Shards of a Broken Crown. Raymond E. Feist

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.

      The man gave over the pot and hurried back to his campfire where a woman offered him another crock of the hot stew. He set out to find another customer. Malar motioned for Jimmy to move to the side of the road and squatted, holding the crockery. He held it out and spoke softly, “Eat first and give me what’s left.”

      Jimmy squatted, not wishing to sit in the mud, and ate the stew. If it was rabbit, it had been a rabbit of diminutive stature, and even the carrots and turnips had a strange taste. Jimmy decided it best not to consider how long they had sat in some abandoned root cellar before that enterprising peddler had found them.

      He ate half the contents of the bowl and gave the rest over to Malar. While his newfound servant ate, Jimmy looked around. He had seen enough military camps to recognize he had blundered into one. Warriors, camp СКАЧАТЬ