Raymond Feist - Krondor - Tear of the Gods

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.

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.