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Authors: Raymond E. Feist
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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 Raymond E. Feist
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 colors.
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, 48
KRONDOR THE BETRAYAL
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
‘‘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 Raymond E. Feist
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 colors.
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, 48
KRONDOR THE BETRAYAL
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
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