“Your armor is too extensive for our local hordes. That, and the fineness of your tack speaks of the city.”
The rider grinned, pushing back his wide-brimmed iron hat to reveal a sunburned nose. “Sharp eyes! Are you a warrior?”
“I am a Rider of the Horde.”
“Why do you work in your shirtsleeves, like a common drudge? Are you being punished?”
Tol shrugged. “The bridge needed rebuilding. My men needed to sweat.”
“You provincials have strange ways!” commented the sunburned fellow. He patted the leather case around his neck. “We have dispatches for the marshal of the Eastern Hundred.”
“You’ll find him in the High House in Juramona.”
Tol called for water to be brought for the messengers and their horses. He introduced himself, and again the men looked surprised.
“Your name is known to us! You slew the chief of all the forest tribes in single combat!” said the message-bearer with the sunburned face.
Tol only smiled, for the tale had grown in the telling.
Tombuld came bustling across the bridge planking, growling at the men for shirking. Tol waved the dwarfs objections aside, pointing to the imperial couriers.
“Well, send ’em on their way and get back to work!” Tombuld said, tugging on his long beard in frustration. “Bridges don’t build themselves, you know!”
Watered, the horsemen went on their way, muttering between themselves about “impudent dwarf artisans.” Fortunately, the crotchety Tombuld did not hear them.
Tol ordered everyone back to work. Down in the gully, he resumed toiling alongside his men, filling the stone pier with rubble and mortar.
“Why couriers? Is it war?” Narren asked him.
“I doubt it,” Tol replied. “War would bring more than two messengers for Lord Enkian. Besides, no recent traveler on the road has mentioned war.”
The only menaces Tol could think of were the elusive monster XimXim, still at large in Hylo though quiet for some time, and Spannuth Grane, who was presumed to have fled the Great Green for parts unknown.
Two years earlier, Lord Odovar had sent his seneschal, the priest Lanza, to report on XimXim’s depredations against the kender. Lanza entered a cave above Hylo city and was never seen alive again. Later, some kender found his head, hands, and feet, all neatly severed and left in a tidy heap at the foot of the mountain. After all this time and many hundreds of deaths, there was still no one who could say just what XimXim looked like, or even what kind of creature he was. People heard him in flight or saw his distant silhouette against the clouds, but to go closer meant certain death.
A rumor had reached Juramona that a powerful sorcerer had quelled XimXim, but no one knew if it was true. After Odovar’s death, Lord Enkian paid scant attention to the monster and did not bother to confirm the story.
As for Grane, imperial bounty hunters had scoured the Great Green for him, but never found so much as a hair. Some of the finest trackers in the empire had vied for the glory and gain to be had from collaring the renegade, but he had escaped them all, vanishing like a morning shadow at midday. No new plots or rebellions had surfaced, and many had begun to believe the high-born sorcerer dead. No, thought Tol, as the riders passed, the empire was almost sleepy with calm.
Tol’s soldiers worked until twilight on the new bridge, then returned to their camp overlooking the creek. In his tent Tol found Kiya and Miya waiting for him. Kiya had made supper, and Miya was waiting to scrub the day’s dirt off him. Although they were spouses in name only, Kiya and Miya took their responsibilities seriously. The Dom-shu women never left Tol’s side, refusing to remain in Juramona when he was away.
“Strip, husband! A healthy man must be clean!” Miya said. She held up a boar-bristle brush that could scour verdigris off a copper kettle.
“I can wash myself!” he thundered. To Kiya, he said, for the hundredth time, “Let the camp cook prepare our food! It’s his job!”
Long ago he’d learned quiet answers didn’t impress the Dom-shu sisters. They respected him only when he was as forthright as they. Respect did not, however, translate into obedience.
“It isn’t right for a stranger to cook for a woman’s husband! Mates can cook for each other, but it isn’t proper for strangers to do so!” Kiya replied, also for the hundredth time.
In truth, the three of them got along well together. They occupied a spacious timber frame house in Strawburn Lane, near the potters’ kilns. Little more than a ruin when Lord Enkian gave it to them, the house had been filthy and infested with rats, but the Dom-shu women quickly set things right. Miya crawled under the house with a club and killed or evicted all the rats in a single morning, while Kiya fumigated the interior with burning sulfur, and scrubbed walls, ceiling, and floors till they shone. Confounding village preconceptions about tribal people, the sisters were scrupulously clean and kept the house that way, too. Woe to any visitor who walked in with manure on his heels! Regardless of rank, the miscreant was likely to find himself pitched headfirst into the street and barred from entry again until he cleaned his boots.
Rather than wives or hostages, it seemed to Tol that he’d acquired a pair of brawny, bossy sisters. Their first night in the new house, he’d been relieved (if a bit surprised) when the Dom-shu women prepared a bed for themselves by the fireplace-in a room away from him. They explained that he was not the lover they dreamed of, but they were content to do as their father ordered, and live with a great warrior and serve him. He didn’t know whether to be relieved or insulted.
But Kiya proved to be a fine archer and an excellent hunter. Disdaining to buy meat from merchants in town, she ranged the pastures and woodlands around Juramona, taking rabbits, deer, and grouse. Unfortunately, she insisted on cooking what she caught. She could reduce a toothsome venison roast to a blackened cinder seemingly in moments.
Unlike her woods-roving sister, Miya took quickly to town life. She visited the markets daily and became known as a fearsome haggler. Tol saw traders fold their stalls and flee, though the day was not yet half over, when Miya appeared in the market square. She reduced the dreaded silver merchant Cosen to tears by her persistent bargaining, obtaining a silver earring she wanted for much less than his asking price. She also became known as the only human in Juramona who could trade with kender and not end up picked clean.
Now, having fended off Miya’s deadly brush, Tol was saved from indigestion when Relfas arrived at the tent. The young noble demanded to speak with him. The sisters shouted at Relfas to go away, but Tol accompanied him outside.
Relfas sported a full red beard and flowing mustache. His polished armor and faultlessly clean cape and boots stood in sharp contrast to Tol’s humbler, sweat-stained attire. Relfas demanded details of the encounter with the imperial couriers. The story was quickly told, and the young noble frowned in thought.
“I wonder what they want?” he said. “Perhaps I should return to Juramona.”
“Why don’t you? All you’re getting out here are blisters on your backside from watching us work.” It was true, but Relfas reacted to the jibe with ill-concealed contempt.
Before Tol could reenter his tent, he witnessed the clattering arrival of a dozen riders from Juramona. Leading them was Egrin’s chief lieutenant, Manzo. In the past two years, the premature graying of Manzo’s hair and beard had become complete. His old man’s coloring sat oddly on his still-young face, yet it also lent him an air of gravity.
“You are recalled,” Manzo said to him. “I am to bring you to Lord Enkian at once.”
“Is it war, then?”
Manzo shook his head. “Couriers came today with messages for the marshal, messages bearing the imperial seal. He read them, and sent me to fetch you and your men. Prisoners from the town dungeon will be sent to finish work on the bridge.”
Tol began to ask more questions, and Manzo added brusquely, “Make haste! I was bidden to have you in the High House well before dawn.”
Tol had two hu
ndred men working on the bridge. Tired from a long day’s work, they nonetheless shouldered their axes, mallets, and shovels, and formed for the march home. Without complaint, Kiya and Miya packed Tol’s things and took their place in the marching order. Left behind were the civilians: Tombuld, two dozen expert craftsmen, and the blacksmith who was making nails. They would remain at the bridge and complete the project with the prisoners.
Tol’s mind whirled in a riot of speculation as he marched home. Manzo offered him a horse, but he politely declined. As long as he was with his men, he went on foot, as they did.
They reached Juramona after midnight. The Dom-shu sisters made for Strawburn Lane, while Tol wearily climbed the hill to the High House. Torches blazed in every sconce in the timber citadel. A caravan of wagons waited in the square, and servants dashed up and down the halls, carrying clothing and supplies to the wagons. Short of full-scale war, Tol could not imagine what crisis had provoked such feverish activity.
Lord Enkian, in full marshal’s panoply, was in the audience hall. He had refined its furnishings, as he had done with the rest of the High House. The tapestry behind the marshal’s dais was new and showed the empire’s founder, Ackal Ergot, receiving a golden crown from the hand of the god Corij himself. To the usual banners hanging from the rafters had been added the crimson and black standard of the Mordirin line. Brocaded draperies covered most of the formerly bare, whitewashed walls. Numerous braziers on high tripods blazed, filling the hall with light.
When Tol entered, the marshal was snapping orders to Egrin and his subordinates. He saw Tol and waved him forward.
“We’re leaving in the morning,” Enkian declared flatly. “I want one hundred of your best footmen to accompany the wagons as guards. You will lead them.”
“Yes, my lord. Ah… sir?”
Enkian had turned away to give more orders to his seneschal, an elderly, crippled warrior called Zabanath. He turned back with an impatient growl.
“May I ask, where are we going, my lord?” Tol asked.
“This is an affair of state. We are going to Daltigoth.” He lowered his voice, adding, “Your presence was specifically requested by Crown Prince Amaltar.”
Tol was thunderstruck. Daltigoth, first city of the empire! As Caergoth was a city many times the size of Juramona, so Daltigoth was many times greater than Caergoth. He knew a few people who’d gone to the capital to seek their fortunes: His old friend Crake, for example, had departed more than a year ago after a dispute with a tavern patron left the other fellow dead. One step ahead of arrest, Crake had lit out for the city. Tol had received no word from him since, and he sorely missed the flutist’s company.
Tol left the hurly-burly of the High House and assembled his tired men in the street outside the Householders’ Hall. There was no need to pick the hundred best. They were all excellent-loyal, tough, and willing fighters-so he let them volunteer. When they learned the destination was Daltigoth, several demurred immediately.
“The city’s full of wizards,” said one soldier warily. “I hear they fly around the streets, casting spells on unwary folk!”
Another gave a disgusted snort, saying, “The emperor wouldn’t allow that! I heard tell they got houses faced with pure gold, and towers of stone so high eagles nest in the rafters.”
They wrangled about the supposed wonders of Daltigoth until Tol called for quiet. Those who wanted to go drew lots, and soon he had his hundred. Narren, he was pleased to note, was among those who made the cut.
The soldiers staying behind packed the supplies for the trip while those who were going fell into their beds to catch what little sleep they could before departure. When dawn finally broke, Tol was shaken awake not by one of the Dom-shu sisters, but by Egrin himself.
“Come, Tol,” the warden said. “Walk with me.”
In the next room, Kiya and Miya were stirring. An awful smell assailed Tol’s nostrils, probably Kiya’s breakfast. He pulled on a rough woolen cloak and followed Egrin outside. The warden led him around the corner of the house to a deserted alley, then turned suddenly and laid a scarred, strong hand on Tol’s shoulder.
“I want you to be careful!” he admonished with unusual verve. “There are many dangers, many vices in Daltigoth for a young man. Swear to me you’ll be careful!”
Tol smiled, scratching his bearded chin. “You said the very same to us before we entered the prince’s camp in Caergoth two years ago. And I’m not a child, you know.”
“It doesn’t matter if you’re twice as old as Zabanath! The temptations of an army camp-even an imperial one-are nothing compared to what you’ll face in the capital. And you not only have to avoid them yourself, but lead your men away from them, too.”
More curious than afraid, Tol asked, “What sort of temptations?”
Egrin looked away, obviously remembering some past adventure. “All the usual ones-drink and debauchery are there in mortal abundance. More subtle are the dangers from the young nobles of Daltigoth. They consider it vital to their reputation at court to fight duels and kill as many opponents as they can. Any excuse will do, so beware! And there are foreigners of every race, and thieves, footpads, procurers, cheats, liars, and killers for hire. Sorcerers abound, both licit and illicit, and they can ensnare the unwary in all sorts of dangerous schemes.”
It all sounded very interesting to Tol, but the concern in his mentor’s voice led him to say, “Aren’t you going with us, Egrin?”
“No. Lord Enkian must make the journey, so I am appointed to govern the Eastern Hundred in his place.”
That cast a damper on Tol’s enthusiasm. Egrin was his second father. Not in seven years had he been separated from the warden by such distance.
“I will be on my guard,” Tol said earnestly. “Besides, the giant sisters won’t let me come to harm.”
“You’ll take them?” asked Egrin, not displeased.
“We’re supposed to awe them with the might of the empire, aren’t we? What better place for that than the capital?”
Despite the young man’s assurances, Egrin fell into a melancholy mood. He knew no one came away from Daltigoth unchanged. The idea consumed him so thoroughly he could not bring himself to see the caravan off.
The sun had cleared the nearby hills and flooded the valley with golden light when Lord Enkian and an escort of two hundred horse rode out of Juramona. Behind them came the train of twenty-two wagons, guarded by the foot soldiers.
Tol marched his contingent through streets filled with well-wishers. His men were ah commoners, well known to the ordinary inhabitants who turned out to see them on their way. Traders in the crowd were no doubt pleased to see Miya among the departing contingent. Along the way, Tol spotted healer Felryn and his disciples from the temple of Mishas, Lord Wanthred and his retainers, and many familiar faces of former shilder who had not become full-fledged Riders of the Horde. He felt a twinge of sadness at not seeing Egrin, however.
Outside the walls of Juramona, Enkian reined up, hearing, behind him, the crowd’s cheers for the lowly foot soldiers. No such display had accompanied his departure. He did not care whether the peasants he governed approved of him, only that they obeyed as was proper, but their obvious affection for Tol still sparked a flame of jealousy in his cold heart. Lord Enkian’s lean, dark face set in hard lines, and he spurred his mount to a brisker pace. It would be a long way to Daltigoth, especially for those on foot.
The spring weather was fine as the marshal’s caravan wended its way down the high road south to Caergoth. Red bud and dogwood trees bloomed in purple and white profusion, and goldenrod covered the hillsides in drifts of yellow.
When they reached Caergoth’s stone walls, Tol’s soldiers and the wagons remained outside while Enkian and his mounted escort spent the night within. The evening was unusually warm, and traders hurried out from the city to peddle luxuries to the soldiers. Miya snared a wine merchant and wrung a cask of pale Silvanesti wine from him at a bargain price. Tol had his first taste of “nectar, “
as the elves called it, and decided he should stick to beer. The expensive and potent drink went down with deceptive ease.
Gossiping with traders, he learned more about their precipitous trip to Daltigoth than Enkian had revealed. A guild of powerful sorcerers had long desired to erect a great tower in the capital. The tower (and the buildings surrounding it) would constitute a kind of school of magic, where wizards of various orders could gather in safety and discourse with their fellows on the practice of their art. Several construction attempts had failed due to the Ackal-Pakin wars, but the time had finally come to lay the cornerstone of the Tower of Sorcery in Daltigoth.
To maintain his prestige before the great assembly of wizards, the emperor had summoned his principal vassals to the capital to attend the ceremony. Pakin III was determined to stand at the head of an imposing array of nobles, each of whom had hordes of trained warriors backing him. The message to the magicians would be plain: Tower of Sorcery or no, true power resided in the hands of the emperor of Ergoth.
No one could refuse the emperor’s call and keep his position. As head of one of the provinces farthest from the capital, the marshal of the Eastern Hundred had one of the longest journeys to make, but that made his timely presence all the more imperative.
That night, lying in the shadow of the wall of Caergoth, Tol gazed at the heavens, wondering what Daltigoth would be like. Kiya and Miya slept peacefully, one on either side of him, each in her own bedroll. So far they seemed neither excited nor anxious about the trip, taking every development in stride. On their arrival at Caergoth, the sisters spared the encircling walls and jutting towers a moment’s look, then went back to arguing with a sutler over a length of soft doeskin they wanted for gloves. Tol tried to impress them by telling them Daltigoth was much larger than Caergoth.
Miya asked, “Is it as big as the Great Green?”
He had to admit it was not. The forest covered an expanse one-third the size of the whole empire. So the sisters had shrugged, Kiya saying, “Daltigoth is not so big, then.”
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