Raymond Feist - Into a Dark Realm

He waited, observed, and waited some more. He could sense as much as see that something was about to happen, and then it did.

Like rats erupting from a flooding sewer during a sudden downpour, the boys came roiling out of the alley. The two lookouts just ran, in seemingly random directions, but the dozen or so after them were all carrying loaves of bread – someone must have found a way into the back of a bakery and handed out as much fresh bread as he could before the baker cried alarm. A moment later shouts echoed across the square as merchants became aware that a crime was in progress.

One boy of no more than ten hurried right past Kaspar, who reached out and snagged him by the collar of his filthy tunic. The boy instantly released his bread and threw his arms straight up, and Kaspar realized he was about to slip right out of the rag he wore as a shirt.

Kaspar grabbed him instead by his dirty long black hair. The youngster yelled, ‘Let me go!’

Kaspar hauled him away down another alley. When he was out of sight of those in the market, he hiked the lad around and inspected him. The boy was kicking, trying to bite and strike him with surprising strength, but Kaspar had grappled with an assortment of wild animals all his life, including one unforgettable and nearly disastrous encounter with an angry wolverine. Hanging on to that creature’s neck with an iron grip and holding its tail had been the only thing between Kaspar and being eviscerated, until his father’s master of the hunt could come and dispatch the animal. He still carried an assortment of scars from that encounter.

‘Stop struggling, and I’ll put you down, but you have to agree to answer a few questions.’

‘Let me go!’ shouted the dirty boy. ‘Help!’

‘You want the constable to come and talk to you?’ asked Kaspar as he held his struggling prey high enough that the boy had to dance on his toes.

The boy ceased struggling. ‘Not really.’

‘Now, answer some questions and I’ll let you go.’

‘Your word?’

‘My word,’ answered Kaspar.

‘Swear by Kalkin,’ said the boy.

‘I swear by the God of Thieves, Liars and Tricksters I’ll let you go when you’ve answered my questions.’

The boy ceased his struggles, but Kaspar hung on. ‘I’m looking for a boy, about your age I’m thinking.’

The young thief fixed his eye on Kaspar and said with a wary tone, ‘Just what sort of boy did you have in mind?’

‘Not a sort, but a particular boy, named Jorgen. If he came through here, it would have been a year or so ago.’

The boy relaxed. ‘I know him. I mean, I knew him. Blond, sunburned, farm lad; came from the north, looking for his pa, he said. Nearly starved to death, but we taught him a thing or two. He stayed with us for a while. Not much good with thievery, but a stand-up boy in a fight. He could hold his own.’

‘“Us”?’ asked Kaspar.

‘The boys and me, my mates. We all hang together.’

A pair of townsmen turned into the alley, so Kaspar put the boy down, but held tight to his arm. ‘Where did he go?’

‘South, down to Kadera. The Raj is fighting down there and that’s where Jorgen’s pa went.’

‘Did Jorgen’s mother come after him?’ Kaspar described Jojanna, then released the boy’s arm.

‘No. Never saw her,’ said the boy; then before Kaspar could react he darted off.

Kaspar took a deep breath, then turned back towards the market. He’d look to a good night’s rest, for tomorrow he would be moving south again.

Another week saw Kaspar leaving the relative prosperity of what, he had learned, was now being called the Kingdom of Muboya. And the young Raj had taken the title Maharajah , or ‘great king’. Again he was riding through a war zone, and several times he had been stopped and questioned. This time, he found little hindrance because at each stop he simply stated he was seeking out General Alenburga. His obvious wealth, fine clothing and fit horse, marked him as ‘someone important’, and he was motioned on without further question.

The village, he was told, was called Timbe, and it had been overrun three times, twice by the forces of Muboya. It was a half-day’s ride south of Kadera, the Maharajah’s southern base of command. After riding in at dawn, Kaspar had been told that the General had come to this village to inspect the carnage the last offensive had unleashed.

The only thing that convinced Kaspar the Muboya army hadn’t been defeated was the lack of retreating soldiers. But from the disposition of those forces still in the field and the destruction visible everywhere, Kaspar knew the Maharajah’s offensive had been halted. At the very best, the Maharajah had achieved a stalemate. At worse, there was a counter-offensive coming this way in a day or two.

Kaspar had little trouble locating the commander’s pavilion, situated as it was on top of a hill overlooking what was likely to be the battlefield. As he rode up the incline, he could see positions to the south being fortified and by the time he was approached by a pair of guards, he had no doubt as to the tactical situation of this conflict.

An officer and a guardsman waved to Kaspar and the officer asked, ‘Your business?’

‘A moment with General Alenburga.’ Kaspar dismounted.

‘Who are you?’ said the officer, a dirty and tired-looking young man. His white turban was almost beige with road dust and there was blood splattered on his leggings and boots. The dark blue tunics of both men did a poor job of hiding the deep red stains of other men’s blood.

‘By name, Kaspar of Olasko. If the General’s memory is overwhelmed by the conflict below, remind him of the stranger who suggested he leave the archers at his rear outside Higara.’

The officer had appeared inclined to send Kaspar on his way, but he said, ‘I was part of the cavalry that rode north and flanked those archers. I remember it being said an outlander gave the suggestion to the General.’

‘I’m pleased to be remembered,’ said Kaspar.

To the guard, the officer said, ‘See if the General has a moment for … an old acquaintance.’

After a moment, Kaspar was bade to enter the pavilion’s main tent. He gave the reins of his mount to the guard and followed the officer inside.

The General looked ten years older instead of three, but he smiled as he looked up. His dark hair was now mostly grey, and combed back behind his ears. His head was uncovered. ‘Come back for another game of chess, Kaspar?’ He rose and extended his hand.

Kaspar shook it. ‘I wouldn’t have expected to be remembered.’

‘Not many men give me a brilliant tactical plan and beat me at chess in the same day.’ He motioned for Kaspar to take a canvas seat near a table covered with a map.

Then the General signalled for his batsman to fetch something to drink. ‘Could have used you a few times along the way, Kaspar. You have a better eye for the field than most of my subcommanders.’

Kaspar inclined his head at the compliment, and accepted a chilled cup of ale. ‘Where do you find ice around here?’ he said as he sipped.

‘The retreating forces of our enemy, the King of Okanala as he calls himself, had an ice-house in the village we liberated a few days ago. They managed to haul off all the stores and destroy anything else that might have been helpful to us, but somehow I guess they couldn’t work out a quick way to melt all the ice.’ He smiled as he took his drink. ‘For which I’m thankful.’ He put his cup down. ‘Last time I saw you, you were trying to take a dead friend home to be buried. What brings you this way this time?’

Kaspar glossed over what had happened after the last time they had met and said, ‘The occupant of the coffin got to where he was intended to be, and other duties have overtaken me since then. I’m here looking for friends.’