Flight of the Nighthawks by Raymond E. Feist Page A

sir?” asked the young man, a blond-headed rail of a lad no more than fifteen years old. The senior squire served Prince Robert, ruler of Krondor these last eight years, and heir apparent to the Kingdom of the Isles.
    â€œThe hour is late. I shall check on the Duke again very soon. If his condition worsens, there should be time enough to wake the Prince.”
    â€œYes, sir. Shall I stay?”
    â€œNo need,” said the old healer, his face drawn with worry and fatigue. “He’ll not rouse and I have other patients to care for; the stomach flux has struck the royal nursery, and though it may not be fatal, the wrath of the Princess is sure to be if I can’t get the children to rest through the night.”
    The healer snuffed out the single candle next to the bed and he and the boy left the Duke’s large sleeping chamber, closing the door quietly behind them.
    A moment later a figure stepped out of the shadow behind a large curtain. He crossed the room to the bed and touched his fingertip to the still-warm candle wick, and the flame instantly reappeared. Glancing down at the recumbent figure, he softly said, “Oh, Erik, you don’t look so good.”
    Nakor had known Duke Erik when he had been a boy, fresh from the smith’s forge, tall, with huge shoulders and the strength of three men. He had also been born with a temper, which had almost got him hung for murder, but in the end he had served the Kingdom of the Isles well and had risen in rank to Knight-Marshal of the West, and held the title of Duke of Krondor under young Prince Robert.
    Nakor now looked down on an old man, past eighty years of age. His skin was like old parchment drawn tightly across his skull. His shoulders showed none of the massive strength of his youth, and were lost beneath the voluminous nightshirt he wore.
    Nakor retrieved a vial from his rucksack and pulled out the stopper. He administered a single drop on the dying man’s lips and waited. Erik’s mouth moved, slightly, and Nakor poured in another drop. He repeated this application for almost fifteen minutes, a drop at a time, then sat back on the side of the bed and waited.
    After a few more minutes, the Duke’s eyes fluttered, then opened completely. He blinked, then said in a soft, hoarse whisper, “Nakor?”
    The little man grinned. “You remember me?”
    With a deep intake of breath followed by a long sigh, Erik von Darkmoor—once a sergeant in Calis’s Crimson Eagles, veteran of the Serpentwar, hero of the Battle of Nightmare Ridge, and now Duke of Krondor and Knight-Marshal of the Western Realm—sat up and said, “You’re damned hard to forget, old friend.”
    â€œYou look better,” said Nakor.
    Erik moved his arms and said, “I feel better. What did you do?”
    Nakor held up the vial. “I bought you some time. I need to talk to you.”
    â€œThen hurry,” said the Duke, sitting back. He chuckled, a dry raspy laugh. “By all accounts, I don’t have much time—wait, how did you get in here?”
    Nakor waved the question away. “I just waited until no one was looking then came in through the window.”
    Erik smiled. “Like old Duke James when he was a boy, then?”
    â€œSomething like that.”
    â€œSo why are you troubling a dying man?”
    â€œI need you not to die for a while, Erik.”
    â€œI’d be pleased to accommodate you, but I believe fate has other plans.”
    â€œHow do you feel?”
    The Duke stretched out his hands before his face and said, “Surprisingly good, all things considered. I’ll ask again, what did you do?”
    â€œIt’s a potion, which I got from a priest who lives a great distance from here. It will…restore you.”
    â€œRestore me?”
    â€œIt’ll keep you alive for a while longer, or if you drink a lot, for a lot longer.”
    The Duke shifted himself higher in the bed, so