The Silver Crown

by Joel Rosenberg

  Well, the regular sleeping hours would have been nice. There was just too much work to do. The foremost priority was maintenance on the firearms. There were flints to be cut, frizzens to be rewelded, bent triggers to be straightened, barrels to be freshed out, split stocks to be glued or replaced. That had to be left to Ranella and Slovotsky, who spent their days closeted in the keep's smithy, the doors always heavily guarded.

  The gunsmithing, though, interfered with another high priority—reshoeing of the horses. Most of the animals were long overdue, and the necessity that they be reshod created a logistics problem: All gunsmithing procedures were secret, and had to be conducted in the privacy of Furnael Keep's sole smithy, but shoeing required some of the same facilities.

  The solution was more work for Karl. While he wasn't enough of a smith to turn bar stock into horseshoes, he could take shoes that Ranella made in the smithy and then fit them to the horses.

  Of course, the shoes did have to be adjusted, and that required an anvil—and a forge. Or a reasonable facsimile.

  * * *

  Stop that, Ellegon—you're scaring the—would you please try to broadcast calm? Karl thought as he ducked aside, trying to avoid the brown mare's kick.

  He was almost successful: The hoof just barely caught him on the right thigh, knocking his leg out from underneath him. It felt as if he had been hit by a hammer; he fell to the ground and rolled to safety.

  Rubbing at his thigh, he glared at Theren and Migdal while they struggled with the horse. "I thought you were supposed to be helping me shoe this fleabag," he said, keeping his voice calm and friendly for the mare's benefit, not theirs.

  "Sorry, Karl," Migdal said, pulling down on the reins.

  Erek ran over and helped him to his feet. Karl stood on his good leg for a moment, debating whether or not to just pack it in for the day and let this idiot mare go only three-quarters reshod. It was always the last horse that could break a bone, just as it was that one last run down the ski slope that had once broken his leg.

  Distant fingers touched his mind.

  *That's true. But remember: There was a very simple reason that it was the last run in which you broke your leg.*

  Oh? What was it?

  *After you broke your leg, you weren't interested in skiing anymore.*

  Always got to keep me honest, eh?

  *It's a tough job, but somebody's got to do it.* Ellegon closed both eyes.

  "Okay, people, let's give it another try. Just one more shoe and we finish this one off—then I'm calling it quits for the day." And a rather productive day at that, he thought, eyeing the late-afternoon sun with satisfaction.

  There wasn't a whole lot of thrill in this stint as a farrier, but there was a certain something to it. Karl had always found a certain magic in metalworking, and while shoeing was something that a real smith would have found almost agonizingly routine, Karl liked it. Working with horses and working with metal, both at the same time—what could be better?

  "Retirement," he muttered to himself. He set his nippers down next to the anvil and reached for the right rear hoof, turning around and pinning the hoof between his thighs.

  Now, keep the animal calm, okay?

  Ellegon gave out a mental sniff as he lay on the ground on the other side of the low brick wall that had a one-foot-square hole in it. *Go to sleep,* he began to sing, his mental voice low, but intense, *go to sleep, go to sleep, little horsie . . . *

  Karl felt his own eyelids start to sag shut. "Stop that!" All right, you made your point. Now cut that out. Just don't scare the horse, okay?

  The dragon didn't answer; Karl decided to take that for an assent.

  He picked up his nippers and began to loosen the old nails. Sometimes the hardest part was getting the old shoe off, particularly if the foot had had time to overgrow it too much.

  As this one had. He grunted as he pulled out the last nail, then pried the shoe off, throwing it on the all-too-large pile of used shoes. Accepting the wood-handled trimming knife from Erek, Karl quickly trimmed the sole, the frog, and the hoof wall, then tossed the knife back to Erek, who handed him the rasp in exchange.

  Rasp gripped tightly, Karl gave the bottom of the hoof wall two dozen quick strokes, then eyed the hoof.

  Not quite right, but almost. He tried an additional half-dozen quick passes with the rasp, then looked again. Better, nice and level. The toe length looked about right, too. He rasped away the splinters around the old nail holes, then held out his hand for a shoe.

  Damn. "Anything less round? These feet are about as pointed as I've seen today."

  Erek handed him another. Close, but not quite.

  *That is what I'm here for, isn't it?*

  Straightening, Karl let the foot drop and walked over to the brick wall.

  Well, it really wasn't much of a wall, just a six-foot-long, four-foot-high stack of bricks with a hole in the middle, right next to where the small anvil stood on its stump. Karl gripped the shoe with a yard-long pair of pincers and stuck it through the hole in the wall.

  Ellegon breathed fire, the backwash of heat almost sending Karl stumbling away. Instead, he closed his eyes and forced himself to hold on.

  *That should do it.*

  Karl pulled the red-hot shoe back through the hole and brought it over to the anvil. A few quick taps with the hammer, then he dipped it into a pail of water, ducking his head aside to avoid the hissing steam. He brought the shoe over to the mare and picked up the horse's foot, comparing.

  Not a bad fit, not bad at all, he decided as he brought the shoe back for Ellegon to heat. It took only a few seconds before he was able to bring the hot shoe back to the horse, lift the hoof, and set the shoe against it, watching the hoof smoke as the shoe burned itself into place.

  Quickly, he nailed the shoe in, bent the excess length of nails down, clipped them off, and clinched the nails.

  His thigh was still throbbing where the horse had kicked him.

  Enough. He let the foot drop. "I'll let you rasp off the edges," he said to Migdal. "I'm done for the day."

  He eyed the setting sun, then waved up at one of Furnael's guards on the ramparts. No need to ask if the watchman had spotted anything unusual; that would have resulted in an immediate alarm.

  Where's Andy? he thought, as he exchanged his tools and apron for his sword, pistols, and pouch.

  *Up in your rooms,* Ellegon answered. *Doing some work with Henrad.*

  Anything you can interrupt?

  A pause. *Nothing dangerous.*

  Good. Relay: I'm done for the day—any chance we can get some time to ourselves?

  *She says: "Give me about an hour—Henrad's almost got this cantrip down, and I don't want to break quite yet."*

  Fine. It'll give me a chance to take a bath.

  *Thank goodness for small favors,* the dragon said, sniffing in distaste.

  Karl laughed. "Come heat the water for me," he said, rubbing at his thigh as he limped across the broken-ground courtyard toward the bathhouse, the dragon lumbering along beside him like a four-legged bus.

  Over by the east wall, Valeran was teaching a class in Lundish swordsmanship, both of his blades flashing in the light of the sun that hung just over the wall of the keep. Karl didn't dare interrupt him; what if, up on the slopes of Aershtyn, one of the warriors Valeran was teaching missed a parry?

  *Not everything that goes wrong is your fault, Karl.*

  Maybe not. But why does it always feel that way?

  *Egotism.*

  Thanks.

  *You're welcome.*

  Karl passed by the low stone smithy. Wisps of smoke floated up from its brick chimney, only to be shattered in the breeze. Two guards stood with their backs to the door, while the clattering of metal on metal came from inside.

  Karl nodded to them as he walked by and into the low bathhouse next door.

  The room was dark and dank. Karl set his weapons and his amulet on a dry spot on the rude shelf before stripping off his clothes and pump
ing water into the huge oaken tub. Ellegon snaked his head inside and dipped his mouth into the tub. Almost immediately the water started hissing and bubbling.

  *Touch—carefully, now.*

  Karl dipped a hand into the water. It was nicely warm.

  *Then I'll be on my way.*

  "What's up?"

  *Ahira wants some help with the timbers he's clearing out of the Holts' tunnels, and I have to get my patrol out of the way if I'm going to help him.*

  "Fine."

  *About his leaving . . . do you want me to—*

  "No. I don't want you peeping my fam—my friends for me."

  Without another word, the dragon ducked his head back through the door. Momentarily, wind whipped dust in through the open door . . .

  . . . and then silence.

  After rinsing the dirt from his body with the icy water from the pump, Karl went to the tub and lowered himself slowly, gingerly, into the steaming water. As always, what had been comfortably warm to his hand felt as if it would parboil his calves and thighs, as well as more delicate parts of his anatomy.

  But he forced himself to sit back against the oak sides of the tub and relax in the heat. Gradually, the tension in his neck and shoulders eased. He rubbed his hands against his face, then shook his head to clear the water from his eyes before leaning back.

  Aershtyn was going to be bad, there was no doubt about it. If the slavers had as large a collection of slaves there as Karl suspected, they would guard them well.

  And that probably meant guns. Karl didn't like the idea of sending his people up against guns. That was how Chak—

  No. His hands clenched into fists. No, he couldn't keep thinking about Chak. That was the way of it: Good people had died, were going to die before this was all over.

  There wasn't any cheap way out. There never was.

  A round cake of scented soap lay on the rough table next to the tub. Karl picked it up and began to work up a violet-smelling lather.

  Smell like a goddam flower, I will.

  His face washed and rinsed, he lay back and tried to relax. But the water cooled all too quickly. He could either get out now, lie in a tepid bath—

  Or do something else. "Guard," he called out, careful to make his voice both loud and calm.

  Almost immediately, Restius stuck his grizzled face through the door. "You called, Karl?"

  "Yes. Knock on the smithy door and see if Slovotsky would be willing to join me for a moment. Wait," he said as Restius started to leave. "Not so quick. Ask him to bring a red-hot bit of bar stock," he said, splashing the water. "A large bit."

  Restius smiled. "I see." He disappeared, returning in a few minutes with Walter Slovotsky.

  Walter held a large iron bar in his massive pincers. Even in the light coming through the open door, it glowed redly, although it was only a dull red.

  "My, but we're getting fancy," Slovotsky said as he dipped one end in the tub, the water quickly burbling, boiling. "How's this?"

  "Better," Karl said, working his hands underwater and kicking his feet to spread the hot water around. "Much better. I owe you one. If you want the next bath, I'll heat it for you. Deal?"

  "Deal." Slovotsky made no motion to leave. He lowered the pincers to the ground and threw a hip over the edge of the tub. "Got something to talk to you about." He pursed his lips, opened his mouth, closed it.

  "Well? You getting shy in your old age?"

  "Me? No, it's just that . . . How long do you think it'll be before we finish up here?"

  Karl shrugged. "Well, I figure we'll move on Aershtyn in about three weeks. That should be over quickly. It's shutting down the damn war after that that bothers me—that could take anywhere from a few tendays to . . ." He let his voice trail off.

  "To however long you'll put into it before you give up." Slovotsky nodded. "Which is probably the way it's going to be. Listen to Furnael's people, Karl, listen to them. They don't just want peace, they want revenge." He shrugged. "Can't say as I blame them, but that's not the point."

  "And neither is how long this war is going to go on. Is it?"

  Slovotsky didn't meet his eyes.

  Karl reached out and gripped his hand. "Walter, be a bit bolder. Remember how it used to be? You weren't ashamed to look me in the eye after the time you made it with my wife—"

  "Hey!" Slovotsky's head jerked up. "Andy wasn't your wife, not then."

  "True enough."

  "But I wasn't all that eager to discuss it with you, even then."

  "True again. But that wasn't because you were ashamed, was it?"

  "No." Walter chuckled. "That was because I didn't want my head bashed in."

  "I won't bash your head in. Not even if you take Kirah and Janie and go to Endell with Ahira."

  Slovotsky's jaw dropped. "You knew?"

  "Andy worked it out."

  They sat in silence for a moment until Karl snorted and tossed the soap away. Somehow, even warm, the bath wasn't comfortable, not anymore.

  "Hand me that towel, will you?" he asked as he pushed himself to his feet and stepped out of the tub.

  He dried himself quickly, then slipped his amulet over his head and began to dress. "What do you want from me, Walter? My permission? You don't need that." He buckled his swordbelt around his waist, his hand going to its hilt for a moment.

  Slovotsky looked him straight in the eye. "Maybe . . . maybe sometimes it feels as if I do, Karl. It's just that all of this . . ." His awkward gesture seemed to include the entire universe. "It's starting to get to me. I can remember a time when the most violent thing I'd ever done was sacking a quarterback, Karl. It's . . . I don't know how to say it."

  He started to turn away. Karl caught his arm.

  "Listen to me," Karl said. "You don't need my permission, but if you want my blessing, you've got it. We've . . . been through a lot together, Walter, and I love you like a brother. If you really need to spend a few years away from the action, then you do it. That's an order—understood?"

  "Understood." Slovotsky smiled weakly. "Besides, it may not come to that. Who knows? I could get myself killed on this Aershtyn thing."

  "Always looking at the bright side, eh?"

  "Always."

  They emerged into a golden, dusky light.

  Slovotsky held out a hand. "Thanks, Karl. I appreciate it." He seemed to be about to say something else.

  Karl took his hand. "Walter—"

  *Alert! Danger! Warning!* came the distant voice.

  Karl's head jerked around. Nobody else was reacting.

  "What is it, Karl?"

  "Ellegon—can't you hear him?"

  Slovotsky shook his head.

  Ellegon, what is it?

  He felt that Ellegon was trying to answer, but he couldn't hear him. The dragon must have been at his extreme range, and only Karl's mindlink was tight enough to pick up Ellegon's broadcast, and that only irregularly, unpredictably.

  "There's trouble." Karl cupped his hands around his mouth and called up to the watchman. "Sound the alert!"

  The warrior began beating rhythmically on the alarm gong.

  "Walter," Karl snapped, "get your squad armed and up on the ramparts. Take charge there. Erek! Where the hell's that—" He stopped himself as the boy ran up. "Message to Peill, Chak—" He clenched his fists. "Belay that last. Add Aveneer. Begins: Ellegon has sounded an alert. Nature unknown. I'll be at the main gate. Arm your people, report via message runner to me there. Ends. Message to Valeran. Mount up and bring your men and my horse to main gate. Ends. Message to Baron Furnael: Begins: Trouble. Am at main gate. If it pleases you, meet me there with your chief man-at-arms. Ends. Go."

  *Karl?* The distant voice was clearer, firmer. *Can you hear me?*

  Yes, dammit. I've sounded the alert. What's going on? The dragon swooped over the ramparts and dropped into the courtyard, sending up puffs of dust as he landed heavily on the sunbaked dirt. *I'm not sure. Did we want a troop of about five hundred Holtish cavalry to be about half a da
y's ride east of us on the Prince's Road?*

  "No—did you say east?" That didn't make any sense. Biemestren lay in that direction. How had the Holtish worked their way that deeply into Bieme, and why? It didn't make any tactical sense, not after the way that Karl had broken the siege.

  They could have been sent before the breaking of the siege, but any force sent to reinforce the Holtish siegers would surely have been sent in via the west, through Holtun.

  It just didn't make any sense, none at all, unless—

  "Ellegon, check the west road. Now."

  *The west road?*

  "Yes, the west road, dammit." It was the only explanation. A cavalry force of that size wouldn't be sent to reinforce a siege. It had to be intended to block an escape.

  An escape from what? From whatever was moving in on them from the west. "Get airborne, do a nice, high recon until you see something interesting, and then get back here. Move it, dammit."

  *You're welcome.* His leathery wings a blur, the dragon leaped into the air and flew over the ramparts. *I will keep you in—*

  Ellegon screamed; his mind opened.

  * * *

  Pain tore through Karl's chest as three oily-headed crossbow bolts sank into his massive chest, passing through his thick hide as though it weren't there. He tried to flap his wings, struggled to pull upward with his inner strength, but he crashed to the ground and—

  * * *

  "Karl!" Furnael slapped his face again.

  He shook his head as he lurched to his feet. "No! Ellegon—"

  On the ramparts, a dozen guns fired in volley. Slovotsky turned to call down to Karl. "The dragon is down. We've fired on four crossbowmen, driving them back into the woods."

  Hooves clattered as Valeran, leading Stick, arrived with his twenty mounted men.

  "Four bowmen—watch for them." Karl leaped to the horse's back and spurred him through the gate, Valeran and his men galloping along behind.

  Ellegon lay writhing on the ground by the side of the road, half in, half out of the ditch, his grunts and screams strangely animalistic, his flailing treetrunk legs sending huge volleys of dirt into the air.

  Three crossbow bolts projected from his chest, their fletchings barely visible.