Shards of a Broken Crown. Raymond E. Feist

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