A Hero's justice d-3

by Paul B. Thompson

  They headed for the citadel, sited atop the tallest hill in the city. Zanpolo’s hordes banged their sword hilts against their armored chests. The ominous sound frightened the refugees and they shrank from the column of fighting men. The hordes cleaved through the crowd without bloodshed, as Riders swatted slow-moving squatters, or booted them aside.

  At the Great Square of Ackal Dermount, near the center of the city, they encountered their first serious opposition. The square seethed with panicked refugees, and at the opposite end of the plaza were several hundred horsemen in the funereal white and silver livery of the Governor’s Own Guard. Their sabers were out.

  “Here’s where we cleave a few skulls,” Zanpolo said.

  “Can we try persuasion?” asked Tol.

  “Not with them, my lord. They take Wornoth’s coin, even as the Lord Governor takes the emperor’s. They’ll fight.”

  Tol knew he was right. “Give quarter to any who ask for it, but we must reach the citadel before Wornoth seals himself inside.”

  Zanpolo rallied his own horde, the Iron Falcons, with a roar that made Tol’s hair stand on end. With an answering bellow, the Riders raised their sabers high, then extended them at arm’s length. Zanpolo called for a point charge. In the tight confines of Caergoth’s streets, there wasn’t room for a full-tilt attack.

  The Iron Falcons bolted across the Great Square. On their flanks, the Lightning Riders and the Bronzehearts surged forward. The Juramona Militia broke out of marching order and formed a wall of shields around those on foot. Tol rode with Zanpolo.

  Innocent townsfolk and terrified refugees raced out of the way of Zanpolo’s charge. Some did not make it, and were trampled.

  The Governor’s Own men were confused. They thought Zanpolo’s attack was directed at the refugees choking the Great Square. Their hesitation lasted only briefly, but it was long enough. If they had withdrawn immediately up the narrower side streets, Zanpolo’s thrust would have been less effective. Instead, they took the full brunt of the Iron Falcons’ charge.

  Tol was bent low over his horse’s neck, Number Six extended. A guardsman tried to deflect his point with the small iron buckler strapped to his left forearm. Dwarf-forged steel pierced the buckler and, propelled by Tol’s strength and the horse’s speed, drove on through with only a momentary scrape of resistance. As their horses collided, Number Six buried half its length through the man’s neck. Tol recovered, and the guardsman slid lifeless to the ground.

  After the initial contact, a brisk, slashing battle followed. The weight and power of the Falcons drove the Governor’s Own men back to the walls of the House of Luin, the hall of the Red Robe Order in Caergoth. Stubbornly, the governor’s men fought on.

  “We can’t spend all afternoon at this!” Tol shouted at Zanpolo. “Keep going here-I’ll take my footmen on!”

  “Can you really get through with that lot?” said Zanpolo, with a Rider’s traditional disdain for foot soldiers.

  “They got me here, didn’t they?”

  Tol broke off and rode back to his Juramonans, standing at the other end of the Great Square. All the civilians had fled and he made quick time across the empty plaza, sheathing his saber as he arrived.

  Tol and the militia would head for the palace, with Zala leading the way. Her father, Voyarunta, and the other wounded would remain behind with the Dom-shu men. Miya, armed with spear and shield borrowed from a Dom-shu warrior, stood ready to go with Tol.

  He gave her a surprised look, and she shrugged. “If you get yourself killed and I’m not there, Sister will skin me.”

  Tol’s lips twitched at her reasoning, but he addressed himself to Queen Casberry, asking her to remain behind also.

  The kender queen, dressed today in a sky blue tunic and matching trousers, consented and immediately invited Voyarunta to join her in a dice game called Three Times Dead.

  Tol divided the two thousand men of the Juramona Militia into four companies of five hundred. Each company would follow a different route through the grid of streets, marching parallel to each other and reuniting before the main gate of the Caergoth citadel. Zala gave them quick directions that would allow them to avoid the public plazas, where troops loyal to Wornoth might have congregated.

  Tol’s orders were simple. If challenged, the militiamen should fight. But if the opportunity arose, they were to offer opponents the chance to join them, and keep heading toward the palace.

  The four companies set off at a trot. Tol, Miya, and Zala went with the center-right column. Tylocost accompanied the far left.

  As they progressed, the streets grew increasingly narrow. Miya complained and Tol explained the constriction was intentional, to prevent large bodies of troops from attacking the governor’s palace.

  At one intersection they flushed out a band of archers. The militia company charged, but the surprised bowmen, armed only with mauls for close-range fighting, turned and fled.

  After passing down another tight street, the Juramonans found themselves before the citadel’s ceremonial gate. This portal, dedicated to Draco Paladin, was open, and some fifty soldiers wearing the governor’s colors milled about it in confusion. As the Juramona spearmen emerged from the alley, the soldiers sent up a shout. The ponderous double doors of the gate began to close.

  “Secure that gate!” Tol bawled, and his contingent rushed pell-mell for the portal.

  Tol was confronted by a subaltern wearing a fancy gilded helmet. The fellow was half Tol’s age, but wielded his slim blade with skill. Twice he scored, cutting a bloody line on Tol’s right arm and left thigh. Tol tried to cut him with his stronger blade, but his strikes met only air. The young officer was never still for very long. He darted from side to side, avoiding every swing aimed at him.

  Sweat stung Tol’s eyes. His breath moved up and down his throat harshly. He’d never been adept at fancy dueling, and as the contest dragged on, his years began telling on him.

  Finally, his enemy’s bright iron blade whisked over Tol’s shoulder, snagging briefly on his earlobe. As blood spurted from the cut, Tol managed to seize the man’s wrist.

  “Yield!” he said. “Don’t fight us, join us!”

  The subaltern punched Tol in the chest with his buckler. Tol staggered backward. The tip of the young soldier’s blade flashed toward his eyes. Reflexively, Tol threw his head back. A cut opened on the bridge of his nose.

  Angry now, Tol gripped his saber in both hands. He made a whirling parry, binding up the officer’s slender, straight blade. The fellow hit him again and again with the iron boss of his small shield, but Tol ignored these blows, concentrating on the motion of the blades. At the top of an arc, he flung his hands up, yanking the young officer’s sword high. Disengaging, Tol drove Number Six at his opponent’s heart.

  The subaltern brought up his buckler. An iron saber would have been turned aside, but Tol’s steel point punched through the shield’s brass rim and kept going, running the officer through. Mortally wounded, the fellow stumbled backward, dropping his sword. He gaped at Number Six, its hilt nearly touching his chest. There was no pain or fear on his young face, only bewilderment. He simply couldn’t understand how the saber had penetrated both his buckler and his damascened breastplate.

  His eyes grew distant, and his lifeless body fell sideways, as Tol recovered Number Six.

  “Husband, the gates!”

  Miya’s warning drew Tol’s swift attention. The great portal was slowly swinging shut.

  Her warning had been heeded by another as well. Out of the melee dashed a slight figure, sword in hand and a floppy hat on his head. Tylocost, running ahead of his men, sprinted for the closing doors. With the fleetness and agility of his race, he wove through the battle, avoiding swords and spearpoints with astonishing dexterity. Reaching the gate, he twisted sideways through the rapidly diminishing gap.

  Tol was thunderstruck. He respected the Silvanesti’s skills as a general and knew him to be brave in the casual way of most well-born warriors. But to fling h
imself, alone, into the midst of a host of enemies was unbelievably courageous-and reckless.

  Yanking himself out of his daze, Tol shouted, “To the gate! To the gate! Never mind the guards!”

  The Juramonans tried to comply, but only Zala was nimble enough to evade combat and rush to Tylocost’s aid. Tol saw an unusual expression on the half-elf s face as she dodged and wove through the fracas.

  Zala was worried about Tylocost.

  The gates had stopped. When Zala arrived, the space between them was less than the width of her shoulders, but she pushed through.

  For a few terrifying moments, she was blind as she left bright sunlight and entered the gatehouse’s gloomy interior. When her eyes adjusted, she beheld four guards dead or dying by the windlass that operated the gate. Tylocost was battling three more, all equipped with polearms that badly outranged his saber. The thunder of footsteps on the wooden stairs behind them told Zala reinforcements were on their way down.

  One of the three soldiers aimed a thrust at Tylocost’s blind side. Lightning-fast, Zala drew a long knife from her boot and flew at the man. She turned aside the overhand chop from his halberd, saving Tylocost, The elf glanced at her, pale eyes widening, then resumed dueling with the remaining two guards.

  Zala was panting from exertion. This was not her usual style of fighting. She could use a bow, or slay a charging boar with her sword at short range, but protracted battle, first outside the gate and now in the tight confines of the gatehouse, was foreign to her. Her opponent was an older man, his black hair flecked with gray, and he knew his business. He pushed her back with short jabs of the halberd’s spearhead, then followed with broad sweeps of its blade. She couldn’t reach him with her shorter blade.

  Clang! The side of the axe caught her hand and sent her sword flying. Before she could recover and bring up her knife, the veteran soldier lunged. His spearhead took Zala below the ribs. She gasped in shock, and fell.

  Just then, Tol, Miya, and two hundred Juramonans burst through the gate, knocking the double doors wide. A tragic scene met their horrified gazes: Zala lay on her back, clutching a belly wound from which blood welled. Tylocost stood over her fending off two determined halberdiers. A third lay dead at his feet.

  Miya screamed. As she intended, the sound distracted one of the halberdiers. He glanced her way, and instantly died at Tylocost’s hand. The other went down beneath a swarm of Juramonans. Reinforcements coming down the stairs from the gatehouse above likewise met Juramonan iron, and after a brief combat, cried for quarter.

  “Spare any who lay down their arms!” Tol shouted. “Search the citadel! Find the governor!”

  More of the militia poured in to carry out Tol’s orders, and Tylocost’s saber clattered to the stones as he dropped beside Zala. He took her hand in both of his.

  “Stupid girl,” he said. “I didn’t need your help!”

  “They’d’ve chopped you to bits,” she gasped. Her face was translucent as wax.

  Miya’s arms were crimson to the elbows from her efforts to stanch the flow of blood. She looked up at Tol and shook her head. Pain creased Tol’s forehead, and he, too, knelt by the fallen huntress.

  Tylocost saw none of this; his attention was focused on Zala, on the blood that continued to well from her terrible wound.

  “You shouldn’t be here. You’re not a warrior!” he said, voice harsh with emotion.

  “I’ll soon be out of your way.”

  He squeezed her hand, and her fingers twitched weakly in response. Helplessly, he whispered her name, heedless of the tears that were falling. Her dark eyes stayed on his face. She blinked once, then her hand went limp in his. Tylocost gently closed her eyes.

  “I’m sorry, Husband,” Miya said quietly.

  Tol touched her shoulder, but there was no time for more. Armed men were streaming past them.

  “We must go. We must find Governor Wornoth,” Tol said. “Tylocost?”

  “I will be here.”

  Tol and Miya left the grieving general where he was. As they ascended the steps into the palace proper, Tylocost removed his absurd gardener’s hat and placed it gently over Zala’s face. He began to speak softly, in the melodic language of his people, offering an ancient prayer to Astarin.

  Tol strode through the halls, boots thumping loudly on the carpeted floors. He’d been here before and knew the way to the audience hall. Close at his heels was Miya. Behind her, the crowd of soldiers gawked at the opulence. Wornoth had expensive taste, and had decorated the public halls of the palace with thick carpets, elaborate tapestries, and the finest works of the sculptor’s art.

  All resistance had collapsed. The only people they encountered were servants or courtiers, often burdened with loot liberated from the city coffers. If they dropped their booty and fled, Tol ignored them. If they tried to flee with their ill-gotten goods, Tol sent soldiers after them.

  The doors of the audience hall were bolted. Tol stood aside, and militiamen hacked the polished darkwood panels with axes. In a trice they broke through.

  Within, a fire blazed on the marble floor. Two men were feeding parchment scrolls to the flames. The shorter, younger man was Wornoth.

  “Seize the governor!” Tol commanded.

  Wornoth wore a dagger, but offered no resistance beyond abusive language. While attention was focused on him, the other man-a portly, yellow-haired cleric unknown to Tol-took a small vial from his gray robe and flung it at them. It struck the floor two steps in front of Tol, and shattered.

  The very air shuddered. Everyone but Tol was knocked flat by an invisible blast. Even as they were falling, Tol rushed up to the priest and put the sharp edge of Number Six to his double chin.

  “Any more magic, and I’ll set your head on a spike!”

  The astonished cleric surrendered but demanded, “Who are you, that the Hand of the Wind does not touch you?”

  “Tol of Juramona!”

  It was Wornoth who had answered his cleric’s question. The governor’s nose was bleeding and he glared in impotent fury at his captor.

  “Traitorous barbarian!” he shrieked at Tol. “You’ll die a hundred times for this outrage!”

  Tol ignored him. The fire had been reduced to glowing embers by the Hand of the Wind. He raked the point of his saber through the hot ashes and came up with a large, un-burned piece of parchment. It contained a list of figures. At the bottom was written, in a neat, scribal hand, “Collected from the squatters in University Square.”

  The governor was apparently trying to hide his misdeeds, not from Tol, but from the person he’d been cheating: his patron, the emperor of Ergoth. If Ackal V learned Wornoth had not been sending him the full amount extorted from the refugees, his fury at being cheated would certainly cost the governor his head.

  Tol dropped the parchment scrap. “For failing to defend the people under your rule, I depose you, Governor,” he intoned. “Once we sort out what’s happened here, I’m certain we’ll find other crimes to charge you with.”

  “You have no authority! You are a proscribed man!”

  Number Six came up so quickly everyone in the hall flinched at the sudden flash of steel.

  “This is my authority! The empire was made by the sword, and it can be unmade the same way!” Tol stalked toward the governor-

  — and found his way blocked by Miya. Unlike her stalwart sister, she was no warrior. She did not raise her weapon or speak, just stood before him, golden-brown eyes brimming with sympathy.

  Tol glared at her for only a heartbeat. Her action made him realize just how close he was to murdering the unarmed Wornoth. The image of Zala, dead on the cold stones below, filled his head, and he was shaking with wrath.

  Still staring at the silent woman before him, Tol growled, “Get him out of here! Put him and the priest in separate cells under close guard. And search the cleric thoroughly before you lock him up!”

  The captives were removed. Tol turned away. He burned with the need to strike something. The governor’s
elaborate chair-the literal seat of power here in Caergoth-offered a handy target. He smote its heavy carved wooden back with Number Six, cleaving it halfway down.

  “Listen,” Miya hissed. “Do you hear? Temple bells!”

  The deep tolling penetrated even the citadel’s thick walls. Did they signify a new alarm, or a celebration of the city’s downfall?

  The answer came in the form of a messenger who burst into the hall. The man saluted Tol.

  “My lord! Lord Egrin is here with the army!”

  Miya and Tol looked at each other. The Dom-shu woman grinned.

  “Sister missed all the fun!”

  Bells were pealing in Daltigoth, too. The emperor had returned in triumph after destroying the bakali in one epic battle. His welcome was surprisingly muted. The streets were crowded, but the people were more relieved than joyous. The day itself was less than auspicious, too. Gray clouds towered overhead, and the air was heavy with a threatening storm.

  Ackal V rode into his capital with Prince Dalar on the saddle in front of him. Arrayed behind the emperor were his surviving warlords, less than half the number who had departed Daltigoth with him not so many days before. Following them were those warriors who had distinguished themselves in the battle. Many were seriously wounded. There was an interval of space, and then a rider bearing the standard of the Thorngoth Sabers. The Sabers had performed so nobly in destroying the bakali mound that none of them remained to receive the honors they’d earned.

  Behind the standard of the lost horde stretched a long line of wagons laden with booty taken from the defeated enemy. Here and there an article of gold gleamed, but for the most part, the caravan contained arms and armor stripped from the bodies of slain bakali. In addition to the usual ring mail tunics, there were bronze and iron plates that had been shaped to fit strange reptilian bodies. Everything was coated with purplish red bakali gore. The emperor wanted the people of Daltigoth to know what the aftermath of battle looked like-and smelled like. The grisly trophies would be dumped in the plaza before the great temple of Corij, as an offering to the god of war. When an appropriate amount of time had passed, smiths would collect the armor and melt it down. Bronze would be used for statues honoring Ackal V, iron would go to the imperial arsenal, and the blades and helmets would enter service again with the Great Horde.