A messenger awaited Egrin at the Householders’ Hall. The lord marshal commanded his presence. Egrin, his two lieutenants, and Tol, his shilder, went at once to the High House.
Entering the audience hall, Egrin saluted Odovar. “My lord,” he said. “I am here. What is your will?”
Five years of peace had not been good to Odovar. From a burly, impetuous warrior he’d become a fat, sluggish ruler, with either a mutton joint or a tall tankard always in one hand. Dark whispers said the crack on the skull he’d received from Grane had changed him. Once he’d been harsh, but fair. Now he was cruel. Known before as a man of rough good humor, he had become suspicious and bitter.
Belly bulging over his thighs, he sat in his marshal’s chair, his children at his feet. Emea was a pampered nine year old who conducted herself as though she were empress of all Ergoth. Four-year-old Varinz was a good-natured boy, but overfed and lazy. On either side of Odovar were his two principal advisers-his consort Sinnady, and bald Lanza, priest of Manthus.
“Eh? Egrin? Took your time getting here, didn’t you?” Odovar said, gasping slightly.
“I was in the field, training the shilder,” replied the warden evenly. “I came as soon as I heard the horn.”
The marshal gave a grunt and reached down beside his chair for his tankard. He swallowed a long pull of beer, then burped loudly. Varinz giggled.
“Looks like we shall have some action at last,” Odovar proclaimed. “Too much peace has dulled our swords and widened our backsides!”
Egrin remained prudently silent, as did the rest of the assembly.
With another grunt, Odovar returned the tankard to its place by his chair. When he was upright once more, he said, “Call in the visitor-no, not the kender! The imperial courier!”
A lackey bobbed his head and hurried away. He returned shortly with a distinguished though travel-stained noble who wore the red livery of the imperial court. A mature man, he had a magnificent mane of iron-gray hair and a long, pointed beard. He saluted by striking his metal shod heels together.
Odovar waved a flabby, beringed hand. “Repeat your message for my warden.”
The courier turned and repeated his heel-clanging greeting.
“Are you Egrin, Raemel’s son?” he asked. At Egrin’s nod, the courier smiled slightly. “I served with you in the late Emperor Dermount III’s campaign on the north dales.”
Recognition flickered across Egrin’s face. “Yes! You’re-Karil-Kanel?”
“Kastel, son of Furngar.” The two men clasped arms as comrades and the courier said, “The years have treated you very well, son of Raemel. You seem unchanged.”
“Get on with it!” Odovar rumbled petulantly.
Kastel stiffened, resuming his formal manner, and said to Egrin, “There is to be war, my lord. His Imperial Majesty requires the high marshal of the Eastern Hundred to raise a force of four hordes, to be sent at once to join the army of Crown Prince Amaltar, now encamped at Caergoth.”
“Are we riding to Tarsis?” Egrin asked.
“No, warden. Our foes are the forest tribesmen of the Great Green. For many days they’ve been raiding the countryside south of Caergoth, stealing cattle, burning farms, and carrying off imperial subjects as captives. Worse outrages followed. Sixteen days ago, they attacked a hunting party and killed an imperial cousin, Hynor Ergothas. The emperor means to teach them a sanguinary lesson.”
The courier turned to Lord Odovar. “What is the fighting strength of your garrison, my lord?”
Odovar plainly didn’t know, and referred the question to Egrin.
“Two thousand, two hundred horse, plus six hundred ninety foot,” the warden said.
Kastel shook his head. “Not enough. His Majesty expects four thousand horse.”
Odovar laughed, his swollen belly bouncing. “Well, shall I put peasant spearmen on horses and call them Riders of the Great Horde?” He glanced at Tol, who stood a pace behind the warden. Tol kept his eyes down and his expression blank.
“If we recall retired warriors from their estates in the country, we might make up another two hundred horse, my lord,” suggested Lanza.
“Fine. Order it so,” said Odovar.
Onlookers in the assembled crowd murmured; such a move would be highly unpopular. One of the wise policies of long-ago Emperor Ergothas II had granted large tracts of virgin land to warriors of the Great Horde who had served the throne long and well. These retired soldiers had carved out enclaves, built fortified manor houses, and put the land to work, adding greatly to the wealth and prosperity of the empire.
In a louder voice meant to override the muttering, the marshal added, “How many shilder have you, warden?”
“One hundred six, my lord, but they’re barely half-trained.”
“They can finish their training on campaign. Nothing like real war to harden boys into men.” Again he laughed.
Lanza did the figures. “Three thousand, one hundred ninety… and six.”
“Best I can do,” Odovar said to the courier. “Convey my compliments to the crown prince and inform him three hordes will join him at his camp.”
“Yes, my lord.” Kastel bowed, unhappy. He would have to relate the unwelcome message to the emperor.
“Begin the preparations at once,” said Odovar with a wave of his hand. He groped for his tankard again.
“What about the other petitioners, my lord?” asked Lanza carefully.
The marshal snorted in his brew. “Fool kender! Run them out of Juramona!”
Kastel frowned at this casual dismissal. “My lord,” he said, “the kender of Hylo are the emperor’s vassals too. As they owe him their allegiance, so does he owe them protection. May I not hear what concerns them?”
Odovar’s face-always slightly flushed-grew even redder, quickly acquiring a near-purple hue. Lady Sinnady recognized the unhealthy rage that was now so quick to build in him. She leaned toward him, patting his hand and murmuring soothingly Following her example, the marshal’s children hugged his knees and did their best to jolly him out of his anger.
It worked, for now. His choler subsiding, Odovar said in a low voice, “Bring in the kender.”
A side door opened, and sentries waved in the new arrivals. They were fashioned like humans, except for their small stature and pointed ears. One had his long brown hair in dozens of tiny braids, each with brightly colored wooden beads worked in. These clattered noisily whenever he moved his head. His companion’s lighter, sand-colored hair was pulled to the top of his head and fell to the middle of his back in a single horsetail. Both kender wore homespun shirts over buckskin trews, and vests stitched in bright colors and decorated with painted beads.
“Hiya,” said the braided one. “Is this a ceremony?”
His partner thumped him soundly in the gut. “Hold your tongue, Rufus. These guys are important.” Spreading his hands wide and skinning back the sleeves of his shirt, he added, “Nothin’up my sleeve!”
Tol didn’t understand the gesture, but the kender went on without explaining.
“Me, my name is Forry Windseed.” Tossing his thick hank of hair to one side, he gestured at his braided companion. “This ugly joker is my brother-in-law, Rufus Wrinklecap.”
The braided kender, spread his hands also and shook out his sleeves. “Not the Rufus Wrinklecap,” he added. Without pause he said to Sinnady, “That’s a nice sapphire you got there, ma’am. Really sparkles in this light.”
Windseed shook his head so that his beaded braids clattered and clashed. “Not a sapphire,” he said authoritatively. “Blue topaz.”
Wrinklecap’s snort was eloquent. “Topaz my a-”
“Explain yourselves!” thundered Lord Odovar, interrupting the high-pitched disagreement. Everyone present flinched, even Egrin, but the kender merely grinned.
“I bet he could kill it single-handed,” said Wrinklecap. “Did you smell his breath? He could knock ol’ Xim out with that-”
Odovar, face once again purple with rage, stood
, and drew the sword hanging from the back of his marshal’s chair. The sight of sharp iron brought the kender at last to the point, so to speak.
“There’s this monster, you see…” resumed Windseed.
“Called XimXim,” his partner prompted. His Hylo accent made it sound like “Zeem-zeem.”
“We know the beast,” interjected Egrin. “The empire has sent warriors and mages to battle XimXim some eight or nine times.”
“I know of eleven instances myself,” said Kastel. “No survivors returned from any of them. Eleven expeditions, one hundred-twenty men slain without result. No one even knows for certain what the monster looks like.” He explained that the creature’s very name was a testament to his mystery; the kender had dubbed him XimXim because of the sound he made in flight: zimm-zimm-zimm.
“I’ve always thought it must be a dragon,” murmured Lady Sinnady, paling at the thought.
“It’s most unlikely, ma’am. Since the defeat of the dragons two and a half centuries ago, no such beast has been seen in these parts,” Kastel answered.
“XimXim has been quiet for years. I thought him dead or gone away,” said Odovar. He sat down heavily, resting his sword across his knees. “What’s the foul creature done now?”
Windseed said, “In the spring he crossed the Ragtail River and destroyed the village of Skipping Trace-”
“It was the Froghead River,” Wrinklecap corrected.
The marshal forestalled yet another disagreement by raising his sword again. The kender contented themselves with trading narrow-eyed looks, and Wrinklecap continued.
“Anywho,” he said, “XimXim moved into the caves above Skipping Trace, and there he sits, eatin’ kender right and left just like boiled eggs-crack, snap, gulp.”
Both kender seemed amazingly untroubled by the terrible events they were relating. They stood side by side, hands clasped behind their backs, rocking lightly from heels to toes.
“If nothing’s done, all of western Hylo may be depopulated,” Lanza said, frowning.
“An alarming prospect,” murmured the marshal, though he was suddenly smiling. The kender stopped rocking.
Kastel’s face was serious. “My lord,” he said, “the empire has trading rights in Hylo town, and in the ports of Windee and Far-to-go. Something must be done to protect life and property.”
Odovar drained his tankard dry, and bawled for more. “You can’t have it both ways, sir! Either my warriors go to fight the foresters, or they ride to Hylo. Which do you want?”
The great hall was quiet. In the stillness, the marshal’s son started hiccuping. At a wave from Sinnady, a lady-in-waiting scooped him up and hustled him away.
“The kenders’ request is valid,” Egrin said thoughtfully, “but an imperial order takes precedence, does it not?”
“It does,” declared Lanza, patting his forehead with a small white cloth. The robes of his office were heavy, and he suffered in the summer heat. The kender seemed fascinated by the beads of moisture trickling down his bald pate.
“Then this foolishness is a waste of time!” Odovar said, glaring at the kender. “My order stands. Prepare the hordes to ride to Caergoth.”
The kender opened their mouths to protest, and the marshal added quickly, “When the campaign against the forest tribes is done, I’ll send someone to look into your monster problem. I have no warriors to spare until then.”
The courier stroked his pointed beard thoughtfully. “My lord, could you not send someone now to discover the nature of the threat? Perhaps your seneschal?”
Lanza’s eyes widened in horror. “Me? Hunt a monster?” His mellifluous voice rose to a squeak.
“You need not fight XimXim, merely stalk and observe him.”
“Do it, Lanza,” said Odovar, bored with the whole discussion.
“My lord, please! I cannot abandon my duties as priest and seneschal, and I am not a young man! Travel is so difficult. My health-”
“You eat better than I do, and little less,” snapped the marshal. “Go with the kender! Take a pair of footmen with you to ward off danger. Find out exactly where-and what-this monster is, and report back here. That is my order!”
Lanza could only bow his head and withdraw, but the expression of terrified dismay remained on his sweaty face. The kender followed him, talking rapidly to each other.
“Poor man,” Egrin said under his breath.
“You fear the monster will get him?” Tol whispered.
“I fear that after two weeks among the kender, he may prefer XimXim’s company!”
The atmosphere of the town quickly changed. Heralds were dispatched to outlying estates to call the retired gentry to arms, and everyone in Juramona set to work preparing for the campaign, each doing his or her part to serve (or exploit) the situation. Unlike Odovar’s expedition against the local Pakin rebels five years earlier, this was to be a real campaign, shoulder to shoulder with hordes from all over the empire. In command of all would be Crown Prince Amaltar, eldest son of Emperor Pakin III.
Riders of the Great Horde mustered in the square where Vakka Zan had lost his head years before. Each rider had to provide his own arms, two horses, a shilder, and provisions for ten days. There weren’t enough shilder in training to accommodate every warrior in Juramona, so servants and stableboys were pressed into service.
Foot soldiers, chiefly the guards who manned Juramona’s wall and kept the gates of the town and High House, assembled in a side street. They were not considered very important in the scheme of war-making. Their chief job on campaign was to march with the supply train and protect it from bandits or enemy raids. Commanding them was Durazen the Lame, also called One-Eyed Durazen.
Once a Rider of the Horde, Durazen had not earned his injuries in battle. Blind drunk on a boar hunt, he’d fallen from his horse into a hayberry hedge. His leg was badly broken and he’d lost an eye to a hayberry thorn. No longer fit for mounted warfare, he had been given command of Juramona’s foot soldiers.
Besides actual fighting men, hundreds of ordinary folk in town prepared to go to war as well. Sutlers, blacksmiths, and healers, as well as quacksalvers of every stripe, packed their bags and waited to follow the warriors. A ponderous civilian wagon train formed up outside the wall. It was laden with everything from spare spearshafts to barrels of brown beer.
Tol had imagined war as a grim business, with hard-faced warriors gazing at the horizon, watchful for a cunning enemy. In truth, the preparations seemed more suited to a festival or fair. He saw his friend Narren among the footmen and Crake among the sutlers. Tall and lean, his heavy scale hauberk hanging from his shoulders, Narren looked calm as he leaned on his spear and listened to Durazen, mounted on a sturdy cob, rasp out marching orders. Crake, reclining on a canvas tarp covering a wagonload of beer, played dreamy airs on his flute. Tol knew Crake’s hunting bow would be stowed in the cart as well. Although he liked his ease and his pleasures, Crake never took chances. He wouldn’t dream of going into harm’s way unarmed.
Lord Odovar appeared on the back of a black charger. Sleek and powerful as he was, the animal looked strained by the massive burden he had to bear. Rumor had it the marshal weighed twenty stone-without his arms or armor.
“Poor beast,” Egrin said tersely, echoing Tol’s thoughts. “He won’t last five leagues. Odovar will be in a wagon before we reach the river Caer.”
Tol gave his own horse an affectionate pat. He still rode Smoke, the horse left behind by Spannuth Grane at Tol’s family farm. Smoke had proved to be a strong, clever beast, and Tol valued him greatly.
The whole of the army mustered outside the walls of Juramona, covering the pastures and road. Drovers lashed at unruly bullocks, and competing carters shouted and shook fists at each other as they jockeyed for position. Children and dogs ran among the files of stolid footmen who sweated in their mail jerkins. It was a sultry morning, heavy with the promise of more heat.
Odovar made a short speech that few heard, and even fewer remembered. He rode fo
rth with his private bodyguard to the front of the three columns of horsemen. The center column was the horde known as the Plains Panthers, veterans of the civil war between Ackal and Pakin. The left wing, the Firebrand Horde, included the landed gentry and men of rank and wealth in the province. The right wing, the honor wing, was led by Egrin. Behind him rode eight hundred twenty-seven horse, including Tol and his shilder comrades. Though not a properly constituted horde, the right wing was given the name Rooks and Eagles, signifying their mixed nature-which combined youth and vigor with age and experience.
“Ho, you men!” Manzo called. “Bring out the standard!”
Two veteran warriors pushed their way on foot to the head of the column. Between them they carried the Eagle of Juramona, carved from the trunk of an ancient oak and painted in lifelike colors. It was twice the size of a normal bird, and as the men held it, a large pole was inserted into the base between its clawed feet.
“Too bad there’s no rook to go with him,” a shilder remarked.
Egrin waved his hand in a circle like a conjurer. Grinning, the warriors turned the eagle around. Rather than the same brown and gold coloring, the bird staring out from the reverse had been painted black. It was cleverly done. Viewed from one side, the figure was a soot-black rook; from the opposite side, a noble eagle.
Egrin’s own remarks to his men were very brief. Lifting his dagger high, he invoked the bison-headed god of battle, declaring, “May Corij ride with you all!”
The elves of Silvanost were known to sing as they marched, and the dwarves of Thorin went to battle blowing horns and beating enormous brazen gongs. It was traditional for the hordes of Ergoth to ride in silence. They spread out across the land like a flood, and the wordless, inexorable block of saber-wielding horsemen brought great fear to its enemies. The countryside ahead of an advancing horde emptied of travelers, traders, bandits, and brigands. Game animals fled the massive onrush of metal and men. For leagues in advance of an Ergothian army, all was still and empty. Farmers abandoned their fields and bolted themselves in their huts. Even insatiably curious kender stayed clear of the army’s leading elements, but they were drawn to the long, winding baggage train behind it as ants are drawn to a trail of honey.
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