The Serpentwar Saga. Raymond E. Feist

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