Unpleasant thoughts of the havoc kender could wreak continued to bedevil Egrin, but he didn’t argue the point further. Instead, he asked, “Will you be all right here, alone?”
Tol smiled a little. “Not so alone. Tylocost’s loyalty is guaranteed by his oath.”
“And the huntress?”
“I’ve nothing to fear from her. She’s charged with delivering me alive to Daltigoth.”
During the journey to Juramona, Zala had tried to convince Tol to go directly to Daltigoth. He assured her it was his ultimate destination, but he had no intention of walking alone into Ackal’s capital city. He would explain no further, and she’d finally stopped hounding him, but neither man believed she’d given up.
“I don’t trust either one of them,” Egrin said quietly. “The elf lives and breathes stratagems, and the huntress is young and desperate.”
“We’re all desperate,” Tol countered. “Be of stout heart, son of Raemel! I’ll harness these two hounds, and they’ll do good service.”
They established a simple camp just outside the burned walls, but didn’t bother setting up defenses. They were too few to defend the camp if nomads attacked, so Tol felt the best defense was helplessness. He doubted the nomad host would bother a few survivors trying to eke out a spare existence in the ruins of Juramona.
The crimson flag Tol had planted did its work. People began to gather in the camp. Scores of Juramonans emerged from the ruins, certain the great Lord Tolandruth could protect them from any menace. Lean-tos and shanties sprang up, constructed from whatever could be salvaged. Despite the seemingly total devastation, much useful material was collected by the careful gleaners. Many cellars had survived intact, as Artan proved, and yielded up a bounty of food and drink.
Tol wanted Egrin and Kiya to depart the next day, at sunrise. The former marshal had readily accepted his mission, to rally the landed hordes, but Kiya was still not happy with hers.
“Kender troops?” she exclaimed. “Husband, you can’t be serious!”
“It does seem a contradiction in terms,” Tylocost put in dryly.
“Any arm that can wield a sword is welcome,” Tol said, looking at each of them. “If Hylo hasn’t yet felt the wrath of the nomads or bakali, it will. Remind King Lucklyn or Queen Casberry of that.”
Lucklyn and Casberry, married co-rulers, were never in Hylo City at the same time. While one remained at home, ruling, the other went off wandering, in the way of kender. Tol hoped Kiya would find Casberry in residence. He’d dealt with the queen before, when he and three hundred hand-picked warriors had sought out and slain the monster XimXim. Casberry was a cunning old pirate, but the kender queen knew where her best interests lay-just the sort of ally Tol needed now.
For the first time, Kiya openly regretted Miya’s absence. The younger Dom-shu sister, a haggler of fearsome reputation, would have been fully equal to bargaining with the doughty Queen Casberry.
Once she’d spoken Miya’s name, Kiya fell silent. The sisters had never before been separated for so long. Although the stoic Kiya would never admit it, Tol knew she missed Miya terribly.
After Kiya finally agreed to go to Hylo, Tol went to make a tour of the growing camp, alone. He wanted to gauge the mood of the survivors. An entourage would only draw unwanted attention. As a concession to Kiya’s concern, he promised not to go beyond the outermost ring of shelters.
Duty and love had called Tol out of the Great Green, inspired by the strange visions he’d had in the forest, but as he walked among the exhausted, frightened people squatting by campfires, he felt a surge of anger. Witnessing the brutal hand of war laid upon the land and people he knew filled him with righteous outrage. He knew who was to blame-not the nomads, nor even the mysterious bakali. The true author of this misery was the Emperor of Ergoth.
In Tol’s view, Ackal V had betrayed his people by appointing incompetent warlords to command the empire’s hordes. The emperor demanded personal obedience from his hirelings; martial skill was secondary. This valuing of loyalty over skill could bring about the downfall of the empire.
As he passed among wounded women and children, Tol recalled that he had been favored by the gods never to fight in a losing battle. He’d seen warriors maimed and killed, but had never known the harsh hand of war on his own people. This destruction was a strange new experience. Seeing the people’s suffering brought home to him that it was not only defeated soldiers who paid the price for losing, but the soldiers’ families, and the village, farm, or town each warrior claimed as home.
Shame burned through him. To have lived forty years and only realize this now!
In spite of his own fury at the emperor’s failures, Tol found no corresponding resentment among the encamped Juramonans. Stunned resignation seemed to be the prevailing mood, followed by a thirst for revenge. Most disturbing were the scavengers, like Artan, who saw in the empire’s troubles an opportunity to enrich themselves. Artan himself had managed to slip away after his cache was confiscated. Stern measures might be needed to keep his kind in line.
As Tol passed by two families huddled around a blazing fire, an old man reached out and gripped his hand. Aged eyes looked up at Tol with desperate hope. Touched, Tol patted the oldster’s gnarled hand and bade him and the others good night.
Everyone was bedded down when he returned-everyone save the huntress. She sat, fawn-colored cape draped around her shoulders, facing the dying fire. Tol knew that the age of a half-elf was notoriously hard to judge, but in this light, Zala looked almost like a child.
“Trouble sleeping?” he asked.
Zala kept her eyes on the flickering flames. “I’m wondering when we’ll get to Daltigoth.”
“So am I.” He sat down next to her. Half-joking, he said, “Worried about collecting your fee?”
She lifted the leather pouch from around her neck and poured its contents into one hand. In addition to Valaran’s ring, Tol saw that a small gold locket lay in her palm.
“Here are the reasons I worry,” she said. “Your empress and my father.”
The locket was a plain golden disk, about the size and thickness of an imperial crown coin. Tol pried it open with a fingernail. Within was a small circle of parchment, carefully cut to fit the depression in the locket. Painted on the parchment in skillful detail was a portrait of a gray-haired human with pale eyes and a pointed chin.
Tol could see the resemblance between father and daughter, around chin and nose. He closed the locket, and Zala took it back, clenching her hand around it.
“If I don’t produce you in a timely fashion, the empress will have my father killed.” Tol scoffed at this notion, but Zala hissed, “She told me so to my face!”
“Zala, we are all taking risks. And if we fail, it’s not only our own lives that are lost”-he gestured at the people sleeping around them-“but the lives of those who love us, those who depend upon us.”
“It’s a terrible land that lives by such ways!”
Tol waited until she had returned the locket and Valaran’s ring to the leather pouch around her neck, then he said, “Gods willing, I will get to Daltigoth, but the route may be long and the way dire, and I need your blade, Zala. If I guarantee your father’s life, will you stand with me?”
“How can you make such an offer? Caergoth is far away, and ruled by a cruel governor!”
“I’m Lord Tolandruth. I have ways.” He smiled disarmingly. “Give me your sword, and I will do everything in my power to preserve your father’s life.”
She rested her chin on her updrawn knees, considering. Could this human be trusted? No one she’d met seemed to be neutral about Lord Tolandruth. Love him, hate him, fear him-everyone had definite ideas. She knew a bit of his history, knew he was the son of a farmer, the sort that Riders of the Great Horde usually trampled on their way to battle. Yet he had become their master, a general of armies and warlord of the Great Horde. Even Tylocost-haughty, infuriating Tylocost-had vowed to follow this peasant warrior.
Kaoth. That’s what the elves called it. Fate. One was either its victim or its master. Although she’d known him only a short time, Zala had no doubt which of those applied to Tolandruth.
She made up her mind. Rising gracefully to her feet, she looked down at him.
“Safeguard my father, and I’ll stand by you until this business is done.” Dark eyes bored into his. “You have my word.”
He gave his solemn promise. She would not take his hand, but nodded once and turned away to find her bedroll.
Chapter 7
Crucible
Forty horsemen galloped up to the summit of a low hill, the highest point for leagues. Dawn was not long past, and pallid strips of fog still clung to the low places. At the riders’ backs, the silver stream of the Dalti River gleamed. Golden sunlight fell about the horsemen, promising heat later in the day. Lord Breyhard removed his helmet, already sweating. His slightly paunchy frame and prematurely graying hair made him look older than his thirty years. Standing in the stirrups, he craned his neck in as wide an arc as his armor would permit. “Where are the damned lizards?” he growled. Fifty hordes were poised behind him on the rich flatlands of the Dalti’s floodplain, ready to sweep forward at his command. Three days ago they’d crossed the river after a brisk fight. Since then, no sign of the bakali army had been found. Another fifty-eight thousand warriors waited on the opposite shore. They were to cross the river and take the enemy in the flank-once the enemy was discovered.
“Send word to General Crumont,” Breyhard ordered his nearest aide. Crumont commanded the fifty-eight hordes on the other shore. “Tell him to head south to Traveler’s Cove, and begin his crossing at once. He will establish a bridgehead and remain there until I summon him.”
The aide saluted with his dagger and put spurs to his horse. Another warrior moved forward to take his place. Breyhard addressed him.
“Vintox, lead the Red Hawk and Solin Star hordes on a sweep of the countryside north and east of here. The enemy must be there. Find them.”
Breyhard had reasoned, not poorly, that the bakali would withdraw to rougher, more wooded ground. If imperial horsemen could catch the slower-moving enemy foot soldiers in the open, the bakali would find themselves at a disadvantage. He was certain the bakali had retreated to the pine hills northeast of the river bottoms.
Vintox departed, and another warrior guided his horse forward to his general’s side, but Breyhard looked around. He wanted someone else.
“Where’s Casselron? Where’s the wizard?”
A man in late middle age, his blond hair pulled back in a rough queue, rode slowly through the press of burly warriors. Casselron the White Robe, looking saddle-sore and wan, hoarsely hailed his commander.
“Find the enemy,” Breyhard snapped.
The wizard rubbed his chin. Spending so much time in the saddle did not allow him to keep to his usual standards of grooming. He grimaced at the feel of his unshaven face, and at the situation in which he found himself. A wearer of the esteemed White Robe should not be traveling in the company of such ignorant warriors, required to perform spells like a market fair entertainer, but this was his mistress Winath’s notion of how to please the emperor.
Casselron pulled his attention back to the matter at hand.
“As you command, my lord, but-” Breyhard’s eyes narrowed, and Casselron made his voice as deferential as possible. “General, I remind you that divination has consistently failed to locate the bakali since their entry into Ergothian territory.”
Like most Riders, Breyhard had a distrust of magic and those who wielded it, no matter which creed they followed. “So, your skills are inferior to the lizard-men’s,” he scoffed. “I’ve said it all along.”
Casselron flushed but wouldn’t be baited into an argument. It would be pointless. He promised to do his utmost and departed. Like its rider, his horse was unaccustomed to the rugged life of a warrior. At a shambling trot, the animal carried the wizard a few paces away to open ground.
At home, in the Tower of High Sorcery, Casselron would have employed a full invocation before a polished pan of sacred oil, calling upon Manthus, Corij, and Draco Paladin to reveal the enemy to his eyes. Here, on a damp hilltop leagues from any city, he was forced to improvise.
He turned his back on the troop of anxious, yet arrogant warriors surrounding Lord Breyhard. From a leather sheath on his saddle, he drew his staff. The wooden stave was some two paces in length, topped by a golden dragon’s claw. The claw gripped an opaque white disk slightly larger than Casselron’s palm. Lips moving silently, Casselron gazed into the white disk.
His vision pierced the milky surface. Distance melted away and flowed past his probing gaze. Leagues flashed by-north, east, and south. He saw farms, emptied and abandoned, roads clogged with overturned carts, fields devoid of activity. Unlike the rampaging nomads, the bakali didn’t slaughter and loot indiscriminately, but their advance across Ergoth had driven common folk from hearth and home into the walled cities, where they waited for the emperor’s hordes to subdue the invaders, making it safe for them to return home again.
But Casselron saw no lizard-men. The farther he looked, the fewer signs he saw of the bakali’s passage. They must be close.
Something touched the wizard’s consciousness as he roamed over field and farm. It was a fleeting sensation, as though a shadow had crossed the sunlight of his vision.
Casselron was one of the best scryers in Daltigoth-he’d been chosen to accompany Lord Breyhard for that reason-and this delicate contact alerted him at once. The bakali were provided with magic of their own! It cloaked their movements and befuddled every attempt by Ergothian mages to use their powers against the invaders. Such protection did not require an army of powerful sorcerers. One dedicated practitioner, if skillful enough, could block all prying eyes.
This was Casselron’s theory, at any rate: a single adept mage was assisting the bakali. The mage could be a rogue wizard with an axe to grind against the empire, like Mandes, or a forester shaman of unusual skill, a heathen priest, even a Silvanesti. The gods alone knew what mischief elves were capable of.
Abruptly, Casselron found himself face to face and mind to mind with the other. The confrontation happened so suddenly it had to be a deliberate revelation.
“You!” Casselron cried, utterly astonished. Gray eyes, curly, sand-colored hair-he knew this face!
A sharp blow to his chest ended Casselron’s vision. He looked down. An arrow protruded from his chest. That wasn’t right-
Lord Breyhard saw the White Robe topple slowly from his saddle. Breyhard fumed. Weakling! The fool had fainted before providing any useful information!
A hail of arrows showed Breyhard he was wrong. Horses reared as missiles struck home. Warriors fell to the ground, arrows in faces or shoulders. Someone shouted, “Ambush! Ambush!”
As the shafts fell around him, Breyhard called for his own bowmen. “Get those spawn of snakes!” he roared.
A contingent of Seascapers from the far west rode forward, short bows ready. The arrows had come from a copse of trees atop a nearby low hill. The gray-green bakali were hard to spot among the leafy branches, but a few Seascaper arrows found their targets. With shrill cries, injured lizard-men plummeted from their perches.
“If any of those live, I want them!” Breyhard ordered.
Warriors around him drew sabers and spurred forward to sweep up the fallen. They hadn’t ridden ten steps before noise erupted behind them. From the hilltop, Breyhard could see a melee breaking out on the floodplain. Fully armed bakali had sprung up out of nowhere among the idle troops.
The general bellowed, “Cornet, sound formation!”
The boy put his brass horn to his lips. An arrow in the back knocked him forward over his saddle, but the young Ergothian bravely managed to sound the horn, relaying his commander’s order, before he succumbed.
The bakali had buried themselves in the soft black loam of the river bottoms. Apparently, they could go without air for an amaz
ing length of time. So utterly still had they lain, the Ergothians had rode right over them, ignorant of the danger beneath their feet.
More lizard-men were appearing every moment. Brawny, scaly, stained with dirt, they uttered high-pitched screeches as they raised high their axes and swords. They cut at the legs of the Ergothians’ horses, and when the riders were thrown down, three or four lizard-men would fall upon them and hack them to bits. Blood and soil mixed to make a dark and fearful clay.
The Ergothians tried to sort themselves into the usual fighting formation, but the enemy was among them, all around them, shrieking, slashing. Breyhard could not rally his confused, frantic men. He allowed himself another moment to curse the vile beasts he faced, then drew his saber.
It was not the sort of battle the Ergothians were accustomed to. There were no lines, no maneuvering, no great, sweeping charges. Fifty thousand Ergothians, more or less stationary on horseback, had been surprised by at least an equal number of bakali. A vast, formless brawl ensued as both sides fought to the death. Swords clashed, spears thrust, blood flowed. Men and horses screamed as they perished, and bakali keened their strange, shrill cries. Unhorsed soldiers, filthy from the same black earth that had hidden the bakali, continued to fight on foot. In the awful confusion, sometimes man fought man and lizard slew lizard. It was every warrior for himself.
Gradually, Ergothians gathered on the strand, pushed to the edge of the river by the great mass of lizard-men. Rafts and boats, used by Breyhard’s army to cross the Dalti earlier, had been tethered to the rickety piers of Eagle’s Ford. Masses of camp followers and other noncombatants attached to the army had been crowding aboard the boats. Such was their terror and confusion, nearly three-quarters of them still remained, fighting frantically to board the vessels.
Breyhard, bleeding from five wounds, sent word that the remaining watercraft were to be cut loose. His lieutenants blanched at the order, but the general was insistent that there be no retreat. Breyhard had realized that if the bakali defeated his men and captured their boats, they would be able to cross the Dalti in strength today-and the only other imperial force with a hope of stopping them, General Crumont’s, was busy crossing the river to the south, as Breyhard had ordered. The whole of western Ergoth would find itself wide open to the invaders.
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