by Dragon Lance
Tol looked from the bloody, bound prisoner to Kiya’s proud, angry face. Distasteful though it was, he asked Mittigorn, “What did you learn?”
“Not much. We were interrupted,” Mittigorn said dryly.
Hathak had revealed that the gold was from tolls collected over the past half-year. The arms had been delivered to the customs house and hidden before the hired bowmen arrived from the city.
Tol gnawed his lower lip. He needed every bit of information he could lay hands on.
“Take Hathak inside,” he said to the waiting warriors. As they hoisted the fallen man up, Tol said to Mittigorn, “Find out what he knows.”
Miya gasped. Kiya grabbed his arm and demanded, “You’re going to let them torture that man?”
He broke her hold and seized her wrist. “Do you think this is a game?” he asked harshly. “We’re not fighting nomads any more. The emperor would not place money and weapons at a lonely outpost for no reason. I have to know why he did it!”
Like most foresters, Kiya would gladly fight and kill any opponent who challenged her, but the idea of beating information out of a helpless captive made her furious.
“If you do this, you’re no better than him!”
Kiya jerked her arm free. She swung onto her horse and galloped off, not back to the column, but westward, away from the poised army. Tossing an anguished glance at Tol, Miya followed her sister.
Tol stalked back to his own horse, his entire body radiating anger. He told Lord Mittigorn to seek him out once they had the truth from the customs official.
The commander of the Black Viper Horde acknowledged the order. He was unmoved by the drama with the Dom-shu sisters. He didn’t expect women (and barbarian women at that) to understand a warrior’s duty. However, his equanimity was shaken when Tol ordered him to disarm and release the bowmen.
Dark eyes widening, he asked, “Is that wise, my lord?”
“They’re only hirelings. We don’t have time for prisoners, so take their bows and turn them loose. That’s an order!”
Mittigorn snapped to attention in his saddle. “Yes, my lord.”
Tol cantered back to the waiting column. The sky, which had been an unblemished blue all day, was clear no longer. On the northern and southern horizons white clouds were piling up.
*
When Miya lost sight of her sister around a bend in the road, she urged her mare into a canter. Bands of light and shadow flickered across the Dom-shu woman’s face as she rode along the cedar-lined road. The air was hot and still; only the wind stirred by her passage made it bearable.
Rounding the curve in the road, she saw that Kiya had stopped where the lines of trees ended. The road there sloped downward, running straight and true into a breathtaking vista of green pastures and arrow-straight rows of fruit trees. An equestrian statue by the road marked the border of the Great Horde Hundred, the exact center of the Ergoth Empire.
Miya drew alongside her fuming sister. Neither of them spoke, they merely stared out at the bountiful countryside spread before them. Kiya’s hair had come free of its confining thong and fanned out over her shoulders. As a child, Miya had been jealous of her sister’s blonde locks, thinking the color much prettier than her own. Now, the sight of her sister’s unbound hair suddenly reminded Miya of the white burial shrouds used by high-born Ergothians. She shook her head, dislodging the thought.
“Husband didn’t have much choice,” Miya finally said. “The tax collector is a coward, anyway. He’ll probably talk if they only threaten him with violence —”
“Do you see them?” Kiya whispered in a strange voice.
“See what?”
“The clouds, Miya. Look at the clouds. Do you see the faces?”
Miya shaded her eyes, obediently studying the sky. Towering over the valley below were great masses of clouds, their bottoms flat as marble tiles. They were intensely white in the glare of the summer sun. Clouds and valley formed a vast panorama unknown in the close confines of their forest home. Beautiful in its own way, Miya admitted, but she didn’t see any faces.
Miya said, “All I see are clouds, Sister.”
Kiya frowned. As before, at the Isle of Elms, she saw rows of people, their faces without expression, staring down at her. She was not given to seeing portents and omens around every corner. That she was seeing this, and Miya was not, must be significant. The silent watchers must be a warning.
The sound of voices behind them brought their attention earthward again. The Army of the East was approaching. Many Riders were pointing at the sky and exclaiming/
Tol and Egrin, leading the central column, cantered up to the Dom-shu women. As they arrived, Egrin’s gaze strayed to the clouds and he jerked his mount’s reins. “Draco Paladin preserve us!” he whispered. “Who are they?”
As it transpired, about half the army could see the vision. The other half saw only clouds. Tol saw nothing but summer thunderheads. He asked Kiya and Egrin what the cloud-people were doing.
“Nothing, they just —” Kiya shrugged. “They just gaze at us.”
The faces, she told him, were distinct but without detail, like simple representations molded in clay. Their expressions seemed frozen and did not change.
Although unable to see the apparitions, Tol could certainly see how the aerial spectacle affected his friends. Their awe was disconcerting. He didn’t fear magic himself, not as long as he had the millstone, but bitter experience had taught him spells could have a severe effect on those around him.
“It could be a warning,” Miya said, unconsciously echoing Kiya’s earlier thought.
To break through the army’s immobility, Tol resorted to his loudest battlefield voice.
“All right, men! If you’re through gawking, let’s ride on! Close ranks!” he boomed. “Form up, I said!”
Egrin and Kiya shook off their wonderment and the column set out. Heralds galloped out to the flanking hordes to urge them into motion as well.
“It must be a trick,” Egrin insisted, chagrined at the effect the vision had on him. “There are plenty of wizards in the Tower of High Sorcery willing to do the emperor’s bidding.”
The explanation was a sensible one, but Kiya was not convinced. For the first time she recounted the similar vision she’d had at the Isle of Elms.
Tol was intrigued, but before he could question her further an all-too-familiar hum filled the air. A wave of arrows clattered onto the road in front of them.
“Ambush!” Miya cried, as her horse reared in fright.
“Forward the vanguard!” shouted Tol. The front ranks of the militia jogged forward, shields upraised. They flowed around the four riders as a fresh shower of arrows arrived.
Tol sent Egrin back to bring Lord Pagas’s Riders forward. As the old warrior galloped away, Tol and the Dom-shu sisters dismounted.
“There! The arrows came from there!” Kiya shouted, pointing ahead to a drainage ditch on the left side of the road.
Tol tossed his reins to Miya and drew Number Six. Kiya likewise gave her mount over to Miya.
The foot soldiers gathered around the younger Dom-shu and the horses, spreading out to cover the shoulders of the road as a third and fourth volley hissed overhead. A few men, careless with their shields, went down with arrows in their necks or shoulders.
Shields raised, the Juramona Militia followed Tol and Kiya off the road toward the unseen archers. The Ackal Path was built on an earthen causeway, some two paces above the surrounding farmland, and the soldiers skidded down the mossy slope. Behind them, the rest of the militia advanced straight down the road.
Tol estimated they faced about a hundred bowmen. He had five hundred men in the vanguard. Through the line of shields ahead of him, Tol glimpsed the archers as they peered over the top of the drainage ditch. At his order, his men lowered spears and charged down the embankment. Reaching the rim of the ditch, they pulled up short, astonished by what their eyes beheld.
There were indeed one hundred bowmen in the ditch
. But behind them, concealed by a thick line of berry bushes, were imperial Riders, several thousand in all. Gasping, Kiya uttered a single pungent curse. Tol couldn’t improve on it.
The vanguard attacked the archers, and a brisk battle ensued. When the rest of the militia reached the crest of the road and saw the hidden hordes, they immediately halted and took up defensive squares across the Ackal Path, calmly sorting themselves into formation.
The lightly armed archers broke off the unequal struggle in the ditch, and fled. Tol withdrew his vanguard, keeping the gully between his men and the poised hordes. As he was pulling back, two of the hordes charged the militia on the road.
The sight of the bellowing Riders, thundering forward on massive war-horses, was guaranteed to strike terror in the hearts of men on foot, but the charging hordes had never before faced foot soldiers trained by Tol. Certainly the Juramona Militia felt fear, but they stood their ground.
The hordes smashed into the foremost square, almost sweeping it away in one go. Plunging horses bowled over the men on foot, despite the walls of spear points they presented. The rear face of the square, unengaged, wheeled around and reinforced their comrades. Blood flowed on the Ackal Path, and Tol quick-marched the vanguard to support their comrades. Using tactics he’d invented long ago, his soldiers slung their shields on their backs, gripped their spears in both hands, and raced headlong at the engaged horsemen. Footmen weren’t expected to attack riders, but the Juramonans knew how. As they attacked, they shouted the most famous battle cry in Ergoth.
“Juramona! Juramona!”
The Riders trapped between the militia squares and Tol’s charging vanguard broke off fighting and rode out of reach.
The Juramonans barely had time to draw breath before two fresh hordes bore down on them. Hastily they formed a new square four ranks deep. The Riders trotted along the outside of the square, hacking the spearheads jabbing at them. Fighting was at arm’s length as the Riders surged around the militia, but once they realized the Juramonans wouldn’t be easily broken, the hordes withdrew a short distance to rethink their strategy.
Around him, Tol heard the labored breathing of his men. Kiya had sheathed her sword and taken up a spear from a fallen soldier. She wiped blood (not her own) from her hands so she could better grip the spear. Again there was little time to rest before battle was renewed.
From between the reformed ranks of mounted men bowmen emerged – seven hundred of them. The enemy’s plan was easy to discern: unable to force open the dogged militia squares, the imperial commander would use archers to thin the Juramonan ranks until his Riders could smash through.
The first arrows were falling when trumpets sounded on both sides of the Ackal Path. Tol recognized the calls. One was from Zanpolo, with the left wing of the army. The other came from Pagas and the horsemen attached to Tol’s center column.
The ground shook with the thunder of galloping horses. Zanpolo’s twenty hordes met the imperial Riders in a cherry orchard, and a furious cavalry fight erupted on Tol’s left. Rank upon rank joined the fray. Tol guessed the number facing Zanpolo at ten hordes. The emperor was reckoned to have ninety more hordes at his disposal, better than twice the size of Tol’s army. So where were the rest?
The militiaman beside Tol fell dead, an arrow in his eye. Tol put Number Six away and snatched up the dead man’s spear and shield. He couldn’t see Miya anywhere, but spotted Kiya’s long blonde hair streaming below her helmet. Shouldering in beside the Dom-shu, he rammed his spear over the heads of the soldiers in front of him, impaling an enemy rider through the thigh.
Lord Pagas and his landed hordes joined the fray, hitting the emperor’s men on their left. Pressure on the infantry lessened as Pagas’s Riders swept through the bowmen, cutting them down. Freed of the deadly hail of arrows, Tol ordered his spearmen forward.
Locked together by their overlapping shields, the phalanx ¦ of spearmen lurched into motion. Like some fearful spiny beast, the squares of infantry crept down the road. The hordes hovered but kept their distance.
The causeway descended to ground level, exposing the sides and rear of the militia to charges. At Tol’s order, two blocks of spearmen swung right and left, forming a wedge behind the leading company. When a horde sallied out of the orchards on the south side of the road, the militiamen, moving in unison, whipped their spears around to cover that side. The massed movement was so startling (and menacing) that the imperial force pulled up short. Again and again Riders were thrown by the footmen’s actions. Faced with an attack from elite Riders of the Great Horde, foot soldiers were supposed to run away, or toss down their arms and plead for mercy. The Juramonans did neither.
Pagas re-formed his scattered men. Egrin was with them, the high comb topping his marshal’s helmet rising above the squat, round helmets worn by Riders in the landed hordes. At a walking pace, the Army of the East pushed ahead. Ackal V’s men slowly gave ground, uncertain how to best them.
On the right, the north side of the Ackal Path, a low stone wall marked the boundary of a large pasture. Some of Pagas’s men steered their horses around the obstacle, while others urged their animals to jump over it. Confusion resulted, and before they’d regrouped, three imperial hordes came roaring across the pasture, sabers forward. Frustrated by their abortive fight with Tol’s infantry, the men vented their fury on Pagas’s disordered men.
Tol bawled new orders to the militia. Companies of spearmen halted, ponderously swung to their right, and headed toward the boiling cavalry fight. Arrows sailed in from imperial troops. One skipped off Tol’s helmet, throwing him off balance. Kiya looped an arm through his and kept him on his feet.
Pagas’s horde fractured in half. The tough old warlord whose valiant battle against centaurs had earned him a bashed nose and a high-pitched voice was engulfed by younger, saber-swinging foes. He gave as good as he got for quite a while, but finally too many blades flashed around Pagas, and he pitched from his horse.
Egrin, trapped in the other half of the Plains Panther horde, tried to break through to the fallen warlord. Pagas was trying to rise on hands and knees when imperials closed in and trampled him under in a blur. Immediately the cry went up that Lord Pagas was dead.
Undaunted, Egrin and a wedge of horsemen plunged into the enemy riders, forcing them away from where Pagas lay. Unfortunately, it was soon clear the cries were true: Pagas was slain.
Armor clanking, sweat running down every face, the militia was about to close on the cavalry duel when fresh imperial hordes galloped up behind them. With this new threat at their backs, the Juramonans had no choice but to face about. Tol shouted for the nearest company to attack.
“Egrin!” Kiya shouted.
Her cry brought Tol whirling around in time to see the man who had been like a father to him inundated by enemies. A saber blow sent Egrin’s helmet flying, though the old warrior skewered the Rider who’d landed the blow. Even as he recovered his weapon, however, four more warriors thrust at him. He parried the first attack, the next, and the next – then a saber tip caught Egrin under his sword arm.
From his vantage fewer than thirty paces away, Tol saw the strike clearly. The imperial Rider who’d landed the blow stabbed Egrin again, and the old warrior collapsed sideways off his mount and vanished among the churning horsemen.
Breath caught in Tol’s throat. He felt as though the thrust had pierced his own flesh. He began to shout at the top of his lungs. Later, he would have no memory of what he’d said.
Kiya stared at him in shock. She’d never before heard such language from her normally even-tempered husband.
Tol drove his company forward, but the infantry could not catch the horsemen. The horde that had slain Pagas wheeled before the militia’s rush and rode easily out of reach.
The bodies of the two warlords lay within paces of each other. Pagas lay on his stomach in the trampled grass. He had suffered a score of wounds. Egrin’s only visible wounds were the jab underneath his sword arm and a shallow cut across his th
roat. After falling from his horse, his great stamina had allowed him to pull himself to a seated position. He was slumped forward, head hanging down. His right hand still gripped his saber.
With the militia encircling him, keeping watch for enemy attack, Tol knelt by Egrin. His hands shook as he dropped his spear and tilted the old marshal’s head up. Hazel eyes blinked at him.
“Egrin!” Tol cried. “Egrin, can you hear me?”
He blinked again, and managed a barely perceptible nod, but he couldn’t rise or speak.
“Husband!” Kiya said urgently. “We need you – the battle goes on!”
Tol gently laid the marshal on his back and stood, positioning himself so his shadow covered Egrin’s face.
“We’ll hold here,” he said, wiping sweat and tears from his grimy cheeks. “We can’t advance without more cavalry support. Ackal’s men would chew us up.”
With trumpet calls, the trailing hordes of Tol’s army were summoned forward. Last to arrive were Mittigorn and Argonnel, hurrying from their position at the customs house. When the full weight of Tol’s forty-four hordes was in place, the imperials began to withdraw.
Miya rode out of the ranks of Zanpolo’s men. Tol took the reins of his gray war-horse from her. He was trembling so with battle rage and exhaustion, he missed the stirrup twice before finally setting his foot in and swinging into the saddle.
“Have the healers see to Lord Egrin,” he said. “There’s a man’s weight in gold for those who save his life!”
He gathered his reins, ready to gallop after the retreating imperials, but Miya took hold of the gray horse’s bridle. “Wait, Husband,” she said. “Let your warlords chase the enemy. You should stay here.”
He yanked his horse’s head to the side, breaking her grip, and snarled, “No! Not enough blood has been shed – not nearly enough!”
Miya was appalled by his bloodthirsty words, and by the ugly emotions that twisted his face. Kiya, mounted as well, steered her smaller plains pony in front of his muscular warhorse, blocking his attempt to ride away. He shouted at her to move, but she refused to budge.