Krondor: The Betrayal

Gorath nodded. ‘Let’s go.’

They hurried down the road until they could see the roof of a barn across a small field that sat hard against the ridge. Locklear stooped over, so as to be less visible as they moved down the trail. ‘Where are the guards?’ he asked Gorath.

‘I don’t know. They were outside but a moment ago.’

‘Perhaps they’ve gone inside the barn,’ suggested Owyn.

Gorath pointed to a notch in the side of the trail, where rain had eroded the soil between two large boulders. He moved between the rocks and slid down the bank to the edge of the field, with Locklear behind and Owyn bringing up the rear.

‘We must hurry,’ said Gorath. ‘The Mothers and Fathers have smiled on us and the guards are inside. We don’t know how long this might last.’ He set a punishing pace, not wishing to be discovered in the open. Locklear forced himself to push on despite his stiff, aching joints. His wounds had healed, though he still felt weaker than he should. He didn’t welcome another fight, but should this Nago be the force behind all the attacks, he welcomed an opportunity to put an end to them, and pay back some of the pain he had been forced to endure.

Gorath reached the barn and huddled in its shadow, glancing in all directions. There was no sign they had been detected. He held up his hand for silence.

They listened. Inside, muffled voices could be heard, though Locklear could make nothing of them, for they were in a tongue he didn’t understand. Gorath’s hearing was far more acute, for he said, ‘They are discussing the fact we have not been seen since Hawk’s Hollow. They fear we may have slipped past them on the road through Tannerus.’

‘What do we do now?’ whispered Owyn.

‘As before, we kill them,’ said Gorath. ‘Act boldly.’ He moved to the barn door and withdrew his sword. He pulled forward his hood, throwing his features into darkness, then put his sword under his cloak and turned to Owyn and Locklear. ‘Be ready, but wait a moment before entering.’

Then Gorath pushed open the door and in the late-afternoon gloom must have seemed a black shape against a darkening sky. From within a voice sounded a note of inquiry. Gorath stepped forward with a stride that communicated purpose, answering in the moredhel tongue. He must have confused them for a moment, for one asked another question before a different voice shouted, ‘Gorath!’

Locklear didn’t hesitate when he heard that, but virtually jumped through the open door. Owyn was a step behind.

The barn was empty save for five moredhel. A table had been placed in the centre of a large barn aisle, with a bench behind it, where the moredhel magician Nago was rising in shock at the appearance of his intended prey.

A moredhel guard was falling from Gorath’s first blow as he rounded on another, lashing out with his blade and forcing the swordsman backward, clutching his bleeding sword arm. Locklear dashed forward and caught the wounded dark elf from behind, killing him with a blow to the back of his neck as he sought to disengage himself from Gorath’s attack, leaving both swordsmen facing a ready opponent.

Owyn saw the moredhel magic-user who was still motionless in astonishment at the appearance of the prey he had been seeking for weeks. But as Owyn moved through the doorway, he felt power beginning to manifest as Nago started an incantation. Knowing there was nothing much he could do, Owyn unleashed the only spell he could throw on short notice, the blinding spell he had practised so much on the journey.

The dark elf blinked in surprise and faltered, breaking his spell. Owyn hesitated then raised his staff and started his charge, doing his best to imitate a warcry. A thin warbling sound escaped his lips as he ran between Gorath and Locklear as they struggled with their opponents.

As he closed upon the moredhel magician, Owyn slipped and fell forward, which saved his life, for the enraged Nago unleashed a bolt of shimmering purple-and-grey energy which sped through the spot where Owyn had been a moment earlier. Rather than strike the lad full on, it brushed over his back, and where it touched Owyn felt agony, a shocking pain. His head swam from it, and he felt dizzy. The muscles in his lower back and legs refused to obey him. He struggled, but they felt encased in metal bonds.

Rolling over, Owyn saw the magician begin another spell, and without any other option, Owyn threw his staff at the moredhel. As he expected, the magician ducked aside, and his spell-casting was interrupted. Nago shut his eyes, as if in pain, and Owyn knew the enemy spell-caster was struggling to restart his spell. While only a novice at magic, Owyn understood enough of it to know that an interrupted spell could prove painful and that it might take Nago a few moments to refocus his thoughts and regain the ability to inflict harm upon his opponent.

Owyn tried to focus his own thoughts, as if he might throw another spell to distract Nago a moment longer, but his own thinking was chaotic, his mind racing with conflicting images. Phrases and concepts previously unknown to him intruded into his concentration and he couldn’t force himself to come up with any useful conjuration. He fumbled in his belt for a dagger and thought to throw that at Nago.

Nago opened his eyes and looked past Owyn, to where the struggle was ending. Owyn rolled over and saw Gorath running his opponent through, while Locklear seemed to be getting the best of his own. Owyn looked over his shoulder at Nago and saw the magician was hesitating, then starting to turn to flee.

‘He’s trying to escape!’ Owyn shouted, but his voice was weak and he didn’t know if he had warned his companions.

Gorath heard and was past Owyn in three huge strides. The moredhel magician turned and threw something at Gorath, and sparking energies coursed around the dark elf chieftain. Gorath groaned in pain and faltered.

Owyn threw his dagger, a weak underhand cast, but one which caused the butt of the weapon to strike Nago in the temple. As if released from a prison, Gorath rose up and with a single blow struck Nago in the neck, nearly severing his head from his body.

Locklear hurried over and helped Owyn to his feet. ‘We could have used a prisoner,’ he observed.

Gorath said, ‘These guards know nothing worth learning. And Nago could not be left alive. While you were trying to question him, he would have been sending word to his confederates that we are here.’ The dark elf looked down at Owyn who still lay on the floor. ‘You did well, boy. Are you all right?’

‘My legs don’t work,’ he answered. ‘I think I will get them to work in a while.’

‘I hope so,’ said Locklear. ‘I’d hate to leave you here.’

‘I’d hate to be left,’ said Owyn.

Gorath looked around. He moved to a large cache of provisions and dug out some bread and a waterskin. He took a drink, handed it to Locklear and tore the loaf into three portions, handing one each to the other two.

Locklear helped Owyn sit up at a table and looked at a map unrolled there. What have we here? he asked himself as he studied the map.

It was a map of the area south of Hawk’s Hollow, with guard locations marked and fresh ink indicating sightings. It was clear that they had avoided detection from Hawk’s Hollow to Yellow Mule. Locklear said, ‘Owyn, could Nago have got word out to others that we are here?’

Owyn felt his legs with his hands as if trying to determine what was wrong with them and said, ‘It’s doubtful. I kept him busy and he was trying to kill us. I can imagine he could do two things at once, but three is unlikely. If he’s got a routine for checking in with his agents, they’ll soon know something is wrong because of his not contacting them.’

‘Then we must be on our way,’ said Gorath. ‘How far to Krondor?’

‘If we were taking a stroll down the King’s Highway without fear, another two days. By horse, less than a day from here. Through the woods, maybe three.’

Gorath asked Owyn, ‘How long before you can move?’

‘I don’t know—’ Then suddenly Owyn’s legs moved. ‘I guess I can move now,’ he said, rising slowly. ‘Interesting,’ he said.

‘What’s interesting?’ asked Locklear.

‘That spell. It’s designed to bind an opponent, but only for a short while.’

‘Why is that interesting?’

‘It’s some sort of combat magic. They don’t teach that at Stardock.’

‘Can you do the same thing?’ asked Gorath. ‘It could prove useful.’

‘Really?’ asked Locklear dryly.

‘I don’t know,’ said Owyn. ‘When the spell struck me, something happened, a recognition of some sort. I will think on it, and maybe I can figure out how he did it.’

‘Well, figure out how while we’re moving, assuming you’re ready to go,’ said Locklear around a mouthful of bread. They quickly rummaged through the cache of supplies and found several dark grey-blue fur-lined cloaks. ‘These will serve us well,’ said Locklear, still warm from the fight, but knowing all too well how cold the nights were along the coast this time of the year. Locklear gathered up the maps and several messages, all claiming forces were in place for key attacks at various locations throughout the west. He placed those in a pouch and slung it over his shoulder.

They left the barn and circled around the darkened farmhouse. The owner was either sleeping or dead, betrayed by his guests, but either way they did not wish to spend time finding out. They had three dangerous days before them and knew there were perils enough along the route to Krondor without stopping to look for them.

Twice they had avoided assassins or bandits; they didn’t know which. Once they had lain in the mud in a gully next to a woodland path while a band of armed Quegans had hurried past. Now they stood behind the last line of trees before open farmland. Beyond they could see the City of Krondor.

‘Impressive,’ said Gorath in a neutral tone.

‘I’ve seen Armengar,’ said Locklear. ‘I am surprised to hear you call this impressive.’

‘It’s not the size of the place,’ said Gorath. ‘It’s the hive of humans within.’ For a moment he looked off into the distance. ‘You shortlived creatures have no sense of history or your place in this world,’ he said. ‘You breed like—’ He glanced over to see Locklear’s dark expression and said, ‘No matter. There are just a great deal of you at any one time in any one place, it seems, and this is more of you in such a small place.’ He shook his head. ‘For my people, such gatherings are alien.’

‘Yet you rallied at Sar-Sargoth,’ observed Locklear.

‘Yes we did,’ said Gorath. ‘To the sorrow of many of us.’

Owyn said, ‘Do we just walk across this field to the road?’

Locklear said, ‘No. Look over there.’ He pointed to a place where a small farm road intersected the King’s Highway. A half-dozen men stood idly by as if waiting for something. ‘Not exactly a place to hoist a few and talk of the day’s labours, is it?’

‘No,’ said Owyn. ‘Where do we go then?’

‘Follow me,’ said Locklear as he moved along the tree line, farther east. They reached a long gully, a naturally occurring watercourse that would be flooded when the thaw came to the mountains to the north and east, but which currently hosted only a small stream. ‘This runs to a place by the eastern gate, in the foulbourgh.’

‘Foulbourgh?’ asked Gorath.

‘The part of the city built outside the wall. There are ways to get in and out of the city if you know them. The sewers under the foulbourgh and city proper are not supposed to connect, so an enemy can’t use them to gain entrance.’

‘But they do,’ supplied Gorath.

‘Yes, in two places, and one of them is as dangerous as walking up to those men gathered back there and asking for directions to the Prince’s palace. That entrance is controlled by the Thieves’ Guild. But the other entrance – well, let’s say that besides a friend of mine, only a few others know of it.’

‘How is it you know of it?’ asked Gorath.

‘My friend and I used it once, a long time ago, to follow Arutha to Lorien.’

Gorath nodded. ‘We have heard of that encounter. Murmandamus’s trap to kill the Lord of the West.’

‘That’s the one,’ said Locklear. ‘Now, it would be a good time to move silently.’

They did as Locklear bid and moved through the gully, until they encountered a culvert, made of stones polished by the water over the years. They bent over and walked below the road, as the late-afternoon shadows lengthened. Finally, the culvert ducked under a small stone bridge that afforded them a hiding place. It was well shielded from prying eyes by stores stacked in crates on each side of the road waiting for transport. Bored workers slowly moved to load them.

‘We linger a bit, until it gets darker,’ said Locklear. ‘At the right time, we need to get up and blend in with some traffic heading along the road that runs beside this culvert.’ He went to the other side of the bridge and glanced upward, pulling his head back.

Pointing where he had looked, he said, ‘Someone’s hanging around up there.’

‘What do we do?’ asked Gorath, obviously as out of his element as Locklear had been on the mountain trail.

‘We wait,’ said Locklear. ‘A patrol from the city watch passes along here about sundown, and they’ll order any armed men to move along. After dark it gets dangerous outside the wall, and the watch doesn’t like too many swords gathered in one place.’

They sat under the bridge, in the puddles on either side of the stream, waiting in silence as the hours dragged by. Flies annoyed them, and only Gorath ignored their presence as Locklear and Owyn spent most of the time swatting them away.

As sundown approached, Locklear heard the tread of boots upon the cobbles above. A few voices were raised, and Locklear said, ‘Now!’

He moved quickly up the side of the bank just beyond the bridge, ducking behind some crates as a party of men dispersed under the watchful eye of the city guard. ‘They’ll come this way, back toward the palace,’ said Locklear. ‘We just duck in beside them, and even if we’re seen, it’s unlikely we’re going to be attacked with a dozen soldiers ready to start busting heads at the first sign of trouble.’ He pointed to Gorath. ‘But you’d better fix that hood. Most people here wouldn’t know an elf from a moredhel if you hung signs around your neck, but you never know. If Ruthia’s fickle, the first person we meet will be an old vet from the wars to the north.’ Ruthia was the Goddess of Luck.

Gorath did as he was told and pulled his hood forward, hiding his features and when the soldiers walked down the road beside the stream, he followed Locklear and Owyn as they hurried to match pace with the soldiers.

They walked from the northeasternmost corner of the city along its entire length to the southern gate, and when the city watch moved toward the palace entrance, Locklear pulled them aside.

Owyn said, ‘Why don’t we just follow them in?’

‘Look,’ said Locklear. They looked where he pointed and saw a work crew gathered before the gate, with two teams of horses tied to a pulley. ‘It seems someone has sabotaged the gate,’ said Locklear.

The watch commander shouted something down from the wall to the patrol leader, who saluted and turned his men around. ‘Come on, lads,’ he said, ‘we’re for the northern gate.’

Locklear motioned for his companions to follow him and he led them through a back alley. ‘This way,’ he urged.

He took them to what appeared to be the back entrance to a small inn, and opened the gate. Once through, he closed the gate and they stood in a tiny stabling yard, with a small shed off to one side. Looking to see if they were observed, Locklear pointed to the rear door of the inn. ‘If anyone finds us, we’re lost, looking for a meal and once we get inside the inn, head toward the front door; if anyone objects, we run like hell.’

Gorath said, ‘Where are we?’

‘The back of an inn owned by people who would be less than pleased to discover we knew about this place, or what I’m about to do.’ He moved toward the shed, but rather than going inside, he moved to where it joined with the wall. Feeling around behind the shed, Locklear tripped a lever and a latch clicked. A big stone rolled away, and Owyn and Gorath could see it was a cleverly-fashioned sham, made of canvas and painted to look like the rock of the wall. Locklear was forced to lie down and wiggle feet first through the small aperture, but he successfully negotiated the entrance. Owyn went next, and Gorath last, barely clearing the opening.

‘Who uses that thing?’ asked Owyn in a whisper. ‘Children?’

‘Yes,’ said Locklear. ‘The Mockers number many urchins in their ranks and there are dozens of bolt-holes like that all over the city.’

‘Where are we?’ asked Owyn.

‘Use your senses, human,’ said Gorath. ‘Or can’t your breed smell its own stink?’

‘Oh,’ Owyn exclaimed, as the stench of the sewer struck him.

Locklear reached up and pulled shut the trap, leaving them in total darkness.

‘My kind see in darkness better than yours do, Locklear,’ said Gorath, ‘but even we must have some light.’

‘There should be a lantern close by,’ said Locklear. ‘If I can remember the distance … and direction.’

‘What?’ asked Gorath. ‘You don’t know where a light is?’

‘I can help,’ said Owyn. A moment later a faint nimbus of light started to glow around the young man’s hand, and it grew until they could see a dozen paces in all directions.

‘How did you do that?’ asked Locklear.

Owyn held out his left hand. On it was a ring. ‘I took it off Nago. It’s magic.’

‘Which way?’ asked Gorath.

‘This way,’ said Locklear, leading them into the sewers of Krondor.

‘Where are we?’ whispered Owyn.

Locklear lost his sure tone as he said, ‘I think we’re just north of the palace.’

‘You think?’ said Gorath with a snort of contempt.

‘All right,’ said Locklear with a petulant tone. ‘So I’m a little lost. I’ll find—’

‘Your death, quick and messy,’ said a voice from outside the range of Owyn’s light.

Three swords cleared their scabbards as Locklear tried to pierce the gloom beyond the light by force of will.

‘Who be you and what would you in the Thieves’ Highway?’

Locklear cocked his head at the bad attempt at a formal challenge and, judging the owner of the voice to be a youth, he answered, ‘I be Seigneur Locklear and I do whatever I will in the Prince’s sewers. If you’re half as intelligent as you’re trying to sound, you’ll know not to bar our way.’

A young boy stepped forward from the shadows, slender and wearing a tunic too large for him, wrapped around the waist with a rope belt, trousers he had almost outgrown, and sporting a pointed felt cap. He carried a short sword. ‘I’m Limm and fast with a blade. Step any further without my leave and your blood will flow.’

Gorath said, ‘The only thing you’ll do is die, boy, if you don’t stand aside.’

If the towering presence of the moredhel chieftain had any effect on the lad, he hid it as he bravely said, ‘I’ve bested better than you when I was a boy.’ He stepped back, cautiously. ‘And besides, I’ve got five bashers back there waiting for my call.’

Locklear held up his hand to restrain Gorath. ‘You remind me of a young Jimmy the Hand,’ said Locklear. ‘Full of bluster as well as guile. Run off and there’s no need for anyone’s blood to flow.’ Softly to Gorath he said, ‘If he has bashers nearby, we don’t need the trouble.’

‘Jimmy the Hand, is it?’ asked Limm. ‘Well, if you’re friends of Seigneur James, we’ll let you pass. But when you see him, tell him he had better come soon or the deal is off.’ Before Locklear could answer, Limm was deep in shadows, so silently they could barely hear him move. From a distance he said, ‘And watch your step, Locklear who knows Jimmy the Hand. There are nasty customers nearby.’ As the voice faded, Limm added, ‘And you’re completely turned around. Turn to the right at the next culvert, and straight on until you reach the palace.’

Locklear waited, listening for more. But only silence punctuated by the trickling sound of water and the occasional echo of some distant sound in the sewer could be heard.

Gorath said, ‘That was passing strange.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Owyn.

‘More than you know,’ said Locklear. ‘That boy was waiting for my friend James. And James has the death mark on him from the Mockers if he ever trespasses their territory. That was a deal struck by Prince Arutha for James’s life years ago.’

Owyn said, ‘Sometimes agreements change.’

‘Or are broken,’ added Gorath.

Locklear said, ‘Well, we’ll sort this out later. Right now we need to find our way to the palace.’

‘What did he mean by “nasty customers nearby”?’ asked Owyn.

‘I don’t know,’ answered Locklear. ‘I have a feeling if we’re not careful we’ll find out,’ he whispered.

They turned in the direction instructed by Limm and moved to the corner where he had told them to turn. A short way along the indicated route, Gorath said, ‘Someone ahead.’

Owyn put his ring under his arm, causing the light to diminish. ‘Two men,’ whispered Gorath. ‘Wearing black.’

‘Which is why I can’t see them,’ said Locklear.

‘Who are they?’ asked Owyn.

Locklear turned and knew his withering look was lost in the gloom, so he said, ‘Why don’t you just go up and ask them.’

‘If they aren’t the Prince’s men or those Mockers, then they must be enemies,’ said Gorath, stepping forward quickly, his sword ready to deliver a killing blow.

Locklear hesitated a moment, and by the time he started moving, the dark elf was upon the two men. The first turned just in time to see his own death arrive, for Gorath slashed him deeply across the chest and shoulder.

The second man drew his sword and attempted to slash down on Gorath’s head, but Locklear stepped in and parried the blow high, allowing Gorath to run him through. It was over in seconds.

Locklear knelt and examined the two bodies. They wore identical trousers and tunics of black material, and black leather boots. Both men had short swords and one had laid aside a short bow within easy reach. Both men were without purse or pouch, but both wore identical medallions under their tunics.

‘Nighthawks!’ said Locklear.

‘Assassins?’ asked Owyn.

‘But they should have …’ Locklear shook his head. ‘If these two are Nighthawks, I’m Gorath’s grandfather.’

Gorath snorted at the idea, but said, ‘We have heard of your Nighthawks; some were employed by agents of Murmandamus.’

Owyn said, ‘The stories are they had nearly magical abilities.’

‘Stories,’ said Locklear. ‘My friend James faced one on the rooftops of the city when he was no more than a lad of fourteen years and lived to tell the tale.’ Locklear stood. ‘They were good, but no more than other men. But the legend helped them get their price. But these,’ he indicated the two dead men, ‘were not Nighthawks.’

A whistle sounded from down a nearby tunnel. Gorath spun, his sword ready to face another attack. Locklear, however, just put two fingers to his mouth and whistled in return. A moment later a young man stepped into the light. ‘Locky?’ he asked.

‘Jimmy!’ said Locklear as he embraced his old friend. ‘We were just speaking of you.’

James, squire of the Prince’s court, regarded his best friend. He took in the long hair gathered behind in a knot and the bushy moustache and said, ‘What have you done to your hair?’

‘I haven’t seen you in months and the first thing you ask about is fashion?’ asked Locklear.

James grinned. His face was youthful, though he was no longer a boy. He had curly brown hair he kept cropped short and was dressed in plain clothing, tunic, trousers, boots and cloak. He carried only a belt knife. ‘What brings you back to court? Arutha banished you for a year, if memory serves.’

‘This moredhel,’ said Locklear. ‘His name is Gorath and he brings a warning to Arutha.’ Pointing to his other companion, he said, ‘And this is Owyn, son of the Baron of Timons. He’s been of great help to me, also.’