A Crown Imperilled. Raymond E. Feist

blocks away. Arkan was the model of a moredhel chieftain, with strong, broad shoulders and a narrow waist. His dark brown hair was cut short at the front to ensure that his vision was never impaired, and left long to flow past his pointed ears, down to his shoulders. His dark eyes were set in an almost expressionless mask. Arkan’s reputation was impressive: he had shepherded his troubled clan through more than thirty perilous years. Despite having many rivals and sworn enemies, the Clan of the Ice Bears had grown under his leadership.

      His companion returned his nod and glanced around to assess where trouble would most likely originate. Morgeth, Arkan’s self-appointed bodyguard, let his hand stray to the hilt of his sword. ‘Those damn southerners,’ he said at last to his chieftain.

      Arkan could only agree. Their cousins from beyond the Teeth of the World were an agitated bunch, forced to dwell as their guests in ancient homelands where they had sought refuge during the Tsurani invasion. ‘Well, they’ve been here for a century; they’re starting to get restless.’

      ‘Who’s keeping them here? They can go home any damn time they want.’

      ‘Some have tried.’ The Chieftain of the Ardanien spoke quietly, with the thoughtful candour that those who knew him had come to expect. ‘It’s a difficult trek past those damn Kingdom defences at the Inclindel Gap.’ He paused. ‘On through Hadati country, skirting the dwarves and Elvandar.’ He glanced around as the volume of voices rose again. ‘I’d not attempt it with less than the entire clan—’

      The sounds of struggle became more urgent.

      ‘Narab better get on with this or we’re going to have more than a little bloodshed,’ Arkan added.

      Morgeth said, ‘And then we use that street?’

      ‘Yes,’ the chieftain said. ‘I wouldn’t mind breaking a few heads, but I don’t see any point in starting new feuds when I haven’t put paid to the old ones.’ He looked around. ‘If fighting starts, we leave.’

      ‘Yes.’ Morgeth gathered his woollen cape around him to ward off the biting wind. ‘I thought it was supposed to be warmer down here on the flats.’

      Arkan laughed. ‘It is warmer. That doesn’t make it temperate.’

      ‘I should have brought my bearskin.’

      Glancing at the sea of dark cloaks around them, Arkan said, ‘If things turn ugly, you’ll be glad not to be clad in white fur.’

      A shout went up, but this time it wasn’t a brawl, but directed instead at a group of figures standing at the top of the stairs at the crowd’s edge.

      Morgeth said, ‘Who are those two on the right?’

      ‘I’ve never seen them before,’ said his chieftain. ‘But from the look of them, I judge them to be our lost cousins, the taredhel.’

      ‘Tall bastards, aren’t they?’

      Arkan nodded. ‘That they are.’

      The two elves they referred to were indeed a full head taller than those who had led them to the top of the staircase. Behind the group rose the maw of the palace, the large entrance to the empty throne room that no chieftain had dared to occupy since the death of the true Murmandamus, the only moredhel in memory to unite all the clans under one banner.

      A moredhel dressed in ceremonial robes raised his hands, indicating the need for silence, and the cacophony of voices fell away. When it was quiet, he spoke. ‘The council thanks you for attending,’ he began.

      Muttering answered this, for the council’s message had been clear: to ignore the request would have invited the ire of the most powerful leader among the moredhel, the man who now addressed them: Narab.

      ‘We also welcome our distant kin, who have returned to us from the stars.’

      The chatter rose; rumours about these elves had been rampant in the north for the last few years. One had whispered of their alliance with the hated eledhel in the south, so it was something of a surprise to see them standing next to Narab.

      ‘What is this, then?’ asked a chieftain standing nearby.

      ‘Shut up and find out,’ answered another.

      Arkan glanced towards the voices to see if trouble was about to erupt, but both warriors had returned their attention to the top of the palace steps.

      One of the taredhel stepped forward. ‘I am Kaladon of the Clan of the Seven Stars. I bring you greetings from your cousins in E’bar.’

      Several of the chieftains scoffed and snorted in derision, for the word ‘E’bar’ meant ‘Home’ in the ancient tongue. Others strained to listen, for the wind was blowing hard and this star elf’s accent was strange to the ear. No matter what blood history tied them together, these beings were far more alien than even the hated eledhel.

      Kaladon continued, ‘I bring greetings from the Lord Regent of the Clan of the Seven Stars. We are pleased to be returned to our homeland.’ He paused for effect. ‘Yet we see much has gone amiss since our departure.’

      The murmuring took on an angry note and Narab raised his hands for silence.

      Morgeth muttered, ‘This is going to turn ugly.’

      Arkan whispered, ‘It already has.’ He motioned for his companion to follow him as he edged towards the side street. A few others were also moving quietly towards the escape routes, but most of the chieftains stood silently waiting for the strangers’ next announcement.

      The other figure who wore yellow armour trimmed with purple and gold, so garish compared to the dark grey-and-black of the moredhel fighting garb, stepped forward and announced himself. ‘I am Kumal, Warleader of the Clan of the Seven Stars.’

      That brought total silence. Despite his advancing years and colourful raiment, the speaker possessed a warrior’s carriage and visible scars, and his manner communicated a kinship to the moredhel chieftains that they recognized. A few chieftains shouted out traditional words of greetings to a fellow warrior.

      If the warleader was pleased to be received in such a fashion, he showed no sign of it but simply nodded once and continued, ‘The Regent’s Meet has elected to recognize your independence.’

      Instantly the mood of the gathered chieftains turned ugly once more. ‘You recognize us?’ shouted more than one chieftain.

      ‘Quiet!’ shouted Narab. ‘He brings news!’

      ‘The humans war among themselves,’ Kumal went on when the noise had died down. ‘Their Empire of Kesh has marched against their Kingdom of the Isles, and much of the land to the south lies covered in smoke and blood.’

      This brought a mixed reaction, for as much as the moredhel hated humans, dwarves, and the eledhel, war in the south meant trouble for the southern clans. The leader of one such clan shouted, ‘What of the west?’

      ‘Kesh has taken Crydee,’ returned Kumal, ‘and is driving over the northern pass in the Grey Towers to Ylith.’

      ‘What of the Green Heart?’ shouted another voice.

      ‘Kesh ignores all but the human towns and cities. The dwarves stand ready at the borders of Stone Mountain and the Grey Towers, but will act only if their lands are threatened. The Green Heart and the mountains to the south of E’bar are untroubled.’

      One of the southern chieftains cried, ‘Now is the time to return to the Green Heart!’

      ‘As to that,’ said Kumal, ‘the Regent’s Meet has decided that we shall welcome any of our kin who venture south of the river boundary … as long as they recognize our rule over all lands south of Elvandar. You must pledge fealty to the Clan of the Seven Stars.’

      Instantly, furious shouts rang out. ‘That is our land!’

      ‘We bow to no one!’

      ‘Our ancestors died there!’

      Arkan