Magician’s End. Raymond E. Feist

saw a dark shape moving in a crouch while all around horses neighed and whinnied in panic. Hal knew that he had seconds before the assassin reloaded his crossbow or fled into the night. He charged.

      The man rose up holding a small, one-handed bow which fired a dart rather than a bolt. Hal slashed with his sword, knocking the weapon aside, and punched the assassin hard in the face with his left hand. The man staggered back and Hal lunged, nicking him in the left side. Suddenly the man had two dirks out, and executed a fast feint followed by a slash towards Hal’s throat. Hal barely fell back enough to avoid losing the fight there and then.

      He ducked and a dirk cut through air where he had been standing a moment before. Then he jabbed with his sword and felt the tip strike the man’s already injured side. The assassin gasped in pain and both men were suddenly enmeshed in a deadly duel.

      Hal stepped back, his sword’s point aimed at his opponent, who crouched and took his measure. It was clear that the assassin had expected Hal to be dead and himself to be safely away by now. Hal realized he had two opportunities to emerge victorious: either kill the assassin and hope Ty did the same with his opponent, or keep him occupied until relief arrived. It was the middle of the night, but someone from the nearby servants’ quarters would surely hear the struggle, or notice the absence of the certainly now-dead lackeys who had failed to return from readying the horses for him and Ty.

      The assassin also realized that and knew his only hope of survival was to finish this quickly. He suddenly threw one of his dirks.

      Hal managed to beat the blade aside and stumbled backwards, trying to get his blade around from his blocking move to a position at which he could employ the point.

      The assassin didn’t give him the chance, but lowered his shoulder and charged. Hal brought his sword-hand back hard, striking the rushing thug on the side of the head with his pommel. That staggered him and Hal felt an off-target blow slide across his side, as the dirk missed his torso. He slammed the man over the head again, gripped the back of his shirt with his left hand and fell onto the extended right arm. The sound of bone cracking accompanied by a gasp of pain was heard as he struck the ground, his full weight on the assassin’s arm. Hal drew back his sword hilt and slammed the man on the head for a third time, rendering him senseless.

      Hal rolled up onto his feet, his sword pointed at the now-motionless assassin, as shouts of enquiry came from the servants’ quarters.

      Hal glanced into the gloom of the stable in time to see Ty approaching with his sword at the ready. ‘Yours?’ he asked.

      ‘Dead,’ said Ty. ‘This one?’

      ‘Not yet.’

      Servants with lanterns arrived, followed moments later by palace guards. Hal looked at his attacker in the lantern light. He was an unremarkable man, slight of build and wearing simple garb, a city man who would easily blend into a crowd.

      ‘He doesn’t look like an assassin,’ said Hal.

      ‘Neither did mine,’ said Ty. ‘But they almost did the job.’ He quickly knelt and opened the man’s mouth, motioning for a torch to be brought close to his face. ‘No false teeth,’ he said. ‘Not fanatics like the Nighthawks, then.’ He sheathed his sword as he stood, and motioned for the guards to pick up the unconscious killer.

      Hal said, ‘Take him to a cell and notify Jim Dasher.’

      The guards lifted him up. A servant cried suddenly, ‘Oh, dear! Poor Lonny and Mark are dead!’

      ‘See to them,’ said Hal to another pair of guards.

      ‘How did you know?’ asked Ty.

      ‘Know what?’

      ‘They were there. To knock me down?’

      ‘I heard a click when he set the trigger on his crossbow.’

      Ty was silent for a moment, then laughed. ‘So, for want of some lubricant, we’re alive.’

      Hal chuckled. ‘I almost got myself killed forgetting we’re not duelling.’

      ‘Ah, yes,’ said Ty. ‘It can be a bad habit, trying to fence while your opponent is brawling. Swords have edges, too.’

      Patting his sword, Hal said, ‘And pommels. They make a fair bludgeon.’

      ‘What now?’

      Looking around at the building crowd, Hal said, ‘As much as I would like to tarry and find out exactly who is trying to kill me, I think it best if we follow orders. We ride.’

      ‘Wise choice. If Jim finds out who is behind this, he’ll send word. And if another attempt is made, it’s best for you to be somewhere else.’

      They quickly finished the saddling done by the two dead lackeys and within ten minutes were riding out the postern gate of the palace, vanishing into the night.

      Three days later they reached the village of Kempton and found the promised boat. They waited until the evening tide, then slipped out after dark, sailing along the coast on a north-easterly tack.

      The third morning after heading up the coast, Ty scrambled up the mast and shouted, ‘Nothing in sight!’

      Within moments, sails were raised and Hal pulled them around to catch a favourable wind blowing north. By rough reckoning, they should hit the southern shore of the Kingdom mainland close to Bas-Tyra. With luck, when they caught sight of land, they’d be pointed right at that harbour.

      Twice they caught sight of sails and turned and ran, and for two days there was no sign of pursuit. During the war they had run afoul of Ceresian pirates, acting as privateers but in fact raiding the coast. But this trip passed uneventfully.

      Three days after leaving the coast they saw a brown smudge on the northern horizon that promised land. Two hours later, the coast was clearly outlined against the sky. By midday they could make out features and judge roughly where they were. Hall pulled the tiller over and corrected his course, and soon coastal details could clearly be seen.

      Three distant white spots indicated sails, but Hal made straight for them, because he knew exactly where they were. An hour before sundown, they could see a huge city, one to rival Rillanon and Roldem in size if not in majesty. The harbour mouth was flanked by two massive towers, but beyond that dozens of ships could be seen sailing among many more at anchor.

      Hal looked at Ty and smiled. ‘Bas-Tyra.’

      The Black Ram was like many other taverns in the cities along the coasts of the Sea of Kingdoms: crowded, dangerous, noisy and packed. It was filled with sailors avoiding duty aboard ships stuck in harbour, with mercenaries looking for employment either as auxiliaries to the city’s garrison or as guards for merchants, with prostitutes, gamblers, and the assorted riff-raff attracted to an approaching war. Two young men pushed their way through the press of bodies over the occasional objections of people who disliked being jostled, though once they saw two young men with serious expressions and fine swords on their hips, they soon gave way.

      Reaching the bar, Ty signalled to the closest of three barmen, and when he approached said, ‘I’m looking for Anton.’

      With a jerk of his head, the barman indicated a door off to the left. Pushing through complaining customers, Ty and Hal reached the door, masked by an ancient curtain. Pushing it aside, they found themselves looking down a dimly lit hall at the far end of which stood the largest man either of them had ever seen.

      They were forced to look up to address him. As both Ty and Hal were over six feet in height, they judged this human mountain to be approaching seven feet tall. From the size of his shoulders and arms, he probably weighed close to three hundred pounds. His skin was coffee-coloured, so much of his ancestry would be Keshian, but his eyes were a vivid blue. His shaved head reflected the light from the one open lamp that hung halfway down the hall.

      ‘What?’ he asked in a voice so deep it almost rumbled.

      ‘We seek Anton,’ said Hal.

      ‘Who