The Riftwar Legacy: The Complete 4-Book Collection. Raymond E. Feist

Чтение книги онлайн.

       • THREE •

       Revelation

      THE SENTRY BLINKED IN SURPRISE.

      One moment the approach to the town was empty, the next three figures were standing before him. ‘What?’ he exclaimed, bringing his old spear to something resembling a stance of readiness.

      ‘Easy, friend,’ said Locklear. He leaned upon Owyn’s shoulder and looked as if he was close to death. They had encountered three more ambushes between the one where their horses had fled and Hawk’s Hollow. They had managed to avoid the first two, sneaking around human bandits. The last had been a squad of six moredhel who had been too alert. The fight had been bloody and costly. Gorath was wounded, a nasty cut to his left shoulder that Owyn had barely been able to staunch. Locklear had been injured again, nearly dying if not for Owyn’s intervention, and the young magician himself was sporting a half-dozen minor wounds.

      ‘Who are you?’ asked the confused sentry. He was obviously a farmer or worker from town, part of the city’s militia Locklear guessed.

      ‘Locklear, squire of the Prince’s court in Krondor, and these two are my companions.’

      ‘You look like brigands, to me,’ replied the guardsman.

      ‘We have proof,’ said Locklear, ‘but first I’d like to find someone who can help us before we bleed to death.’

      ‘Brother Malcolm of the Temple of Silban is in town, down at Logan’s Tavern. He comes through here every six months or so. He’ll help you out.’

      ‘Where is Logan’s?’ asked Owyn as Locklear seemed about to lapse into unconsciousness.

      ‘Just down the street. Can’t miss it. Sign out front of a dwarf.’

      They made their way to the indicated establishment, which showed a faded sign of a comically drawn dwarf, obviously once painted with vivid colours.

      They went inside and found several townspeople sitting by, waiting for a priest in the robes of the Order of Silban who was in the corner ministering to a sick child. A couple of local workers were waiting, one with a bandaged hand, the other looking pale and weak.

      The priest looked up as he finished with the boy, who leaped down from his mother’s lap without prompting and raced for the door. The priest looked at Locklear and said, ‘Are you dying?’

      ‘Not quite,’ answered the squire.

      ‘Good, because these fellows were here first and I’ll only make them wait if you’re near death.’

      Mustering as much dry wit as he could under the circumstances, Locklear replied, ‘I’ll try to let you know when I’m about to die.’

      Gorath’s patience vanished. He moved to confront the priest and said, ‘You will see my companion now. These others can wait.’

      The glowering dark elf towered over the small priest and his expression and voice left no room for argument this side of violence. The priest looked once more at Locklear and said, ‘Very well, if you think it urgent. Bring him over to this table.’

      They half-carried Locklear to the table and laid him out on it. The priest said, ‘Who bandaged this?’

      ‘I did,’ said Owyn.

      ‘You did well enough,’ said the priest. ‘He’s alive, so that counts for much.’

      After Locklear’s tunic and the bandages were removed, the priest said, ‘Silban preserve us! You’ve got three wounds fit to fell a bigger man.’ He sprinkled a powder on the wounds, which brought a gasp of pain from Locklear, then the priest began a chant and closed his eyes.

      Owyn felt power manifest in the room and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He had only been exposed to a little clerical magic in his life and it always seemed odd and exotic to him.

      A faint glow from the priest’s hands threw illumination over Locklear’s wounds and as Brother Malcolm droned his chant, Owyn could see the wounds begin to heal. They were still visible, but no longer fresh and angry. When the priest stopped, they looked old, past the danger stage. The priest was pale from the exertion when he stopped. He said, ‘That’s all I can do now. Sleep and food will do the rest.’ Looking at Owyn and Gorath, he asked, ‘Do you have wounds, as well?’

      ‘We do,’ said Gorath. ‘But we can wait until you tend to those two.’ He pointed to the two locals waiting for treatment.

      Malcolm nodded. ‘Good.’ As he moved past Gorath, he said, ‘Your manners may be in question, moredhel, but your instincts serve you well. He might have bled to death had we waited another hour.’

      Gorath remained silent in the face of being recognized for what he was. He moved to sit next to Owyn and wait.

      When the two farmers, one with a smashed finger courtesy of a badly-aimed hammer and the other with a bad case of fever, were finished, Malcolm turned to Gorath and Owyn. ‘Who’s next?’

      Gorath indicated Owyn and the magician went to sit before the priest. He watched with interest as the priest quickly treated and bound his wounds. They spoke little, for Owyn was almost out on his feet.

      When Gorath replaced him before the priest, the dark elf said, ‘You recognize my race, yet you do not call for the town guard. Why?’

      The priest shrugged as he examined Gorath’s wounds. ‘You travel with men who do not look like renegades to me. You are not here killing and burning, so I assume your mission a peaceful one.’

      ‘Why do you assume I have a mission?’ asked Gorath.

      ‘Why else would you travel in the human world?’ Malcolm asked rhetorically. ‘I have never known the moredhel to travel for pleasure.’

      Gorath grunted, forgoing comment.

      Malcolm was quickly done and said, ‘You should have come second; this wound was more severe than your friend’s. But you’ll live.’ He washed his hands and dried them with a towel. ‘It is my mission to aid and serve, but it is custom that those served donate.’

      Gorath СКАЧАТЬ