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

      Locklear decided it was Owyn’s useful magic, and thanked the Goddess of Luck the boy had that much talent.

      Gorath was engaged with one man while Locklear advanced on the other. Suddenly their garb registered and he said, ‘Quegans!’

      The men were wearing short tunics and leggings, and cross-gartered sandals. The man facing Locklear had his head covered with a red bandanna, and over his shoulder hung a baldric from which a cutlass had hung. The cutlass was now carving through the air at Locklear’s head.

      He parried and the blow shot fire through his wounded side. Putting aside his pain, Locklear riposted and the pirate fell back. A strangled cry told Locklear the second pirate was down.

      The strange missile sensation sped by and the man facing Locklear winced and held his hand up as if shielding his eyes. Locklear didn’t hesitate and ran the man through.

      Gorath killed the last man and suddenly it was quiet again in the woods.

      Locklear’s side was afire but he didn’t feel any additional damage. He put up his sword and said, ‘Damn me.’

      ‘Are you hurt?’ asked Owyn.

      ‘No,’ answered Locklear.

      ‘Then what is the problem?’ asked Owyn.

      Locklear looked around the clearing. ‘These are the problem. Someone has gotten word ahead of us. We can be certain of that.’

      ‘How?’ asked Gorath.

      ‘These are Quegan pirates,’ said Locklear. ‘Look at their weapons.’

      ‘I wouldn’t know a Quegan if I tripped over him,’ said Owyn. ‘I’ll take your word for it, squire.’

      ‘Do not pirates usually ply their trade at sea?’ asked Gorath.

      ‘They do,’ said Locklear, ‘unless someone’s paid them to stake out a road and wait for three travellers on foot.’ He knelt next to the man who had died at his feet and said, ‘Look at his hands. Those are the hands of a man used to handling rope. Those Quegan cutlasses are the clincher.’ He examined the man, looking for a pouch or purse, saying, ‘Look for anything that might be a message.’

      They did and came away with a little gold and a couple of daggers in addition to the four cutlasses. But no messages or notes, nothing indicating who had hired the pirates. ‘We’re not close enough to Ylith for a band of pirates to have made it this far north undetected in the time since we left Yabon.’

      ‘Someone must have sent word south when I left the Northlands,’ said Gorath.

      ‘But how?’ asked Owyn. ‘You’ve told me you only spent a couple of days in Tyr-Sog, and you were riding until yesterday.’

      ‘That’s an odd question for a student of magic,’ observed Gorath.

      Owyn blushed a little. ‘Oh.’

      ‘You’ve Spellweavers who can do such?’ asked Locklear.

      ‘Not such as the eledhel – those you call “elves” – call Spellweavers. But we have our practitioners of magic. And there are others of your race who will sell their arts.’

      Owyn said, ‘I’ve never witnessed it, but I have heard of a talent called “mind speech” which allows a spell-caster to speak with another. And there’s something known as “dream speech” as well. Either –’

      ‘Someone really wants you dead, don’t they?’ observed Locklear, interrupting the boy.

      ‘Delekhan,’ said Gorath. ‘And he was gathering to his side any of my people who showed such talents. I know his goals, but not his plan. And if magic arts are part of it, I fear the results.’

      Locklear said, ‘I understand that. I’ve had my share of encounters with people using magic who shouldn’t.’ He glanced at Owyn and said, ‘That blinding trick was quite good, lad.’

      Looking embarrassed, Owyn said, ‘I thought it might help. I know a few spells like that, but nothing that would overpower an enemy. Still, I’ll try to help where I can.’

      Glancing at Owyn, Locklear said, ‘I know. Let’s get to LaMut.’

      

      LaMut stood astride the road south, requiring anyone travelling from Yabon to Ylith to pass through its gates or endure a long trek to the east through dangerous foothills.

      The foulbourgh of the city sprawled in all directions, while the old walls of the city stood behind, nearly useless now, given the ease with which any attacker could mount the buildings next to them and gain the parapet from their roofs.

      It was nearly sundown and all three travellers were tired, footsore, and hungry. ‘We can present ourselves to Earl Kasumi tomorrow.’

      ‘Why not now?’ asked Owyn. ‘I could use a meal and a bed.’

      ‘Because the garrison is up there,’ said Locklear, pointing at a distant fortress high above the city on a hillside, ‘and that would be another two hours’ walk, whereas a cheap inn is but one minute that way.’ He pointed at the gate.

      ‘Will your countrymen object to my presence?’ asked Gorath.

      ‘They would if they suspected your nature. If they think you an elf from Elvandar, they may only stare a little. Come on. We’ve looted enough gold for a night of relative comfort, and in the morning we’ll visit the Earl and see if he can get us safely to Krondor.’

      They entered the city under the watchful gaze of otherwise bored-looking soldiers. One of them stood out from his companions, being shorter, and much more businesslike in his manner. Locklear smiled and nodded at the guards, but the three travellers didn’t stop or speak. A short distance inside the city gates sat an inn, marked by a wagon wheel painted bright blue. ‘There,’ said Locklear.

      They entered the inn, busy, but not crowded, and moved to a table near the far wall. As they sat a stout young serving woman came, took their order for food and ale, and left. As they were waiting, Locklear spied a figure on the other side of the room staring at him.

      It took a moment for Locklear to realize the figure wasn’t a man, but a dwarf. The dwarf stood and made his way across the room. He bore a large scar across his face, cutting through his left eye. He stood before them and said, ‘You don’t recognize me, do you, Locky?’

      Locklear realized the last time he had seen the dwarf he had not borne the scar he now sported, but at hearing his name from the dwarf’s lips, he said, ‘Dubal! Without the eye-patch, it took me a moment.’

      The dwarf moved to sit next to Owyn, across from Gorath. ‘I won this face in battle, from one of his kin –’ he pointed at Gorath ‘– and I’ll be a dragon’s mother before I hide it again.’

      ‘Dubal found me hiding in a cellar after the Battle of Sethanon,’ said Locklear.

      ‘Locked in there with a pretty wench, if memory serves.’ The dwarf laughed.

      Locklear shrugged. ‘Well, that was by chance.’

      Dubal said, ‘Now tell me, what is a seigneur of the Prince’s court doing sitting in LaMut with a moredhel warchief?’ He kept his voice low, but Owyn glanced around to see if anyone had overheard him.

      ‘You know me?’ asked Gorath.

      ‘I know your race, for you are the enemy of my blood, and I know your armour for what it is. A human might not notice, but we of the Grey Towers have fought your kind long enough I wouldn’t mistake you for one from Elvandar. It’s only your present company that keeps me from killing you here and now.’

      Locklear held up his hand. ‘I would count it a kindness and a personal favour, as would Prince Arutha, should you imagine this person on my left to be an elf.’

      ‘I think I can manage. But you’ll have to come to the Grey Towers