One of the soldiers, a man named Greely, shouted, ‘Where does he think he’s going?’ The hunter stopped. Greely’s command of the local language, learned on ship and while traveling, was better than Erik’s, but his accent obviously struck the hillmen as odd enough that they looked puzzled by the question.
The leader looked at him. ‘Do you think treachery?’
Seeing that all four hunters were ready to unsling bows and start firing if the wrong answer was forthcoming, Erik glanced at Roo; suddenly Roo said, ‘He’s sending his son-in-law home to tell his wife and daughter that he and his sons won’t be home for supper tonight. Am I right?’
The lead hunter nodded, once, and waited. Greely said, ‘Well … I guess that’s all right.’
The leader made a curt gesture and the fourth hunter began trotting off again. Then the leader of the hunters said, ‘And tomorrow, too. It’s a harsh two days over the ridge, with no easy time going down the day after, but once on the trail you’ll have that well enough without my help.’ He leaned upon his bow once more.
About fifteen minutes of silence followed, then the sound of horses approaching from the rear heralded Calis and his company’s approach. Calis rode at the head of the company and when he pulled up he spoke rapidly to the hunter. The exchange was so quick and heavily accented that Erik couldn’t follow most of it.
But in the end Calis seemed satisfied and turned to the others, who were still riding up behind. ‘This is Kirzon and his sons. They know a trail over the ridge and down into the Vedra River valley. It’s narrow and difficult.’
For two hours they followed the hunters along a narrow trail, winding up into the hills. The way was dangerous enough that they took it at a slow pace, since any mistake could cause an injury to horse and rider. After reaching a small meadow, the hunter turned to confer with Calis. Calis nodded, then said, ‘We’ll camp now and leave at first light.’
Suddenly de Loungville and Foster were shouting orders and Erik and Roo were snapping to without thought. Getting the horses in picket, unsaddled and placed so they could crop the long grass, proved more time-consuming than if they had simply been staked out in a line and had fodder carried to them.
By the time Erik and the others in charge of the horses were finished, the rest of the company had already dug most of the moat, throwing up dirt on four sides in a breastwork. Erik grabbed a shovel and jumped down next to the others. Quickly the defense was made ready. The drop gate was assembled, interlocking planks of wood carried on a baggage animal that, when run out, served as a broad bridge over the trench. Then Erik climbed out as others were doing, on the short side of the trench, walked to the gate and crossed over, and began tamping the earth of the breastwork. Roo came over with a set of iron-tipped wooden stakes, which he inserted at a set distance along the top of the breastwork. Then they hurried to join with the rest of the men and erect their six-man tent, fashioned with interwoven pieces of fabric, one section carried by each man. They placed their bedrolls inside and returned to the commissary area, where soup was being boiled.
On the march they ate dried bread and fruits, with vegetable soups whenever possible. At first Erik and some others grumbled over the lack of meat in the diet, but he now found he agreed with the older soldiers that heavy food weighed them down in the field. He knew that while the thought of a steaming roast or a joint of mutton, or his mother’s meat pies, could make his mouth water, he hadn’t felt stronger in his life.
Wooden bowls were handed out, and each man came away with a steaming helping of stewed vegetables, with just enough beef suet and flour to give it some texture. Sitting near the campfire, Roo said, ‘I’d love some hot bread to soak this up with.’
Foster, who was walking by, said, ‘People in the lower hills would love a cool drink of water, me lad. Enjoy what you have. Tomorrow we’re on trail rations.’
The men groaned. The dried fruit and hardtack was nourishing but almost tasteless, and a man could seemingly chew for hours without making the mess any easier to swallow. What Erik found himself missing most was wine. Growing up in Darkmoor, he had taken wine for granted. The quality of the wine made in the region was near-legendary, and this made even the cheapest ‘plonk’ drunk at meals by the commoners a cut above the usual. Until he reached Krondor, he had no idea that wine that was too inexpensive to justify transport would have earned a fair return in the taverns and kitchens of the Prince’s City.
He remarked on this to Roo, who said, ‘That might be just the ticket for an enterprising lad such as myself.’ He grinned and Erik laughed.
Biggo, who was sitting on the other side of the fire, said, ‘What? You going to truck bottles of the stuff into Krondor and lose money?’
Roo narrowed his gaze. ‘After my father-in-law, Helmut Grindle, advances me enough gold to work with, I have a plan that will put good wine on every table in the Western Realm.’
Erik laughed. ‘You haven’t even met the girl! She may be married with a brace of children by the time you return!’
Jerome Handy snorted. ‘If you return.’
They fell silent.
Horses are contrary creatures, thought Erik as he blinked dust out of his eyes. He had been given the responsibility of herding the remounts over the mountains and had picked a half-dozen of the better riders to ride herd. One surprise had been Nakor volunteering. Most men would find riding behind the herd – ‘drag,’ as the position was called – choking on their dust, poor duty, but the chronically curious Isalani found the entire process fascinating. And it turned out, to Erik’s relief, that the man was a competent enough horseman.
Twice, horses had been content to walk down a bluff that would have taken them to a place where they would either have to back up – one of the least-favored choices of most horses – or learn to fly, which Erik judged even less likely. ‘Whoa!’ he shouted at one particularly troublesome horse who was determined to walk off the mountain. He shied a rock at her, which bounced off her right shoulder, turning her in the direction he wanted. ‘Stupid bitch!’ he shouted. ‘Trying to turn yourself into crow bait?’
Nakor rode closer to the edge than any sane man was like to do and seemed ready to somehow will his horse into flight so he could interpose himself between a horse bolting the wrong way and thin air. Whenever Erik mentioned he might come in a bit, the little man just grinned and told him everything was fine. ‘She’s in season. Mares get very stupid when in heat,’ he observed.
‘She’s not overly bright even when she’s not ready to breed. At least we have no stallions along. That would make life interesting.’
‘I had a stallion once,’ said Nakor. ‘A great black horse given me by the Empress of Great Kesh.’
Erik regarded the man. ‘That’s … interesting.’ Like the others who had gotten to know Nakor, he was reluctant to call him a liar. So much of what he said was highly improbable, but he never said he could do anything he couldn’t back up, so the men had come to take most of what he claimed at face value.
‘The horse died,’ Nakor said. ‘Good horse. Sorry to see him go. Ate some bad grass; got colic.’
A shout from ahead warned Erik the herd was bunching up, and he sent Billy Goodwin forward to help keep the horses moving through a narrow defile that cut across the ridge of the mountains. Once through that, they would be heading downward into the valley of the Vedra River.
Erik shouted for Billy to come back to the rear and ride drag while he urged his own horse on, to the head of the thirty horses that served as the company’s remounts. A balky gelding was trying to turn around, and Erik used his own horse to push the recalcitrant animal into the gap, and then the horses were moving in orderly fashion. Erik pulled up and waited for the rest of the animals to pass, then joined again with Billy and Nakor in back.
‘Downhill from here,’ said Billy.
Suddenly Nakor’s