Kitabı oku: «Krondor: Tear of the Gods»

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Map

Prologue: Attack

Chapter One: Arrival

Chapter Two: Schemes

Chapter Three: Vow

Chapter Four: Secrets

Chapter Five: Monsters

Chapter Six: Intrigues

Chapter Seven: Conspiracy

Chapter Eight: Kendaric

Chapter Nine: Diversion

Chapter Ten: Goblins

Chapter Eleven: Haldon Head

Chapter Twelve: Dark Magic

Chapter Thirteen: Misdirection

Chapter Fourteen: Vampire

Chapter Fifteen: Two Fangs

Chapter Sixteen: Temple

Chapter Seventeen: Black Pearl

Chapter Eighteen: Tear of the Gods

Epilogue: Challenge

Acknowledgements

About the Author

By the same author

About the Publisher

Map

• PROLOGUE •
Attack

THE WEATHER WORSENED.

Dark clouds roiled overhead as angry lightning flashed, piercing the night’s blackness on all quarters. The lookout atop the highest mast of the ship Ishap’s Dawn thought he saw a flicker of movement in the distance and squinted against the murk. He tried to use his hand to shield his eyes as the salt spray and biting cold wind filled them with tears. He blinked them away and whatever movement he thought he had seen was gone.

Night and the threat of storms had forced the lookout to spend a miserable watch aloft, against the unlikely chance the captain had drifted off course. It was hardly possible, considered the lookout, as the captain was a knowledgeable seaman, chosen for his skill at avoiding danger as much as any other quality. And he knew as well as any man how hazardous this passage was. The Temple held the cargo’s value second to none, and rumours of possible raiders along the Quegan coast had dictated a hazardous tack near Widow’s Point, a rocky area best avoided if possible. But Ishap’s Dawn was crewed by experienced sailors, who were now closely attentive to the captain’s orders, and each was quick to respond, for every man aloft knew that, once upon the rocks at Widow’s Point, no ship survived. Each man feared for his own life – that was only natural – but these men were chosen not only for their seamanship, but also for fealty to the Temple. And they all knew how precious their cargo was to the Temple.

In the hold below, eight monks of the Temple of Ishap in Krondor stood around a most holy artifact, the Tear of the Gods. A jewel of astonishing size, easily as long as a large man’s arm and twice as thick, it was illuminated from within by a mystic light. Once every ten years a new Tear was formed in a hidden monastery in a tiny secret valley in the Grey Tower Mountains. When it was ready and most holy rites completed, a heavily armed caravan transported it to the nearest port in the Free Cities of Natal. There it was placed upon a ship and carried to Krondor. From there, the Tear and an escort of warrior monks, priests, and servants would continue on, eventually reaching Salador to then be taken by ship and transported to the mother Temple in Rillanon where it replaced the previous Tear, as its power waned.

The true nature and purpose of the sacred gem was known only to the highest ranking among those serving within the Temple, and the sailor high atop the main mast asked no questions. He trusted in the power of the gods and knew that he served a greater good. And he was being handsomely paid not to ask questions as much as to stand his watch.

But after two weeks of battling contrary winds and difficult seas, even the most pious man found the blue-white light which shone every night from below, and the monks’ incessant chanting, nerve-wracking. The duration of the unseasonable winds and unexpected storms had some of the crew muttering about sorcery and dark magic. The lookout offered a silent prayer of thanks to Killian, Goddess of Nature and Sailors (and then added a short one to Eortis, who some said was the true God of the Sea) that come dawn they would reach their destination: Krondor. The Tear and its escort would quickly leave the city for the east, but the sailor would remain in Krondor, with his family. What he was being paid would allow him a long visit home.

The sailor above thought of his wife and two children, and he smiled briefly. His daughter was now old enough to help her mother around the kitchen and with her baby brother, and a third child was due soon. As he had a hundred times before, the sailor vowed he’d find other work near home, so he could spend more time with his family.

He was pulled from his reverie by another flicker of movement towards shore. Light from the ship painted the storm-tossed combers and he could sense the rhythm of the sea. Something had just broken the rhythm. He peered through the murk, trying to pierce the gloom by strength of will, to see if they might be drifting too close to the rocks.

Knute said, ‘The blue light coming from that ship gives me a bad feeling, Captain.’

The man Knute addressed towered over him as he looked down. At six foot eight inches tall he dwarfed those around him. His massive shoulders and arms lay exposed by the black leather cuirass he favoured, though he had added a pair of shoulder pads studded with steel spikes – a prize taken off the corpse of one of Queg’s more renowned gladiators. The exposed skin displayed dozens of reminders of battles fought, traces of old wounds intersecting one another. A scar that ran from forehead to jawbone through his right eye, which was milky white, marked his face. But his left seemed to glow with an evil red light from within and Knute knew that eye missed little.

Save for the spikes on his shoulders, his armour was plain and serviceable, well oiled and cared for, but displaying patches and repairs. An amulet hung around his neck, bronze but darkened by more than time and neglect, stained by ancient and black arts. The red gem set in its middle pulsed with a faint inner light of its own as Bear said, ‘Worry about keeping us off the rocks, pilot. It’s the only reason I keep you alive.’ Turning to the rear of the ship, he spoke softly, but his voice carried to the stern. ‘Now!’

A sailor at the rear spoke down to those in the hold below, ‘Forward!’ and the hortator raised one hand, and then brought its heel down on the drum between his knees.

At the sound of the first beat, the slaves chained to their seats raised their oars and on the second beat they lowered them and pulled as one. The word had been passed, but the Master of Slaves who walked between the banks of oars repeated it. ‘Silently, my darlings! I’ll kill the first of you who makes a sound above a whisper!’

The ship, a Quegan patrol galley seized in a raid the year before, inched forward, picking up speed. At the prow, Knute crouched, intently scanning the water before him. He had positioned the ship so it would come straight at the target, but there was one turn that still needed to be made to port – not difficult if one reckoned the timing correctly, but dangerous nevertheless. Suddenly Knute turned and said, ‘Now, hard to port!’

Bear turned and relayed the order and the helmsman turned the ship. A moment later Knute ordered the rudder amidships, and the galley began to cut through the water.

Knute’s gaze lingered on Bear for a moment, and then he returned his attention to the ship they were about to take. Knute had never been so frightened in his life. He was a born pirate, a dock-rat from Port Natal who had worked his way up from being an ordinary seaman to being one of the best pilots in the Bitter Sea. He knew every rock, shoal, reef, and tide pool between Ylith and Krondor, and westward to the Straits of Darkness, and along the coast of the Free Cities. And it was that knowledge that had kept him alive more than forty years while braver, stronger, and more intelligent men had died.

Knute felt Bear standing behind him. He had worked for the enormous pirate before, once taking Quegan prize ships as they returned from raids along the Keshian coast. Another time he had served with Bear as a privateer, under marque from the Governor of Durbin, plundering Kingdom ships.

For the last four years Knute had run his own gang, scavengers picking over wrecks drawn upon the rocks by false lights here at Widow’s Point. It had been the knowledge of the rocks and how to negotiate them that had brought him back into Bear’s service. The odd trader named Sidi, who came to the Widow’s Point area every year or so, had asked him to find a ruthless man, one who would not shirk from a dangerous mission and who had no aversion to killing. Knute had spent a year tracking down Bear and had sent him word that there was a job of great risk and greater reward waiting. Bear had answered and had come to meet with Sidi. Knute had figured he’d either take a fee for putting the two men in touch, or he might work a split with Bear in exchange for use of his men and his ship. But from that point where Knute had brought Bear to meet with Sidi, on the beach at Widow’s Point, everything had changed. Instead of working for himself, Knute was now again working as Bear’s galley-pilot and first mate – Knute’s own ship, a nimble little coaster, had been sunk to drive home Bear’s terms: riches to Knute and his men if they joined him. If they refused, the alternative was simple: death.

Knute glanced at the strange blue light dancing upon the water as they drew down upon the Ishapian ship. The little man’s heart beat with enough force to make him fear it would somehow break loose from within. He gripped the wooden rail tightly as he called for a meaningless course correction; the need to shout diverted into a sharp command.

Knute knew he was likely to die tonight. Since Bear had expropriated Knute’s crew, it had simply been a matter of time. The man Knute had known along the Keshian coast had been bad enough, but something had changed Bear, made him far blacker a soul than before. He had always been a man of few scruples, but there had been an economy in his business, a reluctance to waste time with needless killing and destruction, even if he was otherwise unfazed by it. Now Bear seemed to relish it. Two men in Knute’s crew had died lingering, painful deaths for minor transgressions. Bear had watched until they had died. The gem in his amulet had shone brightly then, and Bear’s one good eye seemed alight with the same fire.

Bear had made one thing clear above all else: this mission’s goal was to take a holy relic from the Ishapians and any man who interfered with that mission would die. But he had also promised that the crew could keep all the rest of the Ishapian treasure for themselves.

When he heard that, Knute had begun to make a plan.

Knute had insisted upon several practice sorties, claiming that the tides and rocks here were treacherous enough in the daylight – at night a thousand calamities could befall the unprepared. Bear had grudgingly acquiesced to the plea. What Knute had hoped would happen did: the crew learned to take orders from him once Bear gave over command of the ship. Bear’s crew was made up of thugs, bullies, and murderers, including one cannibal, but they weren’t terribly intelligent.

Knute’s was a daring plan, and dangerous, and he needed more than a little luck. He glanced back and saw Bear’s eyes fixed on the blue light of the Ishapian ship as they bore down on it. One quick glance from face to face of his own six men was all Knute could afford, and then he turned back to the Ishapian ship.

He gauged his distance and the motion, then turned and shouted past Bear, ‘One point to port! Ramming speed!’

Bear echoed the command, ‘Ramming speed!’ Then he shouted, ‘Catapults! Ready!’

Flames appeared as torches were quickly lit, and then those torches were put to large bundles of skins full of Quegan Fire oil. They burst into flame and the catapult officer shouted, ‘Ready, Captain!’

Bear’s deep voice rumbled as he gave the order: ‘Fire!’

The lookout squinted against the wind-driven salt spray. He was certain he saw something shoreward. Suddenly a flame appeared. Then a second. For a moment size and distance were difficult to judge, but the sailor quickly realized with a surge of fear that two large balls of fire sped towards the ship.

Angry orange-red flames sizzled and cracked as the first missile arced overhead, missing the lookout by mere yards. As the fireball shot past, he could feel the searing heat.

‘Attack!’ he shouted at the top of his lungs. He knew full well the entire night watch had seen the fiery missiles; nonetheless it was his task to alert the crew.

The second fireball struck mid-decks, hitting the companionway that ran from below to the foredeck, and an unfortunate priest of Ishap was consumed in the sticky flames. He screamed in agony and confusion as he died.

The sailor knew that if they were being boarded, staying aloft was not a good idea. He swung from the crow’s nest and slid down a stay sheet to the deck below as another ball of flame appeared in the sky, arcing down to strike the foredeck.

As his bare feet touched the wooden planks, another sailor who shouted, ‘Quegan raiders!’ handed him a sword and buckler shield.

The thudding of a hortator’s drum echoed across the waves. Suddenly the night came alive with noise and cries.

From out of the gloom a ship reared, lifted high by a huge swell, and the two sailors could see the massive serrated iron ram extending from the galley’s prow. Once it slammed into its victim’s hull, its teeth would hold the rammed ship close, until the signal was given for the galley slaves to reverse their stroke. By backing water, the galley would tear a massive hole in Ishap’s Dawn’s side, quickly sending her to the bottom.

For an instant the lookout feared he would never see his children or wife again, and hastily uttered a prayer to whatever gods listened that his family be cared for. Then he resolved to fight, for if the sailors could hold the raiders at the gunwale until the priests emerged from below, their magic might drive off the attackers.

The ship heaved and the sound of tearing wood and shrieking men filled the night as the raider crashed into the Ishapian ship. The lookout and his companions were thrown to the deck.

As the lookout rolled away from the spreading fire, he saw two hands gripping the ship’s gunwale. The lookout gained his feet as a dark-skinned pirate cleared the side of the ship, and boarded with a leap to the deck, others following.

The first pirate carried a huge sword, curved and weighted, and he grinned like a man possessed. The lookout hurried towards him, his sword and shield at the ready. The pirate’s hair hung in oiled locks that glistened in the light from the flames. His wide eyes reflected the orange firelight, which gave him a demonic cast. Then he smiled and the lookout faltered, as the filed pointed teeth revealed the man to be a cannibal from the Shaskahan Islands.

Then the lookout’s eyes widened as he saw another figure rear up behind the first.

It was the last thing the lookout saw, as the first pirate swung his sword and impaled the hapless man, who stood rooted in terror at the sight before him. With his dying breath, he gasped, ‘Bear.’

Bear glanced around the deck. Massive hands flexed in anticipation as he spoke. His voice seemed to rumble from deep within as he said, ‘You know what I’m after; everything else is yours for the taking!’

Knute leaped from the raider’s craft to stand at Bear’s side. ‘We hit ’em hard, so you don’t have much time!’ he shouted to the crew. As Knute had hoped, Bear’s men rushed to kill the Ishapian sailors, while Knute signalled to the handful from his old crew, who headed towards the hatches and the cargo nets.

An Ishapian monk, climbing up the aft companionway to answer the alarm, saw the pirates spreading out in a half-circle around him. His brothers followed after. For a moment, both sides stood motionless, as they measured one another.

Bear stepped forward and in a voice like grinding stones said to the first monk, ‘You there! Bring me the Tear and I’ll kill you quickly.’

The monk’s hands came up and moved rapidly in a mystic pattern while enchanting a prayer to summon magic. The other monks took up fighting stances behind him.

A bolt of white energy flashed at Bear, but vanished harmlessly just inches before him as the ship heeled over and started to dip at the bow. With a scornful laugh, Bear said, ‘Your magic means nothing to me!’

With surprising speed for a man his size, Bear lashed out with his sword. The monk, still recovering from the shock of his magic’s impotence, stood helpless as Bear ran him through as if cutting a melon with a kitchen knife. The pirates let loose a roar of triumph and fell upon the other monks.

The monks, though empty-handed and outnumbered, were all trained in the art of open-handed fighting. In the end they could not stand up to pole weapons and swords, knives and crossbows, but they delayed the pirates long enough that the forecastle was already underwater before Bear could reach the companionway leading below decks.

Like a rat through a sewer grating, Knute was past Bear and down the companionway. Bear came second, the others behind.

‘We’ve got no time!’ shouted Knute, looking around the aft crew quarters; from the abundant religious items in view, he judged this area had been given over to the monks for their personal use. Knute could hear water rushing into the hole below the forecastle. Knute knew ships; eventually a bulkhead between the forecastle and the main cargo hold would give way and then the ship would go down like a rock.

A small wooden chest sitting in the corner caught his eye and he made straight for it, while Bear moved to a large door that led back to the captain’s cabin. Movement was becoming more difficult as the deck was now tilting, and walking up its slick surface was tricky. More than one pirate fell, landing hard upon the wooden planks.

Knute opened the small chest, revealing enough gems to keep him in luxury for the rest of his life. Like moths to a flame, several raiders turned towards the booty. Knute motioned to two other pirates close by and said, ‘If you want a copper for all this slaughter, get up on deck, help open the hatch, and lower the cargo net!’

Both men hesitated, then looked to where Bear struggled to open the door. They glanced at one another, then did as Knute instructed. Knute knew they would find two of his men already at the hatch and would fall in to help. If Knute’s plan were to work, everyone would have to do his part without realizing that the order of things on the ship had changed.

Knute unlatched a trapdoor in the middle of the deck, and let it swing open, revealing the companionway leading down into the cargo hold. As he stepped through the opening towards the treasure below, the ship started to take on water, and he knew she was fated to go down quickly by the bow. He and his men would have to move fast.

Bear was smashing himself uphill against a door that obviously had some sort of mystic lock upon it, for it hardly moved under his tremendous bulk. Knute cast a quick glance backwards and saw the wood near the hinges splintering. As he lowered himself into the hold, Knute looked down. He knew that there was enough treasure below to make every man aboard a king, for the odd man named Sidi who had told Bear about this ship had said that ten years’ worth of Temple wealth from the Far Coast and Free Cities would accompany the magic item Bear was to bring him.

Knute regretted having met Sidi; when he had first met him, he had no idea the so-called trader trafficked in the magic arts. Once he had discovered the truth, it was too late. And Knute was certain there was far more to Sidi than was obvious; Sidi had given Bear his magic amulet, the one that he refused to remove, day or night. Knute had always stayed away from magic, temple, wizard, or witch. He had a nose for it and it made him fearful, and no man in his experience reeked of it like Sidi, and there was nothing tender about that reek.

The cargo hatch above moved, and a voice shouted downward, ‘Knute?’

‘Lower away!’ commanded the little thief.

The cargo net descended and Knute quickly released it. ‘Get down here!’ he shouted as he spread the large net across the centre of the deck. ‘We’re taking on water fast!’

Four sailors slid down ropes and started moving the heavy cargo chests to the centre of the net. ‘Get the small one first!’ instructed Knute. ‘They’ll be gems. Worth more than gold, pound for pound.’

The sailors were driven by two goals: greed and fear of Bear. The massive captain was smashing through the door above with inhuman strength, and everyone in the crew knew as well as Knute that Bear was becoming more violent by the day. Even his own crew now feared to be noticed by Bear.

One of the men paused to listen to the fiendish shout as Bear finally smashed through the door. A half-dozen pirates, finished with butchering the ship’s crew, descended the ropes from the deck above and looked questioningly at the pilot. Knute said, ‘The captain said everything else was ours for the taking if he got that damn stone the priests were guarding. You going to let all this sink?’

They shook their heads and set to, working in pairs to move the larger chests and sacks into the nets, although Knute could see the doubt on their faces. But they hurried and got most of the booty in the net and tied it off.

‘Haul away!’ Knute shouted to the men above.

Pirates grabbed small chests and sacks and attempted to get back to the forward ladder. The ship was now heading down by the bow, picking up speed and rocking slightly from side to side. ‘Tell them to back water!’ shouted Knute, as he negotiated the ladder to the upper deck, clutching the small wooden chest as a mother would a baby. He saw a brilliant light coming through the captain’s cabin door and his eyes widened. Bear stood outlined against the glare, obviously struggling through the water as if engaged with a foe of some kind. ‘Get out!’ shouted Knute. ‘You’re going to drown!’ Not that Knute would shed a tear if that happened, but if Bear somehow came to his senses and made good his escape, Knute wanted to appear convincing in his role as loyal and concerned pilot.

Knute hurried to the gunwale and nimbly leaped atop it. Glancing at those behind him who were sliding across the deck, trying for the boat below, he called, ‘Hurry!’ The galley was backing away, and water rushed quickly into the hull of the Ishapian ship. Knute knew that, had he not given the order to back the galley, the weight of the dying ship might have pulled its bow under the waves.

A longboat bobbed on the water a few yards below and he muttered, ‘By the gods, I’ve gotta get out of this business.’

He glanced upward and saw the cargo boom with the net loaded with treasure being lowered to the deck of the galley. With a quick prayer to every god he could remember, Knute leaped from the sinking ship, hitting the water while he clutched the small chest with all his might. Weight pulled him downward and he struggled, and finally his head broke the surface as voices echoed across the water. With his free arm he struck out for the longboat, reaching it quickly. Strong hands reached over the side and pulled him aboard.

‘The ship sinks!’ men yelled as they leaped from the deck into the foam.

‘Leave the rest!’ shouted a man holding what appeared to be a large sack of gold coins. He hit the water, and after a minute his head broke the surface. He struggled mightily to get the sack aboard Knute’s boat.

‘No! Noooo!’ came Bear’s anguished cry from the bowels of the sinking ship as Knute helped the pirate aboard the boat.

‘Sounds like the boss is having a problem,’ said the drenched pirate.

‘Row,’ instructed Knute. The sailor complied and Knute looked over his shoulder. ‘Whatever the boss’s problems, they’re no longer ours.’

‘You going to leave him?’ said one of Knute’s men.

‘Let’s see if that cursed amulet keeps him alive on the bottom of the sea.’

One of the pirates grinned. Like the rest of his brethren he had been obedient out of fear as much as any loyalty to Bear. ‘If it does, he’s going to kill you, Knute.’

‘He’s got to find me first,’ said the wily pilot. ‘I’ve sailed with that murdering lunatic three times, which is two too many. You’ve been his slaves long enough. Now it’s our turn to live the high life!’

The pirates rowed. One of Bear’s crew said, ‘If he does make it out alive, he’ll find others to follow him, you know that? Why shouldn’t I cut your throat now and gain his favour?’

‘Because you’re greedy, like me. If you cut my throat, you’ll never get that galley safely out of these rocks. Besides, even if Bear lives, it’ll be too late,’ said Knute. ‘We’ll all be safely gone.’

They reached the galley and quickly climbed aboard, other longboats and a few swimmers reaching the ship at the same time. The ship creaked as the longboats were hoisted aboard. Men scrambled up ropes while others lowered nets to haul the riches taken from the Ishapian ship. The crew moved with an efficiency rarely seen, spurred on by equal shares of avarice and the fear that Bear would suddenly appear. Finally they lashed the cargo to the centre deck and Knute said, ‘Get underway!’

‘Where are we going?’ asked one of the pirates who had rowed Knute to the galley.

‘To a rendezvous down the coast. I’ve got some men waiting for us who will offload this cargo, then we row this galley out to sea and sink it.’

‘Why?’ asked another man as the crew gathered around Knute.

‘Why?’ echoed Knute. ‘I’ll tell you why, fool. That ship we took was the property of the Temple of Ishap. In a few days the entire world is going to be looking for the men who sank it. Bear’s got that ward against priests, but we don’t. We’ll divide up our shares and go our separate ways, tonight!’

‘Sounds good,’ said one of the sailors.

‘Then get to the oars! The slaves are half dead and I want us split up and every man on his own by sunrise!’ shouted Knute.

Just then, Bear’s voice cut through the storm. ‘It’s mine!! I had it in my hands!’

All eyes turned to the sinking ship, and against a lightning flash they could see Bear standing at the rail. Slowly, he climbed atop it, shook his fist as the retreating galley, and leaped into the water.

Like a spur to a horse, the sight of Bear plunging into the water as if to swim after them caused the sailors to spring to action. Below, the hortator’s drum began to sound as slaves were unchained and pushed aside by frantic pirates. Knute paused a moment to look where Bear had stood outlined against the lightning flashes. For an instant Knute could have sworn Bear’s eye had been glowing red.

Knute shuddered and turned his mind away from Bear. The man was terrible in his anger and his strength was unmatched, but even Bear wouldn’t be able to storm into the Prince’s city and find Knute.

Knute smiled. The men waiting for him were expecting a ship full of riches and a dead crew. Poisoned wine and ale waited below, and Knute would pass it out minutes before reaching the rendezvous. By the time the cargo was offloaded and aboard the wagons, every pirate and slave below would be a corpse. His own men would also be departed, but that was an unfortunate circumstance he couldn’t avoid. Besides, it meant more for him and those driving the wagons.

All his life he had waited for an opportunity like this and he was going to be ruthless in taking advantage of it. None of these men would lift a finger to help Knute, he knew, if his life was at risk, so what did he owe them? Honour among thieves might exist with the Mockers, where the Upright Man’s bashers ensured honourable behaviour, but on a ship like Bear’s, the rule was strictly survival by strength, or by wits.

Knute shouted orders and the ship heeled over as it turned against the waves, striking for a safer course away from the rocks of Widow’s Point. Soon the ship was clear of the last of the underwater rocks, and the rowers struck a steady pace. The little pilot moved to the stern of the galley and looked over the fantail. In a brief flash, for an instant, he thought he saw something in the water. It was a swimmer, following after the ship with a powerful stroke.

Knute’s eyes strained as he peered through the darkness, but nothing more was glimpsed of the swimmer. He rubbed his eyes. It must be the excitement, he thought, the chance to at last be rich and out from under the heel of men like Bear.

Turning his mind to the future, he again grinned. He had made deals before. He would pay off the wagoners, have them killed if necessary, and by the time he reached Krondor, every silver coin, every golden chain, every sparkling gem would be his.

‘Where are we going?’ asked a pirate.

‘Captain,’ said Knute.

‘What?’

‘Where are we going, Captain,’ Knute repeated, coolly.

The pirate shrugged, as if it didn’t matter, and said, ‘Where are we going, Captain? How far down the coast are your men?’

Knute grinned, knowing that this man – like every other man in the crew – would happily let him play at command up to the minute they’d cut his throat if they thought he would make them rich. He played along. ‘We’re meeting a gang at the beach north of Fishtown, outside of Krondor.’

‘Fishtown it is!’ said the man, quickly adding, ‘Captain!’

Throughout the night the crew rowed, and when dawn was less than two hours away, Knute called one of his most trusted crewmen over. ‘How are things?’

‘Bear’s men are nervous, but they’re not smart enough to plan anything if they think they might lose out on what we’ve taken. But they’re still jumpy. You don’t cross someone like Bear and sleep soundly.’

Knute nodded, then said, ‘If everything’s secure, there’s some wine and ale below. Break it out.’

‘Aye, Captain,’ said the man, his grin widening. ‘A celebration, eh? That will take the edge off.’

Knute returned the grin, but said nothing.

Within minutes the noise of celebration emanated from below. For hours all Knute had heard was an ominous silence punctuated by the sound of rhythmic rowing, oars groaning in their oarlocks, wood creaking as the hull flexed, and the rattle of tackle and blocks in the rigging. Now the murmur of voices arose, some joking, others surprised, as men made the rounds of the rowing benches with casks and cups.

One of the pirates looked at Knute across the deck and Knute shouted, ‘See that those aloft go below for a quick drink! I’ll take the helm!’

The pirate nodded, then shouted aloft as Knute made his way to the stern of the ship. He said to the helmsman, ‘Go get something to drink. I’ll take her in.’

‘Going to beach her, Captain?’

Knute nodded. ‘We’re coming in a bit after low tide. She’s heavy as a pregnant sow with all this booty. Once we offload, when high tide comes in, she’ll lift right off the beach and we can back her out.’

The man nodded. He was familiar with the area near Fishtown; the beaches were gentle and Knute’s plan made sense.

Knute had chosen a slow-acting poison. As he took the helm, he calculated that he’d be coming into the beach by the time the first men began to pass out. With luck, those still alive would assume their companions were insensible from drink. With even more luck, the wagoners he had hired out of Krondor wouldn’t have to cut any throats. They were teamsters working for a flat fee, not bully boys.

Knute had piled one lie atop another. The wagoners thought he was working for the Upright Man of Krondor, the leader of the Guild of Thieves. Knute knew that without that lie he would never control them once they saw the wealth he was bringing into the city. If the teamsters didn’t believe a dread power stood behind Knute, he’d be as dead as the rest of the crew come morning.

The sound of the water changed, and in the distance Knute could hear breakers rolling into the beach. He hardly needed to look to know where he was.

One of the pirates came staggering up the companionway from below and spoke. His speech was slurred. ‘Captain, what’s in this ale? The boys are passin’ …’ Knute smiled at the seaman, a young thug of perhaps eighteen years. The lad pitched forward. A few voices from below shouted up to the deck, but their words were muffled, and quiet soon descended.

The oars had fallen silent and now came the most dangerous part of Knute’s plan. He lashed down his tiller, sprang to the ratlines and climbed aloft. Alone he lowered one small sail, shimmied down a sheet, and tied off. That little sail was all he had to keep him from turning broad to the waves and being smashed upon the beach.

As he reached the tiller, a hand descended upon Knute’s shoulder, spinning him around. He was confronted by a leering grin of sharpened teeth as dark eyes studied him. ‘Shaskahan don’t drink ale, little man.’

Knute froze. He let his hand slip to a dagger in his belt but waited to see what the cannibal would do next. The man was motionless. ‘Don’t drink ale,’ he repeated.

‘I’ll give you half the gold,’ Knute whispered.

‘I take all of it,’ said the cannibal, as he drew out his large belt knife. ‘And then I eat you.’

Knute leaped backward and drew his own knife. He knew that he was no match for the veteran killer, but he was fighting for his life and the biggest trove of riches he would ever see. He waited, praying for a few more moments.

The cannibal said again, ‘Shaskahan don’t drink ale.’ Knute saw the man’s legs begin to shake as he took a step forward. Suddenly the man was on his knees, his eyes going blank. Then he fell face forward. Knute cautiously knelt next to the man and examined him. He sheathed his knife as he leaned close to the cannibal’s face, sniffed once, then stood.

‘You don’t drink ale, you murdering whore’s son, but you do drink brandy.’

With a laugh Knute unlashed the tiller as the ship swept forward into breakers. He pointed it like an arrow at a long, flat run of beach and as the ship ploughed prow first into the sand, he saw the three large wagons sitting atop the bluffs. Six men who’d been sitting on the shore leapt to their feet as the ship ground to a halt in the sand. Knute had ordered the wagons not be brought down to the cove, for once loaded they’d be sunk to their hubs in sand. The teamsters would have to cart all the gold up the small bluff to the wagons. It would be hard, sweaty work.

No sooner had the ship stopped moving than Knute was shouting orders. The six wagoners hurried forward, while Knute pulled his knife. He was going to ensure no one below recovered from too little poison, then he was going to get that treasure to Krondor.

There was one man in the world he knew he could trust and that man would help him hide all these riches. Then Knute would celebrate, get drunk, pick a fight, and get himself thrown into jail. Let Bear come for him, thought Knute, if by some miracle he had survived. Let the crazed animal of a pirate try to reach him in the bowels of the city’s stoutest jail, surrounded by the city watch. That would never happen – at the very least Bear would be captured by the city guards; more likely he’d be killed. Once Knute knew for certain Bear’s fate, he could bargain for his own life. For he was the only man who knew where the Ishapian ship had gone down. He could lead the Prince’s men and a representative of the Wreckers’ Guild to the site, where the Wreckers’ Guild’s mage could raise the ship and they could offload whatever trinket it was that Bear had been after. Then he’d be a free man while Bear rotted in the Prince’s dungeon or hung from the gibbet or rested at the bottom of the sea. And let everyone think the rest of the treasure went down with the pirate ship in the deep water trench just a mile offshore.

Knute congratulated himself on his masterful plan, and set about his grisly work, as the wagoners from Krondor climbed aboard to offload ‘the Upright Man’s treasure.’

Miles away as the dawn broke, a solitary figured emerged from the breakers. His massive frame hung with clothing tattered and soaked from hours in the brine. He had tossed aside his weapons to lighten himself for a long swim. One good eye surveyed the rocks and he calculated where he had come ashore. With dry sand under his now bare feet, the huge pirate let out a scream of primal rage.

‘Knute!’ he shouted at the sky. ‘By the dark god I’ll hunt you down and have your liver on a stick. But first you’ll tell me where the Tear of the Gods is!’

Knowing that he had to find weapons and a new pair of boots, Bear turned northward, towards the secret temple at Widow’s Peak and the village of Haldon’s Head. There he would find some men to serve him and with their help they would track down Knute and the others. Every member of his crew who had betrayed him would die a slow, agonizing death. Again Bear let out a bellow of rage. As the echoes died against the windswept rocks, he squared his shoulders and began walking.

• CHAPTER ONE •
Arrival

JAMES HURRIED THROUGH THE NIGHT.

As he moved purposefully across the courtyard of the Prince’s palace in Krondor, he still felt the odd ache and twinge, reminders of his recent beating at the hands of the Nighthawks while he had been their captive. For the most part he was nearly back to his usual state of fitness. Despite that, he still felt the need for more sleep than usual, so of course, he had only just settled into a deep slumber when a page came knocking upon his door and informed James that the overdue caravan from Kesh had been sighted approaching the city. James had gotten up and dressed despite every fibre of his being demanding that he roll over in his warm bed and return to slumber.

Silently cursing the need to meet the arriving magician, he reached the outer gate where two guards stood their stations.

‘Evening, gentlemen. All’s well?’

The senior of the two guards, an old veteran named Crewson, saluted. ‘Quiet as the grave, Squire. Where’re you bound at this ungodly hour?’ He motioned for the other guard to open the gate so that James could leave the precinct of the palace.

Stifling a yawn, James said, ‘The Prince’s new mage has arrived from Stardock, and I’ve the dubious honour of meeting her at the North Gate.’

The younger guard smiled in mock sympathy. ‘Ah, you’ve all the luck, Squire.’ He swung the gate wide to allow James to depart.

With a wry smile, James passed through the opening. ‘I’d rather have a good night’s sleep, but duty calls. Fare you well, gentlemen.’

James picked up his pace, as he knew the caravan would disband quickly upon arrival. He wasn’t worried about the magician’s safety, as the city guard would be augmented by caravan guards coming off duty, but he was concerned over the possible lapse in protocol should he not be there to greet her. While she might be only a distant relative of the Ambassador from Great Kesh to the Western Court, she was still a noble by rank, and relations between the Kingdom of the Isles and Great Kesh had never been what one might call tranquil. A good year was one in which there were three or fewer border skirmishes.

James decided to take a shortcut from the palace district to the North Gate, one that would require he pass through a warehouse district behind the Merchants’ Quarter. He knew the city as well as any living man, and had no concerns about getting lost, but when two figures detached themselves from the shadows as he rounded a corner, he cursed himself for a fool. The out-of-the-way route was unlikely to be host to many citizens abroad on lawful business at this time of night. And these two looked nothing like lawful citizens.

One carried a large billy club and had a long belt knife, while the other rested his hand easily upon a sword. The first wore a red leather vest while his companion wore a simple tunic and trousers. Both had sturdy boots on, and James instantly recognized them for what they were: common street thugs. They were almost certainly freebooters, men not associated with the Mockers, the Guild of Thieves.

James pushed aside his self-recriminations for taking this shortcut, for the matter was now beyond changing.

The first man said, ‘Ah, what’s the city coming to?’

The second nodded, moving to flank James should he try to run. ‘It’s a sad state of affairs. Gentlemen of means, wanderin’ the streets after midnight. What can they be thinking?’

Red-vest pointed his billy club at James and said, ‘He must be thinkin’ his purse is just too heavy and be hopin’ for a helpful pair like us to relieve him of it.’

James let out a slow breath and calmly said, ‘Actually, I was thinking about the foolishness of men who don’t recognize a dangerous mark when they see one.’ He drew his rapier slowly and moved the point to halfway between the two men, so that he would be able to parry an attack from either man.

‘The only danger here is tryin’ to cross us,’ said the second thug, drawing his sword and lashing out at James.

‘I really don’t have time for this,’ James said. He parried the blow easily and riposted. The swordsman barely pulled back in time to avoid being skewered like a holiday pig.

Red-vest pulled out his belt knife and swung his billy club, but James ducked aside and kicked out with his right leg, propelling the man into his companion. ‘You still have time to run away, my friends.’

Red-vest grunted, recovered his balance, and rushed James, threatening with the billy club while holding his knife in position to do the real damage. James recognized the man’s outrage – this was no longer a simple mugging; these two men now meant to kill him. He ignored the billy club, dodging towards it rather than away, and sliced at the man’s left wrist. The knife fell to the stones with a clatter.

While Red-vest howled in pain and fell back, his companion came rushing in, his sword cocked back over his shoulder. James danced backward for two steps, and as the man let fly with his wide swing – designed to decapitate the young squire – James leaned forward in a move he had learned from the Prince, his left hand touching the stones to aid his balance and his right hand extending out. The attacker’s sword passed harmlessly over James’s head and he ran onto the point of James’s rapier. The man’s eyes widened in shock and he came to an abrupt halt, looked down in disbelief, then collapsed to his knees. James pulled his sword point free and the man toppled over.

The other brigand caught James by surprise coming over the shoulder of his collapsing friend, and James barely ducked away from a thrust that would have certainly split his head. He took a glancing blow on his left shoulder, still sore from the beating he had taken at the hands of the Nighthawks, and gasped at the unexpected pain. The hilt of the knife had struck, so there was no blood – his tunic wasn’t even ripped – but damn it, he thought, it hurt!

James’s training and battle-honed reflexes took over, and he turned with the attacker, his sword lashing out again as the man went by, and stood behind him as he too went down to his knees, then toppled over. James didn’t even have to look to know his sword had cut Red-vest’s throat in a single motion.

James wiped his sword off on the shirt of the first man he had killed and returned it to its sheath. Rubbing his sore left shoulder, he shook his head and muttered, ‘Idiots,’ quietly under his breath. Resuming his journey he marvelled, not for the first time, at humanity’s capacity for stupidity. For every gifted, brilliant man like Prince Arutha, there seemed to be a hundred – no, make that a thousand – stupid men.

Better than most men in the Prince’s court, James understood the petty motives and narrow appetites of most citizens. As he turned his back on the two dead men, he acknowledged to himself that most of the population were decent people, people who were tainted by only a little larceny, a small lie about taxes owed, a little shorting of a measure, but in the main they were good.

But he had seen the worst and best of the rest, and had gone from a fraternity of men bent on trivial gain by any means, including murder, to a fellowship of men who would sacrifice even their own lives for the greater good.

His ambition was to be like them, to be noble by strength of purpose and clarity of vision rather than by accident of birth. He wanted one day to be remembered as a great defender of the Kingdom.

Ironically, he considered how unlikely it was that that would ever happen, given his current circumstance. He was now commissioned to create a company of spies, intelligence men who were to act on behalf of the Crown. He doubted Prince Arutha would appreciate him telling the ladies and gentleman of the court about it.

Still, he reminded himself as he turned another corner – glancing automatically into the shadows to see if anyone lurked there – the deed was the thing, not the praise.

Absently rubbing his right shoulder with his left hand, he noted how it had been overstrained by the swordplay. The little exercise with the two brigands was reminding him he wasn’t fully healed from his recent ordeal in the desert at the hands of the Nighthawks – a band of fanatic assassins. He had been up and around within days of returning to Krondor, but he was still feeling not quite right after three weeks. And two sore shoulders would continue to remind him of it all for a couple of days, at least.

Sighing aloud, James muttered to himself: ‘Not as spry as I once was, I fear.’

He cut through another alley that brought him around the corner to the street leading to the North Gate. He found himself passing the door of a new orphanage, recently opened by the Order of Dala, the goddess known as ‘Shield to the Weak.’ The sign above the door featured a yellow shield with the Order’s mark upon it. Princess Anita had been instrumental in helping to secure the title to the building and funding it for the Order. James wondered absently how different his life might have been had he found his way to such a place when his mother had died, rather than ending up in the Guild of Thieves.

In the distance he could see two guardsmen speaking with a solitary young woman. He left off his musings and quickened his pace.

As he approached, he studied the young woman. Several facts were immediately manifest. He had expected a noblewoman of Kesh, bedecked in fine silks and jewellery, with a complement of servants and guards at her disposal. Instead he beheld a solitary figure, wearing clothing far more appropriate for rigorous travel than for court ceremony. She was dark-skinned, not as dark as those who lived farther south in Great Kesh, but darker than was common in Krondor, and in the gloom of night, her dark hair, tied back in a single braid, reflected the flickering torchlight with a gleam like a raven’s wing. Her eyes, when they turned upon James, were also dark, almost black in the faint light.

Her bearing and the set of her eyes communicated an intensity that James often admired in others, if it was leavened with intelligence. There could be no doubt of intelligence, else Pug would never have recommended her for the post as Arutha’s magical advisor.

She carried a heavy staff of either oak or yew, shod at both ends in iron. It was a weapon of choice among many travellers, especially those who by inclination or lack of time couldn’t train in blades and bows. James knew from experience it was not a weapon to be taken lightly; against any but the most heavily-armoured foe a staff could break bones, disarm or render an opponent unconscious. And this woman appeared to have the muscle to wield it effectively. Unlike the ladies of Arutha’s court, her bare arms showed the effects of strenuous labour or hours spent in the weapons yard.

As he neared, James summed up his first impression of the new court magician: a striking woman, not pretty but very attractive in an unusual way. Now James understood his friend William’s distress at the news of her appointment to the Prince’s court. If she had been his first lover, as James suspected, William would not easily put her behind him, not for many years. Given his young friend’s recent infatuation with Talia, the daughter of a local innkeeper, James chuckled to himself as he surmised that William’s personal life was about to get very interesting. James didn’t envy him the discomfort, but knew it would no doubt prove entertaining to witness. He smiled to himself as he closed upon the group.

One of the two guards conversing with the young woman noticed James and greeted him. ‘Well met, Squire. We’ve been expectin’ you.’

James nodded and replied, ‘Gentlemen. My thanks for keeping an eye on our guest.’

The second guard chimed in. ‘We felt bad, I mean, her bein’ a noble and all, and havin’ to wait so long, but we didn’t have enough men to send with her to the palace.’ He indicated the other pair at the far end of the gate.

James appreciated their dilemma. If any of them had left his post, for whatever reason, without permission, the guard captain would have had their ears. ‘Not to worry. You’ve done your duty.’

Turning to the young woman, James bowed and said, ‘Your pardon, milady, for making you wait. I am Squire James of Krondor.’

The young magician smiled and suddenly James reevaluated his appraisal. She was very pretty, if in an unusual fashion for the women of the Western Kingdom. She said, ‘It is I who should apologize for arriving at this unseemly hour, but our caravan was delayed. I am Jazhara, most recently of Stardock.’

Glancing around, James said, ‘A pleasure to meet you, Jazhara. Where is your entourage?’

‘At my father’s estates on the edge of the Jal-Pur desert. I had no servants at Stardock and requested none to travel here. I find that the use of servants tends to weaken the will. Since I began studying the mystic arts, I have always travelled alone.’

James found the availability of servants one of the key attractions of the Prince’s court; always having someone around to send on errands or fetch things was very useful. He was also now embarrassed to discover he should have ordered a squad of soldiers to escort Jazhara and himself back to the palace; her rank required such, but he had assumed she’d have her own bodyguards in place. Still, if she didn’t bring it up, neither would he. He merely said, ‘I quite understand. If you are willing, however, we can leave your baggage under the watch of the guards, and I will arrange to have it brought to the palace in the morning.’

‘That will be fine. Shall we go?’

He decided to avoid shortcuts and keep to the broader thoroughfares. It would take a bit longer to reach the palace, but would afford them safer travel. He suspected that in addition to knowing how to use that staff to good effect, Jazhara probably had several nasty magician’s tricks at her disposal, but the risk of an international incident to save a few minutes’ walk wasn’t worth it.

Deciding that being direct was his best course, James asked, ‘What does your great-uncle think of this appointment?’

Jazhara smiled. ‘I do not know, but I suspect he is less than happy. Since he was already unhappy that I chose to study at Stardock – over my father’s objections – rather than marry a “suitable young lord,” I fear I’ve likely put him in a dark mood.’

James smiled. ‘Having met your great-uncle on a few occasions, I should think you’d want to stay on his good side.’

With a slight twist of her lips, Jazhara said, ‘To the world he is the mighty Lord Hazara-Khan, a man to be dreaded by those who put their own interests ahead of the Empire’s. To me he is Uncle Rachman – “Raka” I called him because I couldn’t manage his name when I was little – and he can deny me little. He wanted to marry me off to a minor prince of the Imperial House, a distant cousin to the Empress, but when I threatened to run away if he sent me south, he relented.’

James chuckled. They rounded a corner and headed down a large boulevard that would eventually lead them back to the palace.

After only a few minutes, James found himself enjoying the company of this young woman from Kesh. She was quick, observant, keen-eyed, and witty. Her banter was clever and entertaining without the acerbic, nasty edge one found so often among the nobles of the Prince’s court.

Unfortunately, she was too entertaining: James suddenly realized he had turned a corner a few streets back without thinking and now they were in the area he had planned on avoiding.

‘What is it?’ Jazhara asked.

James turned and grinned at her, a grin that could barely be seen in the faint glow of a distant lantern hanging outside an inn. ‘You’re very perceptive, milady.’

‘It’s part of the trade, sir,’ she replied, her voice a mix of playfulness and caution. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘I just got caught up in our discourse and without thought turned us into a part of the city it might be best to avoid at this hour.’

James noticed a very slight shift in the way she held her staff, but her voice remained calm. ‘Are we in danger?’

‘Most probably not, but one never knows in Krondor. Best to be alert. We shall be at the palace in a few minutes.’

Without comment, they both picked up the pace slightly, and hurried along, each watching the side of the street for possible assailants in the gloom, James taking the left, Jazhara the right.

They had rounded the corner that put them in sight of the palace district when a sound echoed off to James’s left. He turned and as he did so he recognized the trap: a pebble being tossed from the right.

As he turned back towards Jazhara, a small figure darted from the shadows. Jazhara had also spun to look in the same direction as James and was slow to recover.

The assailant darted close, a blade flashed, and suddenly a child was running down the street clutching Jazhara’s purse.

James had been prepared for an attack, so it took an instant for him to realize that a street urchin had robbed Jazhara. ‘Hey! Stop! Come back here!’ he shouted after the fleeing child.

‘We have to stop him,’ said Jazhara. ‘Besides a few coins, my purse has items which could prove fatal to a child.’

James didn’t hesitate.

He knew the city as well as any man, and after a moment’s pursuit, he slowed. ‘What is it?’ asked Jazhara.

‘If memory serves, he just ducked into a dead end.’

They turned into the alley after the cutpurse and saw no sign of him.

‘He’s gone!’ Jazhara exclaimed.

James laughed. ‘Not quite.’

He moved to what looked to be some heavy crates, and reached around behind them, pulling away a piece of cloth tacked to the back. With a quick motion, in case the young thief was inclined to use the blade to defend himself, James snatched a thin arm.

‘Let me go!’ shouted a young girl who looked no older than ten, dressed in rags. She dropped her blade and Jazhara’s purse on the cobbles.

James knew it was a ruse to get him to release her arm and pick up the purse, so he held firm. ‘If you’re going to be a thief, you must learn who to mark and who to leave be.’

He turned to block her path if she tried to run and held her arm loosely. Kneeling so that he was at eye level with her, he asked, ‘What’s your name, sweetheart?’

Quickly sensing that this man and woman weren’t trying to harm her, the girl relaxed slightly. ‘Nita,’ she said with a tiny hint of defiance. ‘Mommy called me that after Prince ’Rutha’s wife, ’Nita.’

James couldn’t help but smile. He knew Princess Anita would be flattered to hear of that tiny honour. ‘I’m Squire James, and this is Jazhara, the court mage.’

The girl seemed less than reassured at being confronted by two members of the court. ‘Are you going to take me to jail?’

‘James,’ said Jazhara, ‘you’re not going to put this child in jail, are you?’

With mock seriousness, James said, ‘By rights I should. A dangerous criminal like this preying on innocent people at night!’

The child’s eyes widened slightly, but she stood unafraid and didn’t flinch. James softened his tone. ‘No, child. We’ll not put you in jail. There’s a place we could take you, if you like. It’s called the Sign of the Yellow Shield. They take care of children like you.’

The reaction was instantaneous. ‘No! No! You’re just like the other men. You’re just like the bad men!’ She struck at James’s face with her free hand, and tried to pull away.

James hung on. ‘Hold on! Hold it! Stop hitting me for a minute.’

The girl ceased hitting him, but still kept tugging. James slowly let go of her arm and held up his hands, palms out, showing that he was not going to grab her again. ‘Look, Nita, if you want to stay here that’s fine. We’re not going to hurt you,’ he said softly.

Jazhara asked, ‘Who were you talking about, Nita? Who were the bad men?’

The girl looked up at the mage and said, ‘They say they’re like the Yellow Shield, and all good children go with them, but they hurt me!’ Her eyes started to fill with tears, but her voice was firm.

James asked, ‘How did they hurt you?’

Nita looked at the former boy-thief and said, ‘They took me to the big house, and they locked me in a cage, like all the other children. Then they told me to dye cloth for Yusuf, or else they’d beat me, and some of the other children, the bad children, they took and they never came back and there were rats and squirmy things in our food and—’

‘This is horrible,’ said Jazhara. ‘We must act on this “Yusuf,” but first we must care for Nita.’