RAYMOND E. FEIST
Shadow of A Dark Queen

Book One of The Serpentwar Saga

Copyright

Voyager

An Imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London SE1 9GF

www.harpervoyagerbooks.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by Voyager 1997

Copyright © Raymond E. Feist 1997

The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

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Source ISBN: 9780006480266

Ebook Edition © AUGUST 2012 ISBN 9780007385379

Version: 2018-08-13

Dedication

For Jonathan Matson:

more than my agent, a good friend

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Cast of Characters

Maps

Book One: Erik’s Tale

Prologue: Deliverance

Chapter One: Challenge

Chapter Two: Deaths

Chapter Three: Murder

Chapter Four: Fugitives

Chapter Five: Krondor

Chapter Six: Discovery

Chapter Seven: Trial

Chapter Eight: Choice

Chapter Nine: Breakdown

Chapter Ten: Transition

Chapter Eleven: Passage

Chapter Twelve: Arrival

Chapter Thirteen: Search

Chapter Fourteen: Journey

Chapter Fifteen: Village

Chapter Sixteen: Rendezvous

Chapter Seventeen: Discovery

Chapter Eighteen: Escape

Chapter Nineteen: Discovery

Chapter Twenty: Passage

Chapter Twenty-One: Attrition

Chapter Twenty-Two: Infiltration

Chapter Twenty-Three: Onslaught

Twenty-Four: Escape

Epilogue: Reunion

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Continue the Adventure...

About the Author

By The Same Author

About the Publisher

Cast of Characters

Aglaranna – Elf Queen in Elvandar

Alika – ‘demon’ cook at Sorcerer’s Isle

Althal – elf in Elvandar

Avery, Rupert ‘Roo’ – boy from Ravensburg, companion of Erik von Darkmoor; later prisoner; later member of Calis’s company

Biggo – prisoner; later member of Erik’s company

Calis – half elf, half human son of Aglaranna and Tomas; known as ‘The Eagle of Krondor’; leader of a military company

Culli – murdering mercenary

Dawar – mercenary in Nahoot’s company

de Loungville, Robert ‘Bobby’ – sergeant in Calis’s company

de Savona, Luis – prisoner; later member of Calis’s company

Durany – mercenary in Calis’s company

Ellia – elven woman saved by Miranda

Embrisa – girl from Village Weanat

Esterbrook, Jacob – merchant in Krondor

Fadawah, General – Supreme Commander of the Armies of the Emerald Queen

Finia – woman at Village Weanat

Foster, Charlie – guard corporal in Calis’s company

Freida – Erik’s mother

Galain – elf in Elvandar

Gapi – general in Emerald Queen’s army

Gert – old crone/charcoal burner met by Erik and Roo

Goodwin, Billy – prisoner; later member of Calis’s company

Greylock, Owen – Swordmaster of Baron of Darkmoor; later member of Calis’s company

Grindle, Helmut – merchant

Handy, Jerome – member of Calis’s company

Jarwa – Sha-shahan of the Seven Nations of the Saaur

Jatuk – son of Jarwa, heir and later Sha-shahan of the surviving Saaur

Kaba – Shieldbearer to Jarwa

Kelka – corporal in Nahoot’s company

Khali-shi – Novindus name for Death Goddess

Lalial – elf in Elvandar

Lender, Sebastian – Litigator and Solicitor at Barret’s Coffee House in Krondor

Lims-Kragma – Death Goddess

Macros the Black – legendary sorcerer; considered the greatest practitioner of magic ever known

Marsten – sailor on Trenchard’s Revenge

Mathilda – Baroness of Darkmoor

Milo – Innkeeper at Inn of the Pintail in Ravensburg

Miranda – mysterious friend to Calis

Monis – Jarwa’s Shieldbearer

Mugaar – horse trader in Novindus

Murtag – Saaur warrior

Nakor the Isalani – strange companion of Calis

Nathan – new smith at Inn of the Pintail in Ravensburg

Notombi – former Keshian Legionary, then prisoner; later member of Calis’s company

Pug – also known as Milamber; magician of great power; considered second only to Macros the Black in knowledge

Rian – one of Zila’s mercenaries

Rosalyn – Milo’s daughter

Ruthia – Goddess of Luck

Shati, Jadow – member of Calis’s company

Shila – Saaur home world

Sho Pi – Isalani, former Monk of Dala; later prisoner; later member of Calis’s company

Taber – tavern keeper in LaMut

Tarmil – villager at Weanat

Tomas – consort of Aglaranna, father of Calis; wearer of the Armor of Ashen-Shugar, last of the Dragon Lords

Tyndal – smith at Inn of the Pintail in Ravensburg

von Darkmoor, Erik – bastard son of the Baron von Darkmoor; later prisoner; later mercenary in Calis’s company

von Darkmoor, Manfred – youngest son of Otto; later Baron

von Darkmoor, Otto – Baron of Darkmoor; father of Erik, Stefan, and Manfred

von Darkmoor, Stefan – Otto’s eldest son

Zila – treacherous mercenary leader

Maps

Book One Erik’s Tale

Days, when the ball of our vision

Had eagles that flew unabashed to sun;

When the grasp on the bow was decision.

And arrow and hand and eye were one;

When the Pleasures, like waves to a swimmer,

Came heaving for rapture ahead! –

Invoke them, they dwindle, they glimmer

As lights over mounds of the dead.

– George Meredith

‘Ode to Youth in Memory’

• Prologue • Deliverance

The drums thundered.

Warriors of the Saaur sang their battle chants, preparing for the struggle to come. Tattered war banners hung limply from bloodied lances as thick smoke shrouded the sky from horizon to horizon. Green faces marked with yellow and red paint watched the western skies, where fires cast crimson and ocher light against the black shroud of smoke, blocking the vanishing sun and the familiar tapestry of the western evening stars.

Jarwa, Sha-shahan of the Seven Nations, Ruler of the Empire of Grass, Lord of the Nine Oceans, could not tear his gaze away from the destruction. All day he had watched the great fires burn, and even across the vast distance the howls of the victors and the cries of their victims had carried through the afternoon. Winds that once carried the sweet scent of flowers or the rich aroma of spices from the market now carried the acrid stench of charred wood and burned flesh. He knew without looking that those behind were bracing for the coming trial, resigned in their hearts that the battle was lost and the race would die.

‘My lord,’ said Kaba, his Shieldbearer and lifelong companion.

Jarwa turned to his oldest friend and saw the concern etched faintly around his eyes. Kaba was an unreadable mask to all but Jarwa; the Sha-shahan could read him as a shaman reads a lore scroll. ‘What is it?’

‘The Pantathian is here.’

Jarwa nodded, but he remained motionless. Powerful hands closed in frustration over the hilt of his battle-sword, Tual-masok – Blood Drinker in the ancient tongue – far more a symbol of office than the crown he had worn only on rare state occasions. He pushed its point down into the soil of his beloved Tabar, the oldest nation on the world of Shila. For seventeen years he had fought the invaders as they had driven his hordes back to the heartland of the Empire of Grass.

When he had taken the sword of the Sha-shahan while still a youth, warriors of Saaur had passed in review, filling the ancient stone causeway that spanned the Takador Narrows, the channel connecting the Takador Sea and the Castak Ocean. One hundred riders – a century – side by side, rode past, one hundred centuries to a jatar: ten thousand warriors. Ten jatar to a host, and ten host to a horde. At the height of his power, seven hordes answered Jarwa’s battle horns, seven million warriors. Always on the move, their horses grazed the Empire of Grass, while children grew to adulthood playing and fighting among the ancient wagons and tents of the Saaur, stretching from the city of Cibul to the farthest frontier, ten thousand miles distant; it was an empire so vast that teams of horses and riders, never stopping their gallop, would take a full turning of the moon and half again to ride from the capital to the frontier, twice that from one border to the other.

Each season, one horde rested near the capital, while the others moved along the frontiers of the great nation, ensuring the peace by conquering all who refused tribute. Along the shores of the nine great oceans, a thousand cities sent food, riches, and slaves to the court of the Sha-shahan. And once a ten-year, the champions of the seven hordes gathered for the great games at Cibul, ancient capital of the Empire of Grass. Over the span of centuries. the Saaur had gathered all of Shila under the Sha-shahan’s banner, all but the most distant nations on the far side of the world. It was Jarwa’s dream to be the Sha-shahan who at last realized the dream of his ancestors, to bring the last city into the Empire and rule the entire world.

Four great cities had fallen to Jarwa’s hordes, and another five had surrendered without a struggle, leaving fewer than a dozen outside the Empire. Then the riders of the Patha Horde had come to the gates of Ahsart, City of Priests. Soon disaster followed.

Jarwa steeled himself against the sounds of agony that carried through the twilight. The cries were of his people as they were led to the feasting pits. From what those few able to escape had said, the captives who were quickly slaughtered were perhaps the fortunate ones, along with those who had fallen in battle. The invaders, it was said, could capture the souls of the dying, to keep them as playthings, tormenting them for eternity as the shades of the slain were denied their final place among their ancestors, riding in the ranks of the Heavenly Horde.

Jarwa looked down upon the ancient home of his people from his vantage atop the plateau. Here, less than a half day’s ride from Cibul, the ragged remnants of his once-mighty army camped. Even in this the darkest hour of the Empire of Grass, the presence of the Sha-shahan caused his warriors to stand tall, throw back their heads, and look toward the distant enemy with contempt. But no matter the posture of these warriors, their Sha-shahan saw something in their eyes no Lord of the Nine Oceans had ever seen before in the countenance of a Saaur warrior: fear.

Jarwa sighed, and turned without words to return to his tent. Knowing full well that no choice was left, still he hated to face the alien. Pausing before his own tent, Jarwa said, ‘Kaba, I have no faith in this priest from another world.’ He spit the word.

Kaba nodded, his scales grey from years of the hard life on horseback and from serving his Sha-shahan. ‘I know you have doubts, my lord. But your Cupbearer and your Loremaster concur. We have no choice.’

‘There is always a choice,’ whispered Jarwa. ‘We can choose to die like warriors!’

Softly Kaba reached out and touched Jarwa on the arm, a familiarity that would have brought instant death to any other warrior of the Saaur. ‘Old friend,’ he said softly, ‘this priest offers our children haven. We can fight and die, and let bitter winds sing away the memory of the Saaur. There will be no one left to chant remembrance to the Heavenly Horde of our valor, while fiends eat our flesh. Or we may send our remaining females and the young males to safety. Is there another choice?’

‘But he is not like us.’

Kaba sighed. ‘There is something …’

‘This one’s blood is cold,’ whispered Jarwa.

Kaba made a sign. ‘The cold-blooded are creatures of legend.’

‘And what of those?’ asked Jarwa, motioning to the distant fire engulfing his capital.

Kaba could only shrug. Saying nothing more, Jarwa led his oldest friend into the Sha-shahan’s tent.

The tent was larger than any other in camp, in reality a pavilion of many tents sewn together. Glancing around the interior, Jarwa felt cold grip his heart. So many of his wisest advisers and his most powerful loremasters were missing. Yet of those who remained, all looked to him with hope. He was Sha-shahan, and it was his duty to deliver the people.

Then his eyes fell upon the alien, and again he wondered which choice was wiser. The creature looked much like the Saaur, green scales covering arms and face, but he wore a deep-hooded robe that concealed the body, rather than the armor of a warrior or robes of a loremaster. He was small by Saaur standards, being less than two arms’ span in height, and his snout was too long by half, and his eyes were all black, rather than red iris upon white as were the eyes of the Saaur. Where thick white nails should have been, black talons extended from his fingers. And his speech contained a sibilance, from the tongue that forked. As he removed his battered helm from his head and handed it to a servant, Jarwa voiced aloud what every warrior and loremaster in the tent thought: ‘Snake.’

The creature bowed his head, as if this were a greeting instead of a deadly insult. ‘Yes, my lord,’ it hissed in return.

Several of Jarwa’s warriors had hands upon weapons, but the old Cupbearer, second only to Kaba in importance to his lord, said, ‘He is our guest.’

Long had the legends of the snake people been with the Saaur, the lizard people of Shila. Like the hot-blooded Saaur, yet not, they were creatures invoked by mothers to frighten naughty children at night. Eaters of their own kind, laying eggs in hot pools, the snake people were feared and hated with racial passion though none had been seen in the longest memory of the loremasters of the Saaur. In the legend it was said that both races were created by the Goddess, at the dawn of time, when the first riders of the Heavenly Horde were hatched. The servants of the Green Lady, Goddess of the Night, the snakes had remained in her mansion, while the Saaur had ridden forth with her and her god-brothers and god-sisters. Abandoned to this world by the Goddess, the Saaur had prospered, but always the memory of the others, the snakes, remained. Only the Loremaster knew which tales were history and which were myth, but one thing Jarwa knew: from birth, the Sha-shahan’s heir was taught that no snake was worthy of trust.

The snake priest said, ‘My lord, the portal is ready. Time grows short. Those feasting upon the bodies of your countrymen will tire of their sport, and as night deepens, and their powers grow, they will be here.’

Ignoring the priest for a moment, Jarwa turned to his companions and said, ‘How many jatar survive?’

Tasko, Shahan of the Watiri, answered. ‘Four and but a part of a fifth.’ With a note of finality in his voice, he said, ‘No jatar remains intact. These last are gathered from remnants of the Seven Hordes.’

Jarwa resisted the impulse to surrender to despair. Forty thousand riders and part of another ten thousand. That was all that survived from the Seven Great Hordes of the Saaur.

Jarwa felt blackness grip his heart. How he remembered his outrage when word came from the Patha Horde of the priests’ defiance and refusal to pay tribute. Jarwa had ridden for seven months to lead personally the final attack against Ahsart, City of Priests. For a moment he felt a stab of remorse cut deep into his soul; then he silently chided himself: could any ruler have known that the insane priests of Ahsart would destroy everything rather than let the Saaur unite the world under one ruler? It had been the mad high priest, Myta, who had unsealed the portal and let the first demon through. There was small comfort in knowing that the demon’s first act was to capture Myta’s soul for torment as he ripped his head from his body. One Ahsart survivor had claimed a hundred warrior priests had attacked the one demon as it devoured Myta’s flesh, and none had survived.

Ten thousand priests and loremasters alongside more than seven million warriors had died holding the foul creatures at bay as they battled from the farthest border of the Empire to its heart, in a war spanning half a world. A hundred thousand demons had died, but each one’s destruction was paid for in dear blood, as thousands of warriors threw themselves fearlessly at the hideous creatures. The loremasters had used their arts to good effect at times, but always the demons returned. For years the fighting had continued, a running battle past four of the nine oceans. Children had been born in the Sha-shahan’s camp, grown to young adulthood, and died in the fighting, and still the demons came. The loremasters looked in vain for a means of closing the portal and turning the tide of battle to the Saaur.

From the other side of the world they had fought their way back to Cibul, as the demon army poured through the portal between worlds, and now another portal was being opened, offering hope for the Saaur: hope through exile.

Kaba pointedly cleared his throat, and Jarwa forced away regret. Nothing would be gained from it; as his Shieldbearer had said, there was no choice.

‘Jatuk,’ Jarwa said, and a young warrior stepped forward. ‘Of seven sons, one to rule each horde, you are the last,’ he said bitterly. The young warrior said nothing. ‘You are Ja-shahan,’ pronounced Jarwa, officially naming him heir to the throne. The youth had joined his father but ten days before, riding out to his father’s camp accompanied by his personal retinue. He was but eighteen years of age, barely more than a year from the training grounds and a veteran of only three battles since coming to the front. Jarwa realized that his youngest son was a stranger, having been only a crawling infant when he had left to bring Ahsart to her knees. ‘Who rides to your left?’ he asked.

Jatuk said, ‘Monis, birth companion.’ He indicated a calm-looking young man who already bore a proud scar along his left arm.

Jarwa nodded. ‘He shall be your Shieldbearer.’ To Monis he said, ‘Remember, it is your duty to guard your lord with your life; more: it is your duty to guard his honor. No one will stand closer to Jatuk than you, not mate, not child, not Loremaster. Always speak truth, even when he wishes not to hear it.’

To Jatuk he added, ‘He is your shield; always heed his wisdom, for to ignore your Shieldbearer is to ride into battle with an arm tied to your side, blind in one eye, deaf in one ear.’

Jatuk nodded. Monis was now granted the highest honor given to one not born of the ruling family; he could speak his mind without fear of retribution.

Monis saluted, his balled right fist striking his left shoulder. ‘Sha-shahan!’ he said, then looked at the ground, the sign of complete deference and respect.

‘Who guards your table?’

Jatuk said, ‘Chiga, birth companion.’

Jarwa approved. Selected from the same birth crèche, these three would know one another as they knew themselves, a stronger tie than any other. To the named warrior Jatuk said, ‘You shall give up your arms and armor and you shall remain behind.’

The honor was mixed with bitterness, for the honor of being Cupbearer was high, but giving up the call to battle was difficult for any warrior.

‘Protect your lord from the stealthy hand, and from the cunning word whispered over too much drink by false friends.’

Chiga saluted. Like Monis, he was now free to speak to his lord without fear of punishment, for in being Cupbearer he was pledged to protect Jatuk in all ways as much as the warrior who rode on the Ja-shahan’s shield side.

Jarwa turned to another figure, his Loremaster surrounded by several acolytes. ‘Who among your company is most gifted?’

The Loremaster said, ‘Shadu. He remembers everything.’

Jarwa addressed the young warrior priest. ‘Then take the tablets and the relics, for you are now chief keeper of the faith. You will be Loremaster to the People.’ The acolyte’s eyes widened as his master handed the ancient tablets, large sheaves of parchment kept between board covers, and written upon with ink nearly faded white with age. But more, he was given the responsibility to remember the lore, the interpretations, and the traditions, a thousands words in memory for each word drawn in ink by an ancient hand.

Jarwa said, ‘Those who have served with me from the first, this is my final charge to you. Soon the foe comes a last time. We will not survive. Sing your death songs loudly and know that your names will live in the memory of your children, upon a distant world under an alien sky. I know not if their songs can carry across the void to keep the memory of the Heavenly Horde alive, or if they will begin a new Heavenly Horde upon this alien world, but as the demons come, let every warrior know that the flesh of our flesh shall endure safely in a distant land.’

Whatever the Sha-shahan might feel was hidden behind a mask as he said, ‘Jatuk, attend me. The rest of you, to your appointed places.’ To the snake priest he said, ‘Go to the place where you work your magic, and know that should you play my people false, my shade shall break free from whatever pit of hell holds it and cross the gulf to hunt you down if it takes ten thousand years.’

The priest bowed and hissed, ‘Lord, my life and honor are yours. I remain, to add my small aid to your rear guard. In this pitiful fashion I show my people’s respect and wish to bring the Saaur, who are so like us in so many ways, to our home.’

If Jarwa was impressed by the sacrifice, he gave no hint. He motioned his youngest son outside the great tent. The youth followed his father to the ridge and looked down upon the distant city, made hellish in the demons’ fires. Faint screams, far beyond those made by mortal throat, tore the evening, and the young leader pushed back the urge to turn his face away.

‘Jatuk, by this time tomorrow, on some distant world, you will be Sha-shahan of the Saaur.’

The youth knew this was true no matter how much he would wish it otherwise. He made no false protest.

‘I have no trust of snake priests,’ whispered Jarwa. ‘They may seem like us, but always remember, their blood runs cold. They are without passion and their tongues are forked. Remember also the ancient lore of the last visit to us by the snakes, and remember the tales of treachery since the Mother of us all gave birth to the hot bloods and the cold bloods.’

‘Father.’

Putting his hand, callused with years of swordwork and scarred by age and battle, upon his son’s shoulder, he gripped hard. Firm young muscle resisted under his grasp, and Jarwa felt a faint spark of hope. ‘I have given my oath, but you will be the one who must honor the pledge. Do nothing to disgrace your ancestors or your people, but be vigilant for betrayal. A generation of service to the snakes is our pledge: thirty turnings of this alien world. But remember: should the snakes break the oath first, you are free to do as you see fit.’

Removing his hand from his son’s shoulder, he motioned for Kaba to approach. The Sha-shahan’s Shieldbearer approached with his lord’s helm, the great fluted head covering of the Sha-shahan, while a groom brought a fresh horse. The great herds had perished, and the best of what remained would go to the new world with the Saaur’s children. Jarwa and his warriors would have to make do with the lesser animals. This one was small, barely nineteen hands, hardly large enough to carry the Sha-shahan’s armored weight. No matter, thought Jarwa. The fight would be a short one.

Behind them, to the east, a crackle of energy exploded, as if a thousand lightning strikes flashed, illuminating the night. A second later a loud thunder peal sounded, and all turned to see the shimmering in the sky. Jarwa said, ‘The way is open.’

The snake priest hurried forward, pointing down the ridge. ‘Lord, look!’

Jarwa turned to the west. Out of the distant flames small figures could be seen flying toward them. Bitterly Jarwa knew this was a matter of perspective. The screamers were the size of an adult Saaur, and some of the other fliers were even larger. Leathery wings would make the air crack like a wagoneer’s whip, and shrieks that could drive a sane warrior to madness would fill the dark. Looking at his own hand for any signs of trembling, Jarwa said to his son, ‘Give me your sword.’

The youth did as he was bid, and Jarwa handed his son’s sword to Kaba. Then he removed Tual-masok from his scabbard and gave it, hilt first, to his son. ‘Take your birthright and go.’

The youth hesitated, then gripped the hilt. No loremaster would glean this ancient weapon from his father’s body to present to the heir. It was the first time in the memory of the Saaur that a Sha-shahan had voluntarily surrendered the bloodsword while life remained in his heart.

Without another word, Jatuk saluted his father, turned, and walked to where his own companions waited. With a curt wave of his hand, he motioned for them to mount and ride to where the remaining masses of the Saaur gathered to flee to a distant world.

Four jatar would ride through the new portal, while the remaining part of the fifth, as well as all of Jarwa’s old companions and loremasters, would stay behind to hold the demons at bay. Chanting filled the air while the loremasters wove their arts, and suddenly the air erupted in blue flames as a wall of energy spread across the sky. Demons flying into the trap screamed in anger and pain as blue flames seared their bodies. Those that quickly turned away were spared, but those that were too far into the energy field smoldered and burned, evil black smoke pouring from their fiery wounds. A few of the more powerful creatures managed to reach the ridge, where Saaur warriors leaped without hesitation to hack and chop at their bodies. Jarwa knew it was a faint triumph, for only those demons whom magic had seriously wounded could be so quickly dispatched.

Then the snake priest howled. ‘They are leaving, lord.’

Jarwa glanced over his shoulder and saw the great silver portal hanging in the air, what the snake had called a rift. Through it rode the van of the Saaur youth, and for an instant Jarwa imagined he could see his son vanish from sight – though he knew it was wishful thinking. The distance was too vast to make out such detail.

Then Jarwa returned his attention to the mystic barrier that now shone white-hot where demons brought their own arts to bear. He knew the fliers were more a nuisance than a danger: their speed made them deadly for lone riders or the weak or wounded, but a strong warrior could dispatch one without difficulty. It would be those that followed the fliers who would end his life.

Rents in the energy appeared along the face of the barrier, and as they did, Jarwa could glimpse dark figures approaching from beyond it. Large demons who could not fly, save by magic, hurried over the ground, running at the best speed of a Saaur horse and rider, their evil howls adding to the sounds of battle. The snake priest put forth his hand and flames erupted where a demon attempted to pass through a rent in the barrier, and Jarwa could see the snake priest stagger with the effort.

Knowing the end was but moments away, Jarwa said, ‘Tell me one thing, snake: why do you choose to die here with us? We had no choice, and you were free to leave with my children. Does death at the hands of those’ – he motioned toward the approaching demons – ‘hold no terror for you?’

With a laugh the Ruler of the Empire of Grass could only think of as mocking, the snake priest said, ‘No, my lord. Death is freedom, and you shall quickly learn that. We who serve in the palace of the Emerald Queen know this.’

Jarwa’s eyes narrowed. So the ancient legends were true! This creature was one of those whom the Mother Goddess had birthed. With a flash of anger, Jarwa knew that his race was betrayed and that this creature was as bitter an enemy as those who raced to eat his soul. With a cry of frustration, the Sha-shahan struck out with his son’s sword and severed the head from the shoulders of the Pantathian.

Then the demons were loose among the rear guard and Jarwa could spare but a moment to think of his son and his companions’ children, upon a distant world under an alien sun. As the Lord of the Nine Oceans turned to face his foe, he made a silent prayer to his ancestors, to the Riders of the Heavenly Horde, to watch over the children of the Saaur.

One form loomed above the rest, and as if sensing his approach, the lesser demons parted. A figure twice the height of the tallest Saaur, more than twenty-five feet tall, strode purposefully toward Jarwa. Powerful of form, his body looked much like that of a Saaur – broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, large arms and legs well fashioned – but his back bore huge wings that seemed composed of tattered black leather, and his head … A triangular skull, much like that of a horse, was covered by thin skin, as if leather had been stretched across bone. Teeth were exposed, fangs close together, and the eyes were pits of red fire. Around his head danced a ring of flames, and his laughter turned Jarwa’s blood to ice.

The demon pushed past his lesser brethren, ignoring those who rushed forward to defend the Sha-shahan. He struck out, ripping flesh apart as easily as a Saaur tore bread. Jarwa stood ready, knowing each moment stolen before his death allowed more of his children to flee through the rift.

Then the demon reared over Jarwa as a warrior stands over a child. The Sha-shahan struck out with as much strength as he could muster, raking his son’s sword across the creature’s outstretched arm. The demon shrieked at the pain, but then ignored the wound, slowing for a second while black talons the size of daggers skewered Jarwa, punching through armor and body, as he gripped him around the middle.

The demon raised the ruler of the Saaur up toward his face and held him at eye level. As the light in Jarwa’s eyes began to fade, the demon laughed and said, ‘You are the ruler of nothing, foolish mortal. Your soul is mine, little creature of flesh! And after I eat you, still shall you linger, to amuse me between feedings!’

For the first time since birth, Jarwa, Sha-shahan of the Seven Nations, Ruler of the Empire of Grass, Lord of the Nine Oceans, knew terror. And as his mind cried out, his body went limp. From a vantage above his own flesh, he felt his spirit rise, to fly to the Heavenly Horde, yet something bound him and he could not leave. He perceived his own body, being devoured by this demon, and in his spirit’s mind he heard the demon say, ‘I am Tugor, First Servant of Great Maarg, Ruler of the Fifth Circle, and you are my plaything.’

Jarwa cried, but he had no voice, and he struggled, though he had no body, and his spirit was held by mystic chains as binding as iron on flesh. Wailing spirit voices told him his companions were also falling. With what will remained he turned his perceptions toward the distant rift and saw the last of his children leaving. Taking what small comfort he could from the sight of the rift suddenly vanishing in the night, the shade of Jarwa wished his son and his people safe haven and protection from the snakes’ deceit on the distant world the Pantathians called Midkemia.

• Chapter One • Challenge

The trumpet sounded.

Erik wiped his hands on his apron. He was doing little real work since finishing his morning chores, merely banking the fire so he would not have to restart a cold forge should there be new work later in the day. He considered that unlikely, as everyone in the town would be lingering in the square after the Baron’s arrival, but horses were perverse creatures who threw shoes at the least opportune moment, and wagons broke down at the height of inconvenience. Or so his five years of assisting the blacksmith had taught him. He glanced at where Tyndal lay sleeping, his arm wrapped lovingly around a jug of harsh brandy. He had begun drinking just after breakfast, ‘hoisting a few to the Baron’s health,’ he claimed. He had fallen asleep sometime in the last hour while Erik finished the smith’s work for him. Fortunately, there was little the boy couldn’t do, he being large for his age and an old hand at compensating for the smith’s shortcomings.

As Erik finished covering the coals with ashes, he could hear his mother calling from the kitchen. He ignored her demand that he hurry; there was more than enough time. There was no need to rush: the Baron would not have reached the edge of the town yet. The trumpet announced his approach, not his arrival.

Erik rarely considered his appearance, but he knew today was going to thrust him into the forefront of public scrutiny, and he felt he should attempt to look respectable. With that thought, he paused to remove his apron, carefully hung it on a peg, then plunged his arms into a nearby bucket of water. Rubbing furiously, he removed most of the black soot and dirt, then splashed water on his face. Grabbing a large clean cloth off a pile of rags used for polishing steel, he dried himself, removing what the water hadn’t through friction.

In the dancing surface of the water barrel he considered his broken reflection: a pair of intense blue eyes under a deep brow, a high forehead from which shoulder-length blond hair swept back. No one today would doubt that he was his father’s son. His nose was more his mother’s, but his jaw and the broad grin that came when he smiled were the mirror image of his father’s. But where his father had been a slender man, Erik was not. A narrow waist was his only heritage from his father. He had his maternal grandfather’s massive shoulders and arms, built up through working at the forge since his tenth birthday. Erik’s hands could bend iron or break walnuts. His legs were also powerful, from supporting plow horses who leaned on the smith while he cut, filed, and shod their hooves, or from helping to lift carts when replacing broken wheels.

Erik ran his hand over his chin, feeling the stubble. Blond as a man could get, he had to shave only every third day or so, for his beard was light. But he knew his mother would insist on him looking his best today. He quickly hurried to his pallet behind the forge, taking care not to disturb the smith, and fetched his razor and mirror. A cold shave was not his idea of pleasure, but far less irritating than his mother would be should she decide to send him back for the razor. He wet his face again and started scraping. When he was done, he looked at himself one more time in the shimmering water.

No woman would ever call Erik handsome: his features were large, almost coarse, from the lantern jaw to the broad forehead; but he possessed an open, honest look that men found reassuring and women would come to admire once they got used to his almost brutish appearance. At fifteen years of age, he was already the size of a man, and his strength was approaching the smith’s; no boy could best him at wrestling, and few tried anymore. Hands that could be clumsy when helping set platters and mugs in the common room were sure and adroit when working in the forge.

Again his mother’s voice cut through the otherwise quiet morning, demanding he come inside now. He rolled down his sleeves as he left the smithy, a small building placed hard against the outside rear wall of the livery. Circling the barn, he came into sight of the kitchen. As he passed the open stable door, he glanced at those horses left in his care. Three travelers were guesting with his master, and their mounts were quietly eating hay. The fourth horse was lying up from an injury and she neighed a greeting at Erik. He couldn’t help but smile; in the weeks he had been tending her she had come to expect his midmorning visits, as he trotted her out to see how she mended.

‘I’ll be back to visit later, girl,’ he called softly to her.

The tone of the horse’s snort revealed her less than enthusiastic response. Despite his age, Erik was one of the best handlers of horses in the region surrounding Darkmoor, and had earned the reputation of being something of a miracle worker. Most owners would have put down the injured mare, but Owen Greylock, the Baron’s Swordmaster, valued her highly. He judged it a prudent risk to put her into Erik’s care, for if he could make her sound enough to breed, a fine foal or two would be worth the trouble. Erik was determined to make her sound enough to ride again.

Erik saw his mother at the rear door of the Inn of the Pintail’s kitchen, her face a mask of resolve. A small woman of steely strength and determination, Freida had been pretty once, though hard work and the world’s cares had taken their toll. While not yet forty years of age, she looked closer to sixty. Her hair was completely grey where it had once been a luxurious brown, and her green eyes were set in a face of lines and angles. ‘Quickly,’ she commanded.

‘He’ll not be here for some time,’ answered Erik, hiding his irritation poorly.

‘There is only a moment,’ she replied, ‘and should we lose it, we shall never again have the chance. He’s ill and may not return again.’

Erik’s brow furrowed at the unspoken implication of that statement, but his mother said nothing more. The Baron rarely visited his smaller holdings anymore, save for occasional ceremonies; at harvest it was the custom for him to visit one of the villages and towns that provided Darkmoor with most of its wealth, the finest grapes and wine in the world, but the Baron visited only a single vintners’ hall, and the one in the town of Ravensburg was among the least important. Besides, Erik was convinced that for the last ten years the Baron had intentionally avoided this particular town, and knew the reason why.

Glancing at his mother, he recalled with a bitter taste in his mouth how, ten years before, she had half dragged, half led Erik through the crowd watching the Baron’s arrival. Erik remembered the looks of astonishment and horror on the faces of the town officials, guildmasters, vintners, and growers when his mother had demanded that the Baron admit to Erik’s paternity. What should have been a joyous celebration of the first taste of the harvest was turned into an embarrassment for all in the town, especially for little Erik. Several men of position had come to Freida several times after that, asking her forbearance in the future, a plea she politely listened to without comment or promise.

‘Stop your woolgathering and come inside,’ Freida demanded. She turned, and he followed her inside the kitchen.

Rosalyn smiled as Erik entered, and he nodded at the serving girl. The same age and companions since babyhood, Erik and the innkeeper’s daughter had been like brother and sister, confidants and best friends. Lately he had become aware that something deeper was blossoming in her, though he was unsure what to do about it. He loved her, but in a brotherly fashion, and he had never thought of her as a possible wife – his mother’s obsession closed off any discussion of such mundane concerns as marriage, trade, or travel. Of all the boys his age in the town, he was the only one not officially employed at a craft. His apprenticeship to Tyndal was informal, and despite his talent for the craft, he had no established standing with the guild offices, either in the Western Capital of Krondor or in the King’s city of Rillanon. Nor would his mother let him discuss having the smith live up to his oft-repeated promise of forwarding a formal petition to the guild to admit Erik as his apprentice. This should have been the end of Erik’s first year as an apprentice or working at a trade. Even though he knew his way around a forge better than apprentices two or three years older, he would start two years behind others, if his mother let him apprentice the next spring.

His mother, whose head barely reached his chin, said, ‘Let me look at you.’ She reached up and took his chin in her hand, as if he were still a child, not nearly a man, and turned his head one way, then another. With a dissatisfied clucking sound, she said, ‘You’re still stained with soot.’

‘Mother, I’m a blacksmith!’ he protested.

‘Clean yourself in the sink!’ she commanded.

Erik knew better than to say anything. His mother was a creature of iron will and unbending certainty. Early he had learned never to argue with her; even when he was wrongly accused of some transgression, he would simply and quietly take whatever discipline was meted out, for to protest would only increase the punishment. Erik stripped off his shirt and laid it over the back of a chair next to the table used to clean and prepare meats. He saw Rosalyn’s amusement at his being bullied by his small mother, and he feigned a scowl at her. Her smile only broadened as she turned away, picking up a large basket of freshly washed vegetables to carry them into the common room. Turning at the door, she bumped it open and as she backed through stuck her tongue out at him.

Erik smiled as he plunged his arms into the water she had just abandoned after cleaning the vegetables. Rosalyn could make him smile as could no other person. He might not fully understand the powerful stirrings and confusing urges that woke him late at night as he dreamed about one or another young woman in the village – he understood the specifics of mating, as any child raised around animals did, but the emotional confusion was new to him. At least Rosalyn didn’t confuse him the way some of the older girls did, and of one thing he was certain: she was his best friend in the world. As he splashed water on his face again, he heard his mother say, ‘Use the soap.’

He sighed and picked up the foul-smelling block of soap sitting on the back of the sink. A caustic mix of lye, ash, rendered tallow, and sand used to scrape clean serving platters and cooking pots, it would peel the skin from face and hands with repeated use. Erik used as little as he could get away with, but when he was done he was forced to admit that a fairly impressive amount of soot had come off into the sink.

He managed to rinse off the soap before his skin began to blister, and took a cloth handed him by his mother. He dried and put his shirt back on.

Leaving the kitchen, they entered the common room, where Rosalyn was finishing putting the vegetables into the large cauldron of stew that hung on a hook at the hearth. The mix would simmer slowly all afternoon, filling the common room with a savory smell that would have mouths watering by suppertime. Rosalyn smiled at Erik as he passed, and despite her cheerfulness, he felt his mood darkening as he anticipated the coming public scene.

Reaching the entrance to the inn, Erik and his mother discovered Milo, the innkeeper, peering through the open door. The portly man, with a nose like a squashed cabbage from years of ejecting ruffians from the common room, drew upon a long pipe as he observed the calm town. ‘Could be a quiet afternoon, Freida.’

‘But a frantic evening. Father,’ said Rosalyn as she came to stand at Erik’s side. ‘Once the people tire of waiting for a glimpse of the Baron, they’ll all come here.’

Milo turned with a smile and winked at his daughter. ‘An outcome to be devoutly prayed for. I trust the Lady of Luck has no other plans.’

Freida muttered, ‘Ruthia has better things to waste her good luck on, Milo.’ Taking her powerfully built son by the hand, as if he were still a baby, she led him purposefully through the door.

As Erik and his mother left the confines of the inn, Rosalyn said, ‘She’s determined, Father.’

‘That she is and always has been,’ he said, shaking his head and puffing on his pipe. ‘Even as a child she was most headstrong, willful …’ He put his arm around his daughter’s shoulder. ‘Nothing like your mother, I’m pleased to say.’

Rosalyn said, ‘The gossips have it that you were one of the many seeking Freida’s hand years ago.’

Milo chuckled. ‘They do, do they?’ Clucking his tongue, he added, ‘Well, that’s the truth. Most men my age were.’ He smiled down at his daughter. ‘Best thing that happened was her saying no. And your mother saying yes.’ He moved away from his only child and said, ‘Most of the boys were after Freida. She was a rare beauty in those days. Green flashing eyes and chestnut hair, slender but ample where it counts, and a proud look that could make a man’s pulse race. She moved like a racehorse and carried herself like a queen. It’s why she caught the Baron’s eye.’

A trumpet sounded from the edge of the town square and Rosalyn said, ‘I’d better be back to the kitchen.’

Milo nodded. ‘I’m going down to the square to see what happens, but I’ll come straight back.’

Rosalyn gripped his hand for a moment, and her father saw the concern in her eyes she had hidden from Erik. Nodding his understanding, he squeezed her hand for an instant, then released it. He turned and made his way through the street in front of the inn, following the route taken by Erik and Freida.

Erik used his bulk to ease through the crowd. Despite his strength, he was by nature a gentle youngster and would not use force, but his very presence caused others to give way. Broad of shoulders and arms, he could have been a young warrior by his looks, but he had a strong distaste for conflict. Quiet and introspective, after work he preferred a quiet cup of broth to curb his appetite while waiting for dinner, as he listened to the old men of the town tell stories, to the roughhousing and attempted girl-chasing his contemporaries saw as the height of recreation. The occasional girl who turned her attention upon him almost inevitably found his reticence daunting, but it was nothing more than his inability to think of anything clever to say. The prospect of any intimacy with a girl terrified Erik.

A familiar voice called his name, and Erik turned to see a ragged figure push through the press, using nimble quickness rather than size to navigate a path to Erik’s side. ‘Hello,’ said Erik in greeting.

‘Erik. Freida,’ said the youth in return. Rupert Avery, known by everyone in the village as Roo, was the one boy Freida had forbidden Erik to play with as a child, on many occasions, and the one boy Erik had preferred to play with. Roo’s father was a teamster, a rough man who was either absent from the village – driving his team down to Krondor, Malac’s Cross, or Durrony’s Vale – or lying drunken in his bed. Roo had grown up wild, and there was something dangerous and unpredictable in his nature, which was why Erik had been drawn to him. If Erik had no tongue to charm the ladies, Roo was a master of seduction, at least to hear him tell it. A knave and a liar, as well as an occasional thief, Roo was Erik’s closest friend after Rosalyn.

Freida nodded almost imperceptibly in return. She still didn’t like the youngster after knowing him all his life; she suspected his hand in every dishonest act or criminal event that took place in Ravensburg. Truth to be told, she was more often right than not. She glanced at her son and bit back a bitter comment. Now he was fifteen years of age, Erik’s willingness to be controlled by his mother was lessening. He had assumed most of the duties around the forge from Tyndal, who was drunk five days out of seven.

Roo said, ‘So you’re going to ambush the Baron again?’

Freida threw him a black look. Erik merely looked embarrassed. Roo grinned. He had a narrow face, intelligent eyes, and a quick smile, despite uneven teeth. Even further from being handsome than Erik, he had something alive in his manner and a quick intensity that those who knew him found likable, even captivating. But Erik also knew he had a murderous temper and lost it often, which had caused him to use Erik’s friendship as a shield against the other boys on more than one occasion. Few boys of the town would challenge Erik: he was too strong. While slow to anger, on the rare occasion when Erik had lost his temper, he had been a terrible sight to behold. He had once hit a boy’s arm in a moment of rage. The blow propelled the lad completely across the courtyard of the inn and broke the arm.

Roo pulled aside his ragged cloak, revealing far better-looking clothing beneath, and Erik saw in his hand a long-necked green glass bottle. Clearly etched into the neck of the bottle was a baronial crest.

Erik rolled his eyes heavenward. ‘Anxious to lose a hand, Roo?’ he said quietly in an exasperated tone.

‘I helped Father unload his wagon last night.’

‘What is it?’

‘Hand-selected berry wine,’ he said.

Erik grimaced. With Darkmoor being the center of the wine trade in the Kingdom of the Isles, the primary industry of Ravensburg was wine, as it was with most of the towns and villages in the barony. To the north, oak cutters and barrel makers labored to produce the fermenting vats and aging barrels for the wine, as well as corks, while to the south, glassmakers produced bottles, but the central area of the barony was dedicated to growing grapes.

While fine wines were produced in the Free Cities of Natal and Yabon province to the west, none matched the complexity, character, and age-worthiness of those produced in the Barony of Darkmoor. Even the difficult-to-grow Pinot Noir grape, originally imported from Bas-Tyra, flourished in Darkmoor as it did in no other place in the Kingdom. Lush reds and crisp whites, sparkling wines for celebration – Darkmoor’s finest product brought the highest prices from the northern borders south into the heart of the Empire of Great Kesh. And few wines were as highly prized as the intensely sweet dessert wine called berry wine.

Made from grapes shriveled by a mysterious sweet rot that occasionally afflicted the grapes, it was rare and costly; the bottle Roo held under his cloak was equal in worth to a farmer’s income for a half year. And from the crest on the bottle, Erik knew it was from the Baron’s private stock, shipped from the baronial capital city of Darkmoor to the Ravensburg guildhall for the Baron’s visit. While thieves no longer had their hands cut off, being discovered with the bottle could put Roo on the King’s labor gang for five years.

Trumpets sounded again and the first of the Baron’s guards rode into view, their banners snapping in the afternoon breeze, their horses’ iron shoes striking sparks on the stones of the square. Reflexively, Erik looked at their legs, for signs of lameness, and saw none; whatever else could be said of the Baron’s management of his estates, his cavalry always attended to their mounts.

The riders moved into the square and turned out from the small fountain that sat at its center, formed two lines, and slowly backed the commoners away. After a few minutes, the entire area before the Growers’ and Vintners’ Hall had been cleared for the coach that followed.

More soldiers rode past, each wearing the grey tabard bearing the crest of Darkmoor: a red heater shield upon which stood a black raven clutching a holly branch in its beak. This group of soldiers also wore a golden circlet sewn above the crest, indicating they were the Baron’s personal guards.

At last the coach rolled into view, and Erik suddenly realized he was holding his breath. Refusing to let his mother’s obsession control even the air in his lungs, he quietly let out a long breath and willed himself to relax.

He heard others in the crowd commenting. Rumors regarding the Baron’s failing vitality had circulated in the barony for more than a year now, and his sitting beside his wife in the coach, rather than astride his horse at the head of his guards, signaled that he must be ill in truth.

Erik’s attention was drawn to two boys, riding matching chestnut horses, followed by a pair of soldiers carrying the baronial ensign of Darkmoor. The cadency mark on the left banner heralded Manfred von Darkmoor, second son to the Baron. The mark on the right-hand banner proclaimed Stefan von Darkmoor, elder son of the Baron. Alike enough to appear twins, despite a year’s age difference, the boys rode with an expert ease that Erik found admirable.

Manfred scanned the crowd, and when his gaze at last fell upon Erik, he frowned. Stefan saw where Manfred stared and said something to his brother, recalling his attention to the matters at hand. The young men were dressed in similar fashion: high riding boots, tight-fitting breeches with full leather seats, long white silk shirts with a sleeveless vest of fine leather, and large berets of black felt, each adorned with a large golden baronial badge, from which rose a red-dyed eagle’s feather. At their sides they wore rapiers, and each was accounted an expert in their use despite their youth.

Freida gestured with her chin at Stefan, and whispered harshly, ‘Your place, Erik.’

Erik felt himself flush in embarrassment, but he knew the worst was yet to come. The coach stopped and coachmen leaped down to open the door as two burghers came forward to greet the Baron. First to leave the coach was a proud-looking woman, her features set in an expression of haughty disdain that detracted from her beauty. One glance at the two young men, who now dismounted their horses, confirmed that they were mother and sons. All three were dark, slender, and tall. Both youths came to stand before their mother and bowed in greeting. The Baroness scanned the crowd as her sons came to her side, and when she spied Erik looming over those around him, her expression darkened even more.

A herald called out, ‘His lordship, Otto, Baron of Darkmoor, Lord of Ravensburg!’

The crowd let out a respectable if not overly enthusiastic cheer; the Baron was not particularly loved by his people, but neither was he held in disregard. Taxes were high, but then taxes were always high, and whatever protection the Baron’s soldiers afforded the townsfolk from bandits and raiders was barely visible; since it was far from any border or the wild lands of the Western Realm, few rogues and villains troubled honest travelers near Darkmoor. No goblin or troll had been seen in these mountains in the memory of the oldest man living in Ravensburg, so few saw much benefit in supporting soldiers who did little more than ride escort for their lord, polish armor, and eat. Still, the harvest was good, food was in bountiful supply and affordable, and order commanded gratitude from the citizens of the Barony.

When the cheer died down, the Baron turned to the notables of the town waiting to greet him and an audible gasp rang through the crowd. The man who stepped from the coach had once been equal to Erik in size, but now he stooped, as if thirty years older than his forty-five years. Though still broad of shoulder, his naturally slender build was now dramatically gaunt in contrast. His hair, once golden, was lank and grey, and his face was ashen, sunken cheeks white as bleached parchment. The square jaw and proud forehead were bony ridges that emphasized the look of illness. The Baron was helped by his younger son’s firm grip on his left arm. His movements were jerky and he looked as if he might fall.

Someone near Erik said, ‘So then it’s true about the seizure.’

Erik wondered if the Baron’s condition might be aggravated by his mother’s plan, but as if hearing his thoughts, Freida said, ‘I must do this.’

Pushing past those who stood before her, she moved quickly between two mounted guardsmen before they could turn her back. ‘As a free woman of the Kingdom, I claim my right to be heard!’ she cried in a voice loud enough to carry across the square.

No one spoke. All eyes regarded the wiry woman as she pointed an accusing finger at the Baron. ‘Otto von Darkmoor, will you acknowledge Erik von Darkmoor as your son?’

The obviously ill Baron paused and turned to regard the woman who had asked him this question each time he had visited Ravensburg. His eyes searched past her and found her son, standing quietly behind her. Seeing his own image of younger years before him, Otto let his gaze linger upon Erik; then the Baroness came to his side and whispered quickly in his ear. With an expression of sadness on his face, the Baron shook his head slightly as he turned away from Erik’s mother and, without comment, moved into the largest building in the town, the Growers’ and Vintners’ Hall. The Baroness fixed a hard gaze upon Freida and Erik, barely masking her anger, before she turned to follow her husband into the hall.

Roo let out a sigh, and as one the crowd seemed to exhale. ‘Well, that’s that, then.’

Erik said, ‘I don’t think we’ll do this again.’

As Freida moved back toward them, Roo said, ‘Why? Do you think your mother’s going to stop if she gets another chance?’

Erik said, ‘She won’t get another chance. He’s dying.’

‘How do you know?’

Erik shrugged. ‘The way he looked at me. He was saying good-bye.’

Freida walked past her son and Roo, her expression unreadable as she said, ‘We have work to do.’

Roo glanced back to where the two brothers, Manfred and Stefan, watched Erik closely, speaking quietly together. Manfred was restraining Stefan, who seemed eager to cross the square and confront Erik. Roo said, ‘Your half brothers don’t care for you much, do they? Especially that Stefan.’

Erik shrugged, but it was Freida who spoke. ‘He knows that soon he will inherit what is rightfully Erik’s.’ Roo and Erik exchanged glances. Both knew better than to argue with Freida. She had always claimed that the Baron had wed her one spring night, in the woodland chapel, before a monk of Dala, Shield of the Weak. Then later he had requested and received an annulment so he could marry the daughter of the Duke of Ran, the records sealed by royal command for political reasons.

Roo said, ‘Then that is the last of it, for certain.’

Erik gave him a questioning look. ‘What do you mean?’

‘If you’re right, next year Stefan will be Baron. By the look of things, he’s not the sort to hesitate about publicly calling your mother a liar.’

Freida stopped walking. Her face showed a hopelessness Erik had never seen before. ‘He wouldn’t dare,’ she said, more a plea than a challenge. She attempted to look defiant, but her eyes showed she knew Roo was right.

‘Come, Mother,’ said Erik softly. ‘Let’s go home. The forge is banked, but if there’s work, I’ll need to get the fire hot again. Tyndal is certain to be in no condition to do it.’ He gently put his arm upon his mother’s shoulder, astonished at how frail she suddenly felt. She quietly allowed him to guide her along.

The townspeople stepped away, giving the young smith and his mother an open passageway from the square, all sensing that somehow there would soon be an ending to this tradition, begun fifteen years earlier, when first the beautiful and fiery Freida had boldly stepped forward and held out the squalling baby, demanding that Otto von Darkmoor recognize the child as his own. Nearly every soul in the Barony knew the story. She had confronted him five years later, and again he had not rebutted her claim. His silence gave her declaration credence, and for years the tale of the bastard child of the Baron of Darkmoor had been a source of local lore, good for a drink from passing strangers bound between Eastern and Western Realms of the Kingdom.

The mystery was always in the Baron’s silence, for had he denied it but once, from that day forward Freida would have had the burden of proof put squarely upon herself. The itinerant monk was never seen again in that region, and no other witness existed. And Freida had become the drudge of an innkeeper, and the boy a blacksmith’s helper.

Some claimed that the Baron was merely being kind to Freida, refusing to publicly brand her a liar, for while he had obviously fathered her child, the claim of marriage was certainly the ranting of a disturbed woman or the calculated concoction of one seeking some advantage.

Others said the Baron was too much a coward to proclaim a public lie by saying Erik was not his; for anyone had merely to glance at Otto to see that Erik was his very shadow. The Baron carried shame for a badge where a better man would wear honor, for to acknowledge Erik, even as a bastard son, would cast doubt upon his own children’s right to inherit, and bring down the wrath of his wife upon him.

But for whatever reason, by saying nothing, every year, he let the challenge stand unanswered. Erik could claim the name ‘von Darkmoor’ because the Baron had never denied him the right.

Slowly they moved through the street, back toward the inn. Roo, never one to let two minutes pass in silence back to back, said, ‘You going to do anything special tonight, Erik?’

Erik knew what Roo referred to: the Baron’s visit was an excuse for a public holiday, nothing as formal as the traditional festivals, but enough so that men would pack the little Inn of the Pintail and drink and gamble most of the night, and many of the young girls of the town would be down at the fountain, waiting for the young men to drink enough liquid courage to come pay court. There would be plenty of work to keep Erik busy. He said as much.

Roo said, ‘They are their mother’s sons, no doubt of that.’

Erik knew whom Roo meant: his half brothers. Roo glanced over his shoulder, down the street to the square, where the Growers’ and Vintners’ Hall and the Baron’s carriage were still visible, and found that the two noble boys had returned outside, ostensibly to oversee the removal of the Baron’s baggage, but both were in hushed conversation, their eyes fixed upon Erik’s retreating back. Roo felt an impulse to make a rude gesture in their direction, but thought better of it. Even at this distance, he could tell their expression was of open hostility and dark anger. Turning back toward the inn, Roo hurried his step to catch up to Erik.

Darkness brought a lessening of the day’s activities everywhere but at the Inn of the Pintail, where workers and town merchants who were not of sufficient rank to attend the dinner at the Growers’ and Vintners’ Hall gathered to enjoy a mug of wine or ale. A near-celebratory atmosphere gripped the inn as men told stories in loud voices, played cards and dice for copper coins, and tested their skill at a dart board.

Erik had been pressed into kitchen duty, as he often was when things got busy. While his mother was only a serving woman, Milo allowed her the position of kitchen supervisor, simply because Freida was in the habit of telling everyone what they should be doing. That she was almost always right in her estimation of everyone’s duties failed to mitigate the irritation such an attitude generated. Many serving women had come and gone at the inn over the years, more than a few telling Milo the reasons for their departure. His answer was always the same: she was a longtime friend and they were not.

By any reasonable measure, they acted the family, Freida and Erik, Milo and Rosalyn, husband and wife and brother and sister. Though each slept apart from the others, Milo in his room, Rosalyn in her own, Freida in a loft over the kitchen, and Erik upon a pallet in the barn, from awakening to bedtime they played their parts naturally. Freida ran the inn as if it were her own, and Milo was unwilling to overrule her, mostly because she did a wonderful job, but also because he, more than anyone, understood the pain Freida lived with daily. Though she would never admit it to anyone, she still loved the Baron, and Milo was convinced that her demand for recognition of her son was a twisted legacy of that love, a desperate grasping at some token that for a brief time she had truly loved and been loved.

Erik pushed open the common room door and carried another cask of ordinary wine behind the bar, setting it at Milo’s feet. The old man removed the empty cask from the barrel rack and moved it aside, while Erik easily lifted the new one into its place. Placing a clean tap against the bung, Milo drove it home with a single blow from a wooden mallet, then poured himself a small cup to test the content. Making a face, he said, ‘Why, in the midst of the finest wine in the world, do we drink this?’

Erik laughed. ‘Because it’s all we can afford, Milo.’

The innkeeper shrugged. ‘You have an irritating habit of being honest.’ Smiling, he said, ‘Well, it’s all the same for effect, then, isn’t it? Three mugs of this will get you just as tipsy as three mugs of the Baron’s finest, won’t they?’

At mention of the Baron, Erik’s face lost its merry expression. ‘I wouldn’t know,’ he said as he turned away.

Milo put his hand on Erik’s shoulder, restraining him. ‘Sorry, lad.’

Erik shrugged. ‘No slight intended, Milo – none taken.’

‘Why don’t you give yourself a break,’ said the innkeeper. ‘I can sense things are quieting down.’

This brought a grin from Erik, for the sound in the common room was close to deafening, with laughter, animated conversation, and general rowdiness the norm. ‘If you say so.’

Erik moved around from behind the bar, then pushed through the common room, and as he reached the door, Rosalyn threw him an accusatory look. He mouthed, ‘I’ll be back,’ and she threw her gaze heavenward a moment in feigned aggravation. Then she was again grabbing mugs off tables, heading back toward the bar.

The night was cool; fall was full upon them. At any moment it might turn bitter cold in the mountains of Darkmoor. Though they were not as high as the Calastius to the west or the Teeth of the World in the far north, still snow graced the peaks in the colder winters, and frost was a worry to growers in any season but summer.

Erik moved toward the town square, and as he anticipated, a few boys and girls still sat around the edge of the fountain before the Growers’ and Vintners’ Hall. Roo was speaking in low tones to a girl who managed to laugh at his suggestion while keeping an askance expression on her face. She was also employing her hands to good effect, limiting Roo’s to acceptable portions of her anatomy.

Erik said, ‘Evening, Roo. Gwen.’

The girl’s expression brightened as Erik came into view. One of the prettier girls in town, with red hair and large green eyes, Gwen had attempted to catch Erik’s eye on more than one occasion. She called his name as she firmly pushed Roo’s hands away. A few of the other youngsters of the town greeted the blacksmith’s helper, and Roo said, ‘Finished at the inn?’

Erik shook his head. ‘Just a break. I’ll have to head back in a few minutes. Thought I’d get some air. Gets very smoky in there, and the noise …’

Gwen was about to speak when something in Roo’s expression caused both her and Erik to turn. Coming into the light of the torches set around the fountain were two figures, dressed in fine clothing, swords swinging at their sides.

Gwen came to her feet and attempted an awkward curtsy. Others followed, but Erik stood silently, and Roo sat open-mouthed.

Stefan and Manfred von Darkmoor looked around the gathered boys and girls, roughly the same age as themselves, but their demeanor and finery set them apart as clearly as if they had been swans moving among geese and ducks in a pond. They had obviously been drinking from the way they moved, with the careful control of one who is masking intoxication.

As Stefan’s gaze settled on Erik, his expression darkened, but Manfred put a restraining hand upon his arm. Whispering something in Stefan’s ear, the younger brother maintained a tight grip. Stefan at last nodded once, his eyes heavy-lidded, and forced a cold smile to his lips. Ignoring Erik and Roo, he bowed slightly toward Gwen and said, ‘Miss, it seems my father and the town burghers are intent on discussing issues of wine and grapes beyond my understanding and patience. Perhaps you might care to acquaint us with some more … interesting diversions?’

Gwen blushed and then threw Erik a glance. He frowned at her and slightly shook his head no. As if challenging his right to advise her, she jumped lightly down from the low wall around the fountain and said, ‘Sir, I would be delighted.’ She called another girl who was sitting nearby. ‘Katherine, join us!’

Gwen took Stefan’s extended arm like a lady of the court, and Katherine awkwardly followed her example with Manfred. They strolled away from the fountain, Gwen exaggerating the sway of her hips as they vanished into the darkness.

After a moment, Erik said, ‘We’d better follow.’

Roo came to stand directly in front of his friend. ‘Looking for a fight?’

‘No, but those two won’t take no for an answer and the girls –’

Roo put his hand firmly on Erik’s chest, as if to prevent his moving forward. ‘… know what they’re getting into with noble sons,’ he finished. ‘Gwen’s no baby. And Stefan won’t be the first to get her to pull up her skirts. And you’re about the only boy in town who hasn’t bedded Katherine.’ Looking over his shoulder to where the four had vanished into the night, he added, ‘Though I thought the girls had better taste than that.’

Roo lowered his voice so that only Erik could hear, and his tone took on a harshness that his friend recognized. Roo used it only when he was deadly serious about a topic. ‘Erik, the day may come when you will have to face your swine of a brother. And when it does, you will probably have to kill him.’ Erik’s brow furrowed at Roo’s tone and words. ‘But not tonight. And not over Gwen. Now, don’t you have to get back to the inn?’

Erik nodded, gently removing Roo’s hand from his chest. He stood motionless for a second, trying to digest what his friend had just said. Then, shaking his head, he turned and walked back toward the inn.

• Chapter Two • Deaths

Tyndal was dead.

Erik still couldn’t believe it. Each time he came into the forge during the last two months he had expected to see the burly smith either asleep on his pallet at the rear of the forge or hard at work. The man’s sense of humor when he wasn’t sober, or his dark moodiness when he was – everything about him was etched in every corner of this place where Erik had learned his craft for the previous six years.

Erik inspected the coals from the previous night’s fire and judged how much wood to add to bring it back to life. A miller’s wagon had lurched into the courtyard the night before with a broken axle, and there would be ample work to fill his day. He still couldn’t get over Tyndal’s not being there.

Two months previously, Erik had climbed down from his loft expecting the events of the morning to be as usual, but one glance at Tyndal’s regular resting place had sent the hairs on Erik’s neck straight up. Erik had seen the smith drunk to a stupor, but this was something else. There was a stillness to the old man that Erik instinctively recognized. He had never seen a dead man before, but he had seen many animals dead in the fields, and there was something eerily familiar in the smith’s attitude. Erik touched Tyndal to assure himself the old blacksmith was truly dead, and when he touched cold skin he jerked his hand away as if from a burn.

The local priest of Killian, who acted as a healer for most of the poor in the town, quickly confirmed that Tyndal had indeed drunk his last bottle of wine. Since he had no family, it was left to Milo to dispose of the corpse, and he arranged a hasty funeral, with a quick pyre. The ashes were scattered, and a prayer was said to the Singer of Green Silence by her priest, though smiths were more correctly considered the province of Tith-Onanka, the god of war. Erik felt that somehow the prayer to Killian, the goddess of the forest and field, was appropriate: Tyndal had repaired perhaps one sword in the six years Erik had been around the forge, but countless plows, tillers, and other implements of farming.

A sound in the distance caught Erik’s ear. A midday coach was coming along the western road from Krondor, the Prince’s City. Erik knew that the chances were excellent it was Percy of Rimmerton at the reins, and if so, he would be putting in to the Pintail for refreshments for his horses and passengers. The driver was a rail-thin man of enormous appetite who loved Freida’s cooking.

As Erik had anticipated, within minutes the sounds of iron-shod wheels and hooves echoed loudly as the commercial coach approached the courtyard. Then it turned in and with a loud ‘Whoa!’ Percy reined in his team of four. The commercial coaches had begun their travel between Salador and Krondor five years previously and had proved a great success for their innovator, a wealthy merchant in Krondor named Jacob Esterbrook, who was now planning a coach line from Salador to Bas-Tyra, according to gossip. Each coach was essentially a wagon, with a covered roof and sides, and a small tailgate that when lowered provided a step into the wagon. A pair of planks along the sides provided indifferent seating, and the ride was lacking any pretense to comfort, as the wagons were rudely sprung. But the journey was swift compared to that by caravan, and for those unable to secure their own mounts to ride, almost as rapid as horseback.

‘Ho, Percy,’ said Erik.

‘Erik!’ replied the coachman, whose long thin face appeared to have been frozen in a grin surrounded by road dirt. He turned to his two passengers, a man dressed well and another in plain garments. ‘Ravensburg, sirs.’

The plainly dressed man nodded and moved to the rear of the coach as Erik obliged Percy by unlatching the tailgate. ‘Are you lying over?’ he asked the driver.

‘No,’ answered Percy. ‘We go on to Wolverton, where this other gentleman is bound; then we are done with this run.’ Wolverton was the next town in the direction of Darkmoor, and less than an hour away by fast coach. Erik knew that the passenger would be unlikely to welcome a meal stop this close to his destination. ‘From there I’m going empty to Darkmoor, so there’s ample time and no hurry. Tell your mother I’ll be back in a few days, gods willing, and I’ll have an extra of her best meat pie.’ Percy’s grin continued to split his thin face as he patted his stomach, miming hunger.

Erik nodded as the driver turned his team and quickly had them up to a trot and out of the courtyard. Erik turned to the man who had dismounted the coach, to ask if he required lodging, and found him vanishing around the corner of the barn.

‘Sir!’ Erik called, and hurried after.

He circled the barn and reached the forge, finding that the stranger had set down his bag and was removing his travel cloak. The man was as broad of shoulder and thick of arm as Erik, though he was a full head shorter. He had a fringe of long grey hair receding from his bald pate, and a thoughtful, almost scholarly expression. His brows were bushy and black, and his face was clean-shaven, though the stubble grown while traveling was almost white.

And he inspected everything carefully. He turned to see the young man standing at the door and said, ‘You must be the apprentice. You keep an orderly forge, youngster. That is good.’ He spoke with the odd flat twang typical of those from the Far Coast or the Sunset Islands.

‘Who are you?’ asked Erik.

‘Nathan is my name. I’m the new smith sent up from Krondor.’

‘From Krondor? New smith?’ Erik’s expression showed his confusion.

The large man shrugged as he hung his travel cloak on a wall peg. ‘The guild asked if I wished this forge. I said yes, and here I am.’

‘But it’s my smithy,’ said Erik.

‘It’s a baronial charge, boy,’ said Nathan, his tone turning firm. ‘You might be competent in most things – you might even be talented – but in time of war you’d be mending armor and tending the barony’s mounts, as well as taking care of farmers’ draft horses.’

‘War!’ exclaimed Erik. ‘War hasn’t touched Darkmoor since it was conquered!’

The man took a quick step forward and put his hand on Erik’s shoulder, gripping him firmly. ‘I think I know how you feel. But law is law. You’re a guild apprentice –’

‘No.’

The smith’s brows lowered. ‘No? Didn’t your master register you with the guild?’

With conflicting emotions, anger and ironic amusement, Erik said, ‘My former master was drunk most of the time. I’ve conducted the business of this forge since I was ten years of age, Master Smith. For years he promised to take the journey to Krondor or to Rillanon, to register my apprenticeship with the guild office. For the first three years I begged him to send a message by Kingdom Post, but after that … I was too busy to continue begging. He’s been dead for two months now, and I’ve done well enough tending the barony’s needs.’

The man stroked his chin and then shook his head. ‘This is a problem, youngster. You’re three years older than most who begin their apprenticeship –’

‘Begin!’ said Erik, his anger now coming to the fore. ‘I can match skills with any guild smith –’

Nathan’s expression darkened. ‘That’s not the point!’ he roared, his own anger at being interrupted giving him volume enough to silence Erik. ‘That’s not the point,’ he repeated more quietly when he saw that Erik was listening. ‘You may be the finest smith in the Kingdom, in all of Midkemia, but no one at the guild knows this. You have not been listed on the roster of apprentices, and no one with a guildmaster’s rank has vouched for your work. So you must begin –’

‘I will not apprentice for seven more years!’ said Erik, his temper threatening to get the better of him.

Nathan said, ‘Interrupt me again, boy, and I’ll cease being civil with you.’

Erik’s expression showed he was not in the least bit apologetic, but he stayed silent.

Nathan said, ‘You can go to Krondor or Rillanon and petition the guild. You’ll be tested and evaluated. If you show you know enough, you’ll be allowed to apprentice, or perhaps you’ll even get journeyman’s rank, though I doubt that seriously; even if you’re the best they’ve ever seen, there’s still the politics of it. Few men are willing to grant to another rank without the sweat to have earned it. And there’s always the possibility they’ll call you a presumptuous lout and throw you into the street.’ The last came with a hard tone, and suddenly Erik realized that this man had spent at least seven years as an apprentice and perhaps twice that as a journeyman before gaining his master’s badge – and to him Erik must sound a whining child.

‘Or you can apprentice here, in your hometown with your family and friends, and be patient. If you are indeed as well taught as you claim, I’ll certify you as quickly as I can, so you can petition for a forge of your own.’

Erik looked as if he was again going to object that this was his forge, but he said nothing. Nathan continued, ‘Or you can set out today, on your own, and become an independent smith. With your talent you’ll make a living. But without a guild badge you’ll never set up shop in any but the rudest villages, unless you wish to travel to the frontier. For no noble will trust his horses and armor to any but a guildmaster, and the rich common folk to no less than a guild journeyman. And that means, no matter how gifted you are, you’ll always be nothing more than a common tinker.’

Erik remained silent, and after a moment Nathan said, ‘Thoughtful, is it? That’s good. Now, here’s the choice of it: you can stay and learn and perfect your skills and I’ll count myself a lucky sod for having a second pair of trained hands around, belonging to someone I don’t have to teach every tiny thing. Or you can brood and be resentful, and think you know as much as I, and be useless to us both. There’s only room for one master in this forge, boy, and I am he. So there’s the end of it, and there’s the choice. Do you need time to think on this?’

Erik paused, then said, ‘No. I need no time to think about it, Master Nathan.’ Sighing, he added, ‘You are correct. There is only one master in a forge. I …’

‘Spit it out, boy.’

I have been responsible around here for so long I feel as if it is my forge, and that I should have been given it by the guild.’

Nathan nodded once. ‘That’s understandable.’

‘But it’s not your fault Tyndal was a slacker and my time here counts for nothing.’

‘None of that, boy –’

‘Erik. My name is Erik.’

‘None of that, Erik,’ said Nathan; then suddenly he swung hard and connected a roundhouse right that knocked Erik onto his backside. ‘And I told you, interrupt me again and I’d cease being civil. I am a man of my word.’

Erik sat rubbing his jaw, astonishment on his face. He knew the smith had pulled the blow, but he could feel the sting of it anyway. After a moment he said, ‘Yes, sir.’

Nathan put out his hand and Erik took it. The smith pulled Erik to his feet. ‘I was about to say that any time spent learning a craft counts. You only lack credentials. If you’re as good as you think you are, you’ll be certified in the minimum seven years. You’ll be older than most journeymen when you seek your own forge, but you’ll be younger than some, trust me on that. There are slower lads that don’t leave their master’s forge until they are in their late twenties. Remember this: you may be coming late to your office, but your learning started four years earlier than most boys’ as well. Knowledge is knowledge, and experience is experience, so you should have a far shorter time of it from journeyman to master. In the end, it will all work out.’

Turning slowly, as if examining the smithy once again, he said, ‘And from what I see here, if you can keep your head right, we’ll get along fine.’

There was an open friendliness in that remark which caused Erik to forget his stinging jaw. He nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Now, show me where I sleep.’

Without being told, Erik picked up the smith’s travel bag and cloak, and motioned. ‘Tyndal had no family, so he slept here. There’s a small room around back, and I sleep in the loft up there.’ Erik pointed to the only place he’d called his own for the last six years. ‘I never thought about moving into Tyndal’s room – habit, I guess.’ He led the smith out the rear door and to the shed that Tyndal had used for his bedroom.

‘My former master was drunk most of the time, so I fear this room is likely to be …’ He opened the door.

The smell that greeted them almost made Erik gag. Nathan only stood a moment, then stepped away as he said, ‘I’ve worked with drunkards before, lad, and that’s the smell of sour sickness. Never seek to hide in a wine bottle, Erik. It’s a slow and painful death. Meet your sorrows head on, and after you’ve wrestled with them, put them behind.’

Something in his tone told Erik that Nathan wasn’t simply repeating an aphorism but was speaking from belief. ‘I can put this room right, sir, while you take your ease at the inn.’

‘I’d best make myself known to the innkeeper; he is to be my landlord, after all. And I could use something to eat.’

Erik realized he hadn’t thought of that. The office of guild smith might be granted by the guild and a patent for a town might be exclusive, but otherwise the smith was like any other tradesman, forced to make a profit the best he knew how, and responsible for setting up his own place of business. Erik said, ‘Sir, Tyndal had no family. Who …’

Nathan put his hand on Erik’s shoulder. ‘Who should I be paying for all these tools?’

Erik nodded.

Nathan said, ‘My own tools will be coming by freight hauler any day now. I have no desire to take what is not rightfully mine, Erik.’ He scratched his day’s growth of whiskers as he thought. ‘When you’re ready to leave Ravensburg and begin your own forge, let us assume they go with you. You were his last apprentice, and tradition has it that you are to pay the widow for the tools. As he had no family, there’s no one to pay, is there?’

Erik realized what an incredibly generous offer he was being made. An apprentice was expected somehow to supplement his earnings so that by the time he reached journeyman’s rank he could purchase a complete set of tools, and an anvil, and have the money to pay for the construction of a forge if needed. Most young journeymen were able to begin modestly, but Tyndal, for all his sloth in his last years, had been a master smith for seventeen years and had every conceivable tool of the trade, two and three of some. With proper care and cleaning, Erik would be set up for life!

Erik said, ‘If you would like, I can show you to the kitchen.’

‘I’ll find my way. Just come get me when this room is cleaned up.’

Erik nodded, and as Nathan moved off toward the rear of the inn, the boy held his breath and went into Tyndal’s room. Throwing open the single window didn’t help, and Erik hurried back outside because of the stench. Unpleasant odors bothered Erik, strong as he was in most ways, and he confessed to a weak stomach. Though he was used to the smell of the barn and forge, nevertheless the odor of human illness and waste caused the bile to rise in his gorge, and he had tears in his eyes from the reek by the time he got Tyndal’s bedding outside the hut.

Breathing through his mouth and turning his head away, he hurried to the large iron tub his mother used for washing and threw the filthy linens into it. As he was building up the fire beneath, his mother approached.

‘Who is this man claiming to be the new smith?’ she demanded.

Erik was in no mood to battle his mother, so he calmly said, ‘Not claiming; is. The guild sent him.’

‘Well, did you tell him there already was a smith here?’

Erik got the fire under the tub going and stood up. As calmly as he could manage, he said, ‘No. This is a guild forge. And I have no standing with the guild.’ Thinking of Tyndal’s tools, he added, ‘Nathan’s being very generous and is keeping me on. He’ll apprentice me to the guild and …’

Erik expected an argument, but instead his mother only nodded once and left without further comment. Puzzled by her lack of outburst, Erik stood a moment until the crackling of the fire under the tub reminded him he had a still-unfinished task. He took one of the hard cakes of soap used to wash the inn’s bedding and broke it in half. Tossing the hard soap into the tub, he began stirring with a paddle. As the water turned a deep brown, he thought: why no argument from his mother? There was an air of resignation from her that he had never seen before.

Leaving the sheets to simmer in the tub, Erik hurried back to the smith’s room, grabbing some rags and a mineral oil cleaner he used on especially filthy tack and tools. He removed the balance of Tyndal’s possessions, a single large chest and a sack of personal items. A rickety wooden wardrobe he left inside, in case Nathan choose to hang his cloaks and shirts there; he could always haul it away later if the new smith didn’t care for it.

When he had the last of Tyndal’s possessions outside, Erik regarded the meager pile. ‘Not a lot to show for a lifetime,’ he muttered. He picked up the chest and hauled it over to one corner of the small yard behind the barn, and picked up the sack and placed it on top. He’d go through them later to see what Tyndal had left that might be of use. There were always poor farmers on the outskirts of the vineyards who grew other than grapes, and they always could use serviceable clothing.

Then Erik took the rags and cleaner and began scrubbing years of accumulated grime off the walls.

Erik entered the kitchen to find Milo sitting at the big table, staring across at Nathan, who was finishing a large bowl of stew. Milo was nodding at something the smith had just said, while Freida and Rosalyn both made busy preparing vegetables for the evening meal.

Erik glanced at his mother, who stood expressionless at the sink, listening to the men speak. Rosalyn inclined her head toward Erik’s mother, indicating concern. Erik nodded briefly, then moved beside his mother, indicating he wished to wash up. She nodded curtly and moved toward the oven, where the bread purchased that morning from the baker was being kept warm.

Nathan continued what he had been saying when Erik entered. ‘While I have the knack with iron, I’m indifferent with horses, truth to tell, above the legs. I can adjust a shoe to balance a lameness, or to compensate for some other problem, but when it comes to the rest, I’m as simple as anyone.’

‘Then you’ve chosen wisely to keep Erik on,’ said Milo, showing an almost fatherly pride. He’s a wonder with horses.’

Rosalyn asked, ‘Master Smith, from what you’ve said, you could have had any number of large baronial forges, or even a ducal charge. Why did you pick our small town?’

Nathan pushed away the bowl of stew he had finished, and smiled. ‘I’m a lover of wine, truth to tell, and this is a great change from my former home.’

Freida turned and blurted, ‘We’re scant weeks past burying one smith for the love of too much wine, and now we’ve another! The gods must hate Ravensburg indeed!’

Nathan looked at Freida and spoke. His tone was measured, but it was clear he was not far from anger. ‘Good woman, I love the wine, but I’m no mean drunkard. I was a father and husband who took care of his own for many years. If I drink more than a glass in a day, it’s a festival. I’ll thank you to pass no judgment on matters you know nothing about. Smiths are no more cut from the same bolt of cloth as all men of any other trade are alike in all ways.’

Freida turned away, her color rising slightly, but she said nothing save, ‘The fire is too warm. This bread will be dry before supper.’ She made a show of turning the coals, though everyone knew it was unnecessary.

Erik watched his mother for a moment, then turned toward Nathan. ‘The room is clean, sir.’

Freida snapped, ‘Will you all be sharing that one tiny room?’

Nathan rose, picking up his cloak and leaning over to retrieve his bag. As he hoisted his possessions, he said, ‘All?’

‘These children and your wife you spoke so tenderly of?’

Nathan’s tone was calm when he replied, ‘All dead. Killed by raiders in the sacking of the Far Coast. I was senior journeyman to Baron Tolburt’s Master Smith at Tulan.’ The room was still as he continued. ‘I was asleep, but the sound of fighting woke me. I told my Martha to see to the children as I ran to the forge. I took no more than two steps out the door of the servants’ quarters when I was struck twice by arrows’ – he touched his shoulder, then his left thigh – ‘here and here. I fainted. Another man fell on top of me, I think. Anyway, my wife and children were already dead when I awoke the next day.’ He glanced around the room. ‘We had four children, three boys and a girl.’ He sighed. ‘Little Sarah was special.’ He fell silent for a long moment, and his face took on a reflective expression. Then he said, ‘Damn me. It’s nearly twenty-five years now.’ Without another word he rose, and nodded his head once to Milo, then moved to the door.

Freida looked as if she had been struck. She turned toward Nathan, her eyes brimming with moisture, and looked as if she were about to speak, but as the smith left the kitchen she was unable to find the words.

Erik looked after the departing smith, and then back toward his mother. For the first time in his life he felt embarrassed for her and he found the feeling unpleasant. He glanced around the kitchen and noticed Rosalyn looking at Freida with an expression of irritation and regret. Milo made a show of ignoring everyone as he rose from the table to move to the tap room.

Erik said at last, ‘I’d better see if he’s settled in. Then I’ll be seeing to the horses.’

Erik left and Rosalyn moved around the kitchen in silence, trying to spare Freida any more embarrassment. After a moment she realized the older woman was silently weeping. Caught in an impasse as to what to do, she hesitated, then at last said, ‘Freida?’

The older woman turned toward the younger, her cheeks damp from her tears. Her face was a mask of conflict, as if she wished to vent some deeply buried pain but couldn’t let it surface past a sharp retort. Rosalyn said, ‘Can I do anything?’

Freida remained motionless for long seconds, then said, ‘The berries need washing.’ Her tone was hoarse, and she spoke softly. Rosalyn moved toward the sink and began working the hand pump her father and Erik had installed only the year before so she and Freida wouldn’t have to carry water from the well behind the inn anymore. As cold water filled the wooden sink, Freida said, ‘And stay the sweet child you are, Rosalyn. There’s too much pain in the world already.’

The older woman hurried from the kitchen on some imagined errand, and Rosalyn knew she just wished to be alone for a while. The exchange with the new smith had released something Freida had buried and Rosalyn didn’t understand, but in her sixteen years the girl had never seen Erik’s mother cry. As she cleaned the fruit for the evening’s pies, she wondered if this was a good thing or not.

The evening was quiet, with only a few locals calling in at the Pintail for a quick drink, and only one seeking a meal. Erik finished cleaning the kettle as a favor to Rosalyn, and hauled it back to the hook over the fire, now low-glowing embers.

He waved good night to Rosalyn, who was carrying four flagons of ale to a table occupied by four of the town’s more eligible young journeymen, all of whom were flirting with the innkeeper’s daughter, more to keep some sort of status with one another than out of any real interest in the young girl.

Passing through the kitchen, Erik found his mother standing by the door, looking at the night sky, ablaze with stars. All three moons were down this night, a rare occurrence, and the display was always worth a moment to observe.

‘Mother,’ said Erik quietly as he started to move away.

‘Stay awhile,’ she said softly, a request and not an order. ‘It was a night like this I met your father.’

Erik had heard the story before but knew his mother was struggling with something that had occurred while she spoke to the smith. He still didn’t fully understand what had happened in his mother, but he knew she needed to speak. He sat down on the steps beside where his mother stood.

‘Otto had come to Ravensburg for the first time as Baron, after his father’s death two years before. He had attended the Vintners’ and Growers’ reception for him, and after drinking with the town leaders, he had gone for a walk to clear his head. He was brash and quick to dispense with protocol, and had ordered his servants and guards to leave him alone.’

She stared into the night, calling up memories. ‘I had come down to the fountain with the other girls, to flirt with the boys.’ Erik recalled his own last visit to the fountain with Roo and realized the practice was long established. ‘The Baron came into the lantern light and suddenly we were a bunch of awkward children.’ Then Erik saw a spark in his mother’s eyes, and heard an echo of the spirit that had captivated men’s hearts before he was born. ‘I was as awed as the rest, but I was too proud to show it,’ she said with a rueful smile, and years dropped away from her. Erik could imagine the impact such a sight after an evening spent drinking must have had on the Baron as he spied the beautiful Freida at the fountain.

‘He had court manners, and rank, and riches, and yet there was something honest in him, Erik: a little boy who was as afraid of being sent away as any other boy. He was twenty-five, and young for that age. But he swept me off my feet, with sweet words and a wicked humor in them. Less than an hour later he had bedded me under a tree in an apple orchard.’ She sighed, and again Erik was put in mind of a young girl, not this woman of iron he had known all his life.

‘I had a terrible reputation, but I had never known another man. He had known other women, for he was sure, but he was also tender and gentle and loving.’ She glanced at her son. ‘In the dark, under the stars, he spoke of love, but the next day I thought I’d never see him again and counted myself just another foolish girl taken in by a nobleman’s charms.

‘But against any hope of mine, he came to me a month later, in the late afternoon, alone, astride a horse flecked with foam from a hard ride from his castle. Hidden by a large cloak, he had slipped into the inn as we were readying for the night’s trade, and there he sought me out and revealed himself. To my astonishment, he professed love and asked for my hand.’ She gave a bittersweet laugh. ‘I called him mad and ran from the inn.

‘Later that night, I returned to find him waiting at this very spot, like a common farmhand. He again told of his love for me, and again I told him he was bereft of sense.’ Tears gathered in her eyes. ‘He laughed and said he knew it seemed that way, but after taking my hand and gazing into my eyes, he kissed me once and convinced me. This time I knew why I had gone with him first time – not because of his rank and station, but because I loved him as well.

‘He cautioned me that none must know of our love for each other until he had journeyed to Rillanon to petition King Lyam for my hand, for tradition bound him to his liege lord’s pleasure. But to seal our love, and to provide me with a claim, we spoke our vows in a small chapel used during the harvest, with an itinerant monk who had been in town less than a day, conducting the ceremony. The monk made a pledge not to speak of the vows until Otto gave him leave, and left us alone, for the next morning Otto planned to leave to see the King.’

Freida was silent a moment; then her tone took on a familiar bitterness. ‘Otto never returned. He sent a messenger, your friend Owen Greylock, with news that the King had denied his petition and had instructed him to wed the daughter of the Duke of Ran. “For the good of the Kingdom,” Greylock said. Then he said the King had ordered the Great Temple of Dala in Rillanon to declare the wedding annulled, and had the order placed under Royal Seal, so as not to embarrass Mathilda or any sons she might bear. I was advised to find a good man and forget Otto.’ Tears ran down her cheeks as she said, ‘What a shock good Master Greylock got then when I told him I was with child.’

She sighed and reached over and gripped her son’s arm. ‘As my time neared, rumors circulated about who was your father, this merchant or that grower. But when you were born, and quickly became the image of your father in his youth, no one denied you were Otto’s boy. Not even your father will deny it publicly.’

Erik had heard the story a dozen times before, but never told quite this way. Never before had he thought of his mother as a young girl in love or of the bitter rejection she must have felt when news of Otto’s marriage to Mathilda had come. Still, there was no profit in living for yesterday. ‘But he never acknowledged me, either,’ said Erik.

‘True,’ agreed his mother. ‘Yet he left you this much: you have a name, von Darkmoor. You may use it with pride, and should any man challenge your right you may look him in the eye and say, “Not even Otto, Baron von Darkmoor, denies me my right to this name.”’

Erik reached up and awkwardly took his mother’s hand. She glanced at him and smiled her stiff, unforgiving smile, but there was a hint of warmth in it as she squeezed his huge hand, then released it. ‘This Nathan: I think he may be a good man. Learn what you can from him, for you’ll never have your birth-right.’

Erik said, ‘That was your dream, Mother. I know little of politics, but what I have heard in the taproom leads me to believe that should you have had the High Priest of Dala himself as witness in the chapel that night, it would count for little. The King, for reasons known best to him, wished my father married to the daughter of the Duke of Ran, and thus it was, and thus it would always have been.’

Erik stood. ‘I will need to spend some extra time with Nathan, letting him know what I can do, and finding out what he wishes me to do. I think you’re right: he’s a good man. He could have sent me packing, but he’s trying to do right by me, I think.’

Impulsively, Freida threw her arms around her son’s neck, hugging him closely. ‘I love you, my son,’ she whispered.

Erik stood motionless, uncertain how to respond. She spared him the need by letting go and turning quickly into the kitchen, shutting the door behind her.

Erik stood a moment, then slowly turned and moved toward the barn.

As the months passed, things fell into a routine at the Inn of the Pintail. Nathan blended in quickly, and after a while it was hard to recall what the inn had been like with Tyndal as smith. Erik found his new master a fount of information, as much of what Tyndal had taught him had been basic, solid smithing but Nathan knew much that made the work above-average, even exceptional. His knowledge of the different requirements for weapons and armor opened a new area for Erik, for Nathan had been the Baron Tolburt’s own armorer in Tulan at one time.

One day the sound of hooves upon cobbles caused Erik to look up from where he held a hot plow blade Nathan was hammering for a local farmer. The slender figure of Owen Greylock, the Baron’s Swordmaster, appeared as he rode his mount around the barn from the rear court of the inn.

Nathan took away the blade and plunged it into water, then set it aside as Erik came to stand next to the horse, holding her bridle as Greylock dismounted.

‘Swordmaster!’ said Erik. ‘She’s not lame again, is she?’

‘No,’ said Owen, indicating that Erik should see for himself.

Erik ran his hand along the horse’s left foreleg as Nathan approached, then motioned the youngster to stand aside. Nathan examined the horse’s leg. ‘This is the horse you told me of?’

Erik nodded.

‘You say it was this suspensor tendon, was it?’

Greylock looked on with approval as Erik said, ‘Yes, Master Smith. She had pulled it slightly.’

‘Slightly!’ said Greylock. He had an angular face, made even more stern by a severe hairstyle – high bangs, with most of the rest cut straight around the nape of his neck – which split into a smile, serving to make him even more unattractive, for his teeth were uneven and yellowing. ‘Totally blown, I should say, Master Smith. Puffed up to the size of my thigh, and the mare could barely stand to put weight on it. I thought I’d have to send for the knackers, for certain. But Erik had a way, and I’d seen his work before, so I gave him the chance and he didn’t disappoint.’ Shaking his head in mock astonishment, he said, ‘“Slightly.” The lad’s too modest for his own good.’

‘What did you do?’ Nathan asked Erik.

‘I wrapped her leg in hot compresses at first. There’s a drawing salve the healing priest at the Temple of Killian makes that makes your skin feel hot. I used that on her leg. I hand-walked her and wouldn’t let her pull again, even if she got rammy. She’s spirited and wanted to bolt more than once, but I put a stud chain over her nose and let her know I’d have none of it.’ Erik reached over and patted the mare on the nose. ‘We became pretty fair friends.’

Nathan stood and shook his head, obviously impresssed. ‘For the four months I’ve been here, Swordmaster, I’ve been hearing of this lad’s skill with horses. Some of it I took to be local pride felt by his friends.’ Turning to Erik, he smiled and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘I don’t say this lightly, lad. Perhaps you should put aside your apprenticeship as a smith and turn your hand to healing horses. I am self-admitted indifferent in healing animals, though I will put my shoeing work up against any man’s, but even I can see this horse is completely sound, as if she had never been injured.’

Erik said, ‘It’s a useful skill, and I like to see the horses healthy, but there’s no guild …’

Nathan was forced to agree. ‘True enough. A guild is a mighty fortress and can shelter you when no amount of skill can save you from’ – he suddenly remembered the Baron’s Swordmaster was standing a few feet away – ‘many unexpected ends.’

Erik smiled. He knew what the smith had been about to say had to do with the long-standing rivalry between the nobility and the guilds. Started as a means to certify workmen and guarantee a certain minimum standard of skill, the guilds had become a political force in the Kingdom over the last century, to the point of having their own courts to adjudicate matters within each guild, much to the irritation of the King’s courts and the courts of the other nobles. But the nobles were too dependent upon the quality assurance of the many guilds to do more than grumble about flouting authority. But often one of the craft guilds had saved a member from some injustice at the hands of a noble. Despite a long tradition of responsible nobility in the Kingdom, there were always one or two minor earls or barons who thought they could simply ignore a debt. Having a patent of arms from the King did not ensure wealth, and more than one noble had attempted to use rank and position rather than coin of the realm to settle his debts.

Erik distracted Greylock. ‘Swordmaster, what cause brings you to Ravensburg this day?’

The usually serious Swordmaster’s face returned to its usual dour expression. ‘You, Erik. Your father rides to Krondor on state business. He’ll be here this evening. I came early to see if …’

‘If I could prevail upon my mother to let him alone?’

Greylock nodded. ‘He’s not well, Erik. He shouldn’t be making the journey and …’

‘I’ll do what I can.’ He knew promising was vain should his mother take it into her head to repeat her performance of the last time Otto came through the town. ‘She may have finally gotten over making me the next Baron.’

Greylock made a sour face. ‘I would be out of place to comment on that.’ Then he softened his expression. ‘Trust me on this. If you can, stand by the corner of the town road where the sheep meadow ends and the first vineyard begins, on the east side of the town, before sunset.’

‘Why?’

‘I can’t say, but it’s important.’

‘If my father is so ill, Owen, what cause has he to ride to Krondor?’

Greylock mounted his horse. ‘Ill news, I’m afraid. The Prince is dead. It will be announced to the populace by royal messenger later this week.’

Erik said, ‘Arutha is dead?’

Greylock nodded. ‘He fell and broke his hip, I’ve been told, and died of complications. He was an aging man, nearly eighty if I have it right.’

Prince Arutha had been a fixture in Krondor all of Erik’s life and his mother’s before him. Father to the King, Borric, who had succeeded Arutha’s brother Lyam only five years earlier, he had been the man most responsible for peace in the Kingdom, by all accounts.

To Erik he was a distant figure; certainly, Erik had never seen the Prince, but he felt a small stab of regret. By anyone’s measure he was a good ruler and a hero in his youth. As Greylock turned the mare around, Erik said, ‘Tell my father I will stand where he asked.’

Greylock saluted and lightly touched spurs to the mare’s flanks, and she trotted out of the inn courtyard.

Nathan, who had come to understand a great deal of Erik’s history in the months he had been living at the Pintail, said, ‘You’ll want some extra time to clean up.’

Erik said, ‘I hadn’t thought of that. I was just going to leave at suppertime.’

It was late spring, and sunset came close to an hour after supper. Erik would need most of the hour to make it to the other side of Ravensburg, and through the vineyards to the sheep meadow, but only if he went in his dirty clothing.

Nathan playfully hit Erik on the back of the head with his open hand. ‘Dolt. Get yourself cleaned up. Sounds important.’

Erik thanked Nathan and hurried to the forge. Below the pallet in the loft where he slept, behind the ladder, sat a trunk with all of Erik’s belongings. He took out his one good shirt and carried it over to the washbasin. Removing his dirty shirt, he took the harsh soap and some clean rags and worked feverishly to rid himself of as much dirt as possible. At last he felt presentable and put on his good shirt.

He hurried out of the barn and went to the kitchen, where food was being placed upon the table as he entered. Sitting down, he drew a suspicious look from his mother. ‘Why are you wearing your good shirt?’ she asked.

Not willing to share his father’s request for a meeting with his mother, lest she demand to accompany him and force a confrontation, he muttered, ‘I’m meeting someone after supper,’ then started noisily eating the stew placed before him.

Milo, who was sitting at the head of the table, laughed. ‘One of the town girls, is it?’

This brought an alarmed look from Rosalyn, the color rising in her cheeks as Erik said, ‘Something like that.’

Erik continued to eat in silence, while Milo and Nathan spoke of the day’s events, and the women joined Erik in silence.

Nathan had a dry sense of humor that made it difficult at first to know if he was being mocking or merely amusing. This had resulted in Freida and Milo both treating him with some coolness at first.

But his warm nature and clear appreciation of life’s little moments had won over even Erik’s mother, who could often be seen trying to fight back a smile at some quip of Nathan’s. Erik had once asked him how he kept so even a disposition, and the answer had surprised him. ‘When you lose everything,’ Nathan had said, ‘you’ve nothing left to lose. You’ve got two choices then: either kill yourself or start building a new life. When I started this new life, without my family, I decided the only sensible thing in it was to live for the small rewards: a job well done, a beautiful sunrise, the sound of children laughing at play, a good cup of wine. Makes it easy to deal with the harsher side of life.

‘Kings and marshals can look back and relive their triumphs, their great victories. We common folk must take what pleasure we can from life’s little victories.’

Erik hardly touched his food, and at last bade everyone excuse him as he almost jumped up from the table and hurried out through the common room, Milo’s laughter following after. He almost ran through the door of the inn and barely avoided knocking Roo down as the youngster was about to enter the inn.

‘Wait a minute!’ cried Roo as he fell in beside his larger friend.

‘Can’t. I have to meet someone.’

Roo grabbed the larger youth by the arm and was almost dragged along a step or two before Erik stopped. ‘What?’ he asked Roo impatiently.

‘Did your father send for you?’

Erik had long since stopped being amazed at the town gossip Roo was able to ferret out, but this had him stunned. ‘Why do you ask that?’

Because since late yesterday the road has been thick with Kingdom Post riders, sometimes as many as three in a bunch, and a company of the Baron’s horse, followed by two companies of foot soldiers, passed by the eastern boundary of the town this morning, heading south, and the Baron’s own personal guards showed up an hour ago at the Growers’ and Vintners’ Hall. That’s what I was coming to tell you. And you’re wearing your best shirt.’

Not wishing to have Roo along, Erik said, ‘The Prince of Krondor is dead. That’s why …’ He was about to say that was why his father was coming to the town, on his way to Krondor, but instead said, ‘all the fuss.’

Roo said, ‘So those soldiers are heading south to support the garrisons along the Keshian border, in case the Emperor gets ambitious now that Arutha’s dead.’ Now suddenly an expert in military matters, Roo was left standing by Erik, who had resumed his hurried march.

Seeing he was suddenly alone, Roo yelled, ‘Hey!’ and chased after his friend, catching up with him as Erik left the street of the Pintail and entered the main square of the town.

‘Where are you going?’

Erik stopped. ‘I have to meet someone.’

‘Who?’

‘It’s personal.’

‘It’s not a girl, or you’d be heading north to the fountain, not east toward the baronial road.’ Roo’s eyes widened. ‘You are meeting your father! I was just joking before.’

Erik said, ‘I don’t want anyone to say anything, especially not to my mother.’

‘I’ll keep this to myself.’

‘Good,’ said Erik, turning Roo around with two large and powerful hands on narrow shoulders. ‘Go find something amusing to do, and not too illegal, and I’ll talk to you later tonight. Meet me at the inn.’

Roo frowned, but sauntered off as if he had intended to leave Erik alone anyway. Erik resumed his journey.

He hurried through the businesses clustered around the town square, two- and three-story edifices overhanging the narrow streets, then moved between the modest homes owned by the higher-ranking members of the various crafts and guilds, then the ramshackle houses used by workers, married apprentices, and traders without storefronts.

Leaving the town proper, he hurried along the east road, past small vegetable gardens where pushcart traders grew their wares to sell in the town market, and the large eastern vineyards. Reaching the point where the baronial road leading to Darkmoor intercepted the main east – west road through Ravensburg, he waited.

He mulled over what possible reason he could have been asked to meet his father at this relatively remote location, dismissing the most fanciful of all, that his mother’s dream would somehow be realized and his father would acknowledge him.

His musing was interrupted by the sound of an approaching company of horsemen. Soon he could see them crest a distant hill, a company of riders appearing out of the evening’s gloom to the northeast. As they neared, he could see they were the Baron’s own, leading the same carriage Erik had seen the last time the Baron had paid the town a visit. He felt a tightening in his chest as they neared, and no small apprehension, for his two half brothers could be seen riding beside the carriage. The first riders hurried past, but Stefan and Manfred reined in.

Stefan shouted, ‘What! You again?’

He made a threatening gesture as if to draw his sword, but his younger brother shouted, ‘Stefan! Keep up! Leave him alone!’

The younger brother set heels to his mount and moved to keep up with the vanguard, but his older brother hesitated.

As more soldiers rode past, Stefan shouted, ‘I warn you now, brother: when I ascend to the Baron’s office, I’ll be nowhere near as tolerant as our father. If I catch a glimpse of you or your mother at any public function, I’ll have you arrested so quickly your shadow will have to search to find you.’ Without waiting for a reply, he viciously dug his spurs into his horse’s flank, causing the high-spirited gelding to leap forward into a fast canter, then a gallop, so he could overtake his younger brother.

Then the main detachment of soldiers approached, followed by the Baron’s carriage. As they passed, the riders moved at a steady canter, but the carriage slowed. When it was almost upon Erik, the curtain of the carriage closest to him was pulled back, and he could glimpse a white face peering through the gloom at him. For a moment, father and son locked gazes, and Erik felt a sudden rush of confused feelings. Then all too suddenly the instant passed, and the carriage rolled away, the driver using the reins to urge his team of four ahead, to overtake the escort.

Erik stood puzzled and angered as the following troop of soldiers approached. He had expected to speak at last to his father, not merely share a momentary glimpse.

As he turned to leave, the last rider reined in and said, ‘Erik!’

He turned to see Owen Greylock dismounting. Forgetting courtesy, Erik vented his anger. ‘I thought we were friends, Master Greylock, at least as much as rank permitted. But you had me traipse through the town to this place so that Stefan could insult and threaten me, and my father peek out from his warm carriage at me!’

Greylock said, ‘Erik, it was your father’s request.’

Erik put hands on hips and took a deep breath. ‘So it was his idea to have Stefan as much as tell me to leave the barony?’

Greylock led his treasured mare to where Erik stood, and put his hand on the younger man’s arm. ‘No, that was Stefan’s impromptu performance. Your father wished to see you one last time. He’s dying.’

Erik felt unexpected emotions break to the surface, panic and regret, all viewed somehow at a distance, as if the warring emotions were taking place within someone else’s breast. ‘Dying?’

‘His chirurgeon warned against this, but with the Prince’s death, he felt the need to attempt the journey. Borric has named his youngest brother, Nicholas, to succeed his father, until his own son, Patrick, is of an age to rule the Western Realm. Nicholas is an unknown; everyone expected Erland to take the post. It could be a fair political bloodbath in Krondor this week.’

Erik knew the names: Borric, the King, and Erland, his younger twin brother. Patrick was the King’s eldest son, and by tradition one of the two should have taken the office of Prince of Krondor, but the intrigues of the court meant little to Erik.

‘He asked me here so he could catch a glimpse of me as his carriage sped by?’

Greylock squeezed Erik’s arm for emphasis. ‘His last glimpse of you.’ He removed something from his tunic. ‘And to give you this.’

Erik beheld a folded parchment being handed him by Greylock. He took it and noticed it was free of any stamp or seal. He unfolded it and began to read. ‘“My son –”’

Greylock interrupted. ‘No one is to know the contents but you, and once you are done, I am to burn this. I will stand away while you read this to yourself.’

He led the horse away, while Erik read:

My son, If I am not yet dead when you read this, I soon shall be. I know you have many questions, and no doubt your mother has answered some. I am sorry to say that I can give you little more than that, and less satisfaction.

When we are young, we feel passions that are but faint memories when we are not very many years older. I think I did love your mother, when I was very young. But if so, then that love, like memories, faded.

If I have any regrets, it is that I could not know you. You were innocent of your mother’s and my indulgences, but I have responsibilities that cannot be set aside because of my regret over a youthful indiscretion. I hope you understand and realize that whatever life we might have imagined as father and son was an impossible illusion. I hope you are a good man, for I am proud of the blood that flows in both our veins, and would hope you honor it as well. I have never publicly denied your mother, because at least I can allow you a name. But beyond this I can do little else.

Your brother Stefan will be set against you in every way. My wife fears any threat to her son’s patrimony, and if it is any comfort to you, I have paid a price for remaining silent before your mother’s accusations. I have shielded you and your mother more than you might know, but once I am gone, that protection will vanish. I urge you to take your mother from the barony. There is a growing frontier along the Far Coast and in the Sunset Islands, and opportunities for a young man of ability. You could make something of yourself there.

Leave Ravensburg and Darkmoor, and make yourself known to one Sebastian Lender, a solicitor and litigator with an office at Barret’s Coffee House, on Regal Street in Krondor. He will have something there for you.

I can do no more. Life is often unfair, and while we might wish for justice, it is usually an illusion. For what it is worth, you have my blessing and my wish for a happy life.

Your Father

Erik held it in his hands a few moments after he had finished, and at last he held it out to Greylock. Owen took the parchment and produced one of the elegant flint and spring-loaded igniters that were all the rage among those who smoked tabac. He struck a series of sparks until one lodged in the parchment, and blew it to a flame. Holding the parchment by the edge, he let the flame grow until it engulfed the document. Just before his fingers would be burned, he let the parchment float away, rising on its own heat as it was consumed.

Erik felt empty. He now realized that whatever he had expected when summoned to this lonely spot, it had been something more than this. His attention returned to Greylock as the Baron’s Swordmaster mounted. ‘Was there anything else?’

Owen said, ‘Only this: he urged you to count the threat as dire and take the warning with the most gravity.’

‘Do you know what that means?’

‘Not by his words, Erik, but I’d be a fool not to guess. It might be considered a wise thing if you were on your way to a new home when we return from Krondor. Stefan has a temper that blinds him and a dangerous nature.’

‘Owen?’ Erik said as Greylock made ready to ride on.

‘What?’

‘Do you think he ever really loved my mother?’

Greylock looked startled by the question. He paused, then said, ‘To that I cannot speak. Your father was a man to hide much within. But this I can tell you: whatever you read in that missive take to heart and count an honest telling, for there is no deceit in the man’s nature.’

He rode off, and Erik found himself alone. Then he began to laugh. Everything in his life had stemmed from a deceit. Either Greylock was a poor judge of his lord’s nature, or Otto had reformed his ways after deceiving Erik’s mother. But to Erik it was of little significance which was the case.

Unsure of his own feelings, he began the trek home. But one thing he knew: Greylock would not take the time to underscore his father’s warning if it wasn’t real and deadly. For the first time in his life, Erik considered leaving Ravensburg. He laughed again at the irony of no more than a month’s having passed since word returned from the guild that it had approved Nathan’s registration of Erik as apprentice.

A bitter taste of tin filled Erik’s mouth, and his stomach knotted as he moved through the twilight. His desires were few and his needs simple, yet it seemed fate had decreed them to be impossible.

Not knowing what he could possibly say to his mother, he walked like a man three times his age, each step slow and deliberate, his shoulders bent under an incredible weight.

• Chapter Three • Murder

Erik halted.

The sound of so many horses’ hooves pounding on the cobbles nearby was unusual in Ravensburg. He put down the bundle of clothing he had tied a moment before, and set it upon the trunk containing his mother’s personal belongings.

The sound was definitely louder now, and Erik knew a group of riders was heading for the inn. He glanced at Milo, who was speaking softly to Freida on the other side of the kitchen. The decision to leave Ravensburg had been difficult, and to Erik’s surprise it had not been his mother who objected. She seemed resigned to never realizing her girlhood dream of her son’s being legitimized by his father. It was Nathan who had been the most vociferous in urging them to stay. When it was clear they were leaving, he bade them travel to the Far Coast. He spoke in almost reverent terms of the nobles of the Far Coast, Duke Marcus, cousin to the King, and his own Baron of Tulan, who had done everything in his power to aid those who had suffered in the massive destruction of the Far Coast at the hands of pirates a quarter century earlier. Stefan’s threats were repulsive to Nathan, whose view of the responsibilities of the nobility to the commons was at odds with the experience of most of those at the inn. All Milo would say was that nobility in the West was vastly different to that in Darkmoor.

Erik and Freida had been gathering up their belongings, making ready for the morning coach that would take them west to Krondor. Erik was to call at the Hall of the Guild of Smiths with a letter from Nathan, explaining that his leaving the forge at Ravensburg had nothing whatsoever to do with his skills. It explained more of the situation than Erik was comfortable with having known by strangers, but Nathan had assured him the guild was like a family. The letter urged the guild to find Erik a position somewhere on the Far Coast or in the Sunset Islands.

The sound of horses entering the courtyard of the inn caused Freida to cast a worried look Erik’s way. It was only two days since Greylock had burned Otto’s message, but still she was worried that Stefan might act prematurely to harm her son.

Erik opened the door to the rear courtyard and found twenty men in the baronial livery dismounting, Owen Greylock at their head. ‘Master Greylock, what is it?’

Erik half expected to hear Owen say they had come to arrest him, but instead the Baron’s Swordmaster took Erik by the arm and steered him away from the soldiers. ‘Your father. He suffered another seizure. We turned around yesterday afternoon, and now we must stop. His chirurgeon says he will not live to reach Darkmoor. He’s being taken to the Peacock’s Tail’ – the most lavish inn in Ravensburg – ‘and the rest of the men will be quartered in the other inns around the town. Another company rides all night to Darkmoor to fetch the Baroness. Your father will not live more than a few days.’

Erik felt surprisingly devoid of any feeling at the news of his father’s impending death. The message from him had made whatever childish fantasies about the man evaporate, to be replaced by a distant image of a man unable to do the right thing by a common woman and his own child. The closest feeling Erik could muster was pity. At last he spoke. ‘I don’t know what to say, Owen.’

‘Have you given thought to our last conversation?’

‘Mother and I are leaving tomorrow morning.’

‘Good. Keep out of the town square tonight, and see you are on the coach when it leaves. Stefan and Manfred are understandably distressed, and there’s no telling what that hothead Stefan’s capable of doing. As long as the Baron’s alive, he’ll probably remain close at hand, so if he doesn’t catch sight of you, all should be well.’ Glancing at the soldiers, he said, ‘I will stay here, with this guard, until I’m summoned to the Baron’s side.’

Erik knew that Greylock had intentionally chosen to bring his own contingency of guards to the Inn of the Pintail, against the possibility of trouble, and he said, ‘Thank you, Owen.’

‘Just doing as my lord would want, Erik. Now go inside and tell Milo I need all his rooms.’

Erik did as he was asked, and soon the inn was busy, with Rosalyn, Freida, and Milo all hurrying to get every room ready for guests. Each soldier saw to his own mount, but Erik and Nathan had plenty to do fetching fodder into the barn and the large corral on the north side of the barn where twelve of the twenty mounts were herded.

Erik finished bringing in the last bale of hay for the horses, and washed up in the forge. Nathan came to stand behind him and said, ‘I am sorry to hear about your father, Erik.’

Erik shrugged. ‘I don’t have much feeling about this, Nathan. Milo’s been the only father I’ve ever known, though he acts more like an uncle. You’ve treated me more like a son in the last five months than Otto did my entire life. I don’t know what I should be feeling.’

Nathan put his hand on Erik’s shoulder and gave it a firm squeeze. ‘There is no “should” to it, lad. You feel what you feel, and there’s no right or wrong. Otto was your father, but you never knew him.’

His voice was quiet and calm as he went on, ‘It’s changing diapers when the wife’s too busy with another child’s illness, or listening to the child prattle after a long tiring day because it’s your child’s prattle, that makes a father, not getting a girl pregnant. Any fool can do that. It’s holding a child who’s frightened at night, or tossing one in the air to make her giggle. You’ve had none of that from Otto. I can understand how you could feel little at his passing.’

Erik turned to regard the burly smith. ‘I shall miss you, Nathan. I mean what I said. You helped me understand what a father should be like.’

He embraced the older man, and they hugged for a long moment. Nathan said, ‘And you’ve given me a chance to imagine what it would have been like had my sons lived, Erik. I’ll treasure that.’ Then, with a harsh barking laugh: ‘And you’ve made it hell to be my next apprentice, lad. You’re a talent and you’ve got years of experience under your belt. I may be short-tempered with some tangle-footed boy of fourteen who has never stepped inside a forge before.’

Erik shook his head. ‘I somehow doubt that, Nathan. You’ll be fair with him.’

‘Well, let’s not dwell on partings. Let’s go inside and grab some food before those soldiers eat everything in sight.’

Erik laughed at that and realized he was hungry, despite the prospect of leaving the place of his birth and never returning, and the specter of his father’s death at any hour.

They entered the kitchen to find Freida busy preparing food, as if it were just another night at the inn, and Rosalyn hurrying between the kitchen and the common room, while Milo fetched ale and wine from the taproom.

Erik and Nathan washed up and entered the commons. Instead of the usual loud talk, the soldiers were quietly eating and drinking, keeping their voices low. Owen sat alone at a corner table and motioned Erik and Nathan to join him.

They did, and Milo brought over three large glass goblets of wine. When he had left, Owen said, ‘Where are you bound for tomorrow, Erik?’

‘Krondor,’ he said. ‘To the guild office for another apprenticeship.’

‘So it’s west, then?’

‘Yes. The Far Coast or the Sunset Islands.’

Nathan said, ‘They’ve found gems and gold in the mountains near Jonril, so the rush is on. The trading houses from the Free Cities, as well as every adventurer, thief, and swindler, have descended there. But it also means a good opportunity, because the Duke of Crydee has asked for additional smiths, as well as other Craftmasters, to be sent there.’

Owen nodded. ‘This place changes little, and most of us are born into our lives with small chance of making them different. Out there, with some ambition, some thought, and a touch of luck, a common man can rise to riches or even to the nobility.’

Erik said, ‘Riches, with luck, I guess. But a commoner become a noble?’

Owen smiled his crooked smile. ‘It’s not common knowledge, but the King’s adviser, the Duke of Rillanon, was common-born.’

‘Truth?’ said Nathan.

‘He did some favor or another for the late Prince of Krondor, and was given a squire’s rank when he was but a lad. His wit and service to the Kingdom earned him a rapid rise, and now he is second only to royalty in power.’ He lowered his voice to a near whisper. ‘There are those who claim he was not only a common boy, but a thief as well.’

Erik said, ‘That is impossible.’

Owen shrugged. ‘Nothing is truly impossible, I think.’

Erik said, ‘Well, maybe when he was a boy, but that was fifty years ago.’

Owen nodded. ‘Things change. Once, centuries ago, this was the frontier, Erik.’

Erik’s brow furrowed as if he didn’t understand.

Nathan said, ‘I grew up on the Far Coast, Erik. I think what friend Greylock means is that you’ll find a different stripe out there, men who are concerned more with what you know and can do than with who you are, or who your father was. Too many things going on to worry about rank; you’ve got to depend upon your neighbors. Goblins, dark elves, bandits, and other problems constantly coming at you – those make a man glad for help close by. You don’t have time to worry about a lot of the things that make life here in the Kingdom the way it is.’

Greylock nodded. Erik said nothing for a moment, thinking about the possibility things might turn out right after all, when the front door of the inn opened, and Roo hurried in.

He saw Erik from across the room and quickly came through the crowded commons to where his friend sat. Nodding with as much deference as he could muster to the Baron’s Swordmaster, he said, ‘Master Greylock, they need you over at the Peacock, sir.’

Owen threw a quick glance at Erik. His expression betrayed his worry. It couldn’t be good news. He stood, said a quick good-bye, and left. Roo took his place. Nathan said, ‘You a squire these days, Roo?’

Roo made a face as if that remark put a bad taste in his mouth. ‘I was hanging around the fountain by the Growers’ and Vintners’ Hall and a soldier came out and told all of us to spread out and look for the Swordmaster and fetch him to the Peacock’s Tail. So I told the other lads I’d come here.’

Erik smiled. ‘I was hoping you’d come by tonight.’

‘I would have been here sooner, but Gwen was at the fountain and …’

Erik shook his head. ‘So you’re back in her favor once again?’

‘Trying to be,’ said Roo.

Nathan said, ‘How’d you like to apprentice at the forge, Roo?’

It was a joke, and they all knew it, but Roo still said, ‘What, me get all dirty and grimy? You get your hands callused, and the horses step on your feet! Not on your life. I have plans.’

Erik smiled, but Nathan said, ‘Really? What sort of plans?’

Roo glanced around the room, as if fearing to be overheard. ‘There are ways to make a living that have nothing to do with guilds and apprenticeships, friend smith.’

Nathan’s brow furrowed. ‘You’re going to end up in jail, Roo.’

Roo put up his hands as if protesting innocence. ‘No, nothing dodgy, I swear. It’s just my father has been hauling enough from Krondor up to here that I’m getting pretty good at nosing out what the markets are for different things. I’ve saved a little money, and I’m going to invest it in a cargo one of these days.’

Nathan appeared impressed. ‘A shipping concern?’

‘There are syndicates in Krondor and Salador that routinely underwrite the cost of freight hauls from one city to another, or cargoes for ships bound to distant ports. They have subscribers and return nice profits on their investments.’

Nathan nodded. ‘True, but there’s risk as well. If a cargo isn’t delivered on time, your profit can vanish. Worse, if bandits take the caravan, or the ship sinks, you lose everything.’

Roo looked as if this would never happen. ‘I plan on starting small and building up my capital for a few years.’

‘What do you plan on doing to eat and put a roof over your head while you invest in these ventures?’ asked Nathan.

Roo said, ‘Well, I haven’t quite worked that out, but –’

‘How much capital have you, Roo?’ interrupted Nathan.

‘On to thirty golden sovereigns,’ he said proudly.

Nathan was impressed. ‘Quite a beginning. I think I’ll forbear asking how you’ve managed to amass such a young fortune, and’ – he turned to Erik – ‘I suggest you get back to the forge and keep out of sight. When the coach comes in the morning is time enough for your good-byes. If Master Greylock needs another word with you, I’ll send him to you.’

Erik nodded and rose. Roo followed him. The two youngsters passed from the crowded common room to the kitchen, where Rosalyn was hurrying to carry a large platter of steaming greens out to the soldiers. Freida worked feverishly over her stew as if it were just another busy night at the inn and not her last in the home of her birth.

Erik walked outside with Roo, and as he passed the corral, the horses there wandered over to investigate the two boys. Erik inspected their legs out of habit. ‘Milo will need to order up hay tomorrow,’ he muttered to Roo as he slowly walked along the fence. ‘This lot will have eaten the entire contents of the loft by the time they’ve gone.’

Roo turned and faced Erik while they were walking. He seemed to half skip, half dance to keep from tripping while walking backwards. ‘Erik, let me come with you.’

Erik said, ‘Why would you want to come with me?’

‘Look, you’re the only real friend I’ve got here, and I’ve got no trade. I wasn’t joking about joining a syndicate. I can get a job in Krondor and invest my money until I’m rich. Once you get to Krondor, you’ll see there are better things to do than return to apprenticeship.’

Erik laughed, and stopped, so Roo wouldn’t have to continue his backward walk. ‘What about your father?’

‘He’d just as soon be rid of me as not,’ Roo said with bitterness. ‘The bastard hasn’t had a kind word for me since Mum died.’ Suddenly, as if by magic, a dagger appeared in Roo’s hand, then equally suddenly he returned it to inside his loose shirt. ‘I can take care of myself if I need to. Now, let me come along.’

Erik said, ‘I’ll talk to Mother. She’s not likely to offer any encouragement.’

‘You’ll talk her into it.’

‘Well, assume I do, you need to get your things together and have some copper to pay the coach.’

‘Everything I have is in a bundle at my father’s. I’ll run and get it.’

Erik shook his head and watched Roo run off into the night. He glanced around, suddenly feeling melancholy. This would be his last night under the barn roof. It was a poor lodging by any measure; occasionally leaky, drafty, and offering too little protection from winter’s cold and summer’s heat, but it was home. And he’d miss Milo and Rosalyn.

As he returned to his place in the loft, Erik thought of Rosalyn, pretty, but not teasing as Gwen and some of the other girls were. His feelings for her were often tempered by his sense of family. She was the sister of his heart, if not by blood, and while he was as interested in girls as any boy his age, something about Rosalyn made him uneasy. In many ways he’d miss her most of all.

Tired from the long day’s work and from worry, Erik quickly dozed off, only to be startled awake by a sudden feeling of panic. He sat up and looked around the dark barn loft. Unseen enemies were hovering nearby. The sound of men talking carried from the inn, and the horses in the corral and barn snorted. Erik rolled over on his side, head on his arm, thinking about the strange feeling of danger that had suddenly come upon him.

He closed his eyes and again saw Rosalyn’s face. He would miss her, and Milo, and Nathan. Soon he was dozing again. Before he lapsed into a deep sleep, he dreamed he heard Rosalyn gently calling his name.

‘Erik!’

Erik came awake with a start as a hand shook his shoulder. He had been hard asleep, in a deep numbing slumber of emotional exhaustion, and he couldn’t quite get his bearings.

‘Erik!’ Roo’s voice cut through the gloom, and Erik looked up into his friend’s face. Roo was dressed as he had been earlier, but he wore a travel bundle tied around one shoulder, slung over his back.

‘What is it?’

‘You’d better come quick. Down by the fountain. Rosalyn.’

Erik half leaped down the ladder, Roo scampering down after him as fast as he could. Erik sprinted past the corral of horses and, as he approached the inn, could hear the voices from within. ‘What time is it?’

‘Nine of the clock was the last call. Half past that, I think.’

Erik knew that with this many soldiers in town, some of the town girls would be down at the fountain. But Rosalyn was certainly not likely to be one of them.

‘What happened?’

‘I don’t know,’ answered Roo. ‘Gwen can tell you.’

Erik ran through the streets until he came to the fountain, where a group of three young off-duty soldiers were attempting to impress the local girls with tales of their heroics. But the expression on Gwen’s face as he saw it in the lantern light showed that all thoughts of harmless flirtation were gone. She looked very worried.

‘What is it?’ demanded Erik.

‘Rosalyn came here, looking for you.’

‘I was in the loft,’ said Erik.

Gwen said, ‘She said she called for you there, but you didn’t answer.’

Erik cursed his sound sleep and said, ‘Where is she now?’

Roo said, ‘They say she went off with Stefan.’

‘What?’ Erik turned at his half brother’s name and gripped Gwen by the arm. ‘Tell me what happened.’

Gwen motioned for Erik to follow her, out of hearing of the soldiers. ‘She was going back to the inn when the Baron’s sons came. Stefan started saying sweet things to her, but there was something about his manner she didn’t like. She tried to leave, but didn’t know how to say no to someone of his rank, and when he took her by the arm, she went along. But he didn’t lead her back to the inn; they went off toward the old orchard.’ She pointed off in the general direction. ‘He was more dragging her along than escorting her, Erik.’

Erik had taken one step after them when Gwen held his arm. ‘Erik, I’ve been with Stefan. The last time he was here I went to his rooms at the Peacock …’ Her voice lowered as if she was ashamed to speak. ‘He left marks on me, Erik. He likes to hit while he’s having you, and when I cried, it made him laugh.’

Roo had been standing beside Erik. As Erik turned away toward the apple grove, Roo saw an expression on Erik’s face that caused him to hesitate an instant. While Erik moved away with purposeful steps, Roo grabbed Gwen by the arm. ‘Go to the Pintail and find Nathan. Tell him what happened and to come to the orchard!’

Roo hurried over to where the three soldiers watched Erik disappear into the night. One looked at Roo with an open expression of curiosity on his face, and Roo said, ‘If you don’t want bloodshed, run and find Owen Greylock and tell him to come to the old orchard.’

Roo then ran as fast as he could after the rapidly receding figure of Erik. The slender boy was one of the fastest runners in town, but Erik had already moved out of the lantern light of the square and had vanished down the street leading to the old apple orchard at the edge of town.

Roo hurried through the streets, his footfalls slapping the stones with a sound that seemed to evoke the anger and outrage in the night. Each step sounded like a hand striking a face, and with the sound, Roo felt his blood rise. Quick to anger, slow to release a grudge, Roo knew a fight was coming and was composing himself to help his friend. He didn’t like Stefan, anyway, from what he had seen of him, but as each stride took him closer to confrontation, it was turning into a serious hatred. As he left the last buildings behind, he caught a glimpse of Erik at the far edge of his vision, before he faded into the darkness.

Roo hurried after, but Erik was possessed with an outrage that lent his feet wings. Roo had never seen Erik run so swiftly.

Roo crossed the low pasture and jumped the fence that brought him to the edge of the old orchard, a favored meeting place for young lovers on warm nights. Reaching the edge of the trees, cloaked in threatening darkness after the brightly lit town square and lantern-dressed streets, Roo was forced to slow to a walk. He moved between the dark boles, then suddenly was upon Erik, who turned at his approach. Erik made a motion for silence, then whispered, ‘Over there, I think,’ as he tried to catch his breath.

Roo listened and was about to say he heard nothing over the pounding of his own heart when a faint movement, as if someone shifted his weight, could be heard, the softest rustle of cloth upon cloth. It was in the general direction Erik indicated. Roo nodded.

Erik moved like a hunter stalking prey. There was something very wrong in all of this. Rosalyn would never have come away with any boy to the orchard, for there was only one reason to be here. Rosalyn was still a virgin, of that Erik was certain, still too young to have a lover. Some girls, like Gwen, matured early and enjoyed the company of older boys, while others were shy. Rosalyn was not only shy; once outside her father’s inn she was intimidated by the company of any boys besides Erik and Roo. Even the most innocent compliment would bring a blush to her cheeks, and when the other girls started talking about the town boys, she would excuse herself in embarrassment. Erik knew in his heart she was in danger, and the silence of the orchard frightened him. If another couple had been making love anywhere within this grove, sounds would carry this quiet night.

Abruptly, both boys heard a sound that made their hair stand on end. A girl’s cry split the night, followed by the sound of a fist striking flesh, then silence. Erik leaped toward the sound. Roo hesitated an instant, then followed.

Erik ran without thought toward where the sound had come from. Then he saw Rosalyn, and his world froze for an instant. The girl lay back against the bole of a tree, her face bruised and her dress in tatters. Her blouse was torn from her, exposing her breasts, and her skirt was ripped away, with only a tattered rag around her waist. Erik could see blood running from her nose and she was without motion. Erik felt something hot and blinding rise up within him.

A sense of movement, rather than anything really seen, caused Erik to move to his right, saving his life. A searing pain erupted in his left shoulder as Stefan’s sword point pierced it. With a cry of agony, Erik felt his knees go weak from the unexpected shock. Then Roo flew past his friend, driving his head into Stefan’s stomach. Erik almost fainted when the sword point was wrenched from his shoulder. His vision swam and his stomach knotted, and he had to force himself not to lose consciousness. He forced himself back to his feet as he shook his head to clear it. The sound of Roo’s panic-stricken plea for help brought him back to alertness.

In the dark, with only the middle moon shining through the branches, he could see Roo wrestling Stefan on the ground. The smaller lad had surprised Stefan, but that advantage was now gone. Stefan was using his superior strength and size to force himself atop Roo. Only the fact that his sword was designed for fighting at arm’s length saved Roo’s life. Had Stefan held a dagger, the boy would surely be dead.

As Roo called his name, Erik ignored the terrible pain in his left shoulder and with a single step came up behind Stefan. He grabbed his half brother around the waist and yanked him up in a massive bear hug, a primitive cry erupting from his own throat. Stefan’s breath exploded from his lungs as the young smith’s powerful arms closed hard around his chest; the sword fell from Stefan’s hand as he was lifted abruptly off Roo. Held above the ground, all he could do was kick helplessly backwards at Erik and claw at his hands.

Erik stood like a man possessed by an avenging spirit as he attempted to crush the life from Stefan. He couldn’t take his eyes from Rosalyn, who lay in mute tableau, a testimony to Stefan’s cruelty. Erik had seen her naked as a child, for they had bathed together, but not since they had grown. The sight of her breasts, her own blood dripping between them, was something obscene to Erik. Lover, husband, child should have touched that flesh, with nurturing love. His Rosalyn deserved better than the rough handling of a jaded and cruel noble.

Roo rolled to his feet, his dagger pulled from within his shirt. Murderous anger flashed in his eyes as he stepped forward. Stefan struggled with hysterical strength and Erik felt his grip loosen. As Roo reached them, Erik heard a distant voice shout, ‘Kill him!’ and as Roo drove home the blade, Erik realized the voice commanding Stefan’s death was his own.

Stefan stiffened and bucked once, then went limp, and even when Roo yanked free his blade, the son of the Baron did not twitch. Erik felt his skin crawl with an otherworldly sense of disgust, as if he were holding something profoundly unclean, and he let go. Stefan fell limply to the ground.

Roo stood over him, holding the still-bloody dagger, and Erik saw rage-was still in his friend’s expression. He said, ‘Roo?’

Roo blinked and looked down at his blade, then at Stefan. He wiped the blade on Stefan’s shirt and put it away. Frustration and anger still pumped through Roo’s mind and body; in need of another target to vent them on, he aimed a vicious kick at Stefan’s body. The toe of his boot struck ribs, breaking them. With a final gesture of contempt, he spit on the corpse.

Suddenly the anger drained out of Erik. ‘Roo?’ he repeated, and his friend turned to face him.

Erik’s expression was one of confusion and Roo’s a mask of equally confused anger; a third time Erik said his friend’s name. Roo finally answered, his own voice hoarse with excitement and fear. ‘What?’

‘What have we done?’

Roo looked blankly at Erik a moment, then looked down at Stefan. Instantly what had just occurred registered on him. He rolled his eyes heavenward and said, ‘Oh, gods, Erik. They’re going to hang us.’

Erik glanced around, and the sight of Rosalyn shook him back to more pressing needs than concern over his own fate. He crossed the distance between Stefan’s body and hers and knelt beside her. She lived, but her breath was shallow and labored, and he moved her to a more upright position. He watched helplessly, not knowing if he should cover her up, or see if he could stop the bleeding from her nose, or what. Then she moaned slightly.

Roo appeared with a fancy cloak, obviously Stefan’s, and covered her. ‘She’s in danger,’ said Erik.

‘So are we,’ answered Roo. ‘If we stay, they will arrest us and hang us, Erik.’

Erik looked as if he were about to pick up Rosalyn, but Roo said, ‘We must get away!’

Erik said, ‘What do you mean?’

Roo said, ‘We’ve killed the Baron’s son, you idiot.’

‘But he abused Rosalyn!’

‘That doesn’t give us a warrant to execute him, Erik. Do you want to go into court and swear that this was only about Rosalyn? If it had been anyone else in the entire world but your own half brother …’ He left the thought unfinished.

‘We can’t leave her here,’ said Erik.

The sounds of men shouting echoed through the night. ‘She won’t be undiscovered for long. This orchard is going to be swarming with the Baron’s soldiers in a few minutes.’ As if to punctuate the observation, Erik could now hear distinct voices as the men advanced toward the orchard.

Roo looked ready to run at a moment’s notice as he looked around the glade. ‘We didn’t have to kill him, Erik. If we are put in the dock and made to testify, we can’t honestly say we had to kill him.’ Roo put his hand on Erik’s arm as if to drag him from the scene. ‘I wanted him dead, Erik. You did, too. We murdered him.’

Erik found it almost impossible to keep events clear in his head. He knew he had felt something close to murder in his heart as he wrestled with Stefan, but now that was a distant memory, and events were jumbled.

‘I’ve got my money, here’ – he indicated his travel bundle – ‘so we can make for Krondor and buy passage to the Sunset Islands.’

‘Why there?’

‘Because if a man lives for a year and a day in the islands and commits no crime, he’s pardoned for whatever he did before he came there. It’s an old law from when the islands came into the Kingdom.’

‘But they’ll be looking for us.’

Rosalyn stirred, with a faint moan of discomfort. Roo leaned down and asked, ‘Can you hear me?’

The girl didn’t answer. Roo said, ‘They’ll probably think we’re going to Kesh. A man can hide in the Vale of Dreams and get across the border without much trouble.’ The vale, the border between Great Kesh and the Kingdom, was a no-man’s-land of smugglers, bandits, and garrisons along both sides of the frontier. Men came and went and few questions were asked.

Erik moved his shoulder experimentally and felt light-headed when a stabbing pain answered his movement. ‘This isn’t right,’ he said.

Roo shook his head. ‘If we stay here, we will be hung. Even if we had twenty witnesses, Manfred would make sure we were found guilty.’ Roo looked around as a distant shout split the night. ‘Someone’s coming. We have to go now!’

Erik nodded. ‘I should go back to the inn –’

‘No,’ said Roo. ‘They’ll expect that. We must go down the old western trail. We’ll go all night and cut into the woodlands at daybreak. If they send the dogs after us, we had better be across a dozen streams or more before noon.’

‘Mother –’ began Erik.

‘She’ll be safe,’ Roo interrupted. ‘Manfred has no reason to trouble her. You were always the threat, not your mother.’ A shout from the far side of the orchard caused Roo to swear. ‘They’re on the other side already. We’re trapped!’

Erik said, ‘There!’ He pointed to an old tree both had played in over the years. The centerpiece of the old orchard, the tree was heavily shrouded in leaves and might offer possible haven.

They crossed the short distance to the tree and Roo said, ‘How’s your shoulder?’

‘Hurts like blazes, but I can move it.’

Roo didn’t hesitate but scampered up the tree. He moved as high as he could, leaving the slightly heavier lower branches for Erik. By the time Erik was out of sight, torchlight and lanterns could be seen coming close.

Roo shook for a moment as he lost balance, then regained it, and Erik was now almost sick with pain, fear, and disgust. Stefan’s death was still unreal to him; he could see the dark shape of his body on the ground and expected him to rise up in a moment, as if this were all some mummery put on at a festival.

Then a soldier with a lantern saw Rosalyn. ‘Master Greylock! Over here!’

Through the leaves, Erik could barely make out the figures that rushed to where Rosalyn and Stefan lay a few yards apart. Then he heard Owen Greylock’s voice. ‘He’s dead.’

Another voice asked, ‘How is the girl?’

A third said, ‘She’s in a bad way, Swordmaster. We should get her to the chirurgeon.’

Then Erik heard Manfred’s shout of rage. ‘They’ve killed my brother!’ An almost inaudible oath and a sobbing cry was followed by ‘I’ll kill him myself.’

Erik caught a glimpse of Owen Greylock’s slender form between the nearby leaves and heard the Baron’s Swordmaster say, ‘We’ll find those who did this, Manfred.’

Erik shook his head. The three soldiers who had seen him and Roo run after Stefan and Rosalyn would certainly place them at the scene. A soldier said, ‘I know there was bad blood between the bastard and your brother, but why did they beat the girl?’ Erik knew then that they had already been identified.

Erik felt his anger rise again. A familiar voice said, ‘Erik wouldn’t harm Rosalyn.’ Nathan was there!

‘Are you saying my brother did this, Master Smith?’

‘Young sir, I only know that this girl is as gentle a soul as the gods have placed upon this world. She was a sister to Erik and one of Roo’s few friends. Neither boy would harm her.’ Then he pointedly added, ‘But I can certainly imagine them killing anyone who did.’

Manfred’s voice rose in anger. ‘I’ll have no excuse for black murder, Master Smith. No member of my family would do this.’ Manfred raised his voice to a shout of command: ‘I want every man on his horse and combing the countryside, Swordmaster. If those two murderous dogs are found, I want them held until I can join whichever soldiers find them. I don’t want them hung until I’m there to watch.’

Nathan’s voice cut through the muttering of the gathered soldiers. ‘There will be no hanging them out of hand, young lord. That’s the law. And as you are a member of the family that is wronged, neither you nor your father can sit in judgment; when caught, Erik and Roo are to be bound over to a King’s justice or magistrate.’ Then Nathan’s tone became warning. ‘Erik is a guild apprentice, so if you really want troubles, young sir, try to put my apprentice into a noose without due writ.’

‘You’d bring the guild into this?’ asked Manfred.

‘I would,’ answered Nathan. Erik felt tears gather in his eyes. Nathan, at least, understood why this had happened. ‘I suggest the young lord returns to his father’s side. Someone needs to break this grave news to him, and it should be someone he loves.’ To drive the point into the ground, he said, ‘It should be you, young sir.’

There was a stirring and a weak cry from Rosalyn, and Nathan took command. ‘Master Greylock, would you ask two of your lads to carry the girl back to the inn?’

Greylock gave instructions and began issuing commands to search for Erik and Roo.

They remained in the tree while soldiers fanned out in all directions, and said nothing to each other until it had been quiet for some time.

Then slowly they dropped to the ground, and crouched, ready to bolt should any noise indicate they were discovered. At last Roo said, ‘For a while we have luck on our side.’

‘Why?’

‘They don’t think we’re behind them. As they widen the circle to find us, there’ll be more places we can slip through. Any local farmer would think of the old western trail, but Greylock’s probably never heard of it; all his trips west have been by the King’s Highway. For a while we can worry about soldiers in front of us, not behind us.’

Erik said, ‘I think maybe we should give ourselves up.’

Roo said, ‘You may have Nathan and the guild to protect you, maybe, but I don’t. Manfred will get me hung before the sun sets on the day they find me. And don’t think he’s likely to worry about the law much if it dawns on him that you’re now a threat to his inheritance, not Stefan’s.’

Erik felt a sinking in his stomach. Roo whispered, ‘You’ve made him Baron next, and I don’t think he’s going to want you around to thank you, Erik. We’re dead men if we can’t make straight to the Sunset Islands.’

Erik nodded. He was still light-headed and in pain, but he rose to unsteady feet. Without another word he followed Roo into the darkness.

• Chapter Four • Fugitives

Erik fell.

Roo turned and helped his friend back to his feet. In the distance, the baying of hounds could be heard, accompanied by the clatter of horses.

The boys had been running on and off since leaving the orchard the night before, with no more than a few minutes’ rest at any one time. Erik’s wound refused to stop bleeding, though the flow was slight. Still, it throbbed and burned with heat and he felt himself grow weaker by the hour as they worked their way down out of the low mountains of Darkmoor.

The area west of Darkmoor and north of the King’s Highway was still fairly underpopulated. Rocky terrain with little to recommend itself to farmers, much of the land had been timbered out but left unplowed. Thick stands of trees gave way to a sea of stumps, only to be replaced by unexpected rocky ridges. This region was rich with gullies, ravines, dead-end canyons, and low, flat meadows. Despite their having run down any number of streams, the sound of the dogs had been carrying on the wind for hours. And as Erik weakened, the sound was getting closer.

As the morning sun crested the peaks behind them, Erik said, ‘Where are we?’

Roo said, ‘I’m not sure. When we left the old wagon trail, I think we turned around a bit. The sun’s in the right place, so we’re still heading west.’

Erik looked around, perspiration streaming off his forehead. He wiped it away and said, ‘We’d better keep going.’

Roo nodded, but after three or four fumbling footsteps, Erik collapsed. Roo tried to help his friend up. ‘Why’d you have to be so damn big?’

Erik gasped for air and said, ‘Go on without me.’

Roo felt the hair rise upon his neck and felt panic slash through his stomach. Finding strength he didn’t know he had, he forced Erik to his feet. ‘And have to explain to your mother how I lost you? I don’t think so.’

Roo silently prayed that Erik could hold on long enough for them to find shelter and hide from the dogs. Roo was terrified. One of the heartiest lads in Ravensburg, Erik had stamina almost as legendary as his strength among the boys he grew up with. His ability to work from dawn to dusk since the age of ten, his ability to carry iron ingots to the forge, his ability to withstand the constant weight of draft horses leaning on him while being shod – all had given Erik an almost superhuman stature among the townspeople. His weakness was as alien to Roo as it was to Erik himself. Roo found it far more frightening than anything else that confronted them. With Erik at his side, he felt he had a fighting chance to survive. Without Erik, he was helpless.

Roo sniffed the air. ‘Do you smell something?’

Erik said, ‘Only the stink of my own sweat.’

‘Over there.’ Roo motioned with his chin.

Erik put his hand against his friend’s shoulder and rested a moment as he sniffed the air. ‘Charcoal.’

‘That’s it!’

‘There must be a charcoal burner’s hut upwind.’

‘It might mask our scent,’ said Roo. ‘I know we can’t go much farther. You’ve got to rest, get your strength back.’

Erik only nodded, and Roo assisted him as they moved toward the source of the smoke. Through light woods they stumbled as the sound of the dogs grew louder by the minute. Erik and Roo were not woodsmen, but as boys they had played in the woodlands near Ravensburg enough to know those searching for them were less than a couple of miles behind and coming fast.

The woods thickened and grew more difficult to navigate, darker shadows confusing their sense of direction, but the smell of burning wood grew stronger. By the time they reached the hut, their eyes stung from it.

An old woman, ugly beyond belief, stood tending a charcoal kiln, feeding small cuts of wood into it, banking flames as she ensured the wood burned down properly; too hot, and she’d have ashes.

Seeing the two young men suddenly appear out of the gloom, she shrieked and almost dove inside the rude hut beside which her kiln rested. The shrieking continued and Roo said, ‘She’ll bring them down on us if this keeps up.’

Erik tried to raise his voice over her shouting. ‘We mean you no harm.’

The shrieking continued, and Roo added his protestation of no evil intent to Erik’s. The woman continued to shriek. Finally Erik said, ‘We had best leave.’

‘We can’t,’ answered Roo. ‘You’re on your last legs now.’ He said nothing about the wound, which continued to weep blood, despite the rags pressed against it.

Stumbling down a small incline to the charcoal burner’s hut, they confronted a simple piece of hide that served as a door.

Erik leaned his weight against the mud-covered wall and pulled aside the leather door. The woman huddled back against the bale of rags that served as her bedding, shrieking all the more.

Erik finally shouted, ‘Woman! We mean you no harm!’

Instantly the shouting ceased. ‘Well,’ she answered. her voice as raspy as a wire brush on metal, ‘why didn’t you say something?’

Erik almost laughed, he felt so light-headed and giddy. Roo said, ‘We were trying to, but you kept screaming.’

Getting up off the rags, showing a surprising nimbleness for her age and weight – easily as much as Erik’s and he stood a good foot and a half taller than she – the woman stepped out of the hut.

Roo reflexively stepped back. She was the ugliest human being he had ever encountered, if indeed she was human. From her appearance, she could possibly be one of those trolls he had heard about that haunted the woodlands of the Far Coast. Her nose was a lumpy red protrusion, resembling a large tuber, with one big wart on the tip of it, from which several long hairs grew. Her eyes could only be called piggish, and they wept from some sort of inflammation. Her teeth were blackened stumps with green edges, and her breath was as foul as anything Roo had remembered smelling that wasn’t dead. Her skin looked like dried leather, and he shuddered to consider what her body under that assortment of filthy rags might resemble.

Then she smiled and the effect was heightened. ‘Come to pay old Gert a visit, have you?’ She tried to be girlish as she combed her fingers through grey hair tangled with straw and dirt, and had the boys not been so tired and frightened, they would have laughed. ‘Well, my man is gone to the city, so maybe –’

‘My friend is hurt,’ interrupted Roo.

Suddenly the old woman’s manner changed again as she caught the sound of the dogs on the wind. ‘King’s men are hunting you?’

Roo thought about lying, but Erik said, ‘Yes.’

Roo said, ‘Baron’s men, really.’

‘Same thing. Soldiers.’ She spat the last word. ‘Well, you’d better hide.’ She motioned for them to enter the tiny hut. ‘They won’t find you in there.’

Roo helped Erik into the hut and gagged at the stench. Erik’s eyes watered and he gasped, ‘I thought Tyndal’s room was bad.’

Roo said, ‘Try breathing through your mouth.’

Gert knelt down next to Erik and said, ‘Let me look at that,’ motioning to his bloodstained shoulder.

Erik pulled aside his tunic and the rags. The rags pulled the skin where blood had dried and he gasped in pain. Gert probed at the wound with a filthy finger and said, ‘Sword wound. Seen a hundred of them. Swollen around it. Got the hot sickness in it. Going to kill you, boy, if we don’t clean it out. You got a strong stomach?’ she asked Roo.

He nodded, swallowing hard. ‘I’m here and haven’t thrown up yet, haven’t I?’

‘Ha!’ She almost cackled as she laughed. ‘There’s more to you than meets the eye, Roo Avery.’ She rose up as high as the low floor permitted and said, ‘I have just the thing to put you right. Be back in a jiffy.’

Roo lay back, glad to be resting despite the stench of the hut. He glanced around; enough gaps in the wall permitted light to enter, and he saw what looked to be a water jar with a long neck. He moved the clay vessel and heard a promising sound of liquid. Pulling the cork, he sniffed and got no odor. He sipped and was rewarded with fresh water. Drinking a huge mouthful, he suddenly realized he was ignoring his sick friend.

He put the neck of the jar to Erik’s lips and he drank several mouthfuls, then sank back into the pile of rags. A fly began to buzz around Roo’s head and he absently swatted at it.

Erik drifted off into a difficult slumber, his fatigue overwhelming his fear. His breathing came heavily, and perspiration continued to pour off his brow.

Roo tried to relax, wondering if they could trust this strange old woman but knowing that further flight was next to hopeless. Then suddenly there was the sound of barking nearby, and Gert’s shriek cut the air.

Erik came awake with a start at the sound. ‘What …?’ he began, but Roo grabbed his arm.

Dogs could be heard barking nearby and Gert shouted, ‘Shoo! Away with you!’

Then horses approached and the boys heard Gert shout, ‘Get these miserable curs away! They’ll be bitin’ old Gert in a minute.’

A commanding voice said, ‘Have you seen two men, one large and blond, the other short and dark?’

‘And if I did, what’s it to you?’

‘They’re wanted for murder.’

‘Murder, is it?’ There was a long pause, punctuated by the sounds of the dogs sniffing the area and the occasional odd yelp of inquiry. ‘What’s the reward?’

Erik felt Roo’s hand tighten on his arm at that, and the answer was, ‘The Baron’s offered one hundred golden sovereigns for their arrest.’

‘That’s a tidy bit, isn’t it?’ said Gert. ‘Well, I haven’t seen them, but if I do, I’ll want the gold.’

‘Check inside the hut,’ ordered the leader.

‘Here, now!’ Gert began to protest.

‘Stand aside, old woman.’

Erik backed away, trying as hard as he could to push himself backward through the dirt wall, while Roo drew the ragged, filthy blanket up below his chin.

The leather door was swept aside, and the light was almost blinding after the darkness. ‘What a stench!’ said the soldier, drawing back.

‘Go on,’ commanded the leader of the troop.

The soldier stuck his head back inside and blinked against the darkness, then looked directly at Roo and Erik. He looked to one side and then the other, and at last pulled his head back out. ‘Nothing in there but filthy rags and some pots, Captain.’

Roo and Erik exchanged glances of wonder in the gloom. What magic was this?

‘What’s the matter with the dogs?’ asked the captain.

The man who must have been the Houndmaster said, ‘They seem to have lost the scent. The charcoal must be confusing them.’

‘Then let us go back to the last place you know they had it, and begin again. Lord Manfred will have our ears if those murderers escape.’

The dogs began to bark as the Houndmaster blew his whistle, commanding them to follow. The horses rode away, and Roo let out his breath, held since the soldier stuck his face into the hut.

‘What caused that?’ asked Roo.

Erik said, ‘I don’t know. Maybe it was too dark to see.’

‘No, it was a spell. This Gert is a witch of some sort.’

Erik said, ‘The captain said “Lord Manfred.” My father is dead.’

Roo didn’t know what to say. He glanced at his friend; in the gloom he saw that Erik had leaned back and closed his eyes.

After a few moments, the leather door was pulled back. Instead of Gert, a young woman appeared before them, tall enough to have to lean forward to enter. Her hair was dark, black in the gloom of the hut, and her features were masked, as she was silhouetted against the daylight.

‘What …?’ began Roo.

‘Say nothing,’ she replied, then turned to Erik. ‘Let me examine that wound.’

Something in her manner caused Roo to feel uncertain. Her clothing was nondescript, at least what he could see of it: a simple dress of some middling color, perhaps grey, perhaps green or blue; it was difficult to tell in the dark hut. Her features were partially visible now that the door was again shut. She had a high forehead and a regal nose, fine features that would have looked pretty had they not been set in an expression of concentration.

She pulled back Erik’s tunic and glanced at the wound. ‘This will have to come off. Help me,’ she ordered Roo.

He helped Erik stay upright as the woman gathered up the bottom of the tunic and pulled it up and over Erik’s head, causing him no little pain. He lay back, perspiration running off his body, panting as if he had exerted himself in hard work for hours. She touched the wound and he grunted in pain, teeth clenching.

‘You’re a fool, Erik von Darkmoor. Two, three more days, and you’d be dead from blood poison.’

Roo got a good look at the woman and thought she was beautiful, but something very offputting in her manner made him view it as a distant, unobtainable sort of beauty.

‘Where’s Gert?’ asked Roo softly.

‘Off on some business for me,’ came the answer.

‘Who are you?’

‘I told you to say nothing, Roo Avery. You need to learn there are times to speak and times to listen, and which time is which. When you have need to speak, you may call me Miranda.’

She set about tending Erik’s wound. From somewhere in the cluttered hut she produced a bag from which she fetched a small vial. Opening it, she poured the contents over the wound, and Erik gasped at the pain. Then he relaxed. She next pulled the cork from a flask of liquid and said, ‘Drink this.’

Erik obeyed and made a face. ‘It’s bitter.’

‘Not as bitter as untimely death,’ said Miranda.

She quickly finished tending Erik’s wound, placing a poultice over it and then bandaging it. By the time she was finished, Erik was asleep. Without another word she rose and left the hut.

Roo watched Erik sleep for a minute, then got to his feet and peeked outside. There was no sign of another person and he left the hut.

Looking around, he saw only the charcoal kiln smoldering and a pile of dog droppings from when the pack had been nearby, but otherwise the area was deserted.

‘Hello there, love!’ came a cheerful voice behind him, and Roo jumped. He turned to find Gert approaching with a pile of wood in her arms.

‘Where is she?’ asked Roo.

‘Where is who?’

‘Miranda.’

Gert stopped and made a face. ‘Miranda? Can’t say as I know any Miranda. When the soldiers left, I went to get more wood to burn, and haven’t seen any Miranda.’

‘A young woman, about this tall’ – he held his hand up a bit higher than his own head – ‘with dark hair, very pretty, came into the hut and tended Erik’s wound.’

‘Pretty, you say?’ Gert scratched her chin. ‘I think you must have been dreaming, boy.’

Roo took a step toward the hut, drew aside the hide door, and said, ‘Did I dream that?’ He pointed to the fresh bandage on Erik’s shoulder.

Gert stared at it. ‘That’s a puzzler, now, isn’t it, dearie?’ She stood there a minute. ‘All manner of queer folk in the woods, though. Perhaps she was one of those elf creatures you hear of, or a ghost.’

Roo said, ‘She was the most flesh-and-blood ghost you’ll ever see. And she looked nothing like any elf I’ve heard of.’

He looked at Gert and saw her smiling; then her expression turned somber. ‘Well, some mysteries are best left alone. I’ve got wood to burn, so get back in there and take a rest. I have something to eat around here somewhere.’

Roo felt fatigue wash over him. ‘Rest is good,’ he muttered, suddenly tired beyond belief. The thought of sharing a meal with Gert did nothing for his sense of well-being, but sleep was welcome. Reentering the hut, he was surprised he didn’t notice the stench this time. Must have gotten used to it, he thought.

Quickly he felt a heavy lethargy sweep over him. Odd sounds intruded, but he found them difficult to identify. He lapsed into a deep sleep, ignoring the very busy sounds of preparation from outside.

A chattering from above caused Roo to sit upright, brushing leaves from his face. He looked around, then up, and saw the author of the scolding racket, a red squirrel defiantly challenging their right to be camped under his tree. Before Roo could clearly focus on the creature, it vanished around the bole.

Then he realized he was outside. He turned and saw Erik sleeping soundly, under a clean blanket, his chest rising and falling evenly, his color good. Roo looked down and saw he was likewise bundled against the night’s chill in another heavy blanket, and he felt behind him, to where his head had rested.

Like Erik’s, his head had rested on a travel bundle. His own was missing. He opened the new one, fearing he had been robbed. Inside, he discovered a clean tunic and trousers, a fresh pair of underdrawers and stockings, and at the bottom he found his money pouch. He quickly counted and was pleased to find his twenty-seven golden sovereigns and sixteen silver royals all there.

Roo stood, and found himself remarkably rested. Of the charcoal burner’s hut there was no sign, not even ashes from the kiln. Roo felt he should have been alarmed by this, but he found himself amused and close to happy.

He knelt beside Erik and tried to examine the bandage. It was still clean and, if anything, looked as if someone had just changed it. He gently reached out and touched his friend on the arm. ‘Erik,’ he said.

Erik came awake, blinking for a moment, then sat up. ‘What?’

‘I wanted to see how you felt.’

Erik looked around. ‘Where are we? Last thing I remember …’

‘A hut and an old woman?’

Erik nodded. ‘And someone else, too. But I can’t recall who.’

‘Miranda,’ said Roo. ‘She said that was her name, but old Gert said she knew nothing of her.’

Roo stood and extended his hand to Erik. Erik took it and let his friend pull him to his feet. Expecting to be the worse for wear, Erik discovered he felt fairly fit.

‘How’s the shoulder?’

‘Stiff,’ he answered as he moved it experimentally. ‘But better than I thought it would be.’

Roo looked around. ‘There’s no hut, no kiln, no Gert, no nothing.’

Erik said, ‘And what are these?’ He pointed to the two blankets and bundles on the ground.

‘Someone was taking great pains to see we don’t freeze in the night, and they’ve given us clean clothing.’

Erik suddenly looked at the clothing he was wearing, and then pulled away his tunic and sniffed. ‘I should smell like a horse after a day in the field, but I don’t. And this shirt feels clean.’

Roo examined his own clothing. ‘You don’t suppose old Gert gave us a bath?’ He found fear rising up rather than humor.

Erik shook his head. ‘I don’t know what to think.’ Then he glanced around. ‘It’s about nine of the clock from the angle of the sun, so this day is a quarter over. We’d better get moving again; I don’t know why the soldiers didn’t find us in the hut, but they’ll come back and check again, I’m certain.’

‘Check your bundle,’ said Roo. ‘See what’s in it.’

Erik did as he was bidden and found his was packed much the same as Roo’s: fresh shirt and trousers, underdrawers, and stockings. Also there was a small loaf of hard bread, and a note.

He unrolled the tiny parchment and read aloud: ‘You lads are safe for the time being. Make straight for Krondor and Barret’s Coffee Shop, Erik. You are now in our debt, Gert’s and mine. Miranda.’

Roo shook his head. ‘Running from the King’s justice and now we’re in debt to a pair of witches.’

‘Witches?’

‘What else do you think?’ said Roo, looking as if a demon were about to leap up from the earth and snatch him to hell. He glanced around, the color gone from his face. ‘Look at that! That’s the same low ridge we had to come down to reach the hut! There was a hut, and a kiln – now there’s no sign that anyone has ever been here.’ He walked over to where the kiln had been. ‘There’s no soot, no ashes. Even if you moved the bloody damn thing, you couldn’t clean up this much.’ He got down on one knee. ‘There’s got to be something!’ His voice was growing loud, as if he was becoming angry at discovering the hut and kiln missing. ‘Damn it, Erik! Someone stripped us, bathed us, cleaned our clothing, and dressed us again, and we never woke up. What else could it be but magic!’ He rose and went over to Erik. He put his hands on his friend’s arms, and said, ‘We’re trapped by a debt to two evil black witches.’ His voice continued to get louder, and Erik realized anger was quickly turning into hysteria.

‘Easy,’ said Erik as he placed his hands on Roo’s shoulders and squeezed reassuringly. Moving to where the kiln had been, he looked quickly around. ‘There’s nothing left to show we were ever here, that’s for certain.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘Gert was no beauty, but I don’t remember anything about her that smacked of evil, Roo.’

‘No one that ugly could be good, believe me,’ said Roo, his tone showing he was obviously not reassured by Erik’s judgment.

Erik smiled. ‘It’s a mystery and it makes my flesh crawl, too, but we were not harmed and I seen no way anyone, witch or not, could force us to serve without our consent. I know little of this, but the priests claim you can only enter the service of dark powers willingly. I’ll not be obliged for a favor unasked for, should the price be a black deed.’

‘Fine, you can sound like a litigation solicitor all you wish while demons are carrying you off to the Seven Lower Hells, but I’m making straight for a temple when we reach Krondor and asking for protection!’

Erik shook Roo gently by the arm. ‘Take a breath and let’s be off. If you’re right, and we need protection, we still must reach Krondor first. They may think it likely we’re striking for the Vale of Dreams, but that patrol last night means they’re looking everywhere.’

Roo bent down to pick up the bundle and blanket, and as he folded the blanket, he noticed something. ‘Erik?’

‘Yes, Roo.’

‘See that dog dung over there?’

Erik looked over, partly amused, and said, ‘What about it?’

‘I noticed that last night when I went out to talk to Gert, but look at it now.’

Erik knelt and saw the dried droppings. ‘These are days old.’ He started searching around and found a place where one of the horses had also relieved himself not too far away. ‘Three or four days, from the look of it,’ he said after causing the horse dung to fall apart with a touch of his boot toe.

‘We slept three or four days?’

‘From the look of it,’ Erik repeated.

‘Can we leave now?’

Erik smiled, but there was no humor in it. He picked up his blanket, folded it, and tucked it inside the bundle. Then he swung it over his shoulder, saying, ‘I think we’d best do so.’

Roo gathered together his new bundle, shoved the blanket inside in a haphazard fashion, and swung it over his back. Without another word, the two lads headed west.

Erik held up his hand. They had been traveling for three days, moving steadily westward through the woodland north of the King’s Highway. They avoided the occasional farm they encountered and lived off wild berries and the bread they had found in their bundles. Hard and chewy, it nevertheless provided surprising nourishment and kept them going. Erik’s shoulder was healing rapidly, far sooner than either young man thought possible.

They spoke little, fearing discovery, and fearing also to delve into the mystery of the charcoal burner’s hut. It had been the second day after leaving that they realized that both Gert and Miranda had known their names without either young man’s having mentioned them.

Toward sundown, a distant voice cried out, a wordless sound of pain. Erik and Roo exchanged glances and moved away from the narrow path they had followed.

Whispering, Roo said, ‘What’s that?’

‘Someone’s hurt,’ said Erik, his voice as low as his friend’s.

‘What should we do?’

‘Avoid trouble,’ answered Erik. ‘That may be miles away. Sound carries funny out here.’ Neither of them had been too far from their hometown as boys, so there was always some background sound of civilization, no matter how faintly heard: a voice calling across the vineyards, the sound of a wagon caravan moving down the distant King’s Highway, a woman singing while she washed clothing in a stream.

These woodlands were hardly wild, having been heavily forested over the years for lumber, but they were infrequently traveled and were therefore dangerous. Other lawbreakers besides Erik and Roo were likely to be hiding in the forest.

Erik and Roo moved along at a slow pace, reluctant to rush into danger. Near sunset they found a man lying on his back below a tree, a crossbow bolt in his chest. His eyes were rolled back into his head and his skin was cold.

Roo said, ‘It’s funny.’

‘What’s funny?’

He looked at Erik. ‘We killed Stefan, but I never got a good look at him. This is the first dead man I’ve had a chance to look at.’

‘Tyndal was the first for me,’ said Erik. ‘Who do you think this is?’

‘Was, you mean,’ said Roo. ‘Soldier of some sort.’ He indicated the sword held in loose fingers, and the small round shield still on the left arm. A simple conical helm with a bar-nasal lay a short distance away, having rolled off his head when the man fell.

Roo said, ‘There might be something useful here.’

‘Stripping the dead is not to my liking,’ answered Erik.

Roo knelt next to the man and investigated the contents of a small pouch. ‘He won’t mind, and we can certainly use that sword.’

In the pouch he found six copper coins and a ring of gold. ‘This will be worth a bit,’ he said.

‘Looks like a wedding band,’ observed Erik. The dead man was young, only a few years older than himself. ‘I wonder if it was intended for his sweetheart. Perhaps he was going to ask her to wed.’

Roo pocketed the ring. ‘We’ll never know. One thing for certain, he’s never going to get the chance to ask.’ Roo took the sword and handed it hilt first to Erik.

‘Why me?’

‘Because I have my knife and I’ve never used a sword in my life.’

‘Neither have I,’ protested Erik.

‘Well, if you need to, just swing it like your hammer and hope you hit someone. You’re strong enough, you should be able to do a lot of damage if you connect.’

Erik picked up the sword, then pulled the shield off the man’s arm and put it experimentally on his own. It felt alien, but he felt better for having it there.

Roo put the helm on his own head, and when Erik looked at him with a questioning expression, he said, ‘You’ve got the shield.’

Erik nodded, as if this made sense, and the two set off, leaving the nameless man to the scavengers of the forest. The idea of burial was ignored, as they had no shovel and were concerned that whoever killed the man might still be around.

A short time later they heard movement in the brush ahead. Erik signaled Roo for silence, then motioned that they should circle off to the right. Roo nodded and began walking with a tiptoed exaggeration that would have been comic if Erik hadn’t been as badly frightened as his friend.

They almost walked past the man, but he shifted his weight and they heard the brush he hid in rustle. Then a dull thud sounded as a crossbow bolt sped through the air and struck a tree nearby.

From a short distance away, a fearful voice shouted with false bravado, ‘I have enough bolts to fell an army, you bastard! You had better leave me alone, or I’ll do to you what I did to your friend.’

Then, from what seemed almost within touching distance, a voice shouted, ‘Leave your wagon and run, old man. I’ll not bother you, but I mean to have your cargo. You can’t stay awake forever, and if I set eyes on you again, I’ll cut your throat for what you did to Jamie.’

Erik could hardly act, he was so startled by the sound of the man’s voice so close. Roo looked at his friend, eyes wide in fright, and motioned that they should move away. Erik was about to nod agreement when a voice shouted, ‘Hey!’

Suddenly a man with a sword and shield stood up, less than six feet ahead of them. He saw Erik and Roo and leaped toward them, brandishing his sword as another bolt flew through the air, missing all three of them. Erik reacted. He blindly thrust with the sword, not intending to do more than push the fighter away. The man tried to parry, but he was expecting a feint, not a blind thrust, and Erik’s sword slipped along the man’s blade and the point took him in the stomach.

Both Erik and the man stared at each other with astonishment on their faces, then with what sounded like a faint ‘Damn’ the man collapsed at Erik’s feet.

Erik was rooted in shock, but Roo leaped away and for his trouble was almost impaled by another bolt. ‘Hey!’ he yelped.

‘Who is that?’ asked a voice from beyond the brush.

Erik hazarded a look through the brush beyond the man he had just killed and saw a wagon sitting in a small clearing. Two horses stood in traces beyond it, and behind it a crouching figure waited.

‘We’re not bandits!’ cried Roo. ‘We just killed the man you were shooting at.’

‘I’ll shoot you, too, if you come closer,’ cried the man behind the wagon.

‘We won’t come closer,’ shouted Erik, a note of desperation in his voice. ‘We just blundered into this mess and we don’t want any trouble.’

‘Who are you?’

Roo pulled on Erik’s sleeve. ‘We’re on our way to Krondor, looking for work. Who are you?’

‘Who I am is no one’s business but my own.’

Roo got a familiar look, one Erik knew meant Roo was planning something that usually got both of them in trouble. ‘Look, if you’re a merchant traveling alone, you’re an idiot,’ shouted Roo. He spoke now in a voice forced to ease. He looked green at the sight of the dead man. ‘If you’re out here, you must be a smuggler.’

‘I am no damn smuggler! I’m an honest trader!’

‘Who’s avoiding paying toll on the King’s Highway,’ replied Roo.

‘There’s no law against that,’ came the answer.

Roo grinned at Erik. ‘True, but it’s certainly a hard way to save some copper. Look, if we come out slowly, will you promise not to shoot?’

There was silence, then: ‘Come ahead. But I’ve got a bolt pointed at you.’

Roo and Erik moved slowly out of the woods into the clearing, hands held where they could be seen. Erik held the sword point down, because he had no scabbard in which to sheathe it, and he had the shield back on his arm so the man could see he was not hiding a weapon in the other hand.

‘You’re a couple of boys!’ said the man. He stepped out from behind the wagon, holding an old but obviously useful crossbow leveled at them. The man was gaunt and looked older than his years. Long dark hair fell to his shoulders, from beneath a felt cap with a tarnished badge on it. His clothing was old, and oft-mended, and he obviously cared nothing for fashion; his tunic was green, his leggings red, his boots brown, and his belt black. He wore a yellow scarf, and nothing about him was remotely appealing. His beard was grey, and his eyes were black.

Roo said, ‘Master merchant, you chose a brave course, but it almost proved your undoing.’

‘Likely you’re bandits like those other two,’ he answered, making a threatening gesture with the crossbow. ‘I should put a bolt through you just to be safe.’

Erik was out of patience with this talk and queasy from the bloodshed. ‘Well, shoot one of us, damn it! And the other will cut you in two!’

The man almost jumped back, but seeing Erik plant his sword point first in the dirt, he lowered his crossbow slightly. Roo said, ‘You’ve no driver?’

‘Drive myself,’ said the merchant.

‘You really keep your overhead down,’ observed Roo.

‘What do you know about overhead?’ asked the man.

‘I know a thing or two about business,’ said Roo in the insouciant tone Erik knew well: it meant Roo had almost no idea what he was talking about.

‘Who are you?’ repeated the man.

‘I am Rupert,’ answered Roo, ‘and my big friend’s name is –’

‘Karl,’ interrupted Erik, not wishing his identity known. Roo winced, as if he should have thought of that himself.

‘Rupert? Karl? Sounds Advarian to me.’

‘We’re from Darkmoor,’ said Roo, then winced again. ‘Lots of Advarian stock in Darkmoor. Rupert and Karl are common enough names.’

‘I’m Advarian,’ said the man, putting away his crossbow. ‘Helmut Grindle, merchant.’

‘Are you going west?’ asked Erik.

‘No,’ snapped Helmut. ‘I’ve just got the horses facing west for my amusement. They’re trained to walk backwards.’

Erik flushed. ‘Look, we’re bound for Krondor if you don’t mind company.’

‘I do mind,’ snapped the merchant. ‘I was doing fine until those two murderers tried to boost my cargo, and I would have killed the second one – I was just about to let fly into that brush when you killed him for me.’

Erik said, ‘I’m sure. Look, we’re going to Krondor, and it would profit us all if we stayed together.’

‘I don’t need guards and I won’t pay for mercenaries.’

Erik said, ‘Oh, wait. I don’t mean you need to pay us –’

Roo leaped in. ‘We’ll share guard duty with you for food. Besides, I can drive your team.’

‘You’re a teamster?’

‘I can drive up to six horses without a problem,’ Roo lied. His father had taught him to handle four.

Helmut thought about it. ‘Very well. I’ll feed you, but you’re standing night watch, and I sleep with my crossbow.’

Erik laughed. ‘No need to fear, Master Merchant. We may be murderers, but we’re not thieves.’ His bitter irony was lost on the man, who, grumbling, motioned for them to approach the wagon.

‘We’ve still got the better part of an hour’s light left, so there’s no sense in dawdling. Let’s get moving.’

Roo said, ‘Get started and I’ll catch up. That second man had another sword.’

‘See if he has any gold!’ shouted Helmut after him. Bending over, he said to Erik, ‘He’ll probably lie to us both if he finds any. It’s what I would do.’ Not waiting for a reply, he clambered up on the seat of the wagon and shouted at the horses as he shook the reins. Erik watched as the overworked and underfed animals pulled into the traces, and the wagon lurched forward.

• Chapter Five • Krondor

The wagon halted.

Helmut Grindle pointed. ‘Krondor.’

Erik, sitting in the back of the wagon, turned and looked over the shoulders of Grindle and Roo, who had been driving. Erik had been impressed to discover that for once his friend really could back up his claim. He drove the team like an experienced teamster; obviously, Roo’s father had been good for something besides getting drunk and beating up on him.

Erik looked down the long winding road known as the King’s Highway. They had turned south after Grindle had passed the last toll station, entering the road near a town called Haverford. Twice before that patrols of armed soldiers had ridden past, but at no time did they even pause to look at Roo or Erik.

As Roo snapped the reins and the wagon started down the road toward the city, a patrol of city guardsmen rode toward them. Erik sat as calmly as he could in the rear, attempting to look as much like just another wagon guard as possible. Roo’s hands knotted on the reins and the rear left horse snorted at the tension in the line, not sure if she was asked to change pace or direction. Roo forced himself to relax and the two of them watched as the soldiers approached. Then, abruptly, the guards pulled up. ‘There’s a long wait,’ said the guard sergeant.

Grindle asked,’ ‘What’s the holdup?’

‘The King has entered the city. South gate by the palace is sealed off for his retinue. Everyone else is forced to use the north gates.’ he said, waving in the general direction Grindle’s wagon was headed. ‘And the gate watch is searching the wagons.’

Grindle swore as the guards rode off.

Roo and Erik exchanged glances. Roo shook his head slightly, indicating Erik should say nothing about the wagon search. In conversational tones, he said, ‘That’s some city.’

‘That she is,’ replied Grindle.

Krondor sprawled at the head of a large bay, beyond which an expanse of blue stretched off to the horizon: the Bitter Sea. The old city was walled, but an extensive foulburg – the part of the city outside the walls – had grown up over the years, until now it was much larger than the inner city. Inside the walls, the view was dominated by the palace of the Prince of Krondor, which sat atop a hill hard against the south side of the bay. Ships, looking like tiny white slips of paper, rested at anchor or sailed in and out of the bay.

Roo said, ‘Master Grindle, what do you think are the best commodities to ship from this city?’ Erik suppressed a groan as the merchant began his long answer. In the days since joining up with Grindle, Roo had been pestering the merchant for ideas on making money. At first the man was reluctant, as if Roo would somehow steal a thought from him and he’d be the poorer for it. Roo made several statements as if they were fact that got the old merchant going, telling the youth he was an idiot and would end up ruined before he was twenty years old. When challenged as to why, he’d open up with a sound argument. By cleverly asking questions, Roo would turn the conversation into an ongoing lecture on how to conduct business.

‘Rare, that’s the thing,’ said Grindle. ‘You can hear there’s a shortage of hides for making boots in Ylith. So corner all the hides in Krondor you can. By the time you reach Ylith, you find some lad from the Free Cities has already imported ten wagonloads of hides and you’re ruined. But rarities! There are always rich men looking for fine cloth, precious gems, exotic spices, and the like.’ Glancing around to see he was not overheard, he continued. ‘You can build volume in commodities. You can be the largest wool shipper in the West, but one plague of anthrax on the sheep herds, one ship sunk on its way to the Far Coast, and bang!’ He slapped his hands together for emphasis. One of the horses cocked an ear at the noise. ‘You’re ruined.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Roo. ‘People may not have money to buy luxuries, but they have to eat.’

‘Bah!’ said Grindle. ‘Rich people always have money to buy luxuries. Poor people often don’t have money to buy food. And rich people may eat better than poor, but one man can only eat so much, no matter how rich.’

‘What about wine?’

Grindle launched into a discussion, and Erik sat back, turning his mind to the last few days. At first bored by the chatter, Erik discovered there was a lot about the business world that was interesting, especially in terms of risk versus reward. Grindle claimed he was only a modest merchant, but Erik was beginning to believe that was intentional understatement. The cargo in the wagon was an odd mix, a half-dozen bolts of embroidered silk, a dozen small jars carefully lashed together with huge amounts of cotton wadding for protection, some wooden boxes with heavy cord tied around them, and some odd sacks. The boys never asked what was in the packages and Grindle never volunteered. From the course of the recent discussion, Erik assumed the man traded in precious goods, small but of high value, and wore poor clothing and drove a modest-appearing wagon to throw off suspicion. Erik suspected Grindle might have gems or some other cargo of small bulk and large value there.

The first night together, Erik had noticed that while the wagon was dirty on the outside it was clean in the back where the cargo lay, and it was very well repaired. The wheels had recently been reset and the work had been first-rate, with the hubs properly packed and the iron bands on the wheels carefully attached with more than the minimum number of nails. The horses were likewise more than they seemed. Grindle kept them modestly dirty, though not enough to pose a health problem, but they were scruffy-looking animals until you examined them closely. Their hooves were trimmed at the proper angle and the shoeing was absolutely masterful, as good as any Erik had seen. The animals were more than sound, they were fit and well cared for; every night Grindle supplemented their roadside grazing with fresh grain from a bag he stored under the wagon seat.

Roo clucked and rustled the reins and the wagon rolled forward again, moving in behind a long line of wagons that were stretching along the highway toward the city. Grindle said, ‘This is the longest damn wait I’ve seen in my life!’

‘It doesn’t look like we’re moving any time soon. I’ll go look.’ Roo handed the reins to Grindle.

Erik said, ‘I’ll go with you,’ and leaped down off the wagon, following after Roo.

As they moved along, several wagon drivers were standing up in their seats, attempting to see what the delay ahead might be. Ten or so wagons ahead of Grindle’s, they encountered a teamster heading back toward the end of the line, muttering curses.

‘What’s the holdup?’ asked Roo.

The man didn’t even look at them as he said, ‘Some damn nonsense if you ask me. They’re searching the wagons before they even reach the outer edge of the foulburg. Couldn’t do it at the city gate, proper like. No, they set up a second search point down at the creek bridge. I guess they just have to ruin a man’s chances of a hot dinner. It’ll be hours before we get through.’ The man reached his own wagon, five ahead of Grindle’s, and swung up to take the reins from his apprentice. ‘Prince’s funeral – every noble in the West and half from the East in town – and market day, yet they’re climbing through every wagon and looking at every man coming in like they were on the hunt for the King’s own murderer.’ The man’s comments descended into general muttering, peppered by some colorful obscenities, as Erik motioned for Roo to come away.

Out of earshot of anyone in the waiting line of wagons, Roo said, ‘What do we do?’

Erik said, ‘I don’t know. With all this funeral stuff going on, it may be something else they’re on the watch for, but it could be our necks if they are looking for us.’ He thought a minute. ‘Maybe we wait until dark, circle away from this road, and see if there’s another way into town less watched. And there’s still the problem of getting into the city proper behind the wall.’

‘One at a time. If we can get into the foulburg, we can find a way through the walls, I’m certain. There’s always a way in and out of a city for folks who don’t want too much attention drawn to themselves.’

‘Thieves and smugglers?’

‘Yes.’

‘What if we circle the city and strike out for another port?’

‘Too far,’ said Roo. ‘I don’t know how far Land’s End is to the west, but I remember my father swearing a blue streak when he had to go there. Almost half again as far, he’d say. And I don’t know what sort of ports there are to the north.

‘Besides, on the road, without Grindle’s wagon, we’d stand out like we were painted red.’

Erik nodded. ‘Well, we’d better go back and say something to Grindle so he doesn’t get suspicious.’

‘He’s suspicious already, but he’s not overly curious, which is better,’ answered Roo. Then, with his infectious grin, he added, ‘Besides, I think he likes me. He says he has a daughter I should meet, and I’ll bet you she’s as ugly as he is.’

Erik had to laugh. ‘Going to marry for money?’

As they approached Grindle’s wagon, Roo said, ‘Only if I get the chance.’

Grindle listened as they explained the delay, then said, ‘Are you going on ahead?’

Roo said, ‘I think so. We can get through the gate faster if we go now, and you’re safe from any marauders, so you don’t need our company any longer, Master Merchant. We’ve got business near the port, and the sooner we can get there the better.’

‘Well then, the gods’ speed to you, and if you ever return to Krondor, drop by and tell me how you’re doing.’ To Roo he said, ‘You’re a rogue and a liar, boy, but you have the makings of a good merchant if you’d just stop thinking everyone else around you is slower than yourself. That will be your undoing, you mark my words.’

Roo laughed and waved good-bye to Grindle as Erik shouldered his travel bag. They walked down the line of wagons until they were sure they were out of sight of the merchant, and then they angled off, away from the King’s Highway and toward a small farm to the north.

Erik swatted a persistent fly that refused to stay away from his face. ‘Got the little bastard!’ he said with satisfaction.

Roo waved away several others and said, ‘Now, if you could manage to kill all his little brothers and sisters, as well …’

Erik lay back on a bale of straw. The farm was deserted, looking as if the entire household had gone into the city for some reason. It was a well-tended smallholding with a house, two outbuildings – one a privy and the other a root cellar – and a barn. They had found the barn unlocked and wagon tracks leading away, so Erik supposed the farmer and his family had been stuck somewhere in that long line of people waiting to get into the city or had gotten there earlier in the day.

Erik and Roo were waiting for sundown before attempting to cross the open fields to the east of the city and make their way into the foulburg. Roo was confident that once they found a likely inn he could find someone to show them the way into the city for a small fee. Erik wasn’t as certain of the plan, but had nothing to offer by way of an alternative, so he said nothing. They sat at the rear of the barn, beneath the hayloft.

‘Erik?’

‘Yes?’

‘How do you feel?’

‘Not bad. My shoulder feels like new.’

‘No, I don’t mean that,’ said Roo, nibbling on a long straw. ‘I mean about everything – killing Stefan and the rest.’

Erik said nothing for a long while; at last he said, ‘He needed killing, I guess. I don’t feel much of anything. I felt very strange when he went all limp after you stuck him. I felt a lot worse when that bandit got in the way of my sword point. That made me feel sick.’ He was quiet for a minute. ‘It’s odd, isn’t it? I hold my own half brother so you can kill him and don’t feel much – not even relief because of the way he abused Rosalyn – but a complete stranger, a murderer probably, and I feel almost like vomiting.’

Roo said, ‘Don’t be so hard on murderers. That’s us, remember?’ He yawned. ‘Maybe you have to be holding the blade; that robber dying didn’t bother me, but I can still feel the way it was when I stuck my dagger into Stefan. I was sure mad at him then.’

Erik let out a long sigh. ‘It doesn’t do to dwell on this, I think. We’re outlaws and there’s nothing to do for it but try to get to the Sunset Islands. There’s a legacy of some sort waiting for me at Barret’s Coffee House, and I mean to go there, then find the first ship heading west.’

‘What legacy?’ Roo sounded intrigued. ‘You never mentioned it before.’

‘Well, “legacy” may be too big a word. My father left something for me with a solicitor and litigator at Barret’s Coffee House.’

The sound of a wagon in the distance brought both young men to their feet. Roo peered out the door. ‘Either the farmer got tired of waiting in the line or he’s back from morning market in the city, but either way the entire family seems to be riding in the wagon and we can’t get out without being seen.’

‘Come on,’ said Erik, climbing the ladder to the hayloft. Roo followed and found what Erik had been looking for, a door outside. He knelt and said, ‘Stay back against the wall until they’ve unhitched the wagons and gone inside. Then we’ll jump down from here and head into the city. It should be about time, anyway.’

Just then the door to the barn was heaved open, and a child’s voice shouted above the loud creaking, ‘Papa! I didn’t get to see the Prince.’

A woman’s voice said, ‘If you hadn’t been hitting your sister, you would have seen him ride by.’

Another male voice, an adult’s, said, ‘Papa, why do you think the king named Nicholas Prince instead of Erland?’

‘That’s the business of the Crown, and none of mine,’ came the answer as the wagon rolled into the barn, backed in by the farmer. Erik peeked over the edge of the loft and saw the farmer sitting in the wagon seat, letting his eldest son push the horses backwards as he kept an eye on things. They had obviously done this hundreds of times, and Erik appreciated the ease with which they ensured the horses did exactly what was asked, keeping the wagon intact and those riding in it safe. They continued to talk.

The son said, ‘Father, what’s it going to be like with a new Prince?’

‘Don’t know,’ said the farmer. ‘Seems like Arutha was ruling there long as I can remember. Back to before I can remember. Fifty-three years on the throne of the West. Well, Nicholas is the son said to be the most like his father, so maybe things won’t change much.’ The wagon stopped rolling. ‘Get Davy out of his traces first and put him away. I want you to take Brownie outside and walk her so I can see if she’s really lame on her left front or just acting lazy, like usual.’

The elder boy did as he was instructed while from the house the distant shouts of the younger boy and a girl could be heard, followed almost instantly by a scolding from their mother. The farmer dismounted from the wagon and removed some grain sacks from the back, loading them into a pile below the hayloft.

When the second horse was out of her traces, father and son left the barn, and Erik said, ‘We’d better clear out. If they need fodder for the animals, the boy will be up here in a few minutes.’

‘It’s still light out,’ Roo complained.

‘It’s almost sundown. We’ll just keep the barn between us and the house for a bit. If anyone sees us we’ll be two travelers walking across the field, heading for town.’

Roo said, ‘I hope you know what the hell you’re talking about.’

Erik pushed open the door to the outside through which hay was hoisted into the loft, and looked down. ‘It’s only a bit of a jump, but be careful not to twist your ankle. I don’t want to have to carry you.’

‘Right,’ said Roo with thinly disguised concern. He looked down to the ground below and found the distance far greater than he had remembered. ‘Can’t we climb back down the ladder and sneak out?’

‘One door, remember? And they’re exercising a horse right in front of it.’

The creak from out front told Erik and Roo the farmer was returning. ‘Lazy creature. Why should I feed you if you’re pretending to be lame to get out of work?’ asked the farmer with affection.

His son’s voice carried to the loft as Erik lowered himself to hang from the edge, then let go. ‘I like the way that lameness moves from foreleg to back, then from right to left, depending on which way she’s going.’ His laughter showed his genuine amusement.

Roo repeated Erik’s movements, hanging for what seemed the longest moment before he let go, expecting to slam hard into the ground and break both legs. Erik’s powerful hands closed around his waist and slowed him just enough so that he landed lightly on his feet. Roo turned and whispered, ‘See, nothing to it.’

‘Did you hear something out back?’ came the voice of the son.

Erik motioned for silence and they hurried away from the barn.

Whatever curiosity the farmer’s eldest son might have had, the requirements of caring for the animals must have displaced it, for no one came to investigate the sound. Erik and Roo hastened along, until they were a quarter mile across the field, then slowed to a casual walk.

They plodded down the rolling hillside, approaching the outer buildings of the city as the sun went down. Erik looked at the foulburg as they neared it, and said, ‘Keep an eye out for guards.’

They reached a low row of huts and simple gardens. with no clear passage between the buildings. In the evening light they could see a few hundred yards to the north of them that another road entered the city. They made out movement along the road, but neither Roo nor Erik could tell if it was field hands returning to the city or soldiers on patrol using the thoroughfare.

Roo said, ‘Look,’ and pointed to what was little more than a clear space between two houses, but through which they could reach the first north-south street in town without having to use the main roads. They stepped over a low fence, carefully avoiding the rows of vegetables planted there, and made their way to the back of the hut. Ducking low so as not to be seen through the single window, they skirted away from the rear door and moved between the buildings. Obviously in one of the poorer sections of town, this little alleyway was heavily littered with trash. They picked their way along, trying to be as quiet as possible.

Reaching the street, Roo peered out and pulled back, hugging the wall. ‘It’s pretty empty.’

‘Do you think we’re beyond where the guards are?’

‘I don’t know. But at least we’re in Krondor.’

Roo moved out into the street, then strolled along, as Erik caught up. They glanced right and left and saw only a few locals, some of whom paused to study the two young men. Roo started to feel self-conscious about the attention and motioned for Erik to follow him into a small neighborhood tavern.

They entered a dingy, smoke-filled common room, populated by only two other men and a barkeep, who looked at them with suspicion. ‘Help you?’ he asked with a tone that indicated help was far down his list of priorities.

Roo removed his travel bag and said, ‘Two ales.’

The man didn’t move, continuing to stare at Roo. After a moment, Roo dug into his belt pouch and pulled out a pair of copper coins. The man took the money, inspected it, and then put it in his own belt pouch. He reached under the bar and produced two empty flagons, which he carried halfway down the bar to a large tap. He pulled it twice, filling each flagon with a frothy brew. Returning to where Roo and Erik waited, he put them down before the two young men. ‘Anything else?’

Erik said, ‘Anything to eat?’

The man indicated a kettle hanging before the fireplace on the other side of the room. ‘Stew’s done. Two coppers a bowl, three if you want bread.’

The smell wasn’t promising, but Erik and Roo were both hungry, having had nothing to eat all day. Erik said, ‘We’ll take the stew and the bread.’

The man still didn’t move, until Roo put more money on the bar. Then he went and filled two wooden bowls with stew and carried them back. He produced a couple of small loaves of bread and set them down on the dirty bar next to the bowls, then produced two almost clean wooden spoons and put them in the bowls before Erik or Roo could intercept them.

Roo was too hungry to notice, and seeing his friend not suffering from eating the stew, Erik tried his own bowl. It was nothing like his mother’s, but it was hot and filling, and the bread was acceptable, if a little coarse.

As casually as he could, Roo said, ‘What’s all the fuss about?’

‘What fuss?’ asked the barkeep.

‘Outside, at the gate,’ replied Roo.

‘Didn’t know there was a fuss.’

Erik said, ‘We just got to Krondor and didn’t feel like waiting in that long line to eat.’

The barkeep was silent until Roo put money on the bar and signaled for two more ales, even though the first were only half-drunk. The barkeep produced another set of flagons and said, ‘Prince of Krondor died.’

‘We heard that,’ said Roo.

‘Well, his son is being installed in the office tomorrow. His brothers are here.’

‘The King’s in Krondor?’ said Erik, feigning surprise, even though he had heard that earlier.

‘That’s why there’s so much security at the gates,’ said the barkeep. ‘There’s a pair of murderers they’re looking for; did in some noble east of here, if you believe the story. Of course, everyone and his uncle’s pet dog is in town for the festival. Funeral parade was today, which is why everyone took the day off to gawk at the King. Tomorrow they have this ceremony, then another parade, so those that couldn’t see anything will get their chance. After that, the King will take his father back to Rillanon for burial in the family vault. And Prince Nicholas will come back as the new Prince of Krondor. Then we’ll have another festival, and everyone will drink too much and nothing will get done. Then all the visiting nobles will go home.’

‘You don’t sound very impressed,’ said Erik.

The front door opened and two more rough-looking men entered, sitting down at the table occupied by the first two.

The barman shrugged. ‘Why should I? Old Prince, new Prince, the taxes are the same.’

Roo continued to sound matter-of-fact. ‘Well, now that we’re getting some food in us, I guess we’ll just have to go stand in line like everyone else.’

The barkeep said, ‘Not, I should think.’

Roo tried to look uninterested and said, ‘You know another way into Krondor?’

At this the barkeep’s expression changed to one of surprise. ‘No, just that they close the gate in an hour and you won’t be able to get in tonight.’

‘They close the gate?’

‘With the King in the city, of course,’ answered the barman, now interested. ‘You have a problem?’

Erik was about to say nothing at all was the matter, but Roo quickly said, ‘We have to find a ship and be on it at first light tomorrow.’

‘Plan on taking another, then,’ said the barkeep. ‘For many of those waiting to get into the city will simply sleep before the gate, so even were you to leave now and take a place outside, you’ll be hours getting through tomorrow. It will be like that every day until the King and his family leave next week.’

Narrowing his gaze, Roo said, ‘I don’t suppose you know of another way into the inner city? Say, perhaps, one used by locals and not widely talked about?’

The barman glanced around the room as if fearing being overheard – highly unlikely, given that the other four men in the room were lost in their own conversation – and said, ‘I might. But it would cost you.’

‘How much?’

‘How much do you have?’

Before Erik could plead poverty, Roo said, ‘My friend and I can pay ten gold pieces.’

The barman looked surprised at the amount, but only said, ‘Let’s see your gold.’

As Roo made to undo his backpack, Erik placed a restraining hand on his shoulder. ‘Ten gold pieces is all we have in the world. It’s taken us months to scrounge it together. We were going to purchase passage with it.’

‘You’re young and strong. You can work your passage. There are ships leaving for Queg, the Free Cities, Kesh, every port you might wish to reach. They are always looking for deckhands.’

The barman nodded, and the sound of chairs being pushed away from the table caused Erik to turn. The two men who had just entered were already closing, billy clubs held high. Roo tried to duck under a blow and for his trouble caught the strike on his shoulder instead of his head. His knees went loose from the pain and he fell.

Erik tried to draw his sword, but the nearest man was upon him. Letting go of the hilt, Erik unloaded a backhand blow that sent the man flying into the one coming behind him.

The man who was clubbing Roo turned and shouted, ‘Get him!’

Erik was starting to draw his sword when a blow to the back of the head stunned him. He felt his legs go out from under him and his vision swam.

Two men grabbed him and hoisted him up, and before he could resist he was tied like a fatted calf. The barman came around, holding the lead-filled club he had struck Erik with from behind, and said, ‘The little one is probably worthless, but the big fellow will bring a good price as a galley slave, or maybe even as a fighter in the arena. Get them to the Quegan buyer before midnight. The envoy’s escort galleys leave tomorrow on the evening tide, after the festivities at the palace.’

Erik tried to say something, and for his troubles caught another blow to the head. He slumped down, unconscious.

Erik’s eyes opened. He sat up. His head throbbed and his vision went in and out of focus, as his stomach knotted. He swallowed hard, closed his eyes, discovered that made his nausea worse, and opened them again. He found his hands were restrained by heavy iron bracelets and his legs by even heavier shackles. He looked around, expecting to be in the bottom of a ship bound for Queg. Instead he found himself in a cell.

A groan from close by caused him to turn around. Erik found Roo likewise shackled and trying to sit up. Erik gave him a hand and the smaller youngster tried to clear his head.

‘Sort of a bad day for you two, wasn’t it?’ said a voice from behind them.

Erik turned to find a man leaning back against a window ledge, bars behind him, his body silhouetted against daylight, the small aperture being the sole source of light. He moved away from the window, coming to squat down before Erik. Erik could make out his features in the dimly lit room. He was a broad-shouldered, bull-necked man of middle years, with dark receding hair, cut close, and deep blue eyes. There was something odd about his manner and expression, but Erik couldn’t put his finger upon it. He needed a shave and was dressed in plain tunic and trousers. High boots, well cared for but old and worn, and a wide belt were his only other garments.

‘Where are we? …’ He closed his eyes as his head swam a minute. ‘We were struck from behind.’

‘Some of the locals trying to sell you to Quegan slavers,’ said the man. His voice was slightly raspy and his manner of speech common. Erik wasn’t sure, but there was something about his accent that reminded him of Nathan’s, so he assumed the man was from the Far Coast.

The man smiled, but there was a hint of meanness behind the smile. ‘You were on your way to a less than pleasant ocean voyage. With the emissary from Queg in the city, along with several of his King’s galleys, the Duke of Krondor thought there might be something like this going on.’

‘You’re not with them?’

Ha! I’d as soon kiss a goblin as leave a Quegan slaver alive.’ He glanced at Roo, who was regaining his wits. The man continued, ‘The Duke’s men intercepted the slavers on their way to the docks. He was both surprised and pleased to discover that you two were among those heading out of the city. There’s been quite a search on for you, my friends.’

‘Then you know who we are?’ said Erik with resignation. ‘Who are you?’

‘You’ve heard of the man they call the Eagle of Krondor?’

Erik nodded. Who that man was and why he was called that wasn’t widely known, but that he existed was common knowledge. ‘Is that you?’

‘Ha!’ The man gave a harsh bark of laughter. ‘Hardly. But I work for him. You might call me the Dog of Krondor. I bite, so don’t irritate me.’ He made a growling noise and snarled in a fair imitation of a dog. ‘My name is Robert de Loungville. My friends call me Bobby. You call me sir.’

Roo said, ‘What have you to do with us?’

‘I just wanted to see if you had any serious wounds.’

‘Why?’ asked Roo. ‘Can’t hang an injured man?’

Bobby smiled at this. ‘Not my concern. The Prince needs desperate men, and by all reports you two are about as desperate as they get. But from what I see, that’s all you are. Well, pitiful, too. The Prince may have to look elsewhere for his desperate men.’

‘We’re just going to be hung?’ asked Erik.

‘Hardly,’ said the man. He got up from his squatting position, groaning theatrically as he did so. ‘Knees aren’t what they used to be.’ He moved to the cell door and motioned for the jailer to open it. ‘The new Prince of Krondor, like his father, is a very particular man when it comes to observing the law. We will have a trial; then we will hang you.’ He passed through the door and it closed behind him.

A short time later the door opened again and an old man entered. He was dressed in richly fashioned clothing, but of plain cut, as if designed for one who was active despite his rank and years. The man’s hair was silver, he wore a closely trimmed beard, and his eyes were dark and penetrating. He studied the two prisoners carefully.

Kneeling before Erik, he said, ‘Tell me your name.’

‘Erik von Darkmoor … sir.’

Then he turned to Roo. ‘You are Rupert Avery?’

Roo said, ‘Yes. And who are you?’ His manner showed he took exception to being treated so roughly, and if he was going to be hung he might as well vent his temper on whoever was nearby, irrespective of rank.

The man smiled, amused by Roo’s sharp manner. ‘You may call me Lord James.’

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