Krondor the Betrayal (37 page)

‘‘Could the Book of Macros be something that’s stored here, without your knowing?’’ asked Gorath.

Dominic motioned for them to walk with him. ‘‘No, every volume in our possession is cataloged and can be found easily by our master librarian.’’ He took them through the main building of the abbey, and said, ‘‘Rest, and eat with us. I will send one of the brothers into town to inquire after the next ship bound for Ylith. If you leave your horses with us, you may reclaim them should you come this way again.’’

‘‘Thank you,’’ said Owyn. They were shown to a room with two narrow beds. Gorath lay down and was quickly asleep.

Owyn lay down, but sleep was slow in coming as his mind wrestled with questions for which he had no answer: what would happen to Graves and his Kat? Where were James and Locklear? And most of all, what was the Book of Macros and where could they find it?

James looked at the maps and shook his head. ‘‘We just don’t have enough men.’’

His makeshift staff stood arrayed around the table. James had appointed new commanders, based on quick interviews with various soldiers in the keep. He had appointed temporary officers, sergeants, and reorganized patrols and duty rosters.

The past week had seen things start to firm up, but now he was getting reports of troop movements to the north.

‘‘Whatever trouble we caused with our pranks up there seems to have finally been overcome,’’ he said to Locklear, who stood to one side. ‘‘It’s clear they’re starting to stage for the move south. Another month at the outside, and they’re going to be heading our way.’’

‘‘Should we try to send another messenger south?’’

‘‘The Earl of Dolth has an outpost on the northern edge of the Blackwood. That’s about the only place we haven’t sent a 255

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messenger.’’ He looked around the room. ‘‘No, we’re here, and unless help is already on the way, we’re on our own. See to your posts and try to keep a brave face; our men need it.’’

Locklear said, ‘‘Should I ride out and take another look?’’

James shook his head. ‘‘No, they’re coming. This report says there are siege towers on the move, as well as catapults.’’

‘‘Then what next?’’

‘‘We wait,’’ said James. ‘‘Have a patrol sweep south and west, to make sure we don’t face surprises from unexpected quarters, then have the word go out to the surrounding villages.’’ James had recalled the horse soldiers from the town of Dencamp-On-The-Teeth, and was using them for patrols. That also had gained him one sergeant with experience. ‘‘I want militia gathered and brought here and those who won’t or can’t fight sent to the south.’’ He pointed to the map. ‘‘Start digging traps here, in the morning. By the time they get here, I want their engineers having to fill pits all the way up that road.’’

Locklear nodded. ‘‘Shall I have crews start bringing up boulders?’’

‘‘Yes. There’s a ridge here’’—his finger touched a spot on the map—‘‘where a ledge overhangs a curve in the road. If you build a wooden cradle and fill it with boulders, we can pull out supports and rain stones down on them.’’ He considered his situation, and said, ‘‘If they don’t bring magicians against us, we might possibly keep those damn siege towers away from our walls.’’

‘‘Bah!’’ said a voice from the corner, and James and Locklear turned to see Patrus standing a short distance away. ‘‘If they bring their spellcasters, I’ll show them a thing or two.’’

James smiled. ‘‘Good. We’ll rely on you.’’ He looked at his longtime friend. ‘‘Any luck in finding the assassins?’’

Locklear shook his head. ‘‘And I’m worried. It could be someone in the garrison, in the staff, or someone who snuck in and then left. I don’t know. Two of the captains were killed while in the field, sleeping in their own tents, and the Baron was poisoned, while no one else at the table suffered so much as heartburn.’’

‘‘So we may have several Nighthawks still among us?’’

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‘‘Yes,’’ said Locklear. ‘‘I wish we had a way to ferret them out.’’

‘‘Let me roast a couple of prisoners over a fire,’’ said Patrus with an evil cackle. ‘‘That’ll scare the rest of them into confessing.’’

James paused a moment, and Locklear said, ‘‘You’re not thinking of taking his suggestion seriously, are you?’’

‘‘No,’’ said James with an impatient shake of his head. Then suddenly his grin returned, and he said, ‘‘But it gives me an idea.’’ Turning to Patrus, he said, ‘‘Can you keep a secret?’’

‘‘Of course not,’’ said the old man, then he laughed at his own joke.

‘‘Good, because I have a secret I want you to keep, for, oh, a few minutes at least.’’

‘‘What’s that?’’ asked the old magician with as delightedly evil an expression as Locklear and James had ever seen.

James began to outline his plan, and the magician began to chuckle again.

James and Locklear stood above the common dining hall, looking down from a balcony that led into the late Baron’s meeting room. Soldiers were talking over their meal, their voices low. Locklear said, ‘‘It’s spreading.’’

‘‘Like a rash,’’ said James.

‘‘When do you think they’ll act?’’ asked Locklear.

‘‘If I know my Nighthawks, the second they think there may be a way to discover who they are, they’ll be looking for a way out. The longer they wait around, the higher the chance of being discovered.’’

‘‘You think they’ll believe Patrus?’’

‘‘Why wouldn’t they?’’ James asked. ‘‘Most of these soldiers know nothing about magic. As a group they’re tough, good fighters, and not very bright; else they wouldn’t be up here on the border.’’

‘‘I can’t argue that,’’ said Locklear, who had spent more time on the border than James. ‘‘You usually have to be pretty stupid to get banished up here.’’

‘‘Or if you volunteer, you’re even dumber,’’ offered James.

‘‘Anyone looking nervous?’’ asked Locklear.

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‘‘Over there, those three in the corner.’’

Locklear watched as three soldiers who had been sitting by themselves huddled with heads low over the table, talking and trying hard not to be overheard. One seemed to be arguing with the other two, but whatever they were discussing, they were keeping it to themselves.

Finally, the other two seemed to convince the dissenter of what it was they had been arguing, and the three of them stood up, one of them looking around the room suspiciously, while the other two tried to appear casual.

‘‘Is the gate closed?’’ James asked.

‘‘Of course, as you ordered.’’

‘‘Then it’s the postern gate,’’ said James.

‘‘What about the sally port?’’

‘‘Too close to the front gate. No, they’ll try to sneak out the back way. Besides,’’ said James with a smile, ‘‘I left it intentionally unguarded. An ‘oversight’ by an ‘inexperienced commander.’ ’’

‘‘You’re an evil bastard, Jimmy the Hand.’’

‘‘Why, thank you, Locky!’’ said James brightly.

They moved away from the balcony and hurried down a flight of stairs, where two men they had decided could be trusted waited. The old sergeant said, ‘‘I saw three men leave a moment ago, Squire.’’

‘‘Do you know them well?’’

‘‘No. Two of them came in last summer, replacements from Romney, and the other came here but a few weeks ago.’’

James nodded. ‘‘They’re the ones. If we check with the other men in the command, I’m willing to wager one of them was working in the kitchen the night the Baron died, while the other two were with the two dead captains.’’

‘‘Where are the others?’’ asked Locklear.

‘‘There are ten men I know I can trust, Squire,’’ answered the sergeant. ‘‘Most have been here for years, and one is my brother’s son. They’re all waiting near the stable.’’

‘‘Good,’’ said James. ‘‘Let’s go.’’

The four of them hurried through a tunnel at the rear of the keep, and came through a door that opened into the stabling 258

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yard. As James had anticipated, the three suspected Nighthawks were hurrying toward the stable.

The old sergeant put fingers between his teeth and whistled shrilly. From the stable ten soldiers appeared, running at the three Nighthawks.

Instantly one of them turned and saw the four coming from the rear. Seeing they were surrounded, they offered no resistance. But as James neared, he saw all three put their hands to their mouths. ‘‘Stop them! They’re swallowing poison!’’

Soldiers sprang forward, but it was clearly too late. By the time they reached the three, the Nighthawks were already falling to the ground, their eyes rolling back into their heads, and their bodies twitching uncontrollably.

‘‘Damn fanatics!’’ said James.

‘‘Who are they, Squire?’’ asked the old sergeant.

‘‘True Nighthawks. Perhaps some left from the Great Uprising or others recruited since then, but willing to kill and die for dark powers.’’

He looked at Locklear, who nodded. ‘‘Search them for any papers, then burn the bodies,’’ said Locklear. ‘‘Now.’’

‘‘No priest?’’ asked the sergeant. ‘‘There’s a Temple Shrine to Lims-Kragma down in the village of Putney.’’

‘‘No,’’ said James. ‘‘Burn them within the hour. I want to make sure they stay dead.’’

‘‘Stay dead?’’ asked the sergeant.

James didn’t answer. No sense alarming the men, but he all too vividly remembered those Nighthawks in the basement of a brothel in Krondor who rose to kill only minutes after dying themselves. He hoped he would never see anything like that again.

‘‘What do we do now?’’ asked Locklear as he overtook his friend.

James said, ‘‘Sharpen our swords, oil our armor, and wait for Arutha.’’

Owyn had never liked sea travel, and Gorath admitted it was an alien experience to him. Yet both managed to bear up under the swift voyage from Sarth to Ylith. Favorable winds 259

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and no encounters with marauding Quegan war galleys had kept the journey to under four days.

At Ylith they had purchased horses with the gold given them by Lady Katala and, after consulting with the local garrison commander, discovered that things had turned quiet in the West. Whatever attempts Delekhan had made to convince the Kingdom he was attacking in the West had failed, and the attempts had been abandoned. Owyn could only conclude that was because the enemy now were preparing to direct their attentions elsewhere.

Gorath pointed, and said, ‘‘On the other side of those mountains lies the Green Heart. There hide some of my people opposed to Delekhan. They will aid us if we find them.’’

‘‘According to the Captain in Ylith,’’ replied Owyn, ‘‘we should find ourselves in dwarven territory, near a place called Caldara. The dwarves should be willing to help us get to Elvandar.’’ Gorath’s expression clearly showed he thought that an unlikely turn of events.

They rode toward Zu¯n, where they would take a road into the mountains, which should be clearing of snow as spring approached. They had been given a clear warning that the short route to Elvandar was the most dangerous. If they wanted a safer way, they should go north to Yabon, insisted the garrison commander, then westward along the River Crydee from the Lake of the Sky, but that would add a month’s travel. Owyn and Gorath were both feeling that time was now their enemy.

The attack would come soon, for any timetable that sought to put an army in Sethanon by summer would have to begin soon. No matter which route Delekhan’s forces took, they would have hundreds of miles to cover, and supplies would be a problem. Forage along the way would be best in spring and summer.

Owyn knew that, even as they rode, the enemy might be launching his invasion of the Kingdom.

‘‘Where are they?’’ demanded James. He stood on the battlements of Northwarden, staring up the gap as if he could see 260

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into the Northlands. He had expected the attack a week earlier, and still there was no sight of the enemy.

‘‘Should I ride up and take another look around?’’ asked Locklear.

‘‘No. It will probably look the same as the last time, lots of warriors gathering and arming.’’ James tried not to let the frustration show, but it was difficult. ‘‘They will come when they do, and there’s little we can do but wait.’’

‘‘At least Arutha and the relief should be getting here sooner,’’ said Locklear.

‘‘Yes,’’ said James, ‘‘if Owyn and Gorath got through.’’ Then he looked down the road toward the enemy. ‘‘But if they had, I would have expected Arutha to be here by now. Something must have happened to them.’’

‘‘Then you think we’re not going to get help?’’ asked Locklear.

James shook his head. ‘‘There’s no force of size in the East close enough to help. Other than the Border Barons, all our forces are in the South, near the Keshian border, or in the East, ready to deal with the eastern kingdoms.’’

Locklear sighed. He looked at James, then he smiled. ‘‘Well, it’s not the first time we’ve found ourselves in a hopeless situation, is it?’’

James said, ‘‘No, but it’s the first time we’ve been in charge of a hopeless situation.’’

Locklear’s smile faded.

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Fifteen

•

W INDS CUT THROUGH THE PASS.

Gorath and Owyn pulled their cloaks tightly around them as they rode. It was spring, but the mountains still held firmly to winter.

Gorath said, ‘‘We’re being watched.’’

‘‘Who?’’

‘‘I don’t know. But I’ve seen movement along the ridge above us for the last hour. If they meant us ill, they would have attacked by now.’’

A few minutes later, a figure wrapped in a heavy cloak appeared on a rock ahead of them. He stood waiting.

As they drew closer, Owyn saw it to be a single dwarf. He held up his hand in greeting. Gorath reined in, and said, ‘‘Talk to him first, Owyn.’’

Owyn nodded and moved ahead of Gorath, letting the moredhel follow a few paces behind. When they reached a point near the dwarf, Owyn stopped, threw back his hood, and said, ‘‘Hello.’’

The dwarf threw back his own hood, revealing a black beard of awe-inspiring thickness and hair that refused to be organized into anything remotely coherent; the moustache stood out like a huge bristle-brush. The dwarf’s eyes went from one rider to the other as he regarded both with suspicion. ‘‘Greetings,’’ he said calmly. ‘‘What brings you two up into the frosty passes of the Grey Towers?’’