The Serpentwar Saga. Raymond E. Feist

in the heat. A couple had left the small tents, thinking the heat outside might somehow be less than the heat radiating through the canvas, and quickly they returned to the tiny shelter. As if reading minds, Foster’s voice had cut through the air, warning any man caught drinking would be flogged.

      The second night had been arduous, and the second day terrible. Now there was no rest in lying in the heat, only less energy expended than attempting to move. The night offered no relief, as the cold dry air sucked moisture from the men seemingly as quickly as the day’s heat.

      They marched on.

      Foster and de Loungville were careful not to lose sight of each company, ensuring that no one at the rear stumbled and was left behind. Erik knew they were also ensuring that no one dropped any vital piece of equipment because they were fatigued.

      Now it was the third day and Erik despaired of ever seeing water and shade again. Adding to the cruelty of the trek was the rising terrain before them. It had begun gently enough, but now it felt as if they were walking uphill.

      Ahead, Calis stopped, but motioned for the others to come up to him. When they reached the crest of the rise, Erik could see that they had reached grasslands, and that from the crest downward, rolling hills of green led to a scattering of copses where broad branched trees offered shelter. In the distance, a line of trees meandered across the countryside, and it was there Calis pointed. ‘The Serpent River. You can drink your fill now.’

      Erik pulled up his last waterskin and drained it, finding it was almost empty. He was surprised; he had thought he had more water left, as he hadn’t been allowed to drink enough to drain three skins.

      Calis looked to de Loungville and said, ‘That was pretty easy.’

      Erik glanced at Roo, who shook his head. The order to march was passed along, and they moved toward the distant river.

      Horses milled in large corrals and Calis spoke to a pair of horse traders. They had been at this place before, a prosperous-looking trading post called Shingazi’s Landing. One of the older soldiers said it had been burned to the ground when Calis had first come to this land, twenty-four years ago, but had been rebuilt. Even though Shingazi had died in that fire years before, the new owners kept the name. So they were presently enjoying the hospitality of Brek’s at Shingazi’s Landing.

      The food was simple but welcome after the rations of the last three days, as were the abundant wine and ale. The men waiting for them weren’t the same riders that had met them on the bluffs. Those had been riders of the jeshandi, Erik had been told, while these were city men, up from the City of the Serpent River.

      A company of guardsmen were stationed with them, and their captain was known to Calis. They had gone inside the tavern to talk, while the mercenary company was left to itself outside. Every man had bathed in the river, drank his fill, and now they were resting before mounting up to ride.

      Erik watched the horses with interest. Here was something he could understand. He saw that each mount was being given a snaffle bit, a cavalry saddle with a breast-band, and saddlebags, with room for a sleeping roll or rolled-up tent behind the saddle’s cantle.

      Foster was walking nearby when Erik noticed something. ‘Corporal,’ he said.

      Foster halted. ‘What?’

      ‘That horse isn’t sound.’

      ‘What?’

      Erik moved between two rails of the corral fence and pushed past the milling horses near by. One of the horse trader’s handlers shouted at Erik; he had tried to learn the language of this land on ship, and knew that man was ordering him to stay away from the horses, but he didn’t have enough confidence in his ability to say he just wanted to look. He waved at the man as if returning a greeting.

      Reaching the horse, he ran his hand down the left foreleg, picking it up. ‘Bad hoof.’

      Foster said, ‘Damn their greedy hearts.’

      The wrangler reached them, shouting at them to leave the animals alone. ‘You haven’t paid yet! They are not yours!’

      Foster unleashed his legendary rage. Gripping the man’s shirt in one meaty hand, he raised him to his toes and screamed in his face. ‘I should have your liver for lunch! Get your master and tell him if he’s not here before I lose my good mood, I’ll kill him and every cheating whoreson of a city man within five miles!’ He half pushed the man as he let go of his shirt, and the wrangler fell back against the horse, who snorted in protest and moved away. Turning, the man ran off to find his employer.

      This exchange wasn’t lost on the guards who came with the horse traders, and suddenly there were armed men in all directions moving to get ready for a fight. Erik said, ‘Corporal, was that wise?’

      Foster only grinned.

      A few moments later the horse trader was upon them demanding to know why they had assaulted his man. Foster said, ‘Assault? I should have your heads on pikes! Look at this animal!’

      The man glanced at the horse and said, ‘What about him?’

      Foster looked to Erik and said, ‘What about him?’

      Erik suddenly found himself the center of attention of every man within view. He looked around and saw Calis and the leader of the city guardsmen coming out of the tavern. Someone had obviously alerted them to the possibility of danger.

      Erik said, ‘He has a bad hoof. It’s cracked and festering, and it’s been painted over to look healthy.’

      The man began a stream of protests, but then Calis said, ‘Is this true?’

      Erik nodded. ‘It’s an old trick.’ He moved to the horse’s head and looked into his eyes, then inspected his mouth. ‘He’s been drugged. I don’t know what, but there are several drugs that will deaden the pain enough to make him not limp. Whatever they gave him is wearing off. He’s starting to show a hitch in his walk.’

      Calis came up to the horse trader. ‘You were given this commission by our friend Regin of the Lion Clan, were you not?’

      The man nodded, attempting to bluff. ‘I was. My word is bond from the City of the Serpent River to the Westlands. I will find whichever one of my misguided retainers is responsible and have the man beaten. Obviously someone is attempting to curry my favor, but I will have no cheating of good friends!’

      Calis shook his head. ‘Fine. We shall inspect every animal, and for each one we reject, you will be fined the price of a sound horse as well. This is one, that means we get one other sound mount for no charge.’

      When the man looked to the Captain of the company that had accompanied the horse man, he smiled. ‘Sounds fair to me, Mugaar.’

      Seeing no relief, the man touched his hand to his heart. ‘It is done.’

      As the defeated merchant stalked away, Calis said, ‘Hatonis, this is Erik von Darkmoor. He’ll be inspecting each animal. If you would see he’s not interfered with, I would be in your debt.’

      Erik extended his hand. The man shook it with a firm grip. He was a soldier of middle years, but only a little grey took away his youth. He was strong and looked like a seasoned fighter.

      ‘My father would come back from the grave to haunt one such as that if he cast shame upon our clan,’ said the guard captain.

      Turning to Erik, Calis said, ‘Can you vet more than a hundred horses by first light tomorrow?’

      Erik glanced around and shrugged. ‘If I must.’

      ‘You must,’ said Calis, walking away.

      Foster watched a moment, then turned to Erik. ‘Well, don’t just stand there. Get to it!’

      Erik sighed in resignation and, looking around, called for some of the men in his company to lend a hand. He couldn’t get another expert to magically appear, but he needed men to walk and jog the animals and move the vetted ones to another location.

      Taking