The Complete Conclave of Shadows Trilogy: Talon of the Silver Hawk, King of Foxes, Exile’s Return. Raymond E. Feist

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      Kieli slashed with his own blade and felt shock run up his arm as the soldier deftly took the blow on his shield.

      Another attack and the boy knew that he was overmatched, for he only narrowly avoided death from a dagger-slash to the stomach. Had the soldier attacked with his sword instead of with a short blade, Kieli knew he’d be lying gutted upon the ground.

      Fear threatened to rise up and overwhelm him then, but the thought of his family fighting for their lives only yards beyond the masking smoke forced it aside.

      Seeing the boy’s hesitation, the soldier grinned wickedly and closed in. Kieli knew that his only advantage was the length of his blade, so he offered his already-wounded chest as a target and clumsily raised the sword with both hands as if to bring it crashing down upon the soldier’s head. As Kieli had hoped, the soldier reflexively raised his shield to take the blow and drew back his dagger for the killing thrust.

      Kieli, however, dropped to his knees with a spin, bringing his sword down and around in a powerful arc which sliced through the soldier’s leg, knocking him backwards screaming. Blood sprayed from the severed arteries just below his knee. Leaping to his feet, Kieli stepped upon the man’s dagger-hand, and struck straight down with the sword’s point into the man’s throat, ending his agony.

      He tried to wipe his sword-hand dry, but discovered that blood was flowing freely from the long cut on his chest and knew he’d soon be weakening if he didn’t bind it, though he thought it probably looked a great deal worse than it was.

      As he hurried toward the sounds of battle a gust of wind cleared his vision for a moment so that he had a clean line of sight and could see the village’s central square. The tables that had been heavily laden with food and ale were overturned, the ground around them littered with the feast for the day’s celebration. The flower garlands were crushed into mud made up of soil and blood. For a panic-stricken second, Kieli faltered, horror causing his gorge to rise. He blinked back tears – though whether they were caused by smoke or rage he didn’t know. A short distance away lay the bodies of three children, obviously cut down from behind as they raced for shelter. Beyond them, he could see the men of his village making a stand before the round house. Kieli knew the women and surviving children would be inside, the women armed with knives and daggers to defend the children should the men fall.

      Men he had known all his life were being slaughtered, despite fighting with desperation to protect their families. The soldiers had set up a shield wall and were pressing in with spears levelled, while behind them sat mounted soldiers, calmly loading and firing crossbows into the villagers.

      The Orosini bowmen responded, but the battle’s outcome was obvious, even to a boy like Kieli. He knew he would not survive this day but even so, he could not stand behind the invaders and not do whatever was in his power.

      On wobbly legs he started forwards, his target a man upon a black horse, obviously the leader of these murderers. Next to him sat another horseman wearing a black tunic and trousers. His hair was as dark as his clothing, pulled back behind his ears and falling to his shoulders.

      The man somehow sensed something was behind him, for he turned just as Kieli started to run. Kieli saw the man’s face clearly; a dark beard trimmed close to his jaw-line, a long nose which gave him a harsh appearance, and pursed lips as if he had been lost in thought before he heard Kieli’s charge. The rider’s eyes widened slightly at the sight of the armed and bloody boy then he calmly said something to the officer, who turned. The man in black carefully lifted his arm. There was a small crossbow in his hand. He calmly took aim.

      Kieli knew he had to strike before the man’s finger tightened on the release. But two strides away from the horseman the boy’s knees weakened. Kieli’s newly acquired sword felt as if it had been fashioned of lead and stone and his arm refused to obey his command to deliver a killing blow to the invader.

      The boy was one stride away when the black clad man fired the crossbow. Then his knees buckled. The bolt had taken him in the chest, high up in the muscle below his first wound.

      The bolt spun him around completely and his blood splattered both men as it fountained from the wound. The sword flew backwards from fingers that could no longer grip. His knees struck the ground and he fell over backwards, his eyes losing focus as pain and shock swept over him.

      Voices shouted, but the sound was muted and he could not understand what they were saying. For a brief instant, he saw something: high in the sky above him a silver hawk flew in a circle, and to Kieli it seemed to be looking directly down at him. In his mind he heard the voice once again. Linger, little brother, for your time is not yet. Be my talon and rend our enemies.

      His last thought was of the bird.

       • CHAPTER TWO •

       Kendrick’s

      KIELI’S PAIN pierced the darkness.

      He couldn’t will his eyes open, yet he knew he was alive. He felt hands upon him and as if from a great distance heard a voice mutter, ‘This one’s still alive.’

      Another voice said, ‘Let’s get him in the wagon. He’s lost a lot of blood.’

      Part of Kieli’s mind registered he was hearing words in the traders’ language, what was called the Common Tongue, not the language of the Orosini.

      He felt another pair of hands upon him. As they began to move him, he groaned and lapsed back into unconsciousness.

      

      Pain coursed though Kieli’s body as he came awake. He forced his eyes open and tried to lift his head. The effort brought forth a wave of agony and his stomach churned, yet there was nothing in it for him to vomit up. The wracking pain that swept through him made him gasp aloud and moan.

      His eyes couldn’t focus so he could not see the owner of the gentle hands that pushed him back and said, ‘Lie still, lad. Breathe slowly.’

      Kieli saw shapes before him: heads in shadow, lightning in the sky above them. He blinked and tried to clear his eyes. ‘Here,’ said another voice from above him, and a gourd of water touched his lips.

      ‘Drink slowly,’ said the first voice. ‘You’ve lost a lot of blood. We didn’t think you’d make it.’

      The first swallow of water caused the spasms to return, and he vomited up the tiny bit of water. ‘Sip, then,’ said the voice.

      He did as he was instructed and the mouthful of water stayed down. Suddenly he was thirsty beyond memory. He tried to swallow, but the gourd was removed from his lips. He attempted to lift his hand to grasp it, but his arm would not obey his command.

      ‘Sip, I said,’ demanded the voice. The gourd was pressed against his lips again and he sipped, and the cool water trickled down his throat.

      He focused his meagre strength on getting the water down and keeping it down. Then he lifted his eyes above the rim of the gourd and attempted to discern the features of his benefactor. All he could see was a vague lump of features topped by a thatch of grey. Then he fell back into darkness.

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