One Ergothian pushed his horse through the melee, thinking to come up on Tol’s blind side. Miya shouted a warning. Tol whirled, and his attacker’s blade met Number Six with a clang of iron on steel. Disengaging quickly, Tol sliced the saddle girth. Rider and saddle crashed to the ground. Tol thrust home through the armpit gap in the Rider’s breastplate.
After more furious fighting, the Riders withdrew. The reason quickly became clear-Tylocost was coming. The remainder of the militia was marching in two compact blocks, bristling with spearpoints. Behind them, cantering quickly, was the demi-horde of Riders Tol had left in reserve. The Caergoth hordes circled the slow-moving militia, looking for a weak spot to exploit. Doggedly, the two phalanxes came on. As Tol’s mounted men drew near, the Caergoth hordes pulled back.
“Their hearts aren’t in it,” Miya observed. Sweat plastered her short hair to her face, and she was breathing hard. There were no soft Dom-shu, but six years as a village mother had ill-prepared her for fierce combat.
As he watched the Caergoth Riders withdraw a short distance, Tol suddenly frowned. Riders of the Great Horde retreating after only a brief engagement with foot soldiers? And withdrawing in the face of a force of Riders only a quarter their strength? Understanding struck him.
“You’re right!” he declared. “Their hearts aren’t in it!”
Tol called for his cornet. A young fellow, once a journeyman brewer from Juramona, arrived and was told to blow “Parley.” The brewer didn’t know how, so Tol sang the four notes for him. The cornet repeated the notes properly and Tol slapped him on the back. “Get up that tree and blow until I tell you to stop!”
The lad clambered up the oak, assisted by the strong arms of several Dom-shu. After lodging himself in the high branches, he put the brass horn to his lips.
He had sounded “Parley” several times before the imperial horsemen took note. Silence fell as the hordes re-formed their lines. A delegation of eight horsemen advanced from the Caergoth contingent: four horde commanders, each with his standard bearer. Tol recognized those standards. The Lightning Riders, the Bronzehearts, the Caer Blades, and the Iron Falcons had served under him in the war with Tarsis.
The leader of this delegation also was known to Tol. A barrel-chested warrior with a forked black beard, Geddrig Zanpolo, commander of the Iron Falcons, was a formidable fighter and widely hailed as a brave warrior. His famous beard had been grown, it was said, to hide the deep notch cut in his chin by a wild centaur. Disarmed, grievously wounded, Zanpolo had slain the centaur bandit with his bare hands.
Tol decided to go out alone to meet the delegation. Such veteran warriors of the Great Horde would not talk to him were he accompanied by women, foot soldiers, or foreigners. He reckoned he could trust the honor of the warlord of the Iron Falcons.
He left the shade of the oak tree and walked out into the midday sun. He headed uphill through the trampled grass to a small ledge of weathered sandstone. This put him at the same height as the approaching mounted men, so there he waited.
Eight riders drew up in a line before him.
“My lord,” Zanpolo greeted him. “I was told you led this motley army. I am sorry to see it!”
“Save your sorrow. You see before you the advance guard of the Army of the East.”
“I know of no such army. Who created it? Not the emperor.”
“We created it ourselves. Nomads had burned and looted half the eastern provinces. Were we to sit idle simply because the emperor could not be bothered to defend his own people?”
“I wouldn’t,” Zanpolo admitted.
“This parley is illegal! We cannot treat with a proscribed man!”
This outburst came from a younger warrior at Zanpolo’s left, the commander of the Caer Blades. He added, “By rights, we should take his head and present it to the governor!”
The young warlord’s hand moved to rest on his sword hilt, but Zanpolo growled, “This is a parley, Hallack. I’ll cut down the first man who dares draw a blade!”
Tol relaxed. With this proof of Zanpolo’s honor, he decided to make the appeal he’d been rehearsing in his mind.
“Warriors of Ergoth,” he said loudly, for all to hear, “you know me. Some of you fought with me against the Tarsans. Ten years we fought together, hoot to boot, shoulder to shoulder. We were not city soldiers then, living in warm barracks and eating in taverns. For a decade we rode together, sleeping on the ground, eating from the same pot.
“After the war was won,^our late emperor, Pakin III, died and I was recalled to Daltigoth. So were many of you. There, while serving the new emperor, Ackal IV, I became involved in the machinations of the rogue wizard Mandes, who had done me much wrong. He was driven into exile and began a campaign of evil against the empire. I convinced His Majesty Ackal IV to let me bring Mandes to justice. This I did.”
The Riders, except for Zanpolo, showed signs of impatience. They knew this story. Tol’s next words erased their boredom.
“It was the worst mistake of my life. While I was away from Daltigoth, Prince Nazramin usurped the throne.” Anger bloomed on Lord Hallack’s face. Tol pinned him with a glare. “Yes, usurped,” he repeated. “Through the use of evil magic, Nazramin drove his brother mad, then had him deposed and murdered.
“When I returned from dealing with Mandes, the new emperor stripped me of my titles and authority, and had me beaten nearly to death. He could hardly allow the champion of his late, unhappy brother to go free, so he had me proscribed.
“For six years I have dwelt among the foresters, my friends the Dom-shu. There I learned again how decent and honest people behaved. We’ve long despised the tribes of the east as savages, but they treated me with fairness and generosity.”
Tol’s expression grew hard again. “Then the bakali and the nomads invaded the empire. Ackal V made only half-hearted attempts to defend the east, preferring to hold back the Great Horde to defend Daltigoth. With what result? Murder, pillage, fire, and waste! Juramona and a score of lesser towns are in ruins. Farms have been burned, herds scattered or slaughtered. Orchards have been left to rot, mines and markets are empty. Tens of thousands are without food or shelter. In the east there was no law, no order!
“Egrin, Raemel’s son, came to me in the Great Green and convinced me to return. I hammered together the Juramona Militia, which you see accompanying me today. We fought off armies of nomads while Egrin summoned the landed hordes from all the eastern provinces. Together, the militia and landed Riders drove the nomads out of the empire, slaying two of their great chiefs in the process.”
Zanpolo nodded, breaking his stern silence. “We heard as much, from prisoners,” he said. “We did not know you led the landed hordes.” A trace of a smile crossed his lips. “Though I should have guessed.”
“This is irrelevant!” snapped Hallack, unable to contain himself any longer. “This man has been condemned by the emperor himself! It is our duty to arrest him and deliver him to the governor!”
“Our duty,” Zanpolo said quietly, “is to the empire.”
Tol looked his old comrade in the eyes. This was exactly what he’d been hoping to hear!
“I have thirty-two hordes in the Army of the East,” he said. “With the garrison of Caergoth added, we’ll be strong enough to defeat the bakali and save our country!”
“And what about the emperor?” asked Zanpolo, after a pause, black brows lifting.
Choosing his words with utmost care, Tol said, “An emperor who does not defend his country should not be emperor.”
“Treason!”
Lord Hallack erupted out of line, drawing his saber. Tol stepped back, reaching for Number Six, but before he had done more than grasp the hilt, Zanpolo spurred his horse forward. He caught Hallack’s sword arm in one hand, and with the other, backhanded him across the face. The harsh blow sent the Ackal loyalist flying from his horse. Out cold, he rolled over and over in the grass, down to the foot of Tol’s perch.
Zanpolo looked at the other two warlord
s, who sat calmly, hands folded across the pommels of their saddles.
“Moristan. Caminol. What say you?”
Moristan, commander of the Bronzehearts, inhaled and exhaled slowly. “For six years,” he said with customary deliberateness, “I’ve done nothing but collect taxes and chase unworthy bandits. When the nomads invaded, Wornoth kept us here to defend the city, even though the barbarians had no way to breach the walls.”
Caminol’s response was more succinct. “The Lightning Riders serve the empire, not one man,” he said, nodding to Tol and the other two warlords.
“So, what will you have us do, my lord?” Zanpolo asked Tol.
Hope surged through Tol’s weary frame. “Take Caergoth, first,” he said. “Will the hordes inside resist us?”
“A few young hotheads might, and Wornoth’s guard. No one of consequence.”
“Then let’s enter now. The governor will think we have surrendered and you have captured us!” The three warlords agreed.
Tol hurried back to his people, still clustered around the oak tree. When he told them what had transpired, they were incredulous. Except Miya.
“That’s Husband,” she said, shrugging. “Throw him in a pit of snakes, and he’ll make friends with all the vipers!”
The Juramonans formed two columns, one behind the other, and set off toward the city. Tol rode at the head of the foremost column. At Zanpolo’s order, the unconscious Lord Hallack was draped over his horse and the beast’s reins given over to one of his men. Word flashed like lightning through the Caergoth troops: instead of fighting Lord Tolandruth, they were going to follow him!
Riding close to Zanpolo toward the city gate, his men chanting his name, Tol was filled with emotion. His mind whirled, but not with battle plans. He couldn’t stop thinking of Valaran as he’d last seen her: her face white as the ermine robes she wore, green eyes spilling tears onto winter-pale cheeks.
Whatever happens, you must live-because I will return.
That was the promise he’d made her on the snowy field outside Daltigoth. With every warrior he gained, every battle he won, he was coming closer to fulfilling that oath. Yet no battle, no honor could make him complete until he held her in his arms again.
Chapter 21
The Anvil
Tol’s entry into Caergoth was more confusing than glorious. Zanpolo chose to return the same way he left, via the Centaur Gate. The gate opened readily enough, but the soldiers there were plainly puzzled to hear the returning warriors shouting the name of the man they’d been sent to destroy. Zanpolo quickly ordered his own men to displace the city troops at the gates. No blood was shed; after a brief scuffle, the surprised soldiers found themselves imprisoned in their own barbican. Their compatriots, looking down on these events from the battlements, abandoned their posts.
“Little birds are flying away,” Miya said, gesturing toward the fleeing men.
Tol nodded. The men would certainly carry word of his coming to Lord Wornoth. As there was no way to prevent it, there was no reason to worry about it.
The first city square beyond the Centaur Gate was known as the Starwalk. Its broad white pavement was marked with bronze stars, and black lines of basalt radiated from a common point not quite in the center of the square. The square was a public observatory. By standing on the lines or on the various bronze markers at appropriate times during the year, ordinary folk could mark the movements of the moons and stars.
This day, it was not being used for any lofty purpose. Like all Caergoth’s public squares, the Starwalk had become a squalid shanty town crowded with war refugees.
Tol reined up. His Juramonans halted behind him. Zanpolo stopped his own horsemen and doubled back to see what was wrong. He found Tol surveying the smoky, fetid scene in the Starwalk with a scowl on his face.
Zanpolo grimaced with understanding. “I know,” he said. “With a few hundred sabers I’d clear this trash out!”
Tol shook his head, but said nothing. He turned in the saddle to look back at the column winding behind him. There was Queen Casberry, once more in her beloved sedan chair, borne on the capable shoulders of Front and Back; Uncle Corpse and his Dom-shu, a bit worse for wear; and the half-elf huntress, Zala, who had refused all aid and still carried her frail father. Still further back, the ugliest Silvanesti in the world led a human militia comprising artisans, merchants, farmers, and herders. Somewhere in the city, thousands of men were wearing out horses to join Tol’s army. Retired warriors, they’d left home and hearth and taken up the weapons they’d hung up years ago. In their company was the oddest contingent of all-soldiers of an army Tol had defeated, now led by a wealthy, embittered woman who had lost her own daughter in a struggle not her own.
All these people-all these different people-had come so far and done so much because of him. Their loyalty, their faith in him, had brought them from every corner of the empire and lands beyond.
Dismounting, Tol handed the reins to Miya, who’d been walking alongside.
“Watch out,” she said, seeing the look in his eyes. “Husband’s up to something.”
“All of you stay here. No matter what happens, stay here till I call you,” Tol said.
He walked into the maze of temporary shelters covering the Starwalk. The refugees moved out of his way. They knew to make themselves scarce when a warrior came near. They came from half a hundred small towns, from isolated farms, and from semi-nomadic camps. Not all were Ergothian. This human avalanche had been set in motion a thousand leagues away, by the arrival of the bakali and by attacks from plainsmen also displaced by the lizard-men. Most refugees regarded Tol blankly as he moved among them. If they did react, it was with fear.
Anger swelled in Tol’s breast. This was not why he had become a warrior. Most Riders of the Great Horde, born into wealth if not outright nobility, considered this their due-daily tribute in the form of terror. But Tol had chosen the life of a soldier because it promised more than endless years grubbing in the dirt, herding recalcitrant pigs, and praying daily to the gods for sun and rain, but not too much of either. He’d led a full life, earned loyal friends, and loved an intelligent, beautiful woman. The time had come to pay for those past pleasures and glories.
Forty paces away from his waiting comrades he found a waist-high stone pedestal and climbed on it. An alabaster disk was inset in its top. From this spot, when the square was clear, one could mark the passage of Solin through the seasons.
Those immediately around him fell silent and regarded him uncertainly. The quiet spread through the square, with neighbor nudging neighbor and gesturing at the warrior standing atop the Solin pedestal. Tol waited until the silence was complete, then spoke.
“People, listen to me! I am-” An instant’s thought, then-“Tol of Juramona. I bring you good news. The tribes who ravaged your homes have been defeated!”
There was no response. A baby began to cry. Several people coughed.
“You can go home! The nomad invaders are gone!”
The baby continued to howl. There were more coughs. A woman called out, “We ain’t got no home! They burned it!”
“You can build another!” Tol replied. “But you must leave the city! It’s too crowded for you to remain!” He was amazed disease hadn’t broken out among the refugees already.
“You drivin’ us out, m’lord?” asked a man standing nearby.
Exasperation sharpened Tol’s voice. “No! I’m telling you, you can leave! The nomads are driven out.”
“So it’s safe?”
Tol’s impatience evaporated. He answered honestly. “No, it’s not.”
The crowd began to mutter, confused and unhappy. Tol raised his voice again, saying, “But when were you ever safe? Were you safe when cruel warlords ruled over you, and a ruthless, mad emperor ruled them? You’ve never been safe, but the nomads have been defeated, and you must leave Caergoth. Here, there is only poverty and illness!”
Unfortunately, the wider import of his words was lost.
&n
bsp; “The emperor is mad?”
“We was never safe? I thought the city wall was supposed to keep us safe.”
“I told ya’ they’d come to drive us out, and here they are!”
“This emperor is mad, too?”
“Let’s get out ’fore they attack us!”
Some refugees grabbed their meager possessions and set out for the nearest gate. Others argued whether to stay or go. These grew so heated that Tol was jostled off the platform.
When he disappeared into the crowd, Zanpolo and his captains spurred their mounts forward. They separated Tol from the mob and ushered him back to his waiting people.
Zanpolo’s bearded face wore a smile. “Clever stratagem, my lord! You’ve sowed the seeds of a riot,” he said. “It will tie up Wornoth’s loyal troops!”
Tol didn’t bother answering. He hadn’t meant to start a riot. He’d hoped to make the people understand they should reclaim their lives and not blindly follow the whims of emperors, warlords, or any of their lackeys. But the hopeless, helpless squatters didn’t see him as “Tol of Juramona,” born one of them. To them, he was Lord Tolandruth, Rider of the Great Horde, oppressor and protector. That he could be interested in their well-being was as unfathomable to them as the workings of the celestial map on which they squatted.
The noise around him quickly grew deafening. The unrest Tol had unintentionally incited radiated outward, spreading from the Starwalk through the clogged streets, to the next square, and the next.
“What did I tell you?” Miya shouted above the chaos. “When Husband acts, the world trembles!”
“This is crazy!” Tol protested. “I told them to go home and live for themselves. They think I threatened them!”
Tylocost said, “You did threaten them. You told them they weren’t safe. Safety was the one lie they all believed in.”
Zanpolo bawled orders at his men. Tol, feeling stunned and stupid, mounted his horse.
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