Raymond E. Feist - The Complete Legends of the Riftwar Trilogy - Honoured Enemy, Murder in Lamut, Jimmy the Hand

‘I wish I’d never left my monastery to come here and help out,’ the priest sighed, finally dropping his gaze. ‘We got lost, brothers Valdin, Sigfried and I. We were making for the camp of Baron Moyet, took a wrong turn on the trail and found ourselves behind the Tsurani lines.’

‘Only Rangers and elves travel these paths without risk of getting lost, Father,’ Gregory offered. ‘These woods are treacherous. It is said that at times the forest itself will hide trails and make new ones to lead the unwary astray.’

‘Brothers Valdin and Sigfried were captured,’ the priest continued, spilling out his story. ‘I escaped. I was off the trail, relieving myself, when the Tsurani patrol took them. I ran in the opposite direction after my brothers were dragged away. I was a coward.’

The Natalese Ranger shrugged. ‘Some might call it prudence, rather than cowardice. You denied the Tsurani a third prisoner.’

The priest still appeared unconvinced.

‘There was nothing you could have done for them,’ Gregory added with certainty, ‘except join them as a captive.’

Corwin seemed slightly more reassured. ‘It was foolish of me to have run, you’ll agree. Had I been more stealthy I’d not have led them to you. When I saw one of your men hiding off the side of the trail, I just naturally went straight to him.’

Gregory’s eyes narrowed. ‘Well, if he’d been doing a better job of hiding, you wouldn’t have seen him, then, would you?’

‘I didn’t know they –’ he pointed towards the Tsurani corpses littering the field ‘– were right behind me.’

Gregory nodded.

What should have been a clean, quick ambush incurring minimal loss had turned into a bloodbath. Eighteen men from the Marauders – nearly a quarter of Dennis’s command – were dead, and six more were seriously wounded. As it was, the engagement had been a Kingdom victory, but at far greater cost than was necessary.

The priest rambled on, starting his tale yet again. Gregory continued to study him. It was obvious the man was badly shaken. He was poorly dressed, wearing sandals rather than boots. A couple of toes were already showing signs of frostbite. His hands shook slightly, and his voice was near to breaking.

The priest fell silent, and took a long moment to compose himself. At last, he let out a long sigh, then looked over to Dennis who stood alone, at the edge of the clearing. ‘What is wrong with your commander?’ he asked.

‘His oldest friend is in that grave,’ Gregory said quietly, nodding down at the eighteen bodies lying side by side in the narrow trench hacked out of the freezing ground. ‘Jurgen served Dennis’s grandfather before he served the grandson. The land the Tsurani now occupy, part of it once belonged to Dennis’s family. His father was Squire of Valinar, a servant of Lord Brucal. They lost everything early on in the war. Word of the invasion hadn’t even reached Valinar before the Tsurani. The old Squire and his men didn’t even know who they were fighting when they died. Dennis and Jurgen were among a handful of survivors of the initial assault; Jurgen was his last link to that past.’ Gregory paused, transferring his gaze to Father Corwin. ‘And now that link is gone.’

‘I’m sorry,’ the priest replied softly, I wish none of this had ever happened.’

‘Well, Father, it happened,’ Gregory said evenly.

The priest looked up at him, and there was moisture in his eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said one more time.

Gregory nodded. ‘As my grandmother said, “Sorry won’t unbreak the eggs.” Just clean up the mess and move on. Let’s find you some boots or you’ll lose all your toes before tomorrow.’

‘Where?’

‘Off the dead of course.’ Gregory indicated boots, weapons, and cloaks that had been stripped off the dead before they were buried. ‘They don’t need them any more, and the living do,’ he added matter-of-factly. ‘We honour their memory, but it’s no use burying perfectly good weapons and boots with them.’ He motioned with his chin. ‘That pair over there looks about your size.’

Father Corwin shuddered but went over and picked up the boots, the Natalese had indicated

As the priest untied his sandals, Alwin Barry, the newly-appointed sergeant for the company, approached the edge of the grave, picked up a clump of frozen earth and tossed it in.

‘Save a seat for me in Tith’s Hall,’ he muttered, invoking the old belief among soldiers that the valiant were hosted for one night of feasting and drinking by the God of War before being sent to Lims-Kragma for judgment. Barry bowed his head for a moment in respect, then turned away, heading over to the trail that went through the middle of the clearing, and called for the men to form up in marching order.

Others hurriedly approached the grave, picking up handfuls of dirt and tossing them in. Some made signs of blessing; one uncorked a drinking flask, raised it, took a drink then emptied the rest of the brandy into the grave and threw the flask in.

Burial was not the preferred disposition of the dead in the Kingdom, but more than one soldier rested under the soil over the centuries and soldiers had their own rituals for saying farewell to the dead, rituals that had nothing to do with priests and gods. This wasn’t about sending comrades off to the Halls of Lims-Kragma, for they were already on their way. This was about saying goodbye to men who had shed their blood alongside them just hours before. This was about saying farewell to brothers.

Richard Kevinsson, the company’s newest recruit, was one of the last to approach. A young squire from Landonare, who had escaped from there when the Tsurani had overrun his family’s estates, he had joined full of blood and fire, vowing vengeance. Now there were tears in his eyes, his features were pale, and a trickle of blood coursed down his cheek from a slashing blow that had laid open his scalp just below the edge of his dented helmet. ‘I’m sorry,’ he gasped quietly. He knelt down and picked up a clump of earth, his gaze fixed on the old sergeant-at-arms lying in the centre of the grave, surrounded by his dead comrades. The grave-diggers were hard at work, but no earth had yet to fall on Jurgen. The man could have been asleep; except for his blood-soaked tunic he almost looked as if he would sit up and smile, revealing his crooked teeth. The young man had often dreamed of his first battle, and the heroic deeds he would accomplish. Instead he had been on the ground, looking up at his enemy like a frozen rabbit, fumbling for his dropped sword and screaming in terror … and then Jurgen had stormed in, cutting the Tsurani down with a single blow.

In saving Richard, however, Jurgen had left himself open to an enemy spearman who had charged straight in. Jurgen had been looking into Richard’s eyes when the spear struck; there had been a brief instant, almost a flicker of a smile, as if he was a kindly old man helping a child out of a minor scrape, just before the Tsurani spear struck him from behind. Then the shock of the blow distorted his face and the spear exploded out of his chest.

Richard had watched the life fade out of the old man’s eyes. It was only a moment, yet it seemed an eternity, the light fading, Richard knowing that the old man had made the sacrifice of his own life without hesitation.

He looked down at Jurgen now. The corpse’s eyes were closed, but in his mind, and in the nightmares that would come for the rest of his life, the eyes would be open, gazing back at him.

‘It should have been me instead of you,’ Richard whispered, barely able to speak for his grief.

He bent almost double, sobs wracking his body. He knew the others were watching, judging him. Why didn’t they cry? he wondered, and he felt ashamed for all his failures this day.