Duncan rolled his eyes heavenward but climbed aboard. He had sold his horse for a small price, which earned him a share in Roo’s venture, and now was a minority owner of one wagon, four horses, and a great deal of wine. Roo’s father had insisted only on his usual fees, not a coin more or less, which silently pleased Roo. He enjoyed his father’s treating him as he would any other trader.
Gaston waved farewell as they rolled through the gate out of his yard and turned down the cobbles of Ravensburg. The wagons creaked and groaned under the weight and the horses snorted at being asked to work, but they were under way, and Roo felt a keen sense of anticipation.
‘Try not to get yourself killed,’ called out Gaston as the gate shut.
Roo ducked behind the wagon as another arrow sped through the space he had just occupied; the first had struck inches from his head. He yelled a warning to his father and Duncan as he scrambled under the wagon, drawing his sword and trying to ascertain from where the arrow had come. A third shaft emerged from the evening gloom and he marked where he judged it had originated. He signaled to Duncan that he was going to back between the wagons and move in a circle around the ambushers. Duncan signaled he understood and motioned around the campsite, indicating he should be wary of other attackers.
They had been on the road for almost a week, having left the King’s Highway just west of Ravensburg and making their way across open country to the small westward trail road Roo and Erik had used when fleeing the area two years earlier.
The travel had been uneventful and the wagons were proving sturdy and the horses sound, which had contributed to Roo’s increasing optimism as the days passed. If his father had judged him daft for picking a large, unwieldy cargo, he kept his opinion to himself. He was an old teamster and had driven stranger cargo than dozens of small wine casks before.
They camped each night at sundown, letting the horses graze along a picket, supplementing the grass with a small amount of grain, mixed with honey and nuts, which kept them fit and energetic. Each day Roo used what knowledge of horses he possessed to check their soundness, and more than once he had silently wished for Erik’s presence, as he would find anything that Roo might miss. But Roo had been astonished to discover that his father knew as much as Erik, at least on the subject of draft animals, and each day the old man inspected right alongside his son, and each day he judged the animals fit to continue the journey.
Now Roo crab-crawled on elbows and knees, turning as he moved between the wagons, and when he had the wagons between himself and the source of the arrow fire, he stood and ran into the woods. Only two years of combat and intense training saved his life, for another bandit had moved opposite the first and tried to impale Roo on his sword point. The only thing he accomplished was to die silently; Roo hardly broke stride as he ran him through, dodging sideways into the dark woods in case there was another bandit close by.
Silence greeted him as he paused to consider his next move. He slowed his breathing and looked around. The sun had set less than an hour before and the sky to the west might still hold some glow, but under the thick trees it could have been midnight. Roo listened. A moment later he heard another arrow flight, and he moved.
Circling as quietly as he could through the darkness, he ran swiftly to the place where he thought the bowman might be hiding. At this point he was convinced he was being besieged by a pair of poor bandits, trying to pick off the two guards so they could plunder whatever cargo ventured along the small road far from the King’s justice.
Roo waited. After a few more moments of silence, he heard someone stirring in the brush ahead of him and he acted. As quick as a cat on a mouse, he was through the brush and on top of the other bandit. The struggle was quickly over. The man attempted to drop his bow and pull a knife when he sensed Roo’s approach from behind.
The man died before the knife was out of his belt.
‘It’s over,’ said Roo.
A moment later, Duncan and Tom appeared, wraithlike in the gloom. ‘Just two of them?’ asked Duncan.
‘If there’s another, he’s halfway to Krondor,’ said Tom. He had obviously fallen hard, as he was dirty from boot to the top of his head on his left side, and he had a bruise on his left cheek. He held his right arm across his chest, holding tight to his left biceps, and flexed the fingers of his left hand.
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Roo.
‘Fell damn hard on this arm, I guess,’ answered his father. ‘It’s all tingly and numb.’ He seemed short of breath as he spoke. Blowing out a long note, he added, ‘Some time of it, that was. Not ashamed to admit I was scared for a bit.’
Duncan knelt and rolled over the bandit. ‘This one looks like a ragpicker,’ he said.
‘Few honest traders and only a few more dishonest ones brave this route,’ said Tom. ‘Never been a rich outlaw I heard of, and certainly not around here.’ He shook his hand as if trying to wake up a sleeping limb.
Duncan came away with a purse. ‘He might not have been rich, but he wasn’t coinless, either.’ He opened the purse and found a few copper coins and a single stone. Walking back into the light of the campfire, he knelt to inspect the gem. ‘Nothing fancy, but it’ll fetch a coin or two.’
Roo said, ‘Better see if the other is dead.’
He found the first man he had encountered lying facedown in the mud, and when he rolled him over, discovered a boy’s face on the corpse. Shaking his head in disgust, Roo quickly found the boy without even the rude leather pouch the other bandit had possessed.
He returned to the wagons as Duncan put down the bow he had taken from the first bandit. ‘Pretty poor,’ he said, tossing it aside. ‘Ran out of arrows.’ Roo sat down with an audible sigh.
‘What do you think they’d be doing with all this wine?’ asked Duncan.
‘Probably drink a bit,’ said Tom. ‘But it was the horses and whatever coin we carry, and the swords you have and anything else they could sell.’
Duncan said, ‘We bury them?’
Roo shook his head. ‘They’d not have done the same for us. Besides, we’ve no shovel. And I’m not about to dig their graves with my hands.’ He sighed. ‘If they’d been proper bandits, we’d have been feeding the crows tomorrow instead of them. Better keep alert.’
Duncan said, ‘Well then, I’m turning in.’
Tom and Roo sat before the fire. Because of his age, Roo and Duncan allowed Tom the first watch. The man with the second had it roughest, having to awake for a few hours in the dark, then turn in again. Roo also knew that dawn was the most dangerous time for attack, as guards were the sleepiest and least alert and anyone contemplating a serious assault would wait for just before sunrise. Chances were near-certain if Tom had morning watch, should trouble come he’d be sound asleep when he died.
Tom said, ‘Had a stone like that one Duncan’s got, once.’
Roo said nothing. His father rarely talked to him, a habit that had developed in childhood. Rupert had traveled with his father many times as a boy, learning the teamster’s trade, but on the longest of those journeys, from Ravens-burg to Salador and back, he’d rarely had more than ten words for the boy. When at home, Tom drank to excess, and when working, remained sober but stoic.
‘I got it for your mother,’ said Tom quietly.
Roo was riveted. If Tom was a quiet man when sober, he was always silent about Roo’s mother, sober or drunk. Roo knew what he did about his mother from others in the village, for she had died in childbirth.
‘She was a tiny thing,’ said Tom. Roo knew his diminutive status was a legacy from his mother. Erik’s mother had mentioned that more than once. ‘But strong,’ said