The Riftwar Legacy: The Complete 4-Book Collection. Raymond E. Feist

Only the most grave tidings from the north would have me quit my post and hasten here. This is Gorath, Chieftain of the Ardanien, who has come to warn you.’

      ‘Warn me of what, moredhel?’ asked Arutha with a suspicious gaze. His previous experience with the moredhel was murder and deception.

      Gorath stepped forward. ‘I warn you of war and bloodshed. The war drums beat at Sar-Sargoth once more and the clans gather.’

      ‘For what purpose?’ asked Arutha.

      ‘Delekhan, Chieftain of the Darkanien, gathers the clans. He sings songs of power and musters to return south.’

      Arutha said, ‘Why? For what purpose?’

      Gorath said, ‘He swears that Murmandamus lives, and that you hold him captive in the city of Sethanon. And he swears by the blood of our ancestors we must return to free our leader.’

      Arutha sat stunned. He had killed Murmandamus, though few had witnessed the duel. He also knew that Murmandamus had been a fraud, perpetrated by the Pantathian Serpent Priests to gull the moredhel into serving their dark cause.

      Arutha stood. ‘We will speak of this in my private council.’ He bowed to his wife, then motioned to Makala. ‘If you would join us?’

      The Tsurani magician nodded and rose, and Locklear saw he was unusually tall for a Tsurani, perhaps five feet ten inches in height. Makala spoke briefly to a servant, who bowed low and hurried off to do his master’s bidding.

      Locklear motioned for Owyn and Gorath to accompany him through large doors on the right of the dining hall, the entrance into the Royal Family’s private apartments. To Gorath he said, ‘I hope you have more to tell Arutha than that, or we’re both in deep trouble.’

      ‘More trouble than you know, human,’ said Gorath.

       • FIVE •

       Mission

      DRUMS THUNDERED ACROSS THE RIDGES.

      Gorath stood rooted in confusion. Part of him knew this was a memory, yet the experience was as real as when he had lived it. He clutched his hands and looked at them. They were small, a child’s hands. He glanced down and saw bare feet, and he had not gone barefoot since he was a boy.

      Atop the surrounding hills drummers pounded out their insistent rhythms as fires burned brightly in the night. Clans long at war with one another watched for signs of betrayal, but all had come to hear the Speaker. Gorath stumbled along, his feet leaden with mystic fatigue; no matter how hard he tried, he could not move quickly.

      The peace had fractured; he knew this. He knew his father’s people had been betrayed. He was but twelve summers of age and it should be centuries before the mantle of leadership fell to him, but fate ruled otherwise. Without being told he knew his father was dead.

      His mother came up behind him and said, ‘Move quickly. If you are to lead, you must first survive.’ Her voice echoed and was distant and when he turned to look back at her, she was gone.

      Suddenly he stood dressed in armour and boots; too big for him yet they were his own. His father had fallen when the Speaker’s peace had dissolved in fury. Like others before him, the Speaker had sought to raise the banner of Murmandamus, the only leader ever to unite the numerous clans of the moredhel. Now Gorath, a boy barely able to hold his dead father’s sword, stood before the men of the Hawk Clan, as dispirited a lot as had ever gathered around the fire. Gorath’s mother tapped him on the shoulder and he turned. ‘You must say something,’ she whispered.

      Looking at the men of his clan, Gorath could barely make a sound, yet these warriors, some alive more than a century, waited to hear a boy’s words. The words that were to lift them from the depths of their hopelessness. Looking from face to face, at last Gorath said, ‘We will endure.’

      A wave of pain gripped Gorath and he fell to his knees, and suddenly he was a man, kneeling before Bardol, swearing alliance in exchange for protection. Bardol had no sons and needed a strong husband for his daughter. Gorath had proven himself a wily leader, taking his people high up into the great ice mountains, living in caves lined with lichen, hunting bear and reindeer. For twenty-five years his people had survived, healed, and when he returned home, he had hunted down his father’s betrayer. He had entered the camp of Jodwah and thrown down the head of his brother, Ashantuk, at his feet in defiance. Then he had killed Jodwah in fair combat, and the warriors of the Lahuta, the Eagle Clan of the Northern Lakes had joined with the Hawk Clan of the Ice Peaks, and Gorath had emerged the leader of the Ardanien, the flying hunters in the ancient tongue. And he was but a stripling of thirty-seven summers, yet he commanded more than a hundred warriors.

      Twice more he had come to council called by chieftains who had claimed rights beyond their reach, and he had watched as battles had bled his people. He had been clever and kept his people outside such conflicts, and he had become a man to be sought out, to give counsel, because he had no ambitions of his own. Many trusted Gorath. He was approaching his prime and numbered a hundred and six years of age. A thousand swords did his bidding.

      Time was a river, and he swam in it. Wives – two women who had borne him children – he had seen the first dead from a human arrow: the other had left him. He had sons and a daughter, though none alive now. For even Gorath, he who was trusted for his wise counsel and cautious ways, even he had been swept up in the madness that had been Murmandamus.

      The one called Murmandamus had returned, as spoken of in the prophecies. He wore the mark of the dragon and possessed great powers. He was served by a priest of a far people, a creature who hid in heavy robes, and first among his followers was Murad, Chieftain of Clan Badger of the Teeth of the World. Gorath had seen Murad break a warrior’s back over his knee and knew that only the most powerful leader could command Murad’s allegiance. As a sign of Murmandamus’s potency, Murad had cut his own tongue, proof he would never betray his master.

      For the only time in his life, Gorath was caught up in madness. The blood pounded in his ears in harmony with the thunder of war drums in the mountain. He had led his army to the edge of the great Edder, and had fought the mad ones, Old King Redtree’s barbarians, and had held the flank while Murmandamus assaulted the human city of Sar-Isbandia, what the humans called Armengar.

      Thousands had died at Armengar, but his clan was whole. A few had fallen holding the flank against the forest and on the march through the pass the humans called Highcastle. There, at Highcastle, he had lost Melos, his blood kin, son to his mother’s sister. There at Highcastle, a third of the Ardanien had perished.

      Then had come Sethanon. The fighting had been brutal, but the city had been theirs. Yet at the moment of triumph, victory had been taken from them. Murmandamus had vanished. According to some of the warriors one moment he had stood in the barbican of the castle at Sethanon, and the next he was gone. Then the Keshians had arrived, and the Tsurani, and the battle had turned. The giants recruited from their high villages had been the first to flee, then the goblins, courageous when victorious, but quick to panic, had left the battle. It had been Gorath, the only surviving chieftain at the castle who had been the first to call the withdrawal. He had come looking for the master, because fighting had erupted between two rival clans over spoils, and only Murmandamus could settle the dispute. Humans had escaped because of the fighting. No one could find the master, and Gorath had cursed all omens, prophecies and heralds of destruction, and had returned to gather the Ardanien and lead them northward.

      Most of his warriors had survived, but many chieftains labelled Gorath and his followers as betrayers. For nine summers, the Ardanien lived in their valley, high up in the northern mountains, keeping their own counsel. Then had come the call.

      The banners were again raised and it was Delekhan, sworn enemy – son of the man who had slain Gorath’s father, and who had died at Gorath’s hands in turn – blood enemy from birth, who rallied the clans. Delekhan