Raymond E. Feist - Conclave of Shadows 3 - Exile's Return

VIP免费

2024-11-29 0 0 453.81KB 193 页 5.9玖币

侵权投诉

[Version 0.9—scanned by bodafon]

[Version 1.0—proofread and formatted by braven]

Raymond E. Feist

Exile’s Return

CHAPTER ONE

Captive

THE RIDERS CAME AT HIM.

Kaspar, who had until the day before held the title of Duke of Olasko, waited,

holding his chains ready. Moments before he had been deposited on this dusty plain

by a tall white-haired magician who, with only a few words of farewell, had vanished,

leaving the exiled nobleman to face an approaching band of nomads.

Kaspar had never felt this alive and vitalized. He grinned, took a deep breath and

flexed his knees. The riders were fanning out, and Kaspar knew they judged him a

risk even though he stood alone, barefoot and without any weapon save for heavy

chains with manacles and leggings attached to each end.

The riders slowed. Kaspar counted six of them. They wore alien garments, loose-

fitting outer robes of indigo over white blouses belted at the waist with whipcord;

ballooning trousers were tucked into black leather boots. Their heads were covered by

wrapped turbans, with a length of cloth left hanging on the right. Kaspar judged that

this could be quickly raised to cover mouth and nose against a sudden dust storm or to

hide identity. The clothing looked less like a uniform than tribal garb, he decided.

And they carried a variety of lethal-looking weapons.

The leader spoke in a language Kaspar didn't understand, though there was

something oddly familiar about it. Kaspar replied, 'I don't suppose there's the remotest

chance you speak Olaskon?'

The man Kaspar had identified as the leader said something to his companions,

made a gesture, then sat back to watch. Two men dismounted and approached Kaspar,

drawing weapons. A third behind them unwound a leather cord, with which he obvi-

ously intended to bind their new captive.

Kaspar let his chains drop slightly, and slumped his shoulders, as if

acknowledging the inevitability of his circumstances. From the manner in which they

approached, Kaspar knew two things: these were experienced fighting men—tough,

sunburned plainsmen who probably lived in tents—and they were not trained soldiers.

One glance gave Kaspar the one fact he needed to make his decision on how to act.

None of the three men still on horseback had drawn a bow.

Kaspar allowed the man with the leather bindings to approach, and then at the

last instant he kicked out, taking the man in the chest. That man was the least

dangerous of the three at hand. Kaspar then swung his chains, releasing an end at the

same instant, and the swordsman on his right who had judged himself out of Kaspar's

reach was slammed across the face with the makeshift weapon. Kaspar heard bone

crack. The man went down silently.

The other swordsman was quick to react, raising his sword and shouting

something—an insult, battle cry, or prayer to a god, Kaspar didn't know which. All

the former duke knew was that he had perhaps three or four seconds to live. Instead of

moving away from the attacker, Kaspar threw himself at the man, coming up hard

against him as the sword fell through empty air.

He got his shoulder under the man's armpit and the momentum of the missed

blow carried the nomad over Kaspar's shoulder. Kaspar's powerful arms pushed up

hard and the man spun through the air, landing hard upon the ground. The breath

seemed to explode out of his body and Kaspar suspected he might have cracked his

spine.

Kaspar sensed more than saw that two archers were unlimbering their bows, so

he sprang forward, and with a diving shoulder roll, came to his feet holding the

closest man's sword. The nomad who had held the binding leather was trying to come

to his feet and draw his own sword at the same time as Kaspar stepped by him,

smashing the man's head with the flat of the blade. The man fell over without a sound.

Kaspar might not be the swordsman Tal Hawkins had been, but he had trained as

a soldier most of his life, and now he was in his element, in-close brawling. He ran at

the three riders, two with bows and one with a slender lance, that man leveling his

weapon as he put his heels to his horse's barrel. The animal might not be a seasoned

warhorse but it was well trained. It leapt forward as if sprinting from the starting line

in a race and Kaspar barely avoided being trampled. He almost took the point of the

man's lance in the chest, but with a quick move to the left evaded it. Had the horse

started only a yard or two farther back, he would have been moving too fast for

Kaspar's next move, which was to continue twisting and reaching up with his left

hand, grab the rider by the back of his robe and yank him from the saddle.

Kaspar didn't wait to see the man hit the ground, but used his momentum to keep

turning until he was facing the closest rider, who was trying to draw his bow. Kaspar

reached out with his left hand and grabbed the man's ankle. He yanked it back and

then up and the bowman fell from the saddle.

Kaspar spun, looking for the last opponent, or to see if one of those he had

unhorsed had regained his footing. He turned twice before accepting his situation.

Slowly he stood up and let the sword fall from his fingers.

The last bowman had calmly moved his horse away a few yards, and now sat

quietly in the saddle, drawing a bead on Kaspar. It was hopeless. Unless he was a

terrible shot, Kaspar would never avoid the arrow pointing at his chest.

The man smiled and nodded, and said something that Kaspar took as 'good', then

flicked his gaze to someone behind Kaspar.

Suddenly one of the riders he had embarrassed smashed his forearm into the back

of Kaspar's neck, driving him to his knees. Kaspar tried to turn as he heard metal

clanking, and he realized someone was approaching with his discarded manacles.

Before he could get his head around, cold iron slammed into the point of his jaw.

Bright lights exploded behind his eyes for an instant before he lapsed into

unconsciousness.

———«»——————«»——————«»———

Kaspar's jaw throbbed. His neck hurt and he felt sore all over his body. He was

disoriented for a moment, then remembered the confrontation with the nomads. He

blinked, trying to clear his vision, then realized it was night. From the variety of aches

he experienced when he tried to move, he assumed the riders had spent a fair amount

of time kicking him after he had been knocked unconscious, displaying their

displeasure at the manner in which he had received their request for him to surrender.

He judged it a good thing he hadn't killed any of them, for that would have

probably earned him a cut throat. He realized his chance of escaping that encounter

had been slim. He struggled upright, no mean feat with his hands bound behind him

with leather cords. But he also knew that a trained fighting man might stand a better

chance of survival amongst people like these compared to a common field-hand or

house-servant.

Looking around, he discovered he was secured behind a tent. His bindings were

tight around his wrists, and those in turn were tied by a tough rope to a tent stake. He

could move around a few feet, but there wasn't enough slack in the rope to enable him

to stand. A quick inspection of the stake revealed he could probably pull it out, but if

he did, he would bring down the tent, clearly informing his hosts of his attempted

departure.

He was dressed as he had been when taken. He did a quick physical inventory

and judged that nothing was broken or sprained too badly.

He sat quietly and considered things. His instincts about these people seemed

correct so far. From what little he could see beyond the tent, this was a small camp,

perhaps just the six riders and their families, maybe a few more. But he could see a

picket line for horses, and by rough estimation there were at least two or three mounts

for every person here.

On the other side of the tent he heard voices, speaking softly. He strained to

listen to the alien language. He sat back. A word here or there was tantalizing to him.

Kaspar had a quick grasp of languages. As heir to his father's throne, it had been

judged necessary for him to learn the educated speech of the surrounding nations, so

he spoke fluent, unaccented King's Tongue—the language of the Kingdom of the

Isles—as well as those languages related to his native Olaskon, all descended from

Roldemish. He also spoke flawless court Keshian and had taken the time to learn a

little Quegan, a variant on Keshian that had evolved on its own after the Quegan

Kingdom had successfully revolted from the Empire of Great Kesh nearly two

centuries earlier.

In his travels he had picked up patois and cants from half a dozen regions of

those foreign nations, and something about what he was now hearing sounded very

familiar. He closed his eyes and let his thoughts wander as he eavesdropped on the

conversation.

Then he heard a word: ak-kdwa. Acqua! The accent was thick, the emphasis

different, but it was Quegan for 'water'! They were talking about stopping somewhere

for water. He listened and let the words flow over him without trying to understand,

just allowing his ear to become used to the rhythms and tones, the patterns and

sounds.

For an hour he sat there, listening. At first he could recognize one word in a

hundred. Then perhaps one word in fifty. He was recognizing one word in a dozen

when he heard footsteps approaching. He slumped down and feigned uncon-

sciousness.

Kaspar heard two sets of footfalls draw near. In a low voice one man spoke.

Kaspar heard the words 'good' and 'strong' from one man. There followed a quick

conversation. From what Kaspar could judge, one man was arguing to kill him where

he lay because he might be more trouble than he was worth, but the other argued he

had value because he was strong and good at something, probably with a sword, since

it was the only skill Kaspar had demonstrated before being overwhelmed.

It took total control on Kaspar's part not to move when an ungentle boot prodded

him to see if he was truly unconscious. Then the two men departed.

Kaspar waited and when he was certain they were gone, he chanced a peek and

caught a glimpse of the men's backs as they walked around the tent.

He sat up.

He fought to keep his mind focused on what he was hearing, and started to

wrestle with his bindings. The danger would be to become so intent upon escaping he

wouldn't hear anyone approach. He knew his best chance for escape was this first

night, while they thought him still unconscious. He had very few advantages. They

probably knew the surrounding countryside and were experienced trackers.

His only edge was surprise. Kaspar was a skilled enough hunter to know what

cunning prey could do. He needed at least an hour's start on his captors, but first he

had to free himself of the leather bindings around his wrist.

He gave in to the unreasonable desire to test the bindings, and found them tight

enough to cause pain when he tried to pull his hands apart. He couldn't see, but they

felt like rawhide.

If he could get them wet they would stretch and he might be able to slip them off.

After a futile period of struggle, he turned his attention to the rope he could see.

He knew he would have little chance of getting the rope off the peg without bringing

down the entire tent, but he could think of no other option. He had to turn first one

way, then the other, to come to the conclusion that this was impossible with his hands

tied behind him.

Kaspar sat and waited. As the hours dragged by, the camp quietened. He heard

footsteps and once more feigned unconsciousness as someone came to check on him

before turning in for the night. He let minutes drag by until he was certain that those

inside the tent were asleep. Then he sat up. He glanced at the sky and was greeted

with a display of alien stars. Like most men of his ocean-going nation, he could

navigate by the stars, either on land or sea, but above him lay constellations unknown.

He would have to rely upon basic navigation skills until he became used to the

display above. He knew where the sun had set, marked in his mind by a spiral of rock

in the distance he had glimpsed just before sunset. Which meant he knew where north

was.

North and east was his most likely route home. Kaspar had read sufficiently to

know where the continent of Novindus lay, relative to Olasko. Depending on where

on this continent he found himself, his best chance to get to Olasko was to work his

way to a place called the City of the Serpent River. There was almost no trade

between this land and those on the other side of the world, but whatever trade there

was started in that city. From there he could find his way to the Sunset Isles, and from

there to Krondor. Once in the Kingdom of the Isles, he could walk home if he had to.

He knew he was almost certain to fail in the attempt, but whatever was to happen

to him, let it happen as he struggled to return home.

Home, he thought bitterly. A day earlier he had been home, ruling his nation,

before being taken captive in his own citadel, defeated by a former servant he had

thought as good as dead. He had spent the night in chains considering the dramatic

reversal of fortune that had overwhelmed him, and had fully expected to be hanged by

now.

Instead, Talwin Hawkins, his former servant, had forgiven him, and he had been

banished to this distant land. Kaspar was uncertain as to what exactly had transpired

over the previous few days. In fact, he was beginning to wonder if he had truly been

himself for the last few years.

He had heard guards talking outside his quarters while he had been awaiting

what he anticipated would be his execution. Leso Varen, his magician advisor, had

been killed in the battle for the citadel. The magician had first come to him years

earlier, promising great power in exchange for Kaspar's protection. His presence had

been only a minor distraction at first and he had from time to time provided useful

service.

Kaspar took a deep breath and returned his attention to gaining his freedom.

文档加载中……请稍候！
如果长时间未打开，您也可以点击刷新试试。

下载文档到电脑，查找使用更方便

5.9 玖币 0人已下载

立即下载 VIP免费下载

摘要：

[Version0.9—scannedbybodafon][Version1.0—proofreadandformattedbybraven]RaymondE.FeistExile’sReturnCHAPTERONECaptiveTHERIDERSCAMEATHIM.Kaspar,whohaduntilthedaybeforeheldthetitleofDukeofOlasko,waited,holdinghischainsready.Momentsbeforehehadbeendepositedonthisdustyplainbyatallwhite-hairedmagicianwho,wi...

展开>> 收起<<

Raymond E. Feist - Conclave of Shadows 3 - Exile's Return.pdf

共193页,预览5页

还剩页未读，继续阅读

声明：本站为文档C2C交易模式，即用户上传的文档直接被用户下载，本站只是中间服务平台，本站所有文档下载所得的收益归上传人(含作者)所有。玖贝云文库仅提供信息存储空间，仅对用户上传内容的表现方式做保护处理，对上载内容本身不做任何修改或编辑。若文档所含内容侵犯了您的版权或隐私，请立即通知玖贝云文库，我们立即给予删除！

Raymond E. Feist - Conclave of Shadows 3 - Exile's Return

相关推荐

开通VIP享超值会员特权

作者详情

相关内容

热门标签

举报选择: