Rides a Dread Legion: Book One of the Demonwar Saga (Demonwar Saga series) by Raymond E. Feist. Read online, or download in secure ePub format. RAYMOND E. FEIST. RIDES A DREAD LEGION Demonwar Saga, Book 1 RAYMOND E. FEIST HarperCollinsPublishers Fulham Palace Road, Hammersmi RIDES A DREAD LEGION Demonwar Saga, Book 1 RAYMOND E. FEIST. Rides A Dread Legion · Raymond, epub, , English, , Raymond E. Feist 25, [Download]. Rides a Dread Legion · Raymond, epub, Eos,
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Rides A Dread Legion (Electronic book text, ePub ed) / Author: Raymond E. Feist ; ; Fantasy, Genre fiction, Fiction, Books. where can i download Rides a Dread Legion (Demonwar Saga Series #1) free ebook pdf site online textbook epub electronic book Rides a Dread Legion. DOWNLOAD The Complete Demonwar Saga 2-Book Collection: Rides a Dread Legion, At the Gates of Darkness By Raymond E. Feist [EBOOK EPUB site.
His sun-worn, leathery face spoke of years of campaigning, and he bore an impressive number of scars. The young ruler of Muboya gave Kaspar the title of General of the Army, announced that Alenburga had retired to some distant place, and turned his attention to consolidating his territory and preparing to conquer more. He helped Okanala put down two rebellions, and now Okanala and Muboya will combine to move against those murderous little dwarves who live in the grasslands to the west.
Kaspar is an outlander, from far across the sea to the northwest, a nation called Olasko, so I have been told. He was a ruler there, before being deposed, and has been absent for some years. Somehow he became close to General Alenburga, but little is known of that. Brandos knew his foster father preferred silence when he was reflecting, so the old fighter got up and left the study, trudging down the stairs.
The tower was a simple cylindrical keep with three levels, the middle held two large rooms, one for the Warlock and one for Brandos and his wife, Samantha. Brandos crossed the tiny hallway separating the two sleeping rooms and moved down the stairs to the bottom floor, where the kitchen, storage room, and guarderobe were housed. Brandos paused for a moment to observe his wife.
A stout woman, she could still spark a fire in her husband with just a whisper in his ear, though the years had taken their toll on the former tavern girl from the Eastlands.
Demonwar Saga, Book 1:Rides a Dread Legion
She wore a simple green dress with a blue cloth head covering, arranged in her native style. With the aid of a lot of flirtation, and a lot of good wine, she had eventually agreed to come to his bed.
But rather than forget her, as he had so many before her, his mind kept returning to the pleasantlooking, plump young woman from the Eastlands. After months of incessant mooning over her, Amirantha had given his foster son leave to visit her. He had returned a month later with his new wife. Brandos knew the Warlock envied them, even though he had never spoken a word.
Samantha looked up at her husband and smiled. As he sat at the table, her smile turned to a frown. She could read him like a proclamation posted on a wall in the city square.
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Amirantha is very troubled by what happened up in Lanada. One of her talents was ignoring how her husband and his foster father made their living, by summoning demons in distant lands, then banishing them for a fee. They did occasionally do real work, dangerous work, for those willing to pay, but those were rare callings, the rest of the time the pair behaved little better than a pair of confidence tricksters.
Still, there were some matters that she and Brandos were willing to argue about, and some things best left unspoken; it was why their marriage had lasted for twenty-three years. Meg lives with her husband up in Khaipur. He knew where this was heading. I know how wealthy we are. Enough food to take you to the city.
You can download the rest as you go. Over the many years they had been together, she had listened to the same stories as Brandos while Amirantha chatted over supper. She focused her mind on the seemingly impossible task of thinking of nothing.
Despite her eyes being closed, she could describe the room around her in precise detail. And that was her problem. Her mind wanted to be active, not floating blankly. She resisted the urge to sigh. On her best days in the Temple, she found something close to nothingness, or at least when the ritual ended she had no memory of thinking about anything and felt very relaxed. But she was still not entirely convinced that having no memory and possessing no thought were the same.
Her concern always caused Father-Bishop Creegan some amusement, and the fact she was moved by the thought was another reminder that today she was far from attaining a floating consciousness. She was still aware of every single object in the room around her. Without opening her eyes, she could recount every detail; her ability to recall it all without flaw was a natural skill honed and refined since joining the Shield of the Weak. Her vows required her to protect those unable to protect themselves.
Often, there was little time to ascertain the justice of a claim, or the right and wrong of a dispute, so she relied upon making quick judgment in deciding where and how to intervene.
The smell of the wooden walls and floor, rich with age, and the faint pungency of oils used daily to replenish them, tantalized her, recalling memories of other visits to this and other temples. She could hear the faint hissing of water on hot rocks as the acolytes moved almost silently through the room, bringing in hot rocks from a furnace outside.
They managed to carry a large iron basket full of glowing basalt and place it quietly on the floor, then they ladled water over its surface, a sprinkling that caused a silent steam to rise. She remembered her days as an acolyte spent concentrating on moving through a room much like this one without disturbing the monks, priests, and occasionally a knight like herself.
It had been her first step on the path towards serving the Goddess. As many as a dozen men and women would sit silently, their clothing folded neatly on benches along the rear wall, and it had been her job to ensure the tranquillity of the room. At the time she had wondered whether a more difficult task existed; now she knew that the acolytes had the simpler role, and those seeking a floating consciousness the more rigorous challenge.
She felt perspiration drip down her naked back, almost but not quite enough of an itch to make her wish to scratch. She willed her mind away from the sensations of her flesh. Sitting with crossed legs, eyes closed, and her hands resting palms up on her knees, nothing was supposed to distract her; yet that drip of perspiration felt almost as if she were being touched.
Her annoyance at being distracted by it began a cycle she knew well. Soon she would be as far removed from a floating consciousness as she would be during combat or enjoying a lover.
She found a spark of irony in that thought, since in both those cases, she was probably closer. Other parts of her mind seemed to predominate when fighting or loving, and the ever-questioning, ever-critical part that made her difficult for most people to be with, detached.
Like all members of her order, Sandreena was always welcome at any temple of Dala, the Patron Goddess of the Order of the Shield of the Weak. Being a member of an errant order, she wandered where the Goddess directed her, often providing the only authority or protection for small villages, tiny caravans, or isolated abbeys. She adjudicated disputes and dispensed equity by reason, but she was well equipped to do so by force of arms if necessary.
The drop of perspiration had now reached the top of her tail-bone, and as it pooled there for a moment, she focused her mind and dived into it, seeking to float within it. She took slow, deep breaths, enjoying the sybaritic pleasure she took from the hot steam, the silence, and the total absence of threat. She found her quiet place within that drop of moisture on her spine.
A light breeze made the brass wind chimes outside ring softly, heightening the calming experience. Then Sandreena caught a hint of something unwelcome, a musky male odour so slight it was almost unnoticeable. She knew the ritual was over. This was not the first time her presence in the sanctuary had brought unwelcome results. There were only two other women partaking in the ritual, neither young nor attractive by any common measure. Such considerations should have been of little consequence in the service of the Goddess, but human beings were imperfect by nature and those considerations often became relevant.
Sandreena shifted her weight, tensing and relaxing each muscle in turn as she ended her meditation. Now she was very aware of her nakedness, the perspiration running down her back and between her breasts, and her matted hair. One young acolyte waited near the door to the bathing room, holding out a coarsely woven towel for her use.
She stood in one fluid motion, like the dancer she had been in another life. She knew that one of the young brothers watched her depart, examining her every movement as she quietly left the room.
She also knew what he saw, a young woman of exceptional beauty, with sun-coloured, shoulder-length hair, and a pair of heroic battle scars, but no other obvious flaw. She knew that she possessed many flaws, but carried them within; her own beauty was a curse.
With long legs, strong buttocks, trim hips and waist, and some breadth in the shoulders, she was at the height of her physical power.
But nothing could change her face, her straight, perfect nose, the set of her slightly slanted pale blue eyes, and her full mouth and delicate chin. She was even more stunning when she smiled, though that happened rarely.
Even in her armour, men still turned to watch her pass. She resisted the temptation to turn and see which of the young brothers had been aroused by her presence; that was his burden to bear and if he was wise in the teachings of the Goddess, he would know it was his weakness to overcome, a lesson put before him to instruct and make him stronger.
Sandreena took the towel and entered the bathing room, sitting on a bench before a bucket of cold water. She picked up the bucket and tipped its contents over her head, embracing the sudden shock of cold and the clarity of thought it brought.
As she dried herself off she revelled in the quiet privacy of the bathing room. She had experienced very little solitude during her lifetime. Above anything else, her calling had brought her time alone on the road, when all she could hear was the wind in the branches, birdcalls, and animal sounds; she prized those moments. After her travels, she had come here, to the Temple in Krondor.
It was the only real home she had known. Sandreena had been raised in the streets by a mother addicted to every known drug, but she favoured Dream, the white powder that when smoked induced intoxicating images and experiences, more vivid than life itself. Her mother had protected her, as much as her weaknesses permitted, until she had become a woman. The body that Sandreena considered a curse, that stole the breath of foolish men, developed early in her eleventh year.
By her thirteenth Banapis celebration she had become a beauty. Her mother had taught her some tricks, staying dirty, cutting her hair short, binding her breasts to look boyish, that had kept her safe until the age of fourteen, until one of the bashers had seen through the disguise. The Mockers of Krondor were a criminal organization under the control of the Upright Man, but not so tightly controlled for the wellbeing of one street girl to be of any consequence.
The basher took her while her mother was in the throes of delirium induced by a gifted vial of Bliss.
After that he had come for her on a regular basis. He always brought Bliss, or Dream, or one of the other narcotics sold by the Brotherhood of Thieves. Sandreena finished drying herself and went in to the dressing room. The monks detailed to care for visiting Sisters and Brothers of the Shield were tending her travel-worn armour.
She quickly donned her preferred raiment: baggy trousers, a loose-fitting tunic, both made of unbleached linen cloth, heavy boots, and her sword belt. He had eventually professed his love for her, and she recalled him being almost gentle when taking her, in a clumsy, fumbling way. It was the men who she experienced after him who had taught her what it was to be truly cruel. She was fifteen years old when her mother died.
It was strange that she was found that far from her usual haunts, but not strange enough for the Upright Man or any of his lieutenants to look into the matter; what concern had they over the death of another addicted whore?
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Besides, she had given the Mockers a daughter who was worth far more than the mother had been. For a while, she had known how it felt to wear silks and gems, have her hair cleaned every day, and to be given good food regularly. She had become an expert in the use of unguents, oils, scents, and all manner of makeup. She was schooled in deportment and how to speak the languages of Kesh and Queg, but more importantly, she learnt how to speak like a well-born lady.
Because her captors had taught her languages, to read and write, and even simply how to learn, she had forgiven them enough to resist hunting them down and delivering a harsh punishment. The Goddess taught forgiveness.
But Sandreena vowed never to forget. What she could forgive them for was awakening an appetite for things better avoided: too much wine, many of the drugs her mother had craved, fine clothing and jewellery, and most of all, the company of men.
Sandreena had left that profession with a profound ambivalence: she only craved the touch of men whom she also despised, and hated herself for that perverse desire.
Only the discipline of the Order kept that conflict from destroying her otherwise strong mind. Sandreena left the dressing room to find a young acolyte waiting for her. The Father-Bishop had managed to grant her only two full days of rest before finding her something to do. As she started towards his office, she amended that thought: finding her something dangerous that only a lunatic would agree to. She reached a corner of the temple and looked out of a vaulted window. Other major temples were also nearby, but those two were especially close.
She wondered, not for the first time, how her life would be had Brother Mathias been of a different order. He had been the first holy man she had encountered, and the first of the two men in her life for whom her feelings were not dark; she had loved Brother Mathias as a daughter loved a father. After three years in the elegant brothel, one of them lost to the very drugs that had claimed her mother, the Mockers had sold her to a very wealthy Keshian trader; he had become so enamoured with Sandreena that he had insisted on downloading her and taking her back to his home in the Keshian city of Shamata.
Because he was as proficient in illegal trading as he was in honest business, the Mockers considered him a valuable associate and while not in the habit of selling their girls - slavery was not permitted in the Kingdom - they gladly vended her services for an unspecified duration in exchange for a prodigious sum of gold.
It had been Brother Mathias who had saved her life and changed it. She could not recall their first encounter without becoming distressed, and now was not the time to show such feelings, not before seeing the Father-Bishop. She turned her mind from the memory back to the matter at hand.
She reached the modest office wherein worked the single most powerful man of the Order of the Shield of the Weak. Only the Grand Master in Rillanon ranked higher. To the surprise of almost everyone who visited the Father-Bishop, his office had no anteroom, no clerk or monk waited to attend him outside, and the door was always open.
She stood outside the door, waiting to be bid to enter. She remembered the first time she had come here, fresh from her training at the temple in Kesh. She had returned to Krondor with a mixture of anticipation and fear, for she had not been back to the city during the five years since her sale to the Keshian.
He noticed her standing and waved her in. His desk was simple, a plain table with a stack of woven trays in which to file documents for his staff to dispose of.
He kept them very busy. Still, he had been instrumental in helping the former Krondorian whore find a meaningful life, and for that she would always be grateful.
And, she had to concede that he always found for her the most interesting tasks. He sat back, waving her over to a chair. She knew that meant a long discussion, or at least a very complex set of instructions. She had been sent to investigate a report of some interference with lawful Temple practices in the Free City of Natal - which proved false - and she had then travelled on to the far Duchy of Crydee, where an isolated village was suspected of harbouring a fugitive magician, by the name of Sidi, which had also proved false.
But she gave the Father-Bishop a full report anyway; of her encounter with a mad sorcerer who had dabbled too far into what were called the Dark Arts, and how she had saved the villagers from his depredations.
His small band of dark spirits had completely sacked the settlement, leaving the survivors without any means to endure the coming winter. In all, it had been an important but prosaic burden, once the mad magician had been disposed of. The outlying villages often seemed more a burden than a benefit to the local nobles, producing little in the way of income from the land, but requiring a disproportionate amount of protection from marauding renegades, raiding goblins, dark elves, or whatever other menace inhabited the region.
Sandreena had spent the better part of the past year in Crydee, and had only left when she had seen the village back on a firm footing.
On the way back to Krondor she had intervened in half a dozen minor conflicts, always taking the side of the outnumbered, besieged, or beleaguered as her calling dictated, attempting to restore balance and work out a peaceful solution, always mediating where she could. She was often struck by the irony of how violence was usually needed in order to prevent a more violent outcome.
Very well then, to your task. What do you know about the Peaks of the Quor? They are in turn protected, if that is indeed the correct term, by a band of elves. To the best of her knowledge, elves only resided in the lands north of Crydee.
This is why I have decided to send someone down there. We have no idea who they are or why they bother to trouble the coastal villages. Where they come from, what they want, who they serve. Now she understood why she had been chosen. She had faced down more than one demon in her short tenure with the Order. The Magicians of Stardock were looked upon with deep suspicion by the Temples of the Kingdom and Kesh.
Magic was the province of the gods, granted only to their faithful servants to do the work the gods intended. Magicians were seen as expropriators of power intended for only a chosen few, and as such were considered suspect at best, untrustworthy at worst. It was a sad truth that even the most depraved had believed they had some justification for their behaviour. She recalled one particularly ugly incident with a group of necromancers, a trio of maniacs who had been so overcome by madness that the holy knight had no alternative but to see them dead.
She still carried a puckered scar on her left thigh as a reminder that some people were incapable of reason. One of the magicians had thrown a dark magic bolt at her before he died, and while the initial injury had been minor, the wound would not close, festering and growing more putrid by the day.
It had taken a prodigious amount of work by the Temple healers to keep Sandreena from losing her leg, or worse, and she had been confined to her bed for nearly a month because of it. No matter how devout the members of the Order might be, there was always politics. We both agree that you would have risen high in the Order as a priestess, but, it is not for us to question the path upon which the Goddess has placed you.
Then the creature paused, looking at the space in the air where the barrier stood, as if he could see it, and pulled back his massive right fist. He unleashed a blow that might shatter a bull-hide shield, and Amirantha could swear he felt the shock from it travel through the air to strike him. At least that's what he told himself when he flinched. Rides a Dread Legion.
Copyright c by Raymond Feist. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold. The book lacks the depth and plot twists of the rest in the series, the challenges.
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Rides A Dread Legion (Electronic book text, ePub ed)
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Feist, is currently 99 cents in the site. Although Rides a Dark Legion is book 1 of its particular trilogy, and. And hanging over Pug always is the prophecy that he will be doomed to watch everyone he loves die before him May 25, Raymond E. Oorlog van de Grote Scheuring. Download Complete Raymond E. Visit the Suvudu Free Book Library and download the first four parts of the. Complete Raymond E. Feist Book Collection Epub.As it crossed the ward barrier, it shrieked in agony, but continued towards Brandos and Amirantha.
As many as a dozen men and women would sit silently, their clothing folded neatly on benches along the rear wall, and it had been her job to ensure the tranquillity of the room. Sitting with crossed legs, eyes closed, and her hands resting palms up on her knees, nothing was supposed to distract her; yet that drip of perspiration felt almost as if she were being touched.
She took the box. His sun-worn, leathery face spoke of years of campaigning, and he bore an impressive number of scars. He cradled the light as it quickly grew into a throbbing crimson orb, and threw it at the demon just as the creature moved purposefully towards the two men.
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