Shards of a Broken Crown (7 page)

Dash held tight
to the bridle and continued to speak softly to his mare as the horses
came to the point of closest approach on the trail. Suddenly Dash’s
horse pulled backwards and her head came up.

For an instant
there was a tiny hope she might come back to him, but then she called
out her greeting, a loud whinny.

Suddenly shouts
filled the air and other horses answered the mare’s call. Jimmy
didn’t hesitate. “That way!”

Malar shoved
through underbrush and ignored scratches from branches as he went
where Jimmy had directed. Jimmy came next, leading his gelding, eyes
wide and nostrils flaring from excitement. The mare balked and
resisted as she screamed her welcome to the other horses. A
stallion’s herd cry answered, and Dash knew the only way he
could control his mare was from her back. Letting her head come
around toward the stallion, he quickly swung up onto her back,
exposing himself to view.

He didn’t
hesitate, and slammed heels into her flanks. Urging her into a
gallop, he seemed to burst from the underbrush toward those riders
arrayed on the trail. Then he was past them, moving away from his
brother and Malar, and die chase was on.

From a vantage
point a short distance off, Jimmy turned and saw the riders wheel and
charge after Dash. Malar, almost out of breath, puffed as he said,
“Sir, will they catch him?”

Jimmy swore.
“Probably. But if they don’t, he should try to get back
to that farmhouse. That’s what we planned.”

“Shall we
turn around?” asked the servant.

Jimmy was
silent. After a moment he said, “No. Dash will either be
captured, in which case we can’t help him escape, or he’ll
win free. If he gets back to that farmhouse we found the day we met
you, he’ll wait one or two days, then return to Darkmoor. If we
go now, we’ll have no more information than he will.”

“We go to
Krondor?”

“We go to
Krondor,” said Jimmy. He glanced around, seeking any sign of
other riders in the area. As the sound of Dash and his pursuers faded
into die distance, he pointed and said, “That way.”

As quietly as
they could, the pair set off.

Dash rode as
hard as he could, despite the balky mare, who wanted to turn and
greet the stallions behind. Every hint of hesitation from her brought
a hard kick to her sides as he used every skill he had to keep her
heading down a windy woodland trail made dangerous by mud and ice,
overhanging branches, and sudden turns.

Dash knew that
if his old riding instructor, the King’s own horsemaster, could
see what he was doing, he’d be shouting at the top of his
lungs, telling Dash to slow down. Dash knew his race across
treacherous footing was unbelievably dangerous and foolhardy.

He couldn’t
spare a glance back to see how close his pursuers might be, but the
noise behind him told him all he needed to know: they were close. It
would take a stroke of luck for him to lose them. He knew that to
them he was a dimly-seen figure on a horse moving through the long
shadows of the woodlands, but as long as he stayed on the trail, they
would be able to stay close and not lose him.

He had a rough
idea where he was. There were a dozen or more woodland trails to the
east of Krondor that led to farms throughout the area. He knew that
eventually—if he outran his pursuers—he’d hit the
King’s Highway. A horse’s scream and a panic-stricken
rider’s cry told Dash that one of his pursuers’ mounts
had lost footing and was down, probably breaking a leg.

Dash glanced to
the left and saw the trees thinning as he reached a clutch of farms,
open fields that were dotted with burned-out buildings. He hesitated
for a moment, but to try to ride across muddy fields would be far
worse than staying on the trail. Here the mud was a nuisance,
slippery muck over hardpan compacted by years of wagons, riders, and
foot traffic. The mud in the fields was deep enough for an adult
horse to sink up to the point where it would be unable to move.

The horse
labored as Dash pushed her along the trail; lack of grain and fodder
had shortened her endurance and she was blowing hard as she struggled
to obey his commands. Then he saw a stone path, and a glimmer of hope
appeared.

He almost caused
her to fall, so abruptly did he pull the mare around, but once she
got her feet back under her, she sped off in the desired direction.
Dash said a silent prayer to Ruthia, Goddess of Luck, and gathered
his horse under him for a jump. The fence along the road was mostly
broken down, but he needed to land on a relatively narrow pathway
that was blocked by one of the few remaining intact sections and a
closed gate.

The horse was
tired, but athletic enough to easily clear the fence, landing on the
wet stones. The reassuring clatter of hooves on stone told Dash that
Ruthia at least didn’t say “no.”

He stole a
glance to his left and saw several of the riders attempt to cut him
off by veering into the muddy field. He smiled to himself.

Making sure the
horse was heading exactly where he wanted, he chanced another look
back and saw that the horses in the field were now half buried,
attempting to pull their hooves out of the deep, thick muck.

Dash gained
precious seconds as the riders who followed on the road chose to
double back and work their way around the intact fence. He now had a
chance.

The sun was now
out of sight behind the trees ahead, as the long shadows of late
afternoon crept across the fields. He rode past a burned-out
farmhouse and saw the stone path he was on passed the door and
continued on toward the foundation of a burned-out barn. He continued
to ride, but slowed as he reached the terminus of the path.

Dash could only
spare a moment to let the horse rest, as curses from behind told him
those trying to reach him were now also mired in the mud. Dash judged
the way to his right was more substantial footing than elsewhere—at
least he hoped that was the case, and set off, letting his horse move
at a trot until she slowed down due to the mud.

The sound of the
mare’s hooves hitting tightly compacted sand caused Dash to
feel a surge of hope. It was quickly extinguished when he heard
riders coming hard behind on the stone path.

The trees were
close enough to give the illusion of safety, but Dash knew that if he
couldn’t get into them at least a minute ahead of the riders
behind him, he wouldn’t be able to shake them.

He urged his
mare on to a loping canter and glanced back. The riders were just now
reaching the edge of the farmhouse, and again hope rose up within
Dash. Their horses were lathered and their nostrils were flaring
wide. They were almost as exhausted as his own. They must have been
at the end of their patrol, or they weren’t getting enough to
eat, but for whatever reason, they didn’t look as if they had
enough left to overtake him—as long as he could keep his own
exhausted mare moving.

He reached the
treeline and ducked under a low-hanging branch. As quickly as he
could, he picked his way among the trees, varying his course and
trying to keep clear of those behind. He hoped there were no trackers
behind, but then, considering the terrain, realized a blind man could
follow his trail.

Glancing around
he saw a small outcropping of rock that rose up a slight incline and
appeared to be flat on top. He turned the horse and walked her up the
rise, and found the rock ran off along what appeared to be a smaller
trail. He jumped off and led her down the trail.

Exhaustion was
curbing her desire to call to the stallion, as she could barely catch
enough breath to walk after Dash. He pulled her reins and she
reluctantly set out at a fast walk behind him.

Shadows deepened
as the sun lowered in the west, and Dash moved deeper into the woods.
If Jimmy and Malar had stayed clear of pursuit, they would be
approaching the city several miles to the south. Dash wondered if he
should attempt to cut back behind his pursuers and try to find his
brother and the stranger from the Vale of Dreams.

Dash considered
the best that would bring him would be to get him haplessly lost.
There couldn’t be so many people in Krondor that if both
brothers reached there safely, they couldn’t find one another.
At least Dash hoped that was true. Hearing the riders coming closer
to the point where he had left the trail below, Dash hurried deeper
into the woods.

Jimmy gripped
Malar’s arm and said, “We join there.” He indicated
a point in the road where a fairly steady stream of travelers had
been coming past the woodlands, at the edge of what had once been the
foulbourgh outside the walls of Krondor. “I’m a mercenary
from Landreth and you’re my servant.”

“Dog
robber,” said Malar.

“What?”

“The term
is ‘dog robber.’ To feed his master, a mercenary’s
servant will steal scraps from a dog if necessary.” The slender
man smiled. “I have served as such. You, though, will be
obviously false to any Valeman who might happen to be here.”

“You think
that likely?”

“It would
be better should you be a young man from the East of the Kingdom, who
lately served in the Vale. Claim no company. Say you worked for my
departed master. I do not know what you expected to find in Krondor,
young sir, but in the backwashes of war many things happen. We are
seeing that ahead.”

Jimmy was forced
to admit that was true. Where he had seen nothing but frost-covered
stones and a few fires just weeks before, now he saw dozens of huts
and tents, a veritable community springing up almost overnight. As
they walked down the road, Malar leading Jimmy’s horse, Jimmy
drank in the sights and sounds.

Evening was upon
them and fires dotted the landscape. Hawkers shouted from ahead,
offering food, drink, the company of a woman. Hard-looking men
lounged near fires, watching guardedly as Jimmy and Malar moved past.

A man hurried
over holding a steaming pot, and said, “Hot food! Fresh rabbit
stew! I have carrots and turnips mixed in!”

From the
expressions on the faces of those nearby, Jimmy surmised two things:
the “rabbit” was probably a less wholesome dinner item
than advertised, and most of the people nearby were hungry.

But some sort of
order had been imposed, and armed men who seemed near to the point of
killing for food merely watched with fixed expressions as the man
passed holding out the meal. “How much?” asked Jimmy, not
pausing.

“What have
you?” asked the peddler.

Malar elbowed
Jimmy to one side. “Begone, O stewer of cats! My master has no
use for such foul-smelling garbage,” he shouted.

Instantly the
two men were almost nose to nose, screaming insults at one another,
and almost equally abruptly a deal had been struck. Malar gave the
man a copper coin, a ball of yarn he had been carrying in his pocket,
and a very old rusty dagger.

The man gave
over the pot and hurried back to his camp-fire where a woman offered
him another crock of the hot stew. He set out to find another
customer. Malar motioned for Jimmy to move to the side of the road
and squatted, holding the crockery. He held it out and spoke softly,
“Eat first and give me what’s left.”

Jimmy squatted,
not wishing to sit in the mud, and ate the stew. If it was rabbit, it
had been a rabbit of diminutive stature, and even the carrots and
turnips had a strange taste. Jimmy decided it best not to consider
how long they had sat in some abandoned root cellar before that
enterprising peddler had found them.

He ate half the
contents of the bowl and gave the rest over to Malar. While his
newfound servant ate, Jimmy looked around. He had seen enough
military camps to recognize he had blundered into one. Warriors, camp
followers, peddlers and thieves, all resting until they had a reason
to move on.

Jimmy wondered
about the reason for the gathering, and the reason that would make
them move on. Many of the warriors were from the invading army that
had ravaged the Western Realm the year before, but he saw enough
Keshians and a few Quegans mixed in to decide that these were
deserters, opportunists, weapons runners, and the dregs washed up in
any backwater of a war.

Putting aside
the bowl, Malar looked at Jimmy. “Young sir?”

“Let’s
head into the city,” said Jimmy.

“And do
what?” inquired the Valeman.

“Look for
my brother.”

“I thought
he was to go back east,” said Malar.

“That’s
what he should do, but he won’t.”

“Why?”

“Because
he’s . . . Dash.”

They moved
through the tent village and headed toward the city gate.

Pug frowned.

The Keshian
Ambassador’s smile was forced, almost painful, as he finished
his latest message from his government.

“My Lord
Gadesh,” said the Kingdom’s representative, Baron Marcel
d’Greu, his own smile just as false. “That’s
impossible.”

Pug glanced at
Nakor, who sat to his right. The latest round of negotiations between
the Kingdom and the Empire of Great Kesh was proving to be a simple
restatement of the last round.

Nakor shook his
head and said, “Why don’t we take a small recess, my
lords, and give ourselves time to ponder these requests?”

Kalari, a
Tsurani Black Robe who was representing his government, the Empire of
Tsuranuanni, as a neutral observer, said, “Excellent idea, my
friend.”

The two
ambassadors retired to the quarters that had been provided to them,
and Pug led Nakor and Kalari to another room, where Miranda waited
next to Kalied, the leader of the most powerful of the three factions
of magicians in Stardock.

Kalied appeared
to be older than Pug, despite the fact Pug was nearly twenty years
his senior. Pug appeared to be a man in his mid-twenties, his
rejuvenation courtesy of the freed life energies that had been
trapped in the Life-stone.