The King's Buccaneer by Raymond E. Feist
“What?” he asked groggily.
“You have to do it again.”
Sobbing, he asked, “Why?”
“You have to learn something.”
Nicholas gripped Pug’s hand and suddenly he was on the ledge. “Step forward,” Pug said softly.
Nicholas stepped forward, but his foot was fused into the rock of the ledge. An emptiness hit his stomach as he lurched into the void, but his left foot held him firmly to the ledge.
Wrenching pain visited his leg as he hung there, upside down and backward. Pug suddenly appeared before him. “Hurts, doesn’t it?”
“What’s happening?” Nicholas asked.
“This is your pain, Nicholas.” Pug pointed to the foot in the rock. “This is your mother love and your mistress. This is your excuse. Because of it, you can’t fail.”
Nicholas said bitterly, “I fail all the time.”
Pug’s smile was unforgiving. “But you have a reason for failing, don’t you?”
Nicholas felt a cold stab to his stomach as he said, “What do you mean?”
“You fail not because you’re lacking but because you’re the lame child.” Pug floated in the air before Nicholas. “You have two choices, Prince of the Kingdom. You can hang here until you grow old, knowing that there are all manner of great things you might do: save innocents, find the woman of your dreams, protect your subjects…if only you didn’t have a lame foot. Or you can cut yourself free from your excuse.”
Nicholas tried to pull himself upright but couldn’t gain any leverage.
Pug pointed an accusing finger. “You’ve hit the rocks! You know what it is.”
“It hurts!” cried Nicholas.
“Of course it hurts,” chided Pug, “but you get over it. It’s only pain. You’re not dead, and you can try again. You can’t succeed unless you’re willing to risk failure.” Pointing at the place where ankle was fused to rock, Pug said, “This is an excuse. We all have them if we wish. You have gifts that advantage you far more than this trivial deformity handicaps you!”
A powerful certainty struck Nicholas. “What must I do?”
Pug stood. “You know.” And he was gone.
Nicholas reached up and gripped his left leg. The blood pounded in his head and he felt the muscles of his left leg tearing as he pulled upward. Forcing himself to bend forward, he scraped his fingers on the rock, gaining inches as he cried in agony and frustration.
Suddenly he was sitting on the ledge, his foot still fused to the rock. At his side a knife hung, where none had been a moment before.
He understood. He took the knife and hesitated a moment, then slashed at his own ankle. Pain shot up his leg and his foot burned. Gasping at the pain, he forced himself to cut. The ankle cut like thick bread, not like bone and sinew, but the pain shot through him like lightning flashes.
As he cut through the last fiber of his own flesh, Nicholas found himself standing. He held the knife to the throat of his own mother. Blinking, he pulled back. The figure of Anita, Princess of Krondor, said, “Nicholas! Why do you hurt me? I love you.”
Then Abigail stood before him, wearing a diaphanous gown. With hooded eyes and sensuous lips, she said, “Nicholas. Why do you hurt me? I love you.”
Terror struck the young man, and he stood rooted a moment, then he shouted, “You are not Abigail! Or my mother! You are an evil thing that binds me!”
A sad expression crossed the vision’s face and she said, “But I love you.” Nicholas shouted incoherently and lashed out. The knife cut through the woman, turning her to shadow and vapor.
Pain exploded behind Nicholas’s eyes and he screamed. Something precious was torn from within his chest and he felt a terrible sense of loss. Then suddenly a weight left him and, with giddy relief, he passed into darkness.
—
NICHOLAS OPENED HIS eyes, and Nakor and Anthony helped him sit up. He rested his back against the cold black stones of the tower wall. It was gloomy as the sun set. “How long have I been here?” he asked. His voice was raw and his throat scratchy.
Anthony said, “A day and a half.” He held out a waterskin, and Nicholas found he was parched.
He drank deeply and said, “My throat is sore.”
“You were shouting and screaming a long time, Nicholas,” said Anthony. “You’ve endured a terrible struggle.”
Nicholas nodded and his head spun. “I’m dizzy,” he said.
Nakor handed him an orange and said, “You’re hungry.”
Nicholas tore a section of peel away and bit deep into the fruit, letting the sweet juice run down his chin, and chewed the soft pulp. He swallowed and said, “I feel as if I lost something.”
Anthony nodded and Nakor said, “Men love their fears. That is why they hold on to them so tightly. You’ve learned something very young, Prince, something that even older men rarely understand. You’ve learned that fear isn’t a terrible-looking thing but something lovely and seductive.”
Nicholas nodded and finished the orange. Nakor handed him another. As he tore the peel off that one, he said, “I killed my mother, or Abigail—or something that looked like them.”
Nakor said, “It was neither. You killed your fear.”
Nicholas closed his eyes. “I feel like crying and laughing at the same time.”
Nakor laughed. “You just need food and sleep.”
Sighing, Nicholas said, “Pug?”
Nakor said, “His shadow construct collapsed and the red thing vanished. Pug said bad things were going to come after him soon, and he didn’t want to be around people. He took your talisman and gave it to Anthony.” Nicholas reached up and found the thong and dolphin charm missing. Anthony reached into the neck of his robe and showed Nicholas he now wore it.
“I don’t know why, but he said I must keep it for a while, but not to use it again unless there was no other choice.”
Nakor nodded. “Then he said good-bye and went away.”
In the gloom, Nicholas peered down his left leg. Something alien rose up from his left ankle. He experimented and found he could wiggle his toes. Tears welled up in his eyes as he said, “Gods!” He looked at the healthy, well-formed foot that matched its mate for the first time in his life.
Anthony said, “The transformation was difficult. I don’t know what Pug did, but you and he were in a trance for many hours. I watched the bones and flesh stretching and moving as it healed. It was astonishing. But the pain must have been extreme, for you cried and screamed yourself hoarse.”
Nakor stood up. He extended his hand downward. Nicholas took it, and the little man proved surprisingly strong as he helped Nicholas stand upright. Testing his weight upon his newly healed foot, Nicholas found his balance felt alien. “I’ll have to get used to this.”
Nakor looked down at the well-formed foot on Nicholas’s left leg and shook his head. “You had to do it the hard way, didn’t you?”
Nicholas threw his arms around the little man’s neck and laughed. He laughed so hard his ribs hurt. After a while he pushed himself away. With tears running down his face he said, “Yes. I did.”
—
MARTIN LOOKED UP as Anthony, Nakor, and Nicholas walked toward him. Nicholas picked his way gingerly over the rocks and grimaced as if stepping on something painful.
Martin was about to say something to the soldier beside him when he noticed that Nicholas was barefoot. More significantly, both of Nicholas’s feet were normal!
The Duke of Crydee walked away from the soldier and hurried up to his nephew. He looked deep into Nicholas’s eyes, and tried to understand what he saw there. At last he said, “What can I do?”
Nicholas grinned and said, “I could use a new pair of boots.”
8
ACCIDENT
Nicholas lunged.
Marcus leaped back, parrying his blow, then disengaged and riposted. Nicholas easily countered and forced him to retreat another step.
Nicholas stepped back himself. “Enough.” The young men we
Harry walked out of the inn to where the cousins had been practicing and said, “What do you think?”
Even Marcus’s usual stoic demeanor cracked as he regarded the flamboyant figure. Harry wore purple breeches tucked into large, cuffed boots, and a yellow sash around his waist. His shirt was green, with faded golden brocade up the front and at the cuffs of ballooning sleeves; over that he wore a vest of maroon leather, tied in front by a single cord and wooden frog, and upon his head a long stocking cap of red and white tipped off to the right at a jaunty angle.
“You look a fright,” said Nicholas.
“What are you made up to be?” asked Marcus.
“A buccaneer!” said Harry. “Amos said they tend to dress colorfully.”
“Well, you are that,” admitted Nicholas.
Nakor appeared, eating an orange. He looked at Harry and started to laugh. Harry had let his beard grow as well, but it was coming in thin and patchy.
“What is a buccaneer, anyway?” asked Harry.
“Bas-Tyran word, very old,” said Nakor. “Originally, boucanier; means fellows who light fires on beaches to lure ships ashore, wreckers, thieves, pirates.”
“So many words for the same thing,” said Harry, “reiver, corsair, pirate…”
“Many languages,” said Nakor. “This Kingdom is like Kesh, built upon conquest. In ancient times, men of Darkmoor and men of Rillanon couldn’t speak to each other.” He nodded and winked, delighting in sharing trivia.
Marcus said, “I hope Amos doesn’t insist we all dress that way.” Turning to Nicholas, he said, “Another?”
Nicholas shook his head. “No. My leg hurts and I’m tired.”
Suddenly Marcus was advancing, with a wicked slash toward Nicholas’s head. “What happens when you find someone coming at you when you’re tired?” Nicholas barely blocked the cut, which would have caused serious damage had it gotten through. Marcus pressed the attack and Nicholas fell back.
“People try to kill you at the most inconvenient times,” shouted Marcus, executing a combination of high and low attacks.
The two cousins were using sabers, a weapon foreign to both. With the rapier, no one in Crydee was Nicholas’s equal, but with the bulkier weapon, slashing attacks were far more important, and Marcus was quick and strong.
Nicholas grunted in exertion as he blocked a stabbing attack to the groin, then with a shout he attacked. A flurry of vicious attacks high and low moved Marcus back, and finally Nicholas caught him in a binding move and ripped the hilt from Marcus’s fingers. Leaning back against a newly rebuilt low brick wall, Marcus found Nicholas standing before him, the point of his sword touching Marcus’s throat. Marcus backed away, and fell over the low wall, landing on his rump. Nicholas leaned forward, keeping the point of the saber at Marcus’s throat.
Harry took a tentative step forward and halted. Nicholas’s eyes were wide and his anger was clearly showing. He said coldly, “Your point was well taken, cousin.” For a long second he said nothing, then stepped back, lowering his blade. With a wry laugh he said, “Very well taken.” He offered his hand and helped Marcus to his feet.
Another voice said, “You would do well to know, Marcus, that irritating a better swordsman than yourself is a good way to end up dead.”
The three young men and Nakor turned to see Amos leaving the inn. The Admiral had abandoned his muted dark blue uniform and now wore a pair of heavy black boots, with wide bands of tooled red leather around the tops. His loose breeches and short jacket were a faded blue, the jacket trimmed with dull silver brocade at the cuffs and lapels. He wore a once-white shirt, now yellowed, with limp silk ruffles down the front. Upon his head rested a black three-cornered hat trimmed in gold, topped with a bedraggled yellow plume. A cutlass of impressive weight hung from the baldric across his shoulder. He had oiled his hair and beard so that his face was surrounded with ringlets.
Removing his hat, Amos ran his hand across the top of his bald head and said, “Stick to your longbow, Marcus. Your father never had the knack for the sword your uncle Arutha has, and Nicky is a better swordsman than all of you.” He turned to Nicholas. “How’s the foot?”
Nicholas grimaced. “Still hurts.”
Nakor said, “It’s ‘phantom pain’; it only hurts in his head.”
Nicholas limped a little as he came to sit next to Marcus, who had retreated into a sullen pose.
“Phantom pain?” said Amos. “That hardly makes sense.”
“Well, it hurts like the real thing,” admitted Nicholas. “Nakor claims it will stop hurting when I finally understand the lessons I began in the tower the other night.”
“This is true,” agreed the little man. “When he truly understands, there will be no more pain.”
“Well, you’d better learn it in a hurry. We leave on the morning tide.”
Marcus nodded and said, “I have some things to do before we leave.”
After he had departed, Amos said, “You two really don’t like each other, do you?”
Nicholas looked down at the ground, but it was Harry who spoke. “They won’t much until Abigail makes a choice between them.”
Bitterly Nicholas said, “If she can. I’ll get my things together.” He departed.
Amos turned to Harry. “Why do I have a feeling that if they don’t find a reason to make peace, sooner or later one is going to kill the other?”
Harry said, “Chilling, though, isn’t it?” He leaned against the still-standing section of wall and commented, “They’re too much alike; neither will give an inch.” He looked at the door of the inn. “Most of the time I’ve known Nicholas he’s been easygoing, Admiral. You’ve known him longer, but I think I know him better.” Amos nodded agreement to that. “Something in Marcus just turns an otherwise agreeable lad into a serious pain in the backside.”
Nakor laughed.
“Marcus is acting like a pig-headed lout, too,” said Amos. Slapping Harry on the back, he added, “And you’d better start calling me ‘Captain,’ Harry, not ‘Admiral.’ I’m Trenchard the Pirate once more.” With a menacing grin, he pulled out his belt knife and began testing the edge with his thumb. “I’m years older and a step slower, but what the years have taken away I more than make up for by being mean.” Suddenly he had the knife pointed at Harry’s nose. “Any disagreement?”
Harry yelped as he jumped back a step. “No sir! Captain! Sir!”
Amos laughed. “In my former trade, the captain was the meanest bastard in the crew. That’s how you got elected. You scared the crew into voting for you.”
Harry grinned and inquired, “Is that how you got to be a captain so young?”
Amos nodded. “That and killing a swine of a second mate when I was still a cabin boy.” He leaned against the wall and put his dagger back into his belt. “I was twelve years old when I first went to sea. On my second voyage the second mate—man named Barnes—thought he’d beat me for something I didn’t do. So I killed him. The captain had a drumhead trial—”
“Drumhead?” asked Harry.
“Right then and there before the crew. Not a lot of legal niceties. You plead your case and the crew decides. Turned out most of the men hated Barnes, and I made it clear I was being beaten for something that wasn’t my fault. The guilty man came forward and told the captain that I hadn’t done whatever it was I was accused of….” Amos’s eyes grew distant. “Funny, isn’t it? I don’t remember what it was I was accused of. Anyway, the guilty man was flogged, though the captain went easy on him because he’d been honest to save my life. I was made third mate. By the time I’d been on that ship four years, I was first mate.
“I was a captain by the time I was twenty years old, Harry. I had raided most every port in the Bitter Sea save Krondor and Durbin by the time I was twenty-six. At twenty-nine I went straight.” He laughed. “And on my first honest voyage the Tsurani burned my ship a
Harry shook his head in open amazement. “Quite a history.”
Amos looked up at the burned-out hulk that had once been Castle Crydee. A pair of masons had arrived from Carse the day before and were now beginning preliminary inspection of the grounds for reconstruction. Martin was up there with them, giving them instructions so that work could begin as soon as the snows retreated, whether or not he had returned. “When I first came to that keep, I found some astonishing people.” He looked down, thoughtfully. “They changed my life. I owe them a great deal. I used to chide Arutha for taking all the fun out of life, and truth to tell, he can be a sour sort.” Gazing at the inn once again, Amos observed, “But he’s a wonderful man, in many ways, and my first choice for a mate should I be sailing into stormy waters. I love him like a son, but being his son is no easy task. Borric and Erland had many gifts, not the least of which was being very different from their father, but Nicholas…”
Harry nodded. “He’s just like him.”
Amos sighed. “I’ve never admitted this to anyone, but Nicky’s always been my favorite. He’s a gentle lad, and while he has many of his father’s strengths, he has his mother’s tender ways.” Amos pushed himself off the wall. “I pray I can return him to his family undamaged. I don’t relish the notion of explaining to his grandmother why I let anything ill happen to him.”
Harry said, “I pray you feel the same about me and telling my father, Captain.”
Amos gave Harry an evil grin. “I’m not marrying your father, Squire. You’re on your own.”
Harry laughed, but it wasn’t entirely convincing. Then a shout sounded from up the hill as one of the masons from Carse came running down the hill, almost out of control. He shouted something and Amos looked at Harry.
Harry said, “I can’t understand…”
Then the man shouted again, and Amos said, “Oh, gods, no!”
“What?” said Harry.