Krondor: The Betrayal. Raymond E. Feist

winced as Owyn applied his aunt’s salve to the wounded ribs. ‘A couple of hundred years of war lets us form our own opinions, thank you, Gorath.’

      Gorath said, ‘You understand so little, you humans.’

      ‘Well,’ said Locklear, ‘I’m not going anywhere at the moment, so educate me.’

      Gorath looked at the young squire, as if trying to judge something, and was silent for a while. ‘Those you call “elves” and my people are one, by blood, but we live different lives. We were the first mortal race after the great dragons and the Ancient Ones.’

      Owyn looked at Gorath in curiosity, while Locklear just gritted his teeth and said, ‘Hurry it up, would you, lad?’

      ‘Who are the Ancient Ones?’ asked Owyn in a whisper.

      ‘The Dragon Lords,’ said Locklear.

      ‘Lords of power, the Valheru,’ supplied Gorath. ‘When they departed this world, they placed our fate in our own hands, naming us a free people.’

      Locklear said, ‘I’ve heard the story.’

      ‘It is more than a story, human, for to my people it gave over this world to our keeping. Then came you humans, and the dwarves, and others. This is our world and you seized it from us.’

      Locklear said, ‘Well, I’m not a student of theology, and my knowledge of history is sadly lacking, but it seems to me that whatever the cause of our arrival on this world according to your lore, we’re here and we don’t have anywhere else to go. So if your kin, the elves, can make the best of it, why can’t you?’

      Gorath studied the young man, but said nothing. Then he stood, moving with deadly purpose toward Locklear.

      Owyn had just tied off the bandage and fell hard as Locklear pushed him aside while he attempted to rise and draw his sword as Gorath closed on him.

      But rather than attack Locklear, he lunged past the pair of humans, lashing out above Locklear’s head with the chain that held his manacles. A ringing of steel caused Locklear to flinch aside as Gorath shouted, ‘Assassin in the camp!’ Then Gorath kicked hard at Owyn, shouting, ‘Get out from underfoot!’

      Owyn didn’t know where the assassin came from; one moment there had been three of them in the small clearing, then the next Gorath was locked in a life-and-death struggle with another of his kind.

      Two figures grappled by the light of the campfire, their features set in stark relief by the firelight and darkness of the woods. Gorath had knocked the other moredhel’s sword from his hand, and when the second dark elf attempted to pull a dagger, Gorath slipped behind him, wrapping his wrist chains around the attacker’s throat. He yanked hard and the attacker’s eyes bulged in shock as Gorath said, ‘Do not struggle so, Haseth. For old times’ sake I will make this quick.’ With a snap of his wrists, he crushed the other dark elf’s windpipe, and the creature went limp.

      Gorath let him fall to the ground, saying, ‘May the Goddess of Darkness show you mercy.’

      Locklear stood up. ‘I thought we had lost them.’

      ‘I knew we had not,’ said Gorath.

      ‘Why didn’t you say something?’ demanded Locklear as he retrieved his tunic and put it on over the new bandages.

      ‘We had to turn and face him some time,’ said Gorath, resuming his place. ‘We could do it now, or in a day or two when you were even weaker from loss of blood and no food.’ Gorath looked into the darkness from which the assassin had come. ‘Had he not been alone, you’d have had only my body to drag before your prince.’

      ‘You don’t get off that easily, moredhel. You don’t have my permission to die yet, after the trouble I’ve gone through to keep you alive so far,’ said Locklear. ‘Is he the last?’

      ‘Almost certainly not,’ said the dark elf. ‘But he is the last of this company. Others will come.’ He glanced in the opposite direction. ‘And others may already be ahead of us.’

      Locklear reached into a small pouch at his side and produced a key. ‘Then I think you’d better get those chains off,’ he said. He unlocked the wrist irons and Gorath watched them fall to the ground with an impassive expression. ‘Take the assassin’s sword.’

      ‘Maybe we should bury him?’ suggested Owyn.

      Gorath shook his head. ‘That is not our way. His body is but a shell. Let it feed the scavengers, return to the soil, nourish the plants, and renew the world. His spirit has begun its journey through darkness, and with the Goddess of Darkness’s pleasure, he may find his way to the Blessed Isles.’ Gorath looked northward, as if seeking sight of something in the dark. ‘He was my kinsman, though one of whom I was not overly fond. But ties of blood run strong with my people. For him to hunt me names me outcast and traitor to my race.’ He looked at Locklear. ‘We have common cause, then, human. For if I am to carry out the mission that brands me anathema to my people, I must survive. We need to help one another.’ Gorath took Haseth’s sword. To Owyn he said, ‘Don’t bury him, but you could pull him out of the way, human. By morning he’s going to become even more unpleasant to have nearby.’

      Owyn looked uncertain about touching a corpse, but said nothing as he went over, reached down and gripped the dead moredhel by the wrists. The creature was surprisingly heavy. As Owyn started to drag Haseth away, Gorath said, ‘And see if he dropped his travel bag back there in the woods before he attacked us, boy. He may have something to eat in it.’

      Owyn nodded, wondering what strange chance had brought him to dragging a corpse through the dark woods and looting the body.

      Morning found a tired trio making their way through the woodlands, staying within sight of the road, but not chancing walking openly along it.

      ‘I don’t see why we didn’t return to Yabon and get some horses,’ complained Owyn.

      Locklear said, ‘We have been jumped three times since leaving Tyr-Sog. If others are coming after us, I’d rather not walk right into them. Besides, we may find a village between here and LaMut where we can get some horses.’

      ‘And pay for them with what?’ asked Owyn. ‘You said the fight where you were wounded was when your horses ran off with all your things. I assume that means your funds, too? I certainly don’t have enough to buy three mounts.’

      Locklear smiled. ‘I’m not without resources.’

      ‘We could just take them,’ offered Gorath.

      ‘There is that,’ agreed Locklear. ‘But without obvious badges of rank or a patent from the Prince on my person, it might prove difficult to convince the local constable of my bona fides. And we should hardly be safe penned up in a rural jail with cutthroats out looking for us.’

      Owyn fell silent. They had been walking since sun-up and he was tired. ‘How about a rest?’ he offered.

      ‘I don’t think so,’ said Gorath, his voice falling to a whisper. ‘Listen.’

      Neither human said anything for a moment, then Owyn said, ‘What? I don’t hear anything.’

      ‘That’s the point,’ said Gorath. ‘The birds in the trees ahead suddenly stopped their songs.’

      ‘A trap?’ asked Locklear.

      ‘Almost certainly,’ said Gorath, pulling the sword he had taken from his dead kinsman.

      Locklear said, ‘My side burns, but I can fight.’ To Owyn he said, ‘What about you?’

      Owyn hefted his wooden staff. It was hard oak, with iron-shod ends. ‘I can swing this, if I need to. And I have some magic.’

      ‘Can you make them vanish?’

      ‘No,’ said Owyn. ‘I can’t do that.’

      ‘Pity,’ said Locklear. ‘Then try to stay out of the way.’