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

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       • Chapter Eleven •

       Respite

      THE MORNING WAS COLD.

      Dennis Hartraft leaned against the wall of Wolfgar’s stockade, cloak pulled tight around his shoulders, hood up to block out the cold wind sweeping down from the west.

      He wondered if he’d ever really be warm again. The world was forever cold it seemed, seeping into his bones, and his heart. He knew it was a cold of the mind, not the body, for even though it was now winter in this valley, the cold he felt on the wind was nothing compared to the bitter freezing they had endured the last three days of their chase. Then Dennis reconsidered: not a cold of the mind, but a cold in his soul.

      Perhaps it was Wolfgar who triggered it, memories better left dead …

      A long-ago winter morning standing on the battlement wall, watching the first snow of winter drifting down, the wonder of it all for a child of seven, heavy flakes swirling, a bard kneeling by his side, laughing as he caught the flakes on his tongue or held out his mittens to catch one, then hold it up close to look at its intricate design until it melted away.

      He remembered so clearly the sound of laughter, looking down into the courtyard below, a little girl running in circles, arms wide, shouting that she was a snowflake riding on the wind, the bard chuckling softly, telling him he knew a secret, that the little girl liked him.

      Years later, again a snowfall and the little girl had grown, and they were to be married, standing arm in arm on the battlement, both of them sharing the memory of the bard, laughing, wondering if there was a way he could be found and invited to perform for their wedding.

      And yet another snowfall, the flicker of fire, the screams …

      He lowered his head, pushing that thought away. Never let that back in, never.

      ‘Remind you of something?’

      Dennis took a deep breath, blinking hard, his features falling back into the mask he presented to life. He turned.

      Wolfgar was ever so slowly climbing the steps to the battlement, staff wobbling, the old man hanging on to it with both hands, taking one step at a time. Dennis almost reached out to help him, but knew better: old men had their pride, especially this one.

      At last Wolfgar was at his side, hood drawn up over his head, frail body wrapped in heavy layers of furs. He looked up and smiled crookedly. His lips were blue and Dennis knew that wasn’t from the cold, for his breath came in a raspy gurgle and his pale eyes were watery.

      ‘You shouldn’t be out in the cold like this,’ Dennis offered.

      ‘Damn you, it’s a life covered in offal when I have to start taking advice from a lad who I once pushed off my lap because his swaddling clothes were leaking on me’. Wolfgar laughed and shook his head. ‘I asked if standing up there reminded you of something, you seemed lost in thought.’

      ‘Just waiting for Gregory and Tinuva to return.’

      ‘There are some things that never change with a man – the boy still locked inside. Even when you were seven you use to stand like that, shoulders hunched, hands clasped in front of you, always watching. Reminded me of a snowy day, the two of us watching the first storm of the season, and I told you that Gwenynth liked you. How your eyes sparkled even though you were a proud lad of seven and would not admit that girls were of any interest yet.’

      Dennis looked away.

      ‘I heard what happened to her, to your father and grandfather.’ Dennis felt a hand on his shoulder. He wanted to shrug it off but couldn’t.

      ‘My heart was with you, lad. I wept for you. Your old grandfather always wanted to die in a damn good fight, and your father, well, he never had a chance to rule in his own right but I heard he died sword in hand. But for you, I wept.’

      He fell silent, not mentioning her death. Dennis closed his eyes …

      The begging, the pleading for her not to let go, his fumbling to stop the bleeding, to somehow force her soul back into her body and that smile that lit her features as she slipped away, as if she was trying to console a little boy who didn’t understand, that it would work out in the end … but it never did.

      ‘It was nine years ago,’ Dennis whispered, using every ounce of effort to keep control of his voice.

      ‘In some matters time is meaningless. For an elf like Tinuva, nine years is but a moment. Memory of loss can linger for an eternity. I know, I use to sing about it often enough.’ Wolfgar hawked and spat noisily, removing his hand from Dennis’s shoulder to wipe his mouth.

      Dennis looked over at him. ‘Let it drop,’ he snapped. ‘It was a long time ago. No song, not even yours can bring them back, except in memory, and I prefer those memories buried.’

      Wolfgar nodded. ‘My eyes are all but gone, young Hartraft. I didn’t see Jurgen with you.’

      Dennis sighed. ‘Dead. Killed last week.’

      ‘Ahh.’ Wolfgar spat again. ‘There was a man who could shake the dice.’ There was a tremor to his voice. ‘Is there anyone left from the old days?’

      ‘The war took them all.’ Dennis’s tone indicated clearly enough that he didn’t wish to say more.

      There was a long silence of several moments. The two old friends watched as the heavy flakes gently swirled.

      Dennis looked back at the long house where all the men were sleeping. Wolfgar’s great hall was a heavy building of logs that stretched for over thirty paces. On the other side of the courtyard were stables, some workshops, and at the far end a detached kitchen, connected by a stone corridor to the long house so that if a fire started it would not destroy the entire dwelling. It was a fortress СКАЧАТЬ