JIMMY POIINTED.
Captain Songti said, “I see them.”
They were scouting out the well at Okatio oasis, and lounging in the shade of the desert willows was a patrol of Keshian soldiers.
“Those are Imperial Borderers,” whispered Jimmy. “See those long lances?”
Leaning against the rocks near where the horses were staked out, rested twenty long slender spears with banners attached. Songti said, “Looks like we want to get in close, fast.”
“Yes,” said Jimmy. “No archers.”
“Is that your man?” asked Songti, pointing at a figure on the far side of the campfire.
“That’s him,” said Jimmy. Malar was sitting next to a Keshian officer, who was examining the bundle of dispatches Jimmy had been carrying to Duko. “We’ve got to kill them all before they leave in the morning.”
Songti said, “They’re pretty lax at camp.”
“They’re arrogant bastards, but they’ve earned it. They’re among the best light cavalry the world has seen. Those fellows with the long hair they pile up under their helmets when they ride” – he pointed to six men who were slightly apart, relaxing around a large pot of food, speaking quietly – “are Ashunta horsemen, from deep within the Empire. Man for man they are the best riders in the world.”
“Some of my lads might take exception to that,” said Songti.
Jimmy grinned. “The best horsemen in Triasia?”
“Not since we got here,” said Songti. He turned and signaled. His men were hanging back down the trail. They slowly moved forward.
Jimmy said, “As soon as you attack, Malar is going to jump on the nearest horse and ride that way.” He pointed to a pass to the south, leading down into the borderlands of Kesh. “Let me get over there, and if he does, I’ll jump him from those rocks.”
Songti said, “I’ll go with you. He might bring a friend.”
“Ignore the friend unless it’s that officer looking at those documents. First thing we must do is get them back and kill any man who reads them.”
“That makes it easy,” said Songti. “We’ll just have to kill them all.”
Jimmy admired the man’s confidence. There was a full patrol of twenty Keshian Borderers taking their ease around the well, and only ten Kingdom soldiers with Jimmy. Jimmy said, “Hit them fast.” He got up and in a crouching run skirted the rocks above the oasis until he was poised above the point he had indicated.
Songti communicated with his men using hand signals, then came and stood beside Jimmy.
Suddenly chaos erupted at the oasis and men shouted. While outnumbered, the Kingdom soldiers were given the advantage of surprise. Without looking, Jimmy knew men were dying before they reached their weapons. The sound of bows was reassuring as only Songti’s men had them.
As he predicted, Jimmy heard a shout and a rider coming fast through the defile. He readied himself.
Malar rounded the bend riding bareback, having taken time only to slip a bridle on his horse, and carrying only the bundle of messages. As he passed, Jimmy leaped out, sweeping the man from his horse. The bundle went flying and Jimmy tucked his shoulder, rolling on the ground and coming to his feet with a grunt of pain. He had struck a rock outcropping and could feel his left arm going numb. He knew instantly he had dislocated his shoulder.
Another horse appeared and Songti jumped out, sweeping a rider from his saddle, and Jimmy barely dodged the second horse as it raced by. He turned, trying to find Malar, and saw the spy attempting to flee down the trail after the horse.
Clutching his sword in his right hand, his left dangling limply at his side, Jimmy ran after him, past Songti, who was sitting astride the chest of a Keshian, choking the life from him.
Malar reached a bend in the trail, and Jimmy lost sight of him. He hurried after, and as he rounded the bend, pain exploded in his left shoulder.
Malar had climbed aboard a boulder and had kicked him hard, aiming for his head, but striking his shoulder instead. The effect was nearly the same, for the pain in Jimmy’s left shoulder nearly rendered him unconscious. An involuntary cry escaped his lips as he staggered to his right.
Jimmy managed to keep enough wits to put his sword up, and Malar almost impaled himself on its point as he jumped off the boulder. Instead, he hit the ground and backed away a step. The spy said, “Well, young lord, it appears I should have used a stronger poison.”
Jimmy shook his head to clear it, and said, “But then you wouldn’t have been able to drink any.”
Malar grinned. “Building up a resistance was a most unpleasant process, but over the years I’ve discovered it was worth it. I would love to continue our discussion, but I hold no confidence that your men will be delayed much longer, so I must leave.” He was holding only a dagger, but he advanced as if confident Jimmy and his sword would be no match.
Years of training, back to when he was a boy learning at the knee of his grandfather, took over, and Jimmy leaped to his right, just as Malar let loose an underhand cast, lightning swift, with his left hand, and a previously unseen dagger glanced off the rocks where Jimmy had stood a moment before. Jimmy knew this man would have several blades secreted upon his person. As Jimmy expected, when he turned to confront Malar, the spy was already hurling himself at Jimmy, daggers in both hands.
Jimmy fell over backward, enduring further searing agony in his left shoulder as he avoided Malar’s assault. Jimmy kicked out with his right leg as Malar closed on him, knocking him off balance. The spy’s leg was rock hard and Jimmy was certain he’d find the man’s slender build had been misleading; this was not a skinny weakling he fought. Wasting no time, Jimmy rolled upright and struck hard with his sword. Malar barely avoided the blow and rolled away, ignoring the sharp rocks that littered the trail.
Jimmy pressed on, not allowing this dangerous foe the chance to collect himself, not while Jimmy had only one good arm. He swung down again with his sword, almost cutting the Keshian spy. Malar scrambled backward, halfway up a rock face, then rather than retreat, he used the momentum to hurl himself forward, inside of Jimmy’s sword.
Jimmy felt a blade slide across his ribs, and he gasped in pain, but he twisted enough that the point didn’t dig in. He contracted with his chest and stomach, striking Malar’s face with a vicious head-butt. Malar staggered backward, blood streaming from his broken nose, and Jimmy’s vision swam a moment.
Suddenly a horse almost ran Jimmy down, hooves flying, as it raced by. Jimmy got up as quickly as he could and realized he no longer held a sword. The bleeding Keshian spy grinned like a crazed wolf as he crouched low, holding his remaining dagger in his right hand. “Don’t move, young noble, and I’ll make this quick and painless.”
He took a step toward Jimmy, who countered with a handful of dirt to Malar’s eyes. Malar turned away, blinded by the dust, and Jimmy leaped to grip Malar’s wrist with his good right hand. Summoning as much strength as he could, he tried to crush Malar’s wrist by sheer willpower. Malar grunted in pain, but didn’t let go of the dagger. As Jimmy had suspected, the Keshian’s slight build hid steel-like strength, and nothing as trivial as a broken wrist would distract him.
Malar pulled back, Jimmy still holding his right wrist in his own right hand. With his left fist, Malar struck a back handed blow to Jimmy’s shoulder. Jimmy cried out in pain and felt his knees buckle.
He nearly lost consciousness as Malar struck him in the left shoulder again, and felt the strength draining out of him. Malar drew back and wrenched his wrist free of Jimmy’s grasp, and in one motion deftly tossed his dagger from left to right hand. For an instant Jimmy looked up as Malar stood above him, poised to deliver a death blow, a vicious backhand stab with his left hand.
Malar’s eyes widened in shock, and he looked down. The dagger fell from his fingers and his hand went around behind his back, and he turned, as if to get a better angle on something. Jimmy saw an arrow protruding out of the spy’s right shoulder, and suddenly a second struck him with a loud thud.
Malar went to his knees, then his eyes rolled up into his head as blood flowed from his nose and mouth, and he fell face forward onto the stones before Jimmy.
Jimmy turned to see Songti and one of his men, armed with a bow, hurrying toward him. Jimmy sat back on his heels, then fell over backward, banging himself against the rocks.
Songti knelt and said, “Are you hurt?”
“I’ll live,” Jimmy croaked. “My shoulder’s dislocated.”
“Let me see,” said the Captain. He gently touched the shoulder and pain shot through Jimmy’s body, from waist to jaw. “Just a moment,” said the Captain, then with a sure move, he gripped the upper portion of Jimmy’s arm and clamped his other hand down on the shoulder and shoved the arm back into position.
Jimmy’s eyes widened and watered and he could barely catch his breath, then the pain passed.
Songti said, “Better to do it soon, before things swell and you can’t get it back in. Then you need a healer or priest, or a great deal of brandy. You’ll be better tomorrow.”
“If you say so,” Jimmy replied weakly.
“I got the second rider, but there was a third.”
“He almost ran me down,” said Jimmy as Songti helped him to his feet.
“It was the officer.”
Jimmy swore. “Are the messages to Duko still over there?”
The archer looked around and saw the leather pouch, reached down, and held it up. “It’s here.”
Jimmy waved the man over, and he handed the bundle to the Captain. Songti pulled out the documents and said, “There are seven papers here.”
“That’s all of them,” said Jimmy. He looked down at the dead spy and said, “That was too close.”
Songti motioned for the archer to give Jimmy a steadying hand. “We must bury the dead. If there’s another patrol nearby and they see vultures circling, they might come to investigate in the morning.”
Jimmy shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. Before first light, we’re down that trail back across the border. We may kill horses, but we’ve got to get back to Port Vykor, and I’ve got to get up to Krondor as fast as possible.
“Because that officer escaped?”
Jimmy nodded yes. “I don’t know how closely he read these, or what Malar told him, but he’ll carry word back to his masters that Krondor is being held by a handful of palace guards and every fighting man not tied up at Land’s End or in the vale is up north facing Fadawah.”
“These Keshians would press the advantage?”
Jimmy said, “Indeed they would. One quick strike up to the city and they hold Prince Patrick. The King would grant them much to reclaim his son.”
Songti said, “It was simpler when we lived in Novindus.”
Jimmy laughed, though it hurt him to do so. “No doubt,” he said as he leaned on the archer and hobbled back to the oasis.
Erik heard the Hadati moving before he saw him appear out of the gloom. Akee said, “It’s almost time.”
They had remained hidden through the night in the woods behind the barricade blocking the highway. Twice mercenaries had wandered close to where Erik waited, but none bothered to check the woods on the cliffs.
Erik nodded. The sky to the east was getting lighter. Soon, if all went according to plan, a feint at the far end of the barricade would give Erik his opportunity to strike from behind and open the gate. “Let’s look around a little,” said Erik.
He crouched low and moved through the trees until he reached the clearing south of the highway. He gauged the distance to the gate at over a hundred yards, and counted a dozen low-burning campfires between his current position and the gate, and another score just the other side of the road. He felt Akee at his shoulder and whispered, “I expected more men here.”
“I as well. If we can get through the gate, this battle will be over quickly.”
He left unsaid what would be the result of not getting the gate open. Erik said, “I have an idea. Pass word that no man is to move when the alarm sounds. Tell them to wait until I signal you.”
“Where will you be?”
Erik pointed. “I’ll be somewhere out there.”
Erik wore his black uniform, but without his Crimson Eagle tabard. To any casual observer he might pass as a mercenary given to wearing black. Glancing at Akee, he noticed a blue band around the warrior’s brow. “Is that something I might borrow from you?” he asked, not knowing if it might have some sort of tribal significance.
Akee didn’t answer. He reached up and untied the band, then stepped behind Erik and tied the headband in place. Now Erik looked even less like a Kingdom regular.
Erik cautiously stepped out between two campfires, walking carefully so as not to wake sleeping men. Soft voices from the barricade told him the guards on duty were gossiping or telling stories to keep awake.
Erik reached the edge of the road and his manner changed. He walked briskly as if he was about important business. He moved boldly down the road and reached the gate. As he approached, he noted the construction of the gate. It was simple, but effective. The gates each had one large iron bracket affixed to them by huge iron bolts. Through those brackets, an oak bar had been passed, and that was braced in turn by long poles driven into the ground. It should be easy to knock aside the poles and run the bar out of the brackets, but it would take a sizable ram to knock it open from the other side.
“Hey!” he said, before he could be challenged. He kept his voice deep, hopefully disguising his accent as he spoke the invaders’ dialect.
“What?” asked the man in charge of the gate, a sergeant or Captain by the look of him.
“We’re just down from the North, and I’ve got to find whoever’s in charge.”
“Captain Rastav is over there,” said the man, pointing at a large tent barely visible in the predawn gloom. “What news?”
Erik growled, “Your name Rastav?”
“No,” said the man in return, bristling a bit.
“Then my message isn’t for you, is it?”
Erik turned and walked away before the man could respond. He made his way slowly but purposefully toward the command tent, then, just before approaching too closely, he veered away and walked between camps. Most of the men were sleeping; a few were rousing and stirring cooking fires, heading to nearby slit-trenches to relieve themselves, or already eating. He absently nodded or gave a slight wave of greeting to a few he passed, furthering the illusion he was a familiar figure known to someone in the camp; if not the person looking at him, perhaps the man across the way to whom he was waving.
Erik reached a particularly quiet camp where only one man stirred, one who was brewing up coffee by the smell of it. Crossing over, he said, “Have an extra cup to spare?”
The man looked up and nodded, motioning Erik over. Erik came over and knelt beside the warrior. “I’ve got a few minutes before I report to the gate, and can’t find a hot cup anywhere.”
“I know what you mean,” said the soldier, handing an earthen mug filled with the black hot liquid to Erik. “You with Gaja?”
Erik recognized the name, a captain he had heard of before, but he knew nothing about the man. “No,” said Erik, “we just got here. My captain is over there” – he indicated the command tent – “talking with Rastav, and I thought I’d sneak off and grab this.” He stood. “Thanks, I’ll bring back the mug when my duty’s over.”
The soldier waved off the remark. “Keep it. We’ve looted enough crockery I’m thinking of opening a store.”
Erik strolled along, drinking his coffee, which wasn’t too bad for camp fare, and inspected the area. There were no more than a thousand men behind the wall, and from the look of what he could see along the barricade, no more than twelve hundred total at this position. Another mystery. From the other side, it looked like half of Fadawah’s army waited, yet from this side Erik knew that if he could get the gate open, this battle would be won in minutes, not hours.
When he was halfway back to the gate area, Erik heard a shout raised up at the eastern end of the barricade. Then more shouts as an alarm was raised. Erik paused, and counted slowly to ten, until he heard a horn sounded, a call to arms. Men sprang up from where they slept, and Erik tossed aside his cup and hurried along. In his most commanding voice he started shouting, “They’re hitting the east flank! Get to the east!”
Men who were half asleep started hurrying off toward the far end of the line. As he neared the gate, a man hurried over and said, “What is this?”
Erik knew at once this was a sergeant or captain of some company, one not used to obeying mindlessly. “Rastav’s orders! Are you Captain Gaja?”
The man blinked and said, “No, I’m Tulme. Gaja is due to relieve me in an hour.”
“Then get two men in three off the gate and rush them to the eastern end of the line! The enemy is breaking through over there!”
Erik hurried along, and kept shouting, “Get to the east! Hurry up!”
Men saw other soldiers rushing off to where they were ordered, and hastened to obey. Erik ran back to where he could be seen by Akee and signaled. Instantly the Hadati hillmen were running from the trees.
Erik ran to the gate and shouted, “Orders! Open the gate. Get ready to sally!”
“What?” said a man. “Who are you?”
Erik had his sword out and killed the man before he could react. “My luck couldn’t run forever,” he said to Akee as the Hadati reached his side.
The Hadati killed every man standing before the gate before anyone more than twenty-five yards away noticed. The supporting poles were kicked aside, and before they hit the ground Erik and Akee, along with two other men, were lifting the heavy oaken bar out of the brackets that held it in place.
As they carried the bar aside, others opened the gate.
“Two minutes!” Erik cried. “We have to keep it open for two minutes.”
Seconds slipped by slowly, as shouts up and down the line demanded answers and suddenly it was clear to Erik that those to the north of him on the defenders’ side of the barricade knew something was amiss.
Suddenly men were charging at the Hadati, who were to a man armed with long swords and short swords, held in right and left hands respectively. They moved out to keep enough room between each that they could do a maximum of damage. Erik hesitated only a moment, then ran and leaped atop a pile of grain sacks, and pulled himself up on the ramparts behind the breastwork. He could not afford for bowmen to get above the Hadati. If he did, the fight would be over.
Erik glanced to the south and saw the Kingdom cavalry was already on its way. One more minute and the day would be won.
Erik charged along the ramparts, and the first man he encountered looked confused, still trying to see what was occurring to the east. Erik grabbed him and threw him off the rampart. He landed on top of a pair of men running along, and those behind stopped. A crossbow bolt sped past Erik’s head and he ducked.
He retreated, weapons ready, and when he saw soldiers heading toward him, he halted. The first man to face him slowed, uncertain of what was before him. Erik was happy to wait, and let the Kingdom cavalry reach the gate.
Abruptly a sense of alarm passed through those near the gate, as if they finally realized what had happened. They charged the waiting Hadati, and the man opposite Erik let out a howl of rage and charged him.
Erik took a step back when the man swung, letting him overbalance himself, and with a swift kick, Erik sent the man tumbling over the side of the rampart. The second man approached a little more cautiously, if just as intently, and struck out. Erik took the blow on his sword and parried, then unexpectedly, he stepped into the man, slamming him in the face with his sword hilt. The man stumbled backward into another man behind him and both fell back.
Erik glanced over the wall and saw the first pair of Kingdom horsemen was near, lowering their lances as they started up the last part of the incline toward the gate. Erik had a sudden impulse, and shouted at the top of his lungs: “Throw down your swords! It’s over!”
The man opposite him on the barricade hesitated, and Erik shouted, “This is your last chance! Throw down your sword!”
The man looked at the huge blond man before him, as lancers raced through the gate behind the Hadati hillmen whose whirling blades were inflicting terrible injury on any who closed on them. With a look of disgust, he threw down his blade.
A band of horsemen rode up from behind the line and were charged by Krondorian lancers as the second unit of cavalry swept in. A scaling ladder slammed against the wall near Erik and he realized that Greylock had hedged his bet by getting men close under cover of darkness. He glanced to his right and saw footmen racing across the open ground ahead.
Erik leaned out over the edge of the wall and almost got his head split open as thanks. “Hey!” he shouted down to a Kingdom soldier halfway up the ladder who had just swung his sword at Erik. “Slow down! You might fall off and hurt yourself!”
It was not what the soldier expected. He stopped, and the man behind him on the ladder shouted, “Keep moving.”
Erik said, “You can climb back down and walk through the gate.”
The man on the top of the ladder shouted, “Sorry, Captain von Darkmoor.”
Erik looked to the left and saw mercenaries throwing down their swords and backing away as a line of lancers slowly advanced on them, the points of their heavy weapons pointed at chest height.
Erik saw the light cavalry entering behind the lancers and recognized Jadow and Duga. He signaled to get their attention. Jadow rode closer and Erik shouted, “Get things organized, and send word back to Greylock to move up. Quickly.”
Jadow signaled that he understood and turned to carry word to Owen himself. Duga jumped down from his horse and boldly walked past the line of lancers, and started separating mercenaries from their weapons. Erik glanced at the rear of the enemy camp where a running fight had erupted between the lancers and the invaders’ cavalry units, and realized the enemy didn’t know they’d lost yet. Given what he knew of enemy horsemen, he knew a few heads would be broken before word reached them if he didn’t intervene. He shouted for messengers to carry the word to the fight, before men died needlessly.
Erik jumped off the wall as the first Kingdom foot soldiers entered the gate. He pushed through the press of prisoners, and sought out the senior lieutenant of the light cavalry. “Go give the lancers a hand with that lot at the rear, then I want a sweep of the woods on both sides of the road for the next five miles. If anyone’s cut and running north to tell Fadawah this position is fallen, I want them overtaken.”
The rider saluted, gave orders, and rode off, then Erik sought out Akee. “How are your men?”
“I have some injuries, but no one dead,” said the leader of the hillmen. “Had they a few more minutes to get organized, I think we would have seen otherwise.”
“I think you are correct,” said Erik.
He left the hillmen and turned as Jadow and Owen rode through the gate, and as he approached, he turned to a passing soldier and said, “Find a Captain among the prisoners, a man named Rastav, and bring him here.”
Owen looked around and said, “Another illusion?”
Erik said, “Almost. If we hadn’t gotten the gate open, we would have bled, but not as badly as we thought.”
Owen glanced northward, as if to see over the horizon. “What is he doing?”
Erik said, “I wish I knew.”
Erik looked to the south. “And I wish I knew what was going on down there, too.”
Owen said, “That’s Duko and Patrick’s problem, not ours. Now, let’s get things here under control, then start moving north again.”
Erik saluted, then turned and began organizing the chaos behind the barricade.
Dash could barely contain his rage. A dozen of his constables were standing around the room, looking from one to another, a few openly frightened.
Two of his men lay dead before him. Sometime during the night they had been waylaid and killed, their throats cut and their bodies deposited before the door of the New Market Jail.
Whispering, Dash said, “Someone’s going to bleed for this.”
The men were two recent recruits, Nolan and Riggs, and they had just finished their training. The last month had been difficult for Dash, but as order returned to Krondor, he found that larger portions of the city were slowly getting back to a rhythm not unlike that known before the war.
The Prince had authorized the purchase of a building just off the Market Square, and the cells had just been installed by an iron monger. A near riot down near the docks the night before had taken the jail to its limit and Dash had been busy dragging malefactors off to the city court, established by the Prince the week before; two eastern nobles were serving as judges, and a lot of drunks were finding themselves sentenced to the labor gangs in a hurry. Most got a year, but a few were pulling five-and ten-year sentences, and the citizens of the more unruly areas of the city were loudly protesting. So far the protest had been vocal, with insults hurled at watchmen as they made their rounds. Until last night.
“Where were they scheduled to patrol?” asked Dash.
Gustaf, the former prisoner, had turned up looking for work a few days before and Dash had made him a corporal. Gustaf had the duty roster. “They were working down near the old Poor Quarter.”
“Damn,” said Dash. The old Poor Quarter of the city was now a shanty town of huts and tents, and people living in the lees of partial walls. Every vice imaginable was available there and, predictably, the Thieves Guild was establishing its power there faster than the crown. “Now all bets are off.”
Since taking the office of Sheriff of Krondor, Dash had managed to keep hanging to a minimum. Two murderers had been publicly hanged five days before, but the majority of crimes had been relatively petty.
“What were these two doing down there anyway?” asked Dash. “They were both new to the job.”
Gustaf said, “The draw just came up that way.” Lowering his voice, he said, “There’s no one here with what you might call a great deal of experience, Dash.”
Dash nodded. The two dead men weren’t downy-cheeked youths by any stretch of imagination. “Four to a squad down there, starting tomorrow.”
“What about tonight?” asked Gustaf.
“I’ll take care of tonight,” said Dash, leaving the small squad room.
He hurried down the street and made his way through the open market, heading toward what had been the Poor Quarter. He kept his wits about him and his eyes open. Even in the daylight he could count on nothing but trouble in this part of the city.
Reaching a burned-out two-story building, he ducked inside. Quickly he removed his red armband and ducked out the back of the building. He hurried down a narrow alley and climbed a wooden fence that was still somehow standing between two stone walls while everything nearby had been reduced to ash. Ducking under a low-hanging arch of stone he reached his goal.
He crept through an open building, a small former business on the edge of the Poor Quarter. He hung inside, staying hidden in shadow, while watching the view out in the quarter.
Men and women moved through the tents and shacks, dealing trade goods and food, as well as illicit goods. Dash was looking for a certain face and would be content to wait until he saw it.
Near sundown, a small man came hurrying toward the building, intent on some errand, lost in thought. As he passed the open door, Dash reached out and grabbed him by the collar of his dingy shirt, hauling him inside.
The man yelped in terror, and started to beg, “Don’t kill me! I didn’t do it!”
Dash put his hand over the little man’s mouth and said, “Didn’t do what, Kirby?”
When he saw he wasn’t going to be instantly killed, the little man relaxed. Dash removed his hand. “Whatever it was you think I did,” said the little man.
“Kirby Dokins,” said Dash, “the only thing you do is trade in information. If you weren’t so useful, I’d squash you like the bug you are.”
The vile-smelling little man grinned. His face was a patchwork of scars and blemishes. He was a beggar by trade, and an informant when opportunity presented himself. Like the cockroach he was, he had crawled into a crack in the stones and survived the destruction of the city. “But you have use of me, don’t you?”
“For the moment,” conceded Dash. “Two of my men were dumped on the jail steps last night, their throats cut. I want those who did it.”
“No one’s bragging.”
“See what you can find out, but at midnight tonight, I’ll be here, and you better be as well, with names.”
“That might prove difficult,” said the snitch.
“Make it happen,” said Dash, hauling the little man up so that Dash’s nose almost touched Kirby’s. “I don’t need to make up crimes to get you hung. Keep me happy.”
“I live to keep you happy, Sheriff.”
“Exactly.” He let go of the little man’s shirt. “And pass word back to that old man.”
“What old man?” asked Kirby, feigning ignorance.
“I don’t have to tell you who,” said Dash. “Tell him if this murder lands at his feet, any faint affection I might feel toward his merry band of mummers will be gone forever. If they’re his pranksters cutting throats, he better serve them up to me, or the Mockers will be crushed, root and branch.”
Kirby swallowed hard. “I’ll pass that along, if it becomes appropriate.”
Dash pushed the little man outside the door. “Go. Midnight,” he ordered.
Dash saw that he still had an hour of daylight and imagined there were many tasks waiting for him back at headquarters. He turned to retrace his steps back to the New Market Jail, and cursed Patrick for giving him this thankless task of beating obedience into his subjects. But as long as it was his job, vowed Dash, he would do it properly. And that started with keeping his constables alive.
Dash hurried through the failing light into the shadows of Krondor.