Shards of a Broken Crown (2 page)

“Of
course, Majesty,” said the Captain of Intelligence. “And
I applaud your design in putting Nordan down in Sarth.”

Fadawah said,
“Design?”

Kahil leaned
over, putting his arm around Fadawah’s shoulder, and he
whispered, “Put all your disloyal commanders to the south, to
insure that when the enemy exacts their price for our conquest, those
we can most afford to lose pay it.”

Fadawah’s
eyes became unfocused, as if he was listening to something in the
distance. “Yes, that is wise.”

Kahil said, “You
need to surround yourself with those who can be trusted, those who
are loyal beyond a doubt. You need to return the Immortals to a place
of prominence.”

“No!”
said Fadawah. “Those madmen served dark powers—”

Kahil
interrupted. “Not dark powers, Majesty, but vast powers. Powers
that can insure your rule not only in Yabon, but in Krondor, too.”

“Krondor?”
asked Fadawah.

Kahil clapped
his hands twice, and the door swung open. Two warriors, each with
ritual scars on his cheeks that matched Fadawah’s, entered, and
Kahil said, “Guard the King with your lives.”

Fadawah
repeated, “Krondor.”

Kahil rose and
departed, closing the door behind him. A faint smile passed across
his face before he turned and left upon his next task, following
Nordan and marking those men for death who displayed even the
smallest hint of disloyalty.

Fadawah looked
at the two soldiers and motioned for them to stand away from him. The
scars on their faces reminded him of the dark and distant time he was
caught up in the magic of the Emerald Queen and the lost months when
the demon had ruled her army. He hated feeling used and would kill
anyone who again attempted to use him as the Emerald Queen had.

He moved to the
map on the wall and began to plan his spring campaign.

The wind had
died.

Dash waited. The
frigid bite of the air still brought tears to his eyes as he scanned
the road below. The reconstruction of Darkmoor had been tedious,
slowed by continuous snows and rain, as the winter proved a fickle
one. If slippery ice wasn’t making footing treacherous for
those workmen attempting to rebuild the walls around the western
portion of the city, then knee-deep mud stalled wagons carrying
needed supplies.

Now it was icy
again, but at least Dash was thankful there was currently no snow.
The sky was clear, the late afternoon sun hinting at warmth that
wasn’t really there. Dash knew it was his mood as much as the
weather, but this particular winter seemed to have lasted longer than
any in his young life.

The sounds of
the city carried through the still, icy air as the day wound down.
With luck the new gate would be finished before sunset, and an extra
modicum of security would be added to the sum of things that needed
to be done yesterday.

Dash was tired,
fatigued beyond anything he could remember in his twenty years of
life. Part of it was from the seemingly endless list of things that
needed attention, and the rest was from worry; his brother Jimmy was
overdue.

Jimmy was acting
the part of exploring officer, a scout behind enemy lines. Prince
Patrick of Krondor had decided to move hard and fast against a threat
of Keshian expansion into the southern flank of the Kingdom in the
spring. That meant that the retaking of lands lost during the
invasion the previous summer would be left to Owen Greylock,
Knight-Marshal of Krondor, and Erik von Darkmoor, Knight-Captain of
the Crimson Eagles, an elite mobile force of handpicked men.

Which had meant
the Prince needed information on what the invaders were doing between
Darkmoor and Krondor. And Jimmy had volunteered to go see what was
going on.

He was now three
days overdue.

Dash had come to
the edge of the patrolled area, a series of burned-out walls that
marked the western edge of the foulbourgh of Darkmoor. The Prince’s
army in the city insured that there was little danger within a day’s
ride of the city, but these partial walls and piles of tumbled
masonry provided ample cover for ambush and had been refuge to more
than one band of scavengers or outlaws.

Dash scanned the
horizon, watching for his brother. The sounds of the winter woodlands
below were few and infrequent. An occasional rustle as snow fell from
tree branches, or the crack of ice some miles away as the thaw began.
A bird call or the rustle of some animal in the brush. Sound carried
for miles in the winter cold.

Then Dash heard
something. A faint sound, coming from far away. It wasn’t the
sound of hooves striking hard dirt and rock Dash had hoped to hear.
Rather it was the rolling crunch of ice underfoot. And whoever made
the sound was coming toward him with a methodical step, even and
unhurried.

Dash flexed his
gloved fingers and slowly pulled his sword from his scabbard. If the
previous conflict had taught him nothing else, it was to always be
ready. There were no safe positions outside the fortress that was the
city of Darkmoor.

In the distance
he detected motion, and he focused on it. A single figure trudged
along the road. He was moving at a plodding walk, and as Dash
watched, he hurried to a slow trot. Dash knew he was walking one
hundred paces, then trotting one hundred paces, a practice drilled
into Dash and his brother by their arms teachers as boys. For a man
without a mount it could cover almost as much distance as a horse
could in a day, more over the course of weeks.

Dash watched.
The figure resolved itself into a man wrapped in a heavy grey cloak;
clothing designed to make it difficult to see the wearer from any
distance in the gloom of winter. Only on the bright days when the sky
was clear would the wearer be easy to spot.

As the man on
foot came closer, Dash saw he was without a hat, but had his head
covered in a thick cloth, a scarf or tom remnant of another piece of
clothing. He carried a sword at his side, and his hands were clad in
mismatching gloves. His boots were filthy with mud and ice.

The crunching of
snow under his tread became louder by the moment, until he stood
before Dash. He stopped and looked up, and at last he said, “You’re
in my way.”

Dash moved his
mount aside and swung the horse’s head around toward Darkmoor.
He put his sword away, urged the animal forward and walked beside the
man on foot. “Lose your horse?” he asked.

Jimmy, Dash’s
brother, hiked his thumb over his shoulder. “Back there.”

“That was
pretty careless,” said the younger brother. “That was an
expensive horse.”

Jimmy said, “I
know. But I didn’t feel like carrying him. He was dead.”

“Pity.
That was a
really
good horse.”

“You don’t
miss him nearly as much as I do,” said Jimmy.

“Would you
like a ride?” asked Dash.

Jimmy stopped,
turned, and regarded his brother. Neither son of Lord Arutha, Duke of
Krondor, resembled the other. James looked like his grandmother,
slight, blond, and possessing features that could only be called
finely drawn, with sapphire eyes. Dash looked like his grandfather,
with tight curls of light brown hair, dark eyes, and a mocking
expression. In nature, they were as alike as twins. “About time
you offered,” said Jimmy, reaching up to take Dash’s
hand.

He swung up
behind his brother and they rode slowly toward the city. “How
bad was it?” asked Dash.

“Worse,”
said Jimmy.

“Worse
than we thought?”

“Worse
than anything we could have imagined.”

Dash said
nothing more, knowing his brother would report directly to the
Prince, and that Dash would hear every detail.

Jimmy took the
hot cup of coffee, sweetened with honey and made rich with cream, and
nodded his thanks. The servant quickly departed, closing the door
behind him. Jimmy sat in the Prince’s private chamber, while
the Prince, the Knight-Marshal Owen Greylock, Duke Arutha of Krondor,
and Erik von Darkmoor patiently waited for his report.

Patrick, Prince
of Krondor and ruler of the Western Realm of the Kingdom of the
Isles, said, “Very well. What did you find?”

Jimmy finished
his first sip of the hot drink, and said, “It’s far worse
than we feared.”

Patrick had
detailed five men to ride into the West, toward Krondor, his capital
city, and only three of them had returned so far. The picture he was
having painted for him could be called nothing but bleak. “Go
on.”

Jimmy put his
cup down on the table and started removing his heavy cloak as he
said, “I got to Krondor. It took some doing, but most of the
remaining soldiers between here and there are nothing more than
bandits. After a couple of months of snow, rain, and sleet, they are
dug in, hugging their fires and trying hard to stay alive.”

“What of
Krondor?” Patrick asked.

Jimmy said,
“It’s almost deserted. There were a few people around,
but no one wanted to talk to me, and frankly, I wasn’t anxious
to strike up many conversations myself. Most of those I caught a
glimpse of were soldiers, foraging for what they could find in the
rubble.”

Jimmy stretched,
as if tired. He took another sip of coffee. “Though what they
could possibly find is beyond me.” He looked at Patrick.
“Highness, Krondor looks like nothing I’ve seen before or
could dream of in my worst nightmare. Every stone blackened, and
almost no board unburned. The smell of char still lingers in the air
and it’s been months since the fires. Rain and snow have yet to
cleanse the city. “The palace—”

“What of
the palace?” asked Patrick, his voice anxious.

“Gone. The
outer walls stand in place, but great breaches exist. The inner
palace is little more than a huge pile of blackened rubble—the
fire was so hot the timbers burned through and some inner walls
collapsed. Only the ancient keep still stands, if you use the term
‘stands’ generously. It’s a blackened shell of
stones. I climbed the stone steps inside, for no wood remains
untouched, and reached the roof. From there I could see the entire
city and some distance to the north and west.

“The
harbor is a sea of sunken ships, their masts blackened and rotting.
The docks are gone. Most of the first street after the docks has been
leveled. All the buildings in the western third of the city have been
gutted or reduced to rubble, as if the fires burned the hottest
there.”

Arutha, Duke of
Krondor, nodded. His father, Lord James, who had preceded him in his
office, had fired the city to trap the invaders inside the flames,
and had died, along with his mother, in doing so. Arutha knew the
placement of Quegan fire oil in the sewers below the city would have
concentrated the damage where his father would have judged it most
appropriate, at the docks, near the ships unloading troops, then
throughout the maze that had been the poor quarter of the city, then
the merchant quarter.

“The
central third of the city is seriously damaged, but there may be a
building or two that can be salvaged on every street. The rest will
have to be razed before any construction can begin. The easternmost
third is also heavily damaged, but many of the buildings there can be
restored.”

“What of
the outlying estates?” asked Erik, thinking of his friend
Rupert’s large house, a day’s ride to the east of
Krondor.

“Many
burned to the ground; others were sacked and left empty. A few of
them were being used as headquarters for what I took to be companies
of the invaders, so I didn’t get too close,” answered
Jimmy. He sipped at his coffee.

“I was
about to leave when things turned interesting.”

Patrick and
Arutha looked at Jimmy expectantly. Jimmy took another sip of coffee,
then continued. “A command of at least a hundred men rode past
where I was camped—” He glanced at his brother. “That
little inn up the street from Weavers’ Road, where you got into
that fight?” Dash nodded. Looking back at the Prince, Jimmy
continued, “It’s atop a little rise, and had an intact
roof, which was welcome, and best yet, provided an unobstructed view
of High Street and Palace Road, as well as several other byways from
the north gate.”

“The men?”
prompted Owen Greylock.

“If I
understand the markings used by the mercenary companies, General Duko
is now on his way to Krondor or is already there.”

Erik swore. Then
he glanced at Patrick and said, “Sorry, Highness.”

Patrick said, “I
understand. All the reports I’ve read tell me Duko is a worthy
foe.”

Erik said, “He’s
more than a handful. He kept constant pressure on our northern flank
along Nightmare Ridge, without wasting soldiers. He’s the
closest thing the invaders have to a Kingdom general in his knowledge
of tactics and deployment.”

Owen nodded. “If
he’s in Krondor, and ordered to hold it, our job just became a
great deal more difficult.”

Patrick looked
worried but stayed silent a moment. Then he said, “Why would
they move into Krondor in strength? There’s nothing left, they
don’t need it to protect their southern flank. Could they know
of our new base down at Port Vykor?”

“Perhaps,”
said Owen. “Or they simply wish to keep us from using Krondor
as a forward base.”

Patrick suddenly
looked tired, and worried, thought Jimmy. After another long silence,
the Prince said, “We need more information than we have.”

The brothers
exchanged glances, each acknowledging what the other knew: they were
among those most likely to be sent ahead to get that information.

Patrick asked
James, “How long did you stay?”

“Long
enough to see them start to secure the area, so I made for the
eastern gate to get free before they spotted me. I got out of the
city, but ran right into a patrol between Krondor and Ravensburg. I
managed to get loose from them in the woods, but they killed my
horse.”