by Dragon Lance
Chapter 16
WALLS OF STONE
Ten thousand mounted warriors crowded the square before the imperial palace, completely covering the mosaic of Ackal Ergot’s victories that decorated its vast surface. They were arrayed in two huge blocks, separated by a narrow avenue. Drawn from the city’s garrison, they represented a quarter of Daltigoth’s defenders. Their scarlet mantles were like a sea of blood; their polished iron helmets gleamed. Lining the steps and stone plinths on either side of the palace doors were a thousand drummers, pounding in unison. The thunderous booming reverberated off the walls of the Inner City and shook the palace down to its foundation. High above the scene, watching from a turret window, Valaran could feel the drumming through the soles of her slippers, feel it in her very bones.
It might have been a stirring sight, glorious and terrible, but Valaran knew only a growing, suffocating sense of desperation. Two days had passed since the emperor’s sudden recovery of mental clarity. His energy in that time had been breathtaking. Man by man, he had culled the garrison of its best warriors, made battle plans with his warlords – the ones he hadn’t banished or executed – and ordered a huge amount of food and arms from the imperial stores. He also reversed a lax trend in his household and forbade his family to set foot outside their private quarters.
Yet another custom dating back to Ackal Ergot’s day – the confining of the empress, consorts, and their children – had begun as a means to protect the imperial family, and preserve the purity of the dynasty’s bloodline. But Ackal V invoked the Purity Sanction to prevent Valaran from intriguing behind his back. She couldn’t be certain exactly what he knew about her plotting, and the uncertainty was maddening. As with all his enemies, he used her doubt to keep her off balance.
Now he passed two calm evenings with his wives and children, playing the role of good husband and stern father. Valaran found his insincere serenity more unbearable than his casual cruelty, for it left her in an agony of suspense, never knowing when his mood might shift and he would order some new outrage. He took Crown Prince Dalar on his lap while continuing a conversation with his other children, and Valaran’s blood ran cold. Seeing her son in his hands was like watching the boy menaced by a deadly serpent. The question wasn’t if Dalar would get hurt, but when.
At the end of last night’s family dinner, Ackal V had risen from the table at last – his appetite had been prodigious since the breaking of Mandes’s spell – and called for Tathman. The Wolf captain arrived and stood by his master, a silent, hulking menace. Then Ackal addressed his family.
“I leave tomorrow to destroy the invaders,” he announced. “But you need not fear. In my absence, both the Purity Sanction and my Wolves will ensure your safety. I could not face the enemy without knowing all I hold is safe.”
Valaran fumed silently. Not only was he imprisoning her in the palace, he was setting his killers to watch over her. Tathman’s men would not dare lay hands on her, but her every action would be reported to the emperor.
Ackal took up a golden goblet filled with nectar. He drank it slowly, as though savoring the liquid’s delicate flavor. He was up to something, keeping them together like this. Valaran could see in his eyes it was the continuing suspense he savored, not the drink. Finally, he let the other boot drop.
“Crown Prince Dalar will accompany me.”
“Sire, no!” Valaran was on her feet before she was even aware of having moved.
His false smile vanished. “The boy goes where I say he goes! He will see his first campaign, and what better place for that than with his father?”
Valaran could barely remember the rest of that horrible evening. Ackal’s decision was unprecedented, his motives hardly paternal. Dalar, so small, so fragile, was to be a hostage to her good behavior. More than ever she thought the emperor must have learned of her seditious activities. Since recovering his wits, he had been closeted with advisors, spy-masters, and unsavory practitioners of magic. Had he divined the cause of his own madness – the same evil he’d visited on his own brother, Ackal IV?
There was no better news from the College of Wizards. Helbin’s successor as chief of the Red Robes, the wizard Eremin, reported they had at last broken through the veil that so long shrouded events in the east. They had seen imperial forces driving the nomads from the empire.
Eremin did not know the horde names, and so described the standards they’d seen. As Ackal V identified each one – the Plains Panthers, the Firebrands, the Corij Rangers, the Black Viper Horde – he grew more angry. All were landed hordes, the provincial gentlemen he loathed and had refused to call to duty.
Eremin was astonished by the emperor’s furious reaction to what he believed would be welcome news. With nomads raging throughout the Eastern and Riverland hundreds, surely it was better that the local hordes raise themselves, rather than allow savages to rampage unchecked.
The Red Robe could not tell his liege who led the landed hordes. The visions had not been that precise. He promised to work hard to improve them, but it was plain Ackal V already knew who was responsible for the uprising.
All this Valaran remembered as she watched the warriors in the plaza await the arrival of their supreme commander. Beset with doubts and fears, she held on to Tol as her lifeline. His love for her and his hatred of Ackal V were the greatest assets she had left.
In her mind she saw him, not as he’d been when they parted, beaten and lying in the back of a creaking cart, but as he had been when they first met, a vibrant young warrior, newly come to Daltigoth for the dedication of the Tower of High Sorcery. It wasn’t his broad shoulders or rough-hewn looks that had ignited her love, but his open mind and good heart. Too good, really. Born far from the fount of power, the peasant’s son was ill equipped to match wits with Prince Nazramin. Time and bitter exile should have cured Tol of his naivete, but she hoped the goodness remained.
Valaran’s thoughts were interrupted by the concerted roar from ten thousand throats, which silenced the pounding drums. The emperor had appeared.
Ackal V wore armor enameled in crimson and inlaid with gold. His head was bare, displaying thick red hair untouched by gray. The roaring cheer continued, grew even louder, and Valaran winced against the painful volume. Tyrant though he was, Ackal V was revered by the many Riders of the Great Horde. The emperor descended the palace steps to his waiting troops, revealing the tiny figure who followed behind him. Valaran caught her breath.
Dalar, dressed in a breastplate and helmet made just for him, moved hesitantly. The roar of the fighting men frightened him. Valaran’s hands ached to snatch her child back, for his sake and hers. All she could do was grip the ledge of the window before her, until the stone cut her palms.
Ackal’s horse waited at the foot of the palace steps. Sirrion, named for the god of passion and fire, stood sixteen hands. He was one of the special royal breed whose hide was a striking shade of ruby red. His mane and tail were a darker oxblood, and his broad, black hooves had been polished until they gleamed. Only those of imperial blood could ride horses of the Ackal Breed.
The senior warlord of the Warblade Horde stood by Sirrion, a position of great honor. Bending forward, the warlord cupped his hands. The emperor placed a booted foot in them and swung onto the magnificent horse. Another soldier hoisted young Dalar onto the pillion behind him. Alarmed at finding himself so high off the ground, the little boy clutched his father’s back.
Ackal V drew his saber. The chanting of the warriors ceased. The abrupt silence left Valaran’s ears ringing.
“Forward, Ergoth!” commanded Ackal.
The ten thousand horsemen took quite some time to funnel out of the Inner City gate, but Valaran remained at the window until all were gone.
Where in Chaos’s name was Helbin? She had to know what was happening in the east. More importantly, where was Tol?
*
The nomads clung stubbornly to their green bulwark, fending off sortie after sortie by the Ergothians. By this time the hordes h
ad encircled the Isle of Elms completely, but every attempt to storm the forest stronghold, on foot or horse, was bloodily repulsed.
Night fell. A steer was roasted. Over beef and beer, the Ergothian commanders debated what to do next. There were two camps: those who wanted to attack again immediately, and those who thought it better to besiege the nomads and starve them out.
Egrin, to Tol’s surprise, was in the attack faction. Usually a cautious tactician, Egrin was not given to fire-eating. When he counseled immediate attack, Tol wanted to know why.
Firelight played on Egrin’s features. His half-elven heritage, carefully concealed from all but Tol, had kept him a vigorous warrior some three decades after their first meeting. In spite of their closeness, Tol knew almost nothing of Egrin’s life before that time. The former marshal was as taciturn as a Dom-shu.
“We don’t know what resources the nomads may have,” Egrin said, “but Lord Argonnel says there’s a spring in the grove, so they do have water.” Argonnel nodded. He owned large tracts of this land and knew it well.
Egrin went on. “Our men can’t sustain themselves unless we move and forage. If we besiege the nomads, we may end up being hungrier and thirstier than they are.” He spat into the fire. “Worse, while we delay here, the treasure caravan is making its way to Caergoth. I, for one, do not want to leave the caravan too long in the hands of a renegade elf and hundreds of kender.”
The other warlords agreed. Tol turned to Hanira, seated on his left and asked her opinion. She’d been silent through the entire council, eating little but imbibing quite a lot.
Face rosy from wine, she said flatly, “They’re savages. They should be slain to the last man.”
“If that means attack, then I agree,” said Kiya, on Tol’s right.
Tol also agreed. However, they needed a practical means for forcing their way into the Isle of Elms. They had no way of knowing how many nomads were there. Best guess was five or six thousand, but not all were fighters. Nomads traveled with their entire tribe, so a goodly number hidden in the elms would be old folks, children, and the wounded of earlier battles. Trapped as they were, the nomads could be expected to resist to the bitter end.
They wrangled, as old soldiers will, over the best way to assault the Isle. Simultaneous attack on multiple points was best, said some. Others were positive that quiet infiltration under cover of darkness would bring victory. Disguise a small group as nomads and send them in to confuse the defenders.
As they argued, Hanira left. Lord Mittigorn, returning from a trip beyond the circle of firelight, saw her heading in the direction of her pavilion in the Free Company’s camp.
“Just as well,” said Trudo. “Women and foreigners have no place at a council of war.” Kiya glared, but the callous old Rider did not apologize.
Egrin’s plan of infiltration was close to winning the day – fifty warriors would dress as nomads and sneak into the woods – when Pagas lifted his head suddenly.
“Something burns,” he announced, sniffing the wind.
The scent was stronger and greener than the dying campfire before them, which had been laid with dry wood. A freshening breeze brought more smoke. Mittigorn Cried out and pointed to the distant Isle of Elms. The formerly dark wall of trees stood out starkly against a dull red sky.
Fire. The night wind was driving flames toward the trees.
Tol took off at a dead run, Kiya at his heels. The warlords followed.
The source of the fire was soon discovered. Tarsans in brass breastplates were jogging through the waist-high grass, setting the scrub alight with torches. Tol grabbed one and spun him around, demanding an explanation.
The Tarsan stammered, “I’m following my mistress’s orders, my lord!”
Cursing the syndic, Tol ordered the man to smother his torch, then he and Kiya hurried through the smoldering grass, putting a stop to the efforts of the other Tarsans. Each told the same story: the fire had been ordered by Syndic Hanira.
Before long they came upon the woman herself. She stood in a patch of burned grass, a blazing torch in each hand. Her dark purple gown was black with ash. Her hair was unbound, and long black tendrils blew wildly around her face. She was singing a Tarsan lullaby at the top of her lungs.
He shouted her name and she turned to him. Her eyes, usually a warm honey color, were like dark holes in her ashen face. Tears had made tracks in the soot on her cheeks.
“Let them burn!” she screamed. “Murdering savages! Let them all burn!”
Tol feared she would get her wish. The fire, fanned by the night wind, had become unstoppable. It devoured the dry grass and caressed the dark trunks of the ancient elms. The nomads did not wait for the fire to engulf the wood. On horseback and afoot they fled the forest, racing for the faraway shelter of the Great Green.
Egrin, Trudo, and the other warlords ordered the Riders to horse. Argonnel’s men met the mounted enemy and drove them back. The nomads surged out again, striking Mittigorn’s Black Viper Horde.
Kiya rode up, bringing Tol’s horse. “Come, Husband. The battle is joined.”
As Tol mounted, Hanira dropped her spent torches and held out her hands toward the fire, as if warming herself. Kiya shuddered.
“She looks like Azalla herself!”
Azalla, the Fire Lady, was the Dom-shu goddess of revenge and evil, said to be the child of Argon and the Dragonqueen. Nomads had dared kill Hanira’s daughter, and the mistress of the Golden House would not be denied vengeance. Had it happened in Tarsis, she would’ve hired assassins to exact her revenge. Here, on the plains of Ergoth, she took matters into her own hands.
Kiya and Tol galloped off to join Pagas’s horde. So desperately did the nomads fight, they came within a heartbeat of breaking the Ergothian line before the Plains Panthers arrived to reinforce Mittigorn.
The fight was fierce, but brief. When the last nomad warrior was unhorsed, those remaining on foot finally ended their resistance. Tol halted the slaughter. He left Egrin to oversee the sorting of the prisoners, and to look for Tokasin among the captured, then he himself went to search for the chief among the fallen.
The Isle of Elms was fully ablaze now, lighting the scene with a garish orange glow. Kiya, riding with Tol through the battle site, watched as the roiling smoke rose skyward, obscuring the stars. The gray columns came together to form figures like those she’d seen before: giant human shapes standing shoulder to shoulder and looking down on her and everyone else. They resembled the stone statues she’d seen in Daltigoth, inert yet watchful. She wondered if the smoke-figures were gods.
“Eh? Gods?” asked Tol, his attention on the bodies sprawled on the ground.
“Nothing,” she said quickly, as she realized she’d spoken her thoughts aloud. “It’s nothing.”
They found Tokasin. He lay dead amidst a circle of warriors who had died trying to defend him. When Tol turned him over, they realized the chief had taken his own life at the end, by falling on his sword. Tokasin knew the fate of enemy commanders captured by Ergoth.
Day came, and the woods still burned. Elms, many hundreds of years old, flamed like giant candles, and eventually toppled over, sending up gouts of smoke and glowing embers. The heat from the hard, heavy wood was intense, keeping everyone well back. The animals in the grove had long since fled – birds, deer, rabbits, even a wild boar or two had dashed out while the Ergothians sorted out their victory.
Tol sat on the blackened turf back to back with Kiya. She was asleep. He drank from a wineskin while Lord Trudo reported.
“One thousand, twenty mounted enemy warriors dead,” recited the commander of the Oaken Shield Horde, consulting the strip of bark on which the computations had been scratched. “Of the nomads on foot, six hundred ninety-seven were killed. One thousand, two hundred sixteen are our prisoners.”
Altogether, not quite three thousand had been in the woods, fewer than Tol had estimated. He asked Trudo about their own losses.
“Four hundred nine killed and five hundred
forty-one wounded to a greater or lesser degree.” Trudo stroked his white beard complacently. “Not so bad, my lord.”
Tol took the bark tally from him, moving with care so as not to disturb Kiya’s rest. He wished he could sleep, but knew his next task could not be put off any longer.
“Bring the syndic to me.”
Hanira and her bodyguard Fenj arrived. They were accompanied by Egrin.
“My lord,” the old marshal said, “I have come to speak on the syndic’s behalf.”
Hanira, red-eyed, soot-stained, and haggard, said coldly, “I don’t need your help.”
Undeterred, Egrin directed his words to Tol. “I know you’re angry, my lord, but Syndic Hanira’s actions, harsh though they were, resolved a pressing problem. We were debating how best to come to grips with the enemy, and she supplied the way.”
“She meant to kill them all.”
“Pity I didn’t succeed.” Hanira brushed lank tendrils of hair from her face.
Tol, mindful of her loss, kept his voice calm. “I did not ask you to come and fight,” he said. “You joined of your own accord. You agreed to accept my authority and obey my orders. Your actions last night were treacherous, vindictive, and insubordinate. The fact that you resolved the matter in our favor does not excuse you!”
From behind him, Kiya said sleepily, “Send her home.”
Since she was awake, Tol stood and handed Kiya the wineskin. “No. The syndic will stay.”
“You think to punish me like some errant servant?” Hanira sneered.
“I don’t intend to punish you.” Not in the way she was thinking, at any rate. Tol locked gazes with her. “You joined this campaign, Syndic, and I expect you to see it through. But if you ever disobey my orders, or take such a deed upon yourself again, I’ll clap you in irons!”
Silent Fenj tensed, ready to interpose himself between his mistress and Tol, but Hanira suddenly laughed.
“By Shinare, I believe you! There’s not a Tarsan general or admiral who’d dare, but you would!”