Erik could not escape the feeling that Krondor lay naked and ready for the taking if Kesh should simply realize that fact. He hoped the negotiations at Stardock were proceeding well.
He pushed aside his worry and looked at Owen. The Knight-Marshal of Krondor nodded, and Erik spurred his own horse forward. For whatever reasons, Owen had ordered Erik to remain behind at the headquarters tent, rather than lead the first assault as was Erik’s desire.
The fighting was fierce for an hour, then suddenly the defense collapsed. Erik moved his horse through the gate and realized that, once again, they were facing an enemy that lacked the resources for a sustained defense.
Erik rode around, and saw that everything was now under control. As before, he dispatched light cavalry to ride up the road, seeking those fleeing northward, preventing any from reaching their own lines.
Greylock appeared at the gate of the barricade, and Erik rode toward him. “This is pointless,” he said. “If what Subai says is true, we should have sat outside the wall and starved them out.”
Owen shrugged. “The Prince’s orders didn’t give us leave to tarry.” He looked about the scene unfolding around them, and said, “Though if you put a dagger to my throat, I’d be forced to agree with you.” He stood up in his stirrups. “My backside longs for a comfortable chair by the fire at the Inn of the Pintail, a jack of ale in my hand, and your mother’s stew in front of me.”
Erik grinned. “I’ll mention that to Mother when next I see her. She’ll be flattered.”
Owen returned the smile, then seemed to leap out of his saddle, backward, spinning over the rear of his horse and landing hard on his back. His horse sprang forward.
Erik looked in all directions, and all he could see were mercenaries throwing down their swords, putting their hands in the air, and being herded to rear positions. A few signs of struggle could still be seen, and there was sporadic combat in the distance, but whoever shot the crossbow bolt that had felled Greylock was nowhere to be seen.
“Damn!” Erik leaped from his horse, and raced to where Greylock lay. Before Erik’s knee touched the ground next to his old friend, he knew the dreadful truth. A crossbow bolt protruded from above the breastplate Owen wore, and it had smashed the upper portion of his chest and lower throat to pulp. Blood flowed everywhere and Owen’s eyes stared lifelessly at the sky above.
Erik felt a cold stab of anger and hopelessness. He felt like screaming, but resisted the impulse. Owen had always been a friend, even before Erik had become a soldier, and they had shared a love for horses, an appreciation of the great wines from the Darkmoor region, and the fruits of honest labor. Looking down at the lifeless form of his old friend, Erik’s mind was awash with images, laughter over jokes, losses endured together, and the approval of an old teacher who was generous in his praise and frugal in his criticism.
Erik turned and his eyes sought out Owen’s killer. A short distance away, he spied two Kingdom soldiers arguing. One held a crossbow and the other pointed in his direction. Erik leaped to his feet and ran to face them. “What happened?”
Both men looked as if the Killer God Guis-wa had appeared before them. One of them looked as if he was ready to vomit. Perspiration appeared on his brow as he said, “Captain . . . I was . . .”
“What?” demanded Erik.
The man appeared close to tears as he said, “I was about to shoot when the order to hold was called out. I put the crossbow over my shoulder, and it went off.”
“It’s true!” said the other man. “He fired it backward. It was an accident.”
Erik closed his eyes. He felt a shaking in his body start at his feet and run up his legs to his groin and up through his chest. Of all the jokes he had endured in his short life, this was the most cruel. Owen had died at the hands of one of his own men, by accident, because the man had been lazy and sloppy.
With a hard swallow, Erik forced back his frustration and rage. He knew there were other officers in the army who would hang this man for not unloading his crossbow and costing the Kingdom the life of their commander in the West. He looked at the two men involved in the accidental shooting, and said, “Go away.”
They didn’t hesitate, but ran as if wishing to be as far away from the giant young Captain as possible when his rage finally erupted. Erik stood motionless a moment, then turned back to see soldiers gathered around the body of Owen Greylock, Knight-Marshal of Krondor. Erik calmly moved through them, gently but firmly pushing them aside until he was once again beside his old friend.
He knelt next to Owen and scooped him up in his arms, as if carrying a child, and turned toward the gates. The battle was not quite over, but the situation was well in hand, and Erik felt a need, a duty, to carry his old friend back to his command pavilion; he would not trust the task to another. Slowly, he walked back down the road, holding his dear friend.