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 hells 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.