A warrior's joyrney d-1

by Paul B. Thompson

  But Tol had a second blade, too. Breaking contact just long enough to step back a few paces, he drew Amaltar’s gift dagger with his left hand.

  “You’re good,” said Crake, voice steady. He wasn’t even winded. “I thought you’d have given it up by now.”

  “Foot soldiers must stand and fight. Can’t outrun horses, you know.”

  Crake’s hands came up and he threw both daggers at the same time. Tol knocked down the one whizzing at his face, but couldn’t prevent the other from burying itself in his left thigh. Crake drew another dagger, advanced a step, then stopped, dumbfounded.

  Tol showed no signs of going down. In fact, while holding his saber at full extension, he grasped the handle of the dagger and yanked it from his leg.

  Crake folded his arms, tapping the point of his last dagger against his chin. “I see this task calls for more iron,” he said. “Another time.”

  “No,” Tol said through gritted teeth. “One of us will not leave this garden alive!”

  Crake shrugged, turned, and ran. Tol pursued, leg wound or no. Blood sluiced down his injured leg, staining the grass. By sheer force of will, he kept up with the fleeing man. Crake knew of the millstone. He couldn’t be allowed to escape with that knowledge.

  Unnerved by Tol’s implacable pursuit, Crake erred. He blundered into the torchlit plaza. Several hundred guests of the emperor had gathered there before the banquet. They looked on in astonishment as the black-clad Crake, bleeding from a long cut on his chest, entered the circle of firelight.

  Guards came running. Crake tried to double back into the shadowy garden, and there was Tol. More consternation broke out when Tol appeared, sword and dagger in hand. Not knowing who was who, guards swarmed out of the barrack by the main gate. They swiftly ringed both men. Hundreds of swords were drawn.

  “Keep off!” Crake yelled. “Out of my way!”

  He drove straight at Tol, his thin dagger piercing Tol’s forearm. Tol hardly felt it go in, but his hand immediately went slack. His saber clattered to the mosaic.

  Tol threw himself backward, pulling his arm off Crake’s blade. Again, his childhood friend was amazed at Tol’s stamina. Switching to an overhand grip, he darted in, aiming for Tol’s throat.

  Imperial guards were closing in. One shouted, “It’s Tol of Juramona!” and the rest voiced shock that the crown prince’s favorite was dueling at the very steps of the Imperial Palace.

  Tol struck with Prince Amaltar’s dagger. The broad blade caught Crake’s thin one, and Tol used his superior strength to throw Crake back.

  “Hey, Juramona! Have this!”

  A sword came winging through the air. Tol snatched it with his right hand, forcing his weak fingers to close on the handle. His attack was awkward because of the injury to his left arm, and Crake skillfully turned the plunging blade aside with his dagger. However, the sword had distracted his attention. With a mighty thrust, Tol buried his own dagger in his opponent’s belly all the way to the burnished brass hilt. Crake gasped as their bodies thudded together.

  Eye to eye, they stared at each other for a silent, frozen moment.

  “Well done,” Crake gasped, and fell backward, Tol’s blade still in him.

  Tol’s leg and his strength failed. He collapsed beside his former friend.

  Chapter 15

  Longer Name, Shorter Life

  He awoke in daylight, in a bright sunny room with a ceiling so lofty he could scarcely believe it. He was lying in a big bed between cool linen sheets, naked but for a breechcloth. He felt no pain, but was terribly weak.

  The room was enormous. Sunshine poured in through a phalanx of windows four stories high. Other beds lined the walls, but all were empty. Someone close by made a noise, a little cough just loud enough to be heard. Tol slowly turned his head and beheld Valaran, seated in a tall wooden chair alongside his bed. She had an open scroll spread across her lap.

  “You’re awake! Good! If you’d slept much longer, I would’ve run out of things to read.” She got up and held a beaker of cool water to his lips. He drank gratefully.

  “I can’t believe it,” he said hoarsely. “What is this place?”

  “The Hall of Healing, in the palace. How do you feel? Better?”

  He allowed he did, and she awarded him one of her smiles. It vanished when she said, “You certainly know how to embarrass a girl!”

  His confusion was plain, so she explained. “Last night you were carried into the palace, bleeding profusely. All you could say was ‘Valaran, Valaran,’ over and over. Draymon, commander of the Imperial Guard, sent for me. Father demanded a full explanation!”

  He apologized, but she shrugged impishly. “It made for a lively evening. After I told mother and father how I knew you, they heard about the murderer you killed. The story is all over the Inner City.”

  Tol said sharply, “Crake’s dead?”

  “Yes. The guards were agog over your fatal thrust.”

  Tol closed his eyes. He had killed Crake, one of his first friends, the free-spirited flute player whose skill with a bow had saved Tol’s life in the Great Green. The pain that flared in his heart was nearly overwhelming. Although he and Narren were friends, Tol had always been closer to Crake. Shilder were given few days away from training, but during his early days in Juramona, Tol had spent much of his free time with Crake’s family. They had lived in Juramona for four generations. How could he bring them such black news-that their son was not only dead, but had died an assassin, and by Tol’s own hand.

  “I’ll let you sleep,” Valaran said, her voice penetrating his misery. She was rolling up a scroll on Silvanesti geography.

  “No!” The word came out more harshly than he intended, but above all, he wanted her to stay. She ceased making preparations to leave.

  The import of her earlier words suddenly sank in, and he realized an entire day had passed. “I missed the banquet! Prince Amaltar and Lord Enkian will be furious!”

  “Well, it was quite an affair,” Val said, “thanks to you. Everyone was talking about you, Tol, even the emperor. The featherheads in the Consorts’ Circle were livid!”

  He blinked several times, having trouble keeping up with her rapid changes of subject. “Why?”

  “Because a dashing warrior from Juramona swooned on the palace steps, calling my name.”

  Although her tone was mocking, she was blushing. Tol gazed at her face, his own misery eased by the light he saw in her eyes.

  “I missed you after our excursion into the city,” he finally said. “You didn’t come to the fountain. I thought you were angry with me.”

  “Why should I be angry?”

  “Because I kissed you.”

  “Oh.” She toed the silk slippers from her feet, letting the dainty footwear drop to the floor. She drew her bare feet up beneath herself, a very childlike posture. “I didn’t object, did I?”

  He agreed she hadn’t.

  “I couldn’t get out of the palace for two days. Father had everyone practicing day and night for the banquet.”

  Careful of his injured left thigh, Tol turned on his right side, the better to see her. “Practice for what?”

  “Our introduction to the crown prince. My two unmarried sisters and I were formally presented to him at the banquet.”

  “But surely you’ve met him before? Seen him around the palace and such?”

  Valaran looped fine hair behind one ear. “Of course, but my father has been trying to arrange marriages for us for some time. The crown prince, being crown prince, gets first choice of all eligible ladies.”

  “Which one of your sisters did he pick?”

  “Me,” she said, smiling. “All the nobles and ladies were talking about your fight, and how you called out for me. I suppose that influenced him. He’s never taken much notice of me before.”

  Tol felt as though his wound had been re-opened with a red hot iron. “It can’t be,” he whispered.

  “It’s true. I am to marry Crown Prince Amaltar at the nex
t fortuitous conjunction of Solin and the constellation of Mishas.”

  Tol sat up abruptly, almost losing his sheet. Pain lanced through his leg. “You can’t! I love you, Val!”

  Her breezy manner evaporated. She hugged the geography scroll to herself and looked away. “I can, and I will,” she said. “It’s my duty, to my family and the empire. The crown prince has publicly chosen me. I can’t decline. To do so would ruin my entire family.”

  “Don’t you love me?”

  Her green eyes returned to his face. “Yes, I suppose I do.”

  “Then we’ll leave Daltigoth-leave Ergoth altogether!”

  She stood quickly. “No! Aren’t you listening? Can’t your dim provincial mind understand? If I humiliated the crown prince, my father would lose his head, and the rest of my family-mother, brothers and sisters, my nieces and nephews-all would be sold into servitude! Everything we own-land, servants, goods-would be forfeit to the crown. Everything!”

  His eyes stung with tears. Closing them, he said, “Isn’t true love worth it?”

  For an instant anger flared across her face, but compassion won out. “I’m sorry, Tol. I’m not some country lass who can leave the family farm for your sake.”

  Tol wondered how he’d ever thought her too young for him. Just now, she seemed immeasurably older and worldly-wise.

  She started to leave, but he caught her wrist and held on. “So you’ll marry the prince. Will you then be empress one day?”

  “Oh, no. When Amaltar succeeds to the crown, one of his wives will be designated empress, but I’m not from the first rank of nobility. That’s why my father was so pleased I was chosen. The union will greatly improve our family’s standing at court.”

  Tol released her. He could not take it in, could not understand the logic of it. Not only was the girl he loved being taken away, but she was wedding a man with many wives already.

  Her cool hand rested on his forehead. “Don’t despair,” she said calmly. “We might still see each other. Amaltar does not love me, nor I him.”

  He shivered, whether from anticipation, or fear, he wasn’t certain. “How can we be lovers if you’re married to the heir to the throne of Ergoth?”

  Misunderstanding, she hastened to reassure him. “It shouldn’t be too difficult. Ardent Amaltar is not. He’s a cold cipher of a man, who’d rather hatch a scheme than woo a lady. Once we’re married, I doubt I will see him much more than I do now. Oh, I’ll be expected to have his children, but not for a while. We can be together if we’re discreet.”

  He didn’t know whether to weep or laugh. Born and raised in the Imperial Palace, Val had lived her entire life surrounded by intrigue, marriages of state, and affairs of convenience. He wondered if she truly loved him, or loved only what he represented-the adventure of being with an outsider, someone rough, notorious, and perhaps dangerous.

  Seeing him frown, Valaran put out a hand and touched his cheek. As she looked down at him, green eyes bright and a half-smile on her face, his doubts fled.

  If Valaran would have him, he would be there. No other course was possible. She was a wound from which he would never recover.

  Tol was up and walking in a few days. At first the only patient in the Hall of Healing, he had company from his second day on. A guard injured in a fall, a cook with burned hands, and the ten-year-old dyspeptic son of a courtier soon occupied other beds. They were kept well away from Tol, and they all received visitors. He did not. He was surprised Kiya and Miya did not come to see him, and stricken when Valaran did not return. Not till he was able to walk again did he discover why he’d been left so alone.

  He hobbled past the long line of beds to the double doors and managed to swing one open. Barring the way were four of the Inner City Guard, bearing halberds. Politely, Tol was ordered back from the door. When he asked why he couldn’t go out, the corporal said only, “Orders.”

  “Am I under arrest?” Tol asked, leaning his weight against the edge of the door and feeling extremely grubby next to the sleek, alert guards.

  “Arrested persons go to cells, not the Hall of Healing,” replied the corporal.

  Tol decided that meant he wasn’t under arrest. He asked if anyone had come to see him while he slept.

  “No one can be admitted to see you.”

  Tol was perplexed. “Why not?”

  “Orders.”

  Exhausted, he gave up. Returning to his bed, and ignoring the petulant complaints of the injured cook, Tol spent a feverish day trying to unravel his confusing situation. Evidently he was in trouble, but for what offense? The killing of Crake, though it weighed heavily on his heart, clearly had been an act of self-defense.

  Inevitably his mind returned to Valaran. Betrothed to the crown prince, she was no longer just a girl in the palace, hiding in alcoves or stealing off to gardens to read. Wounded and weak, he’d given his feelings away. Prince Amaltar and Lord Valdid must know all, which would explain why he was being kept isolated.

  These mental exertions left him in a sweat, spoiling his rest. Two days after his conversation with the guards, he was hollow-eyed with anxiety. The arrival of Lord Draymon, captain of the Inner City Guard, seemed to confirm his fears his life would soon be over. They must have decided to execute him for presuming to court a high-born lady.

  “Arise, Master Tol,” said Draymon. “His Imperial Highness requires your presence.” Tol studied the captain’s face for clues to his fate, but saw only professional indifference.

  Two palace valets had come with Draymon, and they laid out a complete set of clothes for Tol-not his usual soldier’s togs, but a handsome ensemble of crisp linen and gray leather, trimmed in imperial red.

  “What’s going on?” he asked, keeping his voice even despite his fears.

  “Crown Prince Amaltar requires your presence. Be quick. His Highness does not like to be kept waiting.”

  Tol pulled off his sick-room shift and dressed. He was unfamiliar with some of the fancier items, but the valets smoothly fitted, buckled, and buttoned him into the outfit. Save for his lank hair, he looked quite the gentleman when they were done. Bypassing the new pouch they’d provided, he tied his old, rain-spotted one, containing the Irda millstone and Morthur Dermount’s sapphire ring, around his waist.

  Lord Draymon led the way. Tol’s thigh still gave him a twinge, but he was on the mend, thanks to the skillful ministrations of the clerics of Mishas. They had applied healing poultices to his wound, drawing the soreness out and speeding the healing. Even so, he had trouble keeping up with the long-limbed captain’s stride.

  The four soldiers by the door fell in step behind them. The ominous tramp of their booted feet made Tol all the more certain he was going to meet a dire fate. He questioned Draymon again.

  “You know what I know,” said the captain. “I am to bring you to the Hall of Audiences.”

  The public side of the Imperial Palace was quite spectacular. Everything was constructed on an enormous scale. Ceilings were ten paces high; walls were faced with tapestries or polished marble paneling; and intricate mosaics covered the floors. Lord Draymon conducted Tol through a series of corridors and antechambers before halting before a monumental double door that extended from floor to ceiling.

  “Prepare yourself,” he said quietly. Tol’s heart contracted to a hard knot, but he squared his shoulders and thrust his chin out. Come what may, he would not dishonor himself, his mentor Egrin, or the good name of Juramona.

  The massive doors swung inward. Draymon and the guards struck their heels together and strode inside in perfect step:

  The audience hall was a very long room with a high, arched ceiling. All along Tol’s right were lofty windows, open to the summer air. Light streamed in through the towering arches, softening the harsh bas-relief sculptures of emperors, warriors, and generals, wrought far larger than life size on the facing wall. Like Amaltar’s tent outside Caergoth, the hall was alive with courtiers, favor-seekers, warlords, and foreigners. Loud laughter rang out from t
he back of the hall, where a group of richly dressed young men were tormenting a hapless servant, pushing him from side to side as he desperately tried not to spill the tray full of goblets he carried. With them, seated on a tall chair by the wall, was Prince Nazramin. In a posture eloquent of arrogance and disdain, he sat with one long leg thrust out, ignoring the inconvenience it posed to all who passed by. At his feet lay a huge mastiff, its coat closely clipped to reveal heavily muscled limbs. Scars on the dog’s chest and front legs showed that he was a fierce battler. Nazramin gave Draymon and Tol a brief sidelong glance, then kicked his dog’s rump. A loud growl erupted from the beast, and its brown eyes followed the two men with a chilling fixity.

  A portly little man, not very old but bald as an egg, sidled up to Draymon, bowing.

  “Who shall I say has arrived?” he asked in a light, lisping voice.

  “Tol of Juramona,” the captain barked as though speaking to raw troops. “We are expected by His Highness!”

  The round little man wasn’t at all impressed. “You will wait. I will announce you,” he said, bowing. He scurried away.

  Tol asked who the fellow was, and the captain said, “Graybardo, fifth-or maybe sixth-chamberlain to the prince. Vain little weasel…”

  Graybardo came hurrying back, quite red in the face. “This way, this way!” he said. “Hurry, please! The prince doesn’t like to be kept waiting!”

  The armed guards remained at the door. Draymon unhitched his sword belt and handed it to his corporal, then he and Tol followed on the anxious Graybardo’s heels. They made an imposing pair, cleaving through the crowd like a couple of wolfhounds through a flock of brightly plumed birds.

  Prince Amaltar was concluding a conversation as they arrived. Facing him was a delegation of three richly dressed Tarsans, two men flanking a woman. She was tall and raven-haired, wearing a tunic and trews of sky-blue silk. Her face and figure were at odds with the masculine cut of her clothing. Staring at her seductive profile, Tol had the feeling he’d seen her before.