Raymond E. Feist - Riftwar Legends - Honoured Enemy

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PROLOGUE

INTELLIGENCE

The rain had stopped.

Lord Brucal, Knight-Marshal of the Armies of the West, entered the command pavilion, snorting like

a warhorse and swearing under his breath. 'Damn weather,' he finally said. The elderly general,

still broad-shouldered and fit, ran a gloved hand back from his forehead, getting the damn hair

out of his eyes.

Borric, Duke of Crydee, and his second-in-command looked at his old friend with a wry smile.

Brucal was a steadfast warrior and a reliable ally in the politics of the Kingdom of the Isles, as

well as an able field general. But he had a tendency towards vanity, though. Borric knew he was

getting irritated by the regal mane of hair now being plastered to his skull.

'Still sick?' Borric was a striking man of middle years, with more black in his hair and beard

than grey. He had on his usual garments of black - the only colour he had donned since the death

of his wife many years before - and over this he wore the brown tabard of Crydee, emblazoned with

a golden gull above which perched a small golden crown, signifying Borric's royal blood. His eyes

were dark and piercing, and currently showed a slight amusement at his old friend's bluster.

As Borric expected, the old grey-bearded duke swore an oath. 'I'm not sick, damn it! Just a bit of

a sniffle.'

Borric remembered Brucal when he was a young man, visiting Borric's father at Crydee, his

laughter, with his robust joy and a glint in his eye. Even when his reddish-brown hair and beard

had turned grey, Brucal had been a man who lived each day to the fullest. Today was the first time

Borric recognized that Brucal was now an old man.

On the other hand, it had to be said that Brucal was an old man who could quickly draw a sword and

do considerable harm. And he refused to admit he was ill.

Brucal pulled off his heavy gauntlets and handed them to an aide. He allowed another to remove the

heavy fur-lined weather-cloak he had worn from his own tent. He was dressed in simple blue

trousers and a grey tunic, his tabard left behind in his tent. 'And this bloody rain doesn't

help.'

'Another week of this and the snows will be falling in earnest.'

'According to our scouts, it's already snowing heavily up north, around the Lake of the Sky,'

replied Brucal. 'We should consider sending the reserves back to LaMut and Yabon for the winter.'

Borric nodded. 'We might get one more week of clement weather before the winter storms come,

though. Just enough time for the Tsurani to start something. I think we'll keep half of the

reserves close by, I'll order the other half back to LaMut.'

Brucal looked at the campaign map on the large table before Borric. He said, 'They haven't been

doing much, lately, have they?'

'The same as last year,' said Borric, pointing at the map. 'A sortie here, a raid there, but

there's little evidence they seek to expand much any more.'

Borric studied the map: the invading Tsurani had taken a large chunk of the Grey Tower Mountains

and the Free Cities of Natal, but had seemed satisfied to hold a stable front for the last five

years of the war. The dukes had managed one successful raid through the valley in the mountains

the Tsurani had used as their beachhead, and since then intelligence about what was occurring

behind enemy lines was non-existent.

Brucal blew his nose in a rag used to oil weapons, and then threw it into a brazier nearby. His

large nose now looked red and shiny. The nine-year campaign had taken its toll on him, Borric

noticed.

Borric thought back a moment to when the first sightings of the Tsurani invaders had been

reported, by two boys at his own keep who had found a wrecked Tsurani ship on the headlands near

his castle at Crydee. Later, word had been brought by the Elven Queen of aliens in the forests

that lay between her own Elvandar and the Duchy of Crydee.

The world had changed: the fact of an alien invasion from another world via a magic gate was no

longer a source of wonder. Borric had a war to fight and win. He had added some marks with brush

and ink to the campaign map.

'What's this?' asked Brucal, pointing to a notation Borric had added earlier in the morning.

'Another migration of Dark Brothers. It looks as if a fairly large contingent of them are moving

down the southern foothills of the Great Northern Mountains. They're treading a narrow path near

the elven forests. I can't understand why they'd come over the mountains at this time of year.'

'Those blackhearts don't have to have a reason,' observed Brucal.

Borric nodded. 'My son Arutha reported a large force tangled with the Tsurani while they were

besieging my castle five years ago. But those were Dark Brothers driven from the Grey Towers by

the Tsurani; they were striking north to join their kin in the Northlands. They've been quiet

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since then.'

'There's one possibility.'

Borric shrugged. 'I'm listening, old friend.'

'That's a bloody long trek for nothing,' observed Brucal, as he wiped his nose with the back of

his hand. 'They're not fools.'

'The Dark Brotherhood is many things, but never stupid,' agreed Borric. 'If they're moving in

force, it's for a reason.'

'Where are they now?'

Borric said, 'Last reports from the scouts near the Elven Forest. They're avoiding the dwarves at

Stone Mountain and the elven patrols, heading east.'

'Lake of the Sky is the only destination,' said Brucal, 'unless they're going to turn south and

attack the elves or the Tsurani.'

'Why Lake of the Sky?'

'It makes sense if they're trying to get up to the eastern side of the Northlands. There's a spur

of mountains that runs north-east out of the Teeth of the World, hundreds of miles long and

impassable. Over the Great Northerns, past the Lake of the Sky, and up a trail back north over the

Teeth of the World is a short-cut, actually.' The old duke stroked his still-wet beard. 'It's one

of the reasons we have so much trouble with the bastards up in Yabon.'

Borric nodded. 'They tend to leave us alone in Crydee, compared to the encounters your garrisons

have with them.'

'I just wish I knew why they were out in force, heading east, this close to winter,' muttered

Brucal.

'Something's up,' said Borric.

Brucal nodded. 'I've been fighting Clan Raven since I was a boy.' He fell silent for a moment.

'Their paramount chieftain is a murderous dog named Murad. If this bunch from the Northlands is

looking to join with him ...'

'What?'

'I don't know, but it'll be bad.' Looking over the rest of the map, Brucal asked, 'Do we have

anyone in that area now?'

'Just the garrison forts along the Tsurani front, and a few last patrols before winter,' Borric

replied.

Brucal leaned close to inspect each of the small ink marks on the map, then made a sound half-way

between a snort and a laugh. 'Hartraft.'

'Who?' asked Borric.

'Son of one of my squires. Dennis Hartraft. Runs a company of thugs and cut-throats called the

Marauders for Baron Moyet. He's up there.'

'What's he doing?' asked Borric. 'The name is familiar, but I don't recall any reports from him.'

'Dennis is not one for paperwork,' said Brucal. 'What he's doing is unleashing bloody murder on

the Tsurani. It's personal with him.'

'Can we get word to him about this Dark Brothers migration?'

'He's an independent. He'll come back to Moyet's camp for the winter in the next week or two. I'll

send word to the Baron to get whatever information from Dennis he can.' Then Brucal laughed.

'Though it would be fitting for him and Clan Raven to tangle if it comes to that.'

'Why?'

Brucal said, 'Too long a story to tell now. Just say there's even more history between his family

and Murad's blood-drinkers than there is between him and the Tsurani.'

'So what happens if this Hartraft and the Dark Brothers meet up?'

Brucal sighed, and wiped his nose. 'A lot of people are going to get dead.'

Borric took a step away from the map table and looked out of the pavilion's door. A light mix of

rain and snow was starting to fall. After a moment, he said, 'Maybe they'll miss each other and

Hartraft will get back to Moyet's camp.'

'Maybe,' said Brucal. 'But if that bunch from the north gets between Dennis and Moyet's camp, or

some bunch from Clan Raven moves to meet with them ...'

Brucal let the thought go unfinished. Borric knew what he thought. If that many Brothers got

between Hartraft and his base, the chances for the Kingdom soldiers returning home alive were

nearly non-existent. Borric let his mind wander for a moment, considering the cold hills of the

north and the icy winter almost upon them, then he brushed away the thoughts. There were other

fronts and other conflicts to worry about, and he couldn't help Hartraft and his men, even if he

knew where they were. Too many men had already died in this war for him to lose sleep about

another high-risk unit out behind enemy lines. Besides, maybe they'd get lucky.

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ONE

GRIEVING

The ground was frozen.

Captain Dennis Hartraft, commander of the Marauders, was silent, staring at the shallow grave

hacked into the frozen earth. The winter had arrived fast and hard, and earlier than usual; and

after six days of light snow and freezing temperatures, the ground was now yielding only with a

grudge.

So damned cold, he thought. It was bad enough you couldn't give the men a proper funeral pyre

here, lest the smoke betray their position to the Tsurani, but being stuck behind enemy lines

meant the dead couldn't even be taken back to the garrison for cremation. Just a hole in the

ground to keep the wolves from eating them. Is this all there really is in the end, just the

darkness and the icy embrace of the grave? With his left hand - his sword hand - he absently

rubbed his right shoulder. The old wound always seemed to ache the most when snow lay on the

ground.

A priest of Sung, mumbling a prayer, walked around the perimeter of the grave, making a sign of

blessing. Dennis stood rigid, watching as some of the men also made signs to a different god -

mostly to Tith-Onaka, God of War - while others remained motionless. A few looked towards him, saw

his eyes, then turned away.

The men could sense his swallowed rage . .. and his emptiness.

The priest fell silent, head lowered, hands moving furtively, placing a ward upon the grave. The

Goddess of Purity would protect the dead from defilement. Dennis shifted uncomfortably, looking up

at the darkening clouds which formed an impenetrable wall of grey to the west. Over in the east,

the sky darkened.

Night was coming on, and with it the promise of more snow, the first big storm of the year. Having

lived in the region for years, Dennis knew that a long, hard winter was fast upon them, and his

mission had to be to get his men safely back to their base at Baron Moyet's camp. And if enough

snow fell in the next few days, that could prove problematic.

The priest stepped back from the grave, raised his hands to the dark heavens and started to chant

again.

'The service is ended,' Dennis said. He didn't raise his voice, but his anger cut through the

frigid air like a knife.

The priest looked up, startled. Dennis ignored him, and turned to face the men gathered behind

him. 'You've got one minute to say farewell.'

Someone came up to Dennis's side and cleared his throat. Without even looking, Dennis knew it was

Gregory of Natal. And he understood his lack of civility to the Priest of Sung was ill-advised.

'We're still behind enemy lines, Father. We move out as soon as the scout comes back,' Dennis

heard Gregory say to the priest. 'Winter comes fast and we'd best be safely at Brendan's Stockade

should a blizzard strike.'

Dennis looked over his shoulder at Gregory, the towering, dark-skinned Natalese Ranger attached to

his command.

Gregory returned his gaze, the flicker of a smile in his eyes. As always, it annoyed Dennis that

the Ranger unfailingly seemed to know what he was thinking and feeling. He turned away and,

pointing at the squad of a dozen men who had dug the shallow grave shouted: 'Don't just stand

there gawking, fill it in!'

The men set to work as Dennis stalked off to the edge of the clearing which had once been a small

farmstead on the edge of the frontier, long since abandoned in this the ninth year of the Riftwar.

His gaze lingered for a second on the caved-in ruins of the cabin, the decaying logs, the

collapsed and blackened beams of the roof. Saplings, already head-high, sprouted out of the

wreckage. It triggered a memory of other ruins, but they were fifty miles from this place and he

forced them out of his mind. That was a memory he had learned long ago to avoid

He scanned the forest ahead, acting as if he was waiting for the return of their scouts. Normally,

Gregory would lead any scouting patrols, but Dennis wanted him close by, in case they had to beat

a swift retreat. Years of operating successfully behind Tsurani lines had taught him when to

listen to his gut. Besides, the scout who was out there was the only one in the company able to

surpass Gregory's stealth in the forest.

Resisting the urge to sigh, Dennis quietly let his breath out slowly and leaned against the trunk

of a towering fir. The air was crisp with the smell of winter, the brisk aroma of pine, the clean

scent of snow, but he didn't notice any of that; it was as if the world around him was truly dead,

and he was one of the dead as well. All his attention was focused, instead, on the sound of the

frozen earth being shovelled back into the grave behind him.

The priest, startled by the irreverent display, had watched Dennis leave the group and then

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stepped up to Gregory's side and glanced up at the towering Natalese, but Gregory simply shook his

head and looked around at the company. All were silent, save for the sound of a few desultory

shovels striking the icy soil; all of them were gazing at their leader as he walked away and

passed into the edge of the surrounding forest.

Gregory cleared his throat again, this time loudly and having caught the men's attention he

motioned for them to get on with the work at hand.

'He hates me,' Father Corwin said, a touch of sadness in his voice.

'No, Father. He just hates all of this.' Gregory nodded at the wreckage of battle that littered

the small clearing: the trampled-down snow - much of it stained a slushy pink - broken weapons,

arrows, and the fifty-two Tsurani corpses that lay where they fell, including the wounded who had

been finished off with a knife across the throat.

His gaze was fixed on the priest. 'The fact that you accidentally caused this fight, that wasn't

your fault.'

The priest wearily shook his head. 'I'm sorry. I was lost out here and didn't know the Tsurani

were so close behind me.'

Gregory stared straight into the pale-blue eyes of the old priest but the priest looked straight

back at him, not flinching, not lowering his gaze even for an instant. Mendicant priests of any

order, even those of the Goddess of Purity, had to be tough enough to live off the land and

whatever bounty providence offered. Gregory had no doubt that the mace at the priest's belt was

not unblooded and that Father Corwin had faced his share of dangers over the years. Besides,

Gregory was an experienced judge of men, and while this priest seemed meek at the moment, there

was obvious hardness beneath the apparently mild exterior.

'I wish I'd never left my monastery to come here and help out,' the priest sighed, finally

dropping his gaze. 'We got lost, brothers Valdin, Sigfried and I. We were making for the camp of

Baron Moyet, took a wrong turn on the trail and found ourselves behind the Tsurani lines.'

'Only Rangers and elves travel these paths without risk of getting lost, Father,' Gregory offered.

'These woods are treacherous. It is said that at times the forest itself will hide trails and make

new ones to lead the unwary astray.'

'Brothers Valdin and Sigfried were captured,' the priest continued, spilling out his story. 'I

escaped. I was off the trail, relieving myself, when the Tsurani patrol took them. I ran in the

opposite direction after my brothers were dragged away. I was a coward.'

The Natalese Ranger shrugged. 'Some might call it prudence, rather than cowardice. You denied the

Tsurani a third prisoner.'

The priest still appeared unconvinced.

'There was nothing you could have done for them,' Gregory added with certainty, 'except join them

as a captive.'

Corwin seemed slightly more reassured. 'It was foolish of me to have run, you'll agree. Had I been

more stealthy I'd not have led them to you. When I saw one of your men hiding off the side of the

trail, I just naturally went straight to him.'

Gregory's eyes narrowed. 'Well, if he'd been doing a better job of hiding, you wouldn't have seen

him, then, would you?'

'I didn't know they -' he pointed towards the Tsurani corpses littering the field '- were right

behind me.'

Gregory nodded.

What should have been a clean, quick ambush incurring minimal loss had turned into a bloodbath.

Eighteen men from the Marauders - nearly a quarter of Dennis's command - were dead, and six more

were seriously wounded. As it was, the engagement had been a Kingdom victory, but at far greater

cost than was necessary.

The priest rambled on, starting his tale yet again. Gregory continued to study him. It was obvious

the man was badly shaken. He was poorly dressed, wearing sandals rather than boots. A couple of

toes were already showing signs of frostbite. His hands shook slightly, and his voice was near to

breaking.

The priest fell silent, and took a long moment to compose himself. At last, he let out a long

sigh, then looked over to Dennis who stood alone, at the edge of the clearing. 'What is wrong with

your commander?' he asked.

'His oldest friend is in that grave,' Gregory said quietly, nodding down at the eighteen bodies

lying side by side in the narrow trench hacked out of the freezing ground. 'Jurgen served Dennis's

grandfather before he served the grandson. The land the Tsurani now occupy, part of it once

belonged to Dennis's family. His father was Squire of Valinar, a servant of Lord Brucal. They lost

everything early on in the war. Word of the invasion hadn't even reached Valinar before the

Tsurani. The old Squire and his men didn't even know who they were fighting when they died. Dennis

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and Jurgen were among a handful of survivors of the initial assault; Jurgen was his last link to

that past.' Gregory paused, transferring his gaze to Father Corwin. 'And now that link is gone.'

'I'm sorry,' the priest replied softly, 'I wish none of this had ever happened,'

'Well, Father, it happened,' Gregory said evenly. .

The priest looked up at him, and there was moisture in his eyes. 'I'm sorry,' he said one more

time.

Gregory nodded. 'As my grandmother said, "Sorry won't unbreak the eggs." Just clean up the mess

and move on. Let's find you some boots or you'll lose all your toes before tomorrow.'

'Where?'

'Off the dead of course.' Gregory indicated boots, weapons, and cloaks that had been stripped off

the dead before they were buried.

'They don't need them any more, and the living do,' he added matter-of-factly. 'We honour their

memory, but it's no use burying perfectly good weapons and boots with them.' He motioned with his

chin. 'That pair over there looks about your size.'

Father Corwin shuddered but went over and picked up the boots, the Natalese had indicated

As the priest untied his sandals, Alwin Barry, the newly-appointed sergeant for the company,

approached the edge of the grave, picked up a clump of frozen earth and tossed it in.

'Save a seat for me in Tith's Hall,' he muttered, invoking the old belief among soldiers that the

valiant were hosted for one night of feasting and drinking by the God of War before being sent to

Lims-Kragma for judgment. Barry bowed his head for a moment in respect, then turned away, heading

over to the trail that went through the middle of the clearing, and called for the men to form up

in marching order.

Others hurriedly approached the grave, picking up handfuls of dirt and tossing them in. Some made

signs of blessing; one uncorked a drinking flask, raised it, took a drink then emptied the rest of

the brandy into the grave and threw the flask in.

Burial was not the preferred disposition of the dead in the Kingdom, but more than one soldier

rested under the soil over the centuries and soldiers had their own rituals for saying farewell to

the dead, rituals that had nothing to do with priests and gods. This wasn't about sending comrades

off to the Halls of Lims-Kragma, for they were already on their way. This was about saying goodbye

to men who had shed their blood alongside them just hours before. This was about saying farewell

to brothers.

Richard Kevinsson, the company's newest recruit, was one of the last to approach. A young squire

from Landonare, who had escaped from there when the Tsurani had overrun his family's estates, he

had joined full of blood and fire, vowing vengeance. Now there were tears in his eyes, his

features were pale, and a trickle of blood coursed down his cheek from a slashing blow that had

laid open his scalp just below the edge of his dented helmet. 'I'm sorry,' he gasped quietly. He

knelt down and picked up a clump of earth, his gaze fixed on the old sergeant-at-arms lying in the

centre of the grave, surrounded by his dead comrades. The grave-diggers were hard at work, but no

earth had yet to fall on Jurgen. The man could have been asleep; except for his blood-soaked tunic

he almost looked as if he would sit up and smile, revealing his crooked teeth. The young man had

often dreamed of his first battle, and the heroic deeds he would accomplish. Instead he had been

on the ground, looking up at his enemy like a frozen rabbit, fumbling for his dropped sword and

screaming in terror ... and then Jurgen had stormed in, cutting the Tsurani down with a single

blow.

In saving Richard, however, Jurgen had left himself open to an enemy spearman who had charged

straight in. Jurgen had been looking into Richard's eyes when the spear struck; there had been a

brief instant, almost a flicker of a smile, as if he was a kindly old man helping a child out of a

minor scrape, just before the Tsurani spear struck him from behind. Then the shock of the blow

distorted his face and the spear exploded out of his chest.

Richard had watched the life fade out of the old man's eyes. It was only a moment, yet it seemed

an eternity, the light fading, Richard knowing that the old man had made the sacrifice of his own

life without hesitation.

He looked down at Jurgen now. The corpse's eyes were closed, but in his mind, and in the

nightmares that would come for the rest of his life, the eyes would be open, gazing back at him.

'It should have been me instead of you,' Richard whispered, barely able to speak for his grief.

He bent almost double, sobs wracking his body. He knew the others were watching, judging him. Why

didn't they cry? he wondered, and he felt ashamed for all his failures this day.

He let the earth fall from his hand, recoiling as the clump hit Jurgen's face. Embarrassed, he

drew back and turned away, shoulders hunched, shaking as he struggled unsuccessfully to hide his

tears.

The few who followed Richard, most of them silent, tossed the ritual handful of earth into the

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Raymond E. Feist - Riftwar Legends - Honoured Enemy

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