Shards of a Broken Crown

by Raymond E. Feist

  He started to turn away, but she grabbed him and kissed him back. Whispering into his ear, she said,

  “Stay alive, damn you.”

  “You as well,” he whispered. Then he turned and hurried back down the tunnel. He stopped to revive the man he had knocked unconscious and was glad he hadn’t tried a stunt like walking into Mother’s uninvited when the Mockers were at the height of their power; there would have been a dozen guards in that tunnel instead of one.

  The groggy man didn’t quite understand what it was Dash was telling him, but he pieced together enough of the message to know he had to get to high ground in a hurry.

  Dash ran along the major waterway that passed Mother’s and reached a place where the culverts above had broken through. He leaped and grabbed the jagged edge of a heavy hard-clay pipe that protruded out of the wall above his head. He pulled himself up and stood on it, working his way along to a break in the wall, barely large enough to permit him entrance. He risked getting stuck as he wiggled 52893_~1.QXD 8/30/2002 10:02 AM Page 557

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  through the break to a place where a large hole appeared above his head. He pulled himself up and stood outside in the bed of the northern watercourse.

  He looked around in the predawn grey and saw no one in sight. He ran toward the east.

  As he reached the end of the aqueduct, he saw Gustaf and his men standing before the large wooden gate. Two men were already slamming axes into the supports on either side of the jammed gate.

  Dash said, “How goes it?”

  Gustaf smiled ruefully. “If those supports don’t give way before we want them to and drown us all, this might work.”

  “How much oil did you find?”

  “Several casks. I’ve got some of the lads pouring it into clay jugs like you said.”

  Dash hurried over to the place Gustaf indicated, where two men were pouring sticky, foul-smelling naphthalene from small casks into large clay jugs.

  “Only about a third of the way,” said Dash. “And leave the stoppers off.. We want the air to get to it.”

  The men nodded. As Dash started to return to Gustaf, he said, “And you want to be as far away from fire as you can get until you wash that stuff off.

  Use lots of soap. Remember, it burns underwater.”

  The two men who were swinging the axes jumped back as one when a loud crack sounded, accompanied by a flexing of the wooden gate. Small jets of water spurted through cracks in the wood, and a bit of dirt and gravel washed down the bank.

  “Looks like it’s going to go under the weight of the water,” said Gustaf.

  “Eventually, but we can’t wait until the next big rain. Did you bring the rags?”

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  “Over there,” said Gustaf, pointing to a man standing over a box up on the bank.

  “Good,” said Dash, hurrying over to inspect the damage. To one of the men with an ax he said,

  “Crack this beam here some more.”

  The beam was a huge one, a foot on each side, that had been stuck between foundation stones and held the right side of the sluice gate. The man set to with his huge ax, smashing into the wood, almost as hard as rock with age. Yet each time he struck, chips flew and the wood splintered more.

  Dash waved his men out of the way and indicated that the rags and what was left of the naphthalene in the casks should be brought over and the jars should be taken to the top of the bank. The men hurried up the stone bank of the aqueduct. Dash motioned the ax-wielder aside and said, “Get up there.” He set two casks down on the stones and picked up the third. Carefully, he laid out a long run of the rags, tied it into a knotted cord, and dribbled naphthalene on it. He then tucked one end of the rags into a cask and set a third atop the two on the bottom, forming a little pyramid right below where the beam had been chopped by the ax.

  Dash hurried to the far end of the rag and pulled a piece of flint from his pocket. Using his knife blade, he struck sparks until one caught on the naphthalene—soaked rag.

  Dash wasn’t entirely sure what to expect. He had heard stories from his grandfather, but had only seen the results of the use of this oil distillation mixed with powdered limestone and sulfur.

  With a whoosh the flame sprang up the rag. Dash ran.

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  He reached the bank of the aqueduct as the flame burned quickly along the rag. He stood next to Gustaf and said, “If it burns as hot as it’s reputed to burn, it should eat through the rest of that wood quickly. The water pressure should shove over the—

  ”

  The flame reached the casks. They exploded.

  The force of the blast was far more than Dash had expected, thinking he was going to get more of a large fire. Instead, men were thrown to the ground and two were struck by wood splinters.

  Gustaf picked himself up off the ground, saying,

  “Gods! What was that?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Dash. “My grandfather told me something about too much air on the stuff, and I guess that’s what he meant.”

  “Look!” said one of the constables.

  The blast had cut through most of the large beam, which now was being bent back by the gate under the pressure of millions of gallons of river water trapped behind it. With a loud groan the entire sluice gate began to move as water started to pour through several gaps in the wood. As the force of the water increased, the wood started to move more rapidly.

  Creaking and groaning sounds were replaced by a crack, the beam sheared in two, and suddenly the entire gate was swept away before a wall of water.

  Dash sat on the bank, watching the wall of water move down the aqueduct. When it hit the break in the stones that would send water pouring into the lower sewer, he could barely see a pause as the wave swept on past it.

  Gustaf said, “Well, that should drown some rats.”

  “We can hope,” said Dash, taking the constable’s 52893_~1.QXD 8/30/2002 10:02 AM Page 560

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  offered hand and pulling himself to his feet.

  Thinking of the Mockers, he said, “As long as it isn’t our rats that get drowned.”

  “What do you want us to do with these clay jugs, Sheriff?” asked one of the constables.

  Dash said, “I was going to have you throw them at what I thought would be a nice little fire down there. Bring them along. I think we can find a use for them.” As the man reached down to grab the jugs, Dash added, “And handle them gently.” He motioned to the water surging through the destroyed sluice.

  They hurried back through the city, and as they turned the corner to High Street, Dash shouted to Gustaf, “Get some barricades up here.” He then pointed back another block and said, “And there.

  When they break through, I want them turned before their cavalry hits the market. As soon as the gate goes, get archers up on the roofs there, there, and there.” He pointed to three corners of the intersection.

  Gustaf nodded. “I notice you didn’t say if they break through.”

  “It’s just a question of when, and if help can get here before they do. I think we’re in for some nasty days ahead.”

  Gustaf shrugged. “I’m a mercenary, Sheriff.

  Nasty days are what I get paid for.”

  Dash nodded as Gustaf hurried off to carry out his orders and the rest of the constables carried the jugs of naphthalene to the gate. He glanced around the city streets, now deserted as people hid in their houses hoping against hope that somehow they would be spared another destructive rampage such as they had endured the year before. Dash shook his head.

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  Mercenaries, soldiers, and constables might get paid to endure s
uch as this, but citizens didn’t. They were the ones who suffered, and in his time as Sheriff he had forged a bond with the people of Krondor he couldn’t have imagined before. Now he was starting to understand why his grandfather had loved this city so much, both the noble and the base, the exalted and the low. It was his city. And Dash would be damned to the lowest hell before he’d see another invader take it again.

  Dash hurried toward the gate when he heard horns. He knew a Keshian herald was approaching under a flag of truce to announce under what conditions his general would accept the surrender of the city. Dash climbed the steps in the gatehouse and reached the battlements as the Keshian herald approached, the rising sun peeking over the mountains behind him. He was a desert man, and on each side accompanying him rode a Dog Soldier, each holding a banner. One was the Lion Banner of the Empire, and the other was a house flag; Dash knew his grandfather and father would both disapprove his not recognizing it at once.

  Sergeant Mackey said, “They want to talk.”

  Dash said, “Well, it would be rude not to listen.”

  Dash would be tempted to drop a jar of the naphthalene on the herald before the man was through, he thought, but each minute that passed before the attack bought them a little more time to prepare.

  The herald rode before the gate and shouted, “In the name of the Empire of Great Kesh and her great General Asham ibin Al-tuk, open the gates and surrender the city!”

  Dash looked around and saw that every man on 52893_~1.QXD 8/30/2002 10:02 AM Page 562

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  the wall was watching him. He leaned out between two merlons on the wall and shouted back, “By what right have you come to claim a city that is not yours?” He glanced at Mackey and said, “Might as well go through the formalities.”

  “We claim these lands as ancient Keshian soil!

  Who speaks for the city?”

  “I, Dashel Jamison, Sheriff of Krondor!”

  With contempt in every word, the herald shouted,

  “Where is your Prince, O jailer of beggars? Hiding under his bed?”

  “Still sleeping, I think,” said Dash, not wishing to reveal to this man anything about the poisoning. “If you care to wait, he may show up later today.”

  “That’s all right,” came a voice from behind Dash.

  Dash turned and saw a pale Patrick standing there, being held erect by a soldier. Patrick had donned his royal armor, golden trimmed breastplate and open-faced helm, with a gold-trimmed purple sash of office over his shoulder. As he passed Dash, Patrick whispered, “Should I lose consciousness, tell them I’ve left in outrage.”

  He reached the wall and steadied himself, and Dash could see how difficult it was for him to stand, even with the strong soldier holding onto him from behind. Yet Patrick found it within himself to shout out with power, “I am here, dogs of Kesh. Say what you will!”

  The herald barely hid his surprise at seeing the Prince of Krondor on the wall. He obviously had believed the poisoner successful. “Most gracious Prince!” said the herald. “My . . . master bids you open your gates and withdraw. He will escort you 52893_~1.QXD 8/30/2002 10:02 AM Page 563

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  and your retinue to your nation’s borders.”

  “Just this side of Salador,” said Dash quietly.

  Patrick shouted, “My nation’s borders! I am standing on the wall of the capital city of the Western Realm!”

  “These lands are Ancient Kesh, and are being reclaimed.”

  Dash whispered, “I know we’re buying time, but why bother?”

  Patrick gulped for air and nodded. Then, with his last strong breath, shouted, “Then come you on and do your worst! We reject your claim and scorn your master.”

  The herald said, “Act not in haste, fair Prince. My master is kind. He shall make his offer three times.

  At sundown tonight we return to hear your second answer. Should you say again nay, we shall come one last time, at dawn tomorrow. And that shall be the last of it.” The herald turned and spurred his mount forward.

  Dash turned to see Patrick barely conscious, still being held up by the soldier. “Bravely done, fair Prince,” Dash said without sarcasm. To the soldier he said, “Take him back to his quarters and see he rests.”

  Turning to Mackey, Dash said, “Get the men down from the wall and fed. Keep a few to watch, but the Keshians will probably be as good as their word and not attack us until dawn tomorrow.” He sat down and suddenly felt bone-tired. “At least now we know when their spies inside the city will attack.”

  Looking at the old sergeant, he said, “They’ll try to open the gate tonight.”

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  The dragon sped through the sky while in the east the sun rose above the hills. The mystic energy along the coast was a map for them to follow. Tomas’s arts, the lingering heritage of the Valheru, allowed them all to ride upon Ryana’s back without falling.

  “You know,” said Nakor, speaking loudly to overcome the wind noise as he sat behind Miranda at the base of the dragon’s neck, “as much as being an engine of death, this display is set to lure us to some sort of confrontation.”

  Pug, who sat directly behind Tomas, said, “I expect as much.”

  “There,” said Tomas, pointing down and to the left.

  Below them stretched the coastline, a southwest-facing shoreline from Questor’s View to Ylith. The harbor of Ylith showed a frenzy of ships, most of them hauling anchor and sailing out of the port.

  Nakor said, “Those ships’ captains didn’t like what they saw last night and are catching the morning tide out.”

  “Ryana,” said Tomas, “down there.”

  He indicated the eastern gate of the city, outside of which a great building had been erected, and it was that building that was the source of the energy which had flowed down the coast, fueling the evil magic that had animated the corpses.

  As the dragon landed, armed men ran in all directions, uncertain of what to do. “Let me go first,” said Tomas.

  Pug said, “Let’s not shed any blood until we have to.”

  Miranda said, “We will have to.”

  Pug said, “But until then . . .” He gestured toward 52893_~1.QXD 8/30/2002 10:02 AM Page 565

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  the ground just before Ryana touched down. They all could see a ripple, as if water had been troubled by a stone, causing the earth to undulate. A deep rumbling could be heard and dust shot into the air following the course of the quickly expanding circle. As they touched down, the circle was now large enough to easily encompass the dragon. The soil below their feet was motionless.

  But where the expanding circle’s wave struck, it was as if an earthquake raged, for each advancing soldier who stepped upon the ripple was thrown down to the ground, then mercilessly tossed into the air several times.

  Many turned and fled, leaving only the bravest of the invaders to confront the dragon and her riders.

  Then Ryana bellowed and their ears rang, and she shot a blast of fire into the heavens, and the rest of the soldiers fled. No sane man would face a great golden dragon.

  As the four of them dismounted, Miranda said,

  “Thank you. That should buy us some time.”

  Ryana said, “You are welcome.” To Tomas she said, “When the danger has passed, I shall leave, but until it has, call me should you need me. I will be nearby.” The dragon launched herself into the sky, and with a powerful beat of her wings was gone, speeding to the north.

  Tomas walked purposefully toward the building.

  Pug, Miranda, and Nakor followed.

  With the departure of the dragon, some of the bolder warriors near the city gate ran to intercept the four. Tomas unstrapped his shield from across his back in a movement so fluid and natural it looked impossible to Pug. No mortal man coul
d have dupli-

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  cated the feat. His sword was out before the first warrior had closed.

  The man was big and carried a large sword in two hands. He ran at Tomas shouting an inarticulate battle cry, but Tomas continued to advance at his normal pace. The man struck a powerful blow downward and Tomas moved his shield slightly, causing the blade to skid off the surface. The man saw sparks explode from the contact, but no mark sullied the surface of the shield. Tomas swung lightly, as if flicking a fly from his shoulder, and the man died before he hit the ground.

  Two men behind him hesitated. One then shouted and charged while the other showed fear, and turned and ran. The one who charged died like the man before, and Tomas again looked as if he were disposing of annoying pests, not battle-hardened warriors.

  Tomas reached the building, a thing of black stones and wooden facades. It squatted, a terrible black sore on the landscape; there was nothing about it pleasing to the eye or harmonious in any fashion.

  It reeked of evil.

  Tomas walked to the large black wooden doors and paused. He drew back his right fist and struck the rightmost door. The door exploded inward, as if there had been no hinges.

  As they walked in, Nakor looked at the shattered iron hinges and said, “Impressive.”

  Miranda said, “Remind me never to get him mad.”

  “He’s not mad,” said Nakor. “Just determined. If he was mad, he’d pull the walls down.”

  The building was a giant square, with two rows of 52893_~1.QXD 8/30/2002 10:02 AM Page 567

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  seats set hard against the walls. There were two doors: the one through which they had entered and another opposite.

  In the center of the room a square pit yawned at them, and from deep within a red glow could be seen. Above it hung a metal platform.

  “Gods!” said Miranda. “What a stench.”

  “Look,” said Nakor, indicating the floor.

  Before each seat, on the floor, lay a body. They were warriors, men with scars upon their cheeks, and each was openmouthed, their eyes wide, as if they had died screaming in horror.