The Serpentwar Saga. Raymond E. Feist
He struggled to carry the bag of rocks up the hill, his feet slipping on the treacherous mound of stone. The hill was formed by the rocks being hauled by the six prisoners up its unstable side.
Reaching the top, Erik paused, took a deep breath as sweat poured down his face, and swung the heavy bag off his shoulder. He upended it and rocks went cascading down the side of the mound, causing those behind to curse as they were forced to dodge the stones. He knew the guards would allow him a moment to catch his breath before he negotiated his way down the dangerous stone mound to continue this pointless task.
He let his vision sweep the vista below. The mound of rocks rose up in the midst of a military camp. He had never seen a soldiers’ compound, but he guessed this was unlike any other such installation in the world. A huge square, it was surrounded by wooden walls upon which sentries patrolled, as much to ensure no one approached from outside as to keep prisoners inside. A good three hundred yards of woodlands had been cleared around all sides, providing that no one could get close enough to the camp to witness what occurred inside.
In the midst of the camp were three large buildings, also fashioned from logs. Ten large tents, each designed for six men, were arrayed along the north wall of the compound. A familiar sound carried through the morning air, and Erik looked toward the southern wall, where stood an armory, leather shop, and cook shed.
‘Von Darkmoor!’ shouted a guard, and Erik realized he had lapsed into daydream. The next warning would be followed by a fowling blunt, an arrow with a hard ball of lead covered with leather that could break a man’s arm if it struck there. Usually it just knocked the hapless target from the peak of the hill, followed by a rough ride down the rocky slope. That would be followed in turn by an equally rocky berating from Robert de Loungville.
The sergeant stood a short distance away, watching as the men moved slowly up the rock pile, trying not to dislodge stones onto the men behind. He spoke softly to the corporal, whose name was Foster. They pointed at various men as they struggled to get the rocks up the hill.
Roo moved toward Erik and he puffed mightily as he said, ‘Only two or three more trips, I figure.’
The scrawny boy from Darkmoor had never been one for labor, Erik knew, but over the last week he had managed to keep up with the others. Part of it, Erik knew, was the food. None of them had ever eaten that well in their lives. And while they were roused from sleep at dawn, they turned in early enough so they were sufficiently rested.
Erik had felt his old strength return, and if anything he was even more fit than before. He and Biggo loaded up more than the others, because they could carry more, but every man pulled his share of rocks up that slope.
Erik made one more transit from the small mounds dumped by the wagon to the growing hill. When he got to the bottom, he saw Robert de Loungville wave him to stand near by. When all six prisoners were finished, standing in ragged line, de Loungville came up to them.
‘Tired?’ he asked, his face set in a friendly smile.
The men muttered they were and he nodded in understanding. ‘I bet,’ he said. ‘Could be you’re as tired as you’ve ever been in your life?’
The men muttered agreement. He rocked back and forth a little on his feet, then shouted, ‘And what do you do when your enemy hits you when you’re tired?’
Suddenly Erik was slammed into from behind, his assailant taking him down. A man in black moved away as Erik rolled over on his back, out of breath and heart pounding.
The others were likewise on the ground, save Sho Pi, who danced nimbly away as a black-clad man lay facedown in the dirt.
De Loungville said, ‘Here, now? How did you manage that?’
Sho Pi said, ‘By never for a moment assuming I’m safe, Sergeant.’
De Loungville raised his brows and, with eyes wide with respect, nodded. ‘That is an attitude I can appreciate.’ He moved with almost a saunter as he approached Sho Pi. ‘You would do well,’ he said to the others, ‘to follow this man’s example.’ Without warning he leveled a flying kick at Sho Pi’s knees, which the Isalani deftly avoided.
Suddenly the Isalani was a blur of motion as he sidestepped the smaller but solid man. He kicked out with his right leg, and tattooed de Loungville with a series of kicks to the face and chest, then he swept with his leg, coming full circle, and took de Loungville’s feet out from under him.
The men who were still on the ground laughed at the sight of their tormentor humbled, but that laughter turned to silence as two guards ran up pointing crossbows at Sho Pi, forcing him away from de Loungville.
Robert de Loungville sat up, shaking his head, and then jumped to his feet. ‘Did you think that was funny?’
None of the men spoke.
‘I said, “Did you think that was funny?”’
The men shouted, ‘No, Sergeant!’
De Loungville turned and said. ‘I’ll show you something funny.’ His voice rose to the near shriek the men had become used to over the last week. ‘That pile of rocks is in the wrong place!’
Erik bit back a groan as he knew what was coming next. ‘You will take that pile apart and move it over there.’ De Loungville pointed to a place where the wagon, now empty, stood. ‘Then when I’ve decided exactly where I want the rocks, I’ll have you move them again. Is that clear?’
Without thought Erik shouted, ‘Yes, sir!’
‘Now get started.’
Erik didn’t look to see what the others were doing. He stood, shouldered his sack, and started to the pile of rocks. He reached the edge and bent over to pick up rocks, but de Loungville’s voice cut the air. ‘From the top down, von Darkmoor! I want it moved from the top down!’
Erik winced, and without comment started the dangerous climb to the top of the rock pile. Halfway up the slope, Erik heard Billy Goodwin say, ‘I’d like one good shot at that bastard.’
From even farther down the slope, Erik heard Biggo say, ‘With your luck you’d probably kick him in the heart and break your foot.’ Erik couldn’t help but laugh, and suddenly he realized it was the first laugh he had experienced since Stefan had died. Suddenly his foot slipped and he half fell, slamming both knees into the rocks. As he winced in pain and regained his feet, he cursed the day he had first seen this camp, a week earlier.
Five miles to the east of Krondor, the wagon he had ridden in had turned south, leaving the heavily traveled road from Krondor to Darkmoor. But it wasn’t the main road southeast that headed toward the Vale of Dreams and the border with Kesh. Rather, they had followed an old wagon trail to what looked to Erik to have once been a farming village near a small lake, surrounded on three sides by sheltering hills. The Crown had obviously taken over this area, for several guard posts had been erected along the way and three times they had been forced to stop while Robert de Loungville had shown proper passes. Erik had been curious, for with all the guards riding with them, and the tabards of the Prince’s own Household Guard, the guards along the way had still appeared cautious.
The other thing that had piqued Erik’s interest had been how veteran those soldiers guarding the way to this camp had appeared. All the men had been older; not one smooth cheek in the crew, and many had borne scars. And most wore differing tabards, some the black with the golden eagle of Bas-Tyra, others the golden gull on brown of Crydee.
A guard sergeant at the gate had greeted de Loungville by name, calling him Bobby, but still looked over his pass. Once inside the compound, Erik and the others had their first glimpse of the camp. A dozen men, all wearing black tunics and trousers, had been practicing with bows in a corner of the compound as the wagon had rolled through the gate, and as the large doors were swung shut, Erik caught sight of a dozen more practicing their horsemanship. He had gawked as the wagon had ground to a halt and the prisoners had been unchained.
The men had been forced to run from the wagon to stand in front of the main