Raymond Feist - Shards of a Broken Crown

Dash returned leading the horses. He handed the reins to Jimmy, then went back and opened a saddlebag. He returned a moment later, unwrapping a bundle. Once opened, he revealed some heavy travel bread, thick with honey and nuts and dried fruit, and some jerked beef. Without hesitation the children passed their mother and grabbed what they could.

Dash glanced at Jimmy and nodded slightly. He gave the rest of the bundle to the man, who passed it along to the woman and said, “Thank you.”

“How did an enemy soldier come to be guiding your family to Darkmoor?” asked Dash.

The woman and man both nearly wept in gratitude as they chewed on the heavy bread. After swallowing, the woman said, “When the soldiers came, we hid in the woods, and they took everything. We had only what we had carried away. Then out of spite they burned the roof off our house and broke down the door. Sticks and thatch was all it was, but it was the only home the girls had known.”

She glanced about, afraid other threats might appear suddenly from the surrounding woods. “Markin found us when we were trying to rebuild our house. It was never what you’d call fine, but my man had spent years adding to it, making it more than just a hut. But the soldiers had burned it down and the girls and me had no tools.”

“I find them,” said Markin. “They needed help.”

“He came and he fought for us. Other men came, many with swords and bows, but he kept them from taking me or the girls.” She glanced at him with obvious affection in her eyes. “He’s my man now, and he’s a fair da’ to the girls.”

Jimmy sighed. To Dash he said, “We’ll hear stories like this one a hundred times before we’re through.”

“Why Darkmoor?” asked Jimmy.

“We hear the King’s there and there’s food for the asking.”

Jimmy smiled. “No, the King’s not there, though he was last year. But there’s food for work.”

“I work good,” said the foreign-born soldier.

“Can we go?” asked the woman.

“Yes,” said Dash, motioning for them to pass.

Markin said, “You soldiers?”

Jimmy grinned. “Not if we can help it.”

“But you noble man. Markin can tell.”

Dash said dryly, “I’ve known him all my life and can tell you he’s far from noble most of the time.”

The old soldier studied the two, then said, “If you try to look like common men, you don’t.” He pointed down to Jimmy’s feet. “Dirty, but nobleman’s boots.”

He motioned for the woman and girls to follow him and moved carefully on, not taking his eyes off the brothers until his small band was past. Then he turned and hurried along, taking his position in the van, against any other unexpected encounters.

“First time I regretted having comfortable boots,” said Dash.

Jimmy looked down and said, “Well, we may be muddy, but he’s right.” Glancing around, he added, “This is a place of little food and even less comfort.”

Dash remounted his horse. “I suspect by the time we get to Krondor we won’t look quite so prosperous.”

Jimmy also mounted, and said, “Maybe we should get off this highway.”

Dash said, “The north road?” He referred to an old road his one-time employer, Rupert Avery, used regularly to move goods, avoiding the tolls charged on the King’s Highway.

Jimmy shook his head. “No, that’s almost as busy as this one, and those woods are going to be full of deserters and bandits.”

“The south?”

“Slower going, but there are enough trails along the lakes if we don’t head too far into the southern hills.”

Dash said, “Since Kesh pulled south to the old border, everything from here to their nearest garrison is going to be wilderness.”

Jimmy laughed. “What’s the difference if we run into fifty deserters from the Emerald Queen’s army, or fifty bandits, or fifty Keshian mercenaries …” He shrugged.

Dash made a show of shivering under his heavy cloak. “Let’s hope whoever’s down there is hugging their fires. As any sane man would do.”

Dash urged his horse forward and soon the two brothers were riding south at a steady walk. “Why do we do these things?” he asked.

Jimmy said, “Because our King commands and we obey.”

Dash let out a theatrical sigh. “I thought it was something like that.”

Softly, Jimmy began to sing a very old song:

“ To Kesh’s heartland or Queg’s harsh shore ,

Our blood, our hearts, our lives and more ,

For honor’s sake do we obey ,

And go over the hills and far away …”

The sound of cracking ice rang through the cold morning air and both brothers pulled up just before entering a clearing. Using hand signals, Jimmy motioned for Dash to move south along the edge of the clearing while he circled north.

Dash nodded, dismounted, and tied his horse to the branch of a small birch tree. Jimmy did likewise and moved silently away.

Dash moved through the thinning trees, bordering a burned-out farm, he judged from the appearance of tree stumps nearby. The sound resolved itself into a repeated hammering at ice.

Dash saw a man in the distance.

A slender figure, he crouched over the frozen ice on a large pond, perhaps a hundred yards away from where Dash watched, hammering at the ice with a rock. Up and down the rock moved, and Dash couldn’t help but be fascinated with the sight.

Dash couldn’t get a good look at the man, but his clothing seemed a hodgepodge of rags and ill-matched garments. He might have worn boots, but all Dash could see was a collection of rags tied around each foot for warmth.

Dash saw movement in the woods beyond the pond and judged Jimmy was in place. He waited.

Jimmy walked slowly out of the woods and the man leaped to his feet with astonishing speed. He turned away as Jimmy shouted, “Wait! I won’t hurt you!”

Dash slowly took out his sword as the tatters-clad man hurried toward him, trying to keep his movement from alerting the ragged man. As the man reached the first line of trees, Dash stepped out, extending his foot, and tripped him.

The man went down in a tangle of clothes and turned over, scuttling backward as he shouted, “Don’t kill me!”

Dash moved quickly to put the point of his sword before the man’s face, as Jimmy caught up, out of breath.

Dash said, “We’re not going to hurt you.” To demonstrate his good intentions, he quickly sheathed his sword. “Get up.”

The man got up slowly as Jimmy leaned over, hands on knees, and said, “He’s fast.”

Dash grinned. “You’d have caught him had you had another mile or so to overtake him. You’ve always had endurance, if not speed.” Turning his attention to the figure on the ground, he said, “Who are you and what were you doing?”

The man slowly rose, as if ready to bolt at the slightest threat, and said, “I am called Malar Enares, young masters.” He was a slender man, with a hawk nose sticking out over a large rag wrapped around his face. His eyes were dark, and they shifted back and forth between the brothers. “I was fishing.”

Jimmy and Dash exchanged glances, and Dash said, “With a rock?”

“To break the ice, young sir. Then when the fish comes up to sun himself, I would strip bark and make a noose.”

Jimmy said, “You were going to snare a fish?”

“It is easy if you but have patience and a steady hand, young sir.”

Dash said, “I hear Kesh in your speech.”

“Oh, no, mercy, young sir. I am but a humble servant of a great trader of Shamata, Kiran Hessen.”

Jimmy and Dash had both heard the name. A trader with Keshian connections who did a great deal of business with the late Jacob Esterbrook. Since the destruction of Krondor, the boys’ father, Lord Arutha, had pieced together several accounts that had clearly indicated two facts, that Esterbrook had been a long-standing agent of Great Kesh, and that he and his daughter were both dead. Jimmy could see what Dash was thinking: if Esterbrook had been a Keshian agent, so then could Kiran Hessen.