A Hero's justice d-3

by Paul B. Thompson

  “You’re putting a great responsibility in my hand,” Tylocost said. “Do you trust me that much?” “You’re the man for the deed.”

  Tylocost bowed his head. “I will do as you bid, my lord.” All the nearby torches had been extinguished. A candle on the table reached its last mark and went out. The Silvanesti, silhouetted by the remaining light, said, “I must retire, my lord. I have a task at dawn.”

  Tol had an inkling what the task was. “Shall I come?” “Thank you, my lord, but the rite is for Silvanesti only.” Though Zala had been only half-elven, in death such distinctions no longer seemed to matter.

  Four laborers, hired in Caergoth, dug a deep hole on a hilltop northwest of the city. It was the same hill on which Tylocost had observed Caergoth when he’d first arrived. The treasure caravan was long gone, safely stowed in the citadel.

  Dawn was a pale promise on the eastern horizon as Tylocost paid off the diggers and sent them home. He assured them he did not need them to stay and fill in the hole “after.”

  The laborers’ two-wheeled cart creaked away, and Tylocost was finally alone among the widely spaced oaks. The grave held two shrouded bodies. Zala would not sleep alone. Her father, Kaeph, had passed away not long after his daughter. His cough was pneumonia, and the Caergoth healers could not save him. He spoke only once, to ask for his child. Miya was sitting with him at the time. She assured him he would be with his daughter very soon. The Dom-shu woman spoke only the truth to the dying man.

  Tylocost pressed his palms together and began to chant an ancient Silvanesti song. It was the Wath-Ranata, a hymn for those who perish far from the sacred homeland. He sang it for Zala. The gods would forgive him for performing the hymn in the presence of the human. Tylocost would not part father and daughter again.

  The song was long. He sang it as the sun lifted itself above the horizon and washed the land with heat. Bluish gray clouds hovered in the west. The weather would be foul for the ride to Daltigoth.

  The last words of the Wath-Ranata echoed over the green hills. Tylocost scattered green leaves and flower petals on the linen shapes nestled in the earth, then took up the spade the diggers had left for him. By the time the hole was filled, he was sweating and dirty.

  His final act was to plant a seedling tree on the grave. Every Silvanesti wanted to rest beneath the boughs of a living tree. He’d chosen an apple tree because he liked the idea that Zala would one day bear fruit to all passersby.

  The unsightly gardener tied his floppy hat on his head and shouldered his spade like a weapon. The urge to salute, although long-ingrained by decades of military service, did not intrude here.

  Tylocost had not buried a comrade. He’d said good-bye to the woman he loved.

  Ackal V stepped out of his bath. His arms, legs, and chest were mottled with bruises, some already yellowing as they healed. The blows he’d sustained from the bakali might not have brought him down, but they’d certainly made a bold impression. He hadn’t availed himself of the imperial healers, and rarely did. He had little faith in their spells and nostrums, and feared enemies might use the opportunity to hex him.

  From her marble bench a few steps away, Empress Valaran kept her eyes averted, studying the mosaic pattern around her feet. She was all too familiar with the sight of her husband unclothed. It was not a view she cared for. Dalar played at her feet, humming to himself as he pushed wooden warriors on horseback across the floor. Some of the toy soldiers were painted red, others gray.

  A lackey held up a gray silk robe. Ackal V slipped his arms in and tied the sash with a savage yank. Equal pique marked his movements as he took a golden cup of wine offered by another servant.

  Valaran had brought him the unwelcome news of Caergoth’s fall to Tol and the landed hordes. Ackal V cursed Wornoth in between gulps of wine, damning the governor for his lack of backbone. For squeezing taxes from peasants and keeping the high-nosed residents of Caergoth in line Wornoth was adequate, but faced with real opposition, he wilted instantly.

  “How was it done?” he asked.

  Valaran replied, “Accounts differ, sire, but it seems some or all of the Caergoth garrison went willingly over to the other side.”

  “I want their names, all of them! Their families will suffer for this treachery!”

  Valaran nodded, but vowed to herself that none of the families would face the emperor’s vengeance.

  The emperor asked about troop strength. “According to my spies, he has twenty to thirty hordes,” she replied. “If every man in the Caergoth garrison joins him, he will have fifty-four hordes.”

  In fact, the information she had received by messenger pigeon that evening gave the total figure of forty-four hordes. Valaran exaggerated for Tol’s benefit.

  Ackal flung the empty cup at the wine steward. The man wasn’t nimble enough and failed to catch the heavy golden vessel. It clanged loudly on the tiles. The steward cringed, knowing he’d just earned a flogging.

  “Even if he had a hundred fifty hordes, he couldn’t break into Daltigoth!” Ackal V declared.

  Their conversation was interrupted by Prince Dalar. He suddenly began hammering away at the ranks of toy soldiers with a brass rod. Red and gray riders alike went down under his blows, some of the figures splintering.

  He’d never been violent with his toys before, and his mother spoke sharply to him. Ackal V laughed.

  . “That’s the way, boy,” he said. “In ten years you can do that to real enemies!”

  Valaran stood abruptly. “Is that all you require, Majesty?”

  “Yes, go. And send Tathman to me.”

  She wanted Dalar to come with her, but Ackal V told her to leave the boy where he was.

  “I’ll not have the crown prince subjected to the company of that vile mercenary!” Valaran said.

  “That vile mercenary is utterly loyal-unlike you, lady.”

  She protested, but he stepped closer and took her chin a painful grip. “I know you would like nothing better than to see me dead, and the pig farmer standing here in my place,” he murmured. “You can consign that dream to the vale of night. It’s the farmer who’ll be dead, and that handy trinket he carries will be mine. As you are, lady. Forever.”

  She pulled free of him, eyes flashing in anger, then the import of his words sank in. He knew about the Irda millstone? How could that be? How long had he known? Awful thoughts formed in her mind. Was it possible he had known of her plot to bring Tol to Daltigoth, but had done nothing to interfere, just so he could get his hands on the nullstone?

  He laughed and kicked Dalar lightly on the rump. “Go with your mother, boy,” he said. “Tathman may not have eaten yet and I’d hate to see him dine on you!”

  The five-year-old scampered after his mother, sending toy soldiers skittering over the tiles.

  In the corridor outside, several lackeys awaited the emperor’s pleasure. Valaran gestured to one, a lower chamberlain named Fudosh. She relayed the emperor’s summons of the Wolf captain. Fudosh paled, but bowed and hurried to find Tathman.

  When Tathman arrived, the emperor was seated at a stone table in his bath chamber, his head resting on his folded arms. His youngest wife, Lady Halie, was anointing his many bruises with a soothing unguent. She could apply the balm as well as a healer, and was far prettier than any acolyte of Mishas.

  Ackal V did not look up until Tathman cleared his throat. Coming from a man his size, the sound was like a panther growling.

  “Captain,” the emperor said without moving. “Farmer Tol is in Caergoth.”

  “Shall I go there and kill him?”

  Ackal’s shoulders shook with mirth. “That’s the spirit! No, that won’t he necessary. He’s coming here-with forty thousand warriors.”

  The leader of the Wolves regarded his master stolidly. “Better to kill him far away,” he rumbled.

  Ackal V glanced at his young wife. Halie knew Tolandruth only as a name. She wouldn’t betray her husband.

  He said, “I want this army of trai
tors to come as close to Daltigoth as they dare. I want them to think success is in their grasp. Then, and only then, I want the farmer captured and brought before me. I will make such a lesson of him that all those country lords will take up priest’s robes!”

  Tathman bowed his head, the long braid of his hair falling forward. “Your Majesty is most wise.”

  “When the time comes, I may ask you to do things you won’t like,” Ackal V warned.

  “If Your Majesty commands, I will pluck out an eye and eat it.”

  This declaration, spoken with such conviction, made young Halie pause in her labors. The emperor shrugged his shoulders, signaling her to continue.

  “Patience, Tathman. Your time approaches. The prospect of facing the legendary Lord Tol worries you?”

  The question was a half-joking one, but Tathman’s reply was deadly serious. “No, Majesty. He bleeds like any man.”

  The emperor smiled. Yes, he did bleed. Ackal V had seen Tol bleed. It was a memory he relished.

  He ordered the Wolves back to the Inner City to receive instructions, training, and new equipment. When he explained his idea, Captain Tathman finally showed surprise.

  “Objections?” asked the emperor.

  “No, Majesty.”

  Once Tathman had withdrawn, Halie paused her ministrations to renew the balm on her hands.

  “Is Your Majesty in danger?” she asked diffidently.

  “No.” Ackal put his head down again on his folded arms.

  “But if you speak of what you’ve heard here, I’d have to cut off your head.”

  His young consort smoothed the white unguent across his hare shoulders.

  “I would never speak of it, sire. Better my tongue should be cut out!”

  Now there was a possibility, Ackal mused. And Valaran liked to believe she was the smartest of his wives.

  Chapter 23

  Trial and Errand

  The cells beneath the gray citadel of Caergoth were much like the city itself-wide, light, and surprisingly clean. Everything about them was double the norm: the width of the central corridor, the size of the cells, the height of the ceiling. The walls also were twice as thick as usual. Tol and Egrin walked down the central passage, looking at the open, empty cells. Wornoth had sent all the prisoners to the big cages erected in the city’s main square to make room for extra soldiers and supplies for the citadel. With the overthrow of the governor, the dungeon was empty. An unnatural quiet had settled over the place. Only a few of the candles in the wall sconces were lit, so Tol carried a lantern.

  The four levels of the dungeon held only a solitary occupant. No guard stood at the massive bronze-plated door to the prisoner’s cell, as the dungeon itself was considered proof against escape. Tol leaned into the deep doorway and rapped on the door to announce their entry. Once Egrin had thrown the heavy bolt and pulled the door open, Tol thrust his lantern into the grayness beyond.

  It was a large room for a single prisoner, illuminated by a single candle. Cut into the far wall was a stone niche designed for a bedroll. Here, former governor Wornoth sat slumped. He did not look up as they entered.

  “If you’ve come to assassinate me, I curse you both!” he said hoarsely, sniveling into the sleeve of his dirty robe.

  Egrin grimaced in disgust. “Sit up, man,” he said. “Show some dignity!”

  “We’re not here to slay you,” Tol said. “We’ve come to tell you about your trial.” Wornoth lifted his pale face, blinking in surprise. “You will be judged by a jury of nine warriors, chosen by lot.”

  Such a procedure was unknown in Ergoth, where justice was dispensed from on high by imperial officials. At the pinnacle was the emperor, whose utterances were law. The marshals enforced this law, ruling over provinces known as “hundreds”-a term that had once referred to the number of warlords serving the marshal, but was now merely a geographical term. Each marshal was attended by wardens, whose number in each hundred varied according to the strength of the population. The Eastern Hundred, Tol’s homeland, had one warden. Caergoth had four.

  At the lowest level, justice was enforced by bailiffs. These were usually Riders of the Great Horde appointed for a specific purpose-to catch a notorious outlaw, or to investigate a murder in some remote corner of the realm. Tol had learned of trial by jury in Tarsis, where the procedure was common.

  “I am the imperial governor, appointed by His Majesty Ackal V! All I have done, I have done in his name!”

  “Make no mistake, Wornoth. You’re not being tried for being a vicious, petty tyrant, though you ought to be,” Tol said. “The principle charge against you is failing to defend the eastern provinces of the empire. By keeping your hordes in Caergoth, you allowed the nomads to ravage four provinces. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of imperial subjects perished, villages were sacked and property destroyed by your folly. That is your crime.”

  Wornoth’s face grew even paler. He whispered, “I did what I thought best. You can’t condemn me for that!”

  “It is not up to me to condemn you for anything. That’s why we’re having a trial. It begins at dawn.”

  Tol turned to go. Wornoth sprang from his sleeping niche and grasped Tol’s knees. Egrin’s sword was out in a trice, but alarm quickly turned to revulsion.

  Tears streaming down his cheeks, Wornoth gabbled wildly, “Please, gracious lord! Please, spare me! I made mistakes, yes, but I can rectify them! I can! Please! Please!”

  “Get hold of yourself!” Tol said, trying to pry him loose. “For Corij’s sake, be a man!”

  “But I don’t want to die! I did only what I thought my emperor wanted me to do! Please!”

  Tol managed to shove him away. Wornoth fell backward and lay still, sobbing and pleading.

  “You’re going to Daltigoth, aren’t you? I can be of use to you, great lord. I know much about the emperor’s doings. I can tell you things!”

  Egrin asked, “Would you betray your sovereign?”

  “Yes! Yes! To spare my life, yes!”

  Thoroughly disgusted now, Tol said nothing. He went to the cell door.

  “You are being used, my lord!” Wornoth cried. “The emperor’s hand has guided you to the very course you’re now on! If you go to Daltigoth, you shall be destroyed!”

  Tol ignored this feeble gambit, but Egrin lingered.

  “Why would the emperor want Lord Tolandruth to come to Daltigoth?” he asked.

  An ember of hope lit the prisoner’s eyes. “Spare me, and I’ll tell you!”

  “Tell us, and we may spare you,” Tol countered.

  Wornoth got quickly to his feet. “You have something the emperor wants.” He glanced at Egrin, uncertain how much to reveal. “A certain item of great value, which protects you.”

  Egrin looked blank, but the words rattled Tol. The nullstone. How could Ackal V have learned of it?

  The worry on his captor’s face warmed Wornoth like a draft of strong wine. He dried his face on his sleeve and fingered the long hair back from his forehead.

  “The empress hired a tracker to find you, my lord. A half-breed woman. To ensure her loyalty, I was ordered to hold her father.”

  “I know. She’s dead,” Tol said flatly. “And so is her father.”

  Wornoth shrugged. “No matter. You’re on your way to Daltigoth, unwittingly delivering the very prize the emperor covets.” He leered at the warriors. “He dangles tasty bait before you, I know. The empress-”

  Tol crossed the distance between them in three strides and seized the front of Wornoth’s robe. Hauling the shorter man to his tiptoes, he snarled, “Your information is worthless! Baited or not, I am going to Daltigoth to see justice done!”

  “Justice for whom?” Wornoth rasped. “You-or the empire?”

  “Enough!” Tol shoved him away. “Your trial takes place tomorrow.”

  Wornoth had one last hand to play. From the folds of his robe, he produced a small iron key. He tossed it toward the doorway, where it landed at Tol’s feet.

  �
��A gift, my lord! That key opens my private archive. Learn for yourself how the emperor draws you to him like a fly into a spider’s web.” Wornoth managed a smile. “What does this buy me?”

  Tol’s dagger thudded into the straw by Wornoth’s feet.

  “If I were you, Wornoth, I would not wait for a trial. Hanging is tricky business. If not done right, the condemned strangles slowly.” With visible relish, Tol said, “Count five ribs down on your left side. That’s where your heart is-that’s where it is on a normal man, anyway.”

  High-born Ergothians had a horror of being hanged like a common criminal. Mockingly, Tol added, “I doubt you have the will to cheat the hangman, but I give you the chance.”

  He and Egrin went out, and the sound of the bolt being thrown echoed in the cell.

  When the warder arrived a short time later with the prisoner’s supper, he found Wornoth dead. A war dagger protruded from his left side.

  His heart was in the right place after all.

  At the head of her private army, Syndic Hanira awaited Lord Tolandruth’s review. She’d found a magnificent horse in Caergoth, a night-black steed. Mounted on its back, Hanira, in cloth-of-gold raiment, her own black hair streaming loose to her waist, cut a dazzling figure. Dusk was an unusual time to begin a journey, but it was the time Hanira had chosen.

  Most of the warlords still mistrusted the Tarsans, regarding them as foreigners and enemies, not valuable allies. None had turned out for her departure. Egrin had taken Wornoth’s key and gone in search of his papers, so only the Dom-shu sisters and Tol were present. Tol was mounted, the sisters on foot.

  “Give my regards to Lord Regobart,” Tol said, naming the commander of the imperial outpost near Tarsis.

  “I will convey your greetings.” Smiling slightly she added, “I seldom see him, you know. I make him nervous.”

  “Small wonder,” Kiya muttered.

  Hanira urged her horse forward a few paces, until she was close alongside Tol. Her smooth expression altered for a moment. “Beware, my lord,” she murmured. “You are galloping hard to a precipice. Daltigoth is a maelstrom from which you may not emerge alive.”