this side of violence. The priest looked once more at Locklear and said, ‘Very well, if you think it urgent. Bring him over to this table.’

They half-carried Locklear to the table and laid him out on it. The priest said, ‘Who bandaged this?’

‘I did,’ said Owyn.

‘You did well enough,’ said the priest. ‘He’s alive, so that counts for much.’

After Locklear’s tunic and the bandages were removed, the priest said, ‘Silban preserve us! You’ve got three wounds fit to fell a bigger man.’ He sprinkled a powder on the wounds, which brought a gasp of pain from Locklear, then the priest began a chant and closed his eyes.

Owyn felt power manifest in the room and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He had only been exposed to a little clerical magic in his life and it always seemed odd and exotic to him.

A faint glow from the priest’s hands threw illumination over Locklear’s wounds and as Brother Malcolm droned his chant, Owyn could see the wounds begin to heal. They were still visible, but no longer fresh and angry. When the priest stopped, they looked old, past the danger stage. The priest was pale from the exertion when he stopped. He said, ‘That’s all I can do now. Sleep and food will do the rest.’ Looking at Owyn and Gorath, he asked, ‘Do you have wounds, as well?’

‘We do,’ said Gorath. ‘But we can wait until you tend to those two.’ He pointed to the two locals waiting for treatment.

Malcolm nodded. ‘Good.’ As he moved past Gorath, he said, ‘Your manners may be in question, moredhel, but your instincts serve you well. He might have bled to death had we waited another hour.’

Gorath remained silent in the face of being recognized for what he was. He moved to sit next to Owyn and wait.

When the two farmers, one with a smashed finger courtesy of a badly-aimed hammer and the other with a bad case of fever, were finished, Malcolm turned to Gorath and Owyn. ‘Who’s next?’

Gorath indicated Owyn and the magician went to sit before the priest. He watched with interest as the priest quickly treated and bound his wounds. They spoke little, for Owyn was almost out on his feet.

When Gorath replaced him before the priest, the dark elf said, ‘You recognize my race, yet you do not call for the town guard. Why?’

The priest shrugged as he examined Gorath’s wounds. ‘You travel with men who do not look like renegades to me. You are not here killing and burning, so I assume your mission a peaceful one.’