The King’s Buccaneer. Raymond E. Feist
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into that bag.’
Nakor began to speak, but Nicholas interrupted: ‘I know. It’s a trick.’
Nakor laughed. ‘Maybe someday I’ll show you.’
Martin said, ‘Why has your Queen sent you south of river Crydee?’
‘We’re growing lax in our patrols, Lord Martin. Things have been peaceful too long on our borders.’
‘Trouble?’ said Martin, instantly alert.
Calis shrugged. ‘Not to talk about. A moredhel band crossed the river to the east of our borders a few months ago, heading south at great speed, but they did not trespass upon our lands, so we left them in peace.’ Nicholas knew of the elves’ dark cousins, called the Brotherhood of the Dark Path by humans. Their last rising had been broken at the Battle of Sethanon. ‘Tathar and the other Spellweavers speak of vague echoes of dark powers, but they can sense nothing that threatens us directly. So we mount more active patrols and venture farther from home than we have for years.’
‘Anything else?’
Calis said, ‘One report of a strange sighting near your new fortress up at Barran, near the river Sodina. Someone beached a long boat in the mouth of the river one night a few weeks ago. We found marks in the mud and tracks of men coming and going.’
Martin’s face reflected his consideration as he was silent for a moment. ‘No smuggler would be willing to come that close to a garrison; besides, there’s no one to trade with that far to the north.’
Marcus said, ‘Scouts?’
‘For whom?’ asked Nicholas.
Martin said, ‘We’ve no neighbors to the north, save goblins and moredhel. And they’ve been quiet since Sethanon.’
‘Not too quiet,’ said Calis. ‘We’ve had a few skirmishes along the northern borders of Elvandar.’
Marcus said, ‘Are they preparing to invade again?’
Calis said, ‘There’s no pattern to it. Father rode out and thinks it’s nothing more than migrations due to failed crops or clan wars. He sent word to the dwarves at Stone Mountain that they may have unwelcome neighbors soon.’
Suddenly Nicholas made the connection: this was Megar and Magya’s grandson! His father was Tomas, the legendary warrior from the Riftwar.
Martin nodded. ‘We’ll send word to Dolgan that they may be returning to the Grey Towers as well. It’s been more than thirty years since the great migration; the moredhel may be returning to their abandoned homelands.’
‘Thirty years is not very long as elvenkind counts time,’ observed Garret.
Marcus said, ‘To have the Dark Brothers in the Grey Towers and the Green Heart again would mean serious trouble.’
‘We send word to the commander at Jonril as well,’ said Martin. ‘If the Dark Brothers establish villages in the Green Heart, every caravan and mule train from Carse to Crydee is at risk.’
Marcus glanced around. ‘We should make camp, Father. The light is failing.’
Martin said, ‘Calis, will you join us?’
Calis glanced at the sky, noticing the fading light, then at his companions, who seemed to Nicholas to remain motionless, but after a moment he said, ‘We’d be pleased to share the fire with you.’
Turning to Nicholas and Harry, Martin said, ‘Better start gathering firewood, Squires. We make camp.’
Harry and Nicholas glanced at each other, but both knew it was futile to ask where one finds firewood. They moved away from the clearing and began looking about. Many fallen branches and some dead trees were in sight. As Nicholas started to pick out a deadfall, a hand touched him upon the shoulder. Nearly jumping straight up, he turned to find Marcus behind him, holding out a hatchet. ‘This might be easier than trying to chew through the branches,’ he said. He handed another to Harry.
Feeling foolish, Nicholas watched his cousin return to the others. He said, ‘Sometimes I could really learn to hate him.’
Harry began chopping at the deadfall. ‘He doesn’t seem overly fond of you, either.’
‘I have half a mind to take Abigail and return to Krondor with Amos.’
Harry laughed. ‘Oh, what I’d give to be a fly on the wall when you explain that to your father.’
Nicholas fell silent as he continued to hack away at the wood. When a full armload was ready, they gathered it up and returned to the clearing. Martin had already begun a fire with twigs and some moss, and fed the branches into the flames. ‘Good, this is a fine start. Bring us three times that, and we’ll have wood for the night.’
With a barely hidden groan, the dirty and sweating Squires returned to the deadfall and resumed hacking.
The sentry leaned out of the tower. Something was moving across the water into the harbor mouth. His station at the top of Longpoint lighthouse was the most vital post in the Duchy, as Crydee was more vulnerable from the sea than from any other quarter, a lesson hard learned during the Riftwar. The Tsurani had burned half the village with fewer than thirty men.
Then he saw: six low shapes gliding across the water. Each shallow boat was rowed by a dozen men, with another dozen standing in the middle, armed and ready.
The soldier had orders to toss a pot of special powder on the fire that would turn the flames bright red; then he was to strike a gong. Reivers were entering the harbor! As he turned, a line snapped out, weighted at one end, and before he could take another step, his neck was broken.
The assassin had concealed himself beneath the window of the tower, crouching low upon a support beam, barely two inches of which protruded beyond the stone. He quickly pulled himself into the window and removed the metal hooks he had used to climb the wall by embedding their points in the mortar between the stones. He hurried down the winding stairs, killing two more guards along the way. Three men served each night in the tower, with another three in a small guard shack at the base. As he reached the shack, the assassin saw three bodies slumped over a table, while a pair of black-clad forms moved away. He quickly overtook them, and the three killers hurried along the causeway of land called Longpoint that led from the town to the lighthouse. One of the black-garbed killers glanced toward the harbor. Another dozen pinnaces followed the first six, and the raid would soon begin in earnest. Still no alarm sounded, and all was proceeding as planned.
Longpoint broadened, with a low dock on one side and shops and storage buildings on the other. Silent ships rested alongside the quay, with half-alert sentries dozing upon their quarterdecks. A door opened as the three assassins passed, and the last patron of a dockside inn stumbled out. He was dead before he took two steps, as was the innkeeper who had shown him the door. One of the three killers glanced through the door, and the innkeeper’s wife died from an expertly thrown knife before she realized it was a stranger in the doorway instead of her husband.
They would fire the docks and destroy the ships at anchor, but not yet. It would alert the castle, and if the raid was to succeed, the garrison must not be roused until after the keep gates were opened.
The three killers reached the main docks. They passed one last ship in its berth and saw movement at the bow. One assassin drew back a throwing knife, ready to kill any who might give alarm too soon, but a familiar black-clad figure waved once, and climbed over the rail, shinnying down the bowline to join his three companions. The guards on that ship were now all dead. They continued south along the docks, to where they found the small boats pulling in. Two other black-garbed men waited. They kept their distance from the armed men who now silently climbed up from the shallow boats tied off below. This was a murderous crew, men of no loyalty and one goal: killing and booty. The six men in black felt no kinship with these brigands.
But even these hardened men stepped away in dread to clear a path for the hooded and robed figure who climbed up from the last boat. He motioned toward the castle, and the