Prince of the Blood, the King's Buccaneer Page 11

  James lowered his head and kissed her lightly upon the cheek, a gesture of both affection and respect. ‘Always remembered,’ he said.

  She returned his kiss, and then turned away to say good-bye to her daughter.

  Pug motioned James to walk with him a short distance away. When they were out of earshot of the others, he said, ‘Katala returns to her home world tonight, James. There’s no reason to delay any longer, and if we linger, she might not have the strength to make the journey from the site of the rift on Kelewan to the Thuril border. I have friends who will help, but it will still be an arduous trip for someone in her condition to make alone.’

  James’s eyebrows rose in surprise. ‘You’re not travelling with her?’

  Pug just shook his head. ‘I must be about other business.’

  James sighed. ‘Will we see you …?’ He had been about to say soon, but something in Pug’s expression caused him to let the sentence fall off.

  Pug glanced over his shoulder at his wife and daughter, who stood holding hands silently. Both Pug and James knew they were speaking with their minds. ‘Probably not. I suspect if I come this way again, few will welcome the sight of me, for I imagine it will herald only the most dreadful circumstances, perhaps something akin to the terrors we faced at Sethanon.’

  James was quiet a moment. He had been only a boy when the armies of the moredhel, the Brotherhood of the Dark Path, marched under the banner of their false prophet, Murmandamus. But that time was forever etched in stark relief in his memory. He still recalled the battles of Armengar and Sethanon in detail and could vividly recall the sight of the sky torn open by the return of the Dragon Lords, and the nearly catastrophic end of life their return heralded. The seemingly miraculous victory over them, directed by Pug, Tomas of Elvandar, Macros the Black, and Arutha was still something he could not fully comprehend. Finally James said, ‘That would be when you were the most needed, though.’

  Pug shrugged, as if to say that wasn’t necessarily true. ‘In any event, I am now dependent upon others to carry forth the work begun under my guidance. You must help.’

  ‘What can I do?’

  With a faint smile. Pug said, ‘The first should be no issue between us. Love my daughter and care for her.’

  James smiled. ‘No more could any man do.’

  ‘And keep an eye on her brother.’

  ‘Willy is a more than competent officer, Pug. He needs very little looking after. I expect he will be Knight-Marshal of Krondor in a few years. Locklear’s tenure was a stopgap to do administrative work after Gardan was named Duke.’ He didn’t truly understand the estrangement between Pug and his son; William had one very odd talent, the ability to understand animals and talk to them in some fashion they could comprehend, but as far as James could tell, the total net effect was to make him an exceptional horseman. Other than that, he showed no particular skills in the area of magic. Trying to help, James said, ‘I will never know what it’s like to be a father until we have one, so I won’t presume to know what caused your differences with Willie, but you must know that he’s happy in his work and more, he has exceptional talent, perhaps even genius, and that’s where his true talents lie.’

  Pug shrugged again, showing only a small hint of his disappointment that his son was not here to follow after him. ‘I’ll think on that,’ said Pug. ‘Secondly, I need your voice in support of Stardock’s autonomy.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘And remember what I told you when you need to speak on my behalf, the secret I shared with you.’

  James tried to find humour in the sad departure, but could only say, ‘As you wish. I will remember. Though standing upon an island where men work spells of great art every day makes me wonder at what nonsense I’m to remember.’

  Pug patted his arm as he moved to return to his wife and daughter. ‘Not nonsense. Never fall into the trap of judging that which you don’t understand as nonsense. That error can destroy you.’

  James followed after, and then they were leaving. As they walked to where three large barges waited to ferry them across the lake, James glanced over at the Princes.

  Borric and Erland stood chatting about the coming trip, obviously relieved to be away from what they judged unwelcome tranquillity, and for a brief moment James wondered if they might not all regret having no more such tranquillity.

  Light gusts blew stinging sand, and the twins reined in their horses. Gamina studied the horizon and spoke loudly enough for all to hear. ‘I don’t think it’s a serious storm. The sky looks wrong. But it may be bothersome.’ They rode at the edge of the Jal-Pur, along the road to Nar Ayab, the northernmost city of consequence in the Empire. The rough plateau landscape was almost as desolate as the desert itself, with few trees and bushes, and most of those thickly bunched along the banks of the few small streams that coursed down out of the hills below the mountains called the Pillars of the Stars by the Keshians.

  James motioned toward the far end of the road, where it crested a distant hill, as a company of riders slowly made their way toward them. ‘Keshian border guards,’ he shouted over the rising wind. ‘Sergeant! Time to display the guidons.’ The sergeant of the company motioned two guards forward, and they quickly broke segments of wooden standards out of their saddlebags. Hastily screwing the segments together, they raised two small standards just as the Keshian riders breasted the hill upon which James and his companions waited. Two Royal Krondorian House flags, each with a different cadence mark overlaid, Borric and Erland’s royal standards, now greeted the suspicious eye of the advancing Keshian leader.

  A dark-skinned man, his nappy beard matted with grey dust, motioned his own company to halt. They were a rough-looking band. Each man had a bow slung over the saddle horn as well as a round hide shield with a metal bosk; each rider wore a curved scimitar at his belt and carried a light lance. All wore heavy trousers tucked into high boots, white linen shirts, leather vests, and metal helms with long linen head coverings hanging over their necks. Borric motioned to Erland. ‘Clever, isn’t it? They keep the sun off their necks and can hook the cloth over their faces if the wind gets vicious.’

  Erland simply let out a heavy breath and said nothing. He was feeling the heat in the heavy chain-mail coat.

  The leader of the Keshian patrol kicked his horse and trotted forward, pulling up before James. He examined the ragged-looking company, unconvinced that such dirty, tired-looking travellers would indeed be a royal caravan from the Isles. At last he saluted no one in particular, a lazy gesture of bringing his right hand to his head, palm out, then let his hand fall to his horse’s neck. ‘Welcome, my lords … and lady.’

  James moved to the fore. ‘I am James, Earl of Krondor, and I have the honour of presenting Their Royal Highnesses, Princes Borric and Erland.’

  The two Princes inclined their heads slightly, and the Keshian patrol leader bowed his head slightly in return. ‘I am Sergeant Ras-al-Fawi, my lord. What conspires to bring your august company to such a miserable place?’

  ‘We are travelling to the City of Kesh for the Empress’s Jubilee.’

  The sergeant shrugged, indicating that the ways of the gods were not for mortals to understand, nor the ways of nobility clearly sensible to common soldiers. ‘I would have thought nobles such as yourselves would have been travelling in more … stately company.’

  As the wind increased, the horses began to stamp and shy. James raised his voice over the noise, ‘It seemed better to move quickly and with stealth than slowly, Sergeant. The storm rises. May we continue?’

  The Captain signed his own men forward as he said, ‘Of course, my lord. I and my men are travelling to the Inn of the Twelve Chairs, to wait out the storm in comfort. I suggest you join us.’

  ‘Is it dangerous?’

  The Sergeant glanced at the horizon as Gamina had and said, ‘Who can say? Dust storms that rise in the Jal-Pur may blow quickly or long. If I was a betting man, I would wager this one will be little more than an inconvenien
ce. Still, I would rather be conveniently inside.’

  ‘We’ll continue,’ said James. ‘We stayed longer at our last rest than planned, and it wouldn’t do to arrive late to the Jubilee.’

  The Sergeant shrugged, clearly not caring one way or the other. ‘Insults to the Empress, blessings be upon her, are to be strenuously avoided. She is often merciful, but rarely forgiving. May the gods guide your travels, my lords.’

  With a wave, he motioned his patrol to give way as the Kingdom party resumed its journey. James signalled and his small band started down the hard-packed dirt that passed for an Imperial road in the northern frontier.

  As they rode past the silent Keshians, Borric nodded to Erland, who had also been studying the tired, dirty soldiers. Each man looked a seasoned fighter, with not one youthful face in the company. To his brother, Erland said, ‘They keep their veterans along our borders.’

  Jimmy, overhearing, said loudly enough for the entire company to hear, ‘They have veterans to spare in Kesh. A man who retires in their army has spent twenty years and more putting down revolts and fighting civil wars. They keep but a tenth part of their army near our borders.’

  Borric said, ‘Then why do they fear us?’

  James shook his head. ‘Nations fear their neighbours. It’s a fact of life, like the three moons in the sky. If your neighbour is bigger than you, you fear invasion and occupation. If smaller, you fear their envy, so you invade them. So, sooner or later, there’s war.’

  Erland laughed. ‘Still, it’s better than having nothing to do.’

  James glanced at Locklear. Both had seen more than their share of war before they were the twins’ age. Both disagreed with Erland’s sentiments.

  ‘Riders!’

  The soldier pointed to the far horizon, where the wind blew up a dark wall of swirling sand that raced toward the travellers. And within the dusty murk, the shape of approaching riders could be seen. Then, as if the soldier’s warning had been a signal, the riders spread out and galloped their horses.

  ‘Gamina! Get to the rear,’ James shouted, as he drew his sword. The soldiers were but a moment behind in releasing the pack animals and bringing their own weapons to the ready.

  ‘Bandits!’ cried one, as he moved to Borric’s side. Instinctively, the Prince reached for his sword, finding the odd staff there instead. Cursing fate, he circled his horse away from the attack, moving toward the rear alongside Gamina, who had taken it upon herself to herd the shying packhorses in a circle so they didn’t run away. Seeing that the four animals were more than she could manage, Borric leaped from his horse and took two in hand.

  The sounds of steel upon steel caused Borric to pull the horses around, back to the wind, in time to see the first bandits intercepted by his own soldiers. In the fray, he sought out sight of Erland, but the milling horses and swirling dust made it impossible.

  Then a horse screamed and a rider went down cursing loudly. A clash of sword upon shield and a grunt of effort were followed by a succession of shouts made almost incoherent by the rising shriek of the wind. The bandits had timed the raid with perfection, picking the moment when the travellers would be most vulnerable to the onslaught, almost blinded by the sandstorm. In the time it had taken to react and draw weapons, the bandits had already succeeded in throwing the men of the Isles into confusion.

  But the men of Arutha’s garrison were tested veterans and quickly they regrouped as the first few bandits rode past. To a man, they sought sight of Baron Locklear, who shouted orders to those closest to him. Then a tremendous blast of stinging sand and dust hit the company and it was as if the sun had vanished.

  In the biting sand, Borric fought to control horses terrorized by the sounds of wind and battle and the smell of blood. He could only use his weight to slow their pulling, shouting ‘Whoa!’ repeatedly. A pair of war-trained, riderless horses heard his shouts and halted their trot away from the battle, but the pack animals were ready to bolt.

  Borric was suddenly pulled off-balance and released his grip on the lead ropes. He hit the ground and rolled, coming to his feet. He thought of Gamina and feared she might be in any danger from the spooked horses. He looked about, but all he could see were riders locked in combat. He called her name. In his mind he heard her answer, I am fine. Borric. See to yourself. I will attempt to keep the pack animals in sight.

  Attempting to ‘think’ back at her, he yelled, ‘Be alert for raiders! They’ll seek the pack animals!’ He glanced about, hoping to find a dropped weapon, but saw none.

  Then suddenly, a rider was galloping toward him, one of his own guards, shouting at him. Borric couldn’t understand him, but sensed something behind. He spun as two bandits bore down upon him, one pointing a scimitar at the guard who raced toward them, the other veering his horse toward the Prince.

  As the guard was intercepted by the first rider, Borric braced himself, then jumped at the horse’s bridle, causing the mount to stumble and throw his rider. The horse’s chest struck the Prince, the impact sending Borric flying back, landing upon the ground with a heavy thud. Quickly he was on his feet, poised for the attack he knew was coming. The raider had also come up ready for a fight, but had the advantage of his weapon. Borric pulled the glowing staff from his belt and attempted to use it to defend himself. The bandit swung wildly, and Borric slipped the blow, moving inside the man’s guard. He drove the head of the staff into the pit of the man’s stomach, generating a satisfying explosion of breath as the bandit went down, the wind knocked out of him. Borric then broke the staff over the man’s head, leaving the raider unconscious or dead. The Prince didn’t have time to investigate. He picked up the fallen rider’s sword, a short-bladed, heavy thing, suitable for hacking at close quarters, not as sharp as the scimitar most of the other raiders used, nor as pointed as a good rapier.

  Borric turned and attempted to see what was happening, but all that was visible were milling, cursing shadows in sandy gloom. Then he felt more than heard something behind him. He ducked to one side as a blow intended to crack his skull glanced off the side of his head. Falling heavily, he attempted to roll away from the rider who had taken him by surprise from the rear. He rose to his knees and was almost to his feet, when the chest of a horse struck him, as the rider used his mount as a weapon. Stunned as he lay upon the ground, the Prince barely understood what he saw as the rider leaped from his mount and came to stand over him. Through dust and his own muddled senses, the Prince watched with some detachment as the man drew back a boot and kicked him in the head.

  James spun his horse and moved to intercept a bandit heading toward the packhorses. Two soldiers were down by his count, and Locklear was engaged in a running fight with a raider. The raider veered off, and for an instant James was in an island of relative calm in the midst of the struggle. He glanced about, trying to discover the whereabouts of the two Princes and saw Erland clubbing a raider from his horse. There was no sign of Borric.

  Through the howl of the sandstorm, James heard Locklear’s command, ‘To me! To me!’ Abandoning his search for Borric, James spurred his horse and headed toward the gathering band of Islemen. Quickly commands were given and obeyed, and where moments before a milling band of surprised guards had been fleeing, now a trained unit of the finest horsemen the Kingdom had in service sat ready to receive the next attack by the bandits.

  Then the raiders were upon them and the battle was joined in full. Furious cries and screams of pain cut through the constant howl of wind and the sting of sand. James felt the giddy mix of elation and fear, a sensation he hadn’t experienced since the Battle of Sethanon. He struck out at a raider, driving the man back as the severity of the storm increased. Then the storm overcame the battle and all was whirling dust and noise. Each man knew he now had a blind spot, for to look into the storm was impossible. Men vainly attempted to cover their faces with cloths and sleeves, but the only relief was to turn away from the storm. After an instant of screaming wind, the storm diminished.

  A grunt of
surprise and a wet sound of blood filling a throat gasping for breath was followed only by the sound of metal clanking as horses again moved at their riders’ commands. Steel upon steel rang out, and again men strove to kill strangers.

  Then there was only the storm and the fighting was forgotten. The gusts were literally blinding, for to turn one’s face to the shrieking sands was to risk losing sight. Covering his face, James turned himself and his mount away from the wind, conscious of his unprotected back, but there was nothing else to do. He was given at least partial comfort by the knowledge the raiders were as blind as he.

  Again the winds lessened, and James spun his mount to face any possible attacker. But like phantoms of dream, the raiders were gone into the storm.

  James glanced about and could only see men of the Isles. Locklear gave orders and the company dismounted, each man gripping his horse’s reins firmly as the intensity of the storm alternately increased and diminished.

  Turning the animals’ backs to the wind, they waited for the seemingly endless howl of wind to stop. Locklear shouted. ‘Are you hurt?’

  James indicated no. ‘Gamina?’ he asked after his wife.

  Locklear pointed to the rear. ‘She was with the baggage animals. Borric was seeing after her.’

  Then Gamina’s voice sounded in James’s mind. I’m here, beloved. I am unhurt. But Borric and another guard were carried off by the raiders.

  James shouted, ‘Gamina says that Prince Borric and a guard were carried off!’

  Locklear swore. ‘There’s nothing we can do but wait for this storm to blow out.’

  James tried to look into the dusty murk and could see barely ten feet away. All they could do was wait.

  Borric groaned and a rough toe jammed into his ribs brought him to consciousness. Above him, the wind still shrieked as the sandstorm blew itself to full fury, but the sheltered gully where the raiders hid was relatively quiet. He levered himself up on one elbow and found his hands were shackled by a chain of odd design.