The Riftwar Legacy: The Complete 4-Book Collection

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 ringlets – 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 Murmandamus, the powerful moredhel leader who had destroyed the human city in the Northlands and then had 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 shortlived, 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 any time 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. On the two occasions he had since dined with the Baron, the daughter had been conspicuously 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 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 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’ 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 armour.

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 the 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.’

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 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?’