Raymond Feist - Magician’s End

Martin was still nursing his injured pride five days into the march, but it was fading as he was forced to admit her reasoning was borne out by the ease with which she led the party. Several times she negotiated them around difficult spots that would have confounded him, forcing him to double back and find another path.

They ate trail rations, avoiding campfires at night, so this foray lacked any sense of the fun Martin and Bethany had known hunting with their fathers. There was a quiet urgency and earnestness about the mission that was more sobering than any admonition Martin could have made. Everyone knew lives were at stake, their own and others’.

Bethany would rise at dawn and move off at a distance to relieve herself. She had instructed Martin and the four hunters in ways to relieve themselves leaving as little evidence as possible. At first Martin thought she was showing off her trail skills, but after a few days he realized that their body odour could betray their whereabouts. Bethany had taught them how to bathe in a cold stream and rid their garments of stench, using rocks and some oil pressed out of pine bark. Martin had stood guard while she bathed and the five men had rotated guard duty while cleaning themselves.

On the fifth day of their journey the rains came.

Even in midsummer, the weather on the west side of the Grey Towers could turn suddenly. Driving rain, even hail, was not uncommon. They were on the ‘wet’ side of the mountains, as the trail they followed from the road looped to the west of the peaks; storms off the Endless Sea would drench the west face of the peaks, leaving the east side of the mountains dry. Enough rain got over the peaks that the east faces were replete with rivers and streams, rendering the mountain pastures and lower meadows fertile farm land, providing many of the cash crops shipping from the ports of the Free Cities, but they were less plagued with marsh-like depressions, stagnant pools and mosquitoes. Martin decided that in addition to what the history books said about the Keshian colonization of Bosania, the simple truth was that the east side of the Grey Towers was just a nicer place to live than the west side, which is why it was more densely populated.

The troop was less troubled by the terrain than by keeping dry: for much of that fifth day they all huddled under a granite overhang that provided some shelter. In the last hours of the afternoon the storm blew out, and the late sun found the six members of Martin’s scouting party standing, arms outstretched, catching as much of the sun as they could to accelerate drying out, looking like nothing so much as a group of turkey buzzards trying to warm themselves in the sun.

Martin was concerned, not about the discomforts of the trail, but because so far they had encountered no sign of the elves. From what he had been told, these so-called Star Elves were a city race, unlike their cousins in Elvandar. Their trail-craft and wood-lore was no better than that of most humans, and inferior to that of the Rangers of Natal and the Pathfinders of Krondor. Still, if Martin’s estimation was correct, they were less than two days from their city of E’bar, and should be seeing signs of patrols or sentries.

But there had been nothing.

The dawn of the sixth day saw six tired, hungry, miserable scouts moving up a small draw, which should have emptied out into a woodland meadow just north of the Great Rift Valley, as it had come to be known. Here was where the Tsurani had breached space to invade Midkemia through a magic rift. To the south of that spot the taredhel were reputed to have constructed a remarkable city. Little was known about it, for few humans were known to have survived seeing it. The only reason Martin knew where to look was because of information provided him by Jim Dasher before leaving Rillanon. Apparently those who had visited and survived were members of the mysterious Conclave of Shadows.

Martin knew there were still many things he didn’t know; and having to proceed without a clear plan was bringing him to the limits of frustration. ‘Go there and look around,’ Lord James and Jim Dasher had said. Martin had no idea what it was he was looking for, or even if he’d recognize something important if he blundered across it. More than he would ever admit, he was relieved that Bethany was with him. She possessed an innate sense of how things should be organized and saw details where Martin saw patterns: between the two of them they stood a fair chance of the mission succeeding. What Martin didn’t like was the possibility of failure, especially where she was involved.

Bethany raised her hand.

Martin and the others stopped.

A voice cried out in a language none of them understood, and suddenly they were surrounded by very tall, angry elves. Martin’s sword had barely cleared its scabbard before he was struck by a balled fist across the cheek, and swallowed up by darkness.

Martin awoke with a groan. His head throbbed and he had trouble focusing his eyes for a moment. He found himself a short distance away from a fire, and reckoned he must have been unconscious for at least three hours, for it was clearly just after sunset. Along with Bethany and the others, he lay under a lean-to shelter. Like the others, his hands were tied behind his back, so contriving to sit upright took a little effort and each exertion caused his head to pound, and then he sat up with a grunt. Once he had exchanged silent nods confirming that everyone was more or less intact, Martin took a good look around.

Surrounding them was an encampment of elves, but they looked nothing like those elves who had visited Crydee from Elvandar over the years. These were unusually tall and most were blonde, though there were a few with darker tresses or red hair. At least half seemed to be wearing a uniform of some fashion: a blue tunic over which a cuirass of polished steel was fitted. A few were wearing white lacquered armour and matching helms. All appeared to be sporting injuries of some fashion.

Bethany whispered, ‘Are you all right?’

‘I was about to ask that of you,’ he replied in a low voice. ‘Except for a throbbing head, I’m all right.’ He glanced around. ‘Where are we?’

‘I’m not sure,’ she said. ‘We were ambushed and taken without injury. They seem to want us alive.’ She nodded towards the four hunters who all sat silently. ‘We were bound and blindfolded. I think we’re maybe an hour or less from E’bar, if it’s where we think it is. We’re in the valley.’ With her chin she pointed and Martin could make out a faint glimmer from the setting sun playing off peaks opposite where they rested. The eastern rim of the valley was higher than the rest so while they were quickly entering shadows, there was some illumination still.

‘Has anyone talked to you?’ asked Martin.

‘They seem rather too busy.’

Martin watched the camp and noted that while no one was moving frantically, there was a sense of urgency about these elves. The economy of motion that blessed their race masked an intensity that betrayed itself by glimpses and hints. ‘There’s something going on.’

Bethany nodded towards the south. ‘See anything?’

Martin craned his neck. In the falling twilight he could make out a faint red glow coming from the south. ‘What is that?’ he asked.

‘I have no idea,’ she responded. ‘At first I thought it might be a trick of the light, some reflection of the sunset off a cloud, but as it got darker that glow continued.’

They both looked on in silence, wondering what was in store next.

Time seemed to drag, as none of the elves seemed aware of their presence, let alone concerned with their comfort. Finally, the burly, bald-headed hunter, Edgar, said, ‘If they don’t cut me loose soon, Highness, I’m going to be sitting here in a pool of my own piss.’