Rides A Dread Legion. Raymond E. Feist

and Brandos exchanged glances. Local rulers were usually content with their word. On the other hand, they usually caught a glimpse or two of the monster, and not just heard howls and bellowing from within a dark cave.

      A short time later, the young officer returned, his face pale and sweating. Amirantha said, ‘I should have mentioned the peculiar stench—’

      ‘You should have,’ agreed Brandos.

      ‘—takes some getting used to.’

      ‘Well?’ asked the Governor.

      Nodding, the officer said, ‘It is so, Your Excellency. Most of the creature was strewn around the tunnel, bits here and there, but one leg was intact, and it was … nothing of this world.’

      ‘Bring it to me,’ instructed the Governor.

      Again, Brandos and Amirantha exchanged questioning looks.

      This time the officer motioned to two of his older soldiers and said, ‘You heard the Governor. Go and get the leg.’

      Eventually the two soldiers emerged from the cave carrying the huge charred limb between them. The reek caused even the strongest stomach to weaken and the Governor backed his mount off slightly, holding up his hand. ‘Stay,’ he instructed.

      From his distant vantage point he could see the top of a thigh covered in burned hair, down to the foot with its three massive toes ending in razor-sharp claws. Whatever it might be, it was not of this world, and at last satisfied, the Governor nodded. ‘We had word from the Maharajah’s Court of charlatans preying on the gullible, promising to rid outlying villages of non-existent demons, dark spirits, and other malefactions. Had you been such, we would have hanged you from that tree,’ he said, pointing to a stout elm a few yards away. ‘As this is without doubt a demonic limb, I am now convinced that your timely arrival so soon after word reached us of this demon, is but a lucky coincidence, and shall convey my opinion to my lords and masters in the city of Maharta.’

      Amirantha bowed his most courtly bow, and Brandos followed suit. ‘We thank His Excellency,’ said the Warlock.

      As the Governor began to turn his mount,’ Amirantha said, ‘Excellency, as to the matter of payment?’

      Over his shoulder, the Governor said, ‘Come to my palace and see my seneschal. He will pay you.’ With that, he rode off, followed closely by his men-at-arms.

      ‘Well, at least it’s on the way home,’ the Warlock said.

      Shrugging, the warrior picked up his companion’s shoulder bag. ‘There are times one must settle for small benefits, my friend. At least this time we get paid.

      ‘Maybe it was a good thing that new demon showed up. Kreegrom is fairly hideous, but for a demon he’s about as menacing as a puppy. If that Governor had caught on that he was only playing “chase me” and not really trying to kill you … well, I don’t particularly relish ending my days hanging from an elm.’ He glanced at the tree as they walked past it. ‘Though, I must confess it’s a handsome enough tree.’

      ‘You do always see the good in a situation, don’t you?’

      ‘Someone must,’ said Brandos, ‘given the usual nature of our trade.’

      ‘There is that,’ agreed Amirantha as they started down the road that would take them to the Governor’s Palace in Lanada, and then on to their distant home.

      The village had been the only home Amirantha had known in the last thirty years. For about five months each year, he resided in a stone tower on top of a tor a mile north of the village. The rest of the time he and Brandos would travel.

      His tower was on top of an ancient hill, Gashen Tor, highest of the hills overlooking the village of Talumba, two days’ ride east of the city of Maharta. The small farming community had come to appreciate the presence of such a powerful magic user, even if his area of mastery was considered to border on evil by most people. They believed that the warlock had wandered to Talumba from another land, and had come to his lonely hill to avoid persecution. It had been said that he built the single tower in which he resided using demons for the labour, and that he had placed wards about the tor to prevent intruders from troubling him.

      The truth was far more prosaic; Amirantha had used magic, though not his own, to build the simple tower. A pair of magicians, masters of geomancy, had used their arts to manoeuvre rocks in such a design that when they were done, Amirantha had only to employ a local carpenter to install the two wooden floors, hang doors, and build some furniture; including the large table now before the magician and the heavy chair in which he sat.

      He examined an old text he had written nearly a century before, letting out a long sigh of regret as he pushed it aside. Looking out of the window of his study, at the village below, now caught in the reddish glow of sunset, he considered how almost idyllic his life had become during the last twenty years – if he didn’t give too much thought to the occasional mishap like the one three days ago, near Lanada.

      He remembered when he had first come here, with a young Brandos and his wife, and how he had decided, almost on a whim, to take up residence. He looked above the village at the distant sunset and wondered how much of his decision came from his affection for these views. A sunset was, he thought, an odd thing to be drawn to, but then so much of his life had been a series of choices that seemed arbitrary, even capricious, at times; such as giving a home to an uncouth street boy who had tried to rob him more than thirty years ago.

      This village was the only home he had known since his childhood, a time so distant he often had to concentrate to remember much about it. The villagers had at first been frightened of the Warlock on the Hill, as they called him, but he had since then protected the village from marauders on more than one occasion, and had even kept the army of the ambitious Maharajah of Muboya from occupying the settlement when the region was annexed into that burgeoning nation. He took pride in having used only ruse and guile with no loss of life. While absent of the everyday concerns of most people, Amirantha did scruple over crossing certain boundaries.

      Some of his dilemmas were practical in nature, dabbling in the darker arts brought scrutiny that could lead to persecution. How ever, most of his moral concerns were for his own wellbeing; often he had seen that travelling down a certain dark road to knowledge cost a magician far more than the disapproval of others. Although not a pious man, Amirantha still wished to face Lims-Kragma, certain that he had no major stains on his escutcheon; he could accept having to explain a minor blemish here and there. Some, because of his chosen art, might not consider him a good man, but he had his principles. Besides, he had seen better men fall prey to the lure of the dark arts. It was a drug to most magicians.

      He moved slightly in his seat and determined, as he had almost every day for the last two years, that he needed to take a trip to the city and purchase new cushions. He glanced around his study. The fire burned as it always did during the cold weather, casting a warm glow across the room. The sleeping quarters below were often draughty in the winter, and the Warlock often slept up here next to the fire. He was convinced the problem had something to do with the way the chimney was fashioned, but never could find the time to have anyone look at it, so for three months each year he endured blankets on the floor.

      Brandos trudged heavily up the circular stone staircase, which hugged the interior of the round building, and entered the room. ‘What did you find?’ he asked without preamble.

      ‘What I feared,’ said the Warlock, standing up. With a wave of his hand he indicated the old tomes on the table. ‘I think we need to undertake a journey.’

      ‘Going shopping in Maharta, are we?’

      Amirantha regarded his oldest friend. At nearly fifty years old, the warrior was still a powerful looking man, even if his grey hair was now bordering on white. His sun-worn, leathery face spoke of years of campaigning, and he bore an impressive number of scars. ‘Well, yes, for I do need a new seat cushion, but that will have to wait.’ He gazed at his old tomes and said, ‘I think something very bad is happening, and we need to speak to someone about it.’

      ‘Anyone