The Complete Krondor’s Sons 2-Book Collection: Prince of the Blood, The King’s Buccaneer. Raymond E. Feist

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.

      Beside him lay an unconscious guard from his own band, tied with ropes. The man mumbled slightly but was not conscious. Matted blood dried in his hair showed he had received a vicious head wound. A rough hand reached out and grabbed Borric by the chin, yanking his face around to face the man who had kicked him. The man squatted before Borric. He was thin, wore his beard cut close so that it looked little more than stubble. His head was covered in a turban that once may have looked fine but now looked only faded and lice-ridden. He wore simple trousers and tunic and high boots. Over his shoulder stood another man, wearing an unadorned leather vest over his bare chest. His head was shaved, save a single lock of hair down the middle, and a large gold ring hung in his left ear. Borric recognized these as the trademarks of the Guild of Slavers, from Durbin.

      The first man nodded at Borric, then looked at the guard with the bloody face and shook his head in the negative. The slaver pulled Borric roughly to his feet without a word, while the thin man took out a dagger and before Borric realized his intent, cut the unconscious guard’s throat.

      The slaver whispered harshly in Borric’s ear, ‘No tricks, spellcaster. Those chains will blank out your magic, or Moskatoni the Trader will have my dagger for dinner. We move before your friends can find us. Speak a single word aloud and I’ll kill you.’ He spoke in the northern Keshian dialect.

      Borric, still groggy from the blow to his head, only nodded weakly. The slaver pulled him along through the small gully where a group of horsemen were ransacking a bundle of baggage. One of the men swore quietly. The slaver’s companion passed where Borric stood and grabbed the man. ‘What did you find?’ he asked, speaking the patois of the desert, a mingling of Keshian, King’s Tongue, and the language of the desertmen of the Jal-Pur.

      ‘Women’s clothing and some dried meat and cakes. Where is the gold we were promised?’

      The thin man, obviously the leader, swore as well. ‘I’ll kill that Lafe. He said nobles brought gold to the Empress.’

      The slaver shook his head, as if he had expected this sort of disappointment. ‘You should know better than to trust fools.’ He glanced up at where the wind shrieked overhead and said, ‘The storm passes. We’re only yards away from this one’s companions.’ He inclined his head at Borric. ‘We don’t want to be found here when the storm is over.’

      The thin man turned to face his companion. ‘I lead this band, Kasim.’ He looked to be on the edge of rage. ‘I’ll say when we move and when we stay.’

      The slaver shrugged. ‘If we stay, we will have to fight again, Luten. They will be ready this time. And I see nothing to make me think we’ll find gold or jewellery with this band.’

      The man called Luten glanced around, a near-feral light in his eyes. ‘These are armed soldiers.’ He closed his eyes a moment as if about to cry, then opened them and clenched his teeth. Borric recognized a man with a violent temper, who ruled his company through intimidation and threats as much as through any natural leadership. ‘Ah!’ he exclaimed. Nodding at Borric, he said, ‘Kill him and let us flee.’

      Kasim moved Borric behind him, as if protecting him, and said, ‘Our agreement was I would have the prisoners for slaves. Otherwise my men would not have joined with yours.’

      ‘Bah!’ spat Luten. ‘We didn’t need them. We were more than a match for those guards. We were both misled by that fool Lafe.’

      As the wind began to lessen, Kasim said, ‘I don’t know who is worse, the fool or he who listens to the fool, but I will have this man for the auction. He is my profit in Durbin. My guild would not look kindly upon returning without at least this small profit.’

      Whirling to face Borric, the man called Luten said, ‘You. Where is the gold?’

      Feigning ignorance, Borric said, ‘Gold?’ Luten stepped forward and struck the Prince across the face. ‘The gold some nobles brought to the Empress’s Jubilee.’

      Borric extemporized. ‘Nobles? There was a party of nobles we passed along the way. Two, three noblemen with guards, heading for … an inn. The Inn of the Twelve Chairs, I think. We … hurried because … the hide trader was anxious to get his hides to the tanner before they turned rotten.’

      Luten turned and shrieked his fury into the wind. Two men nearby put hands to swords, startled by the sound. ‘Quiet,’ said Kasim.

      Luten spun, his dagger out, pointed at Kasim. ‘Don’t order me, slaver.’ He then pointed his dagger at Borric. ‘This one is lying and I’ll have more than these damn boots to show for three СКАЧАТЬ