Shards of a Broken Crown
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He gauged the distance to the gate at over a hundred yards, and counted a dozen low-burning campfires between his current position and the gate, and another score just the other side of the road. He felt Akee at his shoulder and whispered, “I expected more men here.”
“I as well, if we can get through the gate, this battle will be over quickly.”
He left unsaid what would be the result of not 52893_~1.QXD 8/30/2002 10:02 AM Page 386
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getting the gate open. Erik said, “I have an idea. Pass word that no man is to move when the alarm sounds.
Tell them to wait until I signal you.”
“Where will you be?”
Erik pointed. “I’ll be somewhere out there.”
Erik wore his black uniform, but without his Crimson Eagle tabard. To any casual observer he might pass as a mercenary given to wearing black.
Glancing at Akee, he noticed a blue band around the warrior’s brow. “Is that something I might borrow from you?” he asked, not knowing if it might have some sort of tribal significance.
Akee didn’t answer. He reached up and untied the band, then stepped behind Erik and tied the head-band in place. Now Erik looked even less like a Kingdom regular.
Erik cautiously, stepped out between two campfires, walking carefully so as not to wake sleeping men. Soft voices from the barricade told him the guards on duty were gossiping or telling stories to keep awake.
Erik reached the edge of the road and his manner changed. He walked briskly as if he was about important business. He moved boldly down the road and reached the gate. As he approached, he noted the construction of the gate. It was simple, but effective.
The gates each had one large iron bracket affixed to them by huge iron bolts. Through those brackets, an oak bar had been passed, and that was braced in turn by long poles driven into the ground. It should be easy to knock aside the poles and run the bar out of the brackets, but it would take a sizable ram to knock it open from the other side.
“Hey!” he said, before he could be challenged.
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He kept his voice deep, hopefully disguising his accent as he spoke the invaders’ dialect.
“What?” asked the man in charge of the gate, a sergeant or Captain by the look of him.
“We’re just down from the North, and I’ve got to find whoever’s in charge.”
“Captain Rastav is over there,” said the man, pointing at a large tent barely visible in the predawn gloom. “What news?”
Erik growled, “Your name Rastav?”
“No,” said the man in return, bristling a bit.
“Then my message isn’t for you, is it?”
Erik turned and walked away before the man could respond. He made his way slowly but purposefully toward the command tent, then, just before approaching too closely, he veered away and walked between camps. Most of the men were sleeping; a few were rousing and stirring cooking fires, heading to nearby slit-trenches to relieve themselves, or already eating. He absently nodded or gave a slight wave of greeting to a few he passed, furthering the illusion he was a familiar figure known to someone in the camp; if not the person looking at him, perhaps the man across the way to whom he was waving.
Erik reached a particularly quiet camp where only one man stirred, one who was brewing up coffee by the smell of it. Crossing over, he said, “Have an extra cup to spare?”
The man looked up and nodded, motioning Erik over. Erik came over and knelt beside the warrior.
“I’ve got a few minutes before I report to the gate, and can’t find a hot cup anywhere.”
“I know what you mean,” said the soldier, hand-
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ing an earthen mug filled with the black hot liquid to Erik. “You with Gaja?”
Erik recognized the name, a captain he had heard of before, but he knew nothing about the man. “No,”
said Erik, “we just got here. My captain is over there”—he indicated the command tent—“talking with Rastav, and I thought I’d sneak off and grab this.” He stood. “Thanks, I’ll bring back the mug when my duty’s over.”
The soldier waved off the remark. “Keep it.
We’ve looted enough crockery I’m thinking of opening a store.”
Erik strolled along, drinking his coffee, which wasn’t too bad for camp fare, and inspected the area.
There were no more than a thousand men behind the wall, and from the look of what he could see along the barricade, no more than twelve hundred total at this position. Another mystery. From the other side, it looked like half of Fadawah’s army waited, yet from this side Erik knew that if he could get the gate open, this battle would be won in minutes, not hours.
When he was halfway back to the gate area, Erik heard a shout raised up at the eastern end of the barricade. Then more shouts as an alarm was raised.
Erik paused, and counted slowly to ten, until he heard a horn sounded, a call to arms. Men sprang up from where they slept, and Erik tossed aside his cup and hurried along. In his most commanding voice be started shouting, “They’re hitting the east flank! Get to the east!”
Men who were half asleep started hurrying off toward the far end of the line. As he neared the gate, a man hurried over and said, “What is this?”
Erik knew at once this was a sergeant or captain 388
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of some company, one not used to obeying mindlessly. “Rastav’s orders! Are you Captain Gaja?”
The man blinked and said, “No, I’m Tulme. Gaja is due to relieve me in an hour.”
“Then get two men in three off the gate and rush them to the eastern end of the line! The enemy is breaking through over there!”
Erik hurried along, and kept shouting, “Get to the east! Hurry up!”
Men saw other soldiers rushing off to where they were ordered, and hastened to obey. Erik ran back to where he could be seen by Akee and signaled.
Instantly the Hadati hillmen were running from the trees.
Erik ran to the gate and shouted, “Orders! Open the gate. Get ready to sally!”
“What?” said a man. “Who are you?”
Erik had his sword out and killed the man before he could react. “My luck couldn’t run forever,” he said to Akee as the Hadati reached his side.
The Hadati killed every man standing before the gate before anyone more than twenty-five yards away noticed. The supporting poles were kicked aside, and before they hit the ground Erik and Akee, along with two other men, were lifting the heavy oaken bar out of the brackets that held it in place.
As they carried the bar aside, others opened the gate.
“Two minutes!” Erik cried. “We have to keep it open for two minutes.”
Seconds slipped by slowly, as shouts up and down the line demanded answers and suddenly it was clear to Erik that those to the north of him on the defenders’ side of the barricade knew something was 52893_~1.QXD 8/30/2002 10:02 AM Page 390
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amiss.
Suddenly men were charging at the Hadati, who were to a man armed with long swords and short swords, held in right and left hands respectively.
They moved out to keep enough room between each that they could do a maximum of damage. Erik hesitated only a moment, then ran and leaped atop a pile of grain sacks, and pulled himself up on the ramparts behind the breastwork. He could not afford for bowmen to get above the Hadati. If he did, the fight would be over.
Erik glanced to the south and saw the Kingdom cavalry was already on its way. One more minute and the day would be won.
Erik charged along the ramparts, and the first man he encountered looked confused, still trying to see what was occurring to the east. Erik grabbed him and th
rew him off the rampart. He landed on top of a pair of men running along, and those behind stopped. A crossbow bolt sped past Erik’s head and he ducked.
He retreated, weapons ready, and when he saw soldiers heading toward him, he halted. The first man to face him slowed, uncertain of what was before him. Erik was happy to wait, and let the Kingdom cavalry reach the gate.
Abruptly a sense of alarm passed through those near the gate, as if they finally realized what had happened. They charged the waiting Hadati, and the man opposite Erik let out a howl of rage and charged him.
Erik took a step back when the man swung, letting him overbalance himself, and with a swift kick, Erik sent the man tumbling over the side of the ram-
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part. The second man approached a little more cautiously, if just as intently, and struck out. Erik took the blow on his sword and parried, then unexpectedly, he stepped into the man, slamming him in the face with his sword hilt. The man stumbled backward into another man behind him and both fell back.
Erik glanced over the wall and saw the first pair of Kingdom horsemen was near, lowering their lances as they started up the last part of the incline toward the gate. Erik had a sudden impulse, and shouted at the top of his lungs: “Throw down your swords! It’s over!”
The man opposite him on the barricade hesitated, and Erik shouted, “This is your last chance! Throw down your sword!”
The man looked at the huge blond man before him, as lancers raced through the gate behind the Hadati hillmen whose whirling blades were inflicting terrible injury on any who closed on them. With a look of disgust, he threw down his blade.
A band of horsemen rode up from behind the line and were charged by Krondorian lancers as the second unit of cavalry swept in. A scaling ladder slammed against the wall near Erik and he realized that Greylock had hedged his bet by getting men close under cover of darkness. He glanced to his right and saw footmen racing across the open ground ahead.
Erik leaned out over the edge of the wall and almost got his head split open as thanks. “Hey!” he shouted down to a Kingdom soldier halfway up the ladder who had just swung his sword at Erik. “Slow down! You might fall off and hurt yourself!”
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and the man behind him on the ladder shouted,
“Keep moving.”
Erik said, “You can climb back down and walk through the gate.”
The man on the top of the ladder shouted, “Sorry, Captain von Darkmoor.”
Erik looked to the left and saw mercenaries throwing down their swords and backing away as a line of lancers slowly advanced on them, the points of their heavy weapons pointed at chest height.
Erik saw the light cavalry entering behind the lancers and recognized Jadow and Duga. He signaled to get their attention. Jadow rode closer and Erik shouted, “Get things organized, and send word back to Greylock to move up. Quickly.”
Jadow signaled that he understood and turned to carry word to Owen himself. Duga jumped down from his horse and boldly walked past the line of lancers, and started separating mercenaries from their weapons. Erik glanced at the rear of the enemy camp where a running fight had erupted between the lancers and the invaders’ cavalry units, and realized the enemy didn’t know they’d lost yet. Given what he knew of enemy horsemen, he knew a few heads would be broken before word reached them if he didn’t intervene. He shouted for messengers to carry the word to the fight, before men died needlessly.
Erik jumped off the wall as the first Kingdom foot soldiers entered the gate. He pushed through the press of prisoners, and sought out the senior lieutenant of the light cavalry. “Go give the lancers a hand with that lot at the rear, then I want a sweep of the woods on both sides of the road for the next five miles. If anyone’s cut and running north to tell 52893_~1.QXD 8/30/2002 10:02 AM Page 393
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Fadawah this position is fallen, I want them overtaken.”
The rider saluted, gave orders, and rode off, then Erik sought out Akee. “How are your men?”
“I have some injuries, but no one dead,” said the leader of the hillmen. “Had they a few more minutes to get organized, I think we would have seen otherwise.”
“I think you are correct,” said Erik.
He left the hillmen and turned as Jadow and Owen rode through the gate, and as he approached, he turned to a passing soldier and said, “Find a Captain among the prisoners, a man named Rastav, and bring him here.”
Owen looked around and said, “Another illusion?”
Erik said, “Almost. If we hadn’t gotten the gate open, we would have bled, but not as badly as we thought.”
Owen glanced northward, as if to see over the horizon. “What is he doing?”
Erik said, “I wish I knew.”
Erik looked to the south. “And I wish I knew what was going on down there, too.”
Owen said, “That’s Duko and Patrick’s problem, not ours. Now, let’s get things here under control, then start moving north again.”
Erik saluted, then turned and began organizing the chaos behind the barricade.
Dash could barely contain his rage. A dozen of his constables were standing around the room, looking from one to another, a few openly frightened.
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during the night they had been waylaid and killed, their throats cut and their bodies deposited before the door of the New Market Jail.
Whispering, Dash said, “Someone’s going to bleed for this.”
The men were two recent recruits, Nolan and Riggs, and they had just finished their training. The last month had been difficult for Dash, but as order returned to Krondor, he found that larger portions of the city were slowly getting back to a rhythm not unlike that known before the war.
The Prince had authorized the purchase of a building just off the Market Square, and the cells had just been installed by an iron monger. A near riot down near the docks the night before had taken the jail to its limit and Dash had been busy dragging malefactors off to the city court, established by the Prince the week before; two eastern nobles were serving as judges, and a lot of drunks were finding themselves sentenced to the labor gangs in a hurry.
Most got a year, but a few were pulling five-and ten-year sentences, and the citizens of the more unruly areas of the city were loudly protesting. So far the protest had been vocal, with insults hurled at watchmen as they made their rounds. Until last night.
“Where were they scheduled to patrol?” asked Dash.
Gustaf, the former prisoner, had turned up looking for work a few days before and Dash had made him a corporal. Gustaf had the duty roster. “They were working down near the old Poor Quarter.”
“Damn,” said Dash. The old Poor Quarter of the city was now a shanty town of huts and tents, and people living in the lees of partial walls. Every vice 52893_~1.QXD 8/30/2002 10:02 AM Page 395
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imaginable was available there and, predictably, the Thieves Guild was establishing its power there faster than the crown. “Now all bets are off.”
Since taking the office of Sheriff of Krondor, Dash had managed to keep hanging to a minimum.
Two murderers had been publicly hanged five days before, but the majority of crimes had been relatively petty.
“What were these two doing down there anyway?” asked Dash. “They were both new to the job.”
Gustaf said, “The draw just came up that way.”
Lowering his voice, he said, “There’s no one here with what you might call a great deal of experience, Dash.”
Dash nodded. The two dead men wer
en’t downy-cheeked youths by any stretch of imagination. “Four to a squad down there, starting tomorrow.”
“What about tonight?” asked Gustaf.
“I’ll take care of tonight,” said Dash, leaving the small squad room.
He hurried down the street and made his way through the open market, heading toward what had been the Poor Quarter. He kept his wits about him and his eyes open. Even in the daylight he could count on nothing but trouble in this part of the city.
Reaching a burned-out two-story building, he ducked inside. Quickly he removed his red armband and ducked out the back of the building. He hurried down a narrow alley and climbed a wooden fence that was still somehow standing between two stone walls while everything nearby had been reduced to ash. Ducking under a low-hanging arch of stone he reached his goal.
He crept through an open building, a small for-
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mer business on the edge of the Poor Quarter. He hung inside, staying hidden in shadow, while watching the view out in the quarter.
Men and women moved through the tents and shacks, dealing trade goods and food, as well as illic-it goods. Dash was looking for a certain face and would be content to wait until he saw it.
Near sundown, a small man came hurrying toward the building, intent on some errand, lost in thought. As he passed the open door, Dash reached out and grabbed him by the collar of his dingy shirt, hauling him inside.
The man yelped in terror, and started to beg,
“Don’t kill me! I didn’t do it!”
Dash put his hand over the little man’s mouth and said, “Didn’t do what, Kirby?”
When he saw he wasn’t going to be instantly killed, the little man relaxed. Dash removed his hand. “Whatever it was you think I did,” said the little man.
“Kirby Dokins,” said Dash, “the only thing you do is trade in information. If you weren’t so useful, I’d squash you like the bug you are.”
The vile-smelling little man grinned. His face was a patchwork of scars and blemishes. He was a beggar by trade, and an informant when opportunity presented himself. Like the cockroach he was, he had crawled into a crack in the stones and survived the destruction of the city. “But you have use of me, don’t you?”