The watching hundred cheered their companions heartily and jogged down the hill to join them. Battles lay ahead and a land to conquer-without the taskmasters of Neraka looking over their shoulders. This is what they had trained for and what the emperor had sent them to do. Thunder rolled under their feet, and their voices lifted in song. Swinging steadily in a ground-eating jog, the Tarmaks moved into the heart of Iyesta’s realm.
17
Dealing with the Enemy
Before the arrival of the great dragon overlords, the eastern half of the Plains of Dust had been a barren, arid land of sweeping hills open to a vast sky where nomadic tribes followed the seasons north and south. Little had grown on the red lands but tough grasses, indomitable shrubs, and cold-hardy cacti. As far east as the skirts of the sweeping Silvanesti Forest, the dry lands spread and supported little more than snakes, goats, sheep, and a few hardy species of antelope.
Then came Sable, the black dragon, who used her powers of geomancy to transform great stretches offer-tile land between the Plains of Dust and Blцde into a swamp. She drowned Blцdehelm and New Coast and extended her dismal realm into the New Sea. Huge tracts of land disappeared under stagnant water, twisted trees, moss, and slime.
While this tragedy affected millions of acres and displaced thousands of humans, ogres, and centaurs, it held one small blessing for the Plains of Dust. That much water to the northeast of the Plains, combined with several other minor climactic changes, altered the climate of the eastern plains from cold and arid to temperate and semiarid, changing the barren wastelands on the eastern fringes of Iyesta’s realm to savannas and grasslands. The winters north of Missing City grew more tolerable and the warmth of the summers lasted longer. Trees thrived along the riverbanks, old creek beds, and in the depressions of scattered oases. Grass grew in abundance and with it, the herds of wild animals and domesticated stock flourished. Flocks of birds returned to the fields and rivers. Wildflowers bloomed where none had grown before.
Many of the plains tribes, attracted by the more abundant grass and water, drifted eastward out of the desert into Iyesta’s realm and flourished in the comparative safety of her peace. Other peoples came too-clans of centaurs, families of humans, traders, explorers, and some others not so desirable.
Although Iyesta and her companion dragons had worked hard to keep the violent element out of her realm, they could not watch every hiding place, every path, every patch of woods. Small bands of brigands or draconians or sometimes both together roamed the edges and byways of the Plains, especially on the northeast borders where Sable’s foul swamp offered many places to hide. Like wild dogs they would slink out at night and attack small groups of travelers, isolated farms, or unarmed caravans. Since Iyesta’s disappearance and the troubles with the Dark Knights to the east, the bands had grown bolder, and several had joined to together to form larger and more dangerous groups. They roved out, looking for loot and weapons and women, and they rarely took prisoners.
The Tarmak army, however, made them think twice.
Four days after leaving Missing City, the Tarmak scouts lost the trail of the fleeing militia in an area of rough, eroded badlands. In a single night the band seemed to have split apart and melted away into the grass.
The Akkad-Ur looked at the region, at the exposed rock, the crumbling, twisted hills, and the intricate sculpturing of the weathered stone and released his scouts from blame. He doubted even a pack of hounds could have tracked the refugees out of that place. Instead of uselessly venting his anger over the escape of the militia, he looked for other means of tracking Falaius’s forces, and very quickly he found one.
Each day the scouts had reported seeing riders or sometimes individuals watching the advancing army from afar. These observers would sit on a distant hill and watch or track the army for miles before fading out of sight. If a Tarmak tried to approach, the watchers vanished. For three days these spies followed the army, until the Akkad-Ur decided it was time to find out who they were. He gave orders to his best trackers, and they, wanting to make amends for their failure in the badlands, obeyed with a vengeance. The Akkad-Ur curbed his impatience and sat back to await results.
By late evening the trackers returned with a human and a draconian.
The first indication the Akkad-Ur had of their arrival was a loud, vicious snarl from Crucible, who was chained near his tent. As soon as they entered the shelter, the Akkad-Ur understood why. There were few draconians on the Plains, thanks to Iyesta’s efforts, and of the races native to Ansalon, he hadn’t anticipated seeing this one.
The man, upon seeing the statuesque Tarmak painted and masked and seated in his black chair, fell promptly to his knees and bowed low. The draconian merely grunted a greeting of sorts.
“How appropriate,” said the Akkad-Ur in smooth tones. “A bozak.”
The bozaks were the draconians created from the bronze dragon eggs. They were not the brightest, toughest, strongest, or most magical of the five races, but they were good at all of those together and possessed their own form of paranoid intelligence. This particular one stood about six feet tall-shorter than the Tarmaks-and had dirty bronze scales, long leathery wings, and a long muzzled face. Although his weapons had been taken away from him, bits of armor were still tied to his arms and broad chest, and his hands had not been bound. He glowered at the general with bulbous, black eyes.
The Akkad-Ur was not one to waste time. He assessed the prisoners for a moment then gestured to his trackers to come close. After he received their report, he rose to his feet and walked slowly around the two spies. “You, or others like you, have been following us for days. Why?”
As he guessed, the man answered. Garbed in rough brown robes and leather pants, the man was short in stature, narrow-faced, and brought to mind the image of a weasel. “We were merely curious, my lord. The sight of such a magnificent army has not been seen on these Plains in generations.”
“True,” agreed the Tarmak. “But I know you better than you think. You are thieves. Brigands. Probably part of a larger gang of robbers, murderers, and sneaks. And I do not-” he moved swiftly in front of the kneeling man, slid a long, slim dagger smoothly out of its sheath, and rammed it into the man’s left eye, killing him instantly. “Tolerate sneaks,” he finished while the robber’s body sagged to the floor. He turned to the bozak. “Which are you?”
Without blinking an eye, the bozak replied, “The murderer.”
“Good.” The Akkad-Ur wiped the dagger blade on the dead man’s chest and slid the weapon back out of sight. “Perhaps we understand each other. I have heard the bozaks fight their battles with more than bloodlust.”
The draconian eyed him without reply. The Akkad-Ur returned to his chair and sat down.
“In the event you have not heard the news out here, the dragonlords Iyesta and Thunder are dead.” A widening of the draconian’s already bulging eyes was answer enough. “This realm is ours. We have taken Missing City and driven the dragon’s forces from the region.”
The bozak jerked his head. “We saw their trail,” he growled.
“Their complete destruction is a matter of time. However, if you and your fellow brigands do not wish to join them, I have an offer.” He picked up a leather bag from among the things on his worktable and tossed it to the bozak. It fell on the floor at his feet with a satisfying clink. “We are marching on Duntollik. With that realm in our grasp, the rest of the Plains will fall like overripe fruit. If you wish to participate in this glorious victory, we would welcome any news your trackers and scouts find interesting-any stray soldier you happen to capture, perhaps information on Duntollik’s tribes, the landmarks, or its leaders. Also if your people wish to join us in battle, we would reward you well.”
“How well?”
The Akkad-Ur waved a hand at the leather bag and smiled behind his mask. “Very well. There is plenty more where that came from.”
The bozak hesitated before he turned his heavy eyes to the necklace of dragon’s teeth
around the Tarmak’s neck. “What will you do with the bronze?”
“Kill him eventually. For now he is useful.”
“Give me your word I may have his scales, and I will spread the news of your offer from the Toranth River pirates to the border gangs.”
“What makes you think you can trust my word?”
“I’d sooner trust a cobra,” snorted the draconian. “But we know many things about these plains you do not. We can be of service.”
“Such as?”
“The militia you seek has split up.”
“Where have they gone?”
The bozak only grinned a toothy, tightlipped grimace.
“I see,” said the Akkad-Ur, his mask glinting in the lamplight. “Very well. You have a deal. Your name?”
“Vorth.”
“Well, Vorth, if you serve us as you say, the bronze’s scales will be yours.”
The draconian picked up the leather bag and tucked it in his belt. Bowing once, he said, “The militia split into three groups. One is following the river, heading for Duntollik. A troop of centaurs went north, probably to rouse their clans. A third party went north and east toward the King’s Road.”
The Akkad-Ur steepled his fingers and stared thoughtfully through the eye holes of his mask. So, they were trying to raise the Plains against his army. The thought pleased him. The more people they pulled into the war, the better would be the battle and the greater would be their defeat. Let them run themselves ragged trying to draw help from every corner of the Plains. Their doom was inevitable.
“So be it. There is one other small matter I will offer you. A bounty. I wish to have an escaped prisoner returned to us. A woman Knight of Solamnia. She will probably be with the militia heading for Duntollik. She is a skilled warrior, so her capture will not be easy. I will pay one-hundred steel coins for her alive.”
“What about dead?”
“The person who brings me this woman dead will meet the same fate.”
“Ah.” The bozak flicked his pointed ears. “I will remember that.”
His business with the draconian finished, the Akkad-Ur gestured to his guards and dismissed the draconian. He watched as the bozak stamped out.
Something stirred in the deep shadows at the back of the tent, then a grubby and weary-looking man stepped out of the sleeping area and tread softly across the carpets.
“Mercenaries again?” he said behind the Akkad-Ur. “How long will these last?”
The Akkad-Ur did not turn around. “As long as they are useful. If they prove troublesome, we can put them in the front of battle and crush them in the middle.” He heard the splash of wine and held out a hand. A wine cup was pressed into his palm. “You really should stay downwind of me,” he remarked.
His visitor ignored the comment. “To the militia,” the man said, coming around to face the general. He raised his cup in a toast. “They are a courageous and tenacious foe.”
“They have been more of a challenge than we anticipated,” agreed the Akkad-Ur. “Yet the Rose Knight fled. That surprised me.”
“She did not run away. She is making a strategic withdrawal. As long as you have the dragon, she will not go far.”
“She cares a great deal for that dragon,” the Tarmak mused. “Does that bother you?”
“No. It is a dragon.”
But the denial paused just a heartbeat too late and came a little too emphatically. The Akkad-Ur knew this man well and realized the truth behind the words. “When the time comes, you may kill the dragon,” he offered.
“She would never forgive me,” the man said. “That’s hardly a way to win a woman.”
“Why win her? Just take her.”
But the man realized he’d said too much about a subject he preferred to keep personal. He drank deeply of his wine and deliberately spilled some down his filthy tunic. “I have to explain the smell of wine. You’re torturing me, remember?”
“Why continue this ruse?” The Akkad-Ur said, pouring more wine. “The Knights are ours and the woman is gone. Come and take your rightful place beside me.”
The man stared at the red liquid in his cup. “I have considered that. But I don’t believe the Rose Knight and the militia are quite through. I prefer to keep undercover until she is back in our hands and we have defeated the forces of Duntollik.”
The Tarmak shrugged. “As you wish.”
The man drained his cup, set it down, and stood in front of the Akkad-Ur. “Does the dragon know yet?”
“No. But he is growing restive. He has asked to see her several times.”
“It would, I believe, be a good idea to get her back.”
“I have already sent the bandits after her. Do you want more?”
“Let’s try the Solamnic Knights.”
“Tell me.”
The man did, and when he was finished, an appreciative and knowing smile lifted the Akkad-Ur’s mouth. “I will do as you suggest.”
“Good. Now you’d better hit me. Just once, please. Make it look believable.”
The Akkad-Ur clenched his fist and punched the man on the cheek bone, not hard enough to break bone but enough to leave a colorful bruise and a black eye.
The two bowed to each other, and when the guards were called back into the tent, the man extended his arms. He was bound and shoved forcefully out the entrance. Dirty, dripping with blood and wine, and seemingly hurting in every limb, he returned to his companions in the slave camp.
Early the next morning, the Akkad-Ur called back his trackers and left the badlands behind. The army was not far from the King’s Road, the old road that bisected the eastern Plains from west to east and ended eventually in the kingdom of Silvanesti. One of his scouts had told him earlier that the Qualinesti elves were on the road moving east toward the Forest. While he would not mind sending them to join the dead, he did not really worry about them. From more recent reports he knew the elves were exhausted, low on supplies, and disheartened. Slaughtering them would be no honor and hold no glory. They were going to Silvanesti and would soon, he knew, have their hands full of Dark Knights, refugee Silvanesti elves, and nowhere to go. He could deal with them later if need be. In the meanwhile, he sent scouts out to check on the elves’ progress and sent his army marching west toward the east fork of the Toranth River. They would follow the river north and west, cross the King’s Road, and enter Duntollik from the east.
He was still working on his maps at noon when his guards brought the Solamnic Knight commander before him.
The Akkad-Ur looked from his camp chair at the sweating Knight and gestured to a second chair set beside the small table under an awning. The Tarmaks had stopped for a noon break to rest the horses and allow the army to eat a quick meal.
Sir Remmik’s stare could have set the table on fire. He did not move. He did not look cowed or fearful, only suspicious.
“Please, Sir Knight,” said the Akkad-Ur. “Sit down. I merely wish to talk to you.”
The guards saluted and walked some distance away, leaving their Akkad-Ur alone with the Solamnic. A young Tarmak boy approached with a tray and quickly laid the table for a meal. He set out two cloths, two mugs, and a pitcher of something steaming. He laid food on the cloths, bowed to the Akkad-Ur, and hurried away. No one else came to join them.
“Sir Remmik, sit down. The food is not poisoned or drugged. I will not harm you. I only intend to talk to you.”
The Knight lifted one eyebrow. “I have not bowed to your tortures. I will not bow to your blandishments. By our Oath and Measure I cannot cooperate with you.”
“Really? Others have. I just assumed these oaths of yours were mere… guidelines.”
Sir Remmik recoiled as if insulted. “Who has cooperated with you? Tell me their names!”
The Akkad-Ur gave a cold chuckle. Carefully, reverently, he removed the golden mask of his office, laid it on a stand, and turned barefaced to look at the Knight.
Sir Remmik’s eyes narrowed. Without the gold mask, the Tarmak
looked much like the others. His features were sharply aquiline, framed by long gray hair and thick gray eyebrows. His eyes stared back with a piercing intensity and intelligence that Sir Remmik found rather disconcerting in a barbarian. Yet without the mask, the Akkad-Ur seemed more… human… more approachable. Radiating caution, he walked around the table and sat down across from the Akkad-Ur. He kept his hands on his knees and touched nothing.
The Akkad-Ur poured the hot liquid into the cups, inhaling the powerful spicy scent of kefre. “I have taken a liking to this beverage. I don’t know why. You could polish armor with it. But it has a certain body. My cook heats some for me in the morning and keeps it hot through the day.” He pushed a cup toward Sir Remmik, who ignored it.
Leaning back in his seat, the Tarmak swallowed a long drink. “There are meat rolls, olives, cheese. It is a simple meal for the trail, but better than you’ve had for a while. Eat.”
The Knight sat stonily in his seat, his face set in grim lines. His eyes strayed to the bronze dragon crouching a hundred feet away, out of earshot. He could not see the barb that kept the dragon imprisoned with the Tarmaks, but he saw the effects every time the dragon tried to move his front quarters. It obviously pained him.
“I have a task I would like you to perform for me,” the Akkad-Ur said.
“No.” Sir Remmik’s tone was harder than steel.
The Akkad-Ur took a bite of his roll, chewed and swallowed before he replied. “You do not know what I want you to do.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It might matter to the people of Duntollik. You have seen our army in battle, and you know some of what we are capable of doing. I would like you to go to the leaders of Duntollik and ask for their surrender.”
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