The Complete Legends of the Riftwar Trilogy: Honoured Enemy, Murder in Lamut, Jimmy the Hand
Return to a world of magic and adventure from best selling author Raymond E. Feist. This bundle includes the complete Legends of the Riftwar Trilogy.The bundle includes: Honoured Enemy, Murder in Lamut, Jimmy the Hand.The Legends of the Riftwar bundle includes co-authored works by Raymond E. Feist, William R. Forstchen, Joel Rosenburg and Steve Stirling.Honoured Enemy follows the story of a crack band of Kingdom raiders designed to infiltrate and fight behind enemy lines. When they unwittingly head to a frontier garrison at the same time as a Tsurani patrol does. When they arrive, both sides are confronted with a mass of migrating Moredhel.The only problem is, who do they hate the most – their mutal enemy, or each other?Murder in LaMut follows the story of three mercenaries who have spent twenty years fighting other people’s battles. The prospect of a few months garrison duty offers a welcome respite; but at the last moment they are given an assignment that seems like cushy work – to protect a lady and her husband and deliver them safely to LaMut.It should have all been so simple…Jimmy the Hand follows the story of the enigmatic boy thief of Krondor. Fearing reprisal after helping Prince Arutha and Princess Anita escape the Duke of Bas-Tyra’s secret police, Jimmy flees the city and ventures north to the relative safety of Sarth. However, Jimmy is ill-prepared for what greets him…For Sarth is home to a dangerous, unknown presence, hidden even from the local thieves and smugglers…
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RAYMOND E. FEIST
The Complete Legends of the Riftwar
Trilogy
Honoured EnemyMurder in LaMutJimmy the Hand
Table of Contents
RAYMOND E. FEIST & WILLIAM R. FORSTCHEN
Honoured Enemy
Book Two of Legends of the Riftwar
This one’s for Janny Wurts, who showed me that two heads often were far better than one.
Raymond E Feist
When I think of Honour, Colonel Donald V Bennett, Fox-Green, Omaha Beach, and Sergeant Andy Andrew, Easy Red, Omaha Beach stand before me. When duty called, they served unflinchingly. I am honoured to call them my friends.
William R Forstchen
Table of Contents
THE RAIN HAD STOPPED.
Lord Brucal, Knight-Marshal of the Armies of the West, entered the command pavilion, snorting like a warhorse and swearing under his breath. ‘Damn weather,’ he finally said. The elderly general, still broad-shouldered and fit, ran a gloved hand back from his forehead, getting the damp hair out of his eyes.
Borric, Duke of Crydee, and his second-in-command looked at his old friend with a wry smile. Brucal was a steadfast warrior and a reliable ally in the politics of the Kingdom of the Isles, as well as an able field general. But he had a tendency towards vanity, though. Borric knew he was getting irritated by the regal mane of hair now being plastered to his skull.
‘Still sick?’ Borric was a striking man of middle years, with more black in his hair and beard than grey. He had on his usual garments of black – the only colour he had donned since the death of his wife many years before – and over this he wore the brown tabard of Crydee, emblazoned with a golden gull above which perched a small golden crown, signifying Borric’s royal blood. His eyes were dark and piercing, and currently showed a slight amusement at his old friend’s bluster.
As Borric expected, the old grey-bearded duke swore an oath. ‘I’m not sick, damn it! Just a bit of a sniffle.’
Borric remembered Brucal when he was a young man, visiting Borric’s father at Crydee, his laughter, with his robust joy and a glint in his eye. Even when his reddish-brown hair and beard had turned grey, Brucal had been a man who lived each day to the fullest. Today was the first time Borric recognized that Brucal was now an old man.
On the other hand, it had to be said that Brucal was an old man who could quickly draw a sword and do considerable harm. And he refused to admit he was ill.
Brucal pulled off his heavy gauntlets and handed them to an aide. He allowed another to remove the heavy fur-lined weather-cloak he had worn from his own tent. He was dressed in simple blue trousers and a grey tunic, his tabard left behind in his tent. ‘And this bloody rain doesn’t help.’
‘Another week of this and the snows will be falling in earnest.’
‘According to our scouts, it’s already snowing heavily up north, around the Lake of the Sky,’ replied Brucal. ‘We should consider sending the reserves back to LaMut and Yabon for the winter.’
Borric nodded. ‘We might get one more week of clement weather before the winter storms come, though. Just enough time for the Tsurani to start something. I think we’ll keep half of the reserves close by; I’ll order the other half back to LaMut.’
Brucal looked at the campaign map on the large table before Borric. He said, ‘They haven’t been doing much, lately, have they?’
‘The same as last year,’ said Borric, pointing at the map. ‘A sortie here, a raid there, but there’s little evidence they seek to expand much any more.’
Borric studied the map: the invading Tsurani had taken a large chunk of the Grey Tower Mountains and the Free Cities of Natal, but had seemed satisfied to hold a stable front for the last five years of the war. The dukes had managed one successful raid through the valley in the mountains the Tsurani had used as their beachhead, and since then intelligence about what was occurring behind enemy lines was non-existent.
Brucal blew his nose in a rag used to oil weapons, and then threw it into a brazier nearby. His large nose now looked red and shiny. The nine-year campaign had taken its toll on him, Borric noticed.
Borric thought back a moment to when the first sightings of the Tsurani invaders had been reported, by two boys at his own keep who had found a wrecked Tsurani ship on the headlands near his castle at Crydee. Later, word had been brought by the Elven Queen of aliens in the forests that lay between her own Elvandar and the Duchy of Crydee.
