“Leland forced them off the road,” said Richard, “so he could get down to Krondor. Some of the wagons got stuck in the mud and it took a half-day to get them out.”
“Well,” said Erik with a laugh, “I’d have rather had them here yesterday, but as long as they’re going to be late, I’ll settle for that reason; I was afraid they’d been ambushed.”
Hot wet towels were provided and Erik washed up. A servant went to his tent and returned with a fresh tunic, and Erik sat with the Earl, the teeth-gritting pressure of the day beginning to slip away slightly as the ale relaxed him.
Food was provided, and while plain camp fare, it was hot and filling, and the bread was fresh baked. Erik bit off a large hunk of the hot flavorful bread, and after he had swallowed, said, “One good thing about holding a defensive position is our commissary has time to set up their ovens.”
Earl Richard laughed. “Well, there you have it; I was wondering if there was even a hint of good in all this, and you found it.”
Erik said, “Unfortunately, that may be about all the good there is to wring out of this situation. I would trade all the hot bread in the world to be outside the gates of Ylith, ready to storm the city with our army.”
“Someone once said that you can make all the plans you wish, but they all go to naught as soon as the first elements in your army encounter the enemy.”
“My experience is that is true.”
“The truly great field commanders can improvise”— Richard looked at Erik—”as you do.”
“Thank you, but I’m far from being anyone’s notion of a great general.”
“You underestimate yourself, Erik.”
“I wanted to be a smith.”
“Truth?”
“Truth. I was apprenticed to a drunk who failed to register my name with the guild, and had he, I would probably have been moved from Darkmoor before I killed my half-brother.” He went on and outlined the story of how he had become a soldier, from murdering Manfred while in a rage over Manfred’s rape of Rosalyn, the girl who had been like a sister to Erik, and being tried and convicted of murder. He told him of being pulled from prison by Bobby de Loungville, Lord James, and Calis, and the journeys to Novindus.
When he was done, Lord Richard said, “A remarkable story, Erik. We had heard things in the East of some of those things Lord James did, but only rumors and conjecture.” Lord Richard said, “My son will follow me in my office, and perhaps rise even higher as a result of this service, but you stand poised for greatness should you choose to take advantage, Erik. With Greylock dead, it is but a short step for you to take command of the Armies of the West.”
Erik said, “I am unsuited for it; there is so much I don’t know about strategy, long-range planning, the political consequences of things.”
“The fact you know those issues exist places you ahead of most of us who might be selected for the position on the basis of who our fathers were, Erik. Don’t underestimate yourself.”
Erik shrugged. “I don’t think I am, Richard. I’m Captain of the Crimson Eagles, and a Court Baron as a result. That’s far more than I wished to be. I thought I had everything I wanted when I was named Sergeant. I only want to serve as a soldier.”
“Sometimes we have no choice,” said Richard. “I wanted to grow roses. I love my gardens. I don’t think I’m happier than when I’m showing guests through them. I amuse my wife and annoy our groundskeeper no end by puttering around out there, on my hands and knees, pulling weeds.”
Erik smiled at the image of the old man out there in the dirt. “Yet you do it.”
“It makes me happy. Find what makes you happy, Erik, and hold to it.”
“My wife, doing a good job, the company of friends,” said Erik. “I can’t think of much more.”
“You’ll do, Erik von Darkmoor. You’ll do very well, should fate tap you for greatness.”
They talked late into the night.
Nakor pointed. “That way.”
The Captain said, “I can’t see anything in this fog. Are you sure?”
“Of course I am,” said Nakor. “The fog’s an illusion. I know where we’re going.”
“I’ll remember you said that, sir.” The Captain appeared dubious.
Nakor had tried a couple of “tricks” to contact Pug, but nothing seemed to work. He was almost certain new defenses had been erected around Sorcerer’s Isle, and upon entering the region of fog he was certain that was the case.
Pug didn’t want to be bothered by casual travelers, it seemed. When Nakor had been in charge of the island, he had relied on the reputation of the place, coupled with a menacing-looking castle with blue light flickering in the tower windows.
Now the defensive magic was stronger. Nakor had to correct the Captain’s course, because while in the fog the tillerman was letting the ship curve away from the island.
In the distance he heard the sound of surf and said, “Get ready to lower sails, Captain. We’re almost there.”