Suddenly a rider sped past the defenders, a figure resplendent in white and gold. Upon the back of a white elf steed, a legendary mystic horse of Elvandar, Tomas charged the moredhel. The elf steed reared, and Tomas leaped down from its back and, with a golden arc of his sword, nearly split the Black Slayer in twain.
Like a raging flame incarnate, Tomas sped along the shore, visiting destruction upon each Black Slayer as they set foot across the stream. Despite their arcane origin, each was helpless before the combined might of his arm and Valheru magic. Several managed single blows, which he easily turned aside, answering with terrible swiftness. His golden sword lashed out and black armor was cracked as if little more than brittle hide. But none of the undead sought to flee; each came on. and each was quickly dispatched. Of those with Arutha, only Martin alone had seen Tomas in battle before, and even he had never seen such a display. Soon it was over, and only Tomas stood upon the edge of the stream. Then came the sound of more horses. Arutha looked behind and saw more elf steeds approaching, ridden by Tathar and the other Spellweavers.
Tathar said, “Greetings, Prince of Krondor.”
Arutha looked up and smiled weakly. “Thanks to you all.”
Tomas resheathed his sword and said, “I could not travel with you, but once these dared cross the boundaries of our forest, I could act. Elvandar is mine to preserve. Any who dares invade will be treated as these. To Calin he said, “Build a funeral pyre. Those black demons shall never rise again.” And he said to the others, “When it is done, we shall return to Elvandar.”
Jimmy fell back upon the grass of the stream bank, his body too sore and tired to move. Within moments he was asleep.
They feasted the next night. Queen Aglaranna and Prince Tomas hosted Arutha and his companions. Galain approached where Martin and Arutha sat and said, “Baru will live. Our healer says he’s the toughest human he’s seen.”
“How long before he’s up again?” asked Arutha.
“A long time,” said Galain. “You’ll have to leave him with us. By rights he should have died an hour before we got here. He’s lost a lot of blood, and some of those cuts are severe. Murad almost crushed his spine and his windpipe.”
“But other than that, he’ll be as good as new,” said Roald across the table.
Laurie said, “When I get home to Carline, I promise never to leave again.”
Jimmy came to sit next to the prince. “You look thoughtful for one who’s pulled off the impossible. Id thought you’d be happy.”
Arutha ventured a smile. “I won’t be until Anita is cured.”
“When do we ride home?”
“We go to Crydee in the morning; the elves will escort us there. Then we take ship to Krondor. We should be back in time for the Festival of Banapis. If Murmandamus can’t find me with his magic, a ship should be safe enough. Unless you d prefer riding back the way we came?”
Jimmy said, “Not likely. There might still be more of those Black Slayers about. I’ll take drowning over another run-in with them, anytime.”
Martin said, “It will be good to see Crydee again. I’ll have much to see to, getting my house in order. Old Samuel will be at wits’ end with the estate management, though I’m sure the Baron Bellamy has done well enough running things in my absence. But there will be much to do before we leave.”
“Leave for where?” said Arutha.
In an innocent tone Martin said, “Why, for Krondor, of course.” But his gaze traveled northward, and silently he echoed his brother’s thoughts. Up there was Murmandamus, and a battle yet unjoined. The issue was not decided, only the first skirmish. With the death of Murad the forces of the Darkness had lost a captain, had been pushed back, retiring in disorder, but they were not vanquished, and they would return, if not tomorrow, then some other day.
Arutha said, “Jimmy, you have acted with wit and bravery beyond what is required of a squire. What reward shall you have?”
Biting a large rib of elk, the boy replied, “Well, you still need a Duke of Krondor.”
NINETEEN - Continuation
The riders reined in.
Staring upward, they studied the mountaintops that marked the boundary of their lands, the great peaks of the High Wall. For two weeks twelve riders had picked their way through the mountains, until they had journeyed beyond the normal limits of Tsurani patrols, above the timberline. They moved slowly through a pass it had taken days to locate. They were seeking something no Tsurani had searched for in ages, a way through the High Wall into the northern tundra.
It was cold in the mountains, an alien experience for most of the riders, except those who had served on Midkemia during the years of the Riftwar. To the younger soldiers of the Shinzawai Household Guard, this cold was a strange and almost frightening thing. But they showed no sign of their discomfort, except to absently draw their cloaks more tightly about their shoulders as they studied the odd whiteness on the peaks, hundreds of feet yet above their heads. They were Tsurani.