Krondor: The Betrayal Book I of The Riftwar Legacy [111-066-4.3]
By: RAYMOND E. FEIST
Based on the game Betrayal at Krondor Published by Dynamix, Inc.
Story by Neal Hallford, John Cutter, and Raymond E. Feist.
Also by Raymond E. Feist
A Darkness at Setbanon
Faerie Tale 311
Prince of the Blood
The King's Buccaneer
Sbadow of a Dark Queen
Rise of a Mercbant Prince
Rage of a Demon King
Shards of a Broken Crown
With Janny Wurts:
Daughter of Empire
Servant of Empire
Mistress of Empire
RAYMOND E. FEIST
Book I of the R@(twar Legacy
An Imprint of harpercollins publishers 77-85 Fulham Palace Road,
Hammersmith, London w6 Sib
The Voyager World Wide Web site address is
Published by Voyager 1998 13 5 7 9 8 6 4 2
Copyright @ Raymond E. Feist 1998
The Author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 0 00 224694 5
Typeset in Adobe Caslon by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Polmont, Stirlingshire
Printed and bound by
Griffin Press Pry Ltd, Netley, South Australia
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,
stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any
means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise,
without the prior permission of the publishers.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of
trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated
without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover
other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition
including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Again I am in debt to many people.
The original Midkemians, for the universe in which I work, and for their
understanding of what makes a good story, a good game, and how the two
My agent Jonathan Matson, for shepherding me through major difficulties
in creating these games, with his usual deft touch and quick wit.
John Cutter, who thought it up in the first place.
Neal Hallford, who created a very nifty story for the core of the game
which provided the basis for this book.
The rest of the creative team at Dynamix who managed to squeeze the most
out of the processor to give us music, pictures, sound and story.
And to Jerry Lutrell, for keeping me apprised of what was what early on.
My wife, Kathlyn S. Starbuck, for being who she is.
My children Jessica and James, for keeping me in touch with what's
important daily and for being the most wonderful children any father
could ask for.
Raymond E. Feist
Rancho Santa Fe, CA
March 11, 1998
For John Cutter and Neal Harford with thanks for their creativity and
PROLOGUE: Warning I
CHAPTER ONE: Encounter 8
CHAPTER Two: Deception 24
CHAPTER THREE: Revelation 43
CHAPTER FOUR: Passage 57
CHAPTER FIVE: Mission 74
CHAPTER SIX: Journey 89
CHAPTER SEVEN: Murders 105
CHAPTER EIGHT: Secrets 124
CHAPTER NINE: Suspect 141
CHAPTER TEN: Nighthawks 156
CHAPTER ELEVEN: Escape 178
CHAPTER TWELVE: Preparations 197
CHAPTER THIRTEEN: Betrayal 212
CHAPTER FOURTEEN: Instructions 229
CHAPTER FIFTEEN: Quest 244
CHAPTER SIXTEEN: Tasks 258
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: Misdirection 274
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: Regroup 293
CHAPTER NINETEEN: Encounter 307
CHAPTER TWENTY: Retribution 323
The wind howled.
Locklear, squire of the Prince of Krondor's court, sat huddled under his
heavy cloak, astride his horse. Summer was quick to flee in the
Northlands and the passes through the mountains known as the Teeth of
the World. Autumn nights in the south might still be soft and warm, but
up here in the north, autumn had been a brief visitor and winter was
early to arrive, and would be long in residence. Locklear cursed his own
stupidity for leading him to this forlorn place.
Sergeant Bales said, 'Gets nippy up here, squire. "The sergeant had head
the rumour about the young noble's sudden appearance in Tyr-Sog, some
matter involving a young woman married to a well-connected merchant in
Krondor. Locklear wouldn't be the first young dandy sent to the frontier
to get him out of an angry husband's reach. 'Not as balmy as Krondor,
sorry to say, sir. " 'Really? "asked the young squire, dryly.
The patrol followed a narrow trail along the edge of the foothills, the
northern border of the Kingdom of the Isles. Locklear had been in court
at Tyr-Sog less than a week when Baron Moyiet had suggested the young
squire might benefit from accompanying the special patrol to the east of
the city. Rumours had been circulating that renegades and moredhel -
dark elves known as the Brotherhood of the Dark
Path - were infiltrating south under the cover of heavy rains and snow
flurries. Trackers had reported few signs, but hearsay and the
insistence of farmers that they had seen companies of dark-clad warriors
hurrying south had prompted the Baron to order the patrol.
Locklear knew as well as the men garrisoned there that the chance
of any activity along the small passes over the mountains in late fall
or early winter was unusual. While the freeze had just come to the
foothills, the higher passes would already be thick with snow, then
choked with mud should a brief thaw occur.
Yet since the war known as the Great Uprising - the invasion of the
Kingdom by the army of Murmandamus, the charismatic leader of the dark
elves - ten years ago, any activity was to be investigated, and that
order came directly from King Lyam. 'Yes, must be a bit of a change from
the Prince's court, squire, " prodded the sergeant. Locklear had looked
the part of a Krondorian dandy - tall, slender, a finely garbed young
man in his mid-twenties, affecting a moustache and long ringlets - when
he reached Tyrsog Locklear thought the moustache and fine clothing made
him look older, but if anything the impact was the opposite of his
Locklear had enough of the sergeant's playful baiting, and observed,
'Still, it's warmer than I remember the other side of the mountains
being. " 'Other side, sir? "asked the sergeant. 'The Northlands, "said
Locklear. 'Even in the spring and summer the nights are cold. "
The sergeant looked askance at the young man. 'You've been there,
squire? "Few men who were not renegades or weapons runners had visited
the Northlands and lived to return to the Kingdom.
With the Prince, "replied Locklear. 'I was with him at Armengar and
The sergeant fell silent and looked ahead. The soldiers nearest
Locklear exchanged glances and nods. One whispered to the man behind
him. No soldier living in the north hadn't heard of the fall of
Armengar before the hosts of Murmandamus, the powerful moredhel leader
who had destroyed the human city in the Northlands and then had invaded
the Kingdom. Only his defeat at Sethanon, ten years before, had kept his
army of dark elves, trolls, goblins and giants from rending the Kingdom.
The survivors of Armengar had come to live in Yabon, not far from
Tyr-Sog, and the telling of the great battle and the flight of the
survivors, as well as the part played by Prince Arutha and his
companions, had grown in the telling. Any man who had served
with Prince Arutha and Guy du Bas-Tyra could only be judged a hero. With
a reappraising glance at the young man,* the sergeant kept his silence.
Locklear's amusement at shutting up the voluble sergeant was shortlived,
as the snow started to freshen, blowing harder by the minute. He might
have gained enough stature with the garrison to be treated with more
respect in days to come, but he was still a long way from the court in
Krondor, the fine wines and pretty girls. It would take a miracle for
him to get back in Arutha's good graces any time before the next winter
found him still trapped in a rural court with dullards.
After ten minutes of silent travel, the sergeant said, 'Amother two
miles, sir, and we can start back. "
Locklear said nothing. By the time they returned to the garrison, it
would be dark and even colder than it presently was. He would welcome
the warm fire in the soldiers'commons and probably content himself
sharing a meal with the troops, unless the Baron requested he dine with
the household. Locklear judged that unlikely, as the Baron had a
flirtatious young daughter who had fawned on the visiting young noble
the first night he had appeared in Tyr-Sog, and the
Baron full well knew why Locklear was at his court. On the two occasions
he had since dined with the Baron, the daughter had been conspicuously
There was an inn not too far from the castle, but by the time he had
returned to the castle, he knew he would be too sick of the cold and
snow to brave the elements again, even for that short distance; besides,
the only two barmaids there were fat and dull. With a silent sigh of
resignation, Locklear realized that by the arrival of spring they might
look lovely and charming to him.
Locklear just prayed he would be permitted to return to Krondor by the
Midsummer Festival of Banapis. He would write to his best friend, Squire
James, and ask him to use his influence to get Arutha to recall him
early. Half a year up here was punishment enough. 'Seigneur, "said
Sergeant Bales, using Locklear's formal title, 'what's that? "He pointed
up the rocky path. Movement among the rocks had caught the sergeant's
Locklear replied, 'I don't know. Let's go take a look. "
Bales motioned and the patrol turned left, moving up the path.
Quickly the scene before them resolved itself. A lone figure, on foot,
hurried down the rocky path, and from behind the sounds of pursuit could
be heard. 'Looks like a renegade had a falling-out with some Brothers of
Dark Path, "said Sergeant Bales.
Locklear pulled his own sword. 'Renegade or not, we can't let the dark
elves carve him up. It might make them think they could come south and
harass common citizens at whim. " 'Ready!"shouted the sergeant and the
veteran patrol pulled swords.
The lone figure saw the soldiers, hesitated a moment, then ran forward.
Locklear could see he was a tall man, covered by a dark grey cloak which
effectively hid his features. Behind him on foot came a dozen dark
elves. 'Let us go amongst them, "said the sergeant calmly.
Locklear commanded the patrol in theory, but he had enough combat
experience to stay out of the way when a veteran sergeant was giving
The horsemen charged up the pass, moving by the lone figure, to fall
upon the moredhel. The Brotherhood of the Dark Path were many things;
cowardly and inept in warcraft were not among those things. The fighting
was fierce, but the Kingdom soldiers had two advantages: horses, and the
fact the weather had rendered the dark elves' bows useless. The moredhel
didn't even attempt to draw their wet strings, knowing they could hardly
send a bowshaft toward the enemy, let alone pierce armour.
A single dark elf, larger than the rest, leaped atop a rock, his gaze
fixed upon the fleeing figure. Locklear moved his horse to block the
creature, who turned his attention toward the young noble.
They locked gazes for a moment, and Locklear could feel the creature's
hatred. Silently he seemed to mark Locklear, as if remembering him for a
future confrontation. Then he shouted an order and the moredhel began
their withdrawal up the pass.
Sergeant Bales knew better than to pursue into a pass when he had less
than a dozen yards'visibility. Besides, the weather was worsening.
Locklear turned to find the lone figure leaning against a boulder a
short distance behind the trail. Locklear moved his horse dose to the
man and called down, J am Squire Locklear of the Prince's court.
You better have a good story for us, renegade. "
There was no response from the man, his features stiff hidden by the
deep cowl of his heavy cloak. The sounds of fighting trailed off as the
moredhel broke off and fled up the pass, crawling into the rocks above
the path so the riders could not follow.
The figure before Locklear regarded him a moment, then slowly reached up
to throw back his cowl. Dark, alien eyes regarded the young noble. These
were features Locklear had seen before: high brow, close-cropped hair.
Arching eyebrows and large, upswept and lobeless ears. But this was no
elf who stood before him; Locklear could feet it in his bones. The dark
eyes that regarded him could barely hide their contempt.
In heavily accented King's Tongue, the creature said, 'I am no renegade,
Sergeant Bales rode up and said, 'Damn! A Brother of the Dark
Path. Must have been some tribal thing, with those others trying to kill
The moredhel fixed Locklear with his gaze, studying him for a long
moment, then he said, 'If you are from the Prince's court then you may
help me. " 'Help you? said the sergeant. We're most likely going to hang
you, murderer. "
Locklear held up his hand for silence. Why should we help you, moredhel?
" 'Because I bring a word of warning for your prince. "
Warning of what? " 'That is for him to know. Will you take me to him? "
Locklear glanced at the sergeant, who said, We should take him to see
the Baron. " 'No, "said the moredhel. 'I will only speak with Prince
Arutha. " 'You'll speak to whoever we tell you to, butched' said Bales,
his voice edged in hatred. He had been fighting the Brotherhood of the
Dark Path his entire life and had seen their cruelty many times.
Locklear said, 'I know his kind. You can set fire to his feet and burn
him up to his neck and if he doesn't want to talk, he won't talk. "
The moredhel said, 'True. "He again studied Locklear and said, 'You have
faced my people? " 'Artnengar,'said Locklear. 'Again at Highcastle. Then
at Sethanon. "
'It is Sethanon about which I need to speak to your prince, "said the
Locklear turned to the sergeant and said, 'Leave us for a moment,
Bales hesitated, but there was a note of command in the young noble's
voice, no hint of deference to the sergeant; this was an order.
The sergeant turned and moved his patrol away. 'Say on, "said Locklear.
'I am Gorath, Chieftain of the Ardanien. "
Locklear studied Gorath. By human standards he looked young, but
Locklear had been around enough elves and seen enough moredhel to know
that was deceiving. This one had a beard streaked with white and grey,
as well as a few lines around his eyes; Locklear guessed he might be
better than two hundred years old by what he had seen among elvenkind.
Gorath wore armour that was well crafted and a cloak of especially fine
Locklear judged it possible he was exactly what he said he was. 'What
does a moredhel chieftain speak of to a prince of the
Kingdom? " 'My words are for Prince Arutha alone. "
Locklear said, 'If you don't want to spend what remains of your life in
the Baron's dungeon at Tyr-Sog, you had better say something that will
convince me to take you to Krondor. "
The moredhel looked a long time at Locklear, then motioned for him to
come closer. Keeping his hand upon a dagger in his belt, should the dark
elf try something, he leaned close to his horse's neck, so he could put
his face near Gorath's.
Gorath whispered in Locklear's ear. 'Murmandamus lives. "
Locklear leaned back and was silent a moment, then he turned his horse.
'Sergeant Bales!" 'Sir!"returned the old veteran, answering Locklear's
commanding tone of voice with a note of respect. 'Put this prisoner in
chains. We return to Tyr-Sog, now. And no one is to speak with him
without my leave. " 'Sir!"repeated the sergeant, motioning to two of his
men to hurry forward and do as ordered.
Locklear leaned over his horse's neck again and said, 'You may be lying
to stay alive, Gorath, or you may have some dreadful message
for Prince Arutha. It matters not to me, for either way I return to
Krondor, starting first thing in the morning. "
The dark elf said nothing, content to stand stoically as he was disarmed
by two soldiers. He remained silent as manacles were fastened around his
wrists, linked by a short span of heavy chain.
He held his hands before him a moment after the manacles were locked,
then slowly lowered them. He looked at Locklear, then turned and began
walking toward Tyr-Sog, without waiting for his guards' leave.
Locklear motioned for the sergeant to follow, and rode up to walk his
horse next to Gorath, through the worsening weather.
T he fire crackled.
Owyn Belefate sat alone in the night before the flames, wallowing in his
personal misery. The youngest son of the
Baron of Timons, he was a long way from home and wishing he was even
farther away. His youthful features were set in a portrait of dejection.
The night was cold and the food scant, especially after having just left
the abundance of his aunt's home in Yabon City. He had been hosted by
relatives ignorant of his falling-out with his father, people who had
reacquainted him over a weeles visit with what he had forgotten about
his home-life: the companionship of brothers and sisters, the warmth of
a night spent before the fire, conversation with his mother, and even
the arguments with his father. 'Father, "Owyn muttered. It had been less
than two years since the young man had defied his father and made his
way to Stardock, the island of magicians located in the southern reaches
of the Kingdom.
His father had forbidden him his choice, to study magic, demanding
Owyn should at least become a cleric of one of the more socially
acceptable orders of priests. After all, they did magic as well, his
father had insisted.
Owyn sighed and gathered his cloak around him. He had been so certain he
would someday return home to visit his family, revealing himself as a
great magician, perhaps a confidant of the legendary
1. /BETRAYAL AT KRONDOR.txt
1. /Feist, Raymond E - Riftwar (7) - Legends Of The Riftwar 01 - Honoured Enemy (with Forstchen,...
1. /Book of Mormon/Mormon book-00-Удостоверения.rtf
1. /HammerFall/1997 - Glory To The Brave/01 - The Dragon Lies Bleeding.rtf
1. /The Legacy of Threehills.doc
1. /Feist, Raymond - Riftwar 07, Legends 02 - Murder In Lamut.rtf