Raymond Feist - Into a Dark Realm

The luggage-master looked at Kaspar as if he expected him to say something. Kaspar looked down on the three bodies for another moment, then put heels to his horse’s sides, turned the gelding and began his long ride northward.

As he cantered from the battlefield, Kaspar felt something inside him turn cold and hard. It would be easy enough to hate Okanala for violating the strictures of ‘civilized’ warfare. It would be easy to hate Muboya for taking a man from his family. It would be easy to hate anyone and everyone. But Kaspar knew that over the years he had issued certain orders, and because of those orders hundreds of Bandamins had been taken from their homes, and hundreds of Jojannas and Jorgens had endured hardships, even death.

With a sigh that felt as if came from deep within his soul, Kaspar wondered if there was any happy purpose to existence, anything beyond suffering and, at the end, death. For if there was, at this moment in his life he was sorely pressed to say what it might be.

THE SOLDIERS MOVED QUICKLY.

Eric von Darkmoor, Duke of Krondor, Knight-Marshall of the King’s Army in the West, and Warden of the Western Marches stood behind a large outcropping of rocks, observing his men moving slowly into position. Silent silhouettes against rocks bathed in deep shadows cast by the setting sun, they were a special unit of the Prince’s Household Guards. Erik personally had designed their training as he ascended through the ranks of the army, first as a captain in the Prince’s army, then as Commander of the Garrison at Krondor, then Knight-Marshall.

The men were once part of the Royal Krondorian Pathfinders, a company of trackers and scouts, descendants of the legendary Imperial Keshian Guides, but now this smaller elite company was called simply the ‘Prince’s Own’, soldiers whom Erik called upon in special circumstances, such as the one that confronted them this night. Their uniforms were distinctive: dark grey short tabards bearing the blazon of Krondor – an eagle soaring over a peak, rendered in muted colours – and black trousers with a red stripe down the side tucked into heavy boots, suitable for marching, riding, or as they were employed now, climbing rocky faces. Each man wore a simple, dark, open-faced helm, and carried short weapons – a sword barely long enough to deserve the name, and an estoc, a long dagger. Each man was trained in a specific set of skills, and right now Erik’s two best rock-climbers were leading the assault.

Erik let his gaze move up to the top of the cliffs opposite his position.

High above them sat the ancient Cavell Keep, looking down upon a path that diverged from the main draw, a path known as Cavell Run. A small waterfall graced the rockface near the keep, landing in a pool in an outcrop halfway up the cliff, then falling again to the stream that had originally formed the run. As such things are wont to do, the course of the stream had changed over the years, and some event, geological or manmade, had forced the stream bed down the other side of the draw, leaving the original creek bed dry and dusty. That pool was their destination, for if the intelligence Erik possessed from nearly a hundred years ago was valid, behind that pool existed a secret entrance, the keep’s original bolt-hole.

Erik had brought his soldiers into Cavell Town before dawn, quickly hiding them as best he could, a difficult task in a town so small, but by noon the townspeople were about their business as best they could be with armed men hiding in every other building. Erik was unconcerned about Nighthawk spies in the town, for no one was allowed to leave Cavell that day; his only concern was for someone observing from up high, in the hills above the town, and he was convinced he had taken every precaution possible.

Magnus had aided the effort with an illusion spell, and unless any observer was a highly trained magic-user, the few minutes it took to get a hundred men into the town would have passed uneventfully. At sundown, Magnus had again cast his enchantment and the men quickly broke up into two companies, one heading to the main entrance up Cavell Run, and the other under Erik’s personal supervision heading to the rear of the keep.

The old soldier stood motionless, his attention focused on the deployment of his men. He was nearly eighty-five years of age, yet thanks to a potion given him by Nakor, he resembled a man thirty years younger. Satisfied that things were as they should be, he turned to his companions, Nakor and Magnus, who stood nearby, while the Knight-Marshall’s personal bodyguard stood uneasily to one side; they were not entirely comfortable with their commander ordering them to stand away, as it was their personal mission to protect him at all costs.

‘Now?’ asked Nakor.

‘We wait,’ said Eric. ‘If they have any concerns about this approach to their citadel, they should have seen us coming, and if so, they’ll either do something inhospitable or they’ll attempt to flee through the other escape route.’

‘Your best guess?’ asked Magnus.

Erik sighed. ‘I’d hunker down and pretend there was no one at home. If that didn’t work, I’d have a very nasty reception in mind for anyone attempting to enter the keep.’ He waved absently with his hand as he said, ‘We have old records, which even then were not entirely accurate, but what we do know is that Cavell Keep is a warren, and there are many places to lie in ambush or leave behind some nasty traps. It’s going to be no walk through the meadow going in there.’

Nakor shrugged. ‘You have good men.’

‘The best,’ said Erik. ‘Hand-picked and trained for this sort of business, but I still hate to put them at risk needlessly.’

Nakor said softly, ‘There is need, Erik.’

‘I’m convinced of that, Nakor,’ said the old soldier. ‘Or I would not be here.’

‘How does that sit with the Duke of Salador?’ asked Nakor.

‘He doesn’t know I’m here.’ Erik looked at Nakor. ‘You picked a hell of a time to give me this to worry about, old friend.’

Nakor shrugged. ‘We never get to pick our moments, do we?’

‘There have been times when I think that I might have been better off if Bobby de Longville and Calis had hanged me that cold, bitter morning, so long ago.’ His eyes looked off into the distance, as the sun disappeared behind the rocks there. He turned to Nakor. ‘Then there are times that I don’t. When this is over, I’ll know better what sort of time this is.’ The old man smiled. ‘Let’s go back and wait a while.’

He led Magnus and Nakor down a narrow path between high rockfaces, passing lines of soldiers quietly waiting to assault the keep on the rocks above. At the rear lackeys stood ready with the horses, and behind them waited wagons with supplies. Erik waved to his personal squire, who had stayed behind with the boys in the luggage.

The squire produced a pair of cups and filled them with wine from a skin. Nakor took one, eyebrow raised. ‘Serving wine before a battle?’

‘Why not?’ said the Duke, drinking deeply. He wiped his mouth with the back of his gauntlet. ‘As if I didn’t have enough to worry about, you send me off halfway across the Kingdom to dig out murderers.’

Nakor shrugged. ‘Someone has to do it, Erik.’

The old warrior shook his head. ‘I’ve lived a long life, Nakor, and one more interesting than most. I’d be a liar if I told you I would welcome death, but I would certainly be glad to be free of my burdens.’ He fixed Nakor with a narrow gaze. ‘I thought I was until you appeared that night.’

‘We need you,’ said the Isalani.

‘My King needs me,’ said Erik.

‘The world needs you,’ said Nakor, lowering his voice so that those nearby would not overhear. ‘You are the only man of rank in the Kingdom Pug still trusts.’