Krondor: Tear of the Gods. Raymond E. Feist
He played along. ‘We’re meeting a gang at the beach north of Fishtown, outside of Krondor.’
‘Fishtown it is!’ said the man, quickly adding, ‘Captain!’
Throughout the night the crew rowed, and when dawn was less than two hours away, Knute called one of his most trusted crewmen over. ‘How are things?’
‘Bear’s men are nervous, but they’re not smart enough to plan anything if they think they might lose out on what we’ve taken. But they’re still jumpy. You don’t cross someone like Bear and sleep soundly.’
Knute nodded, then said, ‘If everything’s secure, there’s some wine and ale below. Break it out.’
‘Aye, Captain,’ said the man, his grin widening. ‘A celebration, eh? That will take the edge off.’
Knute returned the grin, but said nothing.
Within minutes the noise of celebration emanated from below. For hours all Knute had heard was an ominous silence punctuated by the sound of rhythmic rowing, oars groaning in their oarlocks, wood creaking as the hull flexed, and the rattle of tackle and blocks in the rigging. Now the murmur of voices arose, some joking, others surprised, as men made the rounds of the rowing benches with casks and cups.
One of the pirates looked at Knute across the deck and Knute shouted, ‘See that those aloft go below for a quick drink! I’ll take the helm!’
The pirate nodded, then shouted aloft as Knute made his way to the stern of the ship. He said to the helmsman, ‘Go get something to drink. I’ll take her in.’
‘Going to beach her, Captain?’
Knute nodded. ‘We’re coming in a bit after low tide. She’s heavy as a pregnant sow with all this booty. Once we offload, when high tide comes in, she’ll lift right off the beach and we can back her out.’
The man nodded. He was familiar with the area near Fishtown; the beaches were gentle and Knute’s plan made sense.
Knute had chosen a slow-acting poison. As he took the helm, he calculated that he’d be coming into the beach by the time the first men began to pass out. With luck, those still alive would assume their companions were insensible from drink. With even more luck, the wagoners he had hired out of Krondor wouldn’t have to cut any throats. They were teamsters working for a flat fee, not bully boys.
Knute had piled one lie atop another. The wagoners thought he was working for the Upright Man of Krondor, the leader of the Guild of Thieves. Knute knew that without that lie he would never control them once they saw the wealth he was bringing into the city. If the teamsters didn’t believe a dread power stood behind Knute, he’d be as dead as the rest of the crew come morning.
The sound of the water changed, and in the distance Knute could hear breakers rolling into the beach. He hardly needed to look to know where he was.
One of the pirates came staggering up the companionway from below and spoke. His speech was slurred. ‘Captain, what’s in this ale? The boys are passin’ …’ Knute smiled at the seaman, a young thug of perhaps eighteen years. The lad pitched forward. A few voices from below shouted up to the deck, but their words were muffled, and quiet soon descended.
The oars had fallen silent and now came the most dangerous part of Knute’s plan. He lashed down his tiller, sprang to the ratlines and climbed aloft. Alone he lowered one small sail, shimmied down a sheet, and tied off. That little sail was all he had to keep him from turning broad to the waves and being smashed upon the beach.
As he reached the tiller, a hand descended upon Knute’s shoulder, spinning him around. He was confronted by a leering grin of sharpened teeth as dark eyes studied him. ‘Shaskahan don’t drink ale, little man.’
Knute froze. He let his hand slip to a dagger in his belt but waited to see what the cannibal would do next. The man was motionless. ‘Don’t drink ale,’ he repeated.
‘I’ll give you half the gold,’ Knute whispered.
‘I take all of it,’ said the cannibal, as he drew out his large belt knife. ‘And then I eat you.’
Knute leaped backward and drew his own knife. He knew that he was no match for the veteran killer, but he was fighting for his life and the biggest trove of riches he would ever see. He waited, praying for a few more moments.
The cannibal said again, ‘Shaskahan don’t drink ale.’ Knute saw the man’s legs begin to shake as he took a step forward. Suddenly the man was on his knees, his eyes going blank. Then he fell face forward. Knute cautiously knelt next to the man and examined him. He sheathed his knife as he leaned close to the cannibal’s face, sniffed once, then stood.
‘You don’t drink ale, you murdering whore’s son, but you do drink brandy.’
With a laugh Knute unlashed the tiller as the ship swept forward into breakers. He pointed it like an arrow at a long, flat run of beach and as the ship ploughed prow first into the sand, he saw the three large wagons sitting atop the bluffs. Six men who’d been sitting on the shore leapt to their feet as the ship ground to a halt in the sand. Knute had ordered the wagons not be brought down to the cove, for once loaded they’d be sunk to their hubs in sand. The teamsters would have to cart all the gold up the small bluff to the wagons. It would be hard, sweaty work.
No sooner had the ship stopped moving than Knute was shouting orders. The six wagoners hurried forward, while Knute pulled his knife. He was going to ensure no one below recovered from too little poison, then he was going to get that treasure to Krondor.
There was one man in the world he knew he could trust and that man would help him hide all these riches. Then Knute would celebrate, get drunk, pick a fight, and get himself thrown into jail. Let Bear come for him, thought Knute, if by some miracle he had survived. Let the crazed animal of a pirate try to reach him in the bowels of the city’s stoutest jail, surrounded by the city watch. That would never happen – at the very least Bear would be captured by the city guards; more likely he’d be killed. Once Knute knew for certain Bear’s fate, he could bargain for his own life. For he was the only man who knew where the Ishapian ship had gone down. He could lead the Prince’s men and a representative of the Wreckers’ Guild to the site, where the Wreckers’ Guild’s mage could raise the ship and they could offload whatever trinket it was that Bear had been after. Then he’d be a free man while Bear rotted in the Prince’s dungeon or hung from the gibbet or rested at the bottom of the sea. And let everyone think the rest of the treasure went down with the pirate ship in the deep water trench just a mile offshore.
Knute congratulated himself on his masterful plan, and set about his grisly work, as the wagoners from Krondor climbed aboard to offload ‘the Upright Man’s treasure.’
Miles away as the dawn broke, a solitary figured emerged from the breakers. His massive frame hung with clothing tattered and soaked from hours in the brine. He had tossed aside his weapons to lighten himself for a long swim. One good eye surveyed the rocks and he calculated where he had come ashore. With dry sand under his now bare feet, the huge pirate let out a scream of primal rage.
‘Knute!’ he shouted at the sky. ‘By the dark god I’ll hunt you down and have your liver on a stick. But first you’ll tell me where the Tear of the Gods is!’
Knowing that he had to find weapons and a new pair of boots, Bear turned northward, towards the secret temple at Widow’s Peak and the village of Haldon’s Head. There he would find some men to serve him and with their help they would track down Knute and the others. Every member of his crew who had betrayed him would die a slow, agonizing death. Again Bear let out a bellow of rage. As the echoes died against the windswept rocks, he squared his shoulders and began walking.
JAMES HURRIED THROUGH