A warrior's joyrney d-1

by Paul B. Thompson

  Tol glanced at the sleeping women. He wished he could be so serene. His thoughts churned for the remainder of the night, spoiling his rest and making the next day’s march a long and weary chore.

  Southwest of Caergoth, they reached the great imperial road, Ackal’s Path. Unlike the dirt track from Juramona, this road was broad enough for three wagons to drive abreast. Slightly higher in the center than on the sides, it was paved with stones pounded into a bed of sand. The Path, begun under Ackal Ergot, had been completed almost a century later under Ackal III. It was a magnificent feat, but legend held that when it rained, the paving stones turned red from the blood of the thousands of prisoners who’d died building the road.

  For two days the caravan from Juramona drove along, pushing through the thick commercial traffic streaming between the two greatest cities in the empire. Lord Enkian and his mounted escort rode straight down the center of the road, sending traders’ carts into the ditches and trampling any on foot who were slow to get out of the way. Tol’s blood boiled to see such high-handed treatment. He slowed his pace, allowing his foot guards and the supply wagons to fall farther behind the marshal’s party. He didn’t want to be identified with Enkian’s brutal progress.

  On the morning of their third day out from Caergoth-about halfway to the capital-Tol and his men broke camp, took to the road, and found it deserted. After the constant activity of the previous days, the silent emptiness was unsettling.

  Tol scanned the sky and horizon. The terrain was open on both sides of the road-low rolling hills and widely spaced trees. A few hawks wheeled in the bright blue sky, but there was no sign at all of other travelers.

  Even the stalwart Dom-shu sisters were unnerved. For the first time since leaving Juramona, Kiya strung her bow and hung a quiver of arrows on her back. Miya armed herself with a staff, which was as thick as her wrist and as long as she was tall.

  Tol divided his men into two groups, placing half on the right shoulder of the road and half on the left. Between these marching columns the ox carts proceeded. Tol and the sisters walked alongside the lead wagon.

  The sun rose higher. At last they came to the place where it seemed Enkian’s troop had passed the night. They found hoofprints in the windblown sand on the north side of the road, fresh horse droppings, and trash left behind by the marshal’s escort. Though this was reassuring, they still could not account for the continuing lack of other traffic.

  Before noon, Miya spotted a man on horseback ahead. He was sitting motionless in the road, watching their approach. His head was bare, and he was draped in a long, dark cape. When he didn’t move from their path, Tol held up his hand and halted the caravan. He arrayed a dozen soldiers in front of the caravan, telling them to stand fast with spears ready.

  Tethered to the second supply wagon was a horse Egrin had thought to provide for Tol before their departure from Juramona. Tol mounted the animal and laid a spear on his shoulder. As he trotted toward the mysterious rider, the Dom-shu fell into place on either side, running swiftly on bare feet.

  There was no point in telling them to stay with the wagons, so Tol simply rode on. Several paces from the stranger-well beyond sword reach-he reined up.

  “Greetings,” he said. “I am Tol of Juramona. We’re on our way to Daltigoth. Will you give way, sir?”

  The staring man said nothing. He was clean shaven, with short brown hair. Tol couldn’t tell if he was armed. Everything below his neck was covered by his voluminous brown cape.

  Tol repeated his request, and the man raised a hand clear of the folds of his garment. A large golden ring shone plainly on his gloved forefinger when he extended his fist toward Tol.

  There was a clatter on Tol’s left. Miya, her staff falling to the pavement, dropped like a stone. Kiya’s arm went over her head to her quiver before she too collapsed.

  Tol thumped his heels into his horse’s flanks, but the poor beast shuddered and went down. Tol managed to slide off its rump so as not to be trapped beneath.

  Sorcery! The man had put the sisters and his horse under some spell. But why wasn’t he affected?

  The stranger was obviously wondering the same thing. He clenched his hand into a fist again, and Tol thought he saw a flicker of blue light spark from the sapphire set in the golden ring. Yet, though he braced himself, still Tol felt nothing. A quick glance over his shoulder showed him the whole of his guard, the drovers on their wagons, and the oxen too, all lay inertly on the road. They’d been felled where they stood, all affected by the strange man’s wizardry.

  Gripping his spear, Tol charged the man. The fellow whipped his cloak back, revealing a mail shirt beneath, and drew a quite ordinary iron saber from his waist.

  Tol caught the blade on the wide spearhead, whirled it in a small circle to disengage, then thrust at the rider’s chest. The man’s horse reared, flailing the air with its legs. Tol crouched low, wary of the heavy hooves.

  Iron whistled past his ear, and Tol swung the butt of the spear in a wide arc. He caught his attacker in the ribs.

  The fellow grunted under the blow, but his mail shirt protected him.

  Tol fell back and assumed a spearman’s ready position. For two years, he and his foot soldiers had trained, learning by trial and error the best methods of battling mounted foes. The two things a lone man on foot had to remember were keep moving-his two feet were nimbler than a horse’s four-and get into reach. Tol had had his men’s spearshafts lengthened by four spans. With spears that long they could reach the face of an enemy mounted on the tallest horse in the world.

  When the rider showed reluctance to press his attack, Tol lifted his spear to shoulder height and ran at him, shouting. The man tried to fend off the spear with his sword, but the saber was too light to turn the big spear away. Tol rammed the spear tip into the man’s chest. It snagged in his cloak and tore through, skidding off his armor. Although the point did not penetrate, the momentum of Tol’s charge knocked the man off his horse. He fell heavily to the pavement.

  In the blink of an eye, Tol had a knee on the fallen man’s chest and a dagger at his throat.

  “Yield!” he said, pressing the dagger’s point slightly into the man’s neck. It was the finely jeweled weapon given to him by Crown Prince Amaltar.

  “Kill me, and your master will die an agonizing death!” rasped the man.

  “Speak plainly, or die!” Tol declared. He dug the dagger in just below the man’s chin. Blood welled around the keen point.

  “The marshal of the Eastern Hundred is our captive!”

  “You lie! He rode with two hundred Riders of the Horde!”

  The man’s eyes shifted toward the caravan. “How many lie insensible there?” Point well taken. “If I fail to return, your marshal and all his warriors will be slaughtered!” the man added.

  Tol stood, dragging him to his feet. “You’d better pray no such thing happens,” he said coldly. “If it does, your death will be an agonizing one!”

  Dagger firmly against his captive’s throat, Tol marched him along until they recovered the stranger’s horse. Tol tied his hands, shoved him onto the horse, and mounted behind him.

  “Take me to Lord Enkian,” he said, pressing the dagger behind the man’s right ear. Sullenly, his prisoner complied, guiding his horse off Ackal’s Path. Tol looked over his shoulder at the Dom-shu sisters and his footmen, still slumbering, and prayed for their safety in his absence.

  They rode north, into the hills. Progress was slow as Tol watched ahead, reading signs and tracks, always alert for ambush. Up a dry creek, the man pointed with his chin to a gap between two knolls.

  “There. You’ll find your people there.”

  Without another word, Tol used the heavy pommel of his dagger to knock the stranger senseless. Once the limp man fell to the ground, Tol traded the dagger for a saber. He wrapped the reins tightly around his left hand, took a deep breath, then thumped his heels on the horse’s flanks. The animal sprang forward.

  He rounded the curve of t
he dry streambed, sand flying from the horse’s pounding hooves. A single sentinel perched atop a boulder tried to challenge him, but Tol cut the man’s legs out from under him without slowing. He left the fellow bleeding to death on the rock and plunged on, taking another curve at full gallop.

  He came upon four conical tents, a picket line with half a dozen horses, and a small campfire around which sat four men in leather brigantines. His arrival brought them to their feet in a hurry. Two, armed only with axes and small round bucklers, tried to stave him off while the other pair sprinted to their horses. Tol drove straight through them, making for the unguarded end of the picket line. He slashed it, shouting wildly to spook the horses. The animals broke and ran.

  A strange sensation of heat played over Tol’s head, like warmth from an unseen bonfire. Tol whirled and spied a new threat. Striding out of the largest tent was a man in full armor, his face covered by a weirdly grinning visored helmet.

  Although years had passed since he’d last seen that horrible visage at his family’s farm, it was all too familiar.

  Spannuth Grane!

  The armored man drew a very long, two-handed straight sword. Tol steered his horse toward him. Grane-if indeed it was he inside the familiar armor-held up his right fist. A massive ring gleamed on one mailed finger. Again Tol felt a fleeting kiss of heat on his face, but nothing more. However, all four of the fighting men he’d faced when he first entered the camp now lay insensible on the ground. Grane’s first attempt to hex Tol had felled two; his second attempt downed the others.

  Tol crouched low and leaned forward in the saddle, boring in on the armored man. With a flash of polished metal, the fellow brought his blade up, striking Tol’s saber hard. Hand stinging, Tol kept his grip as his horse thundered by.

  He made a second pass, and this time his sword skidded off iron shoulder plates. His foe did not cut at him, but with brutal efficiency stabbed the horse. The animal went down, shrieking, and pitched Tol to the ground. His head rang with the hard impact, and he lay stunned. Bronze sabatons crunched in the gravel, coming for him.

  Get up, get up! Egrin’s voice seemed to echo in Tol’s head, shouting as he had when berating clumsy shilder. Why are you lying there like a poleaxe A pig? Your head’s still attached, isn’t it?

  Tol rolled away in time to dodge a killing stroke. He got to one knee, and discovered to his joy that he still held his saber. It was too light to take direct blows from his opponent’s great blade, but it was better than fighting bare-handed.

  “Spannuth Grane! I know you!” he yelled.

  The sword halted in mid-swing. Calling his enemy by name had earned Tol a brief respite. “Who are you?” the man asked, voice muffled by the visor.

  Tol stood up. “Tol of the Juramona City Guards.”

  “Guards? You mean the footmen?” Lord Morthur Dermount laughed in his helmet. “You fight well for a hireling!”

  “Where is Lord Enkian?” Tol demanded.

  “He will join you in death soon!” The sword came up again.

  He attacked, raining heavy blows like a hammer breaking stone. Tol’s knees quavered under the onslaught. He ducked a vicious sideswipe, saying desperately, “You’re lost, my lord! Your powers have failed you!”

  Morthur laughed loudly, but checked his swing. “What do you mean, meddling stableboy?”

  “You tried to hex me in the Great Green, remember? I didn’t collapse. Your hireling left every man and beast from Juramona sleeping in the road, everyone but me. Now you have felled your own men. Why not me?”

  Morthur gave his words thought, but the respite was shortlived. Up came the terrible sword.

  “I’D divine the answer from your bones!” he roared.

  He forced Tol back with savage thrusts, scything his sword upward in terrific two-handed uppercuts. Their blades collided, and when the force of Morthur’s attack shivered down his arms, Tol spun away under the impact. Thinking Tol was going down, Morthur stepped in, dropping his left hand as he prepared to bring his blade down for the final overhand slash.

  Tol continued his spin, rotating in a complete circle on the toe of his right foot. He brought the curved edge of his saber down on Morthur’s right wrist. Iron cut through bronze scale and leather, into the flesh of Morthur’s arm, and then through bone. His hand, and the sword it still gripped, fell at Tol’s feet.

  Morthur staggered back, screaming. He clapped his left hand over the stump of his right, trying to staunch the coursing blood. Tol took careful aim. He thrust the slim saber into the gap between Morthur’s visor and the gorget at his throat. The high-born sorcerer uttered a horrible gurgling groan. When Tol recovered his blade, Morthur fell to the ground.

  Breathing hard, Tol planted a foot on the man’s cuirass and flipped the visor up with the tip of his sword. Morthur Dermount’s pale face, thin black brows, and slender, almost delicate nose had not changed much in seven years. Now, his black eyes were open and lifeless.

  Men came stumbling out of the tents. Tol shouted defiance and prepared to fight in spite of his exhaustion. With enormous relief, he realized he faced Lord Enkian and four of his lieutenants. Morthur’s death must have released them from the spell that had held them captive.

  “Tol!” said the marshal hoarsely. “How did you get here?”

  Tol explained the wagon caravan’s encounter with the magic-wielding rider. “His spell didn’t work on me for some reason,” he finished. “I captured him, and forced him to bring me here. I found…”

  Tol stepped to one side and gestured at the dead man.

  Enkian looked from Morthur Dermount to Tol, and back again. “In the name of Draco Paladin,” he breathed. “You bested him!”

  The marshal ran thin hands through his hair, trying to take it in. He said, “We were stopped on the road. Next I knew, I was in this tent, awake but unable to move. I heard Morthur conferring with someone I couldn’t see. A well-born man, I think-his speech was refined, though I did not recognize his voice. Morthur said he would use magic to take on my appearance and replace me at the conclave in Daltigoth!”

  Tol wondered what Morthur had hoped to gain from such a deception. The marshal couldn’t say, but neither of them doubted the dead sorcerer had intended treachery of the blackest kind.

  They found nothing of interest in the camp, only the normal supplies and a small bag of Ergothian coins. When Morthur’s four henchmen came to, they found themselves looking down the blades of Enkian’s lieutenants.

  “They’ll tell us plenty,” the marshal said grimly.

  Before long, riders from Enkian’s escort found them. Awakening from the spell, they’d immediately set out in search of the marshal and had followed the tracks to Morthur’s camp. Enkian sent them to sweep the countryside for any more of the sorcerer’s minions.

  Tol squatted by Morthur’s severed hand. The golden sapphire ring it wore seemed identical, though larger, to the one worn by the first man Tol had fought, the lone rider on the high road. The wide gold band, incised with angular symbols, held a single sapphire larger than the ball of Tol’s thumb. Within the oval stone, sparks seemed to flicker.

  “Why was I alone unaffected by his spells?” Tol mused.

  “Thank the gods you were,” said Enkian. “None of us would be breathing now if Morthur’s evil scheme had succeeded.”

  He picked up the bloody hand and wrenched the ring free, offering it to Tol. “Morthur was my cousin, but you deserve the spoils of combat,” he said.

  Tol accepted the ring and put it in his belt pouch, where it kept company with a few silver coins and the ring of braided metal and black glass he’d found in the Irda ruin above the Caer River two years earlier. No one in Juramona had been able to say what the artifact was or what it meant, not even the wise Felryn. His only advice had been to get rid of it, since relics of the cursed Irda were likely cursed, too. For once Tol hadn’t heeded the healer, but carried the ancient relic as a cherished token of his first campaign.

  When Tol, Lord Enk
ian, and his entourage returned to the wagons on the Ackal Path, they found everyone there also awake and unharmed. Kiya and Miya, Narren and the foot guards, and the wagoners and their beasts were all well. Whatever spell Morthur had used, it seemed to have no lasting ill effect.

  Lord Enkian ordered the body of Morthur Dermount put in a keg of vinegar to preserve it. The marshal intended to present the corpse to the emperor, as proof the long-hunted traitor was at last dead.

  Tol’s rescue of the marshal had a profound affect on Enkian’s view of him. The marshal had always regarded Tol as a peasant favored above his station-good fodder for the city guards, but hardly the equal of warriors born to ride with the Great Horde. His successes in the Great Green, Enkian felt, should be attributed to luck, nothing more. A caprice of the gods had allowed him to capture the Silvanesti agent, Kirstalothan, and the Dom-shu chief. He was nothing special.

  However, his own rescue and the death of Morthur Dermount changed all that. During the rest of the journey to the imperial capital, Lord Enkian turned the incident over and over in his nimble mind. He kept arriving at the same conclusion.

  Tol of Juramona was a very dangerous man.

  Chapter 12

  The Center of the World

  A cold drizzle had been falling all night and day. The paved road made traveling easier, but there was no shelter for those on foot. Tol tramped along at the head of his men, cloaked to the eyes, his whole body soaked. There seemed little prospect of getting dry short of Daltigoth.

  The Juramona delegation reached an enormous stone bridge spanning the eastern tributary of the Dalti River. Twice the width of the road, the bridge was nonetheless clogged with anxious and irritated travelers. Horses, mules, oxen, and people struggled in the chill rain, trying to force (in both directions) three hundred carts and wagons through a space meant for a third that number. On the walls along both edges of the bridge, men of high rank stood, shouting orders at the teeming mob at their feet. They might as well have tried to command a cloudburst; no one paid them the slightest heed.