Shards of a Broken Crown

“Where is your master now?” asked James.

“Oh, dead I fear,” said the thin man with a display of regret. “Fourteen years was I his servant, and he a generous master. Now I am alone in this cold place.”

James said, “Well, why don’t you tell us this story.”

“And show us how you planned on catching those fish,” said Dash.

“If I might have some hair from your horses’ manes,” said the ragged man. “Then it would be so much easier.”

“Horses?” asked Dash.

“Two young noblemen such as yourselves didn’t walk into this forsaken wilderness, I am certain,” supplied Malar. “And I heard one of them snorting a moment again.” He pointed. “That way.”

Jimmy nodded. “That’s fair.”

“What do you need hair from their manes for?” asked Dash.

“Let me show you.”

He walked toward the place where Dash’s horse had been tied, and said, “The ice was almost broken when you startled me, young sir. If you would but use the hilt of your sword to break it open, that would be a great service.”

Jimmy nodded and started back toward the icy pond.

Dash asked, “Now, about how you came to be lost in this forsaken wilderness.”

“As you are no doubt aware,” began Malar, “there was much trouble between Kesh and the Kingdom lately, with Shamata for a time being deeded to the Empire.”

“So we had heard,” said Dash.

“My master, being of Kingdom allegiance, decided it wise to visit his holdings in the North, first in Landreth, then Krondor.

“We were traveling to Krondor when we encountered the invaders. We were overtaken and my master and most of his other servants were put to the sword. I and a few others managed to flee into the hills, south of here.” He pointed southward with his chin, as he reached Dash’s horse. Malar reached up and gripped a few hairs from the horse’s mane, yanking expertly, and came away with several long strands of hair. The horse moved at the unexpected pressure, snorting displeasure. Dash reached out and took the reins from the tree branch where they were tied, and Malar yanked out some more hairs. He repeated the procedure twice more. “That is sufficient,” he observed.

“So you’ve been in these hills how long?”

“More than three months, young sir,” said Malar, as he started deftly weaving the hair into a braid. “It has been a bitter time. Some of my companions died from hunger and cold, and two were captured by a band of men – outlaws or invaders, I do not know which. I have been alone for all of three weeks or so, I judge.” He sounded apologetic as he said, “It is difficult to keep track of time.”

“You’ve survived in these woods for three weeks with nothing but your bare hands?” asked Dash.

Malar started walking toward the pond, continuing to weave the horse hair. “Yes, and a terrible thing it has been, sir.”

“How?” asked Dash.

“As a boy I was raised in the hills above Landreth, to the north of the Vale of Dreams. Not as hostile a land as this, but still a place where the unwary can perish easily. My father was a woodsman, who put food on your table with bow and snare, as well as gold in his pouch from guiding men through the hills.”

Dash laughed. “He guided smugglers.”

“Perhaps,” said Malar with a broad shrug. “In any event, while the winters in the hills near my home are nowhere near as inhospitable as here, still a man must have skills to survive.”

Malar moved slowly as he approached the hole. He glanced skyward to see the angle of the sun, then moved to face it. “Do not let your shadow cross the hole,” he instructed.

Dash and Jimmy followed behind. The man from the Vale of Dreams slowly knelt and said, “Fish, I have been taught, see movement, so we must move ever so slowly.”

Dash said, “This I must see.”

Jimmy nodded.

Malar said, “The sun shines through the hole in the ice, and the fish swims up to feel the warmth.”

Jimmy looked over the man’s shoulder and saw a large brook trout lazily circling the hole. Moving slowly, Malar inserted the noose of horsehair into the water, behind the fish. The trout ceased moving for a moment, but Malar resisted the urge to move quickly, instead inching the snare toward the fish’s tail.

After another long minute, the fish darted away, and Malar said, “Another will come. They see the light and think insects may land upon the surface.”

After a silent five minutes, a trout appeared near the edge of the hole. Dash couldn’t tell if it was the same fish or a different one. Malar again started moving the noose slowly and got it around the fish’s tail. With a jerk, he snared the trout and yanked it out of the hole, landing it on the ice, where it flopped.

Dash couldn’t see the man’s face behind the rags that covered it, but the crinkles around his eyes showed Malar was smiling. “If one of you young gentlemen would be so kind as to light a fire, I will catch some more.”

Jimmy and Dash exchanged glances, then Jimmy shrugged. Dash said, “I’ll get some wood. You find a campsite.”

They hurried off while the strange man from the Vale of Dreams sought out another fish for supper.

For three days they moved slowly toward Krondor. Several times they had heard distant voices and the sound of men moving through the woodlands, but they had avoided contact with anyone.

Jimmy and Dash both found Malar an enigma. He had surprising skills for wilderness survival, odd for one claiming to be the servant of a rich trader. On the other hand, Jimmy had confided to his brother, the servant of a rich smuggler might prove in need of such skills. Still, they were pleased to have him along, for he had found several shortcuts through the undergrowth, had identified edible plants that supplemented their stores, and had proven a reliable night sentry. As they were walking their horses, leading them more than half the time, his keeping up had proven to be no difficulty. Jimmy judged they were less than a week’s travel from Krondor.

At midday they heard horses in the distance, from the north. Jimmy spoke at a low conversational level. “Duko’s men moving along the highway?”

Dash nodded. “Probably. If we can hear them from here, we’ve headed back toward the highway.” He turned to Malar. “Do you know of any southern route to Krondor?”

“Only the highway that loops around from Land’s End, young sir. But if we are nearing the King’s Highway, within a few days we should start encountering farms.”

Jimmy was silent for a long moment, then said, “They’ll almost certainly be burned out.”

“But,” suggested Dash, “if they are, no one is likely to be living in them, and we might slip into the city unnoticed.”

“No farmers, you mean,” corrected Jimmy. “But they’d be decent shelter for some very unpleasant men with a fondness for weapons, I bet.”

Dash’s brow furrowed, as if thinking he should have thought of that, but a moment later, his grin returned and he said, “Well, then, we will just blend in. You’ve told me often enough how unpleasant I can be, and I am certainly fond of my weapons.”

Jimmy nodded. “Two more hired swords will scarcely be noticed. And if we can get close to the city, we’ll find a way inside. There are enough holes in the walls, that’s for certain.”

Malar said, “You’ve been to Krondor, then, young sir? Since the war, I mean.”

Jimmy ignored the question, saying, “We’ve heard of the damage.”

Dash agreed. “More than a few people left Krondor and came east.”

“This I know,” said Malar, falling silent.

They moved on through the woods for the rest of the day and made a cold camp that night. Huddled under their blankets, Jimmy and Dash stayed close together while Malar took the first watch. They slept fitfully, coming awake many times.

In the morning, they resumed their journey.

The woods were filled with the sounds of the thaw. In the distance the cracking of ice rang through the suddenly warm air as ponds and lakes began to lose their frozen skins. Large mounds of snow fell from trees in sudden, wet attacks on the travelers, while everywhere water dripped from branches. The footing beneath their feet alternated between crusty patches of ice and thick mud which gripped at boots and horses’ hooves. The constant noise was a backdrop against which the occasional sounds of spring could be heard. The distant call of a bird that had returned from the south early, seeking others of its kind. The faint rustle in the distance of small creatures coming out of their winter’s burrows stilled as they passed, only to resume after a while.

When they paused to rest, Jimmy tied his horse to a low tree branch and motioned for Dash to do likewise. Dash did as he was bid, and said, “Keep an eye out. We’re going to relieve ourselves.” He moved to where Jimmy stood, making a show of urinating into the snow.

Dash did likewise, whispering, “What is it?”

“Have you formed an opinion of our chance companion?” asked the older brother.

Dash shook his head slightly, saying, “Not really. I’m certain he’s more than he claims, but I have no idea what.”

“There’s not a lot of fat on him,” said Jimmy, “but he doesn’t move like a man weak from hunger.”

Dash said, “Do you have a theory?”

Jimmy said, “No. But if he’s not the servant of a rich trader, what’s he doing up here?”

“Smuggler?”

“Maybe,” answered Jimmy, doing up the front of his trousers. “Could be anything we could imagine.”

Remembering what their grandfather had cautioned them over the years about leaping to conclusions, Dash said, “Then we’d best not imagine anything.”

“Wait and see,” agreed Jimmy.

They returned to the horses, and Malar hurried off to relieve himself away from the trail. When he was out of hearing range, they continued. Jimmy asked, “Remember that abandoned farm a day’s walk this side of where we met Malar?”

“The one with half a thatch roof and the fallen-down cow shed?”

“That’s the one. If we bolt, and get separated, meet there.”

Dash nodded. Neither chose to discuss what to do should the other never appear.

Malar returned and they started off. The servant from the Vale of Dreams had been as closemouthed as the brothers. Part of the reason was the environment. The nights were still and even in the day noise carried. They knew they were approaching an area likely to be patrolled by the invaders; they were leading their horses rather than riding them, as, even in the woodlands, a rider presented a much higher profile in the distance than a man on foot or a horse. Periodically they stopped to listen.

Rains came later that afternoon and they sought out what shelter they could, finding a hut of some sort, burned out, but with just enough thatch to give slight respite.

Sitting atop their saddles, hastily removed to get them out of the weather, they took stock.

“We’ve got another day’s grain, then we’re done,” said Dash, knowing his brother was just as aware of supplies as he.

Malar said, “Shouldn’t there be winter grass under the snow, sirs?”

Jimmy nodded. “Not much in it, but the horses will eat it.”

Dash said, “If there are horsemen in Krondor, they’ll have fodder.”

Jimmy said, “The difficulty will be in persuading them to share, brother.”

Dash grinned. “What’s life without a challenge or two?”

The rain stopped and they resumed their trek.

Later that afternoon, Malar said, “Young sirs, I believe I hear something.”

All conversation ceased and the three stopped walking as they listened. The frigid days of winter had given way to a promise of spring, but it was still cold enough they could see their breath in the late afternoon air. After a moment of silence, Dash was about to speak when a voice echoed from ahead. It spoke a language neither brother recognized, but they knew it was the Yabonese-like tongue of the invaders.

Glancing around for a place to hide, Jimmy pointed and mouthed the word, There.

He indicated a large stand of brush that surrounded an outcropping of rocks. Dash wasn’t sure they could secret the horses behind it, but it was the only thing nearby that offered shelter from whoever came their way.

Malar hurried around the upthrust rocks and pulled aside a low branch, allowing Jimmy and Dash to lead their horses around to a relatively sheltered hiding place. In the distance horses could be heard.

Dash’s horse’s nostrils flared and her head came up. Jimmy said, “What?”

“This witchy mare is in heat,” whispered Dash as he tugged hard on her bridle. “Pay attention to me!” he demanded.

Malar said, “You ride a mare?”

“She’s a good horse,” insisted Dash.

“Most of the time!” agreed Jimmy, hissing his words. “But not now!”

Dash tugged on the horse’s bridle, trying to focus her attention on himself. An experienced rider, Dash knew that if he could keep her attention, she might not call out to the horses that were approaching.

Jimmy’s gelding seemed relatively indifferent to the proceedings, though he did look on with some interest as the mare’s excited state built. Dash held tight to the mare’s bridle, rubbing her nose and speaking close to her ear in a reassuring fashion.

The riders came close and Dash judged there must be at least a dozen of them from the clatter. Voices cut through the air and a man laughed. These were men who patrolled a familiar area and expected nothing out of the ordinary.

Dash held tight to the bridle and continued to speak softly to his mare as the horses came to the point of closest approach on the trail. Suddenly Dash’s horse pulled backwards and her head came up.

For an instant there was a tiny hope she might come back to him, but then she called out her greeting, a loud whinny.

Suddenly shouts filled the air and other horses answered the mare’s call. Jimmy didn’t hesitate. “That way!”

Malar shoved through underbrush and ignored scratches from branches as he went where Jimmy had directed. Jimmy came next, leading his gelding, eyes wide and nostrils flaring from excitement. The mare balked and resisted as she screamed her welcome to the other horses. A stallion’s herd cry answered, and Dash knew the only way he could control his mare was from her back. Letting her head come around toward the stallion, he quickly swung up onto her back, exposing himself to view.

He didn’t hesitate, and slammed heels into her flanks. Urging her into a gallop, he seemed to burst from the underbrush toward those riders arrayed on the trail. Then he was past them, moving away from his brother and Malar, and the chase was on.

From a vantage point a short distance off, Jimmy turned and saw the riders wheel and charge after Dash. Malar, almost out of breath, puffed as he said, “Sir, will they catch him?”

Jimmy swore. “Probably. But if they don’t, he should try to get back to that farmhouse. That’s what we planned.”

“Shall we turn around?” asked the servant.

Jimmy was silent. After a moment he said, “No. Dash will either be captured, in which case we can’t help him escape, or he’ll win free. If he gets back to that farmhouse we found the day we met you, he’ll wait one or two days, then return to Darkmoor. If we go now, we’ll have no more information than he will.”

“We go to Krondor?”

“We go to Krondor,” said Jimmy. He glanced around, seeking any sign of other riders in the area. As the sound of Dash and his pursuers faded into the distance, he pointed and said, “That way.”

As quietly as they could, the pair set off.

Dash rode as hard as he could, despite the balky mare, who wanted to turn and greet the stallions behind. Every hint of hesitation from her brought a hard kick to her sides as he used every skill he had to keep her heading down a windy woodland trail made dangerous by mud and ice, overhanging branches, and sudden turns.

Dash knew that if his old riding instructor, the King’s own horsemaster, could see what he was doing, he’d be shouting at the top of his lungs, telling Dash to slow down. Dash knew his race across treacherous footing was unbelievably dangerous and foolhardy.

He couldn’t spare a glance back to see how close his pursuers might be, but the noise behind him told him all he needed to know: they were close. It would take a stroke of luck for him to lose them. He knew that to them he was a dimly-seen figure on a horse moving through the long shadows of the woodlands, but as long as he stayed on the trail, they would be able to stay close and not lose him.

He had a rough idea where he was. There were a dozen or more woodland trails to the east of Krondor that led to farms throughout the area. He knew that eventually – if he outran his pursuers – he’d hit the King’s Highway. A horse’s scream and a panic-stricken rider’s cry told Dash that one of his pursuers’ mounts had lost footing and was down, probably breaking a leg.

Dash glanced to the left and saw the trees thinning as he reached a clutch of farms, open fields that were dotted with burned-out buildings. He hesitated for a moment, but to try to ride across muddy fields would be far worse than staying on the trail. Here the mud was a nuisance, slippery muck over hardpan compacted by years of wagons, riders, and foot traffic. The mud in the fields was deep enough for an adult horse to sink up to the point where it would be unable to move.

The horse labored as Dash pushed her along the trail; lack of grain and fodder had shortened her endurance and she was blowing hard as she struggled to obey his commands. Then he saw a stone path, and a glimmer of hope appeared.

He almost caused her to fall, so abruptly did he pull the mare around, but once she got her feet back under her, she sped off in the desired direction. Dash said a silent prayer to Ruthia, Goddess of Luck, and gathered his horse under him for a jump. The fence along the road was mostly broken down, but he needed to land on a relatively narrow pathway that was blocked by one of the few remaining intact sections and a closed gate.

The horse was tired, but athletic enough to easily clear the fence, landing on the wet stones. The reassuring clatter of hooves on stone told Dash that Ruthia at least didn’t say “no.”

He stole a glance to his left and saw several of the riders attempt to cut him off by veering into the muddy field. He smiled to himself.

Making sure the horse was heading exactly where he wanted, he chanced another look back and saw that the horses in the field were now half buried, attempting to pull their hooves out of the deep, thick muck.

Dash gained precious seconds as the riders who followed on the road chose to double back and work their way around the intact fence. He now had a chance.

The sun was now out of sight behind the trees ahead, as the long shadows of late afternoon crept across the fields. He rode past a burned-out farmhouse and saw the stone path he was on passed the door and continued on toward the foundation of a burned-out bam. He continued to ride, but slowed as he reached the terminus of the path.

Dash could only spare a moment to let the horse rest, as curses from behind told him those trying to reach him were now also mired in the mud. Dash judged the way to his right was more substantial footing than elsewhere – at least he hoped that was the case, and set off, letting his horse move at a trot until she slowed down due to the mud.

The sound of the mare’s hooves hitting tightly compacted sand caused Dash to feel a surge of hope. It was quickly extinguished when he heard riders coming hard behind on the stone path.

The trees were close enough to give the illusion of safety, but Dash knew that if he couldn’t get into them at least a minute ahead of the riders behind him, he wouldn’t be able to shake them.

He urged his mare on to a loping canter and glanced back. The riders were just now reaching the edge of the farmhouse, and again hope rose up within Dash. Their horses were lathered and their nostrils were flaring wide. They were almost as exhausted as his own. They must have been at the end of their patrol, or they weren’t getting enough to eat, but for whatever reason, they didn’t look as if they had enough left to overtake him – as long as he could keep his own exhausted mare moving.

He reached the treeline and ducked under a low-hanging branch. As quickly as he could, he picked his way among the trees, varying his course and trying to keep clear of those behind. He hoped there were no trackers behind, but then, considering the terrain, realized a blind man could follow his trail.

Glancing around he saw a small outcropping of rock that rose up a slight incline and appeared to be flat on top. He turned the horse and walked her up the rise, and found the rock ran off along what appeared to be a smaller trail. He jumped off and led her down the trail.

Exhaustion was curbing her desire to call to the stallion, as she could barely catch enough breath to walk after Dash. He pulled her reins and she reluctantly set out at a fast walk behind him.

Shadows deepened as the sun lowered in the west, and Dash moved deeper into the woods. If Jimmy and Malar had stayed clear of pursuit, they would be approaching the city several miles to the south. Dash wondered if he should attempt to cut back behind his pursuers and try to find his brother and the stranger from the Vale of Dreams.

Dash considered the best that would bring him would be to get him haplessly lost. There couldn’t be so many people in Krondor that if both brothers reached there safely, they couldn’t find one another. At least Dash hoped that was true. Hearing the riders coming closer to the point where he had left the trail below, Dash hurried deeper into the woods.

Jimmy gripped Malar’s arm and said, “We join there.” He indicated a point in the road where a fairly steady stream of travelers had been coming past the woodlands, at the edge of what had once been the foulbourgh outside the walls of Krondor. “I’m a mercenary from Landreth and you’re my servant.”

“Dog robber,” said Malar.

“What?”

“The term is ‘dog robber.’ To feed his master, a mercenary’s servant will steal scraps from a dog if necessary.” The slender man smiled. “I have served as such. You, though, will be obviously false to any Valeman who might happen to be here.”

“You think that likely?”

“It would be better should you be a young man from the East of the Kingdom, who lately served in the Vale. Claim no company. Say you worked for my departed master. I do not know what you expected to find in Krondor, young sir, but in the backwashes of war many things happen. We are seeing that ahead.”

Jimmy was forced to admit that was true. Where he had seen nothing but frost-covered stones and a few fires just weeks before, now he saw dozens of huts and tents, a veritable community springing up almost overnight. As they walked down the road, Malar leading Jimmy’s horse, Jimmy drank in the sights and sounds.

Evening was upon them and fires dotted the landscape. Hawkers shouted from ahead, offering food, drink, the company of a woman. Hard-looking men lounged near fires, watching guardedly as Jimmy and Malar moved past.

A man hurried over holding a steaming pot, and said, “Hot food! Fresh rabbit stew! I have carrots and turnips mixed in!”

From the expressions on the faces of those nearby, Jimmy surmised two things: the “rabbit” was probably a less wholesome dinner item than advertised, and most of the people nearby were hungry.

But some sort of order had been imposed, and armed men who seemed near to the point of killing for food merely watched with fixed expressions as the man passed holding out the meal. “How much?” asked Jimmy, not pausing.

“What have you?” asked the peddler.

Malar elbowed Jimmy to one side. “Begone, O stewer of cats! My master has no use for such foul-smelling garbage,” he shouted.

Instantly the two men were almost nose to nose, screaming insults at one another, and almost equally abruptly a deal had been struck. Malar gave the man a copper coin, a ball of yarn he had been carrying in his pocket, and a very old rusty dagger.