A Hero's justice d-3

by Paul B. Thompson

  Near the end of the long line of wagons, the cargo abruptly changed. The bloody armor was replaced by piles of leathery, yellow-gray objects, each the size of a smallish wine cask. These were bakali eggs, salvaged from the ruins of the nest mound. Tens of thousands of eggs had been destroyed by the collapse of the mound and, later, by conscripted laborers. At the last moment, on a whim, Ackal V ordered a few dozen saved. Some would be given to his scholars to study. The rest he intended to let hatch, if they would. A few lizard-men would make interesting slaves.

  The procession wound through the straight, wide streets of the New City. The Temple of Corij, largest in Daltigoth, lay at the edge of the Old City, its sacred precincts surrounded by a low granite wall. The hammered golden gates depicted, on one panel, Ackal Ergot, twice life size, mounted on a rearing horse. Facing him, and equal in size, was Corij himself, on his divine war-horse Skyraker. Their postures made it look as though man and god were dueling. As the empire’s founder had once vowed to fight anyone, even the gods, who stood in the way of his vision, the depiction was not entirely untruthful.

  As Ackal V approached the temple, priests of Corij drew the double doors apart. Elder clerics were already arrayed on the sacred steps. They had donned their priestly vestments of golden scale armor, but in place of the usual brown surcoats, they wore short tabards of Ackal scarlet. Gravely, they watched Ackal V enter the holy confines on Sirrion’s muscular back, his pale, wide-eyed young son seated before him.

  The emperor looked up at the temple’s massive dome and squat columned facade, built of rose porphyry and red granite. He well remembered how the priesthood of Corij had loved his father, Pakin III. An old soldier himself, Pakin III gave generous grants of gold and land to the temple. Ackal V did not. He had better uses for his money. Still, one could not ignore the gods completely.

  “O Corij!” he shouted, voice echoing against the hard stone face of the temple. “See the tribute I bring you!”

  The wagons of wreckage rumbled forward, drawn now by teams of warriors. Although war-horses were allowed in the sacred precinct, lowly draft animals were not.

  Ten paces from the temple steps, the first wagon stopped. A dozen brawny Riders of the Great Horde braced themselves under its side and heaved upward. Iron helmets, ring mail tunics, bronze cuirasses, and axes clattered to the ground. The empty wagon was hauled away and another took its place. Wagon after wagon discharged their cargo, until the noisome heap was as high as the emperor on horseback.

  The high priest of Corij, a solemn, long-bearded oldster named Hycontas, descended the steps. Once a Rider of the Great Horde, he was a provincial from the empire’s western reaches. His family were minor nobles, not particularly distinguished and only modestly well off. In Ackal V’s eyes he was little better than a peasant.

  “Greetings to you, Great Majesty, and to your honored son,” Hycontas said. “It is a mighty gift you bring. The God of War has been well served.”

  “Yes, at last. I sent too many fools to do what I should have done myself.” The emperor gave a tight-lipped, faintly mocking smile. “My apologies for the messy state of the offering, but time was short, and there’s much still to do.”

  Hycontas bowed, his blue eyes sharp as icicles. “As Your Majesty says, but word has reached us the nomads have been defeated and dispersed back to their homelands.”

  Surprise showed briefly on Ackal V’s proud face; he obviously wondered how word had reached the priesthood of the nomads’ defeat. His usual sneer returned quickly and he said, “Those country hordes had better toe the line! I won’t stand for any backcountry heroics!”

  Hycontas bowed again. “Your Majesty rules with justice.”

  Ackal V studied him for any hint of sarcasm, but Hycontas’s face showed only bland sincerity. The emperor wheeled his horse, turning Sirrion so tightly the horse’s long, dark red tail whipped past the high priest’s face. Hycontas did not react. For his part, Dalar had learned well his father’s abrupt ways and was holding tight to the pommel.

  “When the dedication to Corij is complete, send word to the Arsenal, and the tribute will be removed,” Ackal V said over one shoulder, as Sirrion cantered back to the procession outside the temple wall.

  Flies were gathering around the pile of gory trophies, and the sun’s heat only strengthened the rank odor of bakali blood. Hycontas ascended the steps to escape the stench. As he did, a shadow fell across him, cast by a single, large black vulture circling overhead.

  Messengers come in all shapes, the old priest mused.

  Chapter 22

  A Place in the Shade

  Once Governor Wornoth’s capture became known, resistance to the Army of the East ended quickly. Only a small body of troops, the governor’s private guard, was imprisoned in the citadel. The streets grew calm. People seemed dazed, like sleepers awakened from a deep but troubled slumber. Refugees streamed out of Caergoth, leaving by every gate to every point on the horizon.

  Tol and Egrin, standing on a balcony of Caergoth’s Riders’ Hall, watched the lines of ordinary folk leaving the city. The view was of the Centaur Gate and, beyond, the road running southwest toward Daltigoth. It was late afternoon, and Tol could hardly credit all that had happened since sunrise, when Zanpolo had escorted them through the city gate.

  “It’s not wise to let everyone go,” Egrin was saying. “Those leaving should be questioned. There could be deserters hidden among them-loyalists who’ll carry word to Daltigoth about what happened here.”

  “Good. Saves me the trouble of sending word to Ackal V of our coming.”

  Egrin started to say more, but loud laughter erupted from the open doorway behind them. Tol smiled. “Sounds like the party is well underway.”

  “Something else we must keep an eye on,” the old marshal said gloomily.

  They went inside, entering the feasting hall that took up the entire second floor of the Riders’ sanctuary. As he had no intention of ruling Caergoth, Tol had set up his headquarters not in the governor’s palace, but in the Riders’ Hall outside the citadel.

  A hasty banquet had been laid out, provided from Wornoth’s impressive larder. The scene within was a merry one. Around the huge table were gathered Zanpolo, Pagas, Argonnel, Mittigorn, Trudo, and the other warlords who’d joined Tol; Casberry and her bearers; the Tarsans, Captain Anovenax and Syndic Hanira; Tylocost; Chief Voyarunta; and the Dom-shu sisters.

  The reunion of Kiya and Miya had been memorable. Kiya, riding beside Egrin, had spotted her sister in the mob surrounding Tol at the citadel gate. She dismounted and shouldered her way through the happy throng of Juramonans and city folk, and came up on her younger sibling’s blind side. Gripping Miya’s shoulder, she whirled her around.

  “Sister!” Miya exclaimed joyously.

  Kiya slapped her hard across the cheek. The people immediately around them fell silent, stunned by the sudden violence.

  “How dare you come here! Why did you abandon your child?” Kiya demanded.

  Miya planted her fists on her hips. “Abandoned? Eli has more aunts than an anthill!”

  So saying, Miya slapped her sister back, knocking the blonde warrior woman sideways.

  A handful of militiamen stepped forward to stop what they were sure would be a fierce fight, but Tol waved them off. The sisters, each with the red imprint of a hand on her face, glared at each other, until Kiya finally spoke.

  “Not bad-for a mother.”

  “Ha! You know our mother had a harder hand than the chief ever did!”

  Voyarunta, standing only a few steps away, protested. The sisters simultaneously turned on him and said, “Quiet!” The Chief of the Dom-shu wisely obeyed.

  The sisters embraced abruptly, each vigorously pounding the other on the back.

  “By Corij, you stink!” Miya chortled happily.

  “And you feel fat as a pig!” Kiya countered, laughing.

  Now, when Tol and Egrin re-entered the feasting hall, shouts of greeting rose to meet them. The Dom-shu sister
s, seated together, saluted them with a wave, and Pagas pressed a cup of foaming beer into Tol’s hand.

  Hanira, looking cool and elegant in a gown of pale green silk, called for quiet. From her place at the end of the long table she lifted her goblet and pronounced, “To the conqueror of Caergoth!”

  Casberry and the Dom-shu raised their cups and drank, but the Ergothians present looked embarrassed.

  Egrin spoke up quickly. “Begging your pardon, Syndic, but we’re not conquerors. Liberators, yes, but Caergoth was and still is an imperial city.”

  “And anyone who uses the word ‘rebel’ had better be prepared to draw iron,” growled Zanpolo.

  Casberry snorted loudly. She now sported a multitude of gold bracelets and necklaces. These flashed brightly against her tunic of midnight black shot through with strands of crimson and gold.

  “For victorious warriors you certainly know how to mince words,” she piped.

  Tol shook his head. “No, Your Majesty. Lords Egrin and Zanpolo speak the truth. We have freed Caergoth, not conquered it.” He raised his own cup and amended Hanira’s toast: “To success, and good friends!”

  He sat at the head of the table, facing Hanira. Egrin took the chair on his left, and the Dom-shu sisters were arrayed on his right, as befit his wives. By precedence, Queen Casberry should have had Hanira’s place of honor, but the diminutive monarch had chosen her location herself, the seat nearest the keg of lager.

  They ate and drank heartily, and conversation remained jocular and light until mention was made of Wornoth, a subject Tol had been hoping to avoid. It was Hanira who broached the delicate subject.

  “My lord, what do you intend to do with Governor Wornoth?”

  Wornoth deserved swift justice for his many crimes against the people of his city and for his gross negligence in defending the empire. But the man was such a weakling Tol found it somehow shameful to order his death. Others obviously did not share his ambivalence.

  “Hang ’im,” said Pagas. The other warlords agreed.

  “A dog like him doesn’t deserve honorable death by blade,” Trudo said.

  “Wornoth will meet justice,” Tol promised, hoping that would be the end of the discussion.

  He should have known better. Like a ropesnake, Hanira preferred to surround and strangle her victim slowly, rather than grant a swift death from venom.

  She tilted her head. Sunlight streaming through the windows lent a sapphire sheen to her black hair, piled high on her head for this occasion.

  “What does that mean, my lord?” she asked, smiling sweetly.

  “Gotta execute him,” Casberry said, before he could respond. “He’s a murderous toad, and everybody wants his blood. If you spare him, you’ll look weak, my lord.”

  The warlords began enumerating the evils of leniency. Angered, Tol smote the tabletop with his fist.

  “Have I said I would spare Wornoth?”

  The diners fell silent, and Voyarunta said, “You are chief here, Son of My Life. Do as you think right.”

  Hanira sipped wine, preferring this to the beer the others drank. Her honey-colored eyes regarded Tol with amusement over the rim of her goblet. She said no more.

  Tol firmly turned the discussion to other matters. “The time has come for some of us to part company,” he said. To Casberry: “Your Majesty, I thank you for your help. Without you and your people, we wouldn’t be in Caergoth right now.”

  “If your neighbor’s house is on fire, better to grab a bucket than close the shutters.” She cocked a knowing eye at him, adding, “But Daltigoth is a different proposition, eh? No place for kender in the capital?”

  The shrewd little queen had put her bony finger on the heart of the matter. The march on Daltigoth would be extremely dangerous. They had reached the gates of Caergoth unhindered by imperial forces because of Wornoth’s timidity, and his unshakable belief that his garrison, in truth quite powerful, was not sufficient both to defend the city and defeat Tol. Ackal V would have no such worries. Once he realized Tol’s army was coming, he would send the Great Horde to stop them.

  Casberry asked how many warriors Tol expected to face. Argonnel answered her.

  “The emperor has lost many men to the bakali, I’ve heard,” said the commander of the Iron Scythe Horde. “But I reckon he can draw upon eighty to a hundred hordes.”

  Casberry reached for a grape. “Sounds like you’ll need every friend you’ve got.”

  “No. None but Ergothians can ride with us to Daltigoth.”

  Tol’s quiet, blunt declaration put an end to all merriment. Hanira dabbed her lips with a silken scarf-Ergothians knowing nothing of napkins-and said, “Are you certain, my lord? You’re giving up much good help.”

  “It must be so. Your pardon, Syndic, but the presence of foreign troops would change the way our approach is perceived. Instead of patriots and liberators, we’d be seen as invaders.”

  “Rebels,” rumbled Zanpolo. “Which we are not!”

  “Victors can style themselves any way they choose,” Hanira said. “Losers only die.” She toyed with the goblet before her, turning it slowly in her fingers. “You know the Pakin Pretender is in Caergoth, don’t you?”

  Her words struck like well-timed slaps.

  “What Pakin Pretender?” Egrin demanded. “The last claimant was slain twenty years ago, in the reign of Pakin III!”

  “He had children, did he not?”

  Trudo, eldest of the warlords, said, “Three that I know of. All daughters.”

  “The youngest, Mellamy Zan, is twenty-five. For the past dozen years she’s lived in Tarsis. She’s come to Caergoth.”

  Argonnel leaped to his feet, hand on his sword hilt. “You did this, trickster! You brought the Pakin infection with you from Tarsis!”

  Hanira looked up at the red-faced man. “Upon my word as a syndic of the city, I did not,” she said.

  Tol curtly told Argonnel to sit down. Once he had, Hanira explained that she’d placed spies among Mellamy Zan’s followers soon after the Pakin princess arrived in Tarsis more than twelve years ago. The troubles in Ergoth had encouraged the new Pretender to leave Tarsis with a small entourage. She had entered Caergoth only yesterday, before Tol arrived.

  “Where is she?” Argonnel growled. “Tell us where to find her, and we’ll settle the Pakins for once and all!”

  Hanira looked down the long table at Tol. “Well, my lord?”

  All eyes turned to Tol. His gaze was locked with the syndic’s. She knew his fragile alliance of disgruntled warlords could not hold against the threat of a new Pakin rebellion. She knew, too, he would loathe having to kill someone who had committed no crime, but who could cause untold trouble in the future. Hanira was positioning herself cleverly. If Tol asked, she could have Mellamy Zan assassinated. The gratitude of the warlords would be enormous. So would her influence in Ergoth.

  But there was one fact about the Pakin Pretender that Tol knew he could use to his advantage. “A woman?” he said, forcing a patronizing smile. “One princess is not that important. Still, I’m sure there’s room aplenty in the citadel for another prisoner. So yes, Syndic, I would like to know where Mellamy Zan is.”

  Her maneuver had failed. Hanira dissembled politely, promising to put the Pretender in Tol’s hands.

  Chief Voyarunta announced himself ready to return home. He’d seen quite enough of the grasslands and its cities of stone. He didn’t say it in so many words, but it was plain he regarded Ergoth as immoral and decadent. The fighting was good, but there was too much plotting and treachery.

  “And too many noisy women,” he said.

  “You fathered two of the noisiest!” Queen Casberry snorted. There was laughter while Miya flushed and Kiya scowled.

  It was agreed, after more wrangling, that all Tol’s foreign friends would depart before the final ride to Daltigoth. Hanira and her Tarsans would leave immediately. Voyarunta and the Dom-shu would remain until Tol left Caergoth, then they would depart. This would allow the chief
’s wound to heal before beginning the long trek back to the Great Green.

  Around midnight, as the party was breaking up, Tol announced that the Army of the East would depart for Daltigoth in five days. The warlords were startled. It seemed a very short time to organize and equip so momentous an expedition.

  In reply, Tol quoted one of Ackal Ergot’s favorite maxims: “ ‘Suffer or strike, strike or be struck.’ Until we know where the imperial hordes are, and what’s happened to the bakali, we can’t risk being trapped here. For all we know, the emperor could be at our gates tomorrow.”

  On that cheerful note, the guests departed. As servants moved in to clear the table and snuff the torches, Tol took Tylocost aside for a private word.

  The elf had said little during the meal. His head seemed oddly bereft without his gardener’s hat.

  “You’re not going to Daltigoth either,” Tol told him. “I have another task for you. Find out from Syndic Hanira where the Pakin Pretender is. Get the princess-alive-out of Caergoth. Go wherever you like, but send me word of your location once you alight.”

  Tylocost’s pale eyes showed a glimmer of interest. “What is your plan, my lord?”

  “Only to avoid another civil war. Killing one princess won’t solve anything. But-” He drew a deep breath. “But having a Pakin in reserve may add weight to my dealings with Ackal V.”

  Given the marriage habits of high Ergothian nobility, there were scores of Pakins scattered throughout the empire and border regions. Valaran herself was of Pakin blood. Killing Mellamy Zan was no answer; any of her kin could incite a revolt by claiming the throne, if they could gather enough followers. However, having the chief claimant as hostage might have a chilling effect on any warlords who backed her on Ackal V. With the Pretender in his clutches, Tol could use fear of a Pakin uprising to keep the emperor in check.