MEN SCREAMED.
Erik raced from his tent, barely dressed, holding his sword. Battle-hardened soldiers were fleeing in terror, while others struggled at the front. He grabbed one man, and shouted, “What is it?”
The man’s eyes were wide with horror and he could only point to the front of the line as he pulled free of Erik’s grasp and ran. Erik hurried to the front of the line, and for a moment he couldn’t understand what he saw.
His men were fighting a vicious action against the invader, and he leaped forward, shouting, “All units to the line!”
Then he saw one of the men locked in struggle with a Kingdom soldier who wore the tunic of a different Kingdom unit. For a second he wondered if they had been infiltrated. Then he saw the man’s face, and the hair on Erik’s neck and arms stood up. He felt revulsion unlike anything he had known in his short life.
The soldier trying to kill his former companion was dead. His lifeless eyes were still rolled up in his head and the flesh of his face was pallid and slack. But his movements were deliberate as he swung his sword.
Erik jumped forward and severed the thing’s head from its body with a single blow. The head rolled away, but the body kept swinging the sword. Erik hacked again and severed the creature’s arm, yet the creature pressed forward.
Jadow Shati leaped past Erik and cut the creature’s leg out from under it. The corpse toppled over.
“Man, they won’t stop.”
Erik recognized the danger. Beyond the horror of facing men already dead, which had caused one man in four to run in fear, the dead were unrelenting. They could not be stopped unless they were hacked to pieces. And while one was being butchered, another would strike and kill a Kingdom soldier.
Then Erik saw a freshly killed Kingdom soldier rise up, his eyes rolled up in his head, and turn to attack his former companions.
“How do we fight them?” shouted Jadow.
“Fire!” said Erik. He turned and shouted, “Hold them here!” and ran to the rear. Men were running forward to answer the alarm, and Erik held up his hands, halting a score of them. “Go to the rear and get all the hay the cavalry left.” He pointed to where the road narrowed. “Lay it from there, to there.” He indicated another point opposite it across the road. Then he ran to another squad who were about to run to the front, and shouted, “Strip the tents! Get everything that will burn and pile it on the hay.”
“What hay, Captain?” asked one soldier.
“When you get back with the tents, you’ll see the hay.”
Erik hurried to the rear, where the engineers had been sleeping under their partially completed catapults. They were up and buckling on weapons, ready to defend their war engines if necessary. “Are any of these finished?” asked Erik.
The Captain of Engineers, a stocky man with a grey beard, said, “This one is ready, Captain, and that other over there is just about ready to go. What is going on?”
Erik grasped the man’s arm. “Go to the front. See where our forward positions are. Return here and aim your catapult at that location.”
The Captain of Engineers ran off, while Erik turned to the rest of his crew. “How many of you will it take to finish that other catapult?”
One of the engineers said, “Just two of us, Captain. All we have to do is install the locking clamps on the arm. We could have finished last night, but we wanted to get supper.”
“Go finish it. The rest of you, come with me.”
He led them to the baggage train and shouted to the soldiers guarding it, “Get to the front and hold!”
They ran off, and Erik pointed to a pair of wagons sitting on the side of the road. He asked the engineers, “Can any of you hitch up those horses?”
All of them answered they could, so Erik said, “Get half that oil to the front, where you’ll see them building a barricade, and the other half to the catapults.”
He ran back to the front. The plan would only work if they could keep the dead soldiers outside the barricade. And until that task was finished, Erik could serve his cause best by using his power to hack apart each dead soldier trying to get past the diamonds.
Miranda said, “We must get Pug and Tomas!”
They watched from a vantage point among the trees upon the hillside, as the Kingdom forces rallied to repulse the first wave of undead soldiers. Then Nakor heard horns blowing at the rear of Fadawah’s army. Men under arms gathered and formed up behind the struggle taking place at the diamonds. “Yes,” said Nakor. “Get Pug and Tomas, and Ryana if she’s there.”
Miranda vanished.
Nakor heard a trumpet sound, and the Kingdom forces at the diamonds retreated to a barrier wall that had been building rapidly behind them. They leaped over it and those who were wounded were dragged up and over it by their comrades. No man wished to die and turn against his comrades.
Then a fire was ignited and another. Suddenly the barricade was ablaze. Von Darkmoor, he thought. Young Erik was thinking fast on his feet.
The dead stumbled into the flames and noiselessly they flailed about, until they collapsed upon the ground. The few that managed to gain a purchase on the burning barriers were pushed back by spears and poles.
Then Nakor heard the sound of a war engine firing and in the darkness he could see something flying over the camp to land near the diamonds. A minute later another missile came flying overhead and landed closer to the barricade. Nakor could see a barrel explode upon impact, sending oil in all directions, which ignited when some struck the barricade. The pool of fire engulfed those corpses stumbling toward the barricade and soon they were falling.
Pug, Tomas, Ryana, and Miranda suddenly appeared next to Nakor.
Pug said, “Gods!”
Nakor said, “Those corpses aren’t the problem, Pug. Erik von Darkmoor is taking care of them as needed, but there is where you must go!” He pointed northward. “Find the source of that energy, and you’ll find the one you need to destroy.”
Battle horns sounded, and Fadawah’s army started to march forward as the fires began to abate.
Tomas asked, “Where can I best serve?”
Nakor said, “Killing those soldiers here does no good, but ending the problem up there may save the West.”
Ryana shifted her form and suddenly the huge dragon towered over them. “I will carry you all.”
They climbed on her back and she launched herself skyward. Those soldiers who happened to be glancing toward the treeline as Ryana struck a mighty beat of her wings and gained altitude were astonished, and many shouted and pointed, but as the battle built in fury and the advancing army of Fadawah bore down on the abandoned diamonds, most were too preoccupied with survival to notice the dragon.
She circled once and headed north.
Dash heard the drums from the Keshians in the field. He knew he’d see what they had in store later; the darkness hid the Keshians’ deployment as sunrise was still hours off. As best the watchmen on the walls could tell in the dark they were facing only cavalry and mounted infantry, with no heavy foot or war engines; Dash assumed they had infiltrated fast-moving companies for weeks now, and that slower-moving units had been avoided. With even half the normal garrison here, Kesh would never risk an attack on this scale. So the news was mixed good and bad: they were only facing swordsmen and horse archers, but they were facing a lot of them.
Dash expected this meant the escaping Keshian officer Duko wrote of in his message to Patrick had successfully reached his army with the news of Krondor’s weaknesses. The only good news in the message had been the fact of Jimmy being alive and Malar being dead.
The word from the palace was equally mixed. Patrick, Francie, and her father would recover – though Lord Brian might have lasting effects from the poison. Lord Rufio was dead, and several of the other nobles of the area as well. Two officers had recovered enough to take up positions on the walls, but Dash knew they were woefully undermanned to hold off the Keshian army for more than a few hours, a day or two at best.
There were still too many weaknesses in the defense of the city. There were ways into the city that you didn’t have to be a Mocker to find. The dry aqueduct along the north wall had more than a half-dozen entrances if one simply took the time to probe. Dash wished he could have repaired the sluice gates and flooded it, but he would have filled a hundred cellars full of water by doing so. Suddenly an idea struck Dash. He called out, “Gustaf!”
The mercenary appeared and said, “Sheriff?”
“Take two men and run to the city armory. See if we have any Quegan fire oil. If we do, here’s what you do with it.” Dash outlined his plan, then called to Mackey, “Hold things here while I’m gone. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Dash hurried off the wall and ran down High Street, to the intersection of the North Gate road. He cut through burned-out buildings until he reached the cleverly cleared alley and he hurried through it, despite the predawn darkness.
He jumped fences and ducked under obstacles, risking injury to reach his goal in as timely a fashion as he could. He found the door he sought, a root cellar entrance from all appearances, but really a cover to one of the Mocker-controlled tunnels leading toward their headquarters.
He hurried down stone steps, as lightly as he could while keeping up a good rate of speed. He grabbed a stone wall corner with his left hand, steadying himself as he swung around.
A man turned with a startled expression on his face, and without breaking strike, Dash hit him as hard as he could, dropping him to the stone floor without a sound. Dash hurried along a wide walkway which ran above the watercourse. There was a slow trickle of water flowing through it. Dash knew that would change if Gustaf found the oil and used it as directed.
Dash reached a section of wall that appeared identical to the adjacent sections, but which yielded to pressure, swinging open on a shaft, perfectly balanced so as to pivot with ease. Down a short tunnel Dash hurried, reaching a plain door. Dash knew that here he stood the biggest risk of being killed before he could speak.
He tripped the locks from his side, but instead of opening the door he stood back. The audible clicks alerted someone, for after a moment the door swung open and a curious face peered through. Dash grabbed the thief and hauled him forward, spinning him around while off balance, and propelling him back through the door before he entered.
The man careened into two others who were standing on the other side of the door, knocking all of them over in a heap.
Dash stepped through. He held his hands out so anyone could see he wasn’t armed. But to insure that he made things as clear as possible, he shouted, “I’m not armed! I came to talk!”
The denizens of Mother’s, the headquarters for the Mockers, turned in astonishment at the sight of the Sheriff of Krondor standing before them, his sword still at his side. From across the room, Trina said, “Why, Sheriff Puppy, to what do we owe this honor?”
Looking from face to face, most of which were shifting from surprise to anger, he said, “I came to warn you.”
“Of what?” said one man. “Keshians in the tunnels?”
“They’re your worry,” said Dash. “The ones outside the gate are mine. No. I came to warn you that in less than an hour this entire room and the rest of Mother’s is going to be under water.”
“What!” shouted one man.
“It’s a lie,” swore another.
“No, it’s not a lie,” said Dash. “I’m going to flood the north aqueduct and the bypass channel below Stinky Street. The culverts above the main passage” – he pointed to the door though which he had just entered and the passage beyond – “are shattered and all that water is going to come flooding down here. This entire section is going to be underwater by noon.”
Trina walked over, two very large menacing-looking men accompanying her. “You wouldn’t be saying that to flush us out, would you, Sheriff Puppy? It could be useful to have us running through the sewers and tangling with some Keshians you haven’t managed to find yet.”
“Maybe, but that’s not it.”
“Or maybe you want us to be standing up in the streets for the Keshians to run over when they break down the gate?” said a man nearby, pulling his dagger.
“Hardly,” said Dash. “There are enough bumps in the roads as it is. I don’t need more.”
“I would believe you,” said Trina, “if I didn’t know the north sluice is damaged from the war and can’t be opened until it’s repaired.”
“I’m not repairing it,” said Dash. “I’m going to burn it.”
Several men laughed. “You’re going to burn a gate that’s half underwater!” said one. “How you doing that?”
“Quegan fire oil.”
Suddenly a man said, “It burns underwater!”
Trina turned and shouted orders, and men began to grab packages, bundles, and sacks. She came to stand before Dash and said, “Why warn us?”
He grabbed her arm and looked her in the eyes. “I’ve grown fond of certain thieves over my life.” He kissed her. “Call me an idiot,” he said after she stepped back. “Besides, you may be a bunch of ragged good-for-nothings, but you’re my ragged good-for-nothings.”
“Where should we go?” she asked, and Dash knew she wasn’t referring to the Mockers in general.
“Take the old man to Barret’s Coffee House. It’s almost rebuilt, and Roo Avery already has stocked it with some food. There’s a tunnel off of the sewer under Prince Arutha’s Way that leads to a landing by his basement. Lie low there.”
She looked him in the eyes and said, “You’re going to cause me more trouble than you’re worth before we’re done, Sheriff Puppy, but for now I am in your debt.”
He started to turn away, but she grabbed him and kissed him back. Whispering into his ear, she said, “Stay alive, damn you.”
“You as well,” he whispered. Then he turned and hurried back down the tunnel. He stopped to revive the man he had knocked unconscious and was glad he hadn’t tried a stunt like walking into Mother’s uninvited when the Mockers were at the height of their power; there would have been a dozen guards in that tunnel instead of one.
The groggy man didn’t quite understand what it was Dash was telling him, but he pieced together enough of the message to know he had to get to high ground in a hurry.
Dash ran along the major waterway that passed Mother’s and reached a place where the culverts above had broken through. He leaped and grabbed the jagged edge of a heavy hard-clay pipe that protruded out of the wall above his head. He pulled himself up and stood on it, working his way along to a break in the wall, barely large enough to permit him entrance. He risked getting stuck as he wiggled through the break to a place where a large hole appeared above his head. He pulled himself up and stood outside in the bed of the northern watercourse. He looked around in the predawn grey and saw no one in sight. He ran toward the east.
As he reached the end of the aqueduct, he saw Gustaf and his men standing before the large wooden gate. Two men were already slamming axes into the supports on either side of the jammed gate.
Dash said, “How goes it?”
Gustaf smiled ruefully. “If those supports don’t give way before we want them to and drown us all, this might work.”
“How much oil did you find?”
“Several casks. I’ve got some of the lads pouring it into clay jugs like you said.”
Dash hurried over to the place Gustaf indicated, where two men were pouring sticky, foul-smelling naphthalene from small casks into large clay jugs. “Only about a third of the way,” said Dash. “And leave the stoppers off. We want the air to get to it.”
The men nodded. As Dash started to return to Gustaf, he said, “And you want to be as far away from fire as you can get until you wash that stuff off. Use lots of soap. Remember, it burns underwater.”
The two men who were swinging the axes jumped back as one when a loud crack sounded, accompanied by a flexing of the wooden gate. Small jets of water spurted through cracks in the wood, and a bit of dirt and gravel washed down the bank.
“Looks like it’s going to go under the weight of the water,” said Gustaf.
“Eventually, but we can’t wait until the next big rain. Did you bring the rags?”
“Over there,” said Gustaf, pointing to a man standing over a box up on the bank.
“Good,” said Dash, hurrying over to inspect the damage. To one of the men with an axe he said, “Crack this beam here some more.”
The beam was a huge one, a foot on each side, that had been stuck between foundation stones and held the right side of the sluice gate. The man set to with his huge axe, smashing into the wood, almost as hard as rock with age. Yet each time he struck, chips flew and the wood splintered more.
Dash waved his men out of the way and indicated that the rags and what was left of the naphthalene in the casks should be brought over and the jars should be taken to the top of the bank. The men hurried up the stone bank of the aqueduct. Dash motioned the axe-wielder aside and said, “Get up there.” He set two casks down on the stones and picked up the third. Carefully, he laid out a long run of the rags, tied it into a knotted cord, and dribbled naphthalene on it. He then tucked one end of the rags into a cask and set a third atop the two on the bottom, forming a little pyramid right below where the beam had been chopped by the axe.
Dash hurried to the far end of the rag and pulled a piece of flint from his pocket. Using his knife blade, he struck sparks until one caught on the naphthalene-soaked rag.
Dash wasn’t entirely sure what to expect. He had heard stories from his grandfather, but had only seen the results of the use of this oil distillation mixed with powdered limestone and sulfur.
With a whoosh the flame sprang up the rag. Dash ran.
He reached the bank of the aqueduct as the flame burned quickly along the rag. He stood next to Gustaf and said, “If it burns as hot as it’s reputed to burn, it should eat through the rest of that wood quickly. The water pressure should shove over the—”
The flame reached the casks. They exploded.
The force of the blast was far more than Dash had expected, thinking he was going to get more of a large fire. Instead, men were thrown to the ground and two were struck by wood splinters.
Gustaf picked himself up off the ground, saying, “Gods! What was that?”
“I’m not sure,” said Dash. “My grandfather told me something about too much air on the stuff, and I guess that’s what he meant.”
“Look!” said one of the constables.
The blast had cut through most of the large beam, which now was being bent back by the gate under the pressure of millions of gallons of river water trapped behind it. With a loud groan the entire sluice gate began to move as water started to pour through several gaps in the wood. As the force of the water increased, the wood started to move more rapidly. Creaking and groaning sounds were replaced by a crack, the beam sheared in two, and suddenly the entire gate was swept away before a wall of water.
Dash sat on the bank, watching the wall of water move down the aqueduct. When it hit the break in the stones that would send water pouring into the lower sewer, he could barely see a pause as the wave swept on past it.
Gustaf said, “Well, that should drown some rats.”
“We can hope,” said Dash, taking the constable’s offered hand and pulling himself to his feet. Thinking of the Mockers, he said, “As long as it isn’t our rats that get drowned.”
“What do you want us to do with these clay jugs, Sheriff?” asked one of the constables.
Dash said, “I was going to have you throw them at what I thought would be a nice little fire down there. Bring them along. I think we can find a use for them.” As the man reached down to grab the jugs, Dash added, “And handle them gently.” He motioned to the water surging through the destroyed sluice.
They hurried back through the city, and as they turned the corner to High Street, Dash shouted to Gustaf, “Get some barricades up here.” He then pointed back another block and said, “And there. When they break through, I want them turned before their cavalry hits the market. As soon as the gate goes, get archers up on the roofs there, there, and there.” He pointed to three corners of the intersection.
Gustaf nodded. “I notice you didn’t say if they break through.”
“It’s just a question of when, and if help can get here before they do. I think we’re in for some nasty days ahead.”
Gustaf shrugged. “I’m a mercenary, Sheriff. Nasty days are what I get paid for.”
Dash nodded as Gustaf hurried off to carry out his orders and the rest of the constables carried the jugs of naphthalene to the gate. He glanced around the city streets, now deserted as people hid in their houses hoping against hope that somehow they would be spared another destructive rampage such as they had endured the year before. Dash shook his head. Mercenaries, soldiers, and constables might get paid to endure such as this, but citizens didn’t. They were the ones who suffered, and in his time as Sheriff he had forged a bond with the people of Krondor he couldn’t have imagined before. Now he was starting to understand why his grandfather had loved this city so much, both the noble and the base, the exalted and the low. It was his city. And Dash would be damned to the lowest hell before he’d see another invader take it again.
Dash hurried toward the gate when he heard horns. He knew a Keshian herald was approaching under a flag of truce to announce under what conditions his general would accept the surrender of the city. Dash climbed the steps in the gatehouse and reached the battlements as the Keshian herald approached, the rising sun peeking over the mountains behind him. He was a desert man, and on each side accompanying him rode a Dog Soldier, each holding a banner. One was the Lion Banner of the Empire, and the other was a house flag; Dash knew his grandfather and father would both disapprove his not recognizing it at once.
Sergeant Mackey said, “They want to talk.”
Dash said, “Well, it would be rude not to listen.”
Dash would be tempted to drop a jar of the naphthalene on the herald before the man was through, he thought, but each minute that passed before the attack bought them a little more time to prepare.
The herald rode before the gate and shouted, “In the name of the Empire of Great Kesh and her great General Asham ibin Al-tuk, open the gates and surrender the city!”
Dash looked around and saw that every man on the wall was watching him. He leaned out between two merlons on the wall and shouted back, “By what right have you come to claim a city that is not yours?” He glanced at Mackey and said, “Might as well go through the formalities.”
“We claim these lands as ancient Keshian soil! Who speaks for the city?”
“I, Dashel Jamison, Sheriff of Krondor!”
With contempt in every word, the herald shouted, “Where is your Prince, O jailer of beggars? Hiding under his bed?”
“Still sleeping, I think,” said Dash, not wishing to reveal to this man anything about the poisoning. “If you care to wait, he may show up later today.”
“That’s all right,” came a voice from behind Dash.
Dash turned and saw a pale Patrick standing there, being held erect by a soldier. Patrick had donned his royal armor, golden trimmed breastplate and open-faced helm, with a gold-trimmed purple sash of office over his shoulder. As he passed Dash, Patrick whispered, “Should I lose consciousness, tell them I’ve left in outrage.”
He reached the wall and steadied himself, and Dash could see how difficult it was for him to stand, even with the strong soldier holding onto him from behind. Yet Patrick found it within himself to shout out with power, “I am here, dogs of Kesh. Say what you will!”
The herald barely hid his surprise at seeing the Prince of Krondor on the wall. He obviously had believed the poisoner successful. “Most gracious Prince!” said the herald. “My … master bids you open your gates and withdraw. He will escort you and your retinue to your nation’s borders.”
“Just this side of Salador,” said Dash quietly.
Patrick shouted, “My nation’s borders! I am standing on the wall of the capital city of the Western Realm!”
“These lands are Ancient Kesh, and are being reclaimed.”
Dash whispered, “I know we’re buying time, but why bother?”
Patrick gulped for air and nodded. Then, with his last strong breath, shouted, “Then come you on and do your worst! We reject your claim and scorn your master.”
The herald said, “Act not in haste, fair Prince. My master is kind. He shall make his offer three times. At sundown tonight we return to hear your second answer. Should you say again nay, we shall come one last time, at dawn tomorrow. And that shall be the last of it.” The herald turned and spurred his mount forward.
Dash turned to see Patrick barely conscious, still being held up by the soldier. “Bravely done, fair Prince,” Dash said without sarcasm. To the soldier he said, “Take him back to his quarters and see he rests.”
Turning to Mackey, Dash said, “Get the men down from the wall and fed. Keep a few to watch, but the Keshians will probably be as good as their word and not attack us until dawn tomorrow.” He sat down and suddenly felt bone-tired. “At least now we know when their spies inside the city will attack.” Looking at the old sergeant, he said, “They’ll try to open the gate tonight.”
The dragon sped through the sky while in the east the sun rose above the hills. The mystic energy along the coast was a map for them to follow. Tomas’s arts, the lingering heritage of the Valheru, allowed them all to ride upon Ryana’s back without falling.
“You know,” said Nakor, speaking loudly to overcome the wind noise as he sat behind Miranda at the base of the dragon’s neck, “as much as being an engine of death, this display is set to lure us to some sort of confrontation.”
Pug, who sat directly behind Tomas, said, “I expect as much.”
“There,” said Tomas, pointing down and to the left.
Below them stretched the coastline, a southwest-facing shoreline from Quester’s View to Ylith. The harbor of Ylith showed a frenzy of ships, most of them hauling anchor and sailing out of the port.
Nakor said, “Those ships’ captains didn’t like what they saw last night and are catching the morning tide out.”
“Ryana,” said Tomas, “down there.”
He indicated the eastern gate of the city, outside of which a great building had been erected, and it was that building that was the source of the energy which had flowed down the coast, fueling the evil magic that had animated the corpses.
As the dragon landed, armed men ran in all directions, uncertain of what to do. “Let me go first,” said Tomas.
Pug said, “Let’s not shed any blood until we have to.”
Miranda said, “We will have to.”
Pug said, “But until then …” He gestured toward the ground just before Ryana touched down. They all could see a ripple, as if water had been troubled by a stone, causing the earth to undulate. A deep rumbling could be heard and dust shot into the air following the course of the quickly expanding circle. As they touched down, the circle was now large enough to easily encompass the dragon. The soil below their feet was motionless.
But where the expanding circle’s wave struck, it was as if an earthquake raged, for each advancing soldier who stepped upon the ripple was thrown down to the ground, then mercilessly tossed into the air several times.
Many turned and fled, leaving only the bravest of the invaders to confront the dragon and her riders.
Then Ryana bellowed and their ears rang, and she shot a blast of fire into the heavens, and the rest of the soldiers fled. No sane man would face a great golden dragon.
As the four of them dismounted, Miranda said, “Thank you. That should buy us some time.”
Ryana said, “You are welcome.” To Tomas she said, “When the danger has passed, I shall leave, but until it has, call me should you need me. I will be nearby.” The dragon launched herself into the sky, and with a powerful beat of her wings was gone, speeding to the north.
Tomas walked purposefully toward the building. Pug, Miranda, and Nakor followed.
With the departure of the dragon, some of the bolder warriors near the city gate ran to intercept the four. Tomas unstrapped his shield from across his back in a movement so fluid and natural it looked impossible to Pug. No mortal man could have duplicated the feat. His sword was out before the first warrior had closed.
The man was big and carried a large sword in two hands. He ran at Tomas shouting an inarticulate battle cry, but Tomas continued to advance at his normal pace. The man struck a powerful blow downward and Tomas moved his shield slightly, causing the blade to skid off the surface. The man saw sparks explode from the contact, but no mark sullied the surface of the shield. Tomas swung lightly, as if flicking a fly from his shoulder, and the man died before he hit the ground.
Two men behind him hesitated. One then shouted and charged while the other showed fear, and turned and ran. The one who charged died like the man before, and Tomas again looked as if he were disposing of annoying pests, not battle-hardened warriors.
Tomas reached the building, a thing of black stones and wooden facades. It squatted, a terrible black sore on the landscape; there was nothing about it pleasing to the eye or harmonious in any fashion. It reeked of evil.
Tomas walked to the large black wooden doors and paused. He drew back his right fist and struck the rightmost door. The door exploded inward, as if there had been no hinges.
As they walked in, Nakor looked at the shattered iron hinges and said, “Impressive.”
Miranda said, “Remind me never to get him mad.”
“He’s not mad,” said Nakor. “Just determined. If he was mad, he’d pull the walls down.”
The building was a giant square, with two rows of seats set hard against the walls. There were two doors: the one through which they had entered and another opposite.
In the center of the room a square pit yawned at them, and from deep within a red glow could be seen. Above it hung a metal platform.
“Gods!” said Miranda. “What a stench.”
“Look,” said Nakor, indicating the floor.
Before each seat, on the floor, lay a body. They were warriors, men with scars upon their cheeks, and each was openmouthed, their eyes wide, as if they had died screaming in horror.
Nakor hurried over to the pit and looked in. He stepped back. “Something is down there.”
Pug looked up at the platform and said, “That appears to be a way down.”
Indicating the dried blood and gore on it, Miranda said, “And now the way up.”
Tomas said, “Whatever caused that necromancy last night is down there.”
Nakor said, “No, it is a tool, like all those dead fools.”
“Where is Fadawah?” asked Miranda.
“In the city, I think,” said Nakor. “Probably in the Baron’s citadel.”
A strange keening sound echoed from deep within the pit. The hairs on Pug’s neck stood up. “We can’t leave this here.”
Nakor said, “We can always come back.”
Miranda said, “Good. Let’s leave this place.”
She walked to the closed door, opposite the one through which they had entered, and threw it wide.
As soon as she did, they saw the soldiers arrayed on the other side, their shields in a wall, their bows poised, and cavalry behind them.
In the moment it took for the scene to register, they heard the order given and the bowmen fired.
Dash swore. “We’ve got twelve, eighteen hours to ferret out the rest of the infiltrators or risk a breach.”
Thomas Calhern, a squire in Duke Rufio’s court, had recovered enough from the poison to serve; Dash had named him an acting Captain. “What matter?” he asked. “Gods, man, you saw the army outside the gate.”
Dash said, “Never been in a battle before?”
“No,” said the young man, about the same age as Dash.
“If the walls are intact, those outside must bring ten men against the wall for every one we have on top of it. We should be able to hold them for a few days, perhaps a week, and if my brother is as clever as I know him to be, a force from Port Vykor should arrive within days.
“But if some band of Keshian thugs gets a portal opened, and the Keshians get inside the walls, this battle is over before it starts.”
They were sitting in the Prince’s conference room, and Dash turned to Mackey. “Send a message to the lads at New Market Jail: I want the constables sniffing around the streets.”
“That takes care of the streets,” said Mackey. “But what about below them?”
Dash said, “I’ll take care of that part.”
Dash slipped through a door and a dagger was suddenly at his throat. “Put that away,” he hissed.
“Sheriff Puppy,” said a happy-sounding Trina. “I would have been very upset had I killed you.”
“Not as much as I,” said Dash. “How is he?”
She nodded toward the comer. A score of thieves were huddled in a far corner of the cellar. Dash smelled coffee and food. “Raided the kitchen, have we?”
Trina said, “It’s a coffeehouse. We were hungry. There was food up there. What did you think?”
Dash shook his head. “I don’t know what I’m thinking these days.”
Trina walked with him over to where the old man lay upon a low bed, one that had been used as a stretcher to bear him to Barret’s. She whispered, “He’s not doing well.”
Dash knelt beside the old man, who looked at him but didn’t say anything. The old man held up his hand and Dash took it. “Uncle,” he said softly.
The old man gently squeezed, then let go. His one eye closed.
She leaned over, and after a moment said, “He’s sleeping again. Sometimes he speaks, other times he can’t.”
Dash stood up and they went to a relatively uncrowded corner of the basement, between stacks of crates. “How much time?” asked Dash.
“A few days, maybe less. When he was recovering from his burns the priest said only a great wish or the gift of a God would save him. He’s known this day was coming since then.”
Dash looked at this odd woman who had come to captivate his attention. “How many of you are left?”
She started to make a quip, then said, “I don’t know. There are maybe another two hundred scattered through the city. Why?”
“Pass the word; we can use every sword we can find. The Keshians will sell you all into slavery, you know that.”
“If they can find us,” said Trina.
“If they take the city and hold it more than a week, they’ll find you.”
“Maybe.”
“Well, anyone who shows up with a sword and fights, I’ll see they’re pardoned for their crimes.”
“Guaranteed?” she asked.
“You have my word on it.”
“I’ll pass the word,” she said.
“I’ve got more pressing matters now. The Keshians have given us until dawn tomorrow to surrender, else they’ll attack. We assume that means they’re going to try to open one of the gates between now and then.”
“And you want us to watch the gates and let you know?”
“Something like that.” He stepped closer to her, looking deep into her eyes. “You’ve got to slow them down.”
She laughed. “You mean defend the gates until you get there.”
He smiled. “Something like that,” he repeated.
“I can’t ask my brothers and sisters to do that. We’re not warriors. Sure, we have some bashers among the Mockers, but most of us don’t know which end of a sword is which.”
“Then you better learn,” said Dash.
“I can’t ask them.”
“No, but you can order them,” said Dash slowly.
She said nothing.
Dash said, “I know the old man has been unable to run things for a while. I’ll bet my inheritance you’re the current Day master.”
She remained silent.
“I won’t ask anything from you without fair trade.”
“What do you propose?”
“Hold the gate, whichever they attack. Defend it until I can get a flying company there, and I will pardon everyone.”
“A general amnesty?”
“The same deal I made originally with the old man.”
“Not enough.”
“What more do you want?” asked Dash.
She pointed around the room. “Do you know how we came to be, the Mockers of Krondor?”
Dash said, “I’ve heard stories since I was a boy from my grandfather about the Mockers.”
“But did he ever tell you how the guild came to be?”
“No,” Dash admitted.
“The first leader of the guild was called the Square Man. He was a fence who settled disputes between different gangs in the city. We were killing ourselves more than the citizens. We were stealing from one another as much as from the citizens. And we were getting hung for it.
“The Square Man fixed that. He started making truces between gangs and getting things organized.
“He made a place for us called Mother’s and he paid bribes and bought some of us out of jail and off the gallows.
“The Upright Man took over before your grandfather was born. He consolidated the Square Man’s power and made the guild the place it was when Jimmy the Hand was running roofs.
“A few of us enjoy the dodgy path, Dash. Some of us like breaking heads and there’s no excuse for us. But most of us just got dealt a bad hand. Most of us have nowhere else to go.”
Dash looked around the cellar. Men and women of all ages gathered there, and Dash remembered the stories his grandfather had told him of the beggar gangs, the urchins running the streets, the girls working the taverns, and the rest of them.
“If we get amnesty, we’re back on the streets the next day, and most of us are breaking laws and we’re right back where we started. There was only one Jimmy the Hand who had a prince reach down and raise him up to the heights.”
Trina gripped Dash’s arm. She said, “Don’t you see? If your grandfather hadn’t saved the Prince that one night long ago, he would have lived out his life with these people. It might have been him lying on that bed over there instead of his brother. And you might be over there with the other young men, thinking of how to survive the coming war, find a meal, and keep out of the Sheriff’s clutches instead of being the Sheriff.
“You’re only a noble by a quirk of fate, Dash.”
She looked into his eyes, then she kissed him, long and hard. “You’ve got to make a promise, Dash. Make a promise and I’ll do whatever you ask.”
“What is the promise?”
“You’ve got to save them. All of them.”
“Save them?”
“You’ve got to see they are fed and clothed and warm and dry, and out of harm’s way.”
Dash said, “Oh, Trina, why don’t you ask me to move the city?”
She kissed him again. “I’ve never felt anything for any man like I feel for you,” she whispered. “Maybe I’m finally acting the lovestruck girl after all these years. Maybe in my foolish dreams I see myself living in comfort as the wife of a noble. Maybe tomorrow I’ll be dead.
“But if we fight for Krondor, then you must save us all. That’s the deal, not some meaningless amnesty. You must take care of the Mockers. That’s the promise.”
He looked at her for a long time, studying every detail of her face, as if memorizing it. Finally he said, “I promise.”
She looked at him and a tear formed in each eye. As they ran down her face, she said, “The deal is done. What do you want us to do?”
Dash told her and they spent another moment together. Then he tore himself away from her, the hardest thing he had ever had to do in his life, and he left Barret’s, knowing that his life would never be the same.
In his heart, Dash knew that he had made a promise that would be impossible to keep. Or, if he kept it, he would be betraying his duty to his office.
He tried to tell himself that the expediency of the moment required this, that saving the city came first, and that should Krondor fall and they all die, the promise was nothing anyway. But deep inside, Dash knew that he would never look at himself or any oath he gave the same way.