The emperor’s brows rose in surprise. “That’s a revelation. Why was I not told this before?”
His words, spoken gently, drained the color from Talatha’s face. Nervously, she fingered her gold medallion of faith.
“The, uh, document is a most obscure one, Your Majesty. No more than a gloss, pasted onto a larger scroll in the temple library, it was discovered only this day, during the battle, as we searched for the meaning of these events.”
Ackal V made no reply. Instead, he called for wine. He did not offer refreshment to anyone else. Talatha and her colleagues remained still, gazes deferentially on the ground. Only after he’d drained his golden goblet twice did Ackal dismiss Talatha. She led her people away in grateful haste.
The emperor addressed his warlords again. “We must make absolutely certain all the bakali eggs were destroyed. I don’t want to have to fight again when the creatures’ progeny hatch out among us!”
The bakali stronghold would be excavated, he decreed, and every egg found inside destroyed. Ackal did not specify who was to undertake this prodigious task, and the commanders began to shift uncomfortably and mutter among themselves. Would the emperor really set his noble warriors to digging, like so many slaves?
Ackal V laughed, a short, harsh sound. Cuffing his son, he said, “See, Dalar, how the mighty lords of Ergoth tremble at the thought of a little labor!” The boy managed a weak smile at his father’s wit.
The warlords were visibly relieved by the emperor’s next orders. All warriors not going with Vanz Hellman were to organize into bands and sweep the countryside. All peasants, farmers, or stray travelers they found would be drafted into work gangs; any who resisted would be put to death. These gangs would dig through the bakali mound.
“One thing more.”
Ackal V sat back, gripping the arms of his throne. “The tradition of my ancestors demands that I, as victor, raise a mountain of our defeated enemies’ heads here on the battlefield.”
He paused to send a cold glare across the assembly, then added slowly, “This task you will conduct yourselves. It is the duty of the Great Horde to offer up the enemy dead to their emperor.”
Not by word or look did the nervous warlords betray their distaste for the gruesome task he had set them.
By sundown, the emperor’s order had been obeyed. Two great pyramids of death rose beside the fallen mound. One was made of bakali heads, the other of decapitated corpses.
Valaran stood alone in the palace solarium, before a magnificent wall of firetongue orchids. Bright red in daylight, the stamens of the orchids glowed in the dark like hot coals. Filling a corner of the sunken garden with color, the rare flowers were a pet project of Ackal V’s youngest wife, Lady Halie. Only eighteen years old, Halie was an extraordinary beauty, with thick red-gold hair cascading well past her waist and eyes as violet as the twilight sky. She was the emperor’s current favorite. Valaran knew her husband. He could not be swayed by mere beauty. Halie’s loveliness was coupled with a quiet, obedient disposition-just the sort to find favor with Ackal V.
Valaran had come to the solarium to read. This morning that simple act, which had sustained her soul for as long as she could remember, brought her no peace. She couldn’t concentrate. As daylight brightened the isinglass panels above her, she abandoned the marble bench to walk the path that wound through the garden.
If only Dalar was here! Were she certain of the boy’s safety, she could revel in her daydreams of Ackal V hacked to pieces by lizard-men. Instead, all such thoughts ended the same way: Dalar shrieking in hopeless fear, Dalar set upon by bakali, Dalar lying dead on a distant battlefield…
She smote a clenched fist on the low wall beside the path. She would not give in to mindless fear. She was a woman of reason and intellect, a Pakin. Her husband might be evil, a brutal tyrant, but he wouldn’t allow harm to come to his son. Succession was intensely important to him.
If only her other nightmare could be rationalized away so easily.
White robes flapping in the wind. The old woman screaming, growing smaller and smaller with distance. A heart-stopping impact.
“Your Majesty! Your Majesty!”
Valaran flinched at the unexpected interruption. A lady of the court was rushing toward her. Flushed with excitement, her starched headdress askew, the woman dropped a quick curtsey, her slippers skidding on the white marble.
“Majesty! Talatha, priestess of Zivilyn who accompanied His Majesty, has sent word to the College of Wizards,” she panted. “The emperor has achieved a signal victory-the lizard invaders are defeated!”
Valaran said nothing. In fact, she was so pale, so motionless, so long silent, the lady-in-waiting grew concerned.
“Your Majesty?”
“Praise the God of Battle,” Valaran finally said, her voice toneless. “The empire is saved.”
Chapter 20
Weapon of Choice
Pale predawn found Tol riding slowly down the ranks of the Juramona Militia. Tylocost rode beside him. Egrin and the mounted hordes were on their way, but with Miya at risk inside the city, Tol could not wait.
He directed the men to straighten their line, to hold shields and spears up. It wasn’t going be easy to intimidate the governor of Caergoth with only two thousand foot soldiers and five hundred Riders. Wornoth commanded at least twenty-thousand seasoned troops. Still, knowing the governor for the weakling he was, Tol felt it worth the risk to try to bluff him into releasing his prisoners.
The militia was deployed across the face of a low knoll east of the city. At their backs, scarcely a quarter-league away, flowed the Caer River. Instead of their usual close ranks, the men were positioned in open order, like spots on checkered cloth. Shields were held out on their left and spears to their right, as they tried to take up as much space as possible. From the high walls of Caergoth they might appear as though twice their number. The demi-horde of Riders Tol held in reserve, just behind the knoll.
Tol and Tylocost turned their mounts about and rode back toward the center of the line.
“What if the garrison sorties?” the Silvanesti asked. “We’ll have to hold them off till Egrin arrives.” Tylocost’s disbelief was silent but unmistakable. Tol nodded to some veterans he recognized in the ranks, then said, “What’s the matter? Don’t elves like to gamble?”
“In point of fact, no. We find the human love of hazard inexplicable. It’s an extravagance we prefer to avoid.”
Tol chuckled. As a general, Tylocost was famous for taking enormous risks. At the Battle of the Capes he defeated an Ergothian force eight times larger than his by dividing his army. The Ergothian commander, Lord Lembroth, could not attack one of Tylocost’s divisions without exposing his flank to the other. Lembroth’s nerve failed utterly after the elf repelled attacks on both forces. Lembroth lost his army and his life.
Tol was taking a terrible risk today. The treasure recovered from the nomads lay unguarded in Tylocost’s hidden camp. Egrin, with thirty thousand Riders, plus Hanira’s Tarsans, was at least half a day’s march, perhaps a whole day’s, away. If Wornoth sortied all his hordes, no one in Tol’s small army would live to greet Egrin.
Tol and Tylocost took up positions at the center of the line. The sun had cleared the knoll behind them, its light streaming across Tol’s army and onto the walls of Caergoth. Lookouts on the walls would have that glare in their eyes. So would Riders emerging from the gate on this side of the city. In a situation like this, any advantage was welcome.
Signal flags went up from the towers along the wall. Horns sounded, muted by distance and thick stone walls.
Without further ado, the eastern gate opened and a double line of horsemen emerged. At the same time, a small band of people on foot, drably dressed in brown and gray, rose up from the tall summer grass near the city wall and started running toward Tol’s position.
“Stand ready!” Tol boomed. “Close ranks at my command-and not before!” To the elf: “Can you make out who they are?”
&nbs
p; Tylocost stared across the distance, concentrating. Fine lines grooved his forehead and the corners of his close-set eyes.
“Twenty or so kender.”
The kender troop moved across the open field. The horsemen-several hundred Riders of the Great Horde-
drew sabers and spurred forward. Their targets were the kender, not Tol and his troops.
The kender kept together until the horsemen were almost upon them. Then, as though in response to some silent signal, the little band scattered, each kender heading in a different direction. As the Riders swerved to chase the various foes, their disciplined line was reduced to confusion.
Tol laughed. Tylocost pushed back the brim of his gardener’s hat and muttered a phrase in his own language.
“I’m beginning to see why you recruited them,” he said. “They’re damned infuriating, aren’t they?”
“Best skirmishers in the world. Fighting a band of kender is like trying to count dandelion seeds in a gale!”
After several embarrassing collisions and much disorder, the Ergothians sorted themselves out. By that time the escaping kender were filtering through the open ranks of the Juramona Militia. Tol called out to one familiar face.
“Curly Windseed! Where’s your queen, and the humans she went to save?”
The brown-haired kender scrubbed his nose. “They lit out for the other side of the city. Nice of you to meet us, by the way.”
Tol saluted the brash little man. “My pleasure. How was the city?”
“Crowded.”
From one of his many pockets, Curly pulled out a bandanna to wipe his nose. Assorted trinkets-^-bracelets, rings, coins, and even a tiny silver cup-cascaded to the ground. Quite unabashed, he stuffed these back in his pockets and followed his fellows over the hill, angling north by northwest.
“The treasure’s that way, you know,” Tylocost said.
Tol sighed. “I know.”
The pursuing Riders, once more arranged in two neat lines, trotted through the high grass to within bowshot of the militia. One, bearing the emblem of a herald on his helm, detached from the rest and rode directly to the two mounted men. He hailed them, asking who they were.
Tol responded in ringing tones: “I am Tolandruth of Juramona! In command of the Army of the East!”
Although disconcerted by Tol’s name, the herald looked askance at the men ranged behind him. “Army of the East? This, uh, rabble?” he said.
“This is only the vanguard. We’ve come from the Isle of Elms, where we defeated the Firepath nomads and slew their chief, Tokasin.”
“Huh! What do you want here?”
Tol had been pondering that very question. He wanted his people back alive-Miya, Zala, Queen Casberry, and the rest of the Dom-shu. However, his men expected more. So did the landed hordes who had given their sabers to his service. The nomad menace was over. Although the bakali were still a threat, the true danger to the empire, he admitted to himself, was Ackal V.
“I have come to accept the surrender of Caergoth,” he said after a long pause.
Decades of experience allowed Tylocost to mask his astonishment. The herald had no such reserves to call upon. His jaw dropped open.
“You have taken up arms against the rightful emperor of Ergoth!” he sputtered. His horse pranced nervously, and he jerked on the reins. “You dare to threaten rebellion against His Majesty Ackal V?”
Slowly, Tol drew Number Six and rested the blade across his thighs. His voice once more boomed out, rolling across the quiet field.
“The rest of the army, thirty thousand Riders, is coming. I have no wish to shed the blood of loyal warriors, so all those who wish to may leave the city. The governor and his councilors will remain to face the justice of the people they have wronged. I give you two marks to comply, then I will take Caergoth by force.”
The herald could scarcely credit his ears. Was the man before him insane? He stared at Tol’s grim face, finding no answer there, nor in the annoyingly superior expression on the face of the ugly Silvanesti who rode at his side. The men at his back wore equally determined looks.
The messenger shut his mouth with a snap. “I regret your coming death, my lord. I served with Lord Urakan in Hylo, seventeen years ago.” Directing an angry look at Tylocost, he added, “Your choice of allies these days shows how grievously you have lost your way.”
He yanked his mount’s head around and cantered back to the waiting Riders. Even across the distance it was plain they were astonished to learn Tol’s identity and message. At length they formed up and returned to the city.
When they had gone, an odd ripple in the grass presaged the arrival of Queen Casberry. The green stems were taller than she.
“Your Majesty! Are you alone?” Tol said, looking anxiously behind her for signs of Miya and the rest.
“No kender is ever alone,” she said. Casting a glance over her shoulder, she added, “The rest of the party is coming along shortly, but they’re not alone either-if you know what I mean.”
Tylocost drew Tol’s attention to traces of dust rising in the air. It appeared Miya and company were being pursued.
“You enjoy this sword stuff so much, I leave the rest to you.” Casberry strode past, head held high.
At Tol’s order, a hundred men formed in close order before him. He dismounted and handed his reins to Tylocost.
“Stay here. If the garrison comes out, call up the Riders, and stand and fight.”
Although plainly unhappy with the decision, the elf nodded grimly.
Tol and the company of soldiers jogged away. They descended the slope of the knoll and veered northward, eyes fixed on the plumes of dust moving toward them. On their left, along the wall of Caergoth, the flapping of signal flags tracked their progress.
All of a sudden they found what they sought. Some forty people were struggling through the grass, hampered by the elderly and wounded comrades. Zala carried an aged, unkempt man on her back. Her father, Tol reckoned. The man whose life he’d guaranteed.
Taller than the rest was Voyarunta. On his thigh a hastily arranged bandage was soaked with blood. He was supported by his younger daughter.
Relief flooded through Tol and he shouted Miya’s name.
“Husband!” she cried, her strained, sweating face breaking into a smile. “Make yourself useful!”
When the pursuers came galloping over the rise, they were surprised to find, not unarmed, ragged prisoners, but armed infantry ready to meet them. Tol’s men had formed a hollow square with the escapees inside. The leading Riders hesitated, and the whole troop milled about for a moment. Re-forming, they charged, waving sabers and shouting. The Juramonans, hardened by screaming nomad attacks, stood firm, and the Riders pulled up when they saw the militia wasn’t going to break.
Taking advantage of their indecision, Tol ordered, “By section, close ranks and advance!”
The men on the far side of the ring moved in to fill the gaps between the men on the engaged side. Then, with spears ported under their arms, the whole troop advanced on the horsemen.
The startled Riders stood their ground, hacking at the spearpoints with their sabers, but the compact band of foot soldiers kept coming. Horses lost their footing in the confused press and toppled, throwing their noble riders. Alarmed, the captain of the Riders called for retreat.
Tol let them go. Eight Riders had fallen, either wounded or unconscious, but the Juramonans hadn’t lost a man. The militia backed away as the escaped prisoners scurried to safety.
Tol caught up with Miya, still supporting her injured father. He asked why she and the other Dom-shu were so far from their forest home.
Frowning at his gruff tone, Miya looked up at her father. “See? He is an ungrateful wretch! How’s Sister?”
He said she was fine, and coming with Egrin and the main body of the army. Relief flooded Miya’s face.
“Praise Zivilyn! She left the village with her burial beads, you know.”
Tol stopped in his tracks. He hadn�
��t known. When a Dom-shu warrior came of age, he or she was required to weave a headband that would be worn only when the warrior expected to die in battle. When Kiya had left her people to become Tol’s hostage and wife, her beads had remained with Voyarunta, To have brought her death raiment with her on this journey was an ominous sign.
Drums clattered and horns blared from the distant city. The southwestern gate-called the Centaur Gate for its representation of a tribe of galloping centaurs wrought in fine bronze-swung open. Horsemen six abreast trotted forth. Soon two hordes had deployed across the paved road leading southwest to Daltigoth.
More horns proclaimed the emergence of a third horde, and a fourth could be seen mustering inside the barbican. The presence of four thousand Riders meant Wornoth was no longer concerned about a handful of fleeing prisoners. He intended to kill Tol. Militia and escapees alike quickened their pace.
Tol finally noted the absence of Helbin, and Zala said he’d been captured. This likely meant the wizard was dead.
The group was moving as fast as they could. A flight of arrows arced up from the battlements of Caergoth and descended. The missiles fell far short, but the Ergothian hordes started forward in pursuit formation. On foot, and burdened with weak and wounded people, Tol’s band couldn’t outpace horsemen. The first Riders caught up with them, then passed by on either side.
There was no choice but stand and fight. He pushed his group hard until they reached a spreading oak, the largest tree in sight. The militiamen deployed in a circle around the tree. The escapees clustered around its base. Zala, Miya, Chief Voyarunta, and the Dom-shu warriors borrowed swords from the spear-armed militiamen and formed a tight group around Tol.
Without preamble or any call to surrender, the Ergothians attacked. They came straight in, and ran onto a wall of spears. Recoiling, they left a dozen dead and dying. Again they surged forward, on two fronts, trying to pinch the small band in two.
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