Shards of a Broken Crown (48 page)

Duko shook his
head. “Some protection. Had he been protecting those villages,
they wouldn’t be sacked!”

Jimmy knew the
static front was wearing on everyone’s nerves, especially the
Duke’s. Kuvak had been one of Duko’s most trusted
officers, which is why he had been selected to oversee the defense of
the castle at Land’s End. Jimmy jumped to the end of the
report. “They still give the castle wide berth, and he’s
routed two other raids in the area.”

Duko walked back
to the window and looked out at his rapidly growing town. “I
know Kuvak’s doing the best he can down there. It’s not
his fault.” He looked at the map. “When will they come?”

“The
Keshians?”

“They’re
not going to do this forever. There’s a reason behind the raids
and the probes. They will eventually show us what their intent is,
but it may be too late.”

Jimmy was
silent. While ambassadors were negotiating at Stardock, men from both
nations were dying. Jimmy knew that the strike would come if and when
the Keshians decided they could strengthen their negotiating position
by doing so.

A strike at the
Vale of Dreams, an attempt to seize the western coast from Land’s
End to Port Vykor, or a strike directly at Krondor, all were
possible. And they were only able to defend two of those three
locations, so they had a one in three chance of being wrong,
tragically wrong. And lingering in the back of his mind was that
escaped Keshian officer, and what he knew.

“Up here,”
said Dash.

Turning and
looking up, Trina smiled, and Dash was again struck with how
attractive she could be should she ever decide to play up her looks.
“You’re getting better, Sheriff Puppy.”

Dash leaped down
from the roof beam upon which he had rested, landing lightly on his
feet. “I found out who Nolan and Riggs worked for,” said
Dash.

“And?”

“So I know
whoever killed them is neither friend to the crown nor the Mockers.”

“So the
enemy of my enemy is my friend?”

Dash grinned. “I
wouldn’t go that far. Let’s say that it suits our mutual
interest to cooperate in discovering who else is using the sewers as
a highway, besides the thieves.”

Trina leaned
back against the wall and looked Dash up and down in an appraising
fashion. “When we were told you were to be in charge of the
city’s security, we thought it a bit of a joke. I guess not.
You’re more like your grandfather than not.”

“You knew
my grandfather?” asked Dash.

“Only by
reputation. Our old friend held your grandfather in awe.”

Dash laughed. “I
have always understood how special my grandfather was, but I never
thought of him that way.”

“Think on
it, Sheriff Puppy. A thief who became the most powerful noble in the
Kingdom. That’s a tale.”

“I guess,”
said Dash. “But to me he was always Grandfather, and those
stories were always just wonderful stories.”

“What do
you propose?” asked Trina, changing the topic.

“I need to
know if you catch sight of any of these strangers in the sewer,
especially if you discover where they’re hiding.”

Trina said, “You
know who they are?”

“I have my
suspicions,” said Dash.

“Care to
share them?”

“Would you
in my place?”

She laughed.
“No, I wouldn’t. What is in it for the Mockers?”

Dash said, “I
should think you’d just want them gone if they’re causing
you problems.”

“They are
causing us no problems whatsoever. Nolan and Riggs we knew because
they’ve bought information from us before, and they’ve
set up a few deals. We always suspected they were working for some
businessmen in the city, like Avery and his bunch, who didn’t
wish to conduct business in the usual fashion, or a noble who wasn’t
entirely aboveboard in paying taxes. That sort of thing.”

Dash realized
she was fishing for information. “Whoever Nolan and Riggs were
working for prior to the war, they were my men when they got their
throats cut. I don’t care if it was over some old grudge or
because they happened to wander into the wrong place at the wrong
time. I cannot afford to have people running around this city
thinking they can kill my constables. It’s that simple.”

“If you
say so, Sheriff Puppy. But there’s still the matter of price.”

Dash had no
illusions. It was a waste of his time to make any sort of offer. “Ask
the old man what he wants, but I won’t compromise the city’s
security or look the other way about a capital crime. I’ll get
what I want without your help.”

“I’ll
ask him,” said Trina. She started to leave.

“Trina,”
said Dash.

She stopped and
smiled. “You want something else?”

Dash ignored the
double entendre. “How is he?”

Trina lost her
smile. “Not well.”

“Is there
anything I can do?”

Her smile
returned, this time a small one without any hint of mockery. “No,
I don’t think so, but it’s good of you to ask.”

Dash said,
“Well, he is family.”

Trina was silent
for a long minute, then she reached out and touched Dash’s
cheek. “Yes, more than I thought.” Then, with a sudden
turn, she was out the door and down the street into the darkness.

Dash waited a
few minutes, then ducked out the back of the old building. He felt an
odd sensation inside. He didn’t know how much of it was concern
for the old man’s health, worry over the possible infiltration
of Keshian agents into the city, or the woman’s touch on his
cheek. Muttering to himself, Dash said, “If only she wasn’t
so damned attractive.”

Putting aside
the distractions of a beautiful woman, he turned his mind back to the
problems of protecting the city of Krondor.

Men shouted.

Erik motioned
the third element of the infantry forward and they marched out into
the killing zone. The heavy ram had breached the door, and the first
and second waves had swarmed the gates and were now inside the
barricade. Resistance had been heavier this time, but as with the
first two barricades they had encountered, the defense was more for
show than for real resistance.

The messages
from Subai had Erik and Greylock worried, for his picture of the
defenses ahead had Erik concerned that they simply were not equal to
the task of breaking through in time to rescue Yabon. The summer was
nearly half over, with the Festival of Banapis only a week away. If
there were heavy fall rains, or an early winter snow, they could lose
Yabon Province for good. And if they lost Yabon this year, it was
possible they would lose Krondor again the next.

If not sooner.

Erik could not
escape the feeling that Krondor lay naked and ready for the taking if
Kesh should simply realize that fact. He hoped the negotiations at
Stardock were proceeding well.

He pushed aside
his worry and looked at Owen. The Knight-Marshal of Krondor nodded,
and Erik spurred his own horse forward. For whatever reasons, Owen
had ordered Erik to remain behind at the headquarters tent, rather
than lead the first assault as was Erik’s desire.

The fighting was
fierce for an hour, then suddenly the defense collapsed. Erik moved
his horse through the gate and realized that, once again, they were
facing an enemy that lacked the resources for a sustained defense.

Erik rode
around, and saw that everything was now under control. As before, he
dispatched light cavalry to ride up the road, seeking those fleeing
northward, preventing any from reaching their own lines.

Greylock
appeared at the gate of the barricade, and Erik rode toward him.
“This is pointless,” he said. “If what Subai says
is true, we should have sat outside the wall and starved them out.”

Owen shrugged.
“The Prince’s orders didn’t give us leave to
tarry.” He looked about the scene unfolding around them, and
said, “Though if you put a dagger to my throat, I’d be
forced to agree with you.” He stood up in his stirrups. “My
backside longs for a comfortable chair by the fire at the Inn of the
Pintail, a jack of ale in my hand, and your mother’s stew in
front of me.”

Erik grinned.
“I’ll mention that to Mother when next I see her. She’ll
be flattered.”

Owen returned
the smile, then seemed to leap out of his saddle, backward, spinning
over the rear of his horse and landing hard on his back. His horse
sprang forward.

Erik looked in
all directions, and all he could see were mercenaries throwing down
their swords, putting their hands in the air, and being herded to
rear positions. A few signs of struggle could still be seen, and
there was sporadic combat in the distance, but whoever shot the
crossbow bolt that had felled Greylock was nowhere to be seen.

“Damn!”
Erik leaped from his horse, and raced to where Greylock lay. Before
Erik’s knee touched the ground next to his old friend, he knew
the dreadful truth. A crossbow bolt protruded from above the
breastplate Owen wore, and it had smashed the upper portion of his
chest and lower throat to pulp. Blood flowed everywhere and Owen’s
eyes stared lifelessly at the sky above.

Erik felt a cold
stab of anger and hopelessness. He felt like screaming, but resisted
the impulse. Owen had always been a friend, even before Erik had
become a soldier, and they had shared a love for horses, an
appreciation of the great wines from the Darkmoor region, and the
fruits of honest labor. Looking down at the lifeless form of his old
friend, Erik’s mind was awash with images, laughter over jokes,
losses endured together, and the approval of an old teacher who was
generous in his praise and frugal in his criticism.

Erik turned and
his eyes sought out Owen’s killer. A short distance away, he
spied two Kingdom soldiers arguing. One held a crossbow and the other
pointed in his direction. Erik leaped to his feet and ran to face
them. “What happened?”

Both men looked
as if the Killer God Guis-wa had appeared before them. One of them
looked as if he was ready to vomit. Perspiration appeared on his brow
as he said, “Captain . . . I was . . .”

“What?”
demanded Erik.

The man appeared
close to tears as he said, “I was about to shoot when the order
to hold was called out. I put the crossbow over my shoulder, and it
went off.”

“It’s
true!” said the other man. “He fired it backward. It was
an accident.”

Erik closed his
eyes. He felt a shaking in his body start at his feet and run up his
legs to his groin and up through his chest. Of all the jokes he had
endured in his short life, this was the most cruel. Owen had died at
the hands of one of his own men, by accident, because the man had
been lazy and sloppy.

With a hard
swallow, Erik forced back his frustration and rage. He knew there
were other officers in the army who would hang this man for not
unloading his crossbow and costing the Kingdom the life of their
commander in the West. He looked at the two men involved in the
accidental shooting, and said, “Go away.”

They didn’t
hesitate, but ran as if wishing to be as far away from the giant
young Captain as possible when his rage finally erupted. Erik stood
motionless a moment, then turned back to see soldiers gathered around
the body of Owen Greylock, Knight-Marshal of Krondor. Erik calmly
moved through them, gently but firmly pushing them aside until he was
once again beside his old friend.

He knelt next to
Owen and scooped him up in his arms, as if carrying a child, and
turned toward the gates. The battle was not quite over, but the
situation was well in hand, and Erik felt a need, a duty, to carry
his old friend back to his command pavilion; he would not trust the
task to another. Slowly, he walked back down the road, holding his
dear friend.

The officers had
assembled and the silence was awkward. Erik stood beside Owen’s
empty chair of command. He glanced around the room. There were a
dozen captains senior to him, but none holding the unique position of
Captain of the Prince’s Crimson Eagles. The nobility in the
tent was also senior to him, but none of them were part of Patrick’s
command structure.

Erik
self-consciously cleared his throat, then said, “My lords, we
are faced with a dilemma. The Knight-Marshal has fallen and we are in
need of a commander. Until Prince Patrick appoints one, we need to be
united in our duty.” He looked around the tent. Many eyes
regarded him suspiciously. “If Captain Subai were here, I would
easily accept him as leader, given his years of service to the
Principality. Or if Captain Calis, my predecessor, were here, he also
would easily ascend to the office of commander. But we have a
situation both dangerous and awkward.”

Erik looked at
one old soldier, the Earl of Makurlic, and said, “My Lord
Richard.”

“Captain?”

“Of those
here you are senior in service and age. I would be honored to follow
your command.”

The minor Earl,
from a small corner of the Kingdom located outside Deep Taunton,
appeared both surprised and pleased. He glanced around the tent, and
when no one seemed to object, he said, “I will serve as interim
commander until the Prince names another, Captain.”

There seemed an
almost palpable sigh of relief in the tent as the conflict between
the Prince’s handpicked Captain and the more traditional nobles
was avoided for the time being. The Earl of Makurlic said, “Let
us get the Knight-Marshal on his way back to Krondor, then I want a
meeting of all senior staff immediately after.”

Erik von
Darkmoor saluted and said, “Sir,” and left the tent
before anyone could say another word. He hurried in search of Jadow
Shati, for he needed to make sure his own men knew what they must do
before any other officer could find them and send them off on another
mission. He might give public acknowledgment to the new commander,
but he wasn’t about to turn his own men over to the whim of a
man who a year before had been hosting parties at his peaceful
seaside estate a half-continent away.