Krondor the Betrayal Read Free

caused Owyn to clutch a heavy wooden staff and jump to his feet. He had little skill with weapons, having neglected that portion of his education as a child, but had developed enough skill with this quarterstaff to defend himself.
    ‘‘Who’s there?’’ he demanded.
    From out of the gloom came a voice, saying, ‘‘Hello, the camp. We’re coming in.’’
    Owyn relaxed slightly, as bandits would be unlikely to warn him they were coming. Also, he was obviously not worth attacking, as he looked little more than a ragged beggar these days. Still, it never hurt to be wary.
    Two figures appeared out of the gloom, one roughly Owyn’s height, the other a head taller. Both were covered in heavy cloaks, the smaller of the two limping obviously.
    The limping man looked over his shoulder, as if being followed, then asked, ‘‘Who are you?’’
    Owyn said, ‘‘Me? Who are you?’’
    The smaller man pulled back his hood, and said, ‘‘Locklear, I’m a squire to Prince Arutha.’’
    Owyn nodded. ‘‘Sir, I’m Owyn, son of Baron Belefote.’’
    ‘‘From Timons, yes, I know who your father is,’’ said Locklear, squatting before the fire, opening his hands to warm them. He glanced up at Owyn. ‘‘You’re a long way from home, aren’t you?’’
    10

    KRONDOR THE BETRAYAL
    ‘‘I was visiting my aunt in Yabon,’’ said the blond youth.
    ‘‘I’m now on my way home.’’
    ‘‘Long journey,’’ said the muffled figure.
    ‘‘I’ll work my way down to Krondor, then see if I can travel with a caravan or someone else to Salador. From there I’ll catch a boat to Timons.’’
    ‘‘Well, we could do worse than stick together until we reach LaMut,’’ said Locklear, sitting down heavily on the ground.
    His cloak fell open, and Owyn saw blood on the young man’s clothing.
    ‘‘You’re hurt,’’ he said.
    ‘‘Just a bit,’’ admitted Locklear.
    ‘‘What happened?’’
    ‘‘We were jumped a few miles north of here,’’ said Locklear.
    Owyn started rummaging through his travel bag. ‘‘I have something in here for wounds,’’ he said. ‘‘Strip off your tunic.’’
    Locklear removed his cloak and tunic, while Owyn took bandages and powder from his bag. ‘‘My aunt insisted I take this just in case. I thought it an old lady’s foolishness, but apparently it wasn’t.’’
    Locklear endured the boy’s ministrations as he washed the wound, obviously a sword cut to the ribs, and winced when the powder was sprinkled upon it. Then as he bandaged the squire’s ribs, Owyn said, ‘‘Your friend doesn’t talk much, does he?’’
    ‘‘I am not his friend,’’ answered Gorath. He held out his manacles for inspection. ‘‘I am his prisoner.’’
    Trying to peer into the darkness of Gorath’s hood, Owyn said, ‘‘What did he do?’’
    ‘‘Nothing, except be born on the wrong side of the mountains,’’ offered Locklear.
    Gorath pulled back his hood and graced Owyn with the faintest of smiles.
    ‘‘Gods’ teeth!’’ exclaimed Owyn. ‘‘He’s a Brother of the Dark Path!’’
    ‘‘Moredhel,’’ corrected Gorath, with a note of ironic bitterness. ‘‘ ‘Dark elf,’ in your tongue, human. At least our cousins in Elvandar would have you believe us so.’’
    Locklear winced as Owyn applied his aunt’s salve to the 11

    Raymond E. Feist
    wounded ribs. ‘‘A couple of hundred years of war lets us form our own opinions, thank you, Gorath.’’
    Gorath said, ‘‘You understand so little, you humans.’’
    ‘‘Well,’’ said Locklear, ‘‘I’m not going anywhere at the moment, so educate me.’’
    Gorath looked at the young squire, as if trying to judge something, and was silent for a while. ‘‘Those you call ‘elves’
    and my people are one, by blood, but we live different lives.
    We were the first mortal race after the great dragons and the Ancient Ones.’’
    Owyn looked at Gorath in curiosity, while Locklear just gritted his teeth, and said,