But the blow did slow the moredhel’s advance, and Locklear got his horse turned to face his foe. Locklear remembered something his father had drilled into him and his brothers; a soldier who has a weapon and doesn’t use it is either an idiot or dead.
His horse was a weapon, and Locklear put his legs hard against his horse’s flanks and tugged hard on the reins with his off hand. The horse picked up a canter, and to the moredhel it was as if the horse suddenly leaped at him.
The warrior was a veteran and dodged to one side, but Locklear reined his horse in, turning hard to the left. To the moredhel, it looked as if Locklear was turning away, and the creature pressed forward.
Locklear kept the horse turning in a tight circle, and suddenly the moredhel realized his error as the young squire completed his circle with a slashing downward blow. This was no irritating tap, but a powerful blow which smashed bone as it cut into the side of the moredhel’s skull.
Locklear glanced toward Gorath and saw him beset by two foes, then looked back to Owyn, and saw that he was on foot a hundred yards away and holding a swordsman at bay with his staff. Hoping the bowman was still blinded by Owyn’s magic, Locklear rode to Owyn’s rescue.
He kicked hard at his horse’s flanks and the animal leaped forward so that he was approaching at a gallop when the moredhel heard him coming. The dark elf turned to look at his second opponent, giving Owyn the opening to strike with the butt of his staff. He broke the creature’s jaw and sent him slumping to the ground.
Locklear reined his horse in so suddenly the animal planted his hooves and almost sat. Spinning the horse around, Locklear waved to Owyn, shouting, ‘Keep the bowman off us!’
As if the Goddess of Luck had turned a deaf ear to him, Locklear was lifted out of the saddle by an arrow. He struck the ground hard, barely avoiding broken bones by rolling. The arrow in his left shoulder snapped and the pain caused his vision to swim and took his breath away.
For the briefest instant, Locklear fought to keep conscious, then he felt his eyes focus and he willed away the pain in his shoulder. A strangled cry behind him made him turn. Over him reared a moredhel, sword raised to strike. Suddenly Gorath was behind the moredhel, and he plunged his sword into the moredhel’s back.
Owyn ran past, wheeling his staff above his head. Locklear looked up as his would-be killer fell to his knees, then keeled over. Gorath turned before Locklear could speak and ran after Owyn.
Locklear rose slowly on wobbly legs as he saw Owyn rush forward and strike a moredhel bowman who was vainly rubbing his eyes as if trying to clear them. The bowman was clubbed to his knees, and died a moment later as Gorath delivered the killing blow.
Gorath spun around in a circle once, as if seeking another enemy, but Locklear saw the six were dead. Gorath stood with his sword in hand, frustration on his face, then he shouted in rage. ‘Delekhan!’
Locklear stumbled to the dark elf and said, ‘What?’
‘They knew we were coming!’ said Gorath.
Owyn said, ‘Somehow they got word south?’
Gorath put up his sword. ‘Nago.’
‘What?’ asked Locklear.
‘Not what, who,’ said Gorath. ‘Nago. He’s one of Delekhan’s sorcerers. He and his brother Narab served the murderer. They are powerful chieftains in their own right, but right now they’re doing Delekhan’s bidding. Without their help, Delekhan never would have risen to power and overthrown the chieftains of the other clans. Without their help, these—’ his hand swept in a circle, indicating the dead moredhel ‘—would not be here waiting.’ He knelt next to one of the dead and said, ‘This was my cousin, my kinsman.’ He pointed to another one. ‘That one is from a clan that has been sworn enemy to mine for generations. That they are both serving this monster hints at his power.’
Locklear indicated his shoulder and sank to the ground. Owyn examined it and explained, ‘I can get the arrowhead out, but it’s going to hurt.’
Locklear said, ‘It already hurts. Get on with it.’
While Owyn ministered to Locklear, Gorath said, ‘Nago and Narab both have the power of mind speech. Especially with one another. Those we killed on the road to your town of Loriel, or another who spied us, must have passed word to one of the brothers. He in turn alerted these as to our whereabouts.’
Locklear said, ‘So the chances are good that before they died, one of these also let Nago know we are here?’
‘Almost certainly.’
‘Wonderful,’ said Locklear through gritted teeth as Owyn used his dagger to cut out the arrowhead. His eyes teared and his vision swam again for a moment, but by breathing slowly and deeply he kept conscious.
Owyn dusted the wound with a pack of herbs from his belt pouch then placed a cloth over it. ‘Hold this here; press hard,’ he instructed. He went to the nearest body and robbed it of a strip of cloth, cut away with his dagger, then returned to bind it tightly around Locklear’s shoulder. ‘Between that wound to your ribs and this shoulder, your left arm is close to useless, squire.’
‘Just what I wanted to hear,’ said Locklear as he tried to move his left arm and found Owyn’s observation correct. He could move it scant inches before pain made him stop the attempt. ‘Horses?’
‘They’ve run off,’ said Owyn.
‘Wonderful,’ said Locklear. ‘I was knocked out of the saddle, what’s your excuse?’ he demanded of the other two.
Gorath said, ‘Fighting on the back of the beast was too awkward.’
Owyn said, ‘I can’t cast a spell from the saddle. Sorry.’
Locklear stood. ‘So we walk.’
‘How far is it to Hawk’s Hollow?’ asked Owyn.
‘Too far,’ said Locklear. ‘If they’re waiting for us, much too far.’
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