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

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      ‘Where’s Gregory?’ Dennis asked.

      ‘One of the men said he ran right into a roof support when he charged into the barracks: he was stunned for a moment, but is all right.’

      ‘I’ll find time to enjoy the humour of that if we live through the night,’ Dennis said quietly.

      Tinuva fell silent. He looked through a crack between the logs and then turned back to Dennis.

      ‘They won’t attack for a while. I think this is just an advance party. We laid enough traps along the trail to slow them down. They’ll wait for the rest of their command to come up first then fan out and flank us.’

      Dennis looked back at the pass. The mist was closing in, blanketing them, a cold wind slicing through the pass. The full fury of the storm was slashing against the other side of the mountain. Out of the mist he saw Alwin returning. The sergeant slowed at the sight of the Tsurani then came forward.

      ‘Got them.’

      Dennis let out a sigh of relief. At least one thing had gone right. No word of their presence had gone ahead.

      He looked over at the Tsurani.

      Damn, what a fix.

      ‘This is what we do,’ Dennis whispered to Alwin and Tinuva. ‘Half the men stand down, get into the barracks. Get the fire in there roaring. Strip down, dry off, get some hot food. See what dry clothing we can take from the bastards that were here. Two hours, then we shift the other half in.’

      He pointed to either side of the pass.

      ‘Tinuva, I want you to detail a dozen archers, get them up on the flanks and keep the moredhel and their trolls back – I don’t want them coming down on us the same way we came down on them. My guess is those scum are as exhausted as we are. Once they find out we hold the heights as well they’ll give up for tonight. There’s some old dwarven mine shafts a mile or so back down the slope. My bet is they pull in there, build fires to warm up, and wait till dawn to fan out and trap us. We’ll get out a couple hours before dawn, dried and rested.’

      ‘And our friends?’ Tinuva asked, eyes flicking towards the Tsurani commander.

      Damn, Dennis thought.

      ‘I guess we settle it before we leave. The Broad River, you remember it?’

      Tinuva smiled and nodded. The thought struck Dennis that a hundred years before he was even born Tinuva undoubtedly knew of the river. Again he realized just how ancient the elven race was and with it came the recognition of just how much they risked when facing battle: it wasn’t just a score of years in the balance, it was a score of decades. An elven couple might have two children in a century. Each death was magnified far beyond what any human could understand in terms of loss to the race.

      ‘With this storm the river should be up. We make for Garth’s Ford. Get across and there we’ve got a position that a thousand Dark Brothers wouldn’t dare to attack. There’s a small stockade there, we stay warm, wait till they give up chasing us, then find a way home.’

      ‘Good plan,’ Tinuva whispered. He looked again at the Tsurani, nodded and went back up to the wall.

      Men started to slip off from the wall, heading for the barracks, while Tinuva picked out the unfortunate ones who would have to climb up out of the pass to guard the flanks.

      The Tsurani turned, shouted a command. The one-eyed warrior barked out an order, and half of the Tsurani started towards the barracks as well. Dennis watched as the one-eye stopped several of the men, whispered something and they nodded, returned to their posts, as the one-eye ordered others, who were obviously near final collapse, to head for shelter.

      The two groups slowed as they drew near to each other, obviously torn between the desire to get inside versus the uneasiness of being so close to a sworn foe.

      One of the Tsurani said something, pointing at the Kingdom troops and began to draw his sword. The one-eyed leader knocked the sword from his hand.

      ‘It’s warm in here, you bastards. Come on in!’

      It was Gregory, standing in the open doorway, the glow of the fire behind him a cheery and welcome sight. He wondered if the Natalese Ranger had deliberately stoked up the fire within to lure the men inside.

      The two groups still hung back, looking at each other.

      Gregory said something else, this time in Tsurani, and made a formal gesture of welcome. The one-eyed warrior laughed gruffly and went through the doorway, his men pouring in behind him, followed by the Kingdom troops.

      ‘His Tsurani is really quite good.’

      Startled, Dennis turned. It was the Tsurani commander.

      Dennis glared at him. ‘I didn’t know you spoke our language.’

      ‘You didn’t ask.’

      ‘Damn you, you should have said something.’

      ‘Really? Tell me, how far to this Broad River?’

      ‘Find out yourself, if you outlive me.’

      The Tsurani smiled. ‘Let our men warm up, you and I too, then we can decide who shall outlive whom tomorrow.’

      Dennis said nothing. He looked down at one of the two dead moredhel lying by the gate. Bending over, he tore the cloak off one and wrapped it around his shoulders.

      The Tsurani did likewise and leaned against the gate not saying another word, his gaze fixed on Dennis as the darkness of night settled about them.

       • Chapter Four •

       Practicalities

      THE FIRE WAS SOOTHING.

      Richard Kevinsson sat by the corner of the fireplace, boots off, luxuriating in the near-painful sensation of his feet thawing out. Rubbing his hands, he extended them towards the flames.

      Gregory and the Tsurani with the missing eye shouldered through the crush around the fireplace and heaved armfuls of logs into the roaring flames. Steam coiled up from a heavy iron kettle filled with stew, suspended in the fireplace. A few of the men, Richard included, had hesitated at first to eat it. It was, after all, a meal that the moredhel had been cooking and who knew what was in it – though Tinuva had reassured the Kingdom soldiers that stories of moredhel eating things indigestible to humans were myth only – but old beliefs were hard to ignore. Eventually, ravenous hunger won out over squeamishness and the men – both Kingdom and Tsurani – had gathered around, holding out tin cups and earthen mugs while the bubbling stew was dished out.

      A freshly-killed stag had been found hanging outside the garrison house as well, and as fast as pieces of it were cooked in the open fire men snatched them out and devoured the venison, the first hot cooked meat both sides had tasted СКАЧАТЬ