The Complete Legends of the Riftwar Trilogy: Honoured Enemy, Murder in Lamut, Jimmy the Hand. Raymond E. Feist

forest on the trail ahead and Dennis relaxed, too.

      The shadow stepped out from behind a tree, raised a hand and Dennis motioned for him to come in. The scout sprinted forward. He was clad in a white tunic streaked with cross-hatching lines of grey and black, the uniform designed by Dennis for the Marauders to wear during winter campaigning in the deep forest. He ran lightly, in the way only an elf could run, so softly that even in snow it was said they at times they would leave no prints.

      As he approached Dennis, he nodded, and with a hand signal motioned for him to follow.

      It was a bit of protocol that at times bothered Dennis. The scout was Gregory’s companion, not officially part of Dennis’s command, and as such he would report first to his friend. This, as much as anything else, was the reason Dennis preferred having Gregory lead any scouting mission; when the Natalese Ranger returned from a mission, he reported to Dennis. Dennis, for not the first time, considered it a petty irritation, yet he couldn’t rid himself of it.

      ‘Tinuva,’ several of the men sighed, as the elf came into the clearing. They were obviously relieved. Weapons were resheathed.

      The elf nodded a greeting. He looked over at the burial detail, busy filling in the grave and paused for a moment, head lowered, offering his thoughts for the fallen. At last, he looked back at Gregory. ‘You were right, two of them did escape.’ he announced.

      ‘And?’ Gregory asked.

      ‘Good fighters, tough, a long chase,’ Tinuva said, matter-of-factly.

      ‘So you got all them?’ Dennis asked.

      The elf shook his head. He was obviously winded after the long chase.

      Dennis pulled a flask out from under his tunic and handed it over. After nodding his thanks, the elf drank then handed the flask back.

      ‘Not sure,’ Tinuva replied. ‘Their commander might have sent a runner back before the fight even started. There were too many tracks on the trail to tell. If I had more time to follow the way they came, I would know for certain, but you stressed getting back here quickly.’

      Dennis cursed silently.

      ‘Then we must assume someone did get out,’ Gregory announced.

      ‘I always assume that,’ Dennis said coolly.

      Gregory did not reply.

      ‘I sense something else here as well,’ the elf said.

      ‘The Dark Brothers?’ Gregory asked and the elf nodded.

      ‘Did you see signs?’ Dennis interjected.

      The elf reached into a pouch dangling from his belt and drew out the broken shaft of an arrow. ‘It’s their make – Clan Raven. Not more than a league from here. I came across tracks as I was returning here after finding the two Tsurani. There was blood on the snow. Someone killed a stag, quartered it and then headed back north. Four of them, early this morning, an hour after the snow started to fall today.’

      ‘Only four?’ Dennis asked.

      The elf shook his head. ‘No, there are more. What I found was just a hunting party foraging for food. The forest whispers of them. They’re out here: something is stirring.’ The elf nodded towards the mountains to the north, barely visible in a gathering darkness, to the north.

      ‘How many?’

      Tinuva closed his eyes for a moment, as if to aid his thinking. ‘Hard to tell,’ he whispered. ‘We eledhel have history with the moredhel.’

      Gregory gave a quick shake of his head to Dennis, warning him not to ask anything more.

      ‘They are as difficult to track as we are, unless they are close by or out in large numbers.’ He looked northward again. ‘Up there, distant, but in large numbers, I would judge.’

      ‘Why?’ asked Father Corwin, who was standing at the edge of the group.

      Several of the men turned to look at the priest. Suddenly embarrassed, Father Corwin lowered his eyes.

      No one answered. Finally the elf stirred.

      ‘Holy one,’ Tinuva said, softly. ‘Something is beginning to stir amongst those you call the Brotherhood of the Dark Path. This war with the Tsurani diverts us away from the threat of the dark ones to the north. Perhaps they see an advantage to be gained from humans slaughtering each other. Perhaps they seek to return south to the Green Heart and the Grey Towers – it isn’t hard to imagine they’ve worn out their welcome with the clans of the Northlands after nine winters.’

      Gregory said, ‘Are they moving south?’

      Tinuva shrugged. ‘The hunters whose signs I saw may have been foraging ahead of a larger company, or on the flank. It’s difficult to know if they’re heading south or in this direction.’

      ‘All the more reason for us to get the hell out of here now,’ Dennis interjected sharply. ‘We’ve been behind the lines too damn long as it is; the men deserve to spend the rest of the winter in Tyr-Sog getting drunk and spending their pay on whores.’

      He looked back at the burial party. They were nearly finished; a couple of men were dragging out deadfall and branches to throw over the grave. Several of the men were already returning to the ranks, hooking the short-handled shovels onto their backpacks. A trained eye could easily pick out the burial site today but if it continued to snow, by tomorrow the grave and the nearby Tsurani dead would have disappeared. By springtime, when the snows melted and grass fed by the richness beneath sprang up, it would have disappeared back into the forest.

      ‘Alwin, move the men out.’

      ‘Sir, you said you wanted to speak to the boy first,’ Alwin replied softly.

      Dennis nodded, scanning the line of troops. His gaze fell on Richard Kevinsson. ‘Boy, over here now,’ he snapped.

      Nervously Richard looked up.

      ‘The rest of you start moving,’ Dennis rapped out ‘we want to make Brendan’s Stockade and our own lines by morning.’

      Two men acting as trailbreakers sprinted forward, darting off to either side of the trail, lightly jumping over deadfalls and around tree trunks. Within seconds they had disappeared into the forest. Half a dozen men, the advanced squad, set out next, moving down the trail at a slow trot.

      Richard Kevinsson approached, obviously ill-at-ease. ‘Captain?’ he asked, his voice shaking.

      Dennis looked at Gregory, Tinuva, and the priest, his eyes commanding a dismissal. Tinuva stepped away, bowed in respect to the grave, then joined the column, but Gregory and the priest lingered.

      ‘Father, go join the wounded,’ Dennis said sharply.

      ‘I thank you for rescuing me, Captain,’ Father Corwin replied, ‘but I feel responsible for the trouble this lad is in and I wish to stay with him.’

      Dennis was about to bark an angry command, but a look in Gregory’s eyes stilled him. He turned his attention back to Richard. ‘When we return to Baron Moyet’s camp I will have you dropped from the rolls of the company.’

      ‘Sir?’ Richard’s voice started to break.

      ‘I enrolled you in the company because I felt sorry for your loss, boy. It reminded me of my own, I guess. But doing so was a mistake. In the last fortnight you have barely managed to keep up with our march. I heard a rumour that you fell asleep while on watch two nights ago.’

      He hesitated for an instant. It was Jurgen who had reported that, and then defended the boy, reminding Dennis that he had done so as well when out on his first campaign long years ago.

      ‘It was you that the priest saw from the trail wasn’t it?’

      The boy hesitated.

      ‘It’s not his fault,’ Father Corwin said, impassioned. ‘I stopped because I was exhausted from running.