The Wolf standing guard at the suite’s door was a favorite of Ackal V, who had dubbed him “my Argon,” after the god of vengeance. The fellow was a giant, well over two paces tall. He bore a tattoo of a horned deer on his cheek skull and wore an especially large and smelly wolf pelt that was silvery gray in color. Like all the Wolves, he was unwashed, unkempt, and willing to do anything his patron requested without hesitation. Wolves were the only males not required to retreat at the empress’s approach.
As Argon opened the doors, she glided past without acknowledging his existence in the slightest.
The chamber reeked of smoke and spilled wine and dogs. It was also stiflingly hot. The emperor’s peculiar susceptibility to cold seemed to increase every month. Any room he occupied for more than a few moments had to have a roaring fire, even in summer.
The twin rows of columns stretched ahead of her. Each was decorated with a gilded sconce holding a flaming torch. The floor between the columns was covered by a golden carpet. Valaran’s slippered feet made no sound on the woven pile. In the shadows on each side of the lighted path shapes stirred. Some were hounds. Others were not. She did not look at any of them.
As Valaran drew near the heart of the chamber, the warmth increased. A fire blazed in an open hearth and a bell-shaped copper flue drew in the smoke and sparks, carrying them off to the roof. Straight-backed chairs were arrayed before the fire, but Ackal V was sitting on his high bed, scrolls lying on his lap and piled around him.
“Your Majesty sent for me?” Valaran halted at the foot of the bed, hands folded at her waist.
“Yes, some time past,” he said, not looking up from the scroll he was perusing. After allowing some moments of silence to pass, he lowered the document and asked, “Where were you?”
“On the roof, sire. Listening to victory bells.”
His lip curled at her sarcasm. Although a captive wife, Valaran used her considerable wit to annoy her husband. It was a delicate dance, their marriage. The emperor left much of the mundane, day-to-day work of running the household to his wife, freeing his own time for personal amusements. In return, he tolerated a certain small amount of insolence from her. Not a week went by that he didn’t remind her he could kill her-or worse-any time he chose.
“The only victory Breyhard gained was not getting his men slaughtered crossing the river,” Ackal said. “He has elements of twelve hordes on the east bank, with more crossing all the time.”
Valaran said nothing. The last time she had remarked on military matters in the emperor’s presence, he’d slapped her hard enough to bruise her jaw.
“You’ve read many books,” he went on. “What do you know of the bakali? What are their weaknesses? What moves them? Why are they here?”
“Those are complex questions, sire-”
“Use small words.”
His tone told her she was treading on thin ice. She drew a deep breath, choosing her words with care. “No one knows their motives, sire. In ancient times, they marched and fought at the command of the Dragonqueen herself.”
“Do you think she commands them now?”
“I doubt it, Majesty. No mortal can know the will of a god, of course, but the bakali invaders don’t seem bent on taking over the empire. They fight in a very unusual way. They annihilate all in their path, but don’t spread their attack in any organized fashion. They destroy what they choose to destroy, but a league or so beyond their marching column, no harm has been done.”
He thumped a thickly coiled scroll with one hand. “This fellow claims the bakali were the first thinking creatures in the world.”
“That would be Rathmore, the dwarf historian. His reasoning is suspect-”
Ackal V swept aside half a dozen scrolls, sending them cascading to the floor. Valaran winced at his abuse of priceless manuscripts.
He held up a newer tome. “In your History of the Silvanesti, you say the bakali were exterminated at the end of the Second Dragon War.” A heartbeat’s pause, then he shouted, “So why are we troubled with them now?”
Valaran frowned in thought, pressing her fingertips together at her lips. “All the lizard-folk were slain at the Battle of Time, sire, when the four Mages opened the earth to swallow the dragons and their army. Evidently, some bakali-not part of the force thus destroyed-survived. It is reported our foes arrived on the north coast by ship, like the ones slain in Hylo twenty years ago by Lord T-” Valaran bit off her words, just as Ackal threw her a sharp look. “The earlier expedition may have been a reconnaissance. That it was destroyed may have spared us a direct invasion.” Without speaking his name, she gave Tol credit for saving the empire, for a time.
Ackal V tossed back the bedclothes and swung his feet to the floor. He wore only a breechnap. Sinewy and pale-skinned, his body was covered with the same rusty red hair as his head. He flung on a quilted red velvet robe and tied the sash with a yank.
Valaran continued, “It was the dream of the Dragonqueen to conquer the world, Majesty. We know her forces were defeated here, but no one can say they didn’t triumph elsewhere. There are lands beyond the sea-”
“Yes, yes,” he snapped, turning his robe’s fur collar up around his ears. “And they had to pick my reign to return. Thank Corij no dragons have come with them!”
He shoved an ornate dagger through his sash and poured a cup of hot mulled wine from a pot on the hearth. After draining the goblet, he said, “Consult with the chief of the White Robes-what’s her name? Winath. I need magical means to confound the bakali. Breyhard has courage, but his tactics are lackluster. What I need is a general with wits and luck enough to best these damned lizard-men!”
Catching her eye, he read the thought flashing through her mind. He covered the distance between them in three strides and seized her wrist. He pushed his face so close that his wine-scented breath burned her eyes.
“Does a day go by that you don’t think of him?” he hissed.
She stared right back at him. “No, Your Majesty.”
He trailed the fingers of his free hand down her throat. She bore his touch in stoic silence, eyes fixed on the fire behind him.
After what seemed an age, a smile curved his lips. What his touch could not do, the smile did; Valaran shivered.
“I wonder,” he said. “Does he dream of you as he squats in a squalid little hut somewhere? Or do he and his giantesses have children by now?”
Valaran did not move.
Abruptly, he released her arm and stepped back, telling her to get out. He turned back to the pot of mulled wine.
Relief coursed through Valaran, but she showed no emotion as she walked out of the suffocating heat, her husband shouting at his suffering servants to bring more wine.
Valaran did not return to her rooms to change, even though her gown was drenched in sweat. Flanked by her attendants, she hurried up the central stairs to the imperial library. Her approach cleared the library of the scribes working there. The men had to abandon their work and withdraw immediately, leaving styluses soaking in inkpots and unfinished scrolls lying beneath their corner weights. Valaran sent away her attendants, then locked the doors. At last, she was alone in her favorite room in the world.
Today, the library’s scholarly peace did not soothe her. Filled with fury, she smote a marble tabletop several times with her fist and used language as crude as any sailor. When her anger had cooled, she straightened her disordered hair and clothing, then busied herself among the shelves.
The item she sought was the Ergothinia, a collection of the sayings of Ackal Ergot, founder of the empire. Once required reading for all members of the royal house, the huge tome had fallen out of favor since the days of the usurper, Pakin Zan. Now it was relegated to a high shelf at the rear of the library. The long cedar chest in which it was kept was covered by a thick layer of dust.
Valaran opened the chest. The four parchment rolls inside were dark with age. One by one she removed them and carefully set them aside. Dipping her hand in once more, she drew out a sm
all, flat box. It was made entirely of mirrored glass, a rare material produced by the Silvanesti which yielded uncannily clear images, unlike the brass or tin mirrors made in Ergoth.
Valaran raised the box’s hinged lid. The interior held another mirror set horizontally. She drew a lamp nearer and looked down at the mirror’s smooth surface.
A man’s face appeared. He had short, carefully groomed, sand-colored hair, and his chin was beardless. He wore the loose crimson raiment of a Red Robe wizard.
“Master Helbin,” Valaran whispered. “Can you hear me?”
“Yes, Majesty,” the image replied, its lips moving naturally to form each word.
“The army has crossed the Dalti to attack the bakali.”
The image nodded. “The gods go with them. Elsewhere, there are evil tidings. Juramona has fallen to the nomads.”
The words chilled her heart. “Any word of the huntress Zala?”
“She was there, but escaped. I keep watch on her, as you commanded, Majesty.”
The sound of footsteps in the corridor outside the library set Valaran’s pulse racing. “I must go,” she whispered. “Keep safe the gift of Mandes!”
“It is an evil thing, Your Majesty, crafted by an evil man-”
“Yet it may be our salvation, wizard! Yours, mine, and Ergoth’s! Guard it well!”
Valaran closed the lid and returned the mirrored box to the cedar chest. Covering it with the dusty scrolls of the Ergothinia, she knew her secret was well guarded by the forgotten words of a savage old conqueror.
Chapter 6
Raising the Standard
From a league away, Juramona was a heap of ashes. Ribbons of smoke rose from debris that had once been houses, halls, and places of commerce. As Tol’s party of five approached, still on foot (no horses having been found to speed their journey), frightened survivors fled. Kiya tried calling out reassurances, but no one listened.
Closer, the town’s charred ruins revealed worse sights. The smoldering piles contained not only burnt wood, shattered crockery, and twisted metal, but broken skulls and blackened bones. Not a dwelling was left standing.
Atop the motte, the highest point in town, stood the remains of the High House, the marshal’s home. Tol led his group up this hill. The going was slow and treacherous, as the way was impeded by heaps of charred timbers and broken masonry. The air shimmered with heat still rising from the ruins. They were forced to tear apart some obstacles and clamber over others. A slab of bricks gave way under Egrin, and only Kiya’s quick hands saved him from a nasty fall.
As they ascended, Tylocost held back from the labor. However, sharp words from Tol caused the elf to fall in beside Zala and help pull down a soot-stained length of Wall that barred their way.
The marshal’s dwelling had been reduced by fire to a great pile of blackened wreckage. Several chimneys still stood, silent sentinels above rubble too chaotic to cross. Backs aching, all of them stained head to toe with ash, Tol and his companions turned to look out over the gutted town.
Egrin’s face was pale beneath its smears of soot, and he fought to control his feelings. At his side, Kiya laid an unusually gentle hand on his shoulder. The forester woman did not share the same deep connection to Juramona, but it had been the site of her first home with Tol and Miya.
Zala dropped wearily onto a cracked slab of slate, once part of the hall floor in the High House, Tylocost tried to clean his hands in a small puddle of muddy water. Giving up, he sat down to rest near the half-elf.
Tol rooted in the debris until he found a long wooden pole, reasonably intact. From his bedroll he withdrew a large piece of scarlet cloth, the mantle he’d once worn as an imperial general.
None of the others could fathom his purpose, so they watched in exhausted silence as Tol tied the corners of his mantle to the pole and furled it tight. He shouldered it and entered the precarious jumble that had been the High House. Burned timbers snapped under his feet, and gouts of ash flew up every time something gave way. As he broke through the outer crust of cinders, fresh plumes of smoke poured out. When one pile shifted, throwing him dangerously off-balance, Egrin shouted a warning, but Tol kept going.
“For a lord and general, this Tolandruth seems careless,” Zala remarked. She’d tied a length of cloth around her head to hold her sweaty hair out of her eyes.
Tylocost shaded his close-set eyes from the morning sun. “Spoken like a hireling,” he said. “I believe he means to send a message.”
That was indeed Tol’s plan. He planted the pole on the highest point in the ruins. The breeze caught his mantle, setting its red folds to flapping. With a cape from the empire that had dishonored him, Tol had created a flag of Ergothian crimson. Anyone passing within sight of Juramona would know the empire still held sway.
When Tol was back with his comrades again, Kiya warned, “Your flag may draw a swarm of nomads.”
He shrugged, “If so, all they’ll find are a few humble peasants, who know nothing about warriors or flags.”
The trip back down to level ground was accomplished more quickly since they’d already cleared a path. When they arrived, they found a small group gathered to greet them. Eight Juramonans-three men, four women, and a small child-covered in soot and ashes, hailed them. All but one sported crude bandages on their heads or limbs.
The sight of Tol drew a shriek from one of the women. “It’s him!” she shouted. “It’s Lord Tolandruth! Praise Mishas, it’s Lord Tolandruth!”
One of the men, a middle-aged fellow with saber cuts on his shoulders, flung himself at Tol’s feet.
“My lord!” he gasped. “We prayed, and you have come!”
Tol raised the injured man to his feet. “Far too late, my friend.”
The woman who’d recognized him pushed forward. “It matters little, my lord! You’re here. Now the savages will learn what retribution truly means!” Her lust for revenge was reflected on the faces of the other survivors.
Tol and his comrades shared what food and water they had with the destitute townsfolk. The lone uninjured man, a young fellow with sharp features and darting eyes, sidled up to Zala.
“Water’s for horses. Care for wine?” he whispered.
“Where are you going to get wine in these ruins?” she demanded, keeping her voice low, too.
He laid a finger aside his nose and assumed a knowing expression. “Things below ground survived. May I show you?”
She accepted his offer. Leering, he took her hand and led her away. Kiya saw them going and would have spoken, but Zala warned her off with a brief shake of her head and a lift of her dark brows. The Dom-shu woman shrugged and said nothing.
The sharp fellow’s name was Artan. With many blandishments about her beauty and wit, and hints at the concealed riches of Juramona, he led Zala through the ruins. After several twists and turns (designed mainly to confuse her, she decided), they passed a makeshift corral containing three horses. Zala planted her feet, yanking him to a halt, and asked about the animals.
“They belonged to nomads who lost their way in the ruins.” He drew a finger across his throat. “They won’t be claiming them.”
Next thing he knew, Zala’s sword point was at his chin. He sputtered and demanded an explanation.
Zala’s smile was deceptively sweet. “We’re going back to the others. I’m sure Lord Tolandruth will want to thank you for your patriotic donation of horses to his cause.”
Artan found himself marched back to the others. He went sprawling when Zala kicked his feet out from under him. Sheathing her sword, she explained what she’d found.
While Artan was forced to lead Tylocost, Kiya, and Zala to his cache of food, Tol and Egrin went to fetch the horses.
Typical plains ponies, the three animals had short legs, thick bodies, and could run all day without tiring. Egrin pronounced them sound.
“We were due for a piece of luck,” Tol said, stroking one horse’s shaggy brown flank.
Soon they heard Kiya’s shrill whistle. The
ir comrades were returning, laden with casks of wine. Artan bore a pair of smoked hams. The others carried packets of dried beef, small kegs of flour, and baskets of dried fruit. As much as the discovery of the horses, the sight of the food lifted Tol’s heart. Food was a vital ingredient in his plan. Townsmen and farm folk would be wandering the countryside, searching for victuals. He meant to draw them to the ruined town by feeding them, then enlist them to defend the empire.
Now they were all together again, Tol revealed the plan he’d been formulating.
“It’s plain that we cannot rely on the emperor to save the eastern provinces. We must save ourselves, but we need fighting men, warriors.”
Kiya noted they were a little short on such just now, and Tol said, “That’s why you and Egrin are going to go and find some.”
Egrin knew the rural warlords of the Eastern Hundred well. He had served with them on many campaigns under emperors Pakin II, Pakin III, and Ackal IV. All had sworn fealty to him when he was installed as marshal of the province. He would take one horse and ride east, visiting the large estates and smaller holdings, rallying the gentry. These landed hordes so mistrusted by Emperor Ackal V would form the backbone of Tol’s new army.
Another of the ponies was to be Kiya’s. Despite her protestations, she was heading to Hylo.
Egrin was still not convinced the kender would be of any use. Tol reminded him and Kiya of how few choices they had.
“You might be surprised what kender can do.”
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