[Ergoth 01] - A Warrior's Journey

by Paul B. Thompson

  Hand in hand, they walked back toward the square, surrounded by dancing fireflies.

  “Will you write a letter for me if I tell you what to say?” Tol asked.

  The dimple appeared at the corner of her mouth. “Dismissing a girl back home?”

  He told her about his old friend Egrin, warden of Juramona. “He’ll want to know what happened here, and I don’t trust Enkian to give him the straight tale. Egrin is the man who trained me in the art of war—and how to be honorable.”

  “Why not send for him?” she said. “Make him one of your retainers. Many lords with less rank than you have twenty or thirty followers. You can afford eleven.”

  “He would not come. He’s loyal to his place in Juramona.”

  Val sighed. “Men’s loyalties make me tired. I’ll ask Amaltar to make it an order. Will that move your warden?”

  “Yes!” he exclaimed, and slipped his arm around her waist. “You’d really ask the prince to assign Egrin to me?”

  She stared up at him. “I’d do anything for you.”

  In the deep shadow of the west wing of the palace, they kissed and reluctantly parted. Tol waited at the door of the Riders’ Hall, watching as Valaran’s slight figure was slowly engulfed by the darkness of the lane alongside the palace.

  He went inside with a smile on his face. He did not notice that two floors above, an unlighted window in the Riders’ Hall silently closed.

  Chapter 16

  The Bargain

  Happiness is sometimes best measured at a distance. Close up, small flaws show more clearly. The three years Tol spent in Daltigoth were like that. During this time, he knew many fears and frustrations. Only later did he realize they were some of the happiest years of his life. In one hand he held the reins of a powerful formation of seasoned fighters; in the other, the slim, warm hand of the girl he loved. The two halves of Tol’s life balanced well, helping him avoid the temptations of power, and giving him the satisfaction of knowing that he was loved—even if his lover was married.

  Tol took a large house in the bustling canal district. Two stories high, built of brick and stucco around an open courtyard, it housed his retainers, Kiya and Miya, and a scruffy band of locally hired cooks, washerwomen, valets, and grooms. The highlight of life in Juramona Hall—as the inhabitants dubbed it—was when Egrin arrived to take up residence there. Summoned by Prince Amaltar’s order, Egrin reclaimed his role as Tol’s second father. Officially in charge of training new members of the Horse Guards, the former warden easily commanded the respect of the young guardsmen.

  Tol had a somewhat more difficult time with the guardsmen, at least at first. His youth and widely known peasant origins were held against him by the well-born riders. They saw him as a palace favorite thrust upon them for political reasons. Nobles in the guard opposed him in every way short of open defiance. They pretended his provincial accent was unintelligible. Orders and dispositions were conveniently forgotten, drills and exercises ignored or performed in such a half-hearted manner their value was lost.

  At first he was tolerant. He respected the experience of his subordinates. A warrior of Ergoth began riding a horse not long after he learned to walk. Some of the men under Tol’s command had fifteen or twenty years in the saddle, compared to his scant seven. They felt Tol had nothing to teach them. Fighting was the birthright of an Ergoth warrior, a trait born in their blood, not a trade to be learned like throwing pots, or weaving cloth.

  When a few guardsmen “forgot” to stand and salute when Tol entered their hall, however, his tolerance came to an abrupt end. Fourteen of the offenders were demoted in rank and sentenced by Tol to ride around the city’s outer wall, night and day, until they dropped. Failure to obey would have meant immediate execution. A further thirty of the most recalcitrant warriors were taken to the practice field outside Daltigoth for a lesson in unity and soldierly obedience.

  It was a mild autumn day, dry and clear. Tol’s ten-man retinue, drawn from the ranks of the old Juramona foot guard, marched into the open field. They carried poles the length and weight of their regulation spears but lacking lethal iron heads. Tol asked his truculent horsemen how many of them it would take to rout the foot soldiers, to break their formation. No one replied until he ordered them to do so.

  “Five,” said one sullen warrior, a distant cousin of the House of Ackal.

  “Then take four with you and show me.”

  “Your men will be killed.”

  “My men know how to defend themselves. Do your worst. I want to see if your fighting skills are equal to your arrogance.”

  The imperial cousin chose four of his friends, and they galloped away to gain room to charge. At Tol’s nod, Narren marched his men across the dusty field. Yelling like fiends, the horsemen drew sabers and spurred their mounts at the foot soldiers. At twenty paces, Narren’s band of ten made a quick turn to the left and formed a circle, presenting a hedge of blunt poles to the onrushing riders.

  Seeing their targets thus arrayed, the riders tried to veer off, but Narren wouldn’t let them. The footmen on the safe side of the formation swung their poles over the shoulders of their comrades, and the foot soldiers charged the horsemen! Taken aback, confused, the riders let them close, and all five were knocked from their saddles.

  “Now you understand what trained, determined men on foot can do,” Tol said, moving among the unhorsed men. “We taught ourselves these tactics at Juramona, an outpost on the eastern plain. Imagine what Tarsan mercenaries can do, or the host of the Speaker of the Stars!”

  The noble, twice Tol’s age, looked up at his young commander for a moment, then saluted smartly. “Will you show us how to beat trained footmen, my lord?” he asked.

  That was the beginning of Tol’s acceptance. Using his own ideas, and the sound lessons he’d learned as Egrin’s shilder, Tol set about creating a new kind of horde. The Horse Guards came first to respect him, then admire him, and finally felt something akin to worship. He transformed them from a dandified street patrol into a true fighting force, a warrior band of brothers.

  Not everyone accepted Tol’s leadership. More than twenty well-born warriors left the Horse Guards, openly condemning Tol as a dangerous radical and a military impostor. The disaffected warriors found a champion in Prince Nazramin, who despised the new lord. He rallied the defectors to his personal standard, adding them to his already large private retinue. Riding forth from the prince’s villa in the Old City, the band became known as “Nazramin’s Wolves,” a feared new feature of city life. They beat up courtiers and officials who affronted them, started brawls in taverns, and harassed clerics and sorcerers loyal to Prince Amaltar. More than a few times Tol had to lead a contingent of Horse Guards to arrest a wolf accused of mayhem. The guards usually got their man, but few of Nazramin’s followers were ever punished. The pattern was grimly similar in each case. When the accused malefactor was brought before an imperial magistrate, no one showed up to press the complaint against him. Without the offended party, the magistrate had to release the ruffian.

  Such a state of affairs never would have been allowed under a strong emperor, but each passing season made Pakin III’s failing health more apparent. The day-to-day rule of the empire fell heavily on the crown prince, but many in the empire preferred the harsh, warlike Nazramin to his cold, scheming brother. To warlords accustomed to settling matters with a sword, Nazramin was seen as strong, and Amaltar as effete.

  Not long after Tol assumed command of the City Horse Guards, Valaran, fourth daughter and youngest child of Lord Valdid and Lady Pernina, became Princess Consort Valaran. The elaborate marriage ceremony marked the longest time she had spent with Amaltar to that point, she told Tol. Once wed, she dined with the prince every third day, played draughts by the fireside on rainy evenings, and occasionally read aloud to him. Such, she told Tol, was the life of a princess consort.

  Tol knew he should let that be enough, but he couldn’t. “Has he… known you?”

  “The marriage i
s not legitimate until that happens.” She would have left it there, but he asked her again and she said bluntly, “Amaltar is my husband, Tol.”

  That had been early in their relationship, and they had moved beyond such jealousies, beyond the need to pry into each other’s secrets. When the weather was warm and fair, they went together to the Font of the Blue Phoenix, to be alone, to share love. It was the perfect place for them to meet. Outsiders could not breech the spell surrounding the garden, and the sorcerers within kept far away from the Irda nullstone Tol still carried. For three years, their idyll continued, but like all perfect things, it could not last. Forces of ambition and disorder, never defeated, marshaled anew.

  * * * * *

  In the autumn of the tenth year of the reign of Pakin III, war finally broke out between the empire and the city-state of Tarsis. Long-smoldering disputes over tariffs and trading rights in Hylo finally ignited into open conflict when the Tarsan fleet stopped patrolling the southern waters and pirates began to run rampant along the Ergothian coast. Kharland buccaneers, usually restrained by the powerful Tarsan navy, raided the far west coast of Ergoth, seizing captives, burning crops, and plundering villages. Lacking a large fleet, the Ergothians demanded the navy return and suppress the pirates. Tarsis refused.

  The western sea raids were a diversion. The merchant-princes of Tarsis hoped to shift Ergoth’s attention westward while they landed a sizable mercenary army in Hylo. The city-state had long entertained designs on the kender kingdom, nominally independent but in fact dominated by Ergoth. A few discreet agents had attempted to foment discord and resentment among the kender, but the chaotic kender proved resistant to Tarsan influence. More direct action was required, so with Ergoth’s attention focused on its ravaged western coast, Tarsis put troops ashore in Hylo Bay. Ignoring the principle towns—which they could capture at their leisure—the Tarsan army marched south to meet the expected Ergothian counterattack.

  Twenty-six imperial hordes rode north under Lord Urakan, commander of all imperial armies, to drive the Tarsans from Hylo. Urakan was opposed by two forces. The first was the army of Tarsan mercenaries under an elf general named Tylocost; the other, a collection of plains tribes and other hired barbarians led by the nomad chieftain Krato. Lord Urakan easily drove the plainsmen back over the Thel Mountains, but the left wing of his army was sharply defeated by Tylocost in the river country of eastern Hylo. Lord Urakan struck back by sending nine hordes up the east side of the Thel Mountains, trying to cut off Tylocost from his seaborne supplies. Fighting continued for two years, neither nation gaining the upper hand.

  In the spring of Pakin III’s twelfth regnal year, Prince Nazramin and his wolves, reinforced by four additional hordes, joined Lord Urakan’s host. They won a bloody victory over Krato’s plainsmen, utterly destroying a band of nomads in the pay of Tarsis. In the spirit of Ergothian conquerors of old, Nazramin massacred the enemy and sold their families into captivity. The red-haired prince’s reputation rose high as a consequence of his victory. He returned to Daltigoth in triumph, though his only lasting accomplishment was to fill the other plains tribes with hate, driving them into the arms of Tarsis.

  Tol saw no fighting in the first part of the war. Still haunted by the death of his uncle Pakin II, Prince Amaltar was more and more consumed by fear of assassination. He would not allow his champion to leave the capital, and Tol chafed at his enforced inactivity. Returning one night after chasing bandits who’d been harassing travelers on the Ackal Path, he poured out his frustrations to Egrin.

  “Patience,” the elder warrior counseled. “We are doing honorable service here. How many brigands did we kill this day?”

  “But I want to try my men in real battle, against the Tarsans,” Tol said peevishly. “Tylocost is counted the best general in the world. I want to put him to the test!”

  “You’ll get your chance. Neither Prince Nazramin nor Lord Urakan is a match for the elf. When the empire needs you, you will be called.”

  For a time it seemed his mentor was wrong, and Tol would get no chance to fight. And then, while camped in the forest outside the kender port town of Far-to-go, Lord Urakan’s army was stricken by the Red Wrack, a dreadful plague. Soldiers perfectly hale at sunrise developed a hacking cough and irregular red spots on their skin by midmorning, were crimson from hair to heels by afternoon, and spitting blood by next dawn. Death followed for most in only a day. Sufferers afflicted by the worse forms of the plague would bleed from their ears and eyes before dying, which was why easterners like Tol knew the disease as “the bloodtears.”

  Hoping to leave behind whatever miasma was causing the disease, and save the remainder of his army, Lord Urakan abandoned his coastal camp and retreated twenty leagues into Ergothian territory, the Northern Hundred.

  The Tarsans fared little better. Taking advantage of Urakan’s withdrawal, Tylocost’s host crossed the bay to attack Hylo city, but were repulsed with heavy loss. Kender reports (never very reliable) told of death on a massive scale, bodies piled high on the beach and in the surf, the waters of Hylo Bay stained red with the blood of ten thousand mercenaries. Problem was, no one, not even the local kender, could say who had inflicted this signal defeat on Tylocost. It wasn’t Urakan’s doing, nor Prince Nazramin’s—he was by this time once again comfortably ensconced in Daltigoth. A third force, as yet unknown, must have joined the fray.

  Tol and Egrin were present at a council of war, held in the audience hall of the Imperial Palace, when a delegation of kender arrived in Daltigoth with their account of the Tarsan disaster. Warlords filled the hall to hear the kenders’ tale, and Tol knew the ailing Pakin III listened from his aerie, concealed by the curtains above and behind Amaltar’s throne.

  “How large was Tylocost’s army?” asked the prince, perusing the enormous map laid at his feet. Drawn on a single oxhide, the map lapped at the foot of the imperial throne on one side, ran down the dais steps, and ended at the waiting kender on the other.

  “Twenty thousand men,” said one kender, wearing a sort of turban made of shiny cloth. It was too large for his head and had obviously been “borrowed” from someone with a bigger skull.

  “Thirty thousand, you mean,” corrected the second kender. He was dressed like a plainsman, in buckskin and feathers.

  “Where did they land?” the prince demanded.

  The turbaned kender crawled onto the map and pointed to a long, wide beach east of Hylo city.

  Egrin had been staring at the turbaned kender and now said, “I know you. You came to Juramona a few years back, seeking the help of Lord Odovar against the monster XimXim.”

  The kender pushed his drooping turban up, and declared, “Never been there.”

  “He’s not that Forry Windseed,” said his buckskin-clad companion. “And I’m not Rufus Wrinklecap.”

  Egrin’s eyes narrowed. He was certain he knew better, but only asked, “Could it have been XimXim who attacked Tylocost?”

  By navigating a typical fog of kender exaggerations, embroidery, and outright lies, they gradually pieced together the strange tale. When Tylocost had half his army ashore, a thick gray fog blew down the bay, covering the Tarsan ships. Before long, a terrible chorus of shrieks and screams arose from the cloud. The fog turned crimson from all the blood spilled, and disciplined mercenaries threw down their arms and fled. Many boats capsized as panicked soldiers tried to row to safety. Hundreds who had escaped the carnage on the beach ended up drowning.

  “Coulda been XimXim, I guess. We found no tracks on the sand—just lots of dead soldiers,” Windseed said, genuinely puzzled. “Never knew ol’ Xim to take on so many at once, though.”

  “Something must be done.”

  Heavy silence followed this declaration from Crown Prince Amaltar, until Lord Tremond cleared his throat. Once renowned as the handsomest man in the empire, he had become red-nosed and bloated from the soft life of the capital.

  “Perhaps Lord Urakan—,” he began.

  “Lord Urakan has five
thousand men sick, and he’s lost twice that many horses to the plague. I will not ask him to do more.”

  “Regobart has mustered eighteen hordes, Your Highness, ready to ride north,” offered Valdid cautiously.

  “Lord Regobart’s army is needed to safeguard the eastern border,” the prince replied. “His absence there could bring on an uprising by the forest tribes, or trouble with the Silvanesti.”

  More silence. A loud, sneering laugh came from the far end of the hall. The assembled lords slowly turned toward the sound, and Prince Nazramin sauntered out of the dimly lit recesses of the hall. Draped in a black pantherskin mantle, his armor clinked with each footfall. Having recently returned from the war in the north, his normally long hair was still cropped, his curled mustache clipped, to fit his closed helmet. The contrast between his flaming hair and black attire was striking. He gripped a large pewter flagon in one hand.

  “Such brave men!” he said in a loud voice. “Heroes one and all! Won’t anyone here visit the little kender and see what’s amiss?”

  Tol opened his mouth to speak, but Egrin restrained him. When Tol shot him an inquiring look, the warden shook his head briefly and mouthed one word: Beware!

  “Will you go, brother?” asked Amaltar.

  “If my liege sends me, I will go.” There was no respect in the words, only sarcasm. “I have piled up two thousand heads for the empire, and filled the workhouses with five thousand slaves. Still, if the emperor my father needs me again, I shall go.”

  He lifted the heavy cup to his lips and drank, his hand trembling ever so slightly.

  “Of course,” he went on, “I’ll need a new army. There are plenty of salon soldiers and polished peasants in Daltigoth to fill out the ranks of a new horde, aren’t there?”

  Gasps echoed in the audience hall, and several warlords muttered angrily at the slander spoken against them. Many eyes glanced Tol’s way. He broke Egrin’s hold on his arm and stepped forward.